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This is a question Child Labour

There is a special part of Hell I'd like to reserve for those arses that order every single Sunday paper. Do you know how heavy that makes the bundle of papers some poor kid (ie me) has to lug around? Funny how your papers always seemed to get mangled in your letterbox...

I loved my paper round, but, looking back, I was getting paid peanuts to ruin my back and cycle around in the cold and dark. How were you exploited as a child?

(, Fri 17 Feb 2006, 12:05)
Pages: Popular, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Not me but a bud...
Me mate Lou, who's half Caucasion and Half Mexican, got a job working at this place called JJ's Fried Fish. JJ's Fried FIsh is like Mcdonalds but without the ball pits, mass worldwide franchising, tables, burgers, In fact it's not like Mcdonalds at all. All you do is order deep lard fried seafood/chicken, pay and leave. None of that sitting down pansy bullocks. As aforementioned, all they have is fried fish or chicken, needless to say the majority customer is black. Qeue fair skinned Cashiere 14yr old Lou at $5/hr (bout 2 quid):

Lou: Can I take your order?

Large Black Woman: Lemme get an order of shcrimps.

Lou: (confused as fcuk, looks back at overhead menu)...umm...you mean shrimp?

LBW: Yeeea and lemme get som fried scabs.

Lou: (looks back at menu).....only what's on the menu 'mam.

LBW: (blank stare) Hah?

.....he didn't show up the next day or ever.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 18:44, Reply)
$2.50 (Canadian) an hour (approx 1 squid) - on night shift
My first ever job was working in a donut/coffee shop between the hours of 12 midnight and 8 am for a measly $2.50 per hour. Fact is I was illegal and this was cash in hand so I couldn't complain.

Once the mens urinal was blocked and not having been given any gloves, I actually put my bare hands into a urinal of still steaming piss and soggy toilet paper to clean it out. Still to this day have no idea what the loo paper was doing in there. Wouldn't do that for 1 million quid now. Show's how afrad I was to lose that crappy job.

THEN, as my Dad wouldn't get off his arse to come and pick me up after work (something about teaching me to stand on my own two feet or some other bollocks) I had to walk the full 1 hr and 15 minutes home as I couldn't afford the bus fare.

Bitter? Don't even talk to me, I'm getting angry just thinking about it.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 17:56, Reply)
71p an hour...
Last summer I got a job going door to door around sussex, trying to get people to sign up for some house scam where some guy would go to their house, and force them to buy this cat-sick textured 'paint' to go on their houses that would apparntly make them last forever or something. I'm sorry if I came to your house, I probably did. It was all paid on commission, but only if once i'd signed these people up, they still agreed to have the sales guy aroun. What that meant is that even if i sign a million people up, and they all said they'd changed their mind and didn't want it, i'd get nothing.

One week I got £30. For a weeks work. A week walking up every street pretty much in the world, having doors slammed in my face, and people getting really angry at me.

We calculated it that I got 71p an hour. I wanted to cry. I quit.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 16:45, Reply)
Paper Round
When I was a young lad around the age of 14 I had one of those "super paper rounds". You know? The ones where you have to deliver the 'free paper' that comes out once every two weeks. I had to deliver something like 350 papers every two weeks for the princely sum of £2.20 per round.


Some sour faced old mooky cow would come round every two weeks and drop off this huge pile of papers, give me the last rounds money and promptly bugger off. The paper round took absolutely ages to do. As you can only carry so many papers, I had to go back home after delivering all I could carry to restock and carry on. Needless to say this was hard work for a young lad in the sweltering heat of summer.

So after doing this for a couple of months I actually figured out that nobody was interested in these papers, apart from all the old dears and retired sorts who have more time on their hands then to know what to do with.

Long story short is that me being the cunning sort I made myself a map, a shortlist if you like... of all the houses that I reckoned would complain if the papers werent delivered... Cutting my round down to about 70 papers... I would target all the houses and randomly deliver some to the others as well, just to cover my tracks.

And I got away with too!... for about 9 months before I got the phonecall I had been dreading...

The call went something like...

Sour faced old mooky cow: "You havent been delivering all your papers have you?"

Me: Yes I have, every one.

