Profile for doran:
'Ello
I'm Kev, a 24 year old Cumbrian bloke adrift in the Essex region after graduating then post-graduating from Essex Uni.
Currently suffering a Clerks-style existence in a video shop, where I amuse myself with primitive real world Photoshoppery; cutting out faces from magazines and sticking them over the ones on the video sleeves. Then watching people's double-takes.
I am aware how sad this is.
I drink too much, smoke too much and like the occasional halluci-ma-genic journey altogether too much. This is probably why I'm not rich. I luv me reading, me films, me drawing and me 'Shopping, and as I write this, I just got me first (and prob'ly last) front page! Which made me multi-happy :)
I've been lurking about b3ta for a year or so, but have only recently unspazzed enough to get on that thar message board. So hello at last to you all :)
Recent front page messages:
Best answers to questions:
[read all their answers]
- a member for 21 years, 7 months and 15 days
- has posted 93 messages on the main board
- (of which 1 have appeared on the front page)
- has posted 0 messages on the talk board
- has posted 1 messages on the links board
- (including 1 links)
- has posted 5 stories and 1 replies on question of the week
- They liked 6 pictures, 0 links, 0 talk posts, and 5 qotw answers.
- Ignore this user
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'Ello
I'm Kev, a 24 year old Cumbrian bloke adrift in the Essex region after graduating then post-graduating from Essex Uni.
Currently suffering a Clerks-style existence in a video shop, where I amuse myself with primitive real world Photoshoppery; cutting out faces from magazines and sticking them over the ones on the video sleeves. Then watching people's double-takes.
I am aware how sad this is.
I drink too much, smoke too much and like the occasional halluci-ma-genic journey altogether too much. This is probably why I'm not rich. I luv me reading, me films, me drawing and me 'Shopping, and as I write this, I just got me first (and prob'ly last) front page! Which made me multi-happy :)
I've been lurking about b3ta for a year or so, but have only recently unspazzed enough to get on that thar message board. So hello at last to you all :)
Recent front page messages:
Growing up near the ACDC rehearsal room
had a profound effect on young Joey...
He became the Kerrangeroo.
Woo! First front page! You're all too kind....
(Tue 26th Aug 2003, 18:46, More)
had a profound effect on young Joey...
He became the Kerrangeroo.
Woo! First front page! You're all too kind....
(Tue 26th Aug 2003, 18:46, More)
Best answers to questions:
» DIY Surgery
I can't attest to the veracity of this one as my dad told me it long ago. Still induces cringes...
Back in the '80s/early '90s growing up at my parents', my dad worked shifts as a textile worker (Oop North, though on an out-of-town industrial estate rather than in a dark, Satanic mill). The job required regular and respectful use of, essentially, massive fuck-off machines of varying degrees of crushingness, choppingness and mangleability.
Accidents happened, of course. My dad remained unscathed, but other more careless employees had lost a few bits and bobs here and there, ranging from a digit or two to, well, continued existence on the mortal plane. The goalkeeper for the five-aside team was famed for having two amazing shot-stopping hands, albeit with only six shot-stopping digits between them.
So, one of the lads on shift with my dad pays for a lapse of concentration with the loss of the tip of his middle finger, just below the nail. Painful, no doubt, but a lucky escape in comparison to some. Some staunching, a visit to A+E, the liberal application of gauze and bandage, a few days off work in a painkillered haze and a lesson learned. Job's a good 'un.
A few weeks pass and the dressing comes off, revealing his newly foreshortened finger. I always envision is as resembling an uncooked Richmond 64% pork sausage - smooth, wanly pink and unwholesome-looking.
The getting-used-to of it proceeds as more time passes, and soon enough, it's just the way things are. Which is presumably what makes the gradual appearance and growth of a little fleshy nubbin at the end something of mild interest, rather than a potential cause for concern. It's probably also the reason why our hero feels no need to visit a doctor, even if just to put his mind at ease.
Who needs a doctor to tell him what's obvious? It's obviously the lost nail pushing its way back out. Obviously.
So he gets the nail clippers
pincers the nubbin between the blades
and snips
the nerve ending
clear through.
He wakes a full two days later in hospital, finger freshly bandaged. I like to think that a doctor is at his bedside, looking down, his expression an open book. A book with one enormous gatefold page, printed with the words YOU DAFT TWAT.
(Thu 20th Jan 2011, 17:04, More)
I can't attest to the veracity of this one as my dad told me it long ago. Still induces cringes...
Back in the '80s/early '90s growing up at my parents', my dad worked shifts as a textile worker (Oop North, though on an out-of-town industrial estate rather than in a dark, Satanic mill). The job required regular and respectful use of, essentially, massive fuck-off machines of varying degrees of crushingness, choppingness and mangleability.
Accidents happened, of course. My dad remained unscathed, but other more careless employees had lost a few bits and bobs here and there, ranging from a digit or two to, well, continued existence on the mortal plane. The goalkeeper for the five-aside team was famed for having two amazing shot-stopping hands, albeit with only six shot-stopping digits between them.
