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» Bastard Colleagues
I'm self-employed
and it's just me. Not much fun at the Christmas party I can tell you. Well, not until I have a few pints and start fancying myself.
(Thu 24th Jan 2008, 10:15, More)
I'm self-employed
and it's just me. Not much fun at the Christmas party I can tell you. Well, not until I have a few pints and start fancying myself.
(Thu 24th Jan 2008, 10:15, More)
» Karma
My Chicken Hell
You know how Tesco now have Scan-It-Yourself checkouts in certain stores? Well, I thought I'd be clever and cheat the system. You see, one Sunday Mrs Defined and myself decided on a lovely roast dinner and so off I trot to the 'Co's to purchase the ingredients; yummy potatoes, bucketfulls of fresh veg and the piece de resistance, a gorgeous organic corn fed chicken. So I gets to the diy checkout and decide I'm going to save myself a few quid. The checkout merrily bleeps away as I scan the veg, and then when I'm sure nobody's looking, I chuck the chicken in a carrier without scanning it, saving some cash to purchase booze and stuff later....
...except later, after consuming the lovely Sunday feast, I find myself not enjoying copious amounts of booze, but instead I'm throwing up my own liver out of my eyeballs as an horrific bout of food poisoning tears through my body.
I've never cheated the Tesco God since. I've learned my lesson.
(Sat 23rd Feb 2008, 19:12, More)
My Chicken Hell
You know how Tesco now have Scan-It-Yourself checkouts in certain stores? Well, I thought I'd be clever and cheat the system. You see, one Sunday Mrs Defined and myself decided on a lovely roast dinner and so off I trot to the 'Co's to purchase the ingredients; yummy potatoes, bucketfulls of fresh veg and the piece de resistance, a gorgeous organic corn fed chicken. So I gets to the diy checkout and decide I'm going to save myself a few quid. The checkout merrily bleeps away as I scan the veg, and then when I'm sure nobody's looking, I chuck the chicken in a carrier without scanning it, saving some cash to purchase booze and stuff later....
...except later, after consuming the lovely Sunday feast, I find myself not enjoying copious amounts of booze, but instead I'm throwing up my own liver out of my eyeballs as an horrific bout of food poisoning tears through my body.
I've never cheated the Tesco God since. I've learned my lesson.
(Sat 23rd Feb 2008, 19:12, More)
» Public Sex
One very drunken night...
I'm aware it's not the most original subject line but nevertheless: One very drunken night I met a reasonably attractive young lady in my local. After an agreeable conversation we trooped back to her friend's house just a few doors away. More drink was consumed and it became obvious that there was a sexual frisson in the air. Unfortunately, this lady's friend was in no way going to allow any sort of sexual bonding to take place under her roof as she was also good friends with this young lady's boyfriend. Undeterred said young lady and I jumped into a taxi and scoured Walthamstow for a hotel room in which to indulge our carnality. No rooms were forthcoming and so we ordered the driver to deposit us at Stratford where we continued our tour of possible accommodation. Once again we were fruitless in our pursuit, so we had to indulge ourselves at the back of Morrison's, next to the bins, until the arrival of a van load of seemingly migrant workers on the night shift curtailed our fumblings. Our final port of call was Stratford railway station where we squeezed into a Photo-Me photo booth and rutted like a pair of sweaty teens. Just as I blasted my mess into the gusset of her panties the curtain of the photo booth was torn back with some force and we were faced with a red-faced, furious rail inspector who demanded that we leave forthwith, as in his words, "it's a bloody railway station, not a knocking shop". Thus chastened, we tucked our slightly raw and abused equipment away, staggered out of the booth with heads held high and caught another taxi to our respective homes and partners.
We never saw each other again.
(Mon 27th Apr 2009, 15:22, More)
One very drunken night...
I'm aware it's not the most original subject line but nevertheless: One very drunken night I met a reasonably attractive young lady in my local. After an agreeable conversation we trooped back to her friend's house just a few doors away. More drink was consumed and it became obvious that there was a sexual frisson in the air. Unfortunately, this lady's friend was in no way going to allow any sort of sexual bonding to take place under her roof as she was also good friends with this young lady's boyfriend. Undeterred said young lady and I jumped into a taxi and scoured Walthamstow for a hotel room in which to indulge our carnality. No rooms were forthcoming and so we ordered the driver to deposit us at Stratford where we continued our tour of possible accommodation. Once again we were fruitless in our pursuit, so we had to indulge ourselves at the back of Morrison's, next to the bins, until the arrival of a van load of seemingly migrant workers on the night shift curtailed our fumblings. Our final port of call was Stratford railway station where we squeezed into a Photo-Me photo booth and rutted like a pair of sweaty teens. Just as I blasted my mess into the gusset of her panties the curtain of the photo booth was torn back with some force and we were faced with a red-faced, furious rail inspector who demanded that we leave forthwith, as in his words, "it's a bloody railway station, not a knocking shop". Thus chastened, we tucked our slightly raw and abused equipment away, staggered out of the booth with heads held high and caught another taxi to our respective homes and partners.
We never saw each other again.
(Mon 27th Apr 2009, 15:22, More)
» My most treasured possession
My Grampy's War Chest.
During the second world war my dear old Gramps was a chief stoker on board a ship which was blown up by the Nazis. He was temporarily blinded and recuperated in a rest home during which time he made a beautiful but simple chest which he used all his life to store documents and personal belongings. When he died back in '87 my mother stuck the chest in the garage and left it there where it slowly began to rot and get woodworm. I rescued it a few short years later and fixed it up, taking care of it. Since then it's travelled across the country with me, being the first thing I take into any new home. I'm proud of my Gramps, and even though it's just a plain wooden box I like to think that wherever the box is, Gramps is there too. I'll stop now as I'm filling up.
(Thu 8th May 2008, 13:57, More)
My Grampy's War Chest.
During the second world war my dear old Gramps was a chief stoker on board a ship which was blown up by the Nazis. He was temporarily blinded and recuperated in a rest home during which time he made a beautiful but simple chest which he used all his life to store documents and personal belongings. When he died back in '87 my mother stuck the chest in the garage and left it there where it slowly began to rot and get woodworm. I rescued it a few short years later and fixed it up, taking care of it. Since then it's travelled across the country with me, being the first thing I take into any new home. I'm proud of my Gramps, and even though it's just a plain wooden box I like to think that wherever the box is, Gramps is there too. I'll stop now as I'm filling up.
(Thu 8th May 2008, 13:57, More)
» Phobias
Cigarettes
Seriously, I cannot even hold a packet of fags, the very thought of what's inside the packet makes the bile rise. Don't know why. Worse than a whole cigarette though are fag-butts. I can't even walk barefoot on a beach in case I step on one. I have to stop now as I feel rather ill.
(Thu 17th Apr 2008, 9:51, More)
Cigarettes
Seriously, I cannot even hold a packet of fags, the very thought of what's inside the packet makes the bile rise. Don't know why. Worse than a whole cigarette though are fag-butts. I can't even walk barefoot on a beach in case I step on one. I have to stop now as I feel rather ill.
(Thu 17th Apr 2008, 9:51, More)