Imagine my relief when this weeks question ground to a halt after three pages.
Saves me a lot of posting. You should have picked erotic fiction like I suggested, you cunts.
( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Sun 23 Dec 2012, 19:18, 2 replies)

Blah blah blah, baalim bedim brim dim forelimb grim gym him hymn jim limb limn outswim passim prim purim rim scrim shim skim slim swim tim trim vim whim aught besought bethought bought brought caught distraught forethought fought fraught ghat handwrought hardbought naught nought onslaught ought outfought sought taught taut thought uncaught unsought untaught unthought wrought.
(Benzyl, Sun 23 Dec 2012, 17:28, Reply)

Getting on for 3 hours since Shambos last post!


My money is on a strangle wank too far, or his mum is making him tidy his room for Santa.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Sun 23 Dec 2012, 10:38, 16 replies)

smudges story reminds me of one similar.
I had driven up from London to Blackpool with my 2 year old daughter to spend a weekend with my family who'd flown over from Dublin.

Checked into the hotel and took the little hotel lift to the 4th floor. I had a pram with the child in it, suitcase and multiple small bags one seems to accumulate when they have small children. outside the room I realised the pushchair wouldnt fit through the door so took my daughter out of and set about the complicated process that comes with folding a modern pushchair. The corridor we were in had a firedoor either end so I wasn't worried about the child.

Having got everything into the room, I saw my daughter at the end of the corridor and she disappeared around the corner. There was nothing there but the lift and she couldnt reach the button so I assumed she was waiting for me so she could could shout Boo to me as I came around it. Ready to fake surprise I turned the corner just in time to see the lift doors closing with her in it.

As this was a shitty hotel in Blackpool, there were no displays on the wall showing which floor the lift was on. I shot down the stairs floor by floor waiting at every floor a few seconds to see if the door opened. Got to the ground floor and nothing. no sign of her. Now i was well panicked and I shouted to the receptionist and anyone else within earshot if they'd seen a small child come out of the lift. Nothing. Ran outside the hotel and looked up and down the road. still nothing. Ran back in, saw my dad, told him I'd lost Sophia and to stay there while I ran back up and checked every floor.

I ran up the stairs and along every corridor screaming her name in that high pitched voice of the demented. Still nothing. Got back to me dad at reception and by now I'm a gibbering mess beginning to run through several horrific scenarios in my head. just then the hotel manager comes through a door with my daughter in his arms. She looked completely nonplussed about the whole drama. Turns out there was a basement level function room in the hotel and there was a wedding reception being held there that day. Shed gotten out of the lift in the basement and wandered in. Someone noticed she didnt belong to anyone at the wedding and called the manager.

oh I'll never forget the relief of that moment. worse 10 minutes ever.

tl:dr - Blackpool is a shithole and I'm a shit parent.
( sneep used to date Freddie Starr's hamster, Sun 23 Dec 2012, 9:55, 2 replies)

Relief for the party girls
I finally found a space in the mammoth Las Vegas casino parking structure. I turned off my car's engine, stepped out, and started stressing about what kind of shoes I should be wearing. Both pairs I had seemed equally unsuitable and ridiculous for a posh evening out. So, I knelt in between the parked cars, trying on first one pair, then the other.

Just then, I heard a scream from a gaggle of party girls, who were luminous in their shimmering dresses. Catching my kneeling form out of the corners of their eyes, they had assumed I was defecating.

I stood up and tried explaining that the shoe quandary was just an expression of my feminine side, but they trotted away so fast on their stilettoes I don't think they heard me.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Sun 23 Dec 2012, 8:28, Reply)

Dr Skagra down there reminds me......
I won't bore you with the backstory, but one night in a pub in Sydney I caught someone trying to steal my wallet from my back poacket and ended up punching them in the face and knocking them to the floor.
My drinking colleagues suggested soon afterwards that we should quickly vacate the premises, so I grabbed my wallet and sprinted outside to jump on a conveniently waiting bus.
It was there that I was told that the would be robber 'looked like a skag-head' and that it was pointed out that I had a bit of tooth sticking out of my knuckle. ''You need to go for a blood test mate' was the general consensus.

So I did, and a week later I went back to get the results.....
Negative, Negative, Negative.....until Hepatitis B. Inconclusive.

