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My pal inspects factories for a living, and I shall take his expert advice to the grave: "Never eat the meat pies". Tell us the best advice you've ever received.

(, Thu 20 May 2010, 12:54)
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This question is now closed.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…

NOTE: This started out as just a harmless (and brief) anecdote, explaining the wisdom of the title advice, however my pent up B3ta-ness has made this somewhat snowball into what seems to have turned into an attempt at the B3ta world length record…so apologies in advance…

Lights!…Camera!…Wavy Lines ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few years ago, I was what could politely be described as ‘a bit down on my luck’ but could be more accurately described as ‘utterly botty-fucked from the planet twist-a-bollock on a sponsored ‘being elbowed-in-the-plums-a-thon’. Suffice to say I had no girlfriend, no job, cock all money, and lived in a shit heap area of war-torn Coventry that was a bubonic blistered boil on the burping backside of middle England.

I spent 3 months renting a squalid little shoebox of a flat, inside a dilapidated tower block that I’m certain was only kept standing due to of a combination of dry rot and the dark side of the force. I spent most of my nights drinking heavily, trying to convince myself that my situation was ‘only temporary’, and fannying about on my beloved new PC which I had (probably unwisely) spent my last few pennies on. This of course, didn’t dispel the fact that I was lonlier than a leprous, blindfolded ginger Fritzl kid on a desert island.

As I plummetted nose-first towards rock bottom, the only people I would have any sort of social contact with were my neighbours - a young couple named Kevin and Amy.

Kevin was a wallowing winnet of workshy sphincter gristle, whom I loathed like you would a seeping haemorrhoid. He, on the other hand, had decided to kindly ‘tolerate’ me due to my harmlessness, and because I would turn an indifferent blind eye to his almost combustible chav-ity, his small time drug deals (conducted in the style of a wannabe gangsta rapper), and his habitual late-night blaring of chronically shoddy boom-bastic rumbling skull-fuck torturous noises that he seemed to consider were ‘top choons’.

Despite his pasty pale skin and lank, greasy blond hair, he insisted on being called ‘The K-Man’ and he sauntered around pretending to act more ‘black’ than if Samuel L. Jackson did an Al Jolson Minstrel impression after an unfortunate collision incident involving tarmac, shoe polish and a permanent marker pen. We’re talking ‘typecasting-to-the-point-of-downright-insulting’ here.

So, like the hideous bastard lovechild of Ali G and Kerry Katona that he seemed to be, ‘The K-Man’ was perpetually blinged up with the finest ‘Lizzie Duke’ gold from Argos, and tracksuited up to the tattoo on his neck with the sort of natty threads that JJB sports would regularly spew onto their ‘reduced-to-clear’ shelves. This guy really was a world class phenomenal bell-end, but like I said I was bored, broke and lonely, so I tolerated him too, and would frequently pop round and help relinquish him of his freshly shop-lifted alcohol reserves.

OK, I’ll admit it…there was another reason I tolerated him - His girlfriend. Amy was quite a pretty young filly, and for the life of me I couldn’t understand what she was doing with a malodorous mong-spack like K-Man. She was 24, and like me, she also presented herself with the demeanour of somebody who had fallen upon hard times but didn’t really belong there. We would share a friendly word when we passed each other on the vom-splattered stairs (the piss soaked lift was always borked). She would tell me about her problems with K-Man, and we would laugh as we spoke about how we should ‘run away together and start a better life’. She was joking. I wasn’t.

She had kind, soft eyes that hid her sorrow well, whilst possessing a wicked sense of humour and respectable intellect. However, I feel I should also mention that a mere glance at her perfectly sculpted body made me feel hornier than being hand delivered a Viagra-spiked oyster sandwich from a butt-naked Girls Aloud; and this was in no small part due to the fact that she proudly sported a pair of such gelatinous gertstonking wondernorks that my beef bazooka threatened to rip through my trollies every time that I was even within their gravitational pull. They were such pert, pointy, pendulous pods of perfection and during my special ‘me-time’ I would regularly tug myself blurry whilst fantasising about motorboating them.

However, for reasons unknown, she was with the cunting K-Man and I respected her decision – and kept my severe frustrations to myself at the fact that he treated her as if she was a lump of southern-fried shite on a piece of dog-turd Ryvita.

