Thursday, August 31, 2006
You don't think I'm pushing this book business too far, by any chance? So far as to *gulp* join MySpace? I'm not, you say? Excellent! Then we shall continue with the Thursday vote-o.
I appear to have picked up a few new readers this week, so the explanation is this: every Friday I publish a new completely and utterly true Tale of Mirth and Woe, which being not only true, is also guaranteed to contain at least 170 micro-Grouchos of mirth and the European Union standard 15 mega-Thatchers of woe.
Your task, on this glorious day, is to vote on the available stories in my "Spicy Brains" section, and the most popular story is published. Unless, of course, I decide to teach you all a lesson on the flawed nature of democracy and publish the one I like the most, but life's a bastard like that.
Do not allow the vote-o quote-os sway your decision. They are, as nobody ever realises, mere decoration, and this week provid'd by myne goode friende ye not'd diaryst Samuel Pepys.
* Venice: We disembark'd at this foule-smelliyng citye, and Newton and I wast'd no time in availynge ourselves of a comely pair of sailors, who I feare have split me arse to tytte. Mrs Pepys spent a charmynge day at the glass factories. She tells me she is fair exhaust'd at the amount of blowynge she has experiencd'd today! 'Ye trycke is to suck & work the end' she says. It is gratifyinge to see her take intereste in suche a demandynge craft.
* Still Ill: Upbetimes, but soon return'd to my bed as my Johnson is swollen to the size of a donkey's member, & I am greatly fever'd. That will most certainly teach me for spending my last groat on Poxy Pauline, ye Shoreditch Slatterne.
* Milky Milky: Up betimes & to Newton's rooms, where heis carrynge out his latest experimente in ye name of scientic discovery re the properties of cows. Catcynge him unawares, I fynde him on his backe, engorg'd member in hand, closely studynge a number of woodcuts of udders. I fear his studies are not bas'd on the best of intentions, and he may have piss'd his grant from ye Royal Society up ye wall. As usual.
* The Drugs Do Work: To the Royal Society to enquire over the sanity of myne former friend and bovine pervert Newton, only to meet an acquaint'nce in Captain Nicholls. He has return'd from ye Indies with his latest discoverie, which he has nam'd 'Skunke', & hopes will rival tobacco in popular usage. I am offe myne face as I wryte this, if onlye ye face-eatynge goblins will leave me in peace.
* A Terrible Cult: After smokynge ye last of Nicholl's 'Skunke', myne goode friende Newton and I did feast greatly on her hairye mynge, but I loste ye toss and h'd to settle for sloppye secondes. Our interrogation of the deadfulle harlot over, we hand'd her over to ye watch & we warm'd our bones as she burn'd at ye stake.
Vote! Vote me up!
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
…or the Ducks With Teef* will come for you. These people did not buy 'Tales of Mirth and Woe'. The result? A dreadful pecking. Avoid a dreadful pecking! Buy 'Tales of Mirth and Woe' in large quantities!
The more observant amongst you may have noticed that I have a book for sale. A book that you can buy for genuine cash money!
The result of my slaving over a red hot computer keyboard for four-and-a-half years, the end product is nearly 100 pages longer than Orwell's so-called classic Animal Farm, and seven times the length of Marx's world-changing Communist Manifesto.
In fact, it uses exactly the same words and language as such alleged greats as J.K. Rowling, Jeffrey Archer and the acclaimed Jade Goody, only in a much better order, with numbers at the bottom of each page, and a foreword by a genuine and properly famous author an' everything.
So, you'll be wanting to buy a copy. In fact, you'll be wanting to buy several, what with Christmas being just round the corner. You could buy it off Amazon, but then, you'd be paying them some outrageous sum for postage and packing, and the UK price racks up to eleven notes. Or, you could buy it from source for a bit of a saving.
By making a bulk purchase from the publishers, I can pass the savings on to you lot, and offer signed copies of this ground-breaking work of literary genius to UK readers for the quite reasonable sum of Ten Pounds. That's right - ten pictures of the Queen gets you 208 pages of some of the finest mank ever committed to paper, and a nice introduction by Mr Neil Gaiman.
To secure your copy of this potential family heirloom, Paypal your tenner to firstname.lastname@example.org (along with a posting address and any message you want on the flysheet) and I shall get your personalised copy in the post as soon as possible. If you want to pay by cash/cheque/Green Shield Stamps, please contact me at the same e-mail address and I'll give you a mailing address to send your order.
Readers in the EU should send £11.50 / €17.00, while US customers should pay £12.70 / $24.00. Unless you are really desperate to get hold of a signed copy, you'd be better off using your local Amazon shop.
The whole process may take a few days longer than Amazon, as I need a rough idea of numbers before I make my bulk order. "Plz to allow 28 days for the deliveryness, plz".
Nothing, but nothing, can possibly go wrong. And I nearly forgot the clincher: Free beer, money and sex for every tenth order!**
Publishing industry professionals! Why not ask about my ongoing fiction work 'WTF'? It's bloody excellent, and will make you and (possibly) me as rich as Croesus. What have you - apart from your professional integrity, your mortgage and all your friends and family - got to lose?
* 'Ducks with Teef' by Ross Butter (genius), with permission
** Free beer, money and sex offer closes 19th October 1968, open only to residents of Brazzaville, Republic of Congo
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
No man should be forced to drive a diesel car. No man on Earth. It is a punishment for some ill caused in another life. Cruel and unusual punishment. Awful, smelly, rattling like a bag of spanners. The most awkward, unforgiving pile of junk, loved only by the kind of person who also takes caravan holidays. Bastards, that's who.
So, I went on my holidays to Mallorca, picked up our hire car from the airport, only to hear the sweat-stained attendant tell me "Senor - eez a diesel."
I hated it. It hated me.
It stalled at the drop of a hat. Stunk to fuckery and put horribly greasy shit all over my hands when I went to fill it up with its horribly, smelly, greasy so-called fuel.
I vowed that one of us would end up, aflame, in a ditch. And it wasn't going to be me. The only plus point it had was being the only place I could hide from our German U2-obsessed neighbours, who greeted each and every morning with repeat playings of Pride ( "In the naaaaaaaaaaame of love"). They were called Klaus and Barbie, and I am convinced they are on the run from some war crimes trial.
Dr. Diesel, you're a bastard.
Diesel fuel is for tractors, diggers, and setting fire to people who say "But it's SO economical".
And if you care to defend diesel cars in my comments, I have the following stock reply prepared for you "LA LA LA LALALALAAAA! I'M NOT LISTENING! LA LA LA LALALAAA"
In summary: Diesel cars = no.
At this point, however, I am entitled to say that, diesel engine or no, the Ssangyong Rodius is the ugliest dog's dinner of a car ever built. And in that description, I'm including the Homer Simpson Dream Car.
