Monday, July 31, 2006

Music, Politicians, Poo

Music, Politicians, Poo

Jim Knight MPYou really know that you're getting old when somebody polls politicians on their favourite music, and you own virtually every title that they mention. So, it comes as an enormous, and somewhat unpleasant surprise to find that my MP, the Member of Parliament for Dorset South, Jim Knight, says his favourite long-player is Pulp's meisterwerk Different Class.

This presents some problems, because Different Class is also MY favourite album, and the thought of my elected representative singing along to such pervy classics as "Underwear" and "I Spy" whilst getting on with some earnest Blair toadying fills me with dread.

Then I realised with a certain amount of horror that Mr Knight is also the Schools Minister, and - I ask - what is the man nominally in charge of the education of my children doing in possession of the song "Sorted for E's and Wizz"? This being a little number once the subject of a Daily Mirror "Ban This Sick Stunt!" anti-drugs morality campaign. Frankly, I am disgusted*.

Still, it could be worse. Disgraced Lib Dem MP Mark Oaten went for the Human League's Dare, a choice that mirrors his political career superbly: Popular, successful, had the chance to be one of the greats, but it all turned to shit. Quite literally in poor, poor Mark's case. Oh-ho!

And I gather that Ann Widdecombe has the largest collection of late 1970s Oi! long-players outside of Garry Bushell's front room. A big fan of Bigfoot and the Groincrushers, so I hear**.

Unfortunately, the Prime Minister himself did not grace the survey with an answer. My money's on Michael Bolton. The terrible bastard.

* Lie
** May also be a lie

Friday, July 28, 2006

The Armpit of Woe

The Armpit of Woe

OuchiesSo, what have I been up to this week? Don't ask. Just another night in my Alan Partridge-like existence at the luxuriously-appointed accommodation provided for we migrant workers, and nothing but the normal woe.

Undressing, I caught a glimpse of my muscular, tanned body in the mirror. Ye Gods, what a specimen. Honed to perfection. Not a fault to be seen.

"Hmmm.... that's got rather big", I think.

No, no that, but a tag of skin in my armpit. I've had this tag of skin under my arm for a couple of years, and it hasn't really bothered me that much. This time, however, it was about half an inch long with a big round head. Gak! My grandad used to have one in the pit of his back, and it disgusted me in a "Oh God, don't let me touch it don'tletmetouchit" fashion, so there would be no way I was going through life with a mushroom in my armpits. I gave it a squeeze, and finding no nerve endings, my mind was made up.

"You're coming off, me old son."

So I did, with a pair of nail scissors. Drink, alas, was not a factor.

If only I had thought it through. Things still connected to your body tend to be filled with important stuff. Like blood, for example. Lots and lots of blood.

So, there I was, midnight, naked, bleeding profusely from my left armpit with a small sausage of severed flesh between my fingers. Things could, I admit, be going rather better at this point.

Covered in blood like Peter Sutcliffe at a whore's convention, I ran downstairs and got the biggest sticky plaster I could out of the first aid kid, shoving the kind of bandage you might find in an army field dressing kit into the danger zone. It was just as I went to put the plaster on that I had a rare moment of lucidity. Sticky plaster plus hairy armpit - that's going to hurt like fuckery when you try to pull it off in the morning.

So: Half-past-midnight, head-to-toe with blood that just won't stop pumping out of that tiny, tiny hole, reeking of TCP, gibbering slightly, I find myself frantically shaving my left armpit. Luckily, I have a plentiful supply of my own red stuff to act as a lubricant as I fear King of Shave gel just won't do the trick in this particular scenario. "How, in the name of buggery", I thought to myself as a large, red hand-print smeered the mirror, "did I end up here?"

And: "I'm shaving my armpit. Do I do the other one to match?"

And: "Lookin' dead hard there, tiger."

Alas, the plaster I had chosen was rather bigger than I thought, and I couldn't bring myself to shave a large enough area for the target zone to be completely hair-free, what with a beach holiday only weeks away. However, still spurting go-juice all down my arm, my side and all over the lino, I was past caring. Who thought such a little hole could produce so much red? It was like I'd been in collision with an offal cart.

Come the morning, my night manipulations decidedly one-sided, I was left, with a terrible dilemma: one massive scream as the plaster came off, or a series of pitiful whimpers. Like a man, I went for the former.



"Oh fuck. Are you still bleeding?"

So: there I was in the lodge kitchen, heating up the least rusty knife in the drawer over a naked flame.

Why? In the name of God, why?

My hand shaking with trepidation, and the air filled with the pungent aroma of scorched armpit, I finally hit the target.



"Oh fuck. Are you still bleeding?"

Moral: DIY surgery. Don't do it. And I've still got my third nipple to sort out.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Find me a duck

Find me a duck

Am I going mad?

I remember a time, a time when I was far too old to be watching childrens' television seeing a cartoon about a duck. A duck called Quackkwo. Or Kwakkwo. Or something.

Anyhoo, it was on Channel 4, around the same time as the utterly mental Pob's Programme, and I appear to be the only person on God's Earth to remember it and it's brainworm theme-tune.

Quackkwo. Or Kwakkwo was an origami duck, just swum along a paper river in glorious stop-motion animation, singing his little song. That was until he came across some monstrous origami obstacle barring his way, and he'd go "Quaa-a-a-a-ck" and work out some way of getting round it. This usually involved unfolding himself and becoming something else made out of origami paper. Then, he'd fold himself back into a duck and continue on his way down the river, singing his little song.


Tell me, people, that you saw this too.

Tell me I'm not making this up.

Tell me I'm not typing this with my toes whilst wearing a tight-fitting 'cuddle-jacket'.

I am not mad.

And your reward:

A YouTube video of Cigarette Smoking Man's bitter Forrest Gump-style soliloquy in a surprisingly touching episode of The X-Files, one of my most favourite TV moments, ever.

"Life is like a box of chocolates. A cheap, thoughtless, perfunctory gift that nobody ever asks for. Unreturnable, because all you get back is another box of chocolates. So you're stuck with this undefinable whipped mint crap that you mindlessly wolf down when there's nothing else left to eat.

