Off topoic but QOTW related
When I look at the past QOTW page there doesn`t seem to be alot to cover 5 or so years of QOTW is there another part of b3ta with the full lot.
Now thats over I best tell you my sibling story When me and my two sisters and 1 brother were little we used to build caves and dens out of all the bedclothes we could find it used to be lots of fun until we used a very expensive antique table ass a frame then it being broken!
Oh the trouble we got into!
(Nahla, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 12:13, 10 replies)

Capsicum Nuclear Option
When I was a kid, I blew cayenne pepper into my sister’s eyes and said it was an 'accident' to my parents. Mind you she had the last laugh when she dribbled Dave’s Insanity sauce into my eyes when I was sleeping. When I woke up, without realising what it was, I smeared it into both of my eyes. This was also an 'accident'.

We now hold an uneasy chilli armistice.

and we both have bad eyes
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 11:39, 8 replies)

Killer Cutlery
Thinking back now I'm not sure how I didnt actually kill my sister with this one.

When I was eight or nine, I went through a phase of aquiring the cutlery from the kitchen draw, sauntering out to the garden, and then sticking the cutlery randomly in my dads lovely, plush, immaculate lawn.

I thought the silver knives, forks, and spoons looked like space age trees - an ideal landscape to launch another rebel attack on that evil cunt Darth Vader.

So, deep in some meaningful soliloquy involving my battle scarred R2D2, my sister comes careering into the garden doing some God-awful girly play skipping thing.

And she trips over the start of my space forest and lands flat on her face.

Now, thinking back, I should've realized that setting up an effective and very deadly death trap that the Vietcong would've been proud of in the garden was not a good idea.

And then seeing my big sis trip and fall into said deathtrap but somehow miraculously miss impaling herself on a single upturned knife, fork, or spoon; instead splaying like a squashed mosquito amoungst the cutlery...

Well, I should've been an incredibly relieved boy. But no, I just laughed.

I actually like my sis now (even though she has joined the dark side and become a sodding teacher).
( SpankyHanky, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 11:16, Reply)

Just a few examples from a catalogue of millions.....

Siblings? Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus Jumping Christ.
Let me introduce you to...... my brother.


Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen....


First, please let me direct you to a previous post: b3ta.com/questions/mycollection/post69836


Nobody knows but Jee-sus...


He once came up with a brilliant idea. To find out how long he could keep an ice-cube on his arsehole. The Holy Grail, Olympic Gold and undisputed Heavyweight Champion of the World Title rolled in to one would be his reward if he kept it there till it melted.

So off he trots into the garden, handful of frozen water cubes in hand. Pulls his pants and trousers down, lies on his back, spreads his legs, and ‘lays down the challenge’.

Fifteen seconds later he’s running round the garden screaming, with tears in his eyes.

“Man that knackered!” he sobs.

“Hmmm,” I reply.

“What a stupid fucking idea,” he continues.

“Hmmm” I repeat.

“Why did you let me do it?” He implores.

“Because you’re a cunt”.


Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen....


Flashback to early/mid 90’s. A new cosmetic personal hygiene product has been released in the UK, and has taken the market by storm. Simplistic in design, yet efficient in application, and economic in price, these genius inventions help remove blackheads from your nose. By simply applying a slightly adhesive square of paper, then peeling it off, you can remove whatever nastiness might have been clogging up your nasal pores.

Forget years of scientific research, never mind a R&D budget of millions, put all thoughts of the thousands strong workforce that made this thing a possibility out of your mind. My brother decides to create his own version with some super glue and the paper instructions from a kinder egg toy.

I wasn’t there to actually witness the moment of truth. I didn’t see him for two weeks afterwards. But even after all that time, he was still walking around with two layers of skin missing from half his nose, the other half covered in paper, and the whole sorry mess covered in writing, complete with cartoon diagrams, on how to construct a little wind up plastic car.

He very proudly told me about the sorry events that had led up to him looking this way. I had asked my mum, but she just sighed, shook her head and stared sorrowfully at the floor.


