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)

Cold, dead eyes.
Back in the carefree and innocent days of my childhood I lived in a cottage in a tiny village.
This cottage was next door to the church, so as a result my family got to know the vicar, Reverend Jack, fairly well, despite not being congregation members.

As a general rule I'm not a fan of religious-types, I just don't really "get" it, but this vicar was different. He used to play guitar, wear a Stetson and ride a motorbike. Pretty cool to a seven-year-old.

Anyway, there was a bit of excitement in our village because someone that Reverend Jack used to live with was coming to visit the church, and he was famous!

Nothing much ever happened in our part of the world, what with it being the middle of nowhere. I found out that the special visitor was a famous singer, and that the television and newspapers would be there. I was determined that I'd get famous too.

The day of the famous visitor dawned, and I got dressed and ran out into the churchyard.
There were loads of people there from the surrounding villages, men with big cameras and even a policeman!
Then a car pulled up and everyone got excited.
A man got out and walked towards the church. Towards me. And I didn't like him.

He looked waxy and strange, a bit like my great aunt had when I saw her in her coffin.
He had creepy eyes too. They were cold and dead, a bit like the eyes in the poisoned rat I'd found behind the garage.
The creepiest thing about him was his mouth.
He was smiling far too widely, with too many teeth, which were too white.
I was expecting someone cool and exciting, like a man in a leather jacket in a sports car. Not a horrible, skinny walking dead man who smiled too much.

The scary man walked right up to me and smiled extra-wide. Like a shark or a wolf. I thought that he was going to eat me. Then he put his hand on my shoulder. I started crying, and ran away.

I never got to see Cliff Richard play his "exclusive set". To be fair, I don't feel like I missed out on much.
( Cawl, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:25, 2 replies)

Celebrity date wreckage
When I was still (barely) a teenager the world was a very different place. For starters, Big Brother was only a concept in a fiction novel, while reality text-vote-televisual diarrhoea was still a twinkle in the eye of an arrogant fourth rate girl band producer.

My world of 1993 wasn’t quite a utopian delight though, mainly because I was single and admiring an unknowing fair maiden from afar during the long drag of our Saturday shifts at a popular chain of newsagents.

Over a number of weeks I gradually got to know her during our shared breaks. The willowy, pretty sixteen year old object of my affections began to warm to my humour. It took time, but Kate began to greet my shambling appearance on a Saturday morning with an awkward smile and would seemingly linger round the staff room as if to see what I had planned during lunchtimes. For my part, her dazzling white and welcoming smile seemed to take the edge of my Friday night hangovers far better than any post-binge fry up ever could.

And they said I was an unromantic bastard.

Amongst the other Saturday staffers, I had a largely deserved reputation of being the “nice guy”, so I played that card as often as I could to help slowly break down the walls of Kate’s innate shyness. Obviously she was inexperienced with the ways of men, but there was the unmistakeable sign of certain awkward flirtatiousness as her confidence with me grew. We laughed, joked and found a mutual escape from the drudgery of taking money from the public with a forced smile while wrapping their pulp, paper-backed purchases in flimsy carrier bags.

And then one afternoon the Saturday staff arranged an evening out for drinks. I sat there expectantly in the staff room when Kate emerged from the ladies’ locker room looking absolutely sensational. Her legs seemingly went on and on forever, her knitted top showed a glimpse of silky shoulders which begged to be held firmly by my hands. Her normally bare face was brought alive with a subtle touch of lipstick. The signals were far off the radar of my colleagues but I knew for sure that those gentle, hitherto untouched lips were demanding that I kiss them passionately.

Three hours later, while she was waiting for her father to pick her up I did just that.

As she scooted off in the direction of her father’s Ford Orion she called back to me.

“Can we meet for a drink in the week?”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes!

Four days afterward, I was stood outside the smoky pub that was for a brief while the social epicentre for everyone who was anyone at my Sixth Form college. Kate appeared looking sensational yet again, so thanking my stars I escorted her inside under the dark oaken beams and ordered a round of drinks before heading to a corner table to chat.

We talked, Kate still slightly awkward and shy despite the intensity of the previous weekend’s kiss. Despite my intentionally gentle banter, my veins were flooded with those squirming hormones that marinade in your underpants. I was in dammit. Being a nice guy got me in for once. Only an utterly hideous and unforeseen event could ever prevent me from holding her close to me and kissing her passionately again later on.

A hand clapped on my shoulder shook me out of my erotic waking dream.

“Hello PJM!”

I turned my head to see who it was and was relieved when it turned out to be a casual college acquaintance of Irish extraction with neatly parted hair and twinkling blue eyes, whom I’d occasionally conversed with at this very pub over Friday night pints

“You don’t normally drink here on a Wednesday night!” he smiled, in his familiar and disarming way that screamed “nice” to anyone within forty miles.

And then it happened.

“Kate, this is…”

And at that moment I saw her eyes flicker. They were still full of the same desire and flirtatiousness, but they were no longer looking at me. They were pointed toward my cleanly cut friend.

And that was that. Kate and I dated briefly, but we never kissed passionately again. I never did hold those silken shoulders in my palms or pull her towards me with my arm around her waist. We remained friends of course, which is why several weeks later she asked if I had my friend’s phone number.

To this day I still feel a twinge of annoyance whenever I see his face on television and my teeth grind when I hear his disarmingly nice patter to disappointed contestants and radio listeners alike.

Damn you Dermot O’Leary. You utter cunt.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:07, 9 replies)

Preeteen Crush
When I was a kid I went through a brief, but incredibly confusing phase of wanking off over pictures of Jordan Knight from New Kids On The Block that I found in my sisters' Smash Hits mag.

But that's not what this ones about. No, this is about a strange period when I was twelve when I became absolutely fixated on a very, very, VERY special lady.

Or, to be more precise, a particular photo of this lady I'd found in one of the many annuals someone had bought me for Chirstmas.

She was posed in a slinky little outfit that wouldn't have been out of place in Cabaret. Short mini dress, low cropped top, sparkly sequins, her hair was big and blonde and curly. And the photo showed just a glimpse, just a suggestion, of clevage.

And I was in love.

And I showed my love the only way a twelve year old boy can - I wanked furiously over this picture like a demon everyday when I came home from school.

I'd drop my books off in the hall, say hello to my mum, go upstairs and collect some bogroll, go to my room, open this special book to this special, super-glossy photo, and beat one out.

Then I'd feel ok and able to go back downstairs to watch Grange Hill and have my dinner on a tray.

But my routine was broken one day when I came home, went upstairs, grabbed some andrex (still the finest and strongest cum catcher on the market), went to my room and -

it wasn't there! My annual had gone!

In a foul mood and with my balls dragging between my legs, full of preteen sperm hammering at my testicles so hard it hurt when I walked, I went downstairs and enquired of my mum where my annual had gone.

She glanced up from cooking: "I had to throw it away - two of the pages were stuck together..."

Curses!

"Ohh, ok," I murmered, and disappeared cringing inwardly.

And nothing else was said about that special book, and shortly afterwards I discovered The Sun and never looked back - I mean, they had proper naked boobies in that shitrag. And they had a new fresh pair in there everyday. Horay!

Fastforward to this last Christmas. I'm sat round with my folks and my girlfriend and we're watching TV.

Suddenly my mum pipes up: "Oooh, Spanky - You used to really like her when you were little. Do you remember?"

And it all came crashing back. I'd completely forgotten.

"Ah, that's so sweet," said my girlfriend, Liz, reaching out to hold my hand, my wanking hand, I should add. Thank fuck she didn't pick up on the tone of my mum's voice.

And we carried on watching the TV, as Kermit the Frog performed a duet with the object of my effections, the lovely, the delectible, the downright sexy, Miss Piggy...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:31, 9 replies)

My attempt at devotion
A friend of mine is a bit celebrity obsessed. She goes to many conventions and her wall is plastered in photos of her hugging, kissing and "squidging" various famous men. I've always found her obsession to be kind of amusing, and so a while ago I made a challenge to her. Each of us picks one famous person and writes to them. Whoever gets the best response wins. I even set up a scoresheet:

No reply - 0 pts
Acknowledgement - 1 pt
Generic reply - 2 pts
Personalised reply (2 lines or less) - 3 pts
Personalised reply (3 lines or more) - 4 pts
A promise of a signed photo - 5 pts
A promise of a signed bit of memorabilia - 6 pts
Pants - 10 pts
Phone number - 20 pts
A date - 50 pts
Offer of sex - 100 pts
Offer of marriage - 1000 points

I had a trick up my sleeve. No, I'm not a particularly endearing person, and I have no real appeal in any respect. But I could improve my chances by writing to someone who was a) a bit quirky and b) not actually that famous.

I decided I would either write to Kristen Schaal or Joanna Newsom, since both fit the bill and both are extremely pretty, should my plan be *really* successful. In the end, I plumped for Joanna since I figured Kristen probably gets lots of quirky mail and Joanna, being a harp player, probably gets boring, pretentious mail, so she'd be more likely to notice my letter. I decided honesty would be the best approach.

"Dear Miss Newsom,

I am a masive fan of your music, and it is so refreshing to find a musician who is genuinely different and bold in her expression of her talents.

[I then went on to actually explain to her the rules of my game, and while she was probably happily spoken for, sending me a harp string or something would be great, because it'd mean I'd get 6 points!]

Oh, and please find enclosed a picture of a bin that's been painted to look like a cow. Isn't that wacky!?

Lots of Love

Me"

Suffice to say, I got nothing back. My friend, however, got the following email from Greg Proops.

"I'm afraid I can't post you any of my used underwear, since my wife is already angry at me giving so many pairs away. Sincerely, Proopdog."

I lost 3-0
(Tiny Blindfolded Horse Kitten sound car horns would end road rage, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 20:37, 3 replies)

My brother
Back when I was a youngster my eldest brother was my hero. He was so cool with his black clothes, crimped hair, eyeliner, skinny jeans and biker jacket. I looked up to him and emulated his taste in music, clothes and make-up. This led me to becoming a mini-goth and, having access to my brother's music collection, I became a huge fan of The Cure, The Jesus and Mary Chain, The Cult, Sisters of Mercy etc.

As I was still too young to go to gigs I used to stay up late when Drew went out, eagerly awaiting his return so I could question him and try to get an idea of what it was like to see a live band (what songs did they play? how close did you get? did you get to meet them?). He'd always have great stories about the ingenious ways he'd find to blag his way in for free and get backstage to meet the band, and he would always come home with some kind of souvenir, a towel, a setlist, a plectrum, which I would take in my little hands and shiver in awe at the greatness of holding such a valued item that only hours before had been in the hands of the gods. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to start going to gigs.

Fast forward a few years and I was finally old enough (well, I was 15 but could easily pass for over 18 if I applied enough of the old warpaint) and one of my favourites, The Cure, were coming to play in the Glasgow Barrowlands. We lived about 20 miles from there and I knew I would never be allowed to go to the big smoke on my own so I begged and pleaded for my brother to take me. Thing was, it was sold out by the time I heard about it and we had no money for tickets even if we had known earlier but a minor detail like that wasn't going to stop us.

On the afternoon of the gig Drew and I jumped the train to Glasgow and made our way to the Barras to see if there was some way we could blag our way in with the roadies. There were already loads of people queueing outside and there were a lot of security around that hindered our attempts to sneak in through the back door. We asked quite a few roadies but it seems we weren't the first to ask and they were unable to help anyway, they were under strict instructions not to let in the riff raff. I was disappointed to say the least but Drew wasn't disheartened, we went and got a bottle of cider and hung around outside the venue waiting for a miracle.

Several hours later and almost opening time we wandered up and down the (by now round the block) queue asking if anyone had spare tickets and wanted to take pity on us but to no avail. At this point the tour bus pulled up outside the main door and a dozen huge security guards formed a guard of honour between the bus door and the venue, holding back the screaming fans who'd just realised they were about to get their first glimpse of Robert Smith in the flesh.

I was trying to squeeze through the crowd with Drew so I could lay my own eyes on my hero when I suddenly lost Drew. A bit panicked in the crushing mob, I frantically scanned the faces around me and then I spotted him. My jammy brother had somehow managed to push through the security straight into the path of Robert Smith. I was dumbstruck! How the hell did he manage that? Being the cool individual that he his, my bro put out his hand and said "Hi Mr Smith, my sister and I couldn't get tickets for the gig, don't suppose you could put us on your guest list?"

Robert Smith asked his name and reached into his coat pocket. He brought out an envelope which he autographed and handed to my brother before pushing him aside and entering the venue. When Drew finally made his way through the security and back to my side he opened the envelope.

Inside were 2 tickets for the gig.

Length? he was pretty short actually...
(antigen is running away from something, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 5:02, 3 replies)

Not really THAT much a fan...
...but I'll tell the story anyway, as it's come up in conversation a couple of times recently.

I think my sons were about eight and nine at the time. I'm not sure why I didn't have my daughter with me, but for some reason it was just the boys and I that day. We had season passes, so we went up to Paramount's Kings Dominion for the day. (This place.)

We got there and rode a few roller coasters and such and were generally having fun, when I spotted what appeared to be Lieutenant Warf standing to one side in full uniform. I stared for a moment and he smiled and boomed "Would you like a picture with me?" in a basso profundo voice.

I approached, goggle-eyed boys in tow. "Well, normally yes, but I don't have a camera with me." I inspected him closely and lowered my voice. "Damn but they did an incredible job on the costume! Your makeup is fantastic!"

He grinned, and at that moment a pair of Romulans, one male and one female, approached from behind my sons. The male put a hand on each boy's shoulder, causing them to turn and squeak in shock. I grinned and said, "Come now, boys, show the Romulan captain some respect."

The Romulan smiled faintly. "It's Commander, but thank you... I have to ask, why doesn't your government want to talk to me? Don't they realize that I have five quantum torpedoes pointed at this planet at every moment? At any time I could put in an order and render the surface uninhabitable-"

I interrupted his speech. "Whoa, Commander. Hang on. You want to know what the problem is here? You're not happy enough."

Silence.

"Come, I'll teach you to be happy!" And I began singing the "Happy Happy Joy Joy" song from Ren & Stimpy and dancing.

The twenty year old kid in his costume looked like he was having a bad acid flashback, the girl kinda backed up like she thought I was going to get violent, and the Klingon was trying very hard to choke back the giggles. The boys utterly cracked up as their father danced around a circle, pretending to butt-bump an invisible partner.

After a thorough blue-screening, the Romulan spluttered, "Stop! Now! Go away! You're evil!" and stalked off, leaving the Klingon with tears running down his face as he struggled to regain composure.

We had a great time on the roller coasters, but it was kind of anticlimactic after that.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 16 Apr 2009, 22:52, 8 replies)

I asked the person whom has always been my hero to marry me
...she said yes, and we're getting hitched tomorrow (17/4/09)
( smokey bobinson westing by musket and sexton, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 22:34, 10 replies)

The whole FryLift saga
By day I do things to websites. One of the sites I do things to belongs to a certain Mr Fry. He'd been abroad filming documentaries for a while, but had expressed a wish to take us out for a bit of a "thankyou" do.

I was really nervous of clamming up and not being able to think of anything interesting to say (i.e. acting normally), but he was really very lovely. He took us up to the top of CentrePoint at Tottenham Court Rd. for drinks, and we spent several very pleasant if slightly surreal hours chatting away up there.

It came to the point where we had to be leaving, so we piled into the lift to leave the building. The doors closed and we began to descend the 30 or so floors to the ground.

Suddenly there was a jolt and the lift jerked to a stop and the door half-opened, revealing half a bit of wall and half a closed door. We were a bit stuck, to put it politely.

Stephen got his phone out: "I really ought to Twitter this" he said, and did so. He then kept us entertained by reading the amusing responses people were sending. Next, he got a barman who was stuck with us to take a photograph of us all stuck, and posted that to TwitPic. As you do, I texted several friends with the subtle "Stuck in a lift with Stephen Fry. Not joking."

After half an hour of waiting (which included me telling the world's worst lift joke: "A man goes into a hotel and asks for their cheapest room. He is led down the corridor and into a tiny room at the end. He goes ballistic: "I know I asked for your cheapest room but this is ridiculous! There's no window, no TV - there isn't even a bed! What do you call this?" The bellhop replies: "The lift") we were rescued and went our separate ways.

On the nightbus home, I rang my boyfriend to let him know we were safe. He informed me that there were now hundreds of Twitter replies, and even a Facebook group on the subject! Worse still, nearly every newspaper and news site picked up the photograph and we spent the next few days splashed across the papers.
(moogal has eggs, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:39, 6 replies)

It’s cold outside, there’s no kind of atmosphere…
In 1998 I worked for a few months at Bristol Airport in the newsagents and behind the bar. It was a really shit job but you did get to serve the occasional famous person. Most of the cast of “Casualty” came through at some point (especially the day they were filming there), Acker Bilk, Paul McGann (of Withnail fame) and various sporting types. To be honest I didn’t give a monkeys, it was interesting selling Paul McGann a Daily Mail as I had to fight the urge to shout “Scrubbers!” in his face (yes I know it was Richard E Grant who said it, but I always laugh at that bit).

One day I was bored out of my trolley manning the till in the departure lounge shop and I heard an unmistakeable Liverpudlian accent, I thought to myself “That sounds just like Craig Charles”. It was Craig Charles, “The Last Human”, Lister him-very-self. Now lets get one thing straight, I love the first few series of “Red Dwarf”, my older brother used to record them for me as they were on past my bedtime and I can probably quote various episodes line for line. This was a big deal for me.

He came into the shop and started browsing the books. I thought “sod it, I have to say hello” so I left the little cubicle I had to stand in and approached Mr. Charles with my hand extended…did he run away? Did he tell me to fuck off? Did he call his aide over to tell me to fuck off? No. He shook my hand and happily chatted to me for a few minutes. He asked me how Robert Llewellens book “The man at platform five” was selling; I informed him that I hadn’t sold a copy. He genuinely looked disappointed. I asked him what he had been doing recently and he told me he had just finished recording “Robot Wars”. Shamefully I said “oh” in a disappointed voice (I vowed there and then to watch the entire series). We even shared a joke when I pointed out that normally the security staff didn’t get off their fat arses, but since he had been in the shop they had walked by about ten times. He said he gets that a lot.

He bought a paper and left. I was on cloud 9. Craig Charles had taken the time to chat to me and he was a thoroughly nice guy. Just when I didn’t think he could go up in my esteem any more he came back in the shop and bought Robert Llewellens book. Class.

Sorry that went on a bit, but he really was a nice man and it made my day that he took time out to talk to a till monkey, especially when you consider the fact that he is probably mobbed by Red Dwarf fans on a daily basis. I was sad to hear about his drug problems and angry at the tabloids for splashing his misery across thier front pages.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:58, 13 replies)

Anvil's Terry Prachett story reminded me of this
I too cried when I heard TP had developed early-onset Alzheimer's Syndrome. He is absolutely brilliant. I met him years ago and I'll list an example of his quick wit:

I had stood in line for hours to meet him for 30 seconds and have him sign my books. At the time, my brother was policing Iraq and handled POWs. When I got to Terry, I told him he was very popular in Iraq-I had sent my bro a care package of Prachett Discworld books and once Bro was finished he passed them on to the POWs. They were hotly sought-after and passed from hand to hand. Bro requested more and would he please sign one addressed specifically to my little brother (remember, the one I thought captured Saddam Hussein).
He laughed uproariously at that story and said, "I can see it now:..." waving his hand in the air. He then pretended he was an Iraqi POW and blibbered.,"Ak mak lhoudani maloof amir RINCEWIND abber jabber makhakkkhhkkhhkkk!" and gave me a huge shit-eating grin.

I fell in love.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 20:37, 5 replies)

Stephen Hawking
He was a bit of a disappointment though. Wouldn't sign an autograph.
(I grew it myself, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 11:56, Reply)

I’ve taken Celebrity stalking to a murderous new level...

My quest is to create the ultimate superstar shag doll from the body parts of existing celebrities.

I’ve started with the head first, and so far I have managed to obtain one of the beady peepers from the lead singer of Ultravox, who composed the classic ‘Vienna’…

Then, to 'sex things up a bit', I've managed to extract the pointy, ‘bird like’ nose from the saucy latino singer from 80’s pop sensation ‘The Miami Sound Machine’…

It’s a work in progress...but that’s about as far as I’ve got. It’s just ‘Eye M.Ure, Beak Estefan’.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:06, 5 replies)

That Special Woman in My Life
I love her so very much.

It seems like I've known her all my life. I remember when we used to hold hands and go for long walks in the beginning. I remember the summer smells wafting on the air, the bees buzzing round us, the dancing dandelion seeds caught on the gentle breeze swaying before our eyes, and most important of all the sheer unadulterated excitement of being in her company.

And I recall the first times we fucked. It just felt so right, it felt better than with anyone I'd ever been with before and I knew from the moment I first buried my prick womb deep inside her that I wanted her to carry my child.

It just seemed so right.

And the really amazing thing is when I slide inside her now it still feels incredible, absolutely fucking amazing. Just the smell of her hair makes me hard. And the filth that comes out of her mouth, well, I'd be lying if I said that didn't help Mr. Stiffy Cock replace Mr. Floppy Cock for a few moments of frantic head banging.

I love her and lust after her, she's fucking amazing.

So I'd just like to say,

From the bottom of my heart,

With all the love in my mind and my body,

With every breath I breathe, with every pulsing heartbeat, with every incredible mind-blowning, earth-shattering orgasm she gives me...

Thanks Mum

You're one in a million.
( SpankyHanky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 0:41, 3 replies)

My then boyf, the current Mr Quar, kept in touch with his ex
and one day she gave him some Robbie Williams tickets, having chucked out her cheating husband shortly before they were due to see him.

This was back when Robbie was at his peak and my youngest daughter was 15.

So Boyf and I told her she could take whoever she wanted and we'd drive them up there and back, all for free.

Amazingly, Daughter didn't choose her bezzy mate to take. She picked a nice quiet girl she knew, Kim, who was obsessed with Robbie - did her GCSE art project on him, no less.

Although they weren't close she chose her because she knew Kim's ambition was to see Robbie sing live.

I arranged it with Kim's mum and then let Daughter give Kim the news, and all squealing hell broke loose!

So that's how Kim came to see Robbie at two days' notice, at no cost, with someone whom until then she hardly knew.

I felt proud of Daughter. Yes, you, little b3tan!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:31, 9 replies)

Anti-Fan Beehive-iour
I used to live in Camden Town on St Pancras Way, just near the turning for Jeffries Street where a certain singer with a penchant for rediculous beehive hairdoos, dodgy out-of-a-bubblegum-packet-style tattoos, and getting pissed and hitting random strangers lived.

Over the course of the year or so I lived there I grew to detest this individual.

Why?

Because of my flowerpots, that's why. Whenever she was in the news for her latest drink or drug fuled exploits of twattiness, the paperazzi would park out in my garden and take photos of her from a distance, fucking up my flowerpots - the cunts.

I like my flowers. They make me calm. They give me a deep sense of inner peace. And if any cunt as much as goes near them I'll go apeshit, rip off their arms and beat them to death with the wet end.

Anyway, one time my mates and I are sitting in a pub in Camden Lock. My mate Steve is at the busy bar getting in a round when in flounces this poor excuse for a singer, who strides up to the bar and knocks him out the way. When Steve goes to protest she cuts him dead with a slurred but venemous:

"Do you know who I am?"

Steve looks her up and down: "Erm, no..."

She was pretty pissed already and really didn't like this response.

Steve continued: "I know what you are, though - you're fucking rude! That's what you actually are."

Unfortunately the bloke behind the bar knew who she was and served her first. In protest my mates and I decided to go elsewhere for our alcohol-related shennaningans. To make matters worse, though, before we'd even stood up from our table the amazing most wonderfully talented singer of our generation and her mates did a full-on cuckoo, broke a cardinal sin of pubness, and dumped all their gear on our table.

- To a proud alcoholic like myself that's the equivalent of raping my mother while fingering my sister and calling me a cunt, to my face. You just do not do this. Its not part of pub etiquette.

We leave, in a foul mood. We had a decent window table and were pretty much settled for the night.

But then I hit on an idea.

When we're outside I bang on the window and get the attention of this darling and saviour of modern music.

And then I sing, "Why don't you fuck off back to rehab?" And my mates join in as I finish with a flourish of: "Just go, go, go..."

We did this a few times before somebody threatened to beat us up.

I don't go out drinking in Camden Town very often anymore.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 9:58, 4 replies)

"the 'lengths' you've gone to"?

Not even one.

Still, in my defence...it was a bit difficult to swim at the time cos my arse was ripped to pip.

and also, I was dead.

Love,

Stuart Lubbock.
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Wed 22 Apr 2009, 16:01, 1 reply)

Insulting Bob Geldof
The small town I currently reside in is also the home of Sir Bob Gelfof. Now, Sir Bob has lived here long enough that most local people are aware he is around and pay little or no attention to him. He gets no special treatment about the town, and has to queue up for his shopping in tesco just like everyone else.

Just after I finished school, my first job was pulling pints in a pub which was great fun. Sir Bob used to use this pub as his local as it is walking distance from his house. One evening as were just calling time and the punters were thinking about making their way home, Sir Bob sidles over and asks for a final pint for the night. No problem, pour his drink and place it down on the bar.

For some reason, to this day still unknown to me, rather than say 'that is £2.50 please' I just said in a slightly pleading voice and a not very convincing Irish accent "Give us your fockin' money!" The world stood still. I realized the gravity of what I had just said, I had just mocked one of the most famous charity fundraisers in the world. Luckily Bob cracked up and asked my name. We had a chat at the bar for a bit and after I finished my shift he invited me over for a couple of post shift beers.

We chatted about all sorts of stuff, including how I didn't really like the Boomtown Rats, thought Bono was a bit of a twat and how I am totally obsessed with Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' in which Geldof had a major part. I came in for a shift later on that week only to find a copy of 'The Wall' behind the bar signed by Geldof with the inscription 'Anthropos, I gave you my fucking money!'

Sadly a horrid pikey housemate stole my DVD and probably sold it. On the upside I still see Bob about town, he always says hi and remembers my name.
( Anthropos Was making beer on, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 10:29, 3 replies)

Victor Garber
ok, this is so queer I can't believe I'm admitting this in public....
So some of you know he was my neighbor for a few years of my childhood and was the originator of my answer to the QOTW's "The nicest thing anyone's ever done for me".

I decided to send him a present, one that reflected my gratitude and admiration. It had to be small or he wouldn't accept it, but it had to be personal and a work of art on my part. I am THE most uncreative person on the planet, so I chose hard labor and time investment as my contribution....


My friend has a herd of Merinos, sheep with gorgeous whisper-soft wool and incredibly stretchy wrinkly skin. Shearing them is a bitch. I sheared the sheep with an old fashioned hand shearer, washed it by hand, carded it, found someone to spin it, dyed the wool cobalt and tyrian purple myself(not REAL tyrian, but close) and am knitting a scarf for him. It's taken me fucking months!

