I used to be a manager in a pub in South Yorks
Everyday this old boy would come in and drink his Guinness and whiskey chasers. The female staff all hated him, because he was quite lecherous, but he was fairly harmless. I shall never forget him for two reasons.

1) His immortal line upon seeing an attractive lady: "I tell 'ee what, boy. I'd let her fart in my soup."

I never could quite work out what it meant, but find myself using it more and more....

2) This sage piece of advice he once imparted on the female species: "Forget looks an' tits an' shite. All ya needs from life is a woman with a heart of gold and a fanny like a jar of worms."

RIP Bob, you lovely drunken old bastard. :)
( bennyhillslovechild, Thu 19 Jun 2008, 16:29, 6 replies)

Chelsea Royal Army Hospital
I was buzzing around London looking for some prints of a Victorian artist who did loads of British military paintings. So I am walking around and I see this old codget shuffling along and I ask him if he can point me in the direction of the nearest ATM. (ATM = Cash Machine)

He was not only kind enough to tell me, he shuffled me all the way there. Delightful fellow, he shared with me that he was a WWII veteran and that he was retired and lived in the Chelsea Royal Army Hospital. So, he was a Chelsea Pensioner.

He regaled me with tales of Dunkirk and Operation Market Garden and I thoroughly enjoyed the walk. I think he enjoyed sharing those stories and he invited me to go back to the hospital with him to meet some other pensioners...

So back we go. I spent an hour and a half, just meeting all these old fellas and hearing their stories. Absolutely brilliant!

As he was walking me to the door, he shook my hand and thanked me for stopping by as it always cheers the lads up to talk with someone interested in their experiences. I said it was MY pleasure.

He invited me back and said "Those old bastards are dying off! So you better come back quick!"

It's true you know. Our WWII vets are dying off too fast. And I lost both my Grandfathers who served, so if you've got one in your family, ask them about the war and remember their stories so your subsequent generations will know of their heroic days.

Cheers!
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Thu 19 Jun 2008, 20:36, 19 replies)

My gran is losing the plot a bit these days, but she is my hero.
She was a single mother, worked all her life, passionate about politics and the rights of the worker, and has never let anyone make her ashamed of who she is and where she is from.

I love her to bits.

She's given me four very important bits of advice: -

1) Always earn enough to pay your own rent, even if your man is paying it for you - you never know when you will need to be independent, and having a life outside your home stops you becoming a clingy, needy individual.

2) Never let any man talk down to you. Ever.

3) Have as much sex as humanly possible, with no guilt, no shame, and no regrets. She taught me that I should have sex because I wanted to, not because someone forced me into it, but that to deny myself pleasure because of a misguided fear of damaging my reputation was stupid. Her biggest regret is that she didn't put it about more as a young woman.

4) People in power only hold that power because you allow them to. If they abuse that power, you can take it away from them. This applies to relationships, employers, landlords, councils and the Government.

I love my gran I do.
( Wicca'd Witch needs ideas for a new sig on..., Thu 19 Jun 2008, 16:57, 9 replies)

I'm an old man; here's my advice
Well, a mixture of stuff I've picked up and stuff I've figured out for myself.

Learn to enjoy the good simple things in life without over-indulging - don't mix your drinks, there's no need.
Rely on yourself - you'll always be there. Try turning off your phone and computer for two whole days and see how you get on.
If you're not happy - find out why: what's making you unhappy? Change it. Job, partner, studies - there are always ways out and the simple act of doing something about it will make you happier.
Don't marry the person you want to be with - marry the one you can't be without.
When you think "I'll just have one more drink" - don't have it.
Go somewhere new, try new things, meet new people - especially while you're young.
If you love someone - tell them occasionally. If they are your parents/grandparents it is especially important.
If you're a bloke, buy flowers for your misses (or Mr) when they're not expecting it and don't get cross if they think you must have done something wrong - just tell them Che told you to do it.
If there is somthing in your life you love doing - try to find a job where they will pay you to do it.
Don't be afraid to ask for help from someone you trust; don't be afraid to give advice to someone you love.
Spend as much time as you can with your kids - blink and they're grown.
Steer clear of hard drugs.
Never show off when driving a car - don't be afraid of being called a sissy.
Men: agree with your woman and let them win arguments. If necessary - do the opposite after she's won.
Women: you'll be amazed how grateful a man can be if you put yourself out for him occasionally.
Gay men: use a condom.
Lesbians: have fun.
Singles: enjoy the peace and quiet. You'll find someone when the right person comes along (if that's what you want) - don't settle for second best, but remember: all relationships need give and take.
At work: do your best and don't stab others in the back. Bite your tongue but don't put up with shit. If you're really not happy, see above: leave.
And this above all else - when things seem really black, go for a walk in the countryside if at all possible, or better still, run or cycle. Look at the beauty of the world and remember that no matter how black things seem, there are others who would love to be in your place. And things will get better. If that doesn't help - let us know about it on the QOTW and we'll cheer you up and provide support.

