My old mum and dad, RIP - a repost.
My old mum and dad are sadly no longer with us, but this is one of my favourite stories involving them.

I used to live in a tenament flat in Edinburgh. A big solid looking building, but sadly the walls between flats could have done with an awful lot more insulation - especially between the bedrooms, if you get my drift.

My next door neighbour seemed a pleasant enough girl. I didn't see too much of her, but she always said hello on the stairs. However, she started seeing a guy who was a bit of a prick. He'd double park his car if he couldn't park within 5 yards (literally) of the front door, played loud music at all hours of the night, slammed the front door as he went in and out of the flat - you get the idea. The loud humping, initially anyway, was slightly entertaining. Every night for a fortnight was getting a bit much - especially as he seemed to work shifts and 5:45am on a Tuesday morning seemed a popular time for making my lightshade swing with their energetic pummelling.

My mum and dad were coming up to see me one weekend. They were going to have my bed for the night, and I was going to kip on my living room floor. I'm sure you can see where this is heading.

I hoped to Christ that she'd have the painters in that weekend, but I had to prepare for the worst.

Sunday morning arrived, and my mum came through to the living room.

[important point: my mum was always quite naive regarding 'downstairs' business]

'Sleep ok mum?' I enquired.

'Not bad son, but I was woken up by a heck of a racket at one point.'

'Oh, really?', I enquired, cacking it slightly.

'Yes, I heard a baby crying really loudly, and lots of banging - like someone running up and down the stairs. I haven't a clue what was going on.'

At that point, my old man appears.

'Hi dad, sleep ok?' I ventured.

'Not really, that pair next door were at it like a pair of friggin rabbits all night. Does the girl ever sleep? She must walk like a cowboy.'

A mouthful of coffee squirted up my nose.

Mum didn't have a clue what he was on about. To the day she died, I don't think she ever twigged what the 'crying baby' noises really were.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Wed 8 Jun 2016, 14:48, 15 replies)

Shameless repost
I love my dad. Infact when I grow up I want to be just like him, but not with the diabetes.

Anyho....one evening my dad had been out on the fizzy pop and had got himself a little worse for wear before coming home. Just before bed he's meant to inject himself with 10mg of slow acting insulin. However, being a little merry, he picks up the fast acting insulin (which you are meant to use 2mgs of) and jacks himself up with 10mg of daytime juice.

An hour later my mum gets worried, she can hear a knocking in the bathroom. Assuming it's my dad pottering around in his drunken state she shouts at him to come to bed. No answer, so she gets up to give him a piece of her mind, only to find him sat on the toilet, pyjamas round his ankles thrashing his hand in a bin. She calls him, prods him, waves a hand in front of his eyes but, but to all intents and purposes he's unconscious.

In a panic, my brother is got out of bed, the paramedics are called while my mum and brother try to get some sugar into dad. They don't know where he's put his glucose gel, they're shitting it knowing that he's getting worse by the minute, so grab a banana and mash it up into his mouth, trying to rub it onto his gums so that he'll get some sugar in his system.

The paramedics arrive and test for blood sugar whilst trying to communicate with dad. They cannot find a trace sugar reading, which is bad. Luckily they have the right kit, inject him and slowly he comes round. If they hadn't have turned up dad would have been in a coma most likely with permanent consequences. However, this is not the only lucky escape, as the paramedics said if that happened again, the quickest way to get sugar in his system would be to shove a Mars bar up his arse.

My Dad, horrified at this prospect, says "It's bad enough coming round on the toilet with your pants round your ankles, your mother rubbing banana all over my face and 2 green men staring into my eyes shouting "MonkeyDaddy! MonkeyDaddy!", without having a banana shoved in my fundament"

To which my mum replies, "You do that again and it'll be a bloody toblerone!"
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Wed 8 Jun 2016, 10:49, 9 replies)

My Dad the legend? Try tosspot
I've never really gotten on with my dad. He liked Football, I liked reading. He liked going out on the lash and shagging his secretary, I liked going out with guys my own age and shagging them.

The straw which broke the camels back however was something so trivial that I'm amazed it's come to no contact with him, his wife and my three siblings...

It was my youngest (at the time) sister Christening, I'd been asked to be the God-parent which naturally was no problem, so I packed up some clothing and took the two hour journey to Amersham and settled in for a night. I got there, "hello! hello! hello!" from my step-mum, my dad? "What clothes you wearing", ah cheers, thanks.

