You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Profile for Captain Placid:
Profile Info:

Beardy guitar-strumming oxygen waster. Has been known to dress in a strangely anachronistic formal manner and hurt people on a padded vinyl surface - but had to give it up due to cervical spine surgery TWICE. Partly bionic love-god with the sexual stamina of an altitude trained ox and the technique of Don Juan's better-looking brother (the one who really COULD breathe through his ears).
Oh yeah, and a slightish tendency to exaggerate.
PS
On reading my recent replies I've just realised that I've turned into my dad.



Bugger.

Recent front page messages:


none

Best answers to questions:

» Spoilt Brats

Some years ago
I had about 10 months of unemployment, back in the days of REAL recession, not this namby-pamby bankers-running out-of-cash-because-they-are-all-useless-wankers type of recession, but I digress.
I offered to assist in my local secondary school in the CDT department and jolly glad they were to have me (me being a Rolls-Royce trained toolmaker and all).
I had absolutely no trouble with the kids except one who I shall call Kevin, for that was his name.
Kevin would do no work. Not a tap. He wouldn't reply to his name on the register on purpose so he could get his mates to back him up as present when the teachers reported him as absent. Every time he was chastised his reply was "I'll tell my dad you touched me and you'll be fired, he's one of the governors" so the teachers left him alone.
One day he was farting about and saw me showing a couple of the eager students how an oxy-acetylene torch worked. He pushed his way in to the group and said "Gimme that" and tried to snatch it from me. I fended him off and said "Careful, this is hot". He started screaming "It's MY turn it's MY turn", I told him to get out of my face. He then put the same old tired line "I'll tell my dad you etc etc."
After the lesson was over I plotted with the teachers how to make him be a useful citizen (other than by culling the twat and selling his organs). Luckily I was also a governor of the school and knew his father (a decent bloke but one who spent too much time working and left the childrearing to his useless weak lump of a wife). Having primed his dad with the latest of his son's escapades I was given carte blanche to "Put the fear of God in him, if you can".
OK!
The next lesson was arranged so I'd get Kevin alone. In his typical way he'd not replied to the register, smirking all the time.
We retired to the "hot room" where all the burny things were.
Once the doors were firmly shut I turned to him with a lit gas axe in my hand and said "RIGHT YOU LITTLE SHIT, I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU, TIME TO DIE!" and pressed the extra oxygen lever, shooting a jet of flame over his head. Advancing toward the now trembling, sobbing 15 year old DNA waste I almost inaudibly whispered
"You didn't register, you're not here so I can do EXACTLY what I like to you and no-one will know".
He pissed himself in fear.
I opened the door and paraded him before his classmates.
"He's scared of the flames, somebody take him to get cleaned up".
A huge braying cheer came from his classmates (15 year olds have NO sympathy) and he was henceforth known as "Pissy Kevin". People used to flick lighters at him and throw matches to see if he'd piss himself again through the rest of his school life.

I wish I felt bad about this.



But I don't.
(Mon 13th Oct 2008, 16:09, More)

» Hotel Splendido

Scotland?! I've just remembered this
Many moons ago I had to go to the Isle of Bute in the wintertime for a very boring acoustic survey of a cheese factory (still awake?)
Well, having arrived in Largs at 9ish one cold wet night I thought I'd find a quaint little guest house to get some kip before catching the ferry the next morning.


WROOOOONG!!!!!!

I found precisely 1 place to stay, not a lot of choice but needs must etc so I went in to the bar where yet another hammer horror style silence happened, it seemed that every mutant on the west coast was assembled in the bar.
I asked the least revolting of them for the landlady, he/she/it pointed out a huge mound of crimplene-clad sweaty blubber that was chortling hysterically in the corner, probably at the physical attentions of the human weasel who was ramming a hand under her/it's dress all the while exclaiming undying love and demanding a blowjob! "Classy bird" I thought to myself.
I finally got her one good eye (from the three) to focus on me and asked for a room. She almost died from the shock of being spoken to by a human but peeled her sweaty (oh god I hope it was sweat) arse from the vinyl and, wheezing like an asthmatic walrus's uglier fatter hairier sister led me upstairs to a dark room. Putting the light on showed a very small but servicable room. Having negotiated the price down to 25.00 for bed and breakfast she waddled off with a promise to make me a sandwich to be collected at the bar. I had a shower in the very small yet strangely echoey bathroom and repaired to the bar.
It was a sight to behold when I walked in.

