Keep it in the Family
My mum lamented the day my brother and I left home and constantly rang us to tell us how empty she felt inside.

Dad had always complained how we stayed up for ages and kept him and mum awake all the time. Our youthful energy had been putting him to shame and straining their relationship. We couldn't have that, So, we left home.

All good things must come to an end it seems.. Even incest.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:45, 1 reply)

When I was growing up
my family were struggling, financially. But one of my happiest memories (there arent many!) was the ritual for every Sunday.

We would have a roast for lunch while watching Lost In Space on our very small black and white television (and no Im not talking about the 50's! This is late 80's).

Then my dad would take me and my little brother to the swimming pool while my mum did housework or whatever mums liked to do with two hours to themselves. We would stop at the park on the way home too - just to make sure we were properly tiered out.

By the time we were home we would get sardines on toast (can't stand them now!) and hot chocolate for tea.

And then we would get treated to icecream (we didnt get sweets the rest of the week), but my parents couldnt afford a freezer. So when we had finished our toast my mum would run down to the corner shop and buy a tub. And us kids along with my father had to eat it all in one sitting as it couldnt be stored.

Oh and my other favorite day of the week when living in that pokey little flat was Thursdays because it was Blue Peter on tv before going to Brownies.

Shame it all fell apart not long afterwards...
( TheGirlWithNoName, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:43, 3 replies)

Also
we used to have family radio evenings. My parents are big on music and made sure my brother and I shared this passion from day one. Every evening, when there was no homework to be done and the weather wasn't nice enough for tennis in the garden, or Saturday afternoons just after lunch, we would sit down in the living room and listen to Steve Lamacq and John Peel. Mostly it just resulted in arguing the merits of certain bands (we were a family divided by indie, especially when my Bro and Mum discovered pirate radio and rave) but occasionally something came on that got us all and we'd sit in silence and just listen. I'll never forget lying on my back, the setting summer sun making patterns on the mottled ceiling, when I first heard Blur (my utter teenage loves, and yes Damon, I'd still marry you).

This tradition died out when I was 16 or so, I had much more important things to do, like go to the pub, but about 6 years later I was having a quiet pint after finishing a shift at the pub when my mum called me up and told me John Peel had passed away. I actually cried, not a lot, but a small tear was shed, and after a strained conversation with the prole sat next to me ("You alright?" "Umm...John Peel's died..." "Who the fuck's John Peel?" ".....") I went home. That evening my Mum, Dad and I sat down and had a family tunes evening, for the first time in years, as a little tribute to the man who made my childhood.

Reading this back I sound monstrously pretentious. Fuck it, I probably am. But those evenings were more of an education to me than anything I ever learned in school, and gave me more respect for my Dads inherent knowledge of all that beats than any teacher. b3ta, play your children good records, it'll mean more than you could ever possibly know.
( SugarSpunSister Yeah, whatever, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:42, 4 replies)

My family and I share a few hilarious family rituals…

Every morning, whatever the weather, my wife greets me with a cheery ”It’s nice and sunny, my funny honey bunny”.

Awww…

Then she jokes about how I’d better hurry up to get to work, because her ‘army of lovers’ are on their way round.

So thorough is she with all this japery, that she actually arranges for different men to park on my driveway as soon as I vacate it in the morning.

Sometimes they’re still there when I get home. She tells me to ‘Drive round the block or something, for fuck’s sake’, because she’s ‘not finished with them yet’.

As for my kids…well, I can’t actually remember how this one started…but every day when I pick them up from school they get to go through my wallet…and if the sum total of cash is an even number then they get to keep all the money.

One day…it will be an odd number I’m sure.

Good times.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:42, 1 reply)

Our house. Every day.
Or, Davros' Granddad's Diary - the musings of a 30-something non-singleton. (Apologies in advance for length).

7:10 am. Clock radio goes off and provides a gentle jolt into the world of the awake. Realise it's Sarah Fucking Kennedy, place pillow over head and try to drown out the annoying bint's inane drivel about her cats and the fact that her bloke is 20 years younger than her, the mad fool.

7:35 am. Nasty horrible buzzy alarm goes off next to bed. Narrowly avoid shitting self in shock because have just managed to doze off again and was having a nice dream about teh kittums.

