Profile for Glis:
none
Recent front page messages:
Best answers to questions:
[read all their answers]
- a member for 22 years, 8 months and 18 days
- has posted 624 messages on the main board
- (of which 7 have appeared on the front page)
- has posted 2 messages on the talk board
- has posted 11 messages on the links board
- (including 1 links)
- has posted 37 stories and 0 replies on question of the week
- They liked 48 pictures, 4 links, 0 talk posts, and 258 qotw answers.
- Ignore this user
- Add this user as a friend
- send me a message
none
Recent front page messages:
Won't you throw spare him a penny or two?
He'll be on 'Stars in Their Eyes" before you know it.
(Mon 30th Sep 2002, 21:07, More)
He'll be on 'Stars in Their Eyes" before you know it.
(Mon 30th Sep 2002, 21:07, More)
.
If Bond's career in MI6 didn't work out, at least he had something to fall back on.
(Ably assisted by the lovely Dezzie McQ)
(Mon 30th Sep 2002, 12:30, More)
If Bond's career in MI6 didn't work out, at least he had something to fall back on.
(Ably assisted by the lovely Dezzie McQ)
(Mon 30th Sep 2002, 12:30, More)
I got home from work early today.
Then I realised why I normally don't try and do that.
You've Been Framed.
(Mon 22nd Apr 2002, 17:10, More)
Then I realised why I normally don't try and do that.
You've Been Framed.
(Mon 22nd Apr 2002, 17:10, More)
Best answers to questions:
» * PFFT *
The Breath of Satan
I come from a long line of farters. My dad is one of those people who finds anal serenades the funniest thing on earth, much to mum's great annoyance.
But without fail, it is always her own trumps which have been the source of the greatest amusement, of which the greatest was one summer many years ago when both her sisters and our cousins were all over for a Sunday of food, booze, playing games and family bonding.
Picture, if you will, a group of 12 of us in the garden doing nothing more exciting than standing in a big circle simply throwing a ball randomly to each other (yes, the family get-togethers were quite, quite shit). Mum wasn't the best of catchers, and was regularly dropping the ball, and had to scuttle off to pick it up with the grace and co-ordination only a post-menopausal lady appears to be able to attain.
One time, she bent over a bit quickly, and inadvertantly let off a fart of such power and tonal quality that it must have been close to tearing the fabric of space and time.
This destroyed everyone - uncles and aunts were bent over double in pain from laughing. There didn't seem to be a dry eye in the garden. The game was half-heartedly continued but eventually was given up as a lost cause.
This in itself was amusing enough, but from my own point of view it was funnier watching our neighbours the following weekend, standing in a circle, attempting to play the same game and work out what the hell made it quite so amusing for us to play.
I reckon at its current velocity that fart must be close approaching the edge of the known universe.
---
I think my own most ignoble moment was being on holiday in Prague with some friends staying in a dorm room. I dropped a fart which was silent and evil enough to rouse my friend Ali from his drunken slumber.
I almost wept with joy.
(Fri 13th Jul 2007, 15:41, More)
The Breath of Satan
I come from a long line of farters. My dad is one of those people who finds anal serenades the funniest thing on earth, much to mum's great annoyance.
But without fail, it is always her own trumps which have been the source of the greatest amusement, of which the greatest was one summer many years ago when both her sisters and our cousins were all over for a Sunday of food, booze, playing games and family bonding.
Picture, if you will, a group of 12 of us in the garden doing nothing more exciting than standing in a big circle simply throwing a ball randomly to each other (yes, the family get-togethers were quite, quite shit). Mum wasn't the best of catchers, and was regularly dropping the ball, and had to scuttle off to pick it up with the grace and co-ordination only a post-menopausal lady appears to be able to attain.
One time, she bent over a bit quickly, and inadvertantly let off a fart of such power and tonal quality that it must have been close to tearing the fabric of space and time.
This destroyed everyone - uncles and aunts were bent over double in pain from laughing. There didn't seem to be a dry eye in the garden. The game was half-heartedly continued but eventually was given up as a lost cause.
