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This is a question Family Feuds

Pooster tells us that a relative was once sent to the shops to buy an onion, while the rest of the family went on a daytrip while he was gone. Meanwhile, whole sections of our extended kin still haven't got over a wedding brawl fifteen years ago – tell us about families at war.

(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 12:24)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Once I threw a teaspoon at my older sister, it hit her right in the middle of her forehead, she immediately threw the hairbrush that she had in her hand straight into my face, we then persisted to throw things at each other until our parents came home, there was blood oll over my t-shirt.

p.s we were both 20 + 23 years old when it happened, our mom was visiting, she was furious.

p.p.s my sister had to have 2 stiches lol, but were still friends.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 19:07, Reply)
Different levels...
What annoys me most about our family feud is the vastly differing levels of knowledge amongst the members it really does or doesn't concern. People immediately come to all manner of varying conclusions who have actually no idea as to why others feel the way they do. It's been years since my brother ditched his wife and kids, then ran away with the busty bint from his office. Excommunicating himself from his extended family just adds to the ill-feeling between the two distinct camps that either know what really went on before and after the shit hit the proverbial fan. What exacerbates the total stand-off now is the family occasions and get togethers where his self-imposed exclusion brings about fresh enquiries, either creating greater sadness, further anger or total disrespect in his absence. They say time is a healer, the truth is nobody actually cares until they're forced to remember...
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 18:10, Reply)
this time in a fortnight
My mother is married next weekend, sadly all the entertaining family members haven't been invited... So I will be waiting to see what happens.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 17:47, Reply)
Never got on with my Dad...
...he was in the service and we tended to move from place to place depending on where he was stationed. I never really felt like his heart was in his relationship with my Mum, he was one of those career men - still is in fact, 45 years at the last count. Me and my little brother were going into the service whether we liked it or not. I tried to get interested in becoming a lawyer like my granddad, just to annoy him, but, let's be honest, law's fucking boring and my Dad got to fly planes and stuff.

Eventually I stopped sulking and realised I was only resisting becoming a pilot because I felt like I hadn't been given much choice; I actually really wanted to do the same job as my Dad had, not that I'd ever admit it to him. My brother didn't take to it very well, though. He met this slightly mental hottie at school and I think he was doing it to impress her, to an extent. I really liked his girlfriend, which I obviously couldn't admit to either. Family ties were strained all round.

Then the Cylons bombed the fuck out of our planets and reduced the entire species to less than 50,000 people. Seemed churlish to hold a grudge after that.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 17:35, 9 replies)
So...this is a tangled web, and I've been trying to figure out which string to pull. I think I have it now.

We will start with my mother. The child of an alcoholic single mother (I never knew my grandfather; I wish I had), she may or may not have been sexually abused, physically abused, and/or ritually abused as a child. I know for a fact she had to put up with my grandmother carrying on a ten-year affair with a Roman Catholic priest, who may or may not have aided and abetted the abuse.

See, the stories always changed -- and most of the time my mother was so looped on the tranquilizer-of-the-year (Miltown, Xanax, methaqualune, whatever she could get the latest doctor to prescribe) that it really didn't matter. She had three stillborn children after I was born in 1968; one a year like clockwork, '69, '70, '71. Sometimes she was functional after that; sometimes she set things on fire in the driveway and cackled like Macbeth's spiritual advisors.

Needless to say, she and my father divorced when I was nine or ten. She did the single parent gig for a few years; she had a decent job at the local hospital (yes, she was a registered nurse) and we were doing... all right. Not great, but all right.

Then she married my stepfather, a socially inept career virgin farmer who at 37 still lived with his parents. I have no clue what she saw in him; the man was mostly a waste of time and skin. He didn't want the kids - there were three of us at that point - and we moved to a farm outside a small town that would have to improve to be considered the rectum of the Midwestern US. I would have, at this point, slavishly accepted someone who wanted to provide me with a father figure; instead, he was just another dipshit who didn't have time for any of us. After five years of living with her drug-induced drama and my cro-Magnon stepfather, I left. Went to college, flunked out, went back home for just long enough to realize how miserable it was, and went to live with my great-grandmother a hundred miles away. Mum hated it; she screamed and threw things the night my then-girlfriend and I packed my stuff and I got the hell out.

