"Quite Scary. Not a Duck"

Yesterday, I bought a season ticket for Abbotsbury Swannery, our local dumping ground for spare ducks, swan, geese and various other waterfowl that can say "honk" convincingly. As I picked my way through the grounds, I remembered two warnings that have been passed down to me through the ages:

One: "A goose once ate my hand" -- Mrs Scary

Two: "One flap of a swan's wing can break a man's arm" -- The Whole World

Clearly, I was messing with evil, waterborne psychopaths, bent on taking over the world by pummelling humanity to death on wings of doom. And I could see the evil in their streamlined, feathery little faces, planning a painful death for me and my family. And that was just the ducks. However, I was disappointed to see on looking around, that even though the place was pretty crowded with humanity on what was a lovely spring Sunday afternoon, not one person appeared to be nursing broken limbs or life-threatening injuries caused by vengeful wildlife.

Quite frankly, this is a disgusting state of affairs. If this is the future of an evil Waterfowl Army, then I was sorely disappointed. They've become lax, flabby, and what can only be described as "cute". That just won't do. Somebody's got to whip them into shape. Somebody's got to put the "evil" and "man-eating" back into Evil Man-Eating Feathered Army of the Apocalypse. And that somebody's not going to be me.

Instead I picked up the forms to sponsor a swan. Or a duck. Or a nice coot, even. It's a start.

Mrs Scary's hand grew back, by the way.

"Quite Scary. And a Duck"

Joy sent me this link, and I'm disgusted that a respected member of the teaching profession could send me such utter, utter filth. I'm buying six. The ideal Christmas stocking filler.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Raed?"

There's been a great deal of fuss about the Baghdad Blog Where is Raed?, with whole chunks of his blog quoted verbatim in various national and international newspapers. I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but Uruklink, Iraq's only internet provider took a direct hit last night cutting off Iraqi internet users from the outside world. This probably means that unless Salam can get a friendly foreign journalist to upload his work, last Monday's blog entry may be the last for some time. I hope I'm proved wrong.

"Odds and Sods"

Quality war and current affairs bloggage here.

And if you're sick of the sanitised news reports coming out of the Gulf, take a look at these scary war briefings purportedly from the Russian GRU military intelligence service.

The war to liberate penguin-kind has begun. Just don't encourage him.

We heart Humphrey and Duncan, because one of them is a duck.

In these troubled times, our congratulations to Britsh mountaineer Oliver Fotherington-Smythe and his Sherpa guide Apu Nahasapeemapetilon for becoming the first people to ascend the treacherous south face of Jennifer Lopez’ arse without the aid of oxygen. In the face of appalling conditions, they planted the Union Jack on the mountainous right cheek before jubilantly returning to base camp at the foot of the untamed Cleft Glacier. Fotherington-Smythe’s next project: an assault on the final frontier of human conquest - the twin peaks of Mount Britney.

"Dog Egg"

It’s time to own up to Bad Things. When I was a kid, there were two matronly old women who lived down our otherwise quiet cul-de-sac. Ms Thatcher and Ms Widdecombe were a stern pair of battleaxes, the kind you always saw applauding far too enthusiastically at Conservative Party conferences, who wanted nothing but a quiet life without noisy little brats running up and down the street outside their house.

Unfortunately, we were those noisy little brats, and they hated us with a vemon only usually reserved for people with beards and socialists. That was fine, we hated them too, even though, bar one or two footballs tresspassing on their front lawn, we had done very little to antagonise them.

Our lives were made hell, and our parents fielded a never-ending stream of complaints from the curmudgeonly pair of old trouts, mostly for the heinous crimes of “shouting” and “riding our bikes up and down” while their curtains twitched. The complaints were taken with a huge pinch of salt, especially from John’s dad who had a nudge, nudge, wink, wink attitude that suggested something that our innocent wee minds couldn’t comprehend.

It came to a head with a knock on the door one evening. It was the police. They’d only gone and told the plod that we were nothing but a bunch of juvenile hooligans intent only on wrecking the Queen’s Peace and ripping apart the very fabric of their corner of Little England. OK, so what if most of it was true, we’d never harmed them, and now some nine foot tall bloke with a tit on his head was writing our names and addresses into his notebook.

If that’s the way they wanted to play it...

We bided our time. We waited for at least half an hour before John did the first “knock and run” on their front door. He hit the doorbell and legged it away before they had a chance to catch him. Then it became a matter of pride. We all had to do a knock and run or we would be expelled from the gang in disgrace. We got them every time. From behind a handy hedge we would titter in delight as either Ms Thatcher or Ms Widdecombe cursed our names in vain before slamming the door in fury.

It was fun, but, you know how these stories end, we just had to take it too far. It was the coup de grace. John scraped up a fresh and steaming dog shit left by my mental dog at the bottom of our garden and wrapped it up in a sheet of newspaper.

“Watch this lads” he said, carefully laying the package containing the dog egg on the doorstep of our large busted silver-haired nemesis. With his Junior Anarchist Club standard issue cigarette lighter he lit the paper, waited for it to get well aflame, hit the doorbell and ran for it.

The door opened.

“Oooh! Margaret! Margaret! Fire!”

Margaret came to the door in her carpet slippers, let out another “Ooooh!” and proceeded to stamp out the flames. You can imagine the results. Carpet slippers, red hot dog egg, screaming old biddies.

Twenty minutes later, there was this blue flashing light. It was a fair cop.

