b3ta.com user Sir_Digby_Chicken_Caeser
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Hi I’m Dean, I’m exceedingly good looking, in fact, I model for Armani, Dior and occasionally Asda George. When I’m not strutting my stuff on the cat walks of Milan, New York and West Bromwich, or snorting cocaine off the backs of expensive Russian prostitutes, you might find me supping the occasional lager or deriving various formulas for NASA.

I’m a modest kind of guy, last year I earned the equivalent of Chinas gross national income. I could have written off 3rd world debt, but decided I didn’t want to put Geldoff, Bono and Chris Martin out of work. I lead a pretty quiet life, driving ludicrously fast cars, injecting vast amounts of heroin and eating lots of fish finger sandwiches.

I like to write, mainly funny snippets and observations. Well, that's when I get time, and I'm not plotting how I can brutally murder David Blaine.

My love life’s pretty quiet to be honest, aside from the expensive Russian prostitutes of course. Saying that, Kiera Knightly still won’t leave me alone. What is it with these Hollywood actresses? They are just so needy. I told my agents agent, to tell her agent, to tell her, to drop me a message on Facebook. I intend to read it once I have gotten round to replying to Marylin Monroe and Audrey Hepburn’s messages.

Anyway, here’s a few interesting facts about me. It was me who started the Romanian revolution in 1989 and began the overthrow of communist dictator Nicolae Ceausescu. I keep this quiet as I don’t wish to brand myself as some kind of political activist or vigilante hero, like Batman or something. Besides, it was really nothing. In 1994 I travelled to the Scotish Island of Jura with a couple of friends, Bill and Jimmy they were called. They were in a band at the time going by the name of KLF or something similar. Anyway, we burnt a million quid and thought it would be incredibly amusing to not tell anyone why we did it. I’m quite funny like that. In response to the global financial crisis I have written a 26 point plan on how it can be solved and how the worlds economy can be stabilised. My PA is going to type it up once she has finished sucking my cock.


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Best answers to questions:

» Siblings

Pot Noodle, The Slag Of All Snacks
I have one sister. We get on like a house on fire, we have never argued, never fallen out and never been jealous of each other at any point during our lives. So first of all, I think I’m pretty lucky.

There is an eight year age gap, I’m 25 and she is 33, about three Christmases ago, she came to stay over at the Mom and Dads where I was still living at the time. Like most Christmases I get drunk ten days straight, fall back to the Mom and Dads and just eat all there food, use there electricity and generally have a free Christmas, not my idea, but, my adoring parents. Anyway, this particular year I went out on the 22nd I think, got major drunk, decided my salt, sugar and E number intake for the day had not been achieved so stopped off at the 24 hour garage to get me a Pot Noodle. Now, at this point in time, Pot Noodle were running the slogan, ‘Slag Of all snacks,’ Great slogan I hear you cry, except this night, it wasn’t a particular good one for me.

I stumble in drunk out my face, I mean, I’m making a late Oliver Reed look sober. I boil that bad bot kettle up and squeeze evry inch of that Woucester source goodness into my Pot Noodle. The next thing I can remember was waking up, in bed, naked, Pot Noodle juice all over my chest, bed and most embarrassingly genitalia, with the pot somewhere by my face and the fork somewhere in my hand. I look up, at to my eternal shame my sister is holding my shoulder, she just muttered the phrase, So Brother, is Pot Noodle really the ‘Slag of all snacks’

I was fucking mortified.

Sorry this wasn’t a brilliantly fitting story about a sibling but hope it made you smile, because it still makes me feel slightly sick.
(Sun 28th Dec 2008, 11:57, More)

» Public Sex

Inadvertent High School Legend
I was fourteen. I was lucky enough for my parents to pay for me to go on the schools annual Spain trip. A trip where the students run around theme parks picking fights with Spanish kids by day, and a trip where teachers put students to bed early, smoke, drink, probably take drugs and then fuck each other later on. (Yes, my school was somewhat rough)

It was so exciting. All my mates were going, but more importantly, the fittest girl in the school was going. Her name was Samantha. She had perfect olive skin, natural blonde hair, eyes as blue as the ocean and an arse that would even distract Ulrika Johnson from the cock for 30 seconds. Everyone adored her, everyone wanted to know her, and every boy wanted to fuck her. She was attractive, but she was also, nice. The kind of girl who would grow up, marry her one true love, have loads of adoring kids and bake you cakes on a daily basis. She was just perfect. Of course, I had no chance, she was in her last year at school, and she was older, more mature. No shame in that though, as no guy in the school had a chance with her, the rumour was, she hadn’t even kissed a boy before.

