Oh. My. God.
I am turning into my dad. It's frightening. If I start getting bitter and fierce and misanthropic, I'm going to shoot myself.
Already his sisters mistake me for him when they call. I've had long conversations with them before I realized they thought they were speaking to the wrong Wombat.
Then I was watching the home movie my grandad made of their childhood.
Me: Wait a second, who is that guy who looks like me?
Dad: Me
Me: AAAAARGH!
There's nothing I can do about it.
(TheWonderfulWombat It came to me in a dream., Fri 1 May 2009, 4:25, Reply)

damn im getting old
im only 25 so anything happening like this is really odd for me (having said that my dad is ace so i dont mind being like him)

we both really like jazz and share other musical interest
we both like red wine
we both read mostly the same books
i suppose its really that im getting more like him but also helping him out with stuff like music (if i find something i know he'l like i pass it on)
(imgunnabesick rawr ^ \_/ ^, Fri 1 May 2009, 4:15, 1 reply)

I've developed his walk...
...perhaps best described as ice-skating slowly, hands crossed behind my back. Occasionally, I might pause to exclaim "What a marvellous Magnolia" or similar. I enjoy castles and museums, especially art galleries. I have that 1000 paintings you must see book and am ticking works off slowly. I like Steeleye Span - "King Henry' might just be the most sinister song ever recorded, and not only have I heard of Horslips, I can sing along to most of "The Tain". I enjoy doing the Times Crossword, and drink responsibly.

On the flip side, I still have to work 5 days a week, look after a small child, have no spare cash, no time for hobbies (shudder, I bought an Airfix kit the other day - I just couldn't help it!). My dad is holidaying in China.
(Mousy Tongue ...Generally bemused by life..., Fri 1 May 2009, 4:00, 2 replies)

* sighs *
It had to happen, I suppose. I mean, there have been signs for some time – starting to listen to Fleetwood Mac, preferring quiet pubs to noisy bars (and what sort of music is that they’re playing in there anyway??), and getting in from gigs and putting the kettle on rather than getting more beers out.

But the thing that really brought it home to me happened over Christmas, when I went over to the Channel Islands to spend a fortnight with my parents, and also see my younger sister who lives over there.

I went to their house to pick my younger sister up and go shopping – her other half is a bit of an SF/fantasy/geek TV fan. Nowt wrong with that, I hear you cry, and I’d agree. I’m not a Buffy or LOTR fan, but with some of the crap I like, I’m not really in a position to question anyone else’s taste, but the other half has a dvd collection that would put the HMV megastore to shame – every series of The Simpsons, Futurama, Buffy, DS9, B5, et al. Shelf after shelf. If there was a version with limited edition packaging, that’s usually there as well and usually still in the shrinkwrap. Now ten years ago, or even five, my response would have been ‘aces!’ and dug out a big pile of stuff I like to borrow.

The thirty five year old me? ‘Bloody hell… when on earth is he going to get time to watch it all? You should stick it on ebay, get some space back in your flat.’ And it wasn’t me talking – it was my mum and dad, in equal measures. I was shocked for about ten seconds, then I realised I did indeed feel like that, and I had turned into my parents. Not that it’s a bad thing, I just never expected it to happen to me… or not just yet, at any rate. I still don’t wear slippers, but I am starting to feel unbearably guilty if I sleep in later than 10am or so – I feel as though as I’m wasting the day, and I *have* to get up and do something marginally more productive. It’s all downhill from here, isn’t it?
(tjn whizzing on the electric fence of life, Fri 1 May 2009, 3:55, 2 replies)

what i got from the oldies
From my father, an encyclopedic yet unfocused intelligence, viewing life as the comedy it is, and dandruff.
From my mum i inherited an ability to win arguments through emotional blackmail. Not that I use this power much, but it sometimes comes in useful. With great power comes great responsibility. She has many good qualities, mind; moral compassion and list-making for example, I just never caught that chromosome.
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Fri 1 May 2009, 3:39, Reply)

