On Two Tribes going to war

On Two Tribes going to war

"See the front of The Guardian today?"

"No – what about it?"

"Says that Tony Blair's got to fight for the EU presidency job."

"Who against?"

"It didn't say. But I reckon they should have it on the telly. Like that Frankie Goes to Hollywood video."

"Yeah, I know. Relax."

"You disgust me."

Neither Mirth Nor Woe: Dangermouse

Neither Mirth Nor Woe: Dangermouse

"So," she said, "What's your favourite TV programme?"

To be honest, I didn't really have one, but I was getting on like a house on fire with Debbie, and if cards were played right, there was every chance of red-hot hand-up-the-jumper action, with the further prospect of hand-up-her-jumper to follow.

"I'll tell you what I don't like, though" I said, for I am often very clear at what gets my goat.

"Oh, yes?" she said sweetly.

"Dangermouse."

"Mmm?"

"Dangermouse. What. A. Load. Of. Crap. No stories. Crap animation. Stupidest theme tune. I'd set the cat on the bastard."

She got up.

She left.

She did not say goodbye.

There would be no hand-up-the-jumper. Not tonight. Not ever.

The next day at college, her best friend collared me in the sixth floor corridor.

"What have you done to Debbie, you twat? She LOVES Dangermouse."

"Buh..."

"And don't try to apologise. She's never going to talk to you AGAIN."

She was as good as her word.

Debbie, it turned out, was also a member of the Bracknell College Fraggle Rock Fanclub.

Damn you, David Jason. Damn you to HELL.

You know who else has only one eye? Nick Griffin. Q E bloody D.

On Hallowe'en FACTS

On Hallowe'en FACTS

It's that time of year again, when the undead walk the Earth, and the air is rank with rotting flesh. But enough of The X Factor - what about Hallowe'en, eh?

FACT! Contrary to recent studies, Zombies and Vampires are NOT repelled by the music of Celine Dion. In fact, "My Heart Will Go On", is a perennial favourite with the undead.

FACT! A brain-eating zombie attack on this year's British National Party conference was thwarted when the legions of undead perished through starvation.

FACT! Recent human rights law make make nail guns and rabid dogs legal defence against rubbish trick-or-treaters.

TOP TIP! Ladies - Why not scare the kiddiewinks this year with a none-more-scary Vanessa George horror mask? Also available: Maxine Carr, Karen Matthews, Cheryl Cole.

TOP TIP! Vampires - Stop hanging around university halls of residence looking for fresh blood. All the virgins are long gone.

TOP TIP! Ancient Egyptians - Stop wrapping your errant high priests in bandages and cursing them to an eternity walking the Earth ripping people's arms off. It's hardly going to stop them re-offending, is it?

TOP TIP! Zombies - Why not try varying your diet? Aside from spicy brains, entrails, buttocks and green giant sweet corn all count towards your 'five-a-day'.

FACT! Now available from your local Toys 'Я' Us - Castle Dracula Cluedo. Hint: Colonel Van Helsing, in the cellar, with the wooden stake.

FACT! Before pumpkin-carving became a hallowe'en tradition, revellers instead carved beetroot, pineapples and the heads of recently-deceased relatives.

FACT! Think about it - you've never seen Tory leader David Cameron's reflection. And in the name of balance, we should point out that Gordon 'Alucard' Brown does not cast a shadow, and is actually a driving instructor from the Transvaal

TOP TIP! Mums - Why not spice up a dull Hallowe'en party by inviting guests to bob for kittens?

On getting a yellow card

On getting a yellow card

The toast is burned, and there is a dog hair in my morning coffee. But there is worse to come.

*ding dong!*

"Hello, my name is Pyotr and I from council. I give you YELLOW CARD!"

He is indeed called Pyotr and from the council, because he is wearing a badge to that effect. He is also waving a yellow card in my face.

"Wait... what?"

"Also – naughty tag on bin. Look!"

There is indeed a yellow tag on my wheelie bin. I dare say it has the word "Naughty" on it.

"Wait... what?"

"We find plastic in food bin. Very naughty. YELLOW CARD!"

Bang to rights. He presents me with the little round disc they put over the top of a milk bottle, which – somehow – found its way into the incorrect bin. Only four to choose from – how could I be such a planet-raping spacker?

That being the case, and two minutes later...

"Mr Yellow Card man!" shouts a confused-looking Pyotr, "What… what you doing?"

"YELLOW CARD. Naughty tag on truck."

"Truck not naughty. Truck run on bio-ethanol."

"Ah ha," I say, an unnecessarily smug look on my face, "Truck has just dumped next door's bin all over the road. Very, very naughty."

No good can come of this.

On old radios

On old radios

"Hey Smudger," I say, "You know all about old radios an' stuff."

"Might do."

"Yeah. Well. I've got this question about old radios."

