On poo, for a change
Yesterday, as I bade my colleagues a good evening, I left the office, to find this not entirely pleasant sight greeting me in the car park:
Charming. I know what you're thinking: either Scary drives a ridiculously small automobile, or, there is a bird flying around the Home Counties of England with an arse like a wizard's sleeve.
I can assure you, dear reader, that I drive a standard-sized, clapped out Ford Escort; and my certainty that there is no bird on God's Earth capable of a direct hit of such nuclear proportions has been utterly shaken to the core.
It is, I believe, a message. A turd-shaped message coming by way of revenge for an earlier post on these pages.
At first, I thought it to be the work of irate seagulls, worked into a frenzy over the bad press they got in last Friday's Tale of Mirth and Woe.
But no. Your average seagull, evil rat-with-wings that it is, just wouldn't have it in him. An albatross, perhaps.
Then it struck me, and the boys in Scaryduck Labs confirmed the awful truth with the latest Bird Poop DNA technology.
Owl blerk. From owls. Magic owls.
This can only mean one thing.
Rowling: You're a cow. I'm gonna get you if it's the last thing I do.
I am not mad.
I saw this on the way to work in Reading this morning: A car pulling up to a set of traffic lights, the driver opening the car door, leaning out, and spewing rich, brown vomit onto the street, before closing the door and driving off at speed. And the lights were still red. Bloody disgraceful.
While my shattered nerves recover, there will be no Thursday vote-o today. Instead, I shall allow you to suggest lines for a specially-prepared Tale of Mirth and Woe, which features, you will be pleased to hear, a genuine example of the main protangonist being sick inna hedge.
And ...err... onna cute ickle puppy.
Get in there!