I'm in the insomniac club right now.
And I want to be in the sleep club.
( Ken Oath, Sun 24 Jun 2012, 18:49, 5 replies)

The Hairdresser's Union used to be really powerful
but we had a lot of splits.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 24 Jun 2012, 16:14, Reply)

the Sunday Club
we've all been members of this club at one time or another. it's a vast group of people who have to spend a really dull sunday, such as today, doing absolutely nothing because there is FUCK ALL TO DO.
i fucking hate sundays. who's with me?
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sun 24 Jun 2012, 15:09, 21 replies)

Amongst my extended circle of friends there are a number of people in same sex female partnerships
who have somehow become the arbiters of acceptability with regard to behaviours and group activities , and woe betide anyone who arranges anything without taking their lesbian sensibilities into account.

We call them the Muffia .
( horace wimp needs more than 49 characters to fully express hi, Sun 24 Jun 2012, 12:20, Reply)

The first rule is that I'm not allowed to talk about it.

(Frample Tromwibbler climbs an obstacle like old people fuck, Sun 24 Jun 2012, 11:45, 8 replies)

Following procedure.
I've been a member of a few committees now over the last few years - the Occupational Safety & Health committee at work, the school Parent's & Citizens committee, the local Soccer Club committee etc.
You name it I've probably put my hand up for it.

1 thing that I have found & take issue with - the amount of bureaucratic procedures that seem to be very strictly adhered to. To the "nth" degree.

Cases in point -
Years ago when I was in the State Emergency Service (SES - we go & put a tarpaulin on your roof when it blows off during a storm) we would get called out to help the local volunteer fire-brigade with bush-fires. But because of red-tape, unless they specifically asked for us we would have to sit in our vehicles nearby and wait. This was because our insurance liability would only cover us if they couldn't cope and called us in. Thus instead of having to help them with a *relatively* small fire we would have to wait to help them only when it was an unmanageable blaze & frequently put all of us at greater risk.

At the local P&C we need a quorum of 10 to make decisions. Some of our members can be quite *ahem* lax about our once a month meetings. Even if all the executive is present (of which I am a member) we still cannot act if we don't have a quorum. We have about AUD$25,000 in funds and about 15 major projects around the school waiting to be ratified.

EDIT: just remembered another 1 -
As a soccer coach I can only provide instant ice-packs and band-aids to any injured player unless I have a club rep. present who has St. Johns Ambulance training. This is despite the fact that I have Accredited St. John's senior training myself. So for example - I can ice an injury but I cannot apply a splint if it's needed just because the club doesn't recognise my qualification - even tho both qualifications come from the same organisation.

As the OSH rep @ work I regularly get some silly paper-work. The best, most recent I can think of was a risk/incident form put in because a residents bed-side lamp (provided by them) wasn't bright enough to go to the loo during the night.
Now if I'd got a work order for this I'd just swap the old globe out for 1 of the many long-life neon globes I have in my shed. But because a form was put in now I have to contact the family and get them to provide whatever globe they come up with whenever they next come to visit - could be a month. In the mean time if she goes arse-over-tit then us as a facility have to cope with it. Even tho I have the globes onsite!
(In this case her lamp magically morphed into a tested & tagged touch lamp with a nice bright long-life neon globe. Amazing)

There is always a work-around - but the fact that the hurdles exist is really fucking sad and frustrating. Think about this - this is only at a very low level of bureaucracy and governance. Imagine what it's like further up the ladder?
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sun 24 Jun 2012, 7:32, 24 replies)

I don't know if it's true, but I heard A Vagabond's dog is a member of Kennel Club.

( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Sat 23 Jun 2012, 22:06, 3 replies)

I joined the Navy
A little bit more buttsex than I was expecting, but the free healthcare and legitimized alcoholism has so far made up for it.
( CTVadim Eeeeasing back into it., Sat 23 Jun 2012, 21:39, 5 replies)

the guild
as a young girl, i would go every friday night to the guild of st. agnes, the local catholic girl's club. despite many of us not being catholic, we were still allowed in. we'd play games, paint, draw, eat sweets and biscuits and have a raffle. sometimes, in the summer, we'd go to the beach and play rounders. compared to the entertainments on offer nowadays, i know it all sounds a bit crap, but we had great fun.
well, except for the last 5 minutes of the evening, when we had to stand in a line and recite the prayer to st. agnes.
being the good and highly religious girl i was, i hid in the bogs every week to avoid the prayer.
good times, good times.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 23 Jun 2012, 13:36, 8 replies)

My Beer Club.
I run a Beer Club at my work (The Hop Hounds).