Anyway, the holiday was fantastic. We went to water parks, the Nou Camp, a theme park and the beach. More importantly, we found a bar that would serve us alcohol and didn’t really mind if we were sick on the dancefloor as long as we mopped up after ourselves. The most pleasing thing for me though was, amongst all the guys who were constantly trying to get into Samantha’s pants, it was yours truly she genuinely seemed to take a shine to. Unfortunately not in a way that she fancied me, but in a way, she liked my cheeky character, my caring ways and the fact that I had been the only lad to not try and get in her pants.

Now, If anyone has taken a coach trip to Spain, you will realise that it’s a fucking long way. I mean, it takes about 24 hours with the ferry ride included. So imagine the delight I felt when the gorgeous Samantha decided to sit next to me for the journey home. I was like a dog with two dicks, a cat who got the cream, Dale Winton with a cock in his mouth. Absolutely delighted!

So we set off home, it was a hot, hot day, about 30 degrees. First couple of hours we just had a bit of fun, everyone joining in, playing games, fooling around. So were having fun, it’s hot, Samantha keeps rubbing against me (not on purpose) and now I’m getting a bone on. One hour, two hour, 3 hours. It’s not going anywhere. Now she’s sleeping on me, constantly fidgeting on me while I uncomfortably try to conceal my hard on. More hours go by until…………SHIT I can take no longer, the erection has been there so long I have blown my bolt straight into my shorts. I can’t explain the guilt I felt as she lay there sleeping, it was technically rape, she had unknowingly made me gizz myself yet she lay there sleeping. On the other hand I was joyous, I mean, only minor details are preventing me being the first guy to have sexual contact with the gorgeous Samantha. All of a sudden, horror. As no later than a minute after the cumming incident, the teacher stops the coach and makes everyone get off for a food break. I look down, and let’s just say, the blue cotton shorts I were sporting were not helping matters.

I shamefully walk off the coach to a load of 16 year old lads taunting me, saying I had pissed myself. On and on they went the bastards. On and on, and on and on until I couldn’t take anymore. On and on until the embarrassment was too much and I just shouted out ‘FUCK OFF, IT’s NOT PISS AND IF YOU MUST KNOW IT’S SPUNK’

As soon as I said this I have to admit I feared the worse. Instead it had an adverse affect, the guys assumed that Samantha lying all over the innocent 14 year old lad, hugging him, lying on his lad under a beach towel had wanked him off. That was it then, I didn’t say anything, and amazingly the gorgeous Samantha didn’t say anything. The lads quizzed her, and taunted her all the way home and amazingly she said absolute nothing. All of a sudden, I have transformed from a cummy pants teenager to a fittest girl in the school hand job legend.

She got home, she took her GCSE’s and left school three weeks later. I got home, and for the next two years was touted as the school legend. I had pussy on tap for the next two years, I never told anyone the real truth until I left.

I even got a bit cocky and started the rumour it was a hand job/ blow bob.

She’s living in Australia now.
(Sun 26th Apr 2009, 10:42, More)

» Tightwads

My friend told me this story once....
My friend is one of these people who tells you every grimacing detail of his life no matter how explicit or humiliating the detail is..

This is one story he told me.

He's had a skin full of ale and ended up back at a girls house, he's fair game, gets her into bed but she informs him it's the time of the month and the most he is gonna get is a hand job. Anyway, she gives the old soldier a bit of a tug, before he decides he is pissed off with the false promises. So he storms out of bed and gets a taxi home.

He gets home, still bladdered from the night out and decides his little altercation has left him still feeling a bit horny. So he puts a porno on the tv and proceeds to wank him self dry into a piece of toilet tissue.

He reckons he hadn't had a wank for a while and he said there was a good old clump of man fat in the tissue (i know, he's very graphic)

Anyway, he goes to sleep.......

Next day, he wakes up, and like the morning after any decent night out, you need a beer shit to sort you out. So he get's up, and takes a shit, he then realises that he has no toilet paper or anything of that description in is house. The only object that he could conceivably wipe his arse on was the tissue filled with his own spunk. Guess what ladies and gents.....Yep, he did it, he wiped his arse with the tissue.

After telling me the story I said to him, what if someone came into your house that night and murdered you. There would have been a murder trial with proper autopsies taking place and your poor mother would have to listen to evidence stating samples of her sons seaman were found in his own anus.

