Innocence Lost! If found, please call!
You might think that alcohol is a wonderful thing. I used to too. However, I was forced to changed my opinion about that one late evening in the autumn of 2006.

Let me take you back... *wavy lines*

I was living, after the disastrous breakdown of a relationship, with my Mum back in Essex, having made the decision to return to my native south from the frozen wasteland that calls itself Wakefield. By strange coincidence, my mother’s marriage had fallen apart at pretty much the same time.

So there we were, mother and son, still smarting from the breaks that still marked our hearts. We sat in the garden, soaking up the last of the setting sun, smoking John Player Specials, setting the world to rights, and drinking – without pause or hesitation – a huge bottle of Bacardi between us. It was a great evening, the first time we had talked (properly talked, I mean) in years.

And so it was, at about 10 o’clock, that my mother decided to throw away something that I will never get back. Right in front of my face, no less. My childish innocence that I was conceived by immaculate conception and my mother remained pure as the driven snow.

Shakily, she sat forward. Solemnly, she placed her glass on the table, and fixed me with one of her crystal gazes.

“D’you wanna know something?” She slurred, her eyes crossing slightly.
“Wha?” I replied, trying to work out which of her I should be paying attention to.
“I’ll... I’ll bloody well tell you. Listen. No, listen. “ big pause. And then:

”I’ve never had an orgasm.”

My brain took about three quarters of a second to process this. Synapses fired, my liver went in to overdrive, and I sobered up in a quarter of a second. One second after this gargantuan bombshell had been dropped, and I was stone cold sober. And, for the first time in my short but colourful life, speechless. But she wasn’t finished yet.

“I was married to to to him for TEN YEARS, and I could count the amount of times we had sex on one hand.”

Oh no. Oh Baby Jesus, NO! Why is she telling me this? Quick, change the subject.

“Oh look mum, we’ve run out of cigarettes, I’ll go and get some more...”

“No you won’t. Siddown. Three times I’ve been married. THREE. TIMES. And the nearest I got to sexual gra... gratifi... grantnfication was driving on the rumble strips on the way to Tesco.”

After that, she collapsed in to mumbling. I retired to bed, shell-shocked. We have never spoken of it again.




Until, that is, she enthusiastically told me that she’s never had it so good, or so often, as she has with her new man. So good for them.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 10:14, 20 replies)

Easy Cum...Easy Go?

I only ever had 3 Star Wars Figures…and I inherited them…but they were ‘limited edition’ and therefore very special to me.

They were hand-crafted by Italian master sculptors and were made from core materials extracted from the Nakhlite found in Antarctica that proved the existence of micro-biotic life on Mars.

Each one was encased in purest Rhodium, and when switched on had advanced Artificial Intelligence, animatronic technology, fully functional weaponry and the real ability to use the Force.

My favourite was ‘Ley-Mi Broco’ – The rarest of all Star Wars Characters. He was based on the bisexual love interest from George Lucas’ very first teenage wet dream. Ley-Mi actually features for 0.42 seconds in the Muppets’ Star Wars Special; where he can be spotted behind Fozzie Bear, tenderly fondling a Neomosian goat-pig.

Amongst his list of included accessories was an actual No.1 Edition of 2000AD, hand drawn and signed by José Ferrer on the back of a penny black stamp, shrunk to Star Wars figure size using radioactive miniaturisation techniques outlawed after the famous 'Wilton Midget' incident of the 1950s.

Most impressive was Ley-Mi’s lengthy detachable phallus that only worked in conjunction with my one-of-a-kind Princess Leia ‘Bondage-meat’ figure. She came equipped with capacious vaginal cavity, bendable knee-joints for ‘backdoor battle-damage’ and some genuine pubic hair from Carrie Fisher herself (trimmed without her knowledge during her spacked out, cocaine fuelled ‘Postcards From The Edge’ years).

The Droid I had was ‘4Q2B-atch’, who was a cheeky chappie made from melted down signed vinyl prints of ‘Dark Side of the Moon’. He was capable of showing a holographic projection explaining the meaning of life, the location of Mapungubwe (the lost city of gold), but more importantly detailing the exact whereabouts of the lay-by in Slough where my pr0n collection was stashed.

Most of my lonely childhood was spent blissfully bashing my beef bazooka as I watched Ley-Mi go to work on Leia, teaching her a lesson she sorely needed on her wobble-able right buttock with his rolled up copy of 2000AD…as 4Q2B-atch filmed the glorius, intergalactic goings-on with fervent glee…

So as you can no doubt imagine, these toys were pretty important to me.

However, not even 5 minutes after I had left home for technical college, my mum drugged the Dobermans, bribed the guards with offers of sex, swapped the tapes on the high-tech, night-vision infra-red surveillance cameras, and did a ‘Catherine-Zeta-Jones-esque’ gymnastic number to avoid the complex laser-guided security system; before lifting my collection from its sensor pad, cunningly swapping it with a Tesco Value box of dumpling mix to counter the weight, then twatting the lot into the nearest council skip.

My collection was worth the equivalent of the Japanese National Debt, and upon discovering what she had done I was quite understandably upset…but my mum simply insisted that she 'didn't realise' it meant that much to me because I 'didn’t play with it anymore’, and besides...she ‘needed the loft-space’.

It is only now, as this QOTW has forced me to recall this repressed memory from all those years ago, that I finally understand…and actually… she did have a point...

I mean, they were only toys after all.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 18 Aug 2008, 11:34, 11 replies)

The illusionary comfort of memory
I recall remembering Christmasses long past, which once rewarded me with the sort of foggy-edged softness that reminded me of warm jumpers, fairy lights, The Wizard of Oz and the delightful suspense of discovering exactly what was hiding within the gift wrapping, bearing my name on a handwritten tag.

Instead I now see them sensing the barely contained paternal rage waiting for it's moment to burst forth, the glue of fear being applied to ensure the family did exactly as we were told. The cold disinterest from my father, who'd turn on me with unrestrained rage should I dare interrupt him from his peanuts, sweets and the running commentary as he indulged us all the enjoyment of the 1950s musicals on television.

I'm sure I remember the joy of opening many, many presents bearing my name, discovering that inside each one was a model railway locomotive or scale rolling stock. How lucky I was to receive so many gifts like this! I was extremely fortunate.

Yet today, it's tinged with bitterness that unwrapping the boxes was as close as my father allowed me to get to his trains before they were carried up into the loft, never to be seen again. I was merely an excuse for him to justify spending a small fortune on himself.

I fondly remember the way my mother used to pick me up when I grazed my knee and how I'd suddenly feel better. How my tears of shock and pain would be transformed into laughter.

Yet I now recall the sense of despair at my mother, for being unable to stop my father from hitting us when he decided that he was going to give eight year old me a boxing lesson and got carried away, leaving me with several bruises all over my face to explain away at school the next day. My mother's bruises were always hidden from view.

I'm positive I remember the fascination I had with the tropical fish who swam in the fish tank which sat in the stone alcove in our living room. I'd watch them for hours as they swam and swam, utterly oblivious to the world beyond the glass boundaries of their safe little sanctuary. There's something so peaceful and calming about tropical fish.

I know about the unrelenting beating my elder brother received when he was seven years old, because he was not strong enough to bear the weight of the aquarium and the water as my father attempted to retrieve the syphon hose to empty the dirty water. He ended up cowering behind the sink in the downstairs toilet as the blows came raining down until my father's rage was sated. Twenty minutes later it started over again.

Today, my relationship with my mother is strained. We talk frequently, yet I'm frustrated by the fact that she is unwilling to take control of her life and strive to achieve her goals. I wish I could do more to help mitigate the sadness she seems to carry around with her.

I'm furious towards my mother. She's never condemned my father, nor summoned the courage to leave him. It was easier for her to pass the responsibility for Dad's rages onto her children "you know your father tends to discipline people when they do something he doesn't like", than to take control of the situation and get away. I'd even forgive her now if she upped, left and enjoyed her remaining years in peace, but every time she tries, she finds an excuse to go running back.

I have somehow become my father's best friend. He emails me junk every day and seems to value my opinion. I have somehow gained his respect, but I'm not entirely sure how. Perhaps it is the passing of the years?

I'm my father's only friend. I've learned to forgive his violent excesses against me, for carrying around the fallout would still hurt long after he's dead and gone. Sometimes I want to beat some sense into him when he takes his endless frustrations out on my mother, but I know that will only make her situation worse. The only comfort I can take is that I am not the man my father is, nor will I ever be.

These days family gatherings are sparse due to the distances involved. My brother and I remain close, yet things are strained between him and our father. We always make sure mum has a great time when she's with us though. My brother is emigrating in a few weeks. I'm happy for him, yet saddened that the family ties I always hoped for seems to be slowly growing frayed.

My brother hasn't spoken to our father since the last time mum tried to leave him, three years ago. I am deeply saddened that my brother and his family are moving abroad, his children brought my mother a lot of happiness. I'm meeting my brother and mother next weekend for a farewell party, possibly for the very last time we'll all be together.

Of course, I'll make an effort to stay in touch with everyone now that we've grown older and gone our separate ways. I look back at those old fuzzy memories and wonder if I'll ever know a family life in the same way again, or if it's gone forever.

