Do nannas count?
When I was about eighteen, my little sister (twelve at the time) and I went and got a bit of shopping for my nanna, who must have been well into her eighties. Sitting down for a cuppa with her after we'd returned, she asked if I'd put the bit of haddock she'd asked for in the fridge. "Yes", I replied. It was then she leant over to my sister and I and said, in a hushed tone and with a little wink, "There's two things that smell of fish, you know.....and one of them's not fish."
(Haywood Manley, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 15:38, 1 reply)

My Mum
My mum once shagged Tommi Atkins. This is absolutly true, althought it does remind me not to leave myself logged in at work when Tommi is in the office and I have left the computer unattended :)
(kitescreech still here, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 15:12, 3 replies)

My mum wrote Bohemian Rhapsody, but Freddie Mercury won it off her in a game of Guess Who.
She also invented the wardrobe, submarines, Tuesday and corrugated cardboard. Her terrifying psychic powers have defeated the martians during both of their attempted invasions of earth, but are no help in a Guess Who based scenario. She does not own a skateboard.
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 15:02, Reply)

I was
9lb 6oz at birth.
That was the last time I won.
(danceswithferrets is leaking sanity, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 14:07, Reply)

My mother is ace
But I irritate her all the time.

P.S - ALL the time.
(Archeleus hates cabbage, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 14:02, 1 reply)

Pearoast time
When I was a young-un, my little (two years younger than me) sister had a habit, as young things do, of sticking things where they shouldn't go. (I sincerely hope this fad has passed).

One day she was experimenting with a bead. "Ah" thinks this young inquisitive mind, just the right size for a nostril. So up it goes, lost to all. Not a panic moment, at least not until the blood started to pour out. Thankfully mummy was quite perceptive and realised something wasn't quite as it should be and rushed her (and me by proxy) to hospital for removal of said nasal obstruction.

In her worried motherly haste, she bundled us out of the car, closing the door as she turned to the A+E entrance. Little sis' head, sadly was in the path of the car door and after a resounding crunch/scream/plop the bead flew out and little sis smiles again. Back into the car and home again.

Never let either of them forget that one.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 13:51, 2 replies)

Last thing I heard my mom say, was, in front of myself, and my partner, ''The only reason you got this house, was by opening up your legs''.
We haven't spoken since, not do I wish to.
(JuliaTam JuliaTam, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 12:54, 4 replies)

grinner just reminded me
when i was a little smash, i had very long, thick, blonde hair. it went right down to the back of my knees. one summer, i went to stay with my aunt and uncle for a fortnight. now, my uncle is bald and my aunt wears a wig which is permanently set in place. because of this, there is not a brush or comb anywhere in their house. when i got back home, i looked like a dandelion clock, my hair was matted and stuck out everywhere. 2 hours of brushing resulted in about 1/10th of my hair being tangle-free. being the impatient type, my mum grabbed a pair of scissors and gave my hair a very unwanted bob cut. it was hideous. i was only ten, but that haircut made me look about 20. it took years to grow my hair back again.
to this day, i won't let my mum anywhere near me with a pair of scissors!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 12:53, 4 replies)

Mums and haircuts
As a young lad I had a fear/loathing of barbers. The obnoxious bastard she used to take me to would push me around, in fact I think it was more him refusing to cut my hair than me refusing to go that resulted in me having my hair cut at home. Now, fashion never happened to me, so I wasn't worried about the bowl, or the blunt scissors. No, what instilled more of a dislike for hair care was a device I don't know the name for. It had the little prongs a trimmer has, but instead of electricity powering the thing, a razor blade was inserted, and the device dragged through the hair (supposedly to cut it, but more likely to just tear it out at the roots).
She had used this for years. In fact, she did my dad's hair the night before their wedding. What he hadn't told her, however, was that instead of the regular blunt blade, he'd changed it for a shiny new blade. One pull of the torture thing down the back of his head left him with a reverse mohecan.
In the morning, the boot polish came out to do the shoes, and also dad's head. Apparently the smell was quite distracting.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 10:45, 13 replies)

The Mystery of My Mum
When I was a toddler, I used to get carted off to various playgroups. I realise now that these things had two functions: one was for the benefit of the kids, but - primarily - they were for the benefit of the kids' mothers, who'd get a couple of hours off and a rudimentary social network. I can see in retrospect that "friendship" between toddlers would often be a surrogate for friendship between their parents; going to someone's house to play would be a means of the adults getting together for decent conversation.