This in itself was amusing enough, but from my own point of view it was funnier watching our neighbours the following weekend, standing in a circle, attempting to play the same game and work out what the hell made it quite so amusing for us to play.
I reckon at its current velocity that fart must be close approaching the edge of the known universe.
---
I think my own most ignoble moment was being on holiday in Prague with some friends staying in a dorm room. I dropped a fart which was silent and evil enough to rouse my friend Ali from his drunken slumber.
I almost wept with joy.
(Fri 13th Jul 2007, 15:41, More)
» It's not me, it's the drugs talking
Gypsies and weed do not mix
I was 18 when I first tried out cannabis. I'd just decided that I wanted to get it out of the way before I went to University, so I know what to expect. Being good friends with Dean, a guy who was very heavily into any drugs he could get his hands on at the time, this meant I thought I'd be in safe hands.
The night was planned for the day my parents and sister went away on holiday, leaving the house very much to myself.
As a precursor to the main event, Dean and I ate a small amount of resin he had in his posession, and proceeded to have a rather strange conversation about Ant's Cocks, which we'd both reasoned had to have been pretty damn big given the size of the Queen Ant. I would just picture a normal-sized ant with a human cock dragging between his legs.
Anyway, the main event drew closer, and a day or two before another friend of mine, Dunk, decided he wanted in as well, so we dispatched Dean to go and get a nice quarter of squidgy black for us all, which he happily obliged, returning with a couple of bonus trips.
The fateful night arrived. Dunk and Dean turned up, armed with drugs, and given that only Dean smoked at that time, Dunk and I set about Mollying some of the weed. In this case, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve it in warm milk on Dean's instructions. Having no scales, and no real prior experience, it was a little difficult to work out how much to put in there, but I would estimate that maybe just under a 1/16th went into my milk, which I drank with all its resiny goodness.
A couple of hours later, and nothing had really happened. Dunk had opted to try a bit of Dean's acid, who had in turn necked the other 1 1/2 tabs. I thought "fuck it", and necked the remainder of my 1/8th. This turned out in retrospect to be a fatal move.
Some other friends of ours turned up, and we wandered up to the local playground to sit, talk, and have a beer. All was still good, after over 3 hours from taking the first drink. Dean, however, was now feeling the effects and had gone off to sit on the concrete circle where there had once been a merry-go-round.
Upon going to try and talk to him, he just kept going about being a "fucking cabbage" and not to try talking to him due to his cabbageness. I left him to it for a while, then dragged both him and Dunk back down to my house.
On the way back down the hill, it was obvious that the trip had hit Dunk, who was now giggling like an utter loon, and convinced that he was on the biggest rollercoaster in the world. Dean just kept muttering about the floor being made of cabbages.
Back in the house, still stone cold sober, I decided to put on some music, and being a bit evil to the others went straight for Dark Side of the Moon, and sat in between the speakers watching them both spack out.
And then it hit. A little way into "On the Run", a wave of utter fuckedness washed over me as the THC started to course through my brain. I couldn't keep stable on the armchair at all; I kept feeling as if I was going to fall backward through it and just keep on going. I held onto the chair for dear life as the trance-like music eminating from the speakers felt as if it was electrocuting me. I didn't dare move, but knew I just had to stop the music before those fucking alarm clocks on the next track cut in.
After that, the fear set in something chronic. Dunk had discovered where my crisps were, and happily munched through almost 20 bags of them. Dean had wandered out of the house as he wanted to commune with the cabbages on that concrete circle some more. He returned about three minutes later unable to remember where he was going, and promptly just went to sleep.
I did all I was capable of to prevent me from going over the edge; washing up. When I'd finished I washed it all again for good measure. Then I went to bed, unable to sleep as every time I closed my eyes I was getting strong visuals, and felt like I was falling through space and time, and whenever I had my eyes open, could just hear short bursts of music. I briefly considered jumping out of the window to make it all end, but convinced myself that it would be better just to throw up and try again.
Time dillation then hit with avengance. I was capable of moving anywhere in the house in the blink of an eye, like a speeded up movie. I ran to the bog, and chundered in record time, and then ran around the house a bit for good measure like a hummingbird on crack.
