Profile for Conundrum:
Hmmmm......A profile, eh? Now, in my humble opinion no-one ever tells the truth on public message boards, so who am I to change this tradition?
I left home at 15 to join the army, then spent the next 25 years in the service of the Queen (Gawd Bless 'Er), ending my time with a posting to Colchester, which is why I ended up spending the next ten years in bloody Felixstowe. It's a shithole ...*nods*. But I escaped back to my Ancestral Holdings In The North in 2007, now living and working in Newcastle.
My ambition is to get ten Best Of QOTW.....which is likely to be difficult as I'm a world leader in procrastination and bloody idle to boot. But I live in hope.
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- a member for 19 years, 1 month and 5 days
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Hmmmm......A profile, eh? Now, in my humble opinion no-one ever tells the truth on public message boards, so who am I to change this tradition?
I left home at 15 to join the army, then spent the next 25 years in the service of the Queen (Gawd Bless 'Er), ending my time with a posting to Colchester, which is why I ended up spending the next ten years in bloody Felixstowe. It's a shithole ...*nods*. But I escaped back to my Ancestral Holdings In The North in 2007, now living and working in Newcastle.
My ambition is to get ten Best Of QOTW.....which is likely to be difficult as I'm a world leader in procrastination and bloody idle to boot. But I live in hope.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Toilets
Strange things in the undergrowth...
.
Many moons ago I was a loyal servant of the Queen (Gawd Bless ‘Er), a fearless fighting soldier holding the borders of Germany against the menace of the Slavic Horde. Every year we were sent out into the countryside to lurk in the bushes, waiting for Ivan to come storming through the Fulda Gap, massed tank divisions of the Red Army poised to cut a bloody path to the Rhine. Every exercise season my unit lurked in the forests on Minden Ridge, passing the time away in time honoured tradition, eg, bullying new recruits, winding up officers and stealing each other’s turds.
Yep, that’s right, stealing turds. There are no toilets deep in the forest, and before the arrival of German contractors with their portaloos the solution was to grab a shovel, wander off into the bushes, dig a little hole, crap into it, then tidily fill it in before groping your way back to the tank laagers.
All the old soldiers took great delight in winding up the new boys. We used to warn them of the dangers of the deep German forests, strange animals that hid in the undergrowth, so starving they would eat the shit out of your arse before it hit the ground. Then ply them with illicit lager, crates of Herforder Pils hidden strategically in the ammunition lockers, topped up with bottles of Apple Korn and Jagermeister which all good squaddies have stashed away. Eventually one of these lads would stand up and fart, grab a shovel, and stumble off into the darkness….and the hunt was on!!!!
We would take our own shovel and follow, using our superior fieldcraft skills to silently creep up on the unsuspecting rookie, waiting for him to dig his hole, drop his trousers and squat over to drop his lot. Then snake forward, quietly reach forward with the shovel, place it strategically to catch whatever came out, then quietly withdraw with the spoils. There’s not a man alive who doesn’t turn to inspect his turds after crapping in the forest. But on looking into the hole, there’s a severe lack of evidence, even though he knows he’s just unloaded a good kilo of crap somewhere. So where the fuck is it?
The hardest part is not to laugh when watching this dickhead searching for his missing turds. The red-screened torch would come on, he’d pat the grass with his hands, walk in ever-increasing circles, then start flailing the bushes with his shovel. ‘Get out of it, you little shit-eating bastards!! Where the fuck are you?’ At this point we would fade silently into the background and leg it back to the camp, so by the time he found his way back we would be sitting quietly as before. As he excitedly poured out his story we would all look serious, wonder aloud about ‘Spetsnaz Infiltrators’, then get him to repeat his story ad infinitum, each repetition growing in detail about ‘noises in the bushes’, or ‘something moving in the shadows. Or even, God Save us, ‘a strange smell of corrupt flesh’. The more gullible among them could even be induced to write up an official ‘Contact Report’.
Guarding the West against the Red Menace that never so much fun again.
All true, as God is my witness. So where did those turds really go?
It’s a
(Fri 2nd Sep 2005, 13:34, More)
Strange things in the undergrowth...
.
Many moons ago I was a loyal servant of the Queen (Gawd Bless ‘Er), a fearless fighting soldier holding the borders of Germany against the menace of the Slavic Horde. Every year we were sent out into the countryside to lurk in the bushes, waiting for Ivan to come storming through the Fulda Gap, massed tank divisions of the Red Army poised to cut a bloody path to the Rhine. Every exercise season my unit lurked in the forests on Minden Ridge, passing the time away in time honoured tradition, eg, bullying new recruits, winding up officers and stealing each other’s turds.
