Louche
Carved TMO on her clit just to make you feel bad
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quote:Originally posted by Vogon Poetess: I dare Louche to stand waiting at the bus station with a hand painted sign reading WELCOME TO MANCHESTA, RAZ & UBER TRICK!!!
Louche
Carved TMO on her clit just to make you feel bad
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Also, Ben, I am very much looking forward to meeting you and your brother from Manchester and I am going to stop being a twat.
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I have met Benfamily! They all look like him, except are different sizes and sexes. Like the Nicholas-Lyndhursts off of the WHSmiths adverts of yesteryear. Note - I didn't see any BenPets so am unable comment on the existance of a dog with ben's face a la the aforementioned advert.
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lol - the dog got plugged during the speeches when a couple of my cousins decided to stage an impromptu Yorkshire triathalon (shotgun, overloading a pickup with pig feed, freestyle Come On Eileen-off).
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Awight I have booked tick-kets on the coach! Now -- you might be thinking what I was thinking -- 'Urgh the coach will be horrible it will be full of shouting working-class children being sick on each other and there will be a poo on the floor of the toilet but I can't really justify spending all that money on a train for one night and it only takes one more hour I can always sleep' -- like I said, that's what I was thinking -- but look at the ecstatic people who use this coach:
Most of the people seem to be brown, or mental, but I'm sure that won't be a problem.
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How many arguments do you think we'll have on the way Raz? Bear in mind it will be four and a half hours in incredibly close proximity. I say three in the second hour and then not talking to each other for the remaining two and a half hours until you can flounce off the coach in Mancland throwing me some withering retort. Then you will wander around aimlessly for about 5 minutes before coming back to me and saying Milm. This is what I see with the magick of my all seeing eye. What the all seeing eye did not see was my boss buying me some amaretto biscuits from Carluccio's because I was in such a bad mood this morning. I want to marry my boss!
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I think you are probably right! I can always flounce to the toilet. Actually I'm not going to talk to you at all. I'm going to be too busy getting off with this dude
and occasionally giving withering looks to this chick
then bitchin' about people with my chief ho
I'd better print out these pitchers out so I recognise everyone.
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No of course not stupid they do it to get to places on London's hippest new form of transport. Driving is just sooo suburban.
edit: driving in a tiny car, I mean. Or even a truck. Or any kind of vehicle which is not the coach. Apart from the MegaBus. Or normal buses. Sssss. Or LOUCHE's car.
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Yeah coaches are well hip. That stench of other peoples' sweat, the laughable air conditioning which blow warm air at you, regardless of settings, the children front and behind, climding, kicking, screaming, shouting and occasionally even being sick. If you get one with toilet then you're doubly lucky, because then you get to listen to The Fattest Man on the Coach (bar the driver) strain his anus to within an inch of it's elastic limit, while curling off a prize winner, which you'll then smell for the rest of the journey.
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What I hate about coaches, and I am entitled to comment as I have rode from here to there and many points elsewhere on them, is that they don't turn into normal buses when they get into town. So, you come in on the M4 or something and two hours later you finally crawl into Victoria Coach Station and they could have just dropped you at Hammersmith and you'd have been nearly home.
Their main advantage... their only advantage... is that they are so astonishingly cheap. I went from London to the Isle of Man for 15 quid once. National to the 'Pool, then foot passenger on the Seacat. Took about 20 hours, yeah, but the plane would've been 100 poun' or more.
Also, the driver and his assistant that makes the tea always know everyone on the journey. They leave the big door open as they drive out of London and shout incomprehensible things to newsagents and cabbies and florists along the way. "Ai, Dave, aiugh apple allry bordny? Heh heh heh!" and stuff like that. But they do it all the way up the motorway and everywhere the coach stops. They usually stop by at the driver's house in Preston or somewhere too and fifteen kids come out and give him his sandwiches. And that's on the run to Bristol.
Lucid
It's six o'clock somewhere, I'm having crisps !
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LOL @Dang. Friend of mine missed a connection and was put in a taxi by the coach company with three strangers, all the way from brum to glasgow. The driver said 'don't mind if I stop for something to eat do you, I've been on for hours'. Thing was, he took them to his house, and made them sit in his front room whilst he ate his tea! Non of the prospective passengers spoke during this interlude, and this set the tone for a the longest night of my life story, which involved neither cameraderie nor bon homie, to such an extent that the taxi driver wouldn't even stop anywhere in Glasgow other than Glasgow coach station, even at 2am.
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That's horris. Mind, it would have been more horris if he'd taken them to his house, and it was really cold and dingy, and in the corner of the room on the floor there was a thing that might have been a woman's head facing away from them.
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Lucid
It's six o'clock somewhere, I'm having crisps !
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Caption competition:
What's just happened here?*
Looking forward to more silliness in a similar vein this weekend - and on behalf of the north I would like to apologise for the weather. Whilst you savaarn lot were cavorting in shorts, we had drizzle.
*A fish was maimed in the making of this picture. Sorry Astro.
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If anyone is planning to stay at mine and lucid's gaff and you are coming by car can you please try to squeeze in sleeping bags/duvets. We have a couple spare but not quite the 9 possibly required..
Lucid (and by extension Memes); thanks for the kindly invite, but my timing is probably going to be too tight to incorporate a trip out to Glossop in the afternoon. Thanks for the invite.
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