Neither Mirth nor Woe: Reading FC vs Burger King

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Reading FC vs Burger King

Struck down with a case of the mentals, I used to like nothing better than going to watch Reading Football Club play of a Saturday.

This was in their wilderness years in the late 80s, so I would spend many freezing Saturdays standing with my boss and his mates on a cold terrace at Elm Park. In fact, the entire history of the club has been spent displaying varying shades of shitness, so 'wilderness years' could describe anything from 1874-2010.

Habitually, I would take a train to Reading, have a burger on the way to the ground, watch a crappy 0-0 draw, then go and get drunk.

So.

Train. Burger King. South Bank. Shrewsbury Town. Raging gut rot.

You can tell where this is going.

Halfway through the second half, the unthinkable happens and Reading get the ball in the net. Pandemonium on the terraces, if only to get warm.

I jump up and down a bit, and suddenly realise this hasn't helped by raging guts in the slightest.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!"

All over the boss. All over his mates. All over some hairy, tattooed chaps who didn't take to well to being the victims of a projectile peff. If there had been a hedge nearby, I dare say I would have been sick in that as well.

I had a Whopper Meal with large fries and a chocolate shake.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!"

And so did they.

I stood on my own on the other side of the ground for two seasons.

On secret bunkers

On secret bunkers

Every mad scientist or evil overlord needs a decent secret bunker.

A secret bunker staffed with poorly-armed yet impressively uniformed henchmen, as you set about your grim task of saving the world from itself by killing absolutely everybody completely to death, for their own good.

Completely and utterly by chance, and after years of searching, I have found my TOP SECRET bunker for when my plans of taking over the world for its own good finally come to fruition.

And even better, it's local.

Right at the arse end of the Isle of Portland - nobody ever goes there and the ideal place to hatch the destruction of civilisation by drilling down to the Earth's core and injecting it with jelly.


Formerly the Admiralty Underwater Weapons Establishment, where our Royal Navy chaps set about finding new ways of killing the Russian Bear completely TO DEATH, it is now a maze of long, dark twisting corridors; deserted, threatening workshops; and enough concrete walls to line up any number of captured secret agents in front of firing squads.

It also has wireless access, its own branch of Travis Perkins for when I need to mass-produce gallows and stuff, a nursery and a luxury health spa.

A luxury health spa which went bust when they realised that a secret bunker at the arse end of Portland is probably not the ideal location for a luxury health spa, nursery and top-class restaurant or not.

Also, they do great deals on personal storage, and frankly, our loft was heaving.

Right: Operation Take Over The World And Kill Everybody To Death For Their Own Good is GO. We are recruiting, and would particularly like to hear from gullible people with endless pots of cash. *cough* Tom Cruise *cough*

We will keep you informed. But - please - don not reveal the location of our Secret Bunker by posting it to the internet.

Oh.

On the destruction of Western civilisation, again

On the destruction of Western civilisation, again

After last week's Daniel O'Donnell unpleasantness which brought the wrath of certain militant groups based in the mountains of Waziristan down on us (Quote: "A nipple-gripple to this BLASPHEMER"), we thought it best to cut our Al Qaeda chums a little bit of slack in their battle to wipe out our way of life as we know it.

So, while our governments refuse to talk to these humourless curs, here's the deal we've cut for the good of humanity: We sacrifice one or two of The Worst Things In The World, and they agree to stop being a bit out of order with the whole killing people and nipple-gripple shit.

No.2: Gio Compario

Otherwise known as that bastard from the Go Compare adverts, and exactly 547% more annoying than the Poo at Paul's commercial, and must be destroyed at once. I bet you didn't even realise this blot on our society even had a name.

And why does the boy want a poo at Paul's, you ask? Because Paul's real name Is OSAMA BIN LADEN, and he he bribing the lad with DRUGS, GUNS and a FAKE ITALIAN OPERA SINGER.