Sour faced old mooky cow: "No you havent, have you"

Me: No.

As you can see, I hadnt mastered the art of deceipt by this age.

I think it may have been the huge pile of undelivered papers in the garage that might have given it away...

Anyways... first post from me!
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 16:40, Reply)
Spanish Practices
I had my first "real" summer job between sixt form and Uni, working in a market garden. Despite being in the deepest darkest yokellish parts of East Yorkshire it was infested by Spaniards. (GYAC, they come over from the Canary Isles, three or four of them club together and buy a cheap caravan, then work the whole season doing 24 hour shifts and make ££££££££ to take back home. Nice work if you can get it)

So, not only did I have to wander through acres of jungle like savage cucumber plants cutting cucumbers, and spray them with industrial Malathion (probably banned now, and I once got drenched in the stuff when a spray gun exploded in my face) and get scratched to buggery and cut my fingers in the process, all in searing tropical humidity, but I had to do it all in Spanish. For six weeks for most of the day I did not hear a word of English spoken... but on the plus side, I DID learn how to say "now we will cut the little cucumbers" in Spanish. A phrase I have never used since in anger.

I don't recall what I got paid, it wasn't much, but I did once start to write a novel about the experience.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 15:33, Reply)
M o D
That would be quite a while after I worked with Doug. He used to run a gun club on saturdays and wednesday afternoons, at the West London Shooting grounds (no connection to the fine shooting school there). He also had a shop in Greenford called "The West London Gun Company", but that shut down after a few years. I must admit, even though Doug was a twat of the highest order, he was one of the finest shots I have ever seen. His wife was nice as well.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 15:13, Reply)
That reminds me.....
... this happened to a friend of mine. Not me, but still worth telling. One of his friend's fathers at school was a roofer. It was the summer holidays and this chap offered six of his friends mates some work helping him replace roof tiles. The pay was set at £2 an hour - each mind and this was in the early 1980's so not bad and certainly more than I was getting as a paperboy.

Anyway, next morning the lorry turns up. Six lads jump on the back and proceed to spend a day climbing up ladders, gently taking off the slates and neatly stacking them in the lorry. Any breakages resulted in threats about docking money so much care was taken. Numerous slate-cuts, bruises and strains occur during the day but at the end all of the lads were told to wait in the car-park of a local pub whilst the roofer went to get some cash to pay them.

They waited, they waited and they waited some more.....opening time came.......dinner time came...and went but still no sign of any wages. Deeply upset the boys went home. The next day they went round the roofer's house to collect their money to find that he had been arrested for trying to sell stolen roof tiles.

They never did get any money...... not even for offering to give evidence.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 15:05, Reply)
The delights of a Commercial Kitchen
At the tender age of 14 I was 'encouraged' by my Dad to go and get a weekend job. So out I went and ended up in the plum-job of potwasher for a rather well known chain of pub/restaurants. And 'lo, my lazy Sundays of playing sensible soccer on the Amiga were replaced by endless piles of shitty plates (which are hotter than the sun when coming out of the machine) and sinks full of pans bigger than me with unspeakable substances burnt onto them.

The particular 'highlight' of this evious position is clearing out the grease-trap. For those who don't know, it's a machine that siphons off all the crud, grease and other foul material that goes down the plug-holes, and in a commercial kitchen thats a lot believe me. Those unfortunates who are familiar with this metal box of satan will know that the stench from this machine when opened is like nothing you have ever experienced...and i had to scoop out all the solid matter from within the evil soup, then get rid of all the rest of the shite that's in there. And it is impossible to not get it ALL over you...thus resulting in me performing my dubious duty wearing a giant bin bag and smelling like stig o the dump at school on Monday morning. And the bugger had a rather annoying habit of overflowing at apparently random intervals, spilling its foul contents all over the floor - yummy!

...all for the princely sum of £3 an hour. Still, it's better than working at MaccyD's.

I stuck with it and worked my way 'up' to full blown cook and ended up back there most holidays all the way through 6th form and uni, and had a great time, until my tenure was abruptly ended when my nobhead of a line menager blew half my face off one night, but that's a story for another QOTW...

