Thursday, September 26, 2002

“You will bow down before me, Jor-El!”

Oh. My. Bloody. God. Now I certainly didn’t expect that. If you’re one of my three regular readers who didn’t come here via the Grauniard, you probably wouldn’t know that this august journal has just given me one thousand pictures of the queen for operating the Best British Weblog of 2002.

So, what am I going to do with my filthy lucre? Money fights with Mariah Carey? A home for destitute otters? Low-to-medium class call girls? Nothing so glamorous. I’m buying a new boiler for Scaryduck mansions, unless somebody nice from British Gas is reading this and they can give me a famous-for-five-minutes discount for saying how great their service has been. Oh, and some bandwidth. And a new hall carpet.

All I’ve done is stick together some tales about my life and the incredibly mind-numbingly stupid things I’ve done. Thanks to the judges who thought my writing was good enough to win the prize. Special thanks really ought to go to my employers for getting me interested in this interweb thing in the first place. I never thought I'd say this, but fantastic people to work for.

And If anybody out there thinks they recognise themselves in a story and want to sue, it’s not you. Honest. And YES, some of the tales aren't exactly 100% factually true. I “jazzed them up a bit”, otherwise it wouldn’t have been funny. It's called poetic licence. Just ask Roy Keane, he might even know what it means.

"Filthy Lucre Update"

It's been a bit mad today. Sorry if the blog's taken ages to load, it's all the extra traffic, and I am peddling as fast as I can to keep up with demand. And apologies again if you've tried to get into and found it down, that's what happens when you're on geocities and the whole world comes to call. Ironically, I'm moving to paid webspace very soon, but not soon enough. Why not visit my Portland Helicopter Campaign Site instead, a local issue dear to my heart, but rather shorter on laughs.

Updates may be scarce in the next couple of days - there's a wedding, the Great Kitchen Fitting, Scaryduckling's birthday and the attentions of Her Majesty's Press to deal with. Argh. What a life.

Back to Scaryduck

Wednesday, September 25, 2002

"Rip-Roaring Reeeeeeds!"

PSV Eindhoven 0-4 Arsenal. A most excellent result ending our two year streak of crapness in Europe. Undoubtedly there'll be a big, sweary match report on the newly married Arseblog sooner or later, but a nice deep-link into fabby BBC territory will suffice for now.

Back to Scaryduck

Tuesday, September 24, 2002


It was 1974. I was eight. Those were halcyon days when kids were actually allowed out of their parents’ site without them worrying themselves to death about non-existent kiddie fiddlers or getting creamed by a forty ton lorry when crossing the road. The world was a safe place to live in. Ish.

A quick wriggle through the hedge at the bottom of the garden, a dash across the school field, often to the shouts of the school caretaker, and we were in the local park. At one end was the playground, a death-trap of cast iron play equipment with roundabouts and swings with jagged edges and unexpected hinges just right for severing little fingers. Nothing wrong with that. A little mutilation’s good for kids. And that’s where I went with my brother.

Spit 'em out, boy!

He was at the top of the slide, a fifty foot tall monstrosity that appeared to have been left over from the construction of HMS Belfast. Such was the pressure difference from top to bottom, your ears would pop and you’d get a nosebleed. You were also travelling at something approaching the speed of sound, with nothing to stop you at the end except your arse against concrete.

Nigel at the top. So, it’s only natural that I should stand on the slide at the bottom. If I was a retard.

"Get out of the way!" he shouted. “I’m coming down!”

"No!" I replied. "When you slide down, I'll jump over you. It'll be a great stunt."

So he slid. He came down like a lightly greased exocet missile. I forgot to jump, and once again my life was rudely interrupted by Newton’s Laws. His feet caught me square in the shins., causing me to catapult up into the air. By all accounts, my one-and-a-half somersault with pike would have graced any diving competition as I flew through the air with gravity waiting in the wings to slam me back to earth.

It was a beautiful slow motion moment as the slide came up to meet me, followed by the blinding white light of pain. I landed face first and teeth went everywhere. I’d also bitten through my lip and I looked like I’d gone ten rounds with Ali.

