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This is a question Twat Friends

BraynDedd tugs our sleeve and asks: "You know the one, the mate who is guaranteed to ruin every social situation by being an embarrassment/sexist/racist/bellend etc. Tell us about your twattiest mate."

(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 10:50)
Pages: Popular, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I had a friend called Gordon.
One morning he swaggered in looking like he'd just shagged one of the student nurses next door.
'I've just shagged one of the student nurses next door.' He said.
How did you meet? We ask.
'Got chatting over the fence last night.'
But the fence is over six foot and you're a short-arse Weegie.
'Oh. I was perched on the wheely bin.' Gordon explains.
Because ... ?
'Well I couldn't find my keys and I was desperate for a shit.'
 
 
 
So there's a shit in the wheelie bin?
'Aye. A massive one. Anybody want a cup of tea?'
(, Sat 21 Sep 2013, 12:27, 17 replies)
My best mate
is lovely but she gets very nervous in social situations and tends to panic and blurt out the most embarrassing things.
She started repping with a man who happened to be gay. She decided to invite him and his partner to her house for dinner and invited me too for moral support.
When she is hosting something she feels that she has to ensure conversation flows and everyone is getting on, even if there is a crowd of 50.
Anyway, during dinner there was a lull in the conversation and I could see the tell tale signs on her face, twitching, mouth opening and closing and face flushed. I thought "oh no, here we go". She blurted out "So, which one of you takes it up the arse?".
(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 22:48, 2 replies)
When in his late teens,
my mate Nameless Bob spent most of his evenings sitting with a group of his mates in a garage getting stoned, and it was there that he met Davies.

Davies was a bullshitter, one of only two chronic, compulsive liars I have ever met. He did small stuff, imaginary girlfriends he'd talk to on a phone that he'd answered but hadn't rung, but by and large it was industrial strength batshit. He'd been born in the bed next to Mark Morrison's mum's in Ipswich. He failed his basic six-week army training, but in that time had trained bomb disposal dogs, fought three wars and cradled his dying best mate in his arms. During the first gulf war, a scud missile had hit the house where he lived with his grandparents, and was still there, in the loft, despite there being no sign of structural damage on the house. While slobbing in the garage he'd found time to be world amateur rally champion, with Colin McRae as his co-driver, and had become the world's best drummer without owning a kit. He was secretly a multi-millionaire.

One day he dragged Nameless Bob into the pub I worked in. They'd overpaid his dole, and tonight, he said, they would drink like kings. After an hour of drinking stronger lager than he was used to and hinting at free drinks he fell forward and began blubbing like a bairn, unravelling into a great weepy mass of woe. After a few choruses "are you alright?" from Nameless Bob and I, he spat out

"She's got cancer"

For about a year he'd been shagging a much, much older woman from his road, ending her marriage. She had been diagnosed with cancer, he said, and a in a few days time they'd find out how bad it was. He grizzled and sobbed and bought drinks until closing time, while we all swapped 'is it true?' glances.

On the way home he asked Nameless Bob if he would join him in sleeping in a field, so he could get his head together. Bob, erring on the side of sympathy, agreed, and ended up kipping under his jacket in a field in November, while Davies slept snuggled in the army surplus sleeping bag he'd got from his house on the way.

Morning came, and Bob shivered in the frost, unable to feel his fingers. Having had it before, he suspected he had mild hypothermia, and needed to get somewhere warm. As he lay on the ground he saw Davies wake, sit up, and put his head in his hands. He shook his head. He saw Bob was awake.

"I've had some good news" he said "my missus dropped by in the middle of the night, cos she'd just got a letter telling her it was all a mistake and she doesn't have cancer!"

After promising that he wouldn't let on to his missus about the whole cancer thing 'in case it upset her', Nameless Bob went off to get hot food and medical attention.
(, Sun 22 Sep 2013, 13:30, 2 replies)
Fun in the Snow!
First term of university was interesting. I guess like many others in those first few weeks, I made friendship choices that I was later to regret.

I’d come fresh from the Home Counties to some godforsaken Northern hell-hole, dumped unceremoniously into halls of residence, surrounded by every type of regional weirdo imaginable. As luck would have, one such weirdo – a tall, thin scouser called Dan, was in my halls, on my course and had exactly the same timetable as me. This led to him calling for me each morning to get the bus to campus, reserving me seats in the lecture theatre and generally (in his mind), being a ‘mate’.

Not having met any real life scousers before, he unfortunately didn’t adhere to the Harry Enfield stereotype I’d been expecting. Rather than permed hair and a tache, he sported a horrid short haircut that he gelled forward and then parted revoltingly in the middle. But the accent was spot on – proper Liverpool scum. All his conversations surrounded the fucking Charlatans, Cream and amphetamines. He could never look you in the eye, a real shifty, borderline psychotic oddball - which earned him the nickname Scary Dan (pronounced with an OTT scouse accent).

Despite my best intentions I couldn’t drop the cunt. Every morning he’d appear at my window, ‘Eh Albert, you ready like?’ - and I’d be forced to hide my face as we walked to the bus stop together. Luckily I met other, more balanced individuals and began to form a circle of friends. Trouble was, this moron Dan forced himself into this group too. ‘You’re not bringing Scary Dan’, my new friends would ask when planning a night out. ‘No fucking way!’ I’d reply, only to see him appear minutes later in a Tranmere Rovers top, carrying two litres of cider, demanding to know where we were going.

When second term rolled around, my New Year’s resolution was to have a chat with Scary Dan and gently de-friend him. But then something happened that allowed me to dump him, guilt free and forever grateful. Our halls were brand spanking new. Four squat buildings arranged on four around a central courtyard. A decent courtyard too – large enough for a proper game of footie and sensitive guitar-strumming picnics in the sun. The blocks were all named after some Northern nobodies but to us they were simply Blocks A, B, C & D.

