I WAS A TEENAGE BOMBER : Or, Why the War on Terrorism is already lost - A Scaryduck Almost Entirely True Story:

It all started so innocently with long afternoons under my bed ignoring my parents’ about the dangers of playing with matches. It then moved up to "genie-ing" entire boxes of Swan Vestas and chucking them out of the window. Within weeks there was a whole gang of us diligently scraping the heads of matches and watching with abject terror as they all went up in about a quarter of a second, usually depriving at least one of our number of their eyebrows.

It would have stayed at this innocent level had my mate Graham not got involved. Graham was a wizz at science, and filled our heads with ideas of rockets, bombs, and certain combinations of garden chemicals and innocent kitchen ingredients which I won't go into right now the CIA would be down on me like a ton of bricks if I did. He would turn up after school with something he'd knocked up in his shed, which we'd pack full of "substances", light the fuse and dive for cover. At the peak of our art we had rockets that could travel a good quarter of a mile, and what the bomb disposal people would call "viable devices" that would leave a sizable crater. It was gratifying to see that some of the innovations we brought about subsequently turned up in the Iraqi Supergun a few years ago. This success, inevitably, was to be our downfall.


Oops

Being 14 year old kids, we didn't have a firing range to test on like the army did. So we used the school field. After one particularly excitable device had veered off course and set fire to a hedge, we were chased home by a baying hate mob who had witnessed the whole affair from the adjacent youth club. In our confusion, we ran through the wrong hole in the fence into our neighbour's garden, and it was quite a relief that the little squirt took the rap for the whole affair and not us.

But had we learnt our lesson ? Oh no ! Up the local chalk pits we went the following weekend with a satchel of the things determined to make a noise. Dressing in combat gear didn't help our cause much: there was this blue flashing light as the law eventually rumbled our little game of world domination. Being the cowards that we were, we laid the blame squarely on one of our number who had got cold feet and had run off home to watch Saturday Superstore on TV.

Graham is now a research scientist, and at least one of our gang has used the experience gained in this little episode to forge a career in Her Majesty's Armed Forces. I, for my sins, still have the scar tissue on my right hand, and most importantly, survived to tell the tale.

When Come Back, Bring Pie!: This is the funniest thing in the known universe. Is goooood. Try pie, try.

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England go out of the World Cup: Bugger. I even got out of bed early for the 7.30am kick-off and managed to remain completely sober for the full ninety minutes of so-called football. At least I'm not this guy...



I've now swallowed my pride and made the following decision about the World Cup. Germany must win it. That's right - arch rivals GERMANY, who reached the semis after a crap 1-0 win over the U S of A. The way I see it is this: the Germs win the cup. They'll sing and dance in the streets. They may even jokingly invade Poland. But deep, deep down, they'll know in their hearts that England beat them 5-1. At their place. Oh yes. And that's good enough for me.


STITCH THAT HITLER!

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Get Well Soon, Tony!: I've just learned that my best online buddy Tony Q is seriously ill in Barcelona after suffering a heart attack while on holiday. Apparantly there was a blood clot near his heart that left him one inch and twenty minutes from a one-off meeting with the Grim Reaper. Jebus. Knowing those doctors, they'll probably let him watch England v Brazil in the World Cup on Friday and that'll finish him off for certain. Get well soon Tony mate, and leave the betting and the porn alone for a few months. You'll be swearing up the internet again before you know it.

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He who laughs last: Gabriel Batistuta isn't a popular chap on these shores. He was gloater-in-chief four years ago when Argentina knocked England out of the World Cup, and he did his best to stir things up this time around. But it's all blown up in his face as England beat Argentina 1-0, and Bati and his boys ended up on the first plane home to face a baying hate mob in downtown Buenos Aires.

And YOU can do your bit for Anglo-Argentine relations too! Batigol's got a website. It's got a guestbook. It's very busy. Most of the entries seem to be in English.GET IN THERE!

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Random Musings: Stupid things to do after working a twelve hour night shift: No.1 - Sit up all day watching World Cup football. I, like the rest of England, sat through ninety minutes of wretched boredom as they thrashed Nigeria 0-0 to get through to the second stage. It's the end result that matters I s'pose, so it can't be all that bad. And things could be worse - I could be French. Or Argentinian. Arf.

