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This is a question Desperate Times

Stranded in a hotel in an African war zone with no internet access for two weeks, I was forced to resort to desperate measures. Possessing only my passport and the clothes I stood up in; and the warning "You can catch it shaking hands with a vicar out there" ringing in my ears, I had to draw my own porn in order to preserve my sanity.

Alas, it all came out looking like Coronation Street's Audrey Roberts, but, as they say, any port in a storm.

What have you done in times of great desperation?

(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 10:10)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I'm just a two bit whore...
Regular QOTWeekers will notice a common theme in many of my postings. That being that I am monumentally, catastrophically bad when it comes to matters of lurve. In my 33 years on this planet I have rarely had anything approaching what could be described as a functional relationship with anyone of the opposite sex. My current status, of having been single for 7 years after a 6 year relationship with someone who I saw a total of 5 times during the last 3 years of that relationship typifies just how bad I am. Lest you think I’m sat here with a bottle of cheap scotch, about to reach for the paracetemol, I’m not. I’m a nice person. I’m friendly, funny, not a minger, it’s just that something happens to me whenever I’m in the company of someone who I really like that makes me do stupid things.

And this can best be exemplified by the night I went for a drink with Huw. Not his real name, I don’t see why my shame should cause him any more embarrassment than I already did. Huw was working in my lab during my PhD. His supervisor was having some marital issues and wasn’t really around to look after him, and as her and I were good friends, she asked could I step in, which I did gladly, as Huw was 6’2”, with a lilting welsh accent and was so pretty he made my eyes hurt. He was funny and, boy, was he smart. Huw liked me, I could tell, we would spend more and more time together each day, having lunch and coffee with each other, working late, giggling over nothing. People in the lab were starting to notice and Simon, one of the post docs, told me to just go for it. So when Huw asked me out for a drink one night, I jumped at the chance.

I should have known something was awry when he asked me to meet in the local Wetherspoons. Neither of us are Wetherspoons types; I’m a pint and a games of darts kind of girl. But I agreed and we sat at our table, surrounded by undergrads all racing each other through jugs of vodka red bull. Huw seemed nervous, on edge. He was distracted and kept changing the topic halfway through sentences. I was nervous too and his behaviour was making me more so. So I was drinking way faster than I would do normally, the consequence of which was, by nine pm, I was drunk. Shitfaced. With the confidence that can only come from two bottles of cat’s piss chardonnay, I started to flirt. I complimented him every way I knew how, smiled, flicked my hair, but nothing. I became increasingly more outrageous and suggestive, hoping to get a rise out him (stop sniggering at the back, you know what I mean). Then the conversation went something like this…

“Huw, we should get out of here. Maybe somewhere a little quieter…”
“Rakky, we’re good friends, aren’t we? I can talk to you like no one else”
“I’ve got some wine at my place, why don’t we go there?”
“There’s something I need to tell you…”
“My flatmates are out, we’d have the place to ourselves…”
“I really need to get this off my chest…”
“We could, you know, take this further…”
“I haven’t told anyone this…”
“Huw, I find you really attractive, and cards on the table, I really want to sleep with you.”
“I guess I’ve known for sometime now that…”
“Or if not sex, maybe just a blow job..”
“Well, that I’m gay.”

Silence. Not just from me but from the surrounding five tables. You see, I’m not a dainty girl, less so when pissed. I could win a shouting competition against Brian Blessed with a foghorn. And I’d just announced to 20 total strangers that I was so desperate for a shag that I’d basically offered a gay man a blow job.

Everyone began to laugh. The ground didn’t swallow me up as I’d hoped and as Huw’s pretty face swum before my teary eyes, I did what any self respecting girl would do in this situation. I ran.

The next day, hungover and devastated I crawled into work to have to tell everyone that I’d not just crashed and burned, but that I’d doused myself in kerosene then lit a cigarette. And I couldn't tell anyone the real reason as Huw wasn’t ready to come out…

He came and found me, curled up in the foetal position, put his arm round me, and said “Rakky, you’re a fuckwit. And if it wasn’t for the fact that I prefer cock, I’d marry you.”

That to this day is possibly one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. Isn’t life strange?

Huw and I remain good friends. He aced his degree and went on to med school. I coached him through his interview, wrote references for him, held him when he cried like his heart would break when his first boyfriend left him and wept like a proud mother when he told me about the first time he delivered a baby on his own.

And what speciality did my wonderful Huw decide to go for, is he saving lives as a heart surgeon, restoring the faces of the disfigured in plastics, maybe leading a team at the cutting edge of HIV research?

He’s a gynaenocolgist.

So much for preferring cock…
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 22:56, 15 replies)
Melons...
Oh Dear..

I've written about this before, but I can't be arsed to find the post.

**********************************

Wanking when young was an act of desperation... It was to fulfil a need. Wanking in later years became more of an art-form... finding novel ways to achieve the ultimate goal became my vocation, and if you can imagine it, I've probably tried it.

You've read about my horrifying disaster with a napkin ring, when, though a series of errors and ignorance around the working of the erectile properties of the one-eyed trouser-gopher I ended up on my knees, engorged and metal-clad cock in one hand and Dremel in the other... This one however falls below that in terms of horrifying moments... but none-the-less represents what must be one of man's more horrific blunders in the name of self gratification.

The phrase to describe man's needs "Warm, tight and wet" is, in honesty a bit bland, but as a teenager in love with ejaculation, my goal was to replicate those conditions, and Fuck it. A typical week's R&D would go like this...

Hot Sponge.
This proved to be too "cleaning" and I cleaned a lot of skin off my bellend. Ouch.

Hot Sponge Mod 1.
With Soap!! (see, I wasn't stupid). Cleans skin off bellend, and STINGS MORE. BUGGER.

Hot Spoinge with "Shammy" leather liner.
Smooooth and yummy. With added Body lotion... Better! SUCCESS!!! (but leaves weird streaks on the car)

Most teenagers are infamous for spending suspiciously long in the bathroom... I possibly had them trumped by being the only lad who'd take half the garage with him.

What I though would be the culmination of my work would the the only logical extension of the "shagging an orange" theory. Oranges are acidic, they have sharp pips and they are SMALL. We needed something less acidic and larger. MELONS!!!

The only thing that a melon naturally lacked was warmth.

My parents were out, I used to live in the country, and we had just got a microwave. Excellent. Not one to master the power settings, I plumped for "turbo". I nuked the melon in 30 second bursts, waiting until the outside felt good and warm. 5 minutes later we were ready to rock.

I retired upstairs with a hole-saw and a drill, and proceeded to remove a neat 52mm diameter slice of potentially sharp and hard skin.. This was going to be sublime... then, using the handle of a wooden spoon, I poked a "pilot" hole into the soft melon-flesh.... it was easy....

I nudged my teenage boy-hood, soft and forgiving melon-flesh grudgingly gave way, and satisfied that I'd found a perfect home for my throbbing friend, I thrust home.....

*****************************************

My mum noticed a week or two later that the "burn-eze" was no long near the stove, but I never let on. That tube lasted for 3 weeks... I then had to use Savlon.

Apparently (I learned later on) the hardish parabolic skin of a melon concentrates the microwaves into the center. As I'd penetrated through the center it felt far softer than the rest... not only that, but it fizzed. I had become possibly the first person to thrust into a sugar-rich BOILING center of a cantaloupe.

I walked funny for a month.
(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:55, 13 replies)
Ahh fukkit.... I might as well spit it out...
I may or may not have mentioned this before.

*hangs head in shame*

One night last year: Particularly bored and on a bit of a low (relationship not going the right way) I was sat watching episodes of Simpson's back-to-back, Drinking Guinness and getting slightly hungry.

Hmm.. hungry. I'd been feeling down for the entire weekend and it was sunday afternoon. Outside it was drizzling, My mates were elsewhere and lazyness was beginning to reach new levels.

NOTE: This may get long... Skip to the starry line if you're semi-illiterate.

Earlier that day I'd been to Netto (yes, we do have them in Sweden) and bought a catering pack of sugary peanuts. I hauled my slightly tipsy arse off the sofa pottered into the kitchen, got another can and a bowl, picked up the Netto bag and - after filling the bowl with peanuts - hunkered down on the sofa again.

I don't remember much more of that afternoon: I just remember feeling rather sorry for myself and dragging my sorry arse off to bed at midnight, ruing the fact that I'd have to go to work in the morning.

Monday came and went.

Tuesday rolled along... and then went away as Tuesdays do.

Wednesday was when it started to get a little strange: In the afternoon I started to feel a bit crap. My lunch hadn't really wanted to go down so I'd sat and chatted... by 3pm I was beginning to sweat. "Flu" I thought. I set off home and collapsed infront of the TV with a bowl of sugar puffs.

20 minutes later I was sat on the bathroom floor with a nose-full of sugar puffs. I'd emptied my stomach the wrong way. No warning. Weird.

I hate the Flu... It knocks me for six once it's beaten my immune system. I headed to bed and had a shit night.

***************************************

A day later and my stomach was in pain: very un-fluish. I was beginning to wonder what might be going on.... Working my way chronologically though my past meals - there weren't many; When I'm down I forget to eat - there was nothing that rang alarm bells until my mind latched onto the peanuts... Jesus no..

I went to the livingroom: There on the table was the empty bag. 2Kg of peanuts. Nice one Humpty you utter arse-hat: you've pigged out on 2kg of peanuts, and turned yourself into a walking peanut-butter Keg.

The Days - unlike the stools - had been passing. Somewhere inside me was the wrong kind of log-jam... If anyone says "butter-nut-squash" I'll kill them =(

Now.. single, Living alone and with my mum a long way away in another country, I did what any self-respecting male would do: I went back to bed.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm no professional when it comes to chronic constipation: I reasoned that the blockage needs encouragement and movement. I massaged my stomach, wriggled around a bit and occasionally would jump up and down. It failed. I failed.

In frustration I gave my stomach and belly area a good thumping (I'm an engineer, and it's always a fairly good last resort) and at least It felt better.

