Until this weekend, I had nothing to add...
So, I was in town, picking up a few bits and bobs shopping. The town is Cambridge, so there are a fair number of delightful little Ruperts and Tarquins fopping about elegantly with their doting middle-class parents yapping at their heels to rush them to ballet etc...

Anyway, walking through the shopping centre, I happened to be following a Mother and her rather bored looking son. The mother seemed to be going through a long list of the things they had to do that day, ".. and we've got to get you some new school-shoes, and then you need some new pens, and then we're going to tea at...". She also seemed to be doing the 'lick-a-tissue-and-thrust-it-in-the-face-of-your-offspring' thing. Because clearly saliva and mouth bacteria is much better than an ink-smudge or two.

In the midst of this whirlwind of fussiness, the little trooper of a kid turns to her, raises his hand to her face resignedly, and sighs "Expelliarmus, Mummy."

Solid gold.
(Serotonicity was a naughty boy on..., Mon 14 Sep 2009, 19:37, 5 replies)

Sibling Rivalry
My parents are a funny pair, but not dissimilar from the norm apparently in treating my sister and I completely differently.

She's 2/3 years older than me depending on what month it is, and has ALWAYS gotten her way. That's not just sibling rivalry, she always did. I was often left wanting where she would get her hearts desire. She always got the bigger room in the house's we lived in, she usually got better or more extravagant birthday/christmas presents. She always got exactly what she wanted from our parents, case and point:

My dad being in the services, we moved around a lot when we were growing up. Kids being kids, we invariably got bullied for being the new kids, and once you've been bullied you're pretty much a professional victim for the remainder of your time at school. I dealt with this, there were others that got it worse, so I shouldn't complain. The elder sibling however moaned and bitched and complained until mum and dad moved her to the posh school down the road..... where she got bullied again and ended up barely scraping through her GCSE's before plodding off to -and dropping out of - college.

I, on the other hand, put up with the abuse (verbal and occasionally physical) and managed to pass with some reasonable grades a couple of years later. I attempted A levels, but had recently discovered women and the pub so was on a steam train to fail town.

By now, the elder child has gotten engaged and moved out and is about 10-15k in personal debt with her Fiance´, with both parents hovering over her constantly picking up the tab and offering advice which she often refused to take.

About this time, I received the ONLY piece of helicopter like parenting I can recall immediately; sat in the kitchen drinking tea one morning my mum thrusts the job section of the newspaper in front of me, with one finger on an advert for Advanced Modern Apprentices: "you should look into this, I think you'd do well at it, it's more hands on than school and you might enjoy it more. And it pays...". To be honest, I wasn't that interested, but not to look a gift horse in the mouth I agreed to apply. Then came a letter saying I was to attend an aptitude test, then another offering an interview. And following the interview, a third letter offering me a place in the scheme.

Long story short, 8 years on and I'm a 25 year old qualified electrical and electronic engineer earning the national average with a property, a car and a fiancee all to my name (don't tell her I said that), and hopefully soon some little Batmowes's flitting about. The sibling; estranged husband, 2 young kids, housing association house in a dodgy little village, owing money to most of the family. And still has our (divorced) parents hovering over her constantly trying to remedy things for her.

Hand on heart, I think I got the better deal.
(batmowes Internet Dating Superstud, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 19:20, 4 replies)

Picture the scene
you're 16, meeting up in the middle of town trying to impress the local totty and your mates. Cue Mother walking past and loudly proclaiming " Girls! And we thought he was gay!" after that I might as well have been.
(Adaminho, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 19:19, 2 replies)

But She's My Little Girl!!!!
I was an adjunct professor at 2 different colleges this past year. Helicopter parenting is very real! I had one student that was MISERABLY failing for the semester. The father came into my office with the student and did all the talking. (At this point I was nervous as the father was rather large).

Daddy: Why's my daughter doing so shitty in your class?
Me: Your daughter has done only 30% of the homework, shows up for class once a week (this is a 3 day a week class), and does poorly on her tests and evaluations.