Amen.

Che
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 20 Jun 2008, 10:28, 4 replies)

tradesmen are filthy
My wee gran is Welsh, not making excuses she just is. She’s 86, 4'8 and almost a perfect sphere with hair like candy floss - a bit how you might expect Yoda to be if he came from Swansea and liked the odd chocolate éclair. Like many who battle through to the finish line in life she has a few pearls of wisdom but also some opinions that are somewhat unique.

A few years back she advised me to be careful 'in the bin' - turns out there was some broken crockery in there. I asked if she had had an accident whilst eyeing the hammer sitting on the kitchen table.

The story unfolded. ‘The man', i should say this is a coverall term my gran uses to refer to all tradesmen, meter readers, council employees etc - as in "I can't on Tuesday because the man is coming to fix the [washing] machine".

The previous day 'the man' had come to fit some window blinds - hardly a sewage spattered bloke from dyno-rod or pikey tarmac vendor then. I'm told he wore a 'nice suit and tie' and showed her the pictures of his family he kept in his wallet and was by all accounts a 'lovely man'. It was an all day job so she had given him numerous cups of tea and biscuits as small grandmothers are bound by law to do.

When he left she smashed the cup. Not washed it. Not discarded it. Smashed it. With a hammer.

Reason being? Whilst (screwing her wee welsh face up) she told me..
"Well, you never know where he's been"

!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 19 Jun 2008, 16:51, Reply)

While out with a lesbian couple I know....
...a very old man was heard from across the street yelling "Bloody lesbians, get a cock!"

I laughed til I fell down in the street.
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Thu 19 Jun 2008, 19:04, 1 reply)

The Jazzman
Back in the day when I was a young lad trying to get into medical school, I did all sorts of stuff to try to make my personal statement on my UCAS form stand out.

I worked for a local hospital, I did first aid courses, I wrote articles for the local trust newsletter. I regularly visited my local GP to chat and to try to get a little ‘insider’ knowledge.

I also volunteered at my local Age Concern. To be perfectly honest I was in it just for the personal statement and I claimed back all the mileage I could (and more) to get some cash.

I was assigned an old gentlemen who lived on his own in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t really want to go and do it but I felt like I had to go at least once to morally put it on my personal statement.

The old chap was about 80 and was understandably doddery. I made him tea (washing out the tea cups as they were full of cobwebs) and chatted to him about everything. It turns out that he was used to be rather a handy jazz pianist and had records of himself playing with his band in the 1940/50s.

He had a piano in the corner of his lounge and I invited him to play, but he said he couldn’t anymore because of his arthritis, so he could only listen to himself on his scratchy recordings.

During the time I spent with him I asked him about his wife and family, but it turns out that he got himself a little fucked up due to the booze and drugs that a jazz lifestyle apparently entailed so his wife had eventually left him and his children had grown up and hadn’t come back.

He’d been living by himself for about years and years wallowing in his self pity and listening to himself play jazz. I only visited him three times before I got a call from Age Concern saying that he had passed away.

During the time I was with him he did tell me the following advice.

“Never be alone.”

I have never forgotten it.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 20 Jun 2008, 11:59, 2 replies)

The Friday Night Saga
(This is a big 'un)

I was once given a piece of advice, a morsel of wisdom passed down from generation to generation, something so potent, so right in itself that it could correct many wrong caused by any man. As anybody knows, human beings are flawed, and the nugget of eternal truth slipped from my mind like yesterday’s shopping list, and this caused the following epic journey to take place, a true Friday Night Saga, that I’m sure has changed my life forever.

The following events took place last Friday, the night after my meet-up with the other B3tans in Covent Garden;

