Should I feel Guilty...
Despite being a big hairy thirty-something bloke, I'm not afraid to admit having had a favorite teddybear as a kid - A giant (3.5' ish) Panda I had named 'Bungle'

Fast forward to my late teens, and I realise that despite not caring for many years, I couldn't remember where I'd left my beloved old bear....and out of curiosity I ask my mother if she's seen him. She admits to having donated him to a local hospital a year or so previous (along with some other toys) as I was clearly 'too old for teddys now'. Grrrrrr....

Quite why I freaked out as much as I did I'm not sure... but riddled with guilt my mum returned to the hospital, where the dog eared and much loved bear was STILL there, being played with by, I can only imagine, small bald children at deaths door.

She stole the donated toy BACK from the sick children and returned it to me... and soon after he moved to the attic to take up permanent residence.

Reading this QOTW reminded me of bungle... I never collected him when we moved house. I wonder if he's still there.... and if I can convince my mom to try some B and E.....:)
(Poombah the destroyer where did tutt and dth go, Wed 20 Aug 2008, 6:20, 3 replies)

2000 AD
Issues 1 to 200 odd - complete, still had the boomerang thing from issue 1, the robot stickers from issue 2 (though I seem to remember that a few of the stickers got used) and the secret agent cardboard wallet thing from hatever early issue that was (assembled).

Twenty odd years later and I still haven't forgiven her.
(nobbyd is wanking furiously to industrial grade porn on, Wed 20 Aug 2008, 3:31, Reply)

just a few hours ago, i almost
left that war on terror board game on a bendy bus.
oh the horror. its really good though
(papa bouba slap your face, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 23:28, 1 reply)

Well...
It all started in the wee hours of one terrible Thursday. There was nothing left in the house to eat. I searched all the cupboards, even the odd one under the sink with bleach and stuff inside. The results of my quest: one dusty latex glove, one small tin of varnish, and one medium tin of Tesco baked beans. I put aside the glove and varnish, and eventually, underneath the oven gloves, I found a can opener.

At last! The sweet beany goodness would be mine! Seeing as all the saucepans were encrusted with grime, having been abandoned to the ravages of the kitchen sink several days prior, I made use of the handy free saucepan which came with the beans. Other people sometimes call them 'tins'. I placed it delicately on top of the hob, and lit the gas.

Scant minutes later, the beans were fully warmed through. I had no spoon, nor any other item of cutlery, so I made full use of my fingers, and shovelled the delicious tomatoey pulses (Are they pulses? For the purposes of this tale, they will be.) down my throat, like a murderer who has just tossed the body into the grave when the sun is already peeping over the horizon. My hunger sated, I curled up on the sofa to await the morning.


*PFFFT*
My eyes snapped open. What was that? It sounded like a tractor's tires being deflated, in bursts of approximately ten seconds. As I heard another, I realised the sounds were emanating from my posterior. As I whirled around in shock, my eyes appeared to deceive me. Were there really men in suits with horses' heads dancing around an enormous tea cup. As I staggered, and the floor fell up to meet me, I glimpsed the empty bean can. How it mocked me. With its eyes! Oh, the eyes...


I realised my anus was still expelling noxious fumes! These gases must be preserved, for the good of science. But what could I keep them in? I hauled myself to my feet, and rediscovered the dusty latex glove. Oh yes. I clamped the arm hole to my arse, and farted for England. Soon the glove reached the size of a baby giraffe, sounding as if one more cubic centimetre of waste gas would force it to explode. I turned around, pants round my ankles, and somehow tied a knot in it. Success! Huzzah! I would be showered in money as the scientific community would clamor to analyse this!

However: The glove-ballon let out a creak like a dying mule. I must do something to keep this... This weapon's structural integrity! Remembering the events leading up to the bean-find prior to my sleep, I grabbed the varnish, and slopped it over the glove. Soon, it would dry to a rock-hard substance. I left it to dry, and went to the shower to cleanse my body.

As I lathered my calves, i finally felt a sense of rest. The farting had ceased. I finished off quickly (fnar!) and ran to the kitchen. The glove had dried. I dressed swiftly, and made ym way to the car, carrying my 'glovoon', as i then christened it. I strapped it in to the passenger seat, and started up the engine.

