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Mrs Liveinabin tells us: My mum told me to eat my vegetables, or I wouldn't get any pudding. I'm 32 and told her I could do what I like. I ate my vegetables. Tell us about mums.

(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 13:21)
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This question is now closed.

My Mum was an absolute one-off
In good ways and bad ways. Mostly good ways.

When she went into the hospice for the last time, and we knew she only had a day at most left, she waited until we were all there - me, my brother, my sisters, wives, husbands and children - then she whispered (she could hardly speak at this point) for someone to pass her purse to her.

She was very weak, so it took forever for her to open it, but she refused any offers of help, and eventually pulled out some money. And promptly sent my brother and me out to get a couple of bottles of Champagne.

She couldn't have any herself, but she was determined to see herself off with a celebration rather than us sitting around being miserable and crying (which of course we did afterwards anyway).

At one point the doctor came in and we wondered what she was going to think of all these people making merry, sipping Champagne at my Mum's deathbed. Well, Mum insisted she have a glass of Champagne, too, which she did.

it's been almost three years now, but writing this, I realise I'm still capable of shedding the odd tear thinking about it... though I'm smiling, too.
(, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 9:15, 10 replies)
,,I went to Cuba a few years ago, to Guantanamo. Not the US base, but the area around it.

My mum's words of wisdom?

'Be careful if you go near that american base. You do go a bit middle-eastern looking in the sun and you know how stupid americans are.'

(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 22:01, 5 replies)
My mum made a cake once
Fuck knows how she managed it. All afternoon there had been much clanging and banging and whirring, and that weird rustly sifting noise you get from paper bags filled with sugar and flour. And then the final solid thump of the oven door closing, and her emerging from the kitchen, beaming like a pixie.

Later that day, when the main course had been eaten and the plates carried away, she brought in her construction on a big round plate, and us three hungry sons sat round it, licking lips and generally salivating all over the place. It was a fruit loaf.

My oldest brother, at the age of 20, was given the honour of cutting it. He picked up the knife, steadied himself at the table, and tentatively poked at the crust. It crumbled slightly, but didn't yield. So he pressed harder. And harder. Then started to worm and twist the knife, digging it into the loaf like a screwdriver, but it wouldn't budge; the cake was absolutely solid. Beads of sweat broke out on his face from the strain until eventually there was a snap, the blade pinged off and the handle of the knife came away in his hand. I laughed, my brother swore, my mum's bottom lip trembled and the dog looked on, hungry and bemused.

After the cajoling and gibes, and frustrated retorts from my mother (pun intended), we took the cake outside to destroy it. The family car (albeit a Metro) happily rolled over it, a hammer knocked a corner of it and the dog could do little more damage to it than making it reek of dog drool. It now sits on my brother's garage workbench, 18 years later, with a series of precise holes drilled in. It's a home-made oven-baked screwdriver-holder, just like Mum used to make.
(, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 8:02, 6 replies)
My mum is awesome
Back when I was about 15, my younger brother was lying on the couch watching telly, so I sneaked up on him and farted on his head, because I was a teenager so it was hilarious. He was not pleased and chased me through the house yelling. My mum stopped us and asked what was going on. He pointed at me and angrily shouted "He farted on MY FACE!"

Mum looked at him, and then replied in a perfect South Park Canadian accent "I say! Terrance! Pull my finger! Aaahahahaha!" He was left dumbfounded and feebly protesting while I doubled over in laughter.

You rock, mum.
(, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 0:49, 3 replies)
Fuzz Away
When I started going to school my mum bought me a rather nifty little navy blue duffle coat. I fucking loved that duffle coat. It became my second skin. I’d have gladly laid down my life to save that stylish garment, I really fucking would.

It was about this time they had this gimpy little fella on an advert on the telly. He’d go on about some product or other and finish by saying: “I liked it so much, I bought the company!” Now, I was only five and didn’t really understand what this fella was selling, or why I was so damned petrified of him. But it was pretty obvious that one of his gadgets would make my navy blue duffle coat about a zillion times cooler. It was this little magic device that buzzed and shook as you rubbed it over your coat, and it took all the evil bobbles off and collected them in a little receptacle. It was named a magic box. Or, as I later discovered, a Remington Fuzz Away.

One Saturday after I’d been plonked in front of the TV I saw the ad again. Determined to make my coat AWSOME I went rummaging through my mum and dad’s bedroom to see if they had one of these making-coats-good contraptions. Finding what I wanted, I retrieved my coat from the hallway, returned to the living room, and proceeded to defuzz the fucker.

Didn’t seem to be doing much to my coat, but the damn contraption was covered in fluff so I supposed it must’ve been working. I gobbed on my hand and rubbed the fluff off in a few fluid motions. Then, intrigued, I raised the device to my mouth and touched the tip of my tongue to it. It felt weird. I needed more. So I clamped my mouth round it and hummed, it made my teeth rattle which – being five – I found absolutely fucking hilarious.

Moments later my mum wandered in from the garden with our next door neighbour. I looked up at them cheerfully, humming louder and louder so they could see how fucking hilarious my new-found game was too. My mum and the neighbour, a church-going God-bother of the finest order, both stared back. Time stopped. Everything went quiet except for the low, growling buzz of the instrument rattling against the inside of my mouth. My mum shot over and pulled the Fuzz Away out of my mouth with a wet plop!!! and shoved it in her pocket, she pulled me up and smacked me hard across the arse, going on about: “Don’t take things that don’t belong to you.”

Years later I discovered something important.

Remington Fuzz Away’s are not - ordinarily – pink. They are not usually variable speed. And they sure as hell are not typically phallic shaped and veiny.

Still makes me cringe... Yes, I’ve actually tasted the insides of my mums cum chamber...

(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:32, 16 replies)
Shameless repost, but I think you'll find it's very apt
My mother grew up in a very traditional family who thought that sex was Bad and Evil and Nasty and Wrong, and that her ladyparts were to be ashamed of. On the day her mother first discovered a few spots of blood on her underwear that Mum hadn't even noticed herself, she came home from school to find all the curtains drawn and her mother whispering in shameful tones about "growing up" and "women's problems" and "that time of the month".

So naturally, Mum was determined that I shouldn't have such an awful upbringing, that I should grow up with a happy, healthy attitude to sex and a good relationship with my ladyparts. So far so good. But alas, let's just say the pendulum swung rather too far in the opposite direction.

