Viewing Thread:
"Ali Boy's Diary"

Right, I'm moving this here from Prime. No-one ever goes in there any more.

It's a spoof of Bridget Jones's Diary, but instead stars AliBoy as a drunk Scottish tart. With Comical Cameos e.t.c from Grix as a Oxford uni chap, Ant as someone, Pb as a barman, Mr Happy as someone who gets chucked in the canal and Rasta as a midget with a Gamecube.

Right, here's January's entries (remove spaces):

http://ukchatforums.reserve.co.uk/ display_messages.php?threadid=35239&forumid=419

And February's entries (remove spaces):

http://ukchatforums.reserve.co.uk/ display_messages.php?threadid=39318&forumid=419

And I'll start with the few March entries I posted in Prime, and carry on from there. Cool.

March 1

Ah, a new month, time for new ideas and new things to happen in my life. Starting with finding clothes for...damn...

"What was your name again?" I asked.

"Shut the fun up, AliBoy. You're beginning to funning pee me off,you know." said Ant, who was driving.

"You're funning touchy you know that, Ant?" I reply.

"Oh, go fun your bird."

"Right you are."

I dive back into the mess of clothing and luggage in the back.

We've been driving all day. Not exactly sure where we are heading. By the time we arrived at the Channel Tunnel, Pb was proclaimed technically insane by me and Grix. Grix has a beard, so he knows stuff. Pb muttered a bit in response. Happy still hasn't emerged from his case. I'm debating giving him a rattle. Rasta is attempting to breast-feed the GBA's. Seems puzzled.

March 2

Alcohol Units: Ah, sweet alcohol. Oh yeah, 62.

We're in Germany, maybe. I can't see fat people in leiderhosen. Except for Pb, of course. Hm.

We stop at our destination. The best place in Germany. The airport.

"Let's get the fun out of this funning country." muttered Grix. Ant nods and picks up Happy's suitcase. Rasta doesn't move. I get dressed and get out, along with the girl.

"Rasta, get out."

"I can't! The kids haven't ever flown before! They'll get deep circuit thrombisis."

"...T**. Get up."

Muttering, he pats the kids and tells them it'll be alright. Note to self: Sell Rasta for beer money.

"So, what is your name?" I ask.

"..." she begins.

"No, don't tell me. BigBreast? No, been done?"

"No, it's K..."

"Excellent! Knockers it is. Come along."

We buy tickets for...LAS VEGAS! Muah. Did I just write Muah? So I did. Fancy that. Pb is prancing around in his leiderhosen. He seems very proud of them.

March 3

Long plane journey so far. I'm tired, and I need a dump.

Knockers is entwining my hair in her fingers and whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Heh, I know what to do here.

"SWEET JESUS! WILL YOU KNOCK IT OFF! I'm TRYING to sleep. JE-SUS!"

Hm, she seems affronted. Maybe I'd better leave for a while.

"I'm just going to the toilet." I whisper to her, aware that everyone is watching.

"Gotcha." She winks. Strange.

I go to the toilet and proceed to start the titanic process of laying a dump larger than Wales. Knockers opens the door.

"Hey, Big Boy." she whispers. What the hell is she doing interrupting my dump? She sits on my lap. Oooooh..

March 4

Excellent. We're landing in Las Vegas, I've had sex in a toilet, and laid a massive dump.

"That was brilliant." she whispers to me.

"Yeah, it was rather good. But it didn't block the toilet."

We get rooms at Caesar's Palace. I see no Caesar. And where's the funning palace? I demand my money back, or at least sex from the owner. Providing she's female. If he's male then Grix can have his fun.

I am sharing a massive room with Knockers. Big big double bed. This definitely means that riding is on the activities list.

Oh, it actually is. Cool.

I slap my hands together.

"Right then, shall we?"

"But I want to have fun in Las Vegas!"

"Yes, I'm sure you do......" I say. "Sex?"

"Is that all you think about!"

"Um, pretty much."

"I'm going to go swimming!"

"I know an easier way to get wet."

Excellent.

To Do:
Replinish stock of contraceptives. Preventatives. Sigh...Condoms, stop reading over my shoulder, Rasta.
Steal some old persons "chips" and spend them on "slot machines."
Fully investigate Knockers' slot machine.