I have not mentioned the location of my house. The nearest structure is a scientific laboratory about fifteen miles north. Otherwise, I am all alone for nearly fifty miles all around.

I was driving - fast, but not too fast - to the lab, when suddenly I found myself on the set of the popular movie 'Back To the Future'! I looked at myself, and I had turned into Marty McFly! I was driving a DeLorean! Wow! And with that thought, everything turned white.



When I woke up, I found myself in a ditch in the fifties, with a newspaper in my hand. I was clothed in some kind of hessian tunic. I looked at the paper. The date- June 2nd. And the top story? The previous week, a mysterious white object had exploded over the Dorsetshire village of Shitterton, killing hundreds of people in a deadly gas attack.

And that, my friends:

Blown to May: The Guff I Gloved and Glossed.
(Impunity, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 22:59, 3 replies)

It was the Rolls Royce of pedal cars.
Actually it WAS a Rolls Royce pedal car, all shiny and dark brown and when I was given it for Christmas age 3 I wouldn't go near it. However, I got over that and loved it. My Grandad installed flashing indicators in it, I practised parallel parking and everything. When my sister was given a much more modern one we'd go up and down the street together, pedal furiously to the park and so on. There are photos of us washing our vehicles in the back garden.

I loved that car, but grew out of it both mentally and physically. For many years it languished in the shed (imagine the opening scenes of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) but I knew it was there, just waiting until I had a shed of my own to keep it in.

And then, when I was 14, I suddenly saw it... on the way to the dump with all the other 'rubbish' as Mum and Dad cleared the shed out and though I pleaded for it to be spared it still went to its doom. Not even to charidy (well, we didn't do that in the 70s did we, unless it was Blue Peter?)

I was heartbroken for days, so much so that my parents felt very guilty, which while it was a satisfying state of affairs did not bring old Rolly (which I never called it) back to me.

My parents STILL feel bad about it, in fact. I have told them that the first volume of my autobiographies will be called 'Pedal Car and Tinned Peaches*' - it never fails to make my Mum cry 'Oh, DON'T' in an anguished way.

How I relished it when I sent them a postcard of a very, very similar pedal car from the v&A, just to rub it in.

*The tinned peaches reference is to another childhood trauma involving sitting in front of a bowl of them 'until you eat them.' I didn't eat the evil, slug-like repellent items in the end, though. I was very stubborn. Even now they make me shudder.
(singingringingtree Living in the past., Tue 19 Aug 2008, 22:12, 4 replies)

I had all the original star wars toys
in their original boxes and when I was finished and opened my eyes I saw a cup of tea on my bedside table.
( Peej, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 22:05, Reply)

The fish story reminded me of mine...
I once had two little gold fish. One, the bigger, was called Super Sonic. The other was called Teency because he was. They used to swim around their little blue-lidded tank and sometimes at night they would jump and make sploshy ploppy noises. I loved them. I even bought them a statue of a blue fish for christmas and made them their own miniature card.

Teency used to fall on his side every so often but with a bit of whooshing and a wee rest, would be fine. Then he died.

Super Sonic lasted a bit longer until one day I came home from school to find the tank empty and my gran standing there.

"He died and I buried him for you in the garden." I searched and searched but saw no digging that had occurred in said garden.

I never did believe her and have been a bit bitter about it ever since. Could she not have left him for me to say goodbye to and bury myself? I loved that fish, damnit. I only recently realised, she flushed him. But what if he had done a Teency?! My wee fishy!

/sad fish related confusion
( vix0r was not Matthew on, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 21:59, 1 reply)

Ahhh, I knew there was a reason I didn't like her
Ex Mr Birdwoman's uncle worked on the original Star Wars film, he won an oscar for it in fact, David Stears. (When ex was chatting me up and told me this I wouldn't talk to him again until I had verified this fact, but that's by the by)

Now this exes mother was a bit of a tidy freak and somewhat annoying, controlling her son's lives as much as possible and it took me some considerable time for her to be civil to me. I am generally perceived to be a nice person, I don't know why she didn't like me, but there we go. Anyway, it was therefore with no small amount of relish that I always enjoyed the story of how their mum threw away some original props from Star Wars. She was a bit compulsive about not hoarding stuff and didn't 'get' the whole Star Wars thing.