Becoming my father.
Hello hello.
To be honest, I'm not sure where this QOTW is heading. I foresee a lot of "my Mum/Dad was great and so am I" style answers, and an equal number of "my Mum/Dad had this embarrassing trait/did this stupid thing, and now I'm doing it" concoctions. Maybe even a tenuous Star Wars gag or three.
For my part, I'm not sure where I stand. I've always idolised my father. For some strange reason he was the guy I always wanted to be. If I hadn't been on holiday a fortnight ago he'd've been the subject of the "I'm your biggest fan" QOTW in some contrived roundabout way. Don't get me wrong, Mum was great too, but Dad was always the one I looked up to.
I learned his half-assed magic tricks and showed them to my school friends, confident they'd be amazed because my Dad had showed them to me.
I memorized his stupid stories, and told them to my college friends, knowing they'd find them interesting because my Dad had told them to me.
I remembered his offensive jokes and gleefully paraded them in front of my workmates, knowing they'd piss their grubby little kecks because I'd learned them from my Dad.
We had similar hair, similar dress sense, the same sense of humour, the same love of the nonsensical. I remember many happy evenings watching reruns of thunderbirds, both of us utterly entranced by the crappy little plastic men with their all-too-visible means of support, followed by an episode of Sykes on UKTV Gold. If I was lucky I'd be allowed to stay up for Walker: Texas Ranger.
Due to our vaguely effeminate hair we'd both been mistaken for girls on separate occasions within the space of a month, and I wasn't particularly embarrassed because it had happened to him too.
I discovered Monty Python and One Foot In The Grave, he discovered Red Dwarf and Spaced. I was pinned down and forced to listen to Dire Straits, The Eagles, Jeff Wayne's War Of The Worlds, he grudgingly admitted to liking Manic Street Preachers, Foo Fighters, Radiohead.
One day I hope to be just like him, forcing my outdated culture on Theophilous Jr., making him or her listen to Opeth and Tool, watch Ross Noble and Memento, read Terry Pratchett and Stephen King, play Shadow of the Colossus and Grand Theft Auto III on my cronky old PS2 while their cutting-edge Xbox 1080 or PS9 or Nintendo Shiit gathers dust, and I hope they find it as entertaining as I do now.

~Pause for effect~

About 18 months ago my grandfather died suddenly. We had to travel several hundred miles for the funeral, and Dad and I were pallbearers. It was the first time I'd seen many of my relatives for decades, and they were all staring at us with scrinched-up faces. It was also the first time I'd ever seen my Dad cry. Neither were experiences I'd wish to repeat, but I know I'll have to someday.
During this time my Dad went off the rails slightly. He couldn't sleep, turned to drink, and eventually had an affair. Mum's filed for divorce, the house is being sold, I've had to move out (to be fair, it's about time), and 'the other woman' has had to move in so he can afford the bills. I think he's fcuked up big time, and I think he thinks the same.
The phrase "a shadow of his former self" is thrown around with gleeful abandon, but I finally understand what it means. He's no longer bold and outspoken and funny, he's small and apologetic and meek. He's... different... regretful...
There was once a time, when I was 7 or 8, when turning into my Dad was a brilliant thought. Now I'm older, and I think I'm more like him than ever, and I hope to God that I never end up like he is now.
To this day I've never told him exactly how I feel about him, the same as he never did with his father. If I had the chance, I don't think I'd know what to say.
Possibly "thanks for making me what I am. Now let me find my own way from here".

Apologies for lack of laughosity. I guess it's something I've we've both lost recently.