It was a few hours later while watching Jack-ass and Johnny Knoxville getting his colon hosed out that I hit upon a plan. By this time my temperature was going amusingly high and I was feeling *really* shit: It was a surprise that I was capable of any sort of rational thought, but this was it. A stroke of Genuis. McGuyver was trumped.

10 minutes later I had modified my shower hose and essentially had a mix between a super-soaker and Cartman's worse nightmare. Let me tell you that shoving a squirting hosepipe up your ass is hilarious. I had already researched the concept of this pass-time online.. and had discovered that the time to Stop the filling was "when you felt uncomfortable". Mmmkay. :o/

My first effort was a dismal failure. maybe a tablespoon of water? so "When you feel uncomfortable" may not have been entirely accurate. You lasses who whine about "water retention" and "being bloated": you have No Fucking Idea!!!

I had to grit my teeth and go for it. A couple of minutes later and grunting like a hippo in labour I managed to manouvre myself over the toilet before exploding. The sheer relief in itself was worth it... but there was nowt solid to show.

Another Sitting.

... The overpowering odour of Rancid Peanut-crap was horrifying.... though already ill, sweating and committed, I knew it was the smell of victory.

Re-Fill and Puuuurge.

I noted that accidentally turning the water cold was a terrible plan.. The barking spider puckered HARD and threatened NEVER to let ANYTHING out.

Fix the temperature... Re-Fill and Purge again.

It took 30 minutes, but it was an overall success. Within an hour I was starting to feel fine again.

A few days later I was offered a bowl of those sugary peanuts at a party.

I then realised that it had taken Me 30 minutes of watered-down rancid peanutty shit, and from that point on the mere smell of peanuts successfully induced involuntary bodily actions: Pavlov was a mere amateur.


Nuts to the length.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 13:30, 15 replies)
Desperate times, desperate lunges, desperate housewives
(Apologies for the Britishness of this post in advance….)

My mum was like an undercover special agent / reconnaissance ninja when it came to finding P0rn in my bedroom. Tidying up? Yeah right! She was constantly scanning for rudie material so she could revoke my fwapping licence. Even the discovery of the Grattan catalogue under my bed was enough to warrant a verbal kicking.

Me: “Honestly, it just FELL OPEN on the lingerie page, mum…I was looking for Christmas present ideas…”
Mum: “You’re a filthy little tosser pervert and you’re going to hell”

Busted. Bastard.

My dad didn’t even buy the Sun, let alone the Sport. He did have his own stash of p0rn but I couldn’t steal any of it – not even a glance. I was in too much paranoid fear that it had been placed in a certain way that if I even disrupted the pile I would be in for the veritable embarrassment-inducing bollocking of my short life.

I was in teenage hell.

My imagination was just not good enough (no experience) and my goolies were rapidly swelling and resembling Mr Creosote. In fact, if you put your ear to my nads and listened closely (nice mental picture huh?) I’m sure you could actually HEAR them groaning under the increasing pressure.

I was so young…I needed stimulation…I had a portable TV in my room. Thus my saviour presented itself in the form of an advert for the following Friday's Movie…

Let me explain.

Anybody remember ‘Red Triangle’ films on Channel 4? They were late night, gobshite ‘arty-farty-continental’ films that displayed a red triangle icon in the top corner of the screen. This was an indication you see…a warning if you will, of the ‘adult’ content in the ‘culturally genre-challenging and pioneering’ movie you were watching.

In other words…if you sat through 2 hours of utter armpit, you’d know that somewhere down the line there was going to be a ‘quim-shot guarantee’

The thought process and masterstroke (pun intended) of Channel 4 was to display the triangle so that the easily offended would be immediately alerted to impending nudity and would know to switch off…surprise surprise the ratings went through the fucking roof.

As soon as I heard about these films, my plan leapt into action. There’s no way even my parents can stop a film being broadcast...in fact, they don’t even know about the ‘red triangle movies’. There was no stopping me. The perfect crime

So fast forward to the next Friday night around 11:30 and I’m sat in my low-lit bedroom, my tongue and cock hanging out, remote at easily reachable distance (and successful rehearsal of leaning over to press the ‘standby button at the slightest noise) ….bracing myself for something with a title like ‘L’escapades erotique de femme’ (or god knows).

As the film starts…I begin to narrate to myself: ’Ooh she’s quite nice…I hope it’s her that gets ‘em out…Christ, I’d even settle for her….Oh, she looks a bit miserable, still, she might have a nice bod under all those cardigans etc etc’

(Abso-fucking-lutely no idea what is going on in the film…like the rest of Britain. And like the rest of Britain, not giving a toss (literally). Just waiting…..waiting…waiting.)

Then Hey-ho…what’s this? Angry looking fellow with ‘tache has ripped off average looking girls’ blouse…First bra shot…I start to twitch. She doesn’t look happy. I sure as shit do.

He’s pulling away at more clothes…she’s struggling. “Oh give it up woman and get on with it” I mutter.

Then the FUCKING ADVERTS start! (Channel 4 – genius. I wonder how much they charged for those?)

Ads over…a different scene starts. But I’ve got a semi-on, there’s a couple of attractive laydees on screen & I try to keep up momentum…

Then – JACKPOT! It looks like the angry man was attempting to rape earlier woman – result! She seems a bit hairy (boo), but she’s starkers now (yay), has got away from angry man (boo), and has legged it out of the house and through a forest (running! – woo yay!).

This’ll do for me.

The tip of my tongue poking out the side of my mouth, I start to pull my pud frantically as I don’t know how long this scene is going to last – I have no video recorder and this scene could be followed by the fat, sweaty, bearded folk I saw earlier on.

(I become such a total, uber mega wanker that even Prince would’ve been jealous)

Before long…’Uh..uh…uh…That’s all it can take Captain Vinegar..it’s gonna blow!’

HUUUURRRRGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Suddenly… there’s a noise on the stairs…right beside my room… Noooooo. I reach for the remote and begrudgingly press the ‘standby’ button. The dream is over.

But the button doesn’t work…must be the batteries…shitshitshitshitshit. I press again and again. No joy. FUCKING HELL SHE’S JUST OUTSIDE MY DOOR!

I see the handle start to turn...I can't be caught watching this...I have no alternative…

From my horizontal position, lying on the bed – I launch myself like a teenage, spluff covered Jedi, lifting vertically upwards Harrier Jump Jet-esque before lunging for the 'off' button on the TV.

But it’s too late – and now even worse. “What’s all the noise?” my mum complains as she walks in and turns to see me…with my arm outstretched, 1 cm from the 'off' switch…bang to rights with a fast-depleting, spunk dribbling stonk-on, whilst on the TV… a bollock-nekked hairy Frenchwoman is running through some forest looking like she had been kicked between the legs with a bag of soot.

Mum: “AAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!”
Me “AAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!”





Mum: “Just get to bed”

She turned round, walked out, and to be fair. Neither of us have mentioned it since. I think the situation was just too extreme for words. I mean, where do you start?

Length? I’m sure there were stragglers down to her knees.

EDIT ON LENGTH GAG: I was talking about the woman in the film...NOT my mum
(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 13:04, 18 replies)
Improvised wanking machine
At the tender age of 15 I had just discovered the joys of successful masturbation (I had spent a year prior wanking with no end result due to a small attention sp..) and was loving myself as often as physically possible and desperate for differing ways in which I could express my love.

My mum had recently bought a second hand "vibrating belt machine" - you know the kind, one of those old fashioned sort where you stand up and wrap the belt around your midriff and lean back and let the machine vibrate your lard arse away. I had tried it under supervision from my mother and found it had a rather pleasant effect on my nether regions.

(something like this: ebadminton.stores.yahoo.net/masmac.html)

I waited till my parents had gone out and rushed upstairs to their bedroom where the machine was situated, got naked and wrapped the belt around me, across my now hard-desperate-for-some-loving cock and switched on the machine.

Take a banana, grip the bottom and hold vertically. Now briskly shake side to side and you'll get the idea. The vibrating belt was violently vibrating my cock in a way I hadn't felt before, causing the foreskin to flap about like a flag in a windtunnel.

The intensity of the feeling took me by surprise and before I knew it, in the style of Jackson Pollack I was spraying machine-accelerated jism left and right in a wide arc, spattering it all over the walls, dressing table, mirror, window, chinzy curtains and floral duvet while desperately trying to reach around and switch off the machine. I swear I saw a rainbow at one point.

I spent the next hour cleaning little splats of cum off various surfaces and scouring the room for missed traces like some kind of sperm-obsessed Sherlock Holmes.

Only took that machine for a spin the once, but man, it was a sweet ride.

Length? The bigger the catapult, the further the distance.
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 16:17, 6 replies)
Any Port in a Storm
I had recently turned 19, and was starting yet another shitty job - selling insurance over the phone, cold-calling. Not exactly a life-affirming experience, but the commission was good, and it was pretty fucking easy. You could have trained monkeys to do it - in fact, looking at some of the people I was training with, they may have been giving this a trial run. The training only lasted 2 weeks. 'This is the phone, press this button to answer. Read this script, and if you are called a cunt, say "Thanks for your time." ' Not exactly brain surgery.

Anyways, one of the girls I was training with had taken a bit of a shine to me. I'm normally quite bad at reading the signs, but she made it pretty fucking obvious - batting her eyelashes at me, laughing at everything I said and following me around like a lost puppy. Only problem was, she was a complete dog. Really fucking ugly - imagine, if you will, a cross between Dawn French and a retarded Jimmy Crankie. Fucking her would probably constitute beastiality. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

When the two weeks training were finished, a post-training pub trip was suggested. Never one to turn down a drinking session, I readily agreed, and we all traipsed down the local boozer. The first round was bought, and we chatted about work, football, and other mundane topics over our pints. After we'd finished, one of the lads suggests getting a round of shots in, to liven things up. On reflection, this may have been where it all went wrong..

