b3ta.com user Tone Depear
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Teh /talk Insomniac Club

I'm a 28 year old bloke type, of the tall & skinny disposition. Currently living near Sheffield. Although I live in the north, and before that dwelt in the home counties, I was born in Aberdeen and am actually Scottish, so less of the cheek, yous. Aside from that, I'm a Stoke City fan and all-round genuinely nice bloke. Charitable donations always welcome.

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» Apparently I'm a sex offender

Kiddie fiddler
I was staying at a mate's house last year, in Bristol, and we were in the pub having a nice drink, and for some reason talking about what a crime it was that young girls seemingly aspire to dress like tarts from the age of about 10. We were, quite literally putting the world to rights, when I brazenly said, "yeah, mate, I was thinking that earlier. Your daughter's mate - cracking arse!". Now I knew what I meant. The point I was trying to illiustrate was that when 16 year-old daughter + mate had popped round to pick some stuff up earlier in the day, wearing very tight fitting, white, chavvy slut-jeans, she looked like she could well easily have been on her way to stand on a street corner or something.

"What the one in the white top?", he enquires?

"Dunno, I was too busy staring at her arse mate", says I, dialling up my blokieness to maximum.

Needless to say, his daughter's slutty mate, was actually his other daughter, who I'd never met before, who's 14. I've never felt such a cunt in my entire life.

it was quite funny though at the time. He didn't think so, and I didn't think so, but everyone else thought it was fucking hilarious.
(Thu 17th Aug 2006, 23:13, More)

» Messing with the Dark Side

Dead by dawn...
When I was just finishing my edumacation, me and my GF at the time decided to go for a semi-romantic shag-weekend at a deserted cabin in the woods not far from where we lived. (I'd been there before with a few mates, but that was another story).

Anyway, we went, and found this weird book and tape recorder that some old guy had apparently left when he was in the cabin for some reason. he'd found the book on an archaeological dig or something. Anyway, we played the tape that was in, and it was the old guy reciting weird incantations which, it seems, he'd translated from the book.

The tape's playing, and it's all getting a mite spooky, when this couple of posh types turn up, claiming to be relatives of the old bloke on the tape or something, and they've found more pages from the book. Fucking weird, we reckon, but as long as they didn't mind us 'using' their shack for violently intrusive sexual acts, we weren't right fussed. I was a bit pissed, but somewhere along the line, the mrs turns out to be possessed by the evil released when the incantations tape (not the Mike Oldfield album, before you ask) was played. And this weird local type turns up with his mrs who was called Bobby-Joe (how we laughed!) and they go a bit mental.

So, things get gradually more and more fucked up, as this evil shit basically takes out everyone apart from me and the old bloke's daughter (who was well worth a fuck - bit of a touch that the mrs had already copped it). I wander down to the basement cos the foxy daughter wants me to get a couple of pages from the book that the silly bint's dropped down there. So I go. And get attacked by fit burd's undead mother. What a cunt she was. Talk about meet the fucking parents. Anyway, all goes ok-ish, in the end, apart from the bit where someone draws on my hand with biro, and cos I've gone a wee bit mental with still not getting to pork the teasing bitch, I cut my hand off with a chainsaw. Which I reckon makes me pretty fucking cool. Fuckin' A. Believe.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I got those pages from the basement, and old bloke's daughter is fucking well impressed. She's just about to submit to my demands of filthy bumsex when she comes out with all this shit about having to quickly recite some incantations to get rid of the evil or whatever, so I'm like, "yeah, whatever" and playing a bit of pocket billiards to get myself nice and hard for her, right, and just as I'm getting ready to spear her roughly up the arse...

Right, you'll never see this coming, right.


She fucking DIES. And THEN, as if missing out on top shit upper-class bum-crumpet wasn't enough, right? Right. The fucking ICING on the cunting cake, right? The incantations she utters with her dying breaths, which should have been used to gasp my name in the throws of fucking exctasy, right? She only fucking opens a portal back to the 13th fucking century and I get sucked back in time to there. Right? I mean, seriously. What a cunt.

I'm a reasonable bloke. She could have just said she had the shits or something.

Bloody lesbian.
(Sat 22nd Apr 2006, 3:54, More)

» Strange things you've been paid to do

I used to work as a lovely sluttly lady on a txt chat service
And I was bloody good at it too.

