Brilliant Old CaB Posts From The Long Distant Past And Let's Find Them Eh?

[Catalogue Trousers]

A sort of adjunct to threads like that Your Best Post Of 2023 one (which I'm avoiding contributing to because I'm not quite that much of an onanist yet), but for those long-ago posts and threads that you'd love to see again, but cannot find.

For instance: in 2003, when renowned publicity-hungry wanker David Blaine was doing his 'look at me in this glass box for a fortnight' shtick, some Magnificent Bastard on here (I wish that I could remember who) posted their intent to sit on a novelty chair in the shape of one of Koons's balloon dogs for as long as they could, and posted hourly photographic updates.

I'd love to see that thread again.

And I'm sure that you'll all have similar great lost favourites of your own.

[madhair60]

right here homie

[Average Comedy Enjoyer]

I always wondered if there was any response to the episode of Inside Number 9 when the cocked a snook and CaB.

I wasn't born then so missed the potential response.

[Catalogue Trousers]

right here homie

You beaut!

Now find that thread I described...

[iamcoop]

Biggy's "The British Gas live chat can be brutal" post remains the funniest thing I think I've ever read anywhere.

Fuck knows what thread it was on though.

[Stoneage Dinosaurs]

Not really lost as I'm sure most CaBbers have it bookmarked but no old cab posts thread is complete without this toweringly grotesque anecdote, especially if there's any newbies around who haven't read it

Jutl's shit story reminds me of something I once did as a teenager.

Aged about 13-14, some mates and I discovered this abandoned house.  Evidently it has been home to an old lady who had died, leaving it in a state of disrepair and it was years and years before her family decided to sell the house on.  Essentially it was this big 1930's house that had had its downstairs gutted.  We went and sniffed around and broke in.  We kicked in a kitchen window and then we kind of took over the house.  What furniture there was was taken upstairs, keys were found and a fridge was positioned in front of the broken window to keep people out.

Essentially we turned this house into a wanking pit.  We pooled our stash of porn and left it all there, covering the walls with the centerfolds.

It was all quite genteel initially.  We'd wank in the same room but we'd turn the chairs to face the wall and at no point did it devolve into mutual masturbation or a gang-bang.  The wanking was fine, the problem was the by-products.

Essentially we went through a lot of tissues.  Initially we just slung them in a bin but nobody ever emptied it so it went mouldy and we had to basically chuck the bin filled with mouldering spunk-encrusted tissues into a side room.  We had the house for about a year and there were five of us and essentially everyone popped in for a wank on the way and back from school.  That's a lot of tissues and they started to pile up in bin-bags in this side room.  By this point people had also started shitting in binliners and pissing in bottles and storing them in the loft.

Then one of us mentioned to his parents that the house existed and the parents then mentioned it to some friends who were looking for a place to live and they demanded that they be allowed to visit the house.  At the time, the parents thought it was a kind of club house where we drank beers.  They were not aware of the porn, shit and zizz-rags.  We had to clear it all out and decided to stick it all up in the loft.

By this point the people living in the next door houses had realised something was up and had started snooping around so the group descended into paranoia.

One day, two of the group happened to arrive at the house separately.  The first one was evidently wanking away upstairs when he heard a noise downstairs.  Terrified that it was one of the people who lived nearby he went and hid in the loft, which was now half full of bags of rotting shite, mouldering jizz-rags and bottles of piss.  Bloke number two arrives, sees that there's nobody there and starts having a wank.

This is when I arrive.

The second bloke also panics and decides to go up to the loft.  The first bloke hears someone coming up the ladder to the loft and overcome by fear, panic and the awe-inspiring smell faints, falling into a bag of unspeakable foulness.  The first bloke notices the slumped corpse and the unspeakable foulness all over him and promptly vomits really loudly on his own lap.  I hear this and think that they're up in the loft mucking about and I start up the ladder.  The first bloke thinks that he's trapped and essentially opens the door to the loft and starts flinging down bags of shit and cum rags onto me.

