Chickens
For obvious reasons, I call my pet chickens the Ginger Ladies.
When I go out to feed them, I sing:
"All ma ginger ladies, all ma ginger ladies
If you like it then you shoulda laid an egg on it, if you like it then you shoulda laid an egg on it, buk buk burrk buk buk burrk buk be-buk burrk buk buk burrk..."
Just seems to fit.
( Peapod Has returned to the fold on, Sat 27 Feb 2010, 17:37, 7 replies)

GINGER HATERS


Admit you like redheads and this one might take her top off. Unless you're so against redheads that you don't want her to take her top off...

Edit: well, it's almost over, so get your last shots in. Or if you think I'm attention whoring you can continue to mention that. Though really people, I'm from Nevada: where everything's legal, so you expect me not to whore it up?

Anyway, I think we should start a charity to get Donkey Gums on some sort of medication before he snaps and starts skinning hookers.
(Exempt OH WOW, VICODIN, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 9:07, 28 replies)

and next week's QOTW...

( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Mon 1 Mar 2010, 19:10, 6 replies)

Speedie the Rent-a-Cat
For all the vitriol we've seen poured out over the last couple of days in the direction of our more Celtic-looking compatriots, we seem to have forgotten that some very beautiful things were born with the ginger gene being expressed in their phenotype. Enough of us have covered those comely, flame-haired Irish wenches with hypnotic green eyes that just make you want to misbehave...sorry, where was I?

Oh, yes - what about kittehs? I know a lot of you are fed up with "teh fluffeh," but I feel it's time to balance the atmosphere of this qotw by telling you about a big, fat ginger tomcat.

Scientists would argue that, among common domestic animals, dogs are more intelligent that cats because they can be taught to perform a far wider range of tasks that any feline. Admittedly these tasks tend to be fairly useless (sit down, come here, bring back the stick I just threw away, please don't jump up - yes I know you're pleased to see me but you're a big dog now and you're pinning me against the wall and I'm afraid you want to bugger me), but it's true that you can't teach 'em to a cat.

Cynics, however, would argue that cats are more intelligent. Yes, the dog learns to cling to us and do what we tell it, because it knows that's the most reliable way to get fed and walked. But the cat has gone one further, because he knows damn well that he can swan around the neighbourhood all day without a bye or leave and by about 8pm you'll always get worried and go looking for him, and then he'll endure your fuss for ten minutes on the condition that you feed him and allow him to bugger off to bed. (Probably your bed, in fact.)

Speedie was one such cat. He and his brother had been adopted from an animal rescue place by a family who lived across the road from my parents. To his credit, he was a very friendly cat, who seemed to enjoy human attention and affection to the extent that if you picked him up and held him for more than five minutes, he'd probably forget that you weren't some sort of comfortable treehouse and promptly fall asleep, leaving you wondering whether it was better to wake him up or just find somewhere to sit down without disturbing him.

However, he knew all too well that he didn't have to spend all day in the same house as the people who owned him. Oh no. As a lot of cats seem wont to do, his "day shift" would involve wandering across the road to another house and finding somewhere round there to pester you, steal food or just curl up in a big orange ball and go to sleep. Come dusk, his owners would be out in the street calling for Speedie and his brother, and that was our cue to discreetly boot him out of our own house with an encouraging prod in the direction of the house where he was supposed to live.

We sometimes got the impression he didn't particularly want to go back there, only to be locked in the house for the night. I remember having to go and knock on their door one evening for whatever reason, and the second they opened the door a bolt of ginger shot past my ankles and I heard a cry of
"Oh! Stop Speedie!"
My reactions being what they've always been, it wasn't even worth trying. He ran out of their house and up the nearest tree. The whole family stepped up to red alert and ran out to surround the tree, calling to their absconding cat and trying to coax him down by waving cat biscuits at him. By this stage I'd forgotten why I'd gone over there so I just sort of wandered off.

And given the contrasting environments of our houses, you could hardly blame him. Back at Speedie's real home, they had three young girls. All very excitable, and all with very high-pitched voices. My sister and I, by comparison, were fairly quiet. Even after I took up the bass guitar, Speedie, it seemed, preferred to endure the noise of me failing to coax feedback out of a bass amp rather than being at home where he would be petted, prodded and squealed at.

Speedie, however, was something of an ironic name. Admittedly when he slipped past my grasp and shot up a tree, that was certainly quite speedy. But the majority of the time, the fat little bugger wouldn't have managed more than a reluctant trot, and even that was usually prompted by a kick up the arse. My sister managed to pop him onto the bathroom scales once and triumphantly announced that he weighed over a stone (about 6.35kg* or 14lbs). So he wasn't obese. Just portly. Our portly orange friend. (My sister's rather elderly piano teacher once met the Orange Friend and exclaimed, in a wonderfully Lady Bracknell-esque voice: "What an ENORMOUS cat!" You probably had to be there...)

Orange Friend's ability to sleep knew no bounds. I do wonder what he did of an evening, locked up in his proper home, but usually by about 7am the following day he'd be crying outside our back door. And the moment you let him in, he'd rub against you briefly in a cursory gesture of thanks and then sod off to find something comfortable to sleep on. This also led to the hilarious sight when my sister, back from a long night out, had crawled back into bed in the middle of the day, only for the cat to climb in and curl up right next to her. The saucy old bugger.

