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- a member for 19 years, 2 months and 13 days
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- has posted 15 stories and 22 replies on question of the week
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» Abusing freebies
Freeby/Abuse
As a child, my folks were given loads of promotional stuff from drug companies hawking their wares - nothing expensive, stationary mainly.
One time my Mum was given a gimmicky towel, a small towel that had been compressed into a wee brick, and could be uncompressed and used normally after soaking in water. She kindly gave it to 14 year old me, as I though it was quite cool (I was always a geek).
So I took the wee brick with me to an Army camp with the cadets (nice and compact you see, saved on packing and carrying).
A couple of days in, I thought I might need a small towel, and soaked the brick in the sink for ten minutes.
It softened up, and I pulled it out of the sink by its corners, proudly displaying the legend "VAGISIL" to the other hard as fuck army cadets in the room.
Thanks Mum.
(Fri 9th Nov 2007, 15:08, More)
Freeby/Abuse
As a child, my folks were given loads of promotional stuff from drug companies hawking their wares - nothing expensive, stationary mainly.
One time my Mum was given a gimmicky towel, a small towel that had been compressed into a wee brick, and could be uncompressed and used normally after soaking in water. She kindly gave it to 14 year old me, as I though it was quite cool (I was always a geek).
So I took the wee brick with me to an Army camp with the cadets (nice and compact you see, saved on packing and carrying).
A couple of days in, I thought I might need a small towel, and soaked the brick in the sink for ten minutes.
It softened up, and I pulled it out of the sink by its corners, proudly displaying the legend "VAGISIL" to the other hard as fuck army cadets in the room.
Thanks Mum.
(Fri 9th Nov 2007, 15:08, More)
» Terrified!
Eejit
My first time in Ireland, 5 or 6 of us altogether. We'd arrived in the pitch dark, so apart from knowing I was in a rented cottage in a fairly rural area, I had little idea of my surroundings.
We settled in, lit the fire, got some tunes on, let the Jamesons flow.
I open the steamed-over window, trying to let a bit of the "cig" smoke out, and a few minutes later, hear a low, but fairly loud groaning noise.
I put it down to the music and the "cigs", but a few minutes later, there it is again, a guttural, deep moan, coming from outside.
My heart racing, I push open the window, and there on the ground below, sat staring up at me, is one of the smallest dogs I've ever seen, maybe a Jack Russell, that sort of size. "Hello little feller" says I, chuckling at my cowardice.
"MMMMMMMMMUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRR!!!!!"
FUCK! (Jumps out of skin).
About ten yards behind the world's smallest dog, is a fucking huge black cow, well camouflaged against the night. Being a stoned idiot, it was the last thing I was expecting, despite the area having more cows than people by about 1000:1. Even the dog laughed at me.
(Tue 10th Apr 2012, 11:53, More)
Eejit
My first time in Ireland, 5 or 6 of us altogether. We'd arrived in the pitch dark, so apart from knowing I was in a rented cottage in a fairly rural area, I had little idea of my surroundings.
We settled in, lit the fire, got some tunes on, let the Jamesons flow.
I open the steamed-over window, trying to let a bit of the "cig" smoke out, and a few minutes later, hear a low, but fairly loud groaning noise.
I put it down to the music and the "cigs", but a few minutes later, there it is again, a guttural, deep moan, coming from outside.
My heart racing, I push open the window, and there on the ground below, sat staring up at me, is one of the smallest dogs I've ever seen, maybe a Jack Russell, that sort of size. "Hello little feller" says I, chuckling at my cowardice.
"MMMMMMMMMUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRR!!!!!"
FUCK! (Jumps out of skin).
About ten yards behind the world's smallest dog, is a fucking huge black cow, well camouflaged against the night. Being a stoned idiot, it was the last thing I was expecting, despite the area having more cows than people by about 1000:1. Even the dog laughed at me.
