b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » I don't understand the attraction » Popular | Search
This is a question I don't understand the attraction

Smaug says: Ricky Gervais. Lesbian pr0n. Going into a crowded bar, purely because it's crowded. All these things seem to be popular with everybody else, but I just can't work out why. What leaves you cold just as much as it turns everyone else on?

(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 14:54)
Pages: Latest, 30, 29, 28, 27, 26, ... 1

This question is now closed.

What’s the deal…?

What’s the deal with Harry Potter?
I bet he likes it up the jotter
Dan Brown’s shit sells by the tonne
& Obama’s peace prize? – what’s he done?

Those 'talent' shows that please the plebs
And spaff out more ‘Z’ list celebs
To pack the pages of ‘Hello’
With wankers I don’t want to know.

ipod, iphone, and i-whatever,
They think they sound so fucking clever
They’d sell a crabs-infested cunt
If someone put ‘i’ at the front

And 'supermodels'?...I've never tried ‘em
(Although they could do with some meat inside ‘em)
Those stick-thin girls don’t float my boat
They’d snap in half against my scrote

Amy Whinehouse? I don’t rate her
In fact I’d say I fucking hate her
And ‘R’-'n'-cunting-bastard-‘B’
Is nothing but a noise to me

There’s one thing I don’t understand
How in this talented, musical land
That Coldplay still make stacks of cash
Despite the fact they’re fucking gash…

And those ‘Movies’…Epic, Date, Disaster?
About as funny as being raped by a 7ft Rasta
Who pays to make these piles of shite?
Or goes to watch them any night?


*deep breath*…

Cordon 'Bleurgh' and tiny portions
'Modern Art’ displaying abortions
Txtspk when it’s not required
Chavs in jeans that hang too low
That strictly fucking dancing show
Pete Doherty – his stupid hat
Ben Stiller – what a dead-eyed twat

I could go on and on and on
Until this question is long gone
But if we all had similar tastes
The world would be a boring place

So thanks to B3ta for these pages
That give us space to vent our rages
I’d say ‘don’t take this rant to heart’
But fuck it, let the flaming start!
(, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 14:29, 20 replies)
our invisible friend
So, no one knows what happens when we snuff it. The overwhelming likelihood is not very much. Ever been unconscious?

But no – when offered an incomprehensible, inconceivable jumble of superstitions, fairy tales and bogeyman stories rewritten recycled and Chinese whispered down the ages by control freaks and charlatans - you are CERTAIN beyond all doubt that despite all the vast wonder of all existence there is a creator, who (while having a universe to run) is obsessed with your every move thought and action. Oh and you can wish for stuff too.

An all powerful intangible invisible friend and protector – sounds pretty cool. You must be immune to all illness, earthquakes and injury then. No?

Our essential natural urges are shameful and evil?

Your creator is jealous, intolerant, violent, vindictive, spiteful, pernicious and vengeful – but he loves you?

I should terrify my tiny innocent child with assurances this invisible character is waiting in the shadows to punish him for questioning any of this whilst conversely insisting he only deals in truth and that ghosts and goblins are just camp fire tales?

You insist you require no proof for this but continually strive to find bolt-on bits and bobs of science that support your crackpot ideas - the same science that you continually deny.

If my crackpot jumble of superstitions varies even slightly from yours we should devote all our energies to annihilation in a manner that contradicts the few worthwhile parts of your crazy code of divine conduct?

We have the technology to split the atom and unravel DNA but your preference is to split humanity into one half who believe dinosaurs were a prank and another half who believes women should be bundled up and passed around like parcels by men who think it’s a splendid idea to chop off rather crucial bits of anatomy.

We see ourselves as an advanced civilisation yet it was twenty or so years after landing a man on the moon before we realised wheels on a suitcase might be helpful.

Doesn’t bode well does it?
(, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 11:17, 14 replies)
Sorry, I'm going to sound sanctimonious here
but I don't understand the attraction in not being able to understand that one man's meat is another man's poison.

I mean, I empathise with a lot of the posts in this QoTW, because a lot of what people think is shit, I think is shit as well.

However, if it's not actually hurting anyone - sod it, go for it. If spending your life on World of Warcraft or going to see X Factor Live or modding your Nova floats your boat - you do it.

Frankly, we're fucking lucky we have the choice what to like and dislike. There's something out there for everyone now - we can pick and choose our entertainments and friends and foods and sexual stimulations.

