On getting told off as an adult

On getting told off as an adult

Come on, we've all been there.

We've all more-or-less grown up and left the days of being told off like a naughty schoolkid long behind.

The burning sensation rising to your cheeks as you glow red with shame naught but a distant memory.

Your trousers round your ankles as you await a well deserved thrashing from a strict headmistress the preserve of the lucky few who know the right addresses in certain parts of central London.

So, I expect you know what's coming next. And you'd be right: Woe.

Humiliating, public, brass-plated-and-screwed-to-your-front-door woe. I am 43 years of age.

I'll cut to the chase. I was told off by the store manager for playing with the doorbells in the Weymouth branch of B&Q.

You know how it is when you're a kid. A whole wall of delicious doorbells to try, leading up to the mother of them all - the one that pulls the little bell on a spring for posh houses.

These days they've got all that, but also the new fangled ones that play about thirty different tunes.

And there I was, the one day in my life I was actually in a DIY store buying a doorbell, thoroughly testing each and every tune – James May-style – when a man in a shiny suit and a name badge approached me.

"Excuse me, sir. Would you mind not doing that?"

That familiar burning sensation rose to my cheeks as I glowed red with shame.

I rung the little bell on a spring, just for luck.

"No, really, sir. Do you mind?"

Yes. Yes, I minded, and played The Yellow Rose of Texas on a bell designed to sound like Rolf Harris playing the stylophone just to see if he'd go the same colour as his orange jacket.

He did.

Just wait until we need to buy a new toilet.

On Dragon's Den, again

On Dragon's Den, again

Hello. I am Scaryduck Junior and I am excellent.

Some of you might remember the last time I came here telling of the time me and my rubbish dad went on Dragon's Den and completely failed to diddle them out of any of their cash.

You will be shocked – SHOCKED – to learn that story might have contained slight traces of lie.

However, you might be equally pleased – PLEASED – to learn that the big fat whopper was merely a front to cover for our real, EXCELLENT business idea that we are doing for TV's Dragon's Den.

"What ho, young man!" said one of the suits, in exactly the same tone of voice as last time, probably still thinking I might be a pushover like that Reggae Reggae Sauce man, "What have you got for us today?"

"I have," I said staring them down with my patent Lego Stare-People-Down-o-Matic, "come up with a fool-proof business idea that will make us all MILLIONS."

"CH-Ching!" they all go as I mention the magic word.

"All I need from you," I say, "is ten thousand pounds. Each."

"And what," asked the shifty-looking one who owns Millwall Football Club (and is therefore full of FAIL), "will ten thousand pounds of my childrens' inheritance get me?"

"Nothing much," I reply, because I was brought up to be honest, "Except my old dad won't come round your house and poo through your letterbox."

All five dragons did pretty good impressions of a goldfish at this point. The ugly bird lifted up one cheek and let go with a nervous, cabbage-flavoured perp.

"Ten large. Take it or leave it."

"Crivens! Hoots mon, help ma boab" said the Scotch one, "I'm in."

This time next year, Rodders, we'll be millionaires.

On conspiracy theories

On conspiracy theories

The boy Scaryduck Junior came home from school not long ago with his head filled with the idea – courtesy of a teacher who ought to have known better – that the moon landings were faked.

Honestly, some people just don't deserve to draw a salary, and I was so cross I nearly said something.

But, we ask, are conspiracy theories real?

And we can answer thussly: No. No, they are not.

Apart from these ones, obviously:

* Rock band Status Quo emerged in EXACTLY the same decade as the Kennedy assassination. Coincidence?

* A tinfoil helmet does not stop alien radio waves. It does, however, ensure your brain is cooked just the way aliens like

* Murdoch's News International owns global copyright on the word "sheeple" OPEN YOUR EYES SHEE...err...

* Due to Neville Chamberlain's unfortunate "Double or Quits" toss in 1936, Adolf Hitler is still legally Prime Minister

* Michael Jackson faked his death so he could enjoy loads of filthy granny sex with an 83-year-old Marilyn Monroe, who is also not dead

* Conspiracy theorists claim Nasa faked the moon landings. Wrong! The only part Nasa faked is the fact that Neil Armstrong has a face like Ann Widdecombe's slapped arse, so they substituted him for a finely-chiselled all-American fashion model

* Last surviving Beatle Ringo Starr is the only member of the Fab Four not to have faked his death

* The latest Swine Flu scare is just a government front to hide the real killer: Special Duck Rabies

* Three-nippled chantoose Lily Allen (born ALIEN, sheeple!) hides the fact that she is a Zillon from the planet Tharg from her hordes of adoring fans. Her song "The Fear" is about her dread of being exposed as a corpse-animating off-worlder with a predilection for Snickers Duo bars.

* Big Pharma and The Man have hidden the cure to the Common Cold in plain sight under the brand name "Domestos"

* Is your internet buddy a member of the shape-shifting Freemason Fourth Reich New World Order Surveillance-Industrial ZaNuLieBore Illuminati Brotherhood? If they routinely use the phrase ROFL (Reptilian Overlords For Life) in their correspondence, the answer is YES

To summarise: Elvis IS dead, crop circles aren't real and people in alternate dimensions do not have a different-shaped gear stick on the Mini Metro. That is all.

On sorting out Al Qaeda

On sorting out Al Qaeda

Terrorism.

Yes, it's a sensitive subject in this day and age, but some things have just got to be said.


Dear Osama bin Laden

I notice you've released yet another of your infamous audio tapes. And once again, it's a call for Jihad against the Western infidel dogs.

Do us a favour, mate, and change the fucking record.

Jihad, jihad, jihad – it's all we ever hear, and frankly the world's getting mighty pissed off with the whole business.

It is, if you don't mind me speaking candidly, so 2001. While you've been scratching your arse in a cave, the world's moved on and your global holy war's gone the way of socks and sandals, viz: down the knacker.

Why don't you - for the love of Cliff Richard - call for something people actually want?

