Am not sure if we are together but.
Well, I may be in a relationship that may have started three and a half months ago but he wouldn't call it a relationship, like, 2 months ago so I haven't asked again. Complicated. Anyway, my method of finally managing to snog him was: mega cleavage enhancing dress, plus much drink and also much tiredness. Hoorah. I am a screwup and so is he, but we're moving along together... slowly... maybe yay?
(Clarabelle is reverting to type on, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 16:48, 6 replies)

In terms of dying on your arse...
Slightly off-topic, but who gives a shit.A good friend of mine was between long-term relationships, and decided that some concerted scuttling of the barmaid in the local was in order. Subsequently, lubricated by alcohol to the point of being mega-refreshed, said pal saunters up to the bar, wry smile plastered on his face. Cue some general light-hearted banter, and seems to be doing quite well, in all fairness. Decides to go for the master stroke:

"Do you fancy going for a drink sometime?" he casually drops into the conversation. Barmaid looks slightly bemused before offering an unfortunate
"I'm sorry, I've got a boyfriend". Not one to be deterred lightly, his reply was
"Bet he's a prick". Putty in his hands, obviously.
(Nimrod's Son Boredom provokes some interesting habits..., Fri 29 Aug 2008, 16:39, 1 reply)

On not needing to ask...
My experience of kilt-wearing is that they make chat-up lines utterly unnecessary.

On several occasions, I've had conversations like this:
Girl at party/ ball/ whatever: What's under your kilt? Can I check that you're a real Scot?
Me: Well, there's an obvious way to find out. But I believe in fairness. What's under your dress? Can I check that you're a real woman?

Amazingly, it works most of the time. Less amazingly, alcohol helps.


NB - I'm only a quarter Scottish. But I do like haggis. Does that count?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 16:21, 9 replies)

this is legendary
Not me but my mate.

He was watching the footy in the pub and his gf was at home.

They were loosing, so she text'd him "ha ha your loosing", to which he replied "ha ha your single".

Now she took this wayyy too seriously and a rather large argument ensued, much to our ammusment :)
(Lexachu A buh? no, not a buh, a bomb!, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 16:17, 7 replies)

The Chat Up Line Oscars
Over the years I've been both on the receiving end of requests to go out with someone and I've also done my fair share of pursuing the object of my affections.

Chaps don't despair at how cringeworthy or crap your approaches are…even the worst ones sometimes work.

So here in full Chickenlady Through The Ages Style here are my Dating Oscars


For the Worst Ever Chat Up Line

A drunken sixteen year old lad by the name of Mark who simply shoved his tongue down my throat at a party, no 'hello, what's your name' none of that at all.

I dated him for just under a year



For the Best Chat Up Line Combined with Costume

A drunken soldier by the name of Andy who was dressed as a Roman - his toga made from a bed sheet and his 'olive wreath' around his head made from a passing hazel bush.

"Fancy coming to an orgy?"

I dated him for two weeks - he wasn't lying about the orgy



For the Most Unpleasant Chat Up Line

A drunken student in the SU bar,

"Can I shit in your handbag?"

Ignored him




For The Cheekiest Chat Up Line

A complete stranger,

"I've got naked photos of you"


A brief fling and a short friendship



For The Most Honest Chat Up Line

He had already succeeded in asking me out to dinner - before we went he had followed up my acceptance by phoning me to confirm that I was still on for the meal - a nice touch.

We ate our meal in a nice pub, he refused to allow me to buy even a drink - nice but I also felt a little creeped out by this - I'm used to paying my way or at least buying a drink.

On the journey home he came out with the line that clinched it….

"I'm not up for playing Happy Families. Your place or mine?"

A brief fling involving lots and lots of meaningless but very athletic sex and an enduring friendship


For The Most Rural Chat Up Line

In a bar, said by a fit and healthy looking outdoor type, "I've got my own tractor you know."

Married, produced children with, split up with - he was lying - the tractor wasn't his own, it was his dad's and he loves that more than anything else in the entire world



For The Sneakiest and Most Manipulative Chat Up Line

Car Share to a party?

We'd better meet up first to make sure we get on, nothing worse than sharing a car for hours with someone you can't stand. Visit to an art gallery, trip to a pub, all good. Time to say goodbye, "See you next month then for the party!"

Ten minutes later….

Phone goes,

"Erm…I've missed my last train."
"Me too"
"I know, let's get a hotel room!"

Just coming up to nine months…...Oh, and I'm the recipient of that last Oscar - he didn't have any idea of what he was walking into.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 16:15, 7 replies)

Young, foolish, falaraki
I was young, i was foolish,i was on an 18-30 holiday in Falaraki. I was 18, my best mate a 17 year old latent lesbian. You can imagine thecarnage we were causing, first holiday without parents, two weeks, lots of free alcohol.

Our first night out, me not very confident but made up for it by having massive breasts which always got some attention. I was still trying to be 'cool' and was wearing a pair of proper metal handcuffs.

My friend was at the bar when a strange man comes over; " My mate fancies your mate!". I thought we were back in high school again.

Two minutes later, i'm handcuffed to a 5ft 6 bloke (im 5ft 10!), we're sitting on a roof talking about leicester city. We go back to his (the boobs were on show), very pissed and did the do.

I woke up surrounded by three other blokes (asleep), wearing a school girls outfit including long socks and cuff burns. I have no idea what hotel i'm in and feeling very sick.

He walks me home, gives me is number and I think i'll never see him again.

We have now been together 5 yrs, living together and getting married.

