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» Public Transport Trauma
Not exactly a bad experience, well for me anyway.
It’s a warm Monday rush-hour, I'm on the Bakerloo line from Paddington down to Charing X. The train was full and at Marylebone a hot, bothered and rather pregnant lady got on, I offered her my seat, no biggie, it's only 10 mins to my stop anyway.
At this point I’m nothing special I’m just a bloke in a suit who stood up for a woman, big deal.
I go back to my paper only to be barged past by a couple of twats with rucksacks who get on at baker street who whilst forcing their way onto the train annoy everyone standing in the lobby bit and one of them bangs the pregnant lady in the face with his rucksack.
They then proceeded basically tell the train that they were so excited to be getting the Eurostar from Waterloo (for this incident 'twas a while ago) and that their train is a mere 20 minutes away, they hoped they'd make it as they had restricted seats and needed to be on that train.
Alas dear reader, incensed as I was at the sight of the poor pregnant lady being spoinged in the face by the tail end of a rucksack without so much as the merest hint of an apology that I feel I somewhat over-reacted. I was no longer merely a bloke in a suit but an avenging angel, i did what any freeborn Englishman would have done in that situation.
Behind the back of twat #1 who was leaning with his rucksack against the pole, I winked broadly at the pregnant lady and proceeded to tie every available hanging strap and cord on the rucksack round the pole using as baroquely complicated knots as I could manage in the time remaining to me before I got off.
It makes my heart glad to imagine twat #1 attempting to rush for the Eurostar, it really does.
(Sat 31st May 2008, 17:51, More)
Not exactly a bad experience, well for me anyway.
It’s a warm Monday rush-hour, I'm on the Bakerloo line from Paddington down to Charing X. The train was full and at Marylebone a hot, bothered and rather pregnant lady got on, I offered her my seat, no biggie, it's only 10 mins to my stop anyway.
At this point I’m nothing special I’m just a bloke in a suit who stood up for a woman, big deal.
I go back to my paper only to be barged past by a couple of twats with rucksacks who get on at baker street who whilst forcing their way onto the train annoy everyone standing in the lobby bit and one of them bangs the pregnant lady in the face with his rucksack.
They then proceeded basically tell the train that they were so excited to be getting the Eurostar from Waterloo (for this incident 'twas a while ago) and that their train is a mere 20 minutes away, they hoped they'd make it as they had restricted seats and needed to be on that train.
Alas dear reader, incensed as I was at the sight of the poor pregnant lady being spoinged in the face by the tail end of a rucksack without so much as the merest hint of an apology that I feel I somewhat over-reacted. I was no longer merely a bloke in a suit but an avenging angel, i did what any freeborn Englishman would have done in that situation.
Behind the back of twat #1 who was leaning with his rucksack against the pole, I winked broadly at the pregnant lady and proceeded to tie every available hanging strap and cord on the rucksack round the pole using as baroquely complicated knots as I could manage in the time remaining to me before I got off.
It makes my heart glad to imagine twat #1 attempting to rush for the Eurostar, it really does.
(Sat 31st May 2008, 17:51, More)
» Evil Pranks
Hubris!
Imagine in the distant past that was the late 80's. University. Students. Practical jokes.
How. Fucking. Dull.
I was the dullest of the dull thinking he was oh so fucking hilarious with the patently irritating practical "jokes".
Anyhoo one i came up with was this, you need one pissed up mate, his bed, the central heating turned WAY up and a kilo of icing sugar. This works best if said mate is hairy and tends to sleep in or almost in the all together.
Before he (or she) goes to pass out, sprinkle the icing sugar evenly over the sheets and pillow, rub it in well so it escapes casual inspection.
Mate/Victim goes to bed, extra hot house, drunken sweats, et voila, icing sugar firmly glues them into bed. Bon Appétit. Cries of agony and woe when said mate wakes up and gives themselves a full body wax as they struggle out of bed or even more “hilariously” can’t get out of the bed and either pisses themselves or if they’ve been drinking stout suffers from “fart o’doom” syndrome and befouls their mattress.
Now the paranoia engendered in the successful perpetrator of such an “extinction level event” prank meant that I used to regularly rub a wetted finger down my sheets prior to sleep and taste the resultant finger looking for sugar.
Even on my honeymoon.
Now my wife commented upon this to my mates who through the mists of time, recalled how the jape worked, they should, two of them had suffered it decades previously.
Rewenge is a dish best served ice cold I hear. And they, with the willing aid of my fragrant bride, plotted my downfall.
