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This is a question Anonymous

One of the B3ta team danced on stage at the Brixton Academy dressed as an enormous white rabbit, and lived to tell the tale. Confess the stuff – good or bad - you've done anonymously.

(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 12:10)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

It's Just Not Tennis.........
College being somewhat rural, and the last bus back from town being 9:30, we were often at a loss of something to do on those long balmy summer evenings.

Staggering back from the bar a little the worse for wear, we saw the entire contents of someone's room neatly arranged on the cricket square. What a laff! What a wheeze! what a jape!

Except that upon further inspection it turned out to be my room! Bastards!

*wavy lines*

Two weeks later, walking back from the bar, the culprit (we'll call him "Geoff" for convenience sake) noticed a space where his car was usually parked. Upon closer inspection he found his car to have been "parked" in the centre of the tennis courts. Through a gate half the width of his car. And there it sat!

It took the college gardners a week to work out how I'd managed to get it there through 10 foot high chain link fencing!

Still makes me chuckle.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 20:25, 9 replies)
Not my story.
However, it's one I would like to do one day.


When you occasionally have a really bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don't take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don't know.I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I'd forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it.

A man answered, saying "Hello."I politely said, "This is Chris. Could I please speak with Robyn Carter?"Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear "Get the right f***ing number!" and the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude .

When I tracked down Robyn's correct number to call her, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits.After hanging up with her, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again.When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled "You're an asshole!" and hung up.

I wrote his number down with the word 'asshole' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're an asshole!" It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic 'asshole' calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, "Hi,this is John Smith from the telephone company. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?"He yelled "NO!" and slammed down the phone. I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're an asshole!" and hung up.

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking Spot. Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number. A couple of days later, right after calling the first asshole (I had is number on speed dial,) I thought that I'd better call the BMW asshole, too.

I said, "Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?"He said, "Yes, it is." I asked, "Can you tell me where I can see it?" He said, "Yes, I live at 34 Oaktree Blvd, in Fairfax. It's a yellow ranch, and the car's parked right out in front."

I asked, "What's your name?" He said, "My name is Don Hansen," I asked, "When's a good time to catch you, Don?" He said, "I'm home every evening after five."

I said, "Listen, Don, can I tell you something?"

He said, "Yes?"

I said, "Don, you're an asshole!"

Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too.

Now, when I had a problem, I had two assholes to call.

Then I came up with an idea. I called asshole #1. He said, "Hello." I said, "You're an asshole!" (But I didn't hang up.) He asked, "Are you still there?" I said, "Yeah," He screamed, "Stop calling me," I said, "Make me," He asked, "Who are you?" I said, "My name is Don Hansen." He said, "Yeah? Where do you live?" I said, "Asshole, I live at 34 Oaktree Blvd, in Fairfax, a yellow ranch, I have a black Beamer parked in front." He said, "I'm coming over right now, Don. And you had better start saying your prayers." I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, asshole," and hung up.

Then I called Asshole #2. He said, "Hello?" I said, "Hello, asshole," He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..." I said, "You'll what?" He exclaimed, "I'll kick your ass," I answered, "Well, asshole, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now."

Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 34 Oaktree Blvd, in Fairfax, and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover.

Then I called Channel 9 News about the gang war going down in Oaktree Blvd. in Fairfax.

I quickly got into my car and headed over to Fairfax. I got there just in time to watch two assholes beating the crap out of each other in front of six cop cars, an overhead news helicopter and surrounded by a news crew.

NOW I feel much better. Anger management really does work.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 20:06, 11 replies)
Skippy's Downfall
I was raised and nurtured (ha!) in a warm, dry desert climate. Many of the houses had entry ways leading to the front door, which were usually accessed through another decorative door or somesuch. Think Spanish villa.

Ours had a lovely wrought iron gate that allowed for detecting if there were any murderous types waiting to knife us behind the relative safety of the locked cage. It was also a safe place to taunt school bullies who had followed you home to smack you because you looked content in life (my little brother was great at filling plastic bags with piss and dropping them from the second floor on said bullies, but that’s another story).

My dad decided that the caged entryway would be a great place to keep the week’s trash leading up to trash day (in those days, there were no bins, you just left your plastic bags at the curb and they were hauled away by some Yale English major driving truck while he worked on his chef d’oeuvre.

However, in addition to lending an air of high class to our entryway, the bags seem to attract animals that would tear open the bags to get to the various chicken bones, old pork chops and sundry. Dad, who needed no excuse to get angry, was, well often more angry.

