a lesson
if you have something of great sentimental/monetary value DON'T LEAVE IT IN A BIN BAG OR A BOX UNDER YOUR BED OR IN THE LOFT WHEN YOU MOVE OUT

adhering to this rule is why I don't have a story of woe for this qotw
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 9:10, Reply)

My beloved threw away
my collection of used, empty milk cartons, squeezed teabags, biscuit wrappers and vegetable peelings - I'd spent ages gathering it.

Oh well, it was rubbish anyway.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 8:50, 1 reply)

Transformers!
Robots in Disguise!

I used to own a book with a load of the profiles for the old tranformers toys, it was great, it gave their stats, what they turned into, their motto and a back story about them, it's more sentimental value than monetary but I sometimes wish I could just flick through that book and think of simpler times...

Gutted
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 8:49, 1 reply)

Clean Up Your Room!!!
.
I used to be a bit of a pack-rat, forever collecting old bits of worn-out tat, stripping it down and figuring out how things worked. So my room, to put it mildly, was a bit of a tip.

"Legless!" yells mum "Clean up your room. The rats have started to complain"

"No" I scowled "It's my room and I'll keep it the way I want it. Anyway, I need all that stuff."

"No you don't. There things in that room that haven't moved in two years. The carpets starting to grow over them" mum replied

"Stop exaggerating. Anyway, you shouldn't have been in my room. It's private"

The argument went backwards and forwards for a while with me steadfastly refusing to clear up my room.

"Right. Last Chance" says mum "You either clean up that room or I'll tell all of your friends that you still wet the bed."

"What! - I'm 14. I haven't wet the bed for ten years" I patiently explained.

Mum looked at me.

"Who are they going to believe?"

I cleaned up my room.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 8:40, 3 replies)

Not so much thrown away as left behind - a happy tale
This might go on a bit, but bare/bear (which one is it? I never know) with me.

The scene: end of my college career. Summer in the UK and loads of parties to go to as everyone is throwing a "fare-thee-well" themed alcoholic bash of some sort.

There are 3 of us. Your Humble Narrator, Steve, and Matt. Steve, being filthy rich and not much one for sleeping on floors, offers to pay for a hotel room near to one of the aforementioend alcoholic bash sites if Matt will drive us there in his 2CV (remember them?! Comedy car if ever there was one). We agree.

So as the evening/morning draws to an end, we enter the hotel. We are drunk. And quite likley stoned a wee bit.

Poor youthful spotty young fella on the night shift is there to greet us and give us our room key. Steve, dressed in his best "I'm the don of a very nasty criminal organisation" coat, and his 2 bruiser security goons (that'd be me and Matt) takes the key and then tells the youth to go ahead and open the door for us. We are all giggling as this guy thinks that there might be some sort of hitman waiting. Steve then decides that we need a "bigger and more different" room. The booze and drugs talking I think.

So we get a suite. Sweet!

The other two plonk down on the beds and Steve starts to roll a fat one. I do my normal thing which is to open each and every drawer in the room looking for I'm not too sure what - in case anyone has left behind money or valuables or something. Habit of a lifetime in hotel rooms that I still do and dunno why.

Instead, from one of the drawers, I picked out this eNORmous block of hash. About the size of 2 golf balls put together.

"Err Steve?..... is this yours?" I asked.
"....christ... no.... where did you get THAT from?....."

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur to be honest, but that remains to this day the best hotel I ever stayed in, and I would thoroughly recommend The Drug Suite if I could only recall where the bloody hotel is now. I can only remember Essex, and I'm not even sure about that.

Bugger.

Hey Ho.
(Spreddum O Grrrr. That's my vicious circle, that is., Fri 15 Aug 2008, 8:37, 3 replies)

Not my mum but
My ex-SO.

She still has some stuff at mine so I let her keep the door key until she can collect it all.

I come home from work one day, starving hungry and head straight for the fridge - that's weird, I'm sure there was more stuff in here this morning...

