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i am the god of hell fire and i bring you............. ice cream
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i am the god of hell fire and i bring you............. ice cream
Recent front page messages:
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Best answers to questions:
» Winning
Everyone's a winner
It’ been some time since I wrote on here so hold tight, this is a long one……
This is a tale of ignorance, belligerence, and achievement over adversary.
When I was a nipper sport for me was a minefield of accidents waiting to happen. Not the sort fall over or trip up kind of accidents, but the sort of accidents that involve urinating ones trousers. You would think this is the kind of thing that would build character in one so young, well I can tell you now …… does it fuckery. All it does is turn you into a bitter an twister person who hates the bones of every cunt who thinks it oh so fucking funny to laugh at other people physical ailments. For the record it’s a mild form of spina bifida.
So, sports were pretty much off the menu for me and this led to a level of disownment from my father. He wanted a strong son who he could show to his mates a true sportsman, but I was a slightly crippled young man who revelled in reading military history and discovering new and interesting forms of masturbation. So in effect, I was a serial wanker who was fast becoming an authority of Russian munitions from 1909 to 1945, stud!
The disownment from my father was small potatoes considering the abuse I was taking at school for my little “pissypants” problem. My grandad on the other hand was the one who was feeding my little military history habit. He was a RAF spitfire pilot during the war and collected memorabilia from the time. I adored all his books and medals but above all I loved his stories from the war. Turns out he was quite the cad and pretty much deflowered half of southern Britain during his tenure.
Anyway, my dear old grandad was as tough as nails (he had 1 lung after beating lung cancer) also a dab hand at bike mechanics. I was never into cycling when I was young but my grandad built me a bike from 10th birthday. To this day I have never known why he built me a bike but it changed my life forever that day I received it. The bike he built for me was a ‘’Fixie”, 1 gear, 1 brake and you can’t coast, it is essentially a road going track bike. The man was obviously a genius because it turned out that no matter how much physical excursion I put into cycling I did not leak any urine. That summer was magical, I made new friends, got very healthy and discovered something about myself that would have remained dormant without cycling, I have the lung capacity of a fucking whale. The fucking spina bifida had constructed my body I such a way that my chest cavity was way out of proportion to the rest of my body. So I can just keep going and going. (in later years my sexual my energy has proved to be somewhat of selling point for the young ladies).
Four years later and I had joined a cycle club and made quite the name for myself on the junior circuit. My grandad drove me to races and encouraged me all the way. It was the summer of 96 and I was racing in the final of the southern championship under 14 “points” race. I was still using bikes built by my grandad and I was up against over privileged, little snot nosed arse wipes with expensive bikes and pushy parents. My bike was laughed at because it was not covered in expensive Italian names; my attitude was fuck the lot of them! What they did not know was that my grandad had intimate knowledge of bearings and if you know anything about the wheels, the better the bearing the faster the wheel will turn. It was not the ingenious stuff the Mr Obree was doing but it was his use of different axle grease’s that was real clever. Anyway, I knew I had a good chance as the preliminary rounds went well without putting much effort in but I wanted to crush the snide little cunts that belittled me. It was semi-psycho cathartic exercise in retribution for me. I saw all these opponents as the bullies at school who had knocked me down so many times and killed off what little confidence I had.
Points races consist of anywhere between 20 and fifty laps with intermittent sprints that account for points. But to get the big points you have to lap the field. Not fucking easy. The race started off as any normal race but I had a plan, set a stupid high pace between the sprints but do no contest the sprints, this meant I could control the lactic acid build up in my legs and go for the lapping at the end. They were all falling for it, stupid ego’s all contesting sprints that hold little value. 22 laps out of 30 and just after the 2nd from last sprint I made my move, the field were all shattered from sprinting and I went for it at top speed. I got out of my saddle and belted off like a scalded cat. I had 8 laps to catch the field up, it was going to hurt but I was doing this to prove to myself that I was equal to all the able bodied riders and for my grandad who gave me this new confidence to express myself. I was catching the field quicker than I imagined, in 5 laps I reached the back of the pack at had achieved enough points to claim victory. All I had to do know it sit tight and avoid the final sprint. The final lap was bearing down at the pace jumped up, I decided to slip to back of the pack but one the riders decided to take his chance and shoulder barge me. I came tumbling down like a tonne on bricks and took 5 other riders with me. This was an outdoor gravel track in south London I was doing close to 30mph at the time.….ouch. I broke my leg, arm, dislocated my shoulder and had scares that made freddy kreuger look like an advert for good skincare. Fuck me the pain was unbearable for weeks and put an end to my elaborate masturbation techniques. It was also the end of my racing career due to the fact my bones did not heal well and I had kept my spina bifida quiet, no team would touch me with a 50ft shit stick.
About 5 years later I was working one Sunday and got a call from my mum to say my grandad had been taken to hospital following a heart attack. I left work and cycled top speed to the hospital. I never made to say goodbye to my grandad as my chain snapped. Ironically it was rather expensive Japanese componentry I was using on my bike, my grandad would have not approved and probably would have made some pseudo racist remark while looking down upon me.
I lost the race and my grandad but I did win confidence and the ability to overcome difficult circumstances. Next year I am doing John O’Groats to Lands End on a fixed gear bike I’m building myself, it will be in aid of The Royal British Legion. I’m hoping to do it in 5 days, I’ll be thinking of my grandad all the way. Thanks for listening.
(Sat 30th Apr 2011, 23:00, More)
Everyone's a winner
It’ been some time since I wrote on here so hold tight, this is a long one……
This is a tale of ignorance, belligerence, and achievement over adversary.
