Profile for Rhubarb_Triangle:
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- a member for 19 years, 2 months and 13 days
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- has posted 15 stories and 13 replies on question of the week
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errrm *insert witty comment here*
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» When I met the parents
Not the parents but the grandparents
Some years ago i was invited to meet the then Mrs Triangle's grandparents in Majorca, great thinks i a nice holiday with free accommodation all for spending some time with the old folks. How wrong i was. The Ex Mrs Triangles family were all without a shadow of a doubt cnuts of the highest order. Cue one week of being on holiday and having to return to the house by 4 in the afternoon so we can have dinner and watch tv all night without talking. Her granddad spent the entire holiday insulting me for being a waiter (ok i was a manager for Starbucks at the time which was a but of a wnak job but he was a bloody meat delivery man!) grandma spend most of the week playing mind games and trying to make me out to be some psycho. Eventual the ex gets fed up and suggest we leave and spend the rest of the holiday in a hotel. I make it clear that this is her choice as i don't want blaming for a rift in the family. Within 20 seconds of our departure the grandmother is on the phone to the Ex's Mother bad mouthing me and calling an ungrateful nutter and blaming me for breaking the TV (i still have no idea where this came from).
The irony is that after all the clues (mother and grandmother were both lying psychotic nutters) i still failed to work out that it ran in the family and married the girl. possible the worst decision ever! Still it only lasted two months.
No apologies for length, girth or lack of hummous.
(Mon 23rd May 2005, 22:17, More)
Not the parents but the grandparents
Some years ago i was invited to meet the then Mrs Triangle's grandparents in Majorca, great thinks i a nice holiday with free accommodation all for spending some time with the old folks. How wrong i was. The Ex Mrs Triangles family were all without a shadow of a doubt cnuts of the highest order. Cue one week of being on holiday and having to return to the house by 4 in the afternoon so we can have dinner and watch tv all night without talking. Her granddad spent the entire holiday insulting me for being a waiter (ok i was a manager for Starbucks at the time which was a but of a wnak job but he was a bloody meat delivery man!) grandma spend most of the week playing mind games and trying to make me out to be some psycho. Eventual the ex gets fed up and suggest we leave and spend the rest of the holiday in a hotel. I make it clear that this is her choice as i don't want blaming for a rift in the family. Within 20 seconds of our departure the grandmother is on the phone to the Ex's Mother bad mouthing me and calling an ungrateful nutter and blaming me for breaking the TV (i still have no idea where this came from).
The irony is that after all the clues (mother and grandmother were both lying psychotic nutters) i still failed to work out that it ran in the family and married the girl. possible the worst decision ever! Still it only lasted two months.
No apologies for length, girth or lack of hummous.
(Mon 23rd May 2005, 22:17, More)
» Bedroom Disasters
Pearoast time
In the absence of any new stories for now allow me to reissue the following tale of woe.
Painful memories Picture the scene if you will...
It’s the summer of the year 2001 all is well with the world and I the young Rhubarb Triangle am living what passes for the good life in the fair city of Newcastle. I’ve just recently met the young lady who will later become the ex Mrs Triangle and as she lives in Leeds am spending a fair amount of time travelling up and down the country to spend “time” with her (for time here, you can read “horizontal time”).
On this particular weekend the ex Mrs Triangle has decided to try something a little different and has elected to go on top, at first all is well and much fun is being had (well I was enjoying it, and lets be honest that’s all that counts here) Some time into our carnal aerobics and I begin to feel a little twinge from the “old chap” being the polite young chap I was at the time I say nothing and merely attempt to gently adjust the young ladies position to prevent further recurrence.
In fairness this meets with little success and the intermittent twinges of discomfort continue, until finally I experience what can only be described as a god-awful snapping sensation. I signal my distress to my partner in a subtle fashion by screaming “YEEEAAARGGHHH!!” at the top of my voice. Sensing my disquiet the young lady in question dismounts to see what the matter is. Looking down at my member I am greeted with a positively Scarlet crown to the appendage in question. In my confusion I wonder whether said young lady is experiencing that time of the month until I realise the scarlet fluid is inside the protective sheath.
