Profile for MightyX5:
Yes, yes I have named myself after a bus.
Don't test. It's the world's best bus and my link to the outside world.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
[read all their answers]
- a member for 15 years, 9 months and 13 days
- has posted 1 messages on the main board
- has posted 60 messages on the talk board
- has posted 4 messages on the links board
- (including 3 links)
- has posted 28 stories and 68 replies on question of the week
- They liked 7 pictures, 1 links, 3 talk posts, and 92 qotw answers.
- Ignore this user
- Add this user as a friend
- send me a message
Yes, yes I have named myself after a bus.
Don't test. It's the world's best bus and my link to the outside world.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Banks
Abbey Win!
Forgot about this one. During trials and tribulations with Abbey, I once needed to withdraw £400 for a replacement disposable car. A fine fifteen-year-old Vauxhall Chavalier on this occasion... I digress.
I went into the bank and, knowing that the daily cash machine limit was £300, queued up. For about twenty minutes. When I got to the window, Emo cashier boy says, "oh you need to take £300 from the cash machine and then I can do the other £100."
"But I'll have to queue up again!" I protest.
"No it's fine," says Emo boy, "use that cash machine there and I'll get the £100 out, just come straight back to the window."
Fine, the machine is literally next to the counters; I get my £300 and go back.
"So," he says, counting out tennners, "that's ten, twenty, thirty..." "Actually," I say, "can I have it in twenties please?"
"Oh yes, of course," says Emo boy. He counts ten tenners back into his till... and then proceeds to count out the twenties.
"Ten, twenty, thirty..." etc.
I obviously kept my gob shut.
Two hours later, a frantic phone call from the branch manager. "Mr X5, did you withdraw some cash over the counter today?" "Why yes I certainly did, one hundred English pounds in fact."
"Right... did you happen to notice if it was ten or twenty pound notes?" "Oh no, I am afraid I didn't. is there a problem?"
"We might have given you the wrong amount, you see. Can you check the money and see how much it is?"
"Well, no I can't, as I've already handed it over to the man with the car. However, I do have a receipt which I signed and you stamped to say it was £100. So if you have UNDERpaid me, there's not much I can do is there?"
"Well, Mr X5, i'll be honest, I think we overpaid you."
"Ah yes, but in this situation, in light of my receipt, I don't suppose there's much you can do is there....."
Take that you thieving bastards
(Tue 21st Jul 2009, 12:29, More)
Abbey Win!
Forgot about this one. During trials and tribulations with Abbey, I once needed to withdraw £400 for a replacement disposable car. A fine fifteen-year-old Vauxhall Chavalier on this occasion... I digress.
I went into the bank and, knowing that the daily cash machine limit was £300, queued up. For about twenty minutes. When I got to the window, Emo cashier boy says, "oh you need to take £300 from the cash machine and then I can do the other £100."
"But I'll have to queue up again!" I protest.
"No it's fine," says Emo boy, "use that cash machine there and I'll get the £100 out, just come straight back to the window."
Fine, the machine is literally next to the counters; I get my £300 and go back.
"So," he says, counting out tennners, "that's ten, twenty, thirty..." "Actually," I say, "can I have it in twenties please?"
"Oh yes, of course," says Emo boy. He counts ten tenners back into his till... and then proceeds to count out the twenties.
"Ten, twenty, thirty..." etc.
I obviously kept my gob shut.
Two hours later, a frantic phone call from the branch manager. "Mr X5, did you withdraw some cash over the counter today?" "Why yes I certainly did, one hundred English pounds in fact."
"Right... did you happen to notice if it was ten or twenty pound notes?" "Oh no, I am afraid I didn't. is there a problem?"
"We might have given you the wrong amount, you see. Can you check the money and see how much it is?"
"Well, no I can't, as I've already handed it over to the man with the car. However, I do have a receipt which I signed and you stamped to say it was £100. So if you have UNDERpaid me, there's not much I can do is there?"
"Well, Mr X5, i'll be honest, I think we overpaid you."
