Every Sunday
We'd go and see my grandad, who lived in Whitstable. He was a fantastic man, a proud...Whitstublian (?), had worked the barges there and had helped during the Dunkirk Evacuation, taking his little boat across the channel to get people home.

Anyway, it just so happened that our weekly visits coincided with the visit from his nurse, and part of her weekly ritual was to take out his glass eye and clean it.

Because we all respected his dignity we'd leave the room and sit in the hall until the nurse had done what she needed to do. It was only about 10 or 15 minutes.

Anyway, one day he didn't get his regular nurse - he got a new one, as in new to the job. We did our usual routine of evacuating the room. As me and my brother were sitting on the floor slapping each other about (which we did non stop from age 5 up until I was around 18), the door creaks open.

"Umm...badongismum...can I borrow you? There's a problem."

"Oh....?" My mum was really, really close with her dad. I think she aged 10 years in 2 minutes at this summoning.

"I'm afraid...I've dropped your dad's eye on the floor. I can't find it and I'm worried I'll step on it. Can you help me find it?"

The poor thing - the following week she put the eye in upside down so we came in to see my grandad with one eye permanently gazing up at the ceiling.
(GONEism, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:15, Reply)

16 years away
and I've nearly escaped them all ... except - shudder - the feeling that I've got to reply when my step dad says "ciao, ciao" at the end of a phone call.

I'm sorry - please make it quick.
(Biff..., Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:08, 2 replies)

Real secret code
When ever Mr. Dub wants his favorite thing, he says, "Do you want to go to the circus?"

He means sex.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 22:29, 3 replies)

Its amazing
how my entire family would suddenly become interested in absolutely anything else in the room when a sex scene erupted onto the tv screen.

*BREASTS* Usually bouncing vigorously.

Mum "Have you seen the wallpaper peeling over by the curtain. Will have to sort that out."

*FURRY LADY BITS* Usually in something by dennis potter.

Dad "Skirting boards could do with some attention."

And if there was ever any sign of a cock that would usually mean a quick impromtu whiz round with the hoover.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 22:28, 8 replies)

my sister
tried to intruduce a game where if you spot a yellow car you get to punch the other person.

she stopped after i modified the rules slightly, basically i would shout out the make and model of any passing car and punch her thus ensuring that she got fed up of her little game quickly
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 22:04, 9 replies)

Staying at my grandparents
Whenever me and my siblings stayed with our grandparents, we would always walk to the shops with my granny. On the way the following rituals had to be observed:

Never step on a crack in the pavement or the bears will get you!

Always take the short-cut on a particular corner or you'd risk falling down a huge nonexistent hole leading to nowhere

Always hold your breath when approaching or passing the fishmonger (something I still do to this day)

When passing a particular strange building, we'd all run up the steps and wait by a really old fashioned lift, before collecting our nonexistent umbrellas and continuing with them extended.

Strange.
(Roopy all is not what it seams, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 22:04, 11 replies)

family rituals . . .

Hmm we didn't have too many really although my mum was and still is very clockwork so there was a lot of daily rituals - such as when we all small (there was 7 of us kids, poor woman) every morning began with a bowl of porridge... dinner time was announced with a loud scream that permeated every nook of the house (UP AND SITTUP !) every day. Mashed potatoes would always be delivered to the plate by violently smashing in rapid succession the metal spoon off the plate as opposed to stopping before the plate and allowing momentum to do the work - used to drive the old fella mental . . . I think she used to do it on purpose... she's a diamond. Oh yeah and getting bathed every saturday whether we needed it or not. I live with her now just the two of us and things are a lot calmer...

I used to be employee 12754 on this yoke, time I shook off the shackles of that corporate bestowed name.... not sure where I'm going with the cats twat, sort of like the mutts nutts I suppose.... there you go...
(The Cats Twat, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:59, Reply)

Dead Certains...
I probably need some backlog of information here before a few of you raise your eyebrows and develop the assumption that I spend my days talking in tongues with my head rotating.