Have your prejudices by all means but someone is not a cunt, or an idiot, for liking something you don't. Saying any activity you don't like is a waste of time misses the point somewhat; it's not your time that others waste.

Not liking the majority of what passes for popular culture doesn't make you a better person - and it needn't make you a bitter one, either...
(, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 5:16, 13 replies)
B3ta /talk
As good as the rest of this website is, /talk is full of the most ignorant, nastiest little clique loving losers i have ever had the misfortune to talk to.

If you don't get the 'in-jokes' then you are insulted and made to feel like shit just for daring to ask a question or mention something about your day.

I bet half the wankers who occupy it wouldn't say boo to a goose in real life. Little turds.
(, Mon 19 Oct 2009, 0:23, 72 replies)
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 16:51, 18 replies)
Boris and the near side window…

About 6 months ago I went out to my car and spotted what most people have experienced at least once in their lifetime – A little spider had made himself a home somewhere inside the casing of one of the door mirrors on my car. Industrious little shit-wad he was, and in no time at all he had beavered away feverishly, creating a cute little web between the mirror and the door.

Now I respect all forms of life – I avidly watch David ‘King-dong’ Attenborough and everything. So I simply thought ‘Awww’ to myself, then wished the little fella good luck on his quest for a lunch of insecty goodness before driving away contentedly.

The next day however, his web had grown exponentially…and my car door was beginning to resemble a set from ‘Tales from the Crypt’. "Hmm – that’s becoming quite unsightly" I thought – but once again I didn’t want to disrupt the delicate balance of nature, so whilst humming the tune to ‘Circle of Life’ I let him off with a warning.

The present Mrs Twisty Cheeky however, had other Ideas. Unfortunately a few days later, she was dressed to the nines for a dinner party, and when she leaned to open the passenger side door she inadvertently put her hand through a thick sticky string of web which by now consisted of so much secreted spider arse produce that if it was stretched out, would reach from here to Alpha Centauri.

“Yeeeuuch!” She screamed…“What the twat?”. “Oh, It’s only Boris” I replied nonchalantly (I had named him by now) “Everybody’s gotta eat you know”. “I don’t give a slippery wank-spanner!” – She yelped before fixing me with an icy glare that showed she meant business and declared: “GET.FUCKING.RID!”

Begrudgingly, I picked up a twig from the ground and with a touch of sorrow, I ruined Boris’ own dinner plans for the night as with commanding chivalry I trashed his web and surely consigned poor Boris to a brief fleeting life of starvation and despair.

Not a trace was left…until the next day.

It appears that I had pissed Boris off.

Now, I don’t know if he got his mates to help, or put in some fucking overtime or what, but the next morning my passenger side door was so plastered in dew covered webby threads that I half expected Tobey Maguire to jump out and start brawling the Green Goblin in the middle of it.

‘Fuck this for a lark’ I thought and with the diamond-cutting stare from the missus wedged firmly in my mind, I again pick up something from the ground and mercilessly remove every trace of cacky webness from the mirror area.

Yet the next morning…and every morning after...I am greeted by the same appalling sight - Boris 1 – Mr Twisty Cheeky 0. By now my car has had so much silk shat over it that if I had stored it all up I would now be able to put half of China out of business.

Over the months Boris has survived the heat, the wind and the rain. In fact, the only time I’ve properly seen him is when I’m driving and I check the mirror. It appears that at these moments he likes to venture out and catch the breeze – and when I accelerate he likes to cling on to his web and vibrate manically as if it’s some kind of extreme sport. What I must look like, driving along on my own, with the passenger side window down and me leaning over, flapping about wildly and shouting ‘CUNT!’ as I try and fail to wallop a whooping Boris as he twangs along merrily cheering whatever is the spider equivalent of ‘Cowabunga’...is anybody’s guess.

I have rammed sticks, bits of plastic, ice scrapers, credit cards and assorted things I find lying around into to the mirror casing – Every day he’s back with a freshly spun ‘fuck you fatty’ message of defiance.

I have run him through a car wash – blasted him with Jet-wash – sprayed aerosol cans in the mirror cavities…all to no avail.

