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Pooster says: "When we were younger my little brother had a tantrum which ended when he threw a fork and it stuck in my other brother's cheek for a bit." Tell us your tales of screaming kids, and adults acting like children.

(, Thu 19 Jul 2012, 12:48)
Pages: Popular, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Not quite a tantrum...
...on the weekend my wife went out with her old school friends for a "get together".

"we'll just have a few, I'm not a sad alcoholic like you"

She stumbled home about 2:00 am, chundered all over the toilet floor, pissed herself, then fell into bed and snored like a pig.

I was so fucking annoyed at being woken up, cleaning up her vomit, put up with the stink of piss, booze and farts all night, knowing she'd be hungover in bed all the next day, unable to help look after kids.

I got out of bed, walked around to her side of the bed and wanked into her hair as she slept.


Fucking ruin my sleep, you get cummy hair.
(, Thu 19 Jul 2012, 13:52, 23 replies)
You want a fucking tantrum?

Here's a fucking tantrum...

I fucking love this site.....but…..I increasingly fucking hate all the small minded petty trolls (what other kind is there?) that are slowly and insidiously dominating all the pleasant and fun aspects of this site.
Troll….such a feeble term …it infers cute Scandinavian creatures, instead, in real life you are frustrated control freaks hereby referred to as dogshits.
Complete and utter manipulative control freaks, frustrated arseholes seeking fame in a fishbowl.

Fuck off.

Years of lurking, finally joining up, and then posting a few stories....
It's what I truly love…..writing shit on B3TA, some true, some truly exaggerated, the thrill of writing in the public arena for all to see, copping flack, marvelling at other people's astonishing skills. But lately….shit, whatever I write, some dogshit will post some shitty smartarse comment to make me feel like shit.

So, yep, get fucked you dogshits, you win, you sad fucking killjoys….after a while it gets you down. And no, a black comedy site, in my opinion, doesn’t always necessitate sustained abuse, derision and belittlement to derive humour.
I'm sure the usual baying dogshits will accuse me of holding the high moral ground, but yes, I fucking do so, proudly, because I know that the dogshits seek sad fame in "ignores" and "stepping". Oh for fuck's sake, stick it up your arse. (Collective)

You contribute fuck all (ok, some are funny, most are just inane abuse, worthy of scrawl on the walls of public bogs)……Take a good hard fucking look at yourself and think why you take so much delight in deriding just about every post on here.

Whatever, you deadshits, get fucked.




Thanks for the entertainment, and the brief opportunity to entertain.
(, Wed 25 Jul 2012, 12:15, 132 replies)
*Quack*
I have a few tantrum related stories that will come up later this week (If I get the time). Thought I would start with how I deal with tantrums.

Child related tantrums at casa Bison are usually sorted in a variety of ways, the usual ones where they are put on one of the many naughty steps in the house or sent to bed to cool down are the preferred method but there are a number of alternative options that will only be used when dad (me) is in a mood to really wind up said tantrum thrower and (In my opinion anyway) diffuses the situation a lot quicker.

My favorite one is the penguin button. I first get the attention of the child in question and then make a thumbs up gesture, and every time said tantrum throwing sprog does something they shouldn’t (i.e screams/flaps arms/stomps) I push my thumb down onto my balled up fingers (as if the hand contains a button) and make the noise of a penguin/duck (I will admit that I’m crap at animal noises). I also cannot keep a straight face while I’m doing this as the stupidity of it and the fact that the tantrum thrower seems to get more and more pissed off/confused just makes me laugh.

Example: Daughter is kicking off due to her brother refusing to let her use Batman and the Batmobile as a suitable date for her Hello Kitty* and has gone from 0 to volcano

Daughter: Grahhh ITS NOT FAIR!!!!!!
Mon: Quack
Daughter: RAGGGGHH (Flaps Arms)
Mon: Quack
Daughter: STOP IT!!!
Mon: Quack
Daughter: Mehh LEAVE ME ALONE, stops off upstairs
Mon (With every stomp): Quack, Quack, Quack
(Daughter goes to her bed by herself to cool down and dad plus siblings not involved all laugh out loud at stupidity of situation)

After a few times the kids see me making the gesture and automatically bugger off out of the way as they know what’s going to happen. I love being a dad.

