On fighting crime

On fighting crime

I recently exercised my right as a law-abiding citizen and entered the world of local politics by attending a PACT meeting in Weymouth - the local plod's attempt to bring crime-fighting to communities.

I'm all for crime-fighting and I am giving some serious consideration to getting my own costume and sidekick (Lobsterman and Crab Boy, their powers being the result of a radioactive fish supper), so I trolled along to see if my ideas regarding crime and punishment tie up with those in so-called authority.

"What about people crapping in hedges?" I ask, as we move onto item 17 of the agenda: "People crapping in hedges near Lobsterman's secret lair"

"What about them?" the chairman responds, eyes rolling toward the ceiling.

"Law-abiding citizens cannot move for perps crapping in hedges," I reply, "It is not a victimless crime."

"And tell me," he said, turning the onus on myself and Crab Boy, the cunning devil, "What do you think we should be doing with these so-called criminals?"

"Simple: Tie 'em to a post at low tide and leave 'em for the crabs."

"Crabs, again."

"And what," I ask, drawing myself up to my full height despite the costume chaffing the private areas somewhat, "What is wrong with crab justice?"

"It's the same punishment you recommend for fly-tipping, speeding drivers, vagrants, overdue library books and old men in socks and sandals."

He fixed me with a gimlet stare and gave me both barrels: "We really don't think your plans are realistic - no court in the land will allow rows of naked, crab-eaten corpses at low water mark, not now, not ever. And it'd kill the tourist trade.

"And another thing: Get out."

Stupid pencil-necked desk pilots. What do they know about modern crime-fighting?

To the BATBOAT! I mean: To the LOBSTERBOAT!

On rocket science

On rocket science

I've always wanted a job at NASA.

The only reason I have this ambition is so that if I have to explain something to somebody, I can tell them:

"Well, actually, it IS rocket science"

And that would be made of WIN.

On Golf

On Golf

Golf, if you did not know, is an enormously frustrating pastime with the highest fatality rate of any known sport.

With the bodies of the fallen piling high on the greens and fairways of golf clubs around the world, the Royal and Ancient have updated the otherwise set-in-stone Rules of Golf to reflect the changes in the modern game

Rule 35
If a player shoots his opponent dead, he incurs an immediate two stroke penalty on the current hole

There is a further two stroke penalty if this occurs in a bunker and the player fails to rake the sand

In matchplay, should the player or his playing partner's ball strike the corpse, the current hole is deemed forfeit

If the ball should strike the corpse of another playing party, the player is entitled to a free drop at two clubs' length distance from the hazard, but no nearer the hole

If the corpse is lying on the green across the hole, choose another hole

There is no penalty for beating an opponent to death with one of the clubs in the golf bag, provided this occurs on the teeing ground before the player has made a stroke

Always play the corpse where it lies

Another recently introduced golf rule of which you might not be aware:

Rule 36
If caught having sex with multiple mistresses, your opponent is given a free swing at your head while you attempt to flee in a car, followed by a six-month period of not playing golf

Still, we can make 19th hole double entendres until the cows come home

The Best Election Leaflet EVER

The Best Election Leaflet EVER

Some of my colonial readers may have failed to notice there is an election campaign under way in the UK.

My employers - quite rightly - insist that I remain strictly neutral in matters political, so it is without comment that I draw your attention to the election leaflet that arrived through my door on Monday, appealing to the voters of Dorset South:


Wow. No, really: WOW.

The other side of the leaflet can be read HERE, in which it is revealed that the not-mad-at-all MAD Party's secret bunker is at the Swanage Pitch and Putt course.

And here, I believe, they are missing out on a unique selling-point. No other political party in this General Election can offer 18 holes of golf at the bargain price of just £6.50. Not even the Greens.

Frankly, the Labour, Conservative and LibDem election machines (and let's not forget the Greens and UKIPs who are also standing locally) have a lot of catching up to do on this little beauty.

Neutrality disclaimer: Other political parties are available, I neither publically support nor condemn any party's policies.

Fruitcake disclaimer: I am not mad.

On taking the blame

On taking the blame

A few days ago, the good people of Twitter playfully laid all the world's ills squarely at the feet of Liberal Democrat leader Nick Clegg. After all, the tabloids had the knives out for the man, so he might as well cop it for everything else.

