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This is a question Turning into your parents

Unable to hold back the genetic tide, I find myself gardening in my carpet slippers, asking for a knife and fork in McDonalds and agreeing with the Daily Telegraph. I'm beyond help - what about you?

Thanks to b3th for the suggestion

(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 13:39)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I chanced upon this QOTW when I was feeling a bit down.
I've just been to the local Mobility shop to browse their (admittedly fine, and extensive) range of 'low range scooters' (they only go 12 miles before needing plugging in).

Not for me, for my dad. I'm 26 and he is 66. After his stroke two years ago, he has become almost totally dependent on me. I go shopping for him, cut his hair, help wash him, clean for him, and the rest. And I'm no martyr - he's done the same for me, and then some.

I never thought that at my age (or his) that I'd be caring for him as if he was my child, not my dad. He's 'all there' (ie, still a cynical awkward old Northern sod ;) ) and I've had to teach him to speak, read and write. He's come so far. And yet him wanting this scooter is brilliant to me, because he can nip to the shops, buy milk and bread, and go for a walk. Well, a scoot, anyhow.

I turned into a parent, somehow, and now I think like a parent, despite not having children of my own yet. I buy him treats, worry about him when he goes somewhere in a taxi, and I phone him to make sure he's had a healthy dinner. As a result I've become a lot more pragmatic and patient in the rest of my life, which has meant I very rarely get stressed, as nothing fazes me now.

In a few weeks I'm getting married. Dads are supposed to be proud of their daughters on their wedding day. But watching my dad take those few difficult steps down the aisle with me, and listening to him speak, will make me the proudest daughter in the world.

I will probably cry!
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 19:03, 26 replies)
While shopping for warm clothes in February
I came across a nice Marks and Spencer striped woolly jumper, just my size, for three quid in a charity shop. 'Bargain!' I said and snapped it up. I took it home, tried it on and I was really happy with it.

Last week, I took my daughter to see my parents on the other side of town.

'Nice jumper Noel,' said my mum as I came in the house.

'Cheers! It was a bargain. Only three quid from a charity shop. M&S too!'

'Let me guess: British Heart Foundation? A month or two ago?' she asks.

'Um, yeah. How'd you know that?'

'I was having a spring clean and gave some clothes to charity. That jumper used to belong to your father.'

My dad has an incredibly jaded taste in clothes.

My daughter pointed and laughed.
(, Fri 1 May 2009, 7:59, 7 replies)
Back seat driving
A few months back it was my Dad's birthday, and as my folks love Thailand, we decided to go to a local Thai restaurant that had recently opened in a neighboring town. Being the dutiful son, I offered to drive so that both ma, pa and sis could have a drink or two.

I've only had my license for 9 months, but I like to think that I'm a confident-but-safe driver (don't we all?). My mother is, to put it mildly, the Platonic Form of back-seat drivers, alongside which all other BSDs are shown to be flawed, intangible wisps of mere annoyance. She has reduced my normally-stoic father to tears, and has caused my sister to categorically ban my mum from ever riding in any vehicle she may be controlling.

Knowing all this, I was understandably nervous, however I had come up with a plan to help take the edge off things. The plan had two stages, the first being to turn up to their house early with a bottle of wine for my sister and mum to start on. Then, when my lightweight mother was nicely tipsy, stage two came into play. From careful conversation manipulation (well, outright asking) I got her talking about her favourite subject: work.

Sure enough, this topic kept her occupied from the moment of her being bundled into the back seat of my little Ka until we were barely a minute from the destination. Unfortunately the wine goggles were not enough to keep her from spotting a car in the distance braking.

"And then you'll never guess what Deidre said t-WATCH OUT FOR THAT CAR, IT'S BRAKING!!"

"Yes Mum, at the precise moment you shouted at me, I was already slowing down. Now, what did Deidre say?"

My dad and sister burst into loud laughter, while my mum mumbles something incoherent while drunkenly giggling to herself. We get to the restaurant without any further incident, Dad shows off by ordering everything in Thai, and we proceed to have a bloody nice meal. Father and sis drink some Singhas, my mum has another large glass of the house white, and I drink water while we laugh, reminisce about our holiday in Thailand, and wish my Dad a happy birthday. All in all, perfect.

Mother requires more assistance to get back to the car, and then proceeds to sit giggling in the back, occasionally repeating her catchphrase of "isn't this lovely, all the family together". I look to my Dad in the passenger seat, and he smiles at me with pride. I was half expecting him to clap me on the shoulder and say "Well done, son, she won't bother us on this journey!", but he settled for the contented grin.

I match his smile, slip the car into 1st, and pull smoothly out of the car park. My sister starts babbling on about what's happening in her life, and I summarily start to rib her about her new boyfriend (as all brothers are required to do). The atmosphere in the car was full of love, warmth and happiness. If anybody was watching us, they would have been compelled to say "aww, bless, there goes the perfect family!". We could have been in a Bisto advert.

It wasn't meant to last.

"So sis, when are we going to meet this new fella of yours?"

Complete and utter bedlam broke out within the confines of my Ka. Dad had tears of laughter streaming down his face, clutching his sides as if a Giger creation were about to burst out. My sister was alternating between laughing and wailing uncontrollably. Mother, rudely awoken from her slumber, joins in the raucous merriment, before asking why we were all laughing.

Me? I nearly ploughed the car off the road.

There is always a master and an apprentice.
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 15:13, 12 replies)
The Inevitable Future...

When more hair's up my nose than on top of my head
I need winches and pullies to climb out of bed
When I say that the internet's only a‘fad’...
That’s when I'll know I've turned into my Dad

When I'm ‘tutting’ at young whippersnappers in town
And my clothes are all beige or a light shade of brown
When the Daily Mail doesn’t seem hate-filled or mad…
That’s when I'll know I've turned into my Dad

When the tools in my shed are a sight to behold
And with nine layers of clothing I still feel the cold
When my only 'hip' thing is the replacement I had…
That’s when I'll know I've turned into my Dad

When my cock is an item I use just to pee
And I drive like a twat even though I can't see
When police look like kids and it makes me feel sad…
That’s when I'll know I've turned into my Dad

When I'm sexist and racist, intolerant and rude
And I take out my teeth to eat liquidised food
When the price of a loaf makes me declare a 'jihad'...
That’s when I'll know I've turned into my Dad

When I call all men 'sonny' and all women 'birds'
And could stink out the Midlands with one of my turds
When l start every phrase with: 'When I were a lad...'
That’s when I'll know I've turned into my Dad

When my bollocks are dangling down by my knees
And I shout 'It's Swine Flu!' every time that I sneeze*
When I whinge like a bitch about stuff that's not bad...
That’s when I'll know I've turned into my Dad

I'll refuse to admit that I've ever been wrong
And I'll treat my own son like a big spakka mong
When I go batshit mental, and sing when I poo...
Then I'll know I've turned into my fucking mum, too!