Luckily, Nigel had the presence of mind to pick up the severed molars and shoved them back in from where they came. I spent the next two hours in the dentist’s chair having sharp edges painfully filed off and loose teeth fixed back in. Nearly thirty years later, they’re still there. Thanks bro.

The following week, we tried it again. I remembered to jump. I was right. It was a most excellent stunt.

Back to Scaryduck

Monday, September 23, 2002


Anyone living in a real earthquake zone going to laugh at this - but we here in Merrie Olde Englande got rocked by a frankly titchy 4.8 Richter quake at one o'clock this morning, which threw me out of bed despite being a good 100 miles from the epicentre. It was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to Dudley, ever.

I did not run out into the street naked, though by all accounts many people did, and that's where the trouble started.

And a big thank you to all 400,000 people who turned up for the Countryside march in London yesterday, leaving the capital knee-deep in litter. Next time I'm in the country remind me to return the compliment, you manky Tory bastards. Where were you when the miners, shipbuilders and steelworkers were marching for their "Liberty and Livelihood" in 1984? Perhaps the Earth is trying to tell you something.

"Okay, so I was bored"

Am I an otter or not? All my own work. Apart from all the difficult programming an' stuff. I'll get me coat.

Back to Scaryduck

Sunday, September 22, 2002

"Dolphin ...err... Duck sex update"

Now THIS is what I call a scary duck. That's right up there with the Harry Potter vibrating broom. No wonder the kid's smiling. On with the show...

"Hooligan's Island"

You hear a lot of stories about the dreaded English Football Hooligan. How they fought pitched battles in the streets, rioted in soccer grounds and disgraced the “good” name of Britain on foreign shores. I was there. Sort of. Heading in the opposite direction.

I didn't do it
Save police time: Beat yourself up

I came late to football. I was born within a stone’s throw of the tip that is Chelsea football ground in London, and my father tried his best to make me go and see the Blues in action. It was awful. Awful ground, awful team, awful supporters, awful match. It was nearly ten years before I went to another football match. That was after my boss heard I was a “lapsed” fan and took me along to the tip that was Reading instead.

I stuck with it for a couple of years. It was quiet, inoffensive fun, and ideal if you wanted to be alone on Saturday afternoons. It was then that my brother saved me from a lifetime of footballing mediocrity and introduced me to the Arsenal. It was a baptism of fire. My first ever Arsenal match was away to West Ham, a bunch of cocky Eastenders whose fans believed they were as hard as nails, but in reality all looked like the Hofmeister bear. There was history too. Recent matches between Arsenal and West Ham had resulted in two deaths. I was shitting meself.

Let’s just add in another couple of factors - this was Arsenal’s first match since winning their first trophy in eight years, and West Ham had just brought back former Arsenal legend Liam Brady back from Italy, and he’d vowed to put one over his old club. Arsenal lost 3-1. Someone had fired a flare into the West Ham fans inside the ground, and after the match there was a pitched battle up and down the Barking Road. It was ace.

Nigel had introduced me to his friends. Mark was a college mate, who hung round with Ginger James, Ritchie and Paul. The latter two were bonafide members of the Arsenal hooligan firm - The Gooners, and while they were having the time of their lives charging up and down the streets of East London, the rest of us hid in a kebab shop. It was the start of something beautiful.

As a matter of fact, if I tell anybody that I once ran with the famous Arsenal Gooners, I do tend not to tell them that any actual running was usually in the direction of “away”. I was running marathons at the time, so I could get a fair old distance between myself and any trouble if needs be. You were perfectly safe in the crowd, singing songs and generally insulting the opposition, but once it “went off”, you were well advised to slink away and leave the actual fighting to your more excitable friends. And they did such a good job of it, too.

