Thursday, May 31, 2007

Condensed Films: Casino Royale

Condensed Films: Casino Royale

Good God, this one's already selling at £4.97 in Asda. Go out and buy your own copy. Or, if you still can't be bothered to watch this latest secret services recruitment video, we've chopped it up into very small pieces, added more swears and boiled the thing down to a mere 500 words.

Casino Royale

TITLES: Awful song, naked ladies.

James Bond: Hello. I am James Bond and I am excellent. I've just got my shiny new Double-O licence, and I'm off out to kill some foreigns. Isn't that right, Mrs M?

Mrs M: Get out of my house. FFS.

Foreign: Ah hahahaha! I have got away from J. Bond with my camera-friendly l33t running-and-jumping-about sk1llz and by hiding in my country's embassy, where I am supposedly safe. ROFFLE!

J. Bond: Oh yeah? Shooty shooty bang bang! LOLZ.

Foreign: Ouch. Oh, I'm dead.

Mrs. M: Roger me stupid Bond, that was a bit out of order.

J. Bond: Sorry, Mrs M. ;(

Mrs. M: And get out of my house, FFS. While you're at it, you might want to stop those bad people from taking over the world by way of some sort of over-complicated plot that involves winning vast quantities of money in a game of poker. I think.

J. Bond: What? Oh. Right.

Mrs. M: *sigh* He's so hunky. I hope something terrible doesn't happen to him, for eg getting tied up naked and having his genitals whipped with a knotted rope.

J. Bond: Hello Bond girl? How about a quick knee-trembler while we're waiting for the next bit of plot to come along?

Bond Girl: No. I am playing hard-to-get, but will eventually cave in at some stage during the final reel, before the inevitable bloody conclusion.

J. Bond: Have you got Mrs. M's money, so I can totally whip the bad guy at cards?

Bond Girl: Don't do anything stupid like lose it all at poker. LOL

J. Bond: Whoops. Anyone got a fiver till payday?

L. Chiffre: In your face English! LOLOL!

F. Leiter: Hello. I am Felix Leiter of the CIA and I am excellent. In previous films I was a white, middle-aged man. Now I am young, thrusting and black. Have some of the CIA's money. We were only going to spend it on whores for Central American dictators anyway.

J. Bond: Ta. Hey! I won! w00t!

L. Chiffre: FFS! Arse! PWNED!

Bond Girl: ONOZ! I have been kidnapped by an enraged L. Chiffre. Plz to rescue me!

J. Bond: I cannot, because I too have been kidnapped and now L. Chiffre has tied me to a chair and is whipping my genitals with a knotted rope. Actually, it's quite fun.

L. Chiffre: Fun for you, maybe. Someone appears to have shot me to death. Ouch

J. Bond: I quit, and now I am off to Venice with Bond Girl, with whom I have recently fallen in love. I bet you any money and knowing my recent luck viz knotted ropes to the plums, she is about to double-cross me

Bond Girl: LOLZ! I have double-crossed you. But ONOZ! Now I am dead. Glug.

J. Bond: ROFFLE. Bitch. But hang on - she has also double-crossed the real bad guy, who has only been in two scenes so far.

Real Bad Guy: You utter git, Bond. You just shot me in the kneecap


Woody Allen: So, I ...err... I'm not in this version, then?


Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Condensed Films: Pretty Woman

Condensed Films: Pretty Woman

You terrible bunch of bastards. I have, in the name of research, sat through the awful, hideous Pretty Woman, just so I can write this condensed movie wossname by way of a warning to you all. That's two hours of my life I won't see again. And I demand your worship. Or, pity at the very least.

So: Pretty Woman, the worst film in the world, five hundred easy-to-swallow words, so you don't have to.

Pretty Woman

R. Gere: Hello. I am R. Gere and I am excellent. However, despite being filthy stinking rich, I cannot find even the shallowest of women to have se... I mean go to business functions with.

J. Roberts: Hello. I am J. Roberts and I am also excellent. Despite having fantastically hairy armpits, I am The Prostitute of All Your Hearts and charge extra for rodent play.

R. Gere: For some reason that defies all sanity and logic, I shall ask this street-corner slattern to pretend to be my wife. That'll play well. Genital herpes, here I come!

J. Roberts: Here comes a rich guy in an enormous phallic symbol car. Watch how I totally rip him off and give him genital herpes. ROFFLE!

R. Gere: Hello, Tart-with-Heart. I am certainly not a kerb-crawler, and I have never knowingly put a live hamster up my bottom. Plz to sit in my enormous phallic symbol car. I promise not to murder you to death or anything. LOLz.

J. Roberts: Yes. I totally believe you. PS Happy finish fifty dollars extra.

R. Gere: I will give you any money if you pretend to be my wife

J. Roberts: You filthy pervert. OK. PS Bareback 100 dollars extra.

R. Gere: ROFFLE. Plz to spend all my money in swish Beverley Hills boutiques as this is clearly Hollywood's twisted interpretation of the American Dream made flesh. Or something. In return I shall fix your toilet mouth and teach you to act like a lady.

J. Roberts: OMFG! I am living Hollywood's twisted interpetation of the American Dream made flesh and will let you take pictures for a mere 150 dollars extra.

R. Gere: Repeat after me - The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plane.

J. Roberts: Spunk on my tits, stud-muffin. PS Strap-on action 200 dollars extra.

R. Gere: By Jove! I think she's got it! In fact, it hurts to piss and I think I've got it too. LOLZ

J. Roberts: OMFG! You have turned me into a proper high-class whore and I shall love you always, R. Gere! ROFFLE.

R. Gere: I love you too! See? I've got you a pearl necklace.

J. Roberts: WTF?! You filthy pervert. Pearl necklace is 250 dollars extra.

R. Orbison: Mercy!

THE END. Thank God.


Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Condensed Films: Star Wars

Condensed Films: Star Wars

Want to look like a film buff? Can't be bothered? Well, neither can we, but with this handy cut-out-and-keep guide to your favourite movies, we can all look like we all know our Wookies from our lightly-oiled Carrie Fishers. And who are we to complain? For your convenience, some characters have been merged into one, handy less annoying walking dustbin.

Star Wars

Darth Vader: Hello. I am Darth Vader and I am excellent. However, despite being a Sith Lord, Knower of All Things and the Green Cross Man, I have completely failed to recognise my own daughter

Princess Leia: You'll never take me alive! Oh. You have.

C3-D2: We have escaped to some horrible planet

L. Skywalker: I am trapped on this horrible planet. And now I must buy some droids. PS Hello. I am L. Skywalker, and I am excellent.

C3-D2: Hello. Buy us! Then we must run away and find B. Kenobi

B. Kenobi: Hello. I am Ben Kenobi and I am excellent. I have found your droid, who has a message from a rather fetching young lady in a see-through dress. Being a Jedi Master, Knower of All Things and George Smiley the famous spy, I have completely failed to recognise that she is your twin sister

L. Skywalker: What? I was too busy thinking of all the things I could do to that babe in the see-through dress.

H. Solo: Hello! Yes! I'll let you borrow my space ship

B. Kenobi: Excellent!

C. Bacca: Waaaaargh!

D. Vader: Recognise that planet?

P. Leia: Yes. I live there.

D. Vader: What planet? LOLZ! Loser!

P. Leia: OMFG! You blew up my dad! Even though I was adopted an' all that, and you're my real dad ...err... nothing

H. Solo: Here we are! I'll just park up by that small moon.

B. Kenobi: That's no moon

L. Skywalker: And we appear to have been captured :(

H. Solo: Don't worry. We can rescue that sexy chick in the see-through dress who also appears to have been captured. You get sloppy seconds.

