And yet again, with unfailing regularity*, it's time for the Double Entendre Day Caption Competition, yaaaaaaay!

I've been doing some pondering over the last few weeks as to what sort of photographic imagery does it take to get you lot seriously excited, or rather, excited enough to get my box filled to capacity and get me a 69 at the same time.

And I finally decided that it was time to 'recycle' one of the most popular photos that has graced these pages, being this -

There's a scampi fry going for every entry, and a delicious bag of Cheezitz available for the person who gets me to that ever elusive 69!

Oh yeah, and if any regular readers thought that a recent photo looked familiar for some reason, they might have been comparing the above to this one.

Anyhoo, as per the norm, plz to get stuck in.

And as stuck in as hard and fast as possible, akay?

Excellent!


*Providing my intermanet connection behaves itself.

Surprize!

I recently worked out that I've walked a certain road about 12250 times in my lifetime.
It's the road that gets me to the local shops, pubs and bus links, so I walk along it fairly regularly, and most of the times I've done so, nothing very exciting has happened.
One time when I was about fourteen wasn't very nice as I'd just got off a bus and was heading home when this man I'd never seen before in my life came up along side me asking where I was going, and he'd walk with me to 'look after me'.
Thankfully some friends of mine lived right next to where we were, so I hammered at their door until they let me in, then we waited until he'd gone before my friend's boyfriend walked me home.
Another time I found a fabulous crystal ball that someone had left out for collection, but that wasn't so much a surprize as a wonderful moment of serendipity.
The road itself isn't even very exciting. Pub and car sales place at the top end, rows of almost identical terraced houses most of the way along on both sides, side roads leading to other places along one side, and near the very end, a couple of shops before you get to the park on one side and a school playing field on t'other. Where the shops are, the gardens stop and they have a forecourt instead of a garden, which where deliveries are dropped off, and boxes are left for collection by fence of the last garden, and there I once found a murdered Barbie doll, which was a great photo opportunity.
And as I already said, nothing very exciting ever happened.
Except the time I was walking back from work one day.
It was a lovely spring afternoon; buds were budding, trees were shooting leaves, bees were bumbling, and I was walking along the road enjoying the moment.
I was miles away thinking about something when I got to the the end of the row of houses where the gardens ended and gave way to the forecourt, when as if from nowhere, a medium-sized, collie-type dog launched itself at me with an almighty "WOOF!"
I fell over backwards as the dog grabbed hold of my knee with its mouth and I was expecting a bite, but no bite came.
Instead the dog just held onto my leg making muffled wuffing noises and wagging it's tail.
I sat up and looked at the dog which simply carried on wuffing and wagging until I said "Excuse me dog, but what the fuck hell do you think you're doing?"
At that the dog looked at me and after letting go of my leg PDQ, rolled over into an extremely apologetic and submissive position.
I shakily got to my feet while the dog carried on grovelling an apology and after I gave it a strict telling off, the dog covered its eyes with its paws while I walked off homeward once again.
I never saw the dog again, and nor have I been the victim of a dog's practical joke either.
But I would loved to have known who the dog's intended victim was and had a video camera at the ready.

Monday. n. mún-dey or mún-dee n. Abbr. Mon. or M. The second day of the week.
[Middle English, from Old English Mnandæg (translation of Latin lnae dis, day of the moon) : mnan, genitive of mna, moon; see moon + dæg, day; see day.]

Also, Monday is generally known as the worst day of the week, mostly because of its association with the return to the working week, which after Sunday (being a day of rest in many cultures) is a stressful time for those persons who need more R&R than the weekend can usually offer.
In modern culture, the song 'I don't like Mondays' by the popular beat combo, 'The Boomtown Rats', epitomizes many persons attitude toward the day.

If I'd have had anything to do with the lyrics to 'I don't like Mondays', I would have tried to get a 'really' into the title, but then it wouldn't have rhymed.

I know many other people who dread Mondays and I don't blame them one iota, but instead of spending the day wallowing in a state of hungover piteousness and general loathing of all things work related, I've decided instead to make it a habit to list all the good things that have happened to me since the last one.
And so, here is my list of 'Very Happy Things That Have Happened To Me Since Last Monday'.

