On Top Ten Cheese FACTS

On Top Ten Cheese FACTS

Cheese. It is excellent. Tasty, tasty fromage-flavoured excellence. And not only that, cheese also comes with FACTS which you can get out at a cheese-and-pineapple party to impress fellow guests.

Let's hear it for cheese, everybody!

10. "Biscuits for cheese", now a staple of Boxing Day buffets, started out as a minority pressure group affiliated to Al Qaeda

9. Red Leicester is dead people

8. The patron saint of cheese – and indeed cheese-makers and purveyors of dairy products – is the big guy himself, Cheesus Christ. He now makes a living from the proceeds of Cathedral City

7. When the Cheddar cheese mines were closed in the early 1980s as a result of Thatcherite cuts, locals devised an alternative recipe involving cows.

6. Staff at Ten Downing Street called the National Bullying Helpline after an enraged Gordon Brown withdrew their Dairylea allowance

5. Ever wondered where they get the wax for Edam and Gouda? The Dutch government has the EU monopoly on the recycling of used Q-Tips

4. Cheshire cheese isn't actually from Cheshire. The name derives from the Old English for "Cheese Hire", where citizens could only borrow the product from the local squire for a small fee.

3. Dodging the issue of whether the Jaffa Cake is a cake or a biscuit, the European Union has ruled that the snack is, in fact, cheese. Lovely, tasty chocolate-and-orange flavoured cheese. Conversely, so-called 'cheese' slices in burgers have been classified as footwear

2. Fondue has been listed as a weapon of mass destruction, and its continued use sees pariah state Switzerland added to the so-called Axis of Evil along with North Korea, Iran and those bastards from Tuvalu

1. Cheese-loving celebrities include: Prime Minister Gordon Brie-own; slattern-turned-novelist Babybel du Jour; Sesame Street characters Ernie and Camem-Bert; and former England goalkeeper Peter Stilton

Bonus FACT: Need proof that the moon's made of cheese? Try this one for size: "MMMOOONN" is an anagram of "OM NOM NOM" (via TV's @jasonarnopp)

On SPANG

On SPANG

A Duck (Scary) writes on Twitter: Dour, damp drive to work this morning made EXCELLENT by sight of man in dark glasses walking into a lamp post. "SPANG!"

I was shocked – SHOCKED – that my description of this event in a mere 140 characters should provoke accusations that I was mocking the partially sighted. I refute this entirely, declare that some of my best friends are fashion victims, and submit this 100 per cent truthful description of event.

That incident in full:

Another, dour, damp drive into work, nose-to-tail on the Bath Road in Reading, as The Boy Peach lambasts a local petty official on their failure to tell the truth.

Ahead, a gang of lads burst out of the council flats in a manner that defies the relatively early hour, their Scruffy Chic school uniforms topped with the Fashion Accessory Du Jour – dark, wrap-around sun glasses.

They are either the coolest thing on Earth, or a bunch of teen numpties – all depending on your point of view – as they weave between the crawling traffic to reach the other side of the road in a manner that can only be described as "swaggering".

And their leader – über-cool, über-swaggering, über-not-paying-attention-in-his-coolness went like this:

"SPANG!"

Straight into a lamp post.

I laughed. His mates laughed. We all laughed.

I drove on.

The rest of the day was crap.

On tasty, tasty meat

On tasty, tasty meat

"You really like bacon, don't you?"

"Yes. Yes I do. Can't get enough."

"In which case, for your birthday, I'm going to get you a whole cow."

"Wow."

On The Beatles. And Cake

On The Beatles. And Cake

"Wouldn't it be great," said an online pal, "If the National Trust bought Abbey Road studios?

"Especially if they add a lovely little cafe selling lovely cakes."

I concur, but they'd have to give it a decent name respecting the decades of history wrapped up in the same.

Something fitting.

Something respectful.

Something that doesn't sell out to The Man.

