University Challenge
Ok, this QOTW was made for me, and if this doesn't make the top of the front page I will CRY.

Way back in...2003 I think it was, I was a music student, practising scales and Piatti Caprices for several hours a day, bored out of my nut. One of the few things that made life worth living was the weekly ritual of sitting down with a cup of tea to watch University Challenge.

I've been watching University Challenge since the beginning of its Paxman-era comeback - when I was living at home, my parents used to watch it with calculators, adding up their scores. They were hugely competitive about it. In fact, the only screaming argument I've ever had with my mother happened when she deliberately talked over a question she knew I would otherwise have been able to answer correctly. Anyway, other than that, the main thing that I enjoyed and still enjoy about University Challenge was the totty. Other girls might get their kicks out of movie stars, sportsmen or beefcake centerfolds; I like geeks. For me, University Challenge is, honest to God, the ultimate repository of gorgeous men in the media. You can keep your Brad Pitts and your Tom Cruises - watching a bespectacled nerd answer obscure questions about 12th century monarchs gets me so hot.

This series, one particular gorgeous sexy geek caught my perverted eye. He had a big grin, a beautiful neck and a really nice lower back. And yes, I could tell that he had a nice lower back, even though I only saw him from the front - it was something about the way he leaned forward intently whilst discussing answers with his team. I was smitten. Thoughts of performing complex integration by parts with him dominated many a happy Monday night. As the tournament progressed, the programmes on which he was featured in all his nerdy glory became more frequent. Lustful thoughts about him began creeping into my everyday consciousness. By God, he was sexy. When his team - which, of course, I had been fervently supporting owing to their totty factor - eventually won the tournament, a thought occurred to me: Geeks don't often get told that they're sexy. Perhaps nobody has told him just how goddamn gorgeous he is. Perhaps he'd like to know. And this is why I sent him the following lovingly-handwritten letter:

Dear University Challenge Hottie,

I have been watching University Challenge for many years. I don't have an affiliation with any particular university, so as for supporting teams, I always simply root for the one with the the greatest number of attractive males. Throughout the last series, I have been consistently supporting your team because you are by far the yummiest specimen of gorgeousness ever to have appeared on the programme. I'd like to rip your underpants off with my teeth whilst you talk dirty to me in Ancient Greek.

I'm buggered if I'm telling you who I am - my propensity for embarrassing myself doesn't extend quite that far - but I just thought you might like to know that some random stranger has been wetting her knickers over you for the last few months. Thank you very much for making several of my Monday evenings much more entertaining.

Yours lustfully,
The Proverbial Secret Admirer

A few years later, I was toiling selling advertising space in a classical music magazine (a significant step up the sanity ladder). Bored in the office one day, trawling through the news websites, as you do, I found something that almost made me spit coffee on my monitor. He had actually quoted me in The Times:

If the cameras inspire vanity, the viewers' reaction tries to corrupt even your humblest of thoughts. One of my letters actually contained the phrase: "You are by far the yummiest specimen of gorgeousness ever to have appeared on the programme." I assure you, this is not true, even with my post-trendy Hoxton fin.

Have any other b3tans had their creepy fan mail quoted in a national broadsheet? I think not. You may click now.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 22:52, 18 replies)

You've got red on you
Shaun of the Dead (or SotD, acronym fans), what a fucking marvellous film.

I certainly thought so when it was released in the UK. I'd already watched it several times thanks to a dodgy hand-held camera copy I'd downloaded, and then I went to see it thrice at the cinema with different groups of friends. It's one of the few films I can still watch again and again without getting bored. Simon Pegg and Nick Frost already occupied a special place in my brain thanks to the superlative TV show ‘Spaced’ and I'd met Pegg briefly a couple of times previously at media events, thanks to some well-connected friends. Not quite stalker material yet, but I would have cheerfully gay-married either of them after SotD.

I was living in London when the DVD was released and the Virgin Records shop at Piccadilly Circus was carrying a limited-edition version with a fancy sleeve. I had to have it, but to complicate matters some of the cast would be signing copies in store. There was a good chance I wouldn't be able to get one as I was working late that evening and the demand was sure to be high.

Determination won me over in the end, so I snuck out of work early and made my way to Piccadilly Circus. The DVD signings were going on until 7:30pm; I arrived just after 5pm... to be greeted by a HUMONGOUS queue. It snaked its way around every aisle on the ground floor of the shop, out of the door and round the corner onto Piccadilly itself. I was gutted, there was no way there would be any left at this rate.

I joined the back of the line anyway, cursing my luck. As time dragged on, we moved slowly towards the store. It was a very warm evening and once inside the store itself, the sheer quantity of people made it nauseatingly hot. A few wilting fans ahead of me decided they couldn't be bothered with the ordeal and abandoned their places. It was thanks to them that I managed to snag one of the last remaining special-edition DVDs. I overheard jealous grumbling from a couple standing a few places behind me who had to make do with the standard version.

Clutching my precious DVD, I allowed myself to eavesdrop on the signing desk. It consisted of Nick Frost, Edgar Wright (the co-writer and director), Lucy Davis and Simon Pegg. I noticed that, almost without exception, every signee was asking for the same "To XXXXX, best wishes..." platitudes. The boredom etched onto each of the stars’ faces was plain to see. I resolved to give them something entertaining to write on my copy.

To keep us amused while we waited, there were several 'zombies' shambling around the store, many of whom I recognised as extras from the movie itself. They refused to break character, playing along with the crowd. It was a nice touch, and it sparked my brain into coming up with the perfect message for my DVD. I started wobbling with gleeful anticipation at my cleverness.

The clock ticked over the 7:30 mark and only a few stragglers remained behind me in the store, the doors now closed. As I approached the signing table, Pegg clocked me and gave me a nod of recognition. This almost made me wee with excitement, he actually remembered me!

Nick Frost was first. His hair was much longer than in the film and he was wearing glasses, looking rather sophisticated compared to the slob he plays. He spoke eloquently and seemed humbled to see so many fans turn up. I introduced myself, shook him firmly by the hand and had a little chat about his day. He admitted to being a bit jaded from the monotony of the signings. I said “could you write something from the film for me on the back?”. He laughed; the others looked round and smiled. “Makes a pleasant change, nice idea”, agreed Frost.

I told him quietly what I wanted him to write, but to my horror he looked shocked. He peered up over his glasses and told me “everyone thinks I’m a sweary pikey, thanks to SotD, but I hate swearing!" Bugger, I’d upset him. He started writing my message anyway, but he was glowing with embarrassment. Realising I suddenly had a perfect opportunity, I spluttered out “Nick, you’ve got red on you”. The others turned to see Frost’s bright red face and laughed. Happily, he chuckled too. It was enough to break the ice and he finished writing the message:

“Can I sign… any of you CUNTS… a DVD?” --Nick Frost

I thanked him and moved on to Edgar Wright, of whom I knew almost nothing. Wright was the creative force of the film but he doesn’t play a part himself. He seemed unusually wired after reading Frost’s contribution and started scribbling before I even had a chance to ask:

“FUCK THE MAN!” --Edgar Wright

I couldn’t recall the line and looked blankly at him. He detected my confusion and excitedly reminded me “That’s my favourite line! It’s the bit where the Sky News anchor is warning about the danger and Shaun wants to leave the house and Ed says “…but the man said…” and Shaun goes “FUCK THE MAN!”." I nodded appreciatively, a little scared of how enthusiastic anybody could be about that particular line and moved on to Lucy Davis.

She read the other two messages, giggled but looked a little stumped. “I can’t remember any good lines from Diane” (her character) she muttered. “Just write whatever you want” I replied, smiling and probably winking a little bit too. She had a saucy demeanour that just brings it out in me:

(I remembered Lucy's message incorrectly so I've edited it, forgive me, it's been over two years since I last set eyes upon this DVD)

“[chart cat] Sexy x” --Lucy Davis

Pleased with that result, I moved on to the final member of the signing table, Mr Simon Pegg himself. He greeted me auspiciously with lots of eye contact. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” he enquired. I was surprised he’d remembered at all so I recapped our previous encounters. “I’ve got the perfect line from the film” he said, with a twinkle in his eye:

“[chart cat]… the next time I see you, you’re DEAD” --Simon Pegg

Mission accomplished, I thanked them all again and left the store skipping down the street.

…but not before asking Nick Frost to add the words “Cock it!” to the disc itself, which he did … reluctantly.

EDIT: Here it is... I guess my secret identity is now blown, too.


( chart cat has an itch, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 5:43, 14 replies)

My mum
before anyone laughs - I'll apologise now for lack of funnies because it's actually a fairly not funny, not stalkerish tale at all.

My dad was diagnosed with Laryngeal cancer when I was wee, only 5 years old. Over the next three years he went through countless operations and radiotherapy sessions, trying to get rid of it only to be told it had come back. Twice.

He's still alive and kicking and has been "Cancer free" for the last 9 years.

