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


To celebrate my BSc!
All handtapped dotwork, no tattoo machine.

Been doing some digital sketches:

been doing marker-pen sketches:

Have some B3taday cake:

and one the lovely killerkitti made me!

this is me:
Carrie - half-manip

unfortunately it wasn't shopped by me - but by Dian

and animated for me by Atomic

*waves to everyone* i like hugs. and fluffly things. they make me happy.

Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» Festivals

in which Phill Jupitus nearly steals my toy bee.
So, due to a combination of intense poverty, surprising lameness of friends ["what do you MEAN you 'don't want to go'???"] and having an incurable brain disease that made me [not to mention my supremely-worried and protective parents] wary of going more than an hour away from my local hospital I didn't pop my festival cherry until last year, at the creakingly old age of 22.

Did I get wasted and muddy at Glasto? Or spazzed out at Reading? How about writhing in metally hardcority at Download? No, in fact, I opted for the wonderfully genteel and astoundingly middle-class, theatre/comedy/poetry/literature/music festival Latitude. Nice mid-sized festival, still new enough for the arseholes not to have caught on, established enough to have a pretty damn good comedy lineup. Good place for me to cut my naive, crowd-fearing festival teeth.

So, it's Day 3 and there i was, in a happy post-smoke fuzz [i'm quite a lightweight] with some newly-met friends, happy and chilled out enough to get over my usual "shit-shit-you're-in-a-crowd-someone's-gonna-mug-you-someone's-gonna-mug-you" anxiety and blearily discussing 'current affairs' in the astoundingly confident, yet uninformed way that only drugged people can manage. I'm assertively stating my point about fuck-knows-what when, surrounded by a light cluster of hangers-on, a pork-pie-hatted, beponcho'ed and overwhelmingly fucked up rolypoly vision strolls slowly towards me.

I actually manage to finish my sentence before my eyes catch up to my mouth and i interrupt my friend's rebuttal with a casual "Phill Jupitus just walked past." I know that i want to jump up and ask him for an autograph, but somehow i'm not quite sure if i can be bothered. My bag IS all the way down on the floor, after all... We all double-take and confer to make sure. Yes. it absolutely is him. Definitely. and, by all that is stripey and wasted - is he off his TITS...

Digging around for my mascot and camera [i'm an ugly fatto, so take a small stuffed toy to act as a placeholder in photo-taking situations] I wander over to him, trying to work out a way to say "oh my god it's YOU! HI! Sign here and smile while i take a picture!!!" without seeming like a squealing fangirl.

Turns out that I didn't have to. He's already been caught by another fan, and is enthusiastically scrawling his name on a scrap of paper when he stops mid-signature, jawdrops and GRABS for my mascot. His name is BobTheBee.

"WOW!" he chortles, hugging him in delight. "WHO IS THIS???" he shakes the toy at me emphatically, then gently strokes it as if to apologise for the rough treatment.

"Uh, uh, it's my toy. His name's Bob. He's a bee" I wave my camera vaguely. "Can I take a picture?"
"Wooooooooowwwwww....." he gazes lovingly into Bob's button eyes, enthralled as if hit by Cupid's 'Toybestial' arrow. I slyly snap a picture from the shoulder in case he - or his considerably more together friend - refuse to let me take a proper one.

"Bobbbbbb..." he strokes the bee again, grinning to himself.
"Uh, Phill? Can I take a picture?" I wave the camera once more to illustrate.
"OF COURSE!!!" he beams, posting gleefully with the toy. I turn on the flash snap a second picture and as soon as it's done he snuggles up to the bee again. I smile grin, cos it's kinda cute: massive stripey man, tiny stripey bee; then reach to take Bob back.

He holds on.

"Um. can i have my bee?" I pull a little harder, not really wanting to enter into a tug of war with him, not with all these people watching, anyway. There's not really any way i'm going to go without him, i love my bee!

His big happy face contorts into heartbroken expression and he clings on for a moment longer, nuzzling up to Bob's none-too-clean fur. Finally, with a tender squeeze, he relinquishes the toy but not before yanking me into a bearhug, pressing my rather confused face into the fuzzy scratchiness of his newly-bought festival poncho.

