Colliahhh
Well-Known Member
Haha, they are brilliant!
Remind me of some stories that a mate had sent me a while back, think they had been posted on Blue Kipper:
On DIY
I've nearly snapped my spinal column many a time trying to suck my own hassle. Every so often I’ll lay on my bed with my underbelters around my ankles and then do a sudden backwards roll as a way of gaining momentum. My knees are beside my head and my cock hangs agonisingly closely to my mouth. I can feel the warmth of him radiating onto my face, and the smell of heated flesh fills my nostrils as I’m craning my neck forward and flicking out my tongue, desperately trying to get a lick of my trouble. I've once managed to sneak a quick lick of my bull-tip, but sadly, I couldn’t get a decent amount of contact, because it stops you breathing, and you have to relent for a while in order to rest. I’m telling you, I’ve tried so hard to fold myself in half that I’ve looked like a human stapler, and I’ve almost collapsed my own lungs as a result of the tremendous pressure I’ve placed upon my chest cavity. It's all about flexibility, though. Never ever give up after the first try, because initially you're all stiff and un-stretched, which makes it very difficult to get your grill anywhere near your cock. Do some star jumps and a few stretches if need be in order to loosen your vertebrae and make them much more flexible. There’s been times when I’ve almost been in tears as a result of frustration and temper because I’ve gotten so close to necking my own panic, only to fail at the very last second. My throbbing cock has been literally millimeters away from my pursed lips, and I’ve even grabbed hold of the base and tried to stretch it towards my mouth, but I get a sharp pain near my pubic bone so I have to stop.
After failing in my attempts to orally pleasure myself I've seriously considered sponking in my own face just to see what it feels like. I’ve lay there with my pulsating penis just centimeters from my nose and actually thought closely about webbing my own cock drink all over my own timepiece. The only thing that has prevented me from doing it so far is the terrible feelings I'd undoubtedly experience as soon as I'd done it. I'd be absolutely disgusted with myself, lying there naked with my stone cold rubbish blown all over my muzzy and eyebrows. Actually, I’d also be extremely scared of being caught in the act by somebody. Knowing me, I’d empty the contents of my scrogg all over my face and then my back would go into spasm and completely seize up. Can you imagine trying to explain your way out of it? There is absolutely nothing you could possibly say to explain yourself. I’d have to shout my mum to help me and then just tell her the truth and hope for the best. “Listen mum, I’m so sorry. Stop panicking, I’m alright. I stupidly tried to suck my own terror but failed miserably, so I thought I’d trolley my own bollock grease all over my crankshaft, and then my fúcking back packed in. Do me a favour, run downstairs and get the deep heat from the cupboard and give my spine a quick spray. Oh, and while you’re there, could you get me the flannel to wipe this freezing cold cock junk off my kite? Thanks mum, you’re a fúcking star”. I’d have to pack my bags and leave home forever. I’d never be able to look any of my family members in the eye again.
On his mate stealing his bird…
For fúcks sake.
Your first priority is to fúcking anihilate your mate for taking the píss out of you. You're lying in bed, listening to the poignant lyrics of Lionel Richie and crying your eyes out like a soft cúnt, while your mate is locking his panic up the love of your life's saltbox. Next time you see him you should steal in from the side and devastate the side of his face with a steering lock, leaving him for dead in the middle of the street. They're laughing at you. She's jamming his 6 inch girth into her esophagus and sliding her index finger up her copper smelling snitch, while you're looking at old photo's and moaning to strangers on the Internet. Do you realise that he goes up to her room, flops his entertainment onto the front of his undies and then beats off right next to her face as she ridicules you about your appearance? He's got a hassle pipe the size of a can of Arrid and he kettles her all over her box room before he cóck coughs his Tippex all over her grill. They're fúcking roaring with laughter at you. Kill the both of them.
