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.
( Moey, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:47, 9 replies)

MY MUM
My Mum passed away about a year ago at the tender age of 47 and I’ve just about reached the stage where I can reflect back on her life.

She was a mad un’ my Mum and liked her drink, a lot. To be honest she was a raging alcoholic for most of her adult life.

She was generally offensive and crazy and I can’t tell you the endless nights I had growing up and as a young adult wondering what I had done to deserve such a scary and offensive drunk of her Mother.

Her low points included:

• Leaving me and my elder brother with my Dad when she left him and taking her youngest child (my younger bro).

• Deciding that my younger brother was too much hard work and then swapping him for me.

• Not taking care of me so that neighbours usually fed me and I got myself up and out for school and made my own meals (if and when there was any food in the fridge). I was about 6.

• Regularly waking me up in the middle of the night and making me walk about a mile with her so that she could go visit her male friend.

• Always fighting with her shit head of a boyfriend and eventually going at him with a kitchen knife (no major harm done thankfully, she was too drunk to aim probably and just cut his head).

• Forever throwing ornaments and glass ashtrays at myself and others (again they usually missed, she was a crap aim).

• Still not taking care of me to the extent that I was taken by social workers and placed into foster care. I was about 7.

• Not visiting me or sending any cards/letters for the year or so that I spent in care

• Not visiting either of her parents in hospital when they were dying and not attending her own Mum’s funeral.

Good points included:

• Having me over to stay every weekend after I was removed from care (aged 8-9) and was living with my arse hole Father (who was even worse than my Mother but that’s another story) .

• Really cutting down drinking later in life and eventually getting rid of her crappy, bad influence of a boyfriend.

• Getting her house smart and tidy and liveable toward the end of her life.

• Spending quality time with me during her last few years on Earth. She couldn’t say she was sorry but I knew she was. She got me some small gifts that meant so much and that I’ll always treasure.

• Taking me shopping as an adult and catching up on those missed years.

• Always listening and supporting me in my later years.

• Taking in my younger brother as an adult and leaving her house to him in her will (I always look out for my little bro, habit since taking care of him growing up, so I wanted him to be secure when Mum passed).

I don’t hate my Mum for giving me an unconventional upbringing. I figure that it has made the person I am today. I have a good life and a great job and I’m engaged to a lovely guy. We’re saving for a house and then we’ll look at having children. I consider myself to be lucky despite my harder start to life.

RIP MUM

(Sorry for length and lack of funnies but I’ve needed to get that off my chest for a while now)
( DUMBLONDE is a rubber lover girl, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:47, 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...

*SHUDDERS*
( SpankyHanky, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:32, 16 replies)

My mates mum
My mate, a very polite middle class guy from the (rather nice) outskirts of Birmingham once insulted his mum.

When he was 13 or 14 she was cutting his hair (as frugal mothers like to do) and apparently made a bit of a hash of it.

Now I am not sure exactly how bad it had turned out, but it was enough for my mate to utter the immortal words "Mum, you cunt."

He absolutely hates being reminded of this now, and can't even bring himself to use the word anymore and frowns upon anyone using it.
(FUXTIX Not my words, Carol, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:31, 3 replies)

Jumping to conclusions
When I was 13 I came home from school after some exams and proceded to put the telly on to watch the A-Team, Manimal, Automan or any other crap (but great at the time) American TV. Actually, come to think of it, I think it might have been Murder She Wrote. A guilty pleasure of mine for over 20 years now!

Anyway, my mum comes in the room all serious faced and sits down next to me.
"Fuxtix [not my real name], I'd like to have a chat with you. A pretty serious chat."

I went all red faced and could see myself trying not to laugh as she explained all about the birds and the bees, men's wobbly bits, women's squishy bits and not to mention the messy bits.

I thought I would pre-empt this awkward conversation by informing her that I knew all about it, through a combination of mates, biology lessons and my sister (no, not like that)

She looked at me dead-pan and said "No, it's not that. It's about your father and I. We are seperating"

Woah, that was a kick in the teeth I hadn't forecast!!

It all worked out well as Mum and Dad were both happier away from each other, the house wasn't a shouting ground and I got 2 lots of presents at Christmasses and birthdays.

Thanks Mum, result.
(FUXTIX Not my words, Carol, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:20, 2 replies)

Time for a shameless pea first.
Hell hath no fury...

