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This is a question Dad stories

"Do anything good for your birthday?" one of your friendly B3TA moderator team asked in one of those father/son phone calls that last two minutes. "Yep," he said, "Your mum." Tell us about dads, lack of dad and being a dad.

Suggested by bROKEN aRROW

(, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 11:50)
Pages: Latest, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, ... 1

This question is now closed.

My dad isn't around any more.
One of the most surprising things that made me think of my dad came when the BBC got Formula One racing back from ITV. And they brought back the old, classic theme tune.

As soon as the guitar started on the first programme, I got tingles all over as I flashed back to my childhood and sitting with my dad watching races. It's a weird connection to a lovely time.

Duuuummmmmm dum dum dum dum dum da da da duuummmm etc
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 13:41, 4 replies)
Take That
My dad once was stopped by a security guard walking out Our Price with a handful of Take That CDs. His argument was that the CD said "Take That" on them, and he was just obeying the instructions.
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 12:27, 1 reply)
First game of footy
Like alot of peoples dad's here mine also worked nights for the most part of my childhood. This meant for the most part he would be asleep during the day and wouldn't be seen much.

One day he got up early to play a game of football with me. Ecstatic i ran down the garden and there was much a fuss about jumpers for goalposts and such like.

We had one of those flimsy plastic footballs perfect for my tiny feet and eager to please I took the first shot in goal. My dad then promptly big toed the ball sending it straight into my face. Much tears later and the game was abandoned. Poor dad.
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 11:04, 2 replies)
My Dad has recently broken up
with his latest girlfriend. Me and my Step-mum where saying to him how he will miss his weekly curry night with his ex and her other coupley friends. My step-mum starts ribbing him that curry night was really just a cover for a swingers party (I'm boking at this point because parents and sex.....just no) when he comes out with, 'I was offered group sex once but wasn't really into the Bee Gees' whether he heard it or not from some where else didn't make it any less funny. He's warped my Dad.
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 10:40, Reply)
northern racism
we are originally from yorkshire, although i haven't lived there myself since i was a baby. when i was about 4, the bank that my dad was working for wanted to move him to london. so we all upped sticks and moved to buckinghamshire.

my dad had a lot of administrative stuff that he was handling with the HR and other teams at the head office in london, and he got increasingly frustrated with their patronising attitude towards a little northerner coming to work in the big city. eventually he lost his temper and submitted a sarcastic expenses claim for thinner coats for his whippets due to the warmer weather and a specialist trainer to teach his pigeons to fly south instead of north.

the bank simply paid it without a single murmur.
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 10:07, 11 replies)
My cousin's a bitch
A good few years back me dad and his brother (my uncle no doubt) went shopping around the local "Co-Op" (not there anymore, burnt down for an insurance fraud case....nice area). Me uncle is wheeling the trolley about with his daughter sitting in it aged about 5; my cousin Jemma.

Jemma was a spoilt little twat back then; my uncle had recently divorced due to his wife fucking about and Jemma was showered anything she wanted by both parents to show "who loved her more". This didn't help things and she was spoilt beyond comprehension.

Anyhows the bitch was sitting in the trolley stuck in the gay-seat and me uncle wondered up another aisle leaving me dad with Jemma. She looks over one of the shelves and spies a lovely looking bar of chocolate.

"I want that one!"
Me dad, nonplussed by this nonchalantly replies "Nope sorry...." which in turn he's then hit by the four words that no-one should have to deal with, especially when surrounded by other shoppers on the top of her lungs.

Everyone in the aisle apparently stopped shopping and glared over at him, who for a few seconds stood there gobsmacked by the immediate attention.
"WHERE'S MY DADDY!!!!???" she screamed and tried kicking out of the trolley seat. Nout left for it but to retort LOUDLY.....
"If you don't shut up now you're going BACK into the cellar again, do you understand?!!?!??" shouts dad, leaving Jemma with a terrified look on her face, along with everyone else in the aisle who'd been eavesdropping.