"Uh-huh."

I've got this really old radio at home, an' I was wondering what the 'AFC' button does."

"AFC?"

"Yeah. AFC."

"That's Automatic Frequency Control, that is. It's for old FM radios to keep 'em on frequency."

"Oh. Right. Y'see – my sister always told me it meant 'Alistair Fuckerface Coleman'."

"Well, yeah. It could mean that an' all."


I done a new blog: Angry people in local newspapers

On crap cars, again

On crap cars, again

I've noticed, driving between Reading and Weymouth in the Renault Scenic OF DOOM on a weekly basis, that certain makes of car attract certain types of drivers.

My study, backed up with actual SCIENCE, reveals one or two things we already know for FACT, plus a surprising conclusion that needs to be reinforced by violence against a certain type of individual so as to maintain my excellent yet ultimately selfish way of life.

So: As any Top Gear viewer will tell you, Audis and BMWs are almost exclusively driven by cocks, whereas anything with a Rover, Proton or Kia badge is likely to have a pensioner peeking up over the steering wheel.

And it struck me.

Nissans.

They're driven by imbeciles. That's why I always check the sole of my shoe when I walk through the front door – just in case I've stepped on a Nissan Micra and I end up treading some clueless granny up the hall carpet *again*.

And the Nissan Note. How do these people remember to breathe and drive at the same time?

Nissan Note drivers: I've got a note for you. One that I'd like to staple to your forehead:

"Learn to drive"

Excluded from this rant: The Fragrant Mrs Duck. *cough* Nissan Almera *cough*. Excellent driver.

On silent movies

On silent movies

Take one CCTV camera clip on a drunk guy in a supermarket, add a silent movie soundtrack and caption cards...


Result: The Best Thing Ever.

LOLwolf

LOLwolf

My internet pal Qwghlm took one look at the winner of the Wildlife Photograph of the Year and decided that it was missing a certain je ne sais quoi.

I couldn't agree more.

There, fixed that for you.

On harbouring an irrational hatred of Blackburn Rovers

On harbouring an irrational hatred of Blackburn Rovers

You see, it's like this. If my memory isn't playing me false, every Saturday morning of my youth, my parents would sit me in front of the radiogram with my brother and sister and tuned us into Hell itself: Tony Blackburn's Junior Choice on Wonderful Radio One.

They were well-meaning and full of good intentions, but didn't understand the torment to which we were exposed.

After the third or four hundredth listening of Nellie the Elephant, Puff the Magic Dragon and the very worst of the current pop chart, we would be sprawled on our backs, praying for the torture to end.

For it wasn't just the tunes. It was the host. Nine years of age is far too early to be wishing painful death on a fellow human being, but Tony Blackburn was marked with the Black Spot. A black spot he has somehow managed to survive for the following 35 years, despite my best efforts with a crowbar and a tin bath full of quicklime.

Happily, the dread of Saturday morning was well and truly balanced out on Sunday afternoons with The Big Match on ITV. Poor, dead Brian Moore presenting highlights of the top games of the weekend. And some pretty awful ones too.

"And our first match today is from Division Two," said Moore, "Let's go over to Ewood Park where Blackburn Rovers played host to Charlton Athletic yesterday."

Well, that certainly did it for me. Living in the South of England, I had never heard of Blackburn or Blackburn Rovers before that point, so it could only follow that they were owned by The Menace of Junior Choice, Tony Blackburn himself. There could be no other logical explanation, and hatred for all things Rovers filled my already blackened heart.

Sadly, neither Bobby nor Jack had turned out for Charlton, but any team that was owned by a couple of World Cup winners was good enough for me. They lost, and it was the fault of you-know-who.

Tony Blackburn: To the last, I will grapple with thee... from Hell's heart, I stab at thee! For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee! And your football team's RUBBISH.

Yes, I do know better now. Tony Blackburn has never owned Blackburn Rovers Football Club. Also, my memory WAS playing me false, for it was almost certainly Ed "Stewpot" Stewart who hosted Junior Choice at the time, meaning my entirely hate-filled future life was based on my inability to tell one annoying DJ from another, despite winning Radio One's Write-a-Funny-Limerick-About-Ed-"Stewpot"-Stewart competition.

Whoops.


If you've got this far, yes, I DO still remember the winning limerick, for which I never received my Ed "Stewpot" Stewart transistor radio, a grudge I hold to this day.

Ode to Ed "Stewpot" Stewart by Alistair Coleman (aged eight)

There was a young man called Stu
Who couldn't do any Kung Fu
He couldn't do Judo
And he was stuck up with Ludo
So he locked himself in the loo.

An open letter to the BNP

An open letter to the BNP

Yeah, yeah, I know: Oxygen of publicity and all that. But if you can't laugh at the loonies, what else is there?