Now I like to drink a fair bit, I’m rather hirsute and I usually sleep au naturel. Perfect fodder for the jape, apart from my ingrained survival skills around sugared sheets.
This is where my wife came in, she informed my friends that she’d take care of this, so basically she jumped me every night for several months, just as I was about to perform my nightly sugar security routine and screwed my brains out. For long enough to for to forget my battle hardened icing reflex and become lulled into a false sense of security.
Our tale moves forward a year or so, a friend’s stag weekend, the subject of japes crops up and I’m reminded by one of the conspirators that I used to have a mean reputation for japes at university. Something about sugar one piped up.
I’d like to say that my sixth, seventh and eighth senses prickled my awareness at this point, but the lazy fuckers didn’t say a dickybird, so I blundered straight on into their trap.
I even bought the fucking icing sugar.
Nasty hotel, lots of beer and a ruby, giggles as the best man informs me that he’s spiked the groom-to-be’s bed and that he’s got a video camera set up to record the scene in the morning.
Any alarm bells on my side? None!
I go for a finishing few in the hotel bar with the lads, and crash out.
I awake with an urgent note from my prostrate that an Olympic swimming pool of urine has shown up and needs to be sorted asap.
I try to get out of bed.
Oh the humanity!
Oh the dawning realisation that i was at home to madame retribution and at all my friends and loved ones were in on it.
I decide on the course of gallantry and not pissing in the bed and through main force yank myself, the tightly tucked in sheets and the pillow from the bed and into the shower to attempt to remove two kilos of icing from my body without giving myself a back crack and sack wax.
It fucking hurt.
Removing bedclothes and gooey icing sugar from your scrotum using a fixed hotel shower is an experience I urge none of you to duplicate, unless you are very good at doing hand stands in the bath.
Years later I’m still checking the sheets for sugar.
(Mon 17th Dec 2007, 12:19, More)
Hubris!
Imagine in the distant past that was the late 80's. University. Students. Practical jokes.
How. Fucking. Dull.
I was the dullest of the dull thinking he was oh so fucking hilarious with the patently irritating practical "jokes".
Anyhoo one i came up with was this, you need one pissed up mate, his bed, the central heating turned WAY up and a kilo of icing sugar. This works best if said mate is hairy and tends to sleep in or almost in the all together.
Before he (or she) goes to pass out, sprinkle the icing sugar evenly over the sheets and pillow, rub it in well so it escapes casual inspection.
Mate/Victim goes to bed, extra hot house, drunken sweats, et voila, icing sugar firmly glues them into bed. Bon Appétit. Cries of agony and woe when said mate wakes up and gives themselves a full body wax as they struggle out of bed or even more “hilariously” can’t get out of the bed and either pisses themselves or if they’ve been drinking stout suffers from “fart o’doom” syndrome and befouls their mattress.
Now the paranoia engendered in the successful perpetrator of such an “extinction level event” prank meant that I used to regularly rub a wetted finger down my sheets prior to sleep and taste the resultant finger looking for sugar.
Even on my honeymoon.
Now my wife commented upon this to my mates who through the mists of time, recalled how the jape worked, they should, two of them had suffered it decades previously.
Rewenge is a dish best served ice cold I hear. And they, with the willing aid of my fragrant bride, plotted my downfall.
Now I like to drink a fair bit, I’m rather hirsute and I usually sleep au naturel. Perfect fodder for the jape, apart from my ingrained survival skills around sugared sheets.
This is where my wife came in, she informed my friends that she’d take care of this, so basically she jumped me every night for several months, just as I was about to perform my nightly sugar security routine and screwed my brains out. For long enough to for to forget my battle hardened icing reflex and become lulled into a false sense of security.
Our tale moves forward a year or so, a friend’s stag weekend, the subject of japes crops up and I’m reminded by one of the conspirators that I used to have a mean reputation for japes at university. Something about sugar one piped up.
I’d like to say that my sixth, seventh and eighth senses prickled my awareness at this point, but the lazy fuckers didn’t say a dickybird, so I blundered straight on into their trap.
I even bought the fucking icing sugar.
Nasty hotel, lots of beer and a ruby, giggles as the best man informs me that he’s spiked the groom-to-be’s bed and that he’s got a video camera set up to record the scene in the morning.
Any alarm bells on my side? None!
I go for a finishing few in the hotel bar with the lads, and crash out.
