We didn't have a VCR in the house...
..until 1992. My dad took those 'video nasty' stories a bit seriously.

Still had the buy the fanucking thing myself too!!!
(Mattblack Has a Program Alarm, 1201, on, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 14:07, Reply)

tricks
When I was a wee lad the newsagent up the road used to sell all kind of amazing joke produce ie. bars of soap that would make your face black or a fake chewing gum packet with a mouse trap style stick of gum.

I used to spend all my pocket money on this sort of tat until the day I bought home some exploding matches. When my mum found out she went mental calling the newsagent irresponsible etc etc and marched me straight up there to give the owner an earfull whilst pointing at me.

The outcome of this episode was that the newsagent removed ALL the joke products from his shop to the dismay of all the kids on the estate.

Needless to say I wasn't the most popular kid around for a good few months and got chased by gangs of angry kids whenever I stepped outside.

Thanks mum, no really...thanks.
(cherry B, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:58, Reply)

WHOOP WHOPP (its the sound of tha police)
dear old Unstablemum was clearly terrified of me being abducted by child molesting types, so every time I went to the local playing fields (5 mins walk away) I would have to ensure to be back right on my allotted time.

Heaven forbid I would stroll in at 5 past 7 of a warm summers evening, because I was meant to be in at 7.
So I had been raped and left in a ditch.
And now a patrol car was outside my house taking a description off my mum.

4 effing times that happened. Between the ages of 10 and 16.

My mates still take the piss.
(UnstableDan Bah, Humbug! ooooh, humbugs, nyom!, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:56, Reply)

Dangerously close to spoiled brat territory
Being an only child, when young I was always Daddy's little princess and pretty much got what I wanted. I also had fairly liberal parents who were pretty lenient during my teens, but to be fair they didn't have much choice in the matter because I was a conniving little cow.

However, my boyfriend has now banned me from buying any more shoes. Does that count?
(clumsyeloquence is a girl, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:50, Reply)

My dad...
wouldn't let me eat any food outside.

Mighty high brow for a council house alcoholic.

Yes - bitter.
( Capt. Tastic, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:45, Reply)

my best friend's aunt's children
were not allowed to watch any tv, because she found it to be 'dirty'
( Mr. Johnson, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:34, Reply)

They tried...
...But it just didn't work. They'd shout, try to ground me, be dissapointed, suspend privelidges and issue the silent treatment. None of it made me rethink my "determined to have fun" ethos. I guess I was a bit of a shit to put up with.

I'd do things like go out clubbing, get mashed, then wake my parents up when picking up my decks/records/computer/synth to go round to a mates house for a jam.... at 4 in the morning. I crashed the family car twice during this time of my life.

One night we were at a friends house, his parents were away and someone had some acid, it all got a bit messy. At about 6 in the morning the phone rang, the guy who's house it was thought it a bit strange that someone would call so early, so let it ring off and then did 1471 to find out who had called us. The number was witheld. A small voice in my head reminded me that my home number was witheld.

Next thing I know, one of my mates is telling me that my dad has just turned up and demanding that I go home now. Given our current state of sobriety I thought it was just a wind up to "spin me out" (man). In the end they managed to convince me that they were telling the truth... so I went home.

I did my usual ghost like (ahem) entering of the house and got as far as the landing when a light went on. For a moment everything went white thanks to my massively dilated pupils, then my dad came into focus in front of me. He was mightily pissed off and started shouting at me about being a shit and treating the house like a hotel... you get the picture. While I'm looking at him shouting at me his head started to puff up and deflate alternately (like an indecisive pufferfish). I had a very hard job keeping a straight face. I quickly snapped out of it when the last line of his speech sunk in "...and tomorrow you're going to go job hunting, and get a job!"

Job hunting... acid comedown... that sounds like fun.

I spent the rest of the following day trailing around pubs applying for jobs and asking questions like "So, when you say 'name' do you want first, middle and last, just first, or just first and last?", "How do you make your ice?", "So what's actually in beer?" and other unintentionally stupid stuff. I heard alot of application forms beign ripped as I left the pubs.

I didn't get a job, but I did start being nicer to the folks.