Classic - the most genius form of recycling toilet paper, wanking and shitting, two of life's finer pleasures
(Wed 29th Oct 2008, 15:31, More)

» Things we do to fit in

This is just a general one about fashion and societies general obsession with everyone fitting into an ocular envelope, or group.

I mean, I don’t really get fashion, which is a surprise really as I’m such a hip, happening and cool mother fucker. But, seriously, who is brandishing the fashion orders? And more importantly, who is continuing to helplessly obey them like a nodding Churchill dog?

It’s all bollocks, in my opinion fashion is just a stupid visual system created by people with no personality in order to communicate with other personality redundant lemmings. There are pricks walking around in silly hats, pointy shoes, and trousers thinner than McDonalds straws, all in the name of fashion. Emo’s, Goths, Trendies, Chav’s etc etc, essentially people with no securities or oneness, who have to re-create themselves to feel part of a group or to be accepted.

The worse cunts though are the cool kids. I go to many gigs and have reviewed for a music magazine for the past couple of years as a bit of a hobby. Fuck me, I have met some tits during this period. In particular the ‘cool kids’ who label themselves ‘Indie’ which when I last checked means they consider themselves to be individual and are not bided by others or influenced by opinions, scenes or movements. This is the caper these ‘cool kids’ give me anyway. One chap in particular gave me this spiel, yet, how this guy, or the rest of his chums were different was anyone’s guess. You know the type, long straightened hair, jeans tight enough to give you an hernia, shades bigger than his face, pointy brogues, cigarette in mouth, probably thinks Banksy is a genius, and he most probably has a degree in Textiles or art, or something similarly fucking useless, yet his opinion is more valued than mine because he has an insignificant degree and I don’t. They all speak, look and share the same fucking opinion, therefore, they are not individuals.

Anyway, this guy continued to nark me, and his ignorance was unprecedented. We started talking about going bald. You know what he said? Note, at this point he had been talking about global economic systems, capitalism and ignorance and a whole load of other shit he had probably read in a book, heard on the news or got told by someone with an actual opinion, of which was far greater than mine of course, all of which was complete and utter shit but his mates looked on in admiration. Anyway, he said at this point, and I quote ‘If I ever went bald, I would just get me some tight jeans, some doctor martins, some braces and shave the rest off my hair off, and dress like a punk, I reckon that would look cool.’ I fucking snapped at this point, and tried to explain to this individual of great individuality and opinion that punk was not about the clothes you wore, it was a movement created by people who all felt lost in the world and punk was there to bind them together, not through fashion but through music and the movement that was created. What a fucking cunt. I was drunk at this point so I called him one, and stated that that’s my opinion, so it probably won’t offend him as it’s obviously not valid as I don’t have an arts degree or something similarly wank.

I suppose the general thing I’m trying to say is, I don’t get why people have to dress a particular way to feel a part of something. You don’t join the army to wear the uniform do you?

I suppose it doesn’t help when you have got tit prodders like Trinny and Susanna constantly telling you not what to wear, and that Gok Won arsehole mincing around your tv screen showing you how to look good naked.
(Fri 16th Jan 2009, 19:12, More)

» Stuff I've found

I know I'm a sad twat but this is what I didn't or didn't find...
A couple of weeks back I went on a quest to find out whether Face Book represented the end of humanity, or whether it just posed a bit of harmless fun.

This is what I found out…….

It’s 2008 and we are smack bang in the middle of the so called ‘Space Age.’ An age where my 53 year old mother knows how to internet bank, order food online and buy expensive shoes on Ebay. We have iPods which can store 20’000 songs, we have mobile phones the size of cigarette lighters and every street corner has a surveillance camera plonked on it to ensure were not all going round brutally murdering and raping each other. Let’s face it, whether we like it or not, modern day technology is continuing to accelerate at frightening pace.

Don’t get me wrong, I love technology and all the niceties it brings to my busy life style. I can’t imagine life without mobile phones, an XBOX 360 or my pearly white Apple Mac. Like all good things though, such rapid growth will inevitably breed consequence, a bit like Magners cider, it was great when it first came out and it was reasonably priced, but then people started guzzling it like greedy animals until you literally have to remortgage your house to get pissed off it. Anyway, one pit fall in the surge of technological advances has to be social networking web sites such as Myspace and Facebook. At first I thought these said sites were a bit of fun. You can have a cyber food fight, tell your friends how you are feeling or simply poke the girl next door. Now, 200 and something friends later it’s seemingly just a place for ex-girlfriends to stalk you and a place to pretend how great your life is, was or is going to be. I don’t give a fuck how the revision is going, I don’t give a fuck if you put half a stone on and I really don’t give a fuck if your boyfriend just don’t seem to care anymore. I know, I’m a heartless bastard but, I’m a brutally honest heartless bastard.