Wasn't until later I got a call from the ex-SO:

ex-SO: "Hi snee, I collected some more bits today."
Me: "Ah...did you happen to raid my fridge?"
ex-SO: "Well, I did throw out the out of date stuff."
Me: "including my large jar of PICKLED jalapenos?"
ex-SO: "Um..."
( snee held his breath since, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 8:04, Reply)

2000AD comics - the first 100 issues
For all your tales of financial loss and woe, I have something far worse and terrible and horrible and soul destroying - so brace yourself before reading on.

While still at my little school, for some completely unknown reason, mummy was in a newsagent and signed me up for a new comic that was coming out.... 2000AD. Entertainment for young lads was no doubt the slogan, instead of bloody brilliant mind boggling violence in cartoony form which it should have said.

Anyway, I had the first 100 copies of it and kept them in a bag under my bed.

Fast forward many years, and I am in big college, and come home for a long weekend. My room is different. Something is amiss. Something is... missing.....

Mum had binned the lot.

The.

Fucking.

Lot.

I (nearly) wept.

I still have about 400 issues running from issue 200 to 800 or so, but I have not kept them in particularly good nick. Can't be bothered.

I suspect that more guys will understand this than girls (for some reason, never met many girls who liked 200AD) but it still bothers me now when I think about it.

Hey Ho.

EDIT: Any clues as to what the first 100 copies would cost now? Just trying to compound my misery is all....
(Spreddum O Grrrr. That's my vicious circle, that is., Fri 15 Aug 2008, 8:02, 7 replies)

Way back in the mists of time...
When I was still living at home I was, how should I put this?, busy with my breakfast one morning, getting ready for work when there was a knock on the door - the police were looking for me. In my semi-wakened state, I admitted that I was the person they were looking for.

And so they took me away to serve 10 days in the Hotel Windsor (Bedford) for non-payment of fines.

On a side note - this was before they built the new block there - we were herded, sheeplike, 3 to a cell, 23 hours a day locked up - GREAT fun.

I got through the week safe in the knowledge I had an eighth stashed in my room and was going to get royally wasted when I got home.

And so to my release - went through the grilling they put you through to ensure the right person is being let out, changed back into my civvies (with a couple of the shirts underneath - they sell for good money), was issued my travel pass and back into the wide world - woohoo!

Straight away I phoned my mate to come pick me up and we went for a decent breakfast (prison porridge is great for sticking pics on walls, but as a food?).

Finally got back home and shot up to my room - oh no, it's been tidied. Turned the room upside down looking for my hash - nowhere to be found :(

My mum threw out my stash.

Another time, I got home meaning to change and go out - where's my trainers (REALLY tatty pair of Reeboks - holes in the soles, split up the sides)? couldn't find them anywhere.

Asked my mum later about them. Her reply?

"Oh, we did a car boot sale - I sold them."

Not so much threw out, but who in their right mind would buy a smelly pair of worn out trainers?

Length? 10 days
( snee held his breath since, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 8:00, Reply)

2 things
1) my virginity , no geat loss there

2) my marbles , a bit more of a concern as i get older
(welgar, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 7:45, Reply)

quarter of a million
not me but a mates grandmother.

About 20 years ago when lotto first started up in this part of the world my mates granny bought a ticket. Roll on 8pm saturday night and 6 familliar numbers flash up on the tv screen.

She had hit the big one , first division along with a couple of other lucky bastards. Needless to say she was excited and worried about the ticket so she slept with it under her pillow. It was a long wait untill monday when the shops opened and she could make her claim.

Monday arrived finally. She put the ticket on the kitchen bench next to her handbag. It was then that she heard a familliar monday morning noise , the binmen.

She quickley scooped the breakfast mess into the kitchen bin, and took it outside to the main bin. running outside with the main bin bag she caught the rubbish truck.
" Cheers love"

Went back inside made a cup of tea and sat down.