Kind of.
(ralphseviltwin, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:33, Reply)

My mother is effing crazy
I wasn't allowed to read anything non-literary, watch anything non-educational on TV, go on outings anywhere non-educational, play with non-educational toys or listen to pop music.

Oh, and she used to clobber me every time I played a wrong note on the piano. Did my Grade 5 exam on my eighth birthday (on my birthday! Oh well, at least I got a day off school for it) and the night before, convinced I hadn't worked hard enough for it, she threatened to stick her head in the oven if I didn't pass. Fortunately I passed.

I also wasn't allowed to eat anything fattening because she was convinced that I would balloon to a morbidly obese state if I ate cake. Am now a size 8 on a fat day despite eating all the cake I want. (And no, I'm not bulimic!)

She's not a bad person really. Just terrified that her only daughter would turn out to be some sort of failure. Mental.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:30, Reply)

I was banned from having my ears pierced until I was 16
But when I got to 16, my 14 year old sister whined so much she got hers done at the same time.

I was outraged.

Strict, but only up to a point.

Oh and no chewing gum or bubblegum or ITV. Middle class, you see.
( in vino veritas, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:29, Reply)

School Uniform
A girl I knew had parents so strict about her uniform they checked it all (underwear included) every time she went to or came back from school.

I happen to know she changed her underwear for something nicer at school though ;)
(Underpants, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:27, Reply)

ITV
My mother actually told me we couldn't get ITV on our television: she didn't want me to watch adverts or ghastly common programmes like Tiswas etc, hoping for a more Blue Peter-y kind of son (I appreciate that this is somewhat meaningless to overseas readers, sorry folks).

I actually started primary school believing this and indeed passed this 'fact' on to my fellow pupils, and was roundly mocked for it (it also left me unable to engage in playground banter on the merits of, say, the Incredible Hulk, thus making me a social leper - thanks, mother!).

Still, on the plus side I can make an Action Man death slide out of bog rolls and washing up liquid bottles, so not all bad news, then.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:24, Reply)

like KaptinKurtz
I wasn't allowed to read those crappy "Point Horror" booked or "Nancy Drew" stories when I were a young lass.

*Mind you, my parents are university lecturers (my Father is an Archaeologist, my Mother an English Professor who also specialises in the depiction of child death in funerary monuments of the 17th century as a hobby) and I had the reading standard of an adult by the time I was 8. I went to boarding school, sated my lust for trashy novels on Jilly Cooper etc, and my annoying precociousness died down somewhat.*
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:09, Reply)

cricket?
a mate of mine used to turn up at my house every thursday at 8 o clock in the summer with a massive cricket bag.

the reason, his parents were sending him to play cricket but he'd stopped going weeks a go but didnt have the heart to tell his poor mother.
(suboftheday, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:07, Reply)

Videos
My mum banned me from watching videos with a certificate higher than my age (Apart from Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video which was a 15 certificate that I got when I was 12. That was about as scary as a basket of happy puppies). I used to get the piss taken out of me a bit, but now I realise it's probably not such a big deal as I was a big wuss anyway and I probably would have had nightmares.

Actually, at school lunchtimes, me and a few mates used to go to my house and watch videos 'not intended for young eyes' that had been acquired from the brother of one of my mates. But then again my parents didn't know about that. *cough*
( Mike Fishcake teamfishcake.co.uk - better than your mum's face, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:04, Reply)

Bastard parents...
Both my parents were and remain acutely dysfunctional. I can't quite explain fully why, but my mum was orphaned during WWII and was passed around various relatives and foster homes, but my Dad remains an enigma. He was the youngest of five and used to sticking up for himself by scaring the bejesus out of whoever stood in his way. He was a control freak who had a weakness for flying into a sometimes violent rage with absolutely no warning whatsoever and was utterly unpredictable, being docile one minute and raging the next. Mum had endured nearly twenty years of this by the time I was born, so was as neurotic as it gets not to mention being fairly adept at her own brand of control freakiness.

As a result, growing up was a little unconventional to say the least. Oddly enough, Dad would usually just leave me to my own devices until he either a) was in a bad mood anyway or b) decided I was in need of some fatherly guidance when in both cases all fire and brimstone would be unleashed. Mum on the other hand would pretty much meddle with everything, as was her neurotic way.