Walrus woman had just finished giving weasel boy a handjob.

In the bar.

With all of the locals watching.

Licking the fluids from her gargantuan hand she wandered behind the bar to hand me my sandwich.

Unwrapped.

No plate.

Same unwashed hand that had been pleasuring weasel boy not 5 minutes earlier.

I politely declined and half-ran to my room with the dreaded cry of "I can see to you later if you like" ringing in my ears.
After barricading my room door with the tv stand (no actual tv, just the stand) I fell into a fitful sleep. As is my wont, I awoke and needed a piss like a four-dicked mule so I went to the bathroom, As all men will know, having a piss first thing in the morning means working around the morning glory that is both a man's blessing and his curse, especially when desperate to pee.
I adopted the statutory "one hand on the wall behind the cistern, feet apart, 45 degrees to the floor" stance and was just letting fly whan the wall collapsed.
The wall between the guest room bathrooms was ONE layer of plasterboard held in round the edges with what looked like bath sealant. I fell through ONTO walrus woman whose bathroom was back-to-back with mine, spraying us both with water and other things from MY side and knocking her, mid shit, from her throne. Undeterred and still horrifically drunk from the night before she lay giggling on the floor like a shit-covered blubber slick.
Luckily I had a wet towel from last night's shower to clean myself up with before I packed in record time, ran downstairs, dropped 25.00 on the bar and ran like a scared little girl to the safety of my car. I have been shot at more than once, found a suspicious package with wires under a car I was about to drive, I've benn stabbed, attacked more times than I can remember but I have never been so scared in my life.

I recommended it as THE place to stay in Largs to my hated boss (the mentalist with cancer from previous posts).

I don't think he liked it.
(Mon 21st Jan 2008, 15:07, More)

» Housemates from hell

Bob's epiphany.
It has been alleged that in a shared house in Birmingham there lived four people. Two were a couple (M&F) and there were two others. One was a god bothering meek type and there was Bob (name changed to protect the guilty).
Bob was a snidey little f$ck rat who quite fancied himself as a hard man as he had been allowed to go to a football match ON HIS OWN by his mummy. As the male half of the couple was a 6'7" south african Bob decided to try his hardman act on the godbotherer who, as a result, became a recluse in his room.
Bob then tried to use mindfuck tactics on the female half of the couple. Moving and hiding stuff, breaking things deliberately, ordering stuff in her name, screwing with computers etc. As I said, a really weaselly waste of blood and organs, but nothing could be proved. The shared house was empty in December and the female housemate had to go back to her parents place as this little dick was making her life miserable.
Bob then put on the heating at max and put all the hot water taps to run FOR A MONTH while everyone was away, him included. He wasn't responsible for the gas bill and tried to blame said stunt on female housemate.His excuse every fucking time was, What's the matter, can't you take a joke"?
Female housemate's dad got involved. Female housemate's dad found out that Bob's favourite film was hostel.


Bob lost control of his bodily functions when he awoke one morning cable tied to a chair (allegedly)naked with clips attached to his genitals running to a mains socket (not actually wired in but he didn't know that). The screaming and pleading was (allegedly) a sight to behold. This turned to vomit-inducing terror when a series of power tools were paraded in front of his terrified eyes by three very large masked men in bloodstained overalls(allegedly).
Left alone in the house with one light on illuminating the countdown timer attached to the cables attached to his genitalia was (allegedly) the thing which pitched him over the edge. (allegedly)After he fainted, all was put back to normal and all evidence was totally removed. He left uni and is now clinically paranoid, terrified of the dark, won't sleep unless all the lights are on and the house is locked down and checked over and over. He'll be a chain round his useless over indulgent weak twattish parents necks for the rest of their lives, with any luck he'll top himself.


Don't fuck with my daughter Bob.
(Fri 6th Apr 2007, 10:40, More)

» Banks

How to deal with banks
I've written here a few times about my late father, the guy who was the original Captain Placid. He was a highly-trained killing machine, a lover of poetry, a very practical and innovative engineer and a thoroughly nice guy.

Unless, that is, you crossed him. Then he was truly relentless.