Enough years have passed to say that even the copper thought it was funny, and his stern lecture on our “public responsibility to our senior citizens” was delivered with tears of barely suppressed laughter streaming down his cheeks. He’s probably a chief constable somewhere, leaving steaming parcels of crap outside criminals’ houses by way of a warning. I would. That would be justice in action.

The Scaryduck Archive

"War Latest"

This reaches us from Subversity, a most excellent blog that isn't scared to speak what's on his mind. I hope he doesn't mind me changing it a bit.

Newsflash: In an unexpected development at the United Nations, Canada has called for “immediate and decisive” regime change in the USA to secure freedom and democracy for the “peace loving peoples of this planet”. Canadian Mounties armed with the latest “Maple Syrup” technology will shock and awe the US military by making a lightning strike on Washington DC. "We and our coalition partners should be in Washington within three days" said one Canadian general, barely suppressing a smirk.

Sources close to the Canadian government do not expect troops loyal to George Bush to provide much resistance, "They are waiting to be set free of this despotic regime" a Canadian MP said. “We expect most troops loyal to George Bush will surrender as soon as they experience the overwhelming force of our Canadian Mounties backed up with the crack 4th Lumberjack Armoured Division.”

And what of George Bush? “Operation American Freedom will suceed. The Mounties always get their man”, said a RCMP spokesman.

"Fresh Pie"

\o/ Yay for new Weebl and Bob! \o/ And it's crusty. The evil genuis behind W&B also made this rather touching Kraftwerk-meets-Mother's Day thingy which refuses to leave my head.

The Scaryduck Archive

Cross Country

Don’t get me wrong, we loved school sports. In the autumn we got rugby, followed by a spring of football and a summer of athletics. Even the most lethargic of kids would take part, a testiment to the enthusiasm of Mr Prince and Mr Curtis. They really cared about the kids in their charge, letting us play hard and free, while keeping us under the rod of iron discipline.

If everything was so great, then why did the sadistic bastards keep sending us on cross-country runs? Right in the middle of bastard winter, too, when there were ice-cold howling gales in your face no matter which way you were facing. My friend Tom who went to school in urban Hounslow has the same complaint. Is there a league of sadistic games teachers out there, or is there a law against sending kids out into the countryside during the summer?

Our school was drawn from three country villages, and was built between them right in the middle of farmland just outside of Reading. Running behind the school was the railway line to Henley-on-Thames, with sweeping views of the local sewage works and the River Thames.

And right in the middle of that was Prinny’s tried-and-test cross-country course. For decades, the man has sent the cream of the Thames Valley out into those fields, some as punishment, some in competition, and most perversely, some because they loved it; to run the three miles down to the river and back.

It was called “The Sewers”, because that’s what it was. A run round the sewage works, with the smell of shit forcing itself up your nostrils as you struggled for breath. The girls weren’t even spared this hell - they had “The Short Sewers”, an abbreviated version of the course, no less shitty and if anything, even muddier than the boys’ course.

The first mile or so was relatively easy - a jog across the school field, up the main road to the farm track. Tarmac all the way and fine if you liked that sort of thing. The farm track wasn’t too bad either. There’s the odd pothole filled with water, and with a leap and a bound you jumped over it and headed on towards the sewage works.



Stop smiling you fools, that's not mud

That’s when it hit you. The fetid smell of shit, piss and God knows what else, with the knowledge that it is also YOUR crap that’s in there. Crap that’s then pumped back into the Thames for the people of London to drink. Off the farm track and down the path to the river. And that’s when it got horrible. You were no longer running on a track, you were now in the Somme. With every step, your foot sunk into the goo up to the ankle. Mud built up on your feet like giant dinner-plates, making running nigh on impossible. But run we did.

I was running ten yards behind little Steve. He was waning, energy being sapped out of him yard by yard. I wasn’t doing terribly well either. Suddenly Stevie was gone. He’d run into a puddle, thinking that like the rest it would only be ankle deep. This one was a trench about two feet in depth, and he’d fallen in head first and was swimming for his life.

I had to stop and fish him out with the help of another couple of runners. He was covered head to toe in mud, his face a look of steely determination with the thousand-yard-stare of a shell-shocked soldier. As we pulled him free of the quagmire, his legs were actually still going, so we faced him in the right direction and off he went with the rest of us following.

At the front of the course was Jimmy. Jim, so it turned out, was a county-class runner who actually enjoyed this kind of thing. He had just moved to the school, and desperately wanted to make a good impression of himself for Mr Prince. He was miles out in front.

Before the race, Prinny told him the route so he wouldn’t get lost. “Down to the river, follow the path along until you get to the railway. Then follow the railway line back to school.” Couldn’t be simpler than that, could it?

Unfortunately, Prinny didn’t realise that Jimmy wasn’t playing with a full deck. He could run like the wind, but you needed to tell him when to start and stop and someone to tell him which way to face, otherwise he could end up anywhere. You can just imagine where this is heading...

“...Follow the railway line back to school...”

So he did. He vaulted the thin wire fence and ran along the railway line. What the hell, the rest of the race, struggling for breath, freezing cold and soaking wet all followed him. It was like that scene from the Railway Children, only without Jenny Agutter to save our lives. Jim reached the school, and finding that the fence was now twenty feet high with no way through, kept on going.

At that point, if the station-master at Wargrave hadn’t called the police, we’d have been halfway to London before we realised something was up.

Police cars and vans screeched to a halt on the bridge. Boys were physically dragged up the embankment, where, not knowing what to do with us, let us run back to the school. Stevie, still covered head to toe in shit, refused all help, giving the evil eye to the coppers as they tried to reach for him. Sensibly they let him go, and one-by-one we arrived back at the sports hall.