"Sure, once in a while there's a peanut butter cup or an English toffee but they're gone too fast and taste is fleeting. So you end up with nothing but broken bits of hardened jelly and teeth-shattering nuts. If you're desperate enough to eat those, all you got left is an empty box filled with useless brown paper wrappers."


No vote-o today, because I'm going to disgust you with a story about my armpit for my Friday tale of mirth and woe. Please be prepared with a pair of nail scissors and a large supply of tissues. Kleenex, by preference.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Ye World Cuppe of Pepys

Ye World Cuppe of Pepys

It comes to something when you are accosted in the corridors at work and asked pointedly "When your you going to do another Samuel Pepys?" and "You should do a whole book of Pepys, it'll sell loads". Flattered as I am, it's hard enough to think in Olde Englishe at the best of times, especially when the auto-correct tries to drag poor old Samuel back into the 21st Century. So, you know who you are - this is for you. If you've missed an episode: The Completely True Diaries of Samuel Pepys, FRS, MP (1633-1703), and if you really want more of the same, you can do no worse than Squire Haggard's Journal.

16th September 1666: Disgust'd by the poor quality of slattern in this city, Newton and I didst travel to the fair village of Hanwelle, where I dyd espie in a local taverne a comely younge wench availynge herself of an unusual pastime, viz balancynge ducks a-top one another in a manner that is pleasynge to the eye. At her suggestion, buyinge into her confidence with a flagon of wine, I tried this sport for myself, but tis fair difficult to keepe ye foule birds still for long enoughe to balance more than three. Newton suggest'd that we should be using 'mock duck' made out of carv'd wood, or gutta-percha. "Mock duck?" I cried. "Mock duck? You take me for a cheat and a guttersnype?" and I roundly damned his eyes, and his breeches too. As the birds tumbl'd to the floor once agayne, I suggest'd to our fair companion that she too might like to join Newton and I for a tumble in some rooms I had acquir'd nearby; but, alas, at this invitation, she stoved my wig in with a rough-hewn plank of wood she carri'd on her person and took her mallards I know not where.

17th September 1666: Alas and woe! News of myne rough duck balancing misfortunes has reached the City, after the comely wenche in question - who is a local character of some repute - commission'd a number of wood-cuttes of my downfall and has had them post'd throughout this fine capital. It appears that ducks may only be balanced by licenc'd practitioners, and, i'truth, I do not hold a permit. Damn those eyes and pert body! Newton and I are, as they say, in deep shyte, notte least with Mrs Newton who is a dreadfulle flat-chest'd shrew with a fryghtenynge right hook. We are, alas, forc'd to flee the country untille ye heat is offe.

20th September 1666: Tis our rare gd fortune that the Wordle Cup of the rough fielde sporte of "Footballe" is taking place in the states of Bohemia, Brandenburg ande Saxony. Newton had acquir'd tickets to all the beste fights, and promises 'muche wenchynge and debaucherye'. I'truth his promise has come to naught, when I finde that the slatterne he has obtain'd for me is built lyke ye Tower of Londone, and I fear I shall never walk agayne. Still, Englande triumph'd in today's fight against foulest Savoy, young Master Rooneye stuffynge ye pig's bladder where ye sunne doesn't shyne. Newton found himself in ye town lock-up followinge a nighte on ye pysse in which he confront'd ye local ruffians and hoolig'ns with drunk'n shoutes of "Come & have a go if ye thinke ye be harde enuffe!" Alas, they were, and I can hear poor Newton's moanes as I wryte these wordes. His bottom wille be like a wizarde's sleeve come ye morninge.

23rd September 1666: This sojourn into the pits of central Europe is goinge from foul to worse. Newton has verily pyssed all our money away on wine and fat birds and I am forc'd, as ye prettye one in our partye, to stande around Hamburg Docks with a sign round my neck sayinge "Get it Here" in ye traditional manner. Alas, business is slow, we have barely a groat to our name, and ye last sailor has, I fear, split me asund'r, for I know not ye Germanne word for "lubrication". Englande beate Ye Papal States and ye Crouch boy stunn'd ye crowd with his dance of ye mechanical manne. Ye great lanky ponce.

27th September 1666: Our fortunes seem to have improv'd greatly, and we no longer will be sleeping in ye gutter. I'truth was rare gd luck to finde young masters Beckhamme, Rooneye &c and the Lord Erikson in the foulest pits of onanistic debauchery. "Please don't tell ye Wagges!" they pleaded, and knowing not what ye fuckerye they were talking about, I settl'd our price at five hundred poundes, and they seem'd well pleas'd. Newton and I feast'd well in the company of ye finest Dutch slattern this eve, and ye Portuguese pretty boys having triump'd over our exhaust'd team, we set sail for London.

29th September 1666: Up betimes and to my home straight from ye Mail Coach, where I find, to my greate delighte that Mrs Pepys has rather forgotten ye busty wench of Hanwelle, after being well car'd for by my domestic staffe in my absence. Indeede, my gift of a fine German horsewurst was greet'd with a scream of joy and the exclamation to Deedes, my cook, that "It's nearly as bigge as yours!", and begg'd him for a spitroast to sate her roarynge appetite. I had no idea that Horsewurst was available in our fine city!

Tuesday, July 25, 2006



I am excellent. I know that. You know that. In fact, I have been endowed with excellent super powers, powers which set me apart from the rest of humanity. And unlike those rubbish superheroes you get, I have no desire to see Lois Lane naked. Except, perhaps, the Teri Hatcher version. OK, and Elastigirl.

Cower, then, mortals, before my real-life super powers:

* Fist of Restitution: The ability to fix any broken electrical item by hitting it very hard.

* Poo of Doom: The ability to block any water course with three metric tonnes of ferro-concrete

* Pedant-o-vision: Common one amongst us super-beings this. The ability to spot a typo or spelling mistake in a menu instantly, before complaining bitterly to the waiter (breadbin)

* Digestion of Steel: The ability to process anything that upset waiting staff might put into your food as a result of Pedant-o-vision. I strongly advise against ordering the clam chowder.

