Not my story
But I found this:

Went to Abigail’s school Christmas concert (no “proper” Nativity this year). Each class did a little something followed by a song or 2. Anyway, Ab’s class did a Nativity scene, with Ab as Mary (How proud was I?). A few mins into their bit Ab promptly lifted her dress & shoved baby Jesus up it. The script then wandered away from what they’d learnt & goes as follows….

Joseph: “What are you doing?”
Mary: “I’m feeding our baby”
Shepherd: “Have you got a bottle up there then?”
Mary: “Don’t be silly he’s having milk from my booby”
Joseph: “That’s disgusting”
Mary: “No, that baby milk they have in Tescos is disgusting. My baby’s having proper milk”
Shepherd: “What’s a booby?”
Mary: “Those sticky out bits ladies have”
Shepherd: “They’re not boobies, they’re nipples”
Mary: “No they’re not, they’re boobies”
Joseph: “So why can’t Jesus have milk from a bottle then?”
Mary: “Because I haven’t got a breast pump with me - you forgot to put it on the donkey”
Shepherd: “Can’t you ask the teacher for a bottle to feed Jesus with?”
Mary: “No because this is the best way to feed Jesus. Anyway bottles haven’t been invented yet & even if they were I’ve just had a baby so if you think I’m faffing about round Tescos to buy baby milk when I make proper milk in my boobies you can think again”


Here: www.hunnybeez.co.uk/hunnybeez-nativity-breastfeeding
(posthumous mince is tiptoeing through the tulips, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 17:06, 1 reply)

Rubbish
My school decided it would be a great idea to do an Indian stylie christmas play for some god awful reason.

This ended up in me playing a Indian sheep and beating up some cock who tried to steal my hat but apart form that it went surprisingly well.
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 16:16, Reply)

the naughty one
every class has a boy or girl who is known as the naughty one.
my cousin is the naughty boy in his nursery, he's 3 years old.
i went to watch his nativity were he sat there and shouted "bum poo fat bum you smell"
to the tune of any song they had to sing.

well i still clapped.

i got the crappy part of the inn keeper when i was at school. i had to stand there with a tea towel on my head and point to the makeshift stable... i even managed to cock that up by sticking the finger up at the angels instead.

i suppose i was still pissed off that all the other girls got to be angels and i didn't.

the only other part i've ever had was as a munchkin in the wizard of oz when i was in secondary school.
this would have been great apart from the fact that i'm 5ft7 and at the time i was taller than dorothy.
i dropped out of the play after 2 weeks rehearsals.

.
(stitched, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 16:11, Reply)

Strange but true
Liz, my girlfriend, works as a teaching assistant in Camden. Just before Christmas she got a weeks' work in a Catholic primary school.

"So this is the Virgin Mary's outfit - who's the Virgin Mary?" Liz asks.

A little hand shoots up and an angelic blonde girl steps forward, takes the costume.

Another little kid asks: "Miss, what's a virgin?"

Liz was pondering a response when another of the little fuckers pipes up.

"It means the Virgin Mary sat on a turkey baster. That's what my daddy says."

"Come on now," said Liz. "Who's playing Joseph?"
( SpankyHanky, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 16:03, 14 replies)

Ever seen "A Christmas Story"?
Remember how the neighbor's dogs burst into the house and made off with the turkey, resulting in the family going to a Chinese restaurant for Christmas dinner?

Well, that's about as closely as I can tie this in to the topic at hand. Deal with it.

So some friends of mine and I went to get food one night. We ended up at a Chinese restaurant we'd never been in before, more out of a spirit of exploration than anything else. We passed through the elaborately carved crimson doors into the dim interior, where we found one of the homeliest women I've ever seen at the desk. The owner's wife perhaps? Anyway, she shuffled through the restaurant and led us to a table, then stumped her way back to the front desk.

Our waitress was, if anything, even more unfortunate looking. She seemed pleasant enough, but the protruding teeth and thick lips were more than a little off-putting. She took our drink orders and scurried off, and we all looked at each other with the same aghast expression.

She returned with our drinks. They were all served in what looked like tiki statues, grotesquely leering faces on each one. Oh well, I thought, I guess it goes with the decor, kinda. The gin and tonic tasted good anyway.

The food was actually quite good, and we enjoyed our meal. I don't know if it was the next round of drinks that did it, but the waitress's face was a bit less shocking now. Still unattractive, of course, but at least we stopped flinching when she came close.

We had another round after the dishes had been cleared, and were all quite mellow by now. Not a bad little restaurant overall. No one else seemed to be dining in, though- everyone seemed to be getting their dinner as take-away. The place was pretty empty, aside from us. I thought this was a little odd, but what the hell- the food had been good enough, certainly.

It was on our next round that I noticed something. My lips felt... wrong, somehow. Was the booze making my face numb? No, not really- I just felt somewhat odd. I raised my fingers to my face. What the hell? My lips were swollen, and my nose seemed a lot wider and flatter than normal. I could feel my eyes swelling shut somewhat. I turned to Dave and saw that his face was also undergoing a strange transformation. We both looked at Roger and Bill- they looked panicked as they saw our faces, but theirs were distorting as well.

The waitress appeared at our table. "Would you like anything else tonight?" she asked, a slight smile on her twisted features.

"What the hell did you put in our food?" Roger yelled. "Are we having some sort of allergic reaction?"

"Oh no, sir. There is nothing wrong with the food. But did you notice the carvings on the door on the way in? I suppose you couldn't read them. They say to be careful not to overindulge. You are what you eat, after all. So if you drink too much you begin to resemble your glass." And she gestured to the tiki glasses on the table. "But don't worry, it wears off after a while." And she favored us with a gap-toothed grin.

We paid our bill and stumbled out of the restaurant, all going our separate ways in shame, hiding our distorted and swollen faces as we went. Good god, what a horrible experience! No wonder people got their food as carry out!

I glanced back, and suddenly I read the name of the restaurant over the door, written in bright neon: Wi Ming.

I can't say that I wasn't warned, anyway...

