My late mother was a professional woman.
I grew up in the middle of the Fens with my parents, Jeb and Nelly and my four brothers of whom I was the youngest but only by age. I remember my mother putting us all to bed in the barn which also slept two pigs, a goat, quite a few mice and a donkey called Colin. She would wait for us to go to sleep, put the cap back on the special bedtime medicine and go off to work as a high class prostitute in the streets of Ely.

It was a very open family, we all knew what mum did and she was very open indeed in so many ways. I recall once at the dinner table my mum corrected me for talking with food in my mouth. "Don't talk with your mouth full", she said in a stern assertive manner. She continued, "Which is exactly what Mr Patterson said on Sunday while I was noshing his bell". We all laughed heartily.
My father was very proud of her. In 1968 she won the best prostitute in all of Ely competition run by the parish council and my father was envied. He would walk into the local pub, The Eel and Cow to cheers from his friends who would all say what a brilliant fuck my mum was.
Even my teacher kept me back one night to say that I should be very proud of my mother. He told me, "She could do tricks with her tongue so clever, you could cough your mess across the room". My teacher was a regular customer. I didn't like him very much due to the fact he would bum me whenever he got the opportunity. He told me he had put cock maggots in my drink and if I told anyone they would eat my knob from the inside out until it was just a bloody stump that looked like the contents of a fish gutter's bucket or my mum's cunt during rag week. Well you wouldn't want that, so I kept schtum.

She worked right up to her death two years ago at the ripe old age of 102. She passed away when her teeth became dislodged while giving a blowie to the church warden. She didn't choke but inadvertantly she bit his bell causing a badly torn jappie. The shock and pain caused the poor fucker to thrust forward with such a jolt the entire length of his nudger along with his nut sack and three quarters of an inch of his barse, hammered into the back of my mum's throat. She died of a heart attack and the unconcious church warden had to have his trouser vegitables cut free from her frozen shut mouth. She was burried on the front lawn of Ely Cathedral, at night when nobody was about, and we are now in the process of getting the council to errect a statue in her memory. My brother Stan got the job restoring some of the stained glass windows. As a mark of respect to our mum, he added a little something. If you look closely, Jesus's beard is actually my mum's muff.

My wife has continued in the family trade as have my daughters and hopefully my grandaughters will do too as soon as they are ripe. My daughter is off work following a bizarre double injury with a customer. It seems he was a little overkeen to gain entry and did a diana. This resulted in severe bruising to her flange and carse and the customer suffered a broken cock.
Do a diana?
( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Tue 16 Feb 2010, 23:45, 2 replies)

When I was about 7
my Mum told me that Bon Jovi's sister was called Ann Jovi. I was shrouded in this false belief until about a month ago.

I'm 25.
(Jad, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 23:02, 1 reply)

In A Cafe
one day, the waiter came to take our order and my mum asked for
" beans on toast without the beans"

that'll be toast then mum.
(chibs, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 22:55, Reply)

Random Universe?
In a random universe bad luck would be spread out a bit, wouldn't it?
Not so for my mum.
Condom failed in 1970 in uber backwards religious Belfast, Ireland - not popular with her parents after that.
Husband developed Multiple Sclerosis.
First child developed paranoid schizophrenia.
Second child had condom failure at age 17 whilst studying for A-Levels, much to mum's despair.
Third child went to a club after A-Levels and got spiked, went in to coma, suffered brain damage and mental ill health.
Fourth child's prospects don't look great really. Well she suffered post natal depression after he was born and now lives with the obesity that came with the depression and associated health problems.
Mum gets by, just, by playing games on the internet most of the day.
Unlucky?
(DonnyBoyBelfast, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 22:09, 1 reply)

My Mum:
Is absolutely fantastic.

I never would have said that 10 years ago, to say that we didn't see eye to eye would have been putting it mildly.

