Scaryduck: Not Scary. Not a Duck.

On Movie FACTS

2009-11-09T05:47:00.004Z

On Movie FACTS

Here's a FACT: Me an' Fanton are finally getting our act together with The Big Book of Condensed Movies, which may well be ready in time for Christmas. 2010. Me = words, Him = pictures. What it needed though, is something to break up the text, and that something is FACTS.

Here are, then, some of our movie FACTS, wihich are 100% of FACT.

FACT! Legendary Disney short "Steamboat Willy" originally had an 18 Certificate and featured a man wearing dungarees coming to fix a fridge.

FACT! Star Wars director George Lucas originally intended to make a cameo appearance in the original movie as the villainous Jabba the Hutt. It was only in the Special Edition when effects technology became suitably advanced that this became possible.

FACT! Stephen Spielberg originally touted smash hit adventure flick 'Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade' as "the ultimate Jewish revenge movie". He will continue with this theme with his forthcoming feature 'Up Your Arse, Nick Griffin'.

FACT! Hollywood megastar and California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger is known around the world for his catchphrase "I'll be back". However, this came after a number of false starts, his original "Der Strassenbahnhaltestelle meines Onkel is volle Hunden" not capturing the imagination of movie-goers.

FACT! Restored to its original glory, the Elvis classic Jailhouse Rock now features the previously-deleted prison shower scene and the long-lost song 'Soap on a rope (Don't want it up my bunghole)'.

FACT! The original script for the smash hit Brit-com Four Weddings and a Funeral was for a public information film about the dangers of making hoax phone calls to the emergency services, to be aired late-night on BBC2, starring Hugh Grant and a Shepherds Bush slattern.

FACT! Coming next year: Titanic II – The Unsinkening. Leonardo di Caprio's back, and this time he's ANGRY

FACT! Guy Ritchie's putting the finishing touches on his latest movie offering. This time, by way of a change, it's a madcap cockney crime caper starring eminent East End actors Ray Winstone, Vinnie Jones and Wellard from EastEnders called "Shut It, You Slag"

FACT! Popular chick flick Pretty Woman is about a kerb-crawler. No, wait... that one's true.

FACT! Having run out of cromulent source material from Ian Fleming's 007 books, producers have been forced to merge several of the master's best-known titles for the next James Bond film: The Spy Who Fingered My Pussy Galore

FACT! A poll of influential critics and film directors has revealed 'S Club 7: Seeing Double' to be the greatest movie ever made, romping away from distance runners-up 'Citizen Kane', 'The Seven Samurai' and 'Shaving Ryan's Privates'. "It's S Club magic – only twice as much!" enthused Martin Scorsese.

FACT! The world's greatest dinosaur movie is based on an actual vomit-based tourist attraction on an island in the Scottish Inner Hebrides: Jura Sick Park

On the lovely Debbie McGee

2009-11-07T05:17:00.003Z

On the lovely Debbie McGee

"So, what first attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels?"

Original HERE

Mirth and Woe: Making Movies

2009-11-06T05:30:00.001Z

Mirth and Woe: Making Movies

"She making movies on location / But she don't know what it means" – Mark Knopfler

"This story's told in flashback / Otherwise it makes no sense" – John Foxx

"Hey! They're escaping! Stop them!"

"Halt! HALT!"

The crack of a gun, and I am falling, falling, tumbling over, falling. I hit the ground and I awake.

That dream again, and I am in a room watching my fall on a silver screen. For all that we are is a dream within a dream.

The story, flashback.

"Look what my dad's given me, cried next-door neighbour Matty, eyes wide with excitement.

It was an old, wind-up 8mm cine camera.

"We found it in the loft. There's LOADS of unused film, too."

A no-brainer of a decision – we would make a movie – an epic movie- which would be sent with all dur solemnity to Michael Rodd on BBC's Screen Test and we'd win a prize. Win a prize, and get on the telly.

At the time, Matty's dad was building a granny annexe on the side of their house, and their massive garden was a maze of trenches. There was also loads of mud, a builder's shack and a tower of scaffolding.

Our film could have only one title ~~Bob the Builder: Lust for Glory~~ Escape from Colditz.

A script was knocked out, and my big sister, sensing cinematic glory and a chance to get on the electric telly, knocked us about until we let her be the director. Lacking any actual acting skills (mostly decided by the fact that I looked neither English nor German), I was given the job of cameraman.