Also, apologies for length. I guess it's hereditary. I don't know.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Fri 1 May 2009, 3:26, 1 reply)

my parents are cold, dead and six feet under
I'm hoping I can come to some sort of a deal with God, any god, so I don't have to follow in the pallbearers' footsteps.
( nightbuffalo needs more duct tape, Fri 1 May 2009, 2:33, Reply)

I'm balding,
wear suits that look like they come from the 70s, and I'm starting to get a hairy back. I'm turning into my Mum.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 1 May 2009, 2:25, 5 replies)

I'm an inherent racist
Thanks, Mum.
( thewhatofwhom Um... whom?, Fri 1 May 2009, 2:21, 4 replies)

I'm turning into my mother.
N.bates
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Fri 1 May 2009, 2:04, 1 reply)

Slightly off topic
But it is about my dad, I hope it doesn't happen to me, and I love telling these stories almost as much as he hates me telling these stories.


You see, my dad is blessed with confidence, if you could put it that way. He's never afraid to try something out. Unfortunately, a side effect of this (as well as the fact he edits a parish magazine) is to convince him that he is a natural communicator - i.e. everyone always understands what he means.

In his view, this gives him the zen-like ability to ask a question totally unconnected with the subject he wants to know about, and still expect to be told what he wants to know.

This is A Bad Thing.


Take, for example, a trip we made to Saffron Walden last year. Dad is adamant that we should find the open gardens as soon as possible. Unfortunately, he has no idea where they are. Cue him marching into the nearest boots and having the following conversation:

(To set the scene: He has been standing happily in line for 5 minutes to talk to the girl behind the till, whose mind is no doubt fixed into "serve the customer and get them out the door" mode).


Him (Fixes assistant with beady stare): 'Where is the park?'

Her (train of thought utterly gone): 'What?'

Him: 'The park!'

Her: 'There isn't a park around here'.

Him: 'Well you obviously don't live around here'.

Her: 'Actually, I do...'

Him: 'Well then, you should know where the park is'.

Her: *Bemused*

Him: *Stomps out of the door*




As I pointed out to him later, if someone had come to our village and asked for the open gardens, we would be rightly puzzled. We don't have any. He was still convinced that she should have been able to telepathically understand him.
( MatJ LOOK, Fri 1 May 2009, 1:57, Reply)

Me and my Dad don't talk. ( A kind of pearoast )
But I am a lot like him, as much as I hate to admit it.

We're both terribly argumentative. Both have a terribly short temper when it comes to my brother ( mine doesn't result in anything physical unlike his ) Both think we're funny. Both idolised by his parents ( well he used to be ) Both coached football.

We spent a lot of time together. We liked the same things, found the same things funny. He was without a shadow of a doubt my best friend. Sure my mates are awesome, but he was me, me but older and a lot fatter.

I had nothing but respect for the way he brought me and my brother up. He was a good job and only one time can I think of him doing anything I now as an adult think was out of order ( headbutting me for saying Buddy Holly is crap? I know he's his hero but he calls Bill Hicks shit all the time and I didn't drop the head on him! )

Then he left my Mom. And left a note explaining everything for me and my brother. Nothing for my Mom.

I had to tell her. There was no way I was letting my brother do that.

I've not spoken to him since. And I won't speak to him again.

While I can and will admit I am very similar to him in many ways. I will never, ever be like him in his attitude to dealing with his own actions. And the after effects of those actions.

I'm a prick but not that much of a prick.
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Fri 1 May 2009, 1:34, Reply)

ARSE CREAM (or how I acted like an adult this weekend)
I spent last weekend twatting about on a sled up at Hampstead Heath - the place to be if you're gay and want head from a random stranger (or George Michael) - with my mate Steve, skidding about on the freshly cut grass and having a whale of a time until some cunt in a coppers uniform advised us to, and this is a direct quote:

"Fuck off and start acting your age."

So we did fuck off, back to Steve's for a few beers.

Fine by me.

We settle in for an afternoon of footie on the TV. But whilst watching Soccer Saturday Steve starts to complain about a pain in his backside.

He goes to the Gary Glitter for a Richard the Third and comes back shortly afterwards, looking whiter than an albino klu klux clan member who's mum DOES use Persil.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" I laugh, showing as much concern as I can.

