Some family rituals are better cunted in the fuck
Not a funny one.

Throughout my childhood, the only male member of my father's side of the family who didn't "have a go at me" was my father. From the age of 18 months, Uncle Thomas was caught having a fiddle inside my nappy. I remember at around four years old asking, "Mammy, why does Uncle George do nasty kisses?"
"What do you mean pet?"
"I don't like his kisses, they're all wet and he puts his tongue inside my mouth."

And so it went on. Never any nakedness or penetration, just inappropriate fondling. Constantly being told how gorgeous I was by my grandad, as he slipped £5 inside my skirt.
"Didn't you get a birthday card from uncletony this year?" my mother asked.
"Er, no. Maybe it got lost in the post?" I suggested. I had received his card - a picture of a woman wearing a wet vest, complete with sticky-out raspberries. It read, "To Sexpot, from Stinky". I was 11 or 12, and far too embarassed to put this one on display with the other cards. He was by far the worst. Every Christmas he'd buy me extortionately expensive gifts. Buying my silence. Etc.

So I grew up believing that was my purpose in life. There were frequently other adults around, none of whom seemed to react or notice anything amiss. "It must be ok then", thought my innocent little mind. "I don't like it, but none of the grown-ups ever say anything."

At 8 years old I developed alopecia. My GP diagnosed me with depression. However, my mother was discouraged from seeking any treatment for me as "it would remain on my medical and school records permanently". To say she still feels guilty about that is an understatement.

I took an overdose at 10 years old (24 paracetamol washed down with 2 litres of cider) to no avail. From 14, I began drinking really heavily, getting shitfaced to the point of oblivion. When I lost my virginity to rape 2 weeks after my 16th birthday, it wasn't any big deal - it was par for the course.

I left home at 18 to begin my nurse training. Then began my promiscuity in earnest. So absent was my self esteem, and so desperate I was for affection, I'd hop in the sack with any bloke. It was worth enduring the filth of sex to get a cuddle afterwards.


Then I found DG. Or he found me. We didn't sleep together for 4 weeks. We shared a bed, just cuddling all night. He respected me. He didn't just want sex. He wanted to know me, was interested in who I was. The more he knew, he still stuck around; accepting and respecting me regardless.

Here we are, almost 6 years later. He knows every nook and cranny of my darkness, knows all the vile things I've done over the years. And he's still here; accepting, respecting and loving me regardless. He makes me feel it's ok to be me. I'm not a bad person; I'm not dirty, contaminated goods. I'm ok.

On the 8th April next year, we're getting married at Gretna Green. Then we're in Edinburgh for the weekend, attending teh b3ta bash with lovely people. I'm more than a tad chuffed about that.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 19:12, 60 replies)

The Farmer Game
When I was a little bulb, brothertulip and I would play the Farmer game on all long car journeys to pass the time. It became something of a ritual.

Basically it consisted of saying the word "Farmer" followed by another word, in an attempt to invent an amusingly named fictional agricultural labourer.

So we went through all the words we knew and, as you do when you are small, you think mildly rude words are very funny so Farmers Poo, Piddle, Plop, Bogey, Fart and Willy often made appearances in the back of my dad's Renault Five, resulting in much innocent giggling, and our long-suffering parents would concentrate on eating boiled sweets and arguing about maps.

Then last year, when I was merrily driving us to a family do, and the skies were blue and the birds were tweeting and we were enjoying some quality sibling time, my brother, who does not drive and therefore does not understand the need to be attentive and observant whilst doing so, chose to revive this long-forgotten game at the top of the motorway sliproad, and at the top of his voice.

For some reason, writing "I was momentarily distracted when my brother bellowed FARMER CUNTING FUCKSOCKS" is not acceptable on insurance claim forms.
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 23:39, 4 replies)

Twaddle!
There's one in my family...

A few years before she died, my grandmother moved into an old folk's home with my aunt (who is still living). Quite nice surroundings, setup and furnishings... but the atmosphere was best described as poisonous. Think back to school - there were even cliques of old ladies who used the line

"You can't sit there! That's Doris's chair!"

with complete and utter seriousness. It seems that you regress to infancy as you get old.

Now, a new gentleman had moved into the home and was welcomed, made to feel at home... and immediately accepted into the top cliques because he happened to know one of the ladies involved. And he wrote what was probably the most awful poem ever devised and posted it on the noticeboard. It wasn't the writing, it was the subject matter - praising the staff and the other members of the home, in the most... crawling, ingratiating and sunshine happy way. It was absolutely nauseating to read. I wouldn't have been surprised if the staff had stood over him and made him write it.

My grandmother, who had very little patience for bullshit and arselickers read the poem and wrote at the top in big letters the word

TWADDLE

It caused an absolute scandal! The talk of the dinner tables for quite literally the next month. The care supervisor actually went around knocking on doors for 'unrelated matters', and oh so casually dropping it into conversation and asking the poor victim if they did it. A grey-haired Spanish Inquisition with cardigans instead of robes. Fear the Granny Brigade.

My aunt found all this hilarious. And wrote the word Twaddle on the next thing to appear on the noticeboard that was of a similar tone... but she hadn't known my grandmother was responsible. Another scandal! This time there were phonecalls to the residents that got straight to the point, asking if they were the ones responsible for this terrible and malicious vandalism.

Damned senile delinquents.

A month later, my mother did it when she was visiting the home, having heard about the scandal - though she did know that my aunt had done it. She cruelly twaddled the noticeboard, in tiny letters at the bottom of a menu. There is definitely something on that side of the family - a shit-stirring gene if ever you saw one.

Cue the inquisition again, with no less fervour and much gnashing of false teeth - dental plates make such a lovely rasping noise.

When the three ladies in question found out the others had done it, there was much hilarity

And thus, it has become a family ritual to write the word "Twaddle" in random places whenever there is something crawling or pathetic.

And of course on the noticeboard at the old folk's home whenever we visit my aunt. I myself undertook my first twaddling in October, on a list of items for sale. There are no longer any scandals or inquisitions, the residents of the old folk's home seem to have accepted their terrible fate... but we can't stop now! It's a tradition!

Twaddle.
(calamarain just invented dehydrated water, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 0:21, 5 replies)

beginnings
Every stripper scene in a movie...

Every time a woman kicked ass and took names on tv, posing afterward covered in blood and bosom heaving...

Every cheap and tawdry sex scene in some back alley, motel room or prostitute laden opium house...

My father would say "And that boys, was how I met your mother."
( Allisade would love to hear from you, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 15:30, 5 replies)

Manners
I was brought up well. It's often mis-construed in the media, more so when I was a lot younger than now, that single parent families are rarely taught good manners.

With me, it was the opposite. Being brought up by just my mum, as opposed to my mum and dad (who was kicked out of the family home when I was seven and hasn't seen or spoken to me since I was nine.) meant that I have been majorly influenced by my mum. Although this manifests by me being very different in a lot of ways (quiet, shy and reflective, compared to my overly brash mum), it gave me a great start in life, as mum hated those that lied, and those that treated others badly. To this day I find lying hard to do, and if someone does it to me it can be the end of a friendship immediately.

I also grew to be polite and respectful of others. That's not to say I don't have a horrible habit of overusing the word "cunt", or that road rage passes me by. What it does mean is that I expect a certain level of politeness around me. Cut me up on the road and cause me to almost crash and you'll learn some new swear words. Immediately put your hand up by way of an apology and you'll calm me down within seconds. Yes, you fucked up, but you are big enough to realise it and say sorry.

Anyone who knows me will know that almost every day I go to my local Costa and have a large skinny latte. It doesn't matter that I can never remember if it's pronounced lar-tay or lat-tay, or that the staff in there all know me well enough that they prepeat (no idea if that's a word, but if it's not then it should be) my order to me as I reach the till. It's my local coffee shop, it's a haven from work for an hour and everyone in there has a smile on their face and the manners you'd expect from a retail place.

But going in there today, not only is there a massive queue, but there's also a brash, loud and arrogant guy behind the counter who isn't normally there. This guy, who I'll call A, is serving the customers, just asking their order, enquiring if they want any extra cakes or whipped cream on their hot chocolate and generally being quite smarmy, before immediately turning to guy B, a yard to his left and taking payments on the till, and repeating the order and then shouting to guy C, about five yards away making all of the coffees, the same order.

This process normally runs quite smoothly without guy A involved, as guy B can take orders and process payments whilst retaining the ability to not make me want to jean over and give him a slap. I've no idea why it was changed today but guy A, I'm guessing, is higher up the food chain and seems to have a point to prove.

As I ponder this in the queue, having just given my order "large skinny latte to drink in please" to guy A, I hear guy C ask a customer if they wanted whipped cream on their hot chocolate. They said that they did, so that's what they got, but not before Guy A had shouted -louder than he shouted the orders - "I've already told you to put cream on them. Listen! Ok? I need you to listen to what I'm saying in future!". All delivered with an over the top look-at-me flourish. The noise in the shop dropped momentarily, guy C caught my eye for a split second, and I'm sure he rolled his eyes slightly before turning away in embarrasment,

Point made, knob jockey A, we know who's in charge, and it's just a shame that you haven't fucked up as I'd like to see you respond to embarrasment like that.

I reflected on what had just happened. Should I say anything? Should I just be short and curt? Or should I ignore it? My train of thought was interrupted by guy A.

"So that was a small skinny lat-"

"LARGE skinny latte." i interrupted.

No apology: "LARGE skinny latte," he repeated, "to go.". His voice was raised slightly again, as he was once more directing his orders to guy C. Guy B has already rung the correct product at the correct price for me, and seemed as though he was about to turn to guy C to tell him that it was actually to drink in, not to go.

Too late.

"To drink IN," I corrected, raising my voice as I did, hoping to God that I sounded authoritative rather than pissed off.

The shop's volume fell again, "Listen, ok," I started, and with a huge grin on my face - visible only to the three guys behind the counter, and not to any customers - I continued, slowing my words so that the pronunciation was clear: "I need you to listen to what I'm saying in future..."

And that has cheered me up no end today :)
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Tue 25 Nov 2008, 20:30, 9 replies)

That's the Power of Glove...
It’s 1985. Rakky and Daddy Rakky are out in the car, almost inevitably to buy some kind of tools / DIY equipment / auto parts, anything my Mother wouldn’t be interested in shopping for and we’re having a jolly old time listening to the radio. The DJ announces “and coming up after the adverts we’ll have Huey Lewis and the News…” I started chatting to Dad about something to cover the incessant drone of local radio commercials. As the ads drew to a close, Dad turned to me and said “hush now love, I want to listen to the news…” At which point the opening power chord of the latest Huey Lewis single kicked in and a look of utter confusion descended over Dad’s face. “I thought it was going to be the news?” he muttered. Laughing at my Dad while he was behind the wheel of a car was never a smart move, so I kept in the rising hysteria until we finally got home and I could bear it no longer. I ran in and told my Mum about Dad’s mistake. She immediately barked with laughter and spent the rest of the afternoon ripping the piss out of him. Every time the BBC announcer would utter the words “and next we’ll have the news,” both mum and I would chorus “read by Huey Lewis…”

Now I appreciate that that’s not exactly a great story, but the inimitable Daddy Rakky would have been 67 on Saturday; it’s 19 years since he died, and Mum and I still say, to this day, “read by Huey Lewis” every time we’re together and we hear someone announce that the news is coming up after the break. And it never fails to make me smile.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 11:10, 4 replies)

traditions
I’ll try to be brief and there is a positive ending to this

Growing up the daily ritual would be my dad (I find ‘dad’ hard to say or write) would come home hammered every night. Although not physically violent towards us he was extremely aggressive. Torrents of verbal abuse, the place smashed up, my mum crying hysterically. He would say the most foul disgusting things about my mum – she met him as a 19-year-old virgin in 1968 – they had sex once and bosh there I was. So they married - common tale.

Every Christmas was ruined. No hugs or fatherly love. No expression of love at all. I was told around age 7 I was ‘all the man I was ever going to be’. He terrorised me daily and I was petrified of him all my childhood. The problem was not just drink – he was foul sober too – usually because he needed another drink but it ran deeper than that, he was bitter paranoid all the time, convinced the world was sneering at him. He was insecure and a massive underachiever. I was a bright kind, creative inquisitive. He resented this, put me down at every turn and told me that because I was interested in drawing and being creative I was a poof. He had and still has classic small man syndrome.

When I met my now wife I was 19, we will have been together 20 years this Christmas we have been married three years and have a beautiful son aged 2. When we met it didn’t take long for her to find out about my upbringing – as soon as she met my dad things became pretty apparent. She heard him one night, drunk calling my mum the most horrible things you could imagine.

My wife tried to get me to understand him, his alcoholism and his other issues (his father was by all account the same).

After years of this and him still treating me my home and my partner like shit I snapped. I wrote him a letter detailing the damage done.

I never got a reply. That was 10 years ago, I did not see him during that time. He missed my wedding, the birth of my son a decade of my life.

My sister got married 3 weeks ago. She was terrified what might happen on the day. She insisted I meet him before the wedding. I flew back to Scotland early on her request/demand that we go for a ‘family lunch’. He got hammered and stood us up.

My sisters wedding was the first I saw him. This was also the first time he saw my son. For my sister’s sake I was on my best behavior when really I would have preferred to kick him to death. I was pleasant and spoke to him. He made no attempt to apologise for all he has done. A simple acknowledgement and the words “I’m sorry” would make the world of difference to me.

During the ceremony my wife was tearful but not in a good way. I realised something was wrong. Badly wrong.

The following morning she told me that over the last 10 years I had become more bitter, aggressive and my drinking had increased. She told me that at times I had become so aggressive and abusive towards her she was often frightened of me. Basically I was turning into my dad. I should stress my behavior compared to his was a fraction of the severity and that my wife was keen to stress that I was a kind gentle caring and affectionate husband and father but unfortunately on occasion I was abusive, aggressive and frankly, at times – terrifying.

I have never felt such shame.

Over the last few weeks I have read as much as I can on emotional abuse and my wife and I have talked at length.

As a result we have found a way forward. (I also massively cut back my drinking 3 or 4 months ago on my wife’s request, I’ve have also been at the gym religiously, so I’ve lost a lot of weight and got somewhere near fit again). Sadly it took the potential flashpoint of my sisters wedding to make me realise I was in danger of becoming my father and losing my own family as a result.

My wonderful wife and beautiful boy join me out here in the dustbowl in January (I’ve been in Dubai for 4 months). I’m going home for Christmas then they come back with me. Without seeming overly dramatic it feels like the start of a new life.

I speak to my wife at least 5 times a day - the phone bills are HORRIFIC. We are both convinced we have reached a massive turning point in our lives.

Sometimes family traditions need to be dropped.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 19:25, 19 replies)

The family chant
Forgive me if I may be serious, but our only meaningful family ritual pays tribute to a gentleman who means an awful lot to me.

My family have produced a glittering array of male relatives whom I find mildly embarrassing or annoying (and I have no doubt they feel the same way about me). However, every March 1st we all gather together to recite:

"Come quaff off your Sherry, and let us be merry
All you that look to be saved
Then toss of your bowls, and be merry souls
For this is the day of St. David.

This is a good week, when we wear a Leek
And carouse in Bacchus' fountains
We had better be here, thou in pour small beer,
Or in our Country Mountains."

For a long time we thought that Ode To The Welsh Leek was a slightly crazy invention of my grandfather, but as time went by we discovered it has a rich history (see www.povertystudies.org/Links/Rhwymbooks/Ode/Ode-TitleStory.htm) and the family genealogists believe we might well stem back to the battlefield origins of this noble poem.

In any case, this annual recitation is a sincere and heartfelt tribute to my grandfather, Ken...

Ken was a man of few words but incredible courage. He served the Royal Navy during two wars and was the Service heavyweight boxing champion on two occasions. He returned in 1945 with barely a penny to his name, adopted a smallholding in his native Taff valley for a pittance of pay, and began raising sheep.

Over the 1950s, he and my grandmother became completely self-made and self-sufficient, raising two children and being able to scrimp enough money to buy the farmhouse and small patches of land thereabouts. Yet he remained infinitely modest, dry-witted and an inspiration for his sons, their sons' generation (including myself), and - through his inexhaustible fund of his anecdotes which have been passed down - the next generation today.

He was a wizard with his hands, always ready to make wooden toys for children, and right up to his 80th (and final birthday), a firm devotee of his Welsh heritage, Christianity and real ale. He was - in short - the perfect grandfather.

'Ode To A Welsh Leek' was his personal signature tune, from lord-knows-where. He used to usher us all into the front room to raise glasses of homemade mead and recite this ancient poem. His face remained solemn, and often a trickle of a tear would course down his cheek as we chanted away. It was odd as kids, but we grew used to it, year upon year, and it was finally how we knew him best.

It was finally adopted as our family memory of him in a freezing cold late-winter in about 1996. Grandad was well over seventy at the time, but he still kept a small flock and several hives, and tended them with the same love as he would his own family.

March 1st rolled around, we had a smashing roast dinner and congregated with our glasses to chant our paean to St David. No sooner had we finished, then a white-faced farmhand appeared at the patio doors. Several of us were scared out of our merry little skulls by this flat-capped apparition, but Grandpa calmly strolled across the room and a muttered conversation ensued. Before too long, Grandad gasped in shock, quaffed his mead and dashed out; nine other family members all followed with concerned yet helpless looks on our faces: we were no sheep-farmers.

One of the flock was having terrible difficulties giving birth. She was thrashing around on the barn floor, in grave danger of killing her lamb. The vet was on call, but we'd all sensed it was just too late.

What Grandad did then seemed nothing short of miraculous...

The adults, expecting a grisly birth, had protectively shielded the children, but Grandad - with terrifying strength - wrestled the sheep to stillness, and then take the terrified head, lay it in his lap, and mutter gently in Welsh. For twenty...thirty...forty minutes, we stood there dumbfounded, watching a septugenarian man on his knees in a freezing cold barn, treating a pregnant ewe with as much love and tenderness as he would a member of his own family. The sheep lay terrifyingly still: we could have sworn it was dead.

Eventually, the miraculous happened. A slight twitch, and a bloody ball of skin and bones was deposited onto the cold concrete floor. Matter-of-factly, Grandad hauled himself to his knees, slapped the lamb on the rump, checked its breathing and watched the little mite meticulously until it began to suckle. We all exhaled for the first time in nearly an hour and a half.

Grandad was suddenly, uncharacteristically sharp: "Inside! Now!" he ordered. It was difficult to argue. We all trooped inside silently.

Inside, he recharged our glasses without a word, his eyes glazed over and he chanted again:

"Come quaff off your Sherry, and let us be merry
All you that look to be saved..."

Falteringly, but with increasing strength, we joined in with this charming, strong and granite-muscled pinwheel of our family. It was a wonderful, touching moment, albeit a primitive one, and something I am sure that no-one who was present that day will ever forget. The song had always been once, and once only. To repeat it, in honour of a member of Grandad's flock was something quite unique.

Since then, every March 1st, this poem has been our own, as we remember that great day. The day that we heard...


Farmer leek odes sandwich ewe ills.


(Ah, sod it. I've already been to Hull...)
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:40, 11 replies)

A stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet
For reasons which escape me now, my mother has a maternal need when in public to humilate me in front of others.

Naturally over the 21 years of my being this has slowly eroded all traces of self confidence, but in recent years I realised this isn't typical motherly ridicule. Oh no, dearest Mumsie will make eye contact with people passing by, point at me and randomly exclaim such classics as 'well it's not much fault you've put so much weight on'(I'm a foot taller than her, weigh a stone less and am suprisingly under the recommended BMI bollocks)

Every time I'd ask why she does it, I'd get the guilt trip of 'why, are you ashamed of your own mother?' and so on until I feel even worse about myself.

So business continued as normal until a hospital visit the other day to see some family. We're patrolling the echoing result of a cash-starved NHS avoiding the Mrs.A when mother notices a sullen looking old fella shuffling towards her in the opposite direction. Concluding that he needs cheering up in the best way she knows (at my expense), she decides to look him in the face, laugh and proclaim:

'Foxy, you really need to go on a diet, don't you? Doesn't he love?'

Aforementioned old fella, cool as a cucumber and without so much as a blink of hesitation lets out with:

'Leave him alone you chubby tart; he should be ashamed of you'

I was. And she did. The bigest shit eating grin exposed his few remaining teeth as he walked on by proudly.

Well done to you, good sir.

Apologies for lack of funny. My parents were mean to me.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 27 Nov 2008, 13:27, 7 replies)

Douglas.
My dad grew up as an only child with a single mum. His father had died of TB when he was 3 months old, and his mum was of questionable sanity. As a young man he seemed to gravitate towards wise men, and one day while out walking he met the late and great Douglas Carter.

Douglas was a man of the cloth. Jilted in love, he'd become a Roman Catholic priest and lived a life of celibacy. Dad and he hit it off as mates. Drinking in pubs, walking the hills of Yorkshire and setting the world to rights. It was Douglas who pointed my dad in the direction of my mum, Douglas who married them, and Douglas who baby-sat my brother while I was born.

Douglas taught us chess, draughts, patience and other ways to pass the time. He even tolerated our noise and constant unplanned interruptions when he was performing his own private mass in the dining room when he stayed.

However.. Douglas wasn't a normal man of the cloth. He had a beautifully sharp sense of humour and a deeply mischievous mind. It was he who offered up a bottle of my parent's elderflower wine to the local wine snob, (who thought it was a very expensive something-or-other, and even suggested which slope of which valley it came from), and it was he who sent my parents a novelty condom for a joke wedding anniversary present.

Take that in for a moment... A seriously devout RC priest, buying and posting a novelty condom... I can imagine his infectious cackling laugh even now :o) Dad inflated the thing like a balloon, and it turned out to be defective... So he put a puncture repair patch on it and sent it back... :D

I digress.

Amongst the Many bad habits Douglas tried to deviously instil in my brother and I, was the ritual of the butter-knife. My mum - the only religious one in the family and the only one who cared about manners - insisted upon a butter knife. Douglas would ALWAYS take some butter, then stab the knife into the pat of butter in a flourish that could described as a "Reverse King-Arthur" :) Mum hated this, but couldn't tell a priest off....

My brother and I - to this very day - regularly stab the knife into any pack of butter, be it StIvel, Lurpack , or (welcome to Sweden) Bregott or Lätta. When visiting our parents We make a point of doing it. It's allowed, because "Douglas taught us to"

Over a decade ago, Douglas finally succumbed to old age, and we went to help clear out his tiny old flat. Framed in pride of place on the wall next to his chair was a novelty Condom - Dunlop repair-patch and all.

I'm not a religious guy by any mark - Infact, being an engineer I consider myself to be completely the opposite. However, I believe that if I fail to take any given opportunity to execute a "Reverse King-Arthur", that Douglas - Father-figure to my dad and Grandfather to my brother and I - would turn in his grave. Given the vast respect I hold for that man, I'll never take the chance.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Sat 22 Nov 2008, 0:00, 2 replies)

“Daddy Tax”…

Whenever I give my kids food or drink, be it dinnertime, or just sweets / snacks etc…as soon as I hand over the goodies, I always ‘nom’ a percentage of it from under their (increasingly annoyed) noses by using the hilarious jape of ‘Daddy Tax’.

Example:

Me: “Here you go kids…here’s a bag of sweets”
Me: *hands over sweets*
Me: *puts hand in bag*
Me: *grabs handful of sweets*
Me: *Noms said sweets*
Kids: “Awww Daaaad!”
Me (attempting rubbish Alan Partridge impression): “Ah HA! – Daddy Tax!”

I’m sure I heard my 5 year old whisper ‘cunt' under his breath once.

Also, this does tend to explain why my kids stay slim and healthy, yet I bear more than a passing resemblance to Jupiter (The planet, not the Roman God)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:37, 15 replies)

Simple games
my wife tells me of a game she and her siblings used to play whilst being driven across france regulaly during the 70s.

Simple stuff, you scored one point for spotting a frenchman having a piss at the side of the road.

Apparently this amused the three of them for most of a decade until my wifes younger sister won the game outright.

For spotting a frenchwoman having a shit.

On a round-about.
( edz314 smelled the glove on, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 13:32, 3 replies)

Ritual de Famille
When driving, my Uncle would always take his hands off the steering wheel, put them in the air and scream every time we went over a cattle grid.

I almost soiled myself the first time he did it.
( the_ships_cat is it meeee you're looking forrrr, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 9:23, 8 replies)

The Toastmaster General
One oddball custom from my family was the ceremony of toast.

Toast was and still is, an exceedingly important part of my family’s life. It has leaped with my into my own dwelling and it will probably live on.

My father, like his father before him (before he went mad) and me (when I am in my own house), is the ‘Toastmaster General’.

This is what happened on a typical Saturday morning.

My father would be first up, put his dressing gown on, and go downstairs loudly exclaiming that ‘The Toastmaster General is up and about his business’.

We all had to run downstairs in our jim jams, dressing gowns and slippers.

‘The Toastmaster General is preparing the wheat slices’.

We all then had to sit down at our breakfast bar and not say anything lest we interrupt the toast ceremony whilst my father took the four slice toaster out of its cupboard, plug it in whilst arranging it on its little custom made toaster tray. He would then take out four slices of Hovis white thick sliced (it had to be this exact type of bread – my mum once bought medium sliced and it got chucked in the bin), check them for consistency, and reverently place them into the toaster width ways (this was to ensure an even brownness). He would then make sure the dial was at setting 8.

‘The Toastmaster General will now prepare the ancillaries’. (We didn’t really know what this meant but we correctly guessed it meant knives and stuff)

Whilst the bread was toasting, he would then take out the breadboard, plates, cutlery, and jam from the fridge and prepare them on the breakfast bar. He would then check the butter was soft enough (it was always left in a covered butter dish overnight) and placed it before us.

‘The wheat slices are now toasted and have become toast.’

This meant that the toast had popped up. Inadequately or unevenly browned bread was binned. He would take these hot slices of brown and put them onto the breadboard and would urge us to quickly butter up or the toast would cool down and wouldn’t melt the butter adequately and the toast would be ruined. He would then quickly put four more slices of bread into the toaster.

We had to rapidly eat our buttered toast (mains) before the next slice arrived so we could jam it and eat it as pudding.

‘The Toastmaster General’s job is completed for another day’.

Then he went back to bed leaving us sated and free to watch cartoons.


I wouldn’t say I was totally surprised when he has his first breakdown, but the second and third did come as a bit of a shock.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 17:08, 3 replies)

Dentists
Evil bastards though they may be, I can see now, as a fully paid up adult (the checks in the post), that they perform a decent service.

I used to lay down in the CHAIR OF TERROR (tm) where our friendly Dr. De'Ath would say "Aaaaaah, Weetabix/Frosties/Alpen this morning young Prescott". I was regularly amazed that he knew what brand of cereal I had even though I had brushed hard and it was 4pm.

Fast forward. Same dentist, my kids. He asks me what they had. And I tell him.
(prescottsflu infected you at, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 14:41, 1 reply)

Dull car journey's...
...were always 'brightened up' by playing some of the old faithful car games: I Spy, car colour counting etc. Our dad usually drove and mum ended up trying to keep us entertained, thus avoiding the near fatal 'Are we there yet...?' scenario. One particular journey she had the genius idea of teaching us a new game where we had to pick a letter of the alphabet and using it to start the name of anything you saw: T - tridge (bridge) - toor (door) - tub (pub) - tree (tree duh!)

Pretty good fun on the whole, the crowning finale of this game came when she chose the letter F and we pulled into an old English farm yard for a vist: Fow, Foat, Seep, Fonkey, Fickens were among the first we saw, then parking by the pond our youngest brother screamed FUCK! This was followed by silence and three kids trying desperately not to piss themselves with laughter and give away the fact that they knew more swear words than they should.

First post for ages from a long time lurker, please be gentle.
(UK-Wookie thought dyslexia was a way to insult Lex Yeah, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 19:38, Reply)

My family, probably like many others, like to flash the V.
Points are scored for flashing Vs in photographs and on formal occasions. When a family member is asleep, it is good form to shake them urgently until they open their eyes, to see the V displayed at face level.

I am currently ahead in the the V-flashing competition after a display at a family funeral.

Arriving at the church in the main car (for this was a close and dearly beloved family member of mine) I spotted my eldest sister standing nearby, in helpless tears of grief.

I attracted her attention and flashed the V.
She stared, wide-eyed, and then turned away, scandalised and giggling.

It's what he would have wanted.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 21:22, 3 replies)

Lack of respect for authority
If there is one paternal family trait I'm proud of, it's our weary disdain for authority. Respect for one's overseers is always earned and never a right. That philosophy has been handed down my family for generations and no small amount if pleasure has been gained over the years in voicing our distaste for the many instances of pomposity and stupidity displayed by those we entrust with our safety. liberty and moral direction. I'll give you the shining example of my lineage that is my paternal grandfather.

Grandad PJM fought in the trenches during WWI and returned home to marry the daughter of German immigrants. He spent the 1920s and 1930s driving a horse drawn dray around the streets of the East End of London delivering barrels of beer to the numerous pubs and drinking establishments.

As WWII and rationing became part of life in 1940s London, Grandad PJM was struggling with shortages (my grandmother was only 4' 11") and rationing and thus the family made use of their modest suburban garden for growing vegetables, helped in no small way by Grandad PJM's regular source of organic fertilizer.

It was in the midst of one blacked out evening during the winter of 1940/41 that Grandad PJM was making his way home across London bearing a large sack on his back. As he passed London Bridge, a passing policeman with a keen eye for spotting out black market activity during these times stopped Grandad PJM in the street.

"Ello, ello, ello" said Plod. "What have yew got in the sack, sir?"

"Shit" replied Grandad PJM.

"Hai am going to ask yew once again sir before hai ask yew to accompany me to the stayshun, what is in the sack?"

"Shit" replied grandad PJM, dismissively once again.

"Right then sir yew are nicked. Sunshine". With that, Grandad PJM was frogmarched to the local Plodhouse

"Right then sir hai am going to ask yew one more time before hai make yew open it. What have yew got in the sack?" said plod who now sensing an opportunity for promotion in front of his superintendent who was now present.

"I already told you, shit" replied Grandad PJM.

"If yew won't tell me what is in the sack then hai am afraid hai am going to have to ask you to empty the contents onto the floor" brayed the copper, the extra stripe now surely not far away.

"Alright then" replied Grandad PJM who simply shrugged and poured forty pounds of matured horse manure onto the pristine floor of the police station.

Grandad PJM was sent on his way home, but not before the superintendent ordered the policeman to put the manure back in the sack and return it with an apology.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:25, 8 replies)

As a child when driving towards this village that had a tunnel
my mum would start whispering...

Coffee, coffee, coffee
Cheese and biscuits ,Cheese and biscuits ,Cheese and biscuits, Prunes and custard, Prunes and custard, Prunes and custard, Beef and carrots, Beef and carrots, Beef and carrots, Beef and carrots, Beef and carrots, Beef and carrots, Beef and carrots, Beef and carrots, Beef and carrots, Beef and carrots,

Then as we went through the tunnel she'd shout

SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUP!

Now my wife looks at me like a nutter when I do the same thing.
( Peej, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:42, 4 replies)

Me and my little brother
grew up in the early 90s, and as such we grew up watching what was then known as the WWF. Despite all the stupid warnings, every Sunday we would have a wrestling match against each other, usually after we'd been sent to bed, to prolong the night before another week of itchy school uniforms, semi melted club bars and soggy Marmite sandwiches.

This tradition gave my mum something of an aneurism, since me and my brother shared a room and we had a paper thin floor. Couple that with the fact that we were both freakishly tall and stockily built for our age, many an evening was spent with cheap artex falling like chav-snow in the room below thanks to our well executed suplexes and bodyslams.

But we took it quite seriously. We'd tie shoelaces round our arms and try in vain to rip old T shirts a la Hulk Hogan. And then one day we decided to emulate the Ultimate Warrior. For those too proud to admit to watching the wrestling, he was renowned for wearing facepaint. And because the year was 1991 and nearly everything in the western hemisphere was red white and blue thanks to Gulf War 1, the Ultimate Warrior also had a habit of wearing red white and blue facepaint.

But where to get it?

Bedroom - nothing.
Kitchen - nothing.
Tried crayons - didn't work.
Felt tips - not enough.
Tippex - weirdly, we weren't allowed to have Tippex.

Then...

Aquafresh.

The red white and blue stripes. It was as though God him/herself had put Aquafresh on this earth so me and my brother could actually dress accurately like our hero and pummel each other to mild bruising.

So, in a state of giddy anticipation, we boh rub copious amounts of Aquafresh into our faces.

And spend the next hour or so screaming like bitches as we try and remove big globs of it from our eyes and doing all we can to fix the burning sensation.

I was a supertwat since birth, it would seem.
(GONEism, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:36, 5 replies)

Dad
and his brother used to have several rituals.

