» Guilty Laughs

Big enough to do what dear?
This is actually the story of my friend who is going to Hull for being completely useless in the face of this sheer stupidity of yours truly. So, back story


~~~wavy lines~~~back to the future theme music~~~

So, I occasionally work cash in hand (don't tell the tax office) for a friend helping him to peel potatoes, boil water and help make starters for meals which his partner regularly creates. This particular events was at my friends who name sounds a lot like Pete (for that is his name in the B3ta tradition) parents Golden Wedding anniversary. Being stanch middle class, church going (his dad is a high up reverend in some church or another), highly respectable 70 odd year old folks. Both lovely people as are the family, slightly bat-shit insane with their occasional quirks, like being Welsh, but obviously very caring and loving towards each other.

However, the faux pas comes from the fact that nearly all of them are newly "born-again" Christians and with all the fervour that comes with that. This means

- No swearing
- No drinking
- No hard drugs
- No signs of homersexual love between Pete and his partner
- No b3ta-esque style of jokes

Things which I can mostly live with and after being warned by Pete I am on my best behaviour all weekend, aside from the first two hours and two major faux pas... We're in this lovely, fantastic small cottage, the sort of place old people save up to retire in but end up in a council estate in Peckham instead and it has a very small kitchen. We're in said Kitchen and Pete asks if I can go ask his mum for a pan, how big I ask? "Big enough for all these potatoes" I'm told, so off I go, I will find his mother and said pan.

I find mother dearest talking to her in-laws and remaining brothers and sisters in the garden, full of youth, bravado and hang over from smoking too much Green stuff the night before I politely and meekly ask "Excuse me K, Pete says do you know if we have a pan to boil some potatoes in?", to which she replied "Oh yes dear, off course how big does it need to be". It's at this point my brain rebels and without conscious thought I reply "Oh, about big enough to boil a baby in". Pete is stood behind me at this point to ask his mother about something else, hears what I've just said and the reaction is… Interesting.

His mother *blinks*, looks at me and mumbles something about "in the closet dear", her in-laws look at me like I've grown horns and just spat on their first born baby after it's just been born. And Pete? He's on the ground holding his sides while going red in the face desperately trying not to laugh out loud… Apparently it was akin to "passing a kidney stone" the laughter/pain was so bad.

Secondly?

General conversation with her auntie who has thankfully forgiven my faux pas from earlier and is questioning me on why I abandoned "my faith" and what reasons for this do I have? After a few here and there's we are getting along well, all is forgiven from earlier, yay! Until they start getting ready to go into church to listen to the sermon and bless the 50 years together Pete's parents have had together.

Lovely auntie says to me "Oh, Helo won't you be joining us? The church doors are open to everyone", I politely decline and get on skinning some potatoes. Auntie leaves and I believe the kitchen is empty and Pete has just walked in (behind me, again) and says "Oh yes Helo, you should go in! It's not as if you'll be blasted by lightening for going in will ya?" My rebellious brain at this point has had enough of being "nice" and spits out the following immortal line:

"Oh well, I guess I could give it a try if that's the case. I mean, if the Reverend can get in after buggering all the altar boys and getting pissed on the holy wine I'm sure that I could give it a try".

So I stand up, brush myself around and look around to see Petes mum and dad looking at me in sheer horror. Did I forget to mention that Petes dad was a church reverend?

I didn't go to church in the end. Neither did Pete, he had to lock himself into the toilet and deal with the hysteria that comes from seeing his dad go from pasty white to a bell end shade of purple in a matter of seconds… Oh, we're so defo going to Hull for all this…
(Fri 23rd Jul 2010, 15:36, More)

» Doctors, Nurses, Dentists and Hospitals

Basturd dentists & painful surgeries...
Last year I was around a friends for a BBQ discussing the finer parts of something we'd seen on Tv with (several) glasses of vodka when I felt something in my jaw go "pop", thinking nothing of it we then had another bottle (and several more after that) of vodka and got completely stonkered.

However, waking up the next morning and feeling like someone has opened the portal to Hades in one of your teeth is not an enjoyable sensation. Que lots, and lots and LOTS of ice packs and drugs... Fast forward two days later and my flatmates bundle me into a taxi making it clear that drawing blood from clenching your teeth together (trapping cheek & gum!) is not healthy and I get on some lovely, lovely co-codamol...

Booked an appointment with my dentist, got an emergency appointment as exam shows that I have a particularly nasty infection in my upper molar, they said we can do it quickly but painfully or slowly but will cost more. So? Quick and painful!

Dear fucking Christ was a mistake that was.

I never realised that when the rear molars were decayed, as mine were, they go as soft as toffee. I never realised that although soft as toffee molars still require some manevouring to get them out.

I also never bloody realised that without proper painkillers due to the co-codamol I'd been freely taking I'd be able to feel every erg of pain as she broke my tooth into two with a great big fuck off mallet (well, tiny one in hindsight...) and THEN position herself to pull them out. Not just by the side of me no...

First side comes out ok due to the decay, however the second? The second part gets stuck... Which means I then get this crazy dentist straddling me, putting one knee on my chest and manually rotating this fucking molar out! Just imagine trying to rotate a rubix cube with a blasted pair of plyers...