C. Bacca: Waaaaaaaaaargh!

H. Solo: Make that sloppy thirds

P. Leia: I'm not going to thank you for rescuing me, because I'm uptight like that. OK, just one kiss. No tongues.

L. Skywalker: A hub a hub a hub a hub-hub

D. Vader: OMFG! It is B. Kenobi. Die in a fire!

B. Kenobi: Alright then. LOL. Ha. Didn't hurt a bit.

H. Solo: Run away!

L. Skywalker: Now to blow up the Death Star

B. Kenobi: Hello L. Skywalker. I am now talking to you inside your head, even though I have carked it. Don't worry. You are not a mental. ROFFLE

L. Skywalker: Riiiiight

C3-D2: wibblewibblewibbleFREEEP!

Porkins: Ouch. I appear to be dead.

D. Vader: PWNED! Now to kill this one, who is certainly not my son, because I am a Sith Lord and am Seer of All Things.

H. Solo: Yeeehaaa!

D. Vader: WTF?!

B. Kenobi: L. Skywalker! Use the hastily-thought-out belief system we made up for this film which will end up rather embarrassingly as the genuine religion to saddo fanboys some 20 years down the line Luke, Use the... PS You are not turning into a mental who hears voices, honest

L. Skywalker: Ooooh, lucky shot, but I'm going to thank Jesus ...err... Karma... err... The Force. Yes. The Force

Death Star's 700,000 Crew: WTF?! We all appear to be dead. You massive bastard L. Skywalker!

L. Skywalker: Yoinks! Now to get off with that hot bird with the see-through dress.

H. Solo: Too late bud, I'm already well in there.

C. Bacca: Waaaaaargh!

H. Solo: LOL!

The End: Or is it?*

* No. We've still got J.J. Binks to come. And Ewoks. Bloody Ewoks.


Monday, May 28, 2007

Condensed Films: 300

Condensed Films: 300

Time poor? Don't fancy mixing it with the popcorn-munching proles at the cinema? Need to bluff your way as a connoisseur of the filmic arts? Never fear - we've taken popular movies, boiled them down, and delivered them here in the easy-to-understand language of today's youth. It's a service. We do it because we love you.


Leonidas: Hello. I am Leonidas, king of the Spartans, and I am excellent. My good friends and I shall spend the next two hours in your company killing Persians, wearing nothing but a cloak, a helmet and a pair of leather swimming trunks between the lot of us. But it doesn't make me a homo, honest.

Xerxes: Hello. I am Xerxes, king of the Persians, and I too am excellent. My good friends and I will spend the next two hours in your company trying to invade Greece and having loads of manly sex with enormously-endowed ladies. Hey, nice abs, Spartan bloke!

Leonidas: Thanks, I work out a lot. But I'm not a homo, honest.

Xerxes: Then I might have to kill you. To death. LOLZ!


Spartans: We're not homos, honest boss. God, where did that bottle of baby oil come from?

Leonidas: See those Persians? Kill them. Kill them to death. ROFFLE.

Several thousand Persians: Oh dear, we appear to be dead. Quite spectacularly, and in extreme slow motion.

Leonidas: LOLZ. I put that one's head up a horse's bottom.

Spartans: LOLZ. You're a card, boss.

Ephialtes: I am a Spartan, although hideously deformed. Can I join yr army, plz?

Leondias: FFS, no. We do not have an inclusive disability policy. Also: I don't fancy you.

Ephialtes: Then I shall be off to betray you to Xerxes and have lots of depraved hunchback sex

Xerxes: Here, have loads of depraved hunchback sex. LOLZ!

Ephialtes: Result!

Dildos: OMFG! That hunchback who said he would betray us to the Persians - you're never going to believe this - he's only gone and betrayed us to the Persians, the enormous bastard.

Leonidas: Would you fucking credit it? Jeez, like I never saw that coming.

Xerxes: Ha! Now to kill you all to death, even though you all have fantastic abs and claim not to be homos. LOLZ!

Leonidas: Ouch, that really, really hurts.

Spartans: Yes. It does. And we all appear to be dead. Apart from Dildos, who got away, the spawny bastard.

Dildos: Yes. I got away. LOL. I have arrived back in Sparta, where there was a dull sub-plot that did not involve any bumming or swordplay. My tale will unite all of Greece against Persia, resulting in a crushing home victory at the Battle of Plataea. Then there will be plenty of time for bumming if you are that way inclined. Which I am not.

Xerxes: ARSE!



Sunday, May 27, 2007

Thelma and Loo-ise

Thelma and Loo-ise

A story which ends with the line "Now there's something you don't see everyday."

So, there I was: Friday evening, fighting against every caravan-towing dope in the South-West of England to get home for the Bank Holiday weekend. I had just cleared Salisbury, put my foot down to get past another snail-on-wheels, when I hear the now familiar sound of the Star Wars Imperial March.

It is my phone ringing.

Sensible driver that I am, I pull into a handy layby, to find out why my boss is ringing me after hours.

It is a rather pleasant social call, which also has the result of letting every slwo-moving bastard I had overtaken in the last twenty miles get past me again, with hardly a passing place to be had until Weymouth.

Just as I was wrapping up the call, a singularly flashy red sports car zips into the layby, and out jump two women of the female persuasion who can only be described as Yummy Mummies, clearly on the run from The Man.

Thelma looked around furtively, while her friend scurried into the undergrowth, dropped her trousers and done a wee. A wee, inna hedge.

Unfortunately, Louise had not gone far enough in - connosieurs of the art will ensure there are at least several trees between the makeshift toilet and potential witnesses - and could be clearly seen going about her business, some sort of comedy squatting affair that just invites unintended leakage.

As a married man, it is not my place to comment on the quality of the bottom. But seven out of ten, rising to eight with the merest flash of the flanges, if I were the type to pass judgement. Passing drivers also showed their approval, and the air was rent with car horns.

Emerging from the undergrowth, and holding her trousers up, she said five words to her friend. Five words which I shall never forget.

"Have you got a tissue?"

No. No she did not.

I did. They didn't want it.

"Hey, boss - you'll never guess what I've seen!"



"Now there's something you don't see everyday."

On Condensed Movie Week

This little episode leads vaguely into the coming week where Scary watches a lot of films - new and old - so you don't have to. It'll be a riot, but, of course, not as funny as I used to be.

Friday, May 25, 2007

Mirth and Woe: Guildford

Mirth and Woe: Guildford

That's poo, that it isFor some reason that defies logic to this day, our school used to drive us all the way to Guildford to use the municipal swimming pool.

There was a perfectly good one in Reading, not to mention several in towns en route to the admittedly spectacular facility, but no school trip anywhere could possibly be complete without a mystifying detour into Surrey for a bit of a swim.

Thinking about it through the fug of time, It was quite possibly the superior quality of the female lifeguards, who all went on to future careers as members of Colonel Qadaffi's elite all-female Amazonian bodyguard. The manky old bastard. But then, if I was the dictator of an oil-rich North African country, I too would insist on the same treatment. Oooh, mama!

On any given Friday evening, we would turn up in our school's converted ambulance (all the seats, stretchers an' stuff ripped out and replaced with two benches from the school gymnasium) and plunge headlong into the pool.

The one thing, it had to be said, that the Guildford pool had going for it was its positively huge diving board. The board in Reading was apparently Olympic regulation, but in Guildford, they had thrown the rule book right out of the window and had built something rsembling those they have at funfairs for the stuntman diving into a glass of spit.

Up, up up, you would climb, wet feet on metal and wooden rungs, breathing heavily as the air became thinner with altitude, head spinning as you looked up the chuff of the girl in front of you. And if you were lucky, you'd be catching a glimpse of Tracey's spider-legs, seconds before you plunged to your horrible doom, clutching an unexpected and inappropriate boner.

The whole reason you were climbing up to the top board somewhere in the stratosphere was, as you might expect, to impress the opposite sex. If not the Amazonian lifeguards, absolutely anybody of the female gender above the age of consent that still had their own teeth. Even then, one or two of our number weren't particularly choosy about upper age limits or dental records.

Eventually you would reach the top and peer nervously over the edge. The water seemed a long way down, and the noise of the rabble splashing around in the main pool echoed painfully around your ears as you decided whether to jump or not.

