1st Amsterdam Trip
Years ago my company sent me to work in Amsterdam for three days, my first trip to the city of sin. Arriving at Schiphol I go straight to the car hire desk and collected my keys next some local currency, walked over to the ATM about 100m away to find my wallet was gone. There are some very skilled pickpockets in Schiphol.

50p in my pocket but I had my hired car and a room reservation waiting for me in the centre of town. This was 18 years ago so mobile phones had just been launched so hardly any one carried one. I needed to get to the Hotel and call the office.

Arriving at the Hotel, the reception area was busy with lots of people milling around, I show the receptionist my passport and explain my situation. “Sorry sir we can’t give you a room with out your credit card” “Sorry we can’t let you use the phone without some form a payment” Did some one come to my rescue ? No they didn’t get a chance I just lost it, well it had been a long day “My first trip to your country, I get robbed, I have no money and no way of contacting home and you won’t help me !” The reception area fell silent, I got a room key.

Great my first trip to Amsterdam, it’s a Friday night and not a bean on me. So I wonder down to the Hotel bar in the hope I can charge a few beers to the room. The bar was empty, me and the bar maid. We start chatting, I tell her about my day that it was my first trip to Amsterdam, she had already heard about the guy that had been robbed from the other staff. She disappears for a while, when she gets back, “here take this” a 100 Guilders “have a good time.” I did and I did. Thank you nice bar person.
(nee22 NL ExPat, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 14:47, 2 replies)

Reminds me of a news story I linked to off Reddit
I read this story about a year ago and it's still with me.

Guy A is walking home one night from the pub (or maybe a bar ... I think it was a US news story) and sees a rather nice Corvette pulled over by the side of the road. There's a very drunk looking Guy B on the verge being sick. Not knowing quite what to do, Guy A walks up and does a usual 'are you okay' thing.

Guy B is clearly too drunk to answer any questions coherently, and it's getting dark, late and cold. Guy A decides to go through B's jacket to see if he can at least find out where the guy lives, or if he has a cellphone with useful numbers labelled 'Girlfriend' or whatever. No phone, but he does find a wallet, and from the various cards he sees that Guy B lives fairly near by.

In a mixture of kindness, bravado, and not wanting to turn down a chance to take this lovely Corvette for a brief spin, Guy A decides to drive the car and Guy B home. He props up Guy B in the passenger seat in a way that ensures B is not going to slump over on the gearstick, straps himself in, and then drives carefully to B's place, enjoying every moment of this random adventure.

Ten minutes later, he pulls up into B's drive in his fairly nice house and neighbourhood. He takes the car keys out, locates the house key, and drags B into the house and places him gently on the sofa. He replaces the keys on the telephone table, writes a brief note explaining what happened, including his name and address. He sticks the note on the fridge, and leaves, smiling once more at the night's adventures.

As he walks on home, he's surprised to see a cavalcade of police cars charging down the street in approximately the direction of B's house. Noting this on tonight's already long chalkboard of unusual events, he eventually makes it home.

Ten minutes later, there's a very firm knocking at the door. He opens it to see two burly cops holding the note that he wrote just a few minutes ago and asking "Are you this man?" He's asked to accompany them to the police station.

Much explaining later, it turns out that Guy B didn't own the car at all. Guy B was a burglar who had stolen Guy C's wallet and keys earlier in the evening, and made off with the Corvette. Guy B had decided to celebrate this fine acquisition at a nearby bar, gotten far too drunk, tried to drive home, pulled over by the side of the road to throw up, almost passed out, and that's where Guy A enters the story. When he entered guy C's house, C assumed it was the burglar come back to steal more stuff, and hid in his bedroom and called the cops.

So Guy C gets his car back and gets to see the burglar busted. Not sure if Guy A gained anything apart from a story he probably dined out on for years.
(CerberaSpeedTwelve, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 14:43, Reply)

B3ta - Serious post, I'm afraid
Last year/18 months/2 years ago, I went through a horrendously rubbish time. I was depressed, all over the place, drinking too much and angry. I was working too much and my relationship was in a pretty ugly place.

I vented here on b3ta, not really wanting to find solace, but as an outlet for being narky and generally a bit, dare I say it, Emo, but for a reason. I was low and on more than one occasion, as much as I hate to admit it, suicidal.

I don't know how many of you read my posts and status messages and thought, "well, he's a cock" or "he's clearly deranged" and ignored me - which wouldn't surprise me.

However, a few people did read my messaged and did mail me - they contacted me and asked me if I was ok, checking up on me, talking to me, making sure that I was ok, counselling me too. I spent time talking to these few (one in particular) who guided me through my pain, sanity and relationship(s).

They saw me through what was the lowest point of my life, helped me get back to the person I was long before all this happened. They guided my thoughts and helped me see things properly - even with the aid of professional counsellor.

You know who you are, I can't remember all of you by individual b3ta name, but your place is in my heart. But in particular, PJM, I thank you for helping me and being a good friend.

I can't think of a nicer thing that's been done for me.
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 14:38, 4 replies)

My stepfather and me...
We don't really see eye to eye most of the time. Usually a control freak of the worst sort, he at one point scolded me and my fellow siblings for putting a block of cheese in the wrong location in the fridge.

Now, I'm very much incapable of dealing with authority. The boss I work under has never once tried to boss me around. The day he does is the day I walk out, and I never made it a secret to anyone.