Now gents I’m sure I don’t need to spell this out but there truly are few sights more distressing than the sight of blood flowing from that particular part of your anatomy.
In considerable discomfort and unsure as to the extent of the damage I dress in the loosest fittings garments I can muster and we elect to make our way to casualty with all speed.
Once arriving at the local A&E and going through the frank embarrassment of discussing the reason for our visit with a nurse who did a marvellous job of not collapsing in a fit of giggles I am assessed in terms of the seriousness of my injury and asked to wait.
For those of you not familiar with the city centre of Leeds of a weekend, allow me to assure you that when the Kaiser Chiefs sang “I predict a riot” they were spot on with there assumption. As such I am left sitting very carefully in the waiting room for about 6 hours while a procession of Drunks who felt the need to fight / drink far more than anyone would consider safe / beat themselves to a pulp on a variety of inanimate objects are passed forward for treatment. Eventually I am ushered through to a treatment room where I’m told to wait for a Doctor. Given my discomfort caused by clothing upon my damaged todger and frankly wooziness caused by my inability to handle the sight of my own mangle cock I elect to lie down and free the old chap from his cloth prison. After another two hours the male Dr arrives, dons a pair of rubber gloves, examines the old chap and declares that I have broken my Banjo String (in truth this is not the term he used but given the circumstances the noting of medical terms was not the matter most forefront in my mind)
Having cleaned the worst of the gore from my member the Dr packs me off and advises to stay off the nookie for a period of about 4 weeks (at that point I would comfortably have foresworn it for an eternity)
Now as if all this pain and humiliation was not bad enough I now realised that it is 8 am on a Sunday and I am due at work in a little over 2 hours in Newcastle, And so I am forced to call in sick. Now being the moral young fool I was I could not tell a mistruth, and on speaking to my manager I let slip the full horror and swear him to secrecy on the true reason for my absence.
The rest of that day is spent attempting to sleep whilst applying an icepack to my Nethers. On the next day I head back up North and return to work. Shortly after arriving I am called into the office to be greeted by every single manager/ supervisor /slack jawed Gawker who then proceed to mock me relentlessly up until the point I managed to do something more entertaining to them the pack of Geordie bastards that they were.
Apologies for length, although that wasn’t an issue for sometime after this let me tell you
(Thu 23rd Jun 2011, 15:24, More)
Pearoast time
In the absence of any new stories for now allow me to reissue the following tale of woe.
Painful memories Picture the scene if you will...
It’s the summer of the year 2001 all is well with the world and I the young Rhubarb Triangle am living what passes for the good life in the fair city of Newcastle. I’ve just recently met the young lady who will later become the ex Mrs Triangle and as she lives in Leeds am spending a fair amount of time travelling up and down the country to spend “time” with her (for time here, you can read “horizontal time”).
On this particular weekend the ex Mrs Triangle has decided to try something a little different and has elected to go on top, at first all is well and much fun is being had (well I was enjoying it, and lets be honest that’s all that counts here) Some time into our carnal aerobics and I begin to feel a little twinge from the “old chap” being the polite young chap I was at the time I say nothing and merely attempt to gently adjust the young ladies position to prevent further recurrence.
In fairness this meets with little success and the intermittent twinges of discomfort continue, until finally I experience what can only be described as a god-awful snapping sensation. I signal my distress to my partner in a subtle fashion by screaming “YEEEAAARGGHHH!!” at the top of my voice. Sensing my disquiet the young lady in question dismounts to see what the matter is. Looking down at my member I am greeted with a positively Scarlet crown to the appendage in question. In my confusion I wonder whether said young lady is experiencing that time of the month until I realise the scarlet fluid is inside the protective sheath.
Now gents I’m sure I don’t need to spell this out but there truly are few sights more distressing than the sight of blood flowing from that particular part of your anatomy.
In considerable discomfort and unsure as to the extent of the damage I dress in the loosest fittings garments I can muster and we elect to make our way to casualty with all speed.
Once arriving at the local A&E and going through the frank embarrassment of discussing the reason for our visit with a nurse who did a marvellous job of not collapsing in a fit of giggles I am assessed in terms of the seriousness of my injury and asked to wait.
