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This is a question Desperate Times

Stranded in a hotel in an African war zone with no internet access for two weeks, I was forced to resort to desperate measures. Possessing only my passport and the clothes I stood up in; and the warning "You can catch it shaking hands with a vicar out there" ringing in my ears, I had to draw my own porn in order to preserve my sanity.

Alas, it all came out looking like Coronation Street's Audrey Roberts, but, as they say, any port in a storm.

What have you done in times of great desperation?

(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 10:10)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

The Long Walk
Three miles from home and the last bus had gone."Not a problem."I think and began to walk. A mile into the journey and there was a growing pressure inside my colon. I had a train at the station and it was a biggie.
I gritted my teeth and clenched for all I was worth and waddled on. For two miles. Pausing every ten minutes to...erm...suck it back in.
Forty minutes later I staggered in through the front door, bathed in sweat and trailing noxious gas, and delivered my payload at long last.
And skidmarks were there none.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 15:13, 1 reply)
Just remembered this one.
Greece, 2000. It was Easter and the whole island was celebrating with al fresco sheep roasts. I'd been invited to a couple and fully intended to go. As I went into the bathroom for a quick piss, the handle fell off (typical Greek workmanship) and I was locked inside. One small problem - I was living in a village with only three houses and all the inhabitants were about 3 kilometres up the mountain having a roast. The window was perhaps a foot square, two floors up, and the room was so small that I wasn't able to lie down in it.

Nine hours I spent in that bathroom. I tried to take off the door by hoisting it up. I tried to unscrew was was left of the handle with a belt buckle. No joy. Shouting was a waste of time, and anyway not a very English thing to do: "Help I'm trapped in the crapper!" The Greek word for 'Help!' is 'Vo-ee-thea!' - which sounds stupid when shouted with rising frustration.

I think I strangled the chicken four times before someone came back to the house to get fags and let me out: a ranting, red-faced banshee. When it got out that I'd spent all of Easter half-crouched in a shower cubicle abusing myself, I never lived it down.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 15:07, Reply)
when time can draw out like a blade...
In my time as someone else I have resorted to.....

splitting matches with a razorblade to eke out my supply of fire

using toothpaste as bluetac

swapping my inadequate supply of tobacco for mystery pharmacueticals with the guy next door (known as cutlery for his self harming habits) as I didn't have enough to last until it was next available and hoped to sleep through withdrawal. (didn't work)

smoking resin that has been dug out of someone's shit (it was in clingfilm)

for Christmas smuggling in bottles of vodka and seeing in the new year pissed, on valium (mmm) and dancing to radio 1 :o( - the long termers managed to smuggle in a pro!

and in other circumstances...

resorting to drink to avoid reality

flirting with the gay barstaff at DV8 to get served quickly at drink as much as you can for £7 Thursday.

I'm not proud (well maybe a bit)

length: 2 years, 1 off for good behaviour
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 15:03, Reply)
Poo tube/Motorcycle into deathtrap fiasco
Oh this QOTW was made for me.

On many an occasion, Iíve found myself in my bathroom, post logging session, sans bog roll. And when waddling downstairs with buttocks apart doesnít seem like a good plan, Iíve occasionally ripped the mockingly-barren cardboard tube into two hemi-cylinders, used one to scrape and the other to wipe. I still feel dirty nowÖ

And as a car-shunning motorcyclist, Iíve carried many a thing on the back of a bike. My favourites? A hula hoop (threaded through my rucksack). A lawnmower, garden strimmer and carpet (bungees are the key. Lots and lots of bungees.) A book-case and guitar stand (One bungee, riding side-saddle with a hand on top of it) A printer/scanner (Bought in a sale, with no means of securing it, whatsoever, I bought two rolls of masking tape and stuck the bastard on the back. 3/4 of it had burnt through on the exhaust by the time I got home)
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 14:42, 1 reply)
Short and dirty
I was once so desperate for a shag...
I fucked your mother!