He tried to put small amounts of chicken wire over the bottom portion of the gate, which didn’t work because the “animals” would still get to it (probably by climbing over said chicken wire – duh!). The chicken wire, combined with the ripped trash bags did add to the general belief that our family often played “Dueling Banjos”.
One warm summer’s night, we awoke to ungodly wails, like Satan had joined the Scientologists and just received his donation levy for the year. I was accustomed to the weird nocturnal sounds of coyote and black bear, but this was different, more desperate and plaintive.

By the time I crept like Clement Clarke Moore to see what was the matter, my Dad and older brother were in the front entryway. Apparently, Skippy, the next door neighbor’s black Labrador made it through the bars, tore up the bags and scarfed up the remnant of Mom’s tuna/cashew/bean casserole. Upon exiting, poor Skippy learned to his dismay (I’m projecting) that he was now too large. He was stuck halfway out of the bars of the gate and my Dad and brother were trying to get him to go forward or back as humanely as possible.

This lasted, oh, about 30 seconds until Dad got so angry that he left to go to the garage. He returned with a two gallon can of axle grease, the type one uses to lube up tractors and other farm machinery. Skippy was literally coated from head to toe and eventually +Pop+ he got out and ran like he smelled a poodle in heat.

We all went to bed to the mumbled sounds of Dad’s cursing, determined to forget about it all.

It was all brought back the next day, however, when the neighbor boy, Georg, said that his mom was going to have Skippy put to sleep. Apparently, Skippy waited until he got back to the house and through the doggy door before he did that rubbing thing dogs do when they smell a nice turd or rotten egg in the grass.

Skippy went the extra mile because he did it on the carpet, and on Georg’s mom’s new tan furniture. I just mumbled a guilty, “wow!” and vowed to never tell Georg what happened.

I did tell my Dad and brother, who laughed and laughed. I like to think that in those days before cancer took my pop that he could reminisce about Skippy and an overabundance of axel grease and find a scintilla of a happy thought.

Length? Swinging death, baby, swinging death.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 19:48, 1 reply)
A Student Pub in Newcastle
For drunken 'shits and giggles', I decided to shit on the closed lid of a toilet.

For 6 years, I have carried that burden of guilt
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 18:48, 2 replies)
I anonymously tipped off the police regarding Albert Marshmallow.

(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 18:35, 5 replies)
I posted on 4chan's /b/ forum for a few days.
They called me depraved.

I got scared at the concept of being called depraved by the internet's version of Mock the Week and didn't go back.

(yeah, sorry)
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 18:21, 9 replies)
I am a student. Therefore, I like to steal things.
It's a fact of life. The more unusual the better. On bonfire night last year, a group of friends and I were walking to a local firework display when I spotted a skip full of mattresses and the like sat by the side of the road down a quiet side street. Naturally, I wanted one. I pointed it out to everyone else and it was decided that we would return later on that night to claim one.

Midnight rolled round and off we went. A suitable one was chosen, me and two of the guys hefted the disgusting soggy thing onto our shoulders and ran off down the street. It was when we got back to halls that we realised we had no idea what to do with the bloody thing.

So we propped it up against the main doors of the posh all boys hall across the road, so when they came to open them in the morning it would fall into the entrance hall in all its mouldy glory.

Although there was a bit of a to do about it the next day, no one suspected us, so it was fully worth getting my coat covered in mattress juice.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 18:05, 4 replies)
Dick head
I used to attend a catholic school. They used to have a chapel with a statue of the virgin mary outside it. Mostly that chapel was used by the few maybe 10 or 12 kids who actually followed the catholic faith (unlike us lot who were just baptised when we were small and didn't really bother with the whole going to church or believing in god stuff). So one day i was walking to my form room when i noticed a large crowd around the chapel. This was a little odd, as i've already said the majority of us catholic school children were all budding atheists. It was then that i noticed it.

Blue-tacked firmly on the forhead of the virgin mary was a cardboard cut out of a cock.
Outlined in black marker pen with some fine details added. As far as i'm aware no one was ever caught or found out. I'd like to think the chaplain did it to remind us the chapel was still there.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:59, Reply)
Behind The Mask
Back in October 2005, I’d just split up with my then girlfriend and was feeling pretty low about myself.

So I did what any self-respecting male would do in my position – I bought myself a pair of Adidas tracksuit bottoms, a baggy black hooded top, a selection of fake plastic gold chains, a toy Uzi that sprayed water instead of bullets, and went to a Halloween gig in north London wearing a home-made 50 Cent mask.