My parents have recently moved house at the behest of my father, far enough away to ensure that my mother cannot see her granddaughters as often as she likes because it was easier for my father to blame my brother and sister-in-law for the fact that mum would return home tearful and unhappy after visiting them. It was easier to do this than to accept his own guilt. I cannot believe how he could actually do this out of sheer spite. I wish everything about my dysfunctional family had turned out so very different, I can't release myself from the nagging thought that maybe if I'd had my eyes open and realised something was wrong so many years earlier it would have?
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 15 Aug 2008, 15:04, 22 replies)

Throwing stuff out
Recently had the task of helping clear out my mate's house after he died.

The task of disposing the pron fell onto myself and was detailed here:

thefuzzyspot.blogspot.com/

I know it's not technically an answer to the qotw but it was his funeral yesterday :(
(Heyzeus, Thu 14 Aug 2008, 22:21, 8 replies)

Cousins, eh?
Sort of related, but still quite funny. My Mum had recently come back from Israel and had bought some holy water from the Jordan or whatever, because being a religious type, she will keep it for all future Grandchildren's christenings and such. Bless.

Anyway, my cousin who lives in London had moved out of his place but needed to crash somewhere for two weeks while his new place was being prepared, so we offered to put him up. Being a London type, he is one of those guys who enjoys one of those fruity, overpriced ciders over ice, and as long as he bought his own, we were quite happy to provide for him the ice and glass.

Anyway, one day my mother was in a panic, because she couldn't find the holy water. I asked her where she last saw it (the obvious question really) and she said she put it in an ice tray to preserve its holiness (apparently holiness has a use-by date) and then it was then that it clicked. Needless to say, my cousin was a bit ashamed that he had drunken a Magners with the holiest ice possible, but I found the whole fiasco quite amusing.
(kingh0 is grating the cheese of life, Sun 17 Aug 2008, 22:53, 5 replies)

Way back when Hitler was a cadet....
Kids received presents only at Christmas time and on birthdays, not every other week like they do nowadays. Back in our day, any presents were a real treat and greatly valued.

Growing up, my folks had very little dosh; certainly none to be spared on such frivolities as store-bought toys. All of my playmates were lovingly home-made. Jemima was crafted from a pillowcase and her blue & white stripey legs were from an old nightie. She had thick brown woolly hair tied in bunches, her blue eyes and orange crescent shaped mouth patiently sewn in place. She was originally intented as a replica of the Jemima doll from Play School ("Which window shall we look through today?") only my mother excelled herself and my Jemima was far superior. She was the nearest I had to a sister and accompanied me everywhere. We fought like cat and dog; all my childhood frustrations were vented on Jemima as I pummelled her head, yet she set a sterling example of smiling through the pain.

As I progressed through the 10-year-old horse-mad girlie phase, my ultimate dream of having my own pony was sated with the inception of Bobbins. He was a 5' grey legless donkey, whose body was stuffed with old blankets. He had a lovely soft cuddly head, with the most empathic eyes. My mother even fashioned a bridle and saddle from faux leather, left over from recovering a dining chair. Oh, the adventures we had! Sometimes Jemima would ride behind me, her skinny pink arms tied around my waist. Bobbins was my confidante throughout adolescence. I cried rivers of tears into his cuddly neck, whispering secrets of first crush heartbreak.

My mothers piéce de resistance was Emu. Woolworths stocked the blue fluffy ones, but all the kids in our lane were jealous of mine. His legs were crafted from an old pair of cream evening gloves, leaving three stuffed fingers on each for his feet. He even had knee joints made with two fingers stuffed and sewn together, fixed horizontally in the middle of each leg. The left over sleeve of one glove made his neck, with a length of blue fuzzy fabric down the back to match his body. His head was bulked up with a rolled up pair of tights. His body was lined with black tassles (together with his mad plastic eyes, these were the only puchased appendages).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fast forward 16 years.........

I returned to Blighty from my Greek life, pregnant with Sweary Jr, my heart in tatters, my life broken. PTSD left my eyes hollow - my soul had been gouged out with a plastic spoon. My father was brow beating me to submit that abortion was my only realistic option. But that's another can of worms... When I couldn't go through with it (this baby was very much wanted and planned) on my return from hospital, having "failed" to do "the sensible thing", I had to ask his permission to have my own child - because at the time i was again living under his roof.

My mother, bless her millions, had accompanied me to my appointment for the scan - I was too far pregnant for a standard abortion, I would have had to have labour induced and give birth. She broke down when I did, and promised to support me whatever decision I made. Hey, did I have a choice? "Of course you do!" assured the kind nurse, "it's not too late to change your mind, you don't have to go through with this!"
To which I sobbed, "My mind was never set on this - it's the last thing I want."

So my dear mother did her royal best to ease the situation. She took me to Mothercare and bought baby bootees and maternity clothes. But life as a single parent? That had never been in my game plan. But I knew, somehow, we'd manage.

In part of her encouragement, she asked if I wanted to keep Emu et al for my baby to enjoy. One of my few regrets in this life was the callous decision I made to bin the lot. I no longer had time for soppy sentiment after all I'd endured. This was not the life I'd planned but I'd have to toughen up and be practical. I'd lost so much of my heart and soul, what value could any material possesions have?

So my priceless childhood companions, all made with so much love, were bagged and put out for the bin men. My mother sobbed throughout the whole macabre process. It sounds wet, but a little piece of her heart broke that day. At my own instigation, she wasn't just throwing away my cherished chums, but my former care-free, innocent, happy little self.

(Apologies for soppiness - this place ain't half a cathartic vent sometimes. And apologies for length - it all just came spurting out ;o) Promise to resume to usual swearage ASAP.)
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 17:30, 17 replies)

Lost some youth, but found some manhood….(and then some)…

I was 16, and after flying through my minimum-wage G.C.S.E results, I had a sense of unbridled joy when I was accepted into Art College in London. Unfortunately, there were a few minor stumbling blocks preventing me from living this particular teen-dream…

I lived in the Midlands…and was quite spectacularly skint.

My parents were very poor also and unable to help, but I was determined. I applied for a grant and after contacting the local student accommodation board, I managed to wrangle a small (and more importantly, cheap) flat in the big city.

I was on my way.

It may be hard to imagine now, but in my youth I was quite a strapping, handsome boy – a little naive in the ways of women perhaps, but always very willing to please.

When the day finally arrived I bid my parents farewell, flung my bag over my shoulder and didn’t look back as I took my first tentative steps towards becoming a man.

On arrival in London, I was taken aback by the bright lights and vibrant atmosphere…I couldn’t wait to become a part of it. The locals were very friendly and someone kindly took my bags for me so I didn’t have to carry them. They even promised to deliver them to my new address for just 10 pounds!

It was a little difficult finding my flat but eventually I stumbled across it in the back streets and with my heart racing I excitedly tapped upon the slightly mouldy front door.

It was eventually answered by Randy, my landlord-to-be. There was something a bit different about him that I could not quite put my finger on…6’ 7”, impeccably dressed, wearing a pink neckerchief, whistling showtunes and demonstrating a stunning sense of interior design…’I’ve never seen anyone like this before’, I pondered happily to myself – ‘that’s life in the big city!’

‘G-G-Good M-Morning, sir’ I stammered nervously, handing him a piece of paper with the address scrawled on it. ‘H-H-Have I come to the right place?’

‘Oooooooooh Ducky, I should coco’ exclaimed Randy, flapping his wrist about enthusiastically with one arm on his hip. ‘Step this way Daahhhling’. He beckoned me inside with his finger before turning and mincing meaningfully up the passageway.

My room was small and gloomy, but the step towards independence was incredibly empowering. I made myself at home and thanked Randy for his hospitality.

‘Oooh don’t worry about it my love,’ said Randy. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast…and if you ever need anything….and I mean ANYTHING…you just let me know sweetie…ok?’ Randy winked at me and trotted off to his room next door.

Despite my bags not arriving (surely due to some postal error), I soon received my other worldly goods from home delivered from my parents, the place was soon filled with everything I owned and I settled in nicely.

The days turned into weeks, my course was going well and I found myself fascinated and inspired by the incredible diversity of culture in this truly great city. Randy was always very helpful (he made a delicious, if slightly salty, porridge for breakfast every morning) and he was always on hand to ask me if I was properly satisfied.

(I never found out what Randy did for a living…I suspect it was an amateur Impressionist or something, because as I was studying I regularly heard different male voices from his room in various states of merriment, interspersed with strange ‘grunting’ noises…I put it down to just another part of his wonderfully outgoing, colourful personality.)

So everything was going great, until one fateful day when I arrived at my room, opened the door…and saw that everything I owned…had gone.

Randy was stood in the middle of the room surrounded by boxes, and he assertively informed me that I had to leave immediately; as he had plans to convert my room into a miniature exhibition hall.

When I meekly enquired what he planned to exhibit, he proudly proclaimed ’It’s a celebration…entitled ‘Spunk Of The World!’