*edited for topicality
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 17:54, 21 replies)
You know what it’s like…

You’re sat on the bog for half an hour in the morning, with your shreddies round your ankles, and you’ve just finished the kind of of rancid, angry arse-alligator that would usually necessitate the calling of an ambulance…or a priest.

Then you wipe your tattered ringpiece, flush, crawl over to the sink, clambour up to your feet to look in the mirror and what do you see?

You see a pitiful face that is withered by age. Craggy, wrinkled, stubbly and worn. Where there were once fresh features there are now just deep etched lines…and baggy, bloodshot eyes…silently telling the story of someone who has been round the block a few times, via the school of hard knocks, and then come out the other side, at the cost of becoming a bitter, haggard individual.

It’s depressing.

Now, I don’t know what you do when you see that person looking at you in the mirror…but as for me, I just move the wife out of the way and tell her to get the fuck out of the bathroom, before I'm late for work.
(, Fri 1 May 2009, 13:55, 7 replies)
My Dad
is 80 today. He spent the day having a walk round the village where he was born, and tomorrow is meeting up with his (surviving) brothers and sisters, as well as some of his kids (I can't make it because of work) for a good old meal. He's cracking for his age. Still mentally completely there, and apart from bionic knees is in good health.

My Dad has been in the RAF and the army. He was in Korea when things were not very pretty as a new recruit. He's been to Ireland during the troubles and stood stag on the day after Bloody Sunday. He's gone to several houses and had to deliver the worst news in the world - that their husband/partner/son will never walk through that front door again.

My Dad is a clever man. He never went to university, but could read and write aged 4. He has always been employed, except in the late 80's, when he was made redundant for 2 weeks. After he retired, he still did consultancy work for little/no money in order to help people out.

My Dad is a fucking superb gardener. Anything he plants will grow. He can't cook very well - but can survive if Mum is away or ill - he eats what he's given and does it gratefully.

My Dad taught me:
How to read and write
How to look after my money
The meaning of humility, but not by humiliating me.
The meaning of respect.
How to change the oil on a 1982 Lada
How to paint a wall
How to make dovetail joints
How to write a CV
How to do algebra (when I was so frustrated with it that I was in tears - he never raised his voice and had eternal patience with me.)
How to do a cryptic crossword
To be proud and accept what I am.

I am aware that my Dad might not be around much longer - he's in good shape, but who knows what might happen? So when I see him on Tuesday, I'm going to give him a huge hug and tell him that I love him, to which he'll probably blush hugely and grin. Then buy me a pint.

You see, if I turn into even half the man my Dad is, then I will be extremely happy indeed.
(, Fri 1 May 2009, 21:11, 9 replies)
I've finally hit that age where I have more cups of tea than I have wanks.
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 14:10, 11 replies)
Are You Sitting Comfortably???
Last summer I spent a weekend of discovery up in Chestyfield, where my parents live for half the year before they fuck off to Italy to piss about in the sun, the lucky fuckers.

It was the first time my parents met my current girlfriend, the woman who has agreed to be Mrs Hanky one day, the delectable and incredibly edible Liz.

We clambered off the train; my old man was waiting for us. The first thing he said to Liz was:

"My! Aren't you pretty!" in such a surprised tone that he may as well have said: What the fuck's an attractive woman like you doing with my mong-twat elephant man wanker of an ugly cunt son?

Fast-forward to my parents house.

Tea. Biscuits. Smalltalk. Baby photos. The fucking works.

Thankfully my parents got on with Liz like the veritable house on fire. Everything was going swimmingly. It was a fucking hot day, so Liz and I slink off to the guest bedroom to get a bit of kip before the old dears take us out for a slap up meal.

Lying on the bed in the mid afternoon heat, I start feeling a little frisky and move in for my patent pending spooning with additional clandestine five-fingered fanny grope. Liz was having none of it:

"Not in your parents house!" she said, slapping my sweaty mitts away.


So she goes to sleep. I get bored and go back downstairs. Watch a bit of TV, catch up with my mum, get fed more sandwiches with the crusts cut off than any man can handle without suffering a serious internal injury.

About an hour later I realise my dad's fucked off into the garden.

"Has he started smoking again?" I ask my mum.

She shakes her head 'no', so I amble out back and find my old man sitting in the shed with the door open, gazing intently up...

... I go and stand next to him, he glances at me and says:

"You alright, Spanky?" then he returns his attention to the side of the house.

I follow his gaze...

"Errr... Dad... stoppit, ehh?" I say.

"What? Oh, sorry..." and he stands up - he'd even set up a camping chair so he could watch in comfort - and moves off. "She's a very nice girl," he says over his shoulder. "Very nice... like your mother when she was her age..." he says whimsically.

And I look back up at the guest bedroom window where Liz is stood, topless, her perky norks on full show like a prossie in an Amsterdam window, as she rubs aftersun on herself; her usual ritual after a summers day snooze.

I actually felt violated...

I recall spending the evening at the restaurant surreptitiously comparing Liz's tits with my mums, hoping and praying to the sweet baby Jesus that gravity wouldn't reap the same terrible fucking revenge on my girlfriend's knockers as it had done on dear ol' mum's...

"What are you looking at, Spanky?" asked Liz.

"Oh, nothing..."

And then I shared a silent Wonder Years moment with my dad when he caught my eye. We came close to hugging. It was intense, I can tell you...
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 17:35, 11 replies)
ARSE CREAM (or how I acted like an adult this weekend)
I spent last weekend twatting about on a sled up at Hampstead Heath - the place to be if you're gay and want head from a random stranger (or George Michael) - with my mate Steve, skidding about on the freshly cut grass and having a whale of a time until some cunt in a coppers uniform advised us to, and this is a direct quote:

"Fuck off and start acting your age."

So we did fuck off, back to Steve's for a few beers.

Fine by me.

We settle in for an afternoon of footie on the TV. But whilst watching Soccer Saturday Steve starts to complain about a pain in his backside.

