The Voice
When I was small, I used to be in a choir, members of which were selected from the schools in my area. The summer before I joined, they'd taken part in a concert at the Royal Albert Hall. I was a bit peeved to have missed it, but there was a rumour that it was something we did every few years, so I'd get my opportunity soon enough.

The years came and went. We did loads of concerts - but none of them at the Albert. In fact, none of them was outside the Potteries. I knew that, as puberty approached, my time in the choir was limited.

Eventually, it was announced that we would be participating in a concert at the Albert Hall next summer - a mere year hence. My voice responded by faltering. I'd lost the race. I knew that, by the time the concert happened, my singing voice'd've slipped from "angelic" to "growly".

The solution? Mime. For the subsequent year, I mimed my way through every rehearsal for every concert - except for the forced falsetto when the conductor seemed to be listening attentively to the part of the room where I was. I only actually sang when I was on stage, when the fact that my voice was (initially) all over the place and (latterly) a few octaves below where is should have been would be drowned out. There was no way I was going to miss that concert.

At the end, I lapped up the applause. It was obviously meant as appreciation of my heroic attempts to carry off a life as the bastard offspring of Aled Jones and Marcel Marceau.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 14:12, 5 replies)

Italian Stallion
I have a fake Facebook page under the guise of some 30 year old loser from the Midlands but actually I’m a multi millionaire Italian Playboy who spends his time bedding beautiful woman and laughing in the face of danger.

Honest.
(sewer urchin wants a hug, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 14:08, Reply)

Ogg the Caveman
My mate, Ogg the Caveman, faked something once with devastating consequences.

He was a big guy, and him and his mate Ugg used to help out around the peaceful cave-man community by moving heavy things around. They'd happily pick up rocks and stuff, and put them where they were needed. They were always competing to see who could lift the biggest rock, so people would ask "Who put that rock there?" and they would proudly say.

One day, a little cave-boy pointed up to the mountain, and said "OK, who put that rock there then?"

Ogg and Ugg looked at each other, and Ogg had an idea. "Our enormous friend, Godd," said Ogg, not realizing that he had just faked certain knowledge based on sod all.

Before they could correct the boy, the boy had told everyone, a schism had whipped through the cave-man community and Ogg and Ugg were burned as heretics using the newly discovered stuff "fire".

So now you know where religion came from.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 14:05, 2 replies)

I know I've mentioned this before
but I've got this condition that means I can't recognise people. At all. Consequently I never really have any idea of whom I'm talking too.

So rather than boring people with it, and offending people by not knowing who they are, I have become seriously adept at faking recognition.

This involves the whole "Hi! How the hell are you bollix!" when people come up to me, and then asking strategic questions to try to figure out who the fuck they are.

I'm great at it : )
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 14:01, 21 replies)

Our daughters abduction.

Jerry and Kate Mccann.
(chrisdood Why yes, I am the shizzle, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:58, 5 replies)

You won't beleive it but...
I'm not really a goalkeeper, i dont know what the fuck I'm doing but nobody seems to notice, not even when the whole nation is watching me play on telly. Hehe.

David James.
(chrisdood Why yes, I am the shizzle, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:55, 11 replies)

Holiday Jobs
I was really hard up at the time, that's my excuse I suppose.

I was young, fit and good looking so a bit of bar work chatting up the British girls on holiday in Turkey wasn't a bad job. The money wasn't great but the hours were good - I'd work all night and sleep on the beach or by the pool all day.

'Work' consisted of chatting up some Essex tart, getting them to fall for me - a holiday romance - then they'd come back to the bar each night until their holiday was over. Easy stuff really - I'm dark so they thought I was Turkish, but brought up in the UK - so I didn't have to fake much. Sometimes I'd fake a Turkish accent, but to be honest I sounded like Borat.

It was all going well until one night we had a really big party at the bar - we usually had parties each weekend - foam parties, toga parties, you know the stuff - generally it would end up with a private party going on in one of the back rooms…

And that's how it started.

A back room party was me, a couple of the other lads and about seven or eight girls. The girls were all pissed up and on hen holidays - they'd come for sun, sea and sex. The room was empty except for a large glass topped coffee table and the three inch deep shag pile carpet. The lights were low and the music was pumped into here as well as the main bar.

The girls stripped off as soon as they got in there and one – a large blonde with a deep mahogany tan and no pubic hair dropped to her knees in front of me. She quickly and expertly took my flaccid cock out of my shorts and began to run the tip of her pink tongue along the growing shaft.

