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This is a question Family Holidays

Back in the 80s when my Dad got made redundant (hello Dad!), he spent all the redundancy money on one of those big motor caravans.

Us kids loved it, apart from when my sister threw up on my sleeping bag, but looking back I'm not so sure my mum did. There was a certain tension every time the big van was even mentioned, let alone driven around France for weeks on end with her still having to cook and do all the washing.

What went wrong, what went right, and how did you survive the shame of having your family with you as a teenager?

(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 14:33)
Pages: Popular, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Spanish fun
A few years ago we borrowed a house from a family friend in Spain and went there for a weeks R&R...6 hrs after landing, after a good meal, my father was rushed to hospital with a heartrate of 260+, after he nearly died on the porch...the rest of the time was spent either drinking lots (of excellent spanish beer) to pass the time/take the mind of things or in taxis to and from the hospital, and at said hospital...The 'rents ended up spending an extra week there before we could get safe transport home for him, while me and my brother spent a week back in Denmark alone.

Fun times.
(, Wed 8 Aug 2007, 5:53, Reply)
Art in the loos
Last one, I promise. Camped the family at Hendra near Newquay once. A busy site. Couldn't understand what went on after dark because nearly every morning the site residents were greeted with shit artwork smeared all over the loo cubicle walls. The surprising thing was the sheer quantity because if memory serves me rightly there were at least 10 cubicles and each one had a healthy quantity pasted all over the walls.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:59, Reply)
Bodily fluids
My youngest has a thing about bodily fluids when we camp. First time we took her camping was when she was ~4 or so. She flood us out by wetting herself. This year she had a different trick of getting in to her sleeping bag and then announcing that she was going to be sick. Getting out of a sleeping bag should be an olympic sport. She was sick only once but we were already prepared with a bowl with us. Still hated the thought that she might stink out our only bedding with her tummy chunks.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:53, Reply)
Flashing at the mother in law
This year, camping again, this time in Cornwall with the family (wife, kids, brother-in-law, and parents-in-law). Been down at the beach on the only day at the end of July that gave us any decent weather. Still got the swimming shorts on, can't be bothered to go up to the loos to change and don't won't to change in the tent and dump a load of sand on my sleeping bag. Everyone else was supposedly around the front of the parent-in-laws caravan so I decided to go around the back, drop me trolleys, root around with the towel and put me kacks back on. Just dropped the shorts when the mother-in-law walks around the caravan the otherway. No doubts about what she saw.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:47, Reply)
I was staying in a nice hotel in Paris and they had one of those grand pianos in the bar that automatically play along.
Mom thought this was great as she had never seen one before and asked the guy in the bar all about it.
The next night we are relaxing in the bar after a busy day sightseeing in Paris. Mom steps up to the piano and as a joke decides to pretend that she is playing the piano for a few moments not minding that she has never had a lesson in her life she lets the piano automatically play along as she made the movements.
All was going well for mom until she soon drew a rather large crowd.
Oh crap she thinks, I can't leave the piano now everyone will know I'm a fake and I'll look a right idiot.
So she carries on fake playing and making the Stevie Wonder type moves right to the end of the song.
She got a round of applause and a free drink from the bar.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:46, Reply)
Toll booths
Drove to Freiburg in Germany a couple of years back for a family camping holiday. On arriving at a French motorway toll booth we queued up to pay and drive on. As we sat there in our gas guzzling Ford Galaxy with roof box (making us a 2.3m high motorized brick) we spotted a toll booth with no queue. Never liking to hang around I was just about to leave our queue and head for the idle toll booth.

It was then that a German plated Audi with roof mounted bicycles confidentally pulled up at said booth. It was this point we realised why the booth queue was clear, it had a very low height restriction, just high enough for a regular heighted car. The bikes hit the cross beam and were dragged off the back of the car on to the road. Ooops.

It didn't end there, the wifey in the car proceeded to get out and recover the wrecks while hubby paid the toll. The barrier lifted and hubby drove on and wifey followed wheeling what should could behind him. Except that the barrier came down and smacked her squarely on the head causing her to fall to the ground. Instead of anyone in our queue going to help her we all just sat there grimacing.