"No, you go first," you say to a fellow diver, and you'd watch him take a running jump and dive stylishly into the water below, if you still dared to look down.

What the hell - girls to impress. Run up, scare yourself stupid at the last minute and fall like a huge git off the edge, throwing a number of unusual shapes on the way down before landing on your arse, not realizing up until that moment that water could be so fucking painful.

I thought myself lucky to escape with my life, and went back for more, the backs of my legs spanky-red from the last effort.

Poor Gaz, then.

Paralysed with fear and forgetting the wizened old harpie he was trying to impress, filled to the brim with the contents of the sweet shop at the end of his road, he peered into the brightly-lit void from the top board, clinging for all he was worth to the safety rail.

"Jump Gaz, you spacker!" the mob shouted, offering the only kind of support that 15-year-olds could manage at times like this, short of pushing him off the board.

"Tracey's watching!" they continued, hoping that temporarily raising his standards would be encouragement enough.

Eye-witnesses reported Gaz mouthing the word "Noooooo!" before he made a run for the ladder and the relative safety and only minor humiliation of the lower boards.

Alas, he never made it to the ladder, as there were others making their way up to the top deck. So he did the only thing that a nervous, bloated young man could do in the circumstances.

"YAAAAAAARCH!" he said.


Alas, I was one of those coming up the ladder, looking in the general direction of up Tracey's wonderful peachy bottom, I took a shower of rich, brown chunder in the face, saved only from a Mr Creosote-style deluge by the shade provided by her magnificent bosom.


One of the Amazonian lifeguards had seen poor Gaz's humiliation, and the entire pool turned to see the scrawny teenager yarking over the side of the diving board onto a screaming girl and and equally screamy young man.

I'm not proud of my performance that evening, but in the name of the confessional nature of these pages it is only right that I tell you this: I screamed like a girl, and the Amazon wouldn't let me dive into the pool to clean myself off, so Tracey and I screamed even more.

Poor Gaz hadn't quite finished. Ushered out of the pool complex by hideously embarrassed teachers, it appeared that he might have actually come down with something rather more serious than a dose of top-board fear, for as we were just getting onto the bus, he announced a sudden an rather urgent need to take a crap.

Nothing for it - we were too far down the wrong end of the car park, so he crouched down behind a huge municipal rubbish bin and did his business into a plastic bag. Or he would have, had the business not been more liquid than intended, the brown laser finding his pants and the back of his trousers with unerring accuracy.

Turds everywhere, there was no way he was getting on the bus.

"There's no way you're getting on the bus", said Mr Wilko to the general agreement of those of us who had made it onto the transport without getting puked on again, "and get rid of those pants."

So he did. He flung his soiled grundies across the car park, where they stuck with a damp splot on the windscreen of a brand new Ford Escort.

A towel was wrapped round his nether regions, he sat down one end of the bus, while a dozen huddled up the other end, away from the stench.

We never went back to Guildford, ever.

And yes, we realize it IS still illegal to stop on the motorway, even if it is to shoot liquid turds out of the back door of an ambulance. But it was for the greater good, you understand.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

On going camping

On going camping

What's in the tent? Turds. Turds and clowns.The other day we popped into Halfords for some wiper blades and to look into buying a bike for Scaryduck Jr.

For reasons I still haven't quite fathomed, we walked out with a tent, four sleeping bags, two airbeds and a gas cooker.

We are, I fear, about to go on a camping trip.

After I made that vow, and everything.


We went on far too many camping holidays as kids. Back in the 70s, Spanish beach holidays were still a luxury, and were very much out of the question on the grounds that they simply weren't the kind of thing our kind of people did. Before we got the tent habit, it was two weeks in Southend, and like it, Sonny Jim.

Lulled into a false sense of security by the scorching summer of 1976, we bought one of those frame tents that look a bit like a house, set it up in a field and spent two weeks in Swanage.

This was followed by years spent in muddy fields "not too far" from the toilet block, diverting the rivers of rainwater that flowed freely through our tent, the only entertainment being watching the dog lick his genitals and the daily joy of trying to start a damp car engine.

One awful week in Tenby, where our tent was actually washed away with all my sister's hair care products and none-more-black Goth outfits was the final straw, and I vowed - there and then - never, ever to sleep under canvas, ever again.

Vows have a habit of wearing out, and two dozen years later, I was tricked, TRICKED into buying a tent, which we put up in the garden. No mean feat - we haven't got a lawn.

Family camping holidays were always, always sensible affairs. We would drive to the target resort, and then pull into random campsites, my father having the final say, rejecting each and every site that looked the remotest bit fun. We would always end up in a former cow-field with three other tents and washing facilities that would cause a riot in a Third World refugee camp.

Then we'd sit, bored shitless, as Dad got his fishing gear ready by the light of a Camping Gaz lantern, for the following day's end-of-the-pier adventures.

At the far end of the field, you could just make out another, equally bored family, watching as their father prepared hundreds of pounds worth of fishing tackle that wasn't going to catch anything either, and then we'd help each other push-start our cars.

And at the end of every camping trip, we would lift the groundsheet and be assailed by The Smell. The smell of two weeks' worth of warm, damp, dead grass, slowly rotting beneath our feet. A smell that would be loaded into the back of the car and driven 200 miles back home, and would be the abiding memory of any holiday.

The other smell came from not changing my clothes for a fortnight.

I thought I had done my fair share of camping out. Not so, it seems. Although we have perfectly good house to live in, I am, clearly, genetically pre-disposed to sleeping in a tent.

God, I can't wait.

On the lack of a Thursday vote-o, in which an officially mental not-as-funny-as-he-used-to-be Duck comes out fighting

A lack of a vote-o this week, as I've been all over place AND going off my rocker with one thing or another. Tomorrow's Tale of Mirth and Woe will be the bamboo pole up the anus (copyright Lord Likely, 1853) to those You're-not-as-funny-as-you-used-to-be types who have been leaving trolls recently without the courtesy of a return email address.

Officially classed as a Grade C Mental by my local NHS Trust, I am told that I will only get to the front of the waiting list if I start setting about a few people with a chainsaw. This could be the chance I've been looking for.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Dreadful pun alert

Dreadful pun alert

Today, this blog is in a state that can only be described as "tits" and "up".

Drink is NOT a factor. Yet.

In a set of circumstances that involved a 100-mile mercy dash in a clapped-out Ford Escort and Scaryduckling being genuinely sick inna hedge, I left my working file of Scaryblog goodies at work, a place I have not seen these last six days.

You might think this A Good Thing, but in terms of blog, I am forced to do without my carefully-crafted Mirth and Woe, and - God help me - actually sit down and write funny-funny-ha-ha-he-he content off-the-cuff.

Gone are the usual finely-honed, beautifully crafted treatises on the workings of my bottom and my - some would say - disturbing fascination for female wobbly parts, and in, alas, is dreadful excuse to resort to punnery.

It has all, dear reader, gone utterly wonkolid*.


Desperate times lead to desperate measures, so this fine Wednesday morning, I bring you THE BOOZE GAME, for which I am not sorry at all because it gives me all the justification I need to do the New Order gag I thought up on the train last Wednesday.


Why not, I thought in a drunken fug, take well known song titles, an' booze 'em up with all-new drink-related titles. Y'know: get a song, buy it a Campari and soda, and get it drunk enough to touch its bottom outside the kebab shop on the way home and not get slapped around the face.

Yessssh, thatsh a good idea, cos you're me bessie mate, EVER, an' an' an' YAAAAAAARCH! Nah, I'm alright, God bless ya, I'm awright YAAAAAARCH! Set 'em up, barman, an' a packet of dry roast.