Fast-forward. My brother gets out. My sister, who has cerebral palsy, has come to her own arrangement somehow. I get married, have a son -- my mother's first grandson. The wedding ceremony is unabashedly Pagan, and mom grits her teeth all the way through it. Ten months later, she has a heart attack in her sleep and dies. She was 47.

My stepfather says, and I quote: 'Come get your mother's shit'.

I go back to the house I lived in for five years, and am not allowed in the house. My stepfather has already taken up with the cleaning woman, of all people; I have to get what of my mother's stuff he allows me to have out of the barn, where he's unceremoniously dumped it. Family furniture: stolen. Heirlooms: ditto. Myself and my sibs are edited out of my stepfather's life before my mother's corpse is fully worm entree.

I actually tried to contact him some years later. Sent him a letter: his response was 'Fuck off, you fat queer; I don't want to talk to you'.

Fifteen years has muted the pain somewhat, and I've learned that the material things I lost are bearable. But because of my mother's issues, I lost eight years with my real father, and she replaced him with a complete and utter twit who barely let her cool before he moved on.

I don't know if this is a feud. I know I was a shit to my stepfather at times, so I suppose so. I just know that in the end, I cut my losses and moved on. I have three kids now, lovely children, and I'm relatively happy. I doubt the same can be said of him.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 17:31, 3 replies)
Not my parents
but my ex-girlfriend's. Apparently when she got her GCSE results - 4 A*'s and 5 A's, if memory serves - her Mum's first reaction was "I thought you'd have got an A* in History"
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 17:16, 3 replies)
Strange Aunt
My mum and her sister fell out years ago. My Aunt had a really weird alternative lifestyle that my mother didn’t agree with. Whereas my side of the family is what you’d call ‘normal’ my Dad has a responsible job and we live in a nice house and have a car – normal things.

I suppose I had quite a privileged up bringing, private school loads of gifts at Christmas and on my birthday, basically, I wanted for nothing, which if you are living an ‘alternative’ existence, it must look a bit weird seeing so many material possessions, but what some people consider excessive, others consider normal.

I didn’t know much about my Aunt (who is sadly dead now, car crash) other than she married a bloke she was at school with and had a son who was the complete opposite to me (I’m a bit of a porker if I’m honest)

My late Aunts son came to stay with us a for a while but we didn’t really get on, all he wanted to do was to play with sticks and study owls.

(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 17:08, 10 replies)
Bath time
Back in the days of water conservation (or being poor so me and my brother had to share a bath) there was always a battle to see who would get the side of the bath with out the taps.

Now both of us being young and only 11 months between us it always resulted in huge fights for the coveted smooth side.

Now on this day in particular I managed to sneakily win by waiting right by the bathroom door while my mother drew the bath. I was happily splashing around and playing with my toys as most young boys did when I noticed my brother vigorously scrubbing and simultaneously washing his hair.

I thought nothing of it and carried on destroying bubbles with my submarine when I say him dash out of the bath at lightning speed.

Now you may be wondering why he washed so fast and ran out as his little legs could carry him.

It was because he released a steaming big shit in the bath that was slowly floating it's way toward me. and yes I did manage to get out in time. Just.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 17:03, Reply)
No-one talks to my uncle Ford
Mainly because he's always razzing off on some adventure or other, his friends are downright weird and he's always going on about 'knowing where his towel is'.

He's the family frood.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:59, 5 replies)
Serving hard time in an Austin.
The whole family were packed into my Fathers golden-brown Austin Princess on the long drive down to my Grandparents for Christmas.
This bi-annual trip was hell, a five hour trip packed into the back of a small uncomfortable car with my brother and sister whilst sat on duvets and coats with every spare inch of space around us stuffed full with luggage and presents.

Mum would pass round Barley Sugars upon the sighting of a yellow car or the crossing of a river, which ever came first.

Dad would listen to his mix tape, which as far as I can remember had two songs on it, one was a song about missiles flying over heads by Status Quo and the other was about a Ghost Train by Madness.

And this is how it went for mile after mile. The sucking horrible squelchy noises of Barley Sugars been eaten. “If you want to survive, get out of bed” wailing from the radio. “You’re over my side!” wailing from the back.

The sound of someone else noisily eating boiled sweets tapping away against your brain, like some form of audio water torture for endless hours on end.