Towards the end of January it snowed. Not the kind of light southern dusting I was used to – but a proper, filthy northern blizzard, at least a foot of snow was dumped in one night. This did wonders to the courtyard. The art students created arresting snow-sculptures. The Rugby cunts stripped naked and with full blown hard-ons, dived into the snow – then with rulers in hand, measured the depths of their penile penetrations. And some wag made the biggest snow-cock and balls anyone had ever seen, perfectly placed, dead centre of the courtyard.

Then we got organised. Word went round that at midday, residents of all four blocks were to assemble outside their buildings and prepare for the world’s biggest snowball fight. Hurriedly we prepared our ammunition, creating dumps of 100’s of snowballs, each placed strategically within reach of the battle. Someone blew a whistle and we were off, charging forward, throwing, tripping and bundling people into the snow. The mayhem continued for about 10 minutes when suddenly, for some reason, it stopped. One by one we all heard a blood-curdling scream, a scream that was getting louder and louder. It was Scary Dan tearing down the stairs of D Block to join the fight! As over 100 students prepared to obliterate him with snowballs, the people nearest the entrance of D Block began to step backwards and soon a clear path opened for him as he came careering out of the building. Looking up to see why he hadn’t been the first person to have ‘Death by Snowballs’ printed on his coroner’s report, I saw the reason why everyone had backed off. High above his head he was wielding the largest, sharpest looking machete we’d ever laid eyes on.

Still screaming he ran into the middle of the courtyard and stopped. He then set about performing ninja-esque moves on imaginary foes. Red in the face and with spit drooling out his mouth, he chopped, slashed and thrust the machete into the air – all the while screeching like a demented demon.

‘Come aaaan!’ He yelled. ‘I’ll take the fookin lot of youse aan! Aaarrgh!’

‘What the fuck is your mate Dan doing?’ Someone asked me. I shrunk back in embarrassment as I realised everyone was looking from him, to me, to him – obviously expecting me to do something. Back in the centre of the yard Scary Dan was living up to his name. Bored of fighting invisible enemies, he began to charge round the courtyard attacking things. He destroyed the arty sculptures in two or three swings of gleaming steel. He ran at the crowd, slashing at anything that moved. Girls screamed, guys shrank back in fear. Then, finding himself back in the centre of the courtyard, he performed a final, perfectly choreographed move. Pivoting on one foot, machete gripped in two hands, he span round 180 degrees and with one, clear, clean swing he decapitated the giant snow-cock.

This was too much for the rugger buggers. They charged forward and took him out. Tackled from behind he was thrown head-first into the ground. Then, machete finally wrested from his grip, they proceeded to hold his head down in the snow, with four of five of the cunts sitting on him. When they finally let him up for air, he coughed, spluttered and ran off into the road, I wish I could add, ‘never to be seen again’ – but sadly he re-appeared that evening. He never came knocking for me again though and we all got a memo about ‘mental health issues on campus’. Turns out he was proper, bona-fide nutter and had forgotten to take his meds or something.

Twat.
(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 15:01, 34 replies)
Nothing more infuriating
than getting back from a week's expedition digging up a ship from under the Antarctic ice and hunting inflatable space tomatoes than finding that one of your flatmates has eaten a kebab so dodgy it burst through his chest walls and danced out of the room singing vaudeville and the other one has used up the last of the milk eating a massive fuck-off bowl of chocolate Ewoks.

I looked at my surviving flatmate and said "You're a twat."
(, Tue 24 Sep 2013, 10:06, 6 replies)
My brother's mate, "Donut".
I think I told this before, so apologies if it sounds familiar. Not so much "ruining every social occasion", as just being a bit of a nob. He's an expert at saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and stopping a conversation in its tracks, however that's all my brother has told me about that side of him. He prefers to regale me with tales of Donut's comedy exploits, such as:

Arranging a night out, then phoning my brother from the pub and angrily asking where everyone was - to be told "We've arranged it for next week, mate!".

Making his way through a busy pub (Scenarios in Halstead, fact fiends) on his way to the toilet, asking people "Excuse me please, coming through, 'scuse me" etc, only to call "Look out mate, coming through" to someone he was about to cross paths with, who completely ignored him - because it was in fact his own reflection in a wall-length mirror.

And my personal favourite - running on a treadmill at the gym, deciding he was a bit too hot, and taking his sweatshirt off, while still running. He managed to get it caught over his head, lost his balance, and stepped sideways - off the treadmill. Before he could stop he'd to run into the weights room - still with his sweatshirt over his head. Through sheer blind luck he managed not to run into anyone or anything... the thought of that one still cracks me up :)
(, Fri 20 Sep 2013, 13:50, 16 replies)
Former school mate is a twat for being so perfect
One of my few friends at school was a nice enough bloke, except for one small thing: when I was around him, I was invisible.

Charming, sociable, good-looking, cool and fairly well-off, he attracted girls like a pre-teenage girl attracts BBC TV & radio presenters, while I stood around like the spare part I was.

He was also taller than me, a better artist and better at sports (not difficult). Then he grew up...

...and went to London and became an actor. But acting, it seemed wasn't for him, as it opened a chink in his armour: stage fright.

So, he regrouped, became a film & TV director and, more recently, a producer of kids' TV programmes - for one of which he won a BAFTA.

