Profile for riverghost:
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Best answers to questions:
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- a member for 21 years, 8 months and 1 day
- has posted 68201 messages on the main board
- (of which 7 have appeared on the front page)
- has posted 238 messages on the talk board
- has posted 662 messages on the links board
- (including 223 links)
- has posted 75 stories and 88 replies on question of the week
- They liked 403 pictures, 11 links, 0 talk posts, and 26 qotw answers.
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Idolise me on Twatter
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Recent front page messages:
'ningles innies and outties.
I have no excuse other than I'm a spang slut.
(Mon 16th Apr 2012, 8:59, More)
I have no excuse other than I'm a spang slut.
(Mon 16th Apr 2012, 8:59, More)
After 'ningles all.
Woohoo. I'm now average one FP every 2.5 years!!!
(Wed 18th Jan 2012, 15:28, More)
Woohoo. I'm now average one FP every 2.5 years!!!
(Wed 18th Jan 2012, 15:28, More)
Best answers to questions:
» Housemates
Leave Mrs. B alone!
One of the places I used to live in Southampton was a bikers chapterhouse (basically a house that was the headquarters for a biker gang).
When people think of biker gangs they think of drug taking, kneecapping, granny beating antichrists.
Some are, lots are not.
I moved in about 2 months after the house was taken over. There were lots of big, smelly, scary bikers living there.
The area was a huge blue rinse zone and it didn't take too long for them to realise that we weren't what we appeared.
Before long I'd be wandering down the road in cut offs, long hair, three days growth and generally looking quite scary.
More often than not I'd have a little old lady coming up to me at the pedestrian crossing and asking me to help them cross the road (deary).
In the back garden we had about 15-20 apple trees. They were all cookers and there was a little old lady next door that came round to ask, as we weren't using them, if she could use them to make pies.
We had no problem with this what so ever, infact we'd pick them when they became ripe and take them round to her and she'd bring us vast quantities of homemade apple pies
. Everyone loved Mrs. B.
One day about twenty of us are lounging around smoking herbal cigarettes and there's a shout from the driveway.
A biker runs in and shouts, 'They're mugging Mrs. B.'
We all run out. Fuck with Mrs. B and you fuck with us!
We get into the road and there's two guys (obviously pissed off as Chavs haven't been invented and yet to find a way of defining themselves).
I still to this day feel sorry for them. Textbook granny mugging and they hear from behind, 'OI! LEAVE MRS. B ALONE!!!'
They had the living shite kicked out of them, even Mrs. B put a dainty boot in.
The police did turn up and talk to Mrs. B and said, 'So they fell over then.'
We never had any problems with the police after that and they pretty much relied on us to keep an eye on the granny fraternity afterwards.
Sod Help The Aged. You need more bikers.
(Mon 2nd Mar 2009, 11:47, More)
Leave Mrs. B alone!
One of the places I used to live in Southampton was a bikers chapterhouse (basically a house that was the headquarters for a biker gang).
When people think of biker gangs they think of drug taking, kneecapping, granny beating antichrists.
Some are, lots are not.
I moved in about 2 months after the house was taken over. There were lots of big, smelly, scary bikers living there.
The area was a huge blue rinse zone and it didn't take too long for them to realise that we weren't what we appeared.
Before long I'd be wandering down the road in cut offs, long hair, three days growth and generally looking quite scary.
More often than not I'd have a little old lady coming up to me at the pedestrian crossing and asking me to help them cross the road (deary).
In the back garden we had about 15-20 apple trees. They were all cookers and there was a little old lady next door that came round to ask, as we weren't using them, if she could use them to make pies.
We had no problem with this what so ever, infact we'd pick them when they became ripe and take them round to her and she'd bring us vast quantities of homemade apple pies
. Everyone loved Mrs. B.
One day about twenty of us are lounging around smoking herbal cigarettes and there's a shout from the driveway.
A biker runs in and shouts, 'They're mugging Mrs. B.'
We all run out. Fuck with Mrs. B and you fuck with us!
We get into the road and there's two guys (obviously pissed off as Chavs haven't been invented and yet to find a way of defining themselves).
I still to this day feel sorry for them. Textbook granny mugging and they hear from behind, 'OI! LEAVE MRS. B ALONE!!!'
They had the living shite kicked out of them, even Mrs. B put a dainty boot in.
The police did turn up and talk to Mrs. B and said, 'So they fell over then.'
We never had any problems with the police after that and they pretty much relied on us to keep an eye on the granny fraternity afterwards.
Sod Help The Aged. You need more bikers.
