Oops, I did it again...


Earlier this year, after getting increasingly miffed with numerous attempts by Greenpeace to try and drag me back into the sea so I could re-join my fellow whale comrades, (which is no mean feat considering I live in Coventry) I eventually stumbled to the begrudged conclusion that I might be just a teensy bit overweight.

(On reflection I should have spotted the warning signs, like losing whole items of furniture in-between my flapping wadges of man-cleavage…and there was that time when someone mistook me for Jupiter…but hey ho.)

‘Ah ha’! – I hear you yelp, as you try to find something remotely ‘on-topic’ in what I am rambling about: ‘I bet the thing that you started was a diet, and you couldn’t finish it….so…you’re still a whopping great big lardy-tarded blob of wastoid wobble-bottom-ness, right?’….wrong!, gentle reader – I knuckled down, managed to shoe-horn my chubby digits away from the patented ‘Mr Creosote’ bucket that I used for my half hourly chow-a-thons, and promptly lost 5 stone and 6 inches off my waist…

So nope, that’s not what this is about – and this is only at best a half 'on-topic' post, mainly due to the fact that although it is about a time when I started something...by Lucifer’s spikey ball-sack, I sure as shit couldn’t stop it.

To aid me in the early days of my belligerent battle against bulbous blubber & bollock-bending bulges I exercised a bit, but most importantly I slashed my calorie intake down to next to bugger-all, and this led to my body fervently soaking up every last scrap of what I was slowly drip feeding into it.

This process, however successful, resulted in an unfortunate (but all-too predictable) side-effect…

I couldn’t poo.


Not even a smidge, a niffy nugget or a whiffy winnet. All efforts and attempts to deploy a good old 'didgeridoo' were futile, and much like my sex life, merely resulted in much grunting, sweating, heaving and straining with eventual zero end product...and all round dissatisfaction for all involved.

This was a new experience for me – I’m more used to dumping dungtastic destructive depth charges of gargantuan proportions, with the awesome regularity of an atomic clock in Greenwich. ‘For fuck’s sake’, I used to remember thinking, ‘I am Pooflake! – hear my rear roar!’ My bowels are my nemesis, so a lack of ability in this department was unthinkable, like being robbed of a part of my very identity. I had unwittingly become a shadow of the backside-blasting bastard B3tard I used to be….but now…what good was Pooflake without the ‘poo’?…If there wasn’t already someone on B3ta called flake I would’ve changed my username. I ended up staying off B3ta, as my stories and posts dried up like my pathetic excuse for a chutney cupboard – when I wasn’t dropping brown death from above it seemed like I wasn’t doing anything…

Things were bad.

The days rattled on and the dust and cobwebs started to develop in my redundant and draughty dark bung-hole. I considered reaching up my own cack-cavity with a dessert spoon and seeing what I could dig out, but then I thought of another solution...

I’m afraid to say that in my sorrowful desperation, I decided to dabble towards a chemical answer...And lo, one evening, I took some laxatives. I didn’t go mad…Just two, tiny, insignificant little yellow tablets that I got from Tesco.


That was enough. Trust me. That was well enough.


The next day started fine, filled with my usual hope for the future before the weight of the world crushes my spirit – (usually by about 9am) – I was toffed up to the nines in my new office clobber of light grey suit trousers with crisp white shirt, and I strolled into the office, brimming with the confidence you get whilst losing weight (as everyone tells you 'how much better' you now look, before you realise that it’s actually a back-handed compliment because what they’re actually saying is that you used to be a proper fugly-bloater-boy, but now you’re slightly less of a fat cunt – so well done you!)

Anyhoo, my day progressed without incident, no worries...nothing to report……until….UNTIL….


HOLY FUCKING PISS DRIPPING OFF A MONKEY’S FOREHEAD!!!!! WHAT THE SWORD-SWALLOWING FUCK IS GOING ON IN MY CRAP FACTORY?!??

It was like someone had lit the fuse on the opening titles of 'Mission: impossible'...However, the mission I had no choice but to accept was to get squatting on a chod bin before my anus self-destructed in the next five seconds.

I dropped my work like it was on fire, and leapt to my feet before rocketing towards the nearest bog at a pace that would make Usain Bolt weep into his spray-on lycra tights.

After just a few spirited bounds I already had the otter’s nose sticking out, and it felt as if the first two inches of the impending doom were already cold. The crushing desperation to go and urgently ‘hang a rat’ was overwhelming – this suddenly felt like a matter of life and death….

I single-mindedly pushed past the old lady from the service desk as my memories of poo-calamities past started to flood back. Thankfully, before long I was hoofing open the door to trap 1 – the scene of so many fecal crimes before - with my kex already dropped round my ankles …


I plonk my sweaty backside down and wait for the Inevitable….

