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This is a question Dad stories

"Do anything good for your birthday?" one of your friendly B3TA moderator team asked in one of those father/son phone calls that last two minutes. "Yep," he said, "Your mum." Tell us about dads, lack of dad and being a dad.

Suggested by bROKEN aRROW

(, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 11:50)
Pages: Latest, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

My dad dropped me off at boarding school and I gave him a massive cuddle which he returned and a big kiss on the lips (as a Dad, that's allowed).

He died 4 days later - I never saw him alive again.

(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 12:19, 6 replies)
Oh go on, another one!
Post numero 2!

Last year, I took a job with a certain large, red telecommunications company - the same one my Dad still currently works for. Halfway through my tenure there, I moved from Hampshire (where they, and my Dad, are based) to Brighton - a good 200 miles, so I was doing the whole 2.5 hour commute. The job itself was...bleh. I didn't mind it, but I wasn't particularly enjoying it, certainly didnt feel worth the commute. I worked under a complete, religious, up-his-own-butthole twunt called Matt (for that is his name). No one liked Matt. No other departments. No one. He was hired onto the company via the preverbial 'golden handcuffs' and so didn't really do anything, but was paid 80k a year to do so. One day earlier this year, a Friday no less, 2 days after he was told he had 90 days to find another job within the company otherwise he was fired, he decided to take his frustration out on me. He waited until after my 2.5 hour train journey to get into the office, then took me into an office at 9am to say "I'm firing you for gross misconduct. I'll pay you for a week but don't come in again." The reason? For doing a job he'd asked me to do ontop of my standard duties. Dick.
How is this Dad related you say? Well as I said earlier, my Dad and I worked for the same company, albeit in different departments. I've always had a bit of a hang up with my Dad - in general he's a good guy, but, he's never really been that supportive. Not in an abusive way don't get me wrong, but, would never say "well done" when I did well at school, or come and see any of my gigs etc. Equally, he was a man who, although swore regularly, ferverently refused to say anything particularly harsh, such as "fuck".

Back to the story. After I was fired, I left a note on my Dad's desk explaining, and went on the long-haul train back to Brighton. My Dad called me later. Apparently Matt (who he'd long had a distaste for) wandered over to his desk at one point and said "So how do you feel?" in a fairly smug demeanour. Dad's response?
"How do you think I fucking feel you stupid twat? You fired my son. You think I'm going to be fucking happy about it? You're a fucking bully, its no wonder you're going you egotistical arsehole. Are you you really that fucking stupid? Fuck off" Before practically having to be held back by his co-workers from punching Matt in the face.

The happy ending? Matt was refused a job anywhere else in the company so lost his job, I got a new, better paid, closer to Brighton job for a rival telecommuncations company which I love, and the relationship I have with my Dad now couldn't be better. I fucking love that guy :D

Length? 8 months too long
(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 11:56, 25 replies)
My brothers came to visit at the weekend, which provided some discussion about our dad.

We don’t see him that often, around three or four times a year. He’s the type of guy who’s quite annoying and lies a lot. For example, telling us that he was in the MOD, that he was going to get a pilot’s license, that he once played pool with Paul Hogan (this was at the height of his Crocodile Dundee fame; I think dad thought that this would impress us).

But whilst we laugh at him, we also laugh with him. One of my favourites was when he took the boys and our cousin Ted camping when they were younger. Ted was quite a chubby eleven year old, and couldn’t keep up with my dad and brothers on a hike. Rather than slow down to accommodate his young nephew, dad turned around and shouted down the mountain: “HURRY UP YOU BLOODY PREGNANT OTTER”.

Whilst my friends were daddy’s girls and were dotingly called “Darling” and “Princess”, I was called “Sow”. He also that he thought I had Down’s syndrome when I was younger.

He’s been banned from one of the supermarkets in his town for throwing a trolley when he was informed that the checkout was closed.

He used to get a basket load of shopping, and then when he saw the queue had more than five people, he would just abandon the shopping and leave.