And frankly, this is an angry, angry world with far too many people spurting their unfocused rage all over the place. And to save the Clegg all this unnecessary worry whilst there's an election to be fought, I have decided to Man Up and take the rap for this little lot.

Feel free to blame me for anything you can think up in the comments section. If it's on the internet, it must be my fault, after all. No skin off my massive conk.

- Played Diego Maradona onside for his Hand of God goal against England in the 1986 World Cup
- Moved Catholic priests to new parishes

- Keeps Heartbeat on ITV, the entire cast trapped in a 1969 Groundhog Day for the rest of their natural lives
- Poured an entire bottle of Shake'n'Vac down the mouth of that Icelandic volcano

- Fathered John. But not Edward
- Shot the deputy, after framing Bob Marley for sheriff's death

- Sunshine? Moonlight? Good times? Blame it on the Duck
- Sold the idea of the Bracewell Ironsides to Winston Churchill

- Those "We Buy Any Car" adverts? Yeah, I'll buy anything
- If you add some letters and take some away, "Scaryduck blog" is an anagram of "Al Qaeda rules UK"

- Got Peter Andre and Katie Price together. Then split them up. All for TEH LULZ
- I created Comic Sans. And the blink tag. And the marquee tag. And animated gifs

- I was driving a white Fiat Uno in Paris on 31st August 1997

Sorry.

Weekend video

Weekend video

Caribou - Odessa



Caribou is/are Canadian. BLAME CANADA.

On dying

On dying

"You're funny, Scary. Ever thought of doing stand-up?"

I'll tell you a story instead.

When I were but a lad, I went off with the Air Cadets for a summer camp on an RAF base.

While we were there, we found that the building we were using for training also had an auditorium with a stage. Why not, then, put of a show?

We put on a show.

And, thinking I was funny, I roped a bunch of mates into doing the Monty Python self-defence class sketch.



We had spent days under the thumb of a sadistic PE instructor, and thought it would be a total scream to take the mick out of him in front of all the officers and some 80 fellow cadets.

The curtain went up.

We did the sketch.

Not a titter.

Not even a smile.

Somebody coughed.

Weed tumbled across the auditorium.

Only the comment from one of my former pals as we crept off to deafening silence: "You dick, Scary."

So: "Hey Scary, why don't you try stand-up. You're funny."

No thank you. I cannot. I have already died.

On the General Election debate

On the General Election debate

Last week, the best part of ten million people watched the main party leaders debate who should be the next Prime Minister last week, equally dazzled Cameron's big shiny head as they were repulsed by Brown's all-too-accurate impression of Jabba the Hutt.

I, on the other hand, sat out in the shed, where I dipped a stick in a pot of paint and watched, enraptured, as it dried.

There could – I thought – be a whole TV channel in this.

When there's nothing better on, switch over to the Paint Drying Channel and watch a variety of different shades and textures drying on walls, floors and – after 9pm – ladies in various states of undress.

On Paint Drying HD we might even go for a touch of creosote sinking into the hungry wooden slats of a fence as part of my ninja training.

And for a subscription, the hard stuff. Gloss. Radiator enamel. Tipp-ex. Highly-paid Premier League footballers paying someone to come round their lavishly-decorated 'crib' and paint the walls, only for their WAG to turn up from a hard day's shopping to complain that it is *just* the wrong shade of duck egg blue.

On second thoughts, I've had a better idea: The Line Premier League Footballers and their WAGS up against a wall and shoot them with a blunderbuss loaded with cattle turds because that would be aces Channel. I'd watch that.

On Swiss Army knives

On Swiss Army knives

"That Swiss Army knife of yours," says the boy, indicating the weedy penknife on my desk, "It's rubbish, isn't it?"

He might have a point, for it is nothing but a knife, a screwdriver, a pair of scissors, a ball-point pen, a torch, a key-ring and 64MB of memory. I mean: what can you do with 64MB these days? Bugger all, that's what.

"What it needs", he says, "is a few minor modifications, and you might not get laughed off the streets."

I am so cool, I've been laughed off the streets, all the way round the block and back onto the streets again, so I do not care.