Twat.
(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 22:01, 2 replies)
Not all cunts are cunts
I used to hang out with a friend who lacked social skills,a bellend by most standards. He was just one of those of people who couldn't gauge anybody else's emotional state, entirely insensitive to moods, his Alan Partridge knob was constantly on 10. I saw him guffaw at car crash scenes, put his arm around the shoulders of a surly Glaswegian bouncer to cheer him up, and tell a mourner to look on the bright side - he was lucky it wasn't both his kids. Most of my other friends hated him, but I persevered because I could see he genuinely had no malicious intent, in fact all that aside he was a pretty generous soul. I lost interest and 'chucked' him when he became a fanny rat and would pursue girls way out of his league long beyond you and I would have got the message. From their boyfriend.

Seriously, he was a fucking liability, a dangerous bloke to have in tow.

20 years later and I'm married to a woman who's son has Asperger's, and another of life's little mysteries is resolved. Kind of like when I found out Babapapa is Spanish for candy floss.
(, Tue 24 Sep 2013, 5:49, 34 replies)
I was the twattiest mate!
You may all now lift your jaws up off the floor.
A few years ago I had a mate called Gavin. I'd met him when I was driving a truck and he worked on the loading dock for one of my regular stops. A friendship blossomed and every couple of Fridays we'd meet at the pub, get stoned and then steadily drunk and more vociferous.
Then Gav's girlfriend Steph and her sister Justine bought a house just (literally) around the corner from where me and my missus lived. In to which Gav promptly moved in. From there the friendship transformed into a solid entity.
Every Sun. morning we spent hours getting copiously stoned and then either riding our push-bikes to various out of the way destinations - where we would imbibe a few whiskey-laced coffees from the flask and blow another spliff before returning home, or in the summer months we would start early (0500 or so), get stoned, go fishing along the coast or in the river, drink a few strong coffees, smoke some more and finish up having a snorkel up and down the banks or seawall that we'd just been fishing off.

As I spent a bit of time at Gav's and he at mine our other halves got to know each other and between the girls a friendship began to bloom. They spent more than a few nights up at the local pub enjoying the atmosphere. Steph's older sister Justine was a bit of all-right to boot and since she knew my missus fairly well and her useless Norwegian boyfriend would disappear at the very mention of "actually having to physically do something", she was always up for a bit of no-nonsense flirting.
I wouldn't say it was an incestuous friendship. But as a group we certainly knew enough about each other and how we behaved to make a stranger feel left-out if not uncomfortable.
Steph and Gav had been together for quite a few years and what with her buying a house and him moving in as 'the lodger' they were clearly at the point where something should happen with their relationship. My missus and I had been married about a year then and between us we would regularly give Gav and Steph shit about making that next, big step.

Then one day Gav took me aside and told me he was breaking up with Steph. To say I was knocked for a six was an understatement.
"Crikey mate, what brought this on?" I asked him in disbelief.
He told me that a new girl Tonia had started at his work and that things had steadily progressed between them to the point that he no longer wished to be in the long-term relationship with Steph so he could pursue "other avenues" with Tonia.
I gave him my spiel about not shitting where you eat, making sure there was NO 'crossover' & I made it very clear that I wasn't going to lie for him. I offered to help him move but under the circumstances he'd roped in his younger brother for assistance. Apparently he simply broke up with Steph overnight, telling her with little or no explanation that it wasn't her it was him and he needed "space" to work things out. In other words he was a gutless, no-cojones wimp who could't spare his newly ex-girlfriend a whole heap of heartbreak by being honest.

My wife and I had a few tearful visits from Steph. Most of the time I tried to be as restrained as possible if not trying to actively avoid Steph completely. A couple of weeks after they'd broken up Gav asked me to go over to Stephs to pick up some stuff for him. At this stage he was dossing with friends whilst he and Tonia looked for a place together.NO 'crossover' indeed....
So off I trotted up to Steph's place with packing box in hand. Once I'd done the somewhat distasteful deed (with Steph in the background sobbing and Justine glaring at me as tho I was Jeffery Dahmer buying a freezer) I took the (cool) offer of a beer up and plonked myself on the couch.
"Is there someone else?" she asked me tearfully. I told her that she really needed to talk to Gav about that. Which was clearly as much as I needed to say in order to confirm her fears.
That night Gav came came to pick up his stuff with a face on him like a Cane Toad that'd been licked once too many times. Apparently Steph had rung him and given him "what for" over his supposed infidelity. I explained to him what had happened openly and honestly and he left shortly, our friendship in somewaht tatters.

I saw Gav a couple of years later. He'd headed OS to South East Asia with his new, young girly. It hadn't worked out or so it seemed. He still blamed me for the fact that Steph was dark on him since once he'd got back he'd tried to rekindle things with her - only to find that she'd moved on, got married and was soon expecting.

TL;DR - I dobbed my mate in for pretty much being unfaithful because I wasn't going to lie for him.
For the "Bros before Ho's" mob - It's complicated.
For anyone I've got on ignore - since I've got you on ignore do feel free not to logout, read this post and then login in order to reply. Unless it's so you can click "I like this" in which case feel free to do so.
(, Sat 21 Sep 2013, 8:03, 28 replies)
My Brother
Who generally is awesome was a twat once with me and a group of climbers. We had been in Snowdonia, and on the way home stopped at The Three Old Pigeons, or was it Five...in Nescliffe to replace our expended calories with a Nosebag.
After half a pint he says to our table, Whats the mating call of a giant clam.
We know the answer and ask him politely not to reveal, Alan, at the end asked him to repeat the question as he didnt hear, So he asks it again, this time, standing up, and rather loud. So loud everyone, including the waiter watched in wonderment, as he hid his eyes behind his crossed arms, opend his arms just a tad, peered through them and then opened up and shouted Give us a Fuck!
knives were dropped, glasses put safely down we were asked to eat for the rest of the meal in silence.
(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 21:34, 2 replies)
Taking it too far.
I imagine most groups of friends have one. The one who doesn't get the difference between gentle (or even not so gentle) pisstaking and being just generally oikishly offensive. The one where, after they tell a joke, there's always a gentle pause and a "...for fuck's sake" from someone in the assembled masses. I'm not even necessarily talking about foot in mouth syndrome, which can afflict even the best of us on occasion, as as soon as you say it, you want to quietly pop into a corner, and gently mutilate yourself until the sheer horror of your spazzy tongue subsides. I'm talking about the kind of person who would make a dead baby joke at the Stillbirth Trust and then say "what? You lot have no fucking sense of humour" as the room attained the temperature of liquid nitrogen.

