Even cyborgs have off days
I had a friend at school who was obsessed with Terminator 2. Or any military-based fantastical hero – he’d adopt the qualities of them and proclaim them his own. I remember him forcing me to watch as some tiny injury he’d suffered healed at a rate “FASTER THAN A NORMAL HUMAN,” me nodding politely as I stared at a completely fucking static graze for 25 minutes. When he was eleven he assured me he could squat 500lb. He was also the Yorkshire Pool Champion, having smashed all opposition in pubs throughout the county, aged 14. Fucking wally.

But yes, Terminator 2. Unfortunately he decided he was a cyborg. Normally this would be another one of his harmless bits of idiocy, but sadly for him, he was labouring under this particular misapprehension around the time he got into a fight with another kid. So what should have been a brief albeit exciting playground tussle was instead the excruciating sight of this utter nobhead walking with robotic determination towards his opponent while maintaining a blank expression, hands by his side, Arnie on his mind, relying purely on the irresistible force of his metal endoskeleton to ensure victory.
Naturally the lad he was fighting just started punching him in the face repeatedly, and the rest of us were soon treated to the once in a lifetime experience of having to console a sobbing T800. The best bit? Through his tears, which he insisted were merely a symptom of a cold, he managed to choke a semi-impassive "I'll be back."
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 12:31, 11 replies)

Once, I found a lump under my armpit.
Fearing the worst, I went to the doctor to get it checked out. He pushed it and prodded it and it was quite squishy and said he didn't think it was anything too serious but that he would take biopsy and send it for analysis just in case.

He took a scalpel and went to make little nick in the skin over the lump and it suddenly burst, sending orange fluid squirting out so fast, the doctor couldn't move out of the way quick enough and some of it squirted right in his mouth. The doctor recoiled, a little shocked and disgusted, but then he licked his lips and said it tasted like orange and was, of all things, fizzy.

He then sighed with relief, stood up and said, "It's ok, there's nothing to worry about, it's just a Fanta cyst".

The end.
( Fork Has lost his bash virginity!, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 17:38, 7 replies)

I had a school mate nicknamed Hadder because of his habit of muttering "had 'er" almost every time we passed an attractive woman
One day he announced his conquest of a woman we passed on a bus who then got on at the next stop and sat a couple of rows ahead.
"Have you had sex with him?" Sniggered one of us.
"Yes." She rather unexpectedly replied.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 12:34, 16 replies)

Every 'local' boozer has one.
The guy who was friend to the stars, been a key behind-the-scenes-figure at various historical events(a fact they pften use to contradict 'received' wisdom) and a series of highly-glamourous jobs but no explanation as to how they came to be drinking cheap lager and dressing in clothes from Matalan in an old-man's boozer in an off-the-beaten-track place.
Dave's main schtick was that he'd been a photographer for the music press in London during the 60's, 70's and early-to-mid-80's and like any good bullshitter had a great line in righteous indignation if it was suggested he might be making any of this up and/or plain wrong, usually signing off a conversation he'd butted into with 'well you weren't even born then, how would you know?'

Dave's final unveiling as a Walt came as a result of a mildly staged conversation between the resident Old Punk and the Village Goth. A friendly chat over the merits of 'were The Damned a goth band' was pleasantly and gradually evolving when Dave stuck his unwelcome oar in to offer his 'insights' into the habits and characters of various denizens of the punk and early goth scene.
Irritated with this, VG set a cunning trap which he knew Dave would be unable to resist.

'Of course, I was always more a fan of the Sisters myself.' A pause, a sip on his cider and black and a crafty wink to OP 'Mind you, I met Doktor Avalanche and I couldn't believe what a fucking cunt he was'

'Actually, I always found him to be a lovely guy' came the reply from Dave.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 11:10, 10 replies)

(Eukanuba, Tue 10 Jun 2014, 18:01, 5 replies)

Once upon a time, there was a board full of stories and hope
But, one day, the evil, evil trolls stumbled across it as they marauded over the Internet.

It is told, that they did not know they were trolls, and were really just people who had never known love or the feeling of being accepted in their local and with the calls of "dickhead" ringing in their ears had set out from many places in their virtual Honda Accords of justice, to find a place they might call their own.