I know, I know, it's stupid, but I can't think of anything else that accurately represents the depth of my feeling for him.

So if you ever see a papparazzi photo of him wearing a fluffy white, purple and blue scarf, I made that!
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 3:29, 3 replies)

BILL HICKS - Relentlessly Yours
My only real full on hardcore episode of mental fandom ended with a suspension from school, a meeting between the Headmaster and my parents, and the ritual burning of a shitload of gear in a metal bin in the garden (it was sadder than the end of Jedi when Luke burns the big metal cunt with the Ewoks looking a bit too much like characters out of Sesame Street).

I've been a four-eyed speccy cunt since I was about twelve. Apparently its hereditary and has absolutely nothing at all to do with the hours and hours and hours of one-handed cock wrestling.

At school other people had their heros: Gary Linekar, Peter Shilton; one lad even had a strange facination with Liberace - (it wasn't really a suprise when this camp as fuck lad came out in the sixth form). But I didn't have anyone to idolise.

And then one day while trawling through Channel 4 late at night, box of Kleenex and a tub of Vaseline at the ready, in the hope of catching the exciting bits of a Swedish art movie, I discovered HIM.

And he was fucking marvellous. And what's more, he looked quite alot like me, right down to the dodgy haircut and specs.

At last! I thought, here's someone who's almost as cynical as me! I watched in awe. I was so impressed I only switched over a few times in the hope of finding some random late night TV tittage.

My school worked along the lines of your average prisoner of war camp. The teachers were the Nazis, the prefects were the thuggish prison guards, and then there were the equivalent of the plucky airmen who'd try and conjure up ways to escape. And the role of 'fixer' was filled by my mate Terry Hopewell. I asked my mate Terry if he'd heard of this dark messiah, Mr William Melvin Hicks, he had! Fucking wooo! I also asked Terry if he could lay his hands on any of his material. At the time getting hold of anything recorded by Bill Hicks was about as fanciful an idea as receiving head from the Queen (and God knows I thought about that alot). And Terry said he knew a mate of his brother who had a copy of one of Bill Hick's gigs on tape, and he'd get me a copy. Fucking super-wootastic with a pussy-flavoured cherry on fucking top!

A few days passed and Terry gave me the copied tape in exchange for ten Silk Cut (we had a complex barter economy set up in our own private Midlands equivalent of Colditz).

And when I got home that night I listened to Relentless about five times. I was so incredibly blown away by this man, Bill Hicks, that I even forgot to wank.

And then over the course of the next couple of months I aquired every scrap of Bill Hicks memorabillia I could lay my hands on. Every bootleg tape of his gigs. Terry Hopewell was a great help in this - I imagine if he ever gets lung cancer it'll be partly my fault on account of all the fags I exchanged for this stuff.

And then I started wearing black. Lots of black. And walking a little hunched over. I listened to those tapes and every inflection of Bill Hick's voice. My bedroom became my church and my god was the venemous-tongued troubador from Valdosta, Georgia. He taught me to disrespect authority and take a shitload of drugs - and who says comedy can be bad for the youth of today?

Then one time in school I was quietly minding my own business, walking from lesson A to lesson B, when I felt a great big fucking hand grab my shirt collar and yank me backwards, nearly severing my windpipe.

It was Mr Hart - the deputy head.

"Mr Hanky - we allow guests to go through doors first in this school," he says. And then I noticed he had someone with him, some faceless twat in a suit.

Now, Mr Hart was a monumental bastard. He was a sadistic piece of shit, we used to call him Barbie; not after the big-titted, blonde haired uber babe doll, no, after Klaus, the monumental Nazi Gestapo cuntbag.

Feeling the pain in my neck and seeing that I was up against a fella who had well and truly fucked me over many times at school, I realised the game was up and I'd have to apologise and be on my merry way - there was simply no way to beat Barbie. You just had to agree with him and hope he didn't fuck you over with a months worth of detention or window cleaning duties.

And then I thought: What would Bill Hicks do in this situation?

And I looked at Barbie and his guest, some official from the council, probably. And I uttered the words with as much venomn as possible:

"Mr Hart - why don't you suck Satan's cock?"

And then the world blew up.

I was suddenly in more trouble than I've ever been in in the whole of my life.

After a few weeks of sitting round at home on suspension from school I was allowed back. Though one more fuck up like this and I'd be out the door for good. And to make matters worse my parents, bless um, made me pile all my Bill Hicks gear into the garden and set fire to it.

Very sad night, that was.

But hell, now I'm an adult and I can do what the fuck I want... Think I might spend this lunchtime trawling round Camden Market in the vein hope of finding something new for my pride and joy, my monu-fucking-mental Bill Hicks gig collection.
( SpankyHanky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:16, 9 replies)

TRIPLE SHIT
I didn't have sex with this celebrity, though I would've liked to have had a pop at her innards with the hot pestrami. But, alas, it just wasn't meant to be. She was probably the most famous woman in the world. Surrounded by secret service agents, mixing in different circles than my own - somehow I didn't expect to see her in the mosh pit at Rock World - she was a rare jewel and I was a walking, talking, masturbating turd.

Oh, and she was dead.

It was the fucking boiling hot summer of '97. I'd just finished Uni and was bumming round my parents place in Harpole, Northamptonshire. A fucking boring place. Notable only for its close proximity to the swanky stately home, Althorp House, home of the uber-toff family, the Spencers.

And this incredibly fit woman used to be a Spencer. And then she died fucking an Arab in France. (I don't think that actually killed her, it was more likely the car crash and the French love of alcohol coupled with kind of driving that makes Need for Speed look like a Department of Transport safety video).

When she popped her clogs people, strangers started turning up, asking for directions to the Spencers gaff. There were even Americans. Fucking AMERICANS!!! In fucking HARPOLE!!! It was all a bit weird.

If someone stopped and asked me the way I'd point them in the general direction and they'd fuck off. I had my own problems. At the time I was pining for the love of my life, a girl from Yorkshire who was, in retrospect, pig ugly, but she let me take her up the shitter regularly and gave head like nothing on the planet Earth.

I was completely lovesick.

On a particularly hot and balmy early September evening I was sat in the churchyard in Harpole. No other fucker was about. It was a quiet contemplative place, a place I could unwind and relax. And the recent addition of MILLIONS of photo's of the famous dead woman and flowers and cards of condolence only added to the atmos.

So I sat on a large slab of tombstone and used my new-fangled brick of a mobile phone to send dirty messages up the M1 to my girl in Yorkshire. And she'd send incredibly dirty, sawdid, and downright disturbing text messages back down to me.

This went on for a few minutes. I took a drag on my joint, feeling slightly high and increasingly more randy. I looked round. No fucker in sight. This is Harpole, I thought to myself. The village of the living dead - no fucker out and about at dusk.

So I knelt down and started to stroke my cock through my shorts, sending and receivng pure filth via text. I told my girl I was wanking. She said she was too. Fuck me! She said she wished I was there with her to suck her clit and shove my thumb up her arse. Fuck me even harder! Then, after a breif pause, she sent a text telling me she'd just had her mobile burried up her growler. FUUUUCCCCKKKK MMMEEEEE!!!

By this time I could feel I was about to spurt. I disposed of the joint, hitched down my shorts and felt the gentle kiss of the summers' breeze on my meat and two veg.

"Ahh, there's someone - he looks local..."

And I started to wank furiously, staring intently at the small LCD screen on my phone for the next dirty text message from my Yorkshire slapper.

"He's got his back to us, dear. He hasn't heard us...go ask directions, Hon..."

Eventually it came and so did I, sending a beautiful stream of ropey jizz in an arch, splattering down on some random flowers and besmirching a photo of a certain dead famous Princess.

"OH DEAR MOTHER OF GOD !!!"

I jumped upright, this American couple who'd sneaked up behind me jumped too.

And then they ran-waddled back the way they'd come.

I put my swaying, dripping cock away. As they legging it, puffing and wheezing, back to their hire car.

Shit...

Then I reassessed the situation and realised I'd been caught with my cock out masturbating over flowers, photos and cards of condolence for Lady Dianna a few days after she died, in a churchyard, a couple of miles away from where she grew up.

Double shit...

Come to think of it -

Triple shit...

Made me look a little bit, well, odd...

...I mean, we all loved the women, apparently, but that was taking it a little too far...





Oh, and I did once shag Ryan Giggs' girlfriend when I was at Uni in Manchester. Woo me !!!
( SpankyHanky, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 1:04, 8 replies)

Oh Jamie, Jamie.
I'm a big lad. I'm 6ft 2 & arond 19-20 stone. I'm bloody lovely & soft as shite but I do have that menacing look about me. Anyway, around this time last year, I was just leaving my local Thoroughgoods when 2 young kids were messing about in the doorway making it awkward to get out. "scuse me matey" I say in my chirpiest voice & turn to one side to let them in, they apologise & enter the shop & I turn back to leave. The next bit seemed to go veeeeeery slowly. Standing in front of me is there papa, none other than Liverpool legend & local resident Jamie Carragher! He's by no means a small fella, but when I'm standing on a step adding 8-10 inches to me & as wide as the door frame, even "Our Jamie" as brave as he is, looked like he'd just shit in his pants! We both stood in silence for the longest 2 seconds of my life! "Sorry Mate" I said panicking whilst trying to still look cool, & stepped aside. "Aaah, thanks mate" said Jamie, stepping inside... I didn't leave it at this. Trying (& failing) to be cool as fuck I say the gayest line ever "No Jamie... Thank you" just stop Dr Fishfinger, pretend you where taking the piss, he won't know! NEVER!!! The next bit capped off the the most bullseye-esque (good but shit) moment of my life... I patted him..... On the arse! Then I just walked away, he didn't say a word.
Apologies for length & shitness
(Dr Fishfinger Want's to see a fat man give a tit wank, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 14:18, 3 replies)

Oi! Bergerac!
Several years ago, I worked in one of those idylls which was often invaded by the production crew of Midsomer Murders. They’d park up their big vans and even bigger egos, stealing all of our parking spaces and forcing us to suffer the indignity of parking tickets. We liked them about as much as chlamydia.

So in one episode, I can clearly be seen in my office window making wanking motions while shouting, “Oi! BERGERAC!”

Still, it was the best shot they got all day, since my coworkers had the habit of getting their bums, tits and wangs out every time the cameras started rolling.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 11:53, 8 replies)

Big Brother's Little Patience
'Oi, don't you know who I am?', her shrill voice screeching over the inane ramblings of other patrons. 'I was on Big Brother. I'm a fuckin' star and you're gonna treat me like one by serving me next!'

Adele had never watched Big Brother. It would have made no difference if she had. With 3 people on the bar in a student guild holding 700 thirsty individuals, there were no shortcuts and intimidations going on. Reality tv fame or not, the lass was going to wait.

And wait the lass would not.

As the queues began to wind down, a vein of aggitation became more strikingly apparent in this customer's face as her fake nails rummaged in the tiny bag on a string to pull out the undeniable conversation-stopper of any student establishment: the credit card. A shining black rectangle of diminished responsibility and financial overindulgance. A tiny gateway into a much larger world of adult alcoholism. It's beauty was only outdone by its limit.

'Listen, I'm gonna get served now, gottit? Get yourselves some drinks and a few other people and let me go back to the dancefloor. The pin is XXXX.' With no hesitation, a complete stranger had now been given the details necessary for a finacial joyride. Clearly these shows don't attract Darwin's elite.

Calculating the possibilities for a swift and painful retribution out of the eyeshot of our cretinious subject, Adele signals the international sign for a drink on the house to me. God bless that project management course I went on with her. Very nice lady - not physically - but definately game for a laugh. A few seconds later, and I've ordered myself 3 pints.

Adele's industrial sign isn't as good as mine (I, unlike some, was taught in the subject). The 3 glasses asexually bred at an exponential rate. Signalling to come over to the staff entry section of the bar, 30 servings of liquid gold arrived in front of me over time after returning the gatekeeper of credit to its rightful owner, receipt-free.

I nearly pissed myself with anticipation. All these, for me? Even a bloke of my size could only take 10 or so without requiring a paramedic. The spirit of generosity had arrived early as I shuffled between the punters, handing out drinks with gless. Some were aprehensive, others thought I was a sex offender waiting to strike, while most were so thirsty they looked ready to blow me there and then for it.

One final trip and I'm face to face with the blissfully unaware reality tv star. She sees the free drink. She sees me. She does the maths.

'Ere mate, is that for me? See, some people know how to treat a celebrity!'

'No way love, can't you afford a drink or two after being on Big Brother?'

And off I fucked to get rounded and vomit violently into the cloakroom. Good times.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Mon 20 Apr 2009, 14:14, 4 replies)

Not my Beloved....
A couple of years back I was moving in a very arty crowd, suffice to say I felt entirely out of my depth and almost constantly made a fool of myself...nothing new there then.

One friend - the gorgeous and charming Eve, invited me out for cocktails one night. Eve is Australian and came over to the UK in the 90s when she was working in the music industry.

When I first met Eve and she told me she'd worked in music I assumed either it was classical music or more cynically that she'd worked for someone like HMV in one of their stores.

Er, no.

Turned out Eve had been a close friend of Michael Hutchence and had really been part of the celebrity circuit.

Wow.

I was completely in awe - of course I covered it up very well by allowing my mouth to gape and my eyes to turn saucer shaped as I slowly said, "Wow!"

To my credit I didn't ask any questions about oranges or Kylie - I'm far too cool for that. Instead I simply continued to say, "Wow" and add in the occasional, "That's amazing!"

Of course, I could match her in the celeb stakes - I'd been at Uni with Jon Holmes (not that one) before he'd hit Radio 4 and world stardom.

Eve was impressed - I could see that because she asked all about him - the usual stuff like, "So which Radio 4 programme does he appear in?" - The Now Show, actually.

Anyway, back to the story of cocktails with popstars....

Eve wanted me to meet her friend G - I'd love him, he was tall, dashing, huge fun and used to be in a band called The Beloved.
"Who?"
Eve mentioned one of their biggest hits - The Sun Rising. I nodded and pretended to look knowledgeable. At least I knew I'd be completely cool around him - I had no idea who he or his band were so I wouldn't look star struck. Excellent!

So we all meet up in a cocktail bar in town - just as Eve had promised, G was tall, suave, sophisticated, amusing and charming.
Meanwhile I felt like I was back at school - I was in the 1st Year again, eleven years old, wild frizzy hair, gauche and mouthy (moi?!). Eve, G and his friend (another musician, equally as charming, good-looking and so on) were just like 6th Formers - cool.

I laughed just a little bit too long and too hard at every minor aside they made, I nodded as if I knew what they were talking about when they discussed friends 'in town' (London dahling!). Fortunately I remembered to keep quiet about my celebrity links - rather easy really as I had none...well, if you don't count Jon, obviously.

Anyway, the evening draws on, we drink cosmopolitans, mojitos, and other such celebrity drinks - a real step up from my usual cheap white wine falling down juice. G talks about 'other projects' he's got going on....something to do with Radiohead.

At last!

Something I can add to the conversation!

"Really! Wow! That's amazing! What a coincidence! You and Radiohead..."

G turns to me, his sophisticated good looks dazzle me - more so in my posh alcohol stupor - "Yeah? How so?"

Here's my chance to fit in with the cool kids - all my life I'd missed out - wrongly of course - on mixing with the cool kids, being one of the cool kids. Now was my chance.

"Er, yeah...Radiohead..."

All the cool kids' eyes turn to look at me. My moment of coolness has arrived.

I'm sitting having cocktails with people from the music industry for god's sake! Me!

"Yeah, Radiohead....you're doing a project with them and I've....um...I've got two of their albums."



I don't see much of Eve these days.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 21:13, 5 replies)

Mike Patton
Went to see Guns and Roses years ago and Faith No More were the support along with Soundgarden. I am a huge fan of Mike Patton and as we neared the stadium a bus pulled up beside us and some inebriated long haired blokes reeled off it...To my amazement it was Faith No More. I decided to take a chance and ran up to Mike Patton and said "Giz a kiss!!" Next thing I know I have a hand on my arse and a tongue down my throat.......I am still reeling to this day.....swoon...
(Antizan Doling out the happy pills...., Sat 18 Apr 2009, 15:53, 6 replies)

‘Outed’ by the power of bass.…

As part of my havoc strewn and misspent youth in the late 80’s, I spent way too much of my time hurling myself chin first into an unswervable admiration for the crap Scottish rockers ‘Simple Minds’

A couple of my mates felt the same unashamed blind love for every lump-of-shite twanging anthem they produced.

We were smitten. Simple as that.

As soon as we were old enough to go to one of their gigs (mid teens), we signed ourselves up (at great expense) to cover half of their British tour with them.

We would hang around after gigs and we met them a few times. They signed every record we owned, whether it was one of theirs or not.

The singer and guitarist were actually pretty nice guys. You’d imagine that they would be the ones with the biggest egos but no, they were ok and had time for everyone. Patsy Kensit was nice, too. The drummer, on the other hand, was a cast iron cunt-brick who barely said a word to anyone post-gig, he would just leap straight into the back of his chauffer driven Range Rover and fuck off past us all.

My favourite band member however, was the bass player of the time. A guy called Malcolm Foster. A brilliant musician, he would wander out post gig, and once he recognised us, would escort us to the hospitality beer and hand out souvenirs. Top bloke. On one occasion I asked my accompanying mate to take a picture of Malcolm and I together. We tried to do the ‘Rock’ manly handshake thing but I messed it up a bit so it didn’t look quite right.

In fact…to the untrained eye, it seemed to resemble a lover’s photo of an awkward looking man and a teenage boy holding hands as they gazed adoringly at each other.

I was blind to this. Malcolm & me = mates. That was it. My joy was unconfined.

With a song in my heart and a spring in my step, I lovingly carried this photo around in the heart-shaped ‘special memories’ photo section of my wallet.

For about a year.

I displayed it with utmost pride to everyone I saw…and never once spared a thought to the mutterings around me whenever the picture was on display.

It was only in a busy queue at ‘Greggs the Bakers’ one fateful afternoon...when it was time to for me to pay, I opened my wallet and someone glanced over my shoulder, spotting the 'snap-de-lurve' and ‘tutted’ disapprovingly…

This caused me to look again at the photo…and then slowly experiencing the painful, crushing epiphany...the realisation that for literally months I had been carrying around a pic that was the supreme epitome of uber-gayness.

It suddenly became so blatant to me. So obvious. For all intents and purposes, he may as well have been pushing his bass slapping thumb so far up my marmite motorway that he could tickle my colon.

My face almost caught fire with crimson shame. I’m not homophobic, people…just very.easily.embarrassed

And my whimpers of: “It’s not what it looks like…he’s a bass player” only served to compound their scornful glances further.

I then did the only thing I thought I could…I angrily ripped the picture out of my wallet, scrunched it up and threw it in the nearby bin…merely making everybody suspect that I had just been dumped by Malcolm, and their subsequent looks of pity only served to make the situation worse still.

I cringe even now thinking about it.

The thing is though …I really wish I’d kept that photo.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:28, 5 replies)

This machine from the factory where I work
makes a terrible humming noise, which sounds like "I love...Throbbing Gristle...I love...SPK...I love...Throbbing Gristle...I love...SPK..."

It's a huge industrial fan.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 1:37, 1 reply)

Trash
I'm a big fan of Scottish/American band Garbage. They were the first band I got into under my own steam, and Shirley Manson's probably the reason I have a thing for redheads.

I got into them around the time of the second album, their biggest release. I didn't manage to see them live until 2001 for their third album and even then, the two gigs I saw them at were my first and second ever gigs. At that time I didn't think I'd ever get to meet Shirley and settled for enjoying the gigs. In the four years between tours, while the band went on a break, briefly split and reformed, I was off seeing other bands live and realising that if you hang around long enough outside gigs, you can generally meet them.

When Garbage came back over in 2005 they played a small, fan-club only show at La Scala in London. I got there at midday and was halfway down the queue to get in. After the gig I left sharpish to hang about around the back of the venue; as the crowd was made up of even bigger fans than I I was not alone and only got a scribbled autograph on an album cover. I wanted to actually get some time to talk to Shirley and tell her the effect she'd had on my life.

As soon as the proper European tour was announced I booked tickets to the gig in Amsterdam. Despite never have flown, or been to Holland, or knowing any Dutch, I decided that would be my best chance to talk to her. Unfortunately perusing the message boards I found out that a large contingent of the same hardcore lot would be there as well. How could I guarantee an audience?

A few weeks prior to the gig I was mulling over this question when I remembered the only person to get more than a few words with her was a chap who had a tattoo of her face on his arm. Obviously a similar thing would be a bit weird and stalkerish (yes, I realise at this point it's a bit pot-kettle-black) so I plumped for a symbol from the cover of the single that got me into the band. Surely that would do the trick, a permanent reminder of my love of the band?

£20 and a sore arm later, I was sporting my second tattoo, and hoping it would heal in time for the gig. Luckily it did, and the trip to Amsterdam went well. The gig was as good as the previous ones and after the show I waited outside with a handful of others. Given the scarcity of the crowd and my new ink, she was as good as mine. I even held back and let others harass Shirley as soon as she came out the dressing room, safe in the knowledge that I had a great talking point.

Finally she noticed me lingering on the edge of the crowd. We made eye contact and I sauntered over, casually dropping my jacket and rolling up my right sleeve.

"Hey, Shirley, look at this!" I cooly said.

She looked at my tattoo.

She looked at me.

"Yes, and?"

She left. I felt like a huge prat.
(jamesthegill opens new tabs with his scroll wheel, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:18, 15 replies)

1st page!
I'm so slow...

But, right, a story.

My coworker is a big fan of Spiderman - he even has a tattoo of the logo on his arm. A bit out of place on a late-30's family man photographer with social skills and a well-paying job, but there's a reason for it.

Before Mark (name changed to protect the geeky) decided to become a photographer, he had spent years training to be a graphic novel artist. He was pretty damn good, too. He even got noticed by Marvel - and not just noticed, he actually got a job offer with them, a multiple-comic contract for his own subseries. He would be the principal artist on an entire Spiderman comic book, with options to continue if he did a good enough job. Little known fact - each principal artist that has ever drawn Spiderman is given the task/honor of drawing his spider logo their own way, which is the official logo for every comic they create.

If you were a huge Spiderman fan and were offered a chance to draw an actual Marvel Spiderman comic for millions to buy and read, your name top on the credits, and Spiderman himself wearing the logo you designed, what would you do?

...He didn't take the job.

At the time he was halfway through college, with a serious girlfriend/future wife, and decided he would rather continue his education than take a job offer that would force him to drop out mid-year and move across the country.

He tells me he's happy with how his life has gone - he has a beautiful wife, a son, and a decent job - but the Spiderman logo he got tattooed on his arm forever represents that road not taken - taking that step past fandom and into creator itself.

Great guy, he is. The office would be so much more dull without him.
(TheManWhoWas SlightlyKnackered, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:04, Reply)

Fred Dibner
An erstwhile mate of mine was once walking down Radcliffe road in Bolton with a couple ofhis buddies, when they happened to see Fred Dibner in his garden.

"Ello Fred1!" shouts my mate.
"Awright lads" replies Fred and walks over - cup of tea in his oily hand.
"Ohh.. Tah Fred" says mate cheekily, "Don't mind if I do" and makes a joking gesture as though assuming the Tea was for him.

Fred apparently chuckled, said "Cheeky bugger", and handed the tea over to my shocked mate. Fred then enquired as to how the other two liked their tea, and nipped inside to get 3 more cuppas.

They sat on the side of the road talking about steam-power and how sad the demise of the mills was... and then said polite and grateful goodbyes and went about their ways.

I'd like to think that oneday I'd be as chilled and approachable as Fred - albeit without the celebrity status.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Wed 22 Apr 2009, 9:26, 6 replies)

Most Wanted Musician


There I was, off to Edinburgh for a couple of days. It was nothing particularly glamorous, a bog standard trip which thanks to the peculiarities of my job meant that I would be spending it in various art galleries, museums and at least one trip to the Whiskey Museum. Now my golden rule with any type of travel is this: Remember what it was like being a kid. Remember the excitement of just being in an airport, of getting on a plane and remember the rush of take off. Hold on to that childlike wonder and try to remember what it was like the first time your company actually paid for you to visit somewhere, where they paid for a hotel and dinner and drinks. Man, this is all awesome stuff! Never let familiarity take the shine out of amazing things. It’s like flying, people sit there and read, or watch movies or sleep. Dude, look out of the window, we’re flying! Flying FFS, our ancestors dreamed of this for millennia!

Now I know this is a digression, but bear with me it helps to picture the kind of mood I was in. I’d landed in Edinburgh, had a successful first meeting and had decided to walk back into the centre of town. My phone rang, it was my partner in my *other* ventures, the art and creative stuff that lets me cling on to the last vestiges of impetuous youth and separate me in my mind from the salaryman I need to be for my family.

“Voodoo, good news, Mark Millar just called. He finally got your message about being in Scotland, said he had a great time at our last meeting and has invited out for drinks. I’m getting on a plane and I’ll meet you in Glasgow.”

This was PERFECT. On the off chance this would work out I had arranged a meeting the next day in Glasgow and so the company were footing the bill for a hotel, and naturally I had ‘accidentally’ booked a twin. The meeting he was referring to was when we interviewed him for a show we were putting on about British comic art, and when Mark had agreed to be the patron of our art programme. Now one of my comics heroes doing that was pretty much incredible, but being invited out drinking was just possibly the greatest thing to ever happen.

Walking back into town I had my strut on, a sense of childlike excitement, the sun was out and what was this? My Scottish Trip Garbage playlist had just come on. Life was indeed good and I could already taste my celebratory pint. As I strode down the street I began to pay attention to my whereabouts. I was coming up away from Leith and remembered that I had heard Shirley Manson was from that part of town.

“And talking of Shirley Manson, wow, look at her”

Walking toward me was my perfect kind of indie girl.

“Look at her! All knee high boots, shirt skirt, slim perky body and working my way up is that red hair I spy and wow she’s stunning she looks like……Bugger me! It’s only bloody Shirley Manson!”

It was indeed the prefect day. And dammit if I wasn’t going to say hello, I was fizzing with confidence and I’m a nice polite well dressed (today) chap, hopefully she’ll take it the right way. And as I changed my step to walk toward her she caught my eye, I began to pull out my headphone and try to relate in a few simple expressions and movements that “hey, I was just listening to a track of your criminally underrated album, Beautiful Garbage and what a surprise..”, and as I began to smile I noticed the old lady beside her. They were both carrying shopping bags, and if you took away Shirley’s heels they were of the same height.

“Shit! She’s out with her mum. It doesn’t matter how polite I am, that would just be rude”

As the mental gears turned (and it’s amazing, these paragraphs took place in a matter of seconds) I properly took in the scene. Behind her, following at a respectful/optimum stalking distance was a motley collection of fan boys/girls, freaks and the strange. (You know, Garbage fans). In an instant I understood. She had been out shopping with her mum, one or two had probably spotted her and called their mates, and bit by bit she had accumulated an entourage of the peculiar. All of them too scared to actually come up to her. But if I stopped her, broke through that barrier the poor woman would be mobbed.