As I approached Randy, beseeching him to reconsider, I noticed that every box near him contained thousands of jars of all different sizes… each one containing a carefully measured lump of purest cock-custard…from tiny pipettes to 10 gallon tanks – everywhere I looked there was oodles and oodles of man fat. He had carefully arranged every jar into the different continents and oceans – from his prized ‘African Collection’ (Gazelle / Mosquito / Elephant etc) to the ‘Pacific Rim’ (Mollusc to Blue Whale), he certainly seemed to have a bewildering array of jitler-juice.

One of the larger boxes was simply labelled ‘Man’ and Randy said that it was in this container that he stored the filthy yogurt of his many frequent gentlemen callers. He explained that he had an initial problem with the Man-muck going stale as he had run out of refrigerator space; so he had introduced a ‘rotation policy’ which meant that every time he obtained a new batch of jizz, he threw the oldest stuff into my daily porridge.

I couldn’t believe what was happening…I dropped to my knees in an effort to appeal to his generous nature and begged: ‘I’ve got nowhere else to go…please… just let me stay here…I’ll do anything…’

Randy considered this for a minute, then raised one eyebrow: ‘Oh go on then’, he said to my immense relief, ‘I’ll set the exhibition up in the kitchen. Here, help me move these boxes will you?’

I puffed and struggled as I helped Randy lug his multitude of sex-peptides into the kitchen. Before long, the sweat was dripping off me as I was made to carry the heavier boxes on my own (you’d be amazed at the sheer density of White Rhino cum I tell you – it’s like mercury!)

In my drenched state I removed my shirt...as the sweat dripped down my bare chest it seemed to ignite a spark in Randy’s eyes and he scuttled off…but as I went to my room to retrieve the last box I found him…

He had stripped totally bollock naked except for his ‘Fred from Scooby Doo’ neckerchief and stood there with a raging foot long boner that resembled an extra thick and spicy Pepperami with a veiny pink Satsuma nailed to the end of it.

Respecting his privacy, I turned my head and enquired where all my belongings were so I could retrieve them…

He replied: ‘Everything is locked away sweetcheeks…and THIS is the key to getting it back!’, pointing towards his throbbing mutton musket.

After a moment’s consideration into what sort of locksmith would invent a keyhole that requires a massively erect tallywaggle to gain entry, I asked him to clarify what he meant…

‘I mean…suck this, BITCH!’ He cried, as he stepped forward, grabbed the back of my head and forced it down onto his bulging schlong

As soon as I made initial contact, his hips started thrunging and plunging at nineteen-to-the-dozen...as if my mouth was a clogged up sink and he was trying to unblock it with his bell-end alone.

I must admit, I didn’t appreciate him forcing my head back and forth quite so vigorously…it wasn’t just that my gag reflex was suffering quite badly, but I also knew that I’d be picking pubes out of my teeth for the next fortnight at least.

After a while of rampant tonsil-nudging I glance down and see his toes begin to curl upwards like a jester’s shoes. At this point I ask if he would like a jar to deposit his own fast approaching willy-wallpaper-paste. He replies: ‘Naah…swallow it right down, you little Man-ho’, and I am rapidly reminded of the taste of that morning’s breakfast when he coughed his hot clotted cock-cream down my throat...and dribbled some down my chin.

The very next morning…as I opened my bedroom door after college I discovered everything had been put back perfectly…just as it was…and there was crisp fiver on my pillow, next to a note thanking me for a ‘job’ well done.

So the truth is, Gentle reader, I didn’t actually lose anything because I had all my possessions returned…but I still think the story applies to this QOTW because it was very much a case of...

…

drumroll…


Blowin' a gay: the spluff I’ve lugged and noshed.



He certainly didn’t apologise for length, so I don’t see why I should.


Disclaimer: I would like to take this opportunity to humbly, grovellingly and sincerely apologise for the use of overtly homophobic ‘Carry on’ style gay stereotyping simply for crap comedy purposes
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 19 Aug 2008, 12:19, 19 replies)

I've posted this before
...but this REALLY hurts.

My Grandfather was an English professor - in the 70s it was his expert testimony that enabled the Sex Pistols to call their LP 'Never Mind The Bollocks' as he attested 'bollocks' was not technically an obscene word.

The band gave him a copy of the LP signed by them all, thanking him for his pivotal assistance.

My lovely old gran gave it to Oxfam in the 80s, unplayed.

AaaaaaAAAAAAAaaaAAAAARRRRGhhHHHHH!!!!


Incidentally during the trial the prosecution tried to belittle my grandfather; 'so, you're an expert on the word 'bollocks' are you?', they asked him (he was wearing his vicar's dog collar for added effect).

'Oh, no', he replied, 'I can tell you all about 'fuck' and 'shit' too'.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 13:50, 5 replies)

Not quite thrown away, more just dropped
I was only about 4 or five and my Nan had come over to visit.
She was my favouritist relative, nice, kind always had time for me (thinking about it, would have been more fitting to mourn her loss here, but what am I gonna do). Anyway, the new fangled one pound coin had just been issued and my Nan thought the first thing she would do after getting out of the car was to treat each of her three Grandsons to a brand new, never seen before by my specky four eyes, real life ONE POUND COIN. It was soooooo shiny. It was worth a fucking whole pound. In a coin. That was like magic to a small child.
So, there I was holding this thing of wonder up to the light when, being the cack handed fuck I am, I drop it. It rolls under the car. My face is a picture of shock, it's as if Santa Claus has just raped and killed the Easter Bunny in front of me. I fall to the floor to see this golden nugget of joy rolling away.
Now, bearing in mind my Nan has just been in the Austin Maestro from hell for the last four and a half hours, I demand she moves the car so I can retrieve my pound, and she, the utterly lovely lady, obliges the small, teary eyed nugget dropper. But I can't find the fucking thing. I'm on my hands and knees searching wildly, little face collapsing with every passing second. So shitty must I have looked my Nan says she'll get me another pound coin, but my bitch whore of a mother says "No! Little Monkeyboy must learn to look after his property, he shall have no more money!"
I'm in tears, snot streaming down my little face when my brother, sweet as you like, says he's found my coin. I rush over to him and see my pound, wedged deep down a gap in the concrete drive way. I grab a stick and try to prize this thing out. No, it's not coming. No matter what I do, no matter what is used, this thing ain't budging, and I'm left outside, all on my own, staring at this thing. Two-fucking-hundred halfpenny sweets. Right there. Centimeters away.
That bastard coin stayed there, haunting me for most of the 18 years I lived in that house, until, after drunkenly recounting this story to a friend the red mist descended. I found my dads sledge hammer, and I got that fucking pound back. Unfortunately I had to pay a lot more than that to my parents when they found a fuck off big hole in the middle of their drive.




But I got my pound back.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 17:16, 1 reply)

This is a hard one.
So what do I miss most of all? The single item that is missing?

The feeling that my parents will be there for me for the rest of my life.

So far I’ve had to stop typing 3 times so far because of the tears. It hits like a fucking stone. That feeling. If it hasn’t happened to you yet, you won’t know until it does. You may be really unlucky in that you won’t get that feeling, that your parents didn’t love you enough, or for whatever reason you didn’t love them.

6 times.

But if you’re lucky, like me, you’ve had an upbringing that wasn’t perfect, but you knew that your Mum and Dad would be there with you forever and ever.

10 times. I must be pissed.

But then a thief takes that feeling away. In my dad’s case it was cancer. After my Gran had had a stroke on Christmas Eve, the last day my father walked was at her funeral. Her funeral was on the 2nd of January. Dad died in May. We tried to keep a brave face throughout those months but we knew it was coming. My mum had lost her own mother and father in less than a year, and now her husband was terminally ill. For her it was horrific, for her children, tragic.

I felt angry. What the fuck was that about? (I had lived with Gran and Grandad), and then my parents had moved into our house. Mum? Why was this happening? Are you going to just fuck off and leave us as well? I was really angry at my mother, and didn’t really understand what she was going through. For about 3 years it felt like our family was falling apart. I didn’t help, that anger was always there.

Shit. About 18 or 19 times now.

The single biggest piece of growing up I’ve ever had to do is to realize that the people I love will no longer be there. I can’t change that. But there is one thing I can change.

Every time I speak to Mum now I tell her I love her. I might be angry at something, even at her. I might be at her house, or I might be on the phone. But I’ll tell her that I love her. Because this might be the last time that I ever speak to her. I might never get the

Fuck. Had to stop typing big time then.

I might never get the chance again.

Stop what you’re doing.

Do what I’m going to do now.
Pick up the phone and ring the person who matters most in your life and tell you that you love them.

To my Granddad, Gran, and Dad, I’m sorry I didn’t say it to you at the time.

I love you.

Mum, I still do.
( Occulus Swallowed, instead of spat, on, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 0:55, 10 replies)

Col Wilma Deering
Fans of the 80s Buck Rogers TV programme will remember Wilma Deering. She was blonde of hair, long of leg, and wore skintight green satin catsuits. I was so obsessed over her - my first crush - that I wrote to Jim'll Fix It so I could meet her, or watch her on the toilet, or anything just to be in the same room as her. I even made friends with a smelly retard at school (who was later transferred to a mental institution) because he had her sticker in the Buck Rogers sticker annual.

