Get to know him...
Get to know him whilst you can.

(Burying my Dad next week).

MJB.
(Mr Joe Bangles, Thu 2 Dec 2010, 12:12, Reply)

I will never forget my father holding me
when as a seven year old I'd run out from behind a parked car in front of a speeding car, which came so close to running me over the front wheel went over the back of my shoe, removing the heel.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 2 Dec 2010, 11:49, 4 replies)

Not aging well in the memory.
My biological father died about 2-1/2 years ago, but I hadn't seen him for over 20 years before then. He basically threw away the right to be called "Dad" (i.e. "family") through a bunch of stupid decisions he made, his attitude, and the way he abused others. I ended up living by myself by the age of 18, working full-time, happy to be on my own rather than in a "family".

I get the impression, from other posts etc., that you're supposed to appreciate your "Dad" more as the years go by; you grow older and supposedly have a better understanding of who he was - but I don't. He wasn't stupid, but he was clueless and selfish, and had no understanding of anything but his own little world. It was as if he and my mother (who died nearly 30 years ago) had liked the idea of children at first, but didn't know what to do with them as they grew up; had no conception that we'd be different people to them, living in a different world, in which we'd need different things to make a go of it.

(An example of my parents' cluelessness, from memory: when I was about 5, we went on a holiday in Scotland, landed on some little island, and rented bikes to ride around it. One problem: I didn't know how to ride a bike then: there was a 3-wheeler, but at age 5 I was in no state to take one on a 10+ mile ride. They'd just never thought about the practicalities of asking a 5-year old, who'd never ridden a bike before, to get on one and ride miles and miles.)

I didn't know all this at the time: it's taken me years to understand just how badly he fucked it up, and the lasting effect it's had on me. I only got to go to university when I was pushing 40 - a work still in progress. (Even though I had the academic ability when I left school, we didn't have the finances, in a country (South Africa) with no state support for education at the time.) I'm very reluctant to have children of my own, even though I suspect I'd do a better job of it - having experienced first-hand how not to do it!
( bnt what, me worry?, Thu 2 Dec 2010, 10:50, 1 reply)

Juan quar
reminded me of a story my mum told me about her dad. Sadly he passed away quite a few years ago but she kept having dreams of him talking to her. The messages were not very clear to her but one dream that occurred a fair few times was him telling her that there were no walls in heaven and to tell her mother. For months she tried to work out what he meant by this and eventually asked her mother what he could have possibly meant. Now here is the freaky part. My Nan told my mum that one of their favourite things in the world was ice cream (walls) and they had made a "private" promise to each other that whoever went first, would let the other one know whether there was any ice cream in heaven. Bearing in mind my mum had no knowledge of this promise it's either a massive sub-conscious coincidence or........For SatchmoR's benefit the old legend was contacting my mum via the afterlife.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Thu 2 Dec 2010, 9:44, 7 replies)

Afterlife visits from my Dad!
My father died a few months ago. He'd been highly creative and active up until his last few years and was unhappy when his concentration and mobility diminished.

So towards the end, what with a touch of dementia, some artistic frustration and and plenty of impatience, he put a lot of strain on my family and elderly mother.

He died peacefully in hospital and we immediately began dreaming about him. He'd believed totally in a happy afterlife and that's how we pictured him.

My mother dreamed about him strolling naked through a park crowded with picnicking families, laughing because only she could see him. My brother dreamed of Dad standing right in front of the family, waving his hands in people's faces, saying 'Can't you see me?'

I dreamed that he walked into a waiting room full of our relations, wearing a long white robe. I said, scandalised, 'Dad! It's your funeral! You're not supposed to be here!'
Dad sprawled out on an armchair and said 'I can go anywhere I want. I'm all different now, look!' and pulled the robe aside to show me an Action Man-type smooth body.

We all still dream about Dad. He keeps popping up, usually content but occasionally looking a bit narked with Mother. She's going to give him a long wait!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Thu 2 Dec 2010, 9:23, 1 reply)

I know...
That early on in this thread I might have come across smug about my parenting, or specifically, my upbringing. I had a great time with respect to Mum and Dad getting here. Truth be told though, and I won't go on about it here, but my life sucks the sweat off God's balls nowadays.