At this point I show Daddy the grading scale. He doesn't get it. I have to draw PIE CHARTS (sad part is, I am terrible at and loathe MATH)!

Me: So you see, Mr. [Daddy], the numbers add up to a failing grade.
Daddy: But she's my little girl!!
Me: That is true. Maybe we should ask her? Do YOU understand this grading scale?
Little Girl: Yeah! Daddy, come on let's go!

They both stand up and leave my office with Little Girl dragging Daddy along while Daddy is saying, "But she's my little girl..." over and over.

BTW, Little Girl was 29 years old.
(cemegomad, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 19:08, Reply)

I'm cringing just thinking about this one
When I was 18 and about to head off to university, my mum took me out to town to buy a few things that I might need when living away from home for the first time. Pants and socks were on the list, and so we popped into Debenhams to see what they had.

I'd found a pack non-descript boxer shorts and I think ten pairs of black socks, when we went past the REDUCED! BARGAINS! table. There in the middle of the usual jumble of unsold clothes was a pair of shiny gold pants, marked down to a pound. I was quite a fan of Rocky Horror at the time and thought these would be brilliant should I ever have to dress up as Rocky, so I put them in the basket.

Whereupon my mother took them out again, held them up critically in front of the whole store, and said in her best I'm-a-headteacher-don't-you-know voice: "Will you be all right wearing these, because they haven't got one of those flyholes for you to wee through." Just across the aisle from us was a group of late-teen/early 20s girls.

Length? When every eye in the shop was on me I wished I could shrivel up and disappear altogether.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 17:45, Reply)

Lesbians are EVERYWHERE
When I was a little kid my mum tried her best to protect me from the evils of the real world. So when I came home from school, a little confused, and asked: “Mummy, what’s a lesbian?” My mum pointed absently at the rug in the hallway and said: “That’s a lesbian. But that’s common. Call it a rug from now on. Now, do you want fishcakes for dinner or spaghetti shapes?”

And so this was forgotten until we went to a posh dinner at the home of my dad’s boss. I returned from the toilet, obviously desperate to be good (there was the possibility of a McDonald’s happymeal in it for me if I behaved), and also a little flustered because I’d had a toilet-related accident. I got a little confused. I announced to the room: “Mummy! There’s a big hairy lesbian in the bathroom! I weed on it!” Then I burst out crying.

As I say, I was confused. I thought lesbian was the posh way of saying rug and this was a big posh house, I'd forgotten that was the common name for the damn things... Parenthood – should be a law against it sometimes...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 17:02, 4 replies)

But are you sure?
When I was little and in primary and secondary school, I hung out with the 'smart' kids, as I was in some sort of advanced program. That was fine and acceptable. In my first or second year of college I found a job at a small retail store in a nearby mall, and I'm very close with some of the people I met there to this day. This was decidedly Not Fine - god forbid someone should work behind a register and try to earn a bit of pocket change.

I suppose I was exempt from their scathing generalizations, being their only child, but anyone else who'd ever worked in the mall was obviously a worthless good-for-nothing who'd never be anything more than a lowly register monkey, doomed to their one job for all eternity. I wish I was exaggerating.

I even invited a couple of them over to meet my parents once - dumb idea but I'd figured if they'd gotten to know them, they'd see that they were perfectly nice. My father grilled them for an hour on the universities they were attending and whether or not they were accredited. I got an earful after they left, for hanging around 'people who'd never gone to a proper school'. Oh, and they were smokers, and liked videogames and the occasional refreshing alcoholic beverage. Worst of all, they were men, and everyone knows proper girls don't have male friends.

The horror.

Anyway - my mother was and still is the more open-minded one, but was worried when I began getting 'too close' to one aforementioned friend. We joke about being married and will do couple-y things in public like hugging or holding hands, but as he's gay it's just harmless fun and keeps anyone from trying to pick up either of us (ok, it's never happened to me, but it could...someday...maybe). Which preceded the following conversation:

Mom: I want to talk to you.
Me: Yes?
Mom: It's about that...boy. Are you sure you're not...you know?
Me: rolling eyes I'm sure. We're not "you know". He's gay.
Mom: Really?
Me: Yes, don't worry about it. We're just friends.
Mom: But are you sure he's gay?
Me: I'm sure.
Mom: You should be careful around men, you know. Anyway, are you really sure he's gay?
Me: Argh
etc.

