valentine
Roses are Red
It's almost lunchtime
There's no new QOTW in sight
And it's really fucking boring now
(frankspencer, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 11:38, 1 reply)

I Hope
The next QOTW is something like shameful confessions.

'Cos I've done something very, very bad....

I've turned to the dark side.....
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 11:36, 5 replies)

If you're interested...
...I've got some hot tapes of mixed lawyers and MPs doing some jailhouse rap?
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 11:24, Reply)

A valentine for the B3ta God.
Roses are red
and you are a geek
I'll give you a kiss
If you change this question of the week

Mmmwwwaaaaa!
( girlinthehole, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 10:56, 8 replies)

Don't tape me bro! Don't Tape me!
Sorry.
(Miggyman, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 10:52, Reply)

*CHANTS*
What do we want?

A New QOTW!

When do we want it?

NOW!

What do we want?

A New QOTW!

When do we want it?

NOW!

What do we want?

A New QOTW!

When do we want it?

NOW!

What do we want?

A New QOTW!

When do we want it?

NOW!

What do we want?

A New QOTW!

When do we want it?

NOW!

What do we want?

A New QOTW!

When do we want it?

NOW!

That ought to do it.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 10:41, 6 replies)

Tape mixup
Just last month I was traveling through Inverness airport. Innocently I had an old roll of Gaffer Tape in my hand luggage (always useful so just lives in bottom of my rucksack).

Get to security and my bag doesn't appear the other side of the x-ray. I get called over by a little jobs worth who asks me if this is my bag. What now I ponder? She pulls out the roll of gaffer tape and asks.
"This yours"?
"Shit" thinks I, thinking any minute armed response will appear thinking me some terrorist about to tie up the sky marshal secreted on board. I knew I shouldn't have grown a beard.

Luckily they realized I was no terrorist and confiscated my tape. But nowhere is Gaffer listed as a banned item, I want them to replace the roll (now I am no longer scared of armed response).

Anyway that is my tape mix(up)
(manbear84, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 10:13, 2 replies)

Come on...
It's almost halfway through Thursday now. Be nice and close the question, what say?

(EDIT: I've only managed to get the first post twice... and it smarts that one of them was for this stinker of a question.)
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 10:11, 4 replies)

Oh bugger
While repainting the kitchen I was masking off the skirting boards using masking tape as I'm totally crap at painting without making a mess. It's like I've forgotten all the colouring between the lines colouring books of my youth.

Anyway, I ran out of masking tape and the shops were shut so I looking in our stationary type cupboard I found the box with wrapping paper etc and discovered 2 rolls of sellotape.

Rather ingeniously I thought I used the sellotape to mask off the remaining bits of wall and set to with my trusty roller and a tin of that durable emulsion.

Job done and paint dry I was admiring my handywork and removing the masking tape. You can imagine how I swore when I reached the sellotape and on removing it tore the surface paper off the plasterboard leaving big fucked up areas of my new painted walls which now not only need filling and smoothing but also masking and painting.

That's where I learnt don't mess around with mixed tapes.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 10:07, Reply)

No
"Everyone's made a mix tape"

not everyone.

Glad to see it's not just me that considers this QOTW to be the low point of a run of really bad QOTW's.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 10:01, Reply)

old school
My great grandafther lived in a time before electronic recording equipment, but he was advanced enough to grasp the concept of a mix tape. So he decided to send actual musicians to his future wife, having briefed them them on a selection of classics that they should play.

Great grandma was delighted when the packing crate arrived at her door, but she fainted in horror when fourteen putrid corpses tumbled out over their crushed instruments. They'd been at the post office for two weeks longer than necessary because the label had fallen off.

She was never the same after that and had to plug her ears with cork each time she heard a cello.
(frankspencer, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 9:57, 1 reply)

Kitchen plumbing
Me and the GF had an argument on what kind of water spout to put on our sink.

I wanted 2 seperate ones yet she wanted

mixer taps

/gets coat
/leaves

EDIT** probably bindun but I aint even bothered to read it this week :S
(never-right -getting it wrong since '78, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 9:55, Reply)

Errm....
That Apeloverage wot writes on here..