* Desktop Decepticon: The ability to hit [windows key] + M the second the boss takes a peek at your PC screen, hiding the fact that you may, actually, not be doing any work at all (see also AltTab of Lightning).

I know it's a drag, but, Lord, using my powers for good is such a chore.

Disclaimer: My underwear remains inside my regular clothing at all times. What kind of pervert do you think I am?

You too, dear reader, are "special". What powers do you possess?

Monday, July 24, 2006

Scary's Inferno

Scary's Inferno

Welcome to Hell. Celebrity Hell. And here's your host: Dale Winton.

Unlike Dante's version where the lightweight copped out at nine, there are twenty circles of celebrity hell, each one worse and more woeful than the last.

Look at this version of Hades as the polar opposite of the Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method, with the knobs turned up to eleven. You might wish to take a couple of deep breaths and bowk it all up now, before we get started.


Ready - - and we're in....

1. Jade Goody unshaven open-leg photography

5. Ann Widdecombe's boudoir of bondage

11. Jimmy Carr pulling himself off over laminated pictures of Top Gear's "The Stig".

17. Baroness Thatcher sandpaper-dry frottage

18. Bernard Manning anal action (receiving)

19. Bernard Manning anal action (giving)

20. Carol Vorderman shafting Des Lynam with a strap-on made from the reclaimed shin bone of Richard Whiteley. (from Gir) *boik*

Your suggestions more than welcome, you depraved people - this list will evolve into something utterly dreadful. But only with your gift of love.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

On A. Jolie

On A. Jolie

Last night, I wasted three hours of my life watching Oliver Stone's dreadful biopic Alexander.

In this crime against celluloid, Alexander's mother is played, in perhaps one of the most hilarious miscastings in Hollywood history, by fish-lipped superstar Angelina Jolie. She was born in 1975, Colin Farrell in the title role in 1976. This obvious problem is addressed by making Ms Jolie wear her hair up, and by speaking in a number of bizarre accents which change as the film progresses.

Ange's career has traded on just two things. Those enormous lips. OK, four things - I, too, have wasted my life watching Tomb Raider.

Now, I'm going to go against conventional wisdom here, but Ms Jolie, on the face of her career to date, is a bit rubbish, isn't she? Has she appeared on Emmerdale? Or won a TV reality show? No, she has not. Then, why can't she act?

Mr Neil Gaiman and Mr Robert Zemeckis have the right idea in the forthcoming performance-capture version of Beowulf, in which Ange play's Grendel's Mother. For the part-animated process, Ms Jolie had to spend several weeks dressed in a skin-tight rubber suit, and some of this time in front of a camera.

Perhaps they're not even making a film. If I had the money, I'd tell A. Jolie she's got to wear a skin tight rubber suit for weeks on end, and I'd be the one standing around taking notes.

The downside, I suppose, would be having to watch Anthony Hopkins spending several weeks in a skin-tight rubber suit. We've all got to suffer for our art.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Mirth and Woe: School Milk

School Milk

When Thatcher closed all the school canteens in the early 1980s, as part of her government's vicious cuts to public services, they simply cleared everything out of ours and locked the doors. That was it - either you brought in a packet of sandwiches, or you starved, kid. That was unless you were on free school meals, then you suffered the shame of your lunch arriving in a van, and sitting amongst your peers labelled a spazz on free school meals.

Just another reason to look forward to dancing on the old goat's grave if and when she finally carks it, but I wouldn't hold your breath - she's going to go on forever like Monty Burns. Only less funny.

Anyway, with the kitchens closed, the school was at a loss as to what, exactly do with the building, so they simply left them empty for a couple of years. Empty, except for a pint of milk on the side, clearly visible from one of the windows.

We watched, over the space of a year, as the bottle slowly changed colour from white to puce to a greeny-reddy-grey.

It was a fascinating study of the fragility of life, the temporary nature of the natural condition, and, if it had formed part of our science coursework, it would have given our gang all straight A grades. Instead, there was but one question on our lips:

"I'll give you any money if you drink it."

"How much?"


"Bugger off."

On the last day of term, and with the pot up to a cracking 59p, Ju-vid broke into the old kitchens with the intention of liberating the bottle and getting as much money as he possibly could.

Jemmying open a window, we heaved him up onto our shoulders and launched him in.


His trousers had caught on the window latch, and now, he was in the forbidden zone, split from cock-to-ankle.

"Aw shit, me nuts are hanging out!" he complained.

He could count himself lucky. An inch or two to the side, and his nuts would have been hanging off. And still the complaining continued.

"Pissin' hell, it stinks in here."

We had watched, right at the beginning of the school year, as they had cleaned the entire place from floor-to-ceiling. The smell could only have come from one place, and our hero was going to drink it.

If he could.

He popped the lid, and the smell wafted out of the window stronger than ever. Ju-Vid winced, but remembering his bet, held the bottle up to his lips for The Great Swig. And nothing happened. The milk had separated into two layers, with the liquid sloshing about in the bottom underneath something dreadful and horribly solid.

"Bet's off," Ju-Vid ventured.

"Not on your life," replied Ernie, "bring it out here and we'll mix it up for you."

With great reluctance, and no little struggle, Ju handed the bottle out of the window and clambered out, his trouser leg flapping in the breeze. The stench now was quite unbearable, made worse once somebody found a stick, prodded through the solid stuff and gave the whole fetid mixture a stir.

It was awful. It was like something had died, mixed with all the shit in the world, and left to stew in the sun for a year. Which it had, and as the bottle was handed back to Ju-Vid, he had the look on his face like a condemned man going to the gallows.

"Drink! Drink! Drink!" we chanted, and like a trooper, Ju-Vid drank.

Just a sip.

He hardly touched the bottle to his lips before he bowked rich, brown vomit everywhere. Mostly onto us, the bastard.


The bottle fell from his hand, and smashed to the ground, just as our arch-nemesis, Mr Prince came round the corner from the staff car park.

"What the bloody hell's going on here then?"


"What, in the name of God is that smell?"