The other lads laughed at my surprise – this was the first time I’d taken part in a back room party.

As she worked her manicured fingers on my swelling erection l I thought I would explode. Just as she cupped and squeezed one of my nads so she slid my cock out of her mouth and I shot my load all over her fake tan and glittery eyeshadow. Before I knew it there was a full on orgy.

Wet fingers probing and exploring deep dark holes, some tight some puckered but soon all were moist and giving. Tongues licked, mouths sucked, hips bucked. Smooth skin and hair rubbed, limbs loosened and coiled damply over bodies.
I was wrist deep in another buxom blonde and balls deep in a skinny brunette.

And that’s where I was faking.


I can’t stand blondes.
(Stiff Richard, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:45, 3 replies)

Psssst!
Wanna know a secret? Davros’ Granddad doesn’t really exist. He’s an artificial character. Yes, really.

‘But we’ve met you’, I hear some of you cry. Well, yes. But only technically.

The real DG is, in fact, a 13 year old boy, who spends most nights in an alcohol-induced, masturbatory-assisted stupor, dreaming up endless tales of Daleks and ex- wives and scuba diving shenanigans. These are all fabricated from my adolescent mind and poured onto b3ta through my keyboard. In reality I know nothing of these things. Well, maybe a little about Daleks ‘cos they’re always on the telly. But ex-wives and scuba diving? I’m 13, and too young to have experienced them. I’ve made it all up, using old episodes of Eastenders and Jacques Cousteau as a template. The rest is all embellishment. Tourette’s is actually my carer.

The DG that some of you have met? He’s an actor, (my half mad uncle, actually) and does it as a favour – anything to be away from my aunt and their hideous kids. He resembles something of how I would like to be perceived in the real world, and does the flappy coat thing just right. It’s kind of handy having a sort of stunt double that you can send to b3ta bashes (I’m a particularly young looking 13, and would never get served in a pub). He fills me in on the details when he gets back – it’s like I was there myself.

This could get confusing. It’s like different realities are piling up on one another.

I need another drink.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:44, 7 replies)

Just thought of another...
Whilst working for a Reprographic company, I was supposed to be trained in Photoshop, Illustrator and the like. Instead, I became the company odd-job man. One of my main duties was to keep track of all the imagesetters and work-flow. Of course, sometimes there would be hours of doing sweet F.A. So what i used to do is browse many websites with a Repro file open in illustrator in the background. Any time I thought someone was coming over to me or anything, i would switch to it and say that's what I was doing. All went well for a week or 2, until i was called into the officce and presented with a REAM of printout of, and I quote, "a selection of the sites I'd been on". Jesus! How many sites did I go through!?!

after that, it went from internet skiving to the age old trick of visiting different departments, chatting for 20 mins and moving on to the next with a folder to look busy. That, and playing Solitaire on my mobile in the imagesetter rooms...

Then there was the time I was working off-site at a customers as a Mac Operator. My own desk, my own Mac, sat in the corner with only a wall behind me. Looking through the Mac whilst not busy and what do I find? World of Warcraft and MSN Messenger installed. Cue me chatting to my mates whilst playing on my mate's WoW account with my own character for hours a day. Even got caught playing by the customer's staff. Nothing said, though. Go me!

Click "I like this!" and more Repro stories will follow...
(Stephen5555 is posting on, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:37, 3 replies)

My pay
Just started a new job at at a bar in the town I live.

The lovely bosses have started me off on pay, equal to the supervisor and greater than all the other barmen who are far more experienced and trained than me.

When asked what I was getting paid, I proceded to lie through my teeth.

Hope they don't see my payslip...
(androoh, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:36, 4 replies)

You don’t know how lucky you all are…

This is something I’m not particularly proud of…

Years ago when I was young and desperate after college I applied for a job at a large telecommunications company.

I passed the interview with flying colours – they liked me, I liked them. I had the perfect combination of skills and experience. I even had things in common with the interviewers and we ‘clicked’ like friends. It was perfect. I was never so sure of anything of my life.

I was deliriously and ambitiously looking forward to the career (and rewards) I had always dreamed of...so you can imagine how crushed I was when I was called and informed that unfortunately I could not be employed due to their ‘equal opportunities policy’.