So all three of us had to walk home smeared in rotting shit.  Rotting cum-filled tissues.  Piss.  And vomit.

[idunnosomename]

I always wondered if there was any response to the episode of Inside Number 9 when the cocked a snook and CaB.

I wasn't born then so missed the potential response.

https://www.cookdandbombd.co.uk/forums/index.php?topic=83704.msg4540512#msg4540512

[Zetetic]

Incidentally, Google (etc.) indexing of the site should have improved in the last couple of weeks and hopefully that's noticeable when searching the site.

Still trying to work out any other improvements.

[gabrielconroy]

https://www.cookdandbombd.co.uk/forums/index.php?topic=83704.msg4540512#msg4540512

I missed all that the first time round. Anyone know off the top of their head which episode it's from?

I probably would have watched it at the time but my girlfriend found an episode of Inside No. 9 scary and unsettling so we stopped watching them.

On the topic of the thread as a whole as well as Mr. Analytical's tale linked above, I nominate Doomy Dwyer's story of shitting himself:

There's no menstruation involved, but plenty of shit. This is a bit of an odyssey.

I'd just started a new job and in my first week there got invited to see one of my new colleagues' band play in Camdens fashionable Dublin Castle public house. I thought it'd be a good chance to get to know my new workmates in a less horrifically artificial environment than the office, and also, the bloke who was in the band was someone I'd worked with previously, so loads of our former colleagues would be there as well and it would be a right royal rave up. It ain't normally my sort of thing to be honest, I spend enough time with work bastards, I don't want to hang out with the fuckers moaning about the fucking stationery cupboard in my spare time too - but I thought I'd make and effort and create a good impression 'cause deep down I'm a nice guy. I went down there on the bus with my missus and everything was groovy.

As soon as we walked in the door, things began to take a turn for the worse. My temperature seemed to shoot up about a hundred degrees, I was suddenly drenched in sweat and I felt like the Vision had done that thing where he alters his density and passes his intangible hand through your poor old guts before craftily partially re-materializing it, creating a sense of inner turmoil of the very worst kind. I just put it down to nerves and continued on my way through the busy and unfamiliar pub toward the bar and safety, all the while feeling steadily sicker with each footstep. While I was doing this, the band guy clocks me and shouts "Oi! Oi! Doomy" from the stage, alerting my already present new workmates to my entrance, who all turn as one to give us a wave, giddy with post work euphoria and the prospect of some imminent Rock 'n' Roll justice about to be meted out by one of the most ruthless and respected Reps in the West London area. Also, a contingent of the people I used to work with all give me the thumbs up, whooping and cheering in an unsightly frenzy of raw emotion because we haven't seen each other for the best part of a week.

Me and my beloved get to the bar. I tell her to get a couple of bevvies in as I've got to get to the khazi like quick, smart and in a hurry because I'm in a bad, bad way. I didn't go into detail because time was a factor. I just started to blindly push my way through the thickening throng - haircuts and students like some bespoke nightmare tailored to my exact specifications - with no real idea of where the toilets lie, just working on pure animal instinct. Some sort of survival mechanism had kicked in, I suppose. Finally I see the gents, and I break into a canter, there's a stool in my path which I clamber over, unfortunately my leading leg lands in a puddle of beer, causing me to perform the splits. Now, I don't now how I didn't just shit myself there and then. I was younger I suppose, my reflexes were quicker, my bowels in optimum condition, my sphincter as limber as an Olympic athlete. Somehow, mustering every ounce of my will power, I kept whatever foul contagion that I held within me, within me. I picked myself up and carried on my sweaty lurch, towards sweet sanctuary.

