b3ta.com user Boss Keloid
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My Xmas Pressie!

New pic with added baby (not mine)!

And Happy Drunkenness With Little Bro

Ethelred was kind enough to make this for me!

And Vampyre Cat made this:

I too have sipped of the Awesome!!!

Look upon this amoral poltroon and beware!

Young buck of nigh-on one score and nine, baby-face unetched by all slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, maloderous roll-ups and cirrhotic bevvie.
Enjoys the company of buxom wenches, picaresque wanderers, mendicant preachers, and syphilitic poets.
Free of gout for five years.
Knows of no reason why a club foot should hamper one's erotic aspirations.
Not convinced he isn't, in fact, an 18th century romantic poet and celebrated rake.

Not a fan of marmite.

And for anyone I've ever had an 'It's grim oop North' conversation with:
I am Rickets. Hear your bones go boing.
Which Horrible Affliction are you?
A Rum and Monkey disease.

Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» I'm going to Hell...

Serpent's Tongue
I may have posted this in some form or another before but this fits nicely in with the topic as one of the most singularly evel things I've ever done.

As I've mentioned in various posts I had a rush of blood to the head cock at 18 and ended up engaged and then married to my first girlfriend. A silly, naive move on hindsight for many reasons.

Now, I'm a merry little atheist, but had suddenly found myself spliced into a heavily Jehovah's Witness family. My wife had been given an opt-out at sixteen which she had taken, but her thinking was still sullied by residual lunacy from her upbringing.

To make matters worse, her parents had taken an obvious dislike to me straight away. They had actually told her, when we had just started going out, to dump me as; "He's the spawn of the Devil!" (How I wash I was only paraphrasing there!) Obviously, I found this hilarious, my father and very catholic mother, predictably less so.

From then on, the relationships between both sets of families were strained like a constipated sphincter. My mother and her's especially. They could barely stand to be civil to each other in the street, and there were a few instances where I thought I was going to witness the Great Menopause Massacre of 2000 in the middle of Hawick High Street.

I knew what her family thought, and didn't much care, but when an opportunity for some prime mischief arose, I wasn't about to pass it up.

My wife and I had moved into a little flat, and when she wasn't working on the deli department in the local Safeway, her mum would come down to the flat, have a tea and they would go out shopping.

On the day in question, this was to be the arrangement. Now, our relationship was tempestuous to say the least and was played out to the tune of screaming matches, broken dishes, accusations of sexual inadequacy ("You've never made me come!" "That's because your a fucking sack of spuds!"), and vague threats of domestic violence.

We were going through one of those 'rocky' periods, although rocky in the same way an active volcano is still ostensibly rocky. This is why she was surprised and a little pleased by my administering a nice morning donation of my best oral.

This wasn't a magnanimous gesture on my part however, far from it. I knew her mum was coming round. After it was over, she went for a bath, during which I heard the familiar ring of the doorbell.

"I'll get it!" I yelled cheerfully, opened the door with a gleeful flourish and planted a great big snog with a stray tongue straight on her mother.

She looked bemused and frightened. I then pretended nothing had happened, sauntered back into the kitchen and popped the kettle on.

I still today this day wonder if she ever realised she had just tasted her own daughter.
(Thu 11th Dec 2008, 13:17, More)

» Customers from Hell

Fruit Obsessive
Back in 1997, the country was riding the crest of a wave. Labour had waltzed into power at the expense of the beleaguered Tories, Blair was being hailed as some kind of toothy Messiah. The general air was one of hope and optimism.

A 17 year-old BK had began dossing through 6th form, doing the occasional bit of work inbetween getting drunk, playing in a (I now realise, fucking terrible) band, and working the fruit and veg department in Safeways, although it was somewhat ostentatiously called the produce department.

I enjoyed this job. I was good at it, and enjoyed a relative degree of autonomy. In the evenings I was left on my own to shut the department down, a job I was adept at carrying out.

There was one task us veg-monkeys dreaded if we'd been left to close up on our own and that was the making up of fruit baskets. A customer could come in and ask us to make a basket up for some occasion or other. This was a task that invariably interfered with our time schedule as, for some reason, people who would otherwise lob random bits of fruit into their trolley, would insist on unprecedented levels of perfection when they were for other people.
It was not unknown to end up in heated discussions over the relative merits of one lychee against another.
"This apple has a bump on it."
"It may well do, you're not deciding on a Faberge egg here."