1. I got to meet a friend of mine that although I have 'known' through the intermanet for about three years, had not until Friday met face-to-face, and Cora was as lovely in person as I'd imagined. We had a fabulous time scampering around London, scoffed a delicious lunch at an excellent restaurant, polished off the meal with a couple of outrageously large Amarettos, and generally had a brilliant day!

2. Went to Karaoke at my local (which I have totally forgotten to mention has been taken over by new management who know how to run a pub properly, and are welcoming to the locals!) and had a bash at singing a couple of songs including 'Big Spender', and over the rest of the week had other regulars telling me that I was the best singer there that night, and that I was really, really good! I think they might need their hearing tested, but it was nice of them to say so!

3. Today I got invited out for a meal later on in the week by a friend, so I have something to look forward to!

4. A good friend of mine helped me out big time by sending me some cash so that I've been able to switch my central heating on for a few days!

5. Today the ex-partner-in-crime bought a huge piece of beast to roast, and tonight I had a scrummy Sunday Dinner with all the trimmings, washed down with a couple of glasses of Chianti* and then flopped in front of an open fire while watching some of my fave programmes.

6. Next weekend I'm off to another DAS do, so I'm also looking forward to beating up my friends before getting stuck into another tasty, mead splashed banquet!

My life ain't perfect, but sometimes it's pretty darn good.

Oh, and as it's Monday, your options for this week's Choose-O are -

• Surprize!
• Speech

And I shouldn't have to remind you to tell me all about how your weekends were while you're down there, or, why not list any good things that have happened to you in the last week?
Happy Thingummies everybody! And I hope you have a fabulous day!

*No fava beans though.

So, last night I was chatting to my friend over a bottle of vino when the topic went to 'Worst Fears'.

I said that being somewhere where I can't see where I'm putting my feet makes me extremely anxious, and that one of my worst fears would be going blind.

My friend agreed, and asked me how I reckoned I'd cope, to which I replied,
"Seriously, if I went blind I'd want someone to shoot me in the head while I wasn't looking!"

It took me a while to figure out why my friend convulsed with laughter after I'd said it.

*sigh*

'ello again ma li'l chickadees!

I hope today finds you all as excited as I am and simply champing at the bit to get down and dirty in my box and give it a thorough stuffing!

I've had trouble controlling my urges for days and nearly got into trouble when I spotted a police officer wielding his truncheon in a most exciting manner, but luckily for me I managed to blag my way out of the situation by introducing a small rubber duck and a sherry trifle to the situation.

But anyways, you're not here to hear about that are you?
On no, I know what you're after and as I always try to satisfy, I've sorted you something special for this week's Caption Competition.

And so, your photo is -

Get stuck in there my honeys, and give it all you've got!
Your reward for your endeavours? A wad of chewing tobacco for every entry, and an extra large tin of spinach is available should anyone be fabulous enough to get me to a 69!

So...

Over to you then.

Give it all you've got and then some!

