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This is a question LOL Bigots

Freddie Woo says: "A bloke who lived next door to my mum told me on the day Diana died that it was 'God's punishment for sleeping with an Arab'". Tell us stories of bigots, racists, sexists, homophobes and loud-mouths so that we may point and laugh

(, Thu 21 Feb 2013, 20:03)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

My eldest son Dan is a shy lad...
...very smart and studious and might be considered by some to be "a nerd". But he's a nice boy - friendly and wouldn't hurt a fly. Being as my daughter (the youngest) is exhibiting some exceptional diva-like qualities, I feel I can be objective enough about my kids faults and Dan's main fault is that he (like many young lads) is a grubby little soap dodger! It's hereditary unfortunately, as his dad is a bit grotty sometimes as well.

He'll be 11 in the summer and I have seem to have finally impressed upon him the importance of showering everyday and keeping himself clean - if only so that he doesn't end up being labelled as "the smelly kid" when he heads off to Secondary School in September. This has meant however, that we are all constantly coughing and spluttering in a haze of lynx each morning, but it's still a lot better than the foul stench of B.O. we can come to expect as puberty rapidly descends on us.

Anyway, I digress...

A couple of years ago, Dan was having a bit of trouble with one of the lads in his class. Darryl (and yes, that is the little sod's real name), had taken to calling my son "Dirty Daniel", after picking up on my son's (admittedly disgusting) habit of chewing his fingernails/clothes/etc. He kept on at him for some time and my son - not being especially streetwise - wasn't sure how to respond. Until one day, Dan caught his tormentor "digging for treasure" inside one of his nostrils. Almost with glee, my socially awkward young man shouted out "Haha - Dirty Darryl!" at the boy, who wasn't best pleased at receiving his own medicine, as he then promptly went and told the class teacher that Daniel was hurling racist insults at him (I should probably mention here that Darryl is black) and that my son was calling his skin colour "dirty".

*Bearing in mind, these lads were 8 at the time and already one of them knows how to pull "The Race Card".

Anyway, all hell breaks loose: Daniel is hauled in front of the headteacher and I receive a stern phone-call demanding that I come to speak to them that afternoon URGENTLY. Upon arrival at the school, I walk into the headmistress's office where I also see the S.E.N co-ordinator (for anyone without sprogs, the abbreviated letters stand for "Special Educational Needs) and my tearful, bewildered looking son.

After being given a run-down of the situation, I tell the school of Daniel having told me of this young lad calling him the exact same name for several weeks/months previously and that it was almost certainly my son's way of retaliating rather than any kind of racist remark. My son is not a racist at all and in fact this incident was probably the first time he had been made aware of what racism actually is. I also told them that the other kid in question seemed to think it was fine to snape at my son, but obviously didn't like having it done back and perhaps in fact Darryl was the racist after all? The school weren't having any of it though. The S.E.N actually said to me "how can you be sure that your son isn't racist?" and "well if you think that Daniel said this innocently, then maybe you should get him tested for potential autism, as this is the kind of thing that 'THEIR SORT' come out with". I was both gob-smacked and horrified - this is a woman who has to work with 'THEIR SORT' every single day and appeared to have nothing but contempt for them! It was becoming clear who the real bigots were...

When they tried waving something in my face for me to sign and making mention that my son would forever have this incident on file, I point blank refused and told them I wanted to reschedule this meeting again for Monday morning before school (this was a Friday afternoon) to try and resolve it after letting things cool down over the weekend. They agreed and off we stormed. My poor lad was a bit shaken up (he's rarely in trouble) and it was clear to see from a thousand paces that he didn't have a clue what was going on.

Monday morning came around and we trundled off up the school, nervous, but with an extra person in tow - my husband Chris, who had taken the morning off work to give us some moral support. See, what I have failed to mention until now, is that Chris is a big, 6ft1" black man with a pretty hard stare. He's as soft as shit really, but could easily moonlight as a bouncer. He also happens to have been my son's stepfather since Daniel was less than a year old and has since provided him with a beautiful, brown-skinned little sister. So clearly my son was learning all this racist terminology at home! NOT.