So, as you can imagine, my stepdad's tendency to 'ask' things in a way not utilizing question marks, often leads to, as I'll call them, tensions. Meaning that I have, over the years, insulted him, cursed him, and threatened him in every way I could think of. In his eyes, I must've been a complete and utter cunt, and in my eyes, I deserved to rot away in a tiny secluded spot in hell.

Yet, despite my completely unjustified outbursts, he has never put me aside, never turned me down when I asked for a favour, and never treated me the same way I treated him. But above all else, there is one thing that has earned him my deepest respect:

A few years ago, when I was still a teenager (a title I outgrew only one year ago) me and my girlfriend for two years (first proper relationship for me, and also the last one to date) broke up. Two years might not be much to some, to me, it was everything. And to someone whose mental department wasn't operating at 100% stability (us young'uns, as you know, can be overly emotional at the best - and worst of times), this was a huge blow. My life was over, and I wasn't to fully recover in a few months.

So it came to be that my stepdad found me sitting in front of the tv at 4 am on a particularly bad night. I was watching a programme I found remotely interesting, which was as good as it got for me, until he walked over to the set and turned it off.
The arse turned off the tv, before walking into the kitchen. Without any reason. Wile I was watching!

I snapped.

For the better part of half an hour, I screamed my lungs out at him, threw a few bits of furniture around, and somewhere down the middle, started crying like the angsty emo kid everyone becomes at one point in time. I yelled at him to fuck off, to die, to fuck off and die quickly, before I'd crush his breathing system with my own hands, all the while trembling like a horny teenage rabbit on Red Bull. After I lost my voice and nearly choked on my own tears, my stepdad, the cold and emotionless cunt, having said not a single word during the entire scene, calmly as ever walked back into the kitchen...

And came out with two bottles of beer. I was incapacitated. What the hell was going on, why was he offering me a beer instead of punching me over the moon and into China?

I never found out how he knew about my state of mind at the time, nor did I discover how he knew that single insignificant action would push me over the edge, but what I do know is that I have never felt the sense of relief I did afterwards. My stepfather set himself up as a sacrificial goat, a bulls-eye target for me to aim every last bit of my cropped-up anger and pain towards.

I called into school ill for a full week afterwards, lacking the physical strength to participate. That night drained me, both emotionally, and physically, but my depression, which had been building up over the course of 5 long years, vanished.

We still fight, I still curse at him every so often, but looking back on things, it appears he might have been the single person to prevent a teenage Obsidian from doing a twisted impression of a christmas ball dangling from a tree.

The nicest thing someone has ever done for me? Saved my life, and very much improved it by doing so.

Warning: Huge wall of text incom... Oh. Never mind.

Sorry for length, girth, color and texture. I didn't know it's not supposed to look like that.
(Obsidian, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 14:33, 3 replies)

Travellin' tales
Last year I went on one of those cheap-o sailing trips from Newcastle to Norway. I was rather looking forward to it, since I am a huge fan of Norway and have always wanted to see the fjords. However, just before we got to bed on the first night we were told by the captain that the sea might be "a bit rough".

By that, what he meant was a force 11 storm in the North Sea. If you remember the oil rig fire from November last year, we were about 40 miles south of it. So anyway, we were thrown around like a sack of oranges in a washing machine for around 23 hours before we made it into the fjords and calmer waters. Neither of us had slept in 2 days by that point.

The boat chugs into Bergen port at 1.30am, 90 minutes later than expected and despite me and my friend desperately wanting a good night's sleep, we had to disembark and re-embark first for customs reasons. So we get off the ship and sit in the waiting area at Bergen Port (which is roughly the size of a bus stop). As we're sitting there avoiding a Scandinavian breeze coming in through the doors, I notice the following on my ticket:

"On some crossings, passengers may be asked to disembark again at 7am the following morning."

Now since we'd not slept in 2 days and spent 20 hours in a huge storm on an old boat...well, there were many things I would rather do than be woken up at 6am. This includes being diagnosed with testicular cancer.

Anyway, we decide to talk to the customs officer on the boat once we get back on. I don't know if this is the same all over Norway but in Bergen their police and customs officers were all clad in leather. I defy you to talk to one without humming the village people in your head. So, we get back on the boat and find this very tall leather clad man with a goatee. The following conversation took place.

Me: Hello there. I've been looking at our ticket and it says that sometimes you ask people to disembark the boat again at 6am. Will that happen now? Please can we not? I'm awfully tired and I can currently see three of you.

[The man looks at me puzzled. I'm not sure if he understands me. I hand him my ticket and he studies it with a very serious face.]

Man: You actually read all this shit?

Me: Well...yes?

[He shakes my hand]

Man: Congratulations. We've had nearly 400,000 people come through here this year and you're the first one to have ever read the ticket. We won't be waking you up - I want a lie in.

Ok, so he was only doing his job but if you're sleep deprived enough, the assurance of a good night's sleep is as good as finding batter in your chips from the chippy.
(GONEism, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 14:32, 2 replies)

Hitchhiking, Michael Praed. Boobage. Sandwich.
As a teen in the early 90s, I liked to follow bands around the country, but never had money for train fares, so I chose to hitch hike. I was always getting picked up by lorry drivers who were very polite and gentlemanly and just seemed to appreciate the conversation and the opportunity to brag about their Scania trucks and the places they'd been in them.

