b3ta.com user uncle bastard
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Profile for uncle bastard:
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Bass trombonist, self taught guitarist, printmaker, tattoo collector and allotmenteer. I play trombone in http://www.kenisia.com, and my home recordings live at soundcloud.com/unclebastard-1 if music's your thing.

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Best answers to questions:

» The most childish thing you've done as an adult

Pull my finger
Everyone knows this, right? Well, not quite everyone. One Sunday morning after a curry, I felt a large evil one brewing; the spicy treat-induced internal gurgling we all know presages a seam-ripping eyebrow-singeing bottom belch. My better ( more sensible ) half was reading the paper, as one does normally: I waited until the thing was baying for release- the wolf was right at the door- and extended my delicate paw, index finger foremost. "Would you do me a favour my love?" I asked, in the tones of one requesting the daintiest of sweetmeats from the cake stand. " Sure, what is it?" she queried, all innocence: I couldn't believe my luck. I had never been presented with such an opportunity, and it was not to be missed. "Pull my finger?" I enquired, sugary-voiced. "What?" she did ask. I replied "I just need you to pull my finger, won't take a sec". So, she reached out ( I remember seeing all this in extreme slow motion, like the crash of the Hindenburg ), grasped my proffered digit and, with a slightly puzzled expression, pulled. The vilest, longest, loudest fart I have ever dropped instantly deafened us both and rattled the transom window. I curled up on the floor crying with laughter, as my hapless other's expression remained fixed in puzzlement. I was lucky I didn't follow through.
(Sun 20th Sep 2009, 9:00, More)

» It's not me, it's the drugs talking

Not me, but my grandad
Apparently ( I was three at the time ) my uncle used to brew 'herbal tea' when working in the massive garden at the back of my gran's house. Grandad had no idea his son was a stoner. One afternoon Bob had just brewed a nice pot; Grandad came into the kitchen said " cup of tea? Lovely", drank a pint and rotovated the garden- for eight hours.
(Fri 16th Dec 2005, 14:26, More)

» Stupid Dares

On a medical course
we were at a demonstration of nasogastric aspiration: Mr Tube went down nose & throat, and with the help of Mr Syringe partially digested spaghetti and mash came up. One bright spark bet the instructor £10 he wouldn't then ingest the contents of someone else's guts- he accepted. Cue whip round, £10 in assorted shrapnel appeared; the instructor went a little bit green, realising he would have to go through with it. He swirled the orange-white sludge round a couple of times in the dish, tipped his head back with open mouth, and swallowed the lot in one. Yum. Everyone went white; I feel a little queasy recalling it, 19 years later.
(Thu 1st Nov 2007, 14:46, More)

» In the Army Now - The joy of the Armed Forces

Speech defects
I was a musician; we had a pipe band, with a bass drummer by the name of '2-6' ( three blokes in the band with the same surname, different last two numbers ) who had a bad stutter. In the practice room one morning, the bandmaster's phone rings. 2-6 answers" H-h-hello, b-band block?". The QM, who also has a bad stutter, hangs up. Approximately .26 seconds later he bursts into the block shouting " WHO J-JUST ANS-SWERED THE F-FUCKING PH-PHONE?"
2-6 says " M-me s-sir ". Nobody moved.
It was only a couple of very tense minutes' negotiation that saved him from being marched down to the CO.
(Mon 27th Mar 2006, 19:22, More)

» Vandalism

Not me, but the vilest I ever saw
was when I was but a children, catching the bus to my Gran's from Manchester. Catching it, in fact, from Chorlton Street bus station- a more wretched hive of scum and villainy etc. I have always detested using public bogs because of the plague-inducing state of most, and had I known what I was to encounter I would have had a dump on the bus in preference. I paid my 2p to use a cubicle, and with hand protected by a spare carrier bag ( I never touch anything in public bogs with bare skin ), I pushed the door open and stepped in. The walls, door, cistern, bogroll holder ( empty, naturellement ) and ceiling were covered in years of desperate pleas for bum fun. The worst, at eye level on the back of the door was, very carefully scripted in perfect serif capitals, PHONE 0161-XXXXXX IF YOU LIKE TO SHIT ON FAT BLOKES.
(Thu 7th Oct 2010, 20:47, More)
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