Play with snooze button for 25 minutes, then realise it's 8 o'clock. Stumble out of bed and make mental note not to fall through the hatch in the floor (we sleep in the loft).

Descend staircase and narrowly avoid banging head off the ceiling / floor (depending on which way you look at it).

Go to toilet and pee for Britain. Flush, wash hands and stagger to kitchen. Switch on kettle, retrieve mugs and make coffee. Present coffee to future spouse; go into living room and sit blearliy for a bit whilst coffee does its job.

8:05 Observe future spouse put coffee on bookcase to go and rouse Sweary Junior. Realise that future spouse has now gone for a shite and bemoan fact that you should have got washed straight away whilst in bathroom. Use time to go and make sandwiches for lunch.

8:10 Future spouse is now out of bathroom and wondering where coffee has gone. Point out it's on bookcase and observe as she takes coffee and goes to take dog for a wee. Use opportunity to have wash and brush teeth. Stomp to bedroom and get dressed for work. Locate watch, rings and mobile phone from same place they are left every night. Pick up debit card and place in pocket in case provisions are needed on way home.

8:15 Future spouse returns from dog duty and having a ciggie, and goes to check on SJ, who is sitting on edge of bed in the manner of a sack of spuds, with school trousers and one sock on. And nothing else. Hear future spouse cajole SJ into getting ready before hitting bathroom herself. But not before hearing her wondering where the fuck she's put her coffee again.

8:20, and SJ can't find his school tie / jumper / shoes (delete as appropriate). Retrieve said item(s) from kitchen bench / middle of landing / bottom of stairs and remind SJ that if he put things away in the same place every night, he'd find them much quicker. Preferably in his room.

8:25 Future spouse presents SJ with breakfast and drink, and locates her own rapidly cooling coffee. Breakfast is half eaten, drink remains untouched. Future spouse heads off to get dressed, placing coffee on table in dining room. 3... 2... 1... Immaculately time ranting that future spouse cannot find her makeup bag. Go into bedroom and immediately place hands on said bag. Observe future spouse head for bathroom to apply face cream, eyeliner, and have another shite.

8:30 Go for a fag.

8:35 Future spouse reminds SJ that he should really be setting off for school.

8:36 Future spouse now cannot find her work briefcase and handbag.

8:37 Or her mobile phone.

8:37 and 30 seconds: SJ sets off for school adamant that he doesn't need his coat despite the fact that it bloody freezing and looks as if it might piss down at any moment.

8:38 Retrieve bags from the far corners of the living room and phone from kitchen bench; Hand to future spouse, who offers profuse thanks, puts them down to get breakfast bar and promptly forgets where she's put them again.

8:40 Future spouse now cannot locate housekeys and spends two minutes scrabbling at bottom of work briefcase until they are located.

8:42 Head out to get car started. Drive to work, drop future spouse off on way at 8:58.

9:15 Arrive at office. Do some work. Fuck around on b3ta for a bit when noone is looking. bemoan shite remote connection and fact that PC keeps freezing on you.

17:15 - 17:30 Decide have had enough and go home.

17:45 - 18:00 Open door and trip over SJs school bag / shoes at bottom of stairs. Or alternatively, get to top of stairs and trip over on landing / middle of living room / kitchen. Observe future spouse finishing off cold coffee from that morning. relax for a bit

18:30 Do dishes from previous evening.

Spend rest of evening jointly wondering what to have for dinner / cooking dinner. Decide on something simple and quick.

21:30 Sit down to eat.

22:00 Chill out for a bit.

23:20 One last smoke.

23:30 Bed

And repeat, except for during school holidays and weekends.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:37, 3 replies)

"Wait and See"
As wee nippers, A miniature Humpty and his brother used to ask "What's for pudding mummy"

The answer was ALWAYS "Wait and see". This, coupled with the fact that the pudding was also ALWAYS "Apple fool" meant that my brother and I truly believed that "Wait and see" was a pudding made from shite apples.

Years and Years...

fucking apples.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:35, 2 replies)

Holding breath.
My sister and I have always been stubborn and fairly competitive, fighting over who got a bigger portions of things (our parents didn't know the one cuts, one chooses thing), who could run faster, who made better Lego toys, that sort of thing. Even though she's nearly three years younger than me, she was only very slightly shorter than me throughout most of our childhood and overtook me when I was around 15 (she 12), with the result that when I first sneaked into a pub and drank beer underage, she did the same a couple of weeks later! But that's Essex for you...

