i can't wait to have kids
whenever i talk about to people and my girlfriend is in the room, she waits until i've walked out of the room but knows i'm still in earshot and confides in them that she would rather take a knife to her womb than know that my spawn was living inside her.

i think we've got a future.
( Tom OBedlam I have control of a tank, Wed 23 Apr 2008, 2:06, Reply)

Same Salesman.
.
Knocks on the next house and the door is opened by a 6 year girl.

"Is your mummy in? asks the salesman...

No... She's at the police station

"Then is your daddy in?"

He's in the helicopter

"How about older brothers or sisters?"

They're all on the moors

"This is terrible. Leaving you alone like this. What are they all doing?"

Looking for me...


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Wed 23 Apr 2008, 2:01, 4 replies)

It's Wednesday
.
So I think it's late enough to post a gag.

Salesman knocks on the door. Door opens, ten year old kid is standing there. He's a spliff dangling from his mouth, bottle of whiskey in his left hand and a porno mag in his right hand.

"Are you parents in?" asks salesman.

Kid looks at him in contempt.

"What do you fucking think?"


Thankuverymuch.

I'll be under the pier all week...

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Wed 23 Apr 2008, 1:56, 1 reply)

Further to childish racism stories..
It's far too complicated to explain why my little brother isn't actually my brother, so let's just say he is. I'm not a big fan of, nor particularly good with kids, but seeing as he only came into my life at the age of five and was a sweet, quiet lad, I was always happy to help out in school holidays etc.

One such instance of helping out involved me taking Brother and another lad out in town to keep them entertained until the parents had finished doing the things they had to do. Callum, the other kid, was the child of a family friend, two years younger than Brother. They'd been somewhat forced into friendship and it was pretty difficult to keep them both sweet at the same time, so in my infinite wisdom I took them to a museum*.

All was going well until Callum spotted a large black woman bending over some sort of exhibit to get a close look. He tugged my skirt, and pointed at her. Expecting some awful, shrill comment about her size or her skin, I tried to distract him and shuffle him along. But no. Callum stood fast. He had seen something, and he was going to comment on it. I couldn't budge him.

(loudly) 'Herrings.'
'Shhh, let's go find Brother.'
'Herrings, that lady...'
(slightly desperate) 'Come on, let's get some sweets.'
(very loudly, whilst I cringe) 'BUT THAT LADY'S GOT THE SAME SHOES AS MY MUM!'

I felt like a right fattist racist bastard after that.


*in my defence, it was the Bradford Museum of Photography Film and Television, which is a bit more down with the yoof.
(herrings, Wed 23 Apr 2008, 1:31, Reply)

at playgroup
when making paint pictures at playgroup by bowing bubbles in the paint through a straw, i always used to swallow the paint.
(Foulkesy123 The one and only..., Wed 23 Apr 2008, 0:26, Reply)

Encouragement
My 20-month old daughter is very cute.

She learns from our behaviour - and we of course encourage her all the time.

This means that now every morning when I put my first sock on I hear a little voice pipe up "Well done, Daddy", and then after the second goes on "Clever Daddy".

Oddly I do feel quite pleased with myself as a result.
( superstoater is so mauve, you don't know what he's planning, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 23:54, 4 replies)

I'm with the Supreme Cow...
...from page 2 or summat

There's a massive issue with this demographic of chav kids growing up at the moment, that seem all too aware of the laws preventing us from preventing THEM from being obnoxious futurecunts!

I think one of the main reasons for this is that most of their parents are still kids themselves...I'm 20 and don't think I'm capable of devoting enough time to raising a brand new human (not that I plan on kids ever...being parents is for other people...I just wanna be a mad uncle) so you have these 16 year olds having kids, and they're only 26 by the time the child is ten...you can't teach kids how to be mature when you're only just getting there yourself!

So we get a generation of kids that aren't afraid, they think they're adults from about 10...I saw one thing recently that made me feel better:

3 chavvy (and ginger nonetheless) got on a bus I was on (222 in uxbridge) and were naturally just shouting, although suprisingly not doing the phone-shyte-music-thing. And ended up insulting this woman sititng near them, and then it turned into a bus-wide shouting match.