Each payday 50 of us deposit a small percent of our pay into a central account. We let it build up to a decent amount, then blow the lot on cartons of new and interesting beers.

I do the purchasing and choosing, which is good fun, going into a bottle shop and cleaning up pretty much all of the boutique beers on offer. You get all sorts of free tat too, sunglasses, inflatable sofas, steins etc etc. Everyone gets to try lots of beers they wouldn't normally buy, and sometimes scores some beer orientated merchandise.

At first I thought I'd struggle to find enough variation, but 9 years later, I haven't repeated a single brand.

The absolute worst one was a bizarre Chinese beer that smelled ultra farty when opened and some of the bottles had dead insects floating in them. Quality control was somewhat lax in that brewery.

The second worst would have to be any beer brewed with fruit (raspberries, blueberries). Disgusting concept, I don't care how "traditional" it is.

And yet, I still buy good old VB cans for myself when I go to the bottle shop.


A typical Hop Hounds evening is as follows:

Prepare your beer first.

There's something deeply, deeply assuring and Zen-like about laying a slab of beautiful green VB cans into the bottom of an esky, busting open bags of ice over the top, layering ice evenly over the first layer, repeat for another layer of cans, and top with more ice. Stand back and admire your handiwork, then close the lid firmly, and let sit for 1 hour.

Meanwhile prepare lamb chops in a deep platter with olive oil, rough chopped fresh rosemary, sea salt, white pepper, crushed garlic and a good squeeze of lemon. (Tip; when squeezing the lemon, make sure you squeeze it so as the juice trickles through your fingers, and be sure to contort your face into a violently scrunched belm. Don't know why, just seems to be the current practice of personality chefs on TV). Mix the whole lot with your fingers, and then wipe your hands on the curtains/dog.

Thickly slice some Haloumi, chuck it in some olive oil. Debeak the octopus, cut it all up into small chunks and chuck that in some olive oil too, but add heaps and heaps of lemon juice to break down the protein because they can be rubbery fuckers, even when cooked with care. Again, this presents an excellent opportunity for further belming.

By now, the beer will be chilled, guests have arrived and are sitting around discussing sex, religion and politics, so fire up the bbq and turn it to low. Let it slowly but surely heat up. Contrary to popular thinking, bbq's need to be heated for a good 20 minutes before cooking. This allows the metal to retain heat when all the food is slapped on. This is an opportune time to sit down and have some beer whilst the food marinates in various juices.

If you are dedicated and reasonably "piss fit", you should try and manage to get through one dog beer prior to cooking (6 human beers = 1 dog beer).

Just as everyone is getting a bit blind and increasingly adjective-y, stumble to the fridge and get the food. Slap all the chops on first, this usually results in a few spectacular flames from the oil, and will guarantee a few "ooohs" from your guests.

At this point, do your best to ward of the Type A personalities who will inevitably wander over and lend advice on your bbq'ing technique and try to manhandle the tongs from you. Stand your ground and advise them to go forth and multiply. Also, aprons with rubber tits are not cool, don’t do it. They undermine your natural authority, the Type A will walk all over you and the rubber is a fire risk. Rubber tit burn is no laughing matter.

Next is the haloumi, it will cook quickly; flip it frequently to avoid carcinogenic charring. Lastly, fling the octopus on, frequently move it around, a minute at most should do, always put it on the grill side, press down with the base of the beer can should be welded to your hand to achieve the striping affect.

Slup the whole lot onto a large platter, serve with pulpy white bread rolls and a feeble green salad, prepared for the chicks in the group.

Everyone will tear into the food, as alcohol removes table manners and cutlery protocol. The ice cold beer cuts through the oil wonderfully, and before long you will be on your second wind, fishing around the glorious arctic slush in the esky to find those last few elusive cans of beer.

At this point, it may be prudent to repeat the bbq’ing for the greedy ones, but be aware that your technique will be compromised by alcohol. Let the Type A personality weave his magic, be sure to insist he wears an apron with rubber tits. Sympathise when he burns himself.

This is also an appropriate time to turn the music up a bit louder, as you’re favourite ever song is playing, and it is very important that all present experience your taste in music. Also, by this time the garden presents a convenient place to urinate, as really, toilets can just be a hassle, and it’s only piss anyway. No one died from walking on a pissy lawn.




