Anders Breivik.
I'm not sure why. I think it's the hipster beard and the multiple murder.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 13:28, Reply)

Mystic twattery
Because I am bored this afternoon, I'm going to have a stab at answering the next QOTW before it's been asked. Given the knife-edge timing of this one I won't have time for a long story; just enough to be hailed as either a psychic visionary or an unpsychic nobber.

So, my most memorable travelling companion was the gentleman who sat next to me on the London Underground one evening, wearing a dress, a lampshade on his head and cherry red lipstick, and regaling me with his cheap cider fumes and theories about television aerials.
(Gnostic Yeti, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 13:24, Reply)

I love Rory
There, I've said it.
He's the beast of all the animals.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 12:42, Reply)

I'm not a violent guy; I don't look for trouble, but sometimes my temper gets the better of me.
I'd had a hard day at work - I work for a charity and I'd had to cope with a blood-sucking son-in-law trying to rinse his newly-deceased aunt's estate for all they had, and I'd had to put him straight and have him sent down. It's always an ugly business getting involved in family affairs, but justice needs to be done, and - sometimes more importantly - needs to be SEEN to be being done.

So wearily I got onto the train home, after having walked through the drizzle of a grey London evening, to go to the taikwondo class that I teach (triple-dan black belt for those interested). Sitting on the train was a young girl - about 10 or 12, singing along quietly to her iPod. I was only going a couple of stops so didn't need to sit down

Some fuck-haired twat with a media degree gets on after me, and sits opposite the little girl.

"Excuse me" he says to the girl aggressively, "Could you turn off your fucking singing?".

That was his first mistake.

As I said, I'm not a violent guy - but sometimes my temper gets the better of me.

I strode over to him, put my face right up in his, and said quietly "What did you say to her?"

"I asked her to turn her music down" he said, whimpering. I also noticed a growing wet patch where he was starting to wet himself.

I couldn't have that. I couldn't have some prissy little media whore tell an innocent little girl to stop singing. Little girls singing is one of life's free moments of beauty, and I was damned if I'd let this twat take such away from the world, and then whimper to me like a little bitch.

I fly-kicked him in the face, smashing his nose, then did a cobra-strike to his throat, making him choke. I grabbed him by the hair, and smashed his stupid face repeatedly into his own knees, over, and over, and over, and over, and over. At first he was trying to scream through his broken teeth, but by the time I'd finished with him his face was just a bloody mess, and he flopped forwards, unmoving, and (I think), not breathing.

What a twat.

I got off at the next stop, went and taught my class, and went home.
( A Vagabond lol commie povvo, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 11:40, 12 replies)

Electric Blue Peter…

I’ll crimp this one out quickly…

A fair few years ago, Jenny, my sister in law was partaking in a girl’s weekend which consisted of a swarm of tarted up women heavy drinking, shopping, going to a show, and staying at a big 'la-de-da' hotel in London.

Having fun was the order of the day. Giggling too much, talking about clothes, slagging men off , whilst quaffing copious amounts of overpriced cocktails. Standard fayre for this kind of thing as I understand it. They were enjoying themselves immensely

At the time of the incident in question, they hadn’t even gone out for the evening yet, and were meeting in the hotel bar for beverages prior to going out on the main lash.

As the gaggle of girls began to group, Jenny remembered that she had left something in her room, and wisely decided to nip up and get it.

She stepped into the lift and pressed her floor button. As she waited for the doors to close, who should jump into the lift but housewives’ favourite rapist, shag-tape connoisseur, and Matthew Wright’s biggest fan…John Leslie! (This was quite a bit before all the scandal broke out about him by the way).

Anyhoo, Jenny recognised him, gave him a quick friendly smile, and then turned away to look at the screen above the lift door as the numbers started to go up.

As soon as the lift started moving, Mr Leslie tapped Jenny on the shoulder. She turned her neck to see what he wanted. With a smarmy smirk and his eyebrows waggling he just blurted out: “Would you like to come up to my room?”