Home Economics

Lots and lots of moons ago when I was forced to go to school, I was made to take Home Economics, more commonly known as, 'Cooking'.
At that time, I'd been fending for myself at home for about five years, ever since aged eight, I'd rustled up a meal of tinned meatballs, instant mash, and frozen green beans. Not 'haut cuisine' I grant you, but everything was cooked properly, was ready at the same time, and my dog Chips and I enjoyed it.
I'd also been helping around the kitchen ever since I could remember doing such important jobs as stirring the Christmas Cake, cutting out gingerbread men, and licking the spoon afterwards.
Both my parents cooked and over the years I picked up loads of useful catering tips, most importantly one from my dad being, 'Do not drop a knife on your foot when you are only protected by socks', and for many, many years I believed I was the only person in the house who knew how to make tea*.
So for me, Cooking 101 was a doddle.
The Home Economics teacher was a 'Miss', aged about fifty, and looked like she'd been stuck in the 1950s with an attitude to match.
Children were to be seen, not heard, and she tried to rule the cookery class with an Iron Spoon.
As you might well imagine, this attitude did not go down well with a motley group of thirteen years olds who had grown up in the 1070s, and every opportunity to belittle the teacher was seized with relish, and if possible, extra mayonnaise.
Every week we'd troupe into the Home Ec. room clutching our boxes containing whatever ingredients needed for whatever it was we were going to make that day.
The lessons, apart from what we were cooking, never varied in structure. Firstly, the teacher would write the ingredients needed on the blackboard, and then the method before giving us a lecture on how important it was to follow the instructions exactly to the letter. An ounce either way of flour in a cake mixture would ruin the finished product rendering it inedible, and woe betide the child who failed to Clean Up As They Went Along.
Many times a pupil would be scared witless by her sneaking up behind them as (for example)they added the flour straight from the packet instead of sifting it and get a wooden spoon smack down on the counter next to them as the message of 'Never do that again!' was yelled in their ear.
The teacher's method of marking the end product, was that we would put our cakes (or whatever) on a plate with our names written on a piece on paper which was then hidden by the food, and then the teacher would test each cake for quality, texture and taste.
Every week I would get screamed at for doing something wrong; either I'd rubbed the flour in the wrong way, or I'd added too much egg yolk, in fact pretty much every thing I did was wrong in her opinion, and despite her yelling at me that I would never, ever make a decent cook, she would unfailingly give me top marks for my end product, and the irony wasn't lost on her either.
Now, thirteen year olds, no matter how usually well behaved they are, will eventually rebel under the regime of a tyrant, and one fine day we did just that.
We'd planned everything well in advance, and come the day we were all due to make drop scones which meant we had plenty of eggs and flour in our boxes.
The lessons lasted the whole of the afternoon without a break for us, but the teacher would say to us that she had to go back to check on something important in the staff room with unfailing regularity, which we all knew meant she was sneaking out for a cigarette. This gave us ten minutes alone in the Home Ec. room unsupervized.
Hurrah!
Nearly a whole term of being screamed at and scared witless by random spoon attacks had led to us feeling rather resentful, and all of us had come up with an idea of how to bring the teacher down a peg or two.
It was the last day of term. All of us had brought in extra flour, and one boy had stored some eggs that were past their prime in an airing cupboard for over a fortnight.
As soon as the harridan went for her fag break we sprang into action.
We got out our extra flour and put it into one of the large plastic storage boxes that were kept in the room, before very carefully balancing it on the top of the door which we'd left open ever so slightly.
Some of the eggs were placed in the teachers desk and the remainder were secreted in her handbag.
Not one of us batted an eyelid as the teacher entered the room and the flour landed right on her head enveloping her in a cloud of white and spluttering somewhat.
For the first time ever, she didn't scream. We all carried on with our drop scones without even a glance in her direction.
She went to get the headmaster who informed us that we'd be in serious trouble come the next term, but I wasn't too bothered as I was leaving the school anyway, which sadly meant I never got to find out what happened about the rancid eggs.
If that teacher happens to be reading this, it wasn't my idea, but I'm not very sorry about it.
And as to you saying I'd never make it as a cook, who's laughing now, eh?

*Ever since I made my first cuppa aged three, both my parent told me they didn't know how to make a cup for themselves so of course, feeling very proud of myself, I'd show them how, but for some reason they never got the hang of it.

Wow! For once on a Monday morning, my computer is behaving itself properly and is not to blame for The-ex-partner-in-crime's inability to log-in to the new Driving School that he's started working for!
I've just spent about an hour downloading and setting up the files for him so that he can 'talk' with the new school and was trying to connect when their intermanet connection failed, not mine!
Shame my 'puter didn't want to work on Friday, but such is the way of belligerent, bloody-minded inanimate objects. Those 'robot' toys that can 'think' for themselves really scare me, btw. If they can 'think', then it's only a short step to them running amok wielding screwdrivers and trying to dismantle us just because they've had a bad day.
I do not like that idea one iota.

Anyways, as it's Monday again, it's time for the weekly Choose-O, and your options are -

• Home Economics
• Surprize!

And as always, please tell me all about your Hallowe'en weekends while you're down there, akay?
Happy thingies, everyone!
It's good to be back online! x