(Tue 10th Apr 2012, 11:53, More)
» Stuff I've found
I seem to have a knack
for finding small amounts of cash, drugs and weaponary. It's uncanny, I'm like a bloody sniffer dog. In the 7 years I've lived here, I've found:
£35; £20; 2 eighths of grass, on separate occasions, on the same five yard bit of pavement between here and the bus stop; a bag of unidentified white powder, about 2 grams, on the bus, picked it up but tipped it down the bog at home (even I'm not that daft, i was tempted for a second though); a can of CS gas, in the lost property box, at work! (Illegal to possess in this country, offensive weapon, but an American colleague had found it and thought nothing of it - he was from Texas); an ounce of Golden Virginia; and a fiver about ten minutes ago whilst walking the dog.
The clincher though was pocketing a pen at work, a silvery metal biro, pretty cheap looking, it fell out of a book and just seemed like any other office biro.
It stayed in my coat pocket for about a week, before I pulled it out whilst sat at a table of about ten people in the pub to have a communal crack at the crossword.
I scribbled a bit with it, but no joy. Shook it, licked it, but it wouldn't work. I pulled the barrel open to see if there was any ink in the wee biro tube, and fuck me if it wasn't one of these:
Certainly not what you'd expect to find in a library, and I'd had it on my person, in public, for over a week. Thankfully my drinking partners believed the tale and didn't think I was a nutter - no one could fake that sort of surprise, I nearly wasted beer.
(Sat 8th Nov 2008, 16:33, More)
I seem to have a knack
for finding small amounts of cash, drugs and weaponary. It's uncanny, I'm like a bloody sniffer dog. In the 7 years I've lived here, I've found:
£35; £20; 2 eighths of grass, on separate occasions, on the same five yard bit of pavement between here and the bus stop; a bag of unidentified white powder, about 2 grams, on the bus, picked it up but tipped it down the bog at home (even I'm not that daft, i was tempted for a second though); a can of CS gas, in the lost property box, at work! (Illegal to possess in this country, offensive weapon, but an American colleague had found it and thought nothing of it - he was from Texas); an ounce of Golden Virginia; and a fiver about ten minutes ago whilst walking the dog.
The clincher though was pocketing a pen at work, a silvery metal biro, pretty cheap looking, it fell out of a book and just seemed like any other office biro.
It stayed in my coat pocket for about a week, before I pulled it out whilst sat at a table of about ten people in the pub to have a communal crack at the crossword.
I scribbled a bit with it, but no joy. Shook it, licked it, but it wouldn't work. I pulled the barrel open to see if there was any ink in the wee biro tube, and fuck me if it wasn't one of these:
Certainly not what you'd expect to find in a library, and I'd had it on my person, in public, for over a week. Thankfully my drinking partners believed the tale and didn't think I was a nutter - no one could fake that sort of surprise, I nearly wasted beer.
(Sat 8th Nov 2008, 16:33, More)
» Public Transport Trauma
Three of the best
Wow, I’ve got a few of these, having used buses almost every day for the last twenty years – probably a good 10000 journeys. The vast majority of these are either soul-destroyingly boring, or filled with a host of minor irritants which make for crap stories. There are three journeys that always stick in my mind though, recounted below.
Pull up a chair, crack open a tinny, and enjoy. Or if you’re in a hurry, skip to episode 3 as it’s the best of the bunch.
Episode 1 – Tramp fight.
The venue was the 167 Manchester to Norden service. It’s a Saturday afternoon, but for some reason, instead of a proper full size bus, they’ve put on one of those tiny ones that usually only do local routes – known round our way as a biddy bus. It’s almost full, but there’s a couple of seats left.
Two blokes get on near Victoria station; one looks like a cartoon tramp right out of the Beano, probably in his 50s, long white beard, big coat, dot-like alcoholic eyes and ruddy alcoholic complexion, clearly pissed and had been for many years. I’m surprised he didn’t have a crumpled top hat and a knotted hanky on a stick. His companion though, was one scary looking motherfucker – younger, possibly in his 30s, but covered, and I mean every visible inch, in scars, including ones on the backs of his hands that looked like gunshot scars. He also had a lovely collection of loyalist paramilitary tattoos, in the traditional razor blade and biro ink style, and the accompanying thick Belfast accent.
