» School Days

The Headmaster
I'll get it off my chest nice and early. You know the kid in class who always turned up early to lessons, handed homework in on time and showed an interest in what he was taught? I was one of those guys. Hell, I still am and I'm comfortable with my existence.

As you can imagine, I was bullied from the ages of 7 to 17, which I took in my stride. There weren't many people in my life who supported me through those dark years; my father was abusive and my mother would quickly change the subject to how my complaining was making her want to leave home. The only two people I could confide in were my doctor (a thoroughly caring guy who has guided me through several cases of depression), and the headmaster of my primary school, Mr. Dodds.

He was a modern day Churchill, a stout ex-squaddie who would address every lass as 'darling' and start any conversation with a handshake. To me, he was the father figure I'd always wanted, and I idolised the man. I got a lot of stick for it from minds too feeble to grasp the concept of respect.

And then one day my mind just snapped. It was a damp spring day in 1996, and I was a 9 year old Foxy who had spent the morning frustratingly staring at cards of dots and told to recall the number I saw. I didn't see anything. I saw dots. Lots of little brown dots. After a lot of 'are you sure you can't see anything?'s from the man in the suit, I was diagnosed as colourblind and returned to class with a letter. Handing it over to my teacher, she read it aloud to the class, explaining that as I was now 'too retarded to even see properly', she would no longer address me as a member of this school. I did what every 9 year old would do in that case; I cried in front of a class of 30 laughing children. I ran from the room, slunk in the shadows in the playground and prayed for the day to end.

*THUMP*

Next thing I know, I'm on the floor. I'm bleeding from the back of my head. Maybe this is my punishment for being retarded. Pulled up by my hair, I'm held against the wall while the brains of the operation does a number on my ribs.

'You're a retard Foxy and we all hate you. Your mum hates you. Your dad hates you. Even Dodds hates you.'

And then I lost control. A man who embraces the principles of respect and understanding has no room for hate in his life, and his name would not be spoken in vain. That was the one moment of my life where, for several beautiful minutes, I woke up. There was no ripping of shirts as I mutated into a 10ft behemoth of brutality, I simply lost all reasoned thought. Shaking off my oppressors, I grabbed the closest one I could and threw him to the floor. Grabbing his head, I thrusted it up and down against the drain cover. Up and down. Over and over. Again and again. My hands were stained with shards of milk teeth and blood when I was finally pulled off the now unconcious body and I was thrown into the headmaster's office.

I was in the shit now.

Dodds braced into the room, sat down on his upholstered chair, and extended his arm. I expected a belt across he head or two, just like back home. Just like I deserved for making a student leave school in an ambulance. I must've stared at his palm long enough to count the hairs on his knuckles. It silently hung in the air, waiting for me to react.

'Foxy, you're one of the few people in this establishment who is going to do something with his life, and there will always be people trying to stop you. What you did today I spent every day for the last 2 years hoping you'd get the nerve to do. Well done at growing some balls finally. Now get back to class'

I shook his hand and left.
(Thu 29th Jan 2009, 14:51, More)

» I'm going to Hell...

Grandad's Funeral
Ignoring 95% of backstory, my grandad was an utter legend and if I was old enough to do so at the time when he kicked the oxygen habit, he would have been my number 1 drinking buddy.

Come the day of the funeral, his war veteran senile mates all arrive at the crematorium to bid him farewell. Ceremony starts, dreary organ music chimes in and sets the somber tone as the man of the cloth takes to the stand(this is why I'm going into the flames to the Magic Roundabout theme; far more fun.) Being 9 years old at the time, I'm crying worse then than I did at the end of Terminator 2, as are the rest of my family, although I think that was because of the funeral though and not the whole Arnie thumbs up in molten steel thing. Senile gits are whispering among one another, which only angered me and made us all cry harder.