So imagine my ecstasy when a cousin in Pasadena, California, whose dad owned a laundrette that Wilma used to frequent said he could nick a pair of her panties and send them to me. He said they were very flimsy and silky. Just the thought of them gave me a boner for two weeks.

I virtually waited by the door until they arrived. And when they did, I rushed upstairs to open the package with the reverence I might have used to handle the True Cross with Jesus still on it (if I had been a Believer). They were - aptly enough - a silky green material and so soft that the mere touch of them in my hairy palms set off a rumbling in my nads.

They were clean, of course. Being an American, Corey (my cousin) would have had a schizophrenic epidsode if he'd had to handle dirty underwear. All the same - these were the very undergarments worn about the loins of Col Wilma Deering, whose arse had replaced any images I might have had of a Christian heaven. Just the sight of her moderately-sized breasts in that catsuit had already caused me to wank myself almost lame. And these were her PANTS!

Well, I must have spent the first three hours abusing myself with those delicate smalls draped across my face. Then I wrapped my throbbing tool in their coolness for one more eruption before I blacked out with effort. It was the beginning of a pattern that would see me almost hospitalised with onanistic activity over the coming weeks.

Then one day I came home from school to hear my mother telling me that she'd thrown away that 'green hanky' I'd left under my bed.

I howled a bestial cry of anguish and fell to the ground. I rolled and gnashed my teeth. I cried and blubbered like a litle girl with a bunch of nettles thrust up her arse crack. I was inconsolable.

"It was only a hanky," said my mother.

"No. NO! It was Wilma Deering's panties!" I yelled. "It was a godess' gusset! I have porked those crackers a hundred times and more! I have thrust my ardent young cock into their verdant folds and imagined her willowy hair about my balls on innumerable occasions! I have myself worn them to know my depleted testes in her pants!"

I didn't say those things. I said it had been my favourite 'hanky'. And by that time, Corey had been institutionalised for raping a pony and I had lost my supply line.
(frankspencer, Sun 17 Aug 2008, 17:04, 4 replies)

Erm, well, porn actually...
...and it wasn't particularly good porn either. But there are one or two elements here that maybe perk the cliche up.

First, my age at the time - Seven? Eight? Yes, it sounds bad, but...well, no 'but' I guess.

Second, the aesthetics. The dirty pr0n in question? Page 3 lovelies gleaned from my father's sultry copies of The Sun. Occasionally my collection would be suplemented by judicious use of the Littlewoods catalogue, depending on the time of year. As you can see, the bacontrout of yore had no small amount of class. And where to keep such a bounty of mammary!? Why, my very own official brand A-Team lunchbox thanks!

I kept this lunchbox under my bed, a bunk type contraption without the lower bunk. Instead, it had a sort of crawlspace, that by day was a useful place for toys and the like. Come the night, and it's time to break out my Fwap Commando Unit (Murdock and Face looking on approvingly) for...well I don't really know. This was an age before fwapping. To be blunt, I have never really questioned my motives at this delicate time, as who knows where that might go. Instead, I will explain it all away by merit of my vaguely obsessive collecting and categorising nature (think Lance in 'Neighbours' when he collects all those cricket stats. In fact don't, you'll feel better), coupled with my undeniable boob envy.

So, having regaled you for some time with a fairly obscure moment in my smut career, lets cut to it.

Of course my mum finds it. Of course she does. That much is obvious. How? Exactly, who fucking cares. She's my mum, it's her job. What is of note is the ensuing conversation...

*a cherubic bacontrout gambols through the front door, fresh from a days "top to bottom and flick and cross" (ahh good ole Zig-Zag - there is an obvious link between it's discontinuation and the rise in knife crime I feel), only to see his mum holding in her hand THE END OF HIS LIFE AS HE KNOWS IT (Murdock disapproving now)*

Mum - "Bacon, what are you supposed..." - these are the first fucking words out of her mouth, mind - "what are you supposed to put in your lunchbox?"

Me (looking down and swivelling my right toe into the floor) - "Sandwiches..."

Mum - "And what don't I want to find in there?"

*sigh*

Me - "Boobies."

Which was all a bit of a moot point really, as I never got the lunchbox back. She must have presumed it was designed for the job, and no other receptacle would do. In some respects, she was probably right.

So remember kids, if you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire...The Fwap Team DA DADA DAAAA DA DA DADAAAAAA
(bacontrout got ska, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 3:25, 3 replies)

I work at a museum of Medieval and Ancient History
and there's a fascinating Norse tapestry, wherein a Viking complains that his Mum threw away his 1000ADs.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 17 Aug 2008, 9:20, Reply)

Ashamed as I am
To agree with a Fenian (sorry CHCB but us Effnicks are officially allowed to beat each other up about how many of our ancestors were starved by the English), I have to say , and it will make me few friends (but bollox to it)....


You had a bunch of overpriced plastic shit, whose whole purpose was to make George Lucas or some Nipponese marketing cock-snot a frigging fortune. If you played with it as intended, it'll be worth shag all, not the £££££ on ebay everyone witters on about. Trust me, dribbled on Hans Solo fucking toys will never be on the Antiques Roadshow with some Bowtied toff blethering on about how it would be worth ten squillion quid 'if it had the original box'.

As for bods with complete collections of whatever, I detect either my billy-bullshit meter going into meltdown, or parents with too much money and too little time to tell the little teen-vulture to fuck off and get a life.

For Yellow Rubbery Fucks sake, there are millions starving in the world, the Cold War is kicking off again, we're in two wars, the useless bunch off arsefelching scum in power are effectively bum-raping you every second of the day and you're worried about a few plastic toys?

Grow.The.Fuck.Up.

And take Vipros' advice. If you have something "that would be worth ten billion squid on ebay", don't leave it in the coffin dodger's attic. Or your old room, that they were planning to turn into a study as soon as the surly adolescent had finally fucked off and stopped emptying the fridge and whining...


Awaits flameing and ignore. Yarrr...
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 20:41, 8 replies)

Proper Frank Spencer moment.
Many, many moons ago, I was addicted to Williams Defender. I could go in the arcade of my mis-spent youth and play for hours and hours on just one 10p.

Fast forward a couple of years and one morning I went into the arcade (was waiting outside for them to open to be honest, I really was *that* sad), put 10p in the slot and was happily playing for all of about 30 seconds when smoke started pouring out of the front of the screen and then all of a sudden caught fire.

The 10p had fallen straight through, thanks to the numpty that 'looked after' the machines not putting the coin tray back in place, and landed on the transformer shorting the whole thing out.

So, bang goes any more Defender playing for me - these things are as rare as rocking horse shite and even more expensive to buy.

Quite a few years later, and I still have the Defender madness.

Unbenknown to me at the time, there is a huge number of people rebuilding these types of machines and putting old PC's in them and running MAME.

I had the idea of making a MAME PC before I knew about this 'community' and was more-or-less designing this thing in my head when one Saturday I woke up quite early and thought, "fuck it, today I am actually going to get off my sorry arse and build this fucker", so went off to the local wood merchants, got a load of MDF, 2x2 and chipboard and set about making the box to the exact dimentions of an old Williams Defender (as that would be the primary game to be played on the box).

A few hours later (after sweating perfusly just sawing a bit of 2x2 in half and realising that there was a bloke hot-tarring the roof at the same time), I had the basics of a Defender lookalike.

Of course, to start with I was counter-sinking the screws carefully, laying the perspex into little cut grooves and generally taking a lot of care with the woodwork side of things.

Five minutes in, I was just wacking nails and screws into it just to make it good enough to hold it's own weight.

Anyway, once it was upright I soldered lots of wires into the back of an old keyboard and touching the wires together obviously showed on the screen which key they were wired to, so then soldered all the buttons etc...

Fast forward a few days and, viola! the machine is finished - well, it actually never got completely finished as once it started playing games, I would pop out to the garage to add the finishing touches and have 'just a quick game' which always meant playing 'till well past midnight.

Anyway, fast forward about 8 years and due to my ex misses buggering off and leaving me to pay her multitude of debts I had to sell the house (familiar story I'm sure).

Loads of crap got thrown away, a lot by my current girlfriend who, quite honestly was ruthless (bear in mind, I had a draw full of broken guitar strings that I just couldn't bring myself to throw away, so my idea of ruthless probably isn't the same as many peoples).

Finally, it came to clearing the garage out - I say 'garage', but over the years I built a bar in there with pumps, put fake olde worlde wooden beams in, a payhone, a fruit machine and more-or-less turned the place into a proper pub.

Well, the time came to move the MAME machine.

It was then that I realised that I had made an error in the magnitude of Frank Spencer realms.

Yep, it was far too wide for the door and far too tall to get out the other end of the garage.

No problem, thinks I. I'll just dissasemble it and reassemble it at the other end.

Of course, this would have been fine had I continued making the thing with the care and thought that I first put into it. Which I didn't.

Screws were welted through the wood and were not coming out without a fight.

Didn't happen. Slowly but surely it was dawning on my what had to happen.

I just couldn't do it. It was my friend of many years.

