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Profile for osok:
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Thirty something bloke. Jockanese by birth, but the years amongst the heathens have diluted the accent enough to pass for a soft Southern Puff. Married, 2 kids and cunningly disguised as a responsible adult.

In the motor trade, great place for a Marine Biologist. Recently redundant and not in a very good mood. And has just re-entered gainful employment after three months. Woo.

Likes: silly sports, Simpsons, Scotch, shooting stuff, some other stuff beginning with S.

Dislikes: maturity, anyone who can't remember the Sex Pistols. (Unless they are female, pert and so demented that they might do the naughty thing with grumpy old gits like me)

Despite all evidence, does not read the Daily Mail.

And once offered to skydive in a French Maid's outfit for charidee. This offer, strangely enough, was refused, with the sound of muffled retching.

Favourite bumper sticker: "Honk if you've never seen an Uzi fired out of a car window"

Recent front page messages:


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Best answers to questions:

» Accidental animal cruelty

This one was accidental, honest
Back in my teens we were the proud(ish) owners of an abso-frigging-lutely huge BFO tomcat - he had had his spuds lopped but quite late, so he was built like a bulldog but was reasonably chilled out.

Bear in mind this cat had taken been hit by cars twice (we lived on a main road and he used to go and sit on the white line to watch the pretty traffic as a hobby), had acid gunk dropped on him when he broke into a building site, fought, killed and eaten almost every species of mammal resident in the UK and even fought a deathmatch with me over custody of the pet rabbit.... this was a take-no-prisoners blokey cat. With absolutely no sense of humour whatsoever. The vet wouldn't examine his teeth without a general anaesthetic, this was how hard this cat was in his prime. Think Greebo but in black.

Did I mention the lack of sense of humour? Good.

Now at the time we also had a tank of goldfish of various wierd shapes and colours. All the bits, nice rocks, plants etc to keep their tiny fishy brains amused. Said tank being placed on a deep windowsill - looked luvverly. Now you would think that this is going to lead to a tale of fish slaughter, but no.

Monster mog had discovered that the strip light in the lid of the tank made a pleasant warm spot where he could lurk at his ease, looking out of the window in case a deer wandered past that he could savage (about the only one he never got). The lid did buckle a bit under his impressive musclely bulk, but hey ho. Truce between cat/fishies.

Now the only way for him to get to his perch was to jump onto the seat, then the back of a big armchair just below, and then launch himself with the grace and charm of a gutshot warthog onto the tank. Once the fish had stopped vibrating, all would be calm except for occasional burping and/or purring.

So, if for example you are cleaning said tank and have wandered off to have a fag break or summat, leaving the lid off and the chair pushed back a couple of feet for access and wander back to find said puddy spread-eagled across the tank (fair play to him, he had managed to get 3 paws and one chin onto the edges) like a hairy starfish... do you (a) rescue your beloved obese pal with no delay or (b) laugh hysterically for some time and allegedly prod him up the bum to see if he'll fall in properly.

Don't think he ever forgave me. Sorry Tinker.
(Thu 6th Dec 2007, 13:05, More)

» Evil Pranks

Wabbit! Eeeek!
A few years back, I was working in the wilds of North Wales, at an old fashioned car dealership. Everyone had been there for years, there were people who had only ever worked there since leaving school, that sort of place. There was a cute young girlie working there in a sort of ‘spare bod’ capacity. Enthusiastic, hardworking, conscientious and naïve. Definitely not the sort of person to expose to me, especially as she was based just outside my office. Mwahahahaha…

Chatting generally as you do, she found out that on occasion I went out and attempted to shoot inoffensive fluffy animals and then eat them. Cue much ‘Ewwwwww’ from the McDonald scoffing bint. SO for a while I would now and then attempt to gross her out with tales of my hunter-gatherer prowess. A customer had even left a shotgun cartridge in a courtesy car (no biggie, ‘twas a rural business) and she had given it to me. Naturally I inscribed it with the motto “xxxx’s bunny murder” or similar and informed her that next time I went out bunny-blatting I would knock one over for her, in graphic detail.

Time passes. I get an invite to spend the weekend in a veritable orgy of missing rabbits at close range and swearing. So, on the Friday, I skew the conversation around to organic food (she’s all in favour) and how the most organic thing you could eat was wild food. I promise faithfully to bring back an ex-bunny, so she could enter the world of the true carnivore. Slightly worried now, and a little green, she leaves for the weekend, glancing nervously over her shoulder at my no doubt demonic grin as I casually hold up ‘her’ cartridge.