Like a branch of Ikea in Pakistan's conflict-hit Swat valley?

Or a campaign to reverse Weymouth & Portland Borough Council's scandalous decisions to deny free swimming to the over-65s and to charge Blue Badge holders to leave their cars in council car parks?

Or a nightly BBC Four programme called "Jack-off-anory" where Germaine Greer reads from the letters page from Fiesta?

Get a grip, you spacker.

Your pal

Albert O'Balsam

On Football FACTS

On Football FACTS

More of your 100 per cent factual FACTS, culled from the Scaryduckworth-Lewis Book of 100 Per Cent Factual FACTS, available in all good bookstores NOW*.

If you're the kind of person whose knowledge of football is "Which one's Beckham? Do another kick!" and "Why don't they just give them all a ball each?", then these are the 100 per cent factual football FACTS for you.

10. A recent match in the Colombian football league lays claim for the highest score in any game – Atletico Spizz triumphing over FARC United 47-23. However, closer inspection of television footage revealed that both goalkeepers had been nailed to the ground by a local betting cartel, who cleaned up in a £23,000,000,000 exact score punt.

9. If you leave the hazard warning lights flashing on your car, you can park anywhere you like, even on the pitch during the FA Cup Final. You may remember the famous "Capri Ghia" final of 1979, in which Alan Sunderland scored the winning goal for Arsenal against Man United, following a wicked deflection off Liam Brady's wing mirror.

8. Despite their fearsome reputation, Leeds United fans are actually a good natured bunch who enjoy a good laugh as much as the next man. Celebrating the career of legendary 1930s striker Peter Doe (165 goals in 233 appearances before the War fatally interrupted his career) they go under the name of the "P Doe Boys", and like to be reminded of this as often as possible.

7. Contrary to popular belief, West London's third best team QPR are registered at the Football Association under the name Queer Punk Rockers.

6. England star and noted granny-shagger Wayne Rooney spends much of his down-time helping out in Help The Aged charity shops, keeping his end in. As it were.

5. What happened to top football manager Kevin Keegan? An unexplained incident with a baseball bat, two balloons filled with water and a quantity of outsize lingerie in 2002 led to Keggy's incarceration at Guantanamo Bay, from which he is unable to secure his release. Despite seven years in an orange jumpsuit, Keegle was still able to manage both Manchester City and Newcastle United to glorious failure.

4. Veteran England stars Gary and Phil Neville's father Neville Neville was the inspiration for the classic David Bowie song: "Neville Neville put on your dress / Neville Neville your face is a mess / Neville Neville how could they know? / Hot Tramp I love you so!"

3. Following his goalkeeping triumph in war movie Escape to Victory, Hollywood star Sylvester Stallone turned out between the sticks for three seasons for Midlands giants Wolverhampton Wanderers, during which time the team dropped from the first to fourth divisions in successive years and Sly filmed Rambo II. Cultural historians refer to this period as "fucking awful".

2. Pop artist Andy Warhol said that "in the future, everybody will be world famous for 15 minutes". He proved this by coming on as a late substitute in the 1976 FA Cup Final for underdogs Southampton, scoring the goal which sunk red-hot favourites Manchester United

1. Spurs boss Harry Redknapp – known for his wheeler-dealing in the transfer market – had comic book legend Roy Race on the books at Portsmouth for two seasons. It was only when he tried to take Racey's Rocket to White Hart Lane that anyone noticed

And a completely true fact: "Big club" Tottenham Hotspur haven't won a league title for 48 years. Forty-eight years. Heh.

* May, in fact, be a lie

On my never-ending quest to be rich beyond the dreams of Croesus

On my never-ending quest to be rich beyond the dreams of Croesus

This one can't go wrong:

A Rudyard Kipling-themed tea-room, serving his world-famous cakes and fancies.

We'll call it the Gunga Diner

This time next year, Rodders, we'll be millionaires

Self-sufficiency news

Self-sufficiency news

Just pulled from the Scaryduck Towers vegetable plot: A carrot in the shape of a man's willy.

I repeat: A CARROT IN THE SHAPE OF A MAN'S WILLY.

That is all.

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Sir Steve

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Sir Steve

Discovering that I'm a bit of a fat bastard, I signed up to the gym.

I hadn't been inside a gymnasium since I broke my best friend's arm in a bizarre vaulting horse accident in school, but putting this trauma behind I ventured into the room full of torture equipment and consenting adults.

After nodding through the safety briefing, I spent the next few visits tentatively trying out the various implements, finding that I could – in fact – cycle to the gym and then spend the next hour or so in the company of a cycling machine before cycling home.

Or, run up and down stairs at work all day, just to pay for the privilege of doing the same on a stepper.

However, not actually having a boat, I set my sights on the rowing machine.

And there, hammering away ten to the dozen, was a familiar figure. Man-mountain Sir Steven Redgrave, in fact. Jesus, he gave it some punishment in what he said was "won't keep you long - just a bit of a warm-up".

Hardly breaking a sweat, and tipping me a knowing wink, Sir Steve strolled off and left the rower for me.

Well... if it was THAT easy.

He had the tension turned up so high I couldn't even move it, so I switched to the second lowest setting and pushed myself out into the murky waters. There were women of the opposite sex present, so I thought it best to make the right kind of impression.

Redgrave had gold medals for this kind of thing. I could give him SERIOUS competition if I set myself to it.

Jesus, I gave it some punishment.

I rowed and rowed and rowed until I was knackered. Looking at the stopwatch, I realised I'd only been on it for 45 seconds, and I was half dead already.

The women of the opposite sex were tootling away on the bike machines, flipping their way through copies of Take A Break, while I was killing myself TO DEATH in the name of MANLINESS.

Not to be put off, I kept going.

And going.

And going.

Until I was sick down my front.

I crawled - CRAWLED - back to the changing rooms, was sick some more and left, pausing only to be sick inna hedge, never to darken their door again.

Exercise: It's bad for you.