Of all his faults though, I felt that possibly the worst thing about him was that underneath his gangsta-chav, uber-twunt exterior, he was secretly a proper mummy’s boy - he would be on the phone to his old ‘ma’ at least 5 times a day. She would regularly ‘pop round’ impromptu, let herself in and do his washing for him, pay his bills, and clean up once a week. Much to Amy’s dismay, Kevin had also embraced (stolen) technology, and had even set his mum up with a new-fangled webcam so that she could regularly check up on them online. The old hag was bitterly resentful towards poor Amy and was constantly critical of her, even actively encouraging K-man to cheat on her, and openly declaring that she thought Amy ‘wasn’t good enough for her boy’. Oh, and God help any of us any time Kev’s mum when she couldn’t get hold of him; she would hunt him down like a Terminator bloodhound, and she would think nothing of regularly calling me with messages to pass on when he wasn’t around…

which is where I drag you to the evening in question…

I had received a call from K-Man’s mum, saying that his phone was constantly engaged, and demanding I go round and tell him to get in contact. (Normally I wouldn’t have been arsed, but I was tired of drinking alone, and thinking of spending some fleeting time with Amy made the short walk down the corridor worthwhile).

As I knocked on the door, Amy answered and invited me in. Sure enough, K-Man was on the phone sorting out one of his deals and he beckoned me over to the sofa where a freshly robbed crate of cider was laying nearby. ‘Help yourself’ he mouthed to me. I quietly wished he was talking about his girlfriend, but I grabbed a can nonetheless and started guzzling away.

As soon as he finished the call, I told him about contacting hs mum and spotted Amy rolling her eyes as K-Man interrupted me. “Not now, eh?” he said “ I’ve just done a MASSIVE mo’ fuckin’ deal! (about £40 quid’s worth – crikey!)…so we is havvin’ a celebration!” and he pointed me towards the bottle of vodka on the table.

A good hour or so later we were all getting spod-tacularly cunted, and as Kev’s accent slipped like a lubed-up conga-eel plonked in a bucket of chip-fat, I sat and fidgeted uncomfortably in my role as unwitting gooseberry inbetween this odd couple’s spats over his infidelity, his blatantly disrespectful attitude, and the everpresent overbearing interference from K-Mum - the monsterous mother. However, like an oasis in a desert of drudgery, the conversation subject somehow eventually changed. Oh yes...It turned to sex.

(Of course, being a gentleman, I tried to remain sensitive in the presence of a lady, and modestly tried to keep my prowess as a ‘galloping lurve brontosaurus’ to myself *ahem*.)

However, K-Man had other ideas, and he took every opportunity to boost his already gargantuan ego; slurring through language more suited to the Bronx than to Allesley Green where he grew up. Fortunately for me, he was so wrapped up in his own self-importance that he seemed blissfully unaware of the sizzling sexual chemistry that seemed to crackle and sparkle between Amy & I like electrically charged Rice Crispies sprinkled with pissflap shaped potassium pieces and dipped in a velvety pouch of Lothario love lotion.

Eventually, as Kev was bigging himself up for the umpteenth time, it appeared that he could tell I wasn’t particularly impressed, and he decided to try and stamp some alpha-male authority on the ground. “I’ll tell you what, Pooflake” he said. “…You see ‘er? *points at Amy*. She’s mah fawckin’ BITCH, Maaaan!” he continued with a snarl in his voice.

“Oh, leave off, you’re out of order mate…” I reply, genuinely outraged at his behaviour. “You shouldn’t talk about her like that”. Amy simply looked at the floor and shook her head timidly.

“Who give da fuck?” Kev continued, obviously too conceited and / or wankered to care. “I can do whatever I want to her, and she’ll always bring that pussy back for mo’, and I’ll tell you why…”

K-Man took another glug of vodka and answered my shocked expression by declaring: “…’Cos I am the best there is at licking da women out!” He continued relentlessly: “…I tell you man, she need it con-stant-leeey, I’m da best at giving it, and she knows it!”

Now although I am as soft as liquidised shite, I was starting to feel some rage building. “What the quacking quadraplegic fuck are you on about?” I growl at him, before chewing the anger back a bit too much and almost do a little sick in my mouth.

“Ya know it, man” He replied, and simply nodded his head slowly.

I knew I should have left it at that, but my disdain towards him swayed me somewhat, and my mischevious side decided to stir things up a little bit.

“Hmmm, Is that so?...” I replied with a raised eyebrow: “I’ll have you know that I’m quite adept at the old ‘prawn-gargling arts’ myself”… I desperately tried to cover up my actual inexperience in an attempt to counter his display of false bravado; swaying my head in a suave fashion as I continued: ”I’ve certainly tongue-lashed a ladies’ clitoral cola-cube or two in my time, and my reviews were always more than favourable…”

“Get da fuck outta here, murr-fucker!...” K-Man spluttered. “I tells ya wot - I betcha your new PC against my laptop that I give da better head to the bitches than you!” He spoke smarmily, seemingly oblivious to what an utterly foul twatflap he was being.