I bet that holiday was going well!
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:40, Reply)
I was there with my boyfriend, whom my ex-husband does not approve of, and my ex-father in law hated, called him the "Son of the thieving Arab" amongst other things. Was not a happy time in West London.

Anyway, we left our hotel (The Ritz - very grand it was) through some huge crowds,who were saying, "Die, Anna!" (I assumed they meant Nicole-Smith) and I thought it would be a brilliant night, as the driver was absolutely sober and nothing was wrong and I was pregnant with my bf's baby.

As we travelled through a tunnel, a white Fiat Uno pulled alongside, there was a blinding flash of red light, while Judy Dench and the ex-father-in-law jumped on the car and throttled the driver, and we crashed into the pillars in the middle of the tunnel.

Ah well I thought, I wasn't that great, people will be thinking of something else in a couple of months. Only morons will be thinking of me in 10 years.

Her Royal Blondeness,
Diana, Queen of the Daily Express.

(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:32, Reply)
That was a shit holiday.

My dad ended up popping three tires on the (hired) car, so we had to go to a cafe in the middle of fucking nowhere and try and find a staff member who could speak English so we could use their phone.

The only thing you could get for breakfast were 'English breakfasts'. Not real ones, they were what foreigners, who had never actually visited England, assumed were 'English breakfasts'.

Sunburn. I don't need to explain that, do I?

The only place you could get a burger was *shudders* McDonalds...

Aside from bus trips and piss-poor shopping centres, there's fuck all else on the island.

No matter how fun your parents say it'll be, don't go there, it's fucking shit.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:23, Reply)
This is a long one, you've been warned.

All in all, a good experience, and we raised a fair amount for meningitis research :)
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:12, Reply)
Not my family, but a family we know.
Tony and Christine are some couple- he's a borderline alcoholic German teacher, she's an angry, six foot tall music teacher. Lovely people, but very strong personalities that are prone to clashing.

They engage annually in a scheme which allows them to 'house-swap'. They end up in some lovely part of western Europe, and the other suckers take on their (admittedly lovely) house in our dodgy little home town.

One year, they really lucked out. The family they'd arranged to swap with had a picturesque thatched-roof cottage in Bavaria. The location and house were beautiful- so beautiful that Tony had insisted on driving non-stop all the way there.

On their arrival, Christine was understandably tired. She lit the open coal fire and sat down with a bottle of wine.

Tony, on the other hand, felt quite energetic. He had the school video camera and was making a video to show his students.

He panned around the garden, naming the flowers and the trees; describing his two children as they played. He panned around to the house, and the beautifully made thatched roof. Which was now on fire.

Explain that one to some irritated Bavarians.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:09, Reply)
We went on a camping holiday to Dorset.
First of all, the only thing we remembered to bring with us were the extendy mirrors for the car.

Then we had a crap tow car driven by the slowest man ever, who damaged the caravan knocking it into a bollard.

Then the dog threw up.

Then when we got to the campsite it took hours to get the caravan into the parking bay.

Then my friend got kidnapped by a scary old lady who enjoyed filling the chemical toilet. And the dog went with them.

Then we went to the pub and it was scary.

Then my bunkmates had to share a bed. They are both male. I brought my gun along.

Then we realised how close to the railway line we were and were kept awake by the trains.

Then the corner shop was crap so we had Spam for breakfast.

I decided to cook chips for lunch, and in doing so demolished the cooker, the caravan, a cushion and next door's awning.

It was not a good trip.


J. Clarkson.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:03, Reply)
Hop Picking
and hunkering down in the air-raid shelter.

Great holidays

...all this was green when I was a lad.....
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 21:58, Reply)
My worst holiday was when we went to Portugal. It was murder, but I should look on the bright side, as I popped my cherry there.

Madeleine McCann
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 21:40, Reply)
Caravanning woe
We always went on camping holidays when I was a kid. Usually somewhere wet, like Wales or the Lake District or anywhere else in Great Britan in the summer. After one too many 'holidays' with only a tent to shelter us from the monsoon raging outside and having to swim to the shower block, my folks decided to upgrade to a caravan.... Unfortunately, they insisted on towing with a succession of woefully underpowered cars, culminating in our final caravanning holiday when the 'Tard family heap conked out halfway up a very steep hill somewhere in Wales.