He goes to the Gary Glitter for a Richard the Third and comes back shortly afterwards, looking whiter than an albino klu klux clan member who's mum DOES use Persil.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" I laugh, showing as much concern as I can.

"My arse is bleeding! That fucking sled!"

And then Steve does something more fucking grusomely awfully horrible than having to sit through every mind numbingly dull moment of Titanic with Leonard -girly boy - DiCaprio breezing round like a big twat.

He pulls down his kegs, spins round, and spreads his arsecheeks.

Fuck me...

"Piles, mate," I say, reaching for my phone to take a photo to show him the trauma damage to his unholy ring.

I snap a quick photo, show him. He nearly passes out. It looks like a hand grenade's gone off up his jacksy.

"Hang on," I say. "I'll just pop down to Boots on Kentish Town Road - I'll get you something for it." And off I go, being a big responsible fully paid up member of the responsible adult club.

My mum would've been proud.

I walk down to Boots, it's arse cream galore - too much fucking choice - I choose the tried and trusted brand and mosey on over to the counter.

The girl who's serving was about eighteen.

I feel the need to make conversation, I feel compelled to let her know the arse repair cream isn't for me, but even as I utter the words I realise just how fucking GAY I sound; might just as well have stuck a cock in my mouth and got me to perform in Priscilla Queen of the Desert:

"Just been up on the Heath playing a bit rough with my mate, this cream's for him" I nod my head towards the Preparation H. I was like a speeding car crash, I just couldn't stop myself. "Should really be a health warning for what we were doing... Had to stop when the old bill caught us at it..."

I smile nervously.

The girl goes red and giggles as she rings my purchase through the til.

"Whatever floats yer boat, mate," she says.

"There's nothing funny about piles," I say in my indignant-approaching-middle-aged-man-voice, trying to wrestle back control of this fucked up conversation. "Can be fatal," I say with as much gravitas as I can muster, though really not too sure if that's true.

The girl smirks even more.

She appears to have tears in her eyes and she's biting her bottom lip to keep from pissing herself.

I pay. I leave with a little hurumph of indignity. Fuck the kids. Who wants to be down with the kids? Not me. Fuck um. Fuck um hard. Up the arse.

Then, earlier tonight I'm down at the same branch of Boots with the Mrs, picking up the monthly supply of toiletries.

The same girl serves us.

As I pay she says, matter-of-factly:

"How's your friends bottom today, Sir?"

I say its fine, thank you.

We leave.

And the Mrs says: "I don't even want to know..."

Thinking about it...

...really should delete that photo of Steve's arse off my phone...

And in future stop pretending to act like a responsible adult - it usually ends in some moment of cringeworthy trauma like this.

Curse the eighteen year old girl who works in Boots!
(, Fri 1 May 2009, 0:43, 7 replies)
The wrong arm of the law…

Pre-pubescent fucking police ‘men’ do my head in.

Just the other day, I was in town having a crafty pint, and when I left the pub I spotted this 'clopper' of a copper who looked about twelve years old, standing by the side of the road.

He was so young he still whiffed of his mum’s mimsy…(I imagine)

He looked at me, then he looked at the car.

There was half-a-fucking-wheel on a double yellow line. If that.

I smiled at him and gave him a friendly ‘shrug’ of the shoulders. He didn’t say a single word, he just shook his head, reached into his pocket, pulled out his pad and started writing out a ticket.

I tried to appeal to his good nature. Fat chance.

“Aw, come on mate”, I said. “…give a guy a break, eh?”

The spotty mini-Hitler just carried on writing.

I said: “Look, you don’t have to do this…stop being such a cunt”

At hearing the fabled 'C' word, the rozzer didn’t even glance up from his pad, he just raised his eyebrows, turned a page over in the pad and started writing out another bastard ticket!

“You fucking Nazi wanker!” I shouted, jabbing my finger at him angrily. “...Is this how you get you pervy fucking kicks?”

With this, the copper sighed, kicked the tyres, took out his tread-thickness-measuring gadget, tutted, and silently started writing out another ticket for worn tyres!

“You total, cock-waggling shitstained arse-biscuit!” I bellowed. “What did you go and do that for? I bet you’ve got a tiny little dick, haven't you?…and just because you can’t satisfy your missus, you’re taking it out on innocent fucking motorists!”

With this, the bastard bobby had a quick check that nobody was looking, and then actually smashed one of the indicator lights! Right in front of me!

“Gaaaahhh!" I screamed: "...you fucking cunty bollocksing cunty CUNT!...It’s because of fucking flange-bananas like you that this pissing country is in the state it’s in.”

Defiantly, the boyish oik with a tit on his head just continued scanning the car for any fault he could find…and clocking up tickets, one after the other.

This went on for about 10 minutes…the more abuse I spat at him, the more fines he wrote out, without a glimmer of emotion on his power-mad baby-face.

In fact, the only time I saw him change expressions was when I walked past him, went down the road…

…got on the bus, and went home.

...because it was only then that he realised it wasn’t my car.

Just like my dad, I have a twisted sense of humour...and at my age, I’m running out of ways to entertain myself.
(, Fri 1 May 2009, 9:27, 3 replies)
She drives me insane, that woman.
As I mentioned, I would love to turn into my mother. She’s one of the most fun people I know. At the age of 66, she looks barely into her 50’s, she’s been thrown out of her card group for being too competitive, she’s the best poker player I’ve ever met, she’s learning Italian and Philosophy, she took a helicopter trip from Nice to Monaco, just because she felt like it and I have to book an appointment to speak to her weeks ahead of time because she’s never bloody in.
I spent Saturday night a couple of weeks ago catching up with my correspondence. And knitting.

She also drives like a woman possessed with the spirit of the late Ayrton Senna. Only Senna would have probably been cowering in the front seat of her convertible jeep complaining that she was braking too late.

I on the other hand don’t drive that often so when I do, I’m fairly cautious. Okay, I drive like a typical pensioner, but I’ve never had a crash and I’ve never had a speeding ticket.

I offered to drive to Bury Market the last time I was up North. As mum doesn’t get the chance to be ferried around much (she’s teetotal, thus making her de facto designated driver) she jumped at my offer. On the way back, after I came off the motorway, I got trapped behind a lorry and as the visibility wasn’t great, I chose to hang back and wait till there was a safe place to pass. Mum is getting increasingly twitchy and making noises about “just nip round him, love” and “you could get a bus through there…”

After about 15 minutes of increasingly plaintive mewling from the front seat about my hesitance, I pulled the car over (safely), put the handbrake on and said

“How many points do you have on your license?”

