Get on up

Get on up

Actual workplace conversation today:

"I see James Brown went and carked it on Christmas Day."

"Aye."

"I wonder if he got to open his presents first?"

"That's probably what killed him. Somebody gave him a sex machine."

"What a way to go, though."

"Too right: 'Good God' *thump*"

"I got three pairs of socks an' a jumper, you know..."

"Class."

On New Years Resolutions

On New Years Resolutions, and the failure thereof

It's that time of year again, where the weak-of-willed (such as myself) attempt to turn over a new leaf and do something useful with our lives. By giving up smoking, for example:

Bart: When I'm old enough I'm going to give up smoking
Homer: Giving up smoking is the hardest thing you'll ever have to do. Have a dollar
Lisa: Dad! You gave him a dollar and he didn't do anything!
Homer: Didn't he Lisa? Didn't he? Wait... no he didn't. D'oh!

Last year, I made an attempt to go to the gym regularly, but crippled myself playing golf and never went back. The whole Gym Thing wasn't helped by the fact that Sir Steve Redgrave, training for the London Marathon, was a regular visitor at the time, and his huge, toned body on the rowing machine versus my sweating, coughing frame was the worst motivation ever.

This year, however, I have a foolproof plan. I am going on a diet. A special diet I devised on the toilet this morning.

"Ooh", I said to myself, "There's those brand new digital bathroom scales some evil-minded bugger gave us this year. I wonder how much I weigh."

Thirty seconds later:

"Aaaaargh!"

It was at that exact moment of Aaaargh-ness that I had my plan. I would done an enormous poo, and weigh myself again.

So I did. And it being a massive, massive poo, I lost TWO POUNDS in mere minutes. If I could keep up this rate of loss, I would hit my target weight within a matter of days. Then I'd get my picture in the Daily Mirror, wearing a pair of outsized trousers borrowed off MC Hammer, and the Duck Diet book deal would surely follow.

The Duck Diet would be the way forward for thousands, nay millions, of fellow bloaters the world over. What could possibly go wrong?

Then I went downstairs and celebrated my New Years Resolution with beer, cake and pie. God, I'm a genius.

Also: Duck News on Dead Dictator December.

Fairy Tales, Part the First.

I would point out, rather belatedly and to scotch these cross-dressing rumours, that this is a Misty production. I thang yew.

A few years ago, I had a job as a Christmas Fairy in a shopping centre. It was lots of fun. I got to wear a pretty outfit and did the whole sparkly make-up bit every day. The downside was having to deal with screaming children, and on occasions screaming adults as well.
The deal was, that every child who came to see Santa would get a pressie, and for an extra two quid could also have a polaroid photo taken with him. My job was to keep the brats little darlings under control whilst they waited, and also ask if they'd decided on what they wanted for Christmas and so.
Most of the children were fine. All happy and excited, and smiles all round, hurrah.
But one day, a small boy was really acting up. He was screaming, and complaining, and shouting, and yet his mother was determined that he was going to meet Santa and get a photo taken with him as well.
I went over to have a little talk with him. I asked his name, and explained that Santa had a list of all the good boys and girls that were going to get presents, but that if he was going to carry on being 'naughty' it was unlikely that his name would be on that list, and there might not be anything under the tree for him on the big day.
That shut him up. His mother gave me a look of gratitude, and also asked me to mention that he had to be good ALL the time, not just for the here and now, so I explained that Santa's fairies went around checking on the children to make sure they were keeping their promises to be good, and that although we could see them, they couldn't see us.
The boy behaved himself, met Santa, got the photo taken and so, and off they went.
A couple of weeks later, I was on the bus on my way to the Grotto. No make-up or 'fairy dress' on, just normal clothes.
Also on the bus, was the same boy with his mother, and the boy had obviously forgotten his promise to be good, as he was having yet another hissy fit and somewhat disturbing the sluggish gloom and quiet of the bus journey.
I had to pass by them to get off the bus, and as I went past, I bent down next to him, and said "The fairies are watching you don't forget!"
I have never seen a child stop a temper tantrum so quickly. He looked all around for a fairy, but as I wasn't in costume, he couldn't see one.
Oh yes. Traumatizing small children. They were happy days...

Morning all, Misty here again!

Scaryduck has had to go and do things down in that there Cornwall, which although being a lovely part of the world doesn't have intermanet access. So he called me and asked me to look after you all for a couple of days.

So, everybody have a turkey sandwich and a mince pie to munch on while you choose your tale for tomorrow's entertainment*

Your choices are:

Fairy Tales, part the First.
Fairy Tales, part the Second.
About the Castle and the Japanese Tourist.

Also, I hope you all had a very merry festive season of choice, and the new year finds you hale, and hearty.

*Better than what's on the telly, honest.

Theatre Review

Theatre Review: Cinderella - Weymouth Pavilion

Scaryduck's Review: A stunning indictment of a post-modern materialistic society in which Marxist-Leninist ideas of the bourgoisie-proletariat relationship are ruthlessly maintained through the selfish, yet predictable actions of the participants through the medium of song, dance and the acting arts.

With the heaving bosom of the fairy godmother representing Thatcherite I-want-it-now materialism tempered with boom-and-bust politics; and Martin Platt out of Coronation Street representing the cuntery of the masses, it was sadly inevitable that the working classes (Buttons) should be left metaphorically naked in the gutter, whilst, given the choice, the daughter of Baron Hardup should grab her chance to remain within the landed aristocracy, maintaining the irony of the status quo of class-based power relationships in Blair's so-called classless society.

This Diana-esque marriage ignores the shallow nature of the relationship - based, laughably, on footwear - leaving the audience confused as to the very nature of 'Happy Ever After', knowing full well that the real ending will be played out, tragically, in some Parisian underpass.

And, for some reason, Crazy Frog.

Scaryduckling's Review: "What a bitch! She turned down the love of her life and leaves him for some bloke she met for less than five minutes in the forest, just because he was loaded. Cow."

On not learning from the last time

On not learning from the last time

"Bathroom's free!" I shout, adding "Unlike Briatain under this Blairite fascist junta."

"I see you've left it in the usual mess," says Mrs Duck, "And you're still too tight to buy your own shampoo."

"Err..."

"So, which one did you use, then?"

"Um. Yours?"

...is the wrong answer.

"You bloody liar. I'm waiting for the Tesco's delivery this afteroon. There's only..."

Oh God. In the heat and confusion of war the shower, any man can make a mistake, and not for the first time. Oh, and indeed, God.

"But... but... it said 'pro-vitamin' on the side and everything."

"The dog's gonna go rabid when she finds out."

And so, dear reader, I wish you Happy Christmas, from here, my corner of the doghouse.

Something else: Postmodern Sass on her quest to meet Neil Gaiman: Part One and the inevitable denouement.

Mirth and Woe: The Christmas Drawer o' Doom

Mirth and Woe: The Christmas Drawer o' Doom

Christmas time of year. Pants, pants, pants.

As Christmas approaches - a time for family, goodwill and happiness - we live in a state of abject fear. A state of fear that Mrs Duck's highly organized present-buying routine will be rendered worthless by the appearance of unwanted visitors. Unwanted visitors bearing gifts.

Living in a top-quality seaside resort as we do, the world and their hideously foul smelling dog beat a path to our door looking for a freebie weekend on the coast. This can happen at any time of year, even when a Force Ten gale is blowing in off the Atlantic, and we are up in the loft trying to keep the roof on the house. As the Festive Season approaches, these visitors often bribe us with gifts, and it is only natural that we should reciprocate in some way or another.

And therein lies the fear. The fear that Aunty Terrible will turn up with a box of Tesco Value choccies, and we have no Asda Value choccies to give in return.

To counter this awful, awful dread, we keep a drawer brimming with low quality seaside tat purchased from the many, many emporia of seaside tat that ply their trade in Weymouth, in case we have unexpected Christmas visitors bearing gifts bought from inland tat shops. It's like a Secret Santa, as even we don't know what we're going to give people until the drawer is flung open in wide-eyed panic, and something awful is dragged out, wrapped in the downstairs toilet and handed over to the thankful recipients.

Just wait till they open it. They won't be so thankful then.

We are reminded, at this time, of the words of Our Lady Of The Harpies, Catherine Tate, to whit: "A squirrel. It's a fucking squirrel!"

So, not terribly long ago, and caught short by several distant family members using our place for a free weekend on the coast all at once, the drawer was sadly empty, and I was forced to improvise when the wife's aunt and her manky old boyfriend came to call.

It was the usual performance.

"Oh, how lovely to see you," we lied as rels bearing gifts arrived. "A present! Oh! You shouldn't have."

No, really, you shouldn't have.

Mrs Duck gave me the coded message for "Oh Christ, they've brought a bloody present - get something out of the drawer, pronto", which was the time-honoured, "Why don't you go and put the kettle on, while I show Aunty the house?"