No Introduction, no nicities, not even a ‘Hi’…just straight in, with the invitation for her to get her laughing gear round his lumpy haggis.

Jenny was quite taken aback, and decided that she wasn’t having any of this, but despite her moderate squiffyness, she decided to act with a bit of decorum.

“Erm, no thank you...” She replied firmly.

Old Johnny boy was obviously a bit miffed, but to be fair, he didn’t push it any further. However, he did step quite awkwardly close to her and follow up with a patronising: “Harrumphfff!, well I suppoooose you’ll be wanting an autograph though eh?”

With this, something inside Jenny snapped. In fact, it snapped with such vigour that any witnesses might have thought that one of the cables in the lift had gone.

With a face like thunder, Jenny turned, pointed her freshly manicured finger at him and snarled. “I’ll tell you what I want, I want you to FUCK. *prods him in the chest* RIGHT *prods harder* OFF!” .

Leslie backed away into the corner of the small lift and Jenny grolwed once more at him for luck before turning her back on him again. A few moments pass and the lift rolls on. This is now quite awkward. She once again checks the display screen, ‘Bollocks’, she thinks, as she realises she’s got about 10 floors to go, and she’s going to potentially be stuck in the lift with this world champion twat for quite a while.

Eventually, she gets to her floor and gratefully steps out of the lift. However, with painful predictability, Mr Leslie does too…This is now becoming somewhat creepy…she walks down the corridor, he continues to follow silently. She turns a corner, he’s still just a few feet away – it’s unbearable, and poor Jenny can’t take it anymore.

She spins round on her heels, glares at him and bellows: “WILL YOU JUST FUCK OFF? What’s your prob…..oh” as she watches him sheepishly pop his card into the door and enter what is obviously his room...about 3 doors down from hers.

Still...lucky escape for her I reckon.
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Thu 19 Apr 2012, 11:32, 1 reply)

The bleeding obvious twat
Dear woman, now dead, but nothing to do with me, always FUCKING ALWAYS pointed out the things in front of us. Example - driving along a lovely bit of dirt road when a huge wedge tailed eagle swooped in front of us and thermaled up and over the windscreen creating the Wedge Eclipse. Dear woman in passenger seat, excitedly and breathlessly asks me, "did you see that wedgie cruise our windscreen?". I did a little grunt fuck of frustration and teeth clenched "yes, I am bloody driving, aren't I?". Ruined every fucking bleeding obvious moment, did that dear dead woman.
(boozehound is drinking your bar dry, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 10:59, 3 replies)

Train twat. Again.
Usual train drudgery.

I helped an old lady with her two suitcases onto a fairly busy train. I picked up my own bag and hopped onto the train just as the doors were going. I got caught. Normally I understand the lack of sympathy for this situation but I'd been the good Samaritan here and now I was paying for it, in front of alot of people including one fat twunt standing closest to me who thought this was the *funniest thing he's ever seen*. Big mistake

With red mist mode engaged I push open the doors and get onto the train. I'm now opposite my fat little laughing friend and having a good stare. He stops. Something snaps inside. This pony tailed, snide shit was openly laughing at my predicament behind glass but now it's gone. Time to engage(I should note that despite my height I have never engaged anyone like this since leaving school). Before I know it I've grabbed his collar and pulled him forward. 'Why aren't you laughing?'. He can't answer. I bang him against the partition. 'Why aren't you laughing anymore?' He makes a noise and looks down. 'Because your a piece of shit that's why' I say looking into his eyes and shove him back to where he was.

Fuck. What have I done? Why did I do that? I now realise there is nowhere to sit and I've got to stand opposite this twat until London bridge, 15 minutes away. Arse.

So I'm a twat for a loosing my rag. He's a twat for laughing at someone who tried to help a struggling person. And for having a pony tail.
(skgorsky, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 10:58, 9 replies)