She began to protest. I silenced her with a raised finger and a glare.

“How many?”

“Nine…” she replied.

“And what were they for?”


“And how many do I have? That’s right, none. So let’s remember that next time we’re discussing my driving shall we? The subject is now closed.”

She sunk down into the front seat and sulked the rest of the way home.

I’d have bloody well grounded her for her cheek if I could.

Sometimes I’m glad my father isn’t alive to see what I’ve become…
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 15:49, Reply)
My childhood
When I was a child I spent my summers over on the continent; my dad was an engineer and would usually find work somewhere hot and sunny. I remember when I was a child I'd be woken early by the beating hot sun streaming in through the gaps in the blinds like a laser beam. And the incredible heat. I'd get up, have a shower, and then run outside to meet up with my new friends. Every summer I started to learn a different language. Now that I'm in my thirties I can swear fluently in five languages, which comes in really handy when I'm trawling through the rush hour in central London.

One summer I was out in Spain and my mate, Juan, dared me to play this game with him. I wasn't too hot on the Spanish at this time, but thought I got the gist of it. I agreed to play this dangerous game with my little friend, Juan. So we went down to the canal, slipped off our shoes and slid into the warm, brakish water. And then we started hunting. The trick to it was to step very gently forward, your arms dangling out in front of you in the water, and then when you felt something move you flipped quickly to see if you could dislodge your quarry onto the canal bank. But we wern't hunting fish, that would've been too easy. We were hunting vipers which would hide under the water where it was cooler until the sun had relented a little.

Juan and I did the snake hunting all day. I very nearly got bitten a few times. Thinking back I'm amazed that I didn't. I mean, I didn't have a clue about snakes.

And what's this got to do with my dad? Well, he tells completely random stories too that don't seem to have any relevance at all to what he's been asked.
(, Wed 6 May 2009, 15:48, 3 replies)
My mum
A bit of back story is required here I think.

My dad is a complete waster. He has never had a kind word for me or my brother. He's also an alcoholic and a drug addict. We cut off contact with him a couple of years ago and have been happier since.

He spent a lot of our childhood lying to us both about everything under the sun. Most of these lies were about my Mum. Because of this, we both opted to live with my Dad after they divorced. I'm ashamed to say that I believed everything he said and thought my Mum was some form of demon. During the time we lived with my Dad, I had almost no contact with my Mum, my brother had slightly more than I did but still very little.

After a few years, we began to see what my dad was really like. We saw him drinking every night, regularly soiling himself and becoming violent after taking E, diazapam, any other substance he could get his hands on. At the time, my brother and I thought we were stuck. We had a horrible mother and an abusive good for nothing father which meant we had nowhere to go.

After many arguments, some violence and several attempted suicides (by my brother), he was thrown out on Christmas eve. Having nowhere else to go and still being in high school he went to live with our Mum. Not wanting to be around when she came to collect him, I proceeded to go out and get completely shitfaced.

After he left, i plunged into depression. I'd always been close with my brother and spent most of my time worrying about him. For about a year I had no contact with him until one day I saw him in town.

I was amazed. He looked happier than I'd ever seen him before. We started catching up immediately. It turns out that when he'd gone to live our Mum, she had been nothing like our Dad had told us. When my brother had been thrown out, he stayed with her for a grand total of three days. She had asked him what he wanted to do, to which his answer had been "I want to go back and finish high school". She helped him find a place near school, supported him until he got benefits sorted and visited him regularly, despite the 2 hour drive between them.

A few months down the line, I found myself being thrown out. A month before my 16th birthday no less. Too old to be put in care, too young to live on my own so the social workers called my Mum. My brother's situation had given me some hope, but I was still nervous. He had at least some semblance of a relationship with my mum, whereas I had none. We hadn't spoken in over 4 years.

The journey back to her place was unnerving. Neither of us knew what to say so most of it was spent in silence. When she finally did speak all she said was that I couldn't smoke or drink while living with her unless I could pay for it myself.

When we finally made it to her house (it seemed to take forever), I met my step-dad, I saw my grandad and uncles for the first time in years. They had all come to welcome me back. Needless to say after they had gone I broke down and cried. My step-dad thought it best to leave me alone with my Mum at the time while we had a chat.

She hugged me while I cried and we spoke about the time I had spent living with my Dad. I cried some more, she made me something to eat, i cried again and we chatted more.

I was very emotionally damaged from all the things my Dad had put me through and that night my Mum managed to help me more than 3 years of seeing a child psychiatrist had.

Because I was 15, I couldn't do what my brother had done, so I was registered at the local high school. With 3 months to go before my standard grades and a lack of attendance at my previous school due to my love of sitting at home smoking weed meant I had a lot to do if I wanted to have any chance at passing.

My Mum's side of the family rallied round me. They helped me with homework, took me to extra classes and generally did anything they thought would help. I passed with very good marks in the end and went to college to study nursing.

For the first time in my life I had a supportive and loving family. It felt fecking great. For the first time in my life I didn't feel completely useless and unworthy. That also felt fecking great.

Now, 4 years on from that, my brother and I have had our fair share of problems. Just as we were getting to know our Gran properly again, she died. This upset me, but it completely overwhelmed my brother. It resulted in another attempt to take his own life, this time it was a bit more serious than the last. He ended up in a psychiatric ward, but with the kindness and care from the staff, and my Mum visiting him at least twice a week he was released shortly after and has been like a whole new person since.

I feel like an idiot a lot of the time for believing what I was told about her. The only excuse I have is that I was very young but that doesn't excuse me in any way.

To sum up, my Mum is the most caring and supportive person I have met. She never panics, has lots of common sense and there's never a situation she doesn't know how to deal with. She's fun to be around and doesn't take crap from anyone.

I'm 20 now and have a baby of my own on the way. If I become even something close to being like her then I know that my little boy will grow up happy and healthy.

no apologies for length, it's awesome!
(, Sat 2 May 2009, 13:24, 5 replies)
The ‘Not turning into your parents' survival guide…

I am officially an old fucker. I have long since given up trying to have any attachment to, or understanding of, the culture of the next generation.

In short, I am my parents.

Here is a list of several regularly used phrases etc that I use to compound this fact. If you use them too…you’re in trouble. Hopefully this post could be the ‘wake up call’ to pull you from the precipice of becoming your oldies too.