Condensed Movies: Harry Potter – The Whole Nine Yards (including the one they haven't made yet)

Condensed Movies: Harry Potter – The Whole Nine Yards (including the one they haven't made yet)

Eight films? You mean to tell me there's going to be EIGHT films? JK Rowling is clearly doing it wrong and after two-and-a-half buttock-numbing hours in Cineworld Weymouth, is still in dire need of an editor. So, I have taken it upon myself to summarise Tom Brown's Schooldays the Harry Potter movies in the language of today's easily bored youth, taking out anything superfluous to the plot of this great saga. You know: everything.

This edition restores Arnold Schwarzenegger to the role of Hagrid, and Roger Moore as Voldemort, as demanded by JK Rowling in original drafts of the screenplay.

Spoiler warning: The car turns out to be a robot. Wait... wrong film

Harry Potter and the Order of the Philosophers Secret Goblet of Half-Blood Prince's Deathly Hallows of Azkhaban on Ice

H. Potter: Hello. I am H. Potter and I am excellent. However, I have to live with my cousin who is full of FAIL because my parents are THE DED in a dreadful spacehopper accident chiz chiz

D. Dursley: I h8 you H. Potter you spazzer. Oh, I am turned into a pig. FFS

H. Potter: TEH Magik – I haz it

Hagrid: Come with me if you want to live

H. Potter: What? And travel on public transport? Have you gone stark raving shitty?

Dumbledore: Welcome to St Custards, H Potter, oh great and noble wizard grovel grovel fawn grovel. I was there when your parents were totally MURDERED TO DETH, you kno.

H. Potter: Wait... what?

D. Dore: Oh, nothing. Nothing. Ha ha ha ha haha. Yes. Is there anything we can do for you, o great one?

H. Potter: Yes. I want a posse. An EXCELLENT posse FFS

H. Grainger: Hello. I am H. Grainger and I am excellent. Plz to wait until episode six when I am TEH LEGAL

R. Weasley: Hello. I am Ron Weasley and I am a wet and a weed and sa helo trees helo sky helo flowers chiz chiz.

H. Potter: ARSE. A geek and a ginge. FAIL

R. Weasley: I'm not ginge. I'm strawberry blond FFS. And I've got a flying car, you know.

H. Potter: It's a Ford Anglia, you dick. If you're so good at TEH MAGIK, why isn't it a sodding Veyron? You'll be telling me you've got a MAGIK owl that delivers your post next

R.Weasley: Letter for you, mate. And half a dead mouse

Snape: Quiet Potter. I could kill you TO DETH with a look. Also: Plain blip for numskulls chiz chiz

H. Potter: W00t! I am teh best in teh world at Quidditch, a minority sport played only at posh boarding schools

Prof McGonagagagall: Stop staring at my golden snitch H. Potter LOL

H. Potter: LOLminge

Meanwhile, back in the Griffindor common room:

R. Weasley: Here, try this Butter Beer. Itsh 90 per cent proof

H. Potter: No thanks, I'm on the Wizard's Whisky. I'm designated driver for the flying Bugatti Veyron. You've gotta be proper bollocksed for that. Yer me best mate *bowk*

H. Grainger: Magic Mushroom, anyone? Let's all dance around the whomping willow and sing songs about ponies

H.Potter and R.Weasley: EeeeeeW!

Meanwhile, back at the plot:

Voldemort: LOLOL I am coming back to do TEH EVIL through the medium of a series of sub-Dan Brown riddles and the plumbing in the boys' toilets. Also: Some shit about Death-Eaters

H. Potter: I am going to stop you with TEH MAGIK, FTW

Voldemort: Oh spoons, FAIL again

This year's Dark Arts teacher: Curses. Exposed as an agent of TEH EVIL VOLDEMORT by H. Potter. I'll be off then

D. Dore: Here, have TEH House Cup

Malfoy: Gah. What a girly swat

Ginny Weasley: Sigh, he's SUCH a dish

H. Potter: And now for a feast, eh readers?

One year later:

Voldemort: Coming back – EVIL - sub-Dan Brown riddles - boys' toilets

H. Potter: TEH MAGIK, FTW

Voldemort: FAIL

Dark Arts teacher: Curses. Offski

D. Dore: House Cup

Malfoy: Girly swat

G. Weasley: Dish

H. Potter: Feast

Repeat for the next four years, until:

Voldemort: Heh. I'm really back this time, readers, and H. Potter's too busy pulling himself off over the Grattan catalogue to notice

D. Dore: Oh. I am TEH DED, and not O. Kenobi DED either. Proper DED

Snape: I, too, am TEH DED. What a bollock

Voldemort: LOLOLOL. Now for some proper EVIL. Also: ROFFLE

H. Grainger: Not if I've got anything to do with it, you big bully

Voldemort: Hel-lo! Also: A hub a hub a hub a hub hub hub

H. Grainger: Actually, I find you strangely irresistible

Voldemort: As a matter of fact, I've decided to scrap my plans for a magical reign of TERROR and spend the rest of my days playing nudey prod games with H. Grainger. Phallus Engorgio!

H. Grainger: Oooh. He's such a hunk. All-my-clothes-fall-offio!

R. Weasley: Hey! What about me? We're supposed to be getting married

H. Grainger: Eff off ginger pubes, I'm busy

R. Weasley: I'm not ginger. I'm strawberry blond

H. Potter: Stand back naked H. Grainger, I'll stop this evil cur with MAGIK! You killed my father!

Voldemort: No, Potter, I AM your father

H. Potter: Noooooooooooooo! Really?

Voldemort: LOL. Not really. Turn-Harry-Potter-Inside-Outio!

H. Potter: EPIC FAIL, you bastard

H. Grainger: LOL PMSL

Voldemort: Now, where were we? *raises eyebrow*

END

More condens-o-films HERE

On lost comedy classics

On lost comedy classics

The news that national disgrace Nick Griffin is scouring Brussels for a flat for himself and fellow Nazi Party MEP Andrew Brons to share prompted an excellent Twitter follower to remark "This could be the best sitcom premise ever".

