Lengths to which I wouldn't go
I seem to have a lot to say this week...

1995 - Arsenal reach the Cup Winners Cup Final in Paris.

Now, I'd been following Arsenal home and away for years, I'd seen them play in Europe, but had never managed to see them play in a cup final (due to an unfortunate habit of being in the wrong country at the wrong time), let alone a European one.

Just one problem. I have a university final exam the following afternoon.

However, Eurostar has just started running from London to Paris.

Christ, how I agonised over that one. Getting there - no problem. Getting back... well, assuming I got a ticket on the first one back in the morning, three and a bit hour journey, factor in losing an hour for the time difference, half an hour to get from Waterloo to Paddington, two hours to Cardiff, get into Cardiff Central with half an hour to spare to get to the exam.

Come on. Even I'm not that fucking stupid.

Instead, watched it in the Tafarn in the Students Union, got pissed as anything, slept in, massive hangover, got to the exam late and missed a 1st grade mark for that exam by 1%.

Should have gone to Paris, I'd have had more chance of getting to the exam on time.

Length? Nayim from the halfway line, as the Neanderthals from the other end of the Seven Sisters Road always remind us (not that they've had much else to sing about since then)
(Capo, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 12:11, 2 replies)

Geoffrey
I met Geoffrey from the fresh prince in a pub in Ealing with his life partner.

and i saw them kiss
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 12:08, 2 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)

Not really a hero...
... seeing that me and the two mates I was with are all of the Scottish persuasion, despite having been brought up in London.

It's 1990, and Arsenal were playing in an FA Cup replay away to QPR.

Now, QPR's stadium is located very close to BBC TV Centre, so it was unsurprising when elongated chinned TV pundit Jimmy Hill got on the train on his way to present the highlights later that evening.

Now, we stopped short of greeting Jimmy with the old Tartan Army song about him (which I won't trouble you with).

The one thing you do need to know though, was that around this time, he was getting a lot of negative press about his involvement in possibly selling the ground of Fulham FC (of which he was chairman) to property developers.

"So Jimmy", my mate Craig pipes up as the train pulls into the stop for BBC TV Centre, "who do you think will win tonight - Arsenal or QPR?"

Jimmy, aware that the train is full of fans of both teams, but perhaps forgetful that football fans can actually read and were fully aware of what is going on at his own club, and the criticism he was getting from his own fans, diplomatically answers, "Er, Fulham".

To which, Craig said simply, "You cunt".

The whole carriage erupted with laughter, leaving a very red-faced Jimmy Hill waiting a seemingly interminable time for the doors to open...
(Capo, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 12:00, 2 replies)

I once flew to California
To see the rollout of the world's tallest plastic helicopter, and met the guy who piloted the X-prize winning flight, Brian Binnie. Nice guy. Sat next to his wife for lunch.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:42, Reply)

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)

Look kids its Toby….#Clang#
A few weeks back I was at a christening/ birthday party for a friends kids. The two parents of the kids in question worked at Barnsley Football Club and had therefore managed to book out the executive box for the party (After the lengthy church ceremony).

The party had started, the bar was swamped with parents drinking to try and wipe out the looped soundtrack of kids songs that was playing in the background and then K the mother of the christened kids pulls me to one side. It turned out that they had managed to also get hold of the actual suit for the clubs mascot and were looking for someone to play the role of Toby Tyke to amuse the kids after they have played pass the parcel. Most of the other dads had turned it down due to the fact that they were dressed up for a fancy occasion and didn’t want to ruin their suits etc, but I was a 28 year old bloke with a mental age of 10 and I also had a kid who was an avid Barnsley fan that loves Toby Tyke.

I pretended to disappear to the loo and quickly got dressed, the gloves that he wore were misplaced so I had the option of looking like Toby had had been taking part in some form of human hand transplant or to keep my hands in the sleeves of the suit, making it look like Toby Tyke had been caught shoplifting in Iraq a few weeks ago. Then I found a problem with the doors. The head I wore was a good foot or two taller than I was so I was constantly colliding with the doorframe every time I passed through a door- this kind of dampened my entrance when K yelled out look whos here and the kids turned to see the club mascot stagger through the door after twatting my head on the entrance.

