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» Conversation Killers
once at a pound in the pot strip club
in an old pub on the corner of Clerkenwell Road and Grays Inn Road, myself and two colleagues were enjoying the dancing and a pint or two. Gyrating on the stage as we were finishing our drinks, was a young lady with a prominently pierced mimsy. We were chatting amongst ourselves as we ogled, having to talk loudly to hear each other over the music. One of my colleagues, a Swiss chap who is older and should know better, pointed at her hoop piercing and cried, "ah, look where she keeps her car keys". Just as the performance was finishing and the loud music had abruptly finished.
We necked our pints and legged it, giving him a clip round the ear as we did so.
(Thu 12th May 2011, 19:03, More)
once at a pound in the pot strip club
in an old pub on the corner of Clerkenwell Road and Grays Inn Road, myself and two colleagues were enjoying the dancing and a pint or two. Gyrating on the stage as we were finishing our drinks, was a young lady with a prominently pierced mimsy. We were chatting amongst ourselves as we ogled, having to talk loudly to hear each other over the music. One of my colleagues, a Swiss chap who is older and should know better, pointed at her hoop piercing and cried, "ah, look where she keeps her car keys". Just as the performance was finishing and the loud music had abruptly finished.
We necked our pints and legged it, giving him a clip round the ear as we did so.
(Thu 12th May 2011, 19:03, More)
» Nights Out Gone Wrong
Heroes
many years ago, probably around 1997, aged 19 my friends and I would frequent Heroes sports bar in Milton Keynes. Those of you who know the area, it is near to the railway station and is now a strip joint called Smiles, I think. Anyway, Monday nights were 80s Night... An amazing 88p for a pint of lager, dirt cheap even by 1997 standards. The night would start early, and we would bop around doing silly shoulder-jacking dance moves to the usual 80s cheese-pop, buying ostentatiously large rounds (well drinks were 88p ffs!) and generally acting more and more like a bunch of utter cunts as time went by and we got more and more drunk. Anyway ffwd to 2am, and I am safe at home. I think I may have gone to bed. Then wake up at 3am, stroll into mummy's bedroom still fully-clothed and turn the light on, demanding "where's the toilet?" apparently in an aggressive manner as if I'm accusing her of having moved the entire bathroom in the family home where I have lived for ten years. "Next door", my bleary eyed and confused mother says. I turn her bedroom light off and presumably go to the toilet. Ffwd to 4 am, still clothed, stride into mother's room again, turning the light on, "where's the toilet?". This time mummy looks cross and tells me to fuck off. Like a good little obedient son, I turn her light off and presumably use the toilet. Then to bed. Ffwd to 7.30 am. I am woken by mother's angry voice from downstairs. It seems my presence is required immediately. I drag my spectacularly hungover carcass down to the kitchen where it appears that someone has been sick in the kitchen sink all over the dirty dishes that had been left in there overnight. Mother was cross and blamed it on me, the only other person in the house. Yeah, prove it.
The moral of the story? Don't leave your washing-up til the next day.
(Fri 25th Mar 2011, 19:12, More)
Heroes
many years ago, probably around 1997, aged 19 my friends and I would frequent Heroes sports bar in Milton Keynes. Those of you who know the area, it is near to the railway station and is now a strip joint called Smiles, I think. Anyway, Monday nights were 80s Night... An amazing 88p for a pint of lager, dirt cheap even by 1997 standards. The night would start early, and we would bop around doing silly shoulder-jacking dance moves to the usual 80s cheese-pop, buying ostentatiously large rounds (well drinks were 88p ffs!) and generally acting more and more like a bunch of utter cunts as time went by and we got more and more drunk. Anyway ffwd to 2am, and I am safe at home. I think I may have gone to bed. Then wake up at 3am, stroll into mummy's bedroom still fully-clothed and turn the light on, demanding "where's the toilet?" apparently in an aggressive manner as if I'm accusing her of having moved the entire bathroom in the family home where I have lived for ten years. "Next door", my bleary eyed and confused mother says. I turn her bedroom light off and presumably go to the toilet. Ffwd to 4 am, still clothed, stride into mother's room again, turning the light on, "where's the toilet?". This time mummy looks cross and tells me to fuck off. Like a good little obedient son, I turn her light off and presumably use the toilet. Then to bed. Ffwd to 7.30 am. I am woken by mother's angry voice from downstairs. It seems my presence is required immediately. I drag my spectacularly hungover carcass down to the kitchen where it appears that someone has been sick in the kitchen sink all over the dirty dishes that had been left in there overnight. Mother was cross and blamed it on me, the only other person in the house. Yeah, prove it.
The moral of the story? Don't leave your washing-up til the next day.
(Fri 25th Mar 2011, 19:12, More)
» Awesome teachers
Fuck nose and bullshit
Our head of sixth form was my A-level English teacher, Mr Taylor. This was back in the mid-90s. I remember very little from those hazy days; and especially very little of A-level English, but the lessons were always entertaining. Two things that stick in my mind which Mr T taught us:
1. When he didn't know the answer to something, he would make an 'O' by joining thumb and index finger together. He would then vigorously "fuck" his nose with the finger/thumb hole. This meant... You've guessed it - fuck-nose.
2. If he suspected you of being less than truthful, he would fold his arms. The hand on the upper arm would have the index and pinky fingers erected. The hand on the lower arm would make a fist which would open and close. This was supposed to mimic a, er, bull shitting ie bullshit.
Not exactly awesome, but it still makes me smile all these years later.
(Thu 17th Mar 2011, 18:39, More)
Fuck nose and bullshit
Our head of sixth form was my A-level English teacher, Mr Taylor. This was back in the mid-90s. I remember very little from those hazy days; and especially very little of A-level English, but the lessons were always entertaining. Two things that stick in my mind which Mr T taught us:
1. When he didn't know the answer to something, he would make an 'O' by joining thumb and index finger together. He would then vigorously "fuck" his nose with the finger/thumb hole. This meant... You've guessed it - fuck-nose.
2. If he suspected you of being less than truthful, he would fold his arms. The hand on the upper arm would have the index and pinky fingers erected. The hand on the lower arm would make a fist which would open and close. This was supposed to mimic a, er, bull shitting ie bullshit.
Not exactly awesome, but it still makes me smile all these years later.
(Thu 17th Mar 2011, 18:39, More)
» Irrational Hatred
got the 'ump
The expression "got the right 'ump". Even people who can talk properly and normally pronounce their h, for some utterly inexplicble reason, intentionally omit it here when using this hateful, hateful phrase.
(Mon 4th Apr 2011, 19:02, More)
got the 'ump
The expression "got the right 'ump". Even people who can talk properly and normally pronounce their h, for some utterly inexplicble reason, intentionally omit it here when using this hateful, hateful phrase.
(Mon 4th Apr 2011, 19:02, More)