Windmill Pie
My wife tells me this from when she was a wee nipper:

Her aunt and uncle used to come over occasionally and the children would be promised the treat of Windmill Pie for dessert. This magical pudding was hyped up to be the most amazing thing a little kid would want and eagerly they would all lick their plates clean so as not to anger the parents or worse still - the aunt and uncle who were the bearers of this heavenly treat.

They would clean the table, wash the dishes and do everything asked of them, knowing that if they were good and did what they were told, they would be rewarded with Windmill Pie.

It comes to nearly bedtime and the children line up ready for their pre-bed treat and it is then that the secret of Windmill Pie is revealed. First, they must run around the table 3 times as fast as they can.

And that's it.

The worst part is, they fell for it time after time after time.
( BlueHaze Chutney. All good., Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:19, 3 replies)

"The greatest story ever told"
Didn't live up to expectations...
(Countryslicker, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:18, 1 reply)

Cornish Holiday
When I was about 6 or 7 I was on a holiday in Cornwall with my parents. One day we decided to visit Boscastle - I got all excited about seeing a castle.

There is no fucking castle. No even a ruin. Surely a job for the trades description act if ever I saw one.

I had a tantrum and got smacked by my mother to bring about an end to a shit day that really sticks in the mind.
(Chappers, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:16, 1 reply)

My honeymoon…and NOT for the reason you’d think…
The present Mrs Pooflake is a veritable delight - I’ve been married for 9 years now and her ability to put up with my general all-round being-a-cock-ness is the stuff of legend.

(In the name of wobbly moist flaps, I sure as buggery couldn’t live with me…yet she manages it with aplomb.)

No, the reason for this particular disappointment is mostly my own doing (this next bit in keeping with last week’s QOTW – i.e some advice from this particular old twat):

Let me tell you - as sure as I’ve got a hole in my arse, if you believe hype and raise your expectations about things, prepare to have your hopes smashed into a trillion pieces by whatever you’ve been looking forward to ending up being so crotch-chewingly rank that you want to twist out your own gizzards and slap your pet guinea pig with disgust.

Anyhoo…

The year we got married was 1999.

The month was August.

However, I begged the missus decided in a manly way that it would be a far more jolly idea to have our honeymoon in May…3 months before we actually got married…in New York...despite the fact we couldn’t afford it.

“Why?” (I sense the collective B3ta throngs not really being arsed to question)…well I’ll tell you why….

Star-fucking-Wars-fucking-Episode-fucking-One.

The-fucking-Phantom-fucking-fuckfacing-Menace.

Now I am a bit of a Star Wars geek, and although I’m not quite in the ‘Going to conventions / dedicating my already sad existence to it / dressing up as Admiral Akbar (who actually looks uncannily like Gail Platt from Coronation Street by the way)’ league, I do love the films and thought the opportunity to jaunt to the good ol’ U-S-of-A and catch this long awaited potentially life-changing movie months early was too good a chance to miss.

Even if I did have to use my own honeymoon as an excuse. (Economy class ticket to Hull already booked)

At this point, the missus (who couldn’t really give a flying leper’s ringpiece about Star Wars) decided that this would be acceptable. (Like I said, she’s ace).

So off we trundle…nigh on16-odd hours of travelling…on a cheap flight of battery hen standards, to get to the cinema before queuing for absolutely bleeding yonks…and we finally get in and sit down…

To see a film that was the overhyped cinematic equivalent of ploppy poo-pants in pooey-glue.

…

*breathes*

…served on a plate of poo…with a side order of…well you get the idea. Call me ‘Captain Over-Critical’ but it wasn’t a great film by any stretch. Life changing? My slithering spunk-sacks!

I actually fell asleep halfway through and had to have my loud snoring interrupted by a (no doubt delivered with much love and romance) swift ultra-violent elbow in the ribs by the (already at this point) long-suffering wife-to-be.

