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)

Pooflake’s ‘Out with Gout’ adventure continues…

Thanks to all for reading my previous post and for your kind words of sympathy…

*wags finger @ BGB*

*sends evil stares to Captain Placid*

hangableautobulb asked for me to let you know what happens.

Well, beloved b3tans, I’m afraid the situation has not improved…

Not one little bifter-tickling jot in fact

What I neglected to tell you before is that this was not my first happy tussle with the ‘gout fairy’…oh no, it has happened before.

The first time was almost a year ago; and I thought I had broken my foot, pulled a tendon or something similar. I suffered the horror for a full week before my own dad couldn’t stand my incessant whinging any longer and dragged me (on an August Bank holiday no less) to the local A&E.

What a ‘knockabout of pure fun’ that was. 6 hours of excruciating waiting, made even more joyous by the sniggering, patronising young medic saying about how I ‘shouldn’t really have gout’ at my age; and that I should ‘perhaps make some lifestyle choices’.

Harrumph. Anyhoo, Dougie Howser chucks me one tiny tablet of something called ‘Colchicine’. He then told me to buy a bottle of the fuckers the next day and everything would be alright.

It was horrible but I think I was already over the worst of it. The whole sorry affair was cleared up within 2 days and once my foot was better I kicked myself for not going to the doctors sooner.

Since then, my attitude to gout has been like one of those old ladies who can ‘feel something in me water’. I can pretty much sense an attack before it happens and chow a tablet or 2. Job done.

This one is different though. As soon as I realised what was going on I reached for the tablets as usual…but it’s like the gout has evolved…and this time the tablets have done fuck-diddly-all for me.

Well I say that…In my panic and discomfort I’ve been doubling my dosage and I’ve started to notice a ‘bit of a side effect’, which led me to check the NHS website regarding the medication. This is what it says:

“Colchicine is available in tablet form and is usually taken every two to six hours. However, it is not widely used because it frequently causes nausea, vomiting, and diarrhoea.”

“Oh...Fucking...Hell” I think to myself as I peer into the empty bottle.

Now I’ve already been feeling sick for a while now but I just put that down to the pain.

Vomiting is not exactly a ‘delish’ experience but I can deal with it…..

Diarrhoea, on the other hand…

Let me tell you friends, me and ‘the shits’ are anything but the best of buddies.

Early last night the liquidised turd equivalent of mount Vesuvius erupted on Planet Pooflake’s already-ragged ringpiece; and has been blasting regularly-repeated ‘aftershocks’ ever since.

Only this time with the added ‘Brucie bonus’ of a searing agony shooting through my body every time my legs shook with the sheer power of the thermo-nuclear runny dump from hell.

This of course, goes in tandem with the happy necessity of having to fling my body round every time so I can stick my head deep into the splattered lavvy and hurl sweet dry yack so thick it looks like Alien’s second mouth thing snapping out.

In the last 12 hours I have spent so long on the throne that I’m surprised I haven’t been crowned king of somewhere.

But STILL I go into work. Thanks to the teacher’s strike, the long-suffering Mrs Pooflake was able to drive me in to work this morning, and I hobbled into the office on crutches with puke down my tie and a face like a smacked arse…confident of being sent straight home when I informed them of my predicament.

I mean, as Davros’ Granddad replied in my previous post:

“Seriously though, if an inability to use your foot properly doesn't constitute a day's sick leave I don't know what does. I took a day off a short time ago on the basis of feeling a bit *meh*.”

DG mate, you’d fit right in where I work. Only today, one of my team didn’t turn up until 10 because he ‘didn’t feel like it’; another is ‘working from home’ because his dog is poorly and he might have to take it to the vet. Everybody else just turns up and leaves when it suits them and the boss never bats an eyelid.

Yet I am a hobbling, screaming, growling, shaking, sweating, squitting, gurning, chunk-blowing prime example of a physical wreck in its purest form and what happens?

I’m given extra work to do and told to get on with it.

My rotting innards feel like they would give the putrid bubbling swamps of Georgia a run for their money...I’m sure my crap factory alone is creating enough methane to power half of Dunstable. And all the time my Left foot feels like any minute it’s going to burst and give birth to a 7ft round hedgehog…on fire.

So that thing I said in my previous post about God smiling on me?.....Forget it.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 16 Jul 2008, 11:25, 12 replies)

Strangechap has got me thinking
I'm not exactly short, and when I wear the right clothes or can be bothered to walk with anything like a decent posture, I could be taken as being pretty well-built.