At uni, ours was Damon. Damon grew up in Cornwall and was one of those people who should never have been allowed to reach puberty, let alone a higher education institution. Like many of these friendships, he joined our group by a process of osmosis, in that there were only 8 blokes on our course, and once you ruled out the born again Christians, there were few of us who could go and drink beer, order pizza and throw gherkins at the foreign students from our halls kitchen.

One evening, we had all gathered in Dave's kitchen. Dave was the linchpin of our group, as he had a big kitchen, accepting flatmates who would always exchange a bit of weed for alcohol and pizza, and an unerring ability to find women to join the party.

Sadly, one of our mates, Mark, had just lost his dad due to a very sudden and aggressive case of cancer. Mark is one of the loveliest guys you would ever meet, so we were all gutted for him and decided to get him drunk to help him feel better.

Whiskey and consolations were in full flow, when Damon turned up.
"Hello Mark. Hear your Dad's dead. Cancer's just God's way of telling you that you've been annoying him, innit?"

Now, to this day we didn't know whether he was trying to make a joke and it came out wrong, or he was just a dick, but the room went silent. Mark politely excused himself and walked outside for some quiet time. Dave opted for "Christ Damon, you are a senseless cunt sometimes" to which the reply "What?" was gained from Damon. Anyway, the party started again. I went out to have a chat with Mark and a smoke and a beer later, all was well.

About 30 minutes later I get a text from Dave. It simply said "watch for my signal". By the fact that a few other people got their phones out, it was clearly a group text. Suddenly, Dave stood up, grabbed Damon by the shoulders and removed him from the kitchen more rapidly than a Tory MP removes a dead prostitute from his bathtub. We followed Dave and a loudly protesting Damon down the corridor to the cleaner's cupboard. With our assistance and a roll of gaffer tape, Damon's hands and feet were bound with many a loud protest.

"Right dickcheese, this'll teach you to think before you open your mouth." muttered Dave. He thrust some balled up fabric into Damon's open mouth, taped it closed with some gaffer tape and closed him in the cupboard. We went back to the kitchen for more beer and pizza.

Before we went out to the union, we decided to relent and release Damon. After ripping off the gaffer tape and removing the fabric from his mouth, Dave airily asked Damon if he'd enjoyed the set of his used underpants, the gusset of which had been pressed to the roof of his mouth for the last 2 hours.

There was a bit of vomit then.
(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 17:36, 2 replies)
Not mates...
...family. Cousins, to be precise. Gradually, over the course of years and years, wound me up with their continuous drama, drugged up, drunk, irresponsible nonsense. Yes, living in your mum's house but calling her a cnut every time you're not giving her the silent treatment, getting wasted every single weekend and most weekdays, getting into fights, growing ten grand's worth of pot in your attic, etc. is very funny (to an outside observer) when you're seventeen. When you're thirty, not so much. The family soap opera was starting to get seriously boring.

I'd still mostly do pretty much anything for them, though, until the last time I arranged to go down and see them all. By this point, one had managed to secure a girlfriend to live with, and one of the others also lived away from their mum. So, having spoken on the phone with four of them (three of the cousins and the aunt) that day and arranged where I'd be and when, I knocked off work early and spent three hours driving to their home town, looking forward to a weekend socialising with family and hoping they weren't too annoying.

I arrived at the house bang on the time I'd said I'd be there, and knocked. Nothing. No answer. They knew I was coming. If they'd been coming to visit me I'd have been waiting by the door with a cold one. What was up? I rang the mobile - answerphone, with, natch, stupid answerphone message. I knocked again. After about ten minutes, I gave up and went to the aunt's house. All dark. Nobody home. Rang various mobiles. From four cousins and an aunt, not one of these people who knew I was coming to see them had their phone switched on. Nobody was in anywhere.

Eventually, I realised that the twat in this story was me, and drove for another three hours to get home. I've never seen any of them since. (Later, I was told that at the first house there had been someone in - he'd had a little lie down and gone to sleep, and hadn't heard me knocking. I arrived at about 19:00...)

I kept in touch with them on Facebook for a couple of months, until the aunt started a website to promote her new business and asked me to proofread it. I did so, and pointed out a spelling mistake on the front page, where she'd got a typo in the name of the service she was offering. Not a big thing, but makes a poor first impression but very, very easy and quick to correct.

She ignored me, and then proceeded to spam my timeline four times a day every day with links to her lovely new website (this on top of her near-hourly Farmville updates). Eventually I pointed out that people were unlikely to pay for a service from someone unable to spell the service they were offering. That was, apparently, "rude", and brought threats of violence from her offspring, so now I'm not in touch with them in any way at all.

And do you know what? I don't miss them.
(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 15:06, 3 replies)
Twat with a Capital T!
Pre-season softball meets can be a real drag. A load of competitive dads and uninterested mums get together in the clubhouse to 'plan' the season. The fathers talk about training regimes and fixture lists, whilst the women use the get-together to gossip and natter over equally inane issues.

