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This is a question Best Childhood Memories

"I once sent a painting into Why Don't You." says B3ta veteran Chickenlady. "They didn't show it on the tv programme, or mention me at all, but I got a nice letter back from them. That made 5 year old me very happy."

What happy memories have you from childhood?

(, Mon 8 May 2017, 13:10)
Pages: Popular, 3, 2, 1

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Dumb Dog
Most of my favourite childhood memories revolve around our pet dog; an insanely amiable black Labrador/mutt. Picture him joyously bounding toward you; tail like a propeller, huge pink slobbery tongue flapping around, big fat ass, inside-out ears
flopping about randomly...

Ye gods, but he was a utter moron.

He kept trying to sniff the goldfish in the pond. Not catch: sniff.

He'd waddle up wagging to the pond, stare at the disinterested Koi in puzzlement, and stick in his snout in for a good, deep sniff. Of course, after inhaling a gout of pond water, he'd fall back sneezing and coughing, and run around the garden shaking his head and whimpering.

Not just the once, oh no.

Not only was our dog was the only dog ever to be out-thought by Goldfish, he was constantly surprised to find out water was - like - wet. My childhood was punctuated by madden dog sneezes.

In summer, the dog would also suck off the low-hanging blackcurrants from the canes - he didn't like them (bitter as hell until sugar-treated) but it was Human Food and therefore must be good, right?!

You would hear this 'shlurpk!' noise, and turn to see the dog with his eyes shut in pain, trying to chew off his own tongue. He wouldn't spit them out or anything sensible, of course; just kept desperately chewing and gagging. Oh, the variety of doggy expressions! Then you'd wait another 30minutes, and there would be another 'shlurpk!' noise...

In Scotland when on holiday, my dad managed to Caber-toss a dead pine thicker than your leg. Because you have to Do These Things when in Scotland, you know.

Of course, to Dumb Dog, tossed caber = thrown stick.

We turned around at an odd scraping noise, to find the dim-witted hound gamely struggling along, a friggin tree unevenly balanced in his jaws.

He'd fart so loud in his sleep that he awake with a jump.

Ah, I'd give anything to give that dumb dog one last hug.
(, Thu 1 Jun 2017, 16:55, Reply)
The Saturday afternoon when this episode of Dr Who came on:
The Volcano God was bemused. The mortal stood before him was clearly a man, yet expected him to believe it was female. and it wanted him to fuck it.
"Oh come ON sweetie" pouted Skagra "I'm ready for this, you CAN'T kill me, I'm immortal".
The Volcano God shrugged and started massaging his firey prick. His napalm filled balls roiled sluggishly.
"You do realise that human flesh simply can't take this temperature? That you'll be roasted from the inside out?" He questioned.
"Boring sweetie, I'm a Time Lord silly" Giggled Skagra as he presented his saggy hairy arse to the Volcano God.
"Hold on" The Volcano God said "Is, is that Vaseline you've used as a lube? Are you completely fucking insane? Not content with the fact that this WILL kill you, you've made what is about to happen worse by smearing yourself with petroleum?"
Skagra simpered "Just get on with it sweetie, I don't have all day you know. Well, actually, I do. What with being a Time Lord and all."
As the Volcano God's burning prick neared Skagra's hole his arse hairs crisped away to cinders. The Volcano God grabbed Skagra's haunches, instantly roasting his handprints into Skagra's flesh. Skagra was too shocked to even scream, and worse was to come.
The flaming head of the Volcano God's cock charred Skagra's sphincter as it entered, destroying it utterly in the process.
Skagra's rectum was flash-fried, the agony intense.
Skagra was already half dead as the Volcano God withdrew and thrust again. His flesh burned so badly that between his waist and his thighs what wasn't ashes was like overdone steak.
The Volcano God shuddered as he climaxed. His burning seed forcing it's way through Skagra's ruined colon into what was left of his intestines. The whole of Skagra's body was aflame now, his eyes boiled away in their sockets, his brain starting to crisp in his skull.
Skagra's mouth fell open to scream, but as it did his throat burned away as he finally died, and all that came out was a smoke ring.
The Volcano God looked down at the burnt corpse with little regret. He HAD warned Skagra what would happen, after all.
Here is some honey
(, Wed 31 May 2017, 16:55, 12 replies)
Childhood on Gallifrey
I have nothing but fond memories of my early life on Gallifrey. I grew up in the House of Skagraxxadon with all my cousins. We had free run of the House, and all its scrullions, barbicans, garderobes, chambers, nooks, crannies and cracks were ours to explore. Many a happy afternoon was spent with my cousins Herxag and Annepoimptimeade exploring the farthest reaches of the House. My favourite was the Engine Rooms, right at the bottom of the House. Herxag was too scared of the noise of the machinery and the danger of falling into those massive cogs and getting mashed to a pulp, but Annepoimptimeade held no such fears and it was she who accompanied me on those exploratory escapades down amidst the House engines. That was until she got her arm sliced off by a cooling fan – serve her right for getting too close – and our secret visits to the Engines were discovered, and banned. My first taste of authority, of my freedom being restricted, which planted the seeds of my eventually leaving Gallifrey forever.

