Mum in Law
Now my mum in law is a star, but one "tradition" she has which is annoying as hell is with pressies. She will give you a gift (B'day or Kenmas or anniversary or whatever) all wrapped up beautifully and, as you are opening it, she'll tell you what it is.
Ex Mrs Kites nan used to HATE wrapping, so would send an unwrapped gift with paper and sellotape so you could wrap your own gift.
(kitescreech still here, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 18:41, Reply)

we had a family code...
...that whilst the man of the house is out working and the kids are at school, thou shalt not repeatedly meet and shag some bloke you met at a night out two months ago. Until this morning I thought that rule was still standing, anyway...

Length? I didn't ask, but probably bigger then mine.
(downhill without brakes . It was the worst day of my life, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 17:37, 15 replies)

Drown Daddy Time
My dad had never had swimming lessons, so he learnt to swim at the same time as my brother and me, when we were wee. Every Saturday morning we would all go to the local pool, and at some point during our messing about in the water, one of us kids would yell "It's DROWN DADDY TIME!" Then we would jump on his back and force him underwater. We thought it was hilarious. Years later, my dad informed us that he actually found this quite terrifying, but couldn't say anything for fear of looking like a big wuss in public.

I don't think he's been near a swimming pool for about 20 years now...
(Binary Solo loves a bit of algebra, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 17:11, 1 reply)

Car game
Another game in the car is SPOT THE NEW NUMBER PLATE GAME. Something about how they change to 58 in the middle of the year. I don't know, I don't really pay attention. But, yeah. That's another crappy car game.

And, of course, FIRST ONE TO SPOT THE SEA! I think someone's mentioned this before. Or FIRST ONE TO SPOT THE BLACKPOOL TOWER!
Sad times.
(I've got the clap has some cool sentence here, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 16:59, 2 replies)

A new one from me and my dad...
We have taken to saying "Tocoooooooooooooo!" at various moments, with an upward inflection at the end.

No idea why.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 16:52, Reply)

Plain silliness
I know I must have lots of family codes and rituals as we're a lunatic bunch, but the only ones that spring to mind right now are these:

My father and my husband are both fairly technically minded. At least, my husband is, my dad tries to be. So inevitably a family visit will wind up up with the two of them talking wireless routers, visual basic, and how many megs of ram they've got or some such. As soon as they get into sentences that are complete gibberish, conversation is struck up between me, my mother and my sisters along the lines of:
'So you took the purple one?'
'Yeah, I've found purple is so much better than pink with yellow stripes. You get more squiggles per floop for it.'
'Have you tried one of the latest banana flanges?'
and so forth. The trick is to keep a straight face and keep the utter nonsense going until it distracts dad & Mr Trellis and they lose the track of their conversation. Record I think has been 20 minutes.

The second is down to a love of Blackadder. A favourite episode is 'Beer' featuring Miriam Margolyes as Lady Whiteadder. At one point she utters the glorious line 'I will suffer comfort this once. We shall just have to stick forks in our legs between courses.' One day while on holiday we were having the usual argument on what to do that day. A suggestion was made that was met with little enthusiasm, so I said 'or we could just stick forks in our legs'. Cue my mother nearly dying of laughter (she's easy to please my mum) and the birth of a catchphrase: ANYTHING that is a crap idea is now met with the fork alternative.

The last is down to my mother's musical tastes. The radio is invariably tuned to Classic FM and from time to time a bit of opera will come on. We CANNOT listen to it without providing our own translation. For example: Puccini's O Mio Babbino Caro from Gianni Schicchi roughly translates as 'Oh my beloved carrot, I'm going to the port for a lemon competition'. La Donna e Mobile from Verdi's Rigoletto runs along the lines of 'My puma has wind, he has a funny accent and a pension. Sometimes he's an ambulance that needs a visa, then a piano, then some rice that's menstruating.' That's Italians for you.
(Mrs Trellis GIN, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 16:11, 2 replies)

Procrastination.
Wednesday's not too late, is it?

Is it?

Bugger.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 15:19, 2 replies)

Outlaws! Xmas! Twunts!
Xmas, for the last ten years, has involved me being dragged by MrsDoubt to the Outlaws. It's a 6-7hr drive, but thats only the beginning of the pain, I assure you, dear readers...

Tell me, what is xmas day to you? fevered tearing-of-paper present openings? Over-eating? Bond movie in the afternoon?

