Tag Archives: amusing

Take Me Out Part 2

13 Sep

After sending my tongue in cheek application form to the producers of Take Me Out (see here: https://kylejwilkins.wordpress.com/2011/07/07/take-me-out/) I received a number of voicemails asking me if I would still like to go on the show. I think it is up to 5 currently.

 This was then followed up yesterday with the following email: 

From: XXX.XXXXXX@talkbackThames.tv
Sent: 12 September 2011 18:30:32

 Hi there.
Apologies for the ‘out of the blue’ message.
You recently applied to be a contestant on the third series of ITV1’s ‘Take Me Out’ hosted by Paddy Mcguinness.

We have tried to contact you offering you the opportunity to audition for the series and have yet to hear back whether you are interested.
If you are still keen, please email us back as soon as possible with a contact number as the deadline for applicants is fast approaching.

If, since you applied, you have found love or are no longer interested, then feel free to ignore this email.
Feel free to pass the application form on to anyone else you know that would be keen to apply.

All the best

XXX XXXXXXX
Associate Producer
TAKE ME OUT

 

I sent this reply this morning:

 

Hi,

Many thanks for your email. I must admit that I have received a number of voicemails, but as I’m quite tight with my money, I didn’t want to call back; instead hoping that I’d catch your next call at whichever inappropriate time it was that you chose to call me.

I am afraid to say that since applying to be on Take Me Out, I have actually found love. People say love is blind, well in my case, that is spot on, as Jane is actually blind (well, partially sighted anyway). We met, funnily enough, on a blind date as well, which one of my work colleagues set up.

When I first saw Jane, I was mesmerised; completely blown away. She looked stunning and really trendy too; just my type of girl. She looked so cool in her little sunglasses. I already knew that she was hard of sight so this came as no shock, however, quite why she wanted me to wear a red carnation to identify me was a bit strange, as she didn’t even notice me approach her at the table where she was sat!

Since meeting Jane, my life has improved a great deal. I’m excelling at work, I’m constantly happy and it’s great to have someone depend on me as much as Jane does. I am her eyes, she is my plaything. It’s a great relationship. She likes to leave me romantic notes around the house and although her handwriting isn’t the best, it always brightens up my day. In return, I leave little jokes and amusing anecdotes in Braille on the back of door handles so she gets a little giggle when entering a room. We even recreated the Lionel Ritchie ‘Hello’ video the other day when we decided to indulge in a bit of role-play.

So, it is with regret, that I am going to have to decline your offer of a place on the show. I do have one request though. When Paddy Mcguinness says ‘Let the Toffee, see the Apple’, for example; perhaps he should change this on the new series to, ‘Let the Toffee, see, or indeed feel, the Apple’, because not everyone can see.

Many Thanks.

 

I await a reply.

The Coalminer

12 Sep

For a couple of weeks, my brother and I had hatched a plan to pull an extraordinary prank on our mutual friend, James. It came on the back of him getting one over on us with a joke of his own. In private, he had farted into a Pringles tube and quickly sealed it with the lid. Then he found each of us individually and asked if we thought the inside of the tube smelt funny, cue hilarity when we were hit with the fresh pong of his arse hole. We knew we wanted to get him back, but we were undecided about the best way to do it. James often stayed over in the summer holidays for days on end and early suggestions as to how we were going to get him back were quite feeble, including things such as farting in his face whilst he was asleep and putting his hand in water so he pissed himself. What we needed was something that would make James think twice about ever pulling a stunt like his Pringle tube fart ever again, something that would go down in legend amongst our friends. After a lengthy discussion one evening, we came up with an elaborate plan that, if executed well, would get James back twice over. We were going to scare the shit out of him.

James was due to stay the following night and we knew that despite his bravado, he was scared of one thing in particular; ghosts. If we started telling ghost stories, James would put his fingers in his ears and bury his head under his duvet so he could drown out all ghost talk. Like Gary Glitter and small boys, any mention of ghosts put the willies up him. We wrote down our plan of action and then went through a couple of practice runs, ensuring that we could carry out the necessary actions in the time we guessed we’d have available. Once sure that we could, we sat back smugly, looking forward to the events the following evening.

