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About ThistleWhistle

  • Birthday 04/21/1980

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  1. Point scoring wives, kids' tele and hangovers don't mix... For only the second time in my daughter’s 2.5 years existence was I hungover and in charge as my wholly irresponsible wife took a last minute extra shift Sunday morning even though she knew I would boot the @rse out of my window of freedom at my work colleague’s wedding despite my empty promises to the contrary. At 7 o’clock on the dot the 3 foot dynamo ball of chaos awoke immediately demanding attention and with some reticence I enquired what she wanted because the day before she’d asked for an elephant and a big cow with me currently in no fit state for conflict. Luckily she wanted a pee, Coco Pops and Paw Patrol in that order; I would have kissed her but my mouth smelt like a tramp’s arse so just ruffled her hair instead. However, after only 3 episodes of Paw Patrol, and 15 proclamations ‘Chase was on the case’ I was willing to put my frazzled head through the tv. Not only was this wee b@stard going full John Terry claiming all the glory from the rest of the team but I’d just spent £300 on vets bills. What was needed here was a responsible cartoon adult to tell him in a firm voice to get out of the f**king tree and sit down unless he was willing to pay his own insurance – a kite costs a fiver but if you fall it’ll be thousands you f@nny! Taking an executive decision I flicked to the new Tom & Jerry cartoons. I thought Tom Hanks version of the Lady Killers would take some beating as the worst remake ever but these monstrosities set the bar much, much, much lower. We lasted 2 episodes of this before I looked to the heavens and proffered a personal apology to Fred Quimby for what we’d done. Our next port of call was Mr Tumble whose work is truly admirable and my bundle of mental was fully ensconced. I couldn’t shift the gnawing voice in my head though that Operation Bonsai Tree in 2035 could destroy her childhood innocent memories so switched again. Who could have known back in the day that the answer to ‘Can you guess what it is yet?’ was generally ‘Your cock Rolf’?. We then found Postman Pat which was my absolute favourite as an infant. Since I’d last watched in 1985 Pat is married and got busy – although a bit mumsy still think Pat’s punching above his weight. Given he’s a Postie she obviously loves him for his personality rather than money although what female could really resist the occasional copulation in the back of PAT1 whilst making Jess watch? Even though they’ve called their offspring Julian I still presume they love him and on considering his future I hit a startling realisation. Whilst they used to speak Gaelic 30 years ago, and Hamden Loon’s daily proclamations of doom, I now suspect Greendale is in Banff and Buchan and full to the brim with f**king tories! Dr. Gilbertson never seems to be in practice cutting about in her flashy Morgan and has a sister in Wales with a castle so she’s not NHS and defo a tory. Farmer Alf will no doubt be a tory brexiteer who’ll be foaming at the mouth with the SNP when he doesn’t receive oodles of cash for his fallow fields aka Greendale Marsh. In this episode Pat delivers him a drone to watch over his farm but what they don’t mention is that it has been custom fitted with machine guns to mow down Bulgarians if they slack off picking berries. Arthur the Policeman will no doubt be looking forward to getting down the lodge for a swally to toast a fellow brother’s election to the cooncil and the vicar is bound to be tory too. Ajay, the train driver who is an immigrant from Mumbai, is presumably here on an Entrepreneur visa given he re-opened the trainline so with JC threatening renationalisation he is a certainty too. Mrs Goggins is an old wifey from the shop and keeps banging on about the good old days which presumably means the period before Ajay moved in and procreated. She’s waiting on an urgent mail but is disappointed when Pat hasn’t got it. Putting two and two together but reckon, after recent immigration cases, she is well aware of the income Ajay has to generate to stay in the country and is therefore awaiting feedback from Megabus to see if they’ll include Greendale in their Inverness to Aberdeen route in competition. Even with the dementia tax she’ll still vote tory as she’ll just carrying on blaming the swarm of immigrants hitting the village and Natalie Surgeon for everything anyway. Ben, who manages the sorting office, says every episode ‘Got a special delivery for you Pat’ but really he means ‘I’ve cocked up again Pat and need you to fix it’. He forgot to buy bubble wrap for a fragile commemorative plate and none of the seven vehicles at their disposal has a refrigerated section when Pat was given an ice statue. Ben is obviously too much of a pussy to admit to himself he is a tory though so, even worse, suspect given his fringe that he votes Lib Dem. It’s no wander that postage is so bloody expensive though given Ben is so logistically challenged that Pat utilised 2 vans, a 4x4 jeep and a helicopter to deliver a camera from one side of Greendale to the other. Ben’s Mrs though looks like a Green and seems the sort who would blaze the campaign trail. Unfortunately for her their daughter is paralysed and Pat’s probably delivering notification that her mobility scooter is to be confiscated whilst ATOS have deemed her fit enough to return to work as a papergirl so mum’s time is going to be otherwise engaged. So with a strong and stable hard Brexit hurtling their way free study will likely be out the window and without freedom of movement Julian’s local job options would seem to be berry picking, fixing Ben’s f**k ups or wiping old racist Goggins’ backside. I was feeling sorry for poor old Pat then realised him and Ben are the only ones working at the sorting office so he has survived the privatisation staff cull and therefore suspect he could be an ‘I’m alright Jack’ too. Realising I was doing my typical hungover overthinking decided to take the wee lass to the park instead hoping fresh air and hill based shuttle runs would lead to an early nap before tagging mum back in to deal with the afternoon session.