The only saving grace at these interminably dull events is Bella, the club secretary. She's a knockout...with two wonderfully large softballs - if you know what I mean!

Last season I found myself sat with Reggie, an old mate with whom I can share stories dating back to high-school. Reg, like me is now 'happily' married and both our good wives were also chatting with each other at the back of the bar. Reg and I spied Bella collecting glasses from the next table, she was, as usual, wearing a particularly low-cut top, with a couple of buttons more than necessary undone.

'I'll never tire of looking at those tits', said Reggie, or at least he thought he'd said. But by some awful piece of unintended comic timing, Reggie's comment came at a moment of near perfect silence in the room. Everybody heard.

The whole room stared at us, and our wives reddened deeply with embarrassment.

Reggie took stock of the situation. How was he going to get out of this one?

'For fucks sake Rob!' He yelled, pointing at me, 'You're married with a kid...she's half your age mate.'

And with that he slowly got up from the table, leaving everybody staring at me with the horrible hatred and pity reserved for middle-aged perverts. I caught Bella's eye for a second, she slowly and purposefully did the buttons up on her blouse and flounced out the room.

I don't think I've ever squared that one with the missus, nor with the softball club for that matter. Still, a mate's a mate, eh?
(, Thu 26 Sep 2013, 10:09, 3 replies)
My friend at school was jolly rich - or rather - his family were.
His nice but incredibly boring uncle had a boat, and one day took us for a spin in it.

It was just a little sort of fisherman's-type thing - there was room for the three of us in the cabin but that was pretty well it, but he had a hat and everything, and off we went.

We chugged backwards and turned around, and then he got on the radio.

In an incredibly deep, authoritative and posh voice, he said, "Padstow Harbour, Padstow Harbour ... this is Lucky Lady - Lucky Lady. Requesting leave of harbour, over."

A few seconds and crackles later, and a very Cornish voice replied "Is that yew, Tim? 'Ello! Yer - you go 'head my son - er's a lovely day, inner!".

He seemed a little miffed by that.
(, Wed 25 Sep 2013, 14:27, 4 replies)
i don't really have any twat friends; just a few who have behaved twattishly on various occasions
however, some of my friends have married right twats. check out stingy pete...

we were all round at my friends' house one evening. 3 couples and foreveralone me. i arrived late, as i wasn't eating. when their thai takeaway arrived, even later than me, it was £58. the host said, that's £20 each then, tiny tip for the delivery guy.

"excuse me," said stingy pete, who earns a hella good salary btw, "but ours is only £18..."

he has also been known to take undrunk bottles of wine home with him after going to a dinner party, been caught pocketing the tip when it was left in cash by someone else, and, worst of all, when they were living in france, a mutual but non-french speaking mate passed him a fifty euro note to buy a round of coffees.

AND HE POCKETED THE CHANGE. which was about 42 euros. later on, when they got a round of alcoholic drinks, stingy pete said he'd pay. and, you guessed it, whipped out the 42 euros change and paid from that. he then handed over the balance. unbelievable.
(, Wed 25 Sep 2013, 13:51, 5 replies)
The Rise and Fall of Bobby Bum-Bum
Like that other Time Lord, the tosspot who calls himself the Doctor (huh! He’s not even a proper doctor, unlike me), I have had travelling companions. Not as many as him, the needy cunt; I prefer my own company, but over the centuries a number of life forms of varying gender and shape have joined me on my adventures. This is the story of a humanoid called Bobby Bum-Bum, the most annoying and ‘twattish’ of them all – and why I put up with him for so long.

I met him on Svartos (aka Iceworld), where he was eking out a living as a very bad public performance artist. His mime act was as woeful a thing I had ever seen, more wretched than a pair of shitted-in Y-fronts abandoned in a gutter swimming with syphilitic piss and with all johnnies and turds and fag ends floating in it. I took pity on him, because he was quite fit, and I desired his oiled, muscly, completely hairless body. We spent an afternoon fisting, fucking, and felching, and then he thought it would be a great idea to visit the body-beppling parlour.

Most people go for cool, impressive body-bepples; lizard or big cat are popular, for example. As are famous or historical figures (I’ve seen countless Elvis Presleys, Adolf Hitlers and Beverley Cravens). But not Bobby Bum-Bum (I forget his real name, I think it was something boring and blokey like Bob Fairburn or something). Oh no! The idiot went for ‘fluffy pink bunny.’ He ended up with clumsy great big rabbit feet, a huge swollen arse complete with fluffy pink tufty tail, lollopy rabbit ears (also pink), big gormless buck bunny teeth, whiskers and a ‘cute’ bunny nose, all with a complete covering of neon pink fur. And the idiot wondered why I didn’t want to fuck him any more!

I tried to lose him in the cavernous chaos of Iceworld Mall but the bastard ran after me and managed to squeeze past me and get into my TARDIS. I was about to liquidate him on the spot but he pleaded and begged me to take him on ‘just one trip through time’ and, softy that I am (or was in that incarnation – he wouldn’t have fared so well against some of my others!) I relented and agreed. Just one trip – and then I’d bring him right back to Iceworld. Bobby Bum-Bum agreed excitedly and hopped friskily around the console room. I felt sick but I gritted my teeth and set random co-ordinates, as I didn’t really care where we ended up.

I should have taken more care! And taken the twat somewhere bland and safe like Victorian Bath or something – because we ended up slap bang in the middle of the Cyber Wars!

To cut a long story slightly shorter, you’ll be somewhat relieved or perhaps more accurately utterly indifferent to hear, we found ourselves trapped on a distasteful little rock called Gilpong’s World, all caverns and caves, outnumbered by hundreds of Cybermen.