Places I have hidden during infamous football riots:

* Everton: the back bar in the Stanley Arms. hic!
* West Ham: Medina kebab shop
* Tottenham: in a hall full of bouncing Jews on the infamous Broadwater Farm estate
* Chelsea: The pic’n’mix counter in a Waitrose supermarket
* Millwall - at home, under my bed

As I became a regular at Arsenal matches home and away, my cowardice in the face of enemy action increased. You could swagger along, full of bravado, but as soon as the shit hit the fan, it was time to make yourself scarce. I became an expert, and could run away from anything at the drop of a hat. Enemies, friends, old grannies, family picnics, Princess Diana, and on one occasion, the massed pipes and drums of the Scots Guards. They just looked like trouble. Bagpipes are evil.

Clicky for part II of this epic tale of mirth and woe, featuring my moment of stupid, stupid glory.

Back to Scaryduck

Saturday, September 21, 2002

"Return of the Revenge of the Return to the Curse of the Shed of Doom"

Two days of painting ceilings, knocking tiles off the wall and taunting the cat. Seven days of sitting on the beach flicking V's at Randy Georges the dolphin and the TV crew that turned up to film him; and I didn't even get on the internet. Much.

Still, it's nice to see our Boys in Blue are finally being given the recognition they deserve for the hard job they do under difficult circumstances. Available at all goods newsagents.

Cop Porn

I'll get me coat. Abnormal service resumed.

Back to Scaryduck

Thursday, September 12, 2002

"Update Break"

Slaps forehead

Scary's taking a week off away from the internet while he works on his plan to take over the World. And even evil geniuses have to go to their mother-in-law's birthday party and paint the kitchen ceiling. Unleash the evil killer penguins!

Back to Scaryduck

Wednesday, September 11, 2002


If there's ever been a time to post this little slice of Scary's life - reminiscences of another September twenty-one years ago - it's not today. First class ticket to hell please.

I grew up in the shadow of The Bomb. My parents were married around the Cuban Missile Crisis, not knowing if there would be a world left to bring kids into. We lived in fear of the four minute warning, literally a few miles from the UK’s nuclear weapons factories at Burghfield and Aldermaston. We had a copy of Protect and Survive. And worst of all, America had just voted for Ronald Reagan - a cowboy with Minuteman missiles in his holster.

There goes the neighbourhood
"Nucular. It's pronounced 'nucular'." - Homer J Simpson

We lived in a world of Mutually Assured Destruction. If anyone was damn fool enough to start a war, it was more or less acknowledged that civilisation as we knew it was doomed. Hence, a nuclear war was, by logic, well nigh impossible. Try telling that to a fifteen year old kid with an aversion to firey nuclear destruction.

I could just about live with this, if it weren’t for the fact that I’d seen a TV programme about witches. One of the stories featured a mad old hag who lived in a cave in the North of England several hundred years ago. She had made several uncannily accurate predictions, the last of which before they threw her on a great big bonfire was that the world would end in 1981. Bloody great. You know what that means: I’m going to die a virgin.

My brother’s best mate Giles had seen this programme too, and claimed to have read in Mad Old Bastard’s Almanack that Armageddon was due on September 12th. It’s a Saturday. The world doesn’t even have the decency to end on a school day. Giles was so confident in his boast, that he actually bet us money that he was right. We happily shook on it, and it took him several minutes to realise it was a wager he just couldn’t win.

As the End of the World approached, was I worried? Was I terrified at the thought of facing destruction on Biblical proportions with my cherry still intact? Too blummin’ right I was. For starters, my attempts to leave this mortal coil without my virginity were foiled by two simple factors: a) none of the girls I approached believed a word that I said, leaving me with a post 12/9 reputation for being “off my head” and b) I was a teenage geek of huge never-gonna-lose-that-cherry proportions. And I was blissfully unaware of point b).

Come the big day, I was a bag of nerves. It was actually Battle of Britain weekend, commemorating the one time in the twentieth century where we managed to save the known world without American assistance, and we went on a day trip with the Air Cadets up to RAF Abingdon for the airshow. The cream of NATO’s airbourne fighting forces screamed overhead in close formation, when they really should have been preparing to face the Red Menace that was pouring over the German border as we spoke. Giles was still confident, yet the forces personnel looked decidedly unruffled about the forthcoming call to arms.