Well, those may be traditions in YOUR household, but not at my Outlaws, oh no.

Xmas day consists of a forced participation in their family traditions.... behold...

Decorating the tree means being regaled with the history of each and every bauble *and* the story of the wire with which each is hung.

Opening presents is done in a serene and stately manner, with each attendant being handed a present in turn. this often leads to a strange and uncomfortable moment if someone doesn't have the same number of presents as everyone else, because yours run out whilst someone else is taking *another* turn. Also, you are obliged to guess (repeatedly) what the present may be before opening it. Gah. This often means that presents are purchased on the basis of how hard they will be to guess, rather than how much they may be enjoyed!

Dinner is far from traditional (normally) as my brother-in-law and family are highly allergic to a myriad of things (for which they have my sympathy, I will add), but, really, BEEF? (albeit *good* beef, I will add) and over-eating is certainly not an option, not on those 'sensible' portion sizes! (unless you want roast parsnip. eww.)

During the cooking process there is a significant possibility that the MiL will have some kind of accident involving broken glass. *Almost* traditional.

The telly is NOT to be turned on for idle viewing. Telly is a planned activity with only the most worthy (and obscure) programs making the grade. Heaven forfend that I want to watch some 'trash', and even if I do I can garuntee that MiL will sit there and criticise it throughout. Unless of course it's what she wants to watch. Then it's 'quality viewing'.

Instead of telly, games are often the order of the day. But even here, there is an issue. Now, I am a fan of games in all their guises, not just on my PC or PS3 etc., but I love roleplaying games, board games and so on as well, but... my Outlaws are, to a man and woman, Educationalists (not teachers, mind you, oh no. Educationalists) and their specialty is...MATHS...gah. I am crap at maths. So, what kind of games do they play? Obscure, lateral thinking puzzle games with 'traditional wooden pieces' or some such nonsense, or card games with various 'house rules' they've created themselves. These games are also played to a high degree of competativeness; I've known them to play Nine Mens Morris for up to five hours. They look at me funny when I decline to play.

The evening will involve drinking, sometimes heavily, by those in attendance. I don't drink a lot myself (bad experiences in younger life destined for other QotW's methinks), and I do get bored of hearing drunken musings on how bad other peoples lives are. Xmas is meant to be cheerful, not maudlin! Damn their eyes!

Finally, sleep may take me, and xmas is over for another year. Now comes three or four days of sitting around with bugger all to do before I can get home and have some fun!

One of these days, xmas will be at MY home, and then they will all be subjected to over-eating of turkey, sensible drinking, crap on the telly constantly, a game of Talisman or such, Charades, and Guitar Hero World Tour on the PS3!

..but, I will add, I love them to bits despite them being STRANGE!

[EDIT: Not just at xmas, but at any time a car-journey is undertaken, songs must be sung. Songs they've MADE UP. When MrsDoubt was about FIVE. And then they think I'm a miserable twunt for not joining in. And they sing loudly. And Badly. Bless 'em.]
(EffinDoubt is breaking glass on, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 14:55, 11 replies)

We make up silly names for objects...
The mini hoover or 'Dustbuster' = The SuckySucky.
Lawnmower = Maurice.
Our Lava lamp = Lawrence.
Last 2 christmas trees = Forest and Blue.
Our cat, Mango = Monsteros, Creature.
My Daughter, Chloe= Clo, Bo, Bubs, Bubsillicious.
Horses = Poggies

My wife will frequently say in the presence of guests "Oh, could you just turn Lawrence on" (!!!)

And both the cat and the daughter know all their other odd names and will react when called by them.

My daughter is 4 and I try to tell myself that we make up silly names for her benefit, but the truth is we've been doing it for years.
(Strangechap I look normal on the outside..., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 13:59, 7 replies)

Banane!
My parents used to live and work in Switzerland. In fact, I was born there. Apparently, my Dad's Swiss office was a melting-pot of different European languages and workers, the only things they all shared being an aptitude for telecommunications and a warped sense of humour. My dad extracted endless amusement from practical jokes: his favourite was when his friend Michel's back was turned, he replaced Michel's handset with a banana and rang his extension. Michel whipped round, extended his hand toward the phone, and exclaimed in puzzled French: "Banane?"

