b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Things we do to fit in » Popular | Search
This is a question Things we do to fit in

"When I was fifteen," writes No3L, "I curled up in a Budgens trolley while someone pushed it through the supermarket doors to nick vodka and Benny Hedgehogs, just to hang out with my brother and his mates."

What have you done to fit in?

(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 12:30)
Pages: Popular, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

The day I became A MAN !!!

Twenty - odd years later this is still excruciatingly embarrassing to recall.

And I still haven't, and probably never will live it down.

Its the reason why I still to this day try and make excuses to wriggle out of family reunions.

At my sisters wedding last year I still received 'that look' from certain relatives, and for one awful moment I sat with my head in my hands as my old man went through the wedding speech, praying to the almighty that he didn't mention what I did twenty-odd years previously at a family reunion in my fucked up way to try and fit in...

So, lets go back twenty-odd years...

I'm part of a large Coventry-based Italian family. Family get togethers were HUGE on account of the Catholic aversion to knob socks and the contraceptive pill. Picture the wedding scene from the Godfather and that's pretty much where we are. Lots of tables with flowers, lots and lots of food and drink, and lots of Italians doing all the ciao bella shit and hugging each other. (Please note: to the best of my knowledge no member of my family is a member of the Mafia... though I do have my doubts about my uncle Primo).

So, young Spanky's hanging out with the older boys. Trying desperately to be accepted and failing miserably. Following them round like a lost puppy and trying to involve himself in their grown-up conversations.

Now, these boys were a couple of years older than me, basically a group of bored fourteen and fifteen year old boys, so inevitably their grown-up conversations involved women and, more to the point, how many women they'd 'done it' with.

I think I must've been really pissing them off by now, as one of them turned to me and asked: 'Spanky, how many women have you had?'

I think my answer of: 'I've lost count, maybe a hundred!' Was a little over the top. I mean, I was only twelve.

They started laughing at me.

'Spanky,' said another. 'Have you ever fingered a girl?'

And I was stumped...

Fingered a girl???

What the fuck did THAT mean???

So I charged forward: 'Yeah, only about five hundred girls!' I remember thinking that my cousin meant to ask have you ever actually touched a girl, and I had - I had pushed plenty over in the playground and run off giggling like a loon, and I had had a few girlfriends by this time and had done some low level hand holding and no tongues kissing.

The older boys started laughing.

Then one of them, sensing that I was getting flustered and was in over my head said: 'Spanky... Have you ever cum? I bet you haven't even cum yet, have you?'


They cackle like a witches coven and start chucking stuff at me.

And I sulk off to sit with my mum for a bit.

Then, PING, I hit upon a brilliant idea. I'll show these fuckers how much of a fucking man I am, thinks I. So I slink off to the toilets, a knapkin in my pocket, in this strange hotel lobby full of Italians who look a bit like me, and...

Here it comes. The source of my eternal shame and the reason why my mum refused to speak to me for a few months after...

I slink into the toilets, find a cubicle, and quickly and very professionally knock one out all over the knapkin, making sure its as well and truly covered with my cock snot as my twelve year old balls could muster.

I then returned to the main lobby, found the group of boys, tapped one on the shoulder and as he turned I held my mighty spunky knapkin aloft and shouted:


And time stopped. And I was suddenly in an awful lot of trouble...

Don't try and fit in.

Its bad for you.

But if you must try and fit in, make sure it doesn't involve showing off your manfat to your relatives.
(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 13:39, 21 replies)
Robert Di Niro's waiting...

...talking Italian.

Or not, as the case may be.

When my mum spat me out of her growler I think my parents took one look at me and thought: This child will be fortunate if he learns to speak English, let alone trying to teach him Italian.

So, I'm from an Italian family but can't speak a word of Italian. Not one pissing word.

Fast forward to a couple of years ago and I meet the wonderful, amazing, and quite frankly dirty Ms Hanky. My compact Welsh girlfriend whom I love so much I am trying (so far without success) to impregnate on a nightly basis.

When we first started knocking boots together, and in the heat of passion, she whispers in my ear:

'Say something in Italian, that would REALLY turn me on.'

OH FUCK ME RIDGID! Thinks I. I felt like getting on the phone to my dear old mum and dad and complaining that their inability to teach me Italian as a small child would probably affect my chances of having sex up the wrong un for the rest of my life.

Instead I made something up. I actually recreated Italian and whispered sweet nothings (quite literally) into my girlfriends ear. It was pretty easy to do, to be honest. Just pile straight ahead with it with a bit of confidence, say something as sexily as you can and put a load of 'a's and 'o's on the end. Hey presto - Italian!

And, sweet Jesus, did it work! All I had to do is start speaking this utter bollocks to Ms Hanky and she would want a ride on the pink pogo stick.

Then last year the inevitable happened.

Ms Hanky suggested we go on holiday to Italy, what with me speaking the language like a native it made perfect sense.


Fitting in???

You don't know the half of it. Try walking round Rome going into shops talking complete and utter gibberish to the perplexed looking locals in an attempt to get some service.

Ms Hanky thought I was fitting in perfectly.

I think the Italian authorities were probably on the verge of locking me away for being a fucking mentalist.
(, Fri 16 Jan 2009, 16:19, 13 replies)
A mate of mine
(no, seriously, this is not about me) was very arty, and astonishingly camp, and was convinced for most of his teens that he must be in the gays, as most of his arty, literary friends were.

He even went to the lengths of meeting some guys over the net and eventually ended up with a boyfriend. It was only at the point of actually getting down to it with another man that he discovered he definitely didn't fancy blokes. Hence the immortal exchange:

'I'm sorry, I feel I may have led you down the garden path here, I'm actually straight'
'Then what am I doing sucking you off?'
'I'm not really sure...'
(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 13:34, 10 replies)
Mockney twat
I panic when I have to talk to anyone that doesn't work in an office, but particularly with tradespeople.

So for some reason I'll always change my normal accent (something between Boris Johnson and Oscar Wilde) for an Essex/cockney effort -
"Blaady freezin' innit? - to demonstrate that I am just like them, and could probably fit the kitchen/clean the chimney/attach a shelf myself if I wasn't so damned busy duckin and divin makin a few quid here and there.

This came undone the other day when someone came round to fix the boiler and I accidentally got the wrong voice and spoke in Australian.

"Hi, I've come to look at the boiler".
"Noice one! Cam on in, mate! Can I getcha a cap of tea?"

Even in my own ears it sounded bad, but I had to keep it up all the time he was there as it was too late to change back to my normal voice.

"Oi dunno mate, it just sorrta stopped wurkin'!"

I was almost crying with relief by the time he left. He probably was too.
(, Fri 16 Jan 2009, 11:12, 22 replies)
I was over in New York Last week, staying with my sister Sophie and her family. On the Thursday, whilst her and her American husband were out at work, I agreed to look after their two kids (my neice and nephew) Brad and Mary-Jo (could they have given them any more bloody American sounding names?). Anyway I took them out down to the river where they did what 2 and 4 years olds do - fed the ducks, fell in the dirt, ate the dirt, needed the toilet when there was none near etc - generally had a good time. Towards the middle of the afternoon, they were busy chasing the ducks on the green. They were totally rubbish at it, so I though I would join in and show them how it should be done. I got us all to form a circle (well actually a triangle) around a big flock of geese and then we charged in together. Those birds crapped themselves, and all flew up in the air at once in a huge mass. Mary-Jo looked delighted, she tried to tell me something, but I couldn't make it out because just at that moment a dirty great noisy aeroplane flew overhead. Sometimes we forget the joys of harmless fun, playing with kids in the park...
(, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 12:49, 12 replies)
SHAFT ! ! !

A few years back I had the misfortune to go to the Roskilde music festival in Denmark.

I say misfortune because my idea of a fun time isn't sitting in my own shit and vomit for four days surrounded by crusty new age peeps with an eversion to personal hygiene. (I mean, some of the women had larger packages than me, what with the years and years of pubic growth they had going on down in their nether regions).

But, Danes are pretty cool people - they like beer and shagging, so it wasn't that bad in retrospect - just as long as you don't mind pulling pubes out of your teeth for a month afterwards.

