Profile for Hampton St.Roker:
From Who's Who...
Hampton St.Roker
Hampton is the great grandson of Percy St.Roker, inventor of the Stroking JacketTM and the reach around. Hampton is handsome, suave, urbane, and inventive. A skilled pugilist and noted plunger, he frequently turns down offers to run developing countries, preferring to wait until they are finished, for fear that the hours would interfere with his strict smoking regime. Like Bertie, his instincts for survival have kept him out of the services, where he would undoubtedly have risen to great rank before a scandalous exit and a Ministry level hush-up. Hampton enjoys drinking rum, being rum, gin rummy, and gin.
Relatives;
Bertram Oliphant St.Roker
Wastrel, oaf about town, imbecile. The man is, simply put, simple. He is a danger to himself, to society, and to all root vegetables. After finishing his schooling he went onto read at university, presumably while moving his lips, graduating with a frankly miraculous 3rd in Sandpit and Colouring-In.
Bertie's famous dyslexia led to his being barred from St. Moritz after misreading Luge for Louche and descending the course wearing Tweed underpants, fisherman's waders, and bulldog clips on his nipples. A similar mishap occurred when visiting M&S dressed only in PVC with a hairbrush in his rectum. After hastening his father to an early grave, and inheriting the family debts, he now spends his days annoying his more sophisticated cousin and sweating his manservant. Bertie's interests include nineteenth century pornography, twentieth century pornography, smoking, and corporal punishment.
www.saintroker.com
As we stand, St.Roker is like a gentlemen’s club, without the premises or the gentlemen. And really more of a shop, to be honest. There's probably a discount and some free postage lurking around.
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From Who's Who...
Hampton St.Roker
Hampton is the great grandson of Percy St.Roker, inventor of the Stroking JacketTM and the reach around. Hampton is handsome, suave, urbane, and inventive. A skilled pugilist and noted plunger, he frequently turns down offers to run developing countries, preferring to wait until they are finished, for fear that the hours would interfere with his strict smoking regime. Like Bertie, his instincts for survival have kept him out of the services, where he would undoubtedly have risen to great rank before a scandalous exit and a Ministry level hush-up. Hampton enjoys drinking rum, being rum, gin rummy, and gin.
Relatives;
Bertram Oliphant St.Roker
Wastrel, oaf about town, imbecile. The man is, simply put, simple. He is a danger to himself, to society, and to all root vegetables. After finishing his schooling he went onto read at university, presumably while moving his lips, graduating with a frankly miraculous 3rd in Sandpit and Colouring-In.
Bertie's famous dyslexia led to his being barred from St. Moritz after misreading Luge for Louche and descending the course wearing Tweed underpants, fisherman's waders, and bulldog clips on his nipples. A similar mishap occurred when visiting M&S dressed only in PVC with a hairbrush in his rectum. After hastening his father to an early grave, and inheriting the family debts, he now spends his days annoying his more sophisticated cousin and sweating his manservant. Bertie's interests include nineteenth century pornography, twentieth century pornography, smoking, and corporal punishment.
www.saintroker.com
As we stand, St.Roker is like a gentlemen’s club, without the premises or the gentlemen. And really more of a shop, to be honest. There's probably a discount and some free postage lurking around.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Shit Stories: Part Number Two
Three is the magic number
There are many versions of a fabled 'Triple Crown'. Some involve booze, some involve sleeping with girls and other generations of her family. My own involves poo.
A Saturday night, two years ago, and Son #2 was overdue, so a night of sex and curry hurried the little blighter along. Quite a bit in fact, as a few hours later we were down the hospital and every time Lady St.Roker pushed, she hurled barely digested curry down my chest. Out he popped, and promptly pissed down my right arm.
I handed him back to nursey and while everyone did their tests or started putting stitches where you don't want them, I noticed a long snake of black rubber that had appeared on my left arm. I marvelled at it a while, picking at it, making shapes with it, pulling it off and putting it back on to see how it stuck to the hairs. At no point did I even consider that my shiney new son had shat all down my arm. That came later when a very nice nurse asked me to stop trying to stick it to the wall. Covered in puke, piss, and poo at the same time, now that's a Triple Crown.
