b3ta.com user my_cat_has_no_shoes
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Profile for my_cat_has_no_shoes:
Profile Info:

I cannot think of anything clever/funny/sexy/sad/curious/charming/interesting/thrilling/arresting/relevant/irreverent/careless/insouciant/pertinent to say

Lets just go with that I'm glad I finally unlurked, got myself a stupid name, and contributed nothing to QOTW and the talk board?

Want a pic? TOUGH

Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» Bastard Colleagues

The worse one ever
I used to have a job working in the City of London. I was happy there, just sort of plodding along every day - big drinky lunches and even bigger drinky after workies. My work was always finished though, and I managed to bring the profile of our department to something better than "Those fucking cunts in accounts"

And then, then the company brought in a new manager. She was an utter, utter, utter troll. Short, fat, frizzy hair haridan. We started installing a new accounts package about 2 months after she started. I started doing some serious overtime (not getting paid for it) getting into work at about 7.30 in the morning, and not getting home until gone nine most nights. A couple of times I was there till 11.00. I would like to point out that I had 2 small children at the time, and my husband had run off with a coke whore about 3 months before she started. Anyhoo - she called me into the meeting room one morning and told me that I wasn't "committed" enough to my role, and as I was having "personal problems" it had been decided by upper management that I should either take a demotion (and drop £5k)or be willing to put in more hours.

I think they were planning on setting up a little camp bed under my desk - bless 'em.

Rather predictably I told her to stroke it and poke it and handed my resignation in on the spot. She shat herself a bit then as there was no one else in the department who was as brilliant as I (this bit may be a little fib)

Well - I worked out my notice and about a week before I was due to leave I had an interview with HR. Man, I stuck the knife in - it was fantastic, every petty little nasty shitty thing she had ever said or done was brought out into the light and pored over. Her line manager got involved and when I told him what had been going on he actually went a bit pale. Constructive Dismissal appeared to be a phrase that worried everyone in that meeting. I said it a number of times.

Anyway, I left and 1 month later she was sacked; and I went back as a consultant. SCORE!

Don't fuck with the cat.
(Thu 24th Jan 2008, 9:48, More)

» Hotel Splendido

I give you...
Pontins, Camber Sands. A veritable oasis of sand. And shite.

Before you, dear reader, clap your hands to your mouth in horror, raise a cynical eyebrow and think "Well, what did you expect?" I would like to elaborate.

I never went to a holiday camp on holiday as a child. We went to Jersey and roamed around the zoo and stuff. So Butlins and Haven remained an unknown entity to me. I was an innocent.

A while ago I became slightly obsessed with exercise. I spent between 8 - 12 hours a week at the gym, mainly doing classes, and I met some strange and interesting people. I had a willing accomplice, a good friend of mine was eager to drop some weight, so she joined me in my obsession. It wasn’t long before I found a whole sub-culture. Did you know that you can go on weekends just packed with exercise? I didn’t, but once I knew I was intrigued. The warning words “Pontins”, “Camber Sands”, “£80 p/p for 2 nights” escaped my poor endorphin soaked brain. All I read was “4 exercise classes every hour”, “Hey Mickey! Dance class - Dance like a cheerleader!” and “ Step - Level 3”. I was agog. I signed us up.

I drove to Camber Sands. It was lovely - pretty little houses lined the country roads. Pubs welcomed us in with blackboards promising Sunday roasts. My boot groaned with the bags of supplies (my friend had brought), and our cases full of workout gear and deodorant.

We arrived. All I can remember of the reception area was an enormous pink cement octopus. We were given a map and sent on our way.

I want to tell you that the place resembled a concentration camp, but I’m trying to avoid clichés and so will restrain myself. It made the Hi-de-Hi set look modernistic and avant garde. It was horrible. I looked at my friend, jaw agape. She smiled and said “It’s quite nice, eh?” It was at that point I knew our friendship lived on borrowed time.

Our apartment smelt bad. It smelt like a whore’s tampon, wrapped in hair which had been burnt on a barbeque. (I apologise for this mental image) The perfume I spritzed about made it worse, so we kept the door open. In March. On the South coast. The mad winds blew, but the smell remained. The sofa resembled something which a poor old man may have died in while watching Family Fortunes. He may have shit himself - that’s how it smelled anyway. Like dead man’s shit. The bathroom would have made a maggot retch. It was bad.

The food my mate had brought consisted of bread, cheese, butter, pasta and alcohol. Not a great combo for a “Fitness weekend”. Her explanation? “Carb Loading”. I got drunk. We went out to an exercise class - I, rather predictably, hurt myself. That night I struggled to release her from a huge rugby player who appeared to be discovering what she’d had for tea by tongue. I dragged her home and fell into a miserable stupor. Until our neighbours decided to inform the entire block that her boyfriend was a “Naughty Boy - you like to fuck me in the arse don’t you?” and “Harder, Harder, Oohhhh” until 5 in the morning.