The last thing I heard was the cackling laughter of my girlfriend and my 'best mate' smashing the thing up to get it out the door and burning it in the garden.

I was, and for the most part still am, truly gutted.

Sorry for length and boredom rating, but I thought I'd post something a bit different to 'my virginity was taken', 'my porn stash was nicked' or 'my drugs went missing'.
(dchurch bah, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 9:32, 9 replies)

Childhood Innocence
Not funny, not clever, just fucking tragic.

My father died of cancer when I was 11. He'd had skin cancer some years before and had it removed (all the time I knew him he had a big scar on his face from the skin graft). About a year before his death he went to the doctor to say he'd got that "funny feeling" and thought the cancer might be back again.

Fucking doctor didn't believe him.

My father ended up with cancer nodes behind his knees, from something that started near his face. If I ever see that cunting doctor again I will make him eat his own balls.

We kept him (my father, not the doctor) at home as he slowly declined. After a while, he became bedridden. Then he had to have a frame to keep the blankets off as he was in so much pain he couldn't stand the weight. He went through a box of morphine a day and was still in excruciating pain much of the time.

Eventually he couldn't speak and couldn't chew. I'd bought my mother a seive (one of those things you use to sift flour) that Christmas and she wore a hole in it mashing up veggies for dad to digest, as that was about as much as he could stomach.

Except he couldn't stomach it - he threw it up regularly. At this point he was too weak to sit up, so someone would have to help him sit up to throw up into the bucket kept beside his bed. He was also too weak to yell, or even talk most of the time, so he would signal his need to vomit by grunting.

This meant that someone had to be in the room with him at all times, otherwise there was a real risk he would pull a Hendrix and drown in his own vomit.

Can you see where this is going?

My brother (13) and I (11) would have to take shifts sitting alone with my dying vegetable of a father in case he had to throw up. Thankfully we weren't expected to help him sit up to do so but had to go and get my Mum.

(This is making me so angry my hands are shaking - I've had to walk away from the keyboard several times just to get this out. It's not cathartic - it's just making me fucking angry.)

I remember the morning my mother came in to my room to tell me he had died - I was relieved. I remember early on in my father's illness - before my mother told us he was going to die - seeing one of my school chums being picked up and hugged by her dad and thinking I was never going to get to do that again.

Fucksocks. Too early to drink.

Length? About 6 to 8 months of pain and humility (him, not me).
( argyleblanket The man on the roof works for me, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 11:44, 11 replies)

LOST - my fucking temper.
THROWN - a fucking tantrum.

GET OVER THE LOSS OF YOUR PLASTIC STAR WARS TOYS BY POSTING SOMETHING INTERESTING.

Yeah, we get it. A lot of you had Star Wars toys, now you don't.

I once had a life, now I barely have the will to live.

In reality, you probably wouldn't have made any money on the frickin' toys. In fact, if you'd kept 'em, they'd probably be trashed to fuck by now.

Same goes for 2000AD comics. Seriously, how many of those damn things did they print? Every motherfucker on here seems to have lost the first 500 of them.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 18:14, 19 replies)

A different sort of loved-and-lost.
I would imagine that there will be more of these stories from others, but I may as well go first.

I was involved with a woman- we'll call her Jan for the purposes of this story- who was a bit older than me. In retrospect it was perhaps a little too much of an age gap, but eleven years didn't seem to be too bad at the time.

How to describe her? She had blonde hair that she refused to brush, so it was always going in every direction. Her eyes were the pale blue of a china doll's eyes, and crinkled slightly when she smiled. She was a few inches shorter than me and had been battling her weight for years, so she was soft and curvy but in great shape from doing endless yoga. She was beginning to show her age, but she was still pretty enough to catch a man's eye on the street.

We had many similar interests and enthusiasms. Both of us are very good cooks, we both have an artistic side and can create beautiful things, we both loved to be outdoors as much as we could manage... our lives were running very much in parallel. And we both very much loved sex and seeing what we could do to each other to elicit more moans and gasps, so we were very sated most of the time.

I lived a distance from her, as she was out in the countryside in a rented cottage and I was in a city flat. She didn't always like coming to my flat because of the railway that ran a quarter mile away and the light pollution that meant that my bedroom was never truly dark, so most of the time I drove an hour to her cottage. We spent each weekend together and had a nicely idyllic life together for the better part of a year.

Then came the M word.

I would imagine that by now you may have gotten the impression that I'm not eager for big lifetime commitments. I tried gently explaining to Jan that while I loved the life we had together, the very thought of being bound to someone else made me want to run, fast and far. Why couldn't we just have things as they were?

The discussions got worse each time, and finally I could take no more. We ended it civilly, but we ended it.

That was five years ago.

I've seen her since. She has aged a bit more, but still has that big smile and the wild hair that I loved so dearly. She's living in a small cottage that she bought, with her three cats and a lot of beautifully crafted things that her touch has created. I've never asked if anyone has come into her life, but a woman like that shouldn't stay single for long.

I loved her and lost her, because I threw her away.

I still don't know if I made the right choice.
(Shimrod, Thu 14 Aug 2008, 18:21, 8 replies)

My Jacket
.
When I was 14 I finally bought a Levi denim jacket. I'd wanted one for ages and had saved up and eventually bought my beautiful, shiny jacket.

We went through a lot together, me and my Levi. I was wearing it when I had my first pint in a pub. I was still wearing it, 4 years later, when I had my first *legal* pint in a pub.

In the blazing hot summer of '76 I was lying on that jacket as I lost my virginity to a strumpet from Durham. And I was wearing it, a year later, when I walked out of my school gates for the last time.

I was wearing it when I walked into the Army Recruiting Office and took the Queens Shilling and it was one of the first things I dug out and put on when I told the Queen where she could stick her shilling.

I was wearing it when I met Anne, the first great love of my life, and it was still on my back, two and half years later, when we split for the final time.

It was my friend and companion on so many life-changing (and in some, life-warping) experiences. I hitch-hiked round Europe in that jacket. I slept on countless floors, after parties, with that jacket as a pillow.

Over the years, old faithful had been washed, patched, slashed and sewn up. It had patches on it's patches and the cuffs were distant memory. It had faded from dark blue to a kind of off-white, the victim of thousands of hours of sunlight and the occasional washing when it became too stiff to put on.

That jacket had become a visual representation of my march from spotty, gawky teenager to spotty, gawky man.

I loved it.

My mother hated it.

Several times I'd come home from work and had to rescue it from the dustbin. Each time my mother claimed that she hadn't touched it and that it had walked to the dustbin itself and thrown itself in as:

"It wanted to be with the rest of the smelly rubbish"

But I still loved it.

Then, one fateful day, I came home and it was gone. I searched the house, checked the rubbish, but it was gone. I eventually noticed a wisp of smoke at the bottom of the garden and went to check it out. There, amongst the smouldering remains of a garden bonfire, I found the copper buttons marked LEVI amongst the ashes.

I nearly wept.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 2:07, 4 replies)

My dear old mum.
Growing up, I always had the best things my parents could afford. I wasn't spoiled, but I never went without the essentials and there were a few luxuries too.

This made it all the worse when my mum, or "The Great Toywrecker" as she was known in certain circles, invariably destroyed them or threw them out.

She stood on my action man tank and destroyed it. She threw out an entire plastic bagfull of toy soldiers. But nothing, NOTHING, broke my young heart more than my priceless disc-firing gun.

It was quite simply, to a 10 year old boy, the best thing ever. Although back then it was simply a "machiney", I know now that it was a plastic Heckler & Koch MP5. It had a removeable magazine which held plastic discs which seemed to go for miiiiiiles. I LOVED that toy. I could pick the wings off a fly at 10 paces. I knewthat, one day, when I was older, I'd get married with that gun slung over my shoulder.

Then it happened.

I may break down during this so bear with me. It was comic relief day..... a happy day tinged with sadness, and it was about to get far sadder. I had, as usual, been blasting my soldiers (what few platoons remained after my mum sent most of them to unmarked graves at the tip) with my prized posession, when my mum entered and we had a row. It was a long time ago and I forget details, but there are two pertinent facts. One, I was a lippy little bugger, and two, I did NOT get away with lip. My mum, incandescent with rage, charged at me to give me a clip round the ear, so I did what any soldier would do..... I threw my gun at her. She tripped, paused, picked it up and.......

I'm ok, I can continue.

I think she was trying to throw it into my toy box, but it hit the side. It happened in slow motion. It just exploded into a million pieces and went flying all over the room. I looked down and saw the little plastic magazine laying next to my feet and burst into floods of tears, my dreams of bringing down world terrorrism shattered.

She was very sorry. I remember sitting, tear streaked and in a huff, as she brought me a cup of tea and let me stay up to watch comic releif. She finally assuaged my huff by assuring me my dad would make it good as new with superglue.

I bounded from bed next day and ran to see if he had managed to turn the mangled plastic shards back into my prized toy.

Bloody liars had put it in the bin as soon as I fell asleep.

And to this day, terrorism plagues the world. I think we all lost something that night....... I think we all did. *salutes*
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 4:17, Reply)

Lost and found
A happy story (in the end) for you all.