The head and the S.E.N. teacher's jaws just DROP when we walk into the room! Chris puts his iphone onto the table and informs them that he will be recording our conversation today. They look very uncomfortable, but don't say anything. Chris continues "so, what did you want us to sign?" The headteacher blurts out "Oh that's really not necessary Mr ***** - we've looked into the incident further (what, over the weekend?!) and found Daniel to be innocent so you can consider the matter dropped".
Chris: "And there'll be nothing on my stepson's file labelling him as a racist, now will there?"
Headmistress: "No, no - absolutely not. the matter has been resolved. And Daniel, we are very sorry you were upset on Friday. We will be keeping a close eye on Darryl and making sure that he doesn't bother you any more."
Chris: "Good. Okay then lets go - I need to ring ma'nigger Rusty before I go back to work".

I JEST, I JEST!!! :-D Of course that last sentence never happened, but the rest is all 100% true. And funnily enough, Dan's not had any trouble since then...
(, Tue 26 Feb 2013, 12:03, 10 replies)
Intolerance. It's funny. For certain values of funny.
So there I was on Teh Internets, more specifically IRC.
Channel isn't important.

I log in and cheerfully slap out a greeting:
"Hello there ladies and gentlemen! Are you ready to rock?"

Cliched perhaps but suitable for the circumstances. Or so I thought until amongst the replies came the line

"How fucking DARE you! That is SO rude!"

I blinked, I thought for a moment, I checked which channel I was in just in case I'd accidentally logged into "Recovering Guitar Hero Addicts anonymous" or similar.

The ensuing conversation boggles me to this day.

"How dare I what ? Say hello ?"

"You just mis-gendered me in front of the whole channel you prick!"

"erm ? Oookay, You don't count as either "Lady" or "Gentleman" ?"

"No. I fucking don't and I'm fed up of having my identity trampled by people like you and your gender intolerance!"

"Right. So, what word should we be using if 'Lady' and 'Gentleman' don't cover it ?"

"There isn't a word. I don't fit into any of your straightjacket stereotypes. I'm free. Get used to it!"

"(sigh) Ok then. Hello there Ladies and Gentlemen. Are you ready to rock ?"

"You intolerant prick! You did it again!"

"I wasn't talking to you..."
(, Fri 22 Feb 2013, 14:30, 9 replies)
I come here for the benefits
I worked with a guy who was half Iraqi. His name is Wahab, but he goes by the name of Dave. He came to the UK as a teenager, became an officer in the merchant navy, and when I met him he was working in IT. One day he let on that he had been on some kind of black ops thing in Iraq with the Gurkhas, but he didn't make a big deal out of it.

In short, a good bloke.

He lives in a small town in East Yorkshire.

He told me he was in the pub with a number of friends in said town, when some racist bloke came up to him and said "What are you doing in a small town in East Yorkshire?"
Dave put on his worst accent, and said "Well, I just come over from Calais. I come here for the benefits, you know?"
Racist bloke gets angrier.
"I only been here one week... and they give me council house."
Racist bloke gets even angrier.
"Is big house! Is good, because next month my four wives and fifteen children come."
Racist bloke explodes. Dave's friends all laugh at him.
(, Sun 24 Feb 2013, 5:28, 4 replies)
Global warming my arse...
A nutter used to live opposite me. One of those green, lefty types - you know the sort, all recycling, ethically sourced foods and vegetarian.

Usually I'd cross the road to avoid people like that, but this particular one was fit! Fit in a yummy mummy, no male partner and no bra-wearing way. We saw each other every morning, me on my way to work and her attempting the school run with her two-year old strapped precariously to the back of her bicycle. Over the ensuing months we progressed from blatantly ignoring each other to almost friendly nodding terms. At this rate, we might have even found out each other’s names in two-three years time. But that was soon to change…the day I got a new car.