  5. Watched every minute of the World Cup but this tournament passed me by. Groups were dull and then got worse. Wwtched a few games on highlights and a few didn't even bother at all. My interest in football has defo dropped but this is the worst tournament in terms of internationals I can remember.
  6. I was watching Countdown about a month back with few days off from work when saw an advert for Senokot. Hadn't has a shit in three days and struggling to bend so thought that was the stuff for me. Next day, I thought I had an 8 letter bute but couldn't hang about for Sussie Dent to verify it as couldn't stop shitting. Luckily I got back just in time to catch an imodium based advert and bought a dose. Consequently I didn't have a shit for three days. I'm now locked in a cycle addicted to both. Even the Tesco driver is smirking at me when he delivers my weekly three kilo bananas, prune juice and ten rolls of Bounty. I can't help having a schizophrenic arse!
  7. I think he is wrong about Mein Kampf too. There's no way he could have climbed to the top if his manifesto from the off stated he wanted to cull 6 million jews and 5 million others. Only read bits (christ it is badly written hate filled pish) but remember seeing a program on History about it and a couple of articles after in which all stated it was deeply anti-semitic but never stipulated he intended to kill them off. At that point the plan was shipping them to Madagascar. They actually looked at doing this with Polish Jews but postponed it after losing the Battle of Britain. Then there were speeches in October and December 1940 where the Final Solution has then been decided. Off topic but something I found interesting was after school and basic media exposure I thought Germany was totally Nazi. In the 32 elections they got 30 and 37%. In 1933, even with brown coats kicking the shit out of folk, this dropped to 33%. Milliband got 30% in our last election as comparison and he iscridiculed for being unpopular.
  8. There is a limitation in the Telegraph Article in that it'll only include income hmrc is aware of surely? Maybe idealistic but if the top 1% own/earn the same as the lowest 55% then their contributions should be similar. I don't share the view we should be thankful to the 10% that their moral compass has graced us with a third of our tax return and they haven't jetted off to an even more loopholed climate.
  9. Got a greyhound and a 14 month toddler. Dog sleeps 18 hours a day, one half hour walk and totally sound with wee lass. We leave dog in the kitchen when baby is about and she's happy. Best 100 quid ever spent from Scottish Greyhound Sanctury.
  10. Wolfie lad I hope 2016 will be to you what 15 was to me. Our wee lass 1st birthday was in December and watching her grow over that year has been amazing. Also have a nephew who is three weeks older than wee lass so watching them together is simply wonderful. My brother got married and had a winner of a weekend with her French family over who totally fell in love with the place. My cousin got married in Ireland and in to a wonderful family. He lost his mum a few years back so was brilliant to see him so happy. Both ladies in question are both more attractive than either of my family members and could defo handle themselves in a pub fight so welcome additions. In my job I'm bored daft. I get home every nght for 6 and keeps us comfy so even at my most pissed off I realise time is more important than anything. Football - Scotland v Georgia was awful. Stoke- Playing stuff beyond my wildest dreams. Dundee United- pish.
  11. Seeing this front four on the teamsheet Arnautovic Afellay Shaqiri Bojan Stoke fans will speak aboutthis side for years and got to enjoy it while it lasts.