No mum, he's only been going to gay bars and bringing men home because it could all be some wild elaborate plan to get in my pants. Because the first thing I'd do after being told that one of my best friends had been lying about himself for years, just to seduce me, would be to dive into a passionate whirlwind relationship full of sex and more sex. Right? Of course.
(Rem Sir, why are you thrashing about on the floor?, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 16:37, 2 replies)

Talking Ted
In their very young primary school years, my kids' class had a toy bear that would be sent home with a lucky bairn. "Talking Ted" had a diary where said kid could detail what they did with their weekend.

It all started innocently enough: a stick drawing and "we goed to teh swings". But then the pushy parents got in on the act.

First of all, Talking Ted stopped watching *any* telly. Instead he went for lots of bike rides. His writing dramatically improved, he started typing and he covered several pages with his accounts. He stopped drawing with crayon and then indulged in long photo essays. Ted started doing lots of arts and crafts, going to Italian lessons and planting lollo rosso in the family's organic vegetable patch. He took up the cello, ballet, rugby and improvisational theatre.

Someone had to draw a line in the sand. When he came to our house, he went to see Hibs play. He had a pie.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 14:40, 8 replies)

I've not been about for a bit...
..and this is probably not the most auspicious of restarts, but nevertheless

My Uncle Geoff flew helicopters in the RAF.

My surname is Carpenter. (Really, it is. Those of you that know me know that to be true).

My Uncle named his daughter Karen (Again, really, he did).

Karen Carpenters dad was a helicopter parent.

Not quite an interplanetary craft, but hey ho...
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 14:22, 4 replies)

My parents
My parents are generally pretty cool. They've never had any problems with me drinking to excess, smoking cigarettes, weed, riding motorbikes, having sex, arsing around with high voltage electricity and chemistry sets, attending illegal raves or any of the other usual teenage vices.

The one thing they do dislike, however, is tattoos.

What did I do when I turned 18? Got a tattoo, of course.

I now have three (one of which they don't know about) and am planning a fourth. Damn rebellion.
(Flap Burger hasn't really got a burger made of flaps, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 13:57, Reply)

Spanner Chasing Mormon Madness
I have been told that my dad is 'one scary dude'. He means well and he is a lovely bloke once you get to know him but he does have a tendency to intimidate people and he also has a bit of a short fuse… these personality traits probably explain how the following took place…

It was in the summer of 1995 and I was 12 and footloose and fancy-free. I’d been off school for a week or so and was enjoying the sun and learning how to rollerblade, all was good in my life. My older sister was spending her time in a different way. At 15 she was also on her summer holidays but frequenting any pub that would let her in and also spending a great about of time stoned and playing cards on a mates front lawn... such was life in The Dreaded Fens. The house next door to her friends wasn’t your usual house - From what I understand it was referred to as a ‘Mormon House’. The guy that owned the house would go off on holiday each year and have a group of American chaps fly over, they would housesit for him and also wander around town trying to get people to read the Book of Mormon and convert them. Now seeing as my sister was spending a lot of her time on her mates front lawn it wasn't long before she befriended one of the guys next door. His name was Todd and he was nice. He spent a bit of his time playing cards with her and her crazy friends, he came around our house a few times too and met me and my brother and was just a genuinely lovely bloke. He’d taken quite a shine to my dad’s motorbike which he was in the process of ‘doing up’ and gradually spent more and more time around our house.