So, after a few tweaks in the Scaryduck Jr Bedroom of Doom, my Swiss Army knife now comes with the following:

- Mobile phone with web access
- Toothbrush
- The actual Swiss Toni (Comes with a number of phrases such as "Whittling a tent peg with a Swiss Army knife is very much like making love to a beautiful woman")
- The actual Swiss Army, each with a Swiss Army knife
- Dog
- My trusty frying pan of SPANG
- 32MB of computer memory

I pushed the boy on this dreadful turn of events, for that is barely three minutes of video downloaded from certain websites.

"Dad - you've got to make sacrifices if you want to be a trend-setter. Trust me."

I SPANGed him with my trusty frying pan of SPANG and locked him in his room. Kids, eh?

On Right Said Fred

On Right Said Fred

Hello. I am The Fragrant Mrs Duck and I am excellent. On this, our 19th wedding anniversary, let me tell you something AWFUL.

Some years ago, I made a dreadful mistake, over which I am truly ashamed.

I married that Duck fella.

I bought a Right Said Fred CD.

Yes, I know. It seemed a good idea at the time in an I'm-Too-Sexy-Deeply-Dippy kind of way, but through the years it has become a millstone around my neck, weighing down my very existence.

And the worst thing is this: I cannot - no matter how hard I try - get rid of it. Whenever I think it is out of my life, there it is, the lightly-oiled brothers Fairbrass and their meisterwerk, staring back at me.

- Ebay: No bids.
- Car boot sale: The only thing we brought home after the savages of Yeovil ripped the very clothes from our backs.
- Laughed out of Cash Convertors
- Charity shop: Take it from me - I didn't even know they employed security guards

So I threw it in the bin.

Pyotr knocked at the door.

Pyotr's knocked before.

"Hello, my name is Pyotr and I from council bin lory department. I give you YELLOW CARD!"

As my husband would say: Aww, crap.

"Yeah, just hand the bloody thing back, then."

"Right Said Fred. Is very naughty in recycling bin, you know. Yellow card. You get red card next time. You not want red card."

I pressed him on what - exactly - a red card would entail. I have a feeling the words "Right Said Fred" and "baby oil" were spoken, but my grasp of Eastern European languages is none too hot.

So, I ask: Anyone want a Right Said Fred CD? I'll give you any money.

On the Cocteau Twins

On the Cocteau Twins

"It's all bang-bang-bang and you can't hear the words."

Discuss.



Tomorrow: TFMD writes on the occasion of our 19th wedding anniversary.

On finding oneself in The Village

On finding oneself in The Village

Last night in front of the television watching ITV's made-for-American-audiences reboot of the classic 1960s series The Prisoner, starring Magneto and Jesus Christ.

I must say that old Magneto's taking a risk playing the part of someone named after a toilet function, but he'll be relieved (as it were) by the knowledge that nobody will be watching.

So I ask myself: If I found myself in The Village, what number would I be?

"Sixty-nine, dude!"

God, I am SO obvious.

On frickin' laser beams

On frickin' laser beams

"Good Lord," said the optician as he peered closely into the boy Scaryduck Junior's eyes, "you appear to have astigmatism in both eyes."

"Is that a bad thing?" a worried parent asks.

"Not necessarily, no," said the professional, "and in the case of this young man, it appears that what would normally be defects are correcting each other and... and..."

"And?"

"Not only do you have normal three-dimensional vision, you appear to have something well ...extra..."

The boy reaches out and pulls the lottery numbers out of next week by way of a demonstration.

"And another thing," he asks, seeing a profitable future riding on the back of a couple of research papers.

"Yes?"

"Who put in those frickin' laser beams?"

On needing to take a break from all those axe murders

On needing to take a break from all those axe murders

Looking back at these pages over the last few weeks, it has suddenly struck me how much I've written about killing people who annoy me completely TO DEATH in a number of amusing, inventive yet thoroughly disturbing ways.

Clearly, I need to calm things down a bit.

So here's a picture of a cute baby koala, who, given half the chance, would eat your face right off, before surfing home to his mother on the back of your still-twitching corpse.

On traffic chaos, again

On traffic chaos, again

Yet another hellish drive home through the imbecilic roadworks of Wiltshire.

And, like last time, something had to be done.

"Hi, you're through to Salisbury's Spire FM."

"Yeah, just an update on your traffic news."

"Go on..."

"I've got him."

"Wait... what... who?"