That is the story of why, 20 years later, every time the phone rings in our house, Dad shouts "Banane" after every ring. I'm sure there's also an explanation for why, whenever anyone in our house starts a sentence with "So..." and a pause, another family member fills in the gap with "...haben Sie heute Tennis gespielen?", but it's lost on me.

My family are strange.
(Holloway_Girl To err is to be human, to be a fool is to believe, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 13:50, 7 replies)

Post school snack for the masses...
At Primary school my mum used to pick me up and would frequently bring a post school snack, which was nice. Whenever consisting of something that could be shared out though I had to stand at the school gates and offer my miniture mates offering them a crisp or whatever it was. Ma would then scowl at any child greedy enough to take more than one of said snack item. I don't really remember when I would be allowed to delve in, but I don't remember ever being upset of having to effectively payout my snacks in this fashion or indeed not being left with any left for myself.

I doubt they would allow this sort of thing these days as they'd probably think my Mum was trying to poison the kids... besides which at 30 I'm probably a bit too old for primary school.
( @><|= w0nu!) or cunt to my friends, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 13:45, Reply)

My lords, ladies & gentlemen...
I eventually convinced my young sons to proclaim "to the Queen!" anytime somebody farts, if the other lad witnesses the event he adds "and all who sail in her!" much to the often perplexed expressions of those in attendance.

This is in honour of the original bloke who I used to work with, he often ad-libbed whatever the occasion. His finest work being "and a fish!" at any given pause in the conversation.
(minky, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 13:32, 3 replies)

One for the dog...
My Mum's way of getting me not to pick up food that was dropped when I was a child was to say that it was "One for the dog"... it worked brillantly as I felt that the next passing dog would be rewarded for my clumseyness.
( @><|= w0nu!) or cunt to my friends, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 13:31, 1 reply)

Saying grace
Being brought up in a weird Christian religious sect, we always said grace before being sodomised and treated like dirty whores by the elders.
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 12:33, 2 replies)

Jack-Whoring-Fucking-Fuckface-Cuntalot-Palance…

For as long as I can remember, I have shuddered with a seething disdain at the mere mention of the (now dead) crusty old actor Jack ‘shitcake’ Palance.

It’s not even his fault really. I never knew the bloke…he might have been a lovely fella. He did nothing personally to offend me. Maybe he wasn’t the best actor in the world, but he tried hard…yet he ended up being a prunefaced tortuous turdboil on the arse of not only my fledgling youth, but also through my teenage years and beyond...

The reason I have grown to loathe the sour-mugged cumbubble with the passion of a thousand rutting Wildebeests is solely down to my mum’s delusion.

When I was a lad, and any movie was on the telly or video, she would like to participate in a spot of ‘film commentary’. Not discussing the plot, or spouting interesting, relevant facts about what we were watching or anything. Oh no. She just liked to try and name the people in the cast...If she recognised any of them.

Unfortunately, and with a painful inevitability…she never recognised any of them. Therefore she would guess…and there was only.ever.one.guess.

Quite how Jack Palance, like the stack of putrid baboon-jizz being spaffed liberally over my childhood that he was, got to tattoo himself on my mum’s fragile and failing memory I will never know. What also didn’t help matters was that in her eyes, it seems he never aged…and he was therefore capable of being in any movie…even after his death…

I believe the curse started in the late 70s, with mum prodding her finger towards the screen and shouting the immortal phrase: “That’s Jack Palance” at any man with dark hair. However, it rapidly degenerated from possible…to doubtful…to totally incomprehensible cases of mistaken identity. One-after-the-other. The process slowly evolved into having those fateful words being screeched with a mixture of blind hope and blithering insanity towards any fucker in the known universe to grace the silver screen:

Some examples:

Mum (whilst watching ‘Top Gun’): “That’s Jack Palance”
Me: “No you daft old trout, That’s Tom Cruise”

Mum (whilst watching ‘Trading Places’): “That’s Jack Palance”
Me: “No…….*sigh*……That’s Dan Aykroyd”

Mum (whilst still watching ‘Trading Places’): “That’s Jack Palance”
Me: “For fuck’s sake – that’s EDDIE MURPHY!”


She must cling to the hope that one day there will be a ‘City Slickers’ or ‘Batman’ repeat, so she can get the validation she so desperately craves by hearing the words:

“YES!...For the love of jiggling, slippery FUCK! – THAT IS JACK PALANCE!”