"My arse is bleeding! That fucking sled!"

And then Steve does something more fucking grusomely awfully horrible than having to sit through every mind numbingly dull moment of Titanic with Leonard -girly boy - DiCaprio breezing round like a big twat.

He pulls down his kegs, spins round, and spreads his arsecheeks.

Fuck me...

"Piles, mate," I say, reaching for my phone to take a photo to show him the trauma damage to his unholy ring.

I snap a quick photo, show him. He nearly passes out. It looks like a hand grenade's gone off up his jacksy.

"Hang on," I say. "I'll just pop down to Boots on Kentish Town Road - I'll get you something for it." And off I go, being a big responsible fully paid up member of the responsible adult club.

My mum would've been proud.

I walk down to Boots, it's arse cream galore - too much fucking choice - I choose the tried and trusted brand and mosey on over to the counter.

The girl who's serving was about eighteen.

I feel the need to make conversation, I feel compelled to let her know the arse repair cream isn't for me, but even as I utter the words I realise just how fucking GAY I sound; might just as well have stuck a cock in my mouth and got me to perform in Priscilla Queen of the Desert:

"Just been up on the Heath playing a bit rough with my mate, this cream's for him" I nod my head towards the Preparation H. I was like a speeding car crash, I just couldn't stop myself. "Should really be a health warning for what we were doing... Had to stop when the old bill caught us at it..."

I smile nervously.

The girl goes red and giggles as she rings my purchase through the til.

"Whatever floats yer boat, mate," she says.

"There's nothing funny about piles," I say in my indignant-approaching-middle-aged-man-voice, trying to wrestle back control of this fucked up conversation. "Can be fatal," I say with as much gravitas as I can muster, though really not too sure if that's true.

The girl smirks even more.

She appears to have tears in her eyes and she's biting her bottom lip to keep from pissing herself.

I pay. I leave with a little hurumph of indignity. Fuck the kids. Who wants to be down with the kids? Not me. Fuck um. Fuck um hard. Up the arse.

Then, earlier tonight I'm down at the same branch of Boots with the Mrs, picking up the monthly supply of toiletries.

The same girl serves us.

As I pay she says, matter-of-factly:

"How's your friends bottom today, Sir?"

I say its fine, thank you.

We leave.

And the Mrs says: "I don't even want to know..."

Thinking about it...

...really should delete that photo of Steve's arse off my phone...

And in future stop pretending to act like a responsible adult - it usually ends in some moment of cringeworthy trauma like this.

Curse the eighteen year old girl who works in Boots!
( SpankyHanky, Fri 1 May 2009, 0:43, 7 replies)

Two of my favourite albums
Carry on Up the Charts: The Best of the Beautiful South

Billy Joel - An Innocent Man

I'm 19. The first is my mum's; the second my dad's.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Fri 1 May 2009, 0:28, 4 replies)

Dishwashers
I don't trust them. I don't believe the quality is the same as hand-washing.

If I doubt the cleanliness to any extent, I will wash every single piece of crockery/cutlery, etc. by hand, thoroughly, and then rinse it, and leave it to dry. If I don't think it's been left to dry in an appropriate spot (i.e., not fully on the draining board but partly hanging off) I will rewash it.

Me and my dad are apparently the only people in the family who feel like this (my mum is the sort of person who will happily eat stuff weeks beyond it's sell-by-date if it smells OK. Were it warm enough, I can imagine her boiling eggs on the pavement to save energy).

Ironically, me and Dad are also the two who have the constitutions of dung beatles and see illness as a theory rather than actual part of the fabric of everyday life. We really don't need to do this.

We don't care, though. When I go home, we'll go out, have a few beers, play some snooker, have a curry, then spend a good hour and a half having a really intense chat whilst washing pretty much every single thing in the house which is not nailed down.