Having eventually persuaded the door staff that I wasn’t a total psycho, I went inside the venue to find others dressed in Halloween attire, but to my surprise, no-one else dressed as a gangster rapper who survived a gun battle in which he sustained nine gunshot wounds.

I was getting rather a lot of strange yet not unfriendly looks, most notably from the band that was currently playing. The lead singer announced mid-set that they had a very special guest in the audience that they wanted to invite onstage with them to perform during their next song.

Before I knew what was happening, I was hauled onto the stage with the band, to a loud burst of applause. I don’t remember quite what I did next, it was all something of a blur, but I do remember busting a few moves of a highly dubious nature, which included dry humping the drum riser and inadvertently falling off the stage to cheers and laughter from the audience.

To my utter amazement, I spent the remainder of the evening chatting to some very friendly young ladies, who seemed inexplicably impressed by my earlier onstage buffoonery, and several telephone numbers were exchanged.

Although I didn’t think anything of it at the time, one of those casually exchanged telephone numbers resulted in a happy and loving relationship which is still going strong some four years and three months later, and we’ve been living together for the last couple of years.

So I guess it pays to be a complete idiot sometimes.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:58, 1 reply)
Flowerpot man punches child in the face!
Whilst working at a local theatre I had to dress as a flowerpot man to promote the Ceebeebies live show, myself and the other marketing assistant had to walk around the local shopping centre waving at kids and posing with them for pictures whilst other members of staff gave out flyers advertising the show. We had to do this three times in one week.

The first day was quite dull but by the second day I realised that wearing a costume gave me licence to sexually molest people, I hugged as many girls as I could until it became boring and then I started hugging men and grinding up against them which unsurprisingly took them by surprise.

It was all quite amusing until on the last day a small child behind me tugged on my arm and as I spun around to see what was happening my giant gloved hand smacked the child quite hard in the face, luckily the child’s father didn’t give me a kicking ...I did give the child’s rather attractive mother a big hug though!
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:51, Reply)
Down & Out DOT COM
Many years ago I worked for a "new media" company, basically a web production outfit selling overpriced sites to companies convinced it would make them huge international traders overnight. The boss was a total arsehole and did a good job of upsetting numerous staff so the turnover was reasonably high.

However this 90's media whore of a man was obsessed with company image/branding. Every member of staff had to wear work issued polo shirts with the logo emblazoned upon it, likewise he got the logo everywhere he could for publicity in the interests of publicising the clean image of the company.

After leaving the company "Someone" gave their work polo shirts to the dirtiest, scruffiest, special brew drinking tramps and pissheads that could be found at the train station.

As you can imagine it wasn't long before clients were asking in meetings why beggars/drunks/societies worst were dressed in the company uniform.
As for stopping this blight on the company image? ....Lets face it, you can hardly ask a homeless guy to give you his shirt can you?
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:42, 4 replies)
I once
posted on an internet messageboard without introducing myself first.

I had "only" been lurking for months.

Edit: added the "only" after reading some of these replies
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:41, 8 replies)
telnet port 25
Oh the joys of telneting to port 25 and sending people emails. We did this a fair amount at uni. You could even use the "mail from" to put in a lecturer's email address so that it looked like the email came from a lecturer. My favourite use of smtp was the following:

When we were in Senior honours the new Junior Honours were a bit wet behind the ears and were being slagged somewhat by the SH, this prompted the following email to be sent from the head of computer science to all the Senior honours students:

From [email protected].***.ac.uk Wed May 23 14:31:40 2001
Date: Thu, 23 Sep 1999 14:53:09 +0100 (BST)
From: Ron Morrison

It has come to my attention that all the SH have been being rather nasty to the
new JH. If I catch anyone sending any more derogatory emails about the JH, even on the spods mailing list. I will have to suspend their accounts and report them to the hebdomadar. After all it is not the junior Honours fault that they are fucking wankers.
Ron Morison
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:29, 2 replies)
Editorial cartoons.
Ever seen the cartoon Red Meat? Take a look here. Lots of bizarre goodness.

One day while in engineering school I found the Red Meat Generator, which lets you make your own cartoons using the Red Meat characters. I thought about it for a bit, then started composing cartoons with characters assigned the names of various faculty members. In particular I lambasted one especially dickish sort, then took my small stapler from my backpack and posted copies of it on the bulletin boards.