DROP EVERYTHING! - 1millionlovemessages wants the world to send a million love messages to his blog to break some sort of world record.
We cannot ignore this plea for help. It is your duty to send him something wholly appropriate *cough*, but not before posting it here first. Here's a little number I tossed off this morning:
Ode to a homeless student I met in a Charing Cross doorway
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I want to cut out your liver
And cook a nice stew
Roses are red
Violets are blue
And the bits I can't cook
I'll flush down the loo
-- Denis Nilsen*
Bless. Isn't he just a hopeless romantic?
* Who is eligible for release in two years' time.
Monday, August 28, 2006
On a beach, Okinawa. End of February, yet the tropical sun shines, and warms my toes as they dip into the sea. In the near distance, water breaks over a reef, and, surprisingly, a tennis ball washes up at my reef. Around the cove, the unprotected waters of the Pacific, where a different sea rages. I throw the ball into the inferno, turn my back and walk through the palm trees, past the vending machines selling everything from pr0nography to sacks of rice, to the hotel.
My idea of paradise, it turns out, is paradise. A paradise filled with WWII battlegrounds and shamefully devoid of anybody I actually know or care about, but close enough.
Where - apart from the bottom of a glass - is your paradise?
Tell me! NOW!
Today is the 28th August, the last Bank Holiday of the year. This means that we are now, officially, on the downhill run to Christmas, and that we are on the lookout for St Ebeneezer's Day.
St Ebeneezer's Day: A moveable feast, being the first day that Christmas displays appear in shops and public houses. Traditionally, St Ebeneezer's Tide occurs one week earlier each year.
A short summer and the unfortunate fire-bombing of the London Santa College meant that St Ebeneezer's Day fell on 1st August last year. Pass your Christmas humbug to the usual address.
Wyldwoods claims July 29th.
Update and guilty as charged: A shouty TV commercial for Vanish Carpet Mousse that has just assaulted my eyes and ears: "It's Christmas! Spruce up your carpets!"
No. No it's not. It's August Bank Holiday, you bunch of dreadful twats.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
I've already started writing another book. It's a work of fiction and has rather less swears. Look! I done this, and nary a poo or a vomit in sight.
Toby's worried about a friend...
Dave, one of my oldest and dimmest friends, bored with his day job, has decided to moonlight as an international terrorist, and I fear he may not be long for this world. Determined to prove how serious he is about his impending martyrdom, which he believes is something to do with going down the corner shop for twenty Bensons and a copy of Razzle, he bought himself a pair of dark glasses from the pound shop and has been talking to his "Al-Qaeda cell commander" on MSN. His name is Brian, and he lives with his mum in Biggleswade.
Why, for Cliff's sake, would Dave want to get involved with Al-Qaeda in the first place? He lives in a bungalow, drives a Nissan Micra and had a pretty good career in the warehouse at Argos, who are, as usual, completely out of thermo-nuclear warheads. He's even got a Suffolk Punch lawnmower, the type that puts stripes on your lawn, and diligently composts all his kitchen waste to "give me a nice mulch for next year's garden". This is hardly the talk of a desperate freedom fighter.
And as far as I know, Dave is Church of England, something I am certain would have come out in the job interview.
"Are you willing to lay down your life in the name of God in the battle for Al Quds? Are you willing to die a glorious martyr's death in the battle against the western crusaders who defile our homeland with their murderous Zionist allies? A martyr's death that would see you in paradise with forty-two virgins at your side…"
"...they wouldn't stay virgins for long, I can tell you…"
And: "Is there a pension plan?"
Dave, if you're asking me, is not entirely cut out for a career taking on the excesses of western capitalism's military-industrial complex, armed only with an Eagle-eye Action Man, a former girlfriend's Rampant Rabbit (batteries not included) and a copy of 'The Junior Jihadi Handbook'. This can only end in woe. Pound-you-in-the-backside Guantanamo woe.
Come to think of it, there's not a great deal of scope for a pasty-faced newcomer to this Holy War business these days. Not in Falmouth, when all the action is, frankly, somewhere far more interesting. But that's where poor, soon-to-be-doing-a-fifteen-to-twenty-stretch-in-Dartmoor Dave's tragically misplaced confidence lies.
"Hit the Zionist bastards where they least expect it."
And: "The virgins, guy! Think of the virgins!"
He's going to be letting the tyres down on Tesco delivery lorries and blocking the chemical toilets at the holiday park again. All this on top of his ASBO, an' all.
Friday, August 25, 2006
"Dive into the pool, and swim like buggery."
Those were the words spoken to me by our coach, who also happened to be our commanding officer. The event was the Air Cadets Thames Valley Wing swimming gala, and like a fool, I'd put myself up for the 100m freestyle, along with about a hundred others.
So, as the whistle blew, I dived in and swum like buggery, three to a lane, not caring the fate of those around me. Performing an improvised kick-turn at the halfway mark, I struck out for home and surfacing at the other end, I found, to my surprise, I had actually won my heat.
There was no bloody way I would repeat that feat. And I was right. I came third in the final, and I went home well pleased. Doubly pleased, because a dour girls' breast-stroke final was livened up by the young lady in lane one unwittingly falling out of her costume, giving a couple of hundred testosterone fuelled teenagers the cheap thrill of a lifetime.
A couple of weeks later, I was called into the CO's office.
"Congratulations, Corporal Duck," he said, "You've been selected for the Wing swimming team. You and Cadet Palmer are going to the regional finals."
Palmer swum like a fish, and had been selected for the squad without even having to qualify at the Wing gala, and had been out, in his own words 'getting his fingers up that bird from Greasy Joe's chip shop'. Ah, the life of the professional athlete.
Come the big day, a big RAF coach came and picked us up, and spent the next three hours zig-zagging across Berkshire and Oxfordshire picking up the other participants before heading up to some RAF station in the Midlands, where the finals were to take place.
I wasn't the best traveller, but Palmer, it turned out, was worse. He'd get car sick on a trip to the corner shop, and by the time we hit Banbury, he was as looking dreadfully ill and begging for Death's icy cold hand to take him.
"Christ," he groaned, "I shouldn't have had that cider last night."
"How much did you drink?" I asked.
"All of it."
"And the doner."
Eventually, we arrived, and the colour soon returned to Palmer's cheeks as he legged it into the changing rooms and emptied himself out from both ends. Before long, we were in the presence of the Wing coach, Squadron Leader Sheppard, who had once seen some people swimming on TV.
"Dive into the pool, and swim like buggery," he told us.
I did. I came dead last, and that was my swimming career over and done with. In truth, some of the opposition looked like they were the type who got up at five in the morning to put in a couple of hours of practice before going to school, and then swimming home again. I had once seen some people swimming on TV, and was good at dive-bombing.
