Ah am proud iv yee, canny fart like -
www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPeVU2bUMGc&feature=related
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 9:56, Reply)

Another reason why booze, diabetes and being a dad don't work out.
One fateful December evening I was busy trying to kick two large fellows out of my pub when one decided to give me a good old slap. Not too long afterwards I was being whisked to hospital with a shattered wrist and blood pissing from a cut that ran up my face.
My wife, in the back of the ambulance with me, phones up my parents to tell them what has happened to their son. Dad answers his phone saying he's in Brighton on a works Christmas do and will meet us in the hospital.
We get there first and are setting up camp in A&E watching the drunks try to injure themselves even more than they were when they came in.
Dad walks in, spies us and strolls over.
He looks horrified, his son is there, face covered in claret and arm in a sling. Naturally, upon seeing these injuries, he comes up and starts pawing/stroking my face in what he thinks is a gentle, affectionate manner, but is more like being mauled by a spastic. I jerk away and point out to him that my jaw hurts from being punched and his hamfisted attempt at comfortig me is getting dangerously close to tearing the sticy stitches from my cut up face.
He looks a bit dejected, he's only trying to show his love for his son. So he tries tact number two, walking behind me, he starts to pat, quite heavily, on my shoulder. The one with the sling on. The one supporting my shattered limb. This is quite painful, and I tell him in a not so polite manner to back the fuck off, sit down where I can see him and keep himself at arms length.
He shuffles over to a seat opposite, looking like a small child in a huff as he scuffs his feet along the floor, moping over to the little plastic chair, where he sits down and pulls out his copy of Le Monde to read. Only he's holding it upside down.
"My God," thinks I. "He's drunk and he's having a hypo." So up I get, walk to the nurse and ask them if there's anything they can give my dad to help him out as he's forgotten his insulin.
So there I am, freshly beaten and having to look after my drunk, diabetic dad, who has come to do his dadly duties.
Doesn't change the fact I love the man.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 9:32, 3 replies)

Apologies if I've posted this before, but here goes
My Dad is -- or rather he was, back in the eighties when these events took place -- an accountant. And he was exactly as you would imagine him to be -- rather dull, wore thick glasses, commuted daily into London dressed in a drab suit and tie (and even a bowler hat, back in the day). So, just about the most conformist, least interesting man you're ever likely to bump into.

At this time I was a teenager, dedicated to the fine art of onanism with a passion of which only pubescent boys are capable. I had my personal stash dotted around my room so that should any one part of it be discovered then at least the rest might be left intact.

On this particular day, I was bored and decided that my room needed to be rearranged. This involved shuffling around a couple of cupboards, a chest of drawers, bed etc. and I set about the task with determination.
As I was was carefully manhandling the larger of the two cupboards away from the wall, I noticed lying flat on the floor underneath it a plastic bag. I remember it quite clearly: it was from Murrays, an old department store.

"That's odd," I thought, "I don't remember putting that there."

With the cupboard out of the way, I picked up the bag and found that it wasn't empty. Peering inside I was surprised, delighted and somewhat aroused to find a pristine copy of Whitehouse. For those of you not familiar with porn through the ages, this was a gentleman's magazine of the slightly harder-core variety: not just tits and a flash of fluff here and there, but full-on legs-spread-look-at-my-bacon flange-fest. None of the various scraps of mags that I'd collected from hedges and lay-bys were even close to being as revealing as this. Jackpot!

It was only after a moment or two of reflection (I'll leave the exact nature of which to your imagination) that it dawned on me the exact implications of this find...

Firstly: someone had to have put this here, and the only logical conclusion was that it was my squarer-than-square Dad -- the filthy old bugger.

Secondly: I'd been...indulging myself...over a magazine that my Dad had been using for the very same purpose. Ew.

Thirdly: the bastard had hid his grubby porn stash in my room so that if it were ever found, I'd be the one who got into trouble! Outrageous.

Anyway, I solved the problem by swapping it for a couple of copies of Razzle at school the next day. And oddly enough, my Dad has never mentioned it...
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 9:24, 2 replies)

The listmaker
My Dad is a wonderful bloke. He is clever, generous, funny and I am proud to be his son. He is also however somewhat eccentric. If it is true that we turn into our parents, I'm going to need to sharpen up on my admin.

This is because my Dad is the listmaker.

