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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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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)
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)
My mum and dad like to go skiing, motor biking and sailing.
They're quite the active couple and are always off somewhere with a large group of their friends. They like a giggle and a dance, socialising and generally getting up to mischief.

My mum has a habit of breaking herself though. We were concerned the first time when she came back with a broken thumb. She ignored it though and now it's healed and hurts her every so often. So off she goes again and falls down a mountain. Careering down the snow, headed straight for a tree, she comes to a stop just in time only to stand up, trip over her ski and fall on her face. She returns home with a buggered knee (yes, from tripping over her ski) which she ignored until it was too sore and now has all sorts of hospital visits and physiotherapy.

So off she goes on a small break to Iceland with my sister to see the wonders of the Aurora Borealis, have a pyjama party with the hotel guests and go on a horse ride over some lava fields. A good time is had by all until she falls off her horse and knocks herself unconscious. This buggers up her leg even more and she has the most ginourmous bruise on her back. They then miss the Aurora Borealis to spend some time in hospital. Upon returning she was bashed and cut, and on crutches that she nicked from the hotel, but happy with her "all better" tablets that the doctor had given her to help with the pain, dubbed thus because coming in to find my mum back in her clothes instead of the hospital gown he declared, "Ah! You're all better!".

Now her physiotherapist has given up on her for a few months until she's healed, by which point she will have been both skiing and sailing. Something she somehow neglected to tell him.

My dad tends to be the safer of the two, although he does have a habit of losing his glasses in river rapids, doing somersaults when he trips over his own skiis or accidentally skiing over people's houses on the mountains when their roofs are so covered in snow they blend in.

My parents are ace...
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 23:30, Reply)
Mom's exploding cake.
My parents used to be very active in the curling club in Rochester NY in the 1980s (and before then, for that matter- I remember them doing it in Utica in the 60's). As such they went to the various social functions, and usually Mom made something to contribute to the pot luck.

One afternoon Mom suddenly realized that she had to make a dessert for one of these socials that evening, and went frantically through the cupboards to find out what she had at the house. After a quick inventory she realized that she had the ingredients for a rum cake, so she slapped it together and went to the shower. Before getting dressed she grabbed the rum bottle from the cabinet and poured a healthy dose over it and added the frosting and put it back in the oven while she finished getting ready.

She had gotten her underwear on when she heard a muffled boom. She came out to the kitchen and found the door of the electric oven standing open. Puzzled, she closed it and went back to finish. She got the rest of her clothing on and was putting on lipstick when there was another muffled boom. Again, the oven door stood wide. She closed it, completely baffled- until her eye fell on the rum bottle.

She had soaked it in Bacardi 151.

Apparently it was the best rum cake they'd ever had.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 22:53, 1 reply)
"And a lot of things much worse than that"
My dear old mum is a saintly old dear. She rarely loses her temper, and it's highly unusual to ever hear her swear. The worst you'll get - and you know it's bad when you hear it - is a "bloody" this or that. (She has been heard to describe someone who had been foolish as "a bit of a twat" but my brothers and I are unanimous that she didn't know what it means, and she was hastily advised not to use the term again, just to be on the safe side.)

But a few weeks ago she was relating to me a domestic dispute in the street, where this old git who lives opposite was abusing the friendly, middle-aged gay chap in the flat above him. According to mum, the screaming and shouting was a sight to behold, and the language turned the air blue. Mum even told me what some of the insults being shouted, with all the caveats about "I'm just quoting what he said".

Apparently the nice gay fellow is "a fucking cunt", a "cocksucking disgusting piece of shit", quoth mother.

And "several other things that are much worse and I can't even bring myself to tell you".

God bless you, mum.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 22:28, Reply)
There's not much I can say about my mum so
I'm waiting for the "Tell us about dads" QOTW next week.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 21:41, Reply)
My Mom is ace
Except for when she is in a huff and not speaking to me, which has been ongoing since Friday 4pm when I rang up in a huff with my sister who was meant to pick me up from work and didn't so I ended up swearing badly at my Mom. I have apologised but she's having none of it.

