My dad and I decided to cycle the Avon-Kennett canal from Bath to Reading.
It was a gentle ride, with our stopping each evening at a nearby B&B.

It was on this journey that we discovered a bottle of red wine fits perfectly - perfectly - in a standard bike drinks holder.

Thus it was towards the later part of each afternoon we could be found riding side by side, passing the bottle from one to another, and by about five breaking into a verse or two of "She'll be coming 'round the mountain", and by six generally moving towards "In Mobile" and "Where Do All The Young Girls Go", and by seven laughing hard at whoever had managed to go into either the bushes or the canal first.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 14:29, 2 replies)

My dad was a joiner. He turned his off-cuts into Brio track for me and the siblings. He also set his machines to ‘big sawdust bits’ instead of ‘small sawdust bits’ so that we had bedding for our rabbit. Top, top dadding.

He’s dead now. I inherited his belt sander and broke it.
(gobsh, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 14:29, Reply)

Shocking
Jump starting my first car for the god knows which time, he handed me back the jump leads without me paying attention. The jump leads still connected to his large batteried car and I let them touch by accident.
I went into a rictus and couldn't pull them apart.
D: What you doing now you stupid sod?
U: E-E-E lec-tro-cu-cu-tiingggg
He just casually undoes them from his car.
D: Well bloody don't!
( Ulic hissing slightly, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 13:47, 5 replies)

Seldom shaken, never stirred
Popped round to mum and dad's one time and he is in the hallway, adjusting his dress shirt and bow tie in the mirror.
U: Sorry dad, didn't realise you were going out, I'll get going.

D: No son, Goldfinger is about to start; gotta make an effort for Sean.

And he did indeed sit watching Mr Connery with the full suit and boot on. I believe he has too much time on his hands.
( Ulic hissing slightly, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 13:40, 3 replies)

My mate's dad was a hairdresser
And a body builder. My mate's mum was a tiny little pretty thing.

My mate and I would play in the garden, dig up worms to chase his sister with, build dens, and generaly just be a couple of young lads.

It was only during a recent trip down memory lane that I remembered that his dad, in the summer, was in the habit of wandering about in only a red thong, his bald head and shaved, oiled chest gleaming in the sun, as his paintbrush moustache twitched smug- and self-importantly.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 13:03, Reply)

My mates dad
A few years ago, I was in a local pub with some mates. Looking at a picture on the wall, I catch a familiar face in a photo. "R(name changed, shockingly), I didn't know your dad drank here."
My mate looked confused. "He dosen't, not for years anyway."
"Then why is his picture on the wall?"
Following my gaze, the group see a picture on the wall. It's a picture of a group of guys on holiday, all stood around a topless woman, all very drunk. Off to the side is a younger, but clearly recognisable R's dad, smoking two cigaretes at once.
"But my dad dosen't smoke!" cried R in confusion. I'll never look at his dad the same again.
(Mong goose, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 12:24, Reply)

I'm not sure what this says about me as a father...

...but our daughter can still remember this incident and doesn't mind re-telling it either.

She was about five or six, it was summer time, it was hot. I asked her if she wanted to come to the corner shop to get an ice-lolly. No need to ask what the answer was.

We got there, she chose her lolly, I paid and we headed for the door.

"Dad, Dad, I want my ice-lolly now !"

"No, I'll carry it and you can have it when we get home in a minute." The shop was literally two minutes' walk away.

"I want it NOW!"

"No. If I give it to you now, you'll drop it."

"I won't, I won't, I WANT IT NOW"

"Well, if you insist. But if you drop it, you're not getting another one. OK?"

"OK, yes, yes,"

I took off the wrapper and gave her the lolly; she took a lick, took another...and dropped it on the pavement.

Neither of us said a word. She looked down at the fallen lolly then carried on walking home, stoically. I didn't say 'I told you so', I didn't say anything. She didn't cry, she didn't moan, she didn't say anything.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 12:15, 2 replies)

A repost - he just disappeared
I will preface this by saying that I have no belief in the afterlife, be it heaven, hell or anything in-between. To me, this story is so remarkable in that, no matter how I crook my head, I can't make heads or tails of it. We've talked about this since and all involved - all strict non-believers - admit something beyond...this, the here and now...happened that day:

My father, when I was young, was the teacher in charge of school upkeep during the summer holidays. Once a week, we’d stop through to make sure nobody had smeared shit on the walls, then we’d check the meters and go home. For my sister and I, these trips were particularly fun. We could run through the corridors of a school! We could shout in a school! We could do cartwheels in a classroom! Best yet, we could see what the boys’ toilets looked like!