When I was a nipper sport for me was a minefield of accidents waiting to happen. Not the sort fall over or trip up kind of accidents, but the sort of accidents that involve urinating ones trousers. You would think this is the kind of thing that would build character in one so young, well I can tell you now …… does it fuckery. All it does is turn you into a bitter an twister person who hates the bones of every cunt who thinks it oh so fucking funny to laugh at other people physical ailments. For the record it’s a mild form of spina bifida.
So, sports were pretty much off the menu for me and this led to a level of disownment from my father. He wanted a strong son who he could show to his mates a true sportsman, but I was a slightly crippled young man who revelled in reading military history and discovering new and interesting forms of masturbation. So in effect, I was a serial wanker who was fast becoming an authority of Russian munitions from 1909 to 1945, stud!
The disownment from my father was small potatoes considering the abuse I was taking at school for my little “pissypants” problem. My grandad on the other hand was the one who was feeding my little military history habit. He was a RAF spitfire pilot during the war and collected memorabilia from the time. I adored all his books and medals but above all I loved his stories from the war. Turns out he was quite the cad and pretty much deflowered half of southern Britain during his tenure.
Anyway, my dear old grandad was as tough as nails (he had 1 lung after beating lung cancer) also a dab hand at bike mechanics. I was never into cycling when I was young but my grandad built me a bike from 10th birthday. To this day I have never known why he built me a bike but it changed my life forever that day I received it. The bike he built for me was a ‘’Fixie”, 1 gear, 1 brake and you can’t coast, it is essentially a road going track bike. The man was obviously a genius because it turned out that no matter how much physical excursion I put into cycling I did not leak any urine. That summer was magical, I made new friends, got very healthy and discovered something about myself that would have remained dormant without cycling, I have the lung capacity of a fucking whale. The fucking spina bifida had constructed my body I such a way that my chest cavity was way out of proportion to the rest of my body. So I can just keep going and going. (in later years my sexual my energy has proved to be somewhat of selling point for the young ladies).
Four years later and I had joined a cycle club and made quite the name for myself on the junior circuit. My grandad drove me to races and encouraged me all the way. It was the summer of 96 and I was racing in the final of the southern championship under 14 “points” race. I was still using bikes built by my grandad and I was up against over privileged, little snot nosed arse wipes with expensive bikes and pushy parents. My bike was laughed at because it was not covered in expensive Italian names; my attitude was fuck the lot of them! What they did not know was that my grandad had intimate knowledge of bearings and if you know anything about the wheels, the better the bearing the faster the wheel will turn. It was not the ingenious stuff the Mr Obree was doing but it was his use of different axle grease’s that was real clever. Anyway, I knew I had a good chance as the preliminary rounds went well without putting much effort in but I wanted to crush the snide little cunts that belittled me. It was semi-psycho cathartic exercise in retribution for me. I saw all these opponents as the bullies at school who had knocked me down so many times and killed off what little confidence I had.
Points races consist of anywhere between 20 and fifty laps with intermittent sprints that account for points. But to get the big points you have to lap the field. Not fucking easy. The race started off as any normal race but I had a plan, set a stupid high pace between the sprints but do no contest the sprints, this meant I could control the lactic acid build up in my legs and go for the lapping at the end. They were all falling for it, stupid ego’s all contesting sprints that hold little value. 22 laps out of 30 and just after the 2nd from last sprint I made my move, the field were all shattered from sprinting and I went for it at top speed. I got out of my saddle and belted off like a scalded cat. I had 8 laps to catch the field up, it was going to hurt but I was doing this to prove to myself that I was equal to all the able bodied riders and for my grandad who gave me this new confidence to express myself. I was catching the field quicker than I imagined, in 5 laps I reached the back of the pack at had achieved enough points to claim victory. All I had to do know it sit tight and avoid the final sprint. The final lap was bearing down at the pace jumped up, I decided to slip to back of the pack but one the riders decided to take his chance and shoulder barge me. I came tumbling down like a tonne on bricks and took 5 other riders with me. This was an outdoor gravel track in south London I was doing close to 30mph at the time.….ouch. I broke my leg, arm, dislocated my shoulder and had scares that made freddy kreuger look like an advert for good skincare. Fuck me the pain was unbearable for weeks and put an end to my elaborate masturbation techniques. It was also the end of my racing career due to the fact my bones did not heal well and I had kept my spina bifida quiet, no team would touch me with a 50ft shit stick.
About 5 years later I was working one Sunday and got a call from my mum to say my grandad had been taken to hospital following a heart attack. I left work and cycled top speed to the hospital. I never made to say goodbye to my grandad as my chain snapped. Ironically it was rather expensive Japanese componentry I was using on my bike, my grandad would have not approved and probably would have made some pseudo racist remark while looking down upon me.
I lost the race and my grandad but I did win confidence and the ability to overcome difficult circumstances. Next year I am doing John O’Groats to Lands End on a fixed gear bike I’m building myself, it will be in aid of The Royal British Legion. I’m hoping to do it in 5 days, I’ll be thinking of my grandad all the way. Thanks for listening.
(Sat 30th Apr 2011, 23:00, More)
» Terrible Parenting
Freddy Krueger is real!!!!!
After reading a harrowing tale on here yesterday concerning that poltergeist film it brought back the most horrendous experience of my childhood and which gave me a sleepless night last night just thinking about it. Once again this concerns my childish, prankster, twat and all round cunt of a father. While being only the tender age of thirteen I was aloud to stay up late one night to watch Friday night TV. My parents were going through a period of not talking to each other at the time and so my mum had fucked off to bed early and my dad was working in his shed. So channel 4 it was then.....