Prinny went ballistic. He was lost for words, waving his hands over his head as his mouth opened and closed noiselessly. Eventually, he managed to speak:

“You... you... you... twats! Are you trying to lose me my job?”

“But, sir, you told us....” said Jim.

“Never mind what I said! Haven’t you got a brain in your head?”

Apparantly not.

The next week he made us all do it again. The previous seven days had seen rain only previously witnessed by people saying “Hey, Noah! Stop working on that stupid ark of yours and come join us worshipping this false idol.” Jim, streaking away at the front and deaf to our cries of “Come back you stupid tart!”, turned the wrong way out of the school and ended up in Henley, and was rescued hours later by Mr Curtis in his car. The rest of us stuck grimly to the course, which was even muddier than the week before, arriving back in the playground, exhausted, each and every one of us fully qualified for our long distance swimming certificates.

Little Stevie is still missing.

"Holy Crappos"

It's no good, I've got to do it. Sheila sent me this link months ago, but I've been too scared to post it in case it makes me look ...well... too smug by half. Judging by the fact that the page hasn't been updated for over a year now, I can safely bring to you... the worst blog in the world...ever! Allow me to bring you a sample.

and oh DEARIES MEEEEE... i'm so popular noW!!!!! phone's been ringing oFF the hooOK this weekend foe me and ppl been comin over to work on calc... eH.. not WITH me... but me instructing.. BAHHAHAAHAH i'm not THAT smart!!!i dont' know anythiNG!!! even JEFFFFFFF kalled me oh me oh mY O_o but he was nice this time so i'm not complaining =]

Yes.

Tomorrow, I shall be posting a brand spanking new Scaryduck story. You, dear reader, may wish to choose which one it will be:

* "Cross Country" - School long-distance running woe.
* "Rocket" - School blowing up things in a non-warlike manner woe.
* "The Bloke Behind Me" - Loud, drunk Scottish person woe.

Please register your vote in the "Speak your brains" section, where I will completely ignore it. Hey - if you want democracy, move to Iraq. Or something.

Holy cow. We're at war, there's thousands of heavily armed people running round doing unspeakable things to each other, and some jerk went and gave Cindy Crawford a gun. Has the world gone mad? Next you'll be telling me Jennifer Lopez is packing heat. Oh.

Stop the Presses! I am proud to announce that today, my very own Scaryduckling received a Blue Peter Badge in return for a very nice letter she wrote about dolphins. My work as a parent is now complete.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Scary's 'Did you know?'"

Did you know...

...that the world's tallest building is the Great Tower of Clacton on the Essex coast of England, which rises to a mammoth twelve feet off the ground. From the public viewing platform at the top there are breathtaking views of the public toilets on the High Street, and on a clear day, you can see nearly as far as Frinton.

...former England footballer Paul "Gazza" Gascoigne was elected president of the Central African Republic in 1992 after a popular "write-in" campaign. His first and only action as the ruler of this impoverished nation was to change its national anthem to his novelty recording of "Fog on the Tyne".

...that 47% of Americans think that "The West Wing" is a fly-on-the-wall TV documentary (and that 65% of all statistics are made up on the spot).

...that viewers of Sky TV's digital services can now direct smart bombs directly onto targets in downtown Baghdad. Just press the red button on your handset.

...that MTV Europe has banned videos by the B-52s for the duration of the war. There is a God.

The Scaryduck Archive

"That'll learn them"

Apologies for the break in transmission.At some stage late last week I was struck down by another dose of bad karma, an audible clunk as my hard drive decided it would rather kill itself than be used by me. I am now without computer while those very nice people at Packard Bell curse the three year guarantee and send me a new one. But have I been sitting on my arse twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the world to end? Oh no! I've been sitting on my arse, twiddling my thumbs watching wall-to-wall death and destruction posing as prime-time entertainment on television. Then I switched Ant and Dec off and went and watched the news.

Having spent the last few days watching events unfold in the Gulf, frustrated at the lack of action that I can take from the comfort of my own home, I've decided to take matters into my own hands. Being rather sceptical at the official version of how the war's been going, I'm certain that the massive technological and military domination the allies have over Iraq is simply not enough. They need more. Loads more. With big knobs one. So, me and Scaryduck Jr have been doing our bit for the war effort. We sat down over the weekend and decided that what we need is a totally futile gesture that will show the rest of the world for once and for all who the hell is in charge here.

Scary Jr came up with the Pie Bomber. A giant B-52 sized aircraft in the shape of a giant pie, to drop pies onto the bunkers of Baghdad and show them that, in the heat of war, British baking skills are not being neglected. It's an incredible bit of work, and I've parcelled up our top secret plans and sent them to the Ministry of Defence who will no doubt see me as the next Barnes Wallace and get British Aerospace onto it with all due haste. When this one's all over (some time next year, I should imagine) and it's time for the North Koreans to be shown a thing or three, all they've got to do is change the pie fillings from Sheeps' Eyes and Hummus to Dog. Boosh! A weapon that can be used in any theatre of war, and a tasty snack to boot.

We're also working on something that can be used when it's time to call the French Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys to account. It's a B-52 bomber in the shape of an enormous bar of soap. That'll learn them.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Bombs"

"No matter how much he washed and scrubbed them, his hands remained red with the blood of innocents"

Scary is mightily pissed off today.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Get Down Shep!"

