Condensed Films: Superman - The Movie

Condensed Films: Superman - The Movie

Another week, another movie classic, beaten to death with the rock hammer of justice, parcelled up tight and turned out in one easy-to-read chunk. You will kneel before me, son of Jor-El.

Superman - The Movie

Marlon Brando: Hello. I am M. Brando and I am excellent. Unfortunately, my planet is about to explode, which is why I have foolishly banished my arch-enemy G. Zod to another dimension. Equally foolishly, there is a design flaw in the spaceship I have built to escape this plant in that it is only big enough to take a baby. What a twat am I, eh?

G. Zod: See ya later sucka! LOL

M. Brando: Now I am dead. Ouch.

Superbaby: I am not, however. Nice one old geezer!

Superkid: I am on teh Earth. I am strong. LOLZ

Superteenager: fapfapfapFAPFAPFAPFAPFAP SPAFF! OMFG! I have spaffed my super-jizz in that Superfosterdad'd eye and killed him to death. I'm for the high jump now, eh readers?

Superfostermum: You filthy git. Take your green glowy thing and your alien porn and get yourself a job, FFS.

Superman: Hello. I am C. Kent and I am excellent.

L. Lane: No. No, you R a dork. LOL. On the other hand, that Superman makes me wet like a moistened clam. (.)(.)

S. Man: If only I could tell her. I'd split her from arse to tit. LOL

L. Lane: *sigh* If only I could see his Superprong. I wouldn't walk for a week. LOL

L. Luthor: Hello. I am L. Luthor and I am excellent. Now to take over the world by killing S. Man to death and blowing up California.

S. Man: Oh yeah? Not after I've bummed you to death, guy. ROFL

L. Luthor: ONOZ! Not teh buttsecks! Luckily, I have teh green glowy thing. Teh green glowy thing that will kill U 2 DEATH! LOLZERZ!

S. Man: OMFG! I am teh dying. Dying to death!

L. Luthor: Nothing can stop me now. MWA HA HA HAAAARGH! Also: LOL

Miss Nipples: Plz to save world, S. Man

S. Man: Ta

L. Lane: OMFG! L. Luthor has blown up California and I have fallen in a hole and died to death. Thanks a fucking bunch for saving me, S. Man.

S. Man: I am too late to save L. Lane. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMFG!

L. Lane: Look, just cut the ham acting, son - wind back the clock and make me alive again.

S. Man: Right you are.

M. Brando: Hey! I'm a cloud. Wheeeee!

L. Lane: Hey! I'm alive again, and nothing appears to have happened.

S. Man: Yay for me! I am teh excellent!

L. Lane: Which beggars the question - did S. Man actually do anything? No. I believe he did not.

S. Man: Arse.

L. Lane: Also, when you made the Earth stop on its axis, all the seas would have flown off into space, along with the atmosphere and every living thing. Answer me that, red grundies. You're worse than yr father, FFS.

S. Man: Shut up, gravel-voiced tramp!

L. Lane: You're shit, S. Man. Really, really SHIT.

S. Man: *punch* LOL

L. Luthor: And I notice that you have put me in prison for a crime I have not committed in this timeline. Call this justice? You're SHIT, S. Man. Also, that outfit makes you look like a homo. LOL

S. Man: You bastards! I'm off horse riding.


Superman II

G. Zod: Kneel B4 Zod, son of M. Brando. LOL

S. Man: No.

G. Zod: FFS. Why not?

S. Man: I am in a wheelchair, you insensitive prick.

G. Zod: LOLOLOLOL!

On public embarrassment

On public embarrassment

The scene: Weymouth Swimming Baths

The date: The other Sunday, a morning spent swimming off years of bodily abuse, whilst getting the boy Scaryduck Junior away from his PlayStation for once in his life

The occasion: Your humble author's brush with death as a young lady - clearly over the age of consent - entered the pool area, wearing nothing but a miniscule spray-on bikini, which only just managed to cover her voluptuous charms. She lowered herself into the pool, letting out an audible "Ooh!" as the water reached her nadge, and stood in the shallow end, sporting a pair of marvels you could hang your coat and hat on.

Sadly, the base male chromosome-enriched animal inside me took control, and growling like some demented Sid James I found myself exclaiming the following to the middle-aged gentleman next to me:

"Wahey-HEY!"

He turned to me and said three words that will live with me forever:

"That's my daughter"

"Is she ...err... sixteen?"

Time I was leaving...

Office Suggestions Box

Office Suggestions Box

Woe upon they day they started a suggestions box. Let's see what the proles want to add to their dreary, pointless existences, then:

* "The car park's too big. Can we have a valet parking service?"

* "Everybody should get their own chicken and a cow to save the company from paying into the canteen. Except the boss, who gets a rooster and the stud bull."

* "Dawn in the PR Office has an incredible pair of baps. Is there any chance she could get them out for the next company newsletter?"

* "Recent studies have shown that shift workers are the most sexually active social group. Could the company provide a slattern budget for the IT Department? Also: Will this be tax-deductible?"

* The company should open a call centre in Basingstoke for the convenience of its Indian customers."

* "CHZBRGR, PLZ"

* "Can we take part in Bring Your Daughter To Work Day? Not having a daughter of my own, I wonder if the company could look into bringing in Nigel Lawson's daughter instead? I understand she's as keen as mustard, and has incredible baps."

* "There is far too much BLASPHEMY and lascivious behaviour in the business. Please resume the floggings."

* "By the time you read this, I'll be in Rio with the petty cash tin, the contents of the stationary cupboard and Donna from Accounts' Mum. So long SUCKERS!"

* "Can we have TV's David Brent to head our sales team? Last I heard, he was out of a job, and he'd go GREAT at the Xmas party."

* The best suggestions in the company suggestions box should win a prize up to and including a night of baby oil fun and games with Dawn from the PR Office with the incredible baps. This will keep us all motivated in a time of uncertain financial markets and not having a steady girlfriend. Have I won?"

On jokes what I've made up all by myself an' everything

On jokes what I've made up all by myself an' everything

A joke what I've made up all by myself an' everything:

Q. What's the best zoo safari park in the world?

A. Long-l33t
I thank you. I'm here all week.

Mirth and Woe: Electricity

Mirth and Woe: Electricity

Our one source of energy
The ultimate discovery
Electric blue for me
Never more to be free
Electricity

So sung 80s music act Orchestral Manouevres in the Dark. And they should know, for OMD Unplugged was crap.

