A Grumpy Old Man, Wrong Numbers And A Very Social Daughter
Last summer my Dad had been getting wrong number phone calls for about a week on his mobile from an Irish lady trying to call her daughter. These calls were normally politely answered with a “sorry, you’ve still got the wrong number. Yes, again. Hahaha. Yes, no problem, bye”.

That was until we were at a barbecue with my wife around her parents in Berkshire. We had been eating and drinking in the garden all afternoon and well into the evening, which in itself was quite the feat for a man who drinks maybe twice a year, when his phone rang. Looking at the screen he realised it was the Irish lady with the wrong number again.
So this time he drunkenly decided he’d had enough and when the lady asked “is Laura there” my father replied “she is, but she can’t come to the phone as I’ve worn her out”. The rest of the family were sat looking at him in shock and confusion as he continued with “yes, we’d been going at it for several hours on the dining table and now she’s having a sleep”.

At this point the woman had hung up and we all started asking my Dad what that was all about and he shrugged and said he’s just had enough of her calling and that he reckoned that should stop it.

A few minutes later his phone rang again, only from a different number. Turned out it was Laura’s Dad, who was calling to find out who the hell had upset his wife and had been shagging his 17 year old daughter.

My Dad was indignant that he’d been called back, so he told the man that “they’d done it in every room in the house and that he wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if she walked funny when she came home tomorrow”. After a fair bit of shouting and huffing on both sides the other Dad had hung up and we started quizzing our Dad on why he’d done that?

At which point his phone rang again, only this time it was a tearful Laura who had previously been having a lovely evening with friends at a party and now had to go home as her parents were furious with her and she understandably wanted to know who he was and why he would lie and say things like that to her parents.

At which point my Dad grumpily told her it was her Mums fault as she was clearly stupid or had sausages for fingers or both, until Laura hung up on him too.

The next morning, feeling suitably bad and embarrassed and chastised by my Mum, my Dad called the girls Mother up and apologised for the night before saying that when they were in bed asleep last night his son had come home from the pub drunk and had apparently picked up his phone and that he understood he may have caused some offense.

The lady thanked my Dad for calling but pointed out that his drunken son had caused some considerable distress. At which point my Dad passed me the phone “as the nice lady wanted an apology from me in person”.

Thanks Dad.
( Dervel OTBC, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 14:25, 11 replies)

Back in the mid
1980s my grandfather had an allotment in a village outside Derby, and an arrangement with a local farmer to get cheap horse manure to use as fertilizer. One Friday when I was 4 or 5 my grandfather called up my old man and asked if we'd like to come down from York (where we lived at the time) and help him do some work on his allotment. Sure enough, Saturday morning we drive to Derby early, and whilst I'm engrossed in helping my grandma make chips with a potato cutter, my father and grandfather toddle off to the farmers with a barrow to pick up a load of shit for the allotment.

Hours pass. My mother and grandmother are wondering where they've got to, and decide to check the local pub. We walk up there, to find my very drunk father, my very drunk grandfather, and a very drunk friend of my grandfathers being hosed off in the carpark by the landlord.

Apparently my dad and my grandfather had picked up the shit from the farm and had been wheeling it back to the allotments (which was next to the pub). On the way they'd met an old Navy friend of my grandfather's, who suggested a break for light refreshment in the pub. They'd sat outside, barrow of shit at their table, and sank 'several' pints when for some reason an argument erupted. My grandfather, being a reasonable fellow, had dipped his hand into the squishy barrow of horse poop and thrown a wet clod directly into my fathers face. My father then responded by throwing shit back at him. This then degenerated into some sort of three way shit flinging competition, with my relations, and my grandfathers friend, jumping around like drunken chimps, flinging faeces at each other until the landlord came out with a hosepipe and separated them.

My grandma made them both sleep in the conservatory that night.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 14:00, 7 replies)

unexpected horse
after a christmas party one year, my parents went upstairs to, presumably, go to bed.
ten minutes later, i could hear thumps and muffled giggling coming from the upstairs landing.
unsure what i was about to see, i went to investigate.
there, on the landing, were my parents, draped in a bedsheet and bumping into walls.
"what the fuck are you two doing?" i asked. after a bit more giggling, mum's voice came floating out from under the sheet. "we're being a horse!" she said.
i left them to it and went back downstairs.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 22:05, 15 replies)

Pissed-up cardshark WIN
This is one of my favourite anecdotes about my dad.

My father is a big drinker and very sociable. He loves pubs, and on arriving in a new town will immediately seek out an inn and spend eye-watering amounts of money on 'getting to know the locals.'
The price of my dad's beery generosity is allowing him to hold court with his theatrics and grizzled wisdom. The barman hands him a pint and he's off on a typically bellicose and entertaining display of posturing, 70s politics, military anecdotes and magic tricks, usually with a suitably attentive audience. After all, he's buying the drinks.
One particular evening in a bar in Scarborough, a deck of cards had appeared. I'll give my dad his dues, he knows some amazing card tricks. He spent the evening wowing staff and clientele alike with an array of spectaculars that would make Paul Daniels break his own fingers in envy. The drunker he got, the more bold and inventive the tricks became. However, one fractious young man was getting more and more infuriated by my dad's trademark blend of attention-seeking and infallible sleight-of-hand.