I watched planes.

I went home.

I went to bed.

I woke up on Sunday 13th September 1981.

I was still alive. The world had not ended. President Reagan and Leonid Brezhnev had both stubbornly kept their fingers off the button. It was, I remember, a rather pleasant sunny day. It felt good to be alive.

On the other hand I felt bloody cheated. All those years of worry utterly wasted. I hadn’t bothered doing my school homework either, on the grounds that there wouldn’t be a school to go to on Monday. Now I’d have to spend a whole Sunday, nose to the page, writing a compare-and-contrast essay about William bloody Shakespeare. Somebody was going to pay.

And the next day, at school, it was Giles. To be honest, he paid up his bet with remarkably good grace for someone who’d been nailed in his first lesson for not doing his homework. He was rather proud of the fact that Mr Wallace had told him “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard, boy”.

And as for the end of the world: “Give it a couple a days. These things take time.”

Seven minutes to midnight. I’m still waiting.

Back to Scaryduck

Tuesday, September 10, 2002


Price of Petrol cartoon
"The price of petrol has been increased by one penny." Official.
Philip Zec, Daily Mirror (5th March, 1942)

I’m not one for topical rants, but there’s always a first time. Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of a certain event. “It’s an event that changed the world forever”, said commentators at the time, but in truth, did it?

The world has an uncanny ability to absorb any great triumph or catastrophe and continue like normal. Heinous murders, wars, the death of princesses all come and go. We cry, we wring our hands and tear out our hair, just long enough for us to forget, or until the next series of Big Brother begins at the very least. You watch Big Brother. Big Brother watches you. He's the one taking notes.

The world has snapped back on its elastic band of normality, but it stretched far enough this time for a few changes to stick. Those towers and those aircraft are now world icons. Like the crash of the Hindenburg, the mushroom cloud over Hiroshima or the napalm-burned Vietnamese girl. I don’t need to show you the pictures, because they’re there, now, inside your mind.

September 11th 2001 killed off the New World Order. Created out of the ashes of the liberation of Kuwait by the current president’s father in 1991, it gave America a cause as the Cold War finally ended and America was left without an enemy to fight. America would lead as “first among equals”, the strong-arm of the United Nations, stepping in as it was needed to restore democracy and ensure peace. If not “Globocop”, something pretty darn close to it.

It all started very well. There were even interventions in countries where American involvement was totally humanitarian. Somalia. There was nothing in it for America except the wresting of the rule of law from bandits and warlords. Foreign policy under Bush Snr and Clinton was based on consensus rather than coercion. Even so, "mission creep" from humanitarian aid to outright combat turned the Somali adventure into a fisaco. Still, it made a great movie.

So what happened? George Walker Bush is a very different person than his father. He doesn’t see America as “first among equals”. He just sees “America first”. There’s nothing wrong with that per se, but since September 2001 this has boiled down to it’s simplest form: “You’re either with us or against us”. You’re either an ally or an enemy. There is no middle ground, no space for neutrality, just Bush’s strong arm backed up by military strength and the might of the American economy. This is the politics of coercion. You have no choice.

The conspiracy theorist sees hawks everywhere. And it’s quite easy to see why. Al-Qaeda were a convenient reason to go into Afghanistan, a country America desired to drive an oil pipeline through. Afghan President Karzai previously worked for an American oil company. Iraq is oil-rich, yet ruled by someone who has consistantly failed George’s “With us or against us” test. You’re either a good, patriotic American, our subservient lap-dog or a goddam pinko commie. Senator McCarthy returns from the dead. Now that the commies have gone, America has thrashed around for a new devil and found it in the Middle East.

If all Bush and Blair are interested is preventing “rogue states” obtaining weapons of mass destruction, why has nothing been done about Israel, South Africa, India, Pakistan, North Korea? Why does the US still count oil-rich Saudi Arabia as an ally despite its tacit approval of Al-Qaeda? These are uncertain times. All the cards are not on the table, and Bush is ramming home America’s inalienable right to fuck up the planet.

Not in my name. Nor in the name of the 9/11 victims. Why not just be honest about it?

