???
What popular core strength exercise appears in all four canonical Christian Gospels?
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 13:48, 4 replies)

Years ago I worked making car seats for Honda
at one of their many subsidaries. The work paid top dollar, but was back breakingly hard and boring as fuck. We were taking in a tenner an hour easy (not at all bad at the time)

Every week, because I was contracted through an agency, I had (and a load of other folks) to fill out our time sheets, the foreman would sign them, and we'd get paid. Every single week we'd hand our timesheet in, all correctly filled in, and almost without fail the foreman would remind us not to forget the extra 6 hours each we did on Sunday. Course none of us ever worked Sunday, but he put down 6 hours every week for ages. Gave us an extra 80 odd quid each week in wages. All because he thought the work was so soul destroying we deserved a little extra.

Now I don't doubt he didn't get something out of it, but he was certainly putting his balls on the line for it.

Top bloke, and fair play to him.
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 13:38, Reply)

Before this closes
I know that many regular B3tans feel that this week's QoTW has been too "fluffy". Maybe so.

I've had two family members die on me within the last 10 days. I need to read the happy stuff on here right now.

So thanks for all the stories this week. Good to know that there are so many acts of kindness in the world, which God knows, needs them.
( I_Was_Mordred, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 13:37, 4 replies)

a lift home
A lot of people have done nice things for me, such as my dad who has given me a lift to work at half five in the morning so I could get some overtime done. My dad who was recently diagnosed with cancer, yet he's still prepared to do this for me.

However this post isn't about him.

A little background, I work in a town called Ulverston, and live in Barrow-in-Furness. This is about half an hour on the bus. I have to walk for fifteen minutes to get to the bus, and about the same to get to work from the bus station.

Last year, I left work in the pissing rain. It was absolutely torrential. As I walked for two minutes, I knew I was in for a horrendous walk where I'd likely get soaked to the skin. Already my jeans were damp, and I knew they'd be sodden soon. I rounded the corner, and a lad from work walked out of a house.

"Alright mate, bit wet, ain't it?"
"Aye. Want a lift up?"
"Oh, to the bus station would be grand."
"Fuck that Dan, I'll give you a lift home."
"I couldn't ask you to do that."
"Get in, I'm taking you home. Just got to get petrol on the way."
"Well let me give you the money for that."
"Nah, just lend me a tenner till tomorrow, and I'll pay you back."

True to his word, he gave me the money back the next day. I tried to get him to keep it, but he wouldn't hear of it.

The lad not only gave me a lift home, out of the goodness of his heart, but refused to accept money for his petrol. If that's not kindness, I don't know what is.

Unfortunately, he's just been made redundant. As have I.
(stapleface, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 13:18, Reply)

PorkNumbers
Naaaah.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 13:12, 5 replies)

You could all do something nice for me......
and let me be last.........
(Pork2311, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 13:11, Reply)

Margie
she came and she found me a turkey
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 13:09, 4 replies)

Its all a matter of perspective
My cat Sparky (who has appeared in a story or two in the past) who is now with my parents always misses me when im not around.

The last time i was "between pads" ie being a sad bastard and moving home with my folks until I can find somewhere else to sleep he saw me come home with a car full of stuff and shot off up the garden towards the fields.

4 hours later he trotted up to me and deposited a still twitching rabbit at my feet, sat down and meeped happily.

bless him, a nice little welcome home from the second greatest cat ever.
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 12:48, 8 replies)

It was black and lacy, with glittery sparkles.
It barely contained his bulging manhood and disappeared between his hairy hobbit buttocks at the back.

That was the nicest thong Samwise ever donned for me.

/Frodo
(off is getting pretty fucking sick of all this, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 12:44, 6 replies)

Noticing me.
I've often thought that if I were to do a dissapearing act (not suicide, I'm no emo!), nobody but my family would notice. I'm surprised to say that when I went back to my former work place for the summer, three people wanted to know where I'd been. The woman who deals with the coffee machine, the woman who cleans the bathrooms and the bloke who does general office cleaning.

So the nice thing they did was let me know that there are people out there who do notice.
(ToysForBigBoys would spread her legs for Nick Clegg., Thu 9 Oct 2008, 11:41, 1 reply)

Headache
Nearly 12 years ago my Wife went into premature labour. She was carrying twins, but only one survived.

I have never experienced anything like the shock, pain and grief of losing a child, at the same time having a desparatly ill 28 week prem baby and a wife that nearly shuffled of the coil at the same time.

After being restrained from "going for a walk by the sea" and vomiting with grief I was in a sorry state. I had a headache. I asked for some Paracetamol to stop the pain "we can give drugs to non-patients" said young, stupid, vacant staff nurse. Correct, I knew, but heartless. I was in no position to argue though.