Glory Hallelujah...
(geegee, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 10:48, 4 replies)

Essay!
I am the youngest of 7 (6 blood, 1 step). We mostly get on well as a family, but we’ve all had our own issues with each other –

J – Eldest brother (30). Accountant (Explains the next bit). He started the now irritating tradition of all chipping in money whenever we have any food at his house (which has continued to all houses). This would be fine, if I didn’t have to get bus, train, taxi to his house already. Finished Uni (key fact)

S – Eldest Sister (29). Had some severe issues with money & drugs at one point with her husband, leading to my Dad bailing them out of several real money issues, including having their house repossessed. The problem with this is that he didn’t inform my stepmum of this, and so she refused to speak to them, and said they couldn’t join us for Christmas one year. This was only rescinded when my stepbrother asked what made her so fucking perfect that she could decide to split the family up? Made me laugh like a drain that one! Now the proud parent of a baby boy, and have no problems! Didn’t go to Uni.

E – Second eldest sister (27). Was head girl, went to Oxbridge (hated the place and left) and married a genius fella. Referred to as the white sheep of the family, as the rest of us make her look bad! However, we know that she’s still one of us at heart, when you hear her arguing with people, bringing out wonderfully dark insults! (For example, she once decided to have a mock argument with her fella, to wind my brother up. Her fella had been engaged before, so she shouted at him “Why don’t you pawn this ring, it’d go nicely with the other one?” She could almost be a b3tan!

M – Second eldest brother (25). Ex-alcoholic. At one point, me and him used to fight every day of the week. This all started the year he came back from Uni after dropping out, meaning that I was no longer the only child in the house, something I’d waited 16 years for! Things went downhill from there.

D – Third eldest (23) – Only the second member of the family to finish Uni first time (including parents). A few years ago he was with an older woman. She openly admitted she wanted another child, but not yet (she was 30 and had a son), and ended up getting what she wanted. It must of course be my brothers?! Well, she told him she’s had her tubes tied (lie), that she didn’t know she was ovulating at the time (lies) and that it must be his, because he was the only guy she’d been with for months (lies). 9 months later a little girl arrives, and he feels no emotional connection with her whatsoever. After a while of coming back from the North East to Cheshire once a week, the mother asks what role he wants to play, because she doesn’t want him to only be there once a week. He’s either there completely or not there at all. (This wasn’t an argument, just an honest discussion). He admitted he couldn’t be there forever, they shook hands, and he went on his way. You’d take this to assume that applied to all of us? My parents didn’t, and so they go there about twice a week, look after the child, do the gardening, refer to her as ‘our first grandchild’ and always ask my brother if he’ll change his mind about her?!?!?! However, the point about the child that annoys us kids? My stepmum refused to acknowledge my sister S had a child for the first 3 months, and only held him once for about 10 seconds over the entirety of Christmas, because she was ‘too busy’ with the other one. Stupid bint!

T – Stepbrother (23) – Ex pothead. Great laugh, really nice guy, unfortunately we just don’t get on. It’s not that we argue, we just have absolutely nothing in common, meaning we rarely have anything to talk about. Great regret of mine. Fantastic natural chef, makes me laugh every Christmas him and my stepmum (his mum) arguing over how best to do the turkey. This year he proved her incredibly wrong with an experiment, leading to me and him laughing over it for about an hour, while getting rather drunk! Went to Uni after 4 years.

Last but not least, Me (20) – Used to be referred to as the laziest sod in the family. Didn’t go to Uni, barely went to 6th form. Actually set a record for the lowest registration attendance without getting expelled (13%). Now? Work in a good office, have my own house (rented), often looked upon as a man to ask about things by my friends.

So there you have it, the fun family!

*Initials changed for anonymity, as you’ll probably agree, we’re a fairly memorable family.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 10:48, 3 replies)

I am... The One and Only!
In 1979 (around August) my parents (one a Danish immigrant, the other a wholesome British farm girl) were rutting like a pair of angry hamsters. One can only imagine the sweaty nastiness of it all as my father mounted her and, in a moment of alcohol-induced romance, muttered “oh, shit. I think the condom’s split.”

9 months later, then, and I spout forth in to the world. 3.10am on an April morning in the year of nineteen hundred and eighty. Something about me, or the experience, must have been so geut-wrenchingly terrifying, so awe-inducingly feral, so nauseatingly disgusting, that the first thing my father did was to march right down to the GP (pausing to register my birth and my ridiculous name along the way) and have his tubes tied, thereby negating any opportunity for the pair of them to procreate once more.