It caused quite the scandal, of course, with a bulk email being posted about it violating academic guidelines and so on, but that just meant that I printed them at home and made copies elsewhere on campus. I grew careful to only post a few of them at a time, and never the same place twice. The effect they had on the Dilberts there was truly amazing- seldom have I heard so much whispering and furtive glances at a university.

The final one featured one of the profs asking the dean who he had gotten to his current position when he clearly lacked the most basic skills for educating students, let alone being in charge of a school. The punch line was "Simple- I have no gag reflex."

The result is best left imagined. I stopped, but I suspect that a few copies of it are still around...
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:29, 1 reply)
"Someone" at work...
... adds a small bit of amusing graffiti or similar addition to any "health & safety" or other dull notice in need of livening up ;-)

Hence the booklet "Manual Handling" in the kitchen now proudly declares itself "A guide to Manually Handling Yourself".

The culprit is yet to be found.... he he ;-)
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:26, Reply)
My mate Steve was talking hypothetically about robbing a bank, like you do
“So,” I said. “How do you make sure nobody recognizes your face – you gonna wear a mask or summit?”

Steve thinks about this for a good long while. OK, he was absolutely shitfaced, which may explain what he said next. Either that or Steve is in fact the thickest person ever to have existed in the history of humankind ever.

Steve said: “Simple. I’ll keep my eyes really tightly shut throughout the heist, then if I get caught and it goes to trial I can honestly say I didn’t recognize anybody.”

(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:23, 1 reply)
I done something to someone
but I can't say to whom and what was done.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:18, 2 replies)
Family Website Misuse
Once on another website I visit, another regular poster linked to a website he found where new parents could post photographs of their newborn children and then send the link to their relatives, who in turn could then see the photo and leave congratulatory messages etc.

Well, we all thought it would be a great jape to misuse the feedback section and leave mean and nasty comments about the babies.

We did this on a very large scale, big enough to cause suitable distress to enough parents that we were traced back to our web forum and given a pretty good bollocking.

So my anonymous shame is that I once upset some parents by telling them that their beautiful new baby daughter looked like the end result of Pol Pot fucking a manatee.

Hangs head.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 16:59, Reply)
Giving a little car a personality...
There used to be a tiny little Daewoo parked in my street most evenings. It wasn't owned by anyone who lived there. I could tell this because the alarm used to go off repeatedly for hours at a time and no one would come out to turn it off.

We tried leaving a note to explain the problem to the owner. Nothing happened. A week later, it was still going off every night and really getting on my nerves. My housemates and I were bemoaning our predicament in the pub to some friends, and we agreed something had to be done.

That night about fifteen of us lifted the car up and carried it to the traffic island at the end of the street, leaving it "parked" on the grass in the middle, nose poking out from the scrub, along with a note to the owner explaining "I am hiding, because lots of people are angry with me :-( ".

I presume the owner picked it up the next day, but we never saw it again.

Took ages, I nearly did my back in, and we would have had a very hard time explaining what we were doing if seen by the wrong person, but I still think it was well worth it.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 16:42, 5 replies)
You mean to tell me..
Well I feel like a right tit now for using my real name here all this time.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 16:36, 1 reply)
The scariest occurrence of failed anonymity was when I accidentally acquired a full-on internet stalker...
In the olden days the best place to find free porn was at bus stops or under benches in semi-deserted provincial train stations. But then along came the internet and...

I was perusing one of those specialist websites, looking at all the ropey old slappers who put up ‘sexy pics’ of themselves and ask you to send photos to them with your cock out, with a printed out photo of them in front of you, with your splodge covering said photo in your special homemade fixing solution.

Most of these ladies were, well, fuck-ugly old Pat Butcher wannabes. They looked like warthogs in drag. But then I stumbled across one who made me harder than a panther with a flick knife and a pathological hatred of everything in the Universe. She was named Mandy and she was from Romford.

Without thinking too much about it, I printed off the sexiest, sluttiest photo from Mandy’s spread, got out my camera and set about releasing a few battalions of wriggly warriors onto the photo of Mandy’s delectable little arse, taking a few snaps of my boner for posterity as I went. After I’d splurted over the super close up of Mandy’s shaven haven, I took a few snaps of my splodge. Took a snap of my bell end dangling in the splodge, then I uploaded the pics and sent them off to Mandy with a sexy little message telling her how much I enjoyed her arty, tasteful photo series, and how much they’d given me the raging horn.

Then I went to bed.