The second day consisted of me gamely limping through classes, and when we arrived back at the “apartment” it was a relief. Until the electricity blew out. I walked a half mile to the octopus reception. It was empty and desolate. Like me. I walked the half mile back to the security office and reported the problem. 2 Hours later, I answered the door, blue of lip and hard of heart. “Silly girls!” the caretaker laughed, “You can’t have the shower on and the oven at the same time”. Oh silly me.

When we finally left I felt joy. Until I felt itching. Terrible terrible itching, followed by strange red lines running up my arms. I went to the Dr. and discovered I’d caught scabies.

Length? 2 nights. The scars may haunt me for ever.
(Mon 21st Jan 2008, 21:15, More)

» Stalked

Facebook stalking
A few years ago I started dating this really nice man. If you've read any of my previous QOTW answers you'll know that my success with anything is fairly limited, but as far as relationships with the opposite sex go..well, lets just say I tend to pick the ones who are most likely to make my life uncomfortable, if not down right miserable.

SO, dating this guy, he's a few years older than me, he's kind and thoughtful, old fashioned - in as much as he wants to pay for dinner when he takes me out, he seems to think I'm fab, and I quite like him too. Everything is going swimmingly.

Cut to 6 months on. I am utterly, utterly, utterly bored out of my brains. This man can talk shit about nothing for HOURS. I have started drinking very heavily in order to get through our dates - without a glass of wine in my hand I am likely to sock him right in his never-ending-stories-about-nothing-spewing mouth. He has also starting showing a little streak of jealousy. Nothing major you understand, nothing to worry about, just a little pinched look around his mouth when I mention a male instructor at the gym, or a friends husband.

3 months on. I am almost permanently pissed. I have got the sign of stigmata on my palms from digging my nails into them whenever I'm with him. I'VE GOT TO FINISH THIS! But, my brain keeps telling me "he's nice, he's good for you, stick it out, it might be ok" and another half pint of vodka seems to do the trick. Of course, with all the drunkenness I'm not really noticing that his jealous streak has turned into more of a jealous chasm. I keep stumbling into this chasm; my crimes seem varied and intangible. Not replying to texts quickly enough, not putting enough kisses on texts, buying a new pair of jeans, being hungover, not wanting sex for the 7th time in one night etc, etc. Occasionally, I will get up on a Saturday morning to find an avalanche of texts from him demanding to know where I am (and as I'm tucked up in bed and fast asleep I have failed to respond in the correct time frame) and then escalating into strange threats that he "knows people" and I’d better "watch over your shoulder". Weird. He apologises profusely - swears it'll never happen again, but the trust is broken. We limp along for another couple of weeks until I log in to my facebook account to find all sorts of strange things on there. In my inbox there are emails read which I know I HAVEN'T read. My funwall seems odd as well - it all just feels a bit like someone has been rooting through it. I log into my hotmail account - again, emails that appear read have not been read by me. I ponder this strange set of affairs for quite a while, and then confront the boyfriend. He denies everything, but then asks me if I'm planning on "fucking the 25 year lad on your facebook profile, I notice you've been emailing him, and he gets 3 kisses at the end of the message, what do I fucking get?"


25 year old boy is my 2nd cousin. I do not play the banjo.

Long story short (It may be a bit late for that) he made my life very uncomfortable for quite a while. If I went out with my friends he always seemed to magically turn up 10 minutes later. He'd then stand at the bar, drink in hand, mouth working overtime, staring at me. *shudder*. The text messages went on for about 3 months, they veered from "sorry, I'm so sorry princess" to "you are a fucking whore, I knew it the first time I saw your filthy mouth" (!! quite sexy from the right person haha)

The last time I saw him I threatened him with the police. I don't think that was what stopped him though - the same night I saw him talking to a girl at the bar. She also appeared to have a whores mouth and a hint of vulnerability too. Poor cow.

Apologies for length - How did he know where I'd be?
(Thu 31st Jan 2008, 15:44, More)

» Pathological Liars

Not so much Pathological as stupid
My ex husband. Well, the truth be told (a phrase he couldn't quite get his head around) he lived in a parallel dimension to our own. A dimension where the wildly unrealistic, truly terrifying and frankly absurd scenarios happened all the time.

I liked to call it "The I-Lie Zone"

He lied about EVERYTHING. My personal top 3 favourites on the bullshit monitor are:

In at number 3 - As he fell through the front door at 3.00 in the morning, covered in vomit and with what can only be described as a cokebleed running from his not inconsiderable nostrils his opening statement was " Sorry, I had to finish a wall off and it took longer than I thought" (He was a plasterer - in more ways than one)

Number 2 - After a particularly heavy night, I overheard him and his best mate talking about the women they'd pulled that evening. When I confronted him about what I heard (Actually I opened the bathroom window and screamed "I CAN HEAR YOOU" out of it) he told me that he'd observed the bathroom light going on and "said it to wind you up babe, I knew you were listening" I was 6 months preganant at the time.

