Profile for SatchmoR:
Contract Visualfiles developer.
Eat the rich!
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Contract Visualfiles developer.
Eat the rich!
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Caught!
Half-Pint...
At Uni (a good few years ago... 1989 in fact), I was dating a young lady called Trish...
Now, Trish was a dirty-girl (no, she wasn't into that sort of dirt. Just had a healthy approach to any sort of ad-hoc "rumpy-pumpy").
She lived in shared accomodation in town. I was in a shared room on campus.
She shared with a young lady, Helen, who was so short she was nick-named "Half-Pint".
Well, their room was set out with two single beds side-by-side, a gap of about 2 feet between them (approx 1/2 a whale's snout in metric).
One night, after a particularly enjoyable session at the Garrick's Head (no - not a bird turgler - thanks), we perambulated to hers for a nice "cuddle".
Alas, Helen was already a-bed. And asleep. And snoring. So, we decided to "do the deed" anyway - keeping each other "quiet" with the judicious use of hands.
I'm on top, and, as we get really hot'n'steamy, I glance over to Helen's bed, to see her staring wide at us.
She winked.
Her hands were vigorously moving under the covers as I watched.
As I started to lose all control, Trish started to wail, and Helen shuddered, pulled one hand from under the covers and *licked her finger*.
****GAME OVER****
I doubt I have ever come so hard, or felt so surreptitiously dirty and turned on at the same time.
She'd gone in the morning to see her boyfriend.
I split with Trish later that week.
Haven't seen either of them again.
But Half-Pint is still in my mind. Anytime I feel I can't get there, in she pops.
So, getting caught can be good!
(Fri 4th Jun 2010, 15:30, More)
Half-Pint...
At Uni (a good few years ago... 1989 in fact), I was dating a young lady called Trish...
Now, Trish was a dirty-girl (no, she wasn't into that sort of dirt. Just had a healthy approach to any sort of ad-hoc "rumpy-pumpy").
She lived in shared accomodation in town. I was in a shared room on campus.
She shared with a young lady, Helen, who was so short she was nick-named "Half-Pint".
Well, their room was set out with two single beds side-by-side, a gap of about 2 feet between them (approx 1/2 a whale's snout in metric).
One night, after a particularly enjoyable session at the Garrick's Head (no - not a bird turgler - thanks), we perambulated to hers for a nice "cuddle".
Alas, Helen was already a-bed. And asleep. And snoring. So, we decided to "do the deed" anyway - keeping each other "quiet" with the judicious use of hands.
I'm on top, and, as we get really hot'n'steamy, I glance over to Helen's bed, to see her staring wide at us.
She winked.
Her hands were vigorously moving under the covers as I watched.
As I started to lose all control, Trish started to wail, and Helen shuddered, pulled one hand from under the covers and *licked her finger*.
****GAME OVER****
I doubt I have ever come so hard, or felt so surreptitiously dirty and turned on at the same time.
She'd gone in the morning to see her boyfriend.
I split with Trish later that week.
Haven't seen either of them again.
But Half-Pint is still in my mind. Anytime I feel I can't get there, in she pops.
So, getting caught can be good!
(Fri 4th Jun 2010, 15:30, More)
» Sticking it to The Man
Up yours, copper.
New Year's Eve 1999/2000
My (ex) wife's father has a chauffeur company, and I was working the millennium evening for him. In a Chrysler Voyager of all things.
I'd taken a group to Chelsea Harbour in London, and stayed with the other chuaffeurs while Hooray-Henry and Chums got more and more stocious. At least the organisers ensured that we had food and drink laid on for us.
Come about 2am, my party (of about 5) are ready to leave. The nearest one lived in West Wycombe, so off we set along the A40 out of London to drop hime (or her) off.
Now, bear in mind that this lot are all city types, and pretty much off their trollies, but I'm keeping them in check, and they're not being too rowdy.
As we cross over the M25, I spot a Police Patrol Car pull onto the motorway from the slip road. It's now about 2:30, nothing on the road, so he accelerates to pull past us. As he does so, I see the passenger glance in our direction, say something to his colleague and point at us.
He pulls past us, tucks into the lane in front of me, and slows down. This forces me to overtake him, and, when I tuck back in, he just sits on our tail.
"Oh" thinks me.