Yep, that’s right, stealing turds. There are no toilets deep in the forest, and before the arrival of German contractors with their portaloos the solution was to grab a shovel, wander off into the bushes, dig a little hole, crap into it, then tidily fill it in before groping your way back to the tank laagers.
All the old soldiers took great delight in winding up the new boys. We used to warn them of the dangers of the deep German forests, strange animals that hid in the undergrowth, so starving they would eat the shit out of your arse before it hit the ground. Then ply them with illicit lager, crates of Herforder Pils hidden strategically in the ammunition lockers, topped up with bottles of Apple Korn and Jagermeister which all good squaddies have stashed away. Eventually one of these lads would stand up and fart, grab a shovel, and stumble off into the darkness….and the hunt was on!!!!
We would take our own shovel and follow, using our superior fieldcraft skills to silently creep up on the unsuspecting rookie, waiting for him to dig his hole, drop his trousers and squat over to drop his lot. Then snake forward, quietly reach forward with the shovel, place it strategically to catch whatever came out, then quietly withdraw with the spoils. There’s not a man alive who doesn’t turn to inspect his turds after crapping in the forest. But on looking into the hole, there’s a severe lack of evidence, even though he knows he’s just unloaded a good kilo of crap somewhere. So where the fuck is it?
The hardest part is not to laugh when watching this dickhead searching for his missing turds. The red-screened torch would come on, he’d pat the grass with his hands, walk in ever-increasing circles, then start flailing the bushes with his shovel. ‘Get out of it, you little shit-eating bastards!! Where the fuck are you?’ At this point we would fade silently into the background and leg it back to the camp, so by the time he found his way back we would be sitting quietly as before. As he excitedly poured out his story we would all look serious, wonder aloud about ‘Spetsnaz Infiltrators’, then get him to repeat his story ad infinitum, each repetition growing in detail about ‘noises in the bushes’, or ‘something moving in the shadows. Or even, God Save us, ‘a strange smell of corrupt flesh’. The more gullible among them could even be induced to write up an official ‘Contact Report’.
Guarding the West against the Red Menace that never so much fun again.
All true, as God is my witness. So where did those turds really go?
It’s a
(Fri 2nd Sep 2005, 13:34, More)
» That's when I knew it was over...
The perils of cybersex
I used to work for a well known telecoms company which shall remain nameless.....but if I say 'it's gud to tork' you might have a clue. I often used to work long and lonely night shifts in the control room and to pass the time I struck up a cyber-friendship with a slightly weird (but extremely filthy-minded) lady from the backwoods of Tenessee. Things progressed rapidly from suggestive innuendo via e-mail to a spot of phone sex then web-cams entered my life and I was doomed. On seeing my sexy southerner by flickering web-cam I found out she was good thirty years older than I thought, with long straggly grey hair and pendulous dugs that swung gently somewhere near her kneecaps.
She was waving her plane ticket to Heathrow in her shrivelled claw, promising to show me a 'real good southern good time' when she arrived to consumate our relationship.
Thank God I told her my name was Joe and I lived in Northumberland.
And to my brother Joe, aplogies if the demented yank arrived on your doorstep demanding wild monkey sex and lifelong commitment.
Rather you than me, mate.
I'll get me coat......
(Thu 21st Jul 2005, 13:34, More)
The perils of cybersex
I used to work for a well known telecoms company which shall remain nameless.....but if I say 'it's gud to tork' you might have a clue. I often used to work long and lonely night shifts in the control room and to pass the time I struck up a cyber-friendship with a slightly weird (but extremely filthy-minded) lady from the backwoods of Tenessee. Things progressed rapidly from suggestive innuendo via e-mail to a spot of phone sex then web-cams entered my life and I was doomed. On seeing my sexy southerner by flickering web-cam I found out she was good thirty years older than I thought, with long straggly grey hair and pendulous dugs that swung gently somewhere near her kneecaps.
She was waving her plane ticket to Heathrow in her shrivelled claw, promising to show me a 'real good southern good time' when she arrived to consumate our relationship.
Thank God I told her my name was Joe and I lived in Northumberland.
And to my brother Joe, aplogies if the demented yank arrived on your doorstep demanding wild monkey sex and lifelong commitment.
Rather you than me, mate.
I'll get me coat......
(Thu 21st Jul 2005, 13:34, More)
» In the Army Now - The joy of the Armed Forces
An Exercise In Cruelty
.
