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This is a question Helicopter Parents

Back when young ScaryDuck worked in the Dole office rather than simply queuing in it, he had to deal with a claimant brought in by his mum. She did all the talking. He was 40 years old.

Have you had to deal with over-protective parents? Get your Dad to tell us all about it.

(, Thu 10 Sep 2009, 15:13)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

That's no geek!
As I have previously mentioned, my Mum tended on the protective side when it tended to my upbringing. Not so much a helicopter parent as an Apache armed with Sidewinder missiles of maternal wrath. Which were unleashed at anyone who hurt her darling son, with an anger which would make the Furies themselves think "Blimey, steady on a bit!" Thankfully in recent years, she has chilled out a lot, but still, it makes for very entertaining stories when she's had a few of Mr Foster's finest cans of Australian pisswater.

One of her favourites, which perversely I am rather proud of, is when I was mugged by the local hard man. Or as I preferred to call him, a cock-faced donkey rapist. I should perhaps clarify I'm not proud of being mugged- I should have stuck up for myself, but he was bigger than me and blew smoke in my face. But Mum's reaction remains with me to this day, and when you think of it, was quite inventive.

She knew the police could do bugger all, it was his word against mine, and despite being all well-spoken and middle-class, it wouldn't cut any mustard with the CPS, or Criminal Placation System as she referred to them at the time.

Anyway, to the point. Mum and I were at this point about the same size, and with a hood up, you'd be hard-pressed to tell the difference. Which the jizz-guzzling son of a buttmonkey couldn't, poor him. She put my coat on, and stalked off into the night, baseball bat in hand, on a lone quest, in search of my assailant. And she found him. And cornered him. And then proceeded to beat seven shades of shit out of him.

And then drove off in her Honda Accord.


Perhaps a little too far that time Mum.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 12:55, 4 replies)
Gcse trauma
I was 15 young all was going swimmingly until Ms Bowden decided to fuck my life up once and for all. You see Ms Bowden was my English teacher and she was a ball breaker at the best of times. I never usually paid any attention to her classes as they were always the same old “men are scum and women should be more than equal tripe”.

But this lesson was different, different how you ask; well this was different because she demanded that I write a 40 page essay on a local person or persons for my English qualification. Now I’m not the best at English as you can all tell so I was bricking it.

I decided that if I chose the most compelling story to write it could bypass my lack or grammatical knowledge and thus gain me higher marks.

This led to me frantically searching for a suitable person to base me essay on. For the life of me I couldn’t find anyone with any character or interesting life at all so I resided to failing my GCSE’s and being an illiterate bastard for the rest of my life.

This was until I found them. These were the 2 single greatest people you’ll ever be more likely to meet. Kind, loving, thoughtful, caring, gracious, the list is endless. Now by this point I only had a few days before the dreaded deadline so I had to write like I’ve never wrote before.

I finished on time. I was elated but not only that my gruffalo of a teacher wanted to sent it to the local newspaper so that it could be printed for all to read. My story about the couple who dedicated there lives to helping others had saved my educational career.

A little back-story on the magnificent couple they were quite well off after living in the city and both had vast medical training so they would use there private helicopters to start an air rescue programme which had never been seen in these parts.

My story did get published and I have the front page framed at home. I still don’t know why they wanted to publish a story on a couple with a helicopter looking for accommodation but here’s the headline anyway.

Helicopter pair rents


Sorry so very very sorry
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 12:40, Reply)
Not my parents but a mates
A group of us went on our first holiday on our own. We were 17 went to malia for a piss up and the hope to find a lady drunk enough to touch our willies.

My mate who shall remain nameless had his mother call him every morning lunchtime and night on every day just to say hello.

She also paid his phone bill and forgot that you get charged for accepting calls abroad so she had a very lovely £300 phone bill for being such an overbearing mother.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 12:17, Reply)
Hmmm, maybe
The only time I actually act like a helicopter parent is when my kids are playing on the computer. Not because I am concerned about the content of what they are playing but it’s because I am trying to have a go myself and hate seeing them play a game so badly (Come here son let me show you how to play that level).
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 12:04, 5 replies)
Parachute parenting!
My mother abandoned me on a beach. And then I was raised in a lighthouse by an old man and his shrivelled sister! I ran away at twelve and at eighteen recieved my inheritance from my feckless father!