Well the driver stopped the bus and told them to get off, but they wouldn't budge (actually one of them was saying "naw cmon man les just go!" to his credit) and eventually this man standing by the door just walked over to them, grabbed one of them by the arm, bent it back and just dragged his screaming off the bus, the other two following. Bus drove off...bloke got a round of applause, but we were all saying "Parents'll probably try claiming damages" and that's how it is!

(I'm from Lewisham, second only to Lambeth in ENGLAND for teenage pregnancy)

You should only meet your great-grandparents because they've scored an extra-long lifespan...not because they're only 50 years older than you!

I mean they could at least play some GOOD music on their phones ...ONCE!?!

Apologies for penis
( Extinct Jesus Dossier "...I think it counteracts Hitler's magic...", Tue 22 Apr 2008, 23:53, 3 replies)

A hedgehod called...
As a nipper, I proudly came home from playschool with a hedgehog that I'd made from half a potato and a load of drinking straws.

"Wow, he looks very spikey, what are you going to call him?" asked my Mum.
I thought about it for a bit: hedgehog, spikey...

"Prick", I decided.

Mum talked me into calling him Spike.
(hagis_uk, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 23:45, 1 reply)

catch it
A favourite childhood game of MTC was catch

The rules are get a pointy stick and flick the object as high as you can towards a friend and shout "Catch it"

The hours of amusement you get when they realise you meant cat shit
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 23:11, Reply)

imagine my horror
i took my brother (ten years younger) to the park and he decided to roll about on the floor. i was giving him a bollocking when one of the park rangers piped up 'listen to your mum, laddy'.

it actually turned out they knew our mum. bastards.
(ladyintheradiator, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 23:03, Reply)

my younger sister was quite the fool
she thought the word 'sexy' meant 'cool'. obv, we did not correct her.

cue our amusement when people kept being approached by a six-year-old telling them in her best grown up voice that her stuffed rabbit was 'sexy'.
(ladyintheradiator, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 23:00, Reply)

4 wheel drive jeep type things
Why is it that people find it necessary to buy these petrol/diesel swallowing sacks of shit just because they have one child?

When I was a kid my dad got 9 of us in a Mk3 Cortina

Unless you live in a remote country spot or on a farm buy a proper car that is more environmentally sound.

I feel a rant coming on.........

Oh - here it comes

........

and is it any wonder why their all bloddy obese these days. It's because they all get driven to school by mummy and daddy.
Let the lazy bastards walk
I had to walk 2 miles to school every day when I were a lad whatever the weather and it didn't do me any harm.
and when your ferrying the little lardbuckets to school - don't just randomly pull over to let them out as there are other people using the roads that are trying to get to bloody work on time
Also there is no such thing as ADHD - its bastard naughtiness/laziness/shit-thickness*
* delete as appropriate
Giving it a medical label just takes away the blame "It's not his fault its a condition"
Absolute arsebiscuits

By the way Mrs MTC is expecting our first in October and I will be training it from an early age to be an agent of pure anadulterated evil. MMMMMWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 22:59, 7 replies)

I was..
..a very literal child. Whatever I was told, I would take completely at face value. I'm still a bit like that actually, much to my girlfriends amusment. (her:'how are you feeling?' me:'about what?')

So, walking along the pavement aged about 6 with my mum, I asked her how the footprints got into the concrete of the pavement.

'The got there when it was wet.' she says offhandedly.

So..next time it rained I excitedly looked behind me to watch my footprints sink into the concrete and was utterly disapointed that no footprints were forming.

Now at the time my mum had a ferocious temper and I was scared to tell her she was wrong.

Then, about 5 years later, I though 'ooooh. wet cement'
(inflateable, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 22:12, Reply)

Babies = food.
havingapoo.blogspot.com/2007/07/placenta-party.html
( LordManley twitter.com/LordManley, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 21:42, 2 replies)

Lots of people have posted a story along the lines of:
"When I was wee I saw a black person for the first time and said [insert childish casual racism]".

Does this happen in reverse in countries where white people are in the minority? Do the children there, on seeing a white bloke for the first time, say "Look mummy, a ghost" or "Look mummy, that man's hair is made of straw"?