I spent 25 years in the service of the Queen (Gawd Bless 'Er), starting off as a snivelling Trainee Signalman at the Army Apprentice College in Harrogate. In the early 70's bullying was a serious business practiced by true devotees of the art, actively encouraged by the resident sadists on the grounds of 'toughening up'. 'If you can't take a joke you shoudna joined' was the mantra of these knuckle-draggers.
I had my fair share of being beaten up by these people, mainly due to my inability to keep my great gob shut, but nothing like the living hell endured by 'Soapy Robinson'. Soapy was a quiet lad, didn't mix well, no social skills, came from a loving family, never been away from home before.........and his personal hygiene left something to be desired. Soapy hummed. His feet bowfed. He sweated a lot and didn't seem to notice the need for regular showers. Soapy was a gunge.
It didn't take long for the vultures to start circling. His room NCO tried to take him in hand, he had to hand in regular laundry bags, he had to sign a bath book, his locker and bed-space was inspected daily. But still he smelled bad....stronger actioned needed, me-thinks.
Those not from a military background will have never heard of a Regimental Bath, and you should count your lucky stars that you'll probably never see it, never mind experience one. The hapless gunge is grabbed by his peers, stripped naked, given a mild-to-severe kicking, then dumped in a bath of freezing water. Soap powder, Brasso, scouring powder, shampoo, liquid soap, lemon juice and anything that might have any sort of cleaning agent is scrubbed into Soapy's skin (paying particular attention to his bollocks), then large bass brooms are employed with great vigor. This is all witnessed by as many baying hounds as can cram inside the bath cubicle, and everyone is encouraged to come along and bear witness to what happens to a gunge. The skin on the back is rapidly stripped raw, the eyes turn bloody and inflamed, bruises sprout like overnight mushrooms. It's not a pretty sight.
It's like a feeding frenzy. Because Soapy is a gunge, he becomes outside the laws and social practices which normally regulate behavior, even in lunatic asylums like AAC Harrogate. The kicks and punches become more vicious, they vie with each other who can land the most telling blow...it's all 'allowed' you see, nay, encouraged.... cos the unstated goal is to make poor Soapy so terrified and beaten down that he'll slink off down to the Guardroom and resign from the Army. A 'Reggie Bath' can last from ten minutes to a couple of hours. It takes a very strong man to resist.
I personally witnessed young Soapy take three Regimental Baths and he still stuck it out. He was a pariah, totally friendless, even his room-mates ignored him completely. After a night on the piss some bright spark would suggest 'Hey, why don't we nip upstairs to Bravo Troop and beat Soapy up? Gungey Bastard needs a good kicking!!!' And off they'd go, drag Soapy out of his pit by the hair and administer a good hiding. Nobody lifted a finger, nobody said anything to the Permanent Staff, the recruit NCO's either turned a blind eye or joined in with a will. Soapy kept to himself, practically lived in the shower, always obsessively washing his kit, ironing his uniform, spraying deodorant like a man possessed and keeping his head well down at all times. Didn't make a hap'orth of difference, his card was well and truly marked, his ostracism and pariah status endured.
What finally turned my stomach was Soap's 18th birthday, a Friday in the summer of 1973. Soapy had been out in Harrogate for the night (by himself, of course), then came back to the darkened barrack blocks around 11pm, cos he had to be in for 'bed check'. Bravo Troop was on the second floor, but Soapy stopped on the ground stair-well by the notice boards, then just slumped in the corner crying quietly. The Regimental Orderly Sergeant found him there and then asked what the fuck he thought he was doing out of his room after bed-check. Soapy just told him he couldn't go up because he didn't want to get beat up on his birthday....he just needed one day off from it. He'd phoned his mum earlier that day and she was the only one in the world who knew it was his birthday, and the only kind word he'd had in weeks.
The Orderly Sergeant escorted him to his room, parked him in the corridor, then told his room-mates what he'd found and suggested we might like to lay off him for the moment. Soapy then came in, quietly undressed and crawled into bed...the Orderly Sergeant left........
Ten minutes later the Gungey Bastard was installed inside a matress cover, hung out of the third floor window while the resident nutters beat him with bumpers and brooms chanting 'Die you gungeball, die!!!'
Soapy never did resign. He completed three years at Harrogate and was posted out into the Regular Army just like everyone else, a qualified Electronics Technician. I saw him again at Catterick in 1979, and went across to talk to him, chat about old times. I told him I couldn't believe he'd made it through all that, I couldn't have taken half the shit he did, and then I stuck my hand out and said:
'I'm really sorry for all you went through, Soapy, I wish I'd said something at the time...no hard feelings, eh?'
