I have a whiskey tin...
That a friend brought me from Ireland. We finished the bottle in a sitting two weeks before he and I parted ways. I used to think that goodbyes were too painful - you know, take only memories, leave only footprints? So when I left that place I said goodbye to one person (an ex with whom I parted on good terms)and left almost everything behind, parceled out to friends and neighbors "nah, I'm gettin' new stuff." The box I kept, because I was looking for a place to keep some memorabilia that packed easily. In it: Coins from many nations, some of which I have been to, including antiques and some defunct money systems (Irish punts, Italian Lire, Korean Won and so forth), a pack of matches, a gymbal, a bearing, a birth certificate with my adopted father's name on it instead of my mother's first husband, unit patches and stickers, a stone bear, a picture of me and my sibs when I was 12, a picture of my wife as a teenager, a vial of turquoise from Phoenix, A very heavy silver necklace I bought in Texas, a dragon pendant I found in a public pool in South Carolina, a four-leaf clover I found in New Mexico, and an antique-finish pinky ring my grandmother gave to me at my grandfather's funeral that used to be his. It's a strange piece, definitely belongs to the Jet Age cocktail hour bachelor lifestyle that my grandfather was known for, even after he married my grandmother. It is just understated enough to not be tacky.
I take this box out every once in a while when I want to remember the people I met and left behind, and wonder if they remember me. The rest of my crap can burn, but the box goes with me. Ecch, that's maudlin.

Sorry.

I wouldn't take the cats - but the wife would probably ask me to go back and get them...and I would, because deep down, where it really, really counts, I am an utter idiot.
(aeon chicken Like the Millenium Falcon, only slower and noisier, Sat 10 May 2008, 6:47, Reply)

A fake Stradivarius violin
Brought back by my great-uncle after World War I. It then belonged to my grandfather, who was killed by a drunk driver 30 years before I was born. It was then passed on to my uncle, who had it appraised ($1000, not that it matters). After he died it was passed to my father. It's technically not mine yet, but I cherish it - every once in a while I sneak it out of my dad's closet and just hold it. It's beautiful and I want nothing more than to have it fixed up and polished and learn to play it.
( trintrin has jam for blood, Sat 10 May 2008, 3:33, Reply)

These stories are so sappy and sentimental.
You wusses. ;]

I think I would save my guitar. Ever since I was little, my dad has played guitar. Then, when I was 11 or 12, my daddy bought me a guitar of my own. It's not great quality, it's an Epiphone Special. But I love that thing. It was memories of sitting on the couch with my dad, when we were close, and him teaching me simple chords. Now I go to 'proper' guitar lessons, but those memories go with the guitar, and I would hate to lose it.

Or my DS. Hooray for my DS.

No apologies for length. You slags love it.
( Killerkitti Like my coffee black, just like my metal, Sat 10 May 2008, 2:46, 1 reply)

Can I put this here?
Will it fit properly?

Ah, fuck it, if this doesn't fit properly I'm sure people'll let me know.

Anyway; if my home caught fire, as I said, I'd take my laptop. This is, as many others have indicated, because it's not only the most expensive thing I own in this house, it also contains a lot of memories. Photos, documents, a vast music collection, typed-out thoughts; things like that. Back in February, my old, ailing laptop caught fire in my lap, and I lost a lot of things as the hard drive burnt. Some was recovered, but there were pictures of me from when I was a baby. The original hard copies have been lost for a while, so I kept these 'soft' copies somewhere I thought they'd be safe, because, if my house ever catches fire, I told myself, I'm taking my laptop. The irony as my laptop burnt was delicious, but it's led to me backing up everything on this new machine, as well as being more careful now with hard copies of old photos and letters and suchlike.

Speaking of which; I have a box. In this box, I have kept every birthday card I've ever received^* since I was 10 (I'm 21 now), both Valentine's Day cards, and a collection of love letters I was sent by my last girlfriend. When she was prevented from getting to a computer or phone for months at a time, those letters helped a lot. And, seeing as I've been single since that relationship ended in 2005, it's good to read over them and remember happier, more comfortable times.

That said; there's also a list of things I wish I'd kept. Things that I would treasure if I got them back, but which I foolishly got rid of in anger, or childhood stupidity.

*Top of that list, is a birthday card I got from my friend on my 13th birthday. It was orange, had a picture of a car on the front, and has the usual plain sentiments of well-wishing inside. One day, I fell out with the friend who'd sent it. So, in a stupid moment of 13-year old naïvety, I ripped the card up and threw it away. I wish I hadn't, because Richard later helped me through quite a tough time in my life, and I always felt guilty for not keeping that card. I never told him about throwing it away. Stupidly sentimental, maybe, but I'm still angry at myself for it.

