Tag Archives: abuse

AB#2– Stalking Mary

7 Aug

After my near escape from almost certain death last week I have decided to take up a new hobby; stalking. This I feel is a lot safer for myself, and will give me the added buzz that my life is so desperately lacking at the moment. My target is to be Mary O’Connor over the road, a 40-year-old woman that lives alone. I have chosen her for a few reasons.

 

Firstly, as already mentioned, she lives alone; so this will make my hobby a whole lot easier and thus more enjoyable. Secondly, she is quite decadent. Small in stature, nice little but perfectly formed breasts, with nipples like raspberries, and eyes so deep; sheer beauty. Thirdly, I think I can get away with it for a bit longer with her as we are already sort of friends: I once threw my frog-themed wellington boot into her garden and she spoke to me.

 

I have decided to tell you how I am to go about this task, and in the near future will let you know how I have got on. Trust me; it will be a lot of fun. My first plan is to act like I am obsessed with the same things as Mary, but in a fun way. For example, I am going to start conversation with her every morning when she collects her milk and I collect mine from the doorstep. I will ask her what her favourite food, singers and hobbies are, and state that mine are the same. Once I have found this information, I can learn more about each one using the internet and then blurt out random facts the next day.

 

I can see it now; “Ah yes Mary, Hootie and the Blowfish are my favourites to – were you there in 1987 as well?” I’ll give this a week or so and then start copying the way she dresses (I still have my mothers’ clothes in the attic). I’ll copy the way she styles her hair, and perhaps even her little idiosyncrasies.

 

My phone will probably be my new best friend for the next month or so. I plan to ring Mary. A lot. If she doesn’t answer, I plan to keep ringing her back until she does, leaving a message on the answer machine every time. I have seen this on both films, and soaps and looks a good tactic to use. I’ll start off with things such as, “Hi it’s me, just seen something that reminds me of you, ring me back”, and get progressively worse, maybe becoming tetchy and angry with each message I leave. I plan to end with, “Do you hate me?? What have I done wrong, Arrrghghhhh!!” and leave an almighty, deafening scream. When she does eventually answer, I’ll act like nothing is wrong, and that maybe she is the strange one for believing I was angry.

 

The next stage will be to make random appearances at places she is at. I’ll follow her car to local supermarkets and accidentally bump into her, “Fancy seeing you here!!”. I will attempt to find out when and where she is going out for dinner with friends, and book myself a table in the same restaurant. For added stalker value, I may even wear the same dress as her. I know she visits her Mother on a Sunday, so I plan to become her mother’s gardener on this day. At this point she may start to get worried. If I can keep up with this for maybe two or three weeks, I’ll begin to get a bit more aggressive in my approach to stalking Mary. I already know where she works, but I will find out about those people she works with. Then, when in conversation with her, I’ll make snide comments about them that will freak her out.

 

For example, “You know Bill in your office? I’d love to see a lorry reverse over him, and his rotting corpse be scavenged by crows. Sorry, did I say that out loud?” I’ll follow this up with a violent shake, and my best evil laugh. The final part of my stalking expedition will be the abuse in a public place. When Mary has maybe sussed me out, or is definitely worried by my presence, I’ll follow her everywhere, getting worse with the insults. I can start off lightly with phrases like ‘liar’, ‘cheat’, and then move onto ‘baby killer’, ‘husband murdering bitch’, etc. This will be fun, I am sure. I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

Rot in Hell, Mary, you fat whore

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Taxi Abuse

13 Jul

Taxi drivers tend to get a bad press but I’ve never had a major problem with them. Yes, some of them do try and rip people off, but on the whole they’re ok. I’ve only ever had one bad experience in a taxi, and that is the topic of this post. It happened on a Friday night on my way back from the delightful town of Aylesbury. Both myself and my best mate Rowley, who was with me at the time, had consumed a lot of alcohol on this particular night. We’d decided enough was enough and felt it was time to call it a night. We sauntered out of the bar we were in and headed straight for the kebab van. It’s an unwritten rule that greasy food must be consumed after drinking anything above 6 pints of alcohol, and we were both eager to get something quite rotten into us before heading home.