1. they got a small model of John Wayne in a cornflakes packet when they were younger, which they spent 11 years hiding in various places around their house - whoever found it had to hide it next - as they were at boarding school, it could be months before it was moved. Apparently the best was when they hid it in the jaws of a stuffed crocodile my grandmother kept in the fireplace, it managed 5 months undetected.

2. Whilst at school (and then once dad went to uni), they would write to eachother, but the challenge was to reuse the letter and envelope as many times as possible, i.e. by writing in a different colour of ink, by writing at a slant, by merely writing between the lines. This could go on for months, and my mother witnessed it a few times when she was first dating dad.

3. Once they got a bit older, whenever my grandmother was being dull (i.e. discussing interest rates at the christmas dinner table, or droning on and fucking on about politics during a family gathering), dad and my uncle would just pick up her chair, with her in it, and move her to a different room, without any signal to the other that they planned it. Dad still does that when my sister is getting pretentious and arty too, although it's now extended to putting her in an empty rubbish bin.
( ascorbate, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 15:15, 1 reply)

Jack-Whoring-Fucking-Fuckface-Cuntalot-Palance…

For as long as I can remember, I have shuddered with a seething disdain at the mere mention of the (now dead) crusty old actor Jack ‘shitcake’ Palance.

It’s not even his fault really. I never knew the bloke…he might have been a lovely fella. He did nothing personally to offend me. Maybe he wasn’t the best actor in the world, but he tried hard…yet he ended up being a prunefaced tortuous turdboil on the arse of not only my fledgling youth, but also through my teenage years and beyond...

The reason I have grown to loathe the sour-mugged cumbubble with the passion of a thousand rutting Wildebeests is solely down to my mum’s delusion.

When I was a lad, and any movie was on the telly or video, she would like to participate in a spot of ‘film commentary’. Not discussing the plot, or spouting interesting, relevant facts about what we were watching or anything. Oh no. She just liked to try and name the people in the cast...If she recognised any of them.

Unfortunately, and with a painful inevitability…she never recognised any of them. Therefore she would guess…and there was only.ever.one.guess.

Quite how Jack Palance, like the stack of putrid baboon-jizz being spaffed liberally over my childhood that he was, got to tattoo himself on my mum’s fragile and failing memory I will never know. What also didn’t help matters was that in her eyes, it seems he never aged…and he was therefore capable of being in any movie…even after his death…

I believe the curse started in the late 70s, with mum prodding her finger towards the screen and shouting the immortal phrase: “That’s Jack Palance” at any man with dark hair. However, it rapidly degenerated from possible…to doubtful…to totally incomprehensible cases of mistaken identity. One-after-the-other. The process slowly evolved into having those fateful words being screeched with a mixture of blind hope and blithering insanity towards any fucker in the known universe to grace the silver screen:

Some examples:

Mum (whilst watching ‘Top Gun’): “That’s Jack Palance”
Me: “No you daft old trout, That’s Tom Cruise”

Mum (whilst watching ‘Trading Places’): “That’s Jack Palance”
Me: “No…….*sigh*……That’s Dan Aykroyd”

Mum (whilst still watching ‘Trading Places’): “That’s Jack Palance”
Me: “For fuck’s sake – that’s EDDIE MURPHY!”


She must cling to the hope that one day there will be a ‘City Slickers’ or ‘Batman’ repeat, so she can get the validation she so desperately craves by hearing the words:

“YES!...For the love of jiggling, slippery FUCK! – THAT IS JACK PALANCE!”

Every movie for me is now ruined. There is no plot too intense…no performance so magnificent, that it prevents me from having the words: ‘That’s Jack Palance’ perpetually ringing through my ears throughout the whole film like a claxon with a sonic boom attached.

So Rest in Peace Jack…If your ambition in life was to indirectly ruin every single one of my cinematic experiences…past, present and future…then mission accomplished.

You cunt.

( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 12:26, 9 replies)

Slaps! Folds!
After dinner, my dad and I would always have rounds of jam sandwiches to finish our repast. These would be made with Robinson's jam, on Hovis brown bread, with a thin scraping of Flora. They were always to be prepared by my mother and they came in two forms.

The "Jam Fold" was one slice of bread, loaded with jam and folded in half, for the high jam to bread ratio; or the "Jam Slap" which was a traditional jam between two slices of bread construction, for the purist.

Jam Slaps were to be requested by slapping one's hands together, one for each sandwich required. Jam Folds were ordered by adopting a claw-like hand gesture.

At the end of dinner, my long suffering mother would stand up to enter the kitchen, at which point my dad and I would start clapping and gurning like a pair of spastic seals to order our butties. This was made more interesting when we had visitors...

That's the only thing I can think of that became a long standing tradition. Well, apart from schizophrenia.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:11, 3 replies)

Bear with me...
The sun is setting in the sky, Teletubbies, say goodbye.

Thank Christ that was over, thought Tinky-Winky. There had been major tension between the stars of the show today. Dipsy had been wanting to take the Tubby Tustard scene in a new direction, perhaps including tubby bananas, and maybe even a little tubby nutmeg. After all, they had to eat this slop. Tinky Winky had liked the idea – after all, the Tubby Tustard had a knack for curdling under all that lighting, so anything to make it taste less like armpit was more than welcome. But when management refused, the shit hit the fan. Dipsy threatened to invoke the creative clause in his contract, then threatened to walk out, and THEN Laa-laa had a massive falling out with the producer and so on, so please. Po was ok. She usually spent between takes sat in the corner sipping absinthe. It made her calm and pleasant. Originally they had banned her drinking on set, but after a couple of cameramen were hospitalised, and they couldn’t find a replacement, it was agreed that she could consume one bottle of the stuff per filming. So yes, bad day all round.

“I swear, I am this close to walking out on the show.”

“Hey. C’mon, we all have bad weeks”, said Jenny Winky, his wife.

“It’s not just that. The writing has gone stale, and I was thinking of doing more work in theatre anyway. They’re doing Ibsen’s A Doll’s House at the royal next year. I’d love to be in that.”

“Well, it’s up to you. Anyway, come up to bed soon, I like it when you’re aggressive.” She kissed him on his aerial and went upstairs.

Fame shouldn’t have been like this. And Noo-noo! He hadn’t talked to Noo-noo since he married Jenny. Ok, it was only a month after she had been Jenny Noo, but love is love. It can wait for no man, Teletubby or personified vacuum cleaner. He poured himself a mug full of scotch, downed it in 3 swallows and went to bed.

The mood on set the next day wasn’t much better. Laa-laa was now using her make-up artist to act as a communicative go-between with her and the executive producer. Dipsy had been placated into doing the regular Tubby Tustard thing, but it was obvious he wasn’t selling the experience to the camera. Tinky Winky couldn’t decide if it was some passive form of protest, or whether Dipsy’s spirit had finally been broken. Po hadn’t been able to obtain her usual bottle of absinthe, and so was drinking a potent mix of Jack Daniels and Brake Fluid out of an old biscuit tin. She was her usual placid self, but kept sporadically screaming something about hanging giraffe-thieves. Luckily she remained an absolute professional while the cameras were rolling.

The show went ok. By no means was it their best effort, and Toyah Wilcox left the set at the end of the day muttering something about “Thodding pweemadonna amateuws”. But Tinky Winky had had enough. He kept quiet about his decision to leave, at least until he could secure some kind of theatre appearance. His agent had told him about a part being needed for Lysander in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and seeing how Kate Winslet had been cast to play Helena, that was something he was willing to walk over Ibsen for.
“Mr. Winky, tell me why you want to be in this play”.

“Well sir, the previous show I was with started to go stale in terms of foresight and creativity. I feel that your theatre company has always been able to keep this fine play fresh and exciting, and I feel I can aid that process.”

“Well, you have been part of a media aimed at the younger generation, and I do like to see Shakespeare being brought to the youngsters.”

The rest of the interview continued in a similar, obsequious vein, and it was agreed that Tinky-Winky would play the part of Lysander on the opening night. The tabloids had a field day with the story, claiming that he had sold out, and that the walk out had resulted after a fist fight between Tinky-Winky and Po. Truth be told, Po was the one person Tinky-Winky could get along with. She was living proof that the solution to life’s problems can actually be found at the bottom of a glass. Or biscuit tin.

Nonetheless, Tinky-Winky’s hesitance to inform the cast about his departure had left many people bitter. The head of the BBC was rather annoyed that Tinky-Winky was allowed such a flexible contract that stated he could leave the show on the condition he did not sign with another TV channel. So several people were fired, and the show was put on a hiatus until a replacement was found. A rather unsavoury element was added to the mix when a drunken Noo-noo tried to assault Tinky-Winky outside an exclusive restaurant, in full view of several photographers.

Fast forward to a week before opening night, and Tinky Winky was in a bad way. The stress from rehearsals and the hammering he’d taken in the tabloids, who were now claiming he had impregnated Jordan, had lead to a rapid drop in the quality of his health. His aerial had drooped, he couldn’t control the TV footage appearing on his stomach, and for some reason he kept displaying footage of how peanut butter was made. Whether that was symbolic or not was irrelevant; it meant he had to wear thick jumpers when he went out to stop people watching his belly, and it was the middle of July, and the subsequent bouts of profuse sweating made things worse. Jenny was starting to feel somewhat left out of the marriage, and her reconciliation with Noo-noo was going a little too well It seemed – she would be out all day every day, and come back about 11pm.

“I just think that for me to feel at peace and for our relationship to continue to grow and mature, I need to make peace with Noo-noo. He’s changed a lot, you know. He’s taken up pottery, and performs improvisational poetry in a small café in Covent Garden. He’s so caring and attentive.”

Tinky-Winky’s aerial was now drooped flat against his head.

“I do have to say Jenny, I’m glad that you and Noo-noo are working things out, but I barely see you these days. I miss you”.

“Oh, I’m ever so sorry, Mr. Theatre! I’m sorry that I have a life of my own! I think the only thing missing is the love in this marriage. Noo-noo told me that on one of the seminars he attended…”releasing the inner rainbow butterfly of youth”, I think it was called, that men have less connection to their inner chrysalis, which can lead to marriage problems, depression, impotence and baldness. I think we need to see a councillor.”

“Honey, if that’s what you’d like then that’s ok. But can this wait until after the play? I’m seriously ill, several people want to kill me, and Jordan is claiming I got her pregnant.”

“Well, I don’t know. Can love wait? Does our love mean so little to you that you put it on the back burner?” She slammed the door and walked out. It was to be the last he saw of her until the play. He knew where she was. She was vacuuming.

Next on the list of pitfalls was the vicodin. He needed something, anything to keep him going. Just make it to the opening night, he would say. Make it past the first night and fate will force all the pieces into place. Things would work out. Po, Dipsy and Laa-laa would befriend him once more, Jenny would come back, and he would make his peace with Noo-noo and the BBC. Time for another scotch.

Come the opening night, Tinky-Winky was calm. He had a look in his eyes that suggested that he could nip any problem in the bud before it even became a problem. In truth, he was high as a kite. The vicodin and scotch he’d been living on had caused him to lose weight. He had no idea how on earth he made it to the theatre. He put it down to some kind of inner auto-pilot.

“Mr. Winky! You all set? My goodness you look fabulous! Have you lost weight?” He still hadn’t gotten used to casually conversing with Kate Winslet.

She looked divine. She was already in stage attire – a full, plunging green dress that was just tight enough to show what was underneath. Like when you see a Christmas present shaped like an elongated triangle. You know it’s a toblerone. Mr. Winky smiled at the thought of Miss Winslet’s toblerone. He realised he’d been staring at her and smiling vacantly for 24 seconds now. Time to say something.

“Yes, I have been working out. I look forward to winslet with you, Miss Working.”

The mischievous Puck had applied the potion, and now came the dual courting scene. Tinky-Winky and Michael Barrymore (playing Demetrius), vying for the love of Kate Winslet. He stuck a piece of cloth over his faulty screen, made sure a hat covered his aerial, and made his way from the darkness of backstage to the hot, bright lights of fame. He couldn’t help but look to the crowd. They were there! Laa-laa and Dipsy laughing and joking together, and Po, vomiting into a large bag of Doritos she had managed to smuggle in. The producers were there, and sitting beside Keanu Reeves, who had been brought in to replace Tinky-Winky for the one off Christmas special that Tinky-Winky’s departure had very nearly railroaded. The lights just seemed to get hotter. And then he saw it. Jenny, sat next to Noo-noo, her hand on his extension cord. He felt rage, but turned to Kate. Yeah, they were on stage, but such a kind, loving look resided in her eyes. She had been so supportive of him in rehearsals. Maybe this was fate? Maybe he could start a new life with Kate, and Jenny and Noo-noo could go off together. Maybe this was the happy ever after! He walked towards Helena, and began to speak.

“Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never came in tears. Look when I vow, I weep; and vows so born…”

The world of Science or Health and Safety have never widely publicised the dangers of going on stage under very hot lights, with a famous actress wearing a revealing dress, all whilst tanked to the brim on painkillers and alcohol. The whole world seemed to go vertical and slow motion. Tinky-Winky stumbled forward, grabbed for anything to keep upright. Her dress. He, and the dress, went down. Kate Winslet, and her breasts, did not. They stayed attached to her chest. Pale, and reflecting the lights to the point where they seemed to be glowing. She went to run off stage, and subsequently tripped over an unconscious Tinky-Winky, who was laid flat on his back, belly exposed, showing a film of how Rosie, 6, has just learnt how to use the grown up toilet.

The tabloids ripped what little meat was left from his carcass. He had stayed in the empty house alone for 2 weeks. Kate was now out of hospital after suffering a concussion, and while she wasn’t angry at Tinky-Winky, he felt terrible. That, and her agent had told her that associating with him now would be career suicide. He was alone, his career was over, and his future was destined to a derogatory reference in some nostalgia show, where D list celebrities would talk about how great the Spice Girls and Tamagotchis were.

One night, when the sun was setting in the sky, Tinky-Winky decided it was time to say goodbye. He went to Tower Bridge, to see if he could fly.





Since I have a large, grown up family and most of my siblings have kids of their own, we tend to have a big family gathering on Boxing Day instead of Christmas day. This is always great fun for me - I'm the childless single one of us 4 kids, and I'm also the only teetotaller. So every Boxing Day, while my family has their traditional drunken, chavtastic get together, I'm usually ousted up to my room, where I partake in a tradition of writing a pointless short story every day Boxing Day evening, like the one you just read.

Length? Mine's just regular sized. Everyone else in the world is tiny.
(GONEism, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 21:03, 9 replies)

Gurney Slade
My family all read The Meaning Of Liff a while ago and (as I'm sure everyone does who has read it) came up with a few of our own.

Gurney Slade is "to distort the face of a loved one, while they are unconscious on a sofa at a party, for the amusement of others".

My mum proudly coined that one and it stuck. We rarely actually indulge in Gurney Slade, more often use it as a threat.

Ooh, and that's another thing. Gurning.
When gathered together for any kind of family event where photographs are taken to remember the occasion, the instant a camera is pointed at any group of us we are gripped by a strange compulsion. We don't pose and smile... we gurn. With no direction or communication, we simultaneously pull the same face (and sometimes each others'). There are no normal pictures of us as a family since Christmas 2005.

Some examples:
Christmas 2006 1, 2
Christmas 2007 1, 2
My brother's wedding (note how effortlessly my sister in law fits in with us).
( warmfuzzies Isn't here, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 23:36, 10 replies)

Arguments
When we were kids, my Dad used to settle the very frequent arguments between my brother and I by means of a duel. We weren't allowed weapons, or I wouldn't be here. Instead, we had to stand on one leg, point our fingers like guns, and whistle "Pop Goes The Weasel". The first one to laugh, lost.

I lost every single argument between the ages of six and... actually it's still happening. Damn
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 22:16, 3 replies)

The scourge of mankind – ‘La Voiture Verte’

When I were a lad, and all this were fields etc, my family were struggling to make ends meet. My dad would attempt to ease our poverty and help the finances by rolling up his sleeves and utilising his formidable mechanical and salesmanship skills in the auto trading market.

(I feel I may have romanticised this somewhat…What he actually did was buy shitheap, scrap-pile sheds for a couple of quid, patch them up with pop-rivets and hopefully sell them on for a bit of a profit.)

Still, to his credit, he was quite adept at this…yet as his ‘career’ flourished, my dad started to notice a trend developing.

He would always struggle to sell a green car.

Now apparently there is a deep human behavioural issue here. Green is more of a ‘selective’ colour for a car you see, unlike your run-of-the-mill ‘silver’s & ‘black’s...So public choice was not as easily swayed by some old, worthless, rusty knacker of a motor…in green. For my dad, they quickly become more trouble than they were worth.

He learned this lesson the hard way a few times before twunting logic and psychology out of the window, making his choice and declaring: ‘Green cars are unlucky. No more green cars for the Flake family. EVER!’

What started as his annoyance then became a family tradition, then a ritual…then an obsession…to be hammered shamelessly through to every.single.generation

None of us could even look at a green car without receiving a customary ‘clip around the ear’ole’

Socially aware of all forms of equality *cough – Daily Mail reader – cough*, my dad would have cared not a jot if I had brought home a same-sex, mixed race, drug addicted, Illegal immigrant criminal psychopath as my new ‘significant other’; but if my partner-in-waiting had driven a green car he would have refused to let them through the door and bellowed at them through the letterbox to “Cunt the fuck off!”.

Inevitably, there was the occasional rebellion…& Dad was not happy.

My sister once dared to buy a ‘cute’ little green Fiesta in the 80’s, and one day it suffered a slight prang. My dad leapt at the chance to prove his theory correct. “It’s the car…THE CAR!” he screamed, like a wizened, rollup-smoking, soothsaying harbinger of doom.

She was promptly ordered to sell the car immediately and she begrudgingly did so. Later that year she mislaid her purse in a nightclub and lost £30. “It’s THE CAR!... DON’T YOU SEE??!?” Dad yelped, with a funny look in his eyes.

My brother went on holiday to Thailand a few years back and had a great time…just a few short weeks after he returned…the Tsunami hit.

Tragedy…unimaginable horror…huge loss of life and property.

How did my dad explain this? Tectonic plates? Climate change? Act of god?

Nope, it was because my brother had once bought an old green Fiat 500*…in the early 90’s…and he passed the subsequent curse over to that innocent country like a airborne virus carrier.

“What were you thinking?” my dad barked at my flabbergasted brother as we watched the death toll rise.

September the 11th was attributed to a lime coloured Talbot Samba I borrowed for a fortnight when I was on the dole.

In my dad’s evermore eccentric mind, the current global financial crisis is entirely due to the fact that a year and a half ago I considered buying a new car in British Racing Green. I didn’t actually go through with it (more than my life’s worth) but the mere fact that I considered it has now somehow resulted in a worldwide economic meltdown. So now you know who’s to blame. Sorry everybody.

When Mini-Pooflake turned two years old, I took him round my folks’ house and my dad proudly sat him on his knee.

“Can you say ‘Grandad?...Graaaannnnnd-daaaad!” my old man cooed.

My son started to cutely stutter: “G….g-g….“

Then my dad bluntly interrupted: “Actually, bollocks to that. Say ‘I WILL NEVER FUCKING BUY A GREEN CAR'......saaaay it…….SAY IT!!!!”

We don’t visit very much anymore.




*which he nicknamed ‘the bionic bogey’…it was ace – but don’t tell my dad I said that


( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:55, 12 replies)

H.A.S A.G.M
Firstly neither myself or anyone invold in this ritual side with or agree with Nazis but...

Every christmas sparkley tinsel moustaches are worn (the tinsel you find around crackers), we all become shouty German types, my uncle takes on a camp christmas Hitler persona and we spend the majority of the day slowly getting more drunk and yelling/singing in German accents at one another.

So christmas is now known as the Hitler Appreciation Society - Annual General Meeting.
H.A.S AGM invites go out every year.

x
(Beejster, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 2:11, 9 replies)

Burp Secrets
My sister, brother and I have a probably everlasting running war of 'burp secrets'.

That is, tricking someone into leaning in with the expectation of having a super secrety secret divulged, only to be burped at directly into their ear.

As well as getting points for volume and moistness (I believe in one epic 'secret', some food was actually burped out INTO the receiver's ear), you can also factor into the success the disappointment of the receiver. For example, just going 'hey, I have a secret!' is worth fewer points than 'Want to know what I found out about where you REALLY came from?' (ones like this are harder to pull now that my brother, the youngest, is now over the age of six)

I fully plan, as the oldest, to give them each one final burp secret on my deathbed.

Edit: also just remembered about 'fart news'. Aka 'Guess what?!' said loudly and excidedly. 'What?!' expectant and intruiged. '*farts*'

Oh, the hilarity.
(Mr._F is not actually a man- this username is a lie!, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 14:17, 3 replies)

The Bishop of Birmingham's Buttocks
When I was a little Fluffles, my mother and I used to play a fantastic game on long car journeys. You might know this game as "The Emperor's Cat", but trust me, this version's better.

So, we'd be on a long journey, we'd have been silent for a while, and just when I was starting to get bored with the scenery, she'd just quietly say, with a completely straight face and her eyes firmly on the road, "The Bishop of Birmingham's buttocks are ample."

I would then respond with, "The Bishop of Birmingham's buttocks are ample and belligerent."

She'd think for a bit and say, "The Bishop of Birmingham's buttocks are ample, belligerent and cavernous."

I'd think for a bit and say, "The Bishop of Birmingham's buttocks are ample, belligerent, cavernous and dreamy."

And so on until you get to the end of the alphabet or forget all the words. This game can keep any number of people occupied for ages. It's even more fun if you use adjectives that aren't commonly associated with buttocks (such as "xenophobic", which is the only thing anyone ever comes up with for X).

My mum and I aren't close, but she's the only person in the world who would know what the fuck I was on about if I randomly said, "The Bishop of Birmingham's buttocks are ambidextrous".
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:49, 2 replies)

Dad'isms.
Throughout my teen years whenever I was with a girl who my Dad had not met before, like clockwork he would ask her. 'Now you REALLY are a girl aren't you? He's had a few mix ups in the past, haven't you Son?'

I am really looking forward to tormenting my son with that one and continuing the cycle of abuse.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 12:32, 2 replies)

A slight cheat, as this is friends, not family
But a bunch of us all of the same age went on various stag dos and lads weekends over a period of about 5 years where for some reason we'd play that game where you ask someone an obvious question and if they are stupid enough to answer the originator of the question would mime a fishing rod and say ‘Reeled him in’

This gradually evolved to either just a slightly raised eyebrow as everyone of us knew what had just happened and that gesture was enough to make you feel stupid, or the other extreme with the most extravagant mime and ‘REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELED!’ said as loudly as possible.

We’d not be able to hold human conversations because anything resembling a question would be treated with utmost suspicion, so we’d communicate in grunts and monosyllables, occasionally punctuated by ‘REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELED’ if one of us was stupid enough to answer the question ‘oh, are you going to the bar?’ or ‘do you know where the toilets are’

The game came to a spectacular end when, waiting for a sleazy jet flight at Edinburgh airport, a friend walked up to a guy waiting at the bar, got a copy of Select magazine out of his bag (Oh, that shows my age, that magazine hasn’t existed for years), looked at the front cover, looked at the guy at the bar, looked back at the cover and said, while pointing at the band:

‘excuse me, are you Damon Albarn from Blur?’

And as soon as Albarn went to agree that, yes, that was in fact him, we saw the biggest mimed fishing rod ever and a eardrum shattering ‘REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELED!’ and then my friend turning on his heel and running back to us with a look of triumphant glee spread across his face.

I have never seen a pop star look so bemused, then angry. And I have rarely laughed as much in my life.

The game was retired at that precise moment, as we all knew we had just witnessed the finest execution there could possibly be.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:10, 1 reply)

fuck off!
you spend fucking years getting over those social workers' accusations of satanic abuse and then some bastard wants to know about your family rituals. Well, I wouldn't tell them so I'm not telling you, chthonic.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:20, 3 replies)

The Pooflake scar…

I can’t believe it’s taken me until Wednesday to think of this…

(Maybe it’s because I’m not a big fan of reposts…but because I can’t really be arsed to paw through all my old wank to find the original, I’ll rewrite it in this fashion.)

There is a tradition in my family. (Tenuous link to ‘ritual’ but you get the idea)…

All male Pooflakes…whilst trudging mundanely through our accursed and increasingly pointless existences…will eventually accumulate a scar under the chin.

My Dad got his in the merchant navy by falling on some piece of big-fucking-boat sailing equipment

My Uncle got his in a knife-fight.

Even my son has one! He got his by falling onto a jagged rock in the garden

My brother got his falling through a plate glass window.

(Come to think of it, most of the Pooflake scars have occurred due to falling either through, or on to something)…

And Me?......well…I don’t have one.

Because I properly cocked-up my big chance.

I was seven years old…and still reeling from the combined shock of Thatcher snatching away our milk; and discovering that Vader was Luke’s father.

Yet through that otherwise carefree sobriety, I waddled mischievously, and with a cheery but bellowing noise through every school day…insolently learning the life-skills of underachievement and corner-cutting that have faired me so well in my now morbidly humdrum dotage.

In those days in our class, the child who had been best behaved all damn day was allowed to leave for home 5 minutes early.

‘Woo!’ you’d think. Suffice to say…it was never me…with one exception.

One sparkling summer’s day, when either in an act of teacher / pupil charity, the law of averages, or a particularly stealthy day of undetected criminal activity by myself, I was finally allowed those precious moments of bonus getaway time.

Elated by beating the odds and getting chosen, I was at a loss at what to do with this fragrant pool of opportunity. Sure, I could go straight home…but that would just be boring as dogshit in a brown bowl.

So with the spirit of ‘Carpe Diem’, I thought I would make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime chance by throwing my parka jacket down on the floor tiles and proceeding to skid up and down the changing room like the veritable clappers on a wrap of whizz and a gallon of Red Bull.

Unsurprisingly, the ‘throwing the parka down’ bit went without a hitch.

It was only at the ‘take a run up, then sprint towards the parka, leap in the air, plant your feet firmly down on said parka and let inertia take it’s course’ part of my diabolical scheme that I suddenly became aware of certain miscalculations…

The parka simply slid backwards underneath me, whipping my legs from under me, and sending my face on a ‘one-way-express-ticket-to-Tile-Town’.

So there I was…plummeting head chin-first towards the cold hard tiles in such a way that the velocity alone would have definitely caused the appropriate tearing of skin tissue…

‘This is it!’ I thought to myself. ‘Pooflake scar, here I come!’

Only fate, fuckwittery and faulty facial muscles decided to step in to wrench away my mongatoid birthright…

…And in some sort of involuntary spasm I suddenly jutted the top row of my teeth out like a 7 year old male impersonator of Janet Street-Porter.

Quite soon after hitting the ground…fragments of my mouth decided it would be a splendid idea to obliterate before scattering themselves over a wide area, I was left rolling around on the floor, sobbing like a girlie and clinging to my bloodsoaked chompers

Eventually, the other children and the teacher wandered out from the classroom into what looked like an out-take from ‘the Coventry Chainsaw Massacre’.

Once the teacher had recovered from her subsequent panic attack, she called my folks, collected the pieces of my shattered mouth and gave them to me in a tissue for the tooth fairy…

Still…I think I ended up getting about 20p…so it wasn’t all bad :)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 9:26, 8 replies)

One Family Ritual...
...that we've seen far too much of the past few years is coming around once again. My brother died a little over a week ago. We'll be carrying him into the Crem on Monday.

He had a cardiac arrest a few weeks ago and never regained conciousness. He was 38. When I was born, I was the youngest of three brothers - now I'm the last. I've yet to fully get my head around that, and I can only imagine how our Mum feels.

He's featured a few times in my posts over the years, and I'd like to share a few with you all.

His worst girlfriend ever
His best girlfriend ever, or at least how they met
His appalling spelling
Him stopping me from becoming a human torch
His attempt to get me laid at age 11
Acid-fuelled hijinks featuring me, him and his mate Ste

As you can probably tell, I've not always had kind words to say about him, but we've always been close no matter the level of silly buggers he was playing at any given time.

When you're out this weekend, neck a shot or take a toke (or both if you have the opportunity) for our kid, as I and a few of our friends will be.

I'm gonna miss him. Every day.
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 11:58, 17 replies)

The washing up
Every night in my house after we all watched Coronation Street and had our tea my mum would tell me and my brother to do the washing up. Cue 20 minutes of fighting about who's washing and who's drying. You see my brother, he was wise to my crafty drying technique. Ever the boy scientist I thought I had mastered the domain of drying the dishes by letting them sit there for hours, evaporating all the sudsy goodness so all I had to do was put them away. My brother became all too wise to this and after routinely beating me for doing it came up with a most noble retort. This involved him pouring a jug of cold water all over the crockery every 15 minutes so they'd remain wet meaning I'd have to dry them.

Oh the fun we had, the longest stand off went on for three days with him even setting his alarm clock to get up two or three times during the night to wet the lot and in turn wash away my dreams of a washing up free childhood.
(KnackerDwarf, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 0:55, 2 replies)

Every morning
I've been married for 4 and a half years now. Me and the missus lived together for 18 months before that. So 6 years in total we've lived together. During that time, we've only spent 8 nights away from each other. So I reckon we've woken up together on 2184 mornings (including leap years).

Every morning, and I do mean every morning, I peek out through the curtains to see what the weather is like and every time I do, the wife says "what's it like out?" and every morning I reply "It's big and there's no ceiling!"


We also do "I need a wee"; "you go wee then"; "weeeeeeeee!"


Oh, and "I've just had a thought"; "first time for everything"



Oh and a Morcambe and Wise classic that goes either:
Wife: "it's nice out"
Me: "I might get mine out then"
OR
Me: "it's nice out"
Wife "yeah, but don't leave it out, eh?"
(ScousersPet, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:09, 6 replies)

Banane!
My parents used to live and work in Switzerland. In fact, I was born there. Apparently, my Dad's Swiss office was a melting-pot of different European languages and workers, the only things they all shared being an aptitude for telecommunications and a warped sense of humour. My dad extracted endless amusement from practical jokes: his favourite was when his friend Michel's back was turned, he replaced Michel's handset with a banana and rang his extension. Michel whipped round, extended his hand toward the phone, and exclaimed in puzzled French: "Banane?"

That is the story of why, 20 years later, every time the phone rings in our house, Dad shouts "Banane" after every ring. I'm sure there's also an explanation for why, whenever anyone in our house starts a sentence with "So..." and a pause, another family member fills in the gap with "...haben Sie heute Tennis gespielen?", but it's lost on me.

My family are strange.
(Holloway_Girl To err is to be human, to be a fool is to believe, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 13:50, 7 replies)

My mad arse Granddad
Was quite the bastard, but that is a horse of a different colour.

At last count he had 5 sprogs (all married), 12 grand-sprogs (all in some stage of marriage/divorce or on/off de-facto-hood) and 18 great-grand-sprogs.

One mighty Clan-Gathering Christmas, there happened to be three pregnant women present. The poor old bugger was surrounded by sprogs, grandsprogs, lots of their spouses and great grandsproglets.

He loudly interjected in the spirited conversation about possible baby names for the three imminent additions to his already mighty brood with the following classic line:

"RIGHT! That's it! There are too damn many of you. I can't be having with remembering all these bloody names at my time of life. So henceforth I do declare that any female decendants of mine will be addressed as MAUD and any males will be addressed as HAROLD!"

And so it was. Luckily, none of us actually have the misfortune to be called Maud or Harold. So at every Clan gathering ever since, Granddad makes no attempt to remember your name. He just shouts "MAUD" or "HAROLD" at his nearest (great)grandsprog and sends the unfortunate child to fetch him another beer.
(Que?, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 5:20, 9 replies)

Mogus Time
At around 11pm each night, it is Mogus Time.

Our cat, Tessa, aka 'The Mogus' is ceremonially removed from her basket/cupboard/one of the bins that she thinks is cosy, and put outside for the night.

The high priest of this ritual is my Dad, who says somthing like "Up and down the country, Mummies and Daddies are saying to their Moguses: It's Mogus time". Sometimes he will also do the voice of Tessa, saying things like "Oh, can't I stay inside?" or "But Daddy, it's cold and wet!" and if I'm in the room, he'll bring her over to me and say, in Tessa's voice, "Night, you Peep!"

The Mogus is then put outside, and the door is locked. We have no cat-flap, so if she wants to come in, she has to scrabble on the window until someone notices and lets her inside.

One night, she managed to evade Mogus Time entirely by hiding under the sofa (I say 'sofa', it was more like a park bench with some cushions on it). When Dad was relating this anecdote, he said "And then Tessa gave me a look as if to say: "Look Daddy! I stayed in all night!""
This was swiftly followed by an a.m. Mogus Time.
( Peapod Has returned to the fold on, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 14:52, 7 replies)

Family codes and rituals
Whenever anything vaguely related to sex came on the TV, my Mum would shout 'Cushions!' and my sisters and I would all have to cover our faces with a cushion. Not only was this rather embarrassing as you could still hear the people having sex, but I now have an irrational hatred of cushions and see them as a form of censorship.
(tharg99, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 15:55, Reply)

Family, pfft,
it's just me and Mr Quar and the cats'n'dogs these days.