So, unlike many of you here, I am an only child. An only child’s lot is not a happy one. Sure, you may say that we don’t have to share things, and that we don’t have to suffer the ignominy of wearing hand-me-downs, and that Christmas time is always a bumper bonanza. But none of this, none of it, makes up for the fact that when something goes wrong during a poorly planned scientific experiment in to the binding qualities between Mummy’s foundation and the corduroy sofa there is no-one else to blame it on. (note for scientists – it is very hard to get liquid foundation out of a corduroy sofa, even if you try to wipe it off with Mummy’s best table cloth.)

Even worse is when you haven’t done something wrong, for example eating the last packet of cheese and onion crisps, and still copping the blame for it because you’re the youngest person in the house, even though your Dad is sitting smugly in the corner chair, with crumbs around his mouth smelling vaguely cheesy and oniony. And no matter how much you protest your innocence and present evidence (such as “but Mummy, look at Daddy’s face!”), you are still branded a glutton and a liar, and sent to your room without being allowed to take He-Man and Battlecat with you.

What I’m getting at is this. Celebrate your siblings. Cradle them in your arms, and rapture in their very existence. Because you will, until the day you die, have someone else to blame it on. :)
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 10:41, 1 reply)

I once punched my older sister when I was bit a tiny child
It gave her a little bit of a bloody nose and she went crying to mum and dad. Turns out they didn't care and actually congratulated me a little as they'd wanted to do it for ages where she was such a little shit. She was not very impressed and realised that being nice to people would make her much mroe popular, she is still nice to this day.

moral.

Violence works.
( SiX and his hat, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 10:27, Reply)

I've stated already...
...that at 36 I'm the last of three brothers, actually becoming the last a couple of months ago - eldest was 32 when he died about 8 years ago, second eldest was 38 when he died in November last year and I'm the youngest. But then I've talked enough about that on here and elsewhere - it's time to get my head back in the game and move on. Check my previous if you have a need for further details.

I used to have a half-brother and half-sister too on my Dad's side of things and whilst the individuals themselves are still breathing, they're effectively disowned as family on account of allowing thier mother to get away with this pretty much unchallenged. And yes they were adults, at least physically, by this time.

They tried to get in touch in November after hearing that my last-brother-to-go was very ill, but I told them to stay away from us. I was more diplomatic than they deserve considering that my brother despised them as much as I do, spineless, witless, mediocre, pug-ugly pair of twats that they are. I'll get along just fine without them and thier petulant double-dealing witch of a mother, whether I have any full-blood siblings left or not.

I've not much to say that's good or funny in this QOTW I admit, but I guess that be teh luck of teh draw. Let me pick the topic and I'll choose something on which I have something more amusing/hearwarming/generally entertaining to contribute.

As an attempt to introduce a lighter note though, I have a couple of fair-bit-older stepbrothers on my mum's side by marriage, and I like them a hell of a lot more. One's an ex-mod and one's a professional darts player - he's on TV and everything. Between them they've got about 12 kids and I can never remember all of thier names.
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Tue 6 Jan 2009, 9:40, Reply)

my sister's an arsehead
but frankly it's none of your business.
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Tue 6 Jan 2009, 2:27, 3 replies)

We used to fight
Now she's under the patio ...
(Biff..., Mon 5 Jan 2009, 18:44, Reply)

"And you can forget about Christmas too"
Ah, time for some bitterness to start the New Year. Actually I wouldn't mind some second opinions on this, because I'm pretty sure I'm not to blame for this one, but I do wonder, sometimes. The way you do.

I've always thought that my older sister got the better end of any deal going. I wouldn't say that I was deprived, exactly, but if there was leeway to be won, she would invariably get it.

Here's a short list of things that have rankled over the years. I'd better keep it short because this is a work keyboard and if I begin pounding it with my fists they might object.

When I was six, I had a plastic sword, complete with plastic sheath. The sword was blue, with a basket hilt and everything. The sheath was bright yellow and most unswordly. Nevertheless, whenever swordplay was required, the princess would get to use the Blue Rapier, and I'd be stuck flailing around with the yellow sheath.

I wanted a Land Rover for my Action Man. My sister wanted a car for her Sindy. Apparently we "didn't need two cars and could share" (actually I think my dad was deeply suspicious of me wanting to play with dolls in the first place, whether they had manly scars and gripping hands or not). Two years later I got my Land Rover anyway. My sister broke the tailgate on it while Sindy and Action Man were out on a date (which I did not sanction I might add)

Speaking of cars, she refused to go back to university because she hated it. "Would it be better if you had a car, darling?" "mm. Yes." When I was at university it was Shanks' Pony all the way. When I got my first job, though, I got my mum's old car because she'd stopped driving altogether, which was nice. Until she decided to sell it six months later and I had to go and buy my own. Ho hum.