Yes, it's a load of bollocks. But so is this whole QOTW anyway.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Tue 31 Mar 2009, 15:17, 12 replies)

Fish-face tosses the salad
One day whilst walking home from work, Fish-face started to feel horny. Obviously this wasn't an unusual thing to happen to Fish-face as he was an extreme pervert - titillated by pretty much anything. Well, anything to do with homoerotic passion. Or shite.

The seam in the crotch of Fish-face's pants was rubbing against his slimy, meagre cock - making his tongue protrude from his trout-lips with fierce cross-eyed lust. He liked to feel a bit of chafing 'downstairs'. This is why he had applied a mixture of sand and PVA glue to the seam of the underwear to increase the friction. The sand-paper like surface tore into his balls with every stride, increasing Fish-face's lust exponentially.

Spittle began to form on Fish-face's purple lips and he began to mutter obscenities to himself. Before he knew it he was repeating his Fish-face mantra over and over.

"I have trout-lips of a purple hue,
I like to guzzle down man-goo.

My bright pink cheeks and boyish smile,
infer that I'm a paedophile!

My stunted walk and fishy gob,
May make me look a fuckin' nob

But down inside I cannot pass
on a big fat cock right up my ass

I am the scum of the human race,
I am the fucker called 'Fish-face'"

As he said his name he punched the air triumphantly and sniggered to himself.

Then, in the shadows of a derelict shop doorway, Fish-face spied hideous old tramp. His toothless leer and brown-wrinkled visage made his face look like a shrivelled anus. He raised a can of Special Brew in salute to Fish-face and said 'Shhuu wan fak huu fakker?'.

Fish-face was confused by this and leant closer to the foul tramp. "Uhh.. sorry I didn't quite get that" said Fishy, "Could you say it again?".

The tramp threw a filthy arm around fish-face's shoulder and squinted at him. He was obviously having some difficulty in focusing as his eyes kept crossing and uncrossing. The stench of his filthy body rolled up into Fish-face's nostrils.

It was like nothing Fish-face had ever smelt before. It was like a cross between a septic tank, rotting fish and wet dog. Fish-face retched slightly and this seemed to concentrate the tramps' attention sufficiently for him to respond.

"Hyuuu shtoopid fakker" he slurred. "Hyuu can jes suck my arse hyuu fakker!"

"Oooh!" said Fishy. "Tossing the salad eh? I can't say I've tried that before. Why don't we go inside and I'll see what I can do eh?"

With this, Fish-face gestured through the broken shop doorway to the dark, foetid interior. The tramp somehow managed to clamber up Fishy's legs and maintain an upright stance long enough to stagger inside.

Cecil was a Great Dane. If he had been able to understand and respond to language, he may have had something to say to his owner about his frankly ridiculous name. On this particular day, Cecil had broken free from his owner during their daily walk in the park and was prowling around the bad area of town. He had already had his way with all of the stray bitches that he could find but he remained unsatisfied. He trotted on merrily down the street, slavering jaws dripping with saliva and matted curled fur plastered flat against his oily skin.

All of a sudden Cecil saw a dark and dirty shop doorway. The door was shattered and there was a strange sound coming from inside the building. Cecil raised his nose to the air and sniffed the dank vapour into his doggy nostrils.

Sex! Cecil could smell sex and he wanted some. Cautiously he made his way to the doorway and tentatively, he peered inside.

Fish-face was enjoying himself immensely. The horrible tramp was lying face down on the floor of the shop. The place was full of dusty rubble and evidence of desperate human squalor. A filthy mattress lay in one corner; rust-coloured stains adorning it's damp surface and broken bottles and cans littered the area.

As far as Fishy could tell the tramp had passed out as soon as he fell over, but this wasn't going to stop Fishy's fun.
He had pulled down the tramp's sticky trousers and underwear and revealed the bountiful treat inside. A nugget of purest brown had greeted his eyes and the stench was like sweet nectar to Fishy's depraved nostrils.

Moist, matted hair decorated the perimeter of the anus and pimples and boils peeked through the filth like shy faeries from some tainted, magical bush.

Slowly and with his eyes closed, Fish-face lowered his face to the feast. His lips met the tender log protruding from the tramp's rear and he slid them up and down the turd as if lovingly blowing it. Eventually he bit through the fudgy goodness and sucked the dark pleasure into his mouth.

Chewing delicately, he finished the mouthful; swallowing it down with small murmured sounds of pleasure.
Pulling his own trousers down, he began to caress his pathetic morsel of a penis with a clammy hand.

Cecil seized his moment! He sped into the room, his bright red boner already hard and glistening and with another bound he straddled Fish-face's hunched over form. Cecil penetrated Fish-face's anus with one un-lubed stroke and began to vigorously bugger him, panting dementedly and frothing at the mouth.

Fish-face shrilled with pleasure and began to buck furiously against the dog-cock shoved inside his butt. He barely even realised what was happening to him, but couldn't believe how great it felt.

Eventually the beast shuddered, howled and gave one final extra-hard thrust. Fish-face felt his intestines fill with a hot liquid and a satisfied smile crept across his face.

After lying there for what seemed like hours, basking in the post-coital afterglow, Fish-face tried to pull away from Cecil. Somehow the beast was wedged firmly inside his butt and try as he might he could not dislodge himself. Making some pathetic mewling sounds and scrabbling pathetically at the tramp's soiled trousers, Fish-face managed to turn and take in the scene.

Cecil was slumped on top of him, eyes glazed and with his tongue protruding from his mouth. A sliver of panic whipped through Fishy as he realized that the dog was stone-cold. It was dead. Fish-face struggled frantically against the canine appendage inside his tailpipe to no avail. Eventually he collapsed sobbing into the unconscious tramp's slimy crevice.

Crying softly to himself, Fish-face scanned the room for a suitable object with which to free himself. He tried again to push himself from the floor and felt a sharp pain in his hand followed by a slippery, bleeding sensation. He had cut himself on a razor-sharp piece of broken glass lying beneath him amongst the general detritus. With a demented cackle, Fish-face clasped the shard of glass tightly in his feminine fingers. Blood ran in hot rivulets between his fingers, dripping to the floor beneath.