After one particularly outstanding trick … in fact, let me sidetrack for a second to explain it, because it's a fucking cracker. He pretends to be Wyatt Earp (twat!) and deals out poker hands to himself and four 'baddies' (i.e. random drinkers). Invariably he gets caught dealing to himself from the bottom of the deck, so gets called out. Admitting his deception, he gets a new pack of cards, and allows someone else to shuffle it and continue the deal. Everyone checks their hands – two have flushes and two have full houses. They play their hands expecting certain victory, then my dad turns over his – four aces. It's fucking great …

Anyway, he'd done this trick, and for the irritable young man this miraculous display was the final straw. He leapt up, strode across to my dad, pulled the deck from his hands and snatched a random card out of it. Holding it up in the air, he shouted:
"RIGHT YOU CLEVER FUCKING BASTARD, WHAT FUCKING CARD IS THIS?"

"Ten of clubs."

There was a mirror behind him.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 12:27, 8 replies)

That's CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow
My dad once drank alot of wine and cried because he coulden't remember the name of the pirate in pirates of the carabian.

I have never seen him cry on any outher occasion in my 24 years of knowing him.
(Mong goose, Thu 24 Feb 2011, 19:35, 4 replies)

Stay off the tranny-booze
A few summers ago I ended up at this fate they stage in Regents Park for the benefit of the hippy element hipster types of North London to do a spot of corporate sponsored tree hugging with lashings of clandestine consumerism thrown in for good measure. Not usually my cup of tea, reviewing a load of sanitary products made out of coconut fibre and the like, but it was a sunny day, I’d heard they sold booze, and they had demonstrations of ferret racing running at quarter hour intervals throughout the afternoon. That pretty much had me sold.

So, off to Regents Park I went with a mate of mine named Mark and his little boy, Stan. Nice little kid. Stupid fucking name, but a nice quiet well behaved little boy. The three of us get up there. After a bit of pissing about outside we manage to get in (the fucking place had security, for fucks sake – I know all this organic bollocks is expensive, but that really did take the piss). Anyway, we’re in - Stan’s happy playing about with the other little nippers, his ragged mop of blonde hair shaking about as he ran round in circles and amused himself. Mark and I, keeping a watchful eye over the boy, are happy to discover a stall that sells pimms. By the pint. Now, the thing with pimms is that it tastes a bit like liquidised strawberry jelly. It’s really rather nice. And the other thing about pimms is that it gets you absolutely wankered in less time than it takes a your average lib dem leader to sell their soul to the dark side. A swift two pints later and Mark and I are feeling the fruity effects of this wonderful, exotic falling down water.

“Jeeezzzeee, I’m actually pretty damn wasted,” says Mark. I concur and we decide its best to walk the tranny-booze off and stick to something less likely to fuck us up. Me – beer (the joys of not having a sprog). And Mark – coke (on account of having his trouser artillery make a direct hit on an unsuspecting egg five years previously).

Mark reaches out and grabs Stan’s hand and were off, walking at a fairly brisk pace round the perimeter stalls, trying to concentrate on not being as pissed as we felt and feeling like a couple of utter fucking lightweights.

Several minutes pass. Mark asks Stan, still clamped tightly hold of his hand: “D’you want anythin’ to eat, son?” - Silence- Mark asks again. Still the silence. Mark and I stop, turn as one and see, at the other end of Mark’s arm, held in Mark’s vice-like grip...

... a little black kid, looking back up at us with wide scared-to-shit eyes. This definitely wasn’t blonde haired, blue eyed Stan. Not by any stretch.

Fuck. We’d, or actually Mark (that’s what I’d tell the fucking rozzers), had abducted a child.

With fluttering arseholes we set off back to our starting point, finding out the little black kids name on the way. Thankfully, we found his parents without too much delay and Stan was playing in the grass on his own, completely oblivious, nearby.

The kids mother looked so grateful, she thanked us both and I said: “Really stupid, I know – but we actually managed to take the wrong child.” And I sort of shrugged.

The lady asked, now a little suspicious and on full peado alert: “Oh, and where’s your boy.”

Mark waved Stan over. “Here he is,” he said.

The woman looked between her kid and ours. The two boys looked like a couple of extras from a Michael Jackson video; one very very black, one very very white. Taking her own boys’ hand she turned and marched away: “They could’ve been separated at birth,” she said, and stalked off muttering and shaking her head.

Both Mark and I reverted to Coke after that.

And we managed to get back to Mark’s place later without swapping Stan, inadvertently, for a kid of any other race or sex along the way. A pretty fucking impressive feat, I’d say.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 3:34, 8 replies)

That rug's just a piece of tut anyway
My dad's more of a weed smoker than a drinker. Like me, he's got quite a low tolerance for alcohol and tends to get plastered rather quickly. He's a pretty good drunk though, and usually he's lots of fun to be around.

However, this wasn't one of those times.

I must have been 16 or so, it was a school night and I was fast asleep in bed. Around midnight, my dad comes in totally shitfaced, waking up everyone in the house with his singing, stumbling into every conceivable obstacle, breaking random things and loudly shouting his apologies up the stairs.