Work had offered me a motor in lieu of a pay rise and as Land Rover was one of our largest clients, I plumped for a gorgeous Range Rover in sumptuous deep-blue, with cream leather seats. It wasn’t strictly my car, I had to hand it back in 18 months and for the short period I owned it, I had to drive around with the company’s logo emblazoned across the rear window. Still, I fucking loved it while it lasted – but my neighbour, she fucking hated it.

She hated it so much, that after only one week of ownership, I found one morning, a note attached to my windscreen. ‘BAD CHOICE OF CAR’ it stated in bold type and then went on to list how I was killing mother-earth with my C02 emissions and evil 4x4 owning ways. I knew it was her; she was the only one on the street with a Green Party sticker in every window. So I folded up her note and posted it back through her letterbox. It re-appeared on the windscreen the next morning.

Then we had our confrontation.

‘How can you buy such a car?’ she inquired one morning, ‘don’t you know you’re killing us all by driving that thing?’

I tried explaining that I hadn’t actually bought it, that it was a benefit-in-kind and that the tiny mileage I was doing wasn’t really going to melt the icecaps. But this wasn’t good enough. She continued to harass me every single day. Her bigoted, awful sound-bite politics drove me mad. Ironically we used to bump into each other whilst doing our recycling. I‘d happily be sorting my plastics from glass, when she’d appear, venomously attacking me, pure hatred in her eyes, believing fully that I was killing her child and her future children with my lovely, gorgeous, deep-blue Range Rover.

So I took to avoiding her. I got up early and missed her on the school run. I did my recycling the day before collection was due. But she kept on with her notes. And I kept on posting them back through her letterbox - why waste paper eh? But the whole thing was making me very angry. She was foisting her beliefs on me and if she hadn't been so attractive and sexy, I would be have been down the copshop making a harassment complaint.

One morning we met again but this time without confrontation. It had snowed shit-loads the night before and we were both outside enjoying the silent beauty of it all. This wasn’t the piddly little snow flurry of recent weeks, this was the proper blizzard of 2009, and for a brief moment, we became mates sharing a wonderful experience. That was until I opened my mouth.

‘Another wonderful globally-warmed day!’ I called across the road. ‘I guess I need to drive around a bit more to melt those icecaps!’

She didn’t find that funny in the slightest. She blurted something back about climate change and extreme weather. I shouted back that it was fucking winter and that was why it was snowing. She slammed her door and I stood outside for a bit then moped back inside. She’d ruined my snowy day.

The next day didn’t see any change in the weather. Another dump had fallen the previous evening and other than the lovely white blanket covering all sins, I was bored of the snow. I had food, I had DVD’s, the office was closed, so I settled in to wait for the thaw. Midway through some boxset, there was a frantic banging at my door. I ambled downstairs to find my neighbour stood outside in nothing more than a night-dress with a wild look in her eyes. Taking time to acknowledge and admire her super-frozen nipples, I prepared myself for the usual environment-related attack. But it didn’t come.

‘I need your help!’ She practically screamed at me. ‘My daughter, something’s wrong with my daughter…I called an ambulance but they can’t get here for an hour. Please help!’

What could I do? I wasn’t a doctor. But I followed her across the road. The little girl was on the couch and was definitely unwell. Her lips were an unsavoury shade of blue and she seemed limp and lifeless. I knew what she wanted me to do, but even in this extreme emergency she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

‘I’ll drive you to the hospital.’ I said. ‘ Wrap her up and I’ll go and grab my keys.’

I ran back to mine, grabbed the keys and bundled them both into the back seats. I fired up the V8 permanent four-wheel drive engine, engaged the diff lock and cautiously pulled away. The car just purred over the snow, finding the solid grip under the powder, the tyres didn’t even spin as I made my way out the driveway. Our local A&E was less than two miles away, but we had to negotiate at least one mile on un-gritted, small residential streets and B roads. Even the main road when we finally made it there was treacherous, all around us were abandoned cars and buses, meaning I had to slowly slalom my way into town.

Within 20 minutes we pulled up to A&E, right up to the door. She fled out the back door and I could see the staff urgently take the baby from her hands. Running back to the car I gave her my mobile number and told her to call me when she needed collecting. She never did.

