How my cat almost became a transsexual
People who know me will testify that I dote on my cat the way that other people dote on their malformed, stupid and smelly children. Nevertheless, this does not mean that I am always competent in my pet-ownership. Such is evidenced by the fact that my cat once got so desperate for a wee that the vet recommended a sex change operation.

The story goes like this.

Metis, my cat, looked ill. He also smelled ill - you can tell when he's distressed because he starts to pong a bit. He seemed to be having particular difficulty walking - there was something stiff about his movement - and jumping up onto the sofa was a near-impossibility. Nevertheless, he would still purr when picked up, and so I figured that nothing too serious was amiss. A worming pill and a good night's sleep should cure him. Besides: it was a Sunday. The vet would be closed, and emergency veterinary cover is pricey.

At the time, the cat spent the night in the laundry room; he would hear me coming downstairs in the morning and, being a talkative sort, would miaow to be let out, fed, cuddled etc. But on the Monday morning, his cry was much more plaintive. Pained, even. He wasn't interested in food, nor in attention. He just slunk into a difficult-to-reach corner of the dining room. He smelled terrible. I took him to the vet.

The vet told me off for not making an appointment, but agreed to examine Metis anyway. He then told me off for not seeking medical help sooner. Apparently - and this is reasonably common among toms - it is possible for cats' urine not to be as acid as it might be. The result is that small crystals of urea can form in the bladder. These are normally passed without a problem, but can, on occasion, get lodged in the urethra. In Metis' case, this is what had happened. In effect, his penis was blocked by crystallised piss. As a result, his bladder was getting fuller and fuller. Little wonder he was walking funny.

The solution was a catheter and a week in kitty hospital. Additionally, I was told only to feed him special (expensive) food from then on, but that the problem might still recur. In that case, one option would be to remove the penis - apparently the ladyparts on a cat don't have the same narrow urethra, so the risk of blockage is much smaller.

So far - thankfully - the operation has been unnecessary. Metis is fine and pissing like a good'un. But the point is that he was once so desperate for a wee that the vet considered removing his penis.

And that is how my cat almost became a transsexual.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 12:46, Reply)

oh dear god
Hofmeister.

we were teenagers is the only excuse I can muster.
(Halfy By light alone, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 12:46, Reply)

A friend of mine is ill and so is on benefit at the moment,
This morning she had to be examined by a doctor from the Department of Work and Pensions. I went with her for moral support. After 2 hours having to sit in the waiting room with all those working class people, I got so desperate that I actually read a two year old edition of Women's Own from cover to cover.

There was a good interview with Dawn French about how she never let being big hold her back in life. Rivetting.

EDIT FOR CLARIFICATION : To be working class, one only has to be from a working class background - one does not have to actually be working. In exactly the same way that attack submarines are still attack submarines when they are not attacking.
(Seance Trumpet has got no beef with a man enjoying a croissant, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 12:39, 6 replies)

Mums library books...
When I was younger I devloped an ability to scan through a book in about 2 minutes whilst subconciously picking up any words remotely relating to sex. For example: silk, longing, nervous, anticipation are to name but a few. In the right sort of books these words mean only one thing.............written porn, nothing better!!

Next time you are desperate try this, even to be found in waiting rooms for dentists, the doctor etc. (not that you would want to whilst waiting for dentist.......then again some of the storys on here)
(Studentken is looking for motivation on, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 12:37, 1 reply)

Relatively wank answer
I had a great answer to this qotw but after speaking to my sister b3th for an hour and a half last night I remembered that I have a relative who reads about my shenanigans. I then remembered that I have never committed the dirty, foul act of onanism. Like, ever.

No really.

¬_¬
( djtrialprice, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 12:22, Reply)

I know a guy...
He was hungry and poor, but had no food in the house. He thought "I have a candle, candles are made from fat, so I can eat it"

Turns out no.

