» Terrible Parenting

Springing into action...
Call it natural child like inquisitiveness. Call it dumb stupidity. Whatever it is causes it, I and my 2 brothers all did the same thing when we were about 2 years old.

We all managed to get firmly wedged between the washing machine and the kitchen cupboard. Crying our eyes out, hyperventilating stuck.

What was my father's reaction when my little brother got stuck? Why, the same reaction he had when I got stuck. Which was the same reaction when my older brother got stuck.

Papa lawofnations: Wait, don't pull him out yet...
Mama lawofnations: What? Why?
Papa lawofnations: Get my camera. This is really funny...

Hence why in the photo albums of our childhood, there is a photo of each of us, red in the face, eyes screwed up, miserable and terrified, crushed between kitchen appliances. Because my dad thought it was hilarious...

Mind you, quarter of a century on I can see his point...
(Sun 19th Aug 2007, 17:09, More)

» Toilets

Respected pillar of the community my arse...
The following story is, sadly, true. God I wish it wasn't. The names and locations have been changed to protect the reputations of the prominent academics involved.

August, 2003.

Mrs lawofnations was completing her degree at a London college connected with a famous museum in the South Kensington area. As part of this final part of the degree, she had to give a presentation. I had just quit my job in preparation of moving away from London, so turned up to give moral support.

Mrs lawofnations' office was on the third floor of the museum. As she was putting the finishing touches to her presentation, I felt the urge to drain the snake. I asked her where the toilets were, she told me, and I left.

Some time later I returned, looking shocked, bemused and appalled. What had happened to me in the intervening moments. Therein lies the sordid tale...

I went to the toilets. They were cramped and old. One urinal, one stall, and the urinal was already in use. I had to squeeze past the old man stood at the urinal in order to actually get into the stall. I shut the door, bolted it and prepared to void the bladder.

I was stopped in my efforts by the grunt from the old man at the urinal. "Jeezus" I thought. "It can't be fun trying to take a slash at that age - sounds painful." Oh, if only this old chap had a bladder infection...

The grunts became more frequent and intense. And louder. Now, I don't know if anyone has ever had the dawning realisation that the man next to you is having a hand shandy, but there's nothing quite like it to completely eviscerate your desire, or ability, to pee. So I am now stood there, lad in hand, desperate to piss and quite unable to, being serenaded by the geriatric onanist next to me.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at this point. It was simultaneously hilarious and appalling. And then it got worse. He got more and more vocal.

"ooooh". "oooooh". "OOOOOH GABY!!!"

As the fwappage reached a crescendo, he bellowed "2, 5, 7, 9". There was then the horrid sound of something that sounded like a vast wad of wet paper hitting porcelain - what I now know to be the sound of what must have been a gargantuan volume of old man jizz - followed by handfuls of paper towels being grabbed and rubbed vigourously against "something".

Then the old man left. Five minutes later, when I felt it was safe. I left too.

I related all of the above to Mrs lawofnations. We used the museum intranet to try to identify Old Man Wanky and to find out if there were any "Gabys" who could have fuelled this senile masturbatory fantasy. I had only seen the man from behind, so couldn't identify him. There were three people called "Gaby" (or phonetic variant) - interestingly only two were female...

After the presentation, Mrs lawofnations, her friend U and I had coffee together. I told U the story, which delighted and appalled in equal measure. As the conversation moved on to less disgusting topics, the door of the coffee lounge opened. An old man in a familiar tweed suit walked past. My jaw dropped. I couldn't get the words out. Eventually I attracted the attention of the missus and U and spluttered "It's him!! That's him!!! The wanker!!!"

U looked, and almost choked on her coffee. "But that's Professor Snugglesworth - he's a respected pillar of the scientific community!"

Snugglesworth is in his seventies, so it's impressive that he's still able to so aggressively go at it. As to the string of numbers he shouted during the vinegar strokes, god alone knows what THAT was about. A lifetime tally or something?

Curiously, another person we know who works at the museum, and worked under Prof. Snugglesworth (so to speak) informed us that this wouldn't be the first time that a "respected pillar of the scientific community" has been caught having a quick one off the wrist in the museum.

