Friday, April 28, 2006

Mirth and Woe: The Phantom Turd

The Phantom Turd

"Mwargh! said David Evans. "Mwargh! Who's done that then?"

And there it sat, in its stinking malevolence, a perfectly formed turd on the cheap linoleum of the sixth floor gents' toilets at Bracknell College.

"Don't touch it!" he warned "You'll get worms and die."

So we didn't, and the next day it was still there, slightly crustier, still stinking the place out.

But still the mystery remained. Who had done it, and why had he missed by such a considerable margin? We suggested that this might be a political gesture. IRA prisoners were still holding their dirty protests in Ulster's H-Blocks, and this was seen as some sort of demonstration against the No Smoking Area in the college refectory.

The following Wednesday, there was another cry of "Mwargh!" from the sixth floor toilets, and we dashed to investigate. And there it sat, in the hand-basin, daring us to turn on the taps. So we did, and discovered our tormentor had recently eaten sweet corn.

And so it continued. Every Wednesday, two o'clock sharp, there would be a cry of "Mwargh!" from some random, slightly more adventurous corner of the college buildings, and a fresh turd would be found.

In the bike shed.

At the bottom of the stair well.

In the lift, the door wedged open, tellingly, on the sixth floor.

In the metalwork room.

And despite some of the faculty's finest minds on the case, the identity of The Phantom Turd remained a mystery.

And that, indeed was all we know. For his (or indeed her) most audiacious stunt, a ten-inch steamer outside the refectory double doors was accompanied by a piece of A4 paper with "The Phantom Turd strike's again!!!" glued on in the classic cut-from-a-newspaper style. Top marks for pranking, two hours in detention for dreadful punctuation.

The culmination of The Phantom Turd's campaign came during a full dress rehearsal of the drama club's Romeo and Juliet one dreadful, memorable Wedsnesday afternoon. Two o'clock had come and gone and the entire college had breathed a collective sigh of relief as the culprit had clearly ended his campaign. Or so we thought.

The college theatre was full to bursting with actors, stage hands, lecturers, and various hangers-on. The curtain opened to reveal a stage empty. Enter Chorus, reciting his lines as he walked toward centre stage

"Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene..."


"From ancient MWARGH! grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes
Oh Jesus civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers
OhGodOhGodOhGodItStinks take their life."

Despite a full board of enquiry chaired by the principal himself, The Phantom was never caught.

And no, I have nothing to declare.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Sniffin' Glue

Sniffin' Glue

The kid down the road from me used to sniff glue. I'd pop round his house to have a go on his VIC-20, and find him up in his room singing songs with the pixies* with yet another empty tin of Bostik stuck to the ceiling. I had no truck with that kind of substance abuse, and had no desire to be found by grieving parents with my genitals cemented to the bay windows.

Instead, going up the woods and smoking PG Tips was good enough for me. Legend said that if you smoke enough of them, the chimps come for you and haunt your dreams for months. We got through a Scout Hut Jumble Sale-sized box of them in a weekend, and I got nothing except bad breath and a craving for Rich Tea biscuits.

The drugs: don't work.

*No you damn fools, not those Pixies.

A Thursday vote-o Celebrity Special

Mrs Pauline Prescott, and pet dogHello. My name is Pauline Prescott, currently the wife of the Deputy PM (for the time being!), and when I catch up with "Two Shags" he's dead meat, I can tell you for nothing.

I ask you, what's wrong with me that had John the Hut running off with that painted floozie (otherwise known as 'The Orifice of the Deputy Prime Minister')? Is my hair not big enough for him? Is it? I have cultivated this hair for the last twenty-seven years, and it is now the biggest, toughest hair in Western Europe and the backbone of Britain's defensive nuclear shield.

And where's that slattern Tracey "Oh Johnny do your sea lion impression, it's so funny" Temple's hair? Nowhere, that's where! I've got the biggest hair in which I have hidden an army of midget killer ninjas, ready for the next time my future ex-husband shows his face round here.

Men, eh? Can't live with them, can't bludgeon them to death with a tin of Extra-extra-extra-extra concrete hold hairspray and burn the corpse in the garden.

So, while Mr Blair is busy cleaning up all those terrible, terrible entrails from the Cabinet Office, perhaps you'd like to choose from the following Friday Scary Stories, even if they were WRITTEN BY A MAN.

* Bad Dog III: The Kitchen Massacre: Involves a mysterious head injury, which could have been prevented with big hair, the fools

* The Joust: More men doing stupid things with their long, thin protuberances. As per bloody usual

* The Phantom Turd: I'm married to him. End of story.

* First Aid: Will be far too late for my soon-to-be ex-husband. DIE!DIE!DIE!!!

Vote, but I'm telling you, it's a complete fix. That's politics, eh?

Also: Natural selection for beginners.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Guilty Pleasures, again

Guilty Pleasures, again

Part two (of two, you'll be pleased to learn) of my short list of things that have made me the twisted, immature individual that I am today. In this sense, today's selections speak volumes. Oh yes.

Dredd, putting away a few perpsJudge Dredd: The year is 1977. I stand in Newberry's paper shop in Twyford, 10p in my pocket, deciding which comic to buy. There is a new comic on the rack, with a free gift. I buy it, and have enough over for a clutch of ha'penny chews. A bunch of stunning sci-fi stories, including Dan Dare (which pleased my parents greatly), and the promise of a new character the next week. I was in, and the next week Judge Dredd arrived in a hail of bullets. There was another free gift, too.

Dredd was a terrible fascist. Cop, court and executioner all rolled into one on a huge motorbike with a fuck great gun. Absolutely no sense of humour, the man was a death-dealing robot that didn't suffer fool, on the contrary, they got a five-to-ten stretch in the iso-cubes. I was eleven, and, Grud, he was all the role model I needed.

