I am a robotics genius (or so the Japanese think)
A few years ago as a fresh faced graduate I a got my first “proper” job in a secondary school. The school was run by a power hungry bastard who got a bonus for keeping staff wages down, hence my starting wage of £11,100 per year for an IT Tech with a degree. Oh well I thought, I needed the experience and as it turns out having the three years there did help me get my current B3ta friendly job on much more cash. However my faking story changed my life for the better.

One of our senior management people had witnessed an Australian school build a cheap and cheerful robot that could be controlled over the Internet. He stated getting ideas. In October 2005 he came to me and said “Phil (for that is my name) I started a collaboration project with a Japanese university promising them that our school had built a robot that could be controlled over the Internet” “Oh” I said “Why would you tell them something like that” “well” He replied “I saw the Australians make one and thought our students could do it too.

Now I digress here to explain why this was a stupid thing to say. The town I live in has one of the the highest teen pregnancy rates in the country. The school I worked at was in the bottom three schools in the county. It was a school of thieving little shitbags. Robot building was never going to happen.

Sooooo back on track. He tells me that it needs to be controlled over the web and that a replica Mars landscape will be created and the Japanese will attach a drill to the robot and drill around.

“So Phil you know IT right? Build it for me”

“Ummmmm I don’t really know much about robots how long do you have”

“It needs to be done in about 4 weeks so I can fly to Japan for two weeks and show it off to them”

Coals to Newcastle I thought. “Four weeks, sorry it’s just not enough time”

“I’ll take you with me!”

“Four weeks it is then, but I’ll need an open ended budget”

“Done”

Of course I really know nothing about robots so I type “WiFi enabled robot” in to Google and come up with a company in Canada run by Chinese people who build robots with WiFi. I ordered one for about £2000 and had it sent over. I took off all the labels and used the schools laser cutter to make vinyl logos of both the schools and stuck them on instead. A quick mess about with the control program in VB removed the company’s logo and put in the schools logo. Set up a web vpn, called the Japanese and they were soon remote controlling our computer that in turn controlled the robot “that I built”

So three weeks later I am on a plane to Japan. I have an 11 hours flight to explain to the students “how they built the robot” so when they gave their speeches they would sound genuine. At this point they had never even seen the thing.

It was so high tech that there was no way that we had built it. It had sensors for everything, auto patrol made, returned to its charger if it went flat, it could detect human presence and tell you how many people were in a room. It looked fantastic. They were NEVER going to believe we built it.

So we landed in Kyoto and were driven off to our accommodation. We were there for two weeks and were treated like kings and queens. Everything was amazing and it truly changed me as a person (but that’s another story) When I went shopping with the Yen I’d scraped together they wouldn’t let me pay for anything, I was followed around by three guys who just kept buying me stuff.
Then it came to it, a half day of sharing projects.

The bloody thing didn’t even work properly.

BUT they were impressed, VERY impressed. They started rethinking their drill to make it better because of how well we had built this thing.

After the two weeks of sightseeing and half a day of work were over we flew back, later that year the Japanese flew over to get some more details on it so they could make their drill. Then a year after our original trip we were invited back for another two weeks. So we did it all again. Took it over and pretended we had built it. They paid for everything. I got yet another “Once in a lifetime” trip and two weeks off work paid in full that didn’t come out of my holiday because I was technically at work. This time it went over even better because I got it working.

When we got back we were in the newspapers over there and over here. I was pictured with the robot and hailed as “The schools own Robotics Expert” Yeh right on 11 grand pah. It opened doors for me and now I have a much better job on much higher pay.

So there you go, I spent someone else’s money and faked my way to 4 weeks in Japan on full pay, everything I tried to buy paid for, food and accommodation paid for (expensive restaurants every night) and had some amazing stuff to put on my CV and a great reference and newspaper clippings to back it up.
The robot now gathers dust as no-one can use it, it never got a drill attached.

I still know fuck all about robots.

No Apologies for length it was the best time of my life.
( Peej, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 9:55, 10 replies)

Not a brown labrador in sight......
I must have been 10ish (the time Sean Connery likes to go to Wimbledon). I detested school with a vengeance. Hard to believe now, but I was The School Swot, always coming top in my year group, if not the school for French, English & science, winning prizes left right & Chelsea in the process.

Not only was I an uber-swot, I came from The Posh Estate. Meaning it was the only private estate in teh pit village (it was a Leech house). The rest consisted of council estates and pit houses. Nothing wrong with that; however, my peers' other prerequisite was the total lack of the ability to breathe nasally.

Therefore, Young Tourettes was ostracised at best, ruthlessly bullied at worst. The only relevance of which was my constant insatiable search for excuses to stay off school. Tonsillitis was good; glandular fever was even better (that got me out of P.E. for 6 months to boot!). Genuine childhood ailments, followed by a long spell of good health. Meh!

Then I played a blinder. Literally.....

From whence the inspiration came, I have no idea. I was forever daydreaming, allowing my eyes to drift off out of focus; leaving the Real World far behind and choosing to spend the majority of time in my own Special World. I was doing this one morning as I descended the stairs. Half way down, a half-baked plan came to me. Leave the eyes out of focus and pretend to be blind!

Fuck me all ways, my folks fell for it. I scored 4 or 5 months off school! (Wouldn’t happen nowadays, oh no, I’d be packed off with Extra Visual Support. But this was the 70’s.) My mother helped me to dress, cut my food up (chips at 3 o’clock, Spam at 8 o’clock, fried egg at 12. “Where’s the Ketchup, Mam?”
“Eeh, sorry pet, it’s at 6 o’clock”).


I was duly taken to *see* the GP, who referred me to an eye specialist in Newcastle. Of course, he couldn’t find anything amiss and suggested I visit an optician. Throughout the exam, I kept up my Oscar-winning performance. However, when the optician started putting different lenses in the frames, a potential problem hit me. If I came away with fuck-off jam jar specs that really would cattle my eyes. So in my 10-year-old wisdom, I decided to say the “weaker” lenses helped. 15 minutes later, I thought I’d been rumbled. The optician told my mother all the lenses he’d inserted had been clear glass! Stinky Poo! How was I going to wriggle out of this? He turned to my mother in all seriousness and said, “Your daughter has nothing physical wrong with her sight. Her blindness is psychosomatic. Can you think of any possible triggers or causes?”
She thought for a moment then proclaimed, “Yes! She read that Shiela Hocken book, “Emma and I” – she was really moved by the story and empathised hugely with the blind lady!”
“That’d do it”, replied the nice optician.

And lo, I had another few weeks off school, while my eyesight *gradually returned*…….

Little fuck-sock that I was.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 12:55, 17 replies)

Fake it till you make it
I finished my uni classes for the day yesterday and went home where I could enjoy some much-needed downtime with a bottle of beer and B3ta. Whilst re-reading the QOTW I had an epiphany, and a strange thought began to surface from somewhere in the depths of my exhausted mind. Soon enough I began to ponder quietly as I was sipping on my beer. As the QOTW says, we’ve all played “let’s pretend” at some point. I think it unlikely, however, that most people realise the extent to which some of us have done so.

Some people, for example, portray an image of themselves which is entirely inconsistent with their thoughts or feelings (what they may consider their actual “personality”) on daily basis. To a degree this can be called acting, but the negative connotations of putting on an “act” in a social environment could belie the genuine reason for doing so.

Sounds daft, I know, but stick with me for a moment. I was one of these people for…well…the majority of my life and (maybe) I can offer a little insight into why some people choose to do this.

Growing up isn’t easy for many people. Every household/family/environment (call it what you wish) is unique. Mine involved a sister, my Mum and my Dad. Dad had been an abusive alcoholic since before I was born and my family had suffered for it in several ways. My mother and sister were emotionally abused, and I was both emotionally and physically punished since my father took a particular dislike to my disobedience in what he was determined was “his” house.

The environment I was living in was reflected in my behaviour and my thoughts when I was at home. I didn’t talk much, was tentatively on-edge and also took to comfort eating in my teens (went from a 6-pack to overweight in a matter of months once I began. Yes, it happens to guys too). This wasn’t just behaviour conditional to my Dad being at home, either. I felt like this ALL the time at home, regardless of Dad’s presence.

While I won’t go into any details suffice to say that years of emotional abuse has a profound effect on a person’s mind and development. My mother and sister developed serious clinical depression, as did my father (I never did figure out whether the depression – a chemical imbalance in the brain – was the cause or the result of it). The problem was that it was years until this was actually diagnosed – I was 16 when my mother and father attempted suicide (6 weeks apart from each other. Both failed) and were admitted to a psychiatric ward in the nearby hospital for examination and rehabilitation. They were put on anti-depressants, given counselling, and eventually came home, whence a cycle of home-rehab-home-rehab began for each of them (out of synch, too).

Of course, nobody on the outside had a clue what home life was like. Not my friends, not the neighbours, or the people that my parents associated with.

Why?

We were all pretending. Each of us was…well…”different” when we were in the company of “outsiders”. You know how when a group of people behave differently within their social circle when somebody new is introduced? It was similar, but very exaggerated. Our whole demeanour changed not only as a family, but as individuals (I hope I’m making some sort of sense here).

I went from my quiet, moody, angry and nervous home-self to flamboyant as soon as I spoke to the first outsider, whether it was at school, work or the sport teams my Dad allowed me in. I noticed it in my sister as well. The tentative glance my sister and I made toward each other each morning as each of us parted ways at the school gate, watching the other talk to their respective friends and seeing them smile for the first time since getting home the previous day is a moment no words can describe. That’s when I suppose we felt we were out of the woods and could begin our lives that existed away from home.

And so the days went by. I found reasons to laugh and joke, and tell myself to think happy thoughts so the fear of what was waiting for me at home wouldn’t get to me. I pretended I was OK. I pretended I was happy. I pretended that the occasional fat lip or bruised arms and legs were from carpentry/sport/fighting. I pretended that I wasn’t who I was or what I was. I did this until I moved out of home so I could go to a university in a different city.

I moved into a flat with other first-years and soon enough the happy façade began to crumble. I began having mood swings and thinking unusually violent thoughts. I couldn’t keep up this “act” of being a well-adjusted happy individual 24/7. However, I convinced myself that it was a just a passing thing that I would grow out of, though deep down I knew I was in denial. Around this time my sister decided to make an attempt at suicide herself, and *thankfully* was saved by a friend that made sure she received the appropriate treatment as I was no longer around (a fact which still wracks me with guilt).