The movie was soooo not worth the effort. Fortunately the rest of the honeymoon was quality even though there was actually another disappointment that happened whilst we were there…

(kind of a repost this bit – and still not what you think)

We also visited the World Trade Centre…well kind of. We walked up to the building and the missus said ‘Ooh, shall we go in?’ I actually put my hand on the wall and said ‘Nah, bollocks to it, let’s go to the Irish bar over the road and get arseholed instead. It’s not like its going anywhere is it?’

Doh.

Oh yes, I am a proper cunt. Make no mistake.

Other than that though, New York was absolutely scote-pounding-tastic and the people over there (despite their surly reputations) were fucking smart – about a million times better than your average cock-itch over here in fact. One day we will go again but until that day I still have lots of great memories of the place…it’s just that the movie wasn’t one of them.

If only George Bastard Whoring Lucas had pulled his hands out of his grundies and got his shit together it would’ve been that extra bit better.

Hey-ho

Length? – 2 hours plus with ‘coming attractions’

Oh…and ‘Hi everybody – I’ve missed ya!’
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:16, 15 replies)

Seattle
Another one from the series "Travels Round North America with K2k6".

Ever watched Frasier? See the titles when a line representing Seattle's skyline draws over the screen? Notice how the Space Needle is the tallest structure there?

It's not. Well, driving in on I5 from the south, it appears to be, but it's built on the low lying part, south of downtown, which is up the hill a bit. So when you go up the needle (actually, about half way up, because the top bit's just a spiky antenna thingy), you're looking UP at the downtown skyscrapers.

So, traveller's tip no. 2 for today - if you're in Seattle, forget the space needle and drive north until you get to the Boeing factory. Now that's impressive!

Oh, and trying to find somewhere to eat downtown at night is difficult too. Lunchtime's no problem - there's a cafe at every corner - but they all seem to close at 5.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:14, 1 reply)

Puberty
As a young lassie, flowering into a teenager, by the time I was 13 most of my friends had started their periods. I was sure mine would come any day soon!
I waited, every morning I'd wake up and look for the telltale signs.......I had to wait 3 more years. I was 16 when I finally got it. All that time I'd waited in anticpation to "become a woman". And it was fucking horrible.

On the upside, I went from being a 34A to a lovely 36D :)
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:11, 9 replies)

Niagara Falls
You know on the telly, you see this marvellous cataract of thundering water and spray gushing over a sheer cliff, and think, "Wow, how fantastic, I must go and see that some day"?

Well, I did. Actually I've been twice.

But the first time, 1998, we turned up in Niagara, on the Canadian side, parked the car and got out. My first thought - "fucking hell, I'm in Blackpool!"

It must be the tackiest place I've ever been. Including Blackpool. And Cleethorpes.

Sure, there's this big river thing falling over a cliff, which is rather spectacular, but the development built up near it is horrible.

So, a traveller's tip. If you're going to Niagara, go to the American side first. It's a nice, undeveloped National Park. The falls aren't so spectacular on that side, but once you've seen them, then make a quick trip over the rainbow bridge to see the big falls on your way home.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:09, 4 replies)

I feel the need... The need for speed!
I think I’ve said before that, before I sufficiently lowered my standards and decided I wanted to be an Actor, I wanted to join the Royal Air Force. It was 1988 when I made my decision; for some reason Mum had allowed me to watch Top Gun on VHS and I was sold. Fast jets? Yes please. Kelly McGillis? Well, I may have been eight years old but I knew that I liked her. Saving the day? You betcha bottom dollar, sonny. I knew then that I would grow up and go to Miramar, and I wouldn’t end up flying a ‘plane full of rubber dogshit out of Hong Kong.

For the next five years, my appetite for anything linked to planes and flying was practically unquenchable. I even played Top Gun in the playground, using the strip of concrete outside of the classrooms as an ‘Aircraft Carrier’. Stuart was my Wingman (the Iceman to my Maverick), and life was good.

Before long, my thirteenth birthday dawned. I was finally old enough to join the Air Cadets. Finally, I would have a taste of what life in the forces might be like, and this would also get me brownie points for when I applied for the forces in years to come. OK, so the F-14 wouldn’t be my plane, but the Tornado GR-4 was better anyway. For the next 3 years I was industrious – I gained my solo glider pilot wings, racking up thousands of hours in the process. I made hundreds of hours in small prop planes. I even, on one memorable trip, got to sit in the jump seat of a GR-4.