Remember how good Friday night TV was on channel 4 back in the 90's, eurotrash, who's line is it anyway, roseanne and not forgetting the obligatory French grot/art film. I digress. Nightmare on elm street was on that night and I decided that I wanted to see what all the fuss was about concerning this film. Playground gossip had put it in high stead. So there I was kicking back in the recliner chair (dad's chair) with my coke and crisps and the lights off (btw i hate the dark now). The film was pretty unimpressive for the first hour or so but this lead me into a false sense of security. During this period of relaxed viewing my father was busy in the shed working but little to my knowledge he was making a Freddy Krueger glove and plotting my demise.
At this point I must point out that I was fully kicked back in the recliner chair to the point I was nearly horizontal. Then the scene where Johnny depp was in his room watching TV on his bed came on, we all know the one. Just before the penultimate moment in the scene where Freddie's hand cuts through the bed and drags poor Johnny down my cuntish father had slipped into the room with the stealthy skills of an SAS soilder and creped behind the chair. I was unaware at the time that it was possible to get your hand through the chair from behind. I think you know whats coming next and the absolute cunt timed it to perfection.
As soon as Freddie's hand came through so did my dads. I jumped up higher than a kangeroo on a pogo stick, wetting myself with fear ( probably due to 2 litres of coke in my bladder) and run up the stairs to the sanctity of my mum while screaming like a girl. My mum came running down the stairs to find my father sitting in the recliner chair, laughing his arse off and grinning like a maniac while wearing the Freddy glove he had made. This is real cuntish bit though..... expecting my mother who was already annoyed with him to lay into him, she then started pissing herself with laughter too. Remember I was soaking wet with piss and looking like a frightened cat. A night I will never forget and brought many a sleepless night my way for years to come.
There's a moral to this tale but i really can' be arsed to find it.
Lenght... Just ask your mum!!!!
(Fri 17th Aug 2007, 9:38, More)
Freddy Krueger is real!!!!!
After reading a harrowing tale on here yesterday concerning that poltergeist film it brought back the most horrendous experience of my childhood and which gave me a sleepless night last night just thinking about it. Once again this concerns my childish, prankster, twat and all round cunt of a father. While being only the tender age of thirteen I was aloud to stay up late one night to watch Friday night TV. My parents were going through a period of not talking to each other at the time and so my mum had fucked off to bed early and my dad was working in his shed. So channel 4 it was then.....
Remember how good Friday night TV was on channel 4 back in the 90's, eurotrash, who's line is it anyway, roseanne and not forgetting the obligatory French grot/art film. I digress. Nightmare on elm street was on that night and I decided that I wanted to see what all the fuss was about concerning this film. Playground gossip had put it in high stead. So there I was kicking back in the recliner chair (dad's chair) with my coke and crisps and the lights off (btw i hate the dark now). The film was pretty unimpressive for the first hour or so but this lead me into a false sense of security. During this period of relaxed viewing my father was busy in the shed working but little to my knowledge he was making a Freddy Krueger glove and plotting my demise.
At this point I must point out that I was fully kicked back in the recliner chair to the point I was nearly horizontal. Then the scene where Johnny depp was in his room watching TV on his bed came on, we all know the one. Just before the penultimate moment in the scene where Freddie's hand cuts through the bed and drags poor Johnny down my cuntish father had slipped into the room with the stealthy skills of an SAS soilder and creped behind the chair. I was unaware at the time that it was possible to get your hand through the chair from behind. I think you know whats coming next and the absolute cunt timed it to perfection.
As soon as Freddie's hand came through so did my dads. I jumped up higher than a kangeroo on a pogo stick, wetting myself with fear ( probably due to 2 litres of coke in my bladder) and run up the stairs to the sanctity of my mum while screaming like a girl. My mum came running down the stairs to find my father sitting in the recliner chair, laughing his arse off and grinning like a maniac while wearing the Freddy glove he had made. This is real cuntish bit though..... expecting my mother who was already annoyed with him to lay into him, she then started pissing herself with laughter too. Remember I was soaking wet with piss and looking like a frightened cat. A night I will never forget and brought many a sleepless night my way for years to come.
There's a moral to this tale but i really can' be arsed to find it.
Lenght... Just ask your mum!!!!
(Fri 17th Aug 2007, 9:38, More)
» The most childish thing you've done as an adult
You must learn the ways of the force if you are to become a cunt like me.
The dictionary describes childish as:
adjective
of, like, or appropriate to a child : childish enthusiasm.
silly and immature : a childish outburst.
This is wrong of course. What it should read is:
Childish:
Cunt, the numerous acts of Mr Captaincuntybollocks senior.
If you are a regular reader of my stories, you will have undoubtedly come across the trials and tribulations of my father. He has the creative abilities of Jackson Pollock with a bucket of snot carefully wrapped around the mind of a pre-pubescent serial flatulence offender; unfortunately, he regularly mixes these two abilities together to form socially uncomfortable outcomes for unsuspecting bystanders/friends/family. Anyway, back to the story.
This story takes place circa 1994-1995; these were my high school days. My school awarded a five-year scholarship to the brightest scumbags from the shitty schools in the local area; I was one of those lucky scumbags (still am). If you have read ‘Tom Brown’s School Days’, you will not be a million miles away from my reality. Like all teenagers I dreaded the parent-teacher evenings, not that I was particularly naughty or thick, quite the contrary, but because my school was very posh and I was, as the ‘rugger buggers’ used say, from the gutter. I always felt very poor in comparison to these over privileged brass eye polishers. Many of them had butlers and would be regularly dropped off or picked up in helicopters, Ferrari’s and Limo’s. Nevertheless, they had to board there and commit sodomy to each other. My parent’s did not hate me that much, but my father did try to make my school life a little more difficult and weird for me, all for his own amusement of course.
