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Profile for Albert Marshmallow:
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Albert's Award Winning QOTW Answers

Slapstick Part II

Against My Will

Bad Ideas

False Economies

Penis Shame

Bodge Jobs

Family Feuds

Food Sex

Not-stalgia...The Past Was Rubbish

Teenage Crushes

Twat Friends

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My Saviour

I Hurt My Rude Bits!

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Drunkeness

Brits Abroad

Made Me Laugh

War!

First Experience of the Internet

I Should Have Been Arrested

Awful House Guests

Massive Drugs

Narrow Escapes

Beautiful Moments

Expensive Weekends

PE Lessons

I'm Going to Hell

Happy Phantom's Exquisite 'Marshmallow Over Troubled Water'




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» The thing I've been most ashamed of doing with a penis

Dirty dirty...
Back at some point in 2006, I visited a gay club. I'm not gay - but my friend of many, many years had recently come out and was constantly demanding my presence on a 'boys' night out.

He insisted and insisted that I joined him, citing as precedent the countless times he'd been 'bored to death' in straight clubs watching my futile attempts to pull.

He kind of had a point. Even after he came out, my mate still accompanied me to bars / clubs etc and acted as a great wing man. So I figured I owed him and agreed.

So on Saturday night we arrived at the appropriately named 'Hoist' located somewhere in deepest Vauxhall. This wasn't some fluffy camp Kylie love-in - more a dark and festishy affair under a railway arch, set to relentless nosebleed techno.

I didn't like it.

But I drank on through and soon I was shirtless and throwing my arms into the air, eliciting grins from leather clad, hairy-biker types and overly pumped body builders.

Soon I need a wazz. My mate kindly agreed to escort me and we fought our way to the bog. The toilets were your standard layout of 4-5 cubicles and a massive 15ft long, old-skool iron urinal. But this pissoir had an added feature that I'd never seen before in London's clubland.

When I say this urinal was long, it was deep too and came out about 3ft from the wall. I squeezed my way to a spot near the middle and was just about to unzip when I noticed the 'added feature'.

There was someone lying IN the fucking urinal.

In it.

Lying splayed out, wearing nothing but some sort of lycra bodysuit, covered in piss, fag butts and god-knows what else, was a human being, a person, a real live man. And he was lying in the piss in the fucking urinal.

In it.

'Oh how funny' said my mate, 'there's a Piss Boy here tonight, this you've gotta see...'

I stood down from my pissing position and looked on aghast as my mate and everyone else in the line peed freely over the bloke squirming in front of them. The regulars seemed non-plussed but I fought my way out of there.

My friend followed and tried to explain away what I'd just witnessed. 'It's a fetish,' he said, 'quite a common one too and this IS a fetish club.'

This was too much. So I adopted my earlier defence mechanism and tried to drink through it. I had three pints of strong lager in quick succession. I danced a bit. I smoked a lot. And then the inevitable happened. I needed to go. I really needed to go.

So back to toilets I stumbled, desperately trying each of the cubicles before I had to face that urinal. They were all full of ketamine snorting, fisting oddballs. So I turned regretfully to the pisser. It was quieter now and there was only the one bloke - who'd already started to pack his meat away and leave.

So I took my chance. I walked over. I looked down. I looked down into the eyes of the piss-drenched maniac and I started to pee.

I pissed in his mouth. I pissed on his hair. I looked him straight in the eyes and then I pissed directly at them. I pissed in his ears. And I pissed up his nose.

He blubbered and gurgled appreciatively, his eyes never leaving mine as I continued, for what seemed like hours, to empty my full, foul-smelling bladder all over the freak.

And that, is the the most ashamed I've ever been (penis involved or not).

C'est tout.
(Wed 18th Mar 2009, 16:07, More)

» Bodge Jobs

Last year I wanted bigger and better fireworks for Guy Fawkes' - so I made this:


It's not the best photo, snapped with a cheap camera phone before launch. What you can see is the biggest rocket I could find, bonded with epoxy resin to a half-full can of Mr Muscle Oven Cleaner.

Mr Muscle? Well experimentation beforehand (spraying the contents of various aerosols over a naked flame), proved that whatever the fuck is in Mr Muscle, burns longer and more violently than anything else I had lying around the house. Also, Mr Muscle makes much more of a 'liquid flame', and continues to burn on it's own for a good few minutes. Compare this to say, deodorant, which burns briefly and powerfully - but doesn't stay alight unless constantly in contact with fire.

The party was on the beach. Most people avoided me when I arrived with my contraption. But the host declared it 'worthy of the finale' - which meant Mr Flying Muscle was going to close the proceedings.

