Profile for Rsoles:
I am who I am. Old enough to know better, too young to be serious. Couldn't give a flying fuck about who I offend, but if I'm your friend, you can depend on me for life.
I have many names. I am Legion.
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I am who I am. Old enough to know better, too young to be serious. Couldn't give a flying fuck about who I offend, but if I'm your friend, you can depend on me for life.
I have many names. I am Legion.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» School Trips
Anal Yodelling.
About 5 years ago I did a job, a conference, in a very quiet off-season Swiss resort.
The venue was a huge hall jutting out from a hostel type place, on stilts, containing 4 indoor tennis courts with a glass wall at one end giving a spectacular view of the Alpine scenery. Concerned about the acoustics of such a hangar-sized building , myself and a colleague strolled in to find that the place had been taken over by a large party of rowdy French schoolkids aged about 10-12. They were hanging out of their dorm windows, shouting, fighting, throwing bags at each other, totally Sunny D’d .
Reaching the centre of that cavern, 2 courts in, we realised it was an acoustic nightmare.
Needing to think and wanting to silence the French ADHD party, I bellowed “Hey!!! Ecoutez!” at them. Instantly, they all fell completely silent, stopped in mid-pillow fight and turned to face us. At that point, I struck the pose, cocked my leg, and kick started my imaginary motorbike, unleashing the longest drawn-out sheet tearing rip-snorting fart I have ever done. It was audio perfection, changed pitch mid-way, and I swear it bounced off the mountains and reverberated round that hall for about 10 seconds, I couldn’t believe such a beast had emanated from my very own dirtbox. Lifting off the pedal before I drew mud, I turned to face the schoolkids and took a bow. There was absolute, perfect silence for just a split-second before they (and us) erupted in screams of laughter. Picking ourselves up, literally, we left the building with them still howling.
For the rest of the week whenever we happened across the party of French kids in their class gatherings, all you could hear were them making loud farting noises prompting their teachers/handlers to go completely mental trying to restore order. They obviously had no clue as to why the appearance of these Englishmen triggered total mayhem from their little charges.
I like to think that they all went home and wrote essays about the Incredible English Anal Yodeller (and his astounded colleague)
(Mon 11th Dec 2006, 22:39, More)
Anal Yodelling.
About 5 years ago I did a job, a conference, in a very quiet off-season Swiss resort.
The venue was a huge hall jutting out from a hostel type place, on stilts, containing 4 indoor tennis courts with a glass wall at one end giving a spectacular view of the Alpine scenery. Concerned about the acoustics of such a hangar-sized building , myself and a colleague strolled in to find that the place had been taken over by a large party of rowdy French schoolkids aged about 10-12. They were hanging out of their dorm windows, shouting, fighting, throwing bags at each other, totally Sunny D’d .
Reaching the centre of that cavern, 2 courts in, we realised it was an acoustic nightmare.
Needing to think and wanting to silence the French ADHD party, I bellowed “Hey!!! Ecoutez!” at them. Instantly, they all fell completely silent, stopped in mid-pillow fight and turned to face us. At that point, I struck the pose, cocked my leg, and kick started my imaginary motorbike, unleashing the longest drawn-out sheet tearing rip-snorting fart I have ever done. It was audio perfection, changed pitch mid-way, and I swear it bounced off the mountains and reverberated round that hall for about 10 seconds, I couldn’t believe such a beast had emanated from my very own dirtbox. Lifting off the pedal before I drew mud, I turned to face the schoolkids and took a bow. There was absolute, perfect silence for just a split-second before they (and us) erupted in screams of laughter. Picking ourselves up, literally, we left the building with them still howling.
For the rest of the week whenever we happened across the party of French kids in their class gatherings, all you could hear were them making loud farting noises prompting their teachers/handlers to go completely mental trying to restore order. They obviously had no clue as to why the appearance of these Englishmen triggered total mayhem from their little charges.
I like to think that they all went home and wrote essays about the Incredible English Anal Yodeller (and his astounded colleague)
(Mon 11th Dec 2006, 22:39, More)
» Road Rage
Light relief (prefer hand relief though)
2 motors approaching each other down a long straight piece of unlit road, late one evening, apres pub. I am an innocent passenger in one vehicle, a cock-cheese flavoured Land Rover covered in spots, beacons and aeriels etc.
Other car has slight headlight alignment problems, perhaps a little high.
My driver: "Bastard, I'm not having that" flips on his main beam.
Other driver retaliates.
My driver : "Bastard, have a bit of this then" flips on fog lights.
Other driver retaliates
My driver : "Bastard, OK, how about a taste of these beauties then" flips on roof spots.
Other driver must have some too because more lights come on from his side.