Other kindly souls who picked me up included; a bloke in advertising, whom I assumed would be an utterly obnoxious twunt, but was actually quite nice; a very butch lesbian whose militant attitude towards the world terrified me, but kind enough to invite me over to her house for a bong before setting me on my way into Brighton city centre; and an Indian guy with leopard print seat covers who never spoke to me throughout the whole journey, which was somewhat unnerving.

The only cockwomble I ever did get picked up by was a bloke who was coming back from the Donnington festival. He looked like Michale Praed in the 80s tv series Robin Hood. I'd just been to visit friends in Nottingham and was only 17 at the time. On hearing that he'd been to a music festival, I assumed he'd be a cool bloke, happy to waffle on about music with me, even though hair metal was not my thing.

And waffle we did, up until a point. I racked my brains for something to say, just to fill the silence, when my ponderings were suddenly interrupted by the question:
'do you get offended easily?'
Me, curious: 'not really. Why?'
Hair Metal Twunt: 'Do you mind if I say something? It's been on my mind the whole journey.'
Me, bemused: 'um....go ahead, yeah'
Him: 'Your tits are fucking massive'.

Cue a little nervous laughter from me, followed by awkward, prolonged silence, fear of any physical contact from him, much folding of arms and attempts to squish down my puppies for the rest of the journey down the M1.

He dropped me off in London, asking, 'would you like to come in for a sandwich?'.
I replied with a rather stilted, 'no, but thank you for the lift' and went on my way.

I never hitchhiked again after that, as I realised that it was scary enough being freaked out by a mere inappropriate comment, let alone whatever else could happen, but I would like to thank all the other drivers who were kind enough to pick up a 17 year old girl and not rape/rob/maim/kill her or make her feel uncomfortable in any way.
( gypsy turnips, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 14:12, 18 replies)

bearpookie's hitchhiking question reminded me of this...
I live in a rural area, so actually we see a fair few hitchhikers cos all the towns are miles from each other. However our little corner of the South West is stoner-mecca and most of the hitchers are pissed, shambling wierdos and generally the kind of people that you wouldn't want to sit in a confined space with. I had just passed my driving test (at 18 years old) and my mum had been telling me that I should never, under any circumstances pick up hitchers, could be dangerous, blah blah and I agreed.

However one rainy afternoon Mum was driving between the villages and saw a lone figure, a girl in baggy jeans and a hoody and a rucksack, trudging along, head down, with her thumb out. Before she knew what she was doing, Mum had stopped the car. The girl apparently took a few moments to realise that the car pulling up had actually stopped for her, and when they found out Mum was going to within half a mile of where the girl needed to be (a good 5 miles away) she gladly accepted a lift. Turns out the girl was at college and had just had a run of bad luck that day, culminating in missing several buses and having no means to call anyone for a lift. She had steeled herself to walk home, and was only half-heartedly gesturing for a lift, because she really didn't imagine anyone would stop. The rest of the journey was small talk about families, the weather, the usual British things. They didnt exchange numbers or money, it was just a random, one-off act of kindness on my mum's part.

Mum has never picked anyone up before or since, and says she can't remember making a concious decision to stop, just remembers pulling up. She thinks that it was because this girl was around the same age as me and my sister, and had obviously not prepared herself clothes-wise for the walk. Mum just had a gut maternal instinct that she would want someone to show that kindness if either of HER daughters found themselves having to walk 5 miles in the pouring rain.
(freakybumblebee, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:56, Reply)

I was standing outside
a tube station watching the world go by, waiting for my friends to arrive when this handsome chap walks up to me and hands me a bunch of flowers and says "Here you are, you look in need of cheering, these should cheer you up". Then he just walked off, didn't look back or anything.

It was so lovely.

Thing is, I was on my way to a cross dressing fancy dress party. So I think he may have thought I was a woman.
( Bazongaloid, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:56, 9 replies)

Not me, but for someone
At the last mini B3ta bash I made it to (where I met some great people who I still love dearly despite few and far between mails), you had to wear a carnation.

It was late when I remembered I had to get one, so I bought a full bunch.

I removed the one I needed and I thought that there's no way I can bin these flowers, so what to do...

I saw a pretty, yet not self righteous looking, girl (I was in Kensington) and gave her the bunch of flowers (less the one I needed) and said: "Here you are, you look in need of cheering, these should cheer you up"

And walked away - didn't ask for her number, didn't look back or anything.

She looked surprised and the smile on her face was priceless :)
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:53, 5 replies)

My mate A
A is 16 and gets dumped by his girlfriend B at the start of her birthday party, by the end of said party he is drunk and teary.

B's older (and much tastier) sister sees him, takes him aside and gives him the supportive talk of 'she isn't worth it' and 'fish in the sea' etc and as his eyes well up she hugs him to her ample chest.

As he watched a tear fall from the bridge of his nose to her bosom she reaches down, takes his 'old fella' out and gives him the blow job of his life which cheered him up no end.

Try as I might, I can not think of a nicer thing.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:51, 6 replies)

MY B.R.I BLUNDER
I was 18 and on a bus to Bradford Royal Infirmary having drunkenly had my finger trapped in a taxi door the previous evening. It was very swollen and a shocking shade of purple.

The bus journey was pretty shite. I was feeling crabby anyway and to top it off there were a load of heroin addicts on the top deck with me and they we're being fairly loud and annoying.