Hmm... Where do I start? Early days first I think.

One Sunday I was challenged as to why the soap in the bathroom was wearing out faster than usual. Apparently Dad had decided I was the culprit and I recall getting a beating for this, I think I was five or six.

Dad would make a point week of yelling at me and my brother for interfering with his collection of records. Every week my brother, my mum and I stayed as far as we could from the records just in case. Truly bizarre... He was convinced that they'd been moved or someone had been messing around with them.

Sundays were the worst. Dad would want to listen to his records after Sunday roast, which meant absolute quiet so as not to disturb him. Opening or closing the living room door was out of the question, so I'd either sit listening to 1940s big band jazz (which I hate to this very day) or sit quietly in my bedroom. Afterward he'd have a nap, which meant more absolute silence. I wasn't allowed to play or make any noise whatsoever otherwise I'd get a thorough hiding. Dad was ultra sensitive to noise, often raging at my brother for the noise made closing a car door on the other side of our street.

My Dad was something of a DIY enthusiast and was keen to conscript my assistance with statements like "you're going to help me build a shed/shelf/etc". Now any thoughts that I might be able to participate in the actual construction of anything went west as my responsibilities were to either sit on wood while it's being sawn or hold various tools and hand them over when required. Strict concentration and silence was expected for the duration of these tasks. I was never allowed to wield a saw in anger in case I broke something, but it was apparently important for me to learn how to fix things. It wouldn't be long before something went wrong with either the tool/materials/ruler/etc and Dad would lose his temper and end up in a screaming rage. Guess who's job it was to bear the brunt?

One weekend Dad won a small amount of money on the pools and bought some wood with which he was constructing a record cabinet. Things went relatively well until the peace was suddenly shattered by a scream of "Oh shit!!!" followed by a loud bang and the sound of splintering wood as Dad ran round the garden kicking the rapidly disintegrating cabinet. Why? The wood was crap. Dad failed to spot the potential for disaster when attempting to plane chipboard. Of course, the logical thing to do was to kick an inanimate object around the garden, screaming. We still laugh about that at family gatherings now.

I recall once, I was beaten black and blue aged 8 by my father because I lost a fight with the kid round the corner, who'd been giving me hassle. Naturally the little fucker who beat me claimed responsibility when I turned up at school with bruises down the side of my face and a swollen lip, just to add insult to injury. I quickly learned that in the instance of getting a good beating, it's best to sit there and take it. Any resistance usually made it ten times worse, so Dad was absolutely furious with my total unwillingness to indulge in violence of any sort.

Naturally, this was yet another excuse for Dad to scream at me and sometimes hit me because I wasn't the fearless fighter he apparently was. Although I never saw dad flinch from a fight (I've seen him deck blokes twice his size) he began to realise as I got older that using fear to control me didn't work. We eventually squared up one evening in my mid teens and I made it clear I wasn't about to back down. Honest to god, I was ready to take him outside and let sixteen years of repression loose. It was the first time I ever saw him try and talk his way out of confrontation, he actually suggested we sit down and talk like adults.

Dad announced we were all off to South Africa to live one morning in mid 1987. The fact that the country was in a self declared state of emergency and was a hair's width from civil war notwithstanding. However, the worst thing for me was the humiliation of being forced to wear khaki shorts, khaki knee high socks, regulation Hush Puppy shoes, bottle green blazer (it's 35 degrees FFS!) and shirt/tie was one thing. But showing all my mates and any lady I bring home the pictures goes way beyond being merely "cruel".

The years since have seen something of a role reversal. My parents are both now in their 70s and recent events has caused Dad to seek my counsel more than once. Bizarrely I have earned his respect by being compassionate, level headed and even tempered. The irony of this I that when pushed to extremes (and it takes a heck of a lot) I am more than able to take care of myself, but it takes an awful lot of provokation. However, when I go, I go big.

My mum doesn't escape this scott free, oh no...

