Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Delphic - Counterpoint

On life not being entirely fair

On life not being entirely fair

Way back in the 1990s, and being the proud new father, I took the baby Scaryduckling into work to say hello to my colleagues.

I sat her down on the console in the studio so she could watch the TV screens and blinking lights, but soon her look of awe changed into a completely different expression altogether.

Her face screwed up into a little ball, and it became apparant that the little lady was doing a poo on tens of thousands of pounds worth of very expensive gear, much to the amusement of my workmates.

No damage done, but I whisked the smelly little parcel away and she never went into my place of work EVER AGAIN.

And now, fifteen years on, my little baby has grown into a confident young woman starting off in her first paying job in a shop in Weymouth.

But should I walk in there and done a poo of the counter, instead of the hearty laughter of her colleagues, I'd almost certainly end up with an ASBO.

Where - I ask - is the justice?

On Swans

On Swans

In the name of SCIENCE I ask this question:

Has anybody actually had their arm broken by a single flap of a swan's wing?

Or it this simply black propaganda put about by angry geese to get the heat off?

FACT: Early drafts of Tchaikovsky's classic ballet "Swan Lake" where called "Angry Goose Rampage", until an assault by "unknown hissing, flapping thugs who fetched me a nasty peck" forced the Russian composer to change the title. "Also, cheaper car insurance and compare waterfowl."

The Fragrant Mrs Duck once had her arm swallowed by a goose. Goose bites can be very nasty, you know.

OWL

OWL

Done an owl.

Completely unrelated FACT! Dick van Dyke is to relocate his successful medical murder mystery drama to Dublin to take advantage of generous tax breaks. The new programme is to be called Diagnosis: Murphy.

SOCKS AND SANDALS

SOCKS AND SANDALS

Yet another departmental meeting

"And the first item on the agenda, ladies and gentlemen, is the most pressing issue affecting the image of this organisation.

"Despite the repeated warnings on numerous occasions, I can count no less than three of you wearing socks and sandals in this meeting room alone."

Guilty looks, shuffling feet.

"Now, I am a forgiving sort of person. I notice that two of you have tried to hide your filthy habit with long trousers and socks the same colour as your footwear.

"Consider yourselves on duble secret probation."

A tremulous finger points to a quivering individual at the back of the room.

"And as for you..."

Brown sandals.

Red socks.

Three-quarter-length khaki cargo trousers.

Two inches of skinny white leg.

Time stands still.

*SPANG!*

"Thank you, for your intervention, Miss White.

"Now, as I said, there are two of you wearing socks and sandals in this room alone. Let us move onto the next item of the agenda with that warning ringing in your ears... "

The Sausage Sandwich Debate: Where do our national leaders stand?

The Sausage Sandwich Debate: Where do our national leaders stand?

Several months ago, in an effort to wipe BLASPHEMY from the face of the Earth, I asked the all-important question:

"When you have a sausage sandwich, do you have red sauce, brown sauce or no sauce at all?"

As we know, all right-thinking people take red sauce on their sausage sandwiches, while northerners and the kind of person who listens to Talk Sport might go for brown. There remains - alas - a small hard core who still commit the BLASPHEMIC CRIME of other sauces such as mustard or apple sauce, for which there is a special Hell populated by accordian players.

But now we address the wishy-washy, indecisive types that have No Sauce At All. What are they thinking of, I ask? And I am entirely sure that the answer is this : NOTHING.

On his recent trip to the United States of America, Prime Minister David Cameron was taken to a hot dog stand in New York by mayor Michael Bloomberg. While Bloomberg showed by the War on Terror is lost by selecting mustard, it is Cameron's choice that is most worrisome: NO SAUCE AT ALL.

Is this the kind of person who we want running our country? Do we want a NO SAUCE AT ALL with his finger hovering over the nuclear button? Do we want NO SAUCE AT ALL in charge of our economy? No, we do not. MAKE YOUR MIND UP, DAVE.

We asked the office of Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg where he stands on the whole sausage sandwich debate. "What sauce does Clegg take on his sausage sandwich?" we asked Whitehall mandarins. Alas, Nick has gone all Manchurian Candidate on us: "Whatever the Prime Minister says". DOOM.