Dredd took on the Robot Wars, the Cursed Earth, evil twin Rico Dredd, Judge Death, Sov-City and lord knows what else, and beat them all without ever once taking his helmet off. I remember a letter the printed in 2000AD on one occasion, suggesting they might want to cast Sylvester Stallone in the title part in a Dredd movie.

Then they made a Dredd movie. With Stallone playing Joe Dredd.

And the bastard took his helmet off. Despite this dreadful faux pas, not to mention a bit of a critical panning from people who didn't quite get it, I actually rather liked the film, as do a fair number of fans. They way was open for a sequel which would have been streets better, but you know how Hollywood doesn't work.

Dredd's still there, locking up perps, and there's whole swathes of comic book story arc I've missed out on. But I grew up on the bastard, and By Stomm, he's still my number one fictional hero type guy.

I have never, ever run a Judge Dredd website.

Grud, I love Judge Dredd.

Blue Peter: It doesn't shame me at all to say that I still watch Blue Peter, and have done so for my entire life.

Z. Salmon and pussyAt the age of five, I was taken to Television Centre by a family friend who worked there to see them making the programme. I was taken up to the studio gallery and watched the backs of John Noakes, Val Singleton and Peter Purves as the programme went out live. I was distinctly non-plussed at this non-event. I didn't even get a Blue Peter badge.

Presenters came and went, advent crowns repeatedly failed to destroy the studio, attempts at Blue Peter sticky-back-plastic-and cardboard makes were never completed, and my dog tried to shag J. Noakes's leg, but my enthusiasm for safe, middle-class children's television never diminished.

Ah Peter Duncan. Leslie Judd. Janet Ellis. Golden days.

And then it all went tits. Mark Curry was the start of a dreadful slippery slope in the mid-eighties that turned the programme into, well, tat. Uninspiring presenters who wanted to celebrities in their own right, and dare I say it - the format just got tired, and it ould have been no surprise if the whole thing folded somewhere in the nineties.

But it didn't. Konnie Huq. Butch Katy Hill. And so on. The programme was back on form, and by God, it will go on forever.

I'm over not getting my Blue Peter badge now. I could have written to them at any time and got one, but it's too late for that. Instead, I badgered the kids until they wrote in and got their own. Scaryduckling's actually got two, and until the evil ebaying hordes spoiled it for everybody, it was saving me a fortune on holiday admission tickets.

And two words to sum up the entire 2006 Blue Peter experience: Zoe Salmon.

God, I love Blue Peter.

Did I mention Arsenal got to the European Cup final last night? Why, yes I did. God, I love the Arsenal.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Guilty Pleasures

Guilty Pleasures

The law of the internet is very clear on this matter. All bloggers must have a "Fifty things about me" page that is several years out of date and hosted on dreadfully inappropriate free web space. Present and correct. All bloggers must also present a list of their favouritest things in the world, no matter how sad and embarrassing they are. Ah.

TV's Mr Biffo has finally succumbed and published a list - with a detailed justification - of his favourite things, and I didn't even laugh at his love of Marillion, for I have much worse. And now I realise I am blogging illegally, as my published works contain no such list. Here we go, then. Over the next couple of days, my shame knows no bounds*:

Arsenal FC: I never set out to be an Arsenal fan. I was born in Fulham to a Chelsea supporting father, with a West Ham granddad and a Tottenham uncle. I went with the old fella to see Chelsea once or twice, but deep down I knew it was a terrible club, with a terrible ground and absolutely no class, an opinion I hold to this day. I drifted away from football until my late teens, where I was taken to see Reading play at Elm Park, and stayed for five years.

David Rocastle, mayherestinpeaceIt was only when I was dragged to Upton Park to see the Arsenal humped by them Hammers that I was hooked, and Arsenal became my first love. I hardly missed a match - home or away - for several seasons and arrived just in time to see a team full of future stars at the start of something very special. Paul Merson, Michael Thomas, Tony Adams, the late David Rocastle. And ...err... Charlie Nicholas.

I've been through bandwagon-jumping highs - the 1989 and 1991 titles; terrible, terrible lows - knocked out of the cup by Wrexham in 1992, the G. Graham bung scandal.

I've seen some of the worst football ever played (hump it up the pitch and Ian Wright'll do the rest); not to mention the greatest team the nation has ever seen, ever (the 2004 Invincibles).

Confession: I once ran an Arsenal website. It's not there anymore.

God, I love the Arsenal.

And a Champions League final? Why, yes!

Ultravox: My sister used to have this dreadful knack of buying both me and my brother the wrong presents at Christmas, and we'd surreptitiously swap the inevitable wrong LPs behind her back. One year, however, she mistakenly got me Ultravox's Rage In Eden, and I liked it so much that Nige was forced to make do with something by Genesis. I went out and bought Vienna, and eventually Quartet, before realising they had a history before Midge Ure came along.

John Foxx - Cathedral Oceans III artworkThe first, eponymous album was all art school, the second all punk rough edges, but the third - Systems of Romance - was a clue as to what the band would eventually become, not to mention a taster for the future career of their then singer, John Foxx.

Foxx was one of those great enigmas in the industry. Wrote some great songs (some awful ones, too), but when he was good, he was very, very good. Unfortunately he cared not one jot for fashion and fame, and disappeared into the background, leaving the way open for his padowan learner, Gary Numan.

I paid good money to see Ultravox, and they were absolutely brilliant when they toured the Lament album. Then I paid good money to see them again, when they toured the fucking awful U-Vox album (known as the pink monstrosity amongst fans, who have disowned it), and it was the worst concert I have ever attended. They all hated each other by then, and Midge dragged The Chieftains along and it sucked greatly.

Midge is still out there being folky, as is Foxx, who turns up every now and then with the odd rather bazzin', yet criminally overlooked album. They must never reform, Human League-style. It wouldn't be the same.

Get these:
Ultravox! - The Island Years
Ultravox - Vienna
John Foxx and Louis Gordon - Crash and Burn
Billy Currie - Transportation

Confession: I once ran a John Foxx website. It's not there anymore**.