Then you get the brief respite of the service station. But of course it’s no real respite at all; you can’t go in the shop or play in the arcades. There isn’t enough time or money. It’s not on the schedule.

You have got exactly 5 minutes to go to the toilet, eat your warm ham and lettuce sandwich and then look ridiculous as you walk the bloody cat round the car park on a piece of string.

Then it’s back into the car. Goodbye Leigh Delamere West. Hello another two and a half hours drive.

It’s enough to fray the very robust of nerves. Someone always snapped. There was always a row. The car was a tinderbox by hour 3. Anything could set anybody off.

And on this particular instance it was me accidentally tearing the new road map, and my Dad turned round in his seat red faced with rage and yelling.

As he turned away the cars in front of us screeched to a halt. And my Dad swore and we all screamed as we skidded towards the back of a yellow Ford Anglia, nobody claiming their Barley Sugar, and we stopped with smoke bellowing from the tyres with literally an inch between us and the car in front. We were safe. And the family feud.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:59, 3 replies)
My Nan and Grandypops are from a different generation
so when me Ma told her I was getting married she was not best pleased and said,"my first great grandchild was a bastard, and now the next one's going to be a nigger." Lovely old dear.

At my father in law's funeral my wife and her siblings were all saying what a nice gentle bloke he was and how, unlike their mum who was and still is a vicious old bint, he never raised a hand to any of them. My wife's younger, but much larger sister then told a story about how my wife was playing with a knife after being told NEVER to touch it. Anyway, it slipped, sliced her hand open and she burst into tears and ran to dad crying and to get some sympathy she told dad that her younger sister did it on purpose. So the sister got one hell of a beating, the only time dad beat any of them, andshe didn't even know why until a few weeks later when my wife got back from being away at school.
They still don't get on.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:24, Reply)
Small boy, evil big sister - FIGHT!
I was happily sat on my bedroom floor, aged about four, playing with cars. Big sister, five years my senior decides she is bored so comes in and begins pestering me, wanting to play. I object to this and do my best as a four year old to get her to leave. My protests have the opposite affect (mainly because my big sister is evil) and she begins teasing me, informing me that she aint going nowhere and starts messing with my precision parked row of cars (I had a little MDF car show room with a ramp and everything, swish as!).

So within about a minute, my car emporium has been completely re-designed and she's sat there telling me that she's sold a car and off it goes...."HANG ON", I think, "what on earth is going on? I've been emporium-jacked!" So I stand up and with much bravery state "go away, or…...or I'll wee on you!" quite matter-of-factly. My sister just looks up at me and confidently says "you wouldn't DARE!" and returns to playing (uninvited) with my cars. Damn her.

Well, it turned out that I would indeed dare and as she went back to selling cars off my pitch, I walked up, popped me lad out and proceeded to widdle all down her arm. Bedlum ensued. I think the scream she emitted was heard in the next county and required the replacement of at least 2 windows. Mum, stifling laughter, gave me a monumental telling off. As for big sis, she never assumed I wouldn't 'dare' do anything again and even today, some 23 years later, if she should begin winding me up, a quick threat of a pissy arm usually shuts her right up.

During our childhood she got me back for the wee-to-arm incident more than once (though thankfully none involving wee). Incidents include teaching me to flick the V's and say "Fuck Off" at the same time, then sending me into a room of elderly relatives to "show them your new thing..." Cow!
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:17, 1 reply)
Ape escape
I don't get along with my mother at the best times, but out of all the females in my extended family, she's the only conversation option that doesn't result in me staring very hard at them to see if I can explode them with my mind.

My aunt Jackie, for that is her name, is much worse. Father's sister, married an alcoholic and stuck by a few bouts of domestic violence. The story goes that after disproving the wedding of Mummy Badger and Daddy Badger, her hubby got ratarsed and tried it on with my mum. She told Jackie, and to this day still believes that my mum tried to take advantage of a 16 stone balding alcoholic car salesman. Who wouldn't?

So this bubbles under the surface for a good 15 years or so. Jackie won't speak to my mum without her husband being present and all that. One day Jackie calls up trying to speak to my dad. He's not in, so Jackie concludes that my mum is now trying to isolate him from the family.

[Conversation cut short for the sake of my fingers]

'...I know he's there, so get him on the phone you stupid bitch'

'He's picking the kids up, watch your language and I'll take a message.'