So, one of the lads on shift with my dad pays for a lapse of concentration with the loss of the tip of his middle finger, just below the nail. Painful, no doubt, but a lucky escape in comparison to some. Some staunching, a visit to A+E, the liberal application of gauze and bandage, a few days off work in a painkillered haze and a lesson learned. Job's a good 'un.
A few weeks pass and the dressing comes off, revealing his newly foreshortened finger. I always envision is as resembling an uncooked Richmond 64% pork sausage - smooth, wanly pink and unwholesome-looking.
The getting-used-to of it proceeds as more time passes, and soon enough, it's just the way things are. Which is presumably what makes the gradual appearance and growth of a little fleshy nubbin at the end something of mild interest, rather than a potential cause for concern. It's probably also the reason why our hero feels no need to visit a doctor, even if just to put his mind at ease.
Who needs a doctor to tell him what's obvious? It's obviously the lost nail pushing its way back out. Obviously.
So he gets the nail clippers
pincers the nubbin between the blades
and snips
the nerve ending
clear through.
He wakes a full two days later in hospital, finger freshly bandaged. I like to think that a doctor is at his bedside, looking down, his expression an open book. A book with one enormous gatefold page, printed with the words YOU DAFT TWAT.
(Thu 20th Jan 2011, 17:04, More)
» Best Graffiti Ever
Ipswich waterfront,
Pre-gentrified.
Heck of a labour of love...
(Fri 4th May 2007, 15:26, More)
Ipswich waterfront,
Pre-gentrified.
Heck of a labour of love...
(Fri 4th May 2007, 15:26, More)
» Ripped Off
My brother
is a hardcore Liverpool FC supporter - latest strip, season ticket, the works. So when he spotted a shirt on Ebay a couple of years back, signed by the whole squad, he got bidding pretty much straight away.
He won, he paid - some 60 or 70 quid - the package winged its way up the A6, and was opened...
The signatures were there, alright. Each player's name, in the exact same handwriting. More specifically, the same handwriting as was on the envelope.
Sympathetic noises trumped hysterical barking laughter, somehow...
(Thu 15th Feb 2007, 20:19, More)
My brother
is a hardcore Liverpool FC supporter - latest strip, season ticket, the works. So when he spotted a shirt on Ebay a couple of years back, signed by the whole squad, he got bidding pretty much straight away.
He won, he paid - some 60 or 70 quid - the package winged its way up the A6, and was opened...
The signatures were there, alright. Each player's name, in the exact same handwriting. More specifically, the same handwriting as was on the envelope.
Sympathetic noises trumped hysterical barking laughter, somehow...
(Thu 15th Feb 2007, 20:19, More)
» When were you last really scared?
To easy
The Tailypo. Had it read to us by some sadistic fuck teacher in the second year of Infants. Weeks of nightmares, incontinence and insomnia.
Almost a quarter of a century later, and Amazon, thinks I, gives me the chance to exorcise some brain demons. And look! It comes with a cute yellow audio cassette!
I reread it earlier this week. Listened to the tape, thus hearing the Tailypo's voice for the first time.
Nightmares? Check.
Isomnia? Yep.
Incontinence? Er...
Really, if you allow a young child to read this book, you are simply evil.
(Fri 23rd Feb 2007, 17:18, More)
To easy
The Tailypo. Had it read to us by some sadistic fuck teacher in the second year of Infants. Weeks of nightmares, incontinence and insomnia.
Almost a quarter of a century later, and Amazon, thinks I, gives me the chance to exorcise some brain demons. And look! It comes with a cute yellow audio cassette!
I reread it earlier this week. Listened to the tape, thus hearing the Tailypo's voice for the first time.
Nightmares? Check.
Isomnia? Yep.
Incontinence? Er...
Really, if you allow a young child to read this book, you are simply evil.
(Fri 23rd Feb 2007, 17:18, More)
» Where is the strangest place you have slept?
My better half's dad, back in his drinkier days
was on an important business thing in New York, which turned into a blackout sesh.
He woke up the next morning face down in a street in the Bronx, wallet and keys lying conspicuously to either side of him, totally untouched. Staggered up, re-packed, fucked off. Quickly.
He assumed, post-hangover, that he was such an obvious target that he was too obvious a target to actually become a target. A cunning, paranoia-utilising survival plan, or a jammy fucking escape?
The second, I reckon.
(Sat 30th Dec 2006, 2:49, More)
My better half's dad, back in his drinkier days
was on an important business thing in New York, which turned into a blackout sesh.
He woke up the next morning face down in a street in the Bronx, wallet and keys lying conspicuously to either side of him, totally untouched. Staggered up, re-packed, fucked off. Quickly.
He assumed, post-hangover, that he was such an obvious target that he was too obvious a target to actually become a target. A cunning, paranoia-utilising survival plan, or a jammy fucking escape?
The second, I reckon.
(Sat 30th Dec 2006, 2:49, More)