My youngest took one look at me in the suit and ran off screaming, as did a few others. Once things had calmed down I went round the braver kids, shaking hands and having my picture taken with a number of terrified little buggers forced to sit next to me (I also had a bit of interest from a couple of the mums too, who also had their photo while sat on my lap).

Eventually I was led back outside, took the suit off and returned in from my trip to the loo (Thank god the adults knew I was in the suit as the image of me popping out to the loo and returning a few minutes later sweating and looking knackered would really raise a few questions with the parents).

I know this story won’t be as good as the others that involve people saying they met Slash/Mr T/ Batman etc but I wouldn’t swap this for anything as the star struck look on my eldest sons face (the one that wasn’t scared to death of me) made me feel on top of the world (and still does when I think back to it).
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:29, 1 reply)

Eddie Kidd
As a child growing up in the 80's I was a massive fan of Eddie Kidd

Link for the younger viewers:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=CmzsTOMMYFg&feature=related

I used to do jumps on my BMX and shout "Eeeeeddieeee Kiiiiiiiiiidddd!". That's how much of a fan I was.

I then met him a couple of years back. Broken, tired and slumped in his wheelchair. I had a lump in my throat for what had happened to this handsome young hero, but I wanted to tell him that he was the reason I wanted to ride a motorbike, and I think he liked hearing that.
( Mr Gear the gay-maker, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:27, 1 reply)

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)

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)

on the subject
of fan tattoos

How can no one have mentioned this?

www.strangecosmos.com/images/content/11701.jpg
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:21, 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)

The Music
From the first time I ever heard Take The Long Road And Walk It on the Evening Session and began a journey from shy, retiring, paranoid Raindance to the annoyingly brash, borderline narcissus Raindance that I am today The Music have been my favourite band. This story takes place at a point very early on in that journey.

It was 2002 and I was at the Leeds festival with a few friends. It was the first day and all the talk was about Guns & Roses headlining the mainstage but I was there for a different reason. The Music were headlining the new bands tent at around about the same time, the debut album was two months away from release, they were concidered one of the hottest new bands in Britain and they'd be playing in front of what was basically a home crowd and I had been giddy with anticipation of that moment from the second I first laid eyes on my shiny ticket. I was even wearing my band t-shirt proudly amid crowds of nu-metal meatheads eager to see Puddle of Mudd and Incubus etc.

Firstly however there were a lot of bands to sit through before this climactic set. So I'm standing at the mainstage waiting for (I'm not a fan by the way I was just curious) Slipknot. I really didn't like their music but I thought it might be worth a look because there was a lot of ridiculous hype surrounding them. Nobody in my group felt the same way however and had fucked off to the burger van some time ago.

So there I was waiting for the sickness to go down when I recieved a tap on the shoulder and a Yorkshire accent said 'nice t-shirt'. I through a 'cheers' over my shoulder and went back to facing forwards eager to catch the first glimpse of some masked idiots vomiting all over each other. It took at least five seconds for me to realise what just happened. I looked first down at my chest, yup I'm wearing my The Music t-shirt. Then over my shoulder again but there was noone there. Then over my other shoulder I saw the tall curly haired figure of Adam, The Music's guitarist disappearing off into the crowd. Dispite the overpowering urge to run up to him and tell him how much his spacey riffs had 'changed my life' I decided not to follow him. 'That's definitely the cool thing to do' I thought. But then looking around I realised that because my mates had fucked off to the burger van there was noone to confirm my pathetic story.

So basically, from his point of view the guy was shunned by one of his biggest fans. That's a tough break.

The set was awesome though. Even if I did lose my glasses and have to squint at all the acts on the next two days.

Adam if you ever read this I'm sorry and I loved the new album.
( Raindance Work is inversely proportional to post-count, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:07, Reply)

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)

F1 fan
As a young boy I was quite a fan of F1 racing. Watching them whizz round the track at top speed made the adrenalin pump and my arm flail about wildly as I shouted at the tv.

Imagine the excitement when my dad came home one day with a signed and autographed picture of Aryton Senna that he had obtained from the McLaren F1 team on a factory visit. Now imagine my absolute hysteria when said driver smashed into a wall and died. I was beside myself with joy. Not only had he died, but I was now in possession of his signed autographed photo. I was going to be rich, rich beyond my wildest dreams.

I still have the picture and I think it's worth about £300 now. I guess in retrospect I wasn't much of a fan was I!
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:04, 1 reply)

Not amazing
but a couple of years back a young singer/song writer by the name of Matt Costa was touring the UK after he'd supported Jack Johnson on tour.