A year later I was much wiser (relatively, anyway) and chose to open up a bit so I could try and BE happy instead of just ACTING it. I was living in a different flat with different flatmates which were kept at arms distance. I decided to try being more open and began by eventually confiding in a close friend why I might be behaving unusually, and related my home-history to her. This turned out to be a big mistake. She went ahead and told our mutual friends what I told her, in great detail. I was mad as hell.

However, I decided that it would be best to feign forgiveness even if I wasn’t ready to really forgive her yet so that things could move on – I told myself that “everybody deserves a second chance, don’t they?”

PANG. You know that feeling you get when you have a thought – just a thought – and the sudden, unforeseen tsunami of emotion that stems from it is so strong, so swift that it catches you entirely off guard?

Good God, I was crying – a 20 year old dude sitting in his room on an idle Wednesday afternoon, and I was unable to stop the emotion from distorting my face into a pained grimace. It took all my strength to not make any sound. If I could hear myself do this it would become too real. I was embarrassed for myself. Why now? Why was this still hurting, still agonizing, still rotting my core even now?
“It was a while ago, it doesn’t matter anymore” I reminded myself, pretending that it was true.

I fought it like hell. I punched the wall, my pillows, the door, anything that could distract me or pull my attention away from my own contemplations – if my Dad couldn’t make me cry with his punches and kicks then neither could this thought, this emotion, this foreign THING that was attacking my psyche.

I was wrong. It was getting ever harder to hold on…so eventually I let it all out. It was over surprisingly fast, like a dam breaking, subjecting everything downstream to its wrath. Never cried so hard in my life before, or since, that afternoon.

It took a while to pull myself back together. I gathered my thoughts and realised that I needed to make a fresh start. I had to stop faking, even if it was only to my closest friends. That’s when it began. That’s when I began to stop acting, stop pretending and abandon the charade that virtually split my personality. I admitted to myself where I came from and convinced myself that I could do better. I could BE better.

Some time last year, about 2 years after breaking down quietly in my room, I realised I had finally accomplished what I had set out to do that day. I can be “myself” (for lack of a better term) not only with my girlfriend and my friends, but also with my family. Thankfully, they’re better too. Their depression and my father’s alcoholism have been successfully managed by means of medication and counselling, and gone is the previous charade of happiness we put on for others. Now, we actually ARE happy.

Sometimes, I guess faking it can pave the path to a lot more than that CV that got you the job, or an empty promise that got you elected or laid. While pretending to be someone you’re not isn’t something that is particularly appreciated in our world, sometimes people might feel they have to do it to survive, to get them through a difficult time. Legless has mentioned somewhere on here that we all change, grow and all leave behind who we once were, hopefully becoming better people.

I couldn’t agree with you more, Legless.

Looks like you *can* “fake it till you make it” after all, huh?

Apologies for length, I guess something about this QOTW just inspired me to share.
(thecurriedavenger, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 12:15, 10 replies)

I'm watching you

(osmouk, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 1:30, 61 replies)

The fake interview
Click here for the video, but I recommend reading below first.

There’d been talk around the company I used to work at about the bonus for referring someone who they eventually recruit being doubled. Many people were scouring their address books in order to obtain this lucrative prize that, in theory, seemed so easy to achieve.

With the general time-wasting banter amongst the proles of the office giving the weather a break and revolving around that subject, it didn’t take long to start sewing the seeds of an evil plan in my mind. Why not make someone up? Why not create the ultimate candidate!? If Eddie Murphy can play every role in a film which still grosses well at the box office, then surely I can find a way to make this possible?

CV screening

A quick download of a CV template later and it was time to play God. I had been involved in recruitment at the company for a significant amount of time, so knew exactly what to include on the CV in order for it to receive a positive screening. To be fair, at this stage I was still thinking that this would be one of those flippant, no-effort / few-chuckles ratio’d pranks, so didn’t put much effort into making the CV seem particularly realistic.

For example, I knew some of the keywords being scanned for, which included a good knowledge of networking and some SQL experience hence the skills section read:

Skills
--------
Networking
SQL

I felt like Anthony Michael Hall in Weird Science as I my creation stirred to life. 10 minutes of deep concentration later and he was alive. I had created…

Flavaadit Gambatron.

Aaah Flavaadit. How could anyone believe your existence? You have the syllable ‘tron’ in your surname and a beloved double-a giving your forename a masculine sound when your name was spoken out loud. Say it with me

Flavaadit
Gambatron.

It didn’t take much to unearth the ridiculousness of the name as neither his surname or forename returned a single search hit (although this seems to have changed subsequently).

I sent the email to the recruitment email address on the company website where it began its elongated journey to an inbox geographically three metres from me. The next step was to await the reply.

Download Flavaadit’s CV here.

It took just thirty minutes for Flavaadit to be approved for a telephone interview! He couldn’t believe his luck! When reading the job spec, he did think the role was made for him, but such a quick response!? Flavaadit was getting big headed.

The quick response put me at a hypothetical crossroads where two distinct paths laid out ahead of me. On the one hand, I could go over to the lady who’d approved my creation, slap my thigh in mirth then leave it as a ha-ha for the pub later. A one or two on the LOLchter scale. On the other hand… The potential was screamingly obvious. I was an interviewer in this company. I not only knew the system, I was part of it. I was in a point of power, and power is designed to be abused.

It was time to face facts. The referral bonus idea was a no as we just don’t have the technology for clones yet (or do we…? No. Not yet. But may- No. Stop it.). I started preparation for the telephone interview, and decided to see how it went from there. It was all very well going this far, but who knew where this would end up. More precisely, I prefer to wing it than to actually have a game plan, so I didn’t really know what to do other than proceed with the interview. Who knows, maybe I could even get Flavaadit to progress to a face to face interview, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, setting up a fake telephone interview is easier said than done.

The telephone interview

Including myself there are three people in the company who conduct the telephone interviews for my department, sharing the load between each other. Outlook Calendar research is needed to find the perfect time for the interview to ensure that I’m not the one giving it. Ideally, both of my bosses will be out of the office and I will be able to create a fictional meeting in my own calendar to ensure the interview gets redirected to one of the other two. I’ll also have to make sure it isn’t at a time I’m in a legitimate meeting myself. I can’t risk my boss being in the office, as he’ll want to know feedback on the review etc, and although this seems like a great idea, I’m not sure I want to get into trouble for it and he’s pretty good at identifying when I’m wearing my shenanigans hat. This requires COMMANDO PRECISION. In. Out. No-one knows I was even there.

The other main thing is that if I’m going to go to this level of detail, then I want to make sure that I get it all recorded for future generations to enjoy. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. Making this happen may be the trickiest part of the operation.

A week Friday is identified as the perfect day for execution. Boss #1 on leave and Boss #2 working from home. Open up GMail…

Flavaadit replies “Can you make it a week Friday?”.
Recruitment replies “How does 10:30am sound?”.
Check the calendar…
Damn it, the one time I have a meeting that day.
Flavaadit replies “I’m working full time at the moment, is 14:00 alright?”.
Recruitment replies “Yes, you’ll be called at 14:00 a week Friday”.
The time is set. The clock is ticking.

First things first, I’ve got to fill my calendar with some bollocks like Knowledge Transfer. No-one questions knowledge transfer because they fear they’ll be invited and end up being responsible for the knowledge being transferred. It’s a safe bet. Book it for an hour and a half. I can’t risk someone talking to me beforehand and eating into my prep time. This is far more important than work.

The most difficult, yet rewarding part of this operation is to come up with a way of filming it. I don’t own a digital camcorder and I don’t know of anyone else who does. I recall hearing that the company have one somewhere, but getting hold of it without suspicion will be a particularly tricky manoeuvre. There’s no rational reason someone in my role would need a camcorder. Also, once I’ve gotten the camcorder, I’ve got to get it in front of the interviewer in such a position that it clearly captures the whole thing. There’s no chance of hiding it somewhere, this will require the interviewer to know about the camera and be comfortable with its presence.

After a good while playing out various ideas, I started to hit brick walls. It dawned on me that I couldn’t perform this task alone. I needed a Robin, a Penfold, a second girl to my one cup if you will.

I decided to confine with the not-so-lovable prankster Pete. A great sense of humour but notorious for being the sort of person who doesn’t know where the line is. The sort of person who when all others are entertaining each other hiding each others door passes, he’s found the car keys of the quiet guy and decided to hide his car. In the Thames. On fire. Exactly the sort of person who wouldn’t bat a moral eyelid at the plan I was formulating.

Some conferring on the practicalities later and the plan began to take shape with the following fictional scenario agreed upon.

“We’re refactoring the recruitment process in the department after concerns expressed that we’re not conducting things in the best possible way. In order to make this happen we want to film a sample interview from an experienced, valued interviewer (compliments++) to use for future training purposes. Pete would also be present in this interview to ensure the camera was working correctly and also with the view to introduce him to the company interviewing process. He would be taking notes during the interview to discuss with the interviewer at a later time.”

Convincing B, the interviewer, about the camera was trickier than anticipated. Naturally she wasn’t comfortable about being filmed during an interview and it was requiring some serious schmoozing, flattery and favour-calling to even get her to consider it. Of course appearing too keen was also a problem, as the last thing I wanted to do was make her suspicious. There was also a serious danger that she would twig the little technicality that recording an interview without telling the candidate was illegal. I’d like to think it was charm that eventually convinced her, but I’m sure it was sheer brute force in the end as I reeled off so much bullshit about improving recruitment, bringing people up to speed quicker, sharing knowledge etc. that I must have appeared as some inspirational recruitment superhero for an incredibly boring modern world.

With this done, and the interview booked into her calendar, I waited until the day of the interview itself before putting the finishing touches in place. I couldn’t risk anyone finding out anything as gossip problems in the company was notorious.

When the morning arrived, I booked the camcorder and a laptop from the support department for the exercise giving them the same reasons. I’m fairly sure they were convinced I was bullshitting them, but didn’t care enough to want to know more or bother disrupting my plans.

In the room booked for my “Knowledge Transfer” I set up the laptop and placed the microphone next to the phone speaker, conducting a test call with Pete to ensure the levels were alright.