Something like: "Here Comes the Bun"

Or: "Mr Kipling's Lovely Jam Tarts Stand"

Or: "Happiness Is a Warm Bun"

Or: "Ticket to Pie"

I will concede that pie is not cake, but the shop will be as nothing if it did not serve a lovely Lennon Meringue.

This entire argument presumes that The Beatles are the only band of worth to have recorded at Abbey Road. In which case, we must settle for:

"Dark Side of the Macaroon"

On the Great Sausage Sandwich Question

On the Great Sausage Sandwich Question

Now, listen up. This is important.

Regular listeners to Danny Baker's Saturday Morning show on BBC Five Live will be aware that the great man asks this important question of his sporting guests, allowing listeners to judge their heroes on their tastes regarding this king of snack foods.

"When you have a sausage sandwich, which sauce do you put on it?"

There are, of course, only three valid ansers: red sauce, brown sauce, or no sauce at all.

However, it has become increasingly clear that some people have been offering alternative answers. To whit: mustard, *shudder* apple sauce and *shudders again* mayonnaise.

This is clearly a BLASPHEMY and must be stamped out forthwith.

So. In order to gauge the depth of this problem - and to help us to sort out the catering in the internment camps - we ask you the same question.



Answer wisely, for the results will be forwarded to the relevant authorities at the close of polling.

BLASPHEMERS will be dealt with accordingly, and I shall hear your pleas for mercy in the comments section.

On FAIL

On FAIL



I found a pic whilst surfing the interwebs looking for Angry People.

No angry people, but screaming out for a big, red FAIL macro.

I have no shame.

On Percy Jackson

On Harry Potter Percy Jackson

Last weekend to the flicks, to take the kids to see the Not-Harry-Potter-At-All movie Percy Jackson and The Lightning Thief, in which a child with a mysterious - and possibily magical - past finds himself befriending a know-it-all girl and a goofy lad at a school for children with similar powers, before going on a quest to solve a mystery that is threatening their way of life.

It's hardly worth condensing the thing for your amusement, so here are a few highlights:

Percy Jackson and The Lightning Thief

M. Jackson: Hello. I am M Jackson and I am excellent. Today I shall be mostly bamboozlin' the BAD GODS with my hip an' shakin' dance moves. Ow! I mean - Oh. I am dead. Over to you, my identical twin brother P. Jackson

P. Jackson: Hello. I am not H. Potter and I am excellent. Even though I live with the ...err... Dursleys, I have found out that my old dad is AN ACTUAL GREEK GOD. This is actually a bit shit.

Zeus: And you are a frickin' lightning thief, Not H. Potter. Give me back my ...err... rod

Alan Partridge: Ah-haaaa! I am Voldemort ...err... Hades, teh third best KING OF TEH UNDERWORLD. Give it to me, you terrible lightning thief.

P. Jackson: I have escaped to Hogwarts ...err... Camp Half Blood, and have met up with two people who are certainly not Ron and Hermione. And FECK ME - it's JAMES BLOODY BOND!

J. Bloody Bond: Hello. I am not Dumbledore and I am excellent You must go on a QUEST and get back Zeu's big rod

P. Jackson: Hot poop! I just cut off U. Thurman's head because she is TEH MEDUSA! Also, I have done some other stuff with the Hydra and TEH LOTUS EATERS with my magical power over water and now I must go TO HELL to battle Alan Partridge

A. Partidge: Ah-haaaaa! Oh, you have tricked me.

P. Jackson: Now to play Quidditch ...errr... fight Not Draco Malfoy over New York and get TEH ROD back to Zeus

Zeus: Nice one, cheers

P. Jackson: Now to KILL the NOT UNCLE DURSLEY completely to DEATH with the head of U. Thurman, because this film somewhat lacks a moral compass.

A. Partidge: Cashback!

The trouble is, I missed most of the film. With these new-fangled 3-D movies hitting the screen, 20th Century Fox has come up with the ploy of allowing the God-like powers of the characters extend out from the screen. And thus, young P. Jackson's power over water had me in the gents at least three times during the two hour running time.