Anyway, on car journeys we used to hold our breath going through tunnels.

It was something to do, I suppose. We'd see a tunnel coming and try and hold our breaths all the way through it. Most tunnels were short enough that we knew we'd succeed, but we'd still sit in the back of the car staring at each other, cheeks bulging, eyes going slightly bloodshot, each checking that the other's breath was still being held. My parents got used to the "poooossshhhh" sound of two rapidly exhaling children that coincided with re-emerging into daylight.

The trouble is, we still do it. But now we're usually the ones driving.

She's got used to it now, but my wife has been made shouty-angry on several occasions when I've taken a few deep breaths when approaching a tunnel and ceased conversation with her to puff my cheeks out, hold my breath and try and make it through the tunnel. The Blackwall and Dartford Tunnels are a particular trial if there's a lot of traffic, and I've occasionally hyperventilated enough before going into the tunnel that my peripheral vision has gone a bit wavy and sparkly and I've had to _really_ concentrate on driving properly.

As a grown-up, I know it's a silly idea. My sister lives around 200 miles away, we're very rarely even in the same car any more, but we both still habitually do it. We've both got to know the tunnels in our area by the rough speed that you need to keep up in order to hold your breath all the way through and we've both seriously wound up our respective spouses by not only stopping conversation but also driving a little faster than we should and getting tense and starey as we progress, ending each tunnel with a relieved "pooosshhh" sound and resumption of conversation as if nothing had happened.

And we'll still compare notes every now and then when we meet up, guiltily taking pleasure in how stupid and potentially dangerous the childhood habit now is.

My best was the Dartford Tunnel at just under 40mph.
( sanityclause is waiting until, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:31, 3 replies)

Mervyn and Lloyd
Price lived across the street. Mervyn was - well I actually don't know what Mervyn did but Lloyd was one of the green keepers at the local racetrack. He hated mowing the yard at home so Mervyn always did it.

At last Mervyn died. Some months later -

Lady next door. "Your yard is getting a bit overgrown Lloyd. Maybe you should run the mower over it."

Lloyd "That's Mervyn's job."
(Redemption blamed it on the Bossa Nova since, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:31, Reply)

My dad
Was French, and had loads of brothers and sisters, some living here in England, most in France. This meant we got to go to loads of family weddings over there.

Every time, without fail, my dad would get drunk and lose his false teeth, and so the ritual would begin - us kids running about in the dark garden, giggling away looking for the errant gnashers.

Ah, those were the days...
( snee held his breath since, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:31, Reply)

Waltonsesque
This started when we were on a family camping holiday when I was a nipper.

Dad - Goodnight Jim Bob
Us (in unison) - Goodnight Hairy Melon

Went on for years, but only on holiday for some reason.
( the_ships_cat is it meeee you're looking forrrr, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:22, 2 replies)

Back when I was a nipper
my parents were avid fans of Allo Allo. I endured it because I didn't know much better at that age. Around the same time they decided they needed some regular quality time together so every other Saturday they'd feed me and my brother some "treat food" (read - reconstituted chicken and mashed potato in the shape of a dinosaur or something) and pack us off to our bedrooms to listen to tunes/read/play computer games etc etc while they would enjoy a very nice meal. It was the same every week - steak, chips, mushrooms and peas, all of high quality and much better than whatever my Mother (a stunning cook) would shove in the oven for us. As we sat upstairs, reveling in the smells emanating from the kitchen, we would hear our parents laugh, dine and reminisce on the old days while blasting Marvin Gaye and Donald Fagin on the speakers. And somewhere in our tiny minds, we figured this was what life must be like for the old boot in Allo Allo. Thereby we nicknamed this meal "René's Cafe".

Still goes on, nearly 20 years later, with exactly the same menu (though I suspect thanks to the promotions the steak and the wine are of finer quality these days), a similar playlist (although they have a worrying predilection for weak indie these days, even though they have better speakers now. Plenty of Underworld though, well done Mum) and they both still get dressed up for it.