(Other things made from fat: soap, biofuels, romford ladies, membranes)
(teebie jeebie, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 12:15, 1 reply)

I found a copy of the Joy of Sex......
in my mum and dads bedroom when I were a randy pre-teen. I remember getting ridiculously aroused at the arty sexual drawings and having to relieve myself quite often. I had just discovered wanking so it was still a novelty back then. At least three, or more, times a day I would sneak off to pilfer the said book from my parents room (which was unimaginatively hidden under the bed) retreat to my room and masturbate furiously before re-hiding the book and joining the folks back downstairs to watch some shite on tv like Lovejoy or Bergerac. They must have thought something was up as departing for 10 min intervals and arriving with beads of sweat upon my forehead must have looked suspect. With the advent of internet pornography, those Joy of Sex drawings are so tame they wouldnt even register a twitch nowadays.

Eventually my folks chose a different hiding place for the book and I couldnt find it any more. I then had to resort to, in great desperation, wanking off to the pictures of 'before' and 'after' tits yould would get in the adverts for breast surgery clinics found in the back pages of sunday newpaper magazines like 'You'. Fuck me that was desperate.
(CaptainFellatioNelson is trying to kill me, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 12:05, 3 replies)

Toilets, sunshine, hangovers and dehydration.
I was once in a group of people who were in the habit of stopping off at a moto-X course for a weekend, and driving little cars around off-road and generally having a real hoot. This used to be a "Blokey" thing, with only a few hard-core lasses turning up... and then women started to come, and then people bought frikking landrovers and caravans inated of tents.. and it all started to go tits-up.

Before too long, it had become an event that needed to be "organised" and a porta-toilet was ordered at great expense. No longer was taking the shovel up the field a valid option, and sooner or later, it became frowned upon.

One morning after spending the night on the ale my guts and body were't feeling too good. Long after sunrise and desperately in need of lettings a serious Cludgie go, I exited a foul-smelling CO2-rich tent and swayed off to the porta-toilet which - by this time - had spent 3 days in the sun. I opened the door to a smell and fly-swarm that MUST have been piped in from the cup-girls set, and I baulked. No way was I going to manage to keep my guts from exploding at both ends...

I toddled off into the morning with a small roll of bog-roll clutched tightly in one sweating hand, and vainly attempted to walk smoothly lest I should upset the growling beast that was my bowel. About half way up the hill I realised that what I needed most was a drink of water... momentarily I stopped and considered the re-percussions of returning to camp, but carried on pottering towards the woods when my sphincter was nearly overcome by a wave of hot pressure.

A few minutes after I was deep in the woods, surveying the area and getting pissed at myself for not bringing a spade... The day was still, the woods were warm, and the buzz of insects held the promise of a frustrating crap.

After a deeply agonising moment, weighing up the known blast-radius that my arse was capable of, the lack of hole and blast wall (didn't have a spade) and the predicted consistency of what was to follow.... I decided to squat on a slope, hoping that exit would be brought closer to the ground, thus narrowing the blast-zone.

After another brief moment of thought, I decided to remove my boxers, trousers and boots.. working on the theory that it was easier to clean crap off my legs.

So.. Squatting on a slope in the woods, wearing only a T-Shirt and a hung-over grimmace, I closed my eyes, concentrated on the buzzing of the insects and tried to relax my sphincter gently... I jumped as a fly landed on my ring-piece.. calmed my nerves and tried again.

The next 5 minutes are etched into my mind as a "what not to do" tutorial for the future.

The resulting flow of man-slurry exited fast, It flowed downhill at speed, and my placement of the bog-roll (infront of me) suddenly seemed less than smart. Then the smell hit me. Bouyed up by it's own heat, the stench floated upwards in the still humid air and assaulted me. Suddenly i was wretching again, and on an empty stomach I produced only bile. Gasping for breath resulted in large nasal inhalations, more wretching... for the second time of my life I was in a disasterous shit-induced positive-feedback loop. Morbid curiosity forced me to look as green bile surfed a torrent of shit, only to realise with horror what I was looking at - and the cycle would start again.