Good thing it wasn't about Vomitus, the Greek God of Hedges.

On internet lunatics (and how to avoid them)

On internet lunatics (and how to avoid them)

I remember a time when only grown-ups and people with jobs were allowed on the internet.

This was, admittedly, back in the day when most accessed the net through their work network, so it's hardly as if you needed an exam to get online.

Now, thanks to dirt cheap broadband, which, I gather is even being given away free to the kind of person who has a certificate that lets them sit at home and watch re-runs of Jeremy Kyle on ITV2, everybody and their dog's on the internet.

And frankly, to employ an overused phrase: There goes the neighbourhood.

Tragically, they're everywhere now. There was probably a time (the morning of its launch, I should imagine) that the BBC Have Your Say forum was a bastion of informed debate and opinion forming. These days, even the Guardian's comment sections are full of belming Nazis with little or not personal skills.

So, how – as a fellow internet snob – does one identify and avoid these people? Here are a few pointers:

- ALL CAPS AND NO PUNCTUATION EXCEPT FOR MULTIPLE COMMAS AS AN INDICATION THAT THEY ARE DRAWING BREATH,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

- The words "Gordon Clown's ZaNu LieBore" used at the drop of a hat

- "The BNP are a legitimate political party"

- "CUT OFF PEADOS HANDS,,,,,," but "SAY NO TO MUSLUM SHARIAH LAW,,,,,,"

- The inability to read a news item without commenting. Even if the comment is "WHO CARES,,,,"

- The inability to read a news item without passing damning judgement on the participants. Especially if they are a woman, a civil servant or council officer, the victim of crime or of a different ethnic group. Perm any two from the above and they actually spuff on the keyboard

- SIMPLES!!!,,,

The only solution, of course, is to kidnap Tim Berners-Lee and shine a light into his face until he invents a new internet for clever people*. His fault.

* Or, write a smug blog post about it. Either way's a big WIN

On Snuggies

On Snuggies

"So Mr Duck - what you're telling us is this," said the Inspector from the other side of the interview table, "You say you were relaxing at home, wearing matching items of clothing that are known as ...err... Snuggies."

"That's right," I reply, "Snuggies. The blanket with sleeves that thinks it's a dressing gown. Matching set. All black."

"You were - according to the statement you've given us - opening several sacks of fan mail using your ceremonial letter opener."

"That is correct. Although, to be brutally honest, it's more of a bayonet."

"Quite. Quite. Meanwhile, your fragrant wife - who we have in the cells - was reading aloud from her Open University course book on Applied Witchcraft and Cultism."

"Magic, that woman. Magic."

"While your children - also clad in matching Snuggies..."

"Matching Snuggies - The blanket with sleeves that thinks it's a dressing gown."

"Yes. We know. Matching Snuggies - were doing what you maintain was their school homework, having just had an accident with a catering-size tube of red poster paint and a jar of pickled beetroot."

Let the record show that the interviewee nods his head to show agreement.

"And you tell us that the reason The Beatles Sgt Pepper album was playing backwards was due to a technical fault with the CD player."

"Made in China."

"...and the huge dripping black candles were the result of an earlier power cut."

"Also made in China."

"That being the exact moment WPC Beadle - who was, up until that moment both a virgin and very much alive - knocked at your door selling tickets for the Secret Policeman's Ball."

"Look Officer - It's not as bad as it seems..."

On Bad Karma

On Bad Karma

The Silver Hornet – the Renault Scenic of DOOM – rolled along the Bath Road in Reading, its sole occupant lulled into a false sense of security by the dulcet Walsall tones of The Boy Peach on BBC Berkshire.

With no warning, I was ripped from my reverie by a car darting out of a side-road without so much as a by-your-leave-good-sir, a demented grimace on the driver's face, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Then, with equal lack of warning, he slammed on his brakes, leapt out of the car and started remonstrating loudly with a group of schoolkids trying to cross the road. I dare say that fire and brimstone would have sparked from his fingers given half a chance; while I could not help but notice that his front seat passenger had already adopted the position known as the "facepalm".

