On recycling (jokes)

On recycling (jokes)

Bloody Hell - ANOTHER yellow sticker on my wheelie bin, clearly stuck there by somebody whose reward for not listening at school is to attach yellow stickers to people's bins.

Time to take my rage to the VERY TOP.

Dear Weymouth and Portland Borough Council

First, let me offer my congratulations and full support for your attempts to annexe West Dorset District Council - a long overdue move that will provide vital "living space" (as it were) for the good people of South Dorset. May I suggest that your first move would be to concrete over Dorchester and convert it into a park and ride for shoppers in Weymouth? This, of course, is the only language these curs understand, apart from some strange sort of manglewurzle based on Olde Englishe.

However, the main thrust of my letter is this: Last week I found myself in the possession of yet another yellow sticker on my food waste bin after your hard-working waste operatives found inappropriate contents inside as part of their none-too-pleasant duties.

I was, of course, bang to rights, as I had thoughtlessly neglected to remove the "Property of HM the Queen - DO NOT COOK AND EAT" tag from the dead swan, which I had accidentally-on-purpose mowed down in my Nissan Micra, before I cooked and ate it at 20 minutes per pound plus 20 minutes, gas mark six.

The question I have for your department is this: As my "yellow card" (My third this year! How many do I get before I get sent off?) appears to be a sticker of some sort, which may or may not contain traces of plastics and/or other non-biodegradable hydrocarbon chemical compounds which could fall under the European Commission Landfill Directive 1999/31/EC and/or the Directive on Integrated Pollution Prevention and Control 96/61/EC.

Should it go in my green bin for landfill, brown bin for food and card products or my paper recycling sack?

If I do not receive a reply, I will simply burn it along with all my empty milk cartons and used prophylactics, or shove it in a hedge.

Your pal,


Albert O'Balsam

PS I trust you've heard the "Where your wheelie bin?" gag already, so I'll give it a pass this time.

PPS Could you tell me what happens if my wheelie bin wears out? Is there some some of slightly larger bin in which I can dump it? I might tell you that a large bet rides on the outcome of this question. HINT: Say "YES"

I'm not holding my breath for an answer. Because I'll go blue and fall over.

HULK SMASH

HULK SMASH

Since I started taking the drugs, very little these days drives me to violence.

However, there are one or two things this could still tip me over the edge, running amok on a chainsaw-driven rampage. Warned, you have been:

- The Halifax 'Radio Station' advertisements

- UB40 – I've got you babe

- Richard Littlejohn: Warning! You may find yourself agreeing with Michael Winner

- Nissan Micra drivers

- James bloody Corden

So, Littlejohn and Corden on a Halifax advert singing "I've got you babe" = END OF THE WORLD.

What – dare I ask – annoys you?

Oh, KYLIE

Oh, KYLIE

Weekend video

Weekend video

Simple Minds - Theme for Great Cities



There was a time when the Minds were not a dreadful stadium rock band. This comes from that time.

On Turkish Delight

On Turkish Delight


"Turkish Delight?" asks The Fragrant Mrs Duck.

No. I cannot eat Turkish Delight, and I tell her why.

"It's dead people. It's how old people's homes make their money."

You see, that whole Soylent Green thing is a myth. It's actually red, and comes covered in chocolate.

"All the more for me, then," she says in triumph, not knowing what passes between those sweet, sweet lips.

I have not finished.

"And I'll tell you what else they make out of dead people," I say.

Her eyes roll in that well-practiced "here we go" expression.

"I'll tell you what else they make out of dead people," I say as an advertisement for a well-known DIY chain appears on the television, "Loft insulation."

"Right."

"Tesco Value guitar strings. Kebabs. Daniel O'Donnell fans."

"Anything else?"

"The inside of Etch-a-Sketch machines."

And another thing.

"I am not mad."

On not winning a holiday in Kenya

On not winning a holiday in Kenya

"Win a tea-tasting holiday in Kenya!" screams the side of the box of PG Tips tea-bags in my kitchen.