Now I am rich (although no Honda Accord yet!) and rakish! One has no conception of protective parenting! and have done exactly the same with my own progeny, distributed wantonly across the globe ...
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:58, 1 reply)
inspired by bane of my life's post........
I've done recruiting for an apprenticeship.

There was one 16 yr old rich kid whose dad kept pestering me and pestering me, 'when's the interview?' ummm....what interview, we haven't even done the shortlisting yet...'we might be abroad at our villa in majorca, you'll need to re-arrange my son's interview if it clashes'. The son's work experience on his CV largely consisted of 'working with MY gardener at MY villa in Majorca'. Needless to say when the lad turned up for the (not re-arranged) interview, he was fucking useless, came across as a spoilt brat, totally uncommunicative, who could probably barely wipe his own bumhole after having a dump and there was no way I was going to offer him a place.

And there was another candidate, nice young lad, but borderline as to whether he was suitable. He didn't make the final cut but there were 10 places and when one of the 10 dropped out, I thought it worth recalling this lad to see if we could sort something out for him so asked him back for a further interview. Nothing came of it unfortunately, but for the next month I was bombarded with increasingly abusive emails from his mum saying things like 'I do recruitment, if I behaved in the way you do, I'd be sued blah blah blah....'

Every time she emailed me, I'd reply 'Your son is 22 years old, therefore of an age at which I can only discuss this with him', although this clearly meant fuck all to her. He never got in touch though, too shy I think, probably something to do with having such an overbearing mother.

There were times when I wanted to say to such parents 'you do realise you're doing your son/daughter a MASSIVE fucking disservice by behaving like this, don't you?' But I wasn't allowed :(
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:58, Reply)
Cleaning up.
My mother is incredibly helpful.

So helpful that, when she discovered I had a migraine on one occasion and was therefore in bed, she came around to my house (I lived fairly close by at the time), let herself in and started to hoover.

I asked her to stop. She told me that it would save me the bother. I pleaded with her to stop. She told me it wouldn't take long. I begged for her please to go away. She told me, tearfully, that I don't appreciate anything she's ever done for me.

And then she told me to get out of bed and go downstairs so that she could do upstairs as well. I refused. It didn't stop her. She hoovered upstairs - including my bedroom - anyway.

She's an idiot at times.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:57, 2 replies)
My Mum...
still tells me to "watch crossing the road and don't speak to any strange men"

I am 40 and probably one of the strangest men you could meet.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:55, 3 replies)
Mrs Spimf is a concern
A while back i walked into the bedroom to find Mrs Spimf apparently trying to inflate one of our little boys socks while he reclined on the bed like a Roman dignitary.

When i enquired, i was matter of factly informed she was blowing into his socks to warm them 'in case his little feet were cold'.

At that point we lived in Dubai. It was 40 degrees.

Doesn't bode well.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:51, 2 replies)
Dr.Manhattan, My Mother, and the Love of my Teenage Years
I grew up in a household with Dr. Manhattan. Only he was a pasty grey colour, overweight, would swear like the Queen Mum afer a bottle of Blue Nun whenever Jeremy Beadle appeared on TV, and spent hours upon hours scratching his hairy arse with the kitchen spatchelor because the terrible sweat rash on his buttocks just wouldn’t clear up – dispite the prescription strength cream and fungicidal powder he’d apply so liberally to his glistening mancrack that it would congeal into a fine white goo to give the impression that he’d just been gang raped by a marauding mob off gay kangaroos.

Dr. Manhattan was my dad. And he would walk round the house stark bollock naked, absently jiggling his plums and scaring any passerby who happened to catch a glimpse of him as he pertched himself in the large bay windows of our house while sunning his fat flabby man tits while spouting his usual mantra about how he’d like to strangle Margaret Thatcher with his bare hands if he was ever given the opportunity. Thinking back, I imagine there were many sightings of the shaved yeti of Coventry circa 1985 - my parents really should’ve forked out and purchased a nice set of net curtains. Must’ve resembled an Amsterdam prostitute booth reserved for hideous old transgender harpies.