Some people are born paranoid about this modern electric-powered world. Others have paranoia thrust upon them. Quite often, well-meaning parents scar their children for life with their otherwise innocent attempts to steer their children from the wrong path in life.

Take Richard, for example.

Richard was an otherwise well-balanced young man who could do normal things like fart and play the piano at the same time.

However, Richard's parents were somewhat over-protective of their little darling, to the point that he was rarely allowed out of their sight for fear that he'd come home one day, killed to death.

It was on a car journey one day that he mentioned to his parents that "Those electricity pylons - they look just like climbing frames, don't they? Wouldn't it be fun if..."

No. It would not be fun. It would not be fun at all.

As a matter of fact, boys that climb up electricity pylons are more often than not killed entirely TO DEATH, leaving a pair of grieving parents that might as well kill themselves TO DEATH as well, their entire reason for living having been extinguished.

Rather over-egging their hour-long lecture on the dangers of electricity pylons, they put the fear of God up the boy, telling him, in no uncertain terms, that even touching one of these monsters would course a million volts through your tiny, fragile body, leaving you killed TO DEATH, burnt to a crisp.

Telegraph poles, too. Certain death. Street lights, thousands of the Queen's volts coursing through them - one way trip to the undertakers.

This was knowledge beaten into him with an iron fist by God-fearing parents that wouldn't let him break wind without written permission.

In summary: his folks turned him into a mental.

Of course, the minute he stepped out into the real world, his neuroses would be laid bare for all to see. Luckily he did this in the presence of his many friends, who supported him through his hour of need.

Fuck it, we ripped the piss out of him something rotten like the bounders we were.

It all came to a head the first time we played hide-and-seek with him in the street. The counting post was the street light outside our house, and Richard was understandably reluctant to take his turn.

"Look, Rich," says I, making to touch the street light, "there's nothing to worry about."

"DON'T TOUCH IT! DON'T TOUCH IT! YOU'LL DIE!!!"

I touched it, and didn't die.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGHHHHHH-oh."

Poor Richard.

I found out something quite interesting that day: People really do wee their trousers when you scare them enough.

Not entirely cured of his phobia, his next and greatest test came in the form of a Scout hike across the wilds of South Oxfordshire.

Our route took us down a footpath that would transport us across several miles of rolling fields to our destination. And striding across the field like so many metal giants was a line of electricity pylons, all wired up to a million volts of deadly Richard-killing power.

As we got closer and closer, he became more and more nervous, as if they would lash out with deadly accuracy and flail us all TO DEATH with red hot cables.

And then, we were right next to one of the behemoths, and he ran with sweat and began mumbling to himself. The Lord's Prayer, it turned out, desperate as he was for salvation from the people who had led him across this Field of Certain Doom.

"Hey look!" shouted Paul making out - in jest - to scale the giant, "It's like a giant climbing frame!"

There was a brief second of silence, followed by a low growl. A low growl that became a whimper. A whimper that rose into a visceral shriek of despair, anger and fear.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"Whassup?"

"YOU'LL DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Paul touched the pylon with an air of nonchalance, and with a scream recoiled several feet in the air and lay, writhing on the ground in the agony of his death throes.

"PAUL! PAUL!!!! OH GOD!!! PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUL!!!!!!"

Richard rushed over to his almost-but-not-quite-killed-TO-DEATH friend, tears in his eyes, expecting to see him breathe his last, bequeathing his collection of imported Dutch grumble mags to his best and closest friend.

"What?" said Paul, a cheeky look on his face.

His reply was low, tearful, barely audible to all but those nearest to him.

"I've shit meself."

On being the father of a criminal mastermind

On being the father of a criminal mastermind

"From now on, Dad," said the boy Scaryduck Junior, "I want you to call me 'Kingpin'."

"Call you WHAT?"

"Kingpin."

"Riiiiight."

"And Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"What does Kingpin mean?"

So I told him. It turned out that rubbish school bullies had thought that the word "Kingpin" somehow equated to being an insult of some sort. Instead, I have told the boy Scaryduck Junior that people are of the opinion he is the ruthless leader of the Weymouth Grammar School criminal fraternity.

"Great," he says, "Now I've got to get recruiting."

"Recruiting?"

"I need stooges. Stooges and enforcers. Otherwise my stolen IKEA pencil racket's going to be RUBBISH"

"And don't forget the toadies. You'll need toadies to remind you how excellent you are."

"Toadies. Right."

"And let's not forget the henchmen. You can't lead an effective criminal fraternity without decent henchmen stealing all the Argos biros. Or women, for that matter."

"Women? Don't be stupid, Dad."

No women. Kingpin has spoken.


On the Thursday Vote-o

And so we lurch into another Thursday, and the insult to the democratic process that is the selection process for tomorrow's Tale of Mirth and Woe. Each of these four stories contains mirth, woe and out-of-control bodily functions, the like of which never seen since Tolstoy's first draft of War and Peace inna Hedge.

Choose, then, from the following (the value of the literary quote-o vote-os may - as usual - go down as well as up. Your home may be repossessed if you continue to use the airing cupboard as a toilet)

* Launcher: And so, in fear for her life, Scheherazade sat down by the King and started the first of her one thousand and one Tales of Arabian Nights. "Dear Fiesta, You won't believe the amazing thing that happened to me the other day. I'm a busty divorcee, and I never thought I had a chance..." - Trad

* Paintball: "It's a fair cop guv, but society's to blame", said Raskolnikov with a tinge of skunk still on his breath and his mini-skirted slapper of a girlfriend screaming abuse from inside the Black Maria, "I'll be out in a week - you mark my words, an' I'll be shaggin' your Mrs while you're at work" - Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment (complete and unabridged unpublished draft)

* Sports Day: "2 B R not 2 B. Dat iz teh ??? Wevver tis nblr in me hed 2 suffa teh outrg otrajis loadz of ova shit" - Wllm Shkspr, Hmlt, txt edtn

* Electricity: "Elementary my dear Watson. Smithers had the Colonel's Two Piece Meal with fries. Toller scoffed the Bargain Bucket with coleslaw, while Burton had a Zinger Meal. Moriarty was the only one to have the Mini Cobs. He's your man" - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of the Corn-Laden Turd

Go on then - vote-me-up, or I'll set Kingpin onto you.