For anyone who hasn’t got the foggiest of ideas of what I’m on about, here’s a step by step guide on how to fall from normality straight into a great big bloody hole of lies, conspiracies and deception.

Step 1 – The essential tool for any potential face booker is a computer. Let’s be honest, in the year 2008 if your home doesn’t contain a computer you are either 105 years old, completely illiterate or living in Wales.

Step 2 – So you have your computer and now all you need in order to register is an existing e-mail address or the mental capacity to create a new one. This can be particularly difficult if your name is John Smith, for instance you may find your Hotmail account becomes [email protected] to avoid duplicates.

Step 3 – Verification e-mail in hand you are now free to create an account. In every day life you shred all of your old mail, cover your hand whilst entering your pin code at the ATM machine and you never share bank details with anyone over the phone. Create a face book account and you find yourself willingly declaring home addresses, marital status and mobile phone numbers. Fuck me! It’s not like bad people are using the world wide web is it? Clearly paedophiles, fraudsters and hackers haven’t quite caught up with modern technology yet.

Step 4 – Congratulations! You have just become a member of the world’s largest dating agency. Feel free to write endless amounts of irrelevant shit about yourself n order to make your miserable life sound more interesting than it really is. Before long you will become an expert in deception. You will be telling so many tales even your inner self will believe that you have met Ghandi, been to the moon and had sex with Kiera Knightly. And that was just a Monday.

Step 5 – Now the difficult bits are out of the way it’s time to upload photos of yourself, pets, your twatish mates, relatives you despise and the pets you probably don’t care about but a picture of something fluffy will make you appear caring and warm hearted. Argh, I think I’m going to be sick. Always remember that the girl you had a crush on at school will undoubtedly have an account so be sure to upload a good picture of yourself. A picture of you leaving court following a trial for burglary might not go down too well. Stick to profile shots on white backgrounds, much more sought after.

Step 6 – You have made a list of all the bands you have never heard of, the books you have never read and the quotes you don’t understand. Now it’s time to get some friends. At first you stalk out your best mates, the ones closest to you, who you see all the time, socialise with and tell your secrets to. You can’t stop there though so you start to add the people who are ‘kinda your friend.’ You played football with Dave when you were twelve, you sat next to Martin in art and you once fingered ‘Dirty Donna’ behind the bike shed after double Maths. Accumulating friends has now become an addiction and you find yourself seeking friends like an heroin addict seeking his next fix. The girl who sits behind you on the bus makes an appearance in your friends list. Even the Asian guy who delivers pizzas to your house twice a year has become your best chum. It’s not just you who has become lumbered with this addiction. Other people are now adding you. People who’s only binding connection with you is the fact that they are human and you are human.

Step 7 – Join a group. Or should that read, ‘Join a Cult?’ Appreciation Societies seem to be popular. Obese whale Lisa Riley, Deadrey Barlow and leather skin David Dickinson are bound to have one. Join now, run quick before these D class celebrities drowned in there own appreciation.

Step 8 – Update your status. Tell everyone in the world exactly how your feeling. Suicidal? Why not cry for help? This is your stage, tell all of your best friends that you are so low you are considering therapy, Prozak or even burning your signed Mark Owen photograph from 1992.

Upon review of the above, I concluded that it was just a bit of harmless fun, and I need to get over it and spend my spare time partaking in proper hobbies like football or playing instruments, rather than mindlessly scouring the internet for conspiracies in between wanking myself sideways. That was until about a week later when I read about the ‘Facebook Killer’ Wayne Forrester. Wayne has been jailed for life after stabbing his wife Emma to death after she changed her marital status to single days after they had split. What the fuck? You didn’t have to stab her Wayne, you could have just chucked an imaginary cyber cake at her, or started some malicious internet rumour, detailing how she wanked Donkeys off in her spare time, just for the craic. It’s a fucking tragic story, but instead of her profile status reading ‘Emma is a tad tipsey after drinking too much red wine with friends’ , it now reads, ‘Emma is brown bread.’ And instead of Waynes profile status reading, ‘Wayne is looking on the bright side’ it now reads, ‘Wayne is in jail getting brutally arse raped by Bubba and his pals’

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I found out that I’m just not sure if Face Book represents the end of Humanity. Suggestions anyone?
(Mon 10th Nov 2008, 20:18, More)
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