Pointless Gestures, again
Civil disobedience. It's all very nice, isn't it? Face the facts, nobody ever changed the world in the slightest by being nice to others. Except for that Jesus fella taking the sins of the world on his shoulders, obviously. And the emancipation of a quarter of the world's population from British colonial rule by Gandhi, now that I come to think of it.
But apart from these two isolated examples in a sea of festering billions, it's fair to say that campaigns of civil disobedience are more than a little bit crap. You might as well pass round tofu sandwiches at a candlelit vigil while you're at it, if the other two fellow losers present can tear themselves away from their stirring rendition of "We shall overcome".
While you're standing there being nice and refusing to cough up the 0.05% of your council tax that pays for the provision of a slattern to the mayor, he's up there in his chambers, getting a damn fine servicing and genital herpes into the bargain. Every now and then he'll look out of the window and laugh. At you. Then he'll go back to his little game with the flying helmet and the egg whisk. And that's realpolitik at work, and you might as well pack up and go home.
There has to be a better way. And there is.
Uncivil Obedience.
A simple concept of grudging compliance that leaves The Man in no doubt what you think of him. An end to all that whining and beating about the bush, this is direct action at the very heart of the uncaring machine of institutional power.
"Mr Duck, would you mind awfully paying the 0.05% of your council tax that goes towards providing the mayor with a slattern?"
"Keep you hair on, fuckwad - cash or cheque?"
"Ah Scary, could you make sure these classified security arrangements for Mr Bush's forthcoming state visit are carried out to the letter?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'll fuckin' do it. Just give me five minutes on the shitter first."
"Mr Gandhi, there's a chap. Would you kindly inform your people to bow down before British rule?"
"Can't you see I'm balls-deep in Lady Mountbatten here? Do us a favour and get us a suit from Top Man, and I'll do anything you want. Savvy?"
They'll get the message soon enough, and the world will then be the shellfish of your choice. Take a look at these genuine endorsements from satisfied customers:
"Wow! I called the Viceroy a goatshagger, and now I own India! Standing round on street corners wearing a sheet and John Lennon's glasses was the worst idea ever - what was I thinking?" - Gandhi
"Jesus H Christ! Pontius Pilate and the former Roman Empire can kiss my fat, hairy arse! Now to take over the world or something." - Our Lord and Saviour, Jesus of Nazareth
"I turned my other cheek to the man - MY ARSE CHEEK! - and we now live in a fairer, happier world. It's all thanks to you, Uncivil Obedience!" - Nelson Mandela
Proof positive, then, that being a miserable bastard pays. Give it a couple of weeks, and The Man will soon stop asking you to do anything, and soon enough you'll have him under your thumb.
What are you waiting for? The class war is there to be won. Get out there and scowl for a better world. You know it makes sense.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Praise the Spam!
Praise the Spam!
"Christian Debt Removal". "Christian Pharmacy". If my spam is anything to go by, the easiest way to make a quick buck these days is to pose as the Church of the Enlightened Turkey and rip those God-fearing folks for every penny they've got. These are frightening end-of-history days where the Rapture is just around the corner, and George W Bush is now the democratically elected earthly representative of The Lord himself, so it pays to be with the good guys and their large, over-filled wallets.
In the past it was old-fashion medicine shows and touring faith healers. Then there came the TV evangelists. Now you can rake it in with minimal effort from the comfort of your own home through the Marketing Miracle of bulk e-mail technology (Praise the Lord!).
You can, if you're canny sell anything to any gullible person, providing you can swallow the crap dollars-to-pounds exchange rate. So, with the help of the contents of my spam folder, the following are a sure-fire winner at the Bank of Scary:
- Christian Septic Tanks
- Christian L0lItas
- Christian Replica Rolexes
- Cheating Christian Housewives
- Christian spermatazoon and manhood enhancer
I'm particularly excited about the last one. Strong God-fearing spermatazoon are the building blocks of this great nation, and it is our duty to ensure that only the best quality jizz is used to baste those Cheating Christian Housewives (14.99 per dozen).
This time next year, Rodders...
Stiff
I rarely jump onto internet me-me's, but I was pushed into a reponse following the story about "fantasy coffins" on the BBC's news pages.
When I cark it, I've decided to do away with the whole coffin business, and have left my nearest and dearest strict instructions to have my corpse fired out of a cannon straight up Billie Piper's arse. It's what I would have wanted.
I'm quite excited about the whole prospect already. That's where the phrase "die hard" comes from, you know.
Fail to carry out my orders to the letter, and I shall come back and haunt the fitting rooms in the lingerie department at Marks and Spencers. That, too, is what I would have wanted. It's a win-win.
"Christian Debt Removal". "Christian Pharmacy". If my spam is anything to go by, the easiest way to make a quick buck these days is to pose as the Church of the Enlightened Turkey and rip those God-fearing folks for every penny they've got. These are frightening end-of-history days where the Rapture is just around the corner, and George W Bush is now the democratically elected earthly representative of The Lord himself, so it pays to be with the good guys and their large, over-filled wallets.
In the past it was old-fashion medicine shows and touring faith healers. Then there came the TV evangelists. Now you can rake it in with minimal effort from the comfort of your own home through the Marketing Miracle of bulk e-mail technology (Praise the Lord!).
You can, if you're canny sell anything to any gullible person, providing you can swallow the crap dollars-to-pounds exchange rate. So, with the help of the contents of my spam folder, the following are a sure-fire winner at the Bank of Scary:
- Christian Septic Tanks
- Christian L0lItas
- Christian Replica Rolexes
- Cheating Christian Housewives
- Christian spermatazoon and manhood enhancer
I'm particularly excited about the last one. Strong God-fearing spermatazoon are the building blocks of this great nation, and it is our duty to ensure that only the best quality jizz is used to baste those Cheating Christian Housewives (14.99 per dozen).
This time next year, Rodders...
Stiff
I rarely jump onto internet me-me's, but I was pushed into a reponse following the story about "fantasy coffins" on the BBC's news pages.
When I cark it, I've decided to do away with the whole coffin business, and have left my nearest and dearest strict instructions to have my corpse fired out of a cannon straight up Billie Piper's arse. It's what I would have wanted.
I'm quite excited about the whole prospect already. That's where the phrase "die hard" comes from, you know.
Fail to carry out my orders to the letter, and I shall come back and haunt the fitting rooms in the lingerie department at Marks and Spencers. That, too, is what I would have wanted. It's a win-win.
Friday, January 28, 2005
The Battle of the Blob Farm
The Battle of the Blob Farm
Henley-on-Thames air cadets - is there nothing we did that was touched by sanity in any way, shape or form? Even squadron jumble sales were a descent into barbarism and lunacy of the worst kind. Our idea of fun was to lie as many of the new bugs across the mess floor, take a run up and see how many you could jump over before you landed on one. My record: eight-and-a-half cadets.
One of our favourite pastimes was to run about the local woods with wooden replica guns shouting "NaNaNaNa!!!" at each other like demented Private Pikes. In fact, a local boarding school - one for (cough) troubled children that we named The Blob Farm - let us use their grounds for that exact purpose. In hindsight, it was probably an exercise by the school's owners to prove to their charges that THEY were the normal ones.
One thing led to another, and following an incident where hardly anyone got killed, we were invited to take part in their school fair. The idea was that we were to stage a mock battle, running about with wooden replica guns shouting "NaNaNaNa!!!"; and pupils, staff and parents would be suitably impressed. And like the damn fools that we were, we accepted. Mainly because there would be real guns present.
Mr Eldridge, one of our officers, was in cahoots with some RAF Regiment types. Eldridge really, really wanted to be in the SAS, or even the Catering Corps, but the army wouldn't have him on account of him being a skinny streak of piss. So, instead, he got a job in a bank and spent a couple of evenings a week as a make-pretend RAF officer, lording it over highly impressionable teenagers with wooden tommy guns.
With hardly any effort at all, he persuaded his mates to help us stage the Battle of the Blob Farm. They turned up with machine guns (sadly) loaded with blanks, flares and thunderflashes. One of the blob farm inmates brought along a large firework, and assured us that it would bring a suitable climax to the action. It was the size of a large paint tin and promised armageddon on a grand scale. Not once, come to think of it, did we ever question why a pupil at a school for troubled children should have an industrial-grade firework in his possession. Just as long as he wasn't allowed matches...
Clutching our carefully hand-crafted wooden firearms, and screaming shouting “Na-na-na-na-na!” the battle began. On the given signal, we swarmed across the school field in two teams, the politically correct "Good Guys" and "Pinko Commie Gooks". I was a gook on the strength of my non-NATO standard wooden Uzi. The Reggies took careful aim from their position behind a carefully camouflaged Renault Four, and let rip with everything they had.
The trouble was that nobody told us when to stop, and hyped up as we were by the sunny day, Happy Shopper lemonade, the large crowd of terrified parents and blobs, and the smell of cordite, nobody wanted to die. So we all met up in the middle of the field and pretended to shoot each other. Some parents and blobs fled in terror, but most just laughed.
Then someone let off the firework.
WheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! it went, spraying pink and red sparks into the sky, making us look all the world like a big bunch of ponces with wooden guns. Which, in retrospect, we were.
"Ooooh," went the grown-ups and our ordeal was over.
In the end, we got a whole three recruits from the blob farm, who were sorely disappointed when they realised we didn’t give out real guns to the new kids, especially not the one with a twitch who repeatedly used the phrase “Red Rum, Red Rum”.
One of the new lads, bless his heart, eschewed the military regulation black, highly polished boots, and habitually turned up for parade in his carpet slippers. It was my heart-wrenching duty to teach them how to march, salute and to stand still without scratching their bollocks. A lost cause - they all had the hand/eye coordination of someone with no hands. Or eyes. But in the all-new inclusive Air Force, we weren't allowed to tell them to fuck off.
Lovely lads. As the plank, though. We called them the GJBs. Gibbering Jelly Blobs.
Still, we got good value for money from the RAF Reggies, who, fools that they were, took us under their wing and tutored us the manly art of shooting at stuff. They would take us up to RAF Benson, book a few guns out of the armoury, and let us blaze away at paper targets in the range until we knew which was the dangerous end.
They even trusted me enough to look after four rifles, a light machine gun, a Sterling SMG and a Browning 9mm pistol and several thousand rounds of live ammo in the back of my clapped out Renault 4 while everybody went to lunch.
To get to the mess, you had to leave one half of the station, cross a public road and re-enter the base on the other side. How tempted was I to turn right and leg it with enough kit to equip a small army? Very, that's how much.
I am still, theoretically speaking, a fully-trained RAF Marksman who can shoot the bollocks off a fly from three hundred yards. If you want anyone bumped off, or a smally buzzy insect castrated, the price is One Million Dollars a shot.
Henley-on-Thames air cadets - is there nothing we did that was touched by sanity in any way, shape or form? Even squadron jumble sales were a descent into barbarism and lunacy of the worst kind. Our idea of fun was to lie as many of the new bugs across the mess floor, take a run up and see how many you could jump over before you landed on one. My record: eight-and-a-half cadets.
One of our favourite pastimes was to run about the local woods with wooden replica guns shouting "NaNaNaNa!!!" at each other like demented Private Pikes. In fact, a local boarding school - one for (cough) troubled children that we named The Blob Farm - let us use their grounds for that exact purpose. In hindsight, it was probably an exercise by the school's owners to prove to their charges that THEY were the normal ones.
One thing led to another, and following an incident where hardly anyone got killed, we were invited to take part in their school fair. The idea was that we were to stage a mock battle, running about with wooden replica guns shouting "NaNaNaNa!!!"; and pupils, staff and parents would be suitably impressed. And like the damn fools that we were, we accepted. Mainly because there would be real guns present.
Mr Eldridge, one of our officers, was in cahoots with some RAF Regiment types. Eldridge really, really wanted to be in the SAS, or even the Catering Corps, but the army wouldn't have him on account of him being a skinny streak of piss. So, instead, he got a job in a bank and spent a couple of evenings a week as a make-pretend RAF officer, lording it over highly impressionable teenagers with wooden tommy guns.
With hardly any effort at all, he persuaded his mates to help us stage the Battle of the Blob Farm. They turned up with machine guns (sadly) loaded with blanks, flares and thunderflashes. One of the blob farm inmates brought along a large firework, and assured us that it would bring a suitable climax to the action. It was the size of a large paint tin and promised armageddon on a grand scale. Not once, come to think of it, did we ever question why a pupil at a school for troubled children should have an industrial-grade firework in his possession. Just as long as he wasn't allowed matches...
Clutching our carefully hand-crafted wooden firearms, and screaming shouting “Na-na-na-na-na!” the battle began. On the given signal, we swarmed across the school field in two teams, the politically correct "Good Guys" and "Pinko Commie Gooks". I was a gook on the strength of my non-NATO standard wooden Uzi. The Reggies took careful aim from their position behind a carefully camouflaged Renault Four, and let rip with everything they had.
The trouble was that nobody told us when to stop, and hyped up as we were by the sunny day, Happy Shopper lemonade, the large crowd of terrified parents and blobs, and the smell of cordite, nobody wanted to die. So we all met up in the middle of the field and pretended to shoot each other. Some parents and blobs fled in terror, but most just laughed.
Then someone let off the firework.
WheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! it went, spraying pink and red sparks into the sky, making us look all the world like a big bunch of ponces with wooden guns. Which, in retrospect, we were.
