b3ta.com user Bohica
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[wow - modern browsers still support /marquee - yey for crappy html tags]

You can reach me with a long stick or at [email protected]

Oooh. I've got one of those there bloggy things too:


What Is Your Battle Cry?

Hark! Who is that, sprinting on the plains! It is Bohica
, hands clutching a thorned whip! And with a vengeful cry, his voice cometh:

"I'm going to fuck you until I am off parole, and grin like a fucking maniac!!!"

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Bet you could make a fortune selling these.

(Thu 4th May 2006, 10:33, More)

Best answers to questions:

» When animals attack...

Back in the day before being a father and a having mortgage left me poorer than the local schizophrenic wino, I could afford nice holidays.

One of these was to the Maldives. We had a nice bungalow right on a reef. Apart from Mrs Bohica having a run in with a fucking massive eel that was living beneath the steps that lead to the sea, everything was fine. It scared the bejeesus out of here. But that was her, not me, so it was OK.

One morning I'm out for a snorkel when I get rammed in the mask by trigger fish. I can't remember exactly what type - we just used to call these ones Benny's because they looked fucking stupid and sort of deserved the name.

Ho-ho, thought I. I can crush this thing. I am mankind, I rock. It had another go and, admiring its courage, I left it to its own devices. What I didn't know was it had some big mates.

A few minutes later I've dived over the reef drop-off and I'm about ten feet down when something catches my eye - the biggest single bastard-giant fish I've ever seen. I later learned it was a giant grouper.

The fucker was at least five feet long, four high and a foot thick with a mouth like Crazy Frog. It must have weighed close-on three hundred and fifty pounds. That's a lot of fish fingers. Foolishly I had one of those 'bonding with nature moments' and decided to swim alongside it for a bit.

It was that moment it decided to flick round and ram me in the side with, I believe, every intention of sending me to Davy Jones's locker. I lost all the air in my lungs and tried to flap it away. It reacted the way you'd expect a bastard-big fish, king of its bit of ocean would react - it had another pop at me.

My pathetic flapping turned into a desperate doggy paddle back to the service hoping it wouldn't follow. Thankfully it didn't.

There was nothing I could do about the grouper, but I was sure I was set up by that Benny.

I vowed to eat the colourful little fucker if I saw it again. Unfortunately the little bastard had fucked off. Proof, if any was needed, that I was the victim of its elaborate revenge plot.

The wanker.
(Fri 3rd Jun 2005, 11:23, More)

» Near Death Experiences

Doesn't sound fatal does it? What the doctor doesn't tell you is that once a few secondary infections kick in, your fucking throat can swell up tighter than an otter's arsehole. This makes breathing difficult and swallowing water impossible.

Three days of this, and spitting out little bags of puss, convinced me to get my backside down to the doctors. He's a nice guy. Gay as a troupe of hairdressers though, which, much to my shame, was probably why I refused to let him shove a painkiller the size of his thumb up my arse.

I left the surgery to go to the E.N.T. hospital in King's Cross. I blacked out twice on the way (it was only a ten-minute journey).

I was admitted after coughing up a load of nastyness over a nurse who, I think, only offered me the bed to get me out of the consulting room. I don't remember much after that, except for regaining consciousness to find two nurses taking pulse/temperature (106 degrees). One said 'We haven't had one this hot in ages". If I were feeling even marginally human at this point I could possibly have taken advantage of the situation. As it was, I couldn't talk and passed out again.

I was in that bastard hospital for 10 days. Thankfully I was put on intravenous morphine for good chunk of the time. Kids: anyone who tells you drugs suck is a lying sack of shit who has never had a cable pumping a pure opiate into their bloodstream. It's the best thing ever.

I staggered out on Christmas Eve weighing three stone less than I did two weeks earlier. The test for being released was being able to swallow a spoonfull of mashed potato. Isn't science wonderful.

To this day I thank the guy who runs the newsagents a few doors down who, when faced with an emaciated, dribbling near-corpse, still sold me ten Marlboro Lights.

Smoking the fuckers hurt like hell - but it was nothing compared to craving for painkillers I woke up with on Christmas morning.
(Thu 25th Nov 2004, 16:19, More)

» Insults

Ginger condemns his race to insult hell.
During the recent "ginners are human too" series on the Beeb, Radio4 did a piece covering how our red-headed bumchums have been bullied in the past.

Cue one poor soul describing the moment he was on the end of a tongue lashing and subsequently gave me, and thousands of others, a whole new phrase:

"It was awful. I get called things like ginger piss worm."

Good bless our pissy annelid friend.
(Thu 4th Oct 2007, 13:09, More)

» Mistaken Identity

My secret evil twin
Back when I lived in sunny Islington I used to get stopped several times a year by people who accused me of being 'Paul'. Complete strangers would wander up to me, say "Hiya, how you doing? Oh, you're not Paul". No, I am bloody not.

I could just about cope with the knowledge that, in my small corner of London, I was hardly unique. What made it worse was the Police.

I have no idea what Paul would get up to in his spare time, or whether or not he was a career criminal. But adding to this Kafta-esque experience were several incidents where I was stopped by the rozzers and had to produce ID proving that, contrary to what they thought, I am in fact a Mark, not Paul.

No apologies for lack of humour etc, but if I ever meet this Paul, I'm going to tattoo the criminal bastard's face so finally his ass-hat mates and the local bobbies have a way to tell us apart.
(Mon 4th Jun 2007, 16:54, More)

» When were you last really scared?

Newborn terror
Last really scary thing was the 8th of February when my daughter was born. She was rushed over to the resus table (I was calm then, something similar had happened with my first daughter).

After a few minutes of frantic work by the paediatrician the midwife looks over nervously, I mouth the words 'Is she alright' and the midwife looks away. A few more minutes pass and the only sound is the suction pump and oxygen mask and the paediatrician saying things like 'so the cord didn't get wrapped around her neck?'

No sound of a baby crying.

Finally there's a squeak, followed a few seconds later by a howl. My knees almost gave way at that point. I'd already been thinking how I was going to explain to my missus that the baby had died.

Nearly seven minutes to get the baby breathing on her own. I don't know if this is a long time for this kind of thing, but it felt like an eternity to me.

She's doing fine now :)
(Mon 26th Feb 2007, 13:22, More)
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