Neurotic mum
I've already talked about my sweet but as neurotic-as-a-box-of-kittens mother earlier on in this post, but despite the compulsive need to exert some control over the lives of her nearestand dearest, she's spectacularly missed the mark a few times.

When I first started seeing ex-Mrs PJM for we'd happily shared my bedroom when she stayed over for some time when mum stopped by to ask if I "was being careful". The fact that I'd been "being careful" twice a night for three months, not to mention the fact that I'd been "being careful" for seven years with several previous partners went totally amiss. I think I responded with "well, we keep meaning to discuss contraception with each other, but can't seem to find the time" which put her in a state of utter neurotic meltdown. I feel a tad guilty for that.

I regularly field all sorts of questions about my lifestyle like "I hope you're being careful with your bike!", so I showed her pictures of what Darren Berrecloth (google him) does with an identical machine. Oops.

The one that caused me the biggest pang of guilt was when my folks came round to see my new place. Mum couldn't resist a nose around, but was rather abrupt in walking out of the bedroom as fast as possible with a slight beetroot tinge to her cheeks. Why?

Well, (I'm going to get in really deep shit for this) a couple of days before I'd been entertaining a lady having enjoyed a superbly debauched evening at my place, but neglected to the hide away the somewhat diminished packet of twelve which was left on my bedside table with the lid open.

I really shouldn't find that funny, but I can't help it...
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 12 Mar 2007, 14:49, Reply)

Not strict, but slightly nonsensical
My mother is lovely, but sometimes somewhat less than logical. I was recently ordained as a minister over the internet. I told her, and the preconcious lapsed catholic part of her brain fired up and got all concerned. "It's ok, everyone else in the office did it too", says I. "Oh, that's fine then", she says, relieved.

And this coming from the woman who freqently says "If so-and-so jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?" Madness.
(schnuff, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 14:49, Reply)

'BMX'
Back in the early 80s BMXs were all the rage and where certainly THE must have thing at the time for any self respecting 8 year old like yours truly..unfortunately, and for no apparent reason, my Dad had a near psychotic hatred of them...
Ive never known why but to this day all I have to do is say the word 'BMX' and he STILL gets the arse
( bigmeuprudeboy is using powerpoint or paint...have MERCY, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 14:45, Reply)

oranges are the only fruit
couldn't eat em unles they was washed: 'black people (not those words) have touched 'em'
Apples: ditto
Pears: Ditto
but fruit chunks in a can? straight in with the condensed cream.
i was banned from playing with black kids, brown kids, yellow kids and most white kids.
in bed at 7.30 every night 'til I left home @ 15 (I wonder why, eh?)
but I did squeeze out acrosss the roof and go disco'ing-had to minesweep pints-which made the return roof journey interesting.
all my clothes had to be bought for me, which raised awkward q's when they found me in hipster strawberry crushed velvet loons, tie dye grandad vest, tea shades (aaahhh nostalgia) and cloud of ganja.
er, what was the QOTW agen?
(mickturate if i could be arsed i'd be bored, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 14:41, Reply)

My Scout Leader
... was also imprisoned for paedophilia. This is a worrying trend.
(clumsyeloquence is a girl, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 14:19, Reply)

my parents never discouraged me from having sex

quite the opposite really.

Signed,
Oedipus, King of Thebes.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 14:08, Reply)

I don't know
why they call them grandparents.

Mine were shite.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 14:01, Reply)

My Ma
Lived in mortal fear that I would follow the family tradition of being a drunkard..

On the very first day of inebriation (I was 19) I staggered in to be greeted by 'oh my God, You are drunk'

To which I replied ' No, Mother I am simply hangliding'

Sad but true.
(flibbley lame balloon man far and wee, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 14:00, Reply)

The Childminder
Seeing as my parents were fairly important (read as 'poor') back in the day, they were always working, and therefore couldn't get me to or from school. I couldn't walk by myself, obviously, so I was sent off to a series of childminders from the age of 1. The first was, well lets call her was called 'Sue', she was rather nice as I've been told.