Sadly, all good pets come to an end, even if they're not your own. A few years ago, Speedie suffered a stroke and passed away. I think most of the street was quite upset to hear of the demise of this cat who had been a source of amusement for so many years - I think his owners may have been a little surprised by the amount of condolence they received (a bit like a widow receiving letters of condolence from all her late husband's mistresses...but in a fluffier sort of way). He'd become such a part of our everyday lives that it was very odd to get up in the mornings and almost go to open the back door out of habit because you expected him to be there. Odd not to be woken up on a Saturday morning after someone else had let him in and he'd jump on your bed and try to force you out of the way to make room for himself. Come to think of it, the most abiding memory of Orange Friend will probably be his quest to find new and strange places to go to sleep. Rest in peace, Speedie. You were a Truly Awesome Cat.

*_{Apparently the average weight for a male domestic cat is 4.5kg. Though this is taken from the SeaWorld website, so I don't know whether that's dry weight or wet, or indeed whether to trust them given the broadly non-aquatic nature of cats...}
(LongJohnBaldry, Sat 27 Feb 2010, 10:14, 3 replies)

This QOTW...
Having just spent a spare half an hour reading through some Ginger posts, I decided to go and make myself a cuppa in the staff kitchen.

With all things ginger swirling round my brain I noticed one of the new IT lads they’ve got working here who was busy heating up his soup in the microwave is actually a proper full on gingeformer. By that I mean he’s ginger in disguise. If you look at him in a certain light his barnet could almost pass as a rich deep brown. But no. As I stood and eyed him up suspiciously in the works kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, him stood there waiting for the tomato soup to warm through, it was pretty damn obvious under the stark strip lighting he’d been hiding something from us all. Could be a deceptecon, I thought. Some kind of ginger decepticon…

“’y alright?” he said, noticing how I was staring at him with this odd look on my face.

I nodded slowly. “Yeeessssss…. I’m fine, thanks…”

He finished preparing his soup and fucked off to find a spare table to ladle it down his ever-so-slightly-freckly gob. I finished making my tea. Then I remembered the stash of biscuits one of my colleagues keeps hidden in the back of the cupboard. Helping myself to a packet I go and find a seat of my own. I’m sat on the next table along from the new IT guy. He looks up at me, I look across at him. We nod. Everything’s fine. Everything’s cool.

Then I remember my manners. He’s new, I haven’t introduced myself properly yet. He’s also just finished his soup and, I assume, he might be quite partial to a nice stack of biccys for afters. He catches my eye again. I raise the packet I’m happily munching on and then I say it, this QOTW still on my mind. I slipped up, and I blurted out far too loudly with a stupid peadoesque smile on my face:

“GINGER NUTS???”

Silence. Looonnnnnggggg awkward SILENCE…. Then the new IT guy stood up and walked away, taking his empty soup bowl with him. As he walked past I heard him mutter what I can only imagine was: “Prick…”

I looked down. I wasn’t holding a packet of ginger nuts. I’d been happily polishing off a packet of chocolate bourbons.
( SpankyHanky, Mon 1 Mar 2010, 14:01, 5 replies)

Ginger beards....
... not too many laughs here, I'm afraid, but all true... ginger jokes can be a good thing.

I have brown hair but a ginger beard. It's not all ginger but enough so that my one and only attempt to grow it was met with sufficient ridicule that I never tried again. Turns out this runs in the family:

About 3 years ago now, my brother was dying. He'd had a dodgy mole taken off his back a few years before which turned out to be a melanoma and it had come back somewhere unexpected. Shit! So after a rapid decline we reach what is unquestionably the worst day of my life - I have to watch my little brother die at the age of 31.

Now we had known things were not going well for a few weeks but it had all escalated quite suddenly and one of his friends had travelled over to visit that day not expecting that it would be his last. By the time they arrived he was completely under and fading fast so they saw him but didn't get to speak to him.

A few hours later the world has ended and we're back at my, by then, late-brother's house, with his wife, trying to work out why the gravity is still working and the sky hasn't fallen in yet. His mate then turns to me and says "the bugger only went and died before we could rip the piss out of that ginger beard". Of course he'd never grown a beard before, but when you know all the lights will be going out soon, shaving is not too high on your priorities.

Now I don't advocate cruelty to gingers in the normal scheme of things, but if you can raise a smile on the very worst of days, then it can't be all bad. And my brother would only have been sorry that he missed the chance to rip back.
( Ugi , it's a game of give and cake, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 18:46, Reply)

My Dad
...had a hint of ginger, mostly at the temples and in his 'tache, which seemed to become more pronounced as he got older.

However, to spare his feelings, his barber, Roger, always used to tell him it was a hint of blonde, which my dad happily accepted.

This caused me and my mum amusement, as we could take every opportunity to refer to his blonde-ness ...

'Have you got your sunscreen on Dad, because blonde people like you burn easily, don't they?'
'Dad, have you got any Scandinavian blood in you? You know - with being so blonde and all?'
...and when he cocked anything up 'Having a blonde moment?'

He mostly ignored it until one night on holiday when we were sat in a bar in Tenerife and had been making jokes about a really ginger woman sat a few tables away being his sister. He supped his pint in silence until he thought we'd finished, then tried to change the tack of conversation.

'Right, if you've finished, shall we have another drink'
'Ooo, yeah alright... I fancy a whisky and ginger... and Snowy will have a ginger beer...'

At which he stood up, picked up his wallet, and shouted

'I am NOT - FUCKING - GINGER... Alright?'

And started to make his way out of the bar through tables of stunned holiday-makers.