And it has done since my wonky eye at 3 and diabetes at 12. I'm not even going to mention the rest.

Just to even it all out. Call your Dad or Mum now - say Hello to them. Mine got me this far, love 'em X.
( DeadEyeDick, Thu 2 Dec 2010, 0:38, Reply)

No funnies here..
...but reading through a load of your humourous stories, I'm fucking jealous. Dad died back in '95. He was a ship's captain so I didn't see him much when I was a lad, but when he was home he taught me (often through clenched teeth) many practical things and those little lessons of life -such as cooking, plumbing, electrics and somehow the rules of woman

So, you lovely B3tans -make the most of your Dad as the buggers aren't around forever...I still miss him, the silly sod.

No apologies.....

PS He did say that condoms don't work.
(CdrVimes, Thu 2 Dec 2010, 0:03, Reply)

Botham

I heard a nice tale about cricket and fatherhood. In an Ashes match, Rodney Marsh was trying to annoy Ian Botham and put him off his game:

Marsh: So how's your wife and MY kids?

Botham: Wife's fine. Kids are retarded.....


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 23:46, 3 replies)

My sister
walked into the kitchen and found my father attempting to top up his pay as you go mobile phone... by trying to push the receipt voucher underneath the cover.

She asked him how many shillings he was trying to top up by.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 21:25, Reply)

my dad is an 8 year old
I could tell you tons of stuff about my dad but it would take ages and get really boring. So, I will concentrate on one aspect of my relationship with him.

FIREWORKS

When we lived in Holland our father/son bonding would take place primarily around some sort of explosive device.

I think it was to guide me rather than watch me blow myself up. He and my mum found a home made firework which I had manufactured with the village doctor's son. It was a copper pipe which had a mixture made up of the powder taken from 100 bangers, 3 dozen crushed sparklers and, having found ourselves short of explosives, my mate went and raided his dad's cabinet to the tune of 10 shotgun cartridges. We split the mixture fifty fifty between two pipes and went outside. The first "device" caused 3000 guilders worth of damage to a mercedes and dispatched a neighbours moggy. The second one was found by my mum who used to make explosive detonators for ICI.

Anyhoo, having set up the story, my dad decided he should take me under his wing. First he got the local mechanic/petty criminal to set us up with a box of black widow bangers. These were banned in Holland due to the unpredictable fuses and oversized explosive load We used these to:

- wake up his hungover mate by tying one to a 4 metre length of pvc cable pipe and setting it off outside his window. At 9am on a Sunday in a small village of Dutch reformists who were on their way to church at the time.

-blow up my little sisters sunflowers in a controlled demolition fashion (they were dead)

-make anti personnel frisbees (by tying one to an old CD and launching it before it shattered into a million shards in the explosion)

-make a mortar with a steel pipe and a sack of marbles

-when we found out the fuses were waterproof (if you held them for a few seconds---I still dont have a clue how we both still have all of our fingers) he tied one to a brick and dropped it down the well in the back garden. You didnt so much hear it as feel it from the feet up. My Mum was at the other side of the house and felt it. She wasnt too pleased but we though it was brilliant, so we had to relocate....

-....to the local harbour at midnight the same night. We tied about 20 of them to bricks and went to play WW2 depth charge launcher. It was pitch black and the bangers made a huge globe of light under the water. I was 12 at the time. It was fucking incredible!

The bangers were such a resounding success that he picked up about 30 boxes of them when he was in Belgium. I sold them at school for a tidy profit and kept a few back for me and my dad to scare the locals some more. It got to the point that we would go on cycle rides during the evening, each with a pocket full of these things and a match box taped to our handlebars (they had a friction fuse.

The party was over when he decided to recycle a partially used roman candle. He sliced it open with a flourish and extracted the remaing three projectiles. He then beckoned my sister and I to come closer as he held a flame to the first one. He thought it would go straight up. However, without the cardboard tube to guide it, it zipped over my little sister at about shoulder height, leaving an impressive charred dot dash effect across my 7 year old sister's white sweater.