So the two deadbeats end up arguing about something or other, I just try to ignore them and hope I don’t get stabbed. What followed was the single most pathetic fight I’ve ever seen – my baby niece would fight harder than these two utter pussies, rolling around on the floor of the tiny bus, right at my feet. Tramp guy is on the deck, on his back, with UVF guy on top of him – Orange boy has, rather remarkably, some money in his shirt pocket, a tenner if I recall, which trampy tries to lift out of his pocket. This enrages our protestant friend so much, that he threatens to blow up the bus - driver calls the police and crazy Paisley fucks off into the back streets of Cheetham Hill.
The police arrive, and attempt to take a statement from the old boy, as he was the victim of an assault, even if it was a spectacularly feeble one which resulted in no injuries at all. They’re asking for the name of the Norn Irish guy, trampy just keeps repeating that he doesn’t know it, before conspiratorially glancing side to side, lowering his head and voice, and whispering to them in a way that suggested the imparting of some arcane knowledge… “I think he’s a heroin addict”.
No shit.
Episode 2 – Lazy Bastard.
Bog standard, boring journey home from work. Bloke gets on about ten stops before I get off – he looks like a painter/decorator; he’s covered in paint splashes, and is carrying a box full of brushes and other decorating gear. I really didn’t think much of it at the time, all seemed normal, even by Salford’s standards.
A couple of stops later, another guy gets on, stays on until the very next stop, then gets off. This, for fuck only knows what reason, enrages the decorator guy no end. Despite having been still and silent so far, he now feels the need to run up and down the bus shouting “LAZY BASTARD, FUCKING LAZY BASTARD, DID YOU SEE THAT? FUCKING LAZY BASTARD” at the top of his lungs, looking at the other passengers for confirmation of the lunacy before him; a man riding a bus for 200 yards is just too much for this bloke to cope with. Mothers are shepherding their children towards them, hiding them behind their legs, grannies are hiding their pension books, and everyone else is trying their damndest to become invisible out of sheer whatthefuckery.
Episode 3 – Waiting for Reg.
This one’s going out to the Kersal Massive, as it’s all about a daysaver.
I stayed over at a mate’s one Saturday night, then got the M10 into town to catch the 167 back home on the Sunday morning. I had precisely enough for a daysaver to get home with, £3 at the time I think – no other resources whatsoever, no cash in the bank, not even any cigs.
M10 arrives, I buy my ticket, and sit down to smoke a reefoh in the cornoh (not really, no reefer left by this point on a Sunday morning). Being bored witless, I glance down at my ticket quite by chance, to see that it hasn’t printed out correctly, and the date is completely illegible. This worries me, as the jobsworthyness of bus drivers is legendary, and I don’t reckon any driver would let me on with this ticket. So I walk up to the driver, and in my usual polite manner, tell him the score, and ask for a replacement ticket. The following discourse ensues:
Numpty: “I can’t, my takings will be £3 down if I give you another ticket.”
Me: “I sympathise mate, but we can file that under your problem, not mine.”
Numpty: “I can’t give you another ticket.”
Me: “You haven’t given me a usable ticket, so it’s not ‘another’ ticket, I don’t want two, I just want one that will work.”
Numpty: “Well you’ll have to come to the office with me and wait for my boss, Reg, to authorise it.”
Me, with the air of resignation of a seasoned bus traveller: “OK.”
As it was a Sunday, I had plenty of time until my next bus, so I end up following the driver to this shitty little porta-cabin near Cathedral Gardens, which is now a proper bus station, but at the time of this tale it was just a car park, a porta-cabin, and some piss.
The porta-cabin was a time machine to the early seventies, it was like being in Porridge – page 3 girls on the walls, blokes with ‘On the buses’ uniforms and hangovers smoking roll ups and drinking tea from thermos flasks.
Reg eventually arrives after I’ve smoked a couple of the other drivers roll ups (thanks again mate), and numpty driver explains the situation to him.
Without hesitating for even a second, Reg gives me three quid, turns to numpty, and with vitriol practically spraying from his ears says:
“Why didn’t you give him his money back you fucking idiot?”
Th'end, ta,
Udi.
(Fri 30th May 2008, 15:42, More)
Three of the best
Wow, I’ve got a few of these, having used buses almost every day for the last twenty years – probably a good 10000 journeys. The vast majority of these are either soul-destroyingly boring, or filled with a host of minor irritants which make for crap stories. There are three journeys that always stick in my mind though, recounted below.