Phrase: Who d’you think I am? Rockerfeller?

Nobody knows (or cares) who Rockerfeller was anymore. Even I’m not entirely sure…I believe he was rich, but there are millions more relevant and modern comparisons which you can make…

Alternative action that gets to the point better and doesn’t make you look like an old fart: Shout: “You’re not having any of my money. Please fuck off.”

Phrase: ”He / She looks like the wreck of the Hesperus”

(I mean, what the wallowing cock?!? I’ve said that phrase a million times and I still had to google it just now to find out not only what it was and what is meant, but how it was spelled. And now I do know what it actually refers to, it makes even less sense – what the arse has it got to do with a person’s dishevelled appearance? I’ll tell you…FUCK ALL!)

Alternative action: Point at the offending person and state clearly: “What a trampy twat!”

Phrase: “More haste, less speed”

I insist on regularly dusting off this ‘wise’ old adage, which must be said in a smarmy, patronising manner whilst simultaneously looking down your nose at someone.

Alternative action: I’ve found that bellowing: “Stop fucking rushing, cunt-pie!” suffices just as adequately.

(And, paradoxically):

Phrase: ”They won’t get there any quicker! ”

Yes.they.will. It’s been proven on many an occasion.

Alternative action: Just don’t say anything. ‘Tut’ if you must when someone razzes past your car at Mach 3.5, but for fuck’s sake don’t speak.

Phrase: “What are you like?”

This is usually spoken with a fake laugh following being subjected to someone’s dull-as-whale-shit anecdote of how ‘Keerrraayyzzeee’ they are, when in actual fact they’re about as ‘crazy’ as a flask of Ovaltine. I'm not Irish. There is no excuse.

Alternative action: Just punch them stoutly in the face and bellow: “DULLARD!”

(In my defence, I have managed to turn this phrase around somewhat. If peopIe who know me hear me say ‘What are you like?” they know to start running.)

Phrase: “That’s not music, it’s just a bloody noise?”

Possibly the worst and most blatant ‘I’ve turned into my parents’ crime you can commit. Nothing displays how out-of-touch with modern life you are like not knowing or understanding today’s music. Also, If you follow the phrase up with ‘I can’t make out the lyrics’, then shoot yourself. Now. It’s for the best.

Alternative action: Just say: “Meh, it’s alright, but it’s not my cup of tea". In fact, scatch that. Don’t say ‘cup of tea’, say….erm…..’bucket of drugs’.

Phrase: “She’ll catch her death with that short skirt…”

Although there’s a very slight chance that she might indeed get raped and murdered for dressing like a slag, it’s her choice, and should that situation occur, then the external temperature will surely be the last thing on her mind.

Besides, we all like a good ogle.

Alternative action: Simply mutter “Phwooar!” under your breath, or possibly, as an acceptable ethnic variant 'Grrrr' quietly to yourself a la Sid James, whilst rummaging around in your pockets pretending to look for spare change.

(If you’re female by the way, then shout “Slapper!”, and glare ferociously)

Last and by all means least…the waistband. For the love of pastel-shade fuck, it’s called a ‘waist’ band because it goes around your WAIST – not under your armpits…you might have already relegated yourself to the ‘wearing jogging bottoms around the house’ stage but in the name of all that produces jizz, wear them properly..

I feel like I’m providing a public service here. It’s too late for me, people…but please…if you can...save yourselves.
(, Fri 1 May 2009, 15:35, 13 replies)
Ma belly
Fuck you, slow metabolism, fuck you.

How fucking dare you let me develop a beer-belly. How fucking dare you. I sort out the pies and the beer, you burn the fuckers off, that was the deal. None of this watch what you eat and drink crap, that was for the other people. We were perfect, we were slim, and now you've gone and given me bitch tits.

Fuck you, slow metabolism, fuck you indeed.
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 15:51, 5 replies)
I'm balding,
wear suits that look like they come from the 70s, and I'm starting to get a hairy back. I'm turning into my Mum.
(, Fri 1 May 2009, 2:25, 5 replies)
A shameful admission
I have a stick in my shed (I have a shed!)

It has one purpose and can not be used for anything else.

It's my special paint-stirring stick.
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 14:33, 11 replies)
You're not turning into your parents until
you're on a night out and see a policeman -

and get less nervous.
(, Wed 6 May 2009, 17:43, 3 replies)
Sorry mum
Several years ago I realised I had turned into my mum.
Not the funny mum who did crazy things to make us laugh.
But the mum who hid her face in the morning so we couldnt see a new bruise, even though we had been there when he did the drunken beating.
Two kids under 10 trying to stop a grown man and failing.
I'm ashamed to say, as soon as were legally old enough to leave, thats what we did.
Sorry mum, we just couldnt stop it or watch anymore :(
Somewhere along the way I ended up shacked up with this guy.
Charismatic, everyone loved him.
The first time he beat me, it was my fault, the second time yada yada.
Always on the body where no-one could see.
Till one night he totally lost it and messed my face up pretty good.
I remember sitting there and thinking "how am i going to explain this?"
And then him telling me i wasnt to go out until it had cleared up.
And I saw my mum, hiding away, and now that was me.
They say we all turn into our parents at some point, but that aspect just wasnt sitting happily with me.
I know first hand the real sound of Spang
A saucepan wrapped around his face, followed by my dragging/throwing his sorry ass out of the door.

I like the nicer traits my mum has left me with.
The inability to remember anyones name, and will go through a dozen random names before I get it right.

Having to be the first person to leave a footprint in fresh snow.

No matter how daft it looks, if there is a pile of leaves you must kick it.

You must try to cheat badly at monopoly or cards and just giggle when caught out

From my dad.........lumbago, gee thanks
(, Fri 1 May 2009, 0:16, 13 replies)
I am turning into a parent
and I can pinpoint the exact moment. It will be tomorrow, when I get my new baby. If you click 'I like this' I might call it B3ta.
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 15:04, 7 replies)
My dad's a part-time radio DJ
He plays old rock'n'roll & doo wop, that sort of stuff.

I've always found it embarrassing to hear him blathering away on his show so I've avoided it like the plague when browsing the old FM dial.

One day I was searching for something good to listen to and by mistake found I'd stumbled onto his programme - and worst still my mum was on there too.

That's right kids - I realised I'd tuned into my parents.