Palmer on the other hand, had swum like buggery and found himself, somewhat against the odds, in the final.
"How are you?" asked Squadron Leader Sheppard, concerned that his star swimmer had not been feeling his best.
"Dreck", but I'll swim."
And so, the final of the Central Region Air Cadets100m Freestyle Final began.
He went off like a bullet, but the experience of his opponents was beginning to show. And so was the results of his cider and doner kebab cocktail. As he made the turn on the first length, a brown trail was emerging from his swimming trunks.
Then, with 10 metres to go, and the race long over, a wrecked Palmer stopped, and a huge brown cloud swirled around him, like an underwater nuclear explosion. Then, clinging onto the rope that separated his lane from the next, he puked rich, brown vomit all over the poor sap taking up the rear in lane six.
The watching crowd, previously shouting and cheering their local heroes to victory fell silent.
All eyes were on Palmer.
"Sorry!" was all he could manage before he bowked again, and another fountain of puke spread out like an oil slick.
"PALMER!" roared Sheppard determined that someone, somehow should be punished, "YOU'RE ON A CHARGE!"
As he was, too, right up to the point when he was called into the front office by a scowling Commanding Officer.
"On a charge, eh, Palmer?"
"What d'you do?"
"Puked inna swimming pool, sir."
"Who's charging you, Cadet?"
"Squadron Leader Sheppard."
"He's a prick. Case dismissed."
We understand it cost the RAF the best part of ten grand to drain the pool. Your taxes at work, people.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
An email thudded onto my doormat this week. It was from B3ta ginger fuhrer Rob Manuel, looking for an update on Operation Manky Garden for the "What Happened Next" column in B3ta's weekly newsletter. So I'll tell you.
You may recall that operation Manky Garden was an attempt to replicate the phenomenon of the tomato plants which sprung up behind our house shortly after our local farmer sprayed his fields with raw sewage.
I set out on an all-tomato diet, and when the time was right, left a brown deposit in a hole in the ground somewhere in the South of England, watered well, and waited.
Loads and loads of weeds came up, but not a single tomato plant. In short: Bugger all.
And at this point I'd like to admit to a little …err… cheating. Alongside the brown trout, I also deposited an entire packet of tomato seeds, purchased from my local low quality garden centre ("Get yer flowers 'ere! Stick 'em in the ground, watch 'em grow!") into the fetid hole of woe, as a contingency plan.
Bugger my luck, they didn't grow either. I got more weeds, and I believe I am the only man ever to have actually cultivated Astroturf.
All this makes me an utter failure in the garden, even after cheating. I have to face the truth - I don't have green fingers. They're brown.
So, next year, if we're going to do this properly we'd might as well and get a professional or four in to help. The luscious, pouting Rachel de Thame, advising on which variety might produce the most pert, firm fruit. Or Charlie Dimmock, who could help with the water feature. Perhaps, even, a lightly-oiled Kate Humble if there are any small fluffy animals to be lovingly removed from the drop-zone. And then, towering over the three of them, like a colossus, the mighty, manly figure of Monty Don, shovel in hand, veins throbbing on his forehead as he squeezes out a tomato-laden brown trout to the thrashing delight of the ladies, mulching over and watering it in well, just like I didn't. Percy Thrower would be turning in his shallow grave under the Blue Peter Italian sunken garden.
Or, I could try something simple. Like peaches. God, I'd know if I'd eaten a peach stone. And I'd certainly know when it came out the other end. Just wait. Nothing can go wrong.
B3ta Ppl! Plz to visit main page. Free beer, money and sex for every tenth reader!*
A vote-o special
When I started this site, I didn't think my life contained enough woe to last more than a year to eighteen months. Some four and a half years later, I'm still at it, and this week will mark the 200th Official Scaryduck Tale of Mirth and Woe (Go on - buy the book. You know you want to). To this end, I have chosen three unpublished works as they all contain those ingredients that you, the discerning reader demands: poo and vomit, in large quantities.
* Swimming Gala - Somebody came to this site yesterday searching on "Ann Widdecombe massive tits" - was it you? Own up, pervert, we want to name names
* Venice - Or were you Mr (or Ms) 'I want to fuck Pauline Prescott'? Somebody here is a Big Hair fetishist, and it's certainly not me
* Still Ill - I will, however, draw the line at 'James Blunt topless photo'. Whoever you are: GET OUT
And now you're done here, how about taking a gander through Robber Rabbit's holiday photos?
* May contain traces of lie
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
"Mum! Scaryduck Jr's tried to cart-wheel down the stairs again!"
Cuss of the Month
My holiday was made infinitely more bearable by Frank Muir's rather excellent autobiography 'A Kentish Lad', which I found skulking behind a copy of 'The Da Vinci Code' in our rented villa. After the flysheet in Dan Brown's pile of poo was suitably amended ('The Grail's in the Louvre'), I found the late Muir's work to be a delight.
Indeed, I was delighted by the curse thrown at an inconsiderate parker by a Parisian garage owner whilst holidaying with his future wife:
'Cet homme - il est veritablement LE ROI des cons'
Even in English, this phrase maintains a certain poetry and power, which should throw ever the most utter of 'cons' off their guard, and proves that in some cases you don't need a swear for a damn good cuss. But then, you could replace 'con' with 'chatte' if you really wanted to besmirch poor, dead Frank's memory, and set his bow-tie spinning in his grave.
I shall endeavour to use this phrase daily, and so should you.
Kwouk of the Month
Behold! The pilot episode of a Board of Biffo chum's new cartoon series The Carrotty Kid, starring the legendary Bert Kwouk as Master Che-ri.
It is this: excellent, and deserves a good, thrusting TV commissioning from somebody with a lot of money. Not ITV, then.
Click, and click hard.
"All breakages must be paid for!"
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Spike Milligan: My name's de Famous Eccles. But most people call me by my nickname.
Peter Sellers: Oh yes, and what's that then?
I never had a nickname. It wasn't for the want of trying, but I was too much of a boring, swatty git to warrant one. I wasn't even a duck in those days, scary or otherwise.
One of my friends, the excellent Rod Edney was called Mallet. That's the kind of name to die for. When Andy Kimber ran into a tree on the school field, he became, naturally "Axe". And the school hard case was called Bozzer. Bozzer. I could weep.
Edit 21st May 2010: I've just been informed of my old pal Rod's death in Twyford last weekend, and readers may come across this post searching for his name. Rest in Peace, mate. Rest in Peace.
Of course, I've always hankered for a genuine, make-me-sound-utterly-cool nickname. I even considered "Ace" for a while. Ace Coleman. Then I saw Red Dwarf, and realised that could never happen. Ace Rimmer, otherwise known as "Ace Hole". No. And once again I am stuck with "Hey you" and "Thank fuck he's gone".