"Ooooh," went the grown-ups and our ordeal was over.
In the end, we got a whole three recruits from the blob farm, who were sorely disappointed when they realised we didn’t give out real guns to the new kids, especially not the one with a twitch who repeatedly used the phrase “Red Rum, Red Rum”.
One of the new lads, bless his heart, eschewed the military regulation black, highly polished boots, and habitually turned up for parade in his carpet slippers. It was my heart-wrenching duty to teach them how to march, salute and to stand still without scratching their bollocks. A lost cause - they all had the hand/eye coordination of someone with no hands. Or eyes. But in the all-new inclusive Air Force, we weren't allowed to tell them to fuck off.
Lovely lads. As the plank, though. We called them the GJBs. Gibbering Jelly Blobs.
Still, we got good value for money from the RAF Reggies, who, fools that they were, took us under their wing and tutored us the manly art of shooting at stuff. They would take us up to RAF Benson, book a few guns out of the armoury, and let us blaze away at paper targets in the range until we knew which was the dangerous end.
They even trusted me enough to look after four rifles, a light machine gun, a Sterling SMG and a Browning 9mm pistol and several thousand rounds of live ammo in the back of my clapped out Renault 4 while everybody went to lunch.
To get to the mess, you had to leave one half of the station, cross a public road and re-enter the base on the other side. How tempted was I to turn right and leg it with enough kit to equip a small army? Very, that's how much.
I am still, theoretically speaking, a fully-trained RAF Marksman who can shoot the bollocks off a fly from three hundred yards. If you want anyone bumped off, or a smally buzzy insect castrated, the price is One Million Dollars a shot.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Scary got fingered
Scary got fingered
Yesterday will go down as The Day I Was Found Out At Work About My Weblog. And I have learned this: they do read it, you know.
Following the positive identification of a colleague on these pages, I would like to point out that the Workmate Called K*vin I Once Referred To As A Nob will now be known as "My normally gentle-natured Pompey-supporting colleague, who is twice my size and will pound me to crap with a hockey stick if I ever use his name on here again, or compare his good character to that of a man's genitals. One of the finest men who ever lived". Which is fair enough if you ask me, and the closest thing to an apology you're ever going to get.
Everybody else is fair game.
Harumph
So, you're here to vote for one of my stories, are you? Or are you just dropping in to see if Scarybrother is going to grace us with one of his works of genius, eh? The critical acclaim for last week's tale of woe was almost unanimous in its praise, and clearly these people must die.
"Nearly pissed myself laughing" - Lonely Planet
"The funniest thing I've read for ages - Some other bastard
Me? Jealous about being upstaged by my younger sibling? Shit, yes. So, seeing as he's so good at it, I've let him choose tomorrow's story to save you all the bother. Now excuse me while I go and sulk over here for a bit.
And just for some Duck/Reader interaction, here's a little something I've just tossed off while I work on The Big Weblog Post That Will Blow Your Mind.
Stupid superstitions
Superstition: a complete load of bollocks. Discuss.
There is absolutely no way that your tying your left shoelace first is going to affect the outcome of your day, nor is the selection of your Mickey Mouse tie, unless you intend to wear it for something important like, say, Prime Minister's Questions. But we do it anyway. I live under the irrational fear that my shaving habits are going to ruin the lives of thousands, millions of football fans.
You see, I have to shave on the morning of an Arsenal match, or they will lose. The smoothness of the shave, whilst quietly meditating on the forthcoming game, will often tell me the result, and I can honestly say that I was 100% successful in my predictions for the record-breaking 2003/4 season. Any nicks or rough patches make for goals against, and a blunt Bic razor is just as bad as no shave at all.
As an experiment, I neglected to shave before a recent match against Bolton, and they lost 1-0. Fellow Gooners, please accept my apologies. From now on it's Gillette Mach 98 and King of Shaves all the way.
This superstition replaces the previous underwear-based hoodoo that blighted my life for near on ten years. I bought myself "lucky" Arsenal boxer shorts (as modelled by Colin Firth in Fever Pitch) to wear to the Littlewoods Cup Final in 1988. We lost 3-2 following a missed penalty that would have sewn the game right up, and the pants were clearly cursed.
From then on, wearing the boxers on a match day would doom the team to defeat, and even accidentally touching them in my underwear drawer would be enough to bring down the wrath of the footballing gods.
"Why don't you just throw them out?" said Mrs Scary, refering to their tattered, farted-through condition, rather than their accursed nature.
"I can't. I just. Can't. Touch. Them."
Then the whole story came out, and I was told to "grow up, it's worse than that business with the duck".
She threw them away for me, and equilibrium was restored. The next day was a Saturday, and I needed a shave...
Your turn.
Yesterday will go down as The Day I Was Found Out At Work About My Weblog. And I have learned this: they do read it, you know.
Following the positive identification of a colleague on these pages, I would like to point out that the Workmate Called K*vin I Once Referred To As A Nob will now be known as "My normally gentle-natured Pompey-supporting colleague, who is twice my size and will pound me to crap with a hockey stick if I ever use his name on here again, or compare his good character to that of a man's genitals. One of the finest men who ever lived". Which is fair enough if you ask me, and the closest thing to an apology you're ever going to get.
Everybody else is fair game.
Harumph
So, you're here to vote for one of my stories, are you? Or are you just dropping in to see if Scarybrother is going to grace us with one of his works of genius, eh? The critical acclaim for last week's tale of woe was almost unanimous in its praise, and clearly these people must die.
"Nearly pissed myself laughing" - Lonely Planet
"The funniest thing I've read for ages - Some other bastard
Me? Jealous about being upstaged by my younger sibling? Shit, yes. So, seeing as he's so good at it, I've let him choose tomorrow's story to save you all the bother. Now excuse me while I go and sulk over here for a bit.
And just for some Duck/Reader interaction, here's a little something I've just tossed off while I work on The Big Weblog Post That Will Blow Your Mind.
Stupid superstitions
Superstition: a complete load of bollocks. Discuss.
There is absolutely no way that your tying your left shoelace first is going to affect the outcome of your day, nor is the selection of your Mickey Mouse tie, unless you intend to wear it for something important like, say, Prime Minister's Questions. But we do it anyway. I live under the irrational fear that my shaving habits are going to ruin the lives of thousands, millions of football fans.
You see, I have to shave on the morning of an Arsenal match, or they will lose. The smoothness of the shave, whilst quietly meditating on the forthcoming game, will often tell me the result, and I can honestly say that I was 100% successful in my predictions for the record-breaking 2003/4 season. Any nicks or rough patches make for goals against, and a blunt Bic razor is just as bad as no shave at all.
As an experiment, I neglected to shave before a recent match against Bolton, and they lost 1-0. Fellow Gooners, please accept my apologies. From now on it's Gillette Mach 98 and King of Shaves all the way.
This superstition replaces the previous underwear-based hoodoo that blighted my life for near on ten years. I bought myself "lucky" Arsenal boxer shorts (as modelled by Colin Firth in Fever Pitch) to wear to the Littlewoods Cup Final in 1988. We lost 3-2 following a missed penalty that would have sewn the game right up, and the pants were clearly cursed.
From then on, wearing the boxers on a match day would doom the team to defeat, and even accidentally touching them in my underwear drawer would be enough to bring down the wrath of the footballing gods.
"Why don't you just throw them out?" said Mrs Scary, refering to their tattered, farted-through condition, rather than their accursed nature.
"I can't. I just. Can't. Touch. Them."
Then the whole story came out, and I was told to "grow up, it's worse than that business with the duck".
She threw them away for me, and equilibrium was restored. The next day was a Saturday, and I needed a shave...
Your turn.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
The War on Chickens
The War on Chickens
Following Scarybrother's tale of indestructable brain-eating chickens taking over the world [again - is there no end to his genius?], I've come up with further evidence - if it were needed - of the armour-piercing qualities of the ordinary farmyard fowl and its use as an integral part of the western military-industrial complex. In other words - if they ever organise themselves into an effective fighting force, we're doomed.
For what material do aircraft manufacturers turn to in order to test the resiliance of their designs against the very real threat of bird-strikes and collisions with fast-moving debris? Oven Ready Chickens.
Every week, British Aerospace sends the office boy down to Tescos for a dozen of Bernard Matthew's finest with giblets; and still frozen solid, they are fired out of a pneumatic cannon at Eurofighters until they break. Then, with the oven pre-heated to gas mark four, they go down very well with roast potatoes and gravy.
And thussly, frozen chickens won the Cold War.
It's true. Honest.
Pointless gestures
Call me a cynical bastard, but what's the deal with candlelit vigils? What is it that drives otherwise sane people to stand out in the cold singing "We Shall Overcome" [up there with "Rock DJ" by Robbie Williams as Worst Song Ever Written, Ever], wasting perfectly good candles for the victims of Dhobi's Itch in Central American dictatorships? I need to know.
The trouble with candlelit vigils for any number of worthy causes is this: they're held at night. In the dark. Often in cold, draughty places such as churches or outside the BBC, where the only heat comes from smouldering TV Licences. Nobody will notice, as they're all at home watching Eastenders or shouting out the answers to Millionaire.
As empty, meaningless gestures go, candlelit vigils are right up there with cutting off both your feet to show solidarity with Douglas Bader.*
You'd be far better off sending your candles to the Home for Impoverished Lesbians, where you know they'll be put to good use.
* Or... waving at Stevie Wonder
... gift-wrapping a fart
... voting for Robert Kilroy-Silk
... going to a wife-swapping party with Graham Norton
2005 Bloggie Awards
Well, colour me non-plussed. I am a finallist in the 2005 Bloggie awards for "Best Tagline", going head-to-head with Random Acts of Reality.
I'm so happy I could just poo. Go vote for me. While you're there, you may as well squander your vote on My Boyfriend is a Twat, Petite Anglaise, Policeman's Blog and, oooh, loads of others.
You may have trouble getting in, mind, as the website's exploded: 2005.bloggies.com
Following Scarybrother's tale of indestructable brain-eating chickens taking over the world [again - is there no end to his genius?], I've come up with further evidence - if it were needed - of the armour-piercing qualities of the ordinary farmyard fowl and its use as an integral part of the western military-industrial complex. In other words - if they ever organise themselves into an effective fighting force, we're doomed.
For what material do aircraft manufacturers turn to in order to test the resiliance of their designs against the very real threat of bird-strikes and collisions with fast-moving debris? Oven Ready Chickens.
Every week, British Aerospace sends the office boy down to Tescos for a dozen of Bernard Matthew's finest with giblets; and still frozen solid, they are fired out of a pneumatic cannon at Eurofighters until they break. Then, with the oven pre-heated to gas mark four, they go down very well with roast potatoes and gravy.
And thussly, frozen chickens won the Cold War.
It's true. Honest.
Pointless gestures
Call me a cynical bastard, but what's the deal with candlelit vigils? What is it that drives otherwise sane people to stand out in the cold singing "We Shall Overcome" [up there with "Rock DJ" by Robbie Williams as Worst Song Ever Written, Ever], wasting perfectly good candles for the victims of Dhobi's Itch in Central American dictatorships? I need to know.
The trouble with candlelit vigils for any number of worthy causes is this: they're held at night. In the dark. Often in cold, draughty places such as churches or outside the BBC, where the only heat comes from smouldering TV Licences. Nobody will notice, as they're all at home watching Eastenders or shouting out the answers to Millionaire.
As empty, meaningless gestures go, candlelit vigils are right up there with cutting off both your feet to show solidarity with Douglas Bader.*
You'd be far better off sending your candles to the Home for Impoverished Lesbians, where you know they'll be put to good use.
* Or... waving at Stevie Wonder
... gift-wrapping a fart
... voting for Robert Kilroy-Silk
... going to a wife-swapping party with Graham Norton
2005 Bloggie Awards
Well, colour me non-plussed. I am a finallist in the 2005 Bloggie awards for "Best Tagline", going head-to-head with Random Acts of Reality.
I'm so happy I could just poo. Go vote for me. While you're there, you may as well squander your vote on My Boyfriend is a Twat, Petite Anglaise, Policeman's Blog and, oooh, loads of others.
You may have trouble getting in, mind, as the website's exploded: 2005.bloggies.com
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Speaking in Tongues
Speaking in Tongues
"Fuck off!" said Scarybrother. "I ran at them shouting that piece of language that is internationally recognised in a way that the inventors of Esperanto can only dream of: 'Fuck off!'".
Wise words indeed, my padowan learner, ample illusraion that all attempts to create a universal language for the good of mankind are doomed to failure, and for two very good resons:
One - There is already a perfectly functional language spoke the world over for this purpose: English. Thanks to the spread of the British Empire and American cultural imperialism, even the most obstinate, soap-dodging Frenchman will get the message when at the receiving end of a well-aimed "Fuck off."
With skillful use of other universals such as "Coca Cola", "beer", "Durex" and "suckee-fuckee only ten dorrar" the basic needs of any westerner can be sated anywhere in the world.
Two - The grand plan for a world language - Esperanto - has been, to be perfectly honest, totally shit. Do you know how many people actually use Esperanto in their everyday lives? There are more Latin speakers in the world, and at least the language has a use in scientific circles.
If someone tells you "Oh, I speak Esperanto, you know", this is actually code for "I'm an utter cunt."* In all probability, they probably needed another useless, time-wasting pastime after filling in their Ian Allan trainspotting book and adding extra stains to their anorak.
