amyl nitrate
I bought a bottle from someone at school and had great fun with it all that day. That night I left it on my bedroom shelf where my mum found it the next day. She did what any normal person would do when faced with a small brown un-labelled bottle with a clear liquid in- she opened it and sniffed it.
I came home to a red-faced angry woman screaming "what the fuck is that on your shelf?"
Me laughing uncontrollably didn't help.

Length? 5.35 metres - now give me a fucking medal
( MontyyouterribleCUNT I gave Jeremy Kyle cancer, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 14:44, 13 replies)

Charity donations
It was I who threw out the stuff I loved, admittedly. I look back in nostalgia.

I needed a room clearout, badly - and for the first time in my life I was ruthless with what I put in the charity donations bag. I'm a hoarder by nature (cuddly toys and ornaments a must) but my room was getting cluttered with all of this so I decided to bite the bullet and do it.

I ended up taking about 8 bin-liners full of stuffed toys, ornaments, photo-frames, books and unused items down to the charity shop I work at on the weekends (for experience, and said charity is close to my family, so I wanted to work there for a while to repay them for the massive support they gave us).

Soon enough, my donations were priced up and put on the shelves ready for selling. Amongst these was a little clockwork owl toy, and an old woman had shown interest in it, for her sister who collected owls - as she handed it over to me so I could ring it up on the till I felt my eyes welling up slightly as I asked her for the money (50p! Bargain!) and placed the little thing in a plastic bag.

The woman I was working with knew it was one of my donations, so she leaned close to me and said "Aww, say goodbye to your little friend, Dishsoap!"


It didn't help me whatsoever. I waved bye-bye to the plastic bag as the lady walked out with her purchase.


All in all I'm glad I gave away the items as I know I wouldn't have made use of them (and the charity made money out of them, which is awesome) but it reminds me of how emotional it is to be ruthless during a clearout when you're a natural hoarder.



Also ... *pops b3ta cherry* I saved it for the one I loved. *single, solitary tear*


Length? It's not what you got, it's what you do with it, surely.
(Dishsoap is true to her name (nomen est omen), Tue 19 Aug 2008, 14:31, 1 reply)

Fact 93
A good friend of mine had been living up in Manchester around '91-'92 and had arranged a flat for himself to stay. A colleague had just bought a place at auction that needed clearing out, so he went along to help clear the stuff and chuck it in the dustbin.

What he found however still staggers us to this very day. The former owner of the flat had been none other than Factory Records, who had just gone toes up owing a small fortune. The flat and it's contents had been flogged at auction (at the height of the last recession remember) for absolute peanuts.

Inside, my friend and his colleague stumbled upon a stash of vinyl, both for retail and white label and radio only for New Order (amongst other bands). By far the best find of all were a number or original metal master discs, from which the vinyl mouldings would be taken.

This stuff would probably be worth a fortune. However, I'm pleased to report that in lieu of payment for his help, my friend received a stack of white labels and a couple of metal master discs and having half a brain has hung on to them to this very day.

My friend was generous enough to pass on to me a small selection of his haul of discs, including Technique, Round & Round and Confusion (retail copies only I'm afraid) together with a couple of white labels for Round & Round *edit* having just checked, it's actually True Faith and one half of the Substance compilation. I've got radio only 7" for Run 2 also.

Throw them out? Not on your nelly...
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Tue 19 Aug 2008, 14:04, 7 replies)

2000AD
In the early 1980's I inherited piles and piles of 2000AD comics from my older brothers and lovingly catalogued and organised them and each week for several years added the next carefully read one to the pile. Even saved up money to buy the few missing copies.

Came home from school and my Mum said she'd been to the dump and there were loads of 2000AD's in the skips so I immediatley asked if she'd brought any home to which she replied "No, because we've cleared your room and they were the ones from under your bed."

What a fucker!
(bagend, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 13:49, 11 replies)

A kick in the Twins
My friend used to be the Head of Dept in a large music shop, in particular, the Vintage section.