Things to do in a shed (a list)

Things to do in a shed (a list)

I have, on several occasions, written on the need for a man to own a shed.

While the woman of the house holds sway indoors with soft furnishings, "take those muddy boots off", "don't sit on the cushions, you'll squash them" and any number of rules pertaining to the position and cleanliness of toilet seats, the man's position in his shed remains sacred.

And so it should remain

The shed is the one place in the man's domain where he still holds power. The power to tinker with bits of machinery, hide contraband from the wife and to take a poo in a carrier bag whenever the situation should arise.

We have, however, noted a disturbing trend of late where sheds are being removed an replaced with summer houses, complete with soft furnishings and the trappings of womanhood. This must stop.

The only reason a shed should be removed is for the construction of a jerry-built workshop, complete with mains hook-up and elaborate air-extraction system for power tools. As long as the manly spirit of shed remains, it remains a shed.

Those of you who allow womanhood to encroach over the boundaries into your sacred domain: shame. The only woman who should come near your shed is Sarah Beeny whilst presenting your Shed of the Year trophy and lifetime's supply of baby oil. For this is where our campaign starts.

The Twat has started a Facebook group devoted to the preservation of Shed Culture, and it is your manly duty to sign up. No girls. Start your own group discussing soft furnishings and the contents of Ewan McGregor's trousers, if you must.

Here is a list of things you should be doing to ensure your castle remains a bastion of masculinity:

1. Make stuff with manly tools
2. Chainsaw maintenance
3. Start a clandestine radio station, La Voz de la Cabina Libre
4. Hide

5. Have a secret snifter of a decent malt
6. Claim shed is in a mobile phone blackspot
7. Arrange wireless internet access
8. Store nails in jars

9. Put down carpet tiles over false floor that hides obsessively indexed scud collection
10. Fill out application form for Shed of the Year (presented by Sarah Beeny)
11. Sand wood
12. Saw wood

13. Other things involving wood
14. Construct a shelf in order to store your paint-stirring stick
15. Listen to Radio 4
16. Drink strong tea

17. Feed small pieces of fillet steak to your pet spider to see how big it will get
18. Consider a blog post entitled "Things to do in a shed (a list)"

Plz to add to list. No girly stuff.

Public Service Announcement

Public Service Announcement

They are advertising vibrating cock rings on Channel Four.

This is not a drill. I repeat:

They are advertising vibrating cock rings on Channel Four.

"My God!" I said, "They're advertising vibrating cock rings on Channel Four!"

My beloved wife was somewhat puzzled as to what - exactly - a vibrating cock ring does. So I told her.

"Oooh," she said.

And: "That's disgusting."

And, eventually: "Where do you get them?"

I presumed, being products of the esteemed London Rubber Company, one purchases these luxury marital aids from the same retail outlets that sell the finest locally grown and harvested rubber johnnies.

So, I now have a quest. I must walk into the Weymouth branch of Boots the Chemist, and announce in my finest Tom Baker voice "I desire one of your superlative vibrating cock rings, young lady, which I wish to place on my pulsating shaft for increased coital pleasure for both myself and my charming lady wife."

And: "Size large, for preference, if you please."

And: "No, I do not need to purchase condoms, for I am a jaffa, but it was kind of you to ask. As a matter of fact, I have dozens of unused prophylactics I no longer require. Would you care to make me an offer?"

"That's 5.95, love."

"HOW MUCH?! If it wasn't for the ASBO, I could sit on a washing machine in the Currys showroom for nothing, I'll have you know."

Or, I could just buy the bloody thing off the internet.

Failing that, it's Deep Heat on a toothbrush. Again.


Public Service Announcement Part II

On Facebook? Got a shed? Join the Facebook Shed Group. No girls.

On Strontium Dog

On Strontium Dog

I am the bringer of excellent news. And it is this: I do not have skin cancer.

This comes as something of a relief, as I have been plagued by a mystery skin condition for several years that may or may not have resulted in both my arms falling off and my subsequent death by starvation. Not to mention the inability to play with my naughty bits.

What I do have is a form of psoriasis which comes in the form of a genetic mutation.

Or, as the doctor put it: "Congratulations, Mr Coleman, you're a mutant."

Actually, he didn't quite put it like that. It was more like: "Get out of my office, Mutie Pig", before burning all his office furniture. And did I mention his was the worst case of socks and sandals I have ever seen? I did not. People, eh?

I have spent the days following my diagnosis coming to terms with my mutation. As luck would have it, I have been blessed with exactly the same mutant powers as those possessed by Strontium Dog Johnny Alpha, allowing me to see through womens' clothing.

It's far less exciting than you think, a fact brushed over by Mr Alpha himself in his otherwise excellent 2000AD comic adventures. Prog 659 - entitled "Johnny, Wulf and Gronk fap over naked fat birds in Evans" - is particularly misleading if my personal experience is anything to go by.

To this end, I have spent my time hanging around the changing rooms in Matalan, Primark, QS and other top quality High Street boutiques honing my skills, hoping that I might, one day be accepted into a society dominated by so-called Normal People.

"Get out of our store, Mutie Pig!" they shout, shortly before calling the Police.

Strontium Dog gets his own comic strip, guns and all the women he can eat. I get an ASBO. Where's the justice?

The persecution of our superior mutant race has begun.

Pod-me-done

Pod-me-done

The Danny Baker podcast is now live.

You can hear me from 19 minutes in for a whole FIVE minutes talking a load of old rubbish about football and being sick inna hedge.

Download it: HERE

Mirth and Woe: Curry night

Mirth and Woe: Curry night

I once done a curry. A big, brown, steaming curry. Om nom nom nom.

In fact, I have done loads of curries in my time, and like to think of myself as a cut above your average bottle washer. I could never be a Jamie Oliver, but then, who'd want to be a fat-tongued Mockney twat anyway?

Despite a childhood hatred of spicy food, I have grown to love Indian cuisine to the point that I will often upbraid any chef that dares to wimp out on the hot stuff. Many are the workplace curries I've experienced where the curry powder was placed within ten feet of the meat for thirty seconds before being locked in an underground vault, resulting in a bland meaty stew with rice.