Imagine the situation, if you will; a narrow mountain road, a precipice falling away to unseen depths on our left and a mighty wall of rock to our right, the four 'Tards (not a bad name for a band, actually) and our vehicle, stranded, and a queue of impatient and angry traffic starting to form behind.

After a bit of a rant and a swear, Dad had a bright idea; he would unhook the caravan and single-handedly manoeuvre it into the convenient layby a few yards back down the hill. However, he had obviously underestimated the power of gravity in Wales, because when the brake on the caravan was released it promptly took off down the hill faster than a tour de France winner being chased by a drugs tester, with poor old Dad a helpless hanger-on! Fortunately, he managed to slam on the brake mere metres from the edge of the cliff, before the caravan (and he) disappeared over the edge.

In the end he turned the caravan around, towed it back down the hill, found another way to the campsite and discovered it was on the top of yet another hill that the car didn't have a hope of climbing.

Many, many hours later we found somewhere to stay and, in total, it took over 11 hours to travel from our home in the Midlands to a grotty campsite somewhere in Wales. You can fly from London to LA in 11 hours ffs!!

Thankfully, after that, they gave up, sold the caravan (and the car!) and started going abroad.

Length? Hmmm.... About 15 years worth of holidays times 3 weeks a pop equals 45 weeks of misery under canvas. Correcting for rain-induced time dilation equals about 1000 years!
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 21:12, Reply)
Caravan Tales Part II
The Lake District 1979. My older brother tolerates my staying up late with him to watch, on the B&W telly, the B&W movie ‘Night of the Demon’. This is still just about my favourite horror film, mainly because you don’t actually see much of the demon, it’s all suspense and suggestion. My younger self though, was terrified, especially at the thought of something lurking…between the caravan and the toilet block. That’s right, no loo in the caravan.

I was too scared to own up to needing to visit the toilet block. Even when promised use of a torch. Frankly, you could have put a fucking tommy gun in my hand and not got me out there. God knows it wasn’t anything as mundane as peados and wierdos I was worried about (the kids back then on the caravan park were gargoyles, all scabs and snot – you’d have to be a sicko indeed to go after one), it was a sixty foot fucking fire demon. But my bladder kept me awake, giving me more time to get wound up, until I hit on a cunning solution.

What I learned was this – peeing into a plastic basin in the dead of night in a tiny bedroom in a silent caravan sounds like a fucking roll on a snare drum at the Last Night of the Proms. It almost drowned the noise of my brother laughing in the next room.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 20:58, Reply)
Caravan Tales Part I
Devon, 1975. Sun, sea, sand, buckets and spades. I spend the days investigating rock pools and the nights caked in camomile lotion, gently radiating the same amount of heat as a three bar electric fire. I can’t recall if it was a rare dull day or a family excursion for the hell of it, but we went to Torquay cinema to see…Jaws.

Now I’m not sure if this actually counts as abuse, but taking a kid not yet out of short trousers to see that film while on a seaside holiday had a pretty profound effect. The benefit of not being out of shorts was that it was a lot quicker to soak them with your own piss in fear at the thought of ever going near the surf again. After a day of scanning even the rock pools for fins, my parents showed a masterly understanding of psychology and bought me a rubber shark of my very own. Some might say it was the ability to show control of the totem of the thing I feared that got me swimming again, I say it was so I could re-enact the scene where Robert Shaw gets eaten with my new shark and old Action Man.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 20:57, Reply)
Just remembered some school ones
During year 6 in 2004-2005 we went on two long trips, one to France and one to Kinswood, an adventure type place. The Kingswood one was about three days long not counting the bus ride back where apparently one of the boys was caught wanking and another, now at my secondary school streaked (I would remind him of this but he's a psyco) and during archery one of the arrows somehow managed to hit the instructor, I'm not sure if they still let that school visit. The French one was rather dull, the food was schmit and I discovered Calais smells of fish and poo and we almost fell off the rollercoaster at a themepark named "Baggatelle" it didn't help that those left behind got to go to Cadbury's world
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 20:19, Reply)
Y Viva Espana
My family only ever went to Magalluf, Majorca. Not much use to me going to an island for binge drinkers aged just six, but I did get a suntan.