I am 28 years old, honestly.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 20:41, Reply)
Fancy a Brew?
My Mum was convinced when making Tea (the drink not the evening meal) at my house that my kettle boiled water hotter than it did at her house because the Tea seemed to stay hotter for longer than when made at her home. As a scientist i'm sure that water boils at 100 degrees C unless it is at altitude. For the record my mum doesn't live on a mountain.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 20:04, 8 replies)
My mum fears that she'd never die
She's 64 now and healthier than me.

Strong as a bull, though pretty slim when young. Summers, she sleeps outside. On winter, she sleeps with the door/window cracked "to get some fresh air".

My wife, kid and I were pretty sick with the flu this December so we asked her to come (she lives 300 kilometers) to take care of the child. When I got slightly better I decided I needed to take the car out of the snow to buy some stuff. Cue mother, digging my car from under 50 centimeters of snow in 10 minutes. With bare hands and a small broom, because I can't be arsed to buy a shovel like any other human being. Then she pushed the car out of the snow covered parking with me conveniently sitting inside, at the wheel. I have never felt so powerless in my whole life.

The best part was last summer when she announced me that she has broken her hand after slipping down from a tree, picking cherries at 38 fucking degrees Celsius, 5 meters above the ground. She didn't want to go to the hospital in the beginning, being too ashamed to claim attention to herself.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 18:20, 3 replies)
My Mum...
..used to make wedding cakes. Rich fruit (with a bottle of brandy in it), royal icing on top and made very good (bloody realistic) icing flowers for them too. Whilst helping her out one day, making said rich fruit mix, I had a Cafe del Mar CD blaring out in the kitchen -"I like this type of music", says she whilst dancing around the kitchen. Most surreal. Miss you Mum.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 17:54, Reply)
My s'muv
My s'muv is dear, my s'muv is sweet.
We laugh, we talk, we shop, we speak.
Now heres the point where it gets quite absurd
the things we talk about shouldnt be overheard.

clean the sheets and wash the bed,
use the right technique when giving head.
Too much info, i dont want to know!
Luckily I didnt get the full show.

The new age mothers, all pally and sweet.
The ones that all your friends love to meet.
I cringe and hide and wish she changed,
or even once in a while just behaved!

But I know deep down, my mums a gem.
I would say, better than a lot of them!
The day I'm a mum, maybe ill understand
that going a little too far, is really rather grand.

Until then, ill hang my head in shame.
And when im the same, i know who to blame.
The woman I love, respect and adore..
The one who washes the kitchen floor.

Thats my s'muv that is.
dont you wish she was yours!
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 17:05, Reply)
Mama just killed a man
Put a gun against his head
Pulled my trigger,
now he's dead

Mama, life has just begun
But now I've gone and thrown it all away

Mama, ooh
Didn't mean to make you cry
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow
Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 16:34, Reply)
My Mum
My Mum is amazing. She is one person that you don't want to say "Do something about it then". She was complaining about there not being books featuring black people. So my Dad said "Do something about it then". She sold her publishing company (http://www.tamarindbooks.co.uk) two years ago, to Random House. Go, Mum.

She's recovered from her Convent schooling long enough to tell a priest off for dissing her 14 year old me. Then took me home, tore a side off me, then stuck it back on so she could do the other one. Mind you, I deserved it. Then she managed to persuade the school that had expelled me to have a rethink... they did.