"Using your skill and judgement," Munkeh says, "Tell us what you think your taste-buds are telling you and you could be on your way to Kenya for the holiday of a lifetime!"

Peasy, but they haven't left much room on the entry form, so "I think PG Tips tastes like month-dead tramp juice pured through James Corden's Y-Front gusset and blended with the tormented souls of the damned" is totally out, as is "I think PG Tips tastes like Ken Dodd's dad's dog, which is incidentally, dead."

So, I've thought long and hard about this and my winning entry is this:

"I think PG Tips tastes like Your Mum"

I can taste those elephant steaks already.

Duck Stand-Up Week III

Duck Stand-Up Week III

Part Three: On bad jobs

Don't talk to me about bad jobs.

The worst job I ever had was at one of those sea life parks, where they made me work on an arena show called "Man Gets Attacked By An Angry Walrus", in which I played the part of a man who gets attacked by an angry walrus.

The angry walrus, as you might already have guessed, was played by an angry walrus which was, frankly, permanently pissed off, particularly at the sight of a shuddering student holding up a sign which reads "All Walruses are pooves".

I lasted three days, which was the exact time it took for the need for money to be overtaken by the desire to stop being attacked by an angry walrus. Happily, I was transferred to a family stage show called "Man Gets Bummed Stupid By Dolphins", which isn't as bad as it sounds.

I saw that angry walrus a couple of years later, as I answered a newspaper small ad of a specialist nature. Only ten quid a pull. Seemed a waste of a journey - and damn rude - to refuse.

He was an Alistair too. Small world.

[Here endeth stand-up half-a-week]

Duck Stand-Up Week II

Duck Stand-Up Week II

Part Two: On Bond

Of course, this whole deed poll thing has the potential to go very wrong indeed, particularly when left in the hands of the general public. Or, to you and me, complete and utter raving maniacs.

One of my many teenage dead-end jobs was working as a clerk at Her Majesty Margaret Thatcher's Dole Office in Reading, which left me, some decades later, still going under the name "Coleman the Doleman" to my few remaining friends that I haven't yet bludgeoned to death.

I was put in charge of those jobless people in the town whose surnames began with the letter B, and this resulted - quite literally - in an entire filing cabinet drawer of James Bonds, each and every one of them working deep, deep undercover, battling the evil of SPECTRE and SMERSH in the guise of a middle-aged bloke with greasy hair, a greasier anorak, milk-bottle glasses and rampaging body odour.

They all came in to sign on at Reading Dole Office with a pen that is also a standard issue Q Department laser gun, except the batteries have run out. However, if you turn it upside down, there's a little of Miss Moneypenny whose clothes fall off, which goes to show that even unemployable secret agents need their little pleasures.

What this throng of James Bonds - who all signed on at 9.40 am on a Tuesday - failed to realise was that a mere ten minutes earlier was when all the Ernst Stavro Blofelds came in for their giro cheques.

Happily, as a servant of the Crown, I nailed Blofeld's little plan to bring Britain to economic ruin, when I had him reported to our fraud department for working as a cat-sitter when he said he was out of a job. Then I copped off with sexy secret agent side-kick Felicity Bosoms, who signed on at ten to ten, shortly before M had me sacked in a fit of jealousy.

[Continued tomorrow]

Duck Stand-up week

Duck Stand-up week

I wrote me a stand-up routine, with a bunch of old gags, a pile of new gags and a notional dinner jacket and bow tie, which I am too terrified to perform in public. So, until I get my act together (as it were), here it is, over the next few days

Part One: On the burden of my name, again

I'm still an Alistair, for which I still blame the parents.

I'm only here because my dreams of winning the X Factor were dashed by my crippling speech impediment, which - it iturned out- wasn't a good enough sob story to make me a major star.

And it's this: Whenever I go to sing "You raise me up", it comes out "Touch my bum, this is life".