Hooting like an aged prostitute faking an orgasm for the ten-thousandth time he slashed at the meaty length attaching him to the dog. Sawing frantically he cut through the stringy tissue severing it in an orgy of splattered blood. With a desperate heave, Fish-face managed to shoulder the hairy corpse from above him and crawl, coughing and shaking from it's slumped form.

The piece of dog cock inside him, deprived of it's internal pressure, deflated somewhat and slithered slickly out of him. It landed wetly on the floor followed by a litre or so of slightly steaming, chocolate tinged dog-spooge.

Tenderly, Fish-face kissed the unconscious tramp goodbye. He slipped his tongue between the tramp's tobacco-stained lips and swirled it around, tasting the powerful flavour of advanced tooth-decay and severe halitosis. He sighed contentedly and stooped to pick up the severed dog's penis. It would come in handy for what he was planning later.

Roughly, he pulled up his trousers, splattering himself with dog spunk in the process. Licking the worst off his hands, he sauntered out of the derelict shop and into the evening air.

As he walked past a nearby church hall, he noticed a poster which read 'Sunday School Nativity Play - 12 December'.
"Suckers!" thought Fish-face to himself as he ambled off into the night, a spring in his step and a dog-cock in his pocket. He was ready to take on the world.
(lemonparty, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 12:50, 21 replies)

realistically speaking
this QOTW should have lots of material given the amount of evidense on You've been framed.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 12:30, Reply)

"Hey now, hey now na now,
sing this conception to me."

I went to a Catholic school run by the Sisters of Mercy.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 12:18, 9 replies)

Bunch of height obsessed fuckers.
First post so I have no idea about length (so I tell my other half).

My brilliant school thought it would be ok to cast the smallest person in the class as Jesus. Sadly that was me, even though I was a little girl, they made me wrap myself up in a sheet and lie on a bed of straw. While I was molested by an older boy dressed as a cow.

Years of "Christ you're small" followed... bastards.
(JellyBelly JellyBelly, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 12:04, 1 reply)

Christine. Oh Christ, oh Christine…

I was just 16 tender, inexperienced years old…and blessed with the inability to shed myself of the kind of ‘puppy fat’ that you’d only expect to see on someone who has spent well over a decade actually eating puppies.

I woefully tried to overcompensate for my lack of self-confidence with a brutish arrogance, and skilfully developed a personality akin to an awkward and unholy threesome chemical coupling of Timmy Mallett, Ruby Wax…and Bernard Manning.

I’m afraid to say that the only success I was managing to achieve that involved a ‘willy’…was the high score on my naff ZX Spectrum version of ‘Jet Set Willy’… and unfortunately nothing to do with the dormant dormouse that slumbered in my misery-grey Farah trollies.

My time in the sixth form was understandably difficult…and it was made even more frustrating by the school’s futile attempts to say ‘bollocks’ to political correctness whilst desperately trying to not offend anybody…and part of this policy included the re-introduction of ‘traditional seasonal’ activities.

Oh yes…this meant that they were going to dig up the goddam motherfucking dull-as-shit Nativity play.

Of course, we all thought this was a truly twattish idea…‘kids stuff’ – after all, we were tempestuous, bulging fireballs of flowering sexuality (except for me), and we didn’t want to waste our valuable ‘fucking about’ time by rehearsing lines just so we could get dressed like 70’s deck chairs and look ridiculous next to plastic farm animals.

But they insisted, and as they asked for volunteers, one voice spoke up through the silence and I was transfixed.

It was Christine, the new girl.

By Jingo’s jumping jizz beans she was something else. Perfectly formed and with a full set of curves, she had a confident, sexy swagger that belied her young years.

‘I’ll do it!” she said softly, with the kind of sensuous, husky voice that sounded like a combination of a Disney Princess and a 40-a-day coal miner, her every word was so gushingly sexy it made Marriella Frostrup’s drawl sound like runny hippo dung, mixed with gravel and vomit, then being forced to negotiate itself out of a skanky blocked waste disposal system.

I was totally unprepared for this.

In an instant, ‘Jet set’ Willy was forgotten about, replaced by a proud, ‘jet-propelled’ Willy that had woken with a jolt from it’s coiled snoozing, and sprang to full attention, sniffing around my grundies like a startled Meerkat…and as soon as my eyes could communicate what was happening to the to the relative ‘lower departmental manager’, so began the fateful trickle of a soon-to-be-familiar seepage, leaking out and forming a caked-on crustacean in my already painfully punished shreddies.

I signed up straight away for the Nativity, and fell instantly, dramatically and cataclysmically in love with Christine. This was, however, in no small part that on our first meeting, she walked boldly up towards me, looked me up and down, muttered ‘You’ll do’, then dragged me behind the science block where she proceeded to sublimely munch on my luncheon meat truncheon with an expertise I had only believed possible on the most specialist of skin flicks.

Over the next two weeks we were inseparable, and she took me on a voyage of discovery that started to give me a new found confidence (and friction burns)…my eyes were opened to the ‘ways of the woman’. I started shedding pounds in weight, but it might have just been due to the excess loss of bodily fluids and wotnot.

There were no Spectrum games to prepare me for this experience. So from then on, despite the dangers, I was smitten.

These ‘dangers’ I speak of, were specifically her love of ‘dangerous sex’. Harder, rougher and increasingly unspeakable, she wanted to break a different taboo with every dip of my shell-shocked semolina-spitting salami slide.

Anyway…back to the play…The drama teacher had cast us as ‘Mary and Joseph’, considering it ‘sweet’* that Christine and I were ‘courting’, and that it might add a ‘romantic panache’, ‘touch of chemistry’, and certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ into the proceedings. We were told to improvise as much as we thought appropriate.

*(Sweet? My hairy clackervalve! If only he knew of the downright deviant and perverted acts that permanently rummaged through our rampant and lustful tiny minds, he would’ve had a coronary right there and then!)