Once she's been packed to the rafters with cóck she comes back to you for some conversation and comfort. But guess what? Sexual thirst is quenched but temporarily, and once her clit gets itchy she'll be back to your mate, reversing onto his trumpet. You need to break this cycle if you want to keep the last drop of dignity that you possess. Next time you see her, just pin her to your council house work top and erupt your fúck crumbs all over her timepiece, and then sling her out without her Ugg boots. Tell her if she ever takes the píss out of you again that you'll go through her ma's front door with a ballie on.
On using the wrong shitters:
A couple of years ago I was in The Setter & Vine near Broadway for the first time and after a couple of drinks I asked my mate where the toilet was. He pointed me in the direction of a non-descript looking door that was in desperate need of a good varnishing and so I pushed it open and went inside for a píss. Upon entering I noticed that there were no urinals on the wall and only two cubicles, which I thought, fleetingly, was a little bit strange. I walked into the one stall that was vacant, lifted the seat up with my foot and expelled the warm contents of my bladder via my big, fat, floppy tosser. There was a societal monster in the adjoining trap, oblivious to common decency and with a flagrant disregard for social convention, loudly powering out a shíte with accompanying farts that resonated profoundly in the porcelain bowl. I raised the neck-hole of my top over my nose and mouth to prevent further inhalation of the malevolent, abhorrent and repugnant odour that was emanating from this contemptible cúnts sludge tank and made my way to the sink to wash my hands. As I was drying my digits under the electronic hand dryer I heard the lock on the cubicle door open and I instinctively glanced to my left to cast eyes upon the fetid demon that was responsible for such terrible behaviour. I’ll readily admit that I was not in the least bit expecting to see the petite brunette with tolerable títs that was stood beside me. I was confused for a second or two and then I rapidly realised what had transpired. The little metal bin used for discarding soiled sanitary towels that was sitting in the corner suddenly zoomed to the forefront of my consciousness and my face filled with blood, doing its best impersonation of the pink themed décor. She screamed; “what the fúck are you doing in here, you fúcking pervert?” I’d lost all composure at this point and the only reply I could muster was; “I’m having a piss, you stupid slág”. In hindsight, that was a dreadful mistake to make as she lunged toward me without hesitation, throwing haphazard haymakers and slapdash swings in the direction of my chest, windpipe and lips. I spun on my heels and made a dart for the exit, receiving thunderous thuds to my back that sounded like a snare drum as I went, and all the while thinking; “Oh my God, she hasn’t washed her fúcking hands”. I came tearing out of the shíthouse at the speed of sound, mowing into the occupants of the packed boozer en route as this loud-mouthed lunatic was in hot pursuit. In the end I managed to escape the premises and jogged down Queens Drive where I flagged a taxi to take me home. It was the first time I’d ever been attacked by a woman and thinking back I probably should have lamped the teeth out of her jawbone and left her on grime-ridden tiled floor to recollect her senses. My mate later informed me that I had been barred indefinitely and that some soft cúnt with a side-part and Eastern European looking trainees had threatened to kill me should I ever return. I think the moral of the story is don’t listen to a woman having a shít or she will f****** batter you.