The sad fact is – it's already been done.

"Heil Honey, I'm Home!" was Sky forerunner BSB's 1990 spoof on the domestic life of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun, done it the style of a cheesy 1950s US sitcom set in an appartment block. Think I Love Lucy, only with Nazis and you get the picture.

Actually you're not quite there. Throw in three truckloads of spectacular bad taste – the main plot device happens to be the Hitlers' relationship with their Jewish neighbours – and I think you know where this is heading.

Still, rather better than Milligan's ill-fated "Melting Pot" sitcom, although quite a lot of things can readily make this claim.

Dragged from the air in a howl of outrage (although only about six people ever actually saw it going out), it has – YaY! – resurfaced on YouTube.

It is as tasteless as you'd expect, but surprisingly funny, with the late Patrick Cargill fantastic as Neville Chamberlain.

Give yourself thirty minutes to watch this lot. You'll either think it comic genius, or you will be after me with an axe asking for your half an hour back. Sorry, no refunds.



Part Two

Part Three

I LOLed. I LOLed out loud. Then I felt a bit guilty, remembered the bit in the Dadaist manifesto about laughing at the Nazis and felt a bit better.

Then: LOL.

On finding oneself trapped inside The circle of DOOM

On finding oneself trapped inside The circle of DOOM

There are days when you find yourself in the presence of the kind of petty bureaucrat that knits their own packed lunch and spends their entire life never being wrong, ever.

They will spend their every waking hour ensuring that the regulations are followed to the letter, and damme your eyes – and your breeches too – should it be your misfortune to cross them.

And so, let us rewind to those happy, carefree days of March 2002, and your humble narrator saunters – looking rather too pleased with himself – into the local branch of the Nationwide Building Society.

A new start in a news town. OR SO HE THOUGHT.

Me: "I'd like to change the address on my account please"

Nationwide: "Not a problem sir. Our records show that we do not hold an up-to-date signature for your account. We need to do that before we can update your address record"

Me: "Oh-ho! We can kill two birds with one stone, then."

Nationwide: "In which case, could you show us an official document with your signature, please?"

Me: "Yes. Yes I can. Here's my driving licence."

Nationwide: "I'm sorry. We can't accept this - your address doesn't match the one we have on the system."

Me: "Bu... but... that's because I've moved house."

Nationwide: "You have? We can sort that for you. However, our records show that we do not hold an up-to-date signature for your account. We need to do that before we can update your address record"

Me: "Muh"

Nationwide: "Could you show us an official document with your signature, please?"

FOREVER*

* This message sent from the Weymouth branch of Nationwide where I have now resided for the last seven years, a queue going out the door, down the seafront and all the way to Poole.

On getting new hobbies that aren't sad in any way at all

On getting new hobbies that aren't sad in any way at all

I've got a new hobby*.

A hobby that keeps me off the streets, and fills the long, empty hours of my existence.

It also has useful applications, in that I could save £££s in the months ahead:

"What's that?"

"It's a dildo"

"A knitted dildo?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

"Have you …err… got a receipt for it?"

"No, because I MADE IT MYSELF."

Christmas is going to be EXCELLENT this year.

* This statement, and the entire subsequent post, may contain traces of LIE for comedic purposes

Dear Viz

Dear Viz

I went to see the Bruno movie at the cinema this weekend. Rubbish. No boxing at all, and the star looked nothing like dear old Frank. Hardly a tribute to one of our greatest sporting legends.

Your pal,

Albert O'Balsam, Weymouth

On tongue and groove

On tongue and groove

"Take me," she said.

I raise an eyebrow in the accepted fashion.

"Take me," she said, "to B&Q for some tongue and groove."

The eyebrow remained raised, and I piled her into the Renault Scenic of DOOM, my lead boot taking her to the orange corrugated B&Q warehouse in record time.

Not – it goes without saying – that we time our trips to B&Q and write the results in a handy notebook kept in the glove compartment for our regular weekly round-up of the household stats that gets displayed on a notice board I have erected in our front garden.

So: Eyebrow still cocked, scooting along on one of those flat-bed trolleys that don't go round corners, I took her into the planed timber aisle for a quantity of tongue and groove.

And the bastards threw us out into the car park and called the Police.

If the law weren't already distracted by a nearby outbreak of Bennies on the loose, who knows what might have happened.

It turned out that what she really wanted was a dozen packs of B&Q value brand timber cladding for the inside of our new shed summer house.

Why – I ask – didn't she tell me in the first place? Next time she wants a good quality six-inch screw, we've got to go all the way to Homebase.

And that's in bloody Dorchester.

Doctor Who FACTS

Doctor Who FACTS

After the recent Bummy Torchwood FACTS (one of which, I am pleased to hear, made a genuine Torchwood writer do a genuine LOL), it has struck me that I haven't done a list for its rubbish spin-off series, Doctor Who.

Panic over.

As usual, the cromulence* of these facts may go down as well as up.

* And, if Google is anything to go by, I am only the 1,541st person in the whole world to use this word. I RULE

10. Christopher Ecclestone was cast as the ninth Doctor after Russell T Davies was inspired by a packet of wingnuts in the Salford branch of B&Q. The rest, as they say, is completely "Fantastic" TV history

9. In an attempt to bring the series up to date, BBC chiefs are to ditch the Daleks' iconic "Exterminate!" catchphrase in favour of the entirely with-it "Your Mum!"