• Thomas Dolby - She Blinded me with Cider
• Spandau Ballet - (She Loved Like) Double Diamond

• Gina G - Ooh Ah, Just a little bitter
• Human League - Don't you want me Babycham

• Althea and Donna - Uptown Lager-top ranking
• Julio Iglesias - Begin the Be-guinness

• Madness - Driving in my Carling
• New Order - Blue Nun Day

Blue Nun Day. Just think - a man had to die for that gag to be told. Give it the decent burial it deserves. Or, you could just think up some more.

* An entirely cromulent word

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

On having a bit of a mid-life crisis

On having a bit of a mid-life crisis

My brother turned 40 on Sunday.

"Happy Birthday Scarybrother," I say, late as usual.

I stood, admiring my chiseled good looks in the bathroom mirror this morning, contemplating this event, and the fact that I am 41-going-on-42.

And what is it, I ask myself, I want out of life?

I've already got three pairs of carpet slippers (one pair of which I keep in the back of my car 'just in case', along with a tartan blanket and a tool kit, also 'just in case').

I've also got a sensible zip-up cardigan from Marks and Spencer and a pair of open-toed sandals that would look great with knee-length socks.

And there, far too close to the front of the bathroom cabinet for my liking - a tub of Brylcreem and a tube of Anusol.

So. Bathroom mirror. Chiseled good looks. Half-used tube of cream for the Nobbies. What more could a man ask for at this stage of his life?

Answer: One of those little electric clippers for ear and nose hair.

It has started. The turn-into-a-middle-aged-apeman gene has activated.


Monday, May 21, 2007

On Dreams

On Dreams

Dreams. Why do we have dreams? Is it - as some people say - our brain's method of arranging memories and experiences so that they make sense while we sleep? Or are they some sub-conscious transmission of our hopes and fears into some sort of fantasy world where we are able to act without the constraints of our waking lives?

Or - and this is my opinion on the subject- your body's way of telling you that you're a complete mental.

If this is the case, I don't need dreams to tell me this. I just have to look back through five years worth of archives from this place to tell me everything I need to know about my one-way ticket to Bonkersville wearing the specially designed cuddle-jacket.

I have a number of themed dreams that pop up regularly, and always tend to end up with an enormous pair of breasts, and the least said about that the better. Even the football one, where I come on as a substitute in the Cup Final, 2-0 down, ten minutes remaining to score a match-winning hat-trick ends up with bosoms. In the Royal Box, no less. She's a minx, her majesty.

However, that is as nothing compared with the dreams I've been having over the last week or so.

This: I am currently having incredibly disturbing dreams that involve going round a friend's house, fixing their vacuum cleaner and doing all their housework.

It is awful.

Currently working myself to death, I cannot even escape it in my sleep.

Last night, if things weren't bad enough, I had another dream in the same series. This time I was a window cleaner-cum-painter and decorator dressed up like Super Mario, and having finished the hoovering and the huge pile of laundry, I do just about every other job that needs doing round the house, including something creative with dog eggs. Sadly, there are no bosoms.

I wake up exhausted, even more so than after my tumble in the royal box at Wembley even if there were bosoms - or at a pinch, a nice pair of buttocks - I'd be too knackered to notice.

Dreams: ARSE.

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Generation Tracks

Generation Tracks

What music did your parents hand down to you? And what music will you hand down to your children?

I'm showing my age here, but BBC Radio 4 broadcasts a programme every now and again called Generation Tracks which asks these very questions, usually of some worthy celebrity who can talk at length on this sort of thing.

You know: the kind of person they normally have on Just a Minute and the like. People who don't swear on the radio and talk about sick, bottoms and ladies' bosoms. Face it. They're never going to ask me.

So: Lazy bastard that I am, I thought I'd steal the idea completely and throw the idea open to you, dear reader. Shudder before my musical legacy:

From my Parents: Elton John - Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

We only ever had four pop albums in our house. We moved up from London to just outside Reading in 1972, and somehow our Dansette turntable was replaced by a device known to my mother until the day she died as "the Radiogram". Dad bought an entire shelf of "interesting" classical works in enormous boxed sets, while mum went out and purchased a couple of Beatles tapes, Neil Diamond's Twelve Greatest Hits and a lurid green edition of Elton's finest tracks. And a Hinge and Brackett comedy album, the least spoken of the better.

Naturally, years of exposure to this condensed history of popular music interspersed with a couple of old blokes in dresses turned me into the fine, balanced chap you see today. From this it is always Goodbye Yellow Brick Road that rises above the rest, especially so since Candle in the Wind has now been murdered on the altar of Princess Diana sentimentality.

Looking through some 1980s trivia book recently, it revealed that a poll of American school kids in the seventies revealed that the celebrity they most admired was none other than Elton Hercules John himself. If only they knew. No wonder the world's in such as mess.

To my kids: Prefab Sprout - The King of Rock'n'Roll

"Hot dog / Jumping Frog / Albuquerque"

It appears I still have some work to do on this front.

Now: your turn. The non-breeders amongst you will just have to pretend you have offspring of some sort, or adopt an unwilling and frightened nephew for the purposes of this demonstration.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Mirth and Woe: Doctors and Nurses

Mirth and Woe: Doctors and Nurses

Bad nurse! BAD NURSE!Regulars readers will know by now that I come from a medical family. My father - Professor Scary - is well-known in the field of pathology and diseases of the bottom, while my mother was a nurse. They met, all too predictably at medical school in the early sixties, and if the Roman Toga Party and Rag Week photos are anything to go by, a fun time was had by all.

Naturally - and regular deliveries of the hideously-illustrated Lancet, British Medical Journal and Nursing Times through our door helped - I have done everything in my power to avoid following in their footsteps. I think I'm well out of it now, and one hideous day involving my testicles in August 2005 aside, I have managed to avoid attracting the attention of a white-coated man with a pointy knife.

A wise career move, indeed.

Alas, there was a time when my future career path as a layabout had not been mapped out, and I was what you might call Medical-curious.

Yes. I admit it. I went to school, and I played Doctors and Nurses.

Doctors and Nurses, with real, live girls playing the nurses. We were ten years old and should have known better, but the blazing sun of the summer of '76 had clearly done dreadful things to our developing brains, and sullied us into performing this degrading spectacle up the school field. Up the school field, in the bit of grass behind the swimming pool fence, next to the long jump pit, where the teachers couldn't see what we were up to.

Here, in fact, where the former Scary House is clearly visible.

The setup was simple. There were three groups of people. Firstly, there were the doctors, who were, in the main, the boys who started the game, and could number anything from two up to approximately twenty poorly-qualified medical practitioners. Secondly, there were nurses, who were any girls we could rope into the game. We were surprisingly good at recruiting nurses, relying on the future aspirations of the young ladies in our school, and also on the fact that they soon realised it was far better than being a patient.

Yes. The patients. These were anybody who trolled along far too late to be a doctor or a nurse. Or - and NHS managers take note - were judged too ugly to join the nursing professions. No-one wants to be treated by an ugly nurse. It could take years off your life, and is clearly the number one cause of premature death in the Health Service today. The patients tended to be younger kids, or smelly kids, kids we hated enough to turn into patients, or kids from the special class who were easily persuaded.

Easily persuaded, for example, to hold their breath until they passed out when told to do so by a 'Doctor'.

"Doctor, doctor," they would say on arrival at the Sandpit Surgery, "I'm not feeling very well."

"What seems to be the matter? Do you keep holding your breath until you pass out?"


"You do, don't you? DON'T YOU?"

And they did.

Luckily, there were any number of nurses available to drag them away by their feet to the 'recovery area', where they would eventually come round, stagger about for a bit, before running off to whatever game of football there happened to be going.

Or, they might just get it all horribly wrong and bowk rich, brown vomit all over Nurse Beverly and make her cry, in which case they were thrown out of the surgery and told never to return. Not until breaktime tomorrow, at least.

Not all off of our patients were fainters. We would take in any victim of schoolyard trauma, such as sports injuries, kids who fell off the climbing frame, wedgies, and, of course, Andy.