The consultant came to me half hour later, to see how I was. Obviously not great. I really wanted to die, but all I could say was "I have a headache, but no one can give me a tablet" The consultant looked over to self important nurse and said with about as much edge as I have ever heared in the health service (24 years man and boy!) Get him a tablet.

Just like to say thanks for that little bit of concern to a grieving Father. Not all nurses are angels, not all consultants are twunts.
(micmac is happy as a pig in shite, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 11:12, 2 replies)

A big thank you
To the chap in the pub who freed my willy from my zip when I was to drunk to do it myself (age 19ish)

True story.......honest......in Macclesfield!!!

I had a operation quite common amongst the Jews so it was very painful
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 11:00, 4 replies)

The landlord of a pub in which my band regularly plays
on a Sunday lunchtime has suggested that he would like to pay for us to have a couple of days in a local studio.

He also informed us that one of his mates used to be a sound engineer for AC/DC and would be willing to do our stuff for the craic.

My jaw hit the floor when he told us this.

It's nice to know that there are people in this crazy world who will do things like this, and like most of the stories this week.

listen to my band here if you fancy:
www.myspace.com/dumberthantheaveragebear
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 9:41, 10 replies)

Doubly Blessed
I have a mate. A diamond bloke. He loves Jazz, guitars and shooting things with a bow, I am a Guitarist, who would love to know how to shoot thinks with a bow. I teach him guitarring and he teaches me bowing.

All good.

He was having his house done out and needed to put his huge collection a guitars in storage. "I'll look after them" says I selfishly thinking of hours playing his lovely Jazz guitars.

Anyway, 8 months later he says he can put them in the studio, so comes over to collect them, I give them a quick clean to get the drool of them. Up rolls John, with a present. A new acoustic guitar. For me. For being a good bloke.

Talk about having someone else's cake and eating it. I was chuffed.

Johnny Redman, you are a bloody star mate.
(micmac is happy as a pig in shite, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 8:52, 1 reply)

Nice things
I am the bloke in the x-ray department who looks after the computer systems. Most of my co-workers are fairly computer savvy, but there are a few who aren't.

Nothing wrong with that at all.

I try my best not to make them feel like dullards because they didn't spend thier youth programming games into a ZX81 (like me).

I also am a dab hand sticking needles into veins (comes from doing 20+ a day when I worked as a CT Radiographer in Bridgend).

There is one Nurse who has some difficulty with both computers and needles. The day before yesterday she asked me to cannulate a lady with fat arms and deep, toughened, scarred veins (because of repeated infections).
I got in second attempt, which is 1 more that I usually take.

Yesterday she gave me a little gift of a home made candle for "being helpful and not making her feel like she was imposing when I help her out" I was quite choked really.

Nice to be appreciated eh?
(micmac is happy as a pig in shite, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 7:16, Reply)

young, dumb and - well- extremely lucky
When I was 16 my friends and I were getting ready to go out to a club one Friday night. We were gathered at Sarah's house as everyone knows young girls like to get ready in packs. Young girls like to do everything in packs. There were 5 of us, my best friends whom I had known for over half my life.

Sarah lived about 15 minutes further away from Sydney than me so, as we would be catching the train up that night, we would pass my station on the way to the city- sound pointless now but essential later.

The trains where I live are crap, the 11pm train we were getting up would be the last train for the night, but all the station staff go home around 9pm, so the stations are deserted.

Ok, I have been delaying a bit here coz I don't really want to admit to being this stupid but- Sarah's bf's flatmate was a pharmacist - or so he said, I was naive enough to believe him then. We had no cash and so were going out straight that night- a prospect that we didn't find so appealing.

The flatmate told us that if we took anti-depressants we would halucinate and dumbly we agreed to give it a try.

I didn't realise but he gave Sarah and the other girls only 1 pill. He gave me 5. Zoloft (sp?). I'm no longer sure what milligram but was later told it was a potentially fatal dose. He wanted to see what would happen. This man is not the person I want to thank for doing me a good deed.

So we get on the train and all is good.

Suddenly it is not. Not good. Not at all. I feel nauseas, my stomach hurts SO MUCH and my head is spinning.

I fall to the ground. I throw up. Alot. I crawl feebly away from the smell. I am very confused and very far from well. I lose control of my muscles, lying on the floor of the train like a rag-doll.

My friends help me up and tell me we are pulling into my train station. This penetrates weekly and I am relieved that someone is going to help me get home.

The train pulls in, the doors open. My slack body is heaved off the train to fall on the platform. still vomiting and completely unable to move even my head the last thing I hear from my friends is

"You understand, don't you? It's just too good a night to miss."

They are not the people I want to thank or doing me a good deed.

