Not long out of uni and off with my boyfriend on out first holiday together..
We were more culturally inclined than sunworshippers, and poor with it, so we were quite pleased to find a nice cheap deal for the boat across to Belgium for a few days of beer and architecture.

Two days in and it was clear, most certainly in the case of my other half, that beer was winning the day. And night. And well into the next morning. We'd done (fucking) Bruges on the first day as it was just up the road from the city we were staying in and had kinda ticked 'culture' off the list. So beer it was. After getting rather 'tanked up' on the local paint stripper my previously mild mannered boyfriend became rather, er, sexually suggestive. Now whether this was a previously unaired peccadilo or whether he'd always meant to bring it up, I have no idea, but it went well beyond the realms of what I personally would consider normal. Or even a turn on. Or hygienic.

Safe to say, my shock was clear for him to see and he fled into the Belgian night with a mix of drunkrage and embarrassment. I returned to our hotel room for a lie down and a wind down to await his return (his pissed state would aid rather than hinder his return so I wasn't worried). A few hours later he returned with a look of shame in his face and confession on his lips. He'd apparently wandered off into a particular 'area' of the city which, fortuitously for him, could provide the very needs he now knew would NOT be forthcoming from his girlfriend. So with a heavy heart and a lightened wallet he told me the whole story. I was kinda in love with the freaky pervert, so I forgave him and we spent the rest of the holiday pretty much sober.

There are many things I'll do for my boyfriend and many I wont, but at least he knows that if I wont do it a Ghent whore will.
( Ms Shenanigans put something interesting here later, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 14:20, 38 replies)

Whispers in the Moonlight.
I guess I was around five when I first heard them, the Voices. But it wasn't until my tenth birthday that I revealed my secret to anyone else. Since then I'd done my best to hide my secret, my power, my life force. Once it was out it the open I was chastised, bullied, poked, prodded and examined. All to no avail.

Until I started to act on their wishes, the Voices, everyone just assumed I was ill - but manageably so. The first time I acted on their instructions, people laughed. The second, they smiled. The third, they whispered and threw me looks of concern. And every time after that, they wept.

I seemed to scare people. My obsession seemed to tap into their deepest fears. And one time, I did it badly. I did it in the garden, I did it with my excrement and she saw, my beloved sister saw me.

She screamed and ran to tell Mum, who screamed in turn and ran to tell Dad, who picked up the phone purposefully and dialled that three-digit number. When they arrived to collect me I was disappointed, no men in white coats, no blaring sirens, just a dull and unexceptional private car, the only give-away being the lanyard hanging from the driver's neck, an access all areas pass to the dreaded Harplands.

During the ride they hadn't had to sedate me. I'd self-medicated by staring intensely at every tree, door and road sign that we passed, trying desperately to commit to memory everything that I knew I'd never see again. I was leaving my sanctuary, leaving the leafy lanes and aging oaks of my youth. I tried to concentrate on every blade of grass in the rolling fields, knowing full well that where I was headed, nature would be only visible in my mind.

When we pulled up to the dirty grey concrete slab of a building, my driver waved his pass and the gates parted. As slowly as a funeral procession, we cruised down the tarmacked drive to a collection of even larger, even dirtier set of concrete blocks. This was to be my home now. The threat had become my reality, I'd done it too many times, I'd used up too many last warnings, I was responsible for my own actions.

On arrival I was processed. And exactly as I knew they would, they forcibly cleansed me, injected me, shaved my head and threw me naked into a brightly-lit chamber. It was for observation they said. They needed to monitor me to see if I'd do it again. I couldn't have clothes, hair or any outside influences. I was to be sensorily deprived. They had to understand if outside influences were the cause. They had to be clear what the triggers were and that way they would be able to understand.

The first few nights nothing happened. In fact, the first few weeks provided not one episode. It seemed the Voices had departed. This was the longest I'd existed without them. Maybe the experiment had worked. With nothing to stimulate me and therefore the Voices, my mind was quiet. I simply sat for hours a day in a blissful stupor, clear of their noise and their demands. I hoped to God that all had come to pass.