Number 1 - Ooh this is a doozy. He had an endearing habit of being late for everything, family parties, weddings, funerals, sex, you name it he'd show up late and drunk/coked out of his tits. He was late for my grandshires' funeral. His excuse/lie? "I was in a terrible car accident (car looked fine) I nearly died (He looked fine) I saw a woman burned to a crisp, she was running up and down the motorway, on fire, until she was hit by a car..It's been a terrible morning.." He's crying by now, so utterly convinced by his own lie. He forgot that the guy he was out drinking with that morning was my dad's mate. He told dad the truth 3 weeks later. The truth? Ex drank 3 whiskeys, went to toilet and came out quite "animated", then went upstairs with the landlady for an hour - hence missing the beginning of his wife's grandparent's funeral.

Ah well, it was all a long time ago. It turned out that in the end I was the liar - I promised to stay with him until death did us part.

Apologies for length - but fuck me the man lied like a rug.
(Wed 5th Dec 2007, 19:05, More)

» Evil Pranks

The parent trap
I'm not very good at playing pranks. I give the game away before the denouement by laughing myself silly or nodding vigorously in a feeble attempt not to give the game away. So this story is about a really nasty evil prank played on me, which haunts me to this very day.

I am of the species "Onlyius childus" and as such was adored and spoiled by my loving parents. I wasn't wrapped just in cotton wool but a nice layer of bubble wrap over the top and big squishy quilt, just in case. My mum only worked part time so that she could collect me from school everyday and make me banana sandwiches and cake. It was fab, but it also meant that I was cushioned from any sibling pranks and did not acquire a hard veneer of coolness in the face of trickery.

One awesome Tuesday when I was 10, my mum informed me that on Thursday evening she was going to have to be late home from work, no big deal, she'd be in by around four-ish, but...and here comes the big awe-inspiring moment...I was going to have to LET MYSELF IN, with a KEY, to the HOUSE, which would be EMPTY. If my life had ended at that one moment I would have skipped through St.Peter's gate with a shit-eating grin on my face. I was overjoyed. At last - I could almost feel my parents' grip loosening on my freedom.

Wednesday felt like time had not only stopped, but was actively running backwards. In the evening my mum handed over the sacred key (on a really cool keyring that had a hula-girl on it, when you pointed it one way her hips went left and the words at the top said "I wiggle and I giggle" when you tilted it the other, her hips went right and the words changed to "'Cos I like it" Weird eh? What a strange keyring to give a 10 year old over protected GIRL) and I experienced an almost spiritual moment of joy, followed by terror that I would lose it and be locked out.

Thursday finally arrived, and as I walked home from school I felt very grown up. I trod on cracks (Childish to worry about mothers' backs) and carried myself in a whole new adult fashion (I probably looked like a little hooker, but hey - this was a different time and there weren't peodos waiting to pounce on every corner.) When I got to the front door - and I'm feeling really self-conscious as I write this - I rang the doorbell, I was scared to just use the key and wanted to make sure I was alone. I knocked on the door and also *blush* shouted through the letter box "Hellooooo mum? are you there?". No reply, and by now I was starting to experience my first incidence of doorstep incontinence. I slipped the key into the lock, opened the door and ran up the stairs for a wee. I left the door open (The freedom) and sang a little song "I'm having a wee-eee in the house, and there's no one he-ere" I bounded down the stairs, excited as a little puppy and as I ran into the living room, a creature leapt out from behind the door and shrieked "BOOOOOO!!!"

Well, all I can say is Thank Christ I'd been to the toilet. My heart leapt into my throat and the adrenaline started pumping. Fight or flight wasn't in it I fucking FROZE and I let out the most enormous scream of my life. I actually saw a tunnel with my nan at the end beckoning me towards her. Fuck! I was so scared.

Who was this tormentor? Who would have done such a thing, It must be a murderer - or maybe that scary man from those videos they showed at school - the one with some puppies and sweeties, and a sinister undertone I didn't quite understand. I turned and gazed upon the monster who had so ruined this magical afternoon, and who, ultimately was likely to kill me and eat me.

It was my mum.

Who knows what possessed her to do such I thing? I've asked her, she just shrugs, looks a bit embarrassed and laughs. hmmmpfh.

I can imagine her, hearing the ring of the doorbell, the knock on the door, the "yoohooo" through the letterbox and secreting herself away, a little giggling girl herself once more.

In the end, I wept for about an hour - I felt fury, embarrassment, bewilderment and betrayal in equal measure. But, in the end, I think I got my own back - I made her suffer for weeks - and in a way almost to this day - as I never forgot and here I sit 23 years later repeating the story to an audience of thousands - mwhahaha.

She apologised and so I pass that one onto you - mine's for length, hers was for almost killing her only daughter with fright.
(Thu 13th Dec 2007, 18:54, More)
[read all their answers]