And yes, I am a bloke.
(Fri 1st Oct 2004, 8:52, More)

» Sacked

I'm much better now
But I think, really, just about every bloke is a bit of a slack cunt in the first job zone. We're all lazy and we all know best.

My first job was working for a a high-street bank as a teller. You know, sitting behind the counter giving people their money, etc. £8k a year they paid me. I thought it was ace. I was there three months. It was a kind of 3 month probationary thing that they did with all the new starters, and by the end of the second month it was pretty plain I wasn't going to be kept on. I was a 16 year old boy ffs. Even trying my hardest, people simply don't want to arrange their finances with an aloof teenager blokey, who they'd probably cross the road to avoid in the street. By sheer dumb luck, I'd already sorted another, better job which I'd be starting just after my 3 months finished. So anyway, with about two weeks left to go, a golden opportunity presented itself, when one of the other cashiers (she was a complete cunt) managed to leave her cash draw open for five minutes when she ran upstairs to make the brews. So anyway, I lifted £300 and stuck it in my sock. Half an hour later, and I was off to a different bank where I had an account to pay it in. Fucking A. The missing money wasn't noticed til close of business that evening, so cunt face had to stay ultra late with the manager counting and re-counting the money, and trying to work out if she'd accidentally keyed £300 out of someone's account without giving it them or something, while I and the rest of the branch staff swanned out the door at 5. I still can't quite believe I got away with that. It was nearly 10 years ago, and I was earning £8k a year, so £300 made a nice fucking leaving bonus for me. Anyway, I left, I wasn't sacked.

The NEXT job, however was fucking ace. They paid me £14k (which was good going back then) a year to do very little apart from wander round the office helping non-computer literate people to fix their PCs which had mysteriously broken. In the year I worked there, I don't think I had anything more exciting than a monitor lead unplugged. Occasionally I'd pull leads out of randopm PC's (swap the mouse and keyboard leads - best gag ever) so I'd have something to do to keep me from the tedious admin and filing. Oh my, it was tedious. Being a lazy cunt (which I am - I'm at work now, ffs) I did as little as I could get away with, and spent a good deal of my time stood outside smoking and eyeing up various lady members of staff. It was ace. I got a verbal warning after flicking a comedy nazi salute to my team leader when he asked me to get the coffees, and then completely out of the blue after just over a year of "working" there and about a 3 in 5 average for turning up pissed after liquid lunches, I was called into the office and told my contract was terminated. I was marched back to my desk to get my sarnies to see they'd pulled all the wires out the back of my PC to stop me 'doing anything bad' (it was a financial company, so I could have pissed all sorts of important stuff up if I'd had the inclination). So I got me sarnies, and stuff out of my draw and was frogmarched out of the building in shame, and my pass was taken off me so I couldn't get in any of the doors. They told me not to stay on the property and to go and never come back. Fuck that, I thought, cos I had lots of mates working in the main building who I'd want to say goodbye to. So I sauntered round to the main building and straight in the main entrance (doors wide open to welcome customers). I wandered over to tell my muckers the news, and they said 'fuckin ell tone, we've just had a phone call saying not to let you in the building!'. Comedy. So anyway, I sat with them for half an hour til home time, and we all went down the pub. Several hours later, I wandered back onto the campus (no-one was in - they didn't really bother with overtime) and laid a huge fucking great stinky guinessy cable on the front steps of the main entrance.

And they STILL paid me a months notice for nothing.