God, I love Ultravox.

* No. No it doesn't
** Actually, it is. Aaaaargh! No, I'm not ashamed. Not ashamed at all

Also: The Campaign to Save the Grandstand Boooooing. This is important, ppl!

Monday, April 24, 2006



Blogger - DuckedNo fresh Scary output today, because Blogger decided not to work for the last 24 hours. Poor Blogger.

If it's any consolation, I've left the new and improved Scaryduckworth-Lewis list from yesterday over here at Robber Rabbit along with some other writing what I just had published.

And grils! Misty is currently beavering away (Heh. He said "beaver") on a no-tail Scaryduckworth-Lewis list for those of you who prefer their men manly. I'm sure she'll be happy for your input. God knows my "Keifer Sutherland proudly displaying his 24 (centimetres!)" sends out all the wrong messages.

Normal service tomorrow.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

The Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method

The Scaryduckworth-Lewis Method, again

It's high time the Scaryduckworth-Lewis scale for rating stuff - our catch-all list that can be used to describe any occasion - got a bit of a tweak. I'm stuck for a new number five - suggest-me-up!

0. Abi Titmuss
1. Ann Widdecombe giving you the eye
2. Margaret Thatcher leather whip “happy finish” massage
3. Clare Short on page three of the Sun
4. Jade Goody delivering the Reith Lecture in the nip, innit
5. Ruth Kelly with a strap-on, and a terrible privately-educated gleam in her eye

6. The Princess Anne unnamed many-tentacled woe
7. An unshaven Tracey Emin asking for your help with her next 'art' piece.
8. Lorraine Kelly taking advantage of Eamonn Holmes' morning glory
9. Cherie Blair strap-on action
10. Locked in a cupboard, on a cruise ship, with Charlie Dimmock and her water feature

11. Carol Vorderman rubbing up against a bollard for cold, hard cash
12. Emma Thomspon on a street corner asking for "business"
13. Katy Hill and Janet Ellis eating a banana suggestively
14. Alison Goldfrapp straddling her mellotron
15. Konnie Huq in a bath of beans, whilst Zoe Salmon scrubs her back with a french stick

16. Kate Winslet keeping her clothes on, mostly
17. Kate Humble in a wet T-shirt competition
18. Felicity Kendall wrapped in clingfilm, with Penelope Keith talking dirty in the background
19. Nigella Lawson whipping up a creamy sauce
20. Sarah Beeny wrestling Kirstie Allsopp in a paddling pool filled with baby oil

And while we're here, I'm also on the lookout for awful blogs, because I'm a dreadful there-goes-the-neighbourhood snob. This one to beat, which scores 4: Jade Goody delivering the Reith Lecture in the nip, innit: Oh, the humanity!

Friday, April 21, 2006

Mirth and Woe: Party III

Party III

The scene of the crime: The Old Devil Inn in Knowl HillI regretted it immediately.

My sister said: "And Nikki's let me down - I've got nothing to do on New Year's Eve."

"You can come down the pub with us, then."

Oh God. Why did I say that? We were planning to go down the pub, and spend New Year's Eve getting stupidly drunk, before relying on sober people with cars to get us home again. This last bit was important, mainly because the Old Devil was miles from home, and nobody fancied a zig-zag walk that would probably not seeing civilisation until sunrise.

And a nightmare evening it was too. I drunk and I drunk and I drunk. And being the Old Devil, home of the largest chill cabinet in the world, we also put away terrifying artery-clogging portions of chocolate gateau. And the latest in thing: dry roast peanuts, which also doubled up as a handy weapon against the drunk, gateau-guzzling oiks on the next table. Who did they think they were?

It wasn't just binge-drinking. It was binge-scoffing too.

As the evening wore on and the pint-count rapidly approached double figures, I took my fateful first piss of the night (the one that means you will visit the toilet every ten minutes thereafter) and soon found myself trotting in and out of the can at regular intervals. It's at times like that you find yourself fascinated by the vending machines in the Gents'. Which might also explain the packets of novelty, flavoured and ribbed-for-her-pleasure gentlemens' chewing gum in my pockets the following morning.

And these drunken trips to the can had other disadvantages: "Hey Scary - while you're up - get the drinks in."

"Yeahright... same again?"

"Yer a pal."

Up to the bar I went, and summoned Paul the barman, who was soon to be my boss.

"Six packets of Royal Oak an' four pints of dry roast, mate. An' whatever your havin'".

He sprung into action. Or rather, he would have done, if it wasn't for the fact that he'd ignored barman's rule number 27: When they say "Have one yerself", add a quid to the bill but don't actually have a drink. Especially on busy nights.

Paul, instead, had had about sixteen himself, and it was beginning to show.

Spring! He went, into action. "AAAaaaaaarrgghhh....!" he went as he fell down the hatch into the cellar.

Service at the bar was temporarily halted, until a blood-stained Paul staggered back up the step-ladder, and sizzled fool that he was, got on with his job.

It was also at this point that I spotted a certain, unnamed relative of mine playing tonsil-tennis with one of my best friends. A regular reader of this site, he too remains unnamed.

I considered this turn of events rather fortunate. If she was too far gone to remember anything that evening, then I was home and hosed.

She didn't mind too much, then, when I puked on her foot, shortly before Paul fell down the cellar hatch again*, and a fight kicked off at the other end of the bar over puke landing on somebody's foot.

"Right! Thatsh it!" screamed an enraged and increasingly battered Paul, "We're closhed!"

Out into the cold, cold night air we staggered, and the rarefied, smoke-free atmosphere was too much for most regulars, and the gutters were soon running with rich, brown vomit.

It was 11.30pm, and the New Year was just half an hour away. We, and there was a crowd of at least twenty who had not yet given up on the night, were cold and drunk and celebration-free.

"Hey!" somebody slurred, "There's another pub jusht down the road."