A round of tequila shots is swiftly demolished, followed by another. At this point, I start chatting to Claire, thinking perhaps I've been wrong about her. She seems nice enough - still ugly, but with a nice personality. She laughs at my jokes, so she can't be all bad...

Another round of drinks. I'm beginning to think my initial judgement may have been a bit hasty. Sure, she's ugly, but she does have tits after all. And, as we all know, there's no such thing as an ugly pair of tits.

Another round. You know, now I come to think about it, she's not really that ugly. Well, I mean yes, she's ugly, but not totally ugly. And she does like my jokes. That's always a plus.

After a few more rounds, I'm becoming more and more convinced that she's actually quite good-looking, and I've just failed to notice it. And her tits are fantastic. Admittedly, by now I'm seeing two pairs swimming in front of my eyes, but they both look great. And who wouldn't love a bird with two pairs of tits. I may be onto a winner here...

After another round of shots, I decide I must kiss her. Fuck knows why - I was really wasted at this point. So I look her in the eyes, lean in...and miss completely. Nowhere near. After adjusting my aim, I manage to connect on the second attempt, and she promptly thrusts her tongue down my throat, almost cutting off my air supply.

After sucking face for what seemed like hours, she suggests getting a taxi back to hers. Stupidly, I agree. The sensible part of my brain told me I'd probably regret this in the morning, but I was drunk, horny, and my beer goggles were an inch thick.

The taxi ride is a blur - I can vaguely remember having my fingers sucked. Also, when we stopped, it took me three tries to open the car door. That tells you what kind of state I was in.

We make our way upstairs, and, on entering her bedroom, I notice there seems to be a lot of cuddly toys littering the place. Vague warning bells sound in the back of my skull, but I drunkenly ignore them. She leaves me to 'freshen up', and I try to get undressed, which is more complicated than normal due to my drunken state. On removing my trousers, I lose my balance, and crash into her bedside table, sending cuddly toys flying in all directions. Lying on my back, trousers round my ankles, surrounded by cuddly toys, I begin to question the wisdom of my actions, when I hear a voice from the doorway.

"Like what you see?" I look up, and behold a mountain of pink lace and tassles, barely covering a female marshmallow man. "Hell yeah" I say, lying through my teeth.

We climb into bed, and thankfully my memory is pretty blurred from here onwards. I like to think it's my brains way of protecting itself, scabbing over painful memories. I do remember going down on her, and almost drowning in the layers of flab. Also, I remembed muzzily thinking that she seemed pretty tight, for a fat girl.

After the deed was done, I collapsed into drunken slumber, unaware of the horrors that would await the next morning.

I awoke with a pounding headache. Someone had glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and I couldn't work out where I was. This wasn't my room - it was too pink for one thing, and I'm pretty sure I don't own any cuddly toys.

Then it hit me like a sledgehammer blow. Oh fuck. I hadn't. Tell me I hadn't.

I slowly looked round. Oh Jesus, I had.

My movements must have woke her, for she stretched, causing her flab to ripple, then opened her eyes and turned to look at me.

"Last night was amazing" she said dreamily.

"Mmmm" I said non-commitedly.

"And it wasn't as sore as I thought it would be"

"Yeah...wait a minute, what?"

"Well, you know, I'd always heard your first time was supposed to be painful."

"Your first time? First time having sex? You mean you're a virgin?"

"Well, not any more, silly. And you were great! So, what do you want to do today?"

Oh holy fuck. Holy fucking cunting Jesus fuck. This was not good.

"Emmmm, well, I've got to kind of, um, go. Yeah, I need to get home. Pretty quick in fact. I'm running late, actually. So I'd better, you know, go. Like, now." As I was gibbering, I had sprung out of bed and was dressing as quickly as humanly possible.

"Why? What do you have to do?"

I paused. I was too hungover to think quickly.

"Oh, well, um, I've got to...uh...go to...church. Yeah, I've got to go to church."

"Oh, okay. So will I see you again?"

"Sure - I'll call you"

I rushed out her room, still doing up my trousers, before she remembered I didn't have her number. As I pulled up the zip, I looked up and saw a naked middle aged man staring at me, open-mouthed. Holy shit, she still lived with her parents. This was not good. He looked at me, and I could tell he was still half asleep. Thinking quickly, I gave him a warm smile, said, "Morning" and marched past him and down the stairs. I grabbed my shoes and high-tailed it out the door before he came to his senses and tried to crucify me for deflowering his daughter.

I called a taxi, then caught a train, and eventually made it home, whereupon I headed straight for the shower and didn't emerge until I had scrubbed every last inch of my body. Jesus, that was bad. But at least it was over until Monday. Or so I thought...

You see, at some point the previous night, in a burst of drunken idiocy I had given her my mobile number. The first text came through after I had stepped out the shower. 'Hey, still thinking of you xxx'

"Shit" I thought. "I'd better let her down gently"

So I texted her back, 'Listen, you're a great girl, but I'm not really looking for a relationship right now. Hope you understand'

She texted back 5 minutes later. 'I'm not looking for a relationship either. How about we just keep it casual? xxx'

Hmmm, she's not quite getting it. So I texted back, 'Actually, I'm kind of seeing someone just now. Should have said earlier - sorry' (This was a lie - I just wanted rid of this girl)

"That should do it" thinks I, until another text comes through 10 minutes later. 'That's okay - it can be our little secret xxx'

A bit annoyed by this stage, I text back 'Look, I'm sorry, but we can't do this. It was a drunken mistake.' I can't really be any more clear with her. Hopefully she'll...what's this? Another text. Oh fuck.

'But I think I'm in love with you'

Great. Fucking great. Now, I'm really not an evil person, but I knew I would have to be pretty harsh with her if I didn't want to have a stalker on my hands. So I sent back a message saying 'Look, I don't fancy you, I was blind drunk last night, and if I was sober I never would have slept with you.'

I felt like a prick once I'd sent it, but I didn't get any more texts through. Result.

It turns out she phoned in sick on Monday, and didn't come back to work. I do feel really bad about that. But, at the end of the day, I did give her a shag she would never have gotten otherwise.

In a way, it's almost like charity work. Giving to the needy and all that.

I'm practically a saint...
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 23:56, 4 replies)
A Childhood Memory.
I'm not sure if I can do this justice: it's a memory that haunts me to this day: One man's desperation.

*********************************

I think I was 9 or 10, sat in the back of my family's ford Escort: I can still remember the Numberplate. It was a fairly balmy summer's day and we were in an unfamiliar town. Idly gazing out of the window I wasn't looking for anything in particular. A few years later I'd be looking for girls, a few years before it would have been tractors. This time.. Nothing. I was bored.

The car paused in cue for some traffic lights, and looking out of my window I saw a guy come half running, half tripping out of Kwik-Save.

He looked slightly different: a look I'd later discover was caused by Downs Syndrome", but that didn't matter. The thing that struck me so hard was the look of pure determination on his face, clutched lovingly in both of his hand was a single packet of Penguin chocolate bars. 7 individually wrapped bars wrapped in one long pack. The moment he was out of the store he started to tear at the cellophane wrapper.

It was clear to me that he'd been desperate for these. Sure, they're not the cornerstone of a healthy diet, but the air of sheer determination that was around him showed that this moment was what he'd been looking forward to all day. He'd been and got them, they were all his, and now... Now it was all going wrong.

The plastic packaging seemed to be impervious to his efforts. He was a strong looking guy, but he simply didn't seem to have the knack of opening them. He must have only tried for 10 or 15 seconds with the package skittering around in his fingers as he pulled at it, searched for an opening, tried to open it like a packet of crisps but the material offered no purchase....

During this time his determined expression went though simple yet marked changes, Joy, to desperation, to utter panic, and then - horribly, as tears welled up in his eyes - to total and utter crushing defeat. He sat on the pavement not 3 meters from the car and - clutching the penguins to his chest - started to sob and cry. Passers-by ignored him, but they didn't know the story. All he wanted was to have his penguin biscuits open. All he wanted to do was taste his chocolate, and the dream had been torn from him. He'd lost.


I looked out of the window, hands pressed against it and completely powerless to help. My dad dropped the clutch and we began to move again. I begged him to stop: I wanted to show him I cared and open his penguins for him, but dad said we had no time.

*****************************

Sat here, 20 years on, I can still see his face in every detail, and the frustration of it all makes tears well up and puts a lump in my throat.

If you see someone who needs help, help them: You might just be their sunshine for that day.
(, Tue 20 Nov 2007, 15:13, 12 replies)
Cruel fate, cruel timing, cruel world
Only last Friday, I was invited to a mates’s house. When this happens, it's always a neat arrangement. He buys me copious amounts of cider and a Chinese takeaway; I fix all of his and his family’s PC and electrical issues. If there is any time left at the end of the evening, we go out on the piss.

Nice.

Over the last few times, this arrangement has been less and less PC fixing…and more and more just plain going out on the lash. Last Friday was no exception. I turned up at his house at 7:30pm, had hardly cracked open my first can of DBC* when my mate says:

“Bollocks to PC fixing, I’ve arranged a lift into town at 8 o’ clock. We’re getting shit-faced”.

Yay.

Fast forward a few hours. I have drunk enough cider to sink the Arc Royal and we’ve moved onto Vodka and Redbull, (although none of this is going down too well with the medication I’m on). I’ve been bet £40 to kiss what looked like (from the back) to be just a rather tall young lady, when in actual fact it was a 7ft-something transsexual with arms like Popeye and a 5 o’clock shadow like Homer Simpson. NOT a pleasant surprise let me tell you.

Anyhoo, in other words, a normal Friday night in Pooflake land.

But it starts getting very late. My eyes, ears, arms and legs were no longer functioning properly or as a collective and my internal organs were trying to merge together with a swirling motion in the middle of my head. My inner compass felt like it had some cunt with a magnet running in circles around me. I now had ‘2 hopes’ of getting the takeaway in and I was absolutely ravenous.

Desperate times.