The reckoning approaches.

What the world needs is pie. New pie.

Back to Scaryduck

Monday, September 09, 2002


When I was about eight years old, I was forced to share a bedroom with my brother. My bed was a huge great wooden thing, with the headboard carved out of an entire tree, he said exaggerrating. It was pretty bloody huge though for a small kid. And it spelt my doom.

Cause and effect. I’d seen a TV programme about the work of engravers and the intricate work they do. Carving metal, wood, anything. I can do that. So I did.

I found the first relatively sharp instrument I could lay my hands on - a metal cogwheel from my Meccano set, and got to work. With a deft and unshaking hand, and knowing not exactly what I was letting myself in for, I neatly engraved the word “PiSS” onto the headboard of my bed in eighteen inch high letters. I sat back and admired my handiwork. Lovely job.

Bed of Doom (artist's impression)

It was about ten seconds after this particular point-of-no-return that I realised something. I had written the foulest word known to my eight year old mind on the wooden headboard of my bed. And it won’t come off.

I rubbed it. I soaked it in a mixture of water, soap and spit. It came off. Ten minutes later, it had dried, and there was the word PiSS, back again, taunting me. I was mortified. And mum was coming upstairs. I draped the curtains over my headboard and announced “From now on, I want to sleep like this”.

“You’ll get a draught down your neck” was the wisdom-filled reply.

“I don’t mind, I get hot in bed”

And she was right. For three dread-filled months, I slept with a stiff neck, with the curtains covering the word PiSS on my headboard. For three months I did anything to cover it up.

I diligently made my bed each morning so mum wouldn’t have to. I slapped stickers over the PiSS, but was told to peel them off as they would “spoil the wood”. I cut out pictures of airplanes, pets and family photos and stuck them over the dreaded PiSS, only for them to fall off in the night, exposing my Nemesis for the world to see.

Every night was a struggle against discovery. PiSS was taking over my world. I was tired, stiff and my school work was suffering. I was pilloried by Mrs Jones at school for absent-mindedly doodling “PiSS” on the cover of a school book. It was getting too much. I was turning into a pre-teen crack-up.



Then came the glorious day. I came home from school one afternoon, and ran upstairs to make sure that I hadn’t been discovered. Instead of the two beds side by side - my brother’s World War II relic and the PiSS bed - was my saviour, a lovely brand spanking new bunkbed in gloriously white-painted wood. I danced with joy.

It gleamed. It sparkled. And best of all, the PiSS bed was already on its way to the dump. Gleefully, as older brother, I bagsied the top bunk and revelled in my new found freedom. And I got a good night’s sleep for the first time in months.

It was not long after that I noticed that my brother was becoming a little particular about covering up the end of his lower bunk. He’d always hang spare clothes, pajamas, dressing gown over it in a frankly suspicious manner. I took a peek. “BoLLockS”.

"End of the World news"

In the line of duty, I was asked to carry out a WHOIS net search on the Al Muhajiroun website. They're a group of extreme Islamists based around Finsbury Park Mosque, whose idea of commemorating the anniversary of 9/11 is this.

The WHOIS turned up their registered address as 748 High Road, London N17. That rang a bell. Ah yes, 748 High Road is only Tottenham bloody Hotspur football ground. And I always thought Osama was an Arsenal fan. Obviously, he's hiding in the Spurs trophy room, a desperately barren place where no man ever goes.

Back to Scaryduck

Sunday, September 08, 2002

"The internet will eat itself"

It was bound to happen sooner or later: Which online personality test are you?

(I was going to do that. Damn! Damn!)

Saturday, September 07, 2002

Oh No! It's another “Dolphin Sex Update”

With all of this week’s piss-poor haircut malarkey going on, I almost forgot the latest on Georges/Randy/Flipper, the sex-crazed crime-fighting dolphin that inhabits our local waters.

dolphin woman
"Left a bit, right a bit, scratch there. You're an angel, darlin'"

With the summer holidays bringing hoardes of tourists down to Weymouth, August ended with the town so packed with sweaty tourists you had to ask the next person to budge up a bit so you could put your hand in your pocket. This teeming mass of humanity also spread into the sea, where at one point Georges/Randy/Flipper had somewhere in the region of sixty people trying to swim with him at once.