Ahh hand cuffs
( squiddylyd Once you pop you can't stop!, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 16:15, Reply)

Boo!
My ex housemate Rob was a real catch. He had permanent morning breath that would kill any living thing within 200 yards of his open mouth, he only bathed once every fortnight and didn't know that our house had a washing machine (He actually asked if it was a new bit of kit when he popped round for a beer a few months after he moved out).

Despite these crippling social problems he always used to pull when he went out. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't lived with him.

So what was his secret to charming the members of the opposite sex? Did he use some great chat up line that would make the women want to bed him? or did he just drug them and bring them home (this may have happened with the fumes from his mouth but thats an afterthought).

Nope.

Rob had the unique way of approaching any women he met in the local pubs/ nightclubs/ passed out in their own vomit on the street and started fondling their tits. If they didn't complain he would carry on and more than likely I would bump into them in our living room the morning after. My guess is that he was a ten-to-two-er for the ladies of Barnsley.

This is how he met his now fiancee, the one who banned him from choosing me as his best man as she thought I would bring it up during my speech at their wedding.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 16:06, 7 replies)

My first time…in more ways than one…

I was just 29 years old, and comfortable not only with my social status and my circle of friends, but with my life in general. I was a fully paid up member of the ‘Zek From DS9 Appreciation society’, and my weekend pursuit of camping outside BBC headquarters as part of my ‘Bring Back Knight Rider’ campaign was a great way to keep myself busy.

I was happy.

However, one fateful day my mother had decided it was about time I went out, found myself a lovely girlfriend and moved forward with my life.

(I’m sure that’s what she meant, but what she actually said was: “I’m kicking you out of the house and using your room as a massage parlour for sailors. You’ve got until the end of the week to get out, you useless fuckstain!”)

Sensing the emotional, yet assertive twang in my mother’s voice as she was bravely choosing to cut the apron strings and set me free, I decided that the time was indeed right to find myself a worthy mate.

The very next Saturday evening I decided to venture out in the rain and drizzle towards the direction of the local discotheque. The place was imaginatively called ‘The Big Ole Pig Pen’

I find that preparation is always the key in matters such as this…and ever eager to fit in, my outfit was a masterpiece of research into the latest trends of style-conscious go-getters like myself. I had checked both the internet and my mum’s magazines for guidance and couldn’t be happier with the result.

I cunningly disguised my morbid obesity by dressing head-to-toe in black with vertical stripes (as it’s supposed to be ‘slimming’). Unfortunately, I had to paint the stripes on myself, and the only colour I could find in the garage was ‘Day-Glo pink’, but I was confident the finished article set off my balaclava and ski gloves quite nicely.

As I approached ‘The Big Ole Pig Pen’, the burly gentleman on the door with a strange glint in his eye insisted that the only way he would let a ‘runting scrote’ like me into his club was if I paid an extra £50…so I obliged and he bid me good day with a playful jabbing punch to the throat.

I had not limped more than 10 yards into the murky darkness of the club before I was knee deep in dry ice, cigarette butts, blood, vomit and spandex. Amongst the rampant flesh-fest that was on display before my eyes, I was immediately distracted by an image of perfection…

She was a vision, a glistening angel in posture correcting trainers, dripping with the faux glamour that only diamante, weapons grade fake tan and bullet-belts could provide. Her gold tooth sparkled like a glitterball, standing out because it was the only tooth of the top row. Her hair was short and blonde on one side, yet long and ginger on the other, which gave her an indecisive, vulnerable look. The way the lipstick mark was enticingly smudged on her bottom tooth made me literally tingle with anticipation.

I ached to touch the huge wart on her forehead that seemed to have a separate wart of its own, and longed to nibble at the chunky, vein packed thighs, that were attached to a skirt so short that even from across the room I could make out some French deserters straggling down from her undergrowth.

Although she was obviously way out of my league in the class department, I was determined to succeed. Like Spock in ‘Wrath of Khan’, when he got all that flaky skin and died with radiation burns only to be reborn again, I was not about to give up…on my destiny.

From the safety of a dark corner (next to a copulating couple that I’m sure didn’t mind that I was sitting right next to them) I watched, endlessly spellbound as she gyrated, swayed and foamed exotically on the dancefloor (in what I thought was a tantalising ‘mating ritual’, but I later discovered it was an epileptic episode from the strobe lighting).

After a few drinks I finally plucked up the courage to make ‘First Contact’…I tentatively approached her on the dancefloor, and as I mentally patted myself on the back for not stumbling over my own feet, I then proceeded to stumble over my own feet…which unfortunately resulted in me chucking my Pernod and Cherryade all down her white spangled boob-tube.

‘You fackin’ cunt!’ she fumed violently but huskily, in a cumly sort of way…

I prayed she wouldn’t notice my tongue darting out to lap up the droplets of spit she sprayed over me with every delicious word as she screamed again: ‘You better buy me anuvver drink or I’ll rip off your head and shit down your neck’

Transfixed by her charm I wrenched off my balaclava and dazzled her with my long rehearsed and finally mastered ‘sophisticated’ expression. (This was achieved by using my hands to stretch my mouth into my neck and then squinting really hard at her lazy eye).

The ice was now well and truly broken, I decided to hopefully drive her wild with a chat-up line that not only carefully detailed my own knowledge and prowess, but must surely make her powerless to my charm.

“Let me guess, fair maiden, you must be at least a WoW level 59…Do you speak Klingon?” I stuttered in my best ‘Roger Moore’ accent

“Why don’t you just fack off, you lump o’ maggot shit” she retorted with evermore chic finesse.