So, while they got the grand tour of Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder's worst work, I dashed to the kitchen drawer and found… nothing. Not a sausage. Not even a sausage.

Oh, spoons.

For what seemed an eternity, I stood, Milligan-style, clenching and unclenching my fists in frustration as I thought - in vain - what to wrap up for our guests. Dead hamster? The bottom of the recycling bin? The remnants from a car boot sale? Why, yes.

And so mote it be. Under the stairs, I found the best, least appropriate present for the boyfriend who had spent the entire visit talking to my wife's chest, like a manky old perve. Good grief, that's my job. Still you've got to hand it to Harry Minogue, mad dog about town, for latching onto the guy's leg, hammering away like a canine possessed, and not letting go until the job was well and truly finished. Good Dog.

"Happy Christmas!" I said handing over the small, square package as he wiped the dog jizz from his Matalan jeans, "don't open it until the 25th, mind."

"Oh, you shouldn't have."

You're damn right I shouldn't have. But I did.

"Thank buggery they've gone," said Mrs Duck at the end of our ordeal, "what did you give them?"

"A video."

"Oh Lord. Which one?"

"Flesh Gordon."

"Thank God, you had me worried for a minute."

Post Script: And guess what I found in a charity shop several weeks later? You should know the saying by now - "You can't get rid of porn".

More top fives. And a top six

More Top Fives. And a Top Six

Top Five excuses after getting caught mincing around in your mother-in-law's soiled lingerie, rapidly deflating erection in hand

5. Guess what! I've just got tickets for the Rocky Horror Show!
4. Just walking these down to the washing machine. More whites, anybody?
3. Police? I've just fallen victim to a gang of clothes thieves. They've just left…
2. Can you direct me to a decent tailor, plz?
1. Fantastic! There's a love - hold the camera for me.

Top Five rejected names for pop acts

5. Paedo Squad
4. Stan Stranglia and The Shipmans
3. Al Kyder and The Bombers
2. Dixie Chicks-with-Dicks
1. Coldplay

Top Five Buzzword Bingo phrases

5. Let's stuff low-hanging fruit up the ballerina's chuff
4. Time to fellate those sharks swimming in our think tank
3. Run some split-crotch knickers up the company flagpole
2. Prod the fat lady and bottle her sweat
1. Let's plant a few trees and see if the nice dog pisses up them

Top Six Stories for the Thursday Vote-o

...in the form of a bizarre, and almost entirely genuine conversation which I recently undertook on MSN Instant Messenger.

6. Conk: "I am afflicted by an acne spot on my groin", she said, "Could you love a cripple?"
5. Road Rage: "I tried squeezing it," she continued, "but it hurt. I think it might actually be a penis growing."
4. Hole in the Ground: "Well leave it alone," I said, "It'll only get bigger."
3. Killer Sheep: "It might even come in handy one day," I said, punning.
2. Bin: "Why's that then?" she asked, missing the double entendre entirely
1. Christmas o' Doom: "You see, Ann Noreen Widdecombe," says I, "The next time somebody tells you to go fuck yourself..."

I strongly advise you, in the spirit of Christmas, to vote "Go Fuck Yourself". After all, that's what this time of year is about. Isn't it? Oh.


Plug: Duck News - shedloads of frankly brilliant stuff on press freedom, performance art and dead Turkmenbashis.

On contraception

On contraception

In my other life, I've been writing an awful lot about contraception and protection from sexually transmitted diseases over the last couple of weeks. It has been, I'm proud to admit, a bit of an education in which the items I've written might go some way to help young people to make educated choices about their futures before they go off and get themselves swarms of unwanted babies and/or Chlamydia.

However, this weekend I have discovered what may well be the most effective form of contraception known to man or woman alike: Flat-Pack Furniture.

The Ikea form of contraception is guaranteed 100 per cent effective and works on two fronts. Firstly, once your leisurely morning putting together a new wardrobe and chest of drawers becomes a hellish eight-hour fight against poor design, missing parts and your own blazing incompetence, you find yourself in no mood to engage in any sort of act of a sexual nature. Not even with yourself.

As the Screwdriver Shakes set in, you find that your arms are completely useless for even the most menial of tasks, and your back is so stiff that it feels like the six-drawer merchant's chest you have spent most of the day damning its very existence has been rammed, quite brutally, up your bottom. And unless you have very alternative tastes in after-hours amusement, that is hardly preparation for an evening exploring the marital arts.

Secondly, if your significant partner should become involved in the construction of flat-pack contraception in any way, you will find, within approximately ten minutes, that you are no longer on speaking terms with each other, let alone be in a position to play with each others' pink wobbly parts. In even the mildest of cases (for example, the building of a bedside table or bathroom cabinet) this may even become permanent.

So, as you retire to bed on all fours, your partner (now known as 'Don't you ever touch my cordless drill again you HUSSY') not even bothering to acknowledge your existence, the last thing you see as you switch out the light and fall immediately into a pain-wracked sleep in the three door antique-finish wardrobe that makes sure you will never use your genitals ever again.

And, my, does it gloat.


Alternative pluggery

Heaven knows I've plugged my book enough times on these pages. And there I go again. However, this time I'm plugging for somebody else.

Terry Ravenscroft is one of the great unsung heroes of British comedy, and has written material, in his time, for some of the acknowledged greats. He's also got a rather entertaining weblog in these here intarnets.

You might be interested to hear that he's got a couple of books out which you can buy either through Amazon if you're that way inclined, or direct from the author himself at a bit of a discount.

If you've ever seen Terry's Dear Air 2000 website - a collection of bizarre letters of complaint to a number of airlines and their po-faced replies - you know you're in for a treat. Get in there!

Too soon?

Too soon?

Once again the nation cowers before the wrath of a seriously depraved criminal mastermind. Despite the recent arrest of a custard-loving freak from Myspace, it is sadly inevitable that the finger of blame for the dreadful events in Suffolk should point, as is all too common in these cases, at the sordid world of celebrity. This is, after all, a group of people who have done so much to drag this nation's good name into their very own mire of filth.

G. Glitter.

F. Bough.

M. Barrymore.

In the face of the dreadful end wrought upon these valuable public servants, snatched from the very streets of our once proud nation, we have to ask ourselves the all-important question: where have the Chuckle Brothers been these last two weeks?

And after mere seconds of research, we find the disturbing answer to be: Hull. Doing panto.

We find out to our great horror that the City of Hull is only 194 miles from Ipswich. A mere four hour drive. This gives them more than enough time to knock off rehearsals, scoot down the coast to Suffolk, dump a slattern in a ditch, and drive back, shouting "Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear" out of the window to passers-by in a sickeningly triumphant manner.

Paul and Barry had better have a pretty good alibi, or their millions of fans will be well and truly disgusted. I can see, in my mind's eye, the pair of up to no good in a dark, wet field, muttering "To me, to you - to me, to you" as they go about their grim work, giving each other 'high fives' as they dump another limp body in a ditch.

Chuckles: your silence sickens me. I will never watch ChuckleVision again.

I am not mad.

The management would like to point out that the Chuckle Brothers have never killed anybody to death, ever, at all; and would like to remind readers that the Coroner completely vindicated Paul and Barry over that nasty business with the elephant on heat at the holiday camp, which was not their fault at all, despite the unlicensed use of spacehoppers on a commercial premises. I am still not mad.

On Reading (100% true FACTS)

On Reading (100% true FACTS)

The town where I work has a chequered and varied history. Founded as a settlement on the confluence of the Rivers Thames and Kennet by Anglo-Saxons, before falling into the hands of the Vikings in 871, little has changed since then.

As a matter of fact, the ancient Battle of Reading is re-enacted every Friday and Saturday night on the streets of the town centre by an eager and youthful band of enthusiasts, the night air ringing with their tradition war cries of "What that fack ya starin at ya cant!" and "Yor fackin dead meat ya fackin poof!", while their women folk respond with "Leave 'im Darryl, e's not worth it" before vomiting into the gutter in the traditional manner.

Also surviving to this day is the original Viking street plan, which the modern, twenty-first century town council, mindful of the weight of history on their shoulders, has gone to great lengths to ensure that cars traveling through the town move at the same speed as a ninth century Ox Cart.

Latterly, the town became famous for its "Three Bs" - biscuits, beer and bumming. Sadly, the Huntley and Palmer factory left the town in shame after the notorious 'soggy biscuit' scandal became public knowledge, and Reading is no longer connected with beer since they switched production to Fosters.

It is hardly surprising to learn, then, that Reading's most famous resident - Oscar Wilde - was only in the town whilst doing a two-year jail stretch for being a notorious botter, an experience he wrote about in his now-famous work 'Big Bubba's Prison Bitch'.

Did you know:

*Despite losing its manufacturing base when the biscuit business sunk under the weight of its own jism, Reading remains the world's largest producer of artificial vomit

* Reading-born celebrity Kate Winslet thanks the town's culture for public nudity for her many undraped roles in the movie business. "If it wasn't for the young Mr Duck prodding me in the tit when he was buying his wank rags", she says, "I might never have whopped them out for Leonardo di Caprio. God bless you Scary!"