On the plus side his aunt had several funny stories about George Lucas.
(birdwoman pissed herself at least once on, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 21:45, Reply)

No need for me to stay
the last thing left, I just threw it away
(Halfy By light alone, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 21:36, 2 replies)

Oh and whilst I'm as sentimental as the next man...
Star Wars?
2000 AD?
TRANSFORMERS?

Jesus. Next we'll have someone saying they had the full set of Polly Pocket or Sylvanian Families and if wasn't for their batty old bint of a mother, they'd be richer than Roman Abramovich.

Get over it. EVERYTHING YOU WANT IS NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. It's a given.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 21:36, 7 replies)

im such a compulsive hoarder and a klepto
and iv been through every fad there is including pokemon cards, yoyos, alien eggs, tamigotchis, and into adulthood iv started keeping any books, clothes, foreign bottles, beer mats, plectrums, odd earrings, old cuddly toys, every single birthday, christmas or congratulatory card, old clothes, odd scraps of cloth, pins, badges, stickers, free postcards, school textbooks, old tape players, odd plugs and wires, dead batteries, brightly coloured socks i never wear, odd socks, menus, old purses, beads, ribbons, cassettes, safety pins, buttons, pieces of string, pieces of elastic, key rings and the five million thousand ornaments i have accumulated over the years such as my china cats...

rents have never chucked out anything without telling me but they must be going mental by now.
(ladyintheradiator, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 21:35, Reply)

My dad
Is one of those pretend Muslims which pick and choose when they want to follow Allah. When he was still married to my mum in the godforsaken '80s, he made her sell off her entire David Bowie collection - all his albums up to that point including the rare-as-fuck Diamond Dogs 'Genitalia' cover, imports, the lot, because they were symbols of Western decadence and therefore insultful to Allah and The Prophet (he was in a fundamentalist zone at the time).

He then proceeded to gamble all the money made from the sales away.

This was a time when our front room furniture consisted of an armchair (for my dad, obviously), a table with two chairs (only to be used at meal times) and newspaper for carpet. Oh yes.

My dad was a cunt.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 21:04, 8 replies)

my parents never threw anything away that I didn't want them to
but if it's any consolation I still bitterly resent them anyway.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 19:41, Reply)

Sentimental Packrat
I have trouble parting with anything. I've been known to whimper over the prospect of tossing even a broken shoelace, and in my younger years, I'd hide things from my parents to avoid them being thrown out.

I shudder to think of my mental state when my van (which I've already spent more on repairs for than I originally bought it for) finally breaks down for good, and I have to get rid of it. I might end up parking it in the nearby lot and leaving it there, just so I can go and sit in it from time to time and remember the good old days.
(Morgan is a damn dirty hippie, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 19:37, Reply)

this is the second time i've moved to canada
the first, i sold my bass guitar and turntables for plane tickets, and i left all the clothes i'd gotten too fat to wear behind with my old flatmate, and told him to take them to Oxfam. Got back 3 months later and lost all the weight i'd put on. fuck. at least i still had everything else: computer, tv, dvds etc.
this time, i decided to make no such error, and simply left everything (bar my records, now in storage). that's right. i have completely dumped my entire life behind.
it was shit anyway.
( the brass moustache putting the ass moust in brache since, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 19:22, 1 reply)

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)

Theft.
Why is it that whenever someone takes something of yours without permission and you never see it again, it's theft, but if the person doing it is your mother, it's grounds for an amusing story?

Why do so many people have parents who don't understand the concept of "somebody else's property", meaning "not mine to sell/throw away"?
(Musuko, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 18:20, 3 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)

I won a Gold!
Fish. What? Oh, just humour me...

I once won a goldfish at the local village fete, through the tried and tested means of bouncing a ping pong ball into a jam jar.