By now my retinas are scorched and little creatures are emerging from their burrows, thinking it's morning.
My driver : "Absolute bastard, last chance." flips on revolving orange beacons and strobes on roof. It's like something out of Close Encounters by now.
Other driver retaliates. Only his beacons are blue.
My driver : "Oh dear" (Or words to that effect)
(Tue 17th Oct 2006, 14:10, More)
Light relief (prefer hand relief though)
2 motors approaching each other down a long straight piece of unlit road, late one evening, apres pub. I am an innocent passenger in one vehicle, a cock-cheese flavoured Land Rover covered in spots, beacons and aeriels etc.
Other car has slight headlight alignment problems, perhaps a little high.
My driver: "Bastard, I'm not having that" flips on his main beam.
Other driver retaliates.
My driver : "Bastard, have a bit of this then" flips on fog lights.
Other driver retaliates
My driver : "Bastard, OK, how about a taste of these beauties then" flips on roof spots.
Other driver must have some too because more lights come on from his side.
By now my retinas are scorched and little creatures are emerging from their burrows, thinking it's morning.
My driver : "Absolute bastard, last chance." flips on revolving orange beacons and strobes on roof. It's like something out of Close Encounters by now.
Other driver retaliates. Only his beacons are blue.
My driver : "Oh dear" (Or words to that effect)
(Tue 17th Oct 2006, 14:10, More)
» Shit Stories: Part Number Two
Ocean spawning.
As a geezer, I’m never going to experience the joy of giving birth, but last Summer I had a pretty good taste of it.
September, a very quiet Greek beach, miles from anywhere, and the urge to purge is upon me. Now I had picked a spot to spend the day at the foot of some cliffs and there was no fucking way I was climbing back up, leaving my kit on the beach, picking my way through the minefield of gorse bushes to find a clear spot to lay the cable. No, sod that.
Similarly, there was no way I could unleash it on the beach itself, there were about a dozen people dotted about, so I’d have to search for a suitable place, but I didn’t particularly want to pollute that fantastic sandy area..
So what to do?
Weeeeell, I decided to go for a swim and think about it, which was where I had the fantastic idea of “tagging a Loggerhead”. I swam up and down for a bit, in front of my bit of beach, checking out how far away the neighbours were, how much attention they were paying etc, before rolling on to my back and doing the deed (thankfully I was doing the nudist thing, so had no trunks to wrestle with).
They say that dolphins and humans may have evolved from a common ancestor, a theory to which I now subscribe following the way I gracefully expelled the stool whilst in the water, truly magical, just like the timeless miracle of birth. I could imagine David Attenborough, whispering in awe at the spectacle he would have witnessed, had his camera crew been in attendance.
Which is why I started laughing.
Now, together, laughing and swimming in the sea are not to be recommended, it kind of interferes with your breathing. Which makes you choke, which makes you splash about a bit…….which makes the whole fucking beach look up from their paperback to see exactly WTF is going on.
Couple this with the fact that my new-born was reluctant to leave and find its own way in life,it must have looked like I was being attacked by a sea-lion. Well, it felt like that, anyhow, as I shooed it away, flailing at it with my feet and trying to swim casually back into the shallows.
Reaching safety, I triumphantly turned to sit on a rock….only to find the bastard had followed me.
Not wishing this Exxon Valdez of a steamer to wash up on the shore, I had to swim back out, sloshing water to push it ahead because I didn’t want to handle it. (Just like a young bird, fallen from the nest, touch it and you can’t return it to the wild, it will be rejected)
Some way out I managed to give it the slip whilst it was distracted and headed back inshore.
I sat in the shallows in a patch of seaweed, slyly wiping up with this handy natural alternative to Andrex, giggling to myself again, before heroically striding up the beach, knackers a-swinging. I really thought those German chicks were impressed with my tackle, they were agog, I’d dry off and make my move.
Which is when I discovered I had a long Godzilla tail of kelp dangling from my arse.
(Mon 31st Mar 2008, 15:35, More)
Ocean spawning.
As a geezer, I’m never going to experience the joy of giving birth, but last Summer I had a pretty good taste of it.
September, a very quiet Greek beach, miles from anywhere, and the urge to purge is upon me. Now I had picked a spot to spend the day at the foot of some cliffs and there was no fucking way I was climbing back up, leaving my kit on the beach, picking my way through the minefield of gorse bushes to find a clear spot to lay the cable. No, sod that.
Similarly, there was no way I could unleash it on the beach itself, there were about a dozen people dotted about, so I’d have to search for a suitable place, but I didn’t particularly want to pollute that fantastic sandy area..
So what to do?