He made us do a few dine and dashes when we were younger because the waiter took too long bringing our bill.

If we ever touched the piano, he used to yell: “STOP PLAYING ON THE BLOODY JOANNA”.

I have a home video of my sixth birthday party, and when my mum is lighting the cake’s candles and counting up to six, you can hear dad say “she’s seven isn’t she?” and then: “we don’t want any spluttering on it thank you” to my group of friends.

I love my dad, but I don’t particularly like him all that much.
(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 11:42, Reply)
My sister was a typical teenager - ie - a sulky, stroppy, petulent little shit.
One day, when she wouldn't get into line, my dad threatened to come and pick her up from school wearing a silly hat.
(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 11:34, 4 replies)
Holiday Dad
My Dad seemingly becomes a different person on holiday. Normally, he's just your normal, average, middle aged Marketing Manager.

However, on holiday, he changes to a very cool bloke. For example, when I was 10 on a family holiday to Spain, we were all sat outside our tent enjoying the sun when he turns to me and my brother, smiles, and states:

"Boys - the sun is shining, the pound is strong, and I've had two beers"

The delivery alone had us creased up. On a similar future holiday, we got up in the morning, had our breakfast and coffee. He looked at his watch, went back into the villa, and came out with a big glass of brandy. The explanation? "In Spain, its 9AM. That's Brandy O'Clock!".

Then there was another holiday where randomly he decided it was time me and my brother had a 'Beer Shampoo' - yes, its exactly how it sounds. And yes, for a couple of pre-teen lads, it was fecking awesome.

Now that I think about it, I'm painting the picture that my pop is an alcoholic...
(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 11:26, 2 replies)
My mum and dad
...have been my best friends since I was born.

Some of the things my dad has done over the years would have him arrested for child cruelty these days.

For example:

Driving back from a(nother) pub in the late 70's, we came across an abandoned Puch Maxi 50cc. So, in the boot it went. My dad fixed it, made it run again, welded the pedals shut and gave me my first 'motorbike'. I was 8 years old.
This being the days of Evel Knievel, a couple of friends and I soon rigged up a 'ramp'. My dad came out, saw it and said "No, no no. That's no bloody good, you'll get hurt." And so, our 1 maybe 1.5 foot ramp became a ramp about 5 foot high. We got a run up down the street, through the alley and into the back garden where the ramp was. Up the ramp at full speed (around 28 mpg) and........bang, flop. There I was, winded and unable to speak with a Puch Maxi revving it's bollocks off on the floor. My dad says, "See. Much better".
Then of course, that following winter I NEEDED a sledge, snow had fallen overnight and taken everyone by surprise. Many kids were sliding down the hill in the village in black bin sacks, but I, and my dad, knew that they were mere amateurs.
My dad, having dabbled in the car 'industry' had a fair few cars laying around. Well, I say dabbled. That's not strictly true. At one point we had 11 cars outside our house, three on the drive, one in the back garden, and about 28 more at a little workshop he used to hire. The one in the back garden was a Ford Granada - the same model from The Professionals. Anyway, it wasn't doing much, so my old man took to it with a grinder and modeled a make-shift sledge from the boot lid. Looked the part, was nice and shiny, strong, fast and SHARP.
My sister and I got on it as he tied it to the back of his Triumph Stag, although it baffles me to this day why you'd take such a car out in the snow, and dragged us around the streets. That was until the pub opened and then he unhooked it and left us to our own devices.
We took it to the hill in the village and my sister and I took turns going down the hill. To be fair, it was MUCH faster than the kids with their bin sacks.
Then, I spied a new, fresh part of the hill that had been left intact. It was much, much steeper than the part of the hill that we were all using.
We took the sledge to the top, then argued over who should go down the hill - from the top it looked quite daunting.
I took the plunge. I shot down the hill like a bat out of hell...that is until I hit a rock covered by snow.
Now, I mentioned it was sharp right?
The sledge tipped on it's side, cut through my trousers and pants (probably yellow y-fronts with a purple Y), and...then through the end of my cock.
A little old lady happened past and saw an 8 year old boy holding his bloodied cock in his hand crying will a load of kids standing round in awe and came over. to cut a long story short, she took me home to be 'attended to'.
There were many inventions and toys that my dad fashioned out of bits and pieces that would probably have him locked up these days.
Not least of which would be the Raleigh Striker with a 75cc lawn-mower engine, or the canoe made from an old boat (we went out so far we could actually see the lights in France - it was dark when we got there, and we arrived back in England only 11 miles from where we'd set of - we were 13).
He also taught us how to 'rally drive' as he put it. Many times we would visit the golf course car park - which was gravel and about 2 miles long - and we would 'rally'. Sometimes to the point of the car not making it out alive.
Mind you, all the driving antics (he would let my sister and I drive pretty much anywhere) paid off. I passed my test 11 days after my 17th birthday, and my sister about two weeks after hers.
(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 11:16, Reply)
Dad vs Pervert
Being the youngest in the family meant that I was forced into the first shower slot – 5:30am. In order to immensely piss off my sister, I’d do my best to use all the hot water and overrun my allotted time.

