Scaryduck: Know Your Enemy

“Who the hell are you?”

That’s very nice of you to ask. I’m a technical operator in my mid-thirties working for a rather large and well-respected broadcaster. Married. Two kids. Cat. I’m originally from London, half London, half Irish, half barking mad. Throw in a great-grandfather that was a Rabbi, and you’ve got three racial stereotypes for the price of one. I’ve managed to break out of this cycle and have now tell everybody I know that I’m Australian. I can live with the shame, cobber.

Currently living in a luxury beach-front condo on the south coast of England (OK, it’s a semi-detached in Weymouth, Dorset) and working in a secret location somewhere in the Thames Valley.

“Why Scaryduck?”

And why not? It’s a daughter thing. She came up with the name when she was about four years old and having frankly bonkers nightmares. Scary is a genuine rubber duck, currently living in a box in the loft for his own safety. She also has a cuddly bunny called Robber Rabbit, who robs stuff, while Scaryduck Jr has a penguin called Fletcher who likes fish and has his own weblog. Which is also mostly about fish.

“Why isn’t this a conventional Blog?”

Because conventional blogs are BORING. Check out any blog at random and it’s invariably the incredibly dull diary of someone with nothing to write about, but the’re going to write pages of it anyway. How they Hate Their Parents, How they Hung Out at the Mall with Weirdo and Spiggy, Aren’t Linkin Park Great, and Here’s A Kule Site I Found. Arse.

I only link to a few that I find different - b3ta, parallax view, Arseblog and Wil Wheaton. OK, every now and then, I throw in some dull diary stuff, but I won’t swamp you with the minutae of my life. Promise.

“Is this shit really true?”

Oh Good God yes. I am cursed with the ability to remember the most minute detail of my youth and set it down in a pithy, yet amusing anecdotal style. In true Hollywood TV movie of the week style, names have been changed and certain characters are the amalgamation of several people, but, yes, the basic facts are 100% true. We really did accidentally destroy a bus and I still get nightmares about hurtling down the side of a mountain in a wheelbarrow.

As the late Spike Milligan once said, “I’ve gone to great lengths to ensure the accuracy of my memoirs. I’ve just jazzed them up a bit.”

“Is there going to be more?”

Believe me, I’ve barely scratched the surface.

“I can’t be arsed to go through the archive. Where can I find more of your stuff?”

I keep it all backed up at www.scaryduck.co.uk for your reading delight.

“What happened to your playlist page?”

I couldn't be bothered with constantly updating it when I could be doing important stuff. Like updating the blog, for instance, or crawling under the vending machine at work looking for loose change. The same goes for any other blog project I have. Gets beaten over the head after a few weeks like a lame kitten, and left for carrion.

I'm listening to the Flaming Lips right now. Honest.

“Pic?”

If you insist.

"Fuck off, you were only 21 when that photo was taken. Own up"

I couldn't possibly comment.

"And what's all this shit about dolphin sex?"

I live in Weymouth, UK, right by the entrance to Portland Harbour. Over the last year or so, we've had the pleasure of regularvisits from Georges the Dolphin. Georges used to live off the French coast, where the locals made a bucket of cash out of See-the-Dolphin boat trips. When Georges buggered off, they sent an Ameican "expert" to try get him back. He told the assembled news media that Georges was basically a sex fiend who'd lure any swimmer out to sea and shag them to death. The press lapped it up and Filthy Georges briefly became a world-wide star.

Invariably the French money dried up, and the "expert" headed home without Filthy Georges. The press drifted away and we were left with a reasonably happy dolphin which just happened to be on the Sex Offenders Register. In defence of Filthy Georges, I have been following his story and post irregular bulletins on the number of people he's shagged to death so far.

Current number of Weymouth Dolphin Sex-related deaths: NIL

By the way, dolphin sex is extremely dangerous. Don't try it at home.

“What's this about you winning a fortune then?”

I was fortunate enough to be named the Best British Weblog of 2002, earning me the fair-to-middling sum of a thousand pounds (about US$1,600), which has all disappeared into the Buy-Mrs-Scary-A-New-Kitchen Fund.

“You must be minted, lend us a tenner”

Bugger off.

"Can you get me naked Kirstie Allsopp pictures, then?"

You heard. Bugger off.

Labels: Scaryduck

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