I’d survived the night before with little sleep, and had gone to work far too early, my brain was yet to engage and several litres of alcohol were still yet to leave my system. The day itself passed uneventfully, but little did I know the tremendous struggle that I would face later that same day.
I left work, as usual, at 5.30, this was going to be one of the few Friday nights off I very rarely get (my Daughter had been on holiday with her Mum, and they were resting for the night at their house to recover). I was looking forward to putting my feet up, having some quality pants time and knocking out the odd hand-shandy over the thirty second long shampoo adverts that come on during the ad breaks of Richard and Judy. I was wrong, so very, very wrong.
My bastard car had broken down a few nights before, so I was making my way home by train, and finally reached the front door of my flat at about 6.15, I reached into my pocket, and, shit… I’d left my fucking keys at work. Fuck, cock, shit, bollocks and damn. The first thought to enter my head was that I could call a colleague, and ask them to get the boss to keep the office open as I made my way back. I pulled out my phone, double-fuck, the battery is dead. I really shouldn’t have stayed out the whole night before. If I knew anybody’s phone number off the top of my head I’d have used a payphone, but nobody remembers numbers anymore these days do they? They’re all just stored in their phones, sure some women keep address books or diaries with contact details in their handbags, but I’m a bloke, all I had in my pocket was lint and three-week old chewing gum.
I decided to make my way back to the office, there was a chance somebody could still be there, they could be working, maybe there was a cleaner or a security guard, maybe I wasn’t totally fucked after all.
I got back to the office around seven, all the lights were off, the doors were locked, even the little entrance area with the double doors were closed. I could just make out the little white plaque next to the buzzer for our floor, the one which has all of the out of hours emergency numbers on it, the numbers that were illegible from that distance. Fuck.
So I made my way back home again, I was going to try to break in. I have skinny little wrists. I was sure I could reach through my letterbox and unlock the door. Of course I couldn’t, my hand wouldn’t even fit through the damned thing. I thought about unscrewing it, but it seemed to have little square catches on both sides to prevent anybody trying to break in. I tried to kick the door down, from this I not only gained a deep respect for the structural integrity and security of my front door, but also a very sore shoulder and a slightly twisted ankle. The bloody cunt.

I had no choice now, I didn’t really have anywhere to go. I’ve got no real friends, especially not around here, so I made my way to the tiny village where my Daughter and my ex live.
I know that because I had no phone, and didn’t have a clue what her phone number was I was just going to turn up out of the blue, and there is no way I was going to be a particularly welcome guest. It was getting late, and I was tired, so I got a taxi for part of the journey. I turned up at about 10.30, tired, cold and very unhappy, the ex opened the door and I explained the situation to her. …sympathy? Pah! –why in God’s name had I hoped that she would start to at least show me a little shred of humanity for the first time ever? After all, I’d only supported her, and her carefree lifestyle, for the last eight years.
I was turned away, sad, cold and dejected. I walked the half hour journey to the nearest train station, and made my way home. I arrived at around midnight, knowing that now there would be no trains for me to catch if I failed again, I’d be buggered if I couldn’t help myself now. I tried breaking in again, but damn that door it just stood there in front of me. It was an impenetrable barrier that seemed to smirk a devilish smile at me with it’s shiny letterbox mouth, and it barricaded the way between me and my pants time.
Now it really was getting late, too late to ask my neighbours for help as they all have young children of their own and I didn’t want to wake them. I even asked some passing policemen if there was any way they could possibly help me, but they simply shrugged and turned me away, a fine example of Surrey’s boys in blue. There was one course of action left open to me, find a payphone, any payphone, call a directory services number and ask for a 24hr locksmith.
In today’s modern world though, particularly around here, payphones no longer exist. They’re incredibly rare, and it’s all because of the useless, lifeless lump of plastic that sat in my pocket, in it’s memory it contains every phone number, every contact I would ever need, the details of the few friends I have, the people I know would be able to get me out of this situation in minutes, if only I knew their numbers.

After a lot of searching around I had found an old red phonebox, shining like a beacon in a dark side-street of my hometown, one that I’d never been to before. Suddenly my luck was changing, I didn’t care that it stank of piss, or that drunken passers-by were giving me really funny looks and happily fighting among themselves.
A stroke of luck would have it that the night before when I had been out, I did the typical drinkers’ thing. -I’d paid for all my drinks with notes and had pockets full of change. It was now 2am, but I didn’t care, this piss-soaked cubicle of communication was to be my saviour. £10 worth of change later (phonebooths cost about 10p a second these days) and a nice young man told me to wait by the phonebox, one of his ‘agents’ was going to give me a call when he was on his way, I was going to be saved!
An hour passed, and still I hadn’t heard anything. So I called again, and ten more pounds of change later it’d been confirmed that he was on his way and would be outside my flat in half an hour. I ran home, ran with the joyous enthusiasm of a kid on the last day of school, and five minutes later the most handsome young man I have ever seen in my life appeared in his bright orange van. I had my very own knight in shining armour.
I didn’t catch his name, but by God I wish I had, I will be thanking that man in my dreams every night for the rest of my life. He whipped out a massive tool, and a power drill that oozed sex appeal, I wanted that handsome boy-child to penetrate my lock alright, I wanted him to penetrate it HARD.
Unfortunately he didn’t use his mighty weapon, the whole process took less than two minutes, and he didn’t even have to install a new lock. I was overjoyed, shocked, surprised and impressed by just how quickly he’d managed to force his way into my private area. I did a little dance and clapped and ‘yay’-ed inside.