Eventually….

“oooh my god here it comes….UUUURGGHGHGHG NGNNGHGHGNNMMMMMMPH!!!!!!”

*papper-papper-splat-splash-a-papper*whimper*SPLASH-A-PAPPER-PARP-SPLADOOSH!!!!*


…*Brief respite*...



“OOH for fuck’s sake here comes some mo….AAARRGGHHH URGGHH!!!….(the next few minutes’ experience is censored on humanitarian grounds)

I was stuck there…stranded, alone and helpless – a slave to the relentless explosions of this dirty bomb as it ruptured my spleen with its sheer rage and velocity. It was all I could do to perch there, semi-silently shuddering as I contemplated what the spluttering ‘splashback’ alone was doing to my pitiful battered butt-cheeks and they dangled precariously into the pan and relentlessly continued to catch full-on what was spewing forth in such hideous handfuls of hateful horror

But.it just.did.not.stop.

As I pleaded for my life it was as if some grim arse-ghoul had reached up my trembling turd tunnel with his ghostly claw, grabbed my frantically spasming intestines and was wringing them out like a grannies’ dishcloth, leaving my mind wandering and my body involuntarily shaking in what felt like a crippling case of what could only be described as ‘Poo Parkinsons’

During the thunderous clackervalve-projected holocaust I can just remember hearing somebody opening the outside door of the toilet block, before muttering ‘Jesus!’ under their breath and wisely deciding that they were no longer that desperate to use the facilities any more.

As the devastation ploughed on relentlessly by the trough-full, I sank to my lowest ebb. My poor tattered brownstar felt like the eye of Sauron from the Lord of the Rings, and I began to consider reaching for the bog-roll to write out my last will and testament - before realising how difficult a task that would be considering I had my legs dangling in the air and feet pushed up high against the lavvy door for extra leverage - in the fashion of someone in stirrups, painfully giving birth to a squishy cocophany that was not so much a brown trout, but more a school of angry brown ravenous acid-spitting piranha fish, trying to chew their way through the fast-buckling bog porcelain whilst simultaneously infecting the atmosphere like a mutated airborne virus.

But then…almost as quickly as it had begun…it subsided. I was pale and exhausted, and it was a close thing, but I had survived!

I checked my watch and discovered that if I got a wriggle on I would still be on time for the death-defyingly dull meeting I was due at.

Hurridly wiping my sandblasted shite socket was one of the most disturbing experiences of my life, but It was soon over, and as I made my mental note to buy a lifetime supply of mindbleach, before I knew it I was outside the meeting room with a couple of minutes to spare.

Thinking that the smart thing to do would be to get the next hours’ worth of vuvuzel-arse related misery out of the way before subjecting my colleagues to the decadent displeasure of my mud-oven-mishaps in a small meeting room, I strained a bit and managed to squeak out a crafty ‘parp’ or nine – As my trousers trumpeted triumphantly, the hallway was treated to a mixture of sounds, forces and general textures but most importantly I was soon assured that I must now be officially empty.

So I strode in confidently and sit down and as the meeting started and then proceeded to trundle on with the gritty pace and interest level of a bag of mouldy potatoes. Of course, I dazzled my employers and peers with my vice-like grip on all issues, and encyclopedic knowledge of all technical matters…well….by that I mean I managed to stay awake, and every now and then I would nod, mutter indifferently and do general meeting wotnot. Unfortunately, what was actually keeping me awake was being distinctly aware of the unwelcome return of the recent and all-too-familiar gut-gurgling, which was accompanied by quite frankly unacceptable, wet-yet-thankfully—silent-ish guffs that I luckily got away with as I squirmed about rather uncomfortably…it was a quite a hot day too, but I was still quietly confident that the rancid stench emanating from my frequently dropped guts were not being detected, considering nobody was falling off their seats or calling for an ambulance…or a priest.

The perfect crime!

Eventually, the meeting was over and I made good my escape, making the most of the time remaining in the day to go and visit some workmates and talk football-related bollocks – the last hour or so flew by….Time to go home…

Yet as I returned to my car I caught sight of something that I could not quite initially fathom. There, in the car park, right by my car door, was the very boardroom seat that I had used an hour or so earlier.

After calmly declaring ‘Wtf?’ to myself, I moved in closer for further inspection and was quite taken aback as I slowly clapped eyes on what stood before me….


All over the seat cover was was about a foot-long, fetid, dark brown streak of purest poo-pipe produce, smeared deeply into the fabric making the whole item resemble some sort of sick sacred shrine to shite-related inhumanity.

Attached to my car windscreen was a note that read:

“Dear Pooflake.