 We both purchased chips with cheese and chicken meat, with burger sauce and of course, salad. The salad helps balance out the bad food and makes for a more healthy dining experience. We considered tucking in before heading home, but then spotted a waiting taxi and decided to jump in before someone else grabbed it.

 “No eating in here please”, said the taxi driver as we got in.

 It wasn’t an issue; we’d eat when we got home. It was something to look forward to. We told the driver where we needed to go and I carried on the conversation with the traditional questions that all taxi drivers have to be asked:

 ‘Been busy tonight?’

‘What time do you finish?’

‘What football team do you support?’

‘Has a girl ever given you a blow job instead of payment?’

 The driver responded with a few grunts and we were on our way. I say ‘on our way’ – we were actually fucking flying. The driver was either The Stig, or on some sort of time trial mission.; he had his foot to the floor and we were screeching round bends and overtaking other cars a terrifying speed. Even in our drunken state we realised that the driver was crazy. We pulled our seat belts tighter to us and held on tight. I looked at my friend and mouthed ‘Fuck-Ing-Hell.’

 “Do you think you could slow down a bit, mate?” Rowley asked quietly. The drivers eyes looked up into the rear view mirror.

 “I’ll drive how the fuck I want”

 “Well can we get out then?”

 The driver ignored us and just carried on driving. He had a death wish.

 Once again I looked at Rowley. I whispered,

 “I’m not paying this cunt. Shall we run?”

 “Yes. We’ll run. He is a massive cunt”

 We were now only a few minutes from my house.

 “Can you drop us off at the parade of shops please?” I asked.

 The driver merely nodded. The shops were only a short walk from my house and I didn’t want the driver to know where I lived so it was an ideal drop spot. We would be able to do a runner from the taxi and then head behind the shops to a small alleyway that led to a cul-de-sac. I had the plan all set out in my head, but as I’d never actually done a runner before, I was quite nervous. I sensed Rowley felt the same; we both sat in silence ready to leap from the taxi. My heart was thumping against my chest and I had sobered up a lot. One of my hands clung to the seat in front, the other gripped the carrier bag in which I had my food. I nudged Rowley and told him not to run straight away, just to follow my lead, and he gave me a knowing look back. We pulled up outside the shops; the drive from Hell was over; for now.

 “How much do we owe you?”

 “Eighteen quid”

 I reached into my pockets as if to get the cash.

 “My bloody jeans are tight, I need to stand up to get my money”, I said, laughing nervously. I opened the door as I spoke.

 Rowley was reaching for his door handle as well. Then I snapped.

 “YOU FUCKING WAAAANNNNNKKKERRRRRR!” I shouted furiously, flinging my food around my head and releasing it so that it flew towards the drivers face. The bag exploded against the windscreen, showering the driver in chips and salad. The burger sauce had covered the dashboard and lettuce and tomato hung from the air vents. I was already running away and Rowley was a few paces behind me.

 Suddenly, Rowley stopped running and turned back towards the taxi. He opened the front passenger door and launched his food into the car.

 “TA-DA BOB!” His face was contorted with rage. Once again he turned to run in the direction I was heading.  I was laughing and it was hindering my speed somewhat. We darted through an opening between two shops and peered through the gap. The driver was sat, dumbfounded and dazed in his taxi, with food hanging off him. He was an absolute mess.

 We watched and waited in silence, waiting for the taxi driver to decide what he was going to do. Rowley was stood slightly in front of me and I could see his shoulders moving up and down. I peered round and he was struggling to hold back his laughter. This set me off, and I had to bite my fist. Tears filled my eyes and I kept snorting, trying to fight the urge to erupt into a full on guffaw. A couple of minutes passed and the driver started to move off. He drove a couple of yards slowly before speeding off again into the night. We laughed loudly, it was nice being able to release it after holding it all in.