Then my dark-haired, noble rescuer said, in his gruff and manly workman’s voice, ‘The agency ain’t expecting me here for anuvver twenty minutes,’ I looked into his warm brown eyes inquisitively, ‘if we don’t fill out this form, you can give me a hundred quid cash in hand, we’ll say no more about it, and all you have to do is call the agency again to cancel the job.’ My phone was already on charge. ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘we fill out the form, you pay me two hundred quid for a minute’s work and I’ll have to add VAT and install new locks.’
He got his £100 cash, and a very grateful handshake before he left, and I retired to my bed for a very lovely, warm, cosy night’s sleep.

So, what was the piece of advice that I’d forgotten from all those years ago? –it could be ‘carry around a list of emergency contact numbers with you, everywhere’, or ‘don’t rely on the police, they’re useless bastards’, but it’s not, it’s something I’ll never forget again, and neither should any of you, it’s;

DON’T FORGET YOUR FUCKING KEYS

Or at the very least have a friend with a spare set, and always, always charge your phone.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 23 Jun 2008, 9:11, 181 replies)

I have never been given good advice by anyone, elderly or otherwise
So I would like to share with you some little gems that I had to learn the hard way. If someone, perhaps a wise old pipe-smoking relative or a Robin Williams type school master, had sat me down and drummed these into my thick little skull, they could have saved me a lot of time, effort and general annoyance.

“Get into a trade or profession as soon as possible or you will end up in a dead-end office job”. I was advised “choose the subjects you are interested in and go to university”. The day after graduating with a Biology degree I was in the job centre signing on for the dole.

“It’s easier to get a girlfriend when you already have a girlfriend”. What’s up with that? Do we give off different pheromones when in a relationship or is it that we have already passed through quality control and are deemed desirable? It’s also easier to get a job when you already have one, probably for similar reasons.

“Don’t be surprised when people are not pleased for your success and are happy when you fail”. This applies to friends, family, partners, co-workers, members of the Samaritans…deep down they all hope that you fall flat on your arse. Get used to it.

“You are your own best teacher”. They say you never forget a good teacher, in that case I’m amazed that I remember any of the useless fucks that “taught” me. Every exam I have ever passed was due to me reading the appropriate books and revising until I went blue in the face, and then revising some more.

“There’s nothing wrong with being single, but people will assume you’re gay”. Nobody ever told me that once you get past 25, if you’re not married, in a long term relationship, seen with women on a regular basis or at least had the common courtesy to have knocked up a past girlfriend, people will take you for a puddle jumper. Look mum, I’m sorry. I know that you want me to meet a nice girl and produce grandchildren for you, but I just can’t be bothered.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 23 Jun 2008, 16:25, 25 replies)

My
granny is a bit of a piece of work. At 91 she's still sharp, lewd and active.

Advice given has included:

"Remember to fuck around a lot, when I was growing up we weren't allowed to" (aged 89)

"Don't trust priests... they're cnuts." (aged 90)

"The best way to get a baby to sleep is to give it gin and milk" (as she was feeding gin and milk to my then 2 year old sister)

"If anyone in Brazil (where we were living at the time) tries to mug you, kick them in the balls till they drop to the ground, then stamp on their throat." (aged 84)

She's also advised me never to do cocaine, and also that marijuana brownies are great.

EDIT: My great uncle also once told me to never try shitting in a wicker waste paper bin. I'm not sure how that topic came up in our conversation.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Fri 20 Jun 2008, 0:51, 4 replies)

Another pearl of wisdom
from my late lamented grandfather ...

"Never pick a fight with the meanest lad in school."

Sadly, this advice came approximately 24 hours too late, when my brother already looked like he'd called Mike Tyson a big poof. And lived to regret it - but only just.

wavy lines

Several years later, I was helping out behind the bar in the local rugby club. The Welsh fans were visiting and had set themselves two targets.

1 - Drink the club dry
2 - Proposition the female bar staff

All in good humour of course. They were too nice to be rude when propositioning the bar staff, and we were all just having a great laugh.

The "meanest lad in school" from above was also in attendance that night, but was looking for a fight. With anyone. He was also being insufferably rude to the bar staff and was on his last warning.

He'd worked out who's sister I was, and had laughingly told everyone in earshot how he'd "mangled" my brother several years before. The advice someone, anyone, should have given him was,

"Don't piss off the barmaid when the visiting Welsh have made friends with her"

Having not had this advice, he pissed me off completely and I put my masterplan into action. Moving further up the bar, I slightly tearfully, asked if anyone needed served. They all demanded to know who'd upset me. I told them. I pointed out the offender.