I'm about 7 or 8 and my mum's Morris Traveller had to go into the garage. But the only garage that would take it was two bus rides away. So mum picked me up from school and we got on the bus to go and collect the car.

We get home and I realise that I no longer have my lunchbox with me. This is especially distressing as we had all been given sweets and prizes that day, all of which were in the lunchbox. We summise that I must have left it on the bus and I cry myself to sleep.

The next morning I wake up and go downstairs. As I enter the back room, there is my lunchbox with all it's contents plus a basket of girly stuff like cream and makeup and a note from the fairies saying they found my lunchbox and returned it to me with a special gift because I'm such a special girl.

I believed this until I was told by my sister some months later that my dad had gone to the bus depot when mum told him about what happened and collected the lunchbox from lost property, gone and bought the basket of goodies and written the note that went with it.
( Joliet, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 12:38, 5 replies)

Had it...lost it
Once upon a time, I was happy and well adjusted BK.
I waltzed through primary school, consistently top of my class and a great relationship with my Mum and Dad. I worked hard and was proud of it.
Some called me a swot, but it was water off a duck's back. I walked with my head held high. In short, I had dignity.

Then, at 15, I discovered alcohol. I liked the taste, and I liked how it made me feel. My dignity did not like it, however; not one bit. The more often I drank, the smaller my sense of dignity became, shrinking in on itself like a slug in a salt bath.

Since I began drinking I have abused my dignity far more than my liver.

I have, on various occasions:

Performed a Full Monty in front of 700 people;
Wandered through Middlesbrough dressed as Eminem, waving a plastic chainsaw at random passers-by;
Posted a picture of an erect Little-Boss under the bedroom door of my friend's housemate;
Dislocated my elbow staggering about at a festival and, in a Guiness-induced haze, attempted to relocate it myself;
Knocked myself out slipping on someone's vomit in a crowded pub;
Walked face-first into a lampost waving at a friend on the opposite side of the street;
Got myself and my friends kicked out of an Indian restaurant for abusing the waiters and spitting on the floor;
Slashed my wrist open punching a window;
Told my dear Mum to fuck off during a Southern-Comfort fuelled screaming match with my ex-wife at my 21st;
Woke up gaffa taped to an office chair outside a tent;
Woke up in my friend's laundry hamper;
Been jumped by four scallies when stumbling home one evening, and came off best;
Paid a prostitute in advance, realised what I was doing, and then ran away;
Abused an old woman in a pub when she told me to stop swearing;
Called the University women's football team a pack of screaming rug-muchers when they were sat at the table behind me;
Stuck my dick over my friend's top lip when She was passed out, and taken a picture;
Woke up on my sofa with a morning glory and a sprained ankle, being grinned at by my housemate's girlfriend;
Managed to kick a bouncer in the head while being dragged out of a nightclub after losing heavily in a punch-up.

And this is just to name a few.

In conclusion, My Dignity 1980-1995. RIP.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Thu 14 Aug 2008, 19:18, 4 replies)

The Brown Kitty Cup
One of my earliest memories is drinking hot chocolate from my brown kitty cup. It wasn't a large cup, small handle, medium brown plastic with a white line drawing of a Persian (or some cutesy-looking fluffy moggy) on both sides. I loved this cup. I'm right-handed so I always held it with my right hand. As such, one side of the cup got badly scratched thanks to my teething habit of scraping at the top of the cup with my lower row of gnashers. This inevitably wore away one of the images of the cat.

Fast forward a few years, I have stopped using the kitty cup (all growed-up and using smashable ceramics!) but I knew it was stored away in a kitchen cupboard, as I had informed my Mother solemnly that it was not to be thrown away (the start of my hoarding tendencies, much?) as I really liked my cup.

Some time after, a jumble sale is being held in a town not far from the village where we lived and my mother was having a sort-out of stuff to flog in the name of charidee. One such item she chanced upon was (yup, you guessed it) my brown kitty cup. Mother duly asked me if I still wanted the cup and I answered in the affirmative. I had a deep affinity towards this cup and the grooves I had worn into it with my brand spanking new teeth.

A few days later, I find myself being hauled into a church hall in the town for the jumble sale. Giving my Mother my best "I'll be good and behave and not touch and not run off" look she allowed me to wander amongst the assembled trestle tables and look at all the sorts of utter shite people were selling (a thought has just occurred to me: a jumble sale is really like eBay but tangible...).

I had completed a lap of the hall and was on the way back to my beloved Mother when I stopped at a table laden with little ornaments. To my mind, an array of little ornaments is always worth a second glance, just to make sure none of the assembled objets d'art were worth begging my Mother for some extra pennies. Nothing did. So back to my Mother’s stall I skipped.

Physics dictated I approached the stall from the front. Something caught my eye amongst all the tat recently evicted from my home. My brain starts talking to me.

“What's that, Sarah?”
“What? What?! Is it sparkling? Perhaps something infinitely childish?”
“Stop gibbering, Sarah, and pay attention.”
“Sorry.”
“Look carefully. That cup looks familiar.”
“Hmm. You’re right, Brain. It looks awfully familiar.”
“You really ought to take a closer look.”
“I will!”

So I made a mad dash to the table, covering the remaining distance like Amy Winehouse towards a freshly-warmed syringe of heroin.

I stopped.

I stared.

I might have even whimpered.

My brown kitty cup sat there, on the table, sticky label informing the assembled masses just how small a price my Mother placed on my treasured cup. I reacted with gazelle-like reflexes. I snatched that cup down and marched straight round the other side of the table and confronted my heinous parent.

“Mother, what’s this?”
“It’s your cup. You said you didn’t want it so I’m selling it.”

I splutter.

“I never said any such thing!”
“Sarah, if you had wanted to keep the cup, why would I be selling it.?”

I think to myself, “because you’re a money-grubbing, mean and heartless woman who I thought loved me because I am one of your treasured daughters.”

Obviously, this is a little too elaborate for a nine-year old girl to vocalise, so I actually answer, “I never, ever said I wanted to get rid of my cup!”

My Mother reacts with classic British parenting.

“Well it’s on sale now so if you want it back you’ll have to buy it.”

I stop. I think. Buy back my own cup? The one which I never wanted to get rid of? How ridiculously unfair! I say as much to my Mother, who then guilt trips me with the obvious fact that the charidee which the jumble sale is in aid of will be left out of pocket to the tune of twenty new pence.

Damn. But then my brain starts to demonstrate some of its cunning and underhandedness for which I am known as an adult.

“Okay Mum. Can I borrow 20p please? I have it in my moneybox at home and I will pay you back as soon as we return to the family homestead.” Or something similar. I knew I had the money at home.
“Yes, dear heart.” Cue Mother delving into her voluminous handbag for her purse of many partitions. “Here you go.” She hands me a bright, shining coin with our venerable Majesty’s head emblazoned on one side.
“Many and sincere thanks, Mother dearest.”

I hand the coin back to her. She looks at me a little blankly. I stuff my brown kitty cup into my Mother’s voluminous handbag.

“Please do not sell that cup. I really am quite attached to it. I don’t want to have to buy it back again.”

Here my memory fades, but I like to think my Mother stood there, jaw agape at her youngest daughter’s keen intelligence and utterly lost for words.

I sit here now, knowing exactly where my brown kitty cup is. It’s next to me as I got it out of a drawer where it has been kept safe for many years, away from the capitalist claws of my Mother. It’s only seen the light of day now so I could describe it to you, dear reader. Even twenty-odd years later I take great pleasure in reminding my Mother of this event every so often. It’s only fair, after the emotional distress and monetary loss I suffered.

Length? Well, the teething grooves are not much to write home about but the cup stands over a mighty 3 inches!
(Sahara Desert http://www.twitter.com/thesaharadesert for swears, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 13:38, 8 replies)

Priceless junk....
I’ll recap slightly for those of you who may have missed any of my previous posts….

My father is Scots and was brought up as a devout Roman Catholic – friends in the priesthood, personal last rites kit, the lot.

My mother converted from common and garden Anglicanism practised by millions in the UK in the form of weddings, births, funerals and that’s about it to Roman Catholicism – bells, smells and Lourdes.

I was brought up in what might be described as a Catholic ghetto – albeit a lower middle class suburban one which featured polite semis, a startling resemblance to Life on Mars (especially as my dad was a plain clothes policeman) and was almost entirely peopled by either Scots or Irish émigrés.

In fact so bad was this entrenched Celtic ghetto that when I finally met teachers who were English and not members of the cloth I was amazed as they were – me at the realisation that they don’t practise corporal punishment in senior schools and they at my ability to speak French with a perfect Galway accent despite having lived in Kent all my life.



But it’s not the Celtic part of me that I have thrown away…that part, the part that gets freckles and Billy Connolly jokes, the part that sees the gritty realism in Father Ted (and I’m not kidding about that one), the part of me that only needs to smell Mr Sheen and to suddenly be back in the entrance hall of the convent standing in a shaft of sunlight surrounded by dust motes.

That part of me is still safely locked inside, only to leave when I lose continence and sentience.