Dear Nick Griffin

Congratulations on your forthcoming appearance on Question Time tonight! I hope you do not spoil this enormous publicity coup for the BNP by – for example – denouncing the leadership of our armed forces as traitors and war criminals, before claiming you were joking like the well-known stand-up comedian that you are.

Oh.

Speaking as a journalist, I abhor that fact that you are to take part in a serious political discussion programme, rather than the Batshit Lunatic Hour on TalkSport, but I would be a screaming hypocrite if I did not defend your right to freedom of speech, just as you should defend mine.

That being the case:

You are a complete disgrace of a human being, not fit to lick the boots of those who died for the freedom of this nation and the right to allow you to talk out of your sphincter like the outpourings of rancid meat diarrhoea from the back end of a sick dog.

There. Fair's fair. You get your say, I get mine.

Many of your party members claim they can trace their patriotic English roots back the best part of a thousand years. I've got news for you, my wonky-faced friend – I can trace both of our sets of ancestors back to the Cambrian explosion of 580 million years ago, the only difference being that the IQ on your side has actually declined over the millennia.

You're an educated man, so I bet it really pains you when you pass the bucket round at your BNP Karaoke night and Hitler-thons to see all those crisp fivers, knowing that the reverse features images of noted anti-slavery campaigners in the company of lefty do-gooder Elizabeth Fry.

Just one last thing before I bid thee farewell: I note that you have left our glorious England and emigrated to a farm in mid-Wales. Tell me – have you bothered learning the indigenous language? Or was Dr Doolittle otherwise engaged?

Of course you don't fuck sheep. Just a little – in your own words – dark humour.

Still, best of luck tonight. But remember – the heckling, barracking and insults you'll be getting are not some huge lefty Zionist Islamic plot to destroy your party. It's because everybody knows you're a national disgrace and a diseased phallus of the first order.

Your pal,

Duck (Scary)

On making movies

On making movies

I understand the top movie studios are in talks to bring a number of well-known children's TV programmes to the big screen.

No, I say. Stop it now.

I would rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon than sit in front of a ninety minute episode of Dangermouse, for Dangermouse is full of FAIL and the top of a very slippery slope to anger, despair and The Dark Side.

Ditto Bananaman, Super Ted and - bloody hell - Fireman Sam.

There is only one children's programme for which I'd pay actual cash money to see in a full-length feature, and it is this:

Electric Blue Peter

There's no plot to speak of, just two hours of Konnie Huq trying to get her fridge repaired. By John Noakes and Peter Purves.

Then, Janet Ellis turns up to borrow a cup of sugar and Shep is absolutely no use at all...

For the colonial readers: Mr Rogers filthy filthy something filthy

Edit: Megan Washington unmasked as shameless Portuguese dwarf tickler

I LOLed. I LOLed out loud.

On toilet seat HELL

On toilet seat HELL

This is my story and I'm sticking to it.

You see, one of the plastic toilet seats at work cracked in two.

Or, if you're like that: 'crack'd in twain'.

Desperate, all the other stalls occupied, and willing to take a risk, I decided to go for it on the bog with the broken seat.

So: I was sitting there with the Guardian Sports section, unloading last night's corn-on-the-cob, and I felt myself sliding ever-so-slightly forward.

At the exact moment when I feared I might fall off the front of the crapper and do myself a hideous facial injury of the type people only ever seem to get from falling off bathroom appliances, I lifted my right buttock a little with the view to repositioning myself safely back on the seat.

CLAP!

The sound of the toilet seat snapping back into shape, biting a lump out of my backside.

"Outspan and AAARGH!" I said in surprise and alarm, fleeing from the cubicle of doom, modestly barely intact.

All forgotten until the weekend, when I am undressing for bed.

"Darling," asks the Fragrant Mrs Duck, "Why have you got a love bite on your arse?"

"Err... it's not what you think."

Sofa.

On IT development

This ACTUALLY happened.* Oh, the wacky world of IT development meetings.

"But what if I want to upload a picture of my arse?"

"Why? In the name of sanity – WHY?"

"Well… I might want to upload a picture of my arse. If we've got the functionality that allows a user to upload a picture of their arse - by jiminy - uploading a picture of their arse is EXACTLY what the users will do."

Others agree, noting which way the metaphorical wind is blowing. And it is toward arses: "Arses will be uploaded. Mark my words. Oh yes."

"Hmmm… That's a thought. We're going to need some sort of data capture that prevents users from uploading a picture of their arse."

"You do realise," chimes the voice of sanity, holder of the budget, "this is going to have to go through Change Control? Could cost the business THOUSANDS."

"Yeah – but we've got to stop users uploading a picture of their arse."

"OK," says the bean-counter with a sigh, "Action point: IT Contractors to develop Arse-Detecting software."

[ ... pause ... ]

"Woah, there. Wait a sec. Hold your horses. What if I want to upload a picture of my arse for business purposes?"