One night we went to a more kid-friendly bar. Alongside the drinking area, there was a creche of sorts, where the kiddies are locked in a corner of the bar and entertained by a clown and his monkey cohort. Poor sods, having to amuse tired and grumpy little brats while mummy gets drunk enough to forget the little accidents even exist.

After a boring first night of the monkey just sitting on a barstool and the clown being a guy in a suit with no discernible clown-talent, I wanted to really have some fun on night #2.

My idea of fun was to grab a balloon and repeatedly clump the monkey over the head with it when the clown wasn't looking. The monkey had the patience of a saint but I do recall the clown having to quickly find my mother because the monkey was beginning to go a bit eyetwitchy at me and he didn't understand why.

Strangely enough, we never went to that bar again. We instead went into a bar with an ominously slick floor where my mother broke her ankle "dancing like a kangaroo in high heels".

We didn't go to Magalluf again.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 19:36, Reply)
Pus Puddle
I had a mother of a boil on my bum which burst ten minutes into a four hour car journey to Swanage.

My dad refused to stop en-route so I had to sit in my pus-soaked slacks for the whole ride.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 19:19, Reply)
N00b female teen that's been on far too many dull hols
Every year its pretty much a tradition for my family to go to Ireland and Cornwall in the summer, Ireland for my Mum and Cornwall for my Dad. When we go to Cornwall its always jolly good fun even if I spend most of the afternoon watching TV in a cottage in the same village. Ireland is another matter entirely as me, my Mum, my little brother and my dog stay in the tiny cottage we iherited from my Gran on the Northern Irish west coast not dissimilar to the caravan on Father Ted where there is nothing to do and it always rains, last August we were there for three whole weeks of me going borderline insane although when we went in February of this year we caught two heffers (in the bovine sense) humping...charming.
In May/June this year my entire English half of the family went to Tunisia where I bought a bong and was chatted up by a local bloke before blowing 45 dinar on some henna tattoos and embarrassing myself at karaoke performing "I don't like Mondays". I've been on many other foreign holidays to Australia, New Zealand, Singapore, LA, Hong Kong etc. but I also remember going to Malta in 2005 because it was so boring.
Finally I've been camping twice in 2002 and 2003 both with the English half of my family in 2002 my smelly not-yet-toilet-trained three year old brother was violently ill, we later found out he had travel sickness. In 2003 we went to a Haven in Weymouth or somewhere and my Dad discovered I'm a dab hand at arcade games where I made him a small fortune in 2Ps. I never saw a penny, bastard
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 17:49, Reply)
You don't need parents to be embarrased.
Quite the care-free cosmo young European travellers we were, on our second trip to Amsterdam in as many years for a veritable spliff-fest of legendary proportions. I'd had enough of the skankweed and soapbar cack at home so we put some pennies together and planned on 4 days of Dutch culture and 4 nights of Grade-A dutch weed and hopefully some sex (if we weren't too caned).

Going through Heathrow customs, her large designer handbag only goes and sets of the bloody explosive detector machine dunnit? As the chirpy cockney-sparrah begins to empty armfuls of shite out of her poppins-esque bag he forms a toothy grin on his weasel-like face.
"There could be some 'fruity' explosions in here!" was his overtly loud and frankly rather poor attempt at sarcasm. He then, slowly, teasingly (this time-lag could have been my imagination though) extracted a box of fruit flavoured condoms and proceeded to waggle them back and forth grinning as if he'd found a butt plug and a gimp mask.

