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» Starting something you couldn't finish
Not one single thing, ever.
Signed,
M. Magnússon
(Mon 28th Jun 2010, 9:36, More)
Not one single thing, ever.
Signed,
M. Magnússon
(Mon 28th Jun 2010, 9:36, More)
» The Wank Bank
Such vivid memories
1. This one time I got bored of the Just Fucking White colour of my bedroom walls, so I fed my girlfriend nothing but beetroot for a week then bounced her on my knees (recent winners of the Brighton Knobbly Knee Gold Medal), sending intense waves of G-spot stimulation through her until she started doing a liquid sex guff. Quick as a flash I steered her around the room, using her flailing arms to aim her like a Twatling Gun, until all four points of the compass were a warm and modern Summer Fuschia.
2. The first time I went to a gay sauna I met a bloke who apologised in advance for having a very thin dick, “almost like a needle”, so I told him it was probably just as well as I’d never done this before. He then fished out some sort of little rotating sex toy and used it to distend my nether regions, before mounting me and gyrating his hips in a circular motion while humming. It was at this point that I realised his dick WAS a needle and that he was using me to play ‘Dambusters’ on the miniature arse gramophone.
3. Once, in a club, I met this Scottish girl who looked a bit like how my sister would probably look if I had a sister, so I inveigled my way into her student flat thanks to lager tops and the following morning bought two cinnamon whirls from the local bakery, clapping them over her ears as I did her doggy-style and getting her to call me “Luke”. My name’s not Luke.
(Thu 23rd Aug 2012, 15:46, More)
Such vivid memories
1. This one time I got bored of the Just Fucking White colour of my bedroom walls, so I fed my girlfriend nothing but beetroot for a week then bounced her on my knees (recent winners of the Brighton Knobbly Knee Gold Medal), sending intense waves of G-spot stimulation through her until she started doing a liquid sex guff. Quick as a flash I steered her around the room, using her flailing arms to aim her like a Twatling Gun, until all four points of the compass were a warm and modern Summer Fuschia.
2. The first time I went to a gay sauna I met a bloke who apologised in advance for having a very thin dick, “almost like a needle”, so I told him it was probably just as well as I’d never done this before. He then fished out some sort of little rotating sex toy and used it to distend my nether regions, before mounting me and gyrating his hips in a circular motion while humming. It was at this point that I realised his dick WAS a needle and that he was using me to play ‘Dambusters’ on the miniature arse gramophone.
3. Once, in a club, I met this Scottish girl who looked a bit like how my sister would probably look if I had a sister, so I inveigled my way into her student flat thanks to lager tops and the following morning bought two cinnamon whirls from the local bakery, clapping them over her ears as I did her doggy-style and getting her to call me “Luke”. My name’s not Luke.
(Thu 23rd Aug 2012, 15:46, More)
» FIGHT!
When talent-nighting, have talent.
The place: Sukhumvit Soi 11, where all strata of Bangkok society shake the drips of Nana sleaze from their clothing to clink cocktails and dance to live music until the sun pierces the mist around the skyscrapers.
It was a clammy, hot night (for a change). We’d wrapped up the day’s meetings in time to step out into the afternoon sunshine, so none of us felt much like going home, and we opted for a jungle curry with rice and a beer or two before taking a couple of taxis to Suk 11. The theme of the evening was to be live and spontaneous.
After we descended from the taxis, one bar to our right caught our eye: a cosy but modern affair with a glass-panelled front, soft lighting and a bare brick mini-stage at the back for open mic acts. The place was owned by a couple of former radio DJs, so we figured it was a pretty safe bet in terms of hearing some real talent. We got the cocktails in and settled down for an evening of extremely eclectic entertainment, from the waif-like girl with a guitar who sounded spookily like Thom Yorke when she sang to the huge bare-chested guy who slapped a breakbeat on his chest to accompany himself.
Just before midnight a gaggle of local lads came through the door. They all looked barely old enough to be drinking in public, but you could see the bulge of their muscles through their short-sleeved shirts and they walked with the juiced-up swagger of Croydon’s finest. My colleague, who had lived in Bangkok for a little while, motioned with his head and murmured “Muay Thai”. The martial artists colonised a table and got enough drinks in to last the next four hours, and scanned the bar to check if any farang was looking at them funny.
The ambience in the bar was pretty relaxed and there was no particular reason to think anything would kick off, until two things happened more or less at once: a young guy selling leather jackets came through the door; and the next act took the mic. Mr. Leather Jacket clearly needed to make up his quota for the day as he was very persistent, waving the sleeves of his sample jacket in the faces of all the customers and saying “Leather, leather”. I took one look at this jacket and decided it was about as leather as a polyester raincoat, and waved him off. The Croydon crew were less genteel and started slapping him around a bit, tugging at the jacket and almost making the poor guy fall flat on his face. Then, in a split second, the entire table (including Mr. Leather Jacket) froze: the next act had begun to sing.
As one we turned to look at the stage and saw a twentysomething guy with a burgeoning gut putting a childbirth-worthy level of enthusiasm into singing My Heart Will Go On...in the manner of someone who had only seen a video of the original song on TV with the sound off. He sang in time, he got all the words right, but the melody was nowhere to be seen. A couple of glances exchanged to quell the bubbling hysteria amongst us later, and we mutually decided that he was not profoundly drunk; he was, instead, profoundly hard of hearing. This seemed to be confirmed when he kept blissfully singing despite the Muay Thai gang’s increasingly raucous shouts for him to shut up (I assume), which in fact only seemed to encourage him. His eyes closed and he turned his cherubic face upwards to belt out the chorus, and one of the lads decided he’d had enough. He loosened his grip on Mr. Leather Jacket’s collar and strode up to the stage before pouring his entire large beer into the amp.