 Eventually we calmed ourselves down and emerged from our hiding place. We made our way across the road towards my house, keeping a look out for the mental taxi driver.

 “Rowley?”

 “Yes mate?”

 “I’m fucking starving”

 We both began pissing ourselves again.

Never again have I done a runner from a taxi, nor do I intend to, but trust me, this one deserved it. As I’ve said, every other taxi driver has been a decent bloke, this one was just, well, weird.

Irate Fat Girl

14 Jun

The football team I play for held an auction which was used to raise money for the team and more importantly, charity. It was a good laugh; a few beers were put away and the food was free, which is always a bonus. One of the highlights for me was when my brother outbid me to pay £22.95 for fifty litres of fruit juice. It was a lot I was happy to lose and although my brother didn’t mind that much, little did he know that he would have a setback of a different kind later on that evening.

After the auction, a group of us decided to head into High Wycombe to see what havoc we could cause over there. It was quite good, nothing special, but we had a laugh, danced like spastics on speed and drank far too much alcohol. By 2am, most of the group had retired for the evening and there were only 3 of us left; my brother, Mark and I.

 We decided to head for the only place that was left open, a dingy nightclub which attracts all manner of reprobates to it. Putting this aside, I wanted a drink, and so I was happy to go along, even if it meant paying a £6 entrance fee (the money grabbing twats). Into the club we strolled and then headed upstairs, straight to the bar. Mark bought a round of beers, and as none of us had much energy left in us, we decided not to strut our stuff on the dance floor. Instead, we stood at the bar and chatted about the night’s events, although I think I did break into doing the robot for a while.

We hadn’t been supping on our beers for long, when an attractive young girl came over to where we were and asked my brother if he fancied a dance. At first he was reluctant, but after we goaded him for a while, he accepted the invitation and joined her on the dance floor. Now, at the time I didn’t really know why what followed happened, I had to wait for my brother to tell me. It was certainly funny to witness.

After they had been dancing for a few minutes, the girl turned to him and whispered in his ear.

“Make me jealous”, she said through hushed tones.

“What?”

“Make me jealous. Dance with another girl for a bit.”

 My brother was confused to say the least, but he didn’t really have much choice because no sooner had she made her demand, his dancing partner had turned to face another random bloke and was gyrating in front of him, all the while looking over her shoulder, winking at my brother. Not wanting to look like a complete lemon, standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, he decided to go along with what she had asked. ‘This is quite kinky’, he thought to himself.

Looking around him for a girl that he could dance with, he spotted a lonely looking girl dancing on her own, with a drink in hand. She was rather large and not very pretty and sweating quite profusely from her dancing. My brother stepped up in front of her and began dancing and the fat girl just gawped at him. This was probably down to the fact that he was doing the David Brent dance from The Office, his arms swinging from side to side as he squatted and sidestepped to and fro in front of her.

 “FUCK OFF” she barked, and her eyes went all big and bulbous, and veins in her forehead were popping out. As she said this she relieved the contents of her glass all over my brother’s head. She was not very happy, and my brother made things worse when he just started to crack up laughing at how she had reacted. It seemed to annoy her further, and she started jostling to get passed him, her arms slapping about like a pumped up sumo wrestler.

Eventually, my brother gave in and returned to join us, his hair now soaked flat to his head. Mark and I were in hysterics at the fat girl and also wondering why he’d stopped dancing with the good looking girl. When he eventually managed to explain, we felt we should go and ask the attractive girl why she wanted to be made jealous, but we couldn’t find her, she’d done a disappearing act. There was only one thing for it. First, we went to the toilets and helped my brother dry off under the hand dryers. Then we went back to the dance floor, found the fat girl, formed a circle around her, and danced like loons for as long as we could before she went mental again. We lasted about 20 seconds, before running away like naughty children.