Oh, and my glasses. They'd be useful if I needed to escape a fire.
( Thinker, Sat 10 May 2008, 1:54, 1 reply)

where's my bloody watch?
everyone else has been handed down a watch. i feel deprived.
(ladyintheradiator, Sat 10 May 2008, 1:41, 2 replies)

Nintendo
My most treasured possession is a Japanese playing card from the original headquarters of Nintendo in Kyoto. I was there the week before it was finally demolished, and although the card is no great shakes, it reminds me of my amazing once in a lifetime trip to Japan.

The building was really innocuous too!
(Waspard has your wank bank account details, Sat 10 May 2008, 1:22, Reply)

3 types of b3tard
last weeks question lit the board up with passionate posts/rants. this week the response has been less dramatic. from what i can see, it would seem three types of b3tard are apparent

1. i love that watch, teddy, sentimental item in my possession - regardless of it's value

2. i love my laptop, PS3, bike, car, etc. it's valuable but with some hassle i can replace it

3. i have no time for material things but i love my memories, photos, etc (not so much them but the feelings they envoke) so to me they are irreplacable

but the thing that seems to run through many posts is that if they do go, it's tough but we get over it and plod on. some might say thats life, but it's not - many lives fall apart. we all have 'black sheep' - alchoholic's, suicides, the pervy uncle or other assorted fuck-ups in our lives and families. so all the people on this board that have gone through dramatic losses of one sort or another - legless has had it tough and so have a few others...

for a bunch of apparent loosers tapping away in the night or avoiding our jobs through the day...

were doing just fine.

ps i cant spall cheok this because i'm using mrs spimf's horrible little plastic laptop and i cannot be arsed with it - even the nasty little fragile plasticky keys bug me, so maybe i'd take a view on flames/heat/lovely smooth 17'' mac powerbook if pushed
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sat 10 May 2008, 0:15, 2 replies)

My Clipper
I bought a garishly hand painted Clipper lighter for a pound, from a hippy market stall nearly twenty years ago. Then I lost it whilst visiting a friend in Texas. At that stage, it was merely a garishly painted disposable lighter so I moved on and went through a string of other lighters, mostly Clippers, but I experimented with other brands too. I was unable to form meaningful relationships with lighters, as people kept stealing them, or occasionally they would run out of gas and I simply couldn't muster the effort to get a can of butane. I was a mess.

A couple of years later however, my friend arrived in London from Texas, saying he had a surprise for me. With a flourish, he produced my old Clipper. He says it must have fallen down the side of his sofa, but I think he stole it, only to be overcome by remorse later on.

In the years since, my friend and I have shared the responsibility of looking after the lighter - every time one of us travels to visit the other, we've performed a ceremonious hand-over, and the other person has then been in charge of it for the year or two until our next meetup. It's been to Glastonbury, Burning Man, all round Europe, Mongolia, New Zealand, and dozens of times across the Atlantic. I estimate that it has clocked up well over 100,000 airmiles, and I am currently in discussion with Norris McWhirter as to whether it gets in the Guinness Book of World Records for the most travelled disposable lighter.

It still works, although it is only now used on very special occasions to light very special types of things. I believe it is on its third or fourth sparky wheelie flinty bit, but the original garishly painted body is still in serviceable order.

I have only been in possession of my most treasured item for roughly ten of the last twenty years, but it will be buried with me when I go.
(se8card, Sat 10 May 2008, 0:01, 2 replies)

This is going to sound utter shit
But it's be my PC. Not the monitor or the accoutrements, but the system box. Now please allow me to explain.

I grew up in the 1980s, and at a time when (without knocking them) my parents' chosen careers had been struck from the record. We had some hard times. If you've never waited yearning in January for the gas meter to be emptied and the back-adjustment to be calculated you'll have a rough time understanding this.

After picking a couple of a-levels up at college I didn't really see the point of continuing on an academic career and took a few years off, to bum around on crap jobs and see where the winds blew me.

It all went to shit, I couldn't afford the upkeep on the car I was driving and I accrued a shitload of fines. It caught up with me, and in 1994 I was sentenced to a few weeks in a local jail.

While I was there there was a choice that was pretty much forced on me - I could interact with the protochavs there and discard the things I believed were important, or I could ignore the taunts and aggression of the losers I was blocked with and just deal. Being an antisocial twat I decided on the latter.