I handed him in his temporary plastic bag home over to the gentle hands of my mother, while I skipped off, smugly complacent, to buy an ice cream.

When I returned, Lendl (*) was gone, and my mother was aimlessly puttering around the homemade jams stall. Bottom lip a-quiver, I asked her, "Mum, where's my goldfish?"

"I gave him away," she replied. Apparently, she'd expressly forbidden me to even attempt to win any kind of pet as inevitably the responsibility for their care fell to her when I got bored and went to play with my "My Little Pony Horsey Health Spa" or whatever shiny toy caught my attention that day. I had conveniently chosen to forget her warnings and had won the fish regardless.

I now choose to also conveniently forget her pleading that "she doesn't want to be put in a home", the goldfish murdering (**) harridan.


(*) Yes, I named my fish after a tennis player. I didn't have many friends as a child.

(**) I know she didn't technically murder him, but did she do a home visit to check he was going to a good family? Did she enquire as to whether they had a cat? Did she bugger, she may as well have flushed him down the toilet.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 16:51, 3 replies)

Question
Would anyone else like to have a museum room whereby all "priceless" artefacts were stored?

I reckon it would be pretty cool, but i am sure my collections would bore other people feckless.

There was a TV program on BBC2 years ago about collections of victorian stuffed kittens in poses - quite gruesome as they had mostly been drowned to ensure they looked good when stuffed. Thats what started my museum musings, but not having something that "good" to collect has stopped me there.
My aunt does have some stuffed things - a fox (roadkill), and owl (hit my uncle on his helmet - Motorbike helmet - and broke its neck), a mouse on a piece of straw and a stoat.
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Tue 19 Aug 2008, 16:50, 2 replies)

My foreskin
Some bastard doctor whipped it off and threw it away while I was sleeping!!!

Grrrrr.
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 16:44, 6 replies)

Discarded offspring's life.
I mentioned this week QotW to my friend Elisa, and this is what spewed forth:

"Oh, I think my mother wins 'Cunty of the Year Award 2001'.

A few years earlier, as a wide-eyed and adventurous 20 year old I packed what I deemed essential items to live off into a backpack from Millets, put the rest into my Mum's loft and spare room, and headed out into the unknown world, or Australia, as it were.

Had an amazing time, stayed too long, became an illegal alien with fake name (but that’s another story) and after 2.5 years thought it was about time I headed back to Blighty.

Now, I knew something was amiss when I arrived at Gatwick one cold and snowy February day in my flip flops and shorts. I had a killer tan, 200 marly lights and £40 to my name - my mother did not however have the jeans, jumpers, shoes or clothes of mine that I had asked her to bring.

No no, she was holding a travel blanket.

Turns out a few months after I left, she decided I was never going to come home, and frankly she could do with clearing out one of the 3 bedrooms she had in her house that she lived alone in, and well...she had given every FUCKING TRACE OF ME to a charity shop.

Clothes, shoes, books, CDs, jewellery, household items, stereo, the lot.

Needless to say I felt erased. Quite a feat to get the stuff I had in the loft out too, seeing as she had a hip replacement not so long before. She’s nothing if not determined.

Cheeky bitch then made me pay for the airport car parking, and later that night came round to my mate’s house to borrow the last £20 I had so she could go to fucking bingo that night.

Thank fuck I'd gobbled some nice 'n' smiley E earlier that afternoon.

Length – about 6 months to delete a daughter.

Bitch."
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 16:41, 1 reply)

An empowering, yet off-topic tale
Inspired by a tale from a few pages back...

My girlfriend suggested that I discard a quantity of assorted quality wires and computer cabling and parts prior to our last house move. I refused, merely throwing them into the toolbox she gave me last Christmas.

We are now moving again, and I have an wide assortment of plastic bags and wraps in which to store the disassembled bits of furniture we bought on her insistence. Without my finely tuned hoarding instincts, we would undoubtedly find ourselves with lots of shelves and nothing to stick them back together into a unit. Score one for the hoarders!