"Don't mess it up, spacker," the director told me. Oh hark at Spielberg.

Early filming went well. Matty and my brother were superb in their roles as the two men breaking out of the ~~builders' privy~~ prison camp, and John from down the road oozed menace as the sadistic Nazi guard.

And finally, the money shot. The final climactic scene as the airmen kill their guard, bust our of the Colditz shithouse, dodge the sentry's bullets and make their rush for freedom.

All this was to be shot from the top of the scaffolding, a beautiful panning shot taking in the majestic sweep of the prisoners' escape.

"TAKE ONE!"

"Hey! They're escaping! Stop them!"

"Halt! HALT!"

"Take that, Fritz!"

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

The lines were spoken, the shots were fired. It was to be a silent movie.

Which was probably a good thing, as the microphone would only have picked up the sound of cameraman getting his legs tangled in the tripod, losing his balance and falling ten feet, arse-over-tit into a foot of mud.

For the record it went something like this:

"Wha... Whoa... Waaaaaaaaaaaaaargh... Whulp"

"CUT! CUT! YOU SPACKER! CUT!"

Then I was sick inna hedge.

And that was, as they say in the movie business, a wrap.

Matty's dad had the film developed. It was RUBBISH.

Rubbish apart from my bit, which rocked.

On recycling

2009-11-05T05:10:00.000Z

On recycling

To the local rubbish tip to dispose of a few items surplus to requirements, and to mooch around Cheapskates' Parade for a couple of freebies.

Clutching my ill-gotten golf bag to my chest (and discovering from a rapidly-spreading green stain why, exactly, it had been dumped in the first place), I bump into our local beat officer, PC Jackson, struggling toward the household waste skips.

There is the briefest flicker of horrified recognition as I greet him – for being identified in mufti is the greatest fear of the law enforcement officer – and I offer to help heave three large, mis-shapen black plastic sacks into the abyss.

He knows what I'm thinking.

"It's not what you're thinking," he says at length.

I raise an eyebrow, quizzically.

"I should think not," I reply, "Carved up bodies should go in with rubble and hard core."

"Ha ha ha"

"Ha ha ha"

"Ha ha"

"Ha ha ha ha ha hahahaha ha harrrrgh. No, really – it's NOT what you think."

An opportunity.

"Five hundred quid."

"Done."

On old wives tales

2009-11-04T05:26:00.001Z

On old wives tales

In which I use SCIENCE and FACTS to debunk myths, tittle-tattle and Daily Mail columnists

No.1: "A watched kettle never boils"

What a load of garbage. A watched kettle ALWAYS boils.

In fact, I have lost count of the times (but in the region of three) that I have watched a kettle in rapt attention to see it boil merrily away in a puff of steam and a little kettle dance, before pouring out to make a lovely cup of tea.

On the other hand, SCIENCE and FACTS prove that an unwatched kettle may not reach the boil, if, for eg, there is a power cut, caused by old wives leaving their hair straighteners plugged in.

Actual EVIDENCE goes further to prove that an unwatched kettle will NEVER reach the boil if you turn you back on it for five seconds, only to find that some cur – quite possibly an old wife - has stolen it, left it in the road outside, and watched with tears of laughter streaming down her wizened old face as it is run over by a passing steamroller, leaving only a big, flat kettle shape in the road, never to boil again this side of our universe's inevitable heat death many billions or years down the line.

The shy, unassuming SCIENTIST is left with cast-iron proof of his hypothesis, but no cup of tea.

SCIENCE 1-0 Old Wives

Old Wives: Leave our precious kettles alone and get back to Naughty Over Forty, where you belong.

On Shopping

2009-11-03T05:33:00.001Z

On Shopping

Pound Shop Guy: Can I help you sir?

Me: Do you, by chance, sell Rohypnol?

Pound Shop Guy: Why, yes. Yes we do.

Me: Excellent! How much?

Pound Shop Guy: (Sigh) If I had a penny for every time somebody asked me that question, I'd have enough money to buy a gun and shoot you dead.

Me: Well? It's an emergency.

Pound Shop Guy: 50p.

On not getting visited by TV's John and Edward, who must die

2009-11-02T04:46:00.000Z

On not getting visited by TV's John and Edward, who must die

Friday. Home time. Relax time. Leave-me-alone-you-bastards time. What I don't need is...

*ding dong*

"Gooooood evening, sir!"

People who use that many 'o's in 'Good evening' are clearly marked for death, and I shall make it my business to tell them.