Then they woke me one night, the Voices, and clearer than they'd ever been, they began again with their demands. I knew what I must do, I'd done it a hundred times before. And now I had to do it again.

In my chamber, my cell, my home there was nothing I could use. Padded, wide and high, the room offered no way for me to action their task. But their message, the Voices, was louder than ever. I had to obey, I had to comply, I had to complete.

My body would have to be my tools. Running my tongue around my mouth I felt my teeth, my strong, sturdy teeth. Quick as a flash I bent over and kneed myself in the face as hard a humanly possible. Perfection. My front two teeth came cleanly out of their gummy beds. I kneed myself again and again. I pulled, I yanked and twisted every single one of my beautiful teeth out of their sockets. The Voices would be pleased.

Gathering my bloodstained molars and incisors, I knelt and muttered to myself and I began to build. I knew what to do. I knew the dimensions, I knew the schematics off by heart. And using snot, phlegm and semen as glue, I finished my masterpiece and stood back to bask in its glory, the Voices exalting in my head.

There was a crackle. Then a noise. A voice was coming over the hospital's PA system, the voice was hysterical, not like my Voices, not calm, collected and clear. No, this was another voice entirely, a voice of danger, of fear, of doom.

'Get someone in here now!' It screamed, 'NOW!'
'What's he doing?'
'Can't you see what he's doing?'
'Oh Jesus Christ. Oh Jesus Christ. He's doing it again. He's doing it with his teeth!'
'Oh man...oh no...dear God...no...he's building a cunting pizza oven with his teeth...with his fucking TEETH!'
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 15:17, 14 replies)

( Two Hats I saw someone eating M&M's with a spoon, Thu 7 Aug 2014, 12:38, 11 replies)

Outward Bound Course, Eskdale.
November, 1965, Eskdale, Lake District.Our group,Shackleton Patrol,were housed on the ground floor of a stable block in the grounds of the main building.Above us on the first floor were another group whose name I forget but let's call them Twats in line with the competitive ethos of the course.Anyway, one night midway through the course the group above us were being particularly rowdy late into the night and as I knew we had a long hike to face the following day,I was a bit pissed off.Now, I am no mimic but by chance I found I could impersonate the voice of their adult tutor really easily so I slipped out of my bunk bed, crept upstairs and on opening their dorm door told them all to pipe down and get to sleep using his voice.There was silence as I crept back downstairs and into my bunk but within ten minutes the racket had resumed as they had presumed their tutor had returned to his room in the main house.I was incensed... how dare they disobey their tutor.I crept back upstairs,opened their door and once again using his voice ordered them all to change into their PE kit,go down to the lake and run around it until further notice.It was November,it was 1.15am,it was snowing and it was fucking cold but I was not shivering with cold as I lay once again in my bunk.I was shitting myself.At 16 I was the youngest on the course and when I heard the muttering,swearing rabble trundling down the stairs I knew I faced a beating if they ever discovered it was me.A good forty minutes passed before I heard them return after being confronted by a staff member and they weren't at all happy.No-one,even members of my own group, knew it was me and I survived the course unscathed.
PS If you were one of the poor suckers I pranked:
1) what the fuck are you doing on this site you're too old
2)I'm sorry
3)can I return to this country from exile now?
(mallyjoe, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 13:41, 12 replies)

Brie
I really like brie, especially when it has got to the point when it has a nice ripe flavour, just before it tips over into dirty socks in ammonia state.
I was visiting an old aunt of mine when she presented a plate of brie that was definitely over-ripe. I took a small piece and choked it down with a smile.
"Go ahead dear," she said, "You finish that up. I can't stand the stuff."
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Tue 5 Aug 2014, 14:56, 24 replies)