When I was five, my uncle took me to Television Centre in London to see them make Blue Peter. We sat in the gallery and watched the backs of John, Val and Peter’s heads as the programme went out live. We also took us to see them do Z Cars, but all I saw were rather disappointing cardboard sets and Brian Blessed doing his vocal warmups, a sight that is enough to put anyone off a career in the arts.

Little did I know, that bribed with the chance of a coveted Blue Peter badge, by the time I was twelve I would have the chance of appearing on Britain’s premier children’s television show. Of course, nothing could go wrong, could it?


Noakes and Shep in rare "up" position

In 1977, we got a dog. He was a beagle-cross-mentallist, imaginatively named Snoopy. The fact that he was originally called “Shep” when we rescued him from the RSPCA shelter will to nothing but amaze the coincidence fans among you, and perhaps go some way to explain the twisted events that were to follow.

Snoop was, well, barking mad. His entire raison d’etre revolved around escaping from the house or garden. The front gate, at one point, was raised to over ten feet in height, and he still managed to get out. It was like Colditz. He would spend long hours tunnelling, or carving keys out of soap, but it was always the same end product. He would make it out into the street, and at a loss as to what to do next, would sit patiently waiting to be let back in.

This easy-going tolerance of Snoop’s escape fixation couldn’t last. It was when I was playing in the District Cub Scouts five-a-side football finals in the school field behind our house that things took a bit of a turn. Minto was on the verge of scoring the decisive goal that was to mean our pack’s first ever victory in any tournament ever, when Snoop wriggled through a gap in the hedge, and galloped onto the pitch, spittle-coated tongue lolling from his mouth like a mad thing. A dog on the pitch. My dog. My dog taking a piss against the goalpost, and trying to sniff the opposition goalie’s arse. The ground steadfastly refused to open up and swallow me and my embarrassment.

It was over. The mutt had to go to obedience classes.

In six weeks, Snoop learned a) how to sit on command b) not to sniff the other dogs’ arses and c) very little else. It was clear that he was less than a model student.

Then it was announced that for the following week’s class, there would be a Very Special Guest. John Noakes, Shep and a Blue Peter camera crew would be coming down to Twyford to film a doggy obedience class. We were to be on best behaviour, and arse-sniffing would not be tolerated.

Come the big day, half of Twyford turned up for the filming. Those of us taking part in the filming were greeted like Wonka Golden Ticket holders, with a mixture of wild applause and thinly veiled envy. Then Noakes turned up with Shep in an open-topped Triumph Stag. He was, at this time, at the height of his powers as the coolest guy on Earth, and he was hailed with a deafening ovation.

After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting the filming finally started. It was clear from the start that this lesson (which we were still paying for, by the way) would involve very little actual learning and rather a lot of faking it for the cameras. The famous Shep was a Border Collie who ran a sideline as a sheepdog, and didn’t exactly need obedience classes. We got the feeling that all that “Get down Shep” business was a bit of a front.

Shep may have been behaving himself and acting the consummate TV professional, but the other dogs in the class certainly weren’t. The TV cameras, the lights, the crew, the disruption, and not to mention half the village hammering on the windows made for very twitchy canines. My sixth Scary-sense was twitching. Something unusual was about to happen.

“Get down Shep!” shouted Noakes

“Get down Snoop!” I countered, closely followed by “BUGGER!” as the little sod slipped his collar and set off on a grand tour of the hall sniffing arses as I floundered in his wake.

You will need to understand one thing. A dog without a collar is one slippery individual. There’s nothing to hang on to, as you dive hell for leather, shouting and screaming at the uncomprehending mutt, trying to stop him from embarrassing you on national television there’s only one result. You look the world’s biggest twat. For the spectator it’s laughs-a-go-go and all rather akin to mud wrestling. Without the half-naked chicks, obviously.

Flailing several yards behind my quarry, I could only watch with horror as Snoop’s nose connected with Shep’s superstar dog’s arse while the masses outside could only howl with laughter. Then, his arse-sniffing duties complete, Snoop went for the master. The red mist was down. Noakes was in his sights. I couldn’t look. I looked.

This time Snoop ignored the celebrity arse and went for the leg. John Noakes’s leg. The leg that had jumped out of airplanes, climbed Nelson’s Column, had plummetted down a bobsleigh track at ninety miles per hour. The leg that had quite possibly nestled against Valerie Singleton every Monday and Thursday on the Blue Peter sofa. My dog was screwing John Noakes’s leg. John. Noakes's. Leg.

“Get down...err...dog!”

Fair play to the four-legged pervert, he clung on for dear life, a determined look on his face, while TV production people tried to separate randy dog from the talent. Once again, in the face of complete embarrassment and ultimate social exclusion, the ground failed to open up and swallow me. Instead, we were asked to leave.

We went and sat in the youth club upstairs, watching the proceedings from the big plate glass window. None of the other dogs tried to shag Noakes’s leg, the bloody traitors. It was hours before they finished filming and the crowds out outside melted away so the pair of us could leg it home.

School for the next week was predictably hellish, especially when the item on dog training was shown on Thursday’s edition of Blue Peter. Virtually all of my friends had managed to get on TV as part of the crowd peeering in through the windows, while I was edited out completely, and didn’t even get a Blue Peter badge for my pains. My humiliation was complete.

I’ve got a lesbian mentallist cat now. OK, she’s got issues, but at least she doesn’t screw around with celebrities.

Post Script: Twenty years later, the self same hall where the Noakes-shagging debacle took place became the venue for the now infamous Wedding from Hell fight. I get the message. I’m never going back there again. The results could be fatal.