The Labour Party, in the interests of balance, asked if there was a vegetarian option.

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Mystery Jets - Dreaming of Another World

Going against all the evidence, I quite like this lot. Sorry.

On the menace of 80s pop music

"Dear The Dorset Echo", a citizen of my home town writes, in a plea to start a cull of troublesome sea birds:

A seagull dive-bombs me every time I go outside as it has a nest in a neighbour’s garden.

A group of seagulls rip all my rubbish bags open while waiting for them to be collected, leaving my rubbish all over the road for everyone to see.

A flock of seagulls mistake my car for a toilet on a regular basis.

Why oh why oh why etc...

Of course, like a red rag to a bull, I cannot resist:

Dear The Dorset Echo,

I'm sorry to hear that one of your readers has regular problems with A Flock of Seagulls mistaking his car for a toilet.

Only last week, I caught the miserable one from Tears For Tears wiping his arse on my front doormat.

Then, I had to turn the hose on Orchestral Maneouvres in the Dark after they left a floater in my fish pond, before running amok at the Pirate Crazy Golf course on the seafront with Adam Ant.

And on the way back from the Old Castle the other night, I spotted a young lady in the gutter, rather the worse for wear from drink, bowking rich, brown vomit into a drain.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said chivalrously, "Can I possibly be of any assistance?"

She turned her head toward me to reveal that she was no lady, but the hairy one from 80s pop icons Kajagoogoo, utterly in his cups, tunelessly singing "Too Shy".

Then he used my car as a toilet. Utter disgrace.

When will this New Romantic terror end?

Be lucky.

Albert O'Balsam, Wyke Regis

You know, I really don't think they're going to publish this one.

The Burden of my Name

The Burden of my Name

I'm an Alistair. For this, I blame the parents.

Because of this, much of my life has been blighted by three words.

"Where's Crystal Tipps?"

So I tell them.

She grew up, wore shorter and shorter miniskirts, changed her name to Crystal Meth, and the rest is far too tragic to tell.

Luckily, once this song came out, the heat was off me and right onto my brother.

Red Hot Transvestite Encounter

Red Hot Transvestite Encounter

A short tale recounting a recent lunch-time encounter in the Emmer Green branch of Budgens, told in thirty-two words, with a title cunningly designed to attract manky people from Google

Lunch break.

Supermarket.

'Reduced to clear' shelf.

Six foot bad transvestite.

Flowers in her hair.

Know that face.

Not David Walliams.

Awful moment of recognition.

Winked at me.

Meek hello.

Fled.

End.

Condensed Movies: The Karate Kid (2010)

Condensed Movies: The Karate Kid (2010)

Last night to the flicks, for a preview screening of the Jackie Chan Karate Kid remake, in which I make the following observations:

1. It is, perhaps, the least accurately titled movie of all time, being, as it is, a film about Kung Fu
2. It's far too long, and takes over an hour before said Kung Fu kid even gets a sniff of the martial arts
3. Jackie Chan only gets involved in one fight, in which he beats up some kids. Way to go, Jackie!
4. Completely forgets the story's heritage - it's as if the original Alan Bennett version, The Ecky Thump Kid, a dour northern kitchen sink drama first screened as a BBC Play For Today in 1978, never happened

At last, we are able to put this glaring omission right, as we present in exactly 558 words:

The Karate ..err.. Kung Fu Ecky Thump Kid by Alan Bennett

Karate Kid: Hello, I am the Karate Kid and I am excellent. Today, I shall be happily living in Blackburn in Lancashire, where my mother works at the pie factory

Karate Kid's Mum: In fact, today we will be mostly moving house to Leeds in the Peopl'e Republic of Yorkshire, where the pie factory have sent me to work at another pie factory

Karate Kid: NOOOOOOOOOO! Yorkshire's, like, another country. NOOOOOO!!!! Oh, hang on, what's this beautiful vision I see before me

Hetty Bickerstaffe: By 'eck, I'm practising me tuba so I can audition for t'brass band. Then my family will be able to afford to eat. PAAAARP! TROMMMP! BLOOOOOOP!

Karate Kid: I think I'm in love

Chadwick: Hey! You! You're from Lancashire, aren't you? Leave our Yorkshire lasses alone

Karate Kid: Oh yeah? Want to fight over it?