We went to one of those ‘Not-even-close-to-edible-or-even-KFC-and-you-know-it-will-be-rank-but-at-least-they-are-still-open-at-3am’ places.

The pictures of chicken pieces they were displaying looked alright…then again, by this time; the Tranny who could play for England at the back of the scrum would probably have looked alright too.

But what to order? My mate fires straight in. “Gimme 2 pieces of chicken ‘n’ chips” he slurs. In my lack of independent thought, I said “Ssssame fah me”.

We receive our cack in greasy boxes and move over to a small seated area. I open the box to be presented with something that looks like it has just been dredged out of Bernard Manning’s rotting corpse. Despite this, I start to munch wearily away

Then….hold on a mo…what’s this? 2 Spicy chicken wings at the bottom of my now rancid, partly dissolved in its own grease, semi masticated ‘meal’. I hadn’t ordered them…I hadn’t been charged for them…

RESULT!

I perk up a bit as I gnaw away on the slim, grim pickings that are these spicy wing-things. We finish up and stagger straight into a taxi. Upon arrival to his pad we crack open a tinny each but it’s not long before I crawl into bed, totally wrecked. I survived the night. Life is good.

The next morning…

Mate’s 17 year old daughter wakes me up and offers me breakfast. Naturally, I am busting for a piss, so groan loudly and stagger off towards the bog. Suddenly, there’s a shout from downstairs: “Don’t forget, you can’t use the bog, we’ve got a bloke in there doing the tiling.”

Mmmmmf

Really Desperate times.

I try to hold on as long as I can…the build up is hurting and taking control of my mind. I can wait no longer and tap gently on the door. It is opened by a smiling bloke I used to work with (FFS!)

Tiling bloke: “Oh hello PF, Haven’t seen you for a while”.
Me: “Look, I’m really sorry but I’ve gotta go for a whizz”
TB: “No probs mate, I’ll just wait outside”

Now in I go, and struggle to get started, knowing that somebody is right outside the door not only listening, but actually trying to spark up a conversation! I try to apply a little pressure to aid the wee impetus…when…PARP!

Oh Jesus! My eyes open widely as the shame hits home. Not only must he have heard me, but either way, any minute now he was going to walk face first straight into my green cloud of botty gas. There was no air freshener, no nothing. Lummee. So all I can do is turn bright red, open the window and waft my arms around like a madman…Bastard spicy wings.

I finish my half-petrified slash and walk out, not even looking Tiling Bloke in the eye. ‘I’m really sorry’ I mutter under my breath. I’m not sure he heard.

But ‘ah well’, I start to think after a while. ‘It’s not like I’ll ever see him again. Fuck him’. I put the incident behind me and go downstairs to lashings of tea and bacon butties.

A few minutes pass by…then it starts…the fart I had done earlier had only served to make way in my poo-cute for the main event that was now knock-knock-knocking on my sphincter’s door…

Burble…..bloop…..groan….blobble.

I couldn’t go back upstairs and squit out what was undoubtedly going to be a huge, smelly ‘Brad Pitt’ with that bloke up there could I?

WHAT THE HELL WAS I GOING TO DO?

We have now arrived at absolutely fucking desperate times.

I clench for as long as I can…it buys me about a minute. It’s starting to seethe as the concentrated faeces compounds within my crap-factory. Every movement seems to produce a ‘pfft’ either internally or externally and makes the inevitable one step nearer. The rat’s nose was not so much touching cloth as sniffing down my trouser leg.

Here’s when my mate decides that it’s computer fixing time.

Racked with gut-trouble and swollen with intestinal gloop that felt like I was carry a 9lb bowling ball of a turd, I make my way over to PC number one and realise this is going to take some time to fix. I’m dripping with sweat, gurning, trumping and bent over double, trying to pretend that I had to look at a particular part of the PC case from a particular angle. But it’s all too much….

Me: “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go…I haven’t got time today to fix this”
Mate’s daughter: “Awwww, but it’ll be the new year before we see you again…Isn’t there anything you can do now? Puuuurrrrleeease??
Me: “NO!”
Mate: “Well what about my PC?”
Me: “Look, I’ll come back soon…I’ll come back next week….tomorrow….2 hours even. I’ll take your PCs home with me…I’LL BUY YOU ALL NEW PC’S FOR FUCKS SAKE….I’VE JUST REALLY REALLY GOT TO GO…NOW!”

My mate looks a bit disgruntled now as I shuffle quickly down the stairs like Charlie Chaplin, trying with all my might to create some kind of vacuum that could schlurp my stack back up my crack and buy me a few more seconds.

I grab my coat and don’t even put it on…I haven’t got that much time. I look dazed and distant and still now cannot remember what was said to me or what I said at this point. All I could think about was dropping this monster butt-cutlet and how the hell I was going to manage it. I was in Leicester and didn’t have a clue where the nearest toilet was.

Leaving my mate to wonder what he’d said or done the previous night to hurt my feelings, I burst out the door with a quick ‘Byeee’, sit down in my car with a bit of a ‘squish’ and speed off up the road.

Next thing I’m at a busy junction. The level of discomfort has become intolerable. This just can’t go on….I have to do something. I turn the wrong way, just because it’s easier than waiting, I am now delirious and the movement of the car is somehow pushing the brown trout slightly back up my tea-towel holder.

Despite the pain and my state bordering maximum human comprehension, I was trying to think rationally of the consequences of actually shitting myself in the car. Who would know? It’s only a couple of feet from my driveway to my front door…surely there’s nothing in my car that can’t be sorted afterwards with a bit of elbow grease and some industrial strength cleaner?? No??

But here’s the problem with that. I lived an HOUR AWAY. I couldn’t drive for that long with a big squishy alligator in my trollies. No.fucking.way.

As the pressure is building up to thermo-nuclear levels, I know I am just seconds away from the unholy when I see a sign for a pub nearby. HOPE! I put my foot to the floor and have a total blind disregard for other road users and pedestrians as I screech my car through the narrow town streets like a scene from Starsky & Hutch.

I pull up round the back of the pub car park with a ticking timebomb constantly nudging my gusset. It’s 11:45am and the back door is open. Thank Christ.

As I get out of the car I consider yet another potentially uber-embarrasing situation. ‘What if I had to go past the bar first? What if I get funny looks and have to stop and buy a drink? This dump will not wait for pleasantries!’

As if to remind me, my arse starts to give….there’s nothing that clenching, or even praying can do now…the bumwaters have broke if you will. It’s gonna BLOW!

I sprint through the back door and the toilets are there on my right…no bar interference...brilliant. There’s gotta be half an inch of gronk hanging out of my clay-hole at this point as I kick the door in. The bog is grubby and dark…There’s no lock on the door….I have long since past caring. I press my leg against the trap door and my pants have hardly left my crevice when….

WAAAAAAASPLAATTTTUUURRGGHHHH! OOOHHHH YEEEEAAAAAHHH!!

The full violence of the blast became evident when remnants of the subsequent splashback actually left the bowl itself (even after pebble-dashing my bum-cheeks).

Minutes ticked by. My bum-hole was left puckering and dry-heaving. I couldn’t get up. I thanked god for the small mercy of there being bog-roll as I slid my quivering carcass off the surely shattered remains of the lavvy.

As I finally managed to bring myself to my feet I then did something that you know you should never do…but you can’t help yourself. I looked back into the pappered bowl to survey the horror and devastation like a visiting dignitary.

From a brown watery cesspit, think of a combination of pig slurry, blood and atomic waste, into which somebody has expertly detonated a hand grenade and you’d get pretty close to what I was looking at.

I shuffled out of the back door and didn’t stop for a drink. In fact I decided that I was never going to visit that pub again…after 5 minutes it already held too many bad memories.

Length? I think this was my biggest yet…

*DBC=Dry Blackthorn Cider
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 13:21, 17 replies)
Scientific improvisation at its best (worst?)
I was reminded of this by the earlier post regarding checking the polarity of a power supply.

Working as I do in academic research, I get to play with lots of nice toys. The kit is usually bought from research grants, but in the last few years my funding situation has been, shall we say, less than generous. This has meant that while my salary has been paid and we've had a bit of cash for consumables and travel, the equipment capex budget has been essentially zero. I'm sure this will be a familiar tale to anyone involved in science these days.

So when I urgently needed a high voltage power supply, I was stuck, as they're quite expensive and we didn't have one. OK, brain in gear - I'm desperate here. What do I need to make one?

Source of ac signal - yup, we've got a function generator.
Amplifier - no, but I ordered up a couple of power FETs (big transistors) from RS for a few quid, rummaged around the lab for the other components, and built my own.
DC supply for amplifier - OK, we've got power supplies in the lab.
Step-up transformer - scrounged old Fiat ignition coil from a workmate who does a bit of car work on the side.
HT cable - got from car accessory shop for minimal sum.

So half an hour's work and I had myself a high voltage AC supply. This thing was great. Dr Frankenstein would have been spluffing his pants just watching it in operation. It even glowed a nice shade of purple in the dark. I was especially pleased with the fact that it broke so many rules and regulations:

1 - I had no high voltage warning signs. I used to just yell to people who came in the lab to keep clear.
2 - Large quantities of ozone were generated, for which I had no extraction rigged up.
3 - I had no current limiting. Normally high voltage supplies are required to have current limiting resistors built in to prevent too much current being drawn in the case of a short to earth, mainly through the human body. I didn't bother, so this thing was totally lethal.
4 - No shielding of high tension wires. I had bare wires hanging out the end connected to my experiment. I measured the voltage at 80,000V!
5 - As for electromagnetic radiation emissions, let's just say it wouldn't have been awarded a CE mark. Didn't hear of Radio Tay going off air, but it must have been a close thing!

It also emitted a pleasing high pitched whine (it resonated at 8-9kHz) and crackled and sparked a bit from time to time.

If get the chance, I'll look it out when I get in to work tomorrow and try to get a picture of the purple glow!