I'll get my coat
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 14:41, 6 replies)
inept desperate students
that legless chilli recipe looks so bad it reminded me of a girl i lived with in halls and her culinary 'skills.'

absolute SPOILT brat princess (from golders Green, north london) who had never ever lived away from her huge adoring family before, sunshiney arse etc.... i get put into uni halls with her, the first thing she does is paper the flat with disney posters (she was 21) i dutifully remove them the first time she goes out (she was too intimidated to say anything, fire risk anyway...)

she didnt know anything at all about anything at all but NEVER shut up - seriously, she could talk a dog off a meat wagon. Once her first 2-tonne mummy 'care package' had run out (about 2 hours) she was so desperate to eat she decided to cook a meal. she had to ask me how to light the gas hob. about 20 mins later i hear frantic banging on my door 'quick, the pastas burning!' ??WTF the dappy tart had simply placed a panful of dried pasta on the highest heat. with no water. what a waste of her expensive new pan.

the worst was when she used the toasted sandwich maker and decided to wash it up... i found her with the marigolds on scrubbing happily away, the machine submerged in soapy water, the cord dangling out of the sink. luckily (or not) it ws unplugged.

silly girl, off topic, i blame previous threads.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 14:38, 2 replies)
Christmas 1999
I was in China. I believe Christmas was a weekend that year and the school where I lived was closed down. Of course, there's no religion allowed in China, and even if there was, they wouldn't celebrrate Xmas just to be contrary little bastards.

The result: I spent Christmas Day and Boxing Day alone in my small room with no TV and no music and no internet. I had learned not to venture out into the tiny town because crowds of people would gather to stare at me/poke with sticks/try to touch my hair like I was some kind of freak. How to entertain yourself under such circumstances?

1) Play football with an orange until it disintegrates.
2) Masturbate until it hurts.
3) Eat three packets of Oreo cookies with jasmine tea.
4) Try for the 25th time to read Crime and Punishment and give up because it's dull as shit.
5) Put the one Christmas card I've received on my desk as a festive 'display'.
6) Dress up in different varieties of clothes. Then all of them to see if it's possible.
7) Lie motionless on the bed and try to stop my heart as in "Our Man Flint."
8) Wonder why none of my Chinese colleagues seem to have no inkling that their foreign 'guest' is sitting on his own in a room for two days on the most important family holiday in the west. And realise that they daren't celebrate with me because they'll be grassed up by some commie fanatic from their own office and be sent off to Tibet for fraternising with the imperialistic degenerate.

It was Roger Moore I missed the most.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 14:38, 6 replies)
There's a difference at McDonalds you'll enjoy.
All my stories appear to be within the five years I lived in Manchester. Hmmn.

It was the final term of my first year at university. Being completely witless when it came to money I'd spent spent and spent again all year and suddenly found myself quite short of cash. I paid my rent for the entire term up front which left me with £200 for the entire ten weeks ahead.
Needless to say, I promptly went out the first weekend and blew £100 of it. Thus I was faced with three equally chilling prospects: 1) Get a job. As a social sciences undergraduate, I was a workshy layabout and I recoiled at that thought. 2) Go cap in hand to my parents. I had too much pride for that, which left option 3) Live on £10 a week for two and a half months.

With a combination of buying only the cheapest pasta and rice from bin shops in the indoor market and the 4p tins of tomatoes from Kwik Save, I could have done it. However, as luck would have it, McDonalds were running their 'Trivial Pursuit' scratchcard game at the time - read the question, scratch off the answer. If you got it right, you won some 'food' as a prize. I would go into the various branches around Manchester City Centre, get as many cards as they'd give me, and go to the university library to look up the answers. Every correct card you cashed got you another card. I lived on fries and shakes for weeks.
When Morgan Spurlock did this, he became a millionaire. When I did it, I got acne and BO.
But at least I didn't have to get a job, which was the main thing.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 13:39, 3 replies)
Ahh fukkit.... I might as well spit it out...
I may or may not have mentioned this before.

*hangs head in shame*

One night last year: Particularly bored and on a bit of a low (relationship not going the right way) I was sat watching episodes of Simpson's back-to-back, Drinking Guinness and getting slightly hungry.