I swear, at this point I was sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish market. Panicking doesn't even come close to the sensation I was feeling and I actually lost half a nail on the side of the chair when she jerked out the molar with a flourish (and a small jet of blood!) and proceeded to show me the blood soaked remains while I cower in fear of this crazy women who has left bruises on my sternum where the force of her knee has pressed into me.

The next two days were a complete and utter daze as I take virtually every and any drug I can to dull the pain of that memory cowering in the torture chair... To top it off the antibotics mixed with the morphine I had been prescribed turned a very painful (and significant birthday, my 25th!) into a time of pure bliss as liquid light flooded my limbs...

Dentists, might be a requirement but fuck me. I hate them at times.
(Fri 12th Mar 2010, 0:17, More)

» Horrible things I've done to a loved one

Horrible thing?
I turned out to be a raging homo, men men men.

Poor dad... He so wanted someone to watch football with...
(Thu 16th Jun 2011, 13:02, More)

» Dad stories

My Dad the legend? Try tosspot
I've never really gotten on with my dad. He liked Football, I liked reading. He liked going out on the lash and shagging his secretary, I liked going out with guys my own age and shagging them.

The straw which broke the camels back however was something so trivial that I'm amazed it's come to no contact with him, his wife and my three siblings...

It was my youngest (at the time) sister Christening, I'd been asked to be the God-parent which naturally was no problem, so I packed up some clothing and took the two hour journey to Amersham and settled in for a night. I got there, "hello! hello! hello!" from my step-mum, my dad? "What clothes you wearing", ah cheers, thanks.

I bring out my clothes, some Khaki's and a white shirt, as I've mentioned in another post those horrible black work trousers bring me out in a rash and wearing them for any period of time is literally torture. He takes one look at my clothes, walks upstairs and literally *throws* some of his old clothes at me saying "wear them", and then walks off leaving me and his wife in stunned disbelief.

Rest of the night passes awkwardly as I struggle to figure out am I a 12y/o child being told what to do or a 26y/o man who actually can wear what the fuck I want? So in the morning, I wake up and put on my clothes to both my SM's and Dad's horror. My dad refuses to look at me and just walks off, my SM asks me "why won't you consider wearing them?" to which I reply with the last thing I've said to my dad and SM for a year and a half:

"If the clothes are so important to you then why don't you make the clothes the God-parent instead of me? If you want me to the God-parent then let me wear my own God damn clothes".

My SM looks like I'd hit her with a shovel after digging up her (hopefully) dead grand parents and sodomizing them both with a giraffe. Yes I felt guilty but my dad? Wouldn't even look at me.

We go to the Christening and the rest of my family does the same, lots of whispers about "lack of respect" and "who does he think he is" while I'm pointing out the glaringly obvious fact that all the men there are also wearing Khaki trousers due to the cold weather but apparently, what's good for the goose isn't good for the gander. It's only right that the God parent should freeze his arse off for the sake of a few photos.

We do the Christening, I get the next train home and all due to a pair of trousers my dad no longer refuses to speak to me nor allow any official photos of me with my God-son as apparently I "didn't look the part", which he could only tell me through my older sisters. As a result, this was the last time I saw my brother Liam who is now 18 months old, my sisters Jenny and Anna who are 3 & 4 and another one on the way.

Apologies for the lack of funniez, rather cathartic reading this back. Normally family schisms are caused by men not being able to keep their trousers on at the right time, my schism was caused by keeping mine on...
(Fri 26th Nov 2010, 10:09, More)

» God

Silly Nuns
When Helo was a young Helo, R.E was never on his high points of life.

Why go to church for midnight mass when you could count down the seconds till you could actually open the presents up?

WHY are we getting up at 7am each Sunday when it's the only day of the week when I don't have to school/work (paper round?)

So when I reached 15 (or so) everyone else in my school was getting confirmed, not me. AFter 15 odd years of being dragged to Church I had found the one thing that ensured I would never step in that church ever again.

Went to Sunday Mass at 8.15am, nun who'd known me since I was a wee little thing, asked me when my confirmation was going to be and I told her that I doubt very, very much I'd be confirmed as I don't believe in God at this point of my life.

Dear Spirit in the Sky/Gods Above/Demons below the LOOK this Nun gave me. It was the sort of look that you give to your husband after he confesses that your daughter didn't run away, and that in fact he'd been keeping her locked under the stairs for the last 30 odd years and needed your help to hide the evidence.

From this look the immortal words spoken in front of my parents "Well, I guess YOU'RE NOT WELCOME IN THIS CHURCH ANYMORE YOU SILLY LITTLE BOY" meant that no longer would I have to attend anymore masses, anymore Christmas Eve boring fests.

I was free!!!

Heh, looking back though I probably should have told her I was a homo also, see if it'd given her a heart attack also.

(Parents and siblings weren't happy though, parents gave me hell for 6 months because I was insistant that I don't want to get confirmed. AS a result of this my sisters were forced at gun point to get confirmed and attend church. Ooo, those were fun times)
(Thu 19th Mar 2009, 15:31, More)