We spent the next day playing football in the local park with James and a couple of other friends. There was no mention to anyone of the plan we had put in place as we didn’t want to put it into jeopardy. The day passed and the evening came and as it was the school holidays we were allowed out late, so we hung around in the local park, doing nothing in particular. Eventually, we decided to call it a night and my brother and I gave each other a knowing look as we made our way home; we were finally going to get our revenge.

The three of us sat in my brother’s room playing his Super Nintendo. All my brother and I had to do was wait for James to give us the prompt we needed to start the prank. We didn’t have to wait long.

“Pause it lads, I need a piss”, said James. This was what I had been waiting for.

“Go on then, be quick” I replied. James stood up and headed for the bedroom door. As he opened it, I put the prank into motion.

“Oh, mate, just to warn you; don’t look out of the small bathroom window that you can see in front of you when you’re having a piss.”

“Err, why?” asked James.

“Because of the coalminer”

“The coalminer?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him, my brothers seen him. Even my mum has mentioned seeing him”

“Who’s the coalminer?” James looked scared already.

“I’m not sure why he’s started coming here”, I began, “but the last few times I’ve been for a piss late at night and I’ve looked out of the window, I’ve seen the face of a small boy looking back at me. The face is covered in soot and is wearing a coalminer’s helmet. It’s really weird and scary”

“Yeah, whatever”, said James. I could tell he was shaken, that was the main thing, and we’d also planted the seed of doubt in his mind. He made his was slowly out of the bedroom.

No sooner had James left us to cross the landing and go to the bathroom, had my brother sprinted downstairs and to the front door. Here he picked up a torch which we had hidden the previous day and then made his way to the front of the house. Once outside, he climbed on top of the wheelie bin, also positioned strategically the day before. This gave him easy access to the flat garage roof to which the small bathroom window looked out over. The practice runs had been worth it as he was up on the roof in no time at all. I meanwhile, had snuck across the landing and was listening at the bathroom door. I could still here the urine trickling out of James and into the toilet and I braced myself ready for the prank’s finale.

My brother was crouching below the bathroom window. He turned the torch on and held it against the top of his head with one hand. Then he leapt up and pressed his face to the window.

“WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH” he bellowed as he jumped to his feet. As I heard this I burst through the door.

“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK”, screamed James and he collapsed to the floor, covering his head with his hands.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” he shouted, still not entirely sure as to what was going on.

My brother and I erupted into fits of laughter. I opened the bathroom window and my brother poked his head through.

“Woooo, I’m the scary coalminer boy!” he teased. James looked up from the floor.

“You are fucking bastards! Fuck you!” He was still shaking with fear.

“We got you! We fucking got you!” I replied. My brother had tears rolling down his cheeks.

After a while James got to his feet. What we saw delighted us. Not only had we scared him something silly, but we had forced James to piss all over the front of his trousers. My brother and I were deliriously happy with our achievements.

“I think that makes us about even”, I said to James, once the commotion had died down and we were back in the bedroom playing the computer.

“All I did was a fart…one fart…that was it. A fart” was all that James could muster

Spice up your life, a little.

11 Sep

It’s quite easy to get frustrated when food shopping. If you’re not getting assaulted in the back of the heels by OAP with an out of control trolley, then you’re doing your best to not to lose your temper at the fact that all the items you need are out of stock, so you have to wait 15 minutes whilst one of the minions has to go and ‘check out the back’ for you. On top of all this, it’s really quite boring.

To overcome this completely mundane weekly chore, I thought I’d try and inject a bit self-satisfying amusement into the task. I came up with this; Sweary Herbs and Spices. It’s really quite simple; spell out a few risque words using the herbs and spices that are on offer for an unsuspecting shopper to find later once you are long gone.