The person I wan to thank is Kurt. I hadn't seen him for over 5 years at this point but when he turned up 5 minutes later, having missed the train, he recognised me.

He got my story out of me, helped me hurl anything left out of me, washed my face and wrists in cool water, dragged me around for over an hour trying to get me to walk. He held me up and dialed the phone number (he paid for the call too) at a public phone and held me until my parents came to collect me. At my own wish he even lied ot my parents and told them I had food poisoning.

Dumbest thing I've ever done (and that REALLY is saying something) and he saved me. I don't know what would have happened to me if I'd spent the winter night lying on the station in ruined fishnets, a pvc miniskirt and a mesh top in a puddle of spew.

So this is the person I want to thank. I've told him many times since in real life, but now the internet knows.

Thanks Kurt.
(misskitty reeks of sex and turpentine; laudanum afternoons, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 5:33, 16 replies)

Blimey
Nicest thing someone's ever done for me was showing me that I don't exist...but it does have some down moments though....
(catflap I went out with Nicholas Parsons, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 4:10, Reply)

Footballers can be nice guys
Anyone who looks regularly at my feeble contributions to this website will know I'm a teacher, and a fairly Frank Spencer-like one at that.

Thankfully, not all of my breed are as clumsy and inept as me, and friend of mine, David Finn, has made it big at one of the new 'academies' up North. For those who don't know what 'academy' means, it translates roughly as 'school that is dying on its arse and has been taken in hand by a Government which doesn't have a feckin' clue what to do with it but will pay its staff to work 70-hour weeks in a vain attempt to correct the thing'. Good luck to him, say I.

No, in fact I very sincerely say good luck to him, because last week he made one of the best and most incredible gestures I have ever seen...

Davy, for his sins, is a big Manchester United fan. He's no glory-hunter; he was born and brought up in Trafford and has supported his local team through good and bad for nearly thirty years. No less than I have done with Scunthorpe United; only he seems to have enjoyed an unconscionable degree of success.

Anyway, bitterness aside, Davy's much more than a part-time supporter: he's a sterling season ticket holder in the West Stand and has managed to snatch up shares in the Glazer regime. Rumour has it that a coveted place on the Supporters' Board will be his for the taking soon.

I'd kept in touch with him since our teacher-training days, and a bunch of us met up in a pub in Birmingham recently. Davy had big news.

"Fellas! You'll never guess who turned up to my lesson last week?"

"Steven Hawking?"

"Bertrand Russell?"

"Pythagoras?"

Davy's a Maths teacher, in case you hadn't gathered.

"Even better, lads. Patrice-fucking-Evra, that's who!"

I can fairly say we were genuinely knocked back. OK, it's not exactly Rooney or Ronaldo, but to get a first-team United player to visit a crappy Manchester comp must have required strings pulling in very high places. Then the story unfolded. Apparently Evra had pledged to do a certain degree of publicity work as part of his Work Permit, which had not quite materialised, so to fulfil a legal technicality, the board had passed him over to the Football In The Community School, based at Davy Finn's school. Davy, being fairly known to the club, had kept him for two hours before the Football School and encouraged the gullible chap to help him teach the class about angles and simple trigonometry, using a football pitch as an example.

And then, Davy's thunderstrike.

"Apparently, he's got another few days still to complete. The guy's quality - loves being in a classroom and helping the kids out. I could probably sting him for a day at your school if you get your names down quickly enough."

My mind was racing. Yes, I teach in a rugby city, but the kids all know Man Utd scores, don't they? I began compiling science-teaching possibilities: naming major muscle groups, friction tests on his boots, genetic analysis of a Premiership footballer...the lists were endless.

"Put me down" I yelled. Unfortunately, I wasn't quick enough. Every other off-duty teacher around the table had seen an equal opportunity to relieve their day of monotonous boredom.

"We're a failing school!"

"He'll like helping my A-grade class!"

"What about the under-privileged at my school?"

"I'll give you a tenner!"

...

...

"A tenner, eh?" Davy's eyes lit up. "Anyone else got any cash offers?"

"Go on, then, I'll give you twenty"

"Twenty and a pint"

"Sod it! I'd give you fifty if it got the kids onside"

Dave always was a bit of a mercenary bastard, but the fact that he was seriously considering these offers was stretching a point. Was he the bloke's fucking agent or what? Luckily I had the trump card up my sleeve.

Every teacher knows that every school contains one freakishly, abnormally nice class. Fate be it, although I spend most of my days being a miserable bastard, it was my pleasure and joy to be the form tutor to just that group. 'E Form', as they were known in the school's unpoetic language, were the most honest-to-goodness, delightful, polite, hard-working and personable children it had ever been my pleasure to know. At the time of having this conversation, they were in Year 11, and I thought a speech from a famous sports star could be the perfect farewell present to the kids I had had a pleasure in helping to see towards adulthood.