I went and had Hitler Therapy for it - Hitler Therapy, it's like Hypnotherapy, only this German bloke shouts at you until your existing problems are replaced by a burning urge to invade Poland - but it only made things worse.

I turned up on the say, the music stared, and instead of the lilting tones of "You raise me up", I started singing the lilting ballad: "I WANT TO KILL SIMON COWELL IN THE FACE! IN THE FACE!".

Well, more shouting than singing, to be honest.

In the dathly silence that followed, Cowell stood up, looked me in the eye and said: "Congratulations, you're through to Boot Camp."

The bastard.

I have a morbid fear of boots.

And camping.

And that's why I'm here.

So, back to the start, my name's Alistair, and I still blame the parents. There's a ritual associated with my name which occurs whenever I come up against petty officialdom, and it goes something like this:

Them: Could you tell me your first name, please?

Me: Alistair

Them: How do you spell that?

Me: However you like, everybody else does.

I have come up with many, many alternative spellings of my name, the most impressive of which being on a birthday card from a maiden aunt wishing Aleesha many happy returns. And I'm pointing at you, Lloyds TSB, to whom I've been "Alister" since 1985.

Why don't I simply use one of my middle names, then? After all, I have several friends who have done just that.

For the benefit of the jury, I invite you to choose between Alistair Runcible Shadrach Ebeneezer and call me what you will.

The more observant amongst you will also note my initials, and I respond with the fact that my parents were both medical students in the 1960s. Yeah. ARSE.

This being the case, I am of the opinion that everybody - as soon as they are old enough - should be given a free deed poll in which they may undo the sins of the fathers and choose any name they wish.

I have already availed myself of this facility, and have changed my name to Alistair. Only with the correct spelling.

[Continued tomorrow]

Weekend video

Weekend video

Family Guy - The Bullfrog clip


And yes, the door does turn into a window.

TV's The Keith Chegwin: AN APOLOGY

TV's The Keith Chegwin: AN APOLOGY



I've told this one before, but now I have the chance of apologising to TV's The Keith Chegwin in person. How can I pass up the opportunity to unload myself of this huge slice of guilt that has tormented me for my entire adult life?

Dear TV's The Keith Chegwin

A lot of people have been having a go at you recently over one thing or another, so I thought it my duty to redress the balance.

Look, the long and the short of it is that I owe you an apology. A grovelling, fawning apology for flashing my arse at you on the M1 motorway twenty years ago.

Excuse: Bigger boys made me do it.

It's like this: I was part of a party of Arsenal football fans travelling home from a crushing 2-1 Sunday evening victory at Villa Park, heading back down to London in the back of my pal Mark's Ford Escort.

It was early autumn, it was dark, and as usual the M1 was like a car park from Birmingham all the way to London. And there, in the slow lane was TV's The Keith Chegwin. We knew it was you, because you had "TV's The Keith Chegwin" written on the side of your car. And, call it youthful bravado, but we mooned you. We mooned you hard, in shifts, all the way from Rugby to the M25.

Frankly, the last thing anybody wants to see when you're stuck, bored out of your wits behind the wheel of your car in a Sunday night traffic jam on the M1 is a bunch of hairy arses staring back at you for two and a half hours. So fair play for not ducking into a service station when you had the chance.

For, if the observer watched closely, he would have seen your youthful innocence escaping through the sun roof. Cheggers would never play pop, ever again.

So, if for any reason you ended up foraging for stuff in the bins behind Woolies in Newbury (and they were great those Woolies bins), you may blame the mental battering meted out by myself and my so-called best footballing buddies, at least one of whom has fled to New Zealand in shame, guilt and despair.

Sorry.

Really.

Sorry.

Your pal,

Duck (Scary)

Fingers crossed that I escape with my life.

Scary Holiday Tales: The Invasion

Scary Holiday Tales: The Invasion

"Kill them! Kill them all TO DEATH!"

I kill them all TO DEATH and The Fragrant Mrs Duck is well pleased with my handiwork.

