I’ll tell you about some odd people…

That Chef with the spikey hair called Gary for one. He once cooked a disgusting meal for Sting and his wife, the main ingredient of which was a puree made from foul tasting small insects. The effects of this hideous meal greatly annoyed the former Police frontman and his missus and put them off one of their many shagging marathons.

The newspaper headline for this story was: ‘Rhodes’ Vile ants irks Tantrics’
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 4 Oct 2012, 11:43, 2 replies)

Very few people realise that the ex-keyboard player from Yes makes a sideline living from narrating audiobooks
His latest offering was some sub-lit lesbian porn that he did in a County Mayo accent. Apparently his reading was so erotic it caused many lesbians to froth like a bottle of fucked Bass somuch so that the moip ran down their legs into their sensible shoes!

Yep, it was a 'Brogue-filling accent, Rick.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Thu 4 Oct 2012, 11:20, 2 replies)

I saw an ad for
another book by a prostitute who worked in a truck stop in the southeastern US. She plies her trade from about midnight to dawn, then goes and gets her breakfast at the truck stop diner.

The book is called "Rouge, Chitterlings, Eggs and Tricks."

(That word is actually pronounced "chitlins" or "chillins" depending on where you are.)
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 4 Oct 2012, 10:56, Reply)

Oh go on then...

I was once in the Boat race with one of the members of Pop group ‘Bros’…

I can’t remember if it was Matt or Luke. Anyhoo, the year we participated in the race, apart from the usual ‘university pride’ at stake, they decided to ‘spice it up’ somewhat with some bizarre additional prizes. They were:

Some ‘works of art’ by the Princess Royal herself, crafted from what she found on the floor on the beach at Eastbourne, and modelled on her own ovums.

A couple of buddhist heavy goods vehicles that allegedly caused the driver to 'attain enlightenment'

A year’s supply of cattle calf meat.

In an effort to motivate the rowers during the race I decided to shout their names whilst also listing the prizes on offer. As we bollocked up the Thames I could regularly be heard yelling:

“Row Goss! Veal, Anne’s sand Eggs, Zen trucks”

*Dies inside*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 4 Oct 2012, 10:47, 5 replies)

I recently found a book for sale
that detailed how to drive in the UAE. Not the official rules, mind you, but the crazy shit that you see some of the more flamboyant drivers here pulling- weaving through traffic, zooming through the back roads of the populated areas to avoid traffic, flying across three lanes of traffic at a roundabout to exit regardless of the mayhem left in the wake.

It was called "Roads, Villages and Exit Tricks."
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 4 Oct 2012, 10:05, 2 replies)

A mate of mine....
... worked in the path lab of the QE hospital in birmingham. As you can imagine, he came across (fnarr) some really weird shit (pun intended) while he was there.
One rumour was that Shane MacGowan was a closet botter and loved taking ass to mouth! He backed up his claim as being true from the evidence left in samples of Mr Macgowan's rotted front teeth (from the Maxfac guys) and the bacteria thereon.
Yep it was...
Wait for it...
The Pogues' fillings and sex enterics.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Thu 4 Oct 2012, 9:52, 2 replies)

My mate ‘Loopy Gustav’…
I’m not sure what country he originated from or how he got to Britain, but it was almost as if the bloke had no concept of anything in Western society. He had this annoying habit that everything seemed ‘new’ to him and he would ask me to describe and explain everything that he didn’t quite understand.

Normally, it wasn’t too much of a problem. But once when we took him on a lads’ holiday in Spain and he just went a bit far. To be fair, circumstances didn’t help our cause though. We were all sat outside a local bar and a donkey wandered past us. Gustav pointed directly at it in shock. “What’s that?” He enquired quizzically

“It’s just a donkey, mate. No bother.” I replied, and went back to my beer. A few more minutes passed and he practically jumped in the air, pointing wildly in two directions. “What’s that, and what’s that?” He yelped.

“For fuck’s sake mate" I replied, slightly annoyed. "‘That’ is just a market stall, and that’s just a bucket!”