It was at that point that his brother walked around the corner carrying some shopping and asking dad how she's been.
"Like a little angel" muttered dad as he passed the trolley back to him :)
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 8:53, 2 replies)
Big-up to me dad
A good few months back me dad had a lot of stress poured on him from his twat work employers (the usual threaten him with sack for bugger all, make him do at least 3x more delivery work than the rest of the workforce etc), which at the time for a 59 year old to deal with alone is not the best. That and an incident involving bullying from another member of staff caused him to snap, to the point where he had the bully by the throat in the office threatening to beat him around the carpark, and almost losing his job over it.

This all added up and triggered Paranoid Depression in him. I've heard and read the word depression before; it's something that is either thrown about by others who have seen or experienced it firsthand or a term used rather too easily by others, but when it is seen it can change and affect everyone around the sufferer.

We didn't notice the signs at first (confusion, talking to self quietly, long moments of silence etc) but one night before a meeting at work was booked in he emptied a can of deodorant down his throat and tried electrocuting himself with a cooker (his slippers saved him on that attempt).

After we found out me and my sister had to take him to a local mental health hospital and wait as he was assessed. Sitting in the waiting room as you can hear your dad through the interview room door spilling his heart out to a quack is one of the most odd moments that I have ever experienced. After about 20 minutes we were invited into the room and they laid out a plan for him to get back to normal (a mixture of drugs and attending different day-courses).

Everything went back to normal, and dad for a while seemed much more sociable, but he started slipping back to the same point and just before my mum was meant to go on holiday for a weekend with the sister he took a carving knife to his throat and tried slitting it. He didn't want them to go on hols and couldn't tell them, but instead tried self-harming to keep them here.

Turned out he'd missed a fortnight's worth of tablets and was drinking a lager every night instead, caused him to slip straight back into it. It's amazing what difference one little capsule can make to a person.

So the docs re-assessed him, found out about the drink and lack of medication etc and got him to make some changes to accommodate this. That was a few months back. He's now past 60 and happier than he's been in a long time. He's still on the sick at the mo but his employers (the local Council of all people) are bending over backwards to offer him something much more adequate until retirement. He's still attending the day courses and has begun to learn how to browse the net etc (thanks to Cwmbwrla Day Services, don't worry, not a horse in sight :p). Odd sight visiting him the other day in his house and seeing him browse youtube; the guy's a complete technophobe :)

Jeccy's Final Thoughts
Soz for length and lack of funny, but he's pretty much through it all now (just like you guys having to read this on a saturday morning lol). I'm so proud that he's back with us and we'd do anything to ensure that he doesn't slip back there again. If you've got a dad who even just looks down in the dumps or off-colour, talk to him about it, give him that reassurance. You can replace those 5 minutes spent talking, you can't replace your dad.
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 8:26, 9 replies)
My old man likes DIY and he likes cooking
these two interests came together when he made his own smoker from some sheet steel. The contraption was basically a metal barrel with a camping gas stove and a tray of wood chips at the bottom, metal wracks for the food, and a lid like a chairman's hat.

The problem occurred after the first couple of hours use. I can remember clearly that Doctor Who was just starting when there was a loud "WUMP" from the garden, then a roaring sound and a rather pleasing bright orange glow shining through the curtains.

A design flaw had caused the gas cylinder seal to melt and whoosh, his smoker had turned it's self into some sort of fishy blunderbuss, firing 5 pounds of herring into neighbouring trees and gardens.
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 7:26, 4 replies)
Here's an old pearoast.
I pulled one on my son.

When they were small I used to take my kids to the local zoo periodically, as parents do. One of their favorite exhibits was the bobcats, as they look like very large versions of our own kitty.

One day my son asked me what their names were, and I told him that I didn't think they had names. This bothered him so much that he kept pestering me about it, until finally I spotted a sign identifying them as "Bobcat (Felis rufus)". So I informed him that one was Felis and the other was Rufus. As he was all of five years old, he bought it completely.

For the next few years that held as a family tradition, to go see Felis and Rufus to say hello. I would always chuckle to myself.

Fast forward about twelve years. My son is now seventeen and hanging out with his friends, and they go off to the zoo. A couple of hours later he returns, sees me in the kitchen making dinner and says "Dammit Dad! Bobcats are Felis rufus as a generic and specific name, not their real names!"

I looked at him blankly. "Yeah, and?..."

"So I just told the girl I'm trying to get to go out with me that their names were Felis and Rufus and she pointed to the sign and laughed at me!"