A few days later, when the pristine snow had turned to muddied sludge, there was another note on my car. It simply said ‘sorry’ and went on to say that her daughter was now fine and out of hospital. It asked me to pop round to she could thank me personally and went on to say how this whole episode was some sort of karmic intervention, that my evil lifestyle and her divine beliefs had come together to save her child’s life.

‘Wow,’ I thought, ‘I might just get to shag her now!’

When I did pop over, she wasn’t there. Nor was she there the next day, or the next. And then new people moved in. And then my Range Rover had to be returned. And then I moved on too. But every time it snows I think of her. I truly believe she moved out just to avoid facing me, to avoid facing the cold, harsh reality that everything she hated, everything she despised and everything she stood for had been slapped back in her face. Her god had proven to be false and her devil had saved her.

tl;dr – bigoted loudmouth forced to eat words, still didn’t get to shag her.
(, Fri 22 Feb 2013, 13:41, 23 replies)
Coloured. A poem about the futility of racism and other stuff which is all highly on topic. Honest. I never said it was good though...
I love all sorts of people
I find it rude to judge
I love coons and even men
Who pack each other’s fudge.

I like gooks and even japs
Lesbians and spacks
Wogs and chogs and nogs and frogs
Pakis, nips and blacks.

I like micks and even spicks
They all are decent fellows
And I don’t have a problem with
The chinky slit eyed yellows.

If people are intolerant
I’ll kick ‘em out of town
Cos I love everybody
Even Asians what are brown.

But the lanky Na’vi wankers
And short-arse twat Smurf runts
Can all fuck off to where they came
The fucking shit blue cunts.
(, Sun 24 Feb 2013, 19:29, 3 replies)
One of the most disgusting examples of corporate bigotry I've encountered.
I hesitated to post this link because I think people will find it upsetting - but its better that we all see just how narrow minded and offensive big business can be. Only in America!

(, Thu 21 Feb 2013, 22:14, 5 replies)
My first proper job
Working for an aged Chartered Accountant who was approaching retirement. This guy was a pillar of his (local, small, rural) community, a church deacon, a local organiser of charitable events.. and completely lacking self-awareness that his 1930s Buckinghamshire ways of speech didn't really fit 1990s Hertfordshire.

He wasn't a racist: Let me make that very clear.
One of his first customers was a partnership that ran an Indian restaurant: Badrul and Nasrul were their names. My boss immediately decided that was too difficult and throughout their enduring business relationships called them Bovril and Nostril.

The crowning moment came at a company social event when as a new employee I was introduced to some of the oldest customers, including one of those two brave (and tolerant!) Indian chaps

"This is Nostril, runs the {name of restaurant}. Splendid chap,. works like a nigger.."

Slightly cut off as the other partner in the practice drops her mug of tea in horror. Nasrul - bless him - after years of dealing with my boss, didnt so much as twitch.
(, Fri 22 Feb 2013, 0:07, 3 replies)
I'm from Northern Ireland, so you'd expect my family to be full of bigots, racists, sexists, homophobes and loud-mouths.
But you'd be wrong, because we aren't Protestants.
(, Fri 22 Feb 2013, 14:06, 8 replies)
Mistaken bigotry
When I was at Uni one of my house mates was Eddie. Eddie is originally from Belfast and one of the loudest people on the planet. We were leaving to go to the pub and Eddie calls back inside to me "Get the fucking door key" to which a passing Somalian chap nearly shat himself and bolted down the street.
(, Mon 25 Feb 2013, 14:54, 5 replies)
I started to see a woman
but she dumped me after the third date. She said she couldn't carry on with someone as bigoted and dyslexic as me.

It surprised me, as I never had me shoes and socks off so how could she know?
(, Sat 23 Feb 2013, 10:07, 7 replies)
Back in the days that Section 28 still existed...
I went on a demonstration outside the gates of Canterbury cathedral to protest against it. Canterbury is of course the most useful place in the world to demonstrate in. Some tiny little Kentish village that's only famous because of the hefty girt pile of stones in the middle of it (a cathedral that looks surprisingly like a Mon Calamari cruiser) doesn't exactly have many people of political authority lurking about in it, but demonstrate we did.