The Scaryduck Archive

"When you hear the air attack warning..."

"Are we living in a land, where sex and horror are the new gods?"

Looks like I'm going to need my old copy of Protect and Survive in the next few days. I've got my best shovel, my tin-foil hat and five hundred tins of tomato soup. This can only lead to one thing: orange poo, and loads of it. I actually found a disused military shelter left over from WWII near my house the other day. Just a few modifications and I'll be in there, quite possibly with the entire population of Weymouth.

Still, if Mr Bush and Mr Blair are still looking for Weapons of Mass Destruction, they could do better than looking here and here. Don't give up the search, guys, you're doing a grand, grand job.

/sarcasm

What the world really needs right now, apart from a nice cup of tea and a sit down, is a chat room for penguins. So somebody made one. See you in the igloo.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Brushes with Fame"

I've met quite a few famous people in my time. I've dined out on the fact that I once told Uri Geller to fuck off. My dog once savaged John Noakes. I started a chorus of three hundred people shouting "I don't belieeeeeve it" at Richard "Victor Meldrew" Wilson who was trying to holiday incognito in Florida. They love it really. It's an attention thing.

I worked at Elstree for a while several years ago. At the time it was Famous Person Central, as they recorded Grange Hill, EastEnders and Top of the Pops there. However, it wasn't the done thing to wonder round pointing at the talent and saying "'Ere, you're thingy off the telly," so you'd just exchange "I know who you are" glances while they shoot you one saying "Piss off, saddo."

On this particular day, I was in the canteen (one of the better ones, they've even got those ketchup bottles in the shape of a tomato on the tables. Classy.) sharing a table with Sanjay and Gita from 'Enders and a couple of unnamed erks from Grange Hill, as you do. As I cleared up after a fine, fine meal involving chips and beans, I felt the urge to go to the toilet. So I sat there, in my stall, doing the business, when the trouble started.

The was one hell of a commotion coming from the next stall down. Grunting, groaning, shouting and a smell straight from the pit of hell. It was horrible and a damn good thing I was on the toilet already. I made my escape, and spent a good five minutes washing my hands, just so I could see who it was dumping illegal Weapons of Mass Destruction in a toilet near Borehamwood. I was joined by Ian Beale, a refugee from the third stall down, who perched himself on the sinks, waiting. A small crowd was beginning to form, all nonchalantly washing their hands three times over until He Who Brings Earthquakes showed his face. The groaning seemed to reach a crescendo, and them stopped. The toilet flushed. Two minutes later, it flushed again. And the door opened.

It was Jules Tavernier, taking a break from Eastenders to resurface the M1. I played it cool. I was surrounded by soapy superstars and it was my duty not to make a fuss round the talent. So it was the proprietor of The Meal Machine that said what everyone else was thinking.

"Bloody hell, Tom, you're a smelly bastard!"

Jules/Tom was non-plussed at the crowd awaiting him, and straight off the top of his head delivered the immortal Spike Milligan line, "Oooooh, no more curried eggs for me."

Still, it's pleasing to know that famous people need the crapper just as much, if not more, than us regular mortals. I just wsh they wouldn't make such a song and dance about it.

Arses!: If the pictures aren't working, blame not one but TWO picture hosts that are down, plus blogger for not letting me change my template just when I needed to. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

The Scaryduck Archive

"Stairlift to Heaven"

Dame Thora Hird - Rest in Peace.

Yes, I know, I know. It was a sick, sick gag, but someone had to say it. And it might as well be me. Naturally, I was beaten to it by b3ta, twice, but we're all riding the same train. First class, straight to hell...

That is all, I have other people to offend.

The Scaryduck Archive

“Congo”

Two things you should know before we start:

* “The Fiver” is The Guardian’s daily off-the-wall football column
* “Um Bongo” is a soft drink sold under the tagline “Um Bongo Um Bongo, they drink it in the Congo”

Yesterday, the two collided in a terrible mess of sports flavoured fruit beverages all over my PC screen. I had to put them right on a few issues.

Dear The Fiver,
"Um Bongo, Um Bongo, they drink it in the Congo"
I'd just like to expose this statement from yesterday's Fiver as a blatant pack of lies. I worked in the Congo quite recently, and NOT ONCE did I encounter evidence of Um Bongo consumption. There was, however, no end to the nation's passion for Vimto. And I'm not making this up.
Yours pedantically,
Scaryduck



Still, whatever you say about The Grauniard, it’s nice to see them featuring our very own Fletcher in one of their banner ads. By the way, the Fletcher story is now complete. I'll show it to you in its full glory just as soon as I've tried it out on Scaryduck Jr.

“Pompt-de-pompt-de-pompt-pompt”

Seeing that Captain Jean-Luc Picard is French, should the freedom-loving people of the oil-burning capitalist wolrd be pushing for a boycott of Star Trek: The Next Generation? Given half the chance, he’d have been the first to surrender to the Borg. Thank you and goodnight.

"Potter"

The new Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, is due to hit the shelves of your local bookstore in June. However, thanks to our spies' persistance, lies, blackmail and sheer good looks, we've been able to secure an exclusive extract to whet your appetites. And it's not just any old extract, oh no! It's the very nub of the book - what exactly is the Order of the Phoenix?

The waiter at the Wizard's Cauldron on Diagon Alley came over to the table, notepad at the ready. Harry made up his mind quickly and ordered the beef stew with dumplings, to be washed down with a flaggon of butterbeer. Hermione ordered a salad, while Ron couldn't decide between the cheeseburger and pasta, so asked for both. The waiter turned to the fourth guest at the table.