So, once again trawling for content: what's your nickname and how did you come by it? And: how about a proper nick for me while you're at it?
Don't tell anyone, but Tales of Mirth and Woe is now officially on sale.
You might wish to purchase a copy or six. Extra credit, naturally, for gushing Amazon reviews.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Tributes are pouring in for the popular Duck family hamster Ryan "Spunky" Minogue, who died peacefully yesterday.
Decorated by the British Government both for his remarkable war record - in which he rescued an entire company of soliders whilst under enemy fire in Iraq, armed only with a set of nippy teeth and a red plastic runny wheel - and for his services to entertainment, Minogue was the bestest hamster Scaryduck Jr ever owned. Minogue will be best remembered by the British public as co-host of the popular TV show "Let's Torture Jimmy Carr" and its sequel "Let's Torture Graham Norton".
In later life, he brokered in peace deal in the Congo, which resulted in the recent democratic elections, and worked hard behind the scenes at the United Nations to make Secretary General Kofi Annan appear more fluffy.
Ryan Minogue is survived by two fancy mice: Lily Minogue and Crackers Aguilera.
"There goes my stunt double" - Top Gear's Richard Hammond
"The best getaway driver I ever had" - Robber Rabbit
"Yo, Minogue!" - President George W Bush.
"I am most saddened" - Her Majesty the Queen
In a private ceremony, Minogue was buried in a KFC Popcorn Chicken box in the family plot at the top of the garden. No flowers, donations to RSPCA.
He was the best hamster ever, and even managed to bite me on his deathbed.
Your Suggest-os, plz, for the name of his eventual replacement.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Right, I'm back from Spain, where I went a whole two weeks without even seeing a computer. The old inter-ma-net hasn't really caught on in these little fishing villages, what with the old Spanish alphabet not having a letter "W"...
Anyway, I had a fantastic time, walking very slowly around every souvenir shop on Mallorca and... Oh My Fucking Christ... you're in trouble, Misty.
There's a few loose ends to tie up, but the book is about to hit the streets...
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Welcome back Scaryduck!
Well, this is my last post here, possibly forever after Scary gets back and sees what I've done to the place. I've had wonderful fun being here though, and it was a pleasure meeting lots of you lovely readers! I will miss you.
I may do some further redecorating before I go, but I shall leave you for now with the winner of yesterday's Vote-O, being:
The One with the Patio Furniture
Last night at approximately 04:07 am, I was awakened by my dog Pudsey bursting into my room shouting "Get up! Come quickly! Something's happening in the garden!"*
I grabbed my dressing gown and a torch, and we went out the front to investigate.
I could hear a very odd noise - a sort of 'roawarraowar' followed by a 'thump-scrape-scrape' as if something was being dragged around on the patio by Gods alone knew what. All I could see by torchlight, was what seemed to be one of my garden chairs running around the garden. As patio furniture is not renowned for doing that sort of thing, I decided that further investigation was in order.
I went back in the house, unlocked the back door, switched the garden lights on, and with a great feeling of trepidation went outside.
At first I was unsure as to what I was seeing. Either I'd overdone my medication, or the chair was trying to shag something furry.
As soon as 'the chair' saw me, it stopped. Further away on the embankment were two foxes - one looking worried, the other I swear, seemed to be trying not to laugh.
My brave dog went back into the house to guard her biscuits leaving me alone to sort out whatever it was.
I got closer, bent down, and at last saw what had happened. A fox had somehow managed to get itself tied to the chair with the aid of a plastic carrier bag - how? I have absolutely no idea and probably never will - but that's what had happened.
I went to try and help free it, but as soon as I got close, the fox got scared, tried to run away, tripped over and managed to fall over backwards cracking me on the shins and sending me falling onto the ground before trying to make off with my chair.
Cursing the animal and rubbing my elbow, I went back into the house for a pair of scissors and gloves, then went out for 'Round 2'.
Many things have happened here that have led to the neighbours thinking that I'm 'a bit odd' but I'm sure if anybody saw me running around the garden at four in the morning, in my dressing gown, brandishing scissors whilst chasing a chair and shouting at it to 'calm down', they would probably have sent for the men in white coats and a large butterfly net.
Anyway, I finally got the fox to stop and calm down long enough for me to cut it loose. The fox and chair suffered no injuries, but I am rather bruised and a bit scratched.
I've had some interesting adventures at that time of night before, but that was certainly one of the most different...
PS. For those of you who would like to read the other tales from the Vote-O, you can find them over at mine - <- clicky
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Wednesday Vote-O thingy
I know Scaryduck normally does this on a Thursday, but sadly, tomorrow will be my last day with you.
Tomorrow, I shall be setting off to the wilds of Leicester to balance ducks upon a certain Mr T. Pratchett, and that is mostly down to a fair few of you lovely lot who responded to Scary's 'Make Misty Happy Campaign' a while back.
To all those folks, I say Thank You! and I will be bringing back lots of nice clickage of the events. I'll probably have to post them over at my place after Scary changes the password on here, after seeing what I've done with his blog mind, but heyho.
Anyhoo, back to the Vote-O.
Two things must ye choose for me! Firstly, a story from the following options:
The one with the patio furniture (me woe)
The incident with the police (police woe)
The kebab shop fight (somebody else's woe)
About the mad, old German women, and omlettes (woe, woe, and more woe)
Something from Scaryduck's archives (not much woe. or poo)
Secondly, ye must decide on a nice big picture to be posted 'specially for Scary's return!
Will it be:
Pudsey killing the toy duck (see sidebar)
Duck doing a poo
I can't believe the last nearly two weeks has flown by so quickly. I'm really going to miss you lot.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
For a little bit of sillyness for today, I thought you all might like to play the Zebra Game. It's very simple*, and as Scaryduck has done other games along very similar versions, I'm sure you'll pick it up in no time.
What you do, is think of a film title, and substitute one of the words in said title for the word Zebra.
- One flew over the Zebra's nest.
- Debbie Does Zebras
- The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Zebra
- Lord of the Zebras
- Little Shop of Zebras
- The Postman Always Brings Zebras
- Zebra on a Hot Tin Roof
- Bang the Zebra slowly
*Also, best played with a little added alcohol.
Monday, August 14, 2006
For your entertainment today, I am posting another of my previous posts that was highly voted for last Thursday. I do hope you like it.
The pain was almost getting too much as you squeezed my nose even harder. My eyes drifted shut and every breath magnified the sensation between pleasure and agony. I could feel your breath by my ear as you leaned closer to me. ‘I’ve been waiting to get you like this for long time’ you whispered ‘And you’re not getting away until I’ve finished with you…you realize that, don’t you?’