Awwww.
( SugarSpunSister Yeah, whatever, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:20, 1 reply)

Every morning
I've been married for 4 and a half years now. Me and the missus lived together for 18 months before that. So 6 years in total we've lived together. During that time, we've only spent 8 nights away from each other. So I reckon we've woken up together on 2184 mornings (including leap years).

Every morning, and I do mean every morning, I peek out through the curtains to see what the weather is like and every time I do, the wife says "what's it like out?" and every morning I reply "It's big and there's no ceiling!"


We also do "I need a wee"; "you go wee then"; "weeeeeeeee!"


Oh, and "I've just had a thought"; "first time for everything"



Oh and a Morcambe and Wise classic that goes either:
Wife: "it's nice out"
Me: "I might get mine out then"
OR
Me: "it's nice out"
Wife "yeah, but don't leave it out, eh?"
(ScousersPet, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:09, 6 replies)

Very difficult to write this
We used to have a ritual every night before we went to bed. We were a poor family, but spiritually rich, and such things helped to bring us closer in those dark wintery nights, and reaffirmed the strong bonds and love we had for one another.

We still do it, but we always have to stop half way through

"Good-night Jim-Bob"
"Good night Mary-Ellen"
"Good night Grandma Walton"
"Good night ..."

Yes, John-Boy got anally violated coming back from market one day, and never recovered from his wounds.
( rofl harris, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 12:05, Reply)

Snooozzzzzzes
Christmas Day with my family is something I very much look forward to every year. My brother and I retreat back to our parents' house where we grew up, and promptly commence a well-deserved bout of lying around enjoying their hospitality (read: fridge full of booze and food). I usually bring back my laptop, PS3, and a crap-load of washing to do, while my brother will bring only his laptop for some decent online poker sessions.

However, these are not the rituals which deserve the most mention. There is one ritual which surmounts them all; one ritual that we partake in without fail, every year.

Over Christmas dinner, the men of the household take a bet... namely: "how long will it take for mum to fall asleep on the sofa after Christmas dinner?"

Years ago we would be guessing somewhere in the region of "1 hour!" or "1 and a half hours!" or "45 minutes!" from someone who had surreptitiously been plying her with alcohol all morning. Unfortunately the variables (mainly age and the increasing affordability of Christmas champers) have now brought this time down to a matter of a few minutes, thus decreasing the margin for error substantially. This year I may even put a bet on her falling asleep at the table, using a leftover spud as a makeshift pillow.

The bet is an honourable one - there is no prize other than the smug sense of a well-deserved win, and there are no sabotage attempts to keep her awake. We just sit quietly watching TV and digesting the turkey 'n spuds, all the while waiting for the beginning stages of her heavy breathing - and the official state of slumber.

At this point the men smile and look at their watches to declare the victor. "YES!" will be the cry from one of us, which startles mother awake and into an embarrassed laugh - there's always an element of annoyance in her being subject to this bet, but she has to laugh as she resigns herself to the futility of staying awake... she just needs a nap.
(perfectrhys come find me on PS3., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:57, 2 replies)

I used to go to my Grandparents house every Saturday.
Now, my Grandparents were awesome.

They spoilt me and my brother rotten and adored us unconditionally. We’d play camps and Star Wars and Granddad would pretend to be a monster and chase us with his false teeth hanging out.

We’d get to eat and drink what we liked until we felt sick and were hyperactive little brats (must have been a delight for my parents when they came to pick us up)

We’d be bought football stickers and comics. We had a ‘Bits and Bobs’ box each that would have tin foil, cardboard tubes, glitter, all sorts of arts and crafts type stuff (including, as mentioned in a previous QOTW, 100’s of matchbox car wheels)

Saturdays were a delight, we’d get away with murder.

Nearly all my happiest childhood memories are from Saturdays with Nan & Granddad.

But, there was one big caveat, woe betide us if we prevented Granddad from having his cup of tea dead on 11 am and 3pm. For 15 minutes at those two times of day, we knew that we were to sit quietly reading or drawing and not disturb him.

Out would come the tea leaves, the old fashioned kettle, the tea strainer, the silver sugar spoon, all laid out on a tray.

11 and 3 were Granddads tea and pipe time, and nothing would ever change that.

Granddad died of cancer in May 1995, while I was at Uni.