As one mob, we staggered over to the none-more-posh Bird in Hand Restaurant, Bar and Carvery, where the manager met us with a welcoming "Fuck off or I'll call the police."

Any other bright ideas?

"All back to mine. I've got a helicopter." I'd forgetten that Matt the Bullshitter was still with us.

There was nothing for it. New Year 198-something was seen in in a freezing cold car park, waiting for ever-patient parents to come and pick us up.

I'm pretty certain that I didn't foul up the Renault 18. All I remember was coming to, face down on my own bedroom floor, vomit clinging to the side of my face, freezing cold damp stain in my trousers and beery, cake-flavoured puke everywhere except the bucket that had kindly been provided for me.

And the hangover.

January 1st was a complete loss.

January 2nd was dark, dark and headachy.

January 2nd was also back to work, where my boss Mark was still wearing his New Year fancy dress. At least the Roman Centurion outfit was marginally better that the previous year's Marilyn Monroe, even if I could see right up his skirt when he sat down, stood up, or did anything at all.

January 3rd was the first day I could manage actual food, and by Twelfth Night, I had actually stopped saying "Never again".

Best New Year ever. So I'm told.

* Paul would fall down the cellar hatch, every night, even when sober. He's still there and has a season ticket at the Royal Berks Hospital

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Elton John done a poo

Mrs Scaryduck writes

Today is our fifteenth wedding anniversary, and yes, he's made it hard work. He never shows me his website, and now that he has, I'm not surprised in the least. I thought we had got rid of that duck when we moved house. And as for the poo, if I find any in our garden, he's in big, big trouble.

I also noticed that he has roped our son (who actually has a name that's rather more sensible than Scaryduck Jr) into writing stuff for this site. David Bowie's Mysterious Cookbook. Oh dear.

So, my husband challenged me to do something better. And I have.

Elton John on the Bog, by Mrs Scaryduck

* I'm Still Straining
* Benny Spraying Jets
* Poo Ball Wizard
* Pong for Guy
* Don't go Burning my Farts (with Pee Pee Dee)
* I Guess that's why they call it the Loo
* Goodbye Yellow Stained Pants

My darling husband also suggested Coprophile Rock, but any joke that needs a lengthy explanation isn't worth printing, especially after he told me what it meant. I do wish he'd get a proper hobby.

Like our son, I have no idea was "suggest-o" means, but I've got to say it. Suggest-o. [If you get stuck on E. John, there's a rich vein of dank, foul-smelling material in Phil Collins - SD]

Alistair has also let me choose tomorrow's story, and Party III seems to scare him the most. I have chosen this over one called The Phantom Turd, which is clearly made up. Actually, he's just said "She'll kill me if she finds out", which makes it even better.

I've got my eye on all of you.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

On the discovery of Sigur Ros

On the discovery of Sigur Ros

It has come as an enormous surprise to me that the band Sigur Ros are not, as I always suspected, some terrible Scandiwegian death metal band.

This opinion was formed entirely because of the strange Scandwegian name with bonkers album titles that come with unpredictable accents, umlauts and things, which makes the casual reader assume they are dreadful Marilyn Manson types that eat babies and end up murdering each other when the baby supply dries up.


Sigur Ros are, actually quite excellent in a Cocteau Twins meets Radiohead* kind of way, and I'm big enough to admit that I only became familiar with their output after the BBC used Hoppipolla from their Takk album on their trailer for the Planet Earth series. I would go as far as saying that Sigur Ros are the greatest thing to come out of Iceland since they changed their name over from Bejam.

Apart from Bjork, obviously. And Magnus Magnussen. And that fella who plays for Chelsea, despite their enormous lack of class, the terrible bunch of chavs.

They are a band which gives me the excitements in my trousers.

And now, because of this discovery, I've also discovered Danish ten-piece Efterklang, the sound of several other bands you probably haven't heard of, if they could actually play their instruments and had a decent producer. Those laid-back Viking sounds just keep on coming, people!

Also: Thank you to the anonymous Scaryduck reader who bought me presents from my Amazon Wish List. This also gave me excitements in my trousers.

* Good Radiohead when they did "tunes", and not dreadful jazz "our drummer wants to experiment with rhythm" Radiohead.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Operation Manky Garden, again, again

Operation Manky Garden, again, again

If you're arriving late, you may want to read this and this, on my attempt to join the greats of SCIENCE, such as Newton, Einstein and that bloke off Brainiac, as I undertake an experiment in growing tomatoes from freshly laid turds.

It is done.

On Easter Sunday, as we celebrate Our Lord's miraculous resurrection from the grave, I set to work, hoping for something similar for my breakfast, lunch and tea.

While you were stuffing your faces with Easter Eggs, I've been unhappily munching on tomatoes in the name of SCIENCE.

Virgin ground. But not for long
A plot has been found in a secret location somewhere on a straight line drawn on a map between Oxfordshire and Dorset.

Stone the crows! Fossilised duck turds!
A hole was dug to precise, predetermined measurements, and the feet placed on carefully measured pads to prevent accidental back-fouling of the trousers.

Simulated doneing a poo, on account of the author buggering up the real shot
Done a poo.

What did you expect? You filthy pervert
It sat there, glowering in its steaming malevolance, daring me to cover it over, water it in, and diligently mark the time, place and weather conditions. And if the neighbours were watching.

Hosepipe ban? What hosepipe ban? Not round these parts, guy
And, clothes-peg on my nose, and rubber gloves protecting my delicate skin, the hole was thankfully filled and watered over in the traditional manner. No, that's not what you think. I simply possess poor hosepipe skills.

Now, all we can do it wait. Wait for the tomatoey goodness to burst forth from the ground like a zombie hungry for brains.

Or is it?

You can now celebrate this quantum* leap in scientific experimentation by playing Scaryduck: Done a Poo, Rikaitch's excellent computer game of the blog of the duck's bottom. With added Sarah Beeny, and for some reason, a picture of the public toilets on Weymouth seafront.

