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Robber Rabbit : The Scaryduck Brain Dump

Friday, November 28, 2003

Tinfoil helmet time

George W Bush visited Baghdad yesterday. OR DID HE???

There were no outside shots as it was conveniently dark.

The entire thing was filmed inside a hangar. Possibly the same one where they filmed the moon landings.

Bremer was in the US a couple of weeks ago.

The entire thing was staged and filmed up front.

Bush never left his ranch on Thanksgiving Day.

I'll get me coat.

That is all.

Latest b3ta competition

What if drugs were just an everyday part of life? Integrate hard drugs with our soft lives, and show us the results.

OK, if that's the way you want it...

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Assuming they weren't too fucked up to build a rocket in the first place.

"Hey man, why don't we just, like, float to the moon?"
Dude, if I close one eye, I could, like, just reach out and grab it from here."

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Woo! Yay! etc!: The Basil Clithopps story appeared in this week's b3ta newsletter. Fame! Fame! All mine!

posted by Robber Rabbit at 10:46 AM (0) comments

Thursday, November 27, 2003

Fat Tongue

That Jamie Oliver's got a bloody massive cock. It's the Lovely Jules I feel sorry for.

posted by Alistair Coleman at 11:43 PM (0) comments

Playground Footie - THE RULES OF THE GAME

Matches shall be played over three unequal periods: two playtimes and lunchtime.

Each of these periods shall begin shortly after the ringing of a bell, and although a bell is also rung towards the end of these periods, play may continue for up to ten minutes afterwards, depending on the nihilism or "bottle" of the participants with regard to corporal punishment meted out to latecomers back to the classroom.

In practice there is a sliding scale of nihilism, from those who hasten to stand in line as soon as the bell rings, known as "poofs", through those who will hang on until the time they estimate it takes the teachers to down the last of their G & T's and journey from the staff room, known as "chancers", and finally to those who will hang on until a teacher actually has to physically retrieve them, known as "nutters". This sliding scale is intended to radically alter the logistics of a match in progress, often having dramatic effects on the scoreline as the number of remaining participants drops. It is important, therefore, in picking the sides, to achieve a fair balance of poofs, chancers and nutters in order that the scoreline achieved over a sustained period of play - lunchtime, for instance - is not totally nullified by a five-minute post-bell onslaught of five nutters against one.

The scoreline to be carried over from the previous period of the match is in the trust of the last nutters to leave the field of play, and may be the matter of some debate. This must be resolved in one of the approved manners (see Adjudication).

The object is to force the ball between two large, unkempt piles of jackets, in lieu of goalposts. These piles may grow or shrink throughout the match, depending on the number of participants and the prevailing weather. As the number of players increases, so shall the piles. Each jacket added to the pile by a new addition to a side should be placed on the inside, nearest the goalkeeper, thus reducing the target area. It is also important that the sleeve of one of the jackets should jut out across the goalmouth, as it will often be claimed that the ball went "over the post" and it can henceforth be asserted that the outstretched sleeve denotes the innermost part of the pile and thus the inside of the post. The on-going reduction of the size of the goal is the responsibility of any respectable defence and should be undertaken conscientiously with resourcefulness and imagination.

In the absence of a crossbar, the upper limit of the target area is observed as being slightly above head height, although when the height at which a ball passed between the jackets is in dispute, judgement shall lie with an arbitrary adjudicator from one of the sides. He is known as the "best fighter"; his decision is final and may be enforced with physical violence if anyone wants to stretch a point.

In games on large open spaces, the length of the pitch is obviously denoted by the jacket piles, but the width is a variable. In the absence of roads, water hazards etc, the width is determined by how far out the attacking winger has to meander before the pursuing defender gets fed up and lets him head back towards where the rest of the players are waiting, often as far as quarter of a mile away. It is often observed that the playing area is "not a full-size pitch". This can be invoked verbally to justify placing a wall of players eighteen inches from the ball at direct free kicks. It is the formal response to "yards", which the kick-taker will incant meaninglessly as he places the ball.