Here are a couple of examples:

Sneaked this in, but it was still noticeable as it was at eye-level

 

Tits; the last thing you'd expect to see in the herb section.

 

Have a go, and send me your examples to share.

Pointless Sports

7 Sep

Sport; a physical activity that is governed by a set of rules or customs and often engaged in competitively, is how the dictionary defines it. But sports can be so much more than that. Some are enthralling and captivating. They can bring thousands of people, countries even, together, or at the same time divide them, causing grown men to shed tears, shout at the television and argue incessantly amongst themselves. You cannot underestimate the power of sport.

 Having said that, some sports are completely pointless and quite frankly, terrible. Here are the first 5 of my top 10 pointless sports:

1) Polo – A group of posh men (the correct term for this is a ‘smug-ring of men’), ride around on horses, twatting a ball about with a long croquet stick. They are ‘cheered’ on by women wearing the latest in high fashion, and smarmy blokes wearing chinos or red trousers, with a Ralph Lauren jumper draped over their shoulders, whilst they drink Pimms and talk about how much money daddy has given them to live off for the year. Pretentious does not even come close to describing a polo match. Even the horses have delusions of grandeur, and look at commoners like they are scum, before trotting off to their stables to indulge in opium and high class hookers.

 2) Water polo – Now this would be good if horses were involved, instead though, it just consists of a two teams jumping around in a swimming pool, trying to through a ball into a net. It doesn’t really sound that entertaining. That’s because it isn’t. I think polo may have come about from middle-class people angry at the snobiness of normal polo enthusiasts, but it backfired because they invented such a crap game. It’s the sort of game you conjouled into playing on holiday by the over enthusiastic ‘reps’ that strut around pool trying to get as many people to indugle in family fun as they can. In reality, no one can really be arsed to play, because it’s rubbish.

3) Hammer Throw – This sport was came into existence in Romania, when an angry woman threw a hammer at her philandering husband. As he ran off, she threw more hammers at him, and locals were astounded at how far she threw them, each time hitting him or coming very close to doing so. The woman became a local celebrity, and it became custom for scorned women to grab the nearest hammer and launch it at their partner if he was found to be cheating on her. Soon, an annual event was started, where women from towns all over the country would see who could throw a hammer the furthest, cheered on by hundreds of people. Sadly, none of this is true, but it beats just saying, ‘people spin round briefly and then see how far they can throw a big hammer’.

4) Bowls – Not to be confused with ‘bowels’, a part of the intestine that connects to the anus; bowels is a popular sport amongst the elderly community. I’ve never really understood the appeal of it. Sure, there is a little bit of skill involved in getting your big ball next to the little white one, and players jostle to get as close as they can, applying curve and spin to each ball that they gently roll towards the marker. This is then all undone when the final ball is sent hurtling down the green, smashing every other ball in its path out the way, rendering the whole build up process pointless. Come to think of it, Bowels would probably be far more interesting, with thrills and spills aplenty.

5) Curling –  I’m not sure why anyone would want to go and watch a game of curling, it’s basically bowls but with brooms involved. Two teams clean the already clean ice to make it more smooth I think. I don’t properly understand why. If you get joy from using a broom than this is the sport for you. It reeks of male chauvinism (despite the fact men also play it) and would only be improved to a watchable game if all players had to be blindfolded.

Next 5 here: https://kylejwilkins.wordpress.com/2011/09/20/pointless-sports-part-2/

The Harvest Festival

7 Sep

I attended a Church of England primary school, and every year the school would put on a Harvest Festival. This involved the whole of the school (plus any parents who wanted to attend), piling into the local church where we would listen to the vicar drone on for an hour or so, sing hymns, and the big finale; every child had to give a ‘gift’ to the church, which was then donated to charity. Now, this gift couldn’t be any old thing; it had to be food, and in a bottle or can, as it was packed up and sent to a poor African country. A nice sentiment I’m sure you’ll agree.
I always forgot about the Harvest Festival until I was kust out of the door to go to school, and then I’d see other kids carrying their gift proudly with them. I’d run back inside and my mum would search the back of the cupboards and find anything that she could so that I would have something to donate. I remember taking a tin of peaches one year, a can of sardines the next, and to my shame, one year I donated a pot noodle.