For as far back as my memory goes, she regularly tried to engage me in conversation about my vagina. She used to tell me all about her sex life at great length and in great detail. She lectured me on the harmlessness of masturbation (It's okay...as long as you wash your hands afterwards). She used to test me on all of this. Seriously, when other kids were learning to read, I was locating the clitoris on a colour-coded diagram. Then when I was fourteen, she packed me off on a week-long orchestral tour with a twelve-pack of condoms. Twelve! If I got that much sex now I'd be very happy, not to mention a bit behind on my work.

But the worst thing she ever did, worse than the masturbation tutorials, worse than inviting me to inspect her labia, was locking the two of us in a tiny toilet cubicle together and making me watch her insert a tampon. I was only four. She stood up, naked from the waist down, put one pale, heavily-muscled leg up against the wall for easy access and barked a running commentary at me as she shoved a tampon into her bloody vagina, greying pubes glistening, a maniacal, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar expression in her mad, rolling eyes.

Click "I like this" to make a Paypal donation towards my therapy bill.
(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:52, 9 replies)
{LOOK OUT FOR THE LENGTH} My mum is great...
...more than that, she deserves a mantelpiece-full of medals. She isn't the subject of one of those awful child-abuse-catharsis books that the OK magazine crowd seems to find so fascinating, but all the same life has fucked her about a lot more than it should have. Examples:

* Getting pregnant after her first time at 15 (with my Dad, whom she later married) and this being a small town in the 60's, getting thrown out of school despite being a very promising student and becoming a pariah to all the stuck-up 'christian' cunts in the neighbourhood thereafter. She told me once of a time when she was heavily pregnant, on her way home with some shopping. It was winter and the snow was deep. She fell and couldn't get up again. She asked one of these cunts for help and was snootily told that she was getting what she deserved. One of a handful of reasons I wish that time travel was possible - fuck fiddling the lottery - that street on that day is the first trip I'd make.
* Resulting first-born being born with cerebal palsy, possibly due to a botched chemical abortion attempt forced upon her by my great-grandmother. My eldest brother, Paul. She tried her best to take care of him, but had no choice than to put him in permanent specialised care when he was about 3. She saw him often though, of course. Sadly, his condition affected his health often and died over a decade ago at age 32.
* Had to leave my Dad when I was around 3 and my older brother, Jason, was around 5 after he held a knife to her throat during a row. My dad had a temper in his youth, and wasn't too bright either. Thankfully he mellowed with age, but long after all hope of reconciliation was gone. Dad's been gone for about 4 years now. Cancer.
* Spent the best part of 20 years penniless and on the dole so she could take care of me and Jason after we migrated to her when our new stepmother's out-and-out shitbaggery became too much for us.
* Endured Jason's 15-year hard-drug habit, the development of my latent homosexuality and her sister's raging alcoholism which developed after my grandmother's death.
* Endured 4 weeks of watching over Jason in the ICU after he suffered heart failure and subsequent brain damage two xmasses ago. He'd been off the hard stuff for 5 years at this point. He wanted to be a drugs counsellor. She was with him when he died - whilst I'd been with them the entire time, I knew that that was going to be the day and I wasn't strong enough to watch my last remaining sibling become a corpse. He was 38.

Now, if all this and more still that I haven't mentioned had moulded my mum into a grade-A twat in her now-later years, I wouldn't have blamed her. Not one bit. But she remains the kindest soul that I have ever encountered, with achievements under her belt that even an overachieving geek like me is jealous of. More examples:

* Became a black belt (3rd Dan, no less) in Shotokan along with my stepfather and taught self-defence to local urchins and adults alike pretty much throughout my life. Even trained with them myself for awhile. Despite the considerable handiness that resulted from this, I've never seen her use her learned abilities once outside of the dojo. Ditto for my stepdad, and he's fucking good at it (5th Dan), despite the fact that the club was shut down late last year. Their boxroom is mostly competition trophies these days.
* A seemingly limitless store of compassion, enabling her to see good in even the lowliest pond-life scum that have crossed our path over the years, always willing to help in any way that she can despite their crimes against others and even ourselves.
* Never once turned her back on me, my brother or her sister despite our individual issues bringing her more grief than any normal person could handle without going tonto. Again, always willing to help. She told me only a couple of weeks ago that she essentially paid for my brother's habit throughout so that he didn't have to rely on crime or worse, his mates to do so. I realise that this kept him out of jail for pretty much the entire time he was in the habit, until he did something very stupid and jailtime was inevitable. He used the confinement to go cold-turkey and kick it for good. I have a picture from the pub the day he got out of jail of the three of us - I wish I could see her smile like that more often, almost as much as I wish I could see Jason again.
* Sent a known psycho on his way peacefully for the first and last time when one of my brother's mates stole his weed and scarpered, leaving my brother to take the blame (full story of said psycho can be found in my best-of).
* Went to evening college to do an art course (mum and her sister both have breathtaking talent in this area) as me and Jason started getting grown-up, and about ten tears later bagged a very respectable grade in a BEd. She's now teaching in a private high school with an exemplary record - not even OFSTED can find anything wrong with the way she takes care of business. She's approaching retirement now - I'm looking forward to her finally being able to have a rest more than she is, I think.

Again, there's lots of stuff I haven't mentioned because this is more than long enough. I know that I have a biased view because she's my mother, but there's no-one I know in this life that makes me prouder to know than her. As I stated at the beginning she's taken more shit than anyone should in ordinary life and her character, intellect, sense of humour and pure heart have survived through it all. Extraordinary.

The day I helped carry Jason into the crematorium I vowed that from that day until her last, whatever she needs from me she gets, without question or argument. These days, Mummy's Boy is a badge I wear with pride. Also from that day I had a new #1 thing to do before I die – outlast my mum. I'm not sure how well I'll handle living as the last of the family I was born to, but she’s followed two of her three children into the crematorium now, and sure as fuck she’s not going to have to do that again.

A fucking MANTELPEICE-FULL - do you hear?
(, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 13:13, 10 replies)
Mom's mom.
My mom's mother was a very tough old bird, an Iron Lady back when being such a thing was a social taboo. She graduated university as a geologist, then found out that as a woman she'd earn a fraction of what a man would earn and was so utterly incensed by this that she immediately enrolled in medical school so that she could set her own wages.