Playground football tactics are best explained in terms of team formation. Whereas senior sides tend to choose - according to circumstance - from among a number of standard options (eg 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 5-3-2), the playground side is usually more rigid in sticking to the all-purpose 1-1-17 formation. This formation is a sturdy basis for the unique style of play, ball-flow and territorial give-and-take that makes the playground game such a renowned and strategically engrossing spectacle. Just as the 5-3-2 formation is sometimes referred to in practice as "Cattenaccio", the 1-1-17 formation gives rise to a style of play that is best described as "Nomadic". All but perhaps four of the participants (see also Offside) migrate en masse from one area of the pitch to another, following the ball, and it is tactically vital that every last one of them remains within a ten-yard radius of it at all times.

Much stoppage time in the senior game is down to injured players requiring treatment on the field of play. The playground game flows freer having adopted the refereeing philosophy of "no Post-Mortem, no free-kick", and play will continue around and even on top of a participant who has fallen in the course of his endeavours. However, the playground game is nonetheless subject to other interruptions, and some examples are listed below.

1. Ball on school roof or over school wall. The retrieval time itself is negligible in these cases. The stoppage is most prolonged by the argument to decide which player must risk life, limb or four of the belt to scale the drainpipe or negotiate the barbed wire in order to return the ball to play.

Disputes usually arise between the player who actually struck the ball and any others he claims it may have struck before disappearing into forbidden territory. In the case of the Best Fighter having been adjudged responsible for such an incident, a volunteer is often required to go in his stead or the game may be abandoned, as the Best Fighter is entitled to observe that A: "you can't make me"; or B: "It's not my ball anyway".

2. Bigger boys steal ball. A highly irritating interruption, the length of which is determined by the players' experience in dealing with this sort of thing. The intruders will seldom actually steal the ball, but will improvise their own kickabout amongst themselves, occasionally inviting the younger players to attempt to tackle them. Standing around looking bored and unimpressed usually results in a quick restart. Shows of frustration and engaging in attempts to win back the ball can prolong the stoppage indefinitely. Informing the intruders that one of the players' older brother is "Mad Paul Murphy" or some other noted local pugilist can also ensure minimum delay.

3. Menopausal old bag confiscates ball. More of a threat in the street or local green kickabout than within the school walls. Sad, blue-rinsed, ill-tempered, Tory-voting cat-owner transfers her anger about the array of failures that has been her life to nine-year-olds who have committed the heinous crime of letting their ball cross her privet Line of Death. Interruption (loss of ball) is predicted to last "until you learn how to play with it properly", but instruction on how to achieve this without actually having the bloody thing is not usually forwarded. Tact is required in these circumstances, even when the return of the ball seems highly unlikely, as further irritation of woman may result in the more serious stoppage: Menopausal old bag calls police.

Goal-scorers are entitled to a maximum run of thirty yards with their hands in the air, making crowd noises and saluting imaginary packed terraces. Congratulation by teammates is in the measure appropriate to the importance of the goal in view of the current scoreline (for instance, making it 34-12 does not entitle the player to drop to his knees and make the sign of the cross), and the extent of the scorer's contribution.
A fabulous solo dismantling of the defence or 25-yard (actually eight yards, but calculated as relative distance because "it's not a full-size pitch" rocket shot will elicit applause and back-pats from the entire team and the more magnanimous of the opponents. However, a tap-in in the midst of a chaotic scramble will be heralded with the epithet "poaching bastard" from the opposing defence amidst mild acknowledgment from teammates. Applying an unnecessary final touch when a ball is already rolling into the goal will elicit a burst nose from the original striker.

Kneeling down to head the ball over the line when defence and keeper are already beaten will elicit a thoroughly deserved kicking. As a footnote, however, it should be stressed that any goal scored by the Best Fighter will be met with universal acclaim, even if it falls into any of the latter three categories.

At senior level, each side often has one appointed penalty-taker, who will defer to a teammate in special circumstances, such as his requiring one more for a hat trick. The playground side has two appointed penalty-takers: the Best Player and the Best Fighter. The arrangement is simple: the Best Player takes the penalties when his side is a retrievable margin behind, and the Best Fighter at all other times. If the side is comfortably in front, the ball-owner may be invited to take a penalty. Goalkeepers are often the subject of temporary substitutions at penalties, forced to give up their position to the Best Player or Best Fighter, who recognise the kudos attached to the heroic act of saving one of these kicks, and are buggered if "little Billy" is going to steal any of it.

