Meeting women
Constant Source of disappointment for me

I seem to always Fail epicly At attracting women,
Now im told that im a handsome young man, (not just by my mum) But i have no luck.

I factor it down to these probable reasons:

1. Im jesus and therefore i must remain single forever
2. I emit some sort of anti attraction pheromone
3. My babyface makes Women feel like peados
4. i just dont try hard enough

Its probably number 4
Sigh, back to lurking and masturbation
(Crayzswan is neither a swan nor crazy..., Sun 29 Jun 2008, 19:37, 6 replies)

Bastard 1995 Triumph Thunderbird
One day I saw one and heard the torquey triple roaring motorcycle goodness, no way I could afford it at £8K though.

Years later I spotted one in the paper £3Kish 7000 miles, older owner who was a bit freaked out by the power, garaged FSH etc.
Heaven, scrambled to get cash and by nightfall it was MINE.
Wonderful engine, virtually new and better than sex (even sex with other people), drool slobber. Fwapping over torque delivery, I was in love.

Disappointment 1
No female interest (like I cared) it only attracted blokes over 40!

Disappointment 2
It broke the crankshaft, fixed it, then the starter motor, wiring shorted, new crankshaft was dodgy fuckbastardnobbingtwatburgershitshitshit,
*weeps bitterly into beer*

Approx £1400 to fix, no cash left, the thing languishes in my garage to this day.

I spit at it and kick its' tyres when going past it.

Hatehatehate.
( FeralCatMan Unusual disease collector., Sun 29 Jun 2008, 16:46, 2 replies)

When I was a wee lad...
...I was greatly disappointed by a man in my local park.
When we reached the bushes there were no puppies whatsoever and the sweeties were crap.

To top it all off, he had a really small cock...
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 16:42, 1 reply)

Happy birthday to me...
A few years back, and having been single for 11 months thanks to the ex Mrs Davros, I was just starting to get my head together again. However, on occasion the Black Dog would start barking again and I'd have a bit of a wobble - nothing too serious thankfully.

Having been in my flat for coming up to 6 months, my birthday loomed - 32. Hardly a milestone, apart from being my first birthday as a singleton since I turned 18... This particular birthday fell on a work day, and also coincided with the office Christmas bash. I felt good about it, I could celebrate my birthday in style, and with good people, and forget that I was, in fact, a grieving wreck of a person who longed for one thing and one thing only.

I got up and got ready for work, and was halfway through my coffee when I thought I heard footsteps. That might be the postie, I thought, and stomped downstairs to have a look, in anticpation of the mountain of cards that would no doubt be piled up on the mat. My family are a bit crap at this sort of thing - forgetting to post on time, or even assuming that I'll be visiting around that time since it's so close to Christmas so I can pick up birthday cards / presents then. However, this year was bound to be different - I've had a traumatic year, so they're bound to be a bit more switched on.

However, I got there to find...

A single envelope on the doormat. I opened it, and there was a birthday card. From a friend that I'd only just got aquainted with. Bless her. However, the crushing disappointment that I felt from the realisation that no one in my family had managed to get a card to me on the actual day of my birthday was just one of the most hollow feelings I've ever endured.

This was compounded somewhat by the bus ride home, on which my ex missus was also sat - it had been her works bash as well, it transpired. By this point we were still on friendly terms and she wished me a happy birthday and we sat and chatted for a bit. Unfortunately, the effects of alcohol since lunchtime conspired to switch on my melancholy chip, and I spent the last 20 minutes of the journey blubbing like a girl over some non-received birthday cards.

Seven years later and I still get cards late, or not at all. Much as I love my family, this really does piss me off, especially as I never fail to remember anyone elses birthday.

Meh.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Sun 29 Jun 2008, 16:41, 7 replies)

Things Mr Maladicta and I have learned this weekend:
1. NEVER EVER EVER buy a bike from Argos ("with the laminated book of dreams despair..."). Especially if you have no means of taking it home and have to get it delivered, which doesn't show up on the necessary day, meaning we wasted an entire day yesterday waiting in for the delivery van as he needs the bike for work. Which showed up just after sexytime* this morning.