And so end my principles. Although a godless heathen, I thoroughly dislike killing any living creature, unless it is for the purposes of tasty, tasty meat, and even then it is farmed out to a faceless operator at a slaughterhouse, by way of punishment for not listening at school. Or having a face.

But: Ants.

Our holiday villa is full of ants, carting us all away down their hole like that Tom and Jerry cartoon where they're having a picnic.

On the second day, they are slightly larger, and the next day larger still. By the time we are packed to go home, passage to the hire car is barred by what is to be the Boss Battle.

In my best Daffy Duck: "This means war."

It was inevitable, then, that I should have a delirious, drunken dream in which I battle giant ants which have invaded the eighth hole at Weymouth Golf Centre, spoiling the best round of golf my myself and North Korea's vertically-challenged strongman Kim Jong-Il have ever played.

Also, I hope Doctor Who's head grows back in his next regeneration.

Then I woke up, my pillow was gone, and vampire ants (the final stage before the Boss Battle) had sucked every last juice from out of my body.

At least I thought it was vampire ants.

Scary Holiday Tales: On going to ze shitter, part two

Scary Holiday Tales: On going to ze shitter, part two

"There is no way on God's Earth that I'm using that German toilet with the shelf."

"You're not? What - pray - is wrong with Adolf Shitler?"

"In fact, I'm going to use the proper, English toilet in Scaryduckling's room."

Scaryduckling's luxuriously-appointed facilities are set between two mirrors, and there is nothing - NOTHING - more disconcerting than watching at least a dozen reflected versions of yourself wiping their arses in unison. Especially when one of them is waving back at you.

Back to the German bog, then, where, after a couple of regretable hit-and-miss episodes, I have finally perfected the Reverse Cowgirl.

"A nation," Napoleon once remarked, "may be judged by the way that it goes to the toilet."

And he should know, being French, squatting over a hole in the ground, veins throbbing on his majestic temples, knowing deep down that his plans to take over the world are already doomed.

And yet, so disgusted am I at the whole process, I still end up flushing twice. Once to dispose of the foul presence, and twice at the conclusion of business.

Hardly Vorsprung durch Technik.

Scary Holiday Tales: On going to ze shitter

Scary Holiday Tales: On going to ze shitter

"Oh my Christ! Will you look at this!"

She comes and looks at it, as I point to the toilet in our holiday villa.

"What? What is it?" she asks, expecting disaster.

"The shitter. It... it... it's GERMAN."

Which stands to reason, as the villa's owners are of the Dusseldorf persuasion.

"So? Big deal if it is."

It is a big deal, and I show her. She screams.

She screams, for the Germans are so obsessed with their stools, that they leave their deposit on a shelf for inspection before flushing it away. I imagine that the more curious keep a stick by the toilet.

I fix her in the eye, and point meaningfully at Thomas Crapper's invention, twisted to buggery Hunnish minds.

"See?" I say, pointing to the device I have christened Adolf Shitler, "SEE?"

She doesn't see.

"This is the reason why they can never be the master race."


After your money again

The Fragrant Mrs Duck takes off on her sponsored Midnight Walk this Saturday evening - now with added Scaryduckling.

In celebration of my getting the place to myself for once this superb effort for a local charity why not add your name to the growing list of sponsors if you haven't done so already?

Free inflatable Martin Clunes for every £10 given*.

* Currently out of stock, forever

Scary Holiday Tales: On flying to an awful firey death

Scary Holiday Tales: On flying to an awful firey death

"Why," she asks as we stand in the queue at airport security, "have you got a golf ball in your jacket? You know we're about to get onto a plane."

I have no reply.

"What if it falls out of your pocket? Think of the embarrassment."

I'm thinking of more than the embarrassment. I'm thinking of impending and awful firey death.

"Yeah," I finally say, "It could fall out just as we're coming in to land, roll downhill into the cockpit, get jammed under a pedal... then..."

"What? WHAT?"

"Wooomph!"

"Woomph?"