And what a sight to behold. One gang of furtive-looking teenagers. One vomit-spattered boy with only one leg to his trousers. Broken glass, and some fetid lump that may or may not be the abortion of a new life form.

"Well sir," beamed Ju-Vid, "I've just won 59p."

"Have you now? All of you - my office."


Prinny must have been filled with end-of-term joy, for he spared us the cross country run that was his usual sentence of choice. Instead, his cruel and unusual punishment this time: clean and disinfect the entire home economics classroom, paying special attention to the fridges.

"Hey! I've found some cheese!"

"Eat it!"

"Nah - 59p says you're going to - next term!"

"It's a bet!"

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Babylon and Ting

Babylon and Ting

The legendary Babylon and Ting in all its sexy MP3 goodness.

A phone-call from Victor Lewis-Smith to the front desk at London Weekend Television:

Security Guard: "Security!"

V. Lewis-Smith: "Hello, is that reception, London Weekend Television?"

Security Guard: "No, this is security, reception has gone off duty, sir."

V. Lewis-Smith: "Oh I see....(err) I am supposed to meet somebody in reception, and I wanted to know if they were there waiting..."

Security Guard: "What is the name of the person you are supposed to meet?"

V. Lewis-Smith: "Haile Selassie"

Security Guard: "Halie....?"

V. Lewis-Smith: "...Selassie"

Security Guard: "Is there a Haile Selassie here?"

V. Lewis-Smith: “Could you possibly... if he does... he will come in very shortly; would you tell him that Marcus Garvey phoned?”

Security Guard: "Uh huh..."

V. Lewis-Smith: "And that I will meet him, well it's, Babylon and Ting?"

Security Guard: "When Marcus comes in... right?"

V. Lewis-Smith: "Yeah".

Security Guard: "And you are supposed to be waiting for him to come in..."

V. Lewis-Smith: “Is that Haile Selassie?"

Security Guard: "No, it wasn't him, it was a cab"

V. Lewis-Smith: "He's a black gentleman"

Security Guard: "But he when he comes in... you're gonna meet him at... where was it? I'll make a note of this...."

V. Lewis-Smith: "Babylon and Ting"

Security Guard: (slowly) "Ba-by-lon and Ting"

V. Lewis-Smith: "That's it"

Security Guard: "Right you are!"

V. Lewis-Smith: "Thank you! God Bless You."

Vote-o and Ting

Pic shamelessly stolen from Chicken Yoghurt: www.chickyog.netGreetings, law-breakers. It is I, Judge Dredd, here to watch over this week's so-called Thursday vote-o. While the very concept of "democracy" is abhorrent to our system of absolute justice for the good of the citizenry, I have agreed with Mr S. Duck, currently serving hard time on the Titan Penal Colony, that I should take this opportunity to teach you all a lesson in the futility of voting. Heh. I said "Penal".

So, to help you decide which of tomorrow's stories of mirth and crime you wish to see before you commence your sentences, here are some examples of Judge humour doing the rounds at the Halls of Justice.

* First Aid: "Why did the law-breaker cross the road? To get ten years in an iso-cube for jay-walking."

* Take a Break: "My dog's got no nose. Your dog's got no nose? How does it smell? Of charred flesh after Judge Dredd incinerated it for breaking City Ordanance 3712.23 - All dogs should be in possession of a functioning nasal unit."

* Swimming Gala: "How many Judges does it take to change a lightbulb? None. We can shoot a fleeing perp in the dark with a number two heat-seeking round. Saves a lot of paperwork."

* School Milk: "Two nuns riding bikes down a cobbled street. One says 'I've never come this way before' and Judge Dredd says 'Too right citizens, bicycles are illegal under City Laws, death sentence'."

Oh, I shat myself laughing over that last one. We even did the Mother Superior for littering after she failed to get the blood off the streets within the regulation twelve minutes. It's bloody great being a judge. Best job in the world.

Vote, then. If you dare, citizen.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

The Perfect Crime

The Perfect Crime

Sitting utterly wankered in the Duke of York, myself and several other co-conspirators who wish to remain anonymous (but are, in fact, Misty and Nigle) hatched a plan to commit the perfect crime.

As alcohol was involved, we had unfortunately reached the stage where we were unable to work out exactly what we were going to do, to whom and how many ways we were going to split the money. This is not a good start to any project, let alone one that could end with my arse like a wizard's sleeve in some dreadful Siberian prison.

In a moment of clarity, Misty suggested that we might like to swap crimes in a Strangers On A Train style, but I rather pissed on her fireworks by pointing out that we were neither strangers, nor on a train, although she does reside within spitting distance of a railway.

"What about Throw Momma From The Train then?"

As we are both mother-less, this is a rather moot point, but we agreed that we should, at least throw some mother from a metaphorical train, preferably a very rich mother with plenty of ready cash stuffed in her mattress, or better still, up a billowing cleavage. Sadly, none of us wanted to be Danny De Vito, but top secret plans were hatched.

So, I'm going to sort out her shyster lawyers in a caper which will almost certainly involve the doneing of a highly explosive poo in a filing cabinet and the pressing of severed horses' genitals to unsuspecting faces. I'm after a getaway driver, a lookout and a reader who has access to spare horse willies. Any volunteers?

In return, my current Workshy Cunt of a Builder problems would be more than adequately terminated with a very large axe, looting and a bit of pillage thrown in. What could possibly go wrong?

Nobody else in the whole world knows about our plans, so don't go telling anybody, OK? Especially not PC Copperfield and Magistrate blogger Bystander, unless they're shonky enough to give us a hand, right?

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

On Acts of Revenge and Animal Cruelty

On Acts of Revenge and Animal Cruelty

Ceiling Cat: EvilDiscussion at Another Place recently turned to random acts of animal cruelty for humourous ends. Because we're kind, thoughtful people like that. Nothing especially cruel, you understand - no nailing tortoises to ceilings or cat juggling*, because that would just be wrong. Instead, here's what I've got in mind:

I'd go up to London with a really big slab of red, juicy meat.