One morning I was stood in the shower planning some awesome sister hate, when I heard some tapping. “Tap tap tap,” it went. “SISTER, I’M IN THE SHOWER!” I shouted. “Tap tap tap.” “GODDAMMIT. Stop being such a bitch!” “TAP TAP TAP.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Dad, hearing the commotion, roused himself from slumber to threaten both my sister and I. Only my sister wasn’t there, she was asleep. Curious, he crept into the lounge and peered out the window. And what did he find, my friends? That’s right. A man looking into the bathroom window and masturbating.

Doing what any crazed dad would do, he grabbed a rifle and gave chase. Through the snow and barefoot, he chased after this man wearing only his y-fronts. Alas, the pervert was faster than my father and he eventually gave up to make that long journey home. Through this close-knit community of 1500 people, my dad wandered the streets in his underpants just as the city was eating its breakfast.

I got into school eager to tell all of my friends about the masturbating pervert, but the students and the teachers pipped me to the question:

“Why was your dad walking down the street in his underwear holding a gun?”

Upon later inspection, the pervert had made a masturbation plinth and had had spent an incredible amount of time, effort and very early mornings knocking one off to me, a 15 year old ginger hamster-turned-teenage girl, in the shower. Dad took the first shower slot from then on.
(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 11:08, 9 replies)
or chips?
(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 11:00, 1 reply)
I miss my daddy.
I'm not going to have anyone to walk me down the aisle when I'm wearing that beautiful white dress on the happiest day of my life. I won't have a dad to cheer me on at my university graduation. I've never brought a terrified boyfriend home to meet his girlfriend's father. I never had a dad to tell me that I'm not going out dressed like that, young lady. To go tobogganing with me in the snow. To meet his grandchildren, whenever they may come along. To hold my hand while I waited in hospital to see if there was something wrong with my heart. To console me when I got my A-levels. To drop me off at uni.

My dad killed himself ten years ago last spring. I was eight. I still miss him, every single day.

I hope none of you have suicidal feelings, but if you do, please stay strong, and please don't give in - if not for any other reason than the people around you. It got too much for my daddy, and now I'll never get to know him, or hear his stories from his childhood, or ride in his Riley again.

Rest in peace, daddy.
(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 9:58, 11 replies)
That Dad!
My dad is a strange one, but sometimes I forget how strange until I introduce him to other people.
For example, when he met my long-distance boyfriend over Skype for the first time, he kept his head out of the camera view until the last minute... when he revealed he somehow had replaced his normal eyes with two chicken eggs.
Luckily, I'd moved past the stage of teenage mortification with him, but... really, Dad?!
He also:
Plays the beach ball bagpipe.
Enjoys regaling our neighbourhood with saxophone Xmas carols every year, played from our rooftop so everyone can hear them (by the way, we found out he did this by coming home early one night. Turns out he thought we'd disapprove [which we did], so he'd do it when we were out).
Runs his age in miles every year (despite not being able to walk to following week after every single time).
Used to drive a car whose door was only held shut by means of umbrella.
Once had a conversation with my boyfriend using only guitar chords.
Did performance Morris Dancing.