Parties, clothes, holidays, you name it, the litany of disparity goes on. Small stuff, mostly, but you notice. You might think, then, that having had her own way all through childhood, now that we're in our mid 30s things might be settling down into a bit of a balance. It's not such a big deal, really, just little things. And I daresay she remembers times when I got the better part of the deal. I'm sure there were some. Mind you my mother does still do all her washing for her, and if the house needs redecorating they'll be there with the paintbrushes while she goes shopping, and so on.

But she *is* my sister, after all. We're on the same side. No need to make a big deal out of things.

So, as the years went by she'd got married, got divorced, found someone else, got settled, decided to remarry, all of that sort of thing. And I'd found someone that I was engaged to, and all was nice and friendly between us all.

Then - bad news. The worst kind: my fiancee's brother from Australia was diagnosed with what looked like it would be a terminal cancer. He announced that he was coming over to visit us while he still could. He was going to have some initial treatment to try to arrest the cancer, then travel. This would be about six months hence, arriving the week before my sister's wedding, and going back a few weeks later. So we hatched a cunning plan that we would bring our wedding forward a few months so that it would be when he could be there to share it.

Well, you're limited in choice for booking registrars and things, but this would put our wedding three weeks after my sister's second wedding.

Not a problem, I thought. That's her remarried, honeymooned and back with a week to spare before we start the parties again.

But apparently this was a problem. "You've been living together for years. Why have you chosen that date to get married?" she asked. I explained, and that was the last anyone saw of her for days. She just buggered off. Bear in mind that my parents would normally see her several times a week, and then she suddenly cut off communication. Rather alarming for them. Eventually a meeting was arranged between her fiance and my father at a neutral pub (oh the drama!).

The gist of the problem was that we'd be taking the spotlight away too soon. "She will", it was claimed "still be in her post-wedding glow, looking through photographs and things. Those two [that's us!] will be detracting from that".

Baffled, I rang her up (I live hundreds of miles away) - of course she wouldn't speak to me. I spoke to her other half, who didn't want to discuss it because - and I quote - "Talking about things just makes them more confusing" (At this point I began to suspect that he wasn't helping matters).

What to do? Tough one. It was important for my girlfriend that her big brother would be there for her wedding. We couldn't ask the Australian Sibling to cancel his flights and rebook. We offered to arrange to move it forward to the week before her wedding, but apparently that was even worse, and if my parents went to my wedding before hers then she would get married in private and not invite anyone at all. After years of pandering to her every whim, this must have seemed like a real kick in the teeth for my poor parents.

I did consider suggesting a joint ceremony, but my own fiancee started making snarling noises at that point so I hastily moved on to plan D, which was to sit tight, do nothing and let things calm down.

And Lo, the Lord moveth in mysterious ways, because it turned out that my sister couldn't get married on the arranged date, because her fiancee was already married to someone else and hadn't bothered to mention it. So that was suddenly all off - and how! - and we were able to press ahead, and she even came to our wedding and we all pretended that none of the previous unpleasantness (only some of which I have itemised in the interests of keeping you awake until the end) had happened.

That was all 5 years ago. My wife and I are still happily married, and we've all agreed between us that it was all stupid and let's all be friends and forget about it.

Except I can't, quite. It was so aggressive and unpleasant and unecessary, it's hard to put it aside completely. Sometimes when I'm sitting with my sister I look at her and remember those phone calls and think "You selfish cow". And I haven't forgotten about the blue plastic sword either.
(richardm, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 18:05, 16 replies)

Stumpy fingers
When I was 18months old and my little brother came in from being born I decided to trim his finger nails with my mom's sewing scissors.

He now has unusally short fingers. Woops
(Dippy, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 17:59, Reply)

A half sister, a whole bitch.
She's five years older than me and she has the perfect life. Naturally, as the deaf little brother, I'm dwarfed in her shadows as the college boy who drinks himself silly and has sex with men 20 years older...