Eventually we left the bar and were walking down the street when we passed an ‘English style’ fish & Chip shop. After explaining to him what it was (“It’s a chippy”), I stopped in and treated him to some chips and lovely cod eggs in breadcrumbs. As I handed it over to him, he picked up the lump of fishy goodness I knew what was going to happen next. However, before he got time to ask, a load of men wearing what looked like bits of Mongolian armour stormed towards us from the holiday homes across the road. They then launched into some sort of ‘street performing act’, and attempted to ‘magic away’ a dead female chicken by stuffing it up their jumpers and shouting ‘Revenge for Atilla!’

‘Oh Bugger’ I thought to myself as I could see my mate start to raise his arm. I could tell that he could stand no more. “What’s THAT, what’s THAT, and what’s THAT?” He screeched. “Calm down” I said despondently before pointing to each thing in turn and continuing: “It’s Roe, Gus...Villa Huns, and ex hen tricks”

I then decided that the best course of action was to abandon him in Spain and never speak of it again.
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Thu 4 Oct 2012, 9:31, 3 replies)

Back when I was a building labour
a carpenter told the story of his time working in a nursing home. One patient, he said, was a KBE; Sir Something-or-other who'd earned his knighthood the honest way, inventing or discovering something for the good of the state.

But all that was behind the old gent; he was now a dribbling wreck in his nineties, wheelchair-bound, who would spend his days muttering away as he gazed out over the green lawns of the home from the window of his room.

However, he wasn't forgotten. His son, manager of his estate, paid the nurses to give him a treat. Once a week, at bath time, one nurse would wank him off while another fed him pieces of Galaxy chocolate, to make sure the old geezer still had some of life's pleasures.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Thu 4 Oct 2012, 9:09, 2 replies)

Assaulted by a Radio DJ
It's been a long time to hide this tragic secret, but I finally have to open up.

During my childhood I had the misfortune to be unpleasantly molested by a man who used his public standing to take advantage of me.

After a suggestion of a 'tungsten-tipped screw', I was forced into the back seat of his Lexus. He asked me if I might be amused by playing 'tennis' with his 'monkey' and promised me an exposure to his Bang and Hole of Sun, whatever that was. Worse was to come, as he strapped on a couple of cones and performed an obscene lap dance before my helpless, innocent eyes. The things he did with a Toblerone make me shudder even now, and he outrageously suggested that "I'd shove one in your ear, one up your nose and one up your bum, but I'd have to break into another one which I'm not prepared to do for you." Later on, he harrassed me with phone calls about "having cheese" and threatened me to watch him Skirmish on live TV.

Even today, I can't hear the words "Aaaah-haaaaa!" without picturing that hideous gurning face over my right shoulder...
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Wed 3 Oct 2012, 20:38, Reply)

The Tale of Jonno
Nutters can be funny, but sometimes it can be all to easy to forget the all-too-real human tragedy behind their stories.

Enter Jonno. A pretty common story. Fight with the girlfriend; she does a runner, stiffing him on the rent. Argument with the landlord about it; he gets evicted. Jonno was always a bit odd, honestly. Far too open and trusting, he'd been knocked down one too many times, and had a slightly loopy vision of the world. But this sent him right over the edge and into a tent out in the woods, or wandering around town in a greatcoat he'd fashioned out of heavy duty binbags and gaffer tape. You could strike up a perfectly normal conversation with him, but then he'd suddenly bust out grinning and wander off singing Elton John songs.

Life really hit rock bottom for him when he got chased by some local violent twats and ended up tumbling down a railway siding. Out in the tent, in that freezing winter, his broken leg never really set properly, leaving him with a limp and an even more twisted mind. But things did get better after a while; he got himself a bit of cash, which he used to buy a caravan, and started doing odd jobs around my local. A very friendly guy, if a little difficult to talk to.

And then one night it all went wrong. We were having our ever-popular curry & quiz night at my local and Jonno was helping collect up glasses and such. He was having a good night, singing loudly in between questions. One of the patrons, Trevor, was getting increasingly riled at this. To be honest, he was a few scotch eggs short of a picnic himself. After a particularly rousing chorus of Rocket Man, Trevor exploded, unloading right in Jonno's face. Jonno fled, tears in his eyes.

Two helpings, and god knows how many pints later, I stumbled home. I found Jonno on the village green, face down. My stomach sank. Next to him, an empty bottle of methylated spirits. Oh god. I called an ambulance and tried to revive him.

"Oh god, come on Jonno mate, wake up. Oh jesus, come on mate," I mumbled, leaning over him. Jonno moaned.