As she went to the kitchen to get her bag and ticket some thing was wrong . No ticket!! looked around the bench couldnt see . With a feeling of dread she looked down the side of the bench , the one next to the bin. Nothing.

Then it dawned on her what had happened . She had picked the winning ticket up with the rubbish , put it in the bin and given it to the binmen.

The ticket was never recovered and the prize was never claimed.
That is the story of my mates gran throwing away a very nice house in the rubbish. apparently she still wont talk about it to this day. Cant blame her really
(welgar, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 7:30, Reply)

Not me, but my Dad
My father was an avid audiophile. Growing up, I got exposed to a lot of excellent music, from Bach to the Beatles, all played on top-end stereo equipment.

He has the following tale of utter woe:

As a young lad heading off to college in the early 1970's, he of course brought his collection of vinyl. As a prudent sort, he left the rarest of his records behind at home. These included some INCREDIBLY rare Rolling Stones and Beatles records. Rare enough that they'd cost him several hundred dollars even shortly after they'd been released.

Several years later, he asked his mother where she'd put his albums. "Oh, those! I thought you left those behind because you didn't want them. I threw them away."

My father said that for years after that, he'd checked the value of the lost records just as a sort of exercise in frustration. According to him, he stopped checking when he realized that the collection would have topped $50,000.
(herbivorous, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 7:10, Reply)

Panda
Exhibiting from a *very* early age the type of scientific approach that would eventually enable me to earn my living in science I had a black-and-white panda bear teddy called ... Panda.

When I got him (I believe I must've been 2 or 3, I have no early childhood memories in which he isn't there) he had a red bow tied around his neck that was eventually lost and disposed of.

Panda used to come with me everywhere. I'd go for lunch - Panda would come to. I'd go play in the garden - Panda would be there. Going to the dentist - take a wild guess? Yup, Panda was there with me too and I've a memory of having four millk teeth extracted under general anaesthetic and Panda being put under GA before I'd agree to go do it (I was six at the time, give me a break!).

Strangely, in my memory, Panda's HUGE but in retrospect I suspect that he was actually probably not more than 20cm - 30cm (8-12 inches for those of you reading in black and white) tall.

Anyway.

As an RAF brat, we moved around a lot when I was growing up and on one move, when I was aged 11 (from RAF St Athan in Wales to RAF Coningsby in Lincolnshire) for some reason Panda didn't make it on to the transport.

Despite being 11 years old and undergoing the early stages of growth spurts; despite being in a new school and doing new sports; despite everything new and fresh and interesting about my new surroundings - I cried myself to sleep at night for a week or so and ended up cuddling up to a pillow (instead of Panda) at night.

[Reader - a confession. It's been twenty-some years since that happened and I'm STILL sleeping cuddled up to a pillow at night.]

I latterly found out from my mother* that in tidying and packing up for the move from Wales Panda had been consigned to the "pile-of-stuff-to-be-junked" and had then been rescued by my father and given to the kids area in the medical centre. It gave me some comfort thinking that other kids would've got some joy from Panda, and it equally gave me comfort that my bear (that I'd personified extensively as a child) would be being loved by other kids.

* Mothers? Freud was an idiot. I hope that his earthly remains in Highgate Cemetry are being irradiated by those of Mr Litvinenko (in the same place)
(Eds Meds Mathskillz=1,Socialskillz=0, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 5:32, Reply)

My grandmother collected stamps, you see...
..instead of investing money in mining and petroleum shares, she bought me stamps.

Anyway, she bought a lot of them. A complete collection of Australian stamps, all of them. Even the rose-and-black kangaroos... the *really* expensive ones.

Cut to.... March, this year. The collection is kept at my parents house, on account of they have better security out in the country rather than in minimally secure city flats.

Mum decided to get it valued for me. Without asking me. Took it to a stamp dealer she heard about. Without asking me. Got it back from stamp dealer, who reported it was worth about $700, as it wasn't a complete collection.

WHAT THE FUCK?