But throughout the time he was sick my mother kept me and my siblings together, making sandwiches for our lunch boxes, getting us to school on time, just being there and keeping us functioning when we needed her most. She hugged us when we were scared and my first memory of going to visit dad was horrifying... tubes coming out everywhere, beeping from the monitors, my dad lying there looking like death warmed up.
And she still hugged us and understood when we giggled the first time dad said "hello" - using what we affectionately christianed "Burp talk" (to this day I can probably burp talk better then most boys).

But yes. My mum is my biggest hero cos she kept us all sane and together and coping. She never once broke down in front of us kids even though I know she did cry behind the bedroom door at night. She was strong and brave and I'll be lucky if I become half the woman she is.

/end soppyness

No apologies for length but I have a feeling it was all a bit much for her to cope with sometimes..

EDIT: would like to add that I'm 17 now and the sacrifices she made (which I am not going into) are enough to make me cry like a baby now that I think on them properly. /wipes eyes.
(Poppet some assembly required., Thu 16 Apr 2009, 22:02, 10 replies)

USE THE FORCE
I was awestruck. Strange emotions raged through my puny eight year old body as I stood in line with my mum in Beaties in Northampton.

I clutched onto her hand tightly, feeling my stomach turn and flip. I was fucking excited! And I was also deeply, incredibly, absolutely scared shitless.

It's not everyday you meet this fella. I could see him only a few feet away signing some other kid's autograph book. He looked even bigger in real life, if that was at all possible.

My mum gripped my hand tighter, we shuffled forward in the queue, I became more and more scared and awed and quiet, and eventually it was our turn.

Without a word this mountain of a man reached down and took the photo out of my hand, signed it with a big black marker pen, and went to return it to me.

But I was confused.

This was odd.

I shouldn't have his autograph, I thought, he's the baddie! I've gotta do something about this weird situation. I just have to!

It was almost as if I heard on old camp British voice from another plane whisper: "Use the force, Spanky, use the force..."

So, in one sudden burst, I leapt forward and head butted this man hard.

Very hard.

So hard in fact that it made my ears ring and I went a bit wobbly.

And as I was an eight year old boy and he was a fucking giant of a man, I conveniently came up to his waist.

I ended up head butting him hard in the nuts.

He went down with a muffled groan, twatting his helmet on a shop display and sending small toy figures flying.

Then he said something very out of character, he said in a tiny muffled voice: "Jesus wept!"

Just as I was lining up the killer blow to the bonce with my Hi-Tecs, my mum pulled me away by the arm - she could tell I was about to put the boot in. She wasn't too pleased. As we were hurridly leaving I overheard the trailing shop manager tell her: "That's the third time it's happened today, don't worry about it, love."

Still remains one of my proudest achievements - the day I floored Darth Vader, Lord of the fucking Sith.

He's a bit of a pussy if you ever get to meet him in real life.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:50, 8 replies)

History Lesson
*Ahem* Apologies in advance for lack of funnies.

Serious as cancer, this one.

There was one person I came to see as worthy of adulation, and quite possibly a national holiday in his honour.

My dear old grandad on my mum's side - a mentalist Geordie who I remember used to sit in a chair and swear like a fucking trooper when we went round. My mum would ask him politely to stop and he'd say:

"What the fuck did you say, ehh???" He was pretty deaf. Though he wasn't very pretty. He was, to put it technically, physically fucked. For a start he was missing the thumb on his left hand. He also walked with a stick on account of his leg being shattered in an accident when he was younger.

He had to use a catheter to piss - apparently that part of his body had been on full malfunction alert since he was in his early twenties. Its amazing he ever had kids at all.

As a youngun I'd leg it round his house pretending to be a Spitfire, as you do - and one day I felt this arm grab hold of me. It was my dear old grandad, Alan.

"Stoppit, son," he said. "Won't have any of that nonsense in this house."

And I did stop it. Why? Because my old grandad scared the living crap out of me.

Then, when I was about thirteen or fourteen, he died. And I recall at the funeral wondering why the hell everyone was so unhappy; I mean, he was fucking OLD. And he was also physically FUCKED.

Then my uncle Matteo took me to one side when I started pissing about at the after-putting-the-body-in-the-ground do.

"You need to grow up, you little shit," whispered my uncle Matteo. He could see this wasn't really having the desired effect. "Have some respect for that man!"

And, being a shit of a teenager I shot back: "Why? - What's he ever done for me?"

Matteo sat me down and explained: "Do you know how your Grandad lost his thumb? Well, he was paracuted into Normandy in the war. His paracute got caught up in some branches in a tree and he was dangling helplessly twenty feet above the ground. The only way he could get free before someone killed him was if he cut himself free. So, your Grandad took his knife and slit himself out of the harness." Matteo stopped for effect, seeing he had my attention. He had. Completely. He continued: "It wasn't until later that evening after lots of fighting that your Grandad looked down at his hand and noticed he'd actually cut his own thumb off in his hurry to get free of the parachute. He was on so much adrenalin he just didn't feel the pain."

"I didn't know any of this..."

"Well, he didn't like to talk about it. And a few days later he was shot in the leg, shattered all his bones. That's why he spent most of his time in a chair. And he did all that so little shits like you can do what you want to do in life."

And with that my uncle Matteo stalked off.

And I was incredibly well behaved for the rest of the evening.

Fuck your musicians and actors and all that bollocks - people like my Grandad and others like him deserve our devotion and hero-worship.
( SpankyHanky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 14:51, 19 replies)

Alan Turing

Mathematician, cryptanalyst and the father of modern computing. He's probably responsible, more than any other single man, for the fact that we don't goose-step down Regent Street and gas our Jews. He cracked the Enigma Machine at Bletchley Park which let us read the Germans military communications and almost certainly won the war for us.

And how did a grateful nation reward him? Well read on.....

After the war he continued to work in pure research, always funded by the government, and churned out an impressive collection of acedemic papers. Life was good for him. And then, in 1952, disaster struck. What was, up until then, an open secret became public knowledge.

Alan Turing loved the cock.

He'd been robbed by a rent-boy and naively called the police to report the robbery. He explained to the officer what had happened - a rent boy had robbed him - and, to his complete astonishment, was arrested for being a player of the pink oboe.He might have been a genius but he had no common sense. What followed was just obscene.

He was tried and convicted of gross indecency and was given the choice of chemical castration or prison. He opted for the drugs. They also stripped him of his security clearance and banned him from any government funded research which meant that he couldn't work.

The drugs turned him from an athlete (he was a distance runner) into a fat, bloated wreck of a man. Eventually, in 1954, this gentle genius took his own life at the age of 42. Murdered for being gay.

What a fucking senseless waste of a life! Killed when he just entering the prime of life.

The British Government, like Stalin, seemed to believe that gratitude was a disease of dogs.....


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 7:59, 11 replies)

The Tube, Playing with the Kids, and Louis Theroux
On my way home on the tube yesterday I had a bizzare, fan-related encounter.

EUSTON

Sweating like a rapist I clamber onto the tube, find a seat - fuck me! - sit down. Start playing Risk on my phone.

MORNINGTON CRESCENT

A bloke gets on and sits opposite. I glance up at him and recognise him instantly. I perk up a bit. Its none other than uber-documentary maker, bumbling Brit abroad, Louis Theroux. Bit of a coincidence - I'd just watched his latest documentary on the i player the previous night. It was a great documentary, about a hospital for kiddy-fiddlers in California. So, being a gobby twat, I decided to show my appreciation.

As we're rattling towards Camden Town deep in the bowels of North London, I say:

"Excuse me, mate - Excuse me."

I get his attention, and the attention of just about everyone else in the carriage. For some unknown reason people just don't fucking talk to each other on the tube. If you talk to someone they tend to look at you all wild eyed and offer to give you their wallet.

Anyway, after I'd grabbed Louis attention I say:

"I really loved that peadophile thing. Just wanted to say good work, mate." And I sit back with a knowing smile and a slight nod of admiration.

And Louis looks at me with utter confusion and disgust. He buries his head in his paper.

Rude cunt, I think. And then I start to feel the eyes of every fucking body in the carriage burn into my skin...

And just as we pull into

CAMDEN TOWN

I realise with utter unadulterated fucking horror that this man is not, in point of fact, Louis Theroux...

...he just looks an awful lot like him.

The next seven-and-a-half-minutes (yep, I counted every fucking second of that journey), travelling up to my gaff in Tufnell Park were fucking horrible...

...I had a carriage full of strangers gawping at me, thinking I was some kind of peado, who had just given his full, frank, very public and extreamly vocal support to another ...

...dirty

...fucking

...peado...


(Nadgers!)
( SpankyHanky, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 10:23, 26 replies)

Comic Books, Children, and Pretend Piss
It was a fucking hot day in North London, the type of hot that makes the grit and general airborne crap stick to your skin and give you a pebbledash complexion. I'd just been dragged round the garden centre off Kentish Town Road by Ms Hanky and wasn't in the best of moods. Unlike her, the sight of a fucking pot plant doesn't make me wet. And those little gnome things aren't "charming", they're simply a load of old bollocks.

