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This is a question My Saviour

Labour leader Ed Miliband recently dashed into the middle of a road to save a fallen cyclist. Who has come to your rescue? Have you ever been the rescuer?

(, Thu 9 May 2013, 13:29)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Any remaining interest I have in QOTW is saved by R-------e going away for a while and seeing images. The more images I see, the more my remaining interest is saved.

(, Sun 12 May 2013, 18:36, 23 replies)
I have one of these.

(, Sun 12 May 2013, 17:25, 7 replies)
Apparently, rock singer Mick Moss...
...of Antimatter is very proud of his first album and frequently refers to it in the possesive sense.
(, Sun 12 May 2013, 17:10, Reply)
My friend is an enthusiastic amateur chef with a rather inflated sense of how good his cooking is.
One night when I dropped round to his house to return a lawnmower I'd borrowed he invited me in to have a sniff at the latest culinary masterpiece he was preparing.
He took a deep breath and said 'My......savour!'
(, Sun 12 May 2013, 17:08, 2 replies)
My old French teacher had a favourite verb.
'My savoir'.
(, Sun 12 May 2013, 17:01, Reply)
There's a fancy restaurant down the road from here that employs a waiter with OCD.
He'll only ever use one tray when doing silver service. He calls it 'my salver'.
(, Sun 12 May 2013, 17:00, Reply)
The bloke at the local chippy is very proud of his season sausages.
Apparently he makes them to his own, secret recipe.

He calls it 'my saveloy'.
(, Sun 12 May 2013, 14:30, 30 replies)
The manager of my building society is very keen on cultivating close relationships with his customers.
He calls them all by their first names.
(, Sun 12 May 2013, 14:26, Reply)
One of the ODPs(or 'anaesthetist's monkey' as no-one calls them) at work...
...is particularly attached to the autologous blood transfusion device.

He calls it 'my saver'.
(, Sun 12 May 2013, 14:23, Reply)
The mods have saved *ingof*re from a mental breakdown by stepping him.
Well done them.
(, Sun 12 May 2013, 14:07, 11 replies)

(, Sun 12 May 2013, 9:00, 4 replies)
Domestic dispute in public
I was walking down a street in Berkeley, California, when I walked past an alley where some boozing bastard was shouting and smacking his girlfriend. I'm no hero, but this was wrong. I walked into the alley, confronted the sonofabitch, and asked: "Is there a problem?" They both turned towards me - she with apprehension; he in surprised rage. She abruptly jumped on his back and shouted to me: "Run!" I walked back towards the street with them following a few inches behind, him shouting epithets six inches from my ear and her shouting "I love you!" to him. I walked away. Last I saw them, they were arm in arm heading the other direction.
(, Sun 12 May 2013, 1:05, 6 replies)
One of the worst nights of my life
A total stranger came to my help.
I was heading for a night out, you know one of those club drug fuelled crazy mad nights that should be amazing to share in a totally fucked up way with the one you love…My fella at the time had been out of contact for a while and was basically messing me around, and stupidly I had turned to a close friend for a shoulder to cry on and he was there to entertain me and support me, more than should have been appropriate. It didn’t help though, I didn’t want him.
I tried to escape the pain by driving to the next town but I just couldn’t shake off the awful hurt that I felt. At the same time I heard he was being unfaithful with other girls around town.
I was totally in love with my fella at the time, but without him constantly I was bored and felt so alone. He was being evasive, cold and it was giving me a ton of heartache. I just didn’t know what to do. I wanted him more than anything, Without him I would die. I was verging on suicidal. I planned to end it all right then and there.
But thankfully, last night, I turned on my radio, and even in my darkest hour, the bloke playing the music, put on a tune, got me to dance, made me happy and saved me from a broken heart.
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 23:22, 11 replies)
I'm a member of the local Mountain Rescue Team
so have been involved in rescuing many people from various places some in better health than others. We are all volunteers and have to raise the money to run the team which is about £30k per year.Some of our fund raising is through bucket collections in the local town centre and outside supermarkets. For some reason it seems that little old ladies are the most generous group, they are also the most likely to stop to chat. Mostly, this is along the lines of "You do great work" or "You rescued my friend/ brother/daughter".

However, some have a slightly different tale to tell.

Recently one came up to me and put a £20 note in the bucket the conversation went something like...
"Thank you very much, that was very generous."
"Well, you were called out for my husband."
"Really? and how is he?"
"Oh, he was dead."
"Oh I'm sorry..."
"Oh no, he was pissed, so he was happy and now he's gone, I'm very happy."
"Er...Right... Thanks again!"
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 21:32, 2 replies)
I saved a woman from being raped
By shouting 'surprise' first.
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 20:58, 4 replies)
Travelling on an escalator
A few years ago I was travelling on a long long up escalator at some random tube station. I was chatting to some friends when the lady about 10 steps ahead of me started to wobble. Seeing her tumble backwards head over heels I braced myself to catch her. She hit me harder than I thought but I managed to hold on with her on top of me legs akimbo. She was going commando and her lady garden was bald. I got a good view until we reached the top.