I glanced up at them, I looked at her mother and this time tried to convey “Oh bugger I’m sorry I didn’t realise you’re with your mum, I don’t want to interrupt you have a lovely day”

I was rewarded with the biggest, warmest most genuine smile topped off with a little wink. And then in my book was worth a million oddly stilted fan boy street stops. I was elated, I had done a good thing for one of my all time crushes, been smiled at and swept through the following nut nuts like the king of all geeks.

My day just couldn’t get better. Until that was I made it to Glasgow met up with Millar and at 2am drinking scotch in some backstreet bar he told me his mate had shagged her, that she was filth and indeed did take it up the wrong ‘un.
(voodo_kinky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 15:30, 5 replies)

Wrapped around his finger
There was a band a while back that, for a brief time, I'm not ashamed to say I was obsessed with. English singer, who also played bass. First saw them when I was in New York. In a short time, I owned all the records, and could sing all of the songs almost exactly as the lead-singer sung them. I knew when to pause, when to hold back a line, I even knew when every breath he took between lines was.

Well, time passed and I became even more of a fan. I started turning up to all their shows; I became some kind of crazy zealot fan. Every night they stayed, and played a gig, I'd be watching them. They were a pretty hard working band, so it was pretty much every single day. The live show started to get a bit repetitive towards the end though. I'd know every word he'd say, and every move he'd make on-stage.

The band started to have trouble, and it was pretty obvious that soon they'd be releasing their last album. I thought that the singer could do with my support. Eventually, I decided to write to this singer and tell him my feelings. I told him how, no matter where he played in the future, I'd be watching him.

Fucker took my letter and turned it into a song. I hate Sting.
(bob the floating widget, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:24, 1 reply)

Note to self
Next time you find yourself sat next to footballing legend John Barnes on the Virgin Pendolino service from London to Liverpool, it is not advisable to sing "World in Motion" under your breath for 2 hours.

Nor is it appreciated when said footballer leaves his seat to then lean over to the chap across the aisle and bellow "Let himself go a bit, hasn't he."

Just saying...
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:41, 5 replies)

"Can I buy you a drink?"
A friend of mine has a story about meeting Richard Harris in a pub and buying him a drink. It's a funny story and it's not mine to tell, but the thing I learned most from it is that rather than going up and gushing and being generally fanboyish to your heroes, if you want to say hallo then offering to buy them a drink by way of quiet thanks for their work/entertainment/heroism etc is usually appreciated.
Living as I do in central London, I sometimes run into famous people whilst out and about. Most are, of course, twats, but some are people whom I like and respect and who have entertained me enough over the years that I reckon I owe them a drink in return. So it is that several celebs including Dave Stewart, Ian Hislop, Dwight Schulz (another story I may tell, as it's one of my favourites) and John Cleese have had an unexpected drink bought for them by a cheerful stranger who didn't hang about. I reckon it's what I'd want people to do if I was famous.

Anyway.

He was standing outside the convention hall. He'd been surrounded all day by unwashed geeks who all wanted a piece of him and I figured that he probably didn't want disturbing. He was having a few quiet minutes and a cig to mellow out before going back in and so I hung back in a frenzy of indecision. I wanted to say hallo and offer him a drink, but he appeared so happy to be on his own for a bit.
This was someone whose work I'd been introduced to when I was seven years old. It was, at the time, a revelation and astonishingly his own work kept me entertained for the better part of twenty years until it was finally superceded. He'd been responsible for more late nights, more jokes, more laughter and probably more arguments than any other single influence in my entire life (Including booze. Maybe.). When I was small or even a teenager, every new product I saw with his name on it was a guaranteed doorway into other worlds.
In the end, I thought that the worse that could happen was that he'd say no, so I wandered nonchalantly over.
"'Scuse me?" I said. "Can I buy you a drink?"
This was plainly a line he hadn't heard yet and he looked at me, a little nonplussed.
"Why?", he asked.
"Because you've been entertaining me ever since I was seven, and I reckon I probably owe you one by way of a thank you."
He looked at me over his glasses. "No, you can't", he said. I started to turn away. "But I'll buy you one."

He was lovely. Friendly, avuncular, and obviously only too used to dealing with people like me who had a story or two to tell and a joke or an experience to share. He told me a few himself. It was great, and somewhere inside, my inner seven year old was dancing about with glee.

He died a couple of years later, which made me sad. But at least I got to say thank you and, in return, Gary Gygax bought me a pint.
(davywavy, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 9:45, 6 replies)

Adonis & the Boiler
My boiler broke down recently; gurgling and spluttering like Boris Johnson receiving a Jeremy Paxman grilling on Newsnight.

I called my letting agents and they sent a young emo lad round to fix the fucker.

I made him a cup of tea and chatted to him while he tinkered away on the metal box in my kitchen.

"So what music do you like?" Followed by. "Seen any good films lately?" And so on. I even asked him if he worked out as he looked pretty buff - obviously I did this in as manly a way as possible. Then there was an awkward silence when we caught each others eye. I realised, with utter fucking horror, that this lad thought I was chatting him up. So I stopped and went into the living room to put some incredibly heterosexual music on the stereo and keep the fuck out of his way. Unfortunately my girlfriend, Liz, had left on of her discs in - so for a few paralysing moments Abba filled the flat. Fucking cock-sucking ball-bobbing, muthering take me up the shitpipe Abba. I stopped the cd player as quickly as I could and put on some manly Tool. Yeah - I even thought about asking the lad how gay he thought I was now, but thought better of it.

After a while I hear: "ALL FIXED, MATE - JUST HAD A BLOCKAGE IN YER VALVES."

I make my way to the kitchen, "Cheers, buddy - don't know how I can thank you enough."

And just as I said this I tripped over his coat which was lying on the floor.

And he was bending down sorting out putting his tools back in his toolbox.

And what with him being more fucking Emo than those cunts out of Lostprophets, he was wearing the standard emo uniform of baggy skatepants, which had - through the course of his endevours - slipped a bit.

And as I tripped and fell I saw his hairy arsecrack loom into view. It was like the scene in Star Wars - I was Luke in the x-wing, this fella's plunging buttocks was the Death Star trench. I hoped to God I wouldn't find his weakest spot.

But I didn't.

Thank holy mother of fuck.

Instead I ended up planting my nose neatly between the top of his sweaty arse cheeks and sort of sticking there, quite involuntarily, I took a sharp intake of breath.

He jumped.

I jumped.

He grabbed his coat and toolbox and fucked off sharpish.

And I was left wondering if the maintenance people would be on the phone advising me not to hero-worship the strapping young adonis' they send round to sort out my flat in the future.
( SpankyHanky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 17:23, 3 replies)

There was a boy
A ten year old boy.

We’ll call him…well…we’ll call him Scarpe, as he is the valiant yet tragic hero of this sorry tale

It’s Friday night, he’s flicking through the Radio Times. And then he see’s it…on ‘Saturday Superstore’ the next morning….someone he adores, someone he just knows he must meet.

But how? He knows he is supposed to be visiting his Nan & Granddad the next day. His parents wouldn’t understand, they wouldn’t take him all the way to that there London on the off chance he could make his dream come true.

So he starts to plan. He goes to bed at 9 without even being asked. He even brushes his teeth without argument.

The lights go out and he starts to fiddle with his new digital watch. He sets the alarm for 5am and tries to sleep.

But he can’t. It feels like Christmas Eve. His stomach is full of butterflies.

5am comes around and he gets up, gets dressed in the dark and sneaks out the back door. He edges his way round the garden, avoiding the automatic lights.

But a light snaps on.

He freezes, he’s about to get caught.

But no…no one wakes up, and soon he’s out on the street and free, free, free…

An hour later he has made his way to the train station, he’s queuing to get a ticket to London, he is so close to meeting his hero he can almost hear their voice saying hello to him.

And then a hand clasps his shoulder.

He turns and comes face to face with his Dad.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re going? I’ve just followed you all the way here’

And our hero is marched all the way back home in silence, tears streaming down his face.

Hours later he is sat, sulking, at his Nan and Granddads house, watching forlornly as the lucky bastards on the telly who are asking questions and getting answers from the object of his affection.

The jealousy is overwhelming. He starts to sob again, he can’t control his tears.

And who, you may ask, is the focus of this love…nay…adoration…nay…worship?

Nik Fucking Kershaw.

(I swear, I am straight, I really am)
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 17:03, 4 replies)

Gerald Durrell
When I was young, my biggest hero was Gerald Durrell. I read everything he wrote over and over (actually, I've just been rereading them all for the first time in years and still loving them). I mentioned this to a friend of ours who worked as a researcher on a Saturday morning kids' show. She said 'Oh my god, you should write in - we've been wanting to get him on the show for ages'

So I wrote in. The show had a 'dream come true' spot - a Jim'll Fix It clone where kids could write in and get something they always wanted. A few weeks later my mum told me they'd written back to say I wouldn't be getting my dream come true, but Durrell would be coming on the show and would I like to go? Which I naturally did.

The show was bloody awful (my biggest memory is being told during the commercial break that they were going to be playing some music when they came back in, and they wanted us all to pretend to be headbanging to it). And then came the Dream Come True bit, and I was astonished to see my face on the screen and my name read out. My evil mum had lied to me - and you could clearly see my mouth going 'what the...?'

So they flew us out to Jersey for a four-day holiday, and I got to be shown round the zoo by the great beardy one himself. He was lovely, and I was a precocious child with an incredibly posh accent. I got on the Channel Island news and said some cringeworthy things ('You said you'd really like to go on a collecting trip with him but you didn't think it would be possible, why's that?' 'Well, these things are really expensive, you know? And also I don't think I'd really have the time'). But all in all, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me.
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 9:45, 4 replies)

Red Dwarf
About a week ago i went to go and see the Red Dwarf crew (minus Lister) promoting thier new three-part special, and i waited around for three hours before they got there so i'd have a good chance of seeing them.
Not that impressive, but it's the most i have done to meet someone like that.

( Scrambled Edd www.eddsworld.co.uk, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:49, 8 replies)

When will I be famous...?

This is sort of the 'anti-christ' of this week’s question…

The following harrowing tale tells of the lengths I went to in order to avoid the semi-aryan, blond, leather-jacketed, bell-end-tastic, twins-and-another-one 80’s pop ‘phenomenon’ that was …Bros.

And how I (epic) failed.

I used to work for a newspaper, and regularly rode the roller coaster of bliss and misery that was to meet the supposedly superior race that apparently pass for modern day celebrities.

Every now and again it was a joy to behold, I have many good memories and could drop names until my arse turns inside-out. But sometimes it was a curse – I would have to meet and greet, and in the name of good media relations, fawn, brown nose and butt smooch my way in a vain effort to obtain some vaguely writable content from some seriously smarmy, simpering shitcakes.

But nothing prepared me for the day my editor discovered that none other than Bros, the illustrious insult to music and purveyors of sugar-flavoured-spunkbubbles, were about to hit my godforsaken city with a whimper.

What made it even worse was…this wasn’t in their heyday…oh no, this was when they were ‘past it’…clinging to fame’s last threads…way after they had successfully ejaculated their collective royalties and advances, before deciding they were 'too big for the greedy management and record company’ (that had got them success in the first place), and that they were to blow the remaining wad of their non-existent talent on ‘work to challenge their artistic integrity’. Dear god.

For the love of Jumping Jesus Jizz on a Jaffa cake.

I begged and pleaded with the editor to get someone else to cover the story. I feigned illness, offered bribes and said I had other appointments…but it was to no avail. I was assured that I could ‘fit them in to my schedule’ because as part of their self-promoting pap-a-thon, they were going to visit Mercia Sound, the radio station not 100 yards from the newspaper offices. Doh.

So inevitably, the time arrived, and with a face like a freshly raped arse, I stomped miserably next door and waited for their ‘fashionably late’ arrival. As I stood by the car park I was at least expecting there to be a throng of some sort but it was so sad…there were about 12 people…if that…and no serious commitment made on any particular fan’s part…it was just a mild smattering of folk who had grown up and simply forgotten to ‘let go’ and move on to a similarly mindless worship of somebody like ‘the Backstabberstreet Boys’ or some other crusty plate of wank fluid.

Eventually, they pulled up to the building…and it was a sight to behold.

Gone were the days of Limousines, champagne and wall-to-wall minge-biscuits, they were driven to the Radio station gates in a Ford Granada.

Despite looking old for their years, and wracked with the healthy glow you can only obtain with years of serious drug abuse, they strode out, insisting on making ‘sweeping’ gestures with their arms in order to deflect the ‘waves’ of adoring and gagging-for-it young split-arses…that simply weren’t there. They still insisted on being divas, going out of their way to push past people.

As if I didn’t despise them enough already.

After refusing autographs for the couple of indifferent people and passers-by, they made a bee-line for me, despite the fact I was hiding round the corner of a concrete pillar to avoid them.

What had I done to attract this attention? I was holding a pad, a pen, a camera and my press badge.

One of them tugged on my sleeve and with an arrogant snarl he said “Heeeey, you”, grasping at any opportunity of extending their ‘fame’, even if it meant getting a quote in my meagre rag.

They continued: “What’s your question?”

I tried to think.

“Erm…” I replied despondently. I couldn’t think of anything to ask them.

They simply couldn’t tell that I didn’t want to be there. It became painfully apparent that they, too, were finding it difficult to detach from ‘The Glory Days’…

“Well, what is it?, come on man, we’re busy” They pressed further, yelping impertinently…(possibly thinking that I was to starstruck to speak).

Shocked by the scenario, I thought long and hard…how could I quickly get this over with? Delving deep within my subconscious I stumbled across a question that I was hoping they’d not been asked a million times before. Looking one of them square in the eye I spoke:

“My Question is…….Why?”

“Why…what?” asked the slicked back mongoloid, the veins now visibly bulging in his forehead in frustration at my obvious lack of man-muck spurtage at merely being in their mighty presence.

I then replied stoically…whilst shaking my head:

“Nope…nothing else…just……‘Why?’”

This seemed to somewhat disgruntle the stumpy peroxide covered cuntwits, and they replied with a quote so self-absorbed that it made my ankles swell.

“Oh, fuck off”, he snorted. “We haven’t got time for twats like you, we’ve got music to make!”

I recoiled in faux horror….“I’m sorry?” I said

Instantly, he rolled his eyes, sighed loudly, and began to repeat his insulting sentence, spitting the words back at me : “I SAID……”

And then I cut him off with:

“Oh…I heard what you said……I’m just sorry”

The two brothers then had an almost psychic connection as they performed an earth-trembling collective ‘Harrumph’ then shoulder barged past me and strutted into the building like out-takes from Saturday night fever.

I understand they’ve sorted themselves out now…which is good. I hope that was just a dark patch in their careers. But if it took somebody to sit them the fuck down, give them a firm shake and tell them to stop being such selfish pre-Madonna prima donnas, to pull their shit together and have some respect for ‘normal’ folk, then that person, in my humble opinion...is the hero.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 23 Apr 2009, 9:37, 6 replies)

Aphex Twin
“Pass me my squeezebox”.

“You what Richard? Your squeezebox?”

The Twin looked at me like I’d just done a poo on his best curtains and told me that yes, he wanted his squeezebox. Something to do with a tune.

The man’s a nutter- he’s my milkman and lives in a run down house near the ring road. This one time down the pub he’d been on the Gold Label, got drunk and puked in an ashtray- we’d never seen such chunky vom. The landlord got him to his feet and promptly barred him.

Later that day, during a hurried game of Dynamite Dan on my beloved Spectrum Plus 2 128k, I got a phone call.

It was the police.

They’d found him naked and painted blue, wandering near the woods. He was in the car, they were on their way round here.

They arrived at the door. Richard was blue and had a copper’s helmet covering ‘Stephen and the Twins’. He shivered, looked down the length of his nose, winked at me and continued squinting at me through his left eye.

I signed the paperwork and sent the policemen on their way.

“Such nice fellows!” I thought to myself.

Richard farted and told me he could read my thoughts. Nerds would never be reintroduced in sweetshops- Jawbreakers may have made a long overdue return, but Nerds, well, Nerds was a no fly zone for sweets fans.

I’d been thinking about crisps- Discos in fact, and the strangely named Frisps. He was close with sweets so I let the mistake pass.

I shed a tear and put the kettle on.

I returned and he was mumbling. Cheesesocks? Jeyecloths? What was it? I leaned in closer. Squeezebox!

I passed it to him, gave him my housekeys and turned my back on him.

I never saw my milkman again.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 19:28, 4 replies)

It began in 1965
It was a balmy autumn I first caught a glimpse of the woman who would take my heart. There she was on the front page of the newspaper, her beautiful blond hair framing her delicate yet alluring face. She was quite the nations obsession, yet I felt a real connection with her. In fact I became infatuated, and set about devoting the next 37 years of my life towards meeting her when she would fall in love with me and we could finally be together.

Her hair reminded me of all the big American singers of the time, her dark come to bed eyes looked into my soul from every picture I could get my hands on. I soon built up quite a collection of pictures and articles which I would pore through to learn as much as I could about the blond bombshell. I would lock myself in my room when mother and father were listening to the Archers and neatly arrange the images in a semicircle on the floor. I would then get naked and kneel in the centre before slowly manipulating my member betwixt my thumb and forefinger into a state of arousal, engorged with my ruby red blood, the veins popping out at the side as the cock ring worked its magic and made my mushroom head strain at the skin in whence it was contained, with my ample foreskin slid back over and hugging the rigid shaft of my love truncheon. I would spend every evening in this state reading and learning every little thing I could about my heroine before plunging myself down upon my hand crafted anal invader and fwapping my cum cannon until i would shoot my load over her face. Being in the mid 60’s I didn’t have access to a laminator, but I can vouch that carefully spread layers of man milk dried at room temperature will create a varnish like protective layer on magazine and newspaper clippings.

After her initial thrust into the limelight she disappeared for a few years. In 1972 a relationship with her then boyfriend nearly turned into a marriage but thankfully that didn’t happen, I could still become her first and only husband. After coming that close to losing her to another man I started writing her letters. In these letters I would detail explicitly how she made me feel, how it came about that I could not get erect without having a picture of her in front of me and how I could not ejaculate unless her baby blue eyes and face where on the floor awaiting the eruption from my pump action shotgun. I would outline my wildest fantasies to her, how i wanted her to tie me up and have her wicked way with me, teasing me before impaling herself on my luncheon truncheon. She never replied to my letters, sometimes I even suspected that she didn’t read them or even get them, but I kept sending them, deep down knowing that she savoured every word of my prose and confident that she would lie in her bed at night with 4 fingers inside herself. I used to wait outside of where she lived but she never seemed to come or go from her house. Still I hadn’t met her.

Almost 20 years later, in 1986 she make a huge comeback, and the British public once more took her to their hearts, she was more mature now, and a haunting look in her eyes once again beckoned me to restart my ritualistic bouts of self love. I tried to get to meet her on several occasions, but could never get close, the press were always hounding her – it was like a witch hunt, I for one don’t know how she could deal with being in the public eye so much, I think it might have sent me a little crazy, but not her. After her initial resurgence she floated in and out of the public eye over the next few years. During this period I started suffering from erectile dysfunction and my daily seed spillage ceased. Slowly my infatuation waned and the regularity of my letters was interrupted, a weekly offering turned into a monthly note.

In November 2002 I wrote my last letter to her, 30 years I had written to her and not so much as a reply, she must never have loved me or she wouldn’t keep me waiting all this time.
Then.
The.
World.
Stopped.
I first saw the news when I was in Hull on an excursion with my Mother. A Heart Attack. Overnight. Nothing they could do. She was DEAD!

My world collapsed in on me, even though I had convinced myself she didn’t matter I now knew deep down my love for her was the strongest it had ever been. The emotional connection I had with her had transcended all manifestations of physical love, yet now we could never be together, I would never be able to hold her in my arms, never be able to withdraw my member from her anal cavities before plunging it down her throat in an attempt to make her gag on her own faecal matter.

I spent the next 4 years in mourning, coming to terms with her death and her absence from my life. In August 2006 I wrote her one last letter, in it I poured my heart, every inch of my soul before also emptying my seed from my now working again phallus into the envelope and sealing it. I posted the envelope with no name on it. Dropping the envelope into that postbox I came a little in my pants. A little part of me died that day, but the healing process sending that letter triggered has allowed me to move forwards, and slowly day by day I have rebuilt my life. My mother died in October last year, and I am now alone in this world, but it gives me strength to think that some day, when my time comes that She will be waiting for me and we will meet at last and spend the rest of eternity together. I only hope, that somehow she will know, that when we meet I will not have to utter the words, ‘Myra Hindley, I love you more now than I ever have, let me fuck you pink.’
 
(little lord muthafuckin fauntleroy, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 17:10, 6 replies)

Ashamed of Surrey
Maladicta's post on page 1 prompted me to post this. I have a confession to make.

I am a Final Fantasy fangirl.

It's all my first boyfriends' fault. I went round his house one day to see him playing FFVII on his PlayStation. I sat there for about half an hour before deciding "bugger this for a game of soldiers" and leaving. Leaving, in order to go down to the nearest Electronics Boutique to buy a PlayStation and copy of VII for myself, since the selfish bastard wouldn't let me have a go.

Since then, I've become Squareenix's bitch, and a lost cause in the process. I've collected the entire catalogue, with the exception of XI which was the online PC one, as my bank manager would no doubt draw the line at another MMORPG. I've completed them all, as well. Many, more than once.

I've raided Forbidden Planet to collect the Square Arts action figures. I'm only missing the Advent Children version of Tifa. This fact drives me nuts.

I imported a rare plushie Gold Chocobo from Japan, which has pride of place in one of my rooms.

I bought the jewellery sets (Tidus' ring, minature sword etc).

I have doujinshi featuring my favourite characters (mainly Vincent from VII as I'm a sucker for the moody bad boy type).

A Christmas or two ago, my boyfriend bought me a cosplay outfit of Lulu from FFX. I've worn it.

The clincher came when XII was released. There was a big launch party at HMV on Oxford Street, the game designers were going to be there, there was a cosplay competition, free goodies, the works. As I work a stone's throw from the store, I was, what can only be termed as "over the moon, Brian". I had my costume, it would be fan-fucking-tastic. Except that my company got me a late deal and booked me on a training course. On the day of the launch. Fucksticks.

I couldn't get out of it, and ended up missing the bash. I was distraught. But cheered up when Mr Kitimariana came over with a signed copy of the game, special release soundtracks and postcards, as well as numerous photographs. In spite of not being int the thing like I am, he braved the crowds to get me as much as he could. Bless.

One last tale of slavish fangirldom. I was sitting on a bus minding my own business, when I suddenly notice that the guy sitting next to me fiddling with his PSP is playing VII on it. He's doing OK - going through the Cosmo Canyon part, coming up to the boss in the Gi caves. I'm watching over his shoulder you see, desperately trying to seem like I'm not. It's hopeless. I lean over and point out that he'd have a much easier time with the boss fight if he used a Megalixir, and has he thought about arranging his Materia in THIS way as opposed to THAT way?

I'm sure he thought I was a bit demented. He may well have been onto something.
(Kitimariana, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 17:15, 12 replies)

Marr-velous
lad I know bumped into Johnny Marr in a 24 hr garage and amazingly had the presence of mind to say "Eh Johnny, there *points to garage* is a light that never goes out."
(cymrococh, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 13:33, 1 reply)

Rolf Harris
As a straggly, goofy 10 year old I was really into animals and was a massive fan of animal hospital.

My parents took me to a dog show at Earls Court as was the extend of my lame-ness. Anyway Rolf Harris was there at a meet and greet type thing and I joined the line with glee.

He was perfectly nice but the whole thing was a little rushed as it was getting late and he had seen loads of people by the time it was my turn. I got my autograph and a photograph and was on my way.

Later, as we were leaving, I spotted Rolf chatting to some people by the entrance. I, in my oafish manner gawped at him in slack jawed awe whilst being dragged away by my parents. Rolf spots me suddenly and puts two fingers to his head and gives me a wink and a salute which is- for those of you who are for some reason unaware- the way he ends Animal Hospital.

It was the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me.

The End. I have since met Pete from Big brother at The Volks and stroked the lead singer of The Musics hair.
(Eldoofus, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 21:41, 3 replies)

People are crazy!
When I tell them that my greatest hero and favourite person in the world to hang out with is my mother, they think it's sweet.

When I tell them that I'm related to Joan Jett, they think it's cool.

Yet when I stalk Joan Jett and insist that she's my mother, suddenly I'm a criminal!
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 15:32, Reply)

I'm your biggest fan
Dear French White Wine,

I'm your biggest fan.

I don't care for the Austraillalian kind - far too high in alcholh and therefore makes me vomit rather quickly. No one likes a gal who speaks to the big white telephone on the phoen to God.

Bugger.

Not that wine has anything to do with that.

Although it has. In the past.

Ahem.

Yes, wine.

Wine, I love you, yes I do.

But only the French stuff becasue it's like cat's piss on a weak night.

And I'm a cheap date that only requires a couple of glasses.

I was once told (about sherry, as it was) that with one glass one felt under the weather.

Two glasses and one was under the table.

Three glasses and one was under the boss.

I'll add another one to that...

Four glasses and udner anyone.

Five glasses and on the floor, head down loo and waiting to die.

Now I'm jsut hoping that some kind mountain biker has made up the bed so I can pole dance around it and then colaspe in a drunkedn heap.


White wine, I love you.

From

Your biggest fan,

Chickenlady.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 23:03, 4 replies)

When i was 16
My auntie held quite a senior position at a very famous London department store, managed to get me 2 weeks work experience. Coming from a small town in the midlands the thought of working in London was the most exciting thing to ever have happened to me.

This store hadn't had any work experience people working there before so I was like 'the new kid' and was shown all sorts of brilliant things and also given info when a celebrity was in the store.

I would get a call to my office with the location of a celebrity then race through the secret back corridors to said location.

One day I got a call telling me Robbie Williams was in the store. As a 16 year old girl I was so excited, I was a massive Robbie fan at the time (this is quite hard to admit). The location given was 'the pharmacy'. I ran so fast to get there, I popped out of the secret door and saw him wandering up to the counter to purchase some items. I wondered how I could get closer to him without alerting his attention. I grabbed a pocket pack of tissues off a shelf and stood behind him in the queue. I couldn't believe it, Robbie Williams was less than 30cms from me, oh my god!!!! I couldn't believe it, I was just wishing my friends could see me!

I was sweating I was so nervous. He then stepped up to the counter to purchase his items but also started asking for some information from the pharmasist. The following conversation he had with the pharmasist changed my whole perception of celebrity in the space of one minute.

"I need some help, I keep shitting myself everywhere I go, I keep shitting in my hotel room and just covering the bed with my runny shit, I had a girl with me last night and she woke up covered in my shit, please can you give me something to stop me shitting?'