Err... something involving some confusion

And him.

That's it really.


No length at all really...

But still farrrrrrrr too long.
(tinypod will never learn. Ever., Thu 14 Feb 2008, 7:28, 2 replies)

well.
i once sent a girl a VHS video cassette tape with all my favourite songs on.
(Richard Pryor setting himself on fire while freebasing crack cocaine in the 80's I ONLY USE PAINT!!?!?!?!!, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 2:23, Reply)

I've
got some good mates in wantage. Its not a bad little town. Like you say, lots of pubs :)
(Roopy all is not what it seams, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 2:18, Reply)

mine's a bison
I walked into the empty square and demanded penance. "wherefor art thou oh Elvis" cried the lunatic in the corner. I bid him good truck stop and continued to the one arm bandit. It was showing ten to ten. Cowboy time. Always a bad omen. I made one last oath and disappeared into the ether from whence I send this missive. What a mix tape, eh?
(lost, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 0:31, Reply)

i'll have an irish one and an albino one and an angry one
"ooh thanks," she said ... "mixed tapirs"
( writerblock ... embedding disabled by request on, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 0:19, Reply)

I made a mix tape
but who listens to tapes she said?
I put it on a minidisk and still she laughed,
Only twice compression she said?
I put it on a DAT.
On a what she asked?
I burned my very first CD and lovingly wrote upon it.
Is it MP3 she asked laughing at my rejection.
So I made it into an MP3DVD and presented it to her in a beautifully laid out box with every album listed.
She took it in her delicate china hands and opened it in front of me. Her gentle smile turned to a sneer of disgust.
Oh fuck you I screamed, as I pushed her under a truck.
I knew I should not have started with Bon Jovi.
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 23:43, 1 reply)

Have
A

itaxmpe




Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 21:52, 4 replies)

I was mixed-up
It was the end of the university term. God knows how I'd got through that term. I spent a lot of it in abject depression, weeping my eyes out for the love of a girl I'd left in France over the summer, smoking too many cigarettes and getting high on whatever was to hand: cough medicine, nutmeg, DMT and plenty of booze. Towards the end I would wake up hallucinating, my shaking body manoeuvring itself casually over to the whisky bottle, maybe pausing to sit on the edge of the bed and cry. But the worst thing was the paranoia.

Radio 1 was talking to me, my whole life was known to all my friends and acquaintances, people were whispering behind my back and hate was in the air. So to the end of term. I supposed I would be picked up and taken home if not hospitalised by those determined to blunt my awareness by force-feeding me drugs that stiffened my brain and my body. I decided to get over to France, see this girl. Maybe I thought radio 1 had suggested it. I travelled late at night and once a car passed me and I thought it made a ravens croak as it passed. I had been reading a lot of Edgar Allen Poe and things had gone very eerie.

Getting off the train at Euston, morale was low and I was confused, all the messages to my brain from everything around me were conflicting, I feared for my soul in this faraway place where I was absolutely alone yet surrounded by people and things recognising me in all my possible guises, which was scary. I bought a coffee for this Rasta guy and asked him to score some reefer, which was always on the agenda. He led me away and his hustler speech worsened things. He understood me, he told me about things in my life (and about how he'd been in a successful reggae band and made a million and blown it). He led me to kings cross. I got skanked of course. Then again, this time under threat of violence, by someone who was probably the Rasta guy's mate. I was confused again and rather stupidly and inanely standing around in the middle of Kings Cross. People were approaching me, trying to befriend me and I needed to talk to someone so I went of with a scrawny, acne-scarred girl who led me to someone's house steps where some pimp-posse were sitting and smoking weed. Again I was led off, and this time I was completely lost. Me, scrawn-girl and an aggressive girl in a puffa jacket went to some more steps, under some flats. We talked we smoked. We smoked some crack. Aggressive-girl started to feel me up and demand money while scrawn-girl went through my bag. I told them to fuck off and leave me alone and that no money was owed. A knife was pulled out and things got scarier. So I allowed myself to be led to a cash point, where 300 quid was taken off my credit card. Walking to the cash point I could have easily lost them but I didn't, due to crazy superstitions haunting my mind. Free of them, I had to find my bag. On the way I was accosted by numerous prostitutes, one of whom somehow managed to purloin my switch-card. I did find my bag and then somehow got to Dover by hitching and finally a taxi whose driver assured me I was doing an absolutely sensible thing by running away to France.