One of the other kids with whom I was told I was a friend lived in - probably moved to, actually - a village a little way away from where we lived. One of my earliest memories is of trips to see A in the village of B; pretty much all I can remember is the name of the village and a bit of the road leading to A's house. But I do remember it vividly, and had spent 25-plus years wondering on occasion whose house it actually was, A's identity having faded in time.

Anyway: a few years ago, my parents and I happened to be in B. "Oh, I remember this. We'd used to come here when I was small," I said. "Who was it that lived here?"
Maybe my mother would know. She was the one who did the driving, after all.
"I've never been here," she replied.
I pressed her further. Her denial was adamant.

Now, I know - or am pretty certain - that this was not déjà vu, because I know that I'd mused about the trips to B many times over the years (I could always remember B's name), and because my fragmentary memory of B was subtly different: I could remember a sunny day, and this was misty and damp; I remember the road as being unmetalled or potholed, and this was well-maintained. But it was certainly the same road: the same gradient, the same fields on either side, the same bend, and so on.

So how come my mother denied it? Could she genuinely have forgotten? Was she part of a spy ring? I have no idea to this day. Maybe there'll be an astonishing deathbed confession.

Fingers crossed.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 10:44, 4 replies)

In which Grandmasterfluffles' mum holds up an army base
My mother always had a strained relationship with her mother-in-law. The litany of Grandma’s crimes ran to being uneducated (not exactly her fault) not "speaking properly" (English was her second language) and feeding us fattening food (not exactly going to kill us, especially since we were both very skinny, probably due to the fact that there was nothing but low fat cottage cheese to eat at home). But the most hateful thing that Grandma did was giving us “unsuitable” presents. Barely a birthday, Christmas or Hanukah would go past without me being given a pert-breasted Sindy doll, or my brother a toy gun. Mum used to insist that these toys were immediately taken to the local charity shop as soon as Grandma had gone home, which pissed me off no end but I didn’t have the balls to rebel, so I used to pretend I was glad to see the back of the dolls whilst raging inside.

My brother however was rather more rebellious than I was. When Grandma presented him with a scarily realistic-looking toy revolver for his 2nd birthday, he refused to part with it. He screamed blue murder when Mum tried to confiscate it, and insisted on hugging it in his sleep like a teddy bear, lest she try to remove it in the middle of the night. She had to accept it in the end - the gun was there to stay.

Whether due to latent violent tendencies or sheer bloody-minded rebelliousness, the revolver was by far his favourite toy. He refused to leave the house without it. He continued to sleep with it like a comfort blanket. Unfortunately, he had a habit of whipping it out in the middle of crowded shops and “firing” at people. Most people found this quite sweet, but Mum didn’t like it one bit, and many was the time that she confiscated the revolver and put it in her handbag for safekeeping whilst she dragged around her screaming toddler (little bro) and long-suffering 7-year-old (me).

However, once the revolver was in her handbag, things started to get interesting. Have you ever seen the look on a bank cashier’s face when a customer, emptying her handbag onto the counter in an attempt to find her paying in book, whips out a revolver? I have. Have you seen the look on Mr Patel from the cornershop’s face when the nice woman who comes in every day after work for a pack of Marlboro Reds pulls a gun on him whilst looking for her wallet? I have.

But the best story EVER is one that alas I was not there to witness. Mum is a violinist, plays in a band that provides yee-haa cowboy music for barn dances and weddings. One time she had a gig playing for some event at an army base. Being an army base, security was quite tight. Every few cars that came through were subjected to a MASSIVELY detailed search, and alas, they picked hers. They told her to step out of the car and made her a cup of tea whilst they pretty much took the car apart looking for explosives. They were under the bonnet for a good half hour, they looked between the seats, underneath the car, in the exhaust pipe, everywhere, no stone was left unturned. When they’d finished, they apologised for making her late and sent her on her way. So she arrived for the soundcheck an hour late, full of apologies. She told them the story of how she’d been held up at the entrance having her car searched whilst everyone rolled their eyes and nodded knowingly. Then she concluded the saga by whipping out my little brother’s incredibly realistic-looking toy revolver and saying, “It’s a good job they didn’t look in my handbag!”