A few short days later and we’re at the dress rehearsal, and as we waited in our positions Christine approached me and whispered: ‘I want you…NOW!’’, opening her flimsy costume to show me in no uncertain terms that she was stark bollock starkers underneath.

(We had previously talked about ‘Al fresco’ sex, and even experimented with a dabble here and there in public places before, but had never gone the ‘whole hog’…and besides…this was something different…We were at the back of the stage, behind just one curtain with the crib, waiting for our cue to walk out after the first song...tres risqué!)

But as I weighed up the possibilities, I had to admit to myself that the thought of enthusiastically and pneumatically pumping away at her perspiring pouch of pubed perfection, knowing that there was only a thin layer of fabric between us and getting caught, was certainly arousing a stirring of lumpy loin liquid in my heaving 'nads…and as for Christine…well, she was positively frothing at the gash for it.

Besides…it was only the dress rehearsal…there couldn’t be that many people there…?

In the spirit of improvisation, we hadn’t even bothered to learn our lines. After all, we had better things to do with our time. We had decided to dress up and ‘wing it’ in the hope that the prompt would sort us out if we dried up. All we knew to do was to wait for a call.

So as the piano started, there we were, hidden away, waiting for our cue, when Christine bends seductively over the rickety manger which was strategically balanced on a bale of hay, and she slowly slides her smock to one side, revealing her pert behind…then in a moving homage to the red sea, she parted her cheeks ever-so-slightly for me.

Green light.

I didn’t need asking twice, my twitching cock was already at ‘Defcon 1’, and within T-minus 12 seconds my slacks were round my ankles and I was thundering away, pummelling her with a force so frenzied you’d think the end of my Ham Howitzer was attached to her internal organs by a massive and tightly wound industrial strength elastic band.

As the boinging intensified, Christine was no slouch either, bucking, writhing and breathlessly panting whilst biting down hard on the 'Tiny Tears' doll that was portraying the baby Jesus, as she busied herself putting the ‘Whore’ and ‘Moan’ into the word ‘hormonal’.

As we rutted like rampant rhinos, there was a faint ‘whirring’ sound that began to surround us. Totally focussed on the job at hand, we carried on oblivious. Nothing was going to stop me now.

Finally, as the whirring grew louder I raged full-throttle towards the 'Jester’s shoes' moment, and with a 'grunt' rivalling that of an Olympic shot-putter, I closed my eyes and went curl-lipped into the most contorted cum face imaginable this side of ‘Gurning weekly’ magazine, before I unleashed a stream of purest tadpole-encrusted rocket sauce, splooging forth into Christine’s capacious clammy crevice of copulation.

I then slouched forward over her back, as my legs starting to buckle under post orgasmic aftershocks. I had put so much gusto into my final, extra deep spunk-thrunge that I still suffer whiplash to this very day.

Amidst the blissful silence that followed, I then heard a single noise that changed my educational future forever...

“Ahem…”

We then glanced up to see that the ‘whirring’ sound that we had previously ignored…was in fact the electric motor that had opened the curtains, unveiling our frantic backscuttling action to the rest of the gobsmacked cast.

But not only the cast, but the teachers, the board of governors, and some specially invited guests, who were comprised of the ladies from the old folks’ home, and chosen representatives from the local parish council…led by the vicar himself…who had come to see our (un)dress rehearsal.

I must have missed that memo.

I pondered for a moment over my options…then decided there was only one thing I could do…

I promptly whipped my knob out from Christines’ Jitler-filled clopper, wiped it on the Baby Jesus’ blanket, then leaned back proudly, leaving my dribbling dongler dangling daintily as I announced to the audience:

“Oh, don’t look so shocked, you lot!” I declare whimsically before continuing: “You didn’t really believe it was an ‘immaculate’ conception did you?“

To their credit, some of the old ladies started applauding, explaining later that they thought it was a ‘gritty and modern interpretation on the nativity’, before the sweaty PE teacher grabbed me by the sack (my costume) and dragged me to the headmasters’ office…where it was spelled out to me in no uncertain terms: "...that ‘home instruction’ would be the most suitable option for my ‘special educational requirements’ from then on".

Good times.

Epilogue: I looked Christine up on Facebook recently. It seems that by day, she’s an assistant for the MP of Nuneaton Borough, and by night she enjoys taking it up the wrongun’ from random strangers in the horse enclosure at Ascot. Quite a queue forms at weekends apparently…bit of a tourist attraction.

And now, fondly looking back, I’d like to think that our 'nativity-related naughtiness' of that fateful day might be at least partly responsible for her now insatiable taste for ‘stable-related fun’…and spunk, of course.

I might give her a call.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 31 Mar 2009, 11:58, 28 replies)

My mate Rembrandt the tattooist
My best mate is a lad named Steve. Not the sharpest tool in the box, gets confused easily. But he's a fucking great artist and also a monumental pervert. It was only right and proper that these two attributes combined and he followed a career as a tattooist. Now he gets to be artistic all over young ladies bottoms, boobs and ocassionally puts a bit of ink in a place where the sun doesn't shine. One time Steve explained:

"The hardest part of my job is my cock - usually when I'm asking some nubile young emo girl to move her panties to one side while I put a butterfly just above her growler."

The lad is quite simply a class act.

A while back Steve was giving the hot beef injection to a primary school teacher in Tufnell Park. Not during lessons, I hasten to add, but afterwards. She knew about Steve's talents and one night in the pub asked if he'd help out with the nativity play. Steve looked a bit confused:

"You want me to give the kids tattoos?"

"No," she shook her head. She wanted Steve to help out paint a few sets. Obviously, I was sitting there too and somehow got roped into the deal.

So, a dark and rainy North London night in late November, Steve and I turn up at the school with a few pots of paint and are shown to the hall. Steve's latest squeeze introduces us to the deputy head who's organising the nativity, a strange looking old woman who looked like oddly like my uncle Geoff. She stood infront of a big blank canvas that was hanging over one end of the hall. She spread out her hands, framing the canvas as if she were Speilberg preparing a shot.