How could I not have realized? The chances of me escaping when I was tied like that were zero. I tried to answer but all I could do was nod mutely. I thought it was another of your jokes when you suggested it in the car. How was I to know you’d come up with a place to go? And I did promise that if you found somewhere I wouldn’t back down. So there I was, tied to the bed, and totally at your mercy.
‘So what shall I do to you first?’ you murmured. ‘Hmmm, might as well get you neighing’. I wondered for a second how you where going to get my dress off with my arms tied above my head, but found out when I felt you start to pull at the thin fabric, tearing it into strips to expose me completely to you.
‘Might as well make use of this’ you said and used one of the longer strips to badger me.
The material blocked out the light in the already dimly lit room. I’d never felt helpless before. And I’d never felt so turned on to radio 4 in my life. Already I was aching for you to get your rooster out and play top trumps with me.
‘A deal’s a deal’ you reminded me ‘I get to do whatever I want and if you make just one sound you lose!’
How did you know I wanted to moo with pleasure at the thought of what was going to come...
There was silence for a few seconds, and then the sound of you undoing your belt... I trembled with the anticipation of what you might do, my nose hardened even more and by this time my hot tap was almost dripping with eagerness. Of course you noticed that, how could you not with my top trump cards spread apart so?
‘Nice’ you said as you climbed onto the bed, ‘Make it easier for me to slide my computer up there when I’m ready to feed you’
I felt your hands on my bowl of petunias pushing them even further apart; and then the head of your dice brushed against my pashmina…
‘But not just yet’ you added, ‘I’m gonna make you beg and scream for me to cook me lasagne first’
The pressure of your hands on my laptop lessened. With practiced finesse your fingers found my cucumber and gently started to rub making me catch my breath.
‘Hmm, not a sound so far’ you whispered, ‘Let’s see what happens if I do this’ as you pulled the lips of my copy of the beano wide and pushed three fingers straight up into the trifle.
I almost lost the bet by gasping with pleasure and I knew you’d noticed.
‘You want to go hang gliding do you? You asked, ‘Well you will, but as I said, I’m in charge and there’s more you’re going to do for me’.
With that you pulled your fingers slowly out of my trifle. I was aching for more and my clematis clung to your fingers, not wanting you to stop.
‘So what shall I play with next?’ you murmured. Your hand wandered over the mound of my little pony and over my stomach, your fingers leaving a wet trail of my home made taco sauce as they travelled up towards my bluetits. Slowly you reached up and gently pinched one of my sherbert lemons ’Yeah, that’ll get you begging won’t it?’ you said, and moved up straddling me, pinning me down as you did so. With both hands you started to squeeze my train set, pulling at my already stiff drink. I wanted you to wallpaper me so badly, needed to feel your hard thick copy of the times crossword pumping into me, making me configure my pc, but knowing that if I made one just one noise you’d stop kept me quiet.
You moved further up towards me and I felt your chatanooga choo choo between my beasts as you pushed them together. I was on the verge of combine harvesting again and you knew it. You started to pinch my nougat as you formatted my floppy drives, kneading them together, almost lifting me off the bed while I could feel your camembert getting harder by the second.
‘Want me to flamingo you now do you? Want me to make you chase pigeons?’ Just say yes, just ask me to possum you hard and I will!’
I may be blonde but I wasn’t going to fall for that!
‘Still staying quiet then are you?’ you said teasingly. ‘Let’s see if you can keep it up while I do this then’.
And with that you moved even further up the bed. My mouth was open as I was pontificating in eagerness by this time. I knew what you wanted to do even before I tasted the dribble of precursor on my lips. Your aubergine was so hard by now I wondered if I could take it in my myth. I wanted you in my cupboard, filing me, pounding into my camel, coming in the deep end of the pool hard. All I could think about as you eased yourself into my laura ashley dress was how much I wanted to cha cha. My sponge cake was soaking by now and I could feel the wetness trickling between my tomatoes. My ships bucked as you started to fly your kite. I wanted to beg you then but I couldn’t with my mouth full of your diphthongs. You reached back with both hands and started to play with my tambourines again, pinching and squeezing them hard. I was going to quote shakespear, there was no stopping it, I wanted to reach down and rub my lucky rabbi's foot to get there but I didn’t need to. I was train spotting there and then with you rearranging my moth and pinching my wombats so hard it was exquisite agony again.
My body shivered as the orange juice washed over me. I didn’t need to see your face to know you were smiling.
‘Was that good then? You ready for a duck now or shall I come in your handbag?’ Or shall I play monopoly with you for a little bit longer...?’
I knew you were close to charring cross station, your co-op was so hard and thick and starting to threaten. Although I’d just sneezed, the thought of you franchizing me with it made me want to cook even more urgently than the last time.
You took your cauliflower out of my mouth and moved down the bed so you were lying on top of my teddy bear. I could feel the tip of your pendulum throbbing against my slippers and silently begged you to funk me.
You started sucking at my nemesis, almost nonchalantly, while you reached your decision
To my surprise I felt a tug on the soft toy bunny around my hands.
‘You’re still not getting away and don’t think I’ve finished. Keep the blinkers on and do as I say’.
The ropes fell away. I lay there waiting and wondering what you wanted me to do. I felt you lie down next to me
‘Move on top of the wardrobe’ you said ‘Suck my lollipop a while longer’
I felt my way down your body until I found your llama again. As I bent down to lick and suck, you pulled my hippopotamus round so you could see my concertina.
‘Oh yes, that’s about wet enough’ you said. ‘Feels about ready to get fermented too’ you added as once again you stuck your fingers up at society.
‘Turn round and get on top of the world ma!’ you ordered.
I was so ready to feel your hedgehog I didn’t need telling twice!
I sat astride your fence and placed the tip of your pulitzer prize under my pillow. It pushed against my conker and the start of yet another origami swan started welling up inside me.
Grabbing my hipster jeans you pulled me down, impaling me on your thick, hard member of the labour party. This time I couldn’t help it and yelled out in pleasure as your clockwork armadillo went straight up into my ice cream I think by now we both knew the bet was off as there was no way you were going to stop now.
I bent forwards and you grabbed hold of my bonsai trees, shoving them together and sucking on both tea bags as you pumped away into my squelching, hot tight austin metro.
I could feel you start to hum the theme tune to star trek and I thrust my battleships down in time to meet your rising sense of foreboding.
I arrived hard and wet as you thrust your spangles high into my collection of hello kitty pictures, both of us shuddering as octopi ripped through us. It was amazing, we lay back on the bed, painting and thoroughly, deliciously rubber ducked.
There was only one problem we now faced.
What the hell was I going to wear on the way back?
Sunday, August 13, 2006
So without further ado, I bring you,
'The Tale of Mr de Sade'.
Do try this at home.