My turning is coming up, so I indicate to pull off. He does the same.
"Oh, oh" thinks me.
"Guys, I think we're going to be pulled over" I intone, to the sort of cacophony normally associated with the pub after a rugby match.
Sure enough, as soon as I'm on the sliproad, on come the blue lights.
I drive down to the roundabout at the bottom of the sliproad, turn left, and pull over as soon as it is safe to do.
The Police car pulls up, the passenger gets out, and walks to the car, making a big show of looking around it and searching for something to nick me for.
Finally he approaches the driver's door, and taps on the window. Imagine Reg Holdsworth from the Bill. Very officious.
As I wind it down, the waft of alcohol nearly knocks him over. I can visible see him reel.
"Good evening, sir. Can I ask where you're coming from?" says he.
"London, officer" says I.
"At a party, were we?" says he.
"Well, we were" says I.
"Had anything to drink at all?" says he.
"Errm, I think about three or four pints" says I.
"And do you think you are safe to drive with that in your system?" says he.
"Errm, yes?" I hazard.
"Well, I don't. Please take the keys out of the ignition, and step out of the car" says Officer Pompous. Oooo, he's so excited, he's got me.
So, I do, and he leads me to the Police Car, and gets me to sit in the back seat.
All this time, his colleague, a portly, jolly fellow is sitting behind the wheel smiling gently to himself.
"Right, I'd like you to blow into this" says PC McSquirt, proferring a roadside breathtest kit. "Just keep blowing untill I tell you to stop".
I do so.
Green light.
He looks at the kit as if offended. Gets out a new mouthpiece, and fits it to the machine.
"Let's try again, shall we?" says he.
I comply.
Green light.
"I thought you said you'd had something to drink tonight" says PC Bemused.
"I have" says I. "About three or four pints. Could be more."
"Well, this machine says otherwise" says Pc Copper Plod-Mc-Plod.
"Did you aske him what drink he'd had to drink?" says PC Santa laconically from the front of the car.
Cue colour drain from PC Full-Of-Self's face.
"What did you drink?" he says, spittle at the corner of his mouth.
"Errm, orange juice and apple juice" says I.
"Ahh" says PC Egg-On-Face. "Why didn't you say?"
"You didn't ask" says I.
PC Happy-Chappy now takes over. He admonishes PC Tail-Between-Legs (and myself for "wasting Police time") and sends me on my way.
As we pull away (to cheers from the crowd in my car), I can see PC-My-Bumhole-Is-Now-Tighter-Than-A-Cat's being yelled at by his colleague.
Not so much sticking it to the man, but more not stopping him sticking it to himself.
And it was worth a few substantial tips, as I regaled the passengers with the full details.
(Tue 22nd Jun 2010, 12:33, More)
Up yours, copper.
New Year's Eve 1999/2000
My (ex) wife's father has a chauffeur company, and I was working the millennium evening for him. In a Chrysler Voyager of all things.
I'd taken a group to Chelsea Harbour in London, and stayed with the other chuaffeurs while Hooray-Henry and Chums got more and more stocious. At least the organisers ensured that we had food and drink laid on for us.
Come about 2am, my party (of about 5) are ready to leave. The nearest one lived in West Wycombe, so off we set along the A40 out of London to drop hime (or her) off.
Now, bear in mind that this lot are all city types, and pretty much off their trollies, but I'm keeping them in check, and they're not being too rowdy.
As we cross over the M25, I spot a Police Patrol Car pull onto the motorway from the slip road. It's now about 2:30, nothing on the road, so he accelerates to pull past us. As he does so, I see the passenger glance in our direction, say something to his colleague and point at us.
He pulls past us, tucks into the lane in front of me, and slows down. This forces me to overtake him, and, when I tuck back in, he just sits on our tail.
"Oh" thinks me.
My turning is coming up, so I indicate to pull off. He does the same.
"Oh, oh" thinks me.
"Guys, I think we're going to be pulled over" I intone, to the sort of cacophony normally associated with the pub after a rugby match.
Sure enough, as soon as I'm on the sliproad, on come the blue lights.
I drive down to the roundabout at the bottom of the sliproad, turn left, and pull over as soon as it is safe to do.
The Police car pulls up, the passenger gets out, and walks to the car, making a big show of looking around it and searching for something to nick me for.