As he passed the ginger woman he suddenly realised everyone had taken notice, and in a tender gesture of conciliation, he patted her on the shoulder and said 'No offence, like, love', at which point Mum and I cracked up again.

I think he was secretly grateful when he finally went totally grey.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 25 Feb 2010, 13:15, 3 replies)

This is fucking tenuous
but I'm not waiting for "Revenge", "Pranks" or "Cunts" to come up in QOTW again.

Let's get this out of the way now - I went to a private, all-boys school. As a result I am much better-educated than anything about me would indicate, I never even met an actual female woman until I was 18 and anybody who says anything about school days being the best days of your life gets an immediate fisting from me. But my personal woes are not the issue of the day.

The point is, my school did not stand for practical jokes, boys stepping out of line (yes the older teachers actually did shout "You, boy!" like some neolithic pensioner, no they never had the sense of humour to prefix it with "Me Tarzan") or any semblance of original thought*. Which brings us to the last day before those of us in the Upper Sixth left to do our A-levels.

Assembly was an absurdly formal affair whereby everyone would be seated until the Headmaster came in from the back - OF THE ROOM - at which point everyone had to stand up. On the aforementioned day, three of my fellow students had taken it upon themselves to make a statement of intent by bleaching their hair, like several dickheaded footballers of the time. They sat together with shit-eating grins, convinced of their own godlike status.

The Headmaster disagreed.

He summoned them to his office and gave them a good old-fashioned bollocking, instructing them to turn up for the first day of exams with non-blonde hair or not at all. When Monday rolled around it became apparent that Ed, Tom and Will (for 'twere their names, although I liked to refer to each of them as "Cunty-Chops", not to their faces, they were bigger than me) had very little tonsorial experience. Apparently bright fucking bleach blonde combined with dark brown inside 24 hours equates to a shade best described as "Tabby ginger cat".

A little more background. Ed, Tom and Will were all on the rugby team. They were all moneyed up to fuck. They were all in my politics form and they were all cunts. Especially to me, cos I was a heavy metal-loving geek with no mates. They lorded it over the Sixth Form centre and basically featured in every wish fulfilment fantasy I ever had between 15 and 18 that involved guns and chainsaws instead of Jet from Gladiators. But now the hideous prejudice of a bunch of sexually repressed teenage boys was working against them instead of for them. At every turn their usual jibes were met with volleys of abusive terms such as Tampon, Carrottop and You Stupid Fucking Ginger Twat. Knowing the pain of being on the receiving end of a fuckload of unwarranted abuse, I stayed out of it (they were bigger than me).

Unwisely, but hilariously, they planned revenge on our Septuagenarian Headmaster.

Two days later the Head received a call from the proprietor of Hooty McBoob's Sex Toy Emporium. Yes I've made the fucking name up. He told them that several of his students were causing a ruckus in his shop and that he'd better get down here sharpish unless he wanted the police involved. He dodders down there like an enraged cross between a bull elephant and the human embodiment of gout. He enters the store with a pre-prepared riot act ready for the reading.

He exits the store two minutes later. It's hard to know (as I wasn't there and this could all be bollocks, frankly) whether he was more confused by the proprietor being a different gender to the one who'd called him, by said proprietor having no idea what he was talking about, or the flashbulbs from the cameras capturing the foremost figure of Nottingham's Private Education exiting a sex shop.

Hence, "Cunts"^


*Apart from the time when the Head Boy played the Imperial March as the Head came in for assembly. He got away with it cos a) he was smart enough to do it on the organ, displaying learning, b) it was fucking funny and c) he was every single teacher's pet. He was, shall we say, reared for the job.
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Tue 2 Mar 2010, 12:22, 5 replies)

Ginger Disapproving Mop disapproves of your disapproval of gingers.

( Wanderer, Sun 28 Feb 2010, 19:20, Reply)

Gingers! Sectioned! Lazy! Racist!
Before I begin, I want to stress that I am not ginger. I am pale and lightly freckled, but not ginger.

I have, however, got ginger friends (in fact, of our sales management team of five, three are ginger, and one is me [ginger-skinned, apparently]). On a number of occasions we've had a lot of fun (although one has been sectioned [unrelated to gingerness]). On one memorable occasion, we

Actually, do you know what?

I can't be bothered. Fuck it. Why make a long post about a ginger friend, or ginger comments, when gingerness didn't directly affect anything?

Maybe next week we can have

Blacks! Are you black? Do you know any blacks? Can you see them in the dark if they aren't smiling?

or

Asians! Do they all own sweetshops?

or

Chinese! Are they all cat-eating sweatshop owners?

I mean, guys, come on! Why have a suggestion board if we never use it?
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 25 Feb 2010, 13:35, 2 replies)

TIP: Don’t go to Puglia on holiday if you’re a ginge and want to get laid.
As I’ve mentioned before I’ve got some Italian in me. No, my bowls don’t contain the evidence of a hot night of passion with that great big sweat monger, Luciano Pavarotti, his putrid testicle tadpoles mixing with my shit deep inside my sphincter, being shaken not stirred every time I switch arse cheeks on my chair like the unholy contents of a rigorously shaken cocktail maker.

What I mean is my dad’s one of those ‘forriners’. There were drawbacks growing up with an Italian surname. People thinking I could play football like Roberto Baggio, people assuming I could sweat the best spaghetti Bolognese they’d ever tasted out of my pores on account of having the recipe imprinted in my DNA, and later when I was older girls expecting me to live up to the ‘Italian Stallion’ tag, when what they actually got was the knackered old mangy Midlands pit pony with gout version of sexual intercourse.

