Down to the minute...

I had just given birth to Sparklet Minor, and my bessy mate was preggers with her first, making this story about 1991-ish, or thereabouts.

We sat in her front room, watching Top of the Pops or somesuch yoof program. Our parenthood status meant that staying in had replaced going out, and a big pot of tea came instead of many beers.

So there we were, tea in hand, sat in front of the pop-pickers choice, when a trio of angry American men appeared on the screen.

"Hmmm he looks fed-up!" I declared to my BF.

"Maybe if he washed his hair, he'd be a bit less fed-up?" BF suggested

"Or at least combed it. got it off his face somehow?" I reasoned

"That jumper could stand a wash an' all!" BF noticed..

"He just wants to take better care of himself, then he'd be happier.." I decided, as BF nodded in agreement..

It was a good job we were quiet at that point, we would have missed the presenter grinning like a kid on blue pop, as he announced...

"Well, that was Nirvana, with an exclusive play of their first single, Smells Like Teen Spirit"...

We were both 22..

And who knows, if he'd listened to us...

*edit changed title..
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Fri 1 May 2009, 14:08, 2 replies)

My dad while being fantastic...
...keeps a lot of things to himself. I suppose this is due to his past which has basically involved him witnessing and taking part in a lot of horrible things from being in the RAF, the Police Force, the TFU, Body guarding and working in the MOD. I know little scraps of information but I’m sure most of what he did in the RAF and TFU will be taken to his grave.

Anyway the point I am trying to get to (slowly) is that he is one guarded individual and because of this very rarely dishes out compliments, which is why last week when my company started making redundancies I was very surprised to hear him speak up.

I had been given the bad news at work and immediately started to panic, along with everyone else in the company. I frantically called my parents to let them know the situation and generally rambled on at my mum that I was worried about being given the heave-ho. After speaking to me my mum wandered off and told my dad what was going on and he very kindly said if I needed any financial help I could ask them (Bank of Dad and all that).

Over the next few days people at work were being made redundant and I panicked more, convinced I was going, then I got a call from my dad and was reduced to tears. He told me that he was sure I would keep my job, he said it would be stupid for anyone to let me go as I’m such a hard-worker and clever and talented (bear in mind these are his words not mine – haha). It was just so out of the blue and nice to know that someone has such confidence in my abilities. The conversation lasted all of about 5 minutes and then, like it had never happened, he started talking about his bike and the Moto GP. Regardless of how short the conversation was, I really do treasure moments like that as it just confirms for me what I suspect, for all the annoyance I have caused my parents over the years, they really do care a lot about me.

So there we go, I love my parents very much and just hope that I can live up to my dads expectations. If I turn out to be even half as wonderful as my parents I will be a very happy bunny indeed.

By the by, I haven’t been made redundant and have been told that I’m very good at my job, so that’s nice!
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Fri 1 May 2009, 13:59, 2 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.
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Fri 1 May 2009, 13:55, 7 replies)

Here Goes
(Apologies for length in advance)

I was thinking of keeping a bit of a distance from QOTW this week as it could affect me but after reading a few replies so far I thought this may be therapeutic.

I was an only child and after a few years of my life my mum and dad left me to live with another couple. As I was young I forgot about the whole incident and actually grew up believing the people I was with were my real parents. To make this tale short the couple who I believed were my parents) separated, my adopted mum died (Which is something I actually blame myself for this very day).

Anywhoo I found out about my real parents and resolved to meet them, confronting my adoptive dad to find the information. I swear I could have killed him then but for some reason I simply got the address info and went to meet my real dad.

During the journey I found out that my real mum had died thanks to my (real) fathers actions and I was cut up. I turned up at his place with the sight of mind that I wanted to kill the old fucker (When I see it in writing I realise that I have a lot of anger issues). Instead I found an old bloke who was riddled with cancer and to some extent wanted to die. My whole world seemed to fall apart and instead of kicking his ass I spent some time bonding with the guy.

During this time I learned that he was my dad, complete with genetic flaws like mine, he forgot about the time where I left his life and also the exact reason as to why my mother died. He found out a little about me and then explained that we were both quite alike and would always punch below our weight when it came to our lives and career aspects. This saying made me realise that I needed to re-adress my life.

I am afraid to say that the peaceful scene didn’t last as he found out that I had something that could help him and the old twat attacked me. I don’t want to go into any further details about the scuffle but I will say that I could have killed him but left him to die alone with his cancer.

I then went off and attempted to become the President of the US by stealing his DNA and taking his appearance.

Love

Gabriel ‘Sylar’ Gray
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 1 May 2009, 13:37, 5 replies)

I can tell the exact moment...
... when I started turning into my father.

It was when I turned to my daughter and said, "Hey, pull my finger!"
(ShowPony, Fri 1 May 2009, 13:29, 2 replies)

41 years old and counting....
I am indeed 41, but I try to ignore that fact. However, the evidence is overwhelmingly against my consistent denials. Witness the following:

I simply cannot get into, or out of, a comfy chair without making that 'oooh' or 'ahh' noise. You know the one chaps, don't deny it.

My knees crack when I kneel down.