In a downtime and having consumed far too much of the local tipple, Tuborg, my merry troop found a disco type tent where there wasn't any fucking music, just a load of sweaty teenagers gyrating to buggery. I had to check my ears - for a moment I thought I had gone deaf and almost pissed myself with fear.

Then I noticed the headphones.

Every fucker in the tent was wearing headphones...

Turns out its one of those quiet disco things, where they give you a set of cans as you go in and you can pump the music up as loud as you want. Everyones listening to the same stuff so you can all have a bit of a dance, only your not pissing off the stoners scattered about outside discussing who was better, George or Bungle, or fuck knows what.

There was a phase a few years back when a room full of sweaty teenage girls was the sort of place I'd kill my own mother to get into.

So, we sauntered inside, picked up some headphones, and started getting into it.

Slipknot was playing, apparently. Fine by me. I say apparently because my cans were fucked. I tried fiddling with them for a bit but realised this was gonna make me look like a twat and limit my chances of getting some fine Danish lurving...

So I thought: Fuck it. And I started throwing some shapes and generally following what everyone else was doing.

If they were jumping up and down alot, I'd do likewise.

If they slowed it down a bit, so would I.

It was great fun. It really was.

I started drawing the attention of a young Danish lady (my dance style is pretty fucking spectacular, if I do say so myself - they say people dance like they shag, so in my case its very fast, with lots of enthusiasm, and usually while smoking). And I think the Danish lady was rather taken with me.

We start dancing.

I'm doing everything I can to impress her: Throwing my arms and legs about and head banging, as if to say: Hey, if I've got this much energy on the dancefloor just think how much I'd have back at your tent.

It was at round this time I took a sneaky look toward her crotch - no bulging pubic mound! Ree-sult!!! This girl was a) into me, and b) had a well maintained bush. Though to be honest with you the fact she had a pulse was probably enough for me - I HAD drunk an awful lot of beer and the goggles were well and truly strapped to my face.

And all the time I couldn't hear a fucking thing.

This went on for a while and I completely lost myself in the 'music'. It may have been the effect of the beer, but I reckon I looked like one cool mother fucker out there.

I was so into the moment and this girl that I closed my eyes and let the rythm of the imaginary music take me. I was pumping away to the made-up beat and showing this girl that I was the alpha male of the establishment.

...or so I thought.

I'm not too sure how long I was dancing away like this, grunting like a gorilla and generally being a big drunken sweaty man...

Anyway, when I opened my eyes again the only person left in the tent was the poor fucker playing the records.

Everyone else had fucked off.

He told me that he'd stopped playing the music five minutes ago and was wondering how long I'd keep it up.

Even my so called mates had fucked off, the bastards.

I remember slurring something to the fella like: 'Well, mate. In Britain we just keep going until we want to stop, not when the music does.'

And I stumbled drunkenly away, thinking I was some cool white Shaft character.

Looking back I realise I just looked like a shaft.

What a fucking idiot I am.
(, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 10:11, 8 replies)
I don't usually try to.
But sometimes it happens in the oddest ways. Like this occasion, back when I was putting my time to good use during my university summer holidays.

I was temping with the bin collectors, amongst other agency work, filling in when they were short on manpower. So after the safety lecture ("Don't stand behind the wagon when it's reversing, don't stick your arm in"), out I go with two others, three man crew per bin lorry.

These guys were all of a certain sort; Sun newspaper, chip butties, football and desire for boobs. They were nice enough, though, despite inhabiting a rather alien world of blokeyness, and the conversation would sometimes wander onto the "philosophical" questions of life, which was nice. I was generally with a different team each day, but always the same thing would happen:

A young lady would catch the driver's eye. He'd lean out and sound his appreciation with the standard hooting whistle. Then, without fail, he would turn to me and say "you got a bird then?"

I would, quite honestly, answer; "no, I'm gay."

There would be a pause while "ctrl-alt-del" is pressed in their minds. Then the subject would neatly change to something entirely unrelated.

Except for one time, when Dave (if I remember right, though it could just as easily be Frank, or Steve, or Bob) responded to my answer with the customary pause, then a thoughtful inhale, then...

"Well, I don't know much about that, but when I were younger I slept with my best mate."

Stunned, I cautiously replied, "you mean, shared a bed?"

"Oh no," said Dave. "We had sex. But not in a gay way."

I couldn't think of a good reply to that one, so it was up to me to change the subject this time.

I wonder how many other blokey blokes have had manly man-on-man sex "not in a gay way".
(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 17:03, 16 replies)
Shots or pints (this might take a while)
Many a year ago I'd hit that age all men experience, where blossoming hormones force you to fall for the class whore and believe that underneath it all she's the sweet, caring, friendly woman you secretly desired. Of course, later on you'd realise your naivity and go on to spend evenings banging your head against hard surfaces as you muttered 'Why, Lord? Why?' under your breath in between comforting units of cheap plonk.

This lass was called Lauren. At the time, we were both 14 year old sproglets keen to explore this opening world, and from across the classroom I worshipped her and gazed longingly when my eyes were transfixed on her smoking outside school, snorting narcotics and fellating drug dealers. She was a princess. She had to be mine.

When news arrived that I had been invited to a gig she helped organise at a local club (albeit purely due to a 'I did say the whole class was invited, so I suppose that includes you' rationale), I saw this as an opportunity to reinvent myself as a trendsetter. If my darling could drink and undertake illegal drugs, so too could I. I would dazzle her at my ability to consume fermented liquids and inhale burning contraband, and she'd have to fight off the urge to pounce me there and then.

When you're 14 years old and have never drunk before, the golden rule would probably be not to down an entire pint of vodka in order to impress a woman. That and if you must drink to a point where hospitalisation occurs, make sure the woman in charge of the Accident and Emergency ward isn't your mother. I took both of these rules, melted them into rings and pawned off what I could for beer money.

Within half an hour, I was smashed. The most smashed I've ever been (and I'm a student with access to a free bar). Forget Dutch courage, I had the confidence of the entire membership of the United Nations under my belt. I was going to tell her I wanted her, and tell her in front of her boyfriend too. She'll see the light, and I'll see where the light don't shine on her!

All I needed to say was 'You look great tonight'. Just say she looks great. Nothing can possibly go wrong. What's that feeling in my stomach? Nomatter, there she is. Go for it.

'Laurensch, yew luk utterly amazsh'*HURL*

And like that, I'd smashed my hopes. A drug addict and her boyfriend doused in the remains of a bottle of vodka and some pepperoni pizza.

I should've just called it a night and gone home. Why didn't I just call it a night and go home? Why did I stay to laugh at the now sobbing deity? Why did I tell her protective father that he could 'take all that bullshit parenting for your cokehead kid and stick it up your arse, you balding cockgoblin'? Why did I fall over? What's all this bright light? Why is this bloke in a shiny jacket asking my name? Why is my mother here? What do you mean I'm grounded Mum? Why are you telling me to stop swearing? What do you mean where do I think I am? How can I be grounded? What did I do? Did I really tell the ward matron she'd be less of a bitch if she just got off her dyke arse and found some cock?

I spent the entire weekend racked with guilt and an unbearable urge to vomit, dreading Monday morning. Lauren would never look me in the eyes again. Everyone had seen me blurt my feelings and try an fight a professional bodybuilder before harrassing a police officer. I was a laughing stock. World, swallow me now.

I walked into the classroom that dreaded Monday to a standing ovation from the very people who taunted me my whole life. I'd given the bitch what she deserved, I was told, and done it with a fantastic effort. For the rest of my time at that school, I was made.

Somehow, I'd finally fit in.

No apologies for length; I've always been able to project fluids across rooms.
(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 13:26, 2 replies)
not me but a friend
He was a writerly type, a bit shy and awkward. Anyway, he started going on a website and found that he could get plenty of attention writing comedic porn. Soon, he had become something of a fixture on the site even though he was quite bored of writing porn. So he stopped with the gash-lit and turned to so-called amusing anecdotes. But it wasn't enough to keep the interest of his new cyber friends and soon he was a shadow of his former self. He was never on the leader board and others passed him by.