On the way back up to our gaff in Tufnell Park Ms. Hanky notices there's a comic book fare on. As a peace offering she suggests we go in and have a look round. Now, unlike pot plants, comic books give me the horn. I pop into the newsagents and get us each a bottle of water, on account of the swealtering heat, and we go inside.

Heaven - on - fucking - Earth...

That's all I can say about this place. They've got pretty much everything on show. Ms Hanky fucks off to the toilets to do what women everywhere seem to do - have a piss whenever they see there's a toilet in the vicinity. Leaving me to wonder about in this wonderland of literary delights, with added nunchucks and blokes in tights (you don't get that in Jane-fucking-Austin).

And then I see it. Maner from fucking heaven...

Its a bog standard copy of V for Vendetta; already got a couple of those at home, but this ones been touched by God. This one bears the signature of Alan Moore...

I very nearly spaffed all over the counter. And it was going for a song. Twenty notes and the fucker would be mine. I grab the book and reach into my pocket and suddenly realise I don't have any money - I've never got any money on me, ever, when I'm about to make an impulse purchase - I'm not allowed to carry lots of cash ever since the day I turned up at the flat having shelled out five-hundred quid on a rather nifty fusball table. The Mrs. went absolutely apoplectic.

"Sorry, mate - I've got no cash on me now. Can you put this to one side for me while I go and find my Mrs and get back to you in a few minutes? She's just gone to the toilets." I say, my knuckles turning white as I clung onto the book.

The bloke behind the counter shakes his head. "No - can't keep anything aside. Got no guarentee you'll come back." And he stood there looking and acting like Comic Book Guy out of The Simpsons. Arggghhh, cunty-bollocks!!!

"That's ok, mate - I'll just stand here and wait for the Mrs..." I say. And I do. And after a few moments I see her spikey blonde head from a distance as she exits the building. Fuck! She hadn't seen me and must've thought I'd gone outside to have a fag.

"Oh, go on, mate - I'll be thirty seconds," I plead. The bloke behind the counter isn't interested, he waves me off while he serves another customer.

Shit...

With great reluctance I place the graphic novel signed by God back on the table, I hide it behind loads of other shit, and I race outside. I find Ms. Hanky and she smiles at me as I approach.

I reciprocate with an urgent: "Give me some fucking money!" Waving my hands about like a complete and utter cock. When a few people nearby realise she isn't being mugged and is, in point of fact, the unfortunate partner of this twat before them, they go about their business. When I get the cash I sprint back towards the comic book place. "Can't talk! See you in a few minutes!" I scream over my shoulder.

And then I get back inside, hurtle towards the table, and make a b-line for the treasure I would gladly kill for. And it was gone...

"Fuck!" I spit. Then I look over to my left and see my book being despoiled by a fucking child. A little shit had my book under his arm! Grrrr! I overhear some plumy cunt from the otherside of the room shout over:

"Ollie, darling! We're going now! Come on, mummy's waiting!"

Ollie, the little shit, looks up: "Alright, daddy! I just need to pay!"

Aaa-HAAAA!!!

I approach the kid, my nemisis, the seven year old wanker between me and eternal fucking happiness: "Do you really want that?"

The kid looks up at me: "I saw the film and it was good." He says.

"No, it was not a good film," I say, irritated."- anyway, I would really like to buy that book. I mean REALLY. How about letting me, I mean, I was here first."

"No you wern't."

"Yes I was."

"No you wern't."

"Yes I was-"

And I proceed to have a pointless fucking row with a seven year old.

After thirty seconds of stalemate I considered twatting the little fucker. Hmmm, probably wouldn't go down too well. I looked up across the crowded room and noticed the kids dad was starting to make his way over to us. Shit, gotta move fast.

I decided to try and reason with the bloke who was running the stall - give it all the 'please, mate - I'd really appreciate this book unlike this prepubescent little turd'. But the bloke was busy way over the otherside of his stall.

So I did the only reasonable thing.

All this time I'd been clutching my bottle of water. In my excitement I hadn't had a drop. Fuck it, I thought. In one swift motion I unscrewed the cap and splashed it on the kids crotch.

"Why did you do that?" He screamed.

I ignored him.

Then his dad turned up: "Ollie! We have to go now- oh dear, what happened?"

"I think he's had an accident, mate," I say.

And the kid is whisked off in a whirl of protest.

I pick up the signed copy of V for Vendetta and wave the twenty in the face of the stall owner. "There you go, mate!" I say, and I walk back home on cloud nine, holding the book as if it was the ultimate holy relic, which, in fact, I suppose it was...
( SpankyHanky, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 15:56, 14 replies)

Clement Freud - proper legend
I'll be honest, I hadn't even heard of Clement Freud until 2002 when he decided to run for the post of Rector at the University of St Andrews against Germaine Greer.

I first saw this stout, slow moving man at the hecklings where each candidate delivered a speech prior to answering questions from the audience. Though his body may have been frail, his diction and wit were second to none and he won me over instantly.

"During the campaigning for this election a great deal has been made of the fact that I'm 78. Don't worry as this is an entirely temporary situation. Next year I fully intend to be 79."

In closing he finished with, "I see by looking at my watch that I'm running out of time. I must say this timepiece is very dear to me as it was my grandfather's. He sold it to me on his deathbed."

Later during the heckling part someone posed the following to him...

"Sir Freud, I've seen you speak before at [some event] and you told the exact same joke about Sigmund Freud's watch then."

And without missing a beat.

"Well consider how lucky you are to have only heard it twice. Some of my dear friends who've seen me speak more frequently have endured hearing that joke dozens of times."

He duly won the election to become our Rector for 3 years and my girlfriend and I made sure we attended his inauguration. In the old and majestic surroundings of Younger Hall it was a bizarre occasion: on the surface a very formal event with the ceremonial maces, properly attired officers of the university and a few verses of our latin anthem The Gaudeamus. But it was also half an hour of, what was essentially, some of the best standup I've ever heard.

I was rushing to an appointment in Paris and was driving there excitedly about to use the EuroStar for the first time. On the way I was listening to a local radio station and there was a request for a song to be played from one friend for another.

"Could you play 'Walking on Sunshine' please for my friend Janet as today she is 111."

...

"Oh sorry, I misread that, she's ill!"

I later recounted the story of this amusing slip up to my French hosts over drinks.

"Et alors il dit, '...qui est aujourd'hui 111. Aucun désolé, elle est malade.'"*


[dramatic pause while we all laugh]


"The French have no sense of humour."


I didn't ever meet him properly but when I graduated he was there on the front of the stage, applauding each and every student with the gusto that belied his then 80 year old body. I gave him a little bow before heading over to the podium pleased to receive such a small compliment from such a great man.

RIP Clement Freud.

*apologies for my rusty translation
( djtrialprice, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:06, 4 replies)

Get away from me you big spastic
Repost, but much more fitting here:

Partridge

Steve Coogan was doing a book signing in Bristol and a friend and I went to see him as we were big Partridge fans. So much so that we took along a 'hilarious' picture of my friend sat on the lap of a mock up Alan sitting in an armchair in our living room. We had a cut out and keep Alan Partridge mask as the head and we had recreated his body in 'Guy Fawkes' style, it was quite convincing.

Unfortunatly when my friend handed the photo over to Steve to sign his face went white and all he could say was something along the lines of 'that is very disturbing'. He signed the photo 'you sick, sick people' or words to that effect.

And that was the end of that, until we sat down to watch the episode in the next series of the show, where Alan gets stalked by a mad fan.....who has a entire room dedicated to Alan.....with an armchair in the middle.....with a mock up 'Alan' very much like the one we had produced, in fact exactly like it...

I am still waiting for the royalties...
(barrington, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 12:24, 5 replies)

Better the (Red) Devil you know…

When I first started out on B3ta, many of my posts featured a good friend of mine who goes by the name of ‘Furious D’ (FD). I can’t believe it’s taken this long for this story about him to rise to the surface like a particularly unflushable turd.

Disclaimer:

Despite how it first appears, this is NOT a football story…really. Even if you don’t like football, don’t be put off…please read on.

Furious D and I are both football fans but are Coventry boys (contradiction in terms I know), yet due to his folks being spectacularly successful, he had to move to the well-to-do area of West Bridgford, Nottingham. We stayed in regular contact, as good friends do, and by the time we were old enough to drive we would visit each other for a weekend’s heavy drinking, followed up by vain attempts to fire in to any available young ladies at each other’s hosting city.

I say ‘vain’ attempts…what I actually mean is that my attempts were always in vain. FD, however is a good looking, charming spazmo of a man whose personality seems to be the perfect blend between sophisticated upper-class cad, and dangerous bed-wetting lager lout who would drop his pants by the pool table and dangle his bollocks into the pockets. Strange as this may seem, this combination was like catnip to some of the finest blart this side of the Outer Hebrides.