But there was one major positive too. The extended family had a house over in Lesina in the Puglia region of Italy. And every summer during my teenage years and early twenties I’d fuck off over there for a free holiday. Italian beer is great. Italian girls are dirty as fuck. Food’s cheap. And it’s sunny. GET IN THERE!!!

After I’d finished my A-Levels a group of mates and I took our lives into our own hands and Ryan-Aired it over to Pescara Airport then made our way down to Lesina by coach. Included in this troupe of oily skinned, pimply faced, sex obsessed teenagers was my mate Darren.

And yes, Darren was a ginge. His hair was so fucking red it looked like he’d been the loser in a fight with a stegosaurus on its period and somehow during the struggle Darren’s head had become lodged deep inside the gigantic reptilian’s clout of doom. Darren also had the full body freckle pebble dashing as if a group of outsider artists had armed themselves with toothbrushes, dipped them in watery diarrhea, and spent the afternoon flicking poo at his naked body.

Anyway, we get down to Lesina. Darren’s already lobster pink and peeling, the hot Italian sun’s burning the living shit out of his weird alien skin.

We go out and find a bar and start drinking, as teenagers do. And – also something teenagers do – after a few too many beers we decide we’re God’s gift to women and possibly the most attractive bunch of go getters that have ever lived in the entire history of the world. So we start trying it on with the locals. By now it’s getting a bit dusky, one of my mates Ian cops off and disappears into the night for a quick fumble and fingering session down by the lake. Soon after another lad scores and departs with a fat Italian bird. Possibly an own goal, but a fucks a fuck, I suppose. And Darren’s becoming increasingly frantic. He’s not getting anywhere. The local Southern Italian girls are just not interested.

This pattern went on for pretty much the entire fortnight we were there. By the end of the holiday each of us had at least offered a stinky finger to the rest of the lads while proudly proclaiming: “Sniff that!” After a session down at the lake. One or two had actually done the whole dirty with a local girl. Much kudos and back slapping.

All except Darren. He hadn’t even had a sniff. And he was going a bit mental about it.

And on the last morning we were there I was having a coffee with one of my uncles who lived over there. He asked me how the holiday had gone. I said it’d gone well. He asked if I’d ‘got any’. I felt like saying: “Sniff this finger, Uncle!” But decided against it. I told him we’d all got some except for Darren.

My uncle said: “Ohh, he wouldn’t get laid over here,” in his fucked up Italian/Coventarian accent.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

And my uncle shrugs his shoulders: “His hair. His red hair. Round these parts people think it’s a sign of the devil... the pretty girls don’t want to sleep with Satan... ” and my uncle pauses, lighting a Marlboro. “Come to think of it, the same applies for the ugly girls too...”

That left me pretty speechless.

And that’s how Darren got his nickname from then until this very day: Always gets a few weird looks when you shout: “Oiiiii, SATAN !!!” Across a crowded bar.

True story.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 10:32, 6 replies)

What do you call a ginger guy up to his elbows in pussy ?
A vet
( SpankyHanky, Thu 25 Feb 2010, 15:29, 2 replies)

It's not like *I* lowered the tone of the conversation
I used to work for a pretty big IT firm with offices located all over Europe and the Middle East, handling distributor problems and providing first line support to account teams. A lot of the time, I'd receive emails from colleagues over in fuck-knows-where who I would never hear from again providing I did a good enough job addressing their queries and building whatever reports were needed.

One day I get support email forwarded to me from someone in Dubai looking for some missing inventory data, and the local team is having difficulty resolving this. No biggie; a few bits of tinkering around and the files are up and running.

A couple of hours later I get an email from the expat account manager, let's call him Mark, thanking me for my work as - and I quote here - 'it's not like we can trust these sandpeople to understand how a SAP system works'.

What the hell am I supposed to say here, exactly? The guy is by all means and purposes my superior, and the issue was a bit beyond the local team's grasp. Not to be rude, I email back:

'Hi Mark,

Thanks for getting back to me and letting me know the files have gone through without any problems. I'll talk to the UAE team about the steps needed to iron this out if it props up again so you can get a quicker response from them.

Foxy'

Polite answer, avoids the racist bullet shot at me. Be thankful I never need to hear from Mark again. Or so I think.

'Hey Foxy,

Don't worry about talking to the team, I don't understand what the hell they're going on about most of the time. Would much rather like to speak to someone who talks [sic] the Queen's English rather than some burkha-wearing sandy. I don't know any group I'd enjoying being seen with less.

Mark'

Why does everyone assume that just because I'm English, I must show some disgust to every non-white, non-Christian I've never met? I'm getting a bit tired of this now in all honesty, so I try and kill the conversation off.

'Mark,

I'm sure there are plenty of worse people out there than the 'sandies' you've willingly chosen to work with. It could turn out that under their burkhas they're ginger.

Foxy'

I then get a swift response accusing me of missing the joke and being offensive. Attached is a picture of Mark. Ginger Mark. Ginger, surrounded by bearded Muslims while he sports some whispy bum fluff Mark.

I send it back to him with his face crudely put onto a picture of Tusken Raiders. We never speak again except for a mailshot a few months later saying he was leaving the company.

Can't stand racists. Don't like gingers much either.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 25 Feb 2010, 13:42, Reply)

Two ginger twins walking down Buchanan Street in Glasgow
My brother shouted: Doppelginger!