 

The gift giving ceremony was always the last part of the Harvest Festival. Everyone would sing a hymn called ‘We Plough The Fields And Scatter’, whilst each year group would file out from their pews, walk up to the front of the church, and then leave their individual gift on one of three huge tables, before making their way back to where they were sat. There were strict instructions from teachers on how fast we were allowed to walk (not too quick and not too slow), and we had to have a ‘serious face’. As each child got up from their seat, the rest of the school would watch eagerly to see what they had brought in; eyeing up to see who the biggest cheapskate was or what the strangest item would be. Memorable items include one can of Tesco Value beer, cans of Spam, a bag of Opal Fruits (as they were called back in the good old days), a bag of walnuts and a can of Irn Bru.

As there were so many children, and a total of seven age groups, we would have to sing the same hymn at least three times through, bizarrely stopping as soon as the last child from year 7 (the oldest year group) had sat down. This meant that we could be halfway through a verse and then we’d just suddenly stop, much to my amusement. We would then say a final prayer, whilst most of the children would be looking at the piles of cans of tomatoes, hotdogs and prunes that had been amassed for the African children.

 

My fondest memory of Harvest Festival is from when I was in year 6, so I was about 11 years old. A boy in my class called Andrew bought in a can of Vimto to donate. I’m sure it’s what every African child would have wanted.
As the teacher took registration, we all had our donations out on our tables, and we immediately spotted Andrew’s Vimto. As Andrew was quite unpopular anyway, the teasing soon began over his choice of gift.

 

“It was all I had at home. I forgot it was the festival today”, was his response, and it was a response I could relate to. I was ok this year, I had a tin of tuna with me. I’d gone upmarket for a change.

 

The teasing about the can of Vimto continued as we made our way to the church. It’s funny how the smallest of things can amuse young minds. The festival began, and it was boring as usual, with each and every child waiting eagerly to get the donating his or her foodstuff out of the way, so we could actually go back to school. I sat with my mates pretending to sing the words to the hymn, watching as each year group got up and filed slowly to the front of the church, waiting for our turn. I then heard whispers behind from me. We looked round, and a few of the other boys in my class were sat on their pew, still taking the piss out of Andrew. I heard Rat-catcher Neil say, “God’s going to think you’re a dickhead for bringing that in”, and when Andrew told him to ‘Fuck Off’, Leigh jumped in with “Fucking Hell, Andrew. No need to get eggy about it”. They laughed, and Andrew was visibly rattled.

 

As the hymn started again for the third time, it was almost my year groups time to walk up to the donation tables. We got ready, and as the row of children in front of us took their seats, we stood up and started walking to the front. It was quite an uncomfortable experience, as it did feel like everyone was just staring at you, looking at your donation or seeing if you’d do something stupid. This year, their stares were rewarded in spectacular fashion.
As I, and the other 7 pupils that were on my pew, placed our gifts down on the tables at the front of the church, I heard a loud pattering of feet. I turned my head to look over my shoulder, just in time to see Andrew in the midst of falling over. It seemed to go in slow motion. His legs slid back from beneath him, his body started to fall forwards towards the hard church floor. As he reached out his hands to break his fall, the can of Vimto flew from his hand, and smashed against one of the tables, spraying purple liquid all over the table and into the air. It landed on the floor by Andrew, who was now horizontal, staining his white shirt.

 

We were in fucking hysterics, but still the hymn droned on, and we giggled all the way back to our seats, despite numerous glares from the teachers. I was struggling so hard to regain my composure and I still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to fall over. Andrew picked himself up and made his way back to his seat; head bowed as he walked. Most of the school were watching him, sniggering. As he sat down, Rat-catcher Neil looked him up and down.

