"What's that?"
I was at a festival in Holland, and the vaguely mainstream, distinctly regional accented band The Pigeon Detectives were playing. Afterwards, they were going to have a signing session. I sort of liked the music, and figured I wouldn't get a chance like this for a while, so I bought the album, and went up to get it signed.

As I was working my way along the line, the bassist was having a cigarette, I remembered that I had a joint in my pocket, this being Holland and all, I felt that it was almost criminal not to be carrying. I whipped it out, put it on the table, and asked him "Would you like something else to smoke?"

He looked at it, blankly. His mate, however, quickly put it in his pocket. The bassist looked, confusedly at this mate, and asked "What's that?". His mate, sighing resignation, replied "It's a spliff". The bassist, let out a penny-dropping "Oohhh" and was silent.

You're a bassist, in a "successful" rock band, and you can't even recognise a spliff? How rock and roll are you?
(LickOutTheJamsMotherfuckers!, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 11:20, 4 replies)

Daleks
I love Daleks. I love them wrong. By killing one, we can all be together in death. Yes.



*Shuffles off back to teh home*

(I should probably explain. We had a Dalek brought to us in my old job for a promotion we were doing, and I just had to have a fiddle didn't I? I broke its voice box. Naughty me.)
(Tiny Blindfolded Horse Kitten sound car horns would end road rage, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 11:16, 4 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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

"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)

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)

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)

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)

I met Dermot O'Leary
At an Arsenal game, I was stood in front of a massive table of free pints, he came up to me and asked where I got my beer from. I pointed at the massive table about a yard away from us but he was disappointed as I had bitter and he couldnt find any.
(Dr Zoidberg is going for a scuttle, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 7:52, 1 reply)

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)

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)

Living where I live, I see famous people quite often
Brian Setzer lives the next town over, Dean Koontz lives down the street and since I was 13, by pure chance, I've been friends with Alicia Silverstone. At her 21st birthday party, Liam Gallagher sat with me and husbandthefirst because "he couldn't fucking stand the LA shit" and asked us our opinions on everything from his music, to "is Hull really shitter than Manchester".

But, enough of that.....

I am a massive Abba fan. I've loved Abba since I was about 10.
And lo, Mamma Mia the stage show came out. I've seen it a lot, a hell of a lot, and when the show did a week-long run at my local theater my friend and I saw it 4 times in one week. One the 4th night, we were sat in the bar having a drink before the show, and the guy that played Eddie asked us to the aftershow party. We got fucking hammered and were being loved up and loving back a whole bunch of gay guys. It was ace.

Went to see the show in Vegas in December last year, front row tickets. And one of the guys in the orchestra had recently relocated to Vegas from OC and landed a job in the permanent orchestra there. He remembered me and invited our party for the aftershow gig.

Fucking ace!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 3:28, 2 replies)

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)

This isn't me
BUT at the Covenant gig a few weeks ago, Eskil Simonsson was having a ciggie in the smoking area, like you do. I asked him for a photograph (autographs are SO nineties!) and proceeded to stand next to him and waited for my fella.

He practically rugby tackled me out of the way, and got so flustered. He bragged 'I shoved my girlfriend out of the way for you, man'.

Daft fucker forgot to give somebody the camera, so wet were his knickers.

Here it is:

Bless him.

Yes, I know I'm not the prettiest girl in the world! And my teeth aren't yellow; it's the disastrous result of braces elastic and curry.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Tue 21 Apr 2009, 0:25, 5 replies)

i, once upon a time,(literally) bumped into Pete Wylie of "The Mighty Wah!"
"the albert", lark lane, liverpool, 1991.

it was 150% HIS fault and it was HIS pint that got spilled (not the 4 i was carrying).
upon apologising to him (i still wonder why i bothered) he uttered the now immortal words "Don't you know who the fuck i am?"

my reply?

yup!

"no, i haven't a fucking clue who the fuck you are!"

he went mental.

my pals (all locals), sitting barely 4 feet away, and fully aware as to the identity of the ego i was dealing with did likewise.

LOL
( blaireau69 , the Cumbrian Travis Bickle., Mon 20 Apr 2009, 23:46, 2 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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

Bermudas famous people
Well as u can tell by my user name i now live in Sunny Bermuda. So far i have chatted to and also worked on Bryan Adams's car as well as Catherine Zeta-Jones's car. ( nice people in fact)

Oo also went to a cat show and saw Sir Richard Branson. Never chatted to him though.
(Bermuda_import Beach party this weekend, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 19:45, 2 replies)

Vince Noir
I'm almost ashamed to admit that Noel Fielding used to be in my top 3 blokes I'd go straight for, edging just below the scrummy Gael Garcia Bernal. Living and working in London however has lead me to meet he of the crazy hair and skinny pants on more than one occasion, first slovenly mooching about near Kentish town and then later sunbathing in a ridiculously tight shirt by my house on Ealing Common. That time I fancied him because I thought he was a girl...

In real life (and The London Paper) he always come across as a bit of a knob unfortunately, although I did get a friendly wave out of a sweaty Julian Barrat, his Mighty Boosh co-star after a game of tennis on Hampstead Heath.

These days I've finally come to accept that it wasn't the poseury Mr. Fielding I was after at all, but rather his boosh alter-ego the still quite scrummy Vince Noir. Ah if only reality really could imitate art.
(lowfigirl animating hamburgers, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 17:33, 4 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)

My bastard friend
Saw him one day out in Bristol, he looked half dead, grinning from ear to ear.

Showed me some pictures on his phone and explained why he was the walking dead.

He'd been at work the night before when who should walk in but Chino Marino and the rest of the Deftones. Being boyhood heroes of his he refused to let them pay for a drink, and ended up partying with them all night and into the morning for his efforts.

The clincher came when he found the next night they cancelled their Bristol show due to 'difficulties'.....
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Mon 20 Apr 2009, 16:28, Reply)