Then, you'll spend two hours putting the thing together:

- of which half an hour will be spent loosening the brake cables so you can fit the handlebars into the slot
- of which 45 minutes will be spent attaching the front wheel
- and of which half an hour will be spent detaching the mudguards and tweaking the nuts and bolts, only to find that the handlebars still turn around when the slightest pressure is applied.

- Then, when Mr Maladicta loses his temper with it and it falls over, the brake will snap off the handlebars and you'll have to send the fucking thing back to Argos anyway, meaning as he's at work on Wednesday I'll be doing all my b3ta-ing from here. No big deal for me, but fucking annoying for him to have to return it.

* minus high heels

2. If your prospective landlord never, ever gets back to you when he says he will and demands photo ID, proof of income, proof of homeownership and wage slips for you, your guarantor and their dog, plus is charging you the same price for a penthouse flat as you'd pay for a decent sized house in the same town, then whinges when you say it seems like a lot for what it is, don't go through with the deal.

3. I'm practically unemployable in spite of having a degree, simply because I've never had a job.

Sexytime, nice food and each other's company aside, it has not been fun.
( Maladicta, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 16:18, 6 replies)

Sex
I learned all I needed to know (or so I thought) from 7 years of Pornography.

When my cherry popping time came, I was convinced that I would be a stud, my partner would be coy and seductive, would probably wear high heels in bed and the whole would end with me ejaculating copiously on her upturned face which she would writhe and moan in ecstacy, and possibly repay me with a large gush of female ejaculation.

Imagine my disappointment when I had a sneaky fumble under the duvet with my girlfriend who refused to remove her T shirt. We bounced about incoherently for 5 or so minutes before she complained that it hurt and I had to pull out, unsated and feeling rather useless that I hadnt pulled my companion to the very brink of sexual pleasure, of such magnitude that she would sound like a leafblower on tickover.

Curse you porn!! I have yet to meet a woman open to the concept of receiving a large payload of glutenous semen on her upturned visage.

(It DID get better with practise though.)
(Vic Flange, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 15:52, 1 reply)

Alton Towers
It's rubbish.
(jabberwocky, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 13:44, 6 replies)

I was thoroughly unimpressed
To an eight year old, bath pebbles look quite a lot like sweets.

That is all.
(jabberwocky, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 13:21, Reply)

Sleeping Around
In my teens I always wanted to be the type of girl who went out clubbing, picked up some random chap, took them back to my flat, shagged them and chucked them out in the morning without even knowing their name. I wanted to be cool and hip and this is what I thought it involved - being free, adventurous and daring.

The reality?
I was a normal teenager with slightly overprotective parents who wouldn't let me go out clubbing unless it was with my best friend - whose parents were equally overprotective. They ensured we were either picked up from the club or had the taxi fare home and arrived home by the agreed hour.

At the time this was such a drag. On reflection I think it was good parenting - they knew where we were and were allowing us freedom with responsibility and a modicum of safety.

As a result I never ever got to sleep around - I also discovered that I'm simply not 'that type' - I'm resolutely a serial monogamist.

However, when I split up with my ex some time ago I decided to Be Wild for a bit - just to make up, you see.

So I dated quite a bit….interesting concept, dating and one that provided me with a number of disappointments….

#1 Gentle man, looked a bit like Christopher Walken but without the personality.
He told me that being with me was like being slapped in the face.
Never touched him throughout the date and never saw him again.
Conclusion Don't bother with men who are rude and lacking in personality.

#2 Policeman who looked like a hard as nails criminal.
Seemed very keen on me.
Seemed very sexy in a dark and rather bad way.
'Seemed sexy' was as far as it got…..
Huge disappointment…..which was (sadly) the hugest thing about him.
Conclusion Appearances can be deceptive - not hard, not huge.
Always get to know them before you drag them off to bed, then if nothing else you can talk about why the Melty Man keeps coming to visit.