* By bizarre coincidence, Reading, like my newly adopted home town of Weymouth, is also twinned with Your Mum's bedroom. The town, keen to help out its less fortunate citizens, has a long-running programme of sending its tramps and winos on exchange visits.

* Reading is rightly recognised by the United Nations as the world capital of Fat Girl pornography, and as such, the town has its own extreme gravitational field pulling other fat girls towards the Fat Girl Event Horizon, centred in a back room of a knocking shop on the Oxford Road

* In a solemn ceremony held in front of 25,000 at the Madjeski Stadium, the town has offered its thanks to local celebrity Ricky Gervais for putting Reading on the map. After a performance by the Reading Fat Bird Nude Chorus, the Mayor and Bishop of Reading bestowed the title of "That Cunt" on the portly entertainer, before giving him a 100-yard head start from the town's official baying hate mob


Oh Lordy: Scaryduckling strikes again.

Mirth and Woe: Kendo's Barbie of Woe

Kendo's Barbie of Woe

Kendo is my excellent father in law. He'll try anything once, like the time he took gliding lessons, and spent his entire time trying to dive bomb us as we ran, fleeing like mentals from the airfield.

He is, at heart, a family man who'd drop just about anything to help a family member, friend or neighbour. He also does a mean barbecue.

But not for Kendo an expensive shop-bought barbecue from the likes of B&Q, because, on top of all his excellent personal traits, Kendo is also the kind of chap who can build anything out of bits he finds lying in his shed. Several years ago, he brought my Austin Allegro back from the dead with pieces of a lawnmower and part of the washing line. He is also a cracking shot with an air rifle, so I had better watch what I say about him. Or his daughter.

There are times, however, when things don't go quite to plan. That's when Mrs Kendo comes in, for her job is to tell him so, with the immortal words "Oh Ken", the full stop to many of his misadventures.

Take the great Dee Road barbecue, for example. He had eschewed the usual practice of trotting down to the local DIY warehouse for all the bits, and gerry-built something out of some scrap metal he had lying about the place, left over from the construction of a fully functioning bar in his living room - the 'must have' feature of any 1970s home.

After a couple of hours trying to get the thing lit, and the sausages, burgers and meat from at least one named animal still resolutely pink on the grill, and the guests getting increasingly hungry, he found, like most back garden barbecues, the design fault that is inherent in charcoal. It doesn't light. Ever.

So, in his own words, he switched over to Plan B:

"It was a bit slow getting going, so I thought I'd use a Fairy Liquid bottle full of meths"

As you do.

Squirt.

Woomph.

In fact, and we're talking advanced and possibly unlikely physics here. His giving the bottle a good, hard squeeze, actually sucked burning meths back into the bottle; where it found just the right mixture of fuel and oxygen to woof burning chemicals all over the shop. Especially when he gave it a good, panic-ridden second squeeze, which had much the same effect as a flamethrower.

"Woomph."

This is his own explanation, dragged back over the years as that moment of horror drew itself out to last a lifetime. It all happened, you understand, in an instant, and you don't tend to stand around theorizing about the explosive tendencies of raw alcohol when your trousers are on fire, the conflagration licking up around the family jewels. It's all self preservation, particularly when somebody suggests stamping out the flames.

"Kendo!" said a helpful party guest, "Your trousers are on fire!"

"Never mind that," said Mrs Kendo, "Look at the fence!"

Yeah, never mind that, the fence was well alight, and concerned neighbours and guests were already turning the garden hose and a handy bucket onto the flames, before eventually soaking Kendo and his brand new Top Man jumper, bringing the party to an abrupt close.

It was a disaster. Kendo's Barbie was now a metal tray full of half-charred meat swimming around in grey water, tended by a man who appeared to have steam rising from his genitals.

"The sausages are all wet!" said Mrs Kendo unaware of her double entendre, and "Oh Ken!"

"The experiment was over," he said, ever the pragamatist, "We went down the chip shop."

Greetings, Reading Evening Post readers

Greetings, Reading Evening Post readers

Thanks for visiting! I suppose you'd like to know what the devil goes on around here, and, frankly so do I. The funny stories appear on Fridays, and the last two were set in the none-more-sought-after surroundings of Whitley and Dee Road. If that doesn't put you off, the rest of the content, in my humblest of opinions, is still excellent.

And, if you're one of those people who reads a newspaper from the back pages first: URRRRRRRRRZ!

The book, if you want a copy, can be obtained (signed) from Waterstones in Broad Street, from their website or from Amazon.

Finally, if you remember me from school, I assure you that you're not in the book. Honest.

Even more Joys of YouTube

Even more Joys of YouTube

Terry Hall: Yes.

Possibly the finest person ever to come out of Coventry since Lady Godiva. Seeing as the opposition isn't exactly up to much, this could be seen as damning with faint praise. But! Look!

The Specials: Gangsters - "Bernie Rhodes knows, don't argue", a saying I still use to mystify the kids. Also: The drummer! Look at the drummer!

The Specials: Too Much Too Young "Ain't you heard of the starving millions? Ain't you heard of contraception?" Soon (with luck and a following wind) to become the them tune to a BBC sitcom written by TV's Mr Biffo

The Specials: Ghost Town, which will now, for me, be forever associated with Father Ted

Fun Boy Three: Our Lips Are Sealed - And in Urdu, with additional big hair

Fun Boy Three: Tunnel of Love, miming on Top of the Pops with additional big trousers

The Colour Field: Thinking of You - one of those songs that makes you feel all gooey inside for no accountable reason

Lightning Seeds: Sense - written by Hall, T

Dub Pistols: Problem Is

Terry Hall: Ballad of a Landlord - Plz to note the popular beat combo 'No Doubt' making a cameo appearance at about 1:30

In summary: Don't call me Scarface!


Ye Olde Thursday Vote-o

To mark the fact that I have, at last, started work on my new - and much-requested - book "Samuel Pepys: Lust for Glory", I have handed this week's Thursday vote-o over to the man himself. So, if it pleases you, the broad masses of the working proletariat (this is A Good Thing), here are the four stories to choose from for Friday's Tale of Mirth and Woe:

* Conk: Twas a strange day indeed where I met a fyne yet strangely cultur'd gentlemen known only as "The Doctor", whose consultynge rooms were nothing but a small, blue box in Drury Lane

* Road Rage: He spoke in a strange argot, and seem'd greatly interest'd in Ye Great Fyre in which myself and my friend Newton were in no way responsible for by settynge alight to our own fartes

* Kendo's Barbie of Woe: He spake greatly of 'Daleks' - who I assum'd to be Dutch sailors, and showe'd me the inside of his vessel which, he claim'd was 'grander than Ann Noreen Widdecombe's chuff', whoever is this foule harridan of whom he speaks

* Hole in the Ground: Alas, his companion, one Captain Jack, took rather a shining to me and bumm'd me into next week, which came as an extraordinary surprise to both myself and Mrs Pepys who had the watch searchynge for me this last seven days.

Whyle I appear to be with childe with space babies from the 50th Century, I aske you to 'vote-me-do', whatever that means

On Telemarketing

On Telemarketing

We are now members of the Telephone Preference Service, which mean that we no longer get cold called by telemarketers and associated buggers and bastards trying to sell us crap we don't want, just as we're settling down to Neighbours of an evening.

This, however, is not entirely accurate. There are so many loopholes in the scheme, that just about any company on the planet can give you an unwanted buzz because you accidentally ticked a box on an order form three years ago. And then there's all the companies they own. We're talking about you, Lloyds TSB. So, while we don't get the buggers calling us on a regular basis, they still ring once or twice a week.

I've given up telling them to bugger off. The phrase "We're members of the TPS, and you're in trouble" usually has them hanging up in a blind panic before you even finish the sentence, but there is little or no fun to be had in that anymore.

These days, I just leave them to Mrs Duck, who no longer tells them that the people living here are dead, or Albanian, or in prison, because they don't believe her. Instead, we just resort to sarcasm.

Like this:

Telemarketer: "What would you say if I told you that you get free doors with every set of replacement windows you order?"

Mrs Duck: "I would tell you to get a proper job."

Telemarketer: "But… it's a once-in-a-lifetime offer!"

Mrs Duck: "So is listening at school, mate. Don't ring back."

She's a gem, that Mrs Duck.

Tell me phone pest avoidance tactics: HERE.

On Weymouth (100% True FACTS)

On Weymouth (100% True FACTS)

My home town has a chequered and varied history. The town brought the Great Plague to England, changed hands several times during the Civil War and was the favoured holiday haunt for "Mad" King George III, who had a caravan at Littlesea. He could often be seen in the holiday camp members' club singing 'Simply the Best' on karaoke night and proclaiming "See that? That's class, that is" to any visiting cabaret act. No wonder they thought him mental.

