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

Please remind yourselves that i was 14 and it was cadets.
Drill Instructor - Get up the rope!

Me. - Sir, i cannot get up the rope, Sir!

Drill Instructor - Schmuck! I am ordering you to get up the rope. Are you disobeying a direct order.

Me - Sir. I cannot get up the rope, Sir.

Drill Instructor - What kind of yellow faggot are you! Did the doctor make a mistake and hand your mother her placenta sack or did she give birth to a boy!

Me - Sir. She gave birth to a boy, sir.

Drill Instructor - Then get up the fucking rope, Schmuck.

Me - Sir. I really... I can't... the rope, Sir.

Drill Instructor - Well I hope your mothers proud. She's the parent and owner of a talking sack of shit. That's quite a feat. She should be in Ripley's believe it or not. She should be in the guiness book of records. I don't think anybody has ever passed a whinging turd before. Is your mother proud of you Schmuck?

Me - Sir, My mother hung herself three years ago, sir.

Drill Instructor - Oh. So the rope is reminding...

Me - Sir, Yes Sir.

Drill Instructor - Move on to the next obstacle.
(Sat 25th Mar 2006, 15:16, More)

» Never Meet Your Heroes

Voice of an angel.
I was once in the cardiff bay area with a girlfriend (we were actually going to the science museum technoquest, should anyone know it, to have an afternoon of magnet based fun) when my lady happened to point oh so casually at the flats behind us and say "charlotte church lives there."
"What?" Says I.
"Charlotte Church... she lives in that flat there."

I spent the next fifteen minutes shouting at the top of my voice "charlotte church! charlotte church." I didn't get bored. I did not waver. I stood and shouted it, always at the same volume, same octave... over and over again. "Charlotte Church... Charlotte Church." It was like a monotonous car alarm just sounding out the name charlotte church. It became my mantra. I don't even think i was fully aware that i was saying it anymore. It was just dripping out of my mouth, like a welsh named syrup, charlotte church... continually falling out of my mouth and sounding throughout the bay area. And my girlfriend with infinite patience, has just taken to sitting on the curb and playing with her phone. (she had an affair not to much later. I couldn't blame her.) Charlotte church. Charlotte church...

Well eventually a net curtain pulls back, and who should hang themselves out of the window but the welsh wonder herself, wearing nothing but a bathrobe, last nights make-up and a cigarette on her lips...

"What!!! What the fuck do you want?" She says, in her lyrical welsh voice.

And I didn't know. I didn't know what i wanted. Why was I shouting for her?

"Erm... nothing. I just wondered if you were in."
(Fri 26th May 2006, 10:41, More)

» Nightclubs

Robot Wars
Chris is the boyfriend of perhaps my closest and oldest friend. On only our second meeting, when we were both still politely smiling and doing bumbling impressions of people raised well with grace and manners, we walked into the side room of the Coventry Colleseum, allowed our eyes to adjust the darkness for only the slightest of seconds when we noticed that the room is half filled with a pick and mix of invalids and their various metal accessories and appendages.

At which point the music stopped and Chris announced to the whole room 'Fuck me, it's like robot wars in here.'

/for good measure, as we slunk out of the room he dragged me up the stairs saying 'C'mon, they can't climb stairs. Like Daleks'
(Thu 9th Apr 2009, 20:57, More)

» My computer gave away my secrets

Dirty laundry in public.
I currently live in a student house, with five males. Obviously when not having fluked ourselves some sex, we often talk about it, dream about it and hatch cunning plans on how to obtain it.

Much to the annoyance of one of the boys, twenty two year old Joe, who amongst being a hippy, a paranoid stoner and an absolute miserable git, is still a virgin.

Coming up towards christmas 2005, Our Joe began to pester us housemates about when we were leaving, when we'd be returning etc. It left a hint of curiosity in our minds, but thinking of no logical reason as to why he would care, as we rarely socially interact with the whiney bugger, we ignored it and all made our plans to leave.

The day before i was due to get the train, i needed to check my tickets on line. The only housemate with an internet connection still remaining in the house, i was forced to ask Joe if i could quickly use his computer. He mumbled something, no doubt about his angst at his absolute failings with the fairer sex and left me to it. Leaving his e-mail account open.
Ever the crafty cad and with a nose for trouble i helped myself to a quick peek.

Where i found e-mails to a high class hooker in the local area. Arranging two 'sex therapy' sessions. To help him overcome his anxieties and erectile dysfunction problems. Dated for the next evening, when he would have the house to himself.

Oh how i laughed at his miserable life, and how this hooker, who specialised in servicing business men and sugar daddies would smirk at his tiny little hippy den (including bizarrely, having a pair of sandals nailed to the wall.) Oh how he'd rue paying 600 pounds (from a student budget no less!) to prematurely jizz all over her thighs and then somehow contort around her in the tiny single bed to apologize for the rest of the session.

Only, why would Joe use his shabby little pot den, when my master bedroom with its double bed and fine decor would be vacant.

Thats right. At this point i realised the point of his nagging. He was going to shag that rotten crotch in my bed, on my sheets. And i was too embarrassed to tell him i knew of his plans. OH NOES! I go home and cry into my christmas pudding, knowing that my duvet and duck feather pillows would probably have aids or the like when i returned

/he didn't shag her though. Later email snoopage confirms that he couldn't get it up. Both he and I apologise for length.
(Fri 10th Feb 2006, 18:26, More)