#3 Mr Darcy
Swept me off my feet. Charming, sophisticated, arrogant, exciting and forceful.
Ended up in bed very, very quickly.
First disappointment.
Clearly I didn't take my own advice after #2.
The only man ever to win an argument with me - I found this rather attractive at first…but soon that need (on his part) to constantly be in competition with me suggested a huge chip on his shoulder and a gaping hole of insecurity.
Conclusion Some people are just arseholes.

#4 Bluto
Sweet madman who bears a startling resemblance to Popeye's arch enemy.
Romanced me by singing down the telephone. Quite, quite mad and rather lovely with it.
A roller coaster of emotions over the very short time that we were involved with each other.
Conclusion Never date someone madder than yourself.

#5 UK version of Joey from Friends
Very good looking, very charming, very Saff Lundun wide boy with the ability to make any woman in a fifty metre radius of him drop their knickers involuntarily. And believe me it was worth it.
Refused to tell me how many women he'd shagged - not even how many that week….
He'd been a heavy coke user, sold his body to old rich ladies, broken the law far, far too many times and still had a big smile on his face. Took more chances and risks that anyone I've ever met.
Fantastic bloke as a mate. Entirely toxic as a possible b/f.
Last seen going off to shag some 'Tall Doris' from his gym before he went home to his girlfriend.
Conclusion Sometimes experiences are better secondhand.



So all in all I discovered that Sleeping Around (yeah, I know I was an amateur at it…but that was Being Wild for me) was a real disappointment.

I didn't become cool and hip.

I became cold and had an aching hip.

I could easily combine this with last week's QOTW - don't bother sleeping around, sex is just sex.

But I'd be lying. There is sex and there is sex.

Unfortunately, as I've discovered, there is no way to tell definitely if someone is going to be good in the sack…but there are some giveaway signs…..Looks are not one of them. Neither is height.

I would go into detail as to what some of those signs are….but too many of them read B3ta.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 13:19, 10 replies)

Tomorrows world
As i child i was enthralled by this programme; spaceships!,flying cars!,Robot butlers!.So where the fuck are they?.As near as i can tell the only significant advances in technology are mp3 players and mobbile phones,neither of which will take me to outerspace or do the washing up for me.Those fucking arseholes lied to us and i want a fucking refund.Cunts.
(yob soddoth happiness is a Dane called Hamlet?, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 13:12, 1 reply)

In no particular order
Live at Loch Lomond 2007, Irn-Bru flavoured crisps and that worm at the bottom of the Mescal bottle.
All equally disappointing.
(Haggisbreeder Was talking when he should have been listening on, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 12:53, 2 replies)

Ruined Beer Festival
Every year I hook up with a bunch of mates at a Beer Fest at a railway museum just outside Colchester. Normally, it's a fantastic occasion, we all roll up to the field adjacent to the festival, pitch tents and enjoy the late summer sunshine, beer and then retire for some quiet banter around a glowing stove.

However, the whole camping thing can be easily ruined by folk who labour under the illusion that everyone else for hundreds of yards around wants to listen to their noise pollution. Okay, I'm first to admit that perhaps in my younger years at the beer festival I was one of those annoying twats with a braying voice, but karma most certainly repaid me a couple of years back.

With the warm, fuzzy glow that tends to accompany some gentle beer imbibing, six of us shambled back to our tents, produced folding chairs and sipped the remnants of Golden Sunrise, Summer Lightning or Scrotts Old Dog's Dick cider, depending on our individual palette preference at the time. However, our peace was broken quite suddenly.

"Wwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh! Wwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Yep, some fifty yards away from us a small child was making a noise to rival that of an air raid siren with the tonal control of Geri Halliwell. Now I do sympathise with the fact that kids are going to be unsettled by being asked to sleep in a strange place, possibly an uncomfortable sleeping bag placed on lumpy ground.

"Wwwwwwaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

However, this child couldn't be more than a few months old.

"Wwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!"

So who the cocking hell brings a six month old baby to a beer festival?

"Wwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!"

What kind of selfish and arrogant attitude determines that everyone else would like nothing more than to listen to little Damien howling away like his leg is being amputated?

"Wwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!"

The six of us were now tired and the fallout from the six month old holocaust fifty yards away was snuffing out what little conversational exchange was taking place.

"Sssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" I hissed back in the loudest voice I could muster.

"Wwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!" came the plaintive reply.

I replied again "SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" with my finger pressed vertically to my lips for maximum effect.

"Wwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!"

Now I had visions of both parents either lying there comatose and oblivious to junior satan's constant noise, or perhaps in some hugely inadequate way they were being like those utterly ineffectual modern parents the government likes so much. "Now Damien, we'd like it very much if you could possibly be a little quieter for us. It upsets mummy and daddy when you're so noisy".

"Wwwwwwaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!"

Admitting that I'd lost the battle I retired to my tent, wrapped myself in a sleeping bag and tried to chase the welcoming blackness of sleep. I had a hangover I was looking forward to enjoying in the morning.

"Wwwwwaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!"

Dear reader at this point I lost the capacity for reason. With the mumbled curse of "whathecuntingfuckerry?" I slid out of my sleeping bag, threw open the flap of my tent and yelled at the top of my voice:

"DROWN THE FUCKER!"

I'd dropped the nuke. There was hush over the campsite.

"Wwwwaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!"

Incensed, I went a step too far.

"EITHER YOU SHUT IT UP OR I'LL DROWN THE FUCKER!"

I stomped back to my tent and slipped into welcoming sleep.

The next morning, I awoke feeling slightly guilty. Despite my b3ta rants, I'm a very peaceful person and I slightly regretted my outburst, especially when a child is concerned.

I opened the flaps to my tent. Sure enough, fifty yards away the Modern Parents (no doubt called Cressida and Tarquin) were throwing me the very darkest of looks. You could see their eyes were saying "How dare that nasty neanderthal insult our dear widdle Damien."

I'd have loved to end this story with a punch, preferably on the end of the nose of Tarquin. However, as the Modern Parents departed in their fashionable BMW estate car, I noted one or two wry smiles from tired looking fellow campers, as I slipped back to bed to enjoy my hangover sleep with the accompaniment of birdsong.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Sun 29 Jun 2008, 12:07, 20 replies)

Patriotism
Unfortunately for a chap who believes in supporting the local team (not only through the purchase of vegetables), it implies you either have to speak in favour of, or by your silence accede to, appalling international blunders, criminal conspiracy and racist bullshit. I went through a phase of supporting and promoting civilisation, but now feel like going back to anarchy.
(in-knock-you-us, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 10:29, Reply)

Y'know
Sometimes I see and read things on B3ta that I dont understand or "get". I wish someone would meet with me to explain then. We could call it a

Ris-appointment...


/coat
(kitescreech still here, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 8:59, Reply)

This curry i had last night
A huge king prawn balti and coconut rice with poppadoms and prawn crackers the whole shaboozle
it's just about worked its way through and i've just remembered my toilets been backed up for a while
disappointment doesn't even come close
more like absolute fear :)
oh noes
(Freddles, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 6:28, Reply)

Twins. One not quite right.
First kids: twins! We were tremendously excited. One of them turned out to be severely autistic. "Disappointment" isn't quite the right way to describe my reaction to this - it's a lot more complicated than that - but it could have been better (and worse) in lots of ways.

Mort

Length? 14 years so far. 50+ to go.
(mortdubois lacks imagination, doesn't play well with others, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 3:11, 3 replies)

being sent
a photo of the teacher i was in love with 100's of years ago when i was at school.

the photo was from the "real manchester" website. of him with lots of other men. no women in sight.

not surprisingly it turns out this is a gay website. good for him. not so good for me.

also realising i am never going to be 5'4 and platinum blonde with a lovely a-cup chest that doesn't need a bra and lets you wear polonecks without looking like a fat twat or strappy tops without looking like a tart...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 1:38, 30 replies)

Probably not meeting people I wished I had the chance to...
Syd Barrett around early 1967.
Never meeting or seeing Jim Clark race Lotuses.