Instant dissapointment and disgust at this now small little man from stoke standing in front of me. All mystery and celebrity aura had vanished. He then turned round and shouted at his mate Jonathan Wilkes

" Get some jonnies in for tonight mate"

And that is how Robbie Williams smashed my teenage idolisation of all celebrities, they all shit and all of it stinks!
(laplaplap if you buy me a gift don't ask for it back, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 22:22, 2 replies)

I didn't go anywhere
they came to me.

I was working in Waterstone's in Islington as a summer job in 2003. Among others I served Nick Hornby and Alan Davies, but the highlight of that summer was another occasion.

It's a busy Saturday and I am running around like a blue-assed fly trying to sort everything and serve customers at the same time, and it's getting me a little irritated.

Mind you, even when I am irritated, I'm still irritatingly polite.

Anyway, I am rummaging behind the front till looking for an order form or something. My colleague to my left is serving a man and his wife, and in the queue behind them is a rather pretty girl.

I stop looking for the order form and make myself available for service while looking inquiringly in her direction, you know, the way you do when you want to attract someone's attention without actually saying anything.

She doesn't come over, so I call out "Hi, can I help you?". She really is rather pretty, in a very short skirt with milky-white, slender legs, curly brown hair and a quintessentially English face.

She looks up with amazement, then realisation, and says in the exact voice I have heard a thousand times, "Oh no, don't worry, I'm just waiting".

I get that shiver. You know, the one where you realise something just a minute too late.

It's fucking Hermione. It's only sodding Hermione Grainger. The under-age, completely illegal Emma Watson. And those two buying books to my left are her parents.

My brain struggles desperately to marry the concepts of Famous Person + Very Pretty Girl + Way Way Underage & Therefore Totally, Utterly Completely Wrong.

It fails and I instead self-flagellate later to get rid of the unclean thoughts that are still coursing through my head.

She was 13. Oh god.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 14:08, Reply)

This should've gone in last week's, sorry,
but it's too good not to share.

A lad my daughter was at school with - they're now in their 20s - got in a fight last year and most of his nose was bitten off.

Now he's had plastic surgery and happily goes clubbing with his new prosthetic nose, which glows white under the UV light.

Makes him easy to pick out...
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 13:13, 4 replies)

Friends in low places
My wife swears this to be true and because she's my wife I believe her. It’s also my favourite meeting your hero story.
Mid 90's Ireland was a strange place. In such strange places and times the cretin Garth Brooks was able to sell out huge shows night after night.

Anyway Mrs Monkey had a school pal who adored Mr Brooks. Adored. The girl was infatuated. Like I say mid 90's Ireland, strange place. Garth Brooks is playing Dublin that week. Luckily for the "Garthlover" her daddy was quite the bigwig with contacts with the promoters. He arranged for the Garthlover to meet the Stetson wearing turd after the gig. Lovely for her.

Come night of the gig she sings her heart out from the front row. All the time thinking of the moment when she'd get to meet her hero. The more she thought about it the more the nerves started to jangle. However she put it to the back of her mind and enjoyed the gig.

The gig ended. She's brought back stage and is told to wait outside Garth's dressing room with black clad security guy. Now nerves really do set in. The excitement! The tension! The person she adored more than any other was the other side of a door.

Finally they're just ready to bring her in when the security guy sniffs the air. He wrinkles his nose. Garthlover goes crimson and looks at her shoes. Now there's an even stronger smell and Garthlover spins away from the security guy, away from the door and runs (waddles) away.
Yes. She had well and truly shat herself. Bizarrely she felt compelled to share this information with her school pals on the Monday morning. I just wish she’s held her nerve and subjected Brooks to the type of steaming shit that he subjected upon us for too long.
(jackdonaghy has a special helmet, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:37, 3 replies)

My letter to Chris Barrie
Dear Mr Barrie,

Firstly I would like to say what a huge fan I am, being 23 I watched Red Dwarf whilst quite young (and possibly when my parents weren't looking!). I've been influenced by the humour massively, and love the show, I can honestly say I had tears in my eyes when Rimmer left.
I'm not one to do this sort of thing but I was wondering if I could get a signed autograph?
Being a boy with no arms has been hard, I am, in fact, typing this with my nose and a cleverly constructed stick attached to my forehead made from drinking straws that I found behind the bins where I live. Who could have known such a find would be so useful? The straws even helped me to kill the mice I caught for dinner by using them and some gravel like a jungle blowpipe.
I know you are a very busy man but this one little favour would mean the world to me, with a signed autograph of yourself I could finally take down the Craig Charles one I currently have pinned to my cardboard wall and use it for a pillow, a plate, maybe even a shoe for my one foot.
With your face to encourage me I think I may be able to fight through the infection currently eating away at my eyesight, I just know I could do it.
I'd like to thank you for being such an inspiring character in my life, I feel that when I watch Red Dwarf through the window at the local Dixons even for a few moments before the security send me hopping, my life has meaning.
If you could do this it would be wonderful, I have one friend in the world who would gladly pass the photo on (if you find it in your heart to send one) and funnily enough he is called Sauronwibble, which is my name too!

His details:

Sauronwibble

Thanks again, I'd better go now the lady from PC world has called security and I'd better scarper.

The response:

10-10 for effort.

Chris will really only sign stuff at his appearances as he feels it is more
meaningful that way...
Chances are very slim... but I will forward this on....

Ben (Site Admin)

pissflaps
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 13:11, 1 reply)

I once cried on my birthday,
First and only time. No, not because my birthday cake was ruined. No, not because nobody showed up to my party. No, not because some drunken lout threw his kebab at my face.....oh no no no. For these were tears of joy - my mum, for my birthday, had managed to get me a birthday card signed by my most adored football star in the world, Peter Beardsley.

Yes, that's right. Peter Fucking Beardsley. Read it and weep, fools!
(The Oscillating Gibbon is eating curried squid, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 12:19, 8 replies)

The other side of the velvet rope
Weird one this, but bear with me.

Back in the early 90s, I worked for a charity that promoted water safety (RLSS). If any of you have your "Bronze Medallion" for jumping into a swimming pool fully-clothed and retrieving a brick, it would have been via these people.

Based on an idea I had, we did a tie-in with Sega, with "Ecco the Dolphin" teaching kids water safety. Produced a video with Chris Evans (cock, only did the work when given a stack of cash, even though it was for charity) and Baywatch.

Two of the stars of Baywatch - Yasmine Bleeth and Jaason Simmons - came over to the UK to promote the video, which was given (free) to every school in the country.

I got to stay with "the stars" in London during the week of promotional activities. At the time, Baywatch was the biggest TV show on the planet. 100 million viewers in 80 countries.

It was very strange seeing things from the other side of the fence, so to speak. Jaason was a lovely guy, but this was his first big break and as the new series featuring him in it (he was the Australian one with tattoos) had just come out, I was with him whilst he experienced his first moments of fame.

I remember us all having a meal at the Hard Rock cafe, and fans crawling under the table throughout the meal to emerge at his side to have their picture taken.

Spending 90 minutes in car, just myself and Yasmine Bleeth (at the time, one of the top ten most beautiful women in the world, according to the lads mags) and my God, she was boring company.

Getting so "refreshed" with Jaason that he had to crawl out of my room on his hands and knees to get to his bed.

Being guests of honour at Stringfellows and seeing the desperate wannabees there who would do anything to get into the limelight. At the end of the evening, I turned down the invite to a party with Paul Hutchence and Kylie etc. because I was so sick of the whole celeb. thing.

So it saddens me that the ambition of so many is to be "famous". I've experienced second-hand what it's like, and believe me, it ain't all that. They are people, just like us, with the exception of the more fame they have had, the less reality they know. It almost is as if the photographs do suck their soul out and leave a vacuum - Yasmine B. had been "in the industry" all her life and frankly was like an animatronic Barbie doll and really boring company.

Jaason came back to the UK to see me some months afterwards and was great company.

Fame though - aspired to by idiots, and generally achieved by the same.
( I_Was_Mordred, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 12:16, Reply)

Ive got one to beat them all
The Competition ends here.

I met ....


Mr T.

a very nice man he was too.

I have a photo, somewhere at home.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 9:46, 9 replies)

Not me.... but my sister.....
My sister has always been a helpful person, so, when she saw someone looking lost on the streets of out local town, offered to help out. She takes him where he's heading to (some slightly upmarket bar place), they get chatting, and he mentions that he's going to be on the Top of the Pops thats on telly that afternoon.

Now this was a fair few years ago, and my sister was into various pop, including Savage Garden (who I even grudgingly admitted were not too bad). Darran Hayes, one of the members, had just changed style from being rather long haired to short haired, and looking completely different in the process.

You can see where this is going.

She watches, being somewhat taken by this random person she met (though he was a fair bit older), is somewhat dissapointed when she can't see him in the crowd for the first few songs.

Then Savage Garden come on.


I could hear the shriek from the attic.



Hope she's not on b3ta
( Tedium Alduce me to interlow myself., Thu 16 Apr 2009, 22:33, 4 replies)

Does it count if it's not me?
I was at a show with my mother, who's a bit well known for writing books. No, really. I was on the stand at a show, explaining books, selling things, and generally answering questions from the passers by.

A woman came up to me and started going on and on about how great the books were. She went on and on, then started into some great speech about how she just adoooooored my Mom and all her works, and how she'd just die if she ever met her. I'm just basically nodding. She asked me in awed tones if I'd ever met her. I had to admit that I had (who'd have thought it, I've met my Mom).

Finally, in tones of awe, she said that the best thing ever would be to actually meet her. At last, she shut up, and I got a word in edgeways.

"Today," I said with a big smile, "might just be your lucky day."

I reached over and tapped Mom on the shoulder. She'd been standing next to me all this time. All I said was: "Mom - another fan for you" and went to help someone else.

She didn't die, but it was a near thing, apparently.
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:22, 1 reply)

Bernard Cribbins
I once saw Bernard Cribbins. I said "Its Bernard Cribbins!"
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 11:57, Reply)

I've been a Doctor Who fan for as long as I can remember.
So, when the chance arose to actually go see one of the actors who has portrayed him I jumped at the chance. My mate informed me that Colin Baker was appearing in a play in a local theatre. The Trial of a Timelord boxset had not long been released and as I was thoroughly engrossed in it that made him the Doctor at that precise moment. I knew nothing of the play but we thought the tenner admission would be worth it just to get the chance for an autograph afterward (as it happens the play was one of the funniest things I have ever seen).

The problem came when the lights came back on and we all started to leave the theatre. "Shit, our train comes in ten minutes. Is it worth missing it for this?" Well, I'd gotten this far so I may as well. Clutching a Revelation of the Daleks DVD I make my way to the stage door. Another thought rushes through my head - "Has he already left?". Then another "What if they don't let us in?". "What if he refuses?". I can't say I'm skilled in the fine art of autograph hunting, so anxiety was building as we stood there, me trying desperately to stop the DVD slipping out of my increasingly sweaty hands.

Finally, out he comes. Colin Baker is a massive man. I'm quite tall, but I still felt dwarfed by him. Now I've got to get an autograph and a photo without blurting out anything embarrassing. No quotes, no Who questions, just get him to sign the DVD, thank him and leave. It's the moment of truth. Is he going to refuse?

"Excuse me, Mr Baker?"

Luckily for me he was a very nice man, very patient and quite happy to chat to us. But then I snap - I've got my autograph, I want a photo too, but the extra adrenaline from the relief of him not being a colossal bastard now causes me to stammer in the most Porky-Pig-esque fashion imaginable.

Then it gets nightmarish. My friend also wants a photo and hands me his camera. And I'm shaking. Physically shaking. I just about manage to take the photo without reducing it to a massive blur. I've never been like this meeting anyone in my life. God only knows what bizarre transformation had occurred within my brain, transforming me from regular human to vibrating fanboy extraordinaire. I think Colin was a bit confused by this behaviour too.

"Wow, if you're like this now, you should meet Tom. He's the really popular one," he jokes.

I stammer a "thank you" and we turn to leave.

He too walks off in the direction of his taxi and as we both turn the corner a group of girls in fancy dress walk past us all. Robot fancy dress. All cardboard and tinfoil.

"Are these with you?" Colin jokes once again.

"Great," I think, "Not only have I made a twat of myself but now he thinks I have an entourage of Cybermen."

He gives us one last smile and disappears into the night. We did indeed manage to catch our train and get home safely.

I'm glad to say that meeting Sylvester McCoy a few months later went a lot better, although I did hand a big black marker pen to him wet end first, which was an utterly stupid thing to do.
( shovelboy This is bad - Two minutes to Belgium, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 10:28, 2 replies)

Stusut79
I've never really been a fan of anyone... I could write about my brother: I'm still a fan of his, but now that he has a kid and a wife my cheerleader outfit is no longer needed, and he tires of signing autographs...

No, My heroes are more the underground type.

I loved Stusut. I even offered him a herring once.

I used to lie awake in bed wondering how he'd churn out such poetic train-crash-esque mental images and how he painted pictures that the mind marvelled at yet the eyes didn't want to see.

Week after week he'd top the charts: Intelligent debauchery mixed with poetic flatulence. It was the stuff of dreams... and then he disappeared.

...And then SpankyHanky appeared. Eternally dripping with his own come while masturbating and waving politely at the grannies in the tea-shop of life.

I read his stories and make bawling noises of happiness such as would issue from a Sunshine Variety bus / Petting-zoo collision

If he ever leaves us as Stusut79 did, I will probably stamp my foot.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Tue 21 Apr 2009, 7:20, 11 replies)

Wasn't really showing devotion, but...
One of the kids brought in Paul Daniel's home phone number and address which he'd somehow acquired. I remember us all stood round the payphone giggling like idiots while one of the lads put 10p in. This was 1998, way before the Credit Crunch.

He calls. Debbie McGee (I assume. It was definitely a female) answers. "Is Paul there?" he asks. She says yes, he's in the garden and waddles off to get him. Mr Daniels himself comes on the line.

The conversation goes a bit like this:

PD: Yes?
? : Paul?
PD: Yes?
? : Paul, you'll like this!
PD: Will I?
? : Yeah!
PD: Go on then, MAKE me like it.
? : But not a lot!
* click *

Not the most inspired gag to pull on him. He probably got fifty calls a week like that. So we're all chuckling our heads off. This was sophisticated humour to us. I thought my uncle's Chubby Brown videos were the pinnacle of comedy.

Next thing, one of the other lads pops up with his local pizza shop number. (Where did he get this? I never though to ask.)

A phone order is promptly made for six cheesy pizzas to Mr Daniels address. Of course, we'd never know if they got there or if they realised beforehand.

One of the lads observed "It's hilarious to think that Paul Daniels will open his front door and say 'Fuck me, pizza!'" There was a pause and then he said, "Mind you, it'll be even more hilarious when the door opens and the pizza delivery dude will say 'Fuck me, Paul Daniels!'"

Paul, if you're reading this, Norman owes you cash for that pizza. I think he's on Friends Reunited.
(mingeswingers, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 23:15, Reply)

Beware of geeks
Back in the misty days of yore when I was a PhD student I went to the annual SIGGRAPH conference in the US of A. SIGGRAPH is the biggest (and most academically prestigious) conference in the computer graphics world - think 45,000 geeks in attendance, a full research conference agenda, a trade show, evening events, cinema screenings, Holywood effects houses, and... free bars.

It's easy to get invites to the best parties if you're a girl and have the right contacts. Tick! And Tick! And so I found myself at many of these swish booze-ups over the week: publishing houses, alumni groups, SFX studios - you name it, they had a party for it, and usually a matching (XXL) t-shirt too.

I discovered frozen daiquiris. I found they went well with margaritas. I forgot to eat. Who needs actual food when you can have icy strawberry-flavoured sustenance? I did what I do best - I got well and truly langered.

Thing is, it being such a prestigious conference, the gods of the graphics world are there in force. I spied mine: a man whose work I had been studying in depth for the past 2.5 years, a man who knew more about displays that anyone else, a man whose brain I needed if I was to finish my cutting-edge research, a man who reduced me to awe-stricken wonder. I had a mission! I had a target!

And so I approached him, veering drunkenly across the room under cocktail-influenced navigation in exactly the way that an F-14 Tomcat wouldn't. I may have gabbled something like "your work is amazing and I am trying my very best to emulate and continue it" but what actually came out, drunken and slurred, was "I thought you'd be older. With a beard."

His wife laughed. He smiled benignly. I left to be violently ill and lost my nose stud while vomiting down the toilet several hours later.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 15:06, 8 replies)

Not devotion so much as harrassment
During the height of the Anita Bryant-OJ scandal...
For non- Americans, this was about the mid '70's and AB campaigned to strike down a pro-gay statute in Florida. Gay people were then specifically denied the right to: adopt children, be protected from losing their jobs because of their sexual orientation and lost other protections. She got this passed in several cities, but the backlash caused her to lose her job. She sank into camp retro and went right down the toilet.

So anyway, a couple years afterward we saw she was headlining a sleazy dinner theatre near us. A big gang of drag queens, flaming Friends of Dorothy and I went to see her. We applauded, cheered, whistled like mad. She was tickled pink, that is


UNTIL....


she came up to us after the show to "meet her fans" and realized exactly who these beautifully dressed men and "women" were. You could hear the quotation marks in her voice when she said the word 'ladies'. The guys fawned over her to her increasingly obvious discomfort and finally asked for her autograph. Clearly she didn't want to, but couldn't figure a way out of it fast enough.

Big Rhett (who was wearing my clothes better than I could frowny face)squeed over her like a fangrrl and gave her a big wet smoochy kiss for the autograph, whereupon everyone else did, too.
We left clutching valuable autographs in our hot little hands, leaving her covered in about 12 different shades of gaudy lipgloss and fuming.

We had so much fun!!
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 20:23, 3 replies)

As I couldn't afford to buy his book
When I met Stephen Fry I'd spent all of the last night and morning baking him some bread. I'd had dough left over from the bread I made him, so that was my breakfast that day. I hope he enjoyed the bread as much as I did.

When I gave it to him he called me sweet. That made me so very happy. It still makes me smile.

I should have asked for his signature in my sketchbook but I was too shy.
( Rev. Cleo still alive, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 15:24, Reply)

Slytherin Pride
First of all, the fact that I'm posting any of this here is solid proof that I'm in a very strange headspace today, and will probably deeply regret it tomorrow. Oh well.

I have no interest in celebrities whatsoever. Or reality. I really mean that. I can't think of a single media luminary that would cause me to turn rabid-fangirl, should I see them in the street. Except for Stephen Fry, and that's only because I'd be forced to jump on him until he did his impression of a gay German for me ('Oh, wo ist mein handy? Ich habe mein handy verloren') ... but I digress.

I'm a strange creature, and the subjects of my hero worship are all fictional characters. Yep. I'm not going to list them, but every single one is an irascible, acerbic, not-conventially attractive, misanthropic wanker. I'm really not sure what's wrong with me.

Consequently, and as one such example, I am a Draco Malfoy enthusiast. That's putting it mildly, to be honest. It's lucky for him that he's fictional. (And yes, I realise that makes little to no sense). I'm not even going to start in on the fanfic thing, really; it'll only make things worse.

Devotion is one thing. Unconsciously turning into object of said devotion... disturbing. Caught myself in the mirror yesterday - pretty short, bleached-blond hair; black clothes; green and silver scarf. Erm. I really don't know how that happened. Still went out anyway, fuck it.

On a side note, I highly recommend a Slytherin scarf. Keeps you warm and puts the fear of god up most small children within a ten-foot radius. You can then make eye contact, smirk and wish you'd brought a bit of wood to point at them.

... for the same result with middle-aged shoppers, try a cheerful rendition of 'Springtime for Hitler', as I found out last week in the soup aisle at Marks & Spencers. To my delight.

I shouldn't be allowed near people, should I?

(n.b. If you know nothing about the whole Potter thing, and therefore feel 'wtf' about all of that, then rest easy... you are a much, much cooler person than me).
(Samara Morgan is a small blue thing, like a marble or an eye, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 0:54, 11 replies)

Tom Baker
As can probably be told from my username, I have a certain affliction. It's something I managed to supress for a long time, but which has come to become more prolific as the years went on (separating from a long term partner, and suddenly finding you have your own place and own money to spend will do that).

So, in the mid nineties, (about 1996 I think - I can't be arsed to go and check), Tom Baker released his autobiography and did a signing tour of Waterstones branches across the UK. Fucking brilliant! I noted the date, and figured I'd get myself down to the Metrocentre in the evening to have a copy signed. And perhaps even a buttock. I didn't care.

As the weeks ticked by and the great day came ever closer, I got more excited. Tom bloody Baker! The best Doctor ever! And I was going to meet him and shake his hand and ask him all sorts of probing questions that he'd probably never EVER been asked before, like "What was your favourite monster?" and "What was it like shagging Lalla Ward?".

And so the day came; I finished work, drove straight through to the Metrocentre, cursing the slow moving rush hour traffic. I parked up, and maintained as calm a walk as possible as I sauntered through the malls. And then the branch of Waterstones loomed in front of me, tantalising me with its Baker-y goodness. This was gonna be sooooo cool. And I stepped inside the shop...

...Which was virtually empty, save for a few people browsing the shelves. What? Surely I'm not too late; the notice definitely said from 6pm.

I checked my watch. Yep, 6pm on the nose. maybe he's not here yet? But no, surely there would be a queue?

And then my eye was drawn to the date on my watch and realisation sunk in... The fucking signing was the day before.

I really can be a complete spaktard at times.

There were, however, several signed copies on sale in the shop so I still bought a copy. It remains one of the funniest things I have ever read to this day, so if you can track down a copy, then do
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:36, 4 replies)

Wolverine
I've always been a big nerdy comic book reading freak. Its spilled over into just about every aspect of my life. Recently I introduced the Mrs to a mate I haven't seen for a while. He pulled me to one side and said:

"Spanky, you do realise who she looks like, don't you?"

"Erm, no..."

"She's the spitting image of Halo Jones!"

And fuck me - she is! Woo!

Anyway, going back a few years. I was seven or eight. Bored stupid. These were my pre-wanking days so I was at my most destructive.

I decided I wanted to be my all time ultimate hero (well, that month, anyway). I wanted to be Wolverine.

I had a plan. It was going to be fucking EXCELLENT!!!

When my mum wasn't looking I raided the cutlery draw and found some knives, big blunt fuckers we used for eating. With these stashed safely away I went to the shed and started my project.

I'd seen my dad use this stuff to sort out the guttering the previous weekend.

And that's where my dad found me about half an hour later, sitting on the floor bawling my eyes out.

"What's happened!?!" Shouts my old man.

And I turn to look at him. My left hand is a gooey, gammy, fucked up mess of household cutlery and industrial strength bonding agent. It burned my hand to fuck. I'd also somehow managed to attach the lid for the glue pot on top of my head.

My dad wasn't very pleased.

My mum wasn't either - we had soup for dinner that night.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 17:31, 7 replies)

Accidental devotion
I don't dislike Clive Anderson. I liked him when he did Whose Line, and he's usually pretty ok when he crops up on Mock the Week. But I don't like him enough to...y'know, devote any time or anything to him really.

I say this because I don't think it's normal to bump into him twice, in around 4 weeks, in two different airports, overhearing him having the same angry conversation with someone on the phone both times. Unless he's stalking me, in which case I look forward to reading his post on here.
(Tiny Blindfolded Horse Kitten sound car horns would end road rage, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:32, 1 reply)

i'm a big fan of steven fry
so i've kept myself from commenting on his twitter so that he has enough time to get down to writing another book.
I'm sure that counts.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:42, 2 replies)

Celebrity Cricket
It was late summer 2001. England had just spanked zee Germans 5-1 in the footie and I'd spent the previous day moving my stuff into my first house in Reading.

A bunch of us decided to go to the annual "celebrity" cricket match hosted at Bray Cricket Club by Michael Parkinson. A chance to get pissed up in the sunshine whilst heckling Ralph Little and Rolph Harris and perving at Carol Vorderman in a summer dress.

It was getting to late afternoon, we were all pretty much the worse for wear when Parkie and his missus come over to our small group to sell us some raffle tickets. At this point, my mate Prior pipes up:

Prior: "Ere, Parkie I've had a fucking brilliant weekend!"

Parkie: "Why's that young man?"

Prior: "I've just moved house, I'm getting sloshed up in the sunshine with my mates and last night I got laid!"

Parkie: (completely deadpan) "Sounds great - shall I put you down for 10 tickets?"

bless him!
(mcgriffto, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:11, 2 replies)

I've had it happen to me...
A couple of times, in fact.

STORY 1
In 2000, I was on a certain television quiz show. My team was rubbish - we were eliminated in the first round - but a couple of weeks after, I was minding my own business in the library when someone came up to me.
"Excuse me... were you on [insert programme title here]?"
"Ummm... yeah."
"Could you sign this?" He handed me a piece of paper.
"What?"
"Sign this?"
"But... er..."
"Oh. Have I embarrassed you?"
"Er, no. Puzzled me, though..."

He looked crestfallen. I sighed and signed. He looked happy, and went away.

STORY 2
In 2004, I did a stint as a schoolteacher; in the evenings, I worked on a bar. I have no teaching qualifications - god bless the independent sector.
Anyway, on the bar one night in the summer holidays, I recognised a student trying to get served. I knew he'd just done his A-levels, so it was OK to sell him booze. But he didn't want booze. He told me I was the best teacher he'd had and asked me to sign a beermat for him.


Both of these stories strike me as a bit creepy, to be honest.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 13:08, 8 replies)

Try this
I've been doing this for a few years now. Its amazing the sort of reactions you get.

If you're in a pub or a club and you're a bit bored. Pick a random stranger, approach them and say enthusiastically:

"Can I have your autograph!?!"

Hand them a beer mat or a knapkin and a pen and see what happens.

Nine times out of ten they'll sign it, looking a bit bewildered.

And if you can be bothered you can start rapid-fiering random questions at them.

So far I've managed to convice some bloke he may have won the Moto GP Championship, a random girl that she should at least have been nominated for Best Supporting Actress at the Oscars, and some other fella that he would definately have played for England if it wasn't for that fucking knee injury.

Then fuck off into the night when you need another pint.

Passes the time...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 12:57, 1 reply)

Bert and Ernie
I went on television, aged 4, to do an interpretive dance for my two biggest heroes…

Bert and Ernie.

I got to meet them, then cried, then wet myself. On television.

If you’re reading this, Bert and Ernie, I’m an adult now. If you’d like to get together for a chat over bottle of wine (pissing is extra), gaz me.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 9:37, 3 replies)

Very short ones..
The town that I live in is fortunate enough to have a Premiership rugby team, and I'm fortunate enough to work there, on the door to the players lounge, on matchdays.

It's really not as much fun as it sounds. Post game, the tiny landing is full to bursting with hundreds of shouting kids after players autographs, and every now and again you have to get them all to take three steps back so's they can breathe. I just treat it like a job, although some of the players are lovely, and will stop and say hello to us, even give us a hug and a kiss if it's been a good day.

Trouble is, although I do like watching rugby, I really have no idea who most of the players are. They're lovely, but they're work colleagues and that's that.