Anyway. Imagine the scene. About two dozen people (generous estimate) including me were milling around outside the Franklin & Firkin (some of us getting as far as Dunkin' Donuts!) holding banners and shouting things like "Down with Section 28! (careful now!)" and "We're here, we're queer, and we don't really appreciate an anachronistic and overly socially conservative piece of local legislation which in reality serves only to further persecute an already vulnerable section of society by depriving them of valuable pastoral support from a group of people who really ought to be able to help them!". Yeah, we had the whole protesting thing down to a tee. So anway. I was milling about, as you do at this sort of thing, when a sweet little old lady, must have been well into her eighties, came up to me and started having a chat.

"So what's all this about then?" she asked. I started explaining what Section 28 was, and why we thought it was a Bad Thing. After a few moments, she looked me up and down and said "So you're a gay then?", at which point I explained that no, I was straight, but the vast majority of my friends there were. This sweet, dear, charming elderly lady gave me a conspiratorial wink and said "Gays didn't exist when I was a girl, but at least they're better than the fucking niggers. Good luck to you!"

Exactly the sort of people we were hoping to get the support of! I felt proud.
(, Sat 23 Feb 2013, 2:55, Reply)
I used to drink in The Czech and Slovak Bar in North West London fifteen years ago
The landlord (Big Bob) escaped from Prague in 1968 by getting a job at the airport, getting friendly with the security dogs and finally stowing away in the cargo hold of a Boeing to London.
Thirty years on and we're all sat around having a proper piss up in his bar on a Sunday evening when a few Albanian lads in tracksuits run in, turn the lights off and start dishing out blows indiscriminately. Fortunately they served pints in old school thick glasses with handles, so myself, Bob and his fit daughter managed to give us good as we got and fought them out of the gaff.
Turns out Bob had been getting threats for a while from the local branch of the Albanian mafia (one of whom lived upstairs in my block; I'm happy to testify he was a wife beating cunt). Taking the not unreasonable stance that it wasn't worth calling the police, Bob stuck a sign up on the door of his bar reading "Due to repeated incidents, sorry but no Albanians".
Couple of weeks later and two women from Camden Council arrive, telling Bob in no uncertain terms that his sign is illegal under race relations legislation. Bob immediately takes the sign down.
Next day a new sign appears reading "Due to repeated incidents, sorry but NO ALBANIANS and NO LESBIANS from the council".
Occasionally I have to tell my son that his Grandad Bob is a bit extreme in his reactions...
(, Sun 24 Feb 2013, 1:06, 13 replies)
No black teachers
A language school in Warsaw had one big draw to get new students; a course taught entirely by a native English speaker. For any who have done TEFL, this has its pros and cons. On the plus side, students get access to "real" English, and don't learn some bastard approximation of English from the "local" teachers, who all sound like Russian bad guys in a James Bond movie. On the flip side, most "natives" have had zero training and couldn't tell their verb from their elbow if asked (which Polish students do, regularly). Despite the lack of qualifications, most natives command a higher hourly rate than the local teachers, but more importantly allow the school to charge a much higher price for the courses.

This school had two teachers. Charles was born in Surrey, was university educated with a CTELFA qualification and a degree in English, and had been teaching for over 5 years. He knew the ins and outs, he knew what specific problems Poles have with the language and how to overcome them, and best of all, he had the smooth mellifluous tones of a continuity announcer. Only trouble is, he was black. Very black. Treacle-covered black pudding on a plate of pure asphalt black. The school sent him to the client for induction training.

Next day there was a complaint. "None of the students can understand the teacher. His accent is atrocious, no-one knows what he's talking about. He's the worst teacher we've ever had. Send a replacement."

What? Charles has never had a blemish on his career in his life. His appraisals come back perfect, and he's even taught other teachers. Still, the client's always right, so the school sends the other teacher; a drunken slob from South Africa that they usually reserve for "conversation classes", since Sam knows fuck-all about grammar and even less about professional decorum.