The part of me that I have long since thrown away is the child in me that went into the Confessional and made up sins – I swore at my mother in my head, I told a lie to my teacher erm, that one was probably true, I had impure thoughts about Peter Holt even the priest wouldn’t have impure thoughts about him, he smelled!.


The bit that has gone for ever is the girl who cried at her own wedding – which coincidentally happened fifteen years ago yesterday. That girl who believed in the sanctity of marriage, that vows are taken forever, that promises are made to be never broken, that girl who believed that marriage was one of the holy sacraments to be taken only once in a good life.

She’s long gone.

I still have very close friends who are devout Catholics, regular church goers, who give part of their time and money to the institution they believe in…and it works for them.

In many ways I envy them their faith but mine?


Mine I loved and lost and threw it out when I finally realised that that Footprints story – the one about the man walking along the beach of his life and seeing only one set of footprints when times were most hard. God tells him that at that point he was not forsaken; instead those were the times that God carried him.



Well, he must have done his back in when I needed carrying.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 11:23, 9 replies)

Dude! It's Mighty Joe Bong!
During my teens I slept in a cabin bed, a result of desperately clamouring for one when I was twelve and then ending up stuck with it. It wasn't all bad though, as if one hauled out the extending desk bit one could gain access to the hollow underbelly, a fantastic place to hide in my early teens, and as I grew older ideal for keeping those special items you might not be keen to keep on display. Also, it turns out, a fantastic place for the cats to deposit and forget eviscerated mouse corpses, but that isn't really relevant.

In my first year at university I lived in halls, visiting my parents and those who had stayed home on occasional weekends. It was a Thursday night, if I recall, that I got the phone call from my father:

"We decided to decorate your room. I was clearing out under your bed, and I found something. We're away this weekend, but if it's still there when we get back there'll be hell to pay."

Oh shit. Oh very shit. And especially oh shit, he's used the singular. He's found one of the things he doesn't like. There were two options.

He might have found my porn collection, lovingly assembled over several years and running the gamut from the very first crumpled Daily Sport found on the bus home from school to the filthiest import mags available from a shop in King's Cross after a gig at the Scala. Even the cinematic tour-de-force that was the hard-core porn version of Macbeth!

On the other hand, he may have found the item known only as The Device, the result of an A-Team-esque marathon of stoned construction. Assembled from 2-litre coke bottles, a Pringles tube, bits of a socket set, a plank of wood, several meters of plastic tubing and a couple of 15cc syringes (fuck knows why we had those in the kitchen cupboard), it was the most beatiful water-cooled, multi-chambered, turbo-boosted smoking device ever conceived by man.

Clearly both possibilities were very precious to me and, both having been hidden in unsealed cardboard boxes (for ease of access, of course), I had no idea which had been found. There was nothing for it, both had to go. I frantically rang around local friends looking for someone to provide a good home for either, but I was denied at every turn. Eventually, with a heavy heart and a tear in my eye, I was forced to consign the whole lot to a bush under the pedestrian bridge over the M4 slip road. I hope they found a good home.

Bonus points if you know which film I'm quoting from in the title.
(wellgroomedwookiee is a filthy-minded hobgoblin, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 18:29, 7 replies)

Throwing (and putting) out
"Gloria, you're able to do a late one for me next week, yeah?" asked cunt-of-a-boss in his usual rhetorical manner.

I'd been expecting this. I nodded and replied with "Yep, okay".

"Good. Well, those old files clogging up the filing room you keep moaning about need to be sorted and boxed before they're taken away for archiving."

I'd been bitching about the lack of space in the filing room for ages. We had stuff in there going back to 1993 for heavens sake, so a good clean out was long overdue. Cunt-of-a-boss made sure it was going to happen after office hours, as unpaid overtime. Now you see why he earns his nickname.

"Nigel has volunteered to help you out too. Can't leave you all on your own. Now where is that cup of tea I asked for fifteen minutes ago?"

I slipped away to make the tea, grinning to myself and saying "Yes!" under my breath. Why? Well Nigel is one of our site workers, tall, blond and very outdoorsy. Most of the girls in the office have a thing for him. Maybe I could capitalize on my unexpected good fortune? It would certainly make up for not getting any overtime pay.

Sure enough, the following Tuesday evening I found myself changing out of my office clothes into jeans and an old sweatshirt. Nigel walked into the staff room bearing two steaming mugs of tea.

"Hi Gloria, we can't get started without one of these first" he said, smiling broadly as he handed my pink cup over to me.

I couldn't help grinning back like a knock-kneed spotty teenage girl.

Being a site worker meant that Nigel worked outside digging holes, taking groundwater samples and driving about in one of the firm's Toyota pickup trucks, so it was no surprise to see him in his usual rugged ensemble of Timberland boots, jeans and a checked shirt. He was confident in his bearing, spoke with an authoritative voice and was something of a gentleman, holding the door open for me on a number of occasions.

I however looked like shit. I like to make an effort at work, so I'll always wear nice shoes and dress smartly. I felt like a bag lady, all frumpy with my hair tied up and wearing trainers instead of the black heels I normally wore.

We trudged up the stairs and along the corridor to the "filing room", which was actually a loading bay, hence it was very dusty and a repository for all kinds of crap. Over in the corner stood a broken copier next to a stack of old PC base units. The daylight was beginning to fade, so Nigel switched on the neon lights which flickered into life with an audible "ping... ping".

He rolled up his sleeves and we got started packing the loosely bound files into stiff boxes, scrawling a number on the side and scribbling a brief itinerary of the contents.

Or at least that's what Nigel did. I found myself staring at his forearms, tanned with year round exposure to sunlight with their prominent veins and defined muscles. A day's growth of stubble on his broadly grinning face didn't go amiss either... I wished at that point that I wasn't dressed like a total tramp.

An hour later, I was covered in dust, dismembered spiders, fragments of paper and general filth. My knees were dusty and my pink sweatshirt had ingrained dirt where I'd wiped my hands. Lord knows what I had in my hair, I must have looked a far cry from the efficient office girl I normally present myself as at work. The only thing that helped pass the time was the good humoured banter between Nigel and I. It almost made me forget about the state I must have looked.

I walked over to the old copier and picked up some frayed files on the shelf nearby. I could have leapt out of my skin at that point because I became aware of a presence behind me. I nervously looked round to see that it was Nigel, who seemed to be leering.

With mock indignation, I span on my heel and stood up straight. As he caught me with his eye, my will to make him squirm a little melted. All of a sudden, confident Gloria decided to go on holiday somewhere far, far away and instead timid Gloria had to deputize.

"I... uh... I must look a right state..." I felt like I was stammering. I should have been milking the indignation for all it was worth but instead I found myself being a passenger on a runaway train.

Sensing his cue, he walked up to me and placed his hands on my hips.

"You looked fine from where I was standing Gloria" he replied, his voice softening slightly.

I should have slapped him right there. But I didn't. Instead, I reached out and touched his arm, which felt firm and strong in my hand. I reached out further and felt him pulling me toward him.

"I can't help it Gloria. I've had my eye on you for a while" he whispered, his mouth now level with my ear. The bastard.

He stooped slightly to kiss me. I cupped the sides of his face and pulled him toward me, almost crushing my nose against him in my haste. I caught gasping breaths while kissing him, I could taste the faint flavour of tea in his breath as I hungrily devoured.

Nigel's hands were wandering all over my butt, caressing and gently clenching. I took it as my prompt to return the favour, feeling his firm butt in my hands..... I wondered what the other girls in the office would think now?

We were both dusty, sweaty and caring not a bit. I'd recovered some of my composure and was smiling mockingly as I kissed him. My outward confidence belied the fact that my heart was pounding at a worrying rate in my chest.

"You have a very fine arse. I wanted to sink my teeth into it a minute ago" he whispered

"Charming" I answered

His dusty hands were now running through my tangled hair, I felt the hair band keeping my fringe from my face get pulled away from my head and then gently tucked in the back pocket of my jeans. My hair was now free and Nigel seemed to delight in running his fingers through it as we kissed.

Confident Gloria was now back in charge. I pressed myself right up against him with the length of my body. He pushed me backwards, I nearly overbalanced but he put a strong arm around my back to steady me. Off balance, he walked me backwards a couple of paces until I was leaning against the old copier. I pushed myself up so that my backside was sat on the lid.

Crunch!

The glass underneath the lid had shattered, but that didn't slow us down. He lifted at the front of my sweat and gently caressed my breasts, which were at this point begging to be stroked. I unbuttoned the front of his shirt and gently ran my fingernails all the way down his chest and torso until they reached his belt buckle. I could feel him shiver in response.

My bra was now unclipped and my sweatshirt was being tugged over my head.

"I like what I see!" said Nigel gleefully, before he started to kiss my breasts.

I had no idea that the evening was going to turn out quite like this, but I wasn't complaining.

Nigel's head started to move lower and lower until he lifted my left leg up and removed my trainer and gently tugged down my jeans, leaving them hanging uselessly from my other calf.

I had hold of fistfuls of his hair as he moved lower and lower, until I couldn't hold back an involuntary gasp as his tongue ran down the fabric of my thong. Despite me being all dusty and sweaty, he pulled the material aside and let out a lingering "Mmmmmmmmm....." as his tongue started to reach places hitherto explored only in the depths of my imagination.