 

“I told you God would think you’re a dickhead for bringing that”, he said, laughing to himself, and the rest of us all started pissing ourselves again.

Cool Runnings

7 Sep

It was 1994 and the Winter Olympics were in full swing in Lillehammer, Norway. Being only 10, I didn’t really have much interest in it and neither did the rest of my class; we were more concerned about playing Cops and Robbers, putting upturned drawing pins onto each other’s chairs and singing the wrong words to hymns in assembly. Playtimes were spent swapping Panini Football Stickers (with a shiny was worth AT LEAST 2 normal stickers), trying to push one another into the thorn bush and or sticking ‘itching powder berries’ down the back of someone’s shirt. Life was good; I had no worries in the world and not a great deal of homework to contend with at that age – as long as I went home with a new sticker for my Panini album, I was happy.

My teacher at the time was Mr.Marsh; feared by many, he was the only male teacher at my primary school. His booming voice would stop a misbehaving child in his or her track. Some were known to have spontaneously wet themselves after being shouted at. Now, Mr. Marsh was not an ordinary teacher. He would try and make learning fun; we listened to every word as he spoke, such was the enthusiasm of the man. We’d already completed a class project earlier in the year where we had various ‘airports’ dotted around the classroom, complete with toy planes. Daily timetables were drawn up and it was up to the ‘Air traffic Controller’ and ‘Pilot’ (specified daily) to move the correct planes, at the correct time, to the correct airport. It was not unusual to see children wandering about in the middle of a maths lesson, to move a toy plane to its next destination. This taught us geography and time management skills apparently. I didn’t care – it was fun.

Mr. Marsh also loved sport. Not only did he teach us in year 5, but he doubled as the PE teacher for the whole of the school. He was sport mad, so to him, the Winter Olympics were a big deal. I remember the beaming smile on his face as he broke the news to us about our next class project one morning.

“Class”, he started, his deep voice bouncing off the walls of the classroom, “for our next class project, we will be holding a bobsleigh tournament. You will work on your own and will compete against each other”

Our ears pricked up. Even the cool kids at the back of the class stopped whispering and passing notes.

“We will build a bobsleigh track in the classroom. Not a full size one for you to race down, but one that will fit a matchbox car. The only rule is, your matchbox car will have to look like a bobsleigh. You will have to use card and any other materials you want, to make the correct shape, decorate it in the colours of any nation you choose, and attach it to your car. We will then hold time trials to see who is the bobsleigh champion. We will build the course this week and time trials will be Monday and Tuesday of next week”. It was Mr. Marsh’s own little way of getting a class of 10 year olds interested in the Winter Olympics.

We couldn’t believe our luck – we were going to be coming to school to race our cars! Even the girls in the class didn’t seem fussed by this. I was over the moon; a keen collector of matchbox cars, I was sure I had the perfect car to beat all the opposition.
The course was built over the next few days. Mr. Marsh provided a plastic track from some sort of toy car race track (Hotwheels or something similar). This was attached to wall at the side of the classroom, running down at quite a steep angle so that the cars could pick up speed. It was about 7-8 metres long, then doubled back on itself sharply, and ran along some desks that were pushed together alongside the wall. The first part of our project was to decorate the wall with a winter Olympic theme, complete with spectators. I think Neil drew a yeti somewhere in the background. This was the boring part on the project. On the Friday, we all had to bring in the car that we wanted to use in the bobsleigh tournament. Mr.Marsh supplied those who hadn’t got one (mainly the girls) with a car from his collection. I carefully cut out two shapes that vaguely represented the side profile of bobsleigh, and blu-tacked them to the side of my car, which was a black Porche if I recall correctly. I had chosen this because the wheels seemed to go the best out of all of my collection. I gave my bobsleigh the number 12, and coloured it in black, green and yellow; the colours of Jamaica. We were even allowed to oil up the wheels of our cars – It was one of the best days of school ever. I actually wanted the weekend to go quickly, as Monday was the day for testing our cars on the track and making any modifications if required, ready for the time trials on Tuesday. Most of the class couldn’t wait either and a friendly rivalry had already sprung up amongst classmates.