On getting beat up by lids…
Admittedly it didn't quite work the last time I used it as a form of defence, seeing as though I ended up getting the back of my head punched off by a seven-strong gang of kidder lizards in Anfield. I went into a shop called the Minkel near the Clarence pub to get a pint of milk, some eggs and a paper but on my way out an unnecessarily aggressive, ársehole-fringed teenager squared right up to me and screeched; "what did yer say abar me mar, lar?" directly at my face as his six mates formed a cretinous crescent behind him to thwart any ideas of escape I may have courted. “Oh fúck, here we go!” I thought. “I’ve been selected as tonight’s díckhead for them to batter for no apparent reason”. Resigned to my fate and knowing they were going to rip the Berghaus fleece off my back regardless of my answer I replied, almost inaudibly; “that she was an ugly cúnt and stinks of shíte”. The first punch was thrown. The contents of my sad little carrier bag were spilled onto the pavement as I hugged my knees tightly and curled up into a ball as they made light work of what can only be described as ‘booting my whole body in’. I’d say they were all no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, except one, whom I estimate was about twenty-three. He was one of these big dopey looking, brain-damaged lunatics with a thin, translucent muzzie that always seem to hang around with a load of younger kids, but my word could he kick. I could feel constant little stamps and weak powered shots to my legs and arms but every so often this lanky fúcking grok would thunder a volley right up my arse and make my brain vibrate. “Shouldn’t this cúnt be at home with his kids? Why is he behaving like Tong-Po smashing that concrete pillar with his bare shin in Kickboxer? When is he ever going to refrain from caning bone-crushing blows into my shoulder blades and coccyx?” were some of the thoughts racing through my mind. After what seemed like three quarters of an hour they finally stopped and left me semi-conscious on the ground next to my now scrambled eggs. Due to the adrenalin surging through my system I wasn’t in any pain at all and for some unexplainable reason got gingerly to my feet and shouted after them; “is that it, you gang of fúcking farts?” Nope. Turns out that it wasn’t. They turned on their heels and charged towards me at the speed of sound. I tried to run but staggered all over the place and fell onto the bonnet of a Vauxhall Corsa as they, once again, attempted to collapse my internal organs via the method of booting. I’d had enough at this point but they weren’t going to stop until they knew I’d really suffered, so I gave them the signals they were quite obviously looking for. My empty carrier bag blew past in the early evening breeze and I grabbed hold of it, filled it up with my self-pride, self-dignity and self-worth and began bellowing “Help! Help! Help! Help!” at the top of my burning lungs. I shouted it that many times that the word lost all meaning. And then my consciousness lost all functionality. I woke up in a bus-stop with massive lips, a skull full of coggies and the taste of blood in my mouth. Thirty seconds later the 17C turned up and I jumped on it straight to Fazakerley hospital for a quick check up.
Trying to be a smartarse is probably not a good way of dealing with attackers
Remind me of some stories that a mate had sent me a while back, think they had been posted on Blue Kipper:
On DIY
I've nearly snapped my spinal column many a time trying to suck my own hassle. Every so often I’ll lay on my bed with my underbelters around my ankles and then do a sudden backwards roll as a way of gaining momentum. My knees are beside my head and my cock hangs agonisingly closely to my mouth. I can feel the warmth of him radiating onto my face, and the smell of heated flesh fills my nostrils as I’m craning my neck forward and flicking out my tongue, desperately trying to get a lick of my trouble. I've once managed to sneak a quick lick of my bull-tip, but sadly, I couldn’t get a decent amount of contact, because it stops you breathing, and you have to relent for a while in order to rest. I’m telling you, I’ve tried so hard to fold myself in half that I’ve looked like a human stapler, and I’ve almost collapsed my own lungs as a result of the tremendous pressure I’ve placed upon my chest cavity. It's all about flexibility, though. Never ever give up after the first try, because initially you're all stiff and un-stretched, which makes it very difficult to get your grill anywhere near your cock. Do some star jumps and a few stretches if need be in order to loosen your vertebrae and make them much more flexible. There’s been times when I’ve almost been in tears as a result of frustration and temper because I’ve gotten so close to necking my own panic, only to fail at the very last second. My throbbing cock has been literally millimeters away from my pursed lips, and I’ve even grabbed hold of the base and tried to stretch it towards my mouth, but I get a sharp pain near my pubic bone so I have to stop.