By their reaction, I think they'd heard that one before. But I was amused. My brother must have been eight years old at the time, so English-German language/ ging humour at his age was pretty damn impressive.
( drunkenoaf, Wed 3 Mar 2010, 15:08, Reply)

Cornflake Girl & Raw Chicken
Back in my early twenties I found myself – for want of any direction, meaning, or purpose in life – knee deep in Arabs in the sweatbox hellhole also known as Marrakesh. My advice on Marrakesh: don’t go there. It’s shit. Imagine you’re confronted by the fattest sweatiest harpy you’ve ever come across in your life. A girl the size of a tower block with great big rolls of flab hanging loose off her carcass and obscuring her fat fucking knees. Now imagine you’re but naked with your nose buried deep up her sweaty, pock-marked, wobbly arse crack in the classic 69 position as she repeatedly slams a meat tenderising mallet into your nutsack. That’s Marrakesh. Stinky and incredibly unbearable on so many levels.

So I found myself wandering round the Moroccan equivalent of Sainsburys – a place where if some random local didn’t attempt to lob a rabid monkey on your shoulder, take a photo, then charge you a shitload of money for the pleasure, you’d feel like you’d just won the lottery. And then I see her.

She looked like that mental bird who did that Cornflakes song, that Tori Amos. Who, I have to admit, had been the source of several wank fantasies during my teenage years (got to the point where I couldn’t look at a box of cornflakes without getting a raging boner). Being bored, hot, and sweaty I decided to give it a crack – and maybe get some hot and sweaty action of a different kind that didn’t involve any monkey-chucking, photo-taking, cash-stealing.

I sidled up to this girl, said hello. She turned and said hello back. Yes! She speaks English! Not only that, English is her first language. She turned out to be one of those semi-Americans, or what some people might call ‘Canadian’. We ended up going for a drink to cool down. Iced cold mint tea. Very nice.

I found myself strangely attracted to her hair. Soft coppery stuff that fell across her porcelain white skin whenever she tilted her head to one side and smiled. She was doing this a lot. I took this as a good sign. And once you got past the fact she looked like she was walking round Marrakesh after a particularly intense bukkake session (she was smothered in greasy white suntan lotion), she was actually pretty damn cute. OK, she was a bit of a new-age hippy type, but that’s ok with me. Damn it, I’ve even fucked the occasional Tory in my time.

So, with this in mind, I suggested we moved on to alcohol so I could get her pissed and have a go on her.

Fast forward a four or five hours, I’m in her hotel room and its absolutely magical! SHE HAS AIR CONDITIONING! I’m enjoying this as we slip out our cloths and get down to the mechanical act of having a quick no-strings fuck. And within moments I’ve slid down her lithe little form and I’m positioned between her wide open legs. She’s panting like a dying fox, and in the moonlight I look down at her silky slash and prepare to sup the furry cup. And I’m absolutely petrified. This girls pubes were radioactive. They glowed a shocking GINGER in the dark. It looked like something out of the X Files. There was an eerie sort of aura about her gash, it was alluring and scary all at the same time. Shit! I thought. Maybe her pussy’s haunted?

But I didn’t have time to think about this too much. My ginge Canadian fuck buddy for the night rammed my head down onto her floppy slimelips and I started playing the hairy harmonica for all I was worth. And I was a little disgusted (which I suppose is never a bad thing while you've got a stonking hard on). Not too sure why, but gingers tend to taste like raw chicken. Not a very pleasant experience. But, strangely, my involuntary retching action drove my nose down hard onto her clit and this seemed to drive her wild. She writhed about like she’d just been set on fire. I continued to eat my undercooked fur burger while trying my damdest not to puke all over her cunt. It was pretty damn sexy.

We finished up with some regulation drunken fuckery and when I woke up the next morning we went for a quick bite to eat and then I fucked off to my own place. Job done. No telephone numbers, no addresses, the only thing we’d exchange was a range of bodily fluids. Then I went back to my place.

A few days later I saw her – think her name was Carley or Harley – from a distance in the bar we’d spent that evening in. Her slight figure, her long coppery hair. She stood out like a redheaded beacon of joy. Her shimmering hair looked more beautiful tonight too. Much more, well, sexy... I was half pissed at the time so the only possible course of action was to go and have another crack, see if she’d let me fuck her again.

So I walked over to the table, she had her head down and was reading or snorting coke. I stroked her hair and said one of my most romantic lines: “Would you like me to make you cum like a train, darlin?”

Carley or Harley looked up, pulled back the hair from her face and gazed at me with a look of utter horror and disgust. Then: “Fuck off!”

And I did fuck off – quickly. Very quickly indeed. Carley or Harley had somehow transformed into a skinny redheaded bloke with long wavy hair from Leyton... Gorgeous hair, though. Bloody lovely sexy hair...
( SpankyHanky, Wed 3 Mar 2010, 12:09, 6 replies)

Ginger nuts
Whilst not totally ginger I certainly have a little red in some areas.

My girlfriend, who every night I religiously make a cup of tea for at bedtime, still delights in childishly shouting down "Can you bring me up a couple of small ginger nuts as well"

Every bloody night, without fail.
(Mong The Merciless Older not wiser, Sun 28 Feb 2010, 18:48, 3 replies)

Arguments, sex, and the provocative nature of the flame-haired.
Once upon a time, I was friends with a ginger person. A certain ginger person; others have come and gone (oo er madam) but this one sticks in my mind for a couple of reasons. Her name was - let's call her Duracell (since every other bugger in this QOTW is using that term. In point of fact she was a bit hippy and never actually wore black.)