"Dave", I began: "I can't afford to pay you, you know that" (he did, too; he'd been best man at my wedding not three months before. And those buggers are expensive!). "But, I can offer you, and Patrice Evra, the opportunity to speak in front of a group of the nicest and most genuine pupils I've ever known. I'm asking solely for your conscience to decide this, because I think it would be a superb and rewarding choice."

Dave hesitated. Out of all the group, I was his oldest friend and the only one not proffering money.

"I don't know, ousgg. Look, these guys are offering me fifty, seventy, even a hundred quid. If I added them all together, then I could make..." He paused, and whipped out his mobile phone, switched it to calculator, and began tapping away.

I grabbed his arm in frustration, annoyance, and the will to speak some good of my pupils. I was agitated and almost angry.

Then I says: "Finn! Sum once Evra's done Form E!"
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Thu 9 Oct 2008, 0:13, 12 replies)

back in the old days

When your short pants had a zipper and you were at the age where you were still having your baths supervised by your mum yet were also developing a sense of modesty and therefore would bath with said shorts on. No underpants would be worn, wet shorts cling, of course potential employee 12754 managed to get his little foreskin well stuck in the zipper (or at least his mum did).

My old fella treated the situation as seriously as I was feeling it and carefully and slowly got my jews hat released from bondage.

So thanks Dad and hope you're happy up there.

cunting siblings just giggled their holes off of course.


length - was looking iffy for a bit..
(The Cats Twat, Wed 8 Oct 2008, 23:33, 1 reply)

I bought an MZ!
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, well Wales actually. A work mates brother was selling this MZ250 cheap, he gave me a lift over, we did the deal, I ride it back. Well that was the idea anyways. Did about 20 miles before the electrics died, flat battery.
So I am in the middle of nowhere, pouring with rain, getting dark. I must have only been about 19, first time riding around wales, not sure where I was, no recovery or anything, no mobile phone either. After pushing it for a mile I came into a village with a petrol station. The guy in the garage directed me to a local hotel.
So I ring the bell, dripping on the doorstep I am greeted by a little maid, I explain my predicament and she goes off to get the Chef!

Seems he owns the hotel and does motorcycle repairs as well, he directs me to the workshop at the back, I park the MZ between his sons Norton commando and his GSXR11 and get the battery charging.

He then makes me a cuppa tea and a bacon butty.

Refreshed and charged an hour and a half later I set off again, making it back home on the charged battery.
(xCJx Oestrogen Enhanced Rock Drummer - Oestrogenix, Wed 8 Oct 2008, 23:17, 3 replies)

I am phobic of Dentists
The pain of broken teeth is not new to me, but I would rather stick my head in a wasp nest than visit a dentist... Until today.

I broke another tooth in my already imperfect smile and was distraught. My fear of the Dentist spans years and brings with it a dark and hateful loathing of all things mouth related.

Carol my better (and more sensible half) arranged for me to see a kind compassionate Dentist and drove me there too. I lost the ability to speak as we approached the entrance and I began to breath hard as fear clutched at my soul. Carol held my hand and kept me in control.

Then I had to sit in that fucking chair. Carol continued to hold my hand and communicate for me to the Dentist, who was a very nice South African woman. Despite not having been to the Dentist for twenty years I only need to have two fillings and two cracked wisdom teeth removed.

Filling number one was done for me today, as I held Carol's hand and I will admit cried with terror. Half way through the process I caught Carol's eye and she whispered "I love you" at me and I knew I could cope.

Filling done and tooth now capped I walked out of there £50 lighter and mouth numb. I am having to go into Hospital to have the wisdom teeth done because my phobia is so strong I will need to be put under and Carol is going to take me to that one aswell.

So thank you to my new Dentist, who I did like, despite not being able to speak. However a huge thank you must go to Carol who had to put up with my nightmares, awful mood this morning and having her hand crushed in mine.

Thank you Carol, I love you so very much.
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Wed 8 Oct 2008, 21:42, 3 replies)

My dark period
Oh well, here goes...

Everyone seems to be revealing their darkest secrets here, so I thought I'd jump in. I should warn you, parts of this story are pretty disturbing, so if you came here for the fluffiness, please move on. I have been wondering whether or not to post this, and have no idea how people will react, but have spent so much time writing it that I thought I'd post it no matter what.

This story continues from where this story left off. In a nutshell, from an early age, I was brought up in a foreign country. My parents in their infinite wisdom sent me to a school that spoke a different language, and obviously, speaking a different language at home than at school had an impact on my social development. This had the unsurprising effect that during kindergarten and infant school, I was often left out.