'Jules' was next, she had me from 2 till I was about 6, and there were times when she was alright. We were never allowed to lie, however. Fibbing was allowed for "strength of character" (did I mention I was 5?), but if anyone were to lie 'Jules' would fetch her leather bound New and Old Testament and Psalms from the shelf and smack you with it.
Round the head.
Repeating the words "Be sure* you're sin* will find* you out*. Numbers*, 23*:32*."
The stars mark when the book would make contact with your scalp.
Other than that, she was alright

Ooh, there was also 'Rosie'. Her daughter drove her nails into my neck so hard I still have scars to show for it. By pushing the girl off me, she started bawling, and I was banned from the house.
She actually left a 10 year old me on her door step in late autumn, wearing no more than his school shirt and trousers, for about 2 hours till my mum showed up and threatened legal action. My mum was great, never there for you but always ready to sue. Cheers mum.

But still, I turned out alright didn't I?
( Pointy Head poked another hole in my anorak on, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 13:49, Reply)

hey, that's weird
my Mum wouldn't let me play anal cunt either.

What do you mean, band?
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 13:38, Reply)

my ex's parents
used to tell him when he was naughty that they would take him back to the orphanage where they found him. he really believed this, even though he clearly looked exactly like them.

one day his mother even made him go and pack.

she should have done it too, the narcissistic little prick, she'd have got a better deal at the uxbridge mcdonalds, breeding ground for chavs and pikeys!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 12:57, Reply)

My old man
said
"Follow the van
And don't dilly dally on the way"
Unfortunately I did dilly dally, I dilly dallied a lot.

I am now unemployed.
(tarbin tarbis, tarbit, tarbamus, tarbimus, tarbant, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 12:56, Reply)

No Computers!
Back when I were a nipper, my mum didn't let me have my own computer for years. She said "they'll take over your life!" and other such statements, which I always thought was a bit of a brash prediction to make.

I'm now a software engineer. Looks like she may have been right after all.
( slippery doctore, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 12:37, Reply)

Mountain Bikes
When I was a young teenager, my mother wouldn’t let me have a mountain bike because "main roads are too dangerous, cars whiz by you and knock you off".

A few years ago at the tender age of 26 I decided to buy myself a mountain bike. When I told my mum over the telephone I might as well have been 14 again, "cars whiz by and knock cyclists off blah blah blah", so I did the whole "I’m a grown man mother, if I want a mountain bike I will exercise my right as a fully grown man to be a grown up...." etc, etc, etc.

So off I go on my shiny new 18-geared aluminium framed "Giant" to discover the joys of 2-wheeled self-propelled travel, and fuck me if cars don’t whiz by you inches away almost knocking you off. Those main roads are death traps!

Mum knows best.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 11:55, Reply)

when I got a B- in *one* subject - my lowest grade
my parents got me a weekend tutor!

They said they were 'sick of my nonsense', and they'd looked around for a tutor who wouldn't put up with said 'nonsense'.

Apparently she was very strict, believed in self-discipline blah blah blah...

Strangly enough, after a while I quite looked forward to going.

In hindsight, my parents may have taken certain phrases in the ad overly literally.


(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 11:33, Reply)

Strict / True to their word
My mum and my step-dad used to tell me not to be naughty when I was a nipper and issue the following threat: "Don't be naughty or we'll send you away to boarding school with all the other naughty boys and girls".

I always saw this as an empty threat - surely my mummy would never be so cruel. Sure enough, true to their word and strict as fuck my parents send me from London to Bruton in Somerset to a state funded comprehensive boarding school.

Utter Bastards. So to any naughty boys and girls reading this instead of doing your homework - Listen to your parents when they threaten to punish you - because one day they will!
(aroe_m0rre, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 10:47, Reply)

Staying with the G Parents
I had to crash friday and saturdays at my nans (dads mum and dad) across town from the ages of about 10 to 14. This was 20 years back from now

At heart, they would help out anyone. But, there was a price.

No ITV (putrid) no Benny Hill (very putrid). I was no allowed to know best on anything. Whether it was something i knew about or not.

Computers would never last, the car pressure washer thingy was not to be used as the first time the ballcock in the roof went wrong and that was either me or the washer. (it was neither and a random failure)

Bizarrely 9.05pm everynight was coffee time (just before bed?) and 7.30am was time to get up to go shopping. Sainsburys by 930am, back home for 11 and then back to tescos for around 1.30. *sweet jesus do both at the same time as they were NEXT to each other*

I was banned from everything. the knitting machine was probably the best fun there - and making a jumper of my own in a crazy design would make it just about bearable.
But no, after i successfully made a back to my jumper i was then banned -FOREVER- from using the machine. It was also consigned to the loft for its part in usurping the G Rents from their position of power.