Chadwick: Ecky THUMP!

Karate Kid: Ouch, that really smarts. In fact, it is now several hours later, and I have only just regained consciousness, where I find myself alone, naked and smelling of black pudding. Also, a ferret has eaten one of my toes.

Jack Chanersdike: By 'eck! If you want to beat Chadwick and win the love and respect of the lovely Hetty Bickerstaffe, you'd do reet good by learning the ancient Yorkshire martial art of Ecky Thump

Karate Kid: Will you teach me the ancient Yorkshire martial art of Ecky Thump so I can beat Chadwick and win the love and respect of the lovely Hetty Bickerstaffe?

Jack Chanersdike: Yes. Yes I can. But first, you must paint this fence

Karate Kid: Is this so I can gain some deeper understanding of the disciplines of the martial arts through the sweat and drudgery of hard labour?

Jack Chanersdike: No, if you don't get it done by teatime, I'll break your legs. Also, I am haunted by a secret family tragedy of which I NEVER SPEAK. Apart from just now, obviously

Karate Kid: Yes, Master Chanersdike

Jack Chanersdike: Now excuse me while I beat up these kids. Ecky THUMP!

The Kids: You bastard! We're calling Childline

Some time later...

Karate Kid: Master Chanersdike - how much longer must I have these ferrets down my trousers?

Jack Chanersdike: It's ...err... an important part of your learning. Do not question the ways of Ecky Thump

Karate Kid: Also, I've got that takeaway curry and six pack of cheapest lager, just as you requested, Master Chanersdike

Jack Chanersdike: Aye lad, just stick it on t'pile with all t'others

Karate Kid: I was also wondering when you'd teach me some proper Ecky Thump. The big tournament's tomorrow

Jack Chanersdike: Nowt to worry about, lad. As soon as you put on t'flat cap, it'll all come naturally. Now, be a good lad and take t'whippet for a walk to t'canal, and tell me if the pigeons are back yet

The next day:

Jack Chanersdike: Now, get out there lad and help me bury the family tragedy of which I NEVER SPEAK.

Karate Kid: Yes, master. I have my black pudding ready to go. That evil cur Chadwick won't know what hit him.

Chadwick: Ecky THUMP!

Karate Kid: Ecky THUMP!

Chadwick: Ecky THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

Hetty Bickerstaffe: I think he's dead, and I can never love another

Chadwick: Fancy coming round my place for some mushy peas?

Hetty Bickerstaffe: PAAAARP! TROMMMP! BLOOOOOOP!

A Brazen Attempt to get free Domino's Pizza

A Brazen Attempt to get free Domino's Pizza

Let's get my cards on the table: I like Domino's Pizza. If there were one company on this Earth that might contribute to my early death, it would be them. But I would go with a lovely barbecue-sauce-and-mozarella-flavoured smile on my face.

I thought, then, it was time to write to the local press in Weymouth and shower them with praise. May contain traces of fiction.

Dear The Dorset Echo

Recent letters to your publication have - quite wrongly, in my estimation - decried the lack of welcome and customer service in our seaside town. Let me tell you, then, a tale that tells quite the opposite, and shows humanity is alive and well in Weymouth.

Last week, for bizarre reasons involving a pack of feral cats and an ineptly-installed mail order security system, I found myself trapped inside my own home for two days.

Luckily, on the second day, my paycheck cleared in the bank and I was able to call Domino's Pizza in Weymouth and place an order to alleviate the pangs of hunger running through my cat-ravished body. Within thirty minutes, a van appeared outside my house, and the kindly delivery man rose above-and-beyond the call of duty by posting my tasty, tasty Domino's Meateor with extra bar-b-q sauce through my letterbox, with only minor damage to my meatballs.

Once my raging hunger had been sated, my Domino's rescuer pointed out an open window in my loft room, and suggested I might try to escape my domestic prison via that means of egress. This I did, our hero breaking my thirty-foot headlong fall, suffering what can only be described as horrific injuries to his head, neck, back and legs as the street echoed with the hollow sound of cranium against shattered cranium.

Then I was sick in a hedge.