On the other hand, his girlfriend dropped to her knees and ripped open her corset so that her stupendous breasts wobbled forth, their nipples erect. "Spray on my tits!" she groaned, taking his already swollen jerky deep into her glistening throat....
(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 17:26, 3 replies)
I gave a complete stranger a blowjob.
Honestly, I don't know who came over me.
(, Mon 19 Jan 2009, 14:31, 3 replies)
I came up with the perfect image.
It appeals to everyone on the internet: emos and people who like cats.

(, Sat 17 Jan 2009, 14:38, 1 reply)
Made this post
| Just tall enough to
| almost touch the one above.
| And long enough
| to just reach the one below
(, Mon 19 Jan 2009, 20:41, 2 replies)
this lad
was new to the area when i was a kid, and let me get this out of the way first of all; this boy was a cunt. a total cunt. his dad was the scoutmaster and wouldnt let the other kids talk to him during meets.

me and my mates were just getting into alcohol at that time (remember what its like when you're 13 and raiding your parents whisky cabinet?) anyway, this new kid was a total cunt, and had never tried drink.

We told him that he had to try some before he can hang around with us, so instead of drinking a few beers, he downed half a bottle of gordons, fucking twat. Seemed fine at first, then he did that thing when you're drunk and cant control your eyeballs.

Anyway, he passed out, so we thought we'd fuck about with this whining little bitch. We stripped him of his clothes, dressed him up in our granddad's clothes (including a flat cap), got a very old paper from the library (took some skill that did), carried him out to a baron field, tucked the paper under his arm, and left him there till morning.

He woke up, couldnt remember anything, looked at his clothes, looked around him (no pylons, cars, or buildings), then saw the date on the paper. Stupid cunt thought he was in the past. Brilliant.
(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 20:36, 12 replies)
I originally wrote this story up for something else a few years ago, then a few months ago I cut and paste it as an answer to a different QOTW, so sorry if it seems familiar, but it fits here much better and deserves a proper re-write to tell in all it’s full, painful glory.

I did my GCSE’s in one of those schools that has its own VIth form, so stayed on to do my A-levels there too.

People from surrounding schools that didn’t have a VIth form joined us too, so the first day back after the summer holidays meant a handful of new faces among my old familiar friends.

I was sitting in the common room, waiting for the morning bell, and in she walked in all her stunning glory*

Have you seen Ursula Andress come out of the sea in Dr No? Have you seen Cameron Diaz walk into the bank at the start of The Mask? Have you seen the opening shots of ‘Lost In Translation’?

Pah. I spit on them. Those entrances were nothing compared to this.

And, just like that, I was smitten.

Her name was Sonja, she was Swedish.

She’d previously been to the all-girls school round the corner from ours (The Virgin Mega-Store, as we oh so wittily called it)

She had a twin sister, she was single, and she lived not too far from me.

I found all this out during the lunch break where I oh so gallantly offered to show her the canteen.

Sadly, I also found out she was a devout Christian.

Was that enough to put me off?

What do you think.

And so followed a long, painful six months of doe-eyed puppy dog love where I did anything and everything I could to win her affection.

I joined The Christian Society. I spent three lunchtimes a week, for two entire terms nodding sagely and agreeing that ‘Yes, of course creationism is the only possible answer to how the world came into being. There is no evidence at all that suggests that evolution is a realistic possibility’. (all the while watching my friends play football out of the window and convincing myself that this would be worth it in the end)

I drove 60 miles after school with her to go to her friends baptism in a tiny backwards Norfolk town (and I mean backwards by Norfolk’s standards, not just normally backwards. This place was weird). Where I found myself feeling so self conscious when I was the only one who didn’t stand up to raise their hands to God and let him into my heart that I suddenly leapt out of the pew and yelled ‘Yes, yes, Yes, I feel it, I believe, I feel it’

I went to her twin sisters baptism, along with her scary parents, where the oh so young, oh so wannabe trendy evangelistic preacher tried to get down with the kids by playing The Wonderstuffs ‘Size of a Cow’ with the lyrics:

‘Don't you think it's funny that nothing's what it
seems when you're not looking forward?

Me, I'd like to think life is like a drink,

and I'm hoping that it tastes like bourbon.

You know that I've been drunk a thousand times,

and these should be the best days of my life,

Life, it's not what I thought it was.

Damn blast, look at my past,

ripping up my feet over broken glass.

Oh wow, look at me now,

I'm building up my problems to the size of a cow.’

Which he then followed up with ‘Bourbon is not the answer, drink is not the answer, God is the answer. If he’d just let God into his life his problems wouldn’t be the size of a cow, they’d be the size of, like, a mouse’
(and then played ‘Sit Down’ by James with the line ‘I hope that God exists, I hope, I pray’ and said ‘This is a man who already knows God exists, otherwise, why would he be praying?’)

And, at any point in all this did I even get a kiss?


A cuddle even?


I got to hold her hand.


For two minutes.

She timed it.

And did any of this cause me to give up?

Not on your life.

I didn’t even come to my senses when she threw out my copy of REM’s ‘Out Of Time’ because she didn’t like me listening to a song called ‘Losing My Religion’ (and let’s be honest, you have got to be insane to throw out that album because of that song when anyone with an ounce of sense knows that the reason to bin it is ‘Shiny Happy People’)

I did eventually snap out of it.

After numerous painful teas with her family, church visits, baptisms, awkward conversations with her friends where I bit my tongue and accepted the bible as the one true word and nodding.

After too many times of me saying I knew what she meant when she said she actually heard God speak directly to her every night before she went to bed, I finally, mercifully came to my senses when, after discussing Abrahams willingness to sacrifice Isaac she said:

‘If God asks me to sacrifice my sister tonight, I will’

You did not see me for dust.

I left a me shaped hole in her parents front door that day.
(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 15:17, 12 replies)
The thing was I've always hated parties. That's why I was in the kitchen, alone, that night. It really is. I was just standing there, really. I was standing by the fridge in this dirty kitchen. I could hear the fridge hum softly.
Its noise was a bit disturbing. I wanted to be all alone, but the noise of the fridge kept buzzing into my edgy day dreams. I was there, listening to the fridge. It went “hmmmm”. Just “hmmmm” over and over
I was all alone, just me and this noise, I realised that, at least, was something.

The people I’d been with for the last three days, well, they were all worn out from the drinking. The almost sleepless nights. I think, for me, it’d gone way beyond fun about an hour after opening time on the second day.

After that most of me wanted to go home, but there was always a reason against being on my own like this.

So, I’m in this kitchen listening to this fridge churn and splutter over. It’s still just going “hmmm” over and over.

Down below, I can see all the neon from Hackney but somehow I’ve convinced myself that something, somewhere has happened, and somehow I am the last person on earth alive. I imagine all the neon, shining on the corpses, the dead people in bed, in the shower, watching TV. I feel sort of comforted by this. Then the door opens. Then this guy comes The man who comes in moves with the familiarity of ownership. He doesn’t stumble, or look awkward.

As he opens the door, I can hear the conversations from the front room, and from somewhere more distant, but still, I guess, pretty close, the sound of a baby crying.

This guy who’s come in, he looks at me, kind of in an understanding way.

“Hi” he says looking straight at me. All of a sudden, I get this strange feeling. I feel he can see exactly what I’m thinking. I put an arm across my chest.

“Hi” he says again.

He looks at me, but it’s not like he’s looking at me, more like, right into me. I remember how I have studied rock stars and promised myself to try to act as cool as them.

He’s got this bottle in his paw. He finishes it and then puts it down carelessly on a crumpled tea towel. He opens the fridge. As I follow him with my eyes I can see the reason the fridge is so loud is because the freezer bit is over frozen, and the fridge door won’t close. I sort of want to clean it, but think what it would sound like if I offered so I do nothing, I just stand there. I’m not even drinking anymore. I looked for some soft drink when I got here, but couldn’t find any. I know that once you stop drinking, that’s it, that’s the end but since I got here, I just seem to have stopped caring. I think about asking him, “got any squash” but say nothing because I know what it would sound like.

I can see the fridge is maybe just under half full of green bottles, with another load of bottles on top. It’s like someone started chilling beer a while ago, maybe a night ago, but then forgot to replace what they were taking.