Pull up a chair, crack open a tinny, and enjoy. Or if you’re in a hurry, skip to episode 3 as it’s the best of the bunch.
Episode 1 – Tramp fight.
The venue was the 167 Manchester to Norden service. It’s a Saturday afternoon, but for some reason, instead of a proper full size bus, they’ve put on one of those tiny ones that usually only do local routes – known round our way as a biddy bus. It’s almost full, but there’s a couple of seats left.
Two blokes get on near Victoria station; one looks like a cartoon tramp right out of the Beano, probably in his 50s, long white beard, big coat, dot-like alcoholic eyes and ruddy alcoholic complexion, clearly pissed and had been for many years. I’m surprised he didn’t have a crumpled top hat and a knotted hanky on a stick. His companion though, was one scary looking motherfucker – younger, possibly in his 30s, but covered, and I mean every visible inch, in scars, including ones on the backs of his hands that looked like gunshot scars. He also had a lovely collection of loyalist paramilitary tattoos, in the traditional razor blade and biro ink style, and the accompanying thick Belfast accent.
So the two deadbeats end up arguing about something or other, I just try to ignore them and hope I don’t get stabbed. What followed was the single most pathetic fight I’ve ever seen – my baby niece would fight harder than these two utter pussies, rolling around on the floor of the tiny bus, right at my feet. Tramp guy is on the deck, on his back, with UVF guy on top of him – Orange boy has, rather remarkably, some money in his shirt pocket, a tenner if I recall, which trampy tries to lift out of his pocket. This enrages our protestant friend so much, that he threatens to blow up the bus - driver calls the police and crazy Paisley fucks off into the back streets of Cheetham Hill.
The police arrive, and attempt to take a statement from the old boy, as he was the victim of an assault, even if it was a spectacularly feeble one which resulted in no injuries at all. They’re asking for the name of the Norn Irish guy, trampy just keeps repeating that he doesn’t know it, before conspiratorially glancing side to side, lowering his head and voice, and whispering to them in a way that suggested the imparting of some arcane knowledge… “I think he’s a heroin addict”.
No shit.
Episode 2 – Lazy Bastard.
Bog standard, boring journey home from work. Bloke gets on about ten stops before I get off – he looks like a painter/decorator; he’s covered in paint splashes, and is carrying a box full of brushes and other decorating gear. I really didn’t think much of it at the time, all seemed normal, even by Salford’s standards.
A couple of stops later, another guy gets on, stays on until the very next stop, then gets off. This, for fuck only knows what reason, enrages the decorator guy no end. Despite having been still and silent so far, he now feels the need to run up and down the bus shouting “LAZY BASTARD, FUCKING LAZY BASTARD, DID YOU SEE THAT? FUCKING LAZY BASTARD” at the top of his lungs, looking at the other passengers for confirmation of the lunacy before him; a man riding a bus for 200 yards is just too much for this bloke to cope with. Mothers are shepherding their children towards them, hiding them behind their legs, grannies are hiding their pension books, and everyone else is trying their damndest to become invisible out of sheer whatthefuckery.
Episode 3 – Waiting for Reg.
This one’s going out to the Kersal Massive, as it’s all about a daysaver.
I stayed over at a mate’s one Saturday night, then got the M10 into town to catch the 167 back home on the Sunday morning. I had precisely enough for a daysaver to get home with, £3 at the time I think – no other resources whatsoever, no cash in the bank, not even any cigs.
M10 arrives, I buy my ticket, and sit down to smoke a reefoh in the cornoh (not really, no reefer left by this point on a Sunday morning). Being bored witless, I glance down at my ticket quite by chance, to see that it hasn’t printed out correctly, and the date is completely illegible. This worries me, as the jobsworthyness of bus drivers is legendary, and I don’t reckon any driver would let me on with this ticket. So I walk up to the driver, and in my usual polite manner, tell him the score, and ask for a replacement ticket. The following discourse ensues:
Numpty: “I can’t, my takings will be £3 down if I give you another ticket.”
Me: “I sympathise mate, but we can file that under your problem, not mine.”
Numpty: “I can’t give you another ticket.”