One fine spring day and we’re out on the thrash in Nottingham, drinking copiously before going to a gig at Rock City. We were keeping ourselves to ourselves, talking shitebiscuits and getting pleasently twatted, when who should walk into our pub?

None other than the ‘legendary’ Roy Keane. With his young, rather attractive (then) girlfriend.

Roy was playing for Nottingham Forest at the time and was fast making a name for himself. Although I’m not a particular fan of Mr Keane, or Notts Forest, I recognise a talent / famous face when I see one, even if it was one ‘in the making’. The couple got their drinks, sat in the corner of the mildly busy pub and were instantly approached by a few fans, waving match programmes, beermats and various bodyparts to be signed.

At this point, FD’s eyes lit up in a peculiar way and he whispered to me: “Hey, Pooflake, go and get his autograph will ya?”

I weighed up my options and replied nonchalantly: “Nah, cock off, I’m not really bothered.”

“Ah, go on, you fuckspot” FD pressed further “Just have a chat with him, he’s meant to be a bit of a cunt – see if you can find out what he’s really like?”

Well, because I was pissed interested by this challenge, I dragged myself up from my seat and staggered wearily over towards them.

“Hello” I announced cheerily and extended my hand for a hand shake.

Almost immediately, his girlfriend got up and left the table.

“Hmmm” Roy huffed, refusing to shake my hand and grunting nasally: “I suppose you’ll be wanting an autograph then?”

I thought for a moment then replied: “Erm…no, not really, thanks anyway…”

…

At this point we both became completely lost for words. With my pint in my hand, Roy and I just stared at each other. Him with a quiet, intimidating presence, me with the slurry sway and squinty eyes of a really quite pissed fellow.

Eventually, I broke the silence.

“Soooo erm… are you looking forward to the match?” I asked him, then having a mild internal panic attack when I realised that I didn’t know who they were playing, where, and when, if at all, and what was at stake…if anything.

I thought to myself: ‘What have I gotten myself into here? I am such a megatwat…this conversation is not going to end well for me…’

Instantly however, Roy launched into an almost pre-rehearsed ‘media-interview mode’ with the vigour he usually reserved for his trademark vicious two footed tackles. He started talking in clichés about ‘games of two halves’, ‘mountains to climb’ and ‘all to play for’ etc. I could tell that football was quite important to him (although I wasn’t really listening).

We chatted for a few more minutes and although I must admit he seemed like a bit of a moody git, he was generally ok, and when his girlfriend arrived back I made my excuses and left them to it.

When I returned to my table it was empty. Furious D then rapidly approached me from around the corner looking rather sheepish, red-faced and out of breath. He simply said:

“We’d better go…”

We quickly downed our drinks and I knew not to ask questions. As we trundled along to the next pub I was regaled with the lowdown on what had transpired.

It appears that Furious D had *ahem* ‘made the acquaintance’ of Roy’s special lady in a club a couple of weeks previous…Of course, at the time, she had neglected to notify my mate of her ongoing attachment to the psychopathic midfield general…(or perhaps he just couldn’t hear her confessions as he was nostril deep into her clopper at the time)…

Thusly, when she and Roy entered the pub we were in, and she had spotted FD and I, I was promptly despatched to scuttle along like the ignorant, naive Patsy I am to distract Roy, whilst the girlfriend and FD met up to discuss the awkward situation they were in.

So whilst I was totally oblivious, talking inanely with Roy about such matters as ‘off the ball movement’ and wotnot; FD and Roy’s girlfriend were having a brief yet intense discussion which included the following lines:

“Fucking hell! - I didn’t know you were going out with Roy Keane?...”

soon followed by: “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?...”

followed by: “We really shouldn’t be doing this…not here….mmmmmm”

…followed by a fruity firkling and knee-trembling quickie in the ladies’ bogs.

Aghast with disbelief at hearing this revelation, I asked him how he felt about having just spaffed up Roy Keane’s missus. AGAIN.

He replied: “Not that special…everybody’s had a go on her apparently!”

It’s weird now when I see Roy on the telly.

So anyway…in keeping with the QotW…Furious D, you are my hero...I’m your biggest fan…and the great thing is, I get to meet you all the time, and the only lengths I have to go to is to call you up and let you know that it’s ‘Booze o’clock’…

Cheers mate.


*I say (then) girlfriend…she’s now his wife.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 12:05, 10 replies)

The LHC...
I have a lot of fangirl stories of more normal varieties, but that era of my life ended rather messily in ways which are not nearly amusing enough for B3ta. So I won't bother with those. However, I still have a bit of fangirl in me which got directed in a rather odd way last year.

I had ended up on a PhD programme which resulted in me getting a CERN access card last summer. I establised around July when I was working there briefly that I had legitimate access to the CERN control room, but went home in August.

Being a board full of geeks, most of you should know why 10 September was a day I was very much looking forward to. It was the day the LHC would be switched on and the world's media attention turned to CERN. I tried desperately to find an academic reason to be there (free flights), my supervisors annoyingly found an excuse to send me there on 4 September and then promptly back to the UK the next day. But remembering that

1) I still had a CERN access card
2) Easyjet exist and fly to Geneva

I wasn't going to be stopped so easily.

About 10 days before I decided I WAS going, and 2 friends decided to accompany me. I didn't even know if I'd be able to get them in, and heard that the event was going to be broadcast in the auditoria which sounded awfully like we were going to be discouraged from the control room.

Now comes the real obsessive fan bit. We arrived at about 11pm the night before, and knew that even looking for accommodation was pointless. We made our way to the site with the control room, security let all 3 of us through, then the people at the control room willingly let us in! It was 2am...no-one was there except the people actually operating the machine. Oh yes, we were officially the biggest LHC fans IN THE WORLD.

We felt a bit awkward there, deciding we'd just get kicked out later we made our way back to the main site to watch from an auditorium after a few hours attempting to sleep rough outsite the restuarant. It soon became clear that they were letting people in the control room, I went back there after they'd got the beam around once but by then they'd tightened security and my non-CERN friends weren't even allowed on that site. But we could still all say we'd flown to Geneva, been in th LHC control room at 2am, slept rough and been at CERN to see the biggest science event of our lifetimes so far.
(GothicTechie, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 8:57, 15 replies)

The Shirt & The Fucking Lying Cunt
Bit of a confession...

A few years back I used to live in Leeds, I shared a flat with a girl named Janine. She was a bit on the hairy side, but had incredible tits and once when I was very, very, very drunk I accidentally fucked her (but that's another story).

Anyway, Janine had a thing, a BIG FUCKING THING for Trent Reznor, the industrial metal moody mentalist fucker from Nine Inch Nails.

One time I went to see NIN at the Manchester Apollo. It was fucking boiling in there, and what with the sloped floor it was akin to climbing fucking Snowdon, only while balancing four pints of Carling in my arms, listening to some bloke scream: "I'm gonna fuck you like an animal!". Over and over again.

I was feeling a little shitty because I'd sorted out tickets for myself and a buddy I knew in Manchester, and had left Janine back in Leeds fuming. This was just a couple of days after our drunken shag; she was still probably wiping my cum out of her cuntbox while I was moshing like a fucking parkinsons disease sufferer in a force 10 earthquake.

I felt this weird feeling, a strange, churning in my guts - I think its called... guilt. Either that or the hamburger I'd shoved down my gullet before I went in was a bit Liza Minelli; well and truly past the stage of being edible, even when you're pissed.

So, being a nice bloke, I obtained Janine a trophy. I went back home that night and offered her my prize like the ultimate hunter-gather alpha male.

"Here you go, J. I got this for you," I said as I handed over a dripping, damp, sweat sodden black shirt. There was even a bit of blood on it. "Your man Reznor chucked it into the crowd and I got it for you - even had to punch a girl in the face. But, anyway, there you go..."

And I'm pretty sure she came on the spot. She slept with that grotty, stinky shirt under her pillow for a few weeks. She probably still wanks over it to this day.

The only problem was, it wasn't Mr Trent Reznors shirt.

I found it in the bogs.

In the bin.

Sorry, Janine.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 9:27, 13 replies)

David Gilmour.
I've been a bigtime Pink Floyd fan since the late 1970s, to the point where I think others consider me to be somewhat obsessed- I have a load of old bootlegs as well as all of their released stuff.

Geek? You have no idea.

Anyway- when they did the Momentary Lapse of Reason tour, for a variety of reasons I couldn't go. (Okay, the tickets were $80 and Nurse Ratched screamed about me wanting to spend that much on a stupid concert.) The Division Bell tour never came anywhere near me. Gilmour had made comments about rock 'n' roll being a young man's game, so I figured that was the end of that.

So imagine my reaction when I heard about the On An Island tour.

All the venues sold out within about twenty minutes of opening ticket sales. I missed on the NYC show, so my only real hope was LA. I got on there the moment it opened- and got one of the few remaining tickets.

In case you didn't know, LA is over 3000 miles away from here.