Kids. You can teach them to read, but not to see...
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 3:55, 1 reply)
There are a few Dad stories I could tell
but one that happened this year sticks to mind.

My old man is a hard working bloke, always has been. Left school with nothing and basically went to night school when I was small to learn the skills to make something of himself. I remember him working in our garage every night during one winter with nothing but a tiny heater, doing odd electrical jobs to make a few quid on the side of his full time job. Some people wonder where I get my hard working nature from, well that's where.

Like I say, he worked his socks off to provide for the family and still does. Earlier this year I bought my first place and was spending most nights round there painting and decorating before I moved in. This was on top of 12 hour shifts and feeling run down from a cold.

One night I'm painting after work for a few hours and I get to the point where I just don't have the energy to carry on, even though the hall is half finished. I'd have just gone to bed, but I have no furniture in my new house. So, rather than sleep on the floor I get in the car and drive 30 minutes to mum & dads house, where I've been staying after moving out of my rented flat last year.

I wander in the door just as he's going to bed. He takes one look at me, tells me I look like crap (cheers dad!), then he stays up to cook me some tea (can't remember what now but it was just what I needed) and listen to my decorating/job woes. I go to bed, well fed, and have a good nights sleep.

Next day at work is a nightmare and after 12 hours I really don't want to go back and do more painting, but again I was brought up to be hard working so I go to my new house to get on with it.

I walk in the door and what do I see - hall is painted perfectly, everything has been cleaned and put away and all the odd electrical jobs I've been putting off have been done. Also, there is now a healthy supply of biccys in the kitchen and some fold away chairs have appeared. In one of said chairs is my Dad, looking rather pleased with himself and the brew he has put on.

After hearing my woes the night before, he'd cancelled his plans for the evening and left work an hour early to come round & finish last nights work. He'd also done enough so I could have a night off and give me a head start on the next weeks worth of jobs.

My reaction "what are you looking so smug about?"
His reaction to this "you're welcome you sod!"

We don't always get on as we are chalk and cheese in many respects and have nearly come to blows in the past, but when I needed him he was there without even being asked and that's what this pro-dad story is all about :)
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 1:45, 2 replies)
Dads Protest Against the National Lottery
About 10 years ago my loveable and brilliant Dad was having trouble at work, the stress of being an account in a small town took its toll and he entered into a stage of bipolar depression. During which he did a lot of tragically hilarious shit, it was during this period that my story begins……..

I was sat in my bedroom about 2am when I got hungry, I walked downstairs into the kitchen and started to make some Super Noodles. The Noodles were boiled, the flavour was added….. when my Dad entered. He was in his dressing gown and looked kind of drunk but had a slightly menacing look in his eye.

‘Hello Kenneth, making Noodles are we?’

‘Errr…Yes Dad’

At was at this point he marched up to condiment cupboard, opened the doors, pulled out the nearest bottle, walked over to the Noodle pan and began to pour the entire contents in, after placing the empty bottle in the sink he came back, grabbed another bottle and repeated the process about four times.

I was more worried about the increasingly full Noodle pan, than my Fathers erratic behaviour. Then came the Schwartz spices, Oxo gravy granules, M&S chutneys, and Colemans mustard…….An avalanche of household names pouring into my Super Noodles……..

Just as the pan was beginning to resemble some kind of White Middle Class Gumbo, my Dad grabbed it and poured the entire contents onto the kitchen table, stubbed his cigarette out into it, then poured an entire ash tray over the top. He left the kitchen, leaving me in a mixture of mild amusement, concern and confusion, staring at the slowly congealing steaming mass of what was once my midnight snack.

Before I had chance to start cleaning it up, he returned with a wad of scratch cards from the Mail on Sunday, which he then proceeded to tear up and decorate the Noodle Pile with, he victoriously stubbed out one last cigarette into the pile and declared.

‘This is my protest against The National Lottery!

It was at this point I decided I better get my Mum.

‘Mum, Dads acting abit weird, he’s just poured noodles all over the kitchen table and started shouting about the National Lottery…..’

As my Mother got out of bed she uttered the immortal words

‘On no not again!’

I escorted my Mum down to the kitchen where my Dad was just lent on the kitchen side smoking, admiring his work, she took him by the hand and led him back upstairs. Just before the kitchen door shut my Dad leant round the side and shouted.