There was just half an hour until the interview itself when disaster struck. A certain department Miss Conscientious who had overheard what was happening almost ruined everything when she noticed me carrying the camcorder and questioned the legality of the filming within earshot of B, the interviewer. I laughed it off, but inside added her to my hit list. Once B had moved away to the kitchen for a cup of tea, I took the opportunity to have a quiet word with Miss Conscientious and tried to explain to her with half-baked reasons why that wasn’t the case. I don’t know if it was the adrenalised look in my eye or the aggressive tone in my voice that made her suspect something was amiss, but I didn’t have time to put her off the scent. I told Pete to keep her away from the epicentre whatever way he needed to whilst I continued the set up of the sting.

A quick check through all the necessaries and I was ready.
* Bosses out of office
* Room booked for interview; Room booked for ‘candidate’.
* Camera set up in interview room, B & Pete booked in for interview.
* Laptop with recording software ready for ‘candidate’ room.
* Mobile battery full strength.

I sat in my room and awaited the call.

Now go back and watch the video at the start of this post and ask yourself, is there a space in your company for Flavaadit?

If you can’t be bothered to watch the video, as it is about 20 minutes long, here are some excerpts roughly paraphrased.

B: Can you tell me what DNS is?
Flavaadit: Ah yes, the Danish Nationalist Society, yeah?
B: Uh, no... No. Excuse me could you repeat what you say about DNS?
Flavaadit: The Danish Nationalist Society. I don't get it.
B: Ah, okay. So just, um, just forget about it...

B: If I asked you what software you're most familiar with, what would it be?
Flavaadit: I do use Internet Explorer a lot, if you know what I mean.
Flavaadit: You know, late nights.
B: Okay
B: Have you ever encountered any problem whilst using internet explorer?
B: Any crashes? Unexpected behaviour?
Flavaadit: Well I tend to find it doesn't deal very well with popups.
Flavaadit: Basically, you go to some sites and you're just riddled with popups.
Flavaadit: Spyware as well.
Flavaadit: It'll just leak pretty much anything.
Flavaadit: You're talking about completely innocent websites and you'll end up with so much spyware on your computer, you'll wonder
Flavaadit: "Are Microsoft themselves putting it on here?"

B: Could you tell me the operating system your machine is running?
Flavaadit: Operating System? Oh yes, Windows 98.
Flavaadit: Fantastic
Flavaadit: I mean basically, I never bought into this NT side of things.
Flavaadit: 98 does everything I want it to do I mean, really, NT, what does it add?

Flavaadit: Do you have any sort of, um, I don't know...
Flavaadit: Basically, I like coffee and biscuits.
B: Yes?
Flavaadit: Do you have free coffee and biscuits.
B: uh, is it- I don't think it's a relevant question.
Flavaadit: Really? Well, I guess if I'm going to be getting about 40k then it's not really gonna matter.
( ma0sm, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 17:47, 4 replies)

You don’t know how lucky you all are…

This is something I’m not particularly proud of…

Years ago when I was young and desperate after college I applied for a job at a large telecommunications company.

I passed the interview with flying colours – they liked me, I liked them. I had the perfect combination of skills and experience. I even had things in common with the interviewers and we ‘clicked’ like friends. It was perfect. I was never so sure of anything of my life.

I was deliriously and ambitiously looking forward to the career (and rewards) I had always dreamed of...so you can imagine how crushed I was when I was called and informed that unfortunately I could not be employed due to their ‘equal opportunities policy’.

Their HR manager apologetically simpered but I was inconsolable. However, between his snivelling, condescending whimpers I heard the following words:

“If only you were a woman, we would have hired you on the spot.”

There was suddenly a metaphorical lightbulb above my head. Like I said, I was desperate. Totally desperate. I know what you’re thinking but please understand how much I needed this job. So I bit my lip as I considered the impossible…This couldn’t be something I could enter into lightly…but my entire future happiness was at stake…

Now, I’m not a homophobe or anything, I embrace all persuasions, but I had never so much as even drunkenly dabbled with transvestism. I couldn’t understand the point and it did not appeal to me one iota. But then as I weighed up my options and my dream job it began to seem more and more like a viable prospect.

Besides, my friends had always told me I looked slightly effeminate. The thing was…did I have the guts?...could I pull it off?

I decided straight away that if I was going to do this, that I would tell my immediate family and friends before hand, so I could get their advice (and all the piss-taking) out of the way straight off.

To my astonishment they were very supportive…they knew what it meant to me. Even my dad said that ‘as long as I was happy, the King family would be proud of me’. I admit I shed a tear.

Some of my girlfriends even loaned me some clothes / underwear / make up etc and most importantly, tips on how to look.

There was no turning back now.

The first time I tried women’s clothing was a simple flower print summer dress. It was still an uncomfortable experience I can tell you; what with the ‘last turkey in the shop’ swinging about in the breeze underneath (I didn’t want any visible panty lines).

Walking round my bedroom, the shoes were a killer, and as for rolling on the stockings in as manly a way as possible…it’s not fucking easy mate, they snag on everything!

Although painstakingly slow and deliberate, I was soon a dab-hand at applying my makeup and nail polish etc…or so I thought. Thinking back, maybe I was a little bit on the ‘slutty’ side.

The time came that I had to approach the mirror to see the results of my handiwork…

Catching that first glimpse of myself was something I will never forget. My jaw gaped as I clapped eyes on this strange ‘woman’ standing before me. However, I was convinced that I looked ok….quite nice in fact…Yet still the big question remained…was I passable in public? I didn’t want to look like Anne Widdecombe doing an Edna Everage impression did I?. So I had to put my ‘new look’ to the test.

The next logical step was to try my first ‘public appearance’. I called a mate and offered him a tenner to walk through the town centre with me and hold my hand. He accepted and we bravely ventured out into the street with me kitted out in full drag.

As far as we could tell, not a single head turned. For all the world, we were just a normal couple. Even my mate said he felt comfortable. The preliminary experiment was a resounding success! Time for stage 2!

Now all I needed was a name.

Seeing as I’ve already opened up to you fellow B3tards. I may as well tell you that my real name is Raymond. For my female pseudonym I wanted to go with something that sounded similar so I could remember it. Obviously, something like ‘Ray-netta’ would’ve been outright twattish, so I decided to go with ‘Faye’.

With my heart in my throat and putting on a high-pitched attempt at a smouldering voice, I phoned the company, explaining that I was my own twin sister and asked for an interview. They accepted.

There was properly no turning back now.

The big day arrived. Shaking with fear as I wiggled on my high heels into the interview room, I immediately recognised my surroundings and interviewers from my previous attempt. But would they suss me?

The answer was a resounding ‘no’. They were fooled by my story completely and other than an odd gleam in Paul, the HR manager’s eye, they never gave me a second glance. Once again, the interview went absolutely swimmingly and I could feel my confidence building. Paul even patted me on the arse on my way out. Saucy cunt!

I got the job. I was to start a week Monday.

On my first day I wore a neat little A-line skirt and white blouse; using my old rugby socks to pad out my bra. Perhaps now with hindsight I think I may have overdone it a bit as I was soon attracting the attention of Geoff, the local area manager.

To him I was the perfect woman…stacked up top and nice legs, but with knowledge of the offside rule and a hankering for Top Gear and real ale. He pursued me relentlessly.

I kept catching him staring at my ‘breasts’. His attempts at chat up lines were crude and repulsive. If he wasn’t my boss I would’ve told him to sling his fat hook straight away. But I had my new career to consider…so I fluttered my eyelashes, giggled flirtatiously and it was in the polite affirmative that I answered his request for a dinner date.

So that night, tarted up to the nines and smelling like a prossie’s boudoir, I let Geoff escort me to the local Beefeater whereby he proceeded to ply me with gallons of white wine. I must admit it was nice for an old chauvinist like me to have someone else pick up the tab for a change.

After more light flirtations, we took a taxi and went back to his place. As we pulled up outside he asked me if I would like to ‘come in for a coffee’. I had to think fast…

He was local area manager…This could be my first step up the corporate ladder…How far was I prepared to go?...

…

Well, I must say, taking him into my mouth was a bizarre sensation (at first), but I soon found that I could just ‘think about something else’, as I suspect many women do. Before long he was fully aroused, grunting and splurting in fake romantic tones that he wanted to ‘take me’.

This was starting to get a bit out of hand...but I didn't want to give the game away.

Again, thinking fast, I jumped to an improvisational career decision…and whispered to him that I like it ‘up the wrong’un’.

You know what? He couldn’t believe his luck! Before I could even wipe my chin I was bent over the dining room table and he was going at it like a pneumatic drill.

I had to sneakily clutch my clock-weights; and to disguise this fact I wiggled my finger to give Geoff the impression that I was playing with my biffin’s bridge. He didn’t seem to notice as he enthusiastically pumped away at my puckering poo-chute.

An unsatisfyingly short time later, he spurted his cock custard over my back crack, and I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of power and achievement…

And I’m afraid to say it went to my head.

As soon as he had finished I just walked straight out, saying nothing.

The next time we met I treated him like shit. Completely blanked him

I never called him or answered his texts. I disrespected him. He wasn’t happy and he started to spread rumours about my being a ‘slapper’.

So I decided to get him back. I slept with his best mate…and his boss...and his dad.

Inevitably, the rumours increased and got worse. Before long I couldn’t stand the gossip any more and had to leave. I had ruined everything that I had worked so hard to build.

I hear they still talk about me there…

But what do they call me?...‘Whore?’...no...'Slag?’…No.

I am simply known as…

Faye King…Git
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 11 Jul 2008, 12:34, 20 replies)

Faking It.
.
At one company I worked at there was a huge, high-profile, project that involved employing dozens of programmers from an out-sourcing company. Well, I say programmers but I actually mean people-pulled-off-the-street-and-poured-into-suits. To my jaundiced eye these "programmers" seemed to have very little programming skills and a breath-taking lack of knowledge of IT in general. So it was up to me to educate them.

"Hey Legless" squeaked one of the masses "What does TCP/IP actually stand for?"

Bear in mind that this was a web project they were working on. A web programmer didn't know what the very bones of the Internet stood for.

"That'll be Transmission Control Protocol/Internet Pixies" I lied smoothly.

He looked suspicious.

"Internet Pixies" he asked looking puzzeled

"Yup. You see the fathers of the Internet were a bunch of hippies so would name things out of Tolkien or from Dungeons And Dragons. I mean, you've heard of Unix Daemons? - Systems processes on Unix boxes? Well the Pixies carry the messages to the Daemons. It all makes a kind of weird sense when you think about it"

I was warming to my theme now.