Foaming at the mouth, I whipped out my credit card and contacted a friend who's a travel agent. She made out through my raving what my needs were and booked me a flight out the day of the show, returning early the next day, and got me a room near LAX.

The concert was in Studio City, on the other side of LA.

I took the trains to get there- which meant that I had to walk to the stations. No prob, got there and got in to the concert. No fucking idea how to get back that late at night, but who cares? I'm gonna get to see DAVID GILMOUR.

The concert was... well, almost a religious experience for me. He had Richard Wright with him, and they performed "Echoes", my overall favorite song of theirs. When I left I was almost in a state of ecstasy.

I got out of the theater and realized I had no idea where the train terminal was that I had come in on, because I had followed the crowd. Somehow I managed to get a load of guys about my age to drive me to it- I'm still not sure how- and I got on the train back toward my hotel. I got to the place where we were to switch trains- and found that I had just gotten off of the last train of the night.

The buses were still running, however. I got directions to the nearest stop- and missed it by fifteen seconds, as did a teenage kid who had been following along with me and now looked lost and scared. As well he should have been- we were alone in downtown LA at midnight with no idea where either of us was going.

By sheer luck there was an inspector for the bus lines nearby. I explained the problem, he got on the radio with the driver of the bus, and drove us to the next stop to get on it.

By now the kid was looking less terrified and more like he was about to worship at my feet for somehow rescuing us both. We got him dropped off at his stop, and the driver informed me that he could only go to his final stop- about two miles from my hotel. Fine, I told him- I can handle it from there.

Ever seen someone utter something completely insane, and seen the expressions of people around them? That was the look he gave me.

I walked two miles through LA at about one in the morning, through areas with buildings under construction, stepping over a couple of homeless people in the process, and got to my room at about two. I got up a few hours later, got to the airport and flew home, arriving exhausted and still somewhat smelly- but intact.

And I had gotten to see DAVID GILMOUR.

To anyone else the experience probably would have seemed fantastically idiotic- paying an enormous sum for a single ticket, flying across the continent for one overnight, getting lost in a strange city- but to me it was worth every penny and every moment.

Because I got to see DAVID GILMOUR.

Fuck yeah.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:26, 14 replies)

Got three heroes is my life....
- Bobby Moore, My Dad and Ginger from the Wildhearts. Bobby Moore is sadly no longer with us, My Dad I owe my life to but this story is about the latter - one Geordie singer of the greatest band ever.

I fell in love with this band back in the 90's, as they seemed to be singing all about me. I got to see them a few times, until their collapse in 1997. Sad times - the drugs had got the better of them, and it was kind of inevitable.

However fast forward to 2001. I'm working in the Netherlands and had just received notice of my contract finishing in a month. Within a few minutes of this I also got the news they were reforming. I decided this feat needed to be properly appreciated, so I came up with the mad idea of getting together a few hardcore members ("listees") from the mailing list, hiring a bus and going to every show on the tour (including the warm up solo shows and Silverginger 5 dates). The response to the idea was a bus that was quickly filled up with like minded members from all over the world - The US, Japan, Germany, The UK, The Netherlands - it was all going to happen.

First gig was at my mates record shop in South Shields (the sadly defunct Changes One), memorable for the first ever live airing of the 10 minute opus "Sky Babies"- accompanied by Alex Kane of Antiproduct I was even invited on the stage to sing it as I knew all the words - I declined. Anyway after the gig I finally got to meet Ginger, and told him about a record he saught which I had tracked down and bought for him. I told him about the Busties tour, and how we might see a bit more of eachother.

Anyway we made all the gigs, the second night I got completely drunk, as did Ginger and we ended up as only drunks do, hugging and confessing our undying love for eachother (we are both men, so no sordid ideas - just man love, you know?). We then proceeded on the tour to Glasgow where the Bus was hired and the original and hardcore busties ammassed. We hadn't met all of them before, but two women on that bus became historical with me. The first was a German who became my stalker, following me relentlessly, and freaking me the fuck out. The second was V, a very beautiful American girl who I know realise I fell in love with instantly.

Bear with me as this is important - The gigs continued with legendary status - people got lost from legs of the tour, the bus broke down three times, and the German stalker began to seriously freak me out, much to the mirth of the other people on the bus. At the gig in Dudley, I was trying to pursuade one of the girls to get off with me just to throw her off - I even considered the offer of one of the fellers, but the best thing of all was, after the very dissapointing show (the Bass player had problems and collapsed on the stage) I went to the bar with V, we got talking, hit it off and then spent the night together. The next morning everyone was pissed off with the show and the van breaking down again, yet me and her were in that post-coital bliss which was blatantly evident to everyone else.

Back to the Wildhearts - anyway we did the whole tour and became well known to the band for our efforts. It grew friendships you cherish for life. One of our crew, the Infamous Trace we lost to cancer a couple of years back and is very sadly missed. Friendships formed with the band, and with a couple of fellow fans, we took over the operation of their website, and I got not only to photograph them, but was held in so high esteem I got to tour with them for 10 nights, along with Therapy? which is worth writing a book about. I've got to know Ginger at his best and at his worst, but at his best he has said some of the most touching and wonderful things about my efforts and work. He's also been a cunt at times, but I guess you can say the upside of that is that I have truly gotten to know one of my heroes, and I still hold him in that esteem.

But there is one thing that he blessed me with more than anything. The relationship I had with V - we fell in love, albeit her in the US, me in Amsterdam. We got to see eachother a few times a year, but sadly with long distance relationships, they break down, which was so sad as she was/is the love of my life. I still love her very deeply, yet I haven't seen her in 6 years. But tomorrow, I'll fix that - she lands here at 8.20am to come and live with me. I don't know if reconciliation is possible, she has a lot of sore memories of the breakup, but she loved me, and I am sure, still does a little. Tomorrow my new life starts, and this time its with hope and understanding, as I really do love this woman.

So one of my heroes changed my life in so many ways - if you hadn't written those wonderful songs I would never have met her. And I would never have realised my potential as a photographer, made the friends I have, or had anything like the memories I cherish. And that Ginger, makes you a hero of the highest fucking order, and I love you for that.
(Waynster James Joyce is fucking my sister!, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 10:13, 8 replies)

When I was a tiny flim of a flam...
...I was not your average little girl. While other girls would busy themselves playing with dolls and begging their parents to let them have their ears pierced I was at the bottom of the garden, digging mainly. What was I digging for you might ask… STUFF! I would dig for freedom, I would dig for liberty, I would just plain dig for the love of digging my friends!!

From a young age I wanted more than anything else in the world to find a dinosaur, obviously not understanding that a small garden on a RAF base in Bedfordshire was probably not the best place in the world to search.

Anyhoo, eventually the time came for us to move from the base and we shifted from Bedfordshire to Cambridgeshire so my dad could join the Police force. I was 7 and while I was of course sad to leave my friends behind I was also looking forward to the possibility of a new dig site - woo.

We had moved into a new build home which I later found out was built on top of land which was once a massive dairy farm. Once we arrived I grabbed a trowel and in a matter of days I had dug up most of the back garden and scoured all of the gravel drive looking for fossils, of which there were lots. I had also, much to my mothers horror, dug up half the bones from a cow and found a mouse skull, I was in heaven and things were only going to get better.

Starting at my new school I had pretty much told everyone about my digging habits and brought in my collection of misc boney/stoney crap to share with all those around me on our Nature Table. At the end of term I had a lot to carry home and struggled out the gate with bursting bags. It was raining and I had managed to fall over and drop my bag on the floor. Hearing the thud I knew I had broken my prize possession, a massive cow bone (I can't for the life of me remember what it was now - I think it was a femur bone) I sat on the floor and cried. I noticed a car pull up alongside me and my headmistress got out, she picked me off the floor and asked what was wrong. I sobbed and told her about the bone breaking. She got up and tapped on the window of the car. A man got out and introduced himself as Mr Howe.

It turned out Mr Howe worked at a museum in Peterborough and was a curator, he was very interested to see what I had in the bag. He asked if he could borrow my findings and bring them back after the weekend. I let him go and was dusted off and sent on my way. The following week my headmistress asked me to come to her office where she gave me a letter, it was from her husband and he had painstakingly drawn around each stone and explained in full detail, where they had come from, how old they were, what sort of fossil was imbedded etc. he had also managed to glue my bone back together again, and you could hardly tell it was broken. I was amazed and from that day on Mr Howe was my hero! I visited him at the museum in Peterborough and I would send him anything I found. He would always reply with beautiful letters, written with elegant swooping text explaining what I had ‘discovered’. He really did make me feel like an adventurer.

Sadly Mr Howe is no longer with us, he died of cancer when I was 10 and with him went my dream of becoming an archaeologist/geologist. I still have the letters and treasure them to this day, he will always be a hero to me, simply because he took the time to show an interest in me and never once treated me like a child.
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:07, 13 replies)

My eldest
When I was younger, I watched a film. I can't remember what it was now, but one of the characters was called Mercedes.