They would also never buy their council house (even with the long term tenant pukka deal) as it was a terrace and they would not own the 2 walls either side. They lived their for 55 years all told and paid rent the whole time.

My dad was banned from leaving school - and did so at 14 as you could then. He got a job, and then was banned from marrying my mum 3 years later. 18 years and one day old my day marries my mum to near eternal slip from grace.

I tell you it has taken me 20 years to pick myself up from this type of family pain. It sounds so innocous, but 4 years of this really gives the 10 year olf character a hit.

I even hit my dad on GCSE day as he gave a line( not his fault but his conditioning) - "only 1 B, if you got that for that - why not for everything else". Delivered as per my nans style.

Aaarrrrghhhhh - splat.

Thats what strictness can do to you if its abitrarily applied to everything. At some point it snaps.

We are all good these days, but looking back those were strange old days.
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Mon 12 Mar 2007, 10:44, Reply)

ME NAN
was a bit dooooolally bless her little cottons,

she lived with us for years after my gramps died, and she was a source of great amusement due to the fact that she was going mental, but in the sweetest way.

Anyhoo, she banned us, despite it being my mums house, and unstablemum never did anything to prevent this by the way, from drinking fizzy pop, then milk within about 5 hours of each other, in case it curdled in our stomachs.

bollocks.

so if we came in at 7 from an afternoon of footer, we couldnt have a refreshing drink of corona cherryade (gods own drink) AND a nice relaxing glass of milk before bed at ten.

FFS.
(UnstableDan Bah, Humbug! ooooh, humbugs, nyom!, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 10:35, Reply)

Banned from cycling
My parents were terrified that my sister and I were going to get knocked over by a car in the street if we went out cycling.

So despite purchasing two £100 bikes for us, we were then not allowed to ride them in any place where there might be traffic. In short, anywhere outside our house.

Needless to say, two £100 bikes were advertised for sale in the local rag a few months later.
(turquoise, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 9:39, Reply)

Can't touch this...
My friend Richard was banned by his parents from touching street lights, telegraph poles, electricity pylons and the like, presumably because they were under the impression that he'd one day climb one and get killed to death.

This was knowledge beaten into him with an iron fist by God-fearing parents that wouldn't let him fart without written permission.

So they told him that they were all wired to the mains and had 240 volts running through them, certain death to anyone damn fool enough to touch one.

This all came to a head the first time we played hide-and-seek with him in the street. The counting post was the street light outside our house, and Richard was understandbly reluctant to take his turn.

"Look, Rich," says I making to touch the street light, "there's nothing to worry about."

"DON'T TOUCH IT! DON'T TOUCH IT! YOU'LL DIE!!!"

I touched it, and didn't die.

Poor Richard, people really do wee their trousers when they're scared.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 8:52, Reply)

Eeek...
Countless years ago when I was a child of 16 (three), I had a good friend in school called, and for the sake of protection, lets say, Robert. One weekend when his parents were to be out of the house, he invited me to stay overnight. I got on well with this lad and was one of my best mates, so happily agreed.

Said to parents on Friday "Going to stay at Roberts tommorow", to which they werent too fussed about and just said "thats nice". However, over dinner, father asks me why I was invited to stay the night, to which I replied "His parents are out". As soon as meal was finished, he took me upstairs to have what he told me was going to be "a serious talk".

Basically, he was worried about his parents not being there, in case there was a fire in the house or something : I thought of this in my head as just being regular parent worries, and assured him we would be fine. However, next question was : "Has Robert ever touched you in a place you didn't want to be touched?". I responded "No, of course not!". Next of course was "Is Robert straight?". I responded "Yes". However, these answers weren't enough to convince him it was a good idea, so they wouldn't let me go! I spent the next 2 hours trying to formulate something else to say to Robert when he asks why I couldn't stay than "My Dads afraid you'll bum me".