Monday came, and one by one, we were allowed to take our car to the top of the track and release it, seeing how well it performed. Giving the car a push was not permitted. I waited with great anticipation for my turn; my surname begins with ‘W’ so I was one of the last as we were going in alphabetical order. I was sure that the other kids would be so jealous when they saw how fast my car went. Finally my time came and I stepped up, make-shift bobsleigh in hand. I let go and it whizzed down the track at some speed, much faster than most. When it came to the curved bend, the bobsleigh almost shot over the top. ‘Ah, skills’ I thought to myself, ‘I can win this’. My main competitor, from what I could tell, would be a girl named Sarah Bow, who’s bobsleigh had also nearly left the track, such was the speed of it. I hadn’t noticed anyone other bobsleigh do this. I went home Monday a happy child, brimming with confidence about the following days competition.

Tuesday came and it was the final day of our Winter Olympic project, the day that we’d all been waiting for – the race competition. Excited voices filled the classroom that morning, every child was confident that their bobsleigh would win. I kept quiet; I knew that it was a two horse race between myself and Sarah Bow. After class registration, we had an opening ceremony. Every competitor had to go to the front of the classroom, say an interesting fact about the country they were representing and place their bobsleigh on the desk before returning to their seats. Mr. Marsh waited until the 25 or so small bobsleighs were lined up, and declared that we would be starting the day with a history lesson; competition would commence after break. What a tease.

We came into class after break time and the competition started. All did not go according to plan. The first couple of bobsleighs seemed to ‘stick’ to the track and wouldn’t go down it. Closer examination revealed that there was a cheat amidst us; the wheels of the toy cars had been stuffed with blu-tac. Picking up my car I noticed the same thing had been done to mine and the wheels were slightly bent. I was quite distraught – my hopes of winning the competition had been dashed. Mr. Marsh hit the fucking roof!
“Who has decided to cheat and ruin this for everyone?”. The walls shook such was the ferocity in his voice. No-one owned up, no-one daren’t look up; every child in the class had their eyes fixated on their desk. Mr. Marsh was clearly disappointed that someone would do such a thing. He explained that he would ‘come down like a ton of bricks’ on the person responsible for cheating, should he find out who had done it. Fortunately, such was his love for this project, he let us have until lunch time to fix our bobsleighs and competition would restart in the afternoon.

Rumours circulated during lunch break about who the phantom tamperer could be. One name kept springing up; Sarah Bow. Rat-Catcher Simon told me that he had seen her go back into the class during break time and a couple of other kids confirmed this. For me, that was enough evidence. She was a competitive little cow – it was widely known that her mum had completed her Mozart project earlier in the year and she had taken all the plaudits, as well as the book token first prize. I was fuming. My bobsleigh had no chance of winning, the bent wheels meant that it was now one of the slowest. If I couldn’t win, I was going to make sure that Sarah Bow couldn’t either.

I scoffed my lunch down faster than usual and left the canteen. I made my way towards our classroom, pausing only briefly for a quick sip from the water fountain – my throat was dry; I was going to do something devious, but I didn’t know what. The classroom door was open slightly, and peeking through I saw that the room was empty. Outside, I could see other members of my class playing ‘Tag around the bush’ and Mr. Marsh watching over the playground, wearing really tiny PE shorts. I entered the room and pushed the door shut behind me. On the desk in front of me were all the bobsleighs. My eyes scanned the desk quickly, looking for Sarah Bow’s, all the while I was listening intently for any sounds of someone coming. If I got caught it would ruin me, my reputation would be in tatters as I would surely have been prime suspect as the phantom tamperer.