Of course, I get in there and all the traps are full and now I'm dancing, foot to foot like Ali, singing in a whisper to distract my arse and talking to myself, a sort of desperate mantra. And I'm clenching like I ain't never clenched before, like I was trying to crack a macadamia nut between my treacherous buttocks. I can feel the heat inside of me, like molten lava. I can feel the churning, almost hear it, like those swamps or tar pits that bubble and go 'Gloop'. After a wait of what seemed like hours, I hear that glorious sound of the flush, the rustle of clothing being adjusted and that unmistakable jangle of the belt as the trousers are firmly secured. The bolt slides back, out comes the punter, and I penguin it in like Flynn. Yesss.

It's a universal law that increased proximity to a toilet both increases the sense of urgency and instils a feeling relaxation paradoxically at the same time. Never relax is my advice. Not until you are seated, trousers down and preferably pants also. This was my fatal error. In trying to move slowly and carefully so as not to disturb my critical mass bowels I tarried too long. I'd barely got my belt unbuckled when the first torrent was unleashed, instantly filling my strides. I felt the level rising, actually up my back - hot, liquid and rank. The stench made me gag and retch, I experienced a moment of shame and disbelief that my own body could produce such an evil, cadaverous smell. I'd have spewed if I hadn't been so busy shitting my very essence out of my poor beleaguered arsehole. I managed to tense just for a moment, the time I needed to remove my long coat and hang it on a hook on the back of the toilet door, out of harms way. In a flash I ripped the belt free and in one swift, almost graceful movement, lowered my massively soiled dung filled trousers and pants. In doing this I must have relaxed again, coating the rear wall of the cubicle in huge waves of shit, like some Satanic water cannon. The moment had a hallucinatory quality, what with my high temperature, the physical and mental turmoil I was undergoing and the sheer stress and danger I was experiencing, I felt as though I was observing myself from above, I hung suspended above the cubicle watching a fountain of brown water gush from my arse. I managed to sit down, but it was far too late, the damage was most definitely done. I sat there, weak, drained and disgusted while my bowels continued to emit whatever dregs remained, little drips, followed by the occasional swift burst of slurry, then...nothing. I was spent. A sort of soothing calm filled the cubicle.

But not for long. I was caked. My clothes were ruined. Most of the cubicle was coated with several coats of shite. The smell was outrageous. My mind turned to thoughts of escape. I tried to formulate a plan to clear up as best I could, salvage whatever clothing remained wearable , find the missus and get as far away from Camden as possible before all my colleagues – past and present – were alerted to the carnage that had taken place this day. Gathering what scraps of usable toilet roll I could, I began to scoop out my jeans (black, fortunately). They would obviously have to be worn in order to re-enter the bar. When I'd completed the scooping I began to slowly, very slowly and with utmost care to remove the jeans. The pants were obviously a write-off. They were pants in name only. They'd seen things that people who make pants had never considered, even in their vilest imaginings. One sock was filled with shit, the other, amazingly, was pristine, which was a great comfort to me strangely. My t-shirt was drenched with crap, that'd have to be discarded. Luckily I had an over shirt (also black), that I could just about still wear, although it probably wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny. I was wearing big old bike boots, and after pouring out the excess excrement, these weren't too bad. Together with my long overcoat, I reckoned there was an outside chance of getting out of this mess.

It was then that I became aware of other toilet users voicing their horror and disbelief that anything human could have produced such a monstrous stench. They were coughing and moaning. I barely had any energy left, but joined in with their protestations, naked at that point, save for the one good sock. I cursed the filthy bastard who'd been in the cubicle before me and threatened to complain to the management about the squalor of his amenities. I don't think they were convinced, but I've got my pride and felt I had to do something to maintain a veneer of dignity. I dressed as quickly as I could, then set about cleaning up the cubicle, which proved to be a fruitless task. I hid most of the shitty clothes in the cistern, scraped up what shit I could and flung it down the pan, but there were just piles of it everywhere. Heaps. Although it had felt largely liquid when it was being expelled, my shit had begun to solidify into a brownie-like mass. It began to look like one of those cross sections of the earth that you see in books of natural history with the different layers of crust denoting different eras. It was quite fascinating to watch, but there was no time, the clock was ticking. I did my best to compose myself, put on the overcoat which covered most of my sins and waited 'til the complainers had left, then tentatively exited from the ruined trap, washed myself down as best I could, then made my way back to the bar. 