You know what the REALLY scary thing is about this? I only recently got talking to him again after we lost contact when we were 17 (im 19 now) and he is completly 100% openly gay, has a boyfriend and everything. Did I mention he resembles a beach ball? Might have actually narrowly escaped that one...
(LiquidRogue Powerful tiny fists..., Mon 12 Mar 2007, 2:31, Reply)

The perils of being my mother's child...
My mother is a former Avon lady. She also has stick-straight hair.
She happened to give birth to a then-tomboy with natural ringlets.

When I was young, a good two hours or so would be spent getting my hair soaking wet (and thus curlier, thank you, you twat) and trying to comb it straight. Because "that's the only hair [she] knows how to take care of". Unfortunately, my mother wasn't familiar with tending to a small child's bloody scalp.

When I got older, anything that would call for my leaving the house would be met with "you need to put some makeup on". However, I wasn't allowed to apply it. Because I "don't know how, because [I've] never sold it".

Sweet. Jesus.
(Fnooklemop, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 1:41, Reply)

my old man
my old man had some wierd rules... for some reason as a kid he would never let me watch "Why Don't You" on TV, saying it was a load of bollocks (which admitedly it was, but I never noticed at the time).
Secondly, he would never buy Coke or other canned drinks, we had to make all our pop with a Soda Stream.
Thirdly, he hated the concept of junk food; I didn't eat a McDonalds until I was about 12.
When I became 18, I thought my troubles would be over, but he sat me down and told me that now I was old enough to vote if I ever voted Conservative he'd disown me.

But he let me drink beer since I was about 14 years old and didn't even get annoyed when I got a night in the cells for possession of weed.
(bitchman contains mild peril, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 1:30, Reply)

Toilet
This kid I know Luke has older parents. Fair enough. All of our parents are older than us. But these are the Daily Mail Hyacinth Bucket Variety and their downstairs toilet is set aside for use only by the Queen. Not even Luke is allowed to use it.

Now I was round my other mate Jared's house with a few other mates and we decided to go for a little walk round the faceless housing estate he lived on, picking Luke up on the way.

We arrived and luke's house and rang the doorbell. Jared, being acquainted with Luke's mum and dad lapped up the welcome and conversation they gave him as luke prepared hisself for later.

My other mate Spraggs saw the golden opportunity to go and take a shit in the sacred guarderobe. We all know Spraggs, or all know a Spraggs. The cheery chappy everyone loves, with a glint in his eye and a nose for mischief. Anyway. As Jared engaged Mr and Mrs Luke in conversation and Lamming and myself waited outside, unbeknownst to us spraggs crept inside, opening the door to the sacred piss place across the hall.

He then, in full view of me and Lamming who were standing in teh doorway, pulled down his pantaloons and sat on the sacred stool admiring the hideous plates with kittens on that clung to the vile pink wall.

the guffaws from the doorway became too much and mrs luke went to have a look at what the source of the mirth could be. And to her horror, as she turned round the corridoor what did she see? Spraggs, sitting on her throne, squeezing out a fresh one. "'Allo Mrs Luke" he grinned and she slammed the door in his face.

Spraggs opened the door after two minutes of exclamations of "it's a big 'un!" and "ooooh it wont flush!" to a flabberghasted pair of parents and 3 spotty oiks pissing themselves with laughter.
(Papa Chocolat, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 23:57, Reply)

You poor people
My parents are mint...well my Dad anyway. I came home one day with twenty five quid's worth of hash and rather than going mental he went out, bought a load of Green and Black's organic chocolate and made the most spectacular triple chocolate space cakes EVER.

I also found some weed that I thought I'd lost but it was about a year old and he offered to "test" it to see if it was still okay, never got the fucking stuff back.
( Spazzcat jam out with your clam out, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 22:33, Reply)

I once had
a bar of soap scraped in my mouth so that bits all got stuck in my teeth.

by my dad

for telling my mom to fuck off

I was nine.

never did it again

hhmmmm
(never-right -getting it wrong since '78, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 22:10, Reply)

Not me but a twisted fantasy
My parents divorced when I was 17. It was amicable and I wasn't screwed up too much by it - they just needed to be apart. The problem, however, was that my dad's new girlfriend was a red hot 24 year-old redhead with long legs, a prize-winning bust and hips that haven't been since since Marilyn croaked. I once shot in my pants just watching her eat strawberries. And she was a dominatrix at a local 'dungeon'.