EDIT: Pictures now included. Check replies.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 13:18, 17 replies)
I've mentioned it before but...
I once found a jazz mag in the woods and made paper underwear for the grls in the pictures so I could undress them at my leisure.
(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 10:22, 3 replies)
Putting the Fun in Funeral Pt3
You may or may not be aware that some years ago, I was employed by a local funeral directors in a grim market town. Apart from the titillating anecdotes to which you all have been privvy, the following acts of desperation were undertaken (sic).

1. A grieving widow, whilst viewing her husband in the chapel of rest, decided that life no longer had any meaning and she would like to follow her husband off of this mortal coil. She grabbed the nearest heavy implement, which happened to be a large earthenware candleholder, and raised it over her head, with the intention of giving herself enough cranial trauma to snuff out her candle, so to speak. The problem was she had applied rather too much handcream, and the candleholder shot backwards out of her greased palm, and connected with the back of a neighbouring mourner, knocking him into the coffin of the deceased family member to whom he was paying his last respects.

2. One young, newly employed funeral director, was taking a body to a funeral in a nearby city on his own. To avoid paying the "One person in car" surcharge on a particular stretch of highway, he placed the deceased in the passenger seat. This might not have been so bad, had he been able to bend the body's legs into the sitting position, and ended up driving along with a dead man's head poking out of the sunroof.

3. We realised with horror some hours after a particularly harrowing enterrment, that we had, in fact, buried the wrong body. Normally we'd have simply not bothered and buried the original body in the next funeral, since what the eye does not see, but the next funeral was a catholic one, and they wanted the body on show for the blessing.
In a flash of inspiration, one member of the team proclaimed he would 'deal with it'.
It was for this reason, that a negro gentleman was presented for blessing at the funeral of a white Catholic, wearing a Power-Rangers mask and yellow rubber gloves to cover our shame, because "the fire had disfigured him too much and the funeral directors didnt want to upset anyone".
One of the relatives was heard to ask "But didnt Arthur die of drowning?"
"That's why he's wearing rubber gloves" retorted another mourner.
(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:41, 7 replies)
Toilets, sunshine, hangovers and dehydration.
I was once in a group of people who were in the habit of stopping off at a moto-X course for a weekend, and driving little cars around off-road and generally having a real hoot. This used to be a "Blokey" thing, with only a few hard-core lasses turning up... and then women started to come, and then people bought frikking landrovers and caravans inated of tents.. and it all started to go tits-up.

Before too long, it had become an event that needed to be "organised" and a porta-toilet was ordered at great expense. No longer was taking the shovel up the field a valid option, and sooner or later, it became frowned upon.

One morning after spending the night on the ale my guts and body were't feeling too good. Long after sunrise and desperately in need of lettings a serious Cludgie go, I exited a foul-smelling CO2-rich tent and swayed off to the porta-toilet which - by this time - had spent 3 days in the sun. I opened the door to a smell and fly-swarm that MUST have been piped in from the cup-girls set, and I baulked. No way was I going to manage to keep my guts from exploding at both ends...

I toddled off into the morning with a small roll of bog-roll clutched tightly in one sweating hand, and vainly attempted to walk smoothly lest I should upset the growling beast that was my bowel. About half way up the hill I realised that what I needed most was a drink of water... momentarily I stopped and considered the re-percussions of returning to camp, but carried on pottering towards the woods when my sphincter was nearly overcome by a wave of hot pressure.

A few minutes after I was deep in the woods, surveying the area and getting pissed at myself for not bringing a spade... The day was still, the woods were warm, and the buzz of insects held the promise of a frustrating crap.

After a deeply agonising moment, weighing up the known blast-radius that my arse was capable of, the lack of hole and blast wall (didn't have a spade) and the predicted consistency of what was to follow.... I decided to squat on a slope, hoping that exit would be brought closer to the ground, thus narrowing the blast-zone.

After another brief moment of thought, I decided to remove my boxers, trousers and boots.. working on the theory that it was easier to clean crap off my legs.

So.. Squatting on a slope in the woods, wearing only a T-Shirt and a hung-over grimmace, I closed my eyes, concentrated on the buzzing of the insects and tried to relax my sphincter gently... I jumped as a fly landed on my ring-piece.. calmed my nerves and tried again.

The next 5 minutes are etched into my mind as a "what not to do" tutorial for the future.

The resulting flow of man-slurry exited fast, It flowed downhill at speed, and my placement of the bog-roll (infront of me) suddenly seemed less than smart. Then the smell hit me. Bouyed up by it's own heat, the stench floated upwards in the still humid air and assaulted me. Suddenly i was wretching again, and on an empty stomach I produced only bile. Gasping for breath resulted in large nasal inhalations, more wretching... for the second time of my life I was in a disasterous shit-induced positive-feedback loop. Morbid curiosity forced me to look as green bile surfed a torrent of shit, only to realise with horror what I was looking at - and the cycle would start again.

I moved - Sideways - like a shitty crab. Clutching a trees for much-needed stability I evaded the stench and rode out the rest of my bodily convulsions in relative comfort: even the flies trying to munch my ass were pleasant by comparison.

I returned to camp minus underwear and shirt: The clean-up operation had been Wardrobe-intensive. =(

I now drink less.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 12:02, 8 replies)
In with the in-crowd?
Way back when, what seems like hundreds of years ago now, there was a young boy who was desperate for acceptance.

Sure, he had friends, but for some reason he wanted to be one of the ‘cool’ kids; he wanted to sit at the back of the class. He wanted to sit at the back of the bus. Basically, if it involved being at the back of something, then that is where he wanted to be.

And the tragedy of it all is – the ‘cool’ kids knew this. And oh, did they take advantage of that fact.

A young Devil In Tights would do anything falling short of nothing for a bit of recognition. Not doing homework, deliberately getting detentions, drawing graffiti in the toilets, and cutting class. OK, looking back on it now these are hardly heinous crimes and nor are they acts of total depravity, but hey – it was my way of trying to get in with the in crowd.

One fateful day, we were queuing outside of a maths lesson, and something incredible happened. There was a party happening that weekend, and they invited me! Me, with the little Lord Fauntleroy hair and the speccy glasses. Me, the little geeky boy who actually liked English and Drama. And who should ask me but the one object of my affections (whose name shall remain nameless)! She even said, in a breathy (and what I imagine now what she thought was a sexy) drawl “don’t forget to bring a condom!”

Well that was it. I was Romeo, she was Juliet. I of the house of geekdom, she of the house of cool. And I was going to do it on her on Saturday night. Finally, I had found my calling, to unite teenagers everywhere regardless of colour, creed, sexuality or social status. I’d be hailed as a hero, no less than a God.

Oh, would that it were, Devil In Tights, would that it were.

The fateful day came. I pilfered alcohol from my parents. I snuck in to a pub and procured a pack of two prophylactics (stud!) – and I was prepared.

My heart was aflutter all the way to the party. My loins were proud and erect; there was nothing, nothing that would stop me now.

I arrive at the party to the heady tunes of Guns n’ Roses, and approach my conquest. She was beautiful to my fourteen-year-old eyes, the way she moved, and the way she smoked: I wanted her. I wanted her to make me a man. She turned to me, and offered me a drag on her Silk Cut (and by this I mean her cigarette, not her vagina). I took it proudly with my fingers, dragged some acrid tasting smoke in to my mouth, and puffed it straight back out.

Which was meant with a round of raucous laughter. “’Ow are yew menna smowke if ya dahn’t tayke it dahn?” she cackled, her cohort of Wyrd Sisters mocking me from behind her. “G’won, tayke anuvver drayg aynd ven swaller it!”

Which I did. I swallowed smoke. And then promptly coughed up a lung.

“AHH! Wot a dowzy cahnt! ‘E only fahkin’ swallered it, dinee? Wot a fahkin dikked!”

I ran, I veritably ran away from tht party, their laughter still ringing in my ears. I walked the long way to my best friends house, where we drank a can each of shitty lager, played on a computer, and I realised that the friends I had were the best ever, and what the hell was I trying to achieve by hanging out with the so-called ‘cool’ kids.

I never said this to my friends at the time, but my desperation to be seen as cool made me a total dick.

The nice end to this story is that I went back to the little backwater where my school was a few years ago. Most of the ‘cool’ kids are still hanging around there, working in dead end jobs with entire phalanxes of children swarming around them, and even though none of us are older than 28 they look haggard and old.

I met the object of my affection in a pub that weekend.

“Fark me,” she said “Iss only fahkin you, innit? ‘Ere, you turned aht awlriyt, din’t ya? Yew fayncy goin’ aht fer a drink or summink?”

“No,” I said. “No, I don’t think so.”

The moral of the story here is that the cool kids at school don’t necessarily stay cool when you grow up.

Apologies for length, but I hope it shows that sometimes desperation can teach you a few well-needed lessons.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 10:51, 9 replies)
Back during the world cup....
....i foolishly offered to be the designated driver for one of our outings to the pub. This was not a wise move on my part as the venue was some 50 miles from my house (so we could see some ex-uni mates at the same time).

So, we go. I drive. We arrive. We set foot in the pub....

....now maybe it was because i knew i couldn't drink, maybe it was beause it was forbidden, or maybe it just WAS. The atmosphere in that place was electric, no muppets, just happy, cheery, beered up football fans.

Not. Bloody. Good.

The night would be unbearable if i had to stay sober, but i also had to get home. A taxi was financially out of the question, as were the logistics of getting my car in the morning.

Hmmmm.

I wanted beer, that was all there was to it. I wasn't going to drive drunk though.

So, after much thought i went to my car, unbolted the earth strap from the inner wing, inserted a bespoke cardboard gasket crudely made from a beer mat. Re attached the lead and got pissed.

I then called the AA later that night. They couldn;t figure out why my car wouldn't start (thankfully my mechanic wasn't the sharpest, it would have been embarrasing had i got a 'time served' mechanic) so in a bid to avaid doing any work he simply lifted my car onto his truck and took me and my mates home and upon questioning my stae i simply replied...."It took you 50 minutes to get here, i'm at a pub, what did you think i'd do"

Still, it was a good night.