There could be a fucking nuclear war and there’d be nothing left but cockroaches and Boris, clinging to my mirror like a crab to a pube

What is the fucking hairy cunt-brick bastard attraction with my fucking car door mirror? Surely there’s got to be better places to set up your web – he’s gotta be lucky if he gets to eat half a gnat a week! And he must have sussed by now that he’d have more luck with a web that doesn’t get systematically destroyed every 12 hours or so from a ranting looney 50000 times his size?

Why doesn’t he just give up? The little fucking webby BASTARD!.

Believe me, my car door mirror is not all that brilliant. It just can’t be worth the grief - It boggles the mind...

*and breathe*
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 9:32, 12 replies)
Non alcoholic beer.
It's like going down on your sister. Tastes the same, it's just not quite right.
(, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 17:41, 5 replies)
Right then, after I posted this:
www.b3ta.com/questions/coldfish/post541487 I was challenged by a few people to "man the fuck up" and actually come out with the list of things that I dislike that "everyone else" likes.

OK, then, here goes:

1) The Blame Culture.

Whatever it is, it's always someone else's fault and therefore we are not to blame. From 'political correctness gone mad' to 'Nanny State' to 'Immigrants are taking all our jobs' it always seems to be someone else's fault, and most people can whinge at an Olympic-level standard about the wrongs in our society.

However, try to talk to anyone about politics - about the forces that govern the UK - and no-one wants to know. It's boring, it will always be the same, and so on, and so forth. The causal link between the way our society is run and the responsibility of the individual to effect change is never thought of. Membership of every political party is at an all-time low, public protests (such as they are) are hi-jacked by the Rentamob brigade of professional agitators basically because none of us can be bothered to get up off our arses and call the politicians to account.

Basically the government we get is the government we deserve and in a perverse way, we are happy with the status quo in this country simply because it gives us a chance to moan. Either put up and shut up, or effect change. The third option adopted by everyone - moan and then do fuck all - drives me insane.

2) The celebrity culture.

What the hell is wrong with celebrating people who have talent ? Talent to entertain means being able to be witty, or play an instrument, or sing, or do *something* significantly better than 99.99% of the population. It used to be that having such talent made you famous. Now you are famous because you share your most intimate details - and gratuitously display your body - to the masses. The talent any of these "celebrities" has is purely for self-promotion and I wish to fuck that the public didn't have a seemingly incessant demand to know about the private lives of complete strangers.

3) The adoption of American customs and habits in the UK.

Already, we have "prom nights" for our kids - as if being a schoolkid wasn't bad enough, the poor bastards have to fret about getting dates, hiring a limo and renting / buying formal dress for a "prom", an institution that was unheard-of 20 years ago.

What's next FFS ? Cheerleaders at sports games ? Calling football "soccer" ? Celebrating Thanksgiving ?

If we're going to adopt the mores of another nation, sure to God there is a better example than the USA somewhere in the world. Although really we have enough customs of our own, and shouldn't need to borrow from another culture.

4) Meaningless mass emoting.

Every time someone famous dies, the amount of public grief is inversely proportionate to the meaningful deeds of that person. From Princess Diana to Michael Jackson, the public act as if they have lost a member of their own family. For the love of God, get a sense of proportion.

So, that's my list - or as much as it as I can be bothered to share. I've got a load of logs delivered this morning I have to stack up - hopefully some physical exercise will purge the rage I now feel out of my system !
(, Sun 18 Oct 2009, 10:47, 16 replies)
Apart from the great British institutions of McDonalds, Burger King, Dunkin Doughnuts and Kentucky Fried Chicken (of which there are at last count nearly one million franchises infesting the map of the capital like suppurated puss-filled, HIV-infected boils), you’ve essentially got two choices when it comes to a meal: Concept food that’s so incredibly pretentious and expensive, designed and created by some fella named Oli from the Home Counties, and so incredibly deviod of taste you’d rather eat the cutlery. Or jellied eels, which is essentially the same taste you get when you find a used condom on the street, pick it up, knock off the flies and dogshit, and knock it back in one go as if you’re slamming a tequila.

To own a car in London you need a wad of cash large enough to club a wilderbeast to death with just to be able to afford the parking alone. You also need to go to Tibet for seven years intensive training in the buddist arts, so when you come back the fact that you’ll be stuck in a traffic jam for at least eight hours a day will wash over you like a fine jasmine-scented mountain waterfall. You won’t even mind when a cabbie (usually named Derek or Del or Dezza), raps on your window and suggests you’re mother gave birth to you out of wedlock. You will simply smile back scerenely, wind down you’re window and as politely as possible suggest he: “Goes and fucks his own mother.”