Religion had been brought up once or twice by Todd and my dad had said that he wasn’t interested in discussing it (he has many issues with religion which would make a long post even longer so I won't go into the details, lets just say he was religious and now isn't). He was more than happy to have Todd around talking bikes etc but didn't want to be preached to and certainly didn't want his kids being preached to either. Todd said fair enough and that was that… for a bit. Towards the end of the holidays another guy started turning up with Todd and he was, how can I put this… a bit of a weird one. He’d taken a bit of a shine to me and spent a lot of time trying to get me on my own to press me about my religious beliefs etc. I casually mentioned this to my dad one night and he wasn’t too impressed. The next day Todd came round and my dad explained all, Todd understood and said he would speak to the guy who as it turned out was Todd’s sort of superior. He felt bad as did my dad for putting him in a bit of an awkward situation but he wandered off quite merrily to sort things out.

That night my dad had just left to work nights and I was in the house with my mum when the doorbell rang - It was the weird one. Not looking for an invitation he marched into our house and sat down on the sofa, pulled out the Book of Mormon and started telling me and my mum all about it. My mother being too sweet to say ‘piss off’ sat down next to me generally looking quite scared and was talked at by the guy for about an hour. Eventually she managed to get him out of the house by taking two copies of the book off him. He said we should read it and he would be back in the morning to talk further.

Well he did come back the next day, and my dad was waiting for him, on the driveway, with his bike leathers on, a spanner in one hand and the copies of the Book of Mormon in the other… I have never in all my life seen a man look so scared or run as fast as the guy did that day.
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Mon 14 Sep 2009, 13:47, 4 replies)

Lip piercing,
I moved to London when I was 17 to go to uni. The rules in my parents' house had always been 'No tattoos or piercings until you're 18 and no crazy hair colours until you move out, and even then you might not be allowed to move back in.' Fair enough. I'd moved out and was living by myself, so yay.

About 2 weeks after I turned 18 I went to Camden to get my lip pierced. It was fine, I'd wanted it for ages etc. I waited a day to phone my parents, because I knew it wouldn't be easy. I was right.

I spoke to my (usually calm) mother who started crying down the phone saying 'You've really upset me, speak to your dad.'
I could already hear him shouting in the background. He carried on shouting through the phone, telling me that he wouldn't care if I turned into a prostitute in London and that I'd ruined my life by getting my lip pierced and that I'd ruined my whole face and was now ugly.

3 years later, they're used to it. But it's just another example of their over-protective weirdness. I don't think they realise that they're pushing me away by doing this stuff, I still get the 'Your little brother is failing at school because you left home' thing. Ughhh.
(Lalalalou, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 12:39, 9 replies)

My ex flatmate
Whilst i was a student of full independence and no brains i lived with a guy who if you ever met him without his mum has an image of hardness, gingerness, chavish-ness, messiness, fatty-ness and just about every-ness possible.

We lived in a very large spacious 3 bedroom flat with a cracking view and it was good to be away from student halls and living privately, for the first 3 days anyway. Untill i realised how messy and inconsistent he was. It was not only is he incapable of normal humanly activities like putting rubish in the bin or washing dishes. He was worse than a cat going through your bins at night, the whole living room was covered in corned beef boxes, rolls, crisps, dishes, cans of coke and socks. It was like ground zero...and this was just after 1 week of staying there.

It turns out ginger has not one but 3 helicopters as parents, his mum, his aunt and gran all live together under the same roof.

Since i stayed with him, his gran comes over every week to do the general house duties of cleaning his mess in the kitchen, living room and bathroom. Which for me was ok...since we had a free house keeper now.

His mum and aunt every week would come along and take him to food shopping in marks and sparks or sainsbury's making sure he eats all the good finist foods. For the whole year he didn't need to pay a single thing and still proceeded to borrow money from the rest us actual poor and skint students. He was even bought alcohol from his mum.

He is 23 and still gets his 72 year old gran to clean his room.

I graduated now but i fear for the next generation.
(EpeeDemic, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 12:36, Reply)

My ex...
...used to say that wherever she was, her Dad was always looking down on her.

He wasn't dead, he was just very condescending.
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Mon 14 Sep 2009, 12:20, 1 reply)

The speeding ticket incident
On that fateful day, 17 years old and oblivious to the frequency of which speeding cameras were being erected across the country's A roads, I was what can only be described as cruising into Lincoln via worksop in my new bright green diesel Vauxhall Corsa. Daydreaming about what the night ahead entailed for I was visiting my brother at University for the first time - my first taste of student life, preparing my body for a weekend of alcohol and drug abuse and with any luck, a sexual encounter with one of the east midlands finest female offerings.