He told me to go fuck myself.
(Sat 25th Mar 2006, 13:18, More)
An Exercise In Cruelty
.
I spent 25 years in the service of the Queen (Gawd Bless 'Er), starting off as a snivelling Trainee Signalman at the Army Apprentice College in Harrogate. In the early 70's bullying was a serious business practiced by true devotees of the art, actively encouraged by the resident sadists on the grounds of 'toughening up'. 'If you can't take a joke you shoudna joined' was the mantra of these knuckle-draggers.
I had my fair share of being beaten up by these people, mainly due to my inability to keep my great gob shut, but nothing like the living hell endured by 'Soapy Robinson'. Soapy was a quiet lad, didn't mix well, no social skills, came from a loving family, never been away from home before.........and his personal hygiene left something to be desired. Soapy hummed. His feet bowfed. He sweated a lot and didn't seem to notice the need for regular showers. Soapy was a gunge.
It didn't take long for the vultures to start circling. His room NCO tried to take him in hand, he had to hand in regular laundry bags, he had to sign a bath book, his locker and bed-space was inspected daily. But still he smelled bad....stronger actioned needed, me-thinks.
Those not from a military background will have never heard of a Regimental Bath, and you should count your lucky stars that you'll probably never see it, never mind experience one. The hapless gunge is grabbed by his peers, stripped naked, given a mild-to-severe kicking, then dumped in a bath of freezing water. Soap powder, Brasso, scouring powder, shampoo, liquid soap, lemon juice and anything that might have any sort of cleaning agent is scrubbed into Soapy's skin (paying particular attention to his bollocks), then large bass brooms are employed with great vigor. This is all witnessed by as many baying hounds as can cram inside the bath cubicle, and everyone is encouraged to come along and bear witness to what happens to a gunge. The skin on the back is rapidly stripped raw, the eyes turn bloody and inflamed, bruises sprout like overnight mushrooms. It's not a pretty sight.
It's like a feeding frenzy. Because Soapy is a gunge, he becomes outside the laws and social practices which normally regulate behavior, even in lunatic asylums like AAC Harrogate. The kicks and punches become more vicious, they vie with each other who can land the most telling blow...it's all 'allowed' you see, nay, encouraged.... cos the unstated goal is to make poor Soapy so terrified and beaten down that he'll slink off down to the Guardroom and resign from the Army. A 'Reggie Bath' can last from ten minutes to a couple of hours. It takes a very strong man to resist.
I personally witnessed young Soapy take three Regimental Baths and he still stuck it out. He was a pariah, totally friendless, even his room-mates ignored him completely. After a night on the piss some bright spark would suggest 'Hey, why don't we nip upstairs to Bravo Troop and beat Soapy up? Gungey Bastard needs a good kicking!!!' And off they'd go, drag Soapy out of his pit by the hair and administer a good hiding. Nobody lifted a finger, nobody said anything to the Permanent Staff, the recruit NCO's either turned a blind eye or joined in with a will. Soapy kept to himself, practically lived in the shower, always obsessively washing his kit, ironing his uniform, spraying deodorant like a man possessed and keeping his head well down at all times. Didn't make a hap'orth of difference, his card was well and truly marked, his ostracism and pariah status endured.
What finally turned my stomach was Soap's 18th birthday, a Friday in the summer of 1973. Soapy had been out in Harrogate for the night (by himself, of course), then came back to the darkened barrack blocks around 11pm, cos he had to be in for 'bed check'. Bravo Troop was on the second floor, but Soapy stopped on the ground stair-well by the notice boards, then just slumped in the corner crying quietly. The Regimental Orderly Sergeant found him there and then asked what the fuck he thought he was doing out of his room after bed-check. Soapy just told him he couldn't go up because he didn't want to get beat up on his birthday....he just needed one day off from it. He'd phoned his mum earlier that day and she was the only one in the world who knew it was his birthday, and the only kind word he'd had in weeks.
The Orderly Sergeant escorted him to his room, parked him in the corridor, then told his room-mates what he'd found and suggested we might like to lay off him for the moment. Soapy then came in, quietly undressed and crawled into bed...the Orderly Sergeant left........
Ten minutes later the Gungey Bastard was installed inside a matress cover, hung out of the third floor window while the resident nutters beat him with bumpers and brooms chanting 'Die you gungeball, die!!!'