If you are reading this and you are an Esperantist (and God, I've tried to look up Esperanta in an atlas), perhaps you'd like to tell the rest of the class why, before standing in the corner for a bit.
Even Esperanto swearing is a bit shit. I say "fuck". They say " Seksumi". Forgive me if I'm wrong, but that is a kind of small orange, isn't it? Similarly, "Fuck off" is " Forfikigi", which is an Italian pasta dish, while calling someone a " Patrinfikulo" or "Malcastulino" just doesn't have the right kind of ring, does it? The soft bunch of fucking cock-badgering cunt-nuts. There are enough languages in the world without having to invent another.**
* I once met someone who had taught himself to read, write and speak Elvish through the intense study of Lord of the Rings and other works. He was, I can tell you for nothing, a beardy sandal-wearing streak of piss who you could smell a mile off.
** Klingon is a real language, and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise.
"Fuck off!" said Scarybrother. "I ran at them shouting that piece of language that is internationally recognised in a way that the inventors of Esperanto can only dream of: 'Fuck off!'".
Wise words indeed, my padowan learner, ample illusraion that all attempts to create a universal language for the good of mankind are doomed to failure, and for two very good resons:
One - There is already a perfectly functional language spoke the world over for this purpose: English. Thanks to the spread of the British Empire and American cultural imperialism, even the most obstinate, soap-dodging Frenchman will get the message when at the receiving end of a well-aimed "Fuck off."
With skillful use of other universals such as "Coca Cola", "beer", "Durex" and "suckee-fuckee only ten dorrar" the basic needs of any westerner can be sated anywhere in the world.
Two - The grand plan for a world language - Esperanto - has been, to be perfectly honest, totally shit. Do you know how many people actually use Esperanto in their everyday lives? There are more Latin speakers in the world, and at least the language has a use in scientific circles.
If someone tells you "Oh, I speak Esperanto, you know", this is actually code for "I'm an utter cunt."* In all probability, they probably needed another useless, time-wasting pastime after filling in their Ian Allan trainspotting book and adding extra stains to their anorak.
If you are reading this and you are an Esperantist (and God, I've tried to look up Esperanta in an atlas), perhaps you'd like to tell the rest of the class why, before standing in the corner for a bit.
Even Esperanto swearing is a bit shit. I say "fuck". They say " Seksumi". Forgive me if I'm wrong, but that is a kind of small orange, isn't it? Similarly, "Fuck off" is " Forfikigi", which is an Italian pasta dish, while calling someone a " Patrinfikulo" or "Malcastulino" just doesn't have the right kind of ring, does it? The soft bunch of fucking cock-badgering cunt-nuts. There are enough languages in the world without having to invent another.**
* I once met someone who had taught himself to read, write and speak Elvish through the intense study of Lord of the Rings and other works. He was, I can tell you for nothing, a beardy sandal-wearing streak of piss who you could smell a mile off.
** Klingon is a real language, and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Jocks Wahey!
Jocks Wahey!
Saturday night saw me at a Burns Night Supper, celebrating the life of the great Scots poet, better known to you and I as the employer of Homer Simpson. I'd never been to one of these things before, so I fully expected
a) rivers of booze
b) bad poetry
c) haggis, booze
d) people saying "Jings", "Crivens!" and "Help ma boab"
e) more blokes in skirts than a Culture Club reunion
f) booze, vomit
And that's exactly what I got. As the evening wore on, and the Scotch Drink flowed, until it became impossible for the be-kilted Scots to gets the poetry out without making it any more ridiculous than it already is. In fact, an Arabic rendition of "To a Mouse" made more sense to me than the Scots version, while the "Toasting of the Ladies" descended into a drunken "Show us yeh tits, love", met by a stony silence.
Things got rapidly out of hand from there, one thing led to another, and there'll be red faces on Monday morning when the full reality of the witch-burning strikes home.
Wee Jimmy Krankie would be spinning in his grave.
And then men with beards arrived and the country dancing commenced. Asked to join in the dark arts of The Cocking of the Legs, I made my excuses and left.
Mirth. Woe. The finest night out for a long, long time.
Photos, you say?
Saturday night saw me at a Burns Night Supper, celebrating the life of the great Scots poet, better known to you and I as the employer of Homer Simpson. I'd never been to one of these things before, so I fully expected
a) rivers of booze
b) bad poetry
c) haggis, booze
d) people saying "Jings", "Crivens!" and "Help ma boab"
e) more blokes in skirts than a Culture Club reunion
f) booze, vomit
And that's exactly what I got. As the evening wore on, and the Scotch Drink flowed, until it became impossible for the be-kilted Scots to gets the poetry out without making it any more ridiculous than it already is. In fact, an Arabic rendition of "To a Mouse" made more sense to me than the Scots version, while the "Toasting of the Ladies" descended into a drunken "Show us yeh tits, love", met by a stony silence.
Things got rapidly out of hand from there, one thing led to another, and there'll be red faces on Monday morning when the full reality of the witch-burning strikes home.
Wee Jimmy Krankie would be spinning in his grave.
And then men with beards arrived and the country dancing commenced. Asked to join in the dark arts of The Cocking of the Legs, I made my excuses and left.
Mirth. Woe. The finest night out for a long, long time.
Photos, you say?
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Tales of Mirth and Woe
Tales of Mirth and Woe - in book form
A book, you say? Why, yes!
I am considering a self-publishing deal where I can put together a book filled with some of my best mirth and woe. It will contain some of the best Scary Stories, the mankiest gags from this site and some exclusive never-been-published content to sell to you, the discering (and if the reaction to yesterday's tale is anything to go by, fickle) punter.
What I really need before I through together 300 pages of Scary (and possibly Scary Brother) goodness is the firm backing that at least some of you lot will buy a copy. It'll cost about GBP10, and will come with a FREE turd through the letterbox* with every order.
Send no money now, just tell me "yes" or "no".
That is all.
*Turd through the letterbox offer open only to those employed in the building industry on the Island of Portland, UK.
Edit: Thanks for the promising response. All I've got to do now is write the thing.
A book, you say? Why, yes!
I am considering a self-publishing deal where I can put together a book filled with some of my best mirth and woe. It will contain some of the best Scary Stories, the mankiest gags from this site and some exclusive never-been-published content to sell to you, the discering (and if the reaction to yesterday's tale is anything to go by, fickle) punter.
What I really need before I through together 300 pages of Scary (and possibly Scary Brother) goodness is the firm backing that at least some of you lot will buy a copy. It'll cost about GBP10, and will come with a FREE turd through the letterbox* with every order.
Send no money now, just tell me "yes" or "no".
That is all.
*Turd through the letterbox offer open only to those employed in the building industry on the Island of Portland, UK.
Edit: Thanks for the promising response. All I've got to do now is write the thing.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Chicken: Farmyard Woe
Chicken - a Scaryduck's Brother special
There are of course many advantages to be gained when moving in with your girlfriend. I won't list them here...use your imagination. But inevitably there is a certain amount of baggage that gets brought to the party. For example - and I'm expecting back-up here - every shit middle-of-the-road CD I've ever bought her (including that bald fuck Phil Collins) is now being played on MY sound system*. I'd have put a damn sight more thought into xmas presents if I'd though we would end up shacked-up together. She'd have got Radiohead.
And then there is her horse.
Now don't get me wrong - her horse is a much-loved part of the family. My daughters think it's the coolest thing on four legs, the girlfriend has doted on it since she was twelve (and yes, I know where your mind is going with this - Sandra is 38 now so pack it in), and believe me there are days in my job where I envy the life where you stand in a field and shit yourself without a care in the world.
The thing is, in the same way that I now can't avoid Phil Collins (unless I do some hammer drilling), I now am involved in the care of the horse. Going-down-to-the-farmyard-involved. Getting-your-car-muddy involved. Scraping-shit-off-your-Boss-trainers involved. And that's how I ended up entangled in the life of a chicken.
We were out shopping one Saturday afternoon when she asked me to detour to buy some 'feed' to put into the sharp end of said horse. I was always under the impression that she turfed it into a field every morning and it ate the grass, but apparently it eats 'breakfast'. You live and learn. Having loaded my beloved car with stinky bags of shit until the exhaust was dragging we set off for the farm where she pays for him to live.
Let me at this point put in a brief note about chickens. This might come as a shock to some people, but chickens are the most stinky, repulsive and nasty creatures to walk the earth. Not only would they eat anything and everything put in from of them, they'd eat each other at the drop of a hat given half a chance. They're like rats with feathers and with more attitude. And what's with all that horrible red dangly skin stuff around their faces? It looks like they're all wearing Harry Redknapp's eyelids. And I hate the way they strut around giving it the large one. They remind me of Chelsea fans - the clucking wankers.
Anyway, when we arrived, the farmyard was covered in the little pecky tossers, which was a bit of a problem as I was buggered if I was going to heft the aforementioned stinky bags across the yard. I wanted to back the car up to the barn.
"Don't worry" she said, "They're not stupid. They'll move out of your way". Hmmm...
I backed the car up at 0 mph across the yard until I reached the barn. I then crippled myself heaving bags of stuff into the barn whilst she cooed and kissed the horse like a 'My Little Pony' advert (and incidentally, that's the mouth that she kisses me with...nice).
When I was done, I noticed that the chickens where gathering around my car - and one of the fuckers even pecked the door! I ran at them shouting that piece of language that is internationally recognised in a way that the inventors of Esperanto can only dream of:
"Fuck off!"
Chickens shot off in all directions like a feathery firework. I check under the car to make sure that they'd all gone. Oh God, there's one still under there, next to my front wheel. Not moving, and its head's under my wheel. Bollocks.
I am of course of the opinion that all things horsey and farmyardy are her department, whilst cooking, eating, and manly DIY around the home are in my remit. I call to her:
"I've fucked a chicken...No, really...With my car. Help."
I move the car forward, to reveal a truly haunting sight. The chicken was squashed into the mud and its head and neck were at a really fucked-up angle. It's lifeless eye was staring up at me and we were just debating if we needed to let the farm owner know when its beady black eye blinked at me! I nearly shat myself.
Oh great. Now we've got to wring it's neck. Well, when I say we, I mean she...I'm not touching the thing.
"I knew it would be alright", she said matter-of-factly.
"You what?"
"It'll be fine in a minute"
"What do you fucking mean it'll be fine?", I whisper, fearing discovery by Mrs Farmer. " It's been run over!"
"No, it'll have had worse."
"Come again?"
"They always get trodden on - it'll be OK."
"It's not been trodden on though, has it?", I retorted, looking wildly around for signs of the chicken's owner. "It's been fucking parked on."
She then proceeded to pluck Lucky from the puddle of mud (she made a loud squelch and left a perfect Kellogg's-like imprint) and carry her into the barn. I got my car keys out and flicked the mud out of its beak. It made some very odd noises while I had to run around aiming kicks at her concerned comrades who, unlike the solidarity and niceness shown in Chicken Run, were trying to eat their former friend.
On closer examination, I discovered a tiny droplet of blood on Lucky's beak. In other words, the sole visible injury that the chicken sustained after having an Audi parked on its head for ten minutes was a nose-bleed. A fucking nose bleed. It's still alive today, months after its amazing car park impression.
Oh, and do you know why it got run over? Why didn't the chicken cross the road whilst all of its mates sidled out of the way of imminent Goodyear doom? The poor twat only had one eye. Talk about survival of the fittest.
Why don't they make cars out of the stuff that chickens heads are made of?
* I draw the jury's attention to a copy of Michael Bolton - Timeless: The Classics found lurking in a CD rack during my brother's previous marriage. His? Hers? Planted by Jeremy Beadle? You decide. - Scary
There are of course many advantages to be gained when moving in with your girlfriend. I won't list them here...use your imagination. But inevitably there is a certain amount of baggage that gets brought to the party. For example - and I'm expecting back-up here - every shit middle-of-the-road CD I've ever bought her (including that bald fuck Phil Collins) is now being played on MY sound system*. I'd have put a damn sight more thought into xmas presents if I'd though we would end up shacked-up together. She'd have got Radiohead.
And then there is her horse.
Now don't get me wrong - her horse is a much-loved part of the family. My daughters think it's the coolest thing on four legs, the girlfriend has doted on it since she was twelve (and yes, I know where your mind is going with this - Sandra is 38 now so pack it in), and believe me there are days in my job where I envy the life where you stand in a field and shit yourself without a care in the world.
The thing is, in the same way that I now can't avoid Phil Collins (unless I do some hammer drilling), I now am involved in the care of the horse. Going-down-to-the-farmyard-involved. Getting-your-car-muddy involved. Scraping-shit-off-your-Boss-trainers involved. And that's how I ended up entangled in the life of a chicken.
We were out shopping one Saturday afternoon when she asked me to detour to buy some 'feed' to put into the sharp end of said horse. I was always under the impression that she turfed it into a field every morning and it ate the grass, but apparently it eats 'breakfast'. You live and learn. Having loaded my beloved car with stinky bags of shit until the exhaust was dragging we set off for the farm where she pays for him to live.
Let me at this point put in a brief note about chickens. This might come as a shock to some people, but chickens are the most stinky, repulsive and nasty creatures to walk the earth. Not only would they eat anything and everything put in from of them, they'd eat each other at the drop of a hat given half a chance. They're like rats with feathers and with more attitude. And what's with all that horrible red dangly skin stuff around their faces? It looks like they're all wearing Harry Redknapp's eyelids. And I hate the way they strut around giving it the large one. They remind me of Chelsea fans - the clucking wankers.