When I say "listmaker" I don't mean he makes a good shopping list or asks for our "Top ten women carrying a bit of weight" or anything relatively ordinary. I mean that he makes lists of staggering size and complexity. Regularly updated ones include;
-Every train journey undertaken since some point in the 80's. Destination, duration and cost.
-Every vehicle he has ever driven from the age of eight. Considering that at one stage, the army had allowed him to accrue every category of license it was possible to hold, this is also a healthy list. Probably the only one that includes a Wolseley Hornet and an M1 Abrahms as valid fields as well when I think about it.
-When he used to run daily, he logged times and prevailing weather every day for twenty eight years. This meant transcribing it to computer circa '92 which was done with great ceremony. Now he uses an exercise bike, the perameters have been altered to distance and time but the entries continue.
-Acronyms. This is a more recent undertaking which dates back only to 1999 or so but has been seized with a special passion. The morning paper is never read without a small piece of paper and a pen lest any new acronyms are discovered. The last time I checked this work, it was hundreds of pages long. I'd put it online had I the time and nous to do so as in all seriousness, it is the most complete list of acronyms I've ever seen.

I mock him for this but in truth some of the mockery is down to my resentment that he has the time and organisation to create these works. I have neither the will nor organisational prowess to create anything like that. Who knows, perhaps genes will out at some point and I'll fire up excel for a list of my own.

Length? Can you even begin to imagine what a spreadsheet of twenty seven years of rail journeys looks like?
(Leonard Hatred briefly did some work on, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 9:18, 7 replies)

Toy story
One day, I returned home from work just after 1am to an expectedly silent house as my parents slept. What was unexpected was finding a small plastic leemer from the movie Madagascar on the table. It was a happy meal toy, which is odd as there are no kids in the house.

The next day, I asked where it came from. "I found it in a car park." explained my dad.
"So why did you keep it?" I asked.
"Well I'd would have been crushed!" responded father, as though it was obvious.

My father throws out anything he deems useless, he hates clutter and has a personal motto of "When in doubt, chuck it out." Why did he save the toy?
(Mong goose, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 9:16, 4 replies)

Shameless pea roast
I love my dad. Infact when I grow up I want to be just like him, but not with the diabetes.

Anyho....one evening my dad had been out on the fizzy pop and had got himself a little worse for wear before coming home. Just before bed he's meant to inject himself with 10mg of slow acting insulin. However, being a little merry, he picks up the fast acting insulin (which you are meant to use 2mgs of) and jacks himself up with 10mg of daytime juice.

An hour later my mum gets worried, she can hear a knocking in the bathroom. Assuming it's my dad pottering around in his drunken state she shouts at him to come to bed. No answer, so she gets up to give him a piece of her mind, only to find him sat on the toilet, pyjamas round his ankles thrashing his hand in a bin. She calls him, prods him, waves a hand in front of his eyes but, but to all intents and purposes he's unconcious.

In a panic, my brother is got out of bed, the paramedics are called while my mum and brother try to get some sugar into dad. They don't know where he's put his glucose gel, they're shitting it knowing that he's getting worse by the minute, so grab a banana and mash it up into his mouth, trying to rub it onto his gums so that he'll get some sugar in his system.

The paramedics arrive and test for blood sugar whilst trying to communicate with dad. They cannot find a trace sugar reading, which is bad. Luckily they have the right kit, inject him and slowly he comes round. If they hadn't have turned up dad would have been in a coma most likely with permanent consequences. However, this is not the only lucky escape, as the paramedics said if that happened again, the quickest way to get sugar in his system would be to shove a Mars bar up his arse.

My Dad, horrified at this prospect, says "It's bad enough coming round on the toilet with your pants round your ankles, your mother rubbing banana all over my face and 2 green men staring into my eyes shouting "MonkeyDaddy! MonkeyDaddy!", without having a banan shoved in my fundament"

To which my mum replies, "You do that again and it'll be a bloody toblerone!"
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 8:58, 4 replies)

My dad the nutter
You know what makes me sad? All these stories from you lot about how great your dads are.

My dad destroyed 3 peoples childhood and affected us in such a way as to affect myself, my 2 siblings and my mum for the rest of our lives.

He is a hyper-intelligent scientist...and alcoholic. He doesn't really accept that he is an alcoholic but I remember he told us when I was about 7 that he was going to start making his own homebrew and that we were going to help him..and he's been drunk every evening since then for going on 37 years.

