» Cheap Tat

Tesco value toaster
Unlike Penguin of death's, mine has been working perfectly well (reasonably well anyway) for over a year, but I do have one question about it. (And most other toasters in my experience)

The setting dial goes from 1 to about 6.
1 = Lightly toasted
2 = Medium brown / Well toasted
3 = Carbon - Sets off smoke alarms all over house


What the fuck are 4, 5 & 6 for???
Perhaps;
4 = Burn down your house?
5 = Cause a local blackout?
6 = Blow up the national grid?
(Fri 4th Jan 2008, 13:25, More)

» Too much information

TMI or TME?
I can't believe I'd forgotten about this one. Reading k2k6's story about the veet incident reminded me.
Several years past, when Mrs Greencloud was a young (18 - 20 ish) Fiancee of Greencloud she had an appointment with the quack for some lady-matter or other. It may have been a smear test - whatever they are.

Being an image-conscious type, she'd gone in the bath beforehand to prepare said growler for medical examination. Having thoroughly cleaned shaved / waxed / plucked to perfection she applied a little moisturiser to ward off razor-burn on the delicate pink parts.
Wait for it.......

Apparently, upon seeing her de-kekked kebab the doctor had began to chuckle and called over the attending nurse who also was obviously supressing a guffaw. Immediately concerned and offended, my Mrs demanded to know what was up. If I remember correctly, the nursed handed her the recently removed knickers by way of explaination, the crotch of which was apparently shimmering like a QVC diamante special.

The explaination?: She'd mistaken her small tube of moisturiser stuff for the assumedly similar tube of 'body glitter' (Apparently a trend in the late 90's / early 00'ies. Body glitter - for the benefit of us blokes - was a clear gel stuff laced with tiny flakes of crushed glitter which ladies applied sparingly to breast/chest areas when dolled up for a night on the razzle to provide a "shimmering" effect)

The upshot was that my wife nervously attended her smear appointment and timidly lay back to reveal to a medical practitioner her finest impression of a 'disco-cnut'!!!

Too much information? Probably. I could have condensed this into; "My wife once went for a smear appointment with body glitter rubbed on her chuff"

Too much effort? I bet it was the best presented fanny that doctor's ever seen!

Length? Once, mine was 'diamond'!
(Thu 6th Sep 2007, 16:49, More)

» Stupid Dares

Mustard and loose change.
Rather un-remarkable, but thought I'd post it nonetheless.

At about 15 or 16, I was dared to eat a whole jar of english mustard for the reward of 10 Regal Kingsize. With one stipulaton, I accepted. I had to have something to put it on. A slice of bread was produced and I went forth and consumed the entire contents of the jar, sweating profusely around the face and sheding tears or pure napalm.

No, I didn't get the cigarettes.

A lad I went to school with, Elvis (for that's what he was called etc. etc.) went through a stage of agreeing to swallow coins. I still don;t know whether this was just for the kudos of doing it, or if he sifted through (*retch*) and retrieved them later. He wouldn't do 2p's or 50's and the £2'er wasn't around then.

I only had a couple of classes with him, but watched him swallow £3.41 myself, so he must have swallowed at least a tenner in the few weeks he did it. Apparently he stopped 'performing' after over-doing it and having a rather difficult and painful 74p shit.

I still remember him every time I see a bank coin bag and read the words "No mixed coin please" or walk past a 'coin-star' at Asda.
(Mon 5th Nov 2007, 12:10, More)

» Apparently I'm a sex offender

Tame by comparison, you pack of preverts!
After a glorious Friday night on the juice with the lads, I attempted to make up for it (as promised) with a romantic night spent attempting to please 'her indoors'. All was going swimmingly, nice indian meal washed down with a bottle or three of overpriced grape-juice. She even managed to crack a smile once or twice, I could see that cheky little glimmer of success sin her eye and knew things would improve vastly once we got home.

It was in the taxi, however that things started to go awry. That tasty curry-roast labrador must've had a disagreement with last night's scabby-cat-in-a-pitta-bread and they began chasing around my battered intestines. With those two greasy animal carcasses sloshing around in the remnants of the previous nights guiness invasion and marinading themselves in chateau-condemned, something had to give. It started at the top first, with a belch that Grandad would've thought drifted from a trench in the Somme. I managed to pass that off with the swift consumption of several of the mints presented to me with the bill earlier.
Casa del Greencloud was eventually reached, and the cabbie received a rather generous tip due to my desperate urge to splurge and reluctance to wait for change from the skoda driving pikey twunt. She's still rather keen, and lingers for several minutes of 'heavy petting' on the doorstep before entering the lurve palace (don't know why - we've lived together for years - perhaps that nosy biatch over the road was watching and my lustful queen wanted to give the old net-twitcher something to watch?!)
I eventually managed to get her into the bedroom and by this time, I didn't even want sex anymore - my only desire was for her to put the babywipes in the fridge while I evacuate my riotous bowel. But being eager to please and still attempting redemption for my boyish shenanigans, I decided she could have a quickie before I depart to the porcelain throne.
It was then it came, I bent over further than I really should have in my attempt to speeden things up with a bout of cunnilingus and the beast escaped.
The sound was that of a 52 piece brass band simultaneously coughing into their mouth-pieces, the vibration was enough to rattle the over-sized Ikea prints on the far side of the wall. Her face looked like she just found me in a swordid frisson with her grandparents. My only saving grace was that I somehow managed to avoid redecorating the room with my tan-emulsion.
Needless to say my slumber was not of the highest quality that fateful evening. After an un-fathomable amount of time on the pot (no cooled baby wipes for this bad lad - I'm surprised she didn't swipe the quilted velvet for my crime!) I managed a couple of hours squeezed onto our sofa (2 seater - I'm 6"3').

Sex - Rarely nowadays
Offender - I certainly did.

No joke relating to excessive length (it could only be measured in volume - how long would 12 pints be?)
(Wed 23rd Aug 2006, 16:07, More)

» Karma

Sorry, not particularly eloquent.
My 'stepbrother' (no actual marriage to make the connection, but you know what I mean) was a grade-A cnut. He caused no end of problems for our admittedly 'Jeremy-Kyle-esque' extended family. He'd been a serious stoner for several years with some recreational use of harder stuff on occasions.

About a decade ago, he strted getting into coke in a bad way. He had a mountain of debts for various items that were steadily going bad and owed pretty much everyone in the family money from sponging, especially my mother & her partner (his dad) who were struggling with large debts themselves.

Things came to a head when it came to light that he'd stolen £20 from our house (I still lived 'at home' then) and I confronted him about it. The result was a poorly choreographed fist-fight which was swiftly broken up when he tried to use a house-brick as a weapon and threatened to have me 'jabbed' by one of his junkie mates.
He must have been fond of the humble brick, as he used several to increase the ventilation in my brothers house, via the windows, after a slight altercation.

Karma comes sinto the story a couple of months after the events above. His addiction was kicking in big-time and I heard he'd been beaten up over drug debts. The story that eventually came to light was that he'd gotten himself 10 grams on credit (he was dealing to fund by that time) and had gone home and hoovered up the lot. Apparently his conscience finally emerged and got the better of him, leading him to hang himself with the hoover wire.

If he'd asked, I would have helped him out. After all, you have to use specific knots with electrical flex to prevent it untying itself. (He was found on the floor - apparently it held long enough!

A year afterward, I read his suicide note (scribbled on the back of a used envelope - he never did have any style!) and chuckled at his pathetic blaming of anyone and everyone else for the problems he caused for himself.

Am I harsh?
(Fri 22nd Feb 2008, 12:06, More)