She passed a lot of this inherent toughness onto Mom, who decided to pursue a nursing degree after high school. (During that time Mom met Dad, so she ended up not finishing- too bad, really.) While at school Mom made a few enemies, as someone as outspoken and direct as she is tends to do, and was especially sneered at by one spoiled rich girl who considered Mom to be far too blue-collar for the airy heights of medical practice.

One night a bunch of them were hanging around the dorm and started talking about why they had gotten into nursing to begin with. After a few stories had been told the rich girl declared, "Well, I'm here because of a woman doctor my parents always took me to see." She then went on to speak glowingly of this shining example of how great a woman could be, how inspirational she had found this doctor to be in her own life- "but of course none of you would know of her," she added scornfully.

There was a loaded silence before Mom cleared her throat. "Well, thank you. I'm glad you like my mother so much." She then held out a photo from her purse.

To hear Mom tell it, you could just about see the rich girl's ovaries shrinking within her...
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 23:38, 3 replies)
If it's not one thing it's your mother
Shameless pearost coming up...

My mum has never been one for looking after cars. Combining her boot fair addiction and interest in plants the car normally looks like a rag and bone van. Think moss on the dashboard (I kid thee not).

As a driver myself (and not a particularly good passenger) its quite rare for me to ever travel with her. However one unforftunate day I was forced to accept a lift in the Red-Death-Mobile as my car had broken down. Thats when the fun started:

1.) Every time she braked the oil-light would come on.
2.) The steering wheel visibly shook side to side from a "coming-together" with a kurb.
3.) Speed bumps were taken at 40mph+ (think dukes of hazard stylee).
4.) She was not happy about going out of her way to collect me.

Being a male (read petrolhead) I decided it was only reasonable for me to let her know the dangerous faults with her car (and some of her creative driving habits). Oh boy... NOT a good idea.

Full-on hystrionics about how her driving was always good enough when I was a kid and wanted to go to a friends. The more irate she got the more faults I mentioned. After 2 minutes of throwing the car (even more) around she screeches to a halt in a side road screaming "GET OUT...IF ALL YOU ARE GOING TO DO IS INSULT MY CAR YOU CAN WALK!". We werent that far from home anyway so I decided it was probably safer.

The following memory will live with me forever:

I climb out and close the car door looking at a betroot-faced mum still fuming with rage. Tapping on the window she lowers it expecting an apology. With a smile on my face I then handed her back the door handle from the car.

Both of us cried with laughter and had to sit in the car for 10minutes to calm down before I drove the red-shed back home.
(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:15, 4 replies)
A shocking card game.
I am the youngest of three children. With 4 years between each of us, we never really played much together. So my parents tried to correct this by having family game sessions every week or so. Usually, this was a board game or some cards. It was the early 80’s after all.

On one of these days the five of us were sitting around the kitchen table playing cards. I was 13 years of age or so, and my parents were in their mid 40's. To me, at the time, they seemed ancient. Cards were dealt, and as the game progressed, and cards were played, a 6 and a 9 appeared side by side on the kitchen table.

"69!" My sister (the middle child) giggled to the oldest and pointed at the cards.
"Gahfaw" My brother chuckled
... and I looked scared, as I had just learned recently what a 69 was.
"Whah…?” … my mum seemed confused … “What is it?”
“Sixty-nine, mom!”, my sister chimed in, “You know … look at the numbers … one is right side up, the other upside down, curvy bits” making gestures with her hands, and a ‘say no more’ wink.

My dad at this point was leaning back in his chair, absorbing all that his innocent children were blabbering about.

And then my mum let fly, what will leave me scarred for life, a comment as she quickly grabbed my fathers shoulder, and looked excitedly at him, with a big grin “Oh honey! The kids have a name for it!”

The horror.
(, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 16:48, 4 replies)
"Hey, that looks like fun!"
I'm sure I've told this story in here before, but it bears repeating.

It was March of 1993, and upstate NY was being hit by a freak blizzard. I lived southwest of Syracuse at the time, and we got about four feet of snow overnight. I spent two days digging us out, and everything was thickly buried.

Mom called me to ask for help- their house in the Adirondacks had better than three feet of snow on it, and they were forecasting rain later in the week. When a thick layer of fresh snow gets rained on, it acts like a big sponge and soaks it up- and that's what collapses roofs. Dad needed my help to shovel off the roof. So I agreed, we packed the kids in the car and we drove two hours to get there, and the following morning Dad and I bundled ourselves up and got to work.

We quickly developed a routine. The snow was up to the level of our belts- about three feet deep- so we found that we could use the snow shovels to cut it into blocks, get the shovel under it and slide a three foot tall block to the edge of the roof and let it tumble off. It didn't involve any real lifting to speak of, but it was still pretty tiring work.

Dad and I finished it about one in the afternoon, then came down for lunch. We drank some hot coffee to defrost us, ate the BLTs Mom made for us and drank the beers we had waiting, and felt pretty good about ourselves.

"But what about the wood shed roofs?" Mom asked. "They'll never survive it!"

The wood sheds are about twelve feet square, built of timbers stacked like Lincoln Logs so that there are gaps between them to allow air to go through. We normally filled them during the warm months, and used the contents of one shed during the year while the wood in the other one dried for a year- so one was full and the other still had about a quarter of the wood left in it. They stand about three feet apart and have flat roofs that slope toward the back.

Dad was completely wiped out by five straight hours of work. "The hell with them. We can rebuild them later."

Mom turned to me. "What do you think? Are you up for shoveling more snow?"

By now I was warm, had food in me and had had a blast of caffeine. "Sure, just let me get my boots back on."

We got out there and I leaned a ladder against the back edge of the nearer shed, climbed up and made enough room for us to work in, then Mom climbed up too. We started digging and I showed her how to slide the blocks off, and we merrily chugged along with each block making a soft whoosh as it hit the growing pile at the back of the shed. We stepped over to the other shed and did the same there, and after about an hour or two both sheds were free of snow.

I went to climb down and immediately saw our mistake.

I had put the ladder against the back side of the shed because it was the lower edge of the roof, and because it was downhill we had tossed all of the snow off the back edge. The ladder was buried under about eight feet of snow. "Aww, shit... Okay, I'll jump down. you give me a shovel and I'll dig out the ladder." And I hopped into the snowbank, going up to my waist. I worked my feet under me and struggled clear of the snow and stood on top of the bank.