"I want something grand!" she said. "I want something that stands out!"

Steve nodded, I stood at the back wondering if they had a some place I could go and have a smoke.

The deputy head continued.

"I want and opus prime!"

Fuck me, Steve was a professional tattoist who specialised in putting winged insects and love harts round the female pantline. Rembrandt he definately was not.

"Opus prime?" Steve asked, I knew he didn't have a fucking clue what this made old lady was on about. But he nodded and smiled, he actually seemed cheered. "I can do that! No sweat!"

And then we were left alone, Steve and I, to *ahem* work our magic. As soon as the coast was clear I went out to have a fag and left Steve to come up with the initial design.

When I came back I very nearly shat myself laughing.

"Whaddya think?" asked Steve, busying himself with the outline, teetering on top of a set of ladders.

"Its very... nice... Steve..."

"Come and gissa hand, Spanky."

And I did. And we worked our bollocks off. And all the time I realised how much of a monumental cunt I was. Steve, however, seemed to be really getting into it.

"Think I might come and watch this nativity," he said. "Sounds like it might be a real laugh!"

Oh yes, Steve - I'm sure it will!

After a couple of hours of painting, Steve doing the hard stuff and me filling in the big spaces with colour, the canvas was complete. Class 4B had their nativity backdrop. And it was fucking awsome, I have to say. Steve really is a fucking great artist.

The deputy head returned and stood in the doorway. She looked shocked. Steve's other half appeared and her teeth started to grind, she shot us both a 'you are fucking dead!' look.

"I don't understand..." stuttered the deputy head. "What's this?"

Steve put down his brush and beamed: "It's great, isn't it? Think I've done him justice!"

And the four of us stood back and admired his handywork. It was a fucking awsome sight. An action scene. The leader of the Transformers, crouching on the ground, a defiant fist raised in the air, helecopters and fighter jets zooming round in the background, several explosions blooming, destruction, death and utter mayhem.

"Opus prime, indeed," I said, and put my arm round Steve's shoulder.

You could've heard a pin drop.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 11:34, 10 replies)

Iron monger
I stood and sang Any Old Iron and was given a thick ear for 'over doing it'.

Quite what was wrong with my performance pales in comparison to the idea to have a 6 year old victorian iron monger trying to get to get a watch chain off the virgin mary, her old fella, and the son of god!
(Feeb is a smooth operator, operating correctly, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 10:44, Reply)

Aww
Back in December last year I went to see my daughter play her first part in the school play. Usually they do the nativity but for some reason the school had opted to choose to do fairytale stories this year and my kid had got the role of tree number 3 in sleeping beauty. The costume consisted of a large cardboard tube wrapped around her (For the tree trunk) a brown jumper to make her arms look like branches and a cardboard cut out of leaves taped to her hands.

The plan was for her and two others to stand up next to sleeping beauty to add a visualisation of the years passing between sleeping beauty falling to sleep and the prince turning up. The prince would then turn up playfully hit the trees and each tree would fall down.

The prince got to the first tree and swung his plastic sword…Whack! The first tree kid fell over
The prince gallops over to the second one and whack! Second tree kid falls over too
The prince then wanders over to my kid and hits her….she stays stood. The prince whacked the tree again, this time a little harder. This time she moved, but not the way planned.

I may not have mentioned this before but my daughter has been brought up with two brothers and is therefore pretty tough, and when there is a fight to be had she won’t back down.
Thanks to my little girls attitude the group of parents were treated to a scene where the tree comes alive whomping willow style and then uproots itself to chase the (now in tears) prince off the stage. The sight of this made myself and a few of the other dads in the room laugh out loud (Thankfully including the dad of the kid playing the prince- he was a big fucker who plays rugby).

The now sobbing prince returns to stage holding a teachers hand and is walked to Sleeping Beauty and wakes her up while the off stage voice of a pissed off tree yells “ He started it he hit me first!”

After the play on the way home I was the one that got the bollocking from my wife for laughing at the whole thing.
My guess is my daughter is destined to be in a non-speaking background part next year.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 10:10, 3 replies)

My little sister
was very disappointed when she found out she was gonna be Mary. She heard the teachers talking and she overheard something about who's gonna play the Madonna. She was very upset when the costume turned up and it was a blue robe and not a basque with two cones stuck on where her boobs would be (if she wasn't a six year old).
(Lizard King, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 10:06, Reply)

bring back
mixed tapes.






:S
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 9:43, Reply)

Close enough
Picture the scene, a somewhat shy 8 year old having to do the reading for the Christmas service in my Gran's church. Gran made sure that all her friends were there and all the rest of the family that she could muster up.

We had been practising at Sunday school for the last two weeks and my reading was sounding very impressive. Anyway the day arrives and I am in the back of the church, bible in hand, frantically practising my words, all of a sudden a local kid tells me that I could not use the bible on stage and that I had to memorize the words.

Panic sets in. I start reading over and over again out loud, never thinking to question this nasty knowitall.

I get up to the Pulpit. My heart beating about as fast as it was the first time I saw my first girlfriend naked.

I say the first line and goes off as smoothly as I rehearsed it. Audience waiting with baited breath. Gran with a proud smile, gesticulating to everybody that there was her favourite grandson.

However that is the only line stuck in my head. I say it again and again after about the fourth time, everybody in the congregation starts laughing.
I was mortified, I freeze, say the line once more this time, voice noticibly quivering. I burst into tears and ran off the stage.

I then proceeded to hide where no one can find me and refuse to come out until the end of the service, when I was asked by the minister or teacher why I didn't take my bible with me.

Surely for that he must be going to Hull.
(justim, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 9:19, Reply)

I did a very bad thing...
Tis all true I really swears,
I pointed at the star,
but all I got were stares.

I gesticulated and sought,
Reason and, an agreement,
but they ne'er gave it a thought.

"Right," goes I,
I will go onward alone,
and on I went, no lie.

Followed the star by foot,
for miles across the plains,
until I realised, I needed the toot!

I hurried ever faster,
praying the star would bring,
a place to release the liquidy blaster.