"You're too thin" he says "You need to eat" he says. To me, I guess, as there’s no-one else here.

I try to think of some lie about breakfast, or dinner now, I guess, or not being hungry but he’s already turned around. He doesn’t wait for me; he’s at home.

From the cupboard between my legs he takes a dirty frying pan. I move to the side, squashed against this white fridge, but from where I am, I can still see cold grease and oil in the pan. He adds more crisp n dry from a greasy bottle next to the cooker and turns the blue gas on. He hums this old tune to himself, but I can’t work out what it is and I don’t like to ask. The cooker is old, like you never see on television. Then he opens the fridge again. I can see there’s not much food in there. Next to and under the beer are some crumpled plastic ASDA bags. I can see the ASDA logo on them. He opens one and there is this dried half an onion in there. He wraps the onion back and pulls the next one out. It’s a cube of yellow. Maybe butter or cheese. The fridge is churning, like an old car going up a hill in the middle lane of an empty motorway.

He puts the yellow in the pan where the crisp N dry is starting to splutter angrily, then these sausages. I can see from the packet, that these are “happy shopper” own brand and I don’t even want to think about what shit they’ve got in them.

As they cook, he turns the tap with the dirty red cross on it. The tap coughs, then sort of coughs, then spews its dirty brown water out. He takes a plate from the cornflower blue washing up bowl in the sink then holds it under the tap for maybe five seconds. I can hear the pipe judder as he turns the tap off. As he reaches for the dish cloth he sees me and he sways, just a bit. As he sways, he reaches down to steady himself, then pulls the dishcloth and knocks his empty bottle so it does a hollow roll along the worksurface until it rests against the fridge.

All of a sudden, I start to feel like I haven’t slept for four nights.

I can see the dregs of the beer dripping in big drips onto the stained linoleum next to the fridge. Between the fridge and the worksurface is maybe an inch, and it’s a black, hairy, greasy inch.

He doesn’t bother with the bottle; he just turns away, and dries the plate.

He says nothing while the pan coughs like a waking smoker. Then he turns, scoops the sausages into the plate.


He says.

I take the plate.

I know there’s no way, no way, I can eat those.

There’s just no way

And there’s no way I can explain it to him, either.

"They’ll be wondering where I’ve go to"
I say,and the lie sounds hollow, even to me.

I hold the plate far in front of me, as far as I can, as I walk down the corridor till I go into the lounge. There’s no spare seat so I sort of squat at the side of the sofa, next to the sofa. I can see the ashtrays which look like dead explosions. I just hold the sausages, too shy to talk to the girl next to me.

The others are still trotting out their shitty little drug stories. He comes in. I pick a sausage up and eat it, as cheerfully as I can. I sort of gag, but he's looking at me so I try and turn it into a smile.
"These are lovely" I say, but they're not. They're disgusting. I am still too shy to pass the sausages to the cool looking girl next to me so I just end up sort of holding them and hoping that he's found someone else to look at.
(, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 14:33, 9 replies)
Some go to utterly ridiculous lengths.
This is mainly a pictorial answer, but I'll post links rather than the images themselves.

Here we have the first of a series of examples of how hard the Swedish tried to fit in with the rest of the Golden Age of Disco- right down to the muppet hairdos and the puffy shirts.

This is what happens when you let the professional from the smorgasbord restaurant join in with his glowing mane.

I think that even the Bee Gees would have rejected these outfits.

I suspect that they took the Osmonds just a bit too seriously.

The guy on the left here was so desperate to fit in that he adopted the girl's hair style for his mustache.

I hope that someone can translate the title of this and tell me that it's not really "Three Boys And A Girl", as that would be just a bit too frightening for words.

Hmmm. Not sure, but I think I used to see these guys at carnivals, waiting to be knocked over with baseballs.

Ummmm... no.

And finally: I've never seen an accordion look so frightened in all my life.

In conclusion: nothing personal, Sweden, but really, trying to fit into the Dance Music scene with things like this just isn't going to win you any points. Trust me on this.

EDIT: Credit (or perhaps blame) where it's due: the pics were swiped from here. And oh god, the beat goes on...
(, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 21:47, 8 replies)
Ooooooh kayyyy.....
One of the most embarrassing things that has ever befallen yours truly took place, ooooh, what, about seven years ago now. Thankful for the anonimity QOTW provides (mostly), I'll elaborate on a reply I made earlier.

First, some boring back story.

Seven years ago, life was sweet. I was newly married, had a little job I liked working (mostly) with people I liked, and lived in a smashing little house with the then Mrs. Bag. It was the weekend before christmas, and my workmates and a few of my friends and I went to our local pub. Now, in those days most of the people who are now barred from the place were still allowed in there, and after a happy hour that lasted the whole night, my best mate and myself left the pub a bit tipsy and became involved in a slight scuffle with twelve of the local neds. We got our heads panned in, in other words. I escaped, but was later transported, concussed, to hospital to get staples in my split head and my swollen shut eye attended to, where I found my mate in a hospital bed with a head the size of, well, two heads.

A week later, new year's eve rolls round, and as the Mrs. was working nightshift and we were a bit nervy about going out and about after what happened, me and my mate decided to bring in the new year in his room in his parents house. I arrived with a bottle of vodka, but he said he wasn't drinking.

"If we'd not been as drunk last week, we'd have walked away from them and none of this would have happened" he said, and I had to admit he was right. He then produced a rolled up hanky, from which he pulled a small cube of hash. Not being a smoker, he had decided to crumble it into after eights and eat it. Now, I liked a drink and still do, but I'd never really tried anything else, but I thought ach, what harm can it do? So we set about the task of eating what he told me was £20 worth of hash.

Half an hour goes by. Nothing. We eat a bit more. Nothing. A bit more. And then the funniest thing on earth happened. I can't for the life of me remember what it was, but for a good ten minutes we rolled around the floor laughing our heads off. As I looked through tear sodden eyes at my mate, I could see a look of concern on his face. And then he said it. "I think we've ate too much!"

The next hour or so is just a hazy memory. I couldn't get my bearings and I was really freaked out. The room seemed to be expanding and retracting around me and I couldn't focus on anything, so I decided to try and puke the foul stuff up. Making the epic journey to the bathroom, a trip of around 10 feet, was like some kind of mountain trek, but I made it, barrelled through the door, shoved my fingers down my bone dry throat and began retching away like a cat bringing up furballs.

Nothing was coming up, but I kept trying. As I stood there with what felt like my whole arm down my throat, I suddenly had a weird sensation of being watched. I turned my reddened face towards the bath and was greeted with the only clear memory I have of that night. There, lufa in hand, sat my mates dad, merrily scrubbing away at his armpits. I tried to apologise, but he just said in the cheeriest voice you've ever heard "Don't be silly, son, if it needs to come up just you get it up!" and continued scrubbing away at himself. I didn't argue. I couldn't! My brain had melted into some kind of molten sludge, so I just swallowed my arm again and stood there dry boaking for a further five minutes before giving up, whimpering "I want my mum" (Oh God the shame!) and getting driven home by my mates mum.

I remember the car wouldn't start. I was CONVINCED this was an omen of my impending death. I spent the rest of the night curled up on the couch in my parents house and every time I closed my eyes, I'd see screenshots from the old Dan Dare game on the spectrum for some reason. The doctor was called out, and was slightly confused when I swore blind I hadn't taken anything but hash. It was three days before I felt normal again. Three days!

Up until about two years ago, I believed we had eaten the whole £20 worth. Not so however, my mate straightened me out on that one. He had sold the remainder back to the person he bought it from, and says between us we ate less than he's seen some people put in a single joint.

Why it affected me so strangely I don't know, but I tried grass a few years later and it did the same thing, although a healthy dose of alcohol stopped the worst of it a few hours after I'd smoked it. I guess I'm just not wired up for those kind of things.

When I think back to that night I absolutely crumple up with shame. The house was full of people I know, but I can't remember who was there and who wasn't.

"I want my mum."

I was twenty four years old. Oh God I'm going to lie down under my bed for a while.
(, Mon 19 Jan 2009, 20:46, 16 replies)
Plastic Surgery - too much?
Axel was one of the nicest guys on my landing at University. He was on a secondment from the University of Gothenburg, where he was taking something terribly cosmopolitan like 'EEC Studies' or somesuch, and - unlike most Scandinavians - he was terribly, painfully shy.