Unfortunately the next day I received an email from Mandy... I wasn’t expecting this. I thought – in my complete and utter ignorance of all things technical and internet-related, that my *ahem* homemade adult erotica would be totally anonymous. I’d made a point of cutting my head off all the photos. Mandy said on her webpage she wanted cock and cum, so that’s what I gave her. She didn’t want a person attached, just a cock – any cock.

But, being a technology retard, I sent her the email from my own personal hotmail account showing my entire personal email address which was, in fact, my full REAL name followed by @hotmail.com...

For the next few weeks I received shitloads of emails from Mandy from Romford. For the most part she was obsessed with the idea of her husband shooting a load up her arse, then using his spunk as lube for me to have a go. It was frightening. My first furtive outings in the world of the internet cyberwank and I’d acquired my own personal cum obsessed groupie. Then Mandy from Romford sent me some pics of her husband. I went from frightened to full on shitting-bricks-for-England uncontrollable panic. Mr Mandy from Romford was a builder, about twenty stone of pure tattooed muscle, and apparently he was quite keen on having a go on me too...

One line from one of the emails is forever burned into my memory. It’s when Brian (Mr Mandy from Romford’s name) stated: I’d really like to take your prick all the way up my arsehole, I’ve got a very firm, strong arsehole, I think you’d really enjoy it.

Then, in a moment of sheer boredom at work, I googled my name, as you do from time to time. And the resulting search found at the top of the page a link to my cock. My cock dangling in a puddle of cum blurted over a photo of Mandy from Romford. She’d only gone and put the pic on her site with my FULL FUCKING NAME underneath.

After my breathing had returned to normal and I’d stopped whimpering like a bitch, I set about emailing the site administrator and after a few painful days, hoping none of my family or friends decided to look me up on the web, I managed to get my cock taken off the internet. I closed my hotmail. I severed all ties with my creepy stalkers and managed not to have to have a stab at Brian’s cornhole with my dick while Mandy stood over us, furiously rubbing her beef curtain flaps.

OK, I accept I was a complete fucking idiot for sending compromising snaps of myself to a complete fucking stranger – but in my defence she was incredibly hot and incredibly naked...

The worst part is that I’m convinced, absolutely convinced, that my parents sat down at their shiny new Tiny computer (this is going back a while now) at the time and had a little play on the interweb. They’ve never really looked at me, their angelic son who’s a beacon for all that’s good and pure, in the same way since then. Always been a bit of a we know what you did, you dirty fucker air about our conversations ever since...

Anonymous??? I FUCKING WISH!!!
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 16:33, 13 replies)
I once decided to go to an A.A. meeting
but left early; all the dozy cunts kept saying their names.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 16:30, Reply)
I am a firm believer in the "shit at work" principle: it saves money on bog roll, and means that essentially you are getting paid to shit (try not shit during your lunch break though, as really it's your own time you're using, not your employer's).

One day last autumn, I got the usual bowel-call partway through the morning. I must have had a particularly fibrous meal the evening before, since the turd took far longer to emerge than usual, and required no little amount of effort on my part. When it had finally made its turdy way out of my body, I had a quick look to see what exactly had resulted in me panting like a paedophile in Topshop; thus I spied Turdzilla. Pale brown in colour, one end was rearing proudly from the top of the water, whilst the body plunged down into the u-bend and out of sight. It truly was a magnificent sight.

I did what any red-blooded male would do (which is odd, as I'm female) and had a quick giggle, then wiped up and flushed. Then I did what any red-blooded female would do, and had a quick glance to check that everything had been flushed away properly.

It hadn't.

One end was still poking above the water, except this time it was draped in wet loo roll, giving it the appearance of a particularly unwelcome ghost. I tried flushing again, which shifted some of the soggy shroud, but did nothing to shift my brown trout. Clearly the other end had become wedged in the u-bend, and my little bog-baby had such fortitude and strength that mere flushing wasn't going to break it in two and let it make a bid for freedom down the sewers.

Damn. What was I to do? Clearly this was a bit of an emergency, and the situation had to be handled with delicacy and tact. So I whipped out my phone and composed a text message of such wondrous prose that it brought a tear to my eye (This morning i did a gargantuan poo of such length that it got wedged round the ubend. It was at work as well, so the satisfaction was double. How are you you?) and sent it to Grandmasterfluffles.* Then I made sure the coast was clear and sneaked out, taking a diversion via another office so I would approach my own office from a direction unrelated to the loos.