I moved - Sideways - like a shitty crab. Clutching a trees for much-needed stability I evaded the stench and rode out the rest of my bodily convulsions in relative comfort: even the flies trying to munch my ass were pleasant by comparison.

I returned to camp minus underwear and shirt: The clean-up operation had been Wardrobe-intensive. =(

I now drink less.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 16 Nov 2007, 12:02, 8 replies)

Exhausted, desperate and fairly shaken I knew this was my last chance to get home so I ran headlong into the road slamming my hands onto the bonnet of the rapidly braking taxi….

The night had begun, as most do, at the beginning, with me and a couple of mates hitting the tiles for a night of booze, japery and not pulling. It was one of my first nights out in my new University town, Bristol, and I was going to make the most of it. Many many shots of vodka later and enough sugar laced caffeine to turn even the most placid of children into a fire staring ADHD granny basher.


Leaving the sticky heat of the club my friends piled into a mini cab, as they lived in a different part of town, and disappeared into the frigid October night. Inebriated, cold and alone I was pondering just how I would get home when a mini pulled up and a chap with a soft Geordie* accent enquired as to my final destination. “Home to Frenchay” I slurred, “nay bother” came the reassuring reply.

I sat back to enjoy the warmth and safety of a taxi ride home… although it didn’t quite work out like that.

After some brief dialogue with the driver it transpired that this wasn’t exactly a carriage licensed by the great city of Bristol. Never mind, me thinks it might be cheaper. It wasn’t.

As we drove through Bristol my driver took a obvious wrong turn, and when I politely mentioned this he said that he had to pick something up on the way home. Maybe he’s got to pick up the gruel rations for the orphanage I thought and I pushed it from my mind, however I was adamant that I would not pay him more than £10 stirling as that was the cost of this journey.

“No problem” he said, “why don’t you give me the money now?”

“I think I’ll wait” I replied,”Anyway I only have a 20 so do you have change”

“Of course I have change, now give me the 20”

“Not until to you show me the chan….”

“JUST GIVE ME THE FUCKING MONEY!”

I should point out that I have the fighting pedigree of a small kitten whose spirit has been crushed by overachieving siblings. I gave him the money in the hope he would merely kick be out and speed off into the night, alas no. We drove on deeper into the rabbit warren that is St. Pauls**, in due course he pulled over and with 30 seconds to chaps of African origin*** walked over and engaged my chauffeur in a brief conversion at the end of which my £20 went to them in return for what looked like a small ball of tin foil.

We pulled up around the corner, fuck knows where we were, as a nice public school boy this was not the end of town I frequented. As the car stopped an ominous clunk was emitted by all the doors and the child lock sealed my fate. The driver wasted no time in pulling out a small glass sculpture, which as it turned out was a crack pipe. He then started to hotbox the car, maybe that was why I felt relatively calm, we chatted for some time, he offered me a smoke….I declined and he gave me his life story about how he’s lost his job, his wife had left him and he was living in his car.

I’m not surprised you psycho Geordie crack head I thought. Outside however I was calm and tried to placate him and agreed that none of this was his fault, I contemplated kicking out a window, but it was cold dark and I knew that there were crack dealers just around the corner and I had know idea where I was. After a while he became, well unstable, and once more we were off around Bristol.

Now it got scary, he would alternate between crying and screaming at me, I watched the speedo as it whipped past 50, 60 even 70 miles an hour around town. We stopped at green lights and ploughed through reds. We swerved all over the road, and all the while he insisted that he was going to take me home.

Eventually we made it onto the motorway all seemed to have calmed down until my dickhead mates who had long ago got home and had a cup of cocoa decided to call and see if I was ok. Now he knows I have a phone.