Never getting the chance to meet my maternal grandmother (died 12 years before I was born).

Obviously these are acccidents of time, but I'd put money in that slot if I could get the bloody Tardis to work.
(Dr Teeth Who asked you, you fuckin' hobbit?, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 1:07, Reply)

Kilt.
I done a catwalk yesterday on the promise that I would be wearing a kilt (agreed pureley for shits and giggles) but when I arrived was handed pair of very baggy bellbottoms instead. I looked like an extremely gay sailor.
Quite gutted about that, but not sure why...
(Formaly Over say's hello, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 1:05, 3 replies)

"Turn off the computer and go to sleep"
What!? No! What will I do with my life now!? GO OUTSIDE!? Oh, you'd LIKE that LucasArts! *stares at Amiga blankly*

...it's 1990 and I've just finished The Secret of Monkey Island. It will be three years until Simon the Sorcerer is released, and four before Le Chuck's Revenge.

As a nine year old, the disappointment in my achievement was immense.
(Northern Lovely, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 1:05, Reply)

My life is a tangled web
I got married fairly young. For the most part it was happy times, until the day came when the missus announced she was fucking off. Except she didn't for a bit, leaving me a rattling shell of a human being.

Anyway, after a while I met the sweary one. It was soon after that I realised that the world is a small place.

You see, my ex worked with a bloke called Tim, who I knew and got on with. She also had a good friend that she worked with called Margaret. Nice woman. Tim's a good bloke too.

Shortly after I got with Tourette's(.)(.), she got herself on t'intermeweb. Which meant I could send her emails and stuff. One jokey one I sent, I copied in a load of mates. Including Tim. That night, she asked me about Tim, and who he was. I explained, and she said that she'd worked with someone with the same name years back in a hotel (Tim has a distinctive surname). So I texted Tim, and he confirmed that he had indeed worked in said hotel, and remembered Madame Sweary.

It also transpired later that she lived with the nephew(?) of Margaret for some time, which was even more bizarre...

So why the disappointment? Well, had I known this closed circle of bizarre circumstance earlier, I could have saved myself a hell of a lot of heartache and got with the sweary one ten years earlier...

We're getting married next year, you know
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Sun 29 Jun 2008, 0:43, 13 replies)

Being a teenager
Come on, it was fairly rubbish, wasn't it?
(G-Lo, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 0:24, 6 replies)

British comedy
In the past we had some of the best; Blackadder, Python, Fawlty Towers, I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue (which probably died with Humph), Peter Cook, Father Ted*, Not the Nine O' Clock News and many besides. All either pointed a scathing mirror at society or provided a completley absurd look at life, history or panel games. Or both. Having immersed myself in these comedies, I was sure that long would it continue.

Now what do we have? Ricky Gervais, with his embarrassing silences and "irony". The Mighty Boosh, with their act consisting of acting like indie students. And in possibly the worst case of British comedy going down the drain; Have I Got News For You essentially acting as Boris Johnson's personal advertising campaign resulting in him being elected Mayor of London.

*I'm an imperialist
(Cuthbert Annihilator, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 0:06, 16 replies)

My biggest disappointment
Was it spending a life in education, hoping to change the world via journalism, only to realise that money = all and everyone is pretty much dispensable, meanwhile the big bosses, years away from the floor, and so far removed from the job that they make the decisions that fuck the good people over just because it was them who promised unrealistic economic forecasts and budgets and they need to do something about it?

Was it the time that I finally tapped off with the girl I'd idolised for 5 years, soberly realising that I could have been pretty much anyone, and that her tits weren't all that after all?

Was it the time I, sixth form poet extraordinairre, realised that I didn't get washed over with euphoria and glory when I was first told 'I love you Heyzeus'?

No, It was today. I thought I'd drag this semi-alcoholic shell of a skinsack and go for a walk. Spend my Saturday doing something more meaningful than doing fuck all. It ended up being a long walk. 12 miles there and back all in. 4 miles in I saw a sign 'AHA!!! maybe I break my image challenge virginity' thought I.