You might be saying to yourself right now, “what is all the fuss about you little cock, it’s only a parent-teacher evening?” My parent’s are not the most articulate of individuals, especially my father. He is from the rough end of Northern Ireland and understanding his eloquent dialect would be akin to deciphering the woofs of an Alsatian with Laryngitis. Let us not be hasty to judge me though, I am proud of my background and I think it gave me a fantastic understanding of social structures while instilling excellent values upon me. However, when you are 14 years old and everyone around you has plumy voices and expensive lives, expectations are excruciatingly painful and high.
As mentioned above, parent-teacher evening was creeping up on me like a rapist in slippers. I had successfully dodged the previous years ‘coming together’ by the means of stealth tactics. These tactics essentially revolved around some rather cunning forgery and a tissue of lies to my parents, so not that clever. This year was different though, the bastard school preempted my second stealth strike by sending letters home to parents reminding them it was that joyful time of year again, fucksocks. So, I was not getting out of it this time unless I could come up with a plan so cunning it would make the weasel ambush on toad hall look amateur in comparison. This is the point in the story where a montage kicks in with some up tempo eighties rock music to accompany it.
I had a plan. A plan so cruel in design and from my careful calculations I hypothesized that failure was not possible. Go along with the school program, get the forms signed, arrange the time to meet the teachers. Make it look like everything was normal and set your trap, it was a classical military maneuver. The evening comes and my parents sit down for their evening meal while I am also at the dining table with one eye on the clock and trying not to panic. I wolfed my dinner down with the grace of a tramp that had not seen a hot meal in months and I made my excuses to leave the table. As a polite gesture, I offer a hot drink to my parents. Mother and father love their coffee after a meal and it was always my job to make it, they graciously accepted. I had 3 hours until the event. This is the clever bit my friends.
My parents loved their sugar in coffee, three each to be precise. Hence the diabetes they have today. On this fateful evening, they were not going to receive their usual granulated filth but a carefully selected sugar substitute. Not that calorie busting variety in diet coke, but the bowel busting variety called Lactulose. We had tones of the stuff in our house as my mother suffered from the sort of constipation that would need a confirmation call to the Guinness Book of Records every time she opened the ‘Bombay Doors’. I had done some ‘test runs’ on myself the previous week as to determine what clarifies as a potentially fateful overdose and I took notes on how much my mother takes. From my research, (near pant shitting moments) I determined that I did have problem. If I was to get them to forfeit the evening due to the ‘two bob bits’, I would have to use a lot of this stuff and it was seriously fucking sweet, noticeably sweet. So I had to increase the coffee dosage in the cup as to hide disguise the laxatives, this was potentially dangerous and amusing. If all went to plan, I would have two extremely hyperactive parents bouncing around the house like kids on e-numbers while trying not to wildly defecate everywhere.
Guess work aside, I went ahead a formulated the fateful brew. Ironically, when I handed over the drinks I needed a shit, so once again I made my excuses and left the room. All sorts of ponderous thought’s were crossing my mind while on the crapper, but most of all I was happy to wreck some revenge on the old man for all his ‘hilarious’ stunts he had fucked me over with. I was the padewan learner who was fast rising up through the Jedi ranks of vengeful prankery. Star Wars analogy and crap over, I make my way to the kitchen sink with a glaze of vengeful glee tattooed across my soul. I notice the cups I had used for the bowel-busting brew empty in the sink. BONZA! Sit back and wait for the fireworks to begin.
Two hours pass and close to sod all has happened apart from my mother asking me the names of my teachers and what they are like. So to pass the boredom away I made up all sorts of psychical aliments they had and mentioned a few of them were keen racists. My mother also started to put on her posh cockney accent and there is nothing in the world that makes me cringe as much as this. Just as I start to worry that my plan had failed I hear these beautiful words from my mum.
“Me gut’s feel a bit off”
After a few minutes of tummy rumbling, she cracks and leg’s it at top speed to the toilet. The howls and watery backfires from the toilet confirmed my plan has worked. She came out of their wondering if the meat she cooked was off and telling my old man that he would have to go without her. This I did not plan for as I expected both of them to be laid up (or sitting down more precisely). How did it not work on him? Are his guts made of lead? All these questions suddenly became very unimportant to me as he was heading out the door to meet the teachers and potentially ruin my newly carved reputation as the peasant boy whom done well. So off he went on his own, I expected the worst and I got a lot more than I bargained for.
A few hours pass by and several questions came to the forefront of my mind. How did he survive the shit’s? Maybe he crapped himself in the car or worse, maybe he crapped himself while meeting my teachers. The guilt started to build up and the sounds of my mum shitting loudly in the toilet downstairs only served to amplify my shame. My guilt was suddenly interrupted by sound of the old mans car pulling up in the drive. It was only polite that I stay around to hear the disaster story that would prevail. He opened the door, walked into the room, and took up his favorite chair. He retorted to my mum that I was doing very well but all my teacher’s and fellow parents were ‘posh cunts’, how beautiful. Oh good god, what had he done, I know from experience that this is not a man who minces his words lightly. Looking humiliation in the face, I somberly and slowly walk to my slumber hole with the faint sounds of a death march echoing around my shattered existence. However, just before I turn the corner my old man says these strange words to me
“Son, you maybe a smart arse at school, but you make the worst cup of coffee known to man. I took one sip of that cup of shite and pored it away.”
Mum followed with.
“Yeah, It was pretty disgusting. Don’t know why I drank it”
Connect four! He had that grin on his face; I had seen that grin before. When he donned the Freddy Krueger glove and scared the shit out of me, he had that grin. The cunt had rumbled me but I assumed he would keep quite as he could not prove a thing. Innocent until proven otherwise.