Anyway, when we arrived, the farmyard was covered in the little pecky tossers, which was a bit of a problem as I was buggered if I was going to heft the aforementioned stinky bags across the yard. I wanted to back the car up to the barn.
"Don't worry" she said, "They're not stupid. They'll move out of your way". Hmmm...
I backed the car up at 0 mph across the yard until I reached the barn. I then crippled myself heaving bags of stuff into the barn whilst she cooed and kissed the horse like a 'My Little Pony' advert (and incidentally, that's the mouth that she kisses me with...nice).
When I was done, I noticed that the chickens where gathering around my car - and one of the fuckers even pecked the door! I ran at them shouting that piece of language that is internationally recognised in a way that the inventors of Esperanto can only dream of:
"Fuck off!"
Chickens shot off in all directions like a feathery firework. I check under the car to make sure that they'd all gone. Oh God, there's one still under there, next to my front wheel. Not moving, and its head's under my wheel. Bollocks.
I am of course of the opinion that all things horsey and farmyardy are her department, whilst cooking, eating, and manly DIY around the home are in my remit. I call to her:
"I've fucked a chicken...No, really...With my car. Help."
I move the car forward, to reveal a truly haunting sight. The chicken was squashed into the mud and its head and neck were at a really fucked-up angle. It's lifeless eye was staring up at me and we were just debating if we needed to let the farm owner know when its beady black eye blinked at me! I nearly shat myself.
Oh great. Now we've got to wring it's neck. Well, when I say we, I mean she...I'm not touching the thing.
"I knew it would be alright", she said matter-of-factly.
"You what?"
"It'll be fine in a minute"
"What do you fucking mean it'll be fine?", I whisper, fearing discovery by Mrs Farmer. " It's been run over!"
"No, it'll have had worse."
"Come again?"
"They always get trodden on - it'll be OK."
"It's not been trodden on though, has it?", I retorted, looking wildly around for signs of the chicken's owner. "It's been fucking parked on."
She then proceeded to pluck Lucky from the puddle of mud (she made a loud squelch and left a perfect Kellogg's-like imprint) and carry her into the barn. I got my car keys out and flicked the mud out of its beak. It made some very odd noises while I had to run around aiming kicks at her concerned comrades who, unlike the solidarity and niceness shown in Chicken Run, were trying to eat their former friend.
On closer examination, I discovered a tiny droplet of blood on Lucky's beak. In other words, the sole visible injury that the chicken sustained after having an Audi parked on its head for ten minutes was a nose-bleed. A fucking nose bleed. It's still alive today, months after its amazing car park impression.
Oh, and do you know why it got run over? Why didn't the chicken cross the road whilst all of its mates sidled out of the way of imminent Goodyear doom? The poor twat only had one eye. Talk about survival of the fittest.
Why don't they make cars out of the stuff that chickens heads are made of?
* I draw the jury's attention to a copy of Michael Bolton - Timeless: The Classics found lurking in a CD rack during my brother's previous marriage. His? Hers? Planted by Jeremy Beadle? You decide. - Scary
Thursday, January 20, 2005
The Thursday Can't Be Arsed-o
The Thursday Can't Be Arsed-o
My brother has sent me a tale of mirth and woe involving chickens which is officially pants-pissingly funny. So damp are my trousers, in fact, that I am now wracked with jealousy over the fact that I am no longer the funny one in this family.
So, to prove myself wrong, I have written a joke, which I can assure you is ALL the funny.
Q: How do bakers listen to music?
A: With a pie-pod (an i-Pod!)
It clearly needs a bit of work. I foresee a long career writing gags for Christmas crackers. But with your gift of love* you can save me from this fate. Leave you terrible jokes in the Speak your Brains section below. Worst one wins a prize**!
*Cold, hard cash, if you don't know by now
** A kick in the genital area of your choice
Of clock-up cats
Clock-up cat: the condensed story, because you wouldn't stop asking:
1. The Duck family got a cat. No clocks were involved.
2. We went to Pets-u-like superstore to get catty provisions for as-yet non-clocky cat.
3. Young daughter writes shopping list. She was five at the time.
4. List reads, amongst the usual stuff like "basket" and "cat food", such delights as "scarty pole" and "clock-up mouse"
5. That's "scratching post" and "clockwork mouse" when translated back into English
6. Idiot dad picks up on the work clock-up, because it's funny. Wife doesn't think so and compares it unfavourably to "that business with the duck".
7. Anything cat-related soon becomes clock-up, including, at length, the cat itself.
8. Cat dies in bizarre fish-related accident. Stupid fishs. Buried in the family pet cemetary under a sundial.
Happy now?
My brother has sent me a tale of mirth and woe involving chickens which is officially pants-pissingly funny. So damp are my trousers, in fact, that I am now wracked with jealousy over the fact that I am no longer the funny one in this family.
So, to prove myself wrong, I have written a joke, which I can assure you is ALL the funny.
Q: How do bakers listen to music?
A: With a pie-pod (an i-Pod!)
It clearly needs a bit of work. I foresee a long career writing gags for Christmas crackers. But with your gift of love* you can save me from this fate. Leave you terrible jokes in the Speak your Brains section below. Worst one wins a prize**!
*Cold, hard cash, if you don't know by now
** A kick in the genital area of your choice
Of clock-up cats
Clock-up cat: the condensed story, because you wouldn't stop asking:
1. The Duck family got a cat. No clocks were involved.
2. We went to Pets-u-like superstore to get catty provisions for as-yet non-clocky cat.
3. Young daughter writes shopping list. She was five at the time.
4. List reads, amongst the usual stuff like "basket" and "cat food", such delights as "scarty pole" and "clock-up mouse"
5. That's "scratching post" and "clockwork mouse" when translated back into English
6. Idiot dad picks up on the work clock-up, because it's funny. Wife doesn't think so and compares it unfavourably to "that business with the duck".
7. Anything cat-related soon becomes clock-up, including, at length, the cat itself.
8. Cat dies in bizarre fish-related accident. Stupid fishs. Buried in the family pet cemetary under a sundial.
Happy now?
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
In which the author has nothing to say...
In which the author has nothing to say but wastes 336 words saying it
There are days when you simply cannot be bothered to post to your weblog. You can think of nothing amusing nor interesting to say, and your archives of previously-written material remains resolutely unfunny. This, dear reader, is one of those days. And only your gift of love* can make a difference.
Some call it writer's block, others, cruelly, call it a lack of creativity. I call it a damned nuisance and a sign that the writing drugs have worn out again. Ah! Fluoxetine! You stopped me being mental, stole my sex drive, but powered my creativity like a radio in my head controlled by Dave Lee Travis.**
Indeed, it is at times like this that I consider, and dismiss many notions, including nd not limited to:
- Why rabbits say "Maloo"
- Yet another dull treatise on the raison d'etre of humour in weblogging
- My adventures in cross-dressing at the Rugby World Cup
- Lightly-oiled female celebrities
- The slow and painful death by a thousand dog-turds I'd like to visit on that lying workshy cunt of a builder who is clearly taking over my life
- An experiment in making a weblog post consisting entirely of the words "horse's jism"
...but that would be just repeating myself.
However, I like to think that I know my audience***. You want mirth, woe, quirky insights into modern living coupled with wry reminiscences of a wasted youth. But most of all, dear reader - for I can read you like a book**** - you want swearing. And nudity. Better still, naked people swearing. Where would we be without it? Ah.
* Cold, hard cash
** "And coming right up on the Hairy Cornflake - weblog darts"
*** In fact, you should pop round some time. Have a curry, a few drinks, and when you finally come round from your rohypnol-induced nightmare, I'll set you to work on my loft conversion.
**** "Inside the mind of a pervert" by S Duck, available from all good book stores NOW!
Manky
I haven't written anything truly manky for at least ...oooh... a week. This little number is about as manky as they come, without having to resort to actual penetration. Just don't come running to me when you've thrown up everywhere in disgust, slipped in the diced carrots and broken both your legs. You were warned.
The Wednesday vote-us
Damn you Boris Johnson and your asking-blog-readers-to-vote-for-a-story post. That's my turf, that is.
Just get over there and do as I do. This is our chance to change hearts and minds.
There are days when you simply cannot be bothered to post to your weblog. You can think of nothing amusing nor interesting to say, and your archives of previously-written material remains resolutely unfunny. This, dear reader, is one of those days. And only your gift of love* can make a difference.
Some call it writer's block, others, cruelly, call it a lack of creativity. I call it a damned nuisance and a sign that the writing drugs have worn out again. Ah! Fluoxetine! You stopped me being mental, stole my sex drive, but powered my creativity like a radio in my head controlled by Dave Lee Travis.**
Indeed, it is at times like this that I consider, and dismiss many notions, including nd not limited to:
- Why rabbits say "Maloo"
- Yet another dull treatise on the raison d'etre of humour in weblogging
- My adventures in cross-dressing at the Rugby World Cup
- Lightly-oiled female celebrities
- The slow and painful death by a thousand dog-turds I'd like to visit on that lying workshy cunt of a builder who is clearly taking over my life
- An experiment in making a weblog post consisting entirely of the words "horse's jism"
...but that would be just repeating myself.
However, I like to think that I know my audience***. You want mirth, woe, quirky insights into modern living coupled with wry reminiscences of a wasted youth. But most of all, dear reader - for I can read you like a book**** - you want swearing. And nudity. Better still, naked people swearing. Where would we be without it? Ah.
* Cold, hard cash
** "And coming right up on the Hairy Cornflake - weblog darts"
*** In fact, you should pop round some time. Have a curry, a few drinks, and when you finally come round from your rohypnol-induced nightmare, I'll set you to work on my loft conversion.
**** "Inside the mind of a pervert" by S Duck, available from all good book stores NOW!
Manky
I haven't written anything truly manky for at least ...oooh... a week. This little number is about as manky as they come, without having to resort to actual penetration. Just don't come running to me when you've thrown up everywhere in disgust, slipped in the diced carrots and broken both your legs. You were warned.
The Wednesday vote-us
Damn you Boris Johnson and your asking-blog-readers-to-vote-for-a-story post. That's my turf, that is.
Just get over there and do as I do. This is our chance to change hearts and minds.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Shopping Tension
Shopping Tension
Women! I don't care what you say - when shopping to a budget, air freshener and Bloo Loo do not count as "essentials". Neither, come to think of it, does dishwasher cleaner. The insides of dishwashers are clean, otherwise they are, to use the technical term, broken.
And yes, I really do need a whopping great container of mixed nuts and raisons (reduced from 2.98 to 79p in the post-Christmas slump) - the doctor's* put me on a special "foul breath" diet.
You know how that old, old saying goes: "Women - can't live with 'em, can't club 'em to death with a lump hammer and bury 'em in the garden." And John Lennon said that**.
These are desperate times for those of us hit by government restrictions on the slave trade. I have witnessed with my own eyes a colleague eating a pot noodle mixed with pilchards straight out of the tin. And I remain convinced that he was 100 per cent sober.
In times of financial woe, I have jazzed up baked beans with curry powder, whilst one of Mrs Duck's uncles went several days living off a wedding cake he found on the hard shoulder of the M4***.
Manky food? I bet you've had worse...
* Tom Baker
** Lie
*** Truth
Women! I don't care what you say - when shopping to a budget, air freshener and Bloo Loo do not count as "essentials". Neither, come to think of it, does dishwasher cleaner. The insides of dishwashers are clean, otherwise they are, to use the technical term, broken.
And yes, I really do need a whopping great container of mixed nuts and raisons (reduced from 2.98 to 79p in the post-Christmas slump) - the doctor's* put me on a special "foul breath" diet.
You know how that old, old saying goes: "Women - can't live with 'em, can't club 'em to death with a lump hammer and bury 'em in the garden." And John Lennon said that**.
These are desperate times for those of us hit by government restrictions on the slave trade. I have witnessed with my own eyes a colleague eating a pot noodle mixed with pilchards straight out of the tin. And I remain convinced that he was 100 per cent sober.
In times of financial woe, I have jazzed up baked beans with curry powder, whilst one of Mrs Duck's uncles went several days living off a wedding cake he found on the hard shoulder of the M4***.
Manky food? I bet you've had worse...
* Tom Baker
** Lie
*** Truth
Monday, January 17, 2005
Pet Woe
Pet woe
Mrs Duck has had a bad day. She had put evil hamster Ryan Minogue is his run-around ball so she could clean his cage.. Twenty minutes later, she finds said ball - open, with no trace of hammy - next to a suspicious-looking dog who is licking his lips.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!
Fluffy ending - the Minogue had escaped (possibly with a little help from his canine housemate) and was eating the speaker cables under the stereo. The little git.
Unfluffy ending - The dog then got far too excited about the whole affair, pissed on the living room carpet and got stuck in the cat-flap trying to effect his escape. The little git.
The whole episode has had an unnverving effect on Ryan's owner, the boy Scaryduck Jr.
"I don't want to call him Ryan Minogue any more"
"Oh yes, and what do you want to call him?"
"Spunky"
"Pfffft!"
It would be best to point out at this stage that the finger-eating bastard Ryan was bought as an investment. Because you never know when Richard Gere will arrive at your door with a huge wad of cash, begging for rodents.
