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This is a question Family Feuds

Pooster tells us that a relative was once sent to the shops to buy an onion, while the rest of the family went on a daytrip while he was gone. Meanwhile, whole sections of our extended kin still haven't got over a wedding brawl fifteen years ago – tell us about families at war.

(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 12:24)
Pages: Popular, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

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Accidental Personality change
My memories of my dad before I was10 are quite good. He wasn't the most demonstrative of parents but he was funny, a big Goons & Python fan he used to say "he fallen in da water" in a bluebottle voice when someone fell in water on the telly and do other silly voices all the time. He played hockey for a local team so we used to play hockey in the garden and go to his matches. I remember holidays going to see steam trains all warm nice memories, all a bit hazy as childhood memories of a 40 year old are but good memories.

He cycled to work and on his journey to work he had to negotiate a huge and very busy roundabout (long since converted to a traffic light complex) As he was turning right at this roundabout someone knocked him off his bike and he hit his head on the kerb. Apparently he lay unconscious there without anyone stopping for some time eventually an ambulance was called and he was taken to A&E. I remember being picked up from school by mum (me & my sister normally walked home as this was the 70's paedophiles weren't invented yet) and thinking he was dead because of how upset my mum looked.

In hospital he was in a coma for 2 weeks and hospital for over a month and then onto a convalescing home. Then finally he came home. Except that he hadn't come home, my dad actually died on that roundabout, because the man that came home was an utter cunt. To everyone but especially to me, never physically but he would lash out with words when ever he could. I tried my best to please him and he tried his best to make me cry. Eventually by about 13 he was drinking quite heavily I could manage to spend some time in the front room watching telly without him telling what a worthless pile of shit I was because he was pissed and a bit jolly. I'd keep an eye on how much he had so I could bail before he got nasty drunk. Also by this time I could honestly say I couldn't care less about him, and when my parents divorced I was glad to see the back of him. I'd still go and see him in Derby but only very occasionally he wasn’t abusive anymore but it was like talking to a robot. So soon those visits stopped too. Years passed I moved on with my life, Mrs Duck & our daughter were important now not some old drunk bastard

That all changed about a year ago, I received a phone call from a social worker from Derby who had tracked me down on account of our unusual surname. Apparently he had been found in a confused state and taken into hospital. He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease which caused dementia. Me & my sister dropped everything to go and visit him. It’s funny if you had asked me hypothetically would you drop everything to go and help your dad I’d have said an emphatic no. But as soon as I took that call I was there.

When he saw us he cried tears of relief (something he would never have done post accident) he also told us he loved us and that we were good kids, words I’d have killed, or at least maimed for, when I was 11. We moved him, as soon as we could, to a nursing home near us and now I go to se him twice a week.

The Parkinson’s is killing him but the dementia has fucked with what ever bit of the brain was making him act like a cunt. We do puzzles and have some amazingly surreal conversations due to his dementia but essentially it’s Dad.
I don’t know how long we have got before he becomes so demented there’s no Dad left or the Parkinson’s shuts down his body and he dies. Whatever at lest I got my dad back for a bit.

Life is too short to feud

Apologies for length and lack of chuckles but it was quite cathartic to type it all out
(, Tue 17 Nov 2009, 10:59, 12 replies)
Pinno
My Dad's cousin went a bit hippy, and got into loads of new age stuff. She ended up having a kid with a bloke from nearby in South Wales who was part of the same odd religious cult. He'd actually decided to change his name to represent his new direction in life, and re-christened himself Pinno, Fuck knows why...

Anyway, big family dinner for her mum's birthday round at my Gran's house back in about 1995. We're all there, Caroline and Pinno turn up, and sure enough, it being a small town, my Grandad recognises.him.

'Hello, aren't you Maggie's boy from over by Church St.'
'That's right.'
'Gavin, isn't it?'
'Pinno.'
Oh, right.' Could have sworn it was Gavin.'
'It was, but I'm not that person any more.'
[Pause]
'You look a lot like him...'
'I mean, spiritually, like, I'm not the same person...'
'Right then, well nice of you to come round. Go sit down and we'll have the roast ready in a minute.'
'Not sure if Caroline mentioned it, but we're veggie.'
'Oh, she didn't,. Will beef be alright just this once?.'
'No, I don't want anything dying to feed me...'
'Don't worry, Gav, it's dead already, I've checked.'

They left, and didn't come round again to see Gran till after Grandad died 6 years later.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 12:49, 14 replies)
My Irish Grandfather
When I was in my early twenties I visited my mum, she made us both a cup of coffee, sat me down and said she had something she wanted to tell me. Something about her past. Something about her family. Up until then my mum’s side of the family was her brother, George, and her. And that was it. I was immediately interested but when I saw the etched look of concern on my mother’s face I realized this wasn’t going to be all sweetness and light. She wanted to tell me something. And it was important. And I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be very nice.

And that’s when my mum told me she’d been a product of rape.

This shook me to the core. I really wasn’t expecting this. My mum went on to explain that all her brother, my uncle, was also the product of rape. Apparently my grandfather, my mum’s dad, was an incredibly violent drunkard back in Waterford in Ireland where my mum originally hails from. He’d come home from the pub every night and rape my grandmother. And from that act of contempt and violence, my mum and all her siblings were born.

My mum went on to tell me that her great grandfather, a man mountain of a man (probably explains where my Uncle George got his monumental size from; he went on to do all that Britain’s Strongest Man stuff on the telly in the eighties), sat her down when she was about seven and said:

“If that man ever lays a finger on my daughter or any of my grandchildren, you come and find me. No matter what time. You come and find me.”

This conversation came about after my mum, aged seven, had told this brick shithouse of a man that she’d often see: “Dad beating up mum,” when he got back from his night’s out. My great grandfather, I imagine, suspected as much. But his daughter – my grandmother – always stuck up for her lay about husband, the man who raped her and stole all her money to spend on booze and gambling.

I sat, sipped my coffee and my mum continued, I could tell this was really hurting her. But she continued. I could tell she really needed to get this off her chest, once and for all. And that’s when she said:

“Then one terrible winter’s night my father came home drunk like always. I heard screams from downstairs. Horrible screams and clattering as he knocked my mum round the kitchen. I sneaked down, trembling, and caught sight of my mother’s bloody face as she cried and tried to protect herself against my father’s blows. He had a look of pure evil about him. Pure, pure evil. And so – only wearing my nightly – I tip-toed past the kitchen door, down the landing, opened the front door as quietly as I could, and I raced into the wind and rain in my bare feet.

