» Cheap Tat

Razors
I bought thirty Poundland razors for--guess how much?--that's right, a pound. Bugger those expensive ones. Seriously, what difference can there be between a razor that costs three pence, and one of those fancy ones where the replacement blades cost a king's ransom?

A lot, it turns out.

They had no lubrication strip, and one blade. Gent's ones in black, ladies' in pink. Obviously I went for the ladies' one.

I then made possibly the biggest mistake of my life. I decided to shave my minge with one of my remarkably cheap purchases. Perhaps this would be a good answer for last week's QOTW, because one should never shave one's minge with a Poundland razor. One will be left with a horrific red rash and, bizarrely, most of the hair still remaining.

Did I learn my lesson? Of course not, I'd spent a hard-earned pound on thirty of the fuckers. It was like a game of Russian Roulette. Some were sharp, some were rather like shaving with a spoon. My legs now look like those of a miserable goth because of the number of Poundland-induced wounds.
(Fri 4th Jan 2008, 16:12, More)

» Buses

Cuntishness made awesome
Londoners will be familiar with our system of paying for buses. Children ride the bus for free. Teenagers may also get on for free, provided they have a special "I'm a teenager" card.

This fact is common knowledge. Despite this, at least once a week, the bus is delayed by a teenager demanding to get on for free without their card.

Sometimes the bus is held up for quite a long time. This is because teenagers are prone to throwing rather loud wobblies at the prospect of having to fork out two pounds.

One day, a moody young chav boarded the bus, without the card. The passengers--including myself (I have lived in South London far too long)--struck up a symphony of tooth-kissing in anticipation of the five-minute delay as bus driver became locked in verbal combat with a youngster with an entitlement complex.

"Nar man, just let me on, I'm twelve, innit," the youth protested (he looked closer to fifteen, but that is wholly beside the point).

All bus drivers are misanthropic cunts. This is 100% of fact. This bus driver was special. He was a clever misanthropic cunt.

"OK, mate," the driver replied in a calm, measured tone. "Tell you what. If you can run to the next bus stop before I get there, I'll let you on for free."

The gauntlet was thrown out. Still in his P.E. kit, our surly antihero readily accepted this challenge.

The bus pulled off. And sailed down the traffic-free road at thirty miles per hour, leaving Kevin as but a dot on the horizon.

Driver didn't even stop at the next stop.
(Fri 26th Jun 2009, 16:47, More)

» Teenage Parties

3am.
The party is dying down. All the beds are taken, so I find a comfy-looking pile of dirty laundry. Covering myself with a beach towel I fall asleep.

Ten minutes later, I am rudely awakened by a couple having sex on top of me.
(Sat 15th Apr 2006, 1:38, More)

» Shit Stories: Part Number Two

I am very ashamed of this.
Back when I was eighteen, before I became a perpetual student, I worked in a school. I had easy hours: 8.30-3.00, three days a week. Being young and carefree, I therefore took this as an opportunity to get as drunk as I wanted, as much as possible.

Sometimes I went into work, hungover, with puke in my hair.

On one such hungover Thursday, it was our weekly meeting, to discuss the progress of the childrens. I was not in this world: my still-drunk gut churned, full of last night's snakebite with black, and my mind worked as though it was full of custard.

The strong black coffee handed to me did not reinvigorate me as I had expected. In fact, it played utter havoc with my poorly intestines. I needed to fart. Badly.

A little cough to cover the sound, and a prayer that it would not smell, and I allowed nature to take its course.

It did, with gusto. A little too much. Something Did Not Feel Right.

Yes, that's right. I shat myself in a meeting, and had to spend the rest of the day supporting retarded kids with pooey knickers.
(Thu 27th Mar 2008, 16:05, More)

» Stalked

Fatto's lame attempt at stalking
I mentioned Fatto, my demon housemate, in a former QotW. It's time to elaborate on her fantastically bizarre attempt at stalking.

One thing you should know about Fatto is that she loved horror movies. Another thing you should know is that she liked to steal things. Talk reached the ears of the normal housemate faction (the four of us weighing approximately the same amount as Fatto) that she had stolen a mobile phone.

It was perhaps unsurprising, therefore, when E. received a text message, written in Fatto's idiotic prose style though from an unknown number. I cannot remember the wording, but it was somewhat venomous.

Then I got one, detailing my intense ugliness and how annoying my laugh was. And poor old S. received a stream of vitriol concerning her ginger hair. Which was a fair point I suppose.

Then a series of messages began to arrive on our mobiles, from the same telephone number: these were from somebody who was watching the house and planning upon murdering us all! Shock! Horror!

And Fatto, the poor dear was getting them too. She would reach her hand into her pocket, then moments later a murderous threat would appear upon her "official" mobile phone. Curious.

It is perhaps strange that this psychopath who was intently surveying our comings and goings would send text messages to E., S., and I about how monstrously obese we were. Yet Fatto did not receive these problems. Maybe said psychopath thought, "Hmm, can't mock Fatto over her weight, it's bound to be a bit of a sore point."

Fatto attempted to whip up a good degree of fear. "zOMGz!" quoth the whale, "we shall all surely be murdered in our beds."

"Worry not," replied I, "for the police have been notified. With their marvellous technology they can trace a text message to its exact point of origin and then sentence the vile perpatrator to eight years in prison."

"Oh," said Fatto.

Her sausagey fingers dipped back into the pocket of her tent-like hoodie. My phone beeps... I have a new message.

It is from our evil stalker.

"Sory [sic]," it says.

A few weeks later, Fatto gave out the number as her new telephone number. Mental, yes. Clever, no. Thank God.
(Fri 1st Feb 2008, 0:55, More)