Sometime later, you will awaken to your young daughter gently bouncing on the trampoline beside you. She asks “Daddy, what is that on the front lawn”.

“Octopus,” you blearily reply. “Don’t touch it”.



Encourage the dog to clean it up. Never drink again.




Ah yes, I love my beer club.
( Ken Oath, Sat 23 Jun 2012, 13:08, 54 replies)

I was a member of The Perth Piss-Sinkers Club
Our inaugural event consisted of:
- hiring a bus and finding someone with a licence who was prepared to be skipper for both outward & return journeys.
- 60 odd of us doing a slow, many pubbed crawl on Friday arvo out to Bindoon where we had hired some campgrounds and dorms for the weekend.
- plowing thru 50 odd blocks (30 cans) of beers (usually consumed on the drive down), 100-150 crates (15 longnecks to a crate) of "Death Bitters" home brew, 20-30 bottles of assorted spirits, 2 or 3 sulo bins full of "punch", any alcohol you brought yourself (why??!) and at least 3 animal carcasses which were roasted on spits from Fri. night to Sun. lunch. It really didn't hurt that 1 of the founding members mother owned a well known pub.

Of course we found the time for much fun and debauchery inbetween our drinking. There was a dam nearyby so skinny-dipping was of course a must - fortunately no drownings but probably some conceptions. The bunks were rarely used for sleep. Generally when I went as part of a couple we had a "what happens at Bindoon stays at Bindoon" attitude, as long as noses weren't rubbed in it all was fair in love & drunken frivolity.
The PPSC AGM was usually held the second weekend of uni summer holidays altho you didn't have to be a student to be a member, from (hazy) memory we had a couple of blokes over 60 who just came along to watch the young 'uns run amok. They used to do a mean roasted pig or goat on a spit over a large fire. (Fucken' Fixed for Fucken' janet, again!) The annual fee was $50 and that got you on the bus and drinking at Bindoon.
All in all a good society to belong to. We very rarely had issues (aside from making the die-hards who had too much punch on the drive home clean out the bus) and from what most of us could remember we all seemed to have a good time.
So Richard, Andy & Neill - wouldn't surprise me to know you guys are b3tans, if you're reading, gaz me and we'll start organising the reunion run.
Cheers.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sat 23 Jun 2012, 5:49, 2 replies)

B3ta
I have no photoshopping skills , i'm not very talented and i can't say i have much of a comedic presense. I don't post much on b3ta but i enjoy lurking and being judgemental of peoples works i have no hope of recreating at all.
B3ta allows me to be the bastard by secretly not liking things i should just because i can*.
At B3ta i can be the cunt i was born to be.

*Not actually true. i'm nice really, please love me pleeeeease!!
(shake'n'bake Tally Ho, Biatch!, Sat 23 Jun 2012, 4:39, 1 reply)

Not being female
I don't get invited to the 'lady day' that my girlfriend gets invited to. You probably know the drill, all women talking about babies, pets and other womanly things without the presence of boys etc.

Thing is, my wonderfully liberated girlfriend finds this all rather dull and incredibly sexist in its own way, she just doesn't see the point and neither do I.

We've been coming up with alternative names to mock this vag-centred institution into the modern world and the best two we've come up with that have been adopted with great mirth:

Clunge Club

Vagina Meet-Up (say it enough times and the genius becomes clear)
(Monchberter Can't go wrong with Doom, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 23:21, 2 replies)

Rage
Hastily-scribbled note I once saw taped to the door of a Community Center: "Anger management course is cancelled today."
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 21:23, 2 replies)

When I was old enough to serve booze, I gave up my Friday Night/Saturday Morning shift working at the petrol station
...to go and work a Saturday afternoon bartending shift at the rugby club in Stourbridge.

Stourbridge had a respectable national league standing (and have done ever since) so it was't just Stourbridge vs. Dudley but nationwide teams. On any given Saturday during the league the main team might be home or away, but due to rotation between the main team, the 2nd team and the 'Colts' (youngsters), there would normally be 6 teams (home and visitors) in play. Plus all the spectators.

So, a shift would start at midday, opening up the bar and the teams that were playing would normally come up to the bar to drink a pint or two of squash (some form of Weak Lemon Drink), and the spectators would perhaps have a half of lager or a Winter Warmer, in the run up to kick off.