"Then there's a bunch of other Pixies on the internet. Your dial up modem uses PPP doesn't it?"

He nodded.

"Well that's Pixie to Pixie Protocol. Then there's your mail - POP3. That's Post Office Pixie. I could go on but that's the meat of it. Pixies run the Internet."


He was nodding now and smiling.

"You know, it does all make sense. Can't wait to tell the other guys about this. We've been wondering about it for a while." says Mr Gullible.

And off he trotted.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 7:44, 9 replies)

Control
I'd always meet them at their hotel bars, more for my own safety than anything else. Every time I met someone new I'd be filled with that familiar nervous energy. A glass of wine would usually help calm me down, just the one and maybe a shot. I didn't want to be drunk, being drunk isn't attractive, it also clouds your judgement and leaves you vulnerable. Being vulnerable and showing fear were not acceptable.

I'd worry about being watched, or being spotted by someone I knew. I'd get the occasional knowing look from hotel staff, or women would glance over at me and whisper to their friends.
It didn't surprise me, I knew what they were thinking, a young woman barely in her early 20s with a much older man in a hotel bar. She must be a prostitute.

They were wrong though, I wasn't being paid to have sex with these men. They were paying to be my slaves.

Sometimes it would be tame. We'd go up to their room and I'd tell them to strip. I'd start messing up the room while they changed into the little apron I had for such occasions, then I'd get them to clean up. All the while I'd be calling them worthless, barking orders, never asking, always telling.

Other times gags, whips and paddles would be involved. I disliked the whipping. Inflicting pain on anyone, regardless of if they were paying for it is something I've always struggled to do. I don't like hurting people. I couldn't let them know that though. I had to be the authority figure. If they knew how awkward and self conscious I felt. It would ruin the illusion.
You know that feeling you get when you're at a club and not quite drunk enough to stop caring what people think so you do that awkward sideways shuffle on the dance floor, have a sip of your drink and try and look as nonchalant as possible? Well, that's what I felt like most of the time.

I found it easier when I was dressed up. Every client had their own personal preference though usually nothing out of the ordinary, sometimes I'd be a head mistress, or a bossy nurse, one client had a thing for ninjas. All of the characters I played were strong disciplinarians. My favourite was the classic dominatrix look. It was the one so far removed from myself I found it was the one I could really exaggerate . Also, there's just something about wearing thigh high boots that makes you feel powerful.

I thought about their wives, did they know that their husbands were paying to be humiliated? Did they think their husbands were having affairs? I'm pretty sure none of them ever noticed that their husband was spending a lot of money on his business trip to London. I was always paid in cash and some of these men were disgustingly rich.
Every now and then they'd talk about their families. Most of them were happy generally, they just had needs their wives couldn't fulfil. This was usually due to the fact that they hadn't told their spouses about their desires to be dominated as they were apprehensive about being branded a pervert. I often wondered what would happen if they just communicated with them. Would their fears be justified? Or sometimes, is it just easier to pretend you don't like young women in hotels to put their high heels in places they shouldn't be, whilst you call them mistress and wank yourself into a gormless frenzy, for the sake of saving face?

The majority of my clients were actually pretty decent men. They worked extremely hard in very high pressure jobs. I'm sure they were perceived as control freaks and they spent a huge amount of time away from their home and loved ones. That's possibly why they came to me. I was an escape from the loneliness. They didn't have to pretend to be able to cope with me, they didn't have someone sucking up to them, they didn't have to be the one in control of the situation. But most importantly, they got a bit of escapism by living out a fantasy.

Eventually my double life took its toll. As far as friends and family were concerned I was working in a pub and just happened to like going out a lot. I had to lie about where I was going and who I'd be seeing, I had to cover my lies with more lies. I found maintaining my "mistress" person drained me. Having to act like a heartless bitch when all I really wanted to do was sit down and have a cup of tea became tiresome.

So there you have it, I was a complete fake. From the outfits, to the shouting, to the spanking. Although the praise I received was flattering, being treated like a queen a few times a week made me feel special and I knew I was making these men happy. It wasn't me.
I just don't like being mean.
( wanderlust, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 16:58, 12 replies)

A few years ago I worked for about 10 months in a sales office in Coventry...
All the time I was there I told everyone that I didn't like cheese.

Then one day while the manager (who, it has to be said, was a horrible woman) was out and I was really hungry I stole her cheese from the fridge and ate it. When she came back she understandably was pissed off that someone had stolen her cheese and gave everyone a hard time about it...

...except for me, because she knew I didn't like cheese \o/
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 16:05, 5 replies)

Da, Comrade.
I was feeling under the weather a few weeks ago and ended up skiving off on Friday in order to sit around the house, coughing in a decorously consumptive fashion like a Victorian orphan and generally feeling sorry for myself. After a while of this I got bored and fired up Mediaeval II: Total war, in which I quickly got engrossed in conquering Europe as the Scots; a challenging but ultimately possible pastime.
Eventually, after invading Mexico and Jerusalem I looked at the clock and realised it was the early hours of Saturday - I'd played for almost a full 12 hours without really noticing the passage of time and it struck me what a futile way I'd spent my time; rather than making the best of my enforced confinement, I'd done little but clicketty on the mouse for more than half a full day.

As a result of this, on Saturday I got up and headed out into the great wilds of London intending to find something worthwhile to do. Naturally this involved a trip to Forbidden Planet, but walking past St Giles-in-the-fields church round the corner from Tottenham Court Road tube station I noticed a sign on the door saying something along the lines of "Russian Poetry competition today - Admission free" and thought to myself Russian Poetry, eh? That sounds great! and went in there instead.
It turned out that this was part of an International Festival of general Russianess organised by an organisation called "Pushkin in Britain" and the church was full of Babushkas and the like.
Curious to know more and not put off by the babble of Russian that filled the building (there were surprisingly many people about) I snuck in, not wanting to draw attention to myself, and sat at the back in a row of dour-looking types who wouldn't have been out of place in the 1950's politburo. As I sat, an astonishingly pretty in that high-cheekboned-Slavic-way girl came up and jabbered something incomprehensible to me. I nodded and smiled and she jabbered some more and I, not wishing to seem impolite, nodded and smiled again so she thrust a sheet of paper into my hands and walked off. Looking at the piece of paper, it turned out to be a judges voting form for the poetry competition.
So it was that, despite my knowledge of things Cyrillic being limited to Krushchev's "Nyet! Nyet! Nyet!" speech and having no real idea what was going on, I ended up being a judge in a live-reading Russian Language poetry competition.
I don't know what the form is for judging poetry competitions. Perhaps it's like a job rating pornography and you're supposed to sit there saying things like "Phwor, I wouldn't mind some of her internal rhyming structure!" and "Look at the iambic pentameter on that!". I don't know. At least things were helped along by some of the poems being partially in English, which allowed me to infer that the competition seemed to be about the experience of being Russian in London but when it came down it the only way I could do my judging job at all was to base my marking on the overall Russianness of the entrants.
I tried my best. I tried to take it seriously. But I'm not sure that the broad grin of absurdist glee slapped across my face was the expression I was supposed to have.
Nobody else in there looked very happy, I can tell you. It was one of the things I was looking for in my marking. I was looking for: Dour? Check. Passionate? Check. References to Potatoes, Roman Abramovitch and polonium? Check. Astonishingly sexy Russian accents? Boy oh boy, yes. Hoody Hoo.
My overall winner was a woman whose poem appeared to be called "Do not forget the motherland!" and was delivered in the manner of an enthusiastic newscaster talking about the tractor production figues in about 1962.

It was, without a doubt, the coolest thing I did all weekend.
(davywavy, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 12:17, 10 replies)

When
my sisters and I were but slips of children we would regularly have to spend hours crammed into the back of my fathers latest crappy vehicular purchase on our way to visit our grandparents in South Wales or, if were especially lucky, to go on holiday to Aberwystwyth (bear with the spelling I'm slightly drunk).

Anyhoo, my middle sister would sit next to the window and stare out, whilst childishly humming and (probably) blowing bubbles. She was 4 see? One long afternoon from North Yorkshire to South Wales she spotted the recently pasted remains of a hedgehog that had come second in a contretemps with a car.

"What is that Daddy?" she piped up. My father took a drag on his cigarette and began explaining that the squished remains you see on roads are actually the splattered remains of lobsters. She was afraid of Lobsters you see?

As far as I can remember, he explained how lobsters when they were young lived free high in the atmosphere, swooping, diving, and generally having a great lobstery time. However, when they grew older they had to return to the sea and so had to make themselves parachutes to gently float down. Most made it but some, unfortunately, got blown off course and hit roads - becoming the puddle of blood and gore that she could see.

This started an 8 year paranoia for my sister. Hating lobsters she was continually afraid that one would parachute down on her. My father helped her by screaming that a lobster was above her when she was annoying him (about 3 times a week if I remember) and she would run crying to shelter.

I'm sure that faking a species of aero-lobsters to gain some measure of control over an unruly child is covered by this question, and you'll be pleased to note that I believe that at least part of my sisters subsequent psychological problems is down to having been prone to 'parachuting lobster' fear whenever she pissed the Old Man off.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 3:35, 5 replies)

Rock and Roll Dreams Come True (or they don't).
I think that, within all of us, there lies a rockstar. Dormant. sleeping. Just waiting for the time when it will be awoken to take to the stage while wielding a mighty axe to lay down some thunderous licks. To revel in the attention from the groupies, the endless rounds of M&M's (NO BROWN ONES) and the private jet.

Being a rockstar would be, without a shadow of a doubt, awesome.

When I was a kid, my friend Richard and I would pretend that we were rockstars. I had received a hand-me-down record player that had a tape deck in it. Many hours had been spent sat in front of the proper stereo in the lounge, carefully transferring songs from records (and these new-fangled CDs – surely the future!) to tape.

And then it would begin.

We didn’t have a lighting rig, so the lights in the play room (yes, I was a lucky bugger) were dimmed. Furniture was pushed out of the way. The sound was cranked all the way up to 11 – and then, to the opening bars of Queen’s ‘One Vision’, the greatest rock band ever to take to the stage would enter. The crowd would go wild. As the riff kicked in, we would thrash our guitars and break the universe with our loud, perfect rock. From Queen to Led Zep. From Zep to Whitesnake. From whitesnake to AC/DC. From DC to ‘Tallica. And the crowd would go wild.

