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» Grandparents

Fisting
My nana (she will not be called Grandma, as apparently that makes her sounds old...she's 87) is awesome. Best thing about her? She is totally accepting of me being a shirtlifter. From me being 14, she's always asked loads of questions, welcomed my partners and last year, she attended my civil partnership and bloody loved it (though she did ask for chips and chips only at the restaurant later, love it). Best part of all this? I grew up in a tiny little backwards village where if you didn't have webbed fingers you were 'different' and well, tolerance isn't exactly skyhigh. She doesn't care though, and happily regales the W.I with tales of her grandson and his husband.

But to bring it round to the subject I've given this little post, she did turn to me about two years ago and ask me what fisting was. I have no idea where she heard the word given she only goes as far as the post office and the village hall, and the average age of resident in that village is roughly 95, but there you go.

I convinced her it was the name for that little 'fist-bump' greeting people sometimes give to one another. Which, I suppose, in a way...it is. I just hope it doesn't lead to her 'fisting' other members of the W.I.

I love my nana.
(Wed 8th Jun 2011, 12:26, More)

» Complaining

I have complained to Poundland *shakes fist*
Dear Sir / Madam

I have been a lifelong shopper at Poundland over many weeks and have never felt the need to complain, grumble or discuss any of the numerous purchases I have made at your stores ‐ particularly the fabulous new retail store on Clayton Street, Newcastle ‐ until now.

Before I launch into the minutiae of my complaint, let me paint a picture. I am walking down the aisle in but fourteen weeks, and I have a honeymoon shortly after. As you can doubtless imagine, I am a bundle of nerves, but, being from Newcastle, I am also extremely careful with money (which makes stores like yours a godsend!). Thus, in order to save up for the wedding, I have been employing lots of cost‐cutting measures:

-buying a cheaper cat food for my cats Hindenburg and Yorkie;
- turning the heating down overnight;
- refusing to pay my council tax;
- only having two baths a day rather than the extravagant three showers I previously had; and
- saving all my spare change.

Now, the last point is perhaps the most critical so I’ll repeat it ‐ I am saving up change. Now, I have tried all manner of receptacles for my loose change, from the moderately successful (twenty pence coins can slot neatly into Smarties tubes) to the downright folly (the ‘Aztec Trail’ fruitie in my local) and nothing has really cut the mustard. I wanted something with a satisfying metal clank AND the inability to access the saved coinage unless the container was destroyed. Alas, it was never to be.

Until Friday 20 August, that is. I happened to be stealing some pens from a colleagues desk (Sharpies, since you ask) when I noticed Michael Jackson staring at me from behind some loose‐leaf files. Thankfully, he hadn’t risen from the dead, but rather she had found THE PERFECT SOLUTION to my coin‐worries ‐ a metal tin with a slot that can only be opened (and thus destroyed) with a tin‐opener! I had to sit down (partly because my pockets were laden with stationery) and catch a breath. This was it! I had to have it for myself but no ‐ the cleaner had started pushing her Henry around and although she is deaf, I could not risk pocketing the tin. BECURSES.

After a sweaty weekend (heat and anxiety), I rushed into work on Monday to demand of my colleague the location and price of the tin. She excitedly answered my questions with one word ‘Poundland’, spraying me with pastry crumbs whilst doing so. She knew I was clever enough to work out the price from the location, and so, that very afternoon, I almost dashed into the store to find such a tin.
However, this is where the problem starts. I searched high and low between the toolsets, menthol filters, Hannah Montana lunchboxes and bags of sweets, but I could not find a tin to meet my needs. See, they were all a little…festive. Now see, in all honesty, I’m as gay as a flowering meadow and have no problem admitting who I am, but at the same time, I don’t like it to be ‘my thing’. I don’t want people referring to me as the ‘fat gay guy in the admin team’ or ‘the mary upstairs who knows how to use the franking machine’ because I feel I am so much more than that.

But, no, your store was unable to cater to my needs, and I was forced to buy a moneytin which is perhaps the most camp, girly endeavour you can imagine. My need to save money won out over my need not to be so…’flaming’, so it was back to work with said tin where, as you can imagine, I was jeered and jostled and I am too ashamed to actually use the tin, instead resorting to hiding it in my drawer and surreptitiously sliding coins in there. This is no way to live.

I have included three photos of this offensive tin for your appraisal, one of which shows the barcode so you know that I’m not making this woeful tale up. I am sure you can agree with me when I say that it’s an especially fruity moneytin for a man to have. The reason I am writing to you then is to simply encourage you to stock more ‘masculine’ choices. If there was a tin with a picture of say, The Stig on the side, slightly warped and off‐colour, I would have been left a much happier man.

I look forward to your reply,

Many thanks
thenumber18

************

I hope I'm allowed to post this, but here is a picture of the picture of the tin in question. Good lord!

thenumber18.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/poundland-complaint_page_2.jpg
(Tue 7th Sep 2010, 19:23, More)

» Fairgrounds, theme parks, circuses and carnivals

Punch
Ah good, that's two QOTWs where I actually have something to say.

People from Noocastle may be familiar with The Hoppings, a yearly fairground constructed on our town moor made up entirely of rides that can be built overnight from the back of a lorry. I don't entirely trust them but it's all good fun.

Anyway, a lass I worked with recounted a charming tale of when she visited, aged sweet sixteen. Having been chilled by the Haunted House and spilled by the tiny rollercoaster, she decided more fun could be have by bagging one of the charming carnies (I'm not sure what the correct word is, actually - but the guys who operate the rides with their webbed fingers). So, being from Kenton, it only took her ten minutes to find an appropriate fairground worker who looked decent enough and sure enough, she was being taken behind the bumper cars so that the carnie could practice his bowling grip.

Good times all round. A mere half hour later, and with a flushed face, she set off back home only to be jumped by the girlfriend of the aforementioned carnie worker. A fight ensued, upon which my mate got a nasty punch in the stomach. No matter, she still won, and the girlfriend slunk off.

It was only upon getting home and getting changed that she realised she had an awful lot of blood on the outside as opposed to the inside. She'd been stabbed. And hadn't bloody realised.

A calming Regal King Size and a quick trip to hospital later, plus plenty of stitching, and she has a lovely war wound just above her axe-wound. Now that's justice.

They breed them tough up here.
(Fri 10th Jun 2011, 12:01, More)

» Old stuff I still know


I know that people are already getting shot down for gaming stories, but fuck me I put Super Mario 3 on Virtual Console the other way and it was like I'd never been away.

Even remembered how to get the white coin airship.

I'm not even single.
(Thu 30th Jun 2011, 22:45, More)