Luckily for your readers, I managed to take a photograph of what I saw as I plummeted to Earth, which acts a reminder on what one should do if finding yourself in a similar situation (viz: Remember to land on a pizza delivery man).

Picking ourselves up, the gentlemen even went so far as to refuse my tip (A post-it note bearing the words "Never eat yellow snow"), preferring to limp back to his car, dragging his useless, shattered left leg behind him, and returning to his duties.

After this episode, in which I spent a further 72 hours huddled and bleeding in my shed, living off rain water and the various helpless rodents tempted in by cold, hardened, tasty, tasty mozzarella left in the bottom of my Domino's pizza box, I defy anyone to say that customer service is dying in our town.

Be lucky.

Albert O'Balsam, Wyke Regis

I can almost taste that raw mouse pizza now. Om nom nom nom.

Not a real letter? Oh yes it is

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Flaming Lips - Do you realize??

On getting physical

On getting physical

The Fragrant Mrs Duck returns from her weekly aerobics class, and - to put it mildly - she's not in the best of moods.

"I have never," she storms, "I have never been so humiliated in my life."

"Oh?" I ask, reluctantly hitting pause on the Sky Plus box, for life is not worth living if I try to multi-task in this sort of circumstance.

"I forgot my sports kit," she fumed. "I forgot my sports kit, and they made me do the lesson in my vest and pants."

I am shocked.

"I'm shocked."

Not to mention stunned.

"I am also stunned."

"And do you know the worst bit? Do you? DO YOU?"

Let me guess...

"Let me guess. They wouldn't let you get something out of the lost property box."

"No lost property box. And don't you DARE stick this on your blog."

"I promise."

GEEK JOKES

GEEK JOKES

The boy Scaryduck Junior and I are at war.

A War of Geek Jokes. And there is only one way (apart from actual fighting in the street outside) to settle this: An on-blog face-off.

Which, then, is better?

Me:

A proton goes up to his father.

"Dad?" he asks, "Am I really a proton?"

"Yes son, of course you are. I'm a proton, your mother's a proton, and we had you – our son – also a proton."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, son, I'm positive."

The boy:

"I never knew atoms had mass. In fact, I didn't even know they were religious."

Which? WHICH? VOTE ME UP.

On Stephen Fry

On Stephen Fry

FACT: Stephen Fry is such the complete method actor that he spends the three weeks before recording his voiceover for the Direct Line adverts living the life of a telephone.

During this period, the Greatest Living Englishman can often be seen standing outside Kings Cross station, plastered in postcards advertising personal services. He will only respond if you put 10p in his slot, or reverse the charges.

War. What is it good for?

War. What is it good for?

"War," said Edwin Starr on the electric radio, "Huh! What is is good for?"

And we all know the answer to that one: The military-industrial complex, right kids?

"War," said the boy Scaryduck Junior, "is not about who's right. It's about who's left."

"That's, like," I reply, "That's like, really, like, deep."

"I haven't finished," he said.

"War is not about who's right. It's about who's left-handed."

"That is also, like, really, like, deep."

HOW TO COMPLAIN

HOW TO COMPLAIN

First, a bit of back-story. I hired a car from [Useless Workshy Car Rental Company], and it was RUBBISH. During the week I had it, I had smoke billowing from under the bonnet, and the brakes failed on me, and I drove around the south of England in a jelly-mould with only three hub caps.

Sadly, my letter of complaint only drew a half-arsed technical explanation from a chap we shall call Simon, with the offer of ten per cent off my NEXT rental with the company. Not good enough. Time to deploy the twin weapons of SARCASM, TEH LULZ and the INTERNETS. That's three weapons. Here we go...

Dear Simon

Can I call you Simon? I hope you don't mind me being familiar with you, but this is going to be a bit of an epic, and by the time we've reached the end of this saga, it'll be like we've known each other for years.

I refer to our rapidly expanding correspondence regarding my hire of your company's Ford Ka (Reg No: AR53HOL, known hereafter as "The Wreck") between 12-19 June. You may remember that the vehicle suffered from a number of technical and cosmetic faults which made my week with The Wreck less than enjoyable. These included:

Missing hub cap at the time of hire: Unforgivable on a car that is supposed to show your company in the best light. I checked all the gutters and ditches between Weymouth and Reading but was, alas, unable to find a suitable replacement. When I got The Wreck home on the first Saturday, my charming wife laughed at it, panicked at what the neighbours might think, and made me hide it under a sheet.