Andy got nosebleeds. Just the lightest of breezes against Andy's face would cause blood vessels to rupture and spout blood and snot everywhere. Every single item of his school uniform had bloodstains on it, and it was fortunate that our school tie was a bright red colour, which helped him immensely in the circumstances.

He took the Sandpit Surgery very seriously, and became our most regular customer. In fact, he found that holding his breath would actually make him pass out and and suffer a nosebleed, and we were thankful enough to have a genuine patient that could actually die if we didn't treat him soon enough.

Alas, Andy's enthusiasm as a patient was to be our undoing. He took it far, far too seriously, and arrived at the surgery one afternoon for his regular treatment.

"Ah! What appears to be the problem?"

"I've got a nosebleed."

"No you haven't."

It was true. He nose was, for once, mercifully free of blood.

"Yes I have."

And he was right, too. It must have been something to do with the fact that he had just clubbed himself in the face with a length of wood.

"You appear to have clubbed yourself in the face with a length of wood. I've got the very thing for that."

"So, will the nurse see me?" he said, spattering blood all over collected doctors, nurses and fleeing patients.

"Bowk" said Nurse Beverly, as a large gob of blood and bogey settled on her shoulder, "No." She then fled screaming, before being seen, ashen faced, emerging from the girls' toilet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

The bleeding wouldn't stop, and much of the surgery was soon a fetching shade of red. Andy was led to the real school nurse, where the beans were spilled, and we were told in no uncertain terms not to play doctors and nurses, ever again.

"I know", said Andy, "Let's play firemen! I've got matches an' everything…."

Edit: "Feh!", I say. "Feh!" Not funny enough for you, eh? Here's a Brucey Bonus then, you bunch of no-good ingrates. Feh!

Thursday, May 17, 2007

On inappropriate laughter and buzzword bingo

On inappropriate laughter and buzzword bingo

As a member of Her Majesty's Press, I go to a lot of conferences. It's fair to say that for every interesting, engaging speaker you see, you get one you would happily shoot with a sniper rifle from the back of the hall just to shut him up.

Just don't, whatever you do, laugh at them. These things are not, by and large, laugh-a-minute days out.

Trust me on this - it is not the done thing to laugh at somebody else's presentation at the conference you are attending, no matter how many rubbish buzzword bingo calls his talk contains. You might have blagged your way in on a press pass, but some of the suits in the room have actually shelled out the £795 plus VAT to be there.

These are people who tend not to be amused by the entire press table dissolving into fits of giggles at the running up of flagpoles, the plucking of low-hanging fruit and sundry other buzzword bollocks.

Good Lord, how I take these things seriously. Most of the time.

Open laughter, then, at a call to fellow business colleagues to (and I quote) "Let's grow this pie together!", as physically impossible it may be, probably should have been avoided.

Paying delegates: "Sorry".

And on to the real business of the day

...which is, of course, the completely 100 per cent democratic and not-fixed-at-all selection of tomorrow's Friday Tale of Mirth and Woe. Three to choose from, and one bonus thingie which is not, in fact particularly woeful. Vote-o quote-os all from the 'Daily Mirror Book of Facts - Did You Know...?'

* Doctors and Nurses: 1 in 3 Jehovah’s Witnesses haven’t heard the ’I never saw the accident’ gag yet

* The Dog Smiles: The top programme on Iranian TV is the quiz show Who wants to be an Ayatollah?

* Guildford: If the entire population of China went ten pin bowling at once, you wouldn’t get a lane until April 14th 3216

* More condensed film summaries, because they are excellent (Plz to select from Jaws, Star Wars, Casino Royale or 300)

Vote-me-up! Or don't. I'm making this all up as I go along, you realise.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

On Monopoly

On Monopoly

Rich Uncle Pennybags - up to no good round the back of King's CrossThis weekend, our house has echoed to fevered shouts of "RENT!", "The Angel Islington - that's six of the Queen's pounds, sucka!" and "Jail! Go to JAIL!" in the kind of voices that are only usually reserved for the inquisition into who trod one of Lucy Minogue's dog eggs all over the kitchen floor.

Yes, having just read Tim 'Mr Hairs' Moore's rather excellent Do Not Pass Go on the joy of the world's most evil board game, we have gone out and bought our home's first ever Monopoly set. A move which has put an end to our household's Scrabble fetish, and draws a veil over such arguments as to whether "CUNTED" is a real word or not.

I thought, up until this weekend, that I had lovely, thoughtful, generous children. And not, as I have just found out, dreadful, scheming, grabbing little gits of a ruthless Machiavellian bent who would take both their dear old parents for every last penny they own.

We brought it upon outrselves, I suppose, the victim of our own failed schemes to purchase Mayfair and Park Lane (otherwise known as The Porno Set) from our teent opposition with so many strings attached that it transpired that no matter who landed on a hotel-developed Mayfair that there was no way Mrs Duck could collect a penny in rent.

In fact, worn down by Scaryduck Jr's ruthless development of the Dark Greens - the only three properties he owned - I was soon bankrupted, handing over my jealously-guarded Old Kent Road ("Ha! Two quid! Pay up!") and Water Works to a grateful eleven-year-old bedsit baron.

"Have a tip", the patronising sod said, riffling a small wad of 500s, generously handing me the one pound that kept me in the game until the next turn.

We had, in a fit of nostalgia, splashed out on a price-reduced replica of the original 1935 set in a nice wooden box, complete with the original none-more-brutal Community Chest cards:

"Go to the nearest railway station. Pay double the rent owed to the owner."

"That's 400 pounds, please Dad," smiled Scaryduckling, taking my last pound note from my sweaty palms, "You can owe me the rest in real money."

Gah! Bankrupted by my own short-term wheeler-dealering, for it was I who sold her Liverpool Street in the first place. Would I ever learn?

Three hours later: "So, that's two thousand pounds, whatever I want for the next three Christmasses and a new bike you owe me."

Answer: No. I will never learn.

Monopoly corrupts. Monopoly corrupts even the most innocent minds. I'm going to win my money back next week. Double or quits, just you see.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Topsy and Tim: A re-appraisal for the 21st century

Topsy and Tim: A re-appraisal for the 21st century

Topsy and Tim, if you are a non-breeder, is a series of unsufferably cheerful early-reading books for kids just learning to read.

The books feature the eponymous nursery-age two-some getting up to all sorts of happy-go-lucky adventures in what is clearly the white middle-class suburbs of a town where it is still 1960 and single parents are stoned to death as witches.

First appearing over forty years ago, the books have only recently been updated to feature a more inclusive politically correct outlook, where the stories now feature wholesome encounters with racial minorities and little buddies in wheelchairs.

While this wholesome idea can only be applauded by parents whose little darlings aren't quite ready for the latest Irvine Welsh, the outlook is still horribly, horribly white middle class all's-well-that-ends-well cute fluffy bunnies. And where's the fun in that?

It is time, we thought, that the series was dragged kicking and screaming into the social realism of the early 21st Century post-Blair society, where early readers need to be taught the sharp edges of the world around them, rather than wrapping the poor darlings up in the bubble-wrap of political correctness.

Some new titles, then. The Scaryducklings made up some of these. I truly am going to Hell:

• Topsy and Tim get the horn
• Topsy and Tim throw stones at darkies

• Topsy and Tim get an ASBO
• Topsy and Tim lick a tramp

• Topsy and Tim sniff glue
• Topsy and Tim dob their neighbours into Childline

• Topsy and Tim blackmail Daddy and the Au Pair
• Topsy and Tim conduct a series of distraction burglaries on elderly neighbours

And why stop at Topsy and Tim?

• Postman Pat gets 27 new credit cards
• Useless Workshy Cunt of a Bob the Builder

You know what's coming next: suggest-me-up!

Monday, May 14, 2007

Spiderman III: So you don't have to

Spiderman III: So you don't have to

Sunday night to the flicks, where I spent far too much time watching Spiderman III.