I flick on the porch light to find myself confronted with a pair of almost identical suited young men clutching clipboards.

Slightly too smart; slightly too much gel in their hair; slightly too many exclamation marks on their name tags; far too pleased with themselves.

They can be only one of two things – X Factor annoyances John and Edward (who must die), or...

"Gooooood evening, sir! Have you considered changing your telephone provider?"

"Thank fuck for that. I thought you were Jehovah's Witnesses

And:

"Stop looking like Jehovah's Witnesses, you might scare people."

And:

"Stop looking like John and Edward (who must die), you might end up dead."

And:

"I'll sign anything. Now bugger off."

On Two Tribes going to war

2009-10-31T05:26:00.000Z

On Two Tribes going to war

"See the front of The Guardian today?"

"No – what about it?"

"Says that Tony Blair's got to fight for the EU presidency job."

"Who against?"

"It didn't say. But I reckon they should have it on the telly. Like that Frankie Goes to Hollywood video."

"Yeah, I know. Relax."

"You disgust me."

Neither Mirth Nor Woe: Dangermouse

2009-10-30T04:22:00.000Z

Neither Mirth Nor Woe: Dangermouse

"So," she said, "What's your favourite TV programme?"

To be honest, I didn't really have one, but I was getting on like a house on fire with Debbie, and if cards were played right, there was every chance of red-hot hand-up-the-jumper action, with the further prospect of hand-up-her-jumper to follow.

"I'll tell you what I don't like, though" I said, for I am often very clear at what gets my goat.

"Oh, yes?" she said sweetly.

"Dangermouse."

"Mmm?"

"Dangermouse. What. A. Load. Of. Crap. No stories. Crap animation. Stupidest theme tune. I'd set the cat on the bastard."

She got up.

She left.

She did not say goodbye.

There would be no hand-up-the-jumper. Not tonight. Not ever.

The next day at college, her best friend collared me in the sixth floor corridor.

"What have you done to Debbie, you twat? She LOVES Dangermouse."

"Buh..."

"And don't try to apologise. She's never going to talk to you AGAIN."

She was as good as her word.

Debbie, it turned out, was also a member of the Bracknell College Fraggle Rock Fanclub.

Damn you, David Jason. Damn you to HELL.

You know who else has only one eye? Nick Griffin. Q E bloody D.

On Hallowe'en FACTS

2009-10-29T05:12:00.000Z

On Hallowe'en FACTS

It's that time of year again, when the undead walk the Earth, and the air is rank with rotting flesh. But enough of The X Factor - what about Hallowe'en, eh?

FACT! Contrary to recent studies, Zombies and Vampires are NOT repelled by the music of Celine Dion. In fact, "My Heart Will Go On", is a perennial favourite with the undead.

FACT! A brain-eating zombie attack on this year's British National Party conference was thwarted when the legions of undead perished through starvation.

FACT! Recent human rights law make make nail guns and rabid dogs legal defence against rubbish trick-or-treaters.

TOP TIP! Ladies - Why not scare the kiddiewinks this year with a none-more-scary Vanessa George horror mask? Also available: Maxine Carr, Karen Matthews, Cheryl Cole.

TOP TIP! Vampires - Stop hanging around university halls of residence looking for fresh blood. All the virgins are long gone.

TOP TIP! Ancient Egyptians - Stop wrapping your errant high priests in bandages and cursing them to an eternity walking the Earth ripping people's arms off. It's hardly going to stop them re-offending, is it?

TOP TIP! Zombies - Why not try varying your diet? Aside from spicy brains, entrails, buttocks and green giant sweet corn all count towards your 'five-a-day'.

FACT! Now available from your local Toys 'Я' Us - Castle Dracula Cluedo. Hint: Colonel Van Helsing, in the cellar, with the wooden stake.

FACT! Before pumpkin-carving became a hallowe'en tradition, revellers instead carved beetroot, pineapples and the heads of recently-deceased relatives.

FACT! Think about it - you've never seen Tory leader David Cameron's reflection. And in the name of balance, we should point out that Gordon 'Alucard' Brown does not cast a shadow, and is actually a driving instructor from the Transvaal

TOP TIP! Mums - Why not spice up a dull Hallowe'en party by inviting guests to bob for kittens?

On getting a yellow card

2009-10-28T05:23:00.000Z

On getting a yellow card

The toast is burned, and there is a dog hair in my morning coffee. But there is worse to come.