When one of us humans is in danger of losing an argument or is otherwise put out, we taser each other with whatever electrical or battery instrument is to hand.

TV doofers, mobile phones, electric toothbrushes, wind-up torches, sex toys - all have been used to settle arguments.

No actual pain is inflicted. Rather, the idea is to subdue the other by ending a pointless discussion.

If we're out and no taser can be improvised, or in polite company where symbolic tasering is frowned upon, it is correct to instead make a low 'dzzzzz' sound, hopefully audible only to the tasee.

It is also acceptable to taser unpopular or ugly TV characters.
Pets can be tasered, but only when it's funny, as when A is stroking Cat B and saying 'Ahhh! Look at the kitteh!' and C reaches out a hand but instead of stroking Cat B, skilfully tasers her.

Remember, kids - the family that tasers together, staysers together.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 12:34, 4 replies)

Poetry and Christmas
Like everybody else, I never really understood how bizarre my family was at the time - it's when you look back that you cringe at some of the inanity you had to put up with as a youngster.

I spent most of my younger years living in Wales in a sizeable farm cottage - the farmer had simply built a (tacky) new house next to the main road and barns, so we were surrounded by fields and fields of his veg. For some reason this made quite an impression on my youngest sister (to be fair, we didn't have a television), who would write all manner of poems about the crops and pin them up all over the house. My parents would encourage her by entering them in competitions etc., but unsurprisingly (to me, at least) her penned tributes to leeks and cauliflowers never really found a fan base.

The other thing that only really struck me later, when I compared my childhood experiences with others, was the epicness with which my mother regarded Christmas. For eleven and a half months we lived a pretty parsimonious life - sweets and chocolate were rare treats used as a reward, most clothes were passed down from sibling to sibling and we never went away on a proper holiday, but every Christmas my mother seemed to be on a personal mission to outdo every Dickens novel and feel-good film. Every room was festooned in decorations, the tree filled half the front room and was practically barricaded by a wall of presents, mulled wine, mince pies and other goodies were on tap, and the dining table would creak under the weight of the Christmas meal. She was a firm believer that there were twelve days of Christmas, so the good times would stretch until Twelfth Night, with presents from the more remote relatives held in reserve so there was always something to open each day. I'm feeling all nostalgic now just thinking about it. Where was I? Oh yes - my childhood. Farm leek odes and rich Yules.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 10:00, 8 replies)

Good ol' family traits
In my family there are a few things that we do that I never realised weren't the norm until boyfriends or friends came to stay.

For example, after anyone says "Stop", my mum will inevitably shout "Hammertime!" from wherever she is in the house.

Also, if you ring the house phone, whoever picks up will give the normal, "Hello". This HAS to be replied with "Is it me you're looking for?".


And finally, my dad's obsession with trying to crowbar the word "scrote" into as many sentences as possible.
In my dad's world;
Porridge oats = porridge scrotes
Strictly Come Dancing = Scrotely Come Dancing.
Vodafone = Scrotafone.
(Lucy Van Pelt embracing ginlovers, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 20:33, 6 replies)

Cup of Tea
Like a lot of the previous stories this one is about trying to relieve the never ending boredom that was a 2 hour car journey when you were a kid.

This one particular journey was pretty much the same as all of the others we had endured as children. The green Ford Cortina was stacked to the rafters with large camping gear. This is before the time of easy to put up, lightweight tents. These things were made of canvas and steel, came in 2 or 3 massive bags and took up most of the car (inside, the boot and on the roof rack).

So I was squashed in the back, my older brother to one side and my younger brother to the other.

After a quiet period, we'd probably been told off for something, My younger brother, Scott, turned to face me, and said "Would you like a cup of tea?"

I was quite taken in, "yes, I'd love one", I said.

He then punched me square in the middle of my face.

I was crying, laughing and confused. I'd been promised a cup of tea, I got a punch in the face.

The three of us in the back of the car were a mess, we didn't stop laughing until we got home...and even then we probably didn't stop.

From that day on we would always be wary of a friendly offer of a tasty warm beverage and use it as a warning to each other when things were getting a bit out of hand.

I recently told my wife this story, the first time I'd thought about it in 10 years. She just looked at me and said. "Yep, I can imagine trying to come up with an excuse to punch you in the face during a long journey"

Oh well.
( bacon and egg roll is going to be big downunder, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 23:36, 1 reply)

I used to go to my Grandparents house every Saturday.
Now, my Grandparents were awesome.

They spoilt me and my brother rotten and adored us unconditionally. We’d play camps and Star Wars and Granddad would pretend to be a monster and chase us with his false teeth hanging out.

We’d get to eat and drink what we liked until we felt sick and were hyperactive little brats (must have been a delight for my parents when they came to pick us up)

We’d be bought football stickers and comics. We had a ‘Bits and Bobs’ box each that would have tin foil, cardboard tubes, glitter, all sorts of arts and crafts type stuff (including, as mentioned in a previous QOTW, 100’s of matchbox car wheels)

Saturdays were a delight, we’d get away with murder.

Nearly all my happiest childhood memories are from Saturdays with Nan & Granddad.

But, there was one big caveat, woe betide us if we prevented Granddad from having his cup of tea dead on 11 am and 3pm. For 15 minutes at those two times of day, we knew that we were to sit quietly reading or drawing and not disturb him.

Out would come the tea leaves, the old fashioned kettle, the tea strainer, the silver sugar spoon, all laid out on a tray.

11 and 3 were Granddads tea and pipe time, and nothing would ever change that.

Granddad died of cancer in May 1995, while I was at Uni.

The day after the funeral I went round to visit my Nan to say goodbye before I headed back up North.

11 am came around and I said ‘Want me to put the kettle on Nan?’

And she looked at me, smiled, and said

‘Thanks love, but now that old bastard has gone I’ll have my tea whenever I want it’

Methinks they were not as happily married as we’d been led to believe…
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:55, 3 replies)

As someone has already mentioned Christmas, I’ll throw my tradition in.
Being the youngest means that Christmas seems magic for as long as you can imagine, with family all having to keep up the illusion. When I was younger, I could never work out why my eldest brother didn’t like to be woken at 5:30am, why wasn’t he as excited as we were?

Around the age of 10, it turned out he always had a ‘hangover’, what was that? Didn’t have a clue, and all anyone would tell me is that he ‘over did it’.

Made no sense to me, even when I started drinking, I didn’t get hungover. I always woke feeling fresh as a daisy, and annoying my friends.

However, that changed on Christmas Eve 2005. I was 17, and it was my first proper night out with my brothers. After finishing my shift at McDonalds, we all closed the restaurant, and went for a drink together. Unfortunately, several people were in a hurry, so I got my greasy mitts on the drinks they left unfinished.

So, at 10:30pm when I go to meet my brothers, I’m already well on my way, and fairly giggly. Soon as I arrive, there’s a pint shoved into my hand, and the night begins properly.

At 11:30, the eldest of us stands up and says “I think it’s time for us to go, or we’ll feel this in the morning”. We responded with a rousing cry of “Bollocks!” (As you do).

He left with a rather sinister smile on his face, and we carried on, not falling in the front door until gone 2am, then realised we had a crate in the freezer to drink too, which we did with great pleasure.

By this point, the three of us are unbelievably drunk, and decide to call it a night, at about 4:30am.

At 5am (roughly), the eldest walks in and asks loudly if we’d like a cup of tea. No response, but he knows he’s woken us.
5:30am, same again, but with a very small "Oh Piss Off".
6am, He walks in with a pillow, giving us all a couple of smacks in the face, then walks out again.
6:30am, We hear the door open again, and all throw a pillow. Turns out this was my Dad asking us to quieten down, or so we thought. A few seconds later, we’re being attacked in earnest, by not only my brother, but my Dad too.

After this, they left us for 45 minutes, to give us a false sense of security.

Then, they opened the door silently, sneaked up to the bed, and…..

SWEETSHITTINGMERCIFULJESUSCHRISTONABIKE

They’d brought up the ironing jug of water, and tipped it over my head, with one jug for each of the three of us.

By this point, all 3 of us are awake, and so we slowly get dressed, and trundle downstairs, to find an empty kitchen with a note.

“I told you to be careful last night. We’ve gone back to bed. See you at 11!

Love,
Dad, Beth and Ian”


We now do Christmas at 11 every year. I love my family *grinds teeth*

Length? There's going to be 15 of us together this year.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:28, 3 replies)

Christmas Rituals
Santa visits about midnight... usually I need to help Santa up the stairs as Santa has had the best part of three bottles of wine. Santa's helper (my father) is usually at this point drinking straight Tia Maria from the bottle because the wine has run out and it tastes like coffee. Santa deposits the stocking on or around the bed, usually whilst my sisters sit upright and tell Santa to fuck off because its after midnight and Santa stinks of booze and fags. Santa will then usually repair to the bathroom, occassionally passing out in the bathtub.

Santa's helper then staggers up stairs, coughing and spluttering before passing out and snoring like an artillery barrage.

Cut to:

The morning. 6am Santa's helper gets up, puts on y-fronts, depending on how Santa is doing helps her out of the bath where she may or may not have spent most of the night. Santa's helper then gets dressed, goes downstairs, opens some wine and sits outside smoking and drinking. The little cherubs (my three sisters) awaken with girlish squeals of delight about 7.30am and wake me up. Santa may or may not be throwing up at this point.

We all troop downstairs. Santa's helper bitches and moans about the Blair/Brown Government / the economy / kids today / his raging hangover and then sends one of us to fetch more alcohol from the cellar. He then starts cooking.

10am. Santa appears. She usually, at this point, forgets that whilst she was born in Wales and was raised bilingually, she married and Englishman and negelected to teach her children Welsh. This makes the obligatory call to elderly Welsh relations who have been promised that this year we will all sing 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' in correct Welsh, problematic.

That done, the preliminaries are out of the way and the proper drinking can begin. The oldest of my sisters is dispatched in her car to pick up my grandmother, who will have already had several gin and tonics, and will no doubt be ready with her fund of mildly pornographic jokes, blue stories, and disturbing revelations about American servicemen during the War which, when delivered at the dinner table, cause a certain social difficulty.

Prior to Christmas dinner (served around 2pm) more wine is opened, sherry is consumed, and, depending on mood, vodka is drunk. Christmas dinner passes in a blur, the Christmas Pudding is usually doused in far too much alcohol (in the past we've used vodka or cachaca when the sherry has run out) and usually burns magnificently. Meanwhile, my grandmother, reckless of tongue now that she is past 90, cracks a series of dirty jokes that would make a stevedore blush.

3.30pm. We all repair to the living room, where presents are opened. My father gets bored after 15 mins and leaves to sit in the garden smoking and drinking wine. My mother usually passes out around 3.50-4pm. My grandmother is not far behind.

The rest of the day is spent drinking and eating more. There usually is talk of going for a walk, but everyone is too drunk to seriously consider it.

Bed time is around 8pm.

This ritual has been going on now for the past 10 years. I have no doubt that this Christmas will be little different to the previous ones.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:46, 3 replies)

Curry Hell
When my sisters and I were all younger, my father used to delight in cooking very hot, very spicy curry for dinner, and washing it down with plenty of alcohol. He would then let this brew for a few hours before unleashing the festering pustulant mess into the toilet. The air would generally turn green, and small bits of grouting would fall out from inbetwixt the bathroom tiles.

Where, one might ask, is the ritual in this?

He would finish, close the windows and door, and then wait, silently, like a mustachio'd hawk waiting for prey. Within a few minutes, inevitably, one of us would wander by, and he'd grab us, and push us into the bathroom, and then slam the door shut and sit there giggling helplessly at the frantic pleas for fresh air which rose to a hysterical pitch. Eventually my mother would become involved and we'd be freed.

Every fucking sunday for about 8 years this happened.

He's almost 60 now, so the revenge of deciding which badly run, alcohol free, nursing home he's being put in is coming up soon. Revenge is going to be sweet.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 2:34, 1 reply)

MONKEY PUZZLE TREE!!!
For as long as I can remember, whenever a member of my family sees a monkey puzzle tree (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Araucaria_araucana) we have to let everyone in the world know by screaming "MONKEY PUZZLE TREE!" at the top of our voice, be it in the car, in public, with people who don't even know what monkey puzzle trees are, resulting in "Meh..? Monkey what?".
It's turned ridiculous now, people have driven hours out of their way just to get a point in the longest game ever.
Whenever we approach somewhere that we know has a monkey puzzle tree, you can literally see the sweat dripping off our faces to be the first one to yell out, because if you scream before you actually see the tree you're a dirty rotten bumface.
We've sent texts saying "monkey puzzle tree" from all over the world. My mum's still got some from about 4 years ago in her phone.
(reducedfatLOLcat, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:35, 10 replies)

I procrastinate so much...
Oh wait shit sorry
(Charlietron Still can't think of anything witty to put here, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:13, 6 replies)

Every year in the run up to christmas
my family would assign one of the preceding saturdays to be "Family Hike" day.

Every year we would be awoken at the crack of dawn by my father who would already have got up and dressed himself in his old corduroy trousers that had shrunk in the wash so much you could almost see his knees when he sat down, a faded flannel shirt, a ridiculous looking tweed hat and his hiking boots.

He would dance into your room singing a song, the tune of which would be whatever popped into his head and the lyrics of which would involve the words "up" "get" "hiking" and "going".

Following the inevitable groaning and moaning we would fall out of bed, put on our warm clothes, eat some toast and bundle into the battered brown vauxhall cavalier. We would then be driven down to somewhere on the coast before commencing with "the family hike".

One particular year that sticks in the memory we had achieved a remarkably early start and were on our way across the rolling coastline by 9am. The sun was out and the day was still and though it was the middle of winter (or the very end of autumn if you're going to be pedantic about it) it was a fairly warm day.

So much so that we didn't bother with the usual arctic survival gear that we were normally forced to don by my uber prepared mother.

Of course we were as far away from the car as we were going that day and had just turned around to head home when the first spots of rain were felt, the wind picked up and massive threatening storm clouds rolled across the sky. We were not happy.

We were soon soaked to the skin and, given that me and my sister must have only been about 10 and 12 at this point, in some considerable danger of contracting hypothermia. My mother was raging at my dad for not being prepared, my dad was raging at my mum for the same reason and me and my sister were howling and shivering as we were dragged across the barren landscape.

Things quickly got worse when we realised we were not heading for the car at all, but had got completely lost. By this time the arguments had ceased as mum and dad realised quite how serious the situation was getting, this was pre mobile phone so we had no way of getting help without finding someone to alert to our plight.

Luckily, when it seemed that all hope was lost the small track we were following opened onto a road, at the side of which was a large log building with bright light shining from the windows.

We practically knocked the door down in our haste to get into the warm. The proprietor of the shop could not have been more welcoming. Seeing the state we were in he quickly swapped our sodden clothes for huge padded jackets, sat us down by the electric heaters and gave us musili bars and kendal mint cake to nibble on while he made some tea.

Sam, for that was the name he introduced himself to us by, then went so far as to give us a lift back to our car. It turned out of course that we weren't all that far away but in the rain and wind we had just got confused.

I will always remember looking back at his shop sign as we drove away.

Sammy-Lee: Coats and Victuals.



You fucking love it.
(Bazongaloid, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 10:43, 7 replies)

The Lynx Java Blues
The latest familial memory that has escaped from the mindbleach is this quirk from my dad.

When I was a wee kiddy and before my first conviction, we all used to go shopping at our local Safeways every Saturday afternoon. On Saturday morning, my dad would make the shopping list. This was a very serious business, as if you weren’t present to outline your case, then you couldn’t have it. Don’t get me wrong, my dad wasn’t mean. If you could justify it in person, then it would go on the list and you could have it with no problems.

But if it wasn’t on the list, then oh dear. Oh dearie me.

This used to lead to horrendous situations whereby I would be playing with my friends at someone’s house on a Saturday morning then I would suddenly realise with bowel-gripping horror that it was almost list writing time. I would have to peg it around to my house to grab my empty tube of hair gel and request another one in order to avoid the ignominy of having flat un-spiked hair, or to squirt the stale butane out of my can of Lynx Java to prove that I needed another can.

My father did used to come unstuck sometimes as he lived by the sword and died by the sword.

I will never forget one Saturday afternoon where me, my two sisters, and mother would physically restrain him from picking up safety razors as they weren’t on the list.

We must have looked like loonies.

BUT THEY WEREN’T ON THE LIST DAD, SO NOW WHO’S LAUGHING?

*foams*

*gibbers*

*twitches*
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 17:06, 2 replies)

Family rituals
No matter how petty, or annoying. How long or short. How embarrassed or proud you are of them.

They are important.

If your other half has a tradition that you don't understand, that annoys the hell out of you, that drives you insane so much that it makes you want to scream.

Still, try to cherish it. For their sake.

Because if something happens to take it away, you will miss it too. But more than that, the pain you feel for them will be worse than anything you've ever known.

If the man who fathered the woman you love, but also is the cause of her referring to chicken as ‘chick chick’ suddenly breaks down and stops even recognising his daughter and you can do nothing to stop her heart breaking on a daily basis, you’d do anything to be reliving the moment you wanted the ground to swallow you up when you went to dinner with her parents and he said to the waiter ‘And chick chick for me please’

Get well.

Please.


Sorry, I've been holding that one in all week, unsure whether it was appropriate or not. I feel better for having written it down.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 10:51, 6 replies)

Punnage
It's entirely my dad's fault that I grew up with an unerring instinct to indulge in puns, particularly the fishy kind (cod in the act, salmon chanted evening, if someone tickles you what you should do is stickleback, etc). Between us we can drag out conversations for hours filled with increasingly elaborate puns, driving my mother and sister slowly insane in the process; a practice which culminated in my arriving home from school a few years ago to a short story written over three pages about fish belonging to the BNP, who get facial tattoos to show their allegiance (the UK-lipped huss. We were doing trees the day before).

I am now a sort-of-grown-up, or at least I don't live at home, and a few months ago I had a nice civilised roast dinner with a few friends. Tragically, just after the meal my housemate mentioned 'soul food', and off I went.

After 'eel meet again', 'ray of light' and a few others I was threatened with violence, so I shut up for five minutes before blaming my condition on the foul influence of uni boys, their drugs, their booze and their prawnography. I was bodily flung out of my own house.

So, so worth it.
(Shinigami, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 2:38, 6 replies)

Technically Not Family
..as we are only of the engaged, but Ms Grouch and I have already developed quite a few rituals.

1. We now choose what we are going to have for dinner through the medium of interpretative dance. The one for Mashed Potatoes is particularly impressive. Verbal discussion is no longer possible.

2. Should Ms Grouch be annoying, I will put something she needs in a Very High Place. For instance, the biscuits on top of the cupboard (she is not tall; I am). Conversely, if I am annoying her, she will mention the wedding. Or children.

3. As if further proof that we are made for each other was needed, neither of us can get up until one of us has broken wind noisily. The other person has to answer with the first three bars of 'morning has broken'.

Romance is alive and well in Woking, I can assure you...
( Grouch would quite like his clients to stop being numptys, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 16:01, 3 replies)

Hurry Up!
Spikeypickles earlier story of putting his kid to bed has reminded me of a little night time routine we used to have at our house until I totally ruined it.

Way back in the mists of time when my eldest was still an only child and still in nappies my wife would easily get him to sleep by gently rocking him while singing somewhere over the rainbow, a family tradition on her side.

This routine was ruined at our place after ‘the Rainbow Island incident’.

One Saturday afternoon my other half decided to pop out shopping while I stopped at home and entertained my son. Bison Jnr was teething and was in a very grumpy mood, I had tried to calm him down with a bottle and rock him from side to side while singing the instrumental version of somewhere over the rainbow and this seemed to stop him crying temporarily......until I realised that my brain was using the rendition of the song was the one used on the Amiga game Rainbow Island (For those who have no idea about the game, it was a platform game about two kids that had the ability to fire rainbows who had to work their way up the screen and avoid the ever rising water level. The levels had a time limit and when the time was running out the music would quicken in pace, making you jump as fast as possible before the water level killed you.)

I therefore reached a point where I stopped, made the warning sound and increased the speed of my singing and the speed of which I was rocking him. My son loved it and laughed his ass off all afternoon, but the whole night-time routine was ruined after that as every time my son hears somewhere over the rainbow he makes the warning sound and expected you to swing him round as fast as possible.

Nowadays whenever we hear that song my eldest will still do the warning sound.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 15:43, 2 replies)

Geek with a Chinese Girl
My sister would play this game, which became a habit.

When she was walking along with her partner, if they spotted a geek with a Chinese girl, they would subtly draw the other's attention to it. They would quietly mutter "geek with a Chinese girl"

It would work both ways - geek Chinese girl with a non-geek man for example. So its not racist so shut up.

Anyway their game came to an abrupt end on a train one time, when their little daughter accurately pointed to, and screamed at, a "GEEK WITH A CHINESE GIRL!!"
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 15:08, 2 replies)

Our house. Every day.
Or, Davros' Granddad's Diary - the musings of a 30-something non-singleton. (Apologies in advance for length).

7:10 am. Clock radio goes off and provides a gentle jolt into the world of the awake. Realise it's Sarah Fucking Kennedy, place pillow over head and try to drown out the annoying bint's inane drivel about her cats and the fact that her bloke is 20 years younger than her, the mad fool.

7:35 am. Nasty horrible buzzy alarm goes off next to bed. Narrowly avoid shitting self in shock because have just managed to doze off again and was having a nice dream about teh kittums.

Play with snooze button for 25 minutes, then realise it's 8 o'clock. Stumble out of bed and make mental note not to fall through the hatch in the floor (we sleep in the loft).

Descend staircase and narrowly avoid banging head off the ceiling / floor (depending on which way you look at it).

Go to toilet and pee for Britain. Flush, wash hands and stagger to kitchen. Switch on kettle, retrieve mugs and make coffee. Present coffee to future spouse; go into living room and sit blearliy for a bit whilst coffee does its job.

8:05 Observe future spouse put coffee on bookcase to go and rouse Sweary Junior. Realise that future spouse has now gone for a shite and bemoan fact that you should have got washed straight away whilst in bathroom. Use time to go and make sandwiches for lunch.

8:10 Future spouse is now out of bathroom and wondering where coffee has gone. Point out it's on bookcase and observe as she takes coffee and goes to take dog for a wee. Use opportunity to have wash and brush teeth. Stomp to bedroom and get dressed for work. Locate watch, rings and mobile phone from same place they are left every night. Pick up debit card and place in pocket in case provisions are needed on way home.

8:15 Future spouse returns from dog duty and having a ciggie, and goes to check on SJ, who is sitting on edge of bed in the manner of a sack of spuds, with school trousers and one sock on. And nothing else. Hear future spouse cajole SJ into getting ready before hitting bathroom herself. But not before hearing her wondering where the fuck she's put her coffee again.

8:20, and SJ can't find his school tie / jumper / shoes (delete as appropriate). Retrieve said item(s) from kitchen bench / middle of landing / bottom of stairs and remind SJ that if he put things away in the same place every night, he'd find them much quicker. Preferably in his room.

8:25 Future spouse presents SJ with breakfast and drink, and locates her own rapidly cooling coffee. Breakfast is half eaten, drink remains untouched. Future spouse heads off to get dressed, placing coffee on table in dining room. 3... 2... 1... Immaculately time ranting that future spouse cannot find her makeup bag. Go into bedroom and immediately place hands on said bag. Observe future spouse head for bathroom to apply face cream, eyeliner, and have another shite.

8:30 Go for a fag.

8:35 Future spouse reminds SJ that he should really be setting off for school.

8:36 Future spouse now cannot find her work briefcase and handbag.

8:37 Or her mobile phone.

8:37 and 30 seconds: SJ sets off for school adamant that he doesn't need his coat despite the fact that it bloody freezing and looks as if it might piss down at any moment.

8:38 Retrieve bags from the far corners of the living room and phone from kitchen bench; Hand to future spouse, who offers profuse thanks, puts them down to get breakfast bar and promptly forgets where she's put them again.

8:40 Future spouse now cannot locate housekeys and spends two minutes scrabbling at bottom of work briefcase until they are located.

8:42 Head out to get car started. Drive to work, drop future spouse off on way at 8:58.

9:15 Arrive at office. Do some work. Fuck around on b3ta for a bit when noone is looking. bemoan shite remote connection and fact that PC keeps freezing on you.

17:15 - 17:30 Decide have had enough and go home.

17:45 - 18:00 Open door and trip over SJs school bag / shoes at bottom of stairs. Or alternatively, get to top of stairs and trip over on landing / middle of living room / kitchen. Observe future spouse finishing off cold coffee from that morning. relax for a bit

18:30 Do dishes from previous evening.

Spend rest of evening jointly wondering what to have for dinner / cooking dinner. Decide on something simple and quick.

21:30 Sit down to eat.

22:00 Chill out for a bit.

23:20 One last smoke.

23:30 Bed

And repeat, except for during school holidays and weekends.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:37, 3 replies)

Just remembered this although we don't do it so much now.
Me and my sister who both should know better at our age.

Whenever we hear the word transformer will shout, 'robots in disguise'.
( girlinthehole, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:50, 4 replies)

Christmas Doors
One Christmas Eve my Dad thought it would be a good idea to put a new front door in. It was a little cold, but there were no great dramas - the timing was just a little inappropriate.
From then on every Christmas Eve there would be the standing joke about which door was going to get it that year.

Dad passed away two years ago, but in my own special homage I have taken down, or knocked down a doorway on both Christmas Eves since. Last year my Mum came around and just gave me a knowing smile.

Perhaps not a ritual - but a tradition non the less - and there are plenty more doorways in this house......!
(jono_h, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:17, Reply)

Oooh, one last one...
... whenever my girlfriend or I are cooking something with mushrooms, and we take out a mushroom from the "work in progress" to taste it, you must make the Mario power-up mushroom noise.
(edit)
... and if it tastes really good, run around the kitchen singing the "bonus level" music.
(gordonjcp, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 15:48, 4 replies)

Milicent's routine.
Milicent was a bit of a daddy's girl who'd been in the office for years, and we'd frankly got bored off her. Unfortunately here Dad was our Boss, so, Millie was to be kept busy.

She was utterly Useless, but being a Geologist consultancy there was lots of boring work to be done. Sand samples for instance.... she had to sort and code samples all the time. This kept her quiet. We'd give her dull tasks to do that weren't too messy, so she could continue to wear her mink and fox stoles. The girl was addicted to fur...

Opposite her at the same desk was usually Richard. They were - against all odds - a couple. He was Metal-head who'd sometimes turn up to work dressed like "Kiss". Legend has it that once an owl flew onto the stage as Rich and his Alice Cooper tribute band were performing and - blinded by the lights and adrenaline - Rich bit it's head off in a tribute to Ozzy Osbourne...

The local rag once ran an article on the odd pair titled...

"Fur-Millie codes sand, Rich chews Owls"

Ayethangyou.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 27 Nov 2008, 13:23, 7 replies)

Plain silliness
I know I must have lots of family codes and rituals as we're a lunatic bunch, but the only ones that spring to mind right now are these:

My father and my husband are both fairly technically minded. At least, my husband is, my dad tries to be. So inevitably a family visit will wind up up with the two of them talking wireless routers, visual basic, and how many megs of ram they've got or some such. As soon as they get into sentences that are complete gibberish, conversation is struck up between me, my mother and my sisters along the lines of:
'So you took the purple one?'
'Yeah, I've found purple is so much better than pink with yellow stripes. You get more squiggles per floop for it.'
'Have you tried one of the latest banana flanges?'
and so forth. The trick is to keep a straight face and keep the utter nonsense going until it distracts dad & Mr Trellis and they lose the track of their conversation. Record I think has been 20 minutes.

The second is down to a love of Blackadder. A favourite episode is 'Beer' featuring Miriam Margolyes as Lady Whiteadder. At one point she utters the glorious line 'I will suffer comfort this once. We shall just have to stick forks in our legs between courses.' One day while on holiday we were having the usual argument on what to do that day. A suggestion was made that was met with little enthusiasm, so I said 'or we could just stick forks in our legs'. Cue my mother nearly dying of laughter (she's easy to please my mum) and the birth of a catchphrase: ANYTHING that is a crap idea is now met with the fork alternative.

The last is down to my mother's musical tastes. The radio is invariably tuned to Classic FM and from time to time a bit of opera will come on. We CANNOT listen to it without providing our own translation. For example: Puccini's O Mio Babbino Caro from Gianni Schicchi roughly translates as 'Oh my beloved carrot, I'm going to the port for a lemon competition'. La Donna e Mobile from Verdi's Rigoletto runs along the lines of 'My puma has wind, he has a funny accent and a pension. Sometimes he's an ambulance that needs a visa, then a piano, then some rice that's menstruating.' That's Italians for you.
(Mrs Trellis GIN, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 16:11, 2 replies)

At first, I didn't think my family had many rituals or codes.
That is until I went home last night and greeted my mum in the traditional way by walking through the door and shouting "ello Mary Poppins" in my best Dick Van Dyke voice.
I then remembered The Morning Song. The Morning Song is simple yet effective. It involves knocking on someone's bedroom door and singing "time to wake up, and make a cup, of lover-ley tea, just for meeeeee." You then wait for the person you've sung to to get up and make you a brew.
It is also a bad idea to ever stand up in my house, if someone sees you are on your feet you will be asked to put the kettle on. Every. Single. Time. (We drink a lot of tea)

I then got thinking about christmas and how generally it seems to be a time for family traditions, some good, some not so good. There's always an aunt with a moustache bigger than Geoff from Biker Grove's just desperate to kiss you, presents you wish people hadn't bothered wasted their money on as you're never going to use them and the pressure to be civil. Don't get me wrong, I love my immediate family. I just don't much care for the other people I'm related to.
I could never understand why my uncle made such a huge deal about us being together at that time of year when he couldn't give a shit about seeing us at any other time. The excuse 'because it's christmas' doesn't sit well with me.

Boxing day was always the day for seeing the family. I wouldn't say I hated it, more I just found it pointless. I much prefer christmas day at home with just my Mum, Dad and two brothers for a few reasons. My family are ace, there's a lot of good banter and we do things for each other we know the recipient will find funny.

Every christmas morning for as long as I can remember I've opened my bedroom door to find a small pile of chocolate coins which then become a trail leading down the stairs, through the hall, into the front room and to the fire place and christmas tree. My mum told me years ago it's because Father Christmas has a hole in his pocket and the coins fall out as he makes his way about our home. (I have often wondered why in the 20 plus years he's been coming to our house he hasn't simply sewn the hole up!)

One year I was working nights in a club. I came home at about 5am on christmas day to discover my mum had, in true Adam & Joe style recreated the nativity scene in our front garden using soft toys, cardboard boxes and straw.

A few years ago my brothers and I went for a christmas eve drink. On the way home we passed some roadworks and decided that what was missing in our Dad's life was a men at work road sign.
After lovingly placing his gift in the hall we all went to bed only to discover in the morning that the miserable sod had worked out where we had acquired the sign from and taken it back! And so a new ritual was born. Last year we managed to get a shopping trolley tucked away under the stairs before he woke up and took it back to Tesco. I hope this year we find him another gift I'm sure he'll appreciate, a traffic cone perhaps?

The little things like the morning song and the chocolate coins remind me that despite all of my flaws my family still love me. I know the casual thievery annoys my Dad a bit, but he still can't hide the smile on his face in the morning.

If I ever have children, Father Christmas will have a hole in his pocket every year and if they ever steal a road sign for me I shall laugh and then put it back in it's rightful place before they wake up.
( wanderlust, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 17:50, 6 replies)

It's not so much procrastination, more that I tend to put off what I need to do and that I'm oblivious to what's going on around me.
(British Steel was participating in awesomeness on, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 8:25, 3 replies)

Goobaroo
Growing up during the 1980s in home of the Big 3 American automotive corporations, we didn’t see many of dem ferrin’ cars about. Organised and promoted fistfights were held over the key issue of ‘Which is the better truck, Ford or Chevy?’, so owning a foreign car was tantamount to shooting a loving family of rivetheads between the eyes, then stealing their truck so you can transport some job-stealing Mexicans across the border.

Sometimes, though, we ventured outside the area, all the way into a different state; a state where liberal open-minded people existed and purchased things like hummus, colour televisions and Hondas.

“DAD, DAD!! What is that car?”
“That, my dear child, is a Goobaroo.”

And so I began to believe that all vehicles not badged with Ford, GM, et al were branded ‘Goobaroos’, despite all the rather obvious and wide reaching evidence to the contrary. Volkswagen, Toyota, Yugo – all owned and manufactured by Goobaroo Inc.

And so the family invented a game; every time a Goobaroo was spotted, we’d shout the colour of the car, then “GOOBAROO UP!” then we would scream and wave our arms in the air until a second Goobaroo drove past. All the while, my father enjoyed the fact that he duped my sister and I into believing his Goobaroo branding for the better part of a decade. And so I remained a small, idiotic, unknowingly racist redneck, shouting ‘Goobaroo’ and waving my arms to the sky at every available opportunity.