They had us in this vast cavern, armed only with the torches we were using to see our way around, backed against the wall. We were fucked – they were going to catch us and convert us, and not even Time Lords can survive Cyber-conversion. My mind began to race back over my lives and I started to mutter Gallifreyan imprecations, when, to my complete amazement, Bobby Bum-Bum stepped towards the advancing Cyber hordes, and shouted:

‘Go away and leave us alone! We don’t wanna be Cybermen. We’re happy as we are!’

I smirked at this. At least Cyber-conversion would get rid of that heinous body-bepple.

‘You will be like us,’ intoned the lead Cyberman, rather predictably, but that’s Cybermen for you.

Bobby Bum-Bum pouted and put his hands on his hips. ‘No! Bugger off! We’ll – we’ll fight you!’

To my surprise the Cybermen halted. The leader droned, ‘That is illogical. You are unarmed. There are only two of you. There are five hundred of us. You cannot fight us. You will be like us.’

The Cybermen started forward again, but Bobby Bum-Bum stood his ground. ‘Wait! Five hundred? Are you sure about that?’

The lead Cybermen seemed to consider. ‘Yes.’

‘How do you know?’

‘All Cyber minds are connected. We know.’

‘Bollocks!’ cried Bobby Bum-Bum. ‘You’ve miscounted or there’s a glitch somewhere, or something. There’s never five hundred of you! Four hundred and seventy-five, at most!’

‘Yeah!’ I said, once I’d got over my surprise at this strange turn of events. ‘Or even four hundred and fifty!’

The Cybermen were silent for ten agonising seconds (it might have been eleven. Or nine.) Then the leader intoned, ‘We are five hundred. But even if we were four hundred and fifty, or fifty, or even just one, you would still be outnumbered. You. Will. Be. Like. Us.’

I held up a hand. ‘Wait! You admit that there could be a glitch? There might not be exactly five hundred of you? If so – what else might be wrong? Your conversion process might be fucked as well – so you’ll have to let us go!’

This was taking things too far, perhaps, but it bought us time.

‘We do not make errors.’ Was that the merest hint of tetchiness creeping in to the so-called ‘emotionless’ Cyber-voice?

Now we had them in a logic trap! ‘But how do you KNOW? If your information is incorrect, how can you know that it matches up with reality?’

‘We’re going to have to count you before you do anything else,’ declared Bobby Bum-Bum. ‘Come on! Line up by tens, against this wall. And we’ll see if there are five hundred of you or four hundred and fifty or whatever!’

The Cybermen did not move or speak.

‘Well I’m going to have to count you where you stand!’ said Bobby Bum-Bum. He then proceeded to do just this, with exaggerated slowness. Picture, if you can, the scene: a dimly-lit and chilly cavern, with an army of Cybermen standing motionless, whilst a neon-pink human-sized fluffy bunny pranced up and down in front of them going ‘One! Two! Three… Four! There’s five! And you’re six!’ and so on.

It wouldn’t be long before the Cybermen worked out we were having them on but before they reached this logical conclusion, a squad of Alliance troops burst through the wall of the cavern and engaged them in battle. In the ensuing chaos, Bobby Bum-Bum and I were able to make good our escape.

Of course, after that I could hardly kick him straight out, especially not back to Iceworld, so I endured his presence for a while. What he’d done in that dingy cavern on Gilpong’s World had actually been very brave, and I was genuinely impressed – and it takes a lot to impress me. Stalling a horde of 500 Cybermen is impressive whatever you look like.

Bobby Bum-Bum was, of course, insufferable after this, and dined out to an obscene extent on his victory. I allowed him leeway, as ‘every dog (or human-sized pink bunny) has his day.’ But things came to an ugly end when Bobby Bum-Bum started making sexual overtures towards me. I told him in no uncertain terms that I would not touch him with a bargepole as long as he wore that ridiculous body-bepple. At this he got upset, saying that the bepple was based on Flopsy, a beloved childhood toy. Repulsed by this insight into his psyche, I resolved to despatch him as soon as possible. That night, I smothered him as he slept, and then roasted and ate him (except the head which I had frozen and sent to Gallifrey as a birthday present for that mardy old cunt Borusa).

So that is the story of Bobby Bum-Bum, my most twattish (but most delicious) friend.
(, Sun 22 Sep 2013, 18:12, 13 replies)
me
not 20 minutes ago, my best mate sent me a text to tell me his partner has had a stroke. i immediately replied "lucky bugger, i haven't had a stroke for ages!"
instant guilt :(
(, Sun 22 Sep 2013, 17:02, 11 replies)
growing up, we had a local gang of friends who were generally inseparable.
Despite the fact we had different schools, we were all in the same area and would spend long summer days playing cards and football down the park and going 'exploring' (there were no lurking paedos back in the 70s, apart from the catholic church apparently) and having sleepovers in tents in back gardens et cetera.

J and P were brothers, P and M were firm friends, JB was already on his way to becoming a Professional Sick Person. We did education, we worked, we got jobs, all of us, turned up to work every day but not so JB.

JB's attitude was "I don't want to do that, so I will feign an asthma attack. I don't want to do this, I will invent a mental condition that
means I can cry off. I will lie and weasel and fake attention-seeking issues so everyone pays attention to me. "I have a debilitating undiagnosed crippling bone disease" was the last one I remember. *deep breath* I only have 3 months to live *looks off into the middle distance in expectation of sympathy*

When the DSS got fed up and insisted he got a job, they roped him into a job opportunity at a foundry which would take unqualified labour and he lasted approximately 1.5 days before 'oops I dropped an ingot on my foot, I am now crippled, you must pay all my wages and expenses and hurt feelings and mental anguish costs'.