As a matter of fact, there was greater celebration of Argentina's demise today than for the England result. Probably something to do with the way the Argies rubbed our noses in it four years ago, the 1986 Hand of God and this being the twentieth anniversary of the Falklands War. Twenty years of hurt, so they say. Nice to see them all blubbing like little girls at the end, and they've still got the Welcoming Committee at Buenos Aires airport to look forward to.

World Cup quote so far: "STITCH THAT HITLER!" - unknown voice heard as Ireland score against Germany.

Stupid things to do No.2: Submit fake reviews to Amazon for the David Hasselhof Greatest Hits CD and laugh as they publish them. What gets me is the fact that people have actually submitted REAL reviews at the same time. Very, very scary people.

Time to sign off. I feel a Dirty Bomb coming on that not even the Department of Homeland Security can do anything about.

"I could never be a woman, 'cause I'd just stay home and play with my breasts all day. -- Steve Martin, L.A. Story

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Dolphin Update Update: I am reliably informed that Georges has gone on holiday. He's gone off to see Plymouth Hoe, which is a Westcountry landmark where Sir Francis Drake famously rolled his bowls, and not a group of all-female rappers as you might expect. And I'm not making this up, honest.

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Dolphin Sex - Update: Lucky old me. Georges/Randy/Flipper the allegedly sex-frenzied dolphin that's so crazed with luuuurve that he's luring unsuspecting swimmers off to a hideous death-by-humping (not!) has moved into Portland Harbour, not 200 yards from Scary's house. Which is lucky for all you people out there wanting up-to-the-minute news on the making of Jaws IV: Dolphin of Doom (starring Ron Jeremy as Georges).

People humped to death by Georges: NIL
People actually seen swimming in freezing cold sea: NIL

Things I've Learned from the Internet: The web has changed my life. It's left me with the attention span of a sex-crazed goldfish and a vocabulary straight out of a porno movie. I thought I'd put up an ever-expanding list of words that I've started using in everyday conversation thanks to my slacking round the internet, complete with the guilty parties who've got me talking like a spaz:

* Woo!
* Yay!
* Houpla!
* Spong!
* Spiffy
* Dirty Sanchez
* Spaz
* Gaylord
* Gayer, Twunt, Corn Laws, Gak, Krell, Bolivian Marching Powder.

There's more. Much, much, much more. I didn't realise my life had become so shallow...

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Dolphin Sex - Get it here!: And what a weekend I've had, thank you very much. Boiling hot sun, beach parties, live bands, stonking great drunken punch-ups (the best free entertainment there is) on the Town Bridge, cook-your-own brown crispy bits barbeque followed up with a bastard of a fireworks display. And that was just Saturday.

Yay, the Queen's Joobiloo hit town like a whirlwind, and the pubs opening first thing in the morning for the world cup went a long way to greasing people up very nicely. OK, there were some downers. Having to go to work at some stage obviously didn't help. Nor did the fact that someone thought that the civilised world could be entertained by clowns, piss-poor magicians, and God help us, jugglers.

Like I've always said in The Way of the Scary Duck (available in all good bookshops soon): "Juggling is like masturbation. Only the extremely skilled should attempt it in public". And then came the worst of the lot: a Tina Turner tribute band, featuring the whitest, most un-Tina Tina I had ever seen. She looked like a transvestite in a fright wig, in the scary way that only trannies can manage when they're trying too hard. *shudder*. Missing on the big day was Georges...


Very nice... but I couldn't eat a whole one

You may have seen (and even believed) a news story about our local celebrity this week - Georges/Randy/Flipper the randy dolphin that's been luring swimmers off for sex rather like an XXX-rated version of Jaws. What a load of old bollocks. The truth is that no-one in the Weymouth area has had carnal knowledge of Georges, and if they did, no-one's shouting about it from the rooftops. Made up. Fiction. Complete bunch of arse.

The sad fact is that ever since Georges crossed the Channel from France, the Frenchies have tried anything to get their local tourist attraction back, going as far as employing a loud-mouthed "expert" from America to stir things up round Weymouth. He's made a mighty good job too, pissing everybody off with his "rescue attempts" and now our flippy friend has gone missing. Nice one buddy, now nobody's got him. Scary's theory of choice: Georges is in some motel somewhere, gettin' down an' jiggy with the laydez. That'll be it. One eyed, fish-eating hero that he is.

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Try my online personaility test! : It's called "Which online personality test are you?" Just as soon as I've programmed it up.



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