Time passed, as often happens. Yet still, when I go back to Detroit to visit friends and family, my sister and I (both 30+ professionals) still shout RED GOOBAROO UP! and jump about like maniacs. Funnily enough, my dad is now a bit ashamed of our Goobaroo-loving behaviour.

I got a job with a large Japanese car manufacturer, where I spent the best part of two years constantly screaming GOOOOOOOOBAROOOOOOOOOO!! in my head while trying to pass myself off as a hard-working level-headed employee.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 13:10, Reply)

Baa
Just remembered a strange ritual of my wife’s that shes passed on. Every time we are in the car and she spots a sheep she will shout out to my kids in the back of the car “Ooh Look kids woolly pigs”.

This ritual has been picked up trait by my kids and will shout it out every time a sheep is spotted, the trouble is that they expect me to be angry about it and will keep repeating “woolly pig” over and over again until I point out that it is a sodding sheep and not a pig. It doesn’t annoy me that they are using some made up animal name but hearing the kids chanting really gets on my nerves:

(Typical situation)

Kids: Look dad a woolly pig!
Me: ...so?
Kids: woolly pig, woolly pig, woolly pig, woolly pig (repeat for the next few miles)
Me: Grah, Ok you win. It’s not a woolly pig it’s a sheep!
Kids: Ha ha ha we knew you would get mad

(I adjust Satnav to redirect me to the nearest orphanage)
(mon bison powered by magnets, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 11:25, 2 replies)

Advent hoppists
I never agreed with my parent's religion, but I wouldn't dream of knocking it.
They were Seventh day advent hoppists. They believed that every Sunday should be spent hopping. They would hop to church, hop through the service, then hop back home again.
Well you see, they took the Bible literally. Adam and Eve; the snake and the apple... Took it word for word. Unfortunately, their version had a misprint. It was all based on 1 Corinthians 13, where it says "Faith, hop and charity, and the greatest of these is hop." So that's what they did. Every seventh day. I tell you, Sunday lunchtimes were a nightmare. Hopping round the table, serving soup, we all had to wear sou'esters and asbestos underpants.
(Miggyman, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 16:49, 6 replies)

Its amazing
how my entire family would suddenly become interested in absolutely anything else in the room when a sex scene erupted onto the tv screen.

*BREASTS* Usually bouncing vigorously.

Mum "Have you seen the wallpaper peeling over by the curtain. Will have to sort that out."

*FURRY LADY BITS* Usually in something by dennis potter.

Dad "Skirting boards could do with some attention."

And if there was ever any sign of a cock that would usually mean a quick impromtu whiz round with the hoover.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 22:28, 8 replies)

Cabbage ritual
I tell my six year old son that if he doesn't eat his cabbage, his willy won't grow.

Cruel I know, but my Dad told me the same thing, as did his Dad to him.

I'll probably still be paying for his therapy when I'm sixty, and he'll have a cabbage phobia and an enormous schlong


Length?.. I ate all my cabbage!
( slapdash flying through the cool clean air since, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:55, 2 replies)

Above two low doorways in our house
Dad has stuck a couple of small ducks he made out of FIMO.

It doesn't work - one visitor was looking at the duck so hard, he knocked himself out on the top of the doorframe. Explaining that to the paramedics was fun.
( ascorbate, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:58, Reply)

Lolly Night
There are and have been many rituals in my family over the years, but the best one by far would have to have been Lolly Night.

Every Saturday night when we were kids Dad would line us 3 kids up in front of the fireplace with his hands behind his back and sing.....

"I have got a present, a present, a present.
I have got a present that I will give to you.
Do you want it?"

With that we'd all shout "YES"

"Do you really want it"

"YEEEEESSSS"

"Are you sure?"

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS"

With that he'd whip his hands out from behind his back and toss/throw a bag of mixed lollies to us.

Sometimes it would be a gentle toss. Other times he throw them as fast as an Aussie Fast Bowler. This probably depended on how much we had annoyed him during the week. We never cared how hard he threw them or if you copped a bag in the head. Hell we were getting lollies.

God I miss Lolly Night and I miss him too.
(Gordon Shumway, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 4:46, Reply)

Soaps reminds me
My father used to ritually pat each pocket, "Got my wallet, got my keys..." then he would grab his genitals "Got my dick!" He would stride triumphantly out the door to work.

All of my many brother do this to the consternation of their wives. I do it to scandalized whispers of "Shut up! Shut up, someone will hear you! Shutupshutupshutup!" from dignified Mr. Dub.



Why did he marry me?
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 0:47, 4 replies)

Whilst watching Friends.. Whenever Chandler says "Oh my God", punch Mother.
We like watching Friends in our house.. Mum, Dad, Me and my Brother.

Its Hilarious how often we have to explain that Mother has "fallen down the stairs again".. even though we live in a Bungalow.

Friends is so funny. But we made it funnier by beating Mum to within an inch of her life.. Whenever Ross says "We were on a break" she gets a kick in the cunt, and if Phoebe sings smelly cat..we get her to shit herself.

I can't believe they ended the series..
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:51, Reply)

Also
we used to have family radio evenings. My parents are big on music and made sure my brother and I shared this passion from day one. Every evening, when there was no homework to be done and the weather wasn't nice enough for tennis in the garden, or Saturday afternoons just after lunch, we would sit down in the living room and listen to Steve Lamacq and John Peel. Mostly it just resulted in arguing the merits of certain bands (we were a family divided by indie, especially when my Bro and Mum discovered pirate radio and rave) but occasionally something came on that got us all and we'd sit in silence and just listen. I'll never forget lying on my back, the setting summer sun making patterns on the mottled ceiling, when I first heard Blur (my utter teenage loves, and yes Damon, I'd still marry you).

This tradition died out when I was 16 or so, I had much more important things to do, like go to the pub, but about 6 years later I was having a quiet pint after finishing a shift at the pub when my mum called me up and told me John Peel had passed away. I actually cried, not a lot, but a small tear was shed, and after a strained conversation with the prole sat next to me ("You alright?" "Umm...John Peel's died..." "Who the fuck's John Peel?" ".....") I went home. That evening my Mum, Dad and I sat down and had a family tunes evening, for the first time in years, as a little tribute to the man who made my childhood.

Reading this back I sound monstrously pretentious. Fuck it, I probably am. But those evenings were more of an education to me than anything I ever learned in school, and gave me more respect for my Dads inherent knowledge of all that beats than any teacher. b3ta, play your children good records, it'll mean more than you could ever possibly know.
( SugarSpunSister Yeah, whatever, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:42, 4 replies)

Outside toilets and pets
My dad told me that everytime my grandad would go out into the yard to go to the khazi, my grandma would always ask him where he was going.

"Ernie, where you going?"
"Shithouse" would be his reply every time.

One day, they got given a mynah bird for a pet, which, with them living in a small 2-up-2-down house and consequently not having the room for a birdcage, my grandad knocked up a small cage and hung it on the wall outside next to the back door.

It wasn't very long before the mynah-bird learned to say shithouse everytime it saw my grandad come through the door and heard my grandma shout after him.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:54, Reply)

Autobots Transform!!!!
My eldest son and I have a ritual of whoever gets up earliest on a weekday has to wake up the other one in a specific way. The person that wakes up first will put on the Optimus Prime voice changing mask, switch it on, grab the sonic screwdriver placed next to it and go into the bedroom of the sleeping victim.

I’ve lost every sodding day this week, but hearing Optimus Prime tell me to get out of bed usually makes a decent start to the day (The sonic screwdriver is used to shine it into the sleeping persons prised open eyes, and will only be used if the person still in bed hasn’t woken up after the mask makes the transforming sound).
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:38, 2 replies)

we only have one ritual, although we haven't actually performed it yet.
The reason for that is that the Great Old Ones aren't composed altogether of flesh and blood. They have shape, but that shape isn't made of matter. When the stars are right, They can plunge from world to world through the sky; but when the stars are wrong, They can't live. But although They no longer live, They would never really die. They all lie in stone houses in Their great city of R'lyeh, preserved by the spells of mighty Cthulhu for a glorious resurrection when the stars and the earth might once more be ready for Them. Then the secret priests will take great Cthulhu from His tomb to revive His subjects and resume His rule of earth.

Oh, and we call lemonade 'pop'.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 6:10, 5 replies)

immortality
Family rituals?

We. just. won't. Die.

The world keeps trying to kill us, but as far as I can tell … my family is immortal.

My father has been in a good dozen serious accidents (mostly not his fault), motorcycles, cars, trucks, one autobahn accident at top speed, he was in a helicopter when it backed into a cliff (it was foggy, that’s all the explanation I’m ever given) during the crash of which the landing strut pushed up through the floor rearranged his face, a few boat crashes, a plane's "forced landing", no train crashes that I know of (I may ask, I'm unsure), I think he may actually have been in a serious accident with every type of transport known to mankind. And of course he's done the usual fun stuff like bar fights, fallen through the ice, gone to war, dated a mafia princess, worked in southeast DC for years, jumped out of planes and slept with twins with whom he did not share a common language.

Ok, the last one wasn't particularly dangerous but he deserves credit all the same.

One time riding his motorcycle back to base after a weekend of drinking he topped all the little jokes fates played on him completely. It's two thirty in the morning and he's riding his motorcycle with his sunglasses on... cause, you know - he's "cool" like that.

He needs to take a piss and he's pretty drunk (these may be connected) so he pulls over to a fast food place on the side of the road hoping to use their bathroom. Nope - it's 230am and they're closed up tight - so he looks around and hey, over there at the edge of the parking lot there's a little wall and some bushes behind it - he'll go over there and do his business and all will be good. He runs over, he jumps over the little wall and...

They're not bushes behind the little wall... they are instead - the tops of fuck all tall Trees.

He's just leapt over the protective wall at the edge of a cliff.

Maybe if he hadn't been wearing super cool sunglasses in the middle of the night he'd have been able to tell the difference but no...

Instead he wakes up the next morning, at the bottom of the cliff looking up at some broken branches in the trees and the sun coming down at him through them. Flat on his back and sore as hell but otherwise unharmed - he says the funny thing is, he didn't have to piss anymore either.

Of course it doesn't end there - he has to go back to base (now seriously late for roll call) and explain *why* he's late, "sorry sarge, you see, I jumped over this cliff..."

He eats a little humble pie, explains what happened - and seems to get away with it.

Except two weeks later he's called into the base psychiatrists office - to be asked "so how long have you had these suicidal feelings?"

Have you ever had to explain that you're not suicidal - you're just really really stupid?

Every year or two I swear there’s something like this, just one more thing for the list.

Granpda was tougher and meaner than dad. When he was 93 he fell out of a tree, landed on his head, broke his neck - and didn't die.

For fucks sake I do not know what it takes to kill one of us.

I should find out what happened to great grandpa...

Myself, being young (and non-alcoholic of bent) have not had quite as many adventures, I've been laying unsecured in the back of a pickup truck during a pretty serious spinout and accident – but I didn't even spill my soda so that barely counts, I stood on my roof in a hurricane as lightning struck all around wearing a fucklong big iron tow chain as an accessory once (it kinda made sense at the time), been kidnapped by west Virginians known only as "rebel" and "rusty" for a night, been hit by a car while biking (and then he hit me again when he still didn't stop fast enough - bumper to brainpan – blegh), been stabbed (hard with a sharp knife... but my skin didn't break, so maybe it was just "poked"), thrown from a full galloping horse named "back breaker" (cause he had) and been shot in the chest... all with out anything more than a scrape.

ok, the shooting was just paintball =) but the bullet didn't even break - it just hit me and bounced off, which according to the ref means “I lived” ... you can't even kill us for pretend!

I can’t explain it – but I do love it, be it dumb luck or something more it’s made me fearlessly willing to try anything – which will probably lead to more stories to tell my kids later =)

That or at least one last interesting story to tell at the wake...
( Allisade would love to hear from you, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 2:48, 4 replies)

Farts
Despite being in my 40s, with an older sister and a much older father. Nobody in my family has ever, ever, heard my mother fart.
She just raises here eyebrows when we (frequently) raise the matter and says "Ladies don't break wind".
If this is truly case, when she inevitably shuffles off this mortal coil (in many many years insh'allah) and is cremanted as is her wish, we're looking at one massive methane fireball.
Watch the papers for news of a crematorium being blown sky high and reports of the survivors laughing like drains as they're carted off to the burns ward.
( difficultchild, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 1:55, 1 reply)

The Amway Monster
Back in the days when men were men, Labour was old and shoulders were padded, my mum would go to pick my dad up from work every evening and, us being quite small at the time, my two sisters and I would come too. His office building was in the corner of an industrial estate, so in order to get there we'd have to drive past a number of different buildings. Warehouses, DIY places, normal industrialestatetype stuff.

Apart from one. One building that would have all three of us quaking in terror in the back of the car.

Amway. Gateway to Hell.

To merely glance at the building's corrugated shell would alert the denizens to our presence, and they would not be pleased, oh no. How dare these mere mortals, small children at that, gaze upon this terrible portal with their unclean eyes? And so they would dispatch their most fearsome beast to make us pay for our insolence with our lives. The Amway Monster would be released.

Me, being the responsible elder sister that I was and fearful for my sibling's souls, took great effort to impress upon them the awful danger they were in. I would give the word as soon as we rounded the corner, and then we would hide (as well as one can hide in the back of an Astra), scrunching our eyes up tight and covering our faces with our hands. My middle sister and I bravely did our best for the youngest, shielding her gaze as well as we could without compromising our own safety. Then, after half a minute of teeth-shattering terror, we'd turn and pull up outside my dad's office. And there we would be safe until the journey home a few minutes later, when the whole ritual was conducted afresh.

This happened every weekday at 5:30pm for four years. Then we got a second car, and didn't have to pick my dad up in the evenings.

A few years later Amway moved out, and whither they went, I know not. So be wary, all you people, and take heed. Should you pass an Amway building be sure to shield your eyes, lest you incur the wrath of the Amway Monster and lose your life and soul in one mighty crunch of it's hideous teeth.

Nowadays, the former Amway building is a Big Yellow Storage company. I don't know whether the gates of Hell still reside there, but it's a lot harder to be afraid of something that bright and shiny. I still get twitchy going past it though.
(Concrete Cow, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:15, 2 replies)

In my family
It's customary for all of us to huddle around a monitor on a Thursday afternoon, repeatedly pressing F5, dying a little of disappointment every time the page refreshes, only to find that the QOTW hasn't changed.

Then we usually put all of our car keys in a punch bowl, and head upstairs. Fingers crossed it's my Mum again tonight, Nana has cold hands.

because she's dead
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 17:31, 3 replies)

Distracting my mum from the television
The woman zones out completely whilst watching tv and so I keep talking, making up outrageous lies until she pays attention to me.

"Mum...mum...mum..Do you want a cup of tea?...I love horses...mum...the chimneys on fire...mum...mum...I'm going to masturbate into the bathroom curtains"
"What was that dear?"
"Cup of tea?"
(Cylon Bum Raider already knows how this will end, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 16:29, 2 replies)

not so much a code or ritual, more a behavioural pattern.
My Dad - rational man, physicist by profession. Prone to carefully reasoned arguments, logical thinking, and great calm.

Except that is when the cat is sick or poos in the house and nobody else is in.

If it happens on the carpet, then rather than clean it, he'll cut a square of carpet around the offending item and bin the bit of carpet, poo/sick in situ.

"That bit of carpet was ruined anyway" he'd reason, and "there was absolutely nothing else for it".

The living room carpet looks like an abstract patchwork quilt, and worryingly, my sister has been known to do it - so I see it as a disturbing family ritual in development.

Failing that, we could always take the cat to the vet.
( rofl harris, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 12:56, Reply)

Any Incoming text message..
.. is always met with a gleeful cry of "FAN MAIL!"
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Tue 25 Nov 2008, 8:44, Reply)

Damn those witches!
My Gran did this, my Mum does this and I can't stop myself from doing it.
When you have had your boiled egg you must make sure that you crack a hole in the bottom. This is so "witches can't use them as boats".
I've worked in some rather posh hotels in my time and have found myself forcing guests to do so at breakfast. They've all been very understanding and have done so, but I didn't half weird out a Japanese couple once...
(UltimateMonkey Ban this sick filth!, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 17:39, 6 replies)

Holding breath.
My sister and I have always been stubborn and fairly competitive, fighting over who got a bigger portions of things (our parents didn't know the one cuts, one chooses thing), who could run faster, who made better Lego toys, that sort of thing. Even though she's nearly three years younger than me, she was only very slightly shorter than me throughout most of our childhood and overtook me when I was around 15 (she 12), with the result that when I first sneaked into a pub and drank beer underage, she did the same a couple of weeks later! But that's Essex for you...

Anyway, on car journeys we used to hold our breath going through tunnels.

It was something to do, I suppose. We'd see a tunnel coming and try and hold our breaths all the way through it. Most tunnels were short enough that we knew we'd succeed, but we'd still sit in the back of the car staring at each other, cheeks bulging, eyes going slightly bloodshot, each checking that the other's breath was still being held. My parents got used to the "poooossshhhh" sound of two rapidly exhaling children that coincided with re-emerging into daylight.

The trouble is, we still do it. But now we're usually the ones driving.

She's got used to it now, but my wife has been made shouty-angry on several occasions when I've taken a few deep breaths when approaching a tunnel and ceased conversation with her to puff my cheeks out, hold my breath and try and make it through the tunnel. The Blackwall and Dartford Tunnels are a particular trial if there's a lot of traffic, and I've occasionally hyperventilated enough before going into the tunnel that my peripheral vision has gone a bit wavy and sparkly and I've had to _really_ concentrate on driving properly.

As a grown-up, I know it's a silly idea. My sister lives around 200 miles away, we're very rarely even in the same car any more, but we both still habitually do it. We've both got to know the tunnels in our area by the rough speed that you need to keep up in order to hold your breath all the way through and we've both seriously wound up our respective spouses by not only stopping conversation but also driving a little faster than we should and getting tense and starey as we progress, ending each tunnel with a relieved "pooosshhh" sound and resumption of conversation as if nothing had happened.

And we'll still compare notes every now and then when we meet up, guiltily taking pleasure in how stupid and potentially dangerous the childhood habit now is.

My best was the Dartford Tunnel at just under 40mph.
( sanityclause is waiting until, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:31, 3 replies)

It just gets my blood pumping...
The great end product of kitkats and butter which I refer to as my father has been having blood pressure and heart problems as of late and has one of those portable machines to help log his pressure over his 'stressful' day as an unemployed web addict. In fact, the most productive thing he's done in recent weeks is send me 30 or so emails addressed 'FW: Funny lolololol'.

Anyway, in order for the doctors to realise how much attention he probably needs in the lifestyle consultancy department, we take it upon ourselves to 'improve' the blood pressure results before he takes his test by pissing him off as much as possible.

Such goldies so far are:

'Dad, I think Mrs Badger might be pregnant'
'You know I'm gay though, right?'
'I've recently welcomed Allah into my life'
'Who's that bloke Mum was having lunch with yesterday?'

He's still not clocked on to it, but the Fat Bastard Police have put him on some sort of new experiemental wonderdrug for the ticking timebomb that he is. My work here is done.

Length etc
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:29, Reply)

*Bu-u-urp* - Arseholes!
No idea where this one started, but it's been in our house for ages. It is the law that all burps must be delivered at the maximum volume possible and immediately followed by a statement of 'Arseholes!'. I blame my mother...

Likewise, the bending down and retrieving of any item dropped on the floor must always, always be accompanied with a loud, pathetic whine as the breath leaves the body on the way down to the object in question.
Everyone in the family is used to this ritual by now, but you don't half get some funny looks when you knock a CD off a shelf in HMV and sound like a loudly-deflating Jimmy Savile picking it up...
(Billy The Fish wants to gargle with Lucy Pinder's bath water, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:40, 1 reply)

Every Year Without Fail I Still Would..
Christmas day for the last 21 years me and my family have spent at least 2 hours of said day watching 1985 classic ‘The Goonies’

I fucking love this film. When I say love it, I don’t mean the love I share for Hagen Daz ice cream, West Bromwich Albion, the mug my mom bought from Egypt and wanking. No, No, No, I love it like a brother or a sister. Cut me and I quite literally bleed ‘Goon Juice’

Anyway, I’m guessing I’m not the only who loves this film. I’m also guessing I’m not the only one who watches it on an annually basis.

One thing I have noticed though. The girl Andy. When I started watching this at the age of four I probably thought she was a woman. When I got to ten I started thinking of her as a girl who went to big school. When I was fourteen and found the art of wanking I think I loved her. When I got to twenty, I thought, fuck me, this is barely legal at best, I wonder if there is grass on that wicket.

I’m 25 now and I think yeah, fuck it, I still would.
(Sir_Digby_Chicken_Caeser [email protected], Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:58, 5 replies)

"I saw it first!"
In S. Florida (Ft. Lauderdale) there is an enormous pyramid. I have no idea what it's for and have never been interested, but when me, my dad and my ex-stepmother were in the car (usually her Camaro, I'm afraid) we used to have a ritual when that pyramid hove into view.

The first person to see any part of it through the trees had to shout, "I SAW IT FIRST!!!".

As time went by, we also developed "I SAW THE WHOLE THING FIRST!!!" once we had driven far enough that it was entirely visible from the road.

I have no idea who was responsible for starting this, but I suspect it was my ex-stepmother who is now hopefully dead, the ridiculous cunt.
(Guizmeaux, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:03, 5 replies)

My kids
all now use the terms "minger", "munter", "spang" and "twatbadger" in daily language.

Thanks, b3ta.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:56, 1 reply)

Fire retarded
One more before my lunch break is over...

When I was a wee nipper of only 4 or so, we took our bi-yearly family holiday to Dorset (we're peasants), and having a bladder the size of a small acorn at the time I urgently required lavatorial attention before I ruptured.

Pulling into the service station, which given the moment in history resembled more of a cornershop than anything else, mother went on her way to secure supplies while I was left to my own devices to find the aforementioned shitter (did I mention my mother has parenting problems?). Much like the McCanns' dinner date at the tapas bar, all hell managed to break loose due to a lack of what should be legally-enforced parental supervision.

I'd found the foam fire extuingisher. It had a big label saying 'Do Not Squeeze'. I mentioned I was 4 years old, right? Remember the end of Ghostbusters where the city is covered in the remains of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man? I made that look like a minor spillage. In my childish stupidity I had given every overpriced sandwich and pointless postcard within 10 metres a pearl necklace and got an utter hiding when mother found me throwing foam at customers. The damage costs cut our holiday short by a whole week.

The family ritual now? I'm not allowed near fire retardants. I'm 21.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 27 Nov 2008, 14:09, Reply)

My Dad and his bloody fish stories…

Every Christmas, while the post dinner sprouts work their festering, gassy magic, the hats from our crackers go all lop-sided on our heads; and our mighty Queen blithers on miserably about her ‘Horrible Anus’… it has become a family tradition to entertain each other with stories and tall tales with which to bemuse, confuse, and hopefully amuse.

The subject matter, however…always has to be fish-related (don’t ask).

Now, being a veritable raconteur in the field of rambling inane bullshittery, you’d think I would be a dab-hand at this malarkey…But oh no, every year I clam up like the shy retiring chap I really am (ahem), and I let my Dad get fuelled up on Tesco Value scotch and entertain the stomach-growling masses with tales that would make Baron Munchausen himself say: “Oh, for fuck’s sake”…

Let me tell you his tale from last year. Gather round children, sit down and get comfy…

In Asia, they eat eels for Christmas dinner. They are considered quite a delicacy and are farmed all year round for the specific purpose of making the dining tables of folk who abide by this rather bizarre tradition.

Amongst the hordes of poor eels, packed into these horrible cramped conditions…was Lee. He was special, and had evolved to be far superior to those around him… for he knew was intelligent enough to realise his fate…

And he wasn’t very fucking happy about it.

Lee decided that it was time to get some support. He rallied round, and being skilled in fish-to-fish conversation and persuasion, soon managed to muster the support of a few thousand others. They were ready for revolution!

But as I mentioned – Lee wasn’t stupid. I mean, what good could a rampaging army of eels really do against their erstwhile captors? No, they were going to rely on the good old Legal & Justice system.

They formed a company, and Lee being a bit of an egotist, he named it after himself…

They immediately set about creating the legal documentation with which to earn not only their freedom, but a bit of compensation for their suffering.

Unfortunately, as you can imagine, it’s a bit difficult to actually write the appropriate confirmation of legal action when you’re an eel. But again Lee came up with a cunting cunning plan…

They would make a huge tray…fill it with sand, and squirm about in it, thusly creating the correct wordage that was required…before delivering the tray containing the detail of the summons therein to the elitist humans who had enslaved them and forced them into this treacherous life.

But what about the compensation package? What could they ask for? I mean, money is pretty fucking useless when you’re an eel…especially with the current economic climate (of which Lee was more than aware). But once again, our hero came up with the solution.

“We shall sue them for precious stones” Roared Lee to his fellow captives. “Rubies, emeralds – the whole fucking shebang! That way, we will be able to buy ourselves whatever we want…they will be a sound financial investment for our futures…

and they look all pretty and twinkly too”

And so it was done. The company spent weeks…painstakingly scrawling away in the sand, creating the legal order and posting it to the owner of the farm.

Upon receiving the mysterious tray with writing on it…the farmer gazed in wonder…and then burst out laughing. “What the fucking hell is this?” He chortled. “Who the bloody hell expects a tray of sand with ‘Let-us-out-and-give-us-lots-of-diamonds-and-stuff-or-we-will-sue-U’ written on it, to stand up in court? Fucking stupid twatty eels!”

And with that, he promptly fucked the tray back into the water, killed all the eels, sold them and made a hefty profit, before making a point of having Lee for his own Christmas dinner.

He was delicious.

So I’m sorry children, but this story does not have a happy ending. Nonetheless, it is the sad tale of : Farm eel ‘Lee Co’ does sand writ jewels…
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 27 Nov 2008, 9:16, 8 replies)

There was an imaginary ghost in our house
We lived in a mad rambling victorian villa when i was little, and out the back there was a daft wee staircase that led to the maids quarters. A lodger lived there and she was really very unhinged but that's another story.

I don't know who started it, i suspect it was my dad, but someone said that at 10pm precisely the ghost would leave the maids quarters and go hunting for virgin blood. So of course, if me or my brother was up about then, we would hear the clock in the living room tolling and fucking leg it up the stairs because the only way to prevent some kind of spectral massacre on the stairs was to be in our rooms by the final toll of the clock with the lights out and in our beds.

I'm writing this and i'm realising what manipulative bastards my parents were.

10 o'clock at night - until i was 15
( Animanga, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 17:41, 2 replies)

A new ritual is becoming common in the Chickenlady home
Every photo in the newspaper or on television which shows a monster, ugly animal, bacteria, in fact anything particularly nasty and unpleasant looking....

a small voice pipes up saying, "I've had 'er"

Or, "I've dated worse"



Thank you PJM, my sons are now claiming to have had carnal knowledge with the monster from Alien.

Or Kerry Katona as she is known in our house.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 11:35, 8 replies)

babysitting
My brother was born when I was 14 and so I found my new role in life: babysitter.

He was a right little mummy's boy and used to cry whenever she went out. They used to sneak out of the door so as not to upset him and then I would reassure him that she was upstairs and would be down soon.

He knew something was up but after a while, my kindly persuasion would settle him and he'd start to relax, smile or laugh even.

Then I'd say it:
"Mum's gone out you know".

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Then another 10 minutes of telling him I was only joking, that she really was upstairs and would be down soon, until he settled.

Then I'd say it again.

And so on.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 16:03, Reply)

Its no wonder dad went to prison...
In my childhood home of old with three horrid children scampering about, there was a family song that rang out on a daily basis that none of us can forget.

At varying times of day from the confines of the toilet you would hear the "I've done a poooo poooo" anthem reverbing tunefully, quickly followed by my dear mum scurrying towards the toilet where she would then procede to wipe the excrement from our childish bottys as only mums know how.

On occasion you could be the unlucky recipient of a dad-wiping. After smugly belting out our family hit, the door would spring open and a look of utter horror would spread over your face as you saw dad's puffy red face contorted in distaste.

"Touch your toes" he would bellow, before horning up a wad of toilet paper into what can only be described as a kind of rhino's tusk and then wiping so vigorously you would very soon learn to wipe your own arse.

Maybe eighteen was too old, but who cares...
(wrigglesworth, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 10:57, 1 reply)

Bloody Dad
Whenever we were driving and the milometer almost got to a large and particuarly 'important' number, for example 50,000, my father would whip us all up into a frenzy of excitement.

Dad: Hey kids! We are at 19990 miles, only 10 miles before 20,000 miles! Something Amazing Is Going To Happen!

Us(me and 2 sisters): Aaaaagh! what's that number! Is it like a million or something? Arrrghg! What's going to happen!?!

Dad: Hey Kids! Get ready! one mile to go!

Us: Aaaaagh! Aaaaargh! Whats going to happen? Aaaaargh!

Dad: Ok, we are at B&Q now, lets park.

Us: What about 20 thousandy miles? Arrrgh!

Dad: Oh that was ages ago.

Us: Aaaaargh!

On other occasions he would make us watch the numbers turning over and over in silence especially when we were on holiday. When we got to the 'milestone', he would shrug and turn on Dire Straits.

The scary thing now is that I was driving the other day and the milometer was almost at 15,000 and I started to get excited and showed my girlfriend in the passenger seat. She was like, WTF?

I know I will be forced by genetic imperative to do the same to my kids when I spawn 'em.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 11:42, 4 replies)

Two apples...
..and a banana. It's a guarantee that if left in a room with a fruit bowl in it, and there are two apples and a banana a member of my family will magically arrange the fruit to look like your fruit and veg.

I'm pretty sure this started with my mother (she's turning into a sort of modern day Nanny Ogg) and that tells you about all you need to know about our family!
(robbersdog, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 11:41, Reply)

Not really a tradition but
When I was 12 my dad got me out of bed at midnight and sat me down on the couch to watch Fritz the Cat with the immortal line

"This was the first animated porn I ever saw with your mother."

For years I was left wondering how much other animated porn they'd seen together and when I was going to be fetched out of bed in the middle of the night to see it.
(misskitty reeks of sex and turpentine; laudanum afternoons, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 3:57, 3 replies)

Deflecting trouble with humor
Back in the early eighties there was a campaign for seven up soda - it was a catchy tune that had a song to it but the very last line was (after a refreshing sound of a can being opened a hefty swig of soda followed by Aaahhh sound)

"Just for the Taste of it!
...SEVEN UP!"

Brilliant marketing of course. We'd imitate it around the house sometimes making a big lip smacking Hmmm Aaaaah and then chanting it like good little consumers whenever we drank anything. No big thing... kinda stupid but whatever =)

Well, one time when my mom was well and truly pissed off at us, we had pushed her to the very edge and she was ragged and mean and just wanted to throttle the very life out of us, I was making the astoundingly wise move of arguing with her over whether or not we'd really done anything wrong or whether it was all just a big misunderstanding... her reply to us:

"You two better be quiet or I don't care what happened or who's fault it was - I'm going to beat you up just for the hell of it!"
followed by a big sigh of frustrated crazy as she opened the fridge... Hhhmm aaahhhh...

My 9 year old mind clicked, everything fell together and I dropped to one knee, spread my arms and sung in my best announcer's baritone...

"Just for the Hell of it!
...Beat-you UP!"

It was the perfect tension reliever and she just sat down on the kitchen floor and laughed till she cried and hugged us and then she'd laugh some more. (good soul my mom - she never would have done anything - we just pushed her pretty hard.)

"just for the hell of it, beat you up" became our catch phrase whenever you wanted to playfully tell someone they were pushing it from that day on =)
( Allisade would love to hear from you, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 22:52, 1 reply)

Xmas foot prints
After putting extra presents under the christmas tree that have been hidden from the children and late on Christmas eve, my father gets out his old army boots, steps in copious baby powder then strides from the fireplace to the christmas tree and back again. The children wake up and come down excited for xmas to begin and with eyes as big as saucers and just stare stunned at the footprints Santa Clause has left.
- He's been doing it now for over 30 years and now the grandchildren love it.
(xianstudio, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 17:29, 2 replies)

My little boy.
I appear to be in the early stage of being the ritual initiator for my family. My youngest son is 4 and his name is Dylan but for some reason I am completely unable to call him this. Instead I keep going off on meaningless mumbo-jumbo type rants when I am talking to him. It started when I called him "ding-dong" one day - I have no idea why but it stuck and has developed into some sort of weird game whereby the stranger the name I give him the better. He has been called “tiddly tiddly whacker” “knobby knobby knob knob" “scarecrow billy pants” and “diddly diddly doo dah” – all by me. The rest of the family are joining in now and the poor kid is cottoning-on to the fact that if he hears a random set of words it usually means that someone is trying to get his attention. (This may or may not be where my username comes from).