But anyhoo, I do love my sister. We have different daddies and she always told me that mine was an asshole compared to her godlike father (who had one leg)

and when I was 12 and reading her stephen king book, I asked her what a tampon was. She went into a very detailed, meticulous monologue on what a tampon was -- in sign language. I still think my sister contributed to my homosexuality.

and during a heated game of monopoly, I got tired of her accusing me of cheating, so I did what any sweet-natured little brother did. I took the monopoly box and slapped her with it.

Nine years, we haven't touched a board game. Never have, never will. I also tell her to eat beans and have sex in the missionary position when she is trying to get pregnant (second niece on the way!)

I love you, sissy.
(yourworldwontcollapse reminds you, it isn't incest after second cousins!, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 17:45, Reply)

Step...
My (slightly) older step-sister once, for a laugh, put on her best worried face, went up to my sister and asked "Is there such a thing as step-incest?"
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 17:26, 3 replies)

Scars!
Me and my brother , M, have less than a year’s difference in age (I was born in Sept he was born in May the year after). Due to this we grew up pretty close and would also beat the living crap out of each other when any fighting broke out. Being the eldest I would never give up fighting as I thought an elder sibling losing to the younger one would be a disgrace to older brothers everywhere.

Aaanyway one day back when I was 7 years old we were kicking the crap out of each other and M rather uncharacteristically ran away with threats to tell my mum about me beating him up. Naturally I was still full of energy and ran after him, hoping to get to him first and shut him up before I got a smack from my mother. I heard him in the kitchen and sprinted in, only to realise I couldn’t stop. My brother had actually knocked over my mums mop bucket when entering the kitchen and due to the water from the bucket and lino covered floor I went spinning rather comically over the kitchen floor Bambi on ice style into the washing machine.

Then I started bleeding.

I had cut the back of my head open on the side of the washing machine and was taken to hospital where I had it stitched up.

Even though it was an accident I blamed M for it and eventually got my own back a few days later during our shared bath when, in full view of my mum I punched him square in the face. M then fell backwards and gashed the back of his head on the edge of the bath tap and was then rushed to hospital where the same person that stitched me up stitched his head up too.

We both have scars on the same part of our heads and the hair has not grown back in the area of the scar. Nowadays, both M and I will immediately change the subject if anyone asks how we got them.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 15:37, 2 replies)

Not my sibling
My sister is a sweety

But my friends brother was odd.

He built a huge maze out of lego that contained traps made out of glue, poison (pools of fly spray) and acid bought from a BDH catalogue (it's a industrial/ scientific chemical supplier more of that later) he would introduce flies into this maze to see if they could survive. There was a safe route through if the fly made it it had was allowed to go free. This, by the way, was years before the "Wasp Factory" was published.

He used to order chemicals from the BDH catalogue to make bangers which to be honest were as close to pipe bombs as you can get. Each batch was louder and louder. The last one I saw go off felt like someone slapping my face and my ears were rigging even though I had put my fingers in them.

His record collection was in alphabetical order and he listened to them in order with no deviation. It was an odd collection of Classical & thrash metal making interesting segues like Mozart to Napalm Death

He wore a full length coat whatever the weather and would carry an air pistol, crossbow pistol, black widow catapult, a Bowie knife, throwing stars & nun-chucks. Thank god no one picked a fight with him. I expect the deliberately unhinged expression he practised in a mirror put people off

He was a really nice guy though, just a bit individual
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 15:13, 14 replies)

My brother's really heavy.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 13:57, 5 replies)

I wish I could remember more of these
I've always been very close to LittleSisterCrow - certainly it surprised me that most of my friends didn't get on with their siblings. So obviously, I have tried to be understanding and behave myself when she asks that I do not let on to her friends that her nickname amongst the family is "Moose."

She does, however, have a peculiar and scatological outlook on life, (which I have been told is similar to mine...should I have been offended by that?) which has led her to come out with some rather 'special' little quotes. Sadly many of them escape me right now, but I shall tack them on to the end of this post if I remember more:

"Do bears eat trees?"

"So was Jesus...a Jew?"

And upon hearing that my housemate had borked his leg:
Moose: "So has he got a wheelchair?"
Me: "No, he's on crutches. Wheelchairs cost a small fortune"
Moose: "Can't you make him one?"
Me: "Make him one?"
Moose: "Yeah. Make him one. Out of physics."

More to come when I remember them. If anyone cares, that is.