I was looking forward to night in front of the telly,
but my wife moaned about not having any snacks to the point where I'm now baking a fucking cake.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Fri 1 Aug 2014, 1:00, 4 replies)

fucking manners
a couple of weeks ago, i went to my friend's fiance's 40th dinner party. it was in a very nice and rather fancy italian restaurant in notting hill. he is iraqi, and i was sitting next to his aunt. she speaks some english but with a very strong accent, and has a tendency to get a bit shouty with excitement when she is trying to make herself understood. we were having a nice conversation, when the food arrived, and the shouty started. the birthday boy had pre-ordered because there were so many of us.

being vegetarian, i wasn't able to eat most of it (which was fine by me, as the wine was excellent). but the aunt was most distressed by this. and when she saw some mushroom bruschetta, she practically mugged the other diners for me. i peered at it dubiously. it really did not look like mushroom, but it was hard to tell in the combination of crap light and excellent wine. the aunt insisted. so did i. finally the shouty got too much for me, and i gave in. and found myself with a big slimy mouthful of fucking bonemarrow on toast. it was beyond gross, and yet i couldn't bring myself to tell her, so i had to swallow it. urrrrgh.

next up: it was time for the many delicious looking stone baked pizzas. the birthday boy had only ordered a steve davis for the vegetarians, so you'd think that would be easy to spot. it's the one with no toppings. desperate to feed me, bewildered that i had eaten so little starter, the shouty aunt shouted around the table until a margharita was produced and sent across. she cut me an enormous piece, put it on my plate (my views on people sharing food/eating leftovers/touching food are well documented on here) and beamed at me. reluctantly, i abandoned the thought of getting a nice finger-free virginal piece for myself, and bit.

into what tasted like a victorian prostitute's pants.

fucking tuna and chilli, lurking under the cheese. the bitch had done me twice. and yet again, i had to swallow and pretend it was all fine, but i was full and didn't want any more, just so as not to hurt her feelings.

fucking hell. they'd better not sit me next to her at the wedding.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 13:36, 76 replies)

Did somebody say Noelspin? Because I think I heard somebody say Noelspin!

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Tue 5 Aug 2014, 21:44, 11 replies)

A partially relative pea roast
the owl and the pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea roast boat


I had three less than favourable encounters with our pork flavoured friends in my late teens.

The first was when I was an officer cadet in the merchant navy at the tender age of 18. We had been at anchor in the bay of Gibraltar for two weeks whilst waiting to offload 2k tons of scrap in Algeciras.

When we finally got alongside everyone needed to let off a little steam. The first mate, the ChEng, two ABs and the engineer cadet all jumped in a taxi to Gibralter. To cut a long story short we came across a squaddies bar serving jack and coke for a pound a throw. The last thing I can remember is sitting on the road, alone. Then I woke up in an unlit room with a door yet no door handle. I looked at my watch to try nd figure out how much time had passed. It was gone. To get from Spain into Gib I needed my passport. That was gone as well. Along with my wallet and most worryingly, my belt. I began to wonder what was happening when I heard some screams and a lot of banging. Luckily this was back in 1999. When I think back to what happened I cant help thinking about movies like Saw and Hostel. Anyhoo, amidst all the screams and banging I decided to find out who had locked me in this room so I took the bull by the horns and started signaling for attention in the only way I felt was appropriate. I firmly rapped the door whilst saying "excuse me!".

Eventually my captor grew tired of the anguished moans of my fellow detainees and came to my door. I heard the key in the lock and then there was a blinding light (courtesy of the strip lighting in the hall outside). As soon as my eyes adjusted I found mysel face to face with a Ron Jeremy look-a-like wearing a uniform. I had been found nearly passed out on the street and had been taken in as "drunk and incapable". I got all my stuff back (including the tenner I still had in my wallet) and was politely told to get the fuck out of dodge.