And lo! the star brough a barn to hide behind,
a quick glance around,
then I flopped myself out and paid no mind.

I whizzed and whizzed until,
relived, I looked up,
to see the a face that looked pale and ill.

Not one face I saw to my horror (and anger),
but two! a mother and - Gods above,
a baby in a friggen manger!

although, the baby t'were like a Gnat,
I gave it a play and then,
slunk out of town like a rat

no apologies for length. You fucking loved it. three points to whoever finds the Pun.
(Poppet some assembly required., Tue 31 Mar 2009, 7:30, 5 replies)

King of kings
I've always been a sod for wilful misunderstanding. When one of my primary school teachers told me to look at her while talking to her, I went behind her and looked at her back. So, when I got the role of one of the three kings in the church nativity play, an idea formed...

My mother asked me what costume I needed, and I told her not to worry, as we had just the thing in our dressing up box (which, barring a few items, was mostly my mother's old clothes). And so, with her characteristic disinterest, she didn't question me any further.

As was typical, all bar the final rehearsal were in our normal clothes, during Sunday School. Incidentally, I don't recall learning anything at Sunday school, just some song about being a bear and thanking the lord for it. Is this the same for anyone else?

Dress rehearsal came. It was a week before the performance, and I gleefully ran off to change into my King costume. Suffice to say, this was one of the few costumes from the dressing up box which was genuinely fancy dress.

A gorilla suit.

Yes, the King I had chosen to be was King Kong.

Cue instant demotion to a silent shepherd, where the costume was a fucking teatowel on my head, while some goody two-shoes kid who probably still believes in god today had to learn the two or three lines of a King.

I think the following year I was demoted further, to being a sheep. I've no idea why though.
(Neddy Nedson is nice really, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 5:01, Reply)

Drama on and off the stage.
I have a story about the start (and end) of my acting career which is so extraordinary it will keep you glued to your seat till the very end and send many chills down your spine en route. It is a tale that contains danger, political intrigue, and a bit of romance. It begins in 1991...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alzheimer's Disease (AD) is a progressive and terminal neurodegenerative disorder which affects approximately 10% of humans by the age of 65, and approximately 50% by the age of 85. Occurrences of the disease are mostly sporadic (around 99%), but there have been several well-documented cases in which the disease is hereditary (generally termed FAD – Familial Alzheimer's Disease.) The earliest observable clinical signs of AD are memory loss (caused by a decline in synaptic functioning) followed by changes in personality, and further decline in cognitive and physical functioning. At present, there are no non-invasive surgical techniques which can lead to unambiguous diagnosis of AD – all of the data about the physical effects of the disease has been obtained post-mortem.

Because the symptoms are localised to behavioural and cognitive function, it has been shown that the pathology of AD affects the cerebral cortex – in particular, the hippocampus (which participates in long-term memory and spatial navigation), the entorhinal cortex (which forms the main input to the hippocampus and is responsible for pre-processing incoming signals – playing an important part in the process of memory consolidation) and the cholinergic synapses within the basal forebrain (impairing transmission between brain cells, and consequently the sufferer's learning ability.) The primary effects of AD result from the disruption of neural circuitry, resulting in dysfunction of these areas.

As Alzheimer observed in his original characterisation of the disease, there are two structures characteristic of the AD-affected brain:

- “Tangled bundles of fibrils”, now known as neurofibrillary tangles (NFTs). These are intracellular accretions of cytoskeletal matter present within the cytoplasm, which have an ordered structure consisting of paired helical filaments. The major component is an abnormally-phosphorylated τ protein (PH-τ), normally associated with microtubules. NFTs damage neurons by disrupting the transportation of cellular components, leading to neuronal degeneration.

- “Miliary foci resulting from the deposit of a unique substance”, now known as senile plaques (SPs). These are complex structures found in the neuropil, consisting of amyloid-β protein (Aβ) oligomers, abnormal neurites and glial cells. Formation occurs in several steps – deposition of Aβ in the form of a diffuse plaque; transformation of diffuse plaques into insoluble fibrils; and association of dystrophic neurites with the plaque, which may represent the degeneration of Aβ-damaged neuronal components.

(It is believed that Aβ deposition is a major pathological event, albeit an early one – its presence in the brains of aged individuals is not always correlated to cognitive disturbance, and is not exclusive to AD by any means; more than 20 medical conditions, including Parkinson's Disease, motor-neurone disease and dialysis-related amyloidosis, result from amyloid deposits in different parts of the body.)

In the advanced stages of AD, most of the cerebral cortex (and many sub-cortical areas) contain a high density of NFTs and SPs. NFT density is highest among the paralimbic and core limbic areas, followed by multimodal and unimodal association areas – it is lowest within the sensorimotor areas. Generally, the occurrence of NFTs is correlated to neuronal and synaptic loss, and - oh right, the question. When I was about five or six, I played a shepherd in the school nativity play. I was great, but the kid playing Joseph started crying halfway through the production and wouldn't stop. Haha, the twat.
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 1:23, 3 replies)

I was in charge of the shepherds.
I ran a tight sheep.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 0:27, 2 replies)

Heil Fiver
Not strictly nativity but aged 6 i was one of the few kids who didn't have school dinners, nary even a packed lunch. For some reason my mum used to come and pick us kids up and take us home for dinner.

The only other kids to do this were jehovas witnesses.

Now I could ramble on about the pointlessness of this lunching arrangement, especially as we only had packed lunch fayre when we got home, and the 15 minute walk to and fro halved actual lunch munching time and was probably a bit inconvenient for the old lass all in too.

Not to mention our missing out on countless games of you show me yours - i'll show you mine and various elastic arms and leg entanglement conundrums, games of hopskotch and step skipping to oddly meaningless rhymes which were probably about killing black people but jollied up through the ages with cheery analogy.

Still, home for lunch it was. Us and the jo-vos.

It was on one such day around easter time that I was noseying in my grandad's shaving bag and happened upon a razor. A good old fashioned single blade. None of this 5 blade and a strip that goos up protruding nasal hair bollocks. This was a blade that could kill people.