Then the games would kick off and it would be like a graveyard shift, nothing to do but stack seats, stack shelves, read a book (this was before mobile phones/gameboys). And then Half Time would come. So, suddenly every single spectator from all of the matches would come in wanting to grab a quick one and maybe a pack of crisps before the 2nd half- slightly hectic.

You'd have to grab two Britvics at once and pop the crowns off with one hand while typing into the till with the other while setting off two pints on the auto-delivery 1/2 pint clicker for lager, one for bitter, and the Murphys tap (which was NOT automatic and would overflow if you didn't keep your mind on it) while keeping a mental tally of the round you were furnishing- mental arithmetic par excellence. Example- in your head, work out the cost of 3 lagers, two Mickey Mouse (50/50 lager bitter), 2 Murphys, 3 bitters, a glass of wine and 3 lemonades... and I did it all the time! Fuck kids these days who only have to press coloured buttons on touch screens.... Back in those days there was ony one till in the bar and hopefully, 2 or more people serving on an old fashioned digital till. You couldn't tally up and lay away while another user entered their takings, you could not use your RFID coin to identify your transactions, you and YOU ONLY could enter cash exchanges into the till and if someone else was working alongside you, you had to keep your accounts in your head- as did they - because there was no computerised till back-office system that would separate your transactions from the other folks.

It was like a beautiful, frantic ballet, keeping all the plates spinning etc. but after 15 minutes people would drift back out to watch the game. Regain breath.

So, another period of quiet which let you wash glasses, clear tables, retrieve pots from the balcony overlooking the pitch,

Then the Full Time Whistle goes and all hell and chaos breaks loose at once.

All the spectators rush in at once to get served first. And because they know it's going to be packed at the bar, they all order two drinks per person each.

Suddenly it's pandemonium, it's 3-deep the entire length of the bar, you have to keep track of who was next in order and not just the ones waving £20 notes ALTHOUGH! This is not a normal pub or club, everyone vaguely knows each other, courtesy abounds, consideration is shown and people are patient.

Recognising this situation and the impracticality of having 70,000 glasses available on demand, there are plastic jugs available which mean you can get 7 pints to a table, let people decant themselves and all you have to do is put one on the drip tray and let that tap run? Err, unless it's lager or bitter which as we've already established, delivers half a metered pint and then stops. So some kind of logistical delivery plan is needed as you face about a hundred hopeful faces- place glasses on the bitter pump, click to start, 10 seconds for a delivery of 1/2 a pint, meanwhile whip jug on to drip tray for stout, set it going, dash to optic to get double gin, come back, click switch for next 1/2 pint on both pumps, keep eye on Stout jug, pop the cap on the tonic for the gin, get the ice, move the now-complete pint glasses off the lager pump drip tray, grab the slice of lemon for the G+T, calculate (IN YOUR HEAD!) 3 x £1.17 for the lagers/6 x 0.89 for the bitter jug, gin(0.80)+tonic(0.47), 2 x bitters (0.83 each), replace empty pint glasses on drip trays, both lager pumps being situated 5 feet apart mean you can trigger both at once if you stretch your arms to straining point, keep eye on half full jug on the pump, grab crisps in order of asking, open fruit juice with left hand/spear cherry with cocktail stick with right, drop it in the balloon glass, enter sum total of mental calculation into till, get money, give change, continue click-delivery of lager to complete those pints, jug almost full so bang tap up to let it settle, find tray, load up drinks, and Who's Next Please?

So, repeat for all the spectators at the bar, then 20 minutes after the match ends, all the team players come up from their post-match showers- 6 teams worth of 15 players each, and then THEY've worked up a real thirst, so each of them want 3 drinks each plus refills for friends and family so the whole process of frenetic serving starts again:- if you don't clear the spectators from earlier then you feel like you're denying the players who have earned a well-deserved pint their rightful throat quencher.

Now, by that time the rugger buggers are in celebratory mood, so many more drinks are ordered but at a sort-of manageable pace. The away teams may load up on to their coach and go back to their respective clubs, but by the same measure, your away teams will be coming back to shoot the shit with their colleagues and chat about their respective games, the games on TV, other stuff.

A feature of rugby is that the players and fans tend to be a bit more blue-blooded than their footie bretheren, due to schooling or lineage, I don't know, they all seem to be a pretty well off and affluent people, so of course social networking was rife but productive. Doctors and lawyers and property developers and car dealers would all cut little self-rewarding deals between themselves- and why not?