As you can see from this stunning new evidence, everything is connected in this world, and not in the ways you'd suspect. We've got your number, OSAMA and we win this time.

Mad Death-to-the-Infidels 1-1 Western Civilisation

THE BATTLE CONTINUES

On web design, again

On web design, again

I've been in far too many meetings recently. I could have sworn that this really happened:

"And here," said the salesman, his suit glowing under the glare of the flourescant strip lighting, "You'll see the final design for your new corporate website.

"We've taken on top webpage design specialists who are experts on how users read websites and the way their eyes move around the screen from asset to asset.

"They have," he said, an air of smugness on his voice, the project sign-off only minutes away, "They have worked long and hard working out what kind of content stimulates users and engages them for the most satisfying user experience.

"In short, they know exactly what your users want to see on your website."

"Wait..." said the boss, struggling for words as the new webpage is projected ten feet high on the wall of the conference room, "Wait..."

It fell to the finance director to articulate what we were all trying to say: "That's just a picture of a pair of lady's bosoms, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is. Click on either to enter."

"DEAL."

On David Cameron FACTS

On David Cameron FACTS

David Cameron has decided: David Cameron is awesome and wants the world to know exactly how awesome David Cameron is.

In fact, David Cameron is so awesome, he has kindly, in his serene awesomeness, allowed us to reveal some awesome David Cameron FACTS.

- David Cameron invented the time machine in 2027 and used the device to travel back in time and be his own father

- The identity of David Cameron's mother has never been revealed, for fear of acolytes worshipping her over and above His Holy Awesome Daveness. However, he has hinted that she "is not for turning", suggesting that he has never done her up the wrong'un

- Dave Cameron is the only major party leader with his own TV channel: DAVE. Dave's favourite programme is Top Gear. In this fact we're not counting BNP leader Nick Griffin's TV channel, Wonky-faced Racist Tosser-Vision

- Some say David Cameron is The Stig. In fact, it's the other way around

- David Cameron says his favourite band is The Killers. The Vegas-based band wrote the song Human about the awesome Tory party leader, with the refrain "Are we human, or are we Awesome Dave Cameron?" repeated throughout

- David Cameron only has one album on his iPod: The complete unabridged audiobook of "Why I'm Awesome" by David Cameron, read by the author

- A keen bike rider, David Cameron won back-to-back Tours de France between 1999-2005. However, he has never been able to shake off allegations of drug misuse, stating that there is no reliable urine test for awesomeness

- Having secured the backing of Rupert Murdoch's Sun newspaper before the forthcoming election campaign, it has been revealed that there is no truth at all in stories that David Cameron might have used the political manoeuvre known as the "reach-around" to gain the Aussie-born media mogul's full attention

- Neither is there any truth at all in stories that David Cameron's favourite musical instrument is his prized pink oboe, which he learned to play during his years at Eton

- David Cameron is AWESOME*

More David Cameron facts HERE. Nothing to do with me, squire.

* Value of AWESOME may go down as well as up. But mostly down. May the deity of your choice save us all

On snow fun

On snow fun

Loyal reader Sigg3 done a thing and is EXCELLENT.

He is not mad.

Mirth and Woe: Snow cock

Mirth and Woe: Snow cock

I used to live next door to our school, which was fine for nipping home for stuff, but meant you could never, ever have an excuse for being late.

One night, it snowed. I had to get up early for my paper round, and looking over the school gate, I could see the pristine, virgin snow in the school playground.

There was only one thing for it. Under the cover of darkness, I stole in, and trampled out a fifty-foot long speed-cock in the snow, and legged it for the newsagents for my hard-earned 50p thrusting copies of the Daily Telegraph through posh people's doors.

School assembly.

The headmaster got up on his podium with a grave look on his face.

"Who did it?" he thundered. "Who did that THING in the playground?"

I sat there, ashen-faced, radiating guilt.

"Mrs Ackrill, the caretaker's wife" he stormed, "Mrs Ackrill saw it and had one of her turns".