March 5

Vegas bores me already. I haven't found any all-American ho's, the toilets refuse to block matter how much partially digested faeces I anally-propell down them.

I'm leaving. I've lost Knockers though. I half-heartedly ask at the reception if she's in the lost property box.

"Have you got a big-breasted woman in there?"

"No."

"OK. Erm, do you have any condoms? I've run out."

"This isn't a shop, sir."

"Of course it isn't. Any Archers?"

"No, sir."

"Right, right, it's lost property. Have you got the keys to a car?"

"Yes sir. If you could tell me which car they are?"

"Erm, Ford Escort."

"No, sir."

"Damn."

"Could sir please leave? The queue is quite considerable."

"Yes, I've noticed that it's quite considerable."

I look at the girl. Well, to be honest, I look at her dirtypillows.

"I've also noticed your chest area is quite considerable. Particuarly the bit with breasts on. Fancy a quick one?"

"No, sir. Is there anything else you want from lost property?"

"Er, got a dinosaur?"

I get kicked out of the casino, along with pb and happy. Grix saunters out along with Ant after a while.

"Lost your girlfriend, AliBoy?"

"Yeah, seems like it."

"Never mind, place an insurance claim when you get home. Where shall we go next?" muttered pb.

"How about Wales? I want to see my homeland!" said Ant.

"You're not Welsh!"

"I could be."

"Ant, shut up. I know, let's go to Wales." said Grix.

"Stupid idea. I've got a better one. Let's go to Wales." suggested Happy.

"Great idea."

We get on Welsh Airlines. The airline meal is leeks with some more leeks washed down with coal.

"First Welsh person I meet, I'm going to kill him. With a leek. Up his arrs." I said. And I mean it.

The air hostess turns out to be Welsh.

March 6

I wake up in the crew section. The Welsh stewardess is beside me, naked. Excellent. So is a big burly Welsh bloke. This is not so good.

"Have we landed?" he asks.

"Yes, it appears we have."

"Bloody excellent boyo."

He hurls me from an emergency exit. Oh fuuuuuuuuucccccc....

Oh well, at least I got some sex. They took me home to Oxford to hospital for my broken ribs and strained genetials. When I get home, I notice something's wrong. Grix is with me. Our eyes meet.

"Oh crap, we left Rasta in Vegas!"

March 7

So me and Grix, after calling an emergency meeting including no-one else, as Pb didn't answer the phone and Ant was generous enough to say "Fun off you idiots I don't funning give a fun."

"Nice chap." I said as I hung up.

"Right, so I recommend we call the airline, the casino and the travel agency, offering a reward if they find him?" said Grix, producing a notebook.

I consider this.

"Or...We could just go down the pub?"

"Superb."

After all, it was the sporting thing to do. Pb might be in trouble as he wasn't answering.

So off we trot to the Buggered Ploughman (for twas the name of his pub) and tutted at the sign over the door of a rural type getting accousted with a implement of harvest.

"Looks like you." I note as we enter.

"Yeah, fair point."

"PPBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB!" I yell. "Two pints please."

Then I trip over something. It's Pb.

"You alright, Pb? Done your back in trying to lift your cases, one of which contain Mr Happy still folded in half?"

"Sod off." muttered the barman.

"So he's fine then. Let's help ourselves."

"You're going to pay for this!" growled Pb, not moving.

"Maybe. Bar tabs sometimes get paid."

Then Ant kicked the door open.

"Something wrong with pb?"

"Yup." said Grix, pouring himself a pint of Rodgered Hen.

"Ah. I'll have a pint thanks Grix."

"You just going to step over me?" cried Pb increduously.

"Yeah, it looks that way."

I discover something under the bar in a plastic blue bottle. It looks like a new drink to me.

Oops...

March 8

I wake up outside my flat in a strange position. Grix is some way down the corridor, in an intimate position with a flowerpot. Ant is animatedly trying to convert an Arab to Christianity.

"Ant, he's Muslim. Give it up." I mutter.

"What?"

"The towel thing he's wearing give it away."

The Arab muttered something in Arabic. Probably.