And so it came to pass that on one fateful day, the virtual Honda's converged upon a shady (with a twist of lime) corner of the inter webs in synchronicity as was foretold in the book of Rob's. It was truly a dark day when they came together, like a boys school, pleasuring themselves to a single 1980's copy of Razzle, the unrestrained repressed sexual violence they brought upon that collection of naive electronic surfers was a horror we doubt the universe will see again.

The trolls they were clever and did not spring into the light but, spread their evil in whispers and half truths from the shadows. The first to suffer at their hands was the noble Tribe of Mod, who had protected this place with their truth and virtue, but were brought asunder with tales of canine molestation. Then like dew drops in the summer sun, we saw the destruction of the great houses of Spimf, Hood Butter, Legless and Spanky Hanky and we despaired when the not so great house of Smash Monkey fell to the dark side. Some though greatly diminished stayed strong, and fought the trolls in the valiant yet futile act of Trolling the Trolls, even though it cost them dearly in salt water pools and pissed upon mouths.

A dark prophet arose, a keeper of the false archives, and even though he had lurked from the shadows for many a year, his humorous persona of fat spouses and rutting rodents had allowed him to grow strong and draw others to his side until, the legend of AB became the god of false witness.

In the final Shambolic days of this once virtuous place in cybertropolis it became the fashion for the last remaining contributors to nonce upon the otters who used to run wild and the final descent into the fire walls and paid subscriptions began.

Oh from where will a saviour rise to save these fine boards?

Length: about 12 years

TL:DR - that's what fucked it for everyone

This is the word of the boards, praise be to mods.

Cheers.
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Wed 11 Jun 2014, 14:35, 40 replies)

kelly
she was the girl in school everyone felt uncomfortable around, probably due to the smell. she came out with such utter shit in order to make herself seem more interesting, such as there were fairies in her garden and she'd caught one and now it lived in her bedroom, or she'd won £20,000 in a beauty contest in america(she'd never left england in her life). if you called her on her lies, she'd report you to the headmaster and say you'd hit her.
one day, she came in to school with 3 scratches down her left arm. when asked how she'd got them, she told us she'd been for a walk at midnight(she was about 10) and been attacked by a werewolf. unfortunately for her, her brother overheard her. "pack it in, you little weirdo," he said, "you did that yourself with the garden fork!"
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 15:17, Reply)

Guitar Zero
I knew a kid who was always telling suspiciously grandiose tales. On one particular occasion, he said he had an electric guitar - which was not common, for 12-year-old kids in the 1970s!

Naturally, I asked him what amplifier he had. He looked confused. "It doesn't need an amplifier, I told you, it's an ELECTRIC guitar. Durrr!"

I quizzed him further, and apparently his electric guitar didn't need an amplifier because - being electric - it could obviously be plugged directly into the household electricity socket...

Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing him around after that.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 17:00, 5 replies)

Another one...
I worked with a guy of Turkish Cypriot extraction who told us his family had had extensive property holdings in Cyprus when the war forced them to leave and they lost everything. Not at all implausible and we all felt some degree of sympathy for him. But then there was the Northern Irish branch of his family, who were all massacred when masked gunmen burst into their house and shot twenty-odd people dead, the only survivor being a baby in a cradle that was knocked over (again, no media record, despite the fact we all worked for a national newspaper).

He also claimed to have had a personal hand in the invention of several patents (the Sinclair C5 and Amstrad computers being among them, I seem to remember), all of which culminated in him being ripped off for the rights, with no redress.

And to cap it all he was the spitting image of Viz's Aldridge Prior, the Incorrigible Liar - which of course gave us all no end of amusement.

When he was eventually taken to task over the veracity of his stories he complained to management about our 'racist' behaviour. He could have got a 'million-pound settlement for that, you know. It's a good job I'm not vindictive.' Two syllables too many, we thought.

Good job he didn't see the Photoshopping going the rounds at the time - especially the one of him flying the Queen Mother into the twin towers, after he told us he was a qualified pilot ('Are you sure this is the way to Balmoral, driver?').