I loved unusual names, even as a kid, and naming your daughter after something so beautiful appealed even more.

When I was seventeen, I got my first car. They say you never quite get over your first love, and I spent many months honing her to perfection. Her paintwork shone in the sun as I applied another coat of wax, and her engine purred beautifully.

Unfortunately, she was an old model, and despite maturing like a fine wine, as time went on it became obvious that I'd have to let her go. I can honestly say that no car since has come close to being as great as she was.

Skip forward a few years and I've driven newer cars, faster cars and more expensive cars, but nothing emulated what I had felt before, and as time went on I realised that what I felt was a kind of love.

A few more years later and I'm in a relationship, with my first baby on the way. Money was tight and we'd generally spend our time chatting. Many a night was whiled away with me talking about that first car. So much so that my then partner fell in love by proxy.

Just a couple of weeks before our baby was born, we still hadn't settled on a name. Several baby name books were stacked in the corner, each one read and re-read without success.

Then This Morning came on tv, with a segment about baby names. We watched intently as they discussed our very problem, before they came up with the solution that we chose: Name your baby after someone you admire or love.

We'd been down the actress / singer / politician route without any luck, but it seemed as if we hit on the same idea at the same time. Name her after the car I had loved, and that my partner had grown to love.

That was ten years ago now, and time has flown by. We've had more kids since then, and naming them seems to have gotten easier.

You're not allowed to have favourites as a parent, but hearing my eldest's name always brings a smile to my face, and I dedicate this post to her.

JHK 331Y, I love you and you make me a very proud daddy. 
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 9:23, 4 replies)

"I don't know why they don't just wall it off and call it Broadmoor."
I don’t know if any of you have ever spent any time in Thurrock, Essex – but if you have, you’ve probably spent that time at that honest-to-goodness cathedral of despair that calls itself ‘Lakeside’. I myself have spent many happy horrible afternoons there, having been dragged there by a combination of girlfriends, parents and morbid curiosity.

And so it was, four weeks ago, that I once again ended up walking around the gleaming floors of one of South-East England’s premier retail establishments. It was a hot day and while my parents (who were shopping for holiday kit) were busy, my fiancée and I decided we’d do our food shop in M&S.

Walking around the aisles, aimlessly picking up produce that I didn’t need and would never use before putting it back down again, I saw her. He golden locks tumbled about her shoulders and her eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She was beautiful.

And stood behind her was Sally Gunnell, former athlete and Barcelona ’92 Gold Medallist.

Not wanting to stare too much, I backed away, and went to find my other half.

“Guess who I just saw!” I cried, with child-like excitement. “I dunno,” she replied, giving me one of her appraising looks – the kind she gives me when she’s working out if I’m about to be an idiot or not – “Ghandi? Jesus?”

“Don’t be absurd. Jesus would shop in Waitrose.”

She sighed. “OK then. Who have you seen?”

“Sally Gunnell, former athlete and Barcelona ’92 Gold Medallist!”

“Who?”

As I rapidly explained to my lady just who Sally Gunnell was, punctuating my points with a packet of spaghetti, the lady herself could only have been an aisle away. I finished my heartfelt missive:

“Sally” *prod* “ruddy” *prod* “Gunnell” *prod* “A fine athlete, an excellent runner, and a proud ambassador for this nation. “

“So?”

“So she’s in bloody Lakeside! What kind of a global star of athletics shops in Lakeside?”

“One that lives nearby.” Said a voice behind me. I turned. Sally Gunnell, former athlete and Barcelona ’92 Gold Medallist was stood behind me, an expression of cold fury etched on to her horse-like face.

“Oh. Er…” I stammered, but she had gone. The moment had passed. I, shame faced, discarded the spaghetti that I has erstwhile been using as a visual aid, and ran out of the shop in a manner which, had the Gunnell seen it, was reminiscent of her fine performance in 1992. When she won a Gold Medal. In Barcelona. Except you couldn’t see my clunge.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 12:02, 8 replies)

The posts about war heroes have reminded me…

About how some truly great and selfless people walk amongst us all the time and we don’t bat an eyelid.

My best mate died of cancer 10 years ago nearly to the day…He was 26

The nurses who cared for him during his final weeks were not just heroes, they were saints.

There is not enough money in the world that would make me do their job. I’m too much of a coward. I believe it is something you are, not something you do.

They take it in their stride. We take it for granted.

When he died, instead of spending money on flowers or a charity, everybody contributed to a fund which was handed over to the Nurses who had looked after him, to spend on whatever they wished.

As one, they donated it straight back to the Children’s ward.

We are not worthy.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 23 Apr 2009, 12:04, 3 replies)

Nicholas Lyndhurst
I saw Nicolas Lyndhurst enjoying a pint in the beer garden at a local pub. Having had a fair few myself, I thought I'd be brave and shout out to him.
Imagine the horror on my girlfriends face when I 'accidentally' shouted 'Rodney you wanker!". He actually smiled back and gave a knowing nod.

My new hobby is shouting out incorrect catch phrases to celebrities. Steve Davis, the snooker player, was greeted as he walked into a supermarket with a cry of "one-hundred-and-eeeeiiiiigggghhhtttyyy" as I pointed excitedly at him.

Rolf Harris visited a local school, so I took the opportunity to go up to him and say, "Can you tell what it's meant to be at the moment?" in a dodgy Australian accent.

The final one, was when I saw Ainsley Harriot strolling around on Oxford Street and I shouted 'Awooga' at him. He looked confused.

I really want to me Arnold Schwarzeneggar so I can say, "I'll be back soon".
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 11:42, 7 replies)

Never, ever, bloody anything, ever.
It was early in the summer of '92. The three piece combo of musical impresarios going by the name of ‘Right Said Fred’ were topping the charts with the anthemic Deeply Dippy. Mobile phones were still a brick sized rarity carried by twats in red braces. Prime Minister John Major was the most exciting thing to hit British politics for literally months. But all of this was eclipsed by one man who was at the pinnacle of his immense powers of entertainment, bathing the country in the light of his comic genius, and we few, we lucky few had the opportunity to see him in the flesh. It was just five short years since he had split our sides and ruptured our spleens with the gag fest that was ‘The Comic Strip Presents... Mr Jolly Lives Next Door’ - the half hour show that provided the script for our Uni years. Not Adrian Edmondson, not Rik Mayall, not even the incomparable Peter Cook. No, we had the chance to see, live and in the flesh, the one and only Nicholas Parsons!

It's true. His Aunt's next door neighbour had once walked past the old chemical factory in Grimsby, and this meant he was close enough to being a bona fide engineer for the committee to choose him as the post prandial speaker at the annual dinner of the Institute of Chemical Engineers (Scottish Branch). And as lowly student members of the Institution we were eligible to get tickets at the reduced price of ten pounds!

Now in those days ten pounds was worth much more than today. In today’s money it's probably equivalent to ten thousand pounds, or, for our continental readers, about ten Euros. For us impoverished students it was a lot, but surely worth it for the cultural development of immersing ourselves in the unrestrained verbiage of surely the best after dinner speaker in the world, ever. The fact it included a five course dinner and free bar was irrelevant. Somehow (I have blanked out the depths of degradation we had to sink to) we raised the money, and then at last we had the tickets in our hands.

At last, after what seemed like three lifetimes of waiting the great night arrived.
Dressed to kill, we turned up at the hotel, stomachs fluttering with eager anticipation. Our young knees, exposed to the world beneath our kilts, trembled with excitement. As students, the seating planners had put us in a table at the back, near the toilets. The bastards. On the top table sat the great man himself, tanned and glowing, chatting easily with the fawning committee members. The bastards. The food arrived. Despite being poor starving students, the butterflies in our midriffs prevented us exploiting to the full the sumptuous banquet presented. I myself only managed two second helpings of the main course and three of the desert. The vast quantities of free wine we consumed were purely to constrain the great shudders of excitement which wracked our bodies every time we thought of the great event we were soon to witness.

Then the moment arrived. The coffee was drunk (or, in our case, more free wine), waffer thin mints were distributed, and Nicholas the Great stood. An expectant hush fell over the room. Not a single glass chinked, not a single petite four was crunched. You could have heard a pin drop on a mountain of feathers. Nicholas began to speak. Humorous anecdote after humorous anecdote poured forth in a torrent, washing over us in a tide of bon mots, badinage and persiflage. He lifted us up and brought us down, led us one way, then quick as a flash disarmed us and left us helpless with chuckles. To watch a master a work is a pleasure. But the experience of that night was like no other. Nicholas Parsons is the master of mirth, the baron of banter, the prince of pleasantries, the lord of laughter, the wizard of wit, the sultan of satire, the ace of the anecdote, the raja of ribaldry and the ruddy rudest rip-roaringest rogerer of repartee.