Apologies, as always...
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 14:58, Reply)
Urgle Splurgle
Did that happen to be at the Oxford Gun Companies place near Long Crendon?
Used to work in the shop there with Bill, Dougs partner, who went on to tutor maddona.
I had great fun in the shop, cheap shells and cheap clays for my dads gun club and I got to hold and polish all the guns in the shop all for £2.50 an hour. Best Job ever
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 14:54, Reply)
child labour
When the national lottery launched i got paid £1.95 an hour to sell tickets in my local spar. In order to receive this glorious bounty I had to wear a national lottery tshirt, badge, cap and best of all - big shitty sun glasses, even at night.
I was also once employed at an industrial laundry where my direct superior was on day-release from a mental hospital. She even wore state-owned shoes. I felt both big and important.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 13:49, Reply)
Not quite child labour...
...but as a weedy sixth-former, working in a tile yard was probably a non-starter. Days 1 and 2 not too bad. Fine, I thought. Despite general unfitness and inability to swear every other word, I might get through the whole summer holidays here.

Cue day 3, the hottest day of the year so far. Me and my mate from school had to load a whole roof's worth of slates onto the truck by hand. BTW, I had new, cheap boots on.

At the end of the day, I went to bed and slept for 24 hours, then couldn't get my socks off because the blisters on my feet had burst, dried and glued them on. I had to soak them in the bath to get them off.

Needless to say I didn't go back, and got a job soldering in a factory instead. Still got paid though, £40 for 3 days work, IIRC.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 13:44, Reply)
My name's Lardyboy and I was a teenage trapper
It's like trapper's anonymous here at the moment, so I guess it's my turn to share.

I was quite well paid while I was a trapper, £3 or £4 an hour (not bad in 1984), but I suspect that this was due to the poor safety record of the club. In two years I was lucky enough to escape with a broken wrist and a two inch gash just below my left knee. The latter injury was caused by the blade of a trap which was stuck, but came free, at speed, after the bottom of a box of clays gave way and fell on the manual release handle. After a bit of a sit down and lots of swearing, the boss let me cycle home early. Once home I had a proper look at the damage and found I could see bone, so I took a quick trip to A&E.

When I broke my wrist I got driven to hospital in the owner's Rolls, so I was quite pleased about that.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 13:30, Reply)
And did we get a parade when we returned?
No, they spat on us!

Perhaps Paul Hardcastle could do a remake of his famous '80's hit to raise awareness of post traumetic stress in trapping vets...

"In World War 2 the average age of the combat soldier was twenty two, in Trapping it was Fourteen, FUH-Fuh-Fuh-Fuh Fourteen..."
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 12:37, Reply)
poorly paid child labour
All this talk of trapping accidents, takes me back to my early career choice. For £8 a saturday, we would work from 8.00am until 6.00pm in the summer (4.00pm in the winter). All the usual applied ie no hearing protection, no cold/wet weather gear etc. Health and safety was what older people could fall back on if there were any workplace issues, however as a bunch of 14 year old boys, this didn't apply to us. There were plenty of examples of accidents at work, people getting shot at by the gun-toting in-breeds etc.. but the funniest thing I ever saw was the owner of the business (a total cunt called Doug Florent) giving us a lecture on trap safety, then completely ignoring his own advice and walked into the path of the traps swinging arm. It put a very large and deep cut into his left forearm, and left the staff ie us, pissing ourselves at his misfortune. Even his threats to kick our arses if we didnt stop laughing, fell on deaf ears. It was pure joy watching the beardy twat ranting and bleeding!! By the way Doug, if you are reading this (though I doubt you can read, you neanderthal moron) you are, and always will be, a cunt, to a select bunch of lads who had the misfortune to work for you. Glad that's off my chest after 25 years.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 12:23, Reply)
Gun Club
Col Dracula and others: We really ought to start some sort of support group for former Gun Club trap monkies. We're lucky to be alive.

I've got a story kicking around on me website with far too much length and girth to publish on these pages, so I've stuck it here.