After failing in my attempts to orally pleasure myself I've seriously considered sponking in my own face just to see what it feels like. I’ve lay there with my pulsating penis just centimeters from my nose and actually thought closely about webbing my own cock drink all over my own timepiece. The only thing that has prevented me from doing it so far is the terrible feelings I'd undoubtedly experience as soon as I'd done it. I'd be absolutely disgusted with myself, lying there naked with my stone cold rubbish blown all over my muzzy and eyebrows. Actually, I’d also be extremely scared of being caught in the act by somebody. Knowing me, I’d empty the contents of my scrogg all over my face and then my back would go into spasm and completely seize up. Can you imagine trying to explain your way out of it? There is absolutely nothing you could possibly say to explain yourself. I’d have to shout my mum to help me and then just tell her the truth and hope for the best. “Listen mum, I’m so sorry. Stop panicking, I’m alright. I stupidly tried to suck my own terror but failed miserably, so I thought I’d trolley my own bollock grease all over my crankshaft, and then my fúcking back packed in. Do me a favour, run downstairs and get the deep heat from the cupboard and give my spine a quick spray. Oh, and while you’re there, could you get me the flannel to wipe this freezing cold cock junk off my kite? Thanks mum, you’re a fúcking star”. I’d have to pack my bags and leave home forever. I’d never be able to look any of my family members in the eye again.
On his mate stealing his bird…
For fúcks sake.
Your first priority is to fúcking anihilate your mate for taking the píss out of you. You're lying in bed, listening to the poignant lyrics of Lionel Richie and crying your eyes out like a soft cúnt, while your mate is locking his panic up the love of your life's saltbox. Next time you see him you should steal in from the side and devastate the side of his face with a steering lock, leaving him for dead in the middle of the street. They're laughing at you. She's jamming his 6 inch girth into her esophagus and sliding her index finger up her copper smelling snitch, while you're looking at old photo's and moaning to strangers on the Internet. Do you realise that he goes up to her room, flops his entertainment onto the front of his undies and then beats off right next to her face as she ridicules you about your appearance? He's got a hassle pipe the size of a can of Arrid and he kettles her all over her box room before he cóck coughs his Tippex all over her grill. They're fúcking roaring with laughter at you. Kill the both of them.
Once she's been packed to the rafters with cóck she comes back to you for some conversation and comfort. But guess what? Sexual thirst is quenched but temporarily, and once her clit gets itchy she'll be back to your mate, reversing onto his trumpet. You need to break this cycle if you want to keep the last drop of dignity that you possess. Next time you see her, just pin her to your council house work top and erupt your fúck crumbs all over her timepiece, and then sling her out without her Ugg boots. Tell her if she ever takes the píss out of you again that you'll go through her ma's front door with a ballie on.
On using the wrong shitters:
A couple of years ago I was in The Setter & Vine near Broadway for the first time and after a couple of drinks I asked my mate where the toilet was. He pointed me in the direction of a non-descript looking door that was in desperate need of a good varnishing and so I pushed it open and went inside for a píss. Upon entering I noticed that there were no urinals on the wall and only two cubicles, which I thought, fleetingly, was a little bit strange. I walked into the one stall that was vacant, lifted the seat up with my foot and expelled the warm contents of my bladder via my big, fat, floppy tosser. There was a societal monster in the adjoining trap, oblivious to common decency and with a flagrant disregard for social convention, loudly powering out a shíte with accompanying farts that resonated profoundly in the porcelain bowl. I raised the neck-hole of my top over my nose and mouth to prevent further inhalation of the malevolent, abhorrent and repugnant odour that was emanating from this contemptible cúnts sludge tank and made my way to the sink to wash my hands. As I was drying my digits under the electronic hand dryer I heard the lock on the cubicle door open and I instinctively glanced to my left to cast eyes upon the fetid demon that was responsible for such terrible behaviour. I’ll readily admit that I was not in the least bit expecting to see the petite brunette with tolerable títs that was stood beside me. I was confused for a second or two and then I rapidly realised what had transpired. The little metal bin used for discarding soiled sanitary towels that was sitting in the corner suddenly zoomed to the forefront of my consciousness and my face filled with blood, doing its best impersonation of the pink themed décor. She screamed; “what the fúck are you doing in here, you fúcking pervert?” I’d lost all composure at this point and the only reply I could muster was; “I’m having a piss, you stupid slág”. In hindsight, that was a dreadful mistake to make as she lunged toward me without hesitation, throwing haphazard haymakers and slapdash swings in the direction of my chest, windpipe and lips. I spun on my heels and made a dart for the exit, receiving thunderous thuds to my back that sounded like a snare drum as I went, and all the while thinking; “Oh my God, she hasn’t washed her fúcking hands”. I came tearing out of the shíthouse at the speed of sound, mowing into the occupants of the packed boozer en route as this loud-mouthed lunatic was in hot pursuit. In the end I managed to escape the premises and jogged down Queens Drive where I flagged a taxi to take me home. It was the first time I’d ever been attacked by a woman and thinking back I probably should have lamped the teeth out of her jawbone and left her on grime-ridden tiled floor to recollect her senses. My mate later informed me that I had been barred indefinitely and that some soft cúnt with a side-part and Eastern European looking trainees had threatened to kill me should I ever return. I think the moral of the story is don’t listen to a woman having a shít or she will f****** batter you.