Meals were provided from the kitchen so the drinkers were able to keep on drinking, standard stodge (bacon egg sausage beans, basically a 2nd Full English on that Saturday) but slowly up to the 6:30pm period when the bar was closed, eventually the wives would drag their husbands back home to have a nap before their night drinking adventures.

Except there was always a hardened cadre of leftover boozehounds who would round up the afternoon with 'suicide pint'. Each guy would specify a drink that the others had to down in one. So:-

Player 1 asks for a round of drinks consisting of 1/2 a lager, Babycham, 1 measure cointreau, 1 whiskey. All get one, all down-in-one.
Player 2 asks for 1/2 a bitter, bottle of Cherry B, 1 measure gin, 1 blue curacao. All get one, all down-in-one
Player 3 asks for 1/2 a limeade with brandy, Benedictine, Tia Maria, Taboo and mint cordial. All get one, all down in one.

Player 4 is made of more perverse stuff.

Bottle of Guinness.
add 1 schooner Advocaat.
add 1 shot vodka.
add 1 Gold Label (barley wine)
add 1 bottle of tomato juice.

All get one. They look at the drink. The drink curdles playfully and looks them back square in the eye.

...tick tock tick tock tick tock......echo....

only one finishes. Two retch 1/2 way down. Mr 'finally comes to his senses' refuses. So he 'lost' :-)

It was a thoroughly enjoyable time, they were a great bunch (including a former school sports teacher of mine who was quite amusing but slightly surreal to see a formerly quiet, authoritative teacher singing bawdy songs while pissed).

There were other benefits- all of the people who attended, be it players or spectators, they were an extraordinarily generous bunch. At least one punter in 10 who was ordering a £50 round would add 'and one for yourself?'. As I had to drive to and from the club I'd have to demur and when they insisted I'd have to say- OK, thank you, can I have 50p in the tips jar?

This did happen but occasionally one would insist - no, I want to buy YOU a DRINK. So I'd say- sorry, I've got to drive and can't drink. Then one of them said- well, I'll get you a bottle, you can take it home with you and have it later.

Fuck!

Yes please.

During that season it happened so often that I was able to experiment with every alcoholic beverage on sale, starting at one end of the bar (Diamond white) through the middle (Newcastle Brown) to the elderly person's drinks (Snowball, Tat Cherry B stuff and Gold Label I mentioned earlier, Mackesons' Stout). I'd regularly finish a shift with a plastic bag full of bottles to take home because when a drunk well-off guy stands at the bar for 3 minutes insisting that they will buy you a drink, it's often easier to give in and than your lucky stars.

And then there was that New Years Eve event. Blimey. It was sit-down do but they wanted the bar open and I had to wear a bow tie. Shit, my first legal New Years Eve to get pissed (not that I hadn't done out on the lash the previous 2 years) but I was offered triple time.

Which was a lot in its own right but the tips were double that on top. Like I said, rugby club? Generous patrons.

Only one downside, dear reader.

If you've never worked a bar, you may not realise after a shift of pulling pints of beer, lager, bitter etc. the smell of it is on your hands, in your hair, up your nose, so while the benefit of working Saturday afternoon meant you were paid just in time for a Saturday Night out with your mates, you rarely went out thinking 'I really fancy a pint of beer now' as the thought of it might make you do a little vom. So that's why I spent many, many years drinking cider when out on the razz instead. But is this a bad thing? I can get 3 litres of strong cider from a supermarket for £2.78, the same amount of lager would be £5.

Apologies for length but- well, it all happened.
( Rotating Wobbly Hat That's not a banana. THIS is a banana., Fri 22 Jun 2012, 20:48, 11 replies)

The Rosy Cross
This is not my story, but it concerns my best friend.

My friend and I met at university. He was a Roman Catholic (as he was quick to inform me), but during the first year he went through a crisis of faith - a sort of long, dark semester of the soul, if you will.

Anyway, after breaking from Rome, he was always searching for something to fill the spiritual void that the church had left. He investigated the Freemasons and the Martinists; he even toyed with the Scientologists for a while. But what really drew him in was the Ancient and Mystical Order of the Rosy Cross - The Rosicrucians.

The Rosicrucians are a theosophical society, dedicated to uncovering the mysteries of the universe through ritual, chanting, meditation, and the reading of long monographs about astral travel. It is completely bonkers but seemed harmless enough, so I let him get on with it, although obviously taking industrial quantities of piss out of him.