The boat journey started magnificently. I went up on deck and felt the wind in my hair and all around was sea. Then my credit card got stolen somehow and I left my bag in the lorry driver's bit of the ship and couldn't get back in until over an hour of arguing had finished and they almost kicked me off the ship with instructions to see the British consul in Calais. This I did, after finding out from a local tramp that it was quite possible to get to Paris with no money, travelling by train if you please, with free sandwiches. Somehow I actually went to see the consul though and he told me to get back to England. I fled, but became convinced he had my passport, which I needed to blag my way to Paris. So I returned and scaled the wall up to his window and threw a big rock at it. It broke and I climbed inside. While rifling through his papers I heard a noise and got out fast, jumped down and ran through the streets.

Someone was on my tail. I got about 500 metres and was then rugby tackled by a pedestrian vigilante, who held me down and took me to his office where he called the police. I tried to explain myself and some even feigned sympathy but the police arrived and the handcuffs were locked tightly around my bloody hands. At the police station I was insulted in the very worst French and when I tried to explain myself there was a lot of laughing over how I was going to see my bitch. It ended with being taken home by my parents and going to hospital, where the drugs did work, just about and I was released, only to get up more miserable infamy later on.
(lost, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 21:20, 4 replies)

OTC cough medecine
I once drank two bottles of Boots' "Tusana" and went on a rampage round a city centre club then lay on my back in the street shouting "I'm the only gay in the village". I then lost my memory but woke up in the morning covered in shit and with two black eyes.

I guess you could call the episode a mix tape.
(lost, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 21:04, Reply)

Story
I went to a zoo and went to the monkey enclosure - I saw some Mixed Apes....

Sorry :-)
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 20:22, Reply)

Since this Reply thing...
I've stopped getting messages in my b3ta inbox :(
( Axai is in Montréal, Canada O.o, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 20:09, Reply)

Stop it
These puns are 2008's version of the ice cream van jokes.
(I have a face also had a sig on, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 19:08, 1 reply)

You're all gonna be mad...
I knows it, but I cant stops it. So, given this QOTW has degenerated into filth and frenzy, I'm gonna take the opportunity to sneak in all the QOTW answers I would've loved to have done, but joined after the event. Future apologies for the dangerous precedent this may set.

Clients are Stupid

I work for a bookmakers, at their UK call centre. I, shockingly enough, primarily take bets. Thus, when the first line out of a punters mouth is either "can I have a bet please?" or "dyou want my account number?", I cry blood. See, my automatic response to each would be "no" and "no I'd like to fucking guess it sir", however I'm bound by duty not to be a cunt to you. You cunt.


My Worst Vomit

First was at the cynical yoof tapping money grabbing ad heavy pop circus that is Reading Festival. After a day of proving all those binge drinking asbo riddled teen stories right, it was deduced that a more chemical edge was needed. We looked for beans, we got the beans, we boshed the beans. Now while I'm aware some people actually vomit and it brings them up/gives them a stronger rush, I am not one of these. So the ever rising urge to chunder as I came up was a most unwelcome distraction. I came up, I boffed (in tent, while gurning - swiftly followed by the most *keen* clean up you'll ever see - spotless it was!). This isn't the one tho - later that morning, we were just easing off the last trickles of gurn when the poppers come out. I should say now, that all I'd eaten since the last boff was a piece of chewing gum (I never went in for that clogs up your insides stuff). So the poppers pass under my nose, unfortunately coinciding with an intake of breath through the nostril - and I heave. I retch and heave and retch and yak, dribble cascading down my chin, tears streaming forth from my eyes - but NOTHING to show. Finally, a big heave for the last one and - straight out the middle of my mouth, with serious force and venom - out comes the gum. I contemplate it for a moment, the morning sun catching the drool on it in quite a fetching manner...pick it up, and pop it back in. Still minty!