The day after the funeral I went round to visit my Nan to say goodbye before I headed back up North.

11 am came around and I said ‘Want me to put the kettle on Nan?’

And she looked at me, smiled, and said

‘Thanks love, but now that old bastard has gone I’ll have my tea whenever I want it’

Methinks they were not as happily married as we’d been led to believe…
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:55, 3 replies)

The scourge of mankind – ‘La Voiture Verte’

When I were a lad, and all this were fields etc, my family were struggling to make ends meet. My dad would attempt to ease our poverty and help the finances by rolling up his sleeves and utilising his formidable mechanical and salesmanship skills in the auto trading market.

(I feel I may have romanticised this somewhat…What he actually did was buy shitheap, scrap-pile sheds for a couple of quid, patch them up with pop-rivets and hopefully sell them on for a bit of a profit.)

Still, to his credit, he was quite adept at this…yet as his ‘career’ flourished, my dad started to notice a trend developing.

He would always struggle to sell a green car.

Now apparently there is a deep human behavioural issue here. Green is more of a ‘selective’ colour for a car you see, unlike your run-of-the-mill ‘silver’s & ‘black’s...So public choice was not as easily swayed by some old, worthless, rusty knacker of a motor…in green. For my dad, they quickly become more trouble than they were worth.

He learned this lesson the hard way a few times before twunting logic and psychology out of the window, making his choice and declaring: ‘Green cars are unlucky. No more green cars for the Flake family. EVER!’

What started as his annoyance then became a family tradition, then a ritual…then an obsession…to be hammered shamelessly through to every.single.generation

None of us could even look at a green car without receiving a customary ‘clip around the ear’ole’

Socially aware of all forms of equality *cough – Daily Mail reader – cough*, my dad would have cared not a jot if I had brought home a same-sex, mixed race, drug addicted, Illegal immigrant criminal psychopath as my new ‘significant other’; but if my partner-in-waiting had driven a green car he would have refused to let them through the door and bellowed at them through the letterbox to “Cunt the fuck off!”.

Inevitably, there was the occasional rebellion…& Dad was not happy.

My sister once dared to buy a ‘cute’ little green Fiesta in the 80’s, and one day it suffered a slight prang. My dad leapt at the chance to prove his theory correct. “It’s the car…THE CAR!” he screamed, like a wizened, rollup-smoking, soothsaying harbinger of doom.

She was promptly ordered to sell the car immediately and she begrudgingly did so. Later that year she mislaid her purse in a nightclub and lost £30. “It’s THE CAR!... DON’T YOU SEE??!?” Dad yelped, with a funny look in his eyes.

My brother went on holiday to Thailand a few years back and had a great time…just a few short weeks after he returned…the Tsunami hit.

Tragedy…unimaginable horror…huge loss of life and property.

How did my dad explain this? Tectonic plates? Climate change? Act of god?

Nope, it was because my brother had once bought an old green Fiat 500*…in the early 90’s…and he passed the subsequent curse over to that innocent country like a airborne virus carrier.

“What were you thinking?” my dad barked at my flabbergasted brother as we watched the death toll rise.

September the 11th was attributed to a lime coloured Talbot Samba I borrowed for a fortnight when I was on the dole.

In my dad’s evermore eccentric mind, the current global financial crisis is entirely due to the fact that a year and a half ago I considered buying a new car in British Racing Green. I didn’t actually go through with it (more than my life’s worth) but the mere fact that I considered it has now somehow resulted in a worldwide economic meltdown. So now you know who’s to blame. Sorry everybody.

When Mini-Pooflake turned two years old, I took him round my folks’ house and my dad proudly sat him on his knee.

“Can you say ‘Grandad?...Graaaannnnnd-daaaad!” my old man cooed.

My son started to cutely stutter: “G….g-g….“

Then my dad bluntly interrupted: “Actually, bollocks to that. Say ‘I WILL NEVER FUCKING BUY A GREEN CAR'......saaaay it…….SAY IT!!!!”

We don’t visit very much anymore.




*which he nicknamed ‘the bionic bogey’…it was ace – but don’t tell my dad I said that


( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:55, 12 replies)

Outside toilets and pets
My dad told me that everytime my grandad would go out into the yard to go to the khazi, my grandma would always ask him where he was going.