So I roll over, wrap my pillow around my ears and try to get back to sleep. Downstairs it sounds like he's either trying to cook something or trying to break every cooking implement in the kitchen. I feel much gratitude when I hear my mum getting out of bed and grumpily traipsing downstairs. She manages to shut him up, push him upstairs and get him to bed. Apart from the intermittent sound of his giggling and my mum's shushing, all is peaceful enough to get back to sleep, and I drift off.

Next thing I know, someone is noisily opening my bedroom door. I open my eyes to see my dad standing in the doorway, swaying from side, in his boxer shorts.
"Dad?" I venture, sleepily,
"Hello son!" he beams. Then he takes two steps forward into the middle of the room, pulls out his cock, and proceeds to start pissing on the little rug in front of my bed.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I yell.
"Nothing, I'm fine, calm down" he says, making eye contact and everything.
"You fucking bastard. You fucking bastard. I'll fucking kill you. Mum! MUM! Dad's pissing on my bedroom floor!" I scream, not seeing the funny side in the least. I am now standing on my bed, yelling and calling my dad a fucking wanker.

My mum walks up behind him, smirking a little, but obviously pretty pissed off. By this time, my dad has finished his piss, and is standing in the middle of the room smiling like an idiot and wondering why everyone seems so tense. My mum grabs him and drags him back to his bedroom.
"What were you doing? You've pissed all over Levi's rug!" she says
"That rug's just a piece of tut anyway" I hear him mumble.

For some reason, he loves telling this story to people. It comes up every Christmas, and he always gets me to tell the last bit, where he says "that rug's just a piece of tut". That's his favourite bit.

I didn't see the funny side until after my dad had gone back to bed, and I had gone downstairs for a nice calming cup of tea (while my mum, bless her, scrubbed my dad's piss from my bedroom floor). I was sat at the kitchen table, and once my nerves were less frayed, I started chuckling to myself. I laughed and laughed, until I realised my dad had heard me and was laughing along from his bed. I stopped laughing, and my dad shouted downstairs "see - I knew it was funny."

Bastard.
(leviticus no longer likes the cut of your gib on, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 16:06, 3 replies)

This is all I have this week, so eat it!!!! -
My Dad rarely gets drunk in front of the family; however there was a time in the 70’s when he was a bit of a wild child. He was into punk and had a fairly large Mohican at the time, made up of a lot of different colours and rather large.

Anyways he was travelling back from a gig in London on a train and a bit worse for wear. Opposite him sat an oldish type of chap that was just staring at my dad’s hair. After about ten minutes of him wondering why this old chap was staring at him, he decided that he wasn’t going to take it anymore and piped up with

“What are you staring out old man have you never done anything crazy before in your life?”

To which the old man replied, without a pause.

“Got drunk once and had sex with a Cockatiel I was just wondering if you were my son?”
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 16:33, 14 replies)

My mum
I often stay at my mum's house if I go out in the town where I grew up, just to save money on a taxi etc.

Just before Christmas, I invited a couple of friends back for a few drinks once the pub had closed. Unbeknown to me, my mother had also been out, and was already upstairs in bed, trying to sleep off her drunken state.

About 15 minutes of sitting in the kitchen, laughing and drinking with my mates, the kitchen door burst open. In staggered my bleary eyed mum, who then proceeded to walk over to the fridge, take out an egg, amble over to me, and smash it open on the top of my head, before pointing her finger at me and saying 'Keep the fucking noise down'.

Mental.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 9:53, 4 replies)

Okay then, how 'bout we reverse this?
I do have a tale on one of my kids.

My oldest is now 21, of legal drinking age here in the States, and has been exercising this right periodically. As he lives with me, I get to monitor (somewhat) just how carried away he gets. Mostly it's pretty mild, involving him getting well buzzed but not wasted.

One night he and some friends decided that they wanted to get truly wasted, and told me this in advance. We laid out a few ground rules- anyone who left here had to have a designated driver, no one drinking was to be underage, nothing too outrageous was to happen that might bring the police- and then he and his friends went out to get some cheap beer and bourbon.

The missus and I left for a while, and came back somewhere around eleven or so. They were happily playing beer pong when I went to bed, loopy but keeping it sane. I thought nothing of it as I drifted off to sleep.

About 3:30 I awakened when my bedroom door opened and someone entered. The quilt was lifted from the foot of the bed, and a great weight was suddenly laying across my shins. I sat up. "What the hell are you doing?!?"

"I'm going to sleep, Dad," he clearly replied.

I sat there for a moment, utterly confused. The missus was not in the bed, just me with my son lying across my legs. Just then she returned and was about to take off the bathrobe when she realized that I was not alone in there. "What the-"

I kicked him a couple of times. "Get back to your own bed."

He sighed. "Okay." And then he got up and wandered back to his own room.

The next morning he was moving very sluggishly, so I handed him a cup of coffee. "Okay, you do realize that when you end up drunkenly in bed with someone, it's not supposed to be with your father, right?"