The Doctor didn't exactly put me at ease with his explanation, and I had another test, and waited another week. The longest, most stressful week of my life.
(FartThroughAWalkieTalkie wished you were dead in ditch on, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 22:19, 5 replies)

Short and to the (needle) point
Had a blood test for a... hmm... let's just say, very deadly disease once - and with good reason to suspect I had picked it up.

Had to wait a week for the results, it was the longest and strangest week of my life, I pinballed from sheer shitting panic to giddy euphorias of denial, often within the same minute. My friends knew there was something up but I could not tell them.

The day I got the results - the second I was told I was clear - felt like being dropped from a great height into pool of ice cold water. I have never felt anything like it. Almost worth the week of worry. I spent days a walking cliche with my head in the clouds.

A week later I found a lump on my left bollock and went through it all again.

There's a word for people like me: hypochondriac. I'm a lot better now (ha!), but fuck, the days and weeks I have spent worrying about FUCK ALL astound me now.

You read about depression a lot in the press but hypochondria is at least as debilitating, when you think you have something you act as if you actually have it, so you might as well have it, but (usually) you haven't.

The day the doctor tells me I actually do have cancer, or whatever terminal disease, fuck knows how I will react. Collapse dead on the spot, I reckon.

Stupid puny human brain.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 19:57, 2 replies)

dogshit
"whos trodden dogshit into the doormat?"

This was the kind of 'inquisition' question my father would utter, sparking a vast discussion on the hows, wheres, whys and whos of the incident under question. Someone always had to be to blame.

In this case there was an inspection of all the shoes in the house (no dogshit), sniffing of the footwear currently being worn (no dogshit), a discussion about who might have visited the house and might have trodden dogshit into the doormat.

The rage was building all the time and my father was becoming incandescent. There wear tears, threats of beatings and much shouting

This all ended when I finally got on my knees...

and sniffed the "dogshit"

my words?
"its catfood"
(gearanach #wankwankwank, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 17:48, 1 reply)

All I have for you on a rainy afternoon is a pea-
It was about twenty years ago, some friends and I were in the airport going to Malta of all places for a bit of a lash.
I was (cough use of past tense cough) a bit of a smoker back then, and really didn't want to go the two weeks without a bifta, so came up with a cunning plan. I packed about a quarter into a little tube about the size of my finger, and parcel taped it to my thigh, as high up as possible.
Going through customs to get to the 'plane, the guy points at me.
"Mind stepping over here sir?"
You know that feeling when your stomach gets lodged in your mouth, and you can see the hole opening up in front of you?
"Just a quick search, sir" as he starts to pat me down.
Under the arms, down the sides of the body, then to the turn ups and up the legs.
As he got closer, I knew I was bound for a dirty life as some crim's bitch. I could see the look on my parent's faces, the life I could have had washing away from me with every pat.
Past the knee, and at the thigh I was literally preparing the "It's a fair cop guv'" speech when he touched the tube. He looked up at me, no doubt seeing the panic break out on my face, and pulled back sharpish.
"(Something garbled)"
My mind didn't comprehend. I knew I'd been busted, in the most stupid way I could have chosen. This was stupid. I stood there, waiting for the officers to wrestle me down and ping the rubber gloves on the ends of their fingers.
"(More garble) you go sir."
Tears started to well up in me as the reality struck home and I knew home was somewhere I'd be dreaming of for a while.
"I said you can go sir."
The inner workings of my brain finally kicked in. I said nothing, but stumbled through to the departure lounge where I shakily lit up a Marlborough. (Yes, and you could smoke 'em on the 'planes back then as well!)
I can only surmise he thought he'd touched my dick and was as shocked as I was.

Now, before you start, I am fully aware of just how stupid I was, even so, any flaming may well be justified. I learnt a lot of lessons that holiday, and hopefully grew up a fair bit in the process. I mean, Malta? I may as well have been taking snow to the Arctic.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 16:27, 1 reply)

Rolling rolling rolling.
Parking my bus full of passengers at a bus stop and getting out for a sneaky fag,only to see it quietly inching up the road on tick-over because I left the handbrake off,jump in and stop it,and realise I aint gonna be sacked cos nobody noticed.
(andycrass loves two hats on, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 15:36, 6 replies)