Their HR manager apologetically simpered but I was inconsolable. However, between his snivelling, condescending whimpers I heard the following words:

“If only you were a woman, we would have hired you on the spot.”

There was suddenly a metaphorical lightbulb above my head. Like I said, I was desperate. Totally desperate. I know what you’re thinking but please understand how much I needed this job. So I bit my lip as I considered the impossible…This couldn’t be something I could enter into lightly…but my entire future happiness was at stake…

Now, I’m not a homophobe or anything, I embrace all persuasions, but I had never so much as even drunkenly dabbled with transvestism. I couldn’t understand the point and it did not appeal to me one iota. But then as I weighed up my options and my dream job it began to seem more and more like a viable prospect.

Besides, my friends had always told me I looked slightly effeminate. The thing was…did I have the guts?...could I pull it off?

I decided straight away that if I was going to do this, that I would tell my immediate family and friends before hand, so I could get their advice (and all the piss-taking) out of the way straight off.

To my astonishment they were very supportive…they knew what it meant to me. Even my dad said that ‘as long as I was happy, the King family would be proud of me’. I admit I shed a tear.

Some of my girlfriends even loaned me some clothes / underwear / make up etc and most importantly, tips on how to look.

There was no turning back now.

The first time I tried women’s clothing was a simple flower print summer dress. It was still an uncomfortable experience I can tell you; what with the ‘last turkey in the shop’ swinging about in the breeze underneath (I didn’t want any visible panty lines).

Walking round my bedroom, the shoes were a killer, and as for rolling on the stockings in as manly a way as possible…it’s not fucking easy mate, they snag on everything!

Although painstakingly slow and deliberate, I was soon a dab-hand at applying my makeup and nail polish etc…or so I thought. Thinking back, maybe I was a little bit on the ‘slutty’ side.

The time came that I had to approach the mirror to see the results of my handiwork…

Catching that first glimpse of myself was something I will never forget. My jaw gaped as I clapped eyes on this strange ‘woman’ standing before me. However, I was convinced that I looked ok….quite nice in fact…Yet still the big question remained…was I passable in public? I didn’t want to look like Anne Widdecombe doing an Edna Everage impression did I?. So I had to put my ‘new look’ to the test.

The next logical step was to try my first ‘public appearance’. I called a mate and offered him a tenner to walk through the town centre with me and hold my hand. He accepted and we bravely ventured out into the street with me kitted out in full drag.

As far as we could tell, not a single head turned. For all the world, we were just a normal couple. Even my mate said he felt comfortable. The preliminary experiment was a resounding success! Time for stage 2!

Now all I needed was a name.

Seeing as I’ve already opened up to you fellow B3tards. I may as well tell you that my real name is Raymond. For my female pseudonym I wanted to go with something that sounded similar so I could remember it. Obviously, something like ‘Ray-netta’ would’ve been outright twattish, so I decided to go with ‘Faye’.

With my heart in my throat and putting on a high-pitched attempt at a smouldering voice, I phoned the company, explaining that I was my own twin sister and asked for an interview. They accepted.

There was properly no turning back now.

The big day arrived. Shaking with fear as I wiggled on my high heels into the interview room, I immediately recognised my surroundings and interviewers from my previous attempt. But would they suss me?

The answer was a resounding ‘no’. They were fooled by my story completely and other than an odd gleam in Paul, the HR manager’s eye, they never gave me a second glance. Once again, the interview went absolutely swimmingly and I could feel my confidence building. Paul even patted me on the arse on my way out. Saucy cunt!

I got the job. I was to start a week Monday.

On my first day I wore a neat little A-line skirt and white blouse; using my old rugby socks to pad out my bra. Perhaps now with hindsight I think I may have overdone it a bit as I was soon attracting the attention of Geoff, the local area manager.

To him I was the perfect woman…stacked up top and nice legs, but with knowledge of the offside rule and a hankering for Top Gear and real ale. He pursued me relentlessly.

I kept catching him staring at my ‘breasts’. His attempts at chat up lines were crude and repulsive. If he wasn’t my boss I would’ve told him to sling his fat hook straight away. But I had my new career to consider…so I fluttered my eyelashes, giggled flirtatiously and it was in the polite affirmative that I answered his request for a dinner date.

So that night, tarted up to the nines and smelling like a prossie’s boudoir, I let Geoff escort me to the local Beefeater whereby he proceeded to ply me with gallons of white wine. I must admit it was nice for an old chauvinist like me to have someone else pick up the tab for a change.