  12. My granddad was just a boy on the merchant ships. He got a change of ship off his usual then saw it blown up in convoy two days later. Total head to realise that's how close a chunk of my family were to never existing. He always told my old man the poppy was to remember everyone because it represented the futility of war. It's origins are in a Canadian poem 'In Flanders Fields'. Moina Michael, a US YWCA worker, penned the following response: Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields, Sleep sweet - to rise anew! We caught the torch you threw And holding high, we keep the Faith With All who died. We cherish, too, the poppy red That grows on fields where valor led; It seems to signal to the skies That blood of heroes never dies, But lends a lustre to the red Of the flower that blooms above the dead In Flanders Fields. And now the Torch and Poppy Red We wear in honor of our dead. Fear not that ye have died for naught; We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought In Flanders Fields She handed out 25 silk red poppies at a YWCA conference in 1918 and that is where the tradition started with France attempting to adopt it thereafter before spreading to the UK in 1921. The lesson was the futility of war and I personally think this concept has been completely lost.
  13. add to that the suspensions that got overturned after they'd trained all week as having them missing.
  14. Dear Flora Our dog died recently and my wife evidently resents the fact I have not succumbed to Princess Diane levels of mourning. Understandably, she was very fond of the mutt as she cherry picked all the good jobs. I, on the other hand, was left to the 6.30am walks, the increasingly frequent dog arse hair grooming due to it's losing battle with continence and picking jobby out of the rug if I'd been tardy with the clippers so our relationship, at best, was tepid. Don't misjudge me as a cold man but our relationship hit a hurdle that I could never fully recover from a few years back. I always wanted the dog to sleep downstairs but the first night he whimpered for all of 20 seconds and my wife folded like a pack of cards so he was allowed upstairs. Having a dog in the bedroom does nowt for the mood but so long as he was asleep everything was fine. One night though I was getting my freak fully on with Mrs Whistle, lights on and everything, when I caught him out of the corner of my eye fixated on something about half way down the bed. It broke my concentration off of Katrina from Accounts because I was now trying to work out what he was mesmerized by. Then his head moved ever so slightly; then a couple of times more quickly; then a very pronounced up and down; then I knew he was staring at my arse. I carried on servicing the wife and somehow got from A to B but all the time in my peripheral vision it was like the Duke boys had taken out insurance with Churchill and stuck the nodding dog in the back of General Lee. It was as if they'd nipped to pick up Daisy, hit about half a mile of speed bumps through Hazard High Street, a couple of traffic calming chicanes, a random stretch of cobbled road with a couple of pot holes, jumped Rosco P. Coltrane's police car, jumped Boss Hogg's car, juddered on the shot to shit suspension for a couple of seconds before smashing in to a tree. From then on I vowed only to sort my wife out when the dog was almost comatose. Three weeks later the dog is snoring, Match of the Day has got to the crap games and Mrs Whistle hasn't said 'No' within the last three hours so I'm on it. I'm having a great time when I suddenly hear a fart. The first second I thought it was the mrs, and we've been together long enough for me to call her a skank without risk of intercourse ceasing, but straight after there is a bark so the dog has woke itself up with it's own backside emissions. He stretches and sits at his favourite spot so he can observe my arse in action. The only way this could be better for him is if someone gave him his balls back to lick at the same time. I'm not having it though and I chuck a pillow at him whereby he disappears to the other end of the room. After about 30 seconds the voice in my head is no longer Katrina demanding me to bang her on the copier and send email copies of her backside to her boss but my own enquiring as to where the f*** that dog is. Just as I'm about to look down the bed I feel the cold wet nose nuzzle between my buttocks and before I can smack him round the head he has sniffed so hard I can hear his lungs strain. For three months I did not have sex afterwards. Even when she stops wearing black and returns to normality sex is ruined for me anyway. The moment our baby was born my first thought was how wonderful life was and that nothing would be beyond me for this angel; my second thought was 'look at that big square head!!!' My wife carries a donor card and god forbid something ever happening to her but she doesn't drink or smoke so lots of useful organs there plus now someone in the burns unit could get a new set of ears out of her vulva. We were on the beach on our summer holiday and I was trying to find where the panpipe music was coming from but it was due to the breeze blowing between her bikini bottoms as we walked. As such, could you recommend a dog with a bald arse, short snout and propensity for minding it's own business and any tips for a man with a family saloon but a double garage to park it in please? Cheers TW