“I knew where my grandfather would be. He’d always have a drink of an evening in the same place. So I went up to the door of this big old pub and walked inside. It was full of men and the smell of the smoke and stale alcohol was strange to me, but I found him – he was hard to miss, must’ve been seven feet tall and twenty-five stone of muscle, you’re great grandfather,” she stopped, took a sip of her drink. She then went on to describe how my great grandfather upon seeing her, rapped his coat round her and said simply: “Has it happened again, Kathleen?”

And with that he dropped my mother, soaked to the skin and cold, back off at his house first, then said grimly: “I’m going to go have a talk with your daddy,” and with that he went.

And my mum looked me straight in the eye and said: “And I never saw my father again after that night.”

My first thought was: Jesus, they killed him! But no. My mum went on to explain he received a severe kicking. The beating of his life. And he was advised to move away. Immediately. And he did and was never seen again. Rumor has it he went to the States. I suddenly had so many questions, but my mum stopped me:

“I received a letter today from someone in Dublin stating they knew the man. He died a month or so ago and they were letting me know.”

“Are you…” I really didn’t know what to say. I settled on: “upset?

My mum thought long and hard. “No,” she said. “That man hurt my mother for years. He was a terrible, terrible man. I don’t feel anything for him. I’m not sad. I’m not happy. I just feel nothing at all…”
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:11, 13 replies)
My uncle Nick
doesn't really get on with anyone else in the family.


(, Sun 15 Nov 2009, 13:27, 6 replies)
Here be treasure...
My late Grandfather was a hell of a chap. He saw action in North Africa during WWII - so much action that he failed to return home when the war was over. He hung out in Morocco and Algiers for the best part of 3yrs, doing dodgy deals and some 'work' for the Algerian freedom fighters.

Eventually he returned to Blighty, married my Grandmother and started a family consisting of my dad and his elder sister, our Aunt Bev. His North African adventures became the stuff of legend, embellished more and more as the years progressed. But the central theme of his stories always concerned an Indiana Jones-like hunt for Nazi gold. Apparently Rommel and his army used to bribe local Berbers and other tribes with sovereigns of pure gold, in return for information on the movements of Monty and the boys.

My brother and I would listen transfixed as he described his return from Africa with a 'satchel full of gold', which later became a 'suitcase' as he got older and finally a Raiders of the Lost Ark style 'wooden crate' in his late eighties. He always maintained that the location of the golden treasure could never be revealed - as he would be tried for treason.

My father would tell us repeatedly that Grandpa was prone to wild flights of fancy and exaggeration. He told us there was no gold. He told us he'd had 'fifty years of this nonsense' and the only gold my Grandfather possessed was in the fillings of his teeth.

Aunt Bev was a different kettle of fish. She believed adamantly that somewhere there was a vast hoard of Nazi gold, just waiting for her to find and make her filthy rich. She badgered my poor Grandpa for the last few years of his life. 'Where is it? Tell me! I won't tell anyone. I promise!' But my Grandfather refused to budge. And the location of the gold died with him in 1990.

His last will and testament was pretty harsh. Most went to his ageing brother in Australia and pretty much nothing to my dad or Aunt Bev. We accepted it mourned and tried to move on. Not Aunt Bev though. She fought a bitter court case to try and retrieve as much money as she could. Alas, we fell out with her. And she was exceptionally rude to me and my brother. Calling us 'devils spawn' and such like.

Eventually the case was settled and my dad, my brother and I set about the unpleasant task of clearing Grandpa's flat. He'd had the same place since 1957 and had lived alone there for at least twenty years. There wasn't much to do. Rescue some photos, make boxes for the charity shop and generally throw everything else out. My Dad left us to walk into town, as he drove the car to the dump via Oxfam.

We were leaving the block when the caretaker called us back. 'Hey...aren't you going to do the lock-up?' We had no idea what he was on about. We ambled back to the flats and followed the caretaker round the back, past the proper garages and down a lane, where he showed us an ancient, garden-shed type thing secured by a rusting padlock.

'This one's your Grandfather's,' he said handing us a key, 'don't know why he bothered keeping the rent up on it, he's not been near it for forty years.'

I was fourteen. My brother not yet thirteen. We took the key and managed to get the door open. There was no light. There was no window. Luckily we were both try-hard smokers, so we fired up our Zippos and looked around. There were bundles of old carpets. Probably ancient Arabic antiquities - but when we tried to move one, it fell apart in our hands. The bodies of a million moths and insects turning into dust with the carpet.

But you know what's coming?

Sure enough, tucked away in an old desk, in the top drawer was a small leather pouch. About the size of the bag that comes in a Scrabble set. But instead of filled with plastic letters, it was filled with strange, almost as square shapes made of metal. We'd found the Nazi gold. There wasn't much. Definitely not a satchel and nowhere near a suitcase. But here was the gold. It was real. It existed. We were rich!

We pocketed our find, jumped on the bus and headed into town. There was a pawn-broker on the High Street. In we went, leather pouch filled with stolen, evil, Hitler-gold, in we went and the bloke behind the counter, 'How much mate?' He looked at us, thought for a split-second about the poor OAP he assumed we'd probably kicked half to death for it and said, 'Dunno, gotta test and weigh it.'

He did his thing. Weighed it. Tested it. Bit it. Poured some chemical on it. Saw straight through us. And then declared: 'I'll give you £500 for the lot.'

£500!

£500 at that age is like £5m at this age. We grabbed his filthy, cheating offer of dirty notes and fled to Dixons across the road, where we immediately purchased a SNES, extra controller, three games and had change enough for a 14" portable colour TV to play on. Fucking result.

Fuck you Aunt Bev!

But fuck us too. That bag was at least 50z - worth nearly £50,000 at today's prices and probably far, far more when you add the historical value.

But fuck you again Aunt Bev! No one I know has ever beaten me at Street Fighter II. And that's worth £50k of my money any day.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:04, 5 replies)
Not a close family...
My grandad was the youngest of seven, born in Yorkshire in 1930. When I was growing up, and when my Mum was too - so ever since the Fifties - we never, ever met any of his brothers or sisters, despite all of them apparently being alive.

Was there some sort of massive reason for the falling out, I always wondered? My mum wasn't sure, so I decided one day when I was a kid to just ask Grandad why he never saw them.

He thought hard for a moment, sucked on his pipe, and said 'Because they're boring bastards.'

