» Strict Parents

They feck you up, your mum and dad
When I was younger, my parents wouldn't let me wear any low-cut tops, miniskirts, heels, makeup or even decent lingerie.

Then again, looking around, the community where I grew up was quite strict. None of the other parents would let their nine year old boys dress in women's clothes either.
(Sat 10th Mar 2007, 10:08, More)

» Other people's diaries

Book by its cover and all that...
A few years ago I flipped open my then-gf's notebook and found:

Wednesday: 10am. Big blow. Lots of white stuff
Wednesday: 3pm. Another big blow. more white stuff
Wednesday: 9pm. Blow. Tough job. Feel absolutely spent.
Thursday 10am: Smaller blow, some white stuff, also some big mucky green and yellow flecks in it.

Just as I was getting ready to dump the wanton hussy and get myself down t'clinic to ward off the knobrot she'd probably got from the greened-off manmilk, I looked at the cover page. It said:

D****'s asthma peak flow expiration diary.
(Fri 2nd Feb 2007, 20:38, More)

» Well, that taught 'em

Don't get even. Get odder.
Story 1: Gary Glitter
A mate of mine discovered her long term bf had been cheating on her, so secretly she made plans to move out, taking her stuff with her. Just before she left though, she took her uber-revenge with his clothes. She didn't take her scissors through them like most angsty wenches would. Oh no. She upgraded. She'd been round to the art shop and picked up a huge tub of glitter and doused all his clothes in it.

Several years later, her ex, now dubbed "Gary" still has a certain shine about him...

***

Story 2: Don't feck with me. Ever again.

Last year I shared a student house with a friend and three random foreign students. Two of these students were from China with worse English than my Mandarin. That made coordinating housework tricky, fair enough. But after four months of me and my mate doing all the cleaning and admin, while they left the kitchen in an absolute mess (rotting eggs, chicken carcasses, massive amounts of stale food and booze, fag ends everywhere) and the bathroom covered with hair from their DIY haircuts, pubes, unflushed shite, and once a huge puddle of piss that I slipped in and aggravated a back injury my patience wore thin.

OK, this QOTW isn't about housemates from hell so I'll get to their learning experience. One day, I snapped. Over the remainder of the year I:

*Continually salted their food and milk (which would be placed in the airing cupboard overnight hehehe)
*Hid important looking mail
*Let down their car's tyres
*Shoved a potato in said car's exhaust
*Pubed their soap
*Pubed their food
*Put chilli powder in their mouthwash, shampoo and shower gel
*Pretended to have loud, kinky gay sex with my housemate and then left a tub of vaseline dabbed with peanut butter on the kitchen table. I also left "used" condoms similarly coated with a touch of peanut butter on the kitchen bin
*Started whipping/being whipped on the arse by my friend on the communal stairwell
*Invited friends over for group "stretching" sessions. The look on filthyhousemates' faces when they saw six rugby playing taffs meditating and humming in the corridor was priceless
*Gatecrashed their bible study group in my underpants and started chatting up the sinister minister.
*Left half a dozen plastic tubes from the lab half filled with apple juice labelled with people's names (e.g. Mr. Jones c/o Dr. Evans) in the fridge
*Coated designated seats in the kitchen with itching powder

And finally:
*Rubbed their toothbrushes in their shitridden toilet brush.

Did they learn? Don't know, don't care. I'm not sure made sense as it must have been a hypermindfuck at times for them. But it made me feel lots better after suffering months of cuntishness. And that's all that matters in the end, my friends.

Length? Never apologise for your length, gentlemen.
(Sat 28th Apr 2007, 15:02, More)

» When were you last really scared?

Touching The Cloth
Until a field trip last summer, I'd never been north of Manchester, something I'd kept quiet on said field trip, as I was working on Arctic glaciers 500 miles from the North Pole on Svalbard. I wasn't scared. I was young and reasonably switched on, and a good shot for polar bears.