My family are impervious to mortal weaponry thanks to generation after generation of army endurance and a couple of world wars (I was born with grey matter rather than muscle so skipped that lot for uni). I've an uncle who fought off the IRA in his underwear when they stormed his house in Northern Ireland after spending 10 years in the SAS. Along with this, I have a grandfather who, and might I add was blind drunk and figured it would be a laugh, drove his army supply truck over a landmine in WW2 and wound up being 30% metal and with shrapnel still lodged in his body when he died. On the other side of things, I've a 60-a-day smoker great uncle who hasn't been able to quit the habit for 70 years and suffers from lukemia and narcolepsy. My mother was once in a biker gang before she crashed her Harley Davidson into the front of a truck and dragged herself away with a shattered hip.

Hard as nails, stupid as hell. Because we can guarantee that almost any serious hospital admission won't be my family member's last, my nearest and dearest have a solemn ritual to follow.

We take bets on who's going to kick the bucket next, and I've got 20 quid riding on the smoker.

In a moment of karma, I got a phone call this afternoon informing me that one uncle had a heart attack and the other has been admitted into hospital found upside down and covered in vomit by a carer. We're currently discussing the prospect of a draw.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:45, 2 replies)

my siblings and I...
always laugh at our own bad jokes. It's a family ritual to sit around the table after dinner and out-do the other's bad jokes, puns, etc. It makes a good dinner great.
(The Lunatic Artist throws paint to the wind, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:40, 1 reply)

*Bu-u-urp* - Arseholes!
No idea where this one started, but it's been in our house for ages. It is the law that all burps must be delivered at the maximum volume possible and immediately followed by a statement of 'Arseholes!'. I blame my mother...

Likewise, the bending down and retrieving of any item dropped on the floor must always, always be accompanied with a loud, pathetic whine as the breath leaves the body on the way down to the object in question.
Everyone in the family is used to this ritual by now, but you don't half get some funny looks when you knock a CD off a shelf in HMV and sound like a loudly-deflating Jimmy Savile picking it up...
(Billy The Fish wants to gargle with Lucy Pinder's bath water, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:40, 1 reply)

The family chant
Forgive me if I may be serious, but our only meaningful family ritual pays tribute to a gentleman who means an awful lot to me.

My family have produced a glittering array of male relatives whom I find mildly embarrassing or annoying (and I have no doubt they feel the same way about me). However, every March 1st we all gather together to recite:

"Come quaff off your Sherry, and let us be merry
All you that look to be saved
Then toss of your bowls, and be merry souls
For this is the day of St. David.

This is a good week, when we wear a Leek
And carouse in Bacchus' fountains
We had better be here, thou in pour small beer,
Or in our Country Mountains."

For a long time we thought that Ode To The Welsh Leek was a slightly crazy invention of my grandfather, but as time went by we discovered it has a rich history (see www.povertystudies.org/Links/Rhwymbooks/Ode/Ode-TitleStory.htm) and the family genealogists believe we might well stem back to the battlefield origins of this noble poem.

In any case, this annual recitation is a sincere and heartfelt tribute to my grandfather, Ken...

Ken was a man of few words but incredible courage. He served the Royal Navy during two wars and was the Service heavyweight boxing champion on two occasions. He returned in 1945 with barely a penny to his name, adopted a smallholding in his native Taff valley for a pittance of pay, and began raising sheep.

Over the 1950s, he and my grandmother became completely self-made and self-sufficient, raising two children and being able to scrimp enough money to buy the farmhouse and small patches of land thereabouts. Yet he remained infinitely modest, dry-witted and an inspiration for his sons, their sons' generation (including myself), and - through his inexhaustible fund of his anecdotes which have been passed down - the next generation today.

He was a wizard with his hands, always ready to make wooden toys for children, and right up to his 80th (and final birthday), a firm devotee of his Welsh heritage, Christianity and real ale. He was - in short - the perfect grandfather.

'Ode To A Welsh Leek' was his personal signature tune, from lord-knows-where. He used to usher us all into the front room to raise glasses of homemade mead and recite this ancient poem. His face remained solemn, and often a trickle of a tear would course down his cheek as we chanted away. It was odd as kids, but we grew used to it, year upon year, and it was finally how we knew him best.

It was finally adopted as our family memory of him in a freezing cold late-winter in about 1996. Grandad was well over seventy at the time, but he still kept a small flock and several hives, and tended them with the same love as he would his own family.