It was going to end in tears, and so it did. On the same day that the kind people of Norway promised, hand on heart, not to shag, kill and eat Keiko the Killer Whale in the traditional Norse manner, Filthy Georges was taking matters into his own hands.

The poor bugger was trying to have a quiet swim, and all he gets are these thicky humans trying to biff him on the nose. So it came as no surprise that the Dorset Echo reported “Man Tossed By Dolphin in Portland Harbour”.

“Blimey”, I thought, “That’s a bit clever even for a dolphin. He hasn’t even got opposable thumbs.”

Yes folks. Filthy Georges the Filthy Dolphin strikes again. If he can’t shag you to death he’ll.... I’ll get me coat.

Back to Scaryduck

Friday, September 06, 2002

"Where your wheelie bin?"

The Chinese government cares for it's people (yeah, right). They routinely block internet sites that they think are harmful to the good people of China. You can test whether a site is blocked or not by using the spiffy Harvard Law School Real Time Net Filtering tool. So I tried it. is blocked in China. isn't. Damn you Chairman Mao! What the gayers got that I haven't?

If it's any consolation, your average Chinese sex pervert has unfettered access to porn megasites thumbilla and free6. Whatever they are. I really wouldn't know. At all. *coff*

“Never cut your own hair”

No, really. Don’t do it. If you’re anything like me, you are neither double jointed nor able to see the back of your head. And like me, I bet you’ve also got the hand/eye coordination of a Spanish Air Traffic Controller. Result: mess.

The trouble is, my hair grows like that bit in "An American Werewolf in London" where our lupine hero turns from genial tourist to raving, and really rather hairy, wolf in a matter of seconds. A couple of weeks after a scalping I resemble a cross between 1970's Michael Jackson and a German footballer. In short, I possess the ability to have an afro and a mullet at the same time. I am also a notorious tightwad and I will avoid paying for a haircut for as long as possible. And before you know it, I'm sitting in front of a mirror with my Nicky Clarke hair clippers trying to work out which way round the dangerous bit is.

It started off so well. Number three comb, zip, zip zip. Looking good. Then, the comb falls off the front of the clippers. I don't notice. Zip. I now have a bald streak running from front to back. I try to blend it in. No dice. I try to reach round the back. Arms don't work back-to-front, and I can't see what I'm doing anyway.

I present myself to Mrs Scary. I look like Sven-Goran Eriksson turned mohican. Through tears of laughter she finishes the job, but just as a reminder of my raging incompetence, she cuts the back at right angles. I now have a square head. Cheers, dear.

Let that be a lesson to you all. Think once. Think twice. Think Don't Try To Cut Your Own Hair Without Thinking About How Stupid You'll Look.

Back to Scaryduck

Tuesday, September 03, 2002


Let’s be honest here. I’ll be the first to admit to the fact that I was a right lazy bastard in my late teens. So lazy, in fact, that I managed to duck out of college altogether and ended up sitting with my feet up in a backwater civil service office. For three glorious years I shuffled invoices into different folders without anyone even noticing I existed. My brother, on the other hand, evolved from classic third-child underachiever to thrusting college student within a matter of months. The smarmy bastard.

This arrangement, however, did have its advantages. I had a regular income and a car. He had access to the best parties Kingston Polytechnic had to offer and relatively good quality student digs to crash out in afterwards.

I’d drive down to Kingy, pick up Nige and all his mates and head for the Student Union. I’d blagged myself in as a member at the beginning of term by claiming I was a physics student, along with Paul, Mark and James who all managed to flunk off their courses within weeks, but we still claimed membership a good six years later.

Often, we’d sit there and get drunk, dance badly to the student disco and talk a load of bull about football to each other and any other person pretending they were students who happened to be drinking there at the time. Great if you liked The Smiths and didn’t mind other loons who danced like, and I quote, “a spastic passing a magnet factory”, but otherwise the only real attraction was the bar prices, about half that of the local pubs. Which was why we were there.