My Mum was a most unusual parent. Evidence of this can be seen by all who have met me. She was liberal-minded to a fault, in fact so liberal the only option I had for teenage rebellion was organised religion. Weird how that one works out. But still, by and large she did alright in raising such a sensitive soul as myself. In short, she was an incredibly laid-back parent. But by fuck did she have a temper. Somewhat worse than a pissed-off female rancor when they've got the painters in. I've seen it a few times, and it's an awesome sight. Here's the story of one of those times.

It was the end of school day, and I would have been about 12 years old. And back then I was a bit wet behind the ears. In fact, that doesn't quite cover it. Try "so moist it's boggy". Which of course attracted the pirahna-like attentions of one of the more physically communicative young ne'er do-wells in my year. Although when I say physically communicative, he'd be as likely to nut you in the face as say "Hi".

So, I'm walking to the school gate, and I spot my Mum, ice-cream in hand, and she'd come to pick me up from school, meaning I didn't have to deal with the cerebrally-deficient plebs I was usually forced to spend my time with on my way home. Result. Of course, these things never quite work out like that. The antagonist of our story, unbeknownst to me, was running up behind me, and had leapt in the air, and was descending with fists drawn aiming at the back of my neck. In short, the bastard dropped me with a flying donkey punch. It's not surprising I fell to the ground like a freshly-shot antelope. Not the most pleasant of endings to a school day.

However, Mr Idiot hadn't counted on Mum seeing the whole thing. And she had. And saw red. And the temper manifested itself like the wrath of an angry God. Odin, Zeus and Amun-Ra would have been quaking in their boots. She had set off at a run across the school field, and caught up with Mr Donkey-Puncher, and had chased him round the field, swearing like a trooper, and had eventually picked him up by his jacket, and was shaking him. Quite roughly, in fact.

And then, she came to. And noticed herself surrounded by a bunch of grinning, slightly scared teenagers. And holding up a now very scared former bully. Who had developed a mysterious damp patch on his trousers.

Go Mum!
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:18, Reply)

Mums - you gotta love 'em

Way back in the mists of time - probably 1980 or so when I was about 18, I was chatting with one of my brothers and our mum when she came out with this:

"Why is it that Americans use the word 'mother' as an insult? I hear it more and more these days."

I turned to my brother, both of us getting a bit uncomfortable. "I don't know..." I said shrugging.

"Nope. No idea." he added.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:18, Reply)

Mom, Part Deux
About 15 years ago at Thanksgiving dinner, we alternated holidays with my aunt & uncle who lived on Long Island. Whomever was visiting in a given year usually brought, fruit, a couple of pies, and something else.

This one year, my aunt brought pears. A rather innocent thing. It wasnt a Bosc, or a Bartlett. It was red. A red pear (several of them).

Mom - I've never seen or heard of a red pear before.

Me - Well mom, they come from Russia and they've only been allowed in the US for a couple of months.

Mom - Really?

Me - left speechless, then laughed like mad.

Mom was not amused. But everyone else seemed to be..
(Subway Riding the rails underground, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:12, Reply)

Casual Racism
My mum is frightening to be out with sometimes, because she is a fraction on the racist side. The excuse is that back in the 1930s she spent years growing up in the Sudan, because her father was something to do with the railways. So her formative years were all white supremacy, black servants and pink gins. And she's carried this forwards, I'm sad to say. Mostly she keeps it buttoned up, but every now and then she comes up with a purler.

Like, for example, the time when my car broke down one hot afternoon in Reading. We were sitting with the windows wound down, sweltering at the roadside waiting for the AA man to appear when a large Black Mercedes convertible pulled up in front of us, and a large Black gentleman hopped out and headed for the post office.

My mother tutted loudly. I tensed, ready for flight.

"How can he afford a car like that?" she muttered at the top of her lungs. I frantically started winding up the windows.

"I expect he must be a drug dealer" she confided Fortissimo as I tried hard not to catch the poor fellow's eye.

I have challenged her about these statements, to no avail; my wife assures me that she only does these things because she knows it annoys me. I'm not so sure, frankly. But she's my mum; what can you do?
(richardm, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:08, 5 replies)

On several occasions my mother has been made aware that I like to smoke a bit of pot
on one occasion I had placed a bag of gear on my bed and casually thrown some clothes over it, for easy access later on.