Eventually I got to the B.R.I. and alighted from the bus. As the bus drove away I went to pull up the shoulder strap of my handbag and my heart felt like it was in my throat as I realized that my bag was still on the bus!

To make matters worse I had two weeks wages in there (it was pay packets back then), my mobile phone, my Visa card and my house keys.

I ran frantically after the bus but it was pretty hopeless. I stopped and started to cry and then I saw an ambulance coming out of the hospital. I don’t know what possesed me to but I flagged it down and told the driver what had happened. He told me to jump in the front and then followed the bus. I think he was driving some elderly patients home in the back and they seemed quite chuffed to be in the midst of such drama.

We drove 5 minutes to the terminal in Allerton and I jumped out when the bus pulled in. I explained (or gabbled) the situation to the driver and ran up the bus stairwell two at a time, reaching the seat I was sitting at and……MY BAG WAS THERE!!!! Complete with all of my belongings.

I was over the moon! I got off of the bus and went to thank the ambulance driver but he had driven away.

Gutted!

So a big Thank You to that kind hearted driver.

X
( DUMBLONDE is a rubber lover girl, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:49, Reply)

Honesty
A & R bloke.

'DrTugnut mate - I am sorry to tell you this but you can not sing, your band can not play and you look like you are homeless.'

He was right - we thought we were avant garde!

Shame he never went to see the fucking Kaiser Chiefs though.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:42, Reply)

Headwrecking
I told this story in the "Kids" QoTW, but it can take repetition.

A couple of years ago, I was teaching at a summer school run by my then university. It was designed for kids who wouldn't normally stay in school beyond 16, let alone think about a degree, and was supposed to get them considering higher education.

As some of you know, I'm a bioethicist in real life, and I was running a couple of sessions on medial ethics. The first few minutes of this involved me explaining just what the term "medical ethics" means and how it relates to philosophy more generally.

Most of the kids, needless to say, don't have much of a clue about what philosophy is. With this in mind, I try to tell them a little bit about that and to explain why it's interesting and important.

Now: if you want to explain some basic problems of metaphysics or epistemology, you can go straight for the Descartes jugular, or you can use the Matrix analogy. That's a much better option, and requires asking how we know - if we know at all - that we aren't brains in vats tied to a computer in an otherwise empty universe? And if we can't even be sure that we're not, how the hell can we be sure of anything else about the world?

I tried that out with them as a warm-up to the main show.

The following evening, the last of the summer school, there was a dinner for the kids. One of the more talkative ones came up to me.
"I'd like to make a complaint," he beamed.
"Oh, yes?"
"Yes. I couldn't sleep last night, and it's your fault."
"Ummmm... go on..."
"I was wondering whether I was actually dreaming all this, and the more I thought about it, the more confused I became. And I couldn't sleep in the end."

GOTCHA!

Genuinely, that is one of the nicest things I've ever heard.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:42, 6 replies)

Mrs Sexmonkey
Will occasionally suck on my pecker, which is nice.

Especially considering the fact that it's covered in scar tissue and little black hairs. In fact, it vaguely resembles a meat-stick that's been rolled around on the floor of a barber shop.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:40, 11 replies)

My mum
Used to work near Queens Park in the South Side of Glasgow. For those of you who don't know it...it's a big green park in the south side of Glasgow.

Anyway I used to work near by so would met her every so often for lunch. We would often grab a bite to eat and then walk through the park. It was on one of these jaunts we stumbled across a couple of homeless chaps. They looked in a pretty bad state, tins of Tennents super in their hands and one tooth to share between them. As we walked past them they asked for change/fags/shoes. I gave them a couple of fags, my mum some change and nobody gave them shoes. This course of events continued throughout the year, from time to time we would see them in the park, drinking and laughing away and we would always stay to have a wee word with them and ask how they were. They were actually lovely guys just down on their luck after drink/drugs had fucked everything up for them. They'd got themselves clean but couldn't find work due to lack of an address/old smack habit.

So December rolled round and we started to see less and less of them. I was getting a bit worried because you could guarantee they would be in the same spot all the time. We started to wonder if they had moved on to pastures new or fallen back in to their old ways or even gone to the big homeless hostel in the sky. We started to forget about them and put it to the back of our minds until we saw them sometime around January. The younger one, must have been about 21 or so looked in a really bad way. Not even white or pale but just...wrong. My mum was seriously concerned (she has two sons and is slightly over protective of them) and was trying to get out of him what was wrong but he wouldn't say.

Anyway she eventually convinced him that he needed to see a doctor or go to hospital as coughing up big black things every 5 minutes is never good. He eventually relented to her nagging so she agreed to drive him there.

It turned out the guy (who incidentally was 21) had contracted pneumonia really badly over the winter. Couple that with a fucked up immune system due to intravenous drug usage the guy was knackered. The doctors informed her that he was unlikely to last more than 24 hours and they could make him as comfortable as possible but that was all. She agreed to stay for a few hours with him.


She managed to find out from his mate a bit about his back ground and if he had any family. Turned out his mum had chucked him out when he was 13 for using drugs and he had been homeless ever since. The reason they had been away for a few weeks was because they had been looking all over Glasgow for her so they could try and reconcile their differences. They eventually gave up because the young one had gotten seriously ill and were making their way back to where felt familiar, the park.