Then I passed out.
The following afternoon when I finally woke up, I found both friends had gone home. I meekly tried to get on with tasks, only too aware that the cannabis was still coursing through my veins. Time had gone the other way now, and things were going very much in slow motion. I could watch the individual droplets of water fall from the watering can onto the plants my folks had instructed me to keep moist. I attempted to cook a roast. It didn't work. I only tried cooking it for about 10 minutes.
And then the real fun started. My neighbour and both her young children popped round with some sweets to pass onto my parents as a thankyou for watering their plants whilst on holiday. I sat there, reddened and droopy eyes, trying to comprehend these tiny people who had invaded my house and were now asking me the most pointless questions. Their mum in turn asked if I was alright, and to my great relief managed to blag that I was coming down with the flu or something.
That was enough to dispense with them, but didn't prepare me for the next visitor, who turned out to be a rather old and craggy gypsy who reminded me of a cross between Noddy and a partially decomposed corspe. It seems had decided to knock on my door to get some money to buy some petrol, as he was skint. My brain was almost oozing out of my ears as I listened to his tale, and it didn't even occur to me that the closest petrol station was well over half a mile away, with about 80 houses in between. Why he chose my door, I have no idea. I can only assume he was some form of stoned pillock fairy.
Once he finished spinning his yarn, I realised I had no change at all, so, for some inexplicable reason I staggered two doors down to another neighbour and got her to break up a £20 note so I could give him a couple of quid and get rid of him.
After that, I locked myself in the house, and made a fort out of the chair cushions to protect myself from any further harm.
I think I stopped being stoned about two days later, and was mentally exhausted for weeks afterwards. But it did the trick - I knew pretty much the worse that cannabis could do to me, and treated it very much with respect from that moment onwards.
(Thu 22nd Dec 2005, 1:48, More)
Gypsies and weed do not mix
I was 18 when I first tried out cannabis. I'd just decided that I wanted to get it out of the way before I went to University, so I know what to expect. Being good friends with Dean, a guy who was very heavily into any drugs he could get his hands on at the time, this meant I thought I'd be in safe hands.
The night was planned for the day my parents and sister went away on holiday, leaving the house very much to myself.
As a precursor to the main event, Dean and I ate a small amount of resin he had in his posession, and proceeded to have a rather strange conversation about Ant's Cocks, which we'd both reasoned had to have been pretty damn big given the size of the Queen Ant. I would just picture a normal-sized ant with a human cock dragging between his legs.
Anyway, the main event drew closer, and a day or two before another friend of mine, Dunk, decided he wanted in as well, so we dispatched Dean to go and get a nice quarter of squidgy black for us all, which he happily obliged, returning with a couple of bonus trips.
The fateful night arrived. Dunk and Dean turned up, armed with drugs, and given that only Dean smoked at that time, Dunk and I set about Mollying some of the weed. In this case, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve it in warm milk on Dean's instructions. Having no scales, and no real prior experience, it was a little difficult to work out how much to put in there, but I would estimate that maybe just under a 1/16th went into my milk, which I drank with all its resiny goodness.
A couple of hours later, and nothing had really happened. Dunk had opted to try a bit of Dean's acid, who had in turn necked the other 1 1/2 tabs. I thought "fuck it", and necked the remainder of my 1/8th. This turned out in retrospect to be a fatal move.
Some other friends of ours turned up, and we wandered up to the local playground to sit, talk, and have a beer. All was still good, after over 3 hours from taking the first drink. Dean, however, was now feeling the effects and had gone off to sit on the concrete circle where there had once been a merry-go-round.
Upon going to try and talk to him, he just kept going about being a "fucking cabbage" and not to try talking to him due to his cabbageness. I left him to it for a while, then dragged both him and Dunk back down to my house.
On the way back down the hill, it was obvious that the trip had hit Dunk, who was now giggling like an utter loon, and convinced that he was on the biggest rollercoaster in the world. Dean just kept muttering about the floor being made of cabbages.