Fourth emergency service? You betcha.
(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 17:17, 1 reply)
This is a friend's act of desperation, but also an act of pathetic genius.
He wanted a cat. His mother didn't want a cat about the house. So he bought a kitten, and just before bringing it home he poured water all over it. Then he told her that someone had put it in a bag and thrown it in a river. She felt so sorry for the wee kitty she let him keep it.
He was 26 at the time.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 19:26, 6 replies)
The Best Cat in Christendom
For about a year, I lived in a small one-room apartment alone, with only my dear cat as company.

One terrible, terrible week, I realized that my cupboards were almost totally bare, and I wasn't going to be paid for several days. Bad for me, of course, but even worse for poor Kitty, as we were out of cat food as well.

Now, I have one bad-ass cat. He's a stray that I adopted. He's stared down Irish wolfhounds, broken through window screens to beat on every other cat within miles, survived near-fatal asthma attacks, and plays fetch. He's also a big, rumbly-purring tom that wakes me up every morning by gently licking the tip of my nose, so I am rightfully soft about him, and the idea of having him go hungry was too much to bear.

Right. Off to scrounge the cupboards, then, for the both of us. One inventory later, and the entire contents of the kitchen were laid bare on the dinette:

* Vanilla extract
* Three cans of tinned pumpkin

And that was it. So, I did what I had to: I divided a can of squash into two bowls, set one on the table, one on the floor, and called my dear cat.

He walked up, gave it a sniff, and looked at me. "Sorry, mate", I said apologetically. "That's it for the both of us." With what I can only describe as a feline shrug, kitty dug in and ate it. Three days, and both I and my cast-iron cat ate nothing but canned pumpkin.

I bought him an especially fancy tin of cat food as soon as I got paid, and although we've both had slim times since then, I've been able to keep us in cat food.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 5:16, 5 replies)
Nappies
A friend of mine told me this one....

She was on a long drive home with her baby son in the car. The expected happened and she ended up stuck in a long tail back, traffic moving very, very slowly.

Fortunately her baby had just been fed and was sleeping soundly.

Unfortunately she was desperate for a pee.

She tried thinking of other things.

She tried listening to the radio.

She tried singing along with songs.

She tried crossing her legs (no mean feat when you're trying to drive).

Eventually she gave in.

Grabbing the baby's changing bag she retrieved a clean nappy...opened it up....slipped it under her skirt, knickers aside and began to pee....

Babies nappies are designed for baby amounts of pee.

She attempted to stop the flow....

The baby was still very young and she hadn't been as diligent with her pelvic floor muscles as she should have been.


It cost £40 to get the car valeted.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 16:37, 2 replies)
Desperate?
A friend of mine works in one of the local hospitals (she's a pathologist actually, but that has no bearing on this story she told me...).

A woman in her 40s went into one of the hospitals in the Medway towns. She took with her most of her many offspring, ranging in age from late teens or early 20s all the way down to a baby in arms.

It was for the baby that she had turned up at the hospital clinic as the infant wasn't very well.

Now, I should mention that the family came from the Isle of Sheppey which is known round these parts as having some 'interesting' characters living there...not least of all the inmates of the prison.

Anyway...the woman goes into the consulting room with all the kids. The nurse starts to chat to her about what's wrong with the baby and all the kids are getting noisy and generally irritable.

The nurse asks the woman if her children can wait outside. "Yes" says the woman, "But not him" pointing to the eldest boy, "He's the baby's dad"
"Oh..." says the nurse, "I thought you were the baby's mum"
"I am"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I got confused. I thought he was your son." replies the confused nurse.
"He is."

It's a desperate place, Sheppey.
(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:43, 15 replies)
it aint half hot mum
Desperate times!! don't make me laugh, so should see my latest abode thanks to the great British army. I've taken to skiving off over to the Yanks base where they have internet access and a bloody 24hr cafe, we are lucky to get running water.
how desperate, I have to put up with the burger munching, sister shagging, red neck banjo playing battle dodging motherf**kers telling tales of their great country in order to access B3TA!!!!
make me post of the week or I'm coming over there and getting medievil on your ass!
(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:37, 1 reply)
Hanging on by the shirt tails
Not me but a FOF, fortunately. On a works do, all suited and booted, very formal. As the evening wore on they found themselves in a restaurant.
Half way through the meal he suddenly realised he was about to soil himself unless he got to a toilet rather quickly. He made his excuses and waddled off to the kazi. He just managed to get his kecks down in time, and in time honoured fashion sprayed the bowl and back-splashed his arse. he then looked around for toilet paper,but in his haste to void, he hadn't checked, and alas there was none.
He looked for alternatives, and short of using his hand, there was nothing, when an idea came to him.
He was weaing one of those shirts with an extra 'D' of material (well D on its side) at the bottom on the back. Without further ado he tore the bottom of the shirt off, carefully leaving enough to still tuck in, and liberally cleansed and refreshed.

He then chucked the torn piece of material down the pan, flushed and walked out....

Breathing an audible sigh of relief, he went to resume his place at the table. A hushed silence came over the room, and he noticed many other diners staring over his shoulder.

There, like a puppy on a leash, trailing by a few untorn and previously unnoticed threads, was the offending piece of folorn, soggy, brown, shit stained shirt.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 11:13, 2 replies)
Travelling light
I was scheduled to go on a two day business trip to Luxembourg straight from work and, wanting to travel light, figured that I could wear the very same dress two days running and simply travel with my toothbrush. I was meeting different people each day and if I was very very careful, I would get away with just the one outfit. Needless to say, I was just about to leave for London City Airport when my lunch (a cold salmon fillet) landed in my lap leaving a fatty, fish shaped imprint on my dress. Having no time to spare I pulled from the bottom of my wardrobe a long-forgotten shift dress, unworn since I had stopped going to the gym, shoved it in my handbag and sped off, smelling increasingly of salmon.

Once at the airport, I ran to the ladies, stripped the fishy item off and forced the shift dress on, my intention being to scrub off the stain in the wash basin using the toothbrush and dry the dress thoroughly with the hand drier. Even though the shift dress barely made it past my hips, due to my increased hip size, and I looked like a cheap whore, I figured that in the privacy of the ladies, I could scrub away and get the good dress clean and dry again before my flight was called.

How wrong I was. The stain proved stubbornly resistant to both elbow grease and the toxic soap that London City provided and, with 5 minutes to go before my flight closed, I hauled the sorry, fishy, dripping garment across to the hand drier. Sadly, the machine had all the force of an effete heavy breather and, as I personally was called to board, I had the stark choice of boarding the flight wearing a sopping wet dress or simply accept that I would have to fly dressed as a common prostitute. It was a desperate choice but I went down the hooker route, and stuffed the dripping dress into my bag, chucked the toothbrush away and headed out of the door. I snagged my tights (my only pair) on the way down to the gate and boarded the plane, smelling of fish, my dress 14 inches above my knees, ladders in my tights, and my handbag dripping mysteriously. Hats off to the professionalism of the Luxair staff who (hardly) batted an eyelid.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 0:31, 4 replies)
Desperate Straits
Cooking 101.

Now I know a lot of you are students and a lot of you have bugger all cash '’cos you fritter it away on tuition fees and the like but an easy way to save money, and stay healthy, is learn to fucking cook. You don't have to aspire to be a Delia, but any mong can learn to cook tasty, healthy food.

Lesson One.

You can boil almost anything. Any meat, any veg, can be cooked by boiling the fucker. It's not hard. Fill a pan with water, stick in your veg, stick it on the heat and wait for it to boil. When it does, turn the heat down a bit, cover it with a lid and wait. This method might not produce tasty food but it'll be safe to eat. (And the meat might be tough as old boots, but you can still eat it.)

Lesson 2.
Now you've mastered fire, try boiling cheap stuff. Noodles (and *not* the Bachelors Super-Noodles, or Pot Noodles) are dirt cheap - under 10p a pack in even expensive supermarkets. Empty them into boiling water (see lesson 1) and boil away. You can, if you're a chemical junkie, add the packet shit that comes with them but I wouldn't recommend it. It's far better to add your own flavours ands textures. I like to add various pulses to noodles to give them a bit more texture. Sweetcorn good as are most tinned beans. (But not baked beans 'cos that’s fucking disgusting)
Noodles cook very quickly, less than 4 minutes so it's a quick meal.

Lesson 3.
Now you've mastered noodles, try your hand at rice or pasta. Same technique, just boil it for longer. Around 20 minutes, depending on the type. And rice and pasta are again, cheap as fuck. A large bag of rice can easily last you a full term. One thing *not* to forget is to wash the rubbish after cooking. This will get rid of the excess starch and it won't stick together on your plate.

Another tip with R&P is that you can prepare it well in advance of your meal. Once cooked, drain the water off, wash it and leave it in a covered pan. When you're ready to eat it, simply boil a kettle and wash pour it over your R&P and it’ll be instantly reheated. I use a sieve but you can just do it in the pan.

The sad thing about rice and pasta is that it's utterly, utterly tasteless. You can eat it, and it'll fill you up, but my God it's boring by itself. So this brings me onto sauces.

Lesson 4.
Sauces are a piece of piss. Basically take 1 large onion (ask the girl in the supermarket to point them out to you) and chop the fucker to death. Into weeeny little pieces and then add to a large pan with a small amount of oil. I prefer olive oil but, too be honest, any oil will do. Then add lots and lots of chopped or crushed garlic. Use fresh garlic and not the powdered crap. Then turn the heat on - gently - and cook the onions and garlic until the onions start to soften. If they start to go brown or black you're using to much heat you moron. Once soft, take off the heat. Then open two tins of chopped tomatoes. Any brand will do as long as they're cheap. Expensive tinned tomatoes taste exactly the same as cheap ones so use your head. Then guess what we do now? Yup. We boil the fuck out of it. And this is the time to add the stodge to thicken it up. Don't use flour. I don't care if it's corn flour, just don't use it. Pour in about a mug full of green lentils and stir in. You can also add a couple of tins of red kidney beans and a small can of Sweetcorn if you feel the need. If you're a veggie, you can skip the next part and go straight to the spices. For real men, now's the time to add your meat.