March 1st rolled around, we had a smashing roast dinner and congregated with our glasses to chant our paean to St David. No sooner had we finished, then a white-faced farmhand appeared at the patio doors. Several of us were scared out of our merry little skulls by this flat-capped apparition, but Grandpa calmly strolled across the room and a muttered conversation ensued. Before too long, Grandad gasped in shock, quaffed his mead and dashed out; nine other family members all followed with concerned yet helpless looks on our faces: we were no sheep-farmers.

One of the flock was having terrible difficulties giving birth. She was thrashing around on the barn floor, in grave danger of killing her lamb. The vet was on call, but we'd all sensed it was just too late.

What Grandad did then seemed nothing short of miraculous...

The adults, expecting a grisly birth, had protectively shielded the children, but Grandad - with terrifying strength - wrestled the sheep to stillness, and then take the terrified head, lay it in his lap, and mutter gently in Welsh. For twenty...thirty...forty minutes, we stood there dumbfounded, watching a septugenarian man on his knees in a freezing cold barn, treating a pregnant ewe with as much love and tenderness as he would a member of his own family. The sheep lay terrifyingly still: we could have sworn it was dead.

Eventually, the miraculous happened. A slight twitch, and a bloody ball of skin and bones was deposited onto the cold concrete floor. Matter-of-factly, Grandad hauled himself to his knees, slapped the lamb on the rump, checked its breathing and watched the little mite meticulously until it began to suckle. We all exhaled for the first time in nearly an hour and a half.

Grandad was suddenly, uncharacteristically sharp: "Inside! Now!" he ordered. It was difficult to argue. We all trooped inside silently.

Inside, he recharged our glasses without a word, his eyes glazed over and he chanted again:

"Come quaff off your Sherry, and let us be merry
All you that look to be saved..."

Falteringly, but with increasing strength, we joined in with this charming, strong and granite-muscled pinwheel of our family. It was a wonderful, touching moment, albeit a primitive one, and something I am sure that no-one who was present that day will ever forget. The song had always been once, and once only. To repeat it, in honour of a member of Grandad's flock was something quite unique.

Since then, every March 1st, this poem has been our own, as we remember that great day. The day that we heard...


Farmer leek odes sandwich ewe ills.


(Ah, sod it. I've already been to Hull...)
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:40, 11 replies)

'I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.'

Every Christmas Eve since I can remember, my mother and I have listened to Dylan Thomas reading A Child's Christmas in Wales. We get a nice fire going in the fireplace, plug in the lights on the Christmas tree, turn off all the other lights in the house, sit down with a cup of something warm to drink and then I press 'play' and we listen.

I'm 31 now and can recite the piece from memory. The spouse and I carry on the tradition at our house as well (I insisted) and on those Christmas Eves when my mother and I aren't together, we always call each other before listening so we can share the moment in a way. It isn't Christmas without it to me.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:36, 2 replies)

Whenever my brother and I
order the same food from a restaurant, or do something the same when we're together, we always yell (quite loudly, too) "SPOOKY TWIN THING".

Also, if either of us mention the word toilet in each others presence, the other one has to say "Weeeeeeeeeee".
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:24, Reply)

Listening to Simon and Garfunkel's "Concert in central park"..
..when all in the car driving back at night from wherever.

My brothers and I still piss ourselves recalling the stuff S & G would tell the audience in between songs, however inconsequential, and whenever it's a nice evening I can often be heard intoning, "Well it's a beautiful night.." with a Garfunkel lilt, to complete strangers.

The songs still get me. That's a great album.
(lost, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:16, Reply)

The Sunday Drive!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and I SPY WITH MY LITTLE EYE
Grrrrrrrrr

All packed in and off in rain soaked Irish weather to drive somewhere as bleak as home.

Mum starts, I spy with my little eye.......... etc etc

These days (30 years later) me and my brothers take it to a new level, when we happen to be in the car together, I spy with my little eye something beginning with OLABSWFAB.