She hurried into an upright position, pulled her skirt down and swore at me for looking at her minge before rapidly making her getaway. Considering she was lying with her minge about 3 inches from my face and I was holding on for dear life there was much I could do apart from look, sniff and wish for a 4 inch tongue.
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 18:42, 16 replies)
Saved travel agent from drowning in a Brazilian river
I work in travel and sometimes have to take journalists and/or travel agents to far flung corners of the world. Well, when working for this big tour operator I got the chance to take 8 agents to Brazil. Lovely.
One of the things booked for us was a canoe trip along a river with a guide. Great. So I had a canoe with one of the agents and in another were the two oldest and one gayest in the group. I smelled trouble. Anyway, halfway along the trip our guide had scooted off ahead of us and we'd come to a very low rickety bridge (only big enough for light foot crossing). To get past it, we had to put our paddled down, sit/lie back and kinda feed ourselves underneath it with our hands. We got through it fine but we thought it best to wait on the other side to see how the oldies and gay guy got on.
They eventually arrived at the bridge and made several disastrous attempts to get underneath (the two old ladies were at the front and the gay guy at the back [snigger]) before eventually getting the nose under the bridge and the two old ladies doing what we'd done (i.e. lying back etc). Watching it from the river bank, we were in stitches at their comical attempts.
Anyway, it then came to the gay guy to get under the bridge. He kinda looked left and right, utterly confused and then opted to simply lean all the way over to the left, capsizing the canoe entirely. Everyone went into the water with their money, cameras and other belongings.
We laughed our heads off and I counted the re-emerging heads. One gay guy, check. One old lady, check. Another old lady...er...hello? Nothing. After a few seconds a little white face appeared at the water's surface but quickly went back under. FUCK, i thought. Just before setting off in the canoe's our local guide had made us aware that there were anacondas in the river. Saying that, I was responsible for these people so it was up to me to do my Mitch Buchanan impersonation. So I hopped out of my canoe and into the river. It was shallow enough to stand in (the water came up to my neck, but from the waste down it was just 'river greenery', i had no idea what I was standing in). So to cut a boring long story short, I managed to grab the old lady by the neck and somehow heave her bodily back into a canoe (shouting and swearing as I did, very stressful). She was in floods of tears and very embarrassed (even though it wasn't her fault whatsoever). And for the record, (a) if that man had been heterosexual, the canoe wouldn't have capsized and (b) if I hadn't been the tour leader, that old lady would probably still be somewhere at the bottom of that river. Fuck doing that for a bag of chips. I wouldn't jump in rivers in England for fear of getting bit off a stickleback.

TL:DR? The title just sums it all up really.
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 18:15, 10 replies)
I am a super hero that quite often comes to the rescue of others, well 4 times so far anyway.
I call my alter ego "Carrier bag man"

It all started about a year ago when I spotted a woman in the city centre, she was struggling with a load of shopping that had fallen all over the floor because her carrier bag had broken, I knew I had a carrier bag in my pocket, so quick as a flash I walked over and handed her the bag and said "would this help?" she looked back and smiled and said "Thankyou" I then seamlessly melted back into the croud from where I had come.

From that day forward I vowed to always carry a carrier bag around with me to come to the rescue of those unfortunate enough to suffer the
same fate as the poor woman did.

So far I have helped 3 others appart from her.

No one knows my identity, no one knows where I come from, no one knows where disapear to, no one knows if I'll be there to help if their bag brakes, all the know is that I AM CARRIER BAG MAN.
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 13:32, 15 replies)
my cousin
saved me from a week of massive family squabbles, babysitting, housework and occasional boredom by taking me on a free holiday to weymouth.
got shat on by a seagull, but it was still great!
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 13:00, 14 replies)
Me and Theoban have saved /offtopic.

(, Sat 11 May 2013, 12:29, 2 replies)

You can fund Pokola on Google Earth; it’s a small town in the middle of the Congolese jungle close to the border with Cameroon. Because a large French logging operation is based there it has an airstrip, electricity and a mobile phone signal which is utterly bizarre given its location. The only road into town comes from the North, and after that the only way to get further into Congo is by taking the river Sangha, a tributary of the Congo itself. It’s an amazing place – in the market you will find pygmies dressed in tree bark who have walked for days to sell carcasses of all sort of animals (this is where I saw and probably ate this: b3ta.com/questions/bestandworstfood/post1216834). The pygmies are wary of white people – as children they are told that if they misbehave a white man will come and eat them, and if you’re the first one they’ve ever seen you can imagine their reaction, but a smile to their mother will be rewarded by a smile back – complete with teeth that have been filed to points. It’s a place where the law is power and justice is rudimentary, where extortion and bribery are part of the tax system.