I heard, "Hey, that looks like fun!" and looked up in time to see my 65 year old mother sailing over my head and land waist deep in the snow a couple of feet away.

It took me ten minutes to dig her out because we were laughing so hard...
(, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 15:52, 5 replies)
The Gay Binman.

"Thanks Mum." I said.

We were having lunch after she'd been visiting my brothers and their ever increasing offspring. I think she wanted to make sure I knew just how much she loved me despite not having proven that my nuts are fully functioning, while both older and younger siblings had repeatedly proved theirs very much were by giving her ever more grandchildren. I'd never doubted her love for me, but she seemed to have a point to make and I had no choice but to let her make it... and then buy her lunch.

"You could be anything you like" she repeated "I'd still love you just as much as ever."

Half an hour of this had now passed and I got that my happiness was all that mattered, not what I did or who I was. I believed her as much the first as I did the fiftieth time she told me, but there was a subtext and I wasn't about to start offering guesses as to what it might be, lest I began a conversation I had no interest in having.

"I know Mum, and you know I'm happ..."

For all she knew I'd been single for a while, happily so, but I hadn't taken any girlfriends home or spoken about any someones special for a few years and this clearly got her brain moving in the way only a Mum's can. This was the first chance she'd had to speak about it for some time and speak about it she must.

"You could be a gay binman if you wanted" she revealed from nowhere "you'd still be my son and so long as you were happy then I'd be happy for you."

She was liberal, of that there was no doubt, but I realised at that moment that I'd underestimated just how determinedly liberal she'd become in her gently advancing years. It soon began to be obvious that now two of her boys had furthered the family, the other should probably be gay... not statistically, but to demonstrate just how liberal she was by pointedly not having an issue with it.

"Thanks Mum, but I'm no..."

If only one of us could have been gay or married a foreigner or been a Muslim or something, anything suitably diverse and with which she'd take no issue, then she could merrily tell anyone who cared to listen just how proud she was of her sons and how she didn't care because we were happy and she was very cool and groovy.

"I know you're not going to be a binman" she reassured me "that's not important, you could be a gay astronaut or a gay dog walker, or..."

I was in a quandary. As she continually listed things she'd be happy for me to be a gay one of I found myself trying to think of ways to not come out without breaking her heart. I just couldn't find the words to unout myself and my eyes soon glazed over while I listened dispassionately to an ever lengthening list of jobs she'd be happy for me to do, homosexually.

She eventually ran out of steam, or possible career choices, and sat back looking very pleased with herself for making it so very easy for me to tell her how happy I was with my surprising and new-found gayness. I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth, it would break her heart.

"Thanks Mum." I said.
(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:47, 9 replies)
She experiments on babies
for a living, and utterly enjoys it. (Her research was used in the Child of Our Time series. That's pretty damn cool).

When not at work she spends some of her time lying in her four-berth hammock in front of the open fire in the living room, playing games fiercely competitively on her laptop. Staries, Scrabble and Veggie Fling are among her favourites. When I told her a friend of mine had beaten her Veggie Fling high score she shouted "the BASTARD!" quite loudly, in a crowded tearoom in front of my gran.

She wants a Selk bag for Christmas and she phoned me to ask me whether you can still wear your shoes so she can drive to work while wearing it.

Last year we got her a wormery. She'd been dropping heavy hints so we duly clubbed together, gift-wrapped it and hid it in my brother's car. Christmas morning arrived and we'd all opened our presents. Mum was visibly disappointed that she had received nothing but a pen and so we went and dragged the wormery in from outside. She feigned mystification while tearing the wrapping paper off, and then in a joyous rapture she danced and whooped around the paper strewn room shouting "I've got a WORMERY! I've got a WORMERY!!"
She still loves those little wriggly blighters like her own children, cooing lovingly at them whenever she feeds them. She's very proud of the "worm wee" she gets from them, and offers it to guests as if it was a fine whisky.

She was shopping with a friend in Asda once when there was a fire and the store was evacuated. Most of the shoppers dropped everything and fled expediently. My mum held on to her trolley for grim death as she ran (her friend went one better and threw in whatever items she could in an exhilarating Supermarket Sweep joyride), and they won a fair bounty of loot that day... That wasn't the funniest part though. That was the fact that she was so wracked with guilt she didn't tell anyone what she'd done, and she had nightmares that she'd been caught on CCTV and would be summonsed any day. It went on for months. Eventually she broke down and confessed to my stepdad that she'd done something terrible. She was so mortified he thought she'd run someone over or something. She made him promise not to tell anyone but he alluded to it strongly enough for me to pester it out of her... she made me promise not to tell anyone too, but I couldn't help myself. He still won't let her live it down and asks her whenever they go shopping if she'd like to make a run for it before they reach the checkout...

She is hyper sensitive to all chemicals. If her colleagues are bored and want to liven up an afternoon they feed her coffee and persuade her to take painkillers, then watch her bouncing off the walls.

She has no shame. She will barter and haggle for absolutely everything no matter where she is - shops, restaurants, pubs, markets, . She got a really good mobile deal once which I was envious of. She explained that all you have to do is find a great offer from another company, phone your service provider and tell them that you want to switch. They will want to keep you as a customer and usually offer you the same deal. I didn't have the brass neck to do it so she offered to pretend to be me.

She wears pants on her head to do the ironing.

She can't sleep until everyone in the house is in bed and all the lights are off. One night my stepdad came home late and drunken, after being specifically told not to. She reasoned that if she got cross about it she would be up all night feeling wound up while he would simply fall into an oblivious drunken stupor and snore for England until lunchtime. So she waited up patiently for him, wearing a pink sparkly wig she had bought that day on campus. When he rolled in she said to him "oh noes! I dyed my hair and it's gone wrong!" He was actually quite upset by it, and she went happily to bed to sleep the sleep of the righteous.