(, Wed 6 May 2009, 16:35, 5 replies)
'Rents Rock!
I’ve not yet turned into my parents, but I hope one day I will.

Both of them are kind, loving, generous and funny – and the reality is, I’m moody, angry, hopelessly disorganised, borderline alcoholic, and pretty much an abject failure.

I wonder if I’ve been spoilt by them, given that however many cock-ups I make, they don’t judge me, they say they are proud of me – and the remained proud as I went through a messy marriage split and a period of unemployment. The sage advice coming from my father – a man of few words – always amazes me, his reaction to my obvious distress at no being able to pay my rent owing to me having no income at the time ‘well Son, you let me pay your rent for you, I’ll sleep better if I know where you are sleeping’ – now, they aren’t wealthy in the way a lot of people are, they have a fairly comfortable retirement based on both of them having worked full-time for years, but they aren’t ‘minted’ (my Dad has never had a ‘new’ car for example and they holiday about once a year) and my Mother is practical is so many ways – everything from ‘accidently getting her online grocery shopping delivered to mine (despite the fact our food tastes are wildly different, she – somehow – managed to ‘mis-order’ and get things I’d use in everyday cooking) to calling me up and inviting herself over with a mop and bucket to clean my flat because ‘in the way that food cooked for you always tastes better because it’s a treat, having someone else clean your home will make it look cleaner for longer’ – they also, for Christmas last year, gave me three-grand a massive gesture given (as a family) we never spend any more than about twenty-quid on each other – they said ‘early inheritance son, we want to see you enjoy it’ – and enjoy it I did – I reduced the balance on my credit card which, whilst not the ‘fun’ they’d anticipated, the told me that me being ‘responsible’ with that money makes them ‘happy’ and that when I can afford it, I should really book a holiday as I could do with some ‘downtime’.

I’ve put them through the mill with my antics over the years, arrests and convictions at football matches – my fault completely – bringing marriage separation to the family for the first time – partly my fault – not working for 6 months with a bout of relationship based depression and my own miscalculations. I feel like I’ve punished them and I need to take stock and start trying to be more like them.

One day, I hope I’m able to give them that things they need – emotionally and financially.

I don’t consider myself to have been a ‘great son’ and I often question the ‘unconditional love’ of our parents. How many times have I opted to go out for a drink with friends, rather than popping in for a cuppa with the folks? How many times have I spent evenings on the phone chewing the fat with people about nothing in particular, when I could be on the phone to my mum, who, whilst I don’t always find the conversation entertaining, will get a kick out of speaking to me and I will too - because one day, these conversations will stop. How they can still love me so much after all these years is baffling.

Both my folks are in their 70’s and they’ve sacrificed loads to give me the start in life they never had themselves. Where a weeks wage was less than some London bars charge for a single solitary pint of imported lager and yet despite all of this, they think nothing of sharing what they have with those closest to them.

Me? I know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

I’m not sure what life event I need to undergo to become less selfish, but once that happens, I’ll be looking at the benchmark set for me and if I can be half as good as them, I won’t be too disappointed.

Mum’s and Dad’s everywhere – I salute you.

(, Fri 1 May 2009, 10:25, 9 replies)
A few years ago my dad went to the local cornershop, bought a paper and some eggs, then went home. Just as he turned the key in the door he remembered the Renault was nearly on empty, so he turned, clambered into the car, and drove down to Tescos. Filled up the tank, went to the kiosk and paid, and drove home.

And when he got back in he looked down and realised he hadn't put any trousers on...

Unfortunately forgetfulness appears to be hereditary.

A couple of months ago my mum crashed at my flat; she was going to see Joseph and his Technicolour Wankcoat with some of her blue rinse brigade friends.

I get a phonecall at work:

"Spanky!" she says. Shit - has something gone wrong? She sounds fucking adgitated, like a fella on deathrow given a pencil and some paper and asked if he'd like to play a few games of hangman to pass the time.

"You ok, mum?" I ask, concerned.

"Spanky! You've got a parcel! I've signed for it for you!"

Woooo.... Fuck me sideways...

Now, I'd forgotten that I'd ordered anything (beer and a genetic disposition to forgetfulness coupled with the ability to purchase shite twenty-four hours a day on the web has effectively and repeatedly raped my credit rating hard up the arse without the aid of lubricants).

Intrigued, I say to my mum: "Open it, mum."

And I hear her struggling to unwrap the package over the phone.

Then it goes quiet.

"What is it?" I ask, genuinely fucking bemused.


After a while my mum says: "I'll be out with Maureen when you get home. I bought you and Liz some milk; you were running low."


And the line goes dead.

Strange... I replace the receiver and go about my business, selling shit to shits.

Then after a hard day trying to look busy I go home.

The flat's empty, my mum's gone out.

I shrug off my jacket, walk into the living room and see it, on the coffee table.

My internet purchase.

Placed there with love and care by my mother. Equally spaced out on the table, largest item at the rear, smallest at the front...

"Fuck..." I say to myself.

As I suddenly recall sitting at my computer the previous week and ordering the multi speed black mamba with realistic veiny finish, topped with a HUGE fucking bell end (in the hope that Liz would find it sexy, rip her cloths off and sit on the fucker), the black PVC hotpants, the pair of fluffy pink handcuffs, and the complimentary five-inch butt plug I received as a free gift for spending over thirty quid...

All - arranged - with - loving - tender - care - on - the - coffee - table - by - my - mum.


It is, quite simply, a scabby old puss filled, crab infested, Camembert-smelling, crusty rancid old wizard sleeve of a cunt of a condition...

(Cheers for the genes, dad).
(, Tue 5 May 2009, 8:36, 9 replies)
I've been thinking about my old man this week and I thank the good lord Buddha and all his little helper monkies that I'm not turning into him. But I've made a checklist of warning signs that I'm going to laminate and keep in my wallet in an effort to prevent the fucking inevitable; morphing into my dad.

If my phone rings after 9PM I WILL NOT immediately assume someone's been involved in an accident and start running round the flat in a panic - it's perfectly normal for people to ring after the watershed; the phonelines are not automatically switched off at this time.

If an attractive girlie happens to be in my vicinity I WILL NOT let my stomach hang out and absently jiggle with my bollocks whilst similtaniously scratching my arse.

At NO POINT in my life will I feel the want, need or desire to purchase a metal detector.

