» Little Victories

Fat wanker
A few years ago I was visiting Ye Olde London Towne to see one of my friends, who had recently bought a new flat.

Said flat was somewhere in the sticks, so once I had suitably "oohed" and "aahed" at her interior decorating we decided to hop on the tube and wander around central London for a bit.

Unfortunately, there was some kind of football match going on, meaning the trains were crammed with supporters of the bald head/fat beer belly kind. Pretty sure they were wearing blue - so perhaps Chelsea? Either way I fucking hate football - sorry. Mostly because of twats like these.

So - we squeezed ourselves in right by the doors, we didn't take up much room being relatively small ladies among a sea of straining lard, who were all loudly swearing/singing/being general cunts to the rest of the commuters. Not one person dared say anything to them, despite the spilling of beer over people's clothes and the various borderline racist/sexist/homophobic things they were saying.

Being right by the doors meant that every time the train pulled into a stop we would have to press ourselves into the glass partition to let people on/off. Being extremely polite it involved lots of "oof, sorry, terribly sorry, oh that's ok, no problem" etc etc, despite being elbowed, shoved and crushed by the football supporters.

Finally, the train stopped at the destination at which most of these neanderthals decided they wanted to depart. They all heaved their heavy, sweaty frames past us, stomachs straining under their poorly fitting polyester.

I felt a sharp pain in my side as one of them, a particularly lovely specimen in his 50s with a bunch of his mates, caught me with his fleshy elbow. He barely looked at me as he said:

"Sorry lahv"

I grimaced in response, and was astounded to then hear him say in a particularly smug tone (as he stepped off the train with the rest of them):

"But you might wanna wait until everyone's off before you try getting on the train, alright lahv?".

I HATE being called "love", especially by utter fucktards like this. I also double-hated the fact that he had admonished me for something which I hadn't actually been guilty of, and I triple-hated the fact that this was after a nightmare journey with a train full of bell-ends like him.

I watched him start to saunter away with his fat friends and the rest of the fuckers. I looked at the rest of the commuters breathing a sigh of relief that they had all gone. The rage rose within me.

"ACTUALLY" - I shouted after him (my face turning red to match my sundress - this was how girly I looked that day):

"We were ALREADY on the train........YOU FAT. FUCKING. PRICK!"

The look on his face as he turned around was absolutely priceless, as was the laughter of his friends and most of the football crowd. The other commuters also started sniggering.

His face turned purple as the train doors started to close, and I gave him my girliest of waves followed by the middle finger as the train started to pull away.
(Sun 13th Feb 2011, 11:15, More)

» Housemates

Just wrong
Deep, deep breath.

Ok – as ridiculous as it may sound, I have buried my experiences at university deep in the recesses of my mind. I genuinely get very, very angry when I recall them in detail and as a result rarely ever talk about them. So I am sure I will need some sort of tranquiliser after this.

I spent most of my first year miserable and depressed, after the systematic bullying of myself and two other flatmates. There were eight people to a corridor, five were guys and us three girls were the ones being targeted. Both myself and one of the other girls had a boyfriend, and the third girl was quite introverted. The fact that none of the guys were going to able to sleep with us was a possible contributing factor to their extreme nastiness and spiteful behaviour.

The ringleader of the fucktards was N – an outwardly charming and friendly guy who turned into a vicious and cruel bully if you didn’t worship him as some sort of leader, as the other guys did. He would made snide and horrible remarks about how everyone hated us, that we weren’t getting into the “party spirit”.

The idiots made best friends with some other apes from adjacent flats, and they spent most of their time round at ours, smoking weed and fags in the lounge, even though we’d asked them not to. If we dared enter the lounge when said male bonding was taking place we were verbally abused and laughed at.

The lounge and kitchen were a permanent state – absolutely disgusting and vile. We ended up having to buy our own mini fridges and portable grills for our rooms because the ape-men would throw our food and plates out of the window.

One of the apes was particularly nasty, and when drunk would attempt to physically or sexually assault any girl within range (usually me – I am so lucky), and once spent a good half an hour screaming racist abuse through the door of an Asian flatmate, who was too terrified to come out.

We made several appeals to the Managers and supervisors of the halls, the people who were supposed to protect us, but to no avail. We wrote down all the damage they had done to the flat (pulling curtains down, discharging all the fire extinguishers, smashing windows, throwing beer up the walls) but the hall Managers basically shrugged their shoulders and said that if the boys didn’t admit to doing it themselves it would still be coming out of all our deposits.

We spent as much time as possible away from the flat, and I returned one day to find that they had unscrewed the spyhole of my door from the outside and sprayed the fire extinguisher through it, ruining everything within range on the inside.