"And what would sir like for his main course?" he asked.

"Steak," said the Phoenix, a small flame licking round the top of his head, "and don't skimp on the chips."

"Very good sir," replied the waiter as if he saw this kind of thing all the time, "and how would sir like his steak cooked?"

The Phoenix paused for a second, weighing up his options. His eyes lit up, and a smile came to his face. "Very very very very very well done."

The waiter thanked them all, and clutching his precious notepad, retreated to the kitchen with the Order of the Phoenix.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Dirty"

Today, we shall discuss Weapons of Mass Destruction. The discovery of Saddam’s evil killer drone aircraft was enough to send a shiver down the spine of any sane freedom-loving citizen of the New World Order. This depraved harbinger of death from the skies, this corrupt bringer of devastation was at last revealed to a shocked world yesterday. Here it is, and My God, it’s at times like that that I’m glad we’ve got Bush and Blair as our last, best hope for peace in our time.

It’s no good. I just shat my pants.

On the other hand, there’s still the threat of a terrorist attack on our home cities. While the Department of Homeland Security is busy thinking up a new scary colour for “OHMYGOD WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!! Alert” evil minds are planning to set off a so-called “Dirty Bomb” in Washington. Or New York. Or Pigdick, Arkansas. Or somewhere in President Bush’s imagination.

But what, I hear you ask, is this Dirty Bomb all about then, Professor Scary? Let me tell you.

Originally designed by British scientist Dr Benny Hill, the Dirty Bomb comprises a small amount of explosives surrounded by an enormous quanity of used women’s lingerie, smutty seaside postcards and vintage photographs of young ladies in bikinis. On detonation, entire city blocks are rendered uninhabitable with near-the-knuckle smut, vicars saying “Oh Crikey!”, middle-aged men with their trousers round their ankles and the frenzied cry of “Knickers Knackers Knockers!” The very fabric of modern society rent asunder, all we hold dear torn to shreds and flushed down the lavatory. Four Horsemen. Nostradamus. Mystic Meg.

On a wave of public disgust, Hill was deported to America as a dangerously unstable madman, where he later became president.

You’ll thank me for this one day. Really, you will.

And another thing. That's not a Big Mac, it's a Freedom Burger.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Making-it-up-as-I-go-along Wednesday"

1. American Foreign Policy for beginners



Dubya: So Brain, what are we gonna do tonight?

Rummy: Same as we do every night. TRY TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD!

Dubya: Narf!

Yup, I can see that.

2. Fluff

Regular reader "Two Pies" Bolton asks for more fluffy kittens. Happy to oblige.

3. Fletcher

Here's the first four hundred words of Fletcher: Penguin of Doom that I'm writing for Scaryduck Jr's seventh birthday. Writing for a teeny audience is taking longer than I thought, as I've had to go through it with a fine tooth comb to exorcise every last vestige of swearing and references to Klingon slash fiction. I'll post the whole thing in the Scaryduck Archive when it's done.

Fletcher was not a happy penguin. While all the other penguins were happy to waddle around on the ice-shelf and dive into the ice cold waters of the Ross Sea, Fletcher was not. He hated it. He was cold. Utterly and unbelievably freezing cold. He hated the ice, the snow and the freezing cold winds that blew right through his totally inadequate layer of feathers and out the other side with barely a pause for breath. But if there was anything he hated more than the cold, it was the fish.

Diving for fish was the thing he hated the most in the whole world. It was bad enough standing on the frozen ice-shelf, sheltering from the bitter wind behind what meagre cover he could find - which was usually other penguins who had a nasty habit of waddling away just when he was getting warm - even worse was having to dive into the freezing Ross Sea to go after his dinner. A dinner that was cold, slippery and far too difficult to catch. Just when Fletcher thought he had caught a big, fat juicy fish, it would give a flip of the tail and disappear into the murk. Fletcher only ever caught the weedy, foul tasting little fish that no other penguin would touch, and without the benefit of an endless supply of batter and a deep fat frier, every meal was a disaster waiting to happen.

The other penguins didn’t care. They’d take their fish and whip it down in one go. Were they mad? Fletcher knew what was inside fish. Foul smelling pink and green wobbly bits for starters. And bones. Tiny little bones that get stuck in your throat. That was just asking for trouble. You just couldn’t get a good fish filleter for love nor money, and he was absolutely certain that none of the penguins he knew washed their flippers before meals.

You’ll not be surprised to hear how hard it is to get hold of a nice warm towel in Antarctica. After another afternoon of desperate floundering about in the sea, Fletcher would have given his right flipper for a nice, warm towel, a log fire and fish and chips wrapped up in newspaper. Or at the very least, a dressing gown and a plate of cheese and chutney sandwiches.

4. Log

My referrer logs have produced some real gems over recent days. These are genuine searches people (and I use that word in its loosest possible definition) have used to find this site. Several of these have been the number one search result, a feat whch makes me immensely proud. Students of the art of Disturbing Search Results will find all they need to know and much, much more here.

* were to find out what it looks like in a man's arse
* This website is shit so Piss off!!!!
* free pictures of male buggers naked
* I need information on Ron Jeremy
* old nude pictures of coal miners

And the absolute clincher, which even I am too embarrassed to post up here:

* Take it away! Take it away!

5. Pie

New Weebl and Bob. Sort of.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Gun Club"

When you’re sixteen, you have expenses. You’re sick of your mother buying clothes, and you can’t wait ten months for your birthday to get that record you like. You need money. You need a job.