Apparently the clients were delighted and found Sam "far easier to understand", which is odd since, punctuated with hiccups and burps, his opening phrase is "Willkem tee Inglish klors, moi naym ees Sim en oil bi titching yu fi thee rist iv thee simistah".
(, Wed 27 Feb 2013, 10:35, 3 replies)
how do you know if someone is a vegan?
don't worry. they'll fucking tell you.
(, Tue 26 Feb 2013, 12:11, 22 replies)
In my last job, I worked as part of a diverse team, nearly all of whom apparently listed among their hobbies "failing to get on with my diverse team". One day, I was working in a small office with the following (names have been changed to protect the idiots):

Beryl - a 60-something year old woman, very forthright in her own views, intolerant of everyone else's, easily offended, all "hidden" behind a paper-thin veneer of friendliness. Definitely fits the definition of 'bigot', but would be horrified if you called her on it.
Nareeta - a 20-something Indian girl, quite funny, a bit touchy, but who I got on well with for the most part. Not very good at biting her tongue. Just as much a bigot as Beryl, really.
Lenny - a 50-something chap, friendly, funny and sometimes a little shy.
Me - no biography necessary.

There we were, all working away, with a little bit of chat between Nareeta & I. The conversation turned to Christmas and I asked Nareeta if she celebrated it.
"Yeah, most of them do" chipped in Beryl. Hmmm, this could be tricky. I saw Nareeta freeze to my right, and heard Lenny inhale behind me.
What seemed like an eternity passed. Finally, Nareeta broke the silence.
"What do you mean, 'most of them do'?" she enquired, frostily.
Without looking up, Beryl replied "Well, most people of ethnic origin that I've worked with".
Lenny and I remained frozen, wondering which way this was going to go. Nareeta resumed working; Beryl continued working. Slightly (but not completely) relieved, I turned my attention back to my computer.
After another few minutes of an atmosphere so palpable I could barely breathe, Nareeta threw her pen down and turned to Beryl.
"No, I'm sorry" she said "I still can't get my head round what you meant by what you just said”
Beryl spluttered, stammered, managed to get out “Oh, I don’t know!” and left the room hurriedly.
Honestly, you’ve never felt an atmosphere like this. Nareeta turned back to her computer screen & I pretended to do the same, but something had to be done to relieve the tension. I clapped my hands together and stood up.
“Right, I think I’m going to go and masturbate!” I proclaimed loudly
“Yeah” piped up Lenny “I’ll join you!”
I can’t actually remember what happened after that. I don’t think we did masturbate; I’m pretty sure that would have stuck in my mind.

Beryl did get suspended though, while Nareeta’s complaint was investigated. Once it was all over and Beryl was allowed back to work, she went off sick with stress and depression, prompting Nareeta to proclaim in the office one Monday morning “I saw Beryl at the weekend. She didn’t look very depressed, she was even smiling!”.

Nightmare place, I’m so glad I’m out of it…
(, Tue 26 Feb 2013, 15:22, 15 replies)
The best way to start the day
After a long night out in Frankfurt, four of us drunkenly found our way into a two person's hotel room to stay the night. Of course, we offered the beds to the two ladies in our group, and I just crashed on the floor in front of the window. Much as I would like to consider myself a gentleman, but the reality is, that it just seemed highly unlikely the girl I quite fancied would have let me share a bed.

Maybe it was the thought of lying just a metre away from my dream woman, but in any case I did not get any sleep that night. And as slowly the world around the hotel would awake on a beautiful Sunday morning, inside everything remained fast asleep. Or so I thought, when suddenly I heard a noise from the bed next to me. The leg hanging out from under the duvet stirred, and I noticed her sitting up in bed. I heard the rustle of silk on her soft skin, when she slipped into her beautiful hand made dressing gown that she had bought on a trip to Bali. Next I heard her footsteps coming closer. She stood over me, and though the room was dark, I was sure she was looking at me. I didn't know what to say. The other two people in the room were still fast asleep.