I had failed to consider that mothers just love to wash clothes that are lying around, so returned to see the bag glaring accusingly at me from the middle of my duvet.

The other occasion was a bit more confrontational. My parents were on holiday and naturally I used this as an excuse to get a couple of mates round and get really stoned. On this occasion we got the Lego out and made some awesome tanks and stuff for a few hours.

On my parents' return I mentioned the Lego to my mum during conversation.

"I know" she said "your brother told me you got stoned and played with Lego"
My heart stopped for a second
"and how do you feel about that?" I casually enquired.
"Don't do it in the house, don't do it and drive and don't let your father find out"

I love my mum :-D
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 16:05, 4 replies)

Codebreaking
My mum is able to decrypt crossword clues that make the irrelevance of some of the 3-2-1 (with Ted Rodgers)clues look like a doddle.

Example- "Sometimes legible student book makes indigo elephant paradox turn unexpected"

She'll ponder for about 3 seconds and then 'Got it- Pavlova' and that will indeed be the correct answer.

Mind you, she will also stop using a TV remote control when it doesn't work, until 2 months later when I was around and asked me to take a look at it- taking off the battery cover to inspect and finding four green furry Duracells kinda gave the game away. Check the damn batteries Mum! It's NOT difficult!!
( Rotating Wobbly Hat That's not a banana. THIS is a banana., Thu 11 Feb 2010, 15:50, 1 reply)

My step mum is fun.
My step mother is a bit straight-out-of-a-fairytale, as I've posted here a couple of times.

We were a nice, middle class family, and when my sister started university, surprisingly enough intially she ballsed up her finances a bit, and so when she came home one weekend, she asked my dad for a loan.

My stepmother overheard this, and informed her no - she was NOT getting a loan, and not to come begging. My sister started to try and explain the situation, but my stepmother was beyond listening.

"I haven't even got enough money to buy new clothes!" she said.

"But ... " my sister interjected.

"Clothes!" shouted my stepmother "New clothes! I don't give a toss about your university! You should get a job! I haven't bought a new dress in AGES! Clothes! Look at my knickers! They're full of holes! My bra ... " and with that, she started to strip off. She stripped off right down to her bra and knickers, and ran out of the house, through two neighbouring villages, and into the nearest town, where she was picked up by the police, and brought back to our house, much to the interest of absolutely everyone.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 15:45, 2 replies)

My mum
I love my mum. She's ace!

SpikeyPickle Jr. thinks his mum is pretty ace as well (she is, and I love her lots!)

To conclude, mums are ace.

HORRAH FOR MUMS!!!
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 15:43, Reply)

Woo to liberal mums.
The first time I wanted to bring a girl back home to my parents I asked me mum whether she could stay overnight as she lived quite a long way away.

"Ask your dad." was her reply as she went to make up the spare fold-away bed in my room.

The following day when I asked whether my girlfriend could stay for another night her reply was,"Ask your dad. But this time I'm not going to bother making the spare bed up if she's not going to use it."

Woo to mum!
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 15:35, Reply)

Compared to most on here my Mum is fairly sane and sensible but she is somewhat gullible.
Through the years me and my brother have been somewhat merciless in convincing her of the truth of one outlandish idea or another.

My crowning achievement came when I was in my early teens and we were in the car on a family trip, the discussion came round to the truth behind legends such as Robin Hood and I casually mentioned "Oh yes, the William Tell legend is mostly true, although in real life he missed the apple and shot his son in the head".

The car was silent for a second as we digested the magnitude of that porker but dear old mum swivelled in her seat, her eyes wide, and exclaimed "Did he?!"

She's never lived that one down.

(She got into homeopathy recently and I managed to use my skills of persuasion for a good cause for once - I bought her Bad Science. She kept calling me up and quoting bits of it to me.)
( chenobble rocking his explorer beard on, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 15:35, Reply)

I once overheard two guys...
...doing 'your mama' jokes on each other. It was all in good fun until one came up with 'your momma's so black she sweats gravy.'
(Tugnut I got them all..., Thu 11 Feb 2010, 15:34, 5 replies)

I've mentioned my mum here a few times before.
She's not your average mother. She used to be a puppeteer, and before she went into TV and childrens programmes, she worked in quite a range of shows from variety to erotica - she used to do mildly rude puppet skits between the stip acts at Raymonds Revuebar in Vienna. She has some interesting stories from that time, including the moment she belatedly discovered her flatmate was a tranny.