Still, after he'd understood why we sung the theme tune from Beverly Hills Cop everytime he walked down the corridor, he became one of the lads, joined in the all-night sessions of Championship Manager and necked beers with the best of us. He spoke better English than anyone on the corridor (especially because fate had lumped us with three Sports Scientists, and...well, let's say I'm glad I don't have a qualification in Games)

He was still very self-conscious, no more so than about his figure. Axel was comfortably six-foot-eight in his stockinged feet and rangy as a beanpole, and no amount of Worthingtons Creamflow and late-night curries seemed to do anything to change that. Plus, he had a rather unfortunate facial feature. His nose. It was - to put it mildly - fucking freakishly horrible. And Axel, I'm sorry if you're reading this, but I think those were your words after the infamous February 20th tequila session. More on that another time...

Anyway, this nose. Well, imagine a cock. Make it a MSPaint magenta cock with thick black hairs if you like. Imagine somebody had broken it. Twice. Once each way. And then imagine somebody else had stuck a bicycle pump up the end and inflated it (laterally) to about twice its original size. That was Axel's nose, bless him.

We did our best to help him out and find him a quiet gentle young girl who would give him a proper welcome to Blighty, but he always used get jittery and claim his height, his skinniness and his nose were just making him stand out from the crowd, and retreat back home. We felt genuinely sorry for the chap; it wasn't his fault, after all, and we were making a concerted effort to boost his self-confidence.

Anyway, after several failed attempts in all the tackiest parts of Birmingham (and it takes a while to find them all, let me assure you), Axel came down the corridor one morning in unusually high spirits. 'Whooping' might be a touch melodramatic for this staid Northern European; let's just say he was a bit boistrous. It was about 10:30am and naturally we were all still in bed.

"Lads! Lads!" he was hollering. "Come and look at this!"

Bleary-eyed and tucking willies back in where they should not be seen, we staggered out onto the landing to see Axel brandishing an A5 flyer. The sort that you see literally by the million wherever students congregate.

This flyer was advertising cut-rate aesthetic surgery. In Longbridge.


I'm sure many of you know that Longbridge is scarcely the well-heeled suburb in which to have a discreet tummy-tuck.

Like some awful unfunny comedy act, we all stood there in our pants and looked in slow-motion at the flyer, then at Axel's great conk, then back at the flyer again....

"Don't be ridiculous..."

"Where'll you get the money...?"

"It's dangerous...."

"....fucking LONGBRIDGE?..."

Well, we knew money wasn't an issue. Axel had come loaded with Gothenburg's equivalent of Bond's expense account. But did he really want to go to these drastic lengths to be one of the guys?

"I do, and I will!" he stated triumphantly. An then, ominously but even more triumphantly: "And I want all you guys to be there when it happens..."

It was getting fucking cold standing around in this corridor in our boxers, so we all turned round and slammed our doors, leaving him standing there alone like a pathetic and dejected Peter Crouch.

Thankfully, it turned out that we didn't have to watch the operation, but we did accompany Axel down to a dodgy little back-alley behind KFC (note to self - don't eat there until their supply certificate is renewed), and watch a huge butch doctor, with the muscles of Larry Fishburne and the voice of Julian Clary, guide Axel through what I can only describe as a nose catalogue. We cringed as he took the measurements - height, breadth, depth, the whole works. We frowned as Axel tried on this horrific nasal guide and the Doc held up all sorts of pathetic looking prostheses. And we yelped as the big man waved a scalpel and a felt tip about simultaneously with one hand, barely millimetres away from our friend's eyeball.

Two weeks later, he went back, was put to sleep and woke up shortly afterwards with a brand new facial appendage. No fuss; no bother. He claimed we were over-reacting.

A bit too much, even for a 'One Time Only! Less-Than-A-Grand Offer!', was still our considered opinion, but it didn't stop Axel picking up a sweet young student nurse a couple of months later and spending lots of jolly time with her and her uniform. So, I suppose it was worth it.

But that's the last time I go to a Thin Swede Hooter Fitting.

(For fuck's sake! What's wrong with me? Haven't I got anything else to do with my time?)
(, Mon 19 Jan 2009, 8:16, 8 replies)
Porn tomfoolery
Most people on here have multiple personas we use to fit in. Home, work, friends and online we are different in each environment. I am no different.

One of my online personas is that of a young lady. A rather dirty young lady who quite frankly loves the attention she gets from a multitude of men. She is a nice girl really, but loves to play the slut to fit in.

Allow me to explain.

I am currently in a fairly long distance relationship. We only see each other a couple of times a month and as such I often get a little *ahem* tense. Therefore I often frequent gentleman's interest websites and enjoy their content.

I'm not particularly proud of this, its a little sad, but having said that I am not really ashamed either. It beats going out killing hookers or touching kids for ones jollys.


As anyone who has ever trawled through free porn sites knows, you can often find yourself going through page after page of crap on these sites looking for something to your taste (eg not an obese granny being fisted). So when you find a film you like, its nice to be able to keep it for reference.

This is how 'Tammy' was born. You see many of these sites have 'favourite' buttons, but to use these you need a profile.

So I set one up, silly user name, no info in the profile etc. and started adding films. Despite the fact that I had no information about 'me' and the fact that my name user-name suggested I was male, I started getting friend requests, mostly from quite frankly disgusting men.

At first I just ignored them, but then one day out of boredom I accepted a few and started to look through the profiles. I found that about 20-30% of the active profiles were women and of course the seedy men were drawn to them like flies on shit.

Most of these women just had a profile pic (non-porny) and some basic info yet still had armies of men writing such delectable love poetry as.

"OMGZ ur luek well fit I wanna fuck you yeah. msn me at [email protected]"

These however we just the teasers. The real alpha females were the ones who put grot pics and films on their profiles. These are the queen bees of the site and had men fawning. I found it all quite amusing and wondered if I too could be that popular.

So I added a profile pic. A rather 'revealing' private image it could be called, equally it could be called pure satanic filth. Sure enough requests came flooding in. I was a popular girl, just because my profile picture was of an anonymous chuff!

The more info and pics I added the more men flocked to me. Tammy became fully rounded individual, she likes sport, travel and big cocks. She is single, works a boring office job in LA, would like to go traveling and wants to try a threesome with two black guys. The dirty old men lap it up.

I never respond to any of these chaps who serenade me with beautiful words like.

"I wanna screw ur tight a$$"

I'd have no idea what to say. None of this matters though because I am still popular. I'm a queen bee and all I had to do...

Change gender and whore myself out.
(, Sat 17 Jan 2009, 13:44, 2 replies)
Fitting In
Once upon a time... No.

No. They always start like that. Stories always start ‘once upon a time’ – in a desperate attempt to make the setting more magical than it actually was. The Brothers Grimm, for example, would have you believe that Little Red Riding Hood lived in a forest inhabited by murderous, talking wolves with a penchant for dressing up as old ladies. Or they would also have us believe that three little pigs (with hairy chinny-chin-chins and no opposable thumbs) were able to build houses of twigs, straw and stones – all the while being terrorised by (very probably cross-dressing) murderous, talking wolves. A recurring theme? Possibly, but definitely not based in fact.

Anyway, I digress. Not-so-very-long-ago, in the heaving streets of London, I met a girl. Her name was Fiona, she was twenty-one, and from the moment we met, we became firm friends. There was never any attraction between us, just a bond of the same sense of humour, the same views on life.

We sat together one cold night, chatting over a glass of wine and relaxing in the deep leather sofas of an East London pub. It was then she told me the most fantastical story that I had ever heard.

Five years previously, and Fiona was sixteen. By all accounts, she was tall and gangly – awkward in her own skin and desperately shy. She tried to fit in with her peers by reading the ‘right’ magazines or wearing the ‘right’ clothes. Sadly for her, though, the clothes hung off her frame like rags, and the magazines never felt comfortable in her hands. She tried smoking, but it only made her cough, and drinking just made her feel woozy. Often she would go to bed at night, the cruel laughter of her peers still ringing in her ears, praying that in the morning she would wake up in a different body.