Missing oil filler cap: Resulting in billowing smoke at Winchester Services, leaving little old ladies fleeing running away muttering something about the Blitz; lorry drivers standing by with fire extinguishers; and a run on marshmallows-on-sticks in the service station shop. That wasn't the best start to the week, I can tell you for nothing, Simon. And my mood wasn't helped by the £17.98 I had to shell out for the two litres of the second-cheapest engine oil.

Malfunctioning brakes: You know that hairpin turn on the hill coming down into Weymouth? I bet you've never driven it, knuckles white against the steering wheel, screaming "AAAAARGH! NO BRAKES!" at a red-faced, uncomprehending cyclist sweating like a transvestite in Marks and Spencer, as The Wreck bore down on him. I missed. (Actually, I made that last bit up, but, hey, it got your attention)

Radio not working: I'll come clean, Simon. I'm on pills for my nerves, and there's nothing worse when you're a raving madman than being trapped in The Wreck for a whole week listening to your own internal dialogue. This is particularly true when the bulk of the conversation comprises the words "AAAAARGH!" and "NO BRAKES!" as I hurtle onwards to an uncertain fate.

Happily, I avoided going stark, raving bonkers by the simple game of counting how many people fled for their very lives at the sound of The Wreck's horrible, grinding brakes in a five mile stretch, then trying to beat that record. But I lost count almost immediately.

So, all of The Wreck's faults aside, while I certainly didn't expect to rent this:

I would have been more than happy to receive a reasonably good quality example of this:

Instead, I was driving around the south of England in one of these:

To borrow a line from those old "History Today" sketches: "See that battered old roller skate? The one with only three wheels someone's just pulled out of a swamp? That's your car, that is." A car constructed from tinfoil, sticky tape and the tormented souls of the dead.

Although, to be honest, a time machine wouldn't be such a bad idea. I could get myself next week's Euro Millions numbers, rub red hot chilli powder into the gusset of Adolf Hitler's underpants, before going back to tell my past self to stop being a plank and hire a car from one of your local competitors.

I've read and digested your explanation, and - frankly - I'm hardly punching the air at the generosity of your offer of recompense. I'm not interested in theories of how the brakes failed - the fact is that I was hired a car that was a danger to myself, pedestrians and other road users, and I'm not in the business of killing other people completely TO DEATH.

A ten per cent discount against my next rental with your company? As the situation stands, that's going to be ten per cent of the square root of naff all, isn't it?

How about – and here's a bit of your so-called out-of-the-box thinking, Simon - a discount against THIS rental with your company? I believe, in business circles, it is known as a "refund".

You might want to apply this new-fangled "refund" concept on the oil which I bought to save The Wreck from exploding on the M3 in the kind of fireball you only ever see on Top Gear when they blow up a caravan. You will note from the receipts I sent with my previous letter that the parched, smoking engine actually demanded two litres, but you have only paid me for one, and I'm still £8.99 down on that front. Sort that one out, if that's the very least you do.

You might - from this letter - assume I'm angry with your company, turning a vile shade of green and hurling US Army tanks at passing helicopters whilst screaming "HULK SMASH!" as passers-by. If I'm honest, I'm not, mostly because I'm on these pills for my nerves. I'm just exasperated at the Premier League muppetry that left me with a fourth-rate vehicle followed by fifth-rate service, and I'm simply asking you to do the right thing.

As the pop world's poor, ill Cheryl Cole might say in the circumstances: "I'm going to fight, fight, fight, fight, fight for this refund", so I'm still going to ask you for my money back, because It's a refund worth fighting for.

See? That wasn't so bad, was it? Looking forward to your reply.

Be lucky.

Your newest best pal,

Duck (Scary)

"Oh yeah," I hear you say, "I bet you didn't REALLY send that letter."

Au contraire. Here it is, in all its PDF-style glory for you to cut out, keep and show to your grandchildren. Enjoy.