While typing this I have been reminded of some of the strange things my mum used to say when I was a kid that I and my siblings still use today.

If any part of the sky is predominantly dark clouds – “It’s a bit black over Bill’s mother’s”.

If one of us was just sitting about doing nothing – “Look at you sitting there like Piffy on a rock bun”.

When someone was trying to get one over on her – “They must think I just came down the river on my mother’s piano”.

I wonder if my insanity is hereditary.

First post – be nice!
( Ping_Pang_Piddley_Dee couldn't give a big shiny fuck., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:21, 1 reply)

Dead Certains...
I probably need some backlog of information here before a few of you raise your eyebrows and develop the assumption that I spend my days talking in tongues with my head rotating.

My family are impervious to mortal weaponry thanks to generation after generation of army endurance and a couple of world wars (I was born with grey matter rather than muscle so skipped that lot for uni). I've an uncle who fought off the IRA in his underwear when they stormed his house in Northern Ireland after spending 10 years in the SAS. Along with this, I have a grandfather who, and might I add was blind drunk and figured it would be a laugh, drove his army supply truck over a landmine in WW2 and wound up being 30% metal and with shrapnel still lodged in his body when he died. On the other side of things, I've a 60-a-day smoker great uncle who hasn't been able to quit the habit for 70 years and suffers from lukemia and narcolepsy. My mother was once in a biker gang before she crashed her Harley Davidson into the front of a truck and dragged herself away with a shattered hip.

Hard as nails, stupid as hell. Because we can guarantee that almost any serious hospital admission won't be my family member's last, my nearest and dearest have a solemn ritual to follow.

We take bets on who's going to kick the bucket next, and I've got 20 quid riding on the smoker.

In a moment of karma, I got a phone call this afternoon informing me that one uncle had a heart attack and the other has been admitted into hospital found upside down and covered in vomit by a carer. We're currently discussing the prospect of a draw.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:45, 2 replies)

mornings
before i got an alarm clock, my parents used to wake me up. My mum would usually shout for me to get up and that would be that. But when dad decided he was going to wake me up... well thats another story.

I'd be asleep then all of a sudden the door would burst open he'd run in making as much noise as possible the lights would flash on and off, the curtains would be thrown open and he'd jump up and down on the end of the bed. This carried on for a while until one morning. Now my dad is not the smallest of people when it comes to the stomach area (i usually ask him when his due date is). My bed was a very weak wooden frame with crappy legs. So you can imagine that this was just waiting to happen.

As usual 7am roles around and in runs my dad flashing the lights on and off opening the curtains, making as much noise as possible. Then, just like always, he goes to jump on the bed.
There was a loud crack. My dad fell off the bed and i slid down to the bottom of the bed.
Thats right, the end of my bed just couldn't take it anymore and collapsed.

That ritual ended that day. Although from that a new family ritual was born.
Constantly harrassing my younger sister in the mornings.

My sister is not the nicest of people at any time of day, but in the mornings she is at her worst.Then again, i can't imagine being chased by your dad brandishing a banana, spoon or any other item he can get his hands on that can be used as a toy gun would put you in a great mood.

Mornings are always interesting in my house.

.
(i eat crayons, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:05, 1 reply)

My lords, ladies & gentlemen...
I eventually convinced my young sons to proclaim "to the Queen!" anytime somebody farts, if the other lad witnesses the event he adds "and all who sail in her!" much to the often perplexed expressions of those in attendance.

This is in honour of the original bloke who I used to work with, he often ad-libbed whatever the occasion. His finest work being "and a fish!" at any given pause in the conversation.
(minky, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 13:32, 3 replies)

There was a lad in our halls in uni
And one day we all noticed he had a tattoo on his arm that read 'Shitbag #12'. We were all really baffled at why someone would have something like this inked onto any part of their body forever so we asked him why (expecting an answer like 'oh, I was wasted one time and...'). No. Apparently all the men in his family, starting with his Dad and Uncle, were assigned a 'Shitbag' number and had to get it tattooed on their arm. This lad got into university.
(Visionaryofthe1980s www.myspace.com/visionariesofthe1980s, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 12:03, 4 replies)

A way to make trips abroad fly by
We like to play our own version of the monument game when on long journeys. Instead of the winner being decided by who sees it first, I told a few of my mates that the winner would be the first one to destroy the nearest monument upon arriving in America. Turns out that Mohamed’s team won the 2001 tournamnet.

Love

Osama
(mon bison powered by magnets, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 11:56, 1 reply)

‘Car-Journey’ related post number 735…

It warms my cockles to read such car journey tales of songs sung, 'landmark spotting' games and the handing out of boiled sweets…

My folks had a simple ritual for car journeys when I was a kid…

Part 1: If any trip is longer than 18 yards, both parents must smoke at least 20 king size cigarettes (each) before the journey ends.

Part 2: If I dare to request a window be opened, I am branded a ‘selfish, worthless, waste of good spunk’ by my folks because even someone as stupid as me must realise that opening a window would result in ‘letting the heat out’…

Part 3: Within a few short minutes I would barf up my previous meal…followed by a concerted attempt to expel a lung from my body using the timeless art of chunder.

Part 4: I would be bollocked to within an inch of my tiny life for causing the subsequent carrot-pappered stainage to the back of my Dad’s Austin Marina.

Part 5: Mum & Dad light up again.

Part 6: Repeat parts 2 through 5.


Great days

( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 10:04, 4 replies)

Car journeys
seem to bring about the family rituals like nothing else! I suppose it's a natural response to being trapped in a small space with each other for an inevitably long time.

Even now if me and my brothers are all in the car with my mum and stepdad, it is the law that within five minutes of setting off we all chorus "are we nearly there yet?" and I follow it by whining "I need a weeeeee!" (I am 32 and my brothers are 26 and 28).

When were little we used to be bagpipes to pass the time.
Two of us would drone and the other one would do the tune, usually Scotland the Brave but sometimes our own lovingly improvised epics. It started when we were taken to a Highland Gathering and the massed pipers made an impression on us. After that we did it on every long car journey, sometimes keeping it up for hours without a break, much to the bemusement of our parents.

Recently we've had a few journeys together and my mum has suggested resurrecting the bagpiping... I think she finds it preferable to my stepdad swearing at other drivers.
( warmfuzzies Isn't here, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 23:47, 3 replies)

And that's Nancy!
When my bro and I were nippers we had comics delivered every week, which our Ma'd kindly read to us.

She'd sit in the armchair and we'd stand either side and she'd read both comics aloud.

When she'd finished we'd be dismissed while she read the Daily Mirror in peace.

However, one day, for some reason, we stayed hanging around afterwards looking at the newspaper with her.

I suddenly remembered that she'd been pointing out family members on photos the day before and mimicked her, pointing to a picture of a woman and saying 'And THAT's Nancy!'

Bro quickly pointed out another and also said 'And THAT's Nancy!'

So we carried on the whole time she read that newspaper, pointing out women, men, raceshorses, whatever, and saying 'And THAT's Nancy!' until she was in hysterics with laughter and frustration and we were in real danger of a good old 1966 slippering.

After that, during comic-time, we used to egg each other on to point and say 'That's Nancy!', even though we knew our mother would then refuse to read any more.

Any picture of a woman in the comics would have us giggling and discreetly pointing over Ma's head, mouthing the words.

God it was funny. Wish I was 8 again!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 13:03, 4 replies)

Our family has had a very odd past.
Many years ago, my great grandmother had a neighbour. They fell in love got married and had kids. she lost her husband in the war, but time marched on and the world kept turning.

Later on, It turned out that one of the kids (my grandmother) had a neighbour with whom she fell in love. This turned out to be someone related to her late father...

This story repeats itself - and believe me when I first heard it it made my toes (only ten thank-you) curl.

It comes to now... when I find that my parents have neighbours, who - for some mad reason are related to my father. One summer when I was visiting the Neighbour's child - also my age - was also there. There was a Barbecue, much alcohol and I inquired as to whether there was perhaps a man in their family for me to carry on the twisted history with.

Apparently not, and nor do I have a brother to offer her. By this time we were exceedingly drunk, and ended up fumbling and giggling together in the bushes.

I've broken a family tradition it seems, but though no fault of my own: Maybe we can skip a generation and I'll concentrate on having fun instead? :o)
(Chocolate and Wine misses her bed, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 7:42, Reply)

Chocolate shower
There is only one family ritual I can remember rom my childhood.
Back in the 70s, every Christmas we would get a tin of Roses or Quality Street choccies.
Everyone would crowd onto the settee while dad opened the tin.
Then the entire tin would be emptied over us.
We then sat to have a polaroid photo taken.
Then we had to pick up all the choccies and put them back into the tin before being allowed to choose one.
Without fail my siblings and I would secretly push a few under the settee so we could snaffle them later.
And without fail, dad would look at the tin and say this isnt full, find them, and we would look under the settee and say oooh there they are with lack of sincerity, while reluctantly putting them back in the tin :(
When we all hit our teens we refused to play this game any more
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 0:33, Reply)

reverie
You know the bugle they play to wake up soldiers - I think it's called reverie?

Imagine instead of a bugle you get Reverie sung (screeched) cheerily by your mother, blaringly projected with great vim at the absolute top range of the human voice in exactly the bugle's pitch and rhythm:

"You GoTTA get Up, You goTTa Get UP, YOU GOTTA GET UP in the MorrRRNNnnnning!"

My good god if it had been followed seconds later by the sound of a sniper's shot piercing her skull and dropping her to the floor - we all would have cried big crocodile tears of happiness and wept at the joy of sleep uninterrupted ever again.

but no... no such kindness for us...

This happened Every morning. EVERY Morning.

...

sometimes she would walk through our rooms and keep singing the rest of the bugle part over and over - just a loud piercing "ya ta tatatatata" while beating on pans with a ladle until we couldn't hide beneath pillows or blankets any longer and ...

...

(sob)

I can't go on... never again! the memories ... they haunt me...

(weeping)

but you know I'll do it to my kids =)
( Allisade would love to hear from you, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 15:18, 2 replies)

Breaking and entering
Unlike most children at my primary school, we weren't latchkey kids.

Oh no. I think my parents were too skint to get keys cut.

So, instead, when we got home from school, two or three hours or so before the parents (or longer - much longer - if they decided to go on the piss, a regular occurrence, because they were never too skint to do that), we had to break into the house.

Here's how we did it.

We grew up on an estate built in the late 60s/early 70s - the one where they filmed A Clockwork Orange, for film fans.

The main entrance was on a shared balcony on the first floor, but there was a back door at ground level which went into a utility room (effectively the houses were built on stilts because of the threat of flooding from the Thames).

There was a plastic pipe loosely attached to the water outlet from the utility room. So loosely attached that every day after school, whichever of us got home first would poke this pipe through the letterbox (and it's only as a type this that I wonder why the back door had a letterbox at all) and, once we'd got our hand and wrist through there too, whack the door handle a few times until it opened (it was one of those that could be opened from the inside, but not the outside, a bit like a car child-lock in reverse).

And for several years, that's how we got into the house every day after school, until the day that I cut my knee on some glass in the playground and the deputy head had to take me to the local health centre to get stitches put in. I still have a huge scar there thanks to the cack-handed doctor.

Anyway, kind soul that Mr McKenzie was, he insisted on giving me a lift home afterwards.

So there's me and him standing in the garden, and it dawned on me that he wasn't going to disappear until I was safely inside.

Oh well, time to show him the trick with the drainage tube.

I'd like to think he was impressed.

All I know is that my parents were summoned to the school the following day, and a couple of days after that we each got presented with a shiny new key and a nice bit of string to dangle it round our necks.
(Capo, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 14:14, 3 replies)

Anything
and I do mean anything, that has lemon in it, is automatically 'special'. Stems from the time mum made up a pasta sauce recipe, told us it had a special ingredient, and we found lemon zest was that ingredient.

Also, as we have many dogs, there is often dog hair in our food. Since my wee sister is a bit of a pansy, she would always whinge about finding a dog hair in her food. Hence I introduced the 'lucky dog hair' rule. The first person to find a dog hair in their meal has the lucky dog hair, and is thus going to have a good day. I started this when I was 6, and it's still doing strong more than 20 years on. I realised other people don't do it when I pulled out a long hair from a meal at a friend's house recently, and said 'ooh, lucky human hair tonight!'.

That sounds quite repulsive now that I've written it down.
( ascorbate, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 14:00, 1 reply)

The pudding race
Our family like to talk. And because we are fairly numerous, this could make dinner time a long drawn-out affair, which was enjoyed by everyone except my dear old Ma.
The ingenious woman that she is, she cooked up a scheme to make everyone (Pa included) eat faster. On the rare times we had a pudding*, she would bring it to the dinner table when approximately half of us had finished our mains.
This marked the beginning of the pudding race.
The rules were simple:
1) You could only start pudding when you'd finished your dinner. (No hiding peas under your knife and fork!)
2) If you finished your pudding and there was still some left unclaimed in the middle of the table, you were permitted to help yourself to seconds. Seconds were supposed to be half the size of firsts, but this was rarely enforced.)
3) If you finished your dinner and there was no pudding left - tough. You lose. Eat faster next time.
Funnily enough, I'm not much of a pudding person any more...

Length? Got shorter each time.

*Usually Angel Delight.
( Whippersnapper, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 15:34, Reply)

Points
My father will always ask questions and reward points for the correct answers. Unfortunately the questions are never that simple.

For example

Father F: "What is the name of the pub in that village near where Andy & Polly live?"

Mister.F: "Erm, the Redhouse?"

Father.F: "Correct, but I'm only going to give you 5 points because of the Erm"

Twenty two years of this, and I've never been able to exchange the points of a prize
( mister.f is now married, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 12:23, 1 reply)

I just got an email from my dad
As mentioned here, my dad used to hide a minature john wayne around his house when he was younger.

When I was 12 or 13, I got my first camera, went a bit mad photographing the dogs, and ended up with lots of pictures of garden with a tiny dog at one end or running out of the field of view, so I cut the dogs out, and started sticking them around the house (as one does). This caught on, and now, 13 years later, we still have a picture of Evelyn, our now oldest dog (he's nearly 14) which has been hidden all round the kitchen.

Anyway, Dad emailed me to say he found the Evelyn (which I hid in July), and he's moved it.

I'll be home for 2 days in December, and I reckon I'll spend most of that time in the kitchen, pretending to chat to mum, but mainly looking for that damned picture.

Long distance hide and seek is the best!
( ascorbate, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 15:12, 2 replies)

"Waterfall, I said it first"
When my two sisters and I were younger, we'd play a game on the drive back from our nan's house every sunday night.

On the way back, we'd pass this magnificent, elaborate waterfall housed on the front of a large business and trading estate (a waterfall we would many years later fill with bubble bath on a drunken night out, god bless tesco and it's 24 hours trading).

Anyway, as soon as we'd pass this waterfall, there would be a frantic half second as my two sisters and I clambered to say the hallowed words;

"Waterfall, I said it first".

Every sunday evening, this would happen, and would more often than not be the prompt of many a sulk and tantrum.

Years passed, and the pointless game forgotten over time, until one Christmas day two years ago. For the first time in years, my two sisters and my dad we're in a car, driving back from my nan's, driving past a particular waterfall. Not one of us said the hallowed words, until 10 seconds later when my Dad suddenly piped up;

"Waterfall, I said it first". Uncontrollable fits of laughter ensued from all of us, and Dad actually had to stop the car to get his composure back, having tears rolling down his face from the laughter.
(wayneofthedead Dale Winton was my dad, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 11:26, 1 reply)

Simple really
We all sit around pretending we don't hate each other.

Maybe hate is a bit too strong a word, but you get the picture.

For example this Christmas, I shall probably (barring a massive family argument, which given that as I mentioned previously we don't like each other, isn't all that unlikely) refrain from shouting at my dear old mum...

"You fucking mental bitch, you are a terrible mother. You tried to dominate my life because you had no control over your own shitty existence. You fucked my brother-up completely by barely acknowledging him through his infancy because he reminded you of your ex-husband. You mollycoddle the youngest brother to the point where he is a gibbering wreck and my other brother is only not fucked up because you actually held down job for a few years while he was young, meaning my step-dad who you seem intent on breaking mentally looked after him in his formative years!"

And in return, she wont shout at me, while throwing household objects.

"You are useless failure, you spoilt little shit. I gave up my career to have you, you ruined my life and made fat. I could have had the world on a platter if I had just done what my friends said and got an abortion. You are a useless slimy weasel of a man just like your father! You will never amount to anything because you are a lazy pathetic wank stain!"

Nope, we shall not say these things. We shall watch various Xmas specials on TV, eat like the fat wasteful gluttons we are and quietly seethe with resentment probably giving us all brain tumors and piles.

Ho ho fucking ho, Merry fucking Christmas!
(Bam Bam McPenis will change all this when he is fuhrer., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 16:41, 9 replies)

Fuckarma has just reminded me…

When my wife tucks my flake-lets into bed, she tells them it’s: ‘Time for beddy bye-byes’

…Well, that’s what she used to say anyway. Over time, and with an effort to speed up the phrase to make it more efficient, she now quickly says ‘Time for Bob-Eyes’

Which, when you think about it, is actually quite a sinister statement. I mean what does this imply?

‘Come along kiddies, it’s late…now remove your own eyes, (possibly without anesthetic), and have them replaced with the optical receptors from some total stranger called Bob?’

And what say does poor Bob have in this? Why would he sacrifice himself to donate his corneas etc just so my kids could temporarily swap them over…and not even for general usage, no…but for when they go to sleep…and therefore won’t even be using the eyes?

And what about tomorrow? Is there an endless supply of Bobs in the world prepared to give up their potential lifetime of healthy vision in a gruesome transformation operation every single night? And why has nobody considered the timescale and logistics!

No wonder the kids don’t want to go to bed.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 14:56, 3 replies)

Light Ritual
I really have no idea why/when this began.

We have 3 light switches outside of our living room (living room, upstairs & passage), if anyone switches the wrong one whilst heading upstairs and knocks the living room light off it's a ritual to go "wooOOOOOoooo!" in a sort of ghostly way.

We've started doing this at other homes when the light goes off and on for any reason. It's now so natural I didn't think twice about doing it when at a clients and sitting still enough so the automatic lights knocked off.

I don't think I'm allowed out of the office anymore.
(Vikingheadache, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 14:17, Reply)

My family enigma code…

I suppose my family had about the same amount of ‘oddishness’ as your regular family in 80s rural England. To help us cope my brother, sister & I developed a straightforward system of communication, to silently alert each other of goings on and wotnot in our home unit.

‘Thumbs up’ meant that Dad was well on the way to indulging in his ‘Saturday snooze-on-the-sofa’, and we would soon be able to sneakily turn off the Grand Prix qualifying and watch Knight Rider.

‘Wobbling the hand from side-to-side’ communicated the fact that Mum would soon be blubbing whilst watching ‘Surprise Surprise’ and we had to sound enthusiastic whilst slowly reversing out of the room when she began to speak of reuniting us all with ‘long lost Auntie Hilda’.

‘A light pat on the head’ indicated that Dad had hit the Drambuie with Tequila chasers pretty hard, that we were to not mention the Arab-Isreali conflict under any circumstances, and take our impending severe beatings with good cheer.

‘Tapping the wrist with two fingers’ meant that mother had mistakenly used fish tank gravel instead of roast potatoes again and we were to all discreetly dispose of the Sunday lunch whilst still complimenting her on her cooking skills.

‘3 full blinks and a touch of the chin’ signified that Granny was once again locked in her paranoid delusion that she was head of the CIA; and that we were to smile and nod when she despatched us on a mission to assassinate Fidel Castro using only our cunning and a bowl of finely chopped celery.

Using this simple code, my childhood passed with barely an unusual moment…
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 13:51, 2 replies)

Keep it in the Family
My mum lamented the day my brother and I left home and constantly rang us to tell us how empty she felt inside.

Dad had always complained how we stayed up for ages and kept him and mum awake all the time. Our youthful energy had been putting him to shame and straining their relationship. We couldn't have that, So, we left home.

All good things must come to an end it seems.. Even incest.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:45, 1 reply)

Car journeys
As a fat family we rewarded ourselves and one another with food.

Subsequently, the passenger glove compartment on any journey longer than about a mile was always bursting with boiled sweets. I always had sympathy for getting car sick, but the truth was that I had eaten about 4 pounds of barley sugar before we'd got to the end of our road.

Anyway the ritual was "first person to see a red car gets a sweetie". then "first person to see a cow gets a sweetie".

Eventually one time, frustrated by low supply of glacier mints, my mother said "Christ, first person to see a giraffe gets a mint".

And I'll be damned if just outside Weybridge we didn't pass Gerry Cottle's circus, a giraffe happily grazing outside.

This story is retold in my family constantly which is making me wonder now if we aren't "the fat family" but "the fat boring family".

And aint dat da troof.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 8:18, Reply)

Happy LIttle Band
On Christmas morning, children in my house are forbidden to go downstairs to open presents until we perform this ritual: we line up at the top of the stairs by age, starting with the oldest person in the house. Hands go on the shoulders of the person in front of you. You march down the stairs singing: "We're a happy little band, marching onward hand in hand, we're a happy little band, marching onward hand in hand" (repeat until everyone is in the room with the presents, then the mad unwrapping session begins.) This came down from my maternal grandmother's side of the family. I don't know what it means, but the obvious contradiction between stating that we are hand in hand when we are in fact hands on shoulders adds a layer of mystery to the whole thing.
(mortdubois lacks imagination, doesn't play well with others, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 0:30, 4 replies)

I have had 56 sisters during my lifetime
My parents sacrificed them all to Satan when they reached the age of 4.

A little harsh but then because of it I am fabulously wealthy and powerful in ways most humans could never comprehend so meh *shrugs*

Plus I have this fucking awesome flaming sword, proper horns (I sneer at childish body modifications) and a set of hidden wings to fly around on.
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 14:37, 2 replies)

we had a family code...
...that whilst the man of the house is out working and the kids are at school, thou shalt not repeatedly meet and shag some bloke you met at a night out two months ago. Until this morning I thought that rule was still standing, anyway...

Length? I didn't ask, but probably bigger then mine.
(downhill without brakes . It was the worst day of my life, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 17:37, 15 replies)

Drown Daddy Time
My dad had never had swimming lessons, so he learnt to swim at the same time as my brother and me, when we were wee. Every Saturday morning we would all go to the local pool, and at some point during our messing about in the water, one of us kids would yell "It's DROWN DADDY TIME!" Then we would jump on his back and force him underwater. We thought it was hilarious. Years later, my dad informed us that he actually found this quite terrifying, but couldn't say anything for fear of looking like a big wuss in public.

I don't think he's been near a swimming pool for about 20 years now...
(Binary Solo loves a bit of algebra, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 17:11, 1 reply)

BHS
Like most of you here, as young'uns, my sister and I were dragged off to town every Saturday for the weekly family shopping outing. Mostly, we hated it. The highlight though, was when Dad used to try on woman's hats in BHS. My mum was always mortified, but we thought it was great.
(Woofie, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 20:43, 2 replies)

Total offensive randomness
My family and I have some rather odd and offensive rituals which I still indulge in when I go home to visit.

Upon walking through the door I usually greet whoever's home with "Alright slags/whores/bitches?" to which my mother will sigh wearily and my sister/brother/dad will respond in kind.

In turn, my father will get home, allow our arthritic and lumpy old labrador to circle him several times making a noise we refer to as "nonsense", before walking past the lounge into the kitchen, stopping momentarily to say "gay" at whoever is occupying the room.

This has of course, backfired when we have guests and the returning party doesn't realise. Especially if they're my mum's friends. She is rarely impressed with us.

Another ritual I follow with my siblings is that of the High School Musical merchandise. We are all (and I'm sure we're not alone with this) spectacularly creeped out by Zac Efron and the whole HSM extravanganza. So we started buying each other horrid and tacky HSM items for birthdays/Christmases to wind each other up. It started with a karaoke HSM microphone, which would play two of the songs from the film when you pressed a button - which we soon turned into a "High School Musical Bomb". Whenever I had to get up early for work and I knew my sister or brother were enjoying a lie in, I would quietly open their doors, press the button and lob it as hard as possible at the bed. The inevitable result was that the microphone would crash down the side of the bed, meaning brother or sister would have to blearily crawl under their bedframe and try and retrieve the bloody thing just to get it to shut up. Needless to say the same was often done to me. We have so many HSM things in the house now it's getting beyond a joke.

Along with a lot of other posters, we also had a ritual where we would travel to see my grandparents in the Cotswolds, and whoever saw the little church in their village first would have to yell "NORTHLEACHCHURCHISAWITFIRST!!!". I usually saw it first, as I was the oldest and would often elbow my siblings out of the way, and they were as blind as bats too.

For one of my sister's earlier birthdays she got a ragdoll from one of her friends. We called it Rosie after the girl that gave it to her (spoilt brat - horrid child), and over the next couple of years Rosie the ragdoll got a voice (a mannish quality to it), a "face" (my sister would pull this face whenever Rosie was coming to get us, it involved flaring ones nostrils and developing a severe overbite) and a propensity to lose her limbs (I decided to play golf using her as the ball - the doll, not my sister - and one of her legs flew off. We buried it in the garden). After several years of abuse including setting fire to her hair and burying her "alive", she had basically disintergrated and is now located somewhere in the garden of our old house. I wonder if our successors ever did any serious landscaping and found her?

Other quick family oddities:

- Drawing a smile and a pair of sunglasses on a hollow Limpet shell and calling it Dave, giving him the personality of "serious party goer" and telling stories of how he moved so slowly that by the time he got to any parties they had already finished. My mum threw him away by accident. We never forgave her.

- Sneaking downstairs at 6 in the morning to steal the change out of my dad's coat pockets

- Making up songs that my dog would sing if she had a voice

- Singing along, operatic style, to the Lloyds bank advert tune

Ah family rituals - I didn't really even think about them until this QOTW!
(posage As I turned the corner I felt muscular and compact, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 19:39, 2 replies)

Dedicated follower of fashion
Mum: You do realise you've married someone who dresses just like your father*?