This lack of stimulus must have lead my mind to generate its own worldview and sown the seeds of my fertile imagination. Because I had no way of expressing it, nobody knew it was there. This also led to frustration and me often being bored out of my mind. I also suffered from the usual childhood phobias (e.g. being scared of the dark) and unusual childhood phobias (e.g. being scared of milk), so having not much else to think of, didn't move on from them so easily. This meant that for much of my early childhood, I was either scared, bored out of my mind or in an environment where nobody liked me (although I did have a small number of not-so-close friends). In other words, I was under stimulated. To top things off, my infant-school teacher was a total bitch who I hated with a passion. She would often use me as a scapegoat to blame whenever she couldn't figure out who did something, and not having well-developed verbal skills, if someone accused me of something, I couldn't protest, but anyway, I digress.

So what better thing for an under stimulated toddler to do than to fall in love. Aged 4, I started infant school. In my class, there was a girl who I'll call 'I'. I cannot for the life or me remember why I fell for her - all I do remember is that she seemed pretty in my 4-year-old mind. She also lived on the same street as me. Once, when me and my mum were walking past her house, she was just outside her house. My mum pointed her out to me. I was shy, and my mum told me that I appeared to fancy her, and not to be shy. This is actually the first memory I have of having some sort of crush on 'I'.

So anyway, to my scared/under stimulated/isolated mind, she seemed like a beacon of light in a hostile and boring world - a world in which I had come to terms with my perception that there was no alternative. At first, the crush was just something that happened. I do not remember how long I was at school with her - it could have been up to two years (to the mind of a four year old, that's a very long time). It started off as just a small crush, but over time, turned into something that completely consumed me. This was pretty intense. I'd even go as far as to say it rivalled many of my teenaged crushes in intensity. How someone could develop a crush on someone at such an early age remains a mystery to me (I was only 4 FFS). Maybe it was a result of being under stimulated for so many years.

I had absolutely no idea how I could express my love. At first, I just let things pass, but as time went on, it became too overpowering not to do anything. I was shy and completely useless at verbal communication, so I showed my affection by stroking her. 'I' was not keen about this and tried to avoid me. Even so, I persisted. It looked more like pestering than showing affection. This was becoming obvious to the others in the class. Whenever we sat round in a circle, I always made it a point to try and sit next to her. The other kids always tried to sit either side of her before I could find my place. In fact, at one time, things got so bad that the teacher even sent me outside the class for being 'over-affectionate'. This troubled me deeply as I had done something so nasty to the one I loved that I had been sent out of the class for it.

This of course did not deter me in any way. I continued to look forward to seeing her. So intense was my crush that even during school holidays, I was looking forward to going back to the hostile environment of my school and Mrs. Bitch just to be with ‘I’. Still, there was no reciprocation of feelings and I had nobody to talk to it about. I was well and truly cursed.

By then, being in a foreign language environment was having its toll. My communication skills weren't developing. Concerned, my parents sent me to a child psychiatrist. As a psychiatrist, he was not much use, but he was a fun guy and I enjoyed seeing him. Soon after (aged 6), my parents finally sent me to an English-speaking school, but by then, it was too late - the damage had been done. Being in an English speaking school seemed strange at first but quickly got used to it. The teacher I had (Miss C) was much nicer, and I felt more at home. It was as if I was having a nice dream and was worried I'd wake up from it. By then, I had been at the previous school long enough to become bi-lingual, but I wasn't very good at making friends. I did manage to make a few friends, but because it was mainly a school for expatriates, there was a high turnover of pupils. I was unlucky enough to pick friends who would leave shortly after. It was as if everything I tried to build up in life kept toppling over.

I was glad to have left the old school behind, but there was just one drawback - 'I' was no longer at school with me. While my life had a more solid foundation, I found that I did not feel for any of the girls in my class the same way I felt for 'I'. This void in my heart, along with the constant departure of what few friends I made made me feel like I was trapped in some kind of pit of hopelessness. It had been some time since I was in my new school. I still had the feeling of sadness I had of being apart from 'I', but had forgotten what it was like to be in the same class. This made me depressed and because the status quo did not involve 'I', I believed this state of depression was my natural state of mind. In time, I forgot about 'I', but this void in my heart persisted. I guess that if this were to have happened today, I would be labelled 'Emo'. I had very little hope and just learned to accept things the way they were.

But then, one fateful Tuesday afternoon, something happened. While gathered around in semicircle listening to something or other, a girl who wasn’t in my class joined us. I had a more or less instant crush on her - something that I had not had for any of the girls in my school. This was just a one off event, and I didn't get to see her again. This had the effect that from then on, I would be constantly thinking about her. As it turned out, she did not join my class. At first, I thought that because this had happened on a Tuesday, I might see her the next Tuesday afternoon. This of course did not happen. It was only two months before school broke up for the summer holidays. Maybe she'd join us once school started again. Needless to say, I was dieing to see her again. I felt really bad for myself for not having talked to her when I had the chance. By the end of the summer holidays, I had absolutely convinced myself that she would be joining my class.