PSYCHIC OCTOPUS FACTS

PSYCHIC OCTOPUS FACTS

FACT! Psychic octopus Paul the Octopus, the octopus known for his uncanny knack of predicting the result of football matches not involving octopuses, was born in the octopus ground zero that is Weymouth in Dorset

FACT! Paul the Octopus spend his days in Weymouth at the seafront skateboard park, where his best chum Ollie invented the Ollie

FACT! Paul the Octopus was run out of town on a rail after his 'Gypsy Inky Rose Lee' tourist scam on the seafront was discovered

FACT! Inky Paul is still cephalopod non grata in Weymouth after his parting gift to the town - the words "Weymouth nil". The football team hasn't won a game in three seasons

After your money again

After your money again

Hello, I am The Fragrant Mrs Duck and I am excellent.

Please help me and my best friend Sallie as we take part in the Weldmar Midnight walk this 21st August.

Yes, it's midnight, and it's 10km (six miles!) along Weymouth seafront, and we're collecting money for the Weldmar hospice which helps the very ill in Weymouth and Dorset.

I seem to remember my husband doing exactly the same walk earlier this year, but his was during the day.

Therefore, in doing our walk overnight, this is going to be twice as awesome as his less-than-impressive effort.

Sponsor us at this EXCELLENT webpage.

(If you're a UK taxpayer, don't forget to claim the Gift Aid, so our sponsor money goes further)

Guilt Trip: Give give give or the Duck gets his beak duck taped.

Driving the Fail Whale

Driving the Fail Whale

I've had my Nissan Micra - affectionately known as the Fail Whale - for a couple of weeks now, and - Cthulhu save me - I'm actually beginning to like the thing.

While it has sphincter-tightening argh-slow-down-we're-all-going-to-die acceleration in low gears, I'm rather let down by the fact that it has the turning circle of the iceberg that sank the Titanic.

Praise and quibbles aside, there is one thing I have learned since I have started driving a Nissan Micra, and it is this:

I'm driving a Nissan Micra.

You realise this when you approach a road junction, and see that 'Oh-fuck-here-comes-a-Nissan-Micra' look on the face of the driver, who then nips his car out in front of you like a complete bastard.

That's when the sphincter-tightening argh-slow-down-we're-all-going-to-die acceleration comes in handy, just to let Mr Oh-fuck-here-comes-a-Nissan-Micra know that I'm not a little old lady.

This has happened to me six or seven times. Every journey.

I know that Oh-fuck-here-comes-a-Nissan-Micra look, because I used to do it when I drove the poor, dead Silver Hornet.

Other drivers: You're all bastards.

Scaryduck Instructional Guides No.1

Scaryduck Instructional Guides No.1

How to be a horse whisperer:

1. Go up to a horse

2. Locate its ear. Typically, you will find as many as two on top of its head

3. Whisper "Do as I say, or I'll fuck you up and sell you for glue"

4. Ride horse

5. Sorted

Horses, you say?

On going against type

On going against type

"I've made a decision," I say as we take our places around the table in the Conference Room.

My fellow meeting attendees glance at each other with an air of trepidation. My reputation, I fear, has gone before me.

"I fear my reputation has gone before me," I reassure them. I am not sure if this has had any effect. Indeed, one or two are already squirming in their seats. Perhaps the low voltage might have been a mistake.

"Instead of threatening you all with painful death and a lonely grave in the car park as punishment for these long, boring meetings..."

For indeed, the headcount has dropped in recent months in direct proportion to the rise in the number of speed bumps on the road outside.

"... I shall instead be rewarding good performance, concise meeting contributions and short skirts. With cake. And actual money. Actual CASH money."

I smile.

My biggest, friendliest funnest, so-damn-pleased-to-be-your-boss-and-best-pal-ever smile.

Colleagues huddle together in fear.

"You... you... look just like The Joker."

*SPANG*

Too bad. They blew it.

FEZ

FEZ



"I've got to get a bow tie to go with my Fez" says the Boy Scaryduck Junior, the proud owner of exactly 1 (ONE) Fez.

"That's no problem," I reply, "I've got a clip on that looks like you're being strangled by a bat in my drawer upstairs."

"Yeah. A bow tie," he repeats, "A bow tie and suspenders."