As friends do, when you meet up at anniversary events of things like mate's weddings, you do tend to say 'Wow, been a while, what are you doing now?' and you oddly feel like a wanker for saying to this intentionally lazy fucker 'Me? Well, moved house, work with electronics in vehicles, sorry, did I mention I have a girlfriend?' in front of someone who can only say 'WOW you will NEVER believe this, I got a new xbox game' as the highlight of their year. I don't like to brag about my achievement but suddenly their lack of achievement makes me out to be an arrogant wanker by comparison.

He also, had the temerity to declare ' I know how to play fruit machines for profit. I can make a living off them'. Closely followed by 'maybe we should all go out on the town?' closely followed by 'oh my wallet has been stolen' when it was his turn to pony up for a round. Back in the day I asked him to watch the till when he was sitting in with me at my job at a petrol station as I had to go and take a leak, only to get called up the next day by the head cashier saying '£70 has gone missing from the day total'. Yep. Went into his pocket.

Finally came to a head when the selfish prick walked out of our common friend's wedding which happened in Bristol. Apparently the timing of the service disagreed with his eating habits, so he left the venue to eat his previously bought bean burrito . When asked why he left he said he suffered from a mental illness that made him very uncomfortable being in the same room as a lot of other people facing the same direction.

Then proceeded to tell me about the film he saw last week. In a cinema. Where presumably all the seats were angled randomly so no one ever had to face in the same direction as anyone else ever.

I'm going to be 42 next birthday, and I have had a semi-difficult life doing work to earn money in difficult locations I hope this picky lazy apologist goes to his grave knowing he has wasted his life on Jeremy Kyle and Xbox and pot noodle and knows that he never amounted to anything. But he will probably say 'life dealt me a bad hand and it wasn't my fault' and for that I will forever despise him.
(, Sat 21 Sep 2013, 2:41, 3 replies)
Once upon a time I had a friend who insisted on being called Apples, he thought it would be über cool, I have no idea why.
Ten years later, he is incredibly tired of being called Crapples. The end.
(, Fri 20 Sep 2013, 23:29, 5 replies)

I knew this bloke years ago and have since lost contact... but he had a reputation for 'burning' his mates and co-workers with social hand grenades. I didn't personally witness this pearler... but it was the stuff of legend.

'Muckhole' was part of a professional group who were fortunate to be on duty at big public social events (airshows, motorsports, sport finals) and as a consequence of their involvement they were invited to VIP marquees and after-event drinks to hobnob with the real celebrities. This was a big perk of their job and much appreciated by all involved. However, one should mind one's Ps and Qs when amongst the big nobs...

At one event (IndyCar on the Gold Coast I believe) they found themselves having a beer with one of the post-Michael Hutchence iterations of the band INXS. The boys were very happy with this situation, and were feeling relaxed and familiar with their new drinking buddies.

Muckhole rose to the occasion, and in between sips rolled a stun grenade into the conversation. "SO, is it true that when Hutchence died he was playing the one-stringed banjo at the time?"

Uncomfortable silence and pariah-status followed.
(, Fri 20 Sep 2013, 2:41, 4 replies)
I think it's me
The simple fact that I can't really pick a specific person....leads me to believe everything I have been told, I am a horrible fucking cunt.
(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 23:34, 2 replies)
I'm surrounded by twats.
Where to start? There's the twat I used to work for in my second job. There's the twat I married who's constantly nagging and chivvying me. There's the twat I started working for after I quit my other jobs, who has other twats working for him. There's that nasty old twat in the wheelchair. There's the other old twat who keeps yelling at me and has beaten me a few times. And then there's the weaselly little twat who turned on me after all I've done for him!

Me, the twat? No. I am the danger. I am the one who knocks.
(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 21:41, Reply)
Off topic and not so much a Twat but....
There are a couple of people on here who know me IRL. WE have a mate called Gerry. A lovely man, but the kind of guy where the eyes don't quite line up with the holes - Y'know, the kind of guy where reality and normality are just things that happen to other people.
Gerry is known as 'The late Gerry'. He's not dead, just late. For FUCKING EVERYTHING. There is a concept in the Hitchhikers guide to the galaxy books of the 'reciprinverexcluson' a number or thing which is everything other than itself. THAT's Gerry's idea of time. If he tells you he'll 'be there at two' that's the only time he WILL NOT be there, the universe would implode if Gerry was actually on time. At his last milestone birthday he got, as presents, fifteen alarm clocks and twelve wristwatches (three of them from me).
He didn't get the hint.
Just last week he arranged (at about 11 a:m) to meet Pooflake at the pub to get his laptop sorted out. Pooflake informed him that he HAD TO BE GONE BY 4 - not a nanosecond later. What time did Gerry turn up?
10 to 4.
And then proceeded to get the hump that Pooflake wouldn't stay after 4.

I love the guy but how much of a bellend do you have to be to have no concept of time and no respect for other people's commitments at over 50 years of age?

I know it's not in the spirit or even the letter of the question, but I just had to get it off my chest.
(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 18:52, 1 reply)
My old pal Yeti is a prize knob.
He’s just shy of forty, fat and ginger and a drug dealer. But he’s a rubbish drug dealer. Ignores business he desperately needs when he can’t be arsed with it, owes vast sums to all and sundry and has had more lines of credit cut off due to his bungling that you could imagine. He’s never had a proper job for longer than a day (he got a job in a herb production greenhouse operation in Essex and flooded it by 2pm on his first day). He should be seriously rich by his age but hasn’t a penny and lives on people’s sofas until they kick him out. He also stinks of BO and mildew.

