"The interesting and varied life of Scary Duck, Genius, French Cabaret Chantoose and small bets placed."
"Disney"
"Floridian Rodents"
These pages are filled to brimming with my most awful
confessions. I've done a poo in the shed. I've spewed all over the pert, heaving
norks of a lovely, lovely potential girlfriend, and I once gave somebody a
bottle of my own piss as a present. I have told you these things with little or
no embarrassment, and have even gone as far as having a choice few bound into
book form.
So now, I confess to an awful lapse of taste.
Oh, God.
I've been on holiday to Disneyland.
In fact:
I've been on holiday to Disneyland four times.
Granted, three of these trips were to the tatty establishment in Paris, where I
spent my time stealing soap from the cleaners' trolleys (it's not as if they'd
be getting much use in France as it is), and deliberately spreading myself out
in a restaurant to make sure that Ron Weasley out of Harry Potter and his
enormous entourage of grannies, family and assorted hangers-on got a really
crappy table by the toilets.
I will also admit to a certain amount of enjoying myself, and count Scaryduck
Junior's unfortunate groping of Minnie Mouse's pert mousy breasts as the height
of my short existence on this planet. He'll go far, that boy.
Disneyland in Florida is like no other place on Earth. To start with, Florida is
like no other state in the Union, as it's the place they send all the misfits
and nutters from the rest of the country. It's looked on like we might regard
the unfortunates who live in, say, Cornwall. Hi, Dad.
I've seen some of the most frightening things in my life at Disney in Florida,
because, regardless of what they say, it is not the bestest place in the world.
I have never, for example, seen quite so many enormously fat people in one
place. It's like they were drawn together by their own gravitational fields and,
once in orbit, were unable to get away. One fella (at least I assume he was male
- the tits were so disconcerting) was so big, he could only propel himself
around the park in a wheelchair that was cobble together out of three regular
chairs and a scaffolding pole. Even Goofy fled in abject fear.
Second, there was my crap celebrity spot. I'd already seen TV's Victor Meldrew
on the plane, and annoyed him, along with about 250 others with choruses of "I
don't BELIEEEEEVE IT" for the whole ten hour flight, but I was unprepared for
what was to come, even though I was aware that Florida is where footballers and
C-Listers go to get away from it all.
Big Mo from Eastenders. In a bikini. A tiny, tiny bikini. With spider's legs
sticking out.
"Bowk", I said, losing control of my breakfast. "Bowk."
It would be enough to send a sane man back to the airport, but, as you well
know, I am not Mr Sanity. "Bowk."
And so we made our way into the Magic Kingdom (TM) to marvel at the overpriced
shops and forced jollity. I wore my best rictus grin, and "Have a Nice Day"-ed
everyone I could, drawing fearful looks from Mrs Duck as I tipped a disappointed
waiter one Disney dollar.
Taking a break in the blazing heat, we watched, with several dozen other
holidaymakers, the sight of a mother duck ushering her cute ickle ducklings
across a small pond in the middle of the park.
"Aaaah, ain't they cute?" observed a 30-stone American from behind a
catering-sized bag of candy floss.
The crowd coo-ed and aah-ed as the family of ducks bobbed around in the water,
quacking to each other in the cutest, fluffiest way imaginable.
Yes. One had to agree. Yes, they were cute. And so, so Disney.
Right up to the moment that a large spiky stork swooped out of the Floridian sky
scooped up one of the cute little ducklings in its bucket-like bill and set
about killing it to death and eating it with a specially prepared orange sauce
it had brought along.
There were screams. And cries. And more screams as parents, children and
lardarses fled in horror.
"Stop it!" someone shouted. "In the name of pity, STOP IT! This is supposed to
be Disney!"
Others, expressing the kind of free enterprise that has made the United States
of America what it is today, joined in:
“Stop it! Stop it someone! I’ll sue!”
For the fat woman next to me, it was all to much. She took one final munch at
the candy floss, swallowed hard a couple of times, and bowked rich, pink vomit
down the front of her one-size-fits-all circus tent.
The stork, fearing nothing,and undoubtedly having seen it all before and
feasting on the bloated corpses, looked me in the eye, turned, and went back for
seconds.
Donald Duck had better watch his feathery arse.
While this story is based on actual events in the life of Scaryduck, certain identities and venues may have been changed to protect the innocent.
