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I love this site. It's changed my life.
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» Tramps
Kid.
No funnies, no apology. Just plain sad.
Many moons ago when piglet was still being incubated, me and my six months pregnant wife were walking through the town centre when we came across a filthy young man sitting on a blanket. He had his hands out and his head lowered, lifting it only occasionally to direct a beseeching glare on a passer-by. As I looked into his eyes I caught this attention and he looked at me. Then through me. I suddenly understood what a thousand-yard stare looked like. Looking straight at him I opened my wallet and give him my last fiver and walked away.
Curious as to the reason behind my strange burst of generosity (I am known as careful by my Scottish friends) my wife asked why I had done it. So I told her his story.
Long ago in what feels like a different life I used to be a playscheme leader in some pretty rough areas. Attending one of these was a young lad of about 12 who was always fighting. Always. The other kids would wind him up just to see him fight. And he never backed down once, not ever, even in the face of some barely sentient knuckle-dragger who would pound him senseless. But this ginger haired freckly kid had one shining light: His Sister. She was a few years older than him and looked after him and the other kids in his family, he worshipped her as the mother he didn’t really have. He wasn’t the brightest diode on the circuit board but he was capable of following instructions and as stated before, an unyielding fighter. So as soon as he was able he joined the Army.
At this point I have no idea what happened but he went off the rails. His reaction to initial training was that everyone was bullying him, being ginger\freckly probably marked him out and knowing the way he reacted to physical pressure I can only presume he continued to react with his usual flair. Strangely he made it through training and came out as an infantryman. He lasted another two years before being discharged on medical (mental) grounds. He wasn’t very good on his own so his sister took him in and helped him look after himself. He became involved in petty crime but was cunning enough to keep himself out of bother. Then his sister met her husband.
After a whirlwind romance she became pregnant with the first of her three kids and they were married. Kid never got on with his brother-in-law. He never trusted him and would often end up leaving the house before he did violence on the prick (for prick he was, I knew the lad at school and he was a cunt of the highest order). Unfortunately during one of these periods Prick decide that he wanted to be re-housed by the council and firebombed his own home. With his wife and kids inside. They burned to death and he was sent to jail.
When Kid returned he was inconsolable and wandered the streets howling his grief like a madman. He had lost the only good thing he had ever had in his young life (he was still only 23 at this point). He was interned for treatment at a local mental hospital but it didn’t take and he eventually walked out one day and disappeared. Until I saw him on his blanket. I knew I couldn’t help him in any real sense, no-one could. So I gave him some money and hoped he would spend it on something that would help him forget for a while., he always knew how and where to get fed. I’ve never seen him again (cliché? Maybe) but hope he’s found peace, I doubt it’s in this world though.
Peace to you Kid, wherever you are.
(Mon 6th Jul 2009, 23:41, More)
Kid.
No funnies, no apology. Just plain sad.
Many moons ago when piglet was still being incubated, me and my six months pregnant wife were walking through the town centre when we came across a filthy young man sitting on a blanket. He had his hands out and his head lowered, lifting it only occasionally to direct a beseeching glare on a passer-by. As I looked into his eyes I caught this attention and he looked at me. Then through me. I suddenly understood what a thousand-yard stare looked like. Looking straight at him I opened my wallet and give him my last fiver and walked away.
Curious as to the reason behind my strange burst of generosity (I am known as careful by my Scottish friends) my wife asked why I had done it. So I told her his story.
Long ago in what feels like a different life I used to be a playscheme leader in some pretty rough areas. Attending one of these was a young lad of about 12 who was always fighting. Always. The other kids would wind him up just to see him fight. And he never backed down once, not ever, even in the face of some barely sentient knuckle-dragger who would pound him senseless. But this ginger haired freckly kid had one shining light: His Sister. She was a few years older than him and looked after him and the other kids in his family, he worshipped her as the mother he didn’t really have. He wasn’t the brightest diode on the circuit board but he was capable of following instructions and as stated before, an unyielding fighter. So as soon as he was able he joined the Army.