"BYEEEEE BOB!" he calls, waving sadly, and for a stabbing moment i feel somewhat bad for breaking up what was surely destined to be a beautiful lifelong relationship between large funnyman and small stuffed bee. I mean, who am i to stand in the way of true love? Sure, it's an unconventional relationship, but with his money and fame, it's likely that Phill could show BobTheBee a much better and more glamorous life than i ever could. Could i really bear to live my life knowing i had destroyed what could have been something truly momentous?

I hesitate for a moment, but selfishness wins out. He's MY fucking bee. He's gonna STAY mine! I get Bob to wave a fond farewell to his brief but passionate love, steeling myself for the inevitable sobbing outburst that must surely follow his departure but before i've even turned to leave, he lets out a huge squeal of delight and launches himself joyously at someone else.

Someone who has a big, cool, minty, refreshing Cornetto.

Ah, how quickly love is forgotten....

As for Bob, he still has his memories, and a fucking fantastic photo to look back on:

Click for bigger (121 kb)

(Thu 4th Jun 2009, 17:49, More)

» DIY Techno-hacks

Car alarms and toilets
My dad, working in car-electronics as he did, had plenty of opportunity to finetune his practical-joking skills with his colleagues over the years - making their long-suffering boss the butt of many pranks.

They started slow, leaving his car with the stereo fully cranked, AC on full, wipers and hazards left on, anything that would start the moment the car was turned on. This would result in a moment of frantic flurry as the poor victim tried to stop all the gadgets that had burst into life when all he wanted to do was drive to the offie for some cigs.

Then they moved on, hijacking the car alarm system to go off when the car was unlocked, then when someone sat in the driver's seat, then when it was started, then on a 30-second delay AFTER it was started and so on. Or wiring the electric sunroof to automatically retract when the car started - especially effective in the middle of a rainy winter.

When their boss finally got sick of this and started parking his car in a locked garage, they moved indoors and repeated the pranks, only this time with various items in his office, the chair, the door the desk. On any given day opening a certain drawer or sitting for more than 10 minutes in the main chair could set off a series of alarms, vibrating pads and noisemakers hidden all around the room. To be honest, I'm amazed that he put up with them for so long.

With fresh ideas for the office drying up, they moved on once more. To the toilet. Now, the boss also being the owner of the company, he had a habit of taking longer-than-strictly-necessary breaks, and was particularly noted for his after-lunch toilet break when he'd stride off, newspaper tucked firmly under one arm, and be gone for up to half an hour at a time [a fact exploited to every advantage in the setting up of the office pranks].

One of my dad's colleagues was an ex-plumber, and he concocted a simple but effective system of transparent plastic tube and pressure-sensor so that when the boss seated himself on his chosen porcelain throne, a powerful jet of water attempted to administer a surprise enema. The resulting squeal of surprise and following enraged shout of "you fucking bastards!" was often repeated round the office, to much lolarity.

Surely this must be the pinnacle of boss-baiting? There's not much that could top a cold squirt up the arse - or so my Canal Street friends tell me. No, they had one final game to play...

Now, due to Elf and Shafety, the company had recently had to upgrade its ancient cumbersome fire extinguishers for a more modern version that would actually stand a small chance of combating a fire, in such a situation. The old ones were supposed to be sent off for responsible disposal, but ended up shoved in the back of a cupboard and forgotten about.

Old foam extinguishers worked on the principle of a vial or packet of reactant suspended in a canister of water. Turning the extinguisher on broke the packet and allowed its contents to react with the water and the resulting pressure from the reaction spurted the foam out of the nozzle in waves of fire-quenching spunk. So. They dismantled a couple of these extinguishers and carefully retrieved the packet of reactant. I'm sure you can guess what they did with it.

