Profile for Nickalollyoff:
"haha, look at your fucking face and your pube beard and your fucking hair you fat spastic hahahaha" - Gilgamesh RIP ALWAYS IN ARE HARTS
They call him Nickalollyoff
He looks just like that wally off
the telly, on that program where
that bloke gets mauled and raped by bears. - Aardvark
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- a member for 15 years, 10 months and 1 day
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- has posted 5 stories and 23 replies on question of the week
- They liked 544 pictures, 151 links, 1478 talk posts, and 152 qotw answers.
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"haha, look at your fucking face and your pube beard and your fucking hair you fat spastic hahahaha" - Gilgamesh RIP ALWAYS IN ARE HARTS
They call him Nickalollyoff
He looks just like that wally off
the telly, on that program where
that bloke gets mauled and raped by bears. - Aardvark
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Pubs
Southern Comfort is bad for you
I have to admit before even starting that this story isn't about pubs so much as it is about drink itself - specifically the evil that is Southern Comfort. This happened last night and I can only remember the night in a series of flashbacks (numbered appropriately)
1) Halfway through the bottle, being attacked by my mother with slippers. Funny as fuck.
2) Not a flashback, but apparently after watching TV for a while, my stomach erupted its entire contents into the kitchen sink (I DO NOT recall this). I fall over. Get shoo-ed to bed.
3) Sneak out of house wearing a suit (I still don't know why) to go to ASDA (I was by then feeling peckish) for an assortment of duck rolls and chicken tikka pasties (Fucking disgusting. I just wanted to see what they were like. Still ate them, though).
4) Get a taxi to Chester (5-6 miles away), realise it's about 2am and that there are no boozers open. Inexplicably sneak into the Crowne Plaza hotel and get trapped in a lift, having to prize the doors open (Twice, I took the same lift back down to the lobby).
5) Taxi home. Locked out. Break into back garden and try to sleep in the rickety garden shed, which has both windows smashed in, perched between a broken patio seat and a bicycle, listening to Springsteen's new album on me iPod.
6) Realise this is a bad idea. Look for hotels in the local area (worse idea). Only one I found was fully booked and they directed me to another, 4 miles walking distance (actually, probably 6 - I spent half an hour walking the wrong way) that didn't even exist.
7) Walk 2 miles towards home. Buy a newspaper, get bus back to town. Enter (now unlocked) house, go to bed, put Welsh radio on (thinking that I could somehow understand the language and wonder why they are going on about Ostriches and Trousers). Pass out.
I wasn't even that drunk. Only this morning did I realise this is why I banned myself from drinking it about two years ago. It turns me into a mental.
(Fri 6th Feb 2009, 16:22, More)
Southern Comfort is bad for you
I have to admit before even starting that this story isn't about pubs so much as it is about drink itself - specifically the evil that is Southern Comfort. This happened last night and I can only remember the night in a series of flashbacks (numbered appropriately)
1) Halfway through the bottle, being attacked by my mother with slippers. Funny as fuck.
2) Not a flashback, but apparently after watching TV for a while, my stomach erupted its entire contents into the kitchen sink (I DO NOT recall this). I fall over. Get shoo-ed to bed.
3) Sneak out of house wearing a suit (I still don't know why) to go to ASDA (I was by then feeling peckish) for an assortment of duck rolls and chicken tikka pasties (Fucking disgusting. I just wanted to see what they were like. Still ate them, though).
4) Get a taxi to Chester (5-6 miles away), realise it's about 2am and that there are no boozers open. Inexplicably sneak into the Crowne Plaza hotel and get trapped in a lift, having to prize the doors open (Twice, I took the same lift back down to the lobby).
5) Taxi home. Locked out. Break into back garden and try to sleep in the rickety garden shed, which has both windows smashed in, perched between a broken patio seat and a bicycle, listening to Springsteen's new album on me iPod.
6) Realise this is a bad idea. Look for hotels in the local area (worse idea). Only one I found was fully booked and they directed me to another, 4 miles walking distance (actually, probably 6 - I spent half an hour walking the wrong way) that didn't even exist.
7) Walk 2 miles towards home. Buy a newspaper, get bus back to town. Enter (now unlocked) house, go to bed, put Welsh radio on (thinking that I could somehow understand the language and wonder why they are going on about Ostriches and Trousers). Pass out.
I wasn't even that drunk. Only this morning did I realise this is why I banned myself from drinking it about two years ago. It turns me into a mental.
(Fri 6th Feb 2009, 16:22, More)
» Thrown away: The stuff you loved and lost.
When I was little my doggy ran away
I missed him very dearly for years.
About 5 years later I overhear my dad telling a mate that he had been adopted by some coffin dodger who lived round the corner from us at the time, but didn't have the heart to nick him back off her.
Bastards.
Lack of funny, I know - fleshes out the QOTW,though.
/minge
(Fri 15th Aug 2008, 21:29, More)
When I was little my doggy ran away
I missed him very dearly for years.
About 5 years later I overhear my dad telling a mate that he had been adopted by some coffin dodger who lived round the corner from us at the time, but didn't have the heart to nick him back off her.
Bastards.
Lack of funny, I know - fleshes out the QOTW,though.
/minge
(Fri 15th Aug 2008, 21:29, More)