To save Rik's webspace from imploding, I've stored the file on several free file upload services: HERE, HERE or HERE.

Disclaimer: 900kB upload, installs .exe file to your hard drive, so best not tried at work if you value your job. Probably only works on Windows, I dunno. Neither Scary nor Rik can accept and responsibility if it breaks your computer, burns your house down, kills and eats your close family and shags your dog. So nyer. Comes with uninstall key for when you decide it's crap.

Go! Play! Report back with high score!

* ie very small

Monday, April 17, 2006



Phrases that should never be attempted live on national television:

* West Bank
* Turkish Kurds
* Friar Tuck
* Bucks Fizz
* Kent Countryside

Poor Trevor McDonut. Suggest, and indeed, me-up!

Talk amongst yourselves, for today I shall be mostly working in the garden. If you catch my drift.

Also: Some pictures of a garden where I didn't done a poo.

Friday, April 14, 2006

Mirth and Woe: Meat


"Let's start a war
Start a nuclear war
At the gay bar gay bar gay bar"

We went down the pub. In fact, we went down the pub an awful lot, so going into a new pub was no big deal. Especially one with genuine spit and sawdust on the floor, and proper real ale coming over the bar. Excellent, and we only had to travel all the way to that London to sample its wares.

Balders, Pat, John and I sat in the lounge bar, sinking pints and putting away dry roast peanuts like they were going out of fashion, commenting on the unusual lack of women in this particularly fine drinking establishment.

There comes a time, however, in any drinking session when the inevitable happens. The fatal first piss. The one where you know that once the sluice gates have been opened, you will be back-and-forth to the toilet every ten minutes. Hardened drinkers can hold this moment well into the evening, and the best can go several weeks without having to urinate, but we were not hardened drinkers.

"Scuse us fella," we asked of the barman, "Where's the bog?"

"The what, mate?" he replied in a distinctly Aussie accent.

"The bog. The can. The lav. The toilet. Y'know."

"Aaah! The dunny. Downstairs. Mind how ya go."

So. I caved in first, and headed downstairs to the lav. Nothing special, and an impressive variety of chewing gum machines, for the man up on his luck.

A pint or so later, it was Pat's turn, and off he went.

Thirty second later, a blond-and-denim supersonic blur raced up the basement stairs with a BAAAAAAAARN!, past our table and out the door to the street, closely followed by a cry of "Waaaaaaaaargh!"

"Wasn't that your brother?" I asked of John.

"Might have been. Hang on while I go to the bog."

Thirty seconds later, there was another BAAAAAAAARN! followed by the now familiar cry of "Waaaaaaaaargh!" as another blond-and-denim blur shot out of the pub.

How rare.

Balders and I went outside to investigate, and saw, in the distance, the two brothers, still running. Eventually, I caught up with them, and about thirty minutes later they'd calmed down enough to tell me near identical tales whilst sinking pints and chasers in another, presumably safer pub.

"I was pointing percy at the porcelain, and this bloke came up behind me. I turned round and he had this huge, hard pecker in his hands*. I'll never forget what he said."


"Fancy some of this?"


"An' where was this?" chipped in the Aussie barman, who could have been the identical twin of the guy in the other pub.

"The Duke, down the road."

"Strewth!" he said (really), "Strewth! That's full of fudge packers, that place. You're lucky to have yer arse intact, mate. They won't leave me bruv alone."


Later, I couldn't help but feel left out. How come the bastard didn't fancy me, then?

God, I must be that manly.

As a Brucie bonus, let me tell you about Spence, a member of Mrs Duck's rather extensive family that includes world famous comedians, actors and performers. Spence is not one of them. Spence, in fact, earns a living from his mobile disco, playing Agadoo to weddings and 60th birthday parties all over the Reading area and the Thames Valley.

The thing is, everybody in Reading knows the Marquis of Granby is a gay pub. Everybody. Ask a little old lady in Friar Street about the Marquis and it's "You don't want to go there, it's full of bummers." It's so gay, I'm told by a non-breeding colleague that even gay people avoid it.

Spence didn't know this.

At least, not until he played the first slow record.

BAAAAAAAARN! "Waaaaaaaaargh!"

* Presumably his own.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

A different kind of vote-o

The Terrorism Act 2006

Today, the Terrorism Act 2006 comes into force. Amongst other things, this not-rushed-through-Parliament-at-all piece of legislation bans the glorification of terrorism and terrorist acts.

This mean that these pages will no longer be bigging up the Moro Islamic Liberation Front - otherwise known as the MILFs - a group of 30-45 year-old housewives and lingerie models, fighting for an independent homeland in the Southern Philippines. Alas, there will be no more MILFs on these pages, and it's all Charles Clarke's fault.

Still, you've got to admire the guy. He's forced this piece of toilet paper* onto the statutes, whilst simultaneously holding down a role in the Narnia movie, fighting the dark forces of a lightly-oiled Ice Queen. Charles "Tumnus" Clarke: word!

* For example, if I set foot as a peace campaigner into my local nuke factory at Burghfield yesterday, I would be prosecuted for aggravated trespass. Do so today, I would be slammed up in a pound-you-in-the-arse prison as a terrorist. Grand work there, Charles.

A different kind of vote-o

Fellow blogger and technical genius Rikaitch is a sucker for punishment. I should know - I've been in his car. But any man who can design a vending machine that makes chips is a hero in anybody's book, and this time he's come up with one spunker of an idea.

Following on from last week's Worst Computer Games Ever post, Rik has foolishly volunteered to create a real, working version of the worst of the lot, as voted for by you, my fine, fine readers. He promises to have a genuine working version on these pages within a week. I am already moist with anticipation.

* Grand Theft Auto: Milton Keynes
* Duck Hunt: H5N1
* Sim City Baghdad
* Synchronised Swimming Extreme
* Indian Call Centre Simulator
* Sonic The Roadkill
* Pogostick Frogger
* Flid-Ball
* Scary Vasectomy
* Scaryduck The Game - Done A Poo

With Advanced Lawnmower Simulator already tearing up the internet's bandwidth, what have we got to lose?