Ah, happy days...
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 12:12, Reply)
Trapping in Yorkshire
I did this too! i lived on the outskirts of Ilkley Moor - but i LOVED this job! Picked up on a sunday morning aged 13, rode in the back of an open backed Landrover, saw guns all day AND got a fiver for a sunday mornings work! My right arm was like a weight lifters mind.. not sure if that was all down to trapping though....
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 11:46, Reply)
Pre-Packed Sandwich Converyor Belt... horrific
Temp job one summer to earn cash, me and a mate at a factory that made those pre packed sandwiches you see in supermarkets, garage forecourts, etc.

It was only something like £2 per hour BUT we did get the full hygene get-up for nowt - plastic wellies, beard net, yada yada yaday - our job? near the end of the conveyor, just before they were cut by a huge circular saw - we were 'cheese straighteners' - basically make sure the cheese was evenly spread in the sandwich. Me and my mates just laughed at each other across the conveyor belt... and this conveyor moves fast. AND it doesn't stop for 4 hours till u get your break. At this point, around 30% of the staff on the belt would faint due to motion sickness from watching it move for 4 hours straight...

I did get promoted to 'eggs' once.. basically put a whole boiled egg on the slice of bread as it went past... it was heaven. Till my box of boiled eggs was empty. i had to find another... by then, 30 slices of bread had gone past.

Those biddies at the end of the conveyor took it all so serious and their cries will live with me forever... "GET THE FUCKING CHEESE STRAIGHT!" or "THERE'S AN EGG MISSING - GET ME AN EGG, GGEETT MMEE AANN EEGG QUICK!"
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 11:42, Reply)
Bloody hell Colonel Dracula!
That's nasty. I was hit in the face by a trap arm once. Luckily it just cut through my lower lip and broke my glasses. I realised at the time that I'd come close to losing teeth and other bits of my face but your post has brought it all back.

And I wasn't even being paid at the time.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 11:35, Reply)
The horror of earning £2 per hour in deepest darkest Somerset.
In 1992 when I was 14 my overprotective sMother thought it would be a good idea to get a job in a war zone. Well ok, it was the local Clay Pigeon Shooting club. I would be a "trapper" operating a "trap" that fired "clays" into the air so that the "inbred gun-toting carrot crunchers" could blast them to smithereens.

The trap is a menacing piece of equipment, basically consisting of a steel arm attached to a tripod by an industrial spring that you have to heave back, insert a clay and when the shooter shouts “Pull!” or “Trap!” you release it keeping all body parts away from the deadly swinging arm.

On my first day I was in for a treat. I was to operate the “Rabbit”. The rabbit was a bigger kind of trap that sent a special clay rolling down a long rubber mat to be obliterated a few meters away. I was replacing Simon who was undergoing facial reconstruction because he had caught his face in the rabbits swinging arm (they got through more trappers that way).

A short list of incidents in the next 2 months:
Hands & gloves ripped to shreds on the sharp swinging arm of the trap.
The protective hay-bale wall collapsing on me.
Spent lead shot raining down on me.
No ear protection because I “might not hear instructions”.
Receiving a shrapnel wound on the hand from a disintegrating clay from a nearby trap. Obviously no first aid kit, so the wound was eventually bound with a paper towel and electrical tape.
Gun fire control that makes Dick Cheyney look like he has an exemplary health & safety record.

The crunch came when I had been sat in a hedge for 2 hours, shivering in the pouring rain operating a trap that was desperately trying to take my head off because the trajectory bolt was loose and nobody could (or would) find a spanner to tighten it. The ghost of Simons missing front teeth & nose cartilage appeared to me and told me to get a Sunday morning paper round, and ‘yes’ chthonic, those Sunday papers are a bitch to carry.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 10:40, Reply)
On holiday from school and enjoying waking up at the crack of 11 each day my Dad decided it was time for me to get a job. All be it the unpaid jop of painting the back of our 3 story house.
I was given a pot of paint, some ladders (with no one to hold them) and a paint brush, which could only be described as a bit thin on top.
As I started to paint I realised that it isn't so easy to paint roughcast. You don't paint it so much as poke paint at it.
3 weeks later bloody knuckled and covered in paint (which I think he stole from the council, while they where painting the white lines) I was 75% through the first coat.