Epi-log Part 1: He's just started potty training and has a younger sister. When he pinched his first one off, she picked it out of the potty, shook the wee off, and held it up to show me. Alas, no one was sick on her and she has to make do with the Double.
Epi-log Part 2: M'Lady's birthday yesterday, so took her to a posh hotel for afternoon tea. Sitting on the balcony, all very civilised until my little scatophile decided he needed a crap. He didn't feel the need to tell anyone about it, or even find a toilet for that matter, but simply dropped his Lightening McQueen pants, pushed his arse up against the railings and let one drop down, down, down, onto the bar area below. Oh how we ran.
That trumps when he pulled them down in Boots for a pee over the Lynx deodorants.
He's ace.
(Thu 27th Mar 2008, 15:21, More)
Three is the magic number
There are many versions of a fabled 'Triple Crown'. Some involve booze, some involve sleeping with girls and other generations of her family. My own involves poo.
A Saturday night, two years ago, and Son #2 was overdue, so a night of sex and curry hurried the little blighter along. Quite a bit in fact, as a few hours later we were down the hospital and every time Lady St.Roker pushed, she hurled barely digested curry down my chest. Out he popped, and promptly pissed down my right arm.
I handed him back to nursey and while everyone did their tests or started putting stitches where you don't want them, I noticed a long snake of black rubber that had appeared on my left arm. I marvelled at it a while, picking at it, making shapes with it, pulling it off and putting it back on to see how it stuck to the hairs. At no point did I even consider that my shiney new son had shat all down my arm. That came later when a very nice nurse asked me to stop trying to stick it to the wall. Covered in puke, piss, and poo at the same time, now that's a Triple Crown.
Epi-log Part 1: He's just started potty training and has a younger sister. When he pinched his first one off, she picked it out of the potty, shook the wee off, and held it up to show me. Alas, no one was sick on her and she has to make do with the Double.
Epi-log Part 2: M'Lady's birthday yesterday, so took her to a posh hotel for afternoon tea. Sitting on the balcony, all very civilised until my little scatophile decided he needed a crap. He didn't feel the need to tell anyone about it, or even find a toilet for that matter, but simply dropped his Lightening McQueen pants, pushed his arse up against the railings and let one drop down, down, down, onto the bar area below. Oh how we ran.
That trumps when he pulled them down in Boots for a pee over the Lynx deodorants.
He's ace.
(Thu 27th Mar 2008, 15:21, More)
» In the Army Now - The joy of the Armed Forces
Royal Poo Collection
A recently ex-RAF pilot mate now works as a very posh taxi driver, flying celebs and the well to do around as part of a fleet of private jets. Not that funny in itself, but in a freezer at their base is a collection of celebrity turds that the crews 'collect' from the jet khazis. He is very proud that his first contribution was a brown otter belonging to a certain ex member of a girl band who was quite posh.
He also claims that there is a collection of Royal steamers harvested from the Royal jet, under lock and key on a RAF base. Why? Why not.
(Mon 27th Mar 2006, 15:10, More)
Royal Poo Collection
A recently ex-RAF pilot mate now works as a very posh taxi driver, flying celebs and the well to do around as part of a fleet of private jets. Not that funny in itself, but in a freezer at their base is a collection of celebrity turds that the crews 'collect' from the jet khazis. He is very proud that his first contribution was a brown otter belonging to a certain ex member of a girl band who was quite posh.
He also claims that there is a collection of Royal steamers harvested from the Royal jet, under lock and key on a RAF base. Why? Why not.
(Mon 27th Mar 2006, 15:10, More)
» In the Army Now - The joy of the Armed Forces
Like shooting fish in a barrel
I'm on a roll. I went to a naval school near Sandhurst, so was duly packed off with the rest of the CCF to spend weekends sitting in the Sandhurst woods lugging Lee Enfields (we were like the Poundstretcher version of CCF) and trying to find whatever CCF had been dropped off at the other end. All of our meticulous training and planning came together one fine morning, with the entire troop hidden and waiting on the slopes of a cutting. As luck would have it, the other lot never showed, but two middle aged lady joggers in nice pastel towelling suits did... Fair play to the Colour Sargeant for getting the first thunder flash in front of them, and immediately lobbing another behind as both slopes erupted in gunfire and pre pubescent screaming. If you've never seen fat middle aged women completely losing it and running around in pure undiluted panic as the sun comes up over the trees on a gentle misty morning, you haven't lived.