Close Season
This is known also as the Summer Holidays, which the players usually spend dabbling briefly in other sports: tennis for a fortnight while Wimbledon is on the telly; pitch-and-putt for four days during the Open; and cricket for about an hour and a half until they discover that it really is as boring to play as it is to watch.

posted by Robber Rabbit at 9:12 AM (0) comments

Wednesday, November 26, 2003

Porkies II

More from the b3ta "Worst lies" thread:

Barman: I'm sorry I can't serve you any more beer. Your mate is too drunk.
BillyLiar: No no ... he's ... erm ... got cerebral palsy.

Oh dear.


The lovely Mrs Duck is into cross-stitch. I thought about this as the perfect Christmas gift for at least ...oooh... a tenth of a second. No.

posted by Robber Rabbit at 7:55 PM (0) comments

Tuesday, November 25, 2003


From the b3ta thread "The biggest lie I ever told":

We went a whole year at school telling the supply teacher we had for RE that Andy H was in hospital in a coma and that the new boy's name (in reality Mr H sitting there trying not to laugh) was Basil Clithopps.

For three entire terms Andy would hand in work in the fake Basil's workbook, while she would call the register and shake her head in pity when she got to Andy's name.

We would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for the small matter of end-of-year reports, where the whole ruse was rumbled, and Andy got a Headmasterly rocket up the arse.

The entire class was in on it, and you had to remember to call him the right name an' all that.

He got suspended for the rest of the term (about three days) and hung around the shops after intercepting the dreaded letter home from school so his folks never found out. He is still known as "Baz" by some people, and we should learn from his example.

OK, I've lied far worse than that, but you've got to pick and choose.


When I was a regular on the football365 forum in the days before it was crap, one of the chaps told a story of how his father took him to New York for the day. He went to school and told all his mates how his old man had taken him on a big boat to see the Big Apple.

It transpired that our hero lived on the Wirral and his dad had taken him on the Mersey Ferry to go shopping in Liverpool. Hilarity, indeed, ensued.

Then there was the time I torched half of my local park back in the long, hot summer of 1976 with matches "borrowed" from my mum's kitchen. I used the Bart Simpson Defence of "I didn't do it", and hid under my bed until the Fire Brigade went away.

Golden days? I now realise I spent my entire youth bricking my pants.

posted by Robber Rabbit at 7:01 PM (0) comments

Monday, November 24, 2003


Identity Cards. Use of terrorism laws against demonstrators. Impoverishing asylum seekers and taking their children into care. Is there no end to this man's talents?

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posted by Robber Rabbit at 9:05 AM (0) comments

Advice for Parents

Grown-ups! Whatever you do, alway ensure that your children are properly supervised on your home computer. Not only have I just deleted gigabytes of bitmap files out of "My Documents", which now enables the computer to actually work, but I also found the recycle bin in the recycle bin.

Good thing I sorted that out - God knows what kind of infinite causality loop that would have caused. The universe has been saved, again. And what thanks do I get?

posted by Alistair Coleman at 9:02 AM (0) comments

Friday, November 21, 2003


Suspiciously familiar cows in TV advert shocker. Good work that Weebl fella.


It's the most incredible coincidence. On the very day that the world is celebrating his 75th birthday, I manage to squeeze out a dump that looked exactly like Mickey Mouse.

My very own Mickey. Sculpted in poo. Just what I always wanted.

posted by Alistair Coleman at 7:58 AM (0) comments


Thanks to The Smoking Gun and thirty seconds in MS Paint:

Clicky to embiggen

posted by Robber Rabbit at 1:06 AM (0) comments

Thursday, November 20, 2003

Doing the Rounds

George Bush met The Queen, and he turns round and says: "As I'm the President, I'm thinking of changing how the country is referred to, and I'm thinking that it should be a Kingdom".

To which the Queen replies, "I'm sorry Mr Bush, but to be a Kingdom, you have to have a King in charge - and you're not a King."