“Touché” I said. Trying to control my excitement and burning desire as I couldn’t believe the incredible reality that here I was…talking to a real girl...in fact, not just a girl…but a ‘woman’

Amongst the gentile banter I decided that I must take the leap of faith….I took a deep breath, tightly clutched the 17 inch Chewbacca model I was using as a lucky mascot, and quietly whispered:

“Erm…if it’s not too much trouble…erm…would you…. erm…. go out….. with….”

...

It was at this point that she checked her ‘Ninja Turtles’ watch and eloquently exclaimed: “Oh fack me, it’s bleedin’ 2 o’ clock! If I don’t get some hot cock action soon, I’ll have to shag the tramps by the bus stop...again…..so I guess you’ll have to do.”

Thusly, and with delicate grace, she grabbed me and thrust her hand down my grundies, seizing a vice-like hold of my ‘Commander Riker’ and shouted “Hang on spack-cake, it’s going to be a bumpy ride” as her hand forcefully sped up and down my throbbing midget-gem like a runaway jackhammer on overload.

Unfortunately, this rapid push-pull movement was affecting my whole body, not just ‘Little Mr Winkie’, and before I even had time to fire off my 'juicy tractor beam’, I spewed a multi-coloured swapshop of purest vomjuice into her face.

“Aww Fackin’ ‘ell!” she shrieked, and began using one hand to wipe herself down as she carried on vigorously pummelling my purple pork-pole with the other. I felt I was being flung around like a gurning rag doll until the gloopy payload-of-passion paste copiously erupted from my choc-full cheese churns.

Then, without a word, she turned and waddled off into the night with a bottle of Malibu under each armpit and a puddle of sweat formed above the top of her G-string.

I never saw her again…never even knew her name.

In the spirit of ‘better to have loved and lost’ and all that, my only regret is that we never kissed…simply because I had spent so long practising my kissing technique on my 'Jean-Luc Picard' action figure. Perhaps my lack of sensitivity towards her was why she never returned…

…

But the story doesn’t end there…for I lingered at the disco, simply revelling in the night’s experience…never wanting it to end…I thought everybody had long gone and I was on my way out...when I heard a quiet voice behind me…

It said: “Will you go out with me?”

I turned round on my heels, but the only person I could see was Horace, the 7ft tall, half-human, half-rhino doorman. Before I could even say ‘Were you talking to me?’ he’d dragged me by my hair into the coat room and showed me the TRUE meaning of love…twice in fact…and it wasn't particularly tender the first time either.

Anyhoo, we’ve been together 6 months now...and although my chutney-cupboard has sagged a bit…I have never been happier.


Don't you just love a romantic ending…?
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:59, 15 replies)

McDonalds
I used to work at McDonalds, Grand Central, Stockport. Oh the horror. Good place for meeting teh grils though.

I went to uni, and invited one of my colleagues to come and stay. Unbelieveably, she actually turned up.

We spent an entire evening, from about 6pm to 4am on the sofa watching TV, inching toward each other. At about midnight, our hips were touching. At 2am, shoulders. About 3.30am she leaned her head on my shoulder. My heart nearly exploded. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I was in there. I said:

"Do you want to go out with me?"

"erm, yeah ok."

We went to bed. My single bed. Fully clothed.

Rubbish.

Never even got a shag. She pretty much ignored me for three months. We met up back at McDonalds at the christmas holidays. After 3 shifts of no talking and total and utter awkwardness I cornered her in the 'crew room'. She looked pissed off.

I said "Look, this isnt working out. I think we should split up."

She looked confused, realised what I was saying and replied, "yeah, right, fine, cheers".

And that was it. I am a love GOD.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:54, 5 replies)

My last lasting relationship
was really quite accidental.

Drink had been drunk and we were sat side by side in the pub when I put my hand down to fetch my phone. It accidentally met with hers before it could find its way into my pocket, and the reciprocated touch lingered a bit too long to pretend it hadn't happened.

Before long we accidentally left the pub at the same time and accidentally found ourselves back at her house where we proceeded to accidentally do squelchy things to each other.

The only truly deliberate act was remaining friends having accidentally split up after about a year.
( Moey, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:48, Reply)

"you're fit"
a few years ago, i had a summer bbq back at my parents' house. my brother came and brought a fair few of his mates along. as i live in london, my friends and his don't tend to mix all that often, so there was quite a bit of mingling.

my friend anya had brought her very new and very young german boyfriend with her. unbeknown to any of us, he sneaked into the conservatory, had a cheeky tactical chunder which carpeted the glass dining table with an inch of terracotta coloured vomit, and quietly drew all the curtains behind him as he left.

we carried on partying, oblivious to this. until my brother's friend gavin stumbled across it by mistake. he also drew the curtains behind him and left the vomit to itself. but then later in the evening, he was trying to get one of my friends to himself. the only room that offered privacy from the party was the conservatory.

so gavin turned to her and said: "you're fit. i know where there's some sick. do you want to come and see it?"

he was 26, not 6. but amazingly this worked, and they went out for... well, about a month actually, but it was beautiful whilst it lasted!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:40, 3 replies)

Happily ever after
I spent a year in Oz from 09/05 til 08/06, had lots of fun and was actually going to stay out there but had visa issues so came home.I should also mention that on the day I left England to go to Oz my sister went in to labor. I called her from Singapore and she had had a little boy. I wouldn't see him for a year. While I was out there I had 2 strange dreams (bear with me, these are relevant to the story).