Different values back in them days...
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 13:35, 3 replies)
damage
In one of my earliest memories I’m yelling at my father to ‘stop it’ while hitting him with a yellow plastic spade from my seaside bucket and spade set. He had my mother by the throat on the bed and was screaming at her. She’d have been around 23; I was 3, maybe 4. It was probably around 3 in the morning, my mother was hysterical by the time we got home. About 15 hours earlier my father had taken me out to see the Loyalist flute bands strutting their hatred up and down on the ‘glorious’ 12 of July. They still have that sectarian bile in Glasgow to this day. It had been a long blazing hot summer’s day in the early 70’s. We had ended up at some Orange Lodge where my father had been drinking for about 13 hours straight. He'd fallen in with a band from Ulster, a bunch of drunk bigots he’d never met before that day, I though it was great – they let me bash away at their drums while they got battered. I can vividly remember men shouting and singing, stinging smoke in my eyes, overflowing ashtrays and the smell of drink.

There were no mobiles back then and we didn’t have a phone at home. My mother had been out of her mind with worry all day. When we finally rolled in, there were long mascara streaks down her cheeks and her eyes looked red and sore. I was half asleep riding on my utterly trashed father’s shoulders. Apparently he had taken me out for ‘a walk’ that afternoon, so she tore into him immediately, screaming and crying. I remember feeling confused.

We lived in a ‘room and kitchen’ in a tenement block in Glasgow, no central heating, no bathroom, no running hot water. My Mum came from a nice lower middle class family and had a job at the bank. She had been ‘caught out’ at 19 – pregnant the first time she was cajoled into sex with her first ‘proper’ boyfriend. He was older, 26 and assured her he knew what he was doing. Clearly he didn’t have a fucking clue. So like many from that era they got married. Her parents were devastated. They wanted her to ‘go away’ for a while and then for me to be adopted. She thought she was in love and maybe marriage would curb his drinking – things would be OK. My grandfather died in a hit and run accident before I was born. I was a Godsend to my grandmother at this time. I’ve been her favourite ever since.

Growing up I remember the nightly high wire act of my mothers nerves. The longer his dinner curled up in the oven, the clearer indication of the state he would be in when he got home - the more agitated my Mum got; a miserable nerve jangling circle. We could be chatting and laughing then we would hear his key turn in the lock and my stomach would flip over. If it got so late I had to go to bed, I would lie listening to the screaming and smashing and bawling, often into the early hours. The vile, disgusting names he called my mother never leave me. Lying in bed, my mother sobbing on the couch he would roar; ‘hingoot’ (a Glasgow term for some slut you would ‘hing oot’ the back of) ‘whore of fuck’ ‘slack arsed bitch’ ‘nagging cunt’ and bizarrely ‘get in this fucking bed before I start killing’ how could one resist? When morning came he would get up and go to work quiet as a mouse. Mum would often get us ready for school, still with red swollen eyes, but she'd still sing along to pop tunes on the radio. When my wife and I started seeing each other, she heard some of his foul tirade one evening - he was unaware she was in the house, she was shocked to the core. I was humiliated.

But mostly I saw the carnage first hand. My father is an inadequate, inconsequential insecure little man – about 5’4’’ wiry and bitter about it all, but drink turns him into a huge bug eyed roaring tyrant. He would come home drunk every night. Most nights were spent either under the fear of a huge bust up or in the midst of one. I was terrified of him. Weekends were worse. Smashed TV’s, coffee tables ornaments – whatever came to hand. Doors punched through, glass smashed, plates of shrivelled up food thrown at walls. I’ve seen my mother pinned to the wall with a flaming bunch of newspapers held up to her face. I've seen her threatened at point blank range with an air rifle and the place shot up, holes in doors and walls. In the midst of some of the worst raging battles, that often went on for hours at a stretch, I’ve seen my mother batter his skull open with a shoe and stab him in the ribs with a kitchen knife.

But mostly it was my mum that was terrorised and abused. My sister and I were often dragged blinking and crying out of our beds because we were ‘leaving’, we decamped to my gran's a few times but we would always, despite pleading otherwise, end up going back after a few days. My mum maintained he was a ‘good worker’ and 'never laid a finger on her'. Grabbing, pushing gripping and throttling didn't seem to count.

My father could not bring himself to show any affection to me as a child. Even on rare sober occasions he was still aggressive and volatile. I was told aged 7 or so I was ‘all the man I was ever going to be’. ‘Men don’t kiss’ he would snarl at be at bedtimes usually crushing my hand in a vice like grip; that was ‘goodnight’ on a good night.

I have no memories of him ever playing with me or hugging me. Christmas morning was invariably the aftermath of the night before; a nursed hangover then an engineered argument so he could fuck off before 11am to find some shithole boozer then stagger home and ruin Christmas dinner. The few family holidays we had involved on day one seeking out a shithole boozer full of drunken losers, then mum switching between finding ways to amuse us or pleading with him to come out, while my sister and I sat outside having cokes and crisps ferried out to us. We had a lot of coke and crisps. When I was around 13 he started taking me to the same shithole boozers to drink with sad alky losers then he would drive us home. My mum seemed glad to see him ‘taking an interest’, she never once complained about him giving me drink or driving home hammered.

I was artistic as a child. This made me a ‘fucking poof’. When I was about 12 I liked Adam and the Ants – this made me a ‘fucking poof’. Pretty much everything I did made me a 'fucking poof'. We were constantly reminded how he hard had to work to clothe and feed us regardless of the fact my Mum also worked full time, looked after us and kept house. My Mum is a good woman and did her best, she gave my sister and I lot of love and affection. Any happy childhood memories centre round my mum, sister and grandmother. But I can’t say I don’t feel some resentment that she didn’t pull us out of the situation, she never had the courage to leave, she often said she wanted to, and then would just bury her head in the sand. She deluded herself the neighbours were somehow unaware of our nightly three ring circus. By now we lived in a 4 story block of shit thin council flats with neighbours above below and beside. I could hear him roaring and swearing when I was out playing on summer evenings, everyone knew what was going on. Growing up we weren't even allowed to say the word 'alcoholic', like it was some blasphemy. It was quite late in life before I realised that I had nothing to be ashamed of, it wasn’t my fault. As kids we weren’t allowed friends round in case my father came home ‘in a state’ despite the fact it was common knowledge - he was always 'in a state'. Might be why I’m very poor at making and maintaining friendships - might have nothing to do with it. No idea.

Things got worse as I went into my teenage years. I had a worse ride than my sister, she was pretty much left alone, she’s also a good deal tougher than me. He saw me as a threat. But then he seemed to resent pretty much everything he encountered. Mum buried herself in work in various Glasgow high street shops. Her escape to a normal life. Her worst fear was he would turn up drunk at whatever shop she was working in and ‘the girls’ would see what she lived with. She pretended her home life was normal, whatever the fuck that is. My escape was school, I was untouchable there. I was bright, creative and mischievous. I ran rings round the teachers, knowing full well they couldn’t terrorise me like my father did. I cottoned on to that from a very early age. They had rules - rules I could subvert, bend, flout and play to my advantage. I got into a fair deal of trouble at school but nothing serious. I could probably have done a lot better though.