His expression was priceless.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 25 Feb 2011, 19:57, 10 replies)

My dad lives on a boat
And since I don't often get the chance to visit, when I do we usually make a day of it. There are a lot of open fields down the river from where he is moored, so we sail down, moor up, and have a BBQ with more than a few beers between us.
On one particularly lovely day, we realised that I had forgotten to get buns for the burgers and so walked about a mile to the car and drove to the nearest shops.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was away, my dad had decided to move onto something a little stronger than beer, and knocked his keys into the canal.

When I got back, he was nowhere to be seen. I put the buns inside, looked in the kitchen, knocked on the bathroom door, nothing.

Going back outside, I saw one of my dad's plastic crates in the water, and assumed it must have fallen off the back of the boat, and so getting one of the poles, I hooked the box and lifted out of the water.

I then fell to the floor, and tried desperately not to wet myself, as, where the box once was, was my dad's head. He had jumped into the canal after his keys, taking the box with him, as in his drunken stupor, he had been sure that Dad + waterproof box = Submarine.
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 7:07, 7 replies)

Wine and mild racism
First off, let me just say that there's no harm in my mother - she's a lovely, well-meaning woman, who nevertheless has an incredibly mild racist streak that only comes out when she's had a few.

Case in point; The whole family was out celebrating something-or-other in a rather fancy chinese restaurant in Glasgow. My mum had already demolished most of a bottle of wine, and was merrier than Santa Clause on Ecstasy, when she spotted a grand piano in the corner. "Oooh, that's lovely - I wonder how they got it up the stairs?" she slurred.

At that moment, one of the (chinese) waitors came over to take our desert order. My Mum turned to him, and said, "Piano velly nice. How you get up stairs? You carry on back?" in the worst stereotypically racist chinese accent she could muster, while miming carrying a giant piano on her back.

As I started to close my eyes in shame, the waitor looked at her blankly, and said, in a perfect Scottish accent, "I dunno, it was probably already here when we got the place"

"Oh..." said my mum, and shrank in her seat as the rest of us burst into laughter
(Godwin's Lawyer is more evil than Hitler, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 13:45, 7 replies)

Cruelty to animals in the days before YouTube lols
We had my dad's mate's mother-in-law over one Christmas for reasons I was too young to be told, and she was absolutely ace. She drank gin from 9am, said "Good gracious!" much of the time, and sang us rude songs that my parents disapproved of.

On Christmas day we gave the dog milk as a treat, and she kept slipping gin into it.

At one point we let the dog out for a pee, he wandered over to the bush, cocked his leg, and fell into it.

Funniest thing I'd ever seen. Awesome.

The next day the dog appeared to be distinctly unimpressed with absolutely everything.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 2 Mar 2011, 9:49, 10 replies)

Stuff
My parents are a really cosy couple. They do everything together, and it's nauseatingly sweet. For as long as I can remember they used to share a bottle of wine in the evenings while watching TV, allowing themselves to relax after a long day of work or bringing us lot up. The fire would be on, if we were lucky we'd get a sip, and we'd just get to see this whole other side to our parents, who were more like friends than grown ups.

Unfortunately they don't do that any more. Since my dad was diagnosed with Parkinsons, he can't drink with his medication, and usually just falls asleep in the evenings. My mother doesn't like to drink by herself, since she thinks it's unfair that my dad can't join in. Some nights it's just like it used to be, they make jokes, they make fun of the television programs they're watching. But more often than not it's watching them in silence.

I'd give anything for them to be able to share that bottle of wine again. My parents are, and always have been, honest, hard working people. It's hardly fair that the one luxury they ever really allowed themselves was taken away from them.
(Aruu does not put all her trust in root vegetables., Tue 1 Mar 2011, 17:53, 24 replies)

The Morning After the Night Before
Forbidden from the raucous party downstairs at an hour befitting our tiny little frames, the next day my sister and I awoke as fresh as two morning daisies.

Bouncing out of our angelic sleep, we went in search of mummy. Daddy worked at night, so he must never be awoken - particularly at the ungodly hour only very small children seem to be able to manage - but cautious investigation of the dragon's den revealed only one slumbering figure, and those stinky feet were definitely not mumsies.

Where could she be?

In the kitchen? No.

In the dining room? Nope.

In the garden? Little hands couldn't reach high enough to get to the key, but the glass door revealed a total absence of mum.

In the downstairs loo? Oh, there she is! We can see the light under the door! But why won't she answer our knocks? Keep knocking!

Tick tock, tick tock on the clock. No reply.

At a loss, we waddled our keening selves around and around, until the only place to go was the room that was oh-so forbidden last night - the lounge. Curtains drawn, so still cloaked in gloom, the detritus of one hell of a party unveiled itself before our uncomprehending eyes. Empty bottles colonised the big trestle table, along with discarded snacks - peanuts and crisps and strange cheese things. A bounty! But we were NOT supposed to touch.

Back to the bathroom we went, but there was still no reply to our hungry knocking. So we waited. And waited. AND WAITED.

Our grumbling stomachs growled at us. Remember how when you are young, 30 mins is an eternity? We had been utterly abandoned ALL DAY, and FOREVER! We must fend for ourselves, just like wild things - create a new society in our empty home; forge our own ways to survive! We would go make a child's paradise in our new lounge kingdom, with crisps and peanuts aplenty...! We would plan and mount a daring raid on that table top bounty; liberate it for our new regime...!