Update: Just remembered a recent one. She commented that the gas bill in her student flat was surprisingly high one quarter:
Moose: "We're just surprised, 'cause we haven't had the heating on, and the oven's electric."
Me: "What about the hot water?"
Moose: "Does that use gas as well?"
Me: "Yes, it comes from the same boiler as your heating."
Moose: "Oh..."
Me: "Where did you think it came from?"
Moose: "...water company...."
(LongJohnBaldry, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 13:56, 9 replies)

Move on, bro
Some brothers might, thirty years on, have admitted they fell out of their bedroom window rather than continue to insist they were pushed by their elder brother.

I'm just saying.

Admittedly, I may have initiated the "walk along a highly polished windowsill in our socks", but frankly at 4 you should have known better.
( The Light in Chains don't touch the Pope's boner, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 11:57, 2 replies)

Socks
My youngest brother has a definite sense of what he wants to do. One day I observed that he was wearing only one sock.

"Why you wearing one sock?" I asked.

"Because that foot's cold."
(McChinaman banned, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 11:42, Reply)

My sister is the weakest link. Goodbye
Half way through the drag queen special of the Weakest Link in which the whole family is crowded round the television set, my sister, sober as a nun, pipes her head up and proclaims:

'You know, there's something weird about those women'

(awkward 'Was she being serious? Am I really related to that?' silence penetrates the entire household)

'They're drag queens sis', quoth the author
'Does that mean they can't afford to look good? They almost look like men!'
'Drag queens are men'
'Oh right, I thought it just meant they were poor'

Bless.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Mon 5 Jan 2009, 11:25, Reply)

My sister is unwitting comedy genius
When she first got into using t'interweb, we were chatting away on msn about who knows what when I decided I needed a coffee and a cig.

"AFK" I typed
"What's AFK mean? she asked
"Away From Keyboard" I replied
"Ok" she said "You can tell me when you get back"
(Kaplaaah Wasting time on the net since 1994., Mon 5 Jan 2009, 11:06, 4 replies)

My brother
My brother was born less than 13 months after me (with a sister five years older than me and a brother five years younger than him). Hence we were brought up very closely, with matching clothes and similar toys (the Star Wars Light Saber set springs to mind). We learned to play football together, got into music at the same time and bought our first album together, going halves on "Appetite For Destruction" (a good choice I think you'll agree).

But as adolescent hormones kicked in, we fought to find our own identities - I became all bookish and went to Scouts, he got into dance music (rave as it was at the time, this being abvout 1993) and went to army Cadets. We irritated the crap out of each other, because we were so similar and of course knew what the other was up to.

I did well at school and my brother preferred to show off and enjoy the shallow applause of the numpties and bampots. Whenever teachers got frustrated at his evident intelligence but lack of efforts and asked why he could do more like me, he responded that he wans't me and would do things his way.

He left school, joined the army but only lasted six months, always getting into fights and trouble. He went to college and got offshore on the stand-by boats - a decent job for a young man, reasonable money. But with one month offshore and one month on, at home with no work to do, he had little to do. He had continued to consort with the nuggets, muppets and bampots of his school days, preferring to be a big fish in a very small pond rather than try to expand his horizons. So inevitably he filled his time with drugs.

At first this was hash and the occasional go with ecstasy. Most young people have been there, I've been there, so I don't think there's any great trouble with that. But continued escalation with ecstasy, being a class A drug, does bring some unsavoury characters. And unsavoury characters seeking to come down off a ecstasy high use heroin.

After a time my brother said he was suffering from insomnia and couldn't work, and was signed off. He called me up desperately one day and begged me to cover for him at his medical the next day, saying he had been out the night previous and "accidently" taken a line of coke, having forgotten about his medical. Big alarm bells started ringing, I snarled at him for his stupidity, told him to stop doing all the shite - but I did it for him all the same. I believed his line because he'd never lied to me before and we'd always been frank about our respective drugtaking. Or so I'd thought; the idea that he'd be taking smack crossed my mind but I dismissed it, thinking he couldn't be so stupid.

Later on I phoned home and was told that he had been cornered and confessed he was addicted to heroin. He moved back into my mother's house and tried to get off it. I went back to visit him, hoping to talk with him about it. But instead when we went to a bar for a few pints he disappeared into the toilets and came back, visibly drooping, eyes shuttering. I was torn apart by this, but even worse was him lying to my face and said, I haven't taken anything.