We don't find this weird. We're aware everyone else would though, so it's not something we talk about. Ever. It's just what we do - we get a bit tipsy, we clean stuff, we have a whisky, then we go to bed.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 1 May 2009, 0:24, 3 replies)

Sorry mum
Several years ago I realised I had turned into my mum.
Not the funny mum who did crazy things to make us laugh.
But the mum who hid her face in the morning so we couldnt see a new bruise, even though we had been there when he did the drunken beating.
Two kids under 10 trying to stop a grown man and failing.
I'm ashamed to say, as soon as were legally old enough to leave, thats what we did.
Sorry mum, we just couldnt stop it or watch anymore :(
Somewhere along the way I ended up shacked up with this guy.
Charismatic, everyone loved him.
The first time he beat me, it was my fault, the second time yada yada.
Always on the body where no-one could see.
Till one night he totally lost it and messed my face up pretty good.
I remember sitting there and thinking "how am i going to explain this?"
And then him telling me i wasnt to go out until it had cleared up.
And I saw my mum, hiding away, and now that was me.
They say we all turn into our parents at some point, but that aspect just wasnt sitting happily with me.
I know first hand the real sound of Spang
A saucepan wrapped around his face, followed by my dragging/throwing his sorry ass out of the door.

I like the nicer traits my mum has left me with.
The inability to remember anyones name, and will go through a dozen random names before I get it right.

Having to be the first person to leave a footprint in fresh snow.

No matter how daft it looks, if there is a pile of leaves you must kick it.

You must try to cheat badly at monopoly or cards and just giggle when caught out

From my dad.........lumbago, gee thanks
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Fri 1 May 2009, 0:16, 13 replies)

I just realised how bad I'm getting
I'm 28.
My missus is slightly older than me.
Because of this, I have:
3 step-children and i have been a 'grandad' for 4 years.
I have 3 'grandchildren' now, with 2 more due in the middle of May.
I want to grow a veg garden, but can't, because my pet ducks keep eating everything green. I've thought about getting a caravan, which i think is the worst bit, but ended up not getting one.
I also got rid of my 'uselessly slow' fiesta when i bought a 2 litre sports coupe, then regretted it straight away because the fiesta was more practical, so have now bought a Ford KA.

I LOVE my slippers, I don't do anything on ANY weekends, EVER.
I'm halfway through repainting my flat and go for more pastel coloured blues for the bathrooms, greeny for the kitchen and the colour for the main part of the lounge is 'Coastline', because it's nice.

I actually remember feeding the horses that used to be in the field where now stands a nice little housing estate where my (biological) 11 year old son lives. He's lived there since he was 2.

I tidied up my garage as well, so I've got a little workshop and instead of buying a gate for our driveway, I made one.

I don't have a tartan blanket on the parcel shelf of the car so I'm not that bad, yet.

I'm turning into my dad, just as he starts going out on weekends.
(Mensa Reject has gone out, I'll be back on, Fri 1 May 2009, 0:12, Reply)

A "Dad" with no kids...
...that's what I'm turning into.

I keep small bits of wood for stirring paint with. I have a Land Rover that has more tools in it than my shed. I own and frequently wear a flat cap. I am the proud owner of a beard as well as a membership card for the Campaign for Real Ale.

Only this morning I was cursing at some bindweed in between my brussels sprouts in the garden, whilst still wearing my slippers. I have given up smoking but still own a pipe.