Suddenly she pulls open the window and screams outside “Oy, Ching Chong China man. Stop those strange Kung Fu noises. Don't you know that hereabouts, people want to sleep on a Sunday morning?” With a resounding thud, the window was shut again, and little blond princess slipped out of her pink Chinese silk gown and back under the blankets again to sleep with an eerily righteous expression on her face, while two Chinese people outside simply continued their conversation as before.
(, Tue 26 Feb 2013, 13:41, 4 replies)
The clue's in the name
There's a pub on the outskirts of Brighton called the Travellers' Rest. For many years it had a sign by the door: "No Travellers".
(, Mon 25 Feb 2013, 14:02, 3 replies)
I went to school with a guy called Raymond.
A sweet guy, he was smart as whip - he could calculate stuff in his head that most of us couldn't make heads or tails of even with workings and a calculator.

Raymond wasn't exactly beaten by the ugly stick. Until puberty came along. Many of us were afflicted by an odd pimple - Raymond managed to score cystic acne. But there was 1 zit that took the cake.
Raymond started growing this thing on the side of his neck. It quickly grew from pustulent volcano into almost a boil. Eventually it grew a head. Literally.
The white head then grew features and eventually one day it spoke.

Now Raymond as I have said was a fairly mild mannered fellow - never mind "Boo" to a goose, he wouldn't whisper "Surprise!" to a goat.
His zit however turned out to be incredibly noisy, obnoxious and intolerant. It would shout abuse at anyone and everyone that it perceived was in any way even slightly different to itself and Raymond.

One day we were sitting in class copping a barrage of this bigoted shit when our headmaster, Mr. Goldberg-Shastri poked his turbaned head into our class, surveyed us all with narrow, slitted eyes and asked "Who was that shouting out such hateful bile?".
As a group we turned and pointed at the zit. "And who is he?" the headmaster asked.
As a group in unison we said - "Sorry Sir, He's Ray's Cyst."
(, Sat 23 Feb 2013, 23:59, 2 replies)
An earlier post got me thinking
Why is it, when someone says "I'm not racist, but..." the words that come out of their mouth, regardless of what they are, actually sound racist? Even the most innocent of phrases is automatically a bit questionable when preceeded by that immortal phrase?

"I'm not racist, but Vanish actually managed to remove the stains from that shirt quite nicely."
"I'm not racist, but I've decided to buy a new coat."
"I'm not racist, but I would like a return ticket to Birmingham please."

It instantly makes people search for a racist reason behind what's being said. I might throw in a few later whilst going about my normal business, just to gauge the reaction.
(, Fri 22 Feb 2013, 12:54, 10 replies)
moonbadger's post about not noticing colour reminded me of this...
Not really on topic, but semi-related. Some of you might remember that once upon a time the lovely Jessie was suspended from her job after being accused of "racist conduct", which came about when at a work do, her manager gave her some money and told her to get a round in. She then forgot one member of staff, Charity, who had gone to sit round the corner. A while later Charity complained that Jess had deliberately omitted her from the round because she was black.

At all the meetings, Jess noted how Charity could instantly tell you how many black/white/Asian/whatever members of staff were present at any one time, whereas Jess had to sit and think about who had been there.

I told her before the very first meeting, when the managers put it to her that she hadn't included Charity in the round because of her blackness, Jess should have said "Black? Charity? Is she?! I've never even noticed...", and seen how far she could have run with that line of defence.

(for those who are interested, after six weeks of suspension, during which time Jess was simultaneously:

-relieved to be away from work
-chuffed at getting Christmas off
-disgusted at the ridiculous allegation
-annoyed that she wasn't allowed to talk to her friends at work
-dismayed at how little management seemed to bother keeping her up to date with what was going on
-laughing at the incredulous response of the union rep when she explained why she was suspended
-and of course shitting herself at the thought of how fucked her career would be should she get sacked for racist conduct

...she was finally told that the matter was resolved in her favour and she could come back to work)

(, Mon 25 Feb 2013, 14:43, 8 replies)
Somerset, 1972
My family are all Somerset farmers and have moved about five miles in five hundred years. My dad was in the first generation of our family to go away to university, where he met my mum.

