Childhood heroes..........

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by Juan_Ramirez_III, Oct 16, 2010.

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  1. No, not perma tanned tv wrestling gods or your uncle Harry who 'knew the krays' I mean the miscreants and sociopaths who flirted round the fringes of your spotty Herbert years and who you tormented/battered/extorted or abused for years with stoic resilience......

    Mine were plentiful, Tina, a thirty something alcoholic who's kids were boomeranged back and forth by social services but who more importantly allowed a select few of shaven headed fifteen year olds to play with her elasticated lady holes whilst furiously wanking in trembling unison, she used to let me pound her box on a massive beanbag whilst a couple of the boys pounded frosty jacks in her 60's decored kitchen.

    And mr dialling code, a forty something autistic male who smelled of eggs and who could recite the dialling code of any town in the uk, although this skill was highly impressive his further talent of buying ale in bulk for us and his flair for arson was far more endearing, resulting in him laughing like an amphetamine drenched hyena as he watched a disused mill burn after we had promised him a gameboy if he torched it, the centre spread in the local rag neglected to include the four shocked looking teenagers peeking over the graveyard wall as a swell of fire appliances struggled to bring a four storey, ablaze former cotton mill under control.

    My ultimate childhood hero though was stevie lock, a caveman like hardnut who had been in care since birth, his foster family of jehovas witness's were tormented week in week out by our gaggle of stevie led warriors using their conservatory to smoke piss poor ganja and listen to drum and bass, stevie excelled himself though by huffing four cans of gas In a row and popping off on the kitchen floor of his house giving the rest of us our first proper 'solja' to mourn wistfully...

    Give us your childhood heroes
  2. I'm glad none of this affected you in later life.
  3. I've fared well, I still enjoy the company of substance dependent women though
  4. Porridge_gun

    Porridge_gun LE Good Egg (charities)

    Darren Fryer was my childhood hero and tormentor.

    He used to put bangers in the handlebars of my Grifter and make me ride it until they exploded, invariably causing me to crash and fall off. Despite him throwing me over the sea wall I used to look upto him and helped him to his paper round.

    He was two years older than me but seemed a giant, with a haircut just like Peter Sutcliffe. If I gobbed off and got myself out of depth, the meer utterings of his name saw big boys running off in fear of being fried by the fryer.

    We once played 'lob stones over cars; on Abbey rd. This came to a grinding halt about thirty seconds into the game when he hurled a big rock through the side window of a Hillman Avenger, causing it to go hurtling through Mrs Roocrofts front garden wall.

    He was taken into care when his mum vanished with a tinted gentleman and he set fire to the Chemistry lab at school. It must have caused him some inner damage as he killed himself by getting off his box and driving into a tree on his 18th Birthday.

    I often wonder which prison he'd be in now if he was still alive, its probably a blessing he's dead as I'd have probably followed in his footsteps and not turned into the fine gentleman I am now.
  5. Mines was the local lunatic called Popeye who stayed up the road from my papa. These days he'd probably have and ASBO out against him banning him from hanging around the schools and following the kids home talking into a walkie talkie. He was the first walt I'd actually seen normally a mix of a donkey jacket and mil surplus clothes he was on occasions seen wearing Vietnam era fatigues and a US steel piss pot riding a bike.

    Now as you could imagine this odd behaviour would come under the close attention of us local kids now the fucker hated being called Popeye and had a short fuse of a temper so was easy to tease. Before you knew it he'd be ranting in full flow like R C Nesbit threating to get his Japanese army onto you and legging it after you on foot or by bike and would dish out a pasting to those he caught.

    Now Popeye wasn't a young slightly deranged person he had to be in his 40's or 50's then but the scary thing is he had a bird! She had hiar that was that greasy you could make a pot of chips off it looked like an uglier version of olive off the buses same type of NHS wad catchers as well. She was aptly named Olive oil and was also an alchie wasnt unknown for her to be stood at the bus stop with a few bags of booze and have it taken from her by the local neds.

    However I'd have loved to have seen this her and Popeye were on his bike, She's getting a seatie off him fag hanging out the side of her gob legs wrapped around his waist and holding a bag full of booze in each hand going up Townhead St he's blowing out his arse going up the hill.

    Not sure when the fucker died though. Sure TRF can also tell tales about winding him up.

    What about this fella I'm sure it's 5Alpha Akinwale Arobieke - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Should be getting an OBE for trying to keep kids of the street and develop an interest in body building
  6. Sounds like Gipton...