Hmm.. hungry. I'd been feeling down for the entire weekend and it was sunday afternoon. Outside it was drizzling, My mates were elsewhere and lazyness was beginning to reach new levels.

NOTE: This may get long... Skip to the starry line if you're semi-illiterate.

Earlier that day I'd been to Netto (yes, we do have them in Sweden) and bought a catering pack of sugary peanuts. I hauled my slightly tipsy arse off the sofa pottered into the kitchen, got another can and a bowl, picked up the Netto bag and - after filling the bowl with peanuts - hunkered down on the sofa again.

I don't remember much more of that afternoon: I just remember feeling rather sorry for myself and dragging my sorry arse off to bed at midnight, ruing the fact that I'd have to go to work in the morning.

Monday came and went.

Tuesday rolled along... and then went away as Tuesdays do.

Wednesday was when it started to get a little strange: In the afternoon I started to feel a bit crap. My lunch hadn't really wanted to go down so I'd sat and chatted... by 3pm I was beginning to sweat. "Flu" I thought. I set off home and collapsed infront of the TV with a bowl of sugar puffs.

20 minutes later I was sat on the bathroom floor with a nose-full of sugar puffs. I'd emptied my stomach the wrong way. No warning. Weird.

I hate the Flu... It knocks me for six once it's beaten my immune system. I headed to bed and had a shit night.


A day later and my stomach was in pain: very un-fluish. I was beginning to wonder what might be going on.... Working my way chronologically though my past meals - there weren't many; When I'm down I forget to eat - there was nothing that rang alarm bells until my mind latched onto the peanuts... Jesus no..

I went to the livingroom: There on the table was the empty bag. 2Kg of peanuts. Nice one Humpty you utter arse-hat: you've pigged out on 2kg of peanuts, and turned yourself into a walking peanut-butter Keg.

The Days - unlike the stools - had been passing. Somewhere inside me was the wrong kind of log-jam... If anyone says "butter-nut-squash" I'll kill them =(

Now.. single, Living alone and with my mum a long way away in another country, I did what any self-respecting male would do: I went back to bed.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm no professional when it comes to chronic constipation: I reasoned that the blockage needs encouragement and movement. I massaged my stomach, wriggled around a bit and occasionally would jump up and down. It failed. I failed.

In frustration I gave my stomach and belly area a good thumping (I'm an engineer, and it's always a fairly good last resort) and at least It felt better.

It was a few hours later while watching Jack-ass and Johnny Knoxville getting his colon hosed out that I hit upon a plan. By this time my temperature was going amusingly high and I was feeling *really* shit: It was a surprise that I was capable of any sort of rational thought, but this was it. A stroke of Genuis. McGuyver was trumped.

10 minutes later I had modified my shower hose and essentially had a mix between a super-soaker and Cartman's worse nightmare. Let me tell you that shoving a squirting hosepipe up your ass is hilarious. I had already researched the concept of this pass-time online.. and had discovered that the time to Stop the filling was "when you felt uncomfortable". Mmmkay. :o/

My first effort was a dismal failure. maybe a tablespoon of water? so "When you feel uncomfortable" may not have been entirely accurate. You lasses who whine about "water retention" and "being bloated": you have No Fucking Idea!!!

I had to grit my teeth and go for it. A couple of minutes later and grunting like a hippo in labour I managed to manouvre myself over the toilet before exploding. The sheer relief in itself was worth it... but there was nowt solid to show.

Another Sitting.

... The overpowering odour of Rancid Peanut-crap was horrifying.... though already ill, sweating and committed, I knew it was the smell of victory.

Re-Fill and Puuuurge.

I noted that accidentally turning the water cold was a terrible plan.. The barking spider puckered HARD and threatened NEVER to let ANYTHING out.

Fix the temperature... Re-Fill and Purge again.

It took 30 minutes, but it was an overall success. Within an hour I was starting to feel fine again.

A few days later I was offered a bowl of those sugary peanuts at a party.