Quoteth the father:

'The late Mr FoxyBadger McAwesomeness Sr., who bravely fought for his country in two world -'

'HOLD ON!' pipes senile old timer #1 'The cheeky bastard is late? What selfish turd turns up late to their own funeral'

'It's just like that Mr FoxyBadger!' screams senile old timer #2, in agreement with the rest of the coffin dodgers 'I don't know why we bothered turning up to this fucking place if he won't grace us with his presence! Sod this, we're leaving this guy to burn'

All at once, senile gits stand up and form an orderly line to the door. My jaw was still enduring the strong gravitational pull of the carpet when every over 65 in the room does a U-turn and travels over to the casket to give their farewells before returning to their seats like nothing had happened. Not a word was said.

It was a pact among their war survivor group that the first one to shuffle off the mortal coil gets their sending off ruined for dramatic effect. My grandad was a hero, but is probably still burning now.
(Thu 11th Dec 2008, 17:22, More)

» Customers from Hell

Reduced to clear
I worked for Britain's largest supermarket for a good 3 years of my life, as a part-timer no less, so I really got my share of shitty jobs, shitty bosses and shitty customers.

After being there a few months I was granted the power of handling all the reduced to clear pricing. I'd fix sarnies for 10p for my mates and generally abuse my responsibilities to the point where I sold 10 quids worth of high-end cakes and eclairs (to myself) for 50p. Generally it was a tasty job that provided a good source of backhander income, including reducing 40 crates of Carling to a quid each because someone out back "forgot" about them for a year. I split the bill with my mate and sold them for a tidy 700% markup. Alas, I digress...

The problem with working in a discounted section is the zombie influx of bargain hunters that emerge when darkness falls. They tend to be the mothers with 14 identical children tied to their trolleys, no knowledge of English or culture and a bigger budget for fags than food who would argue for England or whatever country they claim to be from for 5p off a ready meal.

Normally I'd oblige if the date was running out or it looked a bit scuffed, until I met the pikiest of pikey scum who decided he wanted some knock-off yoghurts. Yoghurts, if you don't know, could survive a nuclear apocolypse in terms of their sell by date. They also tend to be flimsily put together. Regardless to say, I wasn't having any of his begging and turned him down for a reduction.

In a moment of 'genius' in order to get his discount, he decides to take the damaged route by throwing his multipack of Muller yoghurt onto the floor, which promptly exploded over feet and clothes. Oblivious to how foolish he looked, he forged the smuggest self-satisfying grin ever recorded.

"It's now damaged," says he. "You better cut the price down. Plus my clothes are ruined thanks to you. I want some replacement ones".

"Okay then," say I. "I'll go get a cleaner to help get this tidied up and be with you again in a minute."

I went home. He apparently kicked off and got escorted out by security 10 minutes later when he realised he was standing in the middle of a crowded supermarket covered in cherry syrup and vanilla bellowing that he wanted free clothes.
(Thu 4th Sep 2008, 17:29, More)

» Family codes and rituals

A stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet
For reasons which escape me now, my mother has a maternal need when in public to humilate me in front of others.

Naturally over the 21 years of my being this has slowly eroded all traces of self confidence, but in recent years I realised this isn't typical motherly ridicule. Oh no, dearest Mumsie will make eye contact with people passing by, point at me and randomly exclaim such classics as 'well it's not much fault you've put so much weight on'(I'm a foot taller than her, weigh a stone less and am suprisingly under the recommended BMI bollocks)

Every time I'd ask why she does it, I'd get the guilt trip of 'why, are you ashamed of your own mother?' and so on until I feel even worse about myself.

So business continued as normal until a hospital visit the other day to see some family. We're patrolling the echoing result of a cash-starved NHS avoiding the Mrs.A when mother notices a sullen looking old fella shuffling towards her in the opposite direction. Concluding that he needs cheering up in the best way she knows (at my expense), she decides to look him in the face, laugh and proclaim:

'Foxy, you really need to go on a diet, don't you? Doesn't he love?'