One day a woman brought in an old amplifier she had found in a dead relative's house, evidently a bit of a hoarder. The amp was a 1950's Fender Twin, and obviously had hardly been played, as it was still in the original cardboard box, complete with manual, etc.

My friend purchased it for pennies, cunningly realising such a prize would fetch serious money to a collector, this was a piece of history. Everyone says their old amps have been "hardly used", but to find one in the original factory packaging is pretty much unheard of.
So, off he goes on his lunch-break and returns to find the amplifier, but no box.

Yep, one of the YTS scrotes had "tidied up" and consigned the box and paperwork to the compactor, managing to just get it in before the waste collection lorry turned up.

I believe my friend cried.

As did the YTS after my friend took him out the back and tried to put him in the compactor.
(Rsoles, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 13:40, 1 reply)

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)

When I become supreme overlord of the planet
I shall build my Enourmous Palace of Doom (and Spurs)

In between the room with a sign saying
"Control room: Do not tamper" (actually a room full of traps. Take that heroes!)
and the ball pit room, I will have a room exclusively for stuff. Stuff that I am loathe to throw away.

Inevitably this will become a room full of old Simpsons comics.
(tarbin tarbis, tarbit, tarbamus, tarbimus, tarbant, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 13:27, Reply)

Not as much as thrown out
...but rendered useless.

T'was but a year ago, I had managed to put aside €500 for a 6 day trip to Paris. It was my last money, since I was unemployed (I'm on full scholarship, can't be arsed to fail any exam) and all I wanted was a memorable experience from it.

Sure, I've visited almost anything that can be visited, starting with Disneyland and ending with the obscure Aquarium in the north. I have extremely pleasant memories of everything. On my last day, I've been left with only €10 in my hand, save the money for the cab to the airport and "emergency use only". I bought myself a novelty T-shirt, white, with the Heineken logo only replaced so that it read Paris.

Went home, worn it once, put it the laundry bin, didn't see it for about two months. Until I've found it hidden in mum's dresser - it had become PINK (argh!).

My only material memory of Paris was a pink T-Shirt that I can't wear 'cause it's pink and my girlfriend can't wear 'cause it's about lager.

Epilogue - I've visited Sibiu this spring, bought a T-shirt from there, nice fabric and all, white with blue trims. Yes, it's pink now.

Length? From my neck to my knob.

P.S.: Yes, I still live with my parents. Did I mention I was unemployed?
(vladk2k, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 13:17, 4 replies)

Not exactly thrown away
More a case of I can't find the fucker. Whilst in Hong Kong I aquired a rather splendid mandarin style leather jacket, made from the softest leather imaginable. I think that they must have really pampered the cows and covered them in baby-cow oil or something before they went to the slaughterhouse, because this really was soft... It became my favourite of all my jackets, even though it was wafer thin and therefore as much use as tits on a bull in cold weather.

A rip acquired to one of the pockets was stitched and mended, and added a bit more character to the dead cow-wear. I didn't mind. However, a subsequent tear caused by the pocket snagging on a fence post during a one-too-many-sherberts stagger up the hill to my house required a rather more deft repair job. So I hung the jacket away and made a note to take it into the clothing repairs shop down the street.

The last time I saw the fucker was when I took it to said shop only to find that the proprietor was away on holiday and the shop closed. I put it back into its carrier bag, got back in the car and went back home.

Not long afterwards I moved house. Can I find my beloved jacket? Can I bollocks. Thankfully it's £300 of my ex-missus' money down the drain rather than mine, since she bought it for me as a birthday pressie. But still, it was rather splendid and short of another trip to Hong Kong I'll never find another one like it.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 19 Aug 2008, 13:03, 7 replies)

Photographic memories
The ex missus always had this incredibly anal fixation about not having clutter around the house. Personally, I like having my umpteen books, CDs, DVDs etc on display (books especially as it makes me look more intelligent, until you get up close and see that they’re mostly TV and film reference books, or graphic novels with a bit of Brookmyre, Fleming and Anne Rice thrown in), but she hated it and so stuff like that was relegated to the spare room and the loft. Anyway, she applied this ‘sparse is best’ philosophy to other things as well. Including photographs. Or, more specifically, photographic negatives (yes, there was a time before digital cameras).