On one nondescript summer day, my dad, my sister and myself made the usual walk to the school. We got up to the usual bumbling about, while my dad got up to his usual duties. Time came to leave.

“C’mon kids! Time to leave!”
“All right, dad!”

We saw him walking towards the front door, then, I swear to Darwin and Tesla, he fucking disappeared. One second, there was a dad. The next, nothing. Right before our bloody eyes. There was no mist, no image dissolving like in the movies. CLICK – he was gone, and the only place he could have gone was through the front door.

My sister and I thought he was playing a joke, a bit of a scary hide-and-seek. We ran through the building, searching every locker and cranny. Nothing. Then we started crying out, scared. Nothing. Surely a father – and my dad was the greatest, at this point would sheepishly emerge to calm us down. Nothing. Three hours passed and we had no sign of our father, we couldn’t go home because we were locked in and we couldn’t get to a phone to call our mother. So we sat in a corridor and waited.

“Are you coming, kids? What are you doing sitting down, I told you to come here!”

And there was dad again, standing in the same spot.

“DAD! WHERE DID YOU GO!! WE WERE SO SCARED!”

“I, well, I didn’t go anywhere, I’ve been standing here the whole time, sillies.”

“NO, DAAAAAAAAAD, you disappeared! We were sad! We cried! We looked everywhere for you!”

“Don’t be stupid, kids. Obviously, I…”

And then he checked his watch. Indeed, three hours has passed. He turned a whiter shade of green, and we walked home in silence.

I had spent the years following assuming that my dad had played a dirty trick on us, that he took it as an opportunity to skip out on his kids so he could go to the bar or something. I brought it up again a few years later.

“I swear on your mother’s life, I didn’t go anywhere. I remember calling out to you kids, then suddenly the two of you were sitting down. Three hours were gone, but not a single second had passed for me.”

“Yeah, sure, dad.”

“I swear on your life, I didn’t hide from you. And in those years since it happened, I lie awake at night wondering what happened to me during those three hours. I – [voice cracking] - don’t know what happened…”

I’m inclined to believe my dad and to believe my own eyes (HE FUCKING DISAPPEARED!!!) But was it a dad playing a particularly devious joke on his kids? Eh, I’m not so certain of that. I certainly can’t explain what happened, and dad’s admitted to all of his other practical jokes by now.

There was only one way he could have run away to hide, and that was through the door. That door was locked. All I know is that he disappeared right before my eyes.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 11:51, 6 replies)

I used to think..
My dad could be an evil cunt but those that lived with their parents in 1991 would have all had a rough time to a certain extent, don't know if anyone remembers the last recession? Now that's what I call a proper recesssion! The old man's mortgage tripled over night but due to him being so proud he didn't say anything about it, although life was hell for a good two years, this reached a head when my older sister put his head through a window due to him losing his temper and getting out of control. I have two sisters that do not take any shit whatsoever!

When he did eventually tell me (years later) it made everything make sense, I get on with him really well now, he is awesome at DIY, so is constantly helping me out with difficult jobs around the house and I am even taking on some of his personality traits (according to the rest of my family) this manifests itself by me switching off lights, TV's and generally anything that isn't being used and generally being frugal with the little funds we have to play around with, also I have bouts of grumpiness just like the old man, a chip of the old block you might say but luckily I get all my powers of reasoning from my mother, so I never stay grumpy for long.

Sorry for no funnies but if I could give any advice to teenagers that don't get on with their dad's and live with them, just move out. You will find within months that your relationship improves. Also you learn very quickly that the world owes you approximately fuck all, a lesson better to be learnt sooner rather than later.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 11:11, 1 reply)

Did my dad read QOTW in the early 1980s?
Fans will remember my dad is a biologist by trade, and as such a lecturer and head of at the university.

Twice a year he would bring piles of essays home, which he would mark in the front room.

One day when I was but a guttersnipe, I remember "helping" him - the essays had a yellow top sheet with a perforated strip, and I would tear these off and order them neatly for him by log number.

I remember glancing over, and seeing him chuckling quietly to himself and shaking his head, as he read one of the papers.