The 'kangaroos' were missing. All of them. The stamp dealer claimed they weren't there, then claimed he lost them, then claimed the weren't there, then claimed they 'fell apart', then claimed the weren't there, then offered mum $200 for the loss.... WHICH SHE TOOK 'WITHOUT PREJUDICE'.

This upset me at the time, but I got over it. Until I heard how much a complete Australian collection sold for in New York about 2 weeks ago.

$5.5 FUCKING MILLION FUCKING US FUCKING DOLLARS

Thanks, mum. Just... thanks.
(corinoco is waiting for the revolution., Fri 15 Aug 2008, 4:51, 3 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)

A Bunch of Rings!
When I was a student Peter Jackson's first movie 'Bad Taste' had come out. For some reason I took it upon myself to send him a short film script for his comments. He sent me a 5 page, hand-typed really good critique back. The final page had his recipe for home-made blood and a beautiful red splat drawn on it.

Mum threw it out when she shifted. Legend. Admittedly it'd been sitting in a box in her garage for many years.
( hismastersvice cunting flange-jammer, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 4:11, Reply)

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)

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)

All the boxes from my treasured hornby railway set
I had built up quite a display, and when we moved house I had to sell the entire set as we had no room for it in the new house. I got a price from a local dealer who knew what I had and as I wanted a quick sale (and needed the cash) I decided to go ahead and sell.

I then asked my parents where the boxes where that I had carefully stored away in the attic. "oh those old things, we thought you did not want them so we threw them out"

I'm still fumimg about that, 20 years later.

oh, in case you are wondering, price with boxes £500

without?

£70
( TBL I posted this on, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 1:55, Reply)

Buzz Aldrin, who he?
So yeah... Buzz Aldrin. I was working on a 'corporate event' in Sweden and we hired the man, the legend, for a bit of 'motivational discourse' at £40K plus expenses (flight, 5-star hotel) for 45mins of oft-repeated blather. I had to brief him - we met at his hotel bar with his wife, a surreal being that looks (thanks to serial facelifts) like a Muppet in a wind-tunnel. I talked business, Buzz repeated his rehearsed and exhausted PR spiel. Hard and pointless work, but I left with his BUSINESS CARD... a thick sliver of white, premium card, heavily - heavily - embossed with blue and gold 'NASA style' logo and bearing the truly awesome, super-impressive text: Buzz Aldrin, Astronaut. I mean, come on...

Next day, Buzz was dire. Total toss. In the early stages of dementia, he came out in front of around 300 Europeans captains of industry and in a bizarre helium voice declared: "I'm not Buzz Aldrin, I'm..." He then produced a strangely familiar plastic figure from his pocket and proceeded to make it 'fly'... "I'm Buzz Lightyear!" Then it went downhill. I never worked for that company again. But as Buzz left, as promised the night before, he gave me a framed photo... him on the moon - you know it: big spacesuit, reflections in the visor - and signed!!

So I got the business card stashed in my treasure box by my desk. I got the framed, signed photo on my wall. I know he's a dick, but hey - this is cool stuff. Sits there for 10 years during which my son turns 18 and throws a party. Clearing up next day I enter my trashed office and there, mid-desk, is the Aldrin card... torn roughly into the angular aftermath of several roaches.

Angry? Naah... Pissed myself to tell the truth. My first thought was whether the card would have been a bit too thick for a decent roach.

So... the frame's not much cop, but can anyone think of a comparably fitting use for the signed photo? Definitely not roachable and a little faded. Should I just recycle?
(foxbean i am a one in ten, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 1:42, 1 reply)

What me worry?
I used to read/collect MAD Magazines.

I had shedloads of them. 2 piles of about 3-4 foot high. I was even lucky enough to have copies from the 60s & 70s due to the fact my mates Uncle used to collect them as well and gave them to me as he heard I liked them.
(the fact I had no idea to the pop references didn't matter).

This combined with my comic books (spiderman, xmen, punisher) I had a significant collection.