Now pretty much any kind of meat can go in at this point. Minced beef, pork or lamb. Turkey mince, chicken - you name it, it can go in. About a pound of the cheapest meat you can get will be about right. Now stir this shit in until it's evenly distributed.

Spices. This is pretty much a guessing game that you'll get better with over time. One thing that *has* to go in is chilli. Not chilli powder but dried, crushed chilli. You can pick this up at any Asian supermarket for about a 10th of what you'll pay in a normal supermarket. And if you use the Schwarz range of spices well you're just a stupid cunt who's happy to pay waaay over the odds. How much you add is purely down to taste. How hot do you want it. I also like to add Paprika and Cardamon seeds but that’s just me.

And now you wait. About two hours on a low heat stirring about every 20-30 minutes. If it gets too thick or starts to stick, just add a small amount of cold water.

And that’s it. Enough chilli to last you a week. But for fucks sake, keep it in the fridge and keep it covered. Chilli which isn't kept in the fridge goes moldy-fungusy so fast it'll make your head spin.

And last tip. Never, ever keep cooked rice for longer than a couple of hours. There's a certain bug who's waste products (yes, shit) don't break down under heat so even if you boil the fuck out of cooked rice you can still get very, very sick.

And I've absolutely know idea why I've written all this and what the fuck it has to do with the question.

Cheers

P.S. This chilli is even better the day after than it is on the day it's cooked. It's also excellent cold.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 7:15, 29 replies)
Mashed potatoes
I was so drunk and hungry round a friends house one night, I decided to make mashed potatoes.

The problem was that I forgot to turn the gas hob off, and left a tea towel on it. Luckily the smoke woke my friend up, and he put out the fire in the kitchen, opened the window and went to bed.

I woke the next morning on the sofa, to be faced with a very angry semi-friend. (Half friend I mean, he wasn't sporting a partial erection).

"Tell me honestly, and please just for once be honest, did you or did you not drunkenly make mashed potatoes last night?"
"Honestly? No, I swear. I couldn't find any crisps so I just went to sleep".
"Right that's it, you're never coming back here again".

Sherlock had rumbled me, because:
The kitchen floor was covered in potato peelings, water, and a saucepan;
There was a trail of mashed potato from the kitchen to the sofa I was lying on;
Next to me was a bowl with mashed potaoes in;
I had a bit of mashed potato in my hair;
I was holding a potato masher.

Moral: One who is mashed, trust not with a masher. Or something.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 15:29, 1 reply)
Desperate At Xmas
Wrote this a long while back but it is kind of on topic. It's about a girl and her cat. And she was desperate for somebody to look after it.

Cheers


When I lived in Manchester I shared a flat with a girl, Marie, who had a killer cat called Ziggy. Ziggy was a fucking huge marmalade tom cat. It's the biggest cat I've ever seen. And it used to chase dogs. Loads of times I've seen it attack, jumping out from ambush, dogs walking down the deck-access to our flats.

This one year we were all going away for Xmas and Marie was desperate for someone to look after Ziggy so she begged a friend of hers, Vince to look after him.

Now Vince was guy I couldn't stand. He was a screaming queen - the type who minced and he was one of the bitchiest, nastiest people I've ever come across. I'd have happily slit his throat. And so Ziggy went to stay with Vince for the Xmas festivities and we all went our various ways.

When we got back we found out that Ziggy had been a bad cat. On Xmas day when Vince was cooking his lonely Xmas lunch (lonely because nobody apart from Marie could stand the fat cunt...) the doorbell rang so Vince, having just taken a small chicken out of the oven, went to answer it. Quick as an orange bolt of lightening Ziggy leapt up onto the worktop and grabbed the entire chicken in its mouth and legged it into the living room and under some low table to eat his spoils. Vince, seeing this started screaming at Ziggy and foolishly tried to reach under the table to try and retrieve his mangled meal. Not a good move. Ziggy had no compunction about taking on humans if the situation warranted and this one did. Letting go of the chicken he sank his teeth and front claws into the meaty part at the bottom of Vince’s thumb and quickly brought his back legs up to rip at Vince’s fore-arm. A few quick swipes and Vince’s arm was laid open to the bone and his hand was a mangled mess. Vince retreated and Ziggy was left to enjoy his dinner in peace.

Now that would have been funny enough as far as I was concerned but God had not done fucking with Vince's head yet. When Vince started to scream at Ziggy, Vince's dog thought that he’d done something wrong and because when Vince started screaming it usually meant a severe beating for the dog, it snuck up stairs in abject fear and jumped on Vince’s bed where it waited trembling for his wrath to descend. Its fear was so great that it shat and pissed itself while Vince screamed and yelled down stairs. And so Vince's Xmas was complete. No Xmas dinner, 8 hours in Casualty getting his arm stitched up and on return from hospital, a bed covered in shit and piss.

And who says there's no Father Xmas?

Cheers

Legless
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 9:35, 6 replies)
Desperation can make you inhumanly fast, it seems.
After I stopped being a dishwasher I took an even more desperate job- I worked for a seafood wholesaler. This place was a long low brick building where trucks would come filled with fish, and a long line of people (typically illegal immigrants) stood with fillet knives and cleaned fish all day. As the fish are generally not considerate enough to grow to a standard size, there was one guy whose job was to stand there all day weighing fillets and trimming chunks off the end so they could be sold to restaurants. This meant that there were these two to three ounce scraps of fresh fish sitting there- so there was also a fish fry carry-out in the front of the place, which is where I worked.

This was in a particularly nasty part of Rochester in the 1980s- in fact, I found out years later that while I was there a man named Arthur Shawcross was patrolling my neighborhood, picking up whores and killing them, then doing things to the corpses. (Google for him if you feel that you simply have to know.) But as I was a pleasant enough guy working in one of the very few places where people could easily get food of fairly decent quality at a very low price, I quickly made friends with the local characters. (Hell, I probably served Shawcross more than once.) One of these locals was a very muscular black guy about my own age named Jason who also happened to be the leader of the local gang. I didn’t know that at first- to me he was just another hungry person to be fed- and he took a liking to me for some reason. We got along very well indeed, and I would often stop to talk to him if I saw him on the street.

As I didn’t have a bank account- my income and my expenses were pretty well balanced- I used to walk to the nearest bank every Friday and cash my check. (I suspect that the tellers shuddered whenever I walked in, as I’m sure that my paycheck smelled of my workplace- god knows I certainly retained the smell myself.) I would then walk home with my pay in the left front pocket of my jeans.

One Friday as I was walking home a couple of kids, probably 13 or 14 years old, stepped out in front of me. The one on the left had a hunting knife and demanded my money.

Bear in mind that at this point I was living paycheck to paycheck and living in a really horrid little hole of an apartment with a roommate. To lose my week’s pay would have been disastrous, and it would be especially galling to lose it to two little punks.

My left arm whipped up and caught the kid’s forearm and the knife went flying, and I folded over my fingers on my right hand and did a Bruce Lee style jab as hard as I could in his throat. I jumped to my right as the other kid started to react and slammed the edge of my hand across his larynx as well, then jumped over them as they lay gagging and legged it home.

Late the following day Jason stopped by to get some fish, and he had an odd expression on his face. “Yo, ya hear the news?”

“No, what’s up?”

“Coupla kids got the shit knocked out of ‘em yesterday. They’re in the hospital with broken windpipes.” He was watching me closely as he said this.

“Huh. Sounds like maybe they messed with someone they shouldn’t have.” I said it casually, but with full eye contact.

Jason was a very smart and shrewd guy. He knew what I wasn’t saying, and nodded. “They’re part of my gang.”

“Guess you’d better make sure they know who’s who around here. Next time they might not be that lucky.”

He nodded again and smiled slightly. “Yeah… see ya around.”

I never had any troubles with anyone in that neighborhood again. Not so much because I was so feckin’ hard, mind you, but because Jason didn’t want me to be bothered.

Sometimes it’s good to be nice to random people on the street.

EDIT: I should add here that while facing a pair of young wannabe thugs with a hunting knife, I wasn't feeling like Bruce Lee- I was pretty fucking scared. Had it not been for the fact that all the money I had in the world was in the pocket of my jeans I probably wouldn't have even tried it. But panic and adrenaline can make even a slow clumsy oaf like myself move like lightning...
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 21:54, 4 replies)
Exhausted, desperate and fairly shaken I knew this was my last chance to get home so I ran headlong into the road slamming my hands onto the bonnet of the rapidly braking taxi….

The night had begun, as most do, at the beginning, with me and a couple of mates hitting the tiles for a night of booze, japery and not pulling. It was one of my first nights out in my new University town, Bristol, and I was going to make the most of it. Many many shots of vodka later and enough sugar laced caffeine to turn even the most placid of children into a fire staring ADHD granny basher.


Leaving the sticky heat of the club my friends piled into a mini cab, as they lived in a different part of town, and disappeared into the frigid October night. Inebriated, cold and alone I was pondering just how I would get home when a mini pulled up and a chap with a soft Geordie* accent enquired as to my final destination. “Home to Frenchay” I slurred, “nay bother” came the reassuring reply.

I sat back to enjoy the warmth and safety of a taxi ride home… although it didn’t quite work out like that.

After some brief dialogue with the driver it transpired that this wasn’t exactly a carriage licensed by the great city of Bristol. Never mind, me thinks it might be cheaper. It wasn’t.

As we drove through Bristol my driver took a obvious wrong turn, and when I politely mentioned this he said that he had to pick something up on the way home. Maybe he’s got to pick up the gruel rations for the orphanage I thought and I pushed it from my mind, however I was adamant that I would not pay him more than £10 stirling as that was the cost of this journey.