Fortunately, my sense of reason kicked in, and it warned me to put an end to what was developing into a no-win conversation with someone who possibly carries a blade: “No chance…” I said, “…Anyway…It’s a preposterous argument because we haven’t got a point of reference – somebody who could compare our techniques and give us…you know…a ‘rating’…’marks out of 10’ or something”…I then glanced wistfully over to Amy who sat stoic with a sullen yet dignified silence.

At that point I knew that I had dipped my metaphorical ‘toe into the water’, and Kev took the bait like the overly proud and pisstarded piranha that he was. He thought for a moment, then confidently turned to Amy and said: “How about it? Will you let Pooflake have a go on ya so ya can decide who’s best?”

“What the?....” Amy screamed in shock. “Fuck you! How dare you treat me like a piece of meat!” She quite rightly stabbed her finger angrily at him, but then she turned to me, and to my intense delight (and attentive undercarriage) I detected a slight glint in her eye, and she gave a sly little smile which instantly rocketed my spunktrumpet to ‘white alert’.

Kevin was undettered, drunk, stoned and revelling in his newfound role of pimping out his poor girlfriend. “Go on, mah bitch!, do as I say!“ he spat defiantly. “…yo’ gonna find out that yo’ getting the best, and I can blag some good money after I sell his fuckin’ PC!”

Although his arrogance almost made my ears bleed, I felt like I had to interrupt. “Oh no…” I said, “…I couldn’t possibly…this is…ahem…ridiculous?…” but I spoke half heartedly, because although I could see Amy fuming at K-Man’s despicable disrespect, I still thought that I should at least attempt to do the honourable thing – despite the fact that I was secretly gagging to get nostril deep into Amy’s moist flange-packet, and I couldn’t really gives a stoat’s speckled scrotum as to the feelings of a sycophantic cuntwarbler like Kevin.

Amy then got up out of her chair and looked K-Man straight into his beady little eyes. “I’ve told you before, Kevin…Be careful what you wish for…” She said with an eery calm, before glugging a swig from the vodka bottle, and calling his bluff. She walked off slowly towards the bedroom, then turned to me, giving a sexy little swing of her hips, and said with a husky tone: “I’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready…” She then closed the bedroom door behind her.

I froze on the spot and agonised for what seemed like ages - weighing up my options. I looked at the door - and then back at Kevin. Finally I spoke: “Ermm…You’re joking, right?...” I enquired meekly: “…I mean, are you sure about this?...” “…I don’t want to start any trouble…”

“Yeah yeah…Whatever – I don’t care…I know I’m DA MAAAAN! She’ll tell you to fuck off, anyway!” Kev confidently drawled. “…Just don’t cry too much when give me your murr-fuckin’ PC!”

I felt I was left with little option. “Erm…Okey dokey then…if you insist” I said as I stood up, walked slowly past him and gently knocked on the bedroom door…

The door was opened and I saw how the bedroom was tiny and cramped. There was only space for an unkempt bed, a couple of bedside cabinets and a dressing table, with Kev’s laptop sat pride-of-place, opened on top of it. (His ‘laptop’ was more like a gerbil-powered breeze-block of a beast, but it nonetheless represented cutting-edge technology at the time). Amy had put on a small personal CD player in the corner of the room and it was quietly playing some (thankfully half-decent) music, yet as I sat down on the end of the bed I was still certain that Amy was going to suggest a practical joke – like we were going to ‘pretend’ or something…

Nervously I finally muttered: “Erm…Ok then… how do we go about this?...I mean, w-w-would you like to kiss first?” I said with a timid chuckle.

“Are you kidding?...”Amy replied urgently. “…I’ve been waiting for this for ages” she then threw her arms around me and pushed her tongue so far down my throat that I thought I felt a kneecap pop out of joint.

She then ran her hand down my body and started grasping at my rapidly swelling groin-bulge as if it was the novelty horn on a clown’s car.

I pulled away. “Whoa there – are you sure about this?...what if he walks in?” I said, still trying to be diplomatic. “No way…” replied Amy “…he’s out of it, and he’s too much of a bigheaded bastard anyway. Besides…the thick twat has invited you to do it…you’ve got a challenge to beat…so don’t disappoint me…”

These few words alone almost gave me a case of premature stack blow in the trouser department. God knows why I was still trying to remain a gentleman...I should have realised that the time for chivalry had long since fucked off and caught the last bus home.