Luckily I had a working cash card which allowed me to get the £50 I needed for a taxi back to Algeciras. Knowing I was likely to be packed on a flight home as soon as the Captain found out (I was 6 hours late for my watch, there was no avoiding it) I thought I may as well get the taxi driver to take me to McDonalds for a shake and some fries. Happily slurping and munching these as I walk up the quayside I hear the cry "CADET OFFICER OTT, COME STRAIGHT TO THE BRIDGE". The old man had been standing on the flying bridge and had spotted me tucking into a McDonalds as if I didn’t have a care in the world. To his credit he listened to my story and told me to fuck off to my cabin for the rest of the day and didnt mention it again. It probably helped that the 1st mate had done something similar but also lost his passport and that the 2 ABs had been arrested for brawling. Happy days.

And that is how I learned to stay away from spirits........


for a while. I left the Merch after breaking my leg and then found suitable college course and a nice wee job. Things were good and I went to Germany on holiday. The people I went with turned out to be incompatible and ran home to their respective mummies. I bravely forged on and had a wonderful time. After about a month bumming around the Fatherland I returned to Frankfurt the day before my flight home. As I was now alone the youth hostel advised I would need to share an 8 bed dorm as opposed to the 4 bed room I had shared with my former companions when we arrived. It was there I met Gus. An affable yank who shared my wariness of our fellow roomies. We decided to hit he town for a few drinks. My last memory was of drinking Jack and Coke whilst playing electronic darts with Gus and a suspiciously tall South American "woman" in a Brazil themed bar. Then my memory cuts to a taxi, then a field, then darkness.

I had gone from the centre of Frankfurt to a field on the beer scooter???!!!

It didn’t help that I had been reading Len Deighton and Robert Harris novels throughout my holiday. One moment I was fine, the next I was taken over by a paranoia so strong that I ran for what seemed like miles, certain as I was that the Stasi was chasing me. I stumbled through the field until I came to a road. A narrow country road in the middle of a wood/forest.

It must have been about 2am but I decided to flag down a car. In most slurred, drunken and broken German imaginable I asked the driver for a lift whilst opening the door. I had one foot in the car when he/she? hit the peddle and accelerated away from the mad drunken potential car jacker. I was left rolling down the road, mercifully uninjured. I saw some more headlights in the distance and felt it was worth another shot. I stuck my thumb out and the van stopped. I peered in and was greeted by two mustachioed German coppers looking at me with bemused expressions. I got bundled in and taken to the local cop shop. I had sobered up somewhat and remember the desk sergeant looking me up and down and then telling my two new friends to cut m loose. And there I was. Safe and a bit more sober, back on the streets of Frankfurt city centre. That should have been the end of it. However, the Stasis re-appeared (in my mind) and I made a break for it. Running full pelt up the street as fast as I could. Sure enough, the security forces caught up with me. Not the Stasi but my two friends from local law enforcement. Luckily they took pity on me and after a lot of slurred attempts, I managed to correctly pronounce the name of the street the youth hostel was on. They took me there and I knocked on the glass door. They guy at the desk shook his head whilst motioning to the curfew sign. Again my new friends helped me out and gestured to him that I should be allowed in.

Somehow I found my room and tried to enter as quietly as possible. I failed miserably by tripping over the unconscious form of Gus the Yank where he had fallen on the floor after returning from our memorable night.

About four months after this I joined my very good friend Mark at the Local Wetherspoons. It was his leaving do and there was much to be celebrated. He and I decided to do this by consuming a few pints. Unfortunately these were in the form of pitchers…..each filled with six shots of Jack Daniels and then topped up with coke. I remember finishing my second one, then I remember standing at the main entrance to Central Station. Then things get really blurry. I was in a field. Again! Then I fell down an embankment landing up to my ankles in muddy water. I was drunk, uncoordinated and trying to get up a 45 degree incline. The only thing I had to hold on to were the stinging nettles growing up the face of the embankment. The scariest bit of all (in retrospect) was that I can vaguely remember walking down the middle of a train track. I have told a few people about this and some have said that it was fine because no services run at that time anyway. I dread to think that a freight train or a placement run could have been scheduled that night. Anyhoo, I found myself in a grass clearing in front of a giant fence. So……I climbed over it. There I was, resplendent in my baggy jeans, white long sleeve t-shirt and skate shoes, standing inside the perimeter of a naval Defence Munitions centre, 20 miles away from Central Station