The result of this is that I have never been in a fight - people assume that, being big, I can handle myself. The truth, of course, is that, never having been in a fight, I have no idea at all what to do. Notwithstanding that I'm actually (on close inspection) puny as hell, even if I wasn't, there're techniques that one learns in playground scuffles that are utterly absent from my savoir vivre.

So, I suppose I fake being able to defend myself. In practice, I could get beaten up by a baby.

While we're at it, I've noticed that the same applies to a number of big guys I've known over the years. So, if you're considering a career as a mugger, it might pay to be counterintuitive in your choice of victim. Pick on a big guy. He'll curl up and hand over his wallet in a flash.

Full of public information, me.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 11:21, 30 replies)

Rough as a marble, me.
For some reason my work colleagues think I'm a bit of a nutter.

I have no idea why, other than I do look a bit thuggish.

Truth is, I'm as soft as shite.

But they think I'm hard.

So I'll continue to fake it as it's kind of fun being someone I'm not.

Unless someone challenges me to a scrap, in which case I may come clean before someone chins me. (Although it's highly
unlikely as I work in a posh design studio where everyone is oh so corporate. Yawn!)
(Strangechap I look normal on the outside..., Wed 16 Jul 2008, 11:14, 2 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)

Vays of making you talk
One of those apocryphal tales of fakery which I first heard on Radio 4 last year, and nearly crashed my car. I'd SO love it to be true...

A Scottish court was hearing a case involving a German sailor in a drunken bar brawl. Alas, the defendant didn't know a word of English, and the Sheriff threatened to throw the case out unless the prosecution could come up with a German speaker to transate, pronto.

A voice pipes up from the back of the public gallery – it's some guy who can speak German, and he'd be only to happy to translate the proceedings for the guy in the dock.

He's ushered down to the front, sworn in, and the Sheriff asks the defendant to confirm his identity.

The translator leans over the dock to the trembling Hun and shouts: "VOT IZ YOUR NAME?"

Verdict: Contempt of court

Personal fakery: It was me. ME.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 10:58, 3 replies)

I faked having a story
so I could announce to my internet chums that my beautiful baby girl Eleni was safely born yesterday at 2:10pm.

I am also not faking it when I say I am the most chuffed chap alive.

*message ends*
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 10:32, 16 replies)

Evil Laugh *Mwaahahaha
Well about 6 months ago in a previous job I managed to tell a little white lye to our 1st Line Support / Telephone team that if they typed Google into Google that they would break the internet and kept on faking the enthusiasm for said lye and they ALL believed me.

Eventually after over a week one of them got the balls to try it and nothing happened. I managed to keep them going for another week by making them believe it was a cascade effect and that sites were slowly falling over.

(It would have been taking it too far but I almost started adding sites to their host file and pointing it to a Web Server on my local PC emulating site failures but then realised I wanted a Coffee and didn't)
(tfi049113 Was found alive on, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 10:10, 2 replies)

I HAVEN'T faked...
an orgasm (incidentally I'm male).

I don't see the point of people faking it, I mean what's the point? perhaps the first time as you feel uncomfortable or not confident but after that what do you get out of it?

I'd sooner a girl be honest with me and show me what to do and what she enjoys as it makes the whole experience a lot more fun!

I mean why are there people on here saying such things as 'I was with my partner and I faked it for a whole year!!! LOLZZZZZZZOOOOORRRRR!!!!111!!!!'

Seriously, I mean who is the bigger loser in that respect?

Also blokes, we've all been there and you've got the dreaded brewers boost (it seems like a great idea but you both soon get bored) and you're at it for an hour, as long as the girl is happy and feels a bit fulfilled (doesn't happen often in my case, possibly why I'm bitter) then tell her that it isn't happening tonight and be honest, and have another go in the morning (as long as there's no hangover)

Anyways, I'm a bit tired today and got another night out tonight so will be feeling it a bit.

Rant over
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 10:02, 3 replies)

I'm a fake
I claim to be a grammar badger yet I still don't really understand when you should use "whom". Is it To whom it may concern, or To who it may concern?

Also I am not actually a badger.
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 10:01, 25 replies)

First!
Woo!