I was so cross – dear reader – that I almost said something.

And then, his rant complete and the rough-kids-from-the-flats already showing him the middle finger, he jumped back into his car, performed a bizarre U-turn in the face of oncoming traffic and screeched to a halt under the Eight-Spoked Wheel of Dharma of Reading Buddhist Centre.

And so to work.

If I believed in such a thing, I hope he comes back as a slug.

On genuine scientific enquiry

Dear The British Medical Journal

Please find a copy of our research paper "Quantative measurement of madness in female subjects over the age of 35" for peer review and publication, the findings of which are summarized below.

My colleagues and I at the Scaryduck Institute realised there was a need for such a study whilst attending a conference several months ago. Our deliberations on the vexed subject of how many promotional ballpoint pens you could fit in one's mouth before choking were disturbed by the arrival of a female delegate of a certain age on the podium to deliver a presentation on a subject we have already forgotten.

"Stand up!" she ordered of we few delegates still awake from the post-lunch torpor, and forced us to go through what can only be described as a demented aerobics routine while something dreadfully akin to The Birdie Song thumped out of the PA system.

As we jerked around in our second-best suits like Thunderbirds puppets, my neighbour turned to me asked the question that is the nub of this very branch of scientific research: "How many cats do you reckon she's got?" and a research grant application was in the post before end of business that very day.

Further research at a number of hotel "Grab a Granny" nights – funded by a direct grant from HM Government, which allowed us direct and intimate access to a social group known as "Cougars" – proved a direct correlation between marital status, age, mental stability and the number of cats. Some of our research fellows, we would point out, are lucky to be alive.

To whit: Our fellow conference delegate was what we would call "a four-cat lunatic", and smelled of cat wee. My colleagues have postulated that she could be a six-catter and a danger to shipping.

[We are obliged to mention – at this point – similar, unfunded research by Crookstein et al at the University of Lady Stuff which shows that old, single gentlemen smell of their own wee.]

Our study has allowed us to design a scale which measures madness and unpredictable behaviour in the single MILF / GILF / Cougar social groups in relation to the number of feline pets in the household. We call it Boyle's Law:

0-2 cats: Normal
3-4 cats: Author of the best-selling non-fiction book "Domestic Rabbits – A Chef's Guide"
4-20 cats: Barking
20 or more cats: SuBo

We commend our study to the medical profession, and can heartily recommend a number of over-thirties discos for peer review, whilst warning fellow researchers of the need for a current tetanus inoculation.

Your pal

Dr Albert Judas O'Balsam, B.Sc (Hons), Dip Pol, Cert Soc Sci, SSC

On Zombie Dave

On Zombie Dave

Here's the latest poster from our future Lords and Masters at Conservative Central Office.

It's uncanny - you can hardly tell he's been airbrushed at all.

More HERE

Another Megan Washington post

Another Megan Washington post

A couple more vids from our favourite insanely talented, dwarf-fondling, Aussie singer-songwriter Megan Washington. If she isn't world famous very, very soon, I'm going to have to go out and give Chris Moyles a nipple-gripple by way of wreaking awful vengeance.

I may just do that anyway.

Washington – How to tame lions



Washington – Cement (Live) - contains fuckin' traces of fuckin' swears



Washington – Someone else in mind (Live) - Stick with this one through all the shenanigans at the beginning. This is the most awesome thing in the whole world, and in that definition I include free vending machine chocolate



That is all.

On vintage sweet shops

On vintage sweet shops

Sherbert Dips

Black Jacks

A bag of cough candy

Sweet cigarettes

But, you know - sod the lot of them, for there is only one vintage confectionary of choice.

I refer, of course, to the one and only Licorice Imps.

"You what?"

You've never had them, have you? Licorice Imps are tiny, tiny black squares of condensed malevolence with the ability to kill at two hundred yards.