He demands things are done in certain ways and he'd go off on one if there was any mess. If we had an event at school or cub scouts that involved a change to our routine he'd point blank say no and we couldn't do it. To travel anywhere took weeks of planning and foul temper or if mum or I tried to decorate or change anything in the house he'd scream about the mess for days. We couldnt have toys or stuff around the home; it all had to be hidden away. My mum tells a story about when I was three I tipped over a pot of ink and my dad picked me up and rubbed my face in it and my face was blue for weeks.

He doesn't like going out to eat..infact he doesn't like food at all.
He's very thin and only eats 'nutritionally balanced food'. Mum has to cut it up because he wont use a knife.

He gets nasty drunk. He screams at the TV and at anyone who disagrees with him. He gets violent when he is drunk so for 13 years until I left home at 18 we'd lie in bed at night listening to him lay into my mum. We'd hide from him in the evenings but he'd force us to sit with him while he screamed at us and told us what little cunts we were. I wont bore you by going into the detail of every controlling, violent episode that we endured (actually I don't think I want to remember them properly)but growing up in that house was awful.

I've been away from home now for 20 odd years and 4 years ago I started to work in a college and mentored a student with aspergers syndrome. I had a bit of training and as I learned more I began to realise certain traits...

I really do think he has some form of aspergers. He himself had a tricky childhood with his mum dying during childbirth and had a number of aunties who reared him...how difficult would that be for someone with aspergers to move from household to household?

I asked mum to fill in a facebook 'how aspergers are you?' app. on his behalf..he got full marks!

So, now what do I do? Do I forgive and forget the hell that was our childhood? Do I bring this all up and see if he can change? (actually I don't think there's any point as now that we have all left home and he lives a quiet life of routine and meditation with mum he keeps himself to himself and is much better...until anyone comes home to visit and then he'll usually have some sort of drunken shouting episode at 1am)

So I'm gay, my sister doesnt want kids and my brother left home and barely has any contact with any of us...he has no kids either.

Coicidence?

I am sooooo jealous of you guys who can hug and chat to your dads and who had a great time growing up. Writing THAT sentence has made my eyes prick with wateryness.

length? 18 years of hell.

edit: OR? Am I just griping? On the scale of things am I lucky to have grown up in a middle class home and our troubles are no worse than those that everyone else has to put up with?
( spitsticker is not working on, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 7:25, 8 replies)

Dad's just about to turn 86
and is still compos mentis. Not only that he seems to have a better social life than I do.

When I was a child he never had much to say. For years I knew next to nothing about his early life. But after Mum died three years ago he's opened up a lot. He showed me something last year I will not forget, a scrap of office paper with a pencilled note on the back congratulating him on my birth. I'm well on the wrong side of 55 so he's kept it all that time, somewhere.

He lives 1000 miles away, so I phone him regularly and we chat about this and that, sometimes for an hour at a time. I know I have been a disappointment to him in some ways but he's never said a word, so I try to make some of it up to him when we do get together.

The Christmas after Mum died we took a long car drive together over 3 days. I learned a lot about him then. He and Mum were married in 1948, though he'd first met her in 1940 as she stood on a railway platform handing out sandwiches and tea to soldiers. He was a railway man himself then and worked at the station.

This one - www.wheelsonsteel.com.au/showthread.php?tid=5048

He could barely support himself on his wages and there was no hope of marrying so they waited for years.

I could rant on about his faults but they don't amount to much. Never did, really. When I hear about the families of some people I know, I realise I've been damn lucky.
(Redemption blamed it on the Bossa Nova since, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 7:14, Reply)

Daddy!
Friend A at school was messing around with friend B's sister... all kept hush hush, until she becomes pregnant. It all comes out, friend B is slightly miffed but eventually happy that it was his mate and all is good with the world. For some reason friend A doesn't tell his parents.

The couple don't last, but he pays support, visits and has the kid all the time. After a couple of years he is ready to tell his parents, and get's a paternity test to show them all is legit.

The kid wasn't his.
(fatharry, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 6:28, 4 replies)

Dads, eh?
Well, my old man wasn't one to stick about. Decided to do a flit when I was about 6 months old. Top chap.

My stepfather on the other hand, has given me a decent taste in music, some valuable life lessons (the majority of which I failed to notice until after I'd done some damn fool thing) and an appreciation for a quiet pint.