*Actual argument that did happen- I walked in to see daughter screaming that she didn’t want to take hello kitty to fight the Joker and that J (My son) was being nasty as Batman would not batarang the waiter because he brought poisoned bread to the table.
(, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 13:30, 3 replies)
Snivelling epic rant from my 3yr old
As a parent tantrums are almost a part of daily life bringing up 6yr and 3 yr old girls.

Last week our 3yr old gave a monumental strop when we told her it was time for bed. We're talking bright red face, streaming tears, snot, that jumping up and down on the spot thing whilst screaming at the top of her lungs about how she didn't want to go to bed.

I've learnt that giving her a dose of her own medicine and yelling at her doesn't work at all. So I calmed her down enough that there was the potential to talk to one another.

"Why are you behaving like this?" I asked her.

Through short breath snotty snivels she gasped "Because I'm tired!".

I lost it and started sniggering while I said "better go to bed then!" which started her off again.

Trust me chaps, unless you're really really sure about it, don't have kids!
(, Thu 19 Jul 2012, 14:18, 6 replies)
The Ginger Fox was nocturnal,
fortunately so was I. The un-stress of student life enabled me to play Civ II until 2am, and enabled her to have massive late night paddies, safe in the knowledge that I would be around and, being her other half, would have to listen.

That night she started by comparing herself disparagingly to her best friend cum housemate. I nodded and went 'hmm' occasionally. I had found an unsettled island, and sent a ship full of engineers and tanks.

I was going to leave her for someone prettier, and with bigger tits, apparently, she said. I sighed and pointed out that one day, eleven years later, I would refer to her as 'The Ginger Fox' on the internet, and not without cause. I was reassured that I was wrong. One of my engineers built a road, some tanks fortified my new city.

She went through a glossy magazine, pointing to all the things she didn't own that were advertised, like she lived in the third world or in poverty and didn't come from a comfortably-off middle-class family of civil servants. "I've never had a dress like that, I've never had a ford focus, I've never even had multigrain cheerios...". Yes dear, whatever dear. Tanks put down uprising, kill guerillas.

The next day she slept in later than I did, she was even less of a morning person. I had some business out and about. I ended up in the supermarket, spotted something, smirked and bought it. When I got back in, she was in the kitchen, making toast. I opened my bag, put the box forcefully on the table and said sternly,

"Don't you ever say I don't buy you anything". It was multi-grain cheerios.

She laughed and smiled and insisted we both eat some, right now. She said she didn't think I listened to her when she was ranting. She liked that I paid attention. She then insisted that we go to our room and do the thing she only normally let me do on my birthday.

I broke the fourth wall and did a double thumbs-up at the camera.
(, Sun 22 Jul 2012, 14:10, 16 replies)
Just went to see Batman in Denver
They ran outta popcorn, to say i wasn't happy is an understatement but I showed them.
(, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 10:05, 6 replies)

I have worked for many years as a glorified babysitter within the Out Of Home Care sector. I get to look after kids in state-funded homes. These kids are not able to live with their parents/families either because their own behaviour makes them too dangerous for their family to look after, such as when they sexually abuse their siblings, or because their family is unable to care for them, such as when Mum and Dad get busted for pimping their kids for drug money. Occasionally we get kids who simply have no living relatives left who are able to act as guardian, but this is rare. The majority of kids we get are deeply traumatised, extremely emotionally reactive, and hypervigilant, with no impulse control. Despite having more balls and self-awareness than most adults I have met, they can't cope emotionally with the word "No." Bless -em.

They have magnificent tantrums. A coworker (J) once called me in the middle of the night, because the kid she was looking after, high on chrome (paint fumes), had smashed her way through the house with a large, nail-studded "club" she had acquired from a nearby building site. Everything in the house was smashed. windows, oven door, plasterboard walls, tv, fishtank, panels and windscreen of the work car. J had called me for a quick chat to calm herself down while she waited for her line manager and the police to arrive. The kid had, mercifully, chosen to run for it instead of taking the club to J's head. J explained that earlier that afternoon, the manager had advised the hardware shop where this kid had been scoring spray paint, that the kid was using the paint to get high, and asked the shop owner to refuse sale. When the kid had rocked up later to get some paint, the shopkeeper said "no." The kid twigged that her carers had spoken to the shopkeeper to cut off her supply, and she went back to the house and threw a tantrum. This one kid's antics were the stuff of legend within my industry for many years, and I heard a couple of years ago that she has become a well-behaved and functional adult, and a huge advocate for the rights of kids in Out Of Home Care. Quite a 180 turn.