"Ah yes, but in this situation, in light of my receipt, I don't suppose there's much you can do is there....."
Take that you thieving bastards
(Tue 21st Jul 2009, 12:29, More)
» School Projects
Black & White
A lot of people in my school year would see how far they could get with their essays and projects, in terms of writing using "non-standard" pens and paper.
The boy who wrote a 4000-word essay on Post-It notes, for example, or the girl who found it amusing to write everything in purple Crayola.
Our teachers, understandably miffed, decreed that "all essays must be on A4 paper, in black and white".
The next essay rolls around and I did as instructed. I bought some black A4 paper, and wrote in Tipp-ex.
Well they didn't say WHICH way round the black and white had to be.
Length? Of the detention? About 35 minutes
(Tue 18th Aug 2009, 10:14, More)
Black & White
A lot of people in my school year would see how far they could get with their essays and projects, in terms of writing using "non-standard" pens and paper.
The boy who wrote a 4000-word essay on Post-It notes, for example, or the girl who found it amusing to write everything in purple Crayola.
Our teachers, understandably miffed, decreed that "all essays must be on A4 paper, in black and white".
The next essay rolls around and I did as instructed. I bought some black A4 paper, and wrote in Tipp-ex.
Well they didn't say WHICH way round the black and white had to be.
Length? Of the detention? About 35 minutes
(Tue 18th Aug 2009, 10:14, More)
» School Projects
Tango!
During the run-up to the 1997 General Election, our year was given a project in RPSE to come up with an election campaign. This would culminate on election day with an actual election, and the winner would get a fabulous prize. OK, no prize but the general smug satisfaction if knowing you are cleverer than everyone else.
I wanted this smugness. I never win anything and was determined it would be mine.
So people drew up their manifestos, allied themselves to one of the real-world parties, adjusted their policies to affect 15-year-olds etc. All were fairly serious, fairly realistic campaigns.
I had entered my name as the "independent candidate" and had little to no idea what to do.
Those of you who are slaves to advertising will remember the Still Tango adverts around this time. Still Tango came in four flavours, in a really cool wide-necked black bottle. They ran a series of adverts urging you to "vote ORANGE Tango!" and decrying all other flavours - apple was weak, lemon was a pervert etc.
And so my campaign was born. Me and my friends coloured a lot of bits of paper in using orange highlighters, and stuck them around the school without a hint as to what it related to. Come election day, the Labour, Conservative, LibDem and Green parties gave their speeches. Most went down well, if a little dull.
I then stood up in front of the whole year group, lined up four bottles of still Tango, and recited the advert word for word (in a rather dramatic fashion of course).
I then sat down.
Length? 45 seconds. Percentage of the vote: 88.
(Fri 14th Aug 2009, 11:05, More)
Tango!
During the run-up to the 1997 General Election, our year was given a project in RPSE to come up with an election campaign. This would culminate on election day with an actual election, and the winner would get a fabulous prize. OK, no prize but the general smug satisfaction if knowing you are cleverer than everyone else.
I wanted this smugness. I never win anything and was determined it would be mine.
So people drew up their manifestos, allied themselves to one of the real-world parties, adjusted their policies to affect 15-year-olds etc. All were fairly serious, fairly realistic campaigns.
I had entered my name as the "independent candidate" and had little to no idea what to do.
Those of you who are slaves to advertising will remember the Still Tango adverts around this time. Still Tango came in four flavours, in a really cool wide-necked black bottle. They ran a series of adverts urging you to "vote ORANGE Tango!" and decrying all other flavours - apple was weak, lemon was a pervert etc.
And so my campaign was born. Me and my friends coloured a lot of bits of paper in using orange highlighters, and stuck them around the school without a hint as to what it related to. Come election day, the Labour, Conservative, LibDem and Green parties gave their speeches. Most went down well, if a little dull.
I then stood up in front of the whole year group, lined up four bottles of still Tango, and recited the advert word for word (in a rather dramatic fashion of course).