Next day at school some of the teachers were, shall we say, a bit bloody weird with me. This weirdness ranged from asking me to stay behind after class and then telling me that they we proud of me and congratulating me on such a brave decision all the way to very odd smiles from suspicious teachers I never trusted. This was becoming odd, classmates were asking questions and rumors were circulating, this had to end. At the end of the last lesson, the teacher once again grabs me just before we all tumble out and gives me the same old story about congratulating me on such a brave decision.
“About What? I have not done anything to be proud of”
The teacher continues with,
“That just the attitude you must fight, it’s must feel good to be out about it”
Me,
“Out about what?”
Teacher,
“Your Homosexuality of course, your father told us that you came out to your parents recently. He is very proud of you”
Me.
“Err thanks, but I’m not gay. It was my father having a laugh. I have to go now, bye”
HA HA, FUCKING HA
Once again, I had fallen foul to the old man and his childish ways. I told my mum and she was upset but obviously trying not to laugh. Then he arrived through the door in his usual lordly manner, he took one look at me and started laughing like a maniac. This symphony of shame accompanied the extra laughter emanating from my family. Clandestine accusations of bum love and propositions from light-footed individuals marred the proceeding school years. Did I mention it was an all boys’ school?
In all my stories, I try to find the moral but once again I have fail to find one.
Length, about 3 years of torment and abuse.
(Mon 21st Sep 2009, 13:35, More)
You must learn the ways of the force if you are to become a cunt like me.
The dictionary describes childish as:
adjective
of, like, or appropriate to a child : childish enthusiasm.
silly and immature : a childish outburst.
This is wrong of course. What it should read is:
Childish:
Cunt, the numerous acts of Mr Captaincuntybollocks senior.
If you are a regular reader of my stories, you will have undoubtedly come across the trials and tribulations of my father. He has the creative abilities of Jackson Pollock with a bucket of snot carefully wrapped around the mind of a pre-pubescent serial flatulence offender; unfortunately, he regularly mixes these two abilities together to form socially uncomfortable outcomes for unsuspecting bystanders/friends/family. Anyway, back to the story.
This story takes place circa 1994-1995; these were my high school days. My school awarded a five-year scholarship to the brightest scumbags from the shitty schools in the local area; I was one of those lucky scumbags (still am). If you have read ‘Tom Brown’s School Days’, you will not be a million miles away from my reality. Like all teenagers I dreaded the parent-teacher evenings, not that I was particularly naughty or thick, quite the contrary, but because my school was very posh and I was, as the ‘rugger buggers’ used say, from the gutter. I always felt very poor in comparison to these over privileged brass eye polishers. Many of them had butlers and would be regularly dropped off or picked up in helicopters, Ferrari’s and Limo’s. Nevertheless, they had to board there and commit sodomy to each other. My parent’s did not hate me that much, but my father did try to make my school life a little more difficult and weird for me, all for his own amusement of course.
You might be saying to yourself right now, “what is all the fuss about you little cock, it’s only a parent-teacher evening?” My parent’s are not the most articulate of individuals, especially my father. He is from the rough end of Northern Ireland and understanding his eloquent dialect would be akin to deciphering the woofs of an Alsatian with Laryngitis. Let us not be hasty to judge me though, I am proud of my background and I think it gave me a fantastic understanding of social structures while instilling excellent values upon me. However, when you are 14 years old and everyone around you has plumy voices and expensive lives, expectations are excruciatingly painful and high.
As mentioned above, parent-teacher evening was creeping up on me like a rapist in slippers. I had successfully dodged the previous years ‘coming together’ by the means of stealth tactics. These tactics essentially revolved around some rather cunning forgery and a tissue of lies to my parents, so not that clever. This year was different though, the bastard school preempted my second stealth strike by sending letters home to parents reminding them it was that joyful time of year again, fucksocks. So, I was not getting out of it this time unless I could come up with a plan so cunning it would make the weasel ambush on toad hall look amateur in comparison. This is the point in the story where a montage kicks in with some up tempo eighties rock music to accompany it.
I had a plan. A plan so cruel in design and from my careful calculations I hypothesized that failure was not possible. Go along with the school program, get the forms signed, arrange the time to meet the teachers. Make it look like everything was normal and set your trap, it was a classical military maneuver. The evening comes and my parents sit down for their evening meal while I am also at the dining table with one eye on the clock and trying not to panic. I wolfed my dinner down with the grace of a tramp that had not seen a hot meal in months and I made my excuses to leave the table. As a polite gesture, I offer a hot drink to my parents. Mother and father love their coffee after a meal and it was always my job to make it, they graciously accepted. I had 3 hours until the event. This is the clever bit my friends.
My parents loved their sugar in coffee, three each to be precise. Hence the diabetes they have today. On this fateful evening, they were not going to receive their usual granulated filth but a carefully selected sugar substitute. Not that calorie busting variety in diet coke, but the bowel busting variety called Lactulose. We had tones of the stuff in our house as my mother suffered from the sort of constipation that would need a confirmation call to the Guinness Book of Records every time she opened the ‘Bombay Doors’. I had done some ‘test runs’ on myself the previous week as to determine what clarifies as a potentially fateful overdose and I took notes on how much my mother takes. From my research, (near pant shitting moments) I determined that I did have problem. If I was to get them to forfeit the evening due to the ‘two bob bits’, I would have to use a lot of this stuff and it was seriously fucking sweet, noticeably sweet. So I had to increase the coffee dosage in the cup as to hide disguise the laxatives, this was potentially dangerous and amusing. If all went to plan, I would have two extremely hyperactive parents bouncing around the house like kids on e-numbers while trying not to wildly defecate everywhere.
