b3ta.com user Mr Evian
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Profile for Mr Evian:
Profile Info:


Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» Messing with the Dark Side

Screaming Embarrassment...
This might take a while so bear with me…

Years ago, when I was 12 and before I got into the kind of teenage parties mentioned last week, I would often stay over with a couple of mates at a friend who we shall call Nick. Nick’s dad had a big house and would often go away at the weekend, leaving us to do what most kids would do: watch 18 rated films, read porn, nick sips from his dad’s whisky and talk shit about girls we fancied.

Now, Nick’s dad had a very fancy hi-fi system. It even had one of those new CD player thingies until Nick broke it (he read that CDs can be played even when covered with jam, you work out the rest). The hi-fi even had a device called hi-speed dubbing which allowed you to record tapes at fast speeds. Now, if you taped something at high speed and played it back at normal speed, it was slow, deep and spooky. We fucked around for hours doing scary voices, even going off key a little so that we sounded discordant and weird. When it came to listening back to our efforts, we put the tape in and pressed play. And nothing happened.

Power cut. No tape, no lights, no top-loading VCR, no illicit watching of Robocop. Bugger. So we did what any other kid would do in a black-out. We lit candles, constructed a tent like thing in the lounge (the reason why escapes me) and told ghost stories to each other. Smart.

So come 2 o’clock, we’re in a makeshift tent in the lounge, in candle-light and telling more and more gruesome stories. Nick had just come to the end of his tale and was finishing with the immortal line: “And the bodies were never found…!” We were enjoying the shiver of terror down our spines in the silence that followed when from somewhere outside of the tent we heard at an ear-shattering volume:


Followed by a high pitched, girly scream.* It was at this point that I soiled myself for the first time ever.

Turns out that the power had come back on but in our idiot attempts to make the machine work we had stuck it into play and whacked the volume right up. After we had turned every light in the house on, I made my excuses and waddled to the bathroom.

And they never did find the bodies…! Mwa ha ha ha ha!!!

* It had been me screaming like a girl.
(Mon 24th Apr 2006, 13:06, More)

» Rock and Roll Stories

You either love him or hate him...
Yes, I have been in a band but never really had any truly “Rock and Roll” experiences (apart from a Derek Smalls incident at Nice airport…). However, I will relate the experiences of one of my best mates who for a while was in one of the few rock bands on the small island that we call Jersey. Now this was back in the 80s and Ade and his band had been booked to play a small pub in one of the numerous fishing villages in the area. They turned up early in the afternoon to perform a sound check then sat down to do what all good rock bands do before performing i.e. get royally ratted.

However, before they could start, the door to the pub banged open and in walked a large, burly man who immediately yelled at the landlord, “Turn that fucking jukebox off! You don’t need that anymore! I’m here! I’m all the entertainment you need!”

Yes, it was the man. The legend. It was Oliver Reed.

Ollie, already clearly a little sozzled, found out that there was going to be a rock band playing and insisted on buying them a drink. He’s shown to their table where he proceeds to buy then a round. “So you’re the band are you!? What kind of fucking shit are you going to be playing for us then!?”

After the first round, he gets the second. And the third. And the forth. In fact, he gets every single round of the afternoon. No-one could match him. He would have drunk his pint while the band were barely starting theirs. If anyone dared to get up to get the next round he would shout at them, “Put that fucking wallet away you fucking cock! You’re too fucking slow! I’ll get them in!”

And true to his word, he did, every single time. By the time the band came to play, they were absolutely paralytic. Ollie though, was barely affected, still knocking back the pints without them even touching the sides. Before the band went on though, Ollie had to wave goodbye.

“Sorry I can’t stick around to see you play boys, I’ve got to fly to London to be on some fucking talk show!” And with that, he left, leaving Ade and his band to fuddle their way through their set barely able to see straight.

So midnight comes and the band stagger off back to one of their homes where they crash out with more beer and food. As they are popping them open, one of them turns on the telly.

“Come here! Now! Come here! It’s him!” he shouts, prompting everyone to crowd around the TV which appears to be showing some late night discussion program. And sure enough, there he is, wearing exactly the same clothes as he had on in the pub. There’s Ollie, late night on Channel 4, clearly pissed out of his gourd. They had turned the telly on just in time to see him turn to the resident po-faced feminist and say, “Frankly dear, what you need is a big hard COCK!” A turn of events that would see him barred from telly for several years. Some of you may even remember it if you’re old enough.

