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This is a question I'm your biggest Fan

Tell us about your heroes. No. Scratch that.

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?

and we've already heard the fan jokes, thankyou

(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:31)
Pages: Latest, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, ... 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

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.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 22:31, 4 replies)
We were late. Damn Jason and his ridiculous need to do his hair.
But then I glanced across the street -- and there she was. Did I alert the lads? Hell no. I danced out into traffic like a girly version of Frogger, dodged the cars and ended up safely on the other side, smoothing my skirt and calming myself as I walked up.

Now, I'm decently outgoing normally but when it comes to people who impress me I become curiously and ridiculously shy. I tend to forget how to speak and just go all wallflowery, but thanks to a combination of alcohol and OHMYGOD I was about to break out of my habit of awkward nervousness. I was going to approach. Me! Approach! And not get lightheaded!

I walked up, smiled. Said something like along the lines of 'Just wanted to say I've been a fan for years' and managed not to garble any of it.

She smiled, thanked me, and we started talking. By then, the boys had spotted me and joined us, and about an hour later I was drinking with Deb Googe and wondering how on earth my clumsy little self had managed it. She was just as awesome as one might imagine, too.

No great journey or desperate measures here, just a painfully shy fangirl deciding to seize the moment and not making a complete mess out of it for once!
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 22:13, Reply)
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.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 22:02, 10 replies)
Blur ticket problems.
To some of those who know me, I am a massive Blur fan. With one slight problem. I was about 5 years too young to go the gigs. A common problem, you might think.

I have my Dad to thank for getting me into them in the first place. I was 13, just starting on my teenage years. Ah, those teenage years- where you form all sorts of things. Your sexual preferences, your view of the world, or most importantly, your musical tastes. And one of those, is, and probably will always be, Blur. Yes, I know. It's geeky, they're not the greatest band in the world, but fuck me, they're brilliant.

And when I found out that they were playing an additional date in London after I missed out on the first set of tickets, I leapt on them like a sexually starved teenager in a free brothel. Well, I bought two from ebay for about 40% of the cover price. I like to think I out-touted the tout. Mainly as a present for me and Dad- so we could go and see them, and have some son and father bonding time in London, with beer, Blur, maybe a couple of bongs.

But for one slight snag. He's going to be in the USA when they're playing.

(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:55, 4 replies)
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.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:50, 8 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.

(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:49, 8 replies)
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.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:49, 3 replies)
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:

(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:45, 8 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
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:38, 1 reply)
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.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:37, 4 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.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:26, 14 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.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:22, 1 reply)
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.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:18, 15 replies)
Looks like there's a serious Samuel L. Jackson fan out there:
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:17, 2 replies)
I went to Turin
Because it's a city that was loved by Nietzsche, who's one of my heroes.

It was filthy and I got sunstroke.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:08, 1 reply)
I am a big Haryr Potter fan
And I try using Haarry Potter spells every chance I get.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:07, 4 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.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:04, Reply)
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
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 21:00, Reply)
Mick Fleetwood
Last year I went to the Mick Fleetwood Blues Band concert at the Liverpool Philarmonic to hear him and Rick Vito bash out a load of old Mac songs from before the goat and the slappy one joined.

Anyway, a great evening was had by all, many a moneymaker was shaken and after the concert there was the opportunity to meet him and the rest of the band. Job done, and off I went to meet them with a copy of 'Rumours' to be signed. Mr. Fleetwood (who can only be described as looking like god, but maybe a bit taller) was gracious and signed what I had, and then it was onto Rick Vito who only a few months I'd had the pleasure of working with, but never got the interview published. So, what did I say? Was it "Hey, your solo on 'Oh Well' was boss" or "Nice work on the BTM album!". No, it was far more cringe-worthy than that, it was "Hey Rick, I did an interview with you a while ago, but never got it published. I'm sorry." He looked perplexed, smiled and said "no worries."

Still, he signed my stuff and I went on my way. I did feel like a bit of a cunt, though...

Length? Oh, about 6"7.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:56, Reply)
My fave Uke artist came to London a few months back. I'd emailed her to see if she would be signing albums after the gig. Got no reply.

Turned up. She rocked the joint and signed albums after. Bought her album, got it signed then kindly told her in a joking way she never replied to my email and laughed about it. Got my photo taken too.

Was only after my mates said that as I have a booming voice, made more intimidating by alcohol, I actually came across as having a go at her, Felt bad so apologised through email when I got back.

Never got a reply to that one either! lol She saw the funny side tho.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:54, 4 replies)
Nipped up to New York last year to see Iron Maiden
Not such a big deal for me (in Tennessee) but my mate flew across from blighty.

I might be paying a flying visit to Download in June though. Faith no More is back.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:51, 2 replies)
Art imitates Reaility
I have A Scorpion Tattoed on my back, after a Hero of Mine, thing is he's a fictional hero, a character in a comic book.
He's also potrayed as something of a "Occult Warrior" and Yes I am a student of the Occult as well.
Apolgies for lack of Pathos, Footballists and Celebs just leave me feeling...meh
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:49, Reply)
Mike Oldfield!
I have all of his albums, his music rules!
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:49, 3 replies)
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*
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:48, 16 replies)
Look at my screenname, dammit.
I don't even understand the thing - but... yeah.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:48, Reply)
God Dammit!
For the first time I lurk to be first in 3 years so I can comically say *fists* and I miss it as i'm on the phone! Have to think of a serious answer now. :-(
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:47, Reply)

Damn. So bloody close.

I shall console myself with jam on toast.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:46, Reply)

Even sadder as not actually first...
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:46, Reply)

I'm first!

And all because I was busy writing my long story about dancing naked in Margate.

Ah well...that story will just have to wait for another appropriate qotw.
(, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 20:46, 9 replies)

This question is now closed.

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