"The git who's in charge of those temporary traffic lights outside Porton Down. The ones that stay green for all of six seconds and leave you planning a his painful death as you sit for an hour with the charming view of the back end of a horse box."

"And you say you've ...err... got him?"

"Yeah, as I crawled past, there he was, tinkering about with the controls on the traffic lights, so I lured him closer with a tasty Pepperami, spanged him on the head with my trusty frying pan and bundled him in the boot of the car."

"Oh, good... err... I mean... Are you sure that's strictly legal?"

"100 per cent legit. We put him on trial, and he's going to be tied to a post at low tide at Weymouth Bay and left for the crabs. And when the Crustaceans of Righteous Justice have picked the flesh from his bones, we post him back to his mum and we won't even put a stamp on the parcel..."

*click*

"Can you play something by Phil Collins? Hello? HELLO?"

On Midsomer Murders

On Midsomer Murders

"You know, like, Midsomer Murders?"

"Yes, I am aware of the television programme, it being ITV's flagship crime drama in which people living in a Bermuda Triangle-sque area of the West Country are killed entirely to death in a number of increasingly unlikely methods, usually revolving around some otherwise mundane facet of country life, such as the village fete (savaged to death by the dog that looks most like its owner) or flower arranging (Venus Fly Trap up the cludger). What of it?"

"I am glad you explained that for the readers, because you know how the frenzied serial killer is always some previously mild-mannered villager tipped over thge edge by some minor slight, of which the victim or victims are often entirely ignorant?"

"Now you come to mention it, yes I do."

"Because, if my inbox is anything to be trusted, I see you have invited me to a series of six hour meetings over the next two weeks, in which we are to proof-read the phone book."

"Yes, that's correct. We can't have spelling errors in the phone book, the entire fabric of society may collapse."

"Be that as it may - how's the bell-ringing hobby of yours coming along? Those church bells must be really, really heavy..."

On the General Election

On the General Election

It's election time again, and my esteemed employers remind me that I should remain strictly neutral on matters political in the run up to the 6th May snooze-fest. And strictly neutral I shall remain, showing neither favour nor opposition toward any declared candidate.

However, living as I do in a key marginal seat – a straight fight between a cabinet minister who my charming wife once accidentally insulted, and a man with a quadruple-barrelled surname whose grandfather once tried to destroy humanity using nerve gas, stolen space shuttles and a secret space station, thwarted only by Roger Moore's left eyebrow – I fully expect my doorbell to be rung into oblivion by visiting ministers and their opposition shadows vying for my vote.

And like the 2005 poll, I shall be inviting them in for a nice cup of tea, locking them in the cupboard under the stairs, and see how long they'll last before resorting to cannibalism.

To be perfectly honest, my record from 2005 isn't going to be that hard to beat – I only managed to nab Tessa Jowell, who seemed to rather enjoy her incarceration, using her experience as Culture Minister to put my DVD collection into alphabetical order, and seemed quite sad to have to go back to the real world.

*Ding dong!*

"Greetings, fellow indigenous British citizen, I represent the British Nationa..."

*SPANG!*

That's a start.

On life being a piece of shit, when you look at it

On life being a piece of shit, when you look at it

"One for Life of Brian, please"

The morbidly obese woman in the box office looks at me accusingly: "Are you over fourteen?" she asks.

"Yes. Yes I am," I reply confidently, this being my first AA Certificate movie, and I had the paperwork to back up my claim.

"Prove it!" the man-mountain of a doorman barks at me as my friends cower in terror.

I unfold my birth certificate and hand the precious piece of paper to the uniformed guardian of the silver screen, whose lips move as he takes in my details.

"Mmmm... Young Mr Scary Duck. That's an unusual name, isn't it?"

"No it's not. Loads of people have two middle names."

"Cut your cheek. You're in."

YES!

And the next one, please...

"One for Life of Brian."

"Are you over fourteen?"

"Yes. Yes I am. In fact, it's my birthday today, and this is my birthday outing."

"Prove it!"

Poor Steven, for his "I am 14" lapel badge cut no ice with the Door Nazi, and our gang is on the horns of a dilemma.

Five of us are clutching tickets and are eyeing up the girl behind the popcorn counter. Steve - whose day out this is - finds himself alone in the foyer, his dreams of cinematic blasphemy hanging by a thread.

What - I ask - to do?

