Turns out I'm on a shift change. I'm actually three hours early for work.
When I used to drive from Windsor back to the dear green place, I'd leave at midnight so there was no traffic. I'd often pull into a truck stop near Gretna for a kip midway and more than once I've had the knock on the door from a lady of the night.
I used to joke if it was priced on vehicle type like a car wash as I was only in a 3 door Clio!
P.S - Currently sat in the work carpark having woken up and thought I was going to be late, only to get to work and realise I'm an hour early. Fucksake.
Been there, done that. Sorta.Be me. Be sixteen years old. Be chased out of your bed and miss the bus. Be forced to walk to school. Halfway there, be picked up by your maths' teacher and driven the rest of the way.
Be a day early back after the school holidays, much to your utter consternation.
Still, at least the maths teacher screwed up too.
Been there, done that. Sorta.
WO2 Shiny_Arrse turns up at Deepcut Officers in Mess drinking suit for a leaving Breakfast.
Got there 15 minutes early just in case, only to find out (after standing around looking magnificent, but lonely for 15 minutes) that the aforementioned Breakfast is booke for the next morning. And thet say time spent on Recce is never wasted!
My father used to grow LM Peri-peri's. Real mofo's mixed in with lovely flavours, so a bit ofI regret the passing of bio-tex for the soaking of stained clothing.
Chillies are all mutants. We grew just three plants last year, filled a freezer tray and are still discussing the next batch.
For a hoot, and a bit of a natural buzz, we do an occasional Russian Roulette with the home-growns by eating a few raw. Some are tame, some are explosive. Unless Mrs R is an exceptional bluffer, I always get the hot one.
I always get the explosive ones.
When we had the storm in 1987, I only woke because the large expanse of corrugated steel and its supporting scaffolding blew off the building opposite my window. Later that morning, no sign of any public transport so I was climbing over numerous large trees to get from Notting Hill to central Westminster. Eventually reaching the doors of target destination, all that I could hear was a telephone endlessly ringing and there was nobody around which was odd, security-wise.Race into work and wonder why you're the only one there. Done that a time or two.
Cheers mate. Don't I now feel like the total cock.
So joking aside for a minute then, can I just concur with what you have told us about her pesonality change when she had cancer.
It affected me in exactly the same way when I had bladder cancer a few years back.
I have a pretty black sense of humour normally, but when I was undergoing tteatment my sense of humour became intolerable for most of my family, friends, and colleagues. I literally laughed at the most inappropriate things. I was even disciplined at work for making jokes about a prisoner who had killed himself.
I promise you mate that she is probably not setting out to upset you.
Pure poetry, loved it, straight to the point, no long winded lead ups, and mirrored real life, warts an all.I’m convinced my arse is possessed by Satan and has an evil mind all of its own intent on embarrassing the **** out of me when I least expect it.
My ex is American of good God fearing Quaker folk (at least until her dad fukced off with the scrubs nurse from work, but that’s another story) and the first time I flew out to spam land to meet the family I was groggy from jet lag and not exactly firing on all four. Come dinner time we sit at the table, which had a long bench, and they do this sort of “hold hands in a circle, close eyes, give thanks to the Almighty for his bounty in silence -again Quaker thing - squeeze hands to signify the end of praising Him and all that”. I could feel a slight gurgle and trusted the fart (another story from a few months earlier and I should have known better, but I was young and naive). Not feeling too wet I figured I could creep it out silently, but as I was alternating cheeks discreetly in the moment of hand holding silence satan had other, more glorious ideas. My sphincter managed to position itself half on and half off the edge of the bench and it was a bigger guff than I expected so I completely misjudged the pressure and instead of a “hold and release” it was “hold and expunge”. The bench quite literally fukcing rattled just as my hand was being squeezed as my fart went through 3 octaves from bass to treble of trumpet sound.
I thought I might just have recovered my dignity after a few days of best behaviour, but no. I picked up a flu bug on the flight and 4 days in was rough as fukc. I went upstairs to get my head down when all the family great and good had rocked up to meet me. After a couple of hours Kip I woke busting for a wazz made it from the spare room to the bathroom, and was half way through unleashing the biggest pissh of my life when my world closed in around me, I passed out cracking my skull on the sink (didn’t feel a thing) and came to a minute later with my ex, her mother, grandfather, and sister coming into the bathroom to see me layed out cold with my knob out in a pool of my own urine. And I hadn’t even been drinking.
The day I left for the airport I needed a quick loo break, literally 5 mins before we had to go. Satan wasn’t done with me yet. I dropped King King’s forearm down the bog and would it fukcing flush? I was faced with a dilemma, keep flushing, use the bog brush to try and break it up, or heed the bidding of my ex to “hurry up”. There was a moment of clarity when I saw my turns doing circles at the top of the pan and stubbornly refusing to go anywhere, and I thought “fukc it” it’s at least a 3 hour round trip before they get home and it might disintegrate by then, and in any case, it will be a free months before we are back. Apparently, the next day, it was a topic of discussion between my ex and her mother.
I had a similar incident on a Tristar returning to Cyprus in the early noughties. We'd been out for a monster curry the night before, and I'd been unable to clear it prior to the flight. I dropped something similar to the poo monster from Dogma. No amount of flushing would shift it from the German style "inspect-a-poo" toilet. Once I stopped giggling at the thought of leaving it as a surprise for the next incumbent, I wrapped my hand in toilet roll and scraped it off the ledge. After 15 mins of watching people enter then immediately leave the cubicle, the smell must have subsided and normality resumed.The day I left for the airport I needed a quick loo break, literally 5 mins before we had to go. Satan wasn’t done with me yet. I dropped King King’s forearm down the bog and would it fukcing flush? I was faced with a dilemma, keep flushing, use the bog brush to try and break it up, or heed the bidding of my ex to “hurry up”. There was a moment of clarity when I saw my turns doing circles at the top of the pan and stubbornly refusing to go anywhere, and I thought “fukc it” it’s at least a 3 hour round trip before they get home and it might disintegrate by then, and in any case, it will be a free months before we are back. Apparently, the next day, it was a topic of discussion between my ex and her mother.
Your missus sounds like a cnut and should be despatched with a kebab skewer immediatelyLast summer, we stayed in our cottage in the Norfolk Broads, took the pooch with us. Superb weather, hot tub the works. A welcome week away after the surgery.
Sat out front, watching the birds, our attention is drawn to the pigeons scrapping for superiority. Each one making a proper scene out of sitting one branch higher than the other - pretty much like a visual representation of some of the fcuking Brexit threads on here.
Anyway, before long, the four of us have turned our attention away from the alfresco snacks, wine and Warsteiner and enjoying the spectacle, when suddenly at one end of the line of trees, a couple of the wood pigeons appear not to be fighting, but getting ready for a little parallel parking...
"aye aye!" I announce, "I think we've got a little action here..."
Sure enough, the male steps up and gives his mate the good news. A few seconds later he's done.
"Oh, it's over".
At that moment, the missus announces, "I think we should nickname you 'Pigeon' from now on".
I genuinely didn't know whether to laugh, cringe of wait for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
So I just sat there with a face like beetroot.
While her parents (bless them) laughed hard at my expense...
...The bench quite literally fukcing rattled just as my hand was being squeezed as my fart went through 3 octaves from bass to treble of trumpet sound...
Rather infra dig
How very dare you.Poof. Obviously one of those who has never got his hands dirty and totally clueless about the workings of the machine that enables him to earn a living, believing it's nothing to do with him and therefor an engineering problem.
Having oil rain on one from a cracked cylinder on a DC3 should be a rite of passage for all in the aviation dodge.