----------------------------------Lines of Wavy--------------

My mum finally awoke. Vague thoughts of aspirin and tidying thronged her throbbing brain, alongside litigation promises against the makers of Babycham. Having fallen asleep on the loo for a whole hour longer than usual bratling-breakfast time, mum staggered toward the lounge feeling rather zombie.

Sadly, she staggered right back out as a large cushion smacked her right in the face with a 'whoopmf'.

It was shrapnel - my taller sister had unjustly sealed herself (and the food) in a Sofa Cushion Fort of Girlie Evilness; my many poo, bum and wee-based insults only hardened the tyrants resolve. I maintain my throw cushion barrage was mere judicious force.

That was a sharp end to our Lord of the Flies management of the lounge; a ballistically thrown cushion smacking my mothers face neither helped her hangover nor her temper.

But from the safety of an anonymous internet forum, I would like to state that my sister is a complete wee-wee breath bum-face, and you can't tell I said so.
(IChewCandlewax, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 13:51, 3 replies)

Newquay
I was 16 and severely adolescent when it happened.

The traditional end of GCSE celebrations at Sunnyside holiday camp in Newquay continued late one night and young, drunk and excited, we had managed to blag our way into Sailors Nightclub.

Now, I knew my parents were also on holiday in Cornwall but my suspicions were not aroused when a late phonecall from my father arrived, asking what we were up to. "Having fun dad! we are going to try and get into Sailors later!"

So tipsy and jubilant, we had got past the gatekeepers and were into the pussy filled, neon paradise that is Sailors nightclub. We walk up to the bar and standing there, blind drunk, grinning with a bucket of beers is my Old Man!

I meet him with a stare of disgust, my mates greet him like an old, long lost friend. After a brief chat, he starts to tell my friends, in detail, the story of how I was conceived in Newquay when all of a sudden my mother, having been dancing drunkenly in the corner, arrives just in time to help him finish the story.

Thanks Mum and Dad, thanks alot!
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Fri 25 Feb 2011, 13:45, 4 replies)

no taxi home
My friend's dad, Bob, was a wonderful old gent; he and my father had been best men to each other and you could not imagine a more avuncular, pleasant, mild old boy.

However, like all old boys, he was once young, and, like most young men, used to like a drink or two after work. Based in the city, and commuting home to Winchester, from time to time he'd fall asleep on the train and wake up in Southampton, only to make the blearily and pleading call home to his wife to come and collect him.

After maybe the third or fourth time, his wife had had enough, and told him in no uncertain terms that 'next time, you're sleeping on a bench at the station'.

Sure enough, the next time rolled around and bob was on the phone pleading with a sternly resolute wife who refused, point blank, to come and pick him up.

Cold, penniless and starting to get the fear, Bob heard a voice... "Bob, Bob, what're you doing?" came the cry from the far platform. Bob Dimly recognises an old school mate, sees the faintest glimmer of hope and explains his plight.

"Winchester you say?" says the chap. "hmmm... Winchester shouldn't be a problem. Hop in".


And that is how a. Bob avoided sleeping on a station bench that night and b. found out that his old schoolfriend had achieved his ambition of becoming a train driver. Apparently, trains are very cool places to be from the front seat...
(pounana Slept well, and dreamed of large women, on, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 20:40, 4 replies)

Drunk Dad
Only really seem my dad drunk once...(warning this story is funny...but only funny for me...or people that know my dad...you may appreciate it tho)

My parents are the kind of people who like to host parties (dinner and drinks) and they consequently have a HUGE liquor cabinet full of booze. But the weird thing is that they are not huge drinkers. (My wife's parents drink every night, mine only once in a blue moon.)The only time they regularly drink is when they go to church.

Anyhoo, I distinctly remember I was about 14, it was a Friday evening and dad had been out having work drinks. He came home plastered. Mum had to pick him up from the station. "Your father's had some drinks" said mum very evenly. I couldn't read her. Was she upset? Angry? OK with it all? I couldn't tell.

Dad came stumbling in grinning from ear-to-ear. He was so wasted he could hardly open his eyes. You could blindfold him with dental-floss.
"My son my son" he smiled and gave me a huge hug. "Oh I love you so much. You're such a good boy". As he was hugging me i looked over his shoulder to mum who was staring back extremely poker-faced.

Dad let go of me...walked to the bathroom muttering something about "my son" and "my boy" then proceeded to throw up violently. It honestly sounded like he was emptying a bucket down the toilet. It was loud and seemed to go on for ages. After what seemed like an eternity he finally stopped. The 2 seconds of silence was interrupted by him letting out a very loud fart. "Woops" he said. Then all I could hear was him giggling, obviously laughing at his own fart. Now my dad has one of those infectious laughs and I could tell that he was crying with laughter as he tends to sound a little like precious pup. He was laughing and laughing. That brought a smile to mums face who rolled her eyes and walked away.