The day they allowed the chef to actually use his own recipe was a joy to behold. And even then, I was the only person complaining at the lack of ground up glass and barbed wire in the finished product while colleagues took turns in drinking directly from the toilet bowl.

It was not always the way, however.

Everybody's got to start somewhere, and like most novice chefs, it began with Uncle Ben's Guaranteed Inoffensive Stir-in Sauces for the easily pleased.

Easily pleased that I was, this sufficed for the early years of my married life, before my chef-ing instincts got the better of me, and I decided that - dammit - I was going to cook A Proper Curry.

So, with the wife's birthday looming over me* like a big loomy thing, I spent a lovely afternoon going into certain speciality shops up and down the Oxford Road, and once I'd bought all my gentlemen's leisure pamphlets, I went to Sainsburys and got all the curry stuff in.

I really went for it - curry paste, the works. I went back to the house, and got down and dirty with a large pair of breasts (off a chicken) and curried them up good and proper.

Not having three days and a slow-burning clay oven, I used a great big casserole dish and a gas cooker, and the whole thing smelled absolutely tasty gorgeous.

Come the appointed hour, I sat my beloved down at our genuine antique dining table (now a work bench in the garage because I simply have no idea), uncorked the wine and served up my piece de resistance. Curried Chicken. And rice. Rice with special Indian lumpy stuff in.

She was impressed that I had gone to all this effort just for her birthday, almost to the point of forgiving me for the previous year's present. It was a washing machine, a thoroughly necessary gift that almost caused a divorce. There's no pleasing some people.

Then we tucked in. Om nom nom, and indeed, nom.

"mmmmmmNnnnnnnYaaaaaaaaargh! It's nice."

"Muh muh muh muh mmmmmmmngggggg Yes it is, isn't it?"

"Nya nya nya nyaaaargh Water?"

"Guh guh g-g-g-guh Just a pint, please."

"Ummm - Jesus - How much curry paste did you use?"

"F-f-f-f-f-fffff All of it, like I normally do. *boilk*"

You can see where this is leading. Having served my apprenticeship on Uncle Ben's Guaranteed Inoffensive Stir-in Sauces, I had simply opened the tin of Evil Uncle Panjit's Extra Hot Curry Paste with Ground-Up Glass and Barbed Wire, and poured the lot into our feast.

I retrieved the empty jar from the bin and read the label:

"Recommended dose: 5ml. Wear protective clothing."

God, we TRIED to pretend it was OK, but eventually gave up after the third bucket of water, but slightly before drinking straight from the toilet bowl.

And how I paid the price: I was doing the brown laser for two days, my ring like a baboon's backside.

However, having developed a taste for the hot stuff, I decided to make things up to my beloved by letting the professionals take the strain, escorting her to a local curry house of dubious repute.

In a fit of bravado, and humiliating myself with an ill-advised "Poppadom" gag, I ordered the hottest dish in the house, washed down with gallons of Indian lager.

I got - I think - about fifty yards down the road before it was coming out from at least three places. I decorated a passing hedge, the gutter and the front door of Graham's Barber and Wig-fitting shop with rich, brown vomit, before realising I had also decorated the indie of my second-best trousers.

Curry was served.

And Mrs Duck was right. I wasn't getting in the car in THAT condition, and I was graciously allowed to walk home in a soiled state, hosing myself down on the driveway before I was allowed to cross the threshold.

That Tilehurst hedge is still there, I might add. Bigger, bushier, stronger. Like it had - somehow - been fertilised with some sort of high-power Miracle-Gro.

In these environmentally-friendly days, I like to think I started the trend for organic gardening.

Set meal for two, extra barbed wire plz.

* And GAD! If it isn't her actual real-life birthday today. And my turn to cook, funnily enough. Something spicy's on the cards. But before that, I've got to do the dinner


On any other business

Subscribers to the Baker and Kelly football podcast should be able to hear my dulcet tones - subject to the slashing of the editor's razor - on the 19th October edition, once it's uploaded to the Wippit website.

If you're not a Wippit member, it's a free sign-up and the podcast doesn't cost a bean. Or, you can find it via the iTunes link from the Dans' website if you're that way inclined.

Chances of hearing the words "Sick inna hedge": 100 per cent.

On the one thing that no man should ever do

On the one thing that no man should ever do

If there's one thing that no man should ever do, it is to engage in sexual congress whilst wearing socks.

It is, quite simply, wrong - the kind of behaviour you'd expect from senior members of the Conservative party, or people having sex with senior members of the Conservative Party. If they have sex at all.

A true man will even feel a pang of shame cracking one out on his own whilst wearing socks, and will almost certainly think of Ann Noreen Widdecombe at the vital moment. This would result in a reprehensible waste of spoodge that could easily have been imagined elsewhere.

A sockless Sarah Beeny, for example.

Socks and sex = no.

Socks and sandals and sex = NO

Come to think of it, there are loads of things that no man should ever do. Most of these happen to involve socks and members of the Conservative Party in some way or another and should be avoided if you value your sanity.

Which brings us, mercifully, to this week's Thursday vote-o. Choose, if you please, from the following four tales of mirth and woe. The value of the vote-o quote-os, as usual, may go down as well as up.


* Launcher The doorbell rang. It was Ann Noreen Widdecombe, naked as the day she was born, clutching a bottle of baby oil. "No darling, she insisted, "Leave the socks on"

* Paintball: The doorbell rang. It was Margaret Hilda Thatcher... no, sorry, I can't bring myself to... *boilk*

* Sports Day: The doorbell rang. It was Nigella Lawson, naked as the day she was born, clutching a bottle of baby oil. "Wear these socks," she demanded, "They are a present from my father, former Conservative Chancellor Nigel Lawson." I retort: "Please leave, foul temptress."

* Curry Night: The doorbell rang. It was Conservative Party housing policy advisor Kirstie Allsopp, naked as the day she was born, clutching a bottle of baby oil. "You don't happen to possess a pair of socks I could borrow, by any chance?"

Vote! Vote me up!

On murder

On murder

A man can't even get into his own bed at night without cold-blooded murder taking place under his own roof.

Take last night, for example, went the air was rent with screams:

"AAAaaaaaAAAaaaAAARgggrrrhhhhh!"