"What's so funny, dad?" I enquired.

Presumably not wishing to break his concentration by explaining the details of molecular biology to a six year old, he simply said, "Well ... basically ... this guy thinks he's a lot funnier than he actually is."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 10:36, Reply)

First time I ever saw my Dad lose his temper
Was when he got over-taken by some twat in a convertible car, which narrowly avoided colliding with the back of us.

Since it was just me and my Dad in the car, I think he was relieved to find that his outburst of 'You WANKPOT!' as we arrived next to the bastard at the traffic lights, was as amusing to me, my Dad and anyone else in ear shot.

The look on the guys face was priceless. Best Dad/swear word ever.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 9:27, 1 reply)

My dad once managed to fall down stairs
But somehow managed to miss most of the stairs yet navigate his way around the 'L' Curve of the stairway (in mid flight), before breaking his toe upon finally colliding with something solid (the floor).

For me and my brother, this was the funniest thing we had ever seen and proceeded to laugh hysterically for the next ten minutes. Although to this day I have no idea what was so funny about it.

I think it was the noise he made.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 9:20, 1 reply)

My father.
here do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. He would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark.
Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy...the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Mon 29 Nov 2010, 9:17, 6 replies)

It's bizarre being a Dad
Got a 3 year old who I've mentioned in a few QOTWs previously and I wouldn't trade her for the world. It's only recently that I've noticed a few things from my childhood that seem to be different her own;

1. Waking up: I would wake up nice and early and always have a nice breakfast waiting for me. With the nipper she does everything within her power to get away from the brekkie table, and negotiations on the scale of a UN conference are required to maintain her seated presence and munching of the important meal.

2. Going to primary school: I used to get dressed in school uniform after brekkie and then proceed miserably to school, with the company of either me mum or dad. Even though I was one of the most alert there I wasn't really a sociable kid with the other children. Me daughter on the other hand literally drags us to school once she's ready and has lengthy conversations with her teacher about ANYTHING. Talk about a "Sword of Damocles" feeling; she's got one hell of an imagination on her and does quite frequently make up random facts about us.

3. Fixing toys: when I was a nipper if anything broke it was me dad who was there to happily pick up a screwdriver, mallet or whatever was closest (in one case a car battery, see here) and would grin and smile as he would get them working again. I'm the same with me daughter's toys, but more often or not when her back's turned I'm cursing like fuck under my breath as I'm trying to ram a barbie leg into a skirt for her.

4. Outdoor excursions: "I wanna go down the park!" was met with a smile and a pair of shoes (weather permitting) as we made our way there, whether a small walk down the road or a trip through a local forest. Nowadays it's "IT'S RAINING AGAIN. I'll get the Toy Story 3 DVD out..." (I live in Swansea, we were born with Kagools already on). If by the freak of nature water isn't flooding from the heavens then once she's wrapped up in as many layers as we can manage to the point where she can only walk like E.T. we will jump in the car and drive to the nearest habitable playground i.e. the one with the least amount of empty syringes in it.

5. Dinner time: "I'm hungry daddy!" would result in the grill going on and food being instantly cooked and supplied with a smile. Not now. "Fuck it, we'll get a Happy Meal" is met with smiles of delight (in fairness that's only once a week but that's still once more than it should, utter bilge food).

6. Bath time: after a day spent playing hard dad would run the bath and under supervision I'd spend a good half hour having fun and getting cleaned up, ready for bedtime. Today I live in fear of her soaking the entire bathroom floor as she splashes like a Titantic season ticket holder while playing with sponge letters that seem to end up in every corner of the bathroom.

7. Bedtime: after saying goodnight I would get tucked into bed properly (ie not with his penis you dirty fucks :p) and sleep all night, ready for the next day. A normal night with the daughter is once she's cleaned her teeth she hops into bed and demands a story. Somehow this became a high-pressure moment as she literally goes nuts unless she hear's something resembling a plotline. In fairness though I always manage to pull something random out and she's happy after 5 minutes (stories include King Arthur and the Dragon with toothache, bizarre versions of the Three Pigs and a Wolf who's sick of salad and Hansel and Gretel who would fuck over a kitchen for sweets).