For those of you not familiar with the city centre of Leeds of a weekend, allow me to assure you that when the Kaiser Chiefs sang “I predict a riot” they were spot on with there assumption. As such I am left sitting very carefully in the waiting room for about 6 hours while a procession of Drunks who felt the need to fight / drink far more than anyone would consider safe / beat themselves to a pulp on a variety of inanimate objects are passed forward for treatment. Eventually I am ushered through to a treatment room where I’m told to wait for a Doctor. Given my discomfort caused by clothing upon my damaged todger and frankly wooziness caused by my inability to handle the sight of my own mangle cock I elect to lie down and free the old chap from his cloth prison. After another two hours the male Dr arrives, dons a pair of rubber gloves, examines the old chap and declares that I have broken my Banjo String (in truth this is not the term he used but given the circumstances the noting of medical terms was not the matter most forefront in my mind)
Having cleaned the worst of the gore from my member the Dr packs me off and advises to stay off the nookie for a period of about 4 weeks (at that point I would comfortably have foresworn it for an eternity)
Now as if all this pain and humiliation was not bad enough I now realised that it is 8 am on a Sunday and I am due at work in a little over 2 hours in Newcastle, And so I am forced to call in sick. Now being the moral young fool I was I could not tell a mistruth, and on speaking to my manager I let slip the full horror and swear him to secrecy on the true reason for my absence.
The rest of that day is spent attempting to sleep whilst applying an icepack to my Nethers. On the next day I head back up North and return to work. Shortly after arriving I am called into the office to be greeted by every single manager/ supervisor /slack jawed Gawker who then proceed to mock me relentlessly up until the point I managed to do something more entertaining to them the pack of Geordie bastards that they were.
Apologies for length, although that wasn’t an issue for sometime after this let me tell you
(Thu 23rd Jun 2011, 15:24, More)
» The worst sex I ever had
Painful memories
Picture the scene if you will...
It’s the summer of the year 2001 all is well with the world and I the young Rhubarb Triangle am living what passes for the good life in the fair city of Newcastle. I’ve just recently met the young lady who will later become the ex Mrs Triangle and as she lives in Leeds am spending a fair amount of time travelling up and down the country to spend “time” with her (for time here, you can read “horizontal time”).
On this particular weekend the ex Mrs Triangle has decided to try something a little different and has elected to go on top, at first all is well and much fun is being had (well I was enjoying it, and lets be honest that’s all that counts here) Some time into our carnal aerobics and I begin to feel a little twinge from the “old chap” being the polite young chap I was at the time I say nothing and merely attempt to gently adjust the young ladies position to prevent further recurrence.
In fairness this meets with little success and the intermittent twinges of discomfort continue, until finally I experience what can only be described as a god-awful snapping sensation. I signal my distress to my partner in a subtle fashion by screaming “YEEEAAARGGHHH!!” at the top of my voice. Sensing my disquiet the young lady in question dismounts to see what the matter is. Looking down at my member I am greeted with a positively Scarlet crown to the appendage in question. In my confusion I wonder whether said young lady is experiencing that time of the month until I realise the scarlet fluid is inside the protective sheath.
Now gents I’m sure I don’t need to spell this out but there truly are few sights more distressing than the sight of blood flowing from that particular part of your anatomy.
In considerable discomfort and unsure as to the extent of the damage I dress in the loosest fittings garments I can muster and we elect to make our way to casualty with all speed.
Once arriving at the local A&E and going through the frank embarrassment of discussing the reason for our visit with a nurse who did a marvellous job of not collapsing in a fit of giggles I am assessed in terms of the seriousness of my injury and asked to wait.