You really are a dirty, dirty twat. Fuck knows what you ate. The chair is now your problem, not ours - Enjoy”

Trying to fathom what was going on, I nervously reached for my phone and called my manager, asking if she knew what was going on. I could distinctly hear the tremble in her shell-shocked voice as she explained the situation:

Between bursts of restrained rage and fits of stifled giggles, my boss then revealed to me that my stomach gurgling and ‘silent’ guffs were not quite as silent as I thought I had endeavoured to conjure them. Instead, everyone in the meeting was merely being polite whilst slowly chewing back thoughts of murder / suicide brought about by the nose-bursting aroma that I was quacking out at a relative frenzy.

As my bedraggled balloon-knot burped and bubbled I was aware of the possibility of some slight seepage, but I thought it was merely to the level of an uncomfortable, soggy, but private misdemeanor that would only later possibly result in a tactical wipe. However, I was unknowingly splurging finest chemical-induced terror all over the unwitting seat fabric below.

After the meeting, blissfully unaware of this abomination I had created and was about to abandon, I stood up and strode out confidently, heading off on my rounds, leaving the sight that befell the poor lady sat next to me to hit her with such violent vigour that it apparently nearly had her doubled over and gagging.

Incredibly, (but hardly surprisingly being 'managers'), they decided to have a meeting at this newly-crowned ‘ground zero’ to decide what action to take. Initially, they were going to give me an almighty bollocking and hit me with the cleaning bill for the chair, but then after further discussion, they all decided as a collective that even if the poor seat was scrubbed raw with industrial-strength atomic-powered Cillit-Bang, then there would still be no way that anybody would ever willingly let themselves ever again come into contact with the disgraced turd-rag throne from hell, (after all, you can’t gouge out your mind’s eye). So it was duly decided that the best option short of demolishing the building was to just ‘get rid’ of the grossly offending item. (probably for the best…)

I must admit that despite the predicament I was in, I smirked a bit when I discovered that henceforth lots were drawn and one unfortunate colleague (who is a bit of a git anyway) was given the dubious honour that nobody really deserves; of dragging the aforementioned befouled seat out into the car park and abandoning it by my car with the note – (I understand that he may now need counselling)

I hung up and tried computing this information with my usual lightning reflexes, before slowly realising that if I had done this repugnant vandalisation to the chair, then it could only have done so after first seeping through the fabric on my dunghampers and then my sorry trollies. As instinctive as it was purely stupid, I moved my hand round the back as I gazed at what was written at the very bottom of the note:

“PS – check your arse – and burn those trousers you are wearing*.”

With that, I gradually came to the painful realisation that for the last hour of the day, about 100 people had witnessed me walking around like a cock-sure bell-end, whilst proudly sporting a stonking great skidmark the size of the QE2 trying to navigate a course half way up my back.

So I was stood there, even more humiliated than usual, with a dirty, stinging, stained-beyond-recognition rusty ringpiece, and now runny shite smeared over my right hand...whilst next to me lay a tainted, honking office chair that I had no idea what to do with.

I think I should only wear brown clothes from now on – it’s either that...or get a nappy :(




Epilogue: The chair is now positioned pride of place at Coventry City Dump (rather fitting really) where you can visit it if you like – I did briefly consider selling it on Ebay, but for the love of jellied fuck, even I have to draw the line somewhere…


*Another result of weight loss - having to replace 90% of my clothes. Fucksocks.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 25 Jun 2010, 13:22, 25 replies)

Not one single thing, ever.
Signed,

M. Magnússon
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Mon 28 Jun 2010, 9:36, 2 replies)

Not me, Mrs SLVA has this new habit
She'll go to bed to read for a bit. I usually go to bed about 10 mins later, mainly because I'm the one that locks up and so on; that sort of pre-bedtime pottering about that seems to take far longer than it ought to.

So, I get upstairs and get in bed. I'm not one for reading, so I usually stick the headphones into my phone and listen to podcasts I've downloaded earlier that day.

She will then reach down and start fondling me. Less than 20 seconds later, I'm at full tumescence and I'm getting what is essentially a free handjob. This lasts for a few minutes and it's beginning to feel good, leg-tensingly good. Then she'll just stop and will not continue.
"What did you stop for?" I ask.
"Well, I didn't want a shag or anything, I was just having a fiddle"

This happens regularly. If I end up not getting a shag for a few days (such as when she's up on bricks), all of these false starts are going to result in a huge build up in pressure and I'll be set with a hair trigger. She'll start 'having a fiddle' and I'll go off with such force, it'll wash her off the bed, she'll be hopelessly gummed to the bedroom wall and the only way I'll free her is by steaming her off with the kettle.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 15:32, 12 replies)

while I'm on the subject of sheds
www.b3ta.com/questions/unfinishedbusiness/post767114

My mate's old man had a great shed. Proper little workshop, including a wood burning stove, old sofa and booze.