Finally he approaches the driver's door, and taps on the window. Imagine Reg Holdsworth from the Bill. Very officious.
As I wind it down, the waft of alcohol nearly knocks him over. I can visible see him reel.
"Good evening, sir. Can I ask where you're coming from?" says he.
"London, officer" says I.
"At a party, were we?" says he.
"Well, we were" says I.
"Had anything to drink at all?" says he.
"Errm, I think about three or four pints" says I.
"And do you think you are safe to drive with that in your system?" says he.
"Errm, yes?" I hazard.
"Well, I don't. Please take the keys out of the ignition, and step out of the car" says Officer Pompous. Oooo, he's so excited, he's got me.
So, I do, and he leads me to the Police Car, and gets me to sit in the back seat.
All this time, his colleague, a portly, jolly fellow is sitting behind the wheel smiling gently to himself.
"Right, I'd like you to blow into this" says PC McSquirt, proferring a roadside breathtest kit. "Just keep blowing untill I tell you to stop".
I do so.
Green light.
He looks at the kit as if offended. Gets out a new mouthpiece, and fits it to the machine.
"Let's try again, shall we?" says he.
I comply.
Green light.
"I thought you said you'd had something to drink tonight" says PC Bemused.
"I have" says I. "About three or four pints. Could be more."
"Well, this machine says otherwise" says Pc Copper Plod-Mc-Plod.
"Did you aske him what drink he'd had to drink?" says PC Santa laconically from the front of the car.
Cue colour drain from PC Full-Of-Self's face.
"What did you drink?" he says, spittle at the corner of his mouth.
"Errm, orange juice and apple juice" says I.
"Ahh" says PC Egg-On-Face. "Why didn't you say?"
"You didn't ask" says I.
PC Happy-Chappy now takes over. He admonishes PC Tail-Between-Legs (and myself for "wasting Police time") and sends me on my way.
As we pull away (to cheers from the crowd in my car), I can see PC-My-Bumhole-Is-Now-Tighter-Than-A-Cat's being yelled at by his colleague.
Not so much sticking it to the man, but more not stopping him sticking it to himself.
And it was worth a few substantial tips, as I regaled the passengers with the full details.
(Tue 22nd Jun 2010, 12:33, More)
» Absolute Power
Log Tables...
How many of you remember Log Tables?
Lovely books full of pages of Logarithmic Tables. No logical order to them. No rule to determine what number comes next.
Just pages and pages of tables of numbers. Like .00345 .01235 .01987.
You get the picture.
Anyway, my Housemaster saw fit to grant me the position of House Monitor at the age of 17.
You were required to assist in keeping the rest of the House in check - unruly chaps aging from 11 to 16.
One weapon you had (used before sending the young scally to see the Housemaster) was *COPY*.
This required the scamp to copy a page of a book onto a sheet of narrow lined A4.
My book choice? That's right. Log Tables.
The conversation wouyld go along the lines of...
Me: Jones, Patterson II, why are you running in the corridor? You know it's not permitted.
Oiks: Sorry, SatchmoR.
Me: Right, I want one side of A4 copy in my study after prep tonight. Page 6 of your Log Table.
Oiks: 1 page of Log Tables?
Me: No, two!
Oiks: Two?!?
Me: No, four!
Oiks: ...remain quiet...
So, after prep, they'd present me with the dutifully copied Log Tables.
Then I'd check three values.
If two or more were wrong, they'd have to be redone.
My Housemaster said I'd put Eichmann to shame.
Then demoted me.
Chokky-Starfish!
(Thu 8th Jul 2010, 16:15, More)
Log Tables...
How many of you remember Log Tables?
Lovely books full of pages of Logarithmic Tables. No logical order to them. No rule to determine what number comes next.
Just pages and pages of tables of numbers. Like .00345 .01235 .01987.
You get the picture.
Anyway, my Housemaster saw fit to grant me the position of House Monitor at the age of 17.
You were required to assist in keeping the rest of the House in check - unruly chaps aging from 11 to 16.
One weapon you had (used before sending the young scally to see the Housemaster) was *COPY*.
This required the scamp to copy a page of a book onto a sheet of narrow lined A4.
My book choice? That's right. Log Tables.
The conversation wouyld go along the lines of...