Second. Short one. Piss-up. Next day, Thorpe Park. On ride that looks like vindictive octopus. Up it comes. Miraculously manage to store it in mouth. Friend said after, I looked like a hamster. Ride stops, I let go. It's hitting the ground before it's all left my mouth. Kid opposite side obviously close to the brink. I tip him over the edge. He lets go. Dad cranky. Ride shut for two hours. I play arcades all day.


Look! It's me in the Local Paper

Not me but a friend - late one Christmas Eve, us drunken monkeys were pottering about the main square of our little market town (called Wantage, fact fans). Now, we have a statue erected (ahoy there!) of King Alfred in the centre, due to him founding the town/hiding in it once/had a pint in The Swan or something - one of these. A very pissed Nick Hazell scaled the thing, and put a football top on him, possibly a traffic cone on its head, and other related defacing japery. Headline of the Christmas edition Wantage and Grove Herald? "NICK HAZELL RUINS CHRISTMAS". Which, as well as being quite the all-encompassing damnation, made him extremely proud.


Worst Nicknames Ever

One night, similar to many others in that we were all ratted, someone for some unknown reason had some black face paint. Ah yeah, it was Halloween, which of course explains nothing. Anywho, a chum was attacked with said paint by another chum, resulting in a cracking minstrel costume for the rest of the night. He was absolutely coal black. Unfortunately this has had the unwelcome effect of adding an element of casual racism into our banter. He is now called Tommy, as in Tommy Hilfiger. It's rhyming slang. Woe betide him if he ever eats a KFC, watermelon etc. We suck so bad.


Shame

Could probly stick this in a few categories, but shame pretty much covers all bases. My long since ex was doing that awesome thing she would sometimes do to my raging chubby, involving an ironic lack of "blowing". She is generally a swallower, but today yielded a particularly bountiful harvest, so she elects to gob it into a pint glass I have by the bed. At some indeterminate point in the day, I see the glass is gone, and have vague recollections of mother dear coming in, collecting plates, glasses and the like. She doesnt wear gloves when doing the washing. There was SO much cum.


Old People talk Bollocks

A good portion of my family, half in fact, are American and live in said country. The "hub" of our holidays operated around my grandparents house in Memphis, and pretty much all of my family are southern - stretching to numerous cousins/aunts/uncles etc dotted around Alabama, Georgia and the like. So around the dinner table at chez Grandparents, we've got the extended family round, including my dyed in the wool god fearing hillbilly southerner aunt, Dot. During a lull in conversation she pipes up with "Dyou have any neighbours in England?", with the question being directed at me. "Er, well yes, we have one each side" says me, mightily confused, but Aunt Dot seemed quietly satisfied, so what the hey. Until silence round the dinner table alerts me to the fact I may have misheard...I learn from mother later that rather than neighbours, she'd asked me if we have any "negroes" in England. Oof.