(Mon 2nd Mar 2009, 11:47, More)
» Twattery
I think I have the master twattery story. His involves someone I used to know, not me.
I used to know a tiny little Japanese lass. On New Years Eve 1999 she was walking home at about 3am. A guy comes up to her and says that he thinks she is beautiful and he's going to a party and would she like to come. She says no but the guy keeps persisting. As she tries to walk away from him he grabs her by the hair and then the throat. He starts to drag her away from the street and into a dark alley.
At this point her arms are flailing in ineffectual punches. He gets her towards the alley (as far as the side of the road) and she stops flailing.
She was only doing that to see if he was armed. Her father was a martial arts instructor and had been teaching her since she was about five (actively practising for over 25 years). She then proceeds to kick the living fuck out of the twat and leaves him in a crumpled heap in the middle of the road.
She did this to such an extent that the guy called the police and claimed that she'd attacked him. The police find her, she explains, they check the CCTV cameras, the guy goes to prison.
Result:D
(Sun 15th Apr 2012, 14:45, More)
I think I have the master twattery story. His involves someone I used to know, not me.
I used to know a tiny little Japanese lass. On New Years Eve 1999 she was walking home at about 3am. A guy comes up to her and says that he thinks she is beautiful and he's going to a party and would she like to come. She says no but the guy keeps persisting. As she tries to walk away from him he grabs her by the hair and then the throat. He starts to drag her away from the street and into a dark alley.
At this point her arms are flailing in ineffectual punches. He gets her towards the alley (as far as the side of the road) and she stops flailing.
She was only doing that to see if he was armed. Her father was a martial arts instructor and had been teaching her since she was about five (actively practising for over 25 years). She then proceeds to kick the living fuck out of the twat and leaves him in a crumpled heap in the middle of the road.
She did this to such an extent that the guy called the police and claimed that she'd attacked him. The police find her, she explains, they check the CCTV cameras, the guy goes to prison.
Result:D
(Sun 15th Apr 2012, 14:45, More)
» B3ta Person of the Year 2010
I'd like to resubmit my b3tard of the year.
I'd like Jahled to have the acolade as he was responsible for naming Nina, the snow leopard.
(Fri 17th Dec 2010, 16:37, More)
I'd like to resubmit my b3tard of the year.
I'd like Jahled to have the acolade as he was responsible for naming Nina, the snow leopard.
(Fri 17th Dec 2010, 16:37, More)
» Sticking it to The Man
Stuck it to The Man.
A number of years ago, sadly before the days of camera phones there was a common affair, a completely loopy, aged, leatherfaced, old, aussie man who had obviously decided to come to London to teach the sinners the errs of their ways decented on my neighbournood.
This mainly involved him standing if from of Earls Court tube station, bible in hand, preaching and shouting demagogic piffle at passers by. He was there for hours at a time ranting, shouting and casting presumptuous, tenet-based insults at passersby.
After about four days his constant drone started to get on my nerves and I though some sort of retribution was in order. I hummed and harred for a bit and came up with a master plan.
I recruited some friends and aquired supplies; white sheets, flip flops and wigs.
We mustered at the rear station entrance and assembled our costumes, walked through to the front entrance and behind the spittling preacher.
Ah he continued preaching people started to stop, he took this as encouragement and stepped his tyrad up a notch or two. Realisation slowly dawned that something was wrong. He had the wrath of the Almightly at his disposal and these depraived sinners were not meant to be laughing.
It took a further few minutes to realised that behind him there were about ten Jesuses standing in the 'arms-a-kimba' pose.
This sent him balistic and he turned his ire unto us, streams of scriptured abuse punctuated with more and more avid shaking of his leather bound tome.
He finally gave up and stalked off preaching at the top of his voice with an entourage of flip flopping Messiahs on tow.
He never came back. It is a shame it never got videoed as it would have gone down a storm on Pootube.
(Tue 22nd Jun 2010, 13:53, More)
Stuck it to The Man.
A number of years ago, sadly before the days of camera phones there was a common affair, a completely loopy, aged, leatherfaced, old, aussie man who had obviously decided to come to London to teach the sinners the errs of their ways decented on my neighbournood.
This mainly involved him standing if from of Earls Court tube station, bible in hand, preaching and shouting demagogic piffle at passers by. He was there for hours at a time ranting, shouting and casting presumptuous, tenet-based insults at passersby.
After about four days his constant drone started to get on my nerves and I though some sort of retribution was in order. I hummed and harred for a bit and came up with a master plan.
I recruited some friends and aquired supplies; white sheets, flip flops and wigs.
We mustered at the rear station entrance and assembled our costumes, walked through to the front entrance and behind the spittling preacher.