More recently, I have had the pleasure of correcting a kid while he unleashed a stream of verbal abuse at me. He was so apoplectic, the only nouns he could muster were "faggot" and "poofter," while I believed that "bitch" and "slut" would be more gender appropriate. He smiled when I pointed this out. Then he smashed the tv.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 13:17, 7 replies)
When I was younger
I was a very angry kid. One day I was playing Skooldaze 2 on my spectrum, using an old atari joystick (the square one with one red button on the side). I was further in the game than I had ever been, when the joystick started to fuck up. Eric was firing his catapult randomly and sitting down etc. so I was getting told off and ended up getting too many lines and losing the game. I was livid. Absolutely fuming. I ripped the joystick out and started smashing it on the floor. It was however, unyielding as it had a rather thick plastic case. So i took the fucker outside onto the patio and tried to release all my rage by swinging it over my head as hard as I could and hopefully smashing it to tiny pieces. It hit the patio and bounced straight back and hit me square in the forehead. I nearly passed out. So did my brothers who were watching, but that was through laughter.
(, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 13:01, 5 replies)
Mirror
Like most 2 year olds, my daughter was learning the standard tantrum positions quite well. The foot stomp. The exagerated frown. The tears, the hysteria and the snotty nose.

Her best move was lying on her back and kicking both legs up and down. An oldy but a goody. For maximum effect, best done in Mum & Dad's room in front of the mirrored wardrobe doors.

We lost all sympathy when we busted her pausing in mid strop, to check out her own tantrum technique in the reflection.
(, Thu 19 Jul 2012, 15:07, 1 reply)
Perhaps not exactly a tantrum
When I was about fifteen my mum was passing thoroughly through the menopause, and wasn't always easy to live with.

Her: "MATJ GET OUT OF BED RIGHT THIS MINUTE!"

Me: "Mum, I am".

Her: "WELL GET DRESSED THEN!"

Me: "I am, mum".

Her: "WELL GET DOWNSTAIRS AND EAT YOUR BREAKFAST THEN!"

Me: "Mum, you have my breakfast in your hand and I'm standing right behind you".*

...

Her: "WELL WHAT CAN I SHOUT AT YOU FOR THEN?!"




*I had been walking down the stairs during the previous parts of the conversation
(, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 15:46, 2 replies)
The crew were surly, and there were whisperings of mutiny.
The officers gathered at the rough oak table in the captain's quarters. "If we don't raise morale, the crew will revolt," the First Mate said. "We've been lost at sea for too long already, and they're losing faith in us."
"Whip 'em again!" menaced the Captain.
"We can't use the cat on them any more sir," came the reply. "Last time there was a lashing the Flog Master got his arm broken; the men are at breaking point as it is."
"Fuck 'em!" grumbled the Captain.
"We can't sir, we haven't caught a dolphin for weeks, and the blowhole on the last one is torn ragged."
"Get 'em drunk!" growled the Captain.
"Would that we could, and us too sir! But we've no spirits, no ale, no grog left, not a drop to bring that sweet, sweet oblivion."
"Well fookin' THINK OF SOMETHING!" the Captain bellowed. "I'm going for a piss!"

The Captain stormed off to his gaderobe, where the delicate tinkle of urine splashing into the chamberpot rang loudly over the silence around the table.

"BOY, empty that pot!" the Captain thundered as he re-entered the room, buttoning his breeches.

"WAIT!" Shouted the First Mate, rising to his feet. His eyes shone with the mischief of a devious plan. "Bring the pot in here, unemptied. And be quick about it!"

Five minutes later, multiple tinklings could be heard from the Captain's Quarters.

*****

"DRINK UP, ME HEARTIES!" guffawed the Captain, cracking open the wooden barrel. "This is me Special Reserve! I was saving it for a special occasion, but now it goes to you, my beautiful boat-born boys. Drink your fill!"

The crew cheered and descended on the barrel, dipping battered pewter mugs into the frothy brew. "Hurrah for the Captain!" yelled one brave soul as the men clanked their mugs together and quaffed their fill.

Then the vomiting started.

"Wot der fuck is dis?" drawled a thick-set crewman, barrel-chested with arms thick as the mast. "This tastes like piss".

"Piss and paraffin", his weasel-faced deckmate sneered. "Or naptha. These bleedin' officers are trying to fob us off with gutrot while they drink brandy in the mess! Them filthy fucking rotters!" The slow scraping of a steel blade screeched across the suddenly silent ship as a seaman unsheathed his sword.