A few weeks ago I was very busy watching something on television when someone knocked at my front door.
In the hope that it was someone bringing me something nice, I went to answer only to find a woman claiming to be from the local council standing on my doorstep.
She 'hello'ed' me, and then informed me that her office had had recent complaints from persons living near my house, of rats, frequently being seen coming and going from my garden and onto the road.
She then asked me if I'd ever seen any rats (or signs thereof) in my garden, and I honestly replied that no, I had not, although over the almost thirty years I'd been living here, I had seen plenty of rats on the other side of the embankment, especially after people had been fly-tipping rubbish over the railway track boundary fence.
Then she thanked me for my time, smiled, and bade her farewells.
Later that same evening I met up with the ex-partner-in-crime, told him about the visit, and asked him if he'd ever seen any rats in my garden.
He replied that no, he hadn't, and after a discussion we came to the conclusion that if any rats had ever tried to make a home for themselves out there, the resident foxes would have probably had them for breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner and that although (and I do admit) my garden is getting very overgrown and looks rather a mess, there were no rats living in it.
Now, the reason my garden is in the state that it's in, is because I am simply unable to do the gardening on my own. I suffer from arthritis, and the garden is rather bigger than your average 'back yard' as it's about half an acre in size if you include the big bit of land for which I pay a peppercorn rent per annum to Railtrack.
Even without the rented land which accounts for about half the garden, I am still left with a helluva lot of garden to deal with, and honestly, I am not able to sort it out by myself.
Add to that fact I am also living below the poverty line and don't have any spare cash to fix things such as the fence which is falling down, or pay anyone to help me, it's now wonder the garden looks like the sort of place one might meet a Doctor Livingstone or discover a new breed of exotic creature.
But I most certainly do not have rats in it.
Today, I was extremely busy watching a slanging match discussion on Trisha, when I heard a knock at the door, and again, hoping it could be someone bearing ducks, I went to see who was there.
This time it was a man who showed me an ID card which backed up his claim that he worked for Ealing Council, and he was at my door as one (or more) of the neighbours had reported sightings of rats coming and going from my garden again.
He asked me if I'd mind if he went to have a look around my garden for any signs of anything ratty, and I said that of course he could.
After all, I don't have rats in my garden.
After about fifteen minutes, he knocked again and told me that he'd searched every part of my garden including in the garage, down the far side of the house, the whole of the embankment, (and part of the pond by mistake) and had found no traces of rats anywhere.
I replied that I could have told him and saved him the bother, but as he said, someone had been making lots of complaints and he had a duty to investigate as of course, rats are considered a serious health and safety problem.
I agreed, and asked if he'd met the foxes while doing his search to which he replied that if I had foxes, it would be very unlikely to have rats as well.
Anyway, he apologized for taking up my time and went off to fill in his report, which will no doubt in the due course of time, end up in the hands of whichever neighbour it was of mine who made the complaints and allegations in the first place.
Now, I doubt very much that that person is reading this, but if you are, why the f*ck couldn't you have simply knocked at my door and asked me about any rat sightings?
If you don't like the way my garden looks, then please note that neither do I, and if the shoe was on the other foot, I'd be the first person asking you if you were alright, and would you like a hand getting your garden sorted as I know how difficult a job like that can be for a single person, especially if they have arthritis.
But then again, it's a far easier thing to do to pick up a phone and make allegations instead of trying to get to know your neighbours nowadays, isn't it.
Just think, if everyone keeps up with the same attitude as yours, you'll probably end up on your own, with neighbours complaining about the smell, and rats running in and out of your house because no-one bothered to see if you were alright.
And by the time the council came round to check, you'd died.

'allo again mes petits pamplemousses, and bienvenue to yet another fabulous Double Entendre Day!

I don't know about you, but today I'm in the mood for going up to a police officer and asking if he fancies showing me his truncheon, but knowing my luck he'd probably think I was trying to chat him up, when what I really want is to see and feel the size of his weapon...

But never mind, you lot can help me overcome my urges by coming up with as many fabulous witticisms and snappy one-liners in response to the photo for today's Caption Competition, the photo for which is -

Give it all you've got and then some, as I need a 69!
It's been far too long since I got one and should you be the one to get me there, you'll receive a delicious Screaming Orgasm for your effort!
And to keep you going while you whip me into a frenzy of antici...







pation, you'll get a yummy, scrummy, chocolate liqueur to titillate your taste buds.

So what are you waiting for?

Get.

Stuck.

In!