When he was building the shed, about 20 years previously, his missus had voiced her concerns about him disappearing for hours on end. "Tell you what luv" he said "I'll put an intercom system between the shed and the kitchen, so you can press the button and speak to me whenever you want"

True to his word, they day after the shed was completed, he put the intercom in. "I've run out of cable luv" he explained to his wife "I've only got it working from the shed to the kitchen. Let's check it works now, then I can sort out kitchen to shed bit later"

A minute later he was in the shed ready for the inaugural intercom message...."Bring us up a cup of tea luv, ta."

And do you know what? He never got round to fixing the intercom to work both ways.
.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Sat 26 Jun 2010, 10:15, 4 replies)

Repost from the "Books" QotW...
I started to read The Myth of Sisyphus; I got most of the way through it. Then my bookmark fell out, and I lost my place and had to start it again.

This keeps happening.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 24 Jun 2010, 15:11, 6 replies)

i like bre

( broadsword w⚓, Thu 24 Jun 2010, 15:20, 5 replies)

It ain't over till it's done with a tie round the head and dancing like a knob.
Ironically enough, I have just finished something that I thought would be the end of me. Following on from this: www.b3ta.com/questions/nemesis/post712769

I resigned today and slapped a grievance on the table for the above mentioned bitch, all verified with witnesses and the union backing me up to the hilt. Thank you everyone who commented on the original post. You gave me the confidence to get the fuck out and the inside knowledge was paramount. You have saved me from dark days and hopefully the happy pills will not be required anymore. There has been days when I just could not move a muscle in my body to motivate myself and my GF has been suffering terribly too. I am going to take her out for a nice meal tonight and then bang the back teeth off her, haha.

I have been told that I do not need to work my 6 week notice and full pay plus hols is a given. Putting my tie around my head Rambo style and dancing and Irish jig may have been taking things to far. Today was one of the greatest days of my life.

Peace out my friends, you all have my deepest love and respect forever. Happy days here I come

Length-9 months of fucking hell
(CaptainCuntyBollocks the man who can with a frying pan full of lamb, Mon 28 Jun 2010, 15:12, 14 replies)

Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.
Feminist I may be but hairy I am not. I happily shave my legs for my own benefit even though it means blindness for passers-by as the glare from my white flesh burns out their retinas. Anyway, depilation is tedious and time consuming and shaving causes stubble so back in my teenage years I decided to rip out the hairs by sugaring. Sugaring is an ancient blah blah blah beauty technique that essentially involves, yes, smearing hot sugar onto your skin, pressing a fabric strip onto it, then ripping off fabric strip with said sticky sugar and hair adhering to it. This leaves legs smooth and stubble free and regrowth is much softer.

I gathered the equipment: microwaved jar of sticky, syrupy gunk - check. Copious amounts of fabric strips - check. Spatula - check. Nerves of steel - check. I commandeered the bathroom, dusted my limbs with talc and set to work. I scooped up a hot sticky load and dolloped it onto my knee. I pressed the linen strip down tightly and paused for moment to admire my handiwork. I took a deep breath, I grabbed the bottom of the fabric, and I yanked as hard as I could. And then I screamed. Turns out it hurts. A lot. I gazed at my bald knee and whimpered. I tried the bit below. I screamed again. I packed up all the equipment, washed the remainder of the treacle from my leg and swore never to repeat the experience. That was about 16 years ago. The hair has never grown back in that spot. It was probably too traumatised.

Thank god I tried it out on my leg before trying it out on my minge.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 24 Jun 2010, 13:59, 9 replies)

I started a fight aged 13 by accident
Reading this before posting I thought how tame and childish it sounds, I guess thats the point, when you are young little things make a big difference. A casual remark starts a fight... No funnies but a happy ending.

Picture yourself a young lad, in a a past time, growing up and reaching that age when admitting you liked girls was becoming allowed and admitting you played with Star Wars toys was becoming frowned upon.

Now let me detail the main people involved in the story.

Me - Usually in the top five in exam scores, also usually in the last five to be picked for sports. Glad to have been better at the exams.

Chris - New guy to my school, clever, funny and worked hard to let it be thought that he was a had case.

Liam - a guy who was I was friendly with when younger and went to a Chris's old school.

Now to the telling of the tale, in school one day Chris mentioned an upcoming football game against his old school, he told the class that he knew all the players and who were the ones to watch out for. Chris said that our mutual (so I thought) friend Liam was a great player, I said he was not that good as I could score against him. This earned me a look of daggers from Chris. I have gone over what happened from there a lot in the years since, I'm not sure how it happened but it lead to many years of problems for me.

Chris took exception to me questioning the football skills of Liam and told him what I said, Liam told Chris I was a dead man (a strange threat from a guy who used to borrow your space hopper).