So nakedness and bodily functions were never much of an issue with my parents. And anyway, they pretty much left me to my own devices – they didn’t bother with me much, I didn’t bother with them. I sat in my fortress of solitude and masturbated, my dad sunned himself naked in the livingroom, and my mum made dinner. It suited all parties fine. My childhood was not too far away from those kids who are reared by packs of wild dogs, only substitute the dogs for the local chavs – then you’ve got my formative years pretty much sorted out.

So the whole helicopter parents thing never happened to me - except for one breif period when I was fifteen - my teenage cancer
scare. As I’ve mentioned on here before I acquired an extra bollock, and became known at school for the remainder of the year as ‘that Russian footballer’, in homage to Whodyounickabollockov (old joke, but kids will be kids). If that wasn’t bad enough my mum suddenly started showering me with all her motherly goodness. Think of a fly, think of a lump of steamy dog turd. Well, I was that dog turd, fill in the gaps yourself. It was bloody annoying. Factor this in with the fact that she would talk openly about bodily functions and you’ve got a terrible carcrash waiting to happen. This came to ahead after I’d had my extra bollock removed and was seeing the surgeon fella for a six month follow-up. You have to remember I’d endured six months of my mum asking me how my bollocks were every fucking morning over breakfast by this time.

The doc was finishing up the appointment: “So everything’s fine, the cysts been removed and there’s no complications. Do you have any questions?”

I was sitting there steaming – this bloke had just had his hands on my plums. I felt violated and not really in the mood to talk. My mum was holding my hand, clenching it tight.

“MASTURBATION!!!” she declared. The doc and I wondered if she’d developed sudden-onset tourettes. But no. She continued. “Has masturbation had anything to do with this condition, doctor? Go on, Spanky – tell the doctor about masturbation.”

“It’s perfectly normal for a teenage boy to masturbate, Mrs Hanky,” said the doctor, feeling my sudden anquish. My mum was still holding my fucking hand, for fucks sake...

“But EIGHT, sometimes TEN times a DAY!!!” Thanks, mum – cheers. “Is that really NORMAL???”

I piped up: “I don’t do it ten times a day, mum,” I mumbled.

Her grip tightened: “Yes you do!!! Remember, Spanky,” and then she said something that made me shudder to my core. “I clean your room!!! That mountain of dried up tissues doesn’t just magic itself into the bin, you know!!!”

The doctor started shuffling papers. You could tell he was getting a bit tired of this mental woman and her poor unfortunate son with the dodgy knackers. “It’s perfectly normal, Mrs Hanky-“

“But the NOISES he makes when he’s doing it, doctor!!! The NOISES!!!”

That was it. That was fucking it. Six months of this bullshit. Six fucking months... I released my hand and shot back: “What about you and dad, ehh? What about YOUR FUCKING NOISES??? It’s like having a room next to two fighting cats when you get started!!! Christ, I thought YOU WERE HAVING A FUCKING HEART ATTACK last night!!! And why the FUCK does dad have to call you HIS SEXY LITTLE LOVEBITCH AND GET YOU TO CALL HIM DADDY??? That’s FUCKING FUCKED UP!!! And why the FUCK can’t dad put some FUCKING CLOTHS ON EVERY NOW AND AGAIN??? Would it FUCKING KILL HIM??? I really don’t want to see his FAT FUCKING COCK ANYMORE!!!”

The doctor just pointed at the door. He didn’t put his arm down until we were both, my mum and I, out the door. “Please close the door,” he said. And I did. And that was the last I saw of my consultant surgeon, my beloved dick-doctor.

Things settled down to normal after that with my parents. My mum gave up on the parenting and bought me an Amiga for my room instead. My dad continued to do the Dr. Manhattan thing round the house (except my dad probably thought PHYSICS was a small town in Southern Spain).

But it wasn't really a loss - I fucking loved that Amiga...
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:43, 11 replies)
It was Daf 44 variomatic in case you care

Not quite sure if this qualifies, but here goes….

Back as a young dogfoodbloke at posh school I was required to join the Combined Cadet Force. This involved hours of pointless shoutiness and crawling through muck being bullied by wannabee officers – mostly sadistic Geography teachers. There was also the occasional discharging of firearms, which was cool… but too high a price to pay for the general misery and militaristic bullshit.