Except that our guitars were snooker cues. Our stadium was a room in a farmhouse. Our crowd was no more than an empty wall. The screams no more than a lingering imagining. We would take turns in being the front man (and I remember, even now, that I wanted to be just like Freddie Mercury. I suppose it’s a good thing that I’m not. I’d be dead, for a start...), and we resolved that one day, we would be rock GODS.

It’s now 18 years later. Sometimes, when I’m alone in the flat, I’ll slip my iPod in to my pocket, and pop the earbuds in to my ears. I’ll select some System of a Down, or Thrice, or Tenacious D, or Tool, or even (if I’m feeling fruity) some Queen. I’ll roll the volume wheel all the way to the top, take up a rock stance, and I’ll rock it til I drop it.

Or at least I did. Barely two weeks ago, I had filled Wembley Stadium, and my friends and fans were looking up to me with a mixture of awe and lust. Just as I had finished a face-melting solo, I raised my arm to take in the rapturous applause. At which point my girlfriend walked through the door.

Galaxies unfolded in the time that we were looking at each other.

“What,” she said, with barely concealed contempt “are you doing?”

I looked at the floor, kicking at it with my toe. I mumbled my response.

“What?” She said.

“Rockin’.” I replied, my bottom lip stuck out about as far as it would go. I was a 28 year old man reduced to the status of a mere boy.

I nearly collapsed under her steely gaze. And then, she smiled. “You bloody idiot!” she said, and walked off.

In my mind, the chants of “DiT! DiT!” were gradually fading, but I knew in that moment that I would never rock again. My time in the sun was over.

Until the next time that is. When I’ll be sure to lock the door.

EPILOGUE: Richard, I have just found out, works in a record shop. So at least one of us is in the music industry!
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 11:29, 10 replies)

Feeding the Masses
After graduating with an arts degree in the mid 90s, the world was not exactly my oyster. I signed on, but it wasn't much fun. I decided I needed to work, if only to prevent me from killing my annoying stoner housemates.

The jobcentre directed me to a small, family-owned restaurant who had advertised for a kitchen assistant. I decided I could hack washing dishes and mopping floors. I'd seen other people do it. It didn't look too hard.

I arrived to be met by the wife half of the husband and wife who owned the place. She said her husband would interview me. So I sat waiting in the restaurant, quietly studying the menu, when a blazing argument started in the kitchen. I soon worked out that it was the husband and the chef arguing. I gathered that the chef had just quit, at short notice, and the restauranteur was wondering "what the fuck" he was going to do.

Eventually, the kitchen door burst open, and a red-faced man stomped out, took one look at me and barked:

"Worked in kitchens before?"

I nodded - well, my mum's counts, surely?

"Can you cook"

*tentative nod*

"Got your 706/1?" (City and Guilds Catering cert)

I didn't know what this was at the time, so nodded anyway. I don't like to say no to red-faced angry people.

"Start monday."

And that was it.

I spent the weekend reading cookbooks learning how to make all the stuff on the menu. I was chef at this place for 18 months, eventually having a junior chef and an assistant underneath me.

No-one ever asked to see my 706/1, and no-one ever questioned my ability. The customers were happy, I got many compliments, and they begged me to stay when I finally left.

Professional cooking - piece of piss. Stick your histrionics up your arse, Ramsay.
(ragged, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 17:21, 4 replies)

Notwombat
.
Notwombat was a mate from way back when the rocks were soft (early '80's) and looked as hard as nails. Typical Hells-Angel type biker - greasy jeans, scuffed leathers and a Levi cut-off as a waistcoat. He wasn't a tall bloke, about five foot eight, but he was almost as broad as was tall. Long, frizzy-curly hair and a ZZ-Top like beard.

Got the picture?

So a big crowd of us were down from Newcastle and raising hell in Manchester. We were wandering around the student area (Oxford Road) going from bar to bar quaffing copious amounts of ale and generally taking over any pub we went into. And then we ended up in a Halls Of Residence Bar. We were messing about, chatting up the ladies, playing pool and basically having a good time.

Then the call came to move on. Most of our crowd headed for the doors,and the next pub, leaving me, Notwombat and another bloke behind to finish our beers.

But something was amiss. While our full crew was in the bar, some rugger-buggers were foaming at the mouth of our invasion of their bar. They didn't want to kick up a fuss when they were seriously outnumbered but now all of our mob had left except the three of us in a table in the corner. Time to teach those hairy-arsed bikers a lesson.

So we were drinking at our table, chatting and laughing and enjoying ourselves when 6 of these heroes surrounded us.

"OK hardmen. You and us - outside - NOW!" grated one of them.

Bugger. My arse began to twitch. Two to one odds and they were all bigger than me.

Then Notwombat looked at them and smiled. He picked up his bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale put the neck in his mouth and bit down. The neck shattered and he spat the broken glass out through his bleeding lips and he pointed the jagged end towards the boys.

"OK. I'm ready. Let's do this" and stood up.

They ran like Gary Glitter spotting an Open Day in an infants school.

We left, unscathed.

Cheers.

Oh. Sorry. The faking it? Notwombat couldn't knock the skin off a rice pudding. He was the worst fighter in the world. He was regularly beaten up by his girlfriend who weighed about 6 stone and he was known to cry at Lassie films. His one and only claim to fame was his trick of biting the heads off beer bottles.
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 15:22, 5 replies)

Not really in tune with the "faking it" bit but still
An old joke (i think) could be real i haven't a clue:

An elderly English gentleman of 83 arrived in Paris in the Cheesefilled Froglands of northwest europe by plane.

At the immigration desk, the man took a few minutes to locate his passport in his carry-on bag.

"Yoo 'ave been to France befor', monsieur?" the Immigration officer asked, sarcastically.

"Aye that I have" replied the old man.

"Zen you should know well enuf to 'ave your passpor' ready eef yoo cum* to zis cuntry**."

The English gentleman says, "The last time I was here, I didn't have to show it."

"Sacrebleu zutalors and other froggy obscenities!" said the slimeball, "All Englishmen 'ave to show their passports en arrival in France!"

The elderly gentleman gave the French Immigration Officer a long hard look.

Then he quietly explained.

"Well, the last time I was here, I came ashore on Sword beach on in June 1944, and I couldn't find any fucking Frenchmen to show it to"

*Hehe
**Hehehe

Click "I like this" if you carry a slight racism towards the french
(Freddles, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 15:08, 26 replies)

Yet another tale of Manchester derring-do.
There I was, another skint student, on the bus going home from the Tesco Didsbury with my shopping bagged up around me. Sitting in front of me were two general mid-to-late-teen lowlives, who were boasting loudly to each other about how many drugs they'd taken.
I leaned forward, and put on my best scally accent.
"Ey, lads", I said.
"Wot?"
"Couldn't 'elp but over'ear ya an' I wos thinkin' ya might be interested in summa these".
I help up a couple of small rectangular pieces of yellow card.
"Wot are they, like?" said one.
I looked at him. "D'ya need to me tell ya?"
He looked slightly abashed. "Nah, man. How much?"
"Fiver each."

And that's how I sold the little rip-out cardboard tabs from a box of Swan Vesta matches for a tenner without ever even claiming they were drugs.
(davywavy, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 9:44, 3 replies)

I paid the price...
“Hello, sweetie” he smiled, as I opened the front door. For a moment, he stood there, regarding me with a gleam in his eye before leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek.

“Do come in, dinner is fifteen minutes away”, I cooly motioned with a sideways nod of the head.

It had been a full seven days since we saw each other last. Seven days of typing, filing, answering telephones and associated drudgery, seven days of returning home to an empty house, seven evenings of half-heartedly prepared meals eaten alone, seven nights of having a double bed all to myself (which also included six phonecalls professing affection and of course the inevitable outcome after seven days of being apart, but that of course is another story).

He obediently followed me into the house, making some half-arsed chatter about what happened during his week at work. To be honest, I found myself nodding vaguely and half concentrating on snippets here and there as I poured a glass of wine into a champagne flute and handed it over to him.

In the dimmed light of the kitchen, I took a long look at him as I passed him the flute. He stood there in front of me, with blue eyes, dark unruly hair and a gleam in his eye that hinted very much that he appreciated the effort I’d gone to with my choice of eveningwear. I tip-toed up to him, looked up at those blue eyes and without averting my gaze, I picked the scarcely sipped glass from his hand and placed it on the worktop next to him.

He reached forward, very gentle and placed a hand on the back of my neck as his lips touched mine. Up until now, I’d coolly planned this in my head in minute detail during our six breathy phonecalls the previous week. However, I felt those meticulous preparations begin to slip from me as I returned his kiss with the palm of my hand pressed into the nape of his neck, pulling him closer and closer…

His had was round my waist. I could feel the urge rising in my chest as the front of my body felt the warmth of him through the thin material of my dress. My hands were roaming all over his face and neck as we kissed. I felt a strange sensation along my left side accompanied by a subdued “zzzzzzzip” shortly before one of his large hands found its way inside the material. I responded to the touch of his hand upon my flesh with a gentle gasp in his ear, to let him know that I approved of what he was doing.

Oh, now the cocky bastard was smiling… I could feel his cheeks tense and mouth sharpen as we kissed. I responded by reaching up and nibbling the lobe of his ear. Oh yes, the moment was building exactly as I’d wanted and exactly as he’d described it on the telephone. I was gently relieved of my burgundy dress, which fell to the floor like a discarded veil. With a swift motion, he spun round, picked me up and sat me on the kitchen worktop as I grasped his shirt buttons and ripped them open (actually, I say “ripped”… in truth no-one likes a shredded shirt. I should have said “undone with due reverential haste. Doesn’t quite work though does it?). His right hand unclipped my black lacy bra which was gently deposited next to my dress. His mouth was all over my neck and breasts, I could feel my heartbeat surge as I looked down upon his head, stroking his hair.

I didn’t care that the Venetian blind was still open and that my now naked back was silhouetted against the kitchen window for the neighbours to see. It was all about the moment, his mouth and me and the things he was doing to me. I lifted my bottom off the worktop as my pants were removed, I could smell the food beginning to burn slightly, but frankly did not care a damn unless the house burned down.

I undid the button and zip of his trousers, pulled him closer and soon had my legs wrapped tightly round his waist, being in complete control, juggling between passive response to him encouraging him further and a flex of thigh muscles to slow him down.