I saw my blessed turtledove, my one and only, still standing at the bar with a look of grave concern on her angelic features. I'd been gone a good half hour. I hurried toward her and told her I'd just shat myself in the most heinous way possible and that we'd have to leave sharpish before anyone alerted the authorities that some atrocity had taken place on the premises. I downed the pint she'd bought me like I was ice cold in Alex and we began to leave. As we did so we were immediately surrounded by my colleagues, old and new, asking where I'd been, how I was and on several horrific occasions, hugging me tightly. I tried to squirm free from their embraces without displacing too much of the toxic fug that my coat contained. I told them I was just nipping out for some fags and that I'd see them later. I left at high speed, never to return, homeward bound and toward the first of many showers.

That was nearly seven years ago. Now I only ever leave the house to stock up on adult diapers and brillo pads.

[idunnosomename]

I missed all that the first time round. Anyone know off the top of their head which episode it's from?

watch it here

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p099th0t/inside-no-9-series-6-1-wuthering-heist

some gore btw

[Ambient Sheep]

For instance: in 2003, when renowned publicity-hungry wanker David Blaine was doing his 'look at me in this glass box for a fortnight' shtick, some Magnificent Bastard on here (I wish that I could remember who) posted their intent to sit on a novelty chair in the shape of one of Koons's balloon dogs for as long as they could, and posted hourly photographic updates.

I'd love to see that thread again.

Bear in mind that everything before 31st Jan 2004 has been lost forever, barring fragments on the Wayback Machine, so I'm afraid you're very probably out of luck.

I remember the Blaine thread as being very amusing, but I don't remember that bit!


The post I wish could be resurrected from back then was one I made about the awkwardness of late-teens/early-20s peeps looking across crowded pubs/clubs at each other, and totally failing to realise they both fancy each other.

It wasn't written as prosaically as that, and indeed there was more to it than that, but it was a beautiful piece of writing (if I say so myself) that just flowed out of my fingers one night, and got some incredibly appreciative replies.

I'd love to see it again, if only to remind myself of when I was good.

[benjitz]

Biggy's "The British Gas live chat can be brutal" post remains the funniest thing I think I've ever read anywhere.

Fuck knows what thread it was on though.

Harsh Truths.

[benjitz]

The post I wish could be resurrected from back then was one I made about the awkwardness of late-teens/early-20s peeps looking across crowded pubs/clubs at each other, and totally failing to realise they both fancy each other.

Sounds an interesting premise, so would like to read it too.

There are some amazing pieces of writing on here, so I'd like to thank all those who put effort (and presumably time) into their posts using talents I only dream of possessing, e.g. Pijlstaart's corpus. Would be great to compile the best of them into a book, but locating/determining/paying the authors might be a bit of a nightmare. Unless Barry owns them all, haven't checked the T&C's of posting here.

[gabrielconroy]

watch it here

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p099th0t/inside-no-9-series-6-1-wuthering-heist

some gore btw

Thanks! Just did indeed watch it. Although I forgot why I was watching and only realised I'd missed the reference when the credits started rolling and had to look up a transcript and rewind to The Bit.

Was very enjoyable without being massively hilarious, although I did laugh out loud at "Trinidad & Tobago?" 9/9

[Mr_Simnock]

I remember a gif of some poor bloke at a festival dancing and getting blown off by some woman, that was brilliant

e.g. Pijlstaart's corpus. Would be great to compile the best of them into a book, but locating/determining/paying the authors might be a bit of a nightmare. Unless Barry owns them all, haven't checked the T&C's of posting here.

I find pijlstaarts stuff so boring, always just scroll past

[Toki]

Piljstaart's posts are the best. Obviously I'm discounting madhair, the legend.

