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)

Well, fuck me...
I am cursed with living in the same place as yourself, and I remember seeing that cone on his head.
The statue is there because he was born here, and when he was in hiding from... someone... he hid here. Also, by any chance know the bastard who stole his axe?
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 19:27, closed)

brilliant!
fuck the censors and fuck b3ta QOTD! Just write whatever you want!
(Fuckpig "That's not even a pound a midget.", Wed 13 Feb 2008, 19:32, closed)

@ Vulcan15
A fellow Wantagian! Great scenes. Sooo, enjoying the ... er ... what IS there to enjoy Wantage!? Lots of pubs I guess.

Not sure on exactly *who* the perp was, but I know he was so overcome with shame, he handed himself in but 2 days later. Small town justice - there was no way he was gonna be able to keep it under wraps.
(bacontrout got ska, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 19:52, closed)

Im sure
that 'boffing' means 'trumping' and not throwing one's guts up?

Im from up north, mind..
(felch, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 21:52, closed)

Always been the standard word for throwing up round my way...
have heard it used as a term for making the sexy time too, if that helps *shrugs*
(bacontrout got ska, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 22:49, closed)

Crowning King Alfred with a traffic cone
is one thing, but nowadays people saw off his arm! Wantage has deteriorated...! I thought they used to build a big box round him during the festive period to avoid such indignities :P
(Ovaltina, Wed 13 Feb 2008, 23:39, closed)

Woo
and click sir, there are so many qotw i would have loved to have had a go at, and we get mix tapes? Camel cock
( Trollman, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 8:28, closed)

boffing
means shagging if you're from the proper north.
Also - ta for the tales, I especially liked the first, though even I would balk at rechewing my own sicked-up gum. I mean. Who eats chewing gum? Freak.
(jennymnemonic, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 10:54, closed)