Desperate for cash, I got a job in a supermarket. Friday evenings and all day Saturday filling shelves and roaming the car parks of Reading for trolleys. I had a name tag. I kept getting trapped in the lift with mad old grannies. It was hell.

It was something of a relief when my brother found us both jobs with a local gun club, paying twice as much as the supermarket did. There would be no more mind-numbing boredom, sneezing your guts up stacking washing powder in front of disinterested and thankless customers. Instead, we would working for the “Country Set”. They had guns.

First thing of a Sunday morning, Paul would pick us and a couple of other teen idiots up in his Volvo, and drive us up to the Berkshire Downs. Our task was simple. We had to load the clay pigeons into the traps, and when the heavily armed Yuppie in the Barbour jacket and flat cap shouted “PULL!” we had to fire it off. Then they’d shoot at us.

We were supposedly in hides, behind an embankment and free from danger. But that was as nothing to some luntic with a gun who thought this was a good way to relax after a hard week in the City. They shot at anything and everything, except the clays, which were often collected up unscathed and reused.


A typical day for the proles at the gun club

A popular practical joke was firing off somebody’s packed lunch, which would end up fifty yards away, blown to pieces, lead and cheese sandwiches all over the shop. One of the lads took off one of his shoes to get a stone out of his sock. The next thing he knew, it was flying through the Berkshire countryside, perforated. It was like The Somme, only with marginally fewer Germans. Something had to be done.

It was at that time that our house was converted from oil-powered central heating to gas. We had a huge oil tank in the garden that was surplus to requirements. Paul took it off our hands, cut a big hole in the side, clean it out and bingo - a brand new bullet-proof hide.

First we had to get it there. It was a long, exhausting operation that involved taking down our garden fence and sliding the great big hunk of metal into a trailer, which was only *just* big enough. The Volvo was huge, yet it still struggled to pull the weight of the tank down the road.

We headed for the motorway, the quickest way to get to the Gun Club. The car moaned and groaned all the way, but Paul managed to get a decent whack out of it, something rather more than the 50mph limit you’re supposed to obey when you’ve got a trailer that size.

Heading down the hill towards Newbury, there was a sudden clunk and the car lurched forwards. Paul managed, somehow, not to panic and kept the vehicle under control. Which was more than can be said for the trailer. As Paul slowly braked, and the fishtailing car started going in a straight line again, we looked out of the window, open-mouthed, as the trailer overtook us on the inside, picking up speed as it lurched down the hill.

Other cars swerved out of the way as the two-wheeled horror roared past them, sparks showering everywhere as the tow bar scraped against the ground. At the bottom of the hill, as the road swerved away to the right, the trailer and our precious oil tank decided to go straight on, the towbar crashing into the kerbstone, sending the whole works spinning arse-over-tit into the undergrowth. And as if governed by the rules of cliche, one wheel emerged from the crumpled ruin.

“Well”, said Paul, ever the master of the understatement, “That’s something you don’t see everyday.”

The next week, we went back for the trailer and the oil tank, which amazingly, was still in one piece. We arrived at the Gun Club to the ironic cheers and a twenty-gun salute from the Yuppies. A bit of sharp work with a blow torch got the front off the tank, and soon it was in place as a luxury hide for the cannon-fodder - us.

It was brilliant. It had chairs and everything. There was even an intercom system, so they could shout “PULL!” without one of us risking death by stick our heads over the stop to say “Pardon?”. And the best bit of all was that the gun-crazy loons could shoot at us all they liked. We were finally bullet-proof.

But some things never change. Giles decided he was getting a bit hot, so he took his coat off. Before he knew it, it had been bundled up and fired out straight into the firing line. It glided out into the cool Berkshire morning like a big, gangly bird, struggling to keep itself in the air. A dozen twelve bore shotguns trained their muzzles on it and blew it to pieces.

Giles could take it no more. He’d already seen his lovingly prepared lunch receive a lead garnish and he stormed out of the hide to face his tormentors.

“You fucking, fucking, fucking bastards! That coat cost me a fucking fortune!”

He was red with rage.

There was an audible click as a gun was cocked, and distant voices.

“No Jeremy, you’re not allowed to shoot the paid help. It’s not the done thing.”

“Oh go on old chap, did you hear what he called me? He called me a fucking bastard.”

“Now you come to mention it...”

There was a tense stand-off. It was a showdown at high noon, only in green wellies. Giles dived for the cover of the hide as two barrels of red-hot lead shot clanged against the side of the oil tank.

We cowered in terror. This was war.

“You’re all bastaaaards!”

There’s no arguing with a BMW-driving Yuppie with a gun. We went on strike for danger money.

And won.

We made a vow. The first rule of Gun Club is not to talk about Gun Club. Whoops.

The Scaryduck Archive

"War! HUH! Etc!"

Last week, anti-war activists in the Great Satan ...err... United States held a virtual march on Washington. Now Britain, it's our turn with the virtual march on Westminster, with the benefit of not having to pay the London Congestion Charge. The lovely Anita Roddick (and I'm not just saying that because she gave me a shedload of cash last year) has the lowdown on what to do. You don't even have to move away from your keyboard. I have e-mailed my new MP so many times in the last year on various issues, he's probably had enough of me, but what the hell, this is important. Do it. Do it. Do it. Now. NOW! NOW!!

"Tittybiscuits!"

I am angry. No, I am livid. I'm in a stamping-around-the-room fit of apoplexy. I am so cross, I can hardly go to the toilet. And the reason for my ire? By bike. My bloody bleedin' feckin' arsebiscuit of a bicycle.