To reiterate - I had been born of a working-class family whose aspirations had been pissed away by the current government; I'd then had a number of years of subsistence living before my short sharp shock.

A few weeks after my release I discovered the doyen of computers - the 386. The extent that the machinery had moved on from my days of pissing about with pascal on a prime minicomputer for my a-levels floored me. I knew then and there what I wanted to do with my life.

In those days, there wasn't quite the same hobbyist PC-builder market there is now. PC cases were filled with shrapnel and evil; any change was more customarily performed via manipulation of dip switches or jumpers rather than BIOS screens. Notwithstanding, I upgraded a couple of 386s to one 486 (Cyrix 486-133) and a Pentium, and was given the castoffs for my trouble.

Being on the dole it took me an age to put together the £30 for a case and the £90 for a 14" CRT monitor, but I eventually managed it. It took more blithering and obsequious attitude, but I finally got on the rungs back into work and worth.

In the 14-years or so since I built that machine, it's been with me. It's been upgraded countless times - sometimes the mainboard and processor; sometimes new discs; occasionally new optical burners (I had an expensive SCSI habit in the late 90s). But that machine has been constant to me for that entire length of time.

When my ex left me, that machine was there - reminding me that I was still able to do something. When my grandparents and the last of my parents died, I still had evidence that some things could endure - and that I could assemble them. During all of the low days when I feel battered down by the general shitness of the world I look at my fifteen year-old box and am reminded that I still have some power to affect the chaos around me.

And it is for this reason that I would exert my all to retrieve my PC from a burning house. No customised dell box could provide the same experience, ever.
(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_ =o.o=, Fri 9 May 2008, 23:53, 5 replies)

fuck me

fuck me tender , fuck me sweet, never let me go ey ? haven't logged in here in nigh on two years and lo and behold but the old username and password still permitted access. ... there's technology for you... mind you I went to open a credit union account the other day at the local from home where I haven't been in 18 years and they had me old account on hold but ready to go !

Favourite possesion... An old Paul Robeson record that belonged to the old fella since passed into the ether. I play it when shattered from all the living business and it always works. I keep it with all my other records, mainly techno and they are currently in a friends house with his collection. For while it is a favourite possesion and I'd be gutted to see anything happen to the old thing, it must still be played at parties when they happen - a few Paul Robesons on the morning after touches everybody. I have faith that it will never be broken or lost. You got to have faith. Summers coming on strong - party season for us all !

hardly drink these days , but its 11:15 pm and I'm at work and a bit sweaty - having a drink tonight... mind yourselves ,

J
(The Cats Twat, Fri 9 May 2008, 23:11, Reply)

It has to be
The guitar I got personally from Green Day when they played a festival here in Denmark (roskilde Festival). It happende in front of a crowd of almost 50000 ppl... Even though it's a shit guitar, it's still the thing I tresure the most of all.

Lenght? About 24 frets...
(TomPivo but at least I'm not you, Fri 9 May 2008, 23:10, Reply)

Not me, but someone else...
Back when I was in my acne-ridden female-fearing adolescence, we were paying a regular trip to my grandad's in beautiful Kirklees when he enquired to me and little brother if we'd like to go to his mate's house to see his fancy new car.

Now, my grandad drove a Reliant Rialto 2 and generally obsessed over Reliant altogether, so despite our willingness to appease Grandad's obvious excitement, my brother had a sense of a dread over what would be the longest hour in the world spent looking at a classic 1976 Reliant Robin or something along those lines.

After about 20 mins walk through the hills round the back of the village we get to this shed/barn/garage thing.

Upon arriving, my grandad turns round to me and our kid and gives us 'the Scarborough warning' (if you're not from Yorkshire, look it up) and tells us that we're not to tell anyone about what we're about to see.

Now, if you're 14, in the middle of nowhere with your Grandad telling you not to tell anyone about what you're going to see, you'll be forgiven for trying to remember what the number for Childline is and questioning whether social services are really that bad.

Anyway, my Grandad's mate turns up, gives me and our kid a brief 'hey up, no word of this to anyone...' and opens up the front door to the outhouse.

And what do we see, but some blue rust-bucket car, clearly very old and had seen better days. Frankly unimpressed, the Scentless siblings go for a run round in the old banger, laughing at the feebleness of the engine and a ride that could only be described as traumatic.

So, the car gets put back in it's place, we saunter off back to my grandad's and we're reminded of our pledge of secrecy.