Get that one bitches!
( The Scrunt Wants a Dozen Pints, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:15, 4 replies)

OCD
I think that this QOTW has finally unlocked the reason for my OCD... My family (and there's only Mam, Dad and Me) have so many bizarre rituals, I can only list a few without spending a few days on it. Selected highlights include:

1) Shouting "LYNX!" every time we see a Lynx delivery van (this was because Blue Peter used them for an appeal one year, so to my child-mind they were a "celebrity" company.).
2) Multicuddle: A group hug with its very own chant, which I can't possibly reveal without humiliating myself and my good parents due to smooshiness.
3) Saying "Good Morning Viet-mam" every time I see mother dearest before midday.
4) Camping Out, which involved all three of us sleeping in the living room on a Friday night when I was a kid, and renting a video to watch - possibly staying up till *gosh* half past ten.
5)Me waking up on Christmas morning at stupid o'clock and yelling "has he been yet?". Depending on earliness, the reply is always either "No! Go back to sleep!" or "He's been!". This still happens, despite the fact that tragically, I am now 28.

I can't go on, but I can think of at least eight more. How upsetting. I wonder if I should tell my therapist?
( MissHobart, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:12, 5 replies)

How did we survive on this?
Seven kids and two parents:

Sunday: Roast Chicken and gravy.
Monday: Roast Chicken leftovers reheated in many unimaginative ways.
Tuesday: One tinned Fray Bentos Steak & Kidney pie to share between nine.
Wednesday: Scrambled eggs on toast.
Thursday: Beans (one tin) on toast.
Friday: 2 Fish Fingers and mash.
Saturday: Cheese on toast.

It must have all the potatoes!
( The Scrunt Wants a Dozen Pints, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:09, 4 replies)

Lorry spotting...
Good way to kill time on long journeys

Eddie Stobarts are worth 1 point because they're so common, some other haulier I can't remember was worth 2, Norbert Dentressangle was worth 3 - due mostly to having a fantasic name.

I'd like to say this was when I was a kid, but we started when I was about twelve, and when I go home and go on car journeys with my parents they still do it now.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:09, 9 replies)

Every Year Without Fail I Still Would..
Christmas day for the last 21 years me and my family have spent at least 2 hours of said day watching 1985 classic ‘The Goonies’

I fucking love this film. When I say love it, I don’t mean the love I share for Hagen Daz ice cream, West Bromwich Albion, the mug my mom bought from Egypt and wanking. No, No, No, I love it like a brother or a sister. Cut me and I quite literally bleed ‘Goon Juice’

Anyway, I’m guessing I’m not the only who loves this film. I’m also guessing I’m not the only one who watches it on an annually basis.

One thing I have noticed though. The girl Andy. When I started watching this at the age of four I probably thought she was a woman. When I got to ten I started thinking of her as a girl who went to big school. When I was fourteen and found the art of wanking I think I loved her. When I got to twenty, I thought, fuck me, this is barely legal at best, I wonder if there is grass on that wicket.

I’m 25 now and I think yeah, fuck it, I still would.
(Sir_Digby_Chicken_Caeser [email protected], Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:58, 5 replies)

Cabbage ritual
I tell my six year old son that if he doesn't eat his cabbage, his willy won't grow.

Cruel I know, but my Dad told me the same thing, as did his Dad to him.

I'll probably still be paying for his therapy when I'm sixty, and he'll have a cabbage phobia and an enormous schlong


Length?.. I ate all my cabbage!
( slapdash flying through the cool clean air since, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:55, 2 replies)

Not a ritual anymore you'd be glad to know
When my brother and I were all little (I was about 8, him 4) my ever loving, caring, responsible parents used to go out on the lash every saturday and invite one of the (rather naive) grandparents round to kip at our gaff i.e. look after us.

This was the greatest night of the week. Basically no matter which grandparent was staying, they'd always go to have a sleep after tea.

Brilliant.

What did me and my brother do? Eat a shed load of chocolate, pull all the cushions off the sofas, make assault courses (using the cushions, tables, lamps, cats etc), don our swimming costumes and re-enact the goings on of Gladiators!!.. To the backing music of REM and the Beautiful South.

Ritual ended when I cracked my brothers head open on the fire place and had an impromptu visit to casualty.

Damn it!
(i should have joined myspace, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:28, 3 replies)

Songs.
I think we had a few ridiculous songs. Not rituals for the entire family, but certainly my siblings and me.

I fail entirely to remember the game (perhaps Monopoly), but one had a card with the words "discard this card after use" emblazoned across the bottom.