One time during their engagement, Dad was back on the farm. A local working alongside him said suspiciously, "I hear you're getting married. To someone... from away!"

My mum's from Nottingham (and is white).
(, Mon 25 Feb 2013, 12:42, 5 replies)
In the interest of promoting diversity I thought we should do a QOTW census
Please select the choice which best describes you

(, Sat 23 Feb 2013, 10:18, 20 replies)
I'm not racist because racism is a crime
And crime is what black people do.
(, Fri 22 Feb 2013, 9:18, Reply)
My Mate Don..
Joined one Her Majesty's frigates in the late 70's, early 80's.
He was directed to his messdeck where he gave the usual hail, "Below!".
It should be noted that entry to the mess in an RN Ship is effected through a hatch and down a ladder to the deck, er, below.
"Uptop" came the traditional riposte.
"You got any niggers down there?" asked Don.
"No" came the reply.
"You fucking well have now!" said Don as he threw his kitbag down the hatch.

Okay it's a sort of reverse racism but seems to fit the QOTW.
(, Wed 27 Feb 2013, 23:02, 1 reply)
Why can't Stephen Hawking jump?
Because he's white.
(, Wed 27 Feb 2013, 19:21, 2 replies)
Chronologically negro, darkie, brown, coloured and black have all
been PC labels for people with skin colour other than pink, or white if you're PC.
Many of the old people accused of bigotry are not bigots. They just can't be arsed to keep up.
(, Tue 26 Feb 2013, 10:58, 7 replies)
Went to stay at my aunts holiday cottage in France.
There I met her cockney neighbours who had bought a house and moved there from London. Apparently, the reason they left the UK was 'because of all the immigrants'
(, Mon 25 Feb 2013, 16:23, 3 replies)
I am NOT coloured!
Came the annoyed response from the black lad in our class at school. We didn't give a feck that he was black, he was a mate, that was that. Skin colour hadn't even entered our minds. We were 15/16 at the time and a tree-hugging-yoghurt -knitter supply teacher was taking us for our ( compulsory ) R.E lesson.
Our usual teacher was a top bloke and had introduced us to the faiths of others in a; on reflection, superbly balanced way. Not this wombat. 'People of colour', 'ethnic peoples', 'aboriginal people'. Patronise patronise. Paul had enough. He had a little outburst which still makes me chuckle. I have to paraphrase here.
The first and only time I ever heard Paul swear. He was livid. Up until that point, there had been no differences, we just never thought much about it. Kids don't.
She stormed from the room and was replaced by the Deputy Headmaster; a fine, balanced man. He asked what happened and we explained. His response was a smile, a little chuckle, a 'good man' comment to Paul and we spent the next half hour discussing his favourite sport, rugby.
We aren't born racist pigs, we don't really notice. To this day, I find the PC insidiousness abhorrent, and that was the start for me.
(, Mon 25 Feb 2013, 12:58, 9 replies)
Table Monners
As an impecunious music student, I and some chums played string quartet gigs for functions, dinners, weddings etc. One rather sumptuous affair had perhaps the godfather of the modern-day bigot as guest-of-honour, the Very Reverend Doctor Ian Paisley.

We were positioned behind, and a little to the right of the top table, and from this discreet vantage point were able to see how this formidable one-man bible-bashing-blitzkrieg conducted himself amongst the genteel.

Looking from left to right along the backs of the honoured guests, my eyes stopped at the area below Dr. Paisley's seat. There was more food down there than there was on his plate. I wondered how was it possible that a man of the pulpit, and whom God, in His infinite wisdom had provided tenfold in the gob department, was able to miss?

A little later whilst playing Tchaikovsky's sensual and supremely peaceful Andante Cantabile from his first string quartet, we heard the great voice itself, booming down the table towards his daughter:

(, Sun 24 Feb 2013, 10:55, 4 replies)
Do you know why Ben Elton never told any racist jokes when he was doing stand up ?

Because he didn't fucking know any .

j sadowitz
(, Fri 22 Feb 2013, 20:17, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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