At this point I have no idea what happened but he went off the rails. His reaction to initial training was that everyone was bullying him, being ginger\freckly probably marked him out and knowing the way he reacted to physical pressure I can only presume he continued to react with his usual flair. Strangely he made it through training and came out as an infantryman. He lasted another two years before being discharged on medical (mental) grounds. He wasn’t very good on his own so his sister took him in and helped him look after himself. He became involved in petty crime but was cunning enough to keep himself out of bother. Then his sister met her husband.
After a whirlwind romance she became pregnant with the first of her three kids and they were married. Kid never got on with his brother-in-law. He never trusted him and would often end up leaving the house before he did violence on the prick (for prick he was, I knew the lad at school and he was a cunt of the highest order). Unfortunately during one of these periods Prick decide that he wanted to be re-housed by the council and firebombed his own home. With his wife and kids inside. They burned to death and he was sent to jail.
When Kid returned he was inconsolable and wandered the streets howling his grief like a madman. He had lost the only good thing he had ever had in his young life (he was still only 23 at this point). He was interned for treatment at a local mental hospital but it didn’t take and he eventually walked out one day and disappeared. Until I saw him on his blanket. I knew I couldn’t help him in any real sense, no-one could. So I gave him some money and hoped he would spend it on something that would help him forget for a while., he always knew how and where to get fed. I’ve never seen him again (cliché? Maybe) but hope he’s found peace, I doubt it’s in this world though.
Peace to you Kid, wherever you are.
(Mon 6th Jul 2009, 23:41, More)
» The Boss
My First Job
Was a summer job for 6 weeks (in between 1st and 2nd years A-Levels).
I worked in a large department store on the furniture department. After an unsuccessful stint in sales (too honest to the customers), a woeful attempt at delivery (put holes in the walls of a newly built house with the wardrobes we were delivering) and a highly suspect few days working in the offices, I ended up as a warehouse monkey looking after the receipt of furniture. This was OK except that the boss was an alcoholic who was totally unpredictable. He was known to attack warehouse staff with whatever implement was handiest, normally a hammer or a crowbar. The other staff had decided that it was my turn to suffer the wrath which would be visited upon the bearer of bad-tidings, namely that an entire shipment of leather furniture had been treated a wee bit roughly. To be honest the whole lot were scratched to fuck. It was therefore with great trepidation that I approached his office with the latest bad news.
I shook my way into his office and blurted the whole lot out in one sentence. “thefurnituresknacked.Allthesetteesarescratchedandsoarethechairsandthepouffeethings.” I shut my eyes and waited. Only for the mad Irish git to say “Here take this.” I opened one eye and spotted the tenner held out. As I took it he said “Get me a bottle of vodka and two of the big packets of felt tip pens from Woollies.”
My job for the rest of the afternoon was to drink vodka with the Irish Loony and colour in the scratches. Surreal to say the least.
(Thu 18th Jun 2009, 14:03, More)
My First Job
Was a summer job for 6 weeks (in between 1st and 2nd years A-Levels).
I worked in a large department store on the furniture department. After an unsuccessful stint in sales (too honest to the customers), a woeful attempt at delivery (put holes in the walls of a newly built house with the wardrobes we were delivering) and a highly suspect few days working in the offices, I ended up as a warehouse monkey looking after the receipt of furniture. This was OK except that the boss was an alcoholic who was totally unpredictable. He was known to attack warehouse staff with whatever implement was handiest, normally a hammer or a crowbar. The other staff had decided that it was my turn to suffer the wrath which would be visited upon the bearer of bad-tidings, namely that an entire shipment of leather furniture had been treated a wee bit roughly. To be honest the whole lot were scratched to fuck. It was therefore with great trepidation that I approached his office with the latest bad news.