Although a feast for the eyes, I can only agree with the critics' view that the film is far too long at a massive 16 hours and 47 minutes, most of which is spent listening to Kirsten Dunst whining about how bad her life is while Tobey MacGuire mugs it up for the camera.

So: to save you the bother, I have condensed the entire over-complicated plot down to a couple of hundred easy-to-follow words, which should tide you over to the DVD release, where at least you can fast-forward through the dull bits about cooking omelettes.

Main Titles - Un film de S. Duck

Peter Parker: Hi! I'm Spiderman, and I'm excellent. I'm in love with Mary Jane, who is also excellent.

Mary Jane: whinewhinewhinewhine

Green Goblin: Die Spiderman, die! You killed my father! Ouch.

P. Parker: OMFG! I've put G. Goblin - who is also my best friend - in hospital.

G. Goblin: Don't worry - I've lost my memory. We're all best buddies again!

P. Parker: w00t!

Mary Jane's Boss: You're fired!

Mary Jane: whinewhinewhinewhine

Sandman: Hey! I'm made of sand! Excellent! Now to rob a bank, or something. Oh noes - water!

P. Parker: That'll learn you for being made of sand, Sandman

The Ghost of Willem Defoe: WoooOOOoooo! Avenge my death! I've been dead for two movies and you still haven't avenged me! WooooOOOoooo!

G. Goblin: Hey! My memory's come back! Thanks Dad! Now to snog Mary Jane and kill P. Parker!

Mary Jane: whinewhinewhinewhine

P. Parker: Hey! Look at this cool black Spiderman outfit I've got. It's made me even more excellent!

Mary Jane: whinewhinewhinewhine

P. Parker: Oh. It has also made me an enormous cock. Here - have this black Spiderman outfit.

Venom: Ta. Now to kill P. Parker. ROFFLE.

Sandman: Yes, I also want to kill P. Parker, because he flushed me down the toilet.

Venom: I know! Let's kidnap Mary Jane and kill P. Parker to death! LOLZ.

Mary Jane: whinewhinewhinewhine

P. Parker: ONOZ!

G. Goblin: I have changed my mind and am no longer evil. Take that Sandman!

Sandman: Ouch

G. Goblin: OMFG, I'm dead.

Venom: Don't worry, so am I.

Sandman: I've just realised that it's all been a dreadful mistake, and I'm sorry for killing your uncle, messing with your head an' turning you into Spiderman, hell bent on revenge an' all that. I was just doing it for my daughter, who is ill and needs loads of money to cure her, which I decided to steal rather than go out and get a job. Sorry.

P. Parker: OK.

Sandman: So, if it's alright with you, I'm off to go and be a desert or a beach, or something. LOLZ

P. Parker: I love you Mary Jane

Mary Jane: whinewhinewhinewhine

The End. Or is it?*

*Yes. Yes it is.


Friday, May 11, 2007

Mirth and Woe: Grand National

Mirth and Woe: Grand National

You know how these things get started.

Usually, there's some innocent explanation of how someone came out with some harmless idea that got hideously out of hand, and before you knew it one of our number was bleeding from embarrassing wounds in their private parts whilst onlookers are sick in a hedge. In fact, this was such a regular occurrence round our way, the hedges were all twelve feet tall, powered as they were by Miracle-Gro-powered vomit.

Good Lord, it only took a couple of words about medieval knights, and there we were riding full tilt at each other with pointy sticks over our bike crossbars until somebody got killed to death and onlookers were predictably sick in a hedge that was especially bussed in for that very purpose.

When would we ever learn?

Never, that's when.

It was one of those sunny April afternoons of the type that they always seemed to have on the day of the Grand National. You could virtually guarantee hot sun on Grand National day, all the better to watch a bunch of mad fool jockeys falling off horses, killing themselves to death and getting paid for it.

Back in those days, the National was one of those must-see events of the sporting calendar. You could look outside that afternoon, and there'd be not a soul on the streets - they had all done their shopping in the morning, whipped into the betting shop for their annual 50p flutter, and back home to watch the action. As the race finished, we would all emerge, blinking, into the sunlight to tell bullshit stories on how your mum had just turned fifty quid betting on the winner, and to discuss the comedy decapitations.

"It's easy," said John, who had never been near a horse in his entire life, "I could do that."

"Jimmy Hill, you could!"

"Piece of piss, and I'll prove it."

John had been, thanks to his excellent Dad, one of the first kids in Britain to get a skateboard during the 1970s craze, while the rest of us had to make do with a roller-skate nailed to a plank of wood. John's excellent Dad also got him an American bike, with the pedal-backwards brakes and a turn of speed that left our clunky monsters standing. John could stare fear in the face and laugh back. And he did. Often.

"How? Have you noticed we haven't got any horses?"

"Not a problem. We've all got bikes, 'aven't we?"

"And we haven't got a race course either, you spazzer."

This turned out to be no problem, either. John's spectacularly half-baked plan was to recreate the entire Aintree Grand National course out of scrap bits of wood, crates and planters full of shrubs "borrowed" from our back gardens. We would race round the course on our pushbikes, jumping over fences using makeshift wooden ramps, and it would be excellent, dammit. The only thing that would be missing would be actual horses, and a crowd of 200,000 Scousers.

One problem: the finished product all looked a bit tame, even by our standards.

"What about Beecher's Brook?"

"What about it?"

"We haven't got one."

Momentarily defeated, John paced around the cul-de-sac, opening and closing his fists, looking for a suitable fence of death. And there, at the end of Wonky Cerys' garden we found it. The six foot hedge separating our road from the school field. OK, it was six foot on our side. It was a ten foot drop on the other. A veritable Beecher's Brook, and the grand finale of our little Grand National. And the best bit was that Wonky Cerys and her family were away for the weekend, so we could smash their hedge to pieces all we wanted, and they'd never find out.

It took half an hour to rig up the ramp for the great jump. Luckily John's Dad was building a garage extension, so we snaffled away a few scaffolding planks and heaved them onto a couple of tea chests snaffled from Matty's gloriously stocked garage, and away we went.

Predictably, and even after giving us a head start, John led over the first fence, whooshing up the makeshift ramp and over my mum's best potted rhododendron and into the first bend. I huffed and puffed and barely cleared it, as did Nige and Matty.

John streaked ahead, and it soon became obvious that there would only be one winner, and that most of the plants "borrowed" from parental gardens were going to end up crushed beneath the wheels of those who followed him. So, knowing we were beaten, we gave up, and watched as John headed for Beecher's.

Coming into the behemoth as fast as he could, the world went quiet as he hit the ramp at full pelt and steamed towards the top.

Alas, the scaffolding planks buckled under his weight, and it became clear to those of us watching in awed silence that he was struggling to reach the top at anything near his desired launch velocity.

But would this horse refuse at his hour of victory?

Of course not, bravado and good old fashion British spunk powered him on, legs pumping like hell on the pedals as he reached the top of the ramp.

"MWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" he shouted, the war cry of the utterly defeated, as he arched through the air, and disappeared into the Hedge of Doom.

We rushed over to find him upside down, half in the hedge, half out, his legs still pumping away at non-existent pedals, the bike on its side some twenty feet away in the school field, with its front wheel spinning slowly to a halt. Blood everywhere, but sadly, no sick in a hedge.

"Hey! What's going on?" someone said behind us as we dragged John to safety. It was Russ, with whom we had a hate/hate relationship, but his dreadful mum made us play with him.

"It's ...err... a Grand National race," we said, "50p for the first person to get over Beecher's Brook."

Oh, the tales we tell to inflict terrible pain on others. It was going to be Red Rum (anag).

Zimming down the hill on his shiny new Raleigh Chopper - a guilt present from his absent dad - we egged him on like the evil bastards that we were.

"MWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" he screamed as he hit the ramp full on and sailed straight into the hedge and certain death.


No he didn't.

We gasped as the little squirt sailed over Beecher's and disappeared from view on the other side. That was 50p down the drain, and no mistake.

We rushed over, fully expecting to find Russ gleaming back at us, demanding payment.