Just one or two for the unitiated who have them dashing for several gallons of water to douse the flames, followed by hours of red-hot hell at the urinal.

Of course, they only had one use for the teenager who just just graduated from sucking on a good, hard Fisherman's Friend: A playground "Who's hardest?" contest.

We would meet by the metal horse, packs of Imps in hand. Then, on the signal, they would be stuffed into mouths, and the screaming would begin.

Closely followed by projectile vomiting of hideous black sick inna hedge.

Happy, happy days.

Condensed Movies: Angels and Demons

Condensed Movies: Angels and Demons

Accidentally finding myself in front of Dan Brown's latest, I realised I haven't done a condensed movie for ages. Here it is, then, reduced down to the easy-to-understand language of today's youth. And a computer language that only old people willl understand.

Plot accuracy, continuity and decent grammar, as always, not entirely guaranteed.

ANGLES and Demons

Teh Pope: Hello. I am the FECKING POPE and I am excellent. I hope I don't die in this film, that would be complete FAIL. Oh

Scientist Bird: Hello. I am Scientist Bird and I am excellent. I hope somebody doesn't steal my secret stash of FECKING ANTI-MATTER and use it to blow up THE FECKING VATICAN or something. Oh

F. Gump: Hello. I am F. Gump and I am excellent. You might remember me from such films as Toy Story and Bachelor Party. I hope nobody spoils my excellent day off and drag me to Italy by magic continuity-busting hypersonic jet to solve the mysterious disappearance of some FECKING ANTI-MATTER that is being used to blow up THE FECKING VATICAN. Oh

Two minutes later

F. Gump: Fuck me rigid. I'm in THE FECKING VATICAN already

Obi-Wan Kenobi: Hello. I am O. Kenobi and I am excellent. Also, I am technically THE FECKING POPE and not in any way evil at all *waves hand mysteriously*

F. Gump: You are not evil in any way at all

O. Kenobi: Jedi mind-tricks - for the WIN. By the way - no reason for telling you this at all, for it has no apparant bearing on future events - did I ever tell you I was a) adopted by the man who was until very recently THE FECKING POPE and b) a fully trained helicopter pilot?

F. Gump: No. You did not, and I have forgotten this information already, and I suggest that the cinema audience does the same, for it has no bearing whatsoever on the end of the film

Vatican Cop Bloke: I hate you F. Gump, but you have to find our kidnapped God Botherers before they get killed TO DEATH by TEH FECKING ILLUMINATI and stop THE FECKING VATICAN getting blown to pieces by solving a number of ridiculously simple puzzles. All before midnight.

F. Gump: No pressure, then

Scientist Bird: I will come with you to be the audience's representative in the drama and ask stupid questions as you arrive seconds too late to rescue the poor, dead God Botherers.

F. Gump: Yes. I have already solved the first ridiculously easy puzzle based on the elements Earth, Wind, Fire and The Other One.

Vatican Cop Bloke: I shall immediately arrest anyone who so much as hums Boogie Wonderland.

F. Gump: What's this? Looks like a clue

10 FOR A=1 to 4 STEP 1
20 INPUT "Which church would you like to go to?" CHURCH$
30 GOTO CHURCH A
40 IF godbotherer$="DEAD" PRINT "Tough luck, you arrived at" CHURCH$ "too late to save THE GOD BOTHERER. Try again."
50 NEXT A
60 PRINT "Sorry. We have blown up THE FECKING VATICAN"
70 END

F. Gump: COCK

Scientist Bird: That's it. We might as well blow up THE FECKING VATICAN ourselves.

F. Gump: Ahhahahahah. There's hope - he hasn't defined godbother$ or a database for the value of CHURCH. I AM EXCELLENT and THE BASIC KING

Assassin: ARSE. But I shall still get away scot free, unless the people paying me pots of money have hidden a bomb under my car. Oh

F. Gump: LOLOL

Scientist Bird: LOLOLOLOL

F.Gump: But we must get back to THE FECKING VATICAN before they blow up all of TEH FECKING CARDINALS before they get to elect a new FECKING POPE

Vatican Cop Bloke: Wait...what? You're supposed to be dead.