There are tons more, but to cut this short, my very favourite story revolves around his employment at a ski resort.
My dear dad was hired to teach ski lessons at a nice ski resort, but the lodge demanded he pay them to live there while he taught. He deduced that the cost of living there basically meant they would just keep his paycheck, so he said, "FUCK THAT!"

And built an igloo.
(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 4:33, 2 replies)
High Heels
I remember when we went on holiday to Barcelona once when I was a kid. I went into a shop with my mum and brother whilst my dad waited outside. We were only gone for about two minutes but when we returned we found my dad hunched over a postbox in agony. We were obviously concerned and asked him what had happened but he refused to tell us and limped off without saying a word. He only let slip after he'd had a few drinks later that evening.

Apparently some attractive young ladies in high heels had walked past him as he waited on the street. The first thought that came into his head was how it was possible to walk in such a confident stride in them. So he decided to put this thought into practice and put on a pair of imaginary heels and began to try and walk around. After a few seconds of impersonating a drunk velociraptor he got a cramp in one of his feet and proceeded to fall over and twist his ankle. My mum didn't look surprised in the slightest.
(, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 4:08, Reply)
My dad is no Charles Bronson but..
While walking into town one day, making his way through the churchyard, two youths aged approx 18 in his estimation, were loitering on the pathway. One of them, scoffing chips from a Mcdonalds, decided he didn't want the rest and tossed them all over the path.

My father hates litter and has a quick temper (it would also appear he hates hooded youths) upon tossing his highly nutritious meal on the ground the lads continue chatting. My dad, now stopped in disbelief, staring at the litter bug says "what was the point of that?" Receiving only a middle finger in reply, my dad snaps, throwing a right hook at hoodie number 1, the contact is spot on, he goes down like faster than a fire extinguisher being handled by a student. Rude boy number 2, shows his spunk by cowering to his knees and screaming for help.

Job done, thinks my dad and turns to continue his walk. Then he notices a copper at the end of the path watching him. My dad says he felt sure he was in the shit, but kept walking. Passing the rozzer he notices plod has a slight smile, then the copper winks at him and says "morning sir", and my dad carries on.

We can only assume he saw the whole thing, and rather than get involved, let a 57 yr old man deal with the tossers???

He isn't violent btw, never touched me, my brother or mum in his life, I think they just flipped him the bird on the wrong day?
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 22:27, Reply)
Worthy of a pearoast
My sisters and I used to pound on each other with unerring regularity.

My father once interrupted a knock-down, drag-out fight that had degenerated into my middle sister and I on the floor, pulling each other's hair and attempting to bite each other. Furious, he dragged us both out to the garage. As my father had a ferocious temper, we were already terrified about what kind of punishment we were about to receive.


At which point we both burst into tears and swear never to fight again. It was (relatively) effective, too...I don't think we really fought again for at least a fortnight, which was a bit of a record in our house
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 21:35, 3 replies)
milk (repost)
.My father, when I was around 3 or 4, would regularly ask me where milk came from. Being an intelligent child, I replied 'Cows', which would appear to be correct.
However, my Father, being the 'funny bugger' that he is, would advise me that I was correct, but he enjoyed adding that it was possible to get milk from trees, and, in fact, that is where we got our milk from. 'Bollocks' (or some such 3 year old variant) I replied, "Milk comes from Cows and cows alone"

I went to bed one evening, and The Great Bald One (TM) had an evil gleam in his eye.

I awoke, refreshed from my peaceful slumber, and my Father, excited, pointed out of the window. "There" he cried triumphantly. "Milk. On the Tree. I'll go and pick it now". And there, lo and behold, milk bottles were hanging, white and proud from the tree. He had tied milk bottles to the tree.