He was removed from the bar with surprisingly little fuss, and summary justice was meted out in the car park.

Revenge truly is a dish best served cold.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Mon 23 Jun 2008, 16:02, 9 replies)

Advice my current self would give to my younger self.
My early teens:
The reason you get picked on on the school bus is because you over-react to being teased. Take a step back and look at the problem objectively. In fact, look at your whole life objectively. Remember, your perception of the world is shaped by your thoughts. If you believe this, you will start thinking more positively and adopt a more positive attitude to life. And don't worry; you will eventually lose your virginity.

My final years of school:
Be yourself. If you don't know what sort of person you are, find out by trying new things and talking to more people so that you know how to be yourself. Telling people about your achievements does not make you an egomaniac. Also, being shy is not all bad news - you had more time to get to know yourself and your uniqueness has had extra shielding from peer-pressure. And don't worry; you will eventually lose your virginity.

On entering University:
It's a good thing that you're keen on expanding your interests, meeting new people and broadening your mind, but just don't be feeling insecure about missing an opportunity to go out drinking with your shiny new friends. If you've got work to hand in, don't leave it to the last minute in case your insecurity about missing a night out gets to you. University is a good place to ditch your shyness, just don't try too hard - there's so many opportunities that you don't have to try and take each and every one. And don't worry; you will eventually lose your virginity.

While waiting for my first job:
Be persistent. Keep learning new things relevant for the job. Keep sending off job applications, going to interviews and learning. Wash, rinse, repeat. It's what you want to do so don't lose focus. And don't worry; you will eventually lose your virginity.

On getting my first job:
OK. So you've been given the job. There's no need to keep showing off. Yes, selling yourself to employers is a massive mind-fuck, but now you've started, just get on with the job. Chill out and don't scare your new work-colleagues down the pub. Try not to take your employment for granted - you're paid to do work, not be part of the 'posse'. And don't worry; you will eventually lose your virginity.

On getting my second job:
It's good that you're aware you'll scare your new work colleagues with your enthusiasm and that you're toning yourself down, but don't expect to be accepted into the 'fold' immediately. Be patient and you'll feel more relaxed with everyone, otherwise, you'll be defined as ‘quiet’, which will stick with you. And don't worry; you will eventually lose your virginity.

The morning of the day I lost my virginity:
Don't have a wank this morning and don't get too wankered tonight.

Length? Couldn't get it up at first.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Tue 24 Jun 2008, 16:08, 5 replies)

My gran
after I showed her how to operate her microwave for the umpteenth time said to me "You learn something every day" then paused and followed it up with "and then forget it every night"
(Dromedary, Thu 19 Jun 2008, 20:27, 2 replies)

Here's some advice for you: enjoy your summer with new and fun activities.
I just wanted to share with you a great new summer activity for the entire family: Squirrel Teleportation!

And how does one accomplish this, you ask? Why, nothing could be simpler! All you need are the following:

-a birdfeeder that squirrels know about
-a yard full of squirrels
-a Havahart trap
-some peanut butter
-a car

Options include:
-kids
-a small hyperactive dog who loves to chase squirrels

Set up the trap near the feeder. Bait the trap with peanut butter- it’s fragrant and sticky, so it will attract the squirrels but not be easy for them to steal. Sit back and wait for a bit.

After a while the squirrels will notice this new thing in the yard and will at first be leery of it, but after a time they’ll get used to it- and smell something appealing inside. When they go to investigate a sudden clang behind them will announce the beginning of their trip!

If you have kids or a small hyperactive dog (a Jack Russell terrorist is ideal), they will let you know when the squirrel has been caught. At this point you may be well advised to keep said children and/or idiot dogs at bay while you go to check. But once you have ascertained that you do indeed have a squirrel, you can let the kids and/or the idiot dog go check it out- but only for a moment, as the squirrel will not see the humor in this situation.

After you’ve peeled the idiot dog’s nose from the cage and banished it indoors, you can take the cage to the waiting car. During this walk you may taunt the squirrel to let him know just where things really stand. The word “pwn3d” may be used if the mood strikes.

Put the trap in the back seat of the car with the opening facing the door. The squirrel may try to take revenge by leaving a few fragrant reminders behind, so newspaper on the seats is recommended. Drive the squirrel a mile or two away, pull off to the side, open the door, bring the edge of the cage to open space, inform the squirrel that he has tasted the last of your goddam strawberries, then open the end of the cage. Watch for the vapor trail as the suitably chastised and pissed-off squirrel heads for the nearest cover.