Ah he continued preaching people started to stop, he took this as encouragement and stepped his tyrad up a notch or two. Realisation slowly dawned that something was wrong. He had the wrath of the Almightly at his disposal and these depraived sinners were not meant to be laughing.
It took a further few minutes to realised that behind him there were about ten Jesuses standing in the 'arms-a-kimba' pose.
This sent him balistic and he turned his ire unto us, streams of scriptured abuse punctuated with more and more avid shaking of his leather bound tome.
He finally gave up and stalked off preaching at the top of his voice with an entourage of flip flopping Messiahs on tow.
He never came back. It is a shame it never got videoed as it would have gone down a storm on Pootube.
(Tue 22nd Jun 2010, 13:53, More)
» Strange things you've been paid to do
Run round Soho drinking double shots of tequila!
This would be about 2001 shortly after I stoped working in IT. I was then working as a guitar technician and I had just landed a contract with a quite well know group. I got a call saying they wanted to meet me as I had been hired not by the group but by the agency. I'm guessing the wanted to see what toss pot the had been saddled with.
So, three hours later finds me in the intrepid Fox in Soho I had been chatting to the guys and gal for about an hour and was on my third bottle of Dog (Newcastle Brown Ale [I don't know - Don't ask]). This is the point where I am told that they have very little faith in the agency and would like to test me to see if I know my stuff. I'm expecting them to ask me questions, instead they give me a fifty quid note, and tell me to find a guitar shop, buy a certain set of strings and get there and back downing a double tequilla at every bar I pass on the way back. Once I get back I then have to then restring and tune the guitar(an electric in a noisy room. Almost impossible as there is no amp). On top of this I have 15 minutes to perform the whole feat!
Now I know that some of you are familiar with Soho but for those who are not soho is made up of mainly three things; strip clubs, brothels and bars. We're talking a lot of tequilla. A lot of double tequilla! Fortunately I know Soho very well (no the bars! get your mind out of the gutter. The bars and there are a lot of production compaies there [again get your mind out of the gutter. Music production!]). I make straight for the nearest shop but this still took me past a good seven or eight bars. You do the maths! I arrive back with five minutes to so and the growing desire to eat something spicy containing synthetic meat preferable with killer chilli sauce with it. I spend about the next three minutes restringing the guitar answering dubious question ranging from 'were they all doubles?' to 'I don't believe you went to all the bars!'. Being freelance and a mercenary bastard I furnished them with recepts. To be honest I would have liked to have sat down with a nice tandoori, and I did, unfortuately it was about eight hours later after a great deal more alcohol. But they were nice enough to give me some smelling salts that were quite restorative.
(Thu 30th Sep 2004, 15:50, More)
Run round Soho drinking double shots of tequila!
This would be about 2001 shortly after I stoped working in IT. I was then working as a guitar technician and I had just landed a contract with a quite well know group. I got a call saying they wanted to meet me as I had been hired not by the group but by the agency. I'm guessing the wanted to see what toss pot the had been saddled with.
So, three hours later finds me in the intrepid Fox in Soho I had been chatting to the guys and gal for about an hour and was on my third bottle of Dog (Newcastle Brown Ale [I don't know - Don't ask]). This is the point where I am told that they have very little faith in the agency and would like to test me to see if I know my stuff. I'm expecting them to ask me questions, instead they give me a fifty quid note, and tell me to find a guitar shop, buy a certain set of strings and get there and back downing a double tequilla at every bar I pass on the way back. Once I get back I then have to then restring and tune the guitar(an electric in a noisy room. Almost impossible as there is no amp). On top of this I have 15 minutes to perform the whole feat!
Now I know that some of you are familiar with Soho but for those who are not soho is made up of mainly three things; strip clubs, brothels and bars. We're talking a lot of tequilla. A lot of double tequilla! Fortunately I know Soho very well (no the bars! get your mind out of the gutter. The bars and there are a lot of production compaies there [again get your mind out of the gutter. Music production!]). I make straight for the nearest shop but this still took me past a good seven or eight bars. You do the maths! I arrive back with five minutes to so and the growing desire to eat something spicy containing synthetic meat preferable with killer chilli sauce with it. I spend about the next three minutes restringing the guitar answering dubious question ranging from 'were they all doubles?' to 'I don't believe you went to all the bars!'. Being freelance and a mercenary bastard I furnished them with recepts. To be honest I would have liked to have sat down with a nice tandoori, and I did, unfortuately it was about eight hours later after a great deal more alcohol. But they were nice enough to give me some smelling salts that were quite restorative.
(Thu 30th Sep 2004, 15:50, More)