After more light flirtations, we took a taxi and went back to his place. As we pulled up outside he asked me if I would like to ‘come in for a coffee’. I had to think fast…

He was local area manager…This could be my first step up the corporate ladder…How far was I prepared to go?...

…

Well, I must say, taking him into my mouth was a bizarre sensation (at first), but I soon found that I could just ‘think about something else’, as I suspect many women do. Before long he was fully aroused, grunting and splurting in fake romantic tones that he wanted to ‘take me’.

This was starting to get a bit out of hand...but I didn't want to give the game away.

Again, thinking fast, I jumped to an improvisational career decision…and whispered to him that I like it ‘up the wrong’un’.

You know what? He couldn’t believe his luck! Before I could even wipe my chin I was bent over the dining room table and he was going at it like a pneumatic drill.

I had to sneakily clutch my clock-weights; and to disguise this fact I wiggled my finger to give Geoff the impression that I was playing with my biffin’s bridge. He didn’t seem to notice as he enthusiastically pumped away at my puckering poo-chute.

An unsatisfyingly short time later, he spurted his cock custard over my back crack, and I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of power and achievement…

And I’m afraid to say it went to my head.

As soon as he had finished I just walked straight out, saying nothing.

The next time we met I treated him like shit. Completely blanked him

I never called him or answered his texts. I disrespected him. He wasn’t happy and he started to spread rumours about my being a ‘slapper’.

So I decided to get him back. I slept with his best mate…and his boss...and his dad.

Inevitably, the rumours increased and got worse. Before long I couldn’t stand the gossip any more and had to leave. I had ruined everything that I had worked so hard to build.

I hear they still talk about me there…

But what do they call me?...‘Whore?’...no...'Slag?’…No.

I am simply known as…

Faye King…Git
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:34, 20 replies)

More of a confession but...
As a friend of mine said recently, "There's nothing quite as satisfying as doing an ENORMOUS smelly poo somewhere where you're very unlikely ever to return, and driving away at full speed." I think I can go one better. There's nothing quite as satisfying as doing an ENORMOUS smelly poo and failing to claim responsibility.

On 18 December last year, I was in Tegucigalpa. Tegucigapla is the capital of Honduras, and boy is it a shithole. I'd been travelling for a few weeks with a fairly large group of people, most of whom I liked. With one massive exception. Megan. Megan was a nasty, bitchy girl who made snide comments about me in front of everybody, persuaded people to go out without me, etc etc. I don't know why she didn't like me, but she was a Grade A bitch. I emailed everybody back home asking what evil things I should do to her and came up with the following list of suggestions:

* Put hair removal cream in her shampoo
* Spike her drinks with laxatives
* Shave her head while she's asleep
* Put her hand in warm water while she's asleep
* Piss in her suitcase
* Teach her that "Me gusta joder las cabras" means, "Hello, how are you?"

However, what actually happened was so much more satisfying than any of those things. We were at the bus terminal waiting for our bus to Nicaragua when the dodgy burrito that I'd had the night before caught up with me. After an agonising several-minute wait for the one toilet in the building I dived in there, dropped my pants and unleashed a foul torrent of effluent. After I'd cleaned myself up and straightened myself out, I turned round to flush the vile river of monster shit down the toilet. It wouldn't flush. I was in there for several minutes, cursing this toilet, opening it up and trying to fix it, all to no avail. It was not going to flush. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to leave it and pretend that it wasn't mine.

I left the cubicle, looking as innocent and disgusted as I possibly could. Mercifully the next person in the queue wasn't anyone I knew, but behind her was Megan. "It's disgusting in there," I helpfully warned her. A few minutes later, thanks to a window at the top of the toilet facing the bus terminal, I was treated to the glorious sound of the following:

"Oh -my - God - BLEEEEEARAARRRRGGGHHHH!!! Ewww! HURRRRHHRHHHHGGGGHGGGHHHH!! BLLLLLLEEEEEEEARARRRGGsplugfffffff!!!"

A few minutes later, Megan emerged, white and shaking. I sat on the bus sniggering for the next several hours. Megan, if you're reading, IT WAS ME! HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:32, 28 replies)

A friend Adam
finally left our houseshare to follow his dream, and teach in Japan.

He used to email us nearly every day with the mad things he'd been up to. The money he earnt was enough to go travelling all over the world during the term breaks. He even surprised all of us by getting a girlfriend, and he hinted that marriage might be on the cards!