Then he emptyed another bucketload down the bog before flushing stumbling out grinning. "Don't go in there" he said. "There's two smells going on" he laughed. I was laughing too by now. He gave me another hug and went to bed. He never spoke of it again. My parents never raised it in conversation. Looking back the whole thing was quite surreal. Apologies for lack of funnies, but this is just something that really stands out for me in my life :) weird huh
(Markygee Surname: "Balls". First name: "Lick-mah", Thu 3 Mar 2011, 0:15, 4 replies)

What is this life if full of care...
Between finishing my A-levels and heading off to uni, I went on what was my last family holiday. I didn't really want to, but I felt I ought to make up for the previous years holiday where I was a resentful snotty teenager who made it obvious to the world that they didn't want to be on a family holiday. Anyway, we went to Center Parcs and a most pleasant time was had by all. Mostly.

Most nights we had pleasant meals out or back in the chalet, with civilised quantities of beer or wine and early nights ready for another day of healthy walking, bike riding, squash, swimming, badminton and what have you. Apart from the night that my brother and I decided it should be a 'boys' night and we took my Dad off to play snooker while Mum stayed watching Dr Zhivago or whatever womanly film we had placated her with.

It was that night we realised what a good influence my Mum is normally. Dad was off the leash, the wallet was open and he was going to make sure he had fun. It started gently enough...coughing whenever it was someone elses shot at the table, then deliberately farting to put us off. We were laughing. The people at the next table less so. Then he was hungry, so sandwiches were purchased. Did we want ham? cheese? chicken? bacon? tuna? 'Sod it, mr waiter, bring us one of each' And a round of scotches while you are there. Then the stories started 'I played football with Jimmy Greaves...'; 'I once pushed a car all the way through the Dartford Tunnel';'More Scotch'; 'I was faster than Jesse Owen as a schoolboy'. Who knew, Dad? who knew?

Gross exaggerations aside, a good night...nay...a great night, was being had by all.

But as is always the case, good things end and the night wound down, we staggered back to where a sober and unimpressed Mother was waiting, almost but not quite in a hairnet and tapping a rolling pin in her hands. But Dad wasn't done, and out came more beers, more stories, more more beers and more more stories until...'I could still climb a tree better than you boys' he said. Which was undoubtedly true, as neither of us boys were really capable of standing upright by this point, let alone climbing anything more challenging than off the sofa. Still, I was not allowing this to go unchallenged. 'Prove it...'

And prove it he did. He could definitely climb the tree out the back of the chalet. He showed us. He also showed us he couldn't climb back down again. We had to talk him out of jumping though, and I had the bright idea of getting the picnic table out and telling him to hang down and stand on that. It was a great idea in theory I'm sure, but it didn't take into account two major things.

One, me and my brother were far too wasted to successfully erect the picnic table without so much crashing and bashing that the people in the adjoining chalet came out to see what was going on.

Two, picnic tables are not designed for the weight of a full grown adult suddenly landing on them from a tree.

I'll give him his due though, he managed to stay on his feet as the table buckled beneath him. He stayed on them all the while he flailed backwards trying to get his balance as his momentum took him across the grass, past us all and only stopping when his heels caught the step of the neighbours now open patio doors where he ended up on the floor on his back, being stared at by two distinctly unimpressed thirty something holiday makers, before getting to his feet and proudly saying 'Just showing the boys a thing or two about their old man, I'm sure you understand' as we led him away leaving a red faced mother blusterting apologies.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Wed 2 Mar 2011, 12:12, 4 replies)

My Dad once said to me
"Son, I'm not disappointed in you and I know you try your best, but I'd had a lot to drink that night and I think the alcohol killed off all the good 'uns."
(Sadarse works like Mist condensing mud flaps, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 12:20, Reply)

My father is a respected academic and a fairly scary man.
This well-deserved reputation was ruined for me the night I came home to find the Winchester College wine society had held a meeting in our house.

My dear father was ahead of me up the stairs. He bared his arse to me and broke into a loud and full-throated rendition of 'Moon River', exploding into fits of giggles at his own brilliant wit.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 17:30, 11 replies)

Please shut up
you boring lying fucks.
( WormuIus, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 11:59, 33 replies)

Ollie
is a drunk. He has two young children and told me this conversation with his wife he had recently one Sunday morning.

Ollie?
Yes?
You said you wouldn't drink too much last night.
That's right I only had a couple of drinks.
Are you sure?
Yes.
So why did little Tess find a turd in the middle of the kitchen floor this morning?
Oh no! It must have been the cat.
I don't think so.
Why not?
Because it had a sheet of used toilet roll next to it. :-/
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 24 Feb 2011, 22:55, 2 replies)

My Father pt.2
My father quit drinking when I was 4 years old, and started going to AA - he actually took me along for the anniversary meetings sometimes to hear the stories of people who'd made their first month, their five years, or to whichever milestone they'd made it to. He led the meetings and would share stories of his own as well which helped people feel more comfortable coming up and talking themselves.

I grew up hearing - often with brutal honesty - the stories of people who had hit bottom and pulled them selves back up, with the help of family, AA, and for some - "their higher power" (whatever that meant to them) - but always the first step was acknowledging - emotionally and completely - that yes, they really did have a problem. That they needed help.