My Dad was a narcissistic alcoholic with a nasty streak, they split up when I was 7 and I saw him twice a week. I resented my Mum for breaking up our family even though my Dad was a difficult character to say the least. My Mum ended the relationship after memories of childhood sexual abuse came back to her and my Dad refused to believe her.

My Mum has come through many years of difficult therapy and come to terms with the events of her childhood and has also built so many bridges between and healed so much hurt between her and I. My Mum has been so many different people since I've known her.

I haven't spoken to my Dad for 7 years since his alcoholism spiraled out of control. My Mum has always been there for me despite our difficulties and never stopped believing that we'd get through and be able to have a proper relationship again.

Not everyone is lucky enough to have a Mum so strong and resilient as mine but I know how lucky I am. I feel so lucky to have a Mum like mine.

I heart my Mum.
(Fireyfox is prepared to change, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 21:54, 2 replies)

2 Things.....
1. I'll never forget the time my sister was addicted to it and Mum turned round to her face and called it 'HollyBollocks'

2. The constant use of the word (for as long as I remember it) 'FLARK!!'

That is all.
( DeadEyeDick, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 18:45, Reply)

Oh, the shame.
My mum worked out the perfect threat to put a swift end to any misbehaviour from me and my equally miscreant siblings.

These being the days when parents were allowed to use a little capital* corporal punishment on their kids, the words: "I'll pull your trousers down and smack your bare arse in front of your friends...". would be squawked at whichever nefarious act we'd chosen to sour her day with.

My older brother once challenged her conviction to humiliate us in the pursuit of better behaviour.

Seems she meant it after all.


*It has been a long day, if that's any excuse.
( Moey, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 17:18, 2 replies)

My fucking mother..
My mum used to tell me that if the ice cream van was playing music it was to warn you it had sold out. Only kid on the estate without a 50p scooby doo ice cream = ME.
(nettestar meeow, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 16:59, 6 replies)

The truth of the matter is...
I will never be ashamed to admit that I love my mum.

When I was fourteen after 8 close family deaths I told my mum I self harmed, she cried and cried and cried. And then asked if I wanted her to do it just so she could understand. She let me tell her every detail in my head that lead to this emotional crash and took it onboard even though she didn't truly understand.

At 17 she heard my crying in my room at 3am and came to see what was the matter. I told her that my boyfriend of three years had slept with someone else. She just hugged me, made no judgement and continued to welcome him into her home with no mention of said incident.

Those nights are painful but the things that got me through them was my mum. Someone who can finish my sentences, look at me and understand whats going on in my head, say the things that mean the most and have no idea, take me to lunch with her work friends and be proud that I'm just me, shes given me the confidence to go to uni, and do a lot of things that without her I never would have done.

Im still young, and look forwards to the years where I can tell her she's a nanna, that I'm getting married and truly make her realise she is the person I respect most in life. It hurts me to think that one day she wont be here; which is why I make the most of every minute with her.

Lack of anything funny, but the QOTW really has made me think of how precious my mummy is.
(MissFlee tried again on, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 16:57, 2 replies)

My mum.
She's not as good as your mum.
(SSSSS, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 16:47, 2 replies)

My Mum always said I could make my own decisions with girls
as long as I used protection.



I'm not allowed on match.com any more.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 16:37, Reply)

Little Girl
My mother works with three year olds, and as a result speaks to everyone like they are three.
At times i think she really believes i'm still three years old. Whenever my dad swears she'll say to him:
"Don't say things like that in front of her! she's a little girl!!"

I'm nearly 20 years old.
(chibs, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 16:33, 12 replies)

Conflicted...
I was going to re-write this entry from a few years ago b3ta.com/questions/teenagerebellion/post85322
but my mother is coming on Saturday to visit me. And she hasn't ever visited me since I left home 6 years ago. She's slept in the local train station when missing the last train home because she's seen a friend to go on the piss round where I live and didn't want to tell me she was local. Yeah. It's like that.