‘You told on me you bastard!!! I’ll fucking get you!!’

Slightly freaked out and still hungry, I was left with the task of cleaning up the Noodle Placenta……
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 1:33, 2 replies)
Old Folk's home
My parents had a very good long marriage, until they ended up in an old folk's home. They shared a room together, just like always. Once, my dad told me mum that he really missed sex, even though his weapon had already fallen into disuse. He talked me mum into toddering off to a far park bench, where he would unzip and she would just grab and caress his portion of gristle. This became a daily ritual that lasted for weeks, and they seemed very happy together; me dad for the caressing, and me mum for taking care of the randy bugger's wishes.

One day, me mum was looking for him all over the place, to fulfil her part of the daily ritual. Nothing done, looked inside the home, couldn't find him, outside, nothing, until she doddered off to their park bench whereupon she found him sitting next to Lady Loosebloomers who was grabbing his package. She screamed at the top of what was left of her voice; "Why do you do this to me? What can she have that I don't???"

My dad, with glassy white eyes, was only able to stutter one word: "Parkinson's"
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 0:56, 1 reply)
Deep-fat fried house
It was about 1989 or so. My Mum had gone to play in a Badminton tournament one Saturday, leaving my Dad and I to fend for ourselves. Bad move.

We had a look at our lovely new deep-fat frier. "Chips?" said Dad. "Yeahh!" said a nine-year-old me. So Dad filled it up with oil, according to the instructions, and chips, turned it on, and left it to do is thing for however long it needed.

A short time afterwards, we both smelled an odd sort of odour. Both of us went into the kitchen, to be confronted by a dense and stinking cloud of partially burnt oil. Our frier had failed spectacularly.