"Good point, well made. IT Contractors to add a 'This picture of my arse uploaded for business purposes' checkbox."

[ ... pause ... ]

"What about knockers?"

"Knockers are fine."

* I am obliged to point out that this exchange may not actually have happened.**

** But it did

On censorship, again

On censorship, again

Another one from B3ta's censorship challenge:

I call it "Gobble gobble".

On censorship

On censorship

B3ta's image challenge this week is censorship - take an otherwise innocent photograph and pr0nolise it.

Here's one I made earlier:

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Dyb dyb dob

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Dyb dyb dob

I was ten years old and should have known better, but I found myself in the cub scouts, and thrust out onto the mean streets of our village during half-term doing Scout Job Week.

It's something you don't get much these days thanks to all kinds of moral panics, but back in the day we thought nothing of knocking on a neighbour's door and asking if they wanted any odd jobs done. And if you got bummed to death by a paedo in the process, you just sucked it up, brushed yourself down, stuck a "Job Done!" in their window and put it down to experience.

So, finding myself able to walk without looking like John Wayne after a week in the saddle, I knocked on the door of number forty, the home of two very respectable elderly sisters, Edith and Mary, and gave them the whole Scout Job Week spiel, and despite Mary's finger hovering over the final nine of 999, they bought it.

A deal well and truly struck, I weeded their garden for an hour, and sweating profusely, I was invited in to accept my payment.

Despite it being the ungodly hour of two in the afternoon, both were lounging in their nightclothes. Tearing my eyes away from Mr Marks' and Mr Spencer's finest flannelette, I commented on an unusual arrangement of candles on the coffee table, next to a number of what can loosely be termed coffee table art books of a specialist nature.

They harrumphed, gave me my 5p (FIVE PENCE! For an hour's hard labour!), said how nice it was for a couple of lovely old sisters to trust young people in their home. Another harrumph, and I was propelled firmly into the street outside.

I asked my mum about Edith and Mary.

She looked at me with that 'You'll find out one day' look and said:

"They're not sisters."

Nope. Still clueless.

On Fly Fishing by JR Hartley

On Fly Fishing by JR Hartley

I have a long-held theory (confirmed to a certain extent by actual first-hand witnesses) that all authors have resorted, at some stage in their career, to writing smut to make ends meet. You're reading it now.

The problem comes, of course, when they finally get into print, knowing when to stop churning out the letters to gentlemen's leisure magazines and get back to their first love: quality, thought-provoking literature.

You will be unsurprised to learn that some find it difficult, as the following example proves.

We've got hold of a first, and as it appears, only edition of this literary classic, which we reproduce in its entirety.

Fly fishing by JR Hartley (Published 1946, Eros Press, Berwick Street, W1)

"For Diana"

It was a crisp September morning, worthy of the name "autumnal" even though the sun did its best to warm the ground below the oranges and browns of the trees in my somewhat overgrown garden.

I had sat up for much of the night, tying flies, checking my reels, ensuring that my rod was perfectly serviceable, before preparing a packed lunch of fine hams, fruits from my orchard and the best ginger beer I could afford on the meagre savings I have accrued over the years.

Today's expedition would be my first since I returned from the Second War. So many battles fought, so many friends left behind in North Africa and Italy; my return home to an empty cottage as Captain James Reginald Hartley tinged with the great sadness of lost comradeship.

Roused from my sleep by young Anderson driving his cows to milking, I made my toilet, dressed and ate a frugal breakfast of bread, jam and weak tea, contemplating that while we still endured rationing, it was hardly so on active service, where our quartermaster kept us well fed and rationed; and were it not for the inconvenient attentions of the Wehrmacht, the years might have passed off as some Boy's Own adventure.

Then, making sure I had everything, I heaved my best fishing basket onto my shoulders, grasped my rod, and strode out of the front door, free at last from orders, superiors and the obligation to my dear, dear country.

"Captain Hartley!" came a voice from over the hedge, breaking my stride almost immediately, "Captain Hartley!"

It was poor Mrs Auberon, widowed in 1943 when Jerry shot her poor husband's aircraft from under him, now alone at the age of twenty-three.

I nodded my good morning, and made a show of the fact that I was on a personal mission this morning, but she would not be swayed.

"I appear to have a leaky tap upstairs. Could you possibly help?"

Of course, I cannot deny a young lady in her hour of need, particularly one who had rushed into the street wearing nothing but a diaphanous nightgown, already falling away at the shoulder, her long, raven hair maintaining her modesty.

"Mrs Auberon!" I exclaim, as I examined the pipework in the room adjoining her boudoir, "You appear to have simply left a tap running."

"It's Diana. Just call me Diana," she purred, her nightgown falling away to reveal the yearning body of my not unattractive young neighbour, "and have you noticed, it's so hot in here?"