Each Wednesday afternoon was parade day. Tuesday night was, therefore, spent polishing boots, belt, brass huffing, ironing shirt etc. Formal inspection each time, and woe-betide anyone improperly dressed or other-than perfectly turned out; the sadists loved a “non-conformist” and would become imaginative about their methods of exacting humiliating revenge. Wednesday lunchtime we had to get into uniform for parade.

One Wednesday I realised I had left my beret at home. Rang mummy to say are-you-going-shopping / can-you-bring-my-beret-if you-are. Nope. Not a chance, staying in all day, tough shit, you should have packed kit properly like I told you to, etc. Cue a couple of hours of abject misery for me, anticipating the 3.15 bollocking from the bullying bastards owing to lack of hat.

At the appointed hour, there I am standing on parade, sans green headgear. Much sniggering from rest of group looking forward to my crawling-through-poo-whilst-being-shouted-at punishment. The officer walks down the line; ten away; nine away; eight away; buttocks clenched; seven away omigiodhesgonnakillme; six away. Then in the distance I heard the distinctive clatter of my mother’s air-cooled car. She screeched into view and stopped at the school gate by the playground on which we were assembled. I froze. Five away; four away. Still frozen. The window wound down and my beret was frisbeed in my general direction. Three away, didn’t break ranks, two away; ohfuckohfuckohfuck. What to do, bollocking from parent Vs bollcking from sadistic bastard…. continue to freeze. Then she bellowed “You ungrateful bastard” from inside the car before clattering off.

Officer bloke: “pick up your hat dogfoodbloke”.

He calculated, rightly, that any punishment he could imagine was nothing near as horrid as having “you ungrateful bastard” screamed at me for the rest of my time at school. I was ten.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:43, Reply)
Happy Shopper Coincidences
I had a pretty decent childhood as things go, living on a RAF base as a kiddie was just about as good as it got. You could go wherever you pleased, talk to men with big guns, use disused bomb shelters as dens and generally race around the place without a care in the world – it was ace. The only problem was my mother. She was still worried about letting me and my fellow siblings out and about. Looking back on it now I can completely see why, but when I was 6 I thought I was a grown up and goddammit I wanted to explore.

One day I had decided that I should be allowed to walk on my own to the Happy Shopper around the corner from our house. It was probably a 5 minute walk, if that, and was conveniently located opposite a guard post but my mother wasn’t having any of it. So I did what any young kid would do in similar situations – I cried. I cried like a little girl, for that is what I was. ‘Why *sob* won’t *sob* you *sob* let *sob* me *sob* go *snot*’ I followed my mum around for the rest of the day in full on sulk mode, with my bottom lip sticking out and my little furrowed brow fully on display. Finally my mum had had enough, she came off the phone in the kitchen and called out my name. ‘Do you still want to go to the shops?’ she asked. I frantically threw my head up and down, nodding crazily and she gave me £1 and said I could go and get some sweets.

I raced out of the house and got as far as the path before suspicion set in. I turned around to check my mum was still in the house… it looked that way so I tottered onwards, checking over my shoulder every few seconds just in case. When I was in sight of the shop I sped up, I had got there all by myself, I was great, I was amazing, I was a grown up! Racing around the store I could hardly contain my excitement, I got my sweets and I went to the queue. It was then I noticed a familiar face… it was my dad. He was in the queue in front of me and seemed rather surprised to see me in the store. I verbally attacked him, jumping up and down shouting ‘I’m here on my own, mums not here, I walked here by myself dad’. He said he was very proud of me and proceeded to pay for my sweets and walk me home before heading off back to work.

Now I had forgotten about this story until about a year ago when my mother was talking about how annoying we were as kids. She told me of her own story where I had nagged her silly about going to the shops and in the end had called up my dad and asked if he could follow me to the store and then walk me home so nothing happened to me… I couldn’t believe that as a kid I must have been so excited it didn’t even occur to me that my dad wasn’t there by coincidence… I never made the connection!! God I felt thick.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:32, 7 replies)
Seeing as I read this all the time and very rarely post
I thought I would join in... However, seeing as I had (like quite a few on here) a fairly hippy liberal upbringing I dont reallly have anything to tell so I thought I would give you a poem which somes up the question... Not my own though.

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:30, 8 replies)
I went out with a "liberal minded" girl once.
She invited me to a family orgy. Was nervous at first, but in the end...