There aren't any Rosicrucian lodges where my friend lives, and whenever he come to town for his monthly meeting (or seance, or ritual, or whatever they're called) he stays with me. We cook a curry, listen to music, play Go and get absolutely shitfaced drunk. (Yes, friend is a massive pisshead, in spite of the fact that the Rosicrucians discourage poisoning one's body.) Anyway, he is not a very discreet fellow when he drinks, and one night he started talking about the rituals they'd be doing next day. I was only half listening to him crapping on about the chanting and Ancient Egyptian symbolism, when suddenly I heard the phrase "vestal virgins".

"Are you joking? You don't have vestal virgins do you?"

My friend insisted that they did - 12 year old girls in white robes who assisted at the rituals (with what, he didn't say). "Yeah, these girls are the children of lodge members," said my friend, "so it's not like there's anything dodgy going on. Funny thing was that last month, about two hours into the rituals, one of the girls started crying." He tilted his head to one side and mused for a bit. And then, with a total absence of irony: "Must have been having problems with her homework."

Sure. Not the fact that she was spending all Saturday in a darkened tabernacle among flickering candles, images of eagle-headed Gods and a load of chanting, apron-wearing weirdos.

Well, that was my no means the worst of what he told me. The worst was the ritual of the mooncake. This is a piece of dough that is scattered with menstrual blood, baked and then eaten. It symbolises...oh Jesus Christ, I don't care what it symbolises. But where do they get the menstrual blood from?

The vestal virgins.

Can you imagine being twelve, having your first period, and your parents asking you to collect it in an egg cup because they want to do a bit of baking?

Honestly, this is the sort of thing that makes Christianity and Islam look almost sane.
( Mr Mann I love pigs, best of all the animals, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 17:29, 11 replies)

British Legion
Club. 80pence a pint cheaper than the pub.
Yer bastards!!
( social hand grenade I was a lurker before you were a lurker, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 17:28, Reply)

Friday Knights
Was a Friday (oddly enough) evening club where we would go towards the latter years of middle school and early secondary.

It was run by the local Methodists and was quite fun in terms of the football and other games. Of course there was the ‘God’ bit, which no one paid a blind bit of attention to, despite their valiant efforts. We also got homeopathic watered-down orange cordial and a couple of Rich Tea biscuits all for two quid.

Looking back I’m pretty sure one of the ‘helpers’ was in fact a groomer. If you asked someone to draw a paedophile, you’d end up with a Police e-fit of the bloke.
(Deskbound You insignificant speck of dust, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 14:30, 4 replies)

Fuck Namby Pamby Weight Watchers
you want to try something a little more hardcore like Lighter Life - it's where the biggest losers hang out.

4 milkshakes a day and 4 litres of water for 12 weeks, pissing like a brewery shire horse, every hour on the hour right through the night. If you ever shoiuld be unfortunate to lose less than 7lbs a week the angry woman who weighs you and sells you the milkshakes for £70 a week sends you off to wee on a stick so that everyone can see if you've been cheating.

It's a great way to lose weight quickly but when you do actually start eating again you're in for a treat. Your first shit for 12 weeks can only be described as trying to pass a coconut through a drinking straw - it's almost as if your arsehole has healed up, it might as well not be there to be honest
.
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 13:41, 6 replies)

I have a great one-liner about clubs.
"I'm Jewish, but if a club accepted Jews I wouldn't join it, because I suffer from a pathological condition of self-hatred."

I think with a bit of work it could be a classic.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 13:24, 2 replies)

Nature Lovers
I wanted to join a baby harp seal club
(Maclir, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 13:22, 1 reply)

weight watchers
anyone who's tried almost every diet known to man will, at one time or another, have been tempted to join weight watchers. this includes me.
sweet dancing grandma, what a godawful place! a chilly church hall packed tightly with fat women, all of them desperately hoping that they've lost a pound or two and most of them smelling of stale sweat. they all bring a piece of scabby-looking fruit with them, which is given as a prize to the person who loses most weight that week. i'd rather put weight on than eat that sodding fruit. some of those women looked far from clean, fuck knows what germs were lurking on their granny smiths.
despite promises of confidentiality, everyone was weighed in front of the group and their current weight reported out loud. that seemed very wrong to me, but fortunately, i was a first-timer and had only gone along to see what it was like. underwhelmed doesn't quite cover it.
now, i'm not saying weight watchers is a bad thing, i'm simply saying that my experience of our local branch was not good. i definitely wouldn't go there again.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 13:00, Reply)

The Homeguard.