Or it was, until I found myself in the boozer (what a shocker!)to watch some six nations with a few friends. And there's my work colleagues, running out onto the pitch..as players (on all six sides it turned out).. I stretched my mates' patience by saying "I know him" "I know him as well!" "Ahh he's lovely!"

A bit slow, but not as slow as last summer.

I used to quite like Henry Rollins' stuff, music and ranting, but he wasn't the major draw to the festival in my home town. So when an interesting greyish haired man with tattoos hoved towards me on the path I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place him, so I just said "Hya!" 'cos I thought I knew him from work (see above!)plus he wasn't obviously married or manky, and at my age this is gold dust! He grinned and said "Hi!" back.. then my mates called me over to the beer tent, so I shrugged, and said I'd catch him later..

I did catch him later. When he was doing some spoken word stuff indoors. Stood on the stage, bollocking us for not traveling enough, and throwing more food away than the Americans did. Yes it wasn't just an interesting looking bloke, it was Henry Rollins.

Mind, I did the same thing to Francis Rossi at Donington Festival in 1983,'cos I thought I knew him from the pub...

This is why I'm not a fangirl, I don't have the memory or the concentration..
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 9:17, 4 replies)

The Writer.
Ever since I was a young Miraclefish, just starting to realise that the written world was greater than the televised and computerised world in every manner possible, I came across a writer. A gonzo journalist, in the vein of Hunter S and Kerouac. A man who weaves words like a seamstress.

Long did I read in open-mouthed wonder. Then one day I got a job in the media, a junior position on a title he used to write for, nay, the only one he'd write for in the country.

There came a day, a long-standing member of staff turned was leaving. And he was coming to wish them well. My hero in the same building as me? Words couldn't describe. He turned up. He told a story involving malaria, some tabs of acid and the hospital at the French Embassy in Buenos Aires. This man was everything I'd hoped.

We all got drunk. I stood next to him when I went for a piss. He told me the secret to being a great writer.

He then asked if it was a normal thing to do to ask a complete stranger if he could sleep on their sofa. He then asked if he could sleep on my sofa.

That was a long time ago.

We've been friends ever since. I had a chance to work and write with him, a trip into Europe that was the best and worst experience of my life.

And, because of the advice he gave me, and the inspiration his work gave me in the first place, people are beginning to say I'm better than him. They're completely fucking insane, but it's the greatest compliment I've ever been paid.

So, cheers, Dan, you're a legend.
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 0:23, 2 replies)

Tesco is not the place you imagine meeting your hero...
Lurker, first time, etc, etc.

No, really. The man who I wanted to meet more than any other...Mr Stephen King in Tescos, Lakeside. Ever since I badgered my mum to get me his books out of the adult library when I was 13 he has been my favourite authour. I really do think that the man is amazing.

He was promoting 'Lisey's Story' in the UK by doing signings at supermarkets. I arrived early - the signing was at 3ish and I was there by 12. The queue was snaked around the isles and you could smell the fanboy and fangirl sweat. We were told by a man with an earpiece that Mr King would sign one book per person and that you must purchase a copy of the novel in the store. No problem. The man behind me was a Stephen King book dealer and had some super expensive first edition to be signed. We got chatting. I had my camera with me and I asked Mr Earpiece about photos. He informed me that Mr King does not mind having his photo taken but does not pose for photos. Fair enough.
Mr Bookdealer then asked me if I would like him to take a photo of me with my camera whilst I was getting the book signed. I of course said yes and offered to return the favour, then email him the photo. We had a deal.
The time of the signing then came up. There was a couple of hundred people there and there was an hour for the signing. It became pretty apparent that Steve and myself were not going to have the leisurely chat that I had envisioned. This was a few years back and not long after the final book of the Dark Tower series was published, and the internet was ablaze with bitching at the ending of the series. I liked it, and I decided that Mr King should know this. I was not going to queue up for over 3 hours and not have him say anything to me.

The queue was finally snaking round so I could see him. He was taller than I had imagined, and with the smoothest skin of a man near sixty I have ever seen. He was chewing on a toothpick and not really saying much to anyone. I was beginning to doubt my plan of engaging him in conversation, but this was my moment damn it!!! I couldn't not talk to him, could I?

I was getting close to the front now. I handed my camera to Mr Bookdealer and took a deep breath, as I was beginning to hyperventilate. I walked up to him. This was it.

"Hiya!!!!!!" I said. He nodded at me. I was undeterred. The articulate speech I had planned came out in one big rush...

"ThankyouforwritingthebooksyouaremyfavouritewriterdontlistentoanyonewhosaysthatheendingofthedarktowerwascrapcosIlikedit"

Breath.

I saw the camera flash behind me.

The king of weird removed the toothpick from his mouth. He looked at me like I was certifiable.

"Gee, thanks"

I then made a noise halfway between a giggle and a sigh. He nodded at Mr Earpiece.

It was Mr Bookdealer's turn. I dutifuly took his photograph and drove home on cloud nine. I got home and emailed the photographs to the bookdealer.

Then I sat down and thought about it. I had freaked out the man who wrote It. The shame.

As a lovely footnote, I checked Ebay a couple of days later to see how much the signed books were going for. Mr Bookdealer was selling my photographs. Bastard.
(allthatglittersisglitter, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 18:53, 5 replies)

Only Fools...
Where I work we tend to have 'celebrities' through the doors on a daily basis. Usually they're from the UK small screen & stage but every now and again we get a Hollywood 'A lister'. However I digress. This tale involves a UK TV legend, David Jason of Only Fools and Horses fame.

That day, my ex-colleague (and still a good friend) and I were aware of his imminent arrival. Now said colleague adored the man. She'd grown up watching him on TV, Massive Only Fools fan - had every DVD / Video going etc. etc. She was very nearly on the verge of moistening her trolleys with excitement.

So his car pulls up and in strolls Sir David. He's a very friendly bloke, as you might imagine. He was saying hello to everyone and generally being cheery and chatty even though we were mere dogsbodies at the time. (You've got to love the media industry for that - You need a degree to get a job which involves lots of making tea*).

Then he reached the young lady in question, and his eyes very nearly came out on stalks.

You see, she's an attractive lass. Young (was 18 at the time), slim, got a mane of blonde hair, a penchant for low-cut tops, and is blessed with one of the finest pair of Norks known to all of mankind.

She was totally starstruck. She couldn't even speak.

Now Sir David isn't the tallest of chaps. And what with his eyeline being where it was, he was grinning like a fucking chimp.

Comments like "Blimey!" and "I'm surprised you boys get any work done round here" were forthcoming before he gave her a (tight) hug, a peck on the cheek and disappeared to earn his astronomical fee.

She was so happy just to have met him that she was on the edge of tears. Though later she did mention that it was a little (but not very) disappointing that when she met the celebrity she admired the most, all he could do was stare at her tits.

Both times - He came back for another look on the way out.

*I'm pleased to say that I don't make the tea any more. I've progressed on to coffee.
(toomanydecibels has bleeding ears on, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 18:10, 9 replies)

Jessicka Fodera and Jimmy Saville!
For anyone that doesn't know, Jessicka was the singer of a band called Jack off Jill (JOJ), and is currently the singer of a band called Scarling.

Since I was about 15 (10 years ago, now), I really got into JOJ and had a bit of a thing for Jessicka; I'm not sure why, probably just the main focus of my teenage hormones!

Now, I never got to see JOJ as they never played the UK, and was a bit disappointed when they split up at the start of this century, but these things happen..

I'd heard in 2002/3 that Jessicka was in another band, Scarling, and that they were going to play in the UK for the first time, needless to say I was a little giddy, and dragged my girlfriend along with me down to the Purple Turtle in London to finally see the woman perform. It wasn't a huge affair, a lot of pretentious scenester types there, as well as internet-fame manwhore Jeffree Star (who it turns out was doing the band's makeup) who it appeared was trying to convince one of the pretentious types to let him vacuum the snake, so to speak.

The gig was good, not great, but we had lots of fun, and the people were nice enough (aside from said pretentious pricks) - on a side note, it was also quite strange having a pee next to Simon Price, the music journalist who was running the club night after the gig.

Anyway, after the gig, I got talking to a few members of the band, and they were all lovely (they gave me and my GF a load of free merch because we were the only people that would bother talking to them), but Jessicka wasn't there, and we inquired if she would be coming out. The response was a little disheartening:

"She doesn't like to talk to people that much, and usually avoids the crowds."

Bum.

About an hour later my girlfriend was feeling a bit ill so we decided to leave. As we exited the club, outside, on her own, was Jessicka. I felt a sudden wave of excitement, and tried as hard as I could to compose myself and approach her.

ME: "Excuse me, I uh.. er.."

HER: "Yes?"

ME: "I uhm... wow."

MY GF: "Excuse him, he thinks you're great"

Jessicka just smiled and gave me a hug. I mumbled "thanks", and that was that. I was too giddy and bumbling to say anything more. I felt like a bit of an idiot afterwards, but it was nice to get a sympathy hug off of one of your favourite vocalists for being inept at speaking.

4 months later, Scarling played Leeds - yay, no travelling this time! I once again got to meet Jessicka, but I was far more composed (read: drunk) and got to actually say how much I enjoyed her music etc etc. and she planted a kiss on my hand. Sadly, she was wearing some cheap shitty lipstick, and I now have a tiny scarred patch on the back of my right hand where I had an allergic reaction to the lippy... Bugger. I'm not much of a fan now...

:(


Now then, Jimmy Saville..

I've met Jimmy a couple of times in Leeds, and the guy is a complete fruitcake:

The first meeting was at an Indian Restaurant, a few minutes from where Jimmy lives - he stumbled in, smoked a cigar and looked around for anyone who was willing to have a chat.

We were paying our bill at the time, and Jimmy walks up and gives a 'How do?', I respond to the positive, and return the question, he replies with '10 out of 10 lad, 10 out of 10.. but now it is time to don my disguise!'

He proceeds to pull his wooly hat over his head, puts his sunglasses onto his face which is now covered by the hat, exclaims 'ohhh, I can't see lad!', stumbles out of the restaurant, and proceeds to drive his car in reverse (no word of a lie) all the way back to his flat. - I must add that he did remove the hat before getting into the car, but still..

Mental.

The second time was at a (now closed) Cantonese restaurant . My girlfriend and I were waiting for a table, as was Jimmy, and we were having a bit of a banter he was wearing a green and black Adidas shellsuit, with the jacket opened to reveal a Rab C. Nesbitt-esque string vest, ewww. For some reason, he kept asking my girlfriend to sit on his knee, or that she looked a bit tired and that she can have a nap under his chair (???).

He then gets seen to his table, which is right next to the waiting area, Jimmy then turns round, looks me in the eye and says "Now then, don't you be dipping your hand in my pockets and stealing all my jewels!"

My girlfriend replies with "We wouldn't think of it Jimmy!"

Jimmy shot back with "I know *you* wouldn't because you're lovely, but him (pointing at me), he looks a bit shifty"


Insulted by a geriatric nutter..


Forget Length, It's scarred and covered in jingle-jangle-jewellery
(Lythium deals in lead, my friend., Tue 21 Apr 2009, 16:42, 4 replies)

Analogue Adulation
Back in the heady days of 2000 i started my own website. Nothing fancy, just a few reviews of films, music some photography of mine. I saw it as a way to practise my html/dreamweaver skills and the thrill of having your website was still quite, thrilling.

anyhoo, without much effort i managed to snag some free vinyl from a few record companies, i return for some reviews etc. nice, easy and potentially rewarding. all good.

In 1996 i had become hooked on the icy stark vibes of Finlands very own Pan Sonic, the band formerly known as Panasonic. I loved them with a subwoofer trembling intensity.

So when i saw an advert in The Wire looking for suggestions and help organising dates for their Round the World Tour, i didn't hesitate in suggesting a few decent quirky venues in and around Glasgow. However the guy gets back, said he had checked my site out, and asks if i could organise their tour diary.

Essentially i would get updates and pics from their tour manager and i would transfer it all to my website.

I could have cracked one out over a ring modulated sine wave right there and then. The downside was that they were only playing London and Dublin, with the Dublin gig being at the very end of the tour.

I decided there and then i would get to Dublin and see the gig, no matter what. So days turn into weeks and the constant updates, first hand experiences and cool photos where ramping up my fanboy vibrations. It was all great fun and i didn't get paid a penny.

However, Blast First said they would put me up in a hotel for the night of the Dublin gig. WAHEY, im in, this is it, i'm part of the entourage, i'm almost IN the band.

Well, as good as.:)

The day arrives and i arrive at the airport without my passport, in my excitement i had forgotten it...as you do. However this was pre 9-11 and as i was only going over to Dublin, she lets me fly without it. My luck is in.

I arrive at the hotel before anybody else. So when the ask if i would like the room with the balcony, i accept. Knowing that the balcony room was probably for someone more important and talented than me. BUT I DON'T CARE, IM LIVING THE DREAM.

I arrive at the venue after a quarter bottle of stupidly expensive Jamesons. Dublin doesn't seem to do cheap off licenses. I meet up with the tour manager and shake the hand of Ilpo, one half of the band. I'm gliding along on a greased rail of excitement and adrenaline...i'm accepted as 'part of the fabric that is involved in bringing this tour together'. I. Have. Arrived.

I meet up with a few locals and enjoy a reefer of hash oil.....it works as a catalyst to my wigged out brain and i end up pretty sparkled. We get to the gig and i am in my element. Now although Pan Sonic's music can be described Industrial Ambient, there are many moments of raw hardcore beats and crackpipe rave. Elements that my chinstroking gig going friends don't seem to appreciate. they want to sit and take it in like a fucking art installation. The place is trembling and pulsing and these cunts want to sit in silence.

Fuck'em, im too far gone to care and i twitch and vibrate along as best i can, interjecting occassionaly with the odd vocal howl as the tones reach painful levels. A great gig all in.

So i'm standing talking to one of the locals about teh boring crowd when up walks Pan Sonic themselves, we exchange a few pleasantaries and Ilpo wants to tag along with me and the locals and go to a club. We agree and set off.

So there i am, walking the back streets of Dublin, engaged in conversation with one half of my favourite band. The other two guys are walking ahead. It's friendly and unforced, but best of all, i don't feel like a tit, i am holding my own. We talk about music, Finland, John Peel, all the good stuff. Can it get any better? Yes, yes it can.

We arrive at the club abd Ilpo offers to the get the first round in. Holy shit, here i am, being bought s pint by one half of Pan Sonic. Quite surreal, but it will be getting even more surreal later on.

Even before we finish the pint, the club is closing and we deicde to head back to one of the guys flats. it is a beautiful old art deco building and we are ushered into his front room/studio set up.

He sets about rolling a joint, at which Ilpo puffs greedily..I have some too, but am a bit pished and still stoned from the hash oil. Minutes later Ilpo is asking where the toilet is, and proceeds to whitey in the toilet. We can all hear him wretching and an extended air of surrealism floats into the room. The guy who owns the flat is in awe that he has a electronic music star vomitting in his toilet. I agree.

He returns and suggests heading back to the hotel. We all walk back, but by now its about 4am. I ring for the nightporter who eventually arrives and Ilpo, staggers over and apologises that he is, "a bit late for checking in".

He had went straight from the hotel to the venue and hadn't checked in. So 4am, and he's just getting the room key, i am doubled over with the gigglies and after a many hand shake we head to our rooms.

I wake in the morning it is about 30 degrees and i have the worst hangover ever and have to get back to Scotland without a passport. I do.

Well worth it though.



...i may roll out my abortive meeting with Aphex Twin next. It's still a bit painful though..
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 15:18, 2 replies)

MI6

Or the British Secret Services in general. Seriously, they got away with some fucking amazing scams. My favorite was the Enigma Machine.

These days, we all know that we'd cracked the Enigma machine during the WW2 - we could read anything sent using those ciphers. But the rest of the world (apart from the Yanks), didn't know that the Enigma machine was fallible. They still believed that it was uncrackable. Anything encoded with the Enigma, couldn't be read by anyone else.

So the war ends, the Allies are victorious, and Britain is feeling magnanimous. So what do we do?

We give all of the captured Enigma machines to our Commonwealth allies. Australia. New Zealand, all of our African allies and any other nation that we could scam into accepting our "gift".

From 1945 until about 1972 we had a merry time reading the take on all of these messages. It gave us a *huge* advantage in negotiations.

But I just love the sheer sneakiness of it....

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 14:49, 8 replies)

A mate of mine...
...is built like a bear, with facial hair to match, composure of a rhino on rohypnol and the tact of a pedophile in a Malaysian sweatshop.

All this did not stop him from wanting to become the Drag-Queen champion of Iceland in 1998 (it seems unclear to me, though, how you actually "compete" in that).

And his excitement with the project grew exponentially when we found out that Skin and Ace of Skunk Anansie fame were to be on the panel of judges.

So he took two weeks to get in touch with his feminine side -with daily practices, dress-ups, make-ups and a plethora of pink things.

And what he came up with was this:

My mate, dressed in a huge, pink nightgown gyrating down the stage to Aqua's Barbie Girl wearing make-up like a gender confused lumberjack on acid. His finale was standing before the judges (who either were laughing or crying at this point), giving them hip thrusts, like the "schwing" thrust from Wayne's World, and finally ripping his sweaty grannyknickers off (velcro) and tossing them square in Skin's face.

I didn't see her reaction to this due to the fact i had tears in my eyes from laughing, but the abrupt stoppage of Aqua glee and the hushed silence that followed gave me a clue.

My mate is my hero...at least that night.
(snordfjord Cranky...like a crank!, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 13:20, Reply)

Before they were famous
Books Etc in Charing Cross road was undergoing refurbishment, and so they needed someone at the front door to tell people it was still open and point them in the right direction. It was a cushy job, and I used to spend most of my time with my nose in a book. One particular book was becoming quite popular at the time, and I was enjoying it very much when a woman walked in with a small girl in hand.

The girl whispered 'Mummy, he's reading your book!'. The woman smiled and said to me 'Do you want me to sign it? I'm the author'.
'Wow, that's great', I replied. 'But actually, it's not really my copy, it's just a shop one. I'm really enjoying it, though'.
'Thanks', she says. 'Don't tell them I'm here, or they'll ask me to sign the whole lot'.
'No problem.'

My encounter with JK Rowling. She were lully.
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 10:01, 1 reply)

Speaking of Mrs Noel Fielding
(And a bit tenuously linked to the question)...

Last December I went with a friend to see The Mighty Boosh live at Wembley. I'm not a fan of the Boosh, but I was flying out to Chicago the next morning so it was quite handy to stop up in London the night before.

The show was...passable (mainly because of Rich Fulcher, who is a legend), and we all got up to leave. Only my friend, of course, wanted memorabilia.

Now I normally buy memorabilia from the Bulgarians outside who have "authentic Mighty Bolsh T Shirts, my friend", but MY friend insisted on buying the official overpriced tat from the merchandise stand.

For 40 minutes I get spooned by emo girlyboys and boygirls, including one 15 year old scenester whose dad bulldozed his way to the front, because nothing was too good for his boy. Somehow, the devoted, casually violent father attending the show with his son really didn't fit the whole trendy, self pitying tone of the crowd.

Anyway, we were the last people to be served, owing to our utter politeness and reluctance to elbow these 12 year old kids in front of us. My friend buys £50 worth of crap, and I assume we'll be on our merry way back to the hotel. But oh no, she needs the loo.

So I find myself in a now completely empty stadium, pacing back and forth outside one of the toilets, looking very ordinary in my leather jacked and jeans. Just then, one of the fat, day-glo security folks comes waddling up to me, appearing over the horizon like a neon green sun. I assume he's going to ask me to leave, and so prepare myself to plead my case.

"Sir?"

Here we go.

"You must be looking for the VIP afterparty. It's just this way"

"...erm...no. My friend is doing a wee."

He looked at me funny.

"In that loo! That one there! I didn't just mean in general!"

He looked at me funny and walked off.

I'm a little ashamed of myself that I apparently looked like the kind of person who would be welcome at a Mighty Boosh VIP afterparty, but that's how I nearly met a twattish hermaphrodite who really, really isn't my hero. At all.
(Tiny Blindfolded Horse Kitten sound car horns would end road rage, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 20:02, 6 replies)

Pam Anderson
Not many people know this, but I was seeing Pam for a while. She'd often pop over in the evening for late night trysts. She was a caring and attentive lover and nothing like the media portray her.

One night I gave her a booty call and she dutifully appeared. Only this time there seemed to be something wrong. Cunt, the pages were stuck together. Pam? Pam! PAAAAMMMMM!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

I was her number one fan for a while, but this was too much. I couldn't deal with having to look at Pam when half her boob was stuck to the previous page with semen. I gave her fanny a quick rub with my finger and let out an audible whimper as I scrunched Pam up and threw her into the bin. It had been an emotional few weeks, but it was time to move on.

I sat there for a further 5 minutes musing over my loss. Then I took her out the bin and flattened the bit of paper. I thought to myself, well I've ruined her boob. I may as well pay her ultimate tribute and ruin the rest of her. Pam you filthy bitch! Have that and that and that....!!

I looked after Pam until she looked like she'd spent her life trying to break the world bukakke record. Lesser fans would have got rid of her much earlier, but not not me. I was a true fan.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 16:28, Reply)

Driving detour.
I was working the night shift again and the clock had finally ticked over to 6am - home time at last. I jumped in my car and sped off down the deserted streets of Cape Town, South Africa. One of the few pleasures of finishing at this ungodly hour was having the privilege of using all 3 lanes of the motorway in any way I saw fit. Zig zagging across lanes, zipping round corners and screeching tyres were the order the day as I tried to beat my personal best time on the trip home.

I was into the home straight now with only a few corners left. I was off the motorway so I needed to be a bit more attentive as I was now down to a single lane. With trees and shrubbery fast approaching ahead I sized up the road, touched the breaks and spun the wheel to get the perfect line round the corner. It was a smooth and silky exit, but wait...what's this? A road full of people - on my side of the road!! Evasive action needed to be taken, and fast. I dropped a gear and steered my chariot away from danger. It wasn't pretty, but avoiding a group of idiots walking in the middle of the road never is.

There was little time to utilise my death stare on these daredevil dawn walkers. I sped past and tried to impart some of my latent rage by revving my engine. No sooner had this large group started to diminish in size in my rear view mirror than some animated individual appeared from the bushes and waved me to the side of the road. First a group of suicide walkers and now this! Shit, that was my personal best time shot down in flames.

He had a uniform and looked official so I dutifully pulled over. He explained he was a member of the secret service and then started to berate me for my frankly reckless driving. I thought better of attempting to explain that I was on target to smash my record so I was in fact driving very well. Anyway, secret service?Secret service! Who was he fucking kidding!

His demeanour indicated he was rather pissed off. I think livid would be a more accurate description. I wasn't exactly feeling like Jesus at the last supper at this stage myself so it didn't quite sink in when he asked me, 'Do you know who you almost ran over?'
'A bunch of idiots?' I replied sarcastically.
This answer seemed irk him exponentially.

'No. Nelson Mandela!'.

I went a bit quiet as I leaned over to check my rear view mirror. There was indeed a tall black man walking amongst a group of people. My brain ticked over as I contemplated this for a second. The full reality of the situation sunk in and I realised the gravity of what I had almost done. The man seemed marginally more pleased as he watched the the colour drain from my face.

We sat there for a few moments as the large entourage approached and I was lectured on dangerous driving. I can't quite remember what was being discussed at the exact moment the worlds greatest living statesman walked past my car and gave a knowing smile. He wasn't smiling at me, but I'm sure he was having a little chuckle to himself at the young kid being berated by the cops. Well that's what I told myself anyway.

They all passed by and I sheepishly drove past him making sure that I changed gears as quietly as I could. I kept checking my rear view mirror as the sight of the Nelson Mandela walking down the road is quite something. Well it was for me at that point because all I was thinking was, shit, I almost ran over Nelson Mandela. 30 Yrs in jail and he could have ended up dead in a fireball after he's hit by a rusty toyota.

After I moved I still took a massive detour each day in the hope I'd see him going on his early morning walks near his house. I saw him once more and it made the extra 15 minutes of driving after every night shift for 6 months worth it. Say what you will, but seeing that man in the flesh gave me goosebumps.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 16:03, 3 replies)

tiswas
When I was but a little Spimf there were only 3 terrestrial TV channels in the UK. Late night and breakfast television only existed in a space age ‘Tomorrows World’ future where we would all wear shiny white jumpsuits and drive around in hover our cars chomping on space food.

Saturday morning TV was a big deal in the 70’s – on Auntie Beeb you had the safe and dull Mulitcoloured Swap Shop with the towering cuntage of Noel Edmonds – well as much as a bearded proto Beadle midget in stack heels can tower. However on the ‘other side’ you had the unbridled chaos that was Tiswas. For kids that grew up in the seventies Tiswas was the nuts – parents feared it’s anarchic pie flinging tomfoolery, while school playgrounds across the length and breadth of the nation rang with cries of ‘Compost Corner’ and kids writhed on the floor doing the ‘Dying Fly’.

I wont bother trying to explain the format of the show, if you don’t know it:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiswas

One day a letter arrived addressed to 'Master Spimf Esq.' – immediately I knew this was from my rather exotic aunt from ‘down south’ who worked ‘in TV’, inside was an invite to join the audience of Tiswas!

Fuck. Me.

For two weeks I ran around my school telling EVERYONE I would be on the show. I could barely sleep at night. Finally the day came. To be on ‘the set’ was fantastic. I nearly fell over when Sally James ruffled my hair and said I was a ‘nutter’. That was my cue – I did my level best to show off and act up as much as possible in front any camera I could - shouting random stuff and generally being a cocky little shit. The producer asked if I wanted to ‘take part in a link’. I had no clue what that was but boy was I up for it. Basically they wanted to have me stand on a small podium and deliver the line ‘and now it's time more rubbish’ while they pelted me with.. well, rubbish. For reason unknown they also wanted me to put on this ridiculous foam seagull costume – which I still remember the foul smell of to this day. It was also a complete bastard to move about in.

So there I am – little Mr Cocky Knickers standing on my podium waiting on my big moment. I could envisage all my little mates: lime green with envy as they saw me, live on the coolest thing on telly. I would easily be the coolest kid in school.

Then it came – I got the nod to deliver my line straight to camera.

Naturally my arse collapsed and I froze like a deer in the headlamps. Dead air.

A small silent twat in a seagull suit was beamed to a bewildered nation.