Why did our House have engines, I hear you all wondering, my smexy sweetieze? Well, it’s because it was a mobile House, a giant black conical construction, like an enormous witch’s hat, that would trundle around the deserts and plains of Outer Gallifrey. It was fuelled by Time Lord smugness, so our power supply was practically limitless. Every day, I woke up to a different view: one morning, I would pull back my foreski- er, curtains, and be greeted by the sight of a wondrous forest of silver-leafed trees; the next, the view would be of a vast shimmering purple lake; the next, oh look – rocks! It was this constantly changing environment that instilled the wanderlust in me, and contributed to my eventual decision to leave Gallifrey.

But this tale is not about me leaving Gallifrey, but of my fond childhood memories of the place. I have a great many lengthy and fascinating tales about this period of my life, you will no doubt be thrilled to hear, my loveliey sweetieeze, and I may get the chance to post them ALL here, as long as this QOTW doesn’t change! Lucky you!

Let’s start with the story of Oigzeb.

One day, the House broke down, and we were stranded in one place for several days whilst the necessary repairs took place. Something to do with the caterpillar tracks getting all bunged up with mud and shite, or something. At this time I was being ostracised by all my cousins, even the once-loyal Herxag, as I had meddled with their matrix interfaces and got them accused of retroparadoxical hysteretic chronoclaggage. So I was on my own without a playmate, stuck in the middle of nowhere, my wanderlust temporarily thwarted. Of course I would go exploring! What else would you expect of one such as I?

So, whilst my cousins shriddled inside like a bunch of pallid, feckless, useless, witless, brainless, worthless worms, I roamed the Outer Gallifreyan countryside in which I was stranded. It was a fairly nondescript area, a lumpy plain dotted with dense forests and little hills like tits popping up every now and then. A muddy river ran through this desolate landscape, and this had carved its own deep V-shaped valley, which ran east-to-west not too far from the immobile House. On the second day, I followed this valley, looking for fish in the river, but it was dead and muddy like a stream of Sontaran diarrhoea. The second sun was directly overhead, it was a hot day and I sweated ‘neath my Prydonian tunic, and was glad I had donned my shiny silver shorts and big white hat. As I ambled along I began to get the strangest feeling that I was being watched. I thought I could hear a scrambling from the bank above me, but when went up to look, there was nothing there. Just my imagination, I thought; my prodigious, wonderful imagination. But then stones and grit came skittering down towards the river in front of me. There was someone, or something, there! I was being followed!

I immediately suspected one of my cousins, probably Herxag, and resolved to shove a dozen scrunge worms up his ass, next we meet. But it wasn’t Herxag, or any of them.

Twisted, thorny shrubs grew by the bank of the river, and as I drew nearer to a particularly thorny and twisted one, I again got the sense of being watched, this time extremely powerfully. I stopped walking and stared at the bush. After a few seconds I was shocked to see that there was a pair of eyes staring back at me! As I gasped in astonishment, a strange figure stepped out from the thorny branches, glaring at me all the while.

It was a tall, gangling thing, like a giant bird, with a skinny body covered in iridescent blue-green feathers. It had a long scrawny neck, and a tiny head topped by a giant green comb. Two dim, tiny eyes gazed out moronically from above a massive orange beak. Its wings ended in spiky three-fingered hands.