I moved out, went to college and met my wife. During my late twenties she encouraged me to ‘get to know my father’ hoping the damage could be repaired. He would come to our home, I’d cook a meal, and he would ruin it being drunk and aggressive. The final straw came one New Year. He got completely hammered, leered all over our next door neighbour and made a complete arse of himself. I asked him not to smoke in the bedroom, so he burned a hole in the new carpet then simply denied smoking. Then I walked into the kitchen to find him pissing out the back door into my garden.

I’d had enough. I wrote him a long heartfelt letter. Never got a reply. Not a word. That was 12 years ago. I see little of my mother as I won’t go to her house, it’s driving us all apart, she adores my little boy but he’s never set foot there either. My father missed my wedding, the birth of my son, his first steps. He’s missed my life.

My sister got married a year ago. She wanted to play happy families, have the perfect wedding and for me to be civil to my father. She didn't want to be embarrassed in front of her friends. But she was also afraid what might kick off – it would be the first time I clapped eyes on him in 11 years. The first time he would see his grandson - her wedding day. I could see she had a point. I agreed to a ‘family lunch’ in a restaurant, a few days before the wedding, a neutral location (I picked a nice one I knew but my sister was worried he would feel uncomfortable there). I resented my sister for insisting upon this whole thing for my father’s sake. I flew back from where I was working abroad and took extra holiday for this shit – he got hammered and failed to show, said he was 'unwell'. I got landed with the lunch bill.

In the run up to the wedding I had fantasies of kicking the shit out of him, I’ve never been a violent person but I wanted to punch and kick and stamp him to a pulp. But the sight of him; skinny, red faced and bug eyed mad just brought the sick feeling of fear back to my stomach. At the wedding I was civil for my sister’s sake. He saw this as a green light that all was forgotten. I was incensed at this. He has never made any attempt to apologise or even acknowledge the damage. My mum is still with him, her and my sister try their best to sweep it all under the carpet. I can’t do that, the pain and misery, the threats, the sick feeling of fear, the raging fights; they’re all still too vivid.

My sister now has a 5 month old child. But we have a strained relationship. I have seen her twice in the last 5 months yet we only live about 12 miles apart. I last saw her just after the birth. It caused friction that I didn’t attend the naming ceremony. I wouldn't go because my father would be there. My mum pulls her head out of the sand periodically to complain that I should let him see his grandchild claiming he would be a ‘good grandfather’. I stand by my assertion that if he can’t be a father he can’t be a grandfather. My wife supports me in this. But inevitably it’s caused a rift. As my mum has got older she has developed a rose tinted set of memories – like some sort of domestic holocaust denier.

I love my grandmother but at 86 she won't be here forever. No doubt my father will be at her funeral when she goes. I can’t bear that thought. When his liver eventually goes I know I won’t be at his funeral. I will get dog’s abuse from my sister for that and probably resentment from my mother.

I’m not without my own issues. I can have a foul temper and I too drink far too much. I love my wife and little boy dearly but my wife has said on occasions I can be abusive and have sometimes frightened her. This has caused me great pain and deep shame. I’ve tried hard to address this and keep on top of things - make sure I don’t turn into my father. My boy gets my love kisses hugs and encouragement every day. We lost everything this summer and had to flee home from abroad. I’ve been unable to get a job since, but on the upside I get to play with my boy every day.

He has a father who loves him dearly, a father who he is completely unafraid of, and a father who he loves dearly in return.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 20:33, 24 replies)
GAYNESS AND MY DAD
My future brother-in-law’s as bent as a two bob note. Some would say he’s got more raging homo genes than an oiled down Bruno strapped to a bed made up with a girly pink Hello Kitty duvet cover, with Tom Cruise* straddling him wearing nothing but a flaming hot pink latex gimp mask with half a kilo of anal lube dribbling down between his naked buttocks, oozing slime like the contents of a beached BP tanker onto his mammoth, swollen, closely-shaven love plums.

My future brother-in-law is also a rugby player who’s built bulk and general body shape is reminiscent of Mike Tyson in his glory days. He is – as I would put it – a fucking big hard looking fucker. And then he’ll open his mouth and start speaking and you suddenly realize he’s the Welsh equivalent of Julian Clairy.

And the first time he encountered my father it went something like this:-

Jim (usually prefixed by Big Gay): “I’m studying for my MA in Art History at the moment.”
My Dad (usually prefixed by Oh, Shit Here Comes): “…….”
Jim: “It’s very exhausting.”
Dad: “…….”
Jim: “Thankfully I can fit this in round my job. They’re very understanding.”

Looks round for a bit, feeling a little uncomfortable. Sensing something wasn’t quite right with this conversation, I interjected:

Me: “Jim works for a bank, Dad. He does all that credit control stuff.”
Dad: “……”
Jim: “Yes…. It’s very…. um…. good….”
Dad: “……”

Jim and I share a glance, now my girlfriend senses something isn’t quite right. She’s sauntering over to try and get my dad to stop staring at her brother as if he’d just stepped off an interplanetary spaceship from Alpha-fucking-Centuri.

Me: “You ok, Dad?”
Dad: “Surely a good looking man like you could get a woman if you really tried?”

Time stood still while I tried to figure out how best to prevent a feud between my dear old homophobic bigot of a dad and my future in-laws. Thankfully, I didn’t need to. Jim was used to dealing with ‘the older generation,’ as he tends to call them. He replied:

“You’d think so wouldn’t you? As soon as I find a woman with a fully functioning penis and testicles and no breasts who likes listening to Abba and going to gay bars you’ll be the first to know.”

My Dad’s response was priceless of course, he said:

“…..”

Before he eventually wondered off to have a chat with my future father-in-law about trains, or the war, or how football was better back before the introduction of substitutes when every team had a fella named Chopper or Killer in their starting eleven.

*Not that I’d say Tom Cruise was an aficionado of the cock, of course. Tom Cruise is without doubt the most heterosexual man in the entire universe. I imagine when he’s taking it roughly up the wrong-un by some strapping lad dressed like a member of the Village People he’s trying really hard to think about the latest cover of FHM magazine.
(, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 17:06, 7 replies)
My dads side of the family,
apart from my dad, are all hardcore born-again christians, belonging to a church investigated and closed for such things as brainwashing, cultism, imprisonment, fraud, embezzlement..

My parents both married in their early 20s, and dads family were not best pleased, as anyone less than Jesus is wicked and sinful, and my parents are entirely atheist.

When my mum was pregnant with me, my paternal aunt was also pregnant.
She was, and still is quite frankly, fucking massive. As is plainly obvious, being fucking massive whilst pregnant means that you have a really reduced chance of coming to term.