10 minutes later there was a faint cry of disgust, the sound of futile flushing, and a sign appeared on the door to the ladies: "Toilets Out of Order". Several of the ladies in my office spoke in shocked tones about the size of turd that had broken the office loos, and wondering who the pooey culprit was. I sat there nodding and tutting away with them, biting back the words "it was meeeeeeeeeeeeee! Me and my Turdzilla!"

Shortly after that we moved offices, and Turdzilla has been forgotten by all but his proud, proud creator.

*As it happens, she'd lent her phone to her mother a week previously, so I'd just unwittingly alerted Mother Grandmasterfluffles to my scatalogical hilarity. Fortunately she found it funny. But then, Mother Grandmasterfluffles has been mentioned on these boards before: www.b3ta.com/questions/toomuchinformation/post89185
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 16:24, 7 replies)
I wrote "POO" in the snow in your front garden last night.

(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 16:00, 3 replies)
Spot the Stumpy Dog.
They didn't think it through... "here you go, Moey, get yourself inside this stinking costume and wander about this shopping centre for a few days." so I did. It smelled like the crotch of a thousand unwashed marathon runners mixed with a lorry full of stale lynx deodorant and could so easily have provided an anecdote for last weeks question had I not held my lunch so manfully.

I reluctantly stripped to t-shirt and pants, for we were at the height of summer, and placed my parts where many a sweaty fiend had placed theirs before me. It was obviously never going to work, but they insisted and I crumpled the legs up til my feet poked out the bottom and folded the sleeves numerous times til Spot had forearms like Popeye after a crazed spinach bender.

The chin hung just above my belly and the belly above my knees. The knees were backed up among the calves and ankles and Spot looked for all the world like his legs were styled on Nora Batty's stockings with the whole ensemble akin to how Yoda may have looked had he spent his entire life in a tumble dryer.

I measure a very unimpressive 5'5"; my Spot the dog costume seemed to have been made for that Russian boxing monster with all the back hair. Together we spent the week scaring many a child.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 15:50, 1 reply)
Edited again for Amorous Badger.

[mod edit: read the replies for an explanation]
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 15:45, 140 replies)
Angel in purple
When I was about 12, I used to get the bus to school most days with my best friend Harry Hyams. We lived in Finchley Central but our school was in North Finchley, so we had to get the 13, 26 or 260 (if my memory serves me well). We used to try to sit at the front, upstairs, on the left. Those being - without doubt - the best seats on a bus for a horny lad, as it gives you the best view out of the front and the chance to look down the cleavage of anyone waiting at the bus stop as the bus draws to a stop.

The other reason for choosing these seats was that there were two beautiful girls who used to sit near there. We went to the mixed grammar school (Woodhouse, if you're interested. We were the 3rd last intake before they changed it into a 6th form college), but objects of our desire went to the catholic girls' school somewhere near Tally Ho corner. They wore purple uniforms, while ours were pale blue, we were half-pint 2nd years, they were sophisticated third or fourth years and were way beyond us in every measure possible. God alone knows why they put up with us and our inane chattering, though, I suppose any girl of that age is flattered to think that they are attractive to any member of the opposite species (boys).

My favourite one was glamour on a bus seat. She had silky blonde hair and blue eyes, and filled her purple blazer, white blouse and pleated purple skirt with her wonderfully feminine body. Her legs (the bits between the bottom of the skirt and the tops of her long white socks) were delicious - but more than this, her lovely face, her laugh, and that buzzing feeling in my head when she held my gaze for a second or two were intoxicating.

At North Finchley bus station, we'd go our separate ways, we two heading for Woodhouse Road, them heading back across the High Road. And so things proceeded.

February, and a small boy's mind turns to Valentine's Day. With hot sweating hands I fashioned a card from cut out hearts, pictures of roses and kittens. I penned a poem (probably something like: Roses are red, violets are blue, your uniform's purple and smells quite nice too) and signed it "An admirer". Now, how to slip it into her bag without her noticing.

I never managed it. I carried that card around with me for weeks, until it was battered and horrible and one day I took my bike down to Dollis Brook and floated it away on the stream.

I don't think I ever found out her name but - and funny though this sounds - although I can't really remember much about her, I'll never forget her either.

She's probably 50 now...

EDIT: out of curiousity, I looked it up: St.Michaels: www.st-michaels.barnet.sch.uk/

They take boys in the 6th form from last September - so to speak.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 15:20, 5 replies)
Going to the toilet and not flushing
Do I need an audience?
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 15:03, Reply)

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