.... Hell, I copped 'er parents.

I'm so very, very, very sorry for that one.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 11:06, 4 replies)
My Mum is the worst sort of helicopter parent
I've got lots of brothers and sisters and she has never looked after us properly or particularly cared for us as she's always up the duff (slag), but on the other hand she is always buzzing around us making sure that we do her chores for her and look after her properly! It's like she thinks shes royalty! Ever since I was really young I've been fetching and carrying, getting her food, even repairing the house if needed! And people wonder why I'm so pissed off most of the time!
I hate being a wasp.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 10:44, Reply)
I have to admit i am a bit of a helicopter parent
I don't know why I just can't get round the fact that some little diseased ridden skank is infecting my boy.

So I have to admit I did ban him from seeing any girls in my house.

I felt a bit bad about him never getting his end away so I make up for it.

Cum don't half taste nice after a while.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 10:35, 3 replies)
Bournemouth beach
My family used to go to Bournemouth on holiday every year, I don't know why. The seven of us were all on the beach behind the "sun trap" (wind break), building sand castles and eating Fabs. My dad would have been trying to inflate the rubber dinghy, while my mum rubbed gritty nivea into our raw faces.

There was a group of teenage boys nearby. They were just doing what teenagers do, smoking cigarettes and listening to music. But my mum was getting increasingly irritated. She suddenly bellowed over "will you turn that down, the beach is for families". They glanced up and laughed and carried on.

They had no idea who they were dealing with. My mother jumped up with unexpected agility for a woman who had borne 5 children. Still in her swimmers, she made her way towards them, her sizeable bosoms swinging formidably as she approached, hair damp and matted, face red with anger. When they looked up again she was towering over them like a sea monster, and shouted "HOW DARE YOU" before kicking the shit out of their ghetto blaster. They hotfooted it up the beach in terror, leaving all their worldly possessions behind them.

As a 7 year old this was justice done. To my then 15 year old sisters, this remains the worst moment of their lives.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 10:10, 1 reply)
Unwarranted Helicoptering by other people's parents
I have posted this before, most likely during some OT thread with all the socialists (alright, PJM and myself) railing against the elitism of the private school system in Britain. But now, in an exciting flurry of magic not seen since Derren Brown correctly predicted the lottery numbers by secretly ejaculating his Magic Semen into the drawing machine, I shall spin it into a yarn almost relevant to this week's question.

My own parents were not helicopters. Nor were they Helicopter Parents. I admit, when I was at school I was quite a shy type and found it a little claustrophobic that they wanted to know how well I was performing and whether I had any friends. In hindsight, I realise all they wanted was that I should try my best, and hopefully develop some form of a social life.

In short, they encouraged my sister and I to do our best, to work hard, to speak properly and above all, to be nice people, but wanted us to be happy wherever we were.

The borough in which we grew up, however, had one of those ghastly "11+" systems. If you passed, you were ferried off to the local grammar school. If you'll excuse the immodesty necessary to this story, people were surprised when I didn't pass. My parents, not agreeing with the ethos of the private school system, sent me to the state comp.

This is where certain other parents came into the picture. They spent a lot of time sweating their kids to get into the local grammar school. And if their kids didn't pass that test, they looked to the local private schools.

So for years, every time I bumped into these parents, there also seemed to be an undertone to the standard questions of "how's school?" and "so which subjects are you taking for GCSE/A level?"

The undertone was, of course, "how well are you getting on in your state school? Can I justify the extra expenditure of sending my brat to the private school instead?"

I realised I wasn't the only one who had spotted this when my parents had some of these people over for dinner. I was back home for the summer after my penultimate year at uni and, for whatever reason, couldn't find anyone to go the pub with that night.
"You're welcome to join us for dinner, Crow," spake my father,
"Thanks, Dad, but I don't want to spend an evening being the State School Control Model."

He laughed. He knew exactly what I meant. I spent the evening upstairs browsing interweb pr0nquietly strumming my guitar instead.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 10:08, 5 replies)
My brother
My brother was always small for his age. Like really small - sub 5-foot until he was into his late teens. As a result, my parents became really protective of him from an early age and would always want to be seen to be supporting him as much as possible. They would support him in whatever hobbies he had, go to his chess competitions, his quiz matches, let him join cub scouts all that supportive parent stuff. They would also buy him whatever he wanted, which was great because I got the stuff he got bored of and there would always be a new computer in the house. They got him a tutor to help him through his GCSE's and A levels and then found him somewhere to live and gave him a load of money to go to uni - which he pissed away and never managed to pass first year.