A few months later, I landed a temp job working for another high-street bank. A call centre. The job itself was utterly soul-destroying, but I'd had a while lazing at home to consider life, and decided to make a proper effort, and make an effort I did. I picked everything up quickly, and was generally considered a bit of a whizz amongst the crop of new people who'd started at the time. I was efficient, courteous, and helpful to the poor people who just wanted to talk to their branch but found they now came through to me, and I did my best to help them. If they wanted to chat a bit, then I'd happily engage with them and keep them happy customers. My record was an hour and 6 minutes, when my team leader actually cut herself in on the call and asked the caller to please hang up now as we were very busy (very politely). Were we fuck. if we'd been busy, I would have told him myself, but he was very keen to talk about his car collection, and how long he'd been with the bank, and all that and he went away with a very positive glow about the company. To my mind I was certainly doing a good job, and my team leaders seemed to generally agree. I also had the best call-answer rate on the team, so that was nice. Of course, that was only cos every other call, I'd just hang up, so these short calls made my average time short, and my amount of calls high. genius. needless to say, they twigged that pretty swift, and I got a mini bollocking. So anyway, all was going ok. A new task was introduced, whereby we had to try and talk people into registering for the 'all new' phone banking service. The idea was, we asked, and if they wanted the info, we'd send them out a pack in the post. It was a good idea, and most people wanted it, so I figured we may as well send them out to everyone. So every call I got, I passed their details on to send the phone bank stuff. After the first week, it turned out they were well impressed, and I got a bottle of wine for my efforts as the person who'd passed most people on for it. Ace! I rocked. Anyway, a week later, they'd obviously spent the day monitoring my calls to see if I'd asked everyone properly. Had I fuck. There was no point seeing as I was sending them out to everyone anyway. Genius. Proper bollocking I got for that. Apparently the packs cost £20+ each to produce. (They must have stuck a fucking phone in them or something). Anyway. I got a complete bollocking, and I was well underwhelmed by it all, so the next day I didn't bother turning up.

Nor the next day.

So my phone rings, and it's manpower. "Whay haven't you been in work? Are you ok?"

"I've decided not to go. They're a bunch of cunts, and I don't like having a limited number of toilet breaks in a day"

"Well, you have to give two weeks notice if you want to leave"

"I don't want to leave. I've left. Look, I'm at home. I'm not going. They can bollocks"

"you can't just not go in"

"I fucking can! Come and make me if you want. I'm going out though, so you'll have to guess which pub I'll be in, and to be honest, I can't see you leaving your desk for that"

"But.. but you can't do that"

"I can. Look. ... sorry, it's a phone, you can't see, I was waving and generally looking smug"

I was well cool.

The only downside was that my dad gave me the biggest fucking ever (not literally) took my car keys off me (very literally) and I was fucked until I got another job.

The next job they treated me well, and I worked my arse off for two years (despite the company fucking everyone over on a monthly basis - we were paid with personal cheques some months, and they'd leave it til after lunch on a friday so we couldn't pay them in til the monday after) until I found out that either me or a girl I worked with who'd just found out she was pregnant (and had only confided in me) redundant. So I galantly walked. They made a big fuss and tried to keep me and denied the redundancy thing, but I figured it was time to move on anyway. The next bloody day they made her redundant anyway. Cocks.

Longest. Post. Ever.
(by me)

Oh yeah, stealing's bad, and not cool. And very naughty. And I've never stolen anything since, I don't think. I'm much better now, I promise.
(Wed 1st Mar 2006, 4:26, More)

» Crap meals out

It wasn't really crap, but it's a reasonable story
When the mrs was heavily, heavily pregnant (week overdue) we went out for a meal at the local 2 for 1 pub grill placey. She'd been having crappy mini stomach cramp contracty things on and off for weeks, and she'd been having them again, so I thought I'd treat her to cheer her up. I was well looking forward to a mixed grill, so we sat and waited for what seemed like an age.

EVETUALLY, it arrived. Her meal looked lovely (I forget what she had cos I'm a bloke). Mine, on the other hand was abhorrent. The chicken 'bit' was dry, shrivelled, and I couldn't cut it with my knife. The gammon 'piece' was in the same state. Everything else was fine. Now, I've NEVER, EVER complained about food before (cos I'm British). Ever. But eventually the mrs talked me into it. So I asked a waitress lady thing to come and have a quick look at my meat. (!). I banged it on the table by way of demonstration, so they took the two offending bits away, and a while later, brought back a new plate. The most perfectly tender chicken breast, compliment with a wonderfully succulent bit of gammon. Tasty gorgeous, I eat the lot, and thanked them for painlessly sorting my food out for me.
So, we head home, and decide to pop into the hospital to try and get some painkillers for the mrs, as the pains will stop her sleeping and she was knackered the poor thing. We got to the hospital about 10pm, and after 21 hours of labour, we had a beautiful baby girl.

Neither of us were hungry. :)
(Mon 1st May 2006, 11:22, More)
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