I then sat down.
Length? 45 seconds. Percentage of the vote: 88.
(Fri 14th Aug 2009, 11:05, More)
» Little Victories
A roasted pea, in line with "Abbey/A&L/Santander are bastards"
During trials and tribulations with Abbey, I once needed to withdraw £400 for a replacement disposable car. A fine fifteen-year-old Vauxhall Chavalier on this occasion... I digress.
I went into the bank and, knowing that the daily cash machine limit was £300, queued up. For about twenty minutes. When I got to the window, Emo cashier boy says, "oh you need to take £300 from the cash machine and then I can do the other £100."
"But I'll have to queue up again!" I protest.
"No it's fine," says Emo boy, "use that cash machine there and I'll get the £100 out, just come straight back to the window."
Fine, the machine is literally next to the counters; I get my £300 and go back.
"So," he says, counting out tennners, "that's ten, twenty, thirty..." "Actually," I say, "can I have it in twenties please?"
"Oh yes, of course," says Emo boy. He counts ten tenners back into his till... and then proceeds to count out the twenties.
"Ten, twenty, thirty..." etc.
I obviously kept my gob shut.
Two hours later, a frantic phone call from the branch manager. "Mr X5, did you withdraw some cash over the counter today?" "Why yes I certainly did, one hundred English pounds in fact."
"Right... did you happen to notice if it was ten or twenty pound notes?" "Oh no, I am afraid I didn't. is there a problem?"
"We might have given you the wrong amount, you see. Can you check the money and see how much it is?"
"Well, no I can't, as I've already handed it over to the man with the car. However, I do have a receipt which I signed and you stamped to say it was £100. So if you have UNDERpaid me, there's not much I can do is there?"
"Well, Mr X5, i'll be honest, I think we overpaid you."
"Ah yes, but in this situation, in light of my receipt, I don't suppose there's much you can do is there....."
Take that you thieving bastards
(Fri 11th Feb 2011, 14:22, More)
A roasted pea, in line with "Abbey/A&L/Santander are bastards"
During trials and tribulations with Abbey, I once needed to withdraw £400 for a replacement disposable car. A fine fifteen-year-old Vauxhall Chavalier on this occasion... I digress.
I went into the bank and, knowing that the daily cash machine limit was £300, queued up. For about twenty minutes. When I got to the window, Emo cashier boy says, "oh you need to take £300 from the cash machine and then I can do the other £100."
"But I'll have to queue up again!" I protest.
"No it's fine," says Emo boy, "use that cash machine there and I'll get the £100 out, just come straight back to the window."
Fine, the machine is literally next to the counters; I get my £300 and go back.
"So," he says, counting out tennners, "that's ten, twenty, thirty..." "Actually," I say, "can I have it in twenties please?"
"Oh yes, of course," says Emo boy. He counts ten tenners back into his till... and then proceeds to count out the twenties.
"Ten, twenty, thirty..." etc.
I obviously kept my gob shut.
Two hours later, a frantic phone call from the branch manager. "Mr X5, did you withdraw some cash over the counter today?" "Why yes I certainly did, one hundred English pounds in fact."
"Right... did you happen to notice if it was ten or twenty pound notes?" "Oh no, I am afraid I didn't. is there a problem?"
"We might have given you the wrong amount, you see. Can you check the money and see how much it is?"
"Well, no I can't, as I've already handed it over to the man with the car. However, I do have a receipt which I signed and you stamped to say it was £100. So if you have UNDERpaid me, there's not much I can do is there?"
"Well, Mr X5, i'll be honest, I think we overpaid you."
"Ah yes, but in this situation, in light of my receipt, I don't suppose there's much you can do is there....."
Take that you thieving bastards
(Fri 11th Feb 2011, 14:22, More)
» Nights Out Gone Wrong
"Your hand hurts because you punched a church"
This doesn't really compare with most of the current tales of woe, but maybe it should be told.