Such was the late King's influence on the dark arts of the seaside entertainment industry which make even circus performers look talented, the town is cursed as the acknowledged international centre for holiday camp variety.

There is, you will be sickened to hear, an annual beginning-of-season showcase where acts do a turn at the none-more-seedy Pavilion Theatre in front of all the holiday camp bosses, in the hope of getting hired. Next year, for the good of the nation, I shall be calling in the RAF to bomb the place into the sea.

Latterly, Weymouth was the departure point for the US Forces on D-Day, and it is sobering to think that Ernest Hemingway might have wenched his way through the Borough, yet still it stands.

Like any town, Weymouth has its own charming little quirks which make life there worth living. For example:

* As a result of public pressure, a local bylaw allows for a roped-off 'Jimmy Area' on the seafront where tramps and winos may congregate and ask passers-by for the price of a cup of tea. If you guess the correct amount, you win a tramp.

* Weymouth has been recognised by the United Nations as the Grab-a-Granny capital of the World.

* As a result of a clerical error, Weymouth is theoretically in a state of war with neighbouring Dorchester. If a citizen feels so inclined, he may take himself over the Ridgeway, relieve himself through any Dorchester letterbox and return to his home without fear of reprisal.

* The town was briefly an independent nation in 1957 following the constitutional controversy over the town's 'Carnival of Bumming', which saw the historic Pier Bandstand destroyed in a bizarre spacehopper accident. The Carnival then moved on to Brighton, and the rest, as they say, is history.

* Weymouth is twinned with Your Mum's bedroom, and there exists a thriving exchange programme.

Interestingly, the town's named is derived not from its position on the mouth of the River Wey - a common mistake to which many local historians have fallen foul - but because of Weymouth and Melcombe Regis' history as the centre for the European insect trade.

Merchants were paid for their cargoes by the pound, hence the name "Weigh Moth". The original scales are now positioned at the Town Gateway on the Ridgeway above Weymouth, and used as a means of ejecting fat northerners who frequently fall foul of strict European Union pie quotas.

In his novels 'Far from the Madding Crowd' and 'The Mayor of Casterbridge', Dorset author Thomas Hardy referred to Weymouth, somewhat prophetically, as "SuperExcellentScaryduckTown".

Conversely, the nearby Isle of Portland derives its name from the Old English 'Place of Terrible Cunts', a title that is still remarkably accurate to this day.

What, then, stands your home town out from the crowd?

Also: Duck News on rubbish laws.

Also also: Curs-ed footwear update *bowk*

Also also also: I've changed to Blogger Beta. Let me know if you find any glitches.

In praise of Brigadier-General Sir Harry Paget Flashman VC KCB KCIE, 1822-1915

In praise of Brigadier-General Sir Harry Paget Flashman VC KCB KCIE, 1822-1915

"Hoi Scary", says one of me learned comrades at my place of work not so very long ago, "Read this 'ere book. It's excellent."

It was a copy of 'Flashman' the 1969 novel by the Scottish author George MacDonald Fraser - screenwriter of some repute - who had taken the notorious bully from Thomas Hughes' 'Tom Brown's Schooldays' and given Britain's greatest ever cad and bounder a life story.

And what a story. Twelve volumes to date, with a cult following, and continuing just as long as Fraser continues to draw breath, long may that be.

The Flashman books cover Flashy's life story from the moment he is expelled from Rugby School for drunkenness, and finds himself, by a circuitous set of events caught in the middle of the Afghan War; and despite his best attempts to run away, finding himself a national hero. Speaking as a coward myself, who has fled adversity on many, many occasions, Flashy is my kind of man.

Flashy's interests are two-fold: self-preservation and women. Finding himself married to the dotty, if voluptuous Elspeth at the end of a shotgun, this proved no obstacle to our be-whiskered anti-hero, who is rarely more than a few pages from female company throughout the series. As far as I can make out he's married at least four of them.

As you might gather, Flashman is a huge misogynist, and the books - written in the language of a ninety-year-old retired army officer looking back at his glorious career in the service of Queen and Country - the books are about as politically incorrect as you can get. If you are offended by the word 'nigger' and suchlike, used in the context of the age, for just about any person born south of Dover, then you'd be best giving Flashy a miss, for this is the kind of work that would give a council equal opportunities officer a heart attack.

A true guilty pleasure, the uninitiated might be surprised to learn that thanks to Flashman's uncanny knack of failing to avoid some of the greatest military engagements of the 19th Century, the reader actually manages to learn a great deal as the man himself bounces from bedroom to bedroom, usually followed closely by a heavily-armed mob.

The books are presented in memoir form - the author having "decided" to discover Flashman's original journals in a Leicestershire saleroom in 1966, correcting nothing but spellings and adding copious footnotes that substantiate and expand upon this history as told by Flashy.

Fraser spends months researching each book for historical accuracy, and some thirty-seven years after the first Flashman book was published, he is still tickled by reviews that assume the books are a genuine memoir in which the hero meets some of the pivotal characters of the century, invariably deflowering their women, cheating them at cards, before fleeing into the night, hailed, mistakenly as the saviour of the British Empire.

Typical quote: "And despite the dashed nuisance of the enemy's guns firing over our heads, I popped them out of her dress and gave them a quick squeeze."

The Duck recommends: all of them, but Flashman in the Great Game - a tale of the Indian Mutiny - stands head-and-shoulders above the rest.

Mirth and Woe: Stripper

Mirth and Woe: Stripper

A tale of woe starring my most excellent father-in-law, known to his mates as Kendo.

Kendo, as I've mentioned before, is a practical man, and will never pay to get a craftsman in if he thinks he can do the job himself. This is a philosophy that has, over the years, saved him thousands of pounds, and has only resulted in potentially fatal injuries on less than a dozen occasions. Two dozen, tops.

So, when the Kendo family got their own house for the first time, Kendo did what any family man would do by setting about the place with a tin of paint and a few rolls of wallpaper.

The paint job on the stairs, however, proved problematic. The previous residents were clearly colour-blind, or, it being the seventies, suffering from the national taste shortage that cursed the nation at a difficult time in British history. The stairs were orange. Orange gloss paint. Orange gloss paint, slapped on in layers about an inch thick. It hurt your face just looking at it.

"Kendo," said Mrs Kendo, "That's got to go."

He set about the paint with a piece of sandpaper like a man possessed, and found that there was no way he was going to finish the job this side of Doomsday.

"I know," he says, "I've got a mate in the trade - he can get me some paint stripper! Industrial grade stuff. That'll do the trick."

So, finding himself on the Post Office waiting list for a phone (they were sent a letter with a date for installation - it said '1987') he went to the phone box outside the fire station with a pocket of 2p pieces, made a few calls, and pretty soon, Kendo was the proud owner of a catering size tin of industrial strength stripper.

Off came the lid, and dipping a brush into the goo, he set about the orange, and pretty soon he was getting back to plaster that had not seen the light of day in decades.

It was several couple of hours into the job, halfway up the stairs that Kendo became aware of a strange tingling sensation. A strange tingling sensation in his backside, which he put down to sitting on his rump for hours at a time while he set about the paint with blobs of caustic goo and a scraper.

The tingling did not get any better, though. If anything, it was getting worse. A tingling that was becoming a dull ache, and presently, eyeball-popping agonies.

"Ouch," he said out loud, "Ouch, my bottom appears to be on fire."

Or words to that effect.

"Kendo," says Mrs Kendo, surveying the scene as her husband ran up and down the stairs beating out the invisible flames coming from his arse, "You've sat on the lid."

And so he had. He had taken the top off the paint stripper (which, going against 1970s health and safety advice, had a large, frightening warning on the side on the dangers of not touching, breathing or even being in the same postcode as the tin of jollop), and set to work, unaware that The Lid of Doom was quietly melting its way towards bare flesh.

In fact, the stuff had burned a neat hole through his jeans, a pair of y-fronts - where the added crust had merely accelerated the chemical reaction - and was making a reasonable fist of burning him a new, larger bum-hole.

Rather belatedly: "MWAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Tom and Jerry style, he charged back up the stairs, five at a time, and launched himself fully-clothed into the bath with a sigh.

Naturally, two words echoed in his ears as he contemplated his brush with melty death:

"Oh Ken."

Dog Woe

Dog woe

You know you're heading for trouble when the kids start a conversation with the opening gambit "Dad? Am I allowed to swear?"

For the record, the answer is usually "no", but for once, I relented.

So:

"Dad?" asked Scaryduck Junior, "Am I allowed to swear?"

"Uhhh..."

"Well, you know how girl dogs are called bitches..."

"Yes. Yes they are, and I can see exactly where this is heading."

"Does that mean boy dogs are called bastards?"

I can't imagine where he gets it from.


Hussssss! It's the Thursday vote-o!