"Yeah mate that's it, please, wake up mate, it'll be HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAARRRRGHHH JIMMY JESUS HELP ME," I screeched as I violently fouled myself, filling my trousers with a monster blast of badly altered jalfrezi. I guess that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach was actually a warning alarm for my impending digestive distruction. Jonno, who had been putting it all on for the attention, took this as his cue to leg it, the bastard, as I collapsed onto the green, moaning and tooting. And that's how an ambulance crew mistook me for a shit-soaked nutter and hauled me off for a night in A&E.

Later on, I saw Trevor bumming a badger.
(Frank Snow, Wed 3 Oct 2012, 19:34, 2 replies)

crazy legs!
There are currently some builders opposite me on some scaffolding listening to a commercial radio station quite loudly.

I wouldn't class them as eccentrics, but the man who has just climbed on the back of their lorry and is using it as a makeshift dancefloor? definitely a strange one. They're all shouting at him to get off but he's boogieing away like there's no tomorrow.

Even through the adverts!
(FartThroughAWalkieTalkie wished you were dead in ditch on, Wed 3 Oct 2012, 12:55, 5 replies)

I'm glad not to have met him
Last weekend at one of Glasgow's many nightclubs an unfortunate chap was coming up on some crazy chemical cocktail and somewhat enthusiastically 'sharted' whilst up on the dancefloor . His fellow clubbers brought him to the bouncers attention and he was escorted out the venue with his girlfriend . Now if I had suffered this indignity I would have left of my own (honda)accord but the reports I've heard suggest he spent at least half an hour trying to get back into the club , and was last seen walking disconsolately up the road with his girlfriend shouting at him , ' Why did I get thrown out ? I haven't shat myself '

We were the city of Culture once .
( horace wimp needs more than 49 characters to fully express hi, Wed 3 Oct 2012, 11:02, 3 replies)

I almost forgot to mention
one of the better nutters of Richmond that I know.

One day on my way to work I stopped for coffee. On my way into the shop I passed by a battered old Schwinn that had been haphazardly splashed with odd paint. Hanging from the bar was a sign that said "Joke trader! Tell me one and I'll tell you one!"

I entered the shop to see an attenuated old wisp of a man standing there in loud mismatched plaids and a top hat with mismatched Keds and a daub of white paint on the end of his long thin crooked nose. He looked at me as I entered, so I approached him. "What do you call Batman and Robin after they've been run down by a steam roller? Flatman and Ribbon."

A grin split his face, and we spent the next five minutes exchanging old jokes and terrible puns. This became a daily ritual for a few weeks. Then one day I saw him driving around in this:



That is actually one of his more sedate vehicles. The one with the Christmas tree with functioning lights and long balloon-like things looking menacingly phallic was certainly memorable, as was the Vegetable Bus.

Turns out he's this guy: www.happytheartist.com/

The coffee shop closed down but I still saw him around town and exchanged jokes with him for a while until he started working more in another section of the city. When I encountered him after a lapse of a few weeks he exclaimed, "Hey man, where ya been? Did you just get out of jail?"

That became his usual greeting to me, to the shock and/or amusement of whoever happened to be with me at the time. But we immediately started swapping jokes again every time.

I intend to look him up when next I'm in Richmond. When he asks me if I just got out of jail I'll reply, "No, I just returned from hell" and show him pictures of the Arabian Desert...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 3 Oct 2012, 5:58, 5 replies)

A mate of my dad's fled Melbourne to escape charges of embezzling from his company
He'd also been practising contract law without any qualifications, but that was never discovered.
He turned up a few years later as Minister for Sport for Papua New Guinea. Died lonely of a heart attack sitting on a park bench in Fremantle
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Tue 2 Oct 2012, 23:53, 5 replies)

Duckman
Back when I lived in Cambridge there was a chap who could regularly be seen walking the streets in rather smart tweed jacket, black jeans...and a duck decoy strapped to his head. There were rumours that he had an arts grant from the local council to do this. Sometimes he would wear other items, such as a small Christmas tree during the festive season and I once swaw him at the local All-Bar-One having a night-out with friends...with a roll of kitchen towel strapped to his head. Makes you proud to be British!
(sleekloon Curing Cancer one cell at a time., Tue 2 Oct 2012, 22:54, 4 replies)