She's given me a lot of wise advice over the years, but my favourite is still "wear a pink wig... it'll work better than getting mad".
(, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 8:11, 3 replies)
this should make you all appreciate your mums
about 7 years ago, a young couple moved in to the flat above mine. they seemed quite nice, if a tad slobbish. the bloke had severe burn scarring all over one side of his face and neck and, i was to find out later, most of his body. as i still didn't know them very well, i didn't like to ask how he got them.
time passed and we became friends. we spent a lot of time together, talking about anything and everything. one day, the bloke(i won't name him) told me he was adopted. then he told me why.
at the age of 6 months, his parents decided that 3 children was quite enough and they didn't want their fourth any more. however, they did want money and decided on an insurance job, so they decided to kill 2 birds with one stone, quite literally. they put their infant son into his cot, locked the door, removed the doorknob, then took themselves and their other children out into the garden, setting fire to the house on their way out. they tried to burn their own child to death.
fortunately, emergency services arrived in time to save him. eventually, he was adopted by the fireman who had rescued him. due to some legal snafoo or other, his parents were never convicted. it took his new parents over 2 years of constant care, attention and hospital treatments, not to mention a giant shitload of love, to get the lad into something approximating good health.
if ever your mum or dad are annoying you, remember this and thank whichever god you worship that you didn't have his parents.
(, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 20:32, 7 replies)
My mum is a saint, and always has been. Here's why.

Back in the late 1980s, when I was just a lad, I was nuts over the Ghostbusters action figures and accessories. I want to brag about having the Proton Pack costume, Ecto One and Two, dozens of action figures, the Play-Doh factory, even the enormous firehouse playset, but the truth is my mum was the one who would comb the shops looking for these toys. This was before the Internet and we never had anything shipped, so on her lunch hours she would search store by store to find that one that I had pointed out in the catalogue. From her point of view they were almost certainly cheap plastic junk, but I loved them and she indulged me.

Fast forward to the mid 90s, when personal computers and K'nex have come along, and the children's toys have gone into the closet. Mum decides she needs to clear some room, and sells the ENTIRE COLLECTION for $15 at a rummage sale. The whole thing! Took years to collect and the memories of countless hours... I was devastated, and harbored resentment towards my dear sweet mum. I knew I would never see them again, and I couldn't understand why she would sell them for such a pittance.

Fast forward another ten years, to 2007. A large, mysterious box about the size of a microwave oven awaits under the Christmas tree. My mother had spent the past four months on eBay finding and purchasing Ghostbusters toys, at something like twenty times their original retail price, as many as she could find, to make up for her selling the treasured toys of my childhood.

I've never had anyone perform a gesture as loving and as deeply meaningful as that one, and I'll never forget it. I love you, Mom.
(, Wed 17 Feb 2010, 3:48, 3 replies)
A lad in my school footie team was cursed.

Whenever we’d finished a practice session and for want of anything constructive to do, we’d pile round to this lad, Dave’s, house and sit round his living room reeking of persistent teen sweat (even though we’d showered), old spice aftershave our Auntie’s had bought us all for Christmas (think there was a law about buying a teen nephew a bottle of this toxic shit back in the eighties), with our rampaging hormones bouncing off the walls and causing enough friction to heat a small Bavarian town for an entire winter.

On the way to Dave’s the topic of conversation was your usual teenage boy fare: Who you’d shag, who you claim to have shagged, if someone held a gun to your head would you shag a goat – you know, the usual sort of teen bollocks crap, all based round putting your wee wee in some girl’s downstairs vertical meat smile. But as soon as we got to Dave’s parents house, making sure to leave our trainers lined up in the hallway, spending a bit of time outside spraying a little more Insignia deodorant directly onto our clothes, we were as good as gold. Not a fucking word... We suddenly developed manners.

Dave’s mum would offer us coke or a cup of tea. Occasionally, one of our group would pipe up enough courage to answer: “Yes please, Mrs Patterson. That would be lovely, thanks...” And gulp hard as Mrs Patterson, Dave’s mum, flashed her smile in their direction before sauntering off back in the direction of the kitchen, her rounded buttocks pistoning in her tight pencil skirt like two rutting armadillos.

Dave’s mum was, to put it simply, hot. She was hotter than the surface of the sun and gave off enough heat to turn metal molten at twenty paces, while causing the contents of your average teenagers trousers to turn harder than steel and throb so much it was as if a nasty viper had bitten you on your tadger. Mrs Patterson was a lady in her late thirties. She was blonde and looked a lot like Sharon Stone, only less slutty. You got the impression she could suck a monkey through a hosepipe but then afterwards make you a nice ham and cress sandwich with the crusts cut off. Mrs Patterson was, without doubt, the prime currency of the Northampton School for Boys footie teams’ wank bank. She should’ve received a medal from Kleenex for helping boost tissue sales in the Northampton region circa 1989/90 tenfold.

And that’s why we kept going over to Dave’s after we’d finished our Thursday night training. Hell, that’s why about half the players were actually in the team in the first place - just so they could be mates with Dave and go and see Mrs Patterson’s visible panty line as she stalked about the place like a prized cougar in training. One time our centre forward, a lad named Mark, thought he actually caught a glimpse of her pert little pink-volcano nipple as she bent over to give his cuppa a refill: he gave out a little guttural, feral growl and as Mrs Patterson looked up to inquire what the fuck was going on, Mark attempted to pass it off as a bit of cough as he simultaneously turned bright red, rock hard, and instantly more sweaty.

Surprisingly, we were actually pretty good at football.

We managed to get to the semi finals of the Northampton Inter Schools Cup. We came up against our bitter rivals - Campion School - on a burning hot May Saturday morning. It was a big match. Loads of parents turned out. Even my old man came down to cheer us on for ten minutes before he looked bored and wandered off to have a fag and a chat with a fella who’d parked his ice cream van on the road just outside the school, seeing an opportunity to sell his gear to the assembled masses. (There’s not a lot to do in Northampton on your average Saturday afternoon except shag your sister or go and watch an inter-school footie match).

Mrs Patterson was there too.

At halftime our PE teacher went fucking mental: “What is wrong with you lot today?” he shouted. We were 4 – 0 down and playing like blind simpletons. A couple of the lads had even managed to run directly into each other keystone cop style.

One of the team shrugged: “Dunno, Sir.... They’re just better than us...”

“Well, I expect better in the second half...” said the PE Nazi. And we went on to ship in another four goals in the second half. 8 – 0, final score.

But it wasn’t because we were shit. No. We were actually pretty damn good.

It was because Mrs Patterson was stood on the touchline in a flimsy summer dress which occasionally caught the slight breeze and flashed us her perfect porcelain white legs up past the knee, while her hubby dutifully disappeared off to the ice cream van on several occasions to bring Mrs Patterson a succession of Calypo ice lollies to cool down in the considerable heat.