My mother, bless her was as nervous as a kitten when Dad was in one of his rages but her attempts to placate him only made things worse. The one and only time she dared intervene when Dad was losing his temper was during the aforementioned incident when Dad beat me black and blue. Dad was absolutely incandescent with rage at this point and I recall being so frightened that he was going to hit her that I put myself in between the pair of them so he might hit me instead of her.

I find it very difficult to sympathise with her, as she often knew that the way Dad treated us all was wrong, but she'd never protest. Dad comes home from work in a foul mood and swings at one of us, it's our fault for getting in his way. She continued to make excuses until very recently, but dared not stand up to him. I have never quite forgiven her for that to this very day, despite the fact that I do love her dearly.

Mum was anxious for me to do well at school and would often express her forlorn wish that I might be clever like #### and get some of my work pinned to the classroom wall. The fact that #### now drives a dustcart for a living speaks volumes I guess.

My mum continued to set new standards in embarrassment. She could not understand why I'd save my money for clothes/trainers and used to labour the point of complimenting how good my Goth friends looked in their DMs and old baggy jumpers. Despite spending hours trying to explain the relationship between one's adopted subculture and the clothing which went with the territory she still never understood it.

"But #### looks so smart! Why can't you look like him?"

She was part of the war generation who's mantra was 'make do and mend', so while she'd think nothing of spending a small fortune on various useless and often unused gadgets around the house, the children's clothing budget was fair game to cut back on. New food mixer? Fair play. Slightly fashionable cut trousers for me? But they're soooo expensive! If I had birthday or xmas money from a relative my mum would not get the hint and hand it over so I could buy clothes, instead she'd insist on not trusting me to spend my own money by making sure she had my savings "in a safe place" and holding it for me while I went clothes shopping. It was only when I got my own Saturday job and had control of my own cash she was prized away from interfering. Doing odd jobs for my bro was another source of income which funded my beer/smoking passtimes.

There are some more lighthearted anecdotes however, for example at 15, when I'd saved my pennies for weeks and weeks so that I could buy myself a pair of baggy jeans and the obligatory paisley hooded top, my father vetoed the plan saying he didn't want me "looking like all the other herberts". I went behind his back, which didn't amuse him one bit, but an important victory was won that day. Oddly, he never complained when I'd roll up to the house at 2am in above ensemble on a school night pissed out of my gourd and smelling like a pub ashtray barely two weeks from my GCSE exams.

My mum was a chronic worrier and minor misdemeanours of mine resulted in the full theatrics. Even at age 18 when my family moved across town she was so concerned that I'd not be used to getting up earlier to get to college that she took to making sure my alarm clock went off five minutes earlier each morning for a month beforehand. Such meddling would invariably drive me nuts, which meant she'd be more covert about it.

For example, she knew I was heading off to a mate's house for a sleepover and she knew that I might indulge in a beer or three (aged 16). However, in her mind I'd lose control of my faculties to such a point that I'd misplace my clothing (!), so she decided to order some name tags and sew them into my clothing "just in case". Thankfully I caught her in the act and made damn sure that she undid the damage under my watchful eye, saying "don't come crying to me if you lose your nike t-shirt!". No amount of reasoning would get her to grasp the immense damage to my credibility which would have ensued.

Parental strictness is a funny thing. Both parents took next to no notice when I returned from said party to collect a sleeping bag, with me utterly reeking of booze and cigarettes and openly discussing with them that some of the partygoers were partaking in the Moroccan mixed herbs. Mum said words to the effect of "have a nice time, dear" as I disappeared through the front door on my way back to the debauchery.

I'd discovered that the way to deal with my folks was to tell the truth about everything, which would be dismissed as exaggeration. Strangeness...
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:02, Reply)

i can't claim that my parents are strict really
because they have a tendency to go for the "just disappointed" option. You know, the one that breaks your heart.