They knew one of the girls had a very important exam one day so the night before they came back at about three in the morning from whichever sleazy club they’d been at, made as much noise as possible for as long as they could stay awake, and then turned the hoover on in the corridor and left it running while they all went to bed in a drug-induced haze.

One night I was the only one in the flat, the girls having gone back home for the weekend to escape, and the boys came back from the student union with what seemed to be about 20-30 other people. What followed was the most awful, chaotic amount of noise I have ever heard. People kept trying to get into my room even though I had locked it, they were shouting abuse at me and each other. I could hear things smashing, people fighting and things ripping and breaking. After several hours the noise suddenly stopped (I found out later that the pathetic excuse for security guards had finally asked them nicely to disperse).

I cautiously ventured outside into the corridor and saw absolute destruction. Everything was ruined - the carpets, the walls, the chairs, the tables, the sofas. Everything had beer, sick, drink or blood on it. I was astounded to see one of the boys standing, topless in a weird trance in the middle of it all, he had scratches down his back and he couldn’t focus on me.

I went absolutely, fucking mental. Bat shit crazy. I screamed and screamed and screamed at this guy to start cleaning everything up or I would fucking kill him and his entire family. He had no idea where the other guys had gone.

After much confused slurring he finally seemed to realise that they had really gone too far, and started to half-heartedly clean up. I went back to bed in an apocalyptic rage. Thankfully the end of the year was only weeks away by this point and they were barely civil for the duration.

The really sad thing is, I was looking forward to university so much. I am a friendly, sociable person. I like to get drunk and have a great time with my friends. That year at university affected me for years afterwards, I was angry at everyone – me for not sticking up for myself more – my university for not helping us when we asked for it – my friends from home for having an amazing time in their first years.

But mostly I hated them. Those fucking bastards who ruined it all. They turned me into an introverted, unsociable, unconfident person who struggled to find the energy to have a good time. It’s only now, nearly 6 years later, that I finally feel like me again – such was the way they wore me down.

I wish I could say my next 2 years at uni were better, in some ways they were worse! But I won’t go into that, that first year was hard enough to tell.

Apologies for length, it’s probably as long as the noose I’d like to string them up with.
(Wed 4th Mar 2009, 11:18, More)

» Pet Peeves

Oh god, do you have all day?
There are loads of things that irritate me, finally a forum where I can vent without people telling me to shutup (well people can, but B3TA asked, so I will vent.) I will stick with one issue for now.

1) Bad drivers - who fall into several categories:

a) Old people. Now, don't get me wrong, old people are great - most of them fought in the war etc etc. And there are some who are insane, like my grandfather who used to drive at 80 miles an hour even when he developed severe macular degeneration. On village roads. Unfortunately, most seem to turn into blithering, doddering fools when faced with their beloved Nissan Micra. Why do they drive so slowly? Surely if you don't feel confident/cannot see well enough to go at the speed limit, you really shouldn't be driving anymore? I had to take a mild sedative when holidaying in Wales recently, where in most parts there are just long, one lane A roads. Getting stuck behind a coffin dodger going at fucking 30 in a 60 is just so rage-inducing, made worse by the fact that, when in a luggage and people loaded 1.6 estate, it is very hard to get up the speed to overtake without smashing head on into oncoming traffic, Utter, utter bellends. Similarly, on suburban roads with speed humps, Mr and Mrs Old will choose a cruising speed of approximately 10 miles an hour, leaving me in spasms of rage at again being unable to properly overtake without taking the bottom off my car.

b) Women. I am a woman myself, and I am utterly, utterly ashamed by my kind. Especially school run mothers. Now, I have no problem with 4X4s, I'm not one of the environment brigade and I like the look of them. Sadly, most people who drive them seem utterly incompetent. School Run Mother will block the roads, scrape nearby parked cars and do a 38 point turn instead of a 3 point because they cannot judge the arse size of their car. They have "Baby on Board" stickers in their back windows, which just makes me more inclined to ram into the back of them for being such a cunt. Why does having a baby on board entitle you to drive like such a twat? Especially when precious Junior is protected by a massive steel cage? And why, if you can't fucking drive properly, do you take the biggest car in your arsenal the few metres to school? Why not take the second, smaller car you so obviously have?