As for my own anecdote of this type, when I was little my mum bought me Duplo people of all colours. Apparently I saw a black man, pointed him out to my mum and loudly said, "Look mummy, he's got knobbly hair like my Duplo man!"
( Bob Todd whee, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 21:29, 8 replies)

As we're on the subject of unexpected fatherhood
A friend of mine was seeing my ex's cousin (D) for a while. She had fairly recently dropped her long-term feller of over 10 years as he couldn't give her the baby that she desperately craved, ended up seeing a bloke that was separated from his wife, but didn't want any more kids (and why would he? He already had a couple and was adjusting to single life again), so they parted after a few months.

D had joined the diving club at the same time as me, and B also joined around the same time. B was also a former colleague of my ex father in law from about 15 years previously, which in itself was a tad bizarre.

Anyway, B and D were together for a while, then informed everyone with glee that she was up the duff. B was surprised, but quite happy, and they set about looking for a place together. Except that neither could agree on the right location. By the time their daughter was born, they still hadn't found somewhere they both liked.

A couple of months after the birth, D dropped B like a stone, and moved into a house that her parents had bought for her just down the road from them. B was devastated, but determined to be a good dad to his newborn daughter, and pitched in as much as he could / was allowed.

Now, 8 years later, I am convinced that D basically just used B as a convenient sperm bank. She calls the shots, even though he first approached the CSA to volunteer child support. Which he pays, without hesitation. However, since falling pregnant, D has done barely a days work, despite having never been unemployed before - she was, before that, a police officer, and before that, a truck driver - and has lived on benefits since, along with the maintenance to her, and rent free in the house her parents are generously recompensed for by way of housing benefit...

B has his daughter once a week, for which he has a three hour round trip to pick her up and drop her off again. Daughter has spent 1 night in her father's presence in all that time. D in the mean time is doing her utmost to ensure that daughter can do all the things she never got to do herself - dancing lessons, horse-riding, you name it, she does it. However, her mother is so concerned with giving her 'the very best' that she can't see that her daughter has next to no ability to socially interact with people she doesn't know. I was chatting to B the other day in the pub - he told me that when his current girlfriend (who is lovely) asked daughter what she'd like for tea, she got so frustrated because she'd never been asked this before that she burst into tears...

B is a good bloke, and desparate to be a father to his daughter rather than someone she calls 'Dad' without actually having any concept of what a Dad is... As a result he spends the few short hours he has with her trying to cram in as much as he can. Which is commendable, but at the same time he'd probably just like to be able to veg out with her on occasion and watch TV together or colour in or make stuff, without the pressure of having to have her home by bed time...

The thing is, I always got on well with D, and her family - they were very supportive when me and the ex split up, and we still send birthday / Christmas cards. But I can't help feeling that they are completely wrong on this. If D was rushed into hospital (say, with a brain tumour as has happened to my ex) and her parents were no longer around, how on earth would daughter cope..?

Answers on a postcard please and apologies for lack of funny
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 22 Apr 2008, 21:00, 4 replies)

Evil kids
I'm the middle child in a family of 3. All 3 of us are fucked up in our own little ways, but that's for another QOTW LOL.

We were evil children. We looked gorgeous but we must have driven my poor mother crazy through our childhood years.

A few examples of our evilness:

* My sister and me used to wake up really early in the morning, go downstairs, into the kitchen and mix anything we could find into a huge mess on the floor. I'm talking flour, milk, eggs, butter and the like. We did this every morning for about 8 months (despite the child-proof locks and daily punishment).

* We made my mum coffee once, she thought we were being nice. It must have been a rare moment. Until she realised it was made with Turpentine Spirit.

* My brother used to listen in to my mum's phone conversations, and then repeat whatever bad things she'd said about my uncle/auntie/gran, whenever said uncle/auntie/gran came round to ours.

* We were very good at destroying any adult relationship she may begin, with alarming speed and accuracy from a very early age.

* Our dad was a tosser who never came round to see us, or buy us anything, but whenever my mum told us off we'd say how much more we loved him and wanted to live with him. That must have hurt.

There are hundreds more. Suffice to say we were not the angelic children we looked like.

I doubt my mum reads beta LOL but I feel bad for the things we did as a kid, it must have been tough. I have a kid of my own now, and it's hard enough when they're fairly well-balanced and do what you say most of the time!
(flyme, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 20:52, 2 replies)

Kids, eh?
Who'd have 'em?