Me mum, bless her, couldn't face the idea of this young guy spending a night alone so she sat with him the whole night. Throughout the whole time she was there the only thing the guy asked for was a hug because he hadn't had one since he was a kid. My mum obliged.

The young guy passed away 10 minutes later.

This happened on the night of mum and dads 25th wedding anniversary for which they had a huge party planned back at their house. She could have been at the party sipping champers and getting presents but she decided to give up that night, one which she had been looking forward to for ages, to look after a young stranger.
(Holy Cremola Foam Batman will be back on, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:38, 25 replies)

I honestly can't remember anyone
having done something that would qualify as the nicest thingg ever - maybe my dad when he bought me a new better phone after I had mine stolen by some chavs ON MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY.

I can easily remember the nicest thing I have ever done. It was this summer, and I was looking for a birthday present for my better half. Walking through the city centre, I came across a man with 2 little kittehs (and I mean little, like 3 weeks old). He was going to give them to a home as he couldn't care for them, but he wanted to see if other people would take them first. She was very happy when I rang the doorbell (to my own flat), and pulled a kitteh from behind my back (like some kind of magic trick).
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:33, 1 reply)

yay for venezuelans
Apologies for backstory but it helps set the scene a bit.

I was heading home to the UK from Venezuela after 9 months backpacking around Latin America - arriving in Caracas from Panama City I had an overnight stay before catching a flight to London the following evening. I needed to find a hotel near to the airport, but with only $30 on me I first needed to get to a cash machine. There were three at the airport. None of them accepted my card.

Feck.

It was getting late by this point and the "cabbie" who picked me up gave assurances that the hotel would accept my card. I was too tired to argue so we set off. On arriving at the hotel I had a nervous wait whilst my card took an age to be accepted by the swipe machine before it eventually went through. Down to $20 after paying the cab fare I hit the sack.

The following morning I walked into town to get some money. I tried some more banks but with no success. My flight didn't leave until 11pm, I was hungry, and there was also a worrying rumour that I would have to pay a local "departure" tax, in cash, at the check-in desk.

After haggling with a cabbie I got back to the airport in the afternoon and had a 6 hour wait for my flight in possibly one of the most boring airports in the world. I moped about for hours, trying to kill time without spending money - still nervous about the possibility of having to pay some kind of additional charge.

At around 9.30 a message flashed up on the departure board. My flight was delayed in Bogota and we wouldn't be leaving until 1am. The prospect of another 2 hours sitting around was too much to bear so I decided to go and check in anyway and see if I could get through to the departure lounge. This was when the fun really started.

On reaching the check-in desk the women examining my ticket announced that it did not include the airport tax.

"How much is that?" I asked

"$45" was the reply.

Feck. No wonder it was so cheap. All I had was $8 in cash, and a Visa card that had seen me through Central America, but was apparently not good enough for the Venezuelan banking system. I couldn't pay the fee.

I explained my predicament to the woman and she told me to check in anyway whilst they tried to come up with a solution. As I handed my bags in, the BA guy informed me that the airline would not accept responsibility for me and that I would have to come up with the cash, unless he could sweet talk customs on my behalf. He told me to sit tight whilst he went off to speak to them.

It was a good job that the flight was delayed, because he was gone for over 2 hours leaving me by check-in shitting myself and nearly in tears. I watched the last passenger head through to departure and still no sign of the BA guy.

It was around this time that a baggage handler began to take an unhealthy interest in my new Casio watch.

"How much for the watch?" he asked, fully aware of my predicament and consequent lack of bargaining power.

"No f*cking way are you getting the watch, Pedro" I thought to myself; "Maybe if things get REALLY desperate you can have my discman, but definitely not the watch".

Fortunately it didn't come to that. In a meticulously planned operation incorporating a combination of British Airways staff, customs officials, a security guard and the girl at the tax desk I was snuck through to departures when the departures supervisor went home. I got away without paying the $45 and made my flight. I was ecstatic and so grateful to the staff for bailing me out; it was incredibly kind of them and I couldn't imagine somebody doing the same at, say, Heathrow.

Venezuelans. Seriously cool people.
(mcgriffto, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:18, Reply)

Do people still hitchhike?
When I was a teenager/early 20s, I used to do it all the time; when I got a car I always picked hitchers up. I've just realised, I haven't seen anyone hitching for years. It is a sign of faith in others to invite some total stranger into your car. I suppose that goes the other way too, after all, the driver could be a psycho!
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Fri 3 Oct 2008, 13:07, 6 replies)

Not me but my whole family
My Dad's boss is possibly the nicest man on the face of the earth.

About 25 years ago Dad's dad died on a Sunday morning in his house in the arse-end of nowhere in Ireland. In those days there were no cash-points and my parents didn't have a cheque book so Dad had no idea how he was going to get to Ireland that day. Cue Dad's boss stumping up the cash, driving him to the airport and then checking that my Aunts and Uncles also had enough ready cash to make the trip. He then later denied that the money was a loan and refused to accept the money back.

His niceness continued unabated when he sent his employees a flipping enormous turkey every year at Christmas without fail. It would take us days to eat the thing but it knocked a bit off the cost of Christmas every year.

Then the man out-did himself. When Dad was diagnosed with cancer the first time, he paid Dad full wages for the whole six months he was off work. Then when the cancer came back and it was terminal, he paid Dad his full wages up until the day he died. This meant on both occassions that Mum could stay at home with Dad without worrying about money. And if this wasn't enough, after Dad died he sent my Mum a very large and very generous cheque to cover the cost of the funeral "in recognition" of all Dad's years of working for him.