I thought about it, and considered sticking my hand in the air to own up. No point getting anybody into trouble, and there would be a certain status for being The Boy Who Made The Fifty Foot Snow Cock.

Status that could involve girls.

"There will be NO break-time this morning. Anyone seen in the playground without good excuse faces a week of after-school detention."

I sat on my hands and bit my tongue. For owning up after the entire school had been dealt this collective punishment would have signed my own death warrant.

But now I can confess. It was I who spoiled the entire school's snow fun.

It was I who caused hundreds of kids to watch helplessly from classroom windows as the snow slowly disappeared.

For, by home-time, it had rained, and both the snow and the fifty foot penis were gone.

On solutioneering

On solutioneering

"Where the hell did we come up with that stupid idea?"

"You missed the last meeting. We were solutionising."

"Solutioneering, you bunch of utter planks. You can't even get your buzzword bingo right."

It was at that exact moment the meeting took a turn for the worse, and our solutioniferizing resulted in an urgent phone order to Slick Mario's Quick Lime, Tin Bath and Shovel Emporium.

On the destruction of Western civilisation

On the destruction of Western civilisation

In 1948, the Egyptian intellectual Sayyid Qutb travelled to America to study. He was so shocked at what he saw as a debauched, brutal, materialistic society obsessed with sex, desire and money, he vowed that it should be destroyed.

Qutb wrote extensively on the subject before finding himself hanging from a rope in an Egyptian prison, but he is widely recognised as the man whose published works influenced Al Qaeda and other extreme Islamic groups.

In these days of heightened awareness toward extreme religiously-motivated militant groups, it is worth asking ourselves whether Qutb and his followers have a point. We ask: Is Western civilisation really so bad that is should be destroyed?

Let us examine the evidence:

No.1 Daniel O'Donnell Cross-Stitch Pattern

The Darling of Donegal in easy-to-sew cross-stitch for the easily-pleased pensioner in your life. Also available: Terry Wogan, Richard Hammond.

I think we are all agreed in this case: This is quite easily The Worst Thing In The World and represents all that is evil in the Western world that we hold dear, and must be destroyed at once.

Mad Death-to-the-Infidels 1-0 Western Civilisation

Next Week: The role of Ricky Butcher of EastEnders in the proletariat's struggle against the capitalist bourgoisie.

On FACTS about SCIENCE

On FACTS about SCIENCE

FACT! The heaviest substance known to man – as proven by the rigorous use of SCIENCE - is the stuff they use to manufacture those fish badges on the back of cars.

Not only is this stuff so heavy that is turns even the most powerful road car in the world (the 1.0 litre Nissan Micra) into a slow-moving four-wheeled menace, but it also emits dangerous radioactive rays that turn the driver from your everyday demon driver into a ponderous, drooling nincompoop with a tartan blanket on the parcel shelf.

There can be no other explanation of this bizarre phenomenon, other than from what I have learned on the internet, viz: It being the emblem of the International Association of Bloody Awful Drivers.

Oh, go on, then:

On Monkey Tennis

On Monkey Tennis


"Dancing on Ice is the most dangerous reality programme on television," says shouty host Philip Schofield, never one to mince his words.

That's as maybe, but we are still to see severed limbs succumbing to razor sharp blades, or eyes being popped from their sockets as a C-List star faceplants onto the ice.

GET A GRIP, ITV.

Long-time readers already know my attitude to any reality television programme with the word "Celebrity" in the title. Yes, fading stars are more than welcome to ressurrect their flagging careers while punters pay a pound a throw on voting lines, but "sudden death elimination" should mean exactly that.

Fame should come with risk, and if you're that desperate to appear on the front page of Daily Star clutching the severed head of Katie Price, you must be prepared to suffer for your art. And this suffering must include a fair-to-middling chance of seeing your insides spurting all over a horrified, yet slightly aroused, Torville and Dean.