I awake with an urgent note from my prostrate that an Olympic swimming pool of urine has shown up and needs to be sorted asap.
I try to get out of bed.
Oh the humanity!
Oh the dawning realisation that i was at home to madame retribution and at all my friends and loved ones were in on it.
I decide on the course of gallantry and not pissing in the bed and through main force yank myself, the tightly tucked in sheets and the pillow from the bed and into the shower to attempt to remove two kilos of icing from my body without giving myself a back crack and sack wax.
It fucking hurt.
Removing bedclothes and gooey icing sugar from your scrotum using a fixed hotel shower is an experience I urge none of you to duplicate, unless you are very good at doing hand stands in the bath.
Years later I’m still checking the sheets for sugar.
(Mon 17th Dec 2007, 12:19, More)
» Family codes and rituals
Simple games
my wife tells me of a game she and her siblings used to play whilst being driven across france regulaly during the 70s.
Simple stuff, you scored one point for spotting a frenchman having a piss at the side of the road.
Apparently this amused the three of them for most of a decade until my wifes younger sister won the game outright.
For spotting a frenchwoman having a shit.
On a round-about.
(Sun 23rd Nov 2008, 13:32, More)
Simple games
my wife tells me of a game she and her siblings used to play whilst being driven across france regulaly during the 70s.
Simple stuff, you scored one point for spotting a frenchman having a piss at the side of the road.
Apparently this amused the three of them for most of a decade until my wifes younger sister won the game outright.
For spotting a frenchwoman having a shit.
On a round-about.
(Sun 23rd Nov 2008, 13:32, More)
» Guilty Secrets
OK i feel a little guilty for this one
Only a little.
Long long ago in a rented flat far far away..... when I was with a mentalist highland bitch with whom I had mistaken lust for love*.
Anyhoo, said mentalist was rather into, well not quiet BDSM but shall we say kinky bondage with a few extras. She was rather more into it than me, as I regarded it somewhat of a kerfuffle on occasion. But I was confusing lust with love and proceeded to fulfil all her desires to be tied up in various positions/places and spanked/fucked/what-evered. To give her fair dues, I was rather entranced by her kinky suggestions on most occasions.
This went on for a while.
Once day, having, I suspect, been reading too many Nancy Friday books, she requested to be tied upside down over a door and thoroughly pleasured, i was rather/extremely dubious but encouraged by promised of unearthly delights partaken from her upside-down form I consented to help. This was an engineering challenge of the first water as she wasn’t by any means anorexic and I was thinking with the main brain only by this stage.
So I get her to do a handstand, protect her ankles with a towel, loop some tow rope over the door and her ankles, go round to the other side and hoist away. As she grunted aroused success on the other side i was stuck with a more practical problem, how did I attach the rope to prevent her falling on her head? I couldn’t attach it to the radiator, that would impede my re-entrance to the room and much anticipated unusual sex. So what to do? I failed around and spotted an old metal hoop on the bottom of the door, presumably to hold the door back or something (I know it was outside the room but perhaps someone had reversed the door in aeons past), so I looped the tow rope through the hoop and job done.
I stood back to admire my handiwork and to let the creative tension build on the other side of the door. Opening the handle I prepared to enter the room and my gf, only to have the door snatched from my hand as the silly bitch’s weight ripped the fucking door clean from the frame and wedged it firmly both on top of her and into the door frame.
There was a moment of dread calm as I rapidly achieved de-tumescence.
Jesus-Titty-Fucking-Christ, I’ve killed my gf I thought.
Until i heard her snarling lilt from under the door requesting in plain terms for me to get the fucking door off her sharpish you fucking twat.
Problem is i couldn’t.
Fucking thing wouldn’t budge, not a fucking inch, it was fucking wedged, now we’d only just moved in and there were no tools in the house, so i (luckly it was Saturday lunchtime) volunteered to go get a saw/crow bar and a new door, I’d be back in under an hour i said as i gallantly stepped on the door to get back into our room and get dressed.
This was met with a torrent of the single least lady like language i’ve ever heard from a woman. Ever!
I scarpered out, bought the tools/door and rescued her but a mere two hours later. What a hero. After promising my eternal silence on the matter i repair the damage and normality resumes.
So where’s the guilt? Well before i went to the DIY place, I went for a pint or two to calm my nerves and had to tell the entire bar why i was laughing so much i spilled the first pint and had to sit down, she coudl never quite udnerstand why i stopped taking her to that pub and why my colledges/friends/relations/people in the street where either all soo very flirty or so very cool with her for years afterwards until we split up and i really started telling the story to all and sundry.