What this meant for me, unfortunately is that there was no time and no money for me. My parents never came to my football matches or my swimming competitions. My toys were strictly hand me downs. And there was no money for me to go to uni (I even had to leave school and go to college when I was 16, so I could get a job and study at the same time).

Now, I would be bitter about this, were it not for the fact that I have a house, a lovely wife, my own Honda Accord, a decent job, prspects and some actual social skills.

My brother, on the other hand has just gone back to university, because he couldn't really hold down a job. He's ony just moved out of my parents' house, into a bedsit (he's 36). He has a complete lack of social skills, to the point where I will not have him anywhere near my friends, because he pisses them off so much. He has very few friends. And my parents still have to ferry him around everywhere - they actuall take him to Tesco once a week to do his bigshop.

While I didn't like being very much the number 2 son when I was a kid, I've come to realise that it's made me a much better person and I'm glad it worked out that way. Though I still feel a little sorry for my brother.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 10:08, Reply)
When I was just a kid...
there was a bizarre entity that regularly passed through our house. I'm not superstitious or religious. I've tried to rationalize it to this day, so any logical explanation would be welcome, though I've heard many and none can account for this completely.

My dad has always been a workaholic, so it came as no surprise that he would often invite colleagues home to conduct business after work. Though we live in the States the company is largely European, so I was also quite used to meeting men who didn't speak much English. They'd stay until the wee hours talking work and sports, and always remembered to say goodnight to my brother and I. It was like a big extended family, and they were all quite friendly...apart from one man.

The Spanish-speaking man.

Everyone had assumed he was another work colleague, but Dad had no idea who we were talking about. It did strike me as odd that I'd seen him roaming the upstairs hall in the dead of night, then gone down to find him in the kitchen staring out the window longingly. This continued for years, at least once a month I'd see him.

I never thought he was a ghost, as he'd clearly interact with things and respond with ¡déjeme en paz! when I'd talk to him. Everyone had apparently seen him except my dad, though no one seemed to react as strongly as I felt they should.

"For God's sake, there might be a crazy vagrant loose in our house! You've seen him yourself!"

"He's harmless," they'd say.


I started thinking I was crazy. My strongest theory was that I'd been suffering from hallucinations and my family had simply been playing along for fear of upsetting me. But I didn't speak Spanish, how could I hallucinate it?!

One night, the man changed into something else.

He came to be called Epanta. I'm uncertain from whence this name originated, though it resonated through my brain in his presence. He became impossible to look at, unfathomable, like trying to focus inside a dream only to find things becoming more vague - like an outline of a creature, an impression of presence with no form. I caught only glimpses of him from that point on. His voice had become shrill and electronic, as if being run through a high-pass filter. He became everything a ghost should be.

What the hell was wrong with me? The others had stopped seeing him. They'd say he was sick, unhealthy...or was it myself?

I felt betrayed. My family had disregarded the vision with infuriating indifference toward my rapidly waning mental stability, and Epanta no longer responded, no longer sang his Spanish tune by the fireplace. It hadn't occurred to me earlier, but I loved him like an old friend.

A foul combination of bitterness and fear welled up inside me as I trudged down the stairs one night in late December, ready to confront the being.

"¡Epanta! ¿¡Por qué no hablas más!?"

"Niño, niño, niño...Soy débil, y... y voy al cielo ahora. Lo siento, niño."

I started crying. I was angry. My mother descended the stairs to find me hitting the stones above the fireplace. Somehow I'd ended up with hand-shaped bruises on my arms and a broken nose.

"What happened?!" she screamed.

"Nothing, it was one little fight."

But my mom got scared. She said, "You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air."

I whistled for a cab, but when it came near the license plate said FRESH and it had dice in the mirror. If anything, I could say this cab was rare and I thought - nah forget it - yo homes, to Bel Air!

shameless copypasta- click "I like this!" if you hate it.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 10:02, 7 replies)
Ben Nevis
I was banned from walking up Ben Nevis this summer with some buddies as my mum decided I could possibly die.