I had a call from a friend of mine who had an interesting tale to tell me. He wishes to remain anonymous, so I shall refer to him as Mr de Sade from now on.
Before recounting this anecdote, a little must be explained for readers from foreign parts, as to how the 'Power Companies' are set up over here.
Many moons ago, there was a mighty empire, known as British Gas, who were Omnipotent and Omniscient, and all those who wanted fire, had to kow-tow, and sacrifice their first born to the Great Ones.
But then, the mighty God Thor, thought "Enough of this bo**ocks, I think I shall set some adversaries loose upon them and give them a bit of of a kicking, just for a laugh", and so a mighty battle is now being raged between BG, and a few other companies, such as NPower.
Anyway, Mr de Sade had for some time, and as many people had before, been tied to BG, until one day whilst feeding his venus fly trap, he received a telephone call.
"Hello Mr de Sade" said a happy voice on the other end of the line, "I'm calling from Npower! We've been going through our computer data, and have noticed that you are still with those nasty people who want your first-born-child and lots of money. Why don't you swap over to us? We're really nice and much cheaper, and you only have to sacrifice the odd lettuce now and again to get fire from us!"
Mr de Sade replied "Yes".
The happy person from NPower did a joyous dance, and played with his computer until Mr de Sade was on their records, and a little coded notice was sent to BG saying 'Yah boo sucks, he's with us now! pthrrrrp!'
A moon passed, and BG received the notice from NPower and thought 'Pah! two can play at that game!'
Mr de Sade received another call.
"Hello Mr de Sade, I'm calling from BG. We've noticed that you decided to join those nasty people at NPower and this has made us very sad as we really, really liked you, and if you come back to us, we will cut our costs and make fire even cheaper for you AND we'll give you a free bic biro!"
Mr de Sade said "Yes"
And so the minion at BG played with his computer, entered his code that said Mr de Sade was now back with the dark force, and also sent a message to NPower saying 'We got him back - how do you like them apples?'
Another moon passed before NPower received the message. When they heard, they gnashed their teeth, and wailed, and then called Mr de Sade, and offered him even cheaper fire, a shiny talisman and the fairest goat in the land, if only he would once again return to them!
Mr de Sade said "Yes"
More moons passed. The battle between BG and NPower continued with many a passing of message, many a snarling of minions, and a muchness of code being entered into computers, and many, many telephone calls to Mr de Sade who continued to say "Yes" to their offers of gold and fire and goat, until the day came when all the computers froze over. The days turned to night. The minions started to cry on their mousepads and the supervisors had to go home early complaining of strange headaches and a plague of turnip descended the land.
Mr de Sade now has extremely cheap fire, and a goat which ate his venus flytrap.
Friday, August 11, 2006
- This story brought to you by the power of Vote-O!
(originally posted here)
A few years ago I ended up helping run a pub in Surrey by mistake. The pub had a very large beer garden at the back, and my then partner in crime one day said "You know what would be a good idea, rather than mowing the grass out there all the time, we should get a pair of goats!"
At the time I thought it was just one of his rather dafter ideas and thought no more of it.
About a week later, I returned from a day off to find that during my short absence, a brace of goats had been installed in a pen in the garden.
They were large, had horns, were brother and sister, and had been named Homer and Marge.
They also decided that I was their new 'Mum', as I was the one that ended up feeding them the most, and I can also 'speak goat'.
I didn't know a lot about goats, but I soon found out that they are (or at least these two were) very friendly, permanantly hungry, omnivorous - vegetable and mineral, they will eat it - bloody minded, and could teach Houdini a thing or two about escapology.
News of the goats spread amongst the 'regulars', and they came from far and wide to watch me trying to stop them escaping the pen, and feed them without getting butted.
I managed to find a couple of pegs and chains so that they could roam the garden and keep the grass down, and people would bring their children to meet them and also - and this was not good - feed the goats crisps and offer them drinks.
After a while, only the very brave or very stupid would enter the garden, as Homer especially, would spot a drink or crisp packet, and assume it was for him.
He was particularly keen on cheese and onion crisps, rum & coke, and pints of bitter.
Many customers thought that just because the goats were chained, they would not get loose and do their damndest to get what they thought was for them. What Homer wanted, he usually got.
In brief, I had a large friendly animal with horns, that thought I was it's mother, could proably escape from a sealed lead box, and was on the verge of alcoholism living in the back garden.
Woo and hoo...
Anyway. One night, as it was almost 11pm, I had fed the beasties, read them a bedtime story, tucked them up in their pen and moved all the garden furniture around the pen in an attempt to stop them escaping.
In the bar were a few of the locals playing pool and quaffing a few beers, and also a stranger sitting at the bar minding his own business, enjoying a pint of bitter and some cheese and onion crisps.
Can you guess what was about to happen?
Yep, somehow, both goats got loose and decided to come looking for 'mummy'. After not finding me in the garden, they decided to check the bar.
They hadn't been in the bar before.
They thought it was great fun.
Marge decided to investigate the pool table by jumping on it. Goats like jumping on things, she liked the pool table.
Homer decided that the pint of bitter and cheese and onion crisps were for him and had been put there 'specially by 'his new best mate' ie: the poor sod who didn't know about the goats, and was rather surprised* when Homer put his hooves on the bar and proceeded to drink his beer.
"Aaaarghh!" he cried, "There's a bloody great big goat with large horns drinking my beer, and now he's eating my crisps! Help me! Make it stop and go away!"
To which the reply from my ex, and the regulars was;
"What goat? There's no goat in here... I think you've had a bit too much to drink mate..."
The poor man fled the pub never to be seen again.
Marge ate one of the balls and the chalk before she was caught.
Homer had a hangover the next day.
Hope y'all liked that.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
I have looked everywhere, but arsed if I can find it, so instead, you're getting to choose from a selection of my previous posts.
Aren't you lucky?*
Your choices are as follows:
The Night The Goats Got Loose (Goat woe)
Censored Pr0nography (No woe, but funny)
The Kebab Shop Fight (Woe for somebody else)
The Tale Of Mr de Sade (Sales rep woe)
The One With The Patio Furniture (Me woe)
Lines close in about 24 hours.
Also, I am going to redecorate. Should I go for,
c) Light blue
e) All of the above
f) Other (plz to state)
Looking forward to hearing your suggestions,
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
For today's fun, I am doing a 'Round Robin Story', wherein I start, and you lot follow on.
The rules are that nobody calls 'the end' until I do, and I try my bestest to ensure continuty in the comments flow.
Got the idea? Huzzah!
Right. Off we go with...
It was a lovely sunny day, when Scaryduck decided to take a holiday. He
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Still, could be worse; I could be stuck in that cupboard with whatever it was that was making the scratchy sound.