It's not me, it's the drugs talking

I like drugs, they're great. I don't like them in the same volume I used to, which is probly also great. This is a back in the day story, a time when a big summer holiday entailed a week at Sunnyside camp, Newquay. This was actually our first foray into the wonderful world of a-class, with beans being the choice cut. Not knowing the rather "morish" aspects of these drugs, we piled through our weeks allowance in that fateful first night. Highlights include:
- Dancing on the little raised platforms in Oblivion (token shite camp-based club). My friend gets an urgent look in his eyes. "Fuck this man, let's go" he hisses, and I happily bumble after him. He quickfire boffs as we stand outside. I feel an extaordinary amount of empathy to his plight, but at the same time, I'm quite unmoved by all the boffing. Strange. His worry? That he was "still growing" - as in, when you're young, you'd get a bigger pair of shoes than you needed, cos you're "still growing" - so what if his height exceeded that of the roof while we were in there!? I understood his pain.
- Apparantly this was when I nicked the car exhaust.
- Later on, a friend thinks my gurn looks like Richard Nixon. Minutes later, he now thinks I *am* Richard Nixon, and runs off. "Didn't wanna be getting into that shit" he says upon return.
- While on his mission he loses his left shoe. The fact it's his left is very important, but I completely forget why now. Cue standard keen as a bean mission to find said shoe. I ignore every tent nearby, go to the furthest from us, and open, nay, BURST through the tentflap. A very startled group of four people or so freeze in their generic card game, looking at me with wide eyed wonder. "WHERE'S MY MATE GREG'S LEFT SHOE" says I. "er, don't know" says they. To fully complete your image, I must add I am absolutely covered in muck (from exhaust japery), in nothing but my boxers, and have a pineapple sellotaped to each bicep in a fruity Popeye homage. They didn't have his shoes.
- Morning comes. One friend is curled up in a suitcase, all zipped up apart from his head, which is poking free. 'Nother friend has taken the mattress off his bed and slept on the coils - the marks stayed for a day and a half; his chest looked like a chain link fence. Me? I wake up with a raging chubby and feeling strangely coital...cos I'm on the floor, spooning the car exhaust.

I will accept all crank and banning and deleting of stories with good grace. I just really wanted to write stuff! I needs to write, to stop my fingers running away.

Length I hear you cry - too fucking long no doubt.
(bacontrout got ska, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 19:08, 8 replies)

We’ve got a love that can never be, an impossible dream…but If only they could see….that you’re boooootiful….to me.

As a young teen I was a slightly awkward bum-nugget of a boy… with my curly brown hair straggling in the way of my tortoiseshell jam jar NHS specs that were so thick, if you looked at me directly you could see right through my head. I walked with a gangly stride yet sported a gelatinous pot belly that made me look as if I already had a healthy 10 pint-a-night Stella habit.

I was understandably unpopular, and none of my other school chums considered me to be any sort of threat as our hormones began to collectively burst from the sanctity of our scrotes and went on the prowl for girls.

My school days rolled on as uneventfully as this QOTW.

But one wonderful day all of that changed…A new girl started school. I saw her, and I was entranced…captivated.

Her name was Ermintrude (or Trudy for short), and her face radiated beauty…from the wart on her chin that looked suspiciously like Russ Abbot; to the Calligraphy style self-carved tattoo on her forehead that said ‘SKINS’. It was like an angel had fallen from heaven. Although I knew she was way out of my league, I HAD to get her attention…

I was too shy to approach and speak to her outright – my 79 consecutive rejections from other girls that month and her insistence on the sole use of swearwords and cockney rhyming slang in conversation put pay to proper communication… the only way I could speak directly to her heart was in the time-honoured tradition of making her a mix tape.

I yearned to say so much, yet had so little space on the C15 I blagged from the tape deck of one of the school’s BBC Micros. I knew thieving was wrong, but I felt my adoration for Trudy held a higher purpose and was way more important than some little runt playing another game of ‘Planetoid’.

Knowing that the justice of lurve was on my side, I swiped the tape and sprinted home to my sister’s tape-to tape deck, all the while Trudy’s perfect image was burning into my eyes and brain like a fruits of the forest scented mace spray.

Money was tight in my house, so when I arrived home and gushed to my parents about my love for Ermintrude and my mix tape plan…they kindly allowed me use of 7 minutes of electricity - enough to record 2 songs…and this of course was at a sacrifice of my bedroom’s heat ration for the rest of the week. I hugged them both tightly for their generosity but realised that deep down, their charity showed they must have understood the intensity of my emotions.

I knew it was going to be worth it as I ventured into my sister’s room and heard my parents flick the power switch on…I had thought long and hard…what two tracks could I use to express my desire and passion, yet show her I was sensitive, tender, understanding to her needs and all-round charming company to be with? There was an almost infinite library to choose from…this could be the most important decision of my life…

I finally chose Ivor Biggun’s ‘I’m a wanker’ , and ‘Dolly Parton’s Tits’ by Roy Chubby Brown. I stand by my decision.