Length? You know you love it.
(Fri 24th Mar 2006, 16:04, More)
Like shooting fish in a barrel
I'm on a roll. I went to a naval school near Sandhurst, so was duly packed off with the rest of the CCF to spend weekends sitting in the Sandhurst woods lugging Lee Enfields (we were like the Poundstretcher version of CCF) and trying to find whatever CCF had been dropped off at the other end. All of our meticulous training and planning came together one fine morning, with the entire troop hidden and waiting on the slopes of a cutting. As luck would have it, the other lot never showed, but two middle aged lady joggers in nice pastel towelling suits did... Fair play to the Colour Sargeant for getting the first thunder flash in front of them, and immediately lobbing another behind as both slopes erupted in gunfire and pre pubescent screaming. If you've never seen fat middle aged women completely losing it and running around in pure undiluted panic as the sun comes up over the trees on a gentle misty morning, you haven't lived.
Length? You know you love it.
(Fri 24th Mar 2006, 16:04, More)
» Advice from Old People
Sexual Dilemmas
Rather than a long and awkward chat about the birds and the bees, my dad gave me three bits of advice which I still swear by twenty years later....
1. When getting naked with a girl, always take your socks off as early as possible. Naked and erect while wearing only socks is not sexy.
2. If you're tired, go on top. Otherwise you'll doze off and that is not sexy.
3. Don't be fooled by big tits.
I have ignored each piece of advice at one time or another, and found him to be almost right on each point. I should add to point 2 that should you go on top and still doze off, the reaction is somewhat worse.
I am still fooled by big knockers on a regular basis. It's a man thing.
(Fri 20th Jun 2008, 8:44, More)
Sexual Dilemmas
Rather than a long and awkward chat about the birds and the bees, my dad gave me three bits of advice which I still swear by twenty years later....
1. When getting naked with a girl, always take your socks off as early as possible. Naked and erect while wearing only socks is not sexy.
2. If you're tired, go on top. Otherwise you'll doze off and that is not sexy.
3. Don't be fooled by big tits.
I have ignored each piece of advice at one time or another, and found him to be almost right on each point. I should add to point 2 that should you go on top and still doze off, the reaction is somewhat worse.
I am still fooled by big knockers on a regular basis. It's a man thing.
(Fri 20th Jun 2008, 8:44, More)
» Gyms
Running machines and headphones do not mix.
It was quite bad when I was running nice and fast (though going nowhere) on the treadmill, and felt that my headphone cable was snagged on something.
It was slightly worse when, rather than look down and take my eyes off the fit little things demonstrating 'Aerobics Oz Style', I just swiped my hand in the general direction of the snag.
It got really bad when I discovered that what the cable was snagged around, and what I'd just hit, was the Emergency Stop button.
I discovered this when the treadmill abruptly stopped and I ran very hard into the display panel, half flipping over it, and ending up beached on top of it, winded and unable to move. It's not a good look.
This is, however, better than farting away with your headphones in and thinking that just because you can't hear it, no one else can. Or smell it.
.
(Thu 9th Jul 2009, 17:30, More)
Running machines and headphones do not mix.
It was quite bad when I was running nice and fast (though going nowhere) on the treadmill, and felt that my headphone cable was snagged on something.
It was slightly worse when, rather than look down and take my eyes off the fit little things demonstrating 'Aerobics Oz Style', I just swiped my hand in the general direction of the snag.
It got really bad when I discovered that what the cable was snagged around, and what I'd just hit, was the Emergency Stop button.
I discovered this when the treadmill abruptly stopped and I ran very hard into the display panel, half flipping over it, and ending up beached on top of it, winded and unable to move. It's not a good look.
This is, however, better than farting away with your headphones in and thinking that just because you can't hear it, no one else can. Or smell it.
.
(Thu 9th Jul 2009, 17:30, More)