"Wait... WHAT?"

"Suspenders."

I worry for that boy.

Braces, son, BRACES.

I hope.

On sticking your nose into Association Football where it's not wanted, yet again

On sticking your nose into Association Football where it's not wanted, yet again

Did you see North Korea in the World Cup? No, neither did they. However, the team's early exit from the competition in South Africa has not gone down too well at home, as this letter from Dear Leader Kim Jong-Il to the head honcho at football's governing body FIFA proves:

Dear Sepp Blatter,

Thank you for having my lads at the World Cup. They had a great time, and I can assure you that none of them are currently hanging upside-down in the P'yongyang Workers Re-education and Correction Centre having molten Tupperware plastic poured over their bare feet. Because they're not.

Please let me address a few issues regarding the treatment of Best Korea at your shoddily-organised event which exists solely to perpetuate the capitalist Yankee running-dog puppet entity to the detriment of our proud military-first Juche-inspired socialist paradise.

The problem is this: Imagine, if you will, that you are one of my squad of proud-worker soldiers, their hearts bursting in pride at serving their Motherland and Dear Leader with re-doubled efforts and patriotic vigour as they take to the pitch for their first match against the traitor capitalist lackeys from Brazil chanting "Let us defend with our lives the everlasting patriotic revolution headed by Great Comrade Kim Jong Il!"

Imagine their deep joy, their spirits uplifted by the memory of Eternal Leader Kim Il-Sung as they emerge from the tunnel to the sound of ten thousand vuvuzelas, manufactured with soaring pride in the Kaesong No.216 Workers Vuvuzela Machine Complex by proud worker-soldiers, striking fear in the heart of the bestial Yankee aggressors with a wall of sound that sings "The Joy of Bumper Harvest Overflows Amidst the Song of Mechanisation" to the masses of the world.

Imagine, then, their dismay as they realise that the 300-foot statues of the sisters Minogue - undraped in reverence to their naked enthusiasm for the Dear Leader's undying efforts to unite the Korean people through unprecedented innovations in production and construction - used as goalposts in their four-year training camp in the shadow of sacred Mount Paektu - have been replaced by a few lengths of wood and netting by your criminal warmonger clique.

No wonder they only won 27-0, as copious video replays from the P'yongyang Workers No.1 Juche Video Editing Concern have proven.

And since the match against the molten, smoking radioactive pit that was - until about five minutes ago - Portugal can now be deemed null-and-void, it is only correct that Best Korea should be named 2010 and Eternal World Champions.

Sort it out you big Swiss pansy, or I'll come round and spaff in your fondue.

Be lucky.

Your pal,

Kim Jong-Il

Well, that's that sorted then.

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Freelance Whales - Generator Second Floor



"Don't fix my smile
Life is long enough
We will put this flesh
Into the ground again."

Weirdos.

Online shopping

Online shopping

My charming wife, The Fragrant Mrs Duck, is doing the weekly shop online.

"Proceed to checkout"

>CLICK<

"Enter name and deliver address"

>TAPPITY TAPPITY TAPPITY CLICK<

"Enter payment card number"

>TAPPITY CLICK<

"Security check - please enter the second, fourth and ninth characters of your password"

"BLOODY FUCKING HELL!"

I look up from my book: "So that's L, O and C, then."

Honestly, some people have no idea of online security.

On The Worst Book Ever

On The Worst Book Ever

I have just had the dubious pleasure of reading George MacDonald Fraser's historical novel The Reavers.

Now, I'm a huge fan of Fraser for his awesome Flashman books, and I was expecting more of the same – immaculately research history, bawdy romps, high adventure.

Nope.

Sorry to speak ill of the dead, but this stunk like the rotting corpse of Michael Barrymore's TV career – the sight of a bitter old man railing against New Labour, the modern world, thrashing around at random targets in a book set in the 1590s.

And the worst crime of all – attempting to be funny when he clearly isn't.

I've read Dan Brown, and I'd rather crawl on my hands and knees through a mile of rotting cat turds, reciting The Dan Vinci Code word-for-word than read The Reavers again.

So, I'm going to ask: What's the worst book you've ever read.

Hint: Say "Tales of Mirth and Woe" and you get a slap.