About two weeks in, I had to go on a trip to get samples from the side of a glacier. I'd been to the sample site a few days previously and it was safe, so the normally careful field guide let me solo it. I stuffed a radio in my pocket and took my ice axe with me, more as a stopgap against a hungry bear than to stop a fall and set off out of sight. Big Mistake.

Few minutes later, I'd arrived at the edge of the glacier, except the safe crossing point of the day before had melted completely, revealing a 1.5 m wide raging meltwater stream. No way could I wade it, it was jump or go home. As I stood on the bank a vision came to me. You know the cartoons where the character goes over a cliff edge and stays stationary until he realises he's falling? As the thought formed, that's exactly what happened. I launched myself for the other side as the overhang of ice underneath me gave way. I landed *just* on the other side, digging my axe in to stop me going in the drink. Phew.

So, eager to get out of there, I scrambled up the scree slope to get my samples. Rather than risk crossing back I decided to traverse parallel to the glacier until I got to a point safe to cross. I stayed high to avoid a repeat of the cornice incident, some 15 m above the stream. All was fine and dandy for a hundred metres or so, scree a bit loose but OK. And then everything changed. It was no longer scree, but a very fine layer of small pebbles over glassy water ice, with added teflon. The momentum of my last step carried me on to it. I put one step onto it and I was gone, sliding on my belly with increasing speed towards the meltstream. If I hit the bottom, I'd go straight in, lose grip quickly, and drown rapidly. My body would be cooled very quickly, and not even a thermal imager would spot me as I'd be carried back into the belly of the glacier. Basically my parents would be deprived of their 22-year old only son and wouldn't even have a body to bury.

Life slowed down. My heartrate shot up and I fought for my life. All the self-arrest methods beloved of mountaineering instructors would not work on this thick, glassy hard ice, and I had a crappy, blunt axe prolly used by Amundsen himself. I swung my axe as hard as I could in, like an ice climber, only for it to bounce off. Again and again and again. I knew I was going to die. It wasn't fair, but shit happens.

No fear, just fight until the end, even though it was futile.

I was fast reaching the bottom, and then something amazing happened. The fine bits of scree had built up under my feet, and as I reached the bottom of the ice slope, they gave me some purchase and slowed me down enough to avoid going in the stream.

I sat there, dusted myself off, and went back off again and finally found a safe place to cross. I thought I was home and dry, only I found myself in a maze of meltstreams, which I stepped or leapt one by one to rejoin the main group. Cue 3-4 more leaps for life.

Walking home, I reflected that it was a touch scary, but still more Touching the Cloth than Touching the Void. Just a matter-of-fact near-death experience. One I walked away from.

So when did I get really scared? that night was a party night on station, and my research supervisor got even more pissed than I and he started dry humping a huge stuffed polar bear stood in the station's hallway. Complete with sound effects, grinding hips and hard-on.

And then I shat meself prodigiously in pure terror.

Apologies for length, but I had to make up for the boss's mini trouserlump.
(Wed 28th Feb 2007, 20:04, More)

» My first experience of porn

They're all fake...fake I tells ya...
Aged 9, me and the 'rents went to Holland. I'm not sure if my first experience of pron was the tour round the district, or flicking the channels in the hotel and landing on channel 32, the Dutch naughty channel. I was shocked. Their daytime TV consisted of a gym-full of merrily humping gangbangers..This was not what shocked me though. It was the blokes' willies. The looked far too big, rigid, plastic-set. My willy never looked like that, they must be prosthetic. I cried shenannigans. Fakery. I called my parents over to exclaim how all this porn was fake. Just like all the gutspill in Casualty, evidently there was a schlong special effects artist making a huge income from all this.

I should have guessed from my dad's reaction - "leave it on son, and go play outside," that I was wrong, but it took a huge trumpeting on the dawn horn a year or so later to realise the foolish innocence of youth.

Length? it's all fake.
(Mon 29th Jan 2007, 18:50, More)