Suddenly, some cunt throwing a bucket of freezing cold water straight in my face broke the spell – such was the nature of the show. I was so shocked I started to cry. I tried to wipe my face, but couldn’t move in the stupid fucking bird suit, lost my footing, wobbled and flailed in a vain attempt to stay upright on the wet podium - then fell flat on my arse. The whole studio fell apart, as no doubt did 8 million viewers. Humiliation was not the word, in fact - Tiswas, my moist gull wobble moment!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 18:23, 5 replies)

Not exactly a hero, or a show of devotion, but...
One of my money making activities is as a sound and light technician, and I used to tech a cabaret show at short notice when the theatre techie had pulled one of his numerous sickies, which means that I turn up an hour before the night and don't get to see any of the 15 or so acts in full before hand. On this particular night, they had Mr Guy Pratt, of Pink Floyd fame playing some of his signature riffs along with some hilarious anecdotes of his rock and roll life. He turned out to be one of the jovial cunts who tell you the cue lines, then go completely off script and proceed to stand there waiting for you to telepathically realise which backing song they have just deceided they want you to play. As a result there were a few inevitable pauses before the songs.

So after the show he comes back to the sound desk, and starts berating me for fucking his entire set up (which I hadn't to be fair) and that I need to get my act together. This was a prelude to him backing me into a corner, shoving me up against the wall and telling me that there was a way that I could earn his forgiveness. Possibly the most unpleasant come on I have ever had.

Sleazy cunt.
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 15:14, 5 replies)

I've met god
Well, a god:

A nearby village won the "Best Kept Village" award. Her Majesty the Queen and her husband, the dashing Prince Phillip, came to present the award.

Us pupils at the local junior school were taken to the ceremony and instructed to wave the flags which we had made and coloured in and to shriek "Yeah!" in as high pitched voices as we could muster.

We were paired up: one older kid with one younger kid the idea being that the little ones didn't wander off. I had a 4 year old girl as my charge.

We were stood behind a barrier consisting of some tape attached to poles. Their Royal Highnesses made their way along the barrier chatting to some of the kids as they went.

As the noble couple got closer, one of the little scrotes tried to barge my charge out of the way to get to the front. I instructed him to "Stop pushing".

Prince Phillip looked down at me and asked "Who's pushing?".

I turned and pointed at the offender and said "He is".

And that was my brush with a god, I am surely blessed.

* If you are questioning the god assertion, check the facts:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Philip_Movement
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 12:02, 1 reply)

My friend
is a massive music fan, she goes to a ridiculous number of gigs, she buys a CD almost every week.

When she was a young 'un, we're talking about 14 here, she went to a Blur gig.

She bops along, has a blast, listens to some of the best Britpop ever made, and then, Damon Albarn comes down off the stage, he's wandering along the area in front of the railings, touching hands, singing about charmless men.

My friend is one of those people who always wants to be as close to the action as possible, she's right at the railing, waiting for Albarn to reach her section. She's hardly the lankiest of people, and when she stretches out as far as she can, she still can't reach the scruffy one. So, cunningly, she retreats briefly, and then lunges forward, hoping to get a fleeting touch of her hero. Just as she does this, he takes a step forward, and her hand meets him.

My friend groped Damon Albarn's cock.

Or to put it another way, Damon Albarn lets himself get felt up by underaged girls.
(LickOutTheJamsMotherfuckers!, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 17:57, Reply)

I'm not him but I'll sign it
I was in a pub/club in town many a moon ago with a bunch of mates. Being regulars we didn't need to queue or even ask for drinks, the staff were like friends and they'd pour/open whatever we each had, no need to ask, just a nod of the head. Great times.

One night, some guy, drunker than we were, was nudging mates and pointing at me. We didn't take much notice but he kept doing it. We gave him a couple of stares and left him to it.

A bit later one of his mates comes over, and says "sorry about him but he thinks you're (insert player's name) from West Brom. He's his hero. We've told him you're not but he won't have it. He's seen you getting drinks without asking or queueing, and reckons only celebs or sports starts get this treatment. He's doing our head in. Can you sign something and he'll leave you alone?"

We grabbed a pen from behind the bar, ripped the printed cover off a beer mat and I went over and spoke to this halfwit. I asked his name and wrote something on this manky beermat about "nice to meet you, best wishes, (scrawled footballer's name)". He shook my hand, offered me drinks, and skipped away as happy as I've ever seen a man.

I had no idea who the player was but this drunken numpty's night had been made.

Sad but true.
(randomstupidname would really like this signature field to be bigge, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:59, Reply)

Can I just namedrop instead?
Back in the early 90's I was working in a big recording studio in London. Pretty much everyone who came to work there was famous due to how bloody expensive the place was.

Not once did I get starry eyed.

One day though, I turned up to work to be told that I had the soul destroying task of a McDonald's radio ad to take care of. Not what I had envisioned when I was a 15yr old dreaming of mixing down dusky beauties wearing nowt but their g strings and kinky boots.

And then Adam West walked in to do the voiceover.

Oh. My. Feckin. God. IT'S BATMAN I cried to myself whilst I suddenly got all nervous and my hands started shaking.

Now you can keep your Christian Bales and George Clooneys, this is the only Batman for me and a nicer fella I have never met. He treated me like I was his Robin and the session flew by.

Before he left he grabbed a piece of paper and signed an autograph without me even asking for one (I wouldn't have dared ask) and I still have it to this very day - In fact it's the only autograph I've ever had.

The only thing that troubled me on that most wonderous of days though was the fact that

Batman is Ginger!
(lurkylurklurk swings more, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 17:16, 4 replies)

The Queen Pot
The story below reminds me of The Queen Pot, let me explain...

My whole family were obsessed with Queen, we watched their 1985 live video (kind of magic? I forget) so many times that we had all memorised the minute/second count of all our favourite parts. We desperately wanted to see Queen but as the children of unemployed hippies in the 80's, there was not a lot of money around. That's when my dad hit on the idea of The Queen Pot. Whenever anyone found any money in the street, even a penny, we had to deposit it in The Queen Pot. That The Queen Pot was actually a Militant party fund raising jar only added to the excitement- stickers of Lenin! Bright red!

So five of us scroungey chavscum types would scour the streets looking for pennies to one day realise our dreams. My dad even did a couple of minor insrance scams to get some extra money for it, and after over 5 years of collecting other people's money scraps like crazed metallophillic vultures we finally had the ~£200 needed to get 5 tickets to see Queen next time they played and get the train up to London.

Then he died.

My parents probably knew he was ill and thought it was a good discipline to instill in us, saving (and scrabbling amongst overflowing bins looking for a tuppence) rather than buying on credit.

I finally got to see 'Queen' at Hyde Park a couple of years ago and found myself making up an excuse to have 5 minutes on my own, away from the policeman who gave me one of his complimentary tickets for the London bombings etc, so I could have a private little cry for a) dead Freddie and b) a mini rememberence of how poor we were and how my lovely parents taught me that whilst you might go without for years to try and have your dream, it still might get snatched away from you.
(octopuspie, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:33, 1 reply)

Terry Scott
I saw Terry Scott, out of Terry and June, on Godalming station platform 1! I must have been about 10.

I said "hello can I have your autograph?"
and he replied "get fucked".
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 13:48, 3 replies)

I travel across America
to meet Pamela and make her my wife. I embroider wedding sack and show to her, but she run away and I get arrested. Not great success.
( Maladicta, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:37, 4 replies)

4th!
Ah- 6th.

Seems I'm going to have to post a story now. And I have the perfect one, actually.

If you cast your minds back to late 2003- the Darkness were doing the rounds, gaaaaaaaaarlic bread puns were still funny, and this place was still very much new, and not being insulted by the Granuiad. It was a time of hope, I was to be married, and England stood a chance of winning the cup in the forthcoming championships.

Yeah bloody right.

It was also a time when I was very much obsessed by badgers. A rather sad obsession, it must be said, considering I absolutely hate mushrooms, and snakes- well. I avoid them where possible. But the badgers, well. That's a different matter. They were dancing badgers- to a cool tune. I'm not sure Jonti Picking was thinking of when he released the tune, and to this day I am grateful.

As to why- well. Like I say, I was obsessed with all things badger-related thanks to Weebl, and that expressed itself in two particular ways. The first of which was a small pin which I still have to this day, mainly kept around to remind me not to be such a sadact ever again. The second is, as these things sometimes turn, to beer.

I was in the off license one day, whilst living with my no-longer-bride-to-be, trying to decide which beer to buy for another night of drinking. She wanted Carling, or WKD. Or some other piss which to this day I still refuse to touch. However, as I was in the off-license, my eye was grabbed, and I was instantly smitten.

Why? Well... it was beer produced by Hall and Woodhouse. Which had the following logo:



'Nuff said really.

Either way Jonti... cheers!

*Raises bottle of Golden Glory*
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:48, 16 replies)

Meeting your heros? Not quite...
But I feel I have to say that HOLY SHIT! I KNOW THIS MAN!



Other picture in replies.
( Hdjejjwsjdjjf LOOK, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 19:59, 3 replies)

tosh from the bill
once in lincoln i saw the actor that used to play DC tosh lines in the bill.
i followed him around for a bit until he went into a kebab shop.
he's dead now.
( bigshape like a glove!, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 16:24, 3 replies)

DJ Shadow
Around 2001 Shadow was on tour to promote his then new album "Private Press".

My much more in the loop friend who was living in Bristol at the time managed to get tickets for us to go see him at Bristol Academy. Which is a rather odd venue but absolutely brilliant.

Anyway, having watched the gig with my mates and been double whammied by Thom Yorke appearing to do "Rabbit in your headlights", we duly trundled out of the gig and headed towards the nearest pub. All of us except me...

I ended up sat on top of a phone box watching the stage door with about a hundred other people waiting for the great(actually very small) Shadow to appear, before running over handing him my ticket and telling him "Organ Donor is my favourite track of all time" not one of the cool tracks like "What hip-hop looks like in '96" (a bit of a mouthful I admit) but, the most played and commercial of all his tunes. Luckily he just said thank you and signed my ticket which I still have and am quite proud of.
( Ril3y is a brit abroad.. bring on the Stella / Asahi, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 14:53, 4 replies)

I was a budding young artist/sculpter
at the height of my creative peak.
I had just received a phone call from my then-girlfriend telling me Out Of Nowhere that I wasn't enough,
"I Need A Man, I feel just like a Prisoner Of Love" she calmly informed me.
"I'm not giving you up" I spluttered.
"It's too late"
I pleaded "You Can't Walk Away From Love", but she was having none of it.
It was over.
Mi Buen Amor had left me. There was only one thing I could do. Use my talent to sculpt a large statue of the woman who had brought us together.

It was Gloria(ous)
And that is how i created my big-Estefan.
(TheColonel, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 13:40, Reply)

Right, I'll tell you an anecdote.
In 1974 I was catching the London train from Crewe station.

It was very crowded; I found myself in a last-minute rush for the one remaining seat beside a tall, good-looking man with collar-length hair. It was the 70s; Buckaroo!

I looked up and saw it was none other than Peter Purves; it was the height of his Blue Peter career.

He said, "You jammy bastard" and quick as a flash, I replied, "Don't be blue, Peter!" Needless to say, I had the last laugh.

Now fuck off!
(mark schmark, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 10:17, 1 reply)

Ian Wright
185 goals in 288 appearances for Arsenal, 8 goals in 33 appearances for England, 1991/2 golden boot winner, MBE, television presenter, winner of 1 league, 2 FA cups, 1 league cup, 1 cup-winners' cup, nearly 400 professional goals, once told me...

to "fuck off".

That is all.

Also, Bob Hoskins' dad once made me a cup of tea.
(Axeman Jim, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 1:34, 10 replies)

Sad
Sad sad sad.

One day, I was on my way back from London on the late train and I ended up sitting across the aisle from Geoffrey Perkins. Legendary producer of The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy and virtually every quality comedy program of the 1980s.

He looked busy, so I didn't disturb him, even just to say "Thanks for the laughs".

A few weeks later he fainted and fell under a truck, so now I'll never have the chance. And that makes me sad.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 21:59, 1 reply)

Lessons
Things we have learnt from this qotw:

1) Jimmy Saville is a nutter
(europe-who, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 20:02, 1 reply)

Roundhouse
There was Richard III on at the Roundhouse in Camden. I was down there enjoying some culture; sat on a bench outside The Enterprise pub just opposite quaffing ale like an alcoholic duck and smoking fags like a laboratory beagle.

An elderly American couple walk past, waiting for the Roundhouse doors to open, I catch a snippet of their conversation.

"Who wrote this?"

Flips through programme. "Errr - William Shakespeare."

"Maybe he's here tonight?"

"Could be - we should get his autograph."

And they wandered off into the night...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:32, 5 replies)

Stalking Hawking
Myself and a couple of friends were idling round Oxford a few years ago when we happened to see a certain electrically propelled PHYSICS GOD making his way to some function or other. Being mere pond life in the great garden of science (i.e. undergrads), we were too afraid to go up and talk to him. That didn't stop us from following him round Oxford for half an hour though.

It's a good thing, I think, that Prof. Steve is a rather distinctive looking chap. Half an hour of pointing and giggling at a man in a wheelchair would normally result in some funny looks.
(Concrete Cow, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 11:58, Reply)

Death of a Tortured Genius
My mate Steve is a HUGE Elliott Smith fan. A few years back I met Steve in our local and he was inconsolable. Apparently the angelic-voiced musical genius had taken a kitchen knife and stabbed himself in the heart earlier that day, ending a somewhat tourtured time on Earth, what with the heroin addiction and having to perform at the Oscars one time.

I remember Steve, sobbing like a big girl into his beer as he relayed the story: "Do you know what this means, Spanky?" He said, all serious and pale.

I thought about it for a moment...

"He couldn't find the knife block?"

Didn't go down too well, I can tell you...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 11:48, Reply)

My maths teacher last year.
Was absolutely lovely. Her name was Mrs Kiley and she is now officially (and has been up there for a while) up on my list of someone who I have deep respect for and really admire.
Sorry this isn't going to be funny.

Last year I had her for maths. I was a year younger then everybody else and had somehow been put into the highest set of maths there was. And it was HARD. Really, really hard. I found myself really struggling to keep up with the coursework, let alone pass anything. And it wasn't like I didn't try. I did. I studied so hard, did extra maths sheets, extra classes, tutorials, everything I could think of - and nothing helped.

Still - every single lesson Mrs K was there and she sat patiently beside me and helped me through the questions, explaining and explaining, letting me go to compose myself (read - stop crying) when I go so frustrated and angry that everybody else seemed to understand with ease what I struggled with, continually encouraging me. She never once lost patience with me, gave up on me or told me to quit the class.

I spent all year slaving my arse off - struggling to get a D for every test, while other people did no work and got A+'s with ease. And yet she still stuck by my decision to tough out the class.

Sorry give me a moment.

okay. I'm right.

I failed my end of year exam and she wasn't even mad at me. She actually congratulated me for failing as narrowly as I did (45%), and gave me a massive hug. I admit that I did cry a bit. And I'm struggling a bit to keep it together now writing this out.

So at the end of last year - I thought about how I could show her how much I appreciated everything she had done for me... and I sat down and wrote her a letter. It was long and took me a fair while to write - because - like now - I did struggle not to cry while writing it. I told her how much it meant to me that she had put so much effort into helping me and that I was sorry I let her down by failing the class despite both our efforts. I likened my crash and burn to the Quantas airbus that dropped 2000ft in 20 seconds. It was something of that spectacular nature.

She just gave me a massive hug but I know she still has that letter. And she still stops me to ask how I'm going this year (I had to retake maths and dropped down to the middle set) and we smile and talk like old buddies.

But yes. Thoroughly up there on the hero lists - quite nearly equal with my mum. And that's saying something.

No apologies for length. I have had the "hot guy" from The Footy Show come into my work but honestly - compared to my Mum and Mrs K - he's insignificant.
(Poppet some assembly required., Mon 20 Apr 2009, 8:21, 3 replies)

WARNING! WILL UPSET /TALK WITH GENERAL PANDERING AND NICENESS.
I am a huge fan of several people on B3ta.

In no particular order.

Pooflake - Funny as fuck, talented musician and sex on legs.

Ancrenne - Gone through hell and come out the other side strong and smiling.

Davros & Tourettes - Legless thinks they're great so no other recommendations are required really. I hope to be friends with them a long time.

The Resident Loon - A Renaissance man stuck in the land of rednecks. Hopefully one day he will be able to escape.

CHCB - Bitter, twisted and insanely funny. Never met her but I don't think I'd be disappointed. (Number 2 on my list of people to stalk after Barack Obama).

These are the main ones. There are others but it's past my bedtime and I'm knackered.
( girlinthehole, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 22:51, 23 replies)

I am such a big fan of Garbage I automatically click any QOTW answer that mentions them
So far this week that's involved clicking on stories by circle and jamesthegill.

It's also meant clicking the post I made myself earlier this week.

I know this is wrong, but anything that increases the chances of Garbage getting a mention on the "best of" page is completely justifiable. Isn't it?

Inevitably, in just a few moments I'll be clicking on this post too.
( GarbageFan didn't know what to have as a board sig on, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 19:14, 3 replies)

My brother
I'm not anybody's biggest fan, but my brother is Brian Jacques' biggest fan. Just in case anybody doesn't know who he is, he's a British author, he wrote Redwall and all it's sequels. My brother is completely obsessed with Redwall and knows everything about it, is constantly comparing one book to another, pointing out inconsistencies and basically driving us all nuts. He writes to Brian Jacques constantly praising him to heaven, and has built several models of Redwall Abbey out of clay or popsicle sticks. He has drawn pictures and written stories. He may or may not have been mentioned in a book, as Brian Jacques does to some fans. eg. Samantha Kim- character named Samkim. My brother is Andy, there's a character named "Andio". Who knows. Anyway, when Brian Jacques sends the restraining order, I guess my brother will have to buy a new frame. Anyway, my point is this- could someone come over and make him stop talking about Redwall? We're all losing it.
(mariam67, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 17:44, 8 replies)

Fanfic pearoast
I was in the pub the other day and a minor TV celebrity walked in, clutching his Big Black Book of Horror.



"Look!" I said to my uncomprehending chums, "It's TV's Paul Ross! The man with the magic voice! When he holds hands with himself marvellous happenings occur!".



They looked at me and gave a half shake of the head before looking at the floor and resuming their previous activity of ignoring me. Ignoredom, I like to call it, when boredom causes one to ignore a companion and stare at the floor. Beer was sipped and a trip outside to the smoking area was discussed.



They departed to partake in the simultaneous noxious and fragrant activity of smoke inhalation. Tubes of dried leaves had never been so appealing.



I approached the tubby yet radiant familiar stranger at the bar. The Big Black Book of Horror was hanging at his side, clutched in a sweaty forepaw as if it was yesterday's newspaper rather than the key to abject terror. My soul quivered at the sight.



"Excuse me sir" my voice was shaky and I could feel patches of salty sweat begin to seep out from my armpits. "You're TV's Paul Ross, aren't you?". My stomach was doing the hurdles as I spoke to the great man.
Surely he would ignore me, or, hopefully, give me a curt backhanded slap across the face?



"Yes, yes I am" he replied. "Do you like my Big Black Book of Horror?" I lied and told him I did.



The thing strikes abject fear into my soul, as if stiletto darts of obsidian quartz were fired from a nailgun into my immortal self.



We shook hands and sipped our pints. Our eyes met and, for a fleeting moment, I detected an animal warmth in the Ross man's heart.



I was chilled to the bone.



He indulged in an impromptu round of either/ or- "Guinness or Beamish Red?" was what he asked me.



I didn't know what to do. I took a stab in the dark and told him Beamish. I don't know why- Guinness is my pint of choice.



A chill descended in the room as he told me it was the wrong answer. He handed me the Big Black Book of Horror and told me the role was now mine.



I stepped outside and knew what I had to do. I looked down the road and hailed a taxi. I left.



I never saw my friends again.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 10:55, 1 reply)

eh
why has this turned into "someone I once saw".

Anyway, for the record, Keith Chegwin, York Railway Station, 1984.

Oh, and sucked off a lad from Grange Hill once when I was 11. What? You'd have done it. Its just skin.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Sun 19 Apr 2009, 1:28, Reply)

i heard this on a messageboard for a band
apparently while at a gig someone got spat on by the singer... one girl then licked it off this persons shoulder because apparently it would be like "having a part of him inside me"

obviously not the part she wanted like but beggars can't be choosers i suppose.
though why you'd worship someone who spits on people in the first place is beyond me.

.
(stitched, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 23:25, 2 replies)

In a recurring theme
another of my friends had a vaguely sexual experience with a celebrity.

He was drinking at the Oxford Union, when who should walk in but John Sessions, legendary polymath and general man of knowledge. Stephen Fry, but less.

So, this being the Oxford Union, the patrons of the bar fall about in paroxysms of hero worshipping nervousness. As it happens, my friend controls himself, has a pleasant conversation with Mr Sessions, and indeed the two become such fast friends that they exchange numbers.

They meet up again and have a few pints at one of the more expensive hotel bars in Oxford (the Randolph, for those who know.)

All this is regaled to us with the smug air of someone who has a celebrity mate because they're cool enough to not be intimidated by them. They're such fast friends that he was even invited to the Groucho Club down in London.

We listened to this story of male bonding with initially excitement, respect, and then gradually amusement. Eventually, by the time the invite down to London was mentioned, we were practically doubled over with laughter.

"You do realise of course, that John Sessions is gay, and that he may have taken a liking to you"

"No no, he's not gay, he just bought me a few drinks"

"No, seriously, he's gay"

"Oh, so he wasn't just being friendly?"

"I think the term is 'grooming'"

He never went to the Groucho club.
(LickOutTheJamsMotherfuckers!, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 18:57, 2 replies)

around the time of
the london mayoral elections, we were all in the pub one saturday night in mayfair. at about 2am, we left the pub and staggered aimlessly about looking for a taxi.

suddenly there was a flash of white blond hair and treble chins and this bike sped past us. my friend kerry's head shot up and she stiffened.

"was that..." she breathed reverently, and the next second she was off. now, ordinarily a drunk girl in high heels has no chance of outrunning a bike, but luckily for kerry, the cyclist had stopped at a red light at the end of the road*.

"waiiiiiit!" she howled as a shoe fell off. surprised, the cyclist turned around as kerry panted up to him.

"I LOVE YOU BORIS!!" she yelled, "I REALLY LOVE YOU BORIS!"

to his credit, boris didn't turn a hair.

"thank you, thank you very much," he purred, and sailed off on his merry way. smooth. you'd think girls say that to bo-jo every day of the week, which i find hard to believe!


* (which legal requirement he is now trying to remove from the law as he seems to think cyclists are above it, but that's a whole different story...)
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 10:43, 6 replies)

Shirley Manson
First time poster *Hi! Be gentle!*

I cannot remember the year, but my sister had just asked me to go down to London, Camden Town to be exact, to see a Garbage gig as her mate had dropped out at the last minute. I had obviously heard the music due to her blasting the albums every day so i was happy to tag along.
After the gig we decided it would be fun to gate hang. So we went outside to go round the back. We walked straight past the support acts on our way, they didnt look happy that no one was remotely intrested.

Got round the back and around 10 people there waiting for Shirley. Some of the band members came out. There was some confusion as they were telling us "Yes shes coming out soon". 10 minutes pass and we keep asking security. "Oh shes actually coming out the front entrance". We were a bit doubtful as we didnt want to miss her, so someone went round the front, ran back and screamed "Shes here!".
We all scramble to leg it round the front, and during this, my sister tripped on a kerb and fell over. She picked herself up and kept running, there was no way she was missing Shirley.

Around 20 of us gathered in a friendly circle around Shirley as she casually signed stuff for us. She was friendly and just amazing to watch.

After 15 minutes she told us she had to go, and we all stepped back at the same time, she then crossed the street by herself which was pretty cool considering we were all over her 30 seconds ago. Shirley then turned around when someone screamed "Can i have your pen" which she then chucked over. We watched her walk into a near by bar which we found out later was a private party.

The night ended with the person who caught the pen saying "Does anyone want to touch the pen for a quid?"
(circle, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 8:53, 1 reply)

I'm (not) your biggest Fan
Sean, the ex manager of my local drinking establishment had a bit of an obsession with the whole famous people thing, the place has had it's share of vaugely famous punters in it's time but this perticular story occurs about 2 years ago.

I wandered in early one Wednesday evening to find Sean sat with 2 women, an ugly tall skinny one and a quite attractive shorter girl. Waving me over he introduces me to "Erin" and "Sophie*".
Grabbing a drink I sit down and beginng chatting to all three, the conversation goes the usual way of strangers meeting; "good day?", "what do you do?", etc.
Having chatted for a few minutes with Sophie I proceed to begin talking to Erin the tall one, asking what she did I was quite suprised by her rather snooty reply of "Don't you know?"
Glancing down at my half finished Double Vodka & Cranberry I think "did she say? Fucking hell I should remember that I've barely started"
"No, did you say already?"
"I'm Erin, Erin O'Connor"
Ahh good thinks I, I did remember the name right. (Always one of my failings when meeting new people) however, this didn't explain her confusion about the job question.
"I'm the new M&S model"
"Oh, are you? How's that working out so far?" Is apparantly not the correct response I found out when she hissed "Fine" and turned away from me.
I ended up having a nice evening chatting to her 'normal' friend whle she sauntered around looking for attention.

*Name changed to protect the innocent cute friend.
(bill, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 2:00, Reply)

Lee Dixon
Reminded of this story by this.

Mate of mine is a huge Arsenal fan and also a GP (that's General Practitioner, not Gavin Peacock, before anyone gets too confused).

Back when Lee Dixon was still a mainstay of The Arsenal Back Four, my friend got invited to dinner by the couple over the road.

The male half of this couple was very good friends with Lee, and mentioned that he'd be there too, with his wife.

My mate's missus said in no uncertain terms that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES was he to talk to Lee about football, because that would be like Lee asking him questions about doctor stuff all night.

Guess what?

As soon as Lee found out my mate was a doctor, he asked him questions about medical matters and this went on all through dinner.

And all evening, as soon as the conversation looked like turning round to football, my mate got a kick on the shins from his missus that any self-respecting defender would have been proud of and a look that said "Just. Don't. Mention, Football".
(Capo, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 18:39, Reply)

My friend is gay
Lots gay. Although you wouldn't say unless you came close enough to smell the cock on his breath. Anyway he was lucky enough to spend the evening with Mr Gay UK while he sat through his first viewing of 2 girls 1 cup. How many people can say they sat with Mr Gay UK when he watched that video for the 1st time. How cool is that.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:48, 2 replies)

Natalie Imbruglia
I'm my brothers biggest fan.

He's a cameraman and does music videos as well as TV, well a few years back when Natalie Imbruglia was 1st moving into Pop, he was part of the crew filming the video for one of her songs, and there was a period where she wasn't going to be required for a bit and so she asked if someone could show her a bit of London.

Well my brother lived in Balham at the time so volunteered to take her out, as you would!
He turns to her and said Pub?
she says yes,
so he rings his mates as its early evening and casually asks if they fancy a pint.
Later on they arrive as hes standing by the bar, start nudging each other and saying " look isn't that that bird off Neighbours" and my brothers like "Yep, shes with me" and much hero worship ensues. Anyway meant to be a nice girl as well as looking great.