Far better to enjoy this to its full potential than let uncontrolled ardour render it all too brief. His hands were all over my body as his hips rocked back and forth, as my legs allowed him just enough momentum to quicken the pace slightly, but not enough to let him get too carried away. I continued to nibble his earlobe and run the nail of my index finger from the top of his neck and all the way down his spine, I felt his muscular back shiver under my touch. Oh yes! Oh yes!

As sex, this was exactly as billed, no broken promises or complaints to advertising standards here. Finally satisfied, we were panting like dogs, clinging to each other’s moist skin and struggling to form coherent sentences to one another.

He leaned forward and whispered in my ear.

“I love you…”

At that moment I looked inside my heart and beyond the physical gratification I actually felt very little.

I’m ashamed to say that I faked something far, far more significant than a mere orgasm....
(GloriaHull you puerile slack-jawed drooling meatslapper, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 23:04, 9 replies)

Apple picking
I once applied for a job as an orange picker in Queensland, Australia. I said I had picked fruit on a professional basis for over 5 years, but the truth was I had only ever bought it from the shop.

The terrifying boss gave me a trial run along with a few others. He handed us all these aprons with pockets at the front for putting the fruit in, but I somehow put it on upside down. I tried to get it off and tripped over the strap, and fell over. I don't know how but I somehow got stuck inside the apron, lying in a fetal position, strapped up and unable to move.

A couple of others that weren't too astonished to move helped me out, and the boss roared "YOU'RE NO ORANGE PICKER!".

I said "No, as I said before, I'm an apple picker".
A kind swiss man confirmed "ze apples is so different to ze oranges, please don't be too harsh".

I was given the benefit of the doubt and was promoted to lemons within 3 weeks, until I got a spider stuck in my ear (another story).
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:48, 1 reply)

I've been debating faking something.
And I bet I could get away with it too.

Back when I was in engineering school and finishing my senior year, I was working for Zee Germanss in the semiconductor plant, working the night shift and trying to do classes in the day. This meant that I was always tired and generally not very organized.

So when it came time to fill in paperwork for graduation, I was a few days late in turning it in. The middle aged battle axe that I had to hand it to scolded me and informed me that I would have my diploma mailed to me instead of receiving it at the ceremony. I waved her fussing aside- as long as I get the damn thing, I really don't care about the details.

I go to graduation. No walking across the stage- they tell our section to stand up, they wave their arms, we sit down as graduates. Whooptie-fucking-doo.

A couple of weeks later I get a large flat envelope in the mail. About time, I think as I open it up. With a satisfied smile I read "The Resident Loon has completed the requirements and holds the degree of Bachelors of Social Work-"

Social Work? Social Work?!? I slaved through more than four years of engineering classes, only to get a degree in Social Work?

I steamed back down there and showed it to the simian troll, who scowled and informed me it would be an additional eight weeks before I got my proper diploma. I informed her that their rectal cranial inversion was not my problem and that I had better get the goddam thing faster than that.

Ultimately I got the proper diploma, of course, and it now hangs on my wall at home.

And right below it hangs my diploma for Social Work.

It's appropriate somehow- I mean, during my time at college I went through a rather bloody divorce and child custody case, and had to talk my kids down after the ex's friends saw fit to tell them what a horrible person I was and told them a load of lies. I spent more time counseling my kids than I did on coursework, to be honest. I earned that degree in blood.

The thing is, though, if you have a genuine diploma with your name on it, you have the degree. So even though I never attended a social work class in my life, I could go into practice.

You lot all know what I'm like- somewhat caustic and blunt, evil sense of humor, excellent at fucking with peoples' heads. What do you think- should I start counseling people?

EDIT: You know, I can just see it now...

*couple sitting on couch, Loon sitting opposite in a chair*

Woman: I just don't have the energy at night for sex. I come home from work and make dinner, and then I'm just too worn out- but he keeps demanding that we have sex at least once a week! He's being completely unreasonable!

Loon: I hear what you're saying. And yet I can't help but wonder- he works full-time as well. How energetic do you think he feels when he gets home? And yet he's trying to make the time and energy for you.

Woman: But-

Loon: And I can't imagine it's any great picnic for him to have sex with someone who's so low-energy that she does a convincing imitation of a sack of potatoes.

Man: He has a point, you know...

Loon: And yet you stay married to him? Why?

Woman: Now wait just a goddam minute-

Loon: Put it to you this way- do you have a problem with him going outside of the marriage for sex? Because that's the way it's headed, you know. You can have low libido if you wish, or you can have marital fidelity- but you can't have both. Which will it be? Put out, welcome the mistress or cut him loose?

*Woman makes fizzing noises before she asplodes*

I bet I could make a lot more happy people. Or at least a lot more sexing...

EDIT 2: I put this in replies, but I kinda like it...

*Sullen teenager sprawled on a couch, anxious mother sitting in chair, Loon sitting opposite*

Mother: He's refusing to go to school- he just wants to sit at home and play video games and watch those awful movies all night!

Loon: I see... Tell me, kid, have you ever gone into a McDonald's and seen middle aged people working behind the counter? Yes? Well, did you ever wonder how they ended up there? I mean, it's not like a kid dreams of making Big Macs when he grows up. That comes from not being willing to graduate from school, so you only have a very few choices left in life. Or maybe you could try for the glamorous life of a janitor.

Teen: You don't understand me-

Loon: Oh, I understand you just fine. I understand that you're a self-centered and spoiled brat who whines all day on Facebook- yes, I've seen your page there. Stop being a lazy-ass punk, wash the eyeliner off, give your sister back her jeans and get your ass to school.

Teen: But-

Loon: No buts about it. Think you parents are going to let you live in their basement forever? Why would they? They have a right to a decent life without you dragging them down. Start learning to take care of your own shit and stop blaming everyone else for your problems. And while you're at it, get a haircut- it looks like your mother fucked an orangutan.

*Mother and son both start to blue-screen*
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 10 Jul 2008, 19:30, 6 replies)

MY Left Foot

REAL story now…

I am faking it this very moment…well I’m trying to anyway…

Let it be known that I am what is affectionately known in the trade as a fat, alcoholic ‘Rhinog-a-hog’. I chow Chinese food in articulated lorry-like quantities, and quaff booze and red meat in a way that would make even Henry VIII blush and say: “Fucketh me Poo, forsooth you certainly can quaff ye shitloads of booze and red meat!” (Or however he would’ve spoken at the time)

You get the picture.

Also, somewhere along my wobbly stagger through life I happen to have contracted a not too altogether pleasant kidney disease.

Now if you add the above lifestyle to said disease, they combine to create something truly magical…and when I say ‘magical’, I mean something that, despite my tender years (ahem), fucking hurts like the famous ‘fucking hurty Mchurter bastard hurting pain’ of Fuckinghurtsville, Arizona.

I’m talking about Gout.

Last night I settled into my regular drunken stupor without a care in the world. Yet I woke up this morning with my left foot feeling as if someone had gently poured molten lava over it; whilst simultaneously dropping a comedy ‘pythonesque’ 16 ton weight on top of it, before jumping up and down on top of that…and then introducing my groaning, withered stumpage to whatsername out of that film ‘Misery’ who promptly got to work on it with her trusty sledgehammer.

Thinking back, the phrase I was looking for at the time was possibly something like:

“Ouch, that tends to ‘smart’ a tad”…

However, I opted for the slightly less orthodox:

“FUCKINGJEEEEESUSFUCKINGCHRISTMYFUCKING CUNTYFUCKBASTARDYFUCKINGFOOTAAAARRRRGGHHHH!!!!!”

All fine and dandy so far, but here’s the problem. As I’m almost tired of banging on about to you good people, I have only been in my new job 3 months…Therefore throwing a sickie is out.of.the.question. I have to go to work…even dragging my lame-arsed gammy left peg behind me if need be.

So what can I do? I can get on with it. That’s what.

The sheer agony of putting my socks on triggered a howl so piercing that it must surely have had the neighbours reaching to the phone to call either the RSPCA or ‘Werewolf-Catchers-R-Us’.

Every step towards the toilet was like stamping on broken glass covered in acid (and not the good kind) whilst being given a vigorous foot massage by the Incredible Hulk in a ‘rather more than slightly pissed off’ mood.

After the excruciating experience of getting dressed etc, I had my next problem. I then have to drive to work. In my manual car.

I have tried to remember the faces of people at the bustop for later apologies, because I sped by with the window open and my head hanging out of it like a rabid Golden Retriever…growling “OWWWWWGRRRFUCKINGOWWWFUCKINGCUNTSSSAAARGGH!” every time I needed to press the clutch.

Eventually…I arrive at work, sweatily fall out of the car into my parking space and start to crawl ‘commando’ stylie across the car park before somehow getting to my feet and through the door.

I arrive at my desk and my boss is already there.

Boss “You alright, PF?”

Desperately grimacing and attempting to fake the fact that I was contemplating removing my foot from the knee, I answer:

“Oooh grrrfuckinghell I’m fine cuntingfuck thanks for asking”

Boss: “Well, I’m in meetings all day today so you’ll be on your own…ok?”

Thank sweet, blossom-scented fuck! For once…God has finally decided to smile on me.

I collapse into my chair and bury my head in my hands, shaking in purest anguish and vowing never to touch another drop of alcohol or slab of meat again…well…at least until tonight anyway...

Of course, before long I have to bow to the inevitable ‘call of nature’. Therefore I need to make what seems like the 58000 mile round trip to the toilets. Gripping onto my chair handles I heave my shoddy shattered carcass up to my feet and start to shuffle along…muttering plentiful expletives along the way.

By now I’m resembling Igor from an old Frankenstein movie as I hobble towards the toilets…I’m bent over and belming with my leg trailing behind me…and as I look up I notice I am passing the company director who always walks with a limp… then it hits me

“Fucking hell he thinks I’m taking the piss!”

I desperately try and straighten up, whereby the pain increases making even the muscles in my face contort and spasm…

And I wink at him.

Time stops.

His eyebrows furrow in a look of quiet disbelief as my eyes widen to the size of dinner plates…

I have finally turned into a fat look-alike of Gollum…And through the pain barrier I try to speak…

“NNngggbbbllu”

Oh dear lord.

Giving up on life, I continue to the toilets and on arrival it hurts so much that I can’t even piss.

Obviously, I’m now back at my desk. The other people in the office are staring at me strangely even as I type this, possibly in wonder at my highly dubious attempt at covering up the agony by screwing my face up and gurning so hard that all I now need is a horses collar to stick my head through. I also keep making impromptu noises like ‘Ooooyahh”, “DAAARGH” and “fuckingchrist” every time my foot touches anything…like air.