All these dreadful things pale into insignificance though, when you hear of his delusional bullshitting ways. Behind his back he’s called ‘The King of Romania’ due to a series of ever-less-believable yarns he spins ad nauseum about the 5000-people parties he used to throw in Romanian castles etc etc. He’s told me exaggerated bullshit versions OF MY OWN ANECDOTES which he was not there for.

The heartbreaking thing is that deep down he’s a lovely bloke but he is such a fucking knob it all got too much for me and having spent 20 years apologising to all and sundry for his knobbishness I finally got him out of my life last year.

The end.
(, Thu 19 Sep 2013, 11:37, 15 replies)
My freshers' week friend
So my first week at Cambridge, lots of events organised for us to orientate ourselves in this ancient seat of learning (get drunk).

My next-door neighbour was a contestant in the oh-so-hilarious blind date in the college bar. He turned up in a blazer, with a college scarf, and every single answer he gave - in a very plummy accent - started off normal, got odder, and ended with a crescendo to "and then I'd **** her 'til she bleeds. Raaaaaaaaah".

The atmosphere got frostier and frostier, as everyone stared at the person they'd been dreading Cambridge being full of. Thing is, I was one of the few who knew that he was a left-wing social and political sciences student with a penchant for drama who had decided this would be an interesting thing to do.

You've almost certainly watched things he's written/directed on BBC and C4, and he's even acted in a few of them, won awards from all sorts of respectable drama/film bodies. Now I just think he's a twat for being so successful/talented it makes me cry.

***EDIT*** Many guesses, but nobody close. You probably won't know him unless you're quite into film/drama/screenwriters. But if you are, you definitely would know him.
(, Wed 25 Sep 2013, 16:43, 6 replies)
oh, there is also deathly dull dirk, the man with the world's most monotonous voice. EVER.
a hangover from school, whom we still see from time to time. you know, nice guy, but you fight not to sit next to him at dinner. one evening i drew the short straw. fighting for consciousness and a conversation that wasn't about bolton fc, i asked him about his job. it went along these lines:

are you still at the office of national statistics?

no. i'm now at the national office of statistics...

jesus.
(, Wed 25 Sep 2013, 13:53, 9 replies)
I'm quite a political person, and want to do the best by everyone.
I was sort of in love with this guy who was helping us out, but he was only in it for the money.

Or something.

Oh I don't fucking know - it's Princess Kalkotron and The Grand Lord Bas'tard or whatever from that sci-fi adventure you dicks.
(, Tue 24 Sep 2013, 8:52, 17 replies)
I had a mate who, if people were sitting down, he'd back up and fart with his cheeks pressed to the back of their heads. he'd do this in pretty much any social occasion
Whether this makes him a boorish cunt or a funny fucker depends entirely on your perspective.
We went surfing once but there was no surf so we went for a swim off the pier. There was a big scuba diving class treading water practising something with their kit there. My mate swam out amongst them and did a huge shit which floated to the surface. He climbed up onto the pier and started pointing and yelling out "poofish! poofish!" 'til he had their attention.
I guess I'm in the "funny fucker" camp, though he did fart on my head at my wedding reception
(, Mon 23 Sep 2013, 13:18, 28 replies)
It seams to me this has everything required to win. A picture in qotw, Friends, a twat and some Star Wars. Where's my 5 pounds?


Probably could do with more shed.
(, Mon 23 Sep 2013, 1:45, 21 replies)
When I first moved to China,
I was in a small town (only about a million people), teaching English at a university. I had a nice apartment on campus, the refectory had nice meals so everything was fine and manageable, except that I was the only foreigner there. For a month I didn't really have anyone else to have some downtime with - I made some friends amongst the students and teachers, but you know how it is, you want some people with the same kind of background and assumptions to relax with.

Finally this guy appeared - another Western male! - a teacher in the same building as me. I bumped into him just outside, and it'd been so long since I'd since another western guy that I was all friendly like a university fresher desperately trying to make chums to ward off the homesickness and social anxiety. "Yes, come round some time!" I said, pointing to my apartment.

This guy though, turned out to be the douchiest douche I've ever met. I hadn't known too many Jewish people before: this guy was a prototypical New York Jew. I have nothing against Yids, but it turned out this guy embodied every negative Jewish stereotype you could imagine. He was a flaming tightwad - every day at the canteen he had somehow "forgotten his mealcard" and would hang around waiting for someone to buy him lunch. (Meanwhile he would brag about how he was smart with his money and how much he saved). He was a mummy's boy (despite being about forty), unable to look after himself properly (as suggested by his constantly dirty hair and clothes).

What else? He wore a woman's coat in winter. He could not spell (quite a problem WHEN YOU'RE TEACHING ENGLISH). His manner with female students and teachers was lecherous. (I had to show him how to watch DVD files on his computer, and couldn't help but notice the vast array of Asian porn he had). He got worse as the year went on (and as other teachers refused to hang around with him). One time he asked students from one of his classes to help him buy a cellphone. Sure, they said. At the store, they helped him pick one out and go through the bureaucratic hurdles of registering. When it was time to pay, he said, "So... are you guys going to help me buy it?" He wanted them to chip in to buy it for him. The students were mostly children of peasant farmers struggling to provide their only child with a better life. Another time, he went out to the local nightclub with one of his students (presumably from another class). The university would lock the doors to the student dormitories after 11pm, so a few beers in he said the student could stay at his apartment. They got back, he makes a meal... and doesn't offer any to the student. Same at breakfast time.

What a schmuck.
(, Sun 22 Sep 2013, 12:42, 20 replies)

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