I was walking down a canal and saw a 'no angling' sign with the angler looking a bit like Indiana Jones.

THus the last 8 painful miles were spent thinking of what I could do. Forget the fact my legs aren't functioning, that I'd happily give up and die, or at least sleep for a while on the canal banks.

With no wifi on the canal banks of cheshire I had to make it home to finish the herculean task I'd made in my head.

Got home, downloaded the pics, had tea, got the beers in, spent 2 hours looking for source images and making/ adapting the original concept.

Finally completed I checked the file size, rescaled, uploaded and went to proudly post. I didn't want any noob shit you see..

I fucked it up royally.

So, my biggest disappointment is never properly sharing the image that took me 4 miles to get to, 4 1/2 hours of walking, the undoubted crippling pain as the lactic acid sets in tomorrow, 2 near swan attacks, and being shouted at by a woman as I was taking a picture of a boat simply because it's name was the same as a mate's surname. All for a bunch of strangers.

Length? Get you, I've already said it above.

Edit: It's on page 28 if you want to know. Daren't try and link in case I fuck up the fuck up..

Edit2: I fucked up the fuckup and it's on page 27
(Heyzeus, Sat 28 Jun 2008, 22:23, 2 replies)

Time travel
Or rather, the lack of it.

You see, right now, I really wish it was next Saturday...

If only to see how the grandson gets on of course
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Sat 28 Jun 2008, 21:58, 12 replies)

Two Words
St Anger.
(pacman_40 Pocket Kleenex: for the wanker on the go, Sat 28 Jun 2008, 20:55, 8 replies)

Most nights from about the age of 8 to 15.
I was a bit of an Emo kid before Emo was invented. I wanted to get away from everyone and live on my own and would constantly daydream about the end of the world and being the only survivor. Jesus, sometimes I wonder how I'm still here.

Anyway I got it into my head that if I wanted it bad enough then I could will an alien spaceship to visit and whisk me away from all of this. (This was before I knew about anal probes and all the other shit they do to you).
So most nights before bed I would stare out of my bedroom window and wait for the UFO to appear that was going to save me from my mediocre life. I would stare so hard at the night sky that my eyes would start to throb. Every bloody night I waited and waited for the pulsating light to form amidst the clouds, for the fuzzy shape of a saucer to appear and for a peircing ray of light to shoot down and suck me up to my new and exciting life.


Well I'm still here.


And even now some nights I still peer out at the night sky for a minute or two and think maybe, somehow, tonight it will happen.
( girlinthehole, Sat 28 Jun 2008, 20:45, 5 replies)

My inability to think of a single amusing post...
... shit.
After 10 minutes of struggling with various themes, I realised with frank disappointment, that I cant think of a single amusing sentiment, witty or cutting comment, or even a story about poo.

(Well that's not strictly true - I have a story about poo, but one can labour a theme too heavily).

I've disappointed myself.
(Vic Flange, Sat 28 Jun 2008, 20:35, 2 replies)

Everyone else is saying it, but I wrote a song about it...
Every time England play in an international football tournament.

To the tune of three lions...

It's staying abroad,
It's staying abroad,
It's staying,
Football's staying abroad

It's staying abroad,
It's staying abroad,
It's staying,
Football's staying abroad

Everyone seems to know the score,
They've seen it all before,
They just know,
They're so sure,
That England's gone and thrown it away,
Gone and blown it away,
And we know they can’t play,
'Cause I remember...

Three Lions on a shirt,
We always take a bruising,
Thirty years of hurt,
Never stopped us losing.

So many jokes, so many sneers,
But all those oh-so-nears,
Wear you down,
Through the years,
But I still see the hand of God,
And when Waddle missed,
Glum faces on the squad,
And Gazza pissed...

Three Lions on a shirt,
We Always take a bruising,
Thirty years of hurt,
Never stopped us losing.

It's staying abroad,
It's staying abroad,
It's staying,
Football's staying abroad

It's staying abroad,
It's staying abroad,
It's staying,
Football's staying abroad
(davywavy, Sat 28 Jun 2008, 20:09, 5 replies)