Alternatively you could try the tube. The tube is the best, quickest, and most efficient way to be sexually molested by a complete stranger in the known universe. If you’ve been wedged into a cramped tube carriage for longer than five minutes without having your bollocks jangled by some weird looking ladyboy from Brazil, you’ll receive a full refund on your fare when you reach your destination. Also, you stand a very high chance of being shot in the head by one of the members of our fine boys in blue if you look “a bit shifty or Arabic.” Note: If you are a shifty looking cunt of Arabic ethnicity I suggest you walk instead.

Or how about a black cab? These are fine as long as you’re willing, able, and prepared to listen to a complete stranger (the driver) advise you about his wife’s affair, the fact his daughter’s picked up an STD from a toilet seat at school (likely fucking story), or that all those damn blacks should fuck off back to their own country, within the time it takes to close the fucking door and tell him where you want to go. And when you arrive at your destination you’ll be rewarded with a fare so large it’d put most thirdworld countries national debt to shame.

The main past time for Londoners is gathering in hot, sweaty, pretentious gastropubs to talk about how fucking great they are and where they’re going to go ski-ing next season. Alternatively, if you want to ‘get down with the kids’, I’d recommend a trip down to Brixton, Hackney, or Holloway where you can play dodge the bullets and guess the brand of handgun with the colourful locals. If shoppings your thing you can play the Oxford Street bingo game. This is when you count how many rude fuckers slam into you and then tell you to “fuck off, you fucking cunt”, in the space of five minutes. The world record stands at 112 (though technically this was cheating, the person who achieved this record was registered blind).

There’s loads n loads of museums and galleries where you get to celebrate all things British by see loads and loads of stuff looted from the four corners of the globe. Highlights include:
THE NATIONAL GALLERY - Great if you’ve got a fetish for naked fat chicks (and this is just the nutjobs who hang round outside, not the art).

TATE MODERN – If you like walking round pointing and laughing and going: “Some cunt BOUGHT this piece of shit?” Then this is the place for you.

IMPERIAL WAR MUSEUM – Actually very good. You get given a gun, a whistle, and a reusable johnny and instructions to: “Find and kill one of them damn Germans,” from the the old boy who hads out the leaflets at the door. Though its not particularly clear if – when you find Jerry – you should shoot him, deafen him, or fuck him to death.

NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM – What better way to celebrate nature and all things natural than trawling through a great big old building filled to the brim with millions of stuffed dead animals.

Londoners can be divided into several distinct groups: Australians, South Africans, New Zealanders, Italians, and the French. Everyone who lives in London knows everyone else, you can't leave your front door and pop to the cornershop to get a pint of milk without having to stop and talk to at least twenty helpful, pleasant, good-mannored neighbours. In fact its a place filled with so much positive energy and love its mandatory to meet up on the second Thursday of every month in Regent's Park, strip naked, and fuck a complete stranger...

...(well, at least that's what the bloke with scraggly beard and the stench of piss told me last time I was down that way. I declined his offer, of course - I'm not stupid enough to have unprotected sex with strange 'sons of the earth' under a tree in a park - I sucked him off instead...)...
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 17:04, 9 replies)
People complaining about immigrants or non-whites getting access to public services over 'local' people
This is probably going to get me accused of Daily Mail reading or living in an ivory tower but I've had a liquid lunch so I don't give a fuck.

I don't get it. How many public services does the average person need very often? If I get ill I can get treatment without being passed over because of immigrants. If I need my bins emptying they get done. If I call the police, not once have I been told "Sorry mate, we think you're calls important but we have to prioritise the Somalians down the road over you". I have never once been told by the local library that that book I wanted is reserved for immigrants. The job centre will see anyone, its equally useless to all.

Most often I hear it about housing. Why is it a fundamental right to own a council house? Its not, its at the councils discretion and if they think a family with 2 small kids should get that pokey flat ahead of a 23-year old single male living at his mum and dad's then its up to them. Every other fucker has to rent at market rate or pay a mortgage, its a gift if you do get one.