May not actually be first
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 9:55, 5 replies)

Click this
go on I dare you
(Freddles, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 8:49, Reply)

So many incidents, so little time.
I'm a "functioning mentalist", as I think that we may have established through some of my previous posts on this here website.

One of the symptoms of my (now-under-control) mentalism is that I have in the distant past been delusional. It doesn't affect me now but it did when I was younger and a student and I would believe any number of seriously, seriously embarrassing things and some other more dangerous things.

I have precisely no conscious recollection of these but the few close friends that I have retained from the time have told me that:

1. For about a month, I was convinced that I was a Yorkshireman and wandered around wearing a flat cap that I'd picked up from *somewhere* and using a frankly disturbingly life-like Yorkshire accent

2. Believed that I was an undergraduate history student (when was a post-doc) and would go sit in on lectures before the university medical team identified this and pulled me out of the lecture halls

3. Convinced myself that, for a short amount of time (measurable in minutes, thankfully) that I could *fly* - and, having climbed onto the tower - was sectioned and spent some time in a locked ward

I've now managed to ensure myself that the world is not an illusion, that I exist within it (etc...) and that as a consequence of the prescription meds I'm taking daily that I am in fact well.

Let the pelting with fruit and the stigma of teh interwebs begin.

Peace and love, y'all.
(Eds Meds Mathskillz=1,Socialskillz=0, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 6:59, 6 replies)

First in German in my HSC
I did get first in German in my HSC, so that's not really faking anything.

I had never even told my Geman grandparents that I was studying German, I wanted to get my skills high enough for a casual conversation first. They had not taught me to speak the language as they thought I wouldn't want to learn. They thought I'd be ashamed of my heritage (what with the second world war and everything).

I let my grandparents see the certificate and show it to all their German friends in pride, of all the kids in the class, their granddaughter had come first. They had me talking to all their friends in German and told EVERYONE. They even phoned back home to Germany to tell the rest of the family.

The faking part comes in because I'd barely passed at all, I was first of one student, the only person in my class.

I never had the heart to tell them.

Edit- I know it's a crap story but I'm a bit crap myself at the moment. Feel free to ignore me, it'll save you wasting whole minutes of your life and you know you can never get them back.
(misskitty reeks of sex and turpentine; laudanum afternoons, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 4:02, 1 reply)

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)

well
non of this really happened. just now. this writing. it's a lie. a sham. a diabolical attempt at forgery. no idea whether I'm going to getaway with it or not. Only time will tell.
( arrangedletters, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 2:31, Reply)

The best fake i ever did was.....
5 years ago, when i was 12. I had recently gained a step-father, so took it upon myself to teach him a lesson. Me and my "friends" proceeded to graffiti all over his car, after which i took a shit right on his windscreen. It was cold, as it was in the middle of the night, so it began steaming. The worst part of it was that my dumb mates, assuming that because he is of dutch origins he is a nazi, drew swastikas all over his car. The next day he had to escort my mother to a jewish party she was catering for. honest to god, no lies there. The faking it came around the next morning. Upon my return, it was obvious what had happened, but i denied it, and escaped any form of punishment until the truth came out one year later, and they were too tired with it to pursue it. The best part was, he thought it was dog shit on his windscreen. What a lovely child i was to grow up around, as i'm sure my sisters will tell you.
(Jem Harley is finding it difficult to sleep, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 1:44, 5 replies)

There's a lad
round our way who really could do with a nice kicking. Because I'd like to think that I'm not a violent person, I shan't be kicking him though, don't worry. (As soon as the lynch mob gets on the go though, I'll be baring my chest and wielding a garden fork.)
However I fake whenever I go to the shop that he works in by being civil and not jumping the counter and bursting the unctious little twerp.

Sigh.... seriously, I am not a violent person but I do hold this one grudge and like one other for the greater good.
(Snake (on a) Crane FKA thwack, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 0:29, 2 replies)

Currently.....
I am faking a reply to this post.
(Papa Chocolat, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 23:57, Reply)

fangs for the laugh
i once managed to convince my entire drama class that i was related to Dracula, including my teacher. just how stupid can people be?
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 23:22, 7 replies)

Rubbish IT advice
Many years ago, I was IT boffin at a largish Government dept. The IT budget at the time was small, and disk space then was expensive. My boss asked me to send a departmental email asking for people to be more prudent with their use of the communal server.