With Monkey Tennis once again cruelly overlooked by the TV schedulers (mostly because Ant & Dec pulled out at the last minute), it falls to me once again to stride confidently into a pitch meeting and hit them square between the eyes with my spunker of an idea:

Celebrity Monkey Knife-Throwing. On Ice. With Dale Winton.

And here's the twist: Blindfold.

I'd watch that.

Your one-line pitches for rubbish reality television show, if you please.

On Bowie

On Bowie

"So," I ask Scaryduckling, tearing her away from a Facebook conversation on her iPod Touch in a manner that has her rolling her eyes in exasperation, "what do you reckon David Bowie's favourite sweets are?"

She doesn't know.

"I don't know."

"Revel Revels."

She pities the fool that came up with that gag.

The fool, however, is perplexed, knowing that it is just one of several possible answers,

"How about Life on Mars Bars?" I venture.

- KitKat People

- Ziggy Starburst

- Cadbury's "Heroes"

She looks at me. She considers her response. She speaks. And the conversation ends.

"Perhaps he just doesn't like ch-ch-changes in his diet?"

I think that's what these young people call "Pwn3d".

On sorting out the country, AGAIN

On sorting out the country, AGAIN

Dear The Government

I note with some concern the problems you have faced keeping the roads open in this current cold snap. As a matter of fact, its been a bloody disgrace, you inept bunch of quarter-wits.

But don't worry, because I've had a spunker of an idea that will make that miserable toff Cameron look like the wet and a weed that he is.

When temperatures plummet, why not, I ask, take a leaf out of professional football's book? While football grounds have undersoil heating that keep the pitches lush and green, it is maddening to see so many matches called off as a result of the roads around the grounds being knee deep in snow and ice.

Have you thought of investing in some sort of under-road heating in which an element is fed under the tarmac to keep everything nice and toasty? Just like that warm bit in my dad's kitchen next to the fridge which is either a hot water pipe or an entrace to Hell itself, if you'd care to send some researchers round.

Granted, with tens of thousands of miles of roads to upgrade, it's going to cost a bomb, but think about all the unemployed layabouts you could press into work gangs at minimum wage which will, eventually, gets this once-proud nation back on the move again and we'd be able to get to the match without falling over and breaking our legs.

Think about it: you'd finally get some use out of the 45,000 tons of uranium you found in Iraq.

Your pal,

Albert O'Balsam

PS I am not mad

On accidentally destroying Poundbury TO DEATH

On accidentally destroying Poundbury TO DEATH

I've written a number of times on the unusually warm climate we have in Weymouth.

People who have studied actual SCIENCE (and face it, what do they know?) put this down to the town's geography, making it sheltered from the worst of the weather, and separated from the outside world by the chalky downs of the Ridgeway Hill. While the rest of the world gets rain and misery, we get nothing but sun-sun-sun.

However, and as any reader of Neil Gaiman will tell you, the true reason for Weymouth's spectacularly warm climate is the simple fact that you never, ever see last year's Carnival Queen, while council officials keep the town's ceremonial sword suspiciously clean in the wake of the annual borough all-meat, no-questions-asked barbecue.

This was especially apparent this morning as I drove out of the People's Republic of Weymouth and Portland for the grim wastes of the North (for eg: Anything past Dorchester).

As I drove through the town, the sun had its hat on, waves lapped playfully on the shore, and I dare say posh kids were already rustling up a ginger beer picnic (not rhyming sling in any way, at all) for a jolly fine day out. I dare say, had I the car window open, I would have heard the birds singing in the trees, boughs forever weighed down by the freshest of fruit that one can merely pluck as you saunter past.

Yet as I reached the peak of Ridgeway Hill, the sky turned as black as night, cloud filled the horizon and all manner of rain, sleet and snow hammered against the windscreen as I struggled to maintain control in the buffeting wind.

