b3ta.com user Grouch
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Hello. I'm Grouch. Despite my name, I'm actually quite cheerful.

Except when I'm at work. Then I'm grumpy.

If you fancy cheering me up, why not mail me at lenin1924 at the Hot Mail dt Com.

That would be lovely.

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Best answers to questions:

» Mini Cabs From Hell

After a most ill-advised night out in Newquay, surrounded by post-gcse teenagers up to their tiny little eyeballs in mad-dog 20:20, me and a mate decided that we couldn't take much more and hopped a cab back to the campsite.

Now, this was very late and we were both worse for wear, but the the driver seemed fine. A bit crazed and a bit heavy on the gas, perhaps, but this was Cornwall and that's what they're like down there.

Then i mentioned how many seagulls there were roosting on the side of the road.

"Yes," said the driver. "Better do something about that".

So he started swerving over both lanes smacking the poor little buggers under his wheels and off of the wings, trying to get as many of them as he could.

When we finally got back to the campsite, the front of the cab was one big mass of feathers and blood. And one small head, sticking out of the radiator grill.

We didn't tip. We were too busy chucking up.
(Thu 27th May 2004, 10:04, More)

» Oldies vs Computers

Daddy cool? Daddy fule...
Took a call from Ma Grouch one day. (nb - this back in the days of dialup). Being a somewhat fearsome woman, and not given to waffle, she cut to the point.

MG "There's a £60 phone call on the bill. It's an 08whatever number. Why?"

G "Erm. Um. dunno mum. Sounds like the number my computer dials for the internet."

MG. "You damn well know it's a dialup number. I ask again: why did it cost £60?"

G: "Erm. um. When was the call?"

MG: "Month ago last Tuesday."

At this point I wiped my brow and calmed down.

G: "I was away then."

MG: "I know you were. But your father was here, and he was using your computer."

The penny dropped.

G: "Mum - I think I know what what happened. Would you like me to talk to Dad?"

MG: "I haven't spoke to him for two days, so you may as well."

She puts a rather sheepish-sounding Pa Grouch on the phone. I put on my sternish voice - I'd been waiting for this conversation every since he caught me 'reading' razzle when I was twelve:

G: "What were you doing?"

PG: "I was looking at cars. I must have clicked something my mistake"

G: "No you weren't. You were looking at porn. Mum knows, I know and you know. Pay the bill, never touch my computer again, and I'll never mention it again - and in return you will never again mention the time I set your car on fire."

PG: "'k."... and he rang off.

Postscript: A few weeks later, I go home and got to my machine. Low and behold, dialers everywhere, and the registry peppered with virii. Took me days to fix - and all the time, all I could think of was my dad fwapping away, in my bedroom, to 'Asian Cornhole extreme'.

(Mon 25th Sep 2006, 12:43, More)

» Family codes and rituals

Technically Not Family
..as we are only of the engaged, but Ms Grouch and I have already developed quite a few rituals.

1. We now choose what we are going to have for dinner through the medium of interpretative dance. The one for Mashed Potatoes is particularly impressive. Verbal discussion is no longer possible.

2. Should Ms Grouch be annoying, I will put something she needs in a Very High Place. For instance, the biscuits on top of the cupboard (she is not tall; I am). Conversely, if I am annoying her, she will mention the wedding. Or children.

3. As if further proof that we are made for each other was needed, neither of us can get up until one of us has broken wind noisily. The other person has to answer with the first three bars of 'morning has broken'.

Romance is alive and well in Woking, I can assure you...
(Fri 21st Nov 2008, 16:01, More)

» The last thing that made me cry

Schoolboy Error
I'd just got meself a new bird, invited her over for dinner. Rustled up a bunch of my patent veggie fajitas, for she and I are of the non-carnivore kind, featuring nice fresh chillis.

Anyways, get the dinner all sorted, decide to grab a quick shower so as to be all sparklin' on the off chance she got drunk enough to sleep with me.

Was just about to hop under the water when something very important popped into my head.. Now then - we all know chaps should never go out with a loaded gun if there's the slightest chance of knocking boots, don't we?

By this point, time was running short, so i set about emptying me pods before the missus pitches up... and completely forgot that I'd just chopped a load of chillis.

10 seconds in, mild itching.
20 seconds, things go red
30 seconds in... it's like the RAF has called in half a dozen napalm strikes onto my bellend.

Cry? Nearly fucking shat meself the pain was so bad.

Cue an excrutiating evening of crossed legs, wincing, watering eyes and constant trips to the bog to dip my cock in a sink of cold water.

Took about 4 hours to go back to normal, which was just about the time Mrs Grouch decided to jump me bones.

And - as an epilogue - the chilli was *cough* desensitising enough that I lasted an age.

Every red, inflamed, swollen cock has a silver lining, I suppose...
(Thu 14th Apr 2005, 15:43, More)

» DIY fashion

Goths of the World Unite!
...you have nothing to lose but your dignity.

'k - moment of confession, peeps. I went to a certain highly regarded university with hundreds of years of tradition.

So, despite my solidly working-class roots, I find myself in this place surrounded by over-privileged twunts with platignum credit cards, overbites, and mostly called Jocasta and Tarquin. But as if that wasn't bad enough, it turned out that you had to wear a uniform for exams.

Yes, a fucking uniform. Stressed about exams? Worried about grades? No worries - we'll make you doll up in a bastard monkey suit before you can even get in the door. And what's more, we'll use a latin name for it. Ladies and Gentlefolk, I give you... Sub Fusc.

And what a stupid getup it was. Black suit. (extra comfy, and in no way cheap). White shirt, dark socks and shoes (and yes, I did see them checking), a gown (pointless pointless pointless - and the 'smarter' you were, the bigger the gown got - yet another way of advertising how your wonderful fee-paying parents thrust you through a public exam factory like the braying, over-funded spunkmuppet you are), and just to top it off; a white bow tie. WHITE. And a mortar board - which you had to carry. Oh no, no wearing it.

For the love of cock.

Anyways, it became the game of choice to subvert this in any way you could. Props to a mate who wore a suit with sequins sewn in, who turned the entire exam hall into a disco when he put up his hand for extra paper - and a challenge for me to beat. And how, gentle reader, did I think I would subvert the system, cast two fingers at authority and generally fuck with the man? Yes... like many others here, through the medium of Goth.

So, come the final final, and I don my armour: black ten hole docs; check. Aids awareness ribbon or similar bodily adornment which they just couldn't ban; check. Nail varnish, black; check. Hair, slicked back ala Dave Vanian; check. Eyeliner, purple; check. Earings/rings/amulets; check to the max.

And out the door I march, into the hall, feeling a million dollars and ten-foot tall (hell, docs do a lot for yer height, guys)... only to hear a sniggering wench, probably called Tamsin, say to her friend:

'look at that idiot. I bet he's borrowed that suit from his father. I can't believe they let people like THAT in these days'.

At which point, centuries of social conditioning kicked in, and I had a small cry, knowing that no matter how I looked, how strong I felt, those bastard toffs would always win.

That, and I was having a bad reaction to the eyeliner. Red-eyed, swollen lidded and weeping, I could barely see the exam paper... so, what was the single greatest thing I learnt after three years at Uni?

Goths look miserable because their eye-makeup hurts.

Word t'your maternal parent.

(Tue 29th Aug 2006, 17:26, More)
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