I was quickly spotted, huckled to a guard post and shouted at. Things went quiet and a few minutes later the cops arrived. I was handed over to them and bundled into their van for the short journey to the local town. They took my mobile, called my dad to make sure he had some cash to pay for a taxi and then bundled me in the first cab they could find. It was at worst a £30 fare. The driver relieved my dad of £80 that night. My hands were numb for about a week afterwards. When I woke up the next morning my first thoughts were for Mark. So, I called his home number to make sure he was OK. His mum answered and laughingly told me he had spent the night on a bench in the city centre. I then, in my still drunken state told her all about what had happened to me. I like to think she took a shine to me for my honesty and candor.

I didn’t drink a drop for 10 months after that and now drink cider with PLENTY of ice (half and half). I also have a bottle of Jack Daniels at home. It has 3 shots out of it at the moment, all of which were for people other than myself. Come Christmas time it will be six years old.

Narrow escapes, I’ve had a few. Luckily the boys in blue in Gibraltar, Frankfurt and Scotland took pity on my happy, grinning, drunken, beaming features. Thanks to their charitable approach I am now a teacher.

PS: At over 1600 words everyone has my sincerest apologies for the length.
(OTT, Sat 2 Aug 2014, 23:44, 10 replies)

I hate nightclubs.
My girlfriend at the time was celebrating her 18th birthday and loved nightclubs. Due to the relationship being long distance this wasn't usually an issue but this time, against my strongest wishes and a threat from her that she might "get drunk and do something regrettable" (I know, classy lady), I wound up going to a nightclub called Walkabout on Broad Street in Birmingham.

Most of the evening was spent in the darkest, quietest corner of the club watching barely clothed ladies getting pawed at by gel-headed men like bears pawing at KFC. It was survivable but less survivable was a bloke in his advanced 50s fingering a girl young enough to be his great great great great granddaughter by Birmingham standards up against the wall 4 feet to my right.

To escape this I offered to get everyone in our group drinks. I'm more accustomed to little pubs and so this nightclub bar swamped with people shouting and waving like an alcoholic stock exchange was confusing and stressful. Still, eventually I managed to acquire the 4 pints. Carefully holding them I turn around, and where my elbow was jutting out I managed to catch an honest to god dwarf standing just behind me across the bridge of the nose, causing him a nose bleed.

I'd like to make this story exciting by saying I did battle with an angry dwarf and had my arse handed to me, but I just apologised profusely and he was actually very gracious about it. It was nice to make a little friend at the end of it all.
(Tiny Blindfolded Horse Kitten sound car horns would end road rage, Fri 1 Aug 2014, 10:54, 16 replies)

( Happy Phantom has been to Hastings, Brighton, and Eastbourne too, Wed 6 Aug 2014, 1:03, 3 replies)

This has unwittingly inspired me to create a new computer peripheral.
The first step will be to pay a visit to my friendly neighbourhood taxidermist to obtain a stuffed dachshund (breed selected because its convenient short legs place it at ideal height when on the desk). Once I have obtained the dachshund, I will make a small circular incision under the tail to remove the anus and a sufficient volume of stuffing to accommodate the control module. The rectum will be replaced by a neoprene tube surrounded by a ring of eight small pressure pads inside the animal, and a slit will be made in each testicle to accommodate microswitches for left- and right-clicking respectively.