I was pulled up a set of lights.
Two lanes, just me in one, the other empty. A kid started crossing from my side of the road, the lights were still red but about to change. The kid was still infront of my car when the lights went to orange, I checked the mirror and there was a car in the othe lane doing about 50. In about 2 seconds the kid was going clear my car just in time to get wiped out by this speeding fuck.
I lent on the horn, the kid jumped out of his skin, but that pause was long enough for the other car to pass by harmlessly. The lucky bastard looked at me, confused and then angry before mouthing F U C K Y O U and carried on his way.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Sat 22 Dec 2012, 15:17, 1 reply)

Relief
My wife, her girlfriend, Smudgelet and I had gone to the beach for the day. Smudgelet and I had built a rather nice sand castle and she, being only 2, had gone to sleep under the beach umbrella with the dog. I had stretched out myself and closed my eyes, half listening to the girls yatter. When I opened my eyes a few minutes later, Smudgelet had disappeared. Frantically loooking around, I spotted her about 50 meters away heading for the lake. My heart seemed to stop. I don't think I ever ran the 50 so fast in my life. Scooping her up, I trotted back to the blanket to find Mrs Smudge and the GF still deep in conversation, totally oblivious to what had just happened. I was so relieved that I just sat on the blanket, panting and clutching Smudgelet, and couldn't even muster a coherent response when Mrs Smudge, finally noticing my state, asked "Why are you breathing so hard?".
(Smudge the Demon, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 15:09, 23 replies)

the morning after
when you check your phone and realise that, no matter how shitfaced you were the night before, you didn't resort to texting your ex.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 14:31, 7 replies)

I'm really relieved that this week's QOTW hasn't been ruined by tragic shut-ins whining about people they don't like anyway ignoring them.

( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 12:49, 8 replies)

I just done a shit after three days of not having done a shit.

( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 10:44, 8 replies)

Well I'm certainly relieved that there's been no internet drama overnight.
That would be a pretty tragic way to warm up for the festive season.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 9:59, 23 replies)

copyright John Cooper Clarke?
If you visit my house (which you won't because anyone from the internet who turns up at my door will get boiling oil poured on them from the battlements, BUT ANYWAY) you will find I have a lot of books. An awful lot of books. I've always been into books and reading, and I can trace this back as far as my extreme youth when I would happily devour Beatrix Potter, Enid Blyton, Anthony Buckeridge etc. etc. etc. all the live-long day.

Possibly the very first book I can remember, though, was a volume of classic Victorian fairy tales that was purchased for me as a gift by my dear white-haired old granny. Even though I hadn't seen this tome for years, I could have described it to you in the minutest detail; or so I thought. But.

When my dad died a few years ago and I was clearing out his house, I found the book. Up until rediscovering it I would have sworn I knew the book inside out, that if nothing else I certainly wouldn't get the damn author's name wrong. But hang me, I had misremembered it. That book was by Hans Christian Andersen. It wasn't as Grimm as I thought.

Length? A hundred and fifty-two pages, demy octavo.
(Rise and Fall of the Atomic Cabbage Haven't you heard of suspension of disbelief?, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 5:29, 2 replies)

someone put me on ignore once

( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 2:54, 6 replies)

I've been put on 2.0 :(
By none other than the indomitable Dr Shambolic, following his repeated (failed) attempts to rewrite history. I think he finally realised that the 'edit' and 'delete' buttons are not a viable, long term alternative to things like 'spontaneity' and 'wit'.

Yes, being denied the opportunity to mock his depressing attempts at trolling will dent my enjoyment of this site, but at least I don't have to put up with his endlessly repetitive shit anymore.

So, you go, shambles! Keep furiously mashing away at your keyboard, keep editing your posts to make yourself look more intelligent than you are, and keep deleting entire threads when the aforementioned is simply not enough. And when that fails, as it inevitably will - hey, there's always 2.0. You're a winner! Don't ever let anyone take that away from you. It's all you have.

That said, and all things considered - not having to endure his misguided, flailing attempts at humour any longer is definitely a relief.

_{*awaits rage*}
( Happy Phantom has been to Hastings, Brighton, and Eastbourne too, Sat 22 Dec 2012, 0:14, 165 replies)

It was a PROPER relief to find that just calling some crybaby "blubbertits" is STILL enough to cause either thread deletion or IGNORE 2.0 here.
Carry on autisms.
Also, I might have meant it affectionately.