Queue the day i moved out, I tell my parents I would be back to collect the mags. No less than 24 hrs the pile was in a rubbish tip!!!

I tried collecting again but I just didn't have the heart anymore. It broke me.
(Slatts If you cant remember it didnt happen, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 1:17, 1 reply)

I'd forgotten about this until now...
Remember back when tamagotchis were all the rage? I was about 8 or 9 years old, and I wanted one more than anything, until finally my dad bought me one in blackpool. It was fantastic. It was a kitten (I actually wanted something cool like a dinosaur but that doesn't matter). I was on it all the time. I remember after a bit it turned into a proper cat. Anyway... we were driving to Southampton and I went in the the toilets at the service station and left the thing on top of the toilet roll dispenser.

I shed a single tear as I realised I'd left it after we'd been back on the motorway 10 minutes.
(europe-who, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 0:58, 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)

My sandles
They were thrown out because they were too small. And a shirt I wore 3 weeks straight. I wouldn't put on a clean shirt until I lost my old one.
(NERDYLURKER is attempting to divide by zero, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 0:52, Reply)

My Lionel trains
Lionel is sort of the US equivilant of Hornby or Triang - part of the very foundation of being a kid in the US in the 1960s. My father had bought a veritable PILE of the stuff from a neighbor when that boy outgrew it; when we moved Mom insisted that we sell it off. I went to the boxes, pulled out a couple of my favorite pieces and saved it. The rest is gone...haunts me to this day. Well, maybe not that last bit...
( HairyTwatter certified eel and sodium salesman, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 0:38, Reply)

At least I saved the teddy! =)
My mum gave away all my Mighty Max (anyone else know him) and Power Rangers toys, along with my lego and K'nex (however you spell it) to poor children in bloody Borneo! I was shocked! I had literally EVERY Mighty Max toy you could get!
I couldn't believe it! No longer would I have epic Power Ranger battles! No longer would Mighty Max be going on adventures with the ripped bloke and the wise chicken! No longer would my lego knights attack castles for no reason whatsoever! *cries* I bet they broke everything!

On a lighter note however I have a white teddy bear, missing an arm, an ear and rather faded since I got it the day I was born 19 years ago...
One bonfire night my dad called me as he was about to light the bonfire, I walked outside and there he was! Sitting on top of the fire, scared out of his little teddy bear mind!
I quickly ran over and rescued him before the fire could be lit!
He's currently sitting in my room happy and warm now with strict orders to my parents not to even touch him ever or they will go in a home!
*hugs teddy*
(Cockney_Jesus is targetting your mum in V.A.T.S!, Fri 15 Aug 2008, 0:11, 3 replies)

Teddy bears
As a young lad, I loved my teddy bears rather alot. Perhaps to much for a boy. I remember getting home from school one day, aged six, to see a pair of feet sticking out of the bin. It was my fairly new evil wearbear (remember them?)who despite always using as a baddie, I loved.

Instant culprit was the sister, so I ran to tell on her, yet she had a alabi. Whole day at school, left and arived with me. My dear old dad looked down and said "Oh, that was me, I didn't realise you still played with it, sorry son." I fish him out, and all is well. Fast forward a few months, I, now age 7 come home to find my room empty of all my teddybears. No wearbears, no crappy baloon bear, no fofo, no yellow ted. YELLOW TED FFS! He was my favorite toy up until I was 6, and even after that he was my special friend who comforted me when somthing bad happened. I tore the house appart looking, I was frantic.

My father looks slightly less far down and informs me that my bears have a new home, at the tip. I was gutted, not only were they gone, but I, aged 7, would rather they had gone to a loving home rather then a land fill. The reason? "They annoyed me, running around all day!" Every time I asked, it was the same reason, untill one day, I asked him when he was drunk. His answer was this. "I didn't want a gay son."

This morning, he fell off the conservetry roof and cracked a bone in his pelvis. I looked after him, got him water, kept him from passing out, supported his 16 stone frame into the house, cleaned his wounds, changed his shirt, helped him out of his boots and waited for an ambulance with him. At hospital, I halped him change his jeans.