The relief of not having to worry about money in the last few weeks was the best thing my parents could have had and so Dad's boss is the family hero. He made everything just that little less stressful at a time when you just don't need any pressure.

I might go and have a bit of a cry now.
(Innogen, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 12:51, 5 replies)

My fiancée Jonny’s parents gave me their car…..
After finally passing my driving test at the age of 26 after 8 attempts!!! (see user name).

It’s a white Renault Clio in mint condition and I have named her Matilda. Jonny’s parent’s are quite elderly and his father has decided to give up driving so instead of selling his immaculate car he has so kindly GIVEN it to me! It only has 7000 miles on the clock even though it’s 9 years old!

I didn’t have the easiest of times growing up, I won’t go into details but this feels like a reward for getting through the bad times with my head held high. I’m so lucky and feel really privileged.

We live with Jonny’s parents and they are the most loving and giving people that you could ever meet. They are so laid back and easy going. When we move out next year we have decided we’re going to buy a house really close by so that we can re-pay their kindness and take good care of them when they need it.
( DUMBLONDE is a rubber lover girl, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 12:46, Reply)

White van man saved my wedding
The morning of my wedding (10 years back now... yoinks) I was at my Best Man's house. I'd woken up with only a tiny hangover, which was long gone by 10am, and everything was going with military precision: calls back and forth between the two wedding camps to check everything was ok, deliveries were being delivered on time etc etc.

So, comes the time and we pile into my mates car to set off and get to the church in plenty of time.

We get to the slip road of the A3, and have to stop. Some stupid fcking white van driving cnut is REVERSING down the slip road, right in front of us. We're looking on open mouthed at this bloody idiot and making every single assumption about white van man you possibly can.

He reverses up till he's parallel with us and winds his window down. Just before my mate gives him an earful about how reversing down sliproads is an unbelievably stupid-prick thing to do, he says:

"Saw you in all the wedding gear in me wing mirror mate. You ain't getting to a wedding this way, there's a 10 mile tailback and it's not moving at all. Best go round the houses if I were you."

Pause.

All of us (meekly) "umm.... thanks mate, you're brilliant..."

So we go round the houses and got to the church on time, praising white van man all the way. Some of our guests didn't have an angelic van driver to set them right, and missed the entire service, stuck for more than 3 hours in the traffic jam. I still shudder to think how close I came to missing my own wedding.
(vertigo, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 12:45, Reply)

Train tickets
I was once on the train coming back from Warrington, where I'd been visiting my girlfriend, when a ticket inspector came by.

It was then that I realised that I only had a day return, that I'd bought the day before, and no money. Shit.

"I'll have to get off here won't I?"
"You will", said the ticket inspector. 70 miles from home.

Then a nice Asian guy in his 20s, sat in the seat next to me, got his wallet out and paid for my ticket.

"I'm sure you'd have done the same for me." he said.

Whoever you are, thank you!
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 12:41, 6 replies)

Mistaken niceness
As a scummy student, I spent a day travelling from Manchester to Essex to go to an old school friends birthday house-party.

As I was going back the next day, and, as I said, a scummy student, I figured that I'd travel light.

Travelling light basically involved a pair of pants in one coat pocket and a toothbrush in the other and carrying a crate of beer. Anything else could wait until I got back.

He lived about a 15 minute walk from the station, but I knew a short cut through the woods.

Unfortunately, as I'd arrive after dark, I drifted off the well trodden path and got a little lost. And wet. And muddy.

I arrived at the party after wandering around for about 45 minutes, looking rather the worse for it. With a now open crate of lager under one arm and third of the three cans I had opened almost empty in one hand and in a pretty foul mood.

After a few drinks, I had cheered up,

After a few more, I was very happy.

A few more and with all the beds full, the last stragglers of us were sat around a fire deciding it would be a good idea to go through the night rather than try to force ourselves into already over crowded beds or floors.

We made it through the night and at about 10am, I staggered off back to the station clutching a three quarter full bottle of wine.

By the time I'd got to London Euston for my connection back up North, this was half a bottle of wine.

It was at this point I realised I didn't have my wallet. Luckily my train ticket was tucked in my jeans pocket, but I was still desperate to find out if I'd left the wallet at the house.

I searched my pockets desperately for change for the telephone, but I had none. All I had was a half pack of Marlboro Lights.

I had an hour for my train, no money, no food, nothing to read.

I was dishevelled, drunk, dirty, stinking, muddy

Defeated, I leant against a pillar outside the station and slid to the floor. I went to get a cigarette and realised I didn't even have a light.

So I am sat there, on the floor, unlit cigarette in hand, a half bottle of wine next to me.

I looked up, as a well dressed woman walked past smoking.

I opened my mouth to ask her for a light and before I'd even said 'excuse me...' she looked down, and said 'i am sorry, I don't give money to the homeless because they will spend it on drugs or alcohol, but I have a banana here if you are hungry'.

And I was.

So I took it.

The shame.

And I never even used the clean pants or toothbrush either.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 12:36, 1 reply)

Ruth
When I was but a 4 year old beam of Light, I stood almost a foot taller than my classmates. I've always been a rangy, gangling streak of piss blessed with the kind of co-ordination one would expect to see from a Ballerina with shattered kneecaps.