Reason 1: About four years ago, Duracell and I were at the pub - independently, we weren't that good friends. Or so I thought. I didn't even know she was there until round about midnight, an hour before everyone was due to vomit and pass out, when I bumped into her. She promptly dropped what she was doing and grabbed my hand, dragging me into the ladies toilets, where she locked us in a cubicle and proceeded to take off all her clothes.
Now, this isn't as much of a boast as it may sound, because I'm fairly sure that in our joint drunken ineptitude, nothing else actually happened. All witnesses can tell me for certain is that on emerging, I marched back to my table and downed my neglected pint of Guinness, saying it was 'to get rid of the taste'. Unfortunately I'm quite likely to do that sort of thing anyway, so its value as evidence is dubious. Not that I like showing off or owt.

Anyway, the point is that this girl was ginger, and this story became commonly repeated, to the point where a couple of months later it was related with great relish to a girlfriend of mine.

She found it hilarious. Unaccountably, bizarrely HILARIOUS. She would bring it up at any opprtunity, and crease herself laughing like you'd just told her she should spring for a round.
"You had sex with a ginga in the toilets! Bleeheehee!"
"Aha! Ginger face!" etc etc et bloody cetera.
The real clincher came on Valentine's Day that year. This dear, sweet, girlfriend (read: crazy psycho ex, although not redheaded) presented me with a whole heap of presents, lovingly wrapped and presented. I was very impressed at her dedication to this most beautiful and romantic of occasions, and felt extremely bad about only having made her a card and bought her a fucking huge dildo. There must have been about a dozen little gifts in her bag, and she brought them out one by one, letting me open them in a specific order. She'd really thought this out.

I open the first one. Ooh, box of crystallized ginger. I'm a fool for any sweet that used to be a fruit (or thereabouts. See also raisins, dried mango, apricots, etc.) That's really nice of you.

Second present. Some ginger jam. Tasty, but not necessarily what I'd choose Thankyou anyway babe, kisses and so forth

Third box. Ginger biscuits. Ah. I'm beginning to see a pattern here.

Every single gift had ginger in it, or something to do with ginger. The last one was just some root ginger wrapped up, ffs. I think imagination (or Tesco) had failed her by this point.


So my real point is this: what the hell is wrong with some people? I, personally, specifically find redheads attractive. I understand that there's a flipside to this (I'm singling them out for being ginger too), but I cannot see how it's either funny or off-putting that someone's ginger. This girl took the opportunity to use Valentine's Day to rip the piss, because I'd once been involved with a ginger girl. There's some really weird anti-ginger sentiment on this QOTW, some of it even apparently serious. I think anyone who thinks like this is weird, quite frankly. Especially anyone up here in the wild and ginger north, where it's not uncommon. It's a hair colour. So is blonde. Brown, too. Even black! Or sometimes white!

But do you know who I think is weirder? The replies I've seen on this board that involve a concept I've never even heard of before, namely:

"Anti-ginger jokes are EXACTLY LIKE RACISM!!!1!!11"

Apologies to everyone who thinks like this (i.e. has had both a humour and a logic bypass operation*, but for the love of god NO. You are wrong. Not because race is only to do with the colour of your skin ( it isn't), but because gingers are (nowadays) not a race any more than blondes are a race.
It's a physical characteristic, and one that is very easily concealed too (you would have a hard time shaving off all your skin). Granted, taking the piss out of people for physical characteristics isn't pleasant, but you would hardly cry racism if someone was ripping into baldies.
Oh, and that post about the lawyer friend replacing ginger with black or Jew etc: yes, oddly enough altering something to make it racist does make it racist. Who knew.

Let me repeat: NOT RACISM. Reactionary language like that is the reason Godwin's Law came about, and people who descend to using it are worse than Hitler.









*I'm aware it's very easy to bypass the humour when one is ginger and you've had it all your life. I myself unaccountably fail to split my sides when anyone cracks a short joke. Nonetheless, it seems to be not only ginger people spreading this bollocks.
(Falstaff's Spiritual Successor, Tue 2 Mar 2010, 18:45, 4 replies)

Every ginger I have known
Has been able to down more alcohol than most, apart from one guy. Whether this is because of some kind of Irish drinking gene that also gets passed down with the gingerness, I don't know. Apart from one of my mates, let's call him P. This story is somewhat tangentially acquainted with being ginger.

Rewind back a few years. I'm out clubbing with mates, and we are all steadily getting pissed as newts. P is trying to match us, but as I am partly from Ireland and partly because I spent some of my teenage years drinking whereas P only started drinking fairly recently, he cannot match us. Eventually, after more drinks, it is only me, P, and two other mates, J and T left, as everyone else has either copped off or just buggered off.

We eventually leave, and call up a mate to give us a lift home because we're too cheap to get a taxi back and it is now pissing it down. The mate turns up, and we set off home, music blaring loudly, and all of us shouting at each other drunkenly.

I'm in the back with P, thankfully not in the bitch seat in the middle. I'm behind the driver, and P is on the left, behind J, who is wearing a parka. The music is really fucking loud, and to mine and T's sudden horror, P pitches forward, grabbing the back of the seat in front, and vomits copiously, yet strangely quietly, into the hood of J's parka which is hanging down. Then, being pissed up and evil bastards, we decide to say nothing.