Starting outside the Houses of Parliament, I'd rub the meat into the pavement, wending a comically zig-zag course up and down the street, across busy road junctions and the wrong way down a bus lane, ending up in the Leopard enclosure at London Zoo.

Sooner or later, David Blunkett and his guide dog Bess will turn up for work, and WOOOMPH! off they go, like Peter Sutcliffe at a Whore's Convention.

Then, I'll post the video on YouTube with the Benny Hill theme playing over the top. And that would be funny.

Also: I'd like to break into our local zoo at night, wait until all the penguins are asleep, and place them, carefully, up a tree. Take that, you flightless, fish-guzzling tarts!

Animals, as a rule, are evil, and only one square meal away from ripping your throat out. To this end, we need to be prepared to take the furry little bastards on face-to-face in a battle for the very future of humanity. I'm off to play James Blunt at the local stables. What are you going to do in the war?

* World record: 0.0025 seconds

Monday, July 17, 2006

Music Piracy

Music Piracy

It's the World Youth Sailing Championships in Weymouth this week, a virtual dress rehearsal of the 2012 Olympic Games which will be held in the town. And frankly, I am utterly underwhelmed. Despite stunning views of the race track, or whatever they call it, all I can make out is a bunch of dots, sailing very slowly around in circles.

"What they need," I tell equally underwhelmed family members, all thinking it might be worthwhile renting out the house in 2012 after all, and buggering off to Florida on the proceeds, "is a damn good pirate attack to break 'em all up. That'll sort the men from the boys."

So: Scaryduck Junior asks

Q. What's a pirate's favourite song?

A. Hey Yarrr by Outkast

To mark the cinematic release of the new J. Depp film, Pirates of the Caribbean: K. Knightly's Chest, plz to sugest more popular sea shanties &c.

From another place:

* Cry Me a Rivaaaaaaaarrrr - Justin Shivermetimberlake. (Suggested by TV's Mr Biffo)

* Paint it, Blackbeard - Rolling Stones

* Peg-leggy Sue - Bloody Holly

* Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaranoid - Black Spot Sabbath

* I'm like a bird (parrot, on your shoulder) by Nelly Furtaaarrrrrrrdo (Suggested by Breadbin)

This is harder than you may think, me hearties. Get in there. Arrrrrrr!

Sunday, July 16, 2006



No, not the Zidane Monster, but…

Richard Skinner's back on the radio.

Granted, it's Sunday mornings on Radio Berkshire [listen online here], but his weekday evening show on Radio 1 showcased the best up-and-coming music of the time and was pretty much essential listening, and now I've come over far too excited. It also came with the classic jingle:

I saw my mate between eight and ten
An' he didn't have Richard Skinner on
So I give 'im head-butt
Give 'im head-butt
Give 'im head-butt
Give 'im head-butt
Then I remembered it was Friday, an' e's only on Monday to Thursday...

It's been stuck in my head for the best part of twenty years, and as we now both work in the same building, I've been in touch with the man himself, and he's sent me a copy. With the great man's permission, I'll cut it down to a usable size and slap it up here. Oooh!

It's no good. I've started being nice to people today.

Update: BINGO!

Kwik Fit Update

Following last Monday's rant at the expense of Britain's premier workshy tyre-fitters, I'm delighted to report the following: Bow before the might of google.

My work here is done.

Friday, July 14, 2006

The true facts in the case of Mr Scarboro, Mr Martin and the mysterious disappearance of Arnold Fisher

The true facts in the case of Mr Scarboro, Mr Martin and the mysterious disappearance of Arnold Fisher

I am a witness in a dreadful car accident, and its awful, blood-curdling fallout. Hardly anybody was killed, but I've got this insurance form to fill in, and I am concerned that those otherwise pleasant people at Churchill may question my sanity. And they're the ones with the talking dog.

Here, then, in the name of truth, justice and the American way, is exactly what happened on that fateful evening. And may the deity of your choice have mercy on my soul.

Date and Time of accident: 10.30pm, 3rd July 2006.

Where were you at the time of the accident: Looking on, in abject horror, from my loft bedroom window, second floor of Scaryduck Towers, Weymouth.

Weather conditions: Dark, clear, very warm, half moon in Uranus.

Give a brief description of the accident: I was looking out of my bedroom window, which gives a panoramic view of the street below, and offers a pleasant vista over Portland Harbour. At no point, I may point out, was I using my binoculars to look into bedroom windows. However, my attention was drawn to the fact that my elderly neighbour, Mrs Warboys (name changed to protect the guilty), was standing completely naked in front of her bedroom window. I might not have noticed, but she had all the curtains open and the lights on. It was indeed a distraction, as they hang around her navel, and she appears to have a poodle nesting in her groin.

Also distracted, alas, was the driver of the white Renault van, who I now know to be Mr Scarboro, whose whole-hearted attention to the 90-degree bend outside my house was cruelly wrenched away by the totally unnecessary sight of a very naked Mrs Warboys yawning, stretching and scratching her nadger at exactly the wrong moment. With his window wound down and there being no other sound bar his van's engine, I clearly heard Mr Scarboro have cause to cry out the words "Christ on a Bike!" in surprise and alarm before failing to negotiate the bend and crash his van into Mrs Warboys' front garden.

Moments later, I saw the Ford Focus, driven by Mr Martin, drive along the same stretch of road, and similarly distracted by a naked octogenarian, collide with Mr Scarboro's van. Mr Martin did not shout out in surprise and alarm, as he was listening to The World Tonight on BBC Radio Four.

I would like to point out at this stage that while I called the Police to this incident, I am certainly not the person who quite unnecessarily called the Ambulance and Fire Brigade to the scene. We suspect this may have been the act of persons unknown after a now partially clothed and panicking Mrs Warboys ran out of the house screaming that one Arnold Fisher was trapped under the front wheels of Mr Scarboro's van.

It transpired only after a frantic search and the partial destruction of Mr Scarboro's van by the Fire Service that Mr Arnold Fisher was, in fact, a garden gnome, around which Mr Warboys' ashes had been spread some years previously. Luckily, the ambulance was still on hand at this time to sedate Mr Scarboro before there was any further unpleasantness.