"Cross the roundabout, second exit" droned the SatNav
the sport injection kicked in on the exit
"Go straight on" she repeated
A completely clear road invited the foot/accelerator combo
60,70,80......90mph
FLASH FLASH!

Audible only to myself, a string of swear words that seldom fell from my young mouth eminated loudly.

I pulled over and did what any broke, pissed off 17 year old does, I called Dad and confessed that I had been caught doing 93mph in a 60mph zone. Maybe enough to invite a serious fine and ban.

To my immense surprise my Dad was very calm about it, It was only later that I realised why - he had hatched a devious plan.

One thing you need to know about my dad, and this is by no means any kind of brag, is that he is well-known in my home town. Not well known in the famous, paparazzi and screaming girls sense but in the sense that the kind of people who you dont want to know, know him and more often than not, owe him a favour or two.

To this end, sitting on the side of the road, cacking my pants, wondering what im gonna do without a license for the rest of my life, My Dad called back.

"Dont Worry Son, Its taken care of"
" What do you mean Dad? Im gonna get points on my license, maybe even a ban"
" I said don't worry, Its taken care of"

I asked no further questions. Years later, having never recieved any of the points or the fine, I asked my Dad what happend that day. He pulled out the police file of the speeding incident. Under the named driver column was quite clearly a polish name. I dont know any polish people!

My Dad was so concerned that I would lose my license that he pulled in one of his favours from a guy I only know as 'Big Nige' who is, lets just say, VERY influential. Apparently the polish guy owed Big Nige some money. Instead of paying he got 6 points and a £100 fine on his license.

Ive still got a clean license but a very slight sense of guilt.
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Mon 14 Sep 2009, 11:58, 21 replies)

I'm a power kiter
It's a form of extreme sport. More on it here. Specifically I'm a buggy jumper - it's the most dangerous form of the sport.

(For the impatient - I strap myself into a metal buggy weighing about 20kg then use a huge kite attached to a harness to propel myself into the air and along the ground at speed. Cock up in midair above about 4ft and you'll break bones. No discussion. Pretty much no safety equipment either).

To put it simply, I am very good at what I do. I should be - I've been at it for five years. I help to put on displays all over the South of England, I'm beyond the necessary standard to qualify as an instructor, and the only reason I haven't yet done so is the fact that I only recently bought a car, and the course I want to do only runs every six months and is 300 miles away from me.

While on holiday with my parents this summer, they refused to let me stay on at the beach (in my own car) with about a hundred other people around - because they didn't want me to be flying "On my own".



(Incidentally, if any Edinburgh b3tans were at Portabello beach yesterday afternoon and saw someone with an enormous blue and red kite jumping over the groynes - that was me)
( MatJ LOOK, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 10:53, 7 replies)

I kissed a boy
Carnage. Blood and teeth everywhere. More blood and teeth than you’d expect to see in a bar occupied by Mike Tyson after someone’s tapped him on the shoulder and said: “You’re a bit of a poof, really, aren’t you, mate?” Trevor Bennett and I were eight or nine and had just slammed headfirst into each other on the playground while doing our best Gary Linekar impersonation with the football – collisions happened all the time when you’re playing with one of those light-as-a-feather 99p balls that resemble an inflated spherical condom and float away on the slightest of breezes. Imagine attempting to play footie with a ball that’s possessed. And also factor in the important detail that we were all incredibly shit at playing the game. This basically meant there were lots of collisions. All the time. Most lunchtimes resembled the aftermath of Waterloo at my primary school.

“Urrggg, oh GOD!!! URGGHHH!!!” I said. Trevor was stammering something similar as he spat out blood and teeth – one or two teeth may actually have been mine. We wern’t too concerned about the blood or the pain. We were far too stupid to register that we might actually have done ourselves some serious harm, no, we were more concerned that in colliding with each other at full twat, our lips had actually touched each others. We had kissed. I had caught gay.

