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Hi, there!

You have a purdy mouth.

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» Advice from Old People

Old people, wise?
Quoting the words of my grandmother,
"I don't want any of this foreign muck, let's get a curry!"

...
Sometimes, just sometimes, old people should be avoided at all costs.
(Thu 19th Jun 2008, 18:05, More)

» Crazy Relatives

My grandmother.
I'll set the scene for you. My gran is a stubborn as ever Irish lady just within her 80s, she was in her late 70s at the time of telling of this story I believe. She's not lost her marbles: she's as devious and manipulative as ever; though this doesn't stop her from being batty.. She's in hospital in the story and she has a sister.


There she was, in bed awaiting what I believe was a knee operation. Insisting that her Consultant was Betty and her Nurse Mr. Pradhan, because that is what it said on the board. Despite the numerous attempts to tell her that someone wrote it down wrong, she was having none of it.
Her 'nurse' approached her, with a board,

"-Good Morning, you're Granny_Banana, yes?

-Yes, who d'hell do you think I am?

-Good, thank you. Could I ask for your date of birth, please?

-Why the bloody hell d'ya want know that? «She snapped the words out in her usual increasingly aggressive tone»

-For Medical reasons, Granny_Banana.

-3rd June 1927.

-Do you have any next of kin?

-What do I need a bloody next of kin for? It's just me bloody knee that needs looking at!

-Please, Granny_Banana, just bear with me for the moment. Do you have a next of kin?

-Put me sister down.

-Okay, and could we please have your sister's date of birth also?

-«Granny_Banana started to look increasingly angered. The cheek of the man!» I don't know it.

-Your sister's date of birth, you don't know her date of birth?

-That's what I bloody said! How am I supposed to remember that, eh? I don't know when it is."

This went on for a while with her adamant that she did not know her sister's date of birth. By 'for a while' I mean a good day or so, before the hospital rang up her daughter (my mother) in order to find out the date of birth of her sister and to find out that this is the date of birth of her twin sister.
(Tue 10th Jul 2007, 13:39, More)

» Stupid Tourists

Lady, this is theft!
Yankie cousin comes over to Britain, she's an accountant and all is fine; we'll you'd think so wouldn't you?

Sitting around talking to her she starts going off about the money exchange. She got her money changed from dollars to pounds in Britain and the following results were in fact cringe worthy. Her words were something to the effect of,
"Lady, this is theft I gave you 500dollars I want my 500pounds."
It turns out that despite her being an accountant and the likes she couldn't comprehend exchange rates and thought that the pounds was just the British word for Dollar or something like that. No matter how hard we tried we couldn't get through to her that her economy was shit and that for her precious 500 dollars she got about 300 pounds.
And she's a relative, kill me, kill me now.
(Wed 13th Jul 2005, 9:58, More)

» My Collection

The TARDIS
I must have some form of mild OCD.
It's not necessarily collecting stuff, but just doing stuff, to almost exhaustion. I don't annoy people with it, or get obsessed with a rubik's cube for hours at a time or anything, it just means that this thing is my 'thing'. Basically I get interested in things. However this story is an example of my nature to hoard (then have huge purges, but mostly just hoard), get interested in things, not want to change things, and basically anything and everything that goes on inside my head.

The reason the story's called 'The Tardis' will come apparent later in this story of love, betrayel and revenge... sort of. Anyway, I had a locker at school, a nice red locker. I put stuff in this locker, and never took it out (I think we start to see where this is going), I must have done this for about 3 years. If I got a sheet of paper, it went in the locker, if a folder split in the locker, it stayed in the locker. Food ended up in that locker; stuff that really shouldn't even exist ended up in that locker. The locker became this wonder-structure, so intricately held together. I knew every sheet, every book that I could or could not touch without the contents of the locker spilling out alles über der platz. Eventually, just to put basic things such as folders into the locker I had to argue with it for minutes at a time. A vicious fight, yet a bout of perfect harmony; the union of man and school locker in a dance of beauty. We understood each other; we respected each other.

In short it was effectively my school collection, not an obsession with school, but seemingly an obsession with collecting stuff from my school and leaving it in my school. [Can you really blame me for wanting to leave it there?]