I had indeed, and before we knew it, we were both ...

[Pages 2-177 appear to be missing]

... and then, still clutching the bicycle pump, we collapsed into an exhausted heap of rubber boots, sou'westers and galoshes.

I never did get to go fly fishing, but mine was the best catch of the day.

- FIN -

No wonder the old sod was so pleased to get hold of a copy.

On milk

On milk

What kind of plank, I ask, do they employ at Tesco these days?

I fear the answer may be "short, thick ones".

"Do you want a bag for that?" asks the girl at the till, a young lady clearly unencumbered by any sort of life experience.

I hold, in my hands, nothing but a six-pint bottle of semi-skimmed milk.

"No thanks. I'll be drinking it now."

And then the moment that makes you stop dead in your tracks. Her look of surprised innocence, and the single word:

"Really?"

There's only one thing for it – The Jeremy Clarkson Voice.

"Yes. Yes I am."

There is a pause as I await my change and there receipt which proves to the powers-that-be that I haven't wasted all my money on cheese spread and flip-flops. The kind of pause that certain people – planks, if you will – feel they've just got to fill.

"Well – go on then."

I fled.


Show us your money

Some of my esteemed colleagues are cycling to London next week in aid of Help For Heroes. If you're feeling generous, you may sponsor them HERE. Anyone mad enough to cycle through the capital deserves at least a tenner...

On making a few announcements

On making a few announcements

Announcement the First

My esteemed colleagues! On behalf of the once-funny Scaryduck blog: Stop eating my chocolate biscuits, you worthless knaves. Fur ihre sicherheit und orientierung – one biscuit in 10,000 has been used in a round of The Biscuit Game within the walls of Reading Gaol. Dare you take that risk?

That is all.


Announcement the Second

Long-time readers may remember one Doctor Craig, who graced our comments on a regular basis with heroic tales complete and utter lies about his work as a paediatric doctor in Cambridge, and/or something hush-hush in Prague and/or something equally hush-hush and heroic in Hong Kong.

Daily Mail: Dodgy doctor gets pound-you-in-the-arse-prison

The Scaryduck blog's first ever jailing, and it wasn't me. Wow.

Update: A bit of detective work by Legless on B3ta

Update II: Misty has blogged on "Doctor" Craig, with some fabulous additional links.

On going fishing and hanging around with slatterns

On going fishing and hanging around with slatterns

Jesus.

No, really.

I've been told – by the kind of humourless person who knits their own packed lunch - to behave myself or I'll make Jesus cry.

Yeah, right.

If I were a betting man (and there's a very good reason why I'm not), I'd give good money on the premise that your Lord and Saviour was, all things said and done, a bit of a geezer.

Let's take a look at the evidence:

He lived under the occupation of a foreign invader, complete with mass migrations and marauding Campaign for Free Galilee terrorists/freedom fighters chopping up Pilate's wife and posting her back to the Romans. So what does that good Irish lad Jesus O'Nazareth do?

- Goes on a forty day extreme backpacking holiday in the wilderness, where he has *cough* "visions"

- Goes fishing with the guys

- Hangs about with prostitutes

- Tells a mean tall tale about slaughtering fatted calves TO DETH

- Is the guy who goes out and gets more booze when the wedding party drinks the place dry

- Brought dead guy back to life as a frickin' brain-eating ZOMBIE

- Starts a punch-up in the temple

- Punches Dan Brown in the cock*

- Rode a dinosaur and took out the entire crack Roman Third Legion with illegally imported phased-plasma rifle**

On the downside:

- Beard

- Sandals

Hardly the 'meek and mild' image we've been fed these last two thousand years, I'm sure you'll agree.

I bet he didn't even cry like a girl that time they nailed him to a tree for that whole 'Romanes Eunt Domus' business.

Only a flesh wound.

Geezer.

* May actually be a lie

** May also be a lie

On quack medicine

On quack medicine

If homeopathy was real, and not just made-up tree-hugging woo, then every glass of water you drink contains the "memory" of the poop that your local water company filtered out of it.

Including that of several people who might have had the runs.

*boilk*

On World Mental Health Day

On World Mental Health Day

Today - 10/10/09 - it turns out, is World Mental Health Day. Are they, I ask, trying to upset OCD sufferers?

What better day, then, to reveal that I almost certainly reside somewhere on the autistic spectrum with Aspergers. I am, then, a mental.

A mentallist, even.

Yes. Yes I know what you're thinking, and it is this: "That certainly explains a lot."

That certainly explains a lot.

So, on this auspicious day, I thought it time we Aspies issued a rallying cry and rose up against the indifferent hordes of Norms and their effortless social interaction.

Aspergers sufferers of the world unite!! mumble mumble something mumble, if that's alright with you. mumble...