Give a bunch of teenage boys an option: play footie or watch a sexy, leggy blonde perform fellatio on a succession of ice lollies....

Well, there’s only one winner.

And the only player really trying his heart out on the pitch was Dave who didn’t really seem bothered by the spectacle of his dear old mum doing a live confectionary-related sex show on the touchline.... Hot mums. Fuck that. I’m glad my mum looks like a bag of spanners that’s been dropped off a cliff then run over with a steam roller a few thousand times.
(, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 10:20, 11 replies)
The mother.
My mother's always been a tough old bird. She was diagnosed with a brain tumour which affects her balance a good few years back (an acoustic neuroma, in fact) but she hasn't let it hold her back in the slightest. I've got a vivid memory of her from around ten years back, armwrestling a local builder into submission in the pub. Somewhere, I've got photographs of her up to no good in Antarctica, and others of her paddling up the Zambezi river, all within the last ten years as well.

Just after the New Year came the case of the dog.

My parents live up in Hertfordshire, on a small farm that they're renovating. During the cold spell over Christmas they were almost entirely snowed in, and everything was white around for as far as the eye could see.

In the field nearest to the house they're working on, there's a large pond. In summer months and previous years, people used to travel to this pond to fish. Since the previous resident on the farm died, however, my parents have been turning it into a more decorative pond, and so filling it with water from a bore hole. As such, before the cold snap it had almost doubled in width, length, and a large amount of depth. It froze, predictably.

My parents had two dogs at the time, with my brother's staying in the house as well. After running them around the field briefly, they all returned to the house but left the gate open to the field so that the dogs could entertain themselves. Two dogs came back with them with the other staying in the field, most likely to roll in shit.

A delivery van turned up with building materials for the house. This all had to be unloaded and dealt with, and cups of tea had to be made. By the time the van was seen off and the tea finished, my parents came to the realisation that the dog had still not returned, and had in fact been gone for around half an hour. The dog in question is mildly deaf, and a silly bugger about coming when called at the best of times, so they trudged back out into the field to see if they could find the daft thing. The reasoning at this point was that she was probably eating a dead rabbit or something equally tasty.

Of course, she wasn't. My mum found the dog in a hole in the ice in the middle of the pond, head barely above water, feebly paddling in a desperate attempt to stay afloat. Luckily, this isn't a tale of someone immediately diving into the freezing water and drowning herself, but she said herself that she can understand exactly why it happens.

She stood and watched for long minutes as my father tried to find a rope, or anything that could be used as such. The dog stared at her frantically the entire time, and was visibly losing what little strength it had left.

My dad returned with rope; my mum shucked off her coat, wrapped the rope around herself, and waded in. The headway was alright initially, as she was able to stamp and kick at the ice to break a path. The pond drops off rapidly, though, and she was quickly having to swim and break the ice before her at the same time with her bare hands. She swam about thirty feet like this before she got to the dog, with the broken ice in front of her constantly pushing the feeble thing further away. By the time she reached it, the dog had stopped moving almost entirely.

If she hadn't had the rope and my dad pulling, she says, she wouldn't have gotten out again. With his help, though, they both got back to the shore and dragged the frozen dog out. My dad handed her coat back to her, as it was the only dry piece of clothing she had to hand, and made to pick up the dog.

She made him wait, so she could put the coat on the dog first.

She turned 60 a week later.

tl;dr version:
Mental older woman risks life in frozen pond, saves dog. Love you, mum.
(, Mon 15 Feb 2010, 1:01, Reply)
And I've dredged this one up from the "repressed memory" section...
A few years ago, I was dating a girl called B. I've mentioned her before in my gambling post, about how she contributed to my major psychological meltdown.

This is about one time me and her mother had a slight disagreement.

B hadn't told her mum that she was very highly sexed. She had told her mum she'd lost her virginity, and it kickstarted a massive argument between them, as B's mum was fairly Christian, believing that she should wait until marriage before having sex.

As a result, B hadn't told her mum that I was stuffing her spam pouch with my pork sword on a regular basis. B's mum knew that we were going out, and had seen us cuddle and kiss a few times, but assumed that B was being sensible and not letting me scrape her cervix with my cock. She'd told her dad, but begged him to keep it a secret.

We were both filthy minded, often doing it and doing it in a variety of positions. She didn't like doing it at her parents house, but either I was more persuasive than I originally anticipated, or she wanted my cock that badly, but we ended up doing it there a few times. I always slept on the sofa there, to avoid her mum thinking that I was shagging her daughter rotten.

So, one night, I'm at B's house, watching TV with most of her family (her younger brother wasn't there. I don't think he particularly liked me nobbing his sister, but oh well). I'm sat on the sofa with B, B's mum is sat in the chair nearby and B's dad is sat in a chair further away. We've all had a bit to drink with our meal, and as such, we're ever so slightly tipsy.

"Whats the difference between jam and marmalade?"

I half slur, half whisper into B's ear. And then suddenly sober up like Satan himself has just anally raped me with a foot long dildo.

I hadn't been as quiet as I thought I was being.

B's mum had just said, "Yes, GhostAtreides, what is the difference between jam and marmalade?"

Now, for those who have never heard this joke before, the answer is "Well, I can't exactly marmalade my cock up your arse like I did last night".

But I couldn't exactly say that now, could I?

The small part of my brain that is designed for self preservation could only watch on in horror as my mouth, operating independently of my brain, uttered the ending of the joke to all and sundry...
(, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 15:22, 2 replies)
My mum’s a bit absent-minded
As a baby, she left me in my pushchair in a restaurant. As she walked down the street, the restaurant staff called out after her, “Mrs! Mrs! You forget something!” My mother whirled round in a panic. “Oh my god,” she cried. “My handbag!”

She had to call in sick to work after mixing up her vitamin B complex tablet with the dog’s epileptic medicine. Twice.

Once, she rang home and I answered the phone. She was obviously in a rush. “What do you want?” she asked impatiently.

If we can’t find anything in the house, like the phone or TV remote, it’s wise to check the fridge because there’s a good chance that’s where she’s put it.

I asked her if she’d ever smoked pot. After a long, strained pause, she turned to my father. “Have I?” she asked.