Ye Gods, it's Thursday again, and finding myself lacking any kind of motivation whatsoever, this week I steal all this week's vote-o quote-os from a list of supposedly genuine entries in the Queen Mother Condolence Book. Choose then, for tomorrow's Friday Tale of Mirth and Woe, from the following:

Conk: "No matter how she felt, no matter the situation, she always wore a smile. Just like a retard"

Road Rage: "How refreshing to be able to mourn the death of a member of the Royal family without being accused of being homosexual"

Kendo's Barbie of Woe: "I remember she came to visit us in the East End one time. She was so kind, so generous and so sweet. She whispered softly in my ear, 'You know it's not true' she said, 'you don't smell of shit'. She was a wondrous person".

Stripper: "I have been unable to masturbate for five days, and will not do so again until Her Majesty is buried"

The full, sorry list can be found here. The management accepts no responsibility, etc...

Your reward: this.

On Shattering Illusions

On Shattering Illusions

Here comes Christmas, and here comes a happy, smiling Santa with his sack. The great fat checking-his-list-twice bastard. When in your life did you realise that Father Christmas was - as you always suspected - actually your parents, or these days, some fat old bloke in a low budget department store grotto who's just had a criminal records check?

Let's face it, no kid with half a brain is going to fall for that 'Well, we buy the presents, then we give them to Santa, who delivers them on Christmas Day' trick forever. We are already being told 'Yeah, right, just give us the money' in our household over the Tooth Fairy.

And God, if it can't get much worse, it does. It turns out that the fairy in the big guy's grotto in Debenhams isn't a fairy after all. It's a vicious spear-wielding Viking, with, no doubt, pillage on her mind.

Santy can't hold out much longer.

I remember the fateful Death-of-Santa Christmas well:

I was ten, the year we spent Christmas at my grandad's.

"Here's your stocking, then."

"Oh, right. Thanks Mum."

That was the year I drunk the old geezer's peapod wine and puked all over his gardening trophies, so a memorable year all round.

Or, my brother's epiphany one Christmas Day: "Oh look, the ariel on my brand new CB radio - it's broken."

Of course, he had been using said radio for the best part of a month going 10-4-for-a-copy to all his mates, and snapped the thing off putting it back in the bottom of the secret wardrobe when Mum came home from work earlier than expect.

That was the year he gave up on Santa. He was 15.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

The Curse of the Curse-d Trainers

The Curse of the Curse-d Trainers

This weekend, in a fit of stupidity, I went beachcombing yesterday along Chesil Beach after the latest big storm to hit the south coast.

Stupid, because the area around Chesil and Portland is perhaps the most dangerous part of the south coast when the wind is any stronger than a light breeze, and my little trip comes only a week after a local kid was swept away - presumably drowned - in the sheltered waters of Portland Harbour. This here picture of mine goes some way to illustrate the enormity of the big sea against very, very small people. It was so windy I could barely stand upright to take the photo.

There, with a gale blowing straight up my swonnicles, I made the most excellent discovery. All beachcombers dream of finding something special, a dream that tends to involve a suitcase full of used bank notes, but that was better. Much, much better. For I found, amongst the usual plastic bottles, bits of wood, rope and cuttlefish, an excellent pair of Nike trainers IN MY SIZE that had quite probably fallen off a boat somewhere. Or, were formerly attached to a dead sailor.

However, on taking my prize home, I now find myself in the position where I am loathe to wear them as:

a) walking around in dead sailor's trainers is, when you think about it and in the cold light of day, just a little bit pikey, and

b) For dead sailor's trainers read 'Curse-d Trainers'. Curse-d. Curse-d to death. And nobody wants curse-d feet.

I fear curse-d feet because of what Mrs Duck told me. In fact, our actual conversation, held at 100 decibels in a howling gale went like this:

Me: Hey! I found some trainers! Nike! In my size!

Mrs Duck: I bet they belong to some drowned sailor. You ought to call the police.

Me: Finders keepers.

Mrs Duck: They'll be curse-d, you mark my words.

Me: What-ed?

Mrs Duck: Curse-d. Curse-d trainers.

I have been told, in another place, by another blogger, of the dangers of donning curse-d clothing and getting killed to death by vengeful footwear. For similar reasons, you should never buy trousers from a charity shop as it is a 100 per cent guarantee that someone died in them. Possibly from explosive diarrhoea.

And who am I to argue? Mrs Duck's got an uncle, who, as a lorry driver, was always bringing home things he'd 'found' at the side of the road. This included, on one memorable occasion, a whole three-tier wedding cake, complete with little plastic bride and groom on top.

Curse-d cake. Curse-d cake that brought on explosive diarrhoea. That'll learn 'em.

What excellent things have you found? And was it curse-d in any way?

On satellite navigation systems

On satellite navigation systems

I understand that the companies that make and sell in-car navigation systems have come up with the horrifying idea of churning them out with celebrity voices in an effort to beef up sales to the easily impressed. In fact, they've already signed up Mr. T who would almost certainly chide the poor driver with "Turn left. LEFT! I pity the foo' that turns right" just before the unit is thrown out of the car window and never seen again. He also, I gather, needs the money.

But "Feh!", we say to that. "Feh!" If we were to ever have our good taste glands surgically removed and forced at gunpoint to buy one of these devices, we'd want real celebrity voices for idiot customers with more money than sense. You know, the kind of person with an oh-so-funny "Am I bovvered?" ringtone. People who buy Crazy Frog records. You know: idiots.

So, we're pushing for this kind of crap, and it'll kill the market stone dead. That'll learn 'em:

The late Ronnie Barker as Arkwright in Open All Hours: "T-t-t-t-t-urn left in a h-h-h-h-h-undred yards, G-g-g-ranville. S-s-s-s-sorry, missed it."

Margaret Thatcher: "Straight on! Always straight ahead! This lady's not for turning."

Jeremy Clarkson: "POW-ERRRRRRRRRR! FOOT TO THE FLOOR! POW-ERRRRRRRR! Only ladyboys ask directions. POW-ERRRRRR!"

George Michael: "Don' ask me - it's jus' this lemsip reactin' with me antibiotics, an' not illegal drugs at all... ZZZzzz..."

S. Duck: "Left. Right. Straight on for 400 yards. Pull over. Wait five minutes while I done a poo in this hedge. Third turning at next roundabout..."

And while you're here, any suggestions of your own? Not that we'd rip off your idea or anything. What do you take me for?


Minogue Latest: Celebrity Bestiality - not as manky as you might think.

Mirth and Woe: Graffiti

Mirth and Woe: Graffiti

Long-time readers will remember the time I was dobbed in to my junior school headmaster and soundly thrashed for writing the word "PiSS" in soap on the mirror of the boys' toilets. It was a fair cop and society was entirely to blame, mainly for failing to tell me that writing "PiSS" on a mirror in soap was, indeed, outside of accepted moral and ethical standards that we live by. My arse glowed for several hours, and I consider myself lucky to have learned my lesson so early on.

OK, so I did go through a phase - aided and abetted by a younger brother who gave me a box of chalks and a set of felt tips for Christmas, graffiti for the purpose of - of writing "Arsenal Gooners kick to kill" in toilet cubicles at motorway service stations.

And then there was the business of writing "except Slough" on those stickers in train toilets that tell you not to flush the toilet when standing in a station, but I'm over that now. Just don't get me and a pen together in a public convenience, I'll only do something I might be ashamed of. Still, it beats cottaging, and hurts less.

But! This story is not about me (for a change). It is about the lovely, svelte Mrs Duck.

Mrs Duck went through a hard time in her early teens. He family moved from one part of Reading to a new estate on the edge of town when she was about twelve years old. This meant a whole new school in a less than desirable neighbourhood. A girls' school, packed to the gills with the shrieking harpy offspring of the local mouthbreathers.

In fact, said school has changed its name twice in recent years to escape the shame of damning Ofsted reports, pointing out it was one of the first educational establishments in the country to have its own crèche. That kind of school. And coming in as an outsider into the second year from the other side of town didn't make for a happy childhood.

Highlights of her years in this particular establishment included the time she and her sister were chased home by all 1,000 pupils (and some of the teachers), and something physically impossible involving a rubber tyre, which may yet appear in a later tale of mirth and woe.

So, it came as no surprise, one day, when she was led by the ear by an avenging deputy headmistress from the playground, to the shrieking delight of her classmates.

Dragged to a stairwell in the hovel of a building, the deputy head pointed to some fresh graffiti on the wall and demanded one thing of my future wife:

"What the bloody hell's this?"

"What?"

"This. This foul scribbling on the wall. All this swearing. And we've warned you kids about fuckin' swearing in school how many times?"

"I didn't do it, miss."

"Yes you did. I can tell."

"Err… how?"

"Ah ha!" she beamed in triumph, "You signed your name! Just wait until your parents get here. I've phoned them already, and they're LIVID. Your mother came to this school and I hated her too."

"But… but…"

"That's enough of your excuses, you're in BIG trouble, my girl."