Guess work aside, I went ahead a formulated the fateful brew. Ironically, when I handed over the drinks I needed a shit, so once again I made my excuses and left the room. All sorts of ponderous thought’s were crossing my mind while on the crapper, but most of all I was happy to wreck some revenge on the old man for all his ‘hilarious’ stunts he had fucked me over with. I was the padewan learner who was fast rising up through the Jedi ranks of vengeful prankery. Star Wars analogy and crap over, I make my way to the kitchen sink with a glaze of vengeful glee tattooed across my soul. I notice the cups I had used for the bowel-busting brew empty in the sink. BONZA! Sit back and wait for the fireworks to begin.
Two hours pass and close to sod all has happened apart from my mother asking me the names of my teachers and what they are like. So to pass the boredom away I made up all sorts of psychical aliments they had and mentioned a few of them were keen racists. My mother also started to put on her posh cockney accent and there is nothing in the world that makes me cringe as much as this. Just as I start to worry that my plan had failed I hear these beautiful words from my mum.
“Me gut’s feel a bit off”
After a few minutes of tummy rumbling, she cracks and leg’s it at top speed to the toilet. The howls and watery backfires from the toilet confirmed my plan has worked. She came out of their wondering if the meat she cooked was off and telling my old man that he would have to go without her. This I did not plan for as I expected both of them to be laid up (or sitting down more precisely). How did it not work on him? Are his guts made of lead? All these questions suddenly became very unimportant to me as he was heading out the door to meet the teachers and potentially ruin my newly carved reputation as the peasant boy whom done well. So off he went on his own, I expected the worst and I got a lot more than I bargained for.
A few hours pass by and several questions came to the forefront of my mind. How did he survive the shit’s? Maybe he crapped himself in the car or worse, maybe he crapped himself while meeting my teachers. The guilt started to build up and the sounds of my mum shitting loudly in the toilet downstairs only served to amplify my shame. My guilt was suddenly interrupted by sound of the old mans car pulling up in the drive. It was only polite that I stay around to hear the disaster story that would prevail. He opened the door, walked into the room, and took up his favorite chair. He retorted to my mum that I was doing very well but all my teacher’s and fellow parents were ‘posh cunts’, how beautiful. Oh good god, what had he done, I know from experience that this is not a man who minces his words lightly. Looking humiliation in the face, I somberly and slowly walk to my slumber hole with the faint sounds of a death march echoing around my shattered existence. However, just before I turn the corner my old man says these strange words to me
“Son, you maybe a smart arse at school, but you make the worst cup of coffee known to man. I took one sip of that cup of shite and pored it away.”
Mum followed with.
“Yeah, It was pretty disgusting. Don’t know why I drank it”
Connect four! He had that grin on his face; I had seen that grin before. When he donned the Freddy Krueger glove and scared the shit out of me, he had that grin. The cunt had rumbled me but I assumed he would keep quite as he could not prove a thing. Innocent until proven otherwise.
Next day at school some of the teachers were, shall we say, a bit bloody weird with me. This weirdness ranged from asking me to stay behind after class and then telling me that they we proud of me and congratulating me on such a brave decision all the way to very odd smiles from suspicious teachers I never trusted. This was becoming odd, classmates were asking questions and rumors were circulating, this had to end. At the end of the last lesson, the teacher once again grabs me just before we all tumble out and gives me the same old story about congratulating me on such a brave decision.
“About What? I have not done anything to be proud of”
The teacher continues with,
“That just the attitude you must fight, it’s must feel good to be out about it”
Me,
“Out about what?”
Teacher,
“Your Homosexuality of course, your father told us that you came out to your parents recently. He is very proud of you”
Me.
“Err thanks, but I’m not gay. It was my father having a laugh. I have to go now, bye”
HA HA, FUCKING HA
Once again, I had fallen foul to the old man and his childish ways. I told my mum and she was upset but obviously trying not to laugh. Then he arrived through the door in his usual lordly manner, he took one look at me and started laughing like a maniac. This symphony of shame accompanied the extra laughter emanating from my family. Clandestine accusations of bum love and propositions from light-footed individuals marred the proceeding school years. Did I mention it was an all boys’ school?
In all my stories, I try to find the moral but once again I have fail to find one.
Length, about 3 years of torment and abuse.
(Mon 21st Sep 2009, 13:35, More)
» Starting something you couldn't finish
It ain't over till it's done with a tie round the head and dancing like a knob.
Ironically enough, I have just finished something that I thought would be the end of me. Following on from this: www.b3ta.com/questions/nemesis/post712769
I resigned today and slapped a grievance on the table for the above mentioned bitch, all verified with witnesses and the union backing me up to the hilt. Thank you everyone who commented on the original post. You gave me the confidence to get the fuck out and the inside knowledge was paramount. You have saved me from dark days and hopefully the happy pills will not be required anymore. There has been days when I just could not move a muscle in my body to motivate myself and my GF has been suffering terribly too. I am going to take her out for a nice meal tonight and then bang the back teeth off her, haha.
I have been told that I do not need to work my 6 week notice and full pay plus hols is a given. Putting my tie around my head Rambo style and dancing and Irish jig may have been taking things to far. Today was one of the greatest days of my life.
Peace out my friends, you all have my deepest love and respect forever. Happy days here I come
Length-9 months of fucking hell
(Mon 28th Jun 2010, 15:12, More)
It ain't over till it's done with a tie round the head and dancing like a knob.
Ironically enough, I have just finished something that I thought would be the end of me. Following on from this: www.b3ta.com/questions/nemesis/post712769
I resigned today and slapped a grievance on the table for the above mentioned bitch, all verified with witnesses and the union backing me up to the hilt. Thank you everyone who commented on the original post. You gave me the confidence to get the fuck out and the inside knowledge was paramount. You have saved me from dark days and hopefully the happy pills will not be required anymore. There has been days when I just could not move a muscle in my body to motivate myself and my GF has been suffering terribly too. I am going to take her out for a nice meal tonight and then bang the back teeth off her, haha.