Anyway, the time came for some of the lockers to be emptied... they got the wrong lockers. Mine was one of the ones to go and I didn't know it. I came into school after the Summer Holidays to find my code changed, and when I managed to get the code the locker was empty. I was confused and somewhat angry. How dare they go through my locker like that, how dare they intrude upon the Frozen_Banana... my thought-map (for everyone agreed it was essentially a picture of my mind), my thought-map was gone! Well I had to go and get the stuff from my locker, in a plastic bag.
'It's there', the teacher said, pointing under a desk.
So I walked over, took the bag with my locker number and walked off.
'And the others.'
I was bewildered. The others? There's a huge black bag in my hands and he says the others? There were others, two others to be precise. A biology teacher came up to me; he seemed amazed, he had seen Doctor Who [so his words went], but he didn't know that the TARDIS was a possibility. Now he was truly happy, for he had truly seen the very laws of space-time twisted to allow three times the content of a school locker into a school locker.

Thinking about it now, it's probably why they let me do A-Level Physics. None of them were too wanky about it either.

So here concludes my story of how, through three years of on the edge insanity, I managed to drive the laws of the Universe themselves insane and create such an intricate, complex, tormented, Tetris-like creation that no University will ever accept me to do Engineering.


Also REALLY happy to see 'Reply to this thread' coming soon. Lovely to hear that our pleas are being answered.
(Thu 11th Jan 2007, 20:49, More)

» Essential Items

Not now but soon.
Stupid bloody photo ID; because I'm not an adult.

I'm lovely and 15, nice and tender... and soft... and succulant... ahem. And of course the envy of all those a few months older than me. 'Why?' I hear you ask. Well to be 15 on London Underground means that I get tickets at less than half price. How pissing delectable. Now I have come across a little problem.

Coming out of school, (a school well known for having children in it) I attempt to buy a ticket. The ticket machines no longer sells child tickets because of those pesky little Japanese tourists bulk buying child tickets. So as always I move over to the miserable old git that sells the tickets, quite a nice bloke really. Have a chat with him, he gives me my £1.40 ticket and says "Oh, by the way, from Jan 2 you'll have to have photo ID." Now already this is getting on my nerves, I have to have photo ID because it's us childrens that are obviously going to bomb London Underground. Now I can see the thing, they need photo ID for me to prove I'm not a 40 year old japanese tourist... yes that's right, looking at ME won't do the job, they need a little piece of paper to look at instead.

So let's get to the point, today (well yesterday really) I'm attempting to get home from some godforsaken end of the universe (the universe if from zone 6 north to the river). Now there's this lovely little jobsworth behind the desk thing, obviously masturbating to the power she's been given. I go up:
"I'd like a child single to **** please."
'Who's it for?'
"Uhm..." Now there are three Italian men standing behind me, getting their money ready so they can pay for their own tickets, they are essentially the only other people in the station. "me."
'Do you have photo ID?'
"Uhm, I don't need it until Jan 2, no?"
'Do you have photo ID?'
"No, can I have the ticket now please?"
'Can't give it to you.'
"Uhm... and?"
'£3.80'
"GAH? I'm a child, look at me, short and pasty, I came out here to your world, the world where the magic day star shines and now you tax me for it?"
'Don't care, 3 pounds eighty pennies.'
"I was told that I wouldn't need photo ID until Jan 2."
'No, you need it now.'
So I pay the money. And I take my overpriced piece of sodding paper and I swear alot to myself and partially to the hag who again, masturbates to the power that she's been given.

So let's look at this situation.
1. I was in NO WAY informed that I'd need that ID today, I was told on January the fucking 2nd, by more than one person.
2. The idea of public transport is that it's transport for the public. I need photo ID to be part of the public? Surely that's restricted transport, it's not public at all. What would someone from sunny Glasgow do? They'd have to smile and pay that bloody £3.80.
In conclusion today I was robbed by London underground. They suddenly change what they said to me previously with the sole intent of getting money out of me. Also this now 'public transport' is no longer public unless you're willing to pay more than you are obliged to. It says 'If you are under 16 you are obliged to cheaper tickets.' Well where the fuck are they then?

All in all I was robbed today for £2.40. I might take action, I might... WRITE A LETTER!

So the silly thing I have to carry is photo ID for no apparent reason, and only because I'm a child... fuck off.
(Fri 28th Oct 2005, 0:12, More)
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