Had I remembered this stunt, I may not have bothered.

For the record, I didn't turn out gay! Though I do love kittens, puppies, babies, reading quietly and I despise sport.
(Mong goose, Thu 14 Aug 2008, 23:55, Reply)

Bit rubbish really but My mum...
I owned a Mug, with a Mickey Mouse and load of little Mickeys falling out of a mug on it, I loved and cherished it and I and others had enjoyed a few hundred good brews from it.

One day I noticed it was not in the cupboard, there was no washing up, not on the draining board or in the dishwasher. I asked my Mum where it was and she said, "I knocked it off the side and smashed it, I hated the damn thing anyway, Too heavy!" Thanks Mum. :/
Length? Around five inches with a handle.
(KavyMan Living on the ceiling, no more room down there..., Thu 14 Aug 2008, 23:45, Reply)

Not me...
... but a friend.

A few of us are organising a trip to next year's Grand National, as is tradition in our group. I mentioned it to one of the lads in work, and he seemed keen. Assuming he knew next to nothing about the gee-gees, I explained to him that he'd have to budget some cash to lose; that he should expect to end up down for the weekend, because the only real winner is the bookie.

Born in Nepal, he's only been over here for a few years. Keen to embrace the culture of his new home, he takes part in things that are typically British. I was surprised to hear though, that he likes a bet on the National every year.

I was even more surprised to hear that he'd put 3 each-way bets on last year's race, and that all 3 had come in 1-2-3. Feeling smug with himself, he puts his betting slips on the kitchen table and nips off for a shower before going out to collect his winnings (about £120, so I'm told).

His aunt sees the scraps of crumpled paper on the table and assumes they're rubbish - doesn't just throw them out, but tears 'em up for good measure. My mate's philosophy? "At least it wasn't an accumulator..." Poor bastard. I'd have been gutted.
(Home Bargains was last seen wanking like a safari park chimp:, Thu 14 Aug 2008, 23:32, Reply)

A quick list of the things I've lost
There was my GCSE geography coursework that my Nan threw out resulting in me having to do a six week project in about two weeks.

My X-Men pencil case, lost somewhere in Canterbury

My Nightbreed book with pictures of awesome Clive Barker monsters

And two friends
So if you know a woman called Jo Best who went to Sheffield Uni and is in her late 20's or a guy in his early 30's called Andy Hayes can you tell them that Ky still lives in her old house and would like to talk to them again
(Boss Mew Covfefe does not bargain...it only covfefes., Thu 14 Aug 2008, 23:21, Reply)

Partially my own fault...
When I was 4 (a long long time ago) and had an unhealthy stretch in hospital due to childhood leukaemia, as a present for not dying (ok not fair to them) my parents bought me a Scalextric. (it must have cost them a months' wages in 1968).

It had a red lap counter, chicane and green banking things that let you raise the track, and 2 cars, belonging (at the time) to Graham Hill and Jim Clark, my childhood heroes.

I cherished this thing until the transformer burnt out, but even after it was not viable as a toy I told my parents to keep the thing safe. So they did. In the attic.

38 years later my parents decide to move, and rang me to come and get all my stuff in the attic. Most of it was old copies of Sounds, NME and Melody Maker, but the Scalextric was just as I left it. So I put it in the back of the car, to eventually unload it and keep it as a memento of my slightly weird childhood.

2 weeks later the car catches fire in Liverpool and I lost the lot. Now I know you're saying that no car "spontaneously" catches fire in Liverpool but mine did.

Lost the lot.

I still miss those little cars. Insurance paid for the big one, but nothing can replace those scale models of the white BRM and the green Lotus.

A large chunk of my childhood lost forever, because VW couldn't fit fuses properly. Bastards.
(Dr Teeth Who asked you, you fuckin' hobbit?, Thu 14 Aug 2008, 23:17, Reply)