Once the USB cable has been threaded through the urethra of the dog's cock, I will connect it to one of the rear USB ports of my PC and install the appropriate drivers. Then I will finally be able to navigate around B3ta by inserting my finger into my cyberdachshund's arsehole and probing in different directions to make the mouse move, tapping its cyberbollocks for every "I like this", and I will feel drunk with power.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Tue 5 Aug 2014, 13:38, 5 replies)

SLAVES OF THE FOMBUGG
Hello Sweeties!

This is a tale from long, long ago, all the way back in my first incarnation, would you believe!

Back then I was a slim young male with receding blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. I was quite ascetic and brainy and spent a lot of my time on Gallifrey learning stuff. I became an expert in many fields, and often toured the universe lecturing on such subjects as genetics, astro-engineering, cybernetics, neurostructuralism and moral theology.

For a while I took up residency at Varchon University on the planet Turaleq lecturing on moral theology. Turaleq is a desert planet sparsely populated but with one major city, Varchon, which housed some fifty million indigents and offworlders. The locals were slim and dark skinned with golden eyes and I found them intensely attractive, and had affairs with several of my students of all sexes. My apartment overlooked Lake Varchon and the local cuisine consisted of curry and many ice cold lager-like beverages, so my time on Turaleq was exceedingly pleasurable and stimulating.

This agreeable state of affairs continued for several months, until, one day, it came to a dramatic and surprising, not to say incredibly inconvenient and annoying, end.

One sunny morning I woke next to my latest conquest, a lithe young Turaleqi student called Aravantez. We were about to make love again when a loud, bombastic, booming metallic voice from the street outside shattered the mood:

'THIS WORLD NOW QUAILS UNDER THE AUSPICES OF THE FOMBUGG', it bellowed. And then ten seconds later it bellowed it again, and again ten seconds later, and so on.

'Bollocks!' I shouted, leaping out of my bed where Aravantez did indeed quail, the sheets pulled up over her breasts. 'Time Lords quail under the auspices of NO cunt!' I strode to the window and looked out. There, in the wide street with its shops and fountains and trees, stood a new arrival - a shiny grey cone, about twelve feet high. At its apex a pink glow blurred the air, and it hurt to look at this glow, and I could feel alien mind-tentacles brushing the fringes of my psyche. I looked up and down the street to see more of these cones, evenly spaced along the boulevard, all with their attendant pink glow, and all bellowing at ten-second intervals: 'THIS WORLD NOW QUAILS UNDER THE AUSPICES OF THE FOMBUGG.'

I searched my capacious Time Lord memory but I could not recall anything about this 'Fombugg'; I had never heard of the fucking thing. A student prank? Maybe... but the mental tentacles spoke of something alien, alien and sinister and inimical. I averted my gaze from the pink miasma at the cone's tip and turned back towards the bed. Aravantez had risen and was walking in a trance-like state towards the door. 'Hey!' I called. 'Where d'you think you're going?' But she didn't hear me, or chose not to. I grabbed hold of her arm but she shook free. 'Must... obey... Fombugg,' she was muttering, over and over again. I let her go, and dressed quickly, hoping to get to my TARDIS and get the fuck offplanet, because whatever this Fombugg was, it clearly wasn't good news for the denizens of Turaleq.

But as I slipped my shoes on, I felt those alien mind-tentacles again; more insistent this time, and I felt myself lose control of my mind and body. A prisoner within myself, I marched from my room, muttering 'Must... obey... Fombugg.' I went out into the streets and joined a massive flood of people, all under the control of this mysterious alien entity.