And then, after months of teenage angst, a chance to do some good. The school she attended was organising a trip to the Middle East, to distribute aid and provide some kind of cultural exchange. She quickly signed up and, within a few short months, found herself in the dry heat of the Middle East. She was in a market town, her senses being assaulted by the sights, sounds and smells of this unfamiliar world. She became thirsty and approached a market seller for some fruit, knowing drinking the water would be idiotic.

The wizened man at the stall smiled at her. She was very obviously a Western girl in an unfamiliar environment. “Hallo, my dear,” he drawled, beckoning her further under the awning of his stall. “What can I do for you?”

“I would like to buy some fruit,” she said “how much for a piece of melon?”

“Pah!” The old man waved a dismissive hand. “Why have melon, when you can have... eternity?”

Fiona was puzzled, and found herself being bustled by the people on the busy street. She began to feel light-headed, and found herself being unable to respond when the man drew her further in to his lair.

“Respect. Riches. Immortality. Love. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I can give you all of these things, and I can do it.... For free.”

Fiona blinked. Nothing was free in this world, she knew that much.

“For free?”

“Suuurre!” The man suddenly became light and airy. “All you have to do is look in here.”

He removed the lid from a deep basket. Fiona leaned over, fearing what she may see.

“Noo...” said the old man “You must look... deeper.”

Taking a deep breath, Fiona looked right in to the basket. She felt hands on her back, hands that pushed her in to the basket in front of her. She landed in a heap, turning to see the face of the man who said “I cast you in to the service of the almighty supernatural. You shall never leave this basket without the love of your one true heart.”

There followed six months of torture. Fiona was called upon to emerge from the basket at the whim of the old man, her task to spend a week chained to one of his customers, granting them any wish he so desired. Until, as she began to tire, a new customer came to the stall. Fiona was pulled from the basket, and as she adjusted her veil she looked to the new man. He was tall, and handsome, and as she looked over him she knew immediately that she was in Love. Real Love.

The next week passed in a whirlwind. She granted his wishes, and, on their last day together, she asked him what his final wish would be.

“I wish that you could come with me.” He said, and at that moment her chains came free. Returning to her captor, he screamed a vile curse, but before he could finish he found himself shoved in to the basket by Fiona’s true love, and run through by an ancient sword. They ran together, through the market, and away in to the Arabian Night.


“Wow!” I said. “That’s an incredible story! What happened to your true love?”

“Oh, him? He was an idiot. Dumped him when we got to Heathrow.”


And that, dear friends, is the story of Fi, Teen Djinn.
(, Fri 16 Jan 2009, 12:40, 5 replies)
Inappropriate Racist behaviour
When I first went to university I was completely alone like most people are when they first go to university. The first people I summoned up the courage to hang out with were the people on my corridor in my halls of residence. They actually knew each other from school before and had requested that they be allowed to live near each other and the university had obviously granted that request.

They were all from inner London and I was a country boy from the valleys in Wales. They all played football every day in the evenings on the big garden in front of the halls. As they were going out from the corridor on the second day, I asked if I could join them and they said I could.

I was so grateful and I was literally fizzing inside with happiness because I had made some friends. Because I felt so energetic and happy, I played very well and scored quite a few goals and consequently felt even better when they asked me to join them for a drink in the hall’s pub. I was ecstatic to be there. I had arrived at the university social scene. Even better, girls knew them and sat with us and I felt awesome.

They were all doing business and economic degrees and as I was studying law I had to go on my own even though we all walked from where we lived to campus together in the morning. I suppose in my heart of hearts at the time I knew that we were mismatched because I was rather introverted and liked books and computers and they all liked football and clubbing. However having friends in university was great and even though I was making tentative acquaintances in the law department, going out and socialising was primarily with these guys.

I didn’t really understand they were racist until we were watching football in the common room one evening and one of them goes off on an angry tangent about black footballers not being as good as white footballers and that many of them came over as illegal immigrants. I didn’t say anything because I knew that as it was such a preposterous viewpoint that it had to be some sort of joke. When the others concurred with the original rant, I found myself outwardly agreeing so as not to be an outsider but inwardly being horrified and feeling extremely grubby.

It was only after this that I realised that there were various cues and hints that I had overlooked in my appalling naivety. The ‘joke’ shouting of abuse (‘wog!’ - I didn’t even know that that was racist such was my innocence) at various people of colour on campus, the constant comments and digs at people made within the group, and the name of our five-a-side football team, ‘White Stallions’ (I cringe at the thought that I had overlooked the significance of that).

I found myself detesting the overbearing and overt nature of the behaviour but I was unwilling to detach myself from the feeling of belonging to a group of people because of the alternative of being some sort of loner. I even considered going home because I couldn’t stand it but thought that that would be even worse to have to live at home again ( I don’t get on with my parents).

Things came to a head when we all went out to a nightclub and a group of Indian engineers who were at the club came to the attention of some of the people within our group. We were all pretty drunk and there was a lot of shouting and scuffling before we were all chucked outside by the bouncers. There was still a lot of posturing outside but things seemed to be calming down with me trying to get everyone to go to another club down the road, but then as one of our group uttered a final disgusting racial epithet under his breath about the Indians, things just erupted and there was a massive fight. These football hooligans obviously knew a lot more about street fighting than the poor Indian guys and there was kicking and blood everywhere.

These events seemed to freeze my brain and bone marrow. I tried to stop one of ‘my friends’ and I got a fist from one of them straight into my nose, breaking it, and knocking me onto the floor. I cradled my arms around my head and I was being savagely kicked by my friends and the Indian guys. I heard the sirens and the kicking stopped as people legged it. There was me and about 5 Indian guys on the floor moaning and covered in blood. Luckily, the sirens were for an ambulance and I got taken to A&E but after the treatment I was questioned under caution by the Police. Luckily, two of the Indian guys remembered that I had tried to stop everything and so they didn’t press any charges against me. This would have destroyed my potential legal career as law firms obviously don’t employ too many racist felons convicted of affray.

I named all of the people in my group and told them everything that had happened that night and past behaviour. With the Indian guys and the bouncer’s testimonies they were arrested and charged with affray and ABH. These convictions were upheld and they were booted out of university. It turned out that all but one of them had been charged with violence before.

I think they might have come looking for me once or twice but I requested that I move halls of residence and I didn’t stay after dark in the law library when I was studying so I didn’t really see anything.

I made more decent friends eventually and had a great time at university but sometimes I think of those first few weeks still and wonder how it could have turned out differently.
(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 14:56, 11 replies)
It wasn't big and it wasn't clever.
Many moons ago when Porky was a callow 14, I was small, thin, wore glasses, had crap hair: basically a bit of an unattractive package. However I was well in with the cool kids. Yeah right. I was tolerated in their company because I was funny and always up for a laugh (have you ever noticed the coolest kids aren’t really very inventive? The ones I knew weren’t). But I digress. One of the kids at school, Huw, was rather strange. He was Welsh (although the accent wasn’t too bad as we lived in the North East), short, very hairy and had a haircut that resembled a suede brush. To top it off he wasn’t too bright in a special sort of way and had a pronounced speech impediment that gave the impression he was speaking in tongues. In other words uglier and less acceptable than me. Yay!

On the day in question we had suffered the stultifying boredom of double maths leading up to morning break. I had survived the class by burning the back of my hand with a magnifying glass to keep myself awake. There was only one solution, FIND HUW! Now although Huw was not one of the cool kids he had a rather severe tobacco addiction and was usually to be found in the boys bogs having a quick cancerstick between lessons. And sure enough there he was, enjoying in solitary peace and quiet what was probably one of the few things that kept the poor cunt going.

Only he wasn’t alone any more, he was surrounded by a bunch of predators intent on making a few moments of his day an absolute misery. There was a bit of ribbing which was designed to make him lose his temper (mocking his accent, hairiness and speech impediment usually did it) and hence in need of punishment.

Sorry, I had to take a break there. I’m not remembering this, I’m reliving it. It isn’t pleasant as you will see.