I shook my way into his office and blurted the whole lot out in one sentence. “thefurnituresknacked.Allthesetteesarescratchedandsoarethechairsandthepouffeethings.” I shut my eyes and waited. Only for the mad Irish git to say “Here take this.” I opened one eye and spotted the tenner held out. As I took it he said “Get me a bottle of vodka and two of the big packets of felt tip pens from Woollies.”
My job for the rest of the afternoon was to drink vodka with the Irish Loony and colour in the scratches. Surreal to say the least.
(Thu 18th Jun 2009, 14:03, More)
» Bullies
I was a bully
My first pearoast. A bit soon if I am to be honest.
Many moons ago when Porky was a callow 14, I was small, thin, wore glasses, had crap hair: basically a bit of an unattractive package. However I was well in with the cool kids. Yeah right. I was tolerated in their company because I was funny and always up for a laugh (have you ever noticed the coolest kids aren’t really very inventive? The ones I knew weren’t). But I digress. One of the kids at school, Huw, was rather strange. He was Welsh (although the accent wasn’t too bad as we lived in the North East), short, very hairy and had a haircut that resembled a suede brush. To top it off he wasn’t too bright in a special sort of way and had a pronounced speech impediment that gave the impression he was speaking in tongues. In other words uglier and less acceptable than me. Yay!
On the day in question we had suffered the stultifying boredom of double maths leading up to morning break. I had survived the class by burning the back of my hand with a magnifying glass to keep myself awake. There was only one solution, FIND HUW! Now although Huw was not one of the cool kids he had a rather severe tobacco addiction and was usually to be found in the boys bogs having a quick cancerstick between lessons. And sure enough there he was, enjoying in solitary peace and quiet what was probably one of the few things that kept the poor cunt going.
Only he wasn’t alone any more, he was surrounded by a bunch of predators intent on making a few moments of his day an absolute misery. There was a bit of ribbing which was designed to make him lose his temper (mocking his accent, hairiness and speech impediment usually did it) and hence in need of punishment.
Sorry, I had to take a break there. I’m not remembering this, I’m reliving it. It isn’t pleasant as you will see.
His first punishment was an arm twisting. Up until this point I had never joined in with the more physical bullying but today was my turn and at the behest of the genial and laughter filled cool kids I twisted his arm. Hard. I could hear the ligaments and tendons cracking and popping. I felt sick. Huw was squealing like a raped suckling pig and one of the more inventive chaps suggested we put his head down the toilet and pull the chain to quiet him. So I did. I crammed Huw’s head into the shit speckled porcelain and someone pulled the chain. Huw stopped squealing and started making gagging, choking noises. Quite understandably. At this point my erstwhile pals took to their heels as the bell sounded for end of break. I would like to say I was torn by remorse and helped Huw get cleaned up for his next lesson but I didn’t. I did however look at his face and I wish I never had. The haunted look of pain on his face was unbearable. A dumb-animal look that communicated his failure to understand why anyone would want to do this to him hit me hard. His shoulders slumped and he picked his bag up with his good arm. Silently he shouldered his way past me and went home.
But it didn’t end there. His mother brought him back to school, cleaned up, after lunch. I was called to the head’s office. He had named only me. Fine. I took the physical punishment (a sound caning) and was then given the devastating real punishment. I was known to all the teachers as a bright but lazy scholar, my punishment? To help Huw after school with his homework. Every night for six months. I still don’t think it was enough.
I came to know Huw rather well and he was one of the funniest most irreverent little gits I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He forgave me quickly and with ease, he was like that. I also forgave myself eventually but I never forgot and I never bullied again.
(Wed 13th May 2009, 13:12, More)
I was a bully
My first pearoast. A bit soon if I am to be honest.