I went back to my place, life carried on. When I called home to find what was happening I was told that "he has good days and bad days". Every bad day put him straight back to square one of course.

Then, after staying off the shite for a few weeks, he overdosed in his own house, apparently after injecting for the first time (he'd been smoking until then). Thankfully there were people around and an ambulance was called. He was fine. He went back to work, was doing well, saying that the OD situation has scared him, made him realise that he could die from it.

Finally! A new light had shone. He'd gotten the fucking message. So what did he do when he came back onshore? He called up his dealer, bought some heroin, injected it and died.

I still can't believe it.

I love you Baba.
(McChinaman banned, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 8:02, 3 replies)

My brother David
When I was around three and David was around 5 we shared a bedroom, one night we both saw an eye at the window and screamed our mother (step dad must have been at work) came running through to see what the all comotion was. After we told her she phoned the police to say there was someone in the garden, the police arrived and checked outside and said all they found was a cat. The cat next door only had one eye. Our mother was very embarrassed. sorry mum. David was scared of eyes after that, stupid one eyed cat!
(laurasuper, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 1:09, Reply)

And there there was 4
Once upon a time there were three brothers. Then around one Christmas time, my mother decides to announce that we did in fact have a sister who was given away at birth.

About 2 weeks later, by complete coincidence, the sister then decides to find her long lost mum and through the power of the internet (and friends reunited particularly) the whole thing takes about 2 days and we are introduced to our new / old sibling within the first week of the new year.

Lots of family related nonsense ensues.
( bacon and egg roll is going to be big downunder, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 1:08, Reply)

my brother - a haiku
my bro has one bro
me, and I'm the eldest but
the third was born still
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 0:36, 2 replies)

My mum - a haiku
My mum has one sis
Shes a bit weird they don't talk
her kids are odd too
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 0:34, Reply)

My Dad - a haiku.
My dad has five sibs
Three brothers and two sisters
but one is dead now
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Mon 5 Jan 2009, 0:33, Reply)

Siblings...I've had a few...
I've been jolted out of my recent QOTW torpor by this one, though it isn't so much of a light and frolicsome piece as a case study in secrets and lies. Come to think of it, the tale bears a remarkable resemblance to the Mike Leigh creation of the same nice. But I assure you, dear readers, that however prone to exaggeration I may sometimes be, that this is utterly and absolutely true.

And massive. Sorry about that.

Until the age of fifteen, I cavorted and stumbled about the place under the misapprehension that I was the eldest of two kids.

Mnemomic Minor, I will note here, is one of the sweetest, most innocent-natured creatures that was ever besmirched and shat upon by this uncaring world, and as such is an utter anomaly within the brood of rat-bastards that comprise the rest of my family (within which designation I do not hesitate to include myself.)

He's five years younger than me, and I'm reliably informed that for several of his most influential years my pastime of choice was to perch on his (third floor) windowsill, declaring that I was about to fly off to Neverland and not return, and wouldn't relent and come down until he was in a state close to asphyxiating fits from crying and pleading with me not to go.

Which isn't as bad as when my older cousin convinced my younger cousin to drink dog piss running down a pavement by telling him it was lemonade. But I digress.

One fateful morning, when I was fifteen and he ten, my mother (generally speaking an undemonstrative creature) came into my squalid pit of a bedroom, and perched herself awkwardly on the end of my bed, hands in her lap. Disgruntled at the invasion of my sovereign space (and the unwanted interruption in my rapacious devouring of the latest Harry Potter), I grunted something vaguely approaching an inquiry as to the purpose of this interview. I remember thinking with horror that this might be some kind of birds and bees chat, as recommended in that week's Bella.

She leant towards me. There was something in her hand. So consumed was my brain with the refrain of 'please don't let it be the sex talk, please don't let it be the sex talk', pounding through my overinflated teenage cringe gland, that I failed to notice this for some moments, although it was clear that she wanted me to. Eventually, she caved.

'I got a letter this morning,' she said.
'Oh?' said I.
'Yes,' said she.
'So?' I grunted.
'It's from your sister', she said.
'Wha?'