F. Gump: Pardon?

Vatican Cop Bloke: Err... Nothing. *Legs it*

F. Gump: I bet if I look in a secret compartment in his desk I can find where the FECKING ANTI-MATTER is hidden by solving a ridiculously easy clue

*click*

F. Gump: Yes. The FECKING ANTI-MATTER is hidden in the tomb of St Paul *facepalm*

Scientist Bird: And it is too late to switch it off. I notice there is a helicopter outside - if only there was a trained pilot nearby who could fly it to safety and jumped back to earth in a parachute - a device which is not routinely carried in helicopters on account of the danger of leaping into flailing rotors.

O. Kenobi: Yes. Yes. If only. And there. I have flown it to safety and jumped back to earth in a parachute - a device which is not routinely carried in helicopters on account of the danger of leaping into flailing rotors. And not to get myself declared Pope despite all them murders I done. Whoops. Too late for a Jedi mind trick?

F. Gump: Wait... FECK ME - You ARE evil

O. Kenobi: Yoinks! *runs away*

[This bit was omitted from the film, but Dan Brown was good enough to actually publish the Star Wars ending in the book]

O. Kenobi: But... but...I never killed THE FECKING POPE. THE FECKING POPE knew my father

TEH CARDINALS: THE FECKING POPE *was* your father

O. Kenobi: ONOZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! *kills himself*

F. Gump: Priests, eh?

TEH CARDINALS: And after that little scrape, we have decided to elect someone who is worthy to hold the office of Pope and Bishop of Rome. Habemus Papam!

Wee Jimmy Krankie: FANDABIDOZI!

On words that make you want to commit murder

On words that make you want to commit murder


1. "UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA"

The supermarket sliding doors open, and a breath of air rustles over the self-service till. As one, all four customers roll their eyes and wait for the assistant to address their non-functioning scanner with the "You're a spacker" swipe card.

You are a prisoner of technology, and the machines have decided that you are an unworthy example of humanity, turning on their fleshy masters in the only way they know how.

"UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA"

Enraged, you grab the nearest item to hand – a pot of value brand coleslaw from the "Reduced to Clear" shelf, and pour it into the loose change slot.

You are carted away in a police van, despite being feted as a hero by the shopping proletariat masses, a Facebook campaign page for your release already having a massive six members, and your partially eaten French stick returned to the shelves.

And there, in your police cell, a figure comes out of the shadows, and you realise – with some horror – that you are not alone.

"UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA"

On being somebody else's problem

On being somebody else's problem

So, what's your superpower?

Up until recently, I thought I had the power of invisibility.

I can walk into any crowded room, such as a business conference or a party, and not a soul will pay me the slightest bit of notice.

At first, I put this down to the fact that I am – in social situations, a little awkward and a boring bastard. But I slowly came to the conclusion they could not see me at all, and my presence is only felt should I speak loud enough, or crap in the punch bowl.

But I was wrong. I possess a fully-functioning somebody else's problem field. As poor, dead Douglas Adams explains:

An SEP is something we can't see, or don't see, or our brain doesn't let us see, because we think that it's somebody else's problem.... The brain just edits it out, it's like a blind spot. If you look at it directly you won't see it unless you know precisely what it is. Your only hope is to catch it by surprise out of the corner of your eye.

The technology required to actually make something invisible is so complex and unreliable that it isn't worth the bother. The "Somebody Else's Problem field" is much simpler and more effective, and "can be run for over a hundred years on a single torch battery."

This is because it relies on people's natural predisposition not to see anything they don't want to, weren't expecting, or can't explain.

I realised that this was the case when I was taken hostage by armed goons recently.

Yeah, that got your attention.

To be honest, I was on a course with a number of media workers, being trained in what to do in hostile situations (ie run away). When running away fails, there is a lesson in Being A Good Hostage And Not Getting Yourself Killed To Death.