Despite the fact thousands climb it every year.
Despite the fact we would be walking up it on the tourist path (which is well maintained and has a shallow incline).
Despite the fact there is a running race UP it every year.
Despite the fact that statistically the most dangerous part of the journey would be the car ride there.

The same parents that don't mind letting my younger sister attempt to swim across the solent.

I can get married, smoke, drink alcohol, vote, drive a car and have sex (not all at the same time sadly) but I'm banned from walking up an oversized hill :(

Anyone got a pair of testicles for sale?
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 9:42, 2 replies)
At university
In my college there was a big noticeboard where the porters posgted phone messages (this was the era before mobiles). Usually it was a folded piece of paper with the person's name on it.

The mother of one of my friends phoned up the college and left a message like 'Marks & Spencers have got half price on underwear - don't forget to buy some'.

This was written out in letters an inch high together with the receiver's name and posted on the noticeboard, just to make sure everyone saw it.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 8:57, 1 reply)
My mum is so overprotective
I got in one little fight, and she got scared.

Long story short, some shit anecdote. Apologies for length.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 8:55, 5 replies)
Pretty much
the opposite.

At the age of 8 we were driving along the road (back from a pub with a beer garden in it), and saw a moped by the side of the road.

In the boot it went, and after my dad fixing it so it ran again, I had my first 'motorbike'. We made ramps in the garden, took it to a local chalk quarry and generally hurt myself quite a bit. Still, was lots of fun.

At 5 I was sent to the shops to pick up bottles of wine etc...

My dad also had a night job where he would deliver newspapers to newsagents. I would drive the van as I wasn't strong enough to throw the newspapers out as we were driving along. I was 14.

One night my mum knocked on my bedroom door when I had a few mates round. She said "What does marijuana smell like?" I said, that smell in the hall that you can smell? Yeah, that's it.

She did throw everyone out, but that was about it.

At a younger age, a friend an I were making a bomb with some weedkiller etc... (this was some time ago). My dad came in the garage and caught us....then showed us what we were doing wrong.

Blew the back gates clean in half and the noise could be heard over 5 miles away. He did make me pay for the broken windows in our house, and our neighbours mind!

To be honest, my parents were pretty laid back. I'd still get a clout if I fucked up along the line, but the most part my sister and I were allowed to just get on with it.

She's now on the board of directors of a large utility company (that will remain nameless as it was mentioned a few times in last weeks QoTW) and I, well, I do ok; so I suppose it didn't do us much harm by NOT having helicopter parents.

I intend to be just as laid back with my children (although their mother says I'm irresponsible).
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 8:15, Reply)
I think this QOTW will rival the 'Bullying' one for sad replies. Interchange "I wasn't bought the right trainers, and was mocked for it" for "My mum still buys me things", and the same therapist can still be sought.
Man the fuck up.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 7:40, Reply)
Phil Jupitus
I think it's fair to say I am an over-protective parent. My daughter brought home her first boyfriend the other day and I didn't react well. I waited until we were alone and said to him "If you so much as touch my daughter, I will fucking cut you". And he started to cry!

Still, that's 7 year olds for you.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 7:30, 1 reply)
This question is relevant to my interests
Only last month, on a family holiday I was subjected to parental hoverings (I am 22). (Backstory: my mum left when I was about 7 so still treats me like a kid, but to be honest the whole of that side of the family is a bit wet.)

We were staying in a house we had rented on the west coast. It was the night of that meteor shower (14th August I believe?), there were lovely clear skies and I was really quite looking forward to a peaceful evening of stargazing.
I had some of those chinese lanterns, and decided it would be fun to set one off for the whole family to watch (me, my 3 sisters, my mum, grandparents, 2 cousins, my uncle and my aunt).

After lighting the fuel cell, and allowing the lantern to fill with air, I released it. It hovered in the air for a moment, then was taken by a breeze to nestle atop some maize in a nearby field (only for a fraction of a second, mind you).

This caused my aunt to flap like a headless chicken on speed, screeching like some kind of rotund crow that it was going to burn the whole field to a cinder.

Anyway, the lantern lifted off and continued on its merry way into the evening sky, observed by most of the family (my aunt couldn't bear to watch, lest it rain down hellfire from above).