On getting beat up by lids…
Admittedly it didn't quite work the last time I used it as a form of defence, seeing as though I ended up getting the back of my head punched off by a seven-strong gang of kidder lizards in Anfield. I went into a shop called the Minkel near the Clarence pub to get a pint of milk, some eggs and a paper but on my way out an unnecessarily aggressive, ársehole-fringed teenager squared right up to me and screeched; "what did yer say abar me mar, lar?" directly at my face as his six mates formed a cretinous crescent behind him to thwart any ideas of escape I may have courted. “Oh fúck, here we go!” I thought. “I’ve been selected as tonight’s díckhead for them to batter for no apparent reason”. Resigned to my fate and knowing they were going to rip the Berghaus fleece off my back regardless of my answer I replied, almost inaudibly; “that she was an ugly cúnt and stinks of shíte”. The first punch was thrown. The contents of my sad little carrier bag were spilled onto the pavement as I hugged my knees tightly and curled up into a ball as they made light work of what can only be described as ‘booting my whole body in’. I’d say they were all no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, except one, whom I estimate was about twenty-three. He was one of these big dopey looking, brain-damaged lunatics with a thin, translucent muzzie that always seem to hang around with a load of younger kids, but my word could he kick. I could feel constant little stamps and weak powered shots to my legs and arms but every so often this lanky fúcking grok would thunder a volley right up my arse and make my brain vibrate. “Shouldn’t this cúnt be at home with his kids? Why is he behaving like Tong-Po smashing that concrete pillar with his bare shin in Kickboxer? When is he ever going to refrain from caning bone-crushing blows into my shoulder blades and coccyx?” were some of the thoughts racing through my mind. After what seemed like three quarters of an hour they finally stopped and left me semi-conscious on the ground next to my now scrambled eggs. Due to the adrenalin surging through my system I wasn’t in any pain at all and for some unexplainable reason got gingerly to my feet and shouted after them; “is that it, you gang of fúcking farts?” Nope. Turns out that it wasn’t. They turned on their heels and charged towards me at the speed of sound. I tried to run but staggered all over the place and fell onto the bonnet of a Vauxhall Corsa as they, once again, attempted to collapse my internal organs via the method of booting. I’d had enough at this point but they weren’t going to stop until they knew I’d really suffered, so I gave them the signals they were quite obviously looking for. My empty carrier bag blew past in the early evening breeze and I grabbed hold of it, filled it up with my self-pride, self-dignity and self-worth and began bellowing “Help! Help! Help! Help!” at the top of my burning lungs. I shouted it that many times that the word lost all meaning. And then my consciousness lost all functionality. I woke up in a bus-stop with massive lips, a skull full of coggies and the taste of blood in my mouth. Thirty seconds later the 17C turned up and I jumped on it straight to Fazakerley hospital for a quick check up.
Trying to be a smartarse is probably not a good way of dealing with attackers