c) People who don't know the width/length of their car. These people have grown in my irritation in the past few months. I have lost count of the amount of times that a lane of traffic, upon splitting into left and right lanes, has come to a complete standstill because a total and utter twat wanting to go right feels that they cannot squeeze their car through the FUCKING HUGE GAP between the cars wanting to go left and oncoming traffic. As a result the line of cars cannot move until the left lane starts to clear. Absolute fucking idiots. Also, when a road has narrowed slightly because there are parked cars on either/one side, the amount of fucktards that will wait for one side of traffic to go first before going themselves, even though there is room for BOTH WAYS TO MOVE AT THE SAME TIME. So when I decide "Fuck this, I'm going as well" the oncoming driver looks at me with utter horror before slamming on his/her brakes and tooting vigourously on the horn, before making a big show of spinning the wheel violently left as if this will save the car from being sideswiped by this crazy maniac in the black Vauxhall. Once I have safely passed their car with about 2 feet of space, I just want to pull over, knock on their window and put their face through the windscreen, drag them all over their car before screaming manically "YOU SEE THE TRAIL OF BLOOD? THAT'S WHERE YOUR CAR STARTS AND ENDS, AND THERE ARE THE SIDES!" Before cackling insanely and eating my own hands.

d) Chavs. They are cunts anyway for so many reasons, but their driving is just unbelievable. Going up peoples arses, angrily revving, the hideously loud RnB music. Upon pulling up at traffic lights I enjoy countering Mr Chav's latest Fiddy album with some even louder music of my own, something retro like Inspector Gadget or metal like Dragonforce. Their utter dismay at realising that my sound system is louder than theirs puts them into a dark chavvy rage, and they begin revving loudly, challenging me to a race off when the lights go green. They forget of course that they are driving a 1 litre Nova, which is packed with their squawking girlfriend and various illegitimate chavlings, and I am sitting pretty in a small but perfectly formed Inspector Gadget mobile with a 1.4 sports engine. Not that impressive, but impressive enough. Even funnier when they stall. And when I tip off the DVLA that their tax has expired.


Well, my fingers are hurting from all the typing now, but my rage has subsided. I thank you all for listening.
(Mon 5th May 2008, 8:54, More)

» Childhood Ambitions

Um...
I proudly claimed to my bemused parents that I wanted to be a fire engine.


My brother told us he wanted to be a Princess.
(Sat 31st Mar 2007, 15:54, More)

» Siblings

I was the elder sister from hell
I have a very amusing picture stuffed away somewhere of me as a three year old visiting my mother in hospital after she'd just given birth to my brother. Dad had bought the bundle of joy a present supposedly from me - and the look on my face as I realised this present wasn't FOR me was priceless.

I think it was at this point little posage decided to make her brothers childhood a nightmare, and her sister to follow.

In our old house every room led into another room, meaning you could run all the way round the ground floor in a circle without stopping. According to my appauled parents, I used to play a "game" which involved me running round the house as fast as I could. So far, so innocent. Except my parents gradually realised that everytime I passed my baby brother's cot I would reach in and punch him.

At one stage I lifted baby brother out of his cot by his arm and dislocated his shoulder, doing exactly the same to my sister after she was born three years later.

When my sister was a toddler I used to say horrible cruel things to her out of a sort of morbid curiosity - to see how far I could push her before she cried. I also used to ask her, in front of my brother, who she loved the most - except I would say my name in a sing song voice so she would pick me.

My brother suffered from quite bad eczema as a child, and I once convinced him to eat a whole pack of sweeteners because I told him there were pills for his skin. He cried as he ate them because they tasted so bad.

I scooped up the biggest load of cocoa powder I could and told him it was chocolate powder. He greedily took the whole mouthful and promptly gagged and almost choked to death.

When we stayed at a farm during the school holidays I told him to go and pet the farmer's dog, knowing only too well that he was a grumpy and very territorial dog who liked to bite children. Several tears and stitches later I was told not to expect any pocket money for several months.

When he was about four or five I decided that now was the ideal time to tell him that Father Christmas didn't exist. He cried for days.

I was unbeliveably horrid to my sister as she grew up - I snapped at her whenever she said anything and once threw her across the room for waking me up (to be fair she has woken me up from a deep sleep by shaking me - I thought I was being attacked. Honest). I was bossy, controlling and just a generally massive bitch who terrorised her poor siblings for simply being there.

Even after all this, I get along with my brother and sister famously. We couldn't be closer (even if I do sometimes order little sis to make me food. She still obeys. It's her own fault really). We have so many private jokes that people from outside the family, even my parents, don't have a clue what we're talking about half the time. Only yesterday we laughed until we were almost sick over a stupid, immature joke that one of us made, while our puzzled extended family looked on.

Mr posage says my family is incredibly unusual, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
(Fri 26th Dec 2008, 11:50, More)