Now at this time I was a notch over five foot and weighed about the same as a supermodels handbag so a physical confrontation was not something I would aim for. I thought I'd ride out the threats and intimidation and go back to being the guy in the corner.

Instead what happened was Liam, Chris and four other guys waited outside school for me one day. I still remember walking along with them about ten paces behind, knowing they were there and that something was going to happen, feeling my heart beat so hard. I remember wanting them to just get on with it as the waiting was torture. Liam caught up with me and shouted how I said he was crap at football and he was going to sort me out (christ it seems so stupid now), I tried to say sorry , this was mocked and then I ran... I didn't get far. In the end I got a kicking and the result was one mild scar on my face and some deep scars in my mind.

I had been beaten in the street in front of friends and by people I thought were friends. For a few years I would be laughed at in school and in the street, I never talked about it.

I hated myself for a long time, seeing Chris in school and hearing the comments, avoiding going out so I would not meet them. About three years later I saw Liam in the street and had a moment of panic and had to run and hide in a field. Even into my early twenties going home would bring on a bit of worry. To sum up it fucked me over for years.

Until one afternoon about ten years after it happened I was walking down the street and it hit me that the familiar guy walking towards me was Liam, for a heartbeat I went back in time and felt the fear. Then I thought, well things have changed, I'm bigger and in all honesty I could pick him up and thrown him around like a doll if I wanted. He didn't recognise me & I laughed. I had no desire to hit him, talk to him or have any involvement with him.

I watched him walk away while thinking that years after the bruises had healed I had allowed the beating to continue hurting me. I did not feel angry anymore, I was grateful (and still am) for that kicking. In the long run it thought me a lot.

I learned that somethings hurt in the moment but the worst pain comes from what you allow to stay with you.

Its a fight that will never be finished because I'm still learning from it.
(cname, Wed 30 Jun 2010, 1:35, 4 replies)

Pleasing football fans
I was walking home last night in Edinburgh when I bumped into an England fan, drunkenly revelling in the joys of their recent victory.

'Come on England!' - he shouted alcoholically into my face.

I've been trying ever since, but so far I've only managed to cover a small paving slab, and its costing me a fortune in petrol to get down there...
(Mattle, Thu 24 Jun 2010, 22:49, Reply)

... so anyway, it was early evening, and I'd found a pub in Chelsea, where I was drowning my sorrows having just been dumped by my girlfriend.
These two girls came in who were clearly looking for trouble: one of them spotted my camera, and with the poshest accent known even unto God himself, said "Gosh! Are you a photographer?! I need some modelling shots taken!"

It was obvious that they'd also been drinking, and after buying a round we were soon onto the usual shallow flirtation of the easy and the fast.

It transpired that they were students, this was their local, and that the flat one of them owned was just around the corner.

The most sensible thing to do next seemed to be to go back there for spirits and high jinx.

Once there, we sat in a circle, and, having finished the dregs of the first bottle of vodka, decided to play Truth Or Dare.

The first round consisted of deliberately boring stuff: "What was your first pet's name?" and "What's your favourite colour?" etc, but then suddenly it's like a switch was flicked.

As the bottle spun onto one of the girls, the other one said, staring at her, "Why don't you come here and kiss my belly?"

She leaned backwards, exposing her firm, tanned midrif.

The other leaned forward, with a wicked glint in her eye.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 29 Jun 2010, 15:42, 4 replies)

I have discovered a truly marvelous proof that it is impossible to separate a cube into two cubes, or a fourth power into two fourth powers, or in general, any power higher than the second into two like powers.
This QOTW post is too small to contain it

Bindun?
Too obscure?
( Tedium Alduce me to interlow myself., Fri 25 Jun 2010, 16:06, 13 replies)

I bought an Xbox 360 to 'save money'
There once was a Miraclefish who swallowed a fly...

I had a few quid spare so I bought an Xbox 360. Ace, I thought. ‘This’ll save me loads of cash,’ I convinced myself, ‘I can stay in and play instead of spending countless quids on booze.

And for a time it was good. But….my 21” shonky old telly really wasn’t doing it justice.

So I bought a Phillips 42” plasma TV for £1100. Wow! A DVI cable later and everything’s in high definition! What a difference. Pity the sound is just coming out of the stereo flat-panel tv speakers.
I should really get myself an amplifier and a pair of speakers...

One £400 Yamaha amplifier and a set of £300 speakers later, I’m content. I’m blowing aliens to shit and it sounds and looks heavenly. Only…

This amp and the Xbox can do Dolby 5.1 Surround Sound. I guess a centre speaker and rear speakers would solve that. And now I’ve got the capability, it’d be pointless to squander it. So another £300 turns into three more speakers. This is perfect. I’m dodging bullets in Call of Duty and being called a ‘Limey douchebag fag’ by Americans. Whatever that means. Hang on a moment, 5.1 means that it can operate a subwoofer, too...