It was educational in ways I'm not sure I can explain, as it's so inherently part of me now that it's hard to put into words, but when I see people today who cannot face their problems, who cannot - for fear, or pride, or sheer stubbornness - cannot admit they're wrong and they need help - I sometimes wish more people were raised in AA meetings, and were able to see how much of a good thing it is to admit there is something wrong that needs to be fixed, and to take responsibility for it and move forward - what true greatness was achieved by so many who were at such low points not so long ago...

I'm really glad I got the chance, both for myself - and for the time it gave me with my father - who is an amazing man and who (eventually - after 40 years of pain and avoidance) opened his heart and let himself care, despite what his abusive father and shit upbringing had taught him, despite what the whole world had taught him - and that having to drink was out of his control, to admit that This Was Not Right and that he had to change, he had to get better, that he had a problem.

He never hid from me who he had been, and he never pretended to be perfect, I don't think he even really thought he was that great a person after he stopped drinking and got his act together - but he is a great man and I'm truly grateful to have him as my father.

I've written a funny story in another post about him leaping off a cliff when drunk - and there are plenty more stories like that I've learned over the years - another (so this post isn't completely maudlin =)) was when my dad was pulled over for driving drunk and in an effort to impress the cop and hide his drunkenness, my father decided to get his wallet out and have his license and registration all ready to go like a good citizen...

Leaning against the door so he could get his buttock up off the seat and get the wallet out of his back pocket - he left a definite impression on the officer - who opened the door on him and watched my father fall out of the car and onto the street entirely before even getting to say "Hello, Ossifer".

But as my father says "That cop didn't do me any favors. He helped me up, gave me a warning - and sent me home - and I was able to pretend for a little longer that everything alright and under control."

To my father, a man who'd prefer to have been busted for DUI rather than not - if it only meant he could have figured out he had a problem that much sooner.

He's a good man, and he taught me so much, I couldn't be prouder of who he is today.
( Allisade would love to hear from you, Wed 2 Mar 2011, 23:24, 7 replies)

My Mother
My mother used to work as a families liaison officer for "wait for it"
Alcoholics Anonymous.
Well one particular Christmas she announced that she was off to the office party, which consisted of a West End show, a nice meal and then home.
All good and well you think, when you consider who she was working for, well to cut a long story short the phone rang at 1 in the morning, it was a policeman could I please come down to the local railway station and collect my mother who was as pissed as a fart and her equally pissed workmates.
I was so embarassed my mother could barely stand, one of her colleagues had thrown up in her handbag, another was vomiting in the gutter when I arrived.
I had to drive them all home, but the best bit was calling home at 07:30 to ask if she had had a restful night and being told to "fuck off", the upside was of course after this when she starts to crow about the evils of the demon drink, all I have to do is remind her of that evening.
(raith50, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 14:27, 8 replies)

At first, it was a little bit frightening
I think in order to understand why I found this event so ab-enhancingly hilarious, you need to understand a couple of facts about my dad. Firstly, before this event, I had barely seen my Dad drink, let alone dance. In fact, movement is not one of his fortes. My Dad makes Al Gore look like an out of control hedonist fun-junkie. Sensible, frugal, and restrained.

Secondly, his visual appearance. He is 6 foot 5, and skinny. He also wears old-man style trousers, pulled up past his waist as far as possible without obscuring his field of vision, and of course, with a t shirt neatly tucked in. Due to his indomitable fashion sense, this leaves a good old gap around the ankles to excite the ladies, exposing some serious grey nylon sock action. Pulled all the way up the calf. Worn with sandles. (Ladies yes he *is* single, please, form an orderly queue in replies)

We were on a boat (mother fucker), in the waters around Turkey. It was one of those old-style wooden jobbies, with about 10 tiny cabins and a skeleton crew. Damn scurvy. Ha, no, 3 living crew members. One evening's sophisticated, exotic entertainment featured 'music' and 'beer' on the 'boat'. Liberal application of the local 'Raki' (Turkish Ouzo) combined with some peer-pressure and general good-natured frivolity had left Daddy-o rosy-cheeked and over-confident.

On comes 'Kung-fu fighting', one of those 'you don't know how to party properly so i'm going to bloody-well-show-you' types starts going around, dragging everyone to their feet to dance. I can't believe it, but my Dad willingly gets up and joins the group.

When it gets to the chorus, everyone bopping along as non-committally as possible, my Dad, arms poised in Kung-fu 'crane' position, executes an elegant jumping scissor kick in time with 'UHHHHHHHHHH!!!' then sits calmly back down. There is a tiny bit of pride there, buried beneath the ball-crushing embarrassment.
( SigmaX0 Dear Die Hard. You rock!, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 13:42, 9 replies)

Simple mathematics
I made this discovery over Christmas:

Absinthe + pineapple juice = good.
Absinthe + pineapple juice + my mother = good grief.