'Listen, I want to speak to the organ grinder, not the fucking monkey.'

Mum puts the phone down, they don't speak for 5 years until my cousins wedding. Everything is civil in the ceremony and we're invited to the reception and have a few drinks. All is well.

Except for that one incident where my mother comes out of the toilet, armed with a ripe turd and lunges at my aunt Jackie in a way that would do Wolverine proud, screaming 'this is what monkeys do, isn't it?!' repeatedly as she prods her in the face with it.

We were very swiftly loaded into the car and sent home. The dog finished off the rest of the Mars bar. Kind of molten though.

I can only pray they both turn up to my wedding.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:16, 1 reply)
I have an ex-family member
I can't say too much, but Ex-Family member began a family feud when my grandad died. My mum was on her way from England ( Grandad lived in Northern Ireland) to stay at the house and sort out the affairs. She flew over and didn't have a car so she had to stay at the house. Mum arrived to find the mattresses on the beds and the sofa cushions soaking with water, the fridge cleared of food and the food in the freezer had clear footprints on it.
Mum had to ask the neighbours for an airbed and borrowed a tin of beans.
Only one person had the key and could have achieved this before Mum arrived, a matter of less than 24 hours from his death. That person also tried to claim they were the only living relative in order to claim the money, which is fraud. They did not receive the money but neither did anybody see the items from Grandad's house, war medals and the like.

I am quite pleased that ex-family member has nobody speaking with them.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:07, Reply)
Here be treasure...
My late Grandfather was a hell of a chap. He saw action in North Africa during WWII - so much action that he failed to return home when the war was over. He hung out in Morocco and Algiers for the best part of 3yrs, doing dodgy deals and some 'work' for the Algerian freedom fighters.

Eventually he returned to Blighty, married my Grandmother and started a family consisting of my dad and his elder sister, our Aunt Bev. His North African adventures became the stuff of legend, embellished more and more as the years progressed. But the central theme of his stories always concerned an Indiana Jones-like hunt for Nazi gold. Apparently Rommel and his army used to bribe local Berbers and other tribes with sovereigns of pure gold, in return for information on the movements of Monty and the boys.

My brother and I would listen transfixed as he described his return from Africa with a 'satchel full of gold', which later became a 'suitcase' as he got older and finally a Raiders of the Lost Ark style 'wooden crate' in his late eighties. He always maintained that the location of the golden treasure could never be revealed - as he would be tried for treason.

My father would tell us repeatedly that Grandpa was prone to wild flights of fancy and exaggeration. He told us there was no gold. He told us he'd had 'fifty years of this nonsense' and the only gold my Grandfather possessed was in the fillings of his teeth.

Aunt Bev was a different kettle of fish. She believed adamantly that somewhere there was a vast hoard of Nazi gold, just waiting for her to find and make her filthy rich. She badgered my poor Grandpa for the last few years of his life. 'Where is it? Tell me! I won't tell anyone. I promise!' But my Grandfather refused to budge. And the location of the gold died with him in 1990.

His last will and testament was pretty harsh. Most went to his ageing brother in Australia and pretty much nothing to my dad or Aunt Bev. We accepted it mourned and tried to move on. Not Aunt Bev though. She fought a bitter court case to try and retrieve as much money as she could. Alas, we fell out with her. And she was exceptionally rude to me and my brother. Calling us 'devils spawn' and such like.

Eventually the case was settled and my dad, my brother and I set about the unpleasant task of clearing Grandpa's flat. He'd had the same place since 1957 and had lived alone there for at least twenty years. There wasn't much to do. Rescue some photos, make boxes for the charity shop and generally throw everything else out. My Dad left us to walk into town, as he drove the car to the dump via Oxfam.

We were leaving the block when the caretaker called us back. 'Hey...aren't you going to do the lock-up?' We had no idea what he was on about. We ambled back to the flats and followed the caretaker round the back, past the proper garages and down a lane, where he showed us an ancient, garden-shed type thing secured by a rusting padlock.

'This one's your Grandfather's,' he said handing us a key, 'don't know why he bothered keeping the rent up on it, he's not been near it for forty years.'

I was fourteen. My brother not yet thirteen. We took the key and managed to get the door open. There was no light. There was no window. Luckily we were both try-hard smokers, so we fired up our Zippos and looked around. There were bundles of old carpets. Probably ancient Arabic antiquities - but when we tried to move one, it fell apart in our hands. The bodies of a million moths and insects turning into dust with the carpet.