So I bought one. I am Thor, I can create thunder! Oh, and I upgraded the rear speakers, too. They were the weak link in the chain. So long £200. I’m in the freakin' Matrix now, I have light and sound like you wouldn’t believe.

Games look so good it’s unreal. Shame about DVDs though. They look pretty poor when blown up this big. Oh, hey, that HD-DVD player add on is cheap. Only £130. It’d be silly not to. I’ll just order Transformers, too. And these other nine films… Look at Megan Fox! In high definition!

Hmm, hang on, my TV can’t handle black images over high-definition sources properly, it looks speckley. I think I need a better one...

£1000 later, a similar 42” plasma has replaced the older, ever-so-slightly inferior one. Yep. I bought a TV - the same size and type - to better handle not having any colours on it.

Oh, but it’s suffering with the component input – it really ought to be a digital signal over HDMI cable. But I got an early Xbox, they don’t have an HDMI port. But the new, Elite one does. £260? Well, mine will likely break soon, so it’s really a sound investment.

Wow, this is perfect. All I need is a set of leather, recliner sofas to go with my God-like AV setup. £900? Bargain. But one high-definition input really isn't enough. I should really invest in Sky HD. This is back when it cost £249. Eek. But it is pretty. All three channels of it...


It started off as £200. It’s currently past £5500.

Oh, and I sort of moved house because the living room wasn’t awesome enough. I’m not even going to think about the costs for that one…
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Mon 28 Jun 2010, 17:20, 35 replies)

During our final year at university, I visited a friend, who told me
"I've got so much coursework to do, I've fixed the sofa!"
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 11:00, 1 reply)

I'm in the internet cafe and there's the biggest fucking nigger next to me seeing every word I ty

(Archeleus hates cabbage, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 10:30, 4 replies)

I once met a guy from Northern Europe who honestly didn't know how to build a fire, so I showed him how I did it.
"There!" I said, as we warmed ourselves on the flames, "I've started something you couldn't, Finnish."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 30 Jun 2010, 9:48, 4 replies)

Those bloomin' pesky Jews

(Bret Mong Keys Eggs has wet his weapon, Thu 24 Jun 2010, 20:04, 3 replies)

All the time.

Probably the most damning occasion was when, in order to make me be more organised, a boss made me keep a diary of what I was working on and how long tasks were taking, so we could see how to improve my organisation.

When we sat down at the end of the week to review it, I had to admit that I'd only managed to keep it updated for the first morning, and that read:

'9am-9:30am - meeting with boss to talk about diary
9:30am-1pm - general admin-ish stuff'

I think they pretty much gave up on me, at that point.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 24 Jun 2010, 13:56, Reply)

Ah, timing
This morning I went for a jog. Unfortunately the thing I couldn't finish is much more disgusting than what you might expect. Buckle your seatbelts, its gonna get messy.

The schoolboy error I made was to have a lamb tikka jalfrezi last night. I make no apologies, it was payday and I was hungry. I even put a bog roll in the fridge in anticipation of having a ringpiece like a solar eclipse this morning. But after nearly 5 miles of jiggling the innards, it became apparent that I was going to struggle to get home without needing to evacuate. And it's very difficult to accelerate when the reason why you jog is that you're disgustingly unfit. So you can imagine my relief when I entered Sloughbottom Park (it's actually called that) and saw a sign indicating a female public toilet on one side of a building which I've never previously seen the point in the existence of.

Before the usual catcalls and predictable trumpeting of "BUMDER" are heard, I can assure you that I rounded the building in eager, sweaty anticipation and was phenomenally relieved to see the matching male public toilet sign. Slowing to a walk, I approached the door, feeling relief flowing through me like a long, sludgy turd.

The door was fucking LOCKED.

What the hell was I supposed to do? I was still just over a mile from home, and I was categorically past the point of no return. Turtling. Further jogging probably would have caused the tip of my intended excretion to snap off and rattle around my undercrackers all the way home. Luckily, the door was in an alcove at the back of the building. So I did what any of you would have done. I dropped my kecks, squatted out of sight and dropped the anchor on dry land.

You would have. Be honest.

Thankfully it was textbook. One smooth, fluid motion, no need to push. It was a very peaceful morning and I could actually hear my cheeks ripple as the poo parted them. I pulled my shorts up, had a quick check of colour and consistency, rebuked myself for not bringing my phone - it was at least a 7 on ratemypoo.com - and continued jogging.

I did warn you that it wasn't the jog I couldn't finish.

You know how there's always that last bum nugget that you can't quite get without toilet paper? Well, I may be disgusting enough to take a shit in public and tell the internet about it two hours later, but I draw the line at wiping my arse with my own bare hand. The rest of the run was... uncomfortable. I motivated myself to run faster with the idea that I might be able to see my poo on Google Earth when I got home.