Soapy never did resign. He completed three years at Harrogate and was posted out into the Regular Army just like everyone else, a qualified Electronics Technician. I saw him again at Catterick in 1979, and went across to talk to him, chat about old times. I told him I couldn't believe he'd made it through all that, I couldn't have taken half the shit he did, and then I stuck my hand out and said:
'I'm really sorry for all you went through, Soapy, I wish I'd said something at the time...no hard feelings, eh?'
He told me to go fuck myself.
(Sat 25th Mar 2006, 13:18, More)
» Toilets
Dothiepin Turds
.
When I previously went bonkers the shrink eventually identified dothiepin as the anti-depressant that helped me during that paticular descent into madness, so around Jan 2003 they started me off on it again.
One of the more spectacular effects of this stuff is to produce the most enormous turds you can imagine. Truly eye-watering grunters. Real gut-clenching, teeth-grinding, face-grimacing pan-splashers. About the thickness of a toilet roll inner, averaging about 10 inches in length, these monsters take some serious straining to get out. Some times I've sat there with sweat rolling down my cheeks (top set!) wondering if I'd ever get this massive stink machine out of my rikker and down the pan. Very painful. Extremely embarressing. Very time comsuming. A huge pain in the arse. It took about 10 weeks for these symptoms to calm down, to return to what passes for normal motions. Quite big, mind, but nothing on the scale of the early days.
Another problem with DT's is how to get rid of them once the paperwork's done, they just won't flush away, they're far too big to negotiate the u-bend. Not too big a problem in the privacy of your own home, but if you happen to get caught short at someone else's crapper then as Apollo 13 might say "Houston, we have a problem". Many's the time I've stood there washing my hands wondering what to do about that bloody thing lying there smiling at me. I can't just leave it there. Maybe I could mash it up with the bog brush then flush like a madman and hope it goes away? Then that leaves the problem of the brush, which looks a real mess.......I mean, you can't wash it out in the sink, can you? So quietly open the bathroom window and sling it out into the bushes.....or up onto the roof...then nonchalantly stroll out, make my excuses and leg it.
Anyway, the Dothiepin Turds are back. It must be a function of the amount of dothiepin in my system, so as I reduce I've reached the drug/blood level which triggers these monsters. Over time the ADs will reduce further and eventually the problem will fade away......but it took about 8 weeks to get over the hump going up, so I expect a similar time coming down this side. So, if my beloved and I visit your homes over the next couple of months I suggest you chain up your bog brushes, or nail shut your bathroom windows.
Just thought I'd share that with you.
Why does a poxy antidepressant have such an effect?
It's a
(Fri 2nd Sep 2005, 12:55, More)
Dothiepin Turds
.
When I previously went bonkers the shrink eventually identified dothiepin as the anti-depressant that helped me during that paticular descent into madness, so around Jan 2003 they started me off on it again.
One of the more spectacular effects of this stuff is to produce the most enormous turds you can imagine. Truly eye-watering grunters. Real gut-clenching, teeth-grinding, face-grimacing pan-splashers. About the thickness of a toilet roll inner, averaging about 10 inches in length, these monsters take some serious straining to get out. Some times I've sat there with sweat rolling down my cheeks (top set!) wondering if I'd ever get this massive stink machine out of my rikker and down the pan. Very painful. Extremely embarressing. Very time comsuming. A huge pain in the arse. It took about 10 weeks for these symptoms to calm down, to return to what passes for normal motions. Quite big, mind, but nothing on the scale of the early days.
Another problem with DT's is how to get rid of them once the paperwork's done, they just won't flush away, they're far too big to negotiate the u-bend. Not too big a problem in the privacy of your own home, but if you happen to get caught short at someone else's crapper then as Apollo 13 might say "Houston, we have a problem". Many's the time I've stood there washing my hands wondering what to do about that bloody thing lying there smiling at me. I can't just leave it there. Maybe I could mash it up with the bog brush then flush like a madman and hope it goes away? Then that leaves the problem of the brush, which looks a real mess.......I mean, you can't wash it out in the sink, can you? So quietly open the bathroom window and sling it out into the bushes.....or up onto the roof...then nonchalantly stroll out, make my excuses and leg it.
Anyway, the Dothiepin Turds are back. It must be a function of the amount of dothiepin in my system, so as I reduce I've reached the drug/blood level which triggers these monsters. Over time the ADs will reduce further and eventually the problem will fade away......but it took about 8 weeks to get over the hump going up, so I expect a similar time coming down this side. So, if my beloved and I visit your homes over the next couple of months I suggest you chain up your bog brushes, or nail shut your bathroom windows.