Suffice to say my (now) wife was completely mortified and failed to see the funny side until we'd partaken of several phat ones in our favourite Amsterdam smokery. For the record, we don't use condoms anyway. Her embarrassment was due to the fact that her ridiculously childish fiancee had bought them while hammered from the vending machine in the local the previous night and with comedy genius equalling the oh-so-funny customs guard had hilariously blown a couple up and stuck them under windscreen wipers in the car park. Mrs Greencloud had promptly confiscated them and secreted them in her handbag, thus providing travel humor the following day.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 15:30, Reply)
just reminded me of a postcard i got from my friends jess and olivia when they were backpacking around greece. on olivia's bit, she'd just put:

low point of trip: getting pissed on by a tomcat whilst waiting for a ferry

high point of trip: getting a shower after getting off the ferry

made me laugh anyway.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 15:26, Reply)
Coincidentally enough
I just had this conversation with my friend on MSN.

White Mike says:
ask me wot the highlight of my holiday was
White Mike says:
Matt says:
What was the highlight of your holiday, Michael?
White Mike says:
well its a toss up between the airport losing all my clothes and getting stung by a jelly fish

Sounds fantastic.

Length? A week of naked, stinging hell apparently.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 15:20, Reply)
my holiday at the scat fetish camp was frankly a waste of time
Despite eating nothing on the journey there but out-of-date egg sandwiches from service stations, I was mortified to find that I totally failed to get diarrhea.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 14:35, Reply)
More on the subject than the last post.......
In the process of splitting up from the psycho beast from hell when the due date for our 4 day break in the Amsterdam came round.

All in all we had a very good time, lots of drugs (too many mushrooms and could only sit on the balcony drinking lager watching the junction below thinkning that an accident was goign to happen every 3 seconds) - visited the sex shops and shows and screwed each other senseless in a variety of new and frankly unnatural ways, but i digress.

The problem came when I tried to get some money out of a cashpoint, which then promptly swallowed my card and wouldn't give it back (I know I had a fair bit of my wages left!) So back to the hotel room to spark up a J crack open a beer and get on the phone to the Woolwich. Who fucked me around for approx 8 hours before transferring £500 of euros to a Western Union place ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE DAM at approx 8:30 pm. The arguements with the ex over having no cash were to be honest pretty brutal but the raw fear of having to spend 2 whole days with no cash meant that I had to scrub really hard at the cak stains in my pants.

Maybe you had to be there.

She was (and still is) a facking nightmare and I'm glad I'm away from her, even though she still owes me plenty of beer tokens from our European Adventure.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 14:07, Reply)
Family holidays? I remember going to Sandy Bay in Exmouth or Weymouth (one or the other) in my youth and in addition to my sister and my folks, we also took my Nan and great Aunt.

Nat and great Aunt were both in their late 70s and were of a 'Bingo' persuasion.

They spent the entire week - and I mean every waking minute in either an amusement arcade or a 'proper' bingo-hall.

Prize bingo, for those of you who don't know, is exactly the same as normal bingo - but without the glitz and the cash prizes. Effectively, they'd be playing bingo hoping to win paper tokens, these tokens could then be exchanged for a selection of tat from the amusement arcade kiosk.

Over the week that they played, they came back with (and I've phoned my mum to see if she can remember anything else) in exchange for their tokens…… 4 china figurines, a set of 6 plastic tumblers, more biros than they'd ever need, a small brass-effect clown, an ornamental dog and a Ewbank carpet sweeper.

The problem? Simple really, we'd ALL travelled in my old mans Renault 14 - Dad driving, Nan in the front, me, my mother and my great Aunt in the back and my sister on my mums lap.

If don't know if you are familiar with the Renault 14, but it doesn't boast a tardis like boot. In fact, the boot was full to the brim with clothing for 4 adults, a child and a baby, so there was nowhere whatsoever for any of the tat they'd won.

You'd like to think that they'd see the funny side of it, say, 'oh, but it was good fun playing, never mind' but no, they'd worked out that what they'd won, if they'd have bought it from Argos it would have cost a fraction of what they shelled out playing bingo, so they were determined to get their stuff home.

Solution? The pair of them argued with my Dad (it was his fault he didn't have a bigger car) until he agreed to drive from Sandy Bay, back to Bristol and then back to Sandy Bay the following day to pick up all of their tat.

Sadly, both old people are dead now, but it's a story that still gets discussed (when there is nothing on the telly, granted) to this day. I have no idea if any of the prize-bingo rubbish was left to anyone in the wills, but I'm sure, if it was, it would have fallen to my old man to deliver it.