And kids, of course, can be cruel. Lets be perfectly honest here; they are. So whilst looking down on my peers like some sort of snot-bubbling giant meant that I spent my schoolyears refreshingly free of bullying in the physical sense, aforementioned lack of co-ordination meant that the little fuckers could tease me no end and then run like fuck. Frankly, I was more likely to trip over my own feet than to catch them and what's more, everyone knew it.

So, naturally, I started to keep my own company as much as possible because I started to associate "Other people" with "Humiliation".

That I'm not a complete and utter social retard at this stage in my life is, I like to think, mainly due to a girl called Ruth who was in the year below me.

~wibbly wobbly timey wimey effect~

I was 6 and was in a corner of the playground doing my utmost not to cry. Our teacher had, in the previous lesson, asked us to fold our arms and wait for the books to be handed out. I was *that* lacking in grace that I couldn't actually fold my arms. Instead I sort of looked like I was hugging myself. And, as per usual, some of my wittier classmates were taking the proverbial, opining that my inability to fold my arms almost certainly meant I smelled of poo. And possibly wee.

The teacher...gave a little laugh, a look at me that said "For God's sake you great buffoon, just fold your arms properly", and began the lesson. She wasn't going to come to my rescue, and I was too busy thinking about how I'd like to start hitting my tormentors to concentrate on copying some classmates in that ancient art of arm folding.

So, having failed in that most rudimentary of tasks, I boiled and fumed my way through the lesson. When the playtime bell went, out I went and found a little corner of the playground to sit and have a good cry (what? I was 6 ffs...).

It was then that Ruth approached. Now I'm sure you all remember primary school; contact between year groups basically never happened. To a kids mind, the year below were always little babies and the year above were to be looked at with a mixture of fear and awe. More than a year either way, and the kids may have well been aliens. So Ruth, being in the year below, was doing something rather daring. Particularly as, by then, I'd also acquired a reputation as a dumb, clumsy oaf who would lash out at anyone near him for seemingly no reason.

"Hello. You're Light aren't you? Why are you crying?"

'Go away.'

"Why? I'm not doing anything wrong. So why are you crying? Has someone been nasty to you?"

This was new territory for me; someone I didn't know was speaking to me and something was different about the tone of voice. There wasn't any fear but neither was there any malice.

I dealt with my resultant confusion in the standard way of the 6 year old; I cried even harder and tried to turn my face away so that this little baby wouldn't see me wailing.

"Aw, don't cry."

'...cn fld m'arms...'

"You can't fold your arms? Is that what you're crying about?"

'..'s....'

"tch, don't be so silly. Here; stand up."

So up I stood.

"Right, now give me your arms, and..."

And she taught me to fold my arms, smiling the whole time and seemingly enjoying the teaching as much as I appreciated being taught.

"There you are. So will they stop teasing you now? Oh, there's the bell. Bye!"

Still a little bit stunned, I made my way to the line of my classmates to be led back into class. Come the next lesson, we were once again asked to fold our arms and wait for books to be handed out. This time, the little shits didn't even wait before teasing.

I genuinely think that few moments in my life since then have compared with the smug satisfaction of folding my arms properly and their teasing not just petering out, but actually being turned back on them (hey, kids will take the piss out of anyone who makes themselves a target). Had I known the phrase "In your fucking FACE cocktards!!" then it would doubtless have made an appearence then.

As is, I learned how to fold my arms. I also learned that people aren't solely there to make you feel miserable. Gradually I learned the difference between saying teasing things out of malice, and saying them out of affection (or even fear; I'd spent my first school year kicking the shit out of whomever was slow enough for me to catch). Basically, I think Ruth socialised me.

She went to a different middle school, so I never saw her from age 9. And writing this has made me well up like a girl watching Sex in the City, so I think it's safe to say that a very simple act of kindness has had a permanent positive effect on me.

So if your name is Ruth and you were in Amberley First School in the 80s, from the very bottom of my heart; thank you.





(Length? I apologise for nothing!)
(Light, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 12:36, 1 reply)

Not man flu
Yeah, I've had man flu. It was horrific. I think I nearly died at one point.

But this was worse, so much worse. This was proper flu; straight up, no nonsense, fever fuelled flu.

I really did nearly die.*

It kicked in one Saturday while I was working in a bookshop. I felt a bit grotty when I woke up that morning, but I was a brave little soldier and dragged myself into work anyway. That's the kind of man I am.

Around mid morning I started shivering like a smack head in the grips of withdrawal, and the customers began eyeing me suspiciously.

By lunch time I was scanning the shop for somewhere to curl up and die, and the rest of the already heavily depleted staff were telling me to go home.

Mid afternoon and even the customers were telling me to go home. In my head I was already curled up on my sofa, having left my useless carcass in the shop.

All the while the gargoyle who called herself my boss was telling me that going home would be a big mistake and that I'd have no job to come back to if I did. She couldn't sack me for being ill, I knew that much, but I wasn't the best employee and she was just looking for an excuse; like the trigger happy copper who follows a 'suspicious' man into the underground, her gun could go off any minute.

That is until a kindly customer, who'd told me I should go home that morning, passed by and saw me pretending to distribute new books about the shop, and came in demanding to know why I hadn't left yet. I explained that the Wicked Witch had threatened me with the Spanish if I did, so I was just going to struggle on through (see, brave little soldier).