In the far off days when everything was done by cheque, all was rosy in the garden of my dad's bank. Being an up-to-date kinda guy, he had allowed the bank to change all of his regular payments to standing orders.

Then the bank went computerised.

Then the letters came in. One from the building society regarding the non-payment of the mortgage, one from the insurance company, one from the savings/assurance policyholders all saying the same thing "blah blah non-payment blah blah further proceedings" etc etc. Now, my dad held his financial probity and reputation as a mark of his own respectability. He always paid on time - ALWAYS and he felt that the bank had severely dented his reputation with people he'd dealt with for years and was 'miffed' to say the least.

He didn't shout or rant. Worse than that, he went quiet, a VERY bad sign for whoever was going to be on the receiving end.

He made an appointment with the bank manager and, as a 'valued customer', he was graciously granted an audience with the head office manager. He took me along (I was 14) to show me "how to deal with these vermin".

The meeting went well with the manager apologising for the 'mistake' and giving assurances that the payments would be made 'immediately'. My dad seemed mollified by this and the manager sat back smugly and asked if there was "anything else he wanted to discuss".

"Well" replied my dad in his best honeyed tones, "I'd like you to explain this statement to me, it's a bit confusing".
The manager explained the codes in the margin, my dad nodding sagely and taking notes until the last entry - a debit with the code 'SC'.
"That's a service charge" said the manager.

"WHAT THE FUCK FOR YOU SNIVELLING SHIT I'VE HAD NO SERVICE, THAT'S WHY I'M HERE" opined daddykins.
"And while I'm at it, you can close the company account (over 2 million turnover - a decent amount in 1974) immediately" handing over a letter from the MD to that effect.

I've never seen a smug bastard blanch so quickly, nor heard such grovelling in my life. Once the terror of seeing my dad angry had worn off he realised that one of the biggest customers of the bank was about to swan off to a competitor because they'd been so blase about a small customer. I'm not sure which terrified him more.

Once the shock had had chance to fully sink in my dad continued.

"Furthermore, unless you personally write to each of these companies explaining that the non-payments were entirely the bank's fault, I will sue YOU for defamation of character and, believe me, I will pursue you to the grave". As I recall the manager actually whimpered.

From that day he had a direct line to the bank's regional director and never paid another service charge.

My dad also told me that the collective noun for bankers was "A wunch". As in "A wunch of bankers".

Still true to this day.
(Thu 16th Jul 2009, 18:38, More)

» The nicest thing someone's ever done for me

Many people have done nice things for me.
But a little girl broke me up and, at the same time, made me feel better about myself as a person.

I'm a divorcee with 2 grown-up girls, I have a great G/F with a 10 yr old daughter. She's a little ray of joy, an intelligent, caring and talented pretty little thing who doesn't deserve all she's been through. She was a miracle baby for her mother after years of trying and many heartbreaking failed pregnancies. Her father is a philandering thoughtless self-centred fuckhead with all the empathy of a rabid rottweiler. To cap all that, he's a control freak who's shacked up with a loonball violent drunk.
Over the last weeks I've been going with my G/F and her daughter to see secondary schools. Her dad is pressuring her to go to a particular school, pressure she doesn't need at the moment with the 11+ and her beloved grandfather in hospital, probably for the last time.
Anyhoo, when touring the schools I've been referred to as "Dad" by the staff many times. I gently point out (out of her earshot) to the staff that I'm not actually her dad. No biggie in this age of divorce.

A couple of nights ago I was sitting watching TV (ooh, how domestic!) with her snuggled in to my not inconsiderable shoulder when she asked "Does it bother you when people think you're my dad?"
I replied "Not at all munchkin, I'd be proud to have you as my daughter".

She thought for a bit.

"Sometimes people ask if you ARE my dad, I don't like telling them you're not, 'cos I really wish you were."

I found it hard not to cry.
I feel I wasn't the best dad I could have been to my own two daughters, too self-absorbed, too angry at the world, too tied up in my own career etc etc.
This little girl with all the world on her all-too-young shoulders made me feel I CAN be a better person.

I'm filling up.

Thanks to you Emily, I AM going to be the best dad in the world, you deserve it.
(Tue 7th Oct 2008, 17:25, More)
[read all their answers]