Fat aunt lost the baby, and I was born.
Unfortunately, laws of nature don't seem to apply to zealous nutcases, and she saw the loss of her unborn child as "God mistakenly striking me rather than that heathen" and REALLY BELIEVED IT.

Anyhow, one day a couple of months after birth, my dad is out, and my mum is downstairs with me in the cot beside her.

*dingdong*, it's hippo-aunt. Mum lets her in, idle pleasantries exchanged, etc. Mum goes upstairs briefly, and a slamming door is heard.

She comes downstairs, and I'm missing from the cot. Aunt is also conspicuous in her absence. Mum runs to the front door, and aunts tyres are screeching as she zooms away.

Mum rings my dad, can't get through.

Phone rings a few minutes later. It's the aunt, telling my mum how evil she is for marrying my dad, how she'll never see me again, and various other horrid shit. Points out that I will be christened, renamed, etc, raised as one of them. Hangs up.

Mum rings my nan (her mum) and picks her up quickly from round the corner. They drive to the mentalist baptist church a few miles away, and see my aunts car parked there..

They burst in to the church to confront my aunt and her mother, and literally end up kicking the shit out of them both in a packed church, and taking me back.

Somehow, they thought that kidnapping a baby with the intention of was what God wanted them to do.

And that is why I will never speak to them again.
(, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 16:28, 8 replies)
Not a major argument...
...but my brother once hid my favourite marble up his foreskin for a couple of days for no real reason.

I was rather angry to say the least, and my marble smelt funny.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:12, 5 replies)
My son
won't speak to me and ignores me most of the time. Not last night though, oh no, after drinking his fill he decided that he would give me his full attention. After waking me (and the neighbors) up and roaring for a few minutes, he proceeds to headbutt me, punch me and gouge my right eye. Then he pukes all over me ,shits his pants and laughs in my face.

Looking forward to our first Christmas though.
(, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 1:41, 9 replies)
Ape escape
I don't get along with my mother at the best times, but out of all the females in my extended family, she's the only conversation option that doesn't result in me staring very hard at them to see if I can explode them with my mind.

My aunt Jackie, for that is her name, is much worse. Father's sister, married an alcoholic and stuck by a few bouts of domestic violence. The story goes that after disproving the wedding of Mummy Badger and Daddy Badger, her hubby got ratarsed and tried it on with my mum. She told Jackie, and to this day still believes that my mum tried to take advantage of a 16 stone balding alcoholic car salesman. Who wouldn't?

So this bubbles under the surface for a good 15 years or so. Jackie won't speak to my mum without her husband being present and all that. One day Jackie calls up trying to speak to my dad. He's not in, so Jackie concludes that my mum is now trying to isolate him from the family.

[Conversation cut short for the sake of my fingers]

'...I know he's there, so get him on the phone you stupid bitch'

'He's picking the kids up, watch your language and I'll take a message.'

'Listen, I want to speak to the organ grinder, not the fucking monkey.'

Mum puts the phone down, they don't speak for 5 years until my cousins wedding. Everything is civil in the ceremony and we're invited to the reception and have a few drinks. All is well.

Except for that one incident where my mother comes out of the toilet, armed with a ripe turd and lunges at my aunt Jackie in a way that would do Wolverine proud, screaming 'this is what monkeys do, isn't it?!' repeatedly as she prods her in the face with it.

We were very swiftly loaded into the car and sent home. The dog finished off the rest of the Mars bar. Kind of molten though.

I can only pray they both turn up to my wedding.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:16, 1 reply)
Have a pearoast while I contemplate posting my own family tale
This tale involves myself being drunk, and my mate Chris - the target of my merrymaking.

There we were, blokes drinking heavily, sat smoking around the table (as you could in them days) and having much fun. One of my chums goes off for a wee. Jumping at the chance to add extra comical value to the evening I took advantage of his absense by grabbing his phone and texting his dad. It was nothing nasty, just something along the lines of 'I LOVE YOU DAD, MISS YOU LOTS xoxox'

HO HO HO!!! How we laughed. Chris (for that is his name) didn't laugh that much. It turns out (and this is why such pranks can go badly wrong) that he hadn't spoken to or seen his dad for about 4 years following a rather spectacular falling out. Needless to say I felt like a bit of twat, apologised and bought him a pint. He explained what happened (I won't bore you with that bit) and then his phone beepety beeped.

It was his dad.

I MISS YOU TOO SON. PLEASE COME SEE ME SOMETIME. LOVE DAD.

Chris was a bit stunned and went very quiet and disappeared off the toilet, returning a bit red-eyed.

He had spoken to his dad (in a drunken stupor) and agreed to go round the next day, and he did.

He met his half brother and sister for the 1st time ever, cleared the air with his dad, was Best Man at his wedding and is now in regular contact and they all lived happily ever after.

The End.

Quick Edit: Before this, whenever he spoke of his dad he was actually refering to his stepdad (he lived with his mum still back then) so I thought thats who I was texting.
(, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 12:06, 9 replies)
Wedding from HELL - A Pearost also from HELL
"You are cordially invited to the wedding of Uncle Pete to Brenda Grabber. Bring bottle and bird"

So, that was it. Uncle Pete (50-something) had managed to impregnate 20-year-old Brenda in an office knee-trembler, and we was forced to make a decent fat girl of her.

We arrived at the church, and were immediately struck by the barely disguised threats from both sides as he walked with her up the aisle:

"Cradle-snatcher"
"Slag"
"Dirty old man"
"Money grabber"

And so on to the reception, a hastily-arranged affair at the local youth club, complete with one-light-flashing-in-a-box disco, and a buffet lunch that was barely enough to suppress the enormous appetites of the top table.

The rest of us scrambled for the single remaining celery stick, before disappearing in dribs and drabs to Greasy Joe's chip shop round the corner.

The lights went down, and the serious business started: Wedding Disco. And it only took about ten minutes for it all to kick off.

Uncle Billy and his son Mark had turned up late, having spent the afternoon playing football. Mark had been sent off for decking the referee, and was not in much of a mood for a wedding party.

Somebody, coming back from the makeshift bar with a tray full of fizzy keg lager accidentally trod on his favourite aunt's foot. Mark refused to back down until a full, frank apology was issued for the slight, and when this was not forthcoming, he decked Man-With-Tray with his best referee-flattening haymaker.

Revenge was not slow in coming, and another punch was thrown that caught a passing granny square in the face, and it all went downhill from there.

"You fooker!" shouted granny and let fly with her handbag. It caught Uncle Billy on the nose in an eruption of blood and snot, leaving granny a fetching shade of red.

