» Useless Information

Charlie Chaplin
Came third in a left handed polar bear who can lick their elbow contest, sponsored by the "Duck Quack" Echo. Paul from "The Wonder Years" came second, dressed as Marilyn Manson wearing banana aglets, and a POSH dog (with a very clean anus)was looking up at them both at the time. The whole thing took half an hour, which left Isaac Newton the pig just enough time to finish ejaculating into a yellow NYLON cheese.

Or something like that anyway.
(Tue 22nd Mar 2005, 13:57, More)

» Singing the wrong words

Clarkie's Gay Beatles Songs
My mate Clarkie has devoted many childishly wonderful hours to altering the titles of Beatles songs so that they're, well, gay.
I give you:

A Hard Gay's Night
Eight Gays a Week
Gay stripper (Day Tripper)
A Gay in the Life
Shaft my Arse with Cream (Yellow Submarine)
Gaping Backsider (Paperback Writer)
Here Comes my Bum
Gay Nude (Hey Jude)
Love my Poo (Love me do)
Bum for your Life
Yes I'm Gay (Yesterday)
Stick it Inside (Ticket to ride)
I wanna hold your gland

I could go on. Can anyone add to these?
(Thu 27th Jan 2005, 11:52, More)

» Hypocrisy

Second!
Oh yes. My week is complete.

Blue ticket abuse.

About once a fortnight or so I get a “pink ticket” from wifey and I am graciously allowed, albeit briefly, to amble down to the local and meet up with a couple of mates for a couple of pints for a couple of hours. I cherish these small windows of freedom as we have a four year old boy with textbook behavioural issues and ten week old twin boys at home, so when all’s said and done it’s good of her to release me occasionally from the seemingly never ending trauma of feeding/changing babies and cajoling their older brother to his bedroom, etc, etc. I never take the piss and arrive home in plenty of time to help her with the next feed as promised, as I’m bright enough to work out that if I carry on doing that I’ll continue to win more pink tickets. It’s not rocket science, and she’d hit the fucking roof if I was even ten minutes later than I’d promised.
A few weeks back when I was pleading for Guinness emancipation wifey got a bit of a face on and said something along the lines of “us girls never get to go out!” The girls in question happen to be the wives of the two mates I go drinking with. So I respond; “why don’t you arrange it with the girls for Friday then and us blokes can look after the kids” (they’ve got ankle biters at home too). It honestly hadn’t occurred to either of the three girls to arrange this before. It seemed that they’d rather play the martyrs whenever the three of us arranged to meet up.
So after about 400 text messages between them over about four days the ladies finally managed to agree on meeting up at 8pm Friday night. After the make up lorries had left our respective better halves tottered down to the pub, no doubt texting each other frantically all the way to see if the other two were there yet. Mine was due back at around 9pm to help me feed the twins. It didn’t give her long at the pub, but she’d assured me she’d be back to help out. Alarm bells started to ring when at 8.55 I had a text from one of the other girls: “hi, could we keep your lovely wife out for one more drink, she really needs the break”. “No worries” – I reply – “I can feed one boy after the other - hope she enjoys it”. Half an hour later a slightly slurry Missus calls to say she’s having a great time and is it ok if she’s back in half an hour? “No problem love, glad you’re enjoying the break”. To cut a long story short, my pissed up mess of a spouse rolls in at midnight, waking up all three kids in the process.
Now if I’d done that……

Honestly. Women. You give ‘em an inch….
(Thu 19th Feb 2009, 12:24, More)

» School Trips

French Cycling Trip
It must have been about 1986 or thereabouts. 25 or so fifteen year old hooligans cycling down the Cherbourg peninsula to St Malo for the best part of a week. Glorious carefree sunny days, camping and staying in Youth Hostels, you get the picture. There were two teachers with us (one cycling, one driving the school minibus with all our bags, etc in) who were fairly happy to turn a blind eye to the occasional fag smoked or bottle of cheap frogplonk being passed around.
Late one hot afternoon myself and a mate of mine called John were ambling along a typical Normandy country road on our racers, and as far as we were concerned we were bringing up the rear, so to speak. We couldn't see the rest of the lads or the van up front, so on noticing the rotting corpse of a poor run-over cat on the grass verge a very wicked plot was hatched between us. As any veteran of any childhood trip to France knows, explosive bangers are (or at least were) freely available at most newsagents/toy shops, and all of our group, without exception had a small arsenal of them about their person ready to let off as soon as the teachers were out of sight and earshot. Dangerous fireworks and teenage boys. What a winning combination that is.
John pulled out one of the biggest bangers imaginable (it looked like a small stick of dynamite) and gently inserted it into the cat's gaping mouth. The stench up close was fucking awful, and you could see maggots crawling around everywhere.
John then took the fuses from two other smaller bangers and joined them to the original one, in order to allow us time to cycle out of the "blast zone".
He lit the fuse. We ran like fuck to our bikes, got on them and pedalled away. Twenty seconds or so later we were further down the road and stopped to witness the spectacle. Two seconds after that Mr Pell rounded the corner in the minibus. One second after that the minibus was re-decorated in putrid, decaying cat.
We fucking pissed ourselves.
Mr Pell (who had been driving with the windows open) took a very different view.
All the other lads' bangers were confiscated that evening, and myself and John were therefore not all that popular for the rest of the trip, but hey - it was worth it.
Shoplifting crap aftershave became the next holiday pastime by the way. To this day, even the faintest whiff of "Hai Karate" takes me back to rural France.

No apologies for length. The cat loved it.
(Thu 7th Dec 2006, 14:01, More)

» Breasts

a mate of mine
went to a stag do years ago, and one of the party was a drunk Australian fella. They all took their seats for the stripper and at the point when she teased her bra off the Aussie adopted an expression of utter childish delight, jabbed his forefinger in her direction and at the top of his voiced shouted something that has been noisily quoted thousands of times since by me and my mates for the last 20 odd years;

"TITS! I LOVE 'EM!.

Got to love the Aussies.
(Sun 9th May 2010, 11:44, More)