Essentially, you are taken hostage by a bunch of armed goons and kept in a hut somewhere near Basingstoke. There, you are forced, along with a dozen or so comrades, to kneel on the floor and not get yourself killed to death.

For two hours I knelt there, as my pals were dragged out, shot and taken home to matron for a nice cup of tea. It was only as the last gunshot was heard, the leader came up to me in the middle of the floor, tripped over my ankles and damned my hide for "not seeing you there".

I had simply escaped the attention of ten heavily-armed former Special Forces goons. For two hours.

I'll say this for the alternate dimension into which the Someone Else's Problem field thrusts me: It's bloody boring.

On conquering your nerves

On conquering your nerves

Another day, another departmental heads-together. Sad to say, I was arm-twisted into taking the minutes, of which the following is an accurate representation of events*.

"What... what are you doing?"

"Just a little tip my life coach taught me about speaking with confidence in meetings."

"Yes – and...?

"He told me – and you'll laugh – that the best way to conquer my nerves is to imagine that everybody in the room is naked."

"Right. OK. I can see how that can be effective. But that doesn't explain..."

"... so I'm imagining you naked. Turn to the right a bit. Alright."

"You disgust me."

"Has anyone got a tissue? A box of tissues?"

* May not be an accurate representation of events

I am 8

I am 8

Stone the crows, I've been writing this crap for eight years. EIGHT!

*cough* Birthday next week *cough*

On Osama Bin Laden listening for a change

On Osama Bin Laden listening for a change

Time and time again I've told my old Arsenal pal Osama Bin Laden to tone things down a bit and change the bloody record. We're sick, we've told him, sick to the back teeth of endless Holy War in his cave-o-gram messages. Jihad, Jihad, Jihad – BOR-ING!

And at last, he's paid attention – his latest message dumping the whole "Death to the Infidel" thing in favour of a rather fluffier "Save the planet from global warming because we think polar bears are ace" motif.

We can't help but suspect that this whole going green thing might just be a huge double bluff of Osama's part.

"Ah-ha!" our governments are thinking, "Osama wants us to save the planet through drastic cuts in our carbon dioxide output and turning to sustainable development.

"We must – therefore – do exactly the opposite."

Of course, given carte blanche to continue the rape of our environment, it will not be long before the poor, down-trodden citizens of the so-called Third World rise against the greedy infidel capitalists of the West, leading to the Endless Holy War that Bin Laden craves.

And you think we don't know your little "Is it just me or is this cave getting warmer?" game, eh Osama?

Just wait until the ice caps melt, your cave floods and you are completely drowned TO DEATH. Or ripped apart by homeless, starving polar bears. Or both. I, for one, will laugh my tits completely off.

Checkmate.

On helping old ladies cross the road

On helping old ladies cross the road

You never see Boy Scouts helping old ladies across the road these days.

It's not that they don't want to - it's the NuLab Politically Correct Do-Gooder Brigade that won't let them, in case a frail pensioner accidentally falls into the relentlessly flailing machinery of a passing snow-blower and sues the Scots* back to the Stone Age.

In the words of Tomorrow's World: "That is, until now."

Like the Scouts, I have "Been Prepared" and have personally addressed the problem of flocks of pensioners stranded on the wrong side of the road, so near yet so far from their part-time job at the local pole-dancing club. As a cleaner.

*FOOM!*

*THONK!*

The satisfying sound of the Scaryduck Labs air-powered granny-cannon, lobbing senior citizens over roaring traffic, landing happily on a Scaryduck Labs mattress, cunningly stolen from Weymouth tip and place on the pavement opposite this mighty weapon.

I'll be the first to admit that the testing of the guidance system didn't go as well as hoped; but despite the hoo-hah kicked up by the local press all of my brave testers were buried under quicklime with full honours.

Now that this rigorous testing process is complete, we are able to place a Mark 27 Granny Cannon on every street corner and the Scout movement will be able to close down at last.