For those of you not familiar with the city centre of Leeds of a weekend, allow me to assure you that when the Kaiser Chiefs sang “I predict a riot” they were spot on with there assumption. As such I am left sitting very carefully in the waiting room for about 6 hours while a procession of Drunks who felt the need to fight / drink far more than anyone would consider safe / beat themselves to a pulp on a variety of inanimate objects are passed forward for treatment. Eventually I am ushered through to a treatment room where I’m told to wait for a Doctor. Given my discomfort caused by clothing upon my damaged todger and frankly wooziness caused by my inability to handle the sight of my own mangle cock I elect to lie down and free the old chap from his cloth prison. After another two hours the male Dr arrives, dons a pair of rubber gloves, examines the old chap and declares that I have broken my Banjo String (in truth this is not the term he used but given the circumstances the noting of medical terms was not the matter most forefront in my mind)
Having cleaned the worst of the gore from my member the Dr packs me off and advises to stay off the nookie for a period of about 4 weeks (at that point I would comfortably have foresworn it for an eternity)
Now as if all this pain and humiliation was not bad enough I now realised that it is 8 am on a Sunday and I am due at work in a little over 2 hours in Newcastle, And so I am forced to call in sick. Now being the moral young fool I was I could not tell a mistruth, and on speaking to my manager I let slip the full horror and swear him to secrecy on the true reason for my absence.
The rest of that day is spent attempting to sleep whilst applying an icepack to my Nethers. On the next day I head back up North and return to work. Shortly after arriving I am called into the office to be greeted by every single manager/ supervisor / slack jawed Gawker who then proceed to mock me relentlessly up until the point I managed to do something more entertaining to them the pack of Geordie bastards that they were.
Apologies for length, although that wasn’t an issue for sometime after this let me tell you
(Tue 19th Jun 2007, 19:41, More)
Painful memories
Picture the scene if you will...
It’s the summer of the year 2001 all is well with the world and I the young Rhubarb Triangle am living what passes for the good life in the fair city of Newcastle. I’ve just recently met the young lady who will later become the ex Mrs Triangle and as she lives in Leeds am spending a fair amount of time travelling up and down the country to spend “time” with her (for time here, you can read “horizontal time”).
On this particular weekend the ex Mrs Triangle has decided to try something a little different and has elected to go on top, at first all is well and much fun is being had (well I was enjoying it, and lets be honest that’s all that counts here) Some time into our carnal aerobics and I begin to feel a little twinge from the “old chap” being the polite young chap I was at the time I say nothing and merely attempt to gently adjust the young ladies position to prevent further recurrence.
In fairness this meets with little success and the intermittent twinges of discomfort continue, until finally I experience what can only be described as a god-awful snapping sensation. I signal my distress to my partner in a subtle fashion by screaming “YEEEAAARGGHHH!!” at the top of my voice. Sensing my disquiet the young lady in question dismounts to see what the matter is. Looking down at my member I am greeted with a positively Scarlet crown to the appendage in question. In my confusion I wonder whether said young lady is experiencing that time of the month until I realise the scarlet fluid is inside the protective sheath.
Now gents I’m sure I don’t need to spell this out but there truly are few sights more distressing than the sight of blood flowing from that particular part of your anatomy.
In considerable discomfort and unsure as to the extent of the damage I dress in the loosest fittings garments I can muster and we elect to make our way to casualty with all speed.
Once arriving at the local A&E and going through the frank embarrassment of discussing the reason for our visit with a nurse who did a marvellous job of not collapsing in a fit of giggles I am assessed in terms of the seriousness of my injury and asked to wait.
For those of you not familiar with the city centre of Leeds of a weekend, allow me to assure you that when the Kaiser Chiefs sang “I predict a riot” they were spot on with there assumption. As such I am left sitting very carefully in the waiting room for about 6 hours while a procession of Drunks who felt the need to fight / drink far more than anyone would consider safe / beat themselves to a pulp on a variety of inanimate objects are passed forward for treatment. Eventually I am ushered through to a treatment room where I’m told to wait for a Doctor. Given my discomfort caused by clothing upon my damaged todger and frankly wooziness caused by my inability to handle the sight of my own mangle cock I elect to lie down and free the old chap from his cloth prison. After another two hours the male Dr arrives, dons a pair of rubber gloves, examines the old chap and declares that I have broken my Banjo String (in truth this is not the term he used but given the circumstances the noting of medical terms was not the matter most forefront in my mind)
Having cleaned the worst of the gore from my member the Dr packs me off and advises to stay off the nookie for a period of about 4 weeks (at that point I would comfortably have foresworn it for an eternity)
Now as if all this pain and humiliation was not bad enough I now realised that it is 8 am on a Sunday and I am due at work in a little over 2 hours in Newcastle, And so I am forced to call in sick. Now being the moral young fool I was I could not tell a mistruth, and on speaking to my manager I let slip the full horror and swear him to secrecy on the true reason for my absence.