Rinse and repeat and that in a very basic nutshell is the current parenting structure. I've just typed this out while she is currently huffing over brekkie, so negotiations need to be renewed. Although in fairness she's recovering from a cold and just coughed up her first loogie!!!! Had to open the back door and she spat it out, was soooooo proud :D
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 7:59, 2 replies)

Email Between Dad and Me Today
Me: Just don't forget I covered for you with the ice cream. ;)
Dad: What ice cream?
Me: Cute. Very cute. God will remember on Judgement Day.
Dad: What God?

I like my dad.
(WordsMeanThings, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 2:06, Reply)

My Dad is a placid man
He's only ever had one fight in his life, but it was with Michael Starke aka Sinbad out of Brookside! He won... So he says
(Dr Fishfinger Want's to see a fat man give a tit wank, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 1:57, Reply)

My dad once told me
that due to the babysitter (I preferred "childminder", I was nearly 8, after all) cancelling at the last minute, he'd be forced to call the police and have me arrested, then call them the next day and drop all charges to get me back. It'd be OK, he said, I wouldn't have to share with any more than two people, and they'd give me a blanket and some porridge.
Sadly, this is actually true.
This was the first time I ever remember properly properly crying.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 0:43, 2 replies)

Grumpy
My Dad can be really grumpy sometimes. Fortunately my sister has found that this can usually be remedied by telling him to clean his glasses and/or have a shit.
(ralphseviltwin, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 0:20, Reply)

The Toad's Wedding
When I was very wee--probably no older than three or four--my parents took me camping on a lovely little lake.

At some point on our very last day there, I managed to catch a toad. It must have been a slow and indolent toad to be snatched by my chubby little fingers, but catch it I did, and I proudly put it into my little plastic sand bucket and promptly named it "Joe".

I happily burbled about that day, putting grass and twigs and a small dish of water into the bucket so that Joe would be happy and safe. I was beside myself with joy. A toad! In a bucket! What more can a toddler ask for?

When it came time for us to end our holiday, my parents informed me that it was time to let Joe go. This was met with crashing despair (at least, as crashing a despair as child still young enough to be amused by Fisher-Price toys can experience). Tears began to well up in my eyes as I contemplated leaving my new amphibious best friend behind.

Enter my father, with a stroke of pure genius. Turning to me (at this point on the verge of blubbering tears), he exclaimed, "But you have to let him go! If you don't, he'll be late to his son's wedding!"

This seemed quite reasonable to three-year-old me, and without further ado I released Joe into the lake, where he is no doubt still recovering from the hangover he earned celebrating his tadpole's nuptials.
(herbivorous, Mon 29 Nov 2010, 0:10, 4 replies)

Not happy, sadly
My dad killed himself on April 9th 2008.

Growing up he was the best dad he could be to me. He hadn't had the best start in life himself, but he met my mum aged 29 and I was born when he was 31, and he adored us both. I'm an only child and money was tight when I was younger - my dad was self-employed and trade wasn't always great - but when he did make money he saved and saved and saved. He ended up paying for my entire university costs, including paying my loan back, and was as proud as anything when I graduated. He worked hard to pay off the mortgage on my parents' house, and he was careful with pensions and investments and so on. The abject poverty of his youth had left a deep scar on him and he was determined that neither me nor my mother should ever have to live like that.

Don't get me wrong, he wasn't perfect but he was mine, and even though we didn't always get on I miss him every single day.

He got ill after his business partner's wife was ill, in the summer of 2007. The stress got to him and he began getting paranoid that the police were after him. Psychosis is a scary, terrible, horrible, irrational thing, that takes someone's mind and grows like a cancer inside it. What is horrible about mental illness is that people are quick to dismiss it, it's almost like that because they can't see it it's not real.

It is very, very real when it drives a man to jump off a bridge, you know? We'll never know why he chose that day, whether someone spoke to him or whether a police car was behind him or something silly, but he was on his way to an appointment and never made it. He was "missing" for 24 hours, which is the most horrendous thing ever. The police divers recovered his body and the police, actually, were brilliant, lovely to me, my mum and my husband, and as kind as they possibly could be.

I am determined to be outspoken about suicide because it is so misunderstood. My dad wasn't a coward, he wasn't running away from his problems, he was simply very, very ill and took a tragic way out of it. My mum is happily remarried now, and we're all getting used to being a blended family. She lives mortgage-free and my dad left a tidy sum of money meaning that she is set up to live a comfortable life - but she is careful too and has reinvested most of it so that it eventually will come to me (and at the moment she is paying for an OU course for me out of it - thanks dad, I hope you can see how well I'm doing!)