The Barking

This all happened back when I was about thirteen years old and was at home with my mum and dad, and our two dogs, Sheba and Chips.
It was on a cold, dark, autumn evening when we were all about to turn in for the night when there was a knock at the door.
My dad, wearing his dressing gown,went to answer it and found one of our neighbours from across the road on the doorstep who was also wearing a dressing gown.
After I managed to stop Sheba and Chips barking the neighbour asked us if we'd heard the barking coming from the top of the embankment that was part of our back garden.
As the embankment was higher than our house, the noise had gone literally over our heads, but the neighbour assured us that the barking had been going on for nearly two hours and was still going strong.
My dad got a torch and went with the neighbour to investigate.
I watched from the doorway as they cautiously began to climb the slope towards the source of the barking and carried on watching as they ran back towards the house after the barking got rather louder and closer.
My dogs heard that barrage of woofing and decided to join in, which wasn't very helpful but it did send whatever it was that was making the noise on the embankment, back up to the top of the slope again.
My dad told us that it was a very large dog up there, probably a doberman or a rottweiler and after a quick discussion between my mum, dad, and the neighbour, they decided that the best thing to do was to call the Police to see if they could help catch the dog.
All this time the dog carried on barking. I reckoned it must have been at it for nearly three hours, and couldn't figure out why it hadn't lost its voice, but it must have been in a lot of distress to carry on so.
Anyway, the cavalry, or rather two police officers with a noose-on-a-stick thingy arrived, and they also cautiously climbed the slope while carrying a torch to see where the dog was and what it was doing.
My mum, dad and neighbour stayed to help round up the dog but I was told to go stay in the house and try and calm down Sheba and Chips, especially Chips, who by this time was bristling with rage knowing that a strange dog was on his patch, and he wasn't having any of it if he got loose.
So as the police, my parents and the neighbour tore around the garden after the dog, I tore around the house after my dogs as they ran from room to room, following the dog outsides movements.
And as they ran around, they barked.
And barked.
And barked some more.
After a couple of minutes I realized I could hear another dog barking somewhere. I listened carefully from an upstairs window and realized that my friend's dog who lived two gardens away had also joined in. As had the dog that lived across the road, the dog that lived further up the road, and another dog that was just passing by along with its human.
It sounded like all the dogs in the vicinity had joined in and were barking for all they were worth.
The noise was incredible. Now and again there would be a little howl from somewhere, but mostly all you could hear was barking from all around and drowning out nearly every other noise except for a very a large passing train.
I wish I'd had something I could have recorded it on, but even if I had been able to, I doubt I could have done the barking justice without the aid of some very snazzy quadraphonic speaker set up type thing.
If Dodie Smith had heard it, I reckon the Starlight Barking would have been a very different book indeed.
But eventually the police managed to catch the dog with the aid of their noose-on-a-stick thingy, and as I calmed down Chips and Sheba, the barking dwindled to the occasional 'wuff' and eventually ceased altogether.
My mum came back into the house and asked me to help make some tea for the police, the neighbour and my dad, and after putting the kettle on I borrowed the dog's water bowl and went out to let the stray dog have a drink.
The poor thing was still on the end of the noosestickthing, and was glaring balefully at the police and letting out the odd low growl, but straight away I could tell he was more scared than angry.
He gulped down the water in seconds, so I filled it up again and after making the tea, got the poor dog a bowl of food.
Again, he emptied the bowl in seconds before turning to me and giving a huge burp which I decided to take as a 'thank you'.
The police and my parents were still very wary about the dog, but I felt so sorry for it I grabbed a couple of biscuits meant for the police, and went over to the dog and hand fed them to him before giving him a pat and a cuddle.
The police stared at the scene in amazement before turning to my parents and asking,
"Why couldn't we have just sent her up there with the biscuits in the first place?" as the dog snuggled up to me and chomped on the digestives.
Sadly, the police had to take the dog away, but after a couple of days we heard that he'd been safely returned to his humans who'd been searching for him after he ran off after being spooked by a firework.
Amazingly, the dog had travelled all the way from Kent before ending up in our back garden, and his owners had thought they'd never see him again.
For about a month after, each time a dog barked it was very shortly followed by a very loud "Shut up!" from the human nearest to it.
And I've never heard The Barking since.

To the very charming woman who called me yesterday afternoon.