*ding dong!*

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

He is indeed called Pyotr and from the council, because he is wearing a badge to that effect. He is also waving a yellow card in my face.

"Wait... what?"

"Also – naughty tag on bin. Look!"

There is indeed a yellow tag on my wheelie bin. I dare say it has the word "Naughty" on it.

"Wait... what?"

"We find plastic in food bin. Very naughty. YELLOW CARD!"

Bang to rights. He presents me with the little round disc they put over the top of a milk bottle, which – somehow – found its way into the incorrect bin. Only four to choose from – how could I be such a planet-raping spacker?

That being the case, and two minutes later...

"Mr Yellow Card man!" shouts a confused-looking Pyotr, "What… what you doing?"

"YELLOW CARD. Naughty tag on truck."

"Truck not naughty. Truck run on bio-ethanol."

"Ah ha," I say, an unnecessarily smug look on my face, "Truck has just dumped next door's bin all over the road. Very, very naughty."

No good can come of this.

On old radios

2009-10-27T05:48:00.001Z

On old radios

"Hey Smudger," I say, "You know all about old radios an' stuff."

"Might do."

"Yeah. Well. I've got this question about old radios."

"Uh-huh."

I've got this really old radio at home, an' I was wondering what the 'AFC' button does."

"AFC?"

"Yeah. AFC."

"That's Automatic Frequency Control, that is. It's for old FM radios to keep 'em on frequency."

"Oh. Right. Y'see – my sister always told me it meant 'Alistair Fuckerface Coleman'."

"Well, yeah. It could mean that an' all."

I done a new blog: Angry people in local newspapers

On crap cars, again

2009-10-26T05:17:00.000Z

On crap cars, again

I've noticed, driving between Reading and Weymouth in the Renault Scenic OF DOOM on a weekly basis, that certain makes of car attract certain types of drivers.

My study, backed up with actual SCIENCE, reveals one or two things we already know for FACT, plus a surprising conclusion that needs to be reinforced by violence against a certain type of individual so as to maintain my excellent yet ultimately selfish way of life.

So: As any Top Gear viewer will tell you, Audis and BMWs are almost exclusively driven by cocks, whereas anything with a Rover, Proton or Kia badge is likely to have a pensioner peeking up over the steering wheel.

And it struck me.

Nissans.

They're driven by imbeciles. That's why I always check the sole of my shoe when I walk through the front door – just in case I've stepped on a Nissan Micra and I end up treading some clueless granny up the hall carpet *again*.

And the Nissan Note. How do these people remember to breathe and drive at the same time?

Nissan Note drivers: I've got a note for you. One that I'd like to staple to your forehead:

"Learn to drive"

Excluded from this rant: The Fragrant Mrs Duck. *cough* Nissan Almera *cough*. Excellent driver.

On silent movies

2009-10-25T04:40:00.000Z

On silent movies

Take one CCTV camera clip on a drunk guy in a supermarket, add a silent movie soundtrack and caption cards...

Result: The Best Thing Ever.

LOLwolf

2009-10-24T05:10:00.000+01:00

LOLwolf

My internet pal Qwghlm took one look at the winner of the Wildlife Photograph of the Year and decided that it was missing a certain je ne sais quoi.

I couldn't agree more.

There, fixed that for you.

On harbouring an irrational hatred of Blackburn Rovers

2009-10-23T04:46:00.000+01:00

On harbouring an irrational hatred of Blackburn Rovers

You see, it's like this. If my memory isn't playing me false, every Saturday morning of my youth, my parents would sit me in front of the radiogram with my brother and sister and tuned us into Hell itself: Tony Blackburn's Junior Choice on Wonderful Radio One.

They were well-meaning and full of good intentions, but didn't understand the torment to which we were exposed.

After the third or four hundredth listening of Nellie the Elephant, Puff the Magic Dragon and the very worst of the current pop chart, we would be sprawled on our backs, praying for the torture to end.

For it wasn't just the tunes. It was the host. Nine years of age is far too early to be wishing painful death on a fellow human being, but Tony Blackburn was marked with the Black Spot. A black spot he has somehow managed to survive for the following 35 years, despite my best efforts with a crowbar and a tin bath full of quicklime.

Happily, the dread of Saturday morning was well and truly balanced out on Sunday afternoons with The Big Match on ITV. Poor, dead Brian Moore presenting highlights of the top games of the weekend. And some pretty awful ones too.