I will NEVER shout at the weather person on the TV and say: "Ha! You got it wrong yesterday! You promised rain and all we got was sun!" The person on the TV screen cannot, in point of fact, hear you and even if they did they really wouldn't give a rats toss in hell that they had somehow upset your busy afternoon plans of pottering round the house and watching Murder She Wrote.

I will NEVER in my life sit down for a nice chat with a mate about some operation or medical procedure they've just undergone (unless this involves STD's - which are, quite frankly, funny as fuck, or possibly some gory motorcycle-related injury involving stupidity or the excessive and creative application of marijuana). I am not and never will be interested in how someone self-catherterizes themselves or takes pills to control their rampant blood pressure.

If occasion requires that I wear a tie I won't EVER do the fucker up so the end is a considerable distance from the top of my trousers. This makes you look like a spectacular retard.

At no time in my life will I be proud of my lawn or show off my lawnmower to make other people envious.

If I ever start singing along to the musak they play in supermarkets, please shoot me. On the fucking spot.

At no point in my life EVER will I attend a dinner party.

Before a night out I will NEVER worry that I don't know if the place I'm visiting has comfortable seating and a nice quiet area. I may just as well bring along some fucking knitting and a pair of plaid slippers. And worrying over pointless shit is, well, just a bit old.

I shall keep this list close to my heart at all times - just next to the packet of Werthers Originals and my pipe; the sort Sherlock Holmes himself would be proud to whip out on special crime-solving occasions.
(, Wed 6 May 2009, 11:42, 21 replies)
Sweary Jr is turning into me (poor soul!)
My mother is the undisputed, long-standing queen of Scrabble in our family. Being extremely well read and having an extensive, pedantic vocabulary, for years she has whooped the ass off any potential rivals.

About a month ago, Sweary Jr whooped her ass. He had the obligatory "shit", "wank" and "arse" on the board. His winning word was "quim" - landing on a triple word score with the "Q" on a triple letter square.*

That's my boy.

She gave him £5 for his tactics.

I stand corrected - triple word score with Q on a double letter square - I'm crap at Scrabble. Good at beer though....
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 19:46, 12 replies)
"You're turning into your Dad"...
... my Mum said, as I was pulling onto the drive the other night.

"Shit, you're right" I thought.

So I carried straight on and parked alongside him instead.
(, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 13:57, 3 replies)
If there was a qualification in porn I'd have a fucking PhD.

I really would.

Porn is, quite frankly, the greatest invention in the entire history of humankind - fuck the wheel, fuck fire, fuck - well, each other and capture it on film; starting with missionary, changing to doggy style, a spot of common-or-garden anal, and always finishing with a spectacular facial cumshot, the kind Jesus himself would be proud of; its more moving than visiting the Sistine Chapel.

And this appreciation of the fuck-arts started because of my dear ol' dad.

I like to think of it as my Indiana Jones years...

Every Saturday the old dears would fuck off for a couple of hours to Tescos. My sister would go out to hang round River Island, looking cool, listening to Duran Duran on the beatbox, leaving me alone in the house.

No sooner had the front door locked with a resounding CLICK!!!, I was up and out of bed. Dressed in seconds.

Then the Indiana Jones music would start playing in my head.

I'd leg it to the garage, find the step ladders, leg it back into the house, up the stairs, and venture into the loft. I'd dodge the spiders, the cobwebs, the precariously stacked junk, and then in the remotest corner I'd find it...

My Arc of the Covenant.

Or, to put it another way, my Dad's box of porn.

I'd take a photographic snapshot in my mind of EXACTLY how the smut was stored so I could place it back later without my Dad knowing I'd been meddling, I'd take a couple of videos, and trembling, rush down stairs to the video player in the living room, weak from exertion and the fact that I'd usually be sporting in stonking erection.

With shaky hands I'd put the tape in, press play, and sit back and watch the dirtiest, nastiest 70's porn imaginable.

It was great - I learned more through those Saturday morning wank marathons than I ever learned in school. And to this day I have a strange affiliation for women with dodgy permed hairdoos and incredibly hairy twats; the type that look like they're being mauled in the groinal area by a very aggressive Scottish Highland terrier.

After rapid-fire load shooting, turning my pristine sheets of Kleenex into a sticky, manky ball of bleach-smelling cum-pulp, I'd return the videos to the loft and stash the ladders back in the garage.

Then I'd make a sandwich.

Then I'd watch Number 73.

Then I'd get a bit horny at the sight of Sandi Togsvick in dungarees and repeat the whole Indiana Jones routine from scratch; with one eye on the driveway incase the folks or my sister came home.

But the strange thing about my Dad's Dutch wankbank collection was the soundtrack. He'd transferred the fuckers from Cinefilm over to video and put on his own music.

So, for a couple of years or so, every Saturday morning without fail, I'd find myself polishing the family jewels to...

Bright Eyes.

Every - Single - Fucking - Video.

Bright Eyes. Played on a fucking loop.

That song would get into my brain and stay there. I know every fucking WORD of that fucker by heart.


Always have done ever since I was a toddler and my dad played it and it made me cry; frankly that fellas voice scares the shit out of me.

One time when my parents were at a funeral and I knew I'd have the place to myself for longer, I dug even deeper into the box and found a tape I'd never seen before.

I then spent a confusing half an hour wrestling the purple headed warrior to a homemade vid of my dad fucking my mum. I learned that my dad is hung like the fucking Trojan horse and that my mum really likes it up the dirt track - and all of this to the familiar soundtrack of Bright-fucking-Eyes...

Fast-forward to last year.

I'm visiting the folks with Liz, my girlfriend. We're in the car on the way to a restaurant. Polite conversation about the weather, discussing the decline of the mighty Coventry City FC from a shit footie club to an even shitter footie club, you know the drill.

My dad's flicking through the radio stations and he settles on something, a songs JUST starting...

Bright eyes, burning like fire-

But before the whining cunt cant start the second line I say:

"Jesus, dad - I was forced to listen to this every weekend when I was a kid, can't we have something else on?"

My dad keeps his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road.

"Do you remember when you were really little and I played this song at Uncle Franco's wedding and you cried?" he chuckles, I nod. "Well, lets just say I thought it would deter you from doing what you were doing..."

I experience that all-too-familar being in a plummetting lift feeling in my stomach.

"What were you doing, Spanky?" my mum and Liz ask similtaniously.

I turn to my dad and say:

"Cheers, dad," and he punches me playfully on the arm.