Thankfully I managed to get a job, which paid money leaving the house painting unfinished.
I returned from my first day of work to find my Dad had bought a massive roughcast paint roller and used it to complete in 1 day, what I couldn't in 3 weeks with the airfix paint set he'd given me.
I think it was his version of wax on wax off but with poisonous paint instead of polish.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 9:56, Reply)
Oh dear
A mate was in the Young Conservatives, but I preferred Child Labour.

Ay thangyew.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 9:46, Reply)
I did 6-8 mon-thur and 6 hours on saturday stacking and cleaning the dairy department, I was 16 and they paid me the princely sum of £1.9887/h. Yes, they paid me to 4 decimal places! rund it up to £2?? NEVER! all my mate got jobs in tesco and got £4/h bah!

Plus point I did suplement my meager wage by not swiping out for lunch and 'other' means (never should of let me near the pricing gun).

Oh and also this older bird join the department in the shift befor me and immdiately assumed she was my superior because she was 30 odd and started shifting her work to me. Bitch. We had a barney in the end and she threatened to tell the manager, to which I informed her she is more than welcome to tell him that I'm not doing her job for her (shut her up good). Now I have a cushy office job! W00t!

Sorry for going off on abit of a tangent but it's that girth and technique that count.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 9:27, Reply)
This will be my first ever post on b3ta, so here's a bit of reminiscence from my childhood:

My family used to live in a lovely house in the middle of nowhere, big yard, lots of privacy, all that. The only problem was that we had a septic tank that would periodically have to be emptied. No problem, we could call up a truck to come pump it out for us. But the lid to the tank was buried about 2 feet down in the front yard, and the company that sends the trucks wouldn't dig it up for us. Now, my father has had back problems since before I was born, and my mother was too weak to do any sort of manual labour, so they gave me the "responsibility" of digging out this tank every few years. I have a sister that's two years older than me, so I'm not sure why they made me do it, maybe because I've always been a bit of a tomboy and had enough energy to power a small city. But regardless of the reasons, I'd always find myself in the front yard with a shovel, spending hours on end digging up the lid to this tank. Fortunately, the lid was about 6 inches of concrete and did a wonderful job of keeping the smell of raw sewage out, but it was still hard work, and usually in the middle of summer.

Did I get payed for this? Not at all. Apparently, the hard work was supposed to build character or somesuch. I got really good at digging holes, though, which comes in handy digging fire pits on camping trips.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 7:38, Reply)
I worked at a vet...
for about 5 years, between the ages of 10-15. Mind you, I didnt get paid. Yes, read that again. I didnt get paid until I was atleast 13. And then the bitch took my money.

But, the worst part definatly wasnt scooping shit up, or cleaning up vomit, or even taking blood.

The worst part was surgery and dead animals. My boss, I swear, shes part of the mafia. She used to take those animal's nuts, grab em and RIP THEM RIGHT OUT OF THEIR ABDOMENS. Just, yank em' out! Afterwards, she expected me to be well enough to help her suture the animal up, and clean up the leftover organs, blood, and tools. If you ever have a desire to know what they do with your dog's left over testes, I'll tell you right now - they just throw them out with the regular trash.

And one day, we had a stupid lady bring in her dog that had died from heat exaughstion. When an animal, or even people, die from heat exaughstion, the blood vessels go up to the surface of the skin, and eventually break. This is what happened on this dog. It was covered in sweat and smelled just awful. It must have weighed at least 27kg, and was twice the size of me.
My boss, being the kind loving lady she was, left the dog to sit in the room long enough so it got stiff, and then expected me to stuff it in a body bag and get it to the freezer downstairs. It must have taken me 2 hours to stuff that dog in 3 body bags, move him, and then get him INTO the freezer. The vetrinary assistant told me before I went to go carry it down the stairs, "It wont matter if you drop it, because its already dead."

They were watching me carry that fucking dog in the middle of the summer down the stairs.

I never went back after that day.
(, Wed 22 Feb 2006, 0:16, Reply)
Once a doormat, always a doormat
Not me, but my girlfriend.