Well, despite all my initial thoughts, me. I'm one of the unfortunate souls who can be considered a 'national statistic' in teenage parenthood, as my son was born when I was seventeen. His mother, an mildly unhinged individual who might have cropped up in the former 'Stalked' QOTW had she been but a touch more off the wall, had decided 'Hey, a baby sounds like a fabulous idea!'.

Now, I'd have been content to sit her down, discuss the thing and weigh up the pros and cons, and give a very fair 'NO' to the whole deal, but instead it was decided apparently that I wasn't needed for input in the matter.

Not verbally, anyways. After getting an odd phone call one morning, hung over and feeling not unlike I'd been skull-fucked by John Holmes on Viagra and Coke, I managed to stumble my still-drunken person into her place of work to be handed one of those horrible little things you women-folk get to find out if you're indeed about to procreate.

Now, hung-over, holding a pissy stick in one hand, my head in the other and wanting the earth to swallow me whole, I tried to come to terms with just exactly what I was being told, and eternally curious as to just HOW she'd gotten pregnant with the magic of birth control pills to assist in the prevention.

"Oh, they must have just not worked...Isn't it great though!?"

Now, I'm a firm believer that abortion isn't an option to be considered lightly, and that there's only a handful of circumstances in which it'd be fair to consider, and as such I braced myself for the upcoming nine months.

The screaming little mouth that emerged, I'll admit, was enough to make me think that perhaps it'd not be absolute hell, and that her sanity might renew itself over time. Of course, by then the 'broody' stage had passed, so Downie jr (No, not Robert) often stayed with me at my place. Thankfully that lasted less than a few months, and things progressed relatively normally for a year, though I eventually decided that we might not be altogether suited for one another.

Yes, I'm now classed as a 'deadbeat' by that delightful organisation called the CSA, who despite the fact I've contributed the vast majority of my expendable income towards my son decide I owe THEM money for the luxury as well. Of course, having not worked a day since he was born (five years ago), means that his mother is a sponger and as such, refuses to have HER benefits cut.

The icing on the cake? Around a year and a half ago, it was clearly revealed that her 'fluke' pregnancy wasn't flukey in the slightest, and that she'd conveniently decided to forget her birth control until she got what she was wanting.

Cunt.

Still, despite all this, I actually quite like kids. My son is growing up to be more like me than his mother (a good thing if ever there was one), and above all else, I'm now prepared for when I have kids in the future and can breeze through, fully trained in the efforts of poo-under-the-fingernail and 3am crying-handling.

Length? 8 months, 1 week and 3 days, if I remember rightly.
(HomeWithTheDownies A towering inferno of penisy pleasure, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 19:45, Reply)

Bloody New Age Hippy Fathers From Hell
I feel the need to spread some vitriol. Hey, it's what B3ta is for, now that the Daily Hate don't answer my letters. What's a little Anthrax between friends, anyway?

I really, really hate those blokes -a full subspecies of the bastards- who go all fucking new-mannish when their tofu-eating spermatozoa (more likely the milkmans) actually fertilises their Significant Other.

Reading all the books, attending all the classes, holding hands, looking deeply into each other's eyes, declaring undying love, wearing those fucking stupid pregnancy sympathy belly things, not throwing Gina Ford books in the skip where they belong.

At the delivery, bringing the whalesong CD along, massaging backs, mopping brows, doing the Tantric Tibetan YakShagger Breathing Techniques, practically shoving the midwives out of the way as he has watched the DVD and knows better.

Being presented with the pink shouty thing, and having life changing epiphanies, declaring that they would lay down their life this second, that it is the most wonderful thing in the world (ignoring the perspiring sack of innards that has been doing all the hard work).

Everyone else spent nine months being whinged at by a biscuit-craving cow, whose whole idea it was anyway, before escaping to the pub hoping that it was all a bad dream. Followed by a few hours of vague helplessness, panic, terror, hunger, and more pain, before being presented with Mr Squirmy Shouty and going "errr.....fuck".

Getting home and looking at each other in sheer terror. Now what do we fucking do????





Still, turned out OK in the end.

I still hate the right-on gits though (as do their wives in a resigned and despairing way).

I just wait for them to realise that the sprog has (a) different hair colour and (b) a suspicious resemblance to a 'close male friend who he had foolishly assumed was gay'.