George Bush thought a while and then said: "How about a Principality then?", to which the Queen replied "Again, to be a Principality you have to be a Prince - and you're not a Prince, Mr Bush".

Bush thought long and hard and came up with "How about an Empire then?" The Queen, getting a little pissed off replied "Sorry again, Mr Bush, but to be an Empire you must have an Emperor in charge - and you are not an Emperor."

Before George Bush could utter another word, The Queen said: "I think you're doing quite nicely as a Country".

3/10 - see me after class.

posted by Robber Rabbit at 8:55 PM (0) comments

Monday, November 17, 2003


Nothing gets past this guy. After yesterday'slittle bit of blaspheming, it seems that I'm for the chop. The attack of the rampant squirts I experienced last night may have been a friendly warning...

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"He couldn't deny it - being a vengeful deity was a right laugh."

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posted by Alistair Coleman at 9:48 AM (0) comments

Sunday, November 16, 2003

First class ticket to Hell, change at Basingstoke

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"And on the third day He rose from the dead"

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posted by Alistair Coleman at 1:27 PM (0) comments

From the folder marked 'Mail Forwards'

A warning:

There is another scam going on out there. You should send this to any women you know and care about.

If a man comes to your door and says he is conducting a survey and asks you to show him your tits, DO NOT SHOW HIM YOUR TITS.

This is a scam. He is only trying to see your tits.

Thank you.

And some nuns...

Two nuns, Sister Marilyn and Sister Helen, are traveling through Europe in their car. They get to Transylvania and are stopped at a traffic light. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Dracula jumps onto the hood of the car and hisses through the windshield.

"Quick, quick!" shouts Sister Marilyn. "What shall we do?"

"Turn the windshield wipers on. That will get rid of the abomination," says Sister Helen.

Sister Marilyn switches them on, knocking Dracula about, but he clings on and continues hissing at the nuns. "What shall I do now?" she shouts.

"Switch on the windshield washer. I filled it up with Holy Water in the Vatican," says Sister Helen.

Sister Marilyn turns on the windshield washer. Dracula screams as the water burns his skin, but he clings on and continues hissing at the nuns.

"Now what?" shouts Sister Marilyn.

"Show him your cross," says Sister Helen.

"Now you're talking," says Sister Marilyn as she opens the window and shouts, "Get the fuck off our car!"

+++ Transmission Ends +++

posted by Robber Rabbit at 9:52 AM (0) comments

Saturday, November 15, 2003

Pie/Otter Interface

Wa-hey! Acouple of things I forgot I'd done way back in the mists of bloggery.

Am I Pie or Not?

Am I an Otter or Not?

I must have been a mentallist back then. Nothing changes.

Golf Sale by Banksy

posted by Alistair Coleman at 5:28 PM (0) comments


"Cruelties should be inflicted all at once. On the other hand, rewards should be offered one at a time." -- Niccolo Machiavelli.

"I suffer from short-term memory loss, which, I've discovered, if you're trying to earn a living as a writer and journalist, can be a right bugger." -- Scaryduck

My recent trip up to London took me on the train past Waingels Copse School in Woodley, the local and deadly rivals to us boys (and girls) from Piggott. While they called us - how original - Lester Piggott school, our comeback was devastating. Waingels Copse, quite naturally became Wanker's Cock. Touche.

And while we're on the trail of random insults: Plastic Vicar!. Ooh, that harsh.

posted by Robber Rabbit at 9:48 AM (0) comments

Friday, November 14, 2003

News Felch

'I never dreamt that I would be staying in Buckingham Palace' says George W Bush, charming it up for the cameras.

He's in for a shock....


A knock at the door.

"Come in!" shouts George.

The door opens.

It's HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall.

A terrified President pulls the blanket over his head...

posted by Alistair Coleman at 3:06 PM (0) comments

Brain Dump

Welcome to the Scaryduck brain dump.

Half-formed ideas. Shit gags. Items that need a bit of polishing before they appear at scaryduck or pengor.

Confucius say: "Man who wear bullet-proof vest cannot complain when he gets shot in the bollocks."

That is all.

posted by Robber Rabbit at 8:22 AM (0) comments


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