I played bingo the other day, on the pier in Weston Super Mare. I got a bollocking off the bingo caller, I didn't realise a line had to be horizontal, so my shout of 'bingo, I've got a line' for the 3 or 4 vertical numbers on my card was met with distain and bemusement.


Still, I had the last laugh, I followed one of the miserys around for a bit, watcher her drop her pension into one of those fruit machines that have 0X0 as the only win lines and won it all back. Blue rinsed fool that she is.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 13:59, Reply)
Why I don't holiday in France any more
Between the ages of 13 and 15, more years ago than I care to remember (well OK, the late '80's), my family went on holiday to Eurocamp campsites three years in a row. The first two holidays were pretty bad but the third did the damage required in order to finally prompt my parents long-overdue divorce.

Firstly, my father (who is fortunately a lot better these days) was a total lunatic and insisted on driving all the way from northwest England to halfway down western France, via a ferry. For the third year he had bought a smaller car than previously, meaning I was stuck in the back, in a smaller space than ever before, with my brother and sister doing their best impressions of satan's children. Bear in mind my brother and I were each 6 feet tall even at the ages of 15 and 14, this was less fun than eating pavement while hippopotami jump on the back of your head.

We set off at 5 in the morning to catch a ferry from Dover at 5 the following morning. By the time we got to the town right next to ours my mother had developed cystitis, necessitating a 4 hour delay while we drove round Manchester looking for the duty chemist at 5:30am on a Saturday. Due to the ridiculous amount of time my father had insisted on allowing to ensure we made the ferry, we still got to the terminal 12 hours early. Obviously, to us anyway, there wasn't a hotel booked, so we all had to sleep in the car. Personally I wanted to sleep on the tarmac next to the car but was denied as I would obviously have been mugged, stolen or touched up. Still, I had no choice but to sleep with the windows down and my feet out of them - quite how this protected me from the aforementioned fates I am still to comprehend.

Then halfway through France on the way to the campsite I developed food poisoning from the eggs I had eaten on the ferry and spent the first week shitting water and deliriously lying on a campbed in the shade while a series of hallucinatory demons attempted to take my sanity. All the while my mother was pissing blood, my father was losing it about once every thirty minutes and my sister was bored shitless and sulking for Britain. My brother, meanwhile, was off having a great time discovering the joys of amphetamines courtesy of a Swiss boy he'd befriended. The cnut. Oh, and the French doctor we had been forced to seek assistance from, who was supposed to speak English didn't. Nor did he appear to speak French as my mother, who speaks perfectly good French and was understood by everyone else couldn't make him understand her. Nor did he admit to knowing what we meant by diarhoeaa despite an increasingly graphic series of mimes and the fact that the French word is something like "diarhee" which I managed finally to recall. Thanks for that, you fucking French numpty, and also for charging us about £100 for seeing us and prescribing us medicines which didn't actually work - the better part of our remaining spending money according to the massive rage paying it out induced in Papa.

Though I was better before we went I managed to get pissed up and spill beer all over my bed which prompted not only my fathers rage, but became an incident I've never been allowed to forget, despite the fact it's not actually embarrasing - let's face it, I didn't piss the bed or anything. Plus, I was awoken by the unmistakeable sound of my parents at "it" through a cloth wall. Lovely.

Despite all this, I think the moment the divorce became inevitable was when we got home, and before we had even unpacked my father was trying to book for next year. Unsurprisingly, that was the last family holiday we took.

One other story for you now - I went to Brazil this year with some friends, it was totally awesome except for one experience. I had to get an overnight coach from Rio to Sao Paulo, and the bus was so full we couldn't all sit together. I was therefore condemned to sit between the window and a fat middle-aged woman dressed in white. She sat down, reclined her seat, immediately went to sleep and immediately after that let go one of the most skull-fucking stenches I've ever experienced. Not only did it make me bleed from my eyes and ears, it had a half-life of the entire journey and accordingly assaulted me for the next twelve hours. I still remember the moment at journey's end when she got up, treating me to a view of the distinctive brown spot the aforementioned guff had left on her white trousers...

Length? You should see my c0ck...
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 13:59, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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