Back in the house, still stone cold sober, I decided to put on some music, and being a bit evil to the others went straight for Dark Side of the Moon, and sat in between the speakers watching them both spack out.
And then it hit. A little way into "On the Run", a wave of utter fuckedness washed over me as the THC started to course through my brain. I couldn't keep stable on the armchair at all; I kept feeling as if I was going to fall backward through it and just keep on going. I held onto the chair for dear life as the trance-like music eminating from the speakers felt as if it was electrocuting me. I didn't dare move, but knew I just had to stop the music before those fucking alarm clocks on the next track cut in.
After that, the fear set in something chronic. Dunk had discovered where my crisps were, and happily munched through almost 20 bags of them. Dean had wandered out of the house as he wanted to commune with the cabbages on that concrete circle some more. He returned about three minutes later unable to remember where he was going, and promptly just went to sleep.
I did all I was capable of to prevent me from going over the edge; washing up. When I'd finished I washed it all again for good measure. Then I went to bed, unable to sleep as every time I closed my eyes I was getting strong visuals, and felt like I was falling through space and time, and whenever I had my eyes open, could just hear short bursts of music. I briefly considered jumping out of the window to make it all end, but convinced myself that it would be better just to throw up and try again.
Time dillation then hit with avengance. I was capable of moving anywhere in the house in the blink of an eye, like a speeded up movie. I ran to the bog, and chundered in record time, and then ran around the house a bit for good measure like a hummingbird on crack.
Then I passed out.
The following afternoon when I finally woke up, I found both friends had gone home. I meekly tried to get on with tasks, only too aware that the cannabis was still coursing through my veins. Time had gone the other way now, and things were going very much in slow motion. I could watch the individual droplets of water fall from the watering can onto the plants my folks had instructed me to keep moist. I attempted to cook a roast. It didn't work. I only tried cooking it for about 10 minutes.
And then the real fun started. My neighbour and both her young children popped round with some sweets to pass onto my parents as a thankyou for watering their plants whilst on holiday. I sat there, reddened and droopy eyes, trying to comprehend these tiny people who had invaded my house and were now asking me the most pointless questions. Their mum in turn asked if I was alright, and to my great relief managed to blag that I was coming down with the flu or something.
That was enough to dispense with them, but didn't prepare me for the next visitor, who turned out to be a rather old and craggy gypsy who reminded me of a cross between Noddy and a partially decomposed corspe. It seems had decided to knock on my door to get some money to buy some petrol, as he was skint. My brain was almost oozing out of my ears as I listened to his tale, and it didn't even occur to me that the closest petrol station was well over half a mile away, with about 80 houses in between. Why he chose my door, I have no idea. I can only assume he was some form of stoned pillock fairy.
Once he finished spinning his yarn, I realised I had no change at all, so, for some inexplicable reason I staggered two doors down to another neighbour and got her to break up a £20 note so I could give him a couple of quid and get rid of him.
After that, I locked myself in the house, and made a fort out of the chair cushions to protect myself from any further harm.
I think I stopped being stoned about two days later, and was mentally exhausted for weeks afterwards. But it did the trick - I knew pretty much the worse that cannabis could do to me, and treated it very much with respect from that moment onwards.
(Thu 22nd Dec 2005, 1:48, More)
» My Wanking Disasters
.
I rolled over one morning and found a steaming cup of tea by the side of my bed. As I had not been evacuating myself of manbatter, I went to roll back over, until I noticed my mum standing there vigourously flicking her bean over me.
(Thu 3rd Jun 2004, 10:41, More)
.
I rolled over one morning and found a steaming cup of tea by the side of my bed. As I had not been evacuating myself of manbatter, I went to roll back over, until I noticed my mum standing there vigourously flicking her bean over me.
(Thu 3rd Jun 2004, 10:41, More)
» Toilets
About 2 years ago
During the particularly sticky summer, my then girlfriend and I decided to head off down to the seaside after work one evening, grab some fish & chips, and just enjoy the cool sea air. We ended up heading to Seaford, a town duller than a sack of spuds, but I knew by merit of the fact my grandparents used to live there that it had a good Fish & Chip restaurant.