"Ernie, where you going?"
"Shithouse" would be his reply every time.

One day, they got given a mynah bird for a pet, which, with them living in a small 2-up-2-down house and consequently not having the room for a birdcage, my grandad knocked up a small cage and hung it on the wall outside next to the back door.

It wasn't very long before the mynah-bird learned to say shithouse everytime it saw my grandad come through the door and heard my grandma shout after him.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:54, Reply)

Family rituals
Way back when, it was the law in our house that we could not go downstairs on Xmas day until Mum had made a cup of tea? why? beacuse my parents had not sorted out the presents under the tree yet. I found this out at very young age as i could hear the rustling of presents. I must of been about 5 when I found out santa was not real. The shame.
(supertedtex, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:42, 6 replies)

We have a few odd ones....
As a family we ritually had coffee and a dash at the biscuit tin at around 10pm - just before bed. Looking back - caffeine at 10pm? even for me and my sister (11 and 8 respectively)

There is also when we eat boiled eggs, turn them over when empty and try and "sell" the extra "egg" to each other.

Good sandwiches are called Banjos. as in Bacon Banjo.....
Smoked salmon and cream cheese no matter how nice would never be a banjo. Fishfingers can be banjo'ed ......

My wifes family are Norwegian - i simply won't talk about the dried rotten cod, the rank brown cheeses and pigs heads. The rituals are way too odd, involve very odd food - generally dried or salted - and lots of alcohol. But Pinnekjøtt and aquavit on xmas eve is wicked.
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:36, 1 reply)

'I'm in here!'
For some reason my family has no lock on the toilet door, never have done.

This prompts visits to the throne to be quite a tense affair as you hear foot falls on the stairs and so have we have developed the cunning ritual of shouting 'I'm in here!' regardless of if the other person is coming in or not...

Can be quite entertaining with visitors or also with my dad as he appears to enjoy turning the light off (the light switch is outside, who thought that one up?!?!?!?)
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:34, 6 replies)

As someone has already mentioned Christmas, I’ll throw my tradition in.
Being the youngest means that Christmas seems magic for as long as you can imagine, with family all having to keep up the illusion. When I was younger, I could never work out why my eldest brother didn’t like to be woken at 5:30am, why wasn’t he as excited as we were?

Around the age of 10, it turned out he always had a ‘hangover’, what was that? Didn’t have a clue, and all anyone would tell me is that he ‘over did it’.

Made no sense to me, even when I started drinking, I didn’t get hungover. I always woke feeling fresh as a daisy, and annoying my friends.

However, that changed on Christmas Eve 2005. I was 17, and it was my first proper night out with my brothers. After finishing my shift at McDonalds, we all closed the restaurant, and went for a drink together. Unfortunately, several people were in a hurry, so I got my greasy mitts on the drinks they left unfinished.

So, at 10:30pm when I go to meet my brothers, I’m already well on my way, and fairly giggly. Soon as I arrive, there’s a pint shoved into my hand, and the night begins properly.

At 11:30, the eldest of us stands up and says “I think it’s time for us to go, or we’ll feel this in the morning”. We responded with a rousing cry of “Bollocks!” (As you do).

He left with a rather sinister smile on his face, and we carried on, not falling in the front door until gone 2am, then realised we had a crate in the freezer to drink too, which we did with great pleasure.

By this point, the three of us are unbelievably drunk, and decide to call it a night, at about 4:30am.

At 5am (roughly), the eldest walks in and asks loudly if we’d like a cup of tea. No response, but he knows he’s woken us.
5:30am, same again, but with a very small "Oh Piss Off".
6am, He walks in with a pillow, giving us all a couple of smacks in the face, then walks out again.
6:30am, We hear the door open again, and all throw a pillow. Turns out this was my Dad asking us to quieten down, or so we thought. A few seconds later, we’re being attacked in earnest, by not only my brother, but my Dad too.

After this, they left us for 45 minutes, to give us a false sense of security.

Then, they opened the door silently, sneaked up to the bed, and…..

SWEETSHITTINGMERCIFULJESUSCHRISTONABIKE

They’d brought up the ironing jug of water, and tipped it over my head, with one jug for each of the three of us.