Treatment of people like him inevitably becomes cruel, since their total lack of self-awareness eventually just produces contempt in others. The line between pathos and bathos might be blurred and indistinct but it's generally obvious when the line's been crossed. Sad, really.

Still fucking funny, though. What a twat.
(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Mon 9 Jun 2014, 1:45, 1 reply)

My friend's older brother is going out with a complete raving mental fantasist
The wheel is spinning, but that hamster is DEAD. She is in her mid 50's and has been off work sick for about the last 20 years. Consequently she has absolutely no money and lives in a council flat with her 80 year old mother.

The first inkling that all was really not that well came when she started buying my friend's brother expensive presents. But somehow, they never materialised. He had no idea how the royal mail could lose so many items. When she bought him a motorbike and it crashed on the way to his house, even he started to ask questions. So she upped the stakes a bit. A relative she had never heard of before died, and left her a house! In Wales! A big country house! She was going to take him there for the weekend!

On the day, the car wouldn't start. The next weekend, she lost the keys. The weekend after that, the roof leaked. Finally my friend, who can't believe her brother was swallowing this, and who is a mortgage lender, asked to see the deeds. The next day, the woman produces a piece of a4 paper, bearing one line at the top: 123 Crewe road, Wales. And a Cheshire postcode.

Gradually the stories about the cottage in Wales faded. Then something real happened: sadly her mother went into hospital and a routine op went wrong and she died. There was some clinical negligence, and she was genuinely waiting for a payout. But somehow the nhs had agreed to pay out £8,000,000 for the death of a woman in her 80's. Er.... So my friend's brother and the fantasist were eagerly discussing what they were going to spend their cash on. A big house of course. Sports cars. A cruise. And so on.

But after a few months, no sign of the cash. When she was questioned about progress, she said that the judge had telephoned her personally to apologise about how long it was taking and had upped the award to £10M. A month later, the law firm rang and said they were going to pay out of their own client account... Yeah because law firms do that and stay in business.... So the pair of them started going on viewings of multi-million pound houses. Fuck knows what the owners/agents thought when that pair of clowns rocked up. last I heard, the matter was with a higher court, and was at £15m.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 8 Jun 2014, 17:09, 7 replies)

my friend sarah was returning to her car in a public car park one day, when she saw a dozy bint reverse far too quickly and smack the fuck out of it
the woman accepted responsibility, but to be on the safe side, sarah asked a gentleman standing nearby if he would be a witness. he agreed readily, and gave her his details. he seemed pleasant enough, a portly balding chap in his mid 50's.

a few weeks later, the dozy bint has become a lying bitch, and swears blind that sarah reversed into her. typical council, the CCTV cameras weren't working and there was no record of the incident. so sarah called her witness to get him to help out.

"oh, i remember you. i'd love to help, but i'm afraid i can't, i'm on tour in australia with kylie minogue right now. yeah, i'm her backing dancer."

this was her first clue that all was not well with the witness. it was useless to point out that he was too fat and old to be on tour with chas'n'dave, never mind kylie. it was useless to point out that she had called a manchester phone number and he had answered it. it was useless to point out that he was a total mentalist. because he absolutely believed what he was saying, and even got quite detailed about his outfits.

sarah ended up claiming on her own policy.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 15:09, Reply)

I had a friend back in the 70's that went one step further than an imaginary friend,
she had a whole group - the 'Osmonds' that used to be with her all the time. I realise that this immediatley ages me. Anyway, we were in the water meadows one day bellowing through a culvert at each other, as kids do.There was a noise,I looked up from my games and screamed - a man had dropped his pants in front of me. All I heard then was 'Charge Osmonds Charge!!' and she was in hot pursuit of him with her merry band. On her return she explained he did not speak the lingo and wanted a wee. As if!
(maggied Riding the Gravy Train on, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 13:01, 2 replies)

Once, I found a lump under my armpit.
I was having a bath at the time. As I began to investigate, it burst, and somehow sending a blob of body-fluid towards my face.

Long story short, I pussed in my own mouth.

(Thank you, Fork.)
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 21:40, 6 replies)

I'm not a fantasist, but...