He's also rung my dad on fathers day whilst Pavarotti did a sound check in the Albert Hall - and my old man gets a private concert via mobile - I hate him really, how do you top that?
(sproutout Aardvarks you gotta love 'em, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:56, 6 replies)

I have met a real, bone fide CYLON
And it still makes me happy. Specifically, the Galen Tyrell Model. It was playing the slots in the MGM in Vegas last July and I was on my way to Cirque Du Soleil. I am still smiling about it now. I mean, a fucking CYLON. We talked for about half an hour about this and that, it was very pleasant. I managed not to be a total fucking fanboy for about 2 seconds.

Since then, have spent a fucking fortune on original BSG artwork - specifically blueprints and set designs for the major sets. Gives me a little cylon chubby. I think about that shit far too much.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 12:19, Reply)

My Bloody Valentine
No, not the story about the Valentine's Day that coincided with my bird's blob.

Me and me mate were students in London. We went to student central or ULU as it is known just for something to do. We got there and found out that we couldn't go into the club bit as there was a gig going down: My Bloody Valentine.

Not wanting to miss out on the big room full of girlies, we went up to the entrance and said we were on the guestlist. The staff checked but our names weren't on there, of course. We made them check again. Then we made them send for one of the band and they did.

The bass player came down, looked at us, twigged that we were taking the piss, shrugged and said "must have left them off the list, let them in". Result.

After the gig we bumped into her again, she was helping the bar staff by collecting glasses, some humble indie-band thing I imagine. We gave her our empty glasses, complemented her on the performance and went on our way.

'king blaggers.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:22, 1 reply)

This will likely mean little or nothing to most
...but I ate a meal with Kool DJ Herc and Grand Wizard Theodore.

They are, respectively, the man who literally invented hip hop in the 70s with his Bronx block parties, and the man who invented scratching. Actually invented scratching.

Now no matter what you think about hip hop today (personally I think it's almost entirely fucking shit and has been for many years) these guys between them are responsible for one of the biggest 'movements' of all time - it was akin in my eyes to having dinner with the originators of rock'n'roll, and I felt pretty honoured to be there.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 10:32, 3 replies)

Walkers!
During my first year at Fairly Well Known High School In Liverpool (1999) we had a full school assembly.

The headmaster stood up in front of us to tell us that the school field would be out of bounds for a few days, and no students were to approach it. This was due to an advert being filmed for "Cheese and Owen" crisps. (The rugby one)

During breaks from filming, Michael Owen kept coming out to chat to the lads, would happily sign autographs, etc, genuinely friendly guy.

The week before, he'd made an absolutely shocking miss, when he tried to turn his body so he could hit the ball normally, when he should have used the outside of his boot.

My brother decides to tell him this. I think most footballers would have told the spotty little shit to piss off. Michael laughed, nodded and said he'd keep it in mind.

A week later, the same position comes round again, he uses the outside of his boot, and curls it round the keeper beautifully.

My brother still claims it's down to him. Fucktard.

Length? Not certain, he kept his clothes on
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 9:56, 6 replies)

Erm, Lewis Carroll and Alan Moore!
Part of the decision behind me moving to Guildford was based around Lewis Carroll being buried here! I refuse to read any Terry Pratchett work because he hates Alice In Wonderland!

I would murder for Alan Moore if he asked me. I went to see Watchmen just to be a prick about it! Twice! I'm sure there are people now who hate me for ruining the film for them. But to be honest Snyder did a better job than I ever could have! I also hold a huge love for Batman, part of the reason The Killing Joke gets me so worked up, even now!

Still the stupidest thing I've ever done when it comes to being a stupid fan?

1990 I am 5. Steve Bull is playing for England. My Dad having been at school with him ( a year or two above I think ) takes me to a poster signing at a sports shop somewhere, the details escape me. My Dad walks in with me and says

"Alright Bully?"

To which he replies "Alright Paul!"

I'm shocked, Steve Bull the legend, the hero to my tiny five year old head. Do I go into shock? No, I speak to my hero, he's just flesh and blood like me!

"My Dad said he used to play football with you"

Bully looks at me and smiles

"He did, we used to play at school"

People in the queue look at my Dad and roll their eyes, Bully blushes a little but keeps smiling.

"And he used to beat you!"

Bully bursts out laughing, my Dad shuffles nervously and the queue giggle like children.

As punishment he kept my signed poster and put it up on his wall, but to be honest I think he'd have done that even if I'd kept my big mouth shut!
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 1:26, 1 reply)

Anyone remember the Newcastle United fan...
... who got a huge tattoo on his thigh of the club's then centre forward who had scored a hatful of goals to get them promoted to the Premiership back in the early 90s?

Tattoo got finished the same week that his hero - Andy Cole - was sold to Man United, presumably provoking much LOLs in Sunderland and elsewhere and getting the hapless fan a spot on the 'And Finally...' bit on the news...
(Capo, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 23:50, Reply)

:)
I'm my biggest fan......


No seriously... I am :)
(urbanbushmonkey, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 23:14, 3 replies)

Deano
He met Tony Mortimer out of East 17 in the street and asked for his autograph. On receipt of said item, looked dissapointed.
Said he, "Sorry mate, you can have that back, I thought you were Dennis Wise"

EDIT: I always thought this was really funny, but they don't even look the same really
(Snake (on a) Crane FKA thwack, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 23:08, Reply)

Gatecrashing
I have successfully gatecrashed an afterparty at a gig. Albeit by partial accident. And with half of the "official" forum in tow. I say that because the official forum was closed down a while back, but the band still reads our forum a lot.

Let's go back to October 2008. I was seeing a band called Porcupine Tree at the O2 arena in Laaahndaaahn. For those not in the know, PT are a progressive rock/metal band, consisting of four blokes in the studio, 5 in a live situation. They specialise in awesome soundscapes and crunchy riffs, as well as a mixture of pretty much everything bar rapping.

Anyway. October 19th, 2008. I'd been psyched up for this gig, as it had been nearly a year since I'd seen PT, and with the forum meet-up the day before, there was an awesome atmosphere in the air, before the gig.

The gig starts. I have positioned myself in front of Steven Wilson, the lead singer/guitarist of PT. Directly in front of. I could have leant across the barrier and grabbed his feet at times, if I were that inclined to grab God's feet. At one point during the gig, he waves at me. Directly at me, eye contact not broken. Given that I am a six foot man, acting like a small girl at this point, I almost faint from the excitement of having God himself notice me.

Eventually the gig comes to an end. SW's vocal chords have given up during the last encore song, and he's gotten the entire crowd to sing it for him. PT go off the stage, and I meet up with the rest of the forum members again. I have managed to snag a copy of SW's setlist (now proudly displayed on the wall at home, complete with the duct tape holding it to the carpet he has on stage to protect his bare feet, so I can officially say, I have a bit of SW's carpet, hurr hurr), and am clutching it in my grubby fist and refuse to let anyone else handle it in case they steal it. Us PT fans are a fairly rabid lot, as you may guess.

And then someone comes up with the idea. "Hey, why don't we hang around a bit and wait for them to come out and see if we can talk to them for a bit?" It's agreed that we do this. We wait for a half an hour. No sign of them, but the tour bus is still there. And then it clicks. They must be having an afterparty. So we wait for another half an hour, and wander around the O2 arena to see if we can find it. No dice.

Just when we're about to give up hope and go home, one of our party waves to me, and I go up to him. Everyone else follows. He's found a bar in the O2 that we hadn't found before. And, gasp! We can see Richard Barbieri, the synthesist, at the bar. At this point, I did a massive double take, thinking to myself "Hang on, that's not Barbieri, is it? It is!"

So we all very nervously approach him, and half of us order drinks from the bar. At which point security clocks that we're not supposed to be there, given that we're looking nervous and guilty as hell, and starts to bundle us out of the door. At which point, John Wesley, the fifth bloke that PT use for live gigs to do extra guitar and vocals wanders in, a Guinness in each hand, and starts pleading with security to let us in properly. We're still not allowed, despite now having two members of the band trying to get us in.

So yeah. We all get thrown out, but for about a minute, I have met two people of my second fave band. And they loved us, and we loved them.

Length? Not long enough. Should have been longer.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:49, 3 replies)

Dumpy's Rusty Nuts, 1985
So it's a Saturday night and me and my mate, spotty 15 year olds, are kicking up our heels in a house in the suburbs miles from anything interesting. Dumpy's Rusty Nuts are playing down in the Rock Gardens in Southsea. We have seen this band before and had a totally mental time but being 15 and spotty, we lack transportation and our usual lifts are unavailable. The clock ticks, the clock tocks, time drags on.

Eyes turn to my Mum's Honda C70. A quick calculation shows that we should be able to get down to Southsea (approx 13 miles), enjoy most of the band and have the bike back before my Mum gets home from work. A plan is thusly born. I dig out the helmet I bought in anticipation of my 16th and my mate blags my mum's helmet (with the sparkly butterfly stickers). The rear tyre is a bit soft (my Mum mentioned something about a leak) but a quick bit of footpump action and it's good enough. So off we set, two blokes in leather jackets and cutoffs covered in band patches, one with a sparkly butterfly helmet, on a 70cc motorcycle with a top speed somewhere south of 50mph

The actual journey down itself is fairly uneventful other than being particularly pleasant on a warm evening. Rolling down to the seafront, the tyre is now distinctly flat. We enter and meet up with friends, enjoy a fantastic gig (the music is loud and the band and crowd really going for it) and ask anyone we meet if they can lend us a footpump.

Time eventually runs out (though we push it a bit) and it's time to go. Still no footpump and the only thing the tyre contains is wishful thinking. With not many other options, we decide to hop on, drive carefully and try and find a petrol station with a pump.

Somewhere up around the Tricorn, the bike decides its had enough and spits the inner tube out of the rear wheel which then proceeds to wrap itelf around the chain in new and intriguing ways. Ways that are not going to be amenable to roadside wrenching. The games up. But the before the game is over, there must be the endgame.

All that's left now is to call my folks and face the music. Problem. We have no change for the phone. Luckily, there's a nice car with blue lights on top parked just over there. So two unlicensed, uninsured 15 year olds go over and ask the nice police lady for some change. Fortunately, she fails to notice the quivering legs, and change is duly obtained, parents called and a shame-faced recovery takes place.

Got off surprisingly lightly on that one. I was banned from riding for a year (to take effect once I got to the age) but was given the use of a moped when I did finally get there (apparently on the theory that I would have got in more trouble if the ban actually was applied or maybe the parents just wanted me out of the house :) ), my Mum enjoyed trotting out the story whenever we were out with company and to top it all the gig was totally worth the hassle.

Edit: Oh, turns out there was a petrol station with a pump 20 yards around the corner from where the tyre came off.
Edit2: Linky for some of the music: www.youtube.com/watch?v=9tKO3m_M4dQ
(Richy_T hundreds if not thousands of dollars, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:38, 1 reply)

Looks like there's a serious Samuel L. Jackson fan out there:
news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/8001644.stm
(The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:17, 2 replies)

sad Metallica fanboy pre black album
umm, breathes in.

Over the years I have owned the album, picture disc, gatefold double 12", cassette and cd of Master of Puppets, cd and vinyl of And justice for all, had all of the original 12" collected before they released the 5 1/2 year box set, got that anyway, had One 10" picture disc, Jump in the Fire 12" picture disc, a leather Jacket covered in patches of guess who, would wear only t-shirts of ...yep them if I could, seen them far too many times live, refused to believe Cliff was dead in an Elvis style, denounced any lesser band as not worthy (ie megedeth) and once asked Dave Mustaine after a gig in Cambridge why his band was just not as good as Metallica (we only went to see Pantera)
that went down rather poorly
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:00, Reply)

Not me, but a twat I know
Had this horrid fixation with the Darkness. I had no idea who this terrible band were until they did a free gig in London. My friend was bawling in the line for the autographs because she couldn't believe she was about to meet Justin Hawkins! NEVER have I wanted to attack someone so badly in my life! I found myself edging away in the autograph que, which I only joined to chat up the person with the nice arse in front of me!!!

She couldn't even let me do that though.

Stupid friend kept fucking distracting the person I was trying to chat up with her incessant wailing!

This did not bide well with trippeh as I kept getting so close to getting a phone number....yet so far away! Hot person looked over and said in a creeped-out tone "is SHE a friend of yours???"

Idiot friend kept calling over to me to literally hold her hand because she was "getting overwhelmed by breathing the same air" as Justin fucking Hawkins! I mean....have you SEEN the twunt?? This does not look good! There goes my chances of getting a phone number as she has made us look like stalkers of freaks who need urgent dentistry!!!

VENDETTA.

She could have fucking killed me when the lead singer offered me an autograph and I responded "Do I know you?"

We're not friends anymore, not due to that incident, but she wouldn't shut up about it all the way home and kept smelling her autograph like a pervert!

To this day I cannot think of a band more embarrassing to obsess over.
(trippeh, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 10:36, 9 replies)

Well as you can tell by my username...
I'm a bit of a fan of Hunter S. Thompson's writings. What you CANNOT tell from my username is that I am also a bit of a fan of an obscure (to you brits at least) American politician named Marion Barry. Mr. Barry was the mayor of Washington DC for many, many years, a real man of the people. He had served multiple terms as mayor, ruling DC with an iron fist from 1979 to 1991, but in 91 his glorious rule was unfortunately cut short, when he was videotaped smoking crack with a prostitute in a hotel room. The prostitute was later revealed to be an undercover police officer, which prompted Mayor Barry's timeless quote: "Bitch set me up!"

Mr. Barry served six months in prison for his transgressions, but all was forgiven when in 1994 he was reelected as mayor, and served in that post until 1999 when he gracefully stepped down, only to return as a city councilman, where he remains to this day.

Now how did I show my devotion to both of these American heroes? this is how:

photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2584/249/109/6904613/n6904613_34517384_1689541.jpg

The head of Marion Barry on the body of the Venerable Dr. Gonzo, caught in the act of smoking crack. While sadly, I'll never be able to show my creation to Hunter, if I ever run into Marion Barry, I'm getting him to autograph it, which will immediately be inked into permanence. On the off chance that he finds it offensive (how could he?) I will immediately get MARION BARRY HATES THIS TATTOO inked in a place of prominence.
(raulduke, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 18:34, 2 replies)

my 'mate' Dave
was in a bar in town one night and realised he was adjacent to 'Nigel Kennedy of cooking' Gary Rhodes. Dave is a massive gobshite who works in advertising sales - no stammering and not knowing what to say, for Dave.

'I had my birthday in your restaurant last year Gary, I loved it and so did all my friends. Do you fancy a line?'

Apparently the look Gary gave him would have curdled milk. Perhaps that was the idea and he was attempting some kind of proto-Blumenthal molecular gastronomy, but with Dave's face.

Or, perhaps not.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 17:18, Reply)

Jailbait
Some background: I've always been tall for my age and as a result have often been mistaken to be older than I am, including getting into pubs from the age of 14.

Some time around 95/96, age 16, myself and a couple of mates went to see The Prodigy at Glasgow Barrowlands. We loved at the time and I had a particular soft spot for both Liam and Leroy. However, we were but poor school children in Edinburgh and as a result, had taken the cheapest option of getting through to Glasgow - the concert coach.

There we were, dancing away like loons on the front row, when Maxim pulled me out the crowd to dance on stage. After flailing about like a idiot for a few minutes (with only one shoe on as the other had come off when I was pulled out the crowd), Leroy wandered over and asked whether I wanted to come to the after party.

I would love to now tell you that we went along and had a night of drunken debauchery. Unfortunately, what in hindsight may not be my coolest moment, I informed him that "I need to get my coach back to Edinburgh. I've got school in the morning". He promptly ran to the other side of the stage and I was bundled back into the audience. I often wonder what could have happened that night!

When I met them again at Glastonbury, he didn't remember me or give me a second chance at a night of debauchery.

On a separate note, about the same time, I met the president of Croatia and ended up on his private jet (long story). As I wasn't expected, there wasn't a seat for me and I had to sit in the toilet for take off and landing. I had a good rifle through the drawers, but there was nothing of interest.
(batgirl, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 16:54, Reply)

My daughter the Primeval nut
My daughter is 8, and for at least the last year and a half her biggest obsession has been Primeval (which may be a bit poo, but at least it's not High School Fucking Musical). She goes a bit loopy about it, reciting the list of characters like a mantra and writing little Primeval booklets and posters. The only time I've ever known her to stop misbehaving in response to a threat was when I reminded her that Primeval was coming on soon and she might not be allowed to see it.

A friend of mine who writes Doctor Who novels has just written a Primeval one, and he's named a character after my daughter. She nearly died when she heard.
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 16:06, 10 replies)

Not biggest fan, almost the opposite...
Back when I could be bothered will all the hassle and expense, I used to be in a band with quite a large following, and indeed quite a large membership; at one point there were 12 band members, but usually only 9.

The singer once went on holiday to Greece and in true comical style dived into the swimming pool on the first day of arrival in the mad excitement of being away from home.

Of course, he found very quickly that there was only 3 inches of water in the pool thanks to someone the day before laying a nice underwater cable - and not for the purposes of data transfer.

This nearly broke his neck, and his holiday was pretty much ruined. I don't know much about Greek hospitals, but if they're much like ours, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have been much fun.

Anyway, as he was laying at the bottom of the pool in 3 inches of water, an innocent bystander who goes by the name Vic Reeves, jumps in the pool and gets him to relative safety.

Not only this, but this bystander also travelled to hospital with him, and actually took gifts and checked in at the hospital over the next couple of weeks to see if the chap was ok.

They became quite good friends.

Fast forward a fair few months, and we're gigging at a usual 6 weeks spot, when Vic decided to patronise the place with his precence...along with his brother, who incidently wears the exact same clothes and glasses, and presumably snorts similar quatities of Columbian marching powder - the eveidence was clear to all with eyes!

Vic has a quick word with the singer, and duly comes on stage to do a quick rendition of something shite no doubt (can't remember the song), whilst he's stomping in that stomping way that we've all seen Vic do in the style of a club singer.

At the end of the song, and revelling in the applause, he hurls the mic stand down on the floor...and straight into a nice brand new pint of wife beater that a friend had kindly bought me and placed up on the stage for me to pick up at the end of the song.

Vic looks straight at me (or through me might be a more accurate description), shrugs and goes back to his table with his brother (if it wasn't his brother, then it was certainly a clone of some sort).

So Vic, whilst I am not a big fan of yours, I WILL start to stalk you soon if you don't bloody buy me a pint next time I bump into you.

You know I know where you live, and I see you just about every other bloody weekend - it's like he's stalking me actually!
(dchurch bah, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 15:45, Reply)

Having just read the actual question properly.....
About twelve years ago, I decided to write to a hero of mine, the Hallowed and Revered Mr. Gary Larson.

Having been an embryonic cartoonist since I was teensy, I had never really put any effort into actually trying to become one. Hours spent laughing at greetings cards with Larson cartoons on them and poring through Far Side books both influenced and inspired me and set me on the path of a cartoonist career (a path that led nowhere then, but I've recently began to re-tread, in some ways, but I digress.)

I wrote about how he had entertained me, educated me, inspired me and how following his work had focused me into producing my own. I mentioned a few of my favourite cartoons, and even had a crack at some light humour in the hope of raising a grin on the great man's face. All in, it took me a few hours. I read and re-read it to be sure I didn't sound like an awestruck, gurning idiot and posted it off to the address given for fanmail, not really expecting a reply.

A short time later, however, a reply came! I remember the anticipation as I opened it..... what would the great man say? Would there be any pearls of advice for me? Would he have sent an autograph or better, a signed print of one of his cartoons?

I opened the folded piece of paper and saw the logo of the syndicate that sold Larson's cartoons worldwide. Below, hurriedly written were three words.

"Gary says thanks".

I think no reply would have been better, because now I doubt the shit's even forwarded my letter to him.

He's still a great hero of mine though. But it was then that I first realised corporations are dicks.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 3:34, 1 reply)

Jimmy and the Flying Pizza.
My paternal family exist now in a state of disarray, geographically speaking, basically they're all over the place. I have an Aunt and young cousins in London; Uncle, Aunt and some more cousins in Gloucester and grandparents in Ballantrae - that is a small coastal area in the West of Scotland, (actually where a lot of Gilmours are to be found. I've seen signs for Legal associates and graffiti bare the name in the same area, there's sod all of that elsewhere)- other members of this disporia are great uncles whom also reside in Scotland. But this story is about my segment of the family, from my immediate grandparents to my new cousin Sam. This segment which is now so fragmentated used to reside in Leeds. I've been raised there and seen little of my family aside from odd snippets. From what I did see I saw a quiet somewhat unemotional family. Fortunately enough my father and his actions provided enough trauma to show how repressed they could be. I had barely seen my family for ten years after he was convicted and didn't really expect to see them at all. By that time my mother and I were formed into a strong unit. One so much so that for whatever reason rumours of concern for my confinement were spread around. They wanted me to visit them a lot more than was I was really prepared to move around for. In hindsight if I had been a regular visitor to wherever the hell they wanted to go I probably might have emerged a more confident person, but at the time it wasn't me, I instead felt I didn't want to leave what I felt was my mum and my home. I did visit alone at one point but that went fairly disasterously at one point and a bridge was never truly formed.

Given time, however, they decided to come to me and repair what the damage they felt could have been somewhat avoided more by them. They visited me for my Eighteenth birthday.

When all converge to Leeds, there is one restaurant which is favoured always as a destination by the family, that is "Adriano's Flying Pizza." (the early memory of a visit from the family with me wrapping myself round my grandfather's leg and unsuccessfully bidding for Burger King is seared in my mind). It's an italian restaurant and not a cheap one at that, but one which is elegant and well dressed.

It must have been some kind of race day there were too many people in suits and hattery the kind not seen since Ascot.

I had been driven by my Uncle I think and on the way there it was noticed an expensive car was outside, inevitably it must have been Jimmy Saville. A man whos income now resides on royalties from a Louis Theroux special, to keep that car he had to work his way round the restaurant for dinner. Allegedly.

Through the course of one meal I got on with my family. I sat next to my Uncle and discussed the coming future, the past and how my cousins were doing. It's always uncomfortable to have my mother there though it's never that I prefer one over the other, heaven forbid, it's just that I know even though she's kept the name to avoid reverting to a rather unfortunate maiden name she never truly fits in and that's a fact I truly detest. My patnernal family are hardly a dynasty that rejects the uninvited but they're just seemingly very different to my mum-

Oh God - here comes Jimmy Saville.

Walking through the aisles of diners Jimmy makes a movement towards the table opposite, the group opposite are amused enough and Jimmy starts rousing all in a celebration of one of the troupe's birthday. I'd kiss more alcohol, but young as I am, I feel a cliche isn't quite yet where I'd like to go, but the apprehension does makes itself strong enough to appear in the form of flatulence.

Sure enough

"Hey, its my nephew's birthday would you mind?"

The smell of some sort of fragrance young men aren't to know yet breezes past me. Suddenly I'm being grappled by this titan of yesteryear, he has me in a headlock, long enough for a few slow photographs and good enough for me to fear the arm hair, sharp and aged that they are, striking my chin.

I stopped moving, totally - I was fixed I tells ya.
( Uncle Gilly hides from Plato, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 13:55, 2 replies)

My name is Dan
My name is Dan. I'm 31 years old, just over 6' 1" tall and I weigh about 15st.

I was always tall for my age, towering above everyone else when I was at school.

But for a typo on my birth certificate, I'd definitely have been the biggest Fan.
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Tue 21 Apr 2009, 11:12, Reply)

Lift loonery
A few years back I took a job on the floor above the Oldie magazine in London. On the first day, I arrived by motorbike and got in the lift - still with my helmet on - to see Richard Ingrams, Editor and erstwhile top mate of Peter Cook. Having always been a massive fan of Cookie, I decided to use the 30 seconds we'd have together to ask him a truly sensational question about my hero. While I was thinking what to say, my helmet ever so slighlty banged against the lift door and I said - and it's painfil to write this even now - "dangerous things, motorbikes". Ingrams looked at me like the dangerous fruitloop I so clearly was. The next day a couple of the editorial staff caught me in the lift and I'm sure it was all one could do not to piss her knickers there and then. I was there for six cocking months and every single day in one way or another I was reminded of my slack-jawed twattery.
(TrickyWoo, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 10:25, 1 reply)

Short…but sad…

I married the present Mrs Pooflake in the happy year of 1999. Joyfully celebrating the end of a shite-lick century with our sweet nuptials, and the knowledge that I’d forever have to keep topping her up with a cleverly disguised combination of Alco-ma-hol, Chloroform and Royhpnol.

The thing is…we were married in the August…but the ‘honeymoon’ happened in May.

So why?...why was it a matter of utmost urgency that we have our wedding holiday at that.specific.date.?

It was so I could fly to New York and watch the World premiere of Star Wars: Episode (cunting) One.

I travelled for 16 hours non-stop to get to there, only to have to queue for another 6 hours…with the patience-of-a-saint wife to be in ever-faithful tow.

However, as we finally entered the cinema, the concoction of Jet Lag and copious amounts of in-flight booze kicked in, and I was fast asleep before I even caught a first glimpse of the insult to cinematography that was Jar Jar Bastard Binks.

Some of the cast were there…apparently…by that point I didn’t care one jot of purest Donkey snot.

I snored the entire way through the film. Loudly. With the soon-to-be-the-present-Mrs-PF skilfully jabbing me in the ribs with her elbow and whispering at me in no uncertain terms to ‘Pleeeease, shut the fuck up’.

And do you know what? All these years later…and I still can’t make up my mind if I was glad I did it.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 21 Apr 2009, 10:00, 5 replies)

The only one I know
I went to see The Charlatans way back in the lateish nineties with my friend Darren. Now Darren was a lovely bloke, but an utter, utter lightweight when it came to holding his beer. We'd had a couple of pints before the gig started and a couple more during the support act. By the time the Charlatans came on, Darren was absolutely leathered.

Oh yeah, he's also about 6 foot 6.

We pushed our way to the front of the crowd, with Darren seriously pissing everyone off behind him. The band start up - they were ace. They finish the first song and there's a sudden lull in the plinky Hammond organ based indie pop.

A lull which Darren decides to fill by bellowing right into the face of Tim Burgess

"PLAY YOUR HIT..."

Burgess took one look at the paralytic beanpole in front of him and delivered a sharp, firm blow to his nose with the microphone.

He then seamlessly launched into "The only one I know."

Totally went up in my estimation after that. Darren repeated the line in much the same way at a Shed Seven gig a few weeks later, but Rick Witter merely looked confused. Tosser.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 9:13, 1 reply)

David Sedaris
is one of the funniest writers in the world; worthy of being British. I got "Me Talk Pretty One Day" for Christmas and peed the couch that afternoon laughing so hard. Anyway, he's as weird as all of us (he'd make a fabulous b3tan, really!) and he loves accident stories, the gruesomer the better.

My story: I once slagged off work (which is UNHEARD OF for me) and stood in line to get a ticket to his book signing. Then I spent all day downtown waiting to get a good seat, fending off hoboes and scam artists trolling for change.
After ward, I stood in line for 2 hours, waiting to have him sign my book and told him my most recent tale of woe from the emergency dept (woman ran over herself with an industrial lawnmower-lost both legs and an arm in the grass, had a breast and a buttock sliced off and was still talking to us when she came in via ambulance. She died soon after arrival.)