I climbed the small ladder that lead to the cockpit. Making myself comfortable in the seat, I looked at the myriad dials in front of me. I looked to my left, and saw a small box with yellow and black chevrons upon it, out of which came a small handle.

“Do Not Touch!” It explained, “Ejection Control”.

Tentatively, on some level not even aware of what I was doing, I reached out. Perhaps I was (in my mind) in a flat spin, on the point of ejecting far behind enemy lines. My fingertips connected with the ejection control.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said a voice from the real world “not if you want to get splattered on the roof of this hangar.”

Slowly, I retracted my fingers. Splatterfication would definitely limit my aspirations when it came to fast-jet flight.

And so came the fateful day where my life would change. A RAF careers man came to my ATC Squadron, and gave a careers talk. I took notes. I studied what life would be like in the armed forces. I resolved that I would get through basic training, and then in to fighter school. I needed only to know one thing.

“Excuse me, Sir.” I said “what qualifications would I need to join as a pilot? I want to fly fast jets.” – I was nearly sixteen.

“I’m sorry son,” came the response, “but you wear glasses. All pilots have to have 20/20 vision to fly fast jets.”

Oh, shit. Shit. That’s the last eight years out of the window then. I was completely, utterly dejected. The sense must have filled the room, because he followed that little gem up with:

“But you could join Air Traffic Control.”

“What? Fuck you, you patronising fuck. I’ve just had my dream torn in to a thousand pieces and your recommendation is a desk job? Shut up. Fuck you, you fucking dick.” – Just some of the words that I did not say to him.

To this day, the one thing that I have ever been sure of is my desire to fly. And, because of stupid biology, whenever I see the fast jets flying overhead I inwardly sigh, and dream of being up there, with the best of the best.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:08, 14 replies)

when my aunt burnt the rice pudding
When I was about 6 years old we went on a family holiday to Cornwall. They were always a great laugh - a big farmhouse, me, my bother, mum, dad, aunt, uncle, cousins and grandparents. Around this time I was very very fond of rice pudding, so much so that I had been pestering my mum all day and had been promised my heart's desire that evening. I cannot over emphasize just how much I wanted rice pudding. It was my aunt's turn to do the cooking that night and although it is not hard to heat a tin of rice pud up she managed to burn it, much of it sticking to the bottom of the pan. It tasted disgusting - I was totally incensed, just old enough to know it was only bloody rice pudding and really I should get a grip, but young enough still to lack emotional control - I felt my white hot rage and utter disappointment immediately, intensely and completely. I just didn't know what to do, so I flounced off hissing "it's burnt", tears pouring down my cheeks.
(powertiger, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:06, Reply)

Things Can Only Get Better...
.
The anthem of Tony Blair and Labour's election victory of 1997. God, I can remember it now. Staying up, all night, watching the results come in. It wasn't a victory, it was a fucking massacre. After 18 years of Tory mis-rule we finally had kicked the bastards out of power and now it was *our* turn. We could reverse the Tory's destruction of our education system, we could reverse what they'd done to our heavy industries, steel, ship-building, engineering and mining.

That night/morning- it was golden.

Then look what happened.

This government has brought in more repressive legislation than any Tory government could have dreamed of. Civil liberties? - You don't have any. Imprisonment and torture of your own citizens? - Mr Bush asked us to ignore it.

Awe - fuck it. I'll expand on this in the morning.

But the creeping disappointment of that Labour victory still has eats away at me. Watching, month after month, as they gradually dropped their cloaks and revealed themselves as self-centered rich bastards who's only concern was feathering their own nests.


The thing that keeps springing to mind is the last paragraph of Animal Farm.

"The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but always it was impossible to say which was which."


Bastards, the lot of them.*

Cheers

*There were a few, rare,exceptions
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:02, 27 replies)

The X-files
As a teenager, I *worshipped* this programme. Bought all the books and souvenirs and everything.