Many moons ago when Porky was a callow 14, I was small, thin, wore glasses, had crap hair: basically a bit of an unattractive package. However I was well in with the cool kids. Yeah right. I was tolerated in their company because I was funny and always up for a laugh (have you ever noticed the coolest kids aren’t really very inventive? The ones I knew weren’t). But I digress. One of the kids at school, Huw, was rather strange. He was Welsh (although the accent wasn’t too bad as we lived in the North East), short, very hairy and had a haircut that resembled a suede brush. To top it off he wasn’t too bright in a special sort of way and had a pronounced speech impediment that gave the impression he was speaking in tongues. In other words uglier and less acceptable than me. Yay!
On the day in question we had suffered the stultifying boredom of double maths leading up to morning break. I had survived the class by burning the back of my hand with a magnifying glass to keep myself awake. There was only one solution, FIND HUW! Now although Huw was not one of the cool kids he had a rather severe tobacco addiction and was usually to be found in the boys bogs having a quick cancerstick between lessons. And sure enough there he was, enjoying in solitary peace and quiet what was probably one of the few things that kept the poor cunt going.
Only he wasn’t alone any more, he was surrounded by a bunch of predators intent on making a few moments of his day an absolute misery. There was a bit of ribbing which was designed to make him lose his temper (mocking his accent, hairiness and speech impediment usually did it) and hence in need of punishment.
Sorry, I had to take a break there. I’m not remembering this, I’m reliving it. It isn’t pleasant as you will see.
His first punishment was an arm twisting. Up until this point I had never joined in with the more physical bullying but today was my turn and at the behest of the genial and laughter filled cool kids I twisted his arm. Hard. I could hear the ligaments and tendons cracking and popping. I felt sick. Huw was squealing like a raped suckling pig and one of the more inventive chaps suggested we put his head down the toilet and pull the chain to quiet him. So I did. I crammed Huw’s head into the shit speckled porcelain and someone pulled the chain. Huw stopped squealing and started making gagging, choking noises. Quite understandably. At this point my erstwhile pals took to their heels as the bell sounded for end of break. I would like to say I was torn by remorse and helped Huw get cleaned up for his next lesson but I didn’t. I did however look at his face and I wish I never had. The haunted look of pain on his face was unbearable. A dumb-animal look that communicated his failure to understand why anyone would want to do this to him hit me hard. His shoulders slumped and he picked his bag up with his good arm. Silently he shouldered his way past me and went home.
But it didn’t end there. His mother brought him back to school, cleaned up, after lunch. I was called to the head’s office. He had named only me. Fine. I took the physical punishment (a sound caning) and was then given the devastating real punishment. I was known to all the teachers as a bright but lazy scholar, my punishment? To help Huw after school with his homework. Every night for six months. I still don’t think it was enough.
I came to know Huw rather well and he was one of the funniest most irreverent little gits I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He forgave me quickly and with ease, he was like that. I also forgave myself eventually but I never forgot and I never bullied again.
(Wed 13th May 2009, 13:12, More)
» Tramps
Abigail's Ink.
A lady of my acquaintance is, how shall we say, of negotiable affection. She is also very attractive, very good company and as such a cut above her immediate colleagues. However her one big failing is that she is a tart with a heart and will probably never get rich as the negotiations often entail goods in kind from all sorts of tradesmen, professionals and various shopkeepers. Just as an aside she has never needed to pay for legal representation. Ever. But I digress.
One such negotiation was with Steve, the owner of a local Tattoo and Piercing parlour. He promised a tattoo of her design based on a minute for minute trade. This sounded good to Abigail (her working name) as she had been fancying a bit of the old ink for a while. She saved up his visits for a couple of months and then visited him.
Unfurling the design he said it would probably take slightly less than the time she had banked and being the kind-hearted lady she is she told him to keep the change. After nearly 2 hours she a beautiful pink ribbon design with a lovely intricate knot. Lots of shading and some gold rings tattooed on so that it looked like the ribbon was part of a piece of lower back corsetry cinching her actual waist in.
Steve stepped back to admire his work and suddenly a frown of concern appeared. “Abigail, you know with being in your profession don’t you think it’s a bit of a cliché to have a tramp stamp, beautiful as it is?”