Eventually, it was decided that the fruit baskets were way too much of a ball-ache as it didn't gain us any revenue and it held us up.

The week after this decision had been by the higher echelons of the fruity sages I happened to working the evening shift again.
After putting the finishing touches to a faithful representation of Dali's The Metamorphosis of Narcissus using the medium of beefsteak tomatoes (may be an embellishment), I was an accosted by an absolute buffalo of a woman. She was a terrifying heiffer of a kind I'd previosuly never encountered, being unaware at the time of the sterling work of Ann Widdecombe.
She was accompanied, in an inspired move by the comedy gods, by the kind of tiny, hen-pecked husband you rarely see outside of a 1950s cartoon.

"Wanna froot baskit! Tenner's wurth!" she boomed, in a voice which was half Barry White, half Rab C. Nesbitt. After replacing a few suicidal figs that had spontaneously leapt off the shelf at such Richter-tickling basso profundo I addressed the woman/ source of Mozzarella.

"Sorry. We don't do them any more."

"what?!!!?" The face imploded in ways a human face shouldn't, as if she'd ingested the juice of a thousand lemons in one go. The look of disgust would be justified if she'd caught me with my dick in a pensioner, but I had merely informed of a small change in our fruit retail policy.

"I wunt tenner o' froot fur ma mate. Heez in hoaspitul!"
I looked hopefully in the direction of her husband. I got a small smile of apology before virtually his entire face vanished into his roll-neck, obviously some tortoise-like defence mechanism.

"Sorry. We don't do them any more."
I was sticking to ground I felt comfortable with.

"Wunnna see yer manajur!" This time, it was the turn of some low-level kumquats to hurl themselves from the shelves.

I got the manager, having warned him in advance of Hurricane Gustav in sovereign rings waiting in the aisle.
He infomed her of our position on out fruit-vending shift.
Tectonic plates shifted; birds in Asia took off from their trees; a small village in Ulan Bator flooded (I'm enjoying the embellishment).

Suddenly, I had a flash of logic.
"Exactly how ill is your friend if you expect him to eat £10 worth of fruit?"

The face imploded again. My manager stifled a giggle. Even the hubbie snorted through the safety of a mouthful of Pringle's finest.
"Would a portion of grapes not be enough?"

Aware she was being ridiculed she informed us she would never shop there again, and stormed out. We were treated to a most gratifying grin from the husband though, before he trotted out after her.
(Fri 5th Sep 2008, 0:27, More)

» Tightwads

My Bloody (Cheap) Valentine
It was February 2006. I had been with my girlfriend for nearly four years. She was from Archangel in Northern Russia. She was funny, clever, and very pretty, and I hadn't even needed to buy her off the internet!

To give a little bit of background, she was the daughter of, what I subsequently discovered to be an arms dealer (could have been worse, I assumed he was Mafia). He owns a house in Archangel, a flat in Moscow, an apartment in Paris, and a small chateau in the South of France.

They rub shoulders with French aristocracy, high ranking members of African governments, and he has a permanent account with the Sultan of Brunei's favourite taxidermist.

What I'm saying is, not exactly begging for loose change in the street.

Lovely people though, they always made me feel very welcome, and very drunk. Her dad was slightly prone to ostentatious displays of his wealth, but that I took as characteristic of his poverty-stricken upbringing turning to post-Soviet prosperity fairly rapidly.

They seemed pleased that I was making their daughter happy, and had brought her out of her shell a fair bit, as she was very shy when we met.

Unfortunately, four years in the relationship had started to get, if not stale, then definitely slightly brittle.

Tempers were frayed a lot of the time, and each other's little quirks and foibles that we had found endearing in the early stages, now lurked just below the surface, like floaters in a festival loo.

For instance, she would pull me up on drumming on my knees along to a song.
I would question her need to wear a jumper in bed.

"Christ sake woman, you're from Russia! Doesn't it get down to -40° there?"

"It's different kind of cold!"

I'd been drinking heavily, her mood swings were becoming worse and worse. She would criticise my lack of ambition, that I wasn't more romantic, and my cynicism amongst other things.

