This week's B3ta question: Bad jokes your dad tells.
A word of warning - you do turn into your dad. I’m now thirty-seven with childs, and now find myself reading the Sunday Times and falling asleep in an armchair in a frightening repetition of history that did not seem possible in 1977. I also recycle the jokes that he told us a quarter of a century ago, and I’d be prepared to wager that he stole them off his dad while running round Essex during the War.
For example, Scaryduck Jr’s current favourite joke has been passed from father to son, father to son down the generations:
“I went into a Chinese restaurant the other day. I said to the waiter ‘This meat is rubbery’ to which the waiter replied (Chinese accent) ‘Ah! Thank you very muuuch!’”.
Whereas my old man spoke to me with voices stolen from the Goon Show, my children puzzle over embarrassing dad’s Weebl and Bob-isms. Scaryduckling now has the entire script to Mony Python and the Holy Grail memorised and will answer her father’s question “What do we burn apart from witches?” with a resigned shrug and “More witches.”
You will grow old. You will become the crap, embarrassing dad with crap dad jokes (unless you can’t have kids or are in the gayers). Mark my words, and mark them well.
A 29-year-old Tokyo man visiting San Francisco for the first time meant to ask a female store clerk, "May I please have film for my camera?" But what he actually said was, "Would you place your copious breasts in my mouth?" He was slapped in the face, then got tossed out by the manager.
Jemma Jacob's entry in the Scaryduck "Make Mrs Duck Laugh" competition, which won second prize. Enjoy.
1995, what a year. Oasis were asking morning glory what the story was, Take That took it and went ( I finally discovered god when that little miracle happened) and gcses were something I had to worry about next year. I was but a slip of a girl, a mere 15 years old and I had a party to go to. A real one. No parental units whatsoever, all the alcohol I could possibly want to regurgitate four and a half hours later, and a dj. A proper bloke with all the latest vinyl, not someone’s dad with a few copies of Now 35, and a shaking Stevens record.
Life is pretty crap when you're 15, hormones have invited themselves to stay for a good few years and your acne is the only thing you can rely on being there for you. So when we heard about Liz’s party, well what can I say, I was ecstatic, jubilant, down right near to pissing myself with the sheer excitement of it all.
The Aged ‘P’s gave to go ahead for me to go and get totally trashed. Strictly speaking wasn’t quite how they put it; it was more along the lines of ‘ yes you can go to Sarah’s house to sleep over on Friday’. Sarah’s house, party 10 miles away, they sound kinda similar…
I had decided that I was going to lose a couple of pounds for this party. The problem was that a: I need to lose a couple of stone realistically and b: I had approximately a day to do it in. So in my infinite wisdom, which as you know teenagers are blessed with in abundance, I decided that I just wouldn’t eat. Hell if it worked for Ally Mcbeal it was damn sure gonna work for me. So I didn’t let a morsel pass my lips (apart from one chocolate éclair that my dear old gran had brought. I couldn’t go and upset her by refusing such a kind offer.)
Now my mate Sarah had met this rather nice bloke called Nick. He was a little older than us, 22 to be precise. But I would like to point out here that Sarah was a little older than me, 16. Didn’t want you to alert the authorities about some old bloke picking up 15 year olds and taking them to parties. I digress…
So, Nick, who was doing very well in his job (his dad was loaded) turned up at Sarah’s house. I was dropped off at Sarah’s as not to have my cover blown. He swings into the drive in a blue Subaru Imprezza. Oooh I hear you cry (well most of you, any that aren’t impressed are just masking your jealousy). Lovely motor. So off we go to the party.
When we get there the party is in full swing. As we walk through the door, some girl who I vaguely recognise come bounding towards us, arms outstretched and says ‘ so pleased you guys came!’ and then like a intoxicated tigger bounced off into the night. ‘who the fuck was that?’ I ask, ‘That,’ says Sarah ‘ is Claire’ I ponder this for a moment then ask ‘ who or more to the point what is ‘Claire?’
‘It’s the girl who’s party it is stupid! Stop being a prat and get inside, I need to find a bedroom’ So off we go. Sarah is immediately dragged off upstairs by the increasingly horny Nick, (Sarah’s mum and dad were strict Catholics and thought for years that Sarah and Nick spent the time in her bedroom praying and reading the bible. Any loud repetitive banging’s they put down to vigorous Hail Marys). So I’m left to find the drinks cabinet and drink my weight in alcohol. Great!
If you can cast your mind back to earlier, you will recall that I hadn’t eaten. Nothing at all. Unfortunately nobody, not careers advisers, teachers, policemen, doctors or even my own dear parents had told me that alcohol on an empty stomach will have a far greater effect on your system. A far far greater effect. The other contributing factors to the events that unfortunately followed were: I was a girl, I was not used to alcohol, and I had only eaten an éclair in the last 24 hours. If I could have placed a bet I would have backed the horse called ‘Chunder' …
I decided that in honour of my favourite movie (It has changed now , but please be kind I was only 15 and unaware of the cinematic triumphs yet to come) COCKTAIL. Superb idea. I got a group of us, the inebriated tigger from earlier, a girl that used to smell of tcp, and some bloke called Stanley. I kid you not, I heard later that he sued his parents for emotional and physical cruelty. Not from them you understand but the kids in the school that made his life hell for 4 years.