Me (indignant): He doesn't!

~~~~thinks~~~~

Oh.

Fucksocks.

*jeans (usually falling down), shirt (half untucked), jumper (with holes in), brown shoes (scuffed).
(grandmaswhiskers, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 21:15, 2 replies)

Search for the Walrus inside yourself
Back in the day when cars still had cassette players instead of these fancy new CD deelies*, my parents had a box full of tapes, including one which contained the M People's Search for the Hero.

My father is rather a large gentleman, with a very deep voice and a formidable moustache. It would be unfair to say that he bears a passing resemblance to a walrus, but he does look a bit like a heftier version of Prof Lord Robert Winston.

Now the M People are most famous for Heather Small's unusually deep voice (for a female singer). Consider the first line of the song:
"Sometimes, a river flows but nothing breathes.
A train arrives but never leaves.
It's a shame."

On that last phrase, she does hit some pretty low notes. So my father, whilst pulled up at the traffic lights, this song running through the tape player and my sister and I in the back, decides to surprise us. At the right moment, this huge, wobbling walrus face turns round to us and bellows, in best basso profondo
"IT'S A SHAME!"
And left us laughing hysterically, to the point whereby every time this song was on the tape player, we'd sit there quietly hoping that Dad would do it again. We probably should have realised on subsequent occasions that it was better for him to keep his eyes on the road - at least, any resulting traffic incident would have been a bit tricky to explain to the police.

Today, I find I have been blessed, similarly, with a very low voice. Maybe in years to come, when I have my own sprogs, I shall be tempted to do the same to them, and make them laugh in the same way. I just fear that the hypothetical son will log on to b3ta years later and tell the story about his own Dad, turning round in the car like an oversized novelty crow and bellowing
"IT'S A SHAME!"

_{*Which invariably seem to break down, while the dealer and garage insist there's nothing they can do to repair it - couldn't you put a new one in? Oh nooo because that would mean you'd have to charge us more money, even though it's surely under a fucking warranty. You bone-idle sheisters.}
(LongJohnBaldry, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 10:26, 4 replies)

Food
Dad and I used to argue over who had the crust from the end of the loaf with dinner, and it ended up with us hiding it. One day I took both crusts out of a new loaf and hid them in a cupboard, other times Mum put them on the table, and I either took a bite out of it or licked it, whilst Dad was watching.

We also used to fight over the blue wrapped penguin biscuits for lunchtime. Never any other colour, just blue.

So when I had sandwiches made from 2 crusts, and 2 blue penguins, he went into a full on sulk.

Sad but true....
(randomstupidname would really like this signature field to be bigge, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 17:59, 1 reply)

Probably already on here, but...
... whenever the ice cream man came round our way, my parents would tell me that if the music was playing it meant he had run out.

Bastards.
(animal252 last activated his kitten hammer on, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 11:05, 6 replies)

When Urban Myths come true
Once, I argued with my brother

It reached a point where I said 'Oh, Fuck you'

He said 'Fuck me? Fuck me? I'll fuck you. I'll fuck you like I fucked your Mum'

At which point I laughed.

And so did he.

Obviously he had heard the old story and said it on purpose.

But it doesn't change the fact that every now and then you will hear me or my brother say to one another 'I fucked your Mum'
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 16:37, Reply)

Many...
When I was little (about 5) I got into a habit of standing at doors listening after I'd left any room in some kind of very poor effort to find out what the grown ups all talked about.

Despite how super secret I thought I was being my parents could quite easily tell and used to loudly exclaim, "Has he gone? oh good, now we can get that huge chocolate cake that we've been saving out. Thank god Tom's not here or we'd have to give him some", as soon as I was out of the room.

Without fail I would come running back in going "Can I have some cake/why have you been hiding cake from me/where's this cake then?".

They developed this on a theme and progressed to ice cream and many other delicious foods and eventually to the more subtle (barely) trick of "Should we tell Tom about the party we're having?" "No, I think we'll have more fun without him". Then I'd run in crying.

This must have happened about forty or fifty times yet I still fell for it. I think in my mind they couldn't be tricking me, because they didn't know I was there...a bit like the whole If-I-can't-see-you-you-can't-see-me thing kids believe.

As well as a propensity to fool small children into believing they're missing out on treats I've also inherited a number of sayings from both my parents;

From my dad: "Let's get that ball back" said when we're just about to leave the house, sort of like "let's go" except totally useless in that you only ever say it JUST as you're leaving the house.

Bad jokes. Mostly in a deliberately misinterpreting what other people say kind of way. Any time anyone finishes a sentence with the word shortly as in, "I'll be down shortly" you have to relpy with, "Don't call me shortly".

Any time anyone says something like "I'll just put the kettle on" the reply is "I don't think it'd suit you".

Also not a joke but if it's cold the phrase is "Ooh it's a bit nippy", a perfectly ordinary phrase but it's the ONLY ONE YOU CAN EVER USE for some reason.

My mum always says "Nothing taste's nicer than a Pembleton Twicer", when anything is nice (not only food) and I do too, I think it's an old lolly advert but she could be making that up.

Also "Fish is the new black". We heard this once on tv when I was younger in some ridiculous cookery programme and it's now the phrase for anything that's the new cool thing. "Have you heard about *cool thing*? Fish is the new black."
(Hippo_of_Doom, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 2:15, 4 replies)

Oh, the holidays
It was always the first Saturday in December - Uncle Lou would put on the leopard print peep toe heels and throw a roast in the oven. As the house filled with the smells of dinner to come, Lou would get on the CB radio and put out a call to any truckers in the signal radius.

"Surf's up," was all he would say, and while the sound of distant static sounded empty and far away, it was never more than 20 minutes before ruddy-complected men with sweat-stained ball caps showed up at the door.

I'm not sure if it was the dog collar or the honey that made me feel humiliated more, but Lou would chain me to a clothes pole in the yard, spray paint "Slut" on my back, and connect my nipples with a chain of safety pins and paper clips.

The first year, I protested, but Lou's charm and cheerful, "But I insist," always made me cave in. Besides, unless there was an early snow, it wasn't really that uncomfortable.

Aunt Peg was a wet nurse for Local Boilermakers 776 with wonderful, thick, chaffing teats. It wasn't until I got a little older that I was able to appreciate the fact that she could shoot a mouthful of breast milk more than six feet - 12 feet if she had a running start.

Anyway, while it was bitter, that milk was great for soothing fresh tattoos. Lou would always ink me up with some funny phrase like, "Put it in my ass, that's where I put everything else," or "I'll fist for donuts." Peg would shoot her stuff over these tats, which not only soothed them, but kept my mind off the hornets that always came after the honey that Lou dripped all over my back and chest.

After several hours, the truckers went home, and we would have a family read-aloud of "120 Days of Sodom," with just the close family.

Other than that, things are pretty much like everyone else's posts...
(DeSade - is grannyfappin, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 0:16, 3 replies)

When I was a little lad
and my dad would take me somewhere, as we walked along holding hands he would hook his little finger over my wrist like a backwards thumb.
This used to irritate the hell out of me, and I would furiously yank it away and refuse to carry on walking if he did it again.
I vowed then that I would never annoy my own kids as much as he annoyed me.

These days when we walk into town, and I hold my little boy's hand, I hook my little finger over his wrist like a backwards thumb.
( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 22:05, 1 reply)

Squeeze my head
When I was but a littlefanny whenever I had to go the loo for a number two I would shout my Mum too come and 'Squeeze my head' (hands either side and squeeze in) as this helped remove the offending poop. (I confess to still doing this whenever a nasty bout of constipation hits)
I also used to call the window cleaner Dad. No reason.
(fannypack, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 19:59, 1 reply)

my dad
i can be watching any movie: star wars, harry potter, eraserhead, you name it. If he walks in the room during any movie, he'll look at the screen for two seconds, then announce 'True story, this.'
( the brass moustache putting the ass moust in brache since, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 17:18, 3 replies)

The Whistle
My Father, the legend that he is, trained myself and sibling into responding to a whistle (him whistling not an actual whistle).

When he whistled in a particular manner we'd stop what we were doing to locate parents. This could be in a shop/park/theme park/leisure centre etc. We didn't really think this was strange for the majority of our childhood.

It wasn't until we went on a family outing, sibling and I were in our 20's at the time, we'd strolled off to grab a beer/smoke a fag/look in the pond (delete as appropriate), father whistled and like a pair of dogs we stood up straight, ears pricked and set off in the direction of the whistle. A number of chavlike creatures were huddled together and made some "really witty" remarks as we passed. Glancing at each other we jointly realised, with some humiliation, that we had been trained like dogs! Poor father received a severe telling off and threat of no further grandchildren.

Length - still trying?
(GsterMum, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 13:21, 2 replies)

Magpies.
Someone has already posted about having to be courteous to magpies.

However, my childhood was spent thinking that, if one saw a lone magpie, you immediately had to shriek "come on you bugger, where's your bloody friend?!" at it.

I blame my mother.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:27, 1 reply)

Christmas ritual
We spent many a happy hour sitting around the dinner table waiting in excited anticiaption for the moment Nan pissed herself.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:02, 1 reply)

Cutting Cake
Me and my sister used to do the 'One cuts, the other chooses' thing with cake and choccy bars and things.

The trick is to do the cutting out of sight, and take a chunk out of the middle and stuff it down *before* going back to the dining room with the two, equal, remaining slices.

I only got caught out because my I left the wrapper on a Mars bar once when I cut it, and my Sister noticed that it now only said 'Mrs' when it was put back together.

I was a mean child.

Something I can't get out of even now is a little ritual when it comes to eating boiled eggs. The *instant* the egg is finished, the spoon has to be put through the bottom of the shell to 'Stop the witches using them as cauldrons and flying about in them'

It's automatic.
( moogthedog, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:26, 5 replies)

My mother's family love a good funeral.
Nothing unusual in that, really, but they do rather take it to extremes.

They don't drown their sorrows and start fights, they just take over a pub and sit for hours happily reminiscing and comparing the babies/cars/spouses acquired since the last family bereavement.

Once after a particularly beloved auntie's death, I was sent to the bar to collect sarnies for my mother's table.

I pushed through the merry throng and picked up the tray, to be told by the barmaid, 'You can't have those - they're for the funeral party.'
Pointing to the one table not occupied by mourners, she continued 'It must be them over there, they look so sad, poor things.'

I was too embarrassed to argue, and sent someone else when the other barmaid was there.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 4:14, 1 reply)

OK this is a bit lame...
... but oh well its fun.
Every time we see a car that looks just like ours we have to say "Evil
us!"
My little Bro started it when he was younger, and it just stuck.

Going on 13 years........today. ^_^
(Leoninus "Never lick a fresh turd on a hot day.", Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:52, 1 reply)

Every Sunday
We'd go and see my grandad, who lived in Whitstable. He was a fantastic man, a proud...Whitstublian (?), had worked the barges there and had helped during the Dunkirk Evacuation, taking his little boat across the channel to get people home.

Anyway, it just so happened that our weekly visits coincided with the visit from his nurse, and part of her weekly ritual was to take out his glass eye and clean it.

Because we all respected his dignity we'd leave the room and sit in the hall until the nurse had done what she needed to do. It was only about 10 or 15 minutes.

Anyway, one day he didn't get his regular nurse - he got a new one, as in new to the job. We did our usual routine of evacuating the room. As me and my brother were sitting on the floor slapping each other about (which we did non stop from age 5 up until I was around 18), the door creaks open.

"Umm...badongismum...can I borrow you? There's a problem."

"Oh....?" My mum was really, really close with her dad. I think she aged 10 years in 2 minutes at this summoning.

"I'm afraid...I've dropped your dad's eye on the floor. I can't find it and I'm worried I'll step on it. Can you help me find it?"

The poor thing - the following week she put the eye in upside down so we came in to see my grandad with one eye permanently gazing up at the ceiling.
(GONEism, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:15, Reply)

Real secret code
When ever Mr. Dub wants his favorite thing, he says, "Do you want to go to the circus?"

He means sex.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 22:29, 3 replies)

'I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.'

Every Christmas Eve since I can remember, my mother and I have listened to Dylan Thomas reading A Child's Christmas in Wales. We get a nice fire going in the fireplace, plug in the lights on the Christmas tree, turn off all the other lights in the house, sit down with a cup of something warm to drink and then I press 'play' and we listen.

I'm 31 now and can recite the piece from memory. The spouse and I carry on the tradition at our house as well (I insisted) and on those Christmas Eves when my mother and I aren't together, we always call each other before listening so we can share the moment in a way. It isn't Christmas without it to me.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:36, 2 replies)

Sunglasses
I always, always lose my sunglasses. It doesn't matter how many times I try to remember to put them in a sensible place, I will without fail put them in a spasticated place that was before unbeknownst to me. The ritual follows thus;

1) Ask everyone in the house if they have seen my sunglasses. They haven't, because rather unsuprisingly, they don't give a toss.

2) Search every room in the house. By search I mean walk into the room, stand and look at the surfaces from a safe distance, and walk out if they are not immediately obvious.

3) Ask everyone in the house if I might have left them in their room. No, I haven't. Could I please fuck off now.

4) Go back into the rooms and push things about to see if they're underneath.

5) Start berating my boyfriend about his uncaring attitude to my search. He asks me politely to fuck off.

6) In a slightly bewildered anger at the failure to find sunglasses, go back once again into rooms and hurl carefully selected soft things at walls, such as tissue box.

7) Cry.

8) Ask flatmates if they could check, as it really wouldn't take long. Have doors slammed in face.

9) Drive to Superdrug to obtain new sunglasses, whilst seething at the injustice in the world.

10) Realise that it is now winter, and that Superdrug has apparently not felt the need to stock up on sunglasses.

11) Cry, whilst sitting in car with strangers looking on bewildered.

12) Return home to find that boyfriend holding glasses which he has found in the middle of the kitchen table. Where I Just. Fucking. Looked.

13) Put sunglasses down 'in a safe place'.

14) Repeat.


EDIT: I just found them! It's been over a week this time....
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:14, 6 replies)

Rune Family motto...
Our family code is very simple...

"Wherever you may be let your wind blow free.
Be it church or chapel, Let it rattle."
(Daddy Rune, Aunty Rune (aka wicked witch of south west) and Uncle "Baldy" Rune)

This evening ritual is usually punctuated by Daddy Rune doing a bum note solo reclining on the living room floor in just his underpants and socks and commenting on the waft, scent and wetness. Not to mention the Hound Rune letting a few dogfood scented fluffs go at the same time. It happens most evenings without fail as well. The only variation to this family ritual is when company is expected, such as my long suffering O.H Ashe. Daddy Rune then dons a t-shirt in addition to the pants and socks ensemble to appear more "respectable".

Serious thoughts are afoot to make a Rune Family crest with buttocks resplendent citing the age old rhyme. And underneath in schoolboy Latin the phrase "He who smelt it, Dealt it."
(ameythyst_rune, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:31, 4 replies)

Coming from
a fairly animal mad family, we used to send our pets (2 dogs, 2 cats etc) postcards from holidays. Our Grandma, looking after said animals, would carry on the barminess (or just prove where we inherited it from) by reading the cards aloud to the recipients then pinning them to the fridge quite low down "so they can look for themselves".

Once (perhaps foolishly, in hindsight) we sent them one of a cat yawning. Card was read alound, pinned to fridge etc. When we got home our Grandmother presented us with the card.

In two halves.

Top and bottom, or head and body, whichever you prefer. Chewed clean off.

I think that may have been the last time we did it!

Length? Severely reduced.
(TinyCat, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:05, Reply)

Ho Ho, Fucking Well Ho
It's Christmas eve and the house is quiet save for the gentle, drunken snoring coming from Dad as he sleeps where he'd been sat drinking all evening.

He awakes with a start, farts and wipes a hand across his brow before descending into a coughing fit brought on by the 20 Embassy Number Ones he's smoked throughout the evening.

He pulls himself out of his chair, farts again and necks the glass of sherry that has been left for Santa: "I'm doing his job for him, I'm drinking his fucking sherry." he mutters, before demolishing the mince pie and throwing Rudolph's carrot bin ways. The boys'll be too old for this caper soon, he tells himself and picks up a few parcels before turning the lights off and climbing the stairs.

"Bollocks", he pauses to check for the faint sound of three snoring boys, having booted the foot of a bed as he stumbled into the room: "is that you, Santa?" asks the youngest. "Shit. Yes, now go back to sleep or I'll take all your presents away again." he half lies and an exaggerated snoring immediately sounds out from the bottom bunk.

Dad carefully manoeuvres about the room, distributing presents with all the grace of an elephant on acid, before making his way to bed, happy in the knowledge that he'll be able to sleep off most of his hangover having provided sufficient distraction in the shape of small Christmas presents that require no Dad related assistance.

I think this ritual carried on until they split up. After that it was the 'don't wake Mum up unless you want a slap' ritual, which seemed pretty effective, too.
( Moey, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:03, Reply)

My parents
"Put the kettle on"

"It won't suit me"

EVERY TIME FOR 34 YEARS

and now my wife has started saying it
(faragher dub, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 0:45, 5 replies)

At the cinema
...with my mum, we would always arrive early so we could watch ALL the trailers. Then when the light's dimmed at the end of the trailers she would get up as if to leave and say "Well that was good wasn't it?" Every. Single. Time. For the past 20 or so years.

Ok so I may have fell for it the first time (being wee) but the jokes on her now as she can't stand up on her own. So I get to do it.

Hmm... actually revenge isn't as sweet as I expected.
(Bo Nidle Coming back in from the cold., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 22:05, 1 reply)

When I was a Sparklet
When I was a little Sparklet, we used to have a lot of fun, despite (or possibly because) Money was sometimes a bit tight. The best was the "Wild" the three of us (My two younger brothers and I) used to all throw ourselves onto my dad in the hallway on a Sunday evening, for a "Wild".. I think the idea was to tire us out for bath/story/bed time on a Sunday night. But it was brilliant! We could hurl ourselves at the auld fella continually, and he would fend us off as best he could. Which was pretty good as it goes, since he would have been about 30 and still playing footy at weekends. The only rule was "If anyone cries then we have to stop" which meant a lot of time hugging my littlest bro really hard and saying "Don't cry A****, Don't cry A***" And he'd breathe really hard and then re-join the fray..

Luckily as my own children grew, my Dad was still very much able to play "wild" with my little Sparklets, and I am very thankful that he continues in very good health.

However, as time went along, my parents divorced, and to say it was acrimonous would be the understatement of the decade, it made the McCartney divorce look like the blithering Waltons! As a result, neither of my brothers have spoken to my Dad for the last 14 years. My Dad has a beautiful talkative new granddaughter who he's never met, and I just know she'd love a game of wild with her Granddad..

I hate my brothers sometimes...And now I've just decided who I'm spending Christmas with!
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 19:48, Reply)

If you count Mr Bin and myself as a family
then I guess we have a few.

- if a news report says "a man has appeared in court/ before magistrates" then we go 'ping'. To represent him appearing by magic you see.

- if a news report refers to someone having 'not been named' or 'having been named by police' we remark on how remiss it was of the parents to not get round to naming the person involved.

- if it comes up in conversation as to whether an actor is dead or not we will say 'no, you're thinking of Denholm Elliot'.

It's a wonder we don't have any friends!
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Tue 25 Nov 2008, 20:32, 3 replies)

Haulage.
I think I was in my mid teens when I realised that not all families were oblidged to say 'Eddie Stobart - that bastard' whenever they saw one of the lorries.

To my knowledge no one in our family ever had dealings with said company or had reason to question the parentage of the owners and the true reason why - if any - was lost with my Dad.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 19:59, 4 replies)

Out on a ....
Every time I drive the M6 and am passing the Warrington exit, I see the sign saying "Lymm".
Without fail... even when I am in the car on my own... I say "That's where they have the small arms factory"
Heh... still makes me giggle..

Sad and pathetic, I know.
(bof, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 14:30, 6 replies)

T-shirt ritual
I was an only son to a single parent since dad fecked off when I was but six. Times were hard, money was short, but things were generally happy.

Except for the t-shirt ritual.

Each morning mum would shout from the bottom of the stairs that brekky was ready. I'd dress as fast as possible, rush down and scoff my toast or ready-brek or whatever. Then she'd walk me up to school. All well and good.

Except for those times when I'd appear in the kitchen and she'd glare at me and declare "That's the WRONG t-shirt! Why did you do that?!" She'd drag the cursed garment off me and I then had to stand in the hall closet. It was dark, dusty and very hot. I wasn't to make a sound or move, even to go to the toilet, so wet pants often ocurred. Thank God I wasn't afraid of spiders...

About 3:30 - the end of the school day - she'd open the closet door and drag me by the wrist to my bedroom She'd pull open one of the drawers and grab a shirt, seemingly at random "SEE! SEE! SEE! - *that's* the right t-shirt!". I had to stay in my room until the next morning and play the t-shirt lottery all over again.

Strange woman, but bizarrely I do miss her now she's gone.
(apologies_for_length, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 13:42, 11 replies)

Another Christmas one
Every single year for as long as I can remember, Christmas morning has been the same. I love it and never want it to change.

As kids are waking up at 4am asking their parents if Santa has been, my dad is up organising the living room, sorting presents into piles until 7am when he phones us and tells us to hurry up and get to their house as the bacon is nearly ready and the tea's going cold. We all pile into the car usually still in our pyjamas half asleep and drive to my mum and dads. When we get there we dare not go near the living room door oh no that's against the law, it's straight into the kitchen for us whilst we wait for my other two sisters to arrive. Around 8am we've finished the bacon and tea and then my dad leads the kids to the living room door and says "wait here kids, I need to make sure Santa hasn't fallen asleep on the sofa again" two seconds later he comes out and says "nope, all clear, you can come in now" The kids run into the room and take up their respective seats on the floor and all the adults (8 of us) all pile in and sit in the same seats we have sat in for the past 10 or so years. Magic's christmas songs are usually blaring out on the TV and once we're all settled my dad hands each present out individually reading who it's to and from and we all watch that person open their present. and then it's the next persons turn. When there are presents for 10 people this usually takes hours, but it's the best bit of the day and I think it makes us all alot more greatful for what we get. About 11am, just as we think it's all over my dad usually springs a surprise present on us all that he's even hidden from my mum which we all open together. It can be anything from a number of little presents, one each or one big family present to share.

After this we all grab a bin bag and clear out the wrapping paper and then the men "help" the kids "set up" their gadget like toys, while the women all go in the kitchen for a sherry and a mince pie while we muck in with crossing the sprouts and peeling the potatoes. Dinner is usually around 3pm and being from a traditional family the kids get theirs dished out first, then the men and us ladies last. After that the men wash up and the ladies sit around in the kitchen drinking sherry and eating mince pies and christmas log. Then it's games and or a sleep for the older folk. Around 7pm we all settle down and watch Doctor Who and after that we set off home where the kids get their new pyjamas on, have a turkey sandwich and then snuggle up in bed, exhausted after a days play. Mr Sp@m and I usually settle down with a Baileys and watch a few Christmas specials at this point until it's time for bed.

Christmas day has been exactly the same for me the past 29 years except now I have the added bonus of watching my own childrens faces light up with each present.

I LOVE CHRISTMAS!
( Mrs Sp@m, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 10:20, 4 replies)

My Dad
Looking back my father was full of crap which he'd instill into me and my siblings.
Most of his outbursts were either painfully bad jokes (which he would find hilarious) or really strange phrases, some of them I'll never forget.

*ahem*

"The Elephant is a pretty bird, it flits from bough to bough. It makes its nest in rhubarb trees and it whistles like a cow."

"One fine day in the middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other."

He would repeat these nuggets at the strangest of times, mostly to the amusement of my younger sister.

He would also threaten that I would be sleeping in the shed (he wouldn’t ever be angry when he said this, it would always be out of jest).

Best of all though, and something that he used to do a lot (which I now do CONSTANTLY) is that, whenever you have a guest round for dinner, wait for them to say something along the lines of “Thank you, that was lovely.” then you HAVE to reply with “And at 10 pounds a head it’s not bad either.”

Touching briefly on the bad jokes bit again, he would often tell his jokes with a German accent. He was a fan of allo’ allo! so you can imagine what he sounded like. -_-

My Dad was and still is ace.
(British Steel was participating in awesomeness on, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 5:22, 13 replies)

Fair Fun
In my family, a great deal is made of Fairness. Portions, for example, cannot just be equal. If they were, then the littlest would receive a bigger amount, as a proportion of their body weight. And this would not be Fair.

This emphasis on Fairness manifests itself most ridiculously in times of great housework, e.g. just before Christmas. You'd think that we could just divide up the jobs between us, making sure that each person received an equal and acceptable amount of work. But this would not be Fair. Hoovering the stairs, for example, is a much more annoying and time consuming task than, say, dusting the living room.

And so a system of points has been devised, giving each job a score based on unpleasantness, effort and time. Jobs are then shared out among family members (bar my mother. None of us would push our luck that far) so that noone receives more pointsworth of work than anyone else. The fact that this system requires more effort and time than actually doing the jobs is not important. It's be Fair.

This year, I won't be going back home until Christmas Eve. I am expecting a nicely dirtied bathroom for me to clean, the moment I cross the threshold.
(Concrete Cow, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 18:38, Reply)

JAFFA!!!
In the days of my childhood, we used to have 'family fun' (i use the term very loosely) playing such games as trivial persuit.

Said game is the most mind numbing experience a child could ever have inflicted upon oneself.

However, there was one occasion where my sister was asked the question
"What kind of orange has the same name as your belly button?"*

My sister in all her childish panicky knowledge immediately shouted JAFFA!!
And from that day on your belly button is known as your jaffa!

I have a wierd family.

(*for those of you who don't know, the answer is navel.)
(NoStrings Tastes like zombies!!, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 2:51, 2 replies)

code names
I was "Garbonzo bean"

My brother was "Matt the rat, the river cat, who combs his hair with chicken fat, and beats up girls with a baseball bat."

Later that was shortened to "The Boy Who Could Do No Wrong" when my father got a bit tired of mom playing favorites.

My first girlfriend was "Keli keli of the buckskin belly"

Thanks dad. Stop looking at her belly now, eh? ok.

Whatever they called us, they could never remember our names anyway.

Any conversation had a fair chance of starting "David, Alli, I mean Matt, Meg? I mean Fred, Irving? You - hey, whatever your name is - get me that screwdriver."

There was a smattering of names we'd recognize - brothers or sisters - and then Fred and Irving always made it to the list along the way.

We didn't know any Fred or Irving.

When we asked Mom who Fred and Irving were, we were told ominously, "They were your brothers... the ones who *didn't* do what they were told."

Thanks mum.

I'll just go over here and play with my naughty dead brothers.
( Allisade would love to hear from you, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 22:38, Reply)

The insular family bubble of weirdness...
I am rather enjoying the stories of weird sayings in family units. They've made me realise that Los family Doofus have an enormous amount of them...and they probably shouldn't be revealed on teh web. Oh well...

When I was a young thing I used to say "I git bin" instead of 'excuse me', which makes absolutely no sense. I also used to call Fireman Sam 'Fibey Dodo'.

My Dad upon his return from work every evening, without fail, would exclaim, "It is I, the father of the house" (He still does this.) He also has a habit of sometimes answering my mum's questions in a pretend gibberish language, such as, "Shnig mafabi" much to her (total) annoyance.

My older brother when he was a youngster had a bizarre loathing of the word "Blood" so we would refer to it as 'blah' instead. Upon growing out of this, he developed an irrational hatred of the word 'chap' and would instantly replace it with 'bloke', under his breath, in conversation, if someone dared to use it.

My younger brother, when he was small, would refer to my mother's little finger as her 'tootie' and would ask to hold her 'tootie' on days out - but only her finger was known as the 'tootie' - not his. Weirder still, he had names for all my mum's digits but I can only remember the name of one other... 'Mimi with a shoe'

Yes, go figure that one out. More stories to come children…
(Eldoofus, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 22:08, Reply)

SSPs
When my sister (and our cousins) were little, my Poppa (Dad's dad for those who don't know the term) would ask us questions and the first correct answer would receive a Small Sealed Prize. When we were little, it'd be whoever sees Hode Monument first gets an SSP, and stuff like that. As we got older they became more difficult, such as 'What does 'crepuscular' mean?'. (it means animals mostly active during twilight, or that light and I'll never forget it). I've earned thousands of these SSPs.
He passed away last week and never coughed them up. I'll miss him.
(thebdaman hmmm....., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 20:32, Reply)

best of 3
rock, paper, scissors.
Decides absolutely everything in my household.
Honestly it's ridiculous, since the age of 18, every christmas i play with it with my dad to decide if i move out or not. I know he means it aswell! i've been lucky so far. made it to 22.

ooooo first post. i had to join. i love this site wheeley much.
(broadhead, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 17:53, 5 replies)

Scouser's pet reminded me...
When I was about 17 and had just started 'going out' in town, the bus I used to catch would drive through the red light district of Bristol (before they clamped down and the ladies of the night moved on).

On the journey, me and my brother would regularly play 'Spot the Hooker' - You shout when you see one, first one to shout gets that point, most points wins free pint etc.

However, having played this for several months we grew bored and had to introduce new ideas to keep the game fresh. We started to give the ladies 'Names'. These could then be used in conjunction with a shout to gain a bonus point.

Cue the hideously embarrassing experience of walking through town with my Mum on Saturday morning and loudly exclaiming "Look there's Debbie the Hooker!"

Mum was not pleased I knew a hooker's name and took a lot of persuading to believe in the game. She has since however, been known to play along on occasion!
(Colonel Santiago Introduced surprised kitty to the world., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 14:18, Reply)

When I was younger I shared a room (And a number of other things) with my brother.
My brother and I used to have a ritual of putting a bag over our heads if the other one had got lucky on a night out and brought someone back with them.

The reason for putting a bag over your head was down to the fact that my brother is gay and I’m not, we both shared a room and hated seeing each other doing the nasty, and as we were conjoined twins the one that wasn’t lucky enough to pull didn’t have the option of leaving the room.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:59, 1 reply)

When I was growing up
my family were struggling, financially. But one of my happiest memories (there arent many!) was the ritual for every Sunday.

We would have a roast for lunch while watching Lost In Space on our very small black and white television (and no Im not talking about the 50's! This is late 80's).

Then my dad would take me and my little brother to the swimming pool while my mum did housework or whatever mums liked to do with two hours to themselves. We would stop at the park on the way home too - just to make sure we were properly tiered out.

By the time we were home we would get sardines on toast (can't stand them now!) and hot chocolate for tea.

And then we would get treated to icecream (we didnt get sweets the rest of the week), but my parents couldnt afford a freezer. So when we had finished our toast my mum would run down to the corner shop and buy a tub. And us kids along with my father had to eat it all in one sitting as it couldnt be stored.

Oh and my other favorite day of the week when living in that pokey little flat was Thursdays because it was Blue Peter on tv before going to Brownies.

Shame it all fell apart not long afterwards...
( TheGirlWithNoName, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:43, 3 replies)

Snooozzzzzzes
Christmas Day with my family is something I very much look forward to every year. My brother and I retreat back to our parents' house where we grew up, and promptly commence a well-deserved bout of lying around enjoying their hospitality (read: fridge full of booze and food). I usually bring back my laptop, PS3, and a crap-load of washing to do, while my brother will bring only his laptop for some decent online poker sessions.

However, these are not the rituals which deserve the most mention. There is one ritual which surmounts them all; one ritual that we partake in without fail, every year.

Over Christmas dinner, the men of the household take a bet... namely: "how long will it take for mum to fall asleep on the sofa after Christmas dinner?"

Years ago we would be guessing somewhere in the region of "1 hour!" or "1 and a half hours!" or "45 minutes!" from someone who had surreptitiously been plying her with alcohol all morning. Unfortunately the variables (mainly age and the increasing affordability of Christmas champers) have now brought this time down to a matter of a few minutes, thus decreasing the margin for error substantially. This year I may even put a bet on her falling asleep at the table, using a leftover spud as a makeshift pillow.

The bet is an honourable one - there is no prize other than the smug sense of a well-deserved win, and there are no sabotage attempts to keep her awake. We just sit quietly watching TV and digesting the turkey 'n spuds, all the while waiting for the beginning stages of her heavy breathing - and the official state of slumber.

At this point the men smile and look at their watches to declare the victor. "YES!" will be the cry from one of us, which startles mother awake and into an embarrassed laugh - there's always an element of annoyance in her being subject to this bet, but she has to laugh as she resigns herself to the futility of staying awake... she just needs a nap.
(perfectrhys come find me on PS3., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:57, 2 replies)

Bathtime
Leaving the bath water for the next person to use. Well I suppose it was the 70s, and our water was heated by an immersion, so hardly the most efficient method.

Usually there was enough hot left for a top up.

I never seemed to get first go though, I was always bathing in grime, whereas everyone else used to be able to manoeuvre a position to be able to use virgin water.

Perhaps it was because I am the youngest by some margin.

Perhaps it was because I used to regularly piss in it.
(Worthless wishes he had the brains of a pigeon, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:34, 1 reply)

You Son of a Mad Bog Irishman
I am the offspring of a mad bog Irishman and a quirky half Scottish posh home counties lady.

I don’t have the weeks necessary to relate the daily agonies I went through on the playground by calling things what they were called at home and have people laughing in my face, or doing things as I thought they should be done and have people herniate themselves with amusement until their collective sphincters went ‘hssssssssss’ as they voided themselves completely.

So I have made a brief and non-exhaustive summary.

-Urine and faeces were known respectively as ‘shhhh’ and ‘numbers’. I still don’t know why and my parents still use the terms. Much hilarity ensued at school when I first put my hand up and asked to go to have a ‘numbers’ and having to explain what it was so my at first perplexed and finally catatonic teacher. Teachers also shouting ‘shhhhh’to me if I was being loud…well…I got through lots of pants (and therapy).

-when we went to McDonalds (which was a massive treat if we were good) we all had to in order open our cheese burgers, take out the pickle, and reverently place it into my fathers burger which was held open by him. It didn’t matter if we liked them or not because it was irrelevant. My dad ate his 5 pickle cheeseburger with ‘relish’. (Incidentally, burgers served in a bun are called ‘bun burgers’ in our house and even outside our house. My father once had to run out of the car into the restaurant at a drive through once at our local ‘Burger Master’ to explain what a ‘bun burger’ was as his strong Irish accent was causing the microphone to wail)

-I was forced to call my Irish grandfather ‘daddy pop’. Not one of my other cousins did and I was told I had to because it showed I had extra respect for him.

-When I shouted to my first girlfriend to come up quickly to the bathroom where I was, she raced up the stairs in panic in case I had slipped and was now toe deep in my own head blood she was utterly (and quite rightly) shocked, disgusted, and appalled that I was on the throne grinning with my index finger pointing to her and me asking her to pull my finger. The relationship didn’t really last much longer after that. I couldn’t understand at the time. That’s what loving couples did, right?

-At the first sleep over with my friends, I was shocked to learn that other people usually didn’t stick their head in a bowl of warm water and vigorously towel their hair dry as my whole family did.