...if a family of Lord Of The Rings fans moved in next to me, I'd have to sell the house.

Bloody elf-shaggers, coming over here, dragons landing morning noon and night. I mean, they're just not like us, are they?
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 9 Jun 2014, 14:00, 3 replies)

A guy at my work reckons he's got two lawnmowers.

(Andrew Avetoom, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 20:09, 4 replies)

Zido, the Space Dog
Helloooo sweeeties!

Me again XXXXXX! 2 stories in one week! You LUCKY lot!

The biggest fantasist I ever knew was a chap called Len Dixon. Or it might have been Ken Dixon. Or Bob Dixon. Or Ron Micklethwaite. Something like that, anyway.

It was in my last (male) incarnation whilst I was working in a senior position for a large corporation, based in a lovely business park, all concrete and glass and coffee shops and the occasional tree.

I headed up a small team of professionals of all ages and background, all working on important projects for the company (can't go into any detail, trade secrets you know!!). Most of them were young thrusting smart keen chaps and chapesses, but there were a couple of older ones too. Len, or Ken, or Ron - let's say Len, it's easier - was one of these. Len was a quiet, unassuming little man in his early sixties, with a cherubic round face framed by frizzy grey hair. He had a little pot belly and a strange loping way of walking, other than that he was completely normal, until one day. I valued him for his experience (he'd been with the company all his life) and insight into our processes, and also socially; he could put away more whisky (or is it whiskey?) than anyone I had ever met. Whether this had anything to do with his - with what happened, I don't know. Probably.

Every week, I held a team meeting to hear updates on all the various projects under my radar and discuss team business. I usually held this on a Monday at 10am. It was a good way to start the week, to get everything in focus and kick off the week's work. I always supplied biscuits, and sometimes cakes, so these meetings were quite popular amongst staff.

One Monday I noticed that Len Dixon wasn't at the meeting. he hadn't phoned in sick and no-one had heard from him or knew where he was. I started the meeting anyway intending to deal with his unauthorised absence later. Ten minutes into the meeting, however, there was a commotion as a strange figure entered the boardroom. It took me a few seconds to realise that this bizarre figure was actually Len Dixon.

He was wearing a close-fitting bright red jumpsuit which accentuated his paunch grotesquely, bright yellow Wellington boots, and a bright yellow cape. On the chest of the jumpsuit was a stylised letter 'Z'. There were hushed mutters of exclamation as he calmly walked to the table and took his seat as though everything was normal.

But everything was not normal. Far from it. Now he was seated I could see that, on his head, he wore a brown cloth hat with long brown flaps dangling down over his ears that looked all the world like spaniel's ears (shut up). And over his nose he wore, secured by an elastic band, a toy plastic dog's nose complete with drooping whiskers.

Struggling somewhat to maintain my composure, I carried on with the meeting, asking for updates from each project lead - and wondering what the hell would happen when it was Len's turn to address the meeting.

That time soon came. 'Len, would you please update us on the URC project?'

Len didn't responded, merely continued staring down intently at the papers on the table before him.

'Len?' I repeated. Still no response. 'Len, can you hear me?'

Len raised his head and stared into space. 'Len Dixon doesn't exist any more. I am Zido, the Space Dog. Please therefore address me as such from now on.'

There were gasps, giggles, guffaws, even a few snorts of derision - I quelled them all with a raised hand. Len was clearly undergoing some sort of crisis but the time to deal with that was later. Smoothly, I said, 'Of course, Zido. Your report, please?'

Len gave his report in his usual calm professional manner, the only difference being that now, he was dressed as - and believed himself to be - Zido, the Space Dog.

After the meeting I took him into Meeting Room 2.2 for a little chat.

'Okay, Len, how's things generally?' I began.

'Zido,' Len corrected. 'Zido, the Space Dog.'

I gazed into his pale blue eyes above the plastic dog nose. I looked at the floppy ears, the red jumpsuit and yellow cape. 'Are you doing this for a bet?'

He blinked. 'Doing what for a bet?'

'Pretending to be this Space Dog thing.'