And: "Mwaaaaaaaaaeeeekkk!"

This is followed by various sound effects including - but not limited to:

Crash!

Slam!

Thwoooop!

"Die!Die!DIE! YOU BASTARD!"

BokbokbokbokTHWACK!

tinkletinkletinkleSMASH!

Ker-lunk!

"WHY WON'T YOU DIE?!"

Swish!

ZERRRRRRRRRR-T!

Flush......

"Heh."

"And what," I ask of a beaming Mrs Duck, "is going on in there?"

"There was a fly. In the bathroom."

"And you killed it, you dreadful murderess. You killed it to DEATH."

"I didn't kill the thing. It committed suicide."

"Riiiight. Did it leave a note? Did it tie itself a tiny noose and hang itself from the loo roll holder, squeaking a tiny 'Goodbye cruel world'?"

"Err... no. It flew into the light and fell down the toilet."

"And how do you know that it wasn't a tragic accident, brought on by your murderous intent? Answer me that, clever trousers."

So she clubbed me in the fork. I hate it when they get the last word.

On coincidence

On coincidence

Coincidence is a funny old thing, with the potential to stop you in your tracks, drop everything and say "MUH?"

This is what happened to me last week, and the "MUH?" was accompanied by dropping my second best mug - containing half a pint of lukewarm Scout Hut Coffee - onto the office carpet.

The occasion was on the recounting of my Haunted Holiday ghost story, in which the entire Duck family fled a holiday cottage in the Devon resort of Brixham after spending several nights at the mercy of the dead fisherman whose house we were occupying.

As I reached the end of my tale, I looked up at the office TV - a forty-something-inch plasma effort, tuned to News 24 - which was airing a report on local policing in the English regions.

PC Plod was talking to camera from the harbour-side in Brixham. And there, just over his shoulder, I could clearly make out...

"Yeah, that's the house we stayed in - just there."

And "MUH?"

Coffee down.

So, apart from the coincidence that you switched on your computer today fully expecting to read a blog post about one man's grapple with coincidence - tell us about your coincidences.

On Blog Action Day

On Blog Action Day

Today, it turns out, is Blog Action Day. Somebody with a heart has decided that we should devote today's bloggage to a single subject, to whit: the environment and the impending disaster facing mankind if we don't all buck our ideas up.

Typically, I have peaked too soon, and gave my blog pages over to environmental issues last Thursday in my heart-rending and entirely sensible appeal to build more village halls and scout huts in polar regions to reverse the effects of global warming. Leading scientists have describe my plan as "Wow... Just wow. Why didn't we think of this?", and fleets of heavy construction equipment are being transported to these delicately-balanced regions as we speak.

So, the best thing I can do on a day like this is to renew my pledge to the environment and the world we live in. I shall, for example, be walking to work today, and I hope you do as well.

This walk will take me from the far end of the office car park to my desk, a distance of some 400 yards, our pleas for a taxi service for this daily ordeal falling on the deaf ears of management. Granted, this walk will be at the end of a 110-mile drive from Weymouth to Reading, but this thoroughly necessary journey is part of my avowed mission to prevent future use of fossil fuels by burning it all now. Al Gore does it. We should follow his lead. He's got a Nobel Prize.

The Blog Action Day website asks us to:

1. Write about environmental issues: CHECK

2. Promote Blog Action Day: CHECK

3. Donate a day's earnings to an environmental cause: AH

They'd only waste it on leaflets that are made out of TREES, or give all my money to some farmer who would poison us all to death with a CO2-producing cow, so my spondulicks are better off in Lloyds TSB, where they can invest it in arms industries who are doing their bit by keeping the world's population down, permanently.

Right. I'm off to leave the fridge door open for an hour or two and watch An Inconvenient Truth on a 47-inch plasma TV. What are YOU doing?

I am not mad.

Mirth and Woe: Nature Poo II

Mirth and Woe: Nature Poo II

Scaryduckblog: Now poo-free for ZERO days

Public toilets. Where are you when I need you? Where are you when I'm bursting for a turd in the middle of nowhere at midnight? Where? This tale is the direct result of Wokingham District Council's abject failure to provide crappers in the middle of nowhere, and it's no wonder I don't pay my council tax.

I have, in my time, been forced to relieve myself in the open on a number of occasions. The trick, of course, is not to get yourself arrested, because this is, on the whole, A Bad Thing.

To this end, I have never, ever done a poo in public. That's an entirely different kettle of filthy-smelling fish, and I'm pretty sure that if I did, they'd throw away the key.

OK. I'll confess. There was this ONE time...

You see, there's a design flaw with buses. They don't as a rule, come with an on-board toilet. You get touring coaches and National Express vehicles that might have a convenience the size of a shoebox, stuffed to the brim with turds and paper; but the last bus home from the pub on a Friday night does not.

And that, dear reader, was to be my downfall.

It was the usual kind of Friday evening to wind down from another long week on shuffling papers round my civil service desk. I got a lift into the centre of town, met up with some mates, and spent the evening getting steadily drunk in an awful town centre pub that isn't there any more.

The name of the place eludes me in a town where every other shop is now some theme bar with loud music and expensive pissy lager, but it was a true basement spit-and-sawdust which was demolished and turned into another faceless row of shops. Going through a heavy drinking phase, I had emptied my wallet into their till on many occasions, and been sick into the gutter outside, an arrangement the landlord seemed to appreciate.

Around closing time on these occasions, consumed by the need for greasy food, we trolled down the road to a local burger joint to stuff the speciality of the house - botulism inna bun - down our necks until it was time to go home.

In my case, it was the last bus to Twyford, already filling up with less-than-sober passengers.

At last, it lurched off for its tour of Reading's suburbs - Earley - Woodley, before getting me back on track above Sonning.

However, on this particular night, something was welling up inside me.

It was, almost certainly, the pineapples and odd-coloured Thousand Island dressing on the Hawaii Burger playing merry hell with eight pints of bitter. But there was no denying it - I needed a shit and I needed it NOW. In fact - and it's strange how you can tell these things - the brown laser was primed and ready to fire.

I clenched my buttocks together and sat as squarely as I could on my seat, hoping that it would go back up.

But it was no good.

As the bus lurched around a roundabout at Sonning, I lost my centre of balance, one buttock lifted up, and the urge to shower my fellow passengers with rich, brown scat returned with a vengeance.