I have decided today, to share one of my tales for those readers who don't know me that well. I do have a stockpile of drafts that Scary left me, but it was his suggestion to use this anecdote, so that's what you're getting. it was originally posted up here btw. Hope you like it*
Before recounting this tale, I must first describe the setting of the scene. My garden is fairly large and sort of divided into two parts - the first as seen from the road being 'the driveway' and the second, almost hidden from passers by being the patio.
There is one small area on the patio which can not be seen by the prying eyes of neighbours being hidden by trees and hedges, and also hidden from traffic and so by a couple of large hydrangea bushes.
This small area is my 'private' garden bit. It's where I can lie down, strip to bikini bottoms only, and relax listening to the peaceful sounds of birds singing, insects buzzing, trains hurtling past, air traffic and the wails of emergency sirens emanating from Hanwell Broadway.
I recently acquired a hammock. A free standing, metal framed, fabric affair which is wonderfully comfortable and soothing.
Earlier this afternoon, I decided to take advantage of the few rays of sunshine that were peeking playfully through the clouds, grabbed a book and a jug of squash, moved said hammock to my little spot, removed bikini top and settled down for an hour or so's R&R.
The hammock swayed in the gentle breeze, a butterfly fluttered past the fuchsia bush, my little dog decided to join me by my side, and before long I felt my eyelids start to feel heavy and I surrendered myself to the arms of Morphius.
That was when a fu**ing huge wood pigeon decided to try and land on my head.
I don't know if anybody else has been through a similar experience, but my reaction was to try and run away from the ba**ard. This maneuver involved attempting to stand, which - trust me on this - is so**ing well near impossible to do in a hammock, and sent me flying head first into a nearby stone plant holder. Luckily, my landing on the concrete patio was not as bad as it could have been, as a pile of holly leaves that had been swept into a pile helped break my fall.
To make matters worse, the feathery little s**t had somehow managed to get a claw entangled in my hair, so I
After what seemed like an hour (but must only have been about thirty seconds) I finally got disentangled from the pigeon and stood panting, scratched, shocked and still topless on the patio.
It was then I noticed the group of mummies and daddies with a horde of small children that had stopped by my driveway and were staring at me open mouthed with the various adults trying to cover up the little ones eyes and ears.
I did the only thing possible I could think of in the circumstances and quickly ducked down out of sight behind the hydrangeas - only to put my hand on a f**king slug which burst.
I have now showered about seven times, have a large bruise coming up on my left buttock, various scratches and rashes which have had medicinal unguents applied, and am on my fourth cup of tea laced with a little brandy.
I have also gone right off wood pigeons.
*If you didn't, erm... tough.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Anybody out there?
'ang on a minute while I find the lightswitch will you....
Right. Hello, and welcome to two weeks of me looking after Scaryduck's blog, while he swans around enjoying himself in sunny Spain.
Yep, the fule has left me in charge of entertaining you all, and given me the keys to the place, so I think the first thing I'm going to do, is have a look around.
So what can I see...?
Poster of Kate Humble on wall with rather suspicious looking stains on it...
Junior map of the world with little red flags stuck on it...
Half eaten carton of tomatoes on shelf, next to a funny smelling pot with what I hope is mud in it...
And oh dear gods, I hope those stains on the floor are just blood.
*moves rapidly away from stains, and goes to desk*
I think there might be a 'puter under this pile of books, soft toys and rubber ducks. Yep, bingo.
Sorry, just waiting for the machine to boot up... I'll have a rummage in the desk drawers while I'm waiting.
Old copies of the Beano... The Big Book of Words (illustrated)... A half eaten tomato sandwich... *eurgh* Oh, this doesn't surprise me in the least - about three dozen grumble mags, with most of the pages stuck together... Box of kleenex... I think those are pear drops, but they're all stuck together... Oh, this really is funny. For a start, it's not his colour, and secondly, he'll never fit into it without the aid of a shoehorn, and copious amounts of baby oil! *bwahahahahaha*...
What else we got? 'ang on, there's something right at the back of the drawer... can't quite reach... Ah, got it! It's a battery charger... wonder why he'd want to charge up so many batteries...?
*checks bottom drawer*
Never mind. I now know why he's got the battery charger, the manky sod. And oh dear, there's a shoehorn and a litre bottle of baby oil in there as well...
Haha! 'Puter's booted, hurrah! Kate Humble wallpaper, dearie, dearie me.
Right, what we got here then?
Porn... porn... more porn... Let's have a look at my favorites... Porn... porn... more porn...
Oooh, this folder looks interesting! Roswell, the evidence... Hitler's real diaries... Pentagon files? And a picture of Tony Bliar, and... Aaaaaaaaaaaargh! That's John Prescott! Doing, well, Tony, whilst dressed in a gimp suit... And I'm sure that's Ann Widdecombe in the background with Cherie Bliar...
I'm just popping out for a while. I've got to get back and walk Pudsey. I'm not going anywhere near the News of the World offices, honest!
If I'm not back tomorrow, it means I'll be somewhere near the Caribbean.
You ain't seen me, right?
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Friday, August 04, 2006
Light of my life.
Fire of my loins.
My sin. My soul.
Re. Susci. Ann.
Becoming the office First Aider is a right, not a privilege. It is not, for example, an excuse to get out of work for an entire week as you scoot off to Bracknell for a course in order to qualify for your certificate. A certificate that will, if you're lucky allow you to tend to all the medical needs of every single young lady with whom you work, becoming and enormous hero in the process.
In your dreams.
I went on a week-long First Aid course in a freezing cold hall in Bracknell, attended, in the main, by other corporate volunteers suddenly realizing it is not the enormous skive it is cracked up to be. And, of course, the tutor, who has seen this all before, knows that she is faced with a bunch of slackers, many of whom are hunkering down for a lovely afternoon's nap.
Returning to Bracknell for the first time since I left college, I had made it my duty to visit as many of the pubs I frequented as a student, from which we were banned following that nasty incident with the college Christmas meal which went horribly, drunkenly wrong. So, as soon as we were released for lunch, I led a raiding party on the nearest public house, and well, sunk a few more than we originally planned.
Drink, you will note, was a factor that the court should consider in mitigation.
Mid-afternoon boredom is a terrible thing. Thussly, it is neither big nor clever to get a lob-on on the first day of a week-long first aid course, particularly when your instructor is wearing a far-too-tight nurse's uniform, which your somewhat drowsy attention has settled on following a liquid lunch and a huge bowl of pub chili con carne when she perches her voluptuous frame on the corner of a desk.
It is also best to make sure you attend this course wearing ...um... robust trousers, and not that pair of jeans with the dodgy fly that comes undone at the drop of a nurse's hat. This advice will save you from one thing: woe.
This kind of woe to be precise: The woe that comes from at least four days of ribbing from said instructor, when, after a triumphant go on the Resusci-Ann doll you stand in front of the entire class, your manly bulge is proudly on display as your mind has drifted away to the far more welcoming subject of nurses' camels toes.