I then realised that it had taken Me 30 minutes of watered-down rancid peanutty shit, and from that point on the mere smell of peanuts successfully induced involuntary bodily actions: Pavlov was a mere amateur.

Nuts to the length.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 13:30, 15 replies)
Metro Update: Monday
Page 46, bikini clad ladybod Luciana Morad illustrating that "The Sanctuary" brand of products is up for sale.

WARNING: Alistair "Weirdy Brows" Darling is lurking in top right of page.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 12:58, 5 replies)
Are you talking to me?
I mentioned before that I spent some time working as an English language assistant in a French school. As if simply being in France wasn't bad enough, I had been banished to an isolated rural nowhere of a town, and put up in a spare broom cupboard in the school itself.

Through a combination of being a generally shy person and being surrounded by miserable French people who had a phobia about foreigners, I had little human contact from day to day beyond the time I spent teaching class. This was pre-internet and pre-mobiles so I spent a LOT of time alone and without any form of social interaction.

It all came to a head one day during a two-week school break. Too poor to afford a ticket home for the holiday I was stuck in my room again, no classes and indeed no-one else in the school whatsoever. I decided that today was a day to shave. Standing at the sink, it suddenly dawned on me that for some time I had been conversing with myself in the mirror. The worst part being that I was not freaked out: in fact, after shaving I decided that it would be a good idea -- not mad at all -- to use my tape machine to record myself talking (describing what I could see out the window) and then listen to it. Over and over again.

Another afternoon, I spent three hours watching the smoke from an incense stick drift out the window. And no, I was not on any drugs.

And people ask me why I hate France so much.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 12:43, 4 replies)
Desperate for a shite
Just remembered this one,

My brother (have mentioned him before as he's a bit of a skanky git) was on the bus into Manchester. Mid-morning, lots of people around. He finds himself in dire need of a shit, so gets off and tried to find a bog unsuccessfully. Ends up squatting on the platform at Gorton station to relieve his predicament and wipes his arse on his copy of the Sun (so it can be put to good use at times) and continues along his merry way catching the next bus into town.

To a job interview.

As a chef.

Where he was asked to do an hour in the kitchen as a trial.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 12:42, 2 replies)
Porn Editor
Back in the day when I was around 11 or 12, before the wonderful world of the internet my mate and I sent for a free 'Sunday sport porn pics CD-Rom' out of an old porn mag we'd aquired. When it came it was shite. Basically there was no 'full on' hardcore Porn, just 50 odd photos of 'suggestive porn' (you know, bloke with schlong out, woman on all fours with mouth open about a foot away from the said schlong) but no actual penetration of any kind. Not quite sure why this was but needless to say, we'd never seen proper porn, this was our first real chance and we'd been shafted. Bastards!
Anyway, I decided to use my MS Paint skills to doctor the porn to make it look like actual proper penetration porn. I shudder now as I remember the photo of the woman porn star, expertly fellating the male porn star. The male was laying on a bed, the woman had no legs, she was doing a headstand (more like a chin stand) and she appeared to be floating vertically over the male porn stars cock. The realism of it all. Hence my addiction to freaky porn was born.
Ah, happy days.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 12:04, 3 replies)
Dr Woody and A&E
I've mentioned my pal Woody before; he's recently qualified as a doctor after fifteen years of study, starting out as a student nurse back in the day.

As you can imagine, he's seen a lot of things and having spent many happy hours on the Casualty wards in Colchester, Ipswich, Luton and Leicester has many a story to tell about aftermath of many a cheap thrill.

Firstly, there was the businessman in a suit who turned up one afternoon asking to speak to a male nurse. He was eventually led behind a screen whereupon he dropped his trousers to revealed not only some very classy stockings and suspenders, but also the green, leafy end of a carrot protruding from his arse. Yes, he'd managed to get a vegetable lodged in his rectum and reasoned that highly trained medical staff get to see this kind of thing all the time and therefore won't find it remotely funny. Wrong.