[jobotic]

I find pijlstaarts stuff so boring, always just scroll past

Good to know. Thanks for sharing.

[mr. logic]

biggy was hilarious. Weird really, seemed to drift between pithy jokester and dangerous demagogue.

[mr. logic]

I remember a gif of some poor bloke at a festival dancing and getting blown off by some woman, that was brilliant

I find pijlstaarts stuff so boring, always just scroll past

Same

[jobotic]

Biggy - board legend. Revolting politics, total fraud, cunt, but he was fun on snooker threads so that's all okay.

"you taped over Taggart" was brilliant though.

[idunnosomename]

i did look into the taggart thing and I think he didn't invent that one actually. so fuck him

[Bingo Fury]

I find pijlstaarts stuff so boring, always just scroll past

I used to! I thought I was the only one. I guess his style took a little getting accustomed to, and there was something about his avatar that I found really offputting, for some reason. Saw the light eventually, though.

I loved Biggy. He was the star turn of CaB for me, before the politics took over.

[bgmnts]

Biggy's "The British Gas live chat can be brutal" post remains the funniest thing I think I've ever read anywhere.

Fuck knows what thread it was on though.

My choice as well.

As well as madhair's "How so..?" response to Auschwitz being awful or something.

So many funny cunts here mind.

[JesusAndYourBush]

Doomy Dwyer's 'pants in name only' post had me laughing until my sides ached.

Found it:
https://www.cookdandbombd.co.uk/forums/index.php?msg=1440854

[shoulders]

That's already been posted above.

[benjitz]

It's great to see scat porn so fondly remembered on CaB. Perhaps obtaining the film rights is where the money is, rather than publishing a book as I previously suggested.

[Oz Oz Alice]

Ffogems post in https://www.cookdandbombd.co.uk/forums/index.php?topic=19945.msg1018607#msg1018607

I can only think of one moment that utterly defies comprehension. It came out of nowhere during those lonely nights pre-internet spent flicking through night-time sky channels. I do yearn for those days, really, when limp memories of old films and tv shows remain just that, just a confusing crease in the ether, rather than a clearly labelled boxed-off relic now sullied by the internet's unending ability to savage the sanctity of everything in existence with clinically outlined statistics and trivia that fill the gaps in my memory that I didn't need to know I had. I've stopped buying dvds of old films and tv shows now, as my hazy experience of them was better, more meaningful. I don't need to see youtube clips of them above columns of ill-judged venerative cockery, and I certainly don't need to go to a female actor's imdb page, scroll down to the message board section to find somebody's started a thread titled 'TITS', and think 'oh for fuck sake. Someone got there first'. I think these things should just free-float in the context they occured. Bringing them into starker up-to-date relief ruins it. The internet has already fucked the following in the face -

The Ewoks films
Little Monsters
Stoppit and Tidyup
Russ Meyer's Supervixens
The Wiz
Poison Ivy
Dare to Believe

