The, Why has this topic never had a thread, thread.

crublue1

Well-Known Member
Joined
1 Feb 2011
Messages
2,604
Best tool of the modern era, cordless impact wrench. Gamechanger. 400 nm of stubborn nut undoingness in your hand. Sublime.
And if that wasn't enough viewers, I have a beetroot tale.
When my dad was in his mid sixties, he went through what I now call his "last of the summer wine phase'
He and several mates with far too much time on there hands would get up to all sorts of shenangans, often after a few pints in the Griffin or the Stamford.
They would often ride bikes to a random town, stopping at every pub for a half. Then get the train back, leathered.
Once, my old man was stopped by the police on his ride on mower, on his way back from the pub, mowing the fucking verges the daft **** ha ha. Luckily the local copper escorted him home.
They actually went scrumping apples, just for the crack, and knew where all the best chessy trees were, even if they had to trespass a bit to get them. He once brought back a load of what he thought was sweetcorn. No dad, that's maize.
Anyway one morning he wakes up and he goes to the bog and there's blood in his piss. He panics, and my long suffering mum rings the docs and off they go to the local surgery. (This was 25 years ago) the doc was very concerned, until he noticed my dad's beetroot stained fingers. He'd binged on scrumped raw beetroot the previous day, thus turning his piss crimson. Turns out he loves beetroot, and found it a bit Moorish.
Bit of dad memory there.
Saw him today at the mental ward and he doesn't remember me.
Well I remember you dad, I'll never forget you.
 

idahoblues

Well-Known Member
Joined
27 Mar 2009
Messages
14,984
Best tool of the modern era, cordless impact wrench. Gamechanger. 400 nm of stubborn nut undoingness in your hand. Sublime.
And if that wasn't enough viewers, I have a beetroot tale.
When my dad was in his mid sixties, he went through what I now call his "last of the summer wine phase'
He and several mates with far too much time on there hands would get up to all sorts of shenangans, often after a few pints in the Griffin or the Stamford.
They would often ride bikes to a random town, stopping at every pub for a half. Then get the train back, leathered.
Once, my old man was stopped by the police on his ride on mower, on his way back from the pub, mowing the fucking verges the daft **** ha ha. Luckily the local copper escorted him home.
They actually went scrumping apples, just for the crack, and knew where all the best chessy trees were, even if they had to trespass a bit to get them. He once brought back a load of what he thought was sweetcorn. No dad, that's maize.
Anyway one morning he wakes up and he goes to the bog and there's blood in his piss. He panics, and my long suffering mum rings the docs and off they go to the local surgery. (This was 25 years ago) the doc was very concerned, until he noticed my dad's beetroot stained fingers. He'd binged on scrumped raw beetroot the previous day, thus turning his piss crimson. Turns out he loves beetroot, and found it a bit Moorish.
Bit of dad memory there.
Saw him today at the mental ward and he doesn't remember me.
Well I remember you dad, I'll never forget you.
How are you Son ?
 

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