After that day, for a good while after, whenever people would ask where milk came from, I would reply "cows. And Trees"

He's just that kind of man. And I have become him with my own son. Lying to children for your own amusement is very funny, it is big, and it is clever.
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 19:36, 1 reply)
Recently I was in Alaska.
And yes, it's every bit as wild and beautiful as you've been led to imagine.

One of the local delicacies, however, simply had to be tried- reindeer sausage. I had some with my breakfast one morning and found it to be excellent. Still, the thought of it gave me the giggles. So I texted my son:

ME: I just had reindeer sausage for breakfast.

HIM: That's somehow evil, Dad.

ME: The other reindeer used to laugh and call him names.

HIM: Santa got tired of putting up with his shit!

ME: Should I bring some home with me?

HIM: Definitely!

ME: Hey, at Christmas we can have our own Donner party!

It went downhill from there.
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 18:52, 4 replies)
My brother's kid...
My brother's got a little boy. Turns out this little boy's also my nephew. Talk about coincidences!

So, my brother was telling me that over the summer that he was changing a light fitting in the living room. My nephew would only have been 3.

Just as my brother was removing the fitting, my nephew said, "Daddy? Did you switch off the 'lectrics?"

Turns out he hadn't, and had probably been saved a nasty shock. The kid's a genius.
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 18:12, Reply)
due to a rather mundane father and a lack of children I don't have much of a story however the moment my first sprog destroys my lovely lady friends mimsy will be the moment I have been looking forward to for quite a while.
Currently children are out of the question due to age, being sensible, other priorities, enjoying my youth and socks being unable to reproduce with humans. When the day comes though I cannot wait to become the type of Dad I'm sure my children will both love and hate. Some of these ideas have become lodged in my brain through B3ta posts, TV shows, People around me and just my general imagination, so no claims of 'Omgdz you iz robbing da internet' please.

Things I look forward to doing;
- Making totally ridiculous and ludicrous stories up and being believed by my young infantile children.
- Pulling stupid jokes and stunts and seeing their reaction. E.G got your nose. 'Oh look a bear!' WHERE!? 'oh no its gone now, you missed it' etc...
- Dancing around singing 'I shagged your mum! I shagged your mum!' whenever I have a slight falling out with them. (I'll leave this till their teenage years I think)
- Just being a general embarrassment purposely, think along the lines of Simon's dad off of The Inbetweeners. Don't watch Yhe Inbetweeners? You should its excellent.
- Wearing a wig/fake moustache/ridiculous clothes when my son or daughter brings their first boyfriend/girlfriend home.
- Meeting all my teenage daughters friends and telling myself that they all fancy me and I could probably pull anyone of them if I wanted to. Spends lots of free time thinking about how all my daughters friends will be going around college telling everyone how attractive I am. (After re-reading this its slightly worrying that I'm turning into a dirty old man already)
- When my children ask where there mum is I shall reply with 'run off with a black man'
- Making weird sacrifices to make them feel better.
crying child 'Dad i've just wee'd myself'
me 'Thats fine we all do it. Look!' *pisses oneself*
crying child becomes happy child. I hope. May need to re access my method of parenting if this doesn't work.
- Answering ridiculous questions with ridiculous answers
- Claiming to be the coolest parent with a constant competition with my wife.
- Being the coolest parent.
- Being able to show off my kids to other people knowing that I wouldn't swap them for the world.
- I'm also looking forward to all the normal soppy things but that's to be expected.

Ideally my children will be something like Ben and Karen from outnumbered. Actually the funniest and cutest kids I've ever seen.

Length? Rest of my life so I've heard. Oh god. What am i getting myself in to?
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 17:18, 2 replies)
The Universal Dad.
My parents look almost like caricatures of themselves, or the sorts of parents you'd see in a hallmark card. My mom is sweet faced and plump, and always has hugs, freshly made treats, and huge amounts of compassion at the ready for anybody who needs them. My dad has giant eyeglasses and dresses formally (slacks and button down shirts) all the time, and can always be called on to do whatever is needed whenever a crisis arises. I'm very lucky to have them both in my life.