Moral of the story? Never try to part a two-year-old boy with his toy gun. Don’t trust the army with security. And don’t mess with my mum.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 9:20, 5 replies)

YM

( wotofco pissing in your swimming pool, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 9:08, 1 reply)

=D
My mum is really cool.
She introduces me to loads of brilliant music that she finds listening to Radio stations (Originally she's a kiwi so she listens to the New Zealand Rock radio stations)

She can also roll blunts and cooks that most amazing lasagne.
I love my mum.
(Maccy Divided by 0 on, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 8:30, 2 replies)

2 good mum stories.
Mater (RIP) was somewhat of a nutjob, "proper" eng-er-lish laaadyyy. Here are 2 of my faves that always raise a giggle (@ least from me anyway).
I was 9-10ish and having procured my first cig (stolen by a mate off their old man) went to try it behind the aircon of the place we were house-sitting. The aircon is a big box with a pump inside surrounded by straw-like matting that water dribbles down to cause an evaporative cooling effect as the outside air is sucked inside (but is completely dry when not in use). Mum was inside in the bath. Halfway thru my first cig (hack, hack cough, cough) mum shouts out "WHERE"S THAT SMOKE COMING FROM?" Smoke from said cigatrette is pouring through the aircon ducting into the house. I panic & quickly stub the cig out on the tinder dry, easily flammable straw...
Smoke suddenly grows exponentially and aircon rapidly burns. Mum screams and runs out of the bathroom in a towel to ring fireys. I run round to the fire-extinguisher (which I had been itching to try out) and put the fire out completely. Fireys turn up douse the aircon (just in case). Mum comes out and asks me what the hell is going on. After mum shouts a lot she susses that something is up and makes me turn out my pockets, finding a lighter (to light cig). She immediately flys into rage and accuses me of being a pyro in front of the fireys.
As penance I had to spend 2 weeks of my school holidays helping & cleaning up around the fire station. When the fire-boss found out the real reason for my transgression he pissed himself.
When B (the missus) was trying to give birth to Mealybugs (induced then a whole days worth of pushing, fetal and mothers' distress and bodgied epidurals) doc makes the call and says "Right off to theatre we go." As I'm following docs, nurses & my (soon to be 2) beloved my mum rushes up to me with an old copy of The Weekend Australian magazine and a sandwich - "in case I get bored or hungry"!!!!
As the registrar is instructing me to strip, gown up then scrub everything really well I patiently explain to mum that I'm about to go into an Operating Theatre to (hopefully) see my daughter and wife successfully through the birthing process. Bub eventually delivered while B's under by emergency caesarian - both fine. Mum always hated me telling this story - so here 'tis.
If there is an afterlife, then cheers mum.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sat 13 Feb 2010, 7:35, Reply)

I had a toy cat when I was little
My mum told me my cat's (cotton) whiskers would magically grow overnight....and how they did!

Years later she confessed she would stretch them when I was asleep, and when they could get no longer, would cut them off and sew in new ones.

WTF?
( The Helpful Bear, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 4:45, 1 reply)

My mum's amazing
She went through the screaming agony of childbirth twice. I was planned, apparently, my elder sister "wasn't". My mum must've thought it was a good idea after the first so I've endeavoured not to dissapoint.

We're both married, my sister now has a son and I have a husband too. Still to this day, the thought of eating crusts makes my hair curl.
(moobat, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 3:19, 1 reply)

My mum
carried on going to work all the way through chemotherapy and radiotherapy, going round the homes of old folks, making sure THEY were ok.

She's brill.
(Hanargh, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 2:18, 4 replies)

Ageless
My mother has a 'thing' about her age. Insecurity, holding onto youth, call it what you will; but she gets really hung up about it.

Despite working in completely different professions. We somehow managed to work under the same roof for a while as the company that she worked for catered for our offices. Now my mum likes a bit of a natter and makes friends very easily. Eventually she would mention that her son worked in the same office and ask if her new friends knew me. When people realised who she is referring too, their first reaction was generally one of shock. The second incredulity.

I'd have people come up to me and ask it if was true that MummyKovacs was indeed my mother. When I'd answer in the affermative the confusion would only deepen. I could tell something was up.

You see, my mother had a dirty little secret. If asked, my mother would tell her new found friends that she was "older then 35, younger then 38" - I was 29 at the time, and she was much closer to 50 then 30!

I wish you could have been there when I had a quiet word about it with her. She couldn't see what was wrong with saying she was a 'little' younger then she really was. "Harmless, it all it is", she insisted. I told her - "It's OK with me mum, you get to be whatever age you want to be. You just might want to stop telling people that I'm your son if you want to pass for 38 though". "Why?" She enquired. "Because people are wondering how you managed to get pregnant when you were 7", I replied.