I stared at it. It stared at me. Suddenly, it screeched in a voice like rusty nails being dragged across a cheesegrater:


Somewhat surprised, I nonetheless kept my presence of mind, and responded with my own battle-cry:


This caused the strange creature to hop about screaming with what seemed to be laughter. I too laughed and began to chase the thing up and down the riverbank. Although it had wings, it clearly could not fly, managing only a brief stumbling flutter achieving only a temporary separation from Gallifreya Firma. At one point it stopped, turned, and began to chase me up and down the riverbank. After about an hour of this we collapsed exhausted next to each other, and Oigzeb commenced to jabber away in a tongue so primitive and obscure that my translation matrix could make head nor tail of it. When I got my breath back I bade Oigzeb farewell and returned to the House. I remember well his plaintive squawks as I turned my back on him and strode away.

Back at the House, which was still up on blocks, I did some research, to discover that creatures like Oigzeb did not exist on Gallifrey, therefore he must be an alien. This presented me with some disquieting questions: how did he get through the Transduction Barrier? And was he the spearhead of an alien invasion? I almost spoke to one of the Elders about it, but decided not to, and carry out my own investigations.

The next day I walked back up the river, but there was no sign of Oigzeb. Well, not until something heavy and spiky dropped onto my back and bore me to the ground, shrieking with insane mirth. Oigzeb! We spent the whole day playing games, such as racing, trying to leap over the river, splashing each other, and inserting pebbles into our arses and fart-firing them at each other. All too soon it was time to go, but this time Oigzeb grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me away from the river, towards a small gully nearby. I tried to free myself but the darned thing was too strong, and I began to fear that I would soon become Oigzeb’s supper. But of course not – he just wanted to show me something.

And that something, smashed into the bottom of a gully of its own making, was a small spaceship. That at least answered the Transduction Barrier question: it must have burned up coming through, and crash-landed way out here in the Gallifreyan wasteland. Scrambling down, I examined the vessel – it was burned out beyond repair, and in the pilot and co-pilot’s seats were a pair of bulky humanoid bodies, charred and unrecognisable. I thought they might be Sontarans at first, but it was the wrong sort of ship. Oigzeb pecked at these figures piteously, and then gazed imploringly at me, as if I could bring them back to life. But they were too far gone – not even the Elixir of Karn could bring them back. Oigzeb was quite clearly not of the same species as them, so I concluded that he must have been their pet or sex slave. How he survived the crash, fuck knows.

I coaxed Oigzeb away from the wreck back to the river and we had a quick game of fart-pebble before it was time for me to go.

And for the next three days, I visited the river, and played with Oigzeb. They were some of the happiest days of my life. But soon, the House was fixed, and I had to leave him. I tried to explain it to him, that fateful afternoon when I had to say goodbye, but I could not make him understand. He watched me go, chirping happily to himself and flapping his useless wings, clearly expecting me to be back the next day.

But I wasn’t.

Many, many years later, I took a skimmer out to the area, to that muddy river valley, to search for Oigzeb, but of him there was no sign. I checked out the gully as well – but the crashed ship had completely disappeared. I stood staring at the empty space for a while, trying to fathom what had happened. Perhaps Oigzeb’s masters’ people had come to rescue it and Oigzeb? But there were no Matrix records of any breaches of the Transduction Barrier, when I checked later. The way the ship, and Oigzeb, had come and gone remain a complete mystery to this day. And in all my travels since I have never encountered Oigzeb or any of his race, whatever they were.

Oh well. At least I still have those fond memories of playing fart-pebble by the muddy river with a gibbering bird-man.


(, Wed 31 May 2017, 15:51, 7 replies)
Remembrance of cowshit past
Had a generally crappy childhood, the high point of which was the annual camping holiday on some distant relatives' farm.

It was great to be out in the fresh country air and climb trees and collect my daily battering in such a bracing environment.

This was a cattle farm so the place stank of cowshit, so for the rest of my life this aroma has brought back happy childhood memories. Sort of symbolic.
(, Tue 30 May 2017, 0:01, Reply)

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