He frowned and shook his head. 'No. I am Zido the Space Dog. And I would kindly ask that you respect that.'

'Fine.' I exhaled. 'So is everything okay at home? Any health problems?'

'None,' he replied. 'I am feeling fine.'

'But you now want to be called Zido, the Space Dog, and wear that uniform?'

'No,' said Len, sounding irritated. 'I AM Zido the Space Dog, and this is what I wear. Do you have a problem with that?'

I considered. I highly valued Ken's input. Other than the costume, and the name, he seemed sane enough. 'As long as you can do your job, er, Zido, no, I don't have a problem.'

He stood up. 'Then if you will kindly permit me to get on with my work?'

I nodded, and he left.

I checked with HR and according to the rules of diversity, there was nothing that said Len couldn't dress up as and call himself Zido the Space Dog. We had to respect each individual's protected characteristics, and, as long as they displayed the appropriate expected behaviours, everything was okay.

And, indeed, everything was okay. Len continued to perform his duties as well as, if not better than, before; the only difference being that now, he dressed as - and believed himself to be - Zido, the Space Dog. I held a meeting with his immediate colleagues to brief them and ensure that everyone treated him with respect, as I would not stand for any bullying (unless, of course, it was me doing it).

Things came to a rather abrupt head one Friday a month after Len had 'come out' as Zido, the Space Dog.

I was on my way out of the office and saw Len slipping out the fire escape door. Curious, I followed him and was alarmed to see him trotting up the staircase, yellow cape billowing in the wind, towards the roof. I followed, wondering what the hell he was up to. I had a bad feeling about what was about to transpire.

When I got up to the roof, Len - Zido - was standing right at the edge, staring out over the concrete and glass expanse of the business park. I approached cautiously.

'Zido?' - I'd got so used to calling him that, that it never even crossed my mind to use his real name - 'Zido, what are you doing?'

He gave no sign that he'd heard me, just kept standing there, cape and ears fluttering in the strong breeze.

'Zido!' I shouted, stepping closer. 'Come back inside! Now!'

Zido muttered something but the words were carried away by the wind.

'What did you say?'

Still he didn't turn to face me. 'I'm going home.'

'To your home planet?' Zido had not told us anything about his (obviously fictional) homeworld or background - yet. Was this about to change?

This time he did turn, to frown at me. 'No, to 9 Berrymead Gardens. This Earth is my home planet.'

So saying he turned away and took a step closer to the edge.

'Zido!' I cried. 'Don't! Get the bus like you normally do!'

He turned to face me once more, and I gazed into his watery blue eyes either side of the toy plastic dog's nose. Were those tears? The brown spaniel ears flapped forlornly in the breeze. He looked infinitely lost, and profoundly sad. 'Zido, the Space Dog, can fly,' he said so softly, so calmly. 'I am Zido, the Space Dog, therefore I can fly.'

So saying he turned and stepped off the edge.

We were on the top floor of a twelve storey building.

I heard him say 'Oh!' in a surprised voice just as he disappeared from view, and then, 'YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGH!' as he obviously realised that, although in his mind he was Zido, the Space Dog, in reality, he wasn't; and, therefore, he could not fly.

There was a distant, heavy, squelching, splintering thump, followed by screams. I winced and peered over the edge. There, far below, lay the broken body of Zido - of Len, Len Dixon, one of my best project managers, in a spreading pool of blood. Slowly a crowd of onlookers gathered round and I turned away, disgusted.

What a waste. What a waste of talent. What a waste of a good life. How could someone be so completely, so fatally deluded?

See you next week, Sweeties!! Off to try to mend my TARDIS now!!!

MMMMWAAAH!!!!!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 17:47, 15 replies)

Legless.
Cheers.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 13:32, 11 replies)

My great grandad was in the trenches in the First World War, and he had a lucky bullet. A German threw a cigarette case at him but the lucky bullet was in his left breast pocket and the cigarette case hit it and it saved him.

( Peej, Fri 6 Jun 2014, 11:10, Reply)

Best lie I witnessed was from a girl I knew who was great at doing the "don't fuck with me" face and
voice. Some people in a pub were having a laugh about the ineptitude and general crappyness of the legendary Chuckle Brothers.