All too soon it came to an end. As the audience sat dazed by the onslaught of mirth they had just experienced, we took our chance to actually meet the great man himself. Pausing only briefly to grab a couple of bottles each of fortification, we steamrollered through he hall and up to our idol. Four of us formed a protective ring around the guru, preventing the peons, who could never fully appreciate his talents like we could, from gaining access. He was ours! Then we actually talked to him. Face to face. Man to man. It was awesome. We displayed our adoring fanishness, such as how we had watched Mr Jolly Lives Next Door like maybe two or three times, and once when I visited a friends house as a boy, Sale of the Century was on the telly. How my parents used to listen to Radio four in the morning, which was the same station as his famous show Just a Minute was on, although I hadn't actually heard it. We unveiled to him our hopes and our dreams. Once he tried to stifle a yawn, no doubt as he thought about the other tedious people he would have to talk to later.

Then, after twenty minutes, disaster struck. The president of the Institute, who had been hovering outside our circle for some minutes, unable to penetrate politely, suddenly burst in, grabbed Mr Parsons elbow and said "Ah Nicholas, there's someone I would like you to meet...". In a flash, he was gone, and we were left with nothing but memories.

After our brush with the bright light of celebrity, the rest of the evening is a blur. I can recall daring escapades. At one point we employed the tablecloths to improvise Ghost costumes and scare the other guests. Such an impromptu display of amateur dramatics must have greatly impressed the professional entertainer in Nicholas. How the wine got spilled down his trousers, no one can remember. And the tragedy of the toupee is best forgotten.

My last memory is later in the evening. We were outside, ejecting copious amounts of Chateau Huey '87 from our insides over a wall in the hotel's rose garden - yes, unfortunately the excitement of the evening had proved just too much for our young constitutions. Nicholas appeared, walking to his car. We saw him pause briefly, and use his handkerchief to wipe a fleck of vomit splatter from the handle, before entering the back seat. The door closed. The engine roared. He was gone. Darkness descended.

Nicholas Parsons. Nicholas Bloody Parsons. Awesome.
(Mystery_Machine, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 11:29, 5 replies)

Spank Monkey reminded me - Belinda Carlisle
So here goes my b3ta virginity.

In 1987, I was 15. I had somehow ignored the last 5 years of great 80s music and New Romantics. I don't know why, but suspect I was rather more involved with problems of my own - being fervently Christian, and secretly as gay as a window.

Suddenly Belinda Carlisle arrived on the scene and I adored her immediately. Every record, every tape, every sniff of a freebie, I'd caught the bug at last. Then in 1988 she announced a tour. Joy was unconfined.

So I got a job, to pay for the coach trip and my ticket, and on payday proudly announced my plans. Absolutely no way was I allowed to go to London on my own. We lived in Darkest Devon. I begged, pleaded, cajoled, but there was no leeway given.

Finally after two weeks, mum gave in to my constant begging and sat me down and told me how I was to get the train and the tube, then 200 miles home again before the trains finished that night. 'twas all agreed and sunshine reigned.

The Good Heavens tour was sold out. Everywhere, sold out. I was laughed at for enquiring. Of course now I know I should have gone and tried the touts, but I didn't know and there was no webmonging in 1987.

So I went surly. Surly as hell. I wouldn't speak to my parents for weeks. I even wonder if that's why I finally came out to them, just to see the look on their faces.

I was allowed to watch the televised performance of said concert, which being as it was recorded in Philadelphia and was therefore on at about 3am, this was a big gesture.

The next tour called in at Cornwall, on the same day I had an exam. There was no question I would be there. I was, and got an A for the exam (GCSE Physics, fact fans).

mum always said I'd grow out of it. Belinda was a phase. Homosexuality was evidence of demonic possession (oh yes!). I still held vigils at every TV appearance I could afford. She happened to perform at GAY on my 25th birthday in 1997, and the club owner introduced me to her backstage, for real. Where she ignored my burbling questions and posed for photos instead. Viz my dodgy highlights:



I still go to concerts of hers now, and still buy everything (said Good Heavens tour is released on CD and DVD on Monday 20th April 2009, and I'll be there). It still makes me go into absolute joy-mode.

In 2006, I was in New York, waiting to watch Belinda take the stage with the Go-Go's, and immediately beforehand, I phoned Mum. She said "I guess she wasn't a phase then. Or you being gay", which was rather sweet of her. Only took her 19 years to figure it out. I got shagged 6 times in 4 days in New York City. Best place in the world. The being a Christian part was the only phase I ever went through. After I found out how homophobic a lot of them are.

And so, a happy ending. I even speak to two of the Go-Go's (Jane Wiedlin and Kathy Valentine) on occasion, and I have more esoteric and worthless memorabilia and autographs than you could throw a striped legging at. And remember - let your children do as they like, or may they end up gay!

Sorry if dull, but it wasn't to me, and it is my first post.

*pop*
(jajwhite, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:41, 5 replies)

John Noakes dog sex frenzy
John Noakes was coming to our youth club to do some filming for Blue Peter.

John bloody Noakes!

Better still, he was bringing Shep along, and they were going to film the dog training class. The dog training class that my mum went to with Snoopy - the worst-behaved Beagle-cross-Labrador-cross-Maniac on the planet.

For the days leading up to the event, I pleaded and pleaded with her take the evil pup instead of her, for through Noakes - if I got into his good books - lay the road to the real mother lode - Val Singleton.

In the end, and for a quiet life, she caved in and I turned up on the appointed day ready for some red hot Noakes action.

The man himself turned up in his Triumph Stag, donned the holy BP badge, and after a few jocular 'Get down Sheps', the class began.

It didn't last long.

Imagine - if you will - the frenzied cry of a young teen as his dog slipped his collar. Imagine, too, a sound effect that went something like:

"Nnnnnyeeeeeeee-ooooooooooow! FLUPP!"

...being the sound of Beagle-cross-Labrador-cross-Maniac connecting with Britain's top TV presenter and giving his leg the rogering of its life.

There was a stunned silence, before the great man looked me in the eye and said "Don't just stand there - gerrim off me leg".

Words I treasure to this day.

The youth club windows were crowded with local kids and hangers-on watching my downfall, who jeered mercilessly as I was ordered out by the producer and told I'd never work in broadcasting ever again.

But who cares? John Noakes! My dog actually shagged John bloody Noakes!

And hot piss! It's the original long version of this tale I wrote six years ago: Click-u-like
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 19:55, 8 replies)

Not quite sure this belongs here but...

When I saw the programme that came out fairly recently on Terry Pratchett's affliction with Alzheimers, I cried.

I am a grown man, and not particularly sentimental; but to see such a creative genius with such a fine mind and intellect affected by the horror of Alzheimers really emphasised that fairness is not an innate quality posessed by this world.

I have never cried over anything that has afflicted any other public figure.

He is one of my top literary heroes; I've spent countless hours reading his fantastic books.

If you haven't read any of the Discworld series, you should. Now.

Length? More hours of reading than I could possibly count..

P.S. No apologies for the lack of funnies.
(anvil, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 14:57, 5 replies)

For my wife's 30th birthday...
I took a razor to my lovely hair and spent far too much money on dungerees. I then blacked up and infront of 200 friends and family in my local pub, appeared as MR T! A true hero!

i18.photobucket.com/albums/b139/Druss_The_Legend/n822215345_6113723_6582794.jpg

:)
( Druss_The_Legend Splurge!, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 15:20, 3 replies)

Actually, my best shag...
...was with the cutest little lady you could imagine, who is pretty well known in Britain at least.

We got chatting to each other in a pub in Birmingham and it turns out we were both fans of Garrison Keillor. I didn't really recognise her as being famous at first (which I guess disqualifies me from the "biggest fan" portion of the question). Having said that, as the night wore on and as her alcohol consumption increased, I could sense a definite spark. She gave me her number and we text and chatted for about a month. The next time I was in Brum she text me and asked if I fancied coming round for a coffee.

I go round her house in a rather fancy suburb and to my slight surprise, one of her kids opens the door. I had no idea she had kids but she kinda rose to fame in the late 70s so I guess she was at the age where she could have had a couple of kids around 10 or 12. Anyway, we sit in her kitchen and while I can't remember why or how it happened, we started talking about sex. She started playing with her mug and looking at me in a way that said "yes, it's going to happen". She gave each of the kids £10 and told them to go to the shops.

Before the door had even clicked shut she'd run me upstairs, half kissing and fondling me in a mad dash to the bedroom. She slides on top of me and the kissing is passionate. She slides off and says "sit tight". So there I am, lying in a kind of famous person's bed, looking up at her ceiling and publicity shots in chintzy frames dotted around this bedroom and I hear the bathroom door open.

Holy Christing Fucknuckles.

She's wearing school uniform.

She went to town on me like only an older woman could, making me pull muslces I didn't know I had. For 2 hours we basically just tore at each other, discarding her school uniform all over the place. After hearing the kids at the end of the road, we hastily got dressed and ran back downstairs. We may well have looked incredibly guilty (I know I felt a bit bad), but the kids were loaded up on sugary treats, and the rest of the afternoon went by as if nothing happened.