Upon returning to the house, there was something of a post-mortem going on. My mum decided "you're not doing any more of those tonight"

"WTF?" I thought. So of course, retaining a modicum of pride (and somewhat influenced by my younger cousin) we set out to launch another lantern skyward.

Ha! Take that so-called authority figures. In your face.

But on returning to the house, I found that my aunt had confiscated the remaining lanterns. Confiscated them, and hidden them away. She took my toys away! Waa. I was gobsmacked at their cheek, to be honest, but my cousin was livid. He went ballistic at his mum for confiscating them, and it ended up causing a massive row.

We ended up walking 7 miles to the nearest town, in the middle of the night (saw a fair few meteors on the way thankfully). We got back just as the sun was rising, at about 5am.

The moral? Don't buy chinese lanterns!
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 3:56, Reply)
Just moved into a University owned flat
So I don't know the guy I'm sharing with, but two weeks ago I'm woken up by moving in the flat. A rather, um, husky looking middle aged couple are in my flat. Of course instead of trying to stab the intruders I assume they are helping said flat mate move in. Flat mate appears, says nothing and sits down with his laptop and mummy dearest gets him a drink and a sandwich. His dad then proceeds to paint all the fucking walls in the bloody flat, whilst his mum shampoo's the carpet and washes the Kitchen ceiling to floor. They rip down all the posters in the living room, the shelves, which I had stuff on, without so much as asking if I minded. I wouldn't have, had they asked but now I feel the need to put up some shelves.
Now it appears that in the time that I had spent in their company that the son is a touch on the over protected side, his mother spoke to me on his behalf, offering to cover his part of the bills and so forth. She is pleasent enough but something about her just annoys me. She tells me everything she has planned for her boy, how her other son is doing and general small talk. It is very obvious she is hating the fact that her son is moving out again.
Anyhoo, spoiled Son who is in his 3rd year (I could almost accept this if it was their young 18 year old never left the house son, not their 20 something been at uni for 2 years son) tells me that he is off back home with mummy and daddy and will see me some time in the coming month.

I go out and get famously drunk, am charming as I always am, make new friends, get some food and escort one of my new friends back to my place.
Having had the place cleaned out by Hyacinth Bucket, they've chucked out the bin and forgot to put a new bin liner in. Being a tad on the drunken side I had to dispose of some french letters, I drop them in the bin, realise it's not got a bag and think "Sod it I'll get them in the morning".
Sure enough we are woken the following day by hoovering, "Que est le fuck?" thinks I, he said he wasn't going to be back for a week or two.
I go out half dressed to see what's going on. Mummy and daddy are back. Mummy gives me a look whilst daddy refuses to make eye contact, I offer them a drink of tea or coffee, they decline. I go into the Kitchen to find a new bucket and no sign of the old one.
Result, now all I got to do is put my used johnnys on the fat bugger
and hopefully they'll get me a new flat mate.

Sorry about the length, my friend didn't seem to mind though, she even came back for seconds.
(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 0:48, Reply)
As much as i love my mum
She can be a bit... erm special.

My mother is a passionate woman, for example when my rugsack broke and i could find one i liked (i was visiting home witha friend so wanted to do some more sight seeing) she went to a late night store, found two bags that meet the description i.e. 110 litres, phoned me and described them. Okay so she wouldn't get the green/army looking one as she thought it would get me into trouble, but she did get the other one, which is a wicked one.

So yeah. One time she called my sisters bank manager and pretended to be my sis to find out how much she had in the bank.

A couple of months back she appeared at my front door (it was arranged but i forgot about it) waking me. I was being a bit grumpy. I shut the door to my room (it was a bit of a mess) and directed her to the kitchen and said i would be down in a sec to make her a cuppa, just needed the loo. I was half way up the stairs when i hear my room being opened. I turned around and shouted at her not to going into my room. She looked at me and using the voice you would with a small child said "what you hiding" and then looked into my room. I know this sounds petty BUT she is always telling me to acted like an adult and then does shite like that to me.

I do love my mum but she winds me up very quickly.

If you like i can tell you about the time she found out about my tattoos. One when i was 19 and the other when i 25.

(, Fri 11 Sep 2009, 0:35, 9 replies)

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