Other times there's 'nothing to do round here cos the immigrants/Asians get all the money spent on their community' Why is it a fundamental right to have the council build a community centre in your area or organise stuff for you to do? They haven't done it near me and I don't give a fuck. If people want entertainment then go and do something entertaining. If you can't afford a hobby or an activity, give up booze or fags or allocate money better. It doesn't cost much to join a local sports team or research interesting stuff on the internet. Better yet, spend that time when you're bored and whining and get some fucking education and a better job so you can have a better life for yourselves and your children. Its an attitude that seems to be increasingly common these days and it fucks me right off.

End rant.
(, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 13:20, 9 replies)
Skinny women
Why would I want to share my bed (or a wall in an alley) with a bag of bones, when voluptuous curvaceous girls feel and look so much better?

Why should I feel a little apprehensive of saying that I prefer the curvy figure, as all other men seem to want to rub themselves up and down a xylophone in skin?

Curves rule.
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 19:02, 22 replies)
Rugby vs Cartoons
Rugby. Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching the occasional game now I am a grown up, but when I was little I bloody hated it. Whenever my dad was at home it seemed like the rugby was on. I’d tear home from school, lunchbox swinging in the breeze, eager to watch Daffy Duck call someone ‘despicable’ but when I got to the living room the result would usually be the same - my dad levitating above the sofa screaming ‘GO ON MY SON’ at the telly while a man ran on some mud with the weirdest-shaped ball I’d ever seen. I just didn’t get the fascination so would do the usual kid thing and hang around whining ‘daaaaaad, can I watch cartooooooooons pleaseeee’… ‘how long does this go on for’… ‘can I have chips for tea tonight, daaaaaad’. That poor man, I feel quite bad about it now but I was a kid and it was my job to complain – surely!?

Anyhoo, one particular day I started up my moaning and my dad did something different. Instead of turning up the tv or clamping his hands to his ears to block out my howls, he put the tv on mute and asked me to come and sit with him on the sofa. He gave me a hug, took the tv off mute and proceeded to point out players on the screen. He sat with me and explained the entirety of the sport; who each player was, their position, what their job was etc. I sat with him for the whole game, to me it seemed like it went on for hours, but for the first time they were enjoyable hours. My dads always been a man of few words so to hear him talk at length about anything was pretty gosh darn impressive to me so I sat and listened intently.

After the game he told me that he would be playing rugby in a week or so and asked if I wanted to come and see him. I was actually excited at the concept of watching my dad be the man with the ball so I agreed and my mother took me, my older sister and my younger brother to watch my dad play rugby for the RAF vs NAVY match. I don’t remember much of what happened that day, other than it being bloody cold on the sidelines in the rain but every time my dad ran past me I cheered with all the might I could muster so he knew that I cared.

It’s a shame I didn’t retain all the information he taught me on that day, but I like to think a little bit of it hung around as now I can happily watch a game without feeling like I’m missing out on cartoons!
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 16:52, 10 replies)
I just don't get 'threesomes'
no matter how much I plead. What makes it worse is that she has some real fit girlie mates.
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 18:17, Reply)
Seriously, what's the point? I do things that I do not want to do for eight hours a day, pay for the privilege of travelling to and from the location where I do these things, and what's the result? Some numbers increment in a computer that I don't own and that's tied to me only via a relationship of other numbers. These numbers then decrease in order to secure a roof over my head and enough sustenance that I don't die. Any excess numbers can be reduced an arbitrary amount in exchange for shit that isn't necessary for existence and that's available for free either on the internet or in a library.

Lots of people--almost everyone--wants to get more money, but I fucking hate it.

We are an infinitely creative species. Every single one of us has the power of a young god. When we focus, we can achieve anything. We have escaped the gravity well of our own planet. We have split the atom and created works of art so beautiful that strong men and women are reduced to tears.

And yet we squander all this potential, throwing our lives away in pursuit of incrementing abstract numbers that have no direct relevance to our own happiness. We could feed, clothe, and house every human being on the planet, forever, if we just got rid of the inequalities created by this toxin, this fucking cancer at the heart of our society. And yet we do not.

You're all going to disagree with me now, blame the inequality on something other than money. But that's the root cause, that's the man running the amusement park ride that we're all trapped on*: Money.

I'd apologise for length, but I'm not getting paid for writing it and you're not getting paid to read it.

* With apologies to Bill Hicks
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 19:35, 13 replies)
I went to the funfair last night, and tripped over a coconut shy!

