Now I know where I've seen the Partick Thistle mascot before


Click for bigger (170 kb)
(Mon 22nd Jun 2015, 19:25, More)

"Paint me Jack, paint me like one of your French girls"


Want a bigger and (slightly) better version? Or do you edit the "virals" page of a newspaper or lads' mag? Fill your boots here
(Sat 1st Sep 2012, 22:00, More)

KEMP!


Proof indeed that they're brothers from the East End of London.
(Wed 19th May 2010, 22:17, More)

Those bloody adverts get everywhere


Six-and-a-half years since my last Front Page - see you all again in 2016.
(Thu 29th Apr 2010, 18:15, More)

Ho. Ho. Ho.


Edit: First front page --- A Happy Furtive Season to you all!
(Fri 19th Dec 2003, 13:07, More)

» Unexpected Nudity

The true facts in the case of Mr Scarboro, Mr Martin and the mysterious disappearance of Arnold Fisher
So, I sat down and filled in the insurance form.

Date and Time of accident: 10.30pm, 3rd July.

Where were you at the time of the accident: Looking on, in abject horror, from my loft bedroom window, second floor of Scaryduck Towers, Weymouth.

Weather conditions: Dark, clear, very warm, half moon in Uranus.

Give a brief description of the accident: I was looking out of my bedroom window, which gives a panoramic view of the street below, and offers a pleasant vista over Portland Harbour. At no point, I may point out, was I using my binoculars to look into other people's houses.

My attention was drawn to the fact that my elderly neighbour, Mrs Warboys (name changed to protect the guilty), was standing completely naked in front of her bedroom window. I might not have noticed, but she had all the curtains open and the lights on. It was indeed a distraction, as they hang around her navel, and she appeared to have a poodle nesting in her groin.

Also distracted, alas, was the driver of the white Renault van, who I now know to be Mr Scarboro, whose whole-hearted attention to the 90-degree bend outside my house was cruelly wrenched away by the totally unnecessary sight of a very naked Mrs Warboys yawning, stretching and scratching her nadger at exactly the wrong moment.

With his window wound down and there being no other sound bar his van's engine, I clearly heard Mr Scarboro have cause to cry out the words "Christ on a Bike!" in surprise and alarm before failing to negotiate the bend and crash his van into Mrs Warboys' front garden.

Moments later, I saw the Ford Focus, driven by Mr Martin, drive along the same stretch of road, and similarly distracted by a naked octogenarian, collide with Mr Scarboro's van. Mr Martin did not shout out in surprise and alarm, as he was listening to The World Tonight on BBC Radio Four.

I would like to point out at this stage that while I called the Police to this incident, I am certainly not the person who quite unnecessarily called the Ambulance and Fire Brigade to the scene. We suspect this may have been the act of persons unknown after a now partially clothed and panicking Mrs Warboys ran out of the house screaming that one Arnold Fisher was trapped under the front wheels of Mr Scarboro's van.

It transpired only after a frantic search and the partial destruction of Mr Scarboro's vehicle by the Fire Service that Mr Arnold Fisher was, in fact, a garden gnome, around which Mr Warboys' ashes had been spread some years previously. Luckily, the ambulance was still on hand at this time to sedate Mr Scarboro before there was any further unpleasantness. Then he was sick inna hedge.

Who, in your opinion, caused the accident?: Mrs Warboys' minge

In the space below, draw a diagram showing how the accident occurred: Bingo!


(Thu 28th May 2009, 13:51, More)

» Professions I Hate

Duck (Scary) vs Builder vs Solicitor
I had some building work done, but got ripped off horribly when the useless workshy cunt of a builder did a runner with the job half finished. After negotiating an out-of-court settlement, the useless workshy cunt never paid up and left town leaving no forwarding address, and there followed a short exchange of letters with his legal representative, Mr Useless Money-Grabbing Cunt of a Solicitor.

Dear Mr Duck (Scary)

I represent Mr Useless Workshy Cunt of a Builder. We note from your recent communication with our office that you have referred to my client as "a bit of a crook". These comments have been seen by Mr Cunt of a Builder's former business partner, and this therefore constitutes a serious libel against my client.
A payment of £1,550 will settle this case without having to resort to the courts.

Yours etc
U.M.G Cunt of a Solicitor


Dear Mr Cunt of a Solicitor

I note with some interest the contents of your letter, and respond as follows:

1. I have spoken to Mr Cunt of a Builder's former partner, who tells me that your client has absconded owing him £2,500 and agrees wholeheartedly that he is a "bit of a crook"
2. He also notes that your office has requested £1,550 in unpaid legal fees from him, owed to you by Mr Cunt of a Builder. He has, I understand, refused to pay Mr Cunt of a Builder's bill
3. I am sure that the Law Society will agree that the sum owed to you by Mr Cunt of a Builder, and the similar sum you have requested for this alleged defamation is a complete and utter coincidence

I therefore refer you to the answer given in Arkel vs Pressdram

Your pal

Duck (Scary)

He does not reply
(Thu 27th May 2010, 12:59, More)

» The Dark

"Daddy, I'm scared of the dark!"
...said my daughter as I switched the light out one evening. Perfectly reasonable behaviour from a three-year-old, and it rested with me to do something about it.