There's just one thing. She can't keep names straight in her head. I've been called my name, my Dad's name, my brother's name, the cat's names (we lost the cats more than fifteen years ago), Pink Goddess's name, my son's name and it goes on. Bless. These days I answer to anything that she shouts while looking in my direction.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 14:59, Reply)
The Mothership
I think this QOTW was made for my mum, aka The Mothership, a mild-mannered and somewhat eccentric nurse.
Mild-mannered until one of her 'pods' (children) is threatened, whereupon the Mothership will drop out of warp and blast the offending person. This very often used to happen to a maths teacher called Mrs Kench, who wouldn't notice the Mothership de-cloaking until it was too late.
The Mothership also has quite a following on Facebook with her slightly loopy e-mails. Here are a few:

"What ho,

Have weathered having no heating, then no hot water - but was very vexed when bathroom and shower room lights did not work. Just them, everything else lit up fine. Puzzled.
Mr Petts and I fiddled with fuses, trips, bulbs but still no light, hmm, rang Dad; have we tried the switch in the airing cupboard? Did so - nothing, but by this stage we had broken the shower room bulb anyway. Oh, and the cold tap in the bath had come off under mains pressure. Resorted to sherry, Sainsburys having just delivered a new one. Doesn't light bathrooms, but takes the edge off the problem.
Dad to the rescue - no, not a night in a hotel, but that mysterious switch in airing cupboard. It was the fuse for those two lights and had been turned off so when new bulb went in shower room = light. Yipee. Bathroom light needed to come off and be turned round, someone having switched it to HEAT ONLY!!! Nincompoops.
Fine today. Have heat via several radiators, light (in our darkness), warm water going into bath, although cold tap is still absent, a new griddle en route (previous one had a leg short), the splashback en route with £20 knocked off for my conveniences and a new tap in the post. I'd rather have it on my bath though.
Mr Petts going on holiday for 2 weeks to recover. Mothership going to work, ditto.

Night All,

Mothership x

P.S have not been on the sherry tonight "

This one is from Christmas two years ago. Mr F is our local milkman, and Howard is my Godfather

"Evening all,

just to let you all know that Howard has been invited for dinner on Boxing Day ( accepted )
He is to be spared the ordeal of cardboard Christmas cake at you know where ( by the way, Mr F cannot take his eyes off my cooker - he is mesmerised every time I open the door, I think it was love at first sight ) and thankfully Mrs Mosley has not been able to obtain zebra for Christmas Day but it might still be ostrich or kangaroo...

Mum x"

and finally the best. This one was entitiled 'Hobnoobs'

Have not been on the pop again despite being carried out of The Miners by your father Friday night.
No, am merely attempting to buy biscuits but having trouble with my spelling. Sainsburys seem to think I would prefer a kettle.

Yours surreally,

Mothership x"
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 13:29, 6 replies)
The day my mum realised I wasn't her little boy anymore.
I was eighteen and I had a motorbike. After a nasty little accident I was in hospital. My parents turned up to find me laying semi concious. I must have looked like a scene from some sort of horror movie. There I was covered in blood, in my hair and, well every where down to my waist was red. My chin had a cut across it. My bottom lip was ripped open and I had four teeth missing.
The first thing I said to my mum, who Was trying to not show how upset she was "It's ok I've got clean pants on" I found out it was possible that she could half giggle and half cry at the same time.
Go forward two days. I'm stitched up and still groggy and uncoordinated. I have thirteen stitches in my face and an arm in plaster. I'm being discharged to go home. My Girlfriend Donna is there too. and I need help to get dressed. Mum pulls the curtain round and says she'll help me get dressed. Then I say "I want Donna to help me" Such a small sentence that meant nothing to me at that time. I have found out since was the point my mother realised. Her first born, Her little soldier and only son. Didn't need her anymore.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 13:27, 2 replies)
The last thing I said to my mum
was "See ya tomorrow" and I closed the front door, got in my car and spent the night at my girlfriend's house. When I came home from work the next day, I did see her as promised, but she was face down on the kitchen floor. She died at about 11am from a Subarachnoid Hemorrhage. Very unexpected. That was 1994, and I still really miss her. Love you mum.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 11:50, 1 reply)
Passive Aggression Refund!
Got a few stories for this week. But firstly... time for a pearoast, I think. (originally posted to "Conned")


Near where my folks live in Hertfordshire, there's a big open air market that runs every Saturday on the old unused airfield. Complete mixture of everything - meat, vegetables, computer games, bags, crappy tools, phone unlocking. Probably half or more of the stuff on sale conveniently 'fell off the back of a lorry'. But by far the biggest single set of retailers are the clothes retailers. Never the same stock each week, whatever they can flog goes out on the racks.