Length? Not much, though it is cold out..
(wuckfit Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori., Fri 26 Nov 2010, 3:55, Reply)

Dad
I am going to be a dad in four months time. I am nervous about this, not so much about being a dad - which I am intensely looking forwards to - but about the Chinese hospitals. They are concentration camps of ill-health, where all power emanates from the consultants downwards. Nurses are not so much there to help you as to bolster their feeling of power and superiority. Patients have next to zero say in anything that goes on. To be seen by a doctor (no appointment system) you have to queue up to buy a ticket - good hospitals have the highest demand, meaning you have to queue at 6am or even earlier, as they get snatched up by the desperate and by scalpers. There's no rota system either, so you have to take the the day off work as hospitals only have a skeleton staff on at the weekend. Everything is privatised and has a financial imperative, so doctors are known to recommend unncessary procedures just to generate more income. Basic human dignities, like privacy, is almost unknown; if you're having a consultation, other people will barge in, demanding to be seen or wondering what's taking you so long.

So I'm nervous alright. Be thankful for the NHS!
(McChinaman banned, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 2:40, 8 replies)

Sorry for the lack of LOL's
Dad died when I was 15

I've now lived longer without him than with him

But he still has a huge influence on my life, I remember the good times we shared together and the talks that we had

If your Dad is still alive and you've not been in touch for a long time, or if you are pissed off about a stupid argument you had, do me a favour and pick up the phone, even if it's just to say hello. You may not get another chance.
( Terry Oblong There's nobody here but us chickens on, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 2:17, 2 replies)

The guy
After a late night drinking session with the old man,around the 6th of november, we happened to pass a doorway (i know huge shock).
My Dad being the observant type he is pointed to something in the doorway and said "Look someones left a guy in the door way ". He of course meaning a Guy Fawkes effigy.

Well the "guy" upon hearing this promptly stood up , gave my dad a wierd look and went and made his bed in a different doorway.

Quick as a flash my dad replied to our bemused faces "well he is dressed like one" before running over and slipping the poor bloke a fiver as way of apology.
(shake'n'bake Tally Ho, Biatch!, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 1:47, Reply)

Where do I start?
No massive lol's here I'm afraid. But I will regale. The following might bore but after the first 25 years of not 'getting' him (I'm now 36) I could cuddle the man to death. Big love to my Dad.

Taking me to Bisley with his new pride and joy 9mm Berretta (we were sports shooting fans that got fucked up by people that like to rampage, thanks). Did £100 in ammo in 30 minutes. Then moved on to the Browning .22 with the gold plated trigger. Another £100. Some people might not get this, but as a kid allowed to do that...? We bonded tight.

Made me a car garage playmobile out of chipboard and car stickers. It might not have been fresh from the packet real 'plastic' car kit, but meant a hell of a lot to me.

A purple rocket that was 'kid size' , made of cardboard and spray painted, big enough for me to run round pretending I was Orion (x).

Let me climb all over him when he got straight home from work and fuck about pinching him all over, even though now with a son myself I appreciate my son NOT DOING THAT! :)

Has lent me money ever since, including £1000 for my first sampler (AKAI S950, age 14) that I paid him back for in 6 weeks (worked hard didn't pay tax then)? More cash that I have paid back without fail ever since?

Thanks for talking him into it Mum! xx

Mums/Dads. Awesome. Got to love them.

EDIT: Yes I have been lucky.
( DeadEyeDick, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 1:46, 2 replies)

My stepdad was an ex con
But after getting banned from a few countries he decided to tone down his felonies to the weird and petty... and of course tell his impressionable stepkids all his stories about them.

The funniest one was that there's a silo near us which has a christmas tree every year on the roof. Dad got drunk with his mates and dared to climb to the top (about 10 floors) and steal a light from it. He climbs up fine only to find that the tree is a lot bigger than it looks from the ground, and the fairy lights are actually painted lightbulbs.

Not to be deterred, he reaches out an unscrews one, realises in a drunken fuddle that it's burning his hands and puts it in his pocket. How he climbed up the outside of the tower in that state is beyond me. Anyway, after a while he realises that 1. His crotch is now in serious pain and 2. His hands are also hurting a lot. So he decides to take a nap. Lays down at the top of the silo and goes to sleep.