Ninety minutes later: "Naaah, mate. You would've hated it. Utter shit."

His little face lit up. "Really?"

"Biggus Dickus" etc etc etc, forever.

Life, eh? It really is a piece of...

On boredom mitigation

On boredom mitigation

One thing led to another, and I found myself at the mercy of a five-day training course.

Naturally, you use your time constructively, and you take in what you are supposed to. But before long, the boredom sets in, and you are not allowed to kill your fellow delegates TO DEATH, just for the hell of it, even if you try to disguise it as a team-building exercise.

What to do?

I find a few little tactics get you over the worse of the sociopathic urges and back into the happy learning zone:

- See how many Training Department pens you can smuggle back to your desk on the first day

- On subsequent sessions, try to beat that record

- On Friday, just as the training department are beginning to despair at going 3,400 per cent over their stationery budget, return them all at once without getting caught

- Extra points if they are glued together into a 1:144 scale model of HMS Belfast, with working guns that fire Argos pens and/or Ikea pencils

Trust me, the time will literally fly by.

On the Winter Olympics

On the Winter Olympics

"Dad?" the boy asks, "Did we win anything in the Winter Olympics?"

"Why yes," I reply, "We took a gold medal in the Skeleton Bob. Not bad for a country not known for its winter sports."

"What about the Winter Paralympics? How did we do in that?"

And to that question I am stumped, and risk a loss of face in front of the boy.

Only one thing for it: Lie through my teeth, and stick to the story.

"Well?" he asks, sensing blood, "It's for my citizenship homework."

"As a matter of fact, we did rather well. We got a gold in the ...err.... Ski Jump for the Blind."

"Wow."

"Although when I say 'won', I mean 'sole survivor'."

"Ah."

"Those poor, poor guide dogs."

On not accepting Our Lord Jesus Christ as my Personal Saviour and Guide, again

On not accepting Our Lord Jesus Christ as my Personal Saviour and Guide, again

*DING DONG*

Yet another evening of exploring the bounds of the Seven Deadly Sins disturbed by the unwelcome sound of the doorbell. Who the Devil could it be at this time of the evening?

Oh. It is one of those people that speaks in capitals.

"Excuse me sir - I wonder if you've got a few minutes to hear the Good News about Our Lord Jesus Christ and how you can accept him as Your Personal Saviour and Guide?"

It is times like these where it pays to think on your feet, and word your reply both in capitals and an unfamiliar character set:

"Sorry. No English. Russkiy Yazyk, da?"

"Oh. Right. Jesus? Jesus Christ?"

"And pliz! Not to be swear! Is bad word with your Jesus Christ. Russki, da?"

"Um... err... sorry to have disturbed you. Didn't mean to offend. Perhaps I could come back and talk to you another time about accept Our Lord ...umm.... as Your Personal Saviour and Guide"

"Simples!"

I dunno. I think I might have over-egged it.

On tasty, tasty pets

On tasty, tasty pets

Times are tough.

And when the worst comes to the worst, and society crumbles around us, we're all going to have to eat our pets.

That'll serve them right for being made out of tasty, tasty meat.

Now – I know what you're thinking, and you're all a little bit squeamish about the idea. And frankly, I don't blame you. Nobody in their right mind is going to feel good noshing down on Mr Snuggles, so I've thought up a few recipes for you.

So, when you're broke and driven to the brink of insanity with hunger, don't come crawling to me because you've no idea whether to have red or white wine with braised cat lungs.

- Honey roast hamster
- Fido pastry

- Lassie-agne
- Rat-atouille

- Puss'n'Booze
- Yorkshire Terrier pudding

- Sausage dog on a stick
- Sausage on a stick insect

Mmm... Fido pastry...

On accidental minor fame

On accidental minor fame

A couple of things happened last Tuesday.

1. They ramped the Large Hadron Collider* up to Seven Trillion electron Volts and took it for a test run round the block

2. At exactly the same moment the entire county of Dorset was plunged into a power cut that caused literally minutes of minor inconvenience.

Coincidence? I THINK NOT. And I have the evidence from my Twitter stream to prove it

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, my relveation was second lead story in the Bournemouth Echo - where poor, dead Bill Bryson started his career, and would be spinning in his grave if he were actually poor and dead.