Girl I know interrupted them, "WHAT - DID - YOU - JUST - SAY ABOUT MYYYYYYYYYYY UNCLES!"

I swear the group of harmless, student types nearly shat themselves,
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 20:53, 3 replies)

I had a brief fling with a guy who contacted me 6 months later to insist I'd given him a nasty STD
I said I couldn't see how, as I'd had no symptoms, etc. He insisted in a stream of polite, concerned emails. So down I went to my doctor, had an embarrassing intimate examination, tests etc. Nothing, never had been anything there. I was totally clean.

I reported this indignantly to the guy. He then sent a furious, fire and brimstone rant, claiming I worked for Satan and that he'd caused all the recent flooding as "a warning" to me.

Weird.
(IHateSprouts is baking a huge pie shaped like an enormous pie, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 15:28, 20 replies)

Yewtree fantasist
One of the older kids (year above) at school, used to hang around with a group of lads in my year.

He was a bit of a computer geek and didn't have many friends. What he did have was money to buy booze and fags, which obviously endeared him to his younger peers.

The source of his wealth? Apparently he’d been committing credit card fraud and therefore had a decent cash resource to fund under age drinking in shitty parks.

A year later, the truth came out. One of the teachers had been paying him to take part in some school-time noncing. The teacher was arrested and placed on the sex offenders register.
(Deskbound You insignificant speck of dust, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 14:19, 5 replies)

I used to work with a bloke we called 'Highlander'
because if you calculated all the jobs he'd had, countries he'd visited, women he'd been engaged to and all the other shit he'd done he'd have to have been about 370 years old to fit it all in.

He was once engaged to the Malaysian president's daughter whilst working out there as an advisor to the oil industry, for example. This also allowed him to legally use the name 'Mohammed'. He was actually called John.
(FartThroughAWalkieTalkie wished you were dead in ditch on, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 12:45, Reply)

Used to work with a bloke who felt that his Cornish birth made him some sort of massive workplace celebrity (in Surrey).
Anyway, his faux-wackiness was harmless enough but he would come back from the weekend with incredible tales of sexual encounters such as "I got on the train the other day, and this girl came up to me and basically TOLD me to get off with her at the next stop and go back to her flat with her. Well, after 3 hours of shagging later, I got back on the train etc".

These stories were mostly about strangers he met in nightclubs and stuff like that. We never saw him attracting any girls when we were out with him. We were probably scaring them off, he'd say.
He then started including people we knew in his stories, even including a colleague he was sharing a rented house with.

Anyway, his world came tumbling down when he told me he'd been on a work trip to Singapore with 3 other colleagues. One of them, a Romford girl who worked in one of our small London offices, had called his hotel room in the middle of the night and told him to get down there pronto and give her a good seeing to, according to his post-trip story. Sadly, once more, a lot of people were impressed. Grist to his mill.
I, however, was good friends with the girl in question and, at the office Christmas party in London, said "so, I heard about you and Cornish in Singapore, eh? *wink wink*". She looked at me like I'd just farted on her mother's corpse. "Wot you mean!? Wot's ee said?!"

I hid my glee as I told her his account of what happened and watched and she went puce with fury and stormed over in his direction, where he was once again holding court about another tale of derring do, probably.

I didn't stick around to see what she did but I'm sure it really wasn't pretty, and amazingly some people got the arse with ME for being a shit-stirrer. Bah.
( Fray Brentos *mega-belms*, Wed 11 Jun 2014, 16:16, 5 replies)

a couple of years ago, my brother was getting married. one evening he bumped into an old acquaintance from school. let's call him james, for that is his name.
on being asked what he was up to, my brother said that he was heading off for a wedding cake tasting at slatterys (have some gratuitous cake porn, this place is amazing: www.slattery.co.uk/irshop.aspx?section=content&page=159).