First, the boss needed to be distracted. A customer's car, left to be fitted with a tow bar and electric windows contained one of those hamster starter kits, you know, a cage, wheel, a bag of sawdust, water bottle, food bowl and food. Everything except the hamster, in one convenient box. So they set up the cage, spreading out the sawdust and filling the bowl and water bottle and putting nesting material in the little house, the works. Then went inside and told the boss that the hamster had got out of the cage and was lost somewhere in the depths of the car. This got him conveniently out of the way, frantically searching for a non-existent hamster and leaving the coast clear for more toilet violations.

The packet of extinguisher reactant was carefully installed in the cistern, with the flush handle fitted with a large metal pin and set up to break it open when the toilet was flushed. They also disabled the mechanism to stop it filling, thus ensuring a constant supply of fresh water.

Once they'd told the boss [now in the later stages of advanced panic and just about to drive to the nearest pet shop to buy a fresh hamster to replace the 'lost' one] that his hour or so of searching had been for nothing, he stomped off to have his lunch - and his inevitable post-lunch poo.

There was quite a crowd lurking outside the toilets that afternoon, listening in. Creak of cubicle door. Slide of the bolt. Clink of belt-buckle on tiled floor. Rustle of newspaper. Rolling of toilet paper. Shuffling of feet - and then... the toilet flushed.

Those packets are designed to provide a LOT of foam in a very short space of time. There was an anguished scream as the toilet bowl filled up with thick white foam, then started to overflow. And still the foam was coming, now filling the cubicle. The boss struggled to pull his trousers up, grappling with the cubicle lock and that bolt that always stuck but he'd never bothered to fix it. And still the foam was coming out of the toilet, piling up and up and up in the confined space.

By the time he got out, the foam had nearly covered his head. It clung to him, sticky and white. He looked like the Michelin Man.

Faced with virtually his entire workforce pissing themselves laughing as he emerged from the toilet smothered in foam, he responded in the only decent way.
"Bastards." And stomped off to try to clean up.
(Tue 25th Aug 2009, 17:03, More)

» Workplace Boredom

Exam Invigilating
Possibly one of the most boring jobs there is. You're stuck in a room for three hours with 200 stressed kids who aren't allowed to talk. You can't read a book or text people because you're supposed to be watching the kids. There's nothing to do but stare out at a sea of downcast faces and hope that someone wants to borrow a rule to break up the hideous monotony.


Introducing: INVIGILATION PACMAN! [for 4+ players, requires grid-style exam room]

One teacher is Pacman. He must get from point A to point B in the room - variations include going via other points, having to pick up various objects on the way etc.

The other teachers are the ghosts. They have to 'capture' [surround or block movement of] Pacman.

You can only follow the grid-layout of the room. AND, you can only walk at a very sedate, quiet pace, keeping a straight face throughout. You have until the next child puts up a hand to ask something to catch Pacman!


Exam-Room Bingo!
[requires scrap paper, grid-style exam room or numbered seats]

Set up some criteria before the kids come in. For example: 'forgot a pen' 'brought whole stationery shop' 'first to cry' 'first to finish' 'won't even write his name' etc. etc. etc.

When the exam room is settled, all but one teacher will take their seats at the front of the room and note down the seat number of the child they bet will fulfil each of these roles.

The remaining teacher [who doesn't know the criteria] will pace up and down, noting down the seat number of anyone who catches their eye. When they pass the front desk, they hand their numbers to the contestants.

First to match all their numbers wins!

This game is good for post-exam gossip. i.e: "did you see the pus-factory in G7?" "i had to get the drama-queen in H15 another box of tissues, for fuck's sake!" and so on.