I didn't really mean it affectionately.
( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Sat 22 Dec 2012, 0:10, 4 replies)

Bad Parenting
I was waiting at the bus stop with my son, then aged 2, a wee friend of his and the friend's mother. I got a bit distracted checking bus times, looking out change and so on and suddenly, to my utter horror, realised that The Boy had vanished from sight. Not in the bus stop. Not on the pavement. Not on the road. Crowds of people around. Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit.

His friend's mother saw the panic in my eyes, saw me looking frantically around and asked me what was wrong. "Where's Geeklet?", I asked, urgently.

She gave me an odd look. "Still sitting on your shoulders", she replied.
(ubergeekian, Fri 21 Dec 2012, 23:43, 3 replies)

I recently got farmed out from my cosy den in the intensive care unit at the Local Hospital Where I Work to one of the medical wards as we were overstaffed and they were understaffed.
One of the gents I tasked to look after was a proper tough old countryman in his 80s who, like a Frenchman from the 1980's, loved to pee outdoors.
Rain, wind or shine he'd much rather take a slash outdoors by his sh*d than bother climbing stairs, pissing into the bog, flushing and then coming downstairs.

He was recently admitted to hospital with a nasty case of heart failure, a condition which had caused a load of fluid to accumulate in his body, particularly on his lungs, which had the effect of giving him a chest infection, some nasty breathlessness and, as I was to discover, an acute confusional state.
Treatment for this is antbiotics to treat the infection and furosemide to clear the accumulated fluid off of his chest. Basically, you piss yourself(not literally) better.

Imagine if you can then, the mixed feelings I had towards the end of a rather hectic 12 hour day shift, as I watched this delightful old boy, by now feeling much better thanks to being able to breathe considerably
easier, clamber out of bed unassisted, stride purposefully down the ward then proceed to not so much spend a penny as blow his life savings all over the ward's newly erected and decorated Christmas tree.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Fri 21 Dec 2012, 23:13, 7 replies)

My case was on the belt.
I came back from the WC to find an empty conveyor and no other passengers - I feared the worst. Then, as if by magic, my case arrived.
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Fri 21 Dec 2012, 21:54, Reply)

sex with girls

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Fri 21 Dec 2012, 19:43, 10 replies)

Something about a rare book
And me painstakingly restoring the gold leaf

re-leaf

end
(Frample Tromwibbler climbs an obstacle like old people fuck, Fri 21 Dec 2012, 18:04, Reply)

The foolishness of youth.
When I was 20 my girlfriend went to work on some Camp America thing in Maryland for 3 months and I arranged to fly out to meet her for a 5 week holiday once she'd finished her stint.
We ended up flying all over America and ended up back at La Guardia airport on the final leg of our journey. Instead of sensibly taking a yellow cab we accepted a ride from a huge besuited guy who had his own private sedan.

After a few miles we didn't appear to be heading towards the city and as he pulled off the main freeway down some murky exit road the girlfriend and I started to give eachother worried glances. I'd seen colors and recently Boyz in the hood and imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios. I remember delving into my bag for the rather inadequate Swiss army knife I'd brought with me and opening the biggest blade it had. As if that would assist in any way whatsoever.

"At this time of night this is the quickest route." The driver said as if sensing our unease. It didn't help.
We then ended up on some decidedly dark and empty looking roads as it approached late evening.
"This is your hotel guys. That'll be the $20 we agreed on."
He helped carry our bags to the hotel on the outskirts of the city and bade us farewell.

Even to this day I have no idea what we were thinking getting into a strangers car in an unknown country but we were damn relieved to get into safety.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Fri 21 Dec 2012, 16:17, 1 reply)

Christmas 1995
Not much of a writer. It's long and probably boring.

A time that should have been spent with family, some friends and defintely beer, but no.
He instead found himself in a very cold Sarajevo, it least it was going to be a white Christmas but peace seemed to be an alien concept to the locals who instead prefered to demonstrate thier version of 'Merry Christmas' with the clack-clack of an AK-47. Noisy things. It wasn't really their fault, after fighting for 4 years they'd got into the swing of things and maybe seemed a little reluctant to stop.