As we trundled into town, it became apparent that it wasn't going to be a great night to sit and eat on the shingle beach; it was still very humid, and it wasn't helped by the fact that a dense sea mist had rolled in, and it wasn't possible to see more than a few feet. Undeterred, we got food, and headed down to the Martello Tower on the seafront, and ate. After the greasy feast, I headed off to public toilet by the tower primarily to wash my hands.
As I walked into the bog, I was aware that someone had followed me, but paid no attention, and set about having a nice relaxing slash.
I could see in my peripheral vision, he was standing about 6 feet to my right at the urinal as well, but I was rather concerned by the distinct lack of any splashing noises coming from his direction. Strict urinal etiquette meant I could not turn my head, even slightly, to see what was going on, even though I knew my worst fears would probably be confirmed. I finished up, zipped, and walked to the sink to wash up, not even giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging he was there.
I had no choice but to walk past him on the way out, however. And yes, he was standing there facing me, trying to manipulate and cajoule his nob into a frankly unimpressive semi-erection. I just sighed, rolled my eyes and walked past him out into the misty evening.
In retrospect, I guess I should have realised that this rather isolated shithouse would in fact be the local bumsex hangout, but I hadn't, and this alone kept my girlfriend entertained for the rest of the night.
So if you're in Seaford, and in need of cock, the bogs by the Martello Tower on the seafront may well be up your street.
(Fri 2nd Sep 2005, 13:06, More)
About 2 years ago
During the particularly sticky summer, my then girlfriend and I decided to head off down to the seaside after work one evening, grab some fish & chips, and just enjoy the cool sea air. We ended up heading to Seaford, a town duller than a sack of spuds, but I knew by merit of the fact my grandparents used to live there that it had a good Fish & Chip restaurant.
As we trundled into town, it became apparent that it wasn't going to be a great night to sit and eat on the shingle beach; it was still very humid, and it wasn't helped by the fact that a dense sea mist had rolled in, and it wasn't possible to see more than a few feet. Undeterred, we got food, and headed down to the Martello Tower on the seafront, and ate. After the greasy feast, I headed off to public toilet by the tower primarily to wash my hands.
As I walked into the bog, I was aware that someone had followed me, but paid no attention, and set about having a nice relaxing slash.
I could see in my peripheral vision, he was standing about 6 feet to my right at the urinal as well, but I was rather concerned by the distinct lack of any splashing noises coming from his direction. Strict urinal etiquette meant I could not turn my head, even slightly, to see what was going on, even though I knew my worst fears would probably be confirmed. I finished up, zipped, and walked to the sink to wash up, not even giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging he was there.
I had no choice but to walk past him on the way out, however. And yes, he was standing there facing me, trying to manipulate and cajoule his nob into a frankly unimpressive semi-erection. I just sighed, rolled my eyes and walked past him out into the misty evening.
In retrospect, I guess I should have realised that this rather isolated shithouse would in fact be the local bumsex hangout, but I hadn't, and this alone kept my girlfriend entertained for the rest of the night.
So if you're in Seaford, and in need of cock, the bogs by the Martello Tower on the seafront may well be up your street.
(Fri 2nd Sep 2005, 13:06, More)
» Embarrassing Injuries
I'm good at injuring myself.
Possibly the most wince-worthy took place in Amsterdam in May this year. A friend an I decided to take a couple of days out there, doing the holiday on a shoestring budget, so we stayed in a Dorm hotel in the centre of the city.
All went very well for the first evening; much beer was consumed, much weed was smoked, much Shorma was eaten. Around 2am, we headed back to the hotel, both sobering up nicely, and after chilling out in the bar for a bit watching a DVD, we scooted off to sleep.
I found that my bed had been taken by someone else, so I moved to the top bunk in the darkest corner of the room (each room slept 12). About an hour after drifting off to sleep, I woke up to discover I _really_ needed a Gypsy's Kiss, and made moves to scuttle out of bed to the lavvy.