Then there was the guy who managed to fit an entire can of Sure deodorant in his brown star. Upon removal of that, it was discovered that the Sure deodorant was in situ thanks to an abortive attempt to dislodge a pool cueball. The mind boggles.

More tragically, there was the chap who had been fooling around while his g/f was away for the weekend. He found her vibrator under the bed and decided to make use of it. The vibe was shoved a little too far and his bowel clamped round it, pulling it further in. He managed to last some time before contacting A&E considerably weakend due to blood poisoning. However, by this time it was too late. What had happened was that his bowel had clamped round the vibrator so hard that the blood supply had been cut off. He did nothing about it until it was too late, his innards had turned septic and one of the last things he asked for was to plead with the medics treating him to keep the real cause of his demise from his girlfriend.

Another chap who had a similar mishap was luckier in that the lived to tell the tale, but his bowel was damaged beyond repair. His colostomy bag is a constant reminder that sometimes "go shove it up your arse" is advice best unheeded.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 11:48, 6 replies)
Back in the nineties, my Dad and I took a trip up from Kent to Nottingham to visit some long lost cousins. It was good to see them and we saw a part of the country that neither of us had seen before.

It was a hot weekend and the sun got to me a bit. So much so that I got sunstroke. Unfortunately that didnít really kick in until we were driving back home down the M11. I was feeling a bit rough so I got my Dad to drive but then I began to feel a lot worse.

So, somewhere around Cambridge I was desperate to be sick. There was, of course, nothing in my car that I could use as a container and, to be honest, I hadnít thought of that anyway. In my head the only course of action was to be sick out of the window and very soon.

ďDad, can you pull over, I need to be sick,Ē I said.

Having just left a slow bit of traffic behind, my Dad wasnít too keen to pull over and I donít think he really appreciated the urgency of the situation and answered with, ďin a minuteĒ.

I tried to hold it in for a while but my stomach really wasnít in the mood so there was no alternative but to wind down the window rather hurriedly and stick my head out.

Have you ever been sick out of a car window at 70 mph? Have you ever tried to throw up in a 70 mph headwind? Do you know what happens?

Let me tell you.

Your face gets covered in vomit and then the inside of your car. A bit goes down the outside of the car and a tiny amount on the road itself. I probably would have made less mess if I had been sick in the footwell.

Lessons were learned from all of this. My Dad learned that if I said I was going to be sick then I would be and he had to stop. I learned that I needed to wear a hat when out in the sun, even in Nottingham.

Unfortunately, the incident also gave me an aversion to the last thing I ate before I was sick (chocolate gateau with cream) and to Nottingham itself. I have never been back.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 11:37, 3 replies)
Legless' cookbook
Legless reminds me of a story - possibly apocryphal - of a student who only knew how to boil eggs. For his first term, he lived on nothing but boiled eggs - about a dozen a day.

By term 2, his smell was unbearable. So someone showed him how to boil a carrot. For the second term, he lived on eggs and carrots.

In my time as a halls supervisor, I have come across overseas students from, er, more mysogynist areas of the world who had no idea of how even to make toast, because that was woman's work.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 11:21, 5 replies)
They do exist...
I was peddling home one day and spied something in the verge, I slowed down and checking the road turned around and slowly peddled past for a second glance.
It was a porn mag!
I turned around once more in the road and stopped opposite the mag. I made the subtle pretence of checking my bike chain and checked for passing motorists as I eyeballed the mag.
It was tightly rolled up suffering from leaf mold and damp yet I still swiped it. Popped it in my backpack and peddled home for a furious wank.
I was 26 at the time.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 9:54, 2 replies)
Desperate At Xmas
Wrote this a long while back but it is kind of on topic. It's about a girl and her cat. And she was desperate for somebody to look after it.


When I lived in Manchester I shared a flat with a girl, Marie, who had a killer cat called Ziggy. Ziggy was a fucking huge marmalade tom cat. It's the biggest cat I've ever seen. And it used to chase dogs. Loads of times I've seen it attack, jumping out from ambush, dogs walking down the deck-access to our flats.