With our mouths locked together, Amy slowly guided my hand down past her skirt then up again, against her inner thigh and into her tiny lacy knickers. My hand was shaking but I delved in deeply, and frantically fumbled around what felt remarkably similar to one of those lumpy fisherman’s jumpers. I then proceeded to rummage excitedly in the fashion of somebody half-expecting to pull out a winning raffle ticket – yet my only ‘prize’ was to end up with fingers that munted a bit whiffy. After just a few blissful moments that I didn’t want to end, the time had arrived for me to demonstrate the reason I was there…

Tentatively, I slid her scuddies down past her knees and with gusto I started lapping at her salmon-scented snaffler like a slobbering St Bernard going at a particularly pungent prawn flavoured punnet of purified Pedigree Chum.

As she wriggled and writhed on the end on my turbo tongue titilation I could tell that her aromatic crotch wookie was rapidly heating to ‘Gash Mark 6’ and she was becoming increasingly desperate for me to ‘slam in the Lamb’.

“Oh my GOD!, ..” she cried dramatically, declaring: “…You’re sooo much better than that wanker Kevin”. Finally it appeared that she could hold out no more. “Fuck me...NOW!” yelled Amy, almost losing control as her flange frothily fizzed, resembling a cheap firework that had been set off into a churned up trough full of worms and bargain-bin bubble bath.

Being quick on the uptake, I was becoming slightly suspicious of the fact that the oral extravaganza I was providing was only to be the entrée in what was promising to be quite an exciting, five-course ‘sexeh-smorgasboard’…which I realised if I played my cards right could culminate in a dessert that could only be described as ‘an extremely sticky chocolate pudding’.

She pulled me up towards her, and then shoved her hand into my pants. After a brief wrangle, she then managed to heave out what was by then my ferociously tumescent, minge-heat-seeking, bollock-ballistic, man-meat-megaton missile…and the safety catch was well-and-truly ‘off’.

After a glisteningly skilful display of hand-to-gland, then mouth-to-south related gratitude, she climbed on all fours on to the bed and insisted I enter her from behind. Although I thought this a bit odd for a ‘starting’ position, I wasn’t going to argue and I triumphantly clamboured aboard. Before long I was getting well into my gut-nudging groove, I even crossed my arms over her arse and gently leaned on her as she gasped and bit down into the pillow.

Then, for a brief moment, I caught our reflection, sillhouetted in the blank laptop screen and I could not resist. I turned slowly to one side, smirked smugly and pretended that I was in an amateur 70’s grumble flick as she moaned in appreciation and confirmed with every breathless sigh at how I was apparently far superior to her useless turd of a boyfriend with his tiny little button-mushroom cock.

As I pounded away relentlessly I realised that the end was fast approaching…yet as she yelped louder and louder, I twanged with guilt as I wondered what her screams of pleasure must be like as they are heard by poor Kevin, sat in the next room. In fact, I was just about to have a crisis of confidence and stop right then…until she made a breathless request for a shufty up the old ‘brown trout dispenser’. Then, strangely, all such thoughts of guilt suddenly disappeared as I switched focus back to the task at hand.

Inevitably, after a few thoughtful thrusts up the chutney clunge my perculating gonads reminded me that it had indeed been a while for me, and the stark realisation hit that when this thing went off, there was going to be a sex-plosion of industrial jet-wash proportions…

But there was no going back now, and with my finest Tarzan-stylie yodelling ‘grunt’, I came…and came…and came. In fact, it was as if a cock-cream Krakatoa had erupted all over the surrounding area. As I spasmed and spurted continuously, I had soon produced forth enough scrote-snot from my love spuds to potentially keep the entire brigade of the ‘Whitley Ladies Guild of Facial Fanciers’ in cream pies and pearl necklaces for generations to come.

I splooged it deep inside her, but with my continual thrustage it started to dribble out the sides. I then pulled out with a ‘squelch’ and sprayed some over her back, but there was still more. Finally I turned away and spoffed what seemed like a remaining half gallon of hog’s-eye hollandaise all over the dressing table and laptop keyboard (which was sat there quietly with the lid still open). I then climbed off her and collapsed, spent, and knackered with my sex-wee gauge finally running on empty.

We briefly lay together on the bed and complimented each other on our performance, before remembering who was waiting outside.

I glanced towards the door. “But…What do we do now?” I asked with trepidation.

“Don’t worry…” said Amy “…I’ve been looking for a reason to dump that fucker, and I think I’ve just found it.”

We then made plans for her to stop with me that night, before cleaning ourselves up, straightening our clothes and preparing for the journey back into the lounge where the K-Man was waiting – his arrogant smirk now understandably wiped off his face entirely.

I ventured out first, and as I strolled out of the bedroom door I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye, as all of a sudden I got the feeling I was no longer welcome. I mumbled: “Well…erm…I guess I’ll be heading off home now”, trying to sound cheery and walking towards the front door, pausing only to pluck a stray pube out from between my teeth and flick it timidly towards the coffee table.