The 1st of these dreams was far to real and was the one that made me decide that I couldn't / didn't want to be there. I very close to my dad - he's ace - and in the dream I had a call from my mum saying that he was very ill and I need to get home as soon as possible. I tried to rearrange my flight, got it sorted only to get the call that it was to late and my dad had died. I woke up in tears nad realised that I do not want to be on other side of the world and get a call like that so like I said, I was homeward bound. The 2nd, a little stranger but again VERY relevant, was that I a married a girl from school. It was a bit of an odd dream but the memory of it (including who the girl was) still sticks in my mind now.

Fast forward a couple of months and I make the 2.5hours trip to Melbourne Airport for my flight home. It was a Friday morning - a little drizzly and a bit chilly (twas August). I land in Manchester on Saturday morning, having had little sleep to be greeted by happy, lovely parents :) I was glad to be home.

It must have been around 11am when I got home and was in the pub by 11.30 having a pint with my dad - life was good and he was happy to have his boy back. Mates turned up and they had arranged a gathering that night to welcome me back. A meal was had a beer was drank. After a loooooooong flight and little sleep I was flagging. A couple of little pills sorted out this little problem and I carried on drinking. Bed finally beckoned at around 3am. Come 9.30am I on way to meet my nephew for the 1st time. Again, much beer was drank and food ate. My nephew was cute and parents were happy to have their family complete again. At around 5pm we tootle home. During the course of the day I had a call from an old friend and it was agreed that my parents drop me off at his on the way home. I woke up outside my parents house. After a bit of persuasion (I just wanted to sleep!) I was on my way back to sunny Macclesfield, met my chum and drank beer. AS with the Saturday I was knacked so pills where produced again. We tootled off to town and my mate introduced me to a few people. WE somehow ended up going to Chicago Rock - not my cup of tea but hey ho - and more beer was had and my mates friends joined us there.

More beer was drank, the pills kicked in and all was good. One girl, a pretty little thing was she, proclaimed that I went to school with her? Oh yeah, sez I, and called her by her sisters name. She chuckled and corrected me. We spent the rest of the night ignoring everyone and just chatting away, drinking and enjoying the tingles that you get from consumption of Class A drugs. People left and we went to another bar to meet her friend then held hands as we walked back to my mates house. I had a cigarette at his backdoor, she joined me, we kissed. It was electric. She was a trendy little vixen and I was a skinhead skater - people like us don't tend to get together. I was getting a taxi home, she offered to share as her house was on the way. We woke up together the next morning and have barely spent a night apart since.

We fell in love, madly in love, love like I can't describe. She was in the process of buying a house. We got engaged on Christmas Eve, moved in to the house between Boxing Day and New Year and got a big fat cat. In January we found out we were having a little baby and today is his 1st birthday.

I went to school with my missus, which is were the 2nd dream mentioned earlier has relevance, and hadn't seen her since we left - 14 years ago. We very rarely spoke at school but did kisses once at someones party.

Here we are now - a happy little family, nice house, decent jobs and life is good. We kiss whenever one of us leaves the house, tell each other 'I love you' on a regualr basis and always mean it, snuggle in bed and watch scary films, raise a little fat bouncy boy and we're very happy.

Edit: I had a falling out with the chap I went to see and we only became pals again jsut before I left for Oz. He was my best buddy and still is. It was him that intorduced me to the missus. Cheers Tim!!!
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:40, 3 replies)

My new girlfriend
After we first got together she admitted to me that she had anorexia.

These days, it's not going so well.

I'm starting to see less and less of her.
(dchurch bah, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:38, 6 replies)

A university tale
It was the first year of university. I was eighteen, away from home for the first time, living life to the full in the big city. Naturally, this involved drinking copious amounts of gin and rose wine as often as humanly possible, whilst attempting to build lifelong friendships and meaningful relationships. Birthdays are often an extension of this, and my nineteenth was to be no different.

As it turned out, March 12th 2007 would go down in all my friends’, and friends of friends’, memories as the most debauched night out of the whole of first year. Entertainment was provided by the hapless birthday girl, who stumbled into the student bar an hour and a half late to the sound of applause and proceeded to attempt a curtsey, only to fall into a chair and demand a drink.

Now, student bars are renowned for their foul concoctions but I’m pretty sure Manchester Uni’s got the one most guaranteed to get freshers lairy. The “Green Monster” is a pint of neon, pulsating toxic ooze tasting vaguely of fruit. It consists of one orange Reef, some blue curacao and is topped up with cider. I think. This wasn’t the drink I was presented with, however. Some clever soul bought a “Turbo Shandy” – lager and Smirnoff Ice in one glass. Some even cleverer soul decided to get a fresh (plastic – classy) pint glass and mix the two concoctions together to create a Superbrew™. Well, it was grey, it smelled like nothing on this earth and I necked it in one long guzzle. To the bar!

So on we moved to the gay village, to a lovely place with £1 shots and cheap bottles of fluorescent alcopops. Uproariously (an underused word, in my opinion) drunk by now, I proceeded to flaunt my bisexuality in the worst way possible by face-raping my gay female housemate. I then went to the toilets and was lost for half an hour (apparently), until the same female housemate came in looking for me. Sadly, I was asleep in a cubicle. Getting me out of there was fun: I accidentally bashed into one of the walls in that awfully uncoordinated way that only the terminally wasted can manage and embarked into a Laurel & Hardy-esque sequence of bouncing off each of the walls of the toilet about three times before staggering through the door and sitting at my housemate’s feet giggling inanely.