But you know what's coming?

Sure enough, tucked away in an old desk, in the top drawer was a small leather pouch. About the size of the bag that comes in a Scrabble set. But instead of filled with plastic letters, it was filled with strange, almost as square shapes made of metal. We'd found the Nazi gold. There wasn't much. Definitely not a satchel and nowhere near a suitcase. But here was the gold. It was real. It existed. We were rich!

We pocketed our find, jumped on the bus and headed into town. There was a pawn-broker on the High Street. In we went, leather pouch filled with stolen, evil, Hitler-gold, in we went and the bloke behind the counter, 'How much mate?' He looked at us, thought for a split-second about the poor OAP he assumed we'd probably kicked half to death for it and said, 'Dunno, gotta test and weigh it.'

He did his thing. Weighed it. Tested it. Bit it. Poured some chemical on it. Saw straight through us. And then declared: 'I'll give you £500 for the lot.'


£500 at that age is like £5m at this age. We grabbed his filthy, cheating offer of dirty notes and fled to Dixons across the road, where we immediately purchased a SNES, extra controller, three games and had change enough for a 14" portable colour TV to play on. Fucking result.

Fuck you Aunt Bev!

But fuck us too. That bag was at least 50z - worth nearly £50,000 at today's prices and probably far, far more when you add the historical value.

But fuck you again Aunt Bev! No one I know has ever beaten me at Street Fighter II. And that's worth £50k of my money any day.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:04, 5 replies)
Mate of my brothers' Da
doesnt speak to his brother because he once sucked the head off his pint of Guinness.

They once had a brief rapprochement after something like 15 years.

They went down the pub to try to sort out their differences, clear the air and such.

So my brothers' mates' Da buys two pints of Guinness, lays them down on the table and says,

"I'm going to the jacks - that should have settled buy the time I get back"

And as quick as his back is turned, his brother picks up yer mans pint and sucks the head clean off it again then breaks his bollix laughing.

When yer man gets back from the jacks, all hell breaks loose and they havent spoken since.

(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:21, 9 replies)
Not a major argument...
...but my brother once hid my favourite marble up his foreskin for a couple of days for no real reason.

I was rather angry to say the least, and my marble smelt funny.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:12, 5 replies)
My Irish Grandfather
When I was in my early twenties I visited my mum, she made us both a cup of coffee, sat me down and said she had something she wanted to tell me. Something about her past. Something about her family. Up until then my mum’s side of the family was her brother, George, and her. And that was it. I was immediately interested but when I saw the etched look of concern on my mother’s face I realized this wasn’t going to be all sweetness and light. She wanted to tell me something. And it was important. And I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be very nice.

And that’s when my mum told me she’d been a product of rape.

This shook me to the core. I really wasn’t expecting this. My mum went on to explain that all her brother, my uncle, was also the product of rape. Apparently my grandfather, my mum’s dad, was an incredibly violent drunkard back in Waterford in Ireland where my mum originally hails from. He’d come home from the pub every night and rape my grandmother. And from that act of contempt and violence, my mum and all her siblings were born.

My mum went on to tell me that her great grandfather, a man mountain of a man (probably explains where my Uncle George got his monumental size from; he went on to do all that Britain’s Strongest Man stuff on the telly in the eighties), sat her down when she was about seven and said:

“If that man ever lays a finger on my daughter or any of my grandchildren, you come and find me. No matter what time. You come and find me.”

This conversation came about after my mum, aged seven, had told this brick shithouse of a man that she’d often see: “Dad beating up mum,” when he got back from his night’s out. My great grandfather, I imagine, suspected as much. But his daughter – my grandmother – always stuck up for her lay about husband, the man who raped her and stole all her money to spend on booze and gambling.

I sat, sipped my coffee and my mum continued, I could tell this was really hurting her. But she continued. I could tell she really needed to get this off her chest, once and for all. And that’s when she said:

“Then one terrible winter’s night my father came home drunk like always. I heard screams from downstairs. Horrible screams and clattering as he knocked my mum round the kitchen. I sneaked down, trembling, and caught sight of my mother’s bloody face as she cried and tried to protect herself against my father’s blows. He had a look of pure evil about him. Pure, pure evil. And so – only wearing my nightly – I tip-toed past the kitchen door, down the landing, opened the front door as quietly as I could, and I raced into the wind and rain in my bare feet.