Neither Mirth Nor Woe: Eggy Dave

Neither Mirth Nor Woe: Eggy Dave

"So, what did you get for your birthday, then?"

"Cricket stuff. Loads of cricket stuff."

"Nothing personal you understand, old chap, but you're bloody weird."

Eggy Dave loved his cricket.

While other teenagers were mad keen on their favourite football teams – and our school had far too many Tottenham Hotspur fans to be absolutely healthy - Eggy Dave had but one love: Somerset County Cricket Club.

We had pictures of Liam Brady, Ossie Ardiles and Depeche Mode on our walls. Eggy Dave had Ian Botham and Viv Richards and a healthy disrespect for all things Australian.

So, it was hardly a surprise that his old man, being a member of Taunton's finest sloggers, should wangle him a signed bat and heaps of cricket kit for his birthday.

Eggy Dave was so keen on this particular sport of kings that he had his own set of whites, and was the only kid in the school cricket team that didn't turn out for matches in his PE kit.

"So, what did you get for your birthday, then?"

"Signed bat. New pads. Box. Cricket boots."

"Wait... you got a box?"

"S'right. It's a good'un, though. It's in me bag 'ere."

The cricket boxes of our experience were horrible, stained plastic things you shoved down your shorts, and would probably sever your tackle if called into action. Eggy Dave's looked like something an astronaut would wear under his space suit. It is fair to say that this specimen caused a certain amount of school field excitement.

"So," asked Tranny Gaz, standing, as usual, with his radio pressed to his ear, feeding tinny music in his brain, "How much ...err... punishment can it take?"

Eggy Dave was a lad of few words, and kept his facts short and brief: "A lot, I 'spect."

"D'you reckon," Gaz said, "if I kicked you in the bollocks, right, it wouldn't hurt?"

"Probably not."

Tranny Gaz looked at Dave, then, radio still pumping out the tss-tss-tss of some latest chart hit played through the cheapest consumer electronics known to man, gave us a slantendicular look of pure evil.

"Even if I take a run-up?"

"Try it, if you want."

Fighting talk.

Big, lanky Gaz in his Doc Martens marched twenty yards up the field, paused, and with a twirl of his little knob switched off his radio for the first time since we met him.

Then, with a fearful glint in his eye, he turned and ran at his target. Ground Zero: Eggy Dave's fork.

"Wait up – I ain't got it on y..."

As he struggled to free his tackle, he contemplated the strange chain of events that was about to transpire, yet could do nothing to prevent as his nemesis careened toward him, time slowing to a crawl as if he was swimming through custard, boot flying relentlessly toward his stinking bishop.

"Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarn - WHUMP!"

Out for a duck.

Then, clutching his bloated purple tumescence reminiscent of an aubergine, he was sick in a hedge.

Condensed Literature and soon to be a Condensed Movie: The Hobbit

Condensed Literature and soon to be a Condensed Movie: The Hobbit

So, it's come to this. I've tried to avoid the output of JRRRRRR Tolkein, but a flash of light whilst watching Lord of the Rings the other night had the entire plot mapped out in front of me. On a very, very small map, in the language of today's easily-bored youth.

Not wanting to encourage the obsessives, but there's a guy works down the chip shop swears he's Elvish.

The Hobbit by JR Hartley

B. Baggins: Hello. I am Dildo Daggins, and I am excellent. I also have a magic ring, FTW

Gandalf: I know. I've seen it LOL

B. Baggins: Today, I shall be mostly travelling to the other end of Middle Earth (Twin town: Dudley), having various adventures, before killing the evil dragon TO DEATH and returning safely some time later for a spot of fly fishing.

Gandalf: I shall be tagging along, so I can keep an eye on B. Bagginses magic ring ROFL

Some time later

B. Baggins: There. I have mostly travelled to the other end of Middle Earth, have had various adventures (mostly involving my magic ring), have slain the evil dragon TO DEATH and have returned safely some time later for a spot of fly fishing. WIN!

Everybody else: Oh shitting hell, he's back. We thought you were dead and we've sold all your fly fishing tackle for CASH MONEY. Which we've spent on loose women and Enya albums

B. Baggins: COCK. Anybody want to give me a good old tromboning, then?

Gandalf: Yoinks! Now that's what I call a magic ring, eh readers?


And sod it, while we're here:

Lord of the Rings - Fellowship of the Two Towers of the King by JR Hartley

B. Baggins: Grrrrrr. Magic ring has turned me EVIL. GRRRRR

Gandalf: Piss. I knew this would happen. I bloody knew it. FAIL

F. Baggins: Fuck it, I'll get rid of the thing, although - mark my words - thousands may die

Thousands: Ouch. That's fucked our fly fishing trip, then.

Gollum: Precious ring, preciousssss.

F. Baggins: There. IT IS DONE, FTW!

Gollum: Ouch. Volcano hot, preciousssss.