Me: Jones, Patterson II, why are you running in the corridor? You know it's not permitted.
Oiks: Sorry, SatchmoR.
Me: Right, I want one side of A4 copy in my study after prep tonight. Page 6 of your Log Table.
Oiks: 1 page of Log Tables?
Me: No, two!
Oiks: Two?!?
Me: No, four!
Oiks: ...remain quiet...
So, after prep, they'd present me with the dutifully copied Log Tables.
Then I'd check three values.
If two or more were wrong, they'd have to be redone.
My Housemaster said I'd put Eichmann to shame.
Then demoted me.
Chokky-Starfish!
(Thu 8th Jul 2010, 16:15, More)
» Unusual talents
My sense of timing... (Deserted me now...)
Many years ago I worked in Crawley.
There was a pub I used to frequent on a lunchtime, sitting quietly in the corner whilst reading a book, smoking a cig, and nursing my pint of beer.
This pub was a little bit of a "local" pub. If they didn't know you, they'd watch you.
Now, reading passed muster, as it was deemed a non-offensive pastime, and failed to upset the pool-cue wielding, Elvis listening locals (both teenagers and retirees).
Anyway, I digress a trifle...
One day, an encampment of pikeys had taken up residence nearby, some of whom had the habit of popping into the pub, sidling around to the loo, using it, and leaving it like a herd of Hippo had been in there, crapping and spraying shit around.
Well, I'm sitting there reading, smoking and drinking, when the landlady unceremoniously evicts one of said miscreants with the aid of a mop.
"I hate pikeys," pipes up one of the regulars.
I carry on drinking, smoking and reading as the discussion raged around. "Arrest them all!" "Make 'em pay taxes" etc...
Finally I hear, "We should bring back the fucking concentration camps!"
*BANG* *WHIZZ* *POW* - Timing kicks in...
I put down my book and cigarette. Stand up. Look at the speaker and announce...
"I take real offence at that! My grandfather died at Belsen!"
Cue a hush...
"Sorry, mate," the speaker says, "I didn't know..."
"Yes," says I, "he fell off one of the guard towers..." I sit down, resume drinking and smoking.
Total...
Silence...
Followed by cries of "you wanker", "you twat", "git", and much mirth.
Didn't go back to work that afternoon.
Was I beaten up?
No, just too plastered on the free beer all day.
I know the joke was old. But, for once, my sense of timing was gold.
It has never been as good.
Ahh, I miss The Samuel Johnson.
(Fri 19th Nov 2010, 11:02, More)
My sense of timing... (Deserted me now...)
Many years ago I worked in Crawley.
There was a pub I used to frequent on a lunchtime, sitting quietly in the corner whilst reading a book, smoking a cig, and nursing my pint of beer.
This pub was a little bit of a "local" pub. If they didn't know you, they'd watch you.
Now, reading passed muster, as it was deemed a non-offensive pastime, and failed to upset the pool-cue wielding, Elvis listening locals (both teenagers and retirees).
Anyway, I digress a trifle...
One day, an encampment of pikeys had taken up residence nearby, some of whom had the habit of popping into the pub, sidling around to the loo, using it, and leaving it like a herd of Hippo had been in there, crapping and spraying shit around.
Well, I'm sitting there reading, smoking and drinking, when the landlady unceremoniously evicts one of said miscreants with the aid of a mop.
"I hate pikeys," pipes up one of the regulars.
I carry on drinking, smoking and reading as the discussion raged around. "Arrest them all!" "Make 'em pay taxes" etc...
Finally I hear, "We should bring back the fucking concentration camps!"
*BANG* *WHIZZ* *POW* - Timing kicks in...
I put down my book and cigarette. Stand up. Look at the speaker and announce...
"I take real offence at that! My grandfather died at Belsen!"
Cue a hush...
"Sorry, mate," the speaker says, "I didn't know..."
"Yes," says I, "he fell off one of the guard towers..." I sit down, resume drinking and smoking.
Total...
Silence...
Followed by cries of "you wanker", "you twat", "git", and much mirth.
Didn't go back to work that afternoon.
Was I beaten up?
No, just too plastered on the free beer all day.
I know the joke was old. But, for once, my sense of timing was gold.
It has never been as good.
Ahh, I miss The Samuel Johnson.
(Fri 19th Nov 2010, 11:02, More)