I don't want to feck this up with "I said about stuff you did on the internet" and her to read it. Because well, I have a tendency of relaxing too much and saying too much. And it's taken a good few years to get our relationship to this state, and I don't want to break it again.

I'll try a cute entry.

She used to set me and my brother up to have "thalidomide fights". This is where you:
- stand on your knees
- hold your elbows straight to your sides so you only have your wrists and hands to use
- get given a pillow each
- told to attack each other with said pillow.

Great fun! And an odd breach of political correctness in a woman who would never use any race-based swear words. Not the "not in front of the children", but just never used them - mainly because she's a great person ^_^.
(mmmm curry doesn't really understand this sig lark, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 16:11, 2 replies)

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...
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 15:22, 2 replies)

My mum is somewhat ace
Despite her major shortcomings, having depression and anger issues, and in latter years becoming resentful towards everyone and everything and systematically destroying the family with the above problems, she is/was an ace person to be around when she's having a good day.

So it was, about 6 years ago, that me and my younger brother decided to take it upon ourselves to cook our mum dinner for mothers day. Unsupervised. By ourselves. Normally, we couldn't cook for shite, often managing to set the fire alarm off before even starting cooking. As this was when I was 16, and I had yet to leave for uni and gain cooking skills there, my younger brother would have been about 12. My mum just sighed and grinned and let us, my dad had decided to flee the premises temporarily to get extra food supplies.

We decided to do chicken on a bed of salad and cold pasta with some kind of sauce, I can't remember what one exactly for reasons that will soon unfold.

I start by cutting the chicken up, almost losing a finger at one point. This is par for the course, so I just wash the cut and plaster it up and begin frying the chicken. My brother is in charge of pasta, as it is bloody hard to bollocks up pasta. He starts boiling it, and makes the salad (open salad bag, empty contents into bowl, mix, empty from bowl onto plates).

By now, we're impressing both ourselves and our mum by the fact we haven't destroyed the kitchen. I'm sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish factory from a mix of the heat and the pressure to not bollocks this up.

The pasta is ready by now. Unfortunately, my brother has only ever seen pasta being made on the TV and never in person, and doesn't realise that the steam is hot. He has his face above the saucepan when he empties it into the colander, and of course, gets a faceful, fnarr fnarr.

His reaction is instantaneous. He screeches like a wounded pig, and swings the now empty saucepan in a wild arc, mostly from shock, and clips the bottle of brandy we had set up nearby the sink to flambe the chicken with. Unfortunately, it is also nearby the oven, due to the way that the room was built. Brandy goes spraying everywhere, including all over the frying pan.

What happens next is like a scene out of Apocalypse Now. Fire goes spraying everywhere. Up the blinds nearby. All across the top of the oven. Me and my brother are stood, paralyzed by the shock of FIRE EVERYWHERE! The fire alarm has kicked in by now, and my dad who was just walking in through the door with the shopping, drops it all and grabs the nearby fire extinguisher and sprays the fire, the food and us with it.

To my ever-eternal relief, my mum just sighs and grins at the aftermath and shakes her head and orders a takeaway instead after me and my brother have cleaned up.

Apologies for length, she was impressed.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 15:08, Reply)

...scary mother
Where I grew up has bugger all to do if you're too young to drink, and too skint to have a decent computer, so I used to hang around in a group (we didn't have 'gangs', 'crews' or 'massives' back then) of mates. This is the tale of the night I got pinched told from two perspectives.. first, my mates (or more accurately, like-minded scrotes)...

One night, we were hanging around the off license chatting and minding are own business, when a police van hammered around the corner and screeched to a halt next to the group, two officers exited the van, grabbed BulldogUgly, and bundled him into the back of the van without saying a word.

"What's e'done" shouted one of the braver lads, still keeping his distance from the menacing looking officers of the law.