-I also learned at that sleepover that waking people up with a cold sopping flannel in their face didn’t endear me much to them. I quickly realised that I had to unlearn and cease my oddball ways in order to make friends and keep them.

Oh well.

EDIT: looking back I think I was abused as child.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:31, Reply)

Ripping the piss constantly
like, in a my own father told me once, "You should have been a blow job" kind of way.

We rip each other to shreds every moment we spend together and we all laugh like loons about it.

It's pretty hard to fall out with people when the rules are 'no holds barred'.

We have a great dynamic.

However, this does not leave you well situated to go into the real world. People are awfully sensitive.

Boring bastards.

EDIT: Also, wrestling. We're all huge fight fans and with the right amount of alcohol, my brothers and I generally have a good old scrap. I've fought my Dad. The first time we had to stop and call it a draw cos me Ma wanted to watch the lotto but the second time I kicked his arse and he quit. Once he even sneaked up behind me and caught me in a rear naked choke (which is a Jiu-Jitsu submission) and he didnt let go until someone pointed out I was about to pass out cos I'm too hard to tap. Rargh!

Fighting is fun.
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 9:32, 5 replies)

Whenever my brother and I
order the same food from a restaurant, or do something the same when we're together, we always yell (quite loudly, too) "SPOOKY TWIN THING".

Also, if either of us mention the word toilet in each others presence, the other one has to say "Weeeeeeeeeee".
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:24, Reply)

Dinner
Same every week, without fail and 10 minutes after I get in from work, unless I find a way to intervene:

Sunday - Roast beef
Monday - Rubbish beef pie
Tuesday - Sausage, beans and mash
Wednesday - Steak
Thursday - Ginsters Pasty (other pasties are available and I recommend them all above Ginsters)
Friday and Saturday - I stay down the pub and try not to eat red meat....
(Grobie, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:17, 5 replies)

CHCB family Christmas ritual:
I don't visit them; everyone lives.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:12, 1 reply)

*Takes deep breath*…

There’s this woman, right? And…erm…loads of…erm porridge…yeah, that’ll do ...started dripping out of her body…so she extends…erm…the thing on the end of her arm to grab hold of…erm…her 'strange medicine' on the high shelf…a medicine which consists entirely of the fatty juices of lady sheep...

So the headline* was…

‘Female leak oats, hand reach ewe oils’

*When I say 'headline' I mean 'the headline of a desperately sad newspaper on a particularly slow news day'.

( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 27 Nov 2008, 12:56, 7 replies)

Interestingly (to me, anyway). Actually, it ain't, but neither are 80% of the inane stories this week.
"Freddy Woo writes, "as a child we used to have a 'whoever cuts doesn't choose the slice' rule with cake. It worked brilliantly, but it's left me completely anal about dividing up food - my wife just takes the piss as I ritually compare all the slice sizes."

My ex is trying to divide up our joint house (where he does not live) on this basis - I choose a price and he decides whether to buy the other half from me or sell the other half to me. I see his point but I don't like it as I don't want to be homeless.

*counts crumbs*
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 12:20, 7 replies)

Animal army
Every Sunday my dad would break out the plastic animals and dinosaurs. We had trolls, plastic men, creatures, monsters and many other plastic toys collected over the years.

We would split our family into two teams and choose animals to be in our army. We would then organise them into strongest and weakest and strategically place them in lines.

Out came the wobbly golf ball and the war was struck. We would play this every sunday. My dad found the animals in the loft and we are playing again over xmas.
( squiddylyd Once you pop you can't stop!, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 21:43, 1 reply)

Not perhaps so much a ritual
as a family trait...

Me and my brothers all seem to have sleep disorders.

Apparently I talk in my sleep. More accurately, I cuss in my sleep, (allegedly) telling the listener to "fuck off", "leave me alone" or "get off me". This can happen even when I am having nice dreams of kittums and things.

Brother Dan has developed somnambulism. He often works abroad and wakes up in foreign hotel lobbies wearing nowt but his boxers with no recollection of how he got there. Getting back into his room often proves an ordeal.
When my brothers shared a house a few years ago, Brother Rob, would wake up to find Dan lurking in his room, oblivious to Rob's bemused questions. Rob got used to it after a while and would accept that his brother would manifest at strange hours, mumbling "oh, it's Dan again, not a burglar" and going straight back to sleep.
When Dan was little he frequently hurled himself out of bed. In her infinite wisdom, my mum - rather than moving him to the bottom bunk - made a multitude of beanbags and strategically placed them so that when he landed he would just carry on sleeping.

Rob is mostly quite normal... but when we shared a hotel room in Albania he warned me before going to bed that he had been known to shriek in his sleep. Specifically shriek. Nothing else.
( warmfuzzies Isn't here, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 23:23, 2 replies)

Turkey Slapping!
Me and my brother have a ritual whereby for every Christmas diner we beat/slap the shit out of the turkey before cooking it.

Here's one example
( slippery doctore, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 13:25, 4 replies)

Mrs Humpty...
... HAS to check the door is locked twice before she leaves. If I try to stop her she'll yammer and whine all the way out of the building - like a puppy that needs a pee.

She's even been known to exit the lift on the ground floor and run back up the stairs to check before I can block the path.. It's kind of cute.... but a little worrying too.

:o/ Her Dad however.. He checks 6 times. I suppose Old age is going to bring some little foibles with it..
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Tue 25 Nov 2008, 11:04, 4 replies)

Bowel movements
When I was young, any display of fractiousness or misbehaviour was dismissed by Mum with a simple question: "do you need to do a poo?"

This has persisted to the present day, and we're big hairy grownups now.

I've got my own little one and spouse now, and we're saying "it's the morning" to announce a desire to drop the kids off at the pool.

This dates back to a holiday in the Far East when the time zone change led to previously regular daybreak bowel habits to migrate into the middle of the day.
(hirsute, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 22:07, Reply)

Still unexplained
"Can I get down from the table?"

"You get down from a duck not an elephant!"

*Riotous laughter*

What's more confusing is that it apparantly used to get funnier and funnier.
(Popiella Jones, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 19:01, 7 replies)

The bay leaf rule

Whoever got the bay leaf on their plate when we had stew/ bolognaise ect, did the washing up

I think I was about 15 before I twigged that perhaps mum was putting it on mine or my sisters plate deliberately, bleedin retard ;)
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 16:45, 1 reply)

Thirsty /thursday and big squeeze little squeeze
When the both the little happyjoys were realising what words were if they asked for a drink I would ask why they wanted one and if they said they were thirsty I would say no , its tuesday ( or whatever day it was ) ,if it happened on a thursday I would praise them for getting the day right . I suppose it was a lesson in phonemes and intonation but once they realised the deal they did get quite creative in trying to avoid saying the word thirsty , and quite often we all collapsed laughing. They're ten and fourteen now , and we still do it occasionally.

We also used to play big squeeze little squeeze where you say big squeeze is little squeeze and little squeeze is big squeeze then ask which they would like . They ask for a big squueze so you give them a little one , you get the picture . I guess this one was about the arbitrary nature of meaning.

They fuck you up , your mun and dad ,as someone once said
(happyjoy last changed sig on, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 13:57, 3 replies)

Food fads
My family didn’t really have any rituals, preferring to leave that sort of thing to the neighbours who were a dab hand with the goat, sickle, wicker man and mistletoe at various times of the year.

However, as a teen I was shamelessly consumed by the food fads, to the point of OCD. One of these was grillsteaks for tea on a Friday night.

(For those of you unfamiliar with grillsteaks, they were a food product of the 1980s that are now probably outlawed in the EU on grounds of taste, health and common decency. They were steak shaped bits of ‘meat’ which I suspect were 70% animal, 20% flavouring and 10% addictive narcotic.)

Friday night was off to the supermarket for the weekly shop, with a teen Macnabbs, gangly, spotty and greasy, used as a beast of burden to ferry the groceries to the car and rewarded with Friday night being grillsteak night. Every Friday for about two years I would cut into my grillsteak to be greeted with a superheated jet of grease and fat that would spurt upwards. In the end, the piercing of the greasy cyst became disturbingly ritualistic. It was the chanting that did it.
(Macnabbs may contain traces of exaggeration on, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:40, 7 replies)

The house that blows you up
Following a house move, we switched from taking the bus to getting a lift to and from school in the car. We lived in the country, and between home and primary school we'd pass only one house on the way.

On the way to school, passing this house meant the car blew up, taking me and my bro and sis with it! Fortunately, on the way back home, driving past this house meant you came back together again.

Hence 3 small children squealing "we've just blown up!" every morning on the way to school, and sighing "phew, we've come-back-together-again" on the way back home.

I don't know why the house blew us up. On the rare occasions that I pass this house now, I still mutter about blowing up under my breath. Old habits are hard to break, I suppose!
(SnowmanSnails, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 12:36, Reply)

My sister and I
have text battles where we send each rude predictive texts "dual off you ducking aunt" etc.
When we were younger we would elbow each other in the car to the tune of Camping Next to Water by Badly Drawn Boy.
(GrimbleGromble, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 14:54, 1 reply)

Ah dear old Mum
Was always so kind as to leave me a cup of tea at the side of my bed in the mornings...
( jim_bob can herd cats., Sun 23 Nov 2008, 12:54, 1 reply)

Streetlights
When my siblings and I were travelling in the dark in our parents' trusty 2CV as young children (usually on our way home from piano lessons), we would crouch on the backseat, peering out the rear window and spying at the streetlights...

Orange streetlights were benign, white car headlights were "goodies" and red rear lights (or worse, brake lights!) were "baddies". As we were facing backwards (no seatbelts in them days!), we saw more red lights than white lights, hence the need to crouch behind the backseats just peeping over the top, so the red lights couldn't get us. A purple streetlight (y'know the ones with a violet glow?) was a super-goodie, and cancelled out all the red lights we could see. I think there was a super-baddie too, but I can't remember what that was.

I'm not sure what we were afraid of, but if we were in heavy traffic, surrounded by cars braking, we would cower in the footwells fearing for our lives! What a relief it was when we escaped to the relative safety of the country lanes! (Tho no orange streetlights out in the sticks to watch over us, so it was potentially more dangerous territory...)
(SnowmanSnails, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 10:22, 2 replies)

nicknames
The missus and I were explaining atoms to Rowan, who was about 5 at the time. Somehow, in the course of Protons, Neutrons and Electrons - said child got addressed as Roton.
Five years on, the name has stuck.


Except when we call him MiniWolf - but that's another story.
(thanatos, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 15:38, Reply)

seriously you guys
I have a serious procrastination problem. I just finished uni for the year and I managed not to start any one of my three final essays until the week before the deadline. Said deadlines all occurred in the same week, too, along with a creative writing piece which I HAD started, because we were required to workshop it in class.

I definitely didn't fail one of them? *looks sheepish*

Besides that, I have meant to get a job all year, meant to clean my room up for you don't even want to know how long, meant to get my drivers license since I was sixteen, meant to finish any one of a dozen or two writing projects that I earnestly told my livejournal I had begun and was really excited about, and totally meant to tell that one person about that one crush last year, but that one's passed from procrastination through to irrelevancy by now.

Also, would you believe how late I left this question?
(Lieutenant Colonel Oblivious brought to you by intravenous sugar, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 13:37, Reply)

We never have christmas dinner or pudding
Always pizza and ice-cream: works a treat as other half's parents obviously do christmas dinner, so does my grandfather, and my aunts etc on my dad's side, so you just go bonkers after having roast dinner 3-4 times or so.

My mum's reasoning: "I'm not at work (she's a chef), and you'll all be very sick of christmas dinner soon"

The more I think this over, the more I realise that she rocks.
(mmmm curry doesn't really understand this sig lark, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 10:14, 2 replies)

I'm sure there are others but right now I can only think of this one...
My family has an ironclad rule that if you start to say something you have to finish it. I've slightly added to it by referring to it as Martin's Law no. 40793.6 (or any other random number). This results in conversations like this:

"I tell you what, I'm... nah, actually never mind"
"Nope, sorry. You've got to tell me now. Martin's Law 3099764.2 you know."
"D'oh, but I don't want to tell you"
"Martin's Law 405528.7..."
"Alright, I was just going to say I'm really starting to think you're a twat!"

I've been caught out with this several times myself, and sadly whenever it happens I invariably can't think fast enough to come up with a plausible alternative to what I was going to say.
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 8:36, Reply)

Dun dun duuuuun
My dad has many strange quirks (we call him Captain Mannerism) including saying 'shirtly' instead of 'shortly', singing stupid songs to me even though I'm 20 ('Hippity hoppity hippity hop... flippity floppity flippity flop' doing bizarre bunny-like dancing), calling me 'poppet', 'sprocket' and 'chick-pea' despite aforementioned age. And so on. But the one that goes furtherest back is when any sort of soap or drama ends and the credits roll, he'll announce to the room

"AND ON THAT BOMBSHELL."

He will also do it after The X Factor.

In a similar vein, my grandmother warbles her way through the soap theme tunes (Emmerdale is particularly excrutiating), made funnier by her incredibly strong RP accent.

On the other side of the family, my great aunt - 95 this year - has soft toys called The Creatures. These are two vile teddy and bunny things (with another teddy addition a few years ago around her 90th) who are about 40 years old and haven't been washed. They're pretty grim. When we go to see her she feeds us year-old cake - "I can't rememeber whether this was made last November or the November before..." IN MARCH - and makes us kiss The Creatures. We, seasoned veterans, know not to actually kiss them as they're probably poison. My aunt's* fiance didn't... I'm surprised he's still alive.

*That's a different aunt. My great aunt is not a gereatric bride.
(Judge Society would be a pexagram, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 22:09, 1 reply)

Does anyone else's family
have practically an entire language crafted out of all the children's baby language and slash or stupid quotes from childhood?

For example, in our family anything we really like is described as 'The nicest little spoon I ever saw!' and displeasure is signified by saying 'Never, ever take magazines away from girls.'

Probably more awful/ amusing than that, however, is the ritual that stems from an early childhood quote by my sister.

My mum was about to embark on a diet and being the goody two shooz ('shoes'- agh, family lingo!) suck up five year old I apparently was, I say sweetly: 'Mummy, you don't need to go on a diet, I think you're beautiful just as you are!' (probably while putting my arms around her waist and batting my eyelashes).

Cue a pause which I like to imagine involed her smiling fondly down at her lovely, thoughtful eldest daughter (but may have actually involved concealing a smirk/ vomit).

Then, as my mother was mid- bask in the feeling of 'Parenthood! What joys it bringeth! To be idolised and loved unconditionally by those whom you have brought life to, the unrelenting worship of ones own kind, one's own flesh and bloo-'

'I hate fat people.'

Unceremoniously spat forth from the mouth of my 3 year old sister over a decade ago, it still features regurlarly in muttered asides every time we stop in a McDonalds on long family car journeys.
(Mr._F is not actually a man- this username is a lie!, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 22:04, 1 reply)

Kiss and a Lick.
I don't know. My Granddad does it to the side of my head whenever he sees me. It's alright, he does it to other people too (well, grandchildren). Then demands reciprocal action.

Ever licked your Granddad's face?
( Captain Wow currently being a cunt in Infamous, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 21:38, 1 reply)

i blame the simpsons entirely
i'm sure me and my sister aren't the only ones who do this.
every time we hear the song Sweet Dreams by Eurythmics, we have to sing "i am watching you through a camera!" a la Artie Ziff
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 18:45, 11 replies)

new years
A little ritual that has passed on from my dads side of the family (the irish side)...

Within 5 minutes of the new year rolling round, the youngest and "darkest" of the males in the household has the duty of stepping out the front door of the house with a slice/loaf of bread and a piece of cole. THEN he is supposed to repeatedly bang the bread on the side of the house next to the door... leave the bread outside and take the lump of cole back in and place it on the mantlepiece.

Being the youngest and "darkest" in the household, and the fact i left whatever new years party i was at last year early, it was my job to do this ritual new years 2008.

So if you see anyone banging bread outside there house at about 12.03 new years day, i'm not mental, im just Irish.

Cheers.
(arse_biscuit, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 17:35, 6 replies)

Thumbs
I have no idea where this came from, but now whenever my five-year-old son and I agree on anything, we both do a thumbs up and then touch them together.

Does anyone else do that?



I hope so.
(Sir Harrington Titsmith disgraced himself on, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 17:07, 3 replies)

Words as rituals

Dooshkadoo – said quietly while walking along, while happy

Nutbutler – an idiot. Can also be used as a verb.

Bestings – Money. From ‘best in fives’, no idea where my sister got this as a toddler, but she was apparently insistent that was the phrase for money.

Betterfit – short for ‘it would be better if’ – ‘betterfit we had a quicker way to work’

Triangle – mispronounced mysteriously in a French accent by unfortunate sister as a teenager, now used as a trump card in a disagreement with her, even by senior family members.


When holding my mum’s hand when little, she would shoot my arm up in the air and hold it there while loudly and publicly saying how naughty I was for holding my arm up and not letting it down. She’s getting dafter too.

Just before me and the old man got married, his Grandpa asked his brother if we were well suited. His reply was that it was hard to tell because we spent most of the time with each other crouched on the floor laughing so hard we couldn’t speak. His Grandpa was apparently very happy with that. Two very silly families, united in our love of taking the piss. Aw.
(picmaestress, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 15:58, 1 reply)

My Granddad
Scarpe's story reminded me of time I used to spend with my granddad hen I was very young.

I used to go around every Sunday and help out my Granddad in his garden and while we were there he'd let me help prune the trees. It was a great time, he'd put a quarter of orange in his mouth and chase me round the garden!

Great times were had, however, one day he let me have an even bigger responsibility, he let me kill the weeds too! It was ace! After killing the weeds I started chasing him around the garden like I was the monster!

it was Brill!

Till the old grampy Vito Corleone had a heart attack...

I wasn't allowed to chase him no more...
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 14:06, Reply)

Nightly ritual
Every night I give spikeypickle Jr his last bottle, have a snuggle, whisper nonsense in his sleepy little ears, hush him to bo, sing the ocassional rendition of 'silent night' and tuck him in his cot with peanut butter (my old teddy bear from when I was a little spikeypickle)

Every night for the past 15months (with a few exceptions).

I love my little man :0)
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 14:02, 6 replies)

BINOCULARS BINOCULARS BINOCULARS
Ever since 1983 or 84, when we saw The Young Ones, no one in our family can say the word BINOCULARS properly. We simply HAVE to say "Binoc-a-lears" in a strange high pitched voice as Ade Edmondson did in one of the little side sketches in that show.

Now that's fair enough, "Mother, what is that bird in the garden? Hand me the binoc-a-lears" Ha ha.

What's NOT so fucking funny is when you are out at, say, a Game Fair, approaching a Field Sports Supplies stall, saying "BINOCULARS, BINOCULARS, BINOCULARS" in your head and under your breath, then striding up and asking how much their binoc-a-lears are. Complete with whiney voice. EVERY single fucking time.

At least the rest of my family do the same, they have 'fessed up.
(Rsoles, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 13:55, Reply)

my family has heaps of rituals.
They're ever so much fun. Won't you join us?

Signed,
Charles Manson.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 13:21, Reply)

"You'd make a shit Haggis"
The accusation levelled at any family member/friend who needs a pee a multiple of times, or with alarming regularity.

The logic goes this-away...

Haggis - the yummy offal-stuffed meaty-treat - is often *said* to be stuffed in a bladder, and for our logic to work, we shall assume that this is so. (Pretend that you don't know it's a stomach)
Small bladder = Small Haggis = Shit Haggis.

So ... it often comes to pass that someone (our dad) goes for a pee again... and one of us will mutter "You'd make a shite haggis Da'"

See? good.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:54, 3 replies)

"Wait and See"
As wee nippers, A miniature Humpty and his brother used to ask "What's for pudding mummy"

The answer was ALWAYS "Wait and see". This, coupled with the fact that the pudding was also ALWAYS "Apple fool" meant that my brother and I truly believed that "Wait and see" was a pudding made from shite apples.

Years and Years...

fucking apples.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:35, 2 replies)

Mother
Me or my brothers: "Mum, how long is dinner going to be?"

Mother: "Three feet!"

Every bloody time.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:26, Reply)

Chicken.
I remember when my sister was little….

She was, at the time, about 5 or 6 and was suffering with a fairly heavy cold. We’d be watching some children’s telly second-world-war period drama type thing.

Anyway, towards the end of that particular program (the Railway Children possibly?) there was a scene when some spazzy fat kid finds a bomb that’s been dropped by the Germans and not exploded. This bomb is by a railway bridge and on raising the alarm, the fat kid on the telly says to the station master ‘There’s a bomb, and it’s ticking’

That night, my sister had a nightmare and when my mum went in to see if she was okay and to ask her what had happened, she said ‘I dreamt about the ticking bomb’ – Only with her heavy cold, it sounded like ‘chicken bomb’

Since then, my mum has always and I mean ALWAYS said, whenever there is a bomb featured on the telly, ‘Is it a chicken bomb?’

This wouldn’t be so bad if she only mentioned it once in a while, to my sister. But no, she’ll recount the story time and time again to loads of uninterested visitors.

My sister is (now) married, with 3 kids of her own and is a successful accountant, she doesn’t find it as funny as my mum does.

Thinking about it, my mum has loads of daft saying that no one else cares for or finds funny. Other examples include, telling my cousin not to call their daughter Isabelle as everyone will call her ‘Is-a-bell-necessary-on-a-bike’ and not laughing when my cousin retorted with, ‘I’m not worried about that, we’ve got no intention of allowing our daughter to mingle with twats’.

Or suggesting to my friend who recently took redundancy from a role that saw him as an executive director of an international company (a position he’d held for over 8 years) and was probably on 250k a year that ‘Yell were advertising for call centre staff in the paper the other day’

Anyway, I digress. Mum, I love you dearly but your family ritual is shared only by you.

One ritual we all share though, is the 5 second rule. If a seat is left for 5 seconds (or more) it’s fair game for animal, vegetable or mineral is take it over. On more than one occasion, the two dogs have been comfortably ensconced on the sofa and people have been made to sit on the floor. (It’s against the law to move someone/dog, but bribery is allowed).

Mullered.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:22, 2 replies)

At bedtime
Parental: "Nighty nighty"
Pod: "Pajama Pajama"
( Peapod Has returned to the fold on, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:52, 2 replies)

naked music
My grandfather had a lot of strange rituals, mostly involving beer (which he would pour into a teapot so that his wife believed he sat at his desk all day drinking Japanese tea). He was a very talented musician, and when my mother brought home her first boyfriend he burst into the room to serenade them on his viola. Naked. Apparently that boy never came back again (it was 1950’s Japan, so all very prudish).

Fast forward 30 years, when I walked in on my sister as she was playing the cello, with no trousers on; her 8 year old mind had decided that her jeans would get stretched and baggy at the knees, so taking them off would mean they retained their shape. These days, the dainty little thing can still occasionally be found hammering away Beethoven sonatas on the piano wearing little more than her underwear.

There must be some mad money to be made in this.

EDIT - the problem with this QOTW is that there are so many little family things which are so incredibly funny to me, but probably will read as pretty bland to a bunch of people on the interweb whom i've never met...
( kitsune-tsuki tankeløst hode får lettest sove, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:20, 4 replies)

Baby talk
My little sister (not so little now nearly 30 years on) was born fairly late on compared to the rest of her siblings, consequently she became a bit of a centre of our lives in a "cutesy things that babies do" kinda way. Her main lasting influence is words which she couldn't say when she started to learn to talk which we still use to this day as perfectly normal English.

For instance:

She couldn't pronounce her own name, "Marion" was pronounced as "Mamoo", which we shortened to "Moo" and it stuck

Similarly big sis "Yvonne" became "Ott"
Glasses=Gakkies (Gaks for short)
Grandad=Gangank
Dungarees=Eegs

These are the ones that spring to mind, I'll stick more down as I remember. Not hilarious I know, but those with kids will understand.
(tinypod will never learn. Ever., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 8:47, 3 replies)

hurrah, my first ever repost*
Initiation rites

I come from a family that has roots in the dark ages, and they have this little tradition on the birth of a new child that involves a drop of the old claret.

Think of being blooded after your first successful fox hunt or deer kill, you get the idea.

Anyway the family had been going through a bad patch before I came along and the new lackey from the west country wasn't the sharpest tool in the box.

So eventually the birds and the bees performed the magic and mum gets bigger with child and after the usual 9 months gives birth to me, "BLOOD!" roars my dad from the bedroom to carry on the tradition

"Oy'll get it!" replied the plump but inept bumpkin wet nurse, and toddled off, but being a batty cow she only came back with tomato ketchup instead of a pint of type O negative, and let me tell you, that has caused no end of bloody trouble for me over the years.

Stupid bitch

Yours, Count Duckula

*It wasn't funny then and it isn't funny now, but I care not a jot!
(Halfy By light alone, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 7:41, Reply)

Christmas in our house...
... consists of a string of traditions and rituals. It's greeeet.

The main point is drink. Lots of it, and in the right order. So its champagne for breakfast, then down the village pub for about 6 pints of good ale. Then back home for a few easy hours of gin and tonics (spanish style).

At this point it's probably worth mentioning that my family ain't posh at all (Yorkshire...), we just believe in the finer things in life. Ergo, if you're going to do it, do it properly...

So, as we begin the food (a whole other ritual) with the starter, usually fish based, it's white wine. Then, on to the main course, red wine, and oh how much there is. This will continue until the wee hours, by which time the cheese will probably be out, and there will be fine Port to see us all to bed.

Throughout the whole thing, my Dad will switch on the stereo for the first time since last Christmas, and play Bob Dylan non-stop all night.

There is also the obligatory reference toward religion; which is roundly rejected by all of us as "Bollocks", apart from my Mother, who is incredibly reserved in the face of such opposition. By this point however, she is drunk in the way that only Mothers who don't really drink can be, ie. smiley and quiet, which is just fine.

Damn I love Christmas, I can't wait for this one...
(UXB you said it man. Nobody fucks with the Jesus, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 1:24, 1 reply)

Pop
After dating my now wife for a while I had to meet the family.

'Would you like some pop' I was asked.

I froze.

'Pop' I said.

"yes, would you like some'

"What is 'POP' I exclaimed'.

"cola, orange juice or water, whatever you would like'.

I started laughing hysterically and exclaimed
'POP, you don't know what your getting with POP, why not say do you want some cola, or orange or water or milk, that would be far more appropriate"

This was the first time I had met them, why the hell they let me marry their daughter I have no idea.

It still amuses me that they ask me specifically what I want when I am with them and everyone else gets asked if they want some 'POP'.

Pop - you never know what your going to get, sheeesh.
(Opanoid Look sweats dripping off them, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 1:22, 9 replies)

Me
Cos I didn't want to tell my Mother she was a Grandmother, I got my brother to tell her. However, I didn't tell him until after he became an uncle.

Therefore I win in telling you about a strange family ritual (non-communication) all the while winning last week's QOTW which was all about procrastination.

Top that you shitehawks.
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:23, 2 replies)

Anyone else
need to make sure that the CD or DVD is correctly lined up in the box before putting it away? And then having a completely insane hissy fit when you find that someone has put them back any which way, or, god forbid, put them in the wrong way up?
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:02, 10 replies)

Two things, really
No-one in my family uses anyone else's name.

Ever.

Even if we're shouting up the stairs to one of three people. We just talk to whoever answers.

This means I can never, ever, remember anyone's name. I never use anyone's name in conversation. I just wait for people to look toward me then start talking. If I do remember someone's name after one meeting then I either find them highly attractive or highly disturbed. This has the benefit of meaning that when any of us talks, all the others shut up.


Unfortunately, it has its downsides. It means that there are friends of mine who I've known for about 3 months, whose names I can't remember. Well you can't ask after three months, can you...







Second tradition, if we ask people for suggestions then we don't ignore all the good ones and only use the crap stuff.

Yes mods, I'm looking at you.






.
( Hdjejjwsjdjjf LOOK, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:02, 1 reply)

My grandpa likes to teach "life lessons"
If, say, you were eating some cake and had left the cherry till last, my Grandpa would lean over and say "Oh, don't you want that?" and eat it. Which made me upset and confused as to what he was trying to teach me.

Now I realise he wasn't trying to teach me anything, not even "It's a hard world out there", no no no... he was just a greedy bastard who wanted the cherry.

He's still alive at 97, clinging on, doing the Times crossword every day, yet unable to remember who anyone is.
( chthonic, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:14, 1 reply)

We love Halloween.
We cover the front of the house in inflatable skeletons and pumpkins, fill the front window with battery-powered lanterns and plastic skulls and stick a load of chocolate and 20p pieces into an old jam pan - sorry, cauldron.

Then I dress up as a witch and we wait for the little monsters to knock at the door.

I open it and pretend to be afraid of the visitors, then play some little tricks on them, such as asking them to name what colour my 'crystal ball' is. As it's really a spherical colour-change lamp, they get it wrong and we all laugh.

When they're all feeling jolly I say, now you're all really scary, but there aren't any REAL devils here, are there?

And just then Mr Quar appears behind me in his horrific devil mask, and the braver ones point and say there! There! and the younger and more timid ones leg it down the path.

After all this the kids get to put a hand in the cauldron and grab some sweets and change.

We usually have a queue down the drive. Great fun.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 18:11, Reply)

Christmas Time
My family started a ritual a while ago at christmas time, where we travelled around the area in the car to look at all the christmas lights and decorations around the town.

One year i was in my pyjamas ready to go to bed and suddenly it was sprung upon me that we were going to look at the christmas lights that night, so me being a lazy fucker got in the car in my pj's, with a pillow and duvet to keep myself warm.

Now the ritual involves a dress code. We all have to wear our pyjamas especially for the occasion.

:)
(arse_biscuit, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 16:41, 2 replies)

Silence after 9pm
And miggyman runs in with this storming late entry.

All week I was trying to figure out if our family had a ritual, as I didnt think it did. But then of course I remembered.

My very light sleeping father. Youre talking the sort of light sleeper where if someone dropped a feather a 100 miles away, it'd wake him up.

As he had to be up at 4am for work, he would go to bed really early. So after 9pm, it was silence time. Well not quite, but certinatly low voices, no banging.

I have learned to be able to do anything in darkness, as we couldnt put any lights on upstairs when we went to bed. You see our doors had a frosted glass pane above them, so any lights would shine through.. and you guessed it, would disturb my father.

There was also no toilet flushing. If its yellow let it mellow, if its brown.. let it drown.


Thats right, there were many a mornings, where id walk into the bathroom to find a couple of stale turds thats been left soaking overnight because, we were unable to flush the damned bog. Grrr.

Whats wrong with cotton wool in your ears and an eye mask eh? Fuck sakes.
(Miggyman, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 15:33, 7 replies)

*checks bottom of barrel*…

*Finds something*

*Scrapes*

It’s a little known fact that Althegeordie, (when he’s not bullying and attention seeking), likes nothing more than to hang around with his two cousins…who just so happen to also be called Al.

Both of his cousins are wealthy, and of the Yiddish faith…but they have an enemy, a nemesis if you will, who lives over the road from them.

His name is Ali, and his guitar strumming skills have made him famous, bringing him money and celebrity, and I’m afraid to say it’s gone to his head. He even insists on being called ‘Fame’

Well, one day, Al’s cousins decided they’d had enough of Ali, and, being celebrated strummers themselves, they challenged Ali to a ‘Hanukkah Duelling banjos’ competition…the rule being whoever lost would leave the street…….forever.

Several hours of rampant string plucking later, Ali found that he could no longer put the notes together on the fretboard. With that, he conceded defeat, packed his bags and fucked off, never to be seen again.

And that is the story of...

...

Guess the punchline.


( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 27 Nov 2008, 14:58, 5 replies)

Rant
Can't be arsed to make up the story but it'd be along the lines of: All you [insert term of abuse here] make me [vomit/angry/want to kick kittens - delete as apropriate]. Well, isn't it SO fortunate you all have lots of happy stories to tell about [insert QOTW topic here]. I don't, so I fail to see why you lot shouldn't suffer. [Insert pithy, witty statement here.] [Insert amusing sex anecdote.] You fucks.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 12:14, 20 replies)

I have family
over in America. Georgia I think - somewhere where they shag relatives anyway.

But yes, despite having never met them they insist on sending us a family newsletter every sodding year. But this year - this morning in fact, we did not get a newsletter, oh no. We got a DVD!

And sweet giddy Jesus after a bottle of fizzy pop are they ever hicks. They actually live on a proper farm. The patriarch (some several times removed cousin I guess) is called Lee. The highlight of the year? Hiring two farm hands, both of whom are called Al. Seriously - that was the high point of their year. You should have heard his wife Gladys doing a running commentary:

"Here's farmer Lee wit' two Als!"

Woop woop! End of the QOTW soon!
(GONEism, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 11:03, 2 replies)

Are we nearly there yet?
As a young Sunburnt Cub going on long car journeys inevitably the question of "Are we nearly there?" would be asked by me or my bro and my parents had fairly default answers:

My mum (ever the optimist) would tell us that yes we were just around the corner and would be there in no time!

My dad (ever the pessimist or possibly just a realist) would explain that we were hours/miles/ages/eons away!

Usually these answers came at the same time, we didn't know who to trust and in time just stopped asking... which probably means my parents won.
( Sunburnt Tiger Herbie goes Piranhas!, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 3:05, 1 reply)

Stealing the Christmas Tree
Pearoasted:

www.b3ta.com/questions/weirdtraditions/post36993

And btw, it *is* true about the helicopter. It's unlikely, sounds unbelievable but true.
(Wascally Weasel now with 100% fewer jokes., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 23:54, 2 replies)

Mum in Law
Now my mum in law is a star, but one "tradition" she has which is annoying as hell is with pressies. She will give you a gift (B'day or Kenmas or anniversary or whatever) all wrapped up beautifully and, as you are opening it, she'll tell you what it is.
Ex Mrs Kites nan used to HATE wrapping, so would send an unwrapped gift with paper and sellotape so you could wrap your own gift.
(kitescreech still here, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 18:41, Reply)

Car game
Another game in the car is SPOT THE NEW NUMBER PLATE GAME. Something about how they change to 58 in the middle of the year. I don't know, I don't really pay attention. But, yeah. That's another crappy car game.

And, of course, FIRST ONE TO SPOT THE SEA! I think someone's mentioned this before. Or FIRST ONE TO SPOT THE BLACKPOOL TOWER!
Sad times.
(I've got the clap has some cool sentence here, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 16:59, 2 replies)

Outlaws! Xmas! Twunts!
Xmas, for the last ten years, has involved me being dragged by MrsDoubt to the Outlaws. It's a 6-7hr drive, but thats only the beginning of the pain, I assure you, dear readers...

Tell me, what is xmas day to you? fevered tearing-of-paper present openings? Over-eating? Bond movie in the afternoon?

Well, those may be traditions in YOUR household, but not at my Outlaws, oh no.

Xmas day consists of a forced participation in their family traditions.... behold...

Decorating the tree means being regaled with the history of each and every bauble *and* the story of the wire with which each is hung.

Opening presents is done in a serene and stately manner, with each attendant being handed a present in turn. this often leads to a strange and uncomfortable moment if someone doesn't have the same number of presents as everyone else, because yours run out whilst someone else is taking *another* turn. Also, you are obliged to guess (repeatedly) what the present may be before opening it. Gah. This often means that presents are purchased on the basis of how hard they will be to guess, rather than how much they may be enjoyed!

Dinner is far from traditional (normally) as my brother-in-law and family are highly allergic to a myriad of things (for which they have my sympathy, I will add), but, really, BEEF? (albeit *good* beef, I will add) and over-eating is certainly not an option, not on those 'sensible' portion sizes! (unless you want roast parsnip. eww.)