This, without fail, would be repeated with a jolly melody until sufficient complaints would drown out the singer(s) and the song would be silenced until the card reared its head once more.
( Moey, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:24, Reply)

Christmas Doors
One Christmas Eve my Dad thought it would be a good idea to put a new front door in. It was a little cold, but there were no great dramas - the timing was just a little inappropriate.
From then on every Christmas Eve there would be the standing joke about which door was going to get it that year.

Dad passed away two years ago, but in my own special homage I have taken down, or knocked down a doorway on both Christmas Eves since. Last year my Mum came around and just gave me a knowing smile.

Perhaps not a ritual - but a tradition non the less - and there are plenty more doorways in this house......!
(jono_h, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:17, Reply)

Sunglasses
I always, always lose my sunglasses. It doesn't matter how many times I try to remember to put them in a sensible place, I will without fail put them in a spasticated place that was before unbeknownst to me. The ritual follows thus;

1) Ask everyone in the house if they have seen my sunglasses. They haven't, because rather unsuprisingly, they don't give a toss.

2) Search every room in the house. By search I mean walk into the room, stand and look at the surfaces from a safe distance, and walk out if they are not immediately obvious.

3) Ask everyone in the house if I might have left them in their room. No, I haven't. Could I please fuck off now.

4) Go back into the rooms and push things about to see if they're underneath.

5) Start berating my boyfriend about his uncaring attitude to my search. He asks me politely to fuck off.

6) In a slightly bewildered anger at the failure to find sunglasses, go back once again into rooms and hurl carefully selected soft things at walls, such as tissue box.

7) Cry.

8) Ask flatmates if they could check, as it really wouldn't take long. Have doors slammed in face.

9) Drive to Superdrug to obtain new sunglasses, whilst seething at the injustice in the world.

10) Realise that it is now winter, and that Superdrug has apparently not felt the need to stock up on sunglasses.

11) Cry, whilst sitting in car with strangers looking on bewildered.

12) Return home to find that boyfriend holding glasses which he has found in the middle of the kitchen table. Where I Just. Fucking. Looked.

13) Put sunglasses down 'in a safe place'.

14) Repeat.


EDIT: I just found them! It's been over a week this time....
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:14, 6 replies)

"I saw it first!"
In S. Florida (Ft. Lauderdale) there is an enormous pyramid. I have no idea what it's for and have never been interested, but when me, my dad and my ex-stepmother were in the car (usually her Camaro, I'm afraid) we used to have a ritual when that pyramid hove into view.

The first person to see any part of it through the trees had to shout, "I SAW IT FIRST!!!".

As time went by, we also developed "I SAW THE WHOLE THING FIRST!!!" once we had driven far enough that it was entirely visible from the road.

I have no idea who was responsible for starting this, but I suspect it was my ex-stepmother who is now hopefully dead, the ridiculous cunt.
(Guizmeaux, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:03, 5 replies)

Anyone else
need to make sure that the CD or DVD is correctly lined up in the box before putting it away? And then having a completely insane hissy fit when you find that someone has put them back any which way, or, god forbid, put them in the wrong way up?
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:02, 10 replies)

Two things, really
No-one in my family uses anyone else's name.

Ever.

Even if we're shouting up the stairs to one of three people. We just talk to whoever answers.

This means I can never, ever, remember anyone's name. I never use anyone's name in conversation. I just wait for people to look toward me then start talking. If I do remember someone's name after one meeting then I either find them highly attractive or highly disturbed. This has the benefit of meaning that when any of us talks, all the others shut up.


Unfortunately, it has its downsides. It means that there are friends of mine who I've known for about 3 months, whose names I can't remember. Well you can't ask after three months, can you...







Second tradition, if we ask people for suggestions then we don't ignore all the good ones and only use the crap stuff.

Yes mods, I'm looking at you.






.
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 20:02, 1 reply)

My boss also happens to be my step-dad.
We have a little ritual where I come into work each day and we see how long it can take for him to wind me up.


I'm usually grumpy by elevenses.
( girlinthehole, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:47, 2 replies)

Christmas Rituals
Santa visits about midnight... usually I need to help Santa up the stairs as Santa has had the best part of three bottles of wine. Santa's helper (my father) is usually at this point drinking straight Tia Maria from the bottle because the wine has run out and it tastes like coffee. Santa deposits the stocking on or around the bed, usually whilst my sisters sit upright and tell Santa to fuck off because its after midnight and Santa stinks of booze and fags. Santa will then usually repair to the bathroom, occassionally passing out in the bathtub.