"Lads," sighs the smallest of the officers "We can't tell you, but we'd advise you not to go upsetting him when he gets out... specially if he's near sharp objects"

With that, they drove away... we didn't see Bulldog for a few weeks, and when we did, he wouldn't explain what had happened....

From my mothers point of view.... To her two police friends in the garage one night...

"You know what will be funny?"

nuff said? :-S
( BulldogUgly Visit my profile to see what's between my legs, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 13:30, 3 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?
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 13:13, 10 replies)

This might be a bit off-topic
Even incorporating lurking time I'm not what you'd call an enduring B3tard, but I think I've ascertained that a good number of the miscreants and fabricators herein are a) about my age and b) about my level of geekiness, so I'm going to assume that everyone remembers Thundercats. For those of you who don't know, the bad guy was called Mumm-Ra the (this is the important bit) EVER-LIVING.

This always struck me as a bit unfair. His mantra was "As long as evil exists... MUMM-RA LIVES!!!" (try to employ a bit of imagination here if you don't remember it, I can't make it sound quite as scary as I remember it being when I was eight). How, exactly, were the Thundercats supposed to wipe out ALL the evil in the world? This was the Eighties! Synth-pop was everywhere! Transvision Vamp were kicking about with their terrible ear abuse!

You knew where you were with Transformers; robots fight, good robots try to kill bad robots with big laser guns, even if it never happened in the cartoons. The comics, with hindsight, were pretty brutal. Even in He-Man there was the hope that eventually he'd kick Skeletor's head in and bring peace and lasting bordeom to Eternia. But the Thundercats were fucked! Come to think of it, since the cartoon ended we've had Tony Blair, Oasis, Cristiano Ronaldo and Michael McIntyre; fooking LOADS of evil. Mumm-Ra must still be around, which means the Thundercats lost. Now I'm depressed.
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 12:37, 14 replies)

Image Challenge/QOTW Topic
Is B3tan's mums equivalent to a readers wives feature?
i think it should be ext weeks challenge too...
(tubeman trousers, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 12:21, 4 replies)

Mike and Irma
I don't have a lot to say about my own mom, as she's pretty nondescript and doesn't do anything particularly funny. But my fiancee's mom does have one habit that's become a favorite.

Irma has never really gotten the hang of telling a joke. She's a sweetheart, but she has absolutely no sense of comedic timing. So when she hears a joke she'll ramble through it (usually one I've heard many times before) and stop just before the punch line, then turn and say, "Mike, how does that joke go?"

Somehow this never gets old.
( Wanderer, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 12:18, Reply)

Motherly love
This is a repost from the Shit Towns qotw but it's about a girlfriend's mother. Maybe I'll get around to writing about my own old dear this week.

Originally I come from a small market town in the south but for a few years I was a regular on/off resident in South Shields, Tyne and Wear. I wouldn't describe it as particularly shitty although at the back end of the eighties it took a beating from Maggie and her band, this stretched on into the nineties when I was there.
My girlfriend of the time was the traditional mix of Geordie women - almost six foot tall, blonde and slender - she could have been a model if it wasn't for the rather bent nose - the result of closing time punch ups. She taught me new swear words and farted almost constantly yet seen from the distance of a Guinness at the bar she was Farrah Fawcett's fitter sister. We'd met in a gay bar in Old Compton Street - I'd been 'experimenting' and the place was nicer than most straight bars - the carpet wasn't too sticky and the toilets were kept clean. She - Helen - had been in there with mates - women tend to not get hassled too much in gay bars although one of her friends was getting a sneaky feel from a short dumpy brunette who'd been buying her G&Ts all night.
Anyway, Helen thought I was a player on the other team and came home with me - I'd a one bedroomed place in Brixton - she said she knew she'd be safe with me...and she was. She also had the usual female thing of wanting to 'turn' a gay man - except I wasn't gay so it was a good night despite the farting (hers).