And so, being a young man who knew that one day I'd have to master this tool as an older man I tried it. Without foam. Oh, and moving sideways not up and down.

WAAAAAAAAAAAH!

MUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMM

After a severe bollocking, a change of clothes, and another bollocking punctuated by a kick up the arse from gramps, I was cleaned up sufficiently to go back to school.

To school with a plaster across my top lip that left me looking (side parting in a basin cut style hair considered) like a very small Hitler. In a home knitted bobbly woollen jumper.

I arrived back with 5 minutes of play to spare only to be rounded upon by Richard the bully who called me Hitler and kicked me in the arm without explanation.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH

MIIIISSSSSSSSSS

A quick check by the nurse later, and my arm was not broken but I'd damaged something. so into a sling it went.

A pretty shit day for the 6 year old Heyzeus.

Now the coupe de grace for this hour of hell was after lunch. Today was indeed the easter bonnet parade.

It was also the day, the only ocassion that I ever, in my life, won anything on my own, to my own merit.

This despite me having a plaster moustache, arm slung across my chest, indeed like a little reicher, and an old rabbit shaped pyjama case on my head for a bonnet.
(Heyzeus, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 23:26, Reply)

Mixed race white couple? Better than a tree I suppose...
I got to play Joseph in our nativity at school and Mary was played by a girl who I had a major crush on. Only thing I found confusing was that we were both white but the baby jebus was black?!

My later school performances included 2nd chef in a tenuously crafted scene for 3 of us who were off sick when the parts for the main play were being given out and I later went on to play "the tree" in another bible story which I can't remember the name of.
(Wonners ooooooooo JAM!!!, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 20:57, Reply)

Nativity Play
I can still remember what I was in the school nativity play. The teacher clearly had high hopes for my acting ability. I played one half of the stable in which Jesus was born. It was a non-speaking part.
(Nitrous Nitrous, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 19:31, 2 replies)

I was the Angel Gabriel
And being the teeny bumlick I was when I was a kid I picked up all the bits of silver sparkles I had deposited on the floor after I was done and got a merit badge for the effort!

My sister's was the best though.. she's a middle child

Her nursery were doing a performance of "Puff the Magic Dragon" and all the kids were wearing these dragon head hats with big noses. My sister was sat on the back bench knocking all the other kids hats down.. repeatedly!

thing is she's still a pain in the ass now...!
(miss.spanky.pants .. is looking for a handsome prince..., Mon 30 Mar 2009, 19:29, 1 reply)

Bean Countin' Man - the happy ending

Those of you that know me will be aware that every Friday afternoon, from 1.00 til 2.00, I spend an hour at a local primary school, helping some of the kids with their reading. It's something I started doing when Jasmine was little - the school always encourages Dads to help with reading, as there are so few male role models in schools - especially primary schools - these days. I was also co-opted onto the board of governors and I've remained there ever since. It's a fair sized school, with three classes in each year from Year 1 (5 year olds) up to Year 6 (10 - 11 yr olds), it also has a nursery with limited places. As a result, the headteacher has an annual budget of well over £1m to play with and my professional help (freely given of course) with budgeting is gratefully received. So, I'm pretty much part of the fixtures and fittings at Wellington Grove. It's good to give something back to the community and I always enjoy it. If you've ever seen a seven year old boy who had trouble with his reading gaining confidence as well as ability over the course of a year, you'd agree it was a worthwhile way to spend an hour a week. This year, I'm working with four kids in Year 4 that need a bit of extra help, there are a pair of identical twin, Polish girls, a sturdy little chap called Matthew with a runny nose and a bit of a perspiration problem and a really cute little kid called Kyle, who has thick brown hair to his shoulders.

Since posting last February, I've also made some positive steps towards finding myself some permanent female company. The first thing I did was to tentatively sign up on an online dating site, though apart from the odd reasonably pleasant meal, it was a wash-out. I also started to get myself back into shape. Since my early 40s, my waist has steadily grown outwards and although buying looser trousers helps in the short term, it doesn't address the underlying problem. So, I started running, or, to be more accurate, jogging. Every Sunday and Wednesday morning, as early as I can manage, I don my gear and head out of the house, down the street to the cycle path that runs along the river. There's a path either side of the river and it's a popular spot for joggers, as there are fairly regular bridges, you can choose the length of your run to suit your legs, lungs or time available.

After a few weeks, I began to recognise some of my fellow joggers. I run with an iPod on, but, being a polite chap, I always nod to those coming the opposite way and they nod back. Some dog walkers nod too, though they tend to talk to each other more and ignore joggers. And then there was her.

The first time I noticed her she was about a hundred yards in front of me and moving very easily, whereas I was trundling along with my would-be love handles jiggling with every step. I tried to get a bit closer because, even at that distance, I could tell that jogging behind her would provide a very useful distraction from my labouring lungs. Unfortunately, she was far fitter than me and got further in front with every step. Never mind, I thought, and continued on my almost merry way. Ten minutes later I was rewarded with a sight of her coming towards me, but on the far side of the river. Although still a fair way away, I could see that even what was probably a decent sports bra was insufficient to prevent teeshirt moving more than my saddlebags and a lot more attractively.

The next Sunday, there she was again and, frustratingly, a little further in front of me than last time. I resolved to leave the house five minutes earlier the following week. It's not that I'm a perv or anything, this was no young girl that I was intent on letching after, I could tell that she was a mature woman who had kept herself trim, I just reasoned that if I was determined to carry on with this running malarky, then I may as well provide myself with every incentive. Anyway, the plan worked like clockwork. I left the house at 6.55am rather than 7.00am and when I was nearly at the half way point in my run and about to reach the bridge, she ran past me easily and headed for the bridge. I reached the bottom of the steps when she was half way up and guiltily looked up to see her lycra-clad behind bouncing merrily up the steps. The rest of that run I stayed behind her, though progressively further and further behind.