Sadly, my bladder was more full than I realised, and I got off the bed quite awkwardly, the ball of my foot slipping off the ladder. Depending on how you look at it, I was fortunate not to hit the floor, as I had grabbed out and caught hold of the bed. But the vast percentage of my fall was broken by me landing on the pole at the top of the ladder.
The sound of ripping boxer shorts was nothing more than a prelude to the pain that was about to hit me, as I found myself dangling from a bunk bed by my testicles. A surge of adrenylin allowed me to hoist myself clear of the offending pole, and scuttle down the ladder for my piss. On closer inspection, I discovered that my legs and boxers were quite clearly covered in blood, and I had a nice big tear straight through my family jewels, so I hobbled crab-like down to the hotel reception, tattered boxers flapping around me. They kindly arranged a taxi to a hospital, where I proceeded to have two men (in their 30s and 40s respectively) fondle my knackers, give two local anaestetic injections into my scrotum followed by several non-disovlable stitches, give me a tetanus injection in my leg (which went dead for the next four days), and then pack me on my way into the cold morning air.
The following day was a bit of a wash-out. I had been told not to drink or do anything else and keep a close eye on my bleeding and bruised spuds. Hell, even walking around was painful, and in the end the highlight of the day was going to shop for more supportive underwear.
Persuading people that you've been to Amsterdam and managed to sustained a genital injury WIHTOUT the need of a specialist prostitute is rather difficult, as I've found out!
The scar's fading, the indignity of registering with a local doctor back home to have the stitches removed was only a minor one, but the fact I'd managed to lose my E111 form during my recent move meant that the 180 Euro bill I had to pay for the treatment was just a final kick in the balls.
(Thu 2nd Sep 2004, 12:37, More)
I'm good at injuring myself.
Possibly the most wince-worthy took place in Amsterdam in May this year. A friend an I decided to take a couple of days out there, doing the holiday on a shoestring budget, so we stayed in a Dorm hotel in the centre of the city.
All went very well for the first evening; much beer was consumed, much weed was smoked, much Shorma was eaten. Around 2am, we headed back to the hotel, both sobering up nicely, and after chilling out in the bar for a bit watching a DVD, we scooted off to sleep.
I found that my bed had been taken by someone else, so I moved to the top bunk in the darkest corner of the room (each room slept 12). About an hour after drifting off to sleep, I woke up to discover I _really_ needed a Gypsy's Kiss, and made moves to scuttle out of bed to the lavvy.
Sadly, my bladder was more full than I realised, and I got off the bed quite awkwardly, the ball of my foot slipping off the ladder. Depending on how you look at it, I was fortunate not to hit the floor, as I had grabbed out and caught hold of the bed. But the vast percentage of my fall was broken by me landing on the pole at the top of the ladder.
The sound of ripping boxer shorts was nothing more than a prelude to the pain that was about to hit me, as I found myself dangling from a bunk bed by my testicles. A surge of adrenylin allowed me to hoist myself clear of the offending pole, and scuttle down the ladder for my piss. On closer inspection, I discovered that my legs and boxers were quite clearly covered in blood, and I had a nice big tear straight through my family jewels, so I hobbled crab-like down to the hotel reception, tattered boxers flapping around me. They kindly arranged a taxi to a hospital, where I proceeded to have two men (in their 30s and 40s respectively) fondle my knackers, give two local anaestetic injections into my scrotum followed by several non-disovlable stitches, give me a tetanus injection in my leg (which went dead for the next four days), and then pack me on my way into the cold morning air.
The following day was a bit of a wash-out. I had been told not to drink or do anything else and keep a close eye on my bleeding and bruised spuds. Hell, even walking around was painful, and in the end the highlight of the day was going to shop for more supportive underwear.
Persuading people that you've been to Amsterdam and managed to sustained a genital injury WIHTOUT the need of a specialist prostitute is rather difficult, as I've found out!
The scar's fading, the indignity of registering with a local doctor back home to have the stitches removed was only a minor one, but the fact I'd managed to lose my E111 form during my recent move meant that the 180 Euro bill I had to pay for the treatment was just a final kick in the balls.
(Thu 2nd Sep 2004, 12:37, More)