I could point out on a map (yes, a paper one, which I could fold back up afterwards) many places which I can remember when they were "nowt but fields".
( Amos E Wolfe makes vinyl signs and things like that, Fri 1 May 2009, 0:09, 1 reply)

Not mine, but
relevant

more here
( Willwillwritehiswill An arse like a slapped face., Fri 1 May 2009, 0:08, Reply)

My dad is an asshole
and as I get older I believe I am also becoming more of an asshole
( SiX and his hat, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 23:45, 1 reply)

'Whitby'....
As a kid many an evening was spent with the family watching classic TV such as heartbeat. The main reason for this was we lived in the area where much of it was filmed so spent the whole time trying to spot places we knew.
My dad was always the best at this as he spent alot of time driving around Yorkshire for his work so knew most of the settings straight away and would always say where most scenes were filmed as we were watching.
Fast forward to afew months ago and me and my sister were sat watching an old episode of heartbeat, one particular scene was by the sea and without even thinking i turned to her, nodded knowingly at the screen and said 'Whitby'.
Thats when it hit me I was turning into my dad... I'm only 23.
(american badass Papa's got a brand new beef bag, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 22:43, 2 replies)

Whenever
I see a couple canoodling/snogging/getting a bit friendly in the street I will say - and it doesn't matter who is with me or if indeed I am by myself - "Hold me Johnny the life is leaving me."

This is something that my mum and my 92 year old nana say. Now that I've typed it its not even that ruddy funny. My mum is Irish and Grade A nutty and full of pointless/ridiculous expressions passed down from her mum that I now find myself saying.

It is more original than 'get a room' I suppose.
(Eldoofus, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 22:41, 2 replies)

Shocks and Soes & Liftweighting
My dad has (and does) consider the pinnacle of humour to be switching the beginning sounds of words. My mother, on the other hand (and I give her full credit for having English as her second language - still, it's funny) tends to switch word order in compound words.

This leads to chestnuts like putting on shocks and soes, wearing a she-tirt, doing some liftweighting and putting post in a boxmail.

I've managed to inherit both of these charming speech impediments, resulting in going to the gym to do some wiftleighting.

For bonus points, I've somehow got my girlfriend to do the same.

I'm so ashamed.
(TheManWhoWas SlightlyKnackered, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 21:52, 1 reply)

My father is big on DIY.
He has a tool bucket that he carries with him, as there's always something that needs fixing and it's better to fix it now than curse at it forever or buy a new one.

I too am constantly fixing things, whether I be at home or away. I will hunt down a screwdriver or a wrench and repair whatever needs to be repaired, just as Dad does.

Only somehow when he's fixing things and bashes a finger or some such I don't think he growls "Fucksocks!"
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 30 Apr 2009, 21:49, 1 reply)

Never thought I'd become my dad, but its happening. My knees click. I spend hours in the shed turning wood into sawdust. I touch my son's willy while he sleeps. I can't abide wasting food. I like watching golf on TV on a sunday afternoon.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 21:41, 3 replies)

Tum te-tum te-tum te-tum...
As a child, I had to endure Radio 4 if I was in the kitchen. It didn't matter what time of day it was, Radio 4 was always on. On top of that the hours of 14:02-14:15 and 19:02-19:15 were sacrosanct. We were never, ever, under any circumstances, permitted to interrupt Mum while The Archers was on. The opening bars of Barwick Green always sent my siblings and I scurrying in fear from the kitchen.

I swore I'd never listen to Radio 4 after leaving home, and especially not The Archers.

Many years later, my job meant I had to spend innumerable hours on the road, and the company van's radio was just that: a radio. No tape, no CD, no auxiliary socket for an MP3 player, nothing like that. So I listened to the radio, a lot.

At first I listened to pop music stations because, it being a white van, that's all the radio would pick up. I don't know what it is about radios in white vans, but it's completely impossible to pick up anything other than Radio 1 and its commercial equivalents.

I soon became bored with that because, quite frankly, Radio 1 and its commercial equivalents are, always have been, and always will be, completely shit. It just took me a while to realise, that's all. Local radio stations are just as bad. I ended up driving in silence rather than endure the moronic drivel spouted by La Baker, La Evans, La Radcliffe, La Whiley et al.

Then I got a proper car, with a proper radio, and explored the dizzying heights of Classic FM. After all, I wasn't old enough, or boring enough, for Radio 3. But even that palled after a while. There's only so much Vivaldi a man can take. There's more to decent classical music than non-stop chamber quartets.