Pussy Action

5 Jan

After a night out drinking, Rowley and I booked a taxi and headed home.  The first drop, fortunately for me, was my house, and I gasped the fresh air as I exited the car as I’d never been so close to throwing up without actually doing so. I said goodbye to Rowley, and clambered through my front door with thoughts of sleep occupying my mind.

The next morning I was awoken early by a phone call. I rued the fact that I had forgot to put my phone on silent. Peering at my mobile, I saw that it was Rowley calling, and then I saw the time; 7am! ‘What the fuck does he want this early?’ I wondered briefly, before deciding that I should probably take the call.

“Yes?” was my opening gambit.

“Alright feltcher? Have you seen your cat this morning?”

“No, I’ve only just woken up”

“Well, you won’t see him”

“Why?”

“Easy, because he’s here, at my house”.

“How the fuck did he get there?”

Rowley went onto explain what had happened. After I had got out of the taxi, Rowley had spotted my cat, Yeti, sitting on the drive minding his own business. In a drunken haze, Rowley beckoned Yeti over to the taxi, and being the inquisitive creature he is, Yeti ambled over and jumped straight into the car to join him for the 8 mile journey back to his house. Once in the car, Yeti plonked himself down on Rowley’s lap and nodded off.

“Why the fuck didn’t you chuck him out?” I asked, shocked.

“Well, he looked really comfortable”

“Ha! Has he been ok?”

“He’s scratched one of my carpets to pieces, but apart from that, yeah, he’s been good”.

“What did the taxi driver say?”

“He found it funny”

Yeti was returned to me later than morning. Of course I made the all too obvious joke about it being the first bit of pussy Rowley had managed to get round his house in a while.  Rowley was unable to explain what had possessed him to steal my cat; I’m just thankful that he didn’t put lipstick and tights on him and use him for entertainment purposes.

Who’s Your Mate?

4 Sep

Who’s your mate over there,
With the face like a mashed up pizza?
Would you be so kind to introduce me?
I’d like to know the inner her.

 

Her arms are like snakes,
All wiggly and loose; hanging down by her sides.
Look at her legs, bandy and rubbery.
It’s a surprise she can walk at all.

 

Her head, Jesus, her head.
Massive would be an understatement.
And her colossal hands like Frisbees.
They make me want to do jazz hands.

 

You know penguins, yeah?
Well her feet are like theirs.
Flip flap, flip flap. Walking like she’s soiled herself.
She’s like a mutated clown, bless her.

 

I look at her nose and I think of a parsnip,
But parsnips are quite tasty.
And is that a moustache I can see below it,
Sitting like a chilled out caterpillar?

 

When she smiles, which is rarely,
She gets funny lines around her pig-like eyes.
And which she cries, which is often,
She plays with her bacon-like ears to comfort herself.

 

Is your mate ok, because she doesn’t say much?
She just seems to stare into space.
Is your mate a bit weird? A bit of a nutter?
I quite like her, you know.

 

I spoke to your mate,
I took the time to get to know the inner her.
She may look like a freak,
But your mate, yeah: she’s alright really.

Nicolas Lyndhurst

7 Jul

I once saw Nicolas Lyndhurst enjoying a pint in the beer garden at a local pub. Having had a fair few myself, I thought I’d be brave and shout out to him.
Imagine the horror on my girlfriends face when I ‘accidentally’ shouted ‘Rodney you wanker!”. He actually smiled back and gave a knowing nod.

 

My new hobby was born;  shouting out incorrect catch phrases to celebrities. Steve Davis, the snooker player, was greeted as he walked into a supermarket with a cry of “one-hundred-and-eeeeiiiiigggghhhtttyyy” as I pointed excitedly at him.

 

Rolf Harris visited a local school, so I took the opportunity to go up to him and say, “Can you tell what it’s meant to be at the moment?” in a dodgy Australian accent.

 

The final one, was when I saw Ainsley Harriot strolling around on Oxford Street and I shouted ‘Awooga’ at him. He looked confused.

 

I really want to me Arnold Schwarzeneggar so I can say, “I’ll be back soon”.

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