A quick tidy up saw her kitted out with a new sweater before my mum came home. However, he failed to notice the burned hair either side of her face.

Mum did though.

The fireworks mysteriously stopped after that.


Although, we did try to have one last hurrah.

When we were back in the UK my Dad took me for a wander. Straight to a shop selling all sorts of fireworks. We spent £35 on a single rocket and packed it away in a case. We were sniggering and laughing as we drove through customs to get on the ferry.

A few nights after getting back to Holland we went to a field in the middle of nowhere and lit this big fucker and RAN!

We looked around expecting a sheet of flame followed by a hiroshima like explosion which would rock our very soul.

Instead it limped into the sky and simply fizzled. We walked back to the car without saying a word. Part of me died that day. Stupid British standard fireworks.

801 words. No apologies for a single millimetre of it.
(OTT, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 20:36, Reply)

Angry dad
My dad picked me up from the metro after work one day, being a kind old soul as he is. We drove chatting until somthing caught his eye that sent him into a wild rage. He swears a little, but never the big 3. Imagine my supprise when he started shouting how it was "Pathetic" and "Fucking stupid" and "they should be ashamed!".

What caused this rage? He saw a mobility scooter.
(Mong goose, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 18:22, 5 replies)

Raised eyebrows after this one
My dad sometimes gets his words wrong. Most amusingly, when he was talking about wanting to hit a gay man who had tried to take advantage of his trusting youthfulness after he got stranded in a strange city. Apparently he would have loved to have given him a good 'fisting'.

Sounds made up; sadly (or more accurately, fantastically) is not. Love you, Pops.
( CaptainCrackerjack live trout, slow motion, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 17:14, 3 replies)

Dad has a shoe problem
Dear old Dad managed to get himself banned from the reasonably priced shoe shop in town for bringing back a pair of shoes that had fallen apart on him 6 months after purchase. He thought that his shoes should have lasted longer than that and after much shouting the Manageress agreed to replace them as long as he never went back to the shop again. To register his displeasure he promptly marched out and now will only wear DMs from the local farmers outlet. These typically give him crippling blisters for at least 6 months from day of purchase but at least he is happy now.
(CactusCactus, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 17:12, 2 replies)

I put off answering this question,
not because I’ve nothing good to say about my Dad, but because I don’t think I can do him justice. So I’ve compiled a list of how wonderful my dad is, and remember, he’s at least five times as wonderful as anything I’ve written here.

1. When I was four (sis was five and little bro was two) my mother fucked off to god knows where. Dad rolled up his sleeves, slapped on his hat, and buckled down to take care of three kids. He did his best for us.

2. When he was young, he was taking college classes, and planned to become a forest ranger. The thought of working outdoors for his entire life made him deliriously happy. When my grandfather was hurt and unable to work, Dad quit college and came home to get a job in a local factory to take care of his parents. Soon after, Dad was married and taking care of a family of his own. He worked at that factory until his retirement just a few years ago. That place destroyed his hearing, gave him arthritis and numerous other health problems, and he’s still thankful he got to work there, because it gave him the means to take care of his family.

3. Dad gave me a love of so many things, some of which include: Comics. Hiking. Camping. Astronomy. Animals. Alcohol. Horrible puns. ("Excuse the pun," he'd say. "There's no excuse for puns." I'd answer)

4. He gave me a tolerance for anyone different than myself, and a willingness to listen to different points of view.

5. He taught me to drive. That’s love right there. When I was being a terribly bitchy mean teenager round the house, he’d toss me the keys and get me out of there before my stepmom could kill me.

6. He taught me to slow down and see beauty.

7. During the six months it took to plan my wedding, he reminded every chance he got that it wasn’t too late to back out.

8. He reminded me again in the foyer of the church as he was about to walk me down the aisle.

9. Fourteen years later he still reminds me there’s always room at home if I ever need to move back.

10. Some of my favorite times are sitting on the patio with wine and my dad. We can talk for hours once we get going.

Too many more to name. I could go into my childhood, teenage boyfriends, and so many other stories about my dad, but I can sum everything up with this:

I never once doubted I was loved.