8. Billie Piper is set to save both time and money by filming her Doctor Who and Secret Diary of a Call Girl roles at the same time. She will achieve this by making Rose Tyler into a slattern

7. Early broadcasts of Doctor Who in 1963 brought the world to the brink of thermo-nuclear destruction when it was revealed that "TARDIS" is Russian for "fellatio"

6. Fourth Doctor Tom Baker lists among his proudest achievements the introduction of hardcore bondage and humiliation to the coveted Saturday tea-time TV slot. His "safe word" is "Have a jelly baby"

5. In 46 years of Doctor Who adventures, the Doctor has never once been seen climbing stairs

4. Setting number 27 on the sonic screwdriver is Rose Tyler's favourite. "Old skool" assistant Sarah Jane Smith preferred the girth provided by setting 53

3. With no equivalent words for the programme's title, Doctor Who is known in Japan as "Fully Qualified Medical Professional Of Unknown Identity Happy Show"

2. The TARDIS chameleon circuit has functioned correctly on only one occasion – when second Doctor Patrick Troughton landed the craft in a dildo factory on Gallifrey. Alas, this footage from legendary story "The Backdoor Intruders" no longer exists

1. Robot dog K-9 is so realistic that he was frequently punished for mounting sexy Timelord Romana's leg and sent to his basket

Bonus FACT: A huge fan of 80s sitcom Allo Allo, new Doctor Matt Smith will base his role on comedy gendarme Officer Crabtree and will refer to his space craft as "Ze TURDIS"

On getting scammed

On getting scammed

A Scaryduck 2,000th blogpost special

Sickipedia owner and all-round internet hero Rob Manuel recently found himself the victim of a scammer. A scammer with dead eyes and frightening ladybumps who took advantage of his good nature to the tune of ten pounds.

Happens to the best of us, except Rob blogged it for the benefit of an audience of billions and probably queered this lady's patch for the foreseeable.

If you have a desire to *ahem* queer her patch, I understand her theatre of operations is Kentish Town in that there London.

It's been a long time since I was done similarly (the same punkette did me for "20p for the phone" every day for a week when I was a gormless student), and I've since learned to fight back.

There's a bloke in Weymouth who does the "I haven't got enough train fare to get home to London" one all the time. He stands around the front of the station and nearby pubs, begging for money and generally does quite well, before disappearing into the bowels of Park District, presumably for the substances his lifestyle demands.

Funnily enough, I got collared by a guy outside London's Paddington Station doing the "I haven't got enough money for the train fare to Weymouth" swindle, and emboldened by a couple of pints and a fair few war stories in The Frontline Club I gave him both barrels:

"One – you're outside the wrong station, pal. If you want Weymouth you should be at Waterloo. The last train's at half nine – you'd better get a crack on."

"Buh... I... I'm still short three quid for me fare. Can ye spare some change?"

"Two – Just go as far as Dorchester. If you've got the guts to ask strangers for money, I dare say you can hitch the rest of the way."

"Fook off."

Charming. You try to offer some free advice and that's the advice you get.

And then I got thinking, for I am a GENIUS. I could pair them off. Get Bloke A to contact Bloke B, they swap crack houses, and there'd be no need for this dreadful begging outside railway stations.

Voila! Problem solved.

On tasty, nutrition-free calories

On tasty, nutrition-free calories

I am, dear reader, inclined to change the name of our abode from Scaryduck Towers to the all-caps, partly bold PLANET EXCELLENT.

This is because of the EXCELLENT ideas that keep spilling out of my head which will mean that this time next year, Rodders, we'll be millionaires.

So, you'll not be surprised in the slightest to hear of my latest plan, which I have already sent to this proud nation's finest purveyors of snack foods.

God, I'm excellent.


Dear Mr Ginsters

Here's how much I like your famous Cornish Pasties: Quite a bit.

I have noticed that while you have branched out from the traditional Cornish into such BLASPHEMIES as Cheese and Onion, it is pleasing to see that you have avoided all this Chicken Tikka bollocks that other manufacturers are pumping into their products.

However, I believe there is one product line to which you can extend your product range which will be innovative, whilst retaining the customs of which your company is justifiably proud.

I, refer, of course to the great Cornish customs that are pasties and road kill - together at last!

Where would Cornish cuisine be – I ask – without freshly skinned and roasted badger peeled from the A30 and served with a side-order of something uncertain that was, at some stage, a cat?

There's also good eating on hedgehogs, so I'd be advising your delivery drivers to improve their aim, if I were you.

And let's not forget the summer invasion of Kernow by New Age types in their MOT-failure VW Combis. You could almost get away with calling them "hand-reared, corn-fed and organically farmed" with all the mung bean casserole sloshing around inside them.

With a skilful ad campaign, I can see you cornering the market in nutrition-free calories with these Roadkill Pasties, and you won't hear a word of complaint from Jamie Oliver. Honestly, I warned him anything could happen if he kept zipping about on that scooter of his. And it did.

I look forward to your reply and *cough* big fat cheque *cough*

Your pal

Albert O'Balsam


Dear Mr O'Balsam

Sadly your idea was patented in the United Kingdom some years ago by a major High Street burger chain.

Life's a bastard, isn't it?

Your Pal

Albert O'Ginster

On being a manly man

On being a manly man

Pavlov's Cat recently published a list of things that turn a mere man into a fully capitalised Manly Man. And who am I to argue? I never felt more manly than the day I bought my own chainsaw and axe with a three foot long handle.

I did think, however, that the list missed a number of things, which I shall endeavour to rectify here:

- Meat: Going to a genuine butcher's shop and buying far too much meat for a barbecue. Make sure that everybody in the shop knows that you are going straight home to set fire to your purchases

- Gym: Being the only bike in a gym car park full of Range Rovers. Then adding about fifty kg of weights to the multigym, and not batting an eyelid when the elastic band goes in your back as you try to lift it

- Pub bragging: Having a story for every occasion in which you either emerge as the resounding victor, or vomit in a heroic manner over an authority figure

- Reading on the toilet: It's not taking a dump, woman, it's 'me' time. Score extra marks for only using three sheets of paper

- Knowing the words to football chants: And singing them in your offspring's school concert when they play the right tune. See also: Football banter with the boss

- Dialling 999: And then going out and doing something about it before the emergency services arrive. Leave all that 0118 999 881 999 119 7253 business to the birds

- Crying: Acceptable only on the death of your dog; the birth of your son and heir; and when Jenny Agutter says "Daddy! My Daddy!" in The Railway Children

- Comedy: Know verbatim the entire scripts of The Young Ones, Monty Python, The Blues Brothers, Simpsons and Blazing Saddles, and have the ability to pull quotes from any to settle an argument or get a quick laugh at a moment's notice. Girls: try this with Friends and Sex and the City and see how far you get

- Casting an eye over other people's CD collections: A Manly Man MUST, on arriving at somebody's house, immediately glance at the host's CD collection and pass comment on any disc that is less than manly. "Celine Dion? You utter gaylord."