I immediately pressed the bell, ran to the front of the bus, and found myself in front of a row of houses, three stops from home.

A couple of hundred yards away, I could hear the throng of voices coming from the local rugby club HQ, where they were drinking well into the night. There was no way I could make it over the road, across the car park, elbow past dozens of burly rugger-buggers and their equally burly hairy-armed women, and make it to the toilet in time.

I needed a Plan B. B for Buttocks. And fast.

My confession is this: I jumped behind a wall into the front garden of an enormously expensive-looking house on the Sonning/Woodley borders, dropped my trousers and deposited an enormous liquefied turd all over their roses. I'm not proud.

Fuck it. Yes. I AM proud.

In fact, I think I might have actually punched the air and shouted "YES!" before realising that the occupants of the house were, in all probability sitting up late watching Russell Harty or some similar late night crappery on the cathode ray tube, the net curtains twitching at the sound of some drunken teen celebrating hosing their prize blooms with his own manure.

Stuck for paper, and in a drunken fug, I wiped my bum on one of my socks, which, in my blind panic, I left under a bush. Half sockless, I collected myself and made it, some thirty minutes later, via the miracle of the drunk's zig-zag walk, back at my house.

Home. Where I spent the remainder of the night emptying my bowels in a liquid manner in the central-heated luxury of our downstairs toilet, wondering, why, exactly, I was only wearing one sock.

This entire episode took place at a time I was still living with my parents, and my mother was still in the habit of sewing name tags into EVERYTHING. And one, awful thought haunted me.

I went weeks, months fearing every knock on the door, every ring of the phone, for it could, at any time, be the voice of authority, ready to call me to book for my dreadful sin. A family, still stranded inside their own home, unable to leave thanks to the tide of filth in their front garden.

In my nightmares, I could see a burly police officer, gnarled finger pointing to the tell-tale name tag and saying in the sternest of voices: "Excuse me sir - is this your sock?"

Wanted: one sock.

Plz to send socks.


EDIT: As a result of reader comments, I offer this clarification:

The sock was removed before wiping, and, resourceful that I am, I wore it like a glove.

There is, in retrospect, the potential here for a new generation of bottom-wiping products. Mr Andrex had better watch out. There's a new toilet duck in town.

On Global Warming

On Global Warming

Scaryduckblog: Now poo-free for FOUR days

Global Warming: Either the greatest threat facing mankind at the start of the 21st Century, or a load of pseudo-scientific turds.

You cannot deny that the evidence for global warming is all around us and that climate change is a reality. The jury, influenced as it is by big business determined to put short term profit before long term safety, on man's part in this process is still out.

Global warming could be the work of an evil Space Hitler for all I care.

While the argument rages as to whether mankind has played a part in the receding of the icecaps and extremes of weather; or if this is merely our planet going through its regular cycle of warming and cooling, we can all play our part in at least slowing down the process.

And it was last Thursday night, sitting in a meeting at a freezing church hall in Calcot that I suddenly realised how this can be achieved.

I have, in my time, sat in any number of freezing church halls. Scouts, cadet forces, first aid courses, village committees, you name it, I've got the frostbite to prove it.

And it occurred to me last Thursday night, shivering along with my fellow committee members that even though it was reasonably warm outside, the temperature within the hall itself was several degrees below freezing.

And this, I realised, was the case for every single church hall I have sat inside in all my 41 years. High summer outside, while we huddle round burning trestle tables inside.

So: my solution for global warming is a simple one. Forget recycling, driving less, and nuking all those polluting Chinese and Indian chemical factories off the map. Think out of the box.

We need to build church halls. Loads and loads of church halls. All over the Arctic and Antarctic.

The cynical may think we are doing nothing but forcing Christianity on a bunch of godless penguins and polar bears, but as soon as we open the windows of St Cuthberts on the Larsen Ice Shelf, the blast of cold air coming from within will lower temperatures by at least twenty degrees and freeze the place solid.

By scheduling regular first aid courses, scout groups and WI meetings in these places, I am certain that we can slow the process of global warming within five years.

Furthermore, I am certain that by utilising the same "Frigid Moo" technology that Debbie Lucas (who wouldn't have sex with me) employs in her choice of underwear, scientists can direct the icy blast from her nadge to where it is most needed, thus accelerating the process immeasurably.

The World: It is saved.

I am not mad.


FTW: Hobotopia = Genius. That is all.

On the mathematics of Coleman's Shopping Paradox

On the mathematics of Coleman's Shopping Paradox

Scaryduckblog: Now poo-free for THREE days

A couple of weeks ago, I published my Ph.D thesis on the socio-sexual impact of male-female gender issues in the retail environment.

To whit: Gor, lumme - women take AGES in shops, don't they?

After an unnecessarily prolonged research mission waiting outside Superdrug last weekend, my lab assistant Scaryduck Junior and I have now devised a mathematical formula to work out exactly how long any party of women - or men - will be inside any given shop.

And it is this:

t = sw²
Where t=time, w = the number of women in the party and s = the universal shopping constant as theorised by Newton, and proven in Einstein's General Retail Theorum of 1923.

Therefore, a party of two women takes four times as long to shop, while a party of 4 women will take 16 times as long. This is explained by the fact that each woman will have to check with each other member of the party for doesmybumlookbiginthisality before making a purchase.

For men, of course, we use the inverse square rule, as no two men would be seen dead shopping together:

t = 1/sm²
Where m = the number of men in the shopping party

In theory, any group men would be in and out of a clothes shop within 20 seconds. Unfortunately, a proof for this second equation is almost impossible to ascertain, as it is deemed socially unacceptable for more than two men to be seen together in any clothes shop, unless they are particularly bummy.

We are pleased to note that this formula holds up well in the field. Forced to wait an inordinately long time for Mrs Duck and Scaryduckling to emerge from Superdrug, my assistant and I ventured inside to investigate where our theory was failing.

We were, in turns, both delighted and annoyed to find that the all-female shopping party had grown - with the introduction of a friend - to three women, thus proving why the ticket on the pay-and-display car park had just run out.

"QED - Quad Erat Demonstrandum, baby"

"Oooh! You speak French!"