Smug bastards.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 18:03, 6 replies)

Peadiaphobia
There have been a few "anti-children" posts on here this week, it seems as opportune a time to post my own semi cathartic story about how the issue of kids and parenting nearly destroyed me a few years previously.

Around the time I first started posting here I was in a relationship with a lass I'll refer to as "G". I'd known "G" for some eight years or so, she'd originally dated a friend of mine before we started seeing each other. I'd always held her in high esteem, she had long, ebony hair, big brown eyes and outwardly a gentle, inoffensive nature.

To start off with, things went very well indeed. We quickly established early on that she wanted kids and I didn't, but we were both happy to give me the benefit of the doubt - in the right relationship, anything is possible. Besides, I really enjoyed “G”’s company and had high hopes of a positive future for the relationship.

After a few months, the cracks began to show. “G” began to get increasingly fretful about having children and began to press me to see if there was any possibility I’d change my opinion anytime soon.

"PJM, do you think you'll ever change your mind about kids?" was a question oft asked.

How do I react to that? Obviously she wanted children someday. Much guilt ensued. Do I really not want kids?

Unfortunately "G"'s agenda was to have children as soon as possible. She was dissatisfied with my (honest) explanation of my feelings, which troubled me. I enjoyed her company and she seemed to enjoy mine. If I could resolve my feelings towards not breeding then maybe a secure future beckons? The more I tried to wrestle with my conscience, the more frequent and intense the questioning became.

"PJM, when do you think you'll change your mind about children?"

"PJM, you'll love them if they're your own"

"PJM, it's every woman's right to be a mother"

Each and every time the future of our relationship came up, her eyes would fill with tears and she'd remind me how much she loved me and how much she hoped I'd have children with her. She’d talk frequently about friends of ours with kids and how much she wanted to have a family. She lost her own mother to cancer and had never come to terms with it, even nine years on. She wanted to provide the family life she'd been denied.

We were out with friends one evening and I overheard "G" ask someone "When will PJM commit?", I looked up at those watery doe eyes and I felt a sharp stab of guilt.

Now I respond very badly to guilt. It literally tears me apart and I found myself in situation where I couldn't bear walking away, but agreeing to have children with "G" to her time scale was madness. She was badly in debt financially and was unlikely to see black ink on her bank statement for another three years even if she were extremely careful with her money. I didn't own my own home and I was in no way ready to become a father. I felt "G" was trying to achieve having children long before the relationship had developed to a point where it was a natural progression. Even agreeing in principle wasn't enough, for within weeks there would be a plea to agree to the original and unrealistic timetable, which loomed like a storm on the horizon.

Kids... We all have our own ideals on the type of parent we'd be, even if we don't actually intend on breeding ourselves. I'd had a very bad paternal role-model and the fear of turning out repeating the same mistakes as my own father were very real. I'd rather never be a father at all than to be a half decent father. Had I enough fatherliness in me to ensure that I'd be a fair role-model? Did I, could I want it enough? Could I provide enough? My mind wandered to the mental image of trying to budget for a fast growing toddler needing clothes... Could I trust "G" not to max out her credit card again, seeing as I'd be expected to pick up the tab? My doubts were strong. However that wasn't the end of the story for me.

I tried to approach it rationally and sat down with “G” to explain the financial implications.

“But people just cope!” she opined.

“But I don’t want to just cope. I want to have a reasonable standard of living too. Besides, you think it’ll be another three years or so before you pay off your debts?”

Reason failed. It was obvious that in her mind we'd somehow manage because other people did. That was enough for her. I had a vision of me a couple of years down the line with a screaming baby, an evening job and desperately trying to make ends meet. Frankly, I was chilled to the bone. As long as "G" was clutching that baby, everything else was secondary.

"PJM, do you think that in three years time you'll want children?"

I took a decision to end the relationship. It’s fair to say that it didn’t go down well, there were veiled threats of suicide, of her feeling like she cannot go on without me. No matter what, my sense of guilt prevailed and I had to back down and give it another go. It wasn’t unwillingness on my part, I genuinely liked her but I could not face the building pressure to give a detailed timescale as to when I’d commit to fathering children.