And thus commenced my descent. I started small, with Today and P.M. They fitted neatly with my commute, and I began to look forward to John Humphrys' skewerings of venal politicians (I suspect venal is a tautology, where politicians are concerned...), and Eddie Mair's dulcet tones. They always brightened up an otherwise dull commute.

Sometimes my commute would take a bit longer, so in the morning I would be treated to some civilised discourse on the nature of modern society, courtesy of such luminaries as Andrew Marr, Melvyn Bragg, or Libby Purves. In the evening there would be the Six O'Clock News, followed by Nicholas Parsons, Humphrey Lyttleton, or Sandi Toksvig. Sometimes I was unfortunate enough to have to listen to Steve Punt, the only man I know who is his own rhyming slang, but that happened blessedly few times.

I always, without fail, turned the radio off at 7 p.m. The scars from my childhood were still too raw to contemplate, and I was ostensibly in charge of a 3,000-lb instrument of death, hurtling along at 70 m.p.h. on the public roads. I did not think it fair to subject other road users to my suicidal tendencies, brought on by a surfeit of Lynda Snell.

But then one night I did not turn off the radio. I wanted to listen to Mark Lawson interview someone - I forget whom - and did not wish to risk missing the start of the programme. So I compromised. I turned the volume down so I could barely hear anything, gritted my teeth during Barwick Green, and did my best both to ignore the radio for the next quarter-hour and to avoid driving into anyone.

I survived the experience.

The problem with surviving unpleasant experiences is that doing so becomes easier with repetition. With enough repetition it ceases to be unpleasant and becomes tolerable. After a while, it becomes routine. And once routine it becomes expected. One starts to look forward to it. If there is a break in the routine it is a disappointment. One starts to enjoy it, in fact. I believe this has been called Stockholm Syndrome.

It didn't take long for me to turn the volume down less each time. Eventually I stopped turning the volume down at all. I started listening to the exploits of Shula, and Kenton, and Nigel, and Jennifer, and Brian, and Eddie, and Clarrie, and Lynda, and the rest. I let the sound wash over and soothe me as I drove through the evening. I started paying attention to the everyday story of country folk, and was drawn into their trials and tribulations.

So far, this has only happened in the car. And I haven't voluntarily turned on the radio at 7 p.m. if it has happened to be off, or I've been listening to a CD. If I've been at home, the radio has been switched off rather than continue listening. I retain some degree of self control... for now.

But the slope is slippery, and I am well and truly on it. There is no hope for me; it is merely a matter of time before I am consumed. The time will come when I start planning my day such that I have a quarter-hour spare at 7 p.m. And I will be grumpy and irritable if that routine is ever interrupted.

I am doomed.
( flake has nothing against your right leg, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 21:36, 3 replies)

Every time a motorcyclist overtakes me...
...I will always mutter "kidney donor," regardless of whether there's someone in the car with me or not. My dad's really into motor racing (cars obviously) and has instilled this hatred of motorcyclists from a early age which I carry with me to this day, despite not really understanding why...
(darkmavis86, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 21:23, Reply)

REAL ALE...
must fight the urge......almost failing..
(norfolkngood, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 21:01, 5 replies)

Yay I finally got a suggestion under the wire!
So, okay...

If any bastard dares overtake me at speed on the road when I am already doing the speed limit, I willtut and say "You won't get there any bloody quicker"

I have, on two occasions, found myself by choice watching the Create and Craft shopping channel on Sky.

I once caught myself thinking "what a nice young man" about a polite shop assistant. I was barely 23, he must have been about 18.

When I hear a child throwing a paddy anywhere in public, I mutter under my breath "Just give it a bloody smack"

I will follow mr b3th around the house turning off lights - he leaves them on when he leaves a room, which annoys the fuck out of me.

I think I actually am beyond help.
( b3th Not shit. Not mod., Thu 30 Apr 2009, 20:43, 3 replies)