Her logic, essentially, was “We’re never going to split up; we don’t need to keep the negatives for all these fantastic holiday snaps. They’ll only get scratched or covered in dust”. Fair enough, but I did consider the possibility of wanting to get some reprinted. However, she was adamant, and like a total spaktard I went along with it.

Of course, the rest is history – we did split up, and the only memory I have of some truly fantastic holidays we had are just that – memories. Not a single piece of photographic evidence is held by me. Not the first time we went to Florida and got completely theme parked out. Nor the subsequent trips where we decided to travel down the East Coast to the Keys and back, our grand tour of California and Nevada, including a helicopter trip into the Grand Canyon for breakfast; swimming with dolphins; skiing in New England; and catching the Hong Kong skyline at night, to name but a few. The latter of which were taken on my fucking camera, at a time when she was actually shagging someone else and therefore she probably had it in mind to leave anyway. And yet she still insisted on ditching the negatives when we got back.

OK, so maybe not priceless in terms of material value, but as far as stunning memories go, it would be nice to have a visual reminder.

So the moral of the story is, no matter how strong you think a relationship is, when it comes to photographs, ALWAYS get a spare set. In my case, I may eventually see them again due to her impending shuffling off this mortal coil*, but I really wish I’d put my foot down and insisted on getting a second set of each batch of photos.

*Not meant to sound callous or anything, honest. Merely a statement of fact. I bear no malice at all.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 19 Aug 2008, 12:20, 5 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)

Madeline McCanne?
Bindun?
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 12:04, 9 replies)

Mother dearest
When I was 18 I went away for a weekend. The weekend turned into a week, then a month. I'd ring my Mum every so often to tell her I was still alive and I'd be home before the end of summer.

Got home, she'd thrown my TV out. It was a fairly decent 24'' (i think, not so good on TV sizes) TV, the remote didn't work but everything else was fine.

I was gutted. I've got some tiny thing now that people tend to have on brackets in their kitchen or something.

She also chucked out a game which would fetch a fair amount on Ebay nowadays. She convinced me I'd lost it for the longest time.
(sporky, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 10:37, 3 replies)

Car lost
Lost:

One car,

Model: Mercedes

Last seen: Paris 1997

Distinguishing features: Engine in the boot and dye all over the seats

/gets coat
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 10:32, 3 replies)

Love lost...and found again!
A couple of years back I lost someone very close to me.

He was always into his sports and especially loved water sports (not that type you pervs) and was very proficient in them.

One day he went out and he never came back, I was lost and distraught at the thought of never seeing him again, talking to him, having a laugh and just being close to someone.

A couple of weeks later a guy moved in next door to me and we just seemed to click, it was like I'd known this person for years, we talked, we laughed, we joked and all was well.

Over time we became closer and closer but couldn't show our true feelings because of my 2 sons and that it was too soon after their dad had died and appearances had to be kept up.

Eventually we could take no more so the neighbour and I headed to Panama to live out our years.

We'd have gotten away with it as well if it wasn't for the the bloody paparazzi and the Mirror!

Yrs

A Darwin
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 10:30, Reply)

2000AD and all that crap
The number of people who have posted about losing their entire, complete, priceless etc. collection of 2000AD comics leads me to the following conclusions:

1. 2000AD comics are as numerous as grains of sand on the beach, and therefore collectively worth fuck-all.

2. Each one of you nicked your collection from a fellow B3TA'ns bin when their mum threw it out, and merely 'cared for' the collection, until it was passed on to the next B3Ta'n through the medium of wheelie/bins.