I couldn’t sleep that night as I rehearsed over and over what I was going to say as I handed the tape over…and each time I pictured the scene I could hear the theme from ‘Love Story’ playing in my head like a clichéd movie soundtrack as we ran into each other’s arms and I frantically tried to remove my Y-fronts using only my teeth

After what seemed like an eternity, I watched the fiery fingers of dawn start to stretch across the sky and pierce the inch thick glass of my spectacles. I knew my moment of truth would soon be upon me…

I can’t remember any of the journey to school – I was too focussed on the single matter that was going to shape my destiny.

I felt as if my heart was going to leap from my chest as I bumped into her at school the next day…well, to be more accurate she bumped into me – as her glass eye gave her limited vision on the left side (but I digress). I plucked up every ounce of courage in my body (which totalled about one ounce), as I picked myself up from the floor, tried to ignore the strange smell of methane, looked deeply into her good eye…and said….

“Erm, you can have this if you like, I…er…made it for you”

“Fuckin' Shabba!" (Shabba Ranks – Thanks) she retorted. She started to smile, and I noticed that three of her nine teeth were glistening with saliva mixed with black lipstick as she clasped the C15 in her huge chubby digits and waddled away…leaving me there…alone…open mouthed and confused.

As she turned the corner, I watched her pop the tape into her Walkman – she had one of the brand new ones, mind – it must have only been about 12 inches long and six inches wide.

It took almost 2 hours for me to find out what she thought of it.

I was sat on my own during break time with my head in my hands, contemplating a million different scenarios and how I would have to face up to yet another rejection when I suddenly felt a tongue pushing itself into my ear like a doped-up slug that had been dipped in treacle – it was one of the most romantic experiences of my life.

Then she spoke: “You’re fuckin’ fire (fire and ice – nice), wanna Donald?” (oh, you work it out)

I didn’t understand but nodded my head and trembled like a rabbit caught in the headlights. We arranged to meet after school. My life was complete.

I never bore witness to what happened later in the day but reports say Trudy skipped to her next class as if she was floating on air – joyously singing the tunes from the tape I had made. When the teacher asked her to stop, she refused and sang even louder…she was promptly sent to the headmaster’s office and defiantly sang her way through her disciplinary...

‘I’m a wanker, I’m a wanker’ she screeched at the top of her voice.

She was expelled on the spot. Her parents were called in and as they were informed of the school's decision, announced that they were going to move away from the area forever. The grim realisation hit home...not only that Trudy and I were never going to be, but that we would never see each other again…

With tears in her real eye, she ran out of the office. The teachers and her parents looked all over but couldn’t find her. As they left the building someone spotted her; stood on the top of the 9 storey technology block, screaming incoherent swears and dancing a jig with her Walkman on.

Then she jumped.

The last sound anybody heard from her was: ‘Cos they’re so big and soft and round…’

They put a bench with a little plaque in the crater she made.

I hope you now all know why this QOTW touched a nerve with me.

They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? Well I can vouch for that…just those few fleeting moments with my Ermintrude can make up for a lifetime of being a lonely Pooflake.

Length?…9 storeys…weren't you paying attention?

Apologies for everything else and thanks to Frankspencer for the inspiration.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 13 Feb 2008, 19:05, 8 replies)

I did something really stupid
After some chemical recreation last night I renamed every single artist in my itunes to "the barry bethel band"
(Barry Chuckle has gone out in the thong to feed the pigeons, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 18:42, 3 replies)

I'm in
I love going to my local Spanish restaurant. I always order...........







No, I can't be arsed.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 18:15, 3 replies)

I made a mixtape once
Yep.
( vigilante_18 WHO SENT ALL THESE BABIES TO FIGHT?!?!, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 18:00, Reply)

*Yawns*
Mix tapes? .. what are those? .. in my world we have mix USB sticks filled with nothing but drugs, dirty dancing and pounding techno music.
(Looneytwuns, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 17:27, 1 reply)