What I loved (aside from the 'monster of the week') was the over-arching storyline, with a huge conspiracy that was revealed drip by drip, I slavered the notion that all the loose ends would be tied up, and that Mulder would somehow save the world.

Except of course, none of that happened. There was one intriguing early episode featuring a man who could see how everyone he met was going to die - when Scully asked him how she dies, he replied "You don't."

I memorised this snippet regarding Scully, and how her immortality related to the overall plot.

By the start of series 5, it struck me that Scully's supposed immortality had not been referred to, by the plot or any character, ever since. Then I realised the truth. There was no over-arching storyline. Chris Carter and co. were winging it and clearly had no more idea what was going on than the audience. There was clearly no conclusion, instead they were going to add more confusing and contradictory plot elements until the money ran out. I stopped watching after that.

I caught the last episode a couple of months back. It was bollocks. And no, it still didn't mention Scully being immortal.

But it at least wasn't as bad as 'Millennium', whereby Lance Henriksen wanders around looking creased and tired, while, in the background, nothing happens. For 67 episodes.
(Axeman Jim, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 16:00, 9 replies)

one time.......
I remember one time, when I was married, my partner got married to someone else..

I confronted them and got totally dissed by them and they walked away as if I didn't exist :(

that was my 'bigamist diss appointment'

'RUNS'
(scotsbloke, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:56, Reply)

Realising as a young boy
that The Wombles were not going to come and clear up the huge, steaming turd I left on Wimbledon Common.
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:55, 6 replies)

Shit Gig
A band I was in got asked to play the Warwick Uni Law Ball a few years back at the Birmingham Hilton. We were on the bill with, amongst others, Jamelia and the Big Brovas. This was going to be awesome! This was going to launch our careers as rock gods! We nearly burst with excitement as we rehearsed, wrote a new song and arranged our elaborate stage costumes.

When we got to the venue, a few new facts were made clear to us:

* We were not actually on the same stage as Jamelia of the Big Brovas
* We were not supporting them, we were in fact on *after* the main draw of the evening
* at 2am
* We were not to leave the green room in the meantime, from 4pm to 2am, because we looked "too scruffy"
* They had forgotten to order the musicians any food (we ended up ordering pizza delivery, at the Birmingham fucking Hilton, ffs)
* 2 of our 3-man brass section decided not to turn up
* The third got so drunk he couldn't stand.
* The "all travel expenses paid" aspect of the gig involved a bus from Warwick uni to the Hotel. Protests that we had all yomped up from London were met with a shrug.

So we played at 2am, tired, drunk and angry, having been staring at the walls for 10 fucking hours, in front of about 10 people after most of the audience had gone home. We sucked.

Warwick University Law Society, you are a bunch of lying cunts.
(Axeman Jim, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:53, 1 reply)

my dalliance with the literary world
When I was younger, I used to have literary pretensions. Over the years, after I'd returned stoney hearted and broke to England, I'd written a ton of books while working as an accounts administrator in Bath. Anyway, one Friday, not being able to take it any more I printed out a few copies of the first few chapters of my latest book and sent them off to agents. One got in touch and wanted more and wanted to take me on. I took a day off and the National Express up to that London. I met him in some bar in Soho and talked about stuff for a bit. Anyway, I'd had a lot to drink, cos of nerves, and ended up puking in the toilets. Short story shorter, did a runner. Back at work the next day, I deleted all the copies of the books (I didn't have a computer at home, I used the one at work) and instead opened an email about a new way to process orders for stationary.

My biggest dissapointment was not that I didn't dream, but that I did.

Boo Hoo hoo.
(sirolimus, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:52, 1 reply)

Books made into movies.
You'd think I'd have learned my lesson twenty-five years ago when "The Amityville Horror" book scared the jeebers out of me. I saw the movie and was wasn't even chilled.

I'm sure I was disappointed several times between now and then, but the last straws all came at once.

My wife and I both read "Memoirs of a Geisha" and were practically hopping on one foot to see the film. We left mad.