I’ve now just been told that I have an important meeting at 2pm. The Director is going to be there…yet I can’t even concentrate on anything except ‘painpainpainpain’ ad nauseum.

If I need the loo again I’m going to do it in my pants.

Pray for me.

My left foot? – Daniel Day-Lewis can suck my stump…he should try MY fucking left foot…he doesn’t know what suffering is.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 15 Jul 2008, 13:01, 17 replies)

I faked a happy relationship.
CAUTION: NOT-VERY-FUNNY CLOUD OF MELANCHOLY AHEAD.

Those who are familiar with my QOTW answers will know that I am disastrous at relationships. It's not that I can't get into them, it's the fact that they always seem to fall apart in hugely spectacular ways; from the woman who got her calendar muddled up and had another bloke turn up for her while I was still staying with her to 'open-minded' girl with whom I ended it after she suggested she would quite like to fuck me up the arse with a strap-on, all my relationships tend to fuck up in quite extraordinary fashion.

However, there is one that completely dwarfs all the others. One that fell apart so slowly and agonizingly that it almost dragged me down for good, and through it all, I faked to everyone - friends, family, the lot - that everything was completely OK.

The story is thus. It began, tragically, with my girlfriend of the time getting pregnant. It was unplanned, the pill hadn't worked, and we were teenagers and bricking it. My parents would have thrown me out and her father would have probably killed her and then me, and we didn't even know how to tell anyone about it let alone consider raising a child. As is the usual thing in these situations, an abortion was decided on. We lied to ourselves that it would be easy "in, out, problem solved, right?". It's never that simple, and it was the start of eight months of tears, blame and recriminations that came so very close to taking two people to the very end.

First, there was the lies to the families that we were "just going away for a few days for a holiday", when really we spent the entire time drinking ourselves into stupor and crying. Late nights of screaming and her calling me a murderer for letting her go through with it, even though I was inescapably 300 miles away at the time, and would have given anything to be there with her. Over the course of the next eight months, she veered wildly between taking photographs of herself wearing her aunt's engagement ring and telling all our friends I'd proposed to being taken to hospital after stabbing herself in the stomach in a bid to end it all, all under the cover of her father's work meaning he was away for weeks at a time. Meanwhile, I tore myself between desperately trying to keep her from hurting herself, trying to get her to get help and trying to drown my own guilt in a drinking problem which had become so serious it would eventually grow to cause me to fail my degree. Still we kept up the pretence of being a happy couple to everyone else, even though the facade must have been beginning to slip.

By the end, we had become a terrible shadow of what we were at the beginning. We had had a year of wonderful teenage romance, where the sun always shines and the days go on forever, but now I was in a tiny one-room flat, drinking from the moment I woke up until the moment I passed out again, and spending my waking hours desperately trying to 'save' a girl who by now had now become anorexic and was swinging violently between drinking and suicide, and still the only people who knew about any of this were us and her doctor - If they ever informed her dad then he didn't care, but I don't think they did.

She was cheating on me and I had long since stopped finding her physically attractive, but we would get together and either have sex or simply lay on the bed crying and wishing the whole sorry mess away. She went away for a few days to Slough and cheated on me again, and I found myself in my flat, having not eaten in days, drinking a bottle of whisky and trying to cut her name into my arm with a razor blade I'd stomped on specifically for the purpose.

Something - probably common sense, or survival instinct - grabbed me and, right then, I stopped pretending. I picked up the phone and spilled my guts out. I told my mother everything - the abortion, the drinking, everything. I wanted out, out of that place, out of that situation, out of that city, even. Within a month I was gone. I had failed my degree and was back living with my mother as I was a complete emotional wreck, but I was out. Just over 18 months later, with lots of counselling, some understanding and some great friends, I'm now the man you see before you. As far as I've heard through a few mutual friends, she's happy as well now, shacked up with a new bloke and having a kid by him, not making the same mistake twice. Some people are just mutually destructive together, and I hold no grudges and couldn't be more happy for her. I'm glad she made it out too.

The moral of this story is, if you are in trouble, don't fake like you aren't. Your friends, your family, your co-workers, all of them want to help you, and no good can come from not letting them. I very nearly became a victim of thinking I could fix everything by myself, and fuck me, I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

If you need help, for fuck's sake, tell someone.

Oh, and if you're reading this, honey, I'm so happy for you. I hope you've got all you ever wanted.
( Shegetz Chris Kamara's comedy moustache, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 5:55, 5 replies)

House Party !!
As you do - 16 years old, Mum & Dad away - down the pub - only logical thing to do is to invite 30 randoms back to your house to carry on the session.

Fast forward to the morning, as I open my eyes - first thing I see is a girl whom I have never met before sitting next to my bed, wearing my clothes - I am naked. Oh dear.

As I walk down the stairs, through the assorted carnage and bodies, the smell of massage oil, booze & cigarettes wafting gently throughout the house - nice blend.

Walk into the kitchen - on the unit, is a $300 bottle of chablis, given to folks by their friends from France 10 years ago - saved for a special occasion - I'm assuming my impromptu gathering doesn't fit into that category - can only mean one thing, I either find an exact replacement or its the firing squad at dawn.
It is a task made even harder because :

1) I live in a village in Suffolk
2) It is Sunday
3) This was 18 years ago, before flexible opening hours
4) Mum & Dad back in 4 hours

Cue widespread panic.

We must have driven to every wine shop and off licence in a 100 miles radius, and still nothing. Nothing even remotely similar.

The only thing for it - a $3.99 bottle of Chenin Blanc with a rather similar neck and bottle colour.

Steam off respective labels, replace.

When it was opened 10 years later, on their 30th Wedding anniversary...my Dad the 'wine expert' didn't notice a thing and remarked at what a good drop it was to all present.

Cue confession and riotous laughter.
(zit, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 3:35, 6 replies)

Swedish Cults
I scratched my arm lazily and my short nails were filled with black dust and sweat from the Agra sun. I could smell the heat of my unwashed body above the heady scents of spices, petrol fumes and camel shit. I’d run out of insect repellent and money.

I’d stood in the same cool spot near ‘Diana’s ‘ bench and watched the grinning tourists pay out a week’s pay in rupees just to have their photo taken where the dead princess had sat. The sun was beginning to set and the cream marble was beginning to change colour yet again – becoming slowly blue tinged until it would turn bruised violet as it did each evening like an exotic Blackpool illuminations.


And I would have to find somewhere to stay for the night.


A group of Swedish tourists turned up – all speaking a mixture of their own language and flawless hypoallergenic English. They stood out in their clean clothes and clean expressions, each holding a clean bag and sporting a clean innocent smile while gazing at the dusty and aromatic splendour that stood before them – the testament to a lost love.

One girl stood alone, faultless in her stereotype - blonde and blue eyed. The local men held back and looked at her warily, she was a Barbie doll made flesh but without the crack habit.

I wandered over and leaned against the fretwork panel.

“Amazing to have someone love you that much they build this for you, isn’t it?”

“Are you English?”

“No. I’m local, but educated in the UK” She, like thousands before her, believed my tired old line about being Indian/Turkish/Italian – in fact any nationality I damn well wanted.

She didn’t ask about why I was so dirty or even seem to notice the rather meaty whiff I gave off.

“I’ve come to India to see my Swami”

I nodded – the group she was with were all dressed similarly and some sort of religious cult did seem common, normal almost, amongst many western travellers.

I looked up at the sweeping sunset, took a deep calming breath and fixed my eyes upon hers as I said, “There are many paths to the divine. It is our journey in life which defines us. Love is all.”


It was as if I’d switched a small AA battery powered light on behind her pale plastic blue eyes.

She grasped my hand and asked me the killer question, “Are you Enlightened? Do you know the path to Enlightenment?”


Oh yes.

I did and out of my love for humanity I was prepared to share it with her for a small fee.

As is so often the nature of these things, true love for humanity has to be shared in private as too much tends to scare the horses. I didn’t mention the horses or the small fee – I didn’t want to scare her either.


After I had filled her head with tales of Mumtaz and her beauty we retired to her lodgings for the evening.

I explained that I had taken a vow of poverty and therefore had to trust upon the love of the universe and all humanity to provide me with a four star room with en suite and early morning call.


“Tell me your teachings, o great one.”

She was sat at my now washed feet. This was a good thing as firstly I now smelled of Ylang Ylang and sandalwood and I had an unrestricted view down her strappy top to her pale cream breasts which both glistened with fresh sweat and blushed with mild sun burn. The sight of these luscious globes made me stiffen and then remember my position – I had become her Swami.


“My teachings in this life are simple.
Love.
Give pleasure.
Enjoy life.
Be free with your possessions.
Be free and giving with your body.
Be sky-clad whenever possible and when that is not possible wear a tiny thong.
Eschew underwear – apart from the thong.”


She looked at me earnestly and asked if she should remove her clothing now. I solemnly nodded and watched detachedly as she slowly peeled off her strappy top and released the strawberries and cream puppies.

“I have a confession my Swami. I have not followed your teachings – today I am wearing large but practical knickers. How will you punish me?”

And she dropped her white linen trousers to reveal a skimpy pair of bikini bottoms which clung to her damp cleft and mound.

“You must accept the sword of truth into your body until it gushes forth with the love of humanity. Kneel before me.”

She knelt and I freed my throbbing sword of truth.

“Take this and suck upon it, for it is your path, your divine destiny.”

Her small pink rosebud lips opened and her wet tongue flicked over the tip of my purple bishop’s hat. Then her clean Swedish hands began their well-practised massage upon the holy organ. Her grip and speed demonstrated the years of IKEA assembly that her people are known for – it was efficient, purposeful, a little bland and somewhat lacking in finesse. However within a few minutes her buccal cavity began to draw against my hot hard man weapon. She licked, sucked and teased with her moist yielding smörgåsbord consuming orifice until I could hold on no more and with thoughts of universal love involving saunas and birch twigs I erupted forth with gushing spurts of divine ectoplasm filled with salty goodness. She was a good supplicant, willing, pliant, lacking in gag-reflex and all importantly, she swallowed.

And as she sat back on her heels and wiped her hand across her mouth she uttered one word,

“Surströmming”


“Now you need to remove the rest of your garments and pleasure yourself for the divine love to grow once more.”