"And our first match today is from Division Two," said Moore, "Let's go over to Ewood Park where Blackburn Rovers played host to Charlton Athletic yesterday."

Well, that certainly did it for me. Living in the South of England, I had never heard of Blackburn or Blackburn Rovers before that point, so it could only follow that they were owned by The Menace of Junior Choice, Tony Blackburn himself. There could be no other logical explanation, and hatred for all things Rovers filled my already blackened heart.

Sadly, neither Bobby nor Jack had turned out for Charlton, but any team that was owned by a couple of World Cup winners was good enough for me. They lost, and it was the fault of you-know-who.

Tony Blackburn: To the last, I will grapple with thee... from Hell's heart, I stab at thee! For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee! And your football team's RUBBISH.

Yes, I do know better now. Tony Blackburn has never owned Blackburn Rovers Football Club. Also, my memory WAS playing me false, for it was almost certainly Ed "Stewpot" Stewart who hosted Junior Choice at the time, meaning my entirely hate-filled future life was based on my inability to tell one annoying DJ from another, despite winning Radio One's Write-a-Funny-Limerick-About-Ed-"Stewpot"-Stewart competition.

Whoops.

If you've got this far, yes, I DO still remember the winning limerick, for which I never received my Ed "Stewpot" Stewart transistor radio, a grudge I hold to this day.

Ode to Ed "Stewpot" Stewart by Alistair Coleman (aged eight)

There was a young man called Stu
Who couldn't do any Kung Fu
He couldn't do Judo
And he was stuck up with Ludo
So he locked himself in the loo.

An open letter to the BNP

2009-10-22T05:55:00.003+01:00

An open letter to the BNP

Yeah, yeah, I know: Oxygen of publicity and all that. But if you can't laugh at the loonies, what else is there?

Dear Nick Griffin

Congratulations on your forthcoming appearance on Question Time tonight! I hope you do not spoil this enormous publicity coup for the BNP by – for example – denouncing the leadership of our armed forces as traitors and war criminals, before claiming you were joking like the well-known stand-up comedian that you are.

Oh.

Speaking as a journalist, I abhor that fact that you are to take part in a serious political discussion programme, rather than the Batshit Lunatic Hour on TalkSport, but I would be a screaming hypocrite if I did not defend your right to freedom of speech, just as you should defend mine.

That being the case:

You are a complete disgrace of a human being, not fit to lick the boots of those who died for the freedom of this nation and the right to allow you to talk out of your sphincter like the outpourings of rancid meat diarrhoea from the back end of a sick dog.

There. Fair's fair. You get your say, I get mine.

Many of your party members claim they can trace their patriotic English roots back the best part of a thousand years. I've got news for you, my wonky-faced friend – I can trace both of our sets of ancestors back to the Cambrian explosion of 580 million years ago, the only difference being that the IQ on your side has actually declined over the millennia.

You're an educated man, so I bet it really pains you when you pass the bucket round at your BNP Karaoke night and Hitler-thons to see all those crisp fivers, knowing that the reverse features images of noted anti-slavery campaigners in the company of lefty do-gooder Elizabeth Fry.

Just one last thing before I bid thee farewell: I note that you have left our glorious England and emigrated to a farm in mid-Wales. Tell me – have you bothered learning the indigenous language? Or was Dr Doolittle otherwise engaged?

Of course you don't fuck sheep. Just a little – in your own words – dark humour.

Still, best of luck tonight. But remember – the heckling, barracking and insults you'll be getting are not some huge lefty Zionist Islamic plot to destroy your party. It's because everybody knows you're a national disgrace and a diseased phallus of the first order.

Your pal,

Duck (Scary)

On making movies

2009-10-21T05:39:00.002+01:00

On making movies

I understand the top movie studios are in talks to bring a number of well-known children's TV programmes to the big screen.

No, I say. Stop it now.

I would rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon than sit in front of a ninety minute episode of Dangermouse, for Dangermouse is full of FAIL and the top of a very slippery slope to anger, despair and The Dark Side.

Ditto Bananaman, Super Ted and - bloody hell - Fireman Sam.

There is only one children's programme for which I'd pay actual cash money to see in a full-length feature, and it is this:

Electric Blue Peter

There's no plot to speak of, just two hours of Konnie Huq trying to get her fridge repaired. By John Noakes and Peter Purves.

Then, Janet Ellis turns up to borrow a cup of sugar and Shep is absolutely no use at all...