Over the years, my parents have taken in my friends (as well as friends of my siblings) as surrogate children. Most of my friends have unpleasant family lives, either with crazy ass parents or parents too busy to care for them. Mom and dad take them all under wing. Mom used to make giant lunches for me in school so I could give my friends (most of whom were sent off with half a bag of doritos) a decent meal. She's also held friends of mine as they've cried their eyes out over things in their lives. Dad has helped out everybody to no less a degree. He's argued with school boards, landlords, insurance companies, doctors' offices, and heaven knows how many other agencies to make sure my friends get everything they need when they need it. Their own fathers seem not to give a rat's ass.

This has resulted in three permanent additions to my family: two pseudo-older sisters, and my boyfriend. One sister came from a strict and controlling asian home where she was treated badly. The other came from a conservative christian home that threw her out for being a lesbian. That sister lived with us rent free for a year until she got a job and back on her feet. My boyfriend was raised by a (batshit crazy) single mom, and never had a dad. He's latched onto mine like a well intentioned lamprey. They do a lot of "father-son" things together, and it's really sweet to watch.

My parents are the Universal Parents, and my dad the Universal Dad, ready to take anyone in need into their hearts and lives. I don't think there's a couple like them left in the world, and I love them dearly.

As an addendum, this'll tell you pretty much all you need to know about my dad's personality.

Once, when my boyfriend and my dad were doing yard work, one of them managed to put an axe through a hornet nest. I think they were splitting fallen trees and hauling the lumber away. Anyhow, as you would expect, the hornets didn't take kindly to this and started stinging them relentlessly. My boyfriend ran, screaming obscenities that would've made the toughest sailor blush with embarrassment. What did my dad do? He shouted things like "Golly!" "Yeowch!!" and "Wow, that's painful! Holy mackerel!", and swatted the hornets away from my (still fleeing) boyfriend using his hat and gloves. Not even 25 hornet stings could make my dad curse or forget the pseudo-child at his side. It wasn't until after dad made sure my boyfriend was okay that he tended to his own wounds.
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 16:57, 4 replies)
Crunchy peanut butter
The crunchy bits in said disgusting condiment, according to my old man, were bits of crushed insect. As I grew up my dad was the font of all knowledge and knew everything about everything and would happily scribble down a diagram to fortify his answer to any question I would fire at him.

Thing is, instead of holding up his hands and saying 'I don't know' Dad will insert his own wisdom in to the mix, but he is so sure of himself and speaks with such authority on anything that people either believe him or decide not to challenge him.

I now know how to read him and try to steer conversations away from the mistruth, as the thought of someone 'outing' him is not a happy prospect. I wouldn't want him to lose the aura.

I believed his assertion about the peanut butter. I was ten. The bastard.
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 16:47, 3 replies)
The Old Man and the Internet
My Dad never had a computer. He retired before they became commonplace in offices and the whole 'internet' thing simply passed him by, until very recently.

Last year my sister and I decided to get the folks online. We purchased a half-decent PC and sorted a broadband connection.

When everything was setup and working, I sat my 75yr old Dad down for the first time in front of a gleaming, empty Google page and explained how it all worked.

'So I just type what I'm interested in into this section and the computer will give me all the information?' He asked incredulously.

Yup. I replied. It's that simple.

We started with his name. Fortunately it is an unusual name, so the search results were few and surprisingly detailed. We found a family tree published by a US relative, we spent ages on the census online site, we tried looking up his old pals on friendsreunited and watched endless youtube clips of 1950's motor racing (he loves that stuff).

I didn't bother with email or anything like that, just gave him the power of Google and left him with his imagination.

A couple of weeks later, I popped in to say hi - but Dad was on the golf course. So I peeked into his study, the PC was on and the BBC weather page was flickering on the screen. Great, I thought, he's really getting into this, checking the beeb for weather forecasts before he heads out to play a round, he's certainly got the hang of this internet lark, I wonder what else he's been up to...