"You bitch!" shouted Uncle Billy, spraying blood and snot over everybody in a six foot radius, managing to get in a hefty kick at the handbag swinger, but only connecting with a table leg, hurling drinks across the room in a pissy yellow shower.

Then, like that famous film of the Siege of Stalingrad, the two armies came together in a rain of blows, kicks, scratches and a rain of cheap keg beer.

The disco played on. "Karma-karma-karma-karma karma chameleon..."

The police arrived to break it up, the disco man went home in a huff, and hours later people were still coming back from the chip shop wondering where the hell everybody had gone. It was my best night out ever, and even now certain family members can only talk to each other if a solicitor is present. Pete and Brenda are still married, bless 'em.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 13:01, 5 replies)
Dirty Laundry Basket Warfare
So there we were all those years ago, a family of four.

Mum, Dad, big sis and me. I loved being the youngest, centre of attention and spoiled fucking rotten. Not necessarily the fault of my parents just more down to the fact of me being a little cunt sometimes. Xmas's and birthdays were especially magic mainly because Mum worked in a local toy shop and liked to bring her work home with her, if you know what I mean. Then when I was 7 years old everything changed.

Mum fanny-farted out my little brother Fucket (not real name) in hospital and days later her and Dad brought him into the home to an excited sister and a largely unimpressed me. This was not good. Not good at all.

Suddenly all the attention switched from me to him and I was not best pleased. Over the years my pile of Xmas and birthday presents would rapidly decrease while my brother would be surrounded by illegaly procured A-Team and He-Man toys.

Years of torture towards my brother started, at first it was relatively tame for example like the time he was 3 and I was given the task of looking after him while Mum went shopping. She left me the front door key and me and my brother were out the back court playing football he suddenly exclaims 'I need a poo!'

After about 5 minutes of him pleading with me I eventually agreed to go let him in. We only lived one floor up but I took as long as I could taking the stairs very slowly making sure two feet were firmly on each step before commencing the next.

Another few minutes pass and we reach the front door and I pretend I can't get the key in the lock, comically missing the keyhole at the very last second every time. He's bawling his eyes out and holding his arse and I'm laughing like fuck. I eventually open the door and he makes a beeline for the toilet but he had already shat some in his pants.

As he got older he would retaliate a bit more and thats when the dirty laundry would start being used as weapons in our war. One day we were having a fight over him beating me at table football so I ran into Mums room and got a pair of my Dads work socks out the dirty washing basket, they were hard at the toes and smelled like sick. I pinned my bro down on the bed and rammed one of the socks into his mouth. It was fantastic and how I laughed as he boaked with tears streaming down his eyes.

Over time we would get more elaborate, such as one of us planting foul smelling socks in between the others pillow and pillow-case so that the aroma would be breathed in overnight. Then one day when we were playing computer games, the little fucker wins again so he gets a slap to the head. He says he's going to grass me to Mum so back to the washing basket I go and see a pair of my Mums dirty pants and it's evidently that time of month. Into the room I run and grab my brother, get him down and instead of the manky socks he was probably expecting he was treated to a mouthful of crusty gusset. The war was won.

Of course I feel guilty over the way I treated my brother all those years and told him so over beers and smoke years later, he said it toughened him up and that sometimes he deserved it cos he could be a pain in the arse. We have a good laugh over it now, we're great mates and we have not fought since the time he smacked me on the back of the head with a dog chain after I stabbed him in the leg with a fork.

I am thinking of resurrecting the laundry wars next time Mum invites the family round for dinner.
(, Sun 15 Nov 2009, 2:24, 3 replies)
Caught short
My cousin and aunty now wont speak to me after disgracing myself at my posh cousins 18th birthday party...
They lived in a big house, and arranged a big marquee in the back for dancing and drinking celebrations. Packed full of kids and family...but stupidly only one toilet...upstairs next to the bathroom.
Of course after a few hours on the piss there is a massive line waiting. I was bursting so I dragged my then boyfriend into the bathroom..told him to watch the door...pulled up my dress climbed into the bath and started to pee over the plug hole....
At that point posh aunty starts banging on the door..'whats going on in there? What are you doing?'
I'm begging to said boyfriend...'don't open it, let me pull me knickers up first..hang on hang on'
I Climb out the bath and open the door....
She of course is furious we have clearly been having mad rampant sex in her bathroom......why else would I have to pull my knickers up?
How could I tell her ACTUALLY Aunty I was pissing in your bath...
I decided to take the 'yes we were fucking over the sink' option and promptly left...taking a full bottle of champagne with us...
(, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 15:22, 2 replies)
Strange Aunt
My mum and her sister fell out years ago. My Aunt had a really weird alternative lifestyle that my mother didn’t agree with. Whereas my side of the family is what you’d call ‘normal’ my Dad has a responsible job and we live in a nice house and have a car – normal things.

I suppose I had quite a privileged up bringing, private school loads of gifts at Christmas and on my birthday, basically, I wanted for nothing, which if you are living an ‘alternative’ existence, it must look a bit weird seeing so many material possessions, but what some people consider excessive, others consider normal.

I didn’t know much about my Aunt (who is sadly dead now, car crash) other than she married a bloke she was at school with and had a son who was the complete opposite to me (I’m a bit of a porker if I’m honest)

My late Aunts son came to stay with us a for a while but we didn’t really get on, all he wanted to do was to play with sticks and study owls.

Dudley.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 17:08, 10 replies)
The Final Straw
My family don't really have bust-ups so this is one of my more vivid memories of my younger brother and older sister fighting that is still mentioned by my brother at any given opportunity – enjoy.

My younger brother was an utter utter arse as a kid. I love him very much and he is a lot better now but when we were little I wanted to pelt him with Lego bricks until his face caved in. Because my dad worked shifts he wasn’t usually around to dish out the discipline, so it fell to my mother. But with three kids, a german shepherd and a fulltime job dealing with other peoples bastard children all day, she sort of had her hands full so my older sister also took it upon herself to ‘deal with my brother’.

One particular week over the summer holidays my brother had taken it upon himself to behave like an absolute arseface; the neighbours had been around to complain, he’d stolen sweets from me on three separate occasions, he had hidden all the cartridges for the beloved Sega Master System, he’d broken one of my mums ornaments and had walked mud through the house… he was being a dick and my mother decided that a suitable punishment would be to ground him. Great, so then he was stuck in the house, in a terrible mood, annoying me and my sister all day. Why didn’t you just leave the house? I hear you cry! Well I could have gone out but then that would have given him access to my bedroom and he had a habit of stealing things so in the house I stayed.