Your family in Australia sound wonderful, and the grandchildren I'm sure, are all little angels, although I do think your daughter should take the toddler to the doctors if the rash gets any worse.
I'm sure your son-in-law will find another job soon, but it would probably be a good idea to stop relying on 'hitting the big time' just because he won that prize out of all the other 200 or so contestants at the karaoke competition last year.
On to topics closer to home, I do think it disgraceful that your neighbours erected their new fence two inches over the border of your garden, but I seriously doubt they did it on purpose just to spite you, and I'd recommend you simply ask them nicely to move it back instead of getting the police involved. After all, it is only two inches, and I honestly don't think they're trying to take over your garden bit by bit.
I'm sorry to hear that your ingrowing toenail has gone septic, and I'm positive your GP won't think you're making a fuss over nothing if it's oozing as badly as you say it is. If you seriously don't want to see your doctor, maybe you can find out if your health centre has a chiropodist you could see instead, but please, do get it seen to asap.
As to your 'gentleman friend' you met at the club, I say Go For It! If he's as charming as you make him sound, what do you have to lose by going out for lunch with him? The worst thing that can happen is you find out you don't get on as well as you hoped, but if all goes well you might end up with a lovely new friend, and that is always a good thing. And don't worry that he might 'try things on' with you. From what you told me about his recent hip replacements I doubt he's going to be up to much of that sort of thing anyway.
And talking of operations, thank you again for telling me about your sister's recent hysterectomy in vivid detail. I still have the mental image of her stitches bursting leaving pus and blood all over the hospital bed, but as you said, she was in the best place for something like that to happen. Oh, and btw, it is not possible to catch fibroids. Trust me on that.
Again, as I said it was lovely of you to call me and fill me in on all aspects of your life within the space of an hour, but please, please believe me when I tell you again, I am not your brother's niece.
You really did have the wrong number.

To every one else who's reading this, your Choices for today's Choose-O are -

• Home Economics
• Surprize!
• The Barking
  

And as per usual, don't forget to tell me all about your weekends while you're down there, akay?

Extra, 15:09 hours.
Can anyone guess what this is?

No photoshop or digital trickery involved, just a straight forward 'click and go' photo.
But of what?

And so the weekend beckons once again, and so I've decided to play another game that might hopefully let your brains unwind and switch from work mode to play mode.

And the game is this. A new version of an old theme, what you do is to think up as many different uses you can for an ordinary, everyday item, other than the obvious, for example.
A brick.

A brick can be used to make houses, but then you can also uses it to strike a match on, or as a doorstop, or cut in half and placed in a sock, can make a handy weapon. Get the idea? Excellent.

In that case, your item to ponder over is,

A rubber duck.

Over to you, and have as fabulous a weekend as possible.

ttfn,

An anecdote for Thursday, #1.

Years and years ago a friend of mine lived in Fulham and I'd often stay over at weekends if I'd been out on the town.
The landlord of the flat also owned the shop below and another house across the road which he was renovating with the intention of renting it out at exorbitant rates to people who could ill afford to do so.
This man also had a dog. It was a pedigree Doberman, aged about three years old, and although many people thought the dog was fierce, it was in fact soppy as a Mills and Boon story and daft as a very daft brush.
The owner was an arsehole. No other way of describing him without being too rude, but he was the type that thought having wads of cash, a big car and a fierce dog made him a Big Man. The only thing big about him was his waistline, and he was also a bully to boot, especially towards his poor dog.
Most of the day, the poor thing would be chained to a safe in his house with only a bowl of water for company, and the chain wasn't even long enough to enable the doggy to stretch his paws properly.
On the occasions that the man took the dog into his shop, he'd think nothing of teasing it and one time squirted lighter fuel up the poor animal's bum
I'd made up my mind to contact the RSPCA but before I got a chance to do so, the man took the dog to the nearby park.
The dog looked forward to his walkies big time, as it was the only chance he got to run about and enjoy himself, and if the owner was in a particularly good mood, he'd even throw a stick for him which the dog loved to chase.
One fine day, the owner took the dog to the park and after a while, threw the dog a stick.
The dog ran after the stick, got to where the stick had landed, and simply carried on running.
It ran.

And ran.

And ran some more.

And then it ran out of the park and off in the general direction of Chiswick, never to be seen again.

I can't say I blamed it one iota, and if anybody reading this found and adopted a Doberman back in the late 80s, give him a pat from me, akay?

--------------------------------------------------------------

PS. Please give a big round of applause to Scaryduck for holding the fort admirably yesterday while once again my intermanet connection failed.
I blame the rain.

Wednesday's Caption-me-up-u-like

Misty's broken the internet again, so it's down to me to come to the rescue with a caption compy.

I WAS planning on doing that George-Bush-and-the-Turkey pic again, until this assaulted me in my pics folder.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking, somebody's broken their ASBO again.

Get in there.

Your pal, Duck (Scary)