We could still smell it two weeks later. Mum was unimpressed.
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 0:06, Reply)
Call your Dad
While you still have one.
(, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 0:03, 3 replies)
Doctor Who
My Dad used to jab me in the ribs whenever there was a 'scary bit' on Doctor Who - back in the mid '80s, that is. I have never managed to quite get him back for it. Still love him, though, he's a great chap.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 23:53, Reply)
~~~~~~~~Wavy lines~~~~~~~~

This makes us both look like twats. I was about 8 years old and around this time my Dad had a massive disagreement with my neighbour who was also the local barber along the road.
So with my hair all shaggy and no barber, guess who decides to cut my hair? Yep, DAD. He told me to sit on his bed which had newspapers all over as if leaving a puppy to piss himself.
About half an hour later, what I wanted as a 3 all over turned out to be a 5 on top, 5 on one side and 3 on the other, with a 4 on the back and a fringe which had its own horror film named after it (any ideas?)
I see it in the mirror and tears flood from my eyes and he said "What's wrong son did I cut your head or something?" With a bit of courage and pissed off about the hair rape, I turn around and blurt out in my Geordie twang: "CUT IT? YOU'VE FUCKING MASSACRED IT!!" And then in an American accent (Fuck knows why) I shout "IT'S HIDEOUS"

Within 5 seconds of it being said my Dad was pointing at me and crying with laughter. God I love him. :D
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 23:41, 3 replies)
Rash Nappy
I'd been a father for about 10 days. Skint; terminally short of sleep. I'd managed to avoid nappy-changing so far because I throw up everywhere just looking (and smelling!) at a loaded nappy. Now, however, I was up. No choice, but me; fate of the world was in my hands etc.

Baby on the towel; nappy off; off to the bathroom (2 rooms and a hall away) to throw up and be back quickly enough that my daughter couldn't roll off and smear shit all over the carpet. Clean up. Yak! More cleaning. Bugle! Last cleaning stage. HRUUUUURGH*cough* ptui! ptui! Grab a nappy. SHIT! It was a duff one with no tabs on it to hold it closed! We were skint and we didn't have that many nappies left anyway, so I did the best I could with duct tape and went to bed, bathed in the glow of a tricky job done well.

When my wife extracted the baby from the nappy the next morning (took 20 minutes- when I wrap a baby it fucking well stays wrapped) it turned out that I had the nappy the wrong way round.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 21:45, 2 replies)
Home-made Rice Wine
Back in the beige days of the 1970s, my Dad became interested in home wine-making, usually from grape concentrate but on occasion, turning to less popular options. One memorable experimental concoction aimed to produce a kind of SE London Sake, and began by steeping rice in water. Straining the reeking mess through muslin after a week or so was easy enough but, in his attempt to get the very last drops of potential booze from his mulch, Dad squeezed just a bit too hard. The muslin split from side to side, the ol'man swore loud enough to stun the budgie in the next room and Mum was still finding hunks of dried-up rice stuck behind the kitchen appliances six months later.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 21:28, Reply)
The Ashes
My grandfather wasn't a particularly nice man, but the lovely memories I have of him are watching the cricket. It started when I was 12 when we first sat in absolutely comfortable silence watching it and only having the odd ooh and aah breaking the day.

The Ashes were a special occasion where we would actually talk a few sentences about how much we want Australia to win.

C'mon Aussies!
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 20:52, 2 replies)
My father died in 2002....
and he is the reason I hate gooners. For 30+ years all I got every Saturday was "Arsenal are second to none." Even if they lost. When I got my first season ticket at Priestfield (Yeah, I'm a Gills fan, hold the laughter) he went batshit. Anyway, the years rolled on and poor health started to get the better of him. He was in hospital when Arsenal secured enough points to be champions and I was quite cheerful that afternoon as I went to visit knowing he'd be made up with the result. He was asleep as I arrived so I took a seat and waited for him to wake up.
he stirred, opened one eye, looked at me and said "I told you they were second to none." He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

They would be the last words he ever said to me as he died two days later. Looking back I always think 'You bastard, you just couldn't let it go could you?'

I miss him, I miss his skewed views on politics (Nick Griffin meets Maggie Thatcher), I miss putting the world to rights over a pint and yes, I miss the gooner.
The best thing about him being a gooner was having rows with other gooners about being a South London team. Class act, Pops, class act.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 20:51, Reply)
Always a bit distant, my old fella
Not a horror father - a good parent to the three of us when he was around but often he wasn't around. This played on my mind a bit as a kid - often we'd have to go and visit dad at places like Dunfermline and Plymouth, where he'd been sent for work.

We grew up in Barrow-in-Furness, a shipbuilding town, and I knew that my dad worked in the shipyards and that his particular job required him to be on sea trials on new build ships and subs.

I grew up, moved away, graduated, got married etc. and left my upbringing behind. My dad retired in 1991, at 53.

At Christmas 2002, my parents came to stay with us. A lovely day, with both sides of the family around.

Dad smokes, and I smoke, and at some point in the evening after a lot of booze had been scoffed we were in the garden smoking. I'd just taken a major career change and he'd been asking me about it. Don't know why, but I asked him what was with the occasional absences in my childhood.

His response was three letters - M O D.

My ol' fella, whom I'd always assumed to be a shipyard worker, was working with the MOD in a fairly senior capacity.

I've never asked him, and I assume he can't tell me anyway, what he was doing. He's since told us that he was employed by the MOD but that's it.

There's no punchline. Just a dad doing stuff you don't expect him to be doing. It does explain the fact that he's not short of money now, though.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 20:10, Reply)