Weeeeell, I decided to go for a swim and think about it, which was where I had the fantastic idea of “tagging a Loggerhead”. I swam up and down for a bit, in front of my bit of beach, checking out how far away the neighbours were, how much attention they were paying etc, before rolling on to my back and doing the deed (thankfully I was doing the nudist thing, so had no trunks to wrestle with).
They say that dolphins and humans may have evolved from a common ancestor, a theory to which I now subscribe following the way I gracefully expelled the stool whilst in the water, truly magical, just like the timeless miracle of birth. I could imagine David Attenborough, whispering in awe at the spectacle he would have witnessed, had his camera crew been in attendance.
Which is why I started laughing.
Now, together, laughing and swimming in the sea are not to be recommended, it kind of interferes with your breathing. Which makes you choke, which makes you splash about a bit…….which makes the whole fucking beach look up from their paperback to see exactly WTF is going on.
Couple this with the fact that my new-born was reluctant to leave and find its own way in life,it must have looked like I was being attacked by a sea-lion. Well, it felt like that, anyhow, as I shooed it away, flailing at it with my feet and trying to swim casually back into the shallows.
Reaching safety, I triumphantly turned to sit on a rock….only to find the bastard had followed me.
Not wishing this Exxon Valdez of a steamer to wash up on the shore, I had to swim back out, sloshing water to push it ahead because I didn’t want to handle it. (Just like a young bird, fallen from the nest, touch it and you can’t return it to the wild, it will be rejected)
Some way out I managed to give it the slip whilst it was distracted and headed back inshore.
I sat in the shallows in a patch of seaweed, slyly wiping up with this handy natural alternative to Andrex, giggling to myself again, before heroically striding up the beach, knackers a-swinging. I really thought those German chicks were impressed with my tackle, they were agog, I’d dry off and make my move.
Which is when I discovered I had a long Godzilla tail of kelp dangling from my arse.
(Mon 31st Mar 2008, 15:35, More)
» The Police II
Klunk Klick,, you stupid prick
This is possibly a pearoast, I know I've posted it somewhere....
OK, picture the scene:
My mate Gormless Graham sitting in his old Bedford van at the traffic lights, waiting to turn left. Next to him waiting to turn right, is a Jam Sandwich.
Graham looks down into the police car, to see the policeman in the passenger seat looking up at him, expressionless face, mirror shades, like the cop from Terminator 2.
The policeman sits there for a moment then to Graham’s astonishment, does a rude hand gesture, implying Graham is, well, a wanker.
Graham, startled, looks ahead.
“No way. NO WAY. That copper just did the wanker sign at me! Surely not?”
He looks back down.
The cop is still looking up, and still gesturing long slow monkey-spanking strokes with his right hand in Graham’s direction.
“Shee-it, he’s definitely doing it, he’s definitely calling me a wanker” thinks our Gra.
At that moment, the lights change.
Graham sees his chance, leans out of the van (those old Bedfords had sliding doors) and sticks his Vs up at the policeman, screams “Fuck You” and guns it into the turning. Ha, that showed him.
Seconds later, the inevitable siren as the patrol car hammered up behind him, having done a quick about-turn.
Graham, shaken at being insulted by a strange cop who then has the temerity to chase him when he retaliates, pulls over immediately.
“OK sir, why exactly did you feel it was necessary for that little outburst at the lights?” began the exasperated Mr Plod
“You started it”
“I beg your pardon sir, I did nothing of the sort.”
“You did. I was sitting there happily minding my own business, then you looked up and started making hand signals calling me a wanker.”
The cop thought about this for a second and said softly
“Sir, I was trying to tell you to put your seat belt on.”
Do the actions, then you can see Graham's point.
(Fri 6th May 2011, 21:26, More)
Klunk Klick,, you stupid prick
This is possibly a pearoast, I know I've posted it somewhere....
OK, picture the scene:
My mate Gormless Graham sitting in his old Bedford van at the traffic lights, waiting to turn left. Next to him waiting to turn right, is a Jam Sandwich.
Graham looks down into the police car, to see the policeman in the passenger seat looking up at him, expressionless face, mirror shades, like the cop from Terminator 2.
The policeman sits there for a moment then to Graham’s astonishment, does a rude hand gesture, implying Graham is, well, a wanker.
Graham, startled, looks ahead.
“No way. NO WAY. That copper just did the wanker sign at me! Surely not?”
He looks back down.
The cop is still looking up, and still gesturing long slow monkey-spanking strokes with his right hand in Graham’s direction.
“Shee-it, he’s definitely doing it, he’s definitely calling me a wanker” thinks our Gra.
At that moment, the lights change.
Graham sees his chance, leans out of the van (those old Bedfords had sliding doors) and sticks his Vs up at the policeman, screams “Fuck You” and guns it into the turning. Ha, that showed him.