Everyone was really happy for him until, about 6 months later, he was spotted sending his latest Email from Portsmouth library. It turns out he'd been unemployed since he left us and was living with his dad.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:30, Reply)

It's a shame my housemate isn't a member...
...well actually he is a bit of a member but we'll leave that out...

In the wake of breaking up with his girlfriend he claimed to be joining the navy... Accepted by "Men with cigars" as Trainee Officer (despite having nothing above A-Level) he had the T-Shirt with his name, "Trainee Officer" and submarine insignia on it, along with a Zippo lighter etched with the insignia as proof of his accomplishment.

Several 100-odd mile visits down to the naval base and he was coming close to being due to be off to start his new career. It was a shame then that he should suffer his first-ever head-splitting migraine, only to be told he could not go on a submarine unless he made it 6 months clear without another!

6 months later, lo and behold his 2nd ever huge migraine and he's struck off the list. What bad luck!

Best part, finding out later that he'd turned up at a mate's house in full navy get-up, apparently very obviously fake, and that prompted someone to check up on him via a navy friend at the base who says his name was never on any list anywhere there, certainly not as a trainee officer!

Worst part, it's not the first time. He claimed he was part in the local RAF at uni but couldn't fly due to low blood pressure, which we had no reason to disbelieve until this.

:(
( NomDePlume fo shizzle my nizzle old bean, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:23, Reply)

eric bana
faking being english to play the part of henry viii in "the other boleyn girl".

a friend of mine who is an actor was one of the court extra gimps in this film. he was telling us that there was a line where eric bana had to say in surprise "the other boleyn girl?"

however, his aussie accent/brain couldn't quite compute this. so apparently he kept saying, with the typical aussie lilt at the end of the sentence, "the other boleyn girl ?"

it took about 82 takes before he got it close enough...

... meanwhile, the guy who looks exactly like the portraits of a young henry viii is skulking around playing norfolk, or something, whilst fat old ginger henry is played by a hunk of hot lean dark aussie goodness. hmmm.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:22, 6 replies)

My Voice
I was born with a really high and squeaky voice. If you can imagine taking a huge gulp of hellium before blowing through a dog whistle - your very close.

Everytime I spoke - every dog for miles around would howl and scream - thinking that i was a bitch on heat.

During my teens I realised that my peers would never take me seriously - so I got a friend to develop a talking machine for me.

Now I have a way cool voice - and get the sympathy vote with the ladies. Yey.

S Hawkins
( KISS.ME.WHERE.I.POO Signed the sex offenders register on, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:10, 2 replies)

Right then!
This is my last day working in blighty - I'm off to Dubai next week and i would in no way be surprised if this is one of the many sites that are barred out there.

So i would like to thank all of you for many years of entertainment, advice and of course hardcore skiving.

Cheers!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:09, 17 replies)

Faking Shakespeare
Prompted by the thread on the Off Topic board I remembered when I appeared in a school production of Midsummer Night's Dream.

I played Hippolyta the Amazon queen betrothed to Theseus the Duke of Athens.

Theseus, in this production, was the faker.

He was played by the captain of the school rugby team.

And for those of you who have been keeping up with me and my past escapades will know that I went to an all-girls' convent school. The play was at the next-door boys' school - half a dozen girls were drafted in for their plays each year.

Of course my hand went up when they asked for volunteers to go to the boys' school.

So...Theseus.

Build like a barn door, extremely good looking.
My first sight of him was at the first rehearsal - he'd walked straight in off the rugby pitch and then stood in front of everyone chatting, while he slowly removed his muddy tracksuit bottoms - inch upon inch of muscular thigh was revealed to us all as he held us in his steely blue-eyed gaze.

Hmmmm......

Erm, sorry.

Sadly he had shorts on underneath, but still, amazing thighs.

Not a dry pair of knickers in the house that day.


And I was to play his girlfriend!


But....


for all his good looks and general rugged sexiness there was one huge drawback....





He was Belgian.




He didn't bother to learn his lines, instead he had them written on pieces of scenery, his costume and the back of his hand.

He was a fake.

And he didn't care. He was told repeatedly to learn his lines, he was repeatedly coached on pronunciation as he had a habit of pronouncing every letter regardless...


But his best line which received the biggest laugh of the opening night was in the first scene where he was to tell me how he loved me.

'Allo, Allo' must have had script writers sitting in the audience.