The penny dropped.

The expression was priceless.
( Kovacs Slogan free since 2003, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 1:03, 3 replies)

My Mum...
...was the best Mum ever. Yes, she annoyed me sometimes, but I'm sure I pissed her off far more. I think I'll wait for a "crap children" QOTW and then I'll try to do the funnies.

Sorry you've wasted your time reading this. Hope the other stories are funny.
(eesnahk, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 0:48, Reply)

Wedding Photo
My mum tatty shopped my wedding photos to make me look thinner and sent them to relatives with the instruction to "Delete the original fat ones". Bless
(pipipiper I miss my pond, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 23:39, Reply)

1976
My mum had a Hillman Imp, which got crashed into at a T junction by a Hillman Hunter, one day when I was at school. She survived OK, but no-one knows if that triggered the breast cancer or not. It was diagnosed in March '76, and she died in the May; all they had back then was radiation therapy or full mastectomy.

I was six when she died, and I have very few memories of her;
- her arguing with my father while the pair stood above me, I may have had a cheap shit Scalextric ripoff on the floor
- sitting in the front seat of the Imp when she picked me up after school to go somewhere (we lived 300 yards from school so it wouldn't have been straight home)
- her putting out the laundry in the back garden on a beautiful summers day in what must have been '75
and - hackneyed as it sounds - the last time I ever saw her.
She was in bed, at home, with my father and her mother (my grandmother) present. My last words to my mum were "please don't die mummy", at which point I was shooed out by probably quite upset adults.

Sorry, no funny payoff. I need a beer and to dry my eyes.
( Fathter Puddytat Kill Kill dat widdle boid is mine on, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 22:32, 7 replies)

ugh, I hate myself...
"Yeah, well, your mum's a whore," I shouted as the argument reached what was to be its climax.
"So's yours," said my brother.
( nightbuffalo needs more duct tape, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 21:17, Reply)

Twas a cold, dark, rainy evening in early November...
the kind of dull, grey day that chills you to your core at the mere thought of it and makes you pine for the distant spring.
It would have been about 5ish because the family was gathered in the kitchen, ravenous, shivering slightly despite the central heating, keenly anticipating the soul-comfortingly warm delights of the stew that was on offer.
Strange, though, that the cat had not been pestering the maker of this winter feast for any scrap of meat going, as was her wont.
A mewling at the door - ah, she had been out, no doubt chasing leaves blowing in the wind, or batting some dangling piece of string, or biting a bird to death.
Smudge was damp, sodden even, this much was clear, her muddy footprints leaving a watery residue on the linoleum.
It was bleeding obvious. So why the cunting fuck did my mum have to lift Smudge up and pronounce to the world, without any trace of irony, "THIS is a wet pussy!"?
( nightbuffalo needs more duct tape, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 21:04, Reply)

this should make you all appreciate your mums
about 7 years ago, a young couple moved in to the flat above mine. they seemed quite nice, if a tad slobbish. the bloke had severe burn scarring all over one side of his face and neck and, i was to find out later, most of his body. as i still didn't know them very well, i didn't like to ask how he got them.
time passed and we became friends. we spent a lot of time together, talking about anything and everything. one day, the bloke(i won't name him) told me he was adopted. then he told me why.
at the age of 6 months, his parents decided that 3 children was quite enough and they didn't want their fourth any more. however, they did want money and decided on an insurance job, so they decided to kill 2 birds with one stone, quite literally. they put their infant son into his cot, locked the door, removed the doorknob, then took themselves and their other children out into the garden, setting fire to the house on their way out. they tried to burn their own child to death.
fortunately, emergency services arrived in time to save him. eventually, he was adopted by the fireman who had rescued him. due to some legal snafoo or other, his parents were never convicted. it took his new parents over 2 years of constant care, attention and hospital treatments, not to mention a giant shitload of love, to get the lad into something approximating good health.
if ever your mum or dad are annoying you, remember this and thank whichever god you worship that you didn't have his parents.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 20:32, 7 replies)

An amazing woman
Everyone's mum is unique; mine was even more so. I was the oldest of four boys born at intervals of 15 months. While we growing up we took it for granted that all mums could play the piano, speak French, and teach small boys to cook iron and hoover. And fight.
I cam home from school having been bullied and we spent an hour with me throwing punches at her until she reckoned I could hit straight. I was sent off the following morning with the instruction to throw the SECOND punch, and if he got up, I'd have let her down.