I have been told that I do not need to work my 6 week notice and full pay plus hols is a given. Putting my tie around my head Rambo style and dancing and Irish jig may have been taking things to far. Today was one of the greatest days of my life.
Peace out my friends, you all have my deepest love and respect forever. Happy days here I come
Length-9 months of fucking hell
(Mon 28th Jun 2010, 15:12, More)
» My Arch-nemesis
The Cuntbag Bitch
I’’m pulling myself out of QOTW retirement to write this tirade. I really don’t know where to begin so I’ll begin by saying this woman is the devil incarnated.
I started my current job back in October 09. I am a lowly Human Resources gimp who has the mentally draining job of telling people why they can’t have a pay rise and why they’re loosing their jobs. Not particularly fulfilling I’m sure you’ll agree, but being a university I naively thought I could avoid the rough and tumble of the ruthless private sector, the last time someone was this wrong they got into a car with a bearded Yorkshire man who claimed the hammer was a tool for work. So, I arrive for training on the Monday morning and this is where we meet our mentors. I can safely assure you all that this was not like the Jedi Council and if it was I would have been fired instantly for the amount of abuse I was thinking. There she stood, her black hair straightened to the point of follicle surrender and a tan that could only be best described as the defecated doodling’s of a mental patient on a blank canvas, but with far less purpose. Then the wardrobe, oh fuck me I smelt the power issues instantly. Stiletto’s that wouldn't have been out of place in a trannies wardrobe and the one-piece suit of an uptight lesbian who had been molested by Bernard Manning while telling suspect racist jokes. Now, I’m not one to judge too soon so I though I would give her the benefit of the doubt. She did seem nice enough if somewhat a bit needy for attention, but being eager to please I just listened and got my head down (oh er misses).
A few weeks roll by and I’m starting to notice a change in myself, I didn’t know what it was so I ignored it (classic male behavior). I had been in the role for 3 months and I was beginning to have feelings of sickness at the thought of going anywhere near the place. In all my previous jobs I have been made to feel like a valued member of the team but in this role I was feeling like the dog muck in the corner that no one wants to deal with. I was afraid to do any work as the bitch jumps over my mistakes with patronising red pen and sends me emails to the effect that I'm a pile of rubbish. She always re-enforces the negative and if I do something well I'm made to feel like a toddler who has just learned not to defecate himself, patronising is too soft a word for it. I’m not usually the sort of man that takes this sort of crap and I did try having a word with her line manager, what a fucking mistake that was. According to them she was an angel who is very professional and efficient, since when did that make anyone good at training? Basically, I was palmed off and told to know my place. It was clear to me that the management team had her lined up for a management job in the near future and did not want their plan jeopardized.
More weeks role by and the atmosphere between her and me is becoming very frosty but information is thrown my way that makes me feel reassured that I’m not imagining the animosity. According to a well-placed source, she was annoyed that her female temptations did not work on me and she was shipped out of another department a few months before I started because “everyone fucking hated her”. This was followed by casual accusations of racism, the accused being the most pc/nervous person I have ever met, and management fudged that one too and sent the accused off to counseling. Things were starting to add up, she was hungry for power and didn’t want anything or anyone to get in her way. To be honest I didn’t care about her aspirations, I just wanted to get my work done and forget about the place when I left at the end of the day. I tried to leave these feelings at work and not bother my partner with them but these constant negative feelings just wouldn’t go away. My confidence was shot to pieces and I felt like a shell of my former self. But the crazy part of it all is when I was ‘up’; the feelings were just as uncontrollable and I tried to stretch this out as long as I could. The stark contrast in emotions made it all the more difficult to accept the demons dragging me back into the negative pit. Everything was becoming a struggle to comprehend in a positive manner and she made it all the more difficult by using my probation meetings as a tool to make me look like an utter prick in front of management. The utter cunt had photocopied my mistakes and drew up correct to incorrect ratio statistics. She brought these out in a probation meeting and explained to all and sundry that I was a fuck up. I just wanted to cry, the old me would have boxed my way out of that corner but I was beaten. I accepted my fuck up status and carried on.
Back in late January of this year I got struck down with a kidney infection and flu. This truly fucked me up for nearly a month and I had to take a fortnight off work for this. I’m pretty sure my mental run down state contributed to my physical state but it was a blessing in disguise. Being ill was rubbish but that was the best two weeks in months. The feeling of an excruciating piss was a walk in the park compared to seeing that cunts face again.
The return to work was awful. I was greeted with an email from that utter cuntbag slagging off my work and basically calling me rubbish. I saved this email and sent it via the office manager. Meetings were held and she got a bollocking. A minor victory was hailed but this seemed to only reinforce her dislike for me and the relationship has been awful ever since. I have tried talking to her about how i feel but she seems oblivious to all my feelings. She has recommended that I do not pass probation and therefore loose my job. She doesn’t care that I will get thrown on the dole cue and basically fuck up my life. My probation has been extended due to the illness I had but I have been told that I have 6 weeks to produce 100% error free work. I would like to point out that the kind of errors that I am making is due to holes in my knowledge, not application. Her training methods are appalling and I have pointed this out but again my words have fallen on deaf ears, even though I have done a lot of training in previous jobs. I feel she does not want to pass me information and get me through this sodding probation. She wants me to fail and I feel the management team is just waiting for me to leave or can my arse. I have come to the end of my tether with this cunt and I’m looking for a new job. Fingers crossed. I have contacted my union rep as I have been told that I have been set unreachable targets to save my job (I have found fuck up’s in her work that I have sneakily photocopied and hidden for a rainy day). Not sure how I feel about this as she is a slippery little cunt who may know how to wriggle out of it. But saying that, she didn’t know where Mexico is and a failed glamor model. Wish me luck peeps.