The first Saturday evening of any new term was a highlight. That was when the Rugby team had their ban lifted and were allowed back into the bar. Within hours, they’d have drunk the place drier than a Frenchman’s bathmat, started singing songs such as “I’m a stupid dicky-di-dildo” and get themselves banned for another term with the initiation ceremony on their new players.

It was called “The Dance of the Flaming Arseholes”. They’d roll up a piece of newspaper, stick it up the intitate’s arse-crack and set fire to it. He would then have to run a circuit of the bar (no mean feat on a crowded night) and down a pint with chasers before being allowed to douse the flames. We’d watch through tears of laughter as yet another initiate was carted off for first aid to his scorched ring, while the rest of the squad was defiantly marched out by the bar manager for another three months of getting banned from all the pubs in Kingston, Richmond or any other town that would have them.

Huey! Rolf!
The Big White Telephone

But it was the parties we lived for. Kingy Poly had its own halls of residence which were in their own compound a mile or so off-campus, and hence, a mile or so away from adult supervision. Every month or so, each hall would hold a party, and with Animal House still a barely fading memory, drink, motorbikes and nudity were compulsory. Togas were frequently involved, and with the Rugby squad on double secret probation, a wild time was expected. Always.

It seemed half of Kingston had descended on my brother’s block that fateful night of early summer. Most were students, but there were plenty of hangers-on too. Mr Thresher had had the good sense to open an off-licence right next door to the student flats, and we’d managed to clear the shelves of everything except the Babychams and that green stuff that looks and tastes like washing up liquid.

Oh yes. Drink flowed that night. Bodies littered the common room and most of the dorms, and the toilets were rich with the sound of students calling out for their friends Huey and Rolf down the big white telephone. I had fallen in with a crowd of serious drinkers in my sixth-form days and could take my ale, but there were plenty who couldn’t. And as usual, dear reader, I was cursed with the ability to remember every sordid detail despite being three sheets to the wind. Happy now?

And when you’re drunk, you do stupid things. Stupid, illogical things that seemed a good idea at the time, but you just can’t explain to the judge afterwards. That is why, I suppose, Nige and I led a raid on the communal kitchens to see what we could snaffle. And being students, the cupboards were completely bare, all except for Samantha’s.

Samantha: bringer of nutritious foodstuffs. Samantha, the nice innocent girl. A commited student, a hard worker, and let’s face it, the only decent cook in the entire block. She was also face down in the common room, drunk off her head, with pervy James trying to look up her skirt. So we raided the kitchen cupboard marked “SAMANTHA’S FOOD - KEEP OUT!!!” in big red letters. She had eggs. Eggs were good. Eggs would be fun. We stole eggs.

Clicky for part II of this epic tale of mirth and woe.

Back to Scaryduck

Monday, September 02, 2002

"Pie, like my innocence, is gone"

The menu for the staff restaurant today said: "Main Course: Beef Pie"

Weebl copyright Jonti 'Internet God' Picking

Pie, with beefs, as we well know, is the best pie. I was really, really looking forward to it and a small pie-tasting committee had already been formed in anticipation of this important lunch-time event. Even my co-worker (not even called Bob) agreed.

"Yes." he said.

We got there bang on opening time, to find pie gone and replaced by mysterious chicken in gravey (actual spelling). Outrage. The Pie Committee disbanded itself in indignation, several of whom went down the pub instead, where there were rumours of a nice steak and kidney. Who stole prize pie? Why, pie, why? Why life mock me so?

I hate Wee Bull.

Back to Scaryduck

Sunday, September 01, 2002

"Pr0n news"

We all know that the internet is only there for one thing. Or two, if you count all that Star Trek Wesley Crusher Klingon Gang Rape stuff in the "not porn" category. In an effort to see what people really use the web for, we surveyed the “spy” facilities offered by several popular search engines and found an all-too-predictable litany of porn, bad spelling and stupidity. I swear, I haven't changed anything. These are all genuine net searches. If you don't believe me, go look for yourself.

