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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)
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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...
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 10:35, 4 replies)
"haven’t once accidentally"
suggests you may have (at least once) done so deliberately
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 14:30, closed)
“I gave you some extra coq, dad.”
= loud office lol...

And yet another click...
(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 14:50, closed)
It's only gay if balls touch.

(, Mon 14 Sep 2009, 18:09, closed)
Ah, I'm OK then.
I keep mine in my bag.
(, Tue 15 Sep 2009, 7:55, closed)

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