Oh, sweet joy.

He was there all right, on the grass curled up in a foetal position, his bike next to him, the front wheel bent like a mad bent thing. Graham Norton's bottom, I dunno.

"Russ, mate - you alright?" I ventured.

"I landed on me plums," he eventually replied in a Joe Pasquale falsetto.

And: "Where's me money?"

That evening, Russ's mum came round our house to extract 50p from each and every one of us, the hard-hearted cow; and the price of a new front wheel from our dad. I believe he told her to sod off.

"I'll tell you what we missed yesterday," said John.


"The water jump."

No good came out of that, either.

Smug mode ON

Your author on Hidden Camera Jihad. Does exactly what it says on the tin.

Smug Mode OFF

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Kicky Kicky Foul Ref!

Kicky Kicky Foul Ref!

Cliff 'The Boy' Bastin - would have kicked my arse all the way up Tottenham High StreetGood God, kill me now.

Last night, for the first time in about five years, I donned my comedy big shorts and genuine antique Arsenal shirt and played football.

Real football with real grown-ups, running up and down a real football pitch, kicking a real leather football laced up with stair-rods toward a genuine onion bag. Some of them took it all rather seriously, and did proper warm-ups and everything before kicking the ball very hard, at my head.

And now my legs no longer work as they should.

Determined to avoid the worst of the action, and perhaps escape with my life, a skulked around at the back until misadventure got the better of me and I careered up the pitch doing a kick with my Dunlop Green Flash plimsolls until I was told to stop.

It was all rather exciting, I can tell you for nothing, and nearly as tiring as eighteen holes on my local golfing links.

I nearly did a "goal", which I believe is the object of the game. Being an Arsenal supporter myself, this is, however a bit of an alien concept, so I did my best Charles "Charlie" Charles impression and did my best to kick lumps out of the opposition, this also - apparently - being the object of the game.

I thought I was excellent.

In fact, the referee thought I was so good, he wrote my name down in his book.

Votey Votey Foul Duck!

After that cavalcade of thrills, you might think this week's Thursday vote-o would be positively pedestrian. Not a bit of it - choose from this trio of Tales of Mirth and Woe with the vote-o quote-os provided by the House of Lies (Deceased)

* Doctors and Nurses: According to the Guinness Book of Records, the biggest bar in the world is The Blind Beggar pub in London's East End. On 9th March 1966, the establishment held approximately 3,000,000 Cockneys, all of whom would swear on their dear old mum's grave that they were present when Ronnie Kray shot George Cornell in an argument over a spilled Babycham.

* Grand National: All prospective celebrities must fail an entrance exam before being allowed to become famous. Jade Goody sadly passed her exam seven times in a row before excreting enough of her brain to gain the requisite 4% fail mark.

* Smiler: To help people give up smoking, a new treatment puts the patient into a trance, and by the power of mental suggestion replaces the desire for nicotine with one for invading Poland and hiding in a bunker in Berlin. It's called Hitler Therapy.

Vote-me-up! A free sporting massage for every tenth voter! Will it be you? God, I hope not.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Car Boot Hell

Car Boot Hell

Posh car boot - clearly nowhere near YeovilI went to a car boot sale last week.

Hell, more like.

I have never seen so many fat women with tattooed breasts in my entire life. Fat women, tattooed breasts, pierced eyebrows, pushing double pushchairs, onto which the collected fruit of her loins - numbering at least half a dozen - are perched. And they're all ginger.

"How much d'you want for this?" she says, testing a piece of glassware to destruction

"A pound?" you venture.

"I'll give you 5p," she says, leaning forward to find her purse, giving you the full horror of her tattooed cleavage. It seals the deal, but hardly in the manner she anticipated. I swallow a small amount of sick.

"Gneep!" you reply, "I mean... 20p and it's yours."

*Thinks*: "Put 'em away you dreadful slattern, there are at least five people in this town who have yet to see your breasts, and I count myself privileged enough to be one of them"

She and her horde leave, pleased enough with her purchase. And I look up, and there's another tattooed fat girl on crutches bearing down on me, this time with her male companion, who also has tattooed breasts. And the squash racquet will go unsold, again.

I'm not a car boot kind of person, so I'm not 100 per cent certain about this kind of thing. Do all car boot sales feature such dreadful harpies, or is this just Normal For Yeovil?

Good Lord, the place was HEAVING with uglies and in-bred barleymows. You could spot the poor, hopelessly-marooned middle-classers a mile off.

And there: A pig-tailed twelve-year-old calling out "Oh look, Papa!" at the sight of the dodgy DVD stall almost resulted in a lynching before one of the clearer heads declared "They'll do for fresh breeding stock".

We made our excuses and left, some seventy quid the richer. They'll buy anything there. Apart from my squash racquet, clearly.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007



"So", they asked, "what do you want to get out of today's session? What are our objectives? Write them down on the post-its provided and stick them up on the wall. Go on, have a bit of a brainstorm."

"Thought shower."


Plz to excuse photoshop crapnessI think that's all the bases covered.

Plz to add your own. There is low-hanging fruit to be plucked and puppies to be drowned in our collective think-tank. Or something.

*cough* At least two-and-a-half of those post-its were ripped off from TV's and the book world's Mr Biffo *end of cough*

Monday, May 07, 2007

No-Longer-Bummy Rabbit Adventures: Wash Day

No-Longer-Bummy Rabbit Adventures: Wash Day

You know what they say: Dirty rabbit, dirty mind. Or something. So Scaryduckling thought it was high time that the No-Longer-Bummy, Straight-As-A-Die Rabbits went through the wash.

It's all go in this household, I can tell you.

"Let me out! My label says 'Surface wash only'!"

"You bastard, Duckuss. You've sold tickets, haven't you?"

"1100rpm? I think I'm going to... Yaaaaaaaaarch!"

"Diced carrots. Why is it always diced carrots?"

Next week: No-Longer-Bummy Rabbits and microwave ovens, and why the two should never mix

Friday, May 04, 2007

Mirth and Woe: The Weaponry of the Science Lab

Mirth and Woe: The Weaponry of the Science Lab

She's enjoying it reallyThe school science lab. A place anyone with an ounce of imagination will tell you is a veritable arsenal of mirth, woe and dreadful, dreadful pain.

In short: a temple of excellence.

* Gas taps and lengths of rubber tubing become superb flamethrowers resulting in permanent scarring, dreadful melty fumes, and in one memorable case, where the poor victim's schoolbag was plumbed directly into the gas supply, a raging inferno.

* A tripod, otherwise useful for all kinds of dull experiments, heated on the blue flame of a Bunsen burner becomes an excellent brand. Your brand new attaché case, a present from a proud aunt as reward for excellent exam results is as NOTHING without the all-important triangular scorch mark.

* A bit of crafty squirreling (best done out-of-hours as *cough* a member of science or camera club) can pocket you an enviable collection of dangerous chemicals, with all the magnesium ribbon in the world wreaking awful havoc when ignited at just the wrong moment. During a German exam, for example.

However, you cannot discuss science lab weaponry with referring to the heavy guns: the Van Der Graaf Generator.

Girls liked the Van Der Graaf generator because it made their hair stand on end, and - we, as lads of the world suspected - made their mimsies tingle in a way we could only imagine. This was, we surmised, why there are so many female lab assistants. They only went for the job for the out-of-hours Van Der Graaf mimsy action.

For boys, it was a killing machine.

Although limited in its range by the fact it is such a huge piece of kit, the more resourceful classroom slacker is able to get round this with the use of a long piece of heavily insulated wire with which to zap unsuspecting victims with millions of volts of raw electricity*.

That, or steal the generator and its trolley, and wheel the thing about until caught red-handed by Dr "Tucker" Jenkins, our school's Aryan Overlord of the science department.

Poor Alan Crook, then.

He had ears which stuck out and sung "Zap me! Zap me!" across the lab.

So we did.