To make matters worse, "G" had ingratiated herself with my family and friends, to the point where she'd turn to them for advice and moral support, often bursting into tears over coffee and biscuits. I felt like I had no-one to turn to for advice, whenever I wanted to talk to a friend, “G” had gotten there first. The comments from friends were at first mildly patronising, "He'll be great with kids, after all he is one himself". Then harsher words started to be uttered in my direction, words like "selfish". It felt like my bachelorhood was being forcibly wrenched from by grasp.

My feelings toward children were polarizing, I was getting to the point where I was beginning to detest the merest suggestion of children and the ever growing multitude who appeared to voluntarily surrender their independence and spawn. Why must I be expected to do the same? I was even actively considering getting myself vasectomized, so great was the burden of pressure on me.

Then one evening, a close friend with whom “G” had been confiding in summoned me round to his house and made me sit while he lectured me about "that poor fucking girl".

"You must show her you're ready to commit. Kids are amazing, you need to get your fucking act together sunshine." said Phil

"There's never a good time to have kids. You should just do it as soon as possible. It’ll be the best fucking thing you ever do." he continued.

I couldn't believe this. What could I do? Every time I tried to end the relationship I had people telling me how cruel I was and how I must go back to "G". The only option left was to consign myself to a life of parental servitude for which I wasn't ready. Everyone would be a winner except me, who’d be working hard to provide for a family just to keep everyone else happy. Was I a bad person to look myself in the eye and ask “What’s in it for me?”

At this point, I discovered that "G" had been going through my mobile phone and my PC, desperate for evidence that I'd been having an affair. I found "G" on front of my PC one evening sobbing.

"Are you meeting women from the internet for sex?" she challenged.

I wasn't. I had no idea where this was coming from. Turned out that she'd found me on a networking site on the net with my marital status listed as "single". The name of this networking site? Myspace.

Over the next two hours, every single website I'd visited and every single text message on my phone was dissected in minute detail.

"How many women in your phone book have you had sex with?"

"Is she prettier than me?"

“Are you talking to any of these women about me?”

I explained the Myspace page, for I had only one Myspace buddy and that was an old workmate, who wanted to show me his mate's band (hi Harold!). As for the women’s phone numbers, they were all friends of long term standing. I was as likely to sleep with any of them as I was to be elected the next Pope. I simply couldn’t go on with the destructive cycle of guilt, rampant insecurity and pressure from all sides. I was working 50 hours at week at the time as it was, plus I was prescribed a fairly outrageous amount of antidepressants just to keep me glued together. Something had to give before I did.

The catalyst was when my brother and another friend of mine took me aside and warned me that while “G” had been round for coffee and crying on their shoulders, she’d dropped very strong hints that she was contemplating “forgetting” to take her contraceptive pill without telling me first. Enough was enough and I called time. I explained that we must not see each other anymore and that was that. It was fucking difficult, but for the sake of both our respective sanities I had to be strong and call it quits. To be honest, there was a large part of me that really didn’t want to.

Over the next few weeks, my friends and some family members were very terse and distant with me, I stopped speaking to Phil outright. Indeed, my birthday came and went without a single phone call from my friends in recognition. I couldn't understand what I'd done wrong, I'd done the honorable thing and freed her, had I not?

A year later I discovered why.

"G" had spent the weekend of my birthday out with a large group my friends who felt the need to console her over the fact that not only had I heartlessly dumped her, but also the fact that she’d found me on a dating website. Despite her protestations to the contrary, she neglected to tell my friends that it was Myspace and told them something else entirely. Much else was said too, the likes of which were sufficient to ensure I was a social pariah for a long time afterwards.

Eventually, I had the opportunity to set the record straight with my friends and although some friendship will never be the same again, I can look back with a certain degree of comforting hindsight, I'd done my best and I'm satisfied my intentions were honorable.

A lucky escape? Quite.

*edit*

Although it must be said that that "G" isn't a malicious soul in any way and never meant any harm, her actions although fuelled by low self esteem and personal issues for which she'd avoided taking responsibility for had some very far reaching consequences. I'd withheld from posting this story on here, not only because some of our mutual friends of ours read what I write from time to time and will undoubtedly see this post, but also because it was still relatively fresh in my mind to make writing about it uncomfortable to say the least. So why write it?