That night at dinner my mum had popped around the corner to my grandparents house and my brother kicked off again and started throwing rice around the dinner table. I could see the red mist descend over my sisters face… my brother – didn’t. 'Right' she shouted and jumped up from the table and stormed off up stairs. My brother looked at me, giggled nervously and followed her. We both crept to the bottom of the stairs and nearly got knocked over as my sister stomped back down with my brothers backpack in one hand and a pillowcase in the other, ‘I’ve had enough’ she screamed, ‘you’re leaving’ and she proceeded to march into the kitchen and start filling his backpack with random food from the cupboards which included a packet of crackers and an apple. She then shoved the bag at him, handed him his Iron Eagle video, opened the front door, and pushed him outside ‘you don’t live here anymore’ she cried and slammed the door in his bemused face.

My mother returned home 5 minutes later to find my brother sitting on the driveway with a pillowcase on his head shoving crackers into his face... suffice to say he stayed clear of my sister for the rest of the summer holidays.
(, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 16:03, 4 replies)
A life of near domestic bliss
I am eternally grateful that I have a good relationship with my folks. They always been reasoned in their judgements, tolerant of my foibles and critical only of my most serious failings. In one regard however we are as bitterly divided as it is possible to be.

I don't drink tea.

As the son of an army officer and a schoolteacher, I was raised by people who regard tea as a semi religious substance. Rare is a day where the kettle drops to a temperature low enough to touch it. My non consumption of tea initially went unremarked- I believe they thought I might grow into it but when I began to consume coffee, there came the realisation that I was not one of them. It would be wrong to say I have been ostracised for my preferences but there is still the tension there when we are all back with my folks;

Mrs Hatred snr "who wants tea?"
General chorus of approval from all parties including my own fiancé- the traitorous swine.
Mrs Hatred snr: "Leonard, I suppose you'll want a (agonised pause) coffee."
Me: "Thanks mum that'd be great"
Mrs Hatred snr "right, I'll have to find the cafitiere and work out where in the freezer the coffee is (makes a small pained sigh).
Me "Don't worry mum, I shall take care of my own drink, far be it for me to expose you to such dubiously European practices as the preparation of coffee."
Mrs Hatred snr; "If you wouldn't mind"

Let the record state, my mother would prepare any other drink, she'd probably make me a gin and tonic at eight in the morning. I have however rejected tea and will have to prepare the evil alternative myself for ever by way of recompence. Love her though.

Length? She won't let a cafitiere stand for five minutes either.
(, Sun 15 Nov 2009, 10:38, 23 replies)
No-one talks to my uncle Ford
Mainly because he's always razzing off on some adventure or other, his friends are downright weird and he's always going on about 'knowing where his towel is'.

He's the family frood.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:59, 5 replies)
I haven't spoken to my naan for years
Not surprising really, she's bread.
(, Thu 19 Nov 2009, 10:15, 35 replies)
Not mine, but contains classic quote
Years ago I went to a wedding, invited by a guy I was at Uni with. He was the best man and the reason he asked me was he needed someone to "babysit" the groom's sister.

Apparently this woman hadn't spoken to her brother for years, but in the interests of family togetherness she'd been invited to the wedding.

It didn't go well. The sister was quite obviously a loon: scarred wrists, vibrated like a tuning fork, smoked like a chimney. Charm didn't work, so I just kept distracting her with drink.

Bad idea. After more white wine than you'd think someone who weighed six stone could swallow and live, she started telling me things.

Things like: she'd always fancied her brother. Things like: they'd married in secret in South Africa (WTF?) Things like: he'd raped her when she was 11. (Which would have been something, as she was 6 years older)

By this time I was dripping with cold sweat. I caught the senior bridesmaid's eye and mouthed "Help!".

We got her out, just before she proceeded to chuck up all the wine. There was then a long tearful rant, followed by more hurling, and then she passed out.

The following week I got a letter from the groom. After the thanks for keeping her quiet, and the apology for putting me through it, came the classic line: "What you have to remember is that (X) is madder than a meerkat with a snake up its cunt".

I have never ever dared use that line.

Apologies for length.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 20:11, 3 replies)
t-shirt trouble
My sister bought my 15 year old son a t-shirt for his birthday that said "Underachiever, Plain Lazy". I plan to send her 3 year old a birthday t-shirt that says "Spoilt Brat" and perhaps her husband one that says "boring, middle aged".
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 12:33, 3 replies)
Small boy, evil big sister - FIGHT!
I was happily sat on my bedroom floor, aged about four, playing with cars. Big sister, five years my senior decides she is bored so comes in and begins pestering me, wanting to play. I object to this and do my best as a four year old to get her to leave. My protests have the opposite affect (mainly because my big sister is evil) and she begins teasing me, informing me that she aint going nowhere and starts messing with my precision parked row of cars (I had a little MDF car show room with a ramp and everything, swish as!).

So within about a minute, my car emporium has been completely re-designed and she's sat there telling me that she's sold a car and off it goes...."HANG ON", I think, "what on earth is going on? I've been emporium-jacked!" So I stand up and with much bravery state "go away, or…...or I'll wee on you!" quite matter-of-factly. My sister just looks up at me and confidently says "you wouldn't DARE!" and returns to playing (uninvited) with my cars. Damn her.

Well, it turned out that I would indeed dare and as she went back to selling cars off my pitch, I walked up, popped me lad out and proceeded to widdle all down her arm. Bedlum ensued. I think the scream she emitted was heard in the next county and required the replacement of at least 2 windows. Mum, stifling laughter, gave me a monumental telling off. As for big sis, she never assumed I wouldn't 'dare' do anything again and even today, some 23 years later, if she should begin winding me up, a quick threat of a pissy arm usually shuts her right up.

During our childhood she got me back for the wee-to-arm incident more than once (though thankfully none involving wee). Incidents include teaching me to flick the V's and say "Fuck Off" at the same time, then sending me into a room of elderly relatives to "show them your new thing..." Cow!
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:17, 1 reply)
My family used to live
in a treehouse.

We fell out.
(, Wed 18 Nov 2009, 17:02, 1 reply)
Helmut reminds me of a family I knew
with two boys who had a great longrunning legpull going.

They'd hide a hideous basketware owl, about the size of a small cat, in each other's luggage.

Each brother'd keep his suitcase or rucksack under constant sureveillance in the days leading up to the holiday or university term and repeatedly search it before setting off.

If he found it, he'd hide it in his brother's room or property and later send him a triumphant postcard. If not, and the owl went with him, he'd quietly seethe and plan his revenge.

Last I heard was when pagers were all rage. Brother 1 was on the train to wherever when his pager went off, with the message 'Too whit too woo!'