So which is it, and if its 2, whose looking after the collection now, as I fancy a read?
(powermonkey poo is a weapon, monkeys use it, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 10:04, 2 replies)

care bear
the christmas that i was 6, santa brought me a care bear. i was unimpressed at first as i was never into dolls or teddies, but soon found out that i loved that bear.

birthday bear went everywhere with me, and i couldn't sleep unless i was holding him by one leg. so much so that the poor bastard bear had one leg thinner than the other and his yellow fur was slowly turning grey however much my mother washed him in a pillowcase (why? why do they have to be washed inside pillowcases?). if he couldn't be found at bedtime, there was hell to pay.

then, shortly after i turned 7, disaster struck. we moved back up north from where we had been living in bucks, and had to live in an hotel for 3 months because our new house wasn't ready. it was a gorgeous posh hotel, and on the surface i loved having a swimming pool and restaurant dinners every night. underneath, i was a bit rattled by the move, new school, no house, no garden, all our familiar stuff in storage, nowhere to invite friends home for tea. so i clung to my faithful care bear more tightly than ever.

until the fateful day i took him shopping in manchester. i realised when we got back to the hotel that he had gone. lost. abandoned somewhere by his supposedly loving owner...

i can honestly say i've never cried for so long since! my mum told me to cheer up at first, but then realised i was absolutely distraught and spent all afternoon ringing the various shops. but nobody had seen him. he had clearly been thrown away by a callous shop keeper. every time she put the phone down on another shop, i cried harder.

eventually dad had to take the morning off work the next day to take me back into town to choose a replacement. i bought a pink one, lovealot bear, and i did love him a lot, but things were never quite the same between us.

man, i loved that bear!


edit: many years later, when i was about 26, i was doing my law exams. i jokingly whinged to my mother that it was not the same without a mascot. care bears had just been re-released, so my mum bought me a new yellow bear and wrapped him up and posted him to me as a jokey good luck present.

sadly, she packed him in a designer shoe box for the journey, and when i first unwrapped him, i thought she had sent me a lovely pair of shoes for the law college ball..... i won't say i was disappointed, but he didn't look quite as good with the slinky black dress as the shoes would have done...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 9:33, 3 replies)

I've still got the lot
My sister's house is slowly collapsing under the weight of Transformers, Lego, comics, books, everything. One of these days I'll eBay the good stuff and buy a house or something.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 8:55, 1 reply)

My precioussssss
I lost my preciousssss .
It was my birthday present , my preciousssss.
Taken by that nasty thief Baggins it is . Allways thieving and skulking he is with my preciuosssss.

Horrible hobbit has my preciousssss . We hates him we do we hates him.

Now hes throwing preciousss into Mt Doom nooooooo






Bindun?
(welgar, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 7:38, 1 reply)

travelling folk
A few years ago, I had the idea of writing a non-fiction book about life among the travellers (also known officially as Roma, gyppos and pikeys). So I went to my nearest caravan encampment and persuaded them to let me join them, learning their ways and living their life.

And thus it was that I spent a year living in a caravan among these dark-skinned and wily folk. I rutted bestially with teenage girls who reeked of pheremones and greasy hair; I learned to course hares; I stole from building sites and sold lucky pegs to noonday shoppers in Stoke on Trent. I learned to strip a Ford Cortina Mark II engine down to its components and mastered a variety of traditional folk tunes on my biscuit-tin double bass. I also caught a range of curious venereal diseases and had a Nike tattoo on my neck.

When my year was up, I had reams of notes and a new fondness for the travelling folk who we so often dismiss as theiving gypsy bastards. Those notes, and the hundreds of photos I'd taken, were to be my passport to fame and a publishing deal.

Little did I know that when my mother was a young girl, she had been kidnapped by the peripatetic overseers of a touring fairs and forced to sell candyfloss across the Midlands. Before she knew it, she had herself become a pikey. She made a vow there and then that if any child of hers became associated with the dusky tarmac-layers, she'd dissuade them with extreme prejudice.

So she burned all my materials. And since I now had a criminal record, I was forced to make a living by illegally cutting down trees on council property.