Lesson over, class dismissed.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Sun 27 Feb 2011, 11:39, 16 replies)

invisible motorbike
my mum isn't much of a drinker, but she used to like the occasional whisky. only one particular brand would do, however.
one night, whilst out with her friends, she went to the bar to get the drinks in. upon discovering that her favourite tipple was unavailable, she had a little think: what was it all the kids were drinking nowadays? oh yes, that's right, Diamond White. well, if it was good enough for them, she'd give it a go.
mum had never drunk cider before, but this stuff was going down like lemonade. if you've drunk Diamond White before, you'll know that it is deceptively strong, especially for the unwary.
after 3 bottles, mum was feeling decidedly merry. she and her friends followed their usual sunday night itinerary, which concluded with them meeting their husbands in my local, in which they all worked. by the time they got there, mum hah had 5 bottles and was well and truly shitfaced. after watching her almost missing her mouth with the 6th bottle, my dad had a word with the other barman on duty. "next time she asks for a drink, fill her empty bottle with water. she's pissed, she'll never notice." yeah, right.
there are 2 things my mum hates, being tricked and being ripped off. normally a placid woman, she became a small ball of fury when she tasted the bottle of water. almost launching herself across the bar, she grabbed the barman and yelled some very unsavoury things at him.
it was at this point that dad decided taking her home was a very good idea.
so it was that, at 1a.m, i opened the door to see my father, sniggering like a schoolboy at my incredibly inebriated mother, who appeared to be trying to kick-start an invisible motorbike. she was actually trying to step over the doorstep, without success. dad helped her inside and told me what had been happening, before saying he would get mum to bed. satisfied and amused, i went back to watching my film.
half an hour later, i heard a strange noise coming from the hallway. it was like a small dog growling. intrigued, i went to investigate. seeing that the downstairs bathroom light was on, i went towards the open doorway with some small amount of trepidation.
there, slumped upon the seat, pants around her ankles, was my mum. fast asleep and snoring.
when i finally stopped laughing, i fetched dad to help me decant mum into bed.
now, every time she gives me grief for being hungover or for an injury sustained from being fuckwittedly drunk, i remind her of this.
i'm NEVER letting her live this one down.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 24 Feb 2011, 18:40, 2 replies)

Does losing a lung count?
Most of the time my parents are fairly tame when drunk - maybe their jokes get slightly cruder, and double entendres tend to slip towards single entendres. About the worst that happens is my mum's wine allergy kicks in and she ends up being almost able to cook a fry-up on her face. However, there's a few times when it goes that little bit too far, and there's one particular incident that always springs to mind.

I must have been about 8 or 9 at the time, so I can't remember all that much. I remember my dad going out for a drink with a couple of workmates (including an uncle), and then he was in hospital for a few weeks with pneumonia. I can remember going to visit him every now and then, but whenever mum brought me and my sister along there was always a very slightly tense air between her and dad. "Fair enough" says I, "maybe she was just worried about him".

It wasn't until later that I found out exactly *how* he ended up in hospital - something my uncle was only too happy to inform us of. Y'see, it turns out that after closing time, my dad felt like enjoying the company of my mum. But, given that she was all the way back home, he'd decided to settle on the next best thing that looked vaguely similar - a postbox.

(For the record, yes my mum is about the same build and complexion, especially after the wine, but still - easy to see why she was so pissed at him)

Luckily he passed out before he was able to do anything more than hug it while bawling my mum's name, but not quite so luckily my uncle was too twatted to do anything more than leave him on the pavement for the night - hence the pneumonia, and eventually losing a lung.

My dad's no longer allowed out on the piss.
(Nykrus, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 11:26, 94 replies)

I am a live in carer for an 87 year old chap and have been for nearly a year.
I was his wifes carer before she passed away 5 years ago.
They never had any children and I've always refered to the old boy and his late wife as 'mums' and 'pop', so he's my unoffical adopted dad so this story counts.

Anyway, he likes a drink and has done for about 50 years, he'll go through an average of a litre of gin a day, his choice and to quote him "I'm over 80 years old, I've earned the bloody right to drink and somethings gotta kill me so I shall die doing what I know."

This to me in some ways is a fair enough comment so if he wants to have a drinky he will, he still eats ok and it's actually very hard to tell if he's drunk or not and is usually only evident maybe twice a week when he needs a bit more help getting to bed.

About 3 days ago, I made him aware that I was gonna be changing his catheter bag for a new one as I needed a fresh sample for testing, not a problem and shall let him know when.
He's got a couple cans of special brew in the fridge that he bought about 6 years ago and went out of date about 4 years ago that he doesn't want to throw out, and yesterday he asked if I could fetch him his 'handle', which is one of those olde style pint glasses with the handle, so I go get it out of the cupboard and give it to him.

I then go outside for a smoke and a tinker with the motorbike and he calls me in.
He then tells me that his beer tastes funny, so me thinking that he opened the special brew told him that would be why.
He then points out he's only just poured it and where's he poured it from.

In his drunken state he had decided to help me get a sample for him by opening the valve on the bottom of his cath-bag and emptying the contents into a pint glass for me.
This was how he decided he was a bit drunk, because he instantly forgot he had done that and saw a pint glass with a 3rd of a pint in it and assumed it was what he was drinking.
One hefty swig of it later and deciding it was 'off' was when he and I decided he had had enough to drink.

I have no idea why he thought a warm beer would be in his glass, or why he decided that I could have his sample in a pint glass.

Over the past few years he and his wife have done some daft stuff while drinking together so may add some more later, he's not my real dad but is as close to one as I've got while my biological dad is the twunt that he is.
(Mensa Reject has gone out, I'll be back on, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 20:50, 5 replies)