This typical night out features our heroes, little brother Marcus, and associate Ben. I won't bother changing names as I'll only get confused.
Marcus lives in the pub he works in rent-free and therefore gets credited, every month, with nearly a grand and a half of which only £50 is needed for mobile bills and the suchlike. Ben has not worked for more than three weeks at a time for the last three years, and is rather partial to anything which comes in white powdery form.
So, payday and a "drink Monday" session in grotty, good old St Neots. A couple of lunchtime beers swiftly descend into "OMG! Eight for a bluey at King's Lane Garage! Better get three gallons!" between about six of us.
By the time the three gallons are consumed, Marcus realises an evening in Cambridge, it being student night, might prove successful for him and Ben (who hasn't seen any pink for a good six years by this point). I was asked to tag along in case anything ridiculous happens, and also because at this point I am holding most of Marcus' wages to stop him spending them on a whim. This is crucial: he can have the money when he wants it but has to wait an hour.
By the time we get the bus, Ben has run home and drunk half a pint of Merlot, and Marcus has started on his eight bus beers. Luckily, they seem to have drunk themselves sober, and the first hour in the abomination that is the Regal goes without a hitch.
Fresh air, however, does not agree with the amount of boozes these snoutmen have consumed, and before long we are being kindly asked to leave on account of the two drunkies trying (one successfully, one not so) to piss under one of the outside tables.
An altercation ensues thereafter with some rather posh CUSU rep, out with a group of over-priviledged, away-from-home-for-the-first-time Cambridge Uni freshers. Shouting was involved, insults were exchanged, this rather stacked young man misheard Marcus and thought he was being racist.
Twenty minutes of convincing them not to go back in the Regal ("I can take them on!" "You can't, there's thirty of them") and M&B realise it's only an hour or so until the world's worst strip club opens and a couple of drinks in nearby Fountain are required.
Stumbling into a bar at half ten on a Monday night and loudly demanding "THREE FUCKING BOOZES PLEASE" does not, actually, get you three boozes. Ben is dismayed by this. Normally a very passive man, he decides the church up the road is to blame ("fucking organised religion!") and punches it. (Next day, of course, he has rather swollen knuckles, and zero memory. This could be due to the double vodkas Marcus was putting in his Old Rosie - well, he was paying, after all.)
An hour at the strip club swiftly resulted in Marcus spending £240 on private dances, buying eight £6 bottles of Newcastle Brown (kept leaving the last one in the booth and forgetting he had it) and being told by a stripper that, if he stays until closing, he can take her home. It also results in Ben falling down two flights of stairs in rather spectacular fashion.
By this time, I feel like I should be claiming £7 an hour as their "special helper" and ordering helmets lest they hurt themselves.
10.30 hoves into view and me and Ben must get the late bus back to the Neots, and Marcus off to Grantchester. He's convinced he's pulled, so after much arguing we leave him in the strip club.
I carry Ben to the bus stop (he's light, but he never washes so he fucking stinks), whereupon he drops around 8grammes of tobacco on the floor in successive failed attempts to roll a fag. The X5 turns up. This is a long-distance bus, so no low-floor stroll for us, and the bus driver helps me carry him up the five steps. "He's not gonna puke is he?" I guarantee that he'll be asleep before Madingley Road, or we'll get off. Off we go.
On getting back to St Neots, I realise there's no way Ben is walking the half-mile alleyway home, so set about getting a taxi. This is after he failed to walk down the steps and I had to leave him at the top, stand at the bottom arms outstretched and have the driver give him a nudge. Luckily, the taxi was a people-carrier so I could lay him on the floor. Me and the cabbie pick him up and deposit him by the back door, as he's lost his keys.
The most upsetting thing, of course, is the fact that after spending £490 when the original limit was two lunch beers, neither of them can remember having stripper-gash rubbed in their faces.
The story continues, but I already find myself apologising for my intimidating length.
(Wed 30th Mar 2011, 11:06, More)
"Your hand hurts because you punched a church"
This doesn't really compare with most of the current tales of woe, but maybe it should be told.