For the colonial readers: Mr Rogers filthy filthy something filthy

Edit: Megan Washington unmasked as shameless Portuguese dwarf tickler

I LOLed. I LOLed out loud.

On toilet seat HELL

2009-10-20T05:35:00.000+01:00

On toilet seat HELL

This is my story and I'm sticking to it.

You see, one of the plastic toilet seats at work cracked in two.

Or, if you're like that: 'crack'd in twain'.

Desperate, all the other stalls occupied, and willing to take a risk, I decided to go for it on the bog with the broken seat.

So: I was sitting there with the Guardian Sports section, unloading last night's corn-on-the-cob, and I felt myself sliding ever-so-slightly forward.

At the exact moment when I feared I might fall off the front of the crapper and do myself a hideous facial injury of the type people only ever seem to get from falling off bathroom appliances, I lifted my right buttock a little with the view to repositioning myself safely back on the seat.

CLAP!

The sound of the toilet seat snapping back into shape, biting a lump out of my backside.

"Outspan and AAARGH!" I said in surprise and alarm, fleeing from the cubicle of doom, modestly barely intact.

All forgotten until the weekend, when I am undressing for bed.

"Darling," asks the Fragrant Mrs Duck, "Why have you got a love bite on your arse?"

"Err... it's not what you think."

Sofa.

On IT development

2009-10-19T05:27:00.000+01:00

On IT development

This ACTUALLY happened.* Oh, the wacky world of IT development meetings.

"But what if I want to upload a picture of my arse?"

"Why? In the name of sanity – WHY?"

"Well… I might want to upload a picture of my arse. If we've got the functionality that allows a user to upload a picture of their arse - by jiminy - uploading a picture of their arse is EXACTLY what the users will do."

Others agree, noting which way the metaphorical wind is blowing. And it is toward arses: "Arses will be uploaded. Mark my words. Oh yes."

"Hmmm… That's a thought. We're going to need some sort of data capture that prevents users from uploading a picture of their arse."

"You do realise," chimes the voice of sanity, holder of the budget, "this is going to have to go through Change Control? Could cost the business THOUSANDS."

"Yeah – but we've got to stop users uploading a picture of their arse."

"OK," says the bean-counter with a sigh, "Action point: IT Contractors to develop Arse-Detecting software."

[ ... pause ... ]

"Woah, there. Wait a sec. Hold your horses. What if I want to upload a picture of my arse for business purposes?"

"Good point, well made. IT Contractors to add a 'This picture of my arse uploaded for business purposes' checkbox."

[ ... pause ... ]

"What about knockers?"

"Knockers are fine."

* I am obliged to point out that this exchange may not actually have happened.

On censorship, again

2009-10-18T04:42:00.000+01:00

On censorship, again

Another one from B3ta's censorship challenge:

I call it "Gobble gobble".

On censorship

2009-10-17T04:40:00.000+01:00

On censorship

B3ta's image challenge this week is censorship - take an otherwise innocent photograph and pr0nolise it.

Here's one I made earlier:

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Dyb dyb dob

2009-10-16T04:38:00.002+01:00

Neither Mirth nor Woe: Dyb dyb dob

I was ten years old and should have known better, but I found myself in the cub scouts, and thrust out onto the mean streets of our village during half-term doing Scout Job Week.

It's something you don't get much these days thanks to all kinds of moral panics, but back in the day we thought nothing of knocking on a neighbour's door and asking if they wanted any odd jobs done. And if you got bummed to death by a paedo in the process, you just sucked it up, brushed yourself down, stuck a "Job Done!" in their window and put it down to experience.

So, finding myself able to walk without looking like John Wayne after a week in the saddle, I knocked on the door of number forty, the home of two very respectable elderly sisters, Edith and Mary, and gave them the whole Scout Job Week spiel, and despite Mary's finger hovering over the final nine of 999, they bought it.

A deal well and truly struck, I weeded their garden for an hour, and sweating profusely, I was invited in to accept my payment.

Despite it being the ungodly hour of two in the afternoon, both were lounging in their nightclothes. Tearing my eyes away from Mr Marks' and Mr Spencer's finest flannelette, I commented on an unusual arrangement of candles on the coffee table, next to a number of what can loosely be termed coffee table art books of a specialist nature.

They harrumphed, gave me my 5p (FIVE PENCE! For an hour's hard labour!), said how nice it was for a couple of lovely old sisters to trust young people in their home. Another harrumph, and I was propelled firmly into the street outside.