So, in a way, I suppose I am becoming more like my old man everyday, what with the appreciation of the porn and the desire to fuck with little kids minds for my own kicks, why else do you think I do voluntary work with the little cuntbags???
(, Fri 1 May 2009, 9:46, 14 replies)
The Signs
Over several years of observation, I have managed to identify three clear stages of "oldness", the onset of which should serve as a definite warning you are turning into your parents:

A complete loss of ability to work electronic devices and appliances, even ones you could previously work. I have already entered this phase (am now 37) and if I want to record a programme on the DVD I have to get the instructions out (obviously carefully filed in the "Instructions" folder) and spend twenty minutes sitting cross legged on the floor grappling with the remotes, swearing etc. After this time, my wife (who is 31 and has not yet entered this cycle of oldness-onset) walks over and does it in 10 seconds.

A sudden and chronic sensitivity to drafts, associated with an irrational fear of getting "cricks" as a result (e.g. "Let's not sit too near the door, I will get a crick in my neck"). It seems to me that for at least 35 years, cricks / drafts are not an issue, and like most people I have thrown caution to the wind, and taken a "devil may care" attitude to the crick related perils posed by partially open windows, unstopped door cracks etc. This stage usually concludes with the wholesale purchase of a dozen "snakes" for preventing those nasty drafts coming under the door and wracking your body with cricks.

This is the "nail in the coffin" stage typified by believing anything that people more than 20 years younger than you say. Despite your utter amazement at these snippets of information you believe, you must at all times contain your enthusiasm and respond only with "that's nice dear" in a deadpan manner. Of course, when in the company of other dust-farters later on, you can excitedly regale them with the news.

Personally, I am beginning to show signs of Stage Two Oldness setting in (it feels like there's a window open in here somewhere). Alas, if only I had stayed on top of programming the video.
(, Wed 6 May 2009, 5:56, 6 replies)
pearoasted from a reply at the suggestion of mr twisty cheeky and pooflake


I think there is a nominal tolerance for waistband acceptability and seeing as I have a pen and paper, a ruler and a hot cup of peppermint tea in front of me I have elected to pin these tolerances down and may submit them to wikipedia for global refference.

On measuring the person ones legs measure approximately 50% of total personage, the stop point for 'legs' being a slight variable between the gusset area and about half way up the arse cheek.

The upper torso including the head measuring from the head down to slightly beyond the hip and comes in at a lovely 37.5% of the total prole.

Now between these two entities remains an area that measures 12.5% of any given motherfucker.

So this distance represents the very maximum limits of 'play' with ones belt line, at the lower end of the scale being plumbers, tilers, gardeners etc and at the upper limits we find middle managers, sales people and jehovahs witnesses.

Now this tollerance scale can also be read as a ratio of lower body to upper body and as such can be expressed as

4-4 or 5-3 as being acceptable ratios.

Now as we are aware the elderly often flout this entirely by presenting a ratio of 6-2 or worse, however what I would like to draw attention to is the reverse scenario typically sported by young people (under 23+-) as ratios of 3-5 with underpants clearly on view and pants held in place in an unclear manner. It is not cool, pull your fuckin pants up.
(, Sat 2 May 2009, 19:34, 7 replies)
It's a tenuous posting for the QOTW, but I'm telling the story anyway.

My mum is an Eastender. No, she's not a soap actress, but was born and brought up in East Ham, East London.

As a true salt-of-the-earth cockney, she naturally has some very cockney ways about her. One of which is that everyone, bar none, gets a nickname.

This is the trait that I swore to avoid as I was growing up. I’m pretty sure that despite seeming to laugh along, Michael doesn’t appreciate being called “Fat Mick” and Phil, who has worked for Royal Mail his entire life, probably tires of being called (unimaginatively) “Phil The Post”

Recently though I find myself adopting nicknames more and more. My best friend is called Badger, for no other reason than a passing comment she once made. Another friend, Lisa, is called Peg which dates back to an old username she used on AOL years ago, and more recently a girl that I know who is always ill has been lovingly referred to (behind her back) as Dead Girl.

Chatting to girls online is the new vogue. Everyone's doing it, or so I'm led to believe, and using dating sites like PlentyOfFish is no longer to be sneered at.

I was chatting to a girl online on Saturday night that I met through POF. Within a few lines she mentioned that she was born with one arm slightly defected and went on to say that she'd gone through life without too many problems and leads an otherwise normal life.

We were chatting away and I found more and more that I was instigating the conversation and getting very little in way of a response. Several things I was asking were answered with yes or no answers, and when I tried to get her to ask some questions, she declined to.

I figured that we'd reached the end of a natural conversation, and so said that I was signing off to go and watch TV even though there was nothing on worth watching.

"No!" she said, "stay and chat. I'm only ironing; I could do with someone to chat to."

Taking this as a sign that she was still interested (and subliminally thinking I may get laid here sooner or later) I carried on chatting. Again, I was making all of the conversation and quite frankly was running out of things to talk about.

I'd asked for her number, figuring that it may be easier to get a conversation going verbally than via MSN, but was told that she was wary as she'd given her number out before and ended up with a psycho. I asked if she fancied meeting up for a drink, but she was only able to do next weekend when I have the kids, so that was put on a back burner, especially as she wouldn't commit to anything midweek.

The conversation went slower as I struggled to find something that may ignite a decent response. We'd discussed work, cars, family, even religion.

Suddenly, seeing my guitar in the corner of the room, I thought of a question.

Music is a broad subject, and can be opened up in a variety of ways. Everyone has favourite bands and varying opinions, so I tapped away an opening gambit:

"Do you play any musical instruments?"

My fingers moved quickly from the question mark to the Enter key. Too quickly.

In the fraction of a second it took for the message to be sent though cyber space, my brain did a quick run through. Guitar. Piano. Trumpet. Trombone. Flute. All instruments that could only be played with two hands. Bugger. If the conversation was stifled before, this would be kill or cure.

"That would be a bit difficult" came the reply.

I tried to rescue the situation. I joked about it, apologising as I did, I said that it was still a valid question. I may even have mentioned the word "kazoo", but to no avail.

I then tried my piece de resistance and said “Sorry Bandit if I caused offence.”

“Bandit?” She replied.

“Well it’s the only other thing I could think of that had one arm – A one-armed bandit."

Unsurprisingly, I haven't heard from her since, and like all good kids, I blame my mum and her habit of assigning nicknames.
(, Mon 4 May 2009, 12:45, 2 replies)

This question is now closed.

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