What are you waiting for? Vote Rik up!

*cough* Flid-Ball *cough*

Wednesday, April 12, 2006



I want to go on Countdown. I like to think I'm reasonably clever. But I know, deep down and with a certain degree of sadness that I know I'd be entirely rubbish at it. I would spend my time ogling Susie from dictionary corner, and beating off C. Vorderman with my biggest, shittiest stick.

The problem is this: I just cannot do anagrams - my brain is just not wired up that way. My name is - apparently - an anagram of "I claim to Arsenal", which is nice, but I needed the internets to work that out. Instead, I just spend the thirty seconds game time trying to find swears.

Des: "So, how many letters - Doris?"

Doris of Neasden: "I'll go for an eight, Des."

Des (pleasantly surprised): "Oh! Let's hear your eight, then."

Doris: "Shearing"

The luscious, pouting Susie Dent: "Yes, that's in the dictionary. Well done."

Des: "And Scary?"

Me: "Arse."

Des: "And Scary wins again. I'll never understand this new swear bonus rule."

C. Vorderman (frotting herself against the numbers board whilst rearranging all her financial commitments into one, easy-to-manage monthly payment): "Oh, Scary, you're so lush."

S. Dent: "Bugger off Vorderman, you slattern. I saw him first."

Then I woke up, and my pillow was missing.

I'd get all the questions wrong on 'Deal or no Deal' an' all. But then, I'd just know I'd have the one box in ten thousand.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Gym o' Doom

Gym o' Doom

I joined a gym. For I have shamed myself into taking exercise.

Every Monday, you see, I run into five-time Olympic champion Sir Stephen Redgrave as he visits Radio Berkshire to talk about being a rock-hard five-time Olympic Champion who is running the London Marathon for charity. His visit to Caversham normally coincides with my visit to the staff canteen, when I can be seen carrying a tray fully loaded with pie, cake and associated deadly foodstuffs, whilst S. Redgrave lives off raw hummus and freshly culled broccoli, or something. He is 44 years old and looks like a brick shit-house. I am forty and look like shit.

Then there is the self-inflicted shame of agreeing to go on holiday this year with Mrs Duck's enormously extended family, and not wanting to be the fat one by the pool when the Norwegian whalers show up at the villa next door, harpoons at the ready.

Also: I am scared my neck might soon disappear, and I will end up looking like Sandi Toksvig.

So, I joined the gym at work.

After handing over my hard-earned cash, I was shown the torture equipment by my very excellent colleague Jock, and signed the piece of paper that says that if I hamstring myself on the multigym, it would be all my fault. Then, setting approved gym music into the CD player, I was let loose on the apparatus o' doom.

Christ. If people do that for fun, then there is something very wrong in this world.

After 45 minutes of jogging, rowing, cycling and lifting heavy things, every part of my body aches. Every. Part.

Yes, even there.

And there, too.

I staggered back to the office reception with the gymnasium keys, and handed them back to security. And there, coming out of the studio, was Sir S. Redgrave. He was looking like a man-mountain five-time Olympic Champion; whilst I was small, fat and sweaty with comedy hair.

Then I drunk a gallon of water, and was sick in a hedge*.

Just you wait, Redgrave. I've got four years on you. I'm gonna row you right up.

* All this unnecessary effort has done something horrible to my innards as well. The words "through the eye of a needle" are awfully appropriate this morning. Kill me. Please.


This blog is very, very wrong. I should not be publicising this blog in any way, even if I know the person who writes it. It lacks taste, decency, and openly mocks one of the greatest tragedies of the first years of this twenty-first century. I would advise you never to click on this link, ever, because you will probably bust a blood vessel in an apoplectic rage.

It's also very, very funny. Sorry.


Monday, April 10, 2006

David Bowie's Mysterious Cookbook

In which Scaryduck Junior makes his first post on this website, as dictated to his father


I am Scaryduck Junior, and my dad's letting me have his website today because he's got the bird flu and a bad case of the slugs.

Yesterday, I asked my dad all about the Seven Wonders of the World, and he showed me all about them with the help of this thing I've never seen before called a "book". I learned all about the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and Ting, which is what you get if you ask my dad about stuff.

Then he asked me: "What do you think they should have as the Eighth Wonder of the World?"

What a stupid question. Everybody knows it's Corn Flakes. Dad, who is the King of Wrong, said it wasn't Corn Flakes, and told me to go away and think about it. So I did.

In the end, I decided that The Eighth Wonder of the World is this:

David Bowie's Mysterious Cookbook

I didn't even know who David Bowie is, but my dad told me that he isn't actually a chef.

Then, Dad got that stupid look on his face, and started thinking up all the stuff that's in David Bowie's Mysterious Cookbook and started writing them down in his green notebook where he keeps all his stupid website ideas. And here they are. My dad is mad, you know.

* Life on Mars Bars
* Diamond Hot Dogs
* The Man Who Sold the World Donuts (I did this one!)
* Ch-ch-ch-Chipshops
* John, I'm only Frying
* I'm Afraid of Asparagus
* Scary Meatballs and Super Crepes

Now he wants me to ask you: "Suggest-o", whatever that means.

Bye for now, Scaryduck Jr.

It doesn't have to be D.Bowie, peeps. I'll settle for Iggy Pop.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Mirth and Woe: Scat

Mirth and Woe: Scat

Horse's arse: Done a pooAn awful tale of blind revenge

I was young. I was broke. I needed money to fuel my 2000AD habit.

Still undergoing therapy after a couple of years doing a paper round at Darth Vader's newsagents, I was willing to do just about anything that kept me away from Pete McCarthy's [no relation] half-naked, horse-faced mother.

An understanding relative got me a job at a local stable.

I was paid to shovel shit. Again.