I couldn't see the attraction.
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 22:05, Reply)
Figured it out at last!
That is, how to combine this QOTW with kittens. Ladies, gentlemen and /talkers, feast your eyes below:

(, Wed 21 Oct 2009, 12:19, 1 reply)
They never seem to do a bloody thing and they're a bugger to swallow. You might as well stick them up your arse for all the good they do.
(, Mon 19 Oct 2009, 16:40, 4 replies)
I confuse myself...

I don't find the people in most porn attractive in the least. I don't like how they act, the over-the-top, utterly fake moaning and noises. I don't like the bizarre sexual positions. I don't like the baffling behavior that seems so common, like some guy interrupting a blowjob to smack the girl in the face with his cock. I don't find any of it the least bit interesting or stimulating or sexy.

But my cock does.

I sit there, uninterested, bored, often revolted. With a hard-on.

Honestly, I just don't understand the attraction.
(, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 20:44, 1 reply)
'The Sun'
If you're too retarded to read a real paper then just buy the fucking Beano.
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 22:11, 11 replies)
Having an incredibly busty girl climb on top and ride you
Is absolutely fucking horrific. Its a bit like being headbutted in the face by a relentless, rhythmic, aggressively co-ordinated bald midget tag team duo.
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 15:19, 15 replies)
Little Britain
At the height of it's popularity, I seemed to be the only person in the country that didn't think it was the funniest show on TV. Surely I can't be the only person who thinks it is utter, utter toss?
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 14:55, 21 replies)
live Frogger.
OK it's more exciting than the video game, but I think the pet shop is getting a bit suspicious.

(, Sat 17 Oct 2009, 17:52, Reply)
Communications satellites.
They go right over my head.
(, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 17:53, Reply)
Why the fuck is it impossible to buy a goddamn fucking sandwich in this country without mayonnaise already slathered all over the cunting thing? I happen to like the taste of ham and salad, but for some reason sandwich makers seem to feel the need to disguise that taste with a fucking massive dollop of what I can only describe as horse spunk. It makes me retch. It really makes me feel fucking sick. A bacon and egg baguette does not need lubricating with globulous lashings of Satan's semen, and why can't they sell little sachets of mayospooge alongside the sandwiches for the over-glandular cunts who seem incapable of shovelling food down their chubby throats without gunking it up first with this foul muck? No wonder Britain's got obesity problems, people have forgotten how to eat without first lubing up their lunch with manfat. Christ on a fucking bike.
(, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 14:42, 11 replies)
i hate it. i hate all soaps, but eastenders really pisses on my chips. how the fuck can such an utterly shit and depressing piece of mind-rot be so popular? also, why do people insist on telling me about it?
"did you see eastenders last night?"
"no, i don't watch soaps"
"oh. well, x got caught having an affair with y, now z knows the baby x is having is y's, not his, and..."
"well, there's no need to be like that, i just thought you might want to know."
for the record, the ONLY time i EVER want to know ANYTHING about eastenders is if a very large bomb goes off, destroying the whole area and killing every single character, effectively ending this godawful joy-cancer of a show.
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 19:14, 7 replies)
Watching an event on a mobile phone screen in real time when you're actually there
I see this a lot at gigs - people who spend the entire event recording it on their mobile phone and watching the entire thing on the screen.

Why? They obviously want to record it for posterity, but at the same time they don't seem that bothered to be there in the first place.

I don't get it... they can show the video to their mates and say "I was there", but paradoxically, they weren't really there at all.

It makes my head hurt just thinking about it.
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 16:09, 6 replies)
There’s something I just don’t get... You could sit me down for a million years and have the eminent leading lights in the subject throw up a load of charts, talk me through the history, even do a little dance – and, no, I still just wouldn’t get it. Yep, I’m talking about wine. To me wine comes in two flavors: red, white. And these two taste exactly the same. OK, this might be because I officially have absolutely no taste buds as a result of smoking more fags a day than your average medical research facility beagle, but I think its also something inherent in my genes – I’m from the Midlands. We drink beer. If, while I was growing up, someone went to the bar and ordered a glass of wine, they’d be asked by the barman: “Would you like a flashing neon sign proclaiming: I’M A FLAMING HOMOSEXUAL, with that order, Sir?”