My unusual talent
lies in finding incredibly overdone jokes funny long after they aren't.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 19:32, 1 reply)
My dad. He destroyed me, but he's the best dad in the world.
This one's a cathartic one for me. I won't fill the screen with text, but I'll post in the replies if you want to read it.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 19:19, 2 replies)
My dad told me a story
He said strangers give the best candy.
But it tasted funny and made me sleepy. When I woke up, I was in some car park three miles away and my asshole was bleeding and hurt.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 18:58, 1 reply)
My dad is a complete cunt.
As the title may hint at, I am not exactly fond of my father. Why would this be do you think? Well here is just some tiny tidbits from memory.

My dad cheated on my mother when I was 6, with my mothers sister.

My dad despite having a more than profitable business did not pay child maintenance for me or my siblings after my mum left him because of the above. This left my mum to raise 4 children on her own, on meagre wages because she was unqualified for anything other than being a cleaner.

My dad constantly whinges about my mums use of pot, despite the fact that he is a raging alcoholic and does not see any irony in his statements.

I am a student and was royally skint last year, so I asked my dad to lend me 100 quid so I could buy my course texts. He did eventually, after being nagged into doing it by my granmother. 4 weeks later. After I borrowed some money off my mum.

Oh and the best one! I had heart palpitations from early teens, always just there every now and again. Which my dad constantly blamed on my low weight and poor diet. I had heart surgery two years ago and will be lucky to see 45 without a heart transplant.

Related to the above post. My dad always nagged me, poked me(not literally) for being really slim, despite the fact that I eat like a fat fucker. My own father gave me such horrendous body confidence issues there still around today.

Dads? You can fucking have mine.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 18:40, Reply)
Inspired by GherkinLasange (or, spooky dad-son connection)
My dad used to occasionally host a pub quiz and as I'm both a fan of quizzes and generally very good at them, he used to try them out on me. One time, after I got every question in the first three rounds correct, he said "Right! That's enough. Now I'm really going to test you. Here are the answers - tell me what the questions are".

Him: "8848 metres"

Me: "What is the height of Mt. Everest?"

Him: grumblegrumblegrumble "Bald Eagle"

Me: "What is the national bird of America?"

Him: grumblegrumblegrumble "Golf" snickersnickersnicker...

Me: "Hmm. What sport is Jack Nicklaus famous for playing?"

Him: "YOU! You've been looking at the questions!"

(I hadn't - I just know how his mind works)
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 18:28, Reply)
The man is unstoppable
My dad is undoubtedly a menace.

When I was 12 he was christened : 'Naked Gorilla Man' due to frequently appearing inexplicably lacking in clothes whenever a friend was round. Kept this act up till I was 18.

When I was 15 he remarked upon the huge chesticles of a friend of mine. This pretty much directly led to me never getting to have a go on them.

16... Its my cousins 18th birthday party and shes chosen a rather seethrough number. My dad leans in, peering intently.. "IS THAT A WONDERBRAAAAR?"

My brothers wedding was last month. He's married into a lovely family, 4 sisters all of which are rather nice looking. In the church, at the wedding rehearsal he peers over towards the aisle they are sat on... "Thats a fine specimen of a woman".. knowing his reputation the best man asks "which one?". A slight growl and the resounding "ALL OF THEM" echos around the small family church.

He's in his mid 60s now and showing no signs of slowing down
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 16:55, Reply)
dad, moles, spades and blue y-fronts
when we were kids, mum and dad decided to take us on a caravan holiday to presthaven sands(classy, i know).
the caravan was right next to a railway track, which pissed my mum off no end. however, there was a beach nearby and blackberry bushes aplenty, so us kids were either swimming, building sandcastles or picking blackberries for pies. simpler times.
on the third morning, we were awoken by a loud yell from outside the caravan. we looked out to see dad, clad only in his hideous blue y-fronts, flat on the grass and surrounded by rubbish. it seems he'd gone to put the bag of rubbish in the big communal bin and had tripped over a molehill that had sprung up during the night.
the vendetta against the moles had begun.
dad tried pouring all kinds of stuff down the mole holes, trying to get them to come out. nothing worked. he complained to the site owner, who said he wouldn't kill helpless animals just to please my dad. mum stopped him from leaving bacon on the grass by saying she was pretty sure moles don't eat bacon, so wouldn't be tempted out by it.
that may have been a great holiday, i'm not sure. my one abiding memory of that week is watching my dad at 6a.m, standing in his y-fronts, spade raised, shouting all over the campsite: "come on, you evil little bastards! i'll knock your brains out!"

yes, he is mental.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 16:46, Reply)
Grandmothers tell good dad stories.
My dad is incredibly stubborn: his mum once illustrated this by recalling the time when he was a teenager that the then UK judo champion turned up to his judo school ( or whatever the term is) and proceeded to show off rather than set a good positive example to the students and endeavoured to demonstrate his superiority by challenging the whole group to an endurance exercise which involved 'walking' on the floor on all fours but using your elbows and toes instead of your hands and knees ( no I don't really know why but this was the fifties). Anyway none of the kids made it more than one length of the gym except my old man who matched the increasingly less smug champ for more than five full lengths of that sports hall before finally giving in exhausted and I am told, bleeding. He didn't win but I imagine he dented someone's pride.
(, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 16:39, Reply)

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