Like quite a few stories already posted, she's always had a very openminded attitude to sex - my first girlfriend got quite a shock when she turned up with breakfast in bed for us. The downside was that I did have to deal with hearing her very loud moans of ecstasy with her own new boyfriend. When I dared to ask if she might keep it down a bit, she said 'if you can't deal with me having pleasure, go where you can't hear it'.

She's also one of the best skiers I know - despite being in her 60s now. Every year she says 'I really should take it easy, I'll just go cross-country', but she can't resist it and within a week she's barrelling down the slopes like a racer. Young men on the slope do a double-take when they see her go past - she's got the body of a twenty-year-old, so when they see her face they get something of a shock (it's pretty craggy after 45 years of serious smoking).
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 15:32, Reply)

Mom
I have to say, that I love my mom. She has a great big heart and does the little things that make you smile. But sometimes she is the biggest most annoying, most intrusive individual you'd ever meet. How my father has put up with for 41 years, I'll never know.

Anyway, my mom has a habit of wanting to get something for nothing. Even if its a promotional give away, she feels the need to get more than the alloted share. She tries to enlist me and my sister to do this, and at this point, I decline. I've said to her, if you want to get an extra for me or my sister - thats fine, but dont get one for someone else who isnt going to return the favor to you. Still doesn't stop her.

The best is when she went out once to go shopping for milk and a loaf of bread. Did she come back with them - yes - AND

A new couch and a love seat.

Seems that there was someone selling furniture out of the back of a truck, and the price was great, plus it matched the wall paper. They were blue in color.

After my dad and I got them into the house, we asked my mom why?

"The price was so good, it was like he was giving them away"

Sometimes, you just sit in amazement and have to laugh
(Subway Riding the rails underground, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 15:20, Reply)

Your mum
That is all
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:59, 4 replies)

Jail
8 years ago on a Friday night, I landed in jail on domestic violence charges for smacking my ex boyfriend - he'd beaten me up two weeks previously and I left him the next day. When I went back to pick up my stuff he was calling me and my friend sluts, whores etc so I twatted him one. He called the cops on me and I was arrested and taken to jail.

My friends bailed me out, and I had to go to court the following Tuesday for my arraignment. I was looking at up to a year in jail and a $10,000 fine.

So, the day after I got out of jail, I had to call mum to tell her what was going on. She picked up the phone.

Me: "Mum, are you sitting down, there's something I have to tell you"
Mum: "Oh god, you're not pregnant to that idiot are you?"
Me: "No....but I smacked him the other night and ended up in jail and here's what I'm looking at"
Mum: "Yay! Good for you for standing up for yourself. It will be worth it!"
She then proceeded to tell the entire family who were all very supportive of me - mainly from the women of the family.

The day the case was dismissed, I called her to let her know the charges were dropped......she told me to go back and smack the bastard again!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:57, 4 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.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:52, 9 replies)

FISHCAKES & BIGOTRY
From the age of twelve through to the time I left home at eighteen my mum appeared to have one primary purpose: without warning she’d rifle through my room like a hardened prison warden searching for contraband.

She wouldn’t stop until she’d unearthed every last scrap of porn I had stashed away. I’d find new ingenious hiding places; she’d uncover them in a matter of days. It was uncanny. Like she possessed an X-Man mutant bloodhound ability. My mum could sniff out semen-saturated glossy magazines featuring topless girls jumping up and down in a bath full of baked beans while smearing each other’s tits in custard and chocolate sauce from twenty paces. I swear she could actually hear the faint vibrations of porn mags as they lay hidden under carpets, stuffed behind wardrobes, or jammed behind the pipes of the big clunking radiator I had in my room.

I’d come home after messing about with my mates to find a pile of scrunched up boobs, fannies and arses on the kitchen table, standing like an accusing 3D sculptured orgy, with my mum stood over them looking like the Goddess of all things pure and saintly, giving me that look which meant I was in for a bit of a bollocking.

But the bollocking never came. I’d gulp in air, backtrack, and slink off to watch Grange Hill. Then my mum, wearing a face like fucking thunder, would turn up moments later with a dinner tray and hand me over my plate of fishcakes and chips. After I’d eaten my dinner I’d tip-toe into the kitchen and the porn mountain would’ve vanished.