"Ahhh, nowww faerrrrrr Heeeeepoliteeeerrr, I wooed thee weeeth maaa swwwwooordd!"



And added to that he never even asked me out.





The git.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:09, 3 replies)

Dear B3ta...
At school I was always chosen last at a game of football. All the other kids would choose the best players or all their friends. This left me feeling very lonely and sad. It was even my dream to play professional football. How could I show off all my skills when nobody would let me play?

I got my mate to pretend to be one of the greatest footballers of all time and he told them all how good I was.

In the end I managed to play for Southampton in the Premier League and I bet nobody was laughing at me then!

Thanks
Ali Dia
(Shameless, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:03, 2 replies)

Hopefully a few of you gents can relate to this...
Okay, blowjobs... now, having been fortunate enough to experience this particular act on more than one occasion, I have come to the conclusion that 1) I don't enjoy them, and 2) they're fucking boring.

I was once about 10 minutes into a truly un-inspiring BJ when the boredom finally kicked in and I had to fake being "close" just because I didn't have the heart to ask her to stop. The male orgasm isn't quite as automatic as some women must assume. We can be complex beasts, and it's not simply a case of "throw enough shit at the wall and some of it's gotta stick!"

I very nearly chuckled out loud to myself at one point as the poor girl was clearly putting loads of effort in, and it just did nothing for me. I managed to fake various pleasure-noises to cover up the fact I nearly had very embarrassing bedroom giggles.
(keyboardman, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 11:58, 7 replies)

ming
i used to fake 14th century ming dynasty vases, one of my pieces of work fell into the hands of a Dr H Jones Sr.

It was used as a self defence weapon on what he thought was "one of them" coming in through the window, though it turned out to be his son who pointed out that "they come in through the doors dad". racked with guilt he vowed never to forgive himself.

that was before he saw the cross section! it was a fake, my cover was blown. i should have mailed it to the marx brothers. they'd have kept my secret safe.

M Brody
(suboftheday, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 11:49, Reply)

I Faked an Orgasm once


I'm a dude.



_{Just thought some clarification was needed}
(UncleChuckles "Cthulhu fhtagn", Fri 11 Jul 2008, 11:45, 4 replies)

I've faked stuff purely out of embarrassment
When I was about 11, my mates and myself decided to go to Holy Communion. During my years at primary school I had been taught pretty much nothing about Jesus and Co. as my school was much more ethnically diverse; which meant I knew more about Allah than I did about Jesus.

After a painfully boring service it was time for Holy Communion. My mates were big catholics and I was... um... I don't know, maybe a Christian? So with my lack of knowledge of catholic faith I just got up and followed my mates to the priest.

I was trying to watch what everyone in front of me was doing but I really couldn't see. Finally it was my turn and the priest held out the bread thing and said "Body of Christ". I replied with whatever you're meant to say and then grabbed the bread out of his hand much to his shock.

Bugger. I turned bright red and he said "Are you Catholic?" I replied with a very wobbly but oddly confident "Yes" and took the bread and ate it.

In all fairness I was just really quite hungry; I used to be a really fat little child.

So there we go, I faked being catholic.
( Flowers the little boy that santa claus forgot, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 11:38, Reply)

chicken tickling
not me but a mate...

he has this fantastic chat up line, which also includes a hands on demonstration, (which surprisingly seems to work) that he is in fact a..........chickentickler. Sounds terrible, but with his gift of the gab he seems to pull it off, but not this one time.

So a group of us are out, including the above mentioned friend's wingman that he normally goes out pulling with (the wingman has also been known to try out the chickentickler line occasionally as well, but with less success).

Said friend spotted a lady that he wished to spend the night with and struck up conversation at the bar with her, as time goes on with their conversation it gets to the inevitable moment where the lady asks him what he does for a living, out comes the line...

"Oh I work in research with the farming community, chickens mainly at the moment, I'm trying to find better ways of producing eggs, but at the same time keeping the hens as comfortable as possible.......I'm basically a chickentickler at the moment.

"You're a what?!"

"A chickentickler, I help free range hens produce better eggs by tickling them, its fantastic!"

(laughter)

"Seriously! You should see the technique I use, it's amazing! In fact..."

(Proceeds to the hands on demonstration)

Unfortunately at the moment where he is leaning in to provide his tickling demonstration he looks across the bar and freezes.....there is his wingman in full view of himself and his potential pull for the night demonstrating how to tickle chickens on a woman.