Mrs Duck has had a bad day. She had put evil hamster Ryan Minogue is his run-around ball so she could clean his cage.. Twenty minutes later, she finds said ball - open, with no trace of hammy - next to a suspicious-looking dog who is licking his lips.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!
Fluffy ending - the Minogue had escaped (possibly with a little help from his canine housemate) and was eating the speaker cables under the stereo. The little git.
Unfluffy ending - The dog then got far too excited about the whole affair, pissed on the living room carpet and got stuck in the cat-flap trying to effect his escape. The little git.
The whole episode has had an unnverving effect on Ryan's owner, the boy Scaryduck Jr.
"I don't want to call him Ryan Minogue any more"
"Oh yes, and what do you want to call him?"
"Spunky"
"Pfffft!"
It would be best to point out at this stage that the finger-eating bastard Ryan was bought as an investment. Because you never know when Richard Gere will arrive at your door with a huge wad of cash, begging for rodents.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Marilyn: Cross-dressing woe
Marilyn
I have, on several occasions, alluded to my rather unusual line manager during my time in the Civil Service. He was a pleasant chap, very sociable; but with a mind warped from the boredom of counting cows for the Ministry, inclined to do as little work as humanly possible whilst smoking his way to an early grave.
I would spend many a Saturday afternoon with him on the Tilehurst End terrace at Reading Football Club, way back in the days when they were shit, and he hadn't missed a game for seasons. He boasted "I was here the day of the record low crowd", and I think they actually held up kick-off until he arrived.
The highlight of Mark's life was the annual New Year fancy dress party at his local pub, an establishment so blighted by his presence, it has since closed its doors to paying customers. He would start plannning his outfit in June, and would make sure every last detail, every little nuance of the character was absolutely perfect. He WAS Elvis. He WAS Henry VIII, but most of all, he WAS Marilyn Monroe.
It was utterly freaky. He had that little white dress specailly made in a manly size by an understanding friend (and not, he was at pains to point out, by one of those "From He to She" companies that advertise in the Sunday papers "because I'm not a fucking tranny"), while a realistic Marilyn-type blonde wig was sourced from a theatrical costumiers at great expense.
Shoes were a bit of a problem, simply because they don't do strappy sandals for hairy-arsed cross-dressers. So he was forced to contact one of those "From He to She" companies that advertise in the Sunday papers "But I'm not a fucking tranny".
As for the tits - a marvel of modern engineering in realistic gel-filled containers, topped off with what appeared to be a couple of peanuts. Most of us were under the distinct impression that he had done this sort of thing before, and on a regular basis. Not many men know their bra size, nor are they able to tuck their johnson away to hide that embarrassing manly trouser bulge. Mark still lived with his parents.
Come the big night, and Marilyn Monroe took a taxi from a semi-detatched house in Tilehurst to a local pub. For several hours, s/he partook in heavy drinking, the singing of ribald songs, before mincing off with the first prize in the fancy dress competition for the third year running. The prize was paid in drink. Lots of it, followed by more drink, ribald singing, and unspeakable acts of a disturbing nature.
After that, our hero's narrative sort of gets fuzzy. Those of us who had drunk in moderation were able to stagger home before the sun came up. Mark, on the other hand, wound up at some friend of a friend's house, where a chilli was cooked and more drink was consumed before several people had a go on Marilyn's tits.
A New Year dawned, and with it a home match at Elm Park. I believe Birmingham City were the visitors, but the game itself has slipped my mind completely. That may have been something to do with the fact that Mark had failed to appear at the Tilehurst End, his first missed home match for donkey's years. It was a complete mystery - most of us had survived the Ordeal By Pub, but none had seen him leave.
"Perhaps she's having it off with the bloke who turned up as a mafiosi" someone suggested. Stranger things have happened.
Then, two days later, just as we were giving up hope, Mark turned up in the office, bang on 9am for a hard day of smoking and avoiding work.
"I've come straight from this party," he confessed, and God he looked it.
He was still in his Marilyn outfit. One of the tits was missing in action. The wig was on back to front and one of his manly heels hanging off at a perilous angle. He had been where no man had gone before, and with a bit of luck, would never need to visit ever again.
"Fuck me," he said cryptically, "what a weekend. Anyone got a fag?"
Then, realising he was a) the boss and b) in possession of an entire year's leave allowance, he took the day off.
Mark is now running a petrol station somewhere in the Thames Valley, and has a lovely wig.
I have, on several occasions, alluded to my rather unusual line manager during my time in the Civil Service. He was a pleasant chap, very sociable; but with a mind warped from the boredom of counting cows for the Ministry, inclined to do as little work as humanly possible whilst smoking his way to an early grave.
I would spend many a Saturday afternoon with him on the Tilehurst End terrace at Reading Football Club, way back in the days when they were shit, and he hadn't missed a game for seasons. He boasted "I was here the day of the record low crowd", and I think they actually held up kick-off until he arrived.
The highlight of Mark's life was the annual New Year fancy dress party at his local pub, an establishment so blighted by his presence, it has since closed its doors to paying customers. He would start plannning his outfit in June, and would make sure every last detail, every little nuance of the character was absolutely perfect. He WAS Elvis. He WAS Henry VIII, but most of all, he WAS Marilyn Monroe.
It was utterly freaky. He had that little white dress specailly made in a manly size by an understanding friend (and not, he was at pains to point out, by one of those "From He to She" companies that advertise in the Sunday papers "because I'm not a fucking tranny"), while a realistic Marilyn-type blonde wig was sourced from a theatrical costumiers at great expense.
Shoes were a bit of a problem, simply because they don't do strappy sandals for hairy-arsed cross-dressers. So he was forced to contact one of those "From He to She" companies that advertise in the Sunday papers "But I'm not a fucking tranny".
As for the tits - a marvel of modern engineering in realistic gel-filled containers, topped off with what appeared to be a couple of peanuts. Most of us were under the distinct impression that he had done this sort of thing before, and on a regular basis. Not many men know their bra size, nor are they able to tuck their johnson away to hide that embarrassing manly trouser bulge. Mark still lived with his parents.
Come the big night, and Marilyn Monroe took a taxi from a semi-detatched house in Tilehurst to a local pub. For several hours, s/he partook in heavy drinking, the singing of ribald songs, before mincing off with the first prize in the fancy dress competition for the third year running. The prize was paid in drink. Lots of it, followed by more drink, ribald singing, and unspeakable acts of a disturbing nature.
After that, our hero's narrative sort of gets fuzzy. Those of us who had drunk in moderation were able to stagger home before the sun came up. Mark, on the other hand, wound up at some friend of a friend's house, where a chilli was cooked and more drink was consumed before several people had a go on Marilyn's tits.
A New Year dawned, and with it a home match at Elm Park. I believe Birmingham City were the visitors, but the game itself has slipped my mind completely. That may have been something to do with the fact that Mark had failed to appear at the Tilehurst End, his first missed home match for donkey's years. It was a complete mystery - most of us had survived the Ordeal By Pub, but none had seen him leave.
"Perhaps she's having it off with the bloke who turned up as a mafiosi" someone suggested. Stranger things have happened.
Then, two days later, just as we were giving up hope, Mark turned up in the office, bang on 9am for a hard day of smoking and avoiding work.
"I've come straight from this party," he confessed, and God he looked it.
He was still in his Marilyn outfit. One of the tits was missing in action. The wig was on back to front and one of his manly heels hanging off at a perilous angle. He had been where no man had gone before, and with a bit of luck, would never need to visit ever again.
"Fuck me," he said cryptically, "what a weekend. Anyone got a fag?"
Then, realising he was a) the boss and b) in possession of an entire year's leave allowance, he took the day off.
Mark is now running a petrol station somewhere in the Thames Valley, and has a lovely wig.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
The Thursday wossname. Vote-o.
Inappropriate places to masturbate
Lazy blogging, cut-and-pasted from a messageboard in another place. Read, digest, knock one out (unless you're reading this in a public library), add to list.
97. During the Queen's speech. Especially if you are the cameraman. Or the Queen.
98. Whilst leading the community singing of "Abide With Me" during the FA Cup Final.
101. In the centre circle during the FA Cup Final*
111. Whilst umpiring the second test against the West Indies at Lords.
115. During a period of silence for the victims of tragedy or war.
118. At 'Wrestlemania' . - suggested by Blast Radius
122. In the buffet car of the 1748 Weymouth - London Waterloo service.
146. Whilst watching Dick'n'Dom in da Bungalow with your mum. It's not what they mean by "creamy muck muck".
147. Whilst on a guided tour of Anne Frank's house. And I don't care if you are in Amsterdam, saying "she was one hot piece of fluff" is going to get you hunted down like a dog by Simon Wiesenthal.
148. During assembly on your first day as headmaster at a large public school.
149. In the dock at the Old Bailey whilst on charges of "bumming TV's Jeremy Clarkson in the face" (unless entering a plea of insanity).
163. Whilst singing "Candle in the Wind" at Princess Diana's funeral.
169. During Holy Communion. Especially if you are the vicar. Doubly especially if you are a girl vicar trying to impress a visiting bishop.
190. Whilst appearing as a competitor on "Countdown". Extra credit if Ann Widdecombe is in Dictionary Corner.
*Unless you are Ryan Giggs.
The Thursday wossname. Vote-o.
Seven stories. Seven mysteries leading to entirely true tales of mirth and woe. But this week, there are no titles. Instead, I have mixed up the list and given nothing to go on but a frightening picture of Ann Widdecombe in the prime of her life** and seven random quotes from the Scary Tales in question.
1. "......." said Mrs Duck.
2. "Light the blue touchpaper, and retire to a safe distance."
3. "That embarrassing manly trouser bulge."
4. "He returned cold, wet and had clearly shat his pants."
5. "He was stuck fast, right up to the hilt."
6. "He assured us that it would bring a suitable climax to the action"
7. "A sachet of tomato ketchup and six straws please"
It's a voting spectacular, and not fixed in any way whatsoever.
** The baby oil is hidden just out of shot, and she's saving it for you, sinner!
Lazy blogging, cut-and-pasted from a messageboard in another place. Read, digest, knock one out (unless you're reading this in a public library), add to list.
97. During the Queen's speech. Especially if you are the cameraman. Or the Queen.
98. Whilst leading the community singing of "Abide With Me" during the FA Cup Final.
101. In the centre circle during the FA Cup Final*
111. Whilst umpiring the second test against the West Indies at Lords.
115. During a period of silence for the victims of tragedy or war.
118. At 'Wrestlemania' . - suggested by Blast Radius
122. In the buffet car of the 1748 Weymouth - London Waterloo service.
146. Whilst watching Dick'n'Dom in da Bungalow with your mum. It's not what they mean by "creamy muck muck".
147. Whilst on a guided tour of Anne Frank's house. And I don't care if you are in Amsterdam, saying "she was one hot piece of fluff" is going to get you hunted down like a dog by Simon Wiesenthal.
148. During assembly on your first day as headmaster at a large public school.
149. In the dock at the Old Bailey whilst on charges of "bumming TV's Jeremy Clarkson in the face" (unless entering a plea of insanity).
163. Whilst singing "Candle in the Wind" at Princess Diana's funeral.
169. During Holy Communion. Especially if you are the vicar. Doubly especially if you are a girl vicar trying to impress a visiting bishop.
190. Whilst appearing as a competitor on "Countdown". Extra credit if Ann Widdecombe is in Dictionary Corner.
*Unless you are Ryan Giggs.
The Thursday wossname. Vote-o.
Seven stories. Seven mysteries leading to entirely true tales of mirth and woe. But this week, there are no titles. Instead, I have mixed up the list and given nothing to go on but a frightening picture of Ann Widdecombe in the prime of her life** and seven random quotes from the Scary Tales in question.
1. "......." said Mrs Duck.
2. "Light the blue touchpaper, and retire to a safe distance."
3. "That embarrassing manly trouser bulge."
4. "He returned cold, wet and had clearly shat his pants."
5. "He was stuck fast, right up to the hilt."
6. "He assured us that it would bring a suitable climax to the action"
7. "A sachet of tomato ketchup and six straws please"
It's a voting spectacular, and not fixed in any way whatsoever.
** The baby oil is hidden just out of shot, and she's saving it for you, sinner!
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
The Art of Manly
Iraq News
The latest from Fox News:
With elections in the 53rd state of America coming up at the end of the month (51= UK, 52=Afghanistan, 53=Eye-raq), don't forget it is your sworn duty as a citizen to support the troops you sent to liberate cheap oil from THE TERRORISTS.
Here's a list of useless things you can do before stern looking men in dark suits and very expensive watches come knocking at your door:
* Pray
* Put a Sticker on your car
* Tell everyone you support the troops
* Put a flag on your front lawn
* Pray more
* Vote for Bush
* Pray until your eyes bleed and your family lies dead at your feet following the casting out of demons.
* Complain to your local broadcaster about the unpatriotic, liberal homosexual leanings of the Teletubbies
* Burn your local library, a whorehouse of blasphemy and liberal slander against our great nation
* Vote for Bush again, just in case.
* Get on your knees for THE LORD, there's no such thing as too much praying to the Commander-in-Chief
In other news: I am not mad.
The Art of Manly
No: 17 - The bottle: Today's exploration of the world of the Manly Arts* looks at the use of the plastic bottle. The subject returns from the pub after a night of manly chat and excessive drinking and will take a plastic drink bottle to bed with him.