The several kilograms of garbage that I still have in the toolbox (which even I admit that I will never use) is beside the point.
(ThomsonsPier consumes, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 16:40, 1 reply)

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 first car left me without so much as a goodbye.
My first car was an Austin Metro. Awesome piece of kit that was. 4 gears 1 litre engine. Oh the fun times we had together. Like when the clutch cable snapped just as I pulled up home. And how the sunroof blew off on the M1 on a rainy day. How I rejoiced when a parking attendant told me to move the car now or get a fine - to find the battery had gone flat. And how on a damp day I had to get on my hands and knees and pray for her to start. What a motor! Cars just don't have personality anymore!

Anyway I made the biggest mistake ever and dumped her for a turbo diesel Fiat Punto from Carcraft. Thats when my car troubles really started. But thats another story for another week. I had her up for sale round the corner for a week and I drove round in the new car. One day I came home to find out she left me. Gone without a trace not even a dear john.

Quite how the fuckers managed to start it is beyond me! They deserved to have it for free for the effort it must have taken to nick it!
The police never found it either. Reported it stolen, but never heard anything ever again.

I'll always wonder what happened to it though.

Length? 4 months of putting up with the piece of shite.
(Miggyman, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 16:07, 1 reply)

I was going to experiment with drugs once when I was 15
and I bought a little bag of weed off a mate from school.

In an effort to make sure nobody could ever find it, I hid it beyond the wit of any thief…cleverly between the pages of my pron collection, which in turn was discreetly tucked between the pages of my 2000AD collection.

This veritable ‘drug / pron / comic mega-mix’ was then cunningly locked away in my secret toy box with all my Star Wars figures.

So you can imagine my surprise when my mum found the toy box, shoved it up my arse then hoofed the lot into the wheelie bin.

Let’s recap:

Drug stash? – Check
Pron? – Check
2000AD? – Check
Star Wars? – Check
Virginity? - Check

*Drops Mic*

*Leaves building*
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Tue 19 Aug 2008, 15:56, 3 replies)

Is this weeks question the Star Wars and 2000AD special???
Who the hell cares about 2000AD for fucks sake?!?
Are they actually worth anything??

Every other person seems to be posting about how they had the first 10 million copies but lost them. Since everyone had them they must be worth, er... FUCK ALL?

Yeah, I had EVERY kunting SW figure and loads of vehicles and everything but, the market must be SO ring-pieceingly flooded there'd be not much point, and I have a thing about not selling things people gave to me as gifts.


*edit*
Just realised that I've written just about the same comment as Powermonkey. Soz.
(Mr.Dog was in love again on, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 15:38, 6 replies)

ooo! Have just remembered one!
My Capri!

About 11 years ago I bought a Capri. 1.6 Laser. It was crap. But I loved the shape.

A year later, I bought myself a new one (well, not "new" new, just new to me) - a 2.8i V6 this time. This was not crap. I loved hooning about it in, hanging the arse out like I was in The Professionals or something. Unfortunately, I got a job at the opposite end of the country to where my belioved (and my wife) lived. So I bought a sensible Clio and parked the Capri up outside my folks.

A couple of years later, my grandad died and my Capri ended up on my grandmother's drive, the rational being that it made it look like someone other than my nan lived there.

I had plans for this Capri. Big plans. I had sourced a not too battered XX-pack body kit, which would make it look not too disimilar to the DTM winning Capri and, most importantly, a supercharged Rover V8 to drop into the cavernous engine bay. MNy wife wasn't too pleased at this prospect, but I'd saved my money without putting her out at all, so protests fell on deaf ears.

Unfortunately, my nan now needed to go into a home and my dad was tasked with emptying her house. Since me and the missus were just about to buy a house, I got first dibs on all her crockery and stuff. My car had been parked on the drive for a good hour before I realised that it occupied the space where the Capri should have lived.

Turns out someone my mum worked with also loved Capris, so she had signed it over to him. He'dtaken it away on a low-loader the week before.

The wife spent my Capri money on some pointless rubbish for the house that we never use (a new boiler).

(sorry for the length, but at least it's a break from 2000AD's, Star Wars toys and Tranformers [which aren't worth anywhere near as much as people seem to think])
(ScousersPet, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 15:15, 5 replies)