I bring out my clothes, some Khaki's and a white shirt, as I've mentioned in another post those horrible black work trousers bring me out in a rash and wearing them for any period of time is literally torture. He takes one look at my clothes, walks upstairs and literally *throws* some of his old clothes at me saying "wear them", and then walks off leaving me and his wife in stunned disbelief.

Rest of the night passes awkwardly as I struggle to figure out am I a 12y/o child being told what to do or a 26y/o man who actually can wear what the fuck I want? So in the morning, I wake up and put on my clothes to both my SM's and Dad's horror. My dad refuses to look at me and just walks off, my SM asks me "why won't you consider wearing them?" to which I reply with the last thing I've said to my dad and SM for a year and a half:

"If the clothes are so important to you then why don't you make the clothes the God-parent instead of me? If you want me to the God-parent then let me wear my own God damn clothes".

My SM looks like I'd hit her with a shovel after digging up her (hopefully) dead grand parents and sodomizing them both with a giraffe. Yes I felt guilty but my dad? Wouldn't even look at me.

We go to the Christening and the rest of my family does the same, lots of whispers about "lack of respect" and "who does he think he is" while I'm pointing out the glaringly obvious fact that all the men there are also wearing Khaki trousers due to the cold weather but apparently, what's good for the goose isn't good for the gander. It's only right that the God parent should freeze his arse off for the sake of a few photos.

We do the Christening, I get the next train home and all due to a pair of trousers my dad no longer refuses to speak to me nor allow any official photos of me with my God-son as apparently I "didn't look the part", which he could only tell me through my older sisters. As a result, this was the last time I saw my brother Liam who is now 18 months old, my sisters Jenny and Anna who are 3 & 4 and another one on the way.

Apologies for the lack of funniez, rather cathartic reading this back. Normally family schisms are caused by men not being able to keep their trousers on at the right time, my schism was caused by keeping mine on...
( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Sat 11 Jun 2016, 1:33, 17 replies)

( Two Hats I saw someone eating M&M's with a spoon, Tue 21 Jun 2016, 15:22, 6 replies)

Not my mum and dad
But I think most parents are fucking superheroes. When it comes to the way you look up to them as a child and when you become a parent to have your own son look at you like you are that superhero.

I understand that some people don't have the best parents in the world. No one is perfect, my parents certainly weren't perfect the shit I saw as a kid was awful at times. But when things were good they were really good, and the love that I felt as a child made me realise how safe I was and that my parents are as close as I would ever get to having my own superman and Wonder Woman. Literally willing to do anything to ensure my safety and that of my siblings.

I can now only hope to god that, minus the negatives, I will be able to provide the same for my son, despite his mother doing pretty much everything she can in every possible way to prevent that from happening.

My apologies for this being a personal post.

I could write about Doctor Fucking Who if that would be more widely accepted?
( spanishfly is so fucking sexy people impersonate him, Tue 14 Jun 2016, 22:22, 34 replies)

My Dad
Dad was a real gentleman of the old school. A veteran of the Burma campaign, he had a wicked sense of humour but would never hurt anyone. A colleague once came into his office and stated, "Doug, I'm so fed up I'm thinking of resigning from the human race." Dad replied, "Well, Jim, I always thought that in order to resign form something, one first had to belong to it." He rather unwisely enlisted my aid in building a railing around our sundeck when I was about 12. After watching me hammering nails for a while, he said thoughtfully, "I think we should call you 'Lightning"when you work." Flattered, I asked, "Because I work so hard and fast?". He said, "No, because you never strike the same place twice". He has been gone over 20 years now and I still miss him.
(Smudge the Demon, Thu 9 Jun 2016, 0:10, Reply)

Page 3
I'm sure my Dad thought I was gay, or was going to turn out gay. I didn't like football, motor racing, darts or cars in anyway. I was bookish and drew pictures of superheroes. It was the late 70's and he came from a different age. Every evening he would walk in the door from the factory where he worked as a machine smith making flutes, sit down at the table where myself and my sister were waiting as Mum dished up the dinner, he'd pull out a folded copy of the sun from his back pocket, open it to page 3, turn the black and white image of the semi naked stunna towards me and pronounce 'Cor, look at them son. Don't get many of them to the pound do ya!' or 'She won't sink in the swimming baths eh!' or 'Get a couple of warm spoons son, pop 'em back in eh!'.