This bottle is not for further refreshment. Oh no! The bottle is used by the student of the manly arts so he doesn't have to get out of bed every ten minutes to relieve himself, risking a trip to the toilet that could end in pissing-on-the-other-half's-stuff disaster.
You tutor, until very recently, was under the impression that he was the only person in the world who did this, but now understands it is passed down through the generations as a celebration of all that is manly.
A warn of warning, however, for those suffering short-to-medium term memory loss: do not, under any circumstances use an old whisky bottle. You are bound to forget the manly antics of the night before, wake clutching a bottle of yellow liquid , and assume that you have unfinished business with Mr Teacher.
* You missed parts 1-16. You were probably out being less than manly, and let that be a lesson to you.
The latest from Fox News:
With elections in the 53rd state of America coming up at the end of the month (51= UK, 52=Afghanistan, 53=Eye-raq), don't forget it is your sworn duty as a citizen to support the troops you sent to liberate cheap oil from THE TERRORISTS.
Here's a list of useless things you can do before stern looking men in dark suits and very expensive watches come knocking at your door:
* Pray
* Put a Sticker on your car
* Tell everyone you support the troops
* Put a flag on your front lawn
* Pray more
* Vote for Bush
* Pray until your eyes bleed and your family lies dead at your feet following the casting out of demons.
* Complain to your local broadcaster about the unpatriotic, liberal homosexual leanings of the Teletubbies
* Burn your local library, a whorehouse of blasphemy and liberal slander against our great nation
* Vote for Bush again, just in case.
* Get on your knees for THE LORD, there's no such thing as too much praying to the Commander-in-Chief
In other news: I am not mad.
The Art of Manly
No: 17 - The bottle: Today's exploration of the world of the Manly Arts* looks at the use of the plastic bottle. The subject returns from the pub after a night of manly chat and excessive drinking and will take a plastic drink bottle to bed with him.
This bottle is not for further refreshment. Oh no! The bottle is used by the student of the manly arts so he doesn't have to get out of bed every ten minutes to relieve himself, risking a trip to the toilet that could end in pissing-on-the-other-half's-stuff disaster.
You tutor, until very recently, was under the impression that he was the only person in the world who did this, but now understands it is passed down through the generations as a celebration of all that is manly.
A warn of warning, however, for those suffering short-to-medium term memory loss: do not, under any circumstances use an old whisky bottle. You are bound to forget the manly antics of the night before, wake clutching a bottle of yellow liquid , and assume that you have unfinished business with Mr Teacher.
* You missed parts 1-16. You were probably out being less than manly, and let that be a lesson to you.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
"Man U killed Rod Hull"
"Man U killed Rod Hull"
One straight from the "Oh, fuck NOOOOO!" files.
I've just read that Toby Hull - son of the gravitionally challenged flighltess Rod Hull - has taken up the Emu and is planning to bring the thing back to our television screens.
With Jumanji drums beating in the distance, Toby stuck his hand up the bird's arse and took him to Crewe for the panto. There followed the usual violent fondling of peoples' rude bits and death threats from Michael Parkinson.
And you thought the outcry over Jerry Springer was bad.
Spongolisor
A Scaryduck household dictionary:
* I'm gonnur spanner you up: General threat of mild violence by childs against parents
* Gone wonkolid: Broken, not functioning correctly. "Dad! The telly's gone wonkolid!"
* Dit: Drink (see tut) "Dad, can I have fresh dit?" "Say please" "I'm gonnur spanner you up."
* Tut: Drink (see dit) "Fresh tut!" etc...
* Clock-up: A term of endearment for cats. Derived from a set of circumstances rather too complex to explain. "What I lovely cat. I bet it's clock-up."
What words or phrases do you use solely in your household?
One straight from the "Oh, fuck NOOOOO!" files.
I've just read that Toby Hull - son of the gravitionally challenged flighltess Rod Hull - has taken up the Emu and is planning to bring the thing back to our television screens.
With Jumanji drums beating in the distance, Toby stuck his hand up the bird's arse and took him to Crewe for the panto. There followed the usual violent fondling of peoples' rude bits and death threats from Michael Parkinson.
And you thought the outcry over Jerry Springer was bad.
Spongolisor
A Scaryduck household dictionary:
* I'm gonnur spanner you up: General threat of mild violence by childs against parents
* Gone wonkolid: Broken, not functioning correctly. "Dad! The telly's gone wonkolid!"
* Dit: Drink (see tut) "Dad, can I have fresh dit?" "Say please" "I'm gonnur spanner you up."
* Tut: Drink (see dit) "Fresh tut!" etc...
* Clock-up: A term of endearment for cats. Derived from a set of circumstances rather too complex to explain. "What I lovely cat. I bet it's clock-up."
What words or phrases do you use solely in your household?
Monday, January 10, 2005
Off the Rails / Books-u-like
Off the Rails
In April of last year, in a brazen display of corporate colonialism, British Rail sacked its entire National Rail Enquiries call centre staff and moved the operation to India. With all-too-predictable results.
BR managers like to think the move was flawless, having trained its one pound per hour staff in idiomatic English, encouraged them to use names familiar to Western ears, and most famously, shipping out episodes of EastEnders and Coronation Street for their delight. But then, they probably haven't had to use the new, improved service.
Two words: local knowledge.
You can train your remote staff as much as you like, but the huge majority haven't even been to Britain, let alone travelled on trains which don't, on the whole, have passengers travelling on the roof.
I'm a clever bastard, as you well know, and can find my way round both printed timetables and websites, but during the holdiay period when the network is on a special made-up-in-the-Fat-Controller's-head timetable, you've really got to ring up and find out if there's going to be a train to take you home.
"Hello, my name is Sharon*, what is your journey please?"
"Reading to Weymouth, after 1900 tonight, please."
"Take the 1904 to Bristol..."
"Sorry, my ticket only goes via Basingstoke."
"There are no trains to Basingstoke," she lied.
"Not even First Great Western?"
"Who?"
"They operate trains on that line."
"Sorry, I have no idea."
*click* *try again*
Five minutes later...
"No, Dennis*, let me explain - I DON'T WANT TO GO TO TOSSING BRISTOL!"
Bless 'em, for they are only doing their job, while the likes of Brian Souter coin it in.
On the third attempt, Dev** finally acknowledged the existance of Basingstoke, and I write this on the 1939 Great Western Service from Reading to the mini-roundabout capital of the world.
As my colleague and mystery blogger Steve pointed out: "God help them if you're trying to get to somewhere obscure."
*Dials frantically*
"Yes, Dyffryn Ardudwy to Corkickle, please. On a Sunday, avoiding Bristol Tossing Temple Meads."
* How very EastEnders.
** Yay for Corrie!
Book Reviews
Oscar Wilde: A Biography - H. Montgomery Hyde. "A classic" say the critics. "As near 'definitive' as we are likely to get", say the papers. "Bollocks", I reply. It's nigh on two hundred pages before there's even a whiff of bum-sex, and Hyde has the gall to tell us that Wilde actually fathered children. With a lady. Yeah, right, Vyvyan. You're going to tell me he had a hamster called Special Patrol Group, next.
Hyde tells us of Wilde's three trials, in which he ends up held, famously, at Reading Gaol, but neglects to tell us of his fourth, a week's trial at West Ham United, where he was offered a contract as defensive bruiser, but instead to go off, write poetry and pose as a sodomite (see, I really did read it). His most widely-read work, the poem "Here I sit, broken hearted, Paid my penny, only farted" is entirely ignored.
Neither does the biographer mention Wilde's silver medal for Greco-Roman Wrestling at the 1896 Olympics, nor his great work in bombarding the German Kaiser with French Ticklers, an act that would pave the way to the Great War, the rise of the Nazis and the eventual composition of "Springtime for Hitler", surely Wilde's greatest legacy. Avoid.
Stardust - Neil Gaiman. If I was disappointed with the Wilde biography, then I was doubly so with Gaiman's slapdash work on the life of the Godfather of British rock'n'roll, Alvin Stardust.
In fact, My Coo Ca Choo barely gets a mention, and it is clear that Mr Gaiman has spent far too much time writing about the London Underground and tatty tourist attractions in America, rather than on the important subject matter of over-the-hill karaoke singers. Avoid.
On second thoughts, don't avoid. The Wilde work really is a classic of its type, while Gaiman's take of the nineteenth-century fairy tale is hugely satisfying and a joy to read. It has witches, rough open-air sex and a happy ending. What more could you ask?
Now: while I am in the rare position of being between books, you may wish to influence my decision on what I should read next. Recommend-o-book-u-like! Suggest "The Da Vinci Code", and I shall hunt you down like a dog.
In April of last year, in a brazen display of corporate colonialism, British Rail sacked its entire National Rail Enquiries call centre staff and moved the operation to India. With all-too-predictable results.
BR managers like to think the move was flawless, having trained its one pound per hour staff in idiomatic English, encouraged them to use names familiar to Western ears, and most famously, shipping out episodes of EastEnders and Coronation Street for their delight. But then, they probably haven't had to use the new, improved service.
Two words: local knowledge.
You can train your remote staff as much as you like, but the huge majority haven't even been to Britain, let alone travelled on trains which don't, on the whole, have passengers travelling on the roof.
I'm a clever bastard, as you well know, and can find my way round both printed timetables and websites, but during the holdiay period when the network is on a special made-up-in-the-Fat-Controller's-head timetable, you've really got to ring up and find out if there's going to be a train to take you home.
"Hello, my name is Sharon*, what is your journey please?"
"Reading to Weymouth, after 1900 tonight, please."
"Take the 1904 to Bristol..."
"Sorry, my ticket only goes via Basingstoke."
"There are no trains to Basingstoke," she lied.
"Not even First Great Western?"
"Who?"
"They operate trains on that line."
"Sorry, I have no idea."
*click* *try again*
Five minutes later...
"No, Dennis*, let me explain - I DON'T WANT TO GO TO TOSSING BRISTOL!"
Bless 'em, for they are only doing their job, while the likes of Brian Souter coin it in.
On the third attempt, Dev** finally acknowledged the existance of Basingstoke, and I write this on the 1939 Great Western Service from Reading to the mini-roundabout capital of the world.
As my colleague and mystery blogger Steve pointed out: "God help them if you're trying to get to somewhere obscure."
*Dials frantically*
"Yes, Dyffryn Ardudwy to Corkickle, please. On a Sunday, avoiding Bristol Tossing Temple Meads."
* How very EastEnders.
** Yay for Corrie!
Book Reviews
Oscar Wilde: A Biography - H. Montgomery Hyde. "A classic" say the critics. "As near 'definitive' as we are likely to get", say the papers. "Bollocks", I reply. It's nigh on two hundred pages before there's even a whiff of bum-sex, and Hyde has the gall to tell us that Wilde actually fathered children. With a lady. Yeah, right, Vyvyan. You're going to tell me he had a hamster called Special Patrol Group, next.
Hyde tells us of Wilde's three trials, in which he ends up held, famously, at Reading Gaol, but neglects to tell us of his fourth, a week's trial at West Ham United, where he was offered a contract as defensive bruiser, but instead to go off, write poetry and pose as a sodomite (see, I really did read it). His most widely-read work, the poem "Here I sit, broken hearted, Paid my penny, only farted" is entirely ignored.
Neither does the biographer mention Wilde's silver medal for Greco-Roman Wrestling at the 1896 Olympics, nor his great work in bombarding the German Kaiser with French Ticklers, an act that would pave the way to the Great War, the rise of the Nazis and the eventual composition of "Springtime for Hitler", surely Wilde's greatest legacy. Avoid.
Stardust - Neil Gaiman. If I was disappointed with the Wilde biography, then I was doubly so with Gaiman's slapdash work on the life of the Godfather of British rock'n'roll, Alvin Stardust.
In fact, My Coo Ca Choo barely gets a mention, and it is clear that Mr Gaiman has spent far too much time writing about the London Underground and tatty tourist attractions in America, rather than on the important subject matter of over-the-hill karaoke singers. Avoid.
On second thoughts, don't avoid. The Wilde work really is a classic of its type, while Gaiman's take of the nineteenth-century fairy tale is hugely satisfying and a joy to read. It has witches, rough open-air sex and a happy ending. What more could you ask?
Now: while I am in the rare position of being between books, you may wish to influence my decision on what I should read next. Recommend-o-book-u-like! Suggest "The Da Vinci Code", and I shall hunt you down like a dog.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Scrumping: Stolen fruit woe
Scrumping
"How do you like those apples?"
Scrumping is a dying art. Kids these days would rather hang out down the shopping arcade injecting their cracks with marijuana or something, than break into some farmer's orchard and leg it with bags of stolen apples. And that, dear reader, is why society is buggered. Petty crime just isn't what it used to be.
A cat-and-mouse game between land-owners waxing fat off our starvation, the local tit-headed copper and stupid teenagers on a dare has given way to six cans of Stella on a park bench, before bowking up outside a kebab shop. For shame.
Following centuries of tradition, then, we went up to the orchards at Hare Hatch of an evening to see what we could get. The scene of many a successful scrump, you could hide your bikes at the side of the road, shin over a fence, and liberate the good, ripening fruit for the good of the starving local peasantry (ie us). Or you could just throw them at each other until somebody got their nose broken.
As the sun set behind the sewage works, pockets and cheeks bulging, tissues over bloodied noses, we scrambled back over the fence to head to our respective homes, and the bosom of our grateful families. "Lawks-a-lordy - look what the young massa's brought home - we can eat this week, Tiny Tim!"