The next few months I find hard to recall, as my mind was totally subjugated to the will of the Fombugg. I was set to work with the Turaleqi and the other offworlders unfortunate enough to find themselves on the planet at the time of the Fombugg's arrival. We were sent into the desert there to construct vast and abstract machines for our alien overlord. The purpose of these machines remains unclear, even afterwards when everything returned to normal and the Fombugg's machines could be explored and analysed. There were too many of them to describe here, but the most notable ones included:

- An enormous construction that resembled a windmill with sieves for vanes
- An enclosure filled with cruciform robots that would crawl all over each other without cease
- A deep pit, accessed by spiral steps along its inner walls, at the bottom of which a giant mirror was constructed
- A thirty-mile long pipe, open at one end, and closed off by a wire mesh at the other
- A series of poles supporting giant latticed cubes that would rotate slowly and ponderously casting surreal shadows on the desert below
- A stepped, pyramidal structure at the top of which sat a gigantic concrete ring
- A number of glass towers that refracted and diverted the rays of the Turaleqi sun
- A moss-like extrusion that emitted the most vile smell I have ever smelt
- An installation of rubber hoops and rings that looked like a giant croquet set
- A great many troughs leading out from all directions in the desert
- A giant spring

And everywhere the grey cones with their pink glowing mantles, overseeing everything.

There was, however, one construction that did seem to have a purpose - to house the Fombugg itself. This was an enormous geodesic dome, surrounded by multitudes of the sentinel cones. It was on this that I was set to work on the most, though of course, at the time, being under the control of the Fombugg, I had no clue as to the true purpose of my work.

I toiled under the control of the Fombugg for several months, and, eventually, like many of its other servants, I died. After weeks and weeks of work I collapsed, dehydrated and starved. Of course, being a Time Lord, I regenerated - it was my first ever regeneration, and my second incarnation woke to find himself lying in a great big pile of stinking decomposing Turaleqi bodies who had died unable to save themselves through the Time Lord gift of regeneration.

This new body, my second incarnation, was, in contrast to the first, a stocky, bullish male with a mane of curly black hair. I extricated myself from the pile of corpses and almost immediately felt the mind-tentacles of the Fombugg attempting to re-acquire my psyche. A newly-regenerated Time Lord, however, is a force to be reckoned with and I was able to use my regenerative energy to shield my mind against the alien entity's mental advances.

Thus protected, I returned to Varchon and marched straight in to my TARDIS, intending to get the fuck off of Turaleq. But this new incarnation had a conscience. I found myself thinking mournfully of that pile of Turaleqi corpses, and wondered if Araventez had been among them. Anger then posessed me, and I vowed to stay on Turaleq and defeat the evil Fombugg.

I looked up the thing on my TARDIS databanks and discovered that the Fombugg was a gestalt entity, a distributed being, which consisted of numerous Nodes (the grey cones) and a central, controlling Kernel - housed in the dome-like building I had helped to construct. Destroy the Kernel, and you destroy the Fombugg. And so, armed with a claw hammer, I made my way back to the desert and to the dome that housed the Kernel of the distributed being.

The Fombugg, alerted now to the danger of my presence, sent its slaves after me and so I had to fight of legions of Fombugg-controlled Turaleqi zombies. And yes, one of these was Aravantez, and I sobbed as I throttled the life out of her. This, of course, only intensified my hatred of the Fombugg. The cunting thing HAD to die.

I reached the dome and smashed my way in. Inside, cobwebby corridors led hither and thither, spiralling round to the centre of the construction. Still pursued by the slaves of the Fombugg, I crashed through these, unerringly intent on reaching the centre of the Fombugg's power.

At last I penetrated the central chamber there to confront the Kernel of the Fombugg.

The chamber was a domed, ribbed, cathedral-like space, and the Kernel hovered in mid-air before me, rotating gently along its longitudinal axis. In appearance it was a small, shiny, grey thing the shape of a comma or a stylised human ear, no bigger than a clenched fist. The slaves of the Fombugg at my heels, I stepped forwards, raised the hammer and brought it down hard right onto the Kernel of the Fombugg.

It shattered into a zillion smithereens, dying with a tiny, keening shriek.

Immediately the slaves were released and stopped their attack. I was taken back to Varchon to explain what had happened, and was hailed as a hero, and given the Freedom of Varchon City. I then returned to Gallifrey where I was, of course, bollocked about my interference in 'local affairs.' Cunts. I saw then why that other Doctor had fucked off, and I was not far behind him, leaving Gallifrey forever to explore, and eventually attempt to take over, the universe (yes, the irony is not lost on me, sweeties, but don't worry I'm nice now, as you all know!)