I - like a fool - tried to reason with her.

"What," I asked, "are you scared of?"

She looked at me, abject fear written across her face and said: "Wigglewig coming."

"Wigglewig?"

"Yeah," she repeated vewy vewy softly "Wigglewig coming"

"Who... what.. is Wigglewig?"

"He big an' fuzzy an' scary wiv a big tail an' he got sharp teeth an' HE COMING"

"So, where does he live? Under your bed?"

She pointed.

She pointed over my shoulder, out of her bedroom to the room over the landing. The bathroom.

"He lives in the bathroom."

"Yeh. Wigglewig coming."

"Where?"

She jumped out of bed, clutched Kung Fu Bunny to her chest, said "Shhh! Don't wake him up!" and led me by the hand.

"There he is. Is Wigglewig."

"That's the bog brush."

"Yeah. Wigglewig. He coming to get me."

She is nearly fifteen now. I can't wait until - one day - the Father-of-the-Bride speech.
(Fri 24th Jul 2009, 12:07, More)

» Food sex

Sucker
"Bloody hell – what's that in the corner?"

Returning home from a night off the leash on the last day of our Air Cadets annual camp – in which we were quite rightly flung out of a local pub after one of our number asked for "a cup of beer, please mister" – we trooped into a darkened barrack room to be met with a mysterious shape on one of the beds at the far end.

Someone switched on the lights with the pink-pink-pink-hum you only get with ancient fluoresent tubes. God, I wish they hadn't done that.

It was Marky. Marky was naked. Marky was naked, on his barrack room bed, sucking himself off in a manner that would make any yoga aficionado proud. That which has been seen cannot be unseen, and the sight of the skinny wretch playing a solo on the pink oboe will live for me for the rest of my life.

And if there's one rule in the cadet forces, it is this: Never, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be caught by your peers sucking yourself off in the barrack room. Publicly disgusted but secretly impressed, "You sick, sick fucker" and "Just wait until we tell EVERYBODY" and "I'm gonna puke" rang out as others ran in to see what the fuss was about.

And then, Gaz pointed at something. Something on Marky's cock, which by now resembled the nozzle on a rapidly deflating airbed. Normally, you'd be vilified for looking at your mate's hampton, but these were extraordinary circumstances.

"Jesus H – are you bleeding?"

"N...N...No," stammered Mikey, who was only just recovering the power of speech, "It's jam."

Strawberry jam.

"I stick me cock in the jam," he said with a new-found air of belligerence, "...an' then I suck it off."

"Wait..." I ask, dreadful thoughts filling my head, "how often have you done this?"

Not the words I wanted to hear: "Every night since we got here. There's fuckloads in the kitchen."

"I had jam on my toast this morning. You didn't...?"

The question that did not need to be asked. But he nodded anyway.

We covered him in jam and left him naked and screaming on the other side of the airfield. That learned him.
(Fri 7th Aug 2009, 13:33, More)

» Nightclubs

Murder on the Dancefloor
Ah, student night. An excuse for our local shambles of a nightclub to rip off a new set of customers, this time to a jangly indie soundtrack in what could only be described as a bomb shelter under a multi-storey car park. In Bracknell.

"Two pints of bitter, please"

"We don't do bitter"

"Right, two pints of lager, please"

"We don't do pints"

"Oooookay... two bottles of pils, then"

"Ten quid"

Disgusted at the prices behind the bar, we decided to throw some shapes on the dancefloor to see if we could impress any passing young ladies.

Sadly, the only lady of any description was the local fat goth, in a black leather dress made out of at least half a dozen cows. She'd do.

A request for The Smiths got me dancing like a spastic passing a magnet factory to This Charming Man (a song that invites dancing like a spastic passing a magnet factory) in my ...err... rather unique style that resembles the moving parts at a wind farm.

It was this exact moment that the captain of the college rugby club (a huge rugger-bugger with a double-barrelled surname) took out a small mortgage for a round of drinks, and carried the entire tray across the dance floor to the rest of his equally beefy chums.

Despite the music being around 150 decibels, you should still hear the "SPA-A-A-N-G-G-G!" as my windmilling arms swiped the tray out of his arms and showered him with the most expensive lager known to man.

Time stood still.

Then he punched me in the face.

Then he punched me in the face.

Then, by way of variety, he kneed me in the groin, before punching me in the face again.

Mozza sang on about not having a stitch to wear, and the fat goth laughed.
(Wed 8th Apr 2009, 13:05, More)