But like Adam and Eve, we were tempted by forbidden fruit, and the cold hand of fate would deal us the harshest blow in this Eden in southern England. For we fell straight into the arms of the Old Bill, who had stealthily snuck up on us on his Thames Valley Constabulary-issue push-bike like some angel of fate descending from the heavens.
The Law spoke unto us: "Evenin' lads."
"It's not what you think, officer," said Matty, cheeks bulging like a hamster. As if that was going to make any difference.
“Turn your pockets out, lads.”
So we did. Apples everywhere. It was exactly what the boy in blue suspected, and then some.
All except Ronnie, who was rather reluctant to empty his pockets in front of the lawman.
"I could just do you for theft and trespass," Plod said by way of encouragement.
Slowly, Ronnie emptied his pockets. Apples naturally, but also, to his shame, a large pack of Durex's finest rubber johnnies.
We were, frankly, stunned. Most of us hadn't even seen A Lady Naked, and here was Ronnie, at the age of fifteen, all ready and Johnnied-up for Doing The Sex. The only person in our school who had the courage to own up to possession of prophylactics was one chap who drunkenly admitted possession for his night manipulations on account of his raging eczema. We called him Captain Condom.
"It's still not what you think, officer."
“You’re a bit hopeful laddie”, replied the Bill, "I hope you've brought enough for everybody."
“I’m in the Scouts,” said Ronnie , “Be Prepared.”
After a tense stand-off, the ice was broken, and we were let off with a stern warning. Next time, he'd get his notebook out. And he might even tell our parents.
The second he was gone, we were back over the fence. For now, we had work to do and it was carried out with a purpose and with only minor damage to Ronnie's trouser parts.
God knows what the bourgeois land-owning farmer thought the next morning. There, hanging from his trees hung long, rubber tubes, each containing a wind-fallen apple, diligently tied back onto the branch by hard-working local teenagers, swinging in the breeze like so many scrotal sacs. All fully lubricanted and impervious to attack by the forces of spermatazoon. It was beautiful.
It would have been a shame to see them go to waste.
Apple, anyone?
"How do you like those apples?"
Scrumping is a dying art. Kids these days would rather hang out down the shopping arcade injecting their cracks with marijuana or something, than break into some farmer's orchard and leg it with bags of stolen apples. And that, dear reader, is why society is buggered. Petty crime just isn't what it used to be.
A cat-and-mouse game between land-owners waxing fat off our starvation, the local tit-headed copper and stupid teenagers on a dare has given way to six cans of Stella on a park bench, before bowking up outside a kebab shop. For shame.
Following centuries of tradition, then, we went up to the orchards at Hare Hatch of an evening to see what we could get. The scene of many a successful scrump, you could hide your bikes at the side of the road, shin over a fence, and liberate the good, ripening fruit for the good of the starving local peasantry (ie us). Or you could just throw them at each other until somebody got their nose broken.
As the sun set behind the sewage works, pockets and cheeks bulging, tissues over bloodied noses, we scrambled back over the fence to head to our respective homes, and the bosom of our grateful families. "Lawks-a-lordy - look what the young massa's brought home - we can eat this week, Tiny Tim!"
But like Adam and Eve, we were tempted by forbidden fruit, and the cold hand of fate would deal us the harshest blow in this Eden in southern England. For we fell straight into the arms of the Old Bill, who had stealthily snuck up on us on his Thames Valley Constabulary-issue push-bike like some angel of fate descending from the heavens.
The Law spoke unto us: "Evenin' lads."
"It's not what you think, officer," said Matty, cheeks bulging like a hamster. As if that was going to make any difference.
“Turn your pockets out, lads.”
So we did. Apples everywhere. It was exactly what the boy in blue suspected, and then some.
All except Ronnie, who was rather reluctant to empty his pockets in front of the lawman.
"I could just do you for theft and trespass," Plod said by way of encouragement.
Slowly, Ronnie emptied his pockets. Apples naturally, but also, to his shame, a large pack of Durex's finest rubber johnnies.
We were, frankly, stunned. Most of us hadn't even seen A Lady Naked, and here was Ronnie, at the age of fifteen, all ready and Johnnied-up for Doing The Sex. The only person in our school who had the courage to own up to possession of prophylactics was one chap who drunkenly admitted possession for his night manipulations on account of his raging eczema. We called him Captain Condom.
"It's still not what you think, officer."
“You’re a bit hopeful laddie”, replied the Bill, "I hope you've brought enough for everybody."
“I’m in the Scouts,” said Ronnie , “Be Prepared.”
After a tense stand-off, the ice was broken, and we were let off with a stern warning. Next time, he'd get his notebook out. And he might even tell our parents.
The second he was gone, we were back over the fence. For now, we had work to do and it was carried out with a purpose and with only minor damage to Ronnie's trouser parts.
God knows what the bourgeois land-owning farmer thought the next morning. There, hanging from his trees hung long, rubber tubes, each containing a wind-fallen apple, diligently tied back onto the branch by hard-working local teenagers, swinging in the breeze like so many scrotal sacs. All fully lubricanted and impervious to attack by the forces of spermatazoon. It was beautiful.
It would have been a shame to see them go to waste.
Apple, anyone?
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Tasteless vote-ussssss
Not-so-Chunky
Paint me disgusted. They've quietly made Chunky Kitkats smaller by hiding the fact that they've left us 10 per cent lighter behind a rubbish promotion. Fact the facts cannot lie. They are now 50g instead of 55g and I STILL GOT CHARGED 35p.
This is a clear case of theft by Nestle. This is what they are: bastards. Does anyone know the phone number for 999?
My Prerogative
Big respect to Debenhams for their response to the three-minutes' silence for the Tsunami victims yesterday, for recognising that many of their customers possess short attention spans thanks to the demands of today's modern living, and would be unable to hold out for the entire 180 seconds demanded by the International Silence Length Deliberation Board.
As the clocks struck twelve, solemn announcements were made and heads were bowed, they thoughtfully played Bobby Brown's "My Prerogative" over the public address system to entertain the easily bored and the local chavs clamouring for January bargains. Bazzin', as the youth of today would no doubt say. And I got stared at for body-popping.
But kudos to Debenhams for going upbeat. Marks and Spencers - lightweights that they are - went for Everybody Hurts, resulting in at least three customers throwing themselves off the escalators in disgust.
It could have been far worse, if you'll allow me to make my regular visit to the Planet Tasteless - but "Tsunami" by the Manic Street Preachers, fine song that it is, may well get any DJ who dares to play it lynched by an angry mob. Hmmm... "Dear Chris Moyles, Please could you play the following record for my mate's birthday. He's a huge fan of the Manics..."
Vote-ussssss
If you're still here after that little aside, I've been a busy bugger this week, and am in a position to present no less than six Scary Tales for your delight:
* Haunted Holiday - WooOOoooOOooOOoo three ice creams and a choc ice, please
* Underneath the Arches - No Bud Flanagans were killed or injured in the writing of this story
* Scrumping - Fruit! Fruit! Rubber Johnnies! Fruit!
* Marilyn - Cross-dressing woe
* Cubs' Camp - A woeful tale of small boys' inhumanity to small boy
* Scatalogical Manouevres in the Dark - I don't know why I bother. It's obvious you're going to vote for this one.
Vote-o, or the terrorists have won.
And while I'm vote-whoring, just do as Janetyjanet says and VOTE FOR ME. God, I'm so cheap.
Paint me disgusted. They've quietly made Chunky Kitkats smaller by hiding the fact that they've left us 10 per cent lighter behind a rubbish promotion. Fact the facts cannot lie. They are now 50g instead of 55g and I STILL GOT CHARGED 35p.
This is a clear case of theft by Nestle. This is what they are: bastards. Does anyone know the phone number for 999?
My Prerogative
Big respect to Debenhams for their response to the three-minutes' silence for the Tsunami victims yesterday, for recognising that many of their customers possess short attention spans thanks to the demands of today's modern living, and would be unable to hold out for the entire 180 seconds demanded by the International Silence Length Deliberation Board.
As the clocks struck twelve, solemn announcements were made and heads were bowed, they thoughtfully played Bobby Brown's "My Prerogative" over the public address system to entertain the easily bored and the local chavs clamouring for January bargains. Bazzin', as the youth of today would no doubt say. And I got stared at for body-popping.
But kudos to Debenhams for going upbeat. Marks and Spencers - lightweights that they are - went for Everybody Hurts, resulting in at least three customers throwing themselves off the escalators in disgust.
It could have been far worse, if you'll allow me to make my regular visit to the Planet Tasteless - but "Tsunami" by the Manic Street Preachers, fine song that it is, may well get any DJ who dares to play it lynched by an angry mob. Hmmm... "Dear Chris Moyles, Please could you play the following record for my mate's birthday. He's a huge fan of the Manics..."
Vote-ussssss
If you're still here after that little aside, I've been a busy bugger this week, and am in a position to present no less than six Scary Tales for your delight:
* Haunted Holiday - WooOOoooOOooOOoo three ice creams and a choc ice, please
* Underneath the Arches - No Bud Flanagans were killed or injured in the writing of this story
* Scrumping - Fruit! Fruit! Rubber Johnnies! Fruit!
* Marilyn - Cross-dressing woe
* Cubs' Camp - A woeful tale of small boys' inhumanity to small boy
* Scatalogical Manouevres in the Dark - I don't know why I bother. It's obvious you're going to vote for this one.
Vote-o, or the terrorists have won.
And while I'm vote-whoring, just do as Janetyjanet says and VOTE FOR ME. God, I'm so cheap.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Send more phish!
Send more phish!
I have said in the past that those fraudsters going around trying to get you to send your banking details over the internet are onto a hiding to nothing with their pisspoor English. Sure, there are those who will click on any official-looking link that pops up in their email, and the crooks must be making a tidy living. But they could do better. I mean, take a look at this is a near-enough verbatim phishing e-mail I received recently:
Please!
Last night, our Barc1ays system hacked! It no joke!! Please, enter account number, password and credit card details at page "Security Center".
If no, we might closing account and forfeit money!!
Sincerely, your friends at Barc1ays Bank
Crap. Who are they trying to kid? Only a complete idiot would fall for that scam, and let's face it, our Russian Mafia friends are hardly using the medium of e-mail to maximise their profits.
Therefore, I propose, for a small fee, that someone with an adequate grasp of the English language - myself, for example - provide the valuable service as the author of phishing e-mails. It's a win-win (for me, anyway), and not at all likely to end with me skinned alive and dipped in salt by burly Siberian gangsters.
So, Mr Abramovich, this one's for free:
Dear %name,
This e-mail is issued under Article XXVII, paragraph 3.1 of our online customer agreement, and notifies existing customers of an improved security protocol at Natlays Midlloyd Bank.
This new security regime is intended to combat online fraud, and to defend our customers against so-called "phishing" e-mails and other criminal activities.
In order to complete the customer security process and to re-activate your account, please click on the link below to confirm your identity details with our security team. For your convenience, please have your bank card ready.
We need not remind you how serious we at Natlays Midlloyds treat fraud, and we assure our valued customers that we are doing everything in our power to ensure that your investments are protected from an increasingly sophisticated criminal fraternity.
In the interests of security, please do not send your customer details by e-mail, nor should you disclose confidential information over the telephone - we will never call you for these purposes. Please use the secure internet link provided.
Please click here to visit the Natlays Midlloyd homepage and confirm your customer details.
Sincerely Yours,
Tom Champagne, Head of Natlays Midlloyd Bank online security.
See the difference? I can almost hear those mouse buttons click. Ch-ching!
I have said in the past that those fraudsters going around trying to get you to send your banking details over the internet are onto a hiding to nothing with their pisspoor English. Sure, there are those who will click on any official-looking link that pops up in their email, and the crooks must be making a tidy living. But they could do better. I mean, take a look at this is a near-enough verbatim phishing e-mail I received recently:
Please!
Last night, our Barc1ays system hacked! It no joke!! Please, enter account number, password and credit card details at page "Security Center".
If no, we might closing account and forfeit money!!
Sincerely, your friends at Barc1ays Bank
Crap. Who are they trying to kid? Only a complete idiot would fall for that scam, and let's face it, our Russian Mafia friends are hardly using the medium of e-mail to maximise their profits.
Therefore, I propose, for a small fee, that someone with an adequate grasp of the English language - myself, for example - provide the valuable service as the author of phishing e-mails. It's a win-win (for me, anyway), and not at all likely to end with me skinned alive and dipped in salt by burly Siberian gangsters.
So, Mr Abramovich, this one's for free:
Dear %name,
This e-mail is issued under Article XXVII, paragraph 3.1 of our online customer agreement, and notifies existing customers of an improved security protocol at Natlays Midlloyd Bank.
This new security regime is intended to combat online fraud, and to defend our customers against so-called "phishing" e-mails and other criminal activities.
In order to complete the customer security process and to re-activate your account, please click on the link below to confirm your identity details with our security team. For your convenience, please have your bank card ready.
We need not remind you how serious we at Natlays Midlloyds treat fraud, and we assure our valued customers that we are doing everything in our power to ensure that your investments are protected from an increasingly sophisticated criminal fraternity.
In the interests of security, please do not send your customer details by e-mail, nor should you disclose confidential information over the telephone - we will never call you for these purposes. Please use the secure internet link provided.
Please click here to visit the Natlays Midlloyd homepage and confirm your customer details.