I was calm and flaccid but I knew that her environmentally sound and undoubtedly shaven haven would soon engorge me in a manner that only Agnetha Fältskog before her had been able to achieve.


Sadly it was not to be.


“You are not who you say you are. According to the tracts your divine essence will taste of messmör but you taste of old fermented fish.”

Her eyes were full of hermetically sealed fury and while her glorious large dark nipples taunted me with each move of her sinuous pale body she landed her final crushing blow.


“You are no Swami. You are a cheap rotten Fakir!”
(Stiff Richard, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 11:09, 8 replies)

not orgasming
Following on from splitting with the ex Mrs Season Ticketless last year, I dreamt that my life as a singleton would be spent drinking, chatting up girls and shagging more times each week than I had managed in the previous 18 months.

What I didn't reckon on was the sheer lack of self confidence, self motivation and down right laziness that clung to me like a bogey to a toddlers nostril.

After nine months of feeling like crap, I decided to get my arse in gear and get laid. Yes, my way of thinking was that clinical.

Size, shape, colour and smell would matter little in my quest to satisfy ST Junior, so off I went in a bid to get my nuts wet.

Self bravado is a wonderful thing at times, and soon enough I found myself naked and alone with a willing (and sober) female,

Now, Mr Slim isn't a nickname I'll be earning anytime soon, but this particular girl look like she had eaten non stop for years. Big doesn't begin to describe her. However, the pre-settling-down motto of "every hole's a goal" was the mantra that kept repeating in my head.

Any pre performance worries went out of my mind as I stood to attention, ignoring the open curtains which would give all of the neighbours a view of erect ST and the ensuing sexual activity which would no doubt remind older neighbours of space ships docking on the moon.

We got underway, doggy style, which I'd said I prefered because it was my favourite, though in reality it was an excuse to a) not look at her and b) to have a good look around the room while I was ploughing away. You see, being the crafty type, I'd taken matters into my own hand a couple of hours earlier so that I could be confident of a decent performance that night.

What I didn't account for was my body reverting to it's teenage state. Within thirty seconds I slowed down the pace as I felt a familiar tremble down below. Shit. No! It's been thirty seconds. Surely I can't be about to shoot alre... Bugger. I stop, mid thrust, unsure of the correct ettiquette in this situation. Do I stop? Apologise? Ask for a break?

"are you ok?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. Shit. I'd stopped. Panic. I started thrusting again.

"erm, yeah, it feels so good." at least I wasn't lying. I sped up again, still (thankfully) at full mast, even with a full condom on. "You ok?" I asked.

Of course, she was fine, but in my panicced reply, I know realised that we were having sex again. Or rather: I was having sex again. To all intents and purposes, she was STILL having sex.

What to do now?

In truth, dear reader, I didn't know what the Hell to do. I'd like to write that I stopped, admitted coming quickly and restarted a few minutes later after we'd enjoyed a laugh about it.

Instead I carried on going. Harder and harder, faster and faster until finally, a good five minutes later, she whimpered in what I assumed was some form of ecstacy, and slumped forward, as I grunted in time with her whimpers to echo what I hoped sounded somewhere similar to a normal blokey orgasm, even doing my best to 'twitch' in the right places at the right times.

And THAT is the true story of how I faked NOT having an orgasm a few weeks ago.
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:08, 2 replies)

You're so fake, I bet you think this post is about you...
Most fakery is a good thing, a bit like telling a little white lie to spare someone’s feelings. Think about it, you fake an orgasm; you’re saving that person from feelings of inadequacy, you fake that you know what your doing in your job…sod it…we all do it, we cant be expected to know everything.

However, one of the most nefarious things you can do is to fake enthusiasm. This is usually done to get what you want or to bend someone to your whim. If you can pretend to be enthusiastic about something when in reality you couldn’t give a monkeys toss, then you are a cold-blooded Machiavellian faker. Lets have some hypothetical examples to back up my opinionated ramblings theory.

Relationships: You’ve been seeing someone for a few months, they seem quite keen but for you it’s no big deal. They are dangerously close to saying the L-word and they want to know how you feel.
You say “You’re very special to me (try not to say “Spesh-ul” with your eyes crossed) and I love spending time with you”.
Reality: You’re ok, not really the person of my dreams, I like having sex with you but I don’t want to marry you.

Job Interview: You’re asked why you want to work for ‘Shotgun, Bastard & Dribble LLP’.
You say: “I am especially interested in your client base, I have 7 years experience in dealing with small to medium sized entities with an average turnover of etc etc etc”
Reality: What? Its just a job dipshit, actually I hate my profession and all that sail in her but guess what? I still need to pay the bills which means I have to spend the majority of my life whoring myself to corporate twats like yourself.

Christmas: Somebody wishes you a merry Christmas
You say: “Merry Christmas”
Reality: Fuck off

Neighbours: Good morning, would it be possible to trim your hedge back a bit as it blocks our light, also, in 2 weeks time we’re going on holiday, could you feed tiddles while we are away…
You say: “Of course, I was just getting round to it and it would be my pleasure to feed tiddles”.
Reality: Ha, I was growing that hedge just to piss you off because of that time you cut it back without permission when I first moved in, if you had any bollocks you would have asked me months ago. I am so going to nose around your house when you’re away, I might even “top deck” your toilet, look it up on the internet you spineless cockmuncher, oh yeah, you cant read my thoughts can you. Can you?

Job Appraisal: It’s your bi-yearly one to one with your manager. They ask if you have enjoyed your first six months.
You say: “Oh yes, everyone is really nice and I find the work both challenging and interesting. I have especially enjoyed being involved with our conversion to international auditing standards”
Reality: Every day that I work here, something inside me dies forever. I am a gnats chuff away from quitting in order to bum around the world for a year.

So there you have it, irrefutable proof that faking enthusiasm makes you worse than Hitler. Who wants a coffee?
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 14 Jul 2008, 11:40, 9 replies)

Just what I always wanted
Dear Auntie Susan and Uncle Joe,

Thank you soooooo much for the novelty Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer slippers!! The nose lights up when you walk! That's amazing! I was just saying to mum and dad that I could do with a new pair of slippers because my beautiful stripped pine floorboards are so cold in the winter and my handcrafted Moroccan leather slippers do slide a little on the carefully-chosen honey-coloured varnish. I guess that's why they call them slippers, eh? Ha ha ha!

But yes, not every 32 year old woman with impeccable taste in interior decor and a love of minimalist design is fortunate enough to have such generous relatives. I'll think of you when I wear them. Their little antlers match the embroidery on my exquisite cream silk robe.

It's a pity we don't see you as often as we should, but it's so lovely you do know me well enough to understand how much I appreciate your humourous gift-giving! Imagine being able to get those in a size big enough for an adult!

Once again, thank you, and I do hope you liked your photo frame and scented candle.

Your loving niece,
CHCB x
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 16:27, 6 replies)

When ‘faking it’ bites you on the arse…

Now you may not believe this, but I’m actually a bit shy. I love posting on B3ta because of the virtual anonymity. I can state my opinions, tell some harmless anecdotes and sometimes let my fundamentally spacktarded imagination go into overdrive without (m)any consequences.

Months ago, I posted some truthful, needed-to-be-said stories regarding a place I used to work, the conditions and the management.

Some of my old friends who work there found out about this and signed up for B3ta to read / pass on / put up on the notice board etc.

I, however, thought that they would just read the posts relevant to them and not bother with B3ta again.

I was wrong. They kept lurking…

This week I tried to top last week’s ‘The Entity’ style ‘raped by a ghost’ post with a story about...well…look hard enough and you’ll find it. Suffice to say it does not show me in my best light.

So you can imagine my delight when I go to a reunion piss up last Friday and one of my mates shouts loud enough for the whole pub to hear:

“So what’s this about you wearing wimmin’s clothes?”

The pub goes quiet and every head turns in my crimson-faced direction.

Me: “Whhaaaaaaaa?”

‘Mate’: “I’ve read what you said about going all tranny and shagging blokes”

Me: *GULP* “well I….well I ….well I…..shhhhh!”

Whole pub sniggers in disbelief.

Mate: “Didn’t you write that you shagged your boss…and his Dad?”

Me: “NO!….Well, yeah...I mean I did…..but…that was just…..” *goes even redder*

Whole pub collectively gasps, starts muttering and takes out camera phones

Mate: “DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT POST ONTO THE ENTRE T’INTERWEB THAT YOU LIKE IT UP THE ‘WRONGUN’?”

Me: “oh fucking hell”

So there you have it people. Even if you’re bullshitting…keep it real. You’ll get found out in the end.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 14 Jul 2008, 15:47, 10 replies)

Late at night
I like putting the volume on my laptop right up, putting it right next to the wall separating my bedroom and my neighbour's bedroom and putting on the dirtiest, loudest porn ever so I seem like a sex goddess.
(reducedfatLOLcat, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 0:34, 1 reply)

Heh, it's not so much faking it, but still
When I was 4, I was fitted with a prosthetic ear. By the time I started secondary school, the prosthetics quality had developed so well that people don't even know about it! This is what my head looked like without it, except then it had a bar on it. I had really long, flowing hair, so whenever it did slip, you couldn't tell, I was so ninja-ish in my movements to replace it.

It was my second day in secondary school before the secret got out.
I was putting some crap into my locker up in the English block and for a reason beyond me, some kids in my class were running to lesson. One bumped into me quite softly but then that was enough to knock me off my feet. I bumped into my locker and my ear came clean off. By this time, the boys had turned round to apologise, and saw my ear land about an inch from one of their feet, pinna side up.

One went white, asked me if I was OK, and the other started crying. He had genuine concern on his face, so I did the only thing I knew how to do. I shouted, as loud as my little lungs would project my innocent voice, "OH MY GOD! WHERE'S MY EAR? IT HURTS! IT HURTS!" With a few allowed* swearwords for good measure. The other boy burst into tears.

It wasn't until the head of year made me apologise that I was found out. I think mainly for that kid's mental health!

*where swearing in kids is overlooked because they're in agony
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 23:19, 1 reply)

Oh, the shame!
Not me - promise - But a friend at Edinburgh Uni. You know who you are! He pulled one boozy night then couldn't get the old chap to carry out his duties. Drunken logic kicked in and he retrieved a loo-brush from the bathroom, which he proceeded to thrust in and out of his pullee whilst moaning in ersatz pleasure. She rumbled him half way through and was very, very far from thrilled...
(RayPugh So, what are you wearing?, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 20:08, 6 replies)