As spring progressed to summer and the mornings got lighter and the weather milder, I found I was shedding ounces of fat. I cut out alcohol during the week, gave up chocolate and crisps and soon I was looking at myself in the mirror with something other than head-shaking resignation. Sometimes, I'd run the route the other way round, so that I could nod at my running muse as she came towards me.

Anyway, back to the story. Christmas was coming and I was invited to the Nativity Play. The kids I read with always bounded up to me when they saw me sitting at the little table in the upstairs hall when they came in from lunchtime playtime on a Friday. As it was my last week's reading of the term, I'd bought each of them a little book, as well as a box of miniture heroes for the rest of the class. The kids were pleased with their pressies and also pleased to be able to present me with a typical kiddies home-made christmas card with 'Thank you Mr Bean-Counter' on the front with a picture of a christmas tree. Little Kyle gave me a hug after opening his pressie and said he'd try to read it with his mum during the holidays.

The following Wednesday was the Nativity play day so I took the day off. I went for my usual run then lazed around until it was time to go to the school. I got there early as these events are always well attended and found a seat in the second row. Soon someone came and sat next to me and I glanced at them, as you do. She seemed familiar, but I couldn't remember where from. The play proceeded and when Kyle came on as a shepherd he waved enthusiastically at me so I waved back, in fact, the lady sat next to me and I did a synchronised wave-back. We looked at each other with matching puzzled expressions.

"You must be Kyle's mum." I whispered. She nodded, looking a bit wary. "I'm Mr Bean-Counter - I listen to Kyle read on Fridays."

"Oh, I'm so glad I met you." she was whispering too, she had to lean quite close. "I wanted to thank you. He loves reading now."

As we were talking, it suddenly clicked - she was the Sunday morning jogger. I resisted doing the old 'didn't recognise you with your clothes on' routine, but sat quietly until the end of the interval. Then, as casually as possible (which isn't really all that casual at all) I asked. "So, your husband couldn't make it then?"

"No. We don't see much of him. I did hope he'd make the effort but..." she sighed, "Poor Kyle misses him a lot."

"Look, I'm not doing anything this afternoon, I don't suppose the two of you fancy tea and a cake do you?"

To cut a long story short we began to get to know each other that afternoon. We both took it steadily but having Kyle on my side helped. I let on that I recognised her from the cycle-path and she joked that it was nice to have a man chasing her again.

This year on Valentine's day, I could tell that part of Jasmine wanted to be somewhere else, with someone else. I'm not sure if she could tell that the same was true for me, but I broached the subject and we both agreed that we were happy for the other. Jaz wanted to meet Kyle's mother (name protected etc. etc.) so I cooked dinner for the four of us. It was strange, but it felt right, a funny little family group for the 21st century: Me - 47, Her - 34, Jaz - 21, Kyle - 8. Who'd have thought that we'd all get on so well together.

I finally managed to catch up with her at the end of February. I don't intend letting her get away.
(A Bean Countin' Man Takes off socks to count past 10, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 18:36, 13 replies)

I was an angel, the narrator, or Mary
because I was blonde and smiley and can actually read.

So NER to all the jealous girls who didn't get to be them, you were all bitches to me the WHOLE rest of the year, so for once I got to be the one everyone was looking at.

I make no apologies for the lack of funneh.
(Clarabelle is reverting to type on, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 18:35, 1 reply)

My dad found a way to be helpful
Whenever the nativity play rolled around, you could guarantee that those pupils with parents from a better off background would actually be wearing outfits that resembled the part they were playing. If you were like me, however, schooled in the art of bin-bag Halloween’s, then your outfit was never particularly suitable for the role you were trying to encapsulate and you may as well wear a sign around your neck to describe the outfit you intended to sport for all the audience had a clue.

That was until my Dad realised that perhaps he could help.

I was eight years old at the time, and having usually left the costume making to my overworked mother, the discovery of my part in this year's play made my Dad realise he may be of use. With the enthusiasm of a parent wanting only the very best for their offspring, my Dad got to work making a costume surely to steal the show, regardless of whether I actually had any lines in the play or not. Many subsequent evenings he came home late, tirelessly using his work facilities to sculpt his masterpiece.

As the performance day approached, I began to worry that the costume may not be ready in time, and once again I would have to make do with some vague approximation of my military part. It wasn't until the evening before the dress rehearsal that my Dad eventually came home with his masterpiece.

When I saw it I was ecstatic. It was everything an eight year old could ever want. I tried it on, and spent the evening buzzing and wanting to show my friends the next day.
I borrowed my Dad's huge holiday bag and packed it with the costume first thing the next morning, beaming all the way to school and impatient for the dress rehearsal to start. I couldn't hide my enthusiasm from my classmates, but wouldn't reveal my masterpiece until the dress rehearsal was starting.

The teachers were preoccupied while we were getting ready, so I was able to don my outfit without their attention whilst dazzling my peers around me.

However the look on their faces when they finally did pay attention was one of both shock and fear.

In front of them was a child with a broadsword. A sharp, bludgeon friendly broadsword. A broadsword so heavy, the child could barely hold it with one arm. A child known to have quite severe temper tantrums. Not only did this child have a broadsword, but also a shield as tall as he was and a sharp child-shish-kebabing spear also. In front of them was a smiling little terrorist who they could only assume was ready to get old testament on their asses. In my Dad's infinite wisdom, he had armed his eight year old son with deadly weaponry and sent him off to school.

You see, my Dad was a sheet metal worker, so not much use in costume making when I was a penguin, but when he had an opportunity to be useful, he went at it with unadulterated enthusiasm. I was in tears when they confiscated it and ended up once again with an outfit that barely represented what it was intended to, though for that brief moment, I had the best costume.
( ma0sm, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 17:51, 3 replies)

Not me
But my daughter. Her Nursery nativity play was a triumph as it had not one but two boys in a spiderman costume in it.

Obviously one of the kings had stolen the Myrrh and spiderman and his clone were there to apprehend him
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 17:35, Reply)

I fell off the stage

( SkUG >_O i got a couple of stitches in my eyeball... ow, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 17:33, 2 replies)