So...Shields. Helen was working in London but liked to get home to her folks as often as she could. One week we went up. Used the Big Bus thing - the Clipper I think it was called; charged £10 took 10 hours and as many stottie cakes as you could stuff in your gob. Helen slept for most of the journey and then woke up at the Washington services - from there on she bounced up and down on the seat and let me slide a crafty hand down her jeans - I only did that the once on account of the bouncing and her wind problem.

Finally we arrived, I'm standing there with all her bags and cases - my rucksack on my back, while she runs up the road to jump on a short fat bloke who looked rather like the old comic Frank Carson. He must have been bloody terrified to have a six foot blonde Amazon bearing down on him - six four in her heels but he was just smiling and laughing - her dad. Behind him was an even shorter woman - blonde like her daughter but with the largest arse I've ever seen on a human being - for a moment I did wonder if something had escaped from the zoo - leopard skin coats were fashionable at the time I think. When I met Joan I knew where Helen had got her mouth from and one night under their roof told me where her stinking arse had arisen too. Being hugged by her parents was rather how I imagine Willy Wonka felt if ever he embraced the Oompa Loompas - her mum even had the same skin tone.

Enough of the locals - onto the shitty town....

Joan and Fred loved to spend their Sunday nights down the Ocean Road which is where all the best Indian restaurants can be found and on a Sunday back then you could get a three course meal for £4 a head so it was a regular fixture and explained their ample girth. After eating a cracking meal Helen and I decided to hit some of the pubs - she wanted to show me off and I was only too willing to check the place out - Joan and Fred wanted their beds.

The northeast during the summer is rather like a warm day in the Arctic - stinging blue skies and vodka washed winds. The nights all the year round are similar and I with my feeble southern blood felt the chill like a slap from a witch's tit. Helen wore a vest top, six inch high heels, leather mini skirt, and as I was to find out later, no knickers. God, even now my cock twitches just thinking about her.
We had been into loads of trendy places full of fag smoke, neon signs and B.O. - every woman in there more beautiful and harder than the bloke standing next to her. Helen insisted on getting the drinks - she said if I opened my pretty boy mouth I'd end up fucked - I remember raising and eyebrow and smiling slightly - open for any opportunity until she clarified that I'd be pissing blood from my mouth for a month.
This was fine until the last place we went into; I think it was called something like the Star and Garter, something traditional and full of old men coughing up the only coal to be had in the whole of the northeast. No way was I going to let Helen go to the bar here - I'd had enough of being her pussy for the evening now was the time to go back to being real. The place went very quiet as I ordered a half of lager and lime and then noise returned as I added a pint. We found a booth in the corner to sit in and in true classy tradition she let me slip my beer soaked fingers into her wet velvet pocket - she insisted on sucking my fingers after and then dunking them into my drink before ramming them back up her furry muff. We downed two pints like that before my aching balls and full bladder could stand no more - time to break the seal. I asked where the bogs were and got sent out the back of the pub. I'd heard that there was a traditional pissoir in the area - I think the urine was collected for dye or something - maybe they sent it to France to make wine with. I ambled on out into the darkened alley, prepared to find an open air trough.

Instead I saw something that'll stick with me for the rest of my life - one of the old blokes from the bar had his keks lowered and was hammering into a large dimpled arse - in the darkness it was whiter than the fucking moon and only the flapping leopard skin that was wrapped around it prevented my eyes from being completely blinded by its glare. He was huffing away, his emphysemaed lungs doing their best and all the while his greasy flat cap stayed fixed above his sweaty fat face, eyes closed, mouth gurning between each laboured breath until he either had a cardiac arrest or shot his load and the leopard skin and arse shouted out, 'Gaaan on pet!'
Then she turned her head and Joan saw me, 'Eee, hinny! Y'gan next pet?'
Now I've done my fair share of mercy fucks, fat lasses, ugly lasses, pretty boys and fit birds - Christ I'm not choosy, if it's got a hole I'll have a go. But my girlfriend's mother? It just seemed like taking advantage of their hospitality. I shook my head and got on with my piss - I decided to just go there against the wall like everyone else was doing - did I mention I wasn't the only audience?