“I knew where my grandfather would be. He’d always have a drink of an evening in the same place. So I went up to the door of this big old pub and walked inside. It was full of men and the smell of the smoke and stale alcohol was strange to me, but I found him – he was hard to miss, must’ve been seven feet tall and twenty-five stone of muscle, you’re great grandfather,” she stopped, took a sip of her drink. She then went on to describe how my great grandfather upon seeing her, rapped his coat round her and said simply: “Has it happened again, Kathleen?”

And with that he dropped my mother, soaked to the skin and cold, back off at his house first, then said grimly: “I’m going to go have a talk with your daddy,” and with that he went.

And my mum looked me straight in the eye and said: “And I never saw my father again after that night.”

My first thought was: Jesus, they killed him! But no. My mum went on to explain he received a severe kicking. The beating of his life. And he was advised to move away. Immediately. And he did and was never seen again. Rumor has it he went to the States. I suddenly had so many questions, but my mum stopped me:

“I received a letter today from someone in Dublin stating they knew the man. He died a month or so ago and they were letting me know.”

“Are you…” I really didn’t know what to say. I settled on: “upset?

My mum thought long and hard. “No,” she said. “That man hurt my mother for years. He was a terrible, terrible man. I don’t feel anything for him. I’m not sad. I’m not happy. I just feel nothing at all…”
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:11, 13 replies)
In my family...
... we have a big, leather-bound first edition of Totem and Taboo. It's become something of an heirloom, and it gets ferried around the country as various of my kith and kin borrow it from each other.

It doesn't really have an owner as such. More of a steward.

It's our... Oh. I thought the question said "Family Freuds".
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:11, 3 replies)
The tale of Pat
Pat was the wife of my Uncle G. He had 2 daughters (Who I will call V and R) with her and one messy divorce.

I had not really spoken to my Uncle for a few years due to an incident where Pat had stormed out of a family Christmas party accusing me and my brothers (I am the eldest and was aged 7 at the time) of wearing my Christmas cracker hat in a way that was mocking her and my Grandad (Who was asleep in a chair for most of the party) had spent the last 10 minutes making menacing gestures towards her.

Anywhoo after the divorce my Uncle G started to get back onto his feet and Pat started to become more crazy.

Pat decided to take a week away in Edinburgh for her 47th and invited her two daughters, as long as they paid their own way. V, the eldest of the two took the opportunity while R refused as the week was during her exams (A Levels). Pat wasn’t too chuffed at this but went ahead anyway.

Midway through the week of Pats 47th holiday, R is at home revising for tomorrows exam when there is a knock at the door, she opens it to see her mum stood on the front door. Pat then proceeds to kick the crap out of her daughter throw as many breakable items as she can at R all the time yelling at her for not coming up to see her on her 47th birthday. After any item that can be broken has been used on R (Who is now bleeding a hell of a lot) Pat then leaves, jumps into a taxi, back to the train station for a return trip to Edinburgh.

R managed to pass her exams, moved into a new place, refused to speak to her demented mother and still has a couple of nasty looking scars from the incident.

Pats next bit of violence was to be her last, she spotted my Uncle G and his new girlfriend in a pub one night and decided to attack the two.....by throwing one of the metal chairs at them through the glass window pain that was between them. As she was being held down by the bouncers Pat managed to blame the whole thing on my Uncle’s girlfriend, as she was wearing a blue dress and my Uncle G knew that the colour blue was one that Pat hated.

Made the local papers and everything.

If I get round to it I might do a reply about my own feud with my mother about the miners’ strike.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 15:09, 1 reply)
The bitch of a cousin
My cousin Mary was always undermining me at every opportunity. She was also a raging alcoholic so we nicknamed her Mary queen of scotch. I did take it a bit far and lied about a few thing to try and get her thrown in prison but I really had no choice after her deceit and hatred for me.
If that wasn't enough I found out she was attempting an assassination plot against me to take over England. So I had her beheaded. That'll learn her.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 14:57, 1 reply)
I fell out with my sister
because I'm the good looking one and our parent's favourite. Even now she's living in denial about it all and is prone to bursts of anger and outrage.