Me: “You haven’t given me a usable ticket, so it’s not ‘another’ ticket, I don’t want two, I just want one that will work.”
Numpty: “Well you’ll have to come to the office with me and wait for my boss, Reg, to authorise it.”
Me, with the air of resignation of a seasoned bus traveller: “OK.”
As it was a Sunday, I had plenty of time until my next bus, so I end up following the driver to this shitty little porta-cabin near Cathedral Gardens, which is now a proper bus station, but at the time of this tale it was just a car park, a porta-cabin, and some piss.
The porta-cabin was a time machine to the early seventies, it was like being in Porridge – page 3 girls on the walls, blokes with ‘On the buses’ uniforms and hangovers smoking roll ups and drinking tea from thermos flasks.
Reg eventually arrives after I’ve smoked a couple of the other drivers roll ups (thanks again mate), and numpty driver explains the situation to him.
Without hesitating for even a second, Reg gives me three quid, turns to numpty, and with vitriol practically spraying from his ears says:
“Why didn’t you give him his money back you fucking idiot?”
Th'end, ta,
Udi.
(Fri 30th May 2008, 15:42, More)
» Fire!
Can a bath burn?
Yes. It bloody can.
Pasted from another forum, but relevant, and, first post! Hooray for me!
So I get into bed alongside my good lady, about midnight the other night, and fall fast asleep.
An hour or so later, she's waking me up, "What's that noise?"
A really loud, incessant BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP was going on, I didn't have a clue what it was, but it sounded like it was coming from the bathroom, so I go to investigate.
Now, I'm no matinee idol, so picture if you will a naked tall skinny guy (with a beer gut) walking into his bathroom and seeing his bath on fire.
"The fucking bath's on fire!"
Mrs Udidin, we'll call her Lali, had lit a candle for her nightly bathing/contacting the dead routine, and had neglected to put it out. Now, it was on a proper glass candle stand, which was as much use as the proverbial chocolate teapot, as it had shattered when it got hot, leaving the candle to burn a ruddy great hole in my bath.
The noise was the smoke alarm, which I had completely forgotton about, saving our lives as rancid plastic fumes filled the landing.
Fire went out with the help of a handfull of water, but if it wasn't for that smoke alarm I wouldn't be typing this now, god only knows what might have happened, certainly scared the pish out of me. The bath's knackered though, 6 inch round melted burned hole in the side of it, showers only for yours truly for a while.
So, the moral of the tale is, get a smoke alarm, get a few in fact, ours came free with the burglar alarm and I owe my bathroom, if not my life and the life of the woman I love, to it.
Cracking anecdote though, silver linings etc.
Udz.
(Thu 3rd Nov 2005, 10:29, More)
Can a bath burn?
Yes. It bloody can.
Pasted from another forum, but relevant, and, first post! Hooray for me!
So I get into bed alongside my good lady, about midnight the other night, and fall fast asleep.
An hour or so later, she's waking me up, "What's that noise?"
A really loud, incessant BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP was going on, I didn't have a clue what it was, but it sounded like it was coming from the bathroom, so I go to investigate.
Now, I'm no matinee idol, so picture if you will a naked tall skinny guy (with a beer gut) walking into his bathroom and seeing his bath on fire.
"The fucking bath's on fire!"
Mrs Udidin, we'll call her Lali, had lit a candle for her nightly bathing/contacting the dead routine, and had neglected to put it out. Now, it was on a proper glass candle stand, which was as much use as the proverbial chocolate teapot, as it had shattered when it got hot, leaving the candle to burn a ruddy great hole in my bath.
The noise was the smoke alarm, which I had completely forgotton about, saving our lives as rancid plastic fumes filled the landing.
Fire went out with the help of a handfull of water, but if it wasn't for that smoke alarm I wouldn't be typing this now, god only knows what might have happened, certainly scared the pish out of me. The bath's knackered though, 6 inch round melted burned hole in the side of it, showers only for yours truly for a while.
So, the moral of the tale is, get a smoke alarm, get a few in fact, ours came free with the burglar alarm and I owe my bathroom, if not my life and the life of the woman I love, to it.
Cracking anecdote though, silver linings etc.
Udz.
(Thu 3rd Nov 2005, 10:29, More)