I thought, Right! I really want to salvage this. I'll pull the stops out for Valentine's Day. Now this was a momentous decision for me. I hate all Hallmark holidays with the same venom I reserve for paedophiles, rapists, and Kerry Katona.

I booked a table at our favourite restaurant, I bought her flowers, a box set of Nina Simone who she really liked, chocolates, wine, and a massive card with bunnies and all cutesey shit that she used to coo over.

On the day, I watched, proud as an expectant father, as she opened the gifts. I poured a glass of wine, basking in my own glow, and then told her I had the table booked.

She fairly beamed, gave me a kiss that was certainly the most passionate she had deemed to bestow upon my unworthy countenance in some time, and produced a small parcel, wrapped fastidiously, with a little bow on top.

To my shame, I did the full 'Oh, you shouldn't have...I really wasn't expecting..' charade. I may even have gushed a little (not like that you dirty fuckers, I wasn't that excited).

I opened it with maximum respect, teasing myself a little, my breathing becoming slightly ragged both in anticipation, and arousal from the kiss.

I finally removed the presesnt from it's packaging. Was it jewellery, a nice chain perhaps? A pricey hipflask? A decoratve paperweight? A scale model of the Ground-Effect Lotus '79?

It was.....

Hands trembled, eyes widened.

......a block of cheese.

Now, in all fairness, despite all the evidence to the contrary above, I'm not materialistic.
I hadn't expected anything amazing, particularly expensive or dazzling.

But a block of fucking cheese?

On inspection, it was particularly nice cheese.
It was stilton with cranberries, encased in a thick red wax in the shape of a loveheart, suggesting some thought had gone into it. It was a good cheese, a fragrant cheese, a cheese you would present to visiting royalty and assorted dignitaries.

Still a cunting block of fucking bastarding cheese though!

I feigned delight, I hugged the love of my life with every iota of enthusiasm I could muster from my shocked core, kissed her perhaps a little too hard, and led her to the bedroom (making sure I got something out of this unmitigated disaster).

Typing this, I feel like a right ungrateful sod, as she had put thought into it, but I was still gutted like a turkey in Bernard Matthews' kitchen.

Length? Two months after that incident.
(Tue 28th Oct 2008, 21:13, More)

» Customers from Hell

Telling customers to fuck off
Inspired by DG's heroics.

I'm sure you're all aware of a cheap and cheerful (ROFL) retail establishment by the name of Lidl.

I worked there for a period of 7 months between late 2004-early 2005 before I moved down to Leeds with then Miss Keloid.
I was in a celebratory mood. This despite the fact it was now 8.15pm and I had started the shift at 7am, with one half-hour break around lunchtime. The reason for my good cheer was it was my last day and I was all packed and ready to move.

Officially the store closes at 8 and there were still stragglers wandering up to my till.
I jokingly said, "Come on folks, haven't you got homes to go to?" Most in the queue indulged me with at least a chuckle.
One bloke didn't. He was only just five foot tall, had a patchy beard and a combover. In fact he looked a bit like the slightly deformed comedian you sometimes see on on QI and Mock the Week.
"How dare you!" he chuntered. "We pay your wages, you know."

I fixed him with what I imagined to be a basilisk stare (I probably just went cross-eyed and dribbled a bit).

"You're a bit fucking short for that high-horse, aren't you?"

The place went silent. A few people giggled nervously, one poor bloke choked on a mouthful of pseudo-Red Bull we sold for 25p, which he had serruptitiously opened.
To this day, that remains the single greatest come-back I've ever countered a comment with.

Eventually, having gone varying degrees of puce, the wee fella exploded.
"How...how dare you!" his voice ricocheted round a few octaves with rage.
"I'll get you sacked!"

"To be honest, mate. It's my last day, and I can't be bothered with your attitude. Leave your basket and fuck off!"
The fact I could literally look down on the apoplectic little fucksock had elevated me to Zeus levels of authority.

He eventually stormed off to get the manager, who let me leave early. I was congratulated by several of the departing customers who told me I had made their day.
(Fri 5th Sep 2008, 13:21, More)

» Pointless Experiments

Perhaps not pointless
but ultimately fruitless.

My first experiment at text sex:
Beware predictive text. No woman wants to learn you want to kick her pussy.
(Thu 24th Jul 2008, 18:31, More)
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