I lay back, biting my lip and savouring the whole experience, feeling slightly guilty that I was doing absolutely nothing in return. My God it was good, he sure as hell knew what he was doing and appeared to be enjoying himself almost as much as I was, if the mumblings of approval from him as he took breaths were anything to go by.

By this point I simply had to have him or die trying. I pushed him back firmly, but undid his belt and pushed his jeans and pants down. In a moment, he was inside me and he lifted my legs up so that they were resting on his shoulders.

I have absolutely no idea why no-one called the Police to investigate the noise. They worked late at the office next door and there's no way that anyone walking out to their car could have missed the noise I was making. Having said that, I couldn't have cared though if the whole of the bloody British Army had come bursting into the office to my rescue.

Afterward, we made sure that we had the rest of the boxing up completed, giggling to each other like a couple of mischievous kids as we tidied up the remaining paperwork before we finished up and locked the office. I gave Nigel one last lingering kiss before we went our separate ways that evening. All the time on the journey home I kept grinning to myself.

In fact I was still grinning bashfully the next morning when cunt-of-a-boss called me into his office.

"Now Gloria, well done for sorting out all that filing the other night. Seems like Nigel and you certainly did a thorough job together. Now exactly how did you manage to damage the photocopier again?"
(GloriaHull you puerile slack-jawed drooling meatslapper, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 16:09, 5 replies)

My early childhood
While my parents have respected my material property, when I was but a we’an, they accidentally threw out something of mine without realising it - my childhood.

I am the oldest of two. This means that I was at the receiving end of the raw un-practiced parenting skills, whereas my sister had the benefit of the parenting skills that came from refined experience. Sometimes, I think I was a prototype for my sister.

Anyway, when I was little, our family moved abroad. This meant that all of a sudden, I was in a country where none of us could speak the native language. My parents, in their infinite wisdom sent me to a local school. This meant that I ended up speaking a different language at home than I did at school. Unsurprisingly, I had trouble communicating with my peers.

They say that kindergarten is where you learn your basic person-to-person interaction skills. Because I spoke a different language to everyone else, I did not fit in. This meant I became isolated form the rest of class and missed out on acquiring these skills. I hated kindergarten! I even remember I sort of gave up playing with the other kids and ended up hiding in a laundry basket. According to my mum, I would often say “Go away!” in the local language while I was asleep. This is not a way to spend your early childhood. This continued in infant-school. By then, I was developing the ability to differentiate between the two languages and speak both of them, but couldn't speak either of them as well as someone from my age (previously, I may not have been aware of the differences between the two languages and just adapted to whatever way the others around me spoke without being aware of the concept of different languages).

Apparently, I hardly communicated verbally until the last few months of infant school. By then, people were beginning to be concerned. I was taken to a hospital to have a go on an EEG machine to see if my brain was wired up properly. At first, the experience was a bit scary, but when I realised I was wired up to some complicated looking piece of equipment, I felt excited about being connected to a machine. The readings indicated that my brain was all wired up as it should be and completely normal. The doctors came to the conclusion that speaking different languages at home and at school was preventing my social growth. No shit Einstein! Even so, I was sent to a child-psychiatrist type person for some time for further evaluation.

By now, it was time for me to start primary school. My parents had finally seen the light and had sent me to a (more expensive) English-speaking school (my sister was starting kindergarten then, so she went to an English school right from the start). At first, speaking English at school felt a bit odd because I had always associated school with a foreign language, but I quickly got used to it. However, by then, it was too late - the damage had been done. I wasn't very good at making friends. I did manage to make a few friends, but because it was mainly a school for expatriates, there was a high turnover of pupils. I was unlucky enough to pick friends who would leave shortly after. It was as if everything I tried to build up in life kept toppling over (see future QOTW answer for how this plays out).

Throughout my life, I have been a shy person. Even today, I'm still a bit shy, but nowhere near as shy as when I was younger. It is still an unanswered question if I would have still been shy even if I had gone to an English-speaking school right from the start, or if it was the isolation at an early age that did it.

Throughout my early childhood, I have felt isolated - partially because I couldn't communicate and partially because I didn't know how to communicate. Generally, I have memories from the time in which I was feeling very bored and understimulated. But on the plus side, I cultivated my imagination and along with my intelligence, used that to fill in the gaps in my worldview that resulted from not having participated in enough conversations. I've become fond of my weird imagination and like being an oddball, but given the choice, if I were to do my childhood all over again, I would want my parents to have remained in England where I could have played with kids who spoke the same language as me.

On the plus side, my parents are ace! They never threw away any of my stuff, and since I left home for the first time, they have always been there for me. They're well meaning but just didn't get it right the first time round.

To be continued in a future QOTW...
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 11:54, 4 replies)

this falls into all three headings
but not in a bad way.

A couple of years after our first cat was put down, we as a family decided to get another one and toddled off to the local cat shelter to see what was what.

Our first cat was an evil, flesh rending, neurotically fussy eating, fluffy animal killing machine with a brian blessed volume miaow siamese / tom halfbreed so we fancied something slightly easier, as in a proper mog.

So wandering around pens of flat headed maniacs, fat smelly toms and distressed old raggy scraps we spotted a couple of cute bundles of giant eyeballed terror. One of them wandered up to me and squeeked quietly and so we had to take them. After being checked out to make sure we were not going to turn them into matching pairs of gloves or sell them to the nearest dodgy restaurant we gained Sparky and Clod, a poor pair of 18 month old painfully shy mogs.

Why so painfully shy? because the previous owners had moved house, thrown away the cats and just left them to get on with it as 1 year olds.

After we picked them up they spent the next 3 months weeing in corners, hiding behind the sofas, running away from us and generally being terrified of all and sundry.

Suddenly one day a little switch went off in these little puss brains, they twigged that these giant pink things loved them, doubled in weight and turned into beautiful, contented bags of purr, who got loved, and loved back.

We had to have Clod put down a couple of years ago after he got some nasty illnesses and ended up as skin and bone at the end, but Sparky is still about and every morning wakes me up with a purr and a nudge.

So to the cunts who threw them away, I wish on you all the misfortune and misery in the world, Clod I miss you, Sparky, you are a cool cat.

edit: Clod was really called Claude, but when being stroked a lot he had a habit of rolling over so you could stroke both sides of him. Many times he kept on rolling and would fall off the bed / sofa / your lap and once fell off the bottom step while trying to eat his own tail, hence being called clod
(Halfy By light alone, Sun 17 Aug 2008, 20:19, 2 replies)

Huggy Bear
I was given a teddy bear when I was three that I loved very much. His arms and legs were curled out in front of him and he had a mini bulldog clip affair in his back, which meant that he could grab onto your arm, or round the back of your neck, or wherever he was most comfortable. Because of this, I called him Huggy Bear. Needless to say, I took him everywhere.

When I was five, our family moved to Singapore, Huggy Bear in tow. As I grew older, my attachment to Huggy dwindled - running around the vast tropical undergrowth with your mates pretending to be Indiana Jones took over. I always knew he was around though, somehow looking after me.

When it came time to move back to England when I was ten, I realised as we were packing that I had no idea where Huggy was. I wasn't distraught as such, but very concerned that we might leave him behind. My mother however had come across him in the back of an old dusty cupboard, and so knew exactly where he was.

So she hatched a plan.

The plan was simple - she would feign ignorance as to his whereabouts, then reveal him later with a great flourish. Of course Huggy would never forget his best friend!

First though, she had to keep her secret, shaking he head sadly whenever I mentioned missing Huggy. She over-egged the pudding a bit though - one night, she told me a story in heart-breaking detail of Huggy waking up to an empty house, finding details of our flight and running to the airport to catch us. He'd get there just as the plane was taxiing down the runway, frantically pumping his legs after us as the plane gathered speed, "Wembley, wait!" he'd cry. "Wait for me! Come back!" But it would be too late - the plane would take off, leaving the little brown bear bereft on the tarmac. I was fighting back tears, but knew that my mum was only ribbing me because I was ten and too old to really care about a teddy bear. And of course she knew just where he was, and could imagine my face when she took him out of her handbag on the plane.

Except she forgot.

Huggy, for all I know, is still sitting forgotten in that dusty cupboard in Singapore. I've tried to imagine that some other child has found him and loved him as much as I did, and I take comfort from that, even if it isn't true.

Here's to you, Huggy, wherever you are.


*sniff*
( Wembley, Sat 16 Aug 2008, 13:15, 4 replies)

Hello.
My name is Noel, and I'm the guy who buys all the Star Wars figures your parents sell at car boot sales or give to charity.

But I don't sell them on ebay. Ohhh no! I keep them all in my shed where I spend hours and hours reenacting scenes from Return of the Jedi, and cackling at your misfortune. Sometimes I glue string to their heads and pretend I'm directing a L'oreal advert. Other times I smear them with jam and watch as the giant ants and wasps engorge themselves on your unhappiness.

They usually cost less than a quid, too!

Did I lose anything? No, but I'm sure glad you did.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 10:41, 4 replies)