We also read "DaVinci Code," and were holding our breaths for the movie to come out. We looked at each other during the closing credits and grumbled.

I read "All the President's Men" and the book really opened my eyes to how power and influence work in Washington. I got the movie from Netflix and realized that if I hadn't read the book I wouldn't have known what the fookin' 'ell was going on.

I now refuse to see a movie I've read the book for. Except "Penthouse Letters." I'd still watch that.
( setimret likes his metaphors mixed, not stirred, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:50, 8 replies)

Our Labour government
That is all.
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:49, 1 reply)

I was so disappointed I could have scalped myself.
I honestly remember the first time I was disappointed. I was four years old and I had recently started school. The first thing we learnt about was Red Indians. I appreciate that I should refer to them as “Native Americans” or “Indigenous tribes people” but this was 1981, we still had Golliwogs as acceptable brand logos and I want to keep things authentic for the purpose of this anecdote.

To say I took an avid interest in Red Indians would be an understatement, I absolutely loved them and I desperately wanted to be one. I devoured everything I was taught about them. I didn’t know the alphabet but I knew a dozen or so Indian words and hand signals, I knew the best way to sneak up on a buffalo, how to kill it and what all the bits could be used for. I would avidly watch westerns and cheer on the Indians and boo the cowboys, I would constantly ask my confused parents if I could be a Red Indian when I grew up and I shot my brother in the arse with a home made bow & arrow. Things were good.

Then things got better. The teacher announced to the class that we would be taken to a wild west show. For a week I could barely contain my excitement, I knew what it was going to be like, there would be hundreds of whooping Indians on horseback charging around a bunch of cowboys who had circled their wagons, I would be dodging stray arrows and if I was lucky I could join in. I couldn’t wait.

The day finally arrived. We were taken to the village hall, I thought the venue was a bit small for a tribe of Indians on the warpath but I didn’t care, it would just mean I was closer to the action. We filed into the hall and sat in rows cross-legged on the floor, no Indians yet but I was in the front row to get the best view, any minute now they would come charging out…

…And a middle-aged couple dressed in Red Indian costumes gave a half hour lecture on native North American culture. Disappointed much? Lets just say they were lucky I didn’t have my tomahawk with me.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:49, 3 replies)

My parents
When I was about 3 my parents told me they had a special announcement. Some time in the future I was going to be getting a little brother.

To me this was all kinds of cool as it meant I'd have someone to play with whenever I wanted rather than having to wait til I got to nursery.

An eternity passed (couple of months) and not much happened except Mum got a lot bigger and started eating a lot of pasta.

My Dad then told me that rather than having one little brother. I was actually getting two. Score! We're halfway to a football team thinks me.

Another eternity later and then one day I was picked up from nursery by my Gran and went back to her house. The next day she drove us to the hospital and I was ushered in to the room to meet the new arrivals.

It was at this point that I realised that the two squalling tiny pink things lying in front of me were not the two playmates I had envisioned.

Apparently I then turned round and asked my Dad, "If she'd only had one would he have been bigger?"
(Milo Minderbinder, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:45, Reply)

Becoming an adult (more precisely a parent)
and discovering it isn't half so much fun as I thought it would be ....

When I was a child, it appeared that my parents had it made. Easy street. No-one telling them when to get up, when to go to bed, when to clean their teeth, what to wear, what to eat, the list went on. It looked, from my perspective, to be the absolute dream.

Then I grew up myself. Eventually. I left school, I got a job. I had to be there at a certain time, wear a certain type of clothing. Could only afford to eat in the staff canteen, with a whole two choices each day. Mmmmmmm. But still, I did get paid. Not much, and even less after I'd paid mum my dig money, bought a bus pass and put money by for a month's lunches.

Suddenly, being an adult seemed a bit less fun. At that age I was still too young to drink, and didn't even have the consolation of alcohol.

Time passed, and I left home. Finally, I was a proper "grown up", married and everything. For the first few years, before having the kids, being an adult was finally an absolute blast. We had good jobs, spare cash, a nice flat near the town and a fabby social life.