I refused to give it to him, until he swerved from the outside lane to the hardshoulder at 80 mph and than back again lightly clipped the central reservation.

‘Take the phone’ I said ‘call the wife call fucking Australia for all I care just let me out here!’

People on crack can’t text and drive at the same time. How we made it my junction I’ll never know but we did. I could see the lights from my halls not ½ a mile away, unfortunately, my driver took the wrong exit off the roundabout and when I, quite politely, pointed this out he flew into a rage and conferred to me via the medium of rage and spit that he was taking me back to town.

That moment was crushing. I was so close to home, it was so near to being over.

We drove in silence all the way back to town; I have little memory of this part, due to alcohol and having had escape snatched from my aching fingers.

We arrived back in Bristol and he pulled over and opened the childlocks. I pleaded for my phone back but he refused. He was weeping openly now, sobs shook his wasted shoulders, I decided to be aggressive and shouted at him for my phone, but he reached into the footwell and produced an iron bar which he swung at me, I ducked and got out the car which accelerated around the corner.

Never have I felt so alone. It was 4:30am and there was not a single person or car anywhere, I had been in that taxi for 2 and a half hours and having held it together for that long I had little left in the tank. That’s when I saw a taxi on his way home and that’s when I was desperate enough to throw myself in front of it, risking my life for something as simple as wanting to go home.

Never get an illegal taxi by yourself, they caught the fucker but there wasn’t enough evidence. I can still remember his smell.

* Ironically I had just come back from visiting friends in Newcastle which was full of lovely Geordies.

** St. Pauls was fucking dodgy; I believe it was the crack centre of Britain at one point.

*** Not racist just painting a picture, I’m sure there are many white crack dealers as well!
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 11:59, 5 replies)

Desperate for work
1990, and fresh out of college after 3 years of studying graphic design. I want to work. Two weeks of being on Income Support, and I had already decided I couldn't live like that. I needed to make some decent money, and I didn't care how.

So I took a temporary, 2 week stint working back shifts in a factory. Packing ladies sanitary protection.

Still, £250 a week in 1990 was not to be sniffed at. I suppose you could call it blood money...

I'll get me coat...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 16 Nov 2007, 11:48, 4 replies)

Kiss The Sky Mungo.
At school, I was in top sets for most subjects except for Music.

Being tone deaf and unable to hold a rhythm, I ended up being timetabled in the 'special needs' class. (That and being put in this class meant I could be timetabled for all my other high set classes).

Being scheduled with the Tards was a laugh, in Third year seniors (Year 9 for all you modern whippersnappers), I had music on a Friday afternoon, last period.

These were normally taken up with our slightly effeminate music teacher imploring for a class of 20 educationally challenged children to calm down and stop indescriminately banging drums, glokenspeils, triangles and cymbals in a hideous cacophany.

On one occasion one of my classmates removed his phallus from his trousers and began picking off large white lumps of smegma which he wiped on his exercise book.

Another time, Mandy (a behemoth with bristlecut hair and arms thicker than the sports teachers thighs) 'came on' in the middle of a lesson and stood up proclaiming such. A pool of menstrual fluid similar in size to the school pond glistened threateningly on the chair below her.

One group came running out of one of the practise rooms screaming. On further investigation it was found that Dwayne, who had behavioural difficulties had passed a large, smelly motion into the front of a tuba.
(Vic Flange, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 11:44, 2 replies)

Not another teenage wanking story. Sigh......


I once wanked off to the instructions from a packet of Tampax, found in the cuboard of my bathroom.

For some reason I distinctly remember the FAQ. Can a tampon get lost inside me?

I have a shit imagination.:(
(Poo_Pipe_Pirate, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 11:10, 2 replies)

Carpet Spliffs
Anyone who is or at one time was hopelessly addicted to weed/hash knows all about 'carpet spliffs'. When you've run out of smoke and can't get any more, there is always some detritus on the carpet near where you normally skin up. Or that bit of hash which pinged off the table at an odd angle which is worth searching for...