"No. Wooomph, with three o's. Think Final Destination. On second thoughts - four o's and and extra 'h'. Woooomphh."

The ball goes into my hand luggage.

We survive.

Weekend video

Weekend video

David Bowie: Ziggy Stardust


Ziggy was a cat I knew. He couldn't play guitar. Poor, dead Ziggy.

CD review: Washington - I Believe You Liar

CD review: Washington - I Believe You Liar

I was going to a write a full, honest, gushing review of the insanely talented Megan Washington's long-awaited new release (with whom I am certainly not obsessed), but I have instead, been forced to write the artist a letter regarding the contents of said disc.

Dear Washo,

Can I call you Washo? I may be a so-called 'Whinging Pom', but I thought it best to address you in the tradition Australian style on what is a most important issue.

I recently took delivery of a spanking new copy of your new long player, the exceedingly wonderful I Believe You Liar, which places you firmly as the number one Papua New Guinea-born Antipodean Dwarf-fondling musical act. A remarkable achievement for which you should be rightfully proud.

It contains, of course, such finely-honed tracks as Clementine, Rich Kids, How to Tame Lions and the sublime Sunday Best (and the bonus disc is pretty bloody good, too), and I would score you a mighty 19 out of 20 on the Scaryduckworth-Lewis Scale for Scoring Things for Excellence, the internet's premier celebrity-based scale for judging things for excellence.

But it's what's not on the release that hits me between the eyes like an enraged Mel Gibson who's just been told the Pope's a bloke in a dress.

I take it you are aware that every release by any Australian popular beat combo are required - by the law of Her Majesty's Britannic Government of the Colonies - to contain the following:

- Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport
- Highway to Hell
- I Should Be So Lucky
- Men at Work's Down Under
- Theme from Neighbours and/or Home and Away

Full inspection of your release shows not the slightest hint of wobbleboard or Kylie disco classic, thus leaving you liable for the maximum penalty which can be handed down for such crimes, to whit: Transportation to the Colonies. That's Sydney to you.

Sort it out and get a new version out, pronto, and believe you me, Washo will be absolutely blummin' massive.

Your pal,


Ducko (Scary)

And it is at this point that I include the words "free mp3 download" to thoroughly piss off those leaching bastards trying to get a free mp3 download of Washo's hard work. Buy the bloody disc, you leaching bastards.

With thanks to Pseudonymph for getting the disc. And the *swoon* signed photo. And the biscuits.

Toilet Pop

Toilet Pop

Pop acts (and songs) that sound like going to the bog. I repeat: Pop acts (and songs) that sound like going to the bog.

* Midge Ure-ine
* AndreX-T-C

* Peter Andrex
* John and Edturd

* Pink Fluid - Dark Side of the Loo
* Chris Diaherra

* Queen – Bohemian Crapsody

And, of course,

* Gary Glitter

Add more. You know you want to.

The Return of FACTS

The Return of FACTS

FACT! Computer printer ink is a highly refined mix of panda spunk, crushed Sierra Leonean blood diamonds and Princess Diana's pube shavings. Hence the price

FACT! The world's best tribute act is "Katie Price tied to a tree and shot with a blunderbuss loaded with her own shit." No, wait. That's not a tribute act, just wishful thinking

FACT! A warning for health food fans: One monkey nut in every 1,000,000 is a real monkey's nut

FACT! A warning for lovers of unhealthy food: One Cadbury's Crème Egg in every 10,000 contains a real bird embryo, fresh as the day it was plucked from the nest and wrapped in foil. One in every ten million contains a live lizard – get a Komodo Dragon, win a Metro!