If an attractive young lady should happen to wander by I find myself thinking, rather than Phwoarr (my mere use of that word reinforces my age dammit!) I think "Isn't she cold in that?" or "Does her dad allow her out dressed like that?!". Ok, so occasionally it's Phwoarr, but I have to consciously remember it.

All the music in the...ahem...Hit Parade is tripe and not like the Real Music We Had In My Day(tm).

I actually (edit: think I) HAD a "My Day".

I have slippers. Oh God. Slippers, the very footwear of doom, the comfy slip-on of death.

I dance like a dad. When the FUCK did that happen? I used to mosh good!! no, Really!

There's a cardigan too. Hoodies are scary. I have a hood on my cardigan. Confused.

There is a place in my house, under the stairs, where I keep a pile of old newspapers. You never know when they'll be handy.

...I'm sorry, I can't go on, the pain is too much. I'm going to dust off my LRP sword and go hit things for the first time in ten years. And play some PROPER rock music. And then drink cheap lager....

...but that'll be after I go and Saw a Piece of Wood, because thats what dads do. Isn't it?
(EffinDoubt is breaking glass on, Fri 1 May 2009, 13:27, 5 replies)

...
I think it was Billy Connolly that once said "you know you're getting old when you start making noises as you bend down".

I've started doing this. I also like gardening, but I can't do it so much because of my back.

I own a Volvo and a lot of my music collection is from the 70's and 80's.

I'm 20.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Fri 1 May 2009, 13:12, Reply)

Being a grown up...
My girlfriend and I are currently trying for a baby.

We've got shitloads of kits and pills to help nature along.

The other night Liz found me peering intently at something in the bathroom.

"What are you doing, Spanky?" she asked.

"Well," I said, holding up the test stick I'd just pissed on moments before. Then I said, in all seriousness. "I'm definately not ovulating..."
( SpankyHanky, Fri 1 May 2009, 12:56, 10 replies)

I am not turning into my Dad…
…I have gone beyond and out the other side.

Have you any idea how terrifying it is to have to ask your Dads help to programme a DVD recorder?

Next stop, Eastbourne.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 1 May 2009, 12:13, Reply)

I've been wearing my mother's skin for some time now

(SSSSS, Fri 1 May 2009, 12:09, 2 replies)

For comparison
When my parents were my age, they owned their house outright, were debt-free, and were in a solid relationship. My dad had been in stable employment for about a decade and would remain so for another decade; my mum was a housewife, but was happy enough with it.

I don't own my house, I'm more in debt that I could ever possibly imagine, I'm a perennial singleton, and I've only been employed for three years of my entire life. There's a chance that'll end in a little over a month, too.

On the other hand, they'd had two children, whereas I haven't completely ruined my life.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 1 May 2009, 11:43, 17 replies)

Meh
Until about aged 8 my mother would put me to bed.

After that it was usually the other way round as mummy was too drunk to walk up the stairs most nights.

I don't want to be my parents.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Fri 1 May 2009, 11:38, Reply)

Telling people off
It's great fun.

Someone does something stupid give a weary "don't do that". Under extreme circumstances a weary sigh and a "what did you think would happen" may be warranted.

Then walk off before they notice you are giggling to yourself, overjoyed at the success of your game of 'pretend to be a grownup'.

Which makes me wonder how often parents and teachers were just taking the piss.
(teebie jeebie, Fri 1 May 2009, 11:04, Reply)

Thanks to AIDS
Ill be dead soon, much like my parents.
(OneTonTesti master of rubbish kung fu, Fri 1 May 2009, 10:45, Reply)

My parents
abandoned me on the A38 when I was a baby and I was raised by feral greyhounds on an industrial estate just north of Bristol. I am proud to take after my adoptive family. They nurtured me with love and showed me their ways and now I run half-marathons, and like it doggy-style.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 1 May 2009, 10:33, 3 replies)

Chip off the old block
My family went out to dinner a while back - myself, my parents and my younger brother.

We were parked outside a Kwik-Fit, which had a big sign advertising "Tyres and exhausts".

"I wouldn't want to work there," I started, "it looks very exhausting".

"I agree, far too tyring" finished my Dad.

My mother and brother both let out a "Why God, why?" groan, and I am cursed in the knowledge that I have the same sense of humour as my father.

p.s. If the plural of hippopotamus is hippopotami, what is the plural of whataclotamus? That one still makes me laugh
(tarbin tarbis, tarbit, tarbamus, tarbimus, tarbant, Fri 1 May 2009, 10:27, 2 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.

Mullered.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Fri 1 May 2009, 10:25, 9 replies)

Not Really
I wouldn't really say turning into my parents but i did recently take out a low risk pension at the grand age of 20.

i realise this sin't particularly funny so:

Im turning into one of my parents. i think it's my dad because im rather enjoying fucking my mum
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Fri 1 May 2009, 10:02, 3 replies)

mother
my mum is one of those drivers that says things like "oh thats a very clever place to break down"
as if they chose to break down in the middle of a box junction.

i started saying it too albeit in a very sarcastic tone but recently the sarcasm is fading and i worry its starting to sound like i mean it.

if i ever break down in a 'clever' place all i'll be thinking is about is the people saying "thats a clever place to break down"
(suboftheday, Fri 1 May 2009, 9:52, Reply)

INDIANA JONES & BRIGHT-FUCKING-EYES
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.