- Car maintenance: The only person in the household who knows the correct holes for petrol, oil, brake fluid, coolant, spark plugs, ignition key

There is bound to be more. Add more.

On fruitloop Quotes of the Week

On fruitloop Quotes of the Week

Overheard this week:

"It has suddenly dawned on me that I might actually have scabies. Again."

"It's true. It's all about government mind control and the billions invested in the military-industrial complex. They had a phone-in about it on TalkSport." "You listen to TalkSport? Oh dear."

On Torchwood FACTS

On Torchwood FACTS

"Please, Scary", I was asked this week, "Please could you put all your EXCELLENT Torchwood facts you've been leaving on your EXCELLENT Twitter feed on a single page on your blog?"

"Yes," I said, "Yes I can."

So, breaking my own rule of not having two sets of FACTS in a week, and postponing an excellent tale of mirth and woe for a later date, I shall – instead – go for a shameless cash-in on the popularity of British television's number one slightly bummy science fiction show that rhymes with "Orchwood".

All of these FACTS about Captain Jack and the team are 100 per cent of FACT, and will astound and amaze friends, relatives and dinner party guests.

10. In deference to its Welsh origins, the original name for the series was "Torchwood, isn't it?", and starred Max Boyce

9. Queen Victoria founded the Torchwood Institute in 1857 to satisfy her Welsh dry humping fetish, and enjoyed its services right up until her death in 1901.

8. Despite his assumed rank in the RAF, Captain Jack originally joined the armed forces under the name 'Private Parts'

7. Amongst the alien tech locked away in The Hub is a Gallifreyan Hand Shandy machine, to which Ianto has sole access

6. The iconic Torchwood Range Rover was originally conceived as a Yellow Reliant Robin van, driven by Captain Jack Trotter

5. Russell T Davies will up the ante in the next series of Torchwood with the addition of a hip talking cartoon dog called Poochie

4. Much of Torchwood's tension comes from the fact there is only one toilet in The Hub, which opens the Rift when flushed

3. The next series of Torchwood will feature Captain Jack and friends saving the Earth from the re-animated corpse of Rod Hull and Emu. Sparing no expense, BBC Wales will re-animate the corpse of Rod Hull and Emu especially for the programme

2. Gwen Cooper was nominated for the annual "Best former policewoman in a quasi-military alien-hunting organisation based in the Cardiff Bay area" award, sponsored by Take a Break magazine. She came third

1. The only A-list Welsh celebrity not to have appeared in Torchwood so far is Cardiff's very own King of Pop Shakin' Stevens. Fans will be delighted to hear that Shaky is to feature in a long-running story arc as the team battle the terror behind the mysterious "Green Door"

Bonus FACT: Chief writer Russell T Davies denies Torchwood is forcing gay sex down the throats of the television-watching public. "I've always been told to write about things I know," said Davies in an interview completely made up for this website, "and I will tell you right now that some of my friends are bummy aliens. I am not mad."

On socks and sandals

On socks and sandals

Matalan: Crucible of the World's greatest ideas. For it was in that fine establishment's branch in Weymouth that I had this spunker of an idea.

After mentioning it on Twitter, the internet's premier slacking-off site du jour, it drew the attention of one of this nation's finest minds:

"Submit it to Dave Gorman's Genius TV show" said TV's Dave Gorman of Dave Gorman's Genius TV show, but their web form's gone on the blink, so I'm going to park my plan here for the time being.

This time next year, Rodders...

Dear TV's Dave Gorman

I live in a well-known seaside resort, and every year our eyes are assaulted by the shocking fashion faux pas that is people wearing socks and sandals in public.

Like this.

This is often made far, far worse by the socks being a) knee-length and b) bright, eye-gouging colours. They also tend to hunt in packs, meaning there is no escape for we in the sensible sandals-and-no-socks majority.

My wife has put a stop to my annual game of socks-and-sandals spotting (which goes by the excellent name of "Fashion Police" with its own beautifully contrived scoring system based on the Robot Wars concept of style, control, damage and aggression) with the guilt-trip that is "Perhaps they're wearing those socks for medical reasons".

Judging by the number of victims, there are an awful lot of people in coastal resorts with bad feet.

She repeats the "medical reasons" mania every two minutes whilst in town, so I am coming to the conclusion that there may be some truth in this and these poor, poor wretches are not victims of poor fashion taste, but simply do not have a readily-available way to hide their socks-and-sandals shame.

That is, until now: Pending the invention of transparent socks (which will have to wait until we've perfected faster-than-light travel, to be honest), I have come up with this – frankly – awesome idea: Flesh-coloured socks for medical sock-and sandals victims.

These socks will come in a range of skin tones to suit all customers. The premium brand will also come with black flecks to simulate leg hair and blotches to match up with hideous skin conditions.

To reach the right customers, they will be sold at Post Offices, discount shops and jumble sales, and given away as free gifts for any June Whitfield-fronted funeral plan or stair lift.

My ultimate aim is to have enterprise tsar Alan Sugar wearing these to Cabinet Meetings and on future episodes of The Apprentice. He strikes me as a knotted-hanky, sock-and-sandals type of guy who takes his seaside holidays very seriously and would be the ideal figurehead for this product.

Your pal

Albert O'Balsam

PS I am not mad.

On pop FACTS

On pop FACTS

The funky world of pop and rock music, absolutely bulging with FACTS, all 100 per cent true.