This one year we were all going away for Xmas and Marie was desperate for someone to look after Ziggy so she begged a friend of hers, Vince to look after him.

Now Vince was guy I couldn't stand. He was a screaming queen - the type who minced and he was one of the bitchiest, nastiest people I've ever come across. I'd have happily slit his throat. And so Ziggy went to stay with Vince for the Xmas festivities and we all went our various ways.

When we got back we found out that Ziggy had been a bad cat. On Xmas day when Vince was cooking his lonely Xmas lunch (lonely because nobody apart from Marie could stand the fat cunt...) the doorbell rang so Vince, having just taken a small chicken out of the oven, went to answer it. Quick as an orange bolt of lightening Ziggy leapt up onto the worktop and grabbed the entire chicken in its mouth and legged it into the living room and under some low table to eat his spoils. Vince, seeing this started screaming at Ziggy and foolishly tried to reach under the table to try and retrieve his mangled meal. Not a good move. Ziggy had no compunction about taking on humans if the situation warranted and this one did. Letting go of the chicken he sank his teeth and front claws into the meaty part at the bottom of Vinceís thumb and quickly brought his back legs up to rip at Vinceís fore-arm. A few quick swipes and Vinceís arm was laid open to the bone and his hand was a mangled mess. Vince retreated and Ziggy was left to enjoy his dinner in peace.

Now that would have been funny enough as far as I was concerned but God had not done fucking with Vince's head yet. When Vince started to scream at Ziggy, Vince's dog thought that heíd done something wrong and because when Vince started screaming it usually meant a severe beating for the dog, it snuck up stairs in abject fear and jumped on Vinceís bed where it waited trembling for his wrath to descend. Its fear was so great that it shat and pissed itself while Vince screamed and yelled down stairs. And so Vince's Xmas was complete. No Xmas dinner, 8 hours in Casualty getting his arm stitched up and on return from hospital, a bed covered in shit and piss.

And who says there's no Father Xmas?


(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 9:35, 6 replies)
i needed a poo during rush hour
I was driving to a business meeting early one morning on the M25 when my guts decided to drop. The brown bear was knocking at the backdoor and he wanted out. Immediately. The road was busy and my junction was miles away, so the welcoming sanctuary of a Holiday Inn or motorway service lavatory was but a distant dream.
With my sphincter pulsating and a sense of panic setting in I feared that I was about to shit myself. Spying the next exit I pulled across 3 lanes of traffic like a demented loon hoping I could find somewhere other than my undercrackers to evacuate my bowels.
It was getting desperate now, I was whimpering like a dog and sweating whilst clenching my buttocks frantically. Driving for a mile or so into some country lanes I spied a rural pub. Being 7am in the morning it was closed. No matter. I pulled into the car park, scanned for CCTV and then hopped out and scarpered behind a set of commercial wheely bins. Pants down and an epic torrent of poo poured forth. Relief! Until I realised I had no tissues to hand.
Past caring by this point and fearing that I was about to appear on Police Camera Action 5 I pulled up my kecks and left the scene of the crime. Arriving at my meeting an hour or so later I gave my colleagues a cheery wave before diverting to the toilets to survey the damage. My pants were beyond salvation so after an extensive clean up I spent the rest of the day commando nodding earnestly to corporate wonk-speak.
To the landlord of that pub, I apologise. It wasn't fox poo you (probably) trod in by the bins. It was real human faeces.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 9:13, Reply)
Desperate Straits
Cooking 101.

Now I know a lot of you are students and a lot of you have bugger all cash 'ícos you fritter it away on tuition fees and the like but an easy way to save money, and stay healthy, is learn to fucking cook. You don't have to aspire to be a Delia, but any mong can learn to cook tasty, healthy food.

Lesson One.

You can boil almost anything. Any meat, any veg, can be cooked by boiling the fucker. It's not hard. Fill a pan with water, stick in your veg, stick it on the heat and wait for it to boil. When it does, turn the heat down a bit, cover it with a lid and wait. This method might not produce tasty food but it'll be safe to eat. (And the meat might be tough as old boots, but you can still eat it.)