All the money in the world can't replace my dad, and I would give it all away if it meant I could have him back, and honestly one of the saddest things about the entire thing is that he never got to spend all that carefully saved money in his retirement. I would have loved for my parents to take off around the world when they both retired, and I wish the silly bugger had lived long enough to do that.

If you have a good dad and he's still around for you - go give him a hug from me, okay?
(clumsykisses, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 22:47, 6 replies)

DAD
DAD started life in 1991, originally under the name of Finex.

In no time it became one of the UK's fastest-growing companies, regularly named in the FT's 'Fast Track' Top 100 through the 90s.

Then, in 2000, it was acquired by Incepta plc - and several incarnations later became part of Media Square plc.

But being an entrepreneurial peg in a corporate hole wasn't the best fit for them, so in February 2007, a management buyout was led by original agency founder, Ray Fine. A new beginning and a new name marked the start of 3 years of unprecedented growth for DAD.
(Frample Tromwibbler climbs an obstacle like old people fuck, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 22:35, Reply)

Proud?
Out in the pub one night with mates and my dad, I told what I believed to be a cracker of a joke. It bombed. My dad turned to me and my friends and issued the words that have stayed with me to this day.

"To think I wasted sperm on you"

He got the bellyaching laughs from all my mates that I wanted. Thanks Dad
(ProfMoriarty Telegraph'd, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 22:06, 1 reply)

the dad i'm glad i never had
one of my best friends growing up was a girl who i shall only refer to as P, just in case.
P's dad was a total psycho. seriously, the man should have been locked up. he was a good 25 years older than P's mother, who i assume only agreed to marry him due to the fact that she had learning difficulties.
P invited me to stay over one night when she was 10 and i was 11. as i was older, i was alloweed to stay up late. i was rather surprised to discover that "late" was 7.30, but not as surprised as i was to discover that P's dad still insisted on bathing his daughter pesonally. i never stayed again.
one day, an ambulance turned up at P's house. i knew she'd been ill for a few days, but i thought it was only the flu.
turns out it was.
P had woken up, famished, at 6a.m. and had grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. the ambulance was called by her brother, after the beating she received from her father for taking an apple meant only for "show" left her unconscious. her mother backed up her father's tale of P falling down the stairs, so nothing was done. the fact that P's mother had a black eye and a split lip was overlooked.
P and her brother had a dog, a lovely little thing that they both adored. when the time came for them to move house, several of the neighbours(including my parents) offered to take the dog in, if their new place didn't allow pets. P's dad said no, they were taking the dog with them. 2 days later, another friend of mine was riding his bike by the marina, where he found P's dog, dead. its neck had been viciously twisted until it broke, then the poor creature was thrown into the marina.
last i heard of P, her mother had finally been convinced to leave her bastard of a husband, although it had taken him almost killing her before she'd thrown him out. i still wonder what happened to her. i hope for her sake she cut all ties with her dad, he was a truly evil man.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 20:43, 2 replies)

Me? Dad!
And the proudest one in the world!
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Sun 28 Nov 2010, 20:42, Reply)

Me 'n' dad watching the telly
...I was reading the TV Guide and mention that on Channel 5 later that night the sci-fi "classic" Species was going to be on.

His reply? "That's the one with the bird in it."

Dad film descriptions are the best :)
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 20:27, 1 reply)

Retirement...
My dad recently retired, and as such, struggles to fill his days with enough stuff to keep him occupied. This, of course, means he's becoming one almighty ballache for anyone in the house. Thankfully I don't live there anymore, but I still feel the effects of the bored mind of my father whenever I chat on the phone or go home for a few days.

Firstly, he throws away anything he deems to be rubbish if it's been out on a table or sideboard for more the 5 minutes. I had a receipt for a coconut that was rotten inside, along with the sticker from it, that I intended to take back to the shops. I went up to get my coat, and efficient as ever, the receipt was already screwed up, binned, with the bin taken outside by the time I got back down. Typically, when questioned about where stuff's gone, he'll forget doing it or if he did remember, make a fuss about how it wasn't obviously not rubbish.