Aforementioned old fella, cool as a cucumber and without so much as a blink of hesitation lets out with:

'Leave him alone you chubby tart; he should be ashamed of you'

I was. And she did. The bigest shit eating grin exposed his few remaining teeth as he walked on by proudly.

Well done to you, good sir.

Apologies for lack of funny. My parents were mean to me.
(Thu 27th Nov 2008, 13:27, More)

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

Brown Marker
Shane was a big lad. A very big lad. Built like a concrete shithouse, he'd captained the regional team back in Ireland when he was younger and a mere six foot seven. Our hypothesis, therefore, was that one too many scrums to the head had knocked out what little judgement and wisdom he had. Shane could be told anything - anything at all - and so long as you kept a straight face he'd take it as sworn truth.

I first met Shane a few years ago during my fresher year at uni through some mutual friends down the local student gaffe. He was in full Arsenal gear, sipping at a pint of Guinness while his deity team were getting crushed by whoever they were playing (I don't do football). 85 minutes in and the reds are down 3-0. At this point I get a tap on my shoulder from Shane asking if this meant Arsenal would lose the match.

I had to stop for a second to make sure he wasn't pulling my leg. Now, I'm a firm believer that if you ask someone a stupid question, you should expect a very stupid answer in return. This was prime opportunity in my eyes.

'Na mate, the premier league works like Eufa.'
'What do you mean?' he slurred. The booze was kicking in.
'Well, you know how they play legs in the Champion's League, and whoever has the higest score after 2 games goes through? It's the same here. Arsenal beat them 4-0 last time, so as long as they don't conceed again, they win.'

Without so much as a whiff of doubt, he cracked a huge smile and returned to the match. When the whistle was blown, all 15 stone of Ireland's finest leapt onto the table in full celebration, which resulted in every non-Arsenal fan simultaneously cracking up.

So you could say he was a bit gulliable, but nonetheless Shane became a firm associate of mine during our pub adventures as I had the innate ability to warp his perceptions without hint of remorse. The fellow publicans adored these fool thoughts of his, and we'd all chip in with the corruption.

One night, on our ninth or tenth pint the conversation inevitably turned to the ladykind, where a confession slipped that Shane had never 'dunked his tortilla chip', as he put it. Well then, let's get that sorted. I knew (from friends and not personal experience, obviously), a very seedy little strip bar in a back alley, which we concluded would be a good place to pick up loose women. A swift one for the road, and off we fucked.

Many eye candy performances by the girls later, and Shane has his eyes fixed on Poison Ivy (not original, I know), a redhead in school uniform not unknown for her toying with classroom equipment. As part of her routine, an old-fashioned chunky marker pen would, well, take a detour down the dirt road for the paying eyes of the viewer while Schools Out blared in the corner (not original, I know). After 'relieving' herself, the pen in its newfound brown glory is hurled off the stage, into the eager lap of Shane. It was not a pretty sight. An explosion of rage was expected as his jeans now embraced a much darker colour. Not a look of anger in sight, but one of hope.

'Foxy, mate, what do you think this means? Have I pulled?'

Again, let's see how much bull I can throw at Shane without cracking.

'Well Shane, you know how when a bride throws the bouquet, the person who catches it is the next to get married? Whoever catches the stripper's sex toy is the next one to fuck her'

That gleaming look reappeared. That gleaming look which meant no question was raised of my explanation. With all the charm of 12 or so pints, Shane leaps from his chair to clamber onto the stage, whips his cock out while gesturing the universal sign for making the beast with two backs. Ivy responds with a perfectly pitched slap to the face while two heavies attempt to bundle Ireland's finest. They fail and all hell breaks loose like an old Western as Shane levels most of the furniture, meat and veg swinging in the rage.

And that, my friends, is what Shane fool thinks Ivy dung with a pen is.

Oh, so Pooflake can and I can't?
(Fri 13th Mar 2009, 9:47, More)