Repeat as needed. Because as far as the other squirrels are concerned, that other one just vanished! Poof, and he was gone! But hey, what’s this metal thing? And what smells so good inside it?...

It makes for a wonderful game. We have:

-the Baiting of The Squirrel
-the Capture of The Squirrel
-the Taunting of The Squirrel
-the Transporting of The Squirrel
-the Launching of The Squirrel
And finally, start of the game all over again.

Bonus points if the idiot dog smells the squirrels inside the trap after you've released them, goes inside to sniff around and gets caught in the trap. At this point you can indulge in the Taunting of The Idiot Dog, and the term "pwn3d" should definitely be applied.

I can already tell you how my summer will be spent!
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Sun 22 Jun 2008, 17:08, 10 replies)

This one made me feel uneasy
"Never look at your mum when she's eating a banana."
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Fri 20 Jun 2008, 11:48, 1 reply)

Aww, bless
Soon after Mrs. Lustfish and I started dating, it was time to meet the family. They're a Yorkshire matriarchy, and don't like outsiders too much. I am a South African and speak posh, like, having learned English in boarding schools.

The future Mrs. Lustfish started telling the family about me, for I was to be visiting that weekend. Her Grandma was the best. What's he like, where's he from, etc etc. Upon hearing that I was Sarf Effrican, she apparently uttered the immortal line:

"He's not a darkie, is he, dear?"

(I'm not.)

With that story to fortify me, I sallied North to meet them all for the first time. Their way is to assemble the entire family and then examine the new specimen, deciding whether to kill and eat him now, or later.

Now I should point out that the missus had also described me as chatty, witty and sociable. So expectations were high.

I sat in this room full of Doncaster folk and hardly said two words. The "looks" started to pass between the family, and eventually the missus hauled me (alone) into the kitchen - hissing "why aren't you saying anything?? You're making an idiot of me!!"

To which I could only reply "I can't understand a bloody word anyone's saying!". A bunch of Yorkshire folk, speaking Yorkshire to this posh lad, and speaking it very fast; I could only catch one word in five. The missus found this hilarious, and went back to the family to tell them.

So I come back into the room, and Grandma walks over to me, and says, very slowly, loudly and clearly, "would you like a cup of tea, dear?" - as if to a monger.

Mrs LF and I have been together for 11 years now, and Grandma still speaks to me as though I'm just a little slow (and excuses me to her friends upon introduction). I even understand Yorkshire now!
(lustfish, Fri 20 Jun 2008, 0:09, 4 replies)

Fatherly Advice On My Wedding Day
"Son, now you are married, you must learn this important lesson on dealing with a Wife.. if you are going out for a night on the ale, tell her you are coming home an hour or two later than you actually intend to.. that way, when you arrive home 'early' she'll be delighted that you've cut short your night out to be with her"

And I tell you what, it works every fucking time.
(Pesky Young Scamp, Thu 19 Jun 2008, 23:17, 6 replies)

Advice from my granny - pearoast
"Never chase after a bus or a girl - another one'll come along soon enough!"

Consequently, a large proportion of my adolescence was spent standing at bus stops in the pissing rain, with a raging hard-on.
(apologies_for_length, Tue 24 Jun 2008, 13:30, 3 replies)

My grandmother
was from Belgium, born in 1895. At the start of the first world war the Germans invaded right past her front door. The day before the battle the local council were warning everyone to get out and evacuating the children. Her family chose to go to France, but she refused and chose to evacuate to England, despite not speaking any English, and not having any family or friends go with her. The whole of her family was wiped out, she survived. She never went back to Belgium for the rest of her life.

In England she met a nice young army sergeant. He was posted to India a few months after they met, and she decided to go too. The rules said only married women could accompany soldiers, but there wasn't time for them to marry in England before he left. It took several months before she could get a ticket, but as soon as she could she travelled by boat to India. Once there, despite only having known him for a few months, and having been separated for some months, she had to marry my grandfather within 24 hours to be allowed to stay with him.

They lived in India for several years, and she had three children. The first died of TB at the age of a few months. The 3rd, my father, was very ill and constantly crying: my grandmother was exhausted and couldn't take any more. Only her 2nd child, my aunt, pleading with her prevented her from killing the screaming baby, who happily grew up to be a healthy young man.

She left India with the 2 children, the youngest only 6 months old, travelling without her husband who travelled with the army. She arrived back in England in a very cold winter with only the light clothes she had from India, but she and the children made it safely back to Shropshire by train.

She and her husband lived a humble life, as the pay of a sergeant major wasn't particularly high. However she pushed both children to work hard: both of them won scholarships to grammar school (the only way they could have gone) and later both won scholarships to Oxford.