To this day I do not know what reaction he expected.

I was 7.
(onemunki Down there for dancing, Fri 17 Jun 2016, 11:38, 16 replies)

My mum and dad are great, you lot are just shit at having parents.

( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Sat 11 Jun 2016, 9:47, 7 replies)

More about my dad
Stories about my dad seem to frequently revolve around booze and his diabetes combining to create a shambling idiot and this is no exception.

One festive period a rather large man took offence at me trying to eject him from my pub and gave me a sound battering; cuts on my face & shattered wrist.

The lovely paramedics bandage me up and take me for the long wait in A&E.

My dad hears about my predicament and decides to come and see how I am (as he's only a few minutes away from the hospital).

In rolls father. Having been plied with booze by contractors at their staff party he almost literally rolls in.

Shock spreads across his face as he sees his middle child bloodied and bruised, covered in bandages slowly leaking red. Then he realises he's the parent here and must comfort me in the time honoured way dad's do with a pat and tussle of my head which as I've pointed out is in a pretty bad way.

"Fuck off dad!" I utter in a whispered shout at the pain of this drunk 6 footer bashing my bruised bonce in what he thinks is a sign of paternal care.

His face falls a little as his first attempt at comfort has failed so goes to his next arsenal in familial love and starts what can only be called a poor mans attempt at a death grip. Massaging my shoulders and shaking me back and forth rattles the 13 little bits my wrist has been broken into and elicits a squeak of pain and a command for him to piss off and stop touching me.

Now in a bit of a huff he sits opposite and pointedly gets his paper out to create a barrier between us. Unfortunately he doesn't seem to notice that his paper is upside down (a look that is compounded my the paper being Le Monde)

This is a man who got a scholarship to Oxford, speaks about 5 languages and is generally a very intelligent.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Wed 8 Jun 2016, 11:04, 3 replies)

Scaffold
My dad would never admit that he got anything wrong and always wanted to do everything himself. One day he hired a scaffold tower to fix something on the chimney. I offered to help him but he wouldn't hear of it.

Then I heard my mother calling me from the kitchen, saying that my dad was asking for me to go out and help him, and could I go and see what was up.

I sauntered outside to see the scaffold tower leaning over at 45 degrees, staying upright only because of a safety rope, and my dad dangling off the top, about 20 feet off the ground. Of course rather than yell for help, and admit that he was in trouble, he'd just called quietly for my assistance, via my mother. I managed to bring the tower back to vertical. We never spoke of it again.
(Smale is stuffed, Wed 8 Jun 2016, 8:59, 1 reply)

my dad doesn't give a fuck what people think and says what he likes
this is mostly great, but sometimes annoying or even embarrassing.

one of his more annoying habits is this: if you call out to him from across the house or even the next room, he refuses to answer. you have to go and find him and talk in a "nice quiet voice". but if he wants you, he can shout from the bottom of the garden, of course. however, on very rare occasions, he would shout for us and offer us a choice of left or right hand, both of which would contain a note of some denomination or other. so it was worth going every time, because sometimes the rewards would be rich.

this particular day, I was in my ensuite bathroom (this is relevant) colouring my hair, and my brother was blowing up something on his snes. dad shouted us from the kitchen, so down we padded. he said, "i am going to show you both something." great, this sounded promising. so promising.

to me, he said, "look out of the window for a moment." to my brother, he said, "look at that." silence. exciting, tantalising silence.

then he reversed it, and told my brother to look out of the window, and told me to look at... my brother. wtf.

finally he said, "right. now, you've both had a good look at a disgusting arse, one of which has broken the toilet seat in the family bathroom. which one of you was it?"

I HAD AN ENSUITE TOILET, YOU TRAUMATISING BUGGER!!! WHICH ONE OF US DID YOU REALLY THINK IT WAS?!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Tue 7 Jun 2016, 15:42, 8 replies)

I blame my mild intolerance of raw egg whites on my mother's cravings for soft boiled eggs whilst she was pregnant with me.
I'm really of meringue, too, but it makes my lips swell up.
Gosh, what a shocking family drama this is!
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Mon 6 Jun 2016, 18:54, 10 replies)

here is my tribute to Mr Larkin's famous work, which I wrote back in the dense mists of 2011, it was a different age then wasn't it
www.b3ta.com/talk/7394500
( vladimir, Mon 6 Jun 2016, 17:41, 2 replies)