As it happened, my mother and sister were looking for some jeans. Since trying them on wasn't exactly going to be possible, they did the best they could by holding them up against my sister and visually comparing - no size labels inside. They bought the jeans and got multiple assurances from the kindly indian gentlemen running the stall that if they didn't fit, they could get a full refund.

Quick walk home, try them on and they're too small. Walk back to the stall... and mysteriously, the nice gentlemen have forgotten their promise! No refunds are given ever, why on earth would we have told you you'd get a refund? We'd never do that.

They ask to change them for a pair of a different size instead, not an unreasonable request. Again denied. And speaking to the market manager/supervisor does bugger all - they don't interfere with transactions.

Unfortunately, when it comes to money and bargains, my mother is more stubborn than a truckload of mules. And she has nothing better to do on a Saturday.

Picture a terribly British little middle aged middle class woman standing in front of a clothing stall telling every single person who goes in that if there's a problem there's no exchanges or refunds. Picture said woman telling every single customer exactly what happened to her. Picture a very angry set of stall owners trying to get her to move on, and her ever-so politely pointing out in a voice that Hyacinth Bucket would be proud of, that she's not on their stall and is on public property. In a very busy market, with lots of passers by and witnesses. Picture several little throwaway comments about the bad quality of the stitching and the likelihood that the colours will fade.

Now picture that, with the woman in question keeping this up for *two hours* solid. During that time, the stall made about five sales total, and the surrounding stallholders kept bursting into giggles at random points.

Eventually, the stallholders cracked, and shoved some money into her hand and told her in no uncertain terms never to patronise their stall again.

The crowning jewel in this little ever so British protest was not the fact that she was mistakenly given £20 instead of the £10 she paid.

Nor was it the fact that she kept the jeans as well.

It was the fact that after shoving the money into her hand, the man turned round, and walked straight into one of the poles holding up the sign at the front with a very satisfying *CLONG*

It's surprising how effective making a scene can be. Not to mention how irritating a good bit of passive aggression is. Unsurprisingly, my mother views that day as one of her greatest triumphs. It's not often you get a triple whammy.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 10:46, 3 replies)
My Mum tried Marijuana once! =O
at a young age, and bless her socks she buzzed out so much the cat had to sit on her chest and tell her to keep breathing or she would have died.

My primary school was hosting talks about the dangers of ILLEGAL DRUGS, and she did us the favour of supplementing the usual cast of bubbly preacher drivel with a story from a trustworthy parent from the class.
May as well saved herself the trouble and named me Sue.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 10:40, Reply)
My Mum's always been a fairly relaxed, liberal parent
She accepted my underage drinking as "a stage that all boys go through," and would often turn a blind eye to me stumbling in the door around midnight in a state of merry unsobriety.

However, there was an incident she has never let me forget. I was around fifteen, and had spent a productive evening drinking cheap carpet cleaner white cider with my mates in the local swingpark (those were the days...).

I don't remember much of the following events - most of this has been gleaned from my mother's retelling;

Apparently I stumbled in the door around 11PM, doing my best impression of Oliver Reed - walking with the grace of a parkinson sufferer on a bouncy castle, while muttering unintelligent nonsense to myself like a schizophrenic tramp. After staggering into the living room and staring at whatever dross was on the TV for a good 10 minutes, swaying in a non-existent breeze, I suddenly exclaimed, "CRISPS!" in a loud, triumphant voice, holding my finger aloft like Sherlock Holmes solving a mystery, then turned and stumbled in the direction of the kitchen.

After 15 minutes, and a lot of strange noises emanating from the kitchen, my Mum got up to investigate. She found me staring intently at a bowl on the sideboard while attempting to manuever an open bag of Doritos over the bowl, with crisps scattered all along the worktop. I then laid the bag carefully down, and began systematically picking up each individual crisp and carefully depositing it into the bowl, muttering to myself the entire time.