This is where I met Paul. He was a slight Nigerian who spoke English but no French, and he was travelling overland to Malawi to spread the Christian word. He was travelling with a small satchel containing his toothbrush, a bible and a pristine spare white shirt, and not a lot else. He had had his money, papers and everything else taken at the border, but somehow managed to beg passage on a trading barge that we were taking down to Brazzaville. Getting my car onto the boat ( www.camelworld.com/images/PICT1092.JPG ) involved the use of a large crane courtesy of Michel from the logging company, and once aboard this was my home, with my roof tent offering more privacy, space and comfort than all of the other several hundred passengers and crew.

It’s impossible to describe how crowded it was – I couldn’t get into my boot as a family of four had set up a makeshift shelter against the door, and there was a dispute over the crocodiles underneath the Land Rover which had displaced the man sleeping there; moving around the barge frequently meant climbing over the railings and walking on the three inch ledge on the outside of the hull. The cargo, mostly illegal timber and live fish and animals took up the rest of the space, and people slotted into whatever space was left, grouping into messes to cook together. There were only four Anglophones; myself, Paul, Cameroon, and Joseph, and we naturally gravitated together; apart from Paul we all spoke French, so we adopted him. The inside of the car was largely full of crap from the boot, but as I couldn’t leave the car unoccupied without appearing to be a complete arsehole I offered Paul the use of the driver’s seat as a bed; at least I felt I could trust him.

Each morning Paul, or pastor Paul as we called him, would climb to the top of the massive mountain of lumber and deliver Matins to a huge congregation, in English with Joseph translating into French. He kept one pristine white shirt in reserve for his services, but the other was definitely suffering in the filthy conditions of the boat, so I lent him one of my dark shirts to better hide the grime. As he had no money to buy food along the way I shared my fresh water, tinned tuna, pilchards, and manioc with him. I even leant him my umbrella to protect him from the torrential rain when we went ashore one evening, but he slipped in the knee deep mud and broke it for which he was mortified. When the heavy weather gave him a headache I even slipped him an aspirin when nobody else was looking.

One morning he came to me with a serious face and said he had to thank me for helping him. He opened his bible to Matthew 25:35 and read:
“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me”. I thanked him, and had to smile at such an apt passage, but now that I write this story down I find that here is one more line: “I was in prison and you came to visit me.”

A week later at Brazzaville port I was doing my best to get my vehicle craned off the boat without paying a small fortune (and failing); this involved lots of shuffling between offices with superfluous bits of paperwork so that everybody could get their cut. I came across Paul in the Gendarme’s office where he was being grilled by one of the senior officials. As he had no paperwork and no money they were giving him a particularly hard time, mostly in French which he couldn’t understand anyway, and when he appealed to me to help I’m ashamed to say I did nothing – I was far to preoccupied with my own problems. I’ve often returned in my mind to that last encounter - I could at least have tried to berate the officials for interfering with a man who answered to a higher authority, but the truth is that I was deadly tired; my own journey into the heart of darkness had left me as drained as Mr Kurtz, and I had no reserves left for anybody else.

I still hear from Paul by email from time to time – he got to Malawi, and is still out there somewhere spreading the gospel.

Length? 18 months and 70,000k
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 11:42, 3 replies)
What the shitting fuck happened?

(, Sat 11 May 2013, 10:49, 18 replies)
I told ringofyre to go to a meeting.
he is powerless over his propensity to be a fucking twat. I hope this saves him.
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 3:54, 5 replies)
An open communiqué to certain members of b3ta
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 1:53, 24 replies)
I made QOTW better by trolling Spankyhanky until he fucked off.

(, Sat 11 May 2013, 1:13, 7 replies)
Dulce domum
A couple of years ago I was in Portpatrick, a pleasant small seaside village in SW Scotland, when I saw a cat was going loopy beside a flower bed outside a pottery on the quay. A bit of investigation showed that the flower bed was actually in a big old sink, and some frightened creature was running around in it and occasionally trying to burrow away from the cat. To no avail, of course, because while many creatures can tunnel through soil they are all stymied by a couple of inches of glazen earthenware.

With a big of care I coaxed the creature to me, and to my surprise was soon holding a rather frighten mole in my hands. Saved from the cat! Hooray for me!

Of course I still had to find somewhere for the little chap, so I deposited him gently in the nicest looking flower bed of the best tended garden in a row of posh seaside cottages on the other side of the road.
(, Sat 11 May 2013, 0:06, 2 replies)
Anyway, just got back from the Off-Licence,
and on my way, there was this really old bloke (90 at least) who lives round here, standing in the middle of the pavement with two full Tesco bags on the floor. Engorged with goodwill after reading this thread, and drinking 5 cans of Europiss©, I stopped and said "D'you want a lift back with your shopping there?"

"Oh thank you," he wheezed, "I'm a bit tired nowadays". As we shuffled towards his flat, the stories started: Arctic convoys...sweetheart killed in the war...invalided out of the pie factory in Colliers Wood, all that kind of thing. But then as we were going up the stairs of his block it turned a bit dark: "It's all immigrants now, my pension's worth sod-all, young people got no respect, makes you wonder what we were fighting for".

But as we got to his front door, suddenly he perked up:

"Mind you," he said, "I do like that dubstep".
(, Fri 10 May 2013, 22:50, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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