The aim of this drawn-out tale is merely to prove that I was in a state of drunkenness near to alcohol poisoning levels. This was when my friends decided to get me home. A male friend of mine helped me towards the door where I was, spectacularly, sick all over his trousers and shoes before demanding pizza and cigarettes. On arrival back at halls (sans pizza) my housemate asked me where my keys were. “Inmabag,” I advised sagely. “And where is that?” she said gently. “Inbar. Hehe.” I giggled back. Fortunately the warden was feeling sympathetic and let me in, where I lay in a haze of blackness until about 7pm the next day, completely unable to touch food.

The point of this? Apart from providing my soul-baring introduction to b3ta, the friend who I threw up on later took a shine to me. Clearly my vomit is one of my most attractive features: we’ve been together nearly a year. He delights in regaling that story, and keeps threatening to return the favour some day.

Length? Missed the bouncer’s shiny shoes by a couple of feet.
(Holloway_Girl To err is to be human, to be a fool is to believe, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:30, 3 replies)

Penalty without goalie, that was...
She had just gotten her driving licence for motorbikes (a few years after me) so I suggested the obvious. We rode all day until we got hungry, she cooked wonderfully for us and the night started when i said: "This is the perfect moment for a good- night joint, isn't it?" I never would have guessed she had anything smokable at home, but indeed...

That's almost 8 years ago now, we're married for four years. Call it my "current flame" if you like.
(timbolator successfully hiding from the authorities on, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:24, Reply)

Woman related twattery
When it comes to my own lovelife, I'm a complete Beadlehands of the first degree. Normally, when a member of the opposite sex shows any kind of interest a hidden psychological switch in my brain changes it's default setting from "Confident, articulate and smiley" into "Blabbering, awkward mongtoid" and a cringeworthy descent into drooling haplessness ensues.

Many a promising smile or warmly comfortable first date scenario has descended into a belming farce (minus the obligatory trouser dropping) thanks to this hidden brain switch I seem to be blessed with, from my earliest days of earnest lady fumbling. It’s nothin short of a miracle that I ever managed to get my end away at all.

My salvation I suppose, was to adopt an attitude where I simply pretend that I’m either chatting away to a stranger or that I’m having a drink with a friend. That way, I can appear all cool and non-committal, while avoiding frightening the ladies away with any unseemly spakkardness. Having said that, hedging my bets so to speak had led me many a time to realize – often months or years after the event – that I’ve missed an open goal in somewhat spectacular, Stuart Pearce style. Occasionally, this realization will come to me when I’m in a public space.

“Mummy, why is that man in the car smacking his head on his steering wheel? What's a 'cunt'?”

To give an example of PJM’s sterling spazziness with the laydees, we’re going to have to beckon you dear readers back in time to 1994, probably sometime in July to be accurate. PJM is in his local fleapit nightclub and is stood near the dancefloor clutching an overpriced pint of beer which has some similarities to the act of making love in a boat; namely it’s fucking close to water. The club is reverberating to the sounds of Alex Party’s absolutely atrocious “Don’t Give Me Your Life”. PJM’s alcohol dulled mind is probably thinking “God, this track is awful. When I’m running the country, whoever is responsible will be shot”.

"PJM, haven’t seen you in a while? How are you?”

I’m shaken from my wallflower-esque torpor by a familiar looking brunette with dark eyes. It’s Melanie MacDonald. Ah, Melanie.

I used to have a McJob at a well known high street stationers while I was studying for my A Levels. If I may come across all Terry Thomas for a moment or two ("Me? With a group of privately educated schoolgirls? With my reputation"); I was aware that one of my co-workers was showing some interest in me and that some of her schoolfriends, finishing their final year of GCSEs at the local ladies private school were turning up to check me out. Most of them would pretend to flick through the pages of What Horse or whatever and gawk awkwardly at me, but the boldest actually strode up, calmly put something she wanted to buy on my counter and engaged me in conversation. Yep, that was Melanie. Bold, charming and articulate.


Two years had now passed since those gang of awkward teenage girls and Melanie was now of voting age. She was also rather lovely, dark hair, dark eyes and possessing an alluringly curvaceous shape. The gist of the ensuing conversation has been lost in the mists of time, but the upshot was that Melanie pressed a piece of paper into my palm containing her phone number and asked me to give her a call sometime.

Now 1994 was a very bad year for me. I was then struggling with a serious illness that left me two and a half stone underweight. Yes, I realize I was in a nightclub and drinking beer, but I wasn’t about to abdicate from my social responsibilities. Believe you me, I ended up paying for every night out.

I think I called Melanie once, chatted for about an hour and didn’t follow anything up. Over the months and following years, I often wondered why Melanie gave me her phone number. I guess I kind of kicked myself for not following up a friendship, but c’est la vie and all.

I lamented that women like Melanie never found me attractive, should I ever end up having a girl as pretty as Melanie make a pass at me in the future - hypothetically speaking of course - I'd overcome my innate bell-endedness and make the very most of whatever opportunity presented itself.

What do you mean “That’s a shit story?”. Well the story isn’t quite complete folks, for we’re going to revisit the same club but three years hence in July 1997. PJM is now back enjoying good health again and is stood by the dancefloor clutching an overpriced, pissy-weak pint of lager in his hand swaying gently to the rhythm of Olive and “You’re not alone”, not the finest example of the genre but much better than Alex-Cunting-Party.

“PJM! Hello!”

I was startled by a familiar sight in front of me. Oh my stars, it’s Melanie MacDonald again. We talked for a while, reminisced about mutual friends and old times, had a drink or two and eventually went our separate ways having made vague promises to “catch up” at some point.

Melanie was as alluringly lovely as ever. Oh yes, she was quite something to behold. I was feeling a bit of a warm glow to be honest, nice to be acknowledged in such a fashion and all. I remembered warmly that promise I'd made to myself three years earlier. Could she...? Possibly...? Nah... Surely not.