FACT! Famed for her prolific writing which spawned hundred of children's books, Enid Blyton's greatest regret was that she never found a publisher for what she considered her meisterwerk: The harrowing, uncompromising look into the dark heart of English village life in the early part of the 20th century - "The Famous Five: Paedo-geddon"

FACT! In a desperate attempt to find work on long-running BBC drama Casualty, the female lead singer of 80s pop group dollar has changed her name to Thereza Bazar-Spacehopperaccident

FACT! George Lucas has finally announced the title of the next instalment in the Star Wars saga. It is to be called Star Wars Episode VII: Flogging a Dead Bantha

FACT! Crisis has struck Jonathan Ross's backing band Four Poofs and a Piano. Not only have they lost their regular Friday night gig, but one of them has come out as straight. And the piano's run off with a Wurlitzer organ

FACT! While pop's Lady Gaga prances around the world looking like a dog's dinner, her husband Lord Horace Featherstone Gaga is a respected member of the House of Lords where he sits on the government benches

On sorting out the action points

On sorting out the action points

You find your humble narrator - once more - ploughing his way through a meeting agenda the size of a well-thumbed copy of War and Peace. Things, as you'd probably expect, are not going well.

"After long and reasoned deliberation as regards this project, its long-term gains and projected benefits for the organisation, my proposal for the final outcome is this: You all get to fuck and we buy a bunch of ZX Spectrums from eBay."

There is a certain amount of fidgeting at this stage, before one of the braver attendees offers a question.

"Get to where?"

"Fuck. You get to fuck. Look, I'm an A+++++ eBayer-would-buy-again according to my latest feedback, so I'll handle the purchases. The rest of you can quite honestly get to fuck."

"Errr... I'm going to have to look up this 'Fuck' place in an atlas."

"Good man, just mind the sacks of quicklime on the way out. Shall we proceed to the action points?"

Action point (Me): Play Leisure Suit Larry
Action point (everybody else): Get to fuck

The meeting ends.

On new ways of working

On new ways of working

Yet another meeting where I might not have been paying 100 per cent total attention. I have gleaned the following from the minutes. Sadly, I was taking the minutes.

"This will be a new way for working," said my learned colleague, "A new way of working that will mark a three-fold revolution in our organisation."

"Coo."

"Firstly - Integration. All our systems will be joined-up at last. No more will we have seperate computer systems for different departments."

There may have been something about singing from songsheets at this stage.

"Secondly - Collaboration. We will work together as never before, adding both value and efficiency to this business."

One or two fellow delegates might have applauded at this point. Lack of coffee and a slashed biscuit budget made things more that a little hazy.

"And finally, and most importantly - rounding up and shooting of counter-revolutionaries.

"We can not and will not tolerate dissent, slackers and saboteurs in this company. Transgressors will be dealth with in such a way as to maximise staff obedience and to minimise redundancy pay-outs.

"Are there any questions?"

"......!"

"Good. GOOD. I understand you know where to get hold of tin baths and quicklime, Scary. Get onto it."

Wow. I got an action point.

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Gypsy and the Cat - Time to Wander

Yes, they're Australian. And French. But British. Or something.

A Short History of the Battle of Trafalgar, by someone who was there

A Short History of the Battle of Trafalgar, by someone who was there

A door opens.

"Who the Devil?" asks a cultured voice, its owner looking up from a desk full of logs, maps and ephemera of shipboard life.

He looks up, his gaze from one good eye going over my shoulder at the banks of flashing lights, crates of equipment and unfamiliar sounds in the cavernous room beyond.

"That…" he starts, pulling himself up in his chair, "That is no part of this ship! What… who are you?"

I wear what are, to him, the unfamiliar colours of a Lieutenant Commander in the modern British Navy.

I salute.

"Lordship, forgive the intrusion, you may find this extremely difficult to understand, but this is the truth, by your own hand."

I hand him a piece of centuries-old vellum bearing the words: "Trust this man, he speaks the truth."

"This appears to be my handwriting, but I remember no such thing. When did I write this?"

"In about ten minutes' time, Lordship."

"You have, then, ten minutes."

Ten are all I need.

"Sir, I come from the 21st Century. We have developed a means of opening a door and stepping back through the years, and we are using this device to ensure that key points of our history are maintained."

"How so?"