Apart from as we all know, half of what we find that >looks< a bit like hash on the carpet is probably not. And there's always quite a bit of fluff in the final product as well.

They're very rarely satisfying. But we still smoke them when we're desperate.
(synapz, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 11:08, Reply)

During a particularly dry time in my sexual history
I was forced to accept the offer of a blowjob from a woman who had a face like Tommy Cooper's pulled inside out.
Of the teeth that were still inside her mouth, several were crooked and brown, but I was won over by her boss eyed look.
During the act, I closed my eyes and imagined Kate Moss, Tess Daly, or even Lisa Riley was down there noshing me. On opening my eyes I would see this gargoyle and my ardour would be dampened risking the deflation of my hardness.
After a while, I made the best of it, and started playing a game with it..

Eyes Shut, supermodel expertly fellating me.
Eyes Open, Marty Feldman's daughter.

I called it "Blowjob Minefield".
(Vic Flange, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 11:02, 3 replies)

In with the in-crowd?
Way back when, what seems like hundreds of years ago now, there was a young boy who was desperate for acceptance.

Sure, he had friends, but for some reason he wanted to be one of the ‘cool’ kids; he wanted to sit at the back of the class. He wanted to sit at the back of the bus. Basically, if it involved being at the back of something, then that is where he wanted to be.

And the tragedy of it all is – the ‘cool’ kids knew this. And oh, did they take advantage of that fact.

A young Devil In Tights would do anything falling short of nothing for a bit of recognition. Not doing homework, deliberately getting detentions, drawing graffiti in the toilets, and cutting class. OK, looking back on it now these are hardly heinous crimes and nor are they acts of total depravity, but hey – it was my way of trying to get in with the in crowd.

One fateful day, we were queuing outside of a maths lesson, and something incredible happened. There was a party happening that weekend, and they invited me! Me, with the little Lord Fauntleroy hair and the speccy glasses. Me, the little geeky boy who actually liked English and Drama. And who should ask me but the one object of my affections (whose name shall remain nameless)! She even said, in a breathy (and what I imagine now what she thought was a sexy) drawl “don’t forget to bring a condom!”

Well that was it. I was Romeo, she was Juliet. I of the house of geekdom, she of the house of cool. And I was going to do it on her on Saturday night. Finally, I had found my calling, to unite teenagers everywhere regardless of colour, creed, sexuality or social status. I’d be hailed as a hero, no less than a God.

Oh, would that it were, Devil In Tights, would that it were.

The fateful day came. I pilfered alcohol from my parents. I snuck in to a pub and procured a pack of two prophylactics (stud!) – and I was prepared.

My heart was aflutter all the way to the party. My loins were proud and erect; there was nothing, nothing that would stop me now.

I arrive at the party to the heady tunes of Guns n’ Roses, and approach my conquest. She was beautiful to my fourteen-year-old eyes, the way she moved, and the way she smoked: I wanted her. I wanted her to make me a man. She turned to me, and offered me a drag on her Silk Cut (and by this I mean her cigarette, not her vagina). I took it proudly with my fingers, dragged some acrid tasting smoke in to my mouth, and puffed it straight back out.

Which was meant with a round of raucous laughter. “’Ow are yew menna smowke if ya dahn’t tayke it dahn?” she cackled, her cohort of Wyrd Sisters mocking me from behind her. “G’won, tayke anuvver drayg aynd ven swaller it!”

Which I did. I swallowed smoke. And then promptly coughed up a lung.

“AHH! Wot a dowzy cahnt! ‘E only fahkin’ swallered it, dinee? Wot a fahkin dikked!”

I ran, I veritably ran away from tht party, their laughter still ringing in my ears. I walked the long way to my best friends house, where we drank a can each of shitty lager, played on a computer, and I realised that the friends I had were the best ever, and what the hell was I trying to achieve by hanging out with the so-called ‘cool’ kids.