"Stand back, you brutes, stand BACK!" shouted the First Mate, hand reaching down for his lash. "You got your drink, you drink it. Drink it, I tell you!"

"Shan't", roared the crew as one, as they lunged towards the officers. "'T'ain't Rum! 't'ain't Rum! 't'ain't Rum!"
(, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 8:21, 6 replies)
Glass eye
While working in a school for children with severe learning disabilities, I saw one angry kid take out his glass eye and throw it at the kid who'd upset him. Apparently it was something he did regularly. Lovely.
(, Tue 24 Jul 2012, 3:11, 7 replies)
My girlfriend
went mad when I told her I was under investigation for suspected child abuse.

She really threw her toys out of the pram.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 12:58, 2 replies)
I once got so angry that I beat up an Irishman.
It was a black and tantrum.
(, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 13:19, 5 replies)
I knew that this place was now dead
when it all went apeshit about ‘shed’
What we need is a cull
of the shit that’s so dull
like ‘a surgeon walked into a bed’.

It makes me incredibly bored
Makes me yearn for the days of Accord
And the lies about sex from the shut-ins in specs
or the ‘pimp with the samurai sword’.
(, Wed 25 Jul 2012, 8:59, 6 replies)
Before my sister was born...
...life was grand, I ruled the roost, there was nothing my parents wouldn't do for me, I was their one and only, the twinkle in their eyes, life was good.

Then my mum got pregnant and as any toddler will attest, to me, this just wasn't on, in fact it was crushing.

Suddenly the days of unparalleled love started to wane, my parents time was taken up with painting MY play room pink, moving my toys into my room, rubbing my mum's tummy more than mine, mum not having the energy to chase me around the house as I squealed with joy, basically they stop loving me and caring that I existed.

I knew the good days were up, but I wasn't prepared to let my now neglecting parents off the hook so easily, so one day whilst out doing the weekly shop with my very pregnant mum (she says that my sister was born a couple of weeks after this incident, so she must have been very pregnant - an also very negligent) I made sure she started making time for me again and that others would help fight my cause.

As we queued up to pay I put my plan into action. I threw myself to the floor making sure I slide a good few feet, slid onto my back, reached one arm into the air and pointed my finger at my mum. Mum says that at that moment the world slowed down and just as it sped up again I uttered the words that would be the fatal blow of my plan:

"She pushed me..."

The horror on people's faces I can only imagine, but it worked, a little old lady spun on her heels and said to my mum:

"Just because you're having another one, doesn't mean you should forget about the other"

Win, win, win, win - don't mess with me!
(, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 17:22, Reply)
No-one throws a tantrum like a surgeon.
Wavy lines are for cunts.
Back in my student days I was on my surgical rotation, tasked with getting the punters prep per for the day's surgery. I was advised by the sister in charge 'don't fuck this up, as Mr Cunt the surgeon(possibly not his real name) is notoriously impatient and likes to belt through his morning list as he's got a golf match clinic in the afternoon'.

The list when off with nary a hitch until it came to Mr Niceoldgent, the final punter of the day.
The theatre team had decided to pick him up as they'd just dropped one patient off on my ward and so, rather than go back and wait to be told to 'send' they'd decided to pick up the last patient, perform final checks and send Mr Cunt off to the golf course his clinic in good order.

Sadly, there was a last minute hold up based around some uncertainty as to wether the gentleman in question had in fact, been taking aspirin for a week prior to his surgery, rather than stopping, as is usually advised(aspirin thins the blood and thus causes bleeding, never a great thing to get excesses of in surgery).
The nurse on the night shift had failed to indicate on the patient's drug chart if he'd had it or not and the patient, who was in the very early stages of dementia, couldn't remember wether he'd been taking aspirin prior to admission or not.
Phone calls were made to the gentleman's wife and the nurse who would have been responsible for administering the patients drugs that morning was tracked down. This obviously, takes time.
Meanwhile, Mr Cunt, was getting increasingly restive and, according to a fellow student who was on their theatre placement had, after much huffing and puffing, decided to de-scrub and come remonstrate with 'those lazy fat fucks on Ocelot Ward'.