K-Man stood silently rooted to the spot. His shoulders haunched, his jaw agape and his face had the despondant expression of someone who had just been smacked in the mouth by a shovel with dead kittens nailed to it.

The awkward atmosphere was then interrupted as both our eyes turned to see Amy, proudly stood in the bedroom doorway looking directly at K-man – her hair dishevveled and her legs still slightly quivvering from the clattering orgasmic shudders she had experienced just moments before.

’Kevin…” she said quietly but sternly. “…We’ve got to talk…”

K-Man’s face fell as he knew what was coming, or more accurately, what had just been coming all over his bedroom and vigourously up his missus whilst he had sat outside feigning arrogance. There was nothing he could do…after all, he had instigated this. His massive ego and vile attitude had finally bitten him on the arse big time…yet Amy still had another shot to fire in her perfectly executed counter-attack.

She calmly continued: “But before that…”

“…I think your mum wants a word…”

She then stepped out of the doorway and K-Man could just about make out the laptop on the dresser – with the monitor switched back on and featuring the stunned, granite expression of his mother, glaring out with almost sub-atomic rage from the small flip-top screen.

It then became apparent to us all that as an impromptu yet bizarre and booze-fueled act of cruel double-vengeance, Amy had called the K-mum on the webcam just before I walked in to the room. She had then somehow deactivated the laptop screen and turned the volume down – leaving me none the wiser but allowing Kev’s flabbergasted mum to cop a ringside seat of the entire bout of bitter betrayal against her precious cock-boil of a son, by way of devastating dungfunnel debauchery.

(Quite why Amy quite felt so compelled to put on such a display, and why Kev’s mum stayed online to watch is anybody’s guess – but there she was – seething and screaming with her arms flailing about wildly as she demanded to speak to her son.)

K-Man’s eyes narrowed slightly as he recognised the personofication of vein-popping fuming vitriol on the screen….then he gawped awkwardly as his selfish, cretinous mind struggled to comprehend the consequences that he had unceremoniously dumped himself into. To his credit, he bravely, yet briefly tried to adopt his ‘gangsta’ stance and he scowled at Amy…but it was no use. As he stood there on a slight slant with his hands tucked into his armpits, a solitary tear started to streak down his shellshocked spotty cheek, and as the emotion started to overwhelm him, he trembled uncontrollably, Amy then joined me at the front door, put her arm around me warmly, and with a final act of proud defiance she turned to Kevin and said:

“Oh...and don’t forget about your bet. I’ll be back tomorrow to get my stuff and collect the laptop for Pooflake. Be a good chap and wipe it down before I arrive will you?.... byeeeee!”

Now I don’t know about poor Kevin, but I certainly learned an invaluable lesson that night...about treating women with respect. And it’s a lesson that I have never forgotten…So here’s some advice for you all…

Girls might be warm, soft and squidgy on the outside, but piss them off, and eventually you’ll find out that they can be more vengeful, cunning and downright vindinctive than a wheelbarrow full of angry Hitlers.
(, Fri 21 May 2010, 12:14, 45 replies)
Fuck the housework and take the kids on a picnic.
You've never heard anyone say, "I had a brilliant childhood, the bathroom was always spotless...".
(, Fri 21 May 2010, 4:17, 11 replies)
Run, while you can.
One sunny day, when I was about 8, I was walking back to our house from the village with my Dad.

"Let's run," he said. "Why?" "Because one day, we won't be able to."

We ran home for no reason.

Still clear as a bell after 35 years.
(, Thu 20 May 2010, 23:12, 7 replies)
Not mine, instead the awesome lyrics to Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen).
Ladies and gentlemen of the class of '99: Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.

I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded.

But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.

You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.


Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.


Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself. Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how...

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.


Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium.

Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary.

Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room. Read the directions, even if you don't follow them. Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future. Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on.

Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.


Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85. Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.


I believe that this came from an article in a newspaper originally before Baz Luhrman turned it into a song. Good advice, the lot of it.
(, Thu 20 May 2010, 13:49, 11 replies)
My Nana
My Nana is an amazing person, who's had a very shit life. She was born in Latvia, and when she was a teenager she had to move to a refugee camp in Germany to escape the Russian invasion. She never saw any of her family again. When in the camp, she was raped, more than once. She married my Grandad when she was 20, and moved to England, despite not being able to speak the language. He was a violent alcoholic who didn't want kids, and pushed her down the stairs when she was 8 months pregnant, so she lost the child. He stole from anyone around them, and finally died when my mother was 16. His family, to this day, still blame her for his alcoholism and general cock-headedness, and refuse to speak to her, despite her seeing them as her only family for 25 years. She met another guy, who became very ill after they had only been together a short time, and became his carer for the rest of his life. On her 79th birthday last year, I spoke to her about her life, and how she had coped with the hardships she had suffered, and this is what she said to me:

"Well, you just have to get on with it, don't you?"