There's no escaping fate, as my Romany brethren taught me.
(frankspencer, Mon 18 Aug 2008, 21:56, 1 reply)

my gym slip
My mum just dumped it
(whiskas loved by 8 out of 10 cats, Mon 18 Aug 2008, 20:21, Reply)

My mate Ian was a social historian of sorts.
Well I say that, he had a vast collection of porn, dating from the late 80's through to just after 2002.

Now his missus has Views about filth mags so he had to keep his bongo stash carefully concealed.

Anyway, one night a gaggle of us boys plus various wives, girlfriends and hangers on are out drinking and Ian decides to knock off early as there's some film on that he wanted to catch.

A drunken Badger proceeded to shout down the street 'I KNOW YOUR GAME, YOU'LL BE STRAIGHT UP INTO THAT ATTIC TO GET LINDSAY DAWN OUT, SHE'S ALWAYS YOUR FAVOURITE FOR A CRAFTY SATURDAY NIGHT WANK'.

Anyway, a few weeks went by until I saw Ian again.
He was rather offy with me, but we were in a big crowd so it took a while to gain his ear.
'You alright mate?' I said
'It's all gone' he replied
'What is?'
'My porn. all of it. Thanks to you gobbing off the other week Fran(Ian's wife) made me go up in the loft with a stinking hangover, get down all the porn and BURN it. I've known some of that porn longer than some of this lot' he said, indicating the assembled company.

He's rebuilt his collection to a extent now.
He refuses to tell me where he keeps it.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Mon 18 Aug 2008, 20:11, 5 replies)

In all seriousness...
...I wonder how many of these collections you had would actually be worth anything if they hadn't been thrown out/given away etc. Whenevr I've gone back to stuff I've kept, it's mostly just useless. I've obviously kept it because I thought it might be useful, but 10 years later, it turns out it's not. So all these 'mint' condition first edition/complete colections you all had - were they really so great? Did you really not take them out of the box? Are you sure one didn't have a tear in it? Did you really have the full collection?

My parents have been really good about storing my old things on the understanding that every time I go home to visit, I sort out some more things and take back what I still want, and give the rest to charity (or next door's kids). My mum never throws out anything without asking. But people, if you haven't picked something up that you wanted and you're over 25, I think it's fair game to be thrown! If you wanted it that badly why not store it at your own house?!
( El Lazarus is calm now, Ish,, Mon 18 Aug 2008, 19:44, Reply)

My fishtail parka with a 'the who' target on the back.
I used to wear it all the time when I was a teenager
(GoldenFanjita whistle posse blow! horns crew i can't hear you!, Mon 18 Aug 2008, 19:24, Reply)

Trust
My parents threw away any trust I had in what they, or any other adult told me.

They did this gradually:

The time I was awoken one Christmas eve by my Dad saying bollocks as he tripped over some toys whilst leaving a present on the end of my bed... "Santa? Why are you swearing, Santa? And why do you look just like my Dad, but a bit more drunk?"

When I found a tooth in their bedroom bin that the Tooth Fairy had supposedly taken the night before. No Mum, she didn't drop it on her way out... the game's up, now no more "you only get 10p cause the Tooth Fairy doesn't have much money".

But far the worst example was in relation to wasps. You must all have heard this one (he says hopefully, as the alternate is that my folks are vindictive and evil): "If there's a wasp near you, stand still. He won't sting you then".

Utter guff.

The day I stood statue-like in the garden, the ice lolly I was holding; dripping cold, sugary goodness all over my hand, while a wasp wondered freely about my face. "Stand still" I told myself, "Mum says they won't sting you if you stand still". Mum wouldn't lie about this, surely.

I was close to passing out from holding my breath when the wasp found the perfect place to stab his stinger into me... right inside my fucking ear. What had seemed like hours of holding my breath immediately gave way to an otherworldly scream and I sprinted toward the trusty, loving arms of my dear Mother.

Until I got near and remembered what she'd said. How she'd lied. Perhaps she's in cahoots with the wasps and she'd told him to sting me.