I never said this to my friends at the time, but my desperation to be seen as cool made me a total dick.

The nice end to this story is that I went back to the little backwater where my school was a few years ago. Most of the ‘cool’ kids are still hanging around there, working in dead end jobs with entire phalanxes of children swarming around them, and even though none of us are older than 28 they look haggard and old.

I met the object of my affection in a pub that weekend.

“Fark me,” she said “Iss only fahkin you, innit? ‘Ere, you turned aht awlriyt, din’t ya? Yew fayncy goin’ aht fer a drink or summink?”

“No,” I said. “No, I don’t think so.”

The moral of the story here is that the cool kids at school don’t necessarily stay cool when you grow up.

Apologies for length, but I hope it shows that sometimes desperation can teach you a few well-needed lessons.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 10:51, 9 replies)

cereal, beer and chocolateyness
Many moons ago, some friends and I had, at the age of 16 or thereabouts, taken a trip to newquay for a week to drink, smoke and surf; a thoroughly admirable thing to do.

One morning I awoke ready to enjoy a delicious bowl of Coco Pops, only to find that there was no milk.

Obviously going out to the shop was out of the question. I needed Coco Pops, and I needed them now!

Raiding the fridge gave only one option.


Lager

That's right dear reader, Coco Pops and half a can of amber nectar.

It was one of those situations where the first couple of mouthfuls provoke the "actually that's not half bad" response.

and then the beer turned chocolatey....
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 10:40, 8 replies)

Oh The Shame….


I’m afraid I have to confess that sometimes…in my darkest moments of desperation to get a shag, I have resorted to being a charming, intelligent, funny, good looking bastard with loads of money and a great body…sensitive and warm, but with just that hint of danger that always gets the lovely ladies’ pants moistening like a veritable frenzy.

I have even listened to their problems and complexities, and offered advice when requested. I’ve treated them as an equal, yet been chilvalrous when appropriate.

This usually works to be honest…they seem to like it…then I bang the arse off ‘em.

I have no excuse.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 16 Nov 2007, 10:39, 22 replies)

Desperate Times
Travelling down the motorway, Mum and Dad in the front, me in the back reading the newspaper.

Made them pull into a service station, so i could have a wank cos i'd just spent about an hour staring at Melinda Messenger's baps.

Well, i was desperate.
(TinyDinosaur, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 10:33, 2 replies)

Again in China
I was living at a school in wretched accommodation with no heating. This was fine in summer with 90% humidity, but when it dropped to -5 in the winter I had to sleep in a coat and hat. At one point, the water system in the building froze up and I was without water for three weeks.

I was forced to use bottled water heated on a gas stove to wash my genitals, but didn't wash the rest of my body for that three weeks. Nor did I take my clothes off, as it was too cold. My hair took on a strange cheesey whiff, kind of like a goat.

I finally ended up shagging an American girl as an excuse to use her shower.
(frankspencer, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 10:21, 6 replies)

Hungry
Peanuts dipped in McDs BBQ sauce
Gruel (ready brek and water)
"Soup" (one very old Oxo cube in water)
(insomniac girl all my best things are in hock, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 9:57, 1 reply)

Just now
I've just had breakfast. It consisted of a HP sauce sandwich and a cup of tea made with a pre-loved (that's the term I prefer to use) bag. Nuff said.

I'm also perched in an obscure position next to my front window with my home made (Pringles tubes & tinfoil) Wifi booster aerial, so I can steal internet from somebody a couple of streets away.