Who, in your opinion, caused the accident?: Mrs Warboys' minge

In the space below, draw a diagram showing how the accident occurred: Bingo!

Clicky to embiggen*

They'll never believe me.

* Embiggen: An entirely cromulent word

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Questions, questions again

Questions, questions again

A late entry from Tuesday's epic Questions, Questions post

When did you first realise you were destined for a job in the media?

* Initially, I put this down to being taken by my god-parents to visit BBC TV Centre at a very young age to witness the broadcast of a live Blue Peter from the studio gallery. However, being only five years old, the sight of Valerie Singleton’s back left me extremely non-plussed, and I made do with watching the whole programme, without sound, on a studio monitor. I was even more disillusioned by the Z-Cars studio, which looked like it had come out of a small box. Oh dear.

I think, then, I can put it down to a visit by some producer from All Creatures Great and Small to our school, who told us the ins-and-outs-and-outs-and-ins of Britain's favourite vet-based drama. He was, at one stage, asked the choice question "Did you get to stick your hand up a cow's arse?"

"Yes", he replied, "Yes, I did", and that was it. "Holy crap!" I shouted, somewhat involuntarily, and my future career was assured. In seventeen years working here, I haven't been anywhere near a cow, let alone got my hands on a spare set of udders. C'est, as they say, la vie.

Not the Thursday vote-o

Tomorrow's Scary Story is a true treat in the annals Mirth and Woe. You won't believe the time I spent knocking out the high-quality illustrations. You will, in fact, be amazed as red-hot metal crashes into low quality ceramic for your reading pleasure.

So, in lieu of a vote-o, let's finish something that Misty started by mistake the other day:

What would a TV advert about you be like?

"HI I'M BARRY SCOTT! I'M HERE TO TALK ABOUT NEW CILLIT DUCK! This patented Scaryduck technology is guaranteed to give you a sex wee, or your money back"

Or, if you're squeamish, What SHOULD an advert for a celebrity of your choice be like?

"The England Football Team: Barely adequate for the job in hand."

Get in there!

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Top Fives

Top Fives

Top Five manky dogs

5. Shit-zu
4. Labra-Whore
3. Poo-dle
2. Pox Hound
1. Terr-Arse

0. Abi Titmuss

Top Five manky bands

5. Scatological Manouevres in the Dark
4. Poo Order
3. Poo-Man League
2. Pe-Turd Andre
1. Coldplay (because they're shit)

Top Five Bad Excuses when caught having sex with the cleaner in the office stock cupboard

5. Room service? I specifically requested a 'Do Not Disturb' sign.
4. This isn't lunchtime Hump Aerobics, then?
3. Oh. It's her dying wish.
2. I don't suppose you'd like a threesome, boss?
1. And that's how you do the Heimlich manouevre.

0. Hello. I'd like to introduce you to my mother.

Top Five Scaryduck Scary Stories that will never get published

5. The time we dressed up as nuns to get kinky convent sex
4. The time we worked as product testers at the baby oil factory
3. The time we accidentally got involved in the civil war in El Salvador - all because of a packet of Rich Tea biscuits!
2. The time nothing happened involving poo, sick, urine, wobbly body parts, or any woe, whatsoever
1. The time I rubbed Deep Heat Super Extra Napalm Strength on my bad back, then had a wee without washing my hands. Last week, as it happens.

Add your own! May I suggest 'Top Five Punishments for James Blunt'?

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Questions, Questions

Questions, Questions

Stealing an idea from Gert MadMusingsOfMe, mostly because I'm far too lazy to write anything constructive today, ask me a question.

Ask me about anything you like about my life as a frightening waterfowl, and this page should, with a following wind gradually expand as I post answers. I'll answer some in the comments, but if I do, don't take it as a criticism...

Ask! Ask-me-up, and, indeed, riddle-me-do.

One to start you off:

Which achievements in your life are you most proud of?

* There are many, but three stand out, neatly illustrating the Circle of Life: Telling Uri Geller to fuck off, being told to fuck off by George Harrison, and sitting behind Osama bin Laden at a football match, the both of us telling the infidel Robbie Fowler to fuck off.

Oh, and being number one on Google for Dalek Sex.

How many times have you had a shit in a bag? Recruiting Officer, lowering the tone already.

* Officially, just the once, and that was more than enough. I have, however, done my fair share of poos-into-holes-in-the-ground, so careful where you tread.
* Unfortunately (Debster), Operation Manky Garden appears to be heading for disaster. I knew I should have used Miracle-Gro.

Why is this so popular? - Tired Dad

* Because I am "excellent". No, I have no idea, either.

When was your last interaction with the local police? - ExAfrica

* Sadly, this was only a few weeks ago after a drunk broke into our garden and smashed up some furniture. I got a crime number and everything, and confirms that I am turning into an old git. And I done for speeding, but the entire transaction was done with a computer.

Why did I never go into medicine like my parents? - Dr Craig

* Years of the British Medical Journal, The Lancet and Nursing Times coming through our letterbox with their front cover Hideous Skin Condition of the Month competititions rather put me off, thank you. And I wanted to be a lumberjack.

Top three celebrity shags - Rachel Swipe

* So hard to say without Mrs Duck reading this and taking offence. Offence that she might feel herself inferior to the likes of K. Winslet, N. Lawson and S. Beeny. So I won't.

What's the shortest time you've ever held a full-time job? - Steve Dix

* About ten minutes. I got a job in a furniture shop, where I turned up on Monday morning to find that the manager had changed his mind on how much he was going to pay me. He wanted to "motivate" me by paying me about a quid an hour plus commission. It motivated me to walk out before I'd even taken my coat off. There might, come to think of it, be a blog entry in this, as the whole shop was horribly manky.

What's the illest you've ever been? - Pieboy

* I remember it well. It was a Big Mac and large fries from McD's in Reading. Within an hour I was simultaneously crapping through the eye of a needle and bowking rich brown vomit into the hand basin. This lasted for three days, after which only green stuff and dust came out. I switched to Burger King, and was bowking rich, brown vomit again within a week.