Of course, it's all celebrations now. But just you wait until a bunch of Daleks pour out of a fissure in the space/time continuum - it'll be all fun and games until someone loses an eye, I can tell you for nothing.

* Not to be confused with the Large Hardon Collider, which can have a grown man hospitalised**

** Or something from the Harry Potter books: "And this," said Dumbledore, whipping off the dustcloth, "Is what we call the Large Hagrid Collider". Hermione's joy was unbounded

On Gedge

On Gedge

I like The Wedding Present.

There, I've said it.

To the untrained ear, the remarkable David Gedge might sound like just another indie guitar frontman from another indie guitar band. But YOU ARE WRONG.

And why? The court should recognise this as the first evidence for the defence:



And this from his quiet, fifties Italian cinema period:



Oh, go on, just one more

The defence rests, you cloth-eared b-stards.

At this point - although there is not obligation on either me and yourselves - if you like this, buy something and contribute to the David Gedge pension plan. Cos he's worth it, like.

On Her Majesty's Secret Service

On Her Majesty's Secret Service

"Now, pay attention 007. If you want to defeat this Drax character, you're going to need some of this rather special equipment we've dreamt up in Q Division."

"It had better be good, Q. Drax will stop at nothing in his quest for world domination and it's going to be a tough job finishing him off."

"Speaking of jobs, 007, we've got just the thing for you. Hang on a second..."

"What ARE you doing, Q? Why, in the name of God are you dropping your trousers?"

"...NNnnnnnng..."

"Is... is that what I think it is?"

"Yes... Nnnnnng... Yes it is, Bond. NNnnnnng... Done."

"And what the Dickens...?"

"...do we expect you to do with it? DO keep up, 007, it's very simple. You wait until you're close quarters with the enemy, and you release it from its airtight compartment in your left shoe."

"And it explodes?"

"No, 007, it does not explode."

"Then... what?"

"Simple. While the cur's stamping about trying to find out who's done a jobbie in his secret hideout, you hit him with your secret weapon."

"Ah good, I wondered when you were getting round to that."

"Please stop interrupting Bond, I've got a hot date with Moneypenny and she'll be withered away to nothing by the time I get there. As I was saying, when Drax is diverted by the Secret Turd, you hit him with the secret weapon."

"And how do I detonate it?"

"Manually, 007, manually. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"You mean to say that I shoot my load into his eye, he wheels away in shock and disgust, falling into the rotating blades of his own over-complicated death machine, thus saving both the world and British interests in the face of lurid Russian expansionism."

"Exactly."

"Rule Britannia, Q, Rule Britannia."

"Oh, do grow up."

On creating a lasting Olympic legacy for Weymouth

On creating a lasting Olympic legacy for the Borough of Weymouth and Portland through the construction of 300-foot statues of the sisters Minogue, or perhaps, something else altogether

What's that sound I hear? Yes, it's the words "Oh Lordy, not him again!" coming from the editorial offices of my local newspaper.

Dear The Dorset Echo

I note with some interest that London's Olympic Park is to get a 375-foot specially-designed tower to mark the 2012 Games.

As the Borough of Weymouth and Portland is to host the Olympic sailing events, I am disappointed to learn that the construction of my proposed 300-foot twin statues of the sisters Minogue - standing athwart the harbour entrance, their tanned, naked bodies embodying the very best of Athenian sporting prowess – are not to go ahead.

Instead, we are to get an inflatable rubber Lord Coe on the beach, which is hardly what anyone in their correct state of mind would call an Olympic legacy; especially as his tanned, naked body will be doing nothing but putting our expected international visitors off their fish and chips.

With less than two years to go until the games, it is not too late to provide some sort of permanent erection that will put Weymouth on the map and bring a smile to the face of visitors even after the Olympic circus moves on.

Of course, a 500 foot effigy of local celebrity Martin Clunes built entirely out of recycled materials isn't going to build itself, but the thought that we are contructing perhaps the only giant Clunes head that can be seen from the International Space Station will spur us on in this most important of tasks.

When finished, we can park the Clunes behind Portland and wheel it out on special occasions, such as the annual choosing of the Carnival Queen, and the subsequent sacrifice of last year's Carnival Queen to ensure fertility, fine crops and slightly warmer than average weather, of which we do not speak.

Said too much.

Your pal,

Albert O'Balsam

PS I am not mad