The rest of that day is spent attempting to sleep whilst applying an icepack to my Nethers. On the next day I head back up North and return to work. Shortly after arriving I am called into the office to be greeted by every single manager/ supervisor / slack jawed Gawker who then proceed to mock me relentlessly up until the point I managed to do something more entertaining to them the pack of Geordie bastards that they were.
Apologies for length, although that wasn’t an issue for sometime after this let me tell you
(Tue 19th Jun 2007, 19:41, More)
» Weddings
My own wedding
Apologies for the length of this before we start.
Weddings seem to be a cause of many disasters/funny stories in my family, but let’s start with the story of my wedding.
Things got off to what can best be described as a shaky start, my wife to be and I decided that we would have a small affair, immediate family and close friends only. This was fine until the brides mother wades in and attempts to expand the fair to monstrous proportions inviting anyone who had the slightest connection to us along (not quite but almost up to the level of cousins mates window cleaner. I jest not!) To support this wholesale trampling of our hopes for our special day she treats me to one of the most fractured pieces of logic I have ever encountered, and I quote "the wedding day is for the mother of the bride not the bride." WTF!
Having managed to stave off the worst of her plans things proceed. Eventually the big day comes and we dutifully decamp to York registry office for the ceremony and then a hotel for reception etc. All goes well at this point and I eventually relax and start to enjoy the day.
During the evening do a couple of ropey tarts for want of a better phrase are spotted wondering around availing themselves of unattended drinks and randomly harassing guess. Initial enquiries suggest they know the DJ, cheeky bleeder thinks I, what's he think he’s doing bringing these slappers along. However after speaking to the DJ and confronting the women concerned it turned out that they were in fact local prostitutes. Ahh lovely. Both hilarious and a little unsettling watching my dad and a few of the larger guests trying to get these women out and into a waiting police car to spend the evening at her majesty’s pleasure, without alerting the other guests (succeeded as well)
So after this I think all has gone well and I am looking forward to married life..... Two months later I realise that I have in fact married a complete mentalist and walk out. Fortunately her Mum and Dad were the ones who had spunked thousands of pounds on the big day!
Still you've gotta laugh.
(Thu 14th Jul 2005, 18:27, More)
My own wedding
Apologies for the length of this before we start.
Weddings seem to be a cause of many disasters/funny stories in my family, but let’s start with the story of my wedding.
Things got off to what can best be described as a shaky start, my wife to be and I decided that we would have a small affair, immediate family and close friends only. This was fine until the brides mother wades in and attempts to expand the fair to monstrous proportions inviting anyone who had the slightest connection to us along (not quite but almost up to the level of cousins mates window cleaner. I jest not!) To support this wholesale trampling of our hopes for our special day she treats me to one of the most fractured pieces of logic I have ever encountered, and I quote "the wedding day is for the mother of the bride not the bride." WTF!
Having managed to stave off the worst of her plans things proceed. Eventually the big day comes and we dutifully decamp to York registry office for the ceremony and then a hotel for reception etc. All goes well at this point and I eventually relax and start to enjoy the day.
During the evening do a couple of ropey tarts for want of a better phrase are spotted wondering around availing themselves of unattended drinks and randomly harassing guess. Initial enquiries suggest they know the DJ, cheeky bleeder thinks I, what's he think he’s doing bringing these slappers along. However after speaking to the DJ and confronting the women concerned it turned out that they were in fact local prostitutes. Ahh lovely. Both hilarious and a little unsettling watching my dad and a few of the larger guests trying to get these women out and into a waiting police car to spend the evening at her majesty’s pleasure, without alerting the other guests (succeeded as well)
So after this I think all has gone well and I am looking forward to married life..... Two months later I realise that I have in fact married a complete mentalist and walk out. Fortunately her Mum and Dad were the ones who had spunked thousands of pounds on the big day!