  7. Purple Aki, the big nonce fucker. Used to scare the shit out of me if he got on the bus, we would be hanging out on the back of the bus sharing ciggies and trying to get into the the white cotton pants of St Hilda's all girls finest . the purple one would come and sit amongst the lot of us and try and chat a few of the lads up. I used to get off the bus at Allerton rd and meet Tracy from Quarry Bank and finger her stupid while the rest thought Aki was gonna feel them up and bum them daft.

    Used to see him when I was on leave on the piss in town and tell him to fuck off, still a big fucker though and would hate him near my twitching ringpiece.

    Best "living bogyman" Aki hope you scare the shit out of scrotes for years to come
  8. Porridge_gun

    Porridge_gun LE Good Egg (charities)

    I'd forgotten our local child scarer, gary glitter..... not because he fcuked kids, but because it rhymes with 'picks up litter'

    He used to push an old bike with flat tyres with a massive shopping basket on the front and pick up all the rubbish, then take it home and pile it up in his garden.

    He had a house, but it filled with that much sh1t he moved out into a wrigley tin basha in the garden, as it was on the way to school, cnuts that we were, we used to pull the roof of his makeshift house and run away, he'd never catch us as he his soles were hanging off his shoes and they were no match for my Reebok, or adidas Ivan Lendl court shoes.

    Rumours were rife about what would happen if he ever got his hands on you, we'd heard children had vanished in his house and he@d fcuked and eaten them. It was of course nonsense and I'd be telling fibs if I denied adding to and fuelling the rumours.

    I saw him when on leave once, and despite being nearly twenty I couldn't help but wind my window down and shout ''waaaheeey gary''

    He must have died or been locked up as I noticed the old house on the market not long ago.
  9. We had another called the dummy as he was a mute! Dead forward thinking us lot any way he'd wear a wee bobbled hat and an old black suit with wellies on wasn't very big either. However he just walked about all day picking up bits of tin foil from chewing gum wrappers, lemonade bottles which had a 10p deposit on them he carried these in a bin bag slung over his shoulder. Kids would run up and rip his bag and let it all fall out. Got done in by a hit and run near the playing fields at the back of my scheme when they went to sort out his house out and found 30K under the bed this was mid-late 80's could have bought a few houses with that round ours then.
  10. I don't know the man's name. He was a tiny chap who kept to himself and lived in a tiny cottage. Whenever he visited a local shops he'd ask the clerk if there were any silver dollars in the til which he could buy. This would be in the 1950s when the real dollars, 90% silver and the size of a crown, were still circulating. None of that cupro-nickle bullshit.

    In due course the authorities were called to do a welfare check because he hadn't been seen for quite a while. He was a goner. Someone was appointed to do a clear out. He didn't have a lot and much of it went to thrift shops. There was no sign of his silver stash.

    But there was the fridge. One of those antique models with the cooling coils on the top. No one wanted it so it was to be moved to the edge of the street where it would be hauled off. Tilting it for the handtruck, it toppled over and nearly went through the floor.

    The little old man had disassembled his fridge and removed the insulation from the walls. Then he had made a small slit in the top of the side - similar to what we had in medicine cabinets to dispose of used razor blades into the wall cavity - and there was the silver.

    Cold cash?

    Frozen assets?

    Stuff me! Today a piece of crap silver dollar is $25 minimum. How I would have loved even SEEING that hoard. (Heartbroken coin collector that I am.)
  11. I remember one greasy haired wierdo who used to drive a flatbed for my uncle. To be fair he was a lot of fun, dishing out his roll ups and letting youths watch over 18 videos in his flat and get drunk. He was also 'fond' of the ladies and spent his weekends digging around in middle aged conservative club snatch with his oily and machine damaged hands. The rise of the world wide web Signalled the poor cunts demise after he was found in his lock up on a mattress with a couple of his very young and half pissed myspace friends
    : )
  12. BrunoNoMedals

    BrunoNoMedals LE Reviewer

    Mt childhood hero was a lad called Marcus. Living in the suburbs with his mum on my best mate's road, he moved in when we were all about 10 and it soon became obvious that he was a bit of a lad.

    His mum was the biggest dealer of weed in a five mile radius, and we'd regularly pop in to see him to find massive bags of the stuff out on the coffee table. Unsuprisingly, it was under his guidance that I first got stuck into that particular vice.

    Other stories include:

    1. Dropping "bomb bags" (foil bags of baking powder, with a small sachet of citric acid inside... press, mix, expand, boom) through the local oldie's letter box on Halloween: She nearly didn't make Christmas as she came to the door, picked up the innocuous-looking device, and began reading the instructions. From behind Marcus' fence you could see the look on her face as she realised exactly what was about to happen. Approximately three minutes after the explosion her daughter came tear-arrsing down the street in response to the frantic phonecall for assistance...