Dr Scary's Problem Page

Dr Scary's Problem Page

Dear Dr Scary

I'm a sixteen-year-old student studying mechanics at my local college. My girlfriend Sharon is on a drama course and we send text messages to each other constantly. We can send anything up to 100 texts to each other every day!!!

This morning, though, she didn't send a reply to me for over four hours. Do you think she's having an affair?

Yours worried,

Lance Boyle, Catford

PS Please don't print my name or where I live


Dear Lance

Calm down, my boy. I'm glad you managed to separate yourself from your mobile phone for long enough to write me your letter. Who says the English language is dead?

The way I see it, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Your buxom, pert ladyfriend Sharon is clearly besotted with you, and there is no way on God's Earth that she would cheat on a fine young man with a rewarding future in the motor trade to look forward to.

I am certain that there is a perfectly rational explanation for her lack of communication. Young Sharon is, from my experience, clearly encountering one of the following:

* Flat battery

* No signal or network problems

* Too busy in her drama class to get to her phone

* Frantically moaning with exquisite pleasure as she squirms and writhes naked on top of her thrusting Casanova of a drama teacher, his tongue invading her very womanhood, pleasuring her in a manner far beyond your feeble imaginings; as she cups those pert, young breasts in orgasmic delight, her phone on vibrate with your unread pathetic bleatings only adding to the ecstasy each time you hit 'send'; then posting video images of the one-on-one drama class she will never forget all over the Myspace page you have neither the wit nor intelligence to find

* Phone accidentally set to silent

See? Nothing to worry about.

Yours reassuringly,

Dr Scary

PS Oops. Sorry.

On being told to stop being a bit of a git

On being told to stop being a bit of a git

I am, as you well know, a sensible kind of chap.

For reasons that escape me, however, some people get the impression that I am, perhaps, a bit of a git. A bit of a git who encourages those about him to act like gits themselves.

I have no idea who keeps putting this about, but I suspect that a) I am married to her and b) she's right.

At the end of this month, the fragrant Mrs Duck and the now teenage Scaryduckling are off to the ballet, where they will sit in the second row, looking right up the male lead's tights in a production of Swan Lake. With added swans.

Already, I have found myself at the centre of a vicious smear campaign, in which I am accused of encouraging the young, impressionable Scaryduckling of shouting out "SWAAAAAAAAAN!" and "EGG!" during the quiet bits, and putting off the dancers by throwing handfuls of bread onto the stage.

So, I have done the sensible fatherly thing, warning young Scaryduckling that she should, on no account, neither throw bread at the dancers or shout "SWAAAAAAAAAAAN!" during the quiet bits. She will, instead, be sensible and show concern for her fellow ballet-goers.

She can do this, I have told her, by telling as many people as possible that a threatened swan could quite possibly break a man's arm with one flap of its wing. She may do this loudly, frequently, and especially during the quiet bits where she would otherwise be shouting "SWAAAAAAAAAAAAN!" as an important public health and safety initiative.

This warning is based on 100% of FACT, because I've read it on the internet so it must be true. Add this to the fact that Mrs Duck once had her entire right arm swallowed by goose (it grew back), it is abundantly clear that the world needs to be protected from angry fowl at all costs. And what better place to start this campaign than a production of Swan Lake?

My case: It is rested.

And yet, I still find myself told to "stop being a git". A man, it seems, just cannot win.

Mirth and Woe: The Nature Poo

Mirth and Woe: The Nature Poo

The nature poo.

The coming together of man and the English countryside in a style rarely seen since Thomas Crapper came up with his big idea. Even rarer now that the Old Bill classes pooing inna hedge as a crime, making for PC Plod's easiest detection of the day.

The nature poo comes in many styles, from the careful organic composting of waste by bearded, sandaled types living on a commune in the middle of Wales; to the quick dump inna hedge or a hole in the ground, all the way down to the drunken scat on the way home from a Friday night pub session.

Many is the time I've found myself caught short in the middle of nowhere, and if it were not for my handy trowel (tomato seeds, for the burying of) in the boot of the car, Lord knows what I'd do. I have standards, you know: There's no way on God's Earth I'd go into a McDonalds, touching cloth or not.

I once had the pleasure of standing guard whilst one of my drinking buddies did a Nature Poo behind a wall on the way home from the pub.

"Shhhhcary" he slurred, "I needs a shit. Shtand guard. Make sure no-one sees my nob."

"But... Pete... buh... you can't go here! The entire queue for the chip shop can see you!"

I was right.

"Ere mate! I CAN SEE YOUR COCK!"

"See?"

"Ahhhh fuggoff! I want a turd an' I'm gonna do it now."

And he did, there and then, right behind the wall, opposite the chip shop, next to the estate agent. At least, then, it went to some good.

Unfortunately, he was unable to carry through the simultaneous tasks of squatting, maintaining his balance and squeezing out his breakfast; gettting his angles all wrong and laying a good length of nutty slack straight into his grundies.

Steaming drunk and disgusted at his own ineptitude, he tried to rip them off, only to find this was impossible whilst still wearing a) Dr Marten's boots and b) trousers, and ended up rolling around on the floor in his own filth, while the chip shop audience cheered him on.

Eventually the struggle ceased, leaving a semi-conscious drunk lying in the gutter, trousers round his ankles, caked in his own poo and vomit.

And round the corner came the familiar figure of a police car, hoping for chips, but getting a drunken turd.

I did what any young man would do when confronted with a friend in such dire straits.

I fled.

I fled and left poor, shitty Pete to his fate.

I broke the pissant's number one rule in times of crisis: No Drunk Left Behind.

I'm not proud.

Next day: "What? They didn't arrest you?"

"They did at first. Then they took one look at me and refused to take me in."

"Shit!"

"Yes. Shit. God bless shit."

"You lucky, lucky bastard."

So: Drunks! Avoid arrest! The Nature Poo is your friend.

Your horrible, fetid, foul-smelling friend.


On any other business

A mate of mine has fallen victim of money-grabbing local council jobsworths.

Do him a favour by signing this 'ere Downing St petition.

That is all.

Public Health Warning

Public Health Warning

Please pass this warning on to everybody you know. This is important, and could SAVE A LIFE.

Government scientists from the Department of Leaving Rakes Lying Around In The Garden are warning of the extreme danger of leaving plungers in toilet bowls.