As the clear skies of home disappeared in my rear-view mirror, I battled downwards toward Prince Charles's model town of Poundbury, its domes and spires lit by forks of lightning, before they are lost again in the deluge.

Then, rocking me to the very core, a voice:

"Choose! Gozer the Gozerian demands that you choose the manner of your destruction! CHOOSE!"

And – believe me – I tried. I tried to clear my head and think only of a giant marshmallow man. But I failed. Failed dismally.

So, if you live in Poundbury, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry about the 300-foot Kirstie Allsopp.

I'm sorry that she ripped the roof off the fire station and used the burning shell as a makeshift paddling pool full of baby oil.

I'm sorry about all the death, destruction, mud wrestling and that.

I'm sorry about the unfortunate demise of HRH Prince Charles and his horse.

I'm sorry about all that stuff.

We'll all sit down and laugh about it one day.

Honest.

On a little bit of culture

On a little bit of culture

Chicken-in-a-basket broadcaster ITV take a stab at culture in the only way they know how this weekend with their "Popstar to Opera Star" reality TV show.

It wasn't until I watched the trailers...

...that I realised they had roped in Mr Bean as one of the judges.

Alan Titchmarsh to host. No, really. This is going to be the best worst thing ever.

On finding love in the aisles

On finding love in the aisles

Some say the supermarket is the ideal place to find love.

The same people also say there is a code based on the items in your trolley that advertises what kind of partner you are seeking.

I now know this to be true, but have major issues with the lists available elsewhere, as my own personal research has documented.

Take my recent experience in the Weymouth branch of Asda, for example, as I attempt to decode this most mysterious of cyphers through the use of SCIENCE:

My trolley:
- One tin own-brand value sweetcorn
- One pint semi-skimmed milk (reduced to 10p to clear on the cheapskates' counter)
- One Weightwatchers Macaroni Cheese (introductory price: £1.00)

Translates into English as:
"Aged 40-50? Weigh in excess of 300 pounds and look like someone's set fire to your face and beaten the flames out with a cricket bat? Remnants of last night's fish supper still stuck to your voluminous chest? Breath like Satan's arse? GRAB MY ARSE!

The experiment over, I fled, gibbering, into the arms of my delightful assistant, The Fragrant Mrs Duck.

Who knows, dear reader, how the female mind works?

Apart from women, of course.

On not being able to draw the Pringles man

On not being able to draw the Pringles man

"Actually, Dad – there IS one thing I can do better than you."

Two if you count getting into the Guinness Book of Records for never, ever tidying your room, but that's just grump old man-speak, which I express with just two words:

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I can draw the Pringles man, and you can't."

Bugger. The boy has a point, and danger immediately rears its ugly head.

"Boy, you have a point. And I shall do my best to rectify this appalling lapse in my acquired life skills."

"You're talking crap again, aren't you?"

"…because – who knows – there might come a time when we find ourselves in the clutches of a ruthless despot who dispenses his mercy or dreadful wrath on the whim of his unhinged personal demands."

"Yup. Crap."

"We'd be there, cowering in his presence and he'd point at us and scream 'YOU and YOU – draw me the Pringles man or you will DIE!!!"

"Mum! Dad's forgotten his happy pills again!"

"Have you got a pen? I need to draw the Pringles man, for our very lives may depend on it. The chisel-tip marker, if you'd be so kind. Son? Son?"

And he is gone.

On a little bit of politics

On a little bit of politics

People keep saying that new Conservative Party campaign poster featuring David Cameron might be airbrushed.

Naaah, can't see it myself.