Oh, and may I mention, that at 79, she still climbs the trees in her back garden to get the fruit, and visits her less able friends every day to help them out, and still finds the time to do catering at the Latvian club every week (about 100 people). She also loves a good piss-up with me and my mum, and she's hard as nails (Mr. Anodyne calls her Rambo).

My Nana is awesome.
(, Mon 24 May 2010, 17:01, 8 replies)
Unsolicited advice about pumpkins
Once, when I was a student, I had to take a pumpkin to a Halloween party. On foot. 3 miles. Don’t ask.
This pumpkin was HUGE; it was a pumpkin in need of a gastric by-pass. To avoid back strain, I cunningly devised straps so that I could wear like a rucksack. Clever girl.

Leaving my Halls room, straining against my ponderous burden, I locked my door and dropped my keys between my feet. I speedily bent forwards to pick them up...



My pumpkin counterweight had swung forwards off my shoulders and cracked me across the back of the head, rendering me unconscious for 3 hours.

Slapstick: it can happen to YOU. True facts.
(, Thu 20 May 2010, 22:58, 6 replies)
Sitting with a dying person
means just that: sitting next to them, just being there for when they occasionally open their eyes.

Not talking, not plumping up the pillows, not offering tasty snacks or drinks, not holding their hand. Not even telling them that you're going now but will be back tomorrow - better to creep quietly away.

They don't need to hear about your new car or how the team's doing. All they want is to know that you care enough to give them your time, just staying beside them.

It feels as if you're doing nothing, just sitting silently, and not everyone can do it. If you can though, you are giving the dying person a gift of reassurance and peace. Nobody could do more for them.

Afterwards, your grieving will be gentler and your regrets fewer, and you will know that you did right.
(, Wed 26 May 2010, 9:22, 12 replies)
If you're about to work in a room that has a local exhaust ventilation system and a door with an airtight seal,
check BEFORE you shut the door that the fan's not cranked up to its highest setting, or else this will happen:
                        ^^^^ direction of air flow
|~ |
| ~| <- LEV drawing air through the grate at 70 mph
|~ | and creating a vacuum
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO|~ |OOOOOO <- Soundproof working area with
OOO you | ~| OOO no way to turn off the LEV from inside
OOO | |~ | OOO
BLAM \|| v /~ ~ \ OOO
BLAM --||\ O /~ ~ ~ \ OOO
BLAM /|| \| ~ ~ ~ ~ OOO
|| | ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ OOO
door -> || | ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ OOO
##~/~\~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ OOO
grate -> ##/~ ~\~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ OOO
##| ~ ~\~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ OOO

(, Thu 20 May 2010, 19:37, 5 replies)
advice more women should listen to
he's NOT sorry
he WILL hit you again
(, Thu 20 May 2010, 17:33, 33 replies)
Everybody's Free to Shop Kittens by Spaz Lurpak
Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of 2010

Shop kittens

If I could offer you only one tip for teh B3ta, kittens would be it.

The long term funnez of kittens have been proved on Lolcats whereas the rest of my advice is no more relevant than random article on Wikipedia.
I will dispense my bollocks.

Enjoy the lulz and skillz of your posts; oh nevermind; you will not understand the lulz and skillz of your posts until they have bumped.
But trust me, in 6 months you'll look back at your posts and recall what the spluttering fuck you were thinking trying to shop Boris Johnson in the bath wearing horseshit for a wig.

You are not as shit as you imagine.

Don't worry about the replies; or worry, but know clicking replies is as effective as trying to mask fur using a laptop touchpad.
The real errors in your pics are apt to be things that seemed far funnier in your head;
the kind that inspire you at 2pm on some idle Wednesday.

Do one thing everyday full of seams.


Don't be threadjacking a talented artist, don't put up with people who post your idea first.


Don't waste your time on the detail;
sometimes it's easy, sometimes it frustrates.
The week is short, and in the end, it'll be too late to post.

Remember the clicks you receive, forget the flames; if you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old artwork, delete all your old source pics.


Don't feel bad if you don't know how to approach this week's challenge.
Some artistic people I know couldn't think of anything by Saturday teatime at least.
Some of the most talented people don't post by Tuesday

Shop lots of freebase pics.

Be kind to the mods, you'll miss your account if closed.