He wakes up at dawn, frozen and wondering why he has a lightbulb in his pocket and burns on his hands. He climbs down and goes home, and puts the lightbulb on the table. He can't remember who dared him to steal it in the first place, and no-one seems to want to own up, so he just kept it.
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 1:31, Reply)

Italian
I grew up in small Italian village.

Every single morning on the way to school a man would fling open the window shutters and shout down the street "Hey kid, I fucka your mother! I fucka your mother!"

And every single morning I'd shout out 'Hello Dad.'
( waz4444 Escorts, bescorts - Come in if you're saucy., Fri 26 Nov 2010, 1:24, Reply)

My Dad is a very serious sort
and is well known for being a grumpy auld git. Contrary to this however he is unfortunately afflicted with a very gay wave. 2 actually. The wiggly fingers is his favourite but he is also prone to doing the talking bird from time to time. How silly he looks.
(gherkinator, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 0:55, Reply)

My dad was the guy who revealed
to my confused six year old self, that there was no such thing as the 'old black and white' days of film and TV, and that it was simply the TV itself.

Those old black and white films terrified me for a long time as i tried to figure out why the colour was missing. I had assumed up to that point, that somebody eventually invented colour and it had caught on around the world.

So yeah, cheers Dad.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 0:49, 2 replies)

My Dad
used to own a mini clubman. It wasnt anything special in fact it was quite rusty and knocked about from the old pictures i have seen and my own memory.
Inside my dads mini was a rather large looking 8 track huge cassette radio player. My dad's 8 track cartridges had songs by artists i had never
heard of (at that time)on them and when i used to go to places with my dad which tended to be on a sunday when my mum was tidying round our home
we used to listen to my dads tunes in the car and sing away as we travelled to whichever local attraction it was that we were going to.
Now for any dads reading this i can now say that everyone of those songs (good and bad) now reside in my itunes.

Some of the artists were (excuse my spelling here some may be wrong)
the bee gees - saturday night fever
neil diamond- greatest hits
helen reddy - i have just downloaded a selection
johnny mathis

I still listen to the songs occasionally now and let me tell you there is no gift that anyone could give me that would ever beat listening to my dads old songs
in my headphones and imagining my dad is sat next to me in his mini singing away like he used to.
(Cov Boy, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 0:45, Reply)

let's just say that things are a little bit strained
oedipus
(ladyintheradiator, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 0:29, 1 reply)

daddy
My dad can say the most corny jokes you never thought you were gonna hear. It was all fun when I was 4, but 15 years later you pretty much have him figured out. Sometimes he can tell me STOP, and after a slight pause add In the naaame of loooveee.. for no other reason than to just bug me.

He is also really conservative when it comes to food. Anything that's not either potatoes, MEAT, bacon (nothing wrong with bacon but there is such a thing as too much), or cream and pasta, is weird and "not his favourite", as a kid would be taught to say.
He still thinks I'm a little girl, and even if I'm not really that old I'm not that young either. He doesn't seem to know how to handle a kitchen properly and it's always dirty and full of dirty saucepans and nasty wash cloths.


But I'm glad he's my dad. Could've had this fella www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqtr_RvR3sY
(cxr, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 0:27, 3 replies)

fireworks
every year when we were kids, my dad would get a box of fireworks for us.
every year, without fail, he'd nail the catherine wheel to the fence so tightly that it wouldn't budge an inch, although they did occasionally blow up.
he never learned.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 23:23, 12 replies)

My Dad is amazing
one Christmas when I was a student (the first time around), he got me a half oz of resin
(djlumpyrulesok beware of cousin Mosquito and his solo, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 23:07, 4 replies)

My dad is awesome.
Can't go into too much detail, but he's awesome and does awesome things. I know he reads b3ta, and has an account here. And although he's not posted much (one post over 2 years), he lurked he long before then, and he got me checking here everyday.

Last year someone shopped something that he made! He was very happy. Not sure if he reads QotW, so not gonna say what it was or his b3ta name. But thanks you for that shoppage. We never heard the end of it for weeks.
(Dante licked your nipple on, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 22:46, Reply)

my dad is a total and utter law unto himself
so many stories. for example, every time i call him, he ends up with "call me back when you've got less time to chat."

the first one that springs to mind was a couple of years ago. my brother and i went to the cinema with him on halloween to see the re-release of "the omen". as the film started, the cinema was utterly, deathly quiet. the camera slowly panned in right up close on the newborn baby, and even the music silenced. you could have heard a pin drop as damien's face filled the screen.