A month later, my brother and I are watching Top Gear (the old version) when what should I see but the very car we were scuttling about in being covered in a feature about classic British marques.

Turns out, the bloke we'd met that day at my grandad's wasn't some random welder that he used to work with, but the proud owner of one of the first TVRs ever built. Apparently worth millions, the car was, according to the programme, kept in a secret location in West Yorkshire, with a only a privileged few allowed to take a ride in the thing.

Now, there are prized possessions and there are prized possessions.

Funniest thing about it, I distinctly remember turning round to our kid upon our first view of the car and him saying...

"I know what you're thinking, it's a pile of shite, isn't it?"...
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Fri 9 May 2008, 23:04, Reply)

Hmm.
There's this weird little sort of transformer thing that was given to me by my grandfather about 17 years ago - it doesn't have a name.

Basically it looks like a little grey rock, until you unfold this, and unsnap that, and behold! It's a tiny little angry green-eyed robot-thing with ludicrously large shoulders and feet.
I never really thought that I had any kind of attatchment to it, but fiddling with it earlier I realised that it was first childhood toy I have memories of and it's held up to the years suprisingly well; the thought of losing it isn't an appealing one.

So in the event of a fire i'd snatch that and leg it.

Oh, and my external hard drive. Nothing on there's irreplacable, but it'd be a royal pain to have to download 750-odd-Gb of stuff again.
(Sundayturkey has the biggest mug of tea, Fri 9 May 2008, 22:58, 4 replies)

Childhood memories.
I'd take my childhood bed.

My parents never understood why I insisted it be kept, and never understood why - when I moved away from home - I took it with me.

I have a deep emotional bond with that bed. In that bed I dreampt of princes, white horses and dragons, and I wept for the lost love of my first boyfriend. I was 8 at the time.

Memories aside, the foot of that bed has two beautifully varnished posts which rise a proud seven inches from the end bar. The night I discovered I could ride those posts was a long one. I keep it because it is the best sex toy I've ever had, and I'd save it from a fire because I truly believe it's the most satisfying inanimate object in my life.
(Chocolate and Wine misses her bed, Fri 9 May 2008, 22:15, 3 replies)

Vibrator.

( diffy maybs, Fri 9 May 2008, 22:08, 1 reply)

Mrs. Kanga...
Original, I know. My parents bought me Mrs. Kanga (no relation to the Winnie The Pooh character of the same name) and the removable Baby Roo for either a Christmas or Birthday about 24 years ago. Her head hangs at a 45 degree angle due to years of being hugged around the neck and one ear is shorter than the other due to her one trip to the washing machine after I threw up on her.

I still fall asleep snuggling her now following nightmares or arguements with my husband.

Assuming my husband and my rabbit and guinea pigs could rescue themselves, Mrs. Kanga would be the thing I went into the fire for.

Followed by my DS, laptop and Archos........... Not that I'm material. *skulks away*
(Kohoutek, Fri 9 May 2008, 21:57, 1 reply)

This quote sums it all up for me.
“Let your boat of life be light, packed with only what you need - a homely home and simple pleasures, one or two friends, worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, and a pipe or two, enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than enough to drink; for thirst is a dangerous thing.”

Jerome K Jerome - Three Men in a Boat
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Fri 9 May 2008, 21:46, 3 replies)

my daughters birth certificate
when me and my now ex broke up 4 years ago she changed my daughters second name from mine to hers, this is not meant as a dig (tho im not deleriously happy about it) and my daughter is number1 in my life and it hurt at the time and still does but i have the original and its the one thing i would save.
(biscuitracer, Fri 9 May 2008, 21:07, 3 replies)

My ............................................
30F snuggle sacks are my most treasured possession that and my 4th vibrator.
Its a very long story involving burning out the motor on my other 3.
(snugglesacks, Fri 9 May 2008, 21:06, 3 replies)

I say boy.
When my stepdad first came into my life, we never got on. From the moment it was clear that he was around to stay, a constant friction in our relationship as stepfather to stepson made life really difficult in the Scentless household.

Neither of us helped the situation, bickering became something of an artform between us as we'd always find something to moan at my mum about with regard to each other. It caused some very problematic situations as time went on, and now I look back and cringe at how much this happened.

That said, as I got older, things got easier, and we started to reason with each other and I soon came to realise that the reason we clashed so much is that we were so much alike in our personalities.