He dragged his rucksack down off the rack, tore it open, emptied it there and then and found the dratted owl. It had to go everywhere with him until he got back and could foist it onto Brother 2.


This went on for years, probably still does. Great fun.
(, Sun 15 Nov 2009, 8:14, 3 replies)
Caused a feud, didn't know, was quite proud of it when I found out.
OK so I went out with this girl for a few years and got along famously with her dad.
He was a bloke of the old school, smoked a pipe, sailed a boat, drank beers, had a beard, swore a lot but held the door for ladies etc etc.
He was also born in Germany, one of the ones whose family had the foresight to get the hell out of Dodge City when the Nazis came into power and started to turn the place into something they wanted no part of.
I, for various reasons, speak German (mate of my dad's taught me the swear words, then a few more phrases, then high school, then a few trips there) so we go along like a house on fire.
We would drink, take the boat out and nearly wreck it, burn the house down at barbecues, shout obscenities at each other and anyone else in German and generally have a ball.
When the relationship with his daughter ended (In Germany, funnily enough), I bade him farewell, shook his hand and absented myself from the family.
Fast forward about ten years and he died.
I didn't know until I ran into the ex and she let me know.
"You know he never forgave me for breaking up with you," she said.
"In fact he didn't speak to me for years. Only got back in touch when he knew he was dying and still wasn't happy."
What a fucking champion!
(, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 4:56, 3 replies)
Serving hard time in an Austin.
The whole family were packed into my Fathers golden-brown Austin Princess on the long drive down to my Grandparents for Christmas.
This bi-annual trip was hell, a five hour trip packed into the back of a small uncomfortable car with my brother and sister whilst sat on duvets and coats with every spare inch of space around us stuffed full with luggage and presents.

Mum would pass round Barley Sugars upon the sighting of a yellow car or the crossing of a river, which ever came first.

Dad would listen to his mix tape, which as far as I can remember had two songs on it, one was a song about missiles flying over heads by Status Quo and the other was about a Ghost Train by Madness.

And this is how it went for mile after mile. The sucking horrible squelchy noises of Barley Sugars been eaten. “If you want to survive, get out of bed” wailing from the radio. “You’re over my side!” wailing from the back.

The sound of someone else noisily eating boiled sweets tapping away against your brain, like some form of audio water torture for endless hours on end.

Then you get the brief respite of the service station. But of course it’s no real respite at all; you can’t go in the shop or play in the arcades. There isn’t enough time or money. It’s not on the schedule.

You have got exactly 5 minutes to go to the toilet, eat your warm ham and lettuce sandwich and then look ridiculous as you walk the bloody cat round the car park on a piece of string.

Then it’s back into the car. Goodbye Leigh Delamere West. Hello another two and a half hours drive.

It’s enough to fray the very robust of nerves. Someone always snapped. There was always a row. The car was a tinderbox by hour 3. Anything could set anybody off.

And on this particular instance it was me accidentally tearing the new road map, and my Dad turned round in his seat red faced with rage and yelling.

As he turned away the cars in front of us screeched to a halt. And my Dad swore and we all screamed as we skidded towards the back of a yellow Ford Anglia, nobody claiming their Barley Sugar, and we stopped with smoke bellowing from the tyres with literally an inch between us and the car in front. We were safe. And the family feud.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:59, 3 replies)
Fishy fishy!
There are probably loads of feuds in my extended family; I can't know for sure, as my aunt and I haven't been on speaking terms for 10 years...



Anyway, 27 years ago, when The Empress was a cute ickle babby (and didn't look at all like a pink Jabba the Hutt, whatever photo evidence from the time might suggest), her elder brother (let's call him Grumpy) doted on her, and she on him.

One day our parents took us to a lunch party at one of their friends houses; it had a massive back garden, with an ornamental pond for koi carp. The adults were sitting around in the sun quaffing their champagne, whilst Grumpy and I went around the pond poking at the fish.

Presumably bored of this, I wanted other entertainment. I took it upon myself to throw my stuffed koala bear into the middle of the pond, and then sat there crying. Grumpy, being a loving brother, kneeled at the edge of the pond and precariously leant over to fish koala out, whereupon I toddled up behind him, and with a hearty shove pitched him face-first into the water, then sat there screaming with laughter.

I have no recollection of this incident at all. My brother, on the other hand, still hasn't forgiven me.
(, Wed 18 Nov 2009, 13:50, 4 replies)
Fresh from the oven
Family feud? I reckon I might well have just started one.

Last weekend my sister decided to visit me at uni. Nothing that out of the ordinary, except that my girlfriend's family also decided it was about time they found out if the rest of my family are as screwed up as myself. The only reason I agreed is because my sister's the only one who's remotely sane - myself included. So there's 6 of us going around Sheffield, having a pretty decent time all round - me, my girlfriend, my sister, the parents ... and *her* 17 year old sister. This girl (let's call her R) and me have always had a bit of friendly arguing going on. She's been more than happy to give me everything ranging from dirty looks to attempts at dead legs, and I've been content in treating her like a bratty little sister. However, this time round she goes a little too far and starts getting on my nerves. So, I decide to get a little payback.

Two things before I carry on with this - first, R is ridiculously paranoid, and easy to wind up with it. I can get her to panic by just staring at the back of her neck and giggling slightly. Secondly, I have a really nasty sense of humour, *particularly* when it comes to practical jokes. I once 'shopped a tattoo onto my girlfriend's facebook photo as an April Fool's, just to watch her parents' reaction. Now, a particular favourite of mine is to leave an apparently used condom in a bag - relax, it's only milk, I'm not a total bastard. I even rinse them off to make sure it doesn't leave any lube around. My sister's already encountered this one before, but luckily (for her, at least) she found it while she was at home. R, on the other hand, was not so lucky...

Having put up with her most of Saturday, I get a chance to leave my calling card in her bag while she's out of the room. Me, my girlfriend and sister watch her folks leave while sniggering to ourselves and taking bets on how long it'll be there for. Personally, I'd reckon it be found the next day, but come Sunday, no mention of it. Yesterday, I got home from lectures to find a particularly harsh facebook message from R. It turns out she'd finally found the condom. In her geography class. Stuck to her folder. In front of her mates and her teacher. Did I mention she goes to a Catholic school?

Needless to say, I found this absolutely bloody hilarious. But I seriously doubt she'll forgive me for this one, and the parent's might have a few strong words for me too. I've also just realised that I'm going with her to the Motorhead gig in Manchester this weekend, so any b3tans in the area keep an eye on the sky for a pair of speeding objects - it'll probably be my lovespuds being knocked into orbit.

Apologies for length - it was an extra-large brand
(, Tue 17 Nov 2009, 10:47, 2 replies)

This question is now closed.

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