Well, since then (April 2006) I have had the opportunity to put my side of the story to friends and family who for the most part suspected that some emotional blackmail was going on but even so identified much more readily with the tearful "victim" rather than the outwardly callous boyfriend. Although our friendship will probably never be the same again, Phil and I are talking and socialising once more. I have been able to resolve the situation in my own mind and move on, because I accepted I was being unconsciously manipulated. That kind of thing happens to folk every day.

As a result, these days I am okay with kids, mostly because the pressure to have them isn't an insidious presence in my background and I've been free to get to know some on my own terms and generally they aren't that bad... most of the time. I'm still not sure I'll ever want my own, but the decision is at least in my own hands. "G" knew full well that getting pregnant by deception was wrong, yet was so desperate for a child that she was apparently considering it - no doubt with the comforting caveat "You'll love it when it's your own".

Plus, of course given the subject material this week, I deemed it to be too topical a tale not to post here.

Aside from this, it's reinforced in me my own view a relationship is in the slightest bit rocky rocky or uncertain, then electing to have children is an exercise in the utmost irresponsibility - this may be easy for me to say given the fact of my gender and that I don't possess the stereotypical biological clock, but then as a great lady once said to me "They don't stay children forever, after that then what?".
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:36, 31 replies)

Not so much a story
as a random thought.

American Tan tights (pantyhose for the septics). Remember them? It seemed like everybody's mum wore them in the 70s. They all wore brown Clarks shoes as well, and they all looked identical from the knee down.

Apologies for drifting off topic a bit early ....
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:35, 2 replies)

I was a tiny yet robust child.
Although my parents were hardly tyrants, I would often choose the option of not reporting injuries, rather than get an ear bashing for climbing/falling through/being bitten by things I'd been repeatedly warned not to go near.

There was, and still is, a set of concrete steps going down a hill at the foot of my street. As kids of around 9, we all dared each other to walk down the wooden bannister at the side, but I had been warned by my mum that I'd break my neck. More serious to my 9 year old mind, however, was the shame falling off in front of my mates would cause. Logically then, there was only one course of action.

A practice run. While alone.

What could possibly go wrong? It was genius.

So while my mum was visiting my gran one evening, off I pedalled on my bike down to the steps. On I hop, standing up on the bannister proudly. I would be the toast of my class. All is going well, almost halfway.... this is easy.....

*quick flash of upside down world*

I awoke at the foot of the steps wondering what had happened. Amazingly, I was pretty much unharmed apart from a massive duck-egg on my bonce and a few cuts on my arms and face (the seriousness of having been unconscious had been watered down by years of the A-Team). But how would I explain my injuries? I couldn't tell the truth, I'd get a bollocking. And I knew I'd have to make whatever lie I told convincing.

Again, only one real choice. Logic prevailed.

My mum emerged from my gran's house shortly afterwards to witness me riding my bike full-pelt into the fence and gracefully gliding over the handlebars into the hedge with a dramatic "ARGH!"

What a bollocking I got once I was confirmed alive. Still.... at least she never knew what really happened.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:20, 2 replies)

My grandparents puppy is currently trying to rape my 11 year old collie.
It is highly amusing, and when compared in human years it equates to a 3 year old dry fucking a 77 year old man.
Pensioner rape should be televised forthwith.
( Mr Jamie, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:19, 2 replies)

Cigarettes
A friend's 7-year-old daughter is very articulate and intelligent but, like her mum, completely nuts.

One day she sidled up to me while I was standing in the back garden having a fag, and said:

"Why do you smoke?"

"Erm...because I'm addicted to cigarettes. Smoking's very bad for you."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is! It gives you cancer."

"No it doesn't."

"IT IS!"

"Then why do you do it if you know it's bad for you?"

Hmm. Outsmarted by a 7-year-old.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:18, Reply)

Cake Tale.
I like kids. I seem to have a particular affinity for stompy, shouty little boys who enjoy being hung upside down, rolled about in filth, and all that sort of thing. And I plan on having several of my own, should my ovaries not prove bullet-proof (a possbility, considering my parents couldn't have children. Yark! Narf! But seriously...)

It seems that the key if you wish your children to avoid obnoxious brattery is to have more than one kid. By all accounts, I was an absolute horror until Mnemonic Minor showed up when I was five - a goggly-eyed ball of dough with bright ginger hair and one ear bigger than the other (he's now tall, blonde and a part-time model, the b@st@rd.) Before this (partly due to medical problems which meant I couldn't walk til I was three, and partly because my parents had lost a couple before I came along) I had far too much attention and fuss made of me. Being ignored - or at least no longer the centre of attention - was the best thing that ever happened to me.