I still giggle when i think of it nearly 15 years later.
(Tue 4th Sep 2007, 17:28, More)
OK i feel a little guilty for this one
Only a little.
Long long ago in a rented flat far far away..... when I was with a mentalist highland bitch with whom I had mistaken lust for love*.
Anyhoo, said mentalist was rather into, well not quiet BDSM but shall we say kinky bondage with a few extras. She was rather more into it than me, as I regarded it somewhat of a kerfuffle on occasion. But I was confusing lust with love and proceeded to fulfil all her desires to be tied up in various positions/places and spanked/fucked/what-evered. To give her fair dues, I was rather entranced by her kinky suggestions on most occasions.
This went on for a while.
Once day, having, I suspect, been reading too many Nancy Friday books, she requested to be tied upside down over a door and thoroughly pleasured, i was rather/extremely dubious but encouraged by promised of unearthly delights partaken from her upside-down form I consented to help. This was an engineering challenge of the first water as she wasn’t by any means anorexic and I was thinking with the main brain only by this stage.
So I get her to do a handstand, protect her ankles with a towel, loop some tow rope over the door and her ankles, go round to the other side and hoist away. As she grunted aroused success on the other side i was stuck with a more practical problem, how did I attach the rope to prevent her falling on her head? I couldn’t attach it to the radiator, that would impede my re-entrance to the room and much anticipated unusual sex. So what to do? I failed around and spotted an old metal hoop on the bottom of the door, presumably to hold the door back or something (I know it was outside the room but perhaps someone had reversed the door in aeons past), so I looped the tow rope through the hoop and job done.
I stood back to admire my handiwork and to let the creative tension build on the other side of the door. Opening the handle I prepared to enter the room and my gf, only to have the door snatched from my hand as the silly bitch’s weight ripped the fucking door clean from the frame and wedged it firmly both on top of her and into the door frame.
There was a moment of dread calm as I rapidly achieved de-tumescence.
Jesus-Titty-Fucking-Christ, I’ve killed my gf I thought.
Until i heard her snarling lilt from under the door requesting in plain terms for me to get the fucking door off her sharpish you fucking twat.
Problem is i couldn’t.
Fucking thing wouldn’t budge, not a fucking inch, it was fucking wedged, now we’d only just moved in and there were no tools in the house, so i (luckly it was Saturday lunchtime) volunteered to go get a saw/crow bar and a new door, I’d be back in under an hour i said as i gallantly stepped on the door to get back into our room and get dressed.
This was met with a torrent of the single least lady like language i’ve ever heard from a woman. Ever!
I scarpered out, bought the tools/door and rescued her but a mere two hours later. What a hero. After promising my eternal silence on the matter i repair the damage and normality resumes.
So where’s the guilt? Well before i went to the DIY place, I went for a pint or two to calm my nerves and had to tell the entire bar why i was laughing so much i spilled the first pint and had to sit down, she coudl never quite udnerstand why i stopped taking her to that pub and why my colledges/friends/relations/people in the street where either all soo very flirty or so very cool with her for years afterwards until we split up and i really started telling the story to all and sundry.
I still giggle when i think of it nearly 15 years later.
(Tue 4th Sep 2007, 17:28, More)
» The most childish thing you've done as an adult
My wife still thinks i'm a pillock
When our daughter was born, as is common with most hospitals, they took me to one side to check out the baby while they conduct any necessary reconstructive cross stiching on the wife.
Once they wizzed through the visual inspection, "yes it's a baby, yes she does look right fucked off to be out", they handed me her to take back to the wife.
the nurse placed the swaddled infant into my arms and i turned round slowly and said in best Tony Montana stylee "saay hello to my leettle friend"......
"pinki" sound of a pin dropping in next room
It didn't go down too well.
(Tue 22nd Sep 2009, 10:43, More)
My wife still thinks i'm a pillock
When our daughter was born, as is common with most hospitals, they took me to one side to check out the baby while they conduct any necessary reconstructive cross stiching on the wife.
Once they wizzed through the visual inspection, "yes it's a baby, yes she does look right fucked off to be out", they handed me her to take back to the wife.
the nurse placed the swaddled infant into my arms and i turned round slowly and said in best Tony Montana stylee "saay hello to my leettle friend"......
"pinki" sound of a pin dropping in next room
It didn't go down too well.
(Tue 22nd Sep 2009, 10:43, More)