Being incredibly thick, I went home that afternoon and asked my mum: “Can you catch anything if you kiss a boy?”

My mum – being the God-fearing Catholic churchgoer – went absolutely fucking mental. When my dad got home from his shift at the foundry they sat me down and asked me if I liked kissing boys, if I’d ever kissed a boy, and noticing my battlewounded face, asked if some of the other boys at my school had beaten me up because of my newfound love of the cock.

And the next day my dad took me to school. He asked to see my form tutor, Mrs Bannister – the ginger escaped mental patient hippy crackpot who taught me during my formative years.

Glowering like a bastard, my dad started having a grown-up conversation with Mrs Bannister. Stuff I didn’t understand. It was quite heated. The word ‘sexuality’ may have been mentioned once or twice. And then – after a while my dad seemed to calm down - he toulsed my hair and fucked off to work.

Later, Mrs Bannister clapped her hands and explained we were going to do what we did every Wednesday afternoon – home economics. Baking. Cooking. Making those fucking awful minty sweets out of icing sugar and a shitload of green food colouring. I went to stand so I could rush to be first in line as my class transferred to the home economics room. Mrs Bannister put her hand out and stopped me at the door.

“Not you, Spanky – you’re not allowed. You’ll need to go to Mr Osiers class instead.”

Crestfallen, I stalked off to Mr Osiers class and did an afternoon of PE wearing some of the schools castoff extra large shorts and a manky old t-shirt that stank of vomit. And this is what happened every Wednesday afternoon for the remainder of the school year. My class cooked some lovely buns and scoffed the fuckers; I went and ran round a field with a different class.

A few years back I remembered this and asked my dad about it. He looked up from Match of the Day and shrugged: “Cooking’s gay,” he said, and returned to his Liverpool vs Arsenal match.

Fucking odd, that is...

So after years of living on pot noodles, microwavable burger-in-a-bun’s and readymeals I can only describe as gloop of various shades and hues with extra chunky bits, I finally taught myself how to cook - and I haven’t once accidentally slurped on a big cock while doing so. The first time I invited my parents round to my place to sample some of my home cooked cuisine I made them a French dish with chicken, mushrooms and that there fancy wine stuff. My dad was enjoying it immensely. He asked what it was called.

“Coq au vin, “ I said. “I gave you some extra coq, dad.”

My dad pursed his lips and continued eating. I could tell inside he was calling me a cunt. Ah, he might be a homophobic old tosspot, but he’s my homophobic old tosspot, I suppose...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 10:35, 4 replies)

My mate is by no means an over-protective parent.
In fact, occasionally he seems to go too far in the opposite direction. I'm interested to hear what you wise b3tans think of his current dilemma.

His ex-missus was kicked out of her boyfriend's place over Easter, sending three kids in different directions to different parents. My mate's daughter ended up living with him at short notice. It's been mostly problem-free and they seem to have got on really well, maybe making up for lost time.

Since it all started his kid, who's twelve, has expressed her desire to go back and live with her mum, which he's found hard to deal with but has respected her decision and, working together with Social Services, has started to phase-in his daughter going home now her mum's sorted her life out and moved back in with boyfriend.

He's recently been emailing the mum's boyfriend, who he gets on with pretty well. From things that have been said about their relationship and suspicions about the mum's actions, my mate's almost certain things will go tits-up again in the near future. The mum's mind and general situation seems unstable to say the least.

His dilemma is: should he let his kid follow her heart and go home, knowing that she's going to get hurt and displaced again but it's been her decision - giving her respect freedom to make her own choice...?

Or should he stop her from going home to save her the heartache that's most likely going to be caused when her mum ups and leaves or her fella decides enough is enough and kicks her out again?

I kind of agree with him that he should give her the choice - she's a mature and bright kid, I don't envy him the decision.