His first punishment was an arm twisting. Up until this point I had never joined in with the more physical bullying but today was my turn and at the behest of the genial and laughter filled cool kids I twisted his arm. Hard. I could hear the ligaments and tendons cracking and popping. I felt sick. Huw was squealing like a raped suckling pig and one of the more inventive chaps suggested we put his head down the toilet and pull the chain to quit him. So I did. I crammed Huw’s head into the shit speckled porcelain and someone pulled the chain. Huw stopped squealing and started making gagging, choking noises. Quite understandably. At this point my erstwhile pals took to their heels as the bell sounded for end of break. I would like to say I was torn by remorse and helped Huw get cleaned up for his next lesson but I didn’t. I did however look at his face and I wish I never had. The haunted look of pain on his face was almost unbearable. An almost animal look of dumb failure to understand why anyone would want to do this to him. His shoulders slumped and he picked his bag up with his good arm. Shouldering his way past me, he went home.

But it didn’t end there. His mother brought him back to school, cleaned up, after lunch. I was called to the head’s office. He had named only me. Fine. I took the physical punishment (a sound caning) and was then given the devastating real punishment. I was known to all the teachers as a bright but lazy scholar, my punishment? To help Huw after school with his homework. Every night for six months. I still don’t think it was enough.

I came to know Huw rather well and he was one of the funniest most irreverent little gits I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He forgave me quickly and with ease, he was like that. I also forgave myself eventually but I never forgot and I never bullied again. So that is what I did to fit in. Thanks B3ta, I needed that.
(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 14:28, 6 replies)
...grew my hair long, put on make-up, took to wearing short skirts, low-cut tops and frilly underwear. I even started reading Smash Hits and listening to Duran Duran!

But they still wouldn't let me into the girls' changing room.

(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 13:27, Reply)
As many of you will doubtless be aware (because I don’t half bang on about it sometimes), I have what you might call ‘Theatrical Tendencies’. Oh, the hell with it, darlings: I Love the theatre!

There is one form of theatre, however, that leaves me cold and with murd’rous thoughts in mind. This horrible, unforgiving beast is the home of soap actors looking for ‘diversification’ to avoid typecast. It is the dwelling of school parties and people who yearn for a ‘better Britain’. It is the last bastion of casual racism and sexism so heartily defended by the Daily Mail. I refer, of course, to Pantomine.

Oh, yes I did.

My tale, as it so often has in the past, starts with a girl. I was but eighteen, emerging blinking in to the bright lights of manhood. She was twenty, from Newcastle – a faraway and exotic place to a young man from Essex, and her Geordie tones washed over me daily as I drove her to and from college. I would have done anything, but anything, to be with this girl. Summer came and went, and in late September she handed me a flyer on the way in to college.

“Look at this!” she exclaimed, “Panto auditions!”

In case I haven’t made it clear already, I hate panto. Ever since I was small, I have hated panto. Panto and I do not have a comfortable relationship with each other. So how it came to pass that I said “Oh great, we should totally go for that...” remains a mystery.


Weeks later, and we’re both in. I am playing a two roles in this panto (which I will reveal shortly), and she one. I desperately tried to fit in during rehearsal, giving air kisses and dahlings and oh-my-you-were-wonderfuls, and all in the name of the Geordie who held my heart. Sometimes, I feared that my thinly-veiled hatred of the thing I was doing w ould show through – but it never did. Slowly, we became closer. She would touch me, lingering longer than she should, or hold my gaze, or bound over to hug me and only me. I was nearing my goal, of that I was sure.

Part of this panto was the Ugly Sisters being given a work-out by none other than the Spice Girls, who were quite the thing at the time. Joke-on-joke, though – they were played by men, and yours truly was Posh, in a very short dress. It was the Saturday Matinee, and the local Brownie group were in and watching the show. While doing the dance to ‘Wannabe’, there was a move that we did when we sang ‘zig a zig ahh’, which involved turning our knees out and opening our legs. The Geordie lass was dancing among the audience in front of me. As I ‘zig-a-zigg'ed she turned towards the stage, looking right at me, her face a picture of joy.

Time turned... to treacle. I watched her face as it transformed from joy, to confusion, to shock, to horror. I flicked my hips to turn for the next step of the dance, wondering what was wrong with her, when I felt a familiar thwap against my thigh. A murmur arose from the audience, and as I looked down to my feet I saw my testicles, pinned to my leg by the lycra of my boxer shorts. I looked out, and saw the confused and horrified faces of 30 Brownies looking at my nuts, while the girl of my dreams frantically tried to prise their attention away from the silly man. I grabbed the hem of my dress and yanked it down over my jewels; discreetly popping them back in to place and hurrying from the stage.

Surely, though, I could overcome this. The fact that I had tried so hard to fit in would be paramount in my beloved’s mind, overriding my embarrassing excursion. Not so, my friends. It was that very night, at the end of week party, that she said to me “Howay, that Prince Charming’s a canny fella, isn’t he?”, and walked off in to the night.


So don’t try to fit in, not even for a girl. You’ll only end up showing your nuts to some eight-year-olds.

Small Epilogue: In the remainder of the run, I wore briefs and boxers, thus preventing any further accidents.
(, Thu 15 Jan 2009, 14:36, 3 replies)
Thank you
My mum always wanted me to fit in. When I was growing up she was incessantly badgering me to conform to societal norms. If somebody gave me a gift or held a door open for me, that sort of thing, she would always say:

'Now then, Spanky - say 'thank you.'

I was always a polite boy anyway and always said please and thank you, so it used to bug the hell out of me.

So, fast forward a few years. I was nineteen, up in Manchester Uni having a whale of a time. And on one fateful night there a girl (technically a girl although my mates named her Manchild), was kind enough to take me back to her flat and let me have my ten seconds of ecstacy rummaging round inside her guts. Cherry well and truly popped.

Moments after I'd finished, I turned to her and held her hand as tenderly as I could after more Stella than is normaly humanly possible to consume, and I looked her ernestly in the eye and said:

'Thank you.'

And she went fucking mental.

Note to self: Dont thank people for letting you have sex with them, it makes them feel like a prostitue.
(, Fri 16 Jan 2009, 9:27, 21 replies)
I went to school with a lad called Ian Hamilton. I hated him. He was the best footballer, the best high jumper and had smashed the school record for the cross-country course.

The teachers bloody loved him. They lauded him as the Great White Hope and gave him time out of lessons to train. The plan was to have him compete in the County Games and then bask in the reflected glory when he won.

Not if I had my bloody way. I was fed up with him strutting around the school as if he owned the place so I decided to sabotage him.

The day of the County Games dawned and Ian spent the morning doing light training in preparation for his dash for Glory on the afternoon. After lunch he headed for the sports hall to get changed and then it was on the bus to the games.

So me and two of my gang followed him. As he went into the sports hall we grabbed him from behind and dropped a sack over his head and body and tied it tightly. Then we frog-marched him around the back of the sports hall and into the football pavilion. We left him tied to a chair in the changing rooms and scuttled back to class.

And then the shit hit the fan when he didn't turn up for the bus. The teachers were running around like headless chickens looking for him whilst me and my cohorts sniggered in the background.

But the headmaster knew me too well. He knew that of there was any nonsense going down that there was a good chance that I'd be at the bottom of it. So he charged into my classroom and bellowed:

"Legless! - What have you done to Fit Ian?"

(, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 23:23, 11 replies)
Fitting in with Earth Mothers
You know how there is always a 'cool kids' group - they were the ones in primary school who had the scented pencils and rubbers, the ones in senior school who had cigarettes and knew what a blow job was, the ones in university who had a dealer and knew the meaning of 'Indie' - actually anyone who was at uni in the 90s will know that it means Independent Label - bands that didn't sign with EMI or the like.

Anyway, after education has finished and you hit the real world there don't seem to be as many 'cool kid' groups…until you have your own children.

My first experience was at a mother and toddler group. I'd tried ones held in the local church hall but they were full of mothers wearing stained tracksuits and fleeces and children who screamed when they didn't get their e-number juice.

So I decided to go a little up-market.

The local eco-friendly, knit your own yogurt parent/care-giver and small unique, precious, talented individual of few years group.