"But… I couldn't have written it."

"You couldn't? Why the devil not? You'll have a hell of a time trying to wriggle out of this one."

"Well…"

"Out with it girl!"

"If I HAD done it…"

"Yes?"

"If it had been me who wrote that…"

"Yes…"

"I would have spelt my name right."

"Oh fuckery."

"You see, miss. It goes V E N E S A. I never spell it like that. And as for the surname..."

"Oh fuckery."

"Apslom? It's A B S O L O M."

"Oh fuckery"

"Can I go now? What are you goin' to tell my parents?"

"Oh fuckery."

"And stop swearing miss. It's not clever"

God, she's wonderful. I had to say that, of course, she's got 'em both in a vice.


Serious face: Duck News. World AIDS DAY. That is all.

On being an embarrassment in public

On being an embarrassment in public

To the local Asda for a few household essentials. Our total purchase consists of a largely inoffensive mix of the following:

* Four large Galaxy bars
* A Bombay Bad Boy flavour Pot Noodle
* A six pack of Pedigree Chum dog food
* A two litre bottle of Domestos bleach
* A bottle of Gordon's Gin

As the sales assistant puts this little lot through the till, it is perhaps best not to say "Well, that's the kids' supper sorted, then", as they tend not to see the funny side, and may even phone the Social Services hit squad hotline before you've even left the car park.

So that's why I say it every time I go in.

And that's why Mrs Duck prefers to shop online.


A Widdy-Free Vote-o

I made a vow last week. I vowed thussly: "No matter what, there will be no room for Ann Noreen Widdecombe in this week's Thursday vote-o." And, this short mention aside, I am a man of my word. And buggered if I can think of anything to write for the vote-o quote-os that doesn't feature the member for Maidstone and The Weald. Damn you, unnecessary vows! See what you have wrought!

So, if you please, vote for one of the following five Tales of Mirth and Woe*, featuring - for once - actual quotes from the stories:

Conk: "Spackaspackaspackaspacka!"

Road Rage: "It was red, throbbing, with a vein down the side"

Graffiti: "Oh fuckery."

Kendo's Barbie of Woe: "You don't tend to theorize about the explosive tendencies of raw alcohol when your trousers are on fire"

Stripper: "Ouch, my bottom appears to be alight."

There appears to be a higher than average quota of burning genitalia this week, but that is only because I have yet to write the one about the DIY surgery. So, as always, it's your choice. Get in there!

* Get your spare copy now - the ideal Christmas present for a sweary friend or close relative

Samuel Pepys: Ye worst week of myne lyfe

Samuel Pepys: Ye worst week of myne lyfe

26th November 1666: Up betimes, I fynde myselfe call'd to court by His Majesty to discuss matters regardynge His Majesty's Navy. On my arrival I fynde, to my dismay, that I have miss'd ye memo, and it is Dresse Downe Friday, whereupon I am greatly mock'd by the assembl'd nobility. Luckily, Mistress Hannan had a spare peek-a-boo ensemble, and I was lately suitably attir'd for ye occasion.
But alas! Ne'er since the days of Cromwell has so much brown-hatting been seen in polite society, and I was squarely caught offe myne guard by the syghte of unfetter'd gentlemenne's serpants. After a rough-and tumble with ye monstrously hang'd Duke of Buckingham, I may never sit on my poor bottom agayne. And so to bed, face down.

27th November 1666: Up betimes and to Highburye in ye village of Islyngton, where I didst witnesse a street brawle betwixt the villagers of ye Arsenal, and those of neighbouring Tottynghamme, whereupon a football match broke out. A gallic gentl'man call'd Henry didst astounde ye crowde with his trick'ry before cruelly behead'd by a Tottynghamme ruffian to the consternation of ye assembl'd crowde.
E'en though he has been deade these last two score and tenne yeares, we cannot forgette ye wordes of ye Barde of Stratforde, ye Brummie Gitte in this foule circumstance:
"My olde man sayde
Be a Tottynghamme fan
I sayde F'k offe, bollockes
Yr a c'nte!"
For, in my humbl'st opinion, ne'er have truer wordes been spok'n, but alas, I receiv'd some peasant's foote up my rear passage, and I'truth, it went right up ye hole and I was forc'd to crawl ye last two miles home. And so to bed, where, in myne agonies, I could not even summon the will to pull myself unto sleep.

28th November 1666: Office day, but myne bottom is still givynge me gyppe from the rogerynge I suffer'd at ye handes of ye Duke of Buckingham this last Friday, so I sent a boy out for a number of soothing balms from a quack physician I have knowledge of in ye village of Chelsea. I direct'd my darling wife to apply the lotion but alas, Mrs Pepys didst become mightily confus'd over which cream to employ. In her womanly bewilderment she became confound'd by the labels on ye bottles, and was under ye impression that ye newly imported "Chilly Paste", by the very sound of its name, would be ye medicine to sooth my throbbynge cleft. Making a poultice from ye entire jar, she slapp'd it on my tender ring and ballsack and bade me a good nyghte.

29th November 1666: It was not a good nyghte, for I spent the best part of seven hours, half naked and submerg'd in ye coolynge waters of ye Thames untille ye Nyght Watch did attempt to arrest me for "showynge a false light to shippynge", to whit, my glowynge bollockes which had attract'd a barge-full of amused onlookers who had been charg'd tuppence each for the privilege.
I was greatly encourag'd in my foulest of agonies by the sympathetic cries of Mrs Pepys, as she wallow'd in the grief of her infernal but honest wifely mistake. She wailed all nyghte in her despair, imploring God himself to call her a useless slutte and fill her with his red hot cream in my stead. I am tolde that it tooke three of my stoutest manservants to hold down her wrythnge body, and I reward'd the exhausted fellowes well the followinge morning. No wonder my employ is the most eagerly sought after in this City, & I do not know where I would be withoute that kindest of women.

30th November 1666: Once again to ye Dockes at Chatham to inspect the fleet and to pay off a number of ships. Twas a terryble ordeal, as ye roades were rutted and I feared that my very bunghole would rupture from the jarring and rockynge of the coach. Luckily, a Jack Tar didst espy me in my predicament, and tolde me of a remedy for my very ailment the sea dogs use on board ship involvynge a hammock and ye ramrod from ye shippe's largest gunne. Interest'd as I am at the welfare of the men under my charge, I shall follow this matelot below decks where a number of his stout shipmates promise to assist him in this strange yet traditional procedure, of which I shall write more anon.

1st December 1666: Alas, I am undone, ripp'd asunder, and I feare I shall never walk agayne.

Rubbish excuses

Rubbish excuses

I know what you lot are thinking, you manky devils. But no, I deny it totally. You may be surprised, and perhaps somewhat disgusted to learn that I have never been caught giving myself a hand shandy. This good fortune is a result of excellent planning and a high quality, vibration-free technique of which I am justly proud.

Others, alas, are not so lucky. Many is the time (OK, twice, tops - it's not like I make a habit of it) have I caught friends at the height of their vinegar strokes, and only once have I seen fit to throw a bucket of water over them.

For these people, and many other unfortunates like them whose relationship with the discoverer of their secret, not to mention rather vocal, lust for one "Sophie" will never be the same again, they have but one alleyway into which to flee. That of the rubbish excuse.

When caught masturbating, the only valid rubbish excuse that may be used is "I was cleaning it". Unfortunately, this may then lead to the challenge:

"Oh yes, and what's this crusty sock I found under your bed?"

"I ...err... trod in milk."

And thereby all parties are satisfied.

It needn't be an uncovered act of bishop bashing, as this post is not entirely about the act of self-pleasure and the consequences of its untimely discovery. Oh no! It is about man's inability to (ahem) come clean when caught in a compromising situation.

My own fall from grace came one leery night down the pub, when I was dragged from a momentary trance by the voice of an otherwise charming young lady, directing her ire in my direction. To whit:

"Ere you! You! Stop staring at my tits!"

I was, I am afraid, bang to rights, but I blundered onwards, trying in vain to cover my tracks.

Putting on a faux Ulster accent, I countered this mountain of woman with the first thing that came into my head.

"Dere's a little spider. It's crawling across yer blouse. If yer careful, you might get it off."

Top quality thinking-on-your-feet, I thought, but no. And coming across as Jimmy Cricket probably didn't help.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Get it off. The spider. Not …err… your blouse."

"You... you disgust me."

If I wasn't the barman and in a position to give out free Babychams, things might well have got a lot worse from there.

They did. She kicked me in the shins when I emerged to collect the empty glasses.

What rubbish excuses have you given? Eh? EH?


Tomorrow: Oh Lordy, it appeares to be ye timely returne of Samuel Pepys FRS, MP. Bryng bottle & bird.

On Buzzword Bingo

On Buzzword Bingo

Straight out of the top of Chris Morris's brains, actual genuine claptrap I've heard with my own ears recently:

"You are obviously not wearing a can-do headset"

"Hit me with your mind bullets"

"And if you have any ideas for our culture-change programme, you can download your brain to our thought-shower wiki."