I can only hope I’ve made my kids feel the same.
(ladydyani, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 16:59, 4 replies)

Indulge me with a cheeky pea-roast
It’s 1985. Rakky and Daddy Rakky are out in the car, almost inevitably to buy some kind of tools / DIY equipment / auto parts, anything my Mother wouldn’t be interested in shopping for and we’re having a jolly old time listening to the radio. The DJ announces “and coming up after the adverts we’ll have Huey Lewis and the News…” I started chatting to Dad about something to cover the incessant drone of local radio commercials. As the ads drew to a close, Dad turned to me and said “hush now love, I want to listen to the news…” At which point the opening power chord of the latest Huey Lewis single kicked in and a look of utter confusion descended over Dad’s face. “I thought it was going to be the news?” he muttered. Laughing at my Dad while he was behind the wheel of a car was never a smart move, so I kept in the rising hysteria until we finally got home and I could bear it no longer. I ran in and told my Mum about Dad’s mistake. She immediately barked with laughter and spent the rest of the afternoon ripping the piss out of him. Every time the BBC announcer would utter the words “and next we’ll have the news,” both mum and I would chorus “read by Huey Lewis…”

Now I appreciate that that’s not exactly a great story, but the inimitable Daddy Rakky would have been 68 last week; it’s 20 years since he died, and Mum and I still say, to this day, “read by Huey Lewis” every time we’re together and we hear someone announce that the news is coming up after the break. And it never fails to make me smile.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 16:52, 2 replies)

Healthy Goodness
When I was about 6 or 7 my mother had to go into hospital for a few weeks leaving dad in charge of my two older siblings, 12 and 14, and myself.

Mum had spent many weeks in the run up to her operation "training" my dad into household routine. Bin days, washing machine instructions, how to turn the vacuum cleaner on and such like; but for some reason cooking lessons did not get mentioned because "I know how to cook" was my dad's respnse to all attempts of "training".

And indeed , he did know how to cook, because whilst he would never help out in the kitchen when mum was around (this was in the 1970's) he had SEEN cooking being done whilst waiting at various burger vans and mobile butty shops -(he worked in the buillding industry).

So, after about two days after mum had gone in to the hospital her carefully prepared balanced meals had been emptied from the fridge and dad started cooking.

First attempt was at breakfast and we had, - a typical english fried breakfast, and very good to, a little burnt, a little raw but y'know? - ok.

Second attempt was for the evening meal, ("Tea" as we say up north)- a typical english breakfast, much better than the first, not perfect but y'know? - ok

Third attempt was breakfast on day two, and you guessed it - a full engish breakfast.

Now fast forward about 5 days, my 14 year old fashion victim and overly concerned about her size sister had gained around 13stone (slight exaggeration possible) , and my 12 year old just entering puberty brother was basically just a large walking black head, liberally spotted with volcanic sized zits.

Personally I was loving it- grown up food compared to my normal "ever-so-childish" scrambled egg with toast soldiers.

Alas, budgeting constraints for a household was clearly not a strong point for my dad because suddenly the fried breakfasts one day were replaced with cereal, pa'h!

PA'H!

For the benefit of young people, cereals were shit in the old days. "Rice Crispies" was the exotic one, and only posh people ate "Frosties".

And the main, in fact only ingredient for the evening meal was., was...., was....... SPAM.

Fried!

In batter!

The so called "Spam-Fritter" was the only other thing my dad could cook, (except for one disastrous attempt at making dessert- banana fritters). And whilst I could eat fried breakfasts 24 /7, and I would reluctantly eat cereal, the Spam Fritter saga was, even to this day, the worst food I have ever eaten.

When my mum eventually left hospital, she left the ambulance looked at the three children grinning like loons on the door step, "Fatty", "Spotty" and "Grumpy" and burst into tears.

And as a foot note - Forty plus years later when I walk past the Spam section in supermarkets I have to look away for fear of seeing even a picture of spam on the tin.

The Month Python team are bastards too!
(bugboy, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 16:31, 3 replies)

A couple of weeks ago
I visited my parents, dear old pensioners that they are these days, while they were watching I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here. There was a torture session involving Stacey Solomon and some bloke or other having to eat kangaroo penises, when my dad piped up: "She'll be fine with that, Dagenham girls love eating cock!" with a sly wink.