That's not the worst part.

Worse than shitting in a very pretty park which I frequently jog through, worse even than running with a gutful of slurry, worse than any comments which get posted below, is the feeling when you've been to the loo at home, tidied yourself up, and pull your sweaty pants back up over your clammy thighs. Lamb tikka jalfrezi, though. Well worth it.

The WORST part? Unlike most of my posts, this is absolutely 100% true.

Length? Hard to say, it was more of a dollop than a cable
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Thu 1 Jul 2010, 9:00, 10 replies)

the teenagers in my back garden
have started on a crate of lager. i doubt they'll be able to finish it before the police arrive.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 26 Jun 2010, 0:09, 4 replies)

A huge number of books...
...I always think of myself as some sort of rarefied intellectual when I'm buying stuff, and then try and read it and realise I'd be better off with Jilly Cooper.

A small sample of books I have struggled manfully with before throwing in the towel:

- Anna Karenina
- Middlemarch (despite writing essays on it when I was at Uni)
- Midnight's Children
- Moby Dick (I skipped over the middle and went to the end, when they finally find the bloody whale)
- A Bright Shining Lie (often described as the best book about the Vietnam War. Very, very long)
- Ulysses (although I tell people I have read it, I mostly just skipped through looking for dirty bits)
- Villette (just the most mind-numbingly dull thing I had ever come across)
- Anything by Umberto Eco other than 'The Name of the Rose'

I have shelves and shelves, and indeed nowadays a few boxes in the garage, full of books I bought to make me look/feel clever and which I have, at best, given a brief flick through.

Still, they make the walls look nice...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 24 Jun 2010, 15:48, 52 replies)

Airfix helicopter
At the age of 16, I started building an Airfix Mi-24 Hind helicopter, with the intention of entering it into a sad-boys' model competition organised by the Air Cadets (Top prize: another, slightly larger, slightly more complicated Airfix kit)

It was a little bit harder than I anticipated. Quite a lot harder.

My enthusiasm for the project soon ran out, so I carefully packed it into a biscuit tin, taking it out every now and then for a dabble.

In fact, 28 years and three house moves later, this is what it looks like:



I'll finish the fucker if it kills me. Probably.

(The full nine yards on my doomed quest HERE)
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 24 Jun 2010, 13:55, 6 replies)

My autobiography

(Tristam Shandy, Tue 29 Jun 2010, 16:48, 10 replies)

Wanking
Flicking through the 10 minute freeviews, and I spot a good bit. 'Shall I ejaculate now?' I think to myself.

'Nah, I'll wait, it's bound get better', I argue and carry on with the job in hand.

'Bollocks, I should have cum when I had the chance', the freeview has ended.

I never learn.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Tue 29 Jun 2010, 16:35, 2 replies)

Jane Austen
I was a student in Brighton and lived in Wales, and back in the late 80s the cheapest way to get there (even with a railcard) was cross country to Portsmouth, then along the South coast. It was a nice journey - pretty countryside, etc. - but it would take four or five hours. Longer if there were any delays. Some of the trains still had the old compartments, which were quite fun, but it wasn't SO great that doing it six or more times per year was an attraction in itself.

So it was important to have some good reading material. One year, with Christmas book tokens, I made the mistake of splashing out on one of those Penguin compendiums - in this case, the complete works of Jane Austen.

I'd never really studied "The Classics" (e.g. Dickens, Austen, Dumas, etc.) and felt I ought to give them a go at some point.

I got about sixty pages into Sense and Sensibility. It got put into a drawer at home, and never moved with me when I moved out. Mum left it there for a year or two, tried it herself, and then it mysteriously disappeared (to a jumble sale, I presume).

My summary?

If I wanted to put myself through an unholy mix of reported conversation, arch passive-aggressive sniping and over-elaborate descriptions of fairly simple ideas, I'd phone my mum.

I realise that's more evidence of my deeply shallow personality and literary tastes (mind you, I did make it through and enjoy The Name Of The Rose) than any slur on one of the Great Works of World Literature™, but I still can't be doing with anything resembling a Sunday night costume drama, for fear that it might have something to do with Austen.
( shinyshinyscalp less a man, more a way of life, Mon 28 Jun 2010, 15:31, 15 replies)

England's World Cup campaign.

( idonthaveafunnynickname Drink-Aware? Sure. I'm aware I want another drink., Sun 27 Jun 2010, 17:09, 4 replies)

Loam
The parakeet couldn’t swallow too well, so I massaged its throat for a while and the bird cooed appreciatively. I had to take a break eventually, as the stirring in my generously proportioned loins was in danger of doing a mischief to either myself or anyone in the immediate locality.