and I can't let it keep happening. These are my memories, internet. My childhood. Stop filling the gaps of wistful bliss with cheaply-manufactured dvds and incriminating clarifications regarding the age of dubiously dressed girls in children's television.
But this moment was different, and can never be explained.
It was a normal night, during a time before internet porn could be grabbed in full files with swift ease and was still storyboarded in 10-second catch-up clips of the best bits, when I still had the habit of recording onto video or dvd whatever scrap of pout or nipple I could find on late-night TV to make long compilations of something resembling a conspiracy theorist video to convince the disbelieving; a time-capsule of tit-twiddling.
And there I would sit until the early hours, rapidly flicking from channel to channel, one hand round the remote, the other round my penis, and eye sight flitting from TV to living room door with manic unease as I expected it at any moment to open wide to reveal a whole bundle of laughing people with inverted Baftas and ignominious Gotchas held out for me.
In the event of such a thing happening, I had a repertoire of responses to avoid being caught red-wristed. Part of this set-up involved keeping the penis area in my pants so that I was operating with the kind of blunt, folded erection that makes me rue the lack of a voluntary penile elbow. If we all adhered to this cramped set-up, then maybe evolution would take note and provide a better future for our children. Although, if we all actually did do this, humanity would probably die naked and alone in a chair.
Of course, this wasn't an ideal situation, as the yielding of an erection was often followed by frantic fumbling but the knowledge that I couldn't do anything about it until I'm out of the family living room and in a safer place (like the bathroom), which made the whole bleak practice feel like chewing food and then walking around with it in your cheeks for hours before swallowing.
I felt like the boy from Flight of the Navigator (1986) at one with the controls of his ship, with my multi-task button pushing, cranking up and down the channels, tapping in memorised numbers to unlock 10 free minutes, flicking the center stick to bring up the programme information and scan-reading for any hint of a tit, jamming the back button to remove it from view if the current on-screen action suddenly proved promising, then dragging up the volume with slick caution. The volume was always kept low, but if I was feeling daring I would draw it up a notch to just catch a minor earful of the sensual soundtrack of whatever had been laid down to cover the anechoic sound of the cavorting woman whimpering with continued regret.
Another tactic was to have safe-zones established, channels I could retreat to if someone came into the room. One of these was a now-dead channel that seemed to have empty-schedules for most of the day, and then a quiz late at night. During this particular night I touched-base with the channel, just popping in like a gangster stooge nabbing a bun from the display of an under-the-thumb bakery, and saw nothing. The quiz had finished, but the camera continued to film from a high angle, looking down on a white-walled set that was empty but for a single podium. I turned the volume up until I heard static then turned it back down, changed the channel and continued to fumble. I kept coming back to this baffling channel where nothing was being broadcast whenever I heard the catflap go or caught my reflection on the telly screen. The volume was as low as my esteem, and consequently my reaction to what happened next as late as the lonely night. I was about to flick to another channel. I'd brought up the information box and was suggesting to myself that, come on, perhaps I should just give in for today and go to bed, in a nobly weary way as if doing the night shift on the search for Maddy. But then something entered my vision, and I jammed the 'back' button. A man had walked onto set dressed as a policeman. He removed his hat, stood by the podium and then said something with gurning indignance as if acting out a scenario in which he wins an argument to great public acclaim. It lasted mere seconds. He picked up his hat and walked off set before I could get the volume up to hear what he said. And then nothing. Who was that man? What had he said, and why?
I sat for about an hour watching the empty white set in transfixed bafflement, waiting for Act 2. But nothing happened. I didn't record any more porn that night. It just didn't feel right.
Then came the early hours of daylight. The screen faded to black with text saying something like 'programmes begin again at 7pm'. It may as well have said 'oh dear, you've pushed through the night with your cock out'. I went to bed floppy and chagrined.
I kept up the routine for some weeks after, but I'd lost my enthusiasm. I was probably only in it for the empty set now, with occasional reluctant, limp titty base-touching, but there was never an explanation for what had happened. I waited every night, hope in place of penis, for at least a gesture of some sort. I didn't care if I'd missed the whole drawn-out spectacle and the meaning of the titbit'd performance, but if I could just see this man run on in his police uniform and bow as the credits rolled then I'd be happy. But every time I flicked over it was always the same white set, the same static, the same stubborn lack of answers, and no man ever returned to fill the holes.

[madhair60]

while we're all publically destroying Piljstaart, I was also a Piljsceptic but that one about the tidymouse the other day really had me laughing so I'm re-evaluating the ouevre

[flotemysost]

My nominations are all gonna be quite recent given my limited tenure here, but I've always rated this from DukeDeMondo:

It's almost time for The Rose Of Tralee to be hurried away out of her job of work and up into the heavens another time.

A whole new Rose Of Tralee. The most lovely and fair of all of the loveliest ladies in Ireland.

A whole new Rose Of Tralee, but.