Guard duty at Zetra Stadium was a usually quiet affair as those on the outside, far beyond the sight of those in the Stadium, went about their business of settling scores or whatever business required a 7.62mm round. The Stadium had been a jewel of the city, famous for being party to Torvill & Dean’s Boléro and subsequent gold medal, it now lay in ruins, its roof black and twisted from the fire that had raged after the rain of mortar fire, its insides ravaged and devoid of the city’s Olympic spirit. The Stadium once again played host to people from many nations but they were not here to watch skaters dance. These dressed in fatigues and carried their own guns and looked out and readied themselves to play peacemakers to battle weary people.

The sangar was a hodgepodge collection of debris and sandbags and gave no relief from the cold, but that wasn’t its job. He stood in the cold, layered in as many clothes he could put on but he was still cold. Outside the Stadium, but inside the thin but so important fence, soldiers scurried around carrying out their never endings jobs as fast as possible. It doesn’t pay for a soldier to sit around, he is soon found a task that will turn out to be unpleasant and time consuming . His rifle is cold too, but it doesn’t complain, unlike him.

The Rules of Engagement here are strict but straight forward. NATO has decided to play by a different set of rules from the UN and all know it. The ordinary people beyond the fence go about their business. Are they going to work? Perhaps to find a loved one? Maybe to bury one? They stay clear of the fence, it’s not wise to bring the attention of the new soldiers from the Stadium, they are different from those in the blue helmets. One group, however, is different, their body language marks them as confident and sure of themselves, but they seem only young, maybe only fifteen. Why are they coming to the fence? Don’t they know the rules?! We’re different, we don’t wear blue helmets. He becomes agitated, not panic mind, he’s a soldier after all. What should he do? Tell someone? Leave the sangar? What? But he knows. They don’t leave, one leans on the fence looking in, no, don’t do that! Go away! But it’s time. His heart thumps, he shakes as he brings the rifle’s working parts to the rear and let fly forward as he releases the cold metal. Move on! Move on! You are a child, he doesn’t want to do this. Now the safety is off and he looks down the sight, he is sweating in the freezing cold, his hands clammy against the cold plastic of the rifle. Go, please go. He doesn’t want to do this. Now there is panic, the boy doesn’t move and then.... calm.....

It’s time, it was always going to be this way. Everything up to this point has merely been the foreplay. It’s time. Calm. The soldier stares down the sight, it’s only a hundred metres. Calm. Finger on the trigger. Breath, do it on the in-breath now, just like on the ranges. One breath, in.....

The boy takes one last look at the soldiers behind their fence and swiftly turns on the spot before moving to catch up with his friends. Away they go to who knows where.
(SpangoTheWonderBadger is brewing beer, Fri 21 Dec 2012, 15:46, 12 replies)

Relief
A man, his heart close to exploding like a pulsing grenade in his chest. He runs, slowing down as lactic acid builds up in his strained muscles and then speeding up again as adrenaline takes over; his gait, unbalanced, gives the impression of a man made up of two separate and distinct halves, each with their own rhythm.

His eyes burn as salty droplets of perspiration drop into them. His pupils, dilated, suggest drug use, but their huge size is due to the endorphins his brain is pumping out to combat the pain of his exertion. His mind is a crazy tangle of neurons, firing and refiring as unanswered questions and half-formed thoughts pinball through his cranium. What if? What happens...

His breathing is ragged and uneven. He is not a runner. He barely exercises, but he knows that he has to be there right now. Every extra second is like an eternity. He barely has time or capacity to wonder where he is; instinctually he makes for his destination, feinting here, swerving there, like a homing pigeon. He will remember little of this journey in years to come.

Through his streaked vision - every street light a halo, every traffic signal a disco ball shattering colours into a million shards of light - he sees the hospital and, with one final grunt of exertion, pushes himself towards its doors.
Once inside, he gasps his purpose through a dry throat, and is ushered - too slow! too slow! - to a room, in which people mingle and complicated machinery beeps with a regularity alien to nature.

What if? What happens...

He has a son. His first. The ache in his muscles disappears. His heart slows, but he still feels as though it could burst through his chest. He breathes, deep, gulping swallows of sweet air, refilling his lungs and failing to prevent him from crying. His tears grant him tunnel vision: all he can see is his wife and his son, nestled on her breast. He weeps without shame.
(SalariosDecentes was under the radar on, Fri 21 Dec 2012, 15:26, 30 replies)