Now as a parent, I can see that my girls think being an adult is such fun. I want to tell them that constantly nagging two small people into getting up, or going to bed, getting dressed, eating their meals, cleaning their teeth, doing their homework, the whole shebang, isn't half the fun-fest they think it is. But I won't tell them. I'll just wait til they're in my flip-flops and smile smugly.

Don't get me wrong, I do love having kids. They are worth the effort, honestly. I have to tell them that, or I could end up in a really really horrible nursing home.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:43, 6 replies)

The last 2 years
My ex-girlfriend dumped me because I wasn't ready to come to Aus and NZ for a year straight away because I have a house in dire need of refurbishment before I can rent it out.

Needless to say, she's gone and come back and had a great time, and in 2 years I've spent money on worthless planning applications, ended up with no central heating for 3 months from January to March (which is exactly when you bloody need it), spent 3 or 4 times the amount I thought I would to get it shipshape, it's still not done, I've given up practically every weekend for the past year trying to push the whole project forward...

And now, of course, to top it off just as I thought I was on the home stretch to finish it, and go away myself, I am about to accidently become a dad with a girl I was casually seeing but had absolutely no intention of sticking with longterm - despite using contraception and despite her being diagnosed as infertile due to very serious endometriosis years ago.

Disappointment is not the word!
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:43, 3 replies)

y2k
I went up to my overdraft, stocked up on bottled water, bought a shit load of speed and whisky, buried my novels in the back yard, and wrote about 10 bad cheques (remember them). I even bought a survival tin from Cotswold Camping

What happened?

A fucking hangover and a shit load of text messages at 4am,

PS - sex with a girl in high heels is fantastic
(sirolimus, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:42, 3 replies)

I know I'll be leaving a lot of people scratching their heads with this one, but
The new Nightwish album.

What. The. Fuck?
(Axeman Jim, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:41, 7 replies)

Opening for Dara O'Briain
Axeman Jim's post reminded me of this one.

My username is derived from a little project which I share with two of my friends. The Supreme Crow was born as a vehicle for comedy songs. I'm aware that comedy songs can get a very mixed reaction, but we seemed to enjoy what we were writing, even if most of it was drunken bollocks. I became the figurehead of said Supreme Crow, because I was the mug who played the guitar and could just about sing them, (I was also the only one daft enough to perform them in front of an audience) and that is why I use the name to this day.

Anyhoo, I did a couple of gigs under this assumed name, and both went rather well. Bored over one long summer holiday, I started to sniff around for more gigs, and got a slot at a singer-songwriter evening in my home town. (I should point out that we didn't have enough faith in the material to try it at a proper comedy night)

It went down a storm, even if I say so myself. After 90 minutes of serious singer-songwriter stuff, I took to the stage and sent up the whole genre with songs about pelicans, bagders, beer, nudity and other such popular topics. The guy who ran the place liked it so much he invited me back a couple of times.

Then, after a while, I got an e-mail from him which nearly caused me to crap myself. He also ran a comedy night at this place, and was restarting the season with none other than Dara O'Briain, plus a few other semi-pro comedians. His request?
"My MC's main concern is that people don't start coming in until after the first act has started. I thought it might be good to have singer on the stage as the doors open, just to get people to come in. Would you like to do a half-hour set for this?"

Of course, I jumped at the chance. And my two co-writers came along with me. The room was packed. Riding high on the success of the singer-songwriter-night gigs, and with the notion that I was, essentially, opening for Dara O'Briain, I was so excited I could have soiled myself a second time.

So I started playing. And this was where the disappointment began. At the previous gigs, people had been laughing quite willingly by the end of the first song. But not this night. The room was almost divided into two - one side would occasionally chuckle at the odd satirical reference. The other side sat and glared at me in stony silence. Unfortunately, the latter were sat closer to the stage.

I dragged my sorry arse off that stage half an hour later and went straight to the bar. There has not been a public performance of The Supreme Crow since.