My Dagenham-born mother looked up from her crossword, threw a pen at his head and replied "Not any fucking more they don't."

Me... I went out to the shed to look for the mindbleach and coarse-grade wire wool.
(The Duke of Boredom ruling over your boredom since, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 16:24, Reply)

Papa.
My dad is one of a kind. He is 74 years old, has been married 4 times (that we know of) and has lived in 3 different countries.

He's been married to my mum (who is 47) for what is coming up to 24 years. He has owned various businessnes, unsuccesfully (never had any money) and was brought up by rich parents in war time Amsterdam. He has told me some scary stories about those times.

He is getting older and more rickety everytime I see him, but he would never admit it. He still has his temper tantrums and shouts abuse at everyone when he doesn't get his own way. Ever since I can remember he pretends to faint when he is losing an argument.

When I was little I always had people asking me whether he was my grandad which I found funny.(I'm 21 - my little brother is 14 so he still gets asked quite frequently.)

We don't get on, but he's still my dad so I try and make it over to Holland when I can. I now know how to deal with his craziness (diagnosed and undiagnosed) and I reckon he's slowly becoming more openminded in his old age. Still, am not looking forward to the drama Christmas always brings but I don't know how long he's still got with us so better make the most of it.
(Lalalalou, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 16:15, Reply)

Stolen from Homer J. Simpson I know, but...
On my son's first birthday, I wrote the following in his birthday card:
When you're 18, you're out the door!
(PunkBubble Lady, I couldn't take another 67 of those..., Wed 1 Dec 2010, 16:11, 2 replies)

I must be a proper disappointment
My dad was a professional referee until his career was ended by a 9 year old on my 9th birthday - he was tackled (although quite why we were playing football is beyond me) and dislocated his knee so badly that he ended up in hospital and had new ligaments and other bits... but that's an aside.

Clearly his passion is football, but in trying to instil that passion into me, he took me to many games where he was the ref. All I saw (and I vividly remember various grounds, but I never remember them being anything other than fruppin freezing) was a few thousand people who were shouting at my dad and calling him naughty words that I would get told off for. It didn't have the desired effect. I am now one of those weird blokes that prefers shoe shopping to football.

But it doesn't end there, he also tried to bring me up proper and took me to church every Sunday until I was 18. Roman Catholic church. As soon as I had a vague idea of what was going on (I was about 5 I think) I hated it. The same thing week after week after week. It didn't just bore me, it made me angry. To make matters worse, my dad (I do love him, he's awesome and he's my dad) was in the choir, so I had to sit with him in the choir. Let's just say that I reckon I can mime better than your average Cheryl 'violent racist who married a black dude who then cheated on her for being a racist' Cole or whoever's on that appalling tellyshow.

There was an occasion where he was in hospital (knee again I think) where I was old enough to go to church on my own, I went on my skateboard but only made it as far as the local school playground as it'd just been tarmacced. By the time I got home, my mum had had 3 phone calls to report that I wasn't there. arse.

So, I am a confirmed catholic - but I only found out what that means last year when Mrs Bovis and I were asked to be godparents, apparently I confirmed that I definitely believed in the shite... I don't really remember much about the whole thing to be honest, I was prolly thinking about boobs at the time.

When I turned 18, it was a Saturday. On the Sunday, my dad asked me if I was coming to church. I said no thanks and went back to bed. I am an atheist (unless you count what I said on the census... Jedi).

So, I'm an atheist, football-hating bloke. I imagine he is crushed.

On the plus side he did like to hear stories of girls I'd 'seen' when I was at uni - I think he lived vicariously through me at that point as he's only ever slept with my mum. I had a good education, I earn a very reasonable wage and I've got a gorgeous wife. I think he's actually quite proud... and a bit crushed.
(Ross McBingobangobongo bingobangobongo, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 14:20, 3 replies)

My dads a perv.
When I was a nipper (25+ years ago) he used to take the biggest pair of binoculars imaginable to the beach and would sit eyeing up sunbathing women from afar. He'd call them his 'Cosmoing binoculars' or 'Cosmo nocks'. Mother would laugh at his outrageous perversions.