“No problem” he said, “why don’t you give me the money now?”

“I think I’ll wait” I replied,”Anyway I only have a 20 so do you have change”

“Of course I have change, now give me the 20”

“Not until to you show me the chan….”

“JUST GIVE ME THE FUCKING MONEY!”

I should point out that I have the fighting pedigree of a small kitten whose spirit has been crushed by overachieving siblings. I gave him the money in the hope he would merely kick be out and speed off into the night, alas no. We drove on deeper into the rabbit warren that is St. Pauls**, in due course he pulled over and with 30 seconds to chaps of African origin*** walked over and engaged my chauffeur in a brief conversion at the end of which my £20 went to them in return for what looked like a small ball of tin foil.

We pulled up around the corner, fuck knows where we were, as a nice public school boy this was not the end of town I frequented. As the car stopped an ominous clunk was emitted by all the doors and the child lock sealed my fate. The driver wasted no time in pulling out a small glass sculpture, which as it turned out was a crack pipe. He then started to hotbox the car, maybe that was why I felt relatively calm, we chatted for some time, he offered me a smoke….I declined and he gave me his life story about how he’s lost his job, his wife had left him and he was living in his car.

I’m not surprised you psycho Geordie crack head I thought. Outside however I was calm and tried to placate him and agreed that none of this was his fault, I contemplated kicking out a window, but it was cold dark and I knew that there were crack dealers just around the corner and I had know idea where I was. After a while he became, well unstable, and once more we were off around Bristol.

Now it got scary, he would alternate between crying and screaming at me, I watched the speedo as it whipped past 50, 60 even 70 miles an hour around town. We stopped at green lights and ploughed through reds. We swerved all over the road, and all the while he insisted that he was going to take me home.

Eventually we made it onto the motorway all seemed to have calmed down until my dickhead mates who had long ago got home and had a cup of cocoa decided to call and see if I was ok. Now he knows I have a phone.

I refused to give it to him, until he swerved from the outside lane to the hardshoulder at 80 mph and than back again lightly clipped the central reservation.

‘Take the phone’ I said ‘call the wife call fucking Australia for all I care just let me out here!’

People on crack can’t text and drive at the same time. How we made it my junction I’ll never know but we did. I could see the lights from my halls not ½ a mile away, unfortunately, my driver took the wrong exit off the roundabout and when I, quite politely, pointed this out he flew into a rage and conferred to me via the medium of rage and spit that he was taking me back to town.

That moment was crushing. I was so close to home, it was so near to being over.

We drove in silence all the way back to town; I have little memory of this part, due to alcohol and having had escape snatched from my aching fingers.

We arrived back in Bristol and he pulled over and opened the childlocks. I pleaded for my phone back but he refused. He was weeping openly now, sobs shook his wasted shoulders, I decided to be aggressive and shouted at him for my phone, but he reached into the footwell and produced an iron bar which he swung at me, I ducked and got out the car which accelerated around the corner.

Never have I felt so alone. It was 4:30am and there was not a single person or car anywhere, I had been in that taxi for 2 and a half hours and having held it together for that long I had little left in the tank. That’s when I saw a taxi on his way home and that’s when I was desperate enough to throw myself in front of it, risking my life for something as simple as wanting to go home.

Never get an illegal taxi by yourself, they caught the fucker but there wasn’t enough evidence. I can still remember his smell.

* Ironically I had just come back from visiting friends in Newcastle which was full of lovely Geordies.

** St. Pauls was fucking dodgy; I believe it was the crack centre of Britain at one point.

*** Not racist just painting a picture, I’m sure there are many white crack dealers as well!
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 11:59, 5 replies)
Keeping the lights off
Sometime ago I went on a date with a very nice chap. It was our first date...although we had known one another for a short while and had become good friends.

We went for a meal in a country pub...where I had three glasses of wine...those of you who know me will know that three glasses are my limit.

So, just before we're leaving I get up to go to the loo. He asks why I agreed to go on a date with him...as I stand up and walk away (swaying slightly in my high heels) I whisper in his ear, "Because you're hot"

Of course I think this is just the sexiest thing possible I can say...and off I go to the loo.

We get in his car and drive down the road...we come to a t-junction and he turns to me and says..."Your place or mine?"

I started to laugh, mainly because I didn't think anyone ever really said this....

Being the lady I am I declined to go back to his place - first date and all that....And I also said it was better if he just dropped me home.

See...I'm not desperate....so I thought....


The the wine kicked in, big time.

Inhibitions swept away...him looking at me with those big brown eyes and cheeky grin....

My skirt seems to be sliding higher and higher....

Before I know it I'm running my tongue over my fingertip, sucking it and then trailing it down my collarbone...my breathing ragged.

"No, turn right here..then left...and pull into the woods"

He drives in...stops the car in the corner of the car park and in the blink of an eye we're on each other like ravenous creatures.

Shirt buttons popping, hair pulling, hands roughly exploring, delicate lacy underwear quickly discarded and one of the most hot first dates I've ever had.

Until while sitting astride him I managed to slam into the car horn....

We start giggling....

Then we notice the other cars in the woodland car park.

The other cars are flashing their headlights at us.

We are still for a few moments...the lights go off and we decide to continue...so desperate are we both to finish....

The point of no return arrives...Headlights appear again on full beam lighting us both up in all our frenzied glory.

Then darkness and the sound of cars being driven away.

Safe.

He gets out of the car to 'adjust' his clothing ....the interior light comes on and is matched by another one in a car only a few feet away....
"Want some help mate?"


And at that moment my entire life flashed before me....

I knew the voice....and it wasn't that of my date.


I had spoken to him once or twice on the phone and plenty of times in the pub...where he's the barman.

I don't go in there anymore.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 17:13, 2 replies)
Rushing home from work...
Way back when I used to do some support work with the local police force..prior to living at the bottom of the earth. One bitterly cold winter evening while riding along on street patrol we saw the number 98 flash on the screen of our nice new radar gun. Next thing I know I have been thrown around the car as the PO does a hasty U-turn, and all nice white snow is flashing red and blue.

Eventually we catch up to the little blue salt encrusted car and it pulls over. Upon seeing the driver it is a middle aged lady looking very concerned and yelling about having to get home. After taking her information and informing her shes going to get a ticket (That was some community oriented policing for you), the officer calmed her down, and we headed back to write the citation.

After about five minutes of running her through to computer to make sure she isn't a paedophile or axe murderer, we approached the car again with the freshly written ticket only to notice all the windows had fogged up. After a knock on the window it comes down and we see a very relieved and embarassed looking middle aged lady...

then we were hit with the stentch of urine.

She was rushing home to use the toilet, and in the desperation of us stopping her she just went in her seat.

The officer destroyed the ticket after deciding that had been enough punishment.


It was cold out and im nervous about my first post...so imagine a golf pencil made of raisins.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 0:17, 3 replies)
Food
At Uni, I had shared a house with a couple of other guys and we'd all got on well for the duration of our 4 year courses. By the last term we were just tired. Not just physically, but exhausted from 4 years of work/drinking/cheap food/smoking/dissertations/11am starts/shit houses etc and the novelty had worn off. TO be honest, we were kind of looking forward to starting our careers and at least be able to eat food that contained actual calorific value and items from a price range greater than 20p.

I got home early one afternoon and settled on the knackered old sofa in the lounge. We had a great big clean patch in the middle where one of the girlfriends had pissed her self one night and slept there. Who knew ammonia could clean stuff huh? Anyway.

I heard Mark come home, via the kitchen door at the back (In Leicester, almost universally the front doors usually led to the front room which would have been a bedroom). He rattled round the kitchen and he was unaware of my presence, I could see him reflected in the door glass and he hadnt looked toward it. I watched half interestedly as he rummaged around in the enormous mess of pans, pots, cutlery, empty tins and the general mess that develops when the household agreed that washing up was only done on extremely special occasions. He was holding a tin of value Baked Beans and was looking for a pan. After a few mins he gave up and he wearily sighed and gave in to the situation, he was never going to find anything to put his beans in. Resigned to what he would have to do warm his beans, he opened the tin, and peeled off the label. He removed all the crap off the gas stove and lit a burner. He put the tin on the burner and left it to 'cook'.

Being an engineering student, Mark knew the value of time and motion studies. Not wanting to waste precious time in the kitchen/sewer he prepared dessert. Grabbing a malt fruit loaf from the cupboard, he stumbled instantly upon the next dilemma, no clean knives to spread the margarine with, or cut the loaf. A 'fruitless' search later, and Mark again, sighed and you could almost hear a the little crushing defeat inside of him. With no shame whatsoever, Mark grabbed the loaf, and forcefully dipped the it into the marg, and managed to scoop out a sizeable chunk on to the loaf.

Meanwhile the beans had boiled, a quick whisk with the handle of a (bizarrely clean) spatuala, and with the use of a tea towel to protect from the heat of a 200 degree tin of beans Mark walked in to the lounge. He stopped as he saw me and realised I'd watched the last 10 minutes activity passively. His expression motionless, he sat down next to me, arranged his food on the arm of the sofa and flicked on the cable.
There was no need to comment, we just *knew*. He remained unjudged and unashamed.

Ok not the worst student meal or anything I'm sure, but I've never forgotten the cumulative series of tiny little acts of desperation in that kitchen that day.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 15:39, 2 replies)
Repost from another Qotw
A friend in Sarajevo
It was 1992 and the country had gone to shit, there were Serb forces on the street, Mass killings, torture and rape were happening everywhere
It had been a few days since he had seen his friend who lived alone in a small apartment near the centre of the City so he took a risky visit to check up and see if he was still alive.
Food at the time was unavailable all of the shops had been looted or burned out and people were starving.
So when he arrived at the flat strangely there was a pot of meat boiling on the stove, when asked what was on the menu the guy admitted to killing his cat because there was nothing else to eat.

Desperate times indeed
(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:37, 2 replies)

This question is now closed.

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