This happened at least seven or eight times. Could never quite put my finger on the whys are wherefores of it.

Years later I took my parents out to a swanky restaurant in London (Burger King near Marble Arch, I’m not made of fucking money). My dad, my mum, my girlfriend of the time Emma and I. Halfway through her whopper, my mum chuckles to herself, puts her hand tenderly on my arm and says:

“Do you remember all those naughty magazines I used to find in your bedroom? You used to go bright red with embarrassment!”

Going bright red with embarrassment I glanced over to my girlfriend who actually believed the common lie: Of course I don’t and never have looked at porn, angel! Why would I? If I’m feeling randy I’ve got you to look at, ehh?!?

“Errr... sorry, mum?” I said.

Then it all suddenly made sense. My mum chuckled again: “I was really annoyed to see you bringing that filth into my house,” she took a slurp of her Coke. “Then again, I was just so relieved you didn’t turn out gay... I had my doubts you were, you know, one of those queers for a few years... You just looked like such a big pansy.” She took another sip of her drink and came out with the immortal line:

"I'd rather have a pervert for a son than a homo."

We didn't get a dessert.

My dear old mum – the porn destroying homophobic bigot...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:49, 3 replies)

Sex Ed
My mum decided when I was ten that she wanted to oversee my sex ed herself, just to make sure I got all the facts. How did she do this? She put the film "Lady Chatterley's Lover" on, and watched it with me. Cue squirming embarrassment, especially when she leaned over and said conversationally during one of the sex scenes:

"Of course, it's not really this quick... there's usually a lot more awkward fumbling."

So yeah, thanks mum for putting me off Sean Bean for life.
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:42, 6 replies)

I've been waiting for this one
I've mentioned my mother a few times on this site. Very stern woman who I have at the best of times a rocky relationship with. You see, my mum was no angel growing up, but god be damned I'd be belted one if I so much as thought of going outside after dark before the age of 16. Even when I'm back home for the weekend now she stays up unti' I come back from the pub so she can criticise me and my childish antics, and how she was worried stiff.

I'm 22.

A motorbike? Hell no.

I told my mum once that I wanted to grow up to be a stuntman on a motorbike. As punishment for that outburst, I wasn't allowed a bicycle until I was 12. Even then, I had stabilisers until I was nearly 14. When they eventualy went off, my Mummy used some industrial contacts to get me a purple and green Daewoo bike that weighed almost as much as I did. I wanted a mountain bike. That's that dream shattered.

My mum got a fake hip put in when she was 27. As a founding member of a bike gang in Slough, she once avoided a head on collision between her Harley Davidson and a lorry by sliding under it, wrecking her entire right side. She still has her leather jacket. I live in Birmingham now. When she comes over she checks the house religiously to be sure that I haven't gone and got myself a motorbike.

Be nice to your sister. Always

Everything I had, my sister got 50% as standard. That's how you ensure equal parenting these days, apparently. £20 from nanny for your birthday? Your sister gets ten. Be a good brother. It only got worse when Mummy popped another little sister out of her. Littlest sister once bit a piece clean out of my original pressing of Dark Side of the Moon I inherited from an uncle. To balance it out, I got her cd of The Smurfs Go Pop!

My mum has 2 false teeth. She dropped a typewriter on her brother from a third floor window when she was 8 years old. He retorted by smashing her face with a drain cover. He was 16. She's currently in the process of legally disassociating herself from him.

Not with your disability

I am colourblind. When I joined secondary school, my mum seated me in a meeting with every teacher - even those who didn't give me classes - explaining that I was severely disabled and if they needed assistance they should talk to her directly. I was drafted into a special needs class and swiftly removed when my IQ test came back in the 130s. She complained to the headmaster to get me re-introduced. Goodbye, self-confidence.

My mum is dyslexic. She was expelled from her school for giving a teacher who called her retarded a gleaming black eye. Anyone who mentions her disability now goes into a little black book by the phone.

I don't know whether I should appreciate her for being a wildchild inspiration, or despise her as a restrictive parent. Either way, I love her.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:39, 1 reply)

She tells it how it is...
Well, I love her lots but she's very blunt (she's from Yorkshire and she's a PE Teacher, so it's to be expected I guess.