Anyway, during my A-levels, I went into some sort of metaphorphosis from class geek to class slacker, and my grades dropped through the floor. Telling your mother that you've scraped an E in your Pure Mathematics 1 paper when only a year previous you were an A-grade wonder is not a pleasant experience.

This kept happening, to the extent where my stepdad took me to one side after one too many poor results. Expecting a big row, I went on the defensive and started being a right royal moody bastard with him. To my surprise, my stepdad just took it, and then let me calm down, and said words that still hit home today:

"Thing is Scentless, I had nothing when I was your age, no prospects, no potential, no nothing. You've got the world at your feet, everything that I didn't have, and you're kicking it in the face... and it breaks my heart."

The man, who battled with me for years, started to cry. I started too, finally realising my predicament, and it was from then on a mutual understanding was formed. We never talked of it since, but that moment had it's impact.

I turned it round, got decent grades after all at college, walked into uni, and got top marks in the class in the first and second years. I took off on industrial placement in the third year (see my many mentioned Basingstoke related posts), and my stepdad volunteered to help me move down and get sorted.

The day I moved, we said little on the trip down, and barely more as we shifted my stuff into my new abode.

However, as we finished and he prepared to leave, he motioned to shake my hand, and as we did, I grabbed hold of me and gave me a big (but totally hetero and non-strange) hug, and said...

"I'm proud of you, son."

Well blow me if that wasn't some rite-of-passage moment. It was the first time he'd ever called me son (hell, I've never heard my biological father call me it) and I finally realised that despite all the shit I'd caused for the poor bloke, he'd seen through it and had faith in me.

After that, he departed and I was left to sort all my stuff out.

On my bed, there was a box I didn't recognise, and inside I found a Foghorn Leghorn (you know, the big Looney Tunes chicken) plush toy.

My stepdad's nickname for me is Foghorn because of my loud voice (imagine Brian Glover with the volume turned up to 11) and this was obviously my stepdad's way of having a laugh after all the seriousness of the day just gone. What my new housemates thought of what they thought was a big strapping former rugby player hugging what was effectively a kiddie's toy whilst drooling over the evening's Hollyoaks I couldn't say, but I didn't care, I felt good.

To this day (7 years later!!!) I still have it, pride of place, in my front room. It's a reminder to me that no matter what happens to me, or how I'm like with my stepdad, I know that he'll always be looking out for me. If I lost it, I really don't know what I'd do. I think I'd even state in my will that I was to be buried with it.

Apologies for the shit, overlong, soppy and frankly unfunny story, but it means something to me, and I felt I had to get it off my chest.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Fri 9 May 2008, 21:06, 3 replies)

First anal experience
A lot of people have posted about their most treasured memories so I thought I'd post one of mine. It was when I first tried something anal.

One day while reading about men's health, I read something about the prostrate. I came to the conclusion that this was an alternate means of sexual stimulation for men than penile stimulation. I was intrigued, but at the same time, the thought of sticking anything up my bum, be it a finger, another man's willy or even some woman's strap-on did not appeal to me. But then, I had a brainwave. Naturally, poo comes out the bottom, but what if I make a designer-turd that's specially designed to rub against my prostrate. It would be very solid, with a softer coating on the outside. If I held in the solid turd, it would be widened by amassing a less solid turd to the sides.

The following day, I set to work. For breakfast, I ate an entire box of bran-flakes, a loaf of bread and six apples. For lunch, I went to a fast-food place that had an "all you can eat" offer. By now, I was starting to need a crap, but knew that if I held on, I'd get the desired effect. By dinnertime, my bowels were beginning to feel heavy. To add icing to the cake, I ate a chicken vindaloo.

When it was nearly bedtime, I moved around a bit. I felt something I had never felt before. The rough insides of the core of my super-poo were rubbing against my prostrate while the softer coating was pushing the rougher parts in the right place. After experimenting with different bodily contortions, I found the one that was just right for my current bum-recipe. By bending my pelvis, I found the sweet spot. It would send me into heaven every time I made that special pelvic movement.

While I badly needed the toilet, the stimulation was causing me such great pleasure that I went straight to bed. Further experimentation found the best sleeping position to give me my newly found ecstasy. I kept this up for some time, but inevitably, the urge to go for a crap overcame me.