Her husband died when she was 72. By then she was rather frail, but she carried on. She was run over by a lorry when she was 85 and had multiple injuries, but she fought on and recovered. A few years later she would say 'if I hadn't been run over by that lorry I would be alive today.'

At the age of 97 she couldn't cope on her own any more and moved into a home. One day one of the helpers there noticed she had a slight accent, saying 'shukker' for sugar, and asked if she was German, sparking a vicious response. She died 3 months before her 100th birthday.

She was very proud and opinionated, and treated nothing as permanent. She had no mementoes, even very few photographs, and threw away almost everything when her husband died, keeping only his army medals and the paybook which gave her access to his pension. When my brother's girlfriend moved in with him she refused to stay at my parents' house, standing on Wolverhampton station shouting loudly "I will not set foot in your house of sin!".

Her advice to me: look after yourself, no one else will. Never look back. Don't take risks with money or your health. Education is important.

Sound words, all.
(Smale is stuffed, Fri 20 Jun 2008, 12:00, 3 replies)

Dad's little secret...
My old man always advised me that "If you ever get into a scrap, remember his bollocks are just as soft as yours"

How does my dad know how soft everybody’s bollocks are? And more to the point, how does he know how soft MINE are?
(FerretTrout be illin', Thu 19 Jun 2008, 16:42, 6 replies)

Me grandad, who was mad as a bat and twice as angry most of the time.
Me parents and I call around to thier house one day, and we're sitting around this nice homely table in the dining room. I'm aged 10, me baby sister was 3 and gran was in the room as well, all talking politely. Grandad turns to me during a lull in the conversation and says the following immortal speach;
"You know Jeccy, from all my sons and siblings, it turns out that you are indeed the last of a long line of people to carry the surname of my family. I only realised this upon reflection last night, while looking through all the photos about the house. So Jeccy....I want you to go out there and get fucking."
Gee thanks grandad, sound advice for a 10 year old :D
tis a rp, but it's a goodie
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 19 Jun 2008, 16:35, Reply)

Since we're talking of advice and of music
a reply by the Supreme Crow taking us to this comic reminded me of an incident from about a year ago.

Like most of us, I own an mp3 player. I dumped everything from Windows Media Player onto it when I first got it and carried it with me to work. All was great- it went from Pink Floyd to Herbie Hancock to Led Zeppelin and I was quite happy.

Just one little hitch.

See, some years back when I was separated from the Bagwitch she was in the habit of leaving really unpleasant messages on my answering machine if I didn't happen to respond to her paging me. (Translation: I often returned to recordings of harpy screeches.) One day I played back a particularly angry one and decided to keep it for posterity, in case I needed it in court or wanted to play it back for the family counselor we were seeing at the time. So I opened up Goldwave, initialized an mp3 file, put the computer mic next to the answering machine and recorded it. Then I filed the mp3 away and left it there.

Unfortunately WMP scans your entire hard drive for sound files and puts them all into the library.

So here I am at the office wearing my headphones as I work on a CAD drawing, the last chords of a Sass Jordan song still ringing in my ears, when my ex wife's voice shrieks at me. "It's 5:00 on Sunday night and I haven't heard anything from you since Thursday! You said that you would answer your pager and be available to us! Where the fuck are you? WE NEED YOU! YOUR CHILDREN NEED YOU! When you get this message you'd better get your ass over here!"

My co-workers tell me I turned dead white as I tore the headphones from my ears and sat there, pale and sweaty, for a good twenty minutes with an expression of abject horror etched onto my face. For a fact my heart damn near seized and it was an hour before my hands stopped trembling.

My advice? DON'T TRUST WINDOWS MEDIA PLAYER. It's an eeevil program that will cause you to soil yourself at the worst possible moment.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Tue 24 Jun 2008, 17:55, 14 replies)

Teaching your son how to fight.
My Dad was obviously a master of scrapping - after I got panelled at school his advice was:

1. A good pair of running shoes is better than a good left hook.

2. No one wins in a fight. If you hit him 20 times and he hits you once it still fucking hurts.

3. Our family are too handsome to fight. Leave that to the Uglies.

4. Never start a fight and do everything you can to prevent one happening. If it ends up being the only option and you know that you have done everything in your power to prevent it; pick up the sharpest or heaviest item you can and batter the fucker.

5 Always kick a man when he is down because you probably won't have the balls to hit him if he gets back up.

My Dad was ace.
(Tugnut I got them all..., Fri 20 Jun 2008, 15:09, 3 replies)

How to judge what your girlfriend will look like when she gets old...
This is my advice for all you young men out there...