In retrospect, Mr Cunt's dramatic entry onto the ward, crashing through the double doors at the entrance to the department, whilst shouting the place down would probably have looked a lot more impressive and fearsome had he not been knocked over by Mr Niceoldgent's bed, the query now resolved, on its way, post-haste to the operating department.
(, Sat 21 Jul 2012, 14:03, 18 replies)
I have tantrums online
chavs chavs chavs chavs chavs chavs chavs

I wasn't gonna write this one, but I should probably get it out of my system as it will be cathartic and my limited edition hasbro super Optimus Prime commanded me to. Please bear with me - it's not particularly funny, but I need to vent. It'll probably be a long one, and may contain elements of repostiness, as I probably talked about some of this stuff before.

For a long time I lived on a street in London - the same one as Dr. Crippen, if you can be arsed to check - which was ideally situated (handy for the tube, great pubs, quick walk to Camden, my neighbours were fantastic) except for one thing. As the street had been extensively revitalised by the Luftwaffe's urban regeneration programme during the forties, in the fifties and sixties a lot of council blocks sprung up to fill the gaps. On the whole, this wasn't a problem - my flat was an ex-council place and lovely, it even had a garden, and like I said, fantastic neighbours - but there's always a couple of bad apples that spoil the whole orchard, and they lived in a block just behind mine. So over the four years I lived there I got to witness all kinds of crimes, mostly directed at me, my housemates or the flat itself, as these little scrotes (none older than 15) tried to make our lives a misery. Herein I shall try to document the ways.

It started off innocuously enough, when the morning after I stumbled down to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Filling the kettle and staring out of the window, I spotted a young chav in my garden collecting tea-lights. Those little candles that I had bought 200 for 99p at the 99p shop - these things cost less than half a penny each. Surely the very definition of petty crime. I banged on the window, shouting "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" and the little bugger scarpered over the back fence. I made a mental note to grow brambles up the back fence, and left it at that.

Other things went missing from the garden over the next few weeks - small items often not worth stealing, like a trowel (also from the 99p shop), a gnome (whatever) and so on. In the meantime our sheds were done over and both of my housemates got their bikes nicked. My housemate Claudia had all the windows smashed in her Audi, which cost her a fortune. Things began to escalate.

The gang of chavs would now often hang out in the street and shout abuse at us. When my housemate Kirsten left her keys in the door while bringing in her shopping, they stole them. When Claudia did the same thing a week later while bringing in her bike (it must have taken about 20 seconds) they did the same thing again. We went through three new locks in three weeks, and the guy at the keycutters was becoming a close friend.

Over the years there were times of uneasy truce - they would pass a spliff through the fence, or I'd sort them out with some serious firewood for the Wicker Man-style bonfires that they held on the greenspace behind my garden, but most often the mood between us was one of mutual and barely-disguised loathing.

I credit them with the inspiration for my getting more right-wing as I get older, because while I was once a fully paid-up lefty, I'd quite happily see these parasites and their dolescum parents marched into a concentration camp after being forced to put up with their shit. A case in point - everyone who lived in my flat had a full-time, well-paid job. We paid £400+ per month rent, plus council tax, plus income tax etc. etc. for the privilege of living in the street. Said chavs are all in council places, subsidised or free. Lo and behold, the council comes round and fits all the flats in the street with new extra-tough double-glazed windows - except for ours and the flat next door, because we were the only private tenants. So basically, our council tax paid for the chavs to get new windows while we were left with old-fashioned huge single-pane-of-thin-glass type windows, which their kids used to come round and break for their amusement. I've lost count of the times we had to board them up - the hammer, nails and wood were always kept handy - and sometimes at night when there were 40+ teenage hoodies outside the flat it was like living through the dawn of the dead.

One bonfire night in particular, I had invited over a couple of my Canadian friends - one who had just married an Englishman - to do a proper bonfire night. I cooked dinner, we had sparklers and we let off a few fireworks in the garden. One of our rockets went up and went bang, and suddenly a chav starts screaming at us from the previously-mentioned Wicker Man inferno across the way. "We've got a baby over here! How dare you let off fireworks!"

Now I was perhaps a little naïve here, I was like, "What? It went up, went bang. Unless your baby is on the roof of that block of flats, there's no problem." Also, from where I was standing I could see toddlers carrying lit fireworks, even a dog running around with a fizzing roman candle in his mouth. I shit you not, this kind of thing was incredibly common in the run-up to bonfire night; even the very smallest chavs would be launching fireworks at each other, or us if we happened to be passing. Anyway, I couldn't understand why our small display had caused this proud father to become so protective of his offspring, considering he was standing in what looked to be a warzone.