After 25 minutes of dull as ditch water 'fireworks' - I was called to the firing range, positioned a few feet from the water's edge. The idea being that the pyrotechnics would safely explode over the sea.

I grabbed Mr Exploding Muscle and loaded him into a sturdy rocket tube. I set the angle at roughly 45 degrees, facing nicely across the water to France. Then, as per the instructions, I lit the fuse and retired.

Some things I hadn't considered:

1. How the weight of the attached can of oven cleaner might affect the height the rocket could achieve
2. How the weight of the attached can of oven cleaner might affect the trajectory of the rocket
3. How absurdly dangerous this could be

The fuse lit. It burned smoothly towards the base of the rocket where it hit the primer chemicals, and made a satisfying 'fizz' as the engines were engaged.

The thing took off! But in almost slow motion. It seemed to hover up to height of around 80ft. But then it began an immediate descent. Thrusters still burning, Mr Mother Fucking Muscle was coming straight back down towards us at full speed.

But it didn't hit the ground! Nope, the rocket did its exploding bit at around 10ft high, taking Mr Muscle with it.

Napalm! I had created perfect home-made Napalm. When the rocket exploded, pure liquid fire burst out in an evil mushroom of hell. Fire rained onto the beach. Children screamed. People ran. And there I stood, the centre of attention, cackling like a loon.

If ever the time comes that we have to man the barricades a la Libya. I will be there. Firing home-made Napalm rockets at any fucker that steps up.
(Tue 15th Mar 2011, 15:26, More)

» Anonymous

Edited again for Amorous Badger.
Yawn.

[mod edit: read the replies for an explanation]
(Thu 14th Jan 2010, 15:45, More)

» Family Feuds

Here be treasure...
My late Grandfather was a hell of a chap. He saw action in North Africa during WWII - so much action that he failed to return home when the war was over. He hung out in Morocco and Algiers for the best part of 3yrs, doing dodgy deals and some 'work' for the Algerian freedom fighters.

Eventually he returned to Blighty, married my Grandmother and started a family consisting of my dad and his elder sister, our Aunt Bev. His North African adventures became the stuff of legend, embellished more and more as the years progressed. But the central theme of his stories always concerned an Indiana Jones-like hunt for Nazi gold. Apparently Rommel and his army used to bribe local Berbers and other tribes with sovereigns of pure gold, in return for information on the movements of Monty and the boys.

My brother and I would listen transfixed as he described his return from Africa with a 'satchel full of gold', which later became a 'suitcase' as he got older and finally a Raiders of the Lost Ark style 'wooden crate' in his late eighties. He always maintained that the location of the golden treasure could never be revealed - as he would be tried for treason.

My father would tell us repeatedly that Grandpa was prone to wild flights of fancy and exaggeration. He told us there was no gold. He told us he'd had 'fifty years of this nonsense' and the only gold my Grandfather possessed was in the fillings of his teeth.

Aunt Bev was a different kettle of fish. She believed adamantly that somewhere there was a vast hoard of Nazi gold, just waiting for her to find and make her filthy rich. She badgered my poor Grandpa for the last few years of his life. 'Where is it? Tell me! I won't tell anyone. I promise!' But my Grandfather refused to budge. And the location of the gold died with him in 1990.

His last will and testament was pretty harsh. Most went to his ageing brother in Australia and pretty much nothing to my dad or Aunt Bev. We accepted it mourned and tried to move on. Not Aunt Bev though. She fought a bitter court case to try and retrieve as much money as she could. Alas, we fell out with her. And she was exceptionally rude to me and my brother. Calling us 'devils spawn' and such like.

Eventually the case was settled and my dad, my brother and I set about the unpleasant task of clearing Grandpa's flat. He'd had the same place since 1957 and had lived alone there for at least twenty years. There wasn't much to do. Rescue some photos, make boxes for the charity shop and generally throw everything else out. My Dad left us to walk into town, as he drove the car to the dump via Oxfam.

We were leaving the block when the caretaker called us back. 'Hey...aren't you going to do the lock-up?' We had no idea what he was on about. We ambled back to the flats and followed the caretaker round the back, past the proper garages and down a lane, where he showed us an ancient, garden-shed type thing secured by a rusting padlock.

'This one's your Grandfather's,' he said handing us a key, 'don't know why he bothered keeping the rent up on it, he's not been near it for forty years.'

I was fourteen. My brother not yet thirteen. We took the key and managed to get the door open. There was no light. There was no window. Luckily we were both try-hard smokers, so we fired up our Zippos and looked around. There were bundles of old carpets. Probably ancient Arabic antiquities - but when we tried to move one, it fell apart in our hands. The bodies of a million moths and insects turning into dust with the carpet.