About 10 years ago – being in my early 20’s and fancying a change from the pub, I joined some friends who were already members of the Homeguard. It was a Mens club, cost about £13 a year for membership and had the best snooker tables for miles around, fruit machines that were 10p a go and paid out up to £100 and a handy rule that states that ‘the last person to leave, locks up’ so that will be 6 pints at last orders please and I’ll stay till 2am playing snooker and lock the door behind me when I’m done.


It was a good/bad place. Mainly occupied by pensioners who drank more whiskey than most, but it also had some diverse characters:

The bloke who repeats his stories daily
The reformed alcoholic
The heaviest smoker in the world
The bloke who clearly had a job but never attended i
The Porn dealer
The lorry driver/tobacco seller
The bloke who you could barely understand – you would just nod and agree with

And my favourite – the bloke who lived a few doors away – so would turn up in his slippers.


One bloke was a compulsive fruit machine addict. He would put at least £50-£60 in it a night and play it until it was switched off. If he didn’t win the jackpot or get his money back – he would be outside the bar at 10:45 the next morning waiting for it to open so he could continue playing and get his money back.


One of its rules was ‘No Women Allowed’ – this ensured that its patrons were protected from their wives. I remember being there one day when a woman came in to the bar. It was just like a black guy walking into a Ku Klux Clan meeting. The blokes were dumb struck – The enemy had blatantly encroached on sacred soil. The collective sigh of relief when she walked up to the bar, left a yellow pages on the bar and walked out was like a zeppelin being deflated.


Which leads me onto the next one – I imagine some of the people left alive that drink there still talk about the day ‘the black man’ came in for a drink. He’d been signed in as a guest to play a game of snooker – some of the old blokes faces were frankly brilliant – like they were witnessing a miracle.


Everyday – the same faces at different times, ordering the same drinks. Some blokes would always come after a row with their wives and park their cars out of sight so they wouldn’t be spotted. Others parked their cars at 6pm and promptly got back in them at 11:30 after 10 pints and a few whiskeys. Drink driving was more common place than anywhere I’d ever been – yet they all seemed to get away with it.

It was great while it lasted, not sure what its like there now…

I imagine there’s probably still some heated debate about the smoking ban at the committee meetings and a definitive continuing ban on the presence of women who are still only allowed in on the following days: Xmas Eve, New Years Eve and a funeral wake.
(Pat mustard, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 12:39, 4 replies)

My mate Simon came 'round to visit the other day. Told me he was absolutely gasping for a brew.
But I had a really interesting bit of news for him, and it was quite involved, so I told him.

When I'd finished, I asked

"So, Si - a tea?"

I served it with a Club biscuit, and then we watched Ross Kemp On Gangs, and then killed ourselves.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 12:10, Reply)

One place I worked at...
...had a "cricket club".
After work, on Wednesdays, we would meet up for "cricket practice".

In a pub.

And the best thing about it was we never, ever, played cricket - or even spoke about it.
(minimalist ..., Fri 22 Jun 2012, 11:37, 1 reply)

I joined a Social Phobia Support Group
but I got kicked out for coming to meetings.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 10:55, Reply)

And now when you ask me what I'm having in the pub,
I'm in the Bottle of Guinness Supporter's Club.
I still have a sweatshirt somewhere.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Fri 22 Jun 2012, 10:09, Reply)

This is my favourite club of late...
www.explosm.net/comics/2830/
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 10:02, 2 replies)

As a student, unsurprisingly, I wanted to be an anarchist, but there were too many rules.
Monty Python and The Young Ones have covered it:

"We're an anarcho-syndicalist commune. We take it in turns to act as a sort of executive officer for the week. But all the decisions of that officer have to be ratified at a special bi-weekly meeting ... "

"What's your favourite kind of gig, PIG?"

Now, as long as the local offy continues to sell me booze, there's something decent on telly, and free scud on the internet, I couldn't give a toss.

Of course, I make pretentious noises occasionally, about the fecundity of polititians, and what a hypocrite that one is, but like everyone else in the West I'm warm, fat and comfortable, and thus don't want to rock the boat too much.

Occasionally I will vote - just to change the colour of the backdrop that the conservative goverment speaks in front of.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 22 Jun 2012, 9:59, 7 replies)