(Sun 2nd May 2010, 19:03, More)
The Cuntbag Bitch
I’’m pulling myself out of QOTW retirement to write this tirade. I really don’t know where to begin so I’ll begin by saying this woman is the devil incarnated.
I started my current job back in October 09. I am a lowly Human Resources gimp who has the mentally draining job of telling people why they can’t have a pay rise and why they’re loosing their jobs. Not particularly fulfilling I’m sure you’ll agree, but being a university I naively thought I could avoid the rough and tumble of the ruthless private sector, the last time someone was this wrong they got into a car with a bearded Yorkshire man who claimed the hammer was a tool for work. So, I arrive for training on the Monday morning and this is where we meet our mentors. I can safely assure you all that this was not like the Jedi Council and if it was I would have been fired instantly for the amount of abuse I was thinking. There she stood, her black hair straightened to the point of follicle surrender and a tan that could only be best described as the defecated doodling’s of a mental patient on a blank canvas, but with far less purpose. Then the wardrobe, oh fuck me I smelt the power issues instantly. Stiletto’s that wouldn't have been out of place in a trannies wardrobe and the one-piece suit of an uptight lesbian who had been molested by Bernard Manning while telling suspect racist jokes. Now, I’m not one to judge too soon so I though I would give her the benefit of the doubt. She did seem nice enough if somewhat a bit needy for attention, but being eager to please I just listened and got my head down (oh er misses).
A few weeks roll by and I’m starting to notice a change in myself, I didn’t know what it was so I ignored it (classic male behavior). I had been in the role for 3 months and I was beginning to have feelings of sickness at the thought of going anywhere near the place. In all my previous jobs I have been made to feel like a valued member of the team but in this role I was feeling like the dog muck in the corner that no one wants to deal with. I was afraid to do any work as the bitch jumps over my mistakes with patronising red pen and sends me emails to the effect that I'm a pile of rubbish. She always re-enforces the negative and if I do something well I'm made to feel like a toddler who has just learned not to defecate himself, patronising is too soft a word for it. I’m not usually the sort of man that takes this sort of crap and I did try having a word with her line manager, what a fucking mistake that was. According to them she was an angel who is very professional and efficient, since when did that make anyone good at training? Basically, I was palmed off and told to know my place. It was clear to me that the management team had her lined up for a management job in the near future and did not want their plan jeopardized.
More weeks role by and the atmosphere between her and me is becoming very frosty but information is thrown my way that makes me feel reassured that I’m not imagining the animosity. According to a well-placed source, she was annoyed that her female temptations did not work on me and she was shipped out of another department a few months before I started because “everyone fucking hated her”. This was followed by casual accusations of racism, the accused being the most pc/nervous person I have ever met, and management fudged that one too and sent the accused off to counseling. Things were starting to add up, she was hungry for power and didn’t want anything or anyone to get in her way. To be honest I didn’t care about her aspirations, I just wanted to get my work done and forget about the place when I left at the end of the day. I tried to leave these feelings at work and not bother my partner with them but these constant negative feelings just wouldn’t go away. My confidence was shot to pieces and I felt like a shell of my former self. But the crazy part of it all is when I was ‘up’; the feelings were just as uncontrollable and I tried to stretch this out as long as I could. The stark contrast in emotions made it all the more difficult to accept the demons dragging me back into the negative pit. Everything was becoming a struggle to comprehend in a positive manner and she made it all the more difficult by using my probation meetings as a tool to make me look like an utter prick in front of management. The utter cunt had photocopied my mistakes and drew up correct to incorrect ratio statistics. She brought these out in a probation meeting and explained to all and sundry that I was a fuck up. I just wanted to cry, the old me would have boxed my way out of that corner but I was beaten. I accepted my fuck up status and carried on.
Back in late January of this year I got struck down with a kidney infection and flu. This truly fucked me up for nearly a month and I had to take a fortnight off work for this. I’m pretty sure my mental run down state contributed to my physical state but it was a blessing in disguise. Being ill was rubbish but that was the best two weeks in months. The feeling of an excruciating piss was a walk in the park compared to seeing that cunts face again.
The return to work was awful. I was greeted with an email from that utter cuntbag slagging off my work and basically calling me rubbish. I saved this email and sent it via the office manager. Meetings were held and she got a bollocking. A minor victory was hailed but this seemed to only reinforce her dislike for me and the relationship has been awful ever since. I have tried talking to her about how i feel but she seems oblivious to all my feelings. She has recommended that I do not pass probation and therefore loose my job. She doesn’t care that I will get thrown on the dole cue and basically fuck up my life. My probation has been extended due to the illness I had but I have been told that I have 6 weeks to produce 100% error free work. I would like to point out that the kind of errors that I am making is due to holes in my knowledge, not application. Her training methods are appalling and I have pointed this out but again my words have fallen on deaf ears, even though I have done a lot of training in previous jobs. I feel she does not want to pass me information and get me through this sodding probation. She wants me to fail and I feel the management team is just waiting for me to leave or can my arse. I have come to the end of my tether with this cunt and I’m looking for a new job. Fingers crossed. I have contacted my union rep as I have been told that I have been set unreachable targets to save my job (I have found fuck up’s in her work that I have sneakily photocopied and hidden for a rainy day). Not sure how I feel about this as she is a slippery little cunt who may know how to wriggle out of it. But saying that, she didn’t know where Mexico is and a failed glamor model. Wish me luck peeps.
(Sun 2nd May 2010, 19:03, More)