September came. It was decided that I wouldn't be moved up to the next class. This was because my mind had been too unsettled to sit down and do some work, so I it was decided I was not ready to move up a year. This meant I was now the oldest kid in my class. The girl I had seen a few months back had not joined my class. However, I soon found out that in the class above, there was a girl who looked just like her. Her name was 'P' and to me, could have been the same girl I saw earlier. I soon found out she wasn't but even so, felt frustrated at not having been moved up a class.

I cannot remember the sequence of events very well. I guess I may have tried to be 'affectionate' to 'P' in the same way I was 'affectionate' to 'I', or I may have just made a brief but shy attempt to talk. 'P' of course was uninterested. After that initial display of non-interest, something inside of me just snapped. That rejection pushed me over the limit. There was already a part of me that was dead. Something else must have died at that time. Any hope I had had was completely crushed.

What happened next is something I am not proud of in any way.

Feeling frustrated at this turn of events, I turned my anger towards 'P'. This manifested itself in a physical way. At first, I would just hit her whenever I had the chance. Initially, there was a part of me that was shocked by my own behaviour, but I soon got used to it. In fact, I was starting to find this addictive. It wasn't about vengeance for being rejected - I was enjoying this. What started off as just hitting her soon turned into a full-scale bullying campaign. I would attempt to beat her up and at one stage, even tried to strangle her. My inner demons that had been nurtured were now well and truly unleashed.

Fortunately for 'P', she had her posse of friends. At one time when I tried to beat her up, she ran off into the bushes. All the other girls in the posse broke off a branch from nearby shrubs and started to hit me with them. In my frenzied state, I was oblivious to both the physical pain and the mental anguish that so many would gang up to do so much to hurt me.

This behaviour did not escape the notice of my teachers. At first, the measures taken were ineffective. Once, I was brought in during the lunch break and made to sit by the headmaster's office. While he was not paying attention, I escaped. I then got into trouble again, was brought in and escaped again. This repeated itself one more time that lunch break. In frustration, I even bit the headmaster when he tried to catch me. I was so consumed I did not care about the consequences.

By now, I had dug such a deep hole for myself that I had absolutely no hope that I'd ever get out, and that things could not get any worse. My thoughts were consigned to me thinking I had no way out.

This was also having an affect on my performance at school. I was extremely unsettled. I would not sit and do any work. I would often pace around the classroom. My teacher (still Miss C) was understandably having a hard time coping. By now, my parents and teachers were starting to throw threats at me saying if I didn't change my behaviour, there would be trouble. This made me stop and think for a bit. What had happened to me? Here I was tormenting the girl I loved so much. How could this state of affairs have come into being AAAAARGH! Panic!!!

My solution was to somehow be able to make amends. It would be a long and steep uphill path, which just exacerbated my panic. I would have to give her some sort of gift. Not being in possession of much to give her and not knowing what she'd like, there was only one choice - money. Now, I had never stolen any money off my parents before, but my mind felt so 'disconnected' that I thought I'd do it and be able to get away with it. So I took some of their money (about £2 which was a lot for a kid back in the early 80's), hid it until I got to school (btw, my way of hiding it was by building a Lego 'box' around it). I approached 'P' and offered her the money. This was an incredibly creepy thing to do, but to my disturbed and panicked mind, I thought I had no alternative. At first, 'P' was reluctant to accept, but in the end, it somehow got passed round to the headmaster of the school, who told my parents. My parents were understandably shocked at this turn of events - after all, it was the first time they had heard I had taken money off them, but by then, my mind was so 'gone' that I didn't seem to care much.

Meanwhile, a new girl joined my class, 'M'. She had a similar effect on e that 'P' did. In my troubled mind, I realised that so I just unleashed the same treatment on 'M' that I had on 'P'. This was obviously causing my teachers to think that something had to be done. I was pretty close to being expelled from my school. My parents realised that if that were to happen, I'd have to go back to a foreign language school - possibly even the one I hated so much. Having learned from their mistakes, they realised that sending me to a foreign language school was the last thing I needed, so they tried very hard to keep me in the school. This lead to them becoming involved in the affairs of the school so they could have some leverage on any decisions they made. My mum became involved with the PTA, and my dad became the treasurer of the board of governors.