This typical night out features our heroes, little brother Marcus, and associate Ben. I won't bother changing names as I'll only get confused.
Marcus lives in the pub he works in rent-free and therefore gets credited, every month, with nearly a grand and a half of which only £50 is needed for mobile bills and the suchlike. Ben has not worked for more than three weeks at a time for the last three years, and is rather partial to anything which comes in white powdery form.
So, payday and a "drink Monday" session in grotty, good old St Neots. A couple of lunchtime beers swiftly descend into "OMG! Eight for a bluey at King's Lane Garage! Better get three gallons!" between about six of us.
By the time the three gallons are consumed, Marcus realises an evening in Cambridge, it being student night, might prove successful for him and Ben (who hasn't seen any pink for a good six years by this point). I was asked to tag along in case anything ridiculous happens, and also because at this point I am holding most of Marcus' wages to stop him spending them on a whim. This is crucial: he can have the money when he wants it but has to wait an hour.
By the time we get the bus, Ben has run home and drunk half a pint of Merlot, and Marcus has started on his eight bus beers. Luckily, they seem to have drunk themselves sober, and the first hour in the abomination that is the Regal goes without a hitch.
Fresh air, however, does not agree with the amount of boozes these snoutmen have consumed, and before long we are being kindly asked to leave on account of the two drunkies trying (one successfully, one not so) to piss under one of the outside tables.
An altercation ensues thereafter with some rather posh CUSU rep, out with a group of over-priviledged, away-from-home-for-the-first-time Cambridge Uni freshers. Shouting was involved, insults were exchanged, this rather stacked young man misheard Marcus and thought he was being racist.
Twenty minutes of convincing them not to go back in the Regal ("I can take them on!" "You can't, there's thirty of them") and M&B realise it's only an hour or so until the world's worst strip club opens and a couple of drinks in nearby Fountain are required.
Stumbling into a bar at half ten on a Monday night and loudly demanding "THREE FUCKING BOOZES PLEASE" does not, actually, get you three boozes. Ben is dismayed by this. Normally a very passive man, he decides the church up the road is to blame ("fucking organised religion!") and punches it. (Next day, of course, he has rather swollen knuckles, and zero memory. This could be due to the double vodkas Marcus was putting in his Old Rosie - well, he was paying, after all.)
An hour at the strip club swiftly resulted in Marcus spending £240 on private dances, buying eight £6 bottles of Newcastle Brown (kept leaving the last one in the booth and forgetting he had it) and being told by a stripper that, if he stays until closing, he can take her home. It also results in Ben falling down two flights of stairs in rather spectacular fashion.
By this time, I feel like I should be claiming £7 an hour as their "special helper" and ordering helmets lest they hurt themselves.
10.30 hoves into view and me and Ben must get the late bus back to the Neots, and Marcus off to Grantchester. He's convinced he's pulled, so after much arguing we leave him in the strip club.
I carry Ben to the bus stop (he's light, but he never washes so he fucking stinks), whereupon he drops around 8grammes of tobacco on the floor in successive failed attempts to roll a fag. The X5 turns up. This is a long-distance bus, so no low-floor stroll for us, and the bus driver helps me carry him up the five steps. "He's not gonna puke is he?" I guarantee that he'll be asleep before Madingley Road, or we'll get off. Off we go.
On getting back to St Neots, I realise there's no way Ben is walking the half-mile alleyway home, so set about getting a taxi. This is after he failed to walk down the steps and I had to leave him at the top, stand at the bottom arms outstretched and have the driver give him a nudge. Luckily, the taxi was a people-carrier so I could lay him on the floor. Me and the cabbie pick him up and deposit him by the back door, as he's lost his keys.
The most upsetting thing, of course, is the fact that after spending £490 when the original limit was two lunch beers, neither of them can remember having stripper-gash rubbed in their faces.
The story continues, but I already find myself apologising for my intimidating length.
(Wed 30th Mar 2011, 11:06, More)