But you know what's coming?

Sure enough, tucked away in an old desk, in the top drawer was a small leather pouch. About the size of the bag that comes in a Scrabble set. But instead of filled with plastic letters, it was filled with strange, almost as square shapes made of metal. We'd found the Nazi gold. There wasn't much. Definitely not a satchel and nowhere near a suitcase. But here was the gold. It was real. It existed. We were rich!

We pocketed our find, jumped on the bus and headed into town. There was a pawn-broker on the High Street. In we went, leather pouch filled with stolen, evil, Hitler-gold, in we went and the bloke behind the counter, 'How much mate?' He looked at us, thought for a split-second about the poor OAP he assumed we'd probably kicked half to death for it and said, 'Dunno, gotta test and weigh it.'

He did his thing. Weighed it. Tested it. Bit it. Poured some chemical on it. Saw straight through us. And then declared: 'I'll give you 500 for the lot.'

500!

500 at that age is like 5m at this age. We grabbed his filthy, cheating offer of dirty notes and fled to Dixons across the road, where we immediately purchased a SNES, extra controller, three games and had change enough for a 14" portable colour TV to play on. Fucking result.

Fuck you Aunt Bev!

But fuck us too. That bag was at least 50z - worth nearly 50,000 at today's prices and probably far, far more when you add the historical value.

But fuck you again Aunt Bev! No one I know has ever beaten me at Street Fighter II. And that's worth 50k of my money any day.
(Thu 12th Nov 2009, 16:04, More)

» Food sex

One Friday night...
I was drinking with a mate in an over-priced Soho haunt on Wardour Street. We'd been on it all day and our quest for quim had dragged us to this place. After a few espresso martinis and some neat moves on the dance floor, we caught the eye of very well preserved forty something lady in a tight red dress.

We got to chatting and flirting and suddenly, within 10 minutes of small talk, she came out with an outrageous statement:

'I want BOTH of you to come back with me now.'

A long cab-ride later and the three of us were deposited outside a lovely detached house in Barnes, right on the river. It was lush. All marble floors and modern art with a gorgeous terrace over-looking the Thames. This girl was loaded. A high-flying banker. No time for husbands or children or other such horrible things.

Once inside she didn't beat about the bush. Rather she got us to beat about the bush. Or rather I started to beat about the bush whilst my too pissed mate looked on despondently. Poor chap couldn't rise to the occasion.

But me and the banker-chick were going at it full steam on the sofa. Meanwhile my partner in crime had taken to pacing up and down the living room floor, muttering to himself audibly, '...get up you fucker, why do you always let me down...'. I blocked him out of my mind and got down to business.

Then she made another wonderful statement:

'I want you in my arse NOW!'

No need to ask me twice. I flipped her over and attempted to fulfil her request. But it wasn't happening. Try as I might I could not get the old fella up there. Every angle and every position was met with absolute resistance from her tight sphincter.

Dammit.

'Oi, do something useful and find me some lubrication.' I yelled to my poor, droopy mate.

He staggered off to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of some sorts.

'Oil ok?' he asked

'Fucking anything!' I yelled back.

He lurched over and began liberally dousing us, with what I thought must be olive oil. Not the cleanest of lubricants. Probably be a bitch to get off the couch. But fuck it. It wasn't my couch.

It did the trick. Boy did it do the trick. I slipped in magnificently and my lady friend squealed in delight. Then she even squealed louder. Then she really fucking screamed. Then she leapt of the couch, ran smack into the wall, hit the floor and lay there writhing around in a greasy mess, wailing in deafening agony, all the time clawing violently at her behind, tears streaming down her face.

What the fuck was going on.

I looked around. Grabbed the 'olive oil' bottle off my knobhead friend and examined it.

Oh dear. Oh deary me.

'Waitrose Finest Chilli Oil, made with the fieriest, spiciest chillies of Southern Mexico.'

Then I felt it too. The worst, most intense pain ever, slowly spreading through my nether regions. Like razor blades slicing me internally.

But I'd got off lightly. Our new friend had real problems. But she wouldn't less us hang around to help. She screamed at us to get out. And we did. I hobbled down an unfamiliar street clutching my crotch, my mind bursting with fireworks of absolute pain. I could hardly see a thing. But we were near the river. And that's where I ended up. Knee deep in water on the banks of Thames, allowing the foul, polluted, heaven-sent H20 to slowly ease my pain.

God knows what the lady in the tight red dress did. A self-administered enema?
(Fri 7th Aug 2009, 11:12, More)
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