After some discussion with my teachers and headmaster, it was decided that I would only be at school for the first hour of the day. My teacher would have a policy of ‘earning time’ where if I behaved myself, I would earn some more time at school. To my 7-year-old mind, this seemed like a sort of anti-punishment. I would only be spending one hour a day at school. This seemed too good to be true. What kind of way of punishing someone was this? Looking back on it, I think my teacher just wanted to get rid of me and this was some sort of compromise reached to prevent expulsion.

Even though I thought having all this free time was a privilege, I found that in practice I did not have may opportunities to torment 'M’. Of course, I kept this a secret from my parents and I just expressed this sentiment by saying I wished I was at school longer. Of course, my parents interpreted this as me missing being in school. My mum ended up home-schooling me for part of the remaining day.

My behaviour did not improve much. In the first two months, I only earned an extra 15 minutes. It was around this time that the headmaster resigned. He had only started at the start of the school year. It remains unknown if his inability to expel me contributed to it. At school, I was still tormenting 'M' whenever I had a chance. My parents had decided that drastic measures needed to be taken to change me. Their solution was to offer me bribes in the form of toys (usually in the form of Lego-sets). This seemed to mostly work with regard to not bullying my fellow pupils, but it did not help me settle down at school.

At this time, my only real pleasure in life was going to the arcades and playing video games. This was 1982, but even so, the games they had were fun. For me, playing these games was a form of 'meditation' – I could put all my focus into playing them. I only got to do this a few minutes a week. Computer game consoles did exist at the time but were hideously expensive. When at home, I would spend a lot of the time drawing. I wasn't good at it, but I loved drawing. I decided that when I grew up, I wanted to make cartoons.

Meanwhile, the school got rid of Miss C. I'm not sure of the circumstances, but it was said that she was offering a sub-standard education. Miss L. the substitute teacher became the de-facto teacher of my class. Even though this policy of 'earning time' was Miss C's, it was continued under Miss L.

Because of the bribes my parents were giving me, my behaviour had stabilised. I still didn't do much work at school but instead just sat in a corner and read various books and comics. By then, the school felt it was safe to let me out during the morning playtime. To my twisted logic, I thought that if I pestered girls outside of school that it somehow didn't count. I won't go into the details here as I've gone into enough details as it is.

At this time, I had this fantasy that had been brewing in my mind since the 'troubles' began. I would imagine capturing any girls I fancied and keeping them imprisoned in some kind of hidden underground harem underneath the back garden of my house. At the time, I had absolutely no idea what I'd do with them once I got them there, but I thought about building an upright wooden box on wheels as a means of bringing them there.

My worldview at the time was of a world full of forbidden pleasures. My mind was completely consumed by these unholy thoughts. I was well and truly a pariah. I could see no way out of this downward spiral of destructive behaviour.

Towards the end of that school year, I came to the conclusion that I wanted to get out of this hole. I was too afraid to approach anyone for help (even the child psychiatrist I was still seeing who was not much use), and even felt uncomfortable making the necessary change in behaviour pattern required to get me out. I was overwhelmed by how hard it would be. At one time, I did try much harder than usual to do some good school-work once - I put lots of effort into it, was praised by both Miss L and my parents, but it seemed like so much effort to me it didn't seem worthwhile. Looking back on things, I now see that this must have been a cry for help!

But then, things reached a turning point. After the summer holidays, I was moved up a year. I was still the oldest in my class, but I had a new teacher - Mrs. D. She was also the head teacher of the school. She was well aware of my behaviour problems of the past year and I damned well knew it. Even though, she acted as if she was oblivious to all that had gone on before, gave me a fresh start and encouraged me to move forward. I took up the challenge to turn over a new leaf that had been laid before me.

Mrs. D gave me positive encouragement, and this inspired me to settle down and get some work done. I still hadn't earned my full day so still ended up spending plenty of time not at school. However, I sat down and always did what was asked of me. She knew how to bring out the best in me, brought it out and it stayed there.

Just about every aspect of my life was improving. Be it little things such as my handwriting, or larger things such as developing the ability to sit down and concentrate and improvements in behaviour. In fact, after only a few months, I had improved so much that when I looked back at some of my work from even only a few months ago, I would feel ashamed that I could ever have done something so badly. Things seemed to be going well, but as the Christmas break approached; I had a bit of a re-lapse on the behaviour side. My old ways were coming back in the playground, but fortunately, Mrs D noticed this and put me to shame. She was very good at doing this and knew just the right thing to say.