So me, tigger, tcp and Stanley grabbed it all and headed for the kitchen. I shall now list the drinks that we found that evening: vodka, rum tequila, whisky, calvados, that blue stuff, sherry, sorry fortified wine (there you go Brussels happy now?) and the remnants of something that looked like and smelt like antifreeze. It was in a clear bottle with no label. That should have been a bit of a warning but who was I to argue? We found a vase and poured the entire contents, removing the flowers first, of the bottles in to it. It resembled the colour of mud. Foul smelling mud. GREAT. We added some coke, we weren’t going to drink it straight - even we weren’t that stupid.
So, after adding one of those small cans that you get from Woolworth’s we got four glasses and filled each one. Then we downed it. As we all discover later on in life alcohol doesn’t get you pissed immediately, however being only 15 and unaware of the delayed effect we were all feeling pretty cheated by the fact that we all knew where we were, who we were and that we could still see. So we had another glass. And another. By this point however, TCP girl was looking a little green and muttered about going out side for some fresh air. I didn’t see here again that night, apparently they found her in the shed at the bottom of the garden two days later. So it's me Stanley and Tigger, we have another glass. Now I was beginning to feel , peaky shall we say. I suddenly realised that I could see three of everything. This was GREAT. In a nauseating, room spinning kinda way. Oh dear I think I needed to sit down. No, I definitely needed to sit down. Stumbling through the living room I came to and abrupt end as I fell face first into the carpet. To be more accurate I stopped in a room full of drunken teenagers, opened my mouth and covered the living room carpet in a very attractive shade of brown. Everywhere. Then fell face first into it.
The rest I’m afraid is unknown to me. Friends have tried to fill in the blanks but to no avail.
The next thing I remember is waking up. I can see white light all around me. OH MY GOD I'm DEAD, I've really blown it this time. There were so many things that I wanted to do, to see! Now I’ll never get the chance! Then things become a little clearer, and I see a figure, its it God? Is it an angel sent to tell me that its ok, its not my time and that I would live again? Was I having one of those ‘near death’ experiences? In a way I was, because you see, the angel/God/holybeing that homed in to view wasn’t a holy entity at all, it was my mum, closely followed by my incredibly angry, so angry he couldn’t speak let alone breathe, Dad. All of a sudden death seemed like a really good choice, compared to facing my parents. I still have the scars to prove it. How my dad didn’t kill me is one of life’s mysteries.
No wonder I’m bonkers. Here follows an incomplete list of the names I’ve used on the internet for one reason or another. More as my memory fills in the blanks.
The One, True Albert O’Balsam
The Grim Reaper (Mrs)
Bob de Bilde
Moderately Evil Penguin
Lt Col Winston St John Cholmondeley-Cholmondeley Patel (Mrs)
Genial Harry Grout
A Valued Microsoft Customer
This week's b3ta question of the week has struck a raw nerve...
Mrs Duck owns Carpenters Gold, a collection of the most heinous crimes against music ever committed to vinyl. Never before or since have so many sugar-coated sentimental and downright irritating "songs" ever been recorded by a bother sister act in foul evening dress.
Days spent listening to this tripe are invaribly followed by evenings of hooting laughter and nights spent, in agony, on the couch. I can't help it. If the inanity of the tunes don't get you, the trite lyrics will, and you're not even halfway through this supposedly heart-felt collection of this easy-listening hell before you are on the floor, rocking and rolling in laughter.
But it's all just a build-up to the big finish, to whit "Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft", surely the worst song ever written in the history of modern civilisation (and good grief we're including the collected works of Phil Collins here) with the most unintentionally hilarious lyrics ever dribbled from anus to paper via the studio toilet bowl.
As far as I can tell, the only use this CD has would be to play repeatedly to child murderers and sex offenders by way of brain-melting torture; and even then, the United Nations may have something to say about it.
Aural vomit. That is all.
And just don't get me started on the wedding disco hell of "Love Shack" by the B-52s. There may be deaths.
"When I see my name spelt with one word, I want to slap and choke people. If you do that, you got to be a moron. It's on every poster, every album and every ticket as two words. If you spell it as one, you're an idiot. Bottom line." -- Meat Loaf
The more I think about Shrub's trip to Baghdad, the more I'm convinced he didn't actually go there.
Sure, the plane was filled with compliant journalists, happy to report on their great journey into the unknown, but so what? The windows on Airforce One were blacked out, so as far as they knew, they might as well have flown round and round parts of Arizona until they got dizzy, before being ushered into a darkened hangar somewhere in deepest Area 52 (that's Area 51's more secretive brother to you).
Or to Kuwait. Or Bahrain. Or wherever. It was dark. You'll never know. Nice stunt, George.