In all honesty if he hadn't frozen and uttered the word "Bastard" he might have gotten away with it, but as soon as he did the lady he was with followed his line of sight and clued up instantly....crash and burn.
( MonkeyOfCode is your favourite waste of time, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 11:35, 1 reply)

Faking it
Well, not really faking it but I'm off to watch the Goo Goo Dolls tonight in Liverpool.

So I'm being fake modest about going!
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 11:26, 4 replies)

i have in my hand a piece of paper...
... or actually a kind of booklet.

It's "The Concordat", a programme aimed at supporting the career development of researchers.

Thing is, I've heard it all before -- TWELVE YEARS ago. Since then, nothing has changed but some window dressing.

Are they faking it again?
(haberman is singing in the changes, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 11:12, 1 reply)

I just got exposed
My eating disorder just got uncovered by my family and friends!

Great.
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Fri 11 Jul 2008, 11:10, 3 replies)

Aah
I see we have a few replies on the QOTW from IT Tekkies saying how they fake it most of the time while at work. I work for an IT company and even though the unofficial tekkie repair motto is "switch it off then switch it back on again" I have to say that the worst people for faking IT knowledge has to be the sales staff.

The sales guys will sit down with a client and promise them that the kit/ software they are about to buy will do a number of things to make the business better and then leave it to the tekkies to sort out the impossible:

Client: So if I buy this new software for accounts and install it onto my 10 year old server it will run faster?
Salesmonkey: Yes, and if you spend an extra £1,000 you can log in from anywhere in the world to check the accounts
Tekky: Um dont you think we should put it on a seperate server it is a pretty resource intense program, they dont even have anything for remote access to the server at the moment.
Salesmonkey: Silence you , we sell the kit ,you make it work and we blame you when it all goes tits up!
Client: Will this affect the DOS system we created ourselves to use for stock? We will probably still use it you see.
Salesmonkey: Oh no, that will be fine, wont it Tekkybloke
(Tekky walks away muttering about updating his CV)
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 11:06, 3 replies)

Like being back in school lol
I got sent on a work training course where me and the office bastards had to play trust excercises...I REALLY DIDN'T WANT TO!!!! I wouldn't trust those cunts to piss on me should I catch fire!!!

What to do...try to be sick...no vomit comes up no matter how much I think of gross things.

I KNOW!

I held my breath....for a very long time...until I fainted. It was like being back at school trying to get out of an exam, this time, aged 21, it actually worked!!!

I got taken home via cab while all the idiots I worked with were probably playing trust excercises with each others genitals...

That was a lucky escape!
(trippeh, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 11:05, Reply)

Your book...
Some of the details on this are changed, because the person whom it concerns may be a b3tan - and I know that he/ she/ it is known to at least one regular.

I have a number of friends and aquaintances who've had a go at writing books. P was one such. He was someone I've known for quite a while, but with whom I'd lost contact recently. Through the grapevine, though, I heard that he'd published a novel. I bought a copy and settled down to read it: knowing the guy, my hopes were high.

To say I was disappointed would be to put it mildly. There was a couple of interesting themes trying to get out, but the bulk of the thing was flat, turgid awfulness. Nevertheless, I don't like leaving books unfinished, so waded through it. It got no better.

Quite by chance, a little after reading it, I bumped into P's wife. We got chatting, and she mentioned the book. I said I'd read it. That was a mistake.
"Oh, really?" she asked. "What did you think?"
There was a number of things I could have said. I could have lied outright and said that I'd enjoyed it. But I don't like lying. I could have told the truth: "It's rubbish. P's talent is infinite - it has no beginning." But that would have been worse.
Instead, I opted for the middle ground. I remembered that there'd been a couple of interesting themes which, better handled, could have made an interesting novel.
"I was fascinated by the character of [whomever it was]. And the question of [whatever it was] is something about which I've been wondering, too."
And then, in a stroke of what I thought was genius, I added, "I'm going to be fascinated to see how P develops as a writer." I suppressed the urge to add "because he's not much cop at the moment."

Overall, I think I did quite well: I gave the impression of engagement and encouragement of a new talent. The book had clearly made enough of an impact to be memorable. P's wife would be impressed and tell him the glad tidings.

Wouldn't she?

She looked at me for a moment. "You really thought that? I thought it was terrible."
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 10:59, 13 replies)