Monday morning. She bounces in, all bright-eyed and bushy tailed, to find that I have for once turned up on time. With a cheery greeting she trots over to her desk… to find a pair of rabbit ears sticking out of a tesco carrier bag that quite obviously contains a deceased flopsy. I’ve never actually heard anyone scream at such a pitch that only dogs could hear it before, although a car alarm did go off and I believe she may have wet herself slightly before barricading herself in the ladies.

After dispatching a female to entice her out, trembling and gibbering slightly, and with the title of ‘COMPLETE BASTARD’ once again honourably earned, I present her with her rabbit.

£4.99. Toys ‘R’ Us.

I’d been clay pigeon shooting.
(Thu 13th Dec 2007, 15:33, More)

» Bastard Colleagues

'Kevin from Sales'. A Ballad.
Before any B3tans who happen to share the name start sharpening the scythes, this isn't specific to any Kevin. In fact, before the ladies start organising howling lynch mobs it also applies to 'Sandra from Sales' but I work in what is still a male dominated industry. Sorry.

The basic ingredients required by what I am convinced is a super-secret bio-engineering lab in a bunker under the Pyrenees are as follows:

Personality, lack of. Check.
Pale/skinny or pale/obese. Check.
Complexion resembling a cross between an extra pepperoni deep dish/explosion in abbatoir. Check.
If female, makeup so thick that it would act as rudimentary body armour if a shotgun was fired at close range. Check.
Inability to use basic English. Check.
Umbilical cord connecting them to mobile. Check.
'Business Attire' comprising a suit with such a high percentage of artificial fibres that small sparks are spontaneously generated and may in fact be hazardous in times of drought. Check.

The assembled herd of Sales Trainees are then shoved into an overheated chicken shed, and given their 'training'.They are not allowed natural sunlight or fresh air as they may explode spontaneously.

They then meet the 'Training Team'. This usually comprises of an orange faced Kilroy-Silk clone suffering the after-effects of 20 years of cocaine abuse, usually on at least his sixth marriage, second heart, and third liver. Likes to talk about his kids but is in fact not allowed to see them by law unless monitored by security staff. His sidekick (used to do the OHP acetates until Powerpoint came along and now stares vacantly until either brainless clapping or brainless repeating of the 'buzzword' is required): she is single, primarily as she resembles Jabba the Hutt on a bad hair day, is slavishly loyal to her boss, and would gladly cut off a major body part to get his perma-tanned floppy bits into her rancid Travel Hell room. And to be fair, that's probably the only weight loss that is even a faint possibility.

The terrible two, usually 'consultants' from ABC Brainwashing & Incitement to Bollocks plc, will then warp and twist the precious little (and I do mean little) brains of Kevin and Sandra until they can only communicate in Sales Scripts. They actually believe, people, with the fervency of the congregation at a Southern Baptist Church. Think of the church scene in the Blues Brothers. That's how much they believe in 'the message'. They've role-played until in their minds they are actually a 41 year old sales prospect from Solihull called Agnes. They know in their teenage hearts that they are only 80% warranty penetration away from the Ferrari and the Villa.

And then they let them loose. Tremble and Despair, Joe Public because they are out there....

To be fair, I've managed to avoid employing too many of these. However, you try and buy a big electrical thing, or a car from a 'supermarket'...

Firstly, you need to get within 50 yards of the thingy that you may at some stage consider purchasing without Kevin polyester-ing up to you in a cloud of static. Instead of saying "hello, can I help" and then bogging off when told that you are just having a fly shufti and will give him a yodel when his pustulent presence is required, he'll go into the dreaded 'features and benefits' presentation.

Now you're buggered. There is no way that you can escape now that the Script of Sales Doom has started, short of physical assault, pouring petrol over yourself and fingering your lighter with a manic smile, or pretending to be Greek.

Any attempt at communication that does not come from the script will naturally be met with a slack-jawed "I dunno, I'll have to ask".

If you are male and looking at a car, even if it is for your female companion, and even if she is asking the questions, Kevin will direct his replies to you. Unless she is well equipped by the Almightly (or Dr Feelgood) with impressive Norkage, in which case will mumble at the male while fixing his basilisk-like gaze on the mammary goodness.

If you do manage to get rid of Kevin for 5 minutes, often by the threat or use of insane amounts of red-mist drooling rage and/or violence, don't breathe easily, folks. Because the Sales Manager, Darren lets call him, has been on a course. On how to manage the 'structured 8 point selling plan for success or some such'. And Darren (call me Daz) will send Kevin/Sandra (call me legitimate target) straight back out. If you fail in that instant to agree to buy, then you may get Daz striding over, pretending that you are ever-so-important by being allowed to inhale his stench of stale Lambert& Butler and Lynx.