The amp spat and crackled into silence, pouring forth a large cloud of dirty white smoke, and the singer popped open his eyes before lunging bleatingly at his latest critic. The guy was visibly stifling a laugh as he fended off the doughy fists of his opponent, and seemed to be calculating exactly how many ribs he was going to break to teach this guy a lesson.
It was then that our hero sprang into action.
With a speed that none of us expected of him, Mr. Leather Jacket ran up the stage, prised the two pugilists apart and slapped his finest product sample over the singer’s head, rushing him out of the bar like a policeman bundling a suspect into a waiting patrol car. The rest of us were still sitting there in a mixture of dumbfounded tension and relief that no blood had been spilled, and the patrons instantly waded in to calm their slap-happiest customers before they went off into the night after their prey. Of course, as soon as the source of excitement had been removed, the ambience very quickly returned to normal, and after the backup amp had been wheeled out, the next open mic act took the stage with little more than a hint of a quiver in her voice. On our table, we relaxed into our drinks and mulled over the fact that Thai fighters had just blown up the deaf star with the help of the young skai-hawker.
(Fri 15th Mar 2013, 12:51, More)
When talent-nighting, have talent.
The place: Sukhumvit Soi 11, where all strata of Bangkok society shake the drips of Nana sleaze from their clothing to clink cocktails and dance to live music until the sun pierces the mist around the skyscrapers.
It was a clammy, hot night (for a change). We’d wrapped up the day’s meetings in time to step out into the afternoon sunshine, so none of us felt much like going home, and we opted for a jungle curry with rice and a beer or two before taking a couple of taxis to Suk 11. The theme of the evening was to be live and spontaneous.
After we descended from the taxis, one bar to our right caught our eye: a cosy but modern affair with a glass-panelled front, soft lighting and a bare brick mini-stage at the back for open mic acts. The place was owned by a couple of former radio DJs, so we figured it was a pretty safe bet in terms of hearing some real talent. We got the cocktails in and settled down for an evening of extremely eclectic entertainment, from the waif-like girl with a guitar who sounded spookily like Thom Yorke when she sang to the huge bare-chested guy who slapped a breakbeat on his chest to accompany himself.
Just before midnight a gaggle of local lads came through the door. They all looked barely old enough to be drinking in public, but you could see the bulge of their muscles through their short-sleeved shirts and they walked with the juiced-up swagger of Croydon’s finest. My colleague, who had lived in Bangkok for a little while, motioned with his head and murmured “Muay Thai”. The martial artists colonised a table and got enough drinks in to last the next four hours, and scanned the bar to check if any farang was looking at them funny.
The ambience in the bar was pretty relaxed and there was no particular reason to think anything would kick off, until two things happened more or less at once: a young guy selling leather jackets came through the door; and the next act took the mic. Mr. Leather Jacket clearly needed to make up his quota for the day as he was very persistent, waving the sleeves of his sample jacket in the faces of all the customers and saying “Leather, leather”. I took one look at this jacket and decided it was about as leather as a polyester raincoat, and waved him off. The Croydon crew were less genteel and started slapping him around a bit, tugging at the jacket and almost making the poor guy fall flat on his face. Then, in a split second, the entire table (including Mr. Leather Jacket) froze: the next act had begun to sing.
As one we turned to look at the stage and saw a twentysomething guy with a burgeoning gut putting a childbirth-worthy level of enthusiasm into singing My Heart Will Go On...in the manner of someone who had only seen a video of the original song on TV with the sound off. He sang in time, he got all the words right, but the melody was nowhere to be seen. A couple of glances exchanged to quell the bubbling hysteria amongst us later, and we mutually decided that he was not profoundly drunk; he was, instead, profoundly hard of hearing. This seemed to be confirmed when he kept blissfully singing despite the Muay Thai gang’s increasingly raucous shouts for him to shut up (I assume), which in fact only seemed to encourage him. His eyes closed and he turned his cherubic face upwards to belt out the chorus, and one of the lads decided he’d had enough. He loosened his grip on Mr. Leather Jacket’s collar and strode up to the stage before pouring his entire large beer into the amp.
The amp spat and crackled into silence, pouring forth a large cloud of dirty white smoke, and the singer popped open his eyes before lunging bleatingly at his latest critic. The guy was visibly stifling a laugh as he fended off the doughy fists of his opponent, and seemed to be calculating exactly how many ribs he was going to break to teach this guy a lesson.
It was then that our hero sprang into action.
With a speed that none of us expected of him, Mr. Leather Jacket ran up the stage, prised the two pugilists apart and slapped his finest product sample over the singer’s head, rushing him out of the bar like a policeman bundling a suspect into a waiting patrol car. The rest of us were still sitting there in a mixture of dumbfounded tension and relief that no blood had been spilled, and the patrons instantly waded in to calm their slap-happiest customers before they went off into the night after their prey. Of course, as soon as the source of excitement had been removed, the ambience very quickly returned to normal, and after the backup amp had been wheeled out, the next open mic act took the stage with little more than a hint of a quiver in her voice. On our table, we relaxed into our drinks and mulled over the fact that Thai fighters had just blown up the deaf star with the help of the young skai-hawker.
(Fri 15th Mar 2013, 12:51, More)
» Money-saving tips
Look after the pennies.
Then, when the bailiffs come because you haven't paid any of the pounds, keep them at bay by pelting them with an apocalyptic rain of pennies.
(Tue 15th Nov 2011, 12:14, More)
Look after the pennies.
Then, when the bailiffs come because you haven't paid any of the pounds, keep them at bay by pelting them with an apocalyptic rain of pennies.
(Tue 15th Nov 2011, 12:14, More)