What do you think?
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 10:32, 17 replies)

Does this count...?
Yesterday morning, I was doing the washing up, whilst my kittens played in the garden, climbing trees, eating grass, crawling under thorn bushes etc... They've only just been let out on their own, and we have to watch them, but I turned around for one second, and all of a sudden they both burst through the door screaming.

I was a bit shocked and nearly dropped a plate. I looked out the window, and saw a massive black tom cat by the back door had chased them in and was about to come in himself.

Being the over protective proto-parent, I chased it down the garden brandishing a flip flop.

If I see him again, I'm gonna throw rocks at him. However, does this mean my cats will grow up as wimps, or did I do the right thing??
(The Kwyjibo A big, dumb, balding North American ape., Mon 14 Sep 2009, 10:29, 3 replies)

I had helicopter parents.
Mind you, I am Budgie the little Helicopter.
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Mon 14 Sep 2009, 8:26, Reply)

I knew a guy at school
Who at the age of 18, had never been on a train before. His parents wouldn't let him because they thought he'd be blown up by a terrorist. To put this in context, we went to school in Brighton and he lived near the train line. His parents insisted on driving him everywhere. I remember, when he was almost 19 and was about to go to University, we took him on his first train.

Unsurprisingly, he failed his first year without mummy there telling him to do his homework, and dropped out. So don't be an overly controlling parent, because your kids will never survive uni.
( lrjlo, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 7:42, Reply)

On holiday, when I was seven
My elder sister and I had our ball nicked by adolescent bullies, playing catch over our heads before chucking it in a bottle bank.

When Mum turned up a few minutes later to two crying children, she bundled us in the car with orders to point them out. She drove around the town for almost an hour (stopping to refuel) before we found them coming out of a sweet shop.
She stopped the car in the middle of the street before jumping out to slap them so hard, partially masticated mars bar was liberated from their faces, while simultaneously screaming threats based on omnipotent wrath culminating in "if you ever do that to anyone again, I'll know."

She probably ruined their lives by not announcing who she was before attacking them but after that the rest of the holiday was awesome by default.

I love my Mum.
(MrTerrorbag kills the elderly to save the economy., Mon 14 Sep 2009, 3:13, 1 reply)

A tale of woe
A beautiful summers day, Sharon and Ellie were lying in the grass in the back garden staring at the sky. Suddenly a commotion came from inside the house. It was clear from the loud wailing and cries of "tear my arse big boy" that there was some kind of naughty bum sex going on between mum and dad. Sharon was dis interested in the excitement, but one look through the window and Ellie copped 'er parents.

ah thank u, im here all week

*groan*
(shamen Geekius Maximus, Sun 13 Sep 2009, 23:56, 2 replies)

Never let your over protective mum put her number on the
speed dial screen of your fancy new touch screen phone. The phone will call her itself whilst in your pocket and she will be treated to the sound of you unsheathing the meat saber to some of the internet's finest.
(trickyric, Sun 13 Sep 2009, 23:54, 4 replies)

when i was a younger, more innocent
and overall perkier swipe, i was working as a letting agent up in south manchester. my boss owned a large victorian block of flats which always let the instant they came onto the market. one day, by coincidence, flat 8 and flat 9 came on the market together.

i let both of them the same morning. the first one to a rather creepy 40 year old man, who viewed it - and we're talking a sixty quid a week studio flat here, not a multi-million pound mansion decision - with his mother, who was there as moral support. i am pretty sure she also helped him put on his socks and wipe his ass. so they paid a deposit and said they would be back the following day.

in the meantime, i let next door, who promptly paid up in full and moved in the same day.

the next morning, i was happily minding my own business behind the counter, when the door flew open and smashed into the wall. i turned around and saw the mother from hell brandishing what looked like a rolling pin. on closer inspection, it actually was a rolling pin.