Between the ages of 14 to 18 she did a paper round for £4 a week delivering to 200 houses, worked at a kennels for £2 an hour picking up shit, got paid a measley £3.05 for working at McDonalds(serving shit). Fast forward 6 years and where is she working? In a kennels getting paid £5.05 an hour to pick up shit!! Sigh
(, Tue 21 Feb 2006, 23:57, Reply)
when i'm cleanin' lockers
When i was a cute preteen and even into my early teens, my granddad was the caretaker (or janitor for the 'merikins)at a locl high school. Each and every summer, i was taken along by him to help out cleaning each and every locker, around 800 in total, of each years accumulated filth and detritus. This involved finding the corrct key for each locker, opening it, removing the encrusted gym kit/bluemoulded packed lunch/irraplaceable coursework, and chucking it into a bin, and cleaning the inside of said locker with toxic chemicals from the 80's. I got blisters, cuts and backache doing this job each year. The reward for my efforts? £1.00. cash. as i got older it rose to the princly sum of £1.50, for the whole job lot. And you know what? while it was horrible work, sad git that i am, that was the only time i ever spent any time alone with my grandad as a lad, and given the choice i'd pay for the chance to do it now. Enjoy your shite jobs people, cos one day you'll have responsible things to do.
(, Tue 21 Feb 2006, 22:55, Reply)
Picking Spuds
Being a good country girl I used to get packed off to a neighbours farm every summer to help out, and to keep me out of my parents way. We'd always end up getting persuaded to help harvest the spuds and cabbages. Back-breaking work. Why they didn't have a machine to do this I have no idea, but it was a tiny farm on a windy hill in the Ards peninsula.
I got paid in produce - I'd always get given a huge bag of spuds to bring home with me, and had as much stu to eat as possible.

And I was happy with that. Come to think of it, it was probably worth more than what I earn now...
(, Tue 21 Feb 2006, 22:46, Reply)
I operated a liver chopping machine
on YTS while industrial butchers told me YTS stood for Young Thick and Stupid before they attached chicken feet to the back of my jacket and then roared off to support the BNP on their shitty little less power than my learner bike vespas. FUCKING TORY GOVERNMENT.
(, Tue 21 Feb 2006, 20:32, Reply)
Grades 9 -12.....
Well you see I attended some sort of Jesuit High school in my city. The place was short from perfect. Non the less it was much better than the grim, zoo like public schools around my area where you WILL GET BUM RAPED BY LOCAL STREET GANG MEMEBERS(not literaly, but these fellows will cause some damage to your nads and sanity and even go as far as to involve you in their rivalries). Anywho, said Jesuit school wasn't free. Tuition was about $24,000 (US) a year. To combat this expensive tuition, the school sent EVERY student to work in corporate offices all over the city. This ranged from Law firms, to museums, to government instalations and medical institutions. Class was 4 days a week and you worked 1 full day at your "sponsor site" during the week. Each sponsor had at least 4 students that worked either Tue, Wed, Thurs, Fri. Every week, Monday was alternated between the 4 working students thus giving you a 3 day school week now and then. No one ever sees a penny from their sponsor, it's all for tuition unless you work during your breaks.

In my first year there, my sponsor was this high class law firm. I was running erands for these lawyers that ate little children's faces, bankrupt cripples and squeezed those baby soft spots for fun. 9/11 fell on a tuesday (my work day and excuse the pun).The building was evacuated in fear of evil planes. Having left my monies at my desk I had to leg it home (a good 30 min walk). The next Tuesday they had me opening letters with rubber gloves. I also shredded my tie. That wasn't an accident though. Despite this, I was in the tallest building in the city on the 76th floor so the view was beautiful, office parties always had crab, sushi, roasts and would always fall on a tuesday or friday and the lady lawyers were all fit and dressed "wild librarian in heat" hot. Clevage was ample.

Cock cock, length length, blah blah, goes back under rock.
(, Tue 21 Feb 2006, 19:22, Reply)
My first paper round
Ah my salad days. As a favour to a friend I took over his nightime paper route, chalk that up to my heart being bigger than my brain. The first night however it pissed down so bad, I felt the weight of the bag on my shoulder for... ooooh about 5 seconds and realised the terrain I'd have to travel would kill me via the medium of Welsh hills and mud. "Fuck this for a lark" I said to myself and dropped off the papers on my friends doorstep, moaning that "my back is acting up mate, it's all too much". Bless. Never did forgive me neither, the git.
(, Tue 21 Feb 2006, 18:49, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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