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Post Of The Year 2014


Devon Malcolm

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There is some cracking stuff in the twitter thread regarding Tommy's fake account bullshit. The best reply has to be Jaffa offering odds on the culprit

 

Having narrowed it down to 7 suspects, i'm offering the latest odds on who is behind the account:

 

Khemical 1/6

Dangerously420 Evens

Some random who just thinks he's a dong 2/1

Disgruntled Ringtone Customer who never got their phone back after posting it to Tom a couple of years back 4/1

Disgruntled Wrestlemania Party Customer who didn't see the main event that one year 9/2

Chilli 50/1

The 1991 Denver Broncos 100-1

 

I will have 2 quid on the Broncos please.

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Thirded! That part of the Twitter thread is unreal, some side splitting stuff! It's up there with the 'pink top' escapades and Gatso's uncovering.

 

Is there any chance of that thread, or rather that part of the thread to Gold?

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On the subject of Rick

 

Only a fat cunt would describe a chocolate bar as thought provoking ;)

 

This one from Chest, in response to Rick describing a Ritz/Chocolate bar as thought provoking raised a big laugh from me.

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Loads of great posts in the Crap Schools thread, but as always, Astro kills it with his Token Black Kid story.

 

Anyway, who had a token black student? (Paging Woy).

 

"Fola Ogumba?"

"Here, sir!"

 

Good old Fola. Like Matthew from Desmonds, he was always harping on about his homeland of Africa, even though he was less African than Akeem. "I'm homesick, Millard" he said to me once. "I can't wait for 3pm either, Fola." "No, my white friend, I mean Nigeria," then he'd look off wistfully into the middle distance while the sweet sounds of Ladysmith Black Mambazo seemed to fill the air. One day, half a lesson was wasted as Fola went around the class telling everyone what their names were in Nigerian. "Fola, Fola, do me!" I remember proudly telling my mum how my name translated in Nigerian was Wuluah (or whatever it was) and she told me not to be so silly, "You don't translate names."

 

As the only black boy in our junior school in the late 80s, he was a novelty, and the headmaster himself once came into our classroom, spotted Fola and said "Ooh, haven't you got lovely fuzzy hair? May I?" and ran his fingers through it. "It's so soft!"

 

Fola Ogumba (it's fun to say his name) could piss onto the ceiling. And did, regularly, out of his little black cock. One time someone complained that they were always losing their pencils. Then we all piped up similarly, "me an' all, Sir!" Fola was made to open his desk, where 50 pencils were piled, hoarded like an African Mr. Trebus.

 

His foster-sister dressed and looked exactly like Boy George; dreads, make-up, big hat; the lot. For years, my young mind assumed it was Boy George, picking a little boy up from school in West Sussex every day before rushing back to Top of the Pops. His foster dad was some aul' white fella with glasses, and being the only black face for miles, his sense of black culture must have been very distant, hence all the Nigeria stuff, and banging on his desk like he was playing tribal drums.

 

One time, we accidentally wore each other's coats home, because they were the same. His fucking stank. When he eventually left the school, he did so in an overnight moonlight flit, leaving a mysteriously empty, pencil-filled desk, and an enormous unpaid dinner money bill. It was over a hundred pounds, which, to eight-year-old me and my chums, was as high as numbers go. One can only assume, besting Dr. Sam Beckett, Fola Ogumba finally went home.

 

galeria-2-k.jpg

 

"I hear the drums echoing tonight..."

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