Holidays in Great Yarmouth
My sister and I would vie to be the first to see Thetford Monument, craning our heads around the front car seats waiting to scream out:

"I CAN SEE THE MONUMENT!"

I still do it now when I happen to pass that way...

It's only relatively recently I saw the sea at Bournemouth and realised that it's not always brown in the UK.
( snee held his breath since, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 8:32, 5 replies)

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)

I was going to answer last weeks question
but I ran out of time.
(teasus likes tea, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 8:15, 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)

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)

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)

we don't really have any.
Obviously no one's supposed to let anyone know that Jimmy Hoffa's buried under the house, but that's just common sense.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 6:02, 1 reply)

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)

Oh no, not you too
Yeah, my sister used to divide up the packet of cheese snacks by counting them out into three bowls, one for each of us. She couldn't just pour in the same amount visually, but had to count them out. She's still anal about that kind of thing, and I spotted her three kids doing the same thing at a family party!

As kids, we also had this stupid game, where all our pets had to be given about 15 names, and they all had to rhyme. Kimba the cat became "Kimbi, Scimbi, Dimbi, Pimbie" for short. I can't remember the other follow-on names. If one of us said the pet's name and didn't use the 'full name', the other sisters would all chime in and make you start over. By the time you'd recited all the nomenclature, you'd have forgotten what you were going to say. It made trips to the veterinarian's office a lark for my parents, I can tell you. Mum shushed us when we tried to tell the Vet each pet's name in full.
( Shazzoir Old enough to know better young enough not to care, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 3:03, 1 reply)

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)

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)

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)

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)

When rituals collide...
As a child the rule at Christmas was this: open everything at once as fast as you can in a frenzied blur of hyper-consumerism.
So, we move forward in time (insert blurry Scooby Doo lines here) and I'm now married and spending Christmas with my inlaws for the first time.
They open
One. Present. At. A. Time.
And before opening each individual present they read the attached card, comment on how lovely it is, get up and wander over to kiss/thank the appropriate person, then carefully unwrap (as opposed to tear) the paper, admire the gift and show it around to everyone.
Then the next person repeats the process.
Whatever reaction you can imagine me having is probably not even close to reality.
( difficultchild, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 1:47, 6 replies)

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)

cor,family rituals
it's a ritual for my entire family to repress their emotions and any anarchic tendencies.this backfires when my parents get arsed on the wine and behave like the human beings they are :D
it's ritual to eat organic food like the posh spazs we are.
it's ritual for the family to spend all november going 'we're not doing christmas this year',agreeing to do christmas,hating it,and promising to never do it again.rinse and repeat.
it's ritual for the family to never laugh at any of my jokes.I am a funny guy
the best one is to
a) randomly make noises from the goon show,quote comedy routines from the 60's or reproduce radio sound effects.
b) always blame everything wrong with the world on 'bloody students',said in a nasal old-man voice.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Fri 21 Nov 2008, 0:43, Reply)

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)

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)

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)

Slippy food
I must stress it wasn't me who started this but i admit to trying my hardest in carrying it on.
So here we go, everytime dinner is served and our names are bellowed out by my father or mother and a mad dash ensues to see whoever gets to the delicious meal first. The victor of this quest then proceeds to lick the losers food which renders it inedible or just fuckin nasty to eat.
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 0:06, Reply)

No drinking in the house until 9pm
With minor exceptions.

It works quite well - we like our drink, so it keeps the otherwise inevitable alcoholism at bay :)
(Cloudane, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 0:05, Reply)

My family's a bit odd.
My kids don't socialise with other kids and much like most of the children today, who are distracted by PS3's, stay inside. They tend to stay in their room and don't talk to my wife but seem to only talk to me.

Don't get me wrong they're good kids, I sometimes have to push to get them to show some affection but they always do in the end. I suspect that I'm an over protective parent and try to make sure that they're guarded by only the best security so that the outside world can't get them.

I don't really get a lot of time between my family life and my cellar conversions.


Josef Fritzel
(SpunkyMcSpunkbubble Diddled your nubbin on, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:55, 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)

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)

Tooth Fairy's House
Ever since my sister and I were young, whenever we went pass this huge brick tower with a pink top (It's just outside Soham), I'd say to her that it was the Tooth Fairy's House.

After then, once she could speak, she'd always point it out on car trips pass it.

Even now we're way into our twenties, it's still the Tooth Fairy's House. But we really know it's a water tower. A link to Soham's website with picture
www.soham.org.uk/history/watertower.htm
(Dante licked your nipple on, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:49, 1 reply)

My family
Has a rule that whenever we meet to celebrate a happy occasion, it must quickly descend into an emotional minefield. Why stop there though, we're all well armed with secrets and indiscretions of the other family members, so we then proceed to throw everything we've done wrong in life in each other’s faces, have a big row and spoil yet another opportunity to behave like civilized, rational human beings.

I guess we're traditionalists, because not an occasion has passed that we haven't kept this ritual alive.





selfish cunts.....
(knackerz is skinning up, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:37, 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)

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)