During the cooking process there is a significant possibility that the MiL will have some kind of accident involving broken glass. *Almost* traditional.

The telly is NOT to be turned on for idle viewing. Telly is a planned activity with only the most worthy (and obscure) programs making the grade. Heaven forfend that I want to watch some 'trash', and even if I do I can garuntee that MiL will sit there and criticise it throughout. Unless of course it's what she wants to watch. Then it's 'quality viewing'.

Instead of telly, games are often the order of the day. But even here, there is an issue. Now, I am a fan of games in all their guises, not just on my PC or PS3 etc., but I love roleplaying games, board games and so on as well, but... my Outlaws are, to a man and woman, Educationalists (not teachers, mind you, oh no. Educationalists) and their specialty is...MATHS...gah. I am crap at maths. So, what kind of games do they play? Obscure, lateral thinking puzzle games with 'traditional wooden pieces' or some such nonsense, or card games with various 'house rules' they've created themselves. These games are also played to a high degree of competativeness; I've known them to play Nine Mens Morris for up to five hours. They look at me funny when I decline to play.

The evening will involve drinking, sometimes heavily, by those in attendance. I don't drink a lot myself (bad experiences in younger life destined for other QotW's methinks), and I do get bored of hearing drunken musings on how bad other peoples lives are. Xmas is meant to be cheerful, not maudlin! Damn their eyes!

Finally, sleep may take me, and xmas is over for another year. Now comes three or four days of sitting around with bugger all to do before I can get home and have some fun!

One of these days, xmas will be at MY home, and then they will all be subjected to over-eating of turkey, sensible drinking, crap on the telly constantly, a game of Talisman or such, Charades, and Guitar Hero World Tour on the PS3!

..but, I will add, I love them to bits despite them being STRANGE!

[EDIT: Not just at xmas, but at any time a car-journey is undertaken, songs must be sung. Songs they've MADE UP. When MrsDoubt was about FIVE. And then they think I'm a miserable twunt for not joining in. And they sing loudly. And Badly. Bless 'em.]
(EffinDoubt is breaking glass on, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 14:55, 11 replies)

We make up silly names for objects...
The mini hoover or 'Dustbuster' = The SuckySucky.
Lawnmower = Maurice.
Our Lava lamp = Lawrence.
Last 2 christmas trees = Forest and Blue.
Our cat, Mango = Monsteros, Creature.
My Daughter, Chloe= Clo, Bo, Bubs, Bubsillicious.
Horses = Poggies

My wife will frequently say in the presence of guests "Oh, could you just turn Lawrence on" (!!!)

And both the cat and the daughter know all their other odd names and will react when called by them.

My daughter is 4 and I try to tell myself that we make up silly names for her benefit, but the truth is we've been doing it for years.
(Strangechap I look normal on the outside..., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 13:59, 7 replies)

Christmas Day Washing Up
Tradition in my parents house is on Christmas Day the "Men" have to do the washing up - fair enough mum did cook the dinner (and we did wash up other days before people start complaining about emancipation).

So the tradition really involves me, my brother & brother in-law, inventing plausible ways of avoiding the washing up by:
Suddenly becoming very interested in the Queens speech and unable to leave the lounge.
Needing a pee desperately.
Pretending you havent heard Dad shouting to come and dry up whilst he dissapears under a mountain of Turkey Giblets.
Needing a clean Tea Towel.
Playing with 1 of the kids.
Putting the posh glasses away in the dining room (that can take ages if done right).
Putting the posh cutlery away (as above).
Getting drunk and dropping stuff (always a winner).

Not that funny sorry.
(sproutout Aardvarks you gotta love 'em, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 11:34, Reply)

Very peculiar
In my family we have this ritual of washing our hands before touching food and after going to the toilet.

I was very surprised when found out that it's not that common.
(Aberracion Life's getting very complicated, but a lot of fun., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 9:57, 6 replies)

Car & Vomit
I’ve been trying to think from Thursday of any peculiar tradition in my family, and I can’t remember any. That’s strange, because I know my family is very peculiar, and I can’t believe we didn’t have a ritual for anything.

Now, you people keep talking about car journeys, and that made me think of a kind of “ritual” that we would follow every time we had to go by car. It didn’t matter if it was a short ride or two whole days on it. Car meant vomit. A lot of vomit everywhere.

The ritual would start with my mother giving me Biodramina (a pill again car sickness). I would cry and cry helpless, begging please not to be put in the car, telling them that the pill wouldn’t work. We knew it wouldn’t work. She’d make me eat the really disgusting thing and that would make me sick before hand (after a few years of this, she gave up)

Then, my father would ask a hundred times if I had enough plastic bags. Depending on the journey I had to take more or less, but to give you an idea, for a 15 min ride I had to take at least 3, and make sure they didn’t have holes. One day my father came with a big roll. It was like one massive plastic bag rolled very tight. It came in a cylinder with a knife at the end, so I could cut the bag as long as I wanted, then tie one end and use it.

In the meantime, my mum, knowing me, would take a lot of towels.

Well, everything ready we would go to the car. Just the smell of it would make me sick (it still happens sometimes with very old cars). My sister would sit near one of the doors, my brother in the middle and me near the other door. Always like that (my brother had tried a few times to leave the car when still in motion)

Then my sister and I would go to sleep. For a while, only. I would wake up and, immediately, start vomiting. It didn’t matter what I had eaten before. Once I vomited all the gastric acids on my stomach, as I hadn’t had lunch. Then, my sister, with the smell and the sounds, would wake up too, and start vomiting.

My mother would start shouting “How can I have two daughters so stupid, eh? How can I?” If we were lucky, my sister would reach one of the bags on time. If not, the car floor would be a mess (forever, it never got cleaned).

After some time of having each sister in one side vomiting for England (or for Spain, but we don’t use that expression) my brother would join us. So the car and us would end up covered in vomit. Every single time.

And that’s the more important and repeated ritual in my family.

(My father would only play the same singer in his car all the time, and until very recently I couldn’t listen to him without feeling sick)
(Aberracion Life's getting very complicated, but a lot of fun., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 8:30, 7 replies)

Monopoly
It's not a game it's like a religion. No conversation just long long hours of playing the game with no mercy. Any other game... just normal.. but Monopoly, oh that was a different matter. I can't play it nowdays, because no one understand why I am sooo intense when I do.
(Captain_lambkin adifferent.me, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 22:50, 5 replies)

Jet Propelled
Like many children my sister and I were dragged off to the supermarket for the weekly shop every Saturday.

Mum would always make sure she parked on the top level of the multi story car park so as we left we’d be entertained by going down the big spirally ramp in the middle shouting “Jet Propelled”. What felt fast as a youngster was probably only about 10 MPH.

Cut to twenty years later and although I have a driving license I don’t have a car and so drive very infrequently, however on collecting my hire car from Hertz the other week I couldn’t resist shouting “Jet Propelled!” rather loudly as I went down the ramp in the car park.

What is it they say about simple things?
(bill, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 16:40, Reply)

Whenever I'm with my sister
Or if we're on the telephone and one of us needs to drop the kids off at the pool we have to announce it in a silly voice and call each other the wrong name.

"I need a poooooooo Gerald!"
(Cylon Bum Raider already knows how this will end, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 16:25, Reply)

Fish
When growing up, for tea on a Sunday we had tinned tuna sandwiches. Couple of tins of tuna (usually in oil, maybe in brine) made into sandwiches of white bread cut into quarters. Followed by jelly and ice-cream. Cheapest of the cheap ice-cream. For a while, my mum used to dribble a bit of cochineal onto the ice-cream so it looked like raspberry ripple. It doesn't taste like raspberries. It tastes like dead insects.

Every Sunday without fail since when my brothers were very young and we're talking early to mid 60s here. Even now, even though we all left home over 15 years ago, my parents still have the tuna.

The only exception is when it's Xmas/Boxing Day/New Year's Eve/Day. In which case, it's tinned salmon for tea and the sandwiches are diagonal instead.

and with the addition of a plate of Tuc biscuits.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 16:24, 1 reply)

What's his is ours until he sobers up.
Years ago when we all lived together in the same house, my step-father would come home at the weekend pissed as a fart, lie on the floor and empty all the money from his pockets. He usually had quite a lot left. He would then force upon myself and my sisters all his wordly goods, reminding us that it was all earned for our benefit. In the morning this charade would follow with us quietly and discreetly returning the money to his trouser pockets so he didn't have to ask for it back.

This carried on for quite a few years till we left home and he stopped getting rat-arsed so often.

Sometimes we would wait till lunchtime the next day before returning the money just to watch him squirm for a while.
( girlinthehole, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 15:20, 2 replies)

Holiday food
We always HAVE too eat the local specialties no mater where we are - I find it teadious and the food is never the same in hotel resort restaurants - besides we could have had more fun watching TV with the kids!

It's not even like the wife likes tapas ...
(Biff..., Tue 25 Nov 2008, 14:35, 2 replies)

How come
so many people seem to have nice, fun families? I feel like I've gone trespassing on Walton's Mountain: a bizarre mix of nausea, envy and suppressed aggression.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 10:59, 8 replies)

Tossing the Caber
I have a hair brush which I stole off Mrs Nick when she was 17. Although I now go to the hairdressers for a five minute trim and a polish on top, I still have to toss the brush in a 360 or 720 degree spin every morning when stepping out of the shower, before brushing what's left of my hair. If i drop the brush, I have to do it twice, or I'll die!

I'm not dead yet, so it must work.

Length? About 128 billion angstrom units
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Mon 24 Nov 2008, 22:00, Reply)

Candlelit dinner on Wednesdays
Once upon a time when I was aged about 5, I managed to get hold of a wire with two headphone sockets on either end. Being both curious and under stimulated, I noted their similarity to plug-pins, so I thought I'd try inserting both ends into a plughole. I did just that. I created a small blue spark, the ends melted slightly and all the lights went out. Lacking in any knowledge of electrical engineering, I was unaware how just one tiny fuse had saved my life - instead, I was more concerned by the wrath of my mother.

So anyway, this meant we didn't have any electricity. We had to make do with old fashioned methods of illumination. That night, we had our dinner by candle-light. This seemed to go down quite well - in fact, it went so well that once the lights were restored, a certain something was lacking in our dinners, so it was decided that from then on, all Wednesday evening dinners should be by candle-light. I'm not sure how long this went on for, but I'm pretty sure it lasted a couple of weeks (perhaps until the sun set late enough to start illuminating the dinner). So that was the story of how I nearly sacrificed myself to create a family tradition.

Length? About arm's length and slightly melted at the end.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 20:36, Reply)

Cockgardens and assgloves
My sister and I have a ritual where we try to invent new insults for each other. The standard formula goes naughty word + relatively clean word. Sometimes we celebrate the relatively clean word with a mildly dirty but still cleaner word.

Looking on our Facebook walls, here are some of the most recent ones we've used:
-cockgarden
-assglove
-dudetard
-craploser
-assbutt
-cockmart

Another popular one was asspirate. It has an odd look when you see it on a computer screen, as it looks like some kind of positive word.
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 15:49, 3 replies)

Farting
If you fart you have to say TAXI. If you fart and someone says sixers before you say taxi they get to hit you six times on the arm.
(Simple Simon, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 15:12, 4 replies)

3 Words...
Tangerine In Stocking.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 9:12, 7 replies)

nothingworn's story of being waved out of sight reminds me of something I do.
I always watch my kids out of sight, and if they're on a train or in a car I don't turn away until I can't see or hear the vehicle any more, and I don't stop thinking about them until I lose track of where they'll be on their journey.

Mums're like that.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 8:22, 1 reply)

I was an absolute ear-spacked (deaf), thyroid deficient, seemingly lazy kid at school
Every morning my mother would try to wake me up by hitting me, shoving me, shaking me (this was when I was 15/16), shouting at me, none of it really worked, and we didn't really know about my thyroid.

My mum went into my room one morning, and accidentally brushed my feet. Almost simultaneously shitting and pissing myself, I hovered above the bed. My heart beat 20 to the dozen, and I was AWAKE.

That was how they woke me up every morning for school/college/work from then on.

I'm not sure if this should be under 'Family codes and rituals' or 'Child Cruelty'
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Mon 24 Nov 2008, 1:52, 4 replies)

Chocolate namesakes
Every birthday my parent's have made what is known as a Chocolate (insert name here). As children my sister and I once cards and presents were open we would run to the fridge and come face to chocolate face with the confectionery treat.
I will be 24 next month and still cannot wait to see what the dinner plate size creation will look like this year. When I show my friends they always look perplexed and slightly scared.
I'm considering growing a beard in the hope of getting a larger ratio of hundreds and thousands this year.

Length - The average size of a strawberry lace posing as hair.
(Horatio_the_3rd, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 22:44, Reply)

Not really funny but i'll share it anyway.....
I only really see my sister every other week so we try and hang out as much as possible, be it watch a gig, a comedian or a play. We are both opinionated twats when it comes to all things musical so we had to agree on a mixtape for the car.

We complied it together based on songs were both agreed were worthy enough to make the tape. We stick to listening to this tape (cd) everywhere we go

1. The Smiths - The Queen Is Dead
2. The Fall - How I Wrote Elastic Man
3. Guided By Voices - Game Of Pricks
4. Gang Of Four - Ether
5. Soft Cell - Memorabillia
6. Ghostface Killer - Datona 500
7. Roxy Music - Mother Of Pearl
8. Kate Bush - Rockets Tail
9. ESG - Tiny Sticks
10. Lee Hazlewood & Nancy Sinatra - Some Velvet Morning
11. Bjork - Declare Independence
12. The Cure - The Walk
13. Lloyd Cole & The Commotions - Perfect Skin


Looking at this mix tape I still agree that it's pretty cool, but I still don't know how I managed to squeeze the Ghostface Killer in.
(Sir_Digby_Chicken_Caeser [email protected], Sun 23 Nov 2008, 15:52, 2 replies)

My mum sends text to her friends and family every Sunday.
They vary slightly, generally with a little bit of info about what she's up to or how the weather is or something, but the general gist of them is "Happy Sunday, hope you have a lovely lovely day today".

Sadly, most of the people she sends them to also have a ritual of not replying to her...
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 15:07, 2 replies)

graveyard fun?
While driving (or walking) past a graveyard, my sister and I would hold our breaths ``so the ghosts couldn't get in.'' Weird, but understandable when we were 3 and 5, respectively. I'm now 37 and still find myself doing it. First time it happened with my wife behind the wheel, she asked me why the hell i i was apparently trying to make myself pass out. then nearly drove the car into a ditch when i explained.
(tuqueboy has been in a medically -induced coma since, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 2:59, Reply)

First and Last
I have three younger sisters. When growing up, having this number of children in the house meant that all snacks- crisps, biscuits, sweets, etc- came in multipacks.

A curious ritual grew up around these multipacks. They would sit, unopened, for quite a few days after purchase. This was because, no matter how many packets of crisps or whatever each person actually ate, when all the packets had been gobbled by the end of the day, it was always the "fault" of the person that had the first packet. Looking back, it seems as bizarre and senseless to me as it probably does to everybody else, but at the time, it made perfect sense.

Somehow, this practice later evolved. Being the first to open the multipack was still bad, but to take the last packet- that was much worse. Because now it really was your fault that all the crisps had gone.

This eventually became quite farcical, with a 24-pack remaining unopened for weeks, or a single custard cream left at the bottom of a packet, untouched, because nobody dared to eat the last one.

This ritual has now, of course, ended. Though I do still feel an acute guilt upon either opening a new multipack, or eating the last biscuit.
( Thinker, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 23:36, 1 reply)

"The one you touch is the one you eat."
This is a relatively simple rule, and easy to comply to.

But once it escalated to a ridiculous level, my next door neighbours came round to sleep (when i was about 6) and my mum brough up some jamaican ginger cake/carrot cake, with there being 4 of us - naturally - there was 8 pieces. Well on the withdrawal of his second piece my neighbour managed to rub high little finger on the side of another slice - mine.

I shouted "The one you touch is the one you eat, so why touch three?!" I complained not to eat it for about 20 minutes, which eventually ended in him eating it as my brother and the neighbour's sister agreed with the rule.

I then complained that i had missed out on a slice, but it was my own fault.
( Nathanial Hornblower, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 23:24, Reply)

At first I thought that my family didn't really have any...
... but then I got to thinking...

I can't believe it's not butter
When said butter first came out, about fifteen years ago I'd say, my mum and dad used to trick each other constantly one saying 'oh my god!!' the other 'what, WHAT?' and then first person saying 'I can't believe it's not butter' and so on and so forth. This continued for ages, resulting in my mum taking a picture of us kids, holding a tub of butter in the garden, developing the picture, and posting it to my dad. The picture was pinned to the kitchen wall for years.

There's a hearing aid shop.
Simple but effective. Whenever we were driving or walking past the hearing aid shop in my home town, someone would say something really quietly, and if the other person was stupid enough to say pardon, then you could reply 'There's a hearing aid shop there' I actually got my mum a few weeks ago... good times!

Psssst - Ah!
Simple. Person says psssssst. If the other person in the room turns to look you can flick them the Vs and say 'ah!'

There are a couple more but I'll leave it there for now!
(whatktdid, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 20:58, Reply)

M40 High Wycombe Tower
As a way to keep us kids occupied on the long journey back from Grandma's, or infact any journey that involved going East on the M40 through High Wycombe, Dad would offer 2p for the first person in the car to spot the "tower" (it's some kind of transmission tower near Wycombe) that pops up on the horizon.

The driver will ALWAYS spot it, coz that's where they're looking.

I never got 2p and today, 30 years later, driving back with him after picking up a new Honda Hornet he pointed out "Tower"

"Bastard!" I said.
(fatboybubba, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 15:27, Reply)

It's christmas time!
Whenever gifts are to be bought, and recievers are curious, the inevitable question- "oooh, what is it?"- will be asked. This will always be followed by a giggle and "a banana!"

Of course, it never is. We all plan to one day really buy bananas. Knowing us it'll be all at the same time and christmas will be full of bananas. =/
( vix0r was not Matthew on, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 14:02, Reply)

This thing of ours
My family have this thing called Omerta. It's a vow of silence taken by every made man when he enters our family. It essentially means that a made man is never to discuss any Family business or activities with any outsider (not including associates). You become a rat by breaking the code, and you'll pay with your life!

Most people think we're nuts to follow this ritual, but it keeps us strong and united. Capiche!
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 13:40, 1 reply)

NO!
t'was a while ago now that I was on the phone to me mother and I asked if she was going to the stoke match on Saturday,

She paused for a moment and then uttered the most amazing phrase ever (imo)

"Is the pope Jewish!!!?"
I immediately burst out laughing and said NO he isn't!

My mother laughing her self simply said shit!
and yes I am going to the stoke match.

and from that day onwards whenever anyone in my family is asked if they're doing something the immediate response is always "is the pope a Jew?!"


cheers
(uscmrisc Rules!, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 13:33, 1 reply)

Family ritual....
As my Dad got in from work, it used to be an everyday tradition that whoever he saw first HAD to go upstairs to get him a clean T Shirt from his wardrobe. Of course, he couldn't do it himself... (??!!)
So, it left me and my two sisters looking out the window at about 16:45 every afternoon and then hiding somewhere upstairs so we could avoid the task in hand! In fact, it wasn't even hard work or a pain the arse to do, it was just because we were lazy teenagers and didn't especially like doing what our parents told us!
Anyhow, one of us would smell food or feel the urge to urinate and then get caught out.
My Dad knew that we were hiding and would wait, an hour if need be just to get us to get his fuckin T shirt.
But now they live far away and I miss things like that!
(prang007, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 10:56, Reply)

Random Family Slang
I've no idea where it came from,but the term "goody" is used in my family to describe the feel of very short hair that grows in one direction,such as on the cat's nose or on my head when i've had my summer shearing.The only problem is i tried to explain this to some friends and now they think my family is mental.
(yob soddoth happiness is a Dane called Hamlet?, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 22:02, Reply)

Smoking
There was a family ritual that whenever my mother asked if I smoke, my dad would reply for me "no, she doesn't" knowing full well that I did, so the blame wouldn't fall on him because he smoked and she would have said he was setting an example (which he was, 'cause I always thought smoking was cool because of him).

This would carry on to this day apart from the fact that Sparrow Dodger has made me give up and now I'm fucking miserable because I love smoking and I'm at least three quarters through a tub of Ben and Jerry's and I think my skin might be itching on the inside. And it's only been six days. (Technically only two because I had a bit of one [but not a whole one] on Wedsnesday).

I know it's off topic but I don't care. I want to share my pain. Come and fight me if you dare. I am a woman on the edge.

(Ps, hints and tips would be very welcome)
(Ryfelwr can't stop here... this is bat country, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 21:10, 11 replies)

pinky
Me and my girlfriend have this thing that if you make a pinky promise (hold each others pinky) U HAVE TO DO IT.

If you don't u get to break there pinky.


SO far no PINKYS have been hurt
(Bermuda_import Beach party this weekend, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 18:07, 13 replies)

similar to one below
can be watching anything on tv, film, comedy, even the news

Dad walks in, doesn't look at screen: "what's this crap?"
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 17:28, 3 replies)

Threes and Twos
When walking down the street it is IMPERATIVE to not walk all the way across a set of 3 man hole covers (coming out the side of a 3 doesn't count), this will only result in disaster. However walking across a set of 2 will bring you a dose of good luck as strong as a tiny, tiny chilli (seeds and all).

The mighty 2's also have the power to negate the evils brought on by having walked across a 3, but virtue of a cruel twist of pedestrian traffic or sheer stupidity.

Introduced to me by a friend, but spread to my siblings and still alive and well.

Beware the 3's and covet the 2's.
(babydad, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 16:38, 9 replies)

cause really why are you announcing it?
Anytime, ever, someone says "I'm going to the bathroom..." as they get up to leave the room.

One of my family members will reply, deadpan "I'll alert the media."

Cause everyone should know, right? that's why you told *us*, right?

This has never to my knowledge broken anyone of the habit of announcing their impending travels to loo land, except possibly for me.
( Allisade would love to hear from you, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 16:34, 5 replies)

not technically family
But mr tulip and I have established a tradition whereby any resident (i.e. either me or him) must announce their return to the rest of the household (i.e. either me or him) by blowing enormous raspberries on crossing the threshold.

Even if company's about.

Slightly less childish and much more pleasant - if it's your birthday, we'll ring you up and sing Happy Birthday at you, deliberately off-key, followed by some sort of rugby anthem.
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 16:23, Reply)

"You're saying it wrong"
RSole's story of the binoculars below reminded me of my old mate Paul Groves. When we were young he was obsessed with vampires, and Dracula in particular. Problem was, for some reason he was unable to pronounce "Dracula", rendering it "Draclear".

This annoyed my 9 year old self rather a lot, so I decided to train him in the proper way to say it. I still remember the first training session, sitting on the floor in front of the television surrounded by video cassettes:

"Shall we put Draclear on?"
"It's not 'Draclear', it's 'Dracula'"
"Draclear?"
"Dracula."
"... Draclear?"
"Dracul - look, say after me: Drac"
"Drac"
"Yooo"
"Yooo"
"Laaa"
"Laaa"
"Dracula!"
"Draclear!"
"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! Listen: Drac"
"Drac"
"Yooo"
"Yooo"
"Laaa"
"Laaa"
"Drac-U-Laaa, see?"
And Paul, brow furrowed with effort and, I suspect, confusion, managed
"Drac-U-Laaaaa!"

Result!

Except, he never really quite got a handle on it, and from then on when approaching the word "Dracula" in conversation (as you do when you're nine), he would pause briefly then carefully enunciate "Drac-U-Laaaaa"

In short order this transferred to family folklore and thus regular usage, with "Draclear" and "Drac-U-Laaaaa" being used interchangably. As ever with this sort of thing, you tend to forget when outside the family and get funny looks as people decide whether to correct you or not. I've occasionally wondered since whether that's how Paul got started on the whole thing in the first place.
(richardm, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 16:05, 2 replies)

Watching Morecambe & Wise
Every Christmas.

Brilliant!
(outofkey "iaaaaan! your mum's on the phone!", Fri 21 Nov 2008, 15:09, Reply)

Maximum Punnage
Me and my dad have this slightly odd ritual or maybe tradition where we cannot allow ourselves to be outpunned by the other.

It's never instigated by either, it just kind of happens and the other understands that battle has commenced; it's somewhat akin to the sequence in Spaced used to describe the unspoken bond between men.

Believe me, it becomes a challenge after a while, even the most dedicated Sun hack would struggle with some of our subject matter.

The current record pun war was fought after the pair of us drove past a poultry lorry that had tipped over, spilling chickens and eggs everywhere.

Length? About 30 minutes, with enough fowl jokes to fill a small book
(ShiftyBastard won the World Cup on World Soccer Champs 2010!, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 15:02, 5 replies)

Ever heard of the punch buggy game?
well it goes like
everytime you see a VW beetle you punch someone in their arm and shout the color followed by "PUNCHBUGGY! NO PUNCH BACK!"
well my father started this with my brother and I who are about a year apart in age. As we got older though, my brother and I got a little more vicious on road trips and it finally stopped after I thought it would be funny to hit my brother while he was asleep.

however, not long ago I was on the phone with my dad and heard him get my sister in the background.
(Argentum, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 15:01, 4 replies)

Photos and doors
Now Stevie Wonder literally sings the praises of superstitions, my Grandma despite being sharp as a (knitting) needle, agnostic and generally fantastic has a few of her own we all must follow:

You must leave the house through whichever door you first entered. Not too much bother but a bit odd.

She refuses to have whole family photos taken - apparently they are bad luck and as soon as the image is developed we'll start dropping like flies. I have no idea where this came from, maybe from the John Goodman film 'King Ralph' when the entire British Royal family checks out during a photo shoot due to some dodgy wiring.

Three rings. When you've arrived home safely after visiting you've got to phone them and let it ring three times - GCHQ has nothing on this code system and there's the almost tangible pleasure of getting a free service from BT.

Still love her to bits.
( monkeybananaraffle, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 14:54, 4 replies)

Dead Foxes
Ever since I met Mrs Scowners its become habit. Driving down the M4 one day there was a dead fox at the side of the road. One the way back there was another. "ive started a collection" said Mrs S. Its been going on for almost 20 years now. She now has amassed a collection of roadkill foxes totalling 25.. Left them there obviously. they looked comfy!
(scowners shagged his mum on, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 14:24, Reply)

Christmas Sweets
Every year my family buys a big tin of Roses chocolates, but the ritual is that we can only open them once the last person has finished work for Christmas. One year my dad brought them to my work as i had a christmas eve shift, and we sat in the car once id finished and opened them up. Another time, me, my dad and my brother went to pick my mum up, with Roses tin in tow!
(applysomepressure, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 13:24, 1 reply)

My family and I share a few hilarious family rituals…

Every morning, whatever the weather, my wife greets me with a cheery ”It’s nice and sunny, my funny honey bunny”.

Awww…

Then she jokes about how I’d better hurry up to get to work, because her ‘army of lovers’ are on their way round.

So thorough is she with all this japery, that she actually arranges for different men to park on my driveway as soon as I vacate it in the morning.

Sometimes they’re still there when I get home. She tells me to ‘Drive round the block or something, for fuck’s sake’, because she’s ‘not finished with them yet’.

As for my kids…well, I can’t actually remember how this one started…but every day when I pick them up from school they get to go through my wallet…and if the sum total of cash is an even number then they get to keep all the money.

One day…it will be an odd number I’m sure.

Good times.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:42, 1 reply)

Waltonsesque
This started when we were on a family camping holiday when I was a nipper.

Dad - Goodnight Jim Bob
Us (in unison) - Goodnight Hairy Melon

Went on for years, but only on holiday for some reason.
( the_ships_cat is it meeee you're looking forrrr, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:22, 2 replies)

London
I live in north London, just near Tufnell Park tube station. Very nice. Lots of bastard squirrels the size of small ponys, but a decent pub over the road n a shop just down stairs for fags and Mars bars, so I'm a happy bunny.

My family, however, assume that because I live in London I:-

a) know everybody who lives in London. By first name.

b) know every celebrity in the world, personally. (My mum actually asked me if I had met Johnny Depp the last time I went to visit. Obviously, I said yes, but only to play snooker with. - And I told her he was a midget and really likes cheese n pickle sandwiches).

and c) am told by my mum not to get on the tube with a backpack because, and I quote: "You do look a bit shifty and what with being mediteranian looking I dont want the police to shoot you by accident."
( SpankyHanky, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:01, 1 reply)

not too much salt
my German grandad always has his German bread with salted butter, and then sprinkles salt on it.
everyone else loves this also, but he guards this bread with his life.
on the off chance you get some, he always says "not too much salt"

we are a family of salt.. eaters..?
and so now anytime any of us is pouring salt, it always has to be said.

also random blackadder quotage is common place in mothers house
(Ginger_Prawn, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:46, 1 reply)

I grew up in a house with the rule that the cook doesn't clean.
When I got married my wife changed that to, the cook cleans up as they go along.

Lazy bitch hasn't cooked once in two years.
( Peej, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:36, 2 replies)

Maud
When my mother would have to round up my sisters and me in a hurry, any name which didn't spring instantly to memory was simply substituted with Maud. I think she was some lunatic great-great-aunt.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:29, 1 reply)

Bad hair day
When my mother's hair is less than compliant, particularly on a windy day, she refers to herself as looking like "the wreck of the Hesparus".

A wonderfully poetic description, although I very much doubt she has ever read the actual poem - so god knows how / why she uses this phrase....
(Mean Mad Mutski, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 10:18, 5 replies)

Scissor paper stone
My brother and I decide everything with scissor paper stone; it prevents arguments and fights as the loser is honour bound to graciously fulfil the obligation as if not doing so had never been even a consideration. We once decided ownership of a house with this method. It avoids arguments.

The only problem is that we think so alike that each game becomes an lengthy test of bluff and second guess; our current record is thirteen consecutive draws, which only ended when we agreed to go halves.
(davywavy, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 9:52, Reply)

if i am back up north
at my parents' house, my dad will inevitably hiss loudly - ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss - as he walks past my bedroom door in the morning. even if it's obscenely early and he knows full well that the events of the night before will have made this rude awakening very painful for me.

similarly i will always reply "ssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh".

this has been going on since i was about 6 (well, not the huge nights out and hangovers, clearly). i have no idea why.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 9:50, 1 reply)

My good lady wife and I are both Northern.
I'm probably what you might call untypical northern, and as a family we are not that weird. Individually, we're probably all a bit fucked up, but we are without collective rituals.

My wife's family on the other hand are typical Northern, and as such are steeped in weird rituals. Meal times are hilarious.

When t'food arrives on t'table, regardless of what it may be, the salt is passed around from family member to family member in order of seniority. The food is then covered in salt, and I mean covered. The food is usually typical northern fayre, so not that healthy to start with. As I very rarely add salt to anything, I find this very disturbing.

Mrs. PA has continued her salt dependency throughout the years we have been together. I once asked her why she put so much salt on food, and she said that when younger she saw her elders do it and assumed that it cooled the food down - because as soon as they had put the salt on, they proceeded to shovel it in.

There are loads of others, like Friday bath night, the 7 rigid rules of Xmas (TM), same food on the same day each week.

They're good people, but gripped by routine.
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 8:14, 2 replies)

Strange Names
For some reason or another my family just can't seem to use people's real names. I have an uncle called Binks (real name Gordon) and another called Sam (real name Rodger). I only ever call my brother Padge even though his real name is Andrew. And to top it all off I am called "Greeny-groggs" - although this might be something to do with the fact that I used to wipe my snot on the wall.

Oh yeah and my Dad is called Baldy - even though he still has hair (this might be something to do with the fact that he is Ginger and we just hope that he might have the dignity to let it all fall out).
(TeabagSalad Never teabag a troll, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 0:30, 1 reply)

Me and my dad...
practice an ancient martial art by the name of "Munkai" (pronounced like monkey in a stereotypical oriental accent, as a tribute to the old telly programme.)

Our obscure style of kung-fu basically involves hitting your opponent but doing it in a style by which you flick them really hard with your fingers and exclaim "Munkai!"

It's all in the wrists.
(chrisdood Why yes, I am the shizzle, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:33, 2 replies)

my sister
tried to intruduce a game where if you spot a yellow car you get to punch the other person.

she stopped after i modified the rules slightly, basically i would shout out the make and model of any passing car and punch her thus ensuring that she got fed up of her little game quickly
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 22:04, 9 replies)

my siblings and I...
always laugh at our own bad jokes. It's a family ritual to sit around the table after dinner and out-do the other's bad jokes, puns, etc. It makes a good dinner great.
(The Lunatic Artist throws paint to the wind, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:40, 1 reply)

OCD
I think that this QOTW has finally unlocked the reason for my OCD... My family (and there's only Mam, Dad and Me) have so many bizarre rituals, I can only list a few without spending a few days on it. Selected highlights include:

1) Shouting "LYNX!" every time we see a Lynx delivery van (this was because Blue Peter used them for an appeal one year, so to my child-mind they were a "celebrity" company.).
2) Multicuddle: A group hug with its very own chant, which I can't possibly reveal without humiliating myself and my good parents due to smooshiness.
3) Saying "Good Morning Viet-mam" every time I see mother dearest before midday.
4) Camping Out, which involved all three of us sleeping in the living room on a Friday night when I was a kid, and renting a video to watch - possibly staying up till *gosh* half past ten.
5)Me waking up on Christmas morning at stupid o'clock and yelling "has he been yet?". Depending on earliness, the reply is always either "No! Go back to sleep!" or "He's been!". This still happens, despite the fact that tragically, I am now 28.

I can't go on, but I can think of at least eight more. How upsetting. I wonder if I should tell my therapist?
( MissHobart, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:12, 5 replies)

When me mam and dad are in bed.....
...me mam has a tradition of pulling the duvet over me dad's head just before she goes to fart.

Might explain alot actually :(
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:50, 3 replies)

Remember the opening sequence for "The Lion King"?
They start out with dawn on the Serengeti Plain, a low rumble of drums, and in the distance a lone male voice cries out something in a foreign language followed by a chorus of mail voices humming a chord.

To my kids it sounded like the voice was calling out "Pennsylvania!" followed by gibberish.

So after we got that movie on tape, the next time we drove from Virginia to New York and passed over the Maryland border I bellowed out, "Peeeeennsylvania welcomes you!" and hummed.

My kids still do that. And the oldest is in college.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:49, 9 replies)

I learnt from Mr. Fritzl.
Always tell my kids ''Don't tell the outside world about our secret fun cellar!''.


Works a treat.


Hmmm....who's that at the door?
( Harold Bishop's Love Child some sort of terrifying sex magician., Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:45, Reply)

May as well say it
When we go on holiday we dont bother with Baby sitters.

The McCanns.
(kitescreech still here, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:10, 4 replies)

monopoly
i have no idea how it started, but for some reason, every time i play monopoly with my brother and/or sisters, we have this weird little thing we do whenever someone lands on electric company.
we all, as one, chant "e-lec-tric-com-pa-ny!" and pound the table seven times.
as i say, none of us can remember why.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 18:10, 9 replies)