Turns out that, a long time ago, she'd had a child she'd been forced to give up for adoption. A familiar story - it was the sixties, she was nineteen, it was simply not the done thing. She was in denial about the pregnancy right up until the end. And this is where it gets sad (although I suspect this unfortunately won't be a singular tale in the chronicles of those times.) My teenage mother was refused pain relief by the anaethestist, on the grounds that she ought to suffer for what she had done. She had to crawl on her hands and knees down a ward corridor, because the nurse wouldn't come when she called. She gave birth for the first time, alone and terrified and with no medication, after having been in labour for thirty-six hours.

And then they came and told her the baby was to be taken away. She hadn't a say in the matter. Except then, for whatever reason, they didn't. My mother was left to look after my sister in the hospital for six weeks while they found her a suitable home. She fed her. She named her. And then one morning, my mother woke up and my sister was gone from the cot beside her. And that was it - she got her coat and went home.

I'm not a parent - although I know some of you are - and so I can't fully imagine what it must be like to have a six week-old baby taken from you. What little I can conceive of, I can't really handle. Suffice to say, it messed my mum up. Her family just wanted to forget about it, and it was never spoken of again. She told my father when they married but not us, or anyone else, even her closest friends.

When my mum told me this story, it made sense of a lot of things. I'd never really been close to her - we'd had a lot of problems and her behaviour towards me was often very irrational, with her reacting violently over quite trivial incidents. Apparently when I was born, she didn't sleep for days on end and wouldn't leave my room, because she was terrified someone would take me away. It all sort of made sense in the light of what had happened.

But to return to the story. My sister had through the help of a friend finally tracked her down, and had written her a letter seeing if she'd like to make contact. My sister had been adopted by a very well-off family (lucky swine), had had a great time of it, and was married and living in Bristol. To cut a long preamble short, they met, and then we met, and it's all worked out extraordinarily well, actually. They are shockingly similar (my sister is nothing at all like her kind but very straight-laced adoptive parents, and is a fashion designer. My mum is also a fashion designer.) And my sister is beautiful and happy and in general has a life I'm rather jealous of, in a good sort of way.

To return, though, to that morning, and to me, bemused in the bed, and having discovered I had a half-sister. Mum asked if I'd like to read the letter, and I said I would. She left the room. I had just about finished, and was trying to let it all sink in, trying to make sense of this sudden familial expansion, when my dear old Dad stuck his head around the door. (If you can, imagine his part in the following dialogue conducted in a thick Welsh accent.)

'Alright Jenny?'
"Yes, I'm alright. I think so.'
'Your mum tell you then?'
'Yes. Can't believe it, really.'
'OK. Well, there's one more thing.'
'What?'
'Oh. Well you know Sam Walsh from down the pub. The barman.'
'Yep?'
'Right. Well, he's your half-brother too. I used to be married to his mam. I'll put the tea on, shall I?'

Yes, I think you'd better.

And that, ladies and gents, is how I was shunted from the first of two siblings to the third of four in the space of around twenty minutes. Surprisingly, it wasn't all that traumatic, and things have pretty much pootled on as they always have done. But that's village life for you - we do things differently here.

Still, good job I didn't snog Sam Walsh that time he tried to grab me round the back of the village hall a year earlier. Now that would have been a Trisha special in the making.

Length? Depends on who the hell you ask, in my family...
(jennymnemonic, Sun 4 Jan 2009, 23:55, 7 replies)

When I was little, I shared a bedroom with my amazing sleepwalking big brother
In the middle of one summer night, he woke me up and said, "Hey, Kersal Missive, I'm leaving." Naturally, as I was groggy and seven years old, I replied, "Great. See you later."

With my blessing, he then unlocked the doors and sleepwalked out our second floor flat, roamed the corridor a while, buzzed for the lift, then decided to come back and ring the doorbell to be let back in. Not a big deal, right? Well, the problem is that we lived next to a full, open drainage ditch several feet deep with no fence or wall to stop someone who decided to, say, sleepwalk into it in the middle of the night. When this sunk in I think my parents realised I was the worst person possible to be in charge of watching my brother. After all, I had told him to go right ahead and leave. I was reminded of this to no end, especially in the context of how, when I was a very disgruntled infant, he used to break down in tears at the thought that if I didn't quit crying and screaming, my mum and dad would take me back to the hospital and exchange me for another baby. We do guilt very well in my family.

I got my comeuppance when I found a smashed cockroach (not his doing) in my bedsheets. :(
( KersaI Missive Free Michael Shields! with Monday's Liverpool Echo, Sun 4 Jan 2009, 22:55, Reply)