Every movie for me is now ruined. There is no plot too intense…no performance so magnificent, that it prevents me from having the words: ‘That’s Jack Palance’ perpetually ringing through my ears throughout the whole film like a claxon with a sonic boom attached.

So Rest in Peace Jack…If your ambition in life was to indirectly ruin every single one of my cinematic experiences…past, present and future…then mission accomplished.

You cunt.

( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 12:26, 9 replies)

There was a lad in our halls in uni
And one day we all noticed he had a tattoo on his arm that read 'Shitbag #12'. We were all really baffled at why someone would have something like this inked onto any part of their body forever so we asked him why (expecting an answer like 'oh, I was wasted one time and...'). No. Apparently all the men in his family, starting with his Dad and Uncle, were assigned a 'Shitbag' number and had to get it tattooed on their arm. This lad got into university.
(Visionaryofthe1980s www.myspace.com/visionariesofthe1980s, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 12:03, 4 replies)

The man from the loft
was invented in our old house, by way of an explanation as to who ate all the salt and vinegar crisps/why my bedroom was so messy/who was going to do the dishes when none of the rest of us could be arsed to.

He was also a brilliant way to scare my younger sister into doing what we wanted, by telling her that if she didn't, the man from the loft would come and get her. If I recall, she was actually genuinely quite scared.

He moved into our new loft when we moved house, and has had a happy 10 years here, still eating all the good crisps, nicking my mam's makeup, messing up my bedroom and not doing the dishes.
(and now for someone completely different, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 12:01, 3 replies)

A way to make trips abroad fly by
We like to play our own version of the monument game when on long journeys. Instead of the winner being decided by who sees it first, I told a few of my mates that the winner would be the first one to destroy the nearest monument upon arriving in America. Turns out that Mohamed’s team won the 2001 tournamnet.

Love

Osama
(mon bison powered by magnets, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 11:56, 1 reply)

Christmas eve
Mty grandad did it, my father did it and now I do it:
on Christmas eve, I knock off work half-day, go the pub and get absolutely hammered. I then go to my mums, spend a couple of hours sleeping it off, before toddling to wherever me and the wife are having dinner - fissed as a part still.

The only difference in the radition between me and my dad is that my nan always gave him back the change that fell out of his pockets while he was asleep on the sofa, my mum keeps it.
(ScousersPet, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 11:36, 3 replies)

Christmas Day Washing Up
Tradition in my parents house is on Christmas Day the "Men" have to do the washing up - fair enough mum did cook the dinner (and we did wash up other days before people start complaining about emancipation).

So the tradition really involves me, my brother & brother in-law, inventing plausible ways of avoiding the washing up by:
Suddenly becoming very interested in the Queens speech and unable to leave the lounge.
Needing a pee desperately.
Pretending you havent heard Dad shouting to come and dry up whilst he dissapears under a mountain of Turkey Giblets.
Needing a clean Tea Towel.
Playing with 1 of the kids.
Putting the posh glasses away in the dining room (that can take ages if done right).
Putting the posh cutlery away (as above).
Getting drunk and dropping stuff (always a winner).

Not that funny sorry.
(sproutout Aardvarks you gotta love 'em, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 11:34, Reply)

Well...
A recent family tradition involves me going back to my house to try and retrieve my PS3 after I was kicked out and my step-father decided I couldn't have it back because he plays it more than I do. It's quite sad really.

Almost always results in the Police being called and me being escorted out of the house. That bastard.

I'll get it one day.
( Terry_Tibbs Coarse and violent nudity. Occasional language, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 11:26, 2 replies)

‘Car-Journey’ related post number 735…

It warms my cockles to read such car journey tales of songs sung, 'landmark spotting' games and the handing out of boiled sweets…

My folks had a simple ritual for car journeys when I was a kid…

Part 1: If any trip is longer than 18 yards, both parents must smoke at least 20 king size cigarettes (each) before the journey ends.

Part 2: If I dare to request a window be opened, I am branded a ‘selfish, worthless, waste of good spunk’ by my folks because even someone as stupid as me must realise that opening a window would result in ‘letting the heat out’…

Part 3: Within a few short minutes I would barf up my previous meal…followed by a concerted attempt to expel a lung from my body using the timeless art of chunder.