"Today is October 20th 1805. Tomorrow, you will engage the enemy in a battle that will shape our nation for the next one hundred years. It is imperative, sir, that you win."

"How do you imagine that you can improve on my plans? What do you know of modern naval warfare?"

"Enough to know what difference this will achieve."

I drag one of the crates into the Great Cabin and snap it open.

"What the deuce?"

"I bring you joy, sir," I exclaim, falling into a well-practiced attempt at he vernacular of the time, "Joy at your impending victory.

"Allow me to introduce the Milan guided missile system."

"And what good is that… thing?"

"How would you like to engage your enemy from a mile away and completely destroy his ship with fire?"

"I would like this with all my heart."

And we talked.

And the plan was set.

And victory assured.

"Finally, Lordship, before we engage the enemy, can I ask one last thing?"

"You may ask."

"You must raise a signal to your fleet to rouse the hearts of the men. It will be the most famous naval signal in history, the very definition of England's fighting spirit for generations to come."

"I have given this some thought already," said the small, softly spoken man, his already shattered body no bar to his stature as a great commander, "What have you in mind?"

"This," I say, handing him a second piece of paper.

"Then it shall be so," his smile fading as he asks one final, sombre question.

"Will I live the day?"

"Forever. You will live forever."

"Then the signal shall be raised."

TEH LULZ. DO IT FOR THEM.

Aww crap. Wrong piece of paper.

No worry. All hail the Napoleonic Empire of Western Europe!

DROODLES

DROODLES

My late grandfather had a book which I loved. I have no idea what happened to it after he died, but it was a small, yellowing book of Droodles, which gave my simple young mind hours of entertainment. Such as this, which you might recognise frm a Frank Zappa album:

"Ship arriving too late to save a drowning witch"

Or

"Mother pyramid feeding its baby"

Your choice.

I'm pleased to say that there's a Droodle website, put together back in the days when the internet was rubbish.

It's got animated gifs, dodgy website awards, the whole nine yards. Enjoy. If you dare.

On the devious nature of the oil industry

On the devious nature of the oil industry

You just can't trust anybody these days:

"I'm just off to the BP garage to fill the car up with petrol"

"You do realise they water it down, don't you?"

"They do? Waaait...what with? Everybody knows water and petrol don't mix."

"Err... paraffin."

"The devious buggers."

On Zombie Elvis

On Zombie Elvis

If the King was alive today, what would he be doing?

The answer, of course, would be "Scratching on the lid of his coffin", and if you said that, give yourself the rest of the day off.

But as he's as dead as a really fat bloke sitting on the khazi stuffing his face with a cheeseburger, he'd most probably be busy being the world best-known Zombie pop star.

Even the undead need entertainment.

- Heart-stopped hotel
- Hound dead

- Older than you actually think Shep
- (Let me be your) Deaddy bear

- A little less decomposin'
- Suspicious Spicy Brainssssssssss

- Love Me Tender intestines, ripped from my abdomen and eaten raw, or something
- Six Foot Way Down

And if you think you've really got the day off, you're wrong. Think of more.

On meetings, again

On meetings, again

Oh Lordy, another six-hour meeting of unfocused rage and circular arguments as my life creeps ever closer to its inevitable appointment with the Grim Reaper.

And then, as the conversation goes around the block for the third time, a relevation from the chair:

"This subject is closed. We've made up our minds."

"But..." protests the most persistant of those seated around the table, "but..."

"Let's not waste any more time on this, I can feel my life slipping away, and we have to move onto the next item on the agenda..."

"But... but... but... what about ME?"

"In fact, the next person who even speaks about the previous item on the agenda will be clubbed to death with a chair leg and buried in a shallow grave in the car park."

"But... but... you've completely failed to take into account the way I've been doing this job for the last 17 years and..."

*SPANG!*

*CRUMP*

*APPLAUSE*

"Action point: Body disposal, that's your forte, is it not Scary?"

And as I wrap the still-twitching corpse in clingfilm, my joy is unbounded.