» Spoilt Brats

My attempt to act spoilt:
"Mum, I want that." *points to some toy or other*

"That's how you ask for things now is it?"

"Ok, can I have that then?"

"I still didn't hear a please."

*tuts* "Please can I have that?"

"Yes, you can have it for your birthday."

"Buuuuut, that's not for aaaages, I want it now."

"Well, Christmas is before your birthday, you can wait till then."

"Only just. I don't want to wait."

"Then buy it yourself."

"Pffft, I can't afford it."

"Then you'll have to wait."

"I don't want to wait. Buy it for me. Now."

"Talk to me like that again and you'll get nothing but a slap."

*talks to her like that again*

*gets nothing but a slap*

*doesn't talk to her like that again*
(Fri 10th Oct 2008, 14:01, More)

» Unexpected Nudity

It was the pits.
I was a horny teen and I sat and stared with wild-eyed bewilderment at the very stunning and totally topless Teutonic temptress as she froliced on the beach only yards from my stirring loins. I'd never been abroad, and I had no idea that in abroad women would expose themselves on a packed beach, let alone jiggle their perfect, beautifully tanned jubblies in full view of slobbering teens such as myself.

I was in love. She was delightful and even the short brown hairs that jutted from her armpits couldn't quench my burning desire for this bespectacled beauty. Offers to go with my parents for ice cream were barely registered and swiftly dismissed; partly as I was determined that my eyes wouldn't miss a drop of the treat they were drinking in, but also because my swimming shorts offered scant disguise for the admittedly meagre swelling they contained.

But the law, as it pertained to toplessness on the beaches of France, wasn't sufficiently specific for the horny young me. It was certainly permitted to expose ones breasts should one desire, and that pleased me for what seemed like forever as I watched my siren make countless deposits in my recently opened account at the bank of wank. But the lack of restrictions in this newly discovered and sometimes lovely law meant that I was suddenly left with an overwhelming desire to detach my eyes when the sunlight was blocked by my sweetheart's elephantine mother as she waddled into view, pendulous breasts a-swing and the wind flowing freely through her hair... the hair, that is, that circled her nipples.

It was as though she'd shot me in the cock with an anti-arousal ray. I was softened in seconds as if she'd squeezed the life from my loins with one of her all too ample hands. Nausea gripped my stomach and twisted it while I wished a wind would kick sand into my eyes to relieve them of the terror of this sight. And then she bent away from me to pick up the ball she'd so carelessly dropped, her all too small bikini bottoms vanished into her cavernous arse and I knew immediately that she'd robbed me forever of the most wonderful sight my eyes had seen outside of my dad's special magazines. Later that night as I tried to picture the perfection I'd seen in her daughter, the wrinkled face, rhino-skin arse and sagging boobs of my tormentor swam into my mind's eye, and then the nightmares began.
(Thu 28th May 2009, 17:35, More)

» The nicest thing someone's ever done for me

Not man flu
Yeah, I've had man flu. It was horrific. I think I nearly died at one point.

But this was worse, so much worse. This was proper flu; straight up, no nonsense, fever fuelled flu.

I really did nearly die.*

It kicked in one Saturday while I was working in a bookshop. I felt a bit grotty when I woke up that morning, but I was a brave little soldier and dragged myself into work anyway. That's the kind of man I am.

Around mid morning I started shivering like a smack head in the grips of withdrawal, and the customers began eyeing me suspiciously.

By lunch time I was scanning the shop for somewhere to curl up and die, and the rest of the already heavily depleted staff were telling me to go home.

Mid afternoon and even the customers were telling me to go home. In my head I was already curled up on my sofa, having left my useless carcass in the shop.

All the while the gargoyle who called herself my boss was telling me that going home would be a big mistake and that I'd have no job to come back to if I did. She couldn't sack me for being ill, I knew that much, but I wasn't the best employee and she was just looking for an excuse; like the trigger happy copper who follows a 'suspicious' man into the underground, her gun could go off any minute.

That is until a kindly customer, who'd told me I should go home that morning, passed by and saw me pretending to distribute new books about the shop, and came in demanding to know why I hadn't left yet. I explained that the Wicked Witch had threatened me with the Spanish if I did, so I was just going to struggle on through (see, brave little soldier).

"I don't fucking think so." she spat, before marching up to the Evil Dwarf and, in front of a large queue of people, informed her that I would be leaving for the day, that I would be back when I'm well, and that if I suffered even so much as a misplaced comment then she, the quite high ranking legal somethingorother that she was, would represent me for nothing when I took them to court. By this point I was just floating around above them, watching the whole scene with a dispassionate detachment as the fever took hold in my head, and was more than happy to let her make such a scene on my behalf.

She then told me to gather my things, led me by the hand to her car and drove me home, ranting all the way about her hatred of power hungry losers like my boss. I assumed there was some history there, but I didn't dare interrupt her long enough to ask.

I think I almost called her mummy when I thanked her as I stumbled out of her car at my house. She gave me her card insisting I called her if my boss so much as looked at me funny when I went back to work. I didn't last much longer in that job, mostly because the £9k a year they paid me wasn't enough to pay the rent, but also because the dried up, mop haired old cunt (I don't still hold a grudge, these are just the terms we used to refer to her at the time) made sure I couldn't enjoy my time there.

So thank you mummy crazy lawyer lady, I managed to drag that illness out for days longer than I should have and didn't even have to produce a doctors note when I went back, or anything.