Remember kids: your teachers respect and care about you. yes.
(Sat 10th Jan 2009, 0:45, More)

» Misunderstood

Weirdest wrong number ever
I got a call that was so entirely random. it went something like this:

phone] *ring*
me] *picks up phone* Hello?
her] Hey! is that Carrie?
me] Uh, yes it is...
her] Hey! it's Tracey! Hi! How are ya?
me] Weh?
her] Great! Listen, how much do you reckon we'd need to start a yoga group?
me] Wha?
her] It'll be great! I'll do a class on Tuesdays and you can do one on Thursdays!
me] Uhhh... Wait - who do you want to talk to?
her] Is that Carrie?
me] Yeah, it is - but i think you've got the wrong number...
her] This is Carrie, yeah?
me] Yes, my name is Carrie, but i think you've rung the wrong number.
her] Huh?
me] my name is Carrie, but I don't think you want to talk to me. You have the wrong number. You want a different Carrie.
her] oh, I thought you were Carrie. Can I speak to Carrie please?
me] no, I am Carrie but you have the wrong number, Carrie's not here.
her] oh. When will she be back?
me] she won't be back, you have the wrong number.
her] but this is Carrie's number, yeah?
me] no, it's MY number! you have the wrong number!
her] Ohhhhh! Oh I'm sorry! i must have the wrong number!
me] That's okay, no problem.
her] Do you have Carrie's number?
me] Uhhhh... No....
her] Oh. *pause* Do you know how I can get hold of her?
me] Uh... no... because she's YOUR friend.
her] Oh. *pause* Is Dale there?
me] No. *puts phone down*
(Sun 9th Oct 2005, 14:46, More)

» Sexism

Family Advice
I am a girl-person [*gasp!* On the internets! The horror!] in her early-mid-twenties and, appropriately for the Christmas season, have recently had to endure my elderly [and not-so-elderly]female relatives nagging on at me to move out of Singletown and settle down with a man [not even a ‘nice young man’, just any man] and pump out a few kids before I dry up entirely.

They then went on to analyse my many problems which make me unattractive to men:

- I am too highly educated [I'm not, I went to a decent uni and got a not-terrible degree]; no man will want a woman who has higher qualifications than he has. I pointed out that there are plenty of men with equal or higher qualifications than me, but was reminded that they will all be undoubtedly too good for me and I should aim lower.

- I have too many friends; which is apparently intimidating to men, and also means I have too little time to find a man

- I don’t know enough people [yes, this was said right after they moaned I have too many friends]

- I’m too fat. Well, yes, admittedly they have a point here. I am fat. But in the last half of 2009 I lost 4 stone, and even managed to lose a pound over Christmas week. I am under no illusions that I’m attractive, but I’m trying my goddamn hardest to get healthier. It seems though, that trying to achieve a goal isn’t good enough, and my female relatives believe I’ll be worthless until I reach said goal. Lovely.

- My standards are too high. One of my aunts pointed out that fat chav girls have no problems finding men to stick it in them, as proved by the high numbers of fat chav girls that have produced crotchfruits. I pointed out that I wouldn’t want any man that only wanted a cheap fuck. Apparently, this is an unacceptable viewpoint to my female relatives.

- I am apparently too masculine, in that I don’t like soaps, Heat magazine, designer fashion, X-Factor, high-heeled shoes, cocktail bars, Cheryl Cole etc. And I DO like sci-fi movies, Led Zeppelin, watching stand-up, jeans and trainers, rock bars and jack and coke etc. This makes me very unattractive to men as they won’t like me being so ‘ungirly’.

All in all, it was a hideous time for me, with my self-confidence torn to shreds at the hands of the women in my family. I escaped to the kitchen, where the men were on their second round of the buffet lunch. They asked why I was upset so I explained that I was too fat, ugly, intelligent and unfeminine to ever get a man and I should just give up now.

From the men in my family came words of encouragement and support. They congratulated me on losing weight, I got genuine support on my efforts to further my education through the OU. They told me to enjoy my friends and not to hurry or worry over such unimportant things as marriage and kids when I’m only 24.

What I’m clumsily trying to illustrate here is that quite often the gender roles and pressures are applied more strongly by our own gender, than any ‘sexism’ from the opposite. And, rightly or wrongly, I’ll follow the male advice and enjoy myself, rather than fretting and trying to be something I’m not, just to tie myself into an unsatisfying relationship with a man who wants a pretty, stupid, girly girl, instead of ME.
(Thu 31st Dec 2009, 17:47, More)
[read all their answers]