That's the trouble with understanding relatives. They know that you've spent your formative years digging horse shit to raise funds for your scout troop's minibus; and they get some mad idea that you actually enjoy the intimate company of turds. Poo, they believe, plays some sort of major part in your life. How wrong can they be?

So, once again, my life is dominated by horse shit. And not fresh crap, either, this came from the "well-rotted" pile as the stable themselves twigged that there really was money in crap, and wanted to sell it to local gardeners, cutting the Dyb-dyb-dobs out of the equation.

We were led, hardly screaming at all, to an all-too-familiar steaming pile of shit and straw, handed shovels and pitchforks, and told in no uncertain terms to get on with it. Oh God, not again.

For my efforts, I was to be paid the princely sum of one pound a day. Bring your own lunch. The bloody Barbour-jacketed slave-drivers. Kids who complained about this so-called exploitation were told not to come back, "as there are plenty more young people out there who'd LOVE to work here with our wonderful horses".

The only horses I saw while I worked there happened to be under the saddles of other Barbour-jacketed wankers, whilst I was shoveling their exhaust products into large plastic sacks for 12p per hour. We wage slaves, thinking no further than where the next quarter of sherbert lemons was coming from, just kept our heads down and dug.

The stable owners bagged up all the crap we diligently mucked out of the stables and sold it to local gardeners for rather more than a pound a bag, a state of affairs we found distinctly unfair. I blame Gardener's World entirely for this distasteful exploitation of the proletarian masses. Titchmarsh, you're a bastard.

We vowed that something should be done. Something dreadful. Something ironic.

As soon as Mrs Horsey Bitch's back was turned, our plan swung into bowel-tingling action, in a manner that would have made the A-Team proud. All involved contributed. No love lost, for we knew there was no shame left in our lives.

Done, we returned to our drudgery, knowing full well the terrible revenge we had wrought on the unsuspecting gardeners of Berkshire. Then, at the end of a tiring day, Mrs Horsey Bitch came to see us off, pressing a hideously mangled pound note into our hands as we left, in a manner that suggested she had just wiped her bottom on it. We all vowed, there and then, never to return.

I'd estimate then, that about two per cent of bargain bags of manure sold from Lower Conman's Farm that spring contained a genuine honest-to-goodness human poo, donated with our grateful thanks. I'd love to see their tomatoes.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Worst Computer Games Ever

Worst Computer Games Ever

Soviet TV shows. Nazi TV shows. Tourette's TV shows. Been there done that. Now, the Scrappy Doo of the genre - time to completely wreck a good idea.

Computer games can be very excellent. I once failed my A-Levels simply because I couldn't tear myself away from Elite on the BBC Micro. Now, Nintendogs is doing the same to my children. Yay for modern technology!

However, there is a seedy underbelly to the whole business. I once bought a flight simulator for my Beeb on the strength of its own advertising copy claiming it to be the best flight simulator ever made. It wasn't, and it probably remains the one and only text-based flight simulator ever to hit the market.

But, hey! We can do worse. Much worse! I asked a bunch of layabouts in Another Place to come up with the worst computer games ever, and they done me proud. Here:

* Stick Simulator II
* Alan Titchmarsh Weeding Extreme
* Nintendslugs

* Brokeback Mountain: Fists of Fury
* Brokeback Mountain : Poke a man
* Street Sweeper 2

* Deaf Dumb and Blind Simulator 2: No sense of touch
* Store Wars: ASDA rolls back
* Cistern Shock

* Michael Barrymore's Pool
* Grand Theft Auto: Milton Keynes
* Eminem's Beatnik Poetry Slam!

* Stephen Hawking Extreme Wheelchair
* The Rev. Iain Paisley's Text Adventure
* Gary Glitter: Wrestlin' With Kids.

* Clive Dunn's "They Don't Like It Up 'Em"
* Deluxe Allah Cartoon Maker 7
* Virtual Woolworths

* Real Life

That last one will never catch on. In lieu of a Thursday vote-o, Suggest-o!

No respect for the dead

Poor, poor G. Pitney.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

The Further Diaries of Samuel Pepys

The Further Diaries of Samuel Pepys

Having discovered that these pages are distantly related to the famous journals of the great London diarist Samuel Pepys, it is only fair to continue the publication of some of the lesser known entries in his journal. Poor, poor S. Pepys.

April 15th 1664: "Up betimes and journey'd to my small-holding outside the walls of this fayre city, where I didst consult with my servant, a Mr Duck, on all manner of horticulture and cultivation techniques. Duck revealed that the latest fashion in planting is to imbibe the fruits and then defecate the seedes into ye ground! I'truth I didst thrash Duck within an inch of his lyfe for his impudence, telling him there is far enough shitte flowing through the streets of London without having to eat it; but not before he tells me where all my legumes have come from since five years past. Then I thrash'd him again, and he was sorely thankful."

April 16th 1664: "The gravest of news comes to me in my offices today. Mrs Pepys, in her profligacy has piss'd all my money up the wall on frilly extravagances and lusty young servant boys, who depart, exhausted within a week, short of breath, but heavy in gold. I, am, alas, forced to write for my living again so to cover her debts and pay off the blackmailers who continue to bother me over certain incriminating woodcuts. It has been a long tyme, but the words, I find come easily enough: 'Dear Fiesta, you won't believe ye incredible thynge which happened to me of this day. I didn't think I had a chance with this lusty young serving wenche...'"

April 18th 1664: "Up betimes and to a specialist shoppe in Shoreditch, where I didst purchase a number of items of clothing to fulfil a gentleman's need of a lady's undergarments. They are now well hidden in the loft space in our rooms, only to come out when Mrs Pepys is away and visiting her sister, when I can become Joan of Arc for an afternoon. Then, to the prize fights where I didst see a man's face punched clean off, and there was muche merriment."