So I checked out his history.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I have no father.
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 16:32, 12 replies)
Poster yes, it is me has reminded me of an ex-girlfriend's dad:
He was a mighty man - about 6'5 and built with it, with a head full of grey hair, and the most charming, gentle manner I have ever encountered. He also had a voice to match his manner - like a stoned Gandalf - very low, and very slow, but kind delivery. He was a vicar.

One day then g/f and I were pratting about doing nothing interesting, and I heard her mum knock on the door of her dad's study.

"What are you doing in there?!" she asked, exasperated.

"I'm not doing anything ... " came the reply, "I'm being ... "
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 16:02, 1 reply)
A bit of a DIY fail
Apologies in advance if I'm vague, I was told this months ago and I don't do remembering things that well!

My Dad likes his DIY, once running his own small painting & decorating business. He was generally handy around the house (I think he still is, just not at this house anymore) so when I heard this story I was a little suprised...

Many years back, my Dad was carrying out a bit of maintainence on his first flat. Just replacing a plug socket, nothing he hadn't done before so why bother turning the power off?

Anyway Mace Sr squats down after removing the old socket, realises he left some kind of tool just out of reach (blame his memory there) and leans over to get it. Naturally gravity jumped in and chose to pull him backwards... and clever clogs grabs the first thing he can to steady himself- the nice, shiny and very much still on wires hanging out of the wall, causing him to shoot backwards and smack his head anyway.

Bless him.
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 15:37, 3 replies)
I enjoy lying
to the boys. The eldest is getting difficult to trick, he tends to disbelieve everything I say now, but the other two, 13 and 14, are still gullible. When we went on holiday this summer, I managed to convince them that "jet-ski" is a russian word, meaning "jet", and that the guitarist from ZZ-Top, Billy Gibbons is now cleanly shaven and a presenter on day-time TV. They have (sadly) been corrected in their belief that "Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree" is in fact NOT the American national anthem. I like to believe that a few carefully chosen un-truths will lie dormant, hidden, perhaps for decades, like some Cambodian land-mine. Until one day, some time in the future, it will come out in casual conversation, and by then they may even have forgotten HOW they know it, they'll just KNOW this absolutely wrong piece of trivia. Makes me laugh, just thinking about it. Proper evil laughter too!
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 15:27, 5 replies)
I might be a bit odd

I didn't have what you'd call a close relationship with my Dad. He wasn't into sport so we never went to a match or fishing together. He wasn't into music, so we never talked about how rubbish his or my taste was. He wasn't practical with motors or tools, so we never did projects together. We only got a telly to watch the moon landing and it was never in the living room, so we never sat around like the Royale Family. I have three brothers and he was always proud to have four boys, but we never really DID anything together. He wasn't a drunk, never lost his temper, worked hard all his life, built up a business that then went under in the early 1980s. He picked himself up, found another job and made a success of it. I've never had a heart to heart talk with him, but equally, I've never had a fight or serious argument with him either.

The thing is, the older I get, the more like him I realise I am. The only difference being in my relationship with my daughter which is - I like to think - very close.

I don't even know if I love him; I don't actually like him very much as he's annoying and opinionated and rubs people up the wrong way. He'll be 80 in a year or two but is still active and fit and very caring and devoted to our Mum.

From him I've inherited a ability with 3-D design, a love of words and writing, monogamy, hard work, safe driving, loyalty, independence, need for solitude, love of travel. Is it time to give him something back?

Sometimes, it's harder to be a son than a father...

Sorry for total lack of funnies or (possibly) interest.
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 15:18, 1 reply)
Watched too much Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles.. a seven-year-old, and decided that I wanted to eat a chocolate spread and marshmallow pizza. After somehow persuading mum to buy the bases and ingredients, she went out for the evening leaving my dad 'in charge' of proceedings.