I only ever got slapped by my mum once and that was because I'd been going home by bus for months without paying for bustickets. I was 11. Shoulda known better really.
( morrybyte made a subtle namechange at, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:02, Reply)

it's good for you
and on another educational note, my mother vetted all books I brought home from the library before I could read them. Not for bad things or swearing, oh no...
... she wanted to make sure they were "literary" enough. If she thought it too low brow, straight back it went. Actually, this led to a fairly entertaining argument at middle school between me mum and the English teacher. After writing my review of "the last book what i read" my folks were called in to discuss whether novels featuring rape, pregnancy (and subsequent entire fucking chapter on the lonely solitary birth in a cave), graphic descriptions of abuse, killing and murder were really suitable fare for an 11 year old. Cue much pointing and shouting. Jean M Auel has a lot to answer for. I was abused by proxy as a child, it's a miracle Im as well put together as I am!
(kaptinkurtz, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:59, Reply)

Crimpers!
Any ladies about my age (27) will remember the crimping trend of the 80's [shudders]. Looking back, it was truly hideous, but twas the dream of every little 12 year old girl to have hair that looked like a crinkle-cut chip. My mate Vicky, who had rich parents and therefore had everything she wanted, had a set of crimpers and kindly crimped my locks. I walked home from her house pleased as punch to receive a belting from mum. She didn't approve and said I looked like "a little tart". Snivvle.

Also, she didn't allow me to have my ears pierced until I was 13, but I now thank her for that one.
(NJ, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:59, Reply)

At the age af 14...
My mother would go mental if I brought girls home for sex and she wouldn't let me go to the pub or take drugs... Bang out of order.
(isotope23 accident free since, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:58, Reply)

Strict!
My mate who shall remain nameless, has very strict parents indeed. So much in fact that he practically has to lie about his whereabouts whenever he's out.


They forced him to go to university, and when they kicked him out (because he really didn't want to go, he's actually a really smart guy) what did they do? They sent him back again! Twice!

Whenever he comes round my house it's usually because they've sent him out on some soul crushingly dull errand (get them some money from the cash machine, go to Tescos to buy some bread, travel 10 miles bypassing loads of other chicken shops to buy some chicken because this one tastes better... how do they know if they don't try another one? I digress...) and when they check up on him he says something like 'I'm at the check-out now mum' even though he's in my living room with Scuzz quite loud on the telly...

(Jester_, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:56, Reply)

Playing`
.
I was banned from playing with "darkies" by my deeply racist father.

He was so racist that he'd even switch the TV over if anyone remotely black was on the telly. He made my mother get rid of some statues of Africans as "he didn't want niggers looking at me while I eat".

Funny old world though. As he lay dying in hospital he seemed to lose all vestiges of racism as he begged his Indian doctor to save his life. Didn't work. :)

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:55, Reply)

Head boy of my 6form
Was made to drink from plastic glasses when his parents were out. Apparently they didnt want him falling over and cutting himself.
( Slippery Mick ‏, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:54, Reply)

just say no
i wasnt allowed to watch Grange Hill until i was 14. my folks were both teachers and didnt want me seeing the horrors that constituted a secondary education until I had been there a year. In the end it all worked out fine, I was a nasty little bastard and it was other kids who were nervous of me.
(kaptinkurtz, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:50, Reply)

Growing Up
.
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:47, Reply)

first page?
hm
(oecumenix ..is not as good as he thinks he is, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:46, Reply)

5th
baah
(Handel blah blah blah, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:45, Reply)

my friend
used to stop her car on the way to school every day to do the following:

1 remove green gimp L plates (which only make people cut you up)
2 put in earrings (i don't get why this was so subversive at her house. it wasn't exactly a nose stud with chain leading to her nipples)
3 tune stereo off radio 4 (her parents thought she wouldn't use the radio if it was tuned to that and so she would drive more safely)
4 put on makeup (essential natch)
5 roll over skirt, unbutton shirt etc
6 light fag

then on the way home she'd stop and reverse it all.

at the time this seemed horrendous to me, cruising around in my 1970s uber-cool beetle and breaking every school rule i felt like. now, however, i look back and see spoiled brats in their shiny 1 week old car bought as a 17th birthday present whinging about the £4,000 a term school uniform...

does this mean i'm getting really really old?
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:44, Reply)

I wasn't allowed out on my own
Until I was 10.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:44, Reply)

For a start:
No TV set in the house until I was 12!
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:42, Reply)

My parents
Are always on at me to get first post. Finally, I've lived up to their expectations.
(LickOutTheJamsMotherfuckers!, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:41, Reply)