He was fascinated and made me stop halfway through and start over so he could record the details in his little black book.

I topped David Sedaris!
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 3:21, 3 replies)

Hawking Flyby
One Summer afternoon in 2005-ish, I was walking down the backs in Cambridge, along with a troop of fellow choristers (wearing silly, "traditional" clothes and walking in a line two abreast... some people from Cambridge will know what I mean). All of a sudden we hear the whine of an electric wheelchair behind us, and none other than Professor Hawking himself trundles along side us. In the stunned silence, his machine simply says one word: "Yes."

And then he leaves.

Also I shook his hand once... it was really cold and limp, unsurprisingly.
( ejlflop errrrrgs. Regularly., Tue 21 Apr 2009, 2:26, 5 replies)

FORE!!!!!!!!!
I once hit Frankie Vaughan on the arse with a golf ball. It was a cracking drive. A one-in-hole!
(je1972, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 21:50, Reply)

OneSelf and DJ Vadim....
I had the pleasure of meeting OneSelf a couple of years ago (OneSelf are an excellent Hip-Hop crew featuring DJ Vadim and Yarah Bravo for the uninitiated).

I had sent the female vocalist a drunken myspack message a few nights previous which went something along the lines of: "You're so great, you're so great, I love your music and would cream my pants for the chance to remix one of your tracks, will you send me some accapelas?".

To my surprise she added me to her MSN and we had a few chats online about music and stuff and we then arranged to meet after one of their out door gigs they were doing in Camden to promote their new album.

So I grab a big fat marker pen and a copy of their album (for autographs) and off I trot to hangout at the designated meeting place and wait for the band (WOOOFUCKINYEAHHHH!!!).

So they arrive, they are cool as fuck and I'm a little star struck to be honest. Whilst they are setting up their kit I stroll over to DJ Vadim and ask him to sign my copy of his OneSelf album.

Now, I should point out at this stage that DJ Vadim's music has had a massive influence on me over the years - I started producing music after hearing his early instrumental albums, got in to DJing/mixing after having a quick muck around with his records and some turntables and generally speaking I idolised the fucker to the point of being a pathetic fanboy.

So it is with great sadness that I recollect strolling up to possibly one of the greatest hip hop producers of all time and asking for an autograph in the following exchange:

Me: Hey man, nice to meet you, I got your new album here, it's quality - I have been listening to it solidly since is came out.... Would you mind signing it for me?

Vadim: Yeah, no problem, you got a pen?

Me: *Hands Vadim my insulin injection pen*

So Vadim goes to remove the lid from my insulin pen as I realise my mistake and attempt to man-handle it out of his mits again before he comes face to face with a dirty great stabby-stabby-injection-needle. We struggle a little, I snatch the insulin back and Vadim is left holding my album, penless and wearing a confused look on his face.

Now he's looking at me like I'm some sort of freaking fuck-tard while I'm rummaging around in my coat pockets for the real marker pen, nodding sagely and smiling my best "care in the community" smile at my hero.

Me: Er, sorry, um I don't have a pen.

Vadim: OK. *Gives album back*.

Me: Walks away.

The End


(As a charming little apendix to this story, I did on this same day meet the lead vocalist of OneSelf and we had a lovely time... Ms. B kindly gave me a CD of her accapellas (and a few instrumentals!) with which I made a remix which I posted on b3ta.com/links and from memeory I was duly flamed for lying about meeting celebrities!)
(aroe_m0rre, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 16:21, 7 replies)

It was during the heatwave of '41.
It was 18 inches in diameter and kept the whole family cool.
That was my biggest fan.



Hur hur hur.
(TheColonel, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 15:10, Reply)

I've always thought that celebrity is an odd thing
To be happy with it you have to be a little bit mental, so no wonder really that it attracts those who are a little bit odd themselves.
Or maybe I have that the wrong way around?

Anyway, I think this sums it up pretty well:

I think I always knew there had to be a time,
When I finally accepted that you would never be mine,
And all those moments, staring wistfully,
Imagining the long hours we’d spend entwined,
Were wasted minutes it never occurred to you to expect.

You never saw me trailing behind your every move,
Counting my steps to your steps so our pace remained smooth,
Or if you had it would only be with fear,
That my face was once more there, grooved
A carefully close distance when you turned unexpectedly.

But I never expected to be sat here crying,
Involuntary tears, not like yours, without even trying,
Looking at the one photo I managed,
The only time you looked right at me, smiling,
Because intrusively, I was finally what you expected.

Sorry for lack of funnies, I just like it ;)
( Jessie © needs pirate name suggestions, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 13:42, 1 reply)

Trinitarianism
A friend of mine was a student at Cambridge. For a while, there'd been a glitch in the accommodation list which meant that she was without a room in undergrad accommodation.

However, a suite of rooms had just been vacated in college. Normally, these would be for teaching staff - but there was noone except her in need.

So this is how she ended up living in what had been Ludwig Wittgenstein's rooms.

Every so often, she'd have a group of tourists knock on her door, wanting to take photographs.
"Er... OK", she'd say. "Just let me hide the pile of laundry first..."
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 12:17, 5 replies)

I work in a Kangol shop.
I work there purely for the reason that I might meet Samuel L Jackson one day, should he come in for a beret.

No luck yet. He shops online, I'll wager.
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Mon 20 Apr 2009, 11:10, Reply)

I got down on my knees and told him I was not worthy, Wayne's World-style
because the then-still-alive John Peel was just about my ultimate hero at the time.

He was a real gent, he told me I was worthy and to get up.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:01, 2 replies)

Geek fans
I've mentioned on a previous QOTW that I worked on a web site a few years ago which involved soliciting contributions from people whose ideas we admired. I had a long wishlist of people I wanted on the site, and I regard it as one of my biggest achievements that we managed to contact and get material from almost all of them. That's how I got Terry Pratchett to write us a short story and Neil Gaiman to make us a poem, and best of all, I chatted to Douglas Hofstadter - the only time I've found my voice shaking when speaking to someone.

The best bit was that because the site had a puzzle element, all of these people had to hide puzzles in their material, which meant that not only did Pratchett write us a story, but I got to go back to him and say 'that's great, but do you think you could hide an acrostic in it?'
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 9:39, Reply)

Not me but someone i know !!
About 10 years ago I had a mate who was the son of a farmer in the west country and their familly had a semi decent sized farm. Cow, sheep, spuds etc. I wasn't really that interested in all that he was growing in the fields apart from what i was not supposed to scramble over when taking out the motorbikes for a run about !! Noisy bike, Lots of space, lots of mud !! Happy times !!

Now as my mates parents were actually quite well off at the time, they did have some nice equipment and his dad asked if he and I would go to some show to look at some stuff. Some big show with big names in the farming industry or whatever showing off their new bits. Now as i am not a farming lad, i couldn't tell you who the celebrity farming names are as I was only interested in going to shows like that if it were something like the Motorcycle News Show with all the manufacturers and the tasty looking dolly girls and some bike racers floating around. So as this is not my kind of event i initially declined the invite. But then my mate was so keen on going as his dad wasn't i said I would go along for moral support but he could buy the smokes and beer for the train journey.

Suffice to say, that on the 3 hour train journey, and the couple of changeovers, we had a bit too much to smoke of the "homegrown" and quite a few beers, so a bit dazed and bloodshot eyes, but never the less, i though we were both OK, lets put on the sunglasses.

Now as with all shows and his familly was very much into his top bling stuff, we got there and he headed straight to some group surrounding some farming celeb, I still have no chuffing clue who the hell he is but matey seemed to be very happy in meeting him. Me, i just wait in the sidelines checking out some rather buxom farmers daughters. Would it be worth it even if they do have webbed toes??

Now back comes my mate, with a big smile on his face, he has just got some blokes autograph who has the biggest mutton chops i have EVER seen. SO off we go around this show, he's busy looking at stuff, I am slowly getting more bored so we nip outside for some lunch and another sample of the "homegrown"

Now this "homegrown" was rather devilish stuff and rather than making us sleepy, we were just in a funny mood now. So going up to girls and just chatting them up without any thought of any consequences. ie Their boyfriend who makes giant haystacks look like a limp wristed mincer etc but we come away with just a few slapped faces but still smiling.

Then is all starts to get a bit messy !!

Matey is going a bit odd now and starts to stare at things a bit too long. He's lost it !! So we cue up for a coffee, I think 1-2 really strong ones should do the trick. Now this does perk my mate up, but maybe a little too much as I forgot he doesn't drink coffee or tea !!

Off he plods and I lose sight of him. 5 mins later I find him sat on the top of a combine harvester, semi naked, big crowd around him and he's prentending he's driving it !!! Now these places didn't have bouncers but these people who were showing off these machines climbed up and grabbed him off. Now when they were pulling him off, i noticed that they were some of the same mutton chopped faced people he had been cuing up to grab their autographs from. Matey noticed as well and tries to hug them in a very excited and obviously innebriated state but then gets carried out of the building, put next to a wall and hay bale but he then starts to wobble. then half leans on the hay bale. Yup, my mate has shown himself up a treat and is now standing there with his head lolling around like a bladder on a stick !!!

What i hadn't noticed was the 2 girls, both with large buckets of water who were fast approaching him !!

SPLOSH, SPLOSH !!!!! "AAAAAAAAAAAARGH"

now as it was a nice summers day, we had a little walk about and i didn't take him long to dry up, and due to the 2 ice cold buckets of water, he was suitably sobered !! So off we pop down the pub for a cold non alcoholic drink to chill out and contemplate the day.

Now my mate looked like a broken man. He had started the day with a fresh excited face, and now he just looked all sad and depressed. I knew he liked an occasional cigar so I went and bought some from the bloke behind the bar (as you could smoke in pubs back then)

So we have a couple of cigars and the bar has that nice bar room smokey hue (they way pubs SHOULD be !!!! Fucking non smokers ruining our fun !!!)

Now, 1/2 hour later, that mutton chopped man happened to come in the pub with a few of his big mutton chopped faced mates and they get a beer each. They notice me and my mate with our cokes and cigars and he comes over.

"OOO ARRRR, Did you enjoy your wake up call there laddy? you were a bit aaaart of it thaaarre."

Now quick as, my mate takes a long draw on his cigar, then blows a big load of cigar smoke in this blokes face and i saw him getting quite angry !! Matey then stood up, went almost face to face with him then sucked all the smoke away from Mr mutton chops. I was just about to grab matey and run out of the pub but my mate just stood there and said.

"Fuck off, I'm an EX-Tractor fan now"


Length? far too long and far too stoopid !! I am now getting my coat !!!!
(shagbolt, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 9:10, 2 replies)

My mate
Once saw Rutger Hauer in a bar while being very drunk.

He proceeded to walk up to him and to make a very pathetic attempt to quote Rutgar's Blade Runner's speach at him.

Needless to say he failed misrably and was rewarded with a pat on the shoulder and a "Don't give up the day job" before Rutgar walked cooly away.
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 8:33, Reply)

I’ve shown my devotion to Garbage through my choice of username
I doubt anybody can top that.
( GarbageFan didn't know what to have as a board sig on, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 21:36, 11 replies)

I've got Jimi Hendrix's tooth.
There was a fight in a pub down Oxford Street, someone planked him, and I picked it up. I knew he was a genius even then.



Thank you and goodnight.
(Helixdaunting, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 6:11, 1 reply)

Jeff Mills
Jeff Mills, in case you don't know who he is, is one of the founding fathers of techno music. From detroit waaaay back in the 80s, him and a bunch of other guys came up with basically what spawned all dance music that we have today. I'm sure there's some other roots behind where they got their ideas from, however, you can be absolutely certain that Jeff Mills is one of the leading pioneers and techno DJs.

Anyway, this particular occassion is the second time I managed to meet Mr Mills. The first was in Glasgow at the Arches, when I was doing a uni project that I somehow managed to twist into involving techno, so I contacted the club and said I wanted to speak to him. They let me, and despite the fact it was never going to yield any fruits (thanks to my eyes rolling about the back of my head), I did shake his hand and notice that he has exceptionally long, creepy, alien fingers.

Amazing.

Anyway, 2nd time round was at the Glade festival last summer. With my good friend Julia, we decided (well, she did) to break in backstage and wait for him after his set. So we did.

He eventually came out and there we were, rushing up to him, professing our love with favourable quips such as, "Jeff, you're the best, we love you" etc etc, going as over the top as we could. He took it all pretty well - I'm sure it was nothing he hadn't seen before. Anyway, we got a photo and off we went with big smiles.

Next stop with Mr Mills the Spacewagon was in London a few months later.

This time we'd printed off the photo we'd got at Glade and wrote a rather creepy poem on the back. It went something along the lines of,

"Jeff, your beats are crystal clear,
rest assured we're always near,
so near,
so near,
oh dear.
We love you forever and ever."

We then framed the photo, replete with poem and got ready for the big night.

Absolutely spannered, and in peak time in a club with about 2000 people being blasted in the main room by big subby, dischordant beats, Julia decides the moment has arrived to present Jeff with his trophy, so she blags her way past security and proceed to go an all fours across the stage, clawing at his legs to get his attention.

The wonderment of security staff alone was a sight to behold, let alone Julia swiping wildly at Mr Mills as he's battering out techno across 4 decks and a million other pieces of spaceship tech.

Eventually, the retrieve Julia who returns, mission definitely not-accomplished.

Anyway, the gig comes to an end and we hang about. Security are by this point definitely not keen on us talking to him, and tell us he's not coming to speak to anyone after. So we convince the guy to at least give him the picture and finally off he trots to do his duty.

Jeff gets the picture, looks at it, smiles then looks at us and waves. Woo! Result!!

Then he comes down off the stage to come say hello! Woo! Result again!

Cue another photo, a bit of chat into which (I'm particularly proud of this) I managed to look him in the eye and tell him, "Jeff, apart from my mum, you're the most awesome person in the world."

"Oh right, thanks" he said. I like to think he was properly worried at this.

Anyway, that was that and the lengths we went to show our devotion.

The next occassion Jeff was in town was to showcase some old soundtrack he did ages back, only this time he'd made some crappy visuals on windows movie maker or something. It was pretty banal, and the interview in which he tried to make it all sound academic was also pretty contrived, although it was highly amusing watching the rather inexperienced interviewer try and boost the whole thing into the realm of intelligent academia and Jeff try to pad out his answers as much as possible.

For example, one of the tunes was made with the idea in mind of having the grooves on the vinyl accurately represent the real distance between the rings of Saturn (the title of the "art" showcase). Too much acid, methinks.

Anyway, all this and some equally serious questions from the audience and the interviewer finally got a microphone handed to me to ask my question.

I stood up, and bared my t-shirt (onto which was printed the photo of us from our last meeting along with multiple images of jeff's head and in big letters on the back "We you Jeff!"), and I said, "Thanks for coming and the show was really interesting.. your visuals had a lot of bite, and the sound really gave our ears something to chew on. My question is, what is your favourite toothpaste?"

Again, I am particularly proud that Jeff sat in his suit and tie in front of this audience and literally took several takes before stammering out, "Crest..?".

Again, satisfaction. We even got our t-shirts signed afterwards. What a champ... I do love Jeff, so I do....

And he's coming back on May 15th. Any suggestions for how to take it to the next level anyone?
(ComradePotato, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 23:48, 2 replies)

Im waiting for Spankyhanky .........
......to relate a lovely tale of accidentally having sex with someone famous ;)

My meagre contribution.
For some reason the smallish town I live in attracts a lot of famous people, many more in summer, must be something to do with the very famous music festival they have every june ;)
Musicians, soap actors up to Hollywood A listers
So many times Ive passed someone on the street, done that I sort of i recognise you but forget where from half smile at them, then only later realised its cos Ive seen them on the screen.
They must be used to that though.
Gave directions to Catherine Zeta Jones, the guy I was with didnt recognise her and nearly fainted afterwards when I told him.
Had a conversation about knickers with an actor from Emmerdale ( dont ask)
Lots more, but too boring to relate.
Ive never gushed or asked or autographs etc, TBH they are just people.
But once and only once did i lose it.
Rushing to the bank just before closing I collided with a couple,nearly knocked him right over into the road.
Aplogised, he said something like, thats ok no problem.
Then I see lots of people pointing and gaping.
Only then do I really look at them.
Its David Bowie and Iman.
By this time they have passed by, I walk mesmerised into the bank and then totally mong out, forget what Im called and how to write my signature.
Apparently I was as white as a sheet.
I nearly knocked over David Bowie FFS!

I did once go to see an actor after a play in London.
I had absolutely the biggest crush ever.
All day I'd been thinking of what to say, how to say it.
I was going to be polite, charming and witty
Went to get his autograph and couldnt say a word, turned to incoherant mush.
I still cringe

Have always wanted to meet Christopher Lee, but some folks who have said it wasnt the best experience, so i'll leave that one to fantasy
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 21:47, Reply)

I am my own god
I don't believe in "celebs"
I am my own hero
I like cake
( SkUG >_O i got a couple of stitches in my eyeball... ow, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:54, Reply)

I often...
...see Bill Bailey doing his shopping in Tescos.

It looks wrong.
(inflateable, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 20:50, 3 replies)

David Boring Anus
For those of you who know him, he was the dude who played Angel in the "Buffy" television series and, um, "Angel". A few years back he did a signing at Forbidden Planet in London which was very heavily attended. By screaming girlies. And myself.

The only reason I went was because my sister is a big fan of his (lord knows why) and she had some Angel memorabilia she wanted signed. As she was doing a Saturday job at the time, she couldn't go but guess who didn't work Saturdays?!

So there I am, standing in line like a 6 foot plus lamp post, sporting more hair on my entire body than the entire conga line of pre-pubescent screaming girlies would have on their collective snatch. Thankfully, instead of looking like some weirdo paedo, I seemed to share an unspoken kinship with the parents of these screeching harridans, no doubt dragged against their will to stand for hours outside a geek's paradise (I used to love going down Forbidden Planet back then).

After what seemed like hours (which actually turned out to be 3 hours) I was let into the shop and up to the counter where the charisma donor was seated. Admittedly, despite not being an avid follower of his, I still felt quite nervous and excited. After all, this was a guy I'd seen on my telly and there he was, large as life. Awesome! So it finally gets to my turn, I'm all smiles and say "Hello!" to him whilst placing the merch in front of him to get it signed. He looks up, grumps a very curt "Hi", scribbles and...that's it. Around 3 hours waiting just to get a mono-syllabic response, a glazed expression and off on my merry way?! I felt cheated.

Then again, I did get the damn thing signed for my sister, who loved it. Standing over 3 hours in line for a bloke whose pockets I wouldn't piss in if his bollocks were on fire just to get something signed for someone else?? Guess that makes me my sister's biggest fan.
(RVD420 has his world coming down on, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 17:13, 4 replies)

Michael Douglas
Okay, so I am not a 'fan' but one night, when I worked on Wall Street (the career path, not the movie) I was sat in a bar called The Jet Lounge on the lower east side.

Frankly, I was drunk. But I am one of those likable drunks. I tend to be a quiet, amiable guy when in my cups (as opposed to when sober).

So I am sat there at the bar, sipping my Macallans and conversing with my buddy when the jackass next to me nailed me in the back with his elbow. I mean, it was damn near painful!

So I tapped him on the shoulder and waited for him to turn around: he turned around and it was Michael Douglas. Star of the CLASSIC film Wall Street. Gordon Gecko was his character and just about every broker I knew could recite that film word for word.

He looked at me as if I had Alaskan King Crabs crawling out of my ears. I said "Seriously. You JUST elbowed me. I'd appreciate it if you'd be more considerate of others around You."

My buddy spit out a portion of his mouthful of liquor. Had I REALLY just admonished Gordon Gecko?! Had I really just requested he be more considerate of others around him?! Cripes!

So, we return to our conversation and continue to enjoy our adult beverages. To be interrupted mere moments later by the very same elbow, into the very same back and this time, it had what we on this side of the pond term "English' on it. It was twice as painful.

A rapid tap on the shoulder later and I tell him this: "Seriously. That's twice. Let there be a third and I will be sweeping the floor with that head of yours. Don't let it happen again!"

He apologized this time and shortly after had a drink sent over. Again I tapped him on the shoulder and said "Thanks but not thanks. I am NOT your biggest fan."
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:02, Reply)

missed it by that much
i've been a huge fan of queen ever since, at the age of three, i first heard bohemian rhapsody. i was utterly hooked from that moment on. i'd beg for the records and cassettes(yes, it really was that long ago) for birthday and christmas presents, i'd play my little stereo till its speakers bled. no other band got so much as a look-in.

then, one glorious day, my friend told me she had tickets to see queen in concert, would i like to come?
does a bear defecate amongst the foliage? of course i'd like to come!
with assurances from her father that we would be properly escorted and watched over by him, i raced home to give my parents the good news.



they said no.
just no.


despite the fact we had a responsible adult with us, despite the fact that i wouldn't have to pay a penny, despite the fact that it wasn't on a school night, they decided that i was too young to go and effectively dropped a portcullis across the drawbridge of well-thought-out arguments.

not only were my dreams thwarted, but the concert i was stopped from attending was the knebworth concert, their last before freddie mercury died.
i will never forgive them for this.


my greatest hero at the moment is terry pratchett, an absolute literary god. i queued outside forbidden planet for 4 hours to meet him and have him sign my books. despite the massive number of fans he'd already had to deal with, he was polite, courteous and an utter joy to speak to.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:17, 8 replies)

Spankys post below reminded me of this incident
Back in 1999 I had entered the telegraphs fantasy football competition and had been the lucky sod that was pulled out of the hat that month and won two tickets to go see a premiership team of my choice. I had chosen Liverpool as my team of choice and was therefore given tickets to go see Liverpool play Bradford at Anfield on a weeknight.

The whole event started in the afternoon where me and a guest (I chose my brother) would be given a full tour of the grounds, a meal with other VIP’s and then allowed to watch the match. The day went well and we must have made a decent impression on the staff of the place as we were given a shitload of freebies to take home with us (I even wrote them a thankyou letter afterwards).

The match ended and me and my bro made our way out of the stadium with our freebie laden Liverpool FC emblazoned kit bag over our shoulders and into the after match crowd. What we did not realise was that the doors we came out were the same doors used by the players after they left the ground so there were a number of fans waiting for autographs.

One of the more die hard Liverpool fans stood near the front of the group grabbed hold of my bro and thrust a notepad in his face “here you go mate sign this will you please” said our new woolly hated chum.

“I think you’ve made a mistake pal” replied my brother “We don’t play for Liverpool”
“Not yet you don’t I know” said the autograph hunter “But you must play for the youth team so you will do one day”

Instead of spending another length of time explaining that we were just some Barnsley lads that had won a fantasy football day out and the kit bag we had was actually full of merchandise like 2 LFC parker pens, 2 LFC ties, 2 matchday programs signed by the team etc etc my bro took the quicker route and signed it, passing it back to mr crazyfan.

Apparently he didn’t want my signature as I had given it to him a few weeks back after a reserves game.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 13:12, Reply)

I met that there Monty Propps
from /links, back in the day, before his Diff'rent Strokes mashup went viral and he became an Internet Legend and a National Treasure. When I met him he was drinking Blue Nun in some Mancunian dive. Never meet your heroes. Blue Nun.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 12:13, 2 replies)

Shattered Image
Long time lurker, first time poster. Be gentle!

I met Christopher Lee at the launch of his autobiography in 1997. I went with a friend who worked in publishing and who had also managed to get me a proof copy of the book, beforehand. It took me a couple of hours and several glasses of wine to summon up the courage to go over to this icon and ask him for an autograph in my proof copy.

He looked at me as though I had just asked him for anal sex (not in a good way) and then proceeded to tell me he wasn't prepared to sign his name to the proof copy as it was full of errors and I should go out and buy a copy of the book, which he would then sign. I had idolised this man for most of my life - (Dracula, 3 musketeers, the devil rides out, the wicker man, etc, etc, etc...) and now I was crushed. You should never meet your heroes.

I was so disappointed (and drunk) that I attempted to steal Terry Pratchett’s hat and was asked to leave.
(chipfatbob, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:13, 3 replies)

Once again, not me...
My housemates stepdad was a driver in his younger days, but would also help out with the setting stuff up.

Stuff he's done -
•went on tour with Pink Floyd, and was there when they played Pompeii
•went on tour with Jim Steinmann and Meat Loaf, and says they're a pair of prize twats
•after touring with Genesis (Gabriel was still in), he struck up somewhat of a friendship with Gabriel himself, as a result he still gets sent albums by the man himself.

But his favourite story was one night after a gig, he was sat in his cabin, when he hears someone calling him from outside.

He opens the window, and there's Miles Davis (was one of several artists on the tour). Miles says to him "I hear you play a bit of trumpet?", he says yes. So Miles said "Fancy a jam?".

The fucker ended up jamming with Miles Davis for hours, with other people joining in too.

Git.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:04, 2 replies)

Not particularly devoted, but...
My girlfriend met George Melly, years ago, and was treated to a pretty good chat-up line.

"Oh, you have a face like a cat!" he exclaimed, then lowered his voice, waggled his eyebrows and added "How I wish I was a mouse!"
(richardm, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 10:38, 1 reply)

My wife's cakes
Were eaten by Sol Campbell.
Neither of us witnessed the man nor the eating of the cakes but the wife told me he had enjoyed them.
I see no reason to doubt her.
( Weejock, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 9:33, 3 replies)

Eartha Kitt

City Varieties, Leeds, and she deigned to drink with us mere mortals in the upstairs bar after the show.

The then Mr Thirsty and I were due at a fetish night later, and I was wearing a rubber vest. It caught her eye. Thinking on my feet, I borrowed some lipstick and asked Ms Kitt to autograph my vest with it.

She looked at me from head to foot and growled "stupid boy".

Never mind the words. I got my own personal growl from Eartha, and my feet didn't touch the ground for days.
( thirsty a rare visitor these days, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 0:34, Reply)

At the moment
I've developed a worrying addiction to watching the videos on this site simply because, for whatever reason, the guy who does them has the same effect on me as Morten Harket does on Weebl. I think I just like ranty gamers who make their own video reviews and who can make me laugh till it hurts, since before this I had the same compulsion to watch every Zero Punctuation.

Specifically, the first part of his Final Fantasy VIII review here, where he drools over Quistis in various ways (starts about 3:20 in). Watch it, and you maybe will see why. If not, who wants to help pay my therapy bill?

Now watching for the third time since 6.30, when I got home from work, having taken a break to piss about on Facebook and Twitter and watch Borat and make dinner. Seriously, I need some kind of intervention.

In other news, I've been this close to the beautiful and lovely Jenny Lewis:


( Maladicta, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:45, 8 replies)

I am a big Haryr Potter fan
And I try using Haarry Potter spells every chance I get.
(NERDYLURKER is attempting to divide by zero, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:07, 4 replies)