Why 'Scaryduck'? - Graybo

* You can blame my daughter for this. She had a large rubber duck (like that one, up there) which she used to refuse to play with in the bath. Asked why she had the screaming ab-dabs whenever it came near, she said the words that have stayed with me forever "Scary. Duck." Poor the Scary Duck - eaten by the dog.

Why Arsenal and not 'wonderful' Spurs? - Delcatto

Poor Delcatto. Do I really have to tell you? Truth be told, my old Dad Professor Scary tried to turn me into a Chelsea fan, and damn near suceeded, which was a bit of a lucky break. As for the Tiny Totts, the answer is simple: they're a bunch of dreadful, useless cunts.

Monday, July 10, 2006

Kwik Fit = useless workshy bastards

Kwik Fit = useless workshy bastards

"You can't get better than a Kwik Fit fitter" the song from the popular TV ad goes. I beg to differ, the bunch of useless workshy cunts.

My car broke down yesterday. The drive belt came off, and luckily for me it happened right outside my local branch of the UK's leading tyre, exhaust and garage services centre. So, clutching a frayed drive belt, I waited ten minutes in reception while the staff took turns at ignoring me. Eventually:

"You need a new drive belt."

"Yes. Yes I know. I wonder if..."



"You can get a new one from Halfords. It's a pretty straightforward job then."

"I know - I've done one before. Can you fit it for me? It's only two minutes and you've got the tools and the ramp..."



"We don't do that kind of thing."

"Right. I'll call the AA, then."

So, I called the AA, and waited outside for my yellow-clad rescuer.

"Can I ask what you're doing, sir?" asked the Kwik Fit manager.

"You couldn't fix my broken down car, so I'm waiting for the AA."

"Yeah, but not in our car park, sir. This is for customers only."

Mine was the only car in the car park.

"But I'm the only car in the car park."

"I'm sorry sir, if you don't move your car, we've got a private company that'll come and clamp you."


"Nothing to do with us, sir. We've already had the police here once this week."

"But... it's your car park, isn't it?"

"Sorry sir, not our problem. Move it or it's a two hundred pound fine."

So, I eventually moved it to the one piece of road not patrolled by the clamping nazis. Dead opposite the entrance to Kwik Fit, where I spent half an hour glowering at the tea-quaffing layabouts and lollygaggers.

The AA came. It took two minutes up on a jack to release the auto-tensioner and fit a new drive belt.

While I waited, I put my time to good use by composing a new advertising jingle for the company, which I shall send to their head office along with a letter of complaint which will, naturally, contain the words "premier league muppetry". It doesn't quite scan, but I think you'll agree that it gets the message across:

"You can't get shitter than a Kwik Fit fitter
You can't get shitter than a Kwik Fit fitter
You can't get shitter than a Kwik Fit fitter
Because we're a bunch of useless workshy cunts who couldn't give two shits about our customers as, like we said, we're all total cunts."

Friday, July 07, 2006

Mirth and Woe: Blind Date

Blind Date

A charming tale of love, loss, and, of course, dreadful, nut-strangling woe

When I was at college, I went on a blind date. Woe.

I didn't want to go on a blind date, but Lisa insisted, and she was that kind of girl. And anyway, she knew this lovely young lady, who was just my cup of tea and we'd get on like a house on fire.

Anybody who has ever been on a blind date, organised by the kind of person whose entire life revolves around playing Cilla Black and organising blind dates for people will know, straight off, that Lisa was talking complete and utter bollocks. Desperate for any sort of action, I fell for her sales pitch hook, line and sinker.

Her name was Angela. She was in her early twenties, and she had a real-life job in an office that paid proper cash money. She was, said Lisa, desperate for a bloke. So desperate, in fact, she had agreed to go on a blind date with a nineteen-year-old idiot student who habitually wore a combat jacket. All the time. Lisa, obviously, sold me as some six foot Adonis on shore leave from the SBS.

What could possibly go wrong?

I've got this dreadful habit of arriving anywhere early. I build 'idiot time' into any journey, however short, that means I arrive anywhere on time. I'll arrive at airports four hours early for flights. Sit around waiting rooms for hours at a time because I travelled up on the 5am train. I've arrived at my one and only blind date ninety minutes early.

So, at the suggestion of the barman, I had a drink, or three.

Then, bang on time, an hour late, she arrived. I gasped. It was, truly, a lady. A lady of the female sex, who, if I played my cards right, might get the use of the rubber johnnie I'd been carrying around in my wallet for the previous two years. A former Boy Scout, it always paid to 'Be Prepared', and tonight, bingo! She had lady bumps and everything, and on the front of her body, too.

Noting the copy of 2000AD comic sitting on the table, so she'd recognise me, she came over in her lovely pink flowery dress, and perched on the rickety bar stool in front of me.

"Want a drink?" I asked, breaking the ice with the one thing in this world I truly understood: booze.

"Hunh?" she replied, and then our problems began.

She didn't understand I word I said. All evening.

Lisa, you see, had not told me one vital fact about my intended paramour. Angela was profoundly deaf, it turned out. She'd come down with some dreadful illness in her childhood, and it had completely wiped out her hearing. Fair play to her for not letting it get her down, but the fact that after all these years, she still hadn't mastered the art of lip-reading, and was only really comfortable in the company of other hearing-impaired people hadn't registered on Lisa.

Actually, it had. I had recently been the victim of a bizarre firing range accident only weeks beforehand. Helping out at the Air Cadets, somebody had discharged a rifle, with the loud, explody bit right next to my head just as I removed my ear defenders. Result: rendered completely deaf in my right ear for a week, and several years of tinnitus, that dreadful ringing that follows you around and eventually drives you mad. Lisa had assumed, then, that my partial, temporary deafness made me an ideal consort for poor, sweet, single, suffering Angela, and she shoe-horned us together with barely a thought.

Luckily, I had a notebook, and she a pen, and we spent a mildly diverting evening writing messages to each other on how we were going to murder Lisa to death when next we saw her.

"Fancy a drink?" I wrote.