I asked my mum about Edith and Mary.

She looked at me with that 'You'll find out one day' look and said:

"They're not sisters."

Nope. Still clueless.

On Fly Fishing by JR Hartley

2009-10-15T05:42:00.002+01:00

On Fly Fishing by JR Hartley

I have a long-held theory (confirmed to a certain extent by actual first-hand witnesses) that all authors have resorted, at some stage in their career, to writing smut to make ends meet. You're reading it now.

The problem comes, of course, when they finally get into print, knowing when to stop churning out the letters to gentlemen's leisure magazines and get back to their first love: quality, thought-provoking literature.

You will be unsurprised to learn that some find it difficult, as the following example proves.

We've got hold of a first, and as it appears, only edition of this literary classic, which we reproduce in its entirety.

Fly fishing by JR Hartley (Published 1946, Eros Press, Berwick Street, W1)

"For Diana"

It was a crisp September morning, worthy of the name "autumnal" even though the sun did its best to warm the ground below the oranges and browns of the trees in my somewhat overgrown garden.

I had sat up for much of the night, tying flies, checking my reels, ensuring that my rod was perfectly serviceable, before preparing a packed lunch of fine hams, fruits from my orchard and the best ginger beer I could afford on the meagre savings I have accrued over the years.

Today's expedition would be my first since I returned from the Second War. So many battles fought, so many friends left behind in North Africa and Italy; my return home to an empty cottage as Captain James Reginald Hartley tinged with the great sadness of lost comradeship.

Roused from my sleep by young Anderson driving his cows to milking, I made my toilet, dressed and ate a frugal breakfast of bread, jam and weak tea, contemplating that while we still endured rationing, it was hardly so on active service, where our quartermaster kept us well fed and rationed; and were it not for the inconvenient attentions of the Wehrmacht, the years might have passed off as some Boy's Own adventure.

Then, making sure I had everything, I heaved my best fishing basket onto my shoulders, grasped my rod, and strode out of the front door, free at last from orders, superiors and the obligation to my dear, dear country.

"Captain Hartley!" came a voice from over the hedge, breaking my stride almost immediately, "Captain Hartley!"

It was poor Mrs Auberon, widowed in 1943 when Jerry shot her poor husband's aircraft from under him, now alone at the age of twenty-three.

I nodded my good morning, and made a show of the fact that I was on a personal mission this morning, but she would not be swayed.

"I appear to have a leaky tap upstairs. Could you possibly help?"

Of course, I cannot deny a young lady in her hour of need, particularly one who had rushed into the street wearing nothing but a diaphanous nightgown, already falling away at the shoulder, her long, raven hair maintaining her modesty.

"Mrs Auberon!" I exclaim, as I examined the pipework in the room adjoining her boudoir, "You appear to have simply left a tap running."

"It's Diana. Just call me Diana," she purred, her nightgown falling away to reveal the yearning body of my not unattractive young neighbour, "and have you noticed, it's so hot in here?"

I had indeed, and before we knew it, we were both ...

[Pages 2-177 appear to be missing]

... and then, still clutching the bicycle pump, we collapsed into an exhausted heap of rubber boots, sou'westers and galoshes.

I never did get to go fly fishing, but mine was the best catch of the day.

- FIN -

No wonder the old sod was so pleased to get hold of a copy.

On milk

2009-10-14T05:13:00.001+01:00

On milk

What kind of plank, I ask, do they employ at Tesco these days?

I fear the answer may be "short, thick ones".

"Do you want a bag for that?" asks the girl at the till, a young lady clearly unencumbered by any sort of life experience.

I hold, in my hands, nothing but a six-pint bottle of semi-skimmed milk.

"No thanks. I'll be drinking it now."

And then the moment that makes you stop dead in your tracks. Her look of surprised innocence, and the single word:

"Really?"

There's only one thing for it – The Jeremy Clarkson Voice.

"Yes. Yes I am."

There is a pause as I await my change and there receipt which proves to the powers-that-be that I haven't wasted all my money on cheese spread and flip-flops. The kind of pause that certain people – planks, if you will – feel they've just got to fill.

"Well – go on then."

I fled.

Show us your money

Some of my esteemed colleagues are cycling to London next week in aid of Help For Heroes. If you're feeling generous, you may sponsor them HERE. Anyone mad enough to cycle through the capital deserves at least a tenner...