Yes, I suppose you can judge what your girlfriend will look like when she gets older by looking at how her mother has aged.

However....always, always make sure you know what your girlfriend is wearing when you're staying with her parents....

Why?

Because an affectionate pat on the backside is likely to offend if it's not your girlfriend.


That is all.


This public information announcement has been brought to you on behalf of PJM Red-Faced Productions
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Sun 22 Jun 2008, 17:51, 7 replies)

Sound advice really
.
My dear old gran always told me

"Never chase after a man. Unless he's nicked your purse."

Succinct but worthy, I feel.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 19 Jun 2008, 16:33, 2 replies)

.....Sigh
Dont listen to every bit of advice old people give you.

I once believed what this old guy told me but it turns out he was lying: They WERE the droids we were looking for.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Mon 23 Jun 2008, 9:13, 1 reply)

Don't mention the war!
My uncle John was stationed in Singapore in 1941, just as it was overrun by the Imperial Japanese Army. He was captured and spent the next four years as a prisoner of war being treated as inhumanely as possible by the Japanese and stubbornly refusing to die like pretty much everyone else, despite being shipped off to Burma to assist (under considerable duress) with the construction of a railway line.

He was liberated in late 1945, scarcely able to walk because of severe malnourishment and neglect, before being shipped off home and spending several months recovering.

Now uncle John understandably harboured a certain resentment towards the far-eastern folk responsible for his incarceration. Forty years after his liberation I was given a very stern lecture by my father.

"PJM, when your uncle comes to visit us I want you to remember something. Do not, under any circumstances mention the war, or anything at all to do with Japan".

The morning of my uncle's arrival had both my parents making sure that not only was the house presentable, but every single Japanese manufactured item being carefully hidden from view. The video recorder was covered over (thank fuck our television was a 'Ferguson') and anything looking remotely like a ghetto blaster or walkman was hidden out of sight.

As I stood on the doorstep, waiting for my uncle to arrive, my dad jabbed me in the ribs and hissed in a somewhat threatening tone "now remember PJM, don't mention anything whatsoever to do with the Japanese".

Sure enough, uncle John arrives two minutes later waving at us out of his car window...

Which just happened to be a Mazda 323.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 20 Jun 2008, 0:21, Reply)

I'm sort of old
I no longer qualify for a young person's railcard and I'm starting to hate most new music (all these emo bands sound the same, don'tcha know?) so I guess that puts me on the road to fogiedom.

In my life to date I have been mystified by many things. I think, though, that these mysteries have a common thread leading to their explanation.

Some of these mysteries include:

* Why people are terrified of paedophiles but not worried about driving their 3 tonne 4x4 at 45mph along a residential road.
* Vernon Kaye's career.
* Why people can't grasp the most basic ideas of computing and act as if its witchcraft.
* Reality TV.
* The fact that 20% of people are planning their lives around the zodiac.
* Scientology.
* People who moan about property prices and then furiously oppose any residential development within 10 miles of their house.
* Why, when presented with two escalators, one with people on it and one without, people will jam themselves onto the occupied one rather than be 'different' and and use the empty one (Next time you're on the tube off-peak watch this. I swear its true).
* Why people reply to spam (if people didn't no-one would bother sending it, so someone must be).
* Ditto 419 scams and people who buy £2 "Gibson" guitars off ebay from china with £400 postage and act surprised that they've been scammed.
* People who believe in homoeopathy.
* People who watch, or, worse, agree to appear on the Jeremy Kyle show.
* People who took out 110% mortgages whilst being on benefits "to get on the property ladder".

You'll be glad to hear that I think I've figured out the common denominator for this whirlwind of weirdness, and it's this:

People are fucking stupid.

Not all people of course, the rest are *really* fucking stupid.

I'm with Charlie Brooker:
"I hate people. What's their appeal, exactly? They bumble around with their haircuts on, cluttering up the pavement like so many gormless, farting skittles. They're awful."
(Axeman Jim, Tue 24 Jun 2008, 16:49, 12 replies)

Ok not particularly old....
One of my best friends always used to say to me, "When you haven't got that much time left, you just have to keep things simple". This was a day when she sat me down and told me she had terminal cancer and I cried my eyes out. She was actually refering to us going out and just having fun. But she applied it to all areas and it really worked for her.

Oh and that day we simply donned a couple of her wigs, went to the pub and got thoroughly bladdered because she was trying to cheer ME up.

She was an old soul, in a young body which unfortunately gave out at the age of 32, I read her eulogy at her funeral last week.
(GirlOfTheWorld, Tue 24 Jun 2008, 14:03, 9 replies)