I saw Sarah Bow’s bobsleigh, (a red and white one, I think it was Canada) and I grabbed it in my hand. I examined it –not a trace of any damage to the wheels; she must have tampered with everyone else’s, I was sure of it. What I did next still confuses me to this day. Not really knowing what to do with the bobsleigh, I dropped my trousers and inserted it into my anus. Now, this was the first time I’d ever put anything up there (not that I’ve put anything else up there since), and I was surprised by how quickly it slipped up once I’d got the nose of the car in. ‘Wow, it’s like it’s actually driving up me’ I remember thinking. At the time I was worried that our pockets or bags would be searched once Sarah discovered her bobsleigh was missing, so my arsehole was the only place where I could safely hide it. Once composed, I went into the playground and joined my friends, my bum pulsating slightly.

An upbeat vibe filled the classroom upon our return after lunch. Even Mr. Marsh seemed to have calmed down and was eager to start the competition. I stayed calm, I was perspiring slightly but I kept my cheeks clenched tightly, my stolen prize stayed put. I knew that Sarah Bow would go mental when she discovered her bobsleigh was missing.

To cut a long story short, she broke down in tears when it came to her go and she couldn’t compete. I think Mr. Marsh may have had his suspicions about her already, he just shrugged and said, “You must have misplaced it”. My heart swelled with pride and my buttocks ached with pain – I had stopped Sarah Bow winning and it was just what she deserved. I think Andrew ‘Carrot Nose’ Littlejohn won the competition in the end. I came in the bottom 3, but I wasn’t fussed. The highlight of the whole project for me was seeing Sarah Bow’s devious little plan all come unhinged. I waddled home that afternoon content with the world and had the most refreshing poo of my life to date. The Canadian bobsleigh slid slowly out of me and I picked it from the toilet bowl with some tissue paper and buried it in the garden.

Comments Overheard

6 Sep

These are things that I’ve heard people say over the last weeks or so. More will follow if I happen to overhear anything remotely interesting or stupid. I should mention, I don’t deliberately eavesdrop, much.

 Old lady to an old man, probably her husband, in the local park:

“George! Don’t look directly at the sun, you’ll burn your rectums!”

 Lady, in her thirties, to her son, who looked about six. This was outside a Chinese Takeaway:

“Jack, will you leave that bloody Rubik’s Cube alone for 5 minutes?”

 

 

In the office:

Girl 1 – “Oh my God, did you hear about Kate at one of our resellers?”
Girl 2 – “Kate Kate?”
Girl 1 – “Yeah, Kate!”
Girl 2 – “Whaaaaaat?!”
Girl 1 – “Well she had a brain tumour and died. She died Saturday”.
Girl 2 – “Oh my God! I knew she was ill. Oh my God!”
Girl 1 – “Yeah I know!”
Girl 2 – “Did you know her? Are you going to the funeral?”
Girl 1 – “Erm, kind of knew her. Well, we were friends on Facebook.”
Girl 2 – “Oh my God! What you going to do?”
Girl 1 – “I just deleted her as a friend.”

 

I have to work with these people

 

In the local park, a young girl to her father:

“Daddy, you look pretty today. You’re belly is very fat though”

 

It the office again, a different girl this time:

“How do you spell ‘whoa’ so that it says  ‘whoa’ and not ‘wow’?

 In Tesco. I’d like to know what this was about; a gentleman aged about 19 to his friend:

“Listen to me, I did not, and I repeat NOT, have a wank on the train”

 In Tesco again, the following night. Young girl to her mum:

Girl – “Mummy! I need a wee!

Mum – “You’ve just been for a wee!”

Girl –  “I still have some stuck in me”

 

In a pub, a man, mid-forties, gesturing to a Capri Sun carton drink behind the bar:

Man – “How much is one of those?”

Bargirl – “One pound eighty”

Man – “One pound eighty?! Are you taking my dog for a shit?”

Man ordered a lemonade. It cost him £2.10.

 

At the newsagents this morning, two men in their late twenties:

Man 1 – “Good weekend, mate?”
Man 2 – “Yeah, great thanks. You?”

Man 1 – “It’s confidential”.

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