Maybe you'll win, maybe you won't.
Maybe you'll make frontpage, maybe you won't.
Maybe you'll skip this challenge, maybe you'll get the top spot with an anim of Tom Cruise on a magic carpet.
What ever you do, don't click your own posts either;
your skills are half decent, so are everybody else's.
Enjoy the B3ta, read it every day if you can, don't be afraid of the boards, or what other people post on it;
it's the greatest website you'll ever read.

Draw, even if you have nothing to do it with but MS Paint, for example.

Read the FAQ, even if you don't agree with it.
Do NOT read HappyToast's profile, it will only make you feel worthless.

Get to know the memes, you never know when you'll want a quick and dirty

Always read the newsletter;
they have the best links to Youtube and the archive will provide amusement for when you're bored in the office.

Understand that B3tards come and go, but for the precious few you'll appreciate.
Work hard to hide the seams in your piccies and anims because the more you feather, the less chance that any outlines will make someone's head look like it's glowing.

Post on /board once, but leave before you get cosy; post on /talk once, but leave before it makes you bitter.


Accept certain optimisation problems;
bit-rates are low, artefacts will be visible, you too will lose detail;
and when you do you'll fantasize that if you were charge the limit would be more, animations would last ages and /board would support quicktime and mpegs.

But not Realplayer.

Don't expect anyone at all to reply.
Maybe you have a few fans, maybe you have plenty of friends, but you never know when they might find someone far better.

Don't post stuff that's work unfriendly, or by the time you refresh, you will be naughty stepped.

Be careful which comments you give, but, please try to ration the woos and yays.
Pea roasts should only be in the reply;
just because it is a way of digging out stuff from your archive, adding big eyes, sticking text in the corner and claiming it's something new and fabulous.

But trust me on the kittens
(, Mon 24 May 2010, 12:30, 5 replies)
I used to worry about things....
Things like what people thought about me, whether I might finish a world-shatteringly important paper on time, whether I might get that job, whether talking to that gorgeous girl in the short-shorts in gym class would end badly... Things like that. One day, my dad sat me down, looked me in the eye, and said..

"If you worry, you're going to die. If you don't worry, you're STILL going to die. So why worry?"

He died in my arms at 4:00am of the next day. Dying breath, he closed his eyes, said, "You're still going to die." I've followed the advice like a mantra for most of my life.

First legitimate post, I think?
(, Fri 21 May 2010, 8:06, Reply)
My older brother was a mechanic
One day after school, at the tender age of 14, I wandered over to his garage with a despondant gloom on my face.

"'Sup mate?" he asked, throwing me a sideways glance as he rummaged around in the engine bay of a knackered Sierra.

"I got slapped by a girl I like today," I replied, bottom lip a-wobble.

He stood up straight, back clicking and popping hideously, and looked me straight in the eye. "Listen little bruv," he mugged in his genuine Thames Estuary accent, "if it's got tits or wheels, it's gonna cause you trouble."

15 years later, this has proved to be the wisest thing I have ever heard in my life.
(, Thu 20 May 2010, 19:52, 3 replies)
Never marry a lamb.
They're all compulsive gambollers.
(, Sun 23 May 2010, 8:43, 2 replies)

Nice layout. Clear fonts. Good picture which is enlargeable. Not a bad effort. Could benefit from boobies, mind.

(, Fri 21 May 2010, 1:30, 3 replies)
Be excellent to each other.
Bill and Ted taught me everything I need to know.
(, Fri 21 May 2010, 0:40, 5 replies)
Save embarrassment with homeopathic porn:
Simply cut and paste one pixel from your favourite naughty lady picture into a blank frame. Hit your screen with a copy of the bible, then take one pixel from the resulting picture and place it into another blank frame.

Do this a couple of hundred times and by the time you have finished you will, due to the memory of pixels, be faced with an image so stupendously horn inducing you'll be spunking your strides so heartily you'll need to be rehydrated by saline drip.

Plus if your missus checks out the images you've saved, she won't be able to see a thing.

Happy homeo-eroticism !
(, Fri 21 May 2010, 18:38, 3 replies)
Absolutely 100% the best advice I ever received:
It was a throwaway comment in a conversation with a guy named John during a protest march against the invasion of Iraq, Edinburgh edition. I was there for a day off school mostly, and when I asked him what he hoped the march would achieve, he told me something really obvious that I remember every time I'm feeling lethargic, and I really would like to have as part of my eulogy.

"If you don't try to make a difference, you never will."
(, Thu 20 May 2010, 14:07, Reply)
Never trust a man that
when left alone with a tea cosy, doesn't put it on his head.