"I don't fucking think so." she spat, before marching up to the Evil Dwarf and, in front of a large queue of people, informed her that I would be leaving for the day, that I would be back when I'm well, and that if I suffered even so much as a misplaced comment then she, the quite high ranking legal somethingorother that she was, would represent me for nothing when I took them to court. By this point I was just floating around above them, watching the whole scene with a dispassionate detachment as the fever took hold in my head, and was more than happy to let her make such a scene on my behalf.

She then told me to gather my things, led me by the hand to her car and drove me home, ranting all the way about her hatred of power hungry losers like my boss. I assumed there was some history there, but I didn't dare interrupt her long enough to ask.

I think I almost called her mummy when I thanked her as I stumbled out of her car at my house. She gave me her card insisting I called her if my boss so much as looked at me funny when I went back to work. I didn't last much longer in that job, mostly because the £9k a year they paid me wasn't enough to pay the rent, but also because the dried up, mop haired old cunt (I don't still hold a grudge, these are just the terms we used to refer to her at the time) made sure I couldn't enjoy my time there.

So thank you mummy crazy lawyer lady, I managed to drag that illness out for days longer than I should have and didn't even have to produce a doctors note when I went back, or anything.




*Ok, I still didn't really, but, you know, it was horrible.
( Moey, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 12:16, 2 replies)

Not nice, but good, I think
I have written here, and other places, very fondly of a dog called Patch.

This is the story of his death.

The Jugular Family is primarily ruled by Ma Jugular, she's hard, mostly fair, but most of all, an extremely pragmatic woman. What she lacks in education and empathy, she more than makes up for in her ability to cut through bullshit and get to the heart of the matter.

Except when it came to Patch.

A couple of years ago, Ma Jugular called me home to say that Patch was dying (prostate cancer). She informed me that she had spent over a grand on treatment (without telling Pa Jugular) but it wasn't working. Hard cash and dishonesty is not like my mum at all.

I went home, a glorious April morning, we had a BBQ, played with Patchie all day and generally had a ripping time.

In the morning, I was awoken by Ma Jugular, in tears, saying that there was blood all over the house where Patch had done his midnight stroll, unaware that he was bleeding.

We cleaned it up and Ma Jugular went next door to her friend to calm down.

Ma and Pa Jugular had been putting this decision off, not unusual for my dad, but very unusual for my very practical mother. They were desperate for this not to happen.

I sat with Patchie in the living room and asked him if it was time for him to die.

He said yes

As the rest of the family got up, I took Patch for his final walk.

To alleviate their guilt, and to ensure that, Patch, an integral member of our family was no longer in pain, I rang the vets and I made the decision.

The whole family went, Ma and Pa couldn't stay, they sat in the car crying their eyes out.

I went into the room with Patch and my brother. I held him with one arm and stroked Patch with the other.

As the injection went in, Patch looked at me with a mix of love, confusion and gratitude. And I knew I would have to live with the guilt of making this decision, but at least no-one else in my family would.

I knew then as much as I know now that it was the right decision to make. So, not nice, but good.
(Jugular, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 12:08, 8 replies)

eh, you've seen my posts about children
about how we should probably send them all on parentless holidays to Portugal and the like. Well, maybe I've occasionally been a little harsh.

My boyfriend has a nine-year-old daughter. One (of the very few) hot days over the summer she showed me how to burn things into wood using a magnifying glass. Now, in my 32 years on this earth I'd never done this before, so I really enjoyed being an old dog getting shown new tricks by a child.

Having shown me the basic procedure (angle magnifying glass; burn) she proceeded to scorch my name into a small piece of wood. She then burnt a heart shape on the other side, carefully put a hole through one end, and got her dad to glue a straw flower on it (she's not allowed to use superglue, and quite frankly her father should be banned from it as well).

She then presented me with my very own, personalised keyring. I was so proud and impressed that I got all choked up and couldn't speak for about 5 minutes, and that's damn unusual. Then, in typical doting fashion, I spent the next week making all my friends examine my very cool new keyring.

Ten years ago, if anyone told me I'd be with somebody who had a child, I'd have laughed. To a younger me it was always a dealbreaker. I could never understand why a person would want to be even peripherally involved with someone else's kid. Now, I can't think of anything nicer. My bloke is one of the best fathers I've seen. I'm delighted that he's in my life, and just as delighted that his daughter is in it too.

[Normal cynicism will be resumed shortly.]
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 12:08, 23 replies)

My brother and I...
...took my niece out for a walk a couple of weekends ago.

She was walking along, holding my hand with one hand and drinking her orange with the other.

I said to her 'Is the juice nice?'

She took it out of her mouth and said 'joos...nice'

And then she pointed at me and said 'You...nice'

And my cold, cold heart still hasn't frozen back up since it melted.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 11:53, 1 reply)

Taking me out of a bad place
A while back now I was involved in a pretty bad crowd. This one really old guy (who I really don’t want to talk about, he was a right so and so) was the one who really got me into it and while I thought I was really happy with what I now see was a cult, I was pretty twisted.
It took my own son to come and snap me out of it, I’m ashamed to say that I tried to hurt him and refused to believe what he was telling me. However it turns out there is still good in me so I threw the old cunt down a hole. So him convincing me that I could change was the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me. Fucked my suit up good and proper though.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Fri 3 Oct 2008, 11:52, 8 replies)