Whenever we went to a beach with sand dunes he'd take me on topless sunbather hunting walks through the dunes and send me off like some sort of bloodhound to 'stumble across them' and report back.

When I got older he bought me my own pair of 'cosmoing nocks' and we'd sit together scouting for clunge.

Didn't turn me into any sort of perv in later life or anything, oh no.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 13:59, 4 replies)

My ol' man
My ol' mans a postman
He wears a postmans hat
He farted through the keyhole
And he paralysed the cat
The chair couldn't stand it
The table fell apart
And all because of my ol' man
And his super sonic fart.
(ParaSitius is an Optimistic Pessimist, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 13:43, 1 reply)

Ah, daddy, daddy why didn't you hug me?
You hugged the postman!
( Spleep Shit, or get off the internet., Wed 1 Dec 2010, 13:17, Reply)

Blurter
Long time listener, first time caller.

My dad is no longer around, 2 years in feb. In my teens and early 20s we had something of a rocky relationship (read: mercurial) that thankfully got better as the years went on.

In the midst of this, I was a callow 15 year old (aka fat metaller) and doing some work in the research lab he ran (no test tubes involved, just l33t powerpoint skills) during the summer hols. On the walk back home, we passed a pub and he asked if I fancied a pint. 'wow' I thought, 'some father-son bonding time'. We walked in and I ordered a pint of cider (an emetic I can no longer touch). I looked old for my age, so the barmaid poured it, and went to hand it to me as she asked what he was having. 'hang on' he said 'are you allowed to serve under18s?'

My pint was swiftly retracted and we passed a lovely 20 mins in the pub garden, him drinking a pint of bitter and going 'look, I'm sorry, ok? It just came out' and me glaring at him over my coke and packet of crisps.

In other news, he did used to make me and my sis scream with excitement when he'd arrive home at bathtime (I think I was about 6) and throw dry ice into the bath (carefully avoiding us) to make it bubble and smoke. Top.

I do miss the old sod.
(Chizomsk, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 13:16, Reply)

A Vagabond's post triggered a flashback...
www.b3ta.com/questions/dad/post991018

...to my Dad teaching my brother and I the principle of 'grasping the nettle'. In which you firmly and assertively grip the stem of the nettle, thereby squashing the stinging hairs and enabling you to hold the thing with impunity.

Science bit dealt with, Dad approached the nettle, manfully extended his right arm, and clutched the nettle. Now clearly, in front of his two boys, and imparting a valuable life lesson, nothing was going to go against the plan.

A slight clenching of the jaw and , in a slightly strained voice, "there. See. Nothing to it. Now why don't you two run off and find where the dog's gone". Dashed off to find the dog, and glanced back just in time to see him desperately casting about for a dock leaf, nursing a clearly quite badly stung hand, uttering words which, even under his breath, I identified as being those which we shouldn't admit to knowing at that age.

Life lesson learned - don't try and grasp nettles. There's very little point. Either leave well alone, or take a strimmer to the bastards.

I think I was about 30 by the time I admitted to having seen that. He remembered the incident very clearly, and was gutted, even the best part of two decades later, when he realised I'd busted him.
( barryheadwound Mul-ti-pass? Multipass!, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 12:42, 9 replies)

I'm not sure I ever believed in Santa.
I was never that credulous a child. But when I was very young, I didn't exactly not believe in him either. Still, I know the moment when my agnosticism - or indifference - concerning questions of Yuletide ontology was replaced by disbelief.

I was at a kids' Christmas party of some sort. The lights were dimmed. Sleigh bells rang outside the door. And, dressed in a badly-fitting costume and a badly-fitting beard, in walked... my dad.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 12:05, Reply)

My mate's dad, when we were mid-teenagers, took us out to dinner, out 'round Soho to see "the wet weather gear", and then for a pint.
Obviously this made him the coolest man on the planet at this point.

It was over the pint that he imparted to us a piece of sound advice that was clearly carved with experience:

"Never go to a spaghetti house on a first date."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 11:19, 2 replies)