So, a year or so ago, when my boss demanded I attend a social junket for a load of clients for the firm, I naturally jumped at the offer – then I found out it was a tux doo. Not good. Not good at all. I’m a naturally scruffy fucker; put me in a tuxedo and I immediately look like the Penguin’s emaciated little brother on his way to a court appearence to explain the thousands of child porn images the authorities found on my PC. And then there was a clincher – it was a fucking wine tasting event. Oh sweet Satan’s sweaty ball bag...

Anyway, fast forward to the big night, I turn up at this swanky hotel reception room on the Southbank wearing a rented tux, looking like a Batman nemisis’ weak as piss pervert younger brother, feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. I schmooze a bit. Talk about company formations with a load of clients and potential clients (not through choice, it doesn’t give me the horn or anything, but it does pay the bills), and then we file over to a series of long tables set out with glasses, various table topiary, and bottles of this weird substance the normals call ‘wine’.

Then we start the event properly. Some fella pours a bit of the red-flavoured variety into a nice posh crystal glass. He stops after he’s put a bit in. I look at him as if to say: “I’m a fairly large adult, mate – this is free and looks fucking expensive, keep pouring or I’ll kick you in the knackers.” So he keeps pouring. I knock it back, swallow, and my mind goes blank. They’d given us all a little report card to make comments about the various types of plonk. We were supposed to go round the table, taste, make notes on the card, and then these were going to be gathered up at the end – apparently the person who put down the wittiest comments won some of the grape juice to take home with them. But, essentially, it was just an excuse to talk a bit more about company formations with a load of rich fuckers, stroke their egos, possibly wank them off surreptitiously under a table in an effort to win the contract.

Five glasses in and I was starting to relax. My report card was looking good. I had written down such inciteful tidbits as: Good. Tastes like ribena. and Nice red colour, this one. I was obviously completely out of my depth. Then, as everyone shuffled round the table, chatting, laughing, making deals, and I started on my sixth glass, I realised something – everyone else was taking a sip, and I mean a SIP from their glass before placing it daintily on the table and returning to their report card. I, on the other hand, was downing a whole fucking glass. But the little voice of reason chimed inside my head, reminding me of something very important: It’s free booze you cunt !!!

Things got a little fuzzy after glass number nine. I recall turing to the petite, pretty girl next to me in line and saying: “Can you save my place for me? I need to go and have a slash,” thrusting an empty glass in her hand, patting her on the arse lightly, before swaying off to find the bogs. And when I returned, my comment card got a little bit Dali: This one’s got a hint of Ford Capri on fire. and If I ever get married I want this wine at my funeral. and I’m getting shoe polish notes and an infusion of burning rubber. and I DEMAND TO KNOW WHY THE AUTHORITIES DON’T ALLOW US TO SMOKE IN HERE! IT’S REDICULOUS! REMEMBER I PAY YOUR WAGES! and also This wine tastes like maddog 20/20 kiwi flavour, so I’m giving it two thumbs up, yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and finishing with: Too bolloxed to do this anymmoree.

It was messy. Very messy. But I somehow managed to keep it together, not take my pants off, and sort of blend into the background of the even. OK, I looked like a member of the living dead, shuffling about with my shoulders slumped, head down – but no one seemed to notice or mind. And I nearly got away with it. Oh, so very nearly. With the wine tasting finished (about twenty-five fucking glasses later), the organisers gathered up the report cards. They chose a winner. (Not me! CUNTS! The fucking CUNTS!!!) And the event was starting to wind down. Then one of my company’s biggest and bestest clients sauntered over, tapped me on the shoulder and with a beaming smile (I’d sorted a load of shit out for him in the past), well, he said: “Mr Hanky, you enjoying yourself? How’d the evening go for you? Oh, this is my wife, by the way,” and he indicated a tall and incredibly beautiful woman stood next to him I hadn’t even noticed before dispite being head to fucking toe in shiny sequins that glittered magically in the resplendant lighting. I had a little think how best to respond. My brain was wallowing in drinkie, so I let my mouth do the talking for me. I took a deep breath, gazed back at this client with my wonky gaze, and I said:

“I’m absholutely shitfashed, mate,” and then I walked off. Shit! How rude! Didn’t acknowledge his Mrs! So I ambled back over tugged at the clients sleeve to get his attention again, and I finished off with: “Nicsh tits, mate. Very nicsh tits...”

Suffice to say I won’t be going on any more of these free doos with work anytime soon. And also suffice to say I simply, to this day, DO NOT GET WINE...
(, Fri 16 Oct 2009, 10:00, 8 replies)
Slightly off topic....
...but this question reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend who came out last year, after years of keeping it from most of his friends (he thought he was keeping it from us, anyway...)

