b3ta.com user CaptnJack
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» Twattery

Two for one twattishness...
A couple of years back, my wife and I had popped to the local pub for lunch and refreshment (for her, I was driving and so being a good man/evil corporate consumer opted for famous brand of sugary Cola)

After a rather nice eating session, the pub was filling up so we decided to call it a day and pay, before it got too busy.
Off we go to the till, table-identifying spoon in hand and arrived behind an elderly lady ordering for her table.
Alas, it was either a very large food order or a mortgage application, as we were there for a while. But "not a problem" thinks I, for am well fed, it is a nice day and my mood is good, so I happily wait.

Eventually the order is complete, a spoon deployed and happy elderly lady is off back to join her family. "Who's next please?" asks the man at the till, looking in my direction.

"Ah.." I begin, readty to proceed. But before I can even lift my foot to take a step forward into my rightful place at the till, a shrill voice calls out "Yes! I want..."
I look to my right, and from nowhere a harradrian has arrived at the bar, stealthier than a velvet-clad ninja in a black room, and hurridely shuffles her way along to the till, in a blatant act of queue jumping.
The man at the till smiles the warm smile of servers everywhere and says "Yes love, what can I get you?", and said harradrian proceeds to order a round of drinks.

I look up at the sign over the till that says "Food Orders". Yes, I am definitely in the right place. I look at my wife. Yep, she's in the right place too. I look at my hand. I can see it, so I'm probably not invisible. My wife looks at it too, then back at me with a "what are you lookin at your hand for, you daft twat?" expression. Definitely not invisible.

So dear reader, what do I do? I queue. I do not rant, I do not rave, I do not even protest, for I am a gentleman and an Englishman, with generations of queueing and politeness coursing through my veins. I stand my ground and queue harder than I can remember, an indignant beacaon of How Things Should Be Done, shining against the darkness of the rude and the impolite.

As the harradrian conducts her business and I am busy queueing, another middle-aged lady appears on my left. "Are you in the queue?" she enquires, looking at me and failing to observe my wallet, spoon, coat or infact the general "I am in the queue to pay" aurora that is emenating from me.

"Nay good woman, my wife and I are waiting for the next train to London" I am tempted to say, but looking at her again I realise that 747s fly at a lower altitude than how far above her this snippet would be.

"Yes, we are" I reply with a smile, expecting her to form up behind us.

"Oh, okay" she replies warmly, but proceeds to move exactly nowhere.

Harradrian's business concludes and she starts to move off.
"Next, please?" enquires the barman, waiting for his next customer

"I am!" states the woman to my left, making her way forward towards the till.
This was too much, even for my vast reserve of Gentleman-ness and Patience. I can deal with one person taking their time. I can deal with another person moving down the bar to take the place that was rightfully mine. But the line is drawn at the cheek of someone pushing in who had the brazenness to stand next to me and ask if I was queueing.

Inside, I snap. But again I do not shout, I do not threaten. I simply step forward and say in a pleasant, non-threatening voice "I'm sorry but she's not. We were here first and I would like to pay, please"

The woman looks at me like I've started to publicly masturbate on her shoes. The barman looks at me like I'd admitted to being an acquaintance of Gary Glitter.

"There's no need to take that tone!" says the barman as he takes my spoon and rings up my bill in silence. He grunts as the amount is displayed and looks away in disdain as I enter my PIN. Something inside snaps again, and this time the ancient Celtic blood in me boils forth. "PUT THE SPOON THROUGH FUCKING HIS EYE!" The voice in my head rages. "STICK HIS CARDREADER SO FAR UP HIS ARSE THE WIRE LOOKS LIKE A TAIL! WE'LL SHOW HIM THAT TONE!"

But I ignore the voice. I withdraw my card from the machine promptly and put it back in my wallet. My eye lingers on the five pound note nestling in the rear section (steady there!) I look at the barman's suddenly expectant face, and then down at the small bowl of coins on the bar with a note on it reading "Tips for Staff. Thankyou".

I then have my revenge. The finest, sweetest revenge any Englishman could have in such a situation. "You'll be lucky" I mutter, putting my wallet away and heading for the door, leaving shocked woman and barman behind me.
(Fri 13th Apr 2012, 15:27, More)

» Personal Ads

Worked for me - not for a mate!
Two stories of intertet dating; A tale of joy from me and a tale of woe from my friend that I shall call Jimmy (for that ISN'T his name).

His Story:
It's the balmy summer of 2006, and we're both on HotOrNot, him having considerably more success then me (dunno how, but anyway...). Jimmy starts chatting to this lass from "Down South" (we're swamp-inhabiting Northerners) and he's made up.
She's 19, blonde, cute, slim (rememeber that bit) ex was a bastard and porportedly screws like a rabbit. I see the photos - a headshot (remember that bit too) shows eyes that I'll admit even I was lost in, another a cleavage shot...you get the idea. I call him a jammy git. He just grins.
So, the weeks roll by and all seems to be well. He has regular meetings London-way with his job, so he gets to go down, roger her senseless a bit, have his meeting, rogger her again and head home. He's loving it, and being INSUFFERABLE - "oh, xxx and I did this and that last night, and she came when I..." Cnut.
I loved he guy like a brother (still do), but he was one more tale away from a good punch (me = bitter and twisted batchelor)


Fast forward two months, and she's off back to uni soon. My other friends and I haven't met this fine young lady yet, so as one last sesh for the summer, and as three of my friends are of the type that prefer men to ladies, we all, quite literally, go to the Mardi Gras.
We meet her and all is very pleasant. However, it's immeidately obvious that Jimmy's been overexaggerating a little with his discriptions of her. Yes, she is blonde, but she looks quite a lil different to her photo (remember the head-shot), her cups do not quite runneth over as he said, and she has a tiny bit of a tum. (Ok, I'll admit I was probably being a jealous bastard and was trying to spoil the dream - I'd been single for over a year. Sue me)
So, we all head off into the pinkness and get thoroughtly drunk. It's here that the cracks begin to show.
At no point at all does she touch him. I mean at all; no hand holding, no arm around the waist, no sneaky grope when no-one's looking. HE touches her, but she always shrugs him off. We all notice that there is NOTHING in her body language that suggests she's his girlfriend. We all think this is mighty queer (pun!) but go with it, because she might just be one of those who doesn't like public affection.