First and last bloke I ever hit. I was seven. That was 43 years ago.

When she was 69 she got her degree, a First in Arts from the OU. If my old man hadn't fallen ill she'd have taken her Master's.

She died in 2008, and her funeral was standing room only.

Length? It's never long enough.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 20:28, 1 reply)

A good way to make these stories sound creepy
is to imagine that "mum" or "mother" is a pet name for the writer's penis.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 18:22, 3 replies)

My Mum's quite technologically sound...
She's on facebook, has an iPhone, and calls me on Skype.

Recently, we exchanged a couple of emails about my lack of money at uni (Etc). Clearly I didn't respond quickly enough to her latest email, as I got a text which simply read: "Have sent bother email".

Clearly, predictive text still eludes her.

_{Should have read 'Have sent another email'}
( The Coast Of Yemen, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 18:18, 1 reply)

My Mum is kwalitee...
she can't work the predictive text on her Nokia phone (and I don't do Nokias) so when I get a text from her if she's on holiday it usually says something like "Hi Rally its Nun"

When I lived in London I had to come home for the weekend when the clocks changed so I could alter the microwave and the video for her. When she had a powercut she stuck a post it note over the flashing 0.00 on the vcr for more than two weeks as the flashing got on her tits but she couldn't set it.

She likes to listen to audiobooks at night to help her sleep (has done since my Dad died 14 years ago) as the sound of a man's voice makes her drop off a treat. She bought herself an MP3 player to listen to them on. Fair enough you say, the old bird is in the 21st Century after all. Only trouble was she got a Shuffle one. Audiobooks tend not to make a lot of sense when you get chapter 13 then chapter 2 then chapter 6 etc....thank fuck she knows from the films who did it in Murder on the Orient Express as she still wouldn't have a scooby from listening to the story.

She can be a bit old school un pc at times (still calls black people coloured for starters - and Down's syndrome people are still occasionally called Mongols) but was an absolute star when I told her that despite being single I was pregnant. Thought she'd go apeshit, to be honest. She's the World's best Grandma to my son and helped me out with the deposit on my first flat.

She also saved my Dad from drowning out in Cyprus when he fell asleep on a lilo and drifted out to sea. Swam out to get him. Nearly drowned herself in the process.

She drives me mental sometimes but I know how lucky I am to have her. She's a top bird.
( Sallyrsm, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 18:09, 2 replies)

My mum's sicker than your mum....
It's bad enough that my mother had Muchausen's, but she also had Muchausen's by proxy. So when I bashed my face trying to hang upside down off a stool like you do, when I was 7, my mum had me rushed off to hospital telling the medical staff that she'd found me unconscious in a pool of blood. Which was of course bollocks. I was kept in hospital overnight and released the next day with a bit of scabby face. Not very dramatic. So what does my mother do? Sticks a bloody sanitary towel across my face and makes me keep it there for 5 whole days....
(tittch is a small woman. With strange ideas., Fri 12 Feb 2010, 17:16, 3 replies)

A shocking card game.
I am the youngest of three children. With 4 years between each of us, we never really played much together. So my parents tried to correct this by having family game sessions every week or so. Usually, this was a board game or some cards. It was the early 80’s after all.

On one of these days the five of us were sitting around the kitchen table playing cards. I was 13 years of age or so, and my parents were in their mid 40's. To me, at the time, they seemed ancient. Cards were dealt, and as the game progressed, and cards were played, a 6 and a 9 appeared side by side on the kitchen table.

"69!" My sister (the middle child) giggled to the oldest and pointed at the cards.
"Gahfaw" My brother chuckled
... and I looked scared, as I had just learned recently what a 69 was.
"Whah…?” … my mum seemed confused … “What is it?”
“Sixty-nine, mom!”, my sister chimed in, “You know … look at the numbers … one is right side up, the other upside down, curvy bits” making gestures with her hands, and a ‘say no more’ wink.

My dad at this point was leaning back in his chair, absorbing all that his innocent children were blabbering about.

And then my mum let fly, what will leave me scarred for life, a comment as she quickly grabbed my fathers shoulder, and looked excitedly at him, with a big grin “Oh honey! The kids have a name for it!”

The horror.
(macdumpy, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 16:48, 4 replies)