To illustrate, I shall tell you the tale of the village fete - a story of Machiavellian plotting, rebellion, and cake.

...

I would have been about four when this happened. Mum, for reasons lost in the mists of time, had thought it was a good idea to take her organically-reared (read – sugar-starved) offspring for a stroll down to the village hall, where preparations were being made of the annual Flower and Produce show. (yep – we know how to throw a party in rural Dumfries.) She was probably just bored off her tits trapped in a house with an insomniac, rabidly-questioning child who’d just learned how to get about independently, adn was making full use of her newly-acquired skill. The Flower and Produce show was, as might be expected, your typical WI set-up – the Biggest Marrow competition (no silliness please), home-grown produce rosettes, hand-knitted sheep, flower arranging, a needlework prize, and – most importantly – the Bakery Contest.

As we went in, I was put under strict instructions “not to lay a finger on any of the cakes”, on pain of death, or at the least a hefty spanking. Mum went over to the other side of the hall to talk to some middle-aged ladies in beige two-pieces. I wandered about the displays for a while, sneezing at the flowers, tentatively stroking a knitted teddy bear. But slowly and inevitably, I was drawn towards the long trestle table where the cakes had been set out, ready to be judged later that day.

The cakes sat, plump and alluring, on a cloth of perfect white. They seemed to glow with an inner light of their own. To my childish eyes, there appeared to be hundreds, a feast, a fantasy banquet. We weren’t really allowed cake at home, but here, in case you haven’t already clicked, was cake aplenty, There were sponge cakes oozing jam, deep crumbly chocolate cakes, gooey caramel cakes, layer cakes topped with thick buttery icing and a swirl of raspberry sauce. There was a deep scarlet cherry cake topped with cream and generously decorated with deep red fruit. There were tiny fairy cakes iced in all the colours of the rainbow, topped with violet icing flowers.

Then I came to the end of the table, and there it stood – the piece de resitance. The Great Gateau. It was at least five layers high, and iced in palest pink, with brilliant gold sugar roses piped onto the sides. It was a thing of wonder and delight. I looked at those sweet, shining, roses, and I began to salivate. Just one, just a little one, from round the back…surely nobody would notice? But I couldn’t touch. I’d been told specifically to keep my hands firmly behind my back. There was nothing to be done. I would have to go cakeless. Unless…

All of a sudden, the wail of a demented beige-clad banshee split the silence of the hall. “WHOSE is this CHILD??”

Mum span around to see me, hands clasped firmly and obediently behind my back, blissfully face-first in the cake. I had simply leant forward and taken a massive bite out of the side. But I hadn’t laid a finger on it.
And yea, it was delicious.

And I STILL got a spanking. Bloody kids? Bloody parents, more like.



I like cake.
(jennymnemonic, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:14, 9 replies)

A nephewism
(while sitting in front of a roaring coal fire)

"I wish we had a real fire, so we could turn it off when it gets too hot".

Bless.
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:09, Reply)

Stranger Danger
*Pop*

Summer 2006 and I'm babysitting two nice and well-behaved children from down the road. We go bilberrying, make muffins and play with k'nex. A happy time is had by all - except our unfortunate milkman.

As often happens in rural places, our delivery of milk that day was accompanied by a bag of plums from the milkman's garden. The milkman is a nice old farmer who usually delivers our milk mid-morning, my family have known him since before I was born. The children I'm babysitting, however, are from a family new to the area and buy their milk from the supermarket. The boy had evidently listened very carefully to morals about children who accept fruit from strangers...

Milkman "A bag of plums for yer"
Me "oh, thank you very mu..
Kid "STOP!"
Me "That's nice of y.."
Kid "STRANGER DANGER!! DON'T TAKE THEM! THEY MIGHT BE POISONED!
Me "Shh! Er, sorry about that, I'm just babysitting these two..."
Kid "THEY MIGHT BE POISONED THOUGH!"

Bless. I did apologise in the end, the milkman didn't seem too offended. Haven't had any more garden produce from him since, though.
( Peapod Has returned to the fold on, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:03, Reply)