The next morning over cold toast and hot tea Fred nodded and grinned, 'I hear you saw Joan in all her glory last night then, lad? If you want a go you're welcome. Best bit of cunt this side of Bolden colliery. Keeps us in cheap curry even now.'

Helen and I split up after that - she took after her mother and you know what they say: you can take the girl out of Shields but you can't get half the fucking town out of her.
(Stiff Richard, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 11:52, Reply)

Mother Watching, with your host Flim-Flam
Lurking in the dark depths of Dorset, we come across the mother of a Flim-Flam, let us approach with care as we gaze upon this spectacle:

Distinctive calls: Can often be located by listening out for such delightful calls as ‘Oooh what smashing curtains’ and ‘Ooooh Laura Ashley, how lovely’.
Gathers: Odd buttons, pieces of string, fluff and chipsticks cunningly attached to the underside of cardigans.
Location: Can either be found curled up in the ‘craft room’ (which was originally referred to as the ‘office’ before it turned into a store room for QVC) or semi-submerged in a bath containing water hotter than the sun.
Eating habits: Usually found in the kitchen picking apart eggs for ‘the bad bits’ and boiling the living daylights out of innocent vegetables, whilst simultaneously putting saucepans back in the incorrect cupboards.
Distinguishing features: Often viewed in a colourful array of pyjamas and cardigans, on special occasions can be seen in the poshest of posh frocks clutching a Mulberry handbag and complaining of ‘hurty shoes’.
Dislikes: Smokey Nando’s restaurants that make her choke, chipped nail varnish (its for whores apparently), her youngest daughter living too far away for cuddles.
Likes: The haberdashery department in John Lewis, fellow vegetarians, gardening, watching Spaced on DVD and bamboozling everyone at Scrabble.
Listens to: System of a Down (referred to as ‘that group with the beardy plaits’), Placebo (she thinks Brian is ‘lovely’), George Benson, Westlife and occasionally her husband.

Ahhh mums.
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Tue 16 Feb 2010, 11:29, 8 replies)

...

(yourmumandcoke is what I did last night, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 10:57, 1 reply)

HOT MUM
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.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 10:20, 11 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.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 9:35, 4 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".
( warmfuzzies Isn't here, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 8:11, 3 replies)

bindun surely
Dear Jocasta,

You are the best mum ever!

Love you loads

Oedipus xx
(CheatingRabbit, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 8:04, 1 reply)

theres a million things
but i'll try and be brief.
I can tell how bad i have been depending on which of my uncles names she calls me by. God forbid i get called by my actual name. Then i just run.
She has always said she's proud of me, well she would, mums have to. When i got in the Royal Academy I knew she meant it. It was the first time i deserved it and never forgotten the sound of her voice on the phone.
Backed me up through a lot. Wont bore ya with it but though it wasn't easy when i was younger now i can't think what i'd do without her. Fortunatly by the looks of it she'll outlive God.
I love my Mum.
But not the way i love yours.
(DreddPirateBob has watched every scifi film ever on, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 7:55, Reply)

My mum...
While reading the ads page in the paper
'Whats a deehummdifier? does it get rid of smells?'
(Techkitten, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 0:46, Reply)

Try having a baby
When I was 17 or so my mom asked me to close up the ironing board. I cocked it up and it collapsed suddenly, hitting my funny bone dead on with a force not unlike a hammer and cold chisel right on the sweet spot. The pain was like a million amps up my arm pushed along with a blowtorch. I did shout a bit to be honest, and while I was screaming my mom stood there with a smirk on her face saying "You think that hurts? Try having a baby!"

Well, maybe so, but still...
( Ysol ab abl blap, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 0:02, Reply)