The Fombugg's machines remain in the Turaleqi desert to this day and are a popular tourist attraction.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Mon 4 Aug 2014, 22:23, 15 replies)

NINE MORE YEARS, FUCKERS.

( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Sat 2 Aug 2014, 11:21, 28 replies)

hasn't hexy got a story he'd like to share here?

( Zuowan, Fri 1 Aug 2014, 12:01, 34 replies)

I once had to apologize
to a wrinkly old horror who was cook at my school. She came belming in through a door, and twatted young me right in the head with it, and young me, being witty, rattled off "HOI! COOK! YOU NEARLY SQUISHED ME FLAT AS A PANCAKE!" top culinary punnage eh?

I was later whisked upstairs to the headmistresses office and forced to apologize to her for calling her Cook, instead of whatever the fuck her name was, because peoples job titles did not define them and it was wrong to talk down to people, shouty shouty blah blah etc etc.

Even had to write lines 'I will not call Mrs. whateverthefuckhernamewas Cook, as that is her job title not her name her name is Mrs. whateverthefuckhernamewas' 100 sides of a4.

Fucking shite, stupid cook bitch gave me a fat ear with that door, and to this day, I don't remember her name. Pretty sure my brain erased it out of sheer spite.
(yeswehavenopasties, Thu 7 Aug 2014, 2:52, 3 replies)

Great British Fucking Bake Off
At least Strictly Come Fucking Dancing has some scantily clad and nubile women on it :(
( CaptainCrackerjack live trout, slow motion, Wed 6 Aug 2014, 20:21, 13 replies)

I posted a reply to something
but then it was deleted against my will*, because someone five replies upthread deleted theirs.

* this may or may not have happened, but the delete logic is b0rked anyway
(Guy Debord cette mauvaise réputation..., Tue 5 Aug 2014, 12:45, 40 replies)

If only dogs could type

( 2 Can Chunder Word to your mums, I came to prod bums, Mon 4 Aug 2014, 13:22, 17 replies)

I got arrested. I got put in the cells. I was arrested because I looked like someone they were looking for but it wasn't me.
I was a tad tipsy and although it transpired I was not the person that they were looking for they kept me in for the 5am kicking out of drunks from the cells. I can honestly say that being handcuffed outside of sex play and being locked in a room against your will is a very sobering experience and it makes me wonder how people can actually continue to do crimes after they lose their liberty the first time. It really is a shitty experience and not just because of all the faeces smeared on the walls and floor and blankets in fact anywhere but the clean toilet.
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Fri 1 Aug 2014, 15:47, 8 replies)

Under pressure
I was once in the back of a bus on a remote highway when people in the front of the bus stood up and started screaming. A woman driving a station wagon just in front of the bus had completely lost control and hurtled down a steep slope. The bus stopped and emergency services were called, but because of the remote location they weren't expected for an hour. Alone, I clambered down the slope to help.

The vehicle had rolled and come to rest on its roof. The roof had collapsed, pinning the woman driver's head hard against her left shoulder. She was alive, and mostly intact, but trapped. She couldn't move or say anything. All she could do was suffer in pain.

I tried to relieve the pressure on her head. I tried to roll the car a little bit so her head wouldn't grind into her shoulder quite so hard, but it was hard to gain any kind of leverage on that steep slope. I tried to use the fuel-filling inlet for purchase, but the timber I was using for leverage kept slipping. I could provide a few seconds of relief, but the timber would slip, and the car would roll back, with the roof just grinding away even harder on her head.

After a time, I was forced to realize that the good I was doing amounted to torture, to which even the long delay for the arrival of competent help was preferable.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Thu 31 Jul 2014, 23:51, 4 replies)