At this point, my Mum said, "I thinks it's probably best if you head to bed and sleep it off."

"Mmmaa will" I replied, lifting my now-full bowl of crisps delicately, holding one hand underneath in case any crisps made a break for freedom, and proceeded to head, slowly, upstairs.

My Mum sighed, and returned to whatever she was watching on TV. 10 minutes passed. "At last, he's went to bed. Peace and quiet" my mother thought. At that moment, there was a massive BANG! from upstairs. My mother claims it sounded like a bomb going off. Having no memory of the event, I can neither confirm nor deny this. In any case, it was fucking loud.

My mother heads upstairs to investigate, and, upon opening my bedroom door, finds her pride-and-joy, her firstborn, her baby, lying in amongst the ruins of his bedside table with his feet upon his computer chair, the bowl of crisps lying upturned on his belly, crisps littering the floor.

"What the cunt?" my mother probably said (or words to that effect).

At which point I looked at her blearily, looked back at my belly, picked a crisp from off my stomach and started to eat it.

She claims she's never been prouder of me than that moment. I fear that may be sarcasm.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 9:05, 1 reply)
Once I got angry and called my Mum an electrician.
I was grounded.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 8:04, 13 replies)
I have posted about my mother, now I will mention my grandmother "MA"
Most of my good memories as a young tacker are centre around "MA". She was patient and kind, and spent many hours just "being there", whilst teaching me to read, write and draw pictures.Many times we made our own toys under her guidance, using old boxes and sticky tape. Instead of cheap crap, she would provide hammer, nails and a saw, and I learned to make pretty much anything I could imagine.
On the farm with her, I learned to cook, sew, make & fix stuff,make my own porridge,milk cows, drive a car,look after orphaned animals and catch fish. When I have wondered what to do with my own kids, I just think back, and ask myself what she would have done, and that has served me well.
Even when my parents "retired" her and "PA" and packed them of to live in town, she was active with the Senior Citizens amd Meals on Wheels.She used the vacant block next door to grow her own veges, and was always busy with something.
Not long after "PA" died, they stuck her in a nursing home, and still she would go down the street to help out, where she could.
When she turned 90 she decided that she had "done enough".
The last time I saw her, she had a wild look in her eyes,she held my hand and said " I don't like the look in your eyes young man", she died in the hospital a few hundred metres from where I now live.
(, Sun 14 Feb 2010, 0:50, Reply)
the speed demoness
My mother got in to driving quite late in life, after we emigrated from Scotland to Natal in South Africa. Her first car was a standard VW Beetle, air-cooled and all that. After a while spent pootling around the small rural town where we lived, she started going to visit friends in Ladysmith, about 80km away. I went with her on a few occasions during school holidays.

Now, a 1300cc Beetle isn't that powerful, but could still rattle along at a decent enough pace if it had the room - and South Africa is a big country with roads a lot like the USA's. On the road from Newcastle to Ladysmith there is a flat straight of about 5km before the road goes up a hill, so she used to floor it to build momentum. After doing this for a while, the accelerator pedal got bent out of shape and would stick. "Um ... get that, will you, son?"

So, one abiding memory of my mother: crawling around under her feet to loosen a stuck accelerator pedal in a Beetle hurtling down a 2-lane country road at over 100kph. Not too quickly, though - it was a kind of cruise control, which she could just set and forget until she encountered anything else on the road, such as a truck or a town. On a later trip, when I wasn't there, she drove in to Ladysmith with flames pouring out the back of the Beetle, wondering why people were shouting and pointing at her ...

That was 30 years ago. Her smoking caught up with her almost 29 years ago.
(, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 23:45, Reply)
my mum
My Dad died very unexpectedly last weekend, the funeral was on Friday, and whilst my Mum was giving the eulogy, she dropped the c-bomb...
(, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 23:18, 4 replies)
My mum said...
"I saw a sign today, it said 'Car Park - Way Out'; but it was just a normal car park."