Curious sort of an eerie old weird old haunted sort of a custom. Better than scalding the orphans at Easter, like they used to do in Tralee. Worse than sleeping on bones to fatten the geese, like they do in Tralee at Christmas.

They're out on the streets already, anyway, chanting at all hours, hitting at the lamposts.

Whose face will she wear?
Whose is it that's hair?
Will be spilling down over her shoulders?

(Huck!)

Whose taste on her tongue?
Whose puff in her lungs?
Whose years will she age when she's older?

(Huck! Huck! And The Rose Of Tralee!)

The Rose Of Tralee 2017 was Dr. Jennifer Byrne, from Clonaderig, Ballinahown. This is true enough. She's a highly accomplished sportswoman. This is true enough. Presumably, like all other Roses Of Tralee that have ever been born, it's true too that her skin will whistle when she's stood next running water, and that stringed instruments will burst into flames should she touch them at night.

I was talking about it with a dear friend earlier on. The Rose Of Tralee. They told me that the returning host, RTE's Daithi O Se, has been so desperate to lose weight in the run-up to the event that he's taken to wearing a special suit that sweats his meals back out of him after he eats them. It's been in the papers.

No option. Fuck all else for it.

"I try to mind myself this time every year. I preach a lot of stuff during the winter on the Today Show, that you should be losing a lot of weight and minding yourself and be healthy. So I stick to that about eight months of the show but then the last month I start getting tired and pulling in for diesel and becoming a grazer - I'm a great grazer."

Sweats all the grazing out into these special sleeves now so it doesn't matter a damn. Can stop for diesel fifty or sixty times a day if he wants.

One of last year's hopefuls performed a Lil Wayne song when it was her go to do something, my friend told me. Didn't get her anywhere, but I dunno. I dunno if anybody this year will do any Trippie Redd or anything like this.

Count my guap, count my guap, and The Rose Of Tralee!

Anyway there's a version for animals nowadays too if you must know.

The Rose Of Tralee.

Gives me the shivers, a bit. To see it. It's not meant for us. Older than us. Older than the elements. The Rose Of Tralee. Like catching wee girls and boys kneeling at the bottom of the road whispering into handfuls of soil three hours before thunder. Sort of thing you think maybe shouldn't be. Sort of thing you imagine maybe isn't happening at all. A dream or something else's dream. Dream of a thousand-year-old cow with the head of a goat and a scab for a tongue buried six miles under the River Maine or somewhere.

"They say it came to Priddy. I don't know. You know what they're like. Everything's come to fucking Priddy, if they've anything to do with it."

("Paddy Belton Flanked By Roses, 1978" Source: Bokrug)

Also a big fan of machotrouts' tango tangle:

I hadn't attended a milonga alone before. Usually, I go after tango classes, with a group of people from the class. The milonga regulars outside our group, like all strangers, are terrifying to me. What if they don't want to dance with me, what if they do want to dance with me and are subsequently disgusted by my moves, what if they just want me to drop the fuck dead? I don't know them, I can't depend on them. But tonight, my friend was DJing, and she specifically invited me. So I went on my own, nervous knowing that the one person I'm comfortable dancing with would probably be too busy to dance with me.

There'd never been security before. At the entrance, a security guard asked to see inside my bag. "...why?", I replied, wrongfooted. I could probably work that out for myself, but it was an honest question. "BECAUSE I WANT TO", he spat back. Alright mate. Not even busy.

Here's the problem: the bag is full of dildos.

I live with my parents, and a few months ago, we moved house. The main source of stress to me during the move was what to do with my bedside cabinet full of sex paraphernalia. I can't drive, so my parents and removal men were doing all the actual moving – there was nowhere to hide anything from them. Except, I realised, the bag I take to tango classes. I keep my dance shoes in there, but nothing much else – there was just about enough space left to accommodate my dildo medley. I can carry that bag around with me. Hide in plain sight. My mum was a bit bemused that I didn't seem to have any toiletries or other basic essentials the first few nights, since she saw me carrying a visibly crammed bag, but it didn't seem to arouse suspicion.