I headed to the bar, whereupon I rejoined the chap I was out clubbing with and gained the unwanted attention of a bloke called George, who I went to school with. George was frankly a knob, never letting an opportunity to show pass him by and was doing his damnedest to impress me with tales of his derring do. All of a sudden, someone forces their way in between the pair and thrusts a piece of paper into my bewildered hand.

“PJM, I’m back from Uni for the summer. I’d really like to spend some time with you over the next few weeks. Call me”. With that, she departed to her waiting taxi, leaving a trail of perfume in her wake as if to reassure me that what just happened wasn’t an hallucination.

My mouth dropped open, as did the mouths of my two drinking partners. What. The. Fuck. They couldn't believe their eyes. Damn it, I couldn't believe mine. George stood there mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out. Like a gulping like a goldfish, aware that he was well and truly beaten. Thank Christ for that, he was beginning to bore me to tears.

I pressed the phone number into my pocket.

But I never did call Melanie.

Why? Because the following day I had a prearranged first date with someone else.

That "someone else" ended up becoming my ex-wife.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:15, 9 replies)

Persistence...
Ten years of begging and being ignored and now we're getting married.

Top Tip: Stalking works, kids!
(bigolslabomeat, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 14:59, Reply)

Funny story actually....
I met my current lover outside primary school one day. I thought it was love at first sight and so eventually managed to gain the courage to go and speak to them.

My heart in my mouth and butterflies in my stomach I pulled up alongside them in my car and offered to give them a ride home, and that I would give them sweets to eat along on the journey (maybe this would also relate to last weeks QOTW!!!!).

Needless to say they are now in my cellar waiting for me at all times of the day ready :)
(Foulkesy123 The one and only..., Fri 29 Aug 2008, 14:51, Reply)

I asked my current girlfriend...
...if she wanted to be my next rape victim.

I'm a charmer, me.
( gone, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 14:44, 2 replies)

Pants
I first met my considerably better half after I'd just been for my bi-annual trip to M&S.

The first thing she said to me was "What have you been up to?"

The first thing I said to her was "I've been buying pants", which I proceeded to show to her.

Now, after five years and despite her best effort, I still have a talent for telling it like it is.
(shitworth, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 14:44, Reply)

signals? SIGNALS?
Jesus christ, bloody women. When I hold a door open for you, I'm not just holding a door open for you. What I'm really saying is:

"If I hold this door open for you, then maybe you will be impressed by this seemingly random act of kindness, and therefore obliged to let me put things inside you for a night with the inevitable conclusion of having your stomach and boobs sprayed with various substances."

Why dont you women pick up on these things?? It's not that hard ffs.

(Also, applies to giving up a seat on the bus/tube, picking up something you accidentally dropped, and any other minor action we perform for you).
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 14:29, 5 replies)

Sweet story.
I was on Match.com, and I said "no smokers, no children, and no long distance."

One woman kept popping up: a smoker with four kids living a three-hour drive away in Memphis, TN.

Because the pickings were slim (I originally typed "slime," which is actually not too far off), we talked on the phone and arranged a date. I went fully expecting to eat BBQ ribs on Beale Street at a blues club followed by her giving me the typical "You're a nice guy, but..." parting line.

Five years later, she's quit smoking, the four kids are ours (not just hers) and she spends every night right next to me. Shows you how much I know, huh?
( setimret likes his metaphors mixed, not stirred, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 14:23, 1 reply)

While people are on the subject, more reasons why I am a dating disaster and am destined to be single forever:
1. The day after said effeminate idiot with long blonde hair dumped me, I went to the pub to revise for exams (yes, he decided to do it in the middle of my exams!) with my friends. I went to the bar to order tea, where a young man decided to try out his equally successful (!) chat up line of asking me how I liked my tea. After fighting an almost irresistable urge to say "How I like my women, with a spoon in them!" I said "Strong" and smiled. Neither of us knew what to say then really.

2. I FINALLY managed to pull a rather good looking young man in a club at home, my first ever I'd like to add! I then promptly lost his number.

3. I accidentally turned down a date. Apparently when a young man who you've only recently met offers to take you out to dinner, he doesn't mean as friends. Who knew?!

And I wonder why my best friend at uni calls me a twat on daily basis :(
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 14:17, 6 replies)

One Sunday Morning
About six weekends ago, I came to in unfamiliar surroundings. Shaking cobwebs out of my head, I managed to figure out I was in a hotel room. I heard a small sigh and, on closer inspection, I realised I was not alone.

My recall started to kick in and I pieced together the previous evening, at some point during which I had been introduced to the beautiful Emily. We'd chatted, flirted, snogged, and I'd been invited back to her hotel room where she'd been staying as she lived in Manchester. Much fun had been had and we'd fallen asleep at around 7am.

When she stirred I was convinced it would be awkward, but she looked at me, murmured, "Morning, you," and rolled over facing away, pulling my arm across her so we were spooning. We chatted a bit, realised there was no awkwardness, and had some more sexytime.

We texted each other all week, and she came through to Leeds the week after, which was when we decided to become a couple. So far it's going like a dream.

Apologies for soppiness. Pic of her in profile for a brief period.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 14:08, 4 replies)

Bloody hell
This isnt really the tale of how I asked her out, its more of a tale of the things I went through with this one lass I dated.