Apologies for lack of funny and particularly for length, but even my acoustic guitar could not conceal the shrivelling penis of my shame.
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:38, 3 replies)

Ahem...
The American electorate
(chase, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:37, 4 replies)

I'm sure it happens to the best of us
This story concerns my first proper girlfriend, Demon Bitch From Hell, that you may remember from my previous posts.

It was Valentines day. I spent the day cleaning my house, I bought a rather expensive bottle of wine, and when she came round at 6 o'clock I was preparing a nice spaghetti bolognese.

We ate, we drank, we became very merry indeed - and ended up cuddled up on the sofa, candles lit around us, with soft jazz playing in the background.

I kissed her lips lingeringly, and placed my left hand on her hip, slowly trailing my fingers downwards. She unbuttoned my fly and started to carress me through my boxer shorts. I kissed her lips again.

Her beautiful brown eyes belied the wicked smile on her face. I kissed her neck and slowly worked my way down her body, kissing and licking and nibbling.

In no time at all we were both naked and she lay spread-eagled on the bed. She beckoned me toward her and, trembling with anticipation, guided my twitching bell-end into her wet, warm haven.

5 seconds later, my fun-trumpet unleashed a torrent of foaming, rabid muck into her love tunnel.

"Is that all?" she said, with an angry edge to her voice.

I was so ashamed.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:37, 5 replies)

Actually, this is a serious (ish) one
When I was born, one side of my jaw was too small. This was made worse by an affect of it, which was my teeth. All through my life I got told that they'd fix it all, give me a Hollywood smile, blahblahblah.

When I was nine I had one of my ribs put in my jaw, which would grow and give me an average sized jaw. This didn't work at all, and I was left with a bit of titanium in my jaw and not much else. I needed a lot of fillings on that side of my jaw's teeth, but thought nowt of it.

Fast forward to 16, they said that they could do this thing called distraction on my jaw. They'd break it, put some pins and stuff in it, then once a week they'd turn the key a little bit, separating my jaw bone and making bone grow to fill that gap. They'd give me braces for 18 months, do the op, then I'd get my braces took off 18 months after that. Sounded FUCKING PAINFUL but I was willing. More waiting.

Aged 19 I decide to go to uni 300 miles away. This meant I was separated from my surgeon and forced to a new department. Turns out I'd stopped growing a while ago and they'd just not done anything. Saw a navy captain who was really eager to get things started on me. He organised a CT scan to be done immediately.

On review of the CT scan, he noticed that my bone density was absolutely pants and that I had a muscle missing as well as half of another one. On looking properly, it turns out that operating will be really risky due to scars there and he isn't happy doing it. This has to be the most disappointing thing in my life.

They've given me braces now, at 21, about 2 days ago. Not even on my bottom teeth, on the top row. It hurts like hell and I can't help but think that if they'd acted sooner in my home town, I might have finished the course by now. To add insult to injury, the reason I needed (and still need) tooth fillings is because of the titanium that's in my jaw. The stuff that's even riskier to take out.

I'm not getting that Hollywood smile.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:37, 4 replies)

sex
in my red high heels was amazing, i beg to differ with the qotw.

oral sex, however.... get it right and of course it's amazing. get it wrong and you get first sleepy, then bored, then irritated, then chafed, then finally give in and fake it.

and don't get me started on doggy. frankly, it just hurts quite a lot of the time.

is this just me?!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:34, 21 replies)

When my parents were poor
Magictorch has reminded me - I asked for a pair of shoes as a Christmas present - I was desperate for some Kickers, which were worn by everyone at school at that time. Now, when my christmas present was handed to me, it felt the right weight, right size - I was so excited! And when I opened it, it was a shoe box - oh the glee!
Then I opened the shoe box and found 2 pairs of tights, a wooden pencil case, a bottle of supermarket own brand shampoo, and a hair brush. I was devastated.

Luckily Kickers became unfashionable very soon after that, I grew up a little bit, and my hair is still lovely.
( ascorbate, Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:33, Reply)

For those of you who know about a little thing called CfH and NPFIT
I work for Fujitsu. For the NHS contract. That they just lost. I got my 90 day notice. That's a pretty big disappointment.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 26 Jun 2008, 15:33, 4 replies)