So I got up and went. However, once my new bum-baby started to move, I felt yet another feeling I had never felt before. As it was coming out, the textured turd was giving my prostate the time of its life. I just had a very big smile of both relief and pleasure. The expression on my face must have been more akin to a cartoon character than a human. The crap seemed to perpetually go on for a long time. I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but I tried to slow down the exiting. Towards the end, the heat of the poo vindaloo was giving my ringpiece a pleasant sensation of fiery heat. Normally, this would be a bit painful but because I was so aroused, it felt pleasurable. There were so many new sensations that I didn’t even think about touching myself, yet I managed to cum. I didn’t remember cumming, but the evidence was clearly there. Gradually, my mind was becoming more and more open to alternate means of anal stimulation. With a warm afterglow from both the vindaloo and my feeling of wellbeing, I went back to bed very content. And that was my most treasured po session.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Fri 9 May 2008, 20:45, 14 replies)

My mum's most treasured possession
My mum has been quoted on saying that her most treasured possession is the tea caddy spoon she got as a wedding present in 1966. It was given to my parents by the elderly couple who ran the B&B in Wales they went to for their honeymoon (no flights to Barbados back then).

It's very small, silver, and with a fuckoff big Welsh dragon on the handle.

She's also been quoted as saying it'd be the only thing she'd rescue in a fire.

At least I know they won't be short of a cuppa as all the family photos turn to carbon...!
(Straightbane is useful! I'm having a wonderful time!, Fri 9 May 2008, 20:40, 1 reply)

my first good electric bass
One for the musos, here: I was about 20, living in South Africa at the time, and finally earning some decent money. I'd learned a bit of bass on a really crappy Fender P-bass knockoff which I had already demolished in frustration. So I went to speak to my local friendly dealer and told him what I wanted:
- get me a Steinberger XL-2 please,
- but make it a 5-string (instead of the usual 4)
- and I want it cheap
He couldn't get me the real thing, but he could get me a Made-in-Japan copy by a company called Hohner, so I went for it.

Anyway, I had only two complaints with the Hohner, one of which I eventually resolved by changing the tuning. For the other: after I returned to the UK in 1991, I took it to the Bass Centre in Wapping and told them to upgrade the pickups. They gave me weird looks, since the EMG pickups were probably worth more than the rest of the bass then, and definitely are by now, but I didn't care.

I now have a newer, more fashionable instrument, but the old bass isn't going anywhere. The new one is still in its teething phase, while the old one is "sorted". I have had it for almost exactly 20 years, and that bass has survived heat, cold, wars, being mistaken for a gun at Heathrow, and the fickle fortunes of fashion. OK, scratch the last one: Steinberger instruments are so far behind fashion that they're ahead, and I expect they will be making a comeback in the next few years, just as Rickenbackers did. Just try and find a Steinberger XL-2 on FleaBay these days, for human-level dosh. (If you have one lying around... can I have it? 8)
( bnt what, me worry?, Fri 9 May 2008, 20:14, 4 replies)

in the spirit of the question
...my most treasured possession is probably my penknife. I've had it for 18 years* now and at the time it was the biggest eff-off Victorinox Swiss army knife you could buy. It was a present from my aunt.

I tinker with things. I need to have some basic tools on me at all times and this penknife serves that purpose admirably. The pliers are invaluable; the pen and tweezers, always useful; multiple screw drivers;corkscrew and bottle opener, savour of many a BBQ and picnic; scissors and blades. Don't have much use for the fish descaler, though. It sits permanently on my belt, a bit like a lightsaber.
It was most recently used to undo the window locks at the local pub because we wanted some fresh air.

Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't risk life and limb to retrieve it, but I would replace it as soon as possible.

*and in those 18 years its only been replaced 3 times. The original was lost during a post A-Level canal boat holiday, v2 was misplaced a couple of years ago but two wonderful people independently saw my sadness and bought replacements v3 and v4. And then I found v2.
(Rich T has a clever and witty sig, Fri 9 May 2008, 19:29, 3 replies)

MY
Copy of finding nemo. My favorite all time film
(conzo21, Fri 9 May 2008, 19:26, Reply)

It would have to be...
.. my collection of "Neil Down - Sex Therapist" DVDs.

I still get misty eyed thinking about all the happy afternoons I've spent in semi-darkness in my lounge with the curtains closed, binging on self abuse to the vista of Neil and his mate Phil Mycock, pleasuring some cheap bottle blonde tart from Essex, crescendoing in a festival of glutenous ejaculate.

I normally echo the action of the film in my lounge, only replacing the visage of a lusty female called Candice for the pale upturned palm of my left hand.

Yes, without a doubt I would rescue those, and my DVD and probably sit in the street as my house burned wanking furiously in front of my astonished neighbours.
(Vic Flange, Fri 9 May 2008, 19:26, 1 reply)