I can't tell you how many times I watched her change into her work clothes before going out. She'd wear a skintight black latex corset with lacing up the front so that her considerable cleavage was visible. She wore fishnet stockings, latex panties and a suspender belt. She wore ultra-high heels in red leather. I saw all of this through the keyhole of their room (so I also knew that her pubic hair was shaved into a cute heart.)

Anyway, one day while I was urgently handling my tool and looking through the keyhole, she rushed to the door and caught me in the act. She dragged me into the room, threw me on the bed and stood over me in second-skin latex. That didn't help the boner at all.

"So, you like to watch do you?" she said.
"A bit ..."
"You're a naughty boy, aren't you?"
"Er, yes."
"Here, unlace me."

My shaking fingers worked at the lacing up her front and soon her swelling breasts burst forth, bouncing unapologetically before my eyes with erect rasberry nipples. I felt like my schlong would fossilise, so hard was it. She sat on the bed and lifted her legs up:

"Pull my panties down."

Shaking now with Parkinsons-like quivers, I hooked my fingers into the latex at her hips and slowly pulled down those rubber pants along her endless legs, leaving her with just the stockings and suspenders on. She spread her legs and let me see the heart.

"Naughty boys should be put to work. Lick here," she said, pointing to her clit with a red manicured nail. And I went to work, lapping at the soft flesh as she ground her hips and made low animal noises. Unbidden, I set some fingers to work and watched her body writhe and jiggle, her stomach stretching sinuously. When she came, my tongue was fully extended inside her and I believe I felt her muscles contract around it.

She sat up and regarded my rigid tool, which by now could have played the xylophone. She took it in her right hand and began to work it with agonising slowness, stroking it and fluttering fingers across the tip. With the other hand, she cupped my balls, squeezing gently. I just fixated on her giant tits, willing myself to remember every second of this.

In no time, I felt an orgasm building from my very heels. It swelled and rushed with locomotive force through my tubes and burst forth in powerful gushes, striping her breasts and neck. Even as I was expelling the final geysers, she bent and took the still spraying head into her soft, full lips and sucked the final drops from my exhausted reservoirs.

Then she went off to work, leaving me drained and shellshocked. Strict? My real mum would just have slapped me.


EDIT: My wife is away at the moment. I am feeling the strain.
(frankspencer, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 21:58, Reply)

Not me but...
In my youth I was good friends with a lad who had quite old parents, who were often quite strict or a bit odd about things.

Anyway, one time I was around his house playing Mortal Kombat II or whatever we'd recently been addicted to, and he was called downstairs for his dinner. He made a big point of telling me not to come downstairs whilst he was eating or his parents would get mad.

After a while curiosity got the better of me and using my best 12 year old stealth skills I poked my head at just the right angle to spy him eating his dinner... to discover that he was sat awkwardly in a rather small baby chair - the sort with the fixed tray or whatever.

Now, I'd always noticed this was in his living room, but he'd always swore he never used it and his parents just kept it for some nostalgic reason or something.

The scary truth was out! Though he completely denied it when I revealed this discovery to others as revenge for some playground mockery.

We drifted apart as we got older, I was a geek and he was all about football, not the best social mix at school. The last I heard he'd got quite fat and is now a gay.

Length? Just big enough to squeeze into something child-sized I guess.
(thing in a jar prepare the mindbeam!, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 21:17, Reply)

Not me but an aquaintance...
There's a girl I go to college with who's with this odd idealistic group/cult/religion. These people intend to combine all races and religions into one big...thing and make the world a super-happy-fun place! So political incorrectness is a big no-no.

Guess what book I bought last week that's choc-a-bloc with politcal incorrectness and racism?

Yes, the B3ta bumper book of sick jokes.

Guess who decided to read all the various racial and spaztic jokes?

Yep... me.

Guess who went off in streams of tears and got her lunatic parents in on the case...

Guess who got the fire and brimstone end of the parent's rage?

No, not me. HER.

It was a scary thing, apparently this super-fun-group recommend to their younglings that violence is the key to unbelievers.

They wanted her to hit me for making various slurs... sweet jesus.
(Good Looking Deity Grew a magnificent beard on, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 20:54, Reply)