We first met when I was working on a taxi fare and had been "ahem" pulled over by the rozzers to inspect my vehicle. I didn't really take to her as she was a bit of a smart assed bitch and seemed to fancy one of the geeky looking passengers I had with me at the time. We arrived at the drop off point, I collected my fare and buggered off. She did look a little pissed off at me for doing this and for some reason I decided to change what I had planned and help her (and her mates) out a bit.

Turned out she was part of a group of people fighting against the government. The group used to cause a shedload of damage to council owned buildings . I was ok with that as I was pretty sick of the current government too, maybe not to the level at which some of her friends would go to but I kept my mouth shut.

Aanyway I was eventually drawn into her little world and would regularly help out whenever I could. Trouble was I had my own personal problems and due to one of my mates fucking me over I was separated from her for a while. The last I saw of me was when she told me that she loved me. I didn't really have the right amount of time to give her a decent reply and just said I know.

She came back eventually but by then I was in a right state: I decided that I hated my old lifestyle as due to this I felt like crap and could hardly see (Don't ask). Thanks to her, and with my new outlook on life, I decided to help out with her mates and managed to make quite a name for myself.

We are now married and my only problem is that she treats my best mate like our pet dog. To be honest he does moult sometimes and he does look like a dog as he is a wookie.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 14:05, 7 replies)

Agreed and probably shouldn't have
Presented in two versions for reader's choice:

Short Version, Least Tenuous
Accidentally got the girl I really liked to ask me out, we did for a short period, she ends things before anything serious develops.

Long Version, Most Tenuous
Met a girl totally out of the blue in the local, she as a barmaid off shift, me as an at-the-time regular. Groups of both friends were present, and although I'd seen the girl before, this was the first time I'd spoken to her. It wasn't long before I was smitten by said girl, and after seeing her a few more times, sometimes just us, sometimes in a group, I got that distinct falling feeling.

Two problems were present, the first being that the girl in question was smitten with one of my mates, my misogynistic fuck'em & chuck'em mate to be precise (love the guy, would trust him with my life, but not with my wife), who was enjoying having a girl fawn over him that he had no intention of reciprocating with. The second was that after some bad stuff happening in my early twenties, for the next few years I'd been actively avoiding even thinking about getting involved with anyone, ruining my own life was fair enough, but dragging someone else down just wasn't acceptable.

So far, so bad, I'd fallen for a girl that didn't know I liked her, was interested in my mate and that in good conscience I shouldn't have done anything with. Pretty much solves itself.

Fast forward some time, said girl is out with my mates and me on a friday, usual drinking stuff. My misogynistic mate has handed off looking after duties of said girl to me, by basically ignoring her. We end up talking, a lot, and flirting, plenty of that too. My conscience is a wee bit quietened by the beer, and my thoroughly out of practise charm seems to be making a return. Such is it returning, that some time later, the girl takes me off to one side, to tell me that she really likes me, we should see each other and that I should probably kiss her. I did, stars aligning, silence, fireworks, toe curling, it was all of the above, I was over the moon, the bad part of my life was suddenly brightening up, the future I'd given up on was restored in an instant, I'd say karmic redemption were I that way inclined.

I saw her for a little while longer, then one fateful night I stopped into her work on the way home from the cinema, chatted a bit and on attempting to give her a kiss goodnight, I received the cheek. Next day I receive a text message, saying that she was risking hurting me by carrying on, so that's it, all over. After an uncharacteristically violent spell (furniture, don't panic), I manage to convince her to talk to me. It turns out that an old boyfriend of hers had spoken to her and teased her about her last relationship, making her doubtful and confused. I held my tongue and anger, absolved her of all wrongdoings, sent her away happy, and most foolishly, agreed I would be in the pub later for a drink.

Drink was consumed, and said girl is almost immediately falling all over my mate, he of the misogynist title. Needless to say, being jealous, hurt and half cut, I didn't act exactly with aplomb. I threatened to kill my mate a number of times, and gave a certain amount of vitriol to the girl. After parting ways, it was a while before we spoke again, both apologetic in our own ways, angry in others. She also informed me that nothing would ever be able to happen between us again.

Fast forward more time, we are now friends, occasionally detouring into flirting territory and coming back just as quickly. She now has a boyfriend, who I quote is "wet" and "the relationship won't last", so go figure. Now I'm in that most familiar of male territories, the friend zone. I'll never confess the huge back story to the girl, how she's had a more profound effect on my life than she'll ever know and that I still can't forget about her, because to tell her even half of it, would be equal parts cruel and unfair.

Apologies for length, that was as abbreviated as I could make it
(ShiftyBastard won the World Cup on World Soccer Champs 2010!, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 13:43, 1 reply)

Geeks unite!
Let us peel back the curtains of time a few years to when I was recently divorced, living by myself in an apartment and feeling quite lonely.

I've never been good at chatting up girls in bars- in fact, I think there have been maybe two girls who I've gone home with that way- so I spent a lot of time alone and unhappy. Picture it for a moment- I was 41, working the night shift in a semiconductor plant, living in a two bedroom apartment that was occasionally also inhabited by my kids (one night a week and alternate weekends), without a lot of money or opportunity to get out, and when I did go out I never had anything resembling luck.

So I did what any desperate sort would do- I set up a profile on match.com and started sending "winks" at the pretty ones.

I found out pretty quickly that women don't respond when men "wink" at them, or when they get messages. Of course not- that would make too much fucking sense, wouldn't it? Gah.

On the other hand, I was starting to get messages from women.

Some of them were obvious no-goes off the bat- one listed her enthusiasms as NASCAR and monster trucks, for instance, and anyone who said they were a nurse was immediately rejected- but there were a few who seemed pretty and pleasant enough. I mean, you're not going to find Elle MacPhearson on there, but you'll certainly find something other than mingers and munters if you look a while. So I chatted them up on there a fair bit, and started meeting them in person for drinks.