Anyway, the mood turned nasty and every single fucking chav on the estate started hurling bricks and fireworks at our flat, putting through Claudia's window and throwing fireworks into her room (she was in bed with her boyfriend at the time). Said boyfriend (ex-army) proceeded to the kitchen to arm himself with every big knife he could find and stormed out to get himself some vigilante justice, but was miraculously prevented from earning himself a 20-year stretch by a passing skinhead with a pitbull who said he'd lived in the street for 15 years and it wouldn't do any good, basically talked him down.

We also had our windows put through by other people's garden furniture and fences - just smashed into bits and thrown. We had fruit, 2p coins, bits of wood, stones, cans, bottles, fireworks, obviously, and even on one occasion a housebrick thrown at us in the street. We've had them sneak into the kitchen and steal stuff while we popped upstairs to get something - twice. We've also had the door kicked in twice, both times I was away for the night else I would have been standing there with a cricket bat, ready to welcome the first chav into our house. On the first occasion my housemate threatened to kill them if they came near the house again so they went and put my car window through instead.

A bit later, and after I'd paid the £50 premium, I bought a "new" car (see below), thankfully still had the old one but was going to retire it. The new car had all its windows put through and then was stolen, apparently by someone else, some time after the original vandalism. I mean, who steals a boxy red 1983 VW Polo with the exhaust hanging off *after* it's had all its glass smashed?

They also managed to infiltrate a house party where they managed to fuck up a set of decks and two stereos and nick a bunch of phones and stuff (discovered later) before refusing to leave, upon being persuaded to leave they tipped over our (gargantuan, shared between four flats) bin all over the front garden. On that occasion we had the last laugh though, as present at the party were the entire staff of both the Good Mixer and the Dublin Castle, who are well-versed in dealing with arseholes, and had been watching from the upstairs window. Fifteen or so burly Aussies and Kiwis burst out of the house and made them pick every piece of rubbish back up again.

There is loads of stuff that I haven't even mentioned yet - stealing a stack of SFX magazines from my car and leaving them torn up all over the street, setting fire to a gazebo and bunting we had for a wedding reception (and which was attached to the flat at the time), smashing up my flowerpots and hanging baskets, stealing a £10 Argos drill (but not the battery pack, the bit that makes it work, as it was plugged in at the time), smashing my neighbour's windows with lemons (wtf?) while she was sitting at home alone, putting shit through the letterbox, stealing post, smashing my coldframe, killing my tomato plants, pulling the drainpipes off the building, crap graffiti, untold verbal abuse and threats, the list just goes on and on and on...oh and they tore down the side of my fence (which I'd had spraypainted by an absolute master of his craft with a massive Batman mural) and burnt it last bonfire night.

And where were the police in all this, you may ask. Well, I got to know all the neighbourhood officers quite well during this time, as well as my equally-harassed neighbours, and every time they said the same thing - "Yeah, we know who they are. We know where they live. There's nothing we can do about it." As they were all under 16 they were still classed as minors, and the police were always quick to remind me that assault on a minor carries a sentence. I asked them if a paintball gun could legitimately be used in self-defence against fireworks, and after laughing they said "No sir, I can appreciate it is tempting, but if they are under 16, you'll still be in the shit." So basically there was nothing I could do except try to photograph the little buggers in the act and email the pictures to the police. The best line I think they came out with was after my car window got broken. They said "You know we have a camera on the street now."
I replied: "Great, where is it?"
They said: "It points down the road there."
I'm like: "Great, that's exactly where my car is parked. You should have it all, can we see the tapes from last night?"
They said: "Er, it's not actually a camera. It's just a metal box on a stick. We can't afford a real camera. But it looks like a camera."
Me: "..."
I installed my own CCTV after that.

So, the moral of the story? I've now been living in Buenos Aires for three months and so far I've not been threatened, robbed or assaulted once. Perhaps it has something to do with the armed policeman who stands on the corner by my house, I don't know. All I know is that despite warnings from my Porteño friends that it's a poor area (many, many times poorer than the place I lived in London) and that crime is high, the only actual crime I've seen here is when my friend got his bag snatched from under a table in a pub in Palermo - one of the most touristy areas of the city. I think I'll come back to London at some point, but the proverbial wild horses couldn't persuade me to live in that area again, I'd rather move in with Pete Doherty.