He will then go for the 'hard close'.

When you've finished laughing at the smartly suited buffoon, you can leave, happy in the knowledge that he'll sink an extra pint of rancid Stella that night, worrying if his 100% sales-godness has been dented a bit. And if we're lucky, he'll pile the company car over a cliff on the way home, to die slowly of bloodloss while being slowly eaten by assorted rodents.

But never fear, that means there is a vacancy for Kevin to become..........a Manager.

All is lost.
(Mon 28th Jan 2008, 14:48, More)

» Karma

Teenage Pert Lovelies
When I was a mere stripling in the late 80s, I was a typical male teenager, in that if it was remotely female, had a pulse or was at least still warm, I'd be after it. The phrase 'rat up a drainpipe' applied.

I was a hormone-addled wretch, letching over any unfortunate female unlucky enough to come within a 30 meter radius. And this was the days before reliable access to decent porn, and waaaay before t'internet (yes kids there was such a time).

Skip forward to university, and I was still a keen student of the beauties of the female form. Although I never strayed if I was in some form of relationship (and believe me'some form of' describes most of them) unlike one particular lady who fucked with my head good and proper for three years, I would still have a look.

Skip forward to literally the very end of University, and I met the future Mrs Osok. Despite her talons being firmly wrapped around my scarred and ossified heart, I was away for the summer, letching away. Once her term had resumed, I was an occasional visitor to an all female Hall, with obligatory perving.

For the next 5 (yes bloody five, I'd have got less time if I'd shot her)years we were weekend lurrrvers as she studied, post-gradded and entered work. I 'enjoyed' a succession of crap jobs and watched any vestige of a career gurgle noisily down the plughole. Still perving, natch, but that doesn't make me a bad person as we were 250 miles apart.

Eventually I agree to move from the other end of the country, and we get hitched. By this time t'internet had arrived, and the occasional viewing of 'artistic' sites was pretty much a given.

Sooo, we get to a point where as a 'completely stable' idiot cunningly disguised as a responsible adult, I still play 'Rate the Arse' while going around Sainsburys (less than ten points per visit and it's a bad day).

What's that? Oh, Karma.


The thing is,


I've got a baby daughter.

A beautiful, beautiful baby daughter.

With HUGE blue eyes.

Who is already an accomplished flirt with any bloke she claps eyes on. Even the window cleaner agrees.

I've got to spend the next couple of decades on the alert for all those filthy bastards out there who will want to do to my daughter exactly what I spent so much time and effort attempting to do to someone else's.

Bugger.


Bugger, Bugger, Bugger, Bugger.

I've been practicing 'Scary Dad' routines already (she's 15 months old, get a grip you shout) but am becoming a gibbering wreck at the prospect.

Anyone know of a good nunnery, preferably with very big guard dogs or at least extremely hirsute nuns?
(Fri 22nd Feb 2008, 13:42, More)

» Evil Pranks

Details have been changed to protect the guilty
Not me, but I’ll tell you the tale anyway.

Many years ago, the British Army were issued new rifles. Gone were the old SLR ‘Elephant Guns’ and in came the shiny new SA80 plastic things. Not the most reliable bit of kit in the world, but that’s another tale. So the rifles are now largely plastic to look at as most of the barrel is hidden. Some years later....

Going on exercise means getting cold, wet and muddy. So at some point you have to get your kit cleaned before you are allowed to piss off after your weekend exercise.

Now a certain genius in this unit reasoned thus: “I will buy one of the AirSoft SA80 jobbies that weighs a fraction of the real thing, but looks identical, carry it around all weekend on this non-firing exercise, and then I can hand my unused completely clean weapon back into the armoury and leg it”.

Cunning stunt eh? Easy weekend and early knock-off.

Now there was in this unit an NCO who apparently was of the opinion that our hero was not his favourite soldier. On his case all the time for the slightest of infractions, in fact he was pretty much universally disliked by the ranks.

Post exercise, he is necking a relaxing pint in the Mess when our hero bursts in with his apparently loaded SA80 screaming “you’re going to die you bastard!”

The NCO then spends approx 5 minutes literally begging for his life as our crazed hero points the weapon between his eyes.

The assembled throng is silent, convinced that any second the room will be decorated in Dulux Brainmatter Emulsion.

Finally our hero gently squeezes the trigger, slowly taking up the pressure while maintaining demented eye contact with the doomed NCO….





“Ping”


A small orange plastic BB bounces off his forehead.

This is not an advisable route to promotion.
(Thu 13th Dec 2007, 16:23, More)
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