On Nelson Mandela
Hello. My name is Scaryduckling, and I am EXCELLENT. Actually, I'm twice as excellent as my father; and my brother Scaryduck Junior is full of FAIL.
And unlike the pair of them, at least I don't lick tramps.
I have a complaint. And it is this.
I am in a drama and music group at my otherwise brilliant school. Every now and then, we do some sort of performance that fills the school's hall to the brim with cheering parents and relatives. Our recent Romeo and Juliet being a case in point, especially when it turned out that Juliet wasn’t quite dead when they dropped her on the floor.
This term, sadly, they have had us doing the following (and I might point out that this is no criticism of my excellent teachers who may be excused for turning completely tone deaf for a couple of months a year):
* Stupid songs
* Rubbish drumming
* Embarrassing costumes (and face it, with an old man like mine, you know the meaning of embarrassment)
* The worst spack-handed performers for all the solos and key numbers
All for Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday concert
And HE'S NOT EVEN GOING
Shame on you Mandela. Shame. On. You.
Dad note: Scaryduckling has just returned from that France, where she took part in a rather sombre tour of WW1 battlefields and war graves.
"Did you use any French?" I ask.
"Yeah, but whenever I said 'thank you' in shops I got really strange looks."
So, I ask her, what do you think the French words for 'thank you' are?
"Mercy Boo Koo Moo".
That'll be it, then.