*Ok, I still didn't really, but, you know, it was horrible.
(Fri 3rd Oct 2008, 12:16, More)

» Nightclubs

Night of the living dead.
Drum & Bass. Acid. Sleep Deprivation: a bad combination you might think, and you'd be right, it's a dreadful combination.

I discovered just how awful these things are together when, already dazed by the kind of sleep deprivation a piece of coursework can inflict on a serial procrastinator, I foolishly accepted an invitation to accompany a college friend on a trip to his local, back street, deeply underground drum and bass club. In Derby.

Apparently a friend of his was to "drop some phat choons" or however you kids describe Disc Jockeying nowadays, and I would be granted entry upon the ever-so-exclusive guest list (it quickly transpired that this exclusivity extended to about 95% of the occupants of the club, but apparently is isn't cool to suggest we might join the other, shorter queue in the interest of gaining far swifter entry).

I coughed into the club and was immediately overwhelmed by the wall of smoke that appeared to permeate from the very walls of the place. It seemed there wasn't a drug in existence that wasn't being consumed in vast quantities, but crack was certainly a distinct favourite among the party goers inside.

A tiny piece of crudely torn paper was pressed into one hand and a bottle of beer into the other. It had been a few years since I'd danced with Lucy in the sky and I eagerly slipped the tab onto my tongue and took a seat while I waited for acid's soft hands to start massaging my mind.

"Wake up, you cunt." I think it was a bouncer and I think it was barking at me, but I couldn't be sure. The acid had taken hold in my sleep and a grizzly bear seemed to be doing an angry jig in front of me.

Distorted bass permeated my core, shaking my innards to pieces while gunshot snares pierced holes in my face with alarming rapidity. I glanced around and zombies with deep, sunset red eyes nodded at reggae pace while the undulating beats sent one drunken reveller into a fury of limb swinging delirium.

"Mih.key Finn, Mih.Key.Somethingorother.Finn" was shouted repeatedly by the emmcee and a unified roar arose from the crowded dance floor below. I had no idea where my friend had gone, or how long I'd slumbered on the sofa for, but it appeared not to matter to the gigantic zombie sat next to me, who was waiving a monstrous spliff in my face with the unlikely reassurance that "it's nah crack, ya know". I was too intimidated not to take it and puffed greedily on it before passing it along the line and slumping into a deeply stoned haze.

More sleep was soon interrupted when my sneering, wild eyed friend pushed more beer into my hand and garbled incoherently into my face. The fiend was trying to destroy my frontal lobe then throw me to the zombies below. It was clear he'd become one of them himself, but I calmly accepted the drink and pulled heavily on the reefer he offered before politely refusing the chance to go willingly into the carnage myself.

"I'll fight you all to the end" I spat at him and he grinned widely and said "yeah, it's fucking ace, aint it" before bouncing back down the stairs and into the mass of undead.

The rest of the night appeared to pass in phases as bouts of sleep were interrupted by beers and joints, and each familiar tune seemed to account for several hours at a go. The last tune was started for the 20th time before the crowd tired of requesting yet another rewind and the DJ let it go for a few hours before abruptly killing the power to his turntable. The beat came to a stumbling halt and an eerily zombified voice concluded a drawn out "bass tooooo daaaaaaaaarrrrrrrk" as the final dribbles of acid trickled out of my veins.

As I sauntered out into the late morning sunshine with the flesh seeking mob, and strolled down the road, arms dangling limply at my sides and a slack-jawed vacancy spread across my face it became all too apparent that I, too, had joined the ranks of the undead.
(Wed 8th Apr 2009, 17:19, More)

» Cringe!

At least I never saw them again...
Ah, it was all a dream. Thank some god or other for that. I thought as I shook the sleep from my weary head and took in the strange room that surrounded me. Why am I sleeping on the floor with only a thin blanket to keep the cold off my bones? Why on earth am I not using the bed that, hold on… yep, the empty bed that’s only a foot away.

I couldn’t make myself comfortable so I clambered onto the empty bed, where I immediately sank into the middle of the mattress and disappeared into a world of softness that couldn’t have contrasted more with my previous spot.

Ah! My brain said again, the girlfriend’s grandparents house. The ridiculously soft bed that forced the pair of us to occupy the precise same part of the mattress. My endless complaining, which meant either a makeshift floor-bed or a needless and ultimately futile argument. Then the dream. It really was a dream, I’m sure. There’s no way I wandered, naked as nature intended, around her grandparent’s house in search of another bed. It must have been a dream. I couldn’t possibly have had a conversation with her Grandmother, while my tackle hung uselessly in the cold night air. Sure I’m naked now, but I didn’t, nay, couldn’t have wandered into their room and…

“Morning, Sleepy.” Ah, she’s back, and all chirpy too; well whoop-de-fucking-do for you.

“Hey baby, sleep well?” Is what she should be asking me.

“Yes, thank you. Need I even ask if you did?” That’s better. Kind of.

“No, you don’t need to ask, I slept very badly, thank you.”

“So I understand. Breakfast’s ready, if you’re hungry.” What did she mean by “So I understand”? I'll ask her...

“What do you mean by...”

“There’s a towel if you want a shower.” Don't interrupt me woman...

“Thank you sweetie, but what...”

And out the door she goes, without listening to a word I'm mumbling at her.

Then she puts her head back round the door and, with a huge piss-taking grin spread across her face, she delivers the very words I really didn't want to hear:

“Oh, and Gran says it would be nice if you'd put some clothes on before you come downstairs. We don't want you wandering about all naked again, if it's all the same.”

Fucksocks.
(Mon 1st Dec 2008, 14:49, More)