Evil Jeeves
Evil Jeeves - nothing to do with AskJeeves, Inc whatsoever

Ask Jeeves is a case in point. Jeeves has a tendency to make your search sound like your some sort of anal retentive, but you can see the stupidity shining through:

Where can I find information about and sexy pictures of the celebrity Pamela Anderson? - You mean you actually need to ask?
Could you please direct me to the Internet search engine Yahoo!? - No.
Could you please direct me to the Internet search engine excite? - Look, I already told you once already...
Why are boogers green? - Because they are. Live with it.
Where can I find instructions for masturbation? - Try practising by yourself.
What are the dimensions of the average penis? - Twenty seven inches
Is there any way to enlarge my penis?
Where can I learn about the sexual practice cunnilingus?
Am I a slut?
What are some different sexual positions we can try? - And I hardly know you.
How can I find someone? - Switch your computer off. Go outside.

The late-lamented Excite search voyeur was the acknowledged home of the sex-crazed retard. No wonder they pulled the plug...

swedish latex lezbo's
"Live Dolls"
hot tub dealers in oregon
how to use a gun - point long end away from you. Pull trigger.
looking for cindy hubbard in chicago illinos - aren’t we all?
"Index of the Web"
surch engine

Funnily enough, now that this facility doesn't exist, typing "Excite search voyeur" into now takes you to a porno site. There's irony for you.

Metacrawler is a fascinating insight into the open sewer that is the mind of the average internet user. It's foul. It's disgusting. It's even got filthy banner ads just in case you didn't get the message the first time round. Choose the "unfiltered" search for worst results:

peeenis enlargement - looks like you’ve enlarged it already!
free piss stories - you mean people CHARGE for piss stories?
Masturbation Techniques - Aaaaargh!!!
underage beasteality - the entire web summed up in two words.
hugeboobs - better still, the internet in ONE word
nude barbers
bizar sex
hard scoolgirl porn - from someone who obviously didn’t listen at scool
horse cums rubbing - you didn’t see this, keep scrolling down
lager penis - I always knew it tasted like piss
instant money - just add water
McDonald's Restaurants - you sick, sick bastards.

Kanoodle on the other hand, appears to be frequented by over-50s in cardigans and carpet slippers on the lookout for long-winded discussions on the merits of building scale models of the Titanic out of matchsticks:

free crochet patterns
camping holidays in scandinavia
mortgage loan calculator
automated optical inspection
traffic surveillance equipment
induction heating manufacturer

These people are sick and must be stopped.

Getting back on track, the German search directory Fireball shows us that the teutonic mind is not only on the same track as the English-speaking world, but far, far, far fouler. A veritable mine of Sodom and Gomorrah.

pferdevagina - “Pferde” is German for “Horse”. That’s all you need to know.
masturbation techniken - Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!
danish porn - What? German porn not good enough for you?
big butts free gallery
hot midgets
bondage vater tochter
"anal dildo" - note highly educated use of speech marks
death to sheena easton - at last, sanity is restored

"So, what have we learned today?" Number one: I'm in the wrong job. Where do I sign up for pr0n? And Number Two: What is the average length of the male penis?


Rather disappointing 1-1 draw today for the mighty Arsenal at London rivals Chelsea. This is a team full of tossers we should be beating handsomely on every occasion, but yet another soft goal, injuries, bad form and the almost habitual sending-off of Patrick Vieira sort of put the lid on the whole affair. On the plus side, the spiffy Kolo Toure scored his first goal for the club, but facts be facts - the Sperz are still top of the league. Enjoy it while you can, retards - the only way is down.

"Celebrity Reproduction News"

Grudging congratulations should go at this point to David and Victoria Beckham on the birth of their second son, who they have called Romeo. Bearing in mind that their first brat Brooklyn was named after the place he was allegedly conceived, can we assume that this little bundle of joy-sponsored-by-Hello!-Magazine was the result of a fumble in the back seat of a 1982 Alfa?

Back to Scaryduck