Do not leave plungers in toilet bowls, the government warns, particularly if you are:

* a cleaner in the home for the blind;
* are having a partially-sighted, rich, elderly relative round to visit; or
* are prone to going to the toilet in the middle of the night without switching the light on.

The consequences, according to the research, could be fatal.

"You only get one rectum in your life", said a senior research scientist, "don't rip the shit out of it."

Think once. Think twice. Think Don't Leave Plungers Down Toilet Bowls.

That is all.


On a Thursday vote-o

Oh, go on, then. One of these four tales of mirth and woe will appear tomorrow. Choose! And choose well, with the vote-o quote-os coming from actual phrases I have heard in meetings and conferences in the last week:

* Launcher: "We've got to replace walled gardens with a pick and mix mind-set"

* The Nature Poo: "We need to capture more eyeballs"

* Paintball: "Let's fly a kite and see who gets struck by lightning"

* Sports Day: "360-degree vertical, horizontal and stakeholder feedback"

BINGO!

On Having Your Say

On Having Your Say

A new game!

As you may know by now, many newspapers have fully embraced this new Web2.0 mullarkey and regularly allow readers to comment on their stories.

Of course, this means that any idiot can get their views in the national press with very little effort, or, it seems, education.

In fact, there is a rather excellent site which scrapes out the best of the BBC Have Your Say column and reproduces them on their own site to give us all a right old laugh.

I should know. In a terrifying piece of know-you-enemy research, I spent several months as a regular on the Super Soaraway Sun's discussion boards to find out what - exactly - makes these people angry. Muslims, mostly. And Poles.

It was an awful, awful experience in a place clearly stuffed to the gills with BNP agitators, with the strangest moderation of any website I've ever visited. Even the mildest of swearwords were banned, yet they held a "Page 3 Idol" competition where female forum members were encouraged to send in pictures of their norks. Strange days, indeed.

The Daily Mirror forum, on the other hand, is Maddie McCann conspiracy central. It has more fruitcakes than a village fete, and they are not taken by the kind of jokes that have stand-up comedians run out of Liverpool.

But there is nothing - quite nothing - like the lottery of posting comments on the Daily Mail's dreadful website in the hope that the official censor's having an off day and accidentally approves your comment.

The Mail's comments are moderated with a rod of good, stout, British iron, and it takes a special kind of piss-taking to get through the barricades and onto the screen. I am not very good at this, and herein lies the challenge.

It's an art. The Mail will only publish a comment that broadly agrees with the point of the article (which is, knowing the Mail "Aieeee! Dole scrounging Muslim Poles will kill us in our beds!")

Spurred on by those coves at Mailwatch, I have set myself the challenge of becoming a regular, stark-raving hang-em-and-flog-em regular poster at the Daily Mail.

Anyone can comment on their local rag's site or an unmoderated discussion forum. In fact, many are begging for any kind of interaction with huge swathes of local news emptiness. The Mail, on the other hand - bless 'em - have set the bar so high that it is a badge of honour to get through the censor.

"So, yet another example of our spineless government caving in to so-called BBC political correctness and lazy Polish Muslims stealing our jobs, women and children. Who pays their wages? Us - the British taxpayer. Bring back flogging - thank you Daily Mail for seeing common sense!"

I think that's all the bases covered.

Cover me. I'm going in.

On Alien Abductions

On Alien Abductions

Space aliens: You’re rubbish.

Why waste all that time and crateloads of Galactic Groats flying all the way to our planet just to abduct a handful of country bumpkins?

These so-called superior intellects kidnap people, force them to have space sex and then dump them back on Earth with something powered by three AA batteries stuffed up their bottoms.

In the words of the intarwebs: “UR DOING IT RONG”. People are laughing at you, for crying out loud. And not in a good way.

Listen, Space Aliens, I know you’re reading this on the Inter-Galactic-HyperWebs - why don’t you pay attention for a couple of minutes and try a different tack?

For example: Ask first. It’s not much. You might find your media image improving into the bargain. For a small payment of Earth money, I could run your PR department for you.

There’d be less of this “puny humans” business for a start. We don’t like and, and you’re creating brand hostility which will be impossible to fix in the long run.

This one’s for free:

“Greetings fellow Galactic Citizen! I represent the Planet Koozbain Other-World Research Agency. Here’s my card. We are offering you, sir or madam, the unique opportunity to travel into space and engage in the delights of Space Sex with a many-tentacled being of our choice.

“There will be no lasting physical or mental effects, bar a small device we wish to implant in your bottom. It will vibrate pleasantly for your delight and play a selection of tunes from the musical Les Miserables. What d’you say? LOL.”

Good Lord, even I’d sign up for thrashing almost tentacle-free sex with an offer like that. What could possibly go wrong? It’d be a badge of honour, rather than a mark of borderline psychosis.

Perhaps, my alien friends, if you’d have done it like this in the first place instead of piling in with the anal probes, you wouldn’t have got the crap beaten out of you on Independence Day. By Jeff Goldblum, of all people.

You’re a laughing stock.

I am not mad. I just need a new battery in my implant.

On BAF-Turd

On BAF-Turd

I spend a productive day at BAFTA in London's Picadilly last week, attending a conference on the future of television and broadcasting.

You may be pleased to hear that - yes - it has one.

Disappointed that I was that such an august institution should find itself sharing a building with a rather seedy casino, I finally came to the conclusion that the tramp begging for a cup of tea probably wasn't a well-known thesp getting his head round his latest role.

Despite my interest in the subject matter and copious notes, one thought dominated my mind that crisp Autumnal Thursday as I cut off at length in the British Academy's toilets:

"Wow. Alec Guinness, Olivier, or - God forbid - Gandalf have probably done a turd on this very shitter. Possibly all at the same time."

Starstruck, my buttocks have brushed with screen history, and have pointed percy at the very porcelain of entertainment greatness.

I am moved. As were my bowels.

The story does not end here.

Fully aware that TV's Mr Biffo was nominated - and cruelly overlooked - by the Academy for a BAFTA Award, I stuffed the Alfred Hitchcock Memorial Shitter with paper and yanked the handle repeatedly.

That'll learn 'em.


On Any Other Business

It is Scaryduckling's thirteenth birthday. Happy Birthday Scaryduckling.

Oh noes! I has a teenager!