Here's a select few FACTS which you might like to claim as your own to impress THE KIDS. Not 'alf, pop-pickers.

10. According to pop historians, Queen's smash hit Bohemian Rhapsody tells the story of a man condemned to death for murder. Wrong! Message from beyond the grave from poor, dead Freddie Mercury reveal what many scholars have suspected for years: It's about bumming. Ironically, the only Queen song that isn't about bumming is 'Fat Bottomed Girls'

9. Pop princess Britney Spears famously shaved her head specifically so she could wear a roll-neck sweater and go to fancy dress parties as a penis

8. The "Devil Woman" mentioned in Cliff Richard's 1976 hit has been revealed as HRH poor, dead Princess Margaret, who was obsessed with relieving the fresh-faced pop singer of his virginity, which he keeps in a jar safely hidden up Sue Barker

7. "Do they know it's Christmas" wrote swearing's Bob Geldof of the Ethiopian people in 1984. The answer was, of course, "No", as Calendar Club didn't open a branch in Addis Ababa until 2007

6. Rolling Stones frontman Mick Jagger receives free supplies of Mars Bars wherever he is in the world, thanks to the superb PR job he did for the brand in the 1960s. He wouldn't mind, but the thick-lipped star prefers Snickers

5. Bearded folkie Cat Stevens famously changed his name to Yusuf Islam on his conversion to the Muslim faith. In spite of this, Yusuf's siblings Dog, Hamster and Shakin' all decided to keep the family name

4. Slade singer Noddy Holder openly admits that his band's hit "Merry Christmas Everybody" is wheeled out every year as part of his pension plan. However, attempts to cash in with "Happy Easter Everybody" and "Phuck me, it's Father's Day" have not been so successful

3. Rapper Eminem takes his name from his love of the LOLcat phenomenon that is sweeping the internet. Unfortunately for young Marshall Mathers, the name "Om Nom Nom" was already taken by a now deceased West Coast hip-hop act, and the rest, as they say, is history.

2. Obsessed with 1970s politics, David Bowie named his 1980 album after his idol: Scary Monsters (and Edward Heath)

1. Whatever happened to twenty stone X Factor reject Rik Waller? After accidentally eating the Cheeky Girls on an ill-fated summer season on the south coast of England in a mix-up over the dressing room rider, Rik recently made his stage comeback under his real name 'Susan Boyle'

Bonus FACT: Pop starlet Lily Allen not only sports a third nipple – of which she is immensely proud – but she is also the owner of an additional eight inches

Bonus bonus FACT and warning: Do not let radio's Dr Fox touch your dangly parts. He is only a doctor of popology and NOT A REAL DOCTOR.

And because I just can't stop:

Australia FACT: Australia is not very good at cricket

On cars

On cars

Sitting in the Renault Scenic of DOOM the other week, waiting for the man from the AA to show up, I was struck by what can only be described as a complete spunker of an idea.

And, cutting to the chase, it was this:

People like their cars.

People like their cars despite them being expensive death traps directly related to Stephen King's Christine, and they are more-or-less loyal to the brand.

Why not, then, make shedloads of cash off this concept by marketing a series of brand-specific magazines for car owners to reading whilst - for eg - waiting for the AA man to show up?

And with the world of pornographic literature quite literally on its arse since the invention of the internet, I've had the 100 per cent gold-plated idea of pitching the idea to the greasy, cross-eyed chaps behind some of this proud nation's formerly successful top-shelf publications.

As a matter of fact, they seem quite up for the idea, if a little bit confused by the whole concept.

So, before you can say the words "This time next year, Rodders, we'll be millionaires", you'll be seeing the likes of these on the top-but-one shelf of your local cornershop:

- Ford Ka Mag
- Renault Scenic of DOOM Mag
- Nissan Micra Mag
- VW Golf Mag

But it's the launch title the lads in the art department at Readers Wives are getting really excited over:

- Honda Jazz Mag

I'll get me coat.

On soaps

On soaps

Dear EastEnders

As a loyal viewer of your programme since it started in 1985, I finally find myself moved to write to you in order to correct one of the show's longest-running omissions.

For far too long EastEnders - which has portrayed itself as a mirror on British society (albeit one where nobody has a washing machine or a television) - has pandered to current causes celebres and so-called issues.

However, it lacks coverage of the one controversy that has divided the nation for years: for eg, the lack of a convincing character who craps through people's letterboxes.

You could spin the storyline out for months, with glimpses of the perpetrator's arse crack as he nips out a length through Big Mo's letterbox; telling shots of a step-ladder somewhere in the Square as household after household falls victim to the Phantom Crapper's reign of terror; and the good, old fashioned red herring as it emerges that Nick Cotton has been unable to take a dump for seventeen years after a bizarre spacehopper accident in 1992.

A nation will hold its breath as Ian Beale eventually unveiled and rightly hailed as a hero and 100 per cent TOP BLOKE.

I've already offered this storyline to Corrie, and Craig Charles is completely and utterly up for it, so you'll have to make your minds up pretty sharpish.

If it helps, you can borrow my step-ladder.

Your pal,

Albert O'Balsam

PS I am not mad

On Rule 34, again

On Rule 34, again

Having electrocuted myself completely TO DEATH last weekend, and having made the equally fatal mistake of deciding to blog about it, I fired up Google Images for a suitable pic to steal to accompany my rantings.

Imagine my complete and utter lack of surprise to learn from the simple search term "electrocution" that not only does electrocution porn exist, it also throws up search results on the first page. Rule 34 of the Internet strikes again.

If anything is an argument for the enforced return to clockwork-powered clockwork cucumbers, this is it.

The sick fucks.

Shocked I was, shocked.

On drinking buddies

On drinking buddies

I have, for the first time since my early twenties, found myself a proper going-down-the-pub mate.

Quite extraordinarily, after a two decade going-down-the-pub-with-mates drought, I find that I've got no less than two going-down-the-pub mates.

