Bath tubs - the cunt survived
So there was my mate, in a bath tub, hurtling down a hill in the Yorkshire Dales, with a full lob-on, chasing the girl of his dreams, who for some reason was standing at the bottom of said hill in the middle of nowhere, with ALL of her mates, including my wife.

This would not merit such an invective from myself, were it not for the fact that, on reaching the bottom of the hill, he pointed out to everyone that I was reaching the jester's shoes behind a nearby wall with the gristly maiden I've been trying to do for years, and I got a serious beating from my wife, resulting in embarrassing injuries to my love wand.

And then, to rub it in, he did exactly the same thing the following week, and in fact every Sunday evening for the next 30 years.

So obviously I was furious that he had the cheek to survive such a hare-brained stunt as to travel down a 1-in-3 gradient hill (replete with mole hills and potentially dangerous wiry tufts of grass), in a bath-tub on wheels, every single time, and yet I always finished up with a beating from my wife, and never got to shoot in my bird's growler in peace.

I thought justice had finally been done in about 1999, when he finally popped his clogs. I even had a quick dump in his coffin at the funeral while no-one was looking, and assumed that I had had the last laugh. But no, his son only goes and moves into the village, and I've been caught out in the same way by him, every single Sunday since. Add to this is the fact that my bird is now so old her fadge looks like a butcher's shop window, and I think you can safely say that I've been hard done-by.
(And I don't agree with that in the workplace, Fri 3 Sep 2004, 8:39, Reply)