So here’s to Oliver Reed, far more Rock and Roll than most of us could ever wish to be. Peace.
(Mon 3rd Jul 2006, 13:07, More)

» Missing body parts

Unlike some of you unlucky souls, I’ve managed to avoid getting myself into many nasty scrapes and losing parts of my anatomy. That said, I’m sure the gods are now working on a way for me to do so now that I’ve written that down. However, I have ‘gained’ an extra part of my body which has provided a fascinating diversion for those who have seen it.

At the age of fifteen, I was nicely filling out into a young man. However, on watching Good Morning Britain before school, I was introduced to the new terror that was gripping the nation: Testicular Cancer! Terrified of my bollocks swelling up to mutant proportions and taking over the rest of my body, I hastily checked to see whether all was still ok down there. A quick inventory revealed: 1 schlong, one hairy beanbag and yes, 1 ball, 2 balls, 3 balls…!? WTF!!? I recounted. You’d be amazed how many times you can count to three and think you’re counting two twice.

My breakfast made a guest appearance again and before I knew it, I was being rushed into my GP for examination. A second opinion was called for and I was booked into hospital. The four days waiting was excruciating. I was expecting my mutant extra bollock to start taking over my body any minute. Or go green. Or cause me endless pain. Every day I expected it to be my last.

Therefore, you can imagine how disappointed I was when the doctor gave it a brief examination before declaring that it was nothing but a fluid filled cyst and completely benign.

“Congratulations,” he declared, “you have a spare testicle!” Strangely, he then shook my hand and sent me on my way.

So there you have it. I gained an extra bollock all thanks to Anne Diamond. But I got off lucky. Gents, next time you’re down there, have a check, you too may get the chance to be called ‘Whojanickabollockoff’ for the rest of your days. Apologies for the lack of humour, I’ll go hack my foot off so I’ve got something funny to write about next week. :)

P.S. It does have a name. I call it E.T. the extra testicle.
(Mon 5th Jun 2006, 13:07, More)

» Pretentious bollocks

Media lecturers and bad poetry...
Oh boy… Having gone to university on a media production course, I was hoping to avoid pretentious arses talking about film. Instead I got pretentious arses making films. Bugger. Although the students were vastly annoying (90% of them were there on daddy’s money anyway) it was the lecturers that took the biscuit. On pitching our five minute thriller our lecturer came out with a suggestion that will forever echo in my brain:

“Instead of them pulling out baseball bats, couldn’t they pull out enormous inflatable bananas instead?”

Arty cnut. However, the crème de la crap came when attending a short film / poetry evening where all manner of farty pretentiousness was on display (including my own). There was one woman who read poetry. Now, the poetry in question would have been bad enough in itself had it not have been for her occasional outbursts about her privates which were done at three times the volume, right in the middle of a sentence. The first time she did it, we all jumped in out seats but by the end of her poem, we were under the table pissing ourselves laughing. We thought she might have tourettes or something but I think she was just trying to be controversial. Or maybe c*ntroversial if you like.

To give you a feel for it, I have composed the following example. It is by no means as hilarious as the original.

I am a million dewdrops
I have eternity in my hands
I live on a dozen shellfish C*NT!

The woods know my pain, my wants
Clouds mask my pity

Heavy headlamps in maple syrup
Yearning FANNY over furthermost hills
With no remorse

Separated from heaven with daffodil raindrops
No bicycle can live in my way
No man knows my

I’d go on, but I think you get the picture.

Yay, there goes my cherry…!
(Wed 5th Oct 2005, 13:25, More)

» Accidentally Erotic

This is not the sort of thing I normally admit, be gentle with me doctor…
It’s a bit like the “Little Things That Turn Me On” thread but far more embarrassing. I discovered at a young age that things changing shape had a very peculiar effect on me. I certainly remember being probably the only kid in biology that was watching a butterfly emerge from a cocoon with a massive boner (me, not the butterfly, that would be weird…). It is, unfortunately, a condition that has proven very embarrassing over the years…

My parents thought that the reason why I hid behind the sofa when David Banner lost his temper was because I was scared of the Hulk. I really wish it had been fear that kept me leaping behind furniture once he got the funky eyes going…

Years later, I am grateful for the full box of popcorn that I could secure over my lap during my trip to see Willow at the cinema… (you are not alone!)

I had such a Pavlovian reaction to American Werewolf in London that I have to sit down for a bit when I hear ‘Bad Moon Rising’ by Creedence…

Don’t even talk to me about The Thing…

Of course, the real sucker punch came when I was at a friend’s house for a film. I had the then girlfriend sat on the floor between my legs. She became rather uncomfortable come the film’s conclusion. The film in question?


Am I weird?
(Wed 8th Feb 2006, 13:14, More)
[read all their answers]