Up Front: Same as it Ever Was
230 Responses
First ←Older Page 1 2 3 4 5 6 … 10 Newer→ Last
-
And that's where my sailor-father and my mother made me. Bless.
Ha, cheers! My Mum was a blind date with an American sailor on the wharf down in Christchurch. Took Dad 4 dates over 4 nights to propose.Ships in the night.
-
ask Nat Torkington about the time he walked into my house...
Ooo, are we all posting our sordid stories about Nat Torkington?
-
And goats
-
Modesty forbids me from saying anything other than to ask Nat Torkington about the time he walked into my house, demanded to know "How many goats did you have to sacrifice to make this happen?", and then wrote the evening up for Usenet consumption.
I shall also keep silent about the evening in question, except to note that I helped carry some of the equipment up the stairs. And to point out that Nat Torkington was very much Not The Subject of Attention.
-
Am I the only one now scouring usenet / my memory / my conscience?
Ok, good.
-
Thanks Emma -- after a review of my sordid life, I now realise it's kind of silly and the misery memoir route to fame and riches isn't an option.
There was the occasion where I found my (definitely ex-) partner making a dick-kebab of my (former) best friend. But even that turned into farce when we had the "it's not what you think" conversation (what -- you were trying to fish your car keys out of his rectum with your penis?), followed by "why don't you join us?" Talk about dumb animal penis-brains gone wild...
-
When you're no longer living it, you can leave out all the angst, all the crying and crockery-smashing. The point becomes the funny sides, which sometimes weren't even visible at the time.
Ah, what I call the 'dine-out' principle. Turn your unpleasant life experiences into amusing anecdotes which can be dusted down and trotted out for years afterwards.
Not exactly a sleazy story, but I was once woken from a deep and restful slumber by what at first appeared to be rain, but actually turned out to be a Dutch gentleman of my acquaintance urinating copiously on my bed. Not nice at the time, but telling the story down the pub generally raises a laugh or two.
Megan gets bonus points. But Tom's story involves a life-sized cardboard Wolverine, so also accrues bonus points.
So, how many bonus points if the deed took place with both participants in full, authentic English Civil War costume? And, if I recall correctly, by the time battle was joined, we were up against the wall of the stables of a stately home somewhere in the UK Midlands. Being at the time somewhat the worse for wear on authentic old-timey mead, I can't recall if we actually reached the stage of...um...'push of pike'... before the cavalry, in the form of her boyfriend, turned up, and I had to beat a hasty retreat from the field of combat, desperately trying to retrive my authentic lace-up breeches from somewhere around my knees.
Certainly added something of a frisson to the next days proceedings, given that he was on the opposing side for the main event, and there wasn't exactly a shortage of authentic edged weapons or firearms at the time. Still, I lived to tell the tale.
-
making a dick-kebab of
That is the phrase of the thread, so far. And that is some stiff competition.
-
I hope you're all thoroughly ashamed of yourselves :)
-
Megan:
Have I ever told you you've got a dirty mind -- and if you ever change I'll be severely displeased. And not in a fun 'ball gag and whipped cream between consenting adults' kind of way either. (It all comes back to the extruded plastic-and-leather accessories with faux dairy products in the end, people.)
I hope you're all thoroughly ashamed of yourselves :)
I don't remember. And that, boys and girls, is the only upside to "Who are you? What did we do that required copious amount of what I pray is peanut butter smeared on your thighs? Where am I? Why am I wearing someone else's underwear on my head?" blackout sex. No thank you notes to write.
-
Craig: You wouldn't be the first person to say so, nor the first person to appreciate it.
-
Ooo, are we all posting our sordid stories about Nat Torkington?
YES
I'm all fevered and ghastly this morning, but you people are all completely brilliant (albeit in a very scary manner) and making a pick on this is going to be very difficult.
-
One thing tho', I'm poly but not into threesomes/group sex. What is up with that?
I dislike having my attention split, it always makes me feel like I'm not Being My Best.
-
Modesty forbids me from saying anything other than to ask Nat Torkington about the time he walked into my house, demanded to know "How many goats did you have to sacrifice to make this happen?", and then wrote the evening up for Usenet consumption.
I shall also keep silent about the evening in question, except to note that I helped carry some of the equipment up the stairs. And to point out that Nat Torkington was very much Not The Subject of Attention.
Bloody hell, someone should tell this story. Lord knows it's one of the great regrets of my life that I only heard about it afterwards...
-
It has reached a certain... legendary status. Heh, does Nat still have a copy of what he wrote back in the day?
-
So, at high school I "dated" this guy for a little while. We never got past first base, and eventually we broke it off very amicably when he admitted that "it's weird, but kissing you somehow feels like kissing my sister."