Gandalf: Nice one, LOL

On Dorset FACTS, again

On Dorset FACTS, again

And here were go again: Another half-a-dozen FACTS to celebrate something something Olympics something Dorset something.

They said they wanted a lasting legacy for the 2012, and here it is, clogging up Google search results for years to come.

FACT! Readers who have been amused or annoyed by the small boy in the television advert who says "I want to have a poo at Paul's house!" may be interested to learn that Paul lives in Prince Charles's picturesque Dorset village of Poundbury, where his house boasts the luxury of an inside toilet.

FACT! Weymouth is rightly proud of its royal connection to King George III, who was mad enough to holiday in the resort on many occasions. But now, it can claim links to a different King – the town boasts the highest concentration of Elvis tribute acts outside Las Vegas.

FACT! Popular tourist attraction Abbotsbury Swannery remains at the forefront of scientific inquiry with the publication of its long-awaited peer-reviewed paper in the British Medical Journal entitled "On the discovery of how many flaps of a swan's wing it takes to break a man's arm". After trials involving hundreds of student volunteers, it has come to the following conclusion: One.

FACT! Dorset writer Thomas Hardy, like many other talented authors, augmented his low income by penning content for popular magazines. Readers unfamiliar with his literary classic "Far from the Madding Crowd", which chronicled the author's days as a noted football hooligan, may already have read his classic "Dear Fiesta, I never thought I had a chance with the hot divorcee next door until the day she…"

FACT! Whilst Weymouth is famed as the port where the Black Death entered England in the 14th Century, the county's Bournemouth Airport is now recognised as the first point of entry for the equally deadly Chlamydia, brought into the United Kingdom in a pair of crusty boxer shorts belonging to a holiday-maker returning from an 18-30 "All you can screw" break in the Balearics.

FACT! In an effort to keep up with the times, Dorset's most famous coastal attraction has accepted a multi-million dollar internet sponsorship deal and will henceforth be known as "LOLworth Cove". Tourists will be able to see the site from the air by paying for a ride in the ROFLcopter.

There are many, many other FACTS about Dorset, which I am certain will come to light in future days. Some of them might even be true.

A call for content: Friday's Tale of Mirth and Woe is a return to the Old School, featuring crushed genitals and sick inna hedge. To mark this auspicious occassion, I am making a call for sentences which I shall try to insert - seamlessly - into the tale.

What, I ask, could possibily go wrong?

On Dorset FACTS

On Dorset FACTS

Just when I thought that the whole FACTS thing had run its course, my local rag draws my attention to the forthcoming Olympic Games and its need for FACT-y goodness.

In a little over 1,000 days, you see, Weymouth and Portland will be playing host to the world as the sailing venue for the 2012 Games. And to celebrate it, the organisers have issued a call for FACTS about Dorset. A thousand of them.

I know what you're thinking: "Just the thousand?" And you're right. It is my patriotic duty to supply as many of these FACTS as I can, irrespective of actual veracity. Or quality, even.

Got a 100% of FACT about the 17th best county in the United Kingdom? Submit it HERE

FACT! The Olympic host city of Weymouth derives its name from Custom House built by the harbour-side as a point-of-entry for butterflies and exotic insects in the Middle Ages. Literally "Weigh Moth". Other excellent Dorset place names include Piddlehinton, Shitterton and the twin villages of Sixpenny Handjob and Thruppenny Cocksucker.

FACT! The last woman burned as a witch in Dorset was one Ethel Cockington of the Isle of Portland "sent to face ye harsh'st judgment of her maker for ye heinous crymes of encourag'ng the propagation of foul, deadly (word deleted, presumably 'rabbits'); caus'ng ye foam'ng DEATH of sheepe belong'ng to Jas Cooper Esq; and lay'ng ye CURSE of idiocy on every first-born son of FORTUNE'S WELL". Due to restrictive EU environmental regulations, Portland Town Council is committed to replacing witch burning with the ducking stool by 2012.

FACT! Jurassic Coast fossil-hunters in Dorset are faced with a fascinating new mystery: the discovery of the petrified remains of a nuclear-powered 1980s De Lorean sports car embedded fifty feet up the cliffs at Charmouth, inside the fossilised bones of a long-dead Tyrannosaurus Rex.

FACT! Excavations for the long-awaited Weymouth Relief Road have thrown new light on how long the town has waited for the route to be built. Archaeologists working on the Ridgeway above the resort have discovered a Dark Age burial pit containing a group of headless corpses, many of whom were carrying placards bearing the words "Ende ye Siege! Releefe Road NOW!", "Save Ye Ocean Roome!" and "NO WINDE FARMS ONN PORTLAND ISLE!"