Length speaks for itself.
(, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 14:35, 118 replies)
magic plank
Ever get the feeling there's witchcraft at work? I'm 6' tall and 13 stone, fairly fit from an early career in moving cast steel brackets around a CNC machinery jig (between my Maplin and Flambards career posts) and even so, a 2-year old who doesn't want to get back into a pushchair when asked can be quite a physical challenge. They seem to be able to magically make themselves go as rigid as a plank and so cannot be manoeuvred through the straps to get them buckled in. Damned if there's anything you can do about it other than wait for them to pass out from holding their breath.

The only relief is that holding breath means a temporary cessation of the screeching fit drawing looks from all in a 200 foot radius who assume the child is being murdered.
(, Thu 19 Jul 2012, 15:30, 16 replies)
As a youngster my dad worked in a bank that had squash courts in the basement
One day he was playing his boss, and was most untactfully kicking his arse. When it was about 7-1, his boss started pacing around the court, banging his racket on his hand and his forehead, and shouting, "IT IS NOT THE RACKET'S FAULT, MALCOLM. IT IS NOT THE RACKET'S FAULT."

When my dad won, his boss promptly ignored his own exhortations and smashed the racket straight into the wall, shattering it. Then he stormed out. Dad had to get changed and head up to face him in the office as normal somehow. I would have laughed in his face for a week.
(, Sun 22 Jul 2012, 17:26, 2 replies)
Once
i got so angry as a child i purposely threw all of my brothers toys into the toilet and had a wee on them.
(, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 3:38, Reply)
WHERE’S THE BLOODY CAR KEYS?
Me, my brother and my sister all passed our driving tests within a few months of each other, and having killed our wheels (a clapped-out Renault Four)completely TO DEATH within weeks, we were a one-car family with all the strains this puts on the social lives of three teenagers. The trouble was that my brother wanted the car all the time, while my parents needed it for trivial things like "shopping" and "going to work". Sooner or later, things were going to go - as they say - completely fucking mental.

It started with quiet, reasoned voices, discussing why he ought to use the family car a bit less, contribute to the petrol every once in a while, or perhaps even go out and buy his own set of wheels. Three seconds later came the first "IT’S NOT FAIR!" followed by the first "I HATE YOU ALL!" before a lengthy discussion in which the state of his bedroom and the costs involved in feeding him were pointed out. This led to to the first "I DON’T HAVE TO LIVE HERE YOU KNOW!" and another "IT’S NOT FAIR!"

Out of the house he stomped, slamming the front door almost off its hinges with a hearty "RIGHT! I DON’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS CRAP, I’M GOING OUT!" aimed at anyone who was listening.

A peaceful calm descended over the house. The dog came out from behind the sofa. A small herd of deer flitted across the garden.

Slowly, the front door opened again. My brother, with storms of anger still swirling over his brow crept back into the house.

"What do you want?" asked Mum.

"WHERE’S THE BLOODY CAR KEYS?"

Full 12-inch remix what I wrote [gulp] ten years ago when I was a famous HERE
(, Thu 19 Jul 2012, 13:46, Reply)
You know what prima donnas musicians can be?
Well, when I was in a band, the drummer was a complete knob. Everything had to be exactly the way he wanted, or he'd go off on an enormous strop.

Well, he'd ordered a new custom drum, in fire engine red. But when it arrived, it was beige.

Oh, he went mental. He shouted, screamed, and then chucked the offending item across the room.

That's right - he threw a tan drum.
(, Wed 25 Jul 2012, 13:06, 7 replies)
My sister was a typical teenager - ie - horrible.
One day when she wouldn't get into line, my father threatened to come and pick her up from school wearing a silly hat.
(, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 14:08, 7 replies)
My wife announced, mid flounce,
that she refused to argue with me if I was "going to be logical about it".

She didn't talk to me for about a day, result!
(, Thu 19 Jul 2012, 16:39, 9 replies)
Poor career choice?
I was riding the bus in San Francisco, doing the tourist thing and, annoyingly, missing my first actual earthquake* amongst the normal bouncing and jolting.

Suddenly, I realised that the bus had pulled over to the side of the road, and the engine had been turned off. The driver was sitting with her arms folded, staring straight ahead. We didn't appear to be at a bus stop, and the other passengers seemed equally baffled.

Eventually, one of the braver passengers cautiously approached the driver, and very politely asked if there was a problem?

The driver, still staring straight ahead, gruffly replied, "I don't like people talking behind my back!" An interesting complaint for someone whose job requires them to spend their entire shift sitting in front of hundreds of people, I thought.