Our mate drops us off at the end of the road, in the pouring rain, and as we all climb out of the car, J decides to pull the hood of his parka up, to protect himself from the rain...
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Sun 28 Feb 2010, 18:42, Reply)

This is my son. Game Set and Match.

(theremin put the lotion in the basket on, Sat 27 Feb 2010, 0:31, 23 replies)

THIS QUESTION

CONFUSES AND ANGERS ME!
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 25 Feb 2010, 17:16, Reply)

Over the past few months I've been writing a book of children's stories aimed at a more adult audience
and have been wondering about the best way to gauge reaction to them. This seems like a good opportunity since I have written a story that seems to fit. I'll apologise for length in advance and leave this here:

Once upon an old oak tree, in the centre of the wood,
A small red squirrel collected food as quickly as he could,
Running through the undergrowth, amid the woodland floor,
The squirrel worked for hours a day to build his winter store.

Every morning he would wake to the chorus of the dawn,
Sit up in his squirrel bed, and give a squirrel yawn,
He’d spend all day collecting acorns fallen through the night,
And store them in his squirrel pantry safely out of sight.

All through the autumn months the industrious squirrel worked,
Whilst in the upper branches, five grey squirrels smirked,
And while he toiled collecting food, they kept him in their vision,
Shouting insults from the tree in torment and derision.

“Hey Duracell!” they cried “You stupid ginger twat,
There’s plenty of food everywhere, why are you doing that?”
“Hey Coppertop” they heckled “The wood is our canteen”
But the squirrel just ignored them, and carried out the same routine.

Perturbed, but not put off by this, the gang’s hatred they conveyed,
“What’s the difference between a brick and a ginger?...The ginger can’t get laid”
The jokes were never ending, a torrent of abuse,
But still he just ignored them, their gags were of no use.

Annoyed at getting no reaction from their witty parlance,
They started aiming nuts at him, resorting now to violence,
They’d throw them at him viciously then run and get some more,
But the squirrel would just thank them, and take the nuts to store.

Preparation, he thought was key to prove his worldly worth,
So every year when leaves would brown and wither to the earth,
He sensed that snow was on its way, that winter would roll round,
That’s why he stored and hid away his food deep underground.

He knew the trees although now ripe would soon be stripped lain bare,
That the canopy of leaves; his shelter, soon would not be there,
And when the cold hard frosted ground, the woodland stark and bleak
Then they’d know why he had worked, so hard for week on week,

The gang were getting sick and tired of his chirpy way,
They put on hood disguises, a sort of squirrel KKK,
They couldn’t stand our red head friend; they launched a hate campaign,
By pissing on him from a tree; unleashing yellow rain.

They set fire to leaves beneath his tree, wrote insults on his door with shite
Pressed his bell and ran away, rung him at all times of night,
They played loud music near his home to keep him wide awake,
They harassed him every hour of day, just hoping that he’d break.


With their minds set on such hatred, and a chip lodged on their shoulder,
It took quite a while to realise that the wood had got much colder,
The cornucopia that once had been, to seasons had been lost,
And fallen leaves and woodland fruits had withered in the frost.

The gang took off their hoods and looked about the scene,
The ground was now as hard as ice, the tree’s had been stripped clean,
They realised the red squirrel had been right, their view was now imbued,
Not through some moral enlightenment but a lack of sleep and food.

For days the squirrels foraged throughout the woodland floor,
Wishing they’d planned for winter and made their own nut store,
And all the while the small red squirrel sat by his twiggy fire,
With more food than he’d ever need in his whole life entire.

While he slept warmly in his home the gang did all it could,
Just to try and stay alive in a now harsh winter wood,
At night they’d huddle all together to try and stave of cold,
And wished they’d listened more to what red squirrel had foretold.

One day as snow began to fall and one of their party died,
They realised that they needed help; they each swallowed their pride,
The red squirrel was now their only hope, he’d help them, they were sure,
And so heads bowed, and cap in hand they turned up at his door.

With gown and pipe the squirrel stood tall in his door frame,
A picture of preparedness, but of sheer and cold distain,
He looked at the gang now pathetic but still a prejudice disgrace,
And so he smirked at their suffering, and slammed the door right in their face.

Like an impotent mallard he couldn’t have given a flying fuck,
He laughed and watched them struggle as they shivered and they shook,
And as they each one died he chuckled, his heart as black as coal,
The lesson here’s a simple one…that gingers have no soul.
( Furness, Thu 25 Feb 2010, 13:33, 2 replies)

I actually believe
that anti-ginger sentiments are no better than any other bigotry.

In fact, possibly worse.

A black child growing up with abuse at least has recourse to a family and friends, ginger children often do not even have that small respite.

It disgusts me to think of the abuse that these children get, simply because they have different coloured hair.

I suspect this would be considered amusing if I finished with 'and smelled like fox piss' or 'and look like Harpski', but I am not going to, I think it is uncommonly cruel and I am ashamed to live in a society where it is accepted.
( LordManley twitter.com/LordManley, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 19:20, 14 replies)

Children are unpredictable
My son is 2 years old and a very cute little Ginger boy. Knowing how cruel other children are to the flame-haired ones, I thought it sensible to teach him that his hair colour is Ginger. Not red, not auburn, not strawberry blonde. Ginger. When asked "what colour is your hair?" he will smile and proudly declare the G word. I was hoping that if any mean kid tried to pick on him by saying "you're Ginger" then it wouldn't hurt his feelings as he'd not think it was a jibe, just the truth.