Another few weeks, and things get worse for Jimmy. By this time, he's in love. Real "I want to be with her forever" love. She isn't. Infact, she quickly turns into a big bag of crazy - refuses point blank to even call him her boyfriend ("well, we're not really a couple, are we?" says her), decides when she's off back to uni that she "wants some space to see her friends" (which could have been code for "go fuck my ex", we never found out). Oh, and she was also bulemic in the past and had HORRIBLE body and self-image issues. Which I am fully symapthetic to - but when your friend gets calls at 2am involving vomiting and threats of other rash actions, you tend to lose a bit of it.
In the end, he did the hardest thing I've seen him do and finished it. He was truly gutted, but also head-strong enought to realise he didn't have to put up with the shit from her.
No funny end to this bit, but he's now VERY happy he got away from the crazy bitch.

My Story:
The breakup with my ex was completely out of the blue (looking back the signs were there, but at the time I didn't notice a thing). We got back from a night out, got into bed, and then came The Talk ("It's not you...I need space...tired from work all the time" etc)
Turned out for the best, because she was a lazy attention-whore.

Soo... after many months (happily) failing miserably at pulling the trouts/chavs that inhabit our area,
Jimmy and I once again turn to the Internets. After some scouring and not much luck, I get added to a girl's favourites. And she's a stunner - petite, slim, gorgeous (and actually has a mind to match - is a teacher). We message, we flirt and get on like a house on fire next to a refinery. Tale is same as mine - no-good ex, not interested in pulling some random from a club etc. I WAS a bit worried when no one photo looked like another, but it turns out that she's just one of those people whose photos look bugger all like them.
We had one date, and then another, and another....
We've been together 4 months now, and couldn't be happier!
(Jimmy, unforunately, hasn't been as successful)

B3ta cherry popped with a lengthy post - much better :)
Apologise for the length? Of course not - she's 4'11 and loves every bit!
(Fri 14th Sep 2007, 11:20, More)

» Accidental innuendo

Life immitating B3ta
As I sit reading this very QOTW, our Office Blonde heads over to the communal biscuit tin sat on my desk, picks up a packet and asks everyone "who wants a jammy ring?"

Already giggling at the answers here, I practically sneezed my tea out, before answering "no, just a biscuit thanks".
It was interesting shade of red she went when it finally clicked and the remainder of the office gave similar replies while laughing...

Bonus: when I was at uni I went through a bit of a car modding phase (dunno why - I had a Citroen AX FFS!) As a semi-joke present, my mates got together and bought me a replacement carbonfiber and chrome gearknob. I thought it was the dog's wossnames and promptly fitted it.

A few days later I was giving a lift to some friends and the girl I was sweet on at the time (and now my ex) "B". She was almost a stereotypical blonde - short, cute, huge (and i mean epic) of chest -I was smitten. But she was the very deninition of ditzy; look it up in the dictionary and there would be a picture of her.

Anywho, we arrived at their place for a few beers and we were talking about said addon, when another friend walks in and "B" says "I saw CaptnJack's nob today - its long with a shiny end!" Now that on it's own might be bad enough, but the friend replies with "I'm not suprised, he's been wanting to put it in you for long enough." Cue one mortified "B" and me not knowing whether to laugh or try to deny it.

Length joke? TODAY? Too easy...
(Thu 12th Jun 2008, 16:02, More)

» I don't understand the attraction

You go to school, college, uni, get good grades and land a decent/well paid/likable job (delete according to circumstance). After working your arse off for over ten yeas, you finally get your first proper, grown-up monthly wage. The joy of this moment is then ruined forever when you see what's been taken out of it by Mister Brown/Darling. Now, don't get me wrong, I know there are are many good things our taxes go to (I find it rather reassuring to know that if I was in a car accident someone would scrape me up, get me back to full health and send me on my way without saying "here's a bill for £120,000")
However, the main thing I strongly object to paying for is... Benefits.

Now, I'm not talking about the genuinely disabled and their carers, who deserve ever last bit of help they get, and more on top. I'm talking about the mouth-breathing dossers who intentionally "finish" their education at 16, pop out a couple of kids by 18, then spend the rest of their useless lives sat on their arses watching Jeremy Kyle and insisting that the state owes them a living because they can't (read: "won't") find a job.
(Ok, maybe there's a little more truth in that at the moment, but before the banks shit themselves there was much more opportunity out there)
Those who say "there's no hope for these people" are talking bollocks too. There are enough education and free training schemes out there to get these people out of their situation and let them make something of their lives. But why should they when our taxes will keep them in all the free cigs, booze and oversized plasma TVs they want?

Workshy unwanted scum, the lot if them!
(Fri 16th Oct 2009, 10:14, More)

» Desperate Times

Desperate times?
I'm currently so bored at work that I'm posting this from my phone.
Does that count?
(Thu 15th Nov 2007, 16:50, More)
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