My world was shattered and my parents had thrown away any trust I had in adults, forever.
( Moey, Mon 18 Aug 2008, 17:55, 5 replies)

One large box of lego, a rock collection, loads of board games, a Mega Drive + Mega CD
All given (willingly) to my younger cousins. Thankfully they get far more use out of them now than I would. Although it was a bit disheartening watching the accumulated memories (or now, as I see it, detritus) from my childhood being carted out of the door. Still, better used and abused than left to rot in a loft somewhere. Toys and comics were never about the money, they were about the joy they brought people at the time. Still, I'm happily building up a new rock collection. Still, I need to have another clearout soon, with 10 years worth of computer parts and other assorted crap building up. I even think Ihave some EDO RAM somewhere.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Mon 18 Aug 2008, 17:29, 1 reply)

I can't find my copy
of GTA IV for the PS3 :'(
( applehead herp derp, Mon 18 Aug 2008, 17:21, 1 reply)

Panini fottball 78 album
I spent almost all the school year collecting the stickers for that, swapping the doubles at school and so on and now it's nowhere to be found. I think my mum or dad threw it out. Bastards.
(arflat, Mon 18 Aug 2008, 17:20, 1 reply)

Was it fate or fete?
My tale isn’t actually as straightforward as loved and lost… mine is more along the lines of ‘loved, lost, cried and found again! I’ll explain…

When I was a wee flim-flam I grew up on a RAF base. My father was in the forces and therefore not around the house too much, more flying around the world with guns and ammo (that sort of stuff). Every now and then he would go away for a few months on training exercises but, I didn’t miss him too much growing up, mainly because there was fun to be had running around on a base. However, just like clockwork my dad’s guilt would set in and on his return we would go on a family trip to Toys “R” Us!! On this trip I found what would be the bane of my mothers life and my long-time furry companion!

His name was Fuzzy Bear (note the capital letters) and he sounded like he was full of empty crisp packets when you squeezed him. His arms were half the length of his legs and his head was three times the size of his body, but I loved him, I loved him like he was my fuzzy blue bear brother and he went EVERYWHERE WITH ME!!

I suppose my mum had no ill feelings towards Fuzzy Bear to start with, he was clean and didn’t smell of mould and stuff found in a vacuum cleaner bag! Sadly over time Fuzzy did start to stink up the place, he was no longer a bright baby blue, he was more dingy grey/blue and his crunchy sound had diminished and his eyes had gone sort of bulbous (probably from all the huggles I gave him)… but I still loved him because he was mine!

I shouldn’t paint my mother out to be a villain (even though she used to stop us building snowmen in the garden because walking on the snow killed the grass underneath!?!) because she did try to de-stink Fuzzy Bear. Unfortunately he could not be washed as the material inside him was weird and he wouldn’t dry properly so my mother did a sneaky thing and put him in a bag to give to a charity shop. I think she was banking on my exceedingly short attention span… which didn’t work as I noticed pretty quickly that Fuzzy Bear had gone and proceeded to GO NUTS! I cried, I kicked, I screamed but she wouldn’t give Fuzzy back to me or tell me what had happened to him. If only I had looked in her wardrobe I would have found him in a bin bag waiting to meet his fuzzy end.

About two weeks after Fuzzy Bear went missing my school had a fete. My mother thought this was a perfect opportunity to get rid of Fuzzy Bear and a ton of my brother’s naff toys so she took the bag out of her wardrobe and gave it to my school to use as raffle prizes. Little did she know my father would take me to that same fete… where, after only two goes, I was reunited with Fuzzy Bear!! It was fate… or fete (excuse the pun) and my mother couldn’t mess with that! She let me keep Fuzzy so long as I tried not to take him everywhere and also tried not to let him get anymore stinky!

So yes, I still have Fuzzy Bear to this day, and with a little help from Febreeze he’s good as new!
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Mon 18 Aug 2008, 16:58, 1 reply)