Highlights of her direct approach have been when I went home for a family Christmas a couple of years back and she picked me up from the station, with the casual inquiry: 'Why have you got so fat?'.

When I was getting bullied at school: 'I know it's not what I should say, but I'd probably bully you if I was at school with you - maybe you should just shut up a bit more often.'

When I said I was going for a drink with a mate from school who was openly gay: 'Careful - they often go for your sort, all pale and babyfaced...'

When I split up with a girl I'd been going out with for a couple of years and was still totally in love with: 'Forget about it, love. She always looked a bit frigid to me anyway' (She was right).
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:35, Reply)

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.
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:32, 5 replies)

The day I punched my mum
Whenever I tell this story the immediate reaction is always one of shock. I've never had a "good on yer"-type reaction, which is curious as if this story involved my dad, I think that would be the default.

Basically, my mum used to smack me. Lots.

I wasn't the best kid ever, this was true. And I don't necessarily think smacking is a bad thing in the right circumstance. But I think my mother crossed the line. She'd smack me for saying something naughty, she'd smack me for not eating dinner, she'd smack me for not getting upstairs in the required time before bed... I dunno, but it fuckin' felt like it, right? And it wasn't even with a hand, it was the dreaded flip-flop.

As I got older I began to feel like I was being unfairly treated. I thought my mum was refusing to listen to me and that I could do or say nothing that would make her stop hitting me. One day, when I was about 11, I'd done something or other, fuck knows what, but when my mum chased me upstairs with the flip-flop, me crying and begging her not to hit me, and she wasn't listening, I finally felt like I'd had enough.

With my shame, anger, fear and resentment reaching a boiling point inside me, I let out a desperate scream and punched my mother in the face as hard as I could.

Her glasses flew off, hit the wall and fell to the floor.

A look of absolute shock passed over her face. She looked at me open-mouthed before she tried to compose herself, stuttered an astonished attempt to reply, failed and began to cry.

She stopped fucking hitting me after that.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:28, 6 replies)

Scary Irish Mammy
My mum is like a swearier Mrs Doyle. If you visit her, she’s forever trying to fill you full of food. She’s also quite hip to the music scene. She’ll watch Jools Holland and have a glass of wine or two. She’ll write down the name of the acts and then writes comments and marks them out of five. She’s normally bang on, although on the NYE show this year, she phoned me at midnight to wish me happy new year and I was disappointed to learn that she really liked Paulo Nutini. Sad times Mammy Blue Star. I’ll forgive her that blip though for her genius summing up of Snow Patrol. ‘Spitting Games’ came on the radio and without even looking up from her dinner she said ‘Ah, Blue Star. This song. Promises so much and delivers so little’. She should work for the NME. She’d sort those 6th form common roomers RIGHT out.

I love you mammy.
( Blue Star was working part time at the 5 and Dime, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:26, Reply)

grounded
I'm 21 and don't live in the family home most of the time any more, being in university halls instead.
However, I went home in the last week of January, went on an ill-advised night out and brought a boy (that I knew) home for rudies.
I'm going home again this weekend, fully intending to go on a well-behaved night out with my best friend. She just rang me and said I'm fully welcome to come home, but I can't go out on Saturday because I'm grounded after last time.
Cheers.

Fair enough, I suppose.

On the bright side, she did tell me she can't wait to see me again (it's been two weeks) and that she's cooking my favourite roast on Sunday :D
(and now for someone completely different, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:25, Reply)

Mrs Vagabond's mum is ace.
She's in her late 70s, and her Southern Irish accent is so thick I sometimes have trouble understanding it.

ADVICE: She once told an ikkle Mrs Vagabond that her left hand was "the one that's closest to the wall".

ORNITHOLOGY: Her and her brother were staring out of the kitchen window a few months ago at the garden. Her brother said "Great tits, Peg."

Then desperately "IN THE HEDGE!"

THE VET: Her dog's current vet is, apprarently, rather a handsome young fellow. The first time she took the dog in, the vet happened to be passing through reception, and so did the checking in. Name of the dog, age of the dog, etc, then "Sex?" Her mind went completely blank, and all she could see was the word "Sex" going around her brain - nothing naughty, just a usual, run-of-the-mill memory blank. Her response? "I'm sorry, but I just can't stop thinking about sex."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:23, 1 reply)