Lesson 2.
Now you've mastered fire, try boiling cheap stuff. Noodles (and *not* the Bachelors Super-Noodles, or Pot Noodles) are dirt cheap - under 10p a pack in even expensive supermarkets. Empty them into boiling water (see lesson 1) and boil away. You can, if you're a chemical junkie, add the packet shit that comes with them but I wouldn't recommend it. It's far better to add your own flavours ands textures. I like to add various pulses to noodles to give them a bit more texture. Sweetcorn good as are most tinned beans. (But not baked beans 'cos thatís fucking disgusting)
Noodles cook very quickly, less than 4 minutes so it's a quick meal.

Lesson 3.
Now you've mastered noodles, try your hand at rice or pasta. Same technique, just boil it for longer. Around 20 minutes, depending on the type. And rice and pasta are again, cheap as fuck. A large bag of rice can easily last you a full term. One thing *not* to forget is to wash the rubbish after cooking. This will get rid of the excess starch and it won't stick together on your plate.

Another tip with R&P is that you can prepare it well in advance of your meal. Once cooked, drain the water off, wash it and leave it in a covered pan. When you're ready to eat it, simply boil a kettle and wash pour it over your R&P and itíll be instantly reheated. I use a sieve but you can just do it in the pan.

The sad thing about rice and pasta is that it's utterly, utterly tasteless. You can eat it, and it'll fill you up, but my God it's boring by itself. So this brings me onto sauces.

Lesson 4.
Sauces are a piece of piss. Basically take 1 large onion (ask the girl in the supermarket to point them out to you) and chop the fucker to death. Into weeeny little pieces and then add to a large pan with a small amount of oil. I prefer olive oil but, too be honest, any oil will do. Then add lots and lots of chopped or crushed garlic. Use fresh garlic and not the powdered crap. Then turn the heat on - gently - and cook the onions and garlic until the onions start to soften. If they start to go brown or black you're using to much heat you moron. Once soft, take off the heat. Then open two tins of chopped tomatoes. Any brand will do as long as they're cheap. Expensive tinned tomatoes taste exactly the same as cheap ones so use your head. Then guess what we do now? Yup. We boil the fuck out of it. And this is the time to add the stodge to thicken it up. Don't use flour. I don't care if it's corn flour, just don't use it. Pour in about a mug full of green lentils and stir in. You can also add a couple of tins of red kidney beans and a small can of Sweetcorn if you feel the need. If you're a veggie, you can skip the next part and go straight to the spices. For real men, now's the time to add your meat.

Now pretty much any kind of meat can go in at this point. Minced beef, pork or lamb. Turkey mince, chicken - you name it, it can go in. About a pound of the cheapest meat you can get will be about right. Now stir this shit in until it's evenly distributed.

Spices. This is pretty much a guessing game that you'll get better with over time. One thing that *has* to go in is chilli. Not chilli powder but dried, crushed chilli. You can pick this up at any Asian supermarket for about a 10th of what you'll pay in a normal supermarket. And if you use the Schwarz range of spices well you're just a stupid cunt who's happy to pay waaay over the odds. How much you add is purely down to taste. How hot do you want it. I also like to add Paprika and Cardamon seeds but thatís just me.

And now you wait. About two hours on a low heat stirring about every 20-30 minutes. If it gets too thick or starts to stick, just add a small amount of cold water.

And thatís it. Enough chilli to last you a week. But for fucks sake, keep it in the fridge and keep it covered. Chilli which isn't kept in the fridge goes moldy-fungusy so fast it'll make your head spin.

And last tip. Never, ever keep cooked rice for longer than a couple of hours. There's a certain bug who's waste products (yes, shit) don't break down under heat so even if you boil the fuck out of cooked rice you can still get very, very sick.

And I've absolutely know idea why I've written all this and what the fuck it has to do with the question.