Me: Well, I'm glad you felt you could tell us...
Friend 1: So, how long have you been gay?
Gay friend: I dunno... always I suppose... you just become more sure as you get older
Friend 1: So when did you become really sure?
Gay friend: Well, you know I had a few relationships with girls at Uni?
Us: Yeah?
Gay Friend: Well.... fannies... they're just weird, aren't they?
Us: Hmmmm... suppose so...
(, Thu 15 Oct 2009, 15:20, 3 replies)
RIGHT you slack jawed retards. This is it. Typing words like a child on b3ta.
Nobody, nobody ever thought you were cute when you were 14 years old in a shell suit and Reebok Pumps saying words or phrases like "Luffly" and "Awwwwww. Yous are cutes!!" did they?
So why do you harp on like this now when you're 30, overweight and sat in an office in Dudley?

If you ran your hot air balloon on a gut through a tub of glue, dived into a box of the fluffiest feathers and looked like a fucking Ewok (I'm tailoring this to the target audience), nothing would change. You'd STILL be that fucking freak talking like a mongoloid.
If you rolly-polly fitness fighters spent ONE HALF HOUR speaking like "Ims goin on to da intranets!" you'd either get your heads filled in off some ASBO wielding thugs, or questioned over whether or not you have dodgy photos on your laptop.
And this would be one of the rare times I helped out those little ASBO fuckers. You fucking freak.

"Teh". You FAT, FUCKING, RETARD. That better be a typo.
That was shit 7 years ago. Now it's making b3ta, a one time bastion of glorious internet look like an AOL chat room.

And kittens don't talk.
(, Tue 20 Oct 2009, 16:20, 20 replies)
“Have you seen Claire? The girl who’s looking after next door for the next two weeks yet Mon?” Asked the wife last night while I was attempting to finish another level on Bioshock
“Yup, what about her?” Came my reply.
“Don’t you think she’s attractive?” Came said the missus “She’s gorgeous, I would bed her if I was that way inclined”
I just made a non committal grunt and returned to caving a blokes head in with a wrench.
“You can see the attraction in her, god you are weird” muttered my wife, allowing me to finish my game in peace

The truth of the matter is Claire is nice, drop dead gorgeous in fact and a number of blokes on the street are falling over themselves to speak to her, I just can’t look at her without remembering the situation when I met her on Saturday night.

It was a typically dull night , the Bison household was brought to a standstill by the glorified karaoke competition that’s called the X Factor (The wife watches the show and if I make no complaints I get a chance to watch my programs midweek and also spend some time playing on the PS3 thats plugged into the only TV we have). Anywhoo I spend the next hour or so doing a few odd jobs downstairs cleaning the kitched, fixing the curtain rail back onto the wall due to an earlier incident with Bison Jnr 1 etc etc and I realise that I have to take out the rubbish. Dressed in my scruufy shirt and boxer shorts I realise that I have the option of either 1) Go back upstairs, rummage round and find a pair of jeans to wear for a whole 2 minute trip to the bins out front or 2) nip out as quick as possible and hopefully no one will notice.

I reasoned that as I live in Barnsley half the street would be either out wasting this weeks dole money on beer or sat in watching the inane drivel of Simon Cowell and co. How I now wish I had been sensible.

I ran down the path to the bin, dropped the rubbish off ,made a fast about turn and walked back to the house. It was on this trip back I saw Claire. She was sat outside next doors front door watching me while taking a quick ciggie break outside. Bugger.

“Hi, I’m Claire I’m looking after the house while B and M are away for a fortnight” She said, stubbing her cancer stick out on a nearby wall
“Hi , I’m Mon and I have to go inside” came my sheepish reply
“I know, its getting cold and I can see your cock too” Claire replied coolly
“Umm, bye” I said as I ran into the house......If I lived in a porno film that would have turned out differently

So my wife may think I don’t understand the attraction of next doors neighbour but really I just have a vision of me sat outside in a pair of ripped Batman pants every time I see her. No suitable chat up lines will work with her now she’s seen me like that.

I’m looking forward to my neighbours coming back.
(, Tue 20 Oct 2009, 14:12, 7 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Latest, 30, 29, 28, 27, 26, ... 1