    2. Hospitalising a rival: One day we're at the bus stop on the way to school, when a kid from a rival school (who shared the same route) gets off and throws Marcus through the launderette window. Not to be outdone, Marcus and his step-dad (a man of epic proportions, who would make Purple Aki look like Kris Akabusi) go out to find said offender. Dropping Marcus off around the corner, step-dad confronts the lad (plus four mates and girlfriend) as a distraction, while Marcus appears from the rear and proceeds to wail on the guy's skull with a steel bar. I think the lad was laid up for a month, including a week in the ICU.

    Despite being small, Marcus was quick and strong. He played for my basketball team for many years and was pretty damn good at it. One PE lesson he skinned me and I ended up slapping him around the head after missing the ball. He wasn't impressed by my (completely honest) claims of mistimed tackles, and promptly beat the snot out of me.

    After high school we didn't see much of the lad. His mum moved back to Jamaica and left him home alone, so he moved in with some cousins in Moss Side - who happened to be members of the Gooch gang. He promptly got convicted of a murder (the story says he shot a pregnant woman). Last I heard he was on the run in Spain - the BBC website had a nice article saying he was expected to make a home visit, and the police were keeping an eye out.
  13. A child hood hero of mine was Mark something or other (something or other wasn't his surname but I can't remember it now). He lived on the local council estate, went around wearing an old lumberjack checked donkey jacket. I think the last time he'd seen a bath was when Labour were in power (this all happened about circa '89). I was roughly 12 or 13, & he was about 2-3years older than me.

    He was always in trouble with the law for petty theft, under age drinking, generally for being a scroat.
    But his big claim to fame was climbing a pylon, and turning himself into the Human Torch. He fell about 30-40ft to the ground looking like a demented buddhist monk break dancing to Disco Inferno.

    By the time he was left out of hospital, he had a face like a melted Action Man, and answered to "Plastic Fantastic", "Drippy Face", or "Smiler". Always had a smile on his face, literally. The skin was so tight he was always grinning.

    A good few years later, the silly cunt also got pissed up and jumped into a bonfire, fell over, and once again got the shit burned out of him. All the plastic surgery he'd had over the years to repair his face down the drain. Well, all over the jacket spuds really. Gutted, one of them was mine.

    Thick twat must've been made of Asbestos though, he's still living locally to my parents. As far I'm aware he hasn't had any more fire related incidents though.
  14. I'm glad it isn't just my home town, we had a few of these local heroes.

    There was Hello John, his MO was to wander up and down the high street saying hello to absolutely everybody he passed, all day every day. Dressed in a big coat, flat cap and scarf no matter what the weather Hello John would meet and greet anyone out doing their shopping, the lights were on but there was definitely no one home. Bizarrely John had a few special moves, as I found out when I got a bit older and certain questions would get a different response to the stock answer of hello. Kids would go up to John in the street and ask him "Hello John how's your cock?" to which he would reply "Champion best!". They would follow this up with "John how's your balls", to which he would grin through his NHS giggs and announce "Full of Spunk!". Now you may think this was a strange exchange between a gang of kids and a mentalist in his sixties and you'd be right. It still baffles me now. Sadly good times have to end sooner or later and Hello John was found floating face down in the canal one morning.

    Beady Eye Frank was another local character, he didn't have much going for him either. A weird scrunched up little bearded midget in his late fifties, with beady eyes funnily enough. Frank used to wander around wearing an old school Parker and carrying a shitty old satchel. A bit of a sportsfan was Frank and he'd spend most of his time hanging around WH Smiths either looking at boxing magazines or trying to initiate conversations with people he didn't know about boxing. Sadly Beady Eye Frank wasn't found dead in the canal.

    John Binnsley was our local Harold Ramp, I don't think his real surname was Binnsley we just called him that because he spent so much time scratting around in bins looking for treasure and building his nest out of bits of wood and cardboard. He spent quite a bit of his time nest building as I recall, perhaps connected to the local kids smashing his house up whenever he emerged to go scratting.
  15. We had "Hansnfeet" (Hands and Feet), who lived just down from the entrance to my primary school. I'm not sure of the medical name for what his condition was, but he was a kind of two-legged windmill, with the wonky Steven Hawking loaf. This cnut could walk and run, mind. He slapped around a few kids and we were scared of him big time. Then he caught a wrong 'un when he badly beat up the local UDA brigadier's 8 year old son. Dunno what happened to old Hansnfeet, but I can imagine.

    Postman Fat - we made that poor man's life a living hell. "Donkey Derby" was the order of the day for his garden, by which I mean we repeatedly jumped into and out of his front flowerbed. We also put his son in a wheelie bin, with a paving stone on the top.
    We also nicked his (large) stash of booze out of his shed, and then Miff burned it down.