P.S. This chilli is even better the day after than it is on the day it's cooked. It's also excellent cold.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 7:15, 29 replies)
CHeers to that too!
Amount of work done = Fuck all
Replys = Many
Hours wasyted = Lots
Hangover = Gone

Thank God for b3ta
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 4:48, 1 reply)
As this is a second hand story, I can't say 100% that it's true. But having heard stories from my friend about this bloke before, I'm inclined to believe her.

Let's call the bloke David (not his real name) for the sake of the story. David and his mates were engaged in a prank war. They'd even agreed on the various rules - that the prank must not be financially damaging, and should only affect the victim, civilians in this grand military campaign were right out.

As you'd expect, the classics were all used - bucket of water above the door, laxatives in food, fake phonecalls to places to work and so on. And David was losing. No matter what David did, he couldn't seem to catch any of them, dupe any of them, or affect any of them. And he was getting desperate, for the princely sum of a twenty pounds was to go to the winner. Being a poor starving student, a free twenty is nothing to sneeze at. That's up to 20 pints, if you go to the right crappy student places!

And so it came to pass that at 10pm on a cold Tuesday night, David was hanging around outside the dwellings of one of the other girls participating. She wasn't a student, she just happened to know loads of them. It was dark, the pubs hadn't turned out yet, and thus no-one was home. He pried open one of the ground floor windows, climbed inside and went to work, leaving the house about half an hour later, and despite being a fat bastard with about as much grace as an epileptic hippo, managed not to be seen or overheard.

He hung around, waiting for the girl to return from the pub. And she did, around 11, slightly drunk. She went inside, and his little cup of joy runneth over at the sounds of "Hello! Who's my little... WHAT THE FUCK?"

He'd only gone and given her dog (big friendly golden retriever type) a haircut. Trimmed all the hair he could on its left side, and left the right side alone. Unsurprisingly, he was declared the winner, and won the twenty pounds.

Poetic justice was served when he passed out from too much booze. You can guess the haircut he was given when unconscious.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 3:37, Reply)
Rootin' Around
After having had a day from hell (fell off my bike, going overdrawn, getting soaked by the rain whilst bleeding from aforementioned bike injury and then having to sit on the train to london etc.) in my distraction I managed to accidentally bin my phone near Smithfield meat market. In fairness, it was in a tesco carrier bag that I had just emptied of pre-gig-tea-on-the-train goodies. I only realised I had binned my phone after 40 minutes of walking the other way. By the point I sprinted back to where I had put the offending article en poubelle more rubbish had accrued on top. I then spent a glorious and dignifying 2 minutes routing through the bin to get my phone back mostly because I didn't want to have to explain how I had lost it to close friends or anyone who had the slightest respect for me.

It didn't smell as bad as I thought it would.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 2:49, Reply)
Welcome to Act of Desperation (tm) pt 1 and 2.
This is the abridged version:

Meet R for band. Meet flatmates. Meet H who is great - immediate liking.

Have gig, meet R's friend K. H also there. Much chatting and other drink-involved things.

Later, party. Hitting on H. H retires due to over-inebriation.

This is where the dilemma begins, and act of desperation 1:

I am a) drunk b) horny and c) desperate to fill the existential groove i've been in since my last relationship fell to bits. And so, i go for backup plans.

So i, in desperation, fall into K, start a pointless relationship.

Weeks later, i realise my folly - dissolve relationship. Much tears shed (on her part) i end up single again.

Single again; decide to sort self out (you at the back, no sniggering). Do so by attempting to fulfill (c) and getting out of existential funk. Do so by doing the following:

Asking H for drinks.

But H is good friends with K. And in my desperation have rendered myself socially radioactive.

Length? Well, it was only a week between the breakup and the re-affirming of single status. Desperation? Well, i tried to move from one friend to another.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 2:40, 1 reply)
internet dating
The whole world of internet dating seems a bit desperate to me.

Over the messaging system on some generic dating site, the same man has now asked me to prostitute myself 4 times. he says he "has lots of moneey"

It was funny the first time. Now it's just sad. My vag is fantastic, but is it worth your dignity? This man clearly seemed to think so.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 1:14, 3 replies)

This question is now closed.

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