"Cider, pls" she replied, and we got steadily pissed together.

She was actually super pleasant company, but all she wanted from life was be a presenter on "See Hear". All I wanted was to see a grown lady naked. And I was hardly the most sensitive person in the world in those days, so she probably escaped lightly.

The more we drank, the wilder our handwriting got, until we reached a point where even that as a means of communication failed.

As last orders were called, I tried my final gambit.

"fANsy a Shag !? Yoov goT a crakiN pair of nroks yoo kno."


"Yeah, Uh..."

There was, I am sorry to say, a brief, utterly sexist mime.

Turned down again. And, in her cidered-up state she couldn't even spell "No", so we got a taxi and, like a gentleman, I took her home.

Then, as we arrived, she grabbed the notepad and scribbled a single word, flashing it with some urgency in my face.

"SUCK," it said.

Wahey! My luck was in after all.

"Yeah, alright then," I said smugly, expecting an evening of solos on the pink oboe.

Then, I realised that she had actually, in her haste, merely spelled it wrong, as she sucked rich brown vomit all over the cab interior. And me, mostly.

And like a gent, I paid the hairy-arsed and extremely angry taxi driver thirty quid to clean up his car. I thought it nice and rather trusting that he actually took a cheque.

In retrospect, it was probably a good thing that we didn't get to do the dirty after all.

Manky I may be, but somehow, I just don't think I could ever bring myself to write "Tits or Mouth?" as I came to the vinegar strokes, and then waiting for her to put on her glasses, grab the pen and write down a reply. I don't know about you, but that would have killed any passion stone dead.

Blind Date? Deaf Date, more like!

Thursday, July 06, 2006

The J. Ross Memorial Vote-o

The J. Ross Memorial Vote-o

“Hello, good evening and bollocks.

"Welcome to Fwiday Night with Jonathan Woss, this week’s hosts for the Scawyduck Thursday Vote-o. And without delaying the pwoceedings any further, my new house band, replacing the sadly fallen-under-a-twenty-thwee-bus Four Poofs and a Piano, the marvellously wivetting Tourette’s Male Voice Choir.

"Take it away, lads!"

* Blind Date: “I see the little silouette-o of a man, Scaramouch Scaramouch, can you REAM MY GRANNY UP THE WRONG ‘UN!”

* Take a Break: “Ground control to Major Tom the circuit’s dead there’s something wrong, can you SIT ON MY FACE YOU THRUSTING LOVE STUD”

* Swimming Gala: “It was twenty years ago today, that Sergeant Pepper taught a band to play WITH MY RAMPANT LOVE TRUNCHEON”

* First Aid: “My my! At Waterloo Napoleon did PISS ON MY WIFE’S TITS WHILE I WATCH”

“Stunning. Bwings a tear to my eye and justifies every penny of the twelve billion qwid they’re paying me for this cwap, allowing me and my impwessively endowed wife to indulge in our harmless naked money-fighting fetish.

“Oh yes, and wemember to vote Scary up. Whatever that means.”

Wednesday, July 05, 2006



With the World Cup coming to its bowel-shattering conclusion this weekend, it is clear that The Beautiful Game is hell-bent on taking over the world, whether we want it to or not.

We've done Nazi TV, Communist TV, Chinese TV and Gay TV, so you should know what's happening by now:

Plz to suggest football-related telvision programmes and films. Here's a few to be getting on with:

* Blue Peterborough
* Changing Roons
* Rushden and Diamonds Are Forever

* The AFC Bournemouth Supremacy
* Queen of the South Park
* Sex in the Bristol City

* How the West Ham Was Won
* Homes Under Them Hammers
* Malcolm in the Middlesbrough

* The Ascent of Lehmann
* Craven Cottage Cookbook / Return to Craven Cottage / Craven Cottage Forever
* One Foot in the Thomas Gravesen

and from the bookshelf:

* The Millwall on the Floss

Suggest! Suggest-me-up! Free Keggy Keegle horror mask for every entry.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Why our society is heading for meltdown

Why our society is heading for meltdown

No.37: The lack of massively disappointing porn

As soon as I hit my 18th birthday, I took the train up to London and bought a R18 certificate video from one of those shops in King's Cross. Worse, it was an Electric Blue shop, that stocked, in the main, only Electric Blue's terrible quality over-edited smut.

I spent the best part of an hour scouring the shelves trying to balance value for money, the perceived filth quotient and enormous breasts in an attempt to purchase my dream grumble flick.

It was called, and not a word of a lie, "Bra-Busters", and was no stronger than Carry on Camping, mainly because the UK film censor, the BBFC had all traces of naked flangery edited out, because, at that time, they were afraid to glance down in case they noticed their own genitals.

It featured some woman frotting herself against a leather rhinoceros.

Bras remained resolutely intact.


These days, it's anything goes just as long as it's anything legal between consenting adults and/or farmyard animals. In fact, my recent discovery of a Grumble DVD entitled "Grannys Cumming" in a skip at Weymouth Rubbish Tip featured many of the original stars of my previous smutty disappointment. They haven't aged well.

This phenomenon is nothing new. My old dad's a professor of medicine, and his monthly deliveries of The Lancet and the British Medical Journal were the nearest thing I ever got to grumble mags when I was thirteen. And boy, were they ever a disappointment.

It also, and hardly surprisingly, made me the sick, sick puppy I am today.

Crap, useless porn is well overdue for a comeback, before it's too late.

Sunday, July 02, 2006



To the Scarymobile on Friday evening, whereupon I drove for three hours to make it to the Ducklings' school Summer Fete, and the promise of red-hot pole-dancing action. And what did I get? This:

Frankly, I feel conned.

Monday edit: I did my back in last week, and I'm in far too much agogogony to be funny today, so you'll have to make do with yesterday's hastily cobbled together mirth. However, consider the following words of wisdom from Scaryduck Jr, who has single-handedly won The War on Terror:

"If Osama bin Laden keeps sending all these tapes to the TV channels, right, an' they're tryin' to find him, right, why don't they just ask the postman?"

He's a genius, that lad, just like his old dad.