Behold: The STUFF of the GODS

Foods of the Gods (Official list)

• Cheese on Toast
  
• Tomato ketchup sandwiches
  
• Egg and Chips
  
• Tea, NATO standard
  
• Peanut Chunky Kitkats
  
• Ear wax
  
• Set meal for two, Ming Wah restaurant, Weymouth

Sports of the Gods (Official list)

• Swingball
  
• Synchro swimming
  
• Penguin pile-up
  
• Pirate-themed crazy golf
  
• Sending a classical hero on a near-impossible life-or-death quest for some elusive treasure, battling mythic beasts, slaying stop-motion skeletons and rescuing semi-naked yet chaste maidens. Then killing him to death in a bizarre spacehopper accident, for the LULz
  
• Pro-Celebrity Nail-Gun

Naturally, if you disagree with ANY aspect of these lists, you are a BLASPHEMER and will be dealt with accordingly.

Cruel and Unusual Punishments for BLASPHEMERS, lollygaggers and scullions of the Gods (Official list)

• Fired out of a circus cannon up Jimmy Carr's arse

On vexing philosophical questions

On vexing philosophical questions

"Green door - what's that secret you're keeping?" sang Welsh Elvis Shakin' Stevens.

Now, 28 years on, the secret that has perplexed both Shakin' himself and the general public at large has now been decoded by no less a mind than literature's Dan Brown.

Brown, known for his novels The Da Vinci Code, Angels and Demons and the other one which is exactly the same, has applied his fine analytical mind which has puzzled the finest scientists and problem-solvers in the world since the song hit number one way back in 1981, in a summer marked by a nuclear apocalypse that left much of Western Europe a smouldering mess of radioactive ash.

Younger readers may not have heard about this particularly difficult moment in our recent history.

Behind the Green Door, says the world-famous cryptologist and author Dan Brown, as he thought back to the time six months previously when agents of the Vatican tried to have him killed with a communion wafer laced with anti-matter, is another, slightly smaller green door.

And behind that slightly smaller green door?

"Simple," said the well-known writer and ladies' man, reflecting on enigmatic French physicist Madeleine de Frou-Frou whose knowledge of sub-atomic particles and anti-anti-matter saved him - and the planet - from certain doom, "it is The Holy Grail.

"Or a lady with huge bosoms."

On pics-or-it-didn't-happen pics

On pics-or-it-didn't-happen pics

On Saturday, I walked from one end of Weymouth to the other and back again, and some of you even gave me genuine cash money for this less-than-taxing effort.

And, as promised, here's the proof:

Hot, sweaty blogger on freezing morning wearing his EXCELLENT charity hat.

The far end of Weymouth - the less than impressive Riviera Hotel

View of the town from poor, dead Archie Mitchell's house.

"Are we nearly there yet?" "Yes. Yes we are."

"Arse."

We shall speak no more of this.

On begging for your money, again

On begging for your money, again

Hello. My name is Duck (Scary) and I am EXCELLENT.

Please - if you haven't done so already - help me raise funds for Weldmar Hospicecare on my sponsored walk through Weymouth, which is TODAY.

Free Martin Clunes posable action figure for every sponsor!*

Pictures-or-it-didn't-happen pictures to follow next week.

Clicky HERE to sponsor me.

* Posable action figure made in China, may contain lead-based paint and lethal levels of depleted uranium. Not suitable for small children, adults. Offer closes 19th October 1968

On dogs on wheels

On dogs on wheels

Hello. I am Scaryduck Junior, and I am still excellent.

The other day, I saw a dog on wheels.

Dogs on wheels are excellent because not only are they the future of road transport in these days of global warming, but when they run out of steam, they make excellent eating.

That is probably why this particular dog on wheels was tied up outside the Lucky Jasmine Chinese Takeway in town.

Dog on wheels? Meals on wheels, more like.

It's LOLs like that which prove how EXCELLENT I am.


The Duck writes:

I'm pleased to say that my teenage son Penguin Boy has joined the ranks of superheroes, having been fetched a nasty peck from a radioactive penguin on a visit to a zoo.

He can do everything a penguin does, except eat fish. And lay eggs. At least - I'm not sure about the eggs.

What colour are penguin eggs, anyway?


The Boy writes, again:

Sponsor my dad, or we'll never hear the last of this.