Culkin didn’t like what he saw. His black armband was becoming frayed and many people were growing weary of his incessant grief. I started to berate him orally because the parakeet was clearly distressed by the way he ceaselessly held his palms against his cheeks, and the aroma of aftershave was somewhat overpowering.
“Doth thou covet this wing’d and befeathered skyfish?” I inquired.
“Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout?” Culkin barked.
“Don’t come that with me!” I retorted without hesitation. “He’s dead, Culkin. Let go.” And with that I tore the armband away and gobbled it down without blinking once. Culkin wept for a while, but his sobs turned to whimpers of ecstasy as I began to softly kiss his spongy lips. My tongue explored his nostrils and my fingers counted his ribs. Our mums are now firm “friends” and Culkin and I share a bedroom.
(stusut79, Sun 27 Jun 2010, 10:18, 8 replies)

Shed Project
8 years ago I moved into a house and wanted to put up a shed at the end of the garden. But the end of the garden had been used as a bit of a dumping ground by generations of lazy bastards and had a little hill of soil and bricks and stuff.

Year 1: Occasionally go up to the end of the garden and look at the little hill, wishing it wasn’t there.

Year 2: Start Work!. Spend 2 hours digging into the hill. Realise this is a big job. Stop for Lunch.

Year 3: Occasionally go up to the end of the garden and look at the little hill, wishing it wasn’t there.

Year 4: Hire a mini-digger and remove the little hill, creating an unusual raised lawn in another part of the garden. Measure up for the shed, it’s all systems go.

Year 5: Think about putting a base down.

Year 6: Think some more about putting a base down.

Year 7: Get a builder to put a base down.

Year 8: I’ve ordered the shed! 10x12 feet of manly hidey-hole, It’s coming in two weeks and I can’t tell you how excited I am. Only took 2 more years than the London Olympics project.

As an aside if you ever have the slightest excuse to hire a digger, do it. It was just about the most fun I’ve ever had, and there was a surprisingly small amount of collateral damage.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Fri 25 Jun 2010, 12:08, 7 replies)

These days
I only give fleeting glances to QOTW, choosing to spend most of my time on OT. But I do like to dip in and provide an answer if I do actually have one.

This week was different however. It's not that I don't have unfinished projects because I've got loads. I've got a massive pile of financial engineering and technical programming books lying around my house barely opened. I've got loads of ideas for open source applications I want to start developing. So many songs I want to learn to play on the guitar, others I want to finish writing and record. And then there are my exercise and weights routines that I stick to for only one week out of every two.

I sat down on Saturday to write a little about these constant debacles trying to find an angle to make them humourous but I didn't. Instead I picked up my guitar and started playing. I spent most of Sunday recording. I've still got a fair bit to do but things have taken shape and it sounds like the bare bones of a song.

For all the frustration of these great plans we've had and failed at or given up on, let's not accept it. Let's see in a weeks time from now exactly what we can achieve.

I propose that next week sometime, everyone come back and post here what old project they blew the dust off and how things are going now.

Best of British.
( djtrialprice, Tue 29 Jun 2010, 16:33, 3 replies)

I called it the Grifley.
Fourteen years old, getting handy(er) with a spanner, I decided to make something. How many here remember the Grifter? The second choice of teenagers, first for weightlifters. I'd had one quite a while, and decided it needed a pimping.
I also had a Raleigh racery style thing which was well past its use by date. So my brain put two and two together and came up with... The Grifley.
Taking the front wheel off of the Raleigh and prying the forks apart, I found I could fit the spindle bolt through both forks effectively making a crude tandem.
The Grifley required two people to ride it because the chain had to come off the Grifter part in order to make the other wheel fit. So the rider at the rear had to put in all the effort. Due to the same Heath Robinson effect in place, there was a distinct lack of braking ability, shown up to You've Been Frameable levels on her maiden voyage.
I'd roped my sister in to help, poor assistant of doom that she often turned out to be in my schemes. Not only that, I'd reserved the front seat and the kudos of steering myself, leaving her to be the twelve year old powerhouse. (Steering was as weird as you might think, considering it turned in the middle as well.)
The Grifley made it round the cul-de-sac in fine form. It made it across the juction to get us home. But when it had to deal with the slight incline of the drive, the lack of brakes (my 'unfinished' bit) proved my folly. Travelling at speed now, my only recourse to stop the rampant machine was to embed the front of it into a skip which at this point resided in the drive at the bottom.
The skip did perform well in slowing the bike(s) down. Sadly the momentum I carried wasn't erased in the same manner. I ended up face first in the rubbish. Which was where the Grifley ended up very soon after.

Lessons learnt in terms of finishing a job didn't last long, however, the next project was less bruising.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Tue 29 Jun 2010, 11:40, 2 replies)