By this point, all 3 of us are awake, and so we slowly get dressed, and trundle downstairs, to find an empty kitchen with a note.

“I told you to be careful last night. We’ve gone back to bed. See you at 11!

Love,
Dad, Beth and Ian”


We now do Christmas at 11 every year. I love my family *grinds teeth*

Length? There's going to be 15 of us together this year.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:28, 3 replies)

Magpies.
Someone has already posted about having to be courteous to magpies.

However, my childhood was spent thinking that, if one saw a lone magpie, you immediately had to shriek "come on you bugger, where's your bloody friend?!" at it.

I blame my mother.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:27, 1 reply)

Mother
Me or my brothers: "Mum, how long is dinner going to be?"

Mother: "Three feet!"

Every bloody time.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:26, Reply)

Lack of respect for authority
If there is one paternal family trait I'm proud of, it's our weary disdain for authority. Respect for one's overseers is always earned and never a right. That philosophy has been handed down my family for generations and no small amount if pleasure has been gained over the years in voicing our distaste for the many instances of pomposity and stupidity displayed by those we entrust with our safety. liberty and moral direction. I'll give you the shining example of my lineage that is my paternal grandfather.

Grandad PJM fought in the trenches during WWI and returned home to marry the daughter of German immigrants. He spent the 1920s and 1930s driving a horse drawn dray around the streets of the East End of London delivering barrels of beer to the numerous pubs and drinking establishments.

As WWII and rationing became part of life in 1940s London, Grandad PJM was struggling with shortages (my grandmother was only 4' 11") and rationing and thus the family made use of their modest suburban garden for growing vegetables, helped in no small way by Grandad PJM's regular source of organic fertilizer.

It was in the midst of one blacked out evening during the winter of 1940/41 that Grandad PJM was making his way home across London bearing a large sack on his back. As he passed London Bridge, a passing policeman with a keen eye for spotting out black market activity during these times stopped Grandad PJM in the street.

"Ello, ello, ello" said Plod. "What have yew got in the sack, sir?"

"Shit" replied Grandad PJM.

"Hai am going to ask yew once again sir before hai ask yew to accompany me to the stayshun, what is in the sack?"

"Shit" replied grandad PJM, dismissively once again.

"Right then sir yew are nicked. Sunshine". With that, Grandad PJM was frogmarched to the local Plodhouse

"Right then sir hai am going to ask yew one more time before hai make yew open it. What have yew got in the sack?" said plod who now sensing an opportunity for promotion in front of his superintendent who was now present.

"I already told you, shit" replied Grandad PJM.

"If yew won't tell me what is in the sack then hai am afraid hai am going to have to ask you to empty the contents onto the floor" brayed the copper, the extra stripe now surely not far away.

"Alright then" replied Grandad PJM who simply shrugged and poured forty pounds of matured horse manure onto the pristine floor of the police station.

Grandad PJM was sent on his way home, but not before the superintendent ordered the policeman to put the manure back in the sack and return it with an apology.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:25, 8 replies)

Chicken.
I remember when my sister was little….

She was, at the time, about 5 or 6 and was suffering with a fairly heavy cold. We’d be watching some children’s telly second-world-war period drama type thing.

Anyway, towards the end of that particular program (the Railway Children possibly?) there was a scene when some spazzy fat kid finds a bomb that’s been dropped by the Germans and not exploded. This bomb is by a railway bridge and on raising the alarm, the fat kid on the telly says to the station master ‘There’s a bomb, and it’s ticking’

That night, my sister had a nightmare and when my mum went in to see if she was okay and to ask her what had happened, she said ‘I dreamt about the ticking bomb’ – Only with her heavy cold, it sounded like ‘chicken bomb’

Since then, my mum has always and I mean ALWAYS said, whenever there is a bomb featured on the telly, ‘Is it a chicken bomb?’

This wouldn’t be so bad if she only mentioned it once in a while, to my sister. But no, she’ll recount the story time and time again to loads of uninterested visitors.

My sister is (now) married, with 3 kids of her own and is a successful accountant, she doesn’t find it as funny as my mum does.

Thinking about it, my mum has loads of daft saying that no one else cares for or finds funny. Other examples include, telling my cousin not to call their daughter Isabelle as everyone will call her ‘Is-a-bell-necessary-on-a-bike’ and not laughing when my cousin retorted with, ‘I’m not worried about that, we’ve got no intention of allowing our daughter to mingle with twats’.

