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Profile for bennyhillslovechild:
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I was born fully formed from the mating of a dehydrated spaniel, and a rather elderly fishhead. I'm 31. From Norfolk, and only slightly inbred.

Here is a picture of me by the extremely talented We are the lemon, you will be illustrated, resistance is fruitile
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And here's one by the equally skilled Bilbobarneybobs..
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Here is me dancing, by the sexy Flowerpot
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Quite....and apparently, my jokes predate Christ, according to Roland E O'Dorant...
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You can contact me at bennyhillslovechild AT Hotmail DOT com - that also works for that old devil called msn messenger, should you wish to speak to me about anything other than german shepherds.
some pics I did:

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Recent front page messages:

:)

(Tue 3rd Feb 2009, 14:36, More)

bored.... :(

(Tue 3rd Jun 2008, 19:51, More)

:) *runs and hides*

(Mon 7th Apr 2008, 16:36, More)

Hahahahaha,

(Wed 21st Nov 2007, 16:28, More)

:)

(Sat 3rd Feb 2007, 16:26, More)

:)

(Tue 30th Jan 2007, 13:43, More)

:)

(Mon 29th Jan 2007, 17:49, More)

:)

(Tue 23rd Jan 2007, 12:40, More)

hahaha compo pea.....not worth own thread.

(Thu 14th Dec 2006, 18:34, More)

Apologies in advance for this pun....

(Tue 21st Nov 2006, 11:24, More)

Best answers to questions:

» Advice from Old People

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

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

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

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

RIP Bob, you lovely drunken old bastard. :)
(Thu 19th Jun 2008, 16:29, More)

» School Days

When I was studying my A levels,
one of the subjects I had the misfortune to choose was Biology.

It was okay - there were only 7 of us in my class, which meant that on last period on a Friday our teacher found it easier to take us down the local and lecture us about photosynthesis, the myelin sheath and acetylcholine over a few games of pool and a pint...all was well.

Towards the end of the A Level, the entire group of Biology students (my class and three others) had the misfortune to have to go to a study camp in Wells-Next-The-Sea in order to study marshland flora and fauna.

We were strictly grouped into boys and girls dorms - heaven forbid we should try some Biology practical...

The boys' dorm was a series of four rooms, three of which contained three beds, one containing two. There were ten of us. One lad, whom I shall call David, for that was his name, took it upon himself to claim the two bedroom room for his own...which was fine with the rest of us, as he had all the personality of a small, elderly and rather startled looking daschund.

The first day went fine - much scouting about for small insects, samphire and easy local girls.

I tend not to sleep well in strange places, particularly when inundated with the night farts and sweaty feet smell of two other teenage lads, so got up early and went to the newsagents to buy a paper. As in those days I was a pretentious cunt, I bought a copy of the Times. This was when it was only in it's broadsheet incarnation.

After reading said paper, I wandered in the hallway to discover that the door to David's room opened inwards. Out of sheer boredom and buggerment, I decided to paper his doorway with the Times. 40 minutes later, a small group of us stood outside to listen.
The door opened. A small voice did cry forth "You bastards!" and a finger poked it's way through the gap.

Day Two, Same Thing. Fist punches through.

Day Three - Ditto.

Days four to nine - Getting progressively braver, David has gone from punching to kicking paper doorway, to marching straight through.

Days Ten to Twelve - Marching has been replacing by the pattering of feet not unlike Scrappy Doo and his puppy power, before David leaps head first through paper like a birthing superhero.

Day Thirteen - I get up extra early and sniggering softly to myself, unplug the Drink Can vending machine from the hall way and wheel it this side of the paper.....

Cue sound of running feet. A brief silence as David goes airborne.
And then a sound like a watermelon being dropped from a height.

We cleared away the detritus.

The teachers found him nearly 40 minutes later, spread-eagled on the floor of his room.

He spent the next 3 months having physio and traction.

I have never admitted it was me until now. David - for what it's worth, I'm sorry.
But you were a cock.

/length, sorry etc.
(Mon 2nd Feb 2009, 22:35, More)

» Accidental animal cruelty

About 17 years ago...
I awoke one morning and got myself dressed and ready for school. After the obligatory ablutions of the 12 year old male (i.e. a quick sniff of the armpits and a tentative scratch of the plums) I sallied forth and ventured downstairs to fetch myself some cooked bread comestibles.
Having made myself a cup of coffee, and placed the bread in toaster I then discovered a terrible and distressing lack of marmite. 'Oh well' thought I, "buttered toast to break my fast will have to suffice and I shall instruct Mother to purchase more yeasty victuals ASAP."

The toaster did 'spoing!' I buttered my toast.

It tasted....funny. Somewhat scorched and musty. A burnt hair kind of smell. After gagging upon the third slice (it was a four slice toaster, and I was a fat bastard even then) I cautiously peered down into the grinning, gaping mouth of the toaster.

Something looked back at me. With sad eyes. Eyes that had known pain and suffering.

There, its claws melted to the side of the toaster, entombed in a small mountain of crumbs and smouldering fur was... a mouse.

The expression on its face could only be described as "oooooof".

Poor fucker. One minute gorging itself on crumbs, the next watching as its feet congeal to a glowing orange element.

I ate the last slice of toast though.
(Tue 11th Dec 2007, 0:42, More)

» What's the hardest you've tried to get dumped?

In the last few months of a relationship....
...the sparkle had died. She wouldn't take the hint, despite the fact i had practically moved out. So I did the only thing I could think of. Shagged her doggy style, and mid coitus reached under the bed and opened a porn mag which I then gently laid over her back and calmly flicked through while making half arsed love.

This was not appreciated.

The resulting testicular bruising took about three days to diminish. But at last I was single.
(Thu 5th Jun 2008, 17:29, More)

» School Trips

Norfolk People. Bless 'em.
I was on a school trip to London, all the way from sunny Norfolk. I think we were going to see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead or some such play. Anyway, with us on the trip were a couple of third years (Year 9 to you youngsters I believe) when about ten minutes after the prerequisite pee and sandwich stop, one of these younger lads starts hollering that he needs the loo. The teachers, having only just ferried us back onto the bus, were understandably miffed and told him he'd have to wait for a bit. There's silence for about ten minutes, when all of a sudden this god awful screeching and wailing and nashing of teeh comes from the rear of the coach. Girls are sobbing and screaming, boys are howling and gagging. The bus screeches to a halt and we all turn around to see this lad, squatting over his lunch box, dropping into it the biggest, wettest coil of turd you have ever seen. After finishing his poo, he calmly pissed into the lunchbox (still squatting) and then walked the walk of shame down the bus to throw it out of the door. He didn't stay very long at our school after that.

Apologies, etc etc.
(Thu 7th Dec 2006, 13:20, More)
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