"For a small fee", she said as the class sniggered, "I'll let you take her home tonight."
And they laughed. Oh how they laughed, and not that nice "laughing with me", either. At me. For four days. Even the little old lady who came in to do the exams on the Friday knew.
She told me not to use my tongue on the mouth-to-mouth doll. For shame.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Lucky old me. Lucky, lucky, lucky. For this weekend, sensibly leaving my house in the hands of relatives, and foolishly leaving my blog in the hands of other bloggers, I shall be away to Spain for a fortnight of mirth, mirth and avoiding the internet.
I must be mad, for I have left the front door keys to this place in the hands of Misty, who will spend the next two weeks posting up mirth of her own, and low quality woe which I have left lying around below stairs, behind the bins.
I have, she says, nothing to fear. And that's why I'm bricking myself.
In the mean time, there is the small matter of the Thursday vote-o to contend with, so you may wish to choose from the following five stories for tomorrow's tale of mirth and woe. It may be your last chance as I head for Bournemouth Airport: Snakes on a Plane are coming.
A tramp special! Vote me up!
* First Aid: "Are you free Mr Humphries?" "No Captain Peacock, I'm rimming this tramp." It was the episode of 'Are You Being Served?' they could never show. Until now.
* Take a Break: She would be the Dian Fossey of the tramp world. She would live with tramps. Study how they lived, how they ate, how they got the price of a cup o' tea, Jimmy. And soon enough, she would know their mating rituals.
* Swimming Gala: As the Israeli Defence Force poured over the border into Southern Lebanon, taking on the Hezbollah foe, they took their chance. Tel Aviv was left undefended, and without a fight, the tramps took over. Israel was now a hobo nation.
* Venice: And before they knew what was happening, tramps became the new black. In a frenzy of paprazzi photographers, there was Kate Moss at the cutting edge of Bum Chic, clutching a bottle of White Lightning and stepping out with the movement's new leader: the ubiquitous Mumbling Jimmy.
* Still Ill: The Titan II heavy lift rocket blasted off from Cape Canaveral containing three tons of cardboard, a year's supply of cider and the contents of every wheelie bin in Central London. And on top of it all was Mad Ole Dave, soon to be the first tramp on the moon.
Passport - 'I'm with Stupid' T-Shirt - Socks & Sandals. That's it, I'm off.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
I was always crap at first dates. In fact, I was particularly crap at getting dates in the first place, compounded with a genuine talent of messing them up when I got there.
Take Michelle, for example. Lovely red-head, absolutely besotted with me, to the point that - out of teenage embarrassment - I slammed the door in her face and ran away. Our first date was a no-expenses-spared trip to the local swings, where Simon Bell - my rival for the lovely Michelle's affections - glowered at us from the safety of the Witches Hat.
Failure followed failure.
The pinnacle of my achievement came when I took a certain young lady - who I was told would really like to get to know me better - to the cinema for an evening of back-row entertainment.
We wanted entertainment. We wanted romance. We wanted - let's be honest - a chick flick.
We saw Platoon.
At one point, some bloke got both his arms blown off, and lots of blood and gore sprayed about the screen in slow motion. So much for holding hands.
And now we're married.
To my credit, I managed to avoid touching any lumpy bits until the second date. I was just amazed there was a second date. I took her to see Mel Brooks's career-murdering Spaceballs. We were the only two people left in the cinema as the end credits rolled.
We're doing a lot of confessing-me-up on this site at the moment, so don't think you're immune. Confess! Confess, I say!
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
I watched Steven Spielberg's 1982 ghost story "Poltergeist" the other night, for the first time in years. I had forgotten how much it freaked me out, essentially because Spielberg is a master at injecting mind-bending menace into everyday family situations, before getting a gigantic ghost fanny to eat the kids in the final scene.
Anyway, I went to my bed, still shaken and stirred, and was awoken in the wee small hours by a dreadful moaning and a rattle of chains.
"WoooOOOoooooOOooo!" it went.
"ZZzzz… hmmm… what?"
"I said ' WoooOOOoooooOOooo!' you deaf bastard. I'm a ghost. WoooOOOoooooOOooo!"
"Oh, look. Just bugger off, I'm trying to sleep."
"No chance, buster. You killed me. Killed me to death, and now I'm going to haunt you. Haunt you BAD, every night, except Tuesdays, which is bingo night on the other side. Get a full house, come back as a girls' bike saddle. Not to be missed. WoooOOOoooooOOooo!"
And then, I caught sight of the gruesome, spectral apparition that sat on the edge of my consciousness, and suddenly I was one hundred per cent awake.
One scream, and it was still there, reality standing still. Just me and... it.
Wiggles. Poor, dead Wiggles.
"Hang on - you're Mr Wiggles the rabbit! I didn't kill you!"
"Yes you did, you git, and now you're going to pay - in fear! I'm going to haunt you so bad, you won't even be able to go to the toilet properly. WoooOOOoooooOOooo!"
"So - what did I do wrong? I heaped love on you. You never, ever wanted for carrots. I'll never forget the day you led us all to safety from that burning car, and that time you single-handedly caught that burglar, tying him up with his own string. When I found you dead in your hutch I cried for nearly ten minutes before we fed your carcase to next door's dog. You were the best rabbit, ever."
"Everything except lady company, you bastard."
"But... I couldn't just let you breed. Like ...err... rabbits."
"You don't realise, do you?
"No, sorry, Big Ears, you've lost me."
"Don't call me big ears. I hate that. How'd you like it if I called you 'Flat Face', Flat Face? So, riddle me this: What, pray, did you feed me for dinner the night before I bounced off this mortal coil?"
"Uh… a cheese toasted sandwich?"
"Exactly, Flat Face. And the night before?"
"Your favourite: carrot and lettuce toasted sandwich."
"And before that?"
"Ah! Yes! A ham toasted sandwich!"
"DingDingDingDing! Give the bunny murderer a cigar. So… you still don't realise what I died of then, you unfeeling bastard. Here's a big fat clue: It's the one thing we rabbits fear most, and you struck me down as if you held a gun to my cute floppy-eared head and pulled the trigger yourself! Also: WoooOOOoooooOOooo!"
"What? Hoppy Leg?"
"Christ in a rabbit hutch! Do I really have to spell it out to you?"
It struck me. Right between the shoulder blades, right down to the pit of my stomach, as I won, temporarily, the battle to keep the bile down, whilst ghostly maggots played on the face of the …thing… staring me down from the other side of the duvet.
"You don't mean… "
"Oh, God, I'm so, so sorry..."
"Mixing me toasties."
If he wasn't already dead, and a rabbit, I'd bury him alive.