“Oh no,” said Abigail “It isn’t a tramp stamp. It’s a Ho-Bow.”
(Fri 3rd Jul 2009, 12:08, More)
Abigail's Ink.
A lady of my acquaintance is, how shall we say, of negotiable affection. She is also very attractive, very good company and as such a cut above her immediate colleagues. However her one big failing is that she is a tart with a heart and will probably never get rich as the negotiations often entail goods in kind from all sorts of tradesmen, professionals and various shopkeepers. Just as an aside she has never needed to pay for legal representation. Ever. But I digress.
One such negotiation was with Steve, the owner of a local Tattoo and Piercing parlour. He promised a tattoo of her design based on a minute for minute trade. This sounded good to Abigail (her working name) as she had been fancying a bit of the old ink for a while. She saved up his visits for a couple of months and then visited him.
Unfurling the design he said it would probably take slightly less than the time she had banked and being the kind-hearted lady she is she told him to keep the change. After nearly 2 hours she a beautiful pink ribbon design with a lovely intricate knot. Lots of shading and some gold rings tattooed on so that it looked like the ribbon was part of a piece of lower back corsetry cinching her actual waist in.
Steve stepped back to admire his work and suddenly a frown of concern appeared. “Abigail, you know with being in your profession don’t you think it’s a bit of a cliché to have a tramp stamp, beautiful as it is?”
“Oh no,” said Abigail “It isn’t a tramp stamp. It’s a Ho-Bow.”
(Fri 3rd Jul 2009, 12:08, More)
» Things we do to fit in
It wasn't big and it wasn't clever.
Many moons ago when Porky was a callow 14, I was small, thin, wore glasses, had crap hair: basically a bit of an unattractive package. However I was well in with the cool kids. Yeah right. I was tolerated in their company because I was funny and always up for a laugh (have you ever noticed the coolest kids aren’t really very inventive? The ones I knew weren’t). But I digress. One of the kids at school, Huw, was rather strange. He was Welsh (although the accent wasn’t too bad as we lived in the North East), short, very hairy and had a haircut that resembled a suede brush. To top it off he wasn’t too bright in a special sort of way and had a pronounced speech impediment that gave the impression he was speaking in tongues. In other words uglier and less acceptable than me. Yay!
On the day in question we had suffered the stultifying boredom of double maths leading up to morning break. I had survived the class by burning the back of my hand with a magnifying glass to keep myself awake. There was only one solution, FIND HUW! Now although Huw was not one of the cool kids he had a rather severe tobacco addiction and was usually to be found in the boys bogs having a quick cancerstick between lessons. And sure enough there he was, enjoying in solitary peace and quiet what was probably one of the few things that kept the poor cunt going.
Only he wasn’t alone any more, he was surrounded by a bunch of predators intent on making a few moments of his day an absolute misery. There was a bit of ribbing which was designed to make him lose his temper (mocking his accent, hairiness and speech impediment usually did it) and hence in need of punishment.
Sorry, I had to take a break there. I’m not remembering this, I’m reliving it. It isn’t pleasant as you will see.
His first punishment was an arm twisting. Up until this point I had never joined in with the more physical bullying but today was my turn and at the behest of the genial and laughter filled cool kids I twisted his arm. Hard. I could hear the ligaments and tendons cracking and popping. I felt sick. Huw was squealing like a raped suckling pig and one of the more inventive chaps suggested we put his head down the toilet and pull the chain to quit him. So I did. I crammed Huw’s head into the shit speckled porcelain and someone pulled the chain. Huw stopped squealing and started making gagging, choking noises. Quite understandably. At this point my erstwhile pals took to their heels as the bell sounded for end of break. I would like to say I was torn by remorse and helped Huw get cleaned up for his next lesson but I didn’t. I did however look at his face and I wish I never had. The haunted look of pain on his face was almost unbearable. An almost animal look of dumb failure to understand why anyone would want to do this to him. His shoulders slumped and he picked his bag up with his good arm. Shouldering his way past me, he went home.
