b3ta.com user garetha
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» Utterly Drunk

Train journeys are only bearable when cnuted...
... but getting the last train from Londinium to Exeter of an evening can turn a lovely drunken sleep-filled commute into a half dazed nightmare should you wake up in Plymouth or Penzance (I've done both once). Hence, as the train I was sitting on terminated in Exeter I knocked back a few tins of gin, showed my ticket to the man and happily passed out into my Chuck Palahnuik safe in the knowledge I'd not overshoot into another country. When I awoke the train had stopped in Exeter, only it had stopped quite a few hours before. Everyone had alighted, the inspector had done a check through the carriages, the driver had pulled into the sidings, they'd switched off all the lights, locked up and gone home.
Half dazed nightmare doesn't cover it. Half-cut shit-the-bed scream-fest would be more appropriate.
The swishy doors in between the carriages don't switch off so, should you be stumbling back and forth in a panic, it's a bit like being in a shit episode of Star Trek. Upon calling 999 I didn't really know which service to ask for ('Ummm, I'm locked on a train'). The police told me they'd contact the controller to try and help me. I cleared the fact that I was going to have some fags and wouldn't get fined. 15 minutes later the controller was on the phone telling me to make my way towards the front of the train - which is very apparent in the pitch fucking dark. Once I was located and helped off (Christ they're high when you're not at a platform) I say rather sheepishly to my saviour
'I bet this happens all the time'.
He looks at me wiheringly and says 'No'.

So I recommend drinking cooking lager and not spirits for long trips, should you not wish to experience half an hour of completely random terror.
(Sat 16th Feb 2013, 10:49, More)

» Too much information

Being of the homosexual flavour, lord knows how I ended up working on a building site, but nevertheless for a few months I did. As site-secretary.

I moved to a new site. A rather fit scouse builder came up to me in his dirty high-viz jacket and said 'Alright? I used to fuck guys like you in prison'.

I think I replied with an 'Oh'.
(Mon 10th Sep 2007, 14:19, More)

» Racist grandparents

Cosmopolitan Devon
Not so much a grandparent as my lovely Mum. We've driven to Dawlish for the afternoon but, quelle surprise, it was cunting it down so it was more of a car based event than anything else.

However, being at the seaside we had to have an ice cream so we dutifully parked up outside one of the parlours where she and my other half went in to buy a cone each. In the window was a stuffed mascot from Robinsons Marmalade. I admired the shopkeepers audacity/stupidity but thought nothing else of it.

Upon their return my Mum opens the door to the car and screeches (in your broadest Devon accent) "Ohmygod look! They got a Golliwog in the window. Mind you can't call 'em that now. You gotta call 'em Wogs".

(Fri 28th Oct 2011, 11:54, More)

» Dates Gone Wrong

Red, red wine
Many moons ago I had a silly crush on a boy which, after a disastrous party where we kissed but at which I was whizzing my tits off and wearing a tight, red dress (I'm also male and did drag very, very rarely) he somehow wanted a date! With me!
I had finished work in my loca pub kitchen at 2. Date at 4. Dutch courage required I dodged lager (hadn't got the hang of it), gin (didn't want to be fucked on arrival) and so settled easily on red wine. A large red wine. I'm not used to drinking red wine but it's classy, no...? I had another before going to the large beer garden where we were to meet. I was early so ordered myself a large red wine. He was a smidge late and bought me a large red wine as mine was nearly gone. It's a sunny day.
It's a really sunny day.
He gets back with the drinks and he's funny, I'm funny, we've a connection. Half an hour flies by. I'm hot in all senses. We're now talking about our our childhoods etc. and he's finished his pint so I go and get him one and buy myself a largeredwine. I'm REALLY unused to drinking red wine and suddenly I've a tremendous amount of saliva about my mouth. Ho-hum.
I get back with the drinks and am holding it together when, at the very moment he mentions that he is an atheist, despite being raise a Roman Catholic, as the final 'c' in catholic is sounded I projectile vomit 2 bottles of Claret across the table. It missed him, but over a litre of hot burgundy fluid is rather difficult to style out. I've gone from being cute, witty, charming Garetha into some quasi-demonic Linda Blair cum Carrie at the mere mention of organised religion.
Length? Long enough for me to mutter 'yes, I'm fine to get home' through my spattered, purple face before he walked out of my life forever.
(Sat 6th Sep 2014, 9:17, More)

» Voyeurism

Early summer waiting for my boyf after work in Leicester Square, smoking a fag. Two transients are lying on the grass in said square, fucking.
Full on, military tramp sex on display for anyone who fancied a peek. A scabby fanny and unwashed cock.
It's not even like you could say get a room....
(Wed 17th Oct 2007, 15:24, More)
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