Just thought I'd share that with you.
Why does a poxy antidepressant have such an effect?
It's a
(Fri 2nd Sep 2005, 12:55, More)
» Take my Mother-in-law...
Olive - a sour, rounded, hard little fruit, usually soused in gin
.
Where to start? Is it compulsory to hate your mother-in-law, some sort of hidden genetic subconscious thing which drives us to dream of throttling the bitch?
Take my mother-in-law, the lovely Olive. (I wish someone would). She’s the most ignorant, useless, obnoxious, idle, loud-mouthed witch, but thankfully she lives 300 miles away so we don’t see her that often. But when she does come to visit, boy, does she get on my tits.
‘What do you fancy for dinner, Olive?’
‘Errrm anything, don’t you worry about me, I’ll just have what you’re having’
I hate answers like that. So fucking unhelpful.
So she gets whatever the family feast is tonight…..and I don’t care what it is, she doesn’t like it. She turns up her nose, pokes it suspiciously with a fork a few times, then whines’ Errrrm, I don’t like this, it smells funny, I think it’s off, can you just do me a plate of chips? None of those arty-farty oven chips, mind you, I want proper saturated full-fat cardiac-arrest jobs, fried in whale-dip’. But don’t mind me, I’m not that hungry…….
She can keep that up for hours. She can whinge and moan for England. Sits there like a deformed fat spider puffing away at her fags and dripping poison in whatever ear she can force into a corner. She’s hard of hearing, but won’t wear a hearing aid. She has a hide like a rhinoceros, totally oblivious to any hint or subtlety, the only way to get her attention is to kick her viciously up her fat arse, then shout very loudly in her wax-ridden ears, using language it’s impossible to misinterpret.
‘Why don’t you fuck off home, you miserable ratbag!!!’ ‘You’ve been here a month, don’t you think the rest of the coven are missing you?’
‘Eh? What did you say? Do I want another pie? Only if it’s better than the last one, it looked a bit off that one, anyone would think you’re trying to poison me!!! And do us some chips, I think my arteries are starting to loosen up a bit!! Hehehehehhehe…….sounds of demented cackling which seems to go on for weeks.
How can a demented old harridan like that be the mother of a sweet natured girl like my beloved?
It’s a
(Sat 10th Sep 2005, 10:13, More)
Olive - a sour, rounded, hard little fruit, usually soused in gin
.
Where to start? Is it compulsory to hate your mother-in-law, some sort of hidden genetic subconscious thing which drives us to dream of throttling the bitch?
Take my mother-in-law, the lovely Olive. (I wish someone would). She’s the most ignorant, useless, obnoxious, idle, loud-mouthed witch, but thankfully she lives 300 miles away so we don’t see her that often. But when she does come to visit, boy, does she get on my tits.
‘What do you fancy for dinner, Olive?’
‘Errrm anything, don’t you worry about me, I’ll just have what you’re having’
I hate answers like that. So fucking unhelpful.
So she gets whatever the family feast is tonight…..and I don’t care what it is, she doesn’t like it. She turns up her nose, pokes it suspiciously with a fork a few times, then whines’ Errrrm, I don’t like this, it smells funny, I think it’s off, can you just do me a plate of chips? None of those arty-farty oven chips, mind you, I want proper saturated full-fat cardiac-arrest jobs, fried in whale-dip’. But don’t mind me, I’m not that hungry…….
She can keep that up for hours. She can whinge and moan for England. Sits there like a deformed fat spider puffing away at her fags and dripping poison in whatever ear she can force into a corner. She’s hard of hearing, but won’t wear a hearing aid. She has a hide like a rhinoceros, totally oblivious to any hint or subtlety, the only way to get her attention is to kick her viciously up her fat arse, then shout very loudly in her wax-ridden ears, using language it’s impossible to misinterpret.
‘Why don’t you fuck off home, you miserable ratbag!!!’ ‘You’ve been here a month, don’t you think the rest of the coven are missing you?’
‘Eh? What did you say? Do I want another pie? Only if it’s better than the last one, it looked a bit off that one, anyone would think you’re trying to poison me!!! And do us some chips, I think my arteries are starting to loosen up a bit!! Hehehehehhehe…….sounds of demented cackling which seems to go on for weeks.
How can a demented old harridan like that be the mother of a sweet natured girl like my beloved?
It’s a
(Sat 10th Sep 2005, 10:13, More)