"We need to be a kettle that rolls with the punches or the pot will be calling us black"

"No-one gives a honey-roasted fuck about your idea."

and, of course, the classic:

"Remember - there's no 'I' in team"*

Things went downhill from there…

I'm still hoping to throw in a "Let's plant a few idea trees and see if the dog of opportunity pisses up them" at some stage, nanoseconds before my sacking.

So: Be a pro-active team player and add your own buzzword bullshit.

* The answer to this being, of course, "Yes, but there's a 'U' in cunt".


Also: Duck News on how we are taking the war to Vladimir Putin by farting in a jar. And you think I just make this crap up.

Mirth and Woe: Take a Break

Take a Break

One of those 'Scary's Family' posts I promised I would never post. Still, sleeping on the sofa's not that bad.

If you're not a breeder, you'll never understand how magazines like Take A Break and their ilk manage to fill page after stinking letters page with cute little sayings from their readers' offspring. What lovely, lovely little darlings they must have.

Our children, on the other hand, I class as "normal", and therefore feel obliged to send little snippets of the things they say to "Take a Mank" magazine, if it exists, at all.

So, when Scaryduckling was a lovely little two-year-old, she ran into the kitchen in a state of child-like excitement. Hardly surprising, what with her being a child an' everything.

"Look mum" said my two year old daughter, clutching something long, pink and thin, "A Barbie leg!"

It wasn't a Barbie leg at all. Rather an ill-advised present I had purchased from a certain shop on the outskirts of Oxford. The type that doesn't have any windows, and charges a fortune for magazines featuring ladies with hardly any clothes on.

It was a good thing, in retrospect, that it didn't have any batteries in it.

I wrote the letter. We never got ten quid from Take a Break, the bastards.

Of course, that couldn't be the end of it. We bred again, and now we had two little darlings providing us with Take a Break ammo.

"Look mummy, it's an airplane!" said Scaryduck Jr.

It wasn't an airplane.

It was a certain brand of sanitary product with wings on.

All the way down the front hall.

All the way up the stairs.

All over the front windows, giving a lovely miniature airshow for the passengers on the number 17 bus.

Take a Break still didn't send us a tenner, and I even sent them a series of humourous photographs into the bargain.

"And Daddy, you've run out of balloons," said Scaryduckling, "Can you tie a knot in this one?"

"They aren't balloons. They're chewing gum."

Asking for it...

"I didn't like them. They tasted funny."

And:

"Daddy, why have the ladies in your book got no clothes on? They'll get cold and then they won't feel very well. Tell them to get dressed."

And:

I have promised not to mention "Oh No! Mummy's painting her bum!" as the circumstances are far too embarrassing for all concerned. Work it out for yourselves.

Take a Break must have a file on me at least six inches thick. I still never got a tenner.


Blatant plug for Duck News: HERE

Dear Viz, and a Widdy vote

Dear Viz

I done a letter!

Dear Viz,

I've got a foolproof plan to win the top prize on the national lottery. If I won the cash, I'd use the money to get Stephen Hawking to invent a time machine, go back in time and give myself the winning numbers, so I'd have the money to invent the time machine so that I could go back in time to give myself the winning numbers.

Then I could go back in time and kidnap Stephen Hawking before he ends up in a wheelchair, and threaten to put him in a wheelchair unless he can invent a time machine for me. Then, I'd be able to go back in time to give myself the winning numbers on the national lottery, so that I've got enough money to invent a time machine and go back in time to kidnap Stephen Hawking and build myself a time machine so I can win the lottery. Nothing can go wrong. I think.

I am not mad.

Yours

S. Duck, Ecuador


However, while I remain a pauper, I suppose I had better continue with this Dangermouse-free weblog and put forward five Scary Tales of Mirth and Woe for you lot to choose from.

Vote, then, in a Widdy special for:

Take a Break: "Put two dozen cameras in a house, and Channel Four call it Big Brother. Put one tiny camera in Ann Noreen Widdecombe's bathroom, and I get an ASBO. Where's the justice?"*

Conk: As the kangaroo brutally thrust its load home for the final time, Ann Noreen Widdecombe finally found her voice: "I'm a celebrity - get me out of here!" But Ant and Dec were nowhere to be seen.

Road Rage: It had all been so, so beautiful. But one thing haunted Ann Noreen Widdecombe. Why had Heather "Stumpy" Mills gone for her on the rebound?

Graffiti: "I'm sorry", said the theatrical agent to Ann Noreen Widdecombe, "but you'll have to come down now. It's damn impressive, but there's just no call in the business for an act that can stick herself to the ceiling by the suction power of her minge."

Kendo's Barbie of Woe: At last, Anne Noreen Widdecombe had found her true vocation in the world of end-of-the-pier all-in wrestling. Not only did she get her own leotard, but the baby oil allowance was the best in the business

A free sick bucket to every tenth voter!

* This gag stolen from Viz. Fair swap, really.

Dangermouse: King of Wrong

Dangermouse: King of Wrong

We see that the *cough* so-called Bolshevik Broadcasting Corporation has brought back Dangermouse, that animation much-loved of the poorly-educated middle classes of this once great nation, a crime against good taste that cannot go unmentioned on these pages.

"He's the greatest, he's fantastic, wherever there is danger he'll be there", goes the song, dragged out by trendies of a certain age in the vain hope of confirming their so-called cool credentials to an otherwise disinterested public.

Great? Fantastic? We reply thussly: "Bollocks".

You see, poor deluded obedient citizen of the 51st State, there is more to Dangermouse than meets the eye. It is simple government propaganda, designed to promote the idea of a white, middle-class status quo, and be damned to the darkest corners of Hell if you're anything else. Like a frog, for example.

The enlightened viewer, who can see this evil piece of so-called "entertainment" for what it is, will find that the alleged villain of the piece, Baron Greenback, is nothing but a legitimate businessman ruthlessly hounded by a state apparatus determined to put an end to reptilian (for which read "foreign") direct investment in a free globalised market to which it pays scant lip service.

Dangermouse - white Middle-England fascist bully-boy incarnate - is clearly a portmanteau of David Blunkett and John Reid, clearly designed by the government's propaganda department to drum up support for its flawed and corrupt attempts to control society. A flawed and corrupt campaign to vilify such law-abiding citizens such as Silas Greenback, who came to this country a penniless refugee of a tadpole, and has grown a business empire that makes these so-called champagne socialists seeth with envy.

Even the 'DM' badge on the so-called hero's chest has sinister meaning - 'Doc Marten' - signifying the trampling down of opposition under the mighty boot of British colonial power.

Colonel K (the 'K' standing for 'Kill the Foreign Johnnies and sell their children as slaves' - True Fax!) shows the British establishment at its frightening worst; while everyman Penfold portrays the blind, stupid nature of the British population. Not only are they brainwashing you with this filth - they are laughing at you while they do it! It's all there, sheeple, staring you in the face.

And that is why Dangermouse is thirty shades of wrong.

Grown-ups: Say NO to Dangermouse.

I am not mad.

Next week: Lord Voldemort - Is he all bad?


Shameless pluggery: Duck News on the Lebanon (total mentions of that Human League song = zero), and political correctness gone mad

Shameless somethingelsery: It's Misty's birthday today. She wants you to go over and wish her 'Happy Birthday', or she'll throw a big strop and run the lot of us through with her big Viking spear. Well? Get on with it!

On Christmas shopping

On Christmas shopping

We like to get our Christmas shopping done early, to avoid what passes for a rush in Weymouth town centre come December. We've got a Debenhams and a Woolworths, both built over an old graveyard dating back to the Black Death*, which might go to explain the ectoplasm spoffed all over my most recent copy of OK! magazine, bought, you must understand, for ironic purposes.

So, it was a Friday lunchtime that we found ourselves in Haunted Debenhams, running the eye over what we might buy for certain family members, when we came across a display of frighteningly expensive executive toys, priced for cardiac arrest.

Mrs Duck: "What... what's that?"

Me: "It's one of those Robosapien things. How much? Three hundred quid? Good God."

Mrs Duck: "What does it do for three hundred quid then? It had better be special."

Me: "For that money, I'd fully expect it to go out to the off licence, do the housework, cook dinner, and when it has quite done, grasp me firmly with its metallo-plastic pincers and give me the robotic wanking of my life."

Passing Blue-Rinsed Old Biddy: "I'd do it for twenty."

Me: "....!"

Mrs Duck: "Come on dear**, we're leaving"

Old Biddy: "Fifteen then."

Deal or No Deal? No deal, and not just because she was sporting Noel Edmond's beard.

* The Black Death was Weymouth's gift to a grateful nation. God, some people just can't take a joke
** I hate it when she speaks in bold text. It can only mean one thing: woe

On things not possibly getting any worse

On things not possibly getting any worse

Top TV comedy producer and blogger Mark Freeland asks, on farting in front of Princess Anne's son and visiting a rest home full of naked old men: "Can it get much worse?"