He was playing at Cafe Life in Manchester (which as some of you mancs know is quite a small venue) and after the gig he wandered round the bar meeting the fans, he even signed my CD and had a bit of a chat with me.

Thoroughly nice chap and I'd recommend going ot see him when he's next over if you like that sort of thing
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:03, Reply)

Russ Abbot - Sex God.
About 10 years ago in a life far far away from the one I have now, I went to the big smoke to meet an internet buddy, who was also a script writer for the BBC, writing shows such as Hi-de-Hi and other BBC Classics.
When me and my pal got there we were invited to a radio 2 recording of the Russ Abbot show, which "friend" had written. Off we trotted and roled in the isles to brilliant renditions of "see you Jimmy", "Cooperman", "Basildon Bond" and Barrett Holmes (are the memories flooding back?).
After the show we were invited to dinner with Russ, Bella and the gang. Delighted we trotted off to the local food-pit and that's when it happened...
Soft music, Candle light, Bella Emberg cracking onto my friend Alicia.... I fell in love with Russ. Handsome, tall and very charming (which was the complete opposite to his 20 year old obnoxious son who was a right pain in the arse).
Leaving Russ was hard that night, all I wanted was to spend the night in his arms and wake up to his twinkling blue eyes.
I should never have admitted this infatuation but stupidly about a year ago I confessed to my friends in the pub...........
What a Blunder - Woman!
(JellyBelly JellyBelly, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:01, Reply)

Join Me
This isnt a story about my fanaticisms but of my twin brothers.

A few months back, I found myself in a wonderful position whereby I had the opportunity to meet the Author, Broadcaster, funny man and good guy - Danny Wallace. Infact I won the tickets to the launch party of his new book.

Of course I like the guy and his books but in comparison to my twin brother, im just a casual reader. My brother is a HUGE fan of his.

Almost immediately I offered the ticket to my bro but to my amazement he declined! He couldnt get out of work! Such a shame but never mind, Ill ask the missus Blades if she wants to go, she might enjoy it! She gleefully accepted.

Fast forward a week and my brother has gone to extrodianry lengths to get the night off work; paying and training a freelancer to work for the night. Just so he could meet Danny Wallace.

Needless to say, I gave him the ticket and we went to the launch and had a great time. We saw Danny drinking a glass of wine, decided it was a bit gay, and took him over a bottle of beer and a Sambuca chaser. A night of hilarity and debauchery ensued.

Problem was, I'd forgotten to give the missus the memo and had left her waiting outside the bar for a few hours without a ticket to get in.

I Spent a week in the doghouse for that one!
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 10:56, Reply)

Smelly dreads
Many moons ago I had the pleasure of attending an outdoor, acoustic gig by one of crustielands finest bands, The Levellers. It was fookin ace! After the gig, as the band were wandering off, I shook hands with each band member and got their autographs (apart from that Jamie bloke - who the fucks he???) As I had a little chat with Jeremy I thought to myself 'I wonder what his dreads smell like'.

Not very nice, trust me!!!

I then had a beer with them all at the Travelodge they were staying at. Simon was a grumpy twat but still quite friendly, and the others were pretty cool (apart from Charlie the Drummer who is a prize cunt of the highest order)
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 10:50, 1 reply)

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)

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)

I threw my underwear at Dannii Minogue
I missed.

In fairness, though, she was performing on stage at a halls of residence summer party, not just walking down the street minding her own business.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 10:19, 3 replies)

Having been in a sailing type family
and attending many boat shows, I can happily say I've been on the yacht from Howard's Way, Barracuda.

Beat that!
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 10:16, 2 replies)

Similar to Snowy's post below
I'm starting to regret having this done now:

www.dgstandard.co.uk/dumfries-news/local-news-dumfries/local-news-dumfriesshire/2009/02/25/one-goody-deed-51311-23000697/

When will I learn, I do stupid shit when I'm pissed on Buckfast?
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 10:09, 3 replies)

Fan Tattoo
I'm too moderate to have any good ones for this.

Might as well post this then, since it's bound to pop up at some point anyway:

bulletproofglace.files.wordpress.com/2008/05/swayzetat.jpg
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 10:05, 7 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)

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)

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)

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)

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)