On any given day, the Van Der Graaf would sit forlornly in the corner of the lab, sitting on its trolley under a torn vinyl cover. But as soon as "Donkey" Delaney's back was turned - usually lured away on desperately important Chess Club business - we would spring into action.

The cover would be whipped off, leads connected, and immaculately drilled as we were, Ju-Vid would already be cranking at the generator's handle. Which, to be honest, made a refreshing change from cranking his own.

Frantically cranking away we sneaked up behind our victim, as best you could when there are six of you and a whirring piece of scientific antiquity, and watched with glee as a six-inch spark connected with the target, who would then need to be peeled off the ceiling.

"I'm telling Mr OUCH Delaney FUCKING OUCH on you lot FUCKING STOP IT!"

And this from a boy of a stout, religious upbringing whose mother would certainly have had him exorcised if she heard him using such filthy language.

And just as the last FUCK sprung from his lips, in would come Donkey Delaney on a tide of dandruff, all mysteriously stained lab coat and trousers halfway up his ankles.

"RIGHT! Who's swearing in my class?"

"It's them, sir, they won't leave my ears alone."

And there we sat, like angels, as he stared at us through NHS glasses held together with sticky tape. Like absolute angels, right up to the moment Donkey left us alone for a quick bout of en passant.

"OUCH Leave me alone OUCH you bunch of OUCH cunts!"

"Crook! I'll see you after school! That'll teach you for your fucking profanity."

At the end of term, his ears resembled two pieces of burned bacon on the side of his head.

Of course, it all had to go wrong sooner or later.

Ju-Vid: "I'll give 50p to anybody who can touch the electrode to their cock."


He looked at us with that evil, wide-eyed look of his. The kind of look that would have any kid labelled ADHD these days. In that innocent age before performance targets and league tables, he had just one label: mental.

"Their bare cock."

Round and round went the bloody great wheel, as the monster throbbed to a crescendo.


"Mwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Me todger!"

Words of despair that remain with me to this day, dear reader.

If there had been a hedge present, I dare say he would have been sick in it.

After the ambulance had carted poor 50p-richer Ju-Vid away for psychological reports, we were told to stop.

We didn't.

* As opposed to the cooked variety that comes out of taps.


Thursday, May 03, 2007

Life in a Day

Life in a Day

Things that happened. Envy my life:

• I saw a duck the other morning on the way to work.

It flew up to me and said "Quack", before waddling off.

What can this mean? Apart from "Stay away from my wife, you weird case".

It is a portent. A portent of having my faced pecked off by an angry duck.

• The dog has never been quite the same since we had her shaved, cut her head off and transplanted it onto the body of another dog.

"Mum! The dog's dancing"

"No. No she's not, she's being sick"


Poor, poor Lucy Minogue. Poor, poor Scaryduck Jr's foot.

The verb "To dance" has now taken on a whole new meaning in our household, in much the same way that the phrase "Does she know he's Zorro?" has become a familial byword for dopiness. It's a long story.

• The shocking discovery that Scaryduckling has a) her own MySpace page and b) Lily Allen as a MySpace friend.

"Feh", I say to this discovery: "Feh". The single greatest thing that has ever happened to me, EVER, is Gary Numan adding me on MySpace. GARY. FUCKING. NUMAN. I bet he's not like that slapper Allen. I bet he doesn't add just anyone. Does he?

• I would also tell you about The World's Stickiest Bogey which fell into my possession this morning via, but that would, I fear, prove to be far too much information for you to ...err... swallow.

I am happy to let the World Record remain with Toxteth O'Grady, USA.

Trapped as I am today in a work-sponsored training seminar that will have vital repercussions for the world we live in and life in general, it might be a wise idea to leave the Thursday vote-o in your more-than-capable hands, light the blue touch paper, and leg it. Vote then, on the following terrible trio, in which at least two of the vote-o quote-os from the House of Lies contain traces of truth:

• Doctors and Nurses: "Supermarkets only sell eggs because the manager is being held hostage by chickens as part of some dreadful pecky protection racket"

• Grand National: "Women only nag their husbands to do the housework because in reality they don't know how to work the vacuum cleaner and are convinced the washing machine is the work of witchery"

• The Weaponry of the Science Lab: "To save time, all TV news bulletins are recorded the night before"

On this, the day of UK local elections, I fully expect electoral fraud on a Nigerian scale. Multiple voting, intimidation of voters and massive bribes. Democracy is over-rated.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

On part-work magazines, again

On part-work magazines, again

Fuck me, they're selling crap that's just lying around on the ground nowI've written before on the futility of collecting that kind of part-work magazine that builds up in weekly parts over several into a book you could have bought in Smiths for twenty notes. Or, a remote control car that costs an arm and a leg, but because you forgot to buy part 49, you are missing a vital cog that prevents the thing from ever working.

OK, I'll confess. As an easily-impressed teenager, I couldn't stop buying the things.

I spent genuine cash money on "The Unexplained" until some kindly relative bought me the book from which it had been clearly ripped-off, and save me a fortune. A fortune saved so I could piss my money up the wall on some never-ending photography course that featured absolutely no nudity whatsoever. And them some publication about tanks.

I never learned.

I've still got a complete 120-issue collection of Warplane magazine, which came with a free A3 sized fold-out poster of the Killing Machine of the Week. After they'd done the Tornado, the Harrier and all the interesting Russian ones, all I had to look forward to was a huge poster of the Ecuadorean Air Force's twin-seat trainer that doubled up as a crop-sprayer during the pilot's week off. And still I ploughed on to the bitter end.

Issue 120 was the Index. And I still bought it. And the binders.

Anyone want to buy 120 copies of an out-of-date Warplane part-work?

My brother, not immune, collected a publication called Insight, which lasted something like three years, featuring a week-by-week look at the latest developments in the world of science and technology. It peaked somewhat at issue eight, which was all about breast reduction surgery and fed our spotty teenage imaginations for YEARS.

God, they were enormous, and featured full-colour close-ups of some surgeon (or it could have been some random, lucky pervert) drawing all over the "before" norks with a felt-tip pen.

Luckily, they didn't have any "during" or "after" photos, which is probably just as well, and could actually explain a thing or two. Oh, mama!

Last year, having not learned at all, I got the first three of the Dad's Army DVD part-work, before common sense finally caught up with me and I realised I could just record them off the TV.

However, I do think somebody's missed out on a trick. The printed jazz industry is taking a hammering from the internet these days. Nobody in their right mind actually needs to go out and buy pornographic magazines. To rekindle this market, I propose a publication - building up in weekly parts - that explores the history of sex and sexuality through the medium of mass-market grumble mags.

Get Razzle in part one, exploring the Razzle Pile-Up phenomenon and a where-are-they-now feature on the original 1983 models (Answer: posing for Naughty and Forty). Free binders with issue two: Asian Babes.

It's a win-win.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

Lazy Blogging: Random stuff off my hard drive

Random stuff off my hard drive

You know how thiese things happen. You're supposed to be writing 700 words on Tony Blair's legacy in the Midle East and Israel, and you end at some dead end of the internet, right clicking and saving something that catches your eye.

"That'll come in useful later."

Yeah, right.

Three months later, and, wondering why your machine is running so slowly you decide to have a bit of a clear-out of several megabytes of ladies of a certain age and impressinve statistics wearing very few clothes, you stumble across the fruit of your earlier internet adventures.

Like this:

Something stolen from Legless:


Don't quite know how that got there:

Or Emma Thompson wearing something see-through, come to think of it:

Oh, and a picture of Zoe MyBoyfriendisatwat's bottom.

I knew they'd come in useful one day.

Lazy blogging. It's excellent.

I've shown you mine, now it's time for you to whip out your gulity secrets. Plz to upload any spare cack you've got lying around into my comments box, using the upload-your-spare-cack button.

You know, this:

Thankssssss you.

Update: Thanks to Pseudonymph, I now have this in my hot, sweaty hands:

God! It's tonight! Who's coming?