Sincerely Yours,
Tom Champagne, Head of Natlays Midlloyd Bank online security.
See the difference? I can almost hear those mouse buttons click. Ch-ching!
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
The Hunt
The Hunt
Over hedge and fence they race, hounds in the lead, redcoats and hangers-on following on horseback. The hunter's horn fills the air, over barks and yelps, cries of "Tally Ho!" For this is England.
And then - their quarry is sighted and the chase is afoot. The hounds pick up the scent, and their prey is on the run, over open ground, across field, ditch and hedge, until cornered, exhausted, he stands his ground for the final, bloody, struggle.
It is, alas, short and one-sided as he is torn apart by the frenzied attack of those baying hounds. Then, as he breaths his last, the dogs are called off and the huntmaster, emotionless, delivers the coup de grace.
Then, a couple of youngsters - not even in their teens - are called forward, for this is their first hunt. All new boots and riding hats, the first time they have worn the red coat.
The master dips his finger into the red, hot still twitching corpse, and with a few words of encouragement - for this first kill will be long remembered - bloods the youths, the red of the blood matching that of their coats.
The huntmaster stoops again, and removes a Burberry baseball cap from the bloodied mess as a trophy. The first hunt of the 2006 season had been an unqualified success.
With fox hunting with dogs now an historical anachronism, there is a new prey. A prey for which their are no objections, no tears shed as Reynard is chased to his death. Urban Chav Hunting. Welcome to the new age.
I called the landed gentry at Countryside Alliance with my spunker of an idea. For reasons unknown, they didn't share my enthusiasm. Humourless bastards.
Over hedge and fence they race, hounds in the lead, redcoats and hangers-on following on horseback. The hunter's horn fills the air, over barks and yelps, cries of "Tally Ho!" For this is England.
And then - their quarry is sighted and the chase is afoot. The hounds pick up the scent, and their prey is on the run, over open ground, across field, ditch and hedge, until cornered, exhausted, he stands his ground for the final, bloody, struggle.
It is, alas, short and one-sided as he is torn apart by the frenzied attack of those baying hounds. Then, as he breaths his last, the dogs are called off and the huntmaster, emotionless, delivers the coup de grace.
Then, a couple of youngsters - not even in their teens - are called forward, for this is their first hunt. All new boots and riding hats, the first time they have worn the red coat.
The master dips his finger into the red, hot still twitching corpse, and with a few words of encouragement - for this first kill will be long remembered - bloods the youths, the red of the blood matching that of their coats.
The huntmaster stoops again, and removes a Burberry baseball cap from the bloodied mess as a trophy. The first hunt of the 2006 season had been an unqualified success.
With fox hunting with dogs now an historical anachronism, there is a new prey. A prey for which their are no objections, no tears shed as Reynard is chased to his death. Urban Chav Hunting. Welcome to the new age.
I called the landed gentry at Countryside Alliance with my spunker of an idea. For reasons unknown, they didn't share my enthusiasm. Humourless bastards.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Old Duck's Almanack
Old Duck's Almanack
What's in store for 2005? Old Duck sees all, talks crap.
January: The year starts with a bang as George W Bush confuses his swearing-in as US President with a meeting of the Grand Order of the Mongoose, whipping his pecker out in front of the world's media with a cry of "How's that for a wardrobe malfunction?" He then sends a message of congratulations to the voter in the Iraqi election, won by the Republican Party in a landslide.
February: Scandal rocks the world of entertainment as Jennifer Lopez marries Liz Taylor, Britney Spears and Liza Minelli in an eight day period after DNA testing proves that she is a brickie from Limerick called Seamus. Shocked at the revelations, her arse goes solo, and carves out a career as the mountain in the remake of The Eiger Sanction.
March: Tony Blair calls a snap election, only to be turfed out of office by the Charlie Dimmock-led Lightly-Oiled-Floozies-off-the-TV party. Kirstie Allsopp's first act as a Chancellor is to abolish tax on baby oil; while home secretary Sarah Beeney enforces a minimum 42-DD standard for all women in public office.
April: Scandal rocks the Dimmock government as it emerges that the Floozie Party received substantial payments from the National League of Hairy-Palmed Perverts and Onanists to appear topless during Prime Minister's Questions. The Floozie government collapses, to be replaced by a coalition led by Anne Widdecombe and Maureen from Driving School. A nation mourns.
May: A shock result in the FA Cup Final as a zombie team led by Bobby Moore and Sir Stanley Matthews lift the trophy after a crushing 37-0 win over Manchester United whilst feasting on their spicy brains. Only Wayne Rooney is spared.
June: A bad month for the bookies as Elvis is found alive, well and living in the White House, where his cover as a charmless, bumbling idiot is blown after a visit from the only man who can identify him - Richard Nixon.
July: Bored with the fact that there is no Olympic games, World Cup football, or any major sporting event planned for this summer, England and Germany get together in Malaga for a few beers, followed by the mother off all fist-fights. ("LIVE! and EXCLUSIVE! on ITV2!"). France is also invited, but is put off by talk of "an early bath".
August: The football season kicks off with FA Cup Winners Zombie United taking on Anne Widdecombe and Maureen from Driving School in the Charity Shield. The Zombie flee the pitch after minutes, as do the spectators when the two remaining players swap shirts at full time.
September: Panic grips the nation as the town of Warrington mysteriously disappears during the National Pie-Eating Finals ("LIVE! and EXCLUSIVE! on ITV2!"). The town is eventually found at the home of Carol Vorderman, where she is preparing to send Ikea back piece-by-piece, along with a ransom demand made up of Countdown letters, and a selection of numbers "from the top and second row, please".
October: A blow for the Anne Widdecombe government as it transpires that the PM is the only woman on God's Earth not to have seen Boris "Shagger" Johnson in the buff. An appointment is made with a shell-shocked Dale Winton acting as an independent witness, but it is too late to save her shattered reputation. Resigning in disgrace, she is replaced by a triumphant towsel-haired Shagger, who immediately waives all taxes on vibrating beds in hotels.
November: A nation is stunned by the latest immoral stunt by the Fathers 4 Justice pressure group. Discarding their Batman, Superman and CompleteAndUtterTwatMan costumes in favour of normal clothing, they stun the country by taking their kids to the zoo, followed by a quiet night at home with a video and a takeaway.
December: A new craze sweeps the nation - dogging - where like-minded people congregate in public areas with the help of mobile phones and the internet, and take their dogs for a walk.
2006: More of the same, only with knobs on. George Bush discovers to the cost of the Western World that the letters MILF stand for more than just the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, and is subsequently found face down in the gutter outside a Women's Institute meeting.
Return of the fallen woman
The world famous award-winning hoor-blogger that I didn't vote for Belle du Jour has a book out this month, about her not-made-up-at-all hooring adventures.
It's already on Amazon for pre-order, and in a special offer you can by his/her masterpiece along with another famous work of fiction on a related topic:
"Perfect Partner
Buy Belle De Jour: Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl with Moby Dick today! £10.59"
This guy I worked with once had Moby Dick. He cleared it up with antibiotics.
What's in store for 2005? Old Duck sees all, talks crap.
January: The year starts with a bang as George W Bush confuses his swearing-in as US President with a meeting of the Grand Order of the Mongoose, whipping his pecker out in front of the world's media with a cry of "How's that for a wardrobe malfunction?" He then sends a message of congratulations to the voter in the Iraqi election, won by the Republican Party in a landslide.
February: Scandal rocks the world of entertainment as Jennifer Lopez marries Liz Taylor, Britney Spears and Liza Minelli in an eight day period after DNA testing proves that she is a brickie from Limerick called Seamus. Shocked at the revelations, her arse goes solo, and carves out a career as the mountain in the remake of The Eiger Sanction.
March: Tony Blair calls a snap election, only to be turfed out of office by the Charlie Dimmock-led Lightly-Oiled-Floozies-off-the-TV party. Kirstie Allsopp's first act as a Chancellor is to abolish tax on baby oil; while home secretary Sarah Beeney enforces a minimum 42-DD standard for all women in public office.
April: Scandal rocks the Dimmock government as it emerges that the Floozie Party received substantial payments from the National League of Hairy-Palmed Perverts and Onanists to appear topless during Prime Minister's Questions. The Floozie government collapses, to be replaced by a coalition led by Anne Widdecombe and Maureen from Driving School. A nation mourns.
May: A shock result in the FA Cup Final as a zombie team led by Bobby Moore and Sir Stanley Matthews lift the trophy after a crushing 37-0 win over Manchester United whilst feasting on their spicy brains. Only Wayne Rooney is spared.
June: A bad month for the bookies as Elvis is found alive, well and living in the White House, where his cover as a charmless, bumbling idiot is blown after a visit from the only man who can identify him - Richard Nixon.
July: Bored with the fact that there is no Olympic games, World Cup football, or any major sporting event planned for this summer, England and Germany get together in Malaga for a few beers, followed by the mother off all fist-fights. ("LIVE! and EXCLUSIVE! on ITV2!"). France is also invited, but is put off by talk of "an early bath".
August: The football season kicks off with FA Cup Winners Zombie United taking on Anne Widdecombe and Maureen from Driving School in the Charity Shield. The Zombie flee the pitch after minutes, as do the spectators when the two remaining players swap shirts at full time.
September: Panic grips the nation as the town of Warrington mysteriously disappears during the National Pie-Eating Finals ("LIVE! and EXCLUSIVE! on ITV2!"). The town is eventually found at the home of Carol Vorderman, where she is preparing to send Ikea back piece-by-piece, along with a ransom demand made up of Countdown letters, and a selection of numbers "from the top and second row, please".
October: A blow for the Anne Widdecombe government as it transpires that the PM is the only woman on God's Earth not to have seen Boris "Shagger" Johnson in the buff. An appointment is made with a shell-shocked Dale Winton acting as an independent witness, but it is too late to save her shattered reputation. Resigning in disgrace, she is replaced by a triumphant towsel-haired Shagger, who immediately waives all taxes on vibrating beds in hotels.
November: A nation is stunned by the latest immoral stunt by the Fathers 4 Justice pressure group. Discarding their Batman, Superman and CompleteAndUtterTwatMan costumes in favour of normal clothing, they stun the country by taking their kids to the zoo, followed by a quiet night at home with a video and a takeaway.
December: A new craze sweeps the nation - dogging - where like-minded people congregate in public areas with the help of mobile phones and the internet, and take their dogs for a walk.
2006: More of the same, only with knobs on. George Bush discovers to the cost of the Western World that the letters MILF stand for more than just the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, and is subsequently found face down in the gutter outside a Women's Institute meeting.
Return of the fallen woman
The world famous award-winning hoor-blogger that I didn't vote for Belle du Jour has a book out this month, about her not-made-up-at-all hooring adventures.
It's already on Amazon for pre-order, and in a special offer you can by his/her masterpiece along with another famous work of fiction on a related topic:
"Perfect Partner
Buy Belle De Jour: Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl with Moby Dick today! £10.59"
This guy I worked with once had Moby Dick. He cleared it up with antibiotics.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Hair woe / Blair woe
Hair Woe
She: "Where have you been?"
Me: "Washing my hair."
"I hope you weren't using my shampoo."
"As if I would. I used that new stuff on the window sill."
"Which one?"
"Primrose oil. The one with a picture of a golden retriever on the label and ...oh..."
"You do realise that's dog shampoo, don't you?"
"Woof."
Call me Cujo.
A Postcard for Tony Blair
I swore I wouldn't engage in low-level politicking over the SE Asia tragedy, there are times you've just got to say something.
Dear Mr Blair,
I hope you enjoyed your Christmas holiday. There are millions who didn't.
I also hope you found your visit to Egypt (your second this year, you must really love the place!) a pleasurable experience. So pleasurable, in fact, you found yourself unable to tear yourself away for the best part of a week as the worst natural disaster in living memory unfolded in front of the disbelieving eyes of the world community.
You may have noticed (and I'm certain your hotel has your friend Mr Murdoch's Sky News, or if you were really desperate, BBC World) that the country pulled together perfectly well without you in a show of multi-faith, multi-cultural unity that puts your government to shame.
Please find enclosed a freshly-laid turd, because, unlike you, I actually give a shit.
Yours, A Voter.
Send money.
She: "Where have you been?"
Me: "Washing my hair."
"I hope you weren't using my shampoo."
"As if I would. I used that new stuff on the window sill."
"Which one?"
"Primrose oil. The one with a picture of a golden retriever on the label and ...oh..."
"You do realise that's dog shampoo, don't you?"
"Woof."
Call me Cujo.
A Postcard for Tony Blair
I swore I wouldn't engage in low-level politicking over the SE Asia tragedy, there are times you've just got to say something.
Dear Mr Blair,
I hope you enjoyed your Christmas holiday. There are millions who didn't.
I also hope you found your visit to Egypt (your second this year, you must really love the place!) a pleasurable experience. So pleasurable, in fact, you found yourself unable to tear yourself away for the best part of a week as the worst natural disaster in living memory unfolded in front of the disbelieving eyes of the world community.
You may have noticed (and I'm certain your hotel has your friend Mr Murdoch's Sky News, or if you were really desperate, BBC World) that the country pulled together perfectly well without you in a show of multi-faith, multi-cultural unity that puts your government to shame.
Please find enclosed a freshly-laid turd, because, unlike you, I actually give a shit.
Yours, A Voter.
Send money.
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