Next Week - Disbanding and disarming the Boys Brigade: A Global Problem

* Also: The Scouts. Who needs one of these new-fangled "spellcheckers"?

Great Lost Albums of the 2000s

Great Lost Albums of the 2000s


The High Fidelity - The Omnichord Album

"Really quite good" - Duck (Scary)
"It sounds just like an ice cream van" - Mrs Duck (Scary)
"Yes. Yes it does. Is that a crime?" - Duck (Scary)

Rising from the ashes of 90s baggy outfit The Soup Dragons came Glasgow's High Fidelity.

Rather than being just another guitar band, they experimented with other influences with varying success (and Unsorry is an undoubted triumph), turning the head of poor, dead musical god John Peel.

Sean Dickson laid his hands on an Omnichord, a frankly strange piece of electronic music-making that is part keyboard, part guitar, part accordian and exactly 23% of the moving parts from an ice cream van.

With some input from Peel himself, they went out and laid down their second album, comprising Omniture-based tunes.

The result - 2001's The Omniture Album - was a mix of uplifting pop, beautiful haunting ballads, downright weirdness and 23% of the moving parts from an ice cream van.

This is the opening track: Scream if You Want to Go Faster


And, as such, I love it do death, and don't care what others think.

More stuff: Sean Dickson on YouTube.

On Autism

On Autism

I'm autistic.

I have autism.

I have a condition that has blessed me with special autistic superpowers, just like that Dustin Hoffman.

For eg:

- I can recite pi to one decimal place

- I have a gift for artistic expression, as the picture on the left proves

- I am an excellent driver

- If I don't get home in time to watch EastEnders, I get a little miffed and will watch it on BBC iPlayer, if I've got the time

To be perfectly honest, being autistic isn't all outstanding mental prowess and the reading of unguarded minds for fun and profit. In fact, it's a bit shit. I'm a journalist with Asperger's, for the love of Dog.

This - as you'd imagine - makes the whole "Would you like to give an interview?" concept a little difficult. Especially when the journo is hiding behind the sofa in the press room. It doesn't matter in the long run, mind you. I getting everything I need from the interviewee with the special autistic mental probe.

I am perfectly normal. Doesn't everybody arrange their bookcase in ascending order of the number of words?

I've also got a plastic hand with a built-in ray-gun. No, hang on. That's Autons.

On there being an App for that

On there being an App for that

Here at Scaryduck Labs, we're always trying to stay on the cutting edge of technology in the doomed hope of being millionaires this time next year, Rodders.

And this year, it's the advance of the smart phone, with the ability to download any number of useful applications to help users improve their everyday lives.

Granted, the iPhone Apps market is dominated by far too many farts and cowbells which threaten to down unfortunate users in a tide of mediocrity; but this has spurred us on to create useful Apps that will benefit both the phone owner and the world in general. And make us extremely rich, obviously.

- Unwell? Drunk too much? Kingsize doner kebab fighting its way out? There's an App for that - The Scaryduck Labs Hedge Finder. Containing details of every hedgerow on the planet - download this application and be sick in a hedge with confidence

- Worried about an impending attack by Indonesian Al-Qaeda-linked terror group the Moro Islamic Liberation Front? There's an App for that - The Scaryduck Labs MILF Alert. May not work as anticipated

- Need to insult somebody, yet maintain the moral high ground? There's an App for that - The Scaryduck Labs Shakespearean Insult Generator. Comes loaded with up to three examples of The Bard's shining wit: "Thou art a coont", "Thou art a fuckynge coont" and "Fuckynge fuckynge fucke offe ye fuckynge coont."

- Memory loss? There's an App for that. Never forget your shoe size with The Scaryduck Labs Shoe Size Reminder. Available in size nine only

- Need to make a phone call? There's an App for that - Add The Scaryduck Labs Public Phone Box Locator to your iPhone and never be out of contact!

This time next year, Rodders...