Or suggesting to my friend who recently took redundancy from a role that saw him as an executive director of an international company (a position he’d held for over 8 years) and was probably on 250k a year that ‘Yell were advertising for call centre staff in the paper the other day’

Anyway, I digress. Mum, I love you dearly but your family ritual is shared only by you.

One ritual we all share though, is the 5 second rule. If a seat is left for 5 seconds (or more) it’s fair game for animal, vegetable or mineral is take it over. On more than one occasion, the two dogs have been comfortably ensconced on the sofa and people have been made to sit on the floor. (It’s against the law to move someone/dog, but bribery is allowed).

Mullered.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:22, 2 replies)

My little boy.
I appear to be in the early stage of being the ritual initiator for my family. My youngest son is 4 and his name is Dylan but for some reason I am completely unable to call him this. Instead I keep going off on meaningless mumbo-jumbo type rants when I am talking to him. It started when I called him "ding-dong" one day - I have no idea why but it stuck and has developed into some sort of weird game whereby the stranger the name I give him the better. He has been called “tiddly tiddly whacker” “knobby knobby knob knob" “scarecrow billy pants” and “diddly diddly doo dah” – all by me. The rest of the family are joining in now and the poor kid is cottoning-on to the fact that if he hears a random set of words it usually means that someone is trying to get his attention. (This may or may not be where my username comes from).

While typing this I have been reminded of some of the strange things my mum used to say when I was a kid that I and my siblings still use today.

If any part of the sky is predominantly dark clouds – “It’s a bit black over Bill’s mother’s”.

If one of us was just sitting about doing nothing – “Look at you sitting there like Piffy on a rock bun”.

When someone was trying to get one over on her – “They must think I just came down the river on my mother’s piano”.

I wonder if my insanity is hereditary.

First post – be nice!
( Ping_Pang_Piddley_Dee couldn't give a big shiny fuck., Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:21, 1 reply)

I've been reminded of what I used to do after eating a boiled egg
some people talk about putting the spoon through the bottom of the shell to stop the witches using it or similar.

I used to turn the egg upside down in the cup, draw a smiley face on it with a felt tip pen, and then stove in that smug bastard's skull.

I hadn't thought about this in years, as I'm not really a fan of boiled eggs. I wonder if the two things are connected...
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:19, 4 replies)

Slaps! Folds!
After dinner, my dad and I would always have rounds of jam sandwiches to finish our repast. These would be made with Robinson's jam, on Hovis brown bread, with a thin scraping of Flora. They were always to be prepared by my mother and they came in two forms.

The "Jam Fold" was one slice of bread, loaded with jam and folded in half, for the high jam to bread ratio; or the "Jam Slap" which was a traditional jam between two slices of bread construction, for the purist.

Jam Slaps were to be requested by slapping one's hands together, one for each sandwich required. Jam Folds were ordered by adopting a claw-like hand gesture.

At the end of dinner, my long suffering mother would stand up to enter the kitchen, at which point my dad and I would start clapping and gurning like a pair of spastic seals to order our butties. This was made more interesting when we had visitors...

That's the only thing I can think of that became a long standing tradition. Well, apart from schizophrenia.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:11, 3 replies)

Christmas ritual
We spent many a happy hour sitting around the dinner table waiting in excited anticiaption for the moment Nan pissed herself.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:02, 1 reply)

London
I live in north London, just near Tufnell Park tube station. Very nice. Lots of bastard squirrels the size of small ponys, but a decent pub over the road n a shop just down stairs for fags and Mars bars, so I'm a happy bunny.

My family, however, assume that because I live in London I:-

a) know everybody who lives in London. By first name.

b) know every celebrity in the world, personally. (My mum actually asked me if I had met Johnny Depp the last time I went to visit. Obviously, I said yes, but only to play snooker with. - And I told her he was a midget and really likes cheese n pickle sandwiches).

and c) am told by my mum not to get on the tube with a backpack because, and I quote: "You do look a bit shifty and what with being mediteranian looking I dont want the police to shoot you by accident."
( SpankyHanky, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 11:01, 1 reply)