FACT! Mystery surrounds Dorset's famous Cerne Giant hill-carving, north of the county town of Dorchester. Current thinking attributes the Giant's origins to "an incredibly rich man who owned both a bloody great hill and enormous wedding tackle". Counter-claims dismiss this mystery landowner as "a complete liar."

FACT! In a blunder of titanic proportions, Dorset authorities have allowed the construction of Monkey World, the Tank Museum and the Winfrith nuclear facility within little more than a mile of each other. Space travellers from THE FUTUR have sent a despairing message to Purbeck District Council's planning committee damning them all. Damning them all TO HELL.

Too many words. Part II of this EPIC WIN of FACT tomorrow.

On sponsored celebrities

On sponsored celebrities

The other day, we discussed the ways in which our hard-up television networks could rake in extra cash through subtle unobtrusive sponsorship schemes, that will in no way bugger up TV viewing for the forseeable future.

You'll be unsuprised to learn that there's even more filthy lucre to be had in this way, through the sale of naming rights to our favourite celebrities.

Of course, there may be a little resistance from one or two A-Listers, but once they've been drowned in a bucket, we'll probably find resistance to this excellent idea melting away like Victoria Beckham under a hair-dryer. Speaking of whom, she's first on the list:

- Mr Kipling's Victoria Sponge Beckham
- Preparation H from Steps

- Anne Double Diamond
- David Cameronaldmcdonald

- Martin Burger King ("I've gone up to the mountain, and I've seen the crispy fries")
- Arnold Toast-n-Egg-er

- A O Elle McPherson
- Jimmy Starbuck's

- Brad Pitt and Bingley Building Society
- HRH Queen Elizabeth the Second Class last posting day before Christmas is 16th December

Your turn now. That's me, Scary Toilet Duck, signing off.

On learning Chinese

On learning Chinese

Chinese, I have learned, is a tonal language.

The same word can have several different meanings, all depending on how it is spoken.

For example, "mother", "horse" and "hemp" are all spoken in different tonal variations of the word "ma".

On reflection, this might explain Professor Stephen Hawking's recent arrest outside a knocking shop in Shanghai.

Top Tip

Top Tip

Impress friends and colleagues by adding the words "SENT FROM MY BLACKBERRY™" to the end of emails, even if you don't own a Blackberry™.


SENT FROM MY BLACKBERRY™

Neither Mirth Nor Woe: Menace at the Gates

Neither Mirth Nor Woe: PAEDO-GEDDON

At the end of a train of events too dull to mention (the highlight of which involved calling his previous head-of-year a "spacker"), the boy Scaryduck Junior started at a new school the other week. This was, in Duck household term, epic WIN.

Just for form's sake – because he's on the cusp of his teenage years and it wouldn't be the done thing otherwise – I agreed to walk him to and from the school gate for the first couple of days.

So. First day. A triumph. We've got the lad into a school that is nine shades of excellent, and everybody is happy.

And I?

"'S funny. Nobody talked to me at the school gate. Loads of pointing, though."

The fragrant Mrs Duck knows the answer: "You didn't go dressed like that?"

"I might have done."

"And you wore that old coat of yours, didn't you?"

I couldn't disagree. I love that old coat like an …err… old coat. The trouble is…

"The trouble is – it makes you look like a paedo."

"A paedo."

"When you go to the school, try not to look like a paedo."

I agreed. When standing outside the school gates, it is best not to look like you are planning paedo-geddon on the poor innocents as this doesn't play well with the gallery. Tattooed, screechy mothers will attempt to have you hung from a nearby tree pour encourager les autres.

"Tomorrow, why don't you take the dog? It'll stop you from looking like a paedo."

Tomorrow came, like that song about tomorrow coming, and I am standing outside the school gates with Lucy Minogue, trying not to look like a paedo.

As you may already know, sweet, sweet Lucy Minogue isn't some huge, fanged hell-hound. She is small, fluffy and wears a pink collar. In short, and judging from the scowls of the local harpies, she has not helped me look less of a paedo.

And then, as the boy came out of the school gate, it slipped out.

Who knows what possessed me? Ten words that condemn me in the face of pointless moral panic playing on public ignorance. Ten words that put me in the same bracket as not-poor, dead Gary Glitter in the eyes of these ingloriously ignorant helicopter parents. Ten words:

"Hello little boy. Would you like to stroke my puppy?"

Then I was sick inna hedge.

Strictly Come Dancing shocker

Strictly Come Dancing shocker

Viewers have expressed their outrage as popular wizened old trout Arlene Phillips was replaced by Star Wars droid R2-D2 on BBC One hit show Strictly Come Dancing.

"You couldn't make it up," froths Richard Littlejohn in the Daily Mail, "Everybody I know says they should have gone for C-3PO. After all, Threepio's a protocol droid, but they had to go for the minority. It's political correctness gone mad."

Also: It is Scaryduckling's birthday. Happy Birthday, Scaryduckling.