"come here you little shit!" she boomed. "how fucking dare you give my son's flat to someone else?"

turned out she'd seen the new neighbour's shirts hanging out of the next door window and, being too thick to work it out, had blamed me. oddly enough, i did re-let it to someone else the next day, whilst he was still waiting for his "proof of earnings" to come in from the dhss. funny coincidence after being spoken to like that.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 13 Sep 2009, 22:54, 2 replies)

My boyfriends daughter.
Yes, you've all read some of the stuff she's done, however, it's not all her fault.
All of her life, daddy has handed everything to her on a plate. Even though she's a convicted felon, and cannot get a job, daddy does everything for her. She loaned her laptop to her ex.....couldn't get it back so he bought her a new one. Same thing with a friend and a camera.
She gets drunk and loses her phone, she gets a new phone.
She's in college, and he takes time off work to drive her there.....and to her probation... instead of her having to get the bus, or walk, or cycle.
Her and I are actually getting along really well at the moment as I slapped her upside the head with a lecture about respect for me - she got it. I took her on her first "girls night out" last night and we had a blast.

Her boyfriend just broke up with her, so now he won't leave her alone for more than 5 minutes - I asked him out for dinner Friday night (for a couple of goddam fucking hours) - he said no, as he doesn't want to leave her alone.
I spend 4 nights a week at home alone, and he's pissed off that I don't want to include his daughter in EVERYTHING we do. Because she's alone.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sun 13 Sep 2009, 22:42, Reply)

What are servants for?
I was involved for a few years with a "charity" which ran children's holidays. I put "charity" in quotes because I eventually twigged - embarassingly late - that it was actually a personality cult which exploited its volunteers dreadfully as well as having some, well, disturbing aspects to say the least. Know many organisations which encourage adults to share dormitories and showers with children?

As you might guess, this lot attracts some pretty odd volunteers. One friend of mine had to deal with a terribly posh young lady (18 years old) who needed shown how to fold clothes. For her entire life she had left them on the floor or furniture for her personal maid to fold and put away for her ...
(ubergeekian, Sun 13 Sep 2009, 21:48, 2 replies)

Never mind, just put it back!
When I was about 12, my younger brother, about 9, found one of my sanitary pads. He opened it up and then went to my father. This was basically the conversation that followed.
Bro: Hey Dad, what is this?
Dad: Never mind, just put it back.
Bro: But what is it?
Dad: It doesn't matter. Put it back!
Bro: I just wanted to know what it was.
Dad: You don't need to know what it is. Just put it back and never open those up again.

It went on like that for several minutes. I was there, but I was too embarrassed to tell him myself. My brother is 22 now, and I'm still not too sure if he knows what menstruation is or not.
(mariam67, Sun 13 Sep 2009, 21:45, 7 replies)

Oh this one is for me.
I am, for the next two weeks anyway, thirty-one years old. I have to phone my dad each and every saturday night I am out to allay his fears that I have been killed. He's always had really bad problems with his nerves and can drive himself to an almost choking frenzy of imagination if he doesn't know where I am. I used to struggle against it, now I simply admit defeat and fire off a text if I'm going to be out all night.

Recent mind-bogglers include a few years back when my mum was in hospital. His nerves were, understandably I suppose, shredded, as were mine, and I decided after our nightly visit that I would go out in town with my friends to take my mind off things. They had already left when I got home, so I decided to get the bus and train in on my own.

He. Hit. The. Roof.

I was "absolutely stupid" for thinking about going on a train on my own *ON A SATURDAY NIGHT* of all times, and as for the bus? Sheer suicide! He ended up driving me there because he just couldn't take the stress of his 29 year old son being on a bus alone. My teeth were worn down a lot that night holding back the tirade I wanted to unleash on him.

The worst ever, though, was around 10-11 years ago. I'd been out on new years eve at a local party with my mates and girlfriend, after which I walked the gf home, then went to my friends house where we had a laugh, a drink and went to sleep.

When I got in the next day at around 12, I discovered my dad had been out all night knocking on every other friend I had's door (apart from the house I was in, bizarrely)to find me and phoning everyone he could think of telling them I was "missing". The mind-boggling part of this is h genuinely didn't see anything freakish or mental about what he had done. It was new years eve! I live in a small village in Scotland for Christ's sake, not the fucking Democratic Republic of Congo!

He's slightly better since I moved out. Slightly.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sun 13 Sep 2009, 21:42, 3 replies)