But it didn’t end there. His mother brought him back to school, cleaned up, after lunch. I was called to the head’s office. He had named only me. Fine. I took the physical punishment (a sound caning) and was then given the devastating real punishment. I was known to all the teachers as a bright but lazy scholar, my punishment? To help Huw after school with his homework. Every night for six months. I still don’t think it was enough.
I came to know Huw rather well and he was one of the funniest most irreverent little gits I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He forgave me quickly and with ease, he was like that. I also forgave myself eventually but I never forgot and I never bullied again. So that is what I did to fit in. Thanks B3ta, I needed that.
(Thu 15th Jan 2009, 14:28, More)
It wasn't big and it wasn't clever.
Many moons ago when Porky was a callow 14, I was small, thin, wore glasses, had crap hair: basically a bit of an unattractive package. However I was well in with the cool kids. Yeah right. I was tolerated in their company because I was funny and always up for a laugh (have you ever noticed the coolest kids aren’t really very inventive? The ones I knew weren’t). But I digress. One of the kids at school, Huw, was rather strange. He was Welsh (although the accent wasn’t too bad as we lived in the North East), short, very hairy and had a haircut that resembled a suede brush. To top it off he wasn’t too bright in a special sort of way and had a pronounced speech impediment that gave the impression he was speaking in tongues. In other words uglier and less acceptable than me. Yay!
On the day in question we had suffered the stultifying boredom of double maths leading up to morning break. I had survived the class by burning the back of my hand with a magnifying glass to keep myself awake. There was only one solution, FIND HUW! Now although Huw was not one of the cool kids he had a rather severe tobacco addiction and was usually to be found in the boys bogs having a quick cancerstick between lessons. And sure enough there he was, enjoying in solitary peace and quiet what was probably one of the few things that kept the poor cunt going.
Only he wasn’t alone any more, he was surrounded by a bunch of predators intent on making a few moments of his day an absolute misery. There was a bit of ribbing which was designed to make him lose his temper (mocking his accent, hairiness and speech impediment usually did it) and hence in need of punishment.
Sorry, I had to take a break there. I’m not remembering this, I’m reliving it. It isn’t pleasant as you will see.
His first punishment was an arm twisting. Up until this point I had never joined in with the more physical bullying but today was my turn and at the behest of the genial and laughter filled cool kids I twisted his arm. Hard. I could hear the ligaments and tendons cracking and popping. I felt sick. Huw was squealing like a raped suckling pig and one of the more inventive chaps suggested we put his head down the toilet and pull the chain to quit him. So I did. I crammed Huw’s head into the shit speckled porcelain and someone pulled the chain. Huw stopped squealing and started making gagging, choking noises. Quite understandably. At this point my erstwhile pals took to their heels as the bell sounded for end of break. I would like to say I was torn by remorse and helped Huw get cleaned up for his next lesson but I didn’t. I did however look at his face and I wish I never had. The haunted look of pain on his face was almost unbearable. An almost animal look of dumb failure to understand why anyone would want to do this to him. His shoulders slumped and he picked his bag up with his good arm. Shouldering his way past me, he went home.
But it didn’t end there. His mother brought him back to school, cleaned up, after lunch. I was called to the head’s office. He had named only me. Fine. I took the physical punishment (a sound caning) and was then given the devastating real punishment. I was known to all the teachers as a bright but lazy scholar, my punishment? To help Huw after school with his homework. Every night for six months. I still don’t think it was enough.
I came to know Huw rather well and he was one of the funniest most irreverent little gits I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. He forgave me quickly and with ease, he was like that. I also forgave myself eventually but I never forgot and I never bullied again. So that is what I did to fit in. Thanks B3ta, I needed that.
(Thu 15th Jan 2009, 14:28, More)