Seconds later, the inevitable siren as the patrol car hammered up behind him, having done a quick about-turn.
Graham, shaken at being insulted by a strange cop who then has the temerity to chase him when he retaliates, pulls over immediately.
“OK sir, why exactly did you feel it was necessary for that little outburst at the lights?” began the exasperated Mr Plod
“You started it”
“I beg your pardon sir, I did nothing of the sort.”
“You did. I was sitting there happily minding my own business, then you looked up and started making hand signals calling me a wanker.”
The cop thought about this for a second and said softly
“Sir, I was trying to tell you to put your seat belt on.”
Do the actions, then you can see Graham's point.
(Fri 6th May 2011, 21:26, More)
» Evil Pranks
GCO MC
My brother is a big bad tattooed biker, and had organised a rally in a field by a local boozer. Bands booked, tickets on sale, everything dandy...... then I decide to intervene.
This was back in the days before the interweb and computers were everywhere, so I got my Ma to type up a super professional-looking letter from a gay motorcycle club who had apparently inadvertantly been double-booked at the same venue.
Explaining that it would be absolutely spiffing if they could combine the two rallies, I outlined plans for a "Bristliest Moustache" contest, along with "Mr Wet Y-Fronts" and "Big Bunch of Keys" contest.
I layed on thick the innuendo, you know, standard stuff, asking for prizes for the abovementioned contests to be things like "a good ride on a big chopper" etc.
Finishing by asking for 50 tickets in advance, complete with a "jokey" question about who to shag for a discount, I lit the blue touch-paper and retired to a safe distance.
Well, to say bro was unamused is to understate things slightly. His business partner took one look at the letter and decided he was having nothing more to do with it, despite plenty of tickets sold. Bro was incandescent with rage, his meticulously planned beerathon would be ruined as soon as the first pair of backless leather trousers minced into view. (Chaps? Ooh, yes, I'll say!)
He knew disaster loomed, no-one was going to simply shrug it off and welcome the GCO MC (Gays Coming Out Motorcycle Club) into their fold, it would interrupt the axe throwing competition. Fucking hell, who is going to want to go to the "camp site"? That's it, cancel it!!!
It was only after my parents stopped laughing long enough to point out that the letter was signed by a P McCracken, could it possibly be Phil? Maybe the whole thing might be a prank? With that, but not totally convinced, he calmed down a bit.
I spent that whole weekend interrupting him and telling him a beefy bloke with a huge moustache on a pink motorbike was asking for him at the gate - he went white every single time.
The best of it is that to this day he is still unaware I am the culprit, because I had managed to keep a straight face when quizzed about the origins of the letter. He hasn't organised any more rallies though. Ho hum!
(Mon 17th Dec 2007, 13:44, More)
GCO MC
My brother is a big bad tattooed biker, and had organised a rally in a field by a local boozer. Bands booked, tickets on sale, everything dandy...... then I decide to intervene.
This was back in the days before the interweb and computers were everywhere, so I got my Ma to type up a super professional-looking letter from a gay motorcycle club who had apparently inadvertantly been double-booked at the same venue.
Explaining that it would be absolutely spiffing if they could combine the two rallies, I outlined plans for a "Bristliest Moustache" contest, along with "Mr Wet Y-Fronts" and "Big Bunch of Keys" contest.
I layed on thick the innuendo, you know, standard stuff, asking for prizes for the abovementioned contests to be things like "a good ride on a big chopper" etc.
Finishing by asking for 50 tickets in advance, complete with a "jokey" question about who to shag for a discount, I lit the blue touch-paper and retired to a safe distance.
Well, to say bro was unamused is to understate things slightly. His business partner took one look at the letter and decided he was having nothing more to do with it, despite plenty of tickets sold. Bro was incandescent with rage, his meticulously planned beerathon would be ruined as soon as the first pair of backless leather trousers minced into view. (Chaps? Ooh, yes, I'll say!)
He knew disaster loomed, no-one was going to simply shrug it off and welcome the GCO MC (Gays Coming Out Motorcycle Club) into their fold, it would interrupt the axe throwing competition. Fucking hell, who is going to want to go to the "camp site"? That's it, cancel it!!!
It was only after my parents stopped laughing long enough to point out that the letter was signed by a P McCracken, could it possibly be Phil? Maybe the whole thing might be a prank? With that, but not totally convinced, he calmed down a bit.
I spent that whole weekend interrupting him and telling him a beefy bloke with a huge moustache on a pink motorbike was asking for him at the gate - he went white every single time.
The best of it is that to this day he is still unaware I am the culprit, because I had managed to keep a straight face when quizzed about the origins of the letter. He hasn't organised any more rallies though. Ho hum!
(Mon 17th Dec 2007, 13:44, More)