"that's amazing," james said. "and what a coincidence - i'm a wedding cake baker! don't make your mind up straightaway, let me send you some samples." my brother was happy to agree, as you would be for more free cake, and sure enough, a day or two later, they got a box of cake.

hard pieces of stale cake. they were all sorts of random, with no pictures of the finished product, just slices wrapped in napkins. utterly disgusting. so my brother told james politely that they would be using slatterys.

the next day, he was in the pub with some mates from school, so he told them the story. one of them said that he had to be mistaken, it couldn't have been james. because he had met james recently in manchester, on his way to a tennis game, and james had said that he was a star tennis coach and spent most of his time in america, coaching the stars of the future.

eventually it turned out that james was still living at home in his parents' basement, working as a shelf stacker in tesco (hence the stale cakes, which he had simply nicked from the unsold rubbish). gah, i feel all sad now.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Mon 9 Jun 2014, 10:41, 5 replies)

James Bond comes for an interview (RP)
Once, we had to interview this guy who had a suspiciously good CV. He'd got a First at Oxbridge, fluent in Greek, Japanese and Russian, black belt in karate, in charge of various programming projects, worked for the government, last two projects classified.

Convenient, that. No references.

Even before he came in, we called him "James Bond" (we can't remember his real name). Anyway, he misses the first couple of interview slots - his car is a wreck, apparently - but soft-hearted nicies that we are we invite him back for a third attempt.

The informal, chatty part of the interview goes well, then we inform him that we're going to do a technical test. At this point, he goes very pale and sweaty, and with good reason.

Nothing. He can't declare a variable, can't write a loop in C++ (need I say that this was a programming job) so we let him use any computer language he likes. Absolute blank. In the end, he manages to write a total of 1 line of code, misspelled, illegible.

Now here comes the missed opportunity thing. Had we (innocent twits that we were) twigged at this point that his CV was a complete pile of sun-ripened donkey tripe, we could have grilled him till he squeaked. He'd obviously chosen unlikely languages, but we actually had people in the building fluent in Greek, Russian and Japanese. And the Japanese guy was into karate as well.

But no. Muggins here decides he's having a panic attack and let him off with a "thanks, but no". (*BANG* *BANG* *BANG*s head against table in utter shame.)

The agency rang up the next day to apologize - the next interview he had was even worse, as the interviewer was the one bloke who HAD got a first from Oxbridge in his subject in the year on his CV. THEY grilled him till he squeaked, then shopped him to the agency.

I'm sure he's working in the city now. Probably on a government IT initiative. Maybe air traffic control.

Frightening, isn't it?
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Mon 9 Jun 2014, 10:28, 15 replies)

Steven in our sixth form geology class
Tried to convince us that he was famous for directing Raiders Of The Lost Ark. Problems were:

1. He would have been about 10 when it came out.
2. His surname was Spriggins, not Spielberg, and everyone knew it.

Unfortunately he was sufficiently barking that he really believed it himself. Incidentally, he also had a tartrazine allergy causing hyperactivity, and used to drink orange squash to get himself wound up into a frenzy. Knob.
(rogerzilla, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 21:27, Reply)

Millenium bug re-post
1999 inspired strange fantasies in many people's heads. At best, there were fears that hoovers and washing machines would pack up. At worst, some feared armageddon and the end of the world as we know it.

I went to stay with a friend who lived out in the sticks in Leicestershire and had a huge garden. He showed me the reinforced fence he'd just completed, complete with floodlights. Also the cellar he'd dug under the house, filled with tinned peaches, beans and long life pita bread. He'd tried to get a gun, he informed me, and failed. He'd just have to be vigillant.

"What the fuck is all this for?" I protested.

He then explained that when the year 2000 began, there would be massive food and power shortages and that people from the village would descend on him with flaming torches, to raid his stash of food. he was prepared, he'd ride out the chaos.

He was still offering me rusty tins of peaches 5 years later.

(And yes, I did shag him.)
(IHateSprouts is baking a huge pie shaped like an enormous pie, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 19:27, 13 replies)

'bullshitters' has been done twice already

(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Thu 5 Jun 2014, 12:20, 1 reply)

has anyone said baby d yet

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Thu 12 Jun 2014, 1:03, 8 replies)

The mods on b3ta are doing a great job.

( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Wed 11 Jun 2014, 21:56, Reply)