Yes, of course it can. And why does it always seem to involve my genitals?

While having an operation on my 'nads last year didn't hurt nearly as much as I expected, thanks to the miracle of loads and loads of drugs, there's not much worse than making small talk on your holidays with a doctor and two nurses while they carve away at your bollocks like it was a Sunday roast.

In fact, I've had far worse pain from far more innocent pursuits. True, I've been kicked in the bollocks by the unhinged kid at school, but then not even the teachers escaped Mad Paul's swinging Doc Martens. After the brief white flash of pain, and the minutes spent drooling and crying on the playground, you are free to go about your life, hoping beyond hope that they still work. Not so bad, then.

However, there is little worse than rubbing Deep Heat into my back before having a wee without washing my hands. It doesn't get much worse than that, not unless you're the kind of person to have a penchant for getting serviced by tramps. Tramps who have previously been cutting up chilis before getting down to the business in hand.

I would imagine that nothing is quite as bad as that. Unless, of course, you lot know better, you tramp-worrying filth-mongers.

On blogging

On blogging

Somebody told me this not long ago, and it made me done a roffle:

"Starting a new blog is like getting a kitten. You either lavish your undying love on it for the rest of its natural life; or you get bored of it after a fews days, brain it with a rock and leave it for carrion."

So: I'm still at the 'undying love' stage at Duck News, even if I'm reduced to hurling cheap abuse at Pete Doherty.

Mirth and Woe: Where are they now?

Mirth and Woe: Where are they now?

I know what you're asking. What happens to all the people that appear in my stories? You read about all these friends and relatives that turn up on these pages, get puked over, and then disappear again with barely a word.

Do they get special counselling?

Do they ever sue?

Do they ever return and get a second dose of rich, brown vomit, jets of fresh poo, or even the chance of red hot rumpy action with my good self? No. No, they do not.

And how can you possibly blame them?

My friend Matty, who lived next door to me for much of my youth, coming to grief on numerous occasions in hedges, playgrounds and raging river torrents. He found himself, over the years, cheating death most heinously as go-karts have smashed through hedges, survived home-made bombs that have ripped through waste-ground, and fled for his life as the baying hordes of parents have borne down on the lot of us, seeking awful revenge.

Matty is now in Australia. And if he could get any further away, such as another planet, he would.

Richard, similarly has fled to the West Coast of the United States. At least one of my other childhood neighbours works for an airline, so he too can put some miles between himself and repeated woe. Meanwhile, my entire family have all put at least 150 miles between me and them. It's for the best, to be honest.

But others are not so fortunate. Some can not, or transfixed by the sheer mank, will not escape for their lives.

Take, for example, my former colleague Paul. He worked with me for a while at that famous tyre and exhaust company that rhymes with "Motor Gay".

Paul had a singular chatting up technique, which he used whenever he was, well, anywhere, really.

At work. Down the pub. In the frozen products aisle of Tescos. Anywhere women could be found, he used his chat-up technique.

It was this: "Fancy a shag?"

Some afternoons, after a particularly heavy session down the pub, his face would be redder than Alex Ferguson's with the succession of slaps he experienced. And that's if their boyfriends didn't catch up with him first.

Yet, despite his suffering, he always claimed to be ahead of the game.

"Even if it only works one time out of a hundred, I'll still get laid more than you," he said, and damn it, he was right.

"So," I asked, "How many times has it worked?"

"Errr… once."

"Anybody I might know?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact. She used to work here."

"Riiight…."

"Yeah, you remember Sharon?"

Yes. Yes, I remembered Sharon.

"God mate, never again. You'll never guess what she's into."

No. No, I'll never guess.

"I mean, good thing we went back to my place straight from a couple of pints in the pub. Otherwise I don't think I could have managed."

"Oh. God. No."

"So… I… err… you know… she made me… well… you know… she… she… err… made me… err…"

"You pissed on her tits, didn't you?"

"How did you know?"

And that, my friends, is what happened to Barking Mad Sharon.

The Life of Kendo

The Life of Kendo*

The recent publication of Tales of Mirth and Woe has brought an unexpected result in Mrs Duck's father, the magnificent Kendo, opening whole new seams of stories for this site. Stories packed to the gills with both Mirth and Woe, of the highest quality. One or two of these stories have already slipped out onto these pages, but there is more to come. Much more, you lucky, lucky people.

In fact, the in-laws have been hard at it for a number of years (big family - they never had a television) and can already boast the following achievements, some of which still grace the archives of the Reading Evening Post:

- The time they were caught grave-robbing

- The time a family member became an internationally famous comedian despite "not being the funny one"

- The time they sent the little old lady next door to the gallows

- The time a family member carked it on the Titanic (built at the yard where my grandfather worked. Now that's going to cause some family friction)

- The time they re-enacted the siege of Stalingrad at a wedding reception

- The time a family member starred in EastEnders, only to be framed for murder

We're going to get along just fine. Oh yes.

* No relation to this Kendo.


A vote-o!

See what happens in a week where my MSN messenger is set to "Busy"? I sit myself sat down and force myself to write no less than three spanking new Tales of Mirth and Woe, which, countering recent unwarranted criticism from certain quarters, are all 100 per cent true.

I've just jazzed them up a bit, that's all.

Vote, then, for one of the following, the most popular of which, based on the single transferable make-it-up-as-I-go-along system will appear on these pages tomorrow

* Take a Break: A not untrue tale of life in the Duck household, which may or may not include a special guest appearance by Ann Noreen Widdecombe in her foundation garments*

* Conk: A not untrue tale of killer trees, suspicious "herbal" concoctions and a close family member getting maimed for life

* Road Rage: A not untrue tale of traffic-related woe and cheap personal abuse which may or may not include a special guest appearance by TV's Sandi Toksvig in her foundation garments*

* Where are they now?: A not untrue tale of bodily waste product woe which is a sequel to one of my most notorious stories. Dare you risk the rule of diminishing returns for this one? Eh? Do you?

* Graffiti: A not untrue tale of improvised literary woe including repeated use of the words "Oh fuckery", which may or may not include a special guest appearance by HRH Prince William in his granny's foundation garments*

And your reward? A thing what I done, and the latest duck-flavoured news comment on ducknews.org. I must be serious. I've spent money on it.

* Go on, what do you think?

"How quaint!"

"How Quaint"

A phone rang. A phone rang in a far corner of the office that we had entirely forgotten about.

"What's that?" asked Steve.

"I haven't a clue," I replied, and a brief search of the area turned up the answer.

The fax machine.

"A fax machine? Since when have we had a fax machine?"

And: "How quaint!"

And: "Look! There's some paper coming out! Haven't these people heard of email?"

It was a triumph of ancient technology over the spanking new digital age, and we were so impressed we threw the fax into the recycling bin.

The world, it seems, is filled with old technology that simply refuses to die peacefully. The latest Argos catalogue, that dictionary of household taste, still has a page of Sony Walkmans (they never came up with a decent plural in all those years) that take cassettes. Even CD Walkmen are a tad passé, and I should know, I've got three.

So, I've wasted literally minutes of my life coming up with a list of "How Quaint" technology that won't go away:

* Faxes
* Audio cassettes

* VHS video
* Dial-up internet

* Four star petrol
* "I'm calling from a pay phone"

* "I've got to renew my CB radio licence"
* "And over on Radio 4 Long Wave, Test Match Special"

And yes, we still have a PC in our operation that runs Windows 3.11 on a 66MHz processor. Cutting edge!

What have you got?

On/In Public Toilets

On/In Public Toilets

I like to think myself something of a connoisseur of public toilets. Not in a sticking my willy through a hole in the wall manner, more in writing a guidebook of all the excellent crappers I've visited in my life.

However, there's always some bugger who lets the side down.

Where to start? Oh yes: France.

I went on a school exchange trip. One day was set aside to go with the Frog kid's dad to see where he worked. He worked at the local hydro-electric plant where he had his own workshop.

They didn't even bother to hide the toilet anywhere - it was just one of those French hole-in-the-ground jobs set against the far wall. As I set my packed lunch down on one of the workbenches, I realised my eyes were set on the old bastard crouching and straining over the hole, dropping a monster Gallic turd.

He missed.

The filthy bugger didn't even try to wash it away, and the evil, foul-smelling chocolate surprise sat there, all day, daring me to take it on in a fight.

Horrible.

But then, not nearly as unremittingly awful as those found at Douala Airport, on my transit through the Cameroon several years ago. Not even the locals would touch it, even with the shitty stick provided, even with a VIP visit on the cards.

I saw, with my own eyes, as I waited for my flight to arrive, the President of France ushered in on his way to a state visit, and retire, looking a dreadful shade of froggy green. Awful sanitary standards? Those Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys have so much to learn.