'Course, you all know where this is going, though it took me till my school reunion 10 years later before realisation dawned. Then I kind of wondered why he'd gone there at all, till I realised that at the time I had a short-back-and sides and not much in the way of curves, and he found me particularly attractive when I wore a tuxedo...
-
so you're saying he was really ..... a lesbian?
-
'Course, you all know where this is going
Actually, at that stage, I feared the worst.
-
Not sure where to post this message but this does seem to be the hottest thread at the moment. My pal Liam Ryan has let me know that one of the performers at the Tauranga Jazz Festival in 2010 is Dr John. Which is great news.
Doing a stint on New @ 8 (TVNZ7) this evening. Must wear a better shirt!
-
Well in that case, you might like this. I know I did.
-
Ooo, are we all posting our sordid stories about Nat Torkington?
Unfortunately the only sordid story I have about Mr Torkington involves excrement and a plastic bag, rather than parties of note.
-
Actually, at that stage, I feared the worst.
Yeah, you're right. It would make a much better story if it turned out I actually was his sister...
-
Xeno,
Things that didn't actually happen, but looked briefly like they had...
(I blame my youth. I was only 30 at the time)
So, it was the second night of the annual 48 hour party, and somebody had dropped a wine-glass into the main toilet and broken it beyond repair. Copious amounts of duct tape was tried, but did really work. It was an ex-toilet, and furthermore, I was the lucky fellow who got to stick his hand into the still fouled toilet (when we still thought it might be patched up for another night) in order to fish out the broken glass. This is not the point of the story however. The point is that everybody had to use my en-suite instead. So after the jelly wresting, it was natural that all the wrestlers would take a shower together in my en-suite, leaving it littered with bikinis and jelly.
In the interests of truth I have to say that only some of these women were actually attracted to other women, so what you're probably thinking (something involving soap perhaps?) probably didn't happen. Much.
This however, combined with tree-roots, was too much for the drains. The final toilet backed up and we had to send everybody home. The following day we got the plumber out, and he set to work on the drains with the burrowing hose, and replaced the broken bowl.
I'm still disappointed that some helpful soul cleaned up my en-suite before he arrived however, removing all the jelly and bikinis.
-
Ooo, are we all posting our sordid stories about Nat Torkington?
Once upon a time I was catsitting for Nat. I think this may have been for the USA trip on which he first met Jenine irl, but that doesn't really affect the story one way or another.
So I was looking through the freezer, as you do, and I found a plastic bag of Some Herbal Substance. So I did what anyone would do: I moved it right to the back under a handy unidentifiable-berg, and initiated the following conversation when he got back.
- So, yeah, the cats were fine, everything was good, and I smoked your stash.
- My stash?
- Uh huh, I found your stash, and I invited people round, and we smoked it.
- My...stash?
- In the freezer.
- ... you smoked the catnip? -
Boy, you could one entire side of a postal stamp with the tales of my sordid past. But for what it's worth, Danielle made me think of this with the bathroom stall story… Doolin, Ireland, August 1990, the customary drinking session at the local pub. An outgoing (and significantly hunkier) friend successfully fraternises with a local lass out partying with other eligible friends, so when the closing time of 11pm rolls by he says let's go with these gals to another town where there's a club which stays open far longer. We hop into a car which meanders its way amongst the hills to a nearby village, I forget which one. I think to myself how good it is to have a sober driver.
I think my friend has spoken out of turn along the way because the moment we get out, our company vanishes. My friend freaks out, wants to find a ride back. I figure we're there, we might as well have a drink, so I head for the club while my friend starts asking people in the street if they have a car and they'd take us back to Doolin. Inside, I encounter another lass from the group and what do you know, it must have been fraternise-with-an-Italian night. Also, I had fantastic hair that summer*, and she must have been powerfully inhebriated. Anyhow, we do hit it off in and certain events are set in motion until a devastating moment when my friend finds me (but how? I still don't know) and starts yelling that he's found a ride and drags me away, which is too bad because he totally spoils the moment and I really wanted to finish that, er, conversation.
So we hop into this car, which as it happens is driven by the Drunkest Youth in Ireland. And it was the summer of 1990, remember, when Italy had beaten Ireland in the quarterfinals of the soccer World Cup, thanks to a goal by Salvatore Schillllaaaaacciiiiii. That's how he says the name, in a thirty second burst of lung power, and as he does so he puts the pedal to the gas and drives at fantastic speed around another bend in the hills of County Clare in total fucking darkness. Luckily he has a friend that brings him back down and gets him to slow a bit while he catches his breath, but then after a few seconds here goes Schillllaaaaacciiiiii again and we hit ninety. All this time I'm thinking it's too bad I'm going to die here and I didn't even get to finish. The conversation.
*People who have met me in New Zealand might be under the misapprehension that I lost said hair. Not true. I keep it in a special box.
Post your response…
This topic is closed.