Still you've gotta laugh.
(Thu 14th Jul 2005, 18:27, More)
» Conversation Killers
Pinecones
Now my very good friend and fellow B3tan Ogwen if a wonderful chap with many a redeeming qualities, however an ability to stay focussed is sadly not one of these.
Now sit back and let me tell you a tale…
It is the summer of a several of years ago (specifics evade me) and the young and at this point carefree Ogwen is on holiday with his good friends Herr Truman (not in the least bit Germanic) and myself. We have just had the pleasure of a week at Le man indulging in booze, BBQ and occasionally pretending to look at cars.
In a feat of amazing forethought we had arranged a later return to Blighty allowing for a little enjoyment along the coast of France as part of a leisurely return to Calais and these details are important in an effort to pad out the story.
Tis a balmy afternoon and after much mucking about we have settled on a coastal walk as a pleasant way to while away a few hours before we fall back to eating cheese, drinking wine and punching Ogwen in the face (a story for another time i fear)
After a little while two separate groups have emerged upon said stroll, Herr Truman and myself who are forging a trail and talking of many things of little import and Ogwen, who for want of a better phrase is buggering about.
At this point Herr Truman and I are as we are often want to do engaged in some cod philosophy. Ogwen in his distracted state has however discovered something of import upon the French soil and pausing to recover said item engages in serious cogitation. A short while later mid conversational flow (iirc correctly we were discussing Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle and how it explains the ladle that always jams a kitchen drawer) we are interrupted by an urgent and forceful declaration
"I like pine cones" quoth Ogwen displaying said item for all to see.
This utterance had a similar effect on the conversation as changing down from 4th to 1st at 90mph would have on an engine and we watched in awe as said metaphorical engine left through the bonnet of our discussion and spiralled off down the theoretical carriageway (I think I’ve lost myself with this comparison now)
Needless to say we were stunned by the wisdom of his words (or something) and thus hilarity ensued, henceforth whenever Ogwen wonders off the point he is to be rebuked with a hearty cry of "I like pinecones!"
(Thu 12th May 2011, 20:54, More)
Pinecones
Now my very good friend and fellow B3tan Ogwen if a wonderful chap with many a redeeming qualities, however an ability to stay focussed is sadly not one of these.
Now sit back and let me tell you a tale…
It is the summer of a several of years ago (specifics evade me) and the young and at this point carefree Ogwen is on holiday with his good friends Herr Truman (not in the least bit Germanic) and myself. We have just had the pleasure of a week at Le man indulging in booze, BBQ and occasionally pretending to look at cars.
In a feat of amazing forethought we had arranged a later return to Blighty allowing for a little enjoyment along the coast of France as part of a leisurely return to Calais and these details are important in an effort to pad out the story.
Tis a balmy afternoon and after much mucking about we have settled on a coastal walk as a pleasant way to while away a few hours before we fall back to eating cheese, drinking wine and punching Ogwen in the face (a story for another time i fear)
After a little while two separate groups have emerged upon said stroll, Herr Truman and myself who are forging a trail and talking of many things of little import and Ogwen, who for want of a better phrase is buggering about.
At this point Herr Truman and I are as we are often want to do engaged in some cod philosophy. Ogwen in his distracted state has however discovered something of import upon the French soil and pausing to recover said item engages in serious cogitation. A short while later mid conversational flow (iirc correctly we were discussing Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle and how it explains the ladle that always jams a kitchen drawer) we are interrupted by an urgent and forceful declaration
"I like pine cones" quoth Ogwen displaying said item for all to see.
This utterance had a similar effect on the conversation as changing down from 4th to 1st at 90mph would have on an engine and we watched in awe as said metaphorical engine left through the bonnet of our discussion and spiralled off down the theoretical carriageway (I think I’ve lost myself with this comparison now)
Needless to say we were stunned by the wisdom of his words (or something) and thus hilarity ensued, henceforth whenever Ogwen wonders off the point he is to be rebuked with a hearty cry of "I like pinecones!"
(Thu 12th May 2011, 20:54, More)