"EVIL LITTLE TWAT,"

my father announced at the top of his yorkshire voice, and about fifteen rows in every direction just burst out laughing.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 22:16, 7 replies)

Ha ha ha
[something about God]


Jesus Christ.


Indeed
(Clerk T Hazarde are all the wine, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 22:11, Reply)

Of course
my Father left me with two things. An abiding hatred of the Jews and a love of a certain soccer club in Highbury. Not long after my marriage to Mrs B I introduced her to my passions. At first she couldn't abide the noise, smell and commotion. But after the first few times, I was able to repeatedly take her up the Arsenal with little or no resistance. Now days it's all prawn sandwiches you know.
(Brigadier an old boot sitting on a man's face - forever, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 21:41, Reply)

Equal measures
There's a great deal of fun being a dad, and I hope my brother and I returned to my dad the fun he gave us. But there are moments of desperation two - the bits were we let him down when he didn't deserve it.

My old fella worked nights through much of my early years, and although we saw him a fair bit, we also had to creep around a lot so we didn't wake him. As a result, my mum tended to pastoral care most of time, which meant we got kicked out of the house to go and play in the fields.

Now my mum suffered from severe migraines, and on occasion she had to just stay in the dark, and my dad had to look after us. He'd said we could go out as long as we didn't mess ourselves up, as he had a fair bit to do while mum was ill.

Off me and r-kid trots into the fields. It's probably October time, because it's grey and wet, and the first field we had to cross had been sprayed in chicken shit. We avoid the shit best we can, and go to the low part of the field. R-kid discovers it's a bit boggy in the lower field, and gets his welly stuck in deep mud. I rescue his wellie, but couldn't rescue him from balancing with one socked foot in the air, before falling backwards in swamp and shit. I pull him out.

we have broke my dad's request of not getting full of shit. So I do what any older brother would do, I dip r-kid in some sort of well, that appeared to have clean water in it.

Bollox! It's not like a washing machine. 1) A well doesn't remove shit 2) He's pissed wet through 3) There is no spin dryer in this field.

My next idea is to both climb a tree and dangle there for a bit till the wind dries us. That was a shit idea too... after dangling for 10 minutes, his lips were going blue. So, we traipsed off home back through the chicken shit and into the kitchen. When we opened the door, my dad was making soup for tea, and he turned round and saw us.

His paternal brain could not figure out what to do with two shit caked, pissed through kids, and make dinner, and look after my sister who was only a wee bairn then.

He slowly put the spoon in the pan, turned round, slid down the side of the cupboard, cupped his head in his hands and cried. A real "I can't handle this sort of cry".

I can't remember what panned out after that, but that is the most upset I have ever seen him before or since.

Of course, it will never happen to me because my lad isn't allowed to play out because of all the Albanian paedophiles Tony Blair imported into Britain.
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 21:22, Reply)

The son-of-a-bitch named me Sue.

Why couldn't I be Bill or George or something?
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 21:09, Reply)

Son of a Preacher man..
My Dad is a vicar, which is great as it makes me the son of a preacher man, but that is not the point. My dad, as he often says, is not religious. Not really. I think he does it as a social adhesive to the locals rather than because of any great calling, and hates people knowing he's a vicar if he's outside his stomping ground, but again that's not the point.

My dad makes stuff up. In trying to get his village some more tourists to boost the local economy, he invented the legend of how it became. The problem is, being a vicar, people believed him to the point that this story is now acknowledged as fact. It gets printed in regional tourist guides and will probably become common knowledge before too long. He has been featured on Countryfile (best claim to fame ever!) when they covered his church and made stuff up about pagans to create conflict, to which my dad, when asked about it told Sue Perkins to shut up and laughed at her as they made it up.
He regularly takes old people on religious tours, and if he gets bored invents a miracle that happened in whatever field they are driving past. The old ladies are constantly amazed at how clever he is and how much he knows.

That said though, he holds that village together, will listen to the most hopeless of cases and spends every day of the week helping people out.

Not enough? He, and because of him his village also features in a German 'Midsummer Murders' type thing, and a Canadian is also writing some sort of whodunnit novel based on him, so all in all I think he's pretty cool. He can't dance for toffee though, and had me read Winnie the Pooh at his wedding, so it all balances out...
( Jimbuktu See? Right here, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 21:01, 3 replies)