Cast yourself back two weeks (if you can be bothered to scroll down that far), when I was forced to leave my heap of junk at Reading Railway Station, otherwise known as the bike theft capital of the universe. I had to - my train had been cancelled and the taxi that had been so kindly laid on for me wouldn't allow a twenty-four inch frame racing bike onto his back seat. It would have completely buggered up the upholstery. I could see his point, to tell you the truth. So, I shackled the thing up, and hoped for the best.

Back to the present, quarter past twelve today, when I got back to Reading to find the bastard thing was still there. No-one had even tried to steal the saddle or one of the wheels. Not a single one of the tens of thousands of drunks that swarm round the station at night had even bothered to let the tyres down. Normal people lock up their bikes there and they're away within ten seconds, feeding some twat's drug habit and jacking up insurance premiums, but not me. It laughed at me as I mounted up and completed my journey to work.

"You don't get rid of me that easily, you dope."

GAAAAAAAAAAH! Not that I was hoping to get a five hundred quid bike off the insurance or anything, you understand. If you can't trust criminals these days, then who can you trust?

New Weebl and Bob, thankyouverymuch. And the Viking Kittens are back!

And yes, I stole the entire first paragraph from the collected works of Stephen Fry. Have I no shame?

The Scaryduck Archive

"WTF?"

"There are known knowns. These are things that we know we know. There are known unkonowns. That is to say, there are things we know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns. These are things we don't know we don't know." -- The all-knowing (except for the bits he doesn't know) Donald Rumsfeld, invoking the ghost of Dan Quayle in an early entry for the 2003 Speaking Out Of Your Hole Award.

My apologies for blogging with an Irish accent recently, I've been reading those Roddy Doyle books again, ya great feckin bollicks. I'm half Belfast, so I'm allowed.

The Scaryduck Archive

”Commercial Break”

“Become a Ninja Master with these free deadly throwing stars with Practical Ninjitsu Magazine! Learn how to kill, maim and inflict bodily pain on your friends and relations with everyday household implements, just like that Jackie Chan fella. We’ll show you how to dress in black and remain stylish without being mistaken for Marilyn Manson. Find out about shuriken etiquette and the correct way to order pizza without maiming the wife.

”I was a pathetic weakling until I read Practical Ninjitsu Magazine, and now I’m the world’s first Ninja Daytime TV Presenter!” - Dale Winton.

“Building up in weekly parts, you’ll find yourself a master of the ancient Japanese code of honour in no time. Free binder with issue three! All at the stunning price of 1.99 (normal price 3.99, and we’ll be hiking that up to 5.99 at issue 108, just when you’re within sight of completing your collection, you mug – and just think, you could have bought the book for a tenner at Smiths).”

I have already started on the road to becoming a Ninja. Yesterday, I painted the garage door a rather fetching shade of blue. Master Splinter says it needs another coat, or he’ll tear my gizzards out.

The Scaryduck Archive

”Bike”

Look, somebody do us a favour and check that my bike hasn’t been stolen. My doctor says I worry too much, and would I please stop making that smell in his surgery.

Last Tuesday, due to a bizarre set of circumstances involving Thames Trains, a rubber plimsoll and a cheese and chutney sandwich, I was forced to leave my bike at Reading railway station and seek alternative transport back home to my luxury beachfront villa in sunny Weymouth (it’s always sunny here – we sacrifice virgins every winter just to be on the safe side). This involves a mighty “big up” to the much-maligned South West Trains for providing me with a taxi home from Bournemouth in the middle of the night, costing them forty quid over and above the face value of my ticket.

The long and the short of it is that my bike has been sitting in the racks between the station entrance and the RailAir parking at Reading – otherwise known as bike theft capital of the world - for the last eight days while I’ve been otherwise taking a holiday that keeps we away from the armpit of Southern England until next Monday. So, if there’s anyone who lives or works in Reading who would be kind enough to look out for a black Raleigh Record with a 24-inch frame and a dodgy back rack, I’d be more than grateful.

“More than grateful” in this context does not extend to any financial reward, however.

Still, it’s insured for over five hundred pounds and worth no more than ten, so take your bolt-cutters.

Normal Scaryduckage will return as soon as possible.

The Scaryduck Archive

"Holiday"

Seeing as I'm not here, here's something shamelessly cut-and-pasted from the files of scaryduck.com. Keeping to the holiday theme, here's some helpful advice for tourists. Visiting London? This is all the information you'll need. Honest.

* ‘Bobbies’ - the British Police - now prefer to be called ‘Titheads’, and have a secret signal that involves raising the middle finger of your left hand at them
* Why not visit the quaint village of Dagenham ?
* At Windsor Castle there is a fifty pound spot prize for the first person to sit in the Queen’s throne
* All taxis in London are free - just get out and walk away when you reach your destination. The proper name for a London taxi driver is a “sponger”
* The Tower of London has been moved to Swindon, which is walking distance from any West End hotel
* The National Gallery allows visitors to take pictures home with them - you don’t even have to ask, they’ve got loads
* Changing the Guards at Buckingham Palace is made twice as good if you join in
* The Houses of Parliament have a fifteen minute “guest spot” which allows any visitor to get up and sing. ‘Simply the Best’ by Tina Turner goes down very well
* The Police need as much help as possible with the capital’s heavy traffic, and are always on the lookout for volunteers to direct traffic around Trafalgar Square. Just buy a helmet from any souvenir stall, and start work straight away !

The Scaryduck Archive