Got a feeling my post breakfast fag might be out of the ash tray as well...
(Son of Sam-i-am We're all as mad as hatters here, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 9:47, 4 replies)

there are builders in my office
drilling things. And they test the fire alarms on Friday mornings. And my keyboard really doesn't make a good pillow. But that extra pint was so tempting. Hence this morning I was super dedicated and came into work early. Nothing to do with it being cold, the middle of the night and my office being so much closer than home. Not at all. *collapses into heap and recommences snoring*
(Lotus Eater exposed herself on, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 9:43, Reply)

During the 1990's ..
..or as I prefer to refer to them, my 'dark years', I had a nasty bout of elephantitis.

Such was the severity of this condition, that many people would often stop me in the street, and ask me where I purchased the pink corduroy space hopper on which I was sitting.
(Vic Flange, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 9:37, 5 replies)

Nothing more desperate to a teenage smoker
Than rolling tabs out of a4 paper (cut to size) and pipe tobacco.

It's an “interesting” flavour to say the least. It also lines the mouth with a 1 mm coating of brown ming.

Also. Socks are an ideal replacement for those "no toilet roll" moments that you find yourself in, in Ikea toilets.
(Rimfeast, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 9:01, Reply)

Hard rockin
Another toilet confession i'm afraid.
As a stinky student in Liverpool I had eaten something dodgy and received a nice case of food poisoning. Following a weeks confinement I started to feel like I could finally make it out - even got my appetite back which must show things had 'left the building' for good. We went out and visited a local rock pub/club and having had a few ales decided on one of their tasty and highly nutritious pizza's that they served from a hole in the wall near the toilets! Well after a week of barely eating and a few beers it was like mana from heaven.
Lets just say that about an hour later came the initial contractions and labour pains. The waters hadn't broken but it was definately on the way.
I scampered to toilets to find what wasn't too disimilar to the toilet in train spotting - no bog roll or lock on the door and a crowd of rockers all milling around the urinals.
It was too much to bare though, I had to get into a position that would 'aim' at the toilet and also keep the door shut before spraying a hefty cloud of rusty water (with the odd chunk) in the general direction of the bog. Within seconds I had attracted the attention of the rockers who were now listening intently to the howling whistle and splattering that was sounding from my cherry bomb exhaust. If it hadn't been the sheer relief I would have been quite scared. Fortunately the CS gas like vapour zone that had now been created was quickly dispersing the rockers. I then had to wipe up by using an old kcf napkin I had in my jeans pocket and make a quick exit trying to look nonchalant, while walking with a slight mince to avoid moist cheek chaffing.
To his credit the taxi driver home didn't say anything but I think he needed to buy a new magic tree air freshner the next day.
(the noggin causes laxative effects, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 8:50, 2 replies)

Desperate Times
Ok. I admit it. I'm desperate for some help with my new service www.daftdoggy.com/recorder/record.php

I *really* need beta testers to play with it and tell me what works and what doesn't.

And, as a bonus, I'm going to be using the app to record some of my B3ta stories and make them available as a Podcast.

OK - begging over. Tale follows.

I gave up smoking once - worst ten minutes of my life. So, one rainy Sunday evening I cracked and set off through the pissing rain to the pub to get a packet of smokes.

On the way back, I took a shortcut to get home quicker and out of the rain. Well this shortcut led down a really steep,muddy, bank to the main road. Now I have a superb sense of balance so I took this incline with my hands in my pockets. Fall? - Not me sir.

Well of course my feet shot straight out in front of me and I dropped like a bag of shit straight onto the kerb - right on my spine. My full weight landed on the kerb and I was out for the count. I didn't know it was possible to knock yourself out without hitting your head but it is.

So there I was. Lying unconcious on a muddy road. It make matters worse, my body had blocked the rain running down the road as I was forming a dam. The water collected in front of my body, and before long, not only was I unconcious, I was fucking drowning as well.

Luckily a passing car saw me and stopped. They pulled me away from the water and called an ambulance. I woke, in incredible pain, just as the ambulance pulled up. They carted me off to hospital where I had a shitload of x-rays on my spine. The emergency doctor couldn't decided if my back was damaged or not so they kept me in for the night until a bone doctor could review my x-rays and decide waht to do.