I left there wondering if I was some celebrity squeeze and giggling to myself. Unfortunately, she reconciled with her ex husband about a month after, but thanked me for that one afternoon.

To this day, I still think of her stood before me in that school uniform. If you're reading this, you were the best shag I have ever had, Jimmy Cranky.
(Tiny Blindfolded Horse Kitten sound car horns would end road rage, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 22:39, 4 replies)

Again when I was a wee little Vampyrekitten
with lots of curly curly ringlets and bouncy bouncy jelly shoes (well I was a bouncy kid but I digress).

I LOVED Humphrey B Bear. Now I don't know if you brits have him but he is TOPS for a little kid. He was the bees knees, the big Kahuna, he was The man
All in all, he was a pretty cool six foot tall brown bear in a check waistcoat with a straw hat and a lovely big bow tie. He looked like this. I thought he was very very tops. He was a mute but I didn't care.

I had my own Humphrey B Bear toy and everything!

So one day, there's me, a wee little vampyrekitten, playing with my Humphrey B Bear and my "The Wiggles Big Red Car", and mum comes in all excited.
"Vampyrekitten! You'll never guess who I saw at the shops today!"
Indeed I did not have the faintest clue and told her that.
"Come on! We're going back to the shops!" Said mother. Duly - I picked up my faithful Humphrey B Bear (for he went EVERYWHERE with me) and we walked the half a block to the shops.

And THERE HE WAS.

Humphrey.
HUMPHREY B BEAR was in the shops half a block from MY house! He must have wanted to come say hi to me! He was dancing along to the music. But what was this? Some skinny tart blonde girl was dancing with him and talking to him!

I was crushed. I turned to my mum and cried my little heart out. She picked me up and carried me over, me still sniffling and clutching my toy Humphrey B Bear for all it was worth.

And then Humphrey gave me a balloon and a lollypop AND a hug.

And all was instantly right with the world.
(Poppet some assembly required., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 4:36, 4 replies)

George Worst
By today's standards, I am by no means a football fanatic. When, however, you are in a situation where you're the only non-supporter among the 10 year old alpha males in your class, you very quickly learn to jump on whatever bandwagon is soon to depart the station.

Said wagon was Chelsea United Football Club. They sounded alright and wore blue. Blue was my favourite colour. That's good enough for me.

While I can say with all honesty that I couldn't give a quantifiable fraction of a damn towards any hooliganism and drama now, in a bid to save my reputation I swiftly swore my devotion to a Mr Roberto Di Matteo. He was foreign and scored goals, and therefore reputable. When my chance arose to see the man in person when my Dad visited London, I leapt to the occasion. Viewing a footballing legend, in the flesh, gave a prime opportunity to be smug back at school.

However, my father is a devious shit. The entire trip to Stamford Bridge to meet my new idol was an elaborate scam to drag me around a used car megawarehouse in London, as otherwise we'd both have to stay at home and build some sort of father-son bond. 6 gruelling hours of Ford Mondeos later, and we're heading through the busy roads back home.

At which point we pranged our vehicle against an aging gentleman at a medium speed, launching him back onto the pavement. Completely unphased, he got back up to his feet, banged on the window about us not knowing who the hell he was and we should show more respect for heroes like him.

Probably a pisshead ex-squaddie, we both assumed.

Later that evening we got a phonecall from a London police station informing us that we were wrong. Very wrong.

My Dad had run over George Best. International footballer and organ failure spokesman George Best. That's 4 hours in the car, a further 6 hours looking at cars, and we've just knocked over one of the world's top professional players of all time without realising who the hell he was due to the flaw in my newfound footballing ways.

I've still got the cutout of the story in the paper from all those years ago. Dad signed his mugshot. George Best didn't.

What a cunt.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 16 Apr 2009, 22:31, 4 replies)

When life imitates art...

I feel that at this point, I must re-iterate the question of this QotW. Although we have been treated to some wonderful tales this week, the requested subject matter is not ”tell us about fleeting meetings with celebrities”…It is:

“Tell us about the lengths you've gone to in order to show your devotion to your heroes. Just how big a fan are you.”

‘Big Fan’ eh?....’Devotion’ is it?...’Length’ you want?

Well this dear reader, is my story…of just how far a man is willing to go.

You think you know real love? Well let me tell you, dear reader…you don’t know shit.

I gave my heart, my soul, my money…and spoonfuls of my manfat to someone…just because they looked like my all-time favourite star of the silver screen.

This was a few years ago now…and from the moment I saw her alone in the pub I was instantly taken aback. She was an angel…a vision, immaculately resplendent, and the fact that she was wearing grunge-style clothes and no make up, Her likeness was so uncanny, it took my breath away. I was besotted.

I realised immediately that this was going to be the closest I would EVER get to realising my lifelong dream…and if I was to accomplish this incredible ambition, I was first going to have to shed my awkward personality and crippling shyness. I was going to have to ‘man the fuck up’ and give it a shot!

I downed a few vodkas to give me that boost of ‘Dutch courage’ (a bit like a ‘Dutch Oven’, only with slightly less farting in bed and holding heads under the covers)

And then I approached her tentatively…stuttering nervously as I offered to buy her a drink.

She gazed up at me…and I saw at close quarters that just like my idol, she had sublime bone structure, that trademark ‘floppy fringe’, and wide eyes like glistening pools of pristine loveliness. She broke her perfect pout only to deftly reply:

“Ah, mais Oui!”,

‘Fucking get in there!’ I thought to myself. This was even more perfect than I could possibly imagine. Everybody and his pet dog knows that the French are ruder and hotter than Chubby Brown’s swampy arse-cress on a balmy day in August.

She spoke with an accent so deliciously decadent…it was as if every word was purposefully trying to send my throbbing knobbly obelisk busting out of the bottom of my left trouser leg so it could waft triumphantly at gobsmacked passers-by.

I instantly set about ‘wooing’ her (Read: stalking). I camped outside her flat, sang songs to her window, and sent her continental chocolates and DVDs every day. When she finally agreed to go on a date, I pulled out all the stops and spunked my life savings on jewellery, fine wine and souvenirs of all things French for her..

And by jove, it certainly did the trick. She said she had never experienced such pure animalistic devotion before, and she was powerless to resist . I knew that all my efforts were worthwhile as I watched with purest glee as she led me to her boudoir, whipped her kex off, stuck her legs in the air and flung her flange flesh at me like a fizzing flap-filled philharmonic fanfare. This was the stuff dreams are made of!

She well and truly succumbed – (in that order…’suc, cum, bed’). The oral acrobatics she performed were clinical and intense, the expertise exquisite…and every time I gazed adoringly down upon her enigmatic head gobbling on my cock like a dog chomping hot peanut butter, I would be whisked away to my darkest fantasies… wistfully imagining what her phenomenal doppleganger’s technique would really be like. I didn’t know how it could be possible, but I just knew it would be even better.

And these thoughts alone were enough to send my sploogey electric rope shooting straight to the back of her gag reflex like a todger powered tartare sauce torpedo.

Thrice a day, we would always make love in only the missionary position – even when I shoe-horned it up her wrongun’…this made it even more special for me. Although She was keen to experiment, I insisted on that one position…I wanted to watch her face writhe and contort with ecstasy as I plunged enthusiastically into her…pounding harder and deeper in the belief that somehow my passion could reach such fevered extremes that perhaps…somehow… the real object of my affections could feel each splurging grunt-tastic megathrust and just perhaps…wherever they were…they would go ever-so-slightly bandy legged without even knowing the real reason why…

As you can imagine, Life was simply blissful. Eventually, She fell in love with me. But like all men who don’t realise a good thing when they’ve got it, I let her slip through my fingers. I tried to change her – constantly making her dress and act more and more like my true obsession. I was with her for six spaff-splattered months before one fateful evening when we were cuddled up on the sofa watching ‘Le Hussard sur le toit ‘ (for the umpteenth time)...

As her hand romantically razzed up and down my raging custard-coughing cucumber like the veritable clappers, I accidentally blurted out the wrong name…the real name of the person who was in my thoughts. I then decided I could keep my secret no longer, and revealed the truth about why I was going out with her.

She was devastated…giving me a solemn speech about not being able to ‘live a lie’. Within a week she had returned to France forever. I wept as she climbed aboard the train...wishing it was me that she was ‘climbing aboard’…one more time. But it was too late…she was gone…It was over.

I never fully recovered…or loved again.

So people…they say you should ‘never meet your heroes’…yet nobody tells you of the perils and suffering of falling in love with lookalikes. Let my heartbreak be a warning to you all.

Finally…There were two tragic ironies to this tale. First of all, despite her having what I perceived to be flawless beauty, she said I was the first man who had ever approached her…a bit weird that – I’d always considered that a girl who looked exactly like Gerard Depardieu would be beating the fellas away with a shitty stick. Hey ho.

But secondly, the strangest (and sexiest) thing of all was…I found out later that she was only with me in the first place to get a Green Card.

What are the odds?
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:52, 10 replies)