Part 4: I would be bollocked to within an inch of my tiny life for causing the subsequent carrot-pappered stainage to the back of my Dad’s Austin Marina.

Part 5: Mum & Dad light up again.

Part 6: Repeat parts 2 through 5.


Great days

( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 10:04, 4 replies)

Very peculiar
In my family we have this ritual of washing our hands before touching food and after going to the toilet.

I was very surprised when found out that it's not that common.
(Aberracion Life's getting very complicated, but a lot of fun., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 9:57, 6 replies)

The Pooflake scar…

I can’t believe it’s taken me until Wednesday to think of this…

(Maybe it’s because I’m not a big fan of reposts…but because I can’t really be arsed to paw through all my old wank to find the original, I’ll rewrite it in this fashion.)

There is a tradition in my family. (Tenuous link to ‘ritual’ but you get the idea)…

All male Pooflakes…whilst trudging mundanely through our accursed and increasingly pointless existences…will eventually accumulate a scar under the chin.

My Dad got his in the merchant navy by falling on some piece of big-fucking-boat sailing equipment

My Uncle got his in a knife-fight.

Even my son has one! He got his by falling onto a jagged rock in the garden

My brother got his falling through a plate glass window.

(Come to think of it, most of the Pooflake scars have occurred due to falling either through, or on to something)…

And Me?......well…I don’t have one.

Because I properly cocked-up my big chance.

I was seven years old…and still reeling from the combined shock of Thatcher snatching away our milk; and discovering that Vader was Luke’s father.

Yet through that otherwise carefree sobriety, I waddled mischievously, and with a cheery but bellowing noise through every school day…insolently learning the life-skills of underachievement and corner-cutting that have faired me so well in my now morbidly humdrum dotage.

In those days in our class, the child who had been best behaved all damn day was allowed to leave for home 5 minutes early.

‘Woo!’ you’d think. Suffice to say…it was never me…with one exception.

One sparkling summer’s day, when either in an act of teacher / pupil charity, the law of averages, or a particularly stealthy day of undetected criminal activity by myself, I was finally allowed those precious moments of bonus getaway time.

Elated by beating the odds and getting chosen, I was at a loss at what to do with this fragrant pool of opportunity. Sure, I could go straight home…but that would just be boring as dogshit in a brown bowl.

So with the spirit of ‘Carpe Diem’, I thought I would make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime chance by throwing my parka jacket down on the floor tiles and proceeding to skid up and down the changing room like the veritable clappers on a wrap of whizz and a gallon of Red Bull.

Unsurprisingly, the ‘throwing the parka down’ bit went without a hitch.

It was only at the ‘take a run up, then sprint towards the parka, leap in the air, plant your feet firmly down on said parka and let inertia take it’s course’ part of my diabolical scheme that I suddenly became aware of certain miscalculations…

The parka simply slid backwards underneath me, whipping my legs from under me, and sending my face on a ‘one-way-express-ticket-to-Tile-Town’.

So there I was…plummeting head chin-first towards the cold hard tiles in such a way that the velocity alone would have definitely caused the appropriate tearing of skin tissue…

‘This is it!’ I thought to myself. ‘Pooflake scar, here I come!’

Only fate, fuckwittery and faulty facial muscles decided to step in to wrench away my mongatoid birthright…

…And in some sort of involuntary spasm I suddenly jutted the top row of my teeth out like a 7 year old male impersonator of Janet Street-Porter.

Quite soon after hitting the ground…fragments of my mouth decided it would be a splendid idea to obliterate before scattering themselves over a wide area, I was left rolling around on the floor, sobbing like a girlie and clinging to my bloodsoaked chompers

Eventually, the other children and the teacher wandered out from the classroom into what looked like an out-take from ‘the Coventry Chainsaw Massacre’.

Once the teacher had recovered from her subsequent panic attack, she called my folks, collected the pieces of my shattered mouth and gave them to me in a tissue for the tooth fairy…

Still…I think I ended up getting about 20p…so it wasn’t all bad :)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 9:26, 8 replies)

"I saw the landmark first", again
... which was for my my sister and I, on long journeys to visit aunts and uncles, was the Ballachulish Bridge.

Flash forwards a decade or two, and we're not in Mum and Dad's old Renault 4, but my old Volvo 340 with my sister driving, a bit of practice on country roads a week or two before her test, and me fiddling with the stereo.

