» Too much information

There isn't enough mind bleach in the world...
Last time Mother Vorlon came to visit me, she bought along her newfangled digital camera in order to show me the pictures of her and my Dad's recent holiday (she hasn't yet mastered the technology to the extent that she can upload and email her pics). Anyway, fed up at her holding the camera at an angle where I couldn't see the screen and scrolling through the images at the pace of an arthritic tortoise, I grabbed the thing and started to flick though myself.

"No! Stop!" she cries.

"Eh, what?" quoth I, confusedly. At which point she uttered the words that will be forever seared into my synapses:

"There's some pictures your Dad took on there, of, um... me...." *meaningful look*

So I did what any mature adult would do in my position. I hurled the camera into the depths of the sofa, clamped my hands over my ears and let out a scream like that of a traumatized manatee. (Actually, i have no idea what that sounds like, so maybe I didn't.) A minute later, when I could bring myself to look at the foul slattern again, she had a strange expression on her face. She looked... offended...

"They're not that bad, " she said, "I've lost weight."

Cue repeat hands/ears/screaming drill.

No apologies for length, my Dad wasn't in the pictures. Well she didn't say he was. God, I hope he wasn't... burning pain in brain... aaaargh!
(Thu 6th Sep 2007, 13:12, More)

» Terrible Parenting

Lies my parents told me
When I was but a wee Vorlonlet and my little brother was just a baby, my highly-educated, workaholic Mother took a stab at being a housewife. At the time my Dad was in the Navy and thus away a lot and we lived in a one-bus-a-day rural hamlet. Mother dearest unsurprisingly found herself bored shitless.

So she made her own fun, most notably by putting utter rubbish into my innocent little head. The one I remember most vividly was that every time I told her I had a pain somewhere or felt ill she replied with "oh dear, that's your hypochondria". I was convinced that I had some kind of terminal illness with an endless list of symptoms. The result was that at playgroup I'd toddle over to the helpers, tears in my eyes, and come out with lines like "My hypochondria's bad in my tummy," at which point they would unfailingly piss themselves laughing.

To this day she maintains that it was worth it. For the lulz, as it were.

/cherrypop
(Thu 16th Aug 2007, 15:18, More)

» Voyeurism

Only in Hull...
Back when I was learning to drive, my Dad delegated the task of driving to a family wedding in Hull to me. This was ostensibly for me to gain valuable experience, but in reality was because he wanted to get mashed and not have to worry about his nice new car getting nicked/damaged.

All went well. I ferried people to and from the service without incident and even found a parking space just round the corner from the reception. So I was feeling pretty pleased with myself when I went out in the wee small hours to get my vehicle. At least, I was until I saw what was happening to it.

Perched on the bonnet, mottled thighs spread, was a pram-faced young lady with a stylish "croydon facelift" hairstyle. Between said thighs thrust the hips of a trackie-sporting, jaunty-angled-hatted youth nonchalantly smoking a roll-up. He turned his head towards me, spat derisively, and resumed his porking.

I was transfixed by the horror of the scene, and would surely have remained there for all eternity (well, probably not, it was Hull and I don't have a death wish) had my Dad not been lumbering drunkenly behind me. Being more hardened to the debauchery of that scummy city, he simply drew himself to full height and yelled at the couple to get off my car.

The amorous young scamp, faced with an enormous, furiously enebriated military man, did exactly what one would expect. Handlessly shifting his cigarette across his mouth, he hefted his paramour by the buttocks, shifted her onto the edge of a bin (class) and continued sowing his wild oats. As you would.

We got in the car, dragging my wildly-gawping younger brother, and drove off in silence.

But that, my friends, is not the true horror of my tale. The truly shocking aspect of the torrid tableau was, in fact, my car itself...

A B-reg Vauxhall Nova.
(Tue 16th Oct 2007, 21:58, More)

» The Dirty Secrets of Your Trade

I used to work in a bar...
...in which we served a wide range of quality lagers:

Fosters (£2.70)

Fosters through a Kronenbourg tap (£2.90)

Fosters through a San Miguel tap (£3.10)

Nobody ever noticed. Not once. One guy did witness me accidentally pouring his beer out of the wrong tap, but the 6'2" dreadlocked manager menaced him into editing his memory, or at least shutting up. Washing-up consisted of me rinsing the glasses under a cold tap and the "kitchen" was, in reality, a deep-fat fryer in a dusty basement.

Every last patron of that establishment was a raging fucktard though, so I felt like I was dispensing karma rather than simply ripping people off.
(Thu 27th Sep 2007, 19:37, More)

» Insults

The wonderful, loving and mature Mr Vorlon recently called me


"Choady the choad-licking walrus"*

/weep

*Check Urban Dictionary for definition of choad
(Fri 5th Oct 2007, 14:21, More)