No amount of encouragement would get her to resume the journey, and eventually the bus company sent another bus to pick us up, and some burly medical orderlies to deal with the still scowling driver.


* A 4.3: totally ignored by the locals, but personally I was pleased to feel a 4.7 a few days later
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 11:16, Reply)
I ONCE GOT SO MAD
that i had a cup of tea until it all blew over.
(, Thu 19 Jul 2012, 18:15, 3 replies)
Don't swing your pole where it isn't wanted.
Not mine but my missus.
We went to the pub 1 night with 2 other couples - my mates and their missus. We were sitting at a table next to the pool table. It was our local and altho the boys knew each other fairly well - fishing trips etc. the ladies were not so well acquainted.
After a while the blokes decided we needed some green smokers re-leaf *MASSIVE DRUGS*. So off we toddled to my place to locate pipe, cone and etc.
As we returned we passed a cop car in the carpark. Que?
And then all 3 ladies appeared out the front of the pub, quickly jumping in and urging me to "FLEE, FLEE, FLEE". (I was skipper). Off we went home to finish our evening.
Us blokes were somewhat perturbed as to what went on, but as the night wore on the story emerged.

Apparently after we left some bloke started swinging his pool cue whilst playing (Tom Cruise style) - swinging it very close to the 3 ladies at the table nearby. He was asked several times to desist by all the ladies at the table & he ignored them. He then continued to swing his pool cue around.

Cue my missus standing up and shouting at him to stop. At which point he threatened her with the pool cue.
So.
She punched him in the nose.
In front of the entire pub. Including his girlfriend who happened to be working behind the bar.

He started crying. Apparently like a little baby girl.
In front of the entire pub. Including his girlfriend who happened to be working behind the bar.
So.
His missus called the cops. & that's where we entered the story.

TL;DR?

My missus has a mean right hook.
(, Wed 25 Jul 2012, 10:49, 7 replies)
I shared a flat with bloke training for the Barcelona olympics swimming.
This was last year but he still wouldn't listen. Actually, it must have been around 1990. Anyway, he had a good looking and rich girlfriend, but the general consensus was that she was fucked in the head. Fatal attraction fucked in the head. As what happens, the attraction of sex and driving her daddy's BMW slowly paled compared to the awful reality of her craziness. He decided he was going to dump her. I was either coming back from uni or more likely the pub that afternoon when on the pavement in front of our shitty flat I saw a man struggling to walk, dragging a lying woman holding onto his ankle screaming, "Don't leave me! Bob (not his real name), I love you! Don't fucking leave me!" and so on.
Not wanting to get involved, I stayed over the other side of the road. Her banshee screams having little effect, she tried this bombshell: "Bob, I'm pregnant. It's yours". This stopped him cold, and he asked her to come back in the flat with him. About 10 minutes later, I heard him yelling and he stormed out the front door with a face like thunder. Her wailing started up again and there was the sound of breaking glass. I went into the flat to find she'd hurled my microwave at some shelves and was smashing my crockery. I had to physically restrain her, grabbing her wrists. It was like dealing with a possessed woman. I was dirt poor at the time, and while what little we had was worth squat-all, I didn't want some crazy bitch busting it all up. I pushed her out the front door and she screamed that I'd broken her hand closing it. It was a ruse. I opened it again out of concern and like a shot she was in again trying to do more damage. I had to tackle her and push her out again, where she spent a good 15 minutes banging on the door and screaming abuse.
I found out later a skeptical bob had said he wanted a paternity test, after which she'd confessed she wasn't really pregnant. Whereupon he'd said he never wanted to see her again for the rest of his fucking life. Ahhh, young love.
(, Mon 23 Jul 2012, 18:14, Reply)
duffy and the wart
duffy, a lad i grew up with, was an unstable and large ginger nutcase. he lived with his overindulgent grandparents and was used to getting his own way, so he would throw massive tantrums wheneve he couldn't have what he wanted.
despite looking like a shaved Bungle, he believed himself to be utterly irresistible. so, when he developed a wart on the underside of one nostril, we took the piss mercilessly, as only children can. after a couple of days of this, he finally snapped. screaming at the top of his voice that we were all bastards, he gripped the offending wart and ripped it right off.
warts bleed a lot.
if he'd left it, it would have eventually gone by itself. he could have had it removed by a doctor, even. instead, his nostril became very infected and looked utterly disgusting for weeks.
(, Sun 22 Jul 2012, 16:18, 7 replies)

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