And I FUCKING HATE BRIGHT EYES WITH AN ABSOLUTE FUCKING BOILING LOATHING.

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???
( SpankyHanky, Fri 1 May 2009, 9:46, 14 replies)

Bad news, good news
The bad news is that I've inherited my dad's tendancy to drink and smoke far too much and like him I am absolutely shit with money.

The good news is that unlike him, I've never hit my wife.
(Capo, Fri 1 May 2009, 9:44, 7 replies)

Getting older.
My music taste is mostly stuck in the 1970s (with the exception of Guns 'N Roses, Metallica and Muse)
I have 2 dressing gowns, 3 pairs of pyjamas and a lovely pair of slippers
I have used the term; "that's not music, it's just noise" on many an occasion
I don't like nightclubs, give me a relaxed pub with some decent music and a couple of mates anyday!
I don't wank even nearly as often as I used to
My TV viewing consists of Top Gear, QI, Mock The Week, Family Guy and absolutely nothing else
I would rather read a good book than watch a film

It's not possible to compare me to my Parents, they don't have dressing gowns, my Dad doesn't have pyjamas and they actually have a clue what music is at the top of the charts
I am an 18 year old man, what is wrong with me?
Maybe I should be their parents instead of vice versa?
(ILikeBoobs, Fri 1 May 2009, 9:43, 1 reply)

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.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 1 May 2009, 9:27, 3 replies)

Balls, just thinking about this question has upset me.

I've not only turned into my Dad, I've fucking overtaken Him!

Dads cars in rough order of purchase:

Mini Cooper
Mini Cooper S
Mini Cooper S - Downton Tuned
Cortina GT
BMW 635M
Peugeot 405 Mi16
Astra GSI
Vectra Sri
Astra VXR
(possibly missed of a few here, but they will have been on the same trend)


Me:

Mini Clubman
Mini Cooper S
Fiesta 1.4 S
Nissan Micra (Company Car!)
Citroen AX
Citroen Xantia
Peugeot 406 2.0 GLX
Vectra Sri 2.0
Zafira Dti
Saab 9000
Rover 827 V6 Sli
Vectra Sri 2.2 - Dads old one, sold as it only did 30mpg.
Saab 9-3 2.2Tid


Muh!

As for my Mum she retired 6months ago after having her hip done and she now just potters around their garden tending to the pond and garden, I'm so jealous, I want to do that now, not in 31yrs! 31? fuck that's bloody ages away! :-(

Anyway, best go pack, moving house tomorrow.



(Kip, Fri 1 May 2009, 9:10, 13 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.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 1 May 2009, 7:59, 7 replies)

Dammit!!
A day late ...

Again.
(Que?, Fri 1 May 2009, 7:59, Reply)

Staying in London
and waiting for our flight back to Oz, we decided to go to a pub near Victoria Station. It was near a Tesco's and Fitness first I beleive.

She decides to go to the toilet while I get some drinks.

The pub had a beer festival on to celebrate the 200th anniversary of Trafalgar. I decide to partake in a local drop, as I am partial to regional beers, and there were a number on offer.

The Eastern European barmaid pours me a pint of some beer, and I get a wine for her. Beer looks flat, but that's never stopped me before.

I take drinks back to table and wait. Being polite I don't want to have a drink before she gets back, but have to have one as I am quite dry. Danger.

She sees me sitting at the table, smiles and comes over.

"What's wrong?" she asks
"This beer, it's warm and doesn't taste too good" I reply
"Don't drink it then."
To which I replies and channeled my father:
"I paid for it, of course I'm going to drink it".

And our family tradition of thrift proudly continued. The pint went down alright after the initial shock of the temperature.
(Snapper-head loves a twinky anytime but especially when it's, Fri 1 May 2009, 6:46, 2 replies)

another one
another similarity is that we've both been inside my mum. I lasted longer, mind.
(Hitler's other ball. R soul., Fri 1 May 2009, 6:37, Reply)

I was walking through an art gallery,
getting more and more pissed-off at the so-called 'artists'.

"My kid could do that!" I said angrily.

Then I realised I was Jackson Pollock's father.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 1 May 2009, 6:11, Reply)

just like my dad
I've started to moan about everything.
I hate modern footballers but love the game. I'm trying to play as much as possible before my hips/knees give out.
I sit in alone on haloween with the lights off and the curtains closed with a few cans and the discovery channel on.
I sit in alone on new years eve with the lights off and the curtains closed with a few cans and discovery channel on.
I'm a huge Fred Dibnah fan and have taken to drinking bitter but this has sealed it... I tell really shit jokes over and over.

A man walks into a bar with a salmon under his arm he says the the barman "Do you do fishcakes?"
The barman says "no."
To which the man replies "That's a shame, it's his birthday."

ah well, at least he still thinks drawing knobs are funny at the age of 47.
(Hitler's other ball. R soul., Fri 1 May 2009, 5:56, Reply)