I didn't expect him to point and bellow "Ginger!" across the road at a teenage boy walking home with his posse of mates. It seems that I've accidentally taught my child to pick on his bretheren. Luckily the schoolboy saw the funny side when he realised it was a very small Ginger one doing the yelling.   

(Long time lurker, first time post!) 
(crustyonion, Thu 25 Feb 2010, 22:43, Reply)

I just remembered this one, but no more this week from me, honest.
When we first moved to York, back in the early 1990s I got a job behind the bar in a Toby Grill on the outskirts of town. This was a big place that was half restaurant and half bar, and aimed at the family market. One Saturday sticks in my mind, it was a sunny summer's day and the place was emptying out after a busy lunchtime...

One family had arrived late for lunch, had been served, had eaten and the parents were lingering over their coffees. They obviously wanted a bit of time on their own, so they brought the kids through to the bar, which was practically empty and asked me and the other barman whether the kids were allowed to play a game or two of pool.

"No problem sir, we'll keep an eye on them."

The pool table was in a corner of the bar which was surrounded by large windows - it was a conservatory-type place with bamboo furniture. The dad got out a couple of 20p pieces and the parents buggered off back to the restaurant for some peace and quiet while the kids set up the balls.

What haven't I told you? Oh yes, the kids: the boy was probably about 12 and looked like the young Prince Harry and his sister was probably about four years older. She was also stunningly pretty with cute freckles and long, silky hair that could be described as 'strawberry blonde' with no hint of sarcasm whatsoever. It was the same quality and texture as that girl's hair from the Timotei ad, and the sun streaming in through the conservatory windows made it look like dark, spun honey.

Not only that, but she was wearing a summer dress which also had the sun shining through it, showing the shape of her gorgeous legs or fine breasts whenever she was silhouetted against the windows. But it didn't end there. At one point, she had to take a tricky shot, which involved her standing on tip-toes with one leg while lifting the other up and putting her knee on the edge of the table while she reached at full stretch to make the shot. Her hem lifted dangerously far up her silken thigh, the outline of her bikini-cut knickers clear to us, thirty feet away behind the bar.

We both moaned quietly and I broke the silence:

"Christ I'd like to lick her ginger minge."
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 25 Feb 2010, 14:50, 3 replies)

Yes. I was a ginger baby.
Fortunately my parents didn't drown me at birth. Sadly, I have no horrific tales to tell, possibly because in the tiny Norn Irish village where I grew up, red hair is commonplace. Also, ginger taunts have little effect when you can point out that the antagoniser's parents were cousins and they don't even own a decent tractor.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 25 Feb 2010, 13:06, 4 replies)

love in the aisles
I saw him in the supermarket when I was doing my evening shop: long, slender, and oh so very, very ginger. I leaned closer and at the dorsal side caught a glimpse of shrubbery poking cheekily out. I had to have him.

I imagined what it would be like to take him home, to grip that ginger phallus 'twixt thumb and forefinger, to feel, to taste, to suck..! And reader, following a brief suggestive come hither, I did.

We got down to it straight-away. Quick peel and dice and in the spag bol it went.
(feckoffmeow, Tue 2 Mar 2010, 17:14, 3 replies)

It's not always easy being Ginger

At public school, everyone's got a nick-name, not many of the chaps had as many as I did. Some of them were alright, some were downright filthy, but the one that always returned was 'thick fucking ginge twat'. To make matters worse, I was the only ginger in the family, and the lads never tired of the old 'I bet the milkman's ginger' jokes. Oh, how I laughed.

When I was almost 13, my mum died in a car crash. My dad was never very good with the emotional stuff, and anyway, he and my mum had been living apart for a while before it happened. Gran was great, but being the only red-head at the funeral only made it clearer to me that I must have been conceived outside wedlock.

I fucked my A Levels and didn't really know what to do, so I joined the army. Thought I might see a bit of the world and get to shoot someone - might make me feel better. I used to get pissed quite a bit and go clubbing but girls didn't really feel comfortable around me.

I'd do anything to join in, once there was a fancy dress party - mainly army guys - so I thought I'd make myself the butt of all the jokes and go as a nazi. That went down like the proverbial lead balloon.

God knows what I'm going to do with the rest of my life now. My brother's going into the family business, but he's made it plain that there's not much room for me.

Any suggestions you lot?
(HRH Prince Harold Bow down to me you bastards, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 14:17, 2 replies)

How do redheads make love?
Gingerly.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Thu 4 Mar 2010, 12:24, Reply)

Women
Have you ever met a woman? Do you know someone who has? Do you have a really sexist story to tell?

OR

Spastics

Have you ever met a mong? They're funny, aren't they? Look at the way they flap their arms around and drool all over themselves whilst trying to talk like normal people.

OR

Poofs

Tell us your favourite stories about the man who looked into your eyes for one millisecond too long in the toilets at the service station in Stevenage last week and suddenly made you feel very, very insecure and frightened.
( .Yeti., Mon 1 Mar 2010, 22:32, 9 replies)

Ginger Patches
At a friend's a while back now he tells me he's glad ginger skips a generation as his dad used to be a ginger before he went grey.

His mum shouts from the kitchen "He's still ginger in places!"

... Disgusted look between us.

*pop*
Back to Lurking for me.
(eggs and spam *insert witty sig here*, Mon 1 Mar 2010, 16:34, 1 reply)