b3ta.com user af632
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Once, when I was working in Threshers, I met Thom Yorke, out on a midnight hunt for something with the proof to quiet the muse. We began a avant-garde multimedia partnership, displaying at locations as diverse as MoMA, The Gateshead Centre and the car park of Lakeside shopping centre. We eventually split over creative differences, specifically whether a Sperm Whale preserved in black absinthe, accompanied by a looped track of the middle verse of '99 Red Balloons', counted as art. We're told it wasn't.

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» School Days

The words 'fancy dress' have struck a terror into me since, at the age of four, I was dressed as a pirate, made to attend the party of a child who I could barely stand, and then forced to stand outside my house whilst my mother tried to find out who had the spare key. Three hours in a hooped t-shirt, woman's scarf and biro beard, sitting on a concrete step whilst everyone in a three mile radius is knocked up to come and look at you, is enough to give anyone an aversion to fancy dress. But enough of pre-school.

Several more regrettable costume-based incidents occurred at primary school: wearing green tights and an adult’s green t-shirt to be Peter Pan – this also involved a song and a dance; being Father Christmas in a school play and doing a handstand when I forgot my lines – that one, sadly is on video; wearing long-johns every night for a week in another school play; and balloon pants, waistcoat and a fez playing a genie in yet another. However, I reached my peak, or nadir, at secondary school (when I should perhaps have known better). As I attended an overly-liberal comprehensive, there was no uniform. Consequently, when Comic Relief/Children in Need rolled around a non-uniform day was impossible. We were therefore expected to pay our quids and wear fancy dress. Highlights included:

• Nazi – I was dared (possibly even double-dared with a cherry on top) to come in dressed as Hitler. I’m tall, rotund and ginger, so the verisimilitude was always going to be slight, but that didn’t stop me. Cue pseudo-fatigues, an armband constructed from paper and, the piece de resistance, the trademark ‘tache, a load of dog hair glued to some cardboard and blutacked to my lip). I lost the tache when we discovered at break time I looked more like Goebbels. As a sidenote, I was bollocked for my outfit by the deputy-head of Humanities, which led to me becoming Jewish* - ‘I’m Jewish and I’m not offended, so how can you be?’, a winning argument you’ll agree.

• Suicide Bomber – Partly a dare, partly my own idea, this was basically black clothing with a balaclava and geligmite explosives (jelly in some ice cube bags). I ate the jelly at break time, so when we were photographed in fourth period I looked like a gimp...

• ‘A Gay’ – this wasn’t my idea either (do you get the feeling I’m weak-willed?). Basically a satin shirt and skinny jeans, with makeup. I looked a prat and was scorned by most, but the fact remains that the hottest girls in school were doing my makeup – I spent three hours that day inches from A1 boobs, and I’d do it again damn it!

• Princess Leia – Sadly, this was all my own doing. Bought a dress, borrowed a wig from a friend’s mum, found a replica blaster and, yes, wore make-up. I looked classy, was treated badly and ended up face-down in a paddling pool I was later told someone had pissed in.

I’ve seen, in my long periods of lurking, the phrase ‘pictures or it didn’t happen’. There are pictures of most of these, but luckily they come from the pre-digital age. Nonetheless, here is my shame...

The worrying thing is, I look a lot like my cousin.

* AF632 is not, nor has he at any time, been Jewish, despite many representations to the contrary. This does not constitute a slur on the Jewish people or their affiliates, and should not be construed as such. The filthy, big-nosed bastards.
(Tue 3rd Feb 2009, 19:59, More)

» Useless advice

Fred-Fred (Names changed to protect anonymity)
'In 200 yards, turn left'

It's. A. Motorway. The next exit isn't for 15 miles!!

Length? Its definately not 200 yards...
(Fri 20th Oct 2006, 21:16, More)

» Cheap Tat

Not strictly relevent
My friend and I were in the first flushes of independence, and were off to the big city to spend our hard-earned pence. Whilst in the tackiest street in town, on which there were, count them, seven pound shops, we found boxes of crappy dog figurines in straw baskets (12) for the eponymous price. Budding capitalists that we were, we each bought a handful. Once home, we removed the shikty looking straw, re-covered the baskets with fabic offcuts and flogged them in his parents pet shop for a quid a pop. They sold quickly, and we got high on cheap sherbet. Happy days...

Length? One time only, they'd sold out when we went back.

(First real post! Only took me a year...)
(Tue 8th Jan 2008, 18:55, More)

» Pubs

Northampton, stabbing capital of England
Students in Northampton were always informally advised not to go out into town on a Saturday night, because that was when the locals temporarily ceased making love to their sisters and got rat-arsed. This was always taken with a massive pinch of salt...

My housemate's friend Max was visiting us for the first time. Word of the town's reputation (claims such as that in the header, which may or may not be fictitious) had worked their way back to my housemate's social group. Max's girlfriend had got wind of these rumours, and was so nervous about him going out there that in the end he was only allowed to come up on the proviso that she came too.

We spent the day putting them at ease, persuading them that there was no danger in going into town for a couple. We got a taxi into the centre and rolled into the first bar on the strip, a split-level Lloyds. We had just got our first drinks and found a table when some shouting started at the bar. This continued, then escalated. Glass started flying. A bouncer ran up, threw open the fire exit next to us and ordered us out. Standing across the street, rudely deprived of the beverages we had paid for, we could see around forty chavs, most of them dressed for pub golf, brawling. It was like a cartoon, a cloud of dust with limbs flying out of the edges. I swear I saw someone leap over the upper-level banister and into the throng. As we walked away, three riot vans (which we later learnt were always parked just around the corner on weekends) rolled up, their windscreen barriers down, its occupants holding their batons.

We went to an off-licence and bought a crate and a fruit-based drink for the lady, then went home and spent the evening listening to the distant sirens of the town.

This Lloyds was also where I pulled a pissed pensioner at lunchtime, was sick over the aforementioned split-level bannister and won £50 in one day off Deal or No Deal on the IT-box. And I can count on one hand the amount of times I've been there.
(Mon 9th Feb 2009, 19:33, More)

» My Greatest Regrets

My greatest regret
Stacey Porter. She knows why.
(Sun 8th Oct 2006, 11:58, More)
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