He also recently decided to rearrange the contents of the cupboards in the kitchen. After my whole life of having the plates, bowls, cups, mugs and glasses being in their respective cupboards, my dad decided that that wasn't a logical setup anymore. Months after doing this, I still find myself opening and closing cupboards like a loon whenever I want to find a utensil, effectively making the most basic of chore 3 times as long because I've had 20 odd years of routine and habit to reprogram. The irritating thing is that the cupboards are still named after the previous thing they contained, so if I shout to my dad "where are the mugs?" he'll calmly respond, "In the plate cupboard!"

Even when I'm in my flat, miles from home, I still get emails with terrible/borderline-racist jokes, or shitty gif animations or Powerpoint slideshows of stuff that was probably created on b3ta years and years ago. I'm yet to receive the glasscock, but I'm sure it'll come soon (ahem...not like that). To top that off, if I don't respond, he calls me to ask if I got it, and asks if I forwarded it to any of my friends. I say "No." He asks, "Why?". I tell him it's crap. He still sends me stuff. The best ones are the really, really stupid ones that say forward this to 20 people and an amazing video will appear. I've explained to him that there is no way that this will work, but he still does them. He then gets angry when my Uncle emails him to tell him to stop putting his email address on crappy chain emails 'cos he's sick of getting spam.

And god...the phonecalls... They seem to go on forever (a bit like this rant I suppose). He always tells me the same story over and over again on different occasions, forgetting that he's told me them already. On a number of times he's rung me while I was in half asleep, and foolishly I've answered. I then tell him I was actually half asleep, and then just lie there with the phone rested on my head saying 'yes' and 'no' until he has finished his 'abridged' phonecall, which still goes on for 15 minutes.

The only time his memory loss was a benefit was one Christmas he called me and asked, in a proud and enthusiastic tone, whether I wanted an iPod dock as a present. I then proceeded to explain why I didn't need one, because I'd just listen to the music on my computer if I was in my room, and had no need for one. His voice dropped, and he sheepishly carried on the conversation. I could tell he'd already bought me it and was selling me the idea. Fortunately, the next day, he called again and asked the exact same question, and I told him how that would be a perfect present. It turns out that I do use it quite a lot now, so kudos.

But the scariest thing of all is when I'm with friends or family and I make a terrible, terrible joke or pun, and someone says, "That's exactly what your dad would say!" Or if he gets really angry for something pathetic, and I actually see his side of the argument and agree. It's inevitable...we all become old and it happens sooner than you think.
( guffguff fuckes your gradeds balls!, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 17:59, 5 replies)

My dad...
was/is a complete knob-jockey, but one word of advice he gave will always stay with me. He imparted this golden nugget of wisdom one bright, summer's day with a worldly-wise glint in his one good eye as I sat on his lap. Proudly wearing my school uniform, cap lying askew on my head, he began his lesson. ''Laughter'', he said, gently removing my cap and ruffling my mop of straw blonde hair, ''is the best medicine.'' Three months later my sister died of tuberculosis.
(Mao's stepson is doing his bit for East/West relation's, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 15:30, Reply)

I try not to think about mine...
...and as a dad myself I strive to be everything he wasn't.
No long story, just to say some dads are really evil cunts.
Be grateful if yours wasn't one of them.
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 15:05, Reply)

i was at a wedding last night
and my father and brother/fiancee borrowed my flat as they were at a football match in london yesterday. we all met up at westfield this morning for a bit of christmas shopping and lunch (we saw bill bailey in the new lego shop, which is as cool as it got).

it is safe to say that my dad is not in his natural habitat in a shopping mall. in fact, it is safe to say that he fucking hates them, and then add a bit more rage, by which point you might be halfway there.

so we've been around a few shops and he has bought christmas stuff for my nieces and nephew, and we are having the world's most exotic pizzas in the brilliant 'fire and stone' (who are actually doing a christmas pizza with turkey, stuffing, roast potatoes etc on top... wtf). and i asked my dad what he thought of westfield. he looked around europe's biggest shopping mall, with its hundreds of shops, tens of restaurants, truly brilliant parking system, thousands of shoppers, and pronounced:

"WELL. IT'S JUST UNNECESSARY ISN'T IT?"
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 15:00, 14 replies)

Mildly inneresting
All the 3-letter words that rhyme with 'dad' are blokey-ish, whilst over in the 'mum' corner, they seem to be kind of biological.
(roysin, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 14:18, 7 replies)