So I wrote "For all of you using server X for document storage, it has become clear that we are running out of space and at present have no funding to expand the data storage. So from this point on, anyone saving a MS Word document on this server must save it in a much smaller font."

p.s. a click for life if anyone can guess where my sig comes from. Google won't help.

small clue: I included it because it seemed relevant to the QOTW, and it's one of my favourite lyrics.
(Dr Teeth Who asked you, you fuckin' hobbit?, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 21:11, 8 replies)

Best break up ever
/delurk
First time, be gentle.

I had somehow managed to blag myself a middle management job in a semi-prestigous organisation. I had zero experience but I expected to pick it up as I went along. After 6 months of floundering in the proverbial creek I had a huge backlog (no pun intended) and the busy xmas period was looming.

What to do? Own up?, quit?, pray for a freak tornado to empty my in tray? No I faked a break up with my long time girlfriend.

I got chummy with the office gossip and started to fill her with tearful tales of my impending heart break. In 2 weeks I managed to go from 'we had a bit of a tiff' to 'she's moved out and is living with a biker'.

The news got around the (mainly female) office and I got tons of sympathy. Ofcourse they could understand why I couldn't concentrate on work and would gladly help by taking some off my hands while I picked up the pieces of my shattered life.

I got through xmas, got a small bonus for all the work I'd done and then legged it 3 months later before anyone could meet my (still current) girlfriend.

Hull is to good for me.

~POP!~

Length? about a year of lurking.
(Bo Nidle Coming back in from the cold., Tue 15 Jul 2008, 20:32, 6 replies)

Almost topical...
I once convinced some gullible idiots that I was the right man for a highly prestigious national position. Despite the fact that I had no talent, charisma or even faintest semblance of what I was doing I was snapped up. They found me out in the end, mainly due to my employment of a 6'8 medical experiment who could barely walk let alone work successfully. Ah well, they gave me several million quid compensation so I didn't do too badly out of it.

S. McClaren.
(jabberwocky, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 20:27, Reply)

Those wacky Iraqis...
My best mate during the Iraq war was the son of Iraqi refugees who'd fled the country after opposing Saddam. He was an atheist, but still felt the need to defend Islam's portrayal in the West, and it was good for me, as a 15 year old getting to grips with politics, to get an Iraqi take on the war (he even predicted with unerring accuracy the chaos into which the country would descend).

One particular thing I remember was after the 'iconic' felling of the statue of Saddam and people beating it with shoes he told me he could tell it was massively faked or staged, or that the people had simply been paid to do it. I asked him how he knew and he smiled and said, "Oh don't worry, it's not some weird bit of sharia law that you can't take your shoes off in the street or anything, it's just, why the fuck would any sane person want to hit a statue with a shoe?"

Wow, just looked it up on youtube and he was absolutely right, don't believe everything you see kids. youtube.com/watch?v=GMgEc9Qds8M
(jabberwocky, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 20:21, 2 replies)

Not me but...
I was playing in a band (keyboards). The lead singer was married and his attractive young wife was standing in the audience gazing adoringly at him. A bloke came up to her and said "Hello beautiful - I'm the singer's brother you know". Oh well, at least he tried.
(Smale is stuffed, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 20:20, 3 replies)

Faking an interest in you, not your boobs
The missus and I recently went on a package tour of SE Asia. Two vaguely attractive females in our tour group, besides the missus, one attached, one unattached, shorter then me by a clear foor (I'm 6'4"). I faked an interest in her to look down her top, and got many a good view. (Variety is the spice of life, I say, and it was easier to look down her top then Mrs. pins)
**EDIT: Oh, and pop goes my b3ta cherry.
(pins, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 20:02, 1 reply)

Not me but...
I've just had the most amazing shit ever. It was almost sexual in how it was birthed. I've just checked in the pot and there was nowt there...
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 19:23, 4 replies)

Counter-Strike
Well hi im new been lurking for a while and seeing this i thought i would post one of my boring life stories

i once had this girlfriend (right nutter so obsessed) anyway everytime we came home from school i was "supose" to call her at 6 getting fed up of this shit and not wanting to lose her (the sex) i made up a story about how my internet wasnt working so i couldnt phone her or im her and such

what i really did was play counter strike all night long , i told her this when we broke up and she was shocked and appaled but to be honest she was the physco bitch who been leading a double life

well this story was a waste of your time
(DontTouchTheCat, Tue 15 Jul 2008, 18:01, 8 replies)