April 20th 1664: "Up betimes and to my offices where I did experiment with my friend Newton on the effects of his newly discovered 'gravity' on the writhing, naked bodies of certain busty young wenches. In the process of this important scientific work, we both make copious notes and procured some extremely detailed illustrations, thanks to the intervention of a passing street artist. My Royal Society membership is a certainty, methinks."

April 21st 1664: "Alas! Mrs Pepys has ye redde rage again, and has discovered my Joan of Arc outfit, not to mention all my scientific notes and inexplicably stain'd woodcuts from yesterday's experiments. My woe was further compounded when a messenger unaccountably arrived with my filthy Dear Fiesta stories, which had been sent in the wrong envelope and passed them straight into Mrs Pepys' hand. Damn my eyes for marrying an educated woman, for when she reached the wordes 'and then I done her up ye wrong'un' I knew I would be overnighting at Newton's."

April 23rd 1664: "To The Globe for a celebration of the late Mr Shakespeare's life, whose birthday it is. Was privileged to see Mr Dalgeish's Hamlet, though these modern adaptations vex me somewhat. I cannot for the life of me remember the line 'To be or not to be, done a poo'. Then home, to sleep in the midden. Poor, poor S. Pepys."

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

More of my car shame

More of my car shame

The Austin Allegro Equipe. Mine didn't come with the half-naked floozie optionThe other day, I listed all the cars I've ever owned as part of My Car Shame confession. It struck me then how many of these were so-called "Special Editions" of well-known, useless models.

Of course, there is no such thing.

They only make "special editions" of cars for one reason: to get rid of the ones they can't sell. At the end of every production run, they end up with loads of spare bits of car which they need to clear out before all the new parts come in. If they can cram them together into one chassis and cover up the joins with a metallic paint job and a sun-roof, so much the better. If they call them "limited editions", then you're entirely likely to get idiots to actual paying genuine cash money for them. You know, idiots like me.

This is why I ended up with a Peugeot 205 with an engine which was built in both 1987 AND 1988. And why my Escort has several key components from a tractor under the bonnet. And why my All-Aggro had and Austin Maxi engine. And, of course, why my Fiat Strada was also part-owned by the Italian army. One of my "special editions" was so "special", I actually had to find a radio with a cassette player for it. Cutting edge.

So, when you see them advertising "special editions" on the electric telly, they are selling you the factory floor sweepings, shoved into a skip and put of wheels. Sometimes even the right number of wheels. Then I'll buy it.

On Foreign Swears

My friend Tony is married to a Portugueser.

On a visit to Lisbon, her dad took him to see Benfica play football. Our Tony likes his football, and soon got into the swing of things.

As the ball goes out of play, he's pointing to the pitch shouting "Corner! Corner!"

Unfortunately, "Corner", especially when spoken by an over-excited Geordie, is remarkably similar to the word "cona" - Portuguese for "cunt".

Live and learn. He certainly did.

Monday, April 03, 2006



I have, it must be said, known and worked with a number of manky people in my time, and I'm sorry to say that some of it might have rubbed off onto me. Example:

One of our computer operators from my previous life in the private sector, in a doomed attempt to curry favour with his work mates, made an enormous number of copies of a three-hour video tape which had fallen into his hands. It was a certain art film set in a hospital, called, and I shit you not, Pissing Patient. It featured, well, use your imagination.

"PP", as it became known to those in the inner circle, also featured a needless amount of corporal punishment, glowing red buttocks, and if I remember correctly, some chap with rather large lady-bumps. This chap(ette) was insanely pleased to meet several other people with the differing flange combinations who were all too adept at playing the pink oboe. And then, he passed water all over them in unnaturally copious quantities.

Mmmmm.... Nigella....I watched every frame of that sordid, debasing spectacle. Twice.

Discussing this turn of events with my arch-nemesis GW, he comments:

'I found an article in an art mag once (my old prof writes books on art appreciation from a neurological standpoint) about an artist who injected ink into his arse and then proceeded to fart it out onto a canvas. I have pictures, somewhere.'

My God. I have clearly missed my vocation. Turner Prize, here I come!

"And this piece I call 'Tomato Plant'. You can actually make out the tiny seedlings."

"I'll give you three million pounds for it."

"Why thank you, Mr Saatchi. Throw in a couple of boudoir pics of Nigella*, and it's yours."


* I have a huge problem with Nigella Lawson, and it is this: I look at her and think of her dad. Which would, when you think about it, be a very bad thing in the vinegar strokes.

Saturday, April 01, 2006

The End

The End

That's it. I've had enough. My life has been completely taken over by my bowel movements, genitals, schoolboy humour and the increasingly forlorn hope that Kirstie Allsopp will wun away with me to a wural wetreat with nothing to our names but a catering-sized vat of baby oil. Who was I trying to kid?

From now on, these pages will feature nothing but insightful analyses of the day's major issues. Drawing mainly from the works of great modern thinkers such as Foucault, Henri-Levy and Pipeston, I shall discuss the validity of the power struggle in our so-called classless society from a post-structuralist pre-post-modernist viewpoint.

Dissecting the motivations of our so-called political elite and testing their words and deeds in the rarefied atmosphere of our current socio-political climate, I aim to find a newer, bolder audience worthy of my, frankly, massive intellect. The entirely juvenile Friday Tale of Mirth and Woe is, I am afraid, no more. I made them all up anyway, as intellectual candyfloss for the lumpenproletariat.

Instead, I shall conduct an in-depth discussion on the previous night's BBC1 Question Time, and expect my readers to be au fait with the issues and be prepared to comment prudently on my arguments from an existentialist, non-gender specific viewpoint.

So, in the spirit of this brave new dawn of social realism, against the backdrop of an increasingly V for Vendetta-esque totalitarian government and a dying freedom to protest, I ask the question that none of the great political and social thinkers dare ask:

Tony Blair - done a poo, or what?

Enjoy the 1st April, I'll be back on Monday with wee, farting, spanking and Nigella Lawson. And not necessarily in that order.