Proper mates, and not people with whom I work, nor the wife's friends, nor her extended family, none of which count in the true going-down-the-pub mates sense.

Barry, then, is intelligent, funny and has a finely-tuned nose for a Scaryduck-esque tale of mirth and woe. Most importantly, he likes his Guinness.

Mack, on the other hand, is Barry's guide dog, and is also excellent.

On nights when Mack would rather stay at home washing his hair, I've been known to walk into the lounge bar at The Old Castle with a bloke on my arm, a sight which raises a few eyebrows at the pool table, I can tell you for nothing.

Barry's also heard – and cracked – just about every single "blind drunk" gag on the planet.

The most useful thing about my new pal is that while I am rubbish at remembering names but brilliant with faces, Barry, by his own admission, is entirely the opposite.

We sit in the lounge bar, downing Guinness and dry roasters, planning to take over the world, should be get permission from our respective other halves. And with our excellent combined targets, how can we fail?

First: Traffic-calming measures on Scary Street. And then: Global marshal law. And pianos tuned.

But - alas - no pub tonight. He's off mountaineering in Wales.

Genuine Small-Ad: Live in the south or south-west of England? Got a piano? Does it sound like it's been pushed down the stairs at the Queen Vic? Get in touch. Reasonable rates.

On celebrities. And violent death. And celebrities and violent death

On celebrities. And violent death. And celebrities and violent death

Celebrities. By and large a huge body of wasted humanity.

A huge body of wasted humanity who live for coverage in the Red Tops, and an exclusive photoshoot with one of those celebrity magazines with an exclamation mark in their name.

I take as Exhibit A: Peaches Geldof, offering no further evidence other the complete loss of my will to live after only five minutes with a copy of "Sleb Bollocks!" in a dentist waiting room last week.

If only, I ask, there was something useful we could do with them.

For – if my brush with Sleb Bollocks! is anything to go by – there are thousands of the bastards, most of whom famous only for doing things to the genitals of Premier League footballers.

Such as a war, for example.

You've got to face facts – a good old righteous war against a mad dictator such as our old pals Kim Jong-Il or Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is going to be a wall-to-wall media event with 24-hour coverage across all networks.

And if you've got a massive 24-hour wall-to-wall media event, you're going to need celebrities to keep the public interested in the events on the ground.

Celebrities completely unaware that the sudden death elimination round means exactly that.

Loads of them. Fronting a massive human wave attack against thousands of concrete machine-gun bunkers manned by hordes of Korean worker-soldier zealots, defending their homeland against the decadent western war criminal clique, their hearts swelling in pride at the example of Dear Leader Kim Jong-Il, back at the presidential palace putting a couple of B-Listers to the sword himself.

And leading the attack: Beelzebub in human form. Or, to you and me, Katie "Jordan" Price, at the front of the Third WAGS Brigade, ensuring the camera's getting her good side as Agyness Deyn is fired out of a cannon straight up her mimsy.

War: It's HELL. And after ITV turned down my pitch for I'm A Celebrity, Lock Me In The Cupboard Under The Stairs With Only A Tuberculosis-ridden Badger Corpse For Food, it is only right that we make this the best TV programme the world's ever likely to see. And don't actually show it.

And the great thing is we can hold Britain's Got Talent-style auditions for anyone else who wants to join in the slaughter TV and media event of the year, because the Z-List just isn't anywhere big enough.

Or, if we can't start a war, build a wall around Cobham in Surrey to keep them all in. Then bomb it.

I will, of course, be offering a limited number of "Get Out Of Cobham Free" cards to deserving celebrities.

You may like to argue their case in the comments section. I shall decide on their fate. But, frankly, I don't fancy their chances.

On Royal FACTS

On Royal FACTS

Our Royal Family. God bless 'em and everything they stand for. You know: Shitloads of money, huge castles and the right to have us all killed completely TO DEATH and have first dibs on your still twitching genitals.

But did you know...? (Value of FACTS may go down as well as up)

10. Queen Victoria did all her own stunt work, including her infamous rocket-powered flight down the Windsor Castle death slide, which resulted in her death

9. Charles Windsor's official title is HRH The Prince of Whales, on account of his enormous penis, and his catchphrase of "Thar She Blows" heard from a Buckingham Palace upstairs window just as he's about to have sexy time with Camilla

8. Queen Victoria had a secret double life in circus freak shows due to her ability to cling to the ceiling by the vacuum of her own buttocks

7. Her Majesty the Queen (Winner: Playboy Hot Royal 1957) is kept in a leather suitcase and sent by DHL to all official engagements as part of a money-saving exercise

6. Queen Victoria coined the word 'spacker' in 1858 in a tirade where she also referred to Prime Minister Lord Palmerston as 'a complete and utter div'

5. As part of their vows in their 1947 wedding ceremony at Westminster Abbey, the then Princess Elizabeth promised never to get Prince Philip wet, nor to feed him after midnight

4. Queen Victoria's final wish was to be fired out of a cannon up Kaiser Wilhelm II's arse whilst wearing his spiked helmet. The ceremony is repeated every year in Hamburg Docks by HRH Prince Edward

3. Prince Charles has abandoned years of multi-million pound scientific research and has realised there is no way he can stop Camilla turning into a horse. Instead, he will now recruit a jockey to enter her at next year's Royal Ascot. Should make interesting TV viewing, then.

2. The first ever cock-punch was administered by Queen Victoria on an over-eager Lord Palmerston, as an alternative to the Victoria Cross. The current Queen still administers cock-punches to all her Prime Ministers, with Margaret Thatcher having received the most

1. Thanks to centuries of inbreeding amongst Europe's royal families, it has been revealed that Princess Anne is her own brother, cousin and several of her mother's Corgis

Bonus FACT: When holidaying at Balmoral, Prince Charles employs a highly-trained, highly-paid former SAS footman to ensure that nothing is worn under the kilt

Please add more Royal FACTS