She will spend as long as it takes to explain exactly why, if it takes three men three days to dig a hole, it will take them one and a half days to dig half a hole.

It took her five hours to get from London to Bristol because motorways bore her.

She drove to the country for a walk with the dog and phoned to say she’d lost it. It was still at home.

But the world’s news is safe in her hands. Promise.
(, Mon 15 Feb 2010, 3:40, 2 replies)
Not my mum but...

(, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 13:54, 5 replies)
H ow can i possibly begin to describe her?
E ccentric, yes, but by no means stupid.
L oving and caring, as a mum should be.
P leasant to everyone, even strangers.
M indful of others' feelings, she always thinks before she speaks.
E ver ready to lend a hand - or a fiver - whenever needed.
I ndomitable of spirit, she never gives up.
M ore than a match for bullies and tyrants.
L ively and fun, always a hit at parties.
O pen-hearted and warm, always ready with a hug.
C heerful even in the face of despair.
K ind to small animals and children.
E asy to talk to, always willing to lend an ear.
D eft with a needle and cotton.
I ncreasingly beautiful, she ages like a fine wine.
N ever nosy, she'll always wait until you're ready to tell her.
H appy with nothing and grateful for everything.
E cstatically happy to babysit her grandchildren, any time of day or night.
R eady for anything, no matter how big the problem.
C uddly and soft, with a smell that just says "mum".
E veryone's best friend.
L ightweight drinker, she'll stay sober to watch out for others.
L ess a woman, more an angel.
A mazing, simply amazing.
R ight now, i have to say, i love my mum.....

*edited to make the gag easier to spot
(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 17:51, 3 replies)
In which Grandmasterfluffles' mum holds up an army base
My mother always had a strained relationship with her mother-in-law. The litany of Grandma’s crimes ran to being uneducated (not exactly her fault) not "speaking properly" (English was her second language) and feeding us fattening food (not exactly going to kill us, especially since we were both very skinny, probably due to the fact that there was nothing but low fat cottage cheese to eat at home). But the most hateful thing that Grandma did was giving us “unsuitable” presents. Barely a birthday, Christmas or Hanukah would go past without me being given a pert-breasted Sindy doll, or my brother a toy gun. Mum used to insist that these toys were immediately taken to the local charity shop as soon as Grandma had gone home, which pissed me off no end but I didn’t have the balls to rebel, so I used to pretend I was glad to see the back of the dolls whilst raging inside.

My brother however was rather more rebellious than I was. When Grandma presented him with a scarily realistic-looking toy revolver for his 2nd birthday, he refused to part with it. He screamed blue murder when Mum tried to confiscate it, and insisted on hugging it in his sleep like a teddy bear, lest she try to remove it in the middle of the night. She had to accept it in the end - the gun was there to stay.

Whether due to latent violent tendencies or sheer bloody-minded rebelliousness, the revolver was by far his favourite toy. He refused to leave the house without it. He continued to sleep with it like a comfort blanket. Unfortunately, he had a habit of whipping it out in the middle of crowded shops and “firing” at people. Most people found this quite sweet, but Mum didn’t like it one bit, and many was the time that she confiscated the revolver and put it in her handbag for safekeeping whilst she dragged around her screaming toddler (little bro) and long-suffering 7-year-old (me).

However, once the revolver was in her handbag, things started to get interesting. Have you ever seen the look on a bank cashier’s face when a customer, emptying her handbag onto the counter in an attempt to find her paying in book, whips out a revolver? I have. Have you seen the look on Mr Patel from the cornershop’s face when the nice woman who comes in every day after work for a pack of Marlboro Reds pulls a gun on him whilst looking for her wallet? I have.

But the best story EVER is one that alas I was not there to witness. Mum is a violinist, plays in a band that provides yee-haa cowboy music for barn dances and weddings. One time she had a gig playing for some event at an army base. Being an army base, security was quite tight. Every few cars that came through were subjected to a MASSIVELY detailed search, and alas, they picked hers. They told her to step out of the car and made her a cup of tea whilst they pretty much took the car apart looking for explosives. They were under the bonnet for a good half hour, they looked between the seats, underneath the car, in the exhaust pipe, everywhere, no stone was left unturned. When they’d finished, they apologised for making her late and sent her on her way. So she arrived for the soundcheck an hour late, full of apologies. She told them the story of how she’d been held up at the entrance having her car searched whilst everyone rolled their eyes and nodded knowingly. Then she concluded the saga by whipping out my little brother’s incredibly realistic-looking toy revolver and saying, “It’s a good job they didn’t look in my handbag!”

Moral of the story? Never try to part a two-year-old boy with his toy gun. Don’t trust the army with security. And don’t mess with my mum.
(, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 9:20, 5 replies)
A good way to make these stories sound creepy
is to imagine that "mum" or "mother" is a pet name for the writer's penis.
(, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 18:22, 3 replies)
You want to do what on E?
By posting this some people may be able to identify me as it's one of my favourite stories to reel out but seeing this week’s QOTW, I have to share.

My mother is a highly intelligent woman. I look up to her immensely and wish I could have just a fraction of her brilliance.

However for some reason she gets two turns of phrases hilariously, hilariously wrong.

When talking about the worldwide web and all its wonders, from email to websites and all, she refers to it as being "On the e".
“I was on the e last night and it was brilliant, found some really good stuff.”
“The e’s not working, is it working for you?”
“I sent you an e.”

The absolute best however is when she gets angry. I used to visit her in her office and she would exclaim:
"I'm SO angry at that man! ARGH! He INFURIATES me, the little bastard. Argh, I'm so angry, I could FIST him."

After picking myself up from the floor from laughing too hard imagining her performing this act on a high ranking official in her chosen profession..(I'll just say..legal profession to give you a hint of the hilarity) I always try to correct her:

"Mum.. I'm not sure you mean fisting."
"I do, I really want to...ngggh..” *makes fist..shakes fist*
"No no no.. you don't. Look we've spoken about this before, can you please stop saying fisting?"
"Why? I want to! I want to fist them, you know, punch them. Really hard. Why, what else does it mean?"
".....never mind "

I've found out she says this in front of other people too. I've tried over and over again to make her stop (honest) but without explaining it (not a chance), what can I do?

(, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 16:11, 9 replies)
My mum, the menopause and the PI
My mum is a wonderful women and i can recall countless tales of wonderful things she's done for me and my sisters when we were growing up. However there's a much more amusing story I'm going to recant here which stems from when she went through the menopause. For any younger B3tans whose mums haven't hit this magical milestone yet then allow me to offer some basic advice....fasten your seatbelts and get a helmet!

My mother flatly refused HRT as there are potential cancer risks with the treatment and as a result, at times, went a bit mad. Actually, a lot mad. One incident though stands out head and shoulders above the rest and involved my older sister and mothers day.

My sister had just had a couple of children and decided that for that years mothers day, she was going to spend it with her family and not our mother. This was fine with my mum as she understood that this is a normal progession with getting older, having your own kids etc.
Unfortunately though my mother got it into her head that my sister was lying to her and spending the day with her husbands mother and father (the in-laws).

When this claim was ridiculed by all, my mum claimed that a friend of hers had even seen my sister, her husband, their kids and the inlaws in a local restaurant having lunch on mothers day. My mother was furious. I was living abroad at the time and I started to get phonecalls from my mother who was very upset and angry. Mum claimed it wasn't that my sister had chosen to spend the days with the inlaws but the fact that she'd lied to her about it. I spoke to my sister who told me she'd no idea what i was on about, she hadn't spent the day or had lunch with the in-laws. Despite me telling mum this, the phonecalls kept coming day after day. After a week of this I said to mum offhandedly, 'Look mum, if you're so sure about this then hire a private detective and he'll be able to check through her credit cards to see if she was at this restaurant having lunch on the day in question'. Mum said don't be so silly and I assumed that was the end of it.
The next day I get a phonecall from my absolutely livid father.

"What the fuck did you say to your mother? Did you tell her to hire a private fucking investigator??"

"Ehhh yeah dad, but I didn't mean it, I just said it as an off commen..."

"400 fucking quid a day....FOUR HUNDRED....FUCKING.......POUNDS....A DAY THEY COST. What the fuck did you do?????"

I tried to undo the damage but my mum was in full hormonal lunacy now. The investigator was hired. A few days later I rang my mum and asked if the PI found anything. I'll never forget her response.

"He checked her credit card history and there was no restaurant payment on it...."

"So mum, I guess that's that then"

"....I betcha that sneaky bitch of a sister of yours paid in cash so I wouldn't be able to find proof"

Mums, Brilliant!
(, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 12:04, 4 replies)
My mum has a weird pyshcic connection with my sister
You can't play games like Scattagories with them on the same team. Well you can but the randomness of what they say and how quickly they they get the right words is really scary. Here's my fav example:

Mum: "Not a mountain."
Sis: "A bee?"
Mum: "Yes!"

I wish I could say that I'm making this up but I'm not.
(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:32, 5 replies)
Do you want a drink? You're gonna need it!
Back in 2007, mum came out to visit me in March with a huge ass lump on her face. She went to the doctor the day she got back and was diagnosed with the cancer. More tests later over a couple months and the primary was actually in her lungs and had spread throughout her body. Much chemo followed and the cancer was diagnosed as terminal.
*wavy lines*

November 2007. The husband had kicked me out for the first time, so was renting a room from my friend. Another friend wanted to take me out for dinner one night for a girls night out and my roommate offered to drive us so we could get drunk. So, off we toddle to the local bar for a quick beer, then we had to go to another bar to pick up my friends daughter.

We walk into the bar, and Shell was stood at the bar. Usual hugs all rounds and Shell asks if I want a drink. "Sure", says I. "Good", says she, "you're going to need it" and points at a table a few feet away.

My mind starts working......'oooh, that looks like Gwen and Brian..and Ray' and WHAT THE FUCK???????????

Mum, her boyfriend and their two friends had flown out from the UK to suprise me. Surprised??? Many hugs and tears later, we had a great two weeks.

Everyone except me knew about it, god only knows how they managed to keep it so secret!

And that was the last time I ever saw my mum. She died Feb 21/22 2008 (21st US time, but 22nd UK time). I miss you, mum xx.
(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 13:53, 8 replies)
I had sex with my Mum
...or so I thought, but it turned out to be your Mum. And I don't really fancy your Mum. So that's three people upset.
(, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 9:35, 4 replies)
Christmas Wishes
Many christmases ago my mum was mid-way through writing and addressing her usual mountain of cards when my little brother rushed into the room yelling that our baby sister had been sick. Mum dropped what she was doing and went to sort things out.

A few weeks later she had a phone call from a good friend who'd been wanting to ask about something which had been troubling her. The poor woman had been wondering why on earth she'd been sent a card wishing her "a merry christmas, with lots of sick from Pat, Joe, and all the kids".
(, Mon 15 Feb 2010, 22:34, 2 replies)
She's careful with her money...
Back in the days of yore (ok,I think I was 17 or so) I was home for the easter holidays, with the customary huge amount of dirty clothes for my mother to wash, iron and mend. Sadly I wasn't as thorough in cleaning out my pockets as I should have been, and my mother found a crumpled-up cigarette packet in my jeans.


My father is seriously anti-smoking. He is also (unsurprisingly) very anti-drugs.

So when my mother found the fag packet, they sat me down for a Very Serious Conversation (i.e. a complete bollocking) about smoking. I fibbed and said I didn't smoke that much, I had just had a few whilst doing revision as I was getting stressed - I knew my mother used to smoke when she was a student so this mollified her slightly.

My father, all geared up for raging at me, then asked me if I ever smoked drugs. "In for a penny, in for a pound" I probably didn't think, but I was bored and fed up enough just to say "yes, I have actually. I have friends who were smoking it and I was offered a drag, so I took it."
My father's face darkened to a stormy beetroot colour, and his voice grew dangerously soft as he growled "well... did you inhale?!"

At this point my mother, who had hitherto been sitting rather quietly with a look of disappointment in her eyes (why is it that 'quietly disappointed' is always so much worse than 'steamingly furious', eh?) perked up and, addressing my father, said "well I bloody well hope she did darling, weed is really quite expensive stuff".
He opened his mouth, closed it, sagged slightly in his chair, and muttered "fair point". Then told me not to do it again, and wandered off to his study.

My mother then told me that she was fed up with him being so hypocritical, and revealed to me that he used to smoke pipes and cigars with gay abandon, and that he shouldn't be quite so harsh on me.

She rules!
(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:53, 2 replies)

This question is now closed.

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