Little sister (all of five) and I rarely played well together at that age, so we huffily made one massive gooey chocolate aberration each, secretly rapt by the fact that we'd each managed to get that much glorious chocolate into a single meal.

Now we had two (uncooked) nine-inch pizzas, smeared in Nutella, and then generously topped with big, fluffy, marshmallows. Clearly dazed by the fact that he'd been left in charge, and horrified by what his children had created, we were then told in calm clear tones that would would not be allowed to leave the table until we'd finished what we'd made. He wanted us to eat a pizza each.

The next half an hour passed in a spinny, vomit-inducing terror of sugar, tears and plaintive cries. Both sister and I were slumped over the table covered in frothy sugar-barf by the time he came to his senses and whipped us upstairs for an emergency bath before mum got home.

I still can't eat marshmallows.
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 15:09, Reply)
The Skillful Art of Parenting
My boyfriend has two kids in their late teens and a compulsion to try and embarrass them at every available opportunity. I once heard him knock on his son's bedroom door, when the lad and his girlfriend were 'watching telly' in there.

B/F: You OK in there son?
Son: Yeah.
B/F: What are you doing?
Son: Nothing.
B/F: Nothing? That's not how I brought you up. What's fucking wrong with you?
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 15:09, 2 replies)
My dad: the ice cream champion of the whole wide world
In my childhood local ice cream shop, they offered a challenge to The Brave. From billboards to newspapers to local television news, the offer was the same: eat an entire ‘pig’s platter’ and win free ice cream for life. What morbidly obese Midwesterner could resist that?

Eat one small scoop of each of the 100 flavours of ice cream. That is all a person had to do, and they had only two hours to finish it. Many tried and failed. Big men, small women – we’d gather around and cheer them on as they faced failure’s square jaw and sicked up all down their tits. Defeated, every last one of them walked away ruing that delicious dairy concoction.

A rumour rushed through my hometown that an Amish man finished the contest, but a sign went up in this ice cream parlour saying that, no, he threw up and therefore was disqualified. We were on tenderhooks. Most of a summer had passed and the town did not yet know its true success. Soon the light would begin to fade and the leaves to turn, and we didn’t have a victor to turn to. The city was at its last nerve – when was a real man going to step up to that ice cream plate?

My dad woke up one morning and declared that it would be ‘his day’. A light lunch followed a small breakfast, then the cheering troops were called. We gathered around a large table with my father installed as ice cream king. The process began.

18 years later, a large photograph of him still hangs behind the ice cream counter. Sure, he’s dribbling lumpy foam in triumph and appears to have eaten his own skin, regurgitated it and sewn it back to his flesh. And he went home and vomited 6 gallons of curdled sugar into the toilet. But that’s my dad, the master eater, my hero.

The town rejoiced. Since then, a handful of others have managed such a feat, but that’s my dad there. Right there, up on the wall, appearing as if he’s just filled his trousers with dairy product. He was the first.

We never ate ice cream again. Would you? (Also, dad’s now an insulin dependent diabetic. I can’t help but imagine a short, sharp ice cream shock to the pancreas is what did it.)
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 14:48, 2 replies)
When I was a little geeklet, I wanted some pizza. We didn't have any, and we stayed about a half-hour drive from the shops.

So, my Dad got some bread and punched circles out of it with a pint glass, then spread some tomato puree and slices of cheese on it, whacked it under the grill for a few minutes - yay, magic mini pizzas!
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 14:46, 1 reply)
Hairy balls
In the early days, when having a remote control for your telly was a novelty, let alone a video recorder, my dad used to come home from work, have a shower and then slip into his short, ratty bathrobe, before coming down for his dinner in front of the box.

One of the few mental images I have of him, that I've not found strong enough mind bleach for, is my dad on all fours, leaning down in front of the tv, trying to program the video. Completely unaware that his bathrobe isn't that long, and the rest of the family having to endure 10 minutes of watching his hairy arse and nut sack obscuring the television screen.
(, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 14:44, 5 replies)

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