Note: The advice is reversed when applied to egg cosies and cocks.
(, Thu 20 May 2010, 13:33, 3 replies)
I wish I'd listened
Never marry a Barrister. You will never win an arguement for the rest of your married life. When she once said 'I refer you to the comments you made on the 3rd of August...' in the heat of a row, I knew that any response I could ever give would be doomed to fail.

The divorce wasn't that fun either. On the plus side I did used to play zorro with her robes.
(, Thu 20 May 2010, 13:10, 2 replies)
If you ever get to thinking that you're a person of some importance,
try ordering somebody else's dog around.
(, Wed 26 May 2010, 11:06, 4 replies)
How to stop burglars
If you are ever woken up by a noise that you think could be an intruder there are 2 things that you need, 1. A rounder's bat, 2. A pair of Anne Summers Crocodile underpants.


Picture the scene, you're lying in bed when you hear a noise coming from downstairs, the first thing you must do is put on your crocodile underwire so that your old chap is in the nose portion of the garment, now grab your rounder's bat and head downstairs. 99.99% of the time there won't be anyone down there, or if anyone was there just hearing you wake up would have been enough to make them scarper, there is however a 0.01% chance that you could interrupt an intruder and on these occasions you must do as follows. As soon as you see the intruder you must start windmilling you cock as fast as you can, this should confuse the intruder so much that you should buy enough time to hit them as hard as you humanly can in the head. Once the intruder is knocked out sit on him and call the police.

If you are a lady i'd advise nipple tassles or a strap on

This is more of a theory than advice, so I take no responsibility if it doesn't work.
(, Tue 25 May 2010, 15:59, 5 replies)
As I was told by a friend...
in Costa coffee last week, I believe it was Tuesday, he had a cappuccino whilst I just had a bottle of water. We'de just got back from a game of squash, and he had beaten me 11-5. Anyway he told me this piece of advice and I don't think I'll ever forget it:

"Don't add too many pieces of irrelevant information when you're passing on advice"

and I never have.
(, Mon 24 May 2010, 12:32, 12 replies)
When cutting cheese
clamp it into something.

That's my gouda vice.
(, Mon 24 May 2010, 12:26, 2 replies)
Simple but devastatinsly effective
I work in a job that I REALLY haven't enjoyed for over 10 years. Unfortunately I have always suffered from depression and that has always made it a terrifying concept to go out and start again at something I might enjoy. Luckily I work with a fairly decent bunch that have managed to keep me from topping myself. But that still doesn't make it right and I've always known that I needed to get myself out and do something a bit more meaningful with my life. A while back, the youngest lad in the office who I've never credited with much of an intellect (we have a list of his quotes in the office, including the classic pronouncement before he went to a re-enactment banquet where "they would be drinking out of goblins") sat listening to me whingeing about another shit day but that my friends told me that I would make a great teacher. However, I said, I could never do it as it would be way too difficult. He looked thoughtful for a second and then came out with one of the most profound truths I have ever heard: "Just do it. It's better to be at the bottom of a ladder that you want to climb than half way up one you don't want to be on anymore". My jaw dropped in astonishment. How had I missed this for so long? I went home that night and arranged a week at my nieces school. I loved it. Next year I will be living with my parents while I do a PGCE. It might be fucking tough but it will be well worth it. Thank you Andy. I fucking love you.
(, Sat 22 May 2010, 18:01, 7 replies)
Always keep the sexual harassment complaint forms...
...in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.

That way, she's got to bend down to get them.
(, Fri 21 May 2010, 18:00, 1 reply)
Wise Wine Words
Beer before wine, you will feel fine.
Wine before beer, you will feel queer.
WKD before Aftershock, you are a twat.
(, Thu 20 May 2010, 21:36, 5 replies)
See a pin and pick it up
And all that day you'll have a pin
(, Thu 20 May 2010, 21:07, 5 replies)
Just in case you ever encounter a Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal
or go paddling on a spontaneous visit to the beach, make sure you /always/ know where your towel is.
(, Tue 25 May 2010, 18:27, 1 reply)
All the best advice comes from ladies' magazines
I was reading a Bella or Best or Woman's Own round my mum's house and in the problem pages was the best advice e.v.e.r...

Dear aunty whatever,
My husband keeps trying to persuade me to have anal sex with him. I don't want to but he says it's great and I'll really enjoy it. What should I do?
Miserable in Merseyside

Dear Miserable in Merseyside,
Go out and buy a big dildo and tell your husband if it's so great why don't you try it on him first.
Aunty whatever
(, Sat 22 May 2010, 13:38, 2 replies)
Good advice
My grandfather once told me....'never put your finger where you wouldn't put your dick'. I was trying to fix a lawnmower at the time....
(, Sat 22 May 2010, 13:22, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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