One girl in particular struck me as being funny and interesting. She was four months younger than me, very curvy (okay, a bit chubby, but she carried it well), reddish-blonde hair, wore rectangular hipster glasses, had a dry sense of humor, and liked a lot of the same music and movies that I did. We met for drinks, and she ordered a half and half- which is one of my preferred drinks if I can find a place that has both Harp and Guinness on tap. We got on well, so I invited her back to my place for dinner.

I cooked a stir fry and gave her a decent beer from my fridge, and we had a very nice meal together. She spied my scotch bottle and asked if she could have a bit. Woo! I thought, and grabbed the whisky tumblers.

We went to the living room and she spotted my guitars and asked what I played. I took one down and played something- god knows what- but then I followed it with "Poisoning Pigeons In The Park" and "Pollution". She grinned like a thief and commented that she had never heard anyone play Tom Lehrer on a 12 string before, then kissed me.

We lay there letting the sweat dry as we caught our breath, and I ran my hand over her soft pale skin, caressing her curves before I gently swept a stray hair back from her face. She smiled sleepily at me. "I don't normally do this, you know."

"I kind of figured that. I'm glad you did, though. What made you decide to sleep with me?"

She grinned. "You played Tom Lehrer for me. Any man who can do that has to be worth getting to know."

And there you have it. I got laid because of Tom Lehrer's music. I doubt that even he could claim that.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 29 Aug 2008, 13:43, 6 replies)

In the closet
This is a long one – so I do apologise in advances

Many years ago when I was a young teen - trying to do naughty things to innocent women – I started to see an attractive Muslim girl called …erm lets say Mel (which is not her name)

Now Mel was from a large Muslim family who were very religious, especially her brother. Some might have called him a fanatic. The police, for example, would have considered him a fanatic, but as this is pre 9/11 he was able to practice his freedom of speech without being held in a cell without charge. Even though her family had these views, Mel was a very western girl with very western views…….

Anyway – as I am white, atheist, drink, smoke and eat pork – we both decided that it was best if I didn’t meet her family straight away.

Now the first date had gone well – I got a nice little snog. The second date was even better. We spent our time laughing like children or staring into each others eyes like only a Hollywood couple would do (in front of fireworks and sweeping orchestral score). I even got a cheeky grope of her norks while sucking her face off.

The third date was set and we went out for some drinks, laughed a lot, talked loads and copped many a feel. As the night draw to a close she leant over and whispered into my ear “are you coming back to mine”.

I didn’t need asking twice.

As we approached her house she turned to me and said “You must be very quiet. My room is the only one downstairs and my parents are out, but, my brother is in. If we wake him he will kill you. And then me. Understand”. I nodded and felt a bit of fear. Her brother was not the sort of man I would want to piss off. In short – he was a fucking lunatic.

We made it into the house as silent as a mouse and crept into her bedroom. As soon as she shut the door she turned to me and ripped off my clothes. She was an expert. She knew exactly what she was doing. I just stood back, looked to the heavens and started to believe in god. I removed her clothes and pushed her gently onto the bed. She got back up and opened a large draw that was on the bottom of a huge Victorian wardrobe that was against her wall. After a few seconds rummaging she produced a box of condoms.

“Will you go out with me” I stuttered

As this was our first time – I wanted to make an impact. As we got down to it I used all my skill and know how (EG my early teens spent watching porn) and used every trick I knew. I threw her around the room changing position and angle of entry – it was almost a master class. As she sat on top gently moving her hips in beautiful rhythm I decided to change position one last time.

The problem was I didn’t realise how close I was to the edge and I managed to chuck her clean off the bed. If this is not bad enough, she didn’t hit the floor, but, fell into the open wardrobe door with a smack.

Shit – I thought. Then, in almost slow motion, the wardrobe started to topple. Her weight in the draw had made the uneven monster fall. As quick as a flash I jumped out and put the full weight of my 17 year old body behind it. It crushed me like a pack of cards onto the bed. I was completely stuck with a hollowed out oak tree on top of me and a naked Muslim girl stuck in a part closed draw at me feet.

“Can you move” she whimpered
“Errrrrruuuuurrfff…….no”
“Shit”
“Fucksucks”
“What are we going to do?” she asked.

I once again tried to lift the wardrobe, but, with no luck. I gave it everything I had, but, it didn’t budge an inch. Worse of all, the weight of it crushing my legs between the bed and its heavy door had started to stop blood flow. The pins and needles were really becoming unbearable.

“We are going to have to call for help” I finally said – visions of being hacked to death by her brother flooding my brain.
“No” She whimpered – visions of being hacked to death flooding her brain
“I’m sorry Mel, but, I can’t feel my legs”

She called out twice. Within minutes her brother opened the door. I twisted my head to take a look at him and he was just frozen in the doorway trying to work out what the fuck was going on.

“What the fuck is going on” he finally said – having failed to fathom our stupidity

“Get me out of here” I said (surprisingly bravely)

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON” he shouted

“It’s not what you think” Mel forced out. Which was a mistake as he had not even noticed her until then

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON” he bellowed

I became very clear by the blood vessel throbbing on his head that he was not happy. It also became very clear that I would not be seeing Mel again.

I never did. She never came out anymore and only “vetted” friends could see her. Her shame in her family was only very short lived though – exactly three days after this happened her brother was arrested in a public toilet.
( KISS.ME.WHERE.I.POO Signed the sex offenders register on, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 13:43, 3 replies)