However, since the move, I haven't carved out an implicit don't-go-there-it's-probably-for-wanking zone. The former bedside cabinet has been repurposed as somewhere to pop your keys in the hall. There isn't really any place in my room that I wholly trust my parents not to go. So, in lieu of any better options, my sex toys stayed in my bag, and have come with me to every tango class, for months. For a while, this felt inappropriate, but gradually, it just became the norm. Going to tango – better not forget my bulging dildo bag. It had long stopped occurring to me that this might ever present an issue.

Now, I don't know that dildos aren't allowed into a milonga, but this wasn't how I wanted to find out. I refused to let the man inspect my dildo tango bag, and he refused me entry. My stepdad had not long dropped me off in the car, so I called him back, dumped my bag in the back seat – "can't take it in! It's too fucking full of dildos!", I didn't say – and returned to the milonga entrance.

What I didn't expect was to be refused entry again. "Because you wouldn't let me look inside your bag." But I don't have my bag. "But you wouldn't let me look inside when you did have your bag." But I don't have the bag now. The bag was the reason you didn't let me in, and it is no longer a factor. I have taken it out of the equation specifically to address this grievance. "I've already not let you in. I'm not changing my mind."

Baffled and furious, I spent several minutes having this circular argument. Devoid of any remotely viable ideas but unwilling to admit defeat, I genuinely started wondering if I was prepared to fight him. My fight instinct doesn't usually get a look in over flight, but I was standing eye to eye with him despite being 2 steps lower, and I am quite short. I reminded myself that you can't just get unlimited access to premises by defeating the security guards – that isn't how premises work – and flounced off, hissing "you are arbitrarily being a cunt!" (with 100% of the venom in the word "arbitrarily", not "cunt", which I think was a nice touch). The evening wasted, I stomped homeward with somehow even less dignity than if I'd just let him have a rummage in my dildo tango bag to start with.

And then, a group of milonga regulars recognised and intercepted me. The people I'd been scared of depending on in the first place. I told them what had happened (I left out the cunt and the dildos) and these people I'd been terrified of, who only peripherally knew me, offered to smuggle me in. Most of the group distracted the security guard (just by, like, going in at roughly the same time, not throwing rocks or getting their tits out or anything, but still) while one guy slipped me in a momentarily unwatched second entrance a few feet away.

It worked. I got in. I met back up with the distraction group in the milonga room, and one of them told me the guard didn't even ask to check her bag. "And I'm carrying a blender! Look!" She showed me her bag, and she was indeed carrying a blender. "It's because I'm a woman, I think. I just don't register to him as someone who might be carrying a blender." Everyone else there politely pretended not to notice that I was the guy they'd not long seen causing a commotion arguing with the security at the door, and the night proceeded as planned. My DJ friend even made time to dance with me.

After I got home, I could swear there was a quiet tension when my stepdad gave me back my dildo tango bag.

A recent-ish one, and I can't remember what thread it was, but someone was saying that they enjoy a comedy trope where a word is deliberately mis-spelled or has a letter left out, and @madhair60 replied saying "I agee", which I find really stupidly funny.

And a shoutout for @non capisco 's "mmm... log" anecdote which renders me totally incapable of keeping a straight face when it comes to mind.

There was also a post (which I thought was in the "how repulsive are you" thread, but I can't find it) about someone stumbling across a naked photo of their dead uncle(?) as a child (as in, the poster was a child at the time, not the uncle) and getting into increasingly convoluted knots once this was in their possession, culminating in them deciding to eat the photo to avoid detection, but I can't remember who that was.

[Cuellar]

In on of the desolation threads someone once posted something along the lines of "being frogmarched across a moor at gunpoint by a farmer because you laughed at his figurines made of lint in a dream he had" and I've been looking for it on and off for ages now.

I'm sure lint was involved but I've searched for lint and nothing comes up.