She could do stand-up, my mum.
(, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 22:19, Reply)
My mum is on b3ta, and will probably read this.
However, she is pretty ace, and despite having just turned 50 is still one of the rudest, exotic-substance enjoyingest, and nicest people I've ever known.
Definitely the best mum in the playground at school, with her purple hair and many piercings.
Never fails to tell a sickipedia joke, or to call someone a cunt with affection, or put off supermarket perverts by pretending to have had a sex change with lottery winnings.
Can swing a mean right hook too.
I like to think it's her fault I'm so well turned out.
(, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 20:31, 1 reply)
My mother,
the WI market contributor and staunch Christian, was asked by my brother what gay people were all about.

She actually told him that it was an 'illness that some people have' and that we should not judge them because they didn't know what they were doing.

My mother is now a certified rug-muncher who has lived with her 'partner' for eight years.

Perhaps I should take her to the doctor's?
(, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 18:50, 3 replies)
My mother
was determined to be a right-on liberal, so much so that my brother and I once reduced her to tears by making out that we were effectively Nazis.

However the 'what to call black people' dilemma was particularly thorny for her generation, and she once announced that she'd seen 'a simply gorgeous negro in the High Street'.
(, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 18:43, Reply)
my mum bruised easily
so she used a garden cane to hit me. it was only me though, not my sister or brother

I had forgotten all about it till my children attended the local C of E school and I went to their Easter Service in the church at the end of the road. The vicar distributed the palm fronds the children had been waving among the parents and the one he handed to me was green crepe paper leaves taped to a garden cane and I could not sing for crying my eyes out.

I tried to talk to her about her "spare the rod and spoil the child" philosophy just after I turned 50 and she dismissed it with, "Oh you deserved it, you were so bad."

I wasn't.
(, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 18:40, 4 replies)
My mother
told us that popular newsagent and awful poster retailer John Menzies was pronounced 'Mingiss'. How we sneered and poured scorn upon her rank stupidity. Could she not read?

Needless to say she had the last laugh.

Mind you, she also once told me John Craven was Turkish, so one-all, mother, OK?
(, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 18:38, 1 reply)
The Good Mother!!!
The Good Mother!

"I’ve got a bike
You can ride it if you like"
Pink Floyd 1967

We’ve got the epitome of one of the characters from Viz Magazine’s Fat Slag’s on our street. This woman has two sons from two husbands and now sleeps with anyone who shows interest in her obese form. She is fat enough to waddle and an effervescent powder would be an aid for accuracy during sex. She thinks she’s hot!! But her looks only allow me to paint a picture, what riles me is the lack of regard for her children’s sensibilities.

Still in her twenties and just recently left the 2nd husband, this marriage lasted 10 months and included a fling with the doorman from the local nightclub; she has already brought home one boyfriend 20 years her senior. Needless to say, the old fart couldn’t keep up with this nymphomaniac; the relationship didn’t last and only served only to confuse the children even more. Next came a married man who, promised to, but of course didn’t leave his wife!

She doesn’t bother to work even though her two sons attend school. All finances like income support, tax credits, child allowance are, off course, claimed from the government. Top this off with maintenance from the fathers and the money is rolling in.

This slapper thinks everything is fine!!! The children have been uprooted and are unsure who their next Dad will be. The local council now pays her rent; she left a perfectly fine house, happy family and working husband just to satisfy her sexual desires elsewhere. Her thighs are too large to keep her legs crossed.

This self-centred bitch has wrecked two families and attempted to destroy a 3rd. How the hell can she get away with this, the boys will be scarred for life and she just keeps on shagging.

We all know where I’m going with this. This woman thinks she’s a good mother! Is she mad, the children are so confused they don’t know what’s going on. This is all going to end in tears; again. Surely any action that threatens the well being of the family cannot be deemed good parenting.
(, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 18:10, 8 replies)

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