After the Christmas break, we went back to school. Using my imagination, I had invented a weird story to try and explain my behaviour over the past few years. This involved some sort of alien abduction (obviously). I was one of the first to arrive on the first day. Most of the early arrivals were girls, but soon, some more boys started dribbling in. The kids were discussing the number of boys compared to the number of girls. I absent-mindedly said, "There are now enough boys to beat up the girls". Mrs. D picked up on that comment like a shark smelling blood. "Stop saying that nonsense!" she said. This one comment hit its intended target with great force and accuracy. It made me look at myself objectively for a bit. In that brief moment of clarity, I saw myself how others expected to see myself. Mrs D put so much shame into me that I did not tell the story I had in mind in the end (in fact, I've completely forgotten the story I came up with except the bit about the alien abduction). I can say that those few seconds were the fastest I had ever done some 'growing up'. As it was the first day after the New Year, we were asked what our new year's resolutions were. Spontaneously and out of nowhere, I decided that mine was that I wouldn't hit girls. I kept that resolution right the way up until my year with Mrs. D ended and beyond. I soon earned enough time so that I got my full day of school back. By the end of the school-year, my behaviour and level of accomplishment at school had long since returned to what was expected of me, and I felt like my troubled times were so deeply buried that I just concentrated on the present and future instead. In fact, even back then, if I looked back, I would be so washed over by shame that I would immediately drag myself back to the present again.

So what Mrs. D did to me was the nicest thing someone's ever done for me. She had faith in me. She gave me a chance. I took the chance. She gave me the encouragement I needed to sort myself out. I sorted myself out. Thank you Mrs D for having faith in me, believing me and putting me back on track. Thank you for teaching me that 'Emo' is a load of shite years before 'Emo' was invented. You are the best teacher in the universe. Also, thanks for my mum and dad for putting up with me and preventing me from going back to the foreign language school. And finally, thanks to you, the reader for having read this right to the end.

Even though I had gotten over my troubled times, the underlying shyness which may have been the cause of all of this in the first place still persisted.

To be continued...

_{Apologies for lack of pun. All of this really did happen, and I'm not proud of it. But once again, thankyou thankyou thankyou Mrs. D.}
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Wed 8 Oct 2008, 21:10, 33 replies)

Billy
I was brought up in Glasgow but have lived out in the sticks for 15 years. A beautiful part of Scotland just outside Lanark – yes William Wallace and all that. The main road to Edinburgh the A70 – well to be fair the only road to Edinburgh snakes its way over some high moors, its truly stunning countryside but it gets pretty grim in the winter and the road is notorious. I treated it pretty much as my personal race track and in the summer it was very popular with bikers and cyclists. My best mate Billy never understood why I wanted to live ‘oot in the arse end of naewhere’ but was a lifelong biker so was keen to see where I lived and how good the roads were good out my way.

First time he came to visit me was pretty much out of the blue – I heard the bark of a Kawasaki Ninja one crisp January afternoon and there he was on my doorstep all smiles clutching a bottle of Macallan.

Naturally we set about getting battered. The following morning with a head still fuzzy I suggested we take a trip up the A70. It was partly just for the hell of it but I also earned a rather handy extra 500 quid a month calibrating a small weather station at the highest point of the moor. (don’t ever study Meteorology and Climatology – there’s no money in it, I’m a graphic designer now). Any way the ‘weather station’ was little more than a grey dome on a pole with cup anemometer, barometer, thermometer and a datalink. Basically it was there to let the council know if they should send the gritters out of a morning.

It was a bright winters day and Billy took great pleasure in scaring the shit out of me on the back of his bike and also in the fact my Uni degree had got me to the giddy heights of opening a dome up a pole -pressing a few buttons then closing it again. “500 quid to open that and press two buttons you cunt?” He then took even more pleasure in scaring any further remnants out of me on the way back. It's fair to say Billy didn't tend to hang around. We had Sunday lunch in my local then toddled home to set about getting pished with a vengence. It was a freezing cold night and the wind was howling – I love nights in like that. All was well till I got a call from some cunt at council roads department informing me there was no feed from the A70 monitoring station.

Cuntsocks – I had forgot to reset the datalink. I’d have to get up at silly o’clock to set it before they could send someone out to check the error of my ways. But fuck it, tomorrow was another day. Billy could always out-drink me, all day in the pub then the rest of the Macallan had me fucked by 10pm. I decided to hit the sack.

I got up the following morning to find Billy’s bike gone but his gear still scattered around. I assumed he had gone for the papers. At precisely 11.08 the police came to my front door. Billy had been killed in a head on collision on the A70 at 2am that morning. The shock dried up my mouth in an instant and just completely floored me. I couldn’t accept it – his socks were still on my living room floor. The Police were pretty cool, they made sweet tea for me and sat me down – shaking like an alky. It was then I saw the note on the coffee table.

‘Back shortly – going to reset your daft weather dome – lightweight’

It was then I realised just what sort of guy Billy was – he had died so I could have a lie in. It was my ineptitude that killed him. It was the night testing some winds dome for me.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Wed 8 Oct 2008, 20:56, 24 replies)