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Umm... that's it. I'll give you 50 points if you can work out the origin of my profile name (both bits).

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» Teenage Parties

I'd suck your cock
(warning: long)

It all started with a mutual acquaintance's sister's birthday, which was being celebrated by way of a garage party in their tiny village, which was way out in the boondocks. 7pm sharp, folks. Stay over if you want.

On the sketchiest of pretexts, me and the gang decided to gatecrash because 'everyone we knew was going'. We were also told it was strictly BYOB, which entailed an early-evening visit to the local offie's on the day before the party. It was always best to go after 5pm, as that's when the owner decided it best to put the 11 year olds on the till, and they could hardly refuse to serve someone 5 years their senior.

Drink duly purchased, we decided to stash it in the local roundabout until the day of the party. Of course, Tom being the idiot that he is, we didn't realise the police were following us until we heard the shout of, 'Here boys!'

So we ran, leaving the drink half-concealed in a bush. Of course, the next night this was gone, so more needed to be purchased with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, yea. Taxi up, which cost some ungodly amount of money, drink extracted from boot, and we walked into the party like the raffish young cads we were.

They lied when they said BYOB.

3 large crates of various beers, many bottles of Hooch (it was the 90s) and a large jug with some luminous green crap in it, the main ingredients of which seemed to be potchin (80% spirit that you make yourself) and pain.

So we drank. There was dancing. There was teenage romance. There was general chaos. I remember up until about 8:30, after which everything becomes a strange blur. I'd all but finished my bottle of cider by this point, and sat in a circle of chairs comprising of the people to pissed to stand. I leaned over to Tom and said the immortal line: 'Tom, I love you. I'd suck yer cock if I could...'

Then I started on the beers. More people turned up, I shouted incoherently. Darrell, one of the few late arrivals who stayed, claimed that he was somewhere between incredibly pissed off at all the drunken idiots and incredibly scared by all the drunken idiots. Bottles were thrown. Someone got headbutted in the face. People were flykicked.

It was at this point that witnesses tell me I started emptying unattended drinks into my cider bottle. I did wonder why it suddenly got heavier, but thought nothing more of it until I spewed all over myself. A box was brought, I almost filled it with vomit. I wondered outside, and JB brought a chair out for me and took my drink. His mother drove past and dragged him home; caught with a bottle (mine) in his hand. I then proceeded to be pissed on, pass out hanging over a wall and generally behave like the paralytic twat I was. The dreadful irony is that some arse had put Irish Rover by The Pogues on repeat on the shitty CD player, and to this day I cannot listen to Shane Magowan's Martini-laced mumbling without wanting to spray the contents of my guts over the walls.

I passed out inside the garage in a pool of my own vomit at around 11. Not knowing what to do, the hosts put a sleeping bag round me and locked the garage. Bear in mind this is November - we're talking subzero temperatures here.

Came to in the dark with puke frozen to my face. Still completely wasted, stood up and tried the door. Locked. Attempted to phone someone with my trusty 3210, but I couldn't make hide nor hair of the display, which was oddly pulsating. I eventually made my escape by kicking in a window, climbing through (knocking over a very large bottle of gin in the process) and vanishing into the freezing, foggy night.

I walked the 7 miles home. I collapsed outside my front door at about 4 in the morning. The postman found me at 6. How I didn't die from either hypothermia or alcoholic poisoning I will never know. I remained pissed until god knows what time the next day, after which a 2-day hangover kicked in.

I swore two things after that little incident: never to drink chemcial cider again, which I kept, and never to drink as heavily ever again. That one got scratched at New Year.
(Wed 19th Apr 2006, 11:48, More)

» Lies Your Parents Told You

When i was about 6 or 7, i had a nasty habit of sticking my arm out the open window of a moving car. Probably liked the feel of the wind of something.
Anyway, my dad didn't like this, probably believing my arm would be severed by oncoming traffic.
But, of course, my dad didn't think to enlighten me of this fact. Instead, when we were on the motorway and my arm was fluttering about in the wind, my patriarch said "Wouldn't do that if i was you."
When I enquired as to why, he spun a ludicrous yarn about crocodiles (which incite and still do incite pant-browning terror in me)made of tar living in the asphalt of the road. He said they like nothing better than to JUMP and tear the arms off of small children who are cretinous enough to shove their arms out the window.
Now, my pater obviously was ignorant of the real, petrifying terror that crocs caused me, and upon hearing this i promptly shrieked, near pissed myself, yanked my arm in the window, and turned the handle to close it so fast that it almost snapped off.
Suddenly i realised the beasties were probably directly under he car, about 3 inches from my feet, and crocs in my fear-tainted mind possessing of the strength to pop up through the car's underbody like a jack-in-the-box, i drew my feet up onto the seat and sat there shivering for the rest of the journey.
I refused to set foot on a road for days afterward, and had howling nightmares for weeks. Even months later i still got nervous in cars.

First post, by the way.
(Fri 23rd Jan 2004, 18:40, More)

» Things you've done when you've had no money.

own brand beer. The strongest variety. And huge bags of wholesale pasta. And nothing else.

For three whole f*cking weeks.

I actually wept with joy when my parents deposited 30 into my account.
(Tue 12th Oct 2004, 20:32, More)

» Your Greatest Dilemmas

Actually, mildly serious...
I have this mate, and he's a decent looking chap (well, better than me).

There's this girl that fancies the arse off him, and she's told him (and me) so. Many, many times.

He's admitted to me that he too fancies the arse off this girl, but he staunchly refuses to ask her out. Or talk to her. Or look at her. The reasons that he gives for doing so are vague and obviously rubbish.

This girl is pretty damn hot, around a 9.5 on the standard 'Holiday classic' scale. She's also startlingly intelligent, and has giant knockers. In short, perfect.

So, should I:
a) keep badgering on at him to ask her out;
b) ask her out for him myself (juvenile I know, but they're obviously desperate);
c) ignore the whole thing or;
d) shag her myself?
(Tue 25th May 2004, 20:05, More)

» Slang Survey

Penis Pulling Bum Bandit - the classic.
Funboy - similar to PPBB.
Nob Jockey - same sort of thing.
Phil McKracken and the Lesbian Cockbenders - reference to classic LucasArts game.
Purple Elephant Patrol - gay/lesbian rights march.

For more queer references, why not see the classic book 'GAY SEX' by Irma Bumb Anditeso, Ben Dover & Takki Topar Eerend.

Also, a Pin Monkey is one of those people you see at bowling alleys who perform maintenance on the pin setting machines. Our local monkey has a massive jutting - out, sloping forehead, huge, dragging arms and a beard which you could farm goats in. He looks like a cross between Neanderthal Man and Gandalf.

Thank you and goodnight
(Thu 5th Feb 2004, 19:07, More)
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