"AAH!" she shouts. "BALLACHULISH BRIDGE I SAW IT FIRST!"
(gordonjcp, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 9:15, 2 replies)

Car & Vomit
I’ve been trying to think from Thursday of any peculiar tradition in my family, and I can’t remember any. That’s strange, because I know my family is very peculiar, and I can’t believe we didn’t have a ritual for anything.

Now, you people keep talking about car journeys, and that made me think of a kind of “ritual” that we would follow every time we had to go by car. It didn’t matter if it was a short ride or two whole days on it. Car meant vomit. A lot of vomit everywhere.

The ritual would start with my mother giving me Biodramina (a pill again car sickness). I would cry and cry helpless, begging please not to be put in the car, telling them that the pill wouldn’t work. We knew it wouldn’t work. She’d make me eat the really disgusting thing and that would make me sick before hand (after a few years of this, she gave up)

Then, my father would ask a hundred times if I had enough plastic bags. Depending on the journey I had to take more or less, but to give you an idea, for a 15 min ride I had to take at least 3, and make sure they didn’t have holes. One day my father came with a big roll. It was like one massive plastic bag rolled very tight. It came in a cylinder with a knife at the end, so I could cut the bag as long as I wanted, then tie one end and use it.

In the meantime, my mum, knowing me, would take a lot of towels.

Well, everything ready we would go to the car. Just the smell of it would make me sick (it still happens sometimes with very old cars). My sister would sit near one of the doors, my brother in the middle and me near the other door. Always like that (my brother had tried a few times to leave the car when still in motion)

Then my sister and I would go to sleep. For a while, only. I would wake up and, immediately, start vomiting. It didn’t matter what I had eaten before. Once I vomited all the gastric acids on my stomach, as I hadn’t had lunch. Then, my sister, with the smell and the sounds, would wake up too, and start vomiting.

My mother would start shouting “How can I have two daughters so stupid, eh? How can I?” If we were lucky, my sister would reach one of the bags on time. If not, the car floor would be a mess (forever, it never got cleaned).

After some time of having each sister in one side vomiting for England (or for Spain, but we don’t use that expression) my brother would join us. So the car and us would end up covered in vomit. Every single time.

And that’s the more important and repeated ritual in my family.

(My father would only play the same singer in his car all the time, and until very recently I couldn’t listen to him without feeling sick)
(Aberracion Life's getting very complicated, but a lot of fun., Wed 26 Nov 2008, 8:30, 7 replies)

Fuck family rituals. The remainder of my family
are 6,000 miles away.

My "new family" are the friends I've had for the last 10 years.

Tuesday - lasagne night. Same place, every week. The house soup is ALWAYS Minestrone.
I walk into the bar every night I got in, to be greeted with "Helloooooooo, how are you" in fake English accents. To the extent that I can go in when the other guys aren't around and be greeted by that anyway.

Thanksgiving and Christmas this year will be fun. First time without the husband (six years of tradition), first time alone without a phone call from mum.

Woo!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 6:28, Reply)

lethal legacy
Myself and my brother, my father , my grandfather , his father and his .... well you get the idea are all experts in the ancient and deadly art of dimac. Experts in this are able to disfigure and dismember oponents with a single fingertip. Of course not many people admit to being dimac experts as we like to keep the now legendary low profile.

I can still remember going to my first lesson in this old tradition. I was to be taught by a Professor Slocombe who had interestingly taught it to my father, my grandfather , his father and his .... well you get the idea.
I got the bus with my brother to mafeking ave near te Flying Swan public house. Getting off the bus their was some sort of comotion , apparently a lady in a straw had said something and a riot had eventuated.
Eventually we got to the house in question and our lessons began.

Its funny why we have all become dimac masters as we are a well established family of cobblers. I guess it must be a tradition , or an old charter or something.
(welgar, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 6:23, 3 replies)

Are you sure?
My Dad would often ask me and my siblings if we were sure when asked if we wanted something (say a chocolate bar).

So do you want your twix now?
yes!
Are you sure?
YES
Are you sure you're sure?
-_-
Are you sure you're sure you're sure?
Dad...
Are you sure you're sure you're su-
FFS DAD GIMME THE CHOCOLATE!

When me and brother/sister tried this out with each other it would always lead to a fight.
(British Steel was participating in awesomeness on, Wed 26 Nov 2008, 5:19, Reply)