For two hours I would sit around with my twins attempting to fashion angels from pine cones and tufts of raw wool collected from hedgerows. Other parents (all wearing Birkenstocks, hand knitted yurts and full face hair) calmly sang Icelandic folk songs into the small ears of their own Jocasta, Iphigenia, Fred or Ezekiel as they made their beautiful creations.

Then we all drank organic apples juice and ate some freshly baked bread - if you were a regular you could help to make this feast which I believe carried the personal yeast of Majorie the group leader.

Afterwards we sat around in a circle, children upon our laps or wandering around freely - if they chose to because an unhindered child produces a free and unrestrained personality at one with the universe - and we sang more folk songs. If we were really lucky we might get to sing 'The Wheels on the Bus' but that was generally frowned upon because of the pollution and high carbon footprint of any combustion engine, however, it was community transport so that made it okay occasionally.

The last time we were allowed to attend my sons were going through phase of being extremely curious about their world - Marjorie encouraged this initially.

Only a few days before I'd had the firebrigade out to my house because they'd set the chimney alight - long story, yes we had a fire-guard, no they were not alone - I was in the kitchen, and you wouldn't believe how early the inventive and cooperative gene sets in with twins with destruction on their minds.

They decided to investigate the fire extinguisher - presumably they'd learnt their lesson and had now become safety conscious, at two years old.

Marjorie wasn't happy when her hand knitted dogs' hair jumper got ruined.

Neither were the other parents.

Fire extinguisher foam stains natural fibres.
(, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 13:29, 13 replies)
In which Chickenlady doesn't fit in
In the spirit of entertainment and work avoidance I've revived my Convent Tales….

I was educated entirely by nuns and my senior school was an all-girls boarding. I was there for seven years and during that time I and my fellow inmates did a great deal to fit in…..

This was the 80s - big hair was fashionable to everyone needed to have either a huge perm, blonde streaks or, if you were very rebellious, spikey hair just like Limahl from Kajagoogoo. It would have been sensible for me to have gone with the huge perm look as my hair is naturally very curly but no, I wanted to look like a bog brush. Each morning I'd get up at around 6.30am just so I could wash and carefully blow dry my hair to try to make it go straight - this was in a time before straighteners, kids! Of course if it rained I was back to looking like a poodle.

However, at least I wasn't the one sporting GREEN highlights…. One girl in my class had naturally white blonde hair, well, at least it was until she took up swimming every day (in Daddy's pool, natch) instead of showering. It took about two weeks before her hair gained the green sheen and then soon she began to apply St.Tropez fake tan like she was auditioning for Wham!

Okay, so there I am, the one in the class with wild curly hair attempting to look like Siouxie Sioux which I did, just not that version…instead I looked remarkably similar to this version which is NSFW due to boobage.

Now, enough of all that stuff about hair and onto the real Fitting In ….

Two incidents come to mind in particular, both deeply embarrassing to me and highly amusing to onlookers - both unsurprisingly occurred on the sports fields.

#1 Aged 15 running around the hockey pitch.

I was a fast developer, in fact at 11 I was 5'4", took a size 10 (UK) and wore size 5 shoes. I continued to be what can only be described as 'sturdy' - remember the Sturdy Girl meme? Could have been me.
At 15 I'd grown another three inches or so and my breasts seemed to expand each week.

That was my problem.

While being a fast developer, I wasn't a fast runner.

Sports bras were unheard of…

So there I am in my fetching aertex shirt, grey mini skirt and lovely matching grey knickers (they were compulsory uniform to be worn under the mini skirt and OVER your own sexy pack-of-three, share-them -with-granny white M&S knickers and to retain our modesty while doing sport - only the goody-goodies and geeks wore them) slogging around the pitch on a grey November morning.

I'm getting hot and sweaty, hair sticking to the back of my neck, blow dried spikes collapsed and I resemble an overheated poodle.

Then the unthinkable happens….

My wayward breasts make a bid for freedom, well, one of them does.

I'm running with one large globe juggling around on its own under my shirt and all eyes, all the local boys from the scumbag comp are looking, all the boys from the next door all boys Catholic school are watching too (they weren't actually, but in my head EVERYONE saw me and my escaping booby).

I continue to run but I also attempt to stuff the overflowing excess back into its lacy hammock.

Not a good idea.

The other one comes free too.

And that was how I ended up with the nickname of Chesty Morgan (google it okay, I've done it for you - criticism accepted and I now stand corrected....Chesty Morgan - but this is NSFW ) for a long while.

#2 Aged 18 - in fact my 18th birthday

I was a house captain and therefore everyone in the school knew me as I was part of the prefect elite - this allowed me to walk across the Chapel lawn, wear a badge and bully first years.

Somehow my entire house found out that it was my 18th birthday - I suspect me telling them repeatedly for a month beforehand in the hope of receiving presents had something to do with it.

So there I am (again) on the sports field but this time I'm not in PE kit, instead I'm in normal school uniform….shirt, tie, knee length skirt and….stockings with suspenders.

Yes. This was school uniform. Compulsory uniform. We were supposed to look like elegant young ladies but instead we either looked like refugees from some war torn state or hookers - St. Trinian's (both the modern and the original versions) were amazingly spot on).

It was lunch time and half the pupils from the all boys Catholic school next door where hanging around as a netball match was due to start soon - room searches were common so in the absence of 'reading material' the older boys would come to spectate at the netball in the hope that someone would 'forget' their grey knickers - someone always did, usually one of the racy South African girls who wore only flimsy bikini bottom like scanties - none of the boys could walk straight on their return to school.

The girls from my house see me standing around, clip board in hand - I was trying to find someone to run the 1500m for sports day - my running days were over.

Suddenly hundreds of hands are on me.

I'm lifted into the air.

I'm on my back.

I'm flying up.

I'm caught.

I'm flying up.

I'm caught.

I'm flying up.

My skirt goes flying up.

My stockings, suspenders and my knickers are all on display.

This repeats for 19 'bumps'.

During bump number 16 there was a rip.

And my second occasion of not fitting in occurred.

This time it was my arse.
(, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 12:23, 18 replies)
At school I tried everything to fit in with the cool kids.

I grew my hair long

I got my ear pierced

I drew cocks on the blackboard

I bunked off lessons and went smoking behind the bike sheds

I made up nicknames for the teachers

I abused the staff in the canteen

I graffitied band names and football abuse on the desks

I snuck into the girls changing rooms while they were doing PE and stole their clothes

I bullied the kid with crutches

I, basically, did everything I could to be accepted.

It came to a head one day when I got called to see the headmaster.

He said

'This is no way for a teacher to behave'

I'll be leaving now, shall I?
(, Fri 16 Jan 2009, 12:00, 3 replies)
I chose not to choose life. I chose something else.
My school seems to have lacked the hierarchical structure a lot of people are describing. I can’t remember one group shouldering the frigid cross of coolness (unless, could this mean, the cool kid was... me?)

No any sociologist studying T.P.S circa ‘95 would instead have seen a hideously mutating mélange of groups, squads, possies, gangs, mobs, friendly societies, cults and covens, all squabbling over the right to not go home in tears because someone had pushed you in a puddle and thrown your pencil case on the roof.

If you weren’t part of a clique you were a target, it was mob rule, rabid dogs have more compassion than children on a forty minute lunch break. In my second week I knew only one thing, I knew my retainer wasn’t getting thrown in the big green bins again; I had to find some friends.

My horribly rash decision one lunch time lead to me falling in with the wrong, crowd squandering my teenage years, and eventually left me alone and freezing at the side of a dirty brown lake. I was constantly feeling tench, I was on tenderhooks and wondering whether I should pike it all in.

Thats right, I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. I chose fishing. Fucking Fishing!! I spent the years between twelve and eighteen fishing!! I want that time back, I want house parties and teenage sex, I want being tricked into smoking spiffs made of lawn, I want to be able to say that I dabbled, dabbled in anything! I want a collection of pogs, I want to know the dance to the Macarena, I just want to say I’ve lived!

I haven’t picked up a rod in nearly 8 years now, but there’s still not a day goes by where I don’t think about what I’ve lost and how easy it would be to fall back into the comforting old ways.

My name's Asser and I’m a Fisherman.
(, Wed 21 Jan 2009, 12:31, 4 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Popular, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1