Santa's helper then staggers up stairs, coughing and spluttering before passing out and snoring like an artillery barrage.

Cut to:

The morning. 6am Santa's helper gets up, puts on y-fronts, depending on how Santa is doing helps her out of the bath where she may or may not have spent most of the night. Santa's helper then gets dressed, goes downstairs, opens some wine and sits outside smoking and drinking. The little cherubs (my three sisters) awaken with girlish squeals of delight about 7.30am and wake me up. Santa may or may not be throwing up at this point.

We all troop downstairs. Santa's helper bitches and moans about the Blair/Brown Government / the economy / kids today / his raging hangover and then sends one of us to fetch more alcohol from the cellar. He then starts cooking.

10am. Santa appears. She usually, at this point, forgets that whilst she was born in Wales and was raised bilingually, she married and Englishman and negelected to teach her children Welsh. This makes the obligatory call to elderly Welsh relations who have been promised that this year we will all sing 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' in correct Welsh, problematic.

That done, the preliminaries are out of the way and the proper drinking can begin. The oldest of my sisters is dispatched in her car to pick up my grandmother, who will have already had several gin and tonics, and will no doubt be ready with her fund of mildly pornographic jokes, blue stories, and disturbing revelations about American servicemen during the War which, when delivered at the dinner table, cause a certain social difficulty.

Prior to Christmas dinner (served around 2pm) more wine is opened, sherry is consumed, and, depending on mood, vodka is drunk. Christmas dinner passes in a blur, the Christmas Pudding is usually doused in far too much alcohol (in the past we've used vodka or cachaca when the sherry has run out) and usually burns magnificently. Meanwhile, my grandmother, reckless of tongue now that she is past 90, cracks a series of dirty jokes that would make a stevedore blush.

3.30pm. We all repair to the living room, where presents are opened. My father gets bored after 15 mins and leaves to sit in the garden smoking and drinking wine. My mother usually passes out around 3.50-4pm. My grandmother is not far behind.

The rest of the day is spent drinking and eating more. There usually is talk of going for a walk, but everyone is too drunk to seriously consider it.

Bed time is around 8pm.

This ritual has been going on now for the past 10 years. I have no doubt that this Christmas will be little different to the previous ones.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:46, 3 replies)

Me and my little brother
grew up in the early 90s, and as such we grew up watching what was then known as the WWF. Despite all the stupid warnings, every Sunday we would have a wrestling match against each other, usually after we'd been sent to bed, to prolong the night before another week of itchy school uniforms, semi melted club bars and soggy Marmite sandwiches.

This tradition gave my mum something of an aneurism, since me and my brother shared a room and we had a paper thin floor. Couple that with the fact that we were both freakishly tall and stockily built for our age, many an evening was spent with cheap artex falling like chav-snow in the room below thanks to our well executed suplexes and bodyslams.

But we took it quite seriously. We'd tie shoelaces round our arms and try in vain to rip old T shirts a la Hulk Hogan. And then one day we decided to emulate the Ultimate Warrior. For those too proud to admit to watching the wrestling, he was renowned for wearing facepaint. And because the year was 1991 and nearly everything in the western hemisphere was red white and blue thanks to Gulf War 1, the Ultimate Warrior also had a habit of wearing red white and blue facepaint.

But where to get it?

Bedroom - nothing.
Kitchen - nothing.
Tried crayons - didn't work.
Felt tips - not enough.
Tippex - weirdly, we weren't allowed to have Tippex.

Then...

Aquafresh.

The red white and blue stripes. It was as though God him/herself had put Aquafresh on this earth so me and my brother could actually dress accurately like our hero and pummel each other to mild bruising.

So, in a state of giddy anticipation, we boh rub copious amounts of Aquafresh into our faces.

And spend the next hour or so screaming like bitches as we try and remove big globs of it from our eyes and doing all we can to fix the burning sensation.

I was a supertwat since birth, it would seem.
(GONEism, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:36, 5 replies)