Stick around, I'm waiting for her to notice this
EDIT: yep, she's noticed
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 14:51, 8 replies)
Oh No! Orinoco!
I’d been having a running feud with my twin brother for as long as I can remember, it started at primary school when I accidentally threw his stupid chipmunk teddy on the school roof to which he retaliated by butchering my awesome womble with a carving knife when we got home.

Things carried on tit for tat for years after that.

He bloodied my nose with a control pad after I’d beaten him again at NHL 93 on the MegaDrive so I waited till he did his normal thing of jumping off the garage roof to impress his mates and then strung the washing line across the garden, as he climbed up round the back, so that he tripped over it in mid-air, did a 180 degrees pirouette by his ankle on the line and face planted in the big pot of alpine trees.

Fights broke out on a semi-regular basis. Even though I’m a fair bit smaller (the Danny DeVito Twin if you will) I’d normally win as he’d always had a really weak spot on his stomach. One well aimed punch and it was another victory for me.
Years later it turned out he’d got a cyst the size of a rugby ball there which they had to chop out.

Seeing him after the operation in hospital, instead of feeling guilty about this, I mocked him for his surgical stockings and laughed when he’d pass out mid-sentence when the next lot of morphine was administered.

Shortly after he got released from hospital I had the humility and good graces to bestow the olive branch and end the feud.

And not because he was now without his Achilles Heel and still a whole lot bigger than me you understand.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 14:37, 5 replies)
I convinced
Ray Combs' to hang himself. I mean, he did fail, right?
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 14:34, Reply)
I don't really understand the concept of a 'family feud'
I just call it 'family'.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 14:32, 1 reply)
My Grandfather
I was a teenager when I found out that my grandfather had 3 brothers. Not so unusual you may think, until you find out that all 3 lived in the same small village and one of them was his next-door neighbour. Apparently my grandfather had fallen out with them over an inheritance and never spoke to any of them again for the last 30 years of his life. He only died a couple of years ago, and all 3 brothers attended his funeral. None seemed happy, none gloated. The one who lived next door died a few months later, another plunged head first into Alzheimer’s and is now bed-bound and the last brother wants to re-establish ties with me and my family.

What has all of this taught me? I’ve learnt that time is precious, and if you are involved in some silly feud, fuck them over now while you’ve still got the chance.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 14:22, Reply)
Oh I have so many.
Story number one: Where it probably all began.

My sister was about sixteen when she fell in love with her now husband, this was 26 years ago. She was a bit of a tomboy and he was a biker boy and they were both a bit rebelious but not in a dangerous sorta way, just spikey hair and the sort. Mom had also found a new love after having divorced my father shortly after moving to SA and she was out on the town all the time with old Ex step dad. Mom's attitude was that Big sister had to take care of me, tiny 3 year old runt and two other older sisters and make us the usual macaroni cheese for dinner. Mom was spending all her money on new shoes to impress ex step dad at the time so thats all we ever ate. Big sister lost the plot one night when mom decided she and ex step dad were going out yet again for a night on the town. Big sister gotta nice flat handed slap across the cheek from mom and big sister promptly lost the plot, grabbed mom by the hair and dragged her around the lounge whilst punching her in the face. I stood there watching all this and all I can remember saying is, 'No, its mom, you cant hurt mom, its mom!' Needless to say, Joanne escaped the house forever and started her own life with step bro, she got out before it all really hit the fan.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 14:20, 1 reply)
Prunes and the Aunty from Hell
My sister and I used to get sent up to Scotland regularly to stay with my Aunty and, at the age of five when my Dad started dying of cancer, the visits got longer and longer. At the time, the only food I really couldn't stomach was prunes and even though she knew I hated them she provided them at the end of a meal at least once a week.

Well, one day she invited her friend round for dinner and tried to impress her with her culinary skills including (you've guessed it) prunes for dessert. Gagging on every mouthful, I begged to be excused but all I got was fierce shouts of 'Eat them up!'

The inevitable happened and as I swallowed the last one the entire bowlful rose in my throat and I vomited them spectacularly (and accurately) back into the bowl. And yes folks, she instructed me to eat them again!!!

I was only saved from this ordeal by my older sister sticking up for me and saving me from purgatory.
Well, the old dear is dead now and I still don't like prunes.
(, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 14:17, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

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