Now seeing that this was a possible spinal injury they decided not to take chances and tied me to the bed - with two fuck-off blocks of wood acting as a vice to stop me moving my head. Ever tried to get to sleep when you can't move at all? I don't think it's possible.

It all turned out OK though. My spine wasn't broken - just badly brusied and they discharged me the next day..

So you see what being desperate for a smoke can do to you. Don't smoke kids.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 8:42, 1 reply)

Sign ‘O’ the Desperate Times
There I was 5pm yesterday...putting together a post...it starts to get a bit 'lengthy' (fnarr) and it's time to leave work. 'Ah well' I think to myself. I'll finish it off and post it tomorrow…

So here I am this morning, having a quick scan through to make sure nobody has since posted something similar…and I discover that Peregrin has beaten me to it. Why didn’t I stay those extra couple of minutes? WHHHYYYY????

So now these are desperate times for ME. I spent about half a bloody hour on this yesterday. So I don’t care if you’ve all read ones just like it…you can all just read it again.

Here goes…

Sign ‘O’ the Desperate Times


In the 80’s, I was lucky enough to get a record deal with an established comapny. I had a kind of ‘purple-clad Jimi Hendrix / Phil Lynot’ look about me and milked it for all it was worth. I even had a couple of hits and, despite having a bit of a ‘samey’ sound, was soon considered quite the pop star. Result

As the 90’s approached, I came up with the ‘brilliant’ tactic of replacing words with numbers to ‘freshen the whole thing up. i.e. ‘I would die 4 U’ (geddit?...FOR YOU…sounds like a text message…genius).Got a few decent marketing scams under my belt and was generally minted. Get in there. You’d think that this story is a ‘win win’? Well, you’d be flipping wrong matey Jake.

The thing was…I always had a bit of a hang up about my height and lack of real talent. I wanted to get the message across to the world that I was something special (not in the ‘Special Olympics’ kind of way)…but an eccentric genius…better than all other recording artists and waaaay superior to you gaggle of plebby minions. That way….hopefully….eventually…some girls might like me.

So I decided to swap my already preposterous name for a symbol. (I know, I know, stop laughing! I soon realised that even by my ridiculous standards, that idea was pure desperate spacktwattery, and I ended up reverting to my previous stupid name).

Then the ‘accident’ happened. Now I don’t like to talk about it much but…well…..my penis kinda turned ‘inside-out’. Then the hole it created began to expand. It is a little-known medical fact that when this happens, your humanity, sanity and general awareness desert you completely…Paranoia takes over. Basically, you turn into a proper little purple cunt. As for your sense of humour…well it just totally spunks up the fucking wall. A poor gormless idiot.

God, you lot don’t know how hard it is, having flipping great wadges of cash but no friends, no personality, and no tadger….Constantly being suspected as being a mentalist who is gayer than a 9 pound note, and having to pay flunkies who normally wouldn’t come anywhere near me to scour the globe and internet looking for my image so I can either charge for it, or threaten legal action to have it removed. I’ve even dished out bollockings to my own fans!....despite the fact that there’s only about 3 of them left! (you know the kind of people…stuck in the 80’s ‘Wedding Singer’ sorts who choose me because Culture Club is a step too far)

So the next time U want to take the piss, hurtfully using your phenomenal expertise with photoshop 2 make me look like a right bell-end…..spare us a thought will U? It could B worse….U could be me.

Yours,

P. Rogers Nelson

Length? About 3’ 6” of purest cuntwad
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 16 Nov 2007, 8:41, Reply)

No toilet paper O_o
We've all done it - you reach for the toilet roll only to find a sheet of frayed paper.

So, one time when I was small (it was when I lived in Devon so I was less than 10), it happened to me, only there was no paper at all left. And none to be found anywhere in the room.

So I wiped my arse on the cardboard tube.
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 8:31, 6 replies)