Always the quiet ones, eh?
(Wed 7th Sep 2005, 0:22, More)

» World's Sickest Joke

Did you hear the one about...
... using Google's advanced search function to restrict your results to only one domain (oooh, say b3ta.com, by way of an example) to check if my lucky blue coat/hypothermia/there's 20 of them/hanging glitter at christmas/you can't unload X with a pitchfork had been posted before?

Apparently not...

Much quicker than reading through all 50+ pages.

*crawls back under rock*
(Sat 10th Dec 2005, 10:30, More)

» Other people's diaries

Well now I just feel inadequate...
... because I don't have a "discovering sordid sexual secrets, rampant drug abuse or dark family secrets" story to share.

But I do have a "my diary got read" story to share, despite obvious crapness.

The Backstory

When I was about 8, the final nail in the "does Santa exist" coffin was when I discovered all the Christmas presents that I and my brothers would be getting that year, in my mum and dad's room. To my credit, I hadn't been snooping (at least not the first time). We had just moved in to a new house, and I was showing a family friend all the rooms, in the over excited way only a child can. I opened the door to the en suite bathroom (there's posh) and noticed the huge pile of brightly coloured things piled up in the shower.

I asked "what are they?" and my parents with unseemly haste slammed the door shut and told me to forget it. Naturally, my curiosity was piqued, so it wasn't really snooping when I went back, despite having to pick the lock to get in...

So how does this relate to the QOTW? Well, my mum and dad quickly found out about this. I had always assumed I had made a mess, moved things around, or something similar to give the game away.

Oh no, years later when talking to my parents about this (and laughing about it) my mum revealed that she found out because I was stupid enough to write an entire diary entry about my discoveries.

I was shocked. "Why were you reading my diary!!!"

To which my mum's comeback was "Well you were the little genius who left it lying on your desk when you were at school, open at the page about the presents in bright red pen!"

Criminal mastermind? Not so much...

I should be glad it was my diary at the age of 8, rather than my diary from my mid-teens...
(Sun 4th Feb 2007, 12:30, More)

» The Weird Kid In Class

The weirdest kid I knew...
OK, KC was the second weirdest. But TB takes the prize, in a stunning victory.

In our first year at high school, TB shit his pants. We noticed this in assembly, when I was the poor bastard who sat next to him. The smell, good god the smell. Our suspicions were confirmed when he was caught washing them in the sink at PE, claiming that it was "just mud".

In our Art class (the same one that KC would boycott the following year), one of my designs went missing. We later discovered that TB was producing a design IDENTICAL to mine. He denied copying me. Despite the fact that he was sat, with my design in front of him, at a light table, tracing it.

A year later, he brought a gun to school. But in a celebration of bonkers, it was an old, flint-lock pistol. He claimed it was his grandfather's, and that he was taking it to be valued by an antique dealer after school. Almost plausible, except he brought in gunpowder and shot too...

In third year, my class went to an outdoor recreation centre for a one week residence. Mountain climbing, canoeing, orienteering. Healthy outdoor pursuits, for unhealthy city childs.

I had to share a dorm room with TB. TB brought wrist strengtheners with him for that week. He went mental if anyone else touched them. They may or may not have been connected with his night-time "activities".

After lights out, I and the other 2 chaps in the dorm room could hear TB moaning. Yes, he was fwapping away like a champion. Now, I should mention at this point that TB was deaf. So he thought he was being quiet. He wasn't.

The next morning at breakfast, the 3 scarred survivors looked at each other with haunted eyes. "Did you hear TB wanking last night?" "Oh thank fuck it wasn't just me!!!"

I think this was the last truly mental thing he did when I still knew him at school. He left at the end of fourth year.

...

And then, a few years after we had left school, I saw him again. On telly no less.

Y'see, TB had raped and murdered a girl in our town, and the lovely people of Crimewatch had got the witnesses together to convict him.

Always the quiet ones...
(Sun 21st Jan 2007, 0:37, More)