"What he say?" said Ant.

"Sod off, I reckon. Where's my keys?"

"You left them at Pb's."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. Why are you wearing a tutu?"

I look down. And grin manically.

"Haven't the slightest. I'll be back shortly."

I walk into the Ploughman staggering slightly. Pb looks up, grinning happily.

"Ah, it's you. Did you drink the contents of this bottle?"

He hold out the blue bottle.

"Yeah, we might have done." Pb grinned more.

"Excellent, you owe me a litre of bleach."

Tis truely excellent. Nice one Gaz

March 16

Ow. My balls. No...Ow. My head. That sounds better. I stagger out of bed, being rather smug at myself. I drank a whole pint of Archers. And Rasta drunk a whole pint of water. I prod him. He has fallen asleep on his head. Strange. He has been through a lot, after all, and some tender loving care wouldn't go amiss.

"OI! Up, you midget git. Make me bacon."

"Noooo! No more squirrels, Arab man!" he screams, and then awakes.

"You OK?"

"Well.."

"Good."

Much better. Rasta staggers to life, and gets to his feet. I get down to my knees, and we are roughly at the same height. Not really, he's still shorter than me.

"One day I'll get my revenge on you, AliBoy."

"But that day will not come for a long time. Possibly never! I forsee you making me bacon before that day."

Rasta grumbles and makes his way to the kitchen. I relax, and then he comes screaming out of the kitchen, persued by a small bird.

"Get it off me! Get it off me!" he yelled.

"It's not on you. It is also a harmless little birdie."

"SAVE THE GAMECUBE!" yells Rasta, and attempts to dive to cover the Gamecube from the attacks of Mad Dr Sparrow Man. He, of course, falls miserably short, because the amount of spring he can get from legs that are shorter than my...legs...is equal to the spring you get from a rock. A particuarly unspringy rock at that. He falls on his face and cries.

"Kill the demon bird! IT'S LANDING ON MY PRECIOUS!"

It was indeed landing on his Gamecube

"Rasta, you sound like Gollum."

"I do not. I'm not a country. Look!"

"NO! GOOD GOD! And...what the hell are you speak about?"

"Gollum. A country in Europe."

"Thats Holland, Rasta."

"Oh...KILL THE DEMON BIRD!"

"No. It's sweet."

"It ate your bacon!"

"I shall sacrifice it to the Arabs next door. Hang on, I have an idea..."

I walk out, and walk back in after a few minutes, followed by the Arabs.

"NOOOO!" screams Rasta.

"Relax, I've just told them the bird said Allah was a bad bad man and he curses all Muslims everywhere."

"And they bought it?"

"They've signed the Jihad form, and the leader guy is wearing his Jihad Hat and his You've Been Jihad-ed T-Shirt."

"Oh. Beer?"

"Yes."

Excellent, after a long day that was needed to cheer me up. Which it did, a double dose too. Cheers Stryke

It rules

Yeah, sod off ;-)

Cheers lads, I love writing this. I prescribe writing your own. Better anti-depressant than Prozac.

Really :o)

Great stuff Stryke, I love the SOD OFF IF YOU'RE SHANEO bit from a couple of chapters ago. I wonder if I'll crop up...

:D

LOL! Keep writing or I'LL declare a jihad on YOU :-D

March 15

"What the HELL is the Sword of Beer?" asked Grix.

"This?" said Pb.

"Thats a pint glass. He'd have said if he meant a pint glass."

"It's got beer written on it..." mumbled Pb.

"Hah. Why is the author talking about the Sword of Beer?" I said.

"You are the author, AliBoy."

"What? Oh. Yeah."

"Maybe it's because he's getting depressed with all the miserable crap that depressed sods are posting in this once fine forum, thus lowering the great satrical posts that this forum used to be famed for?" suggested Happy.

We all considered this.

"Nah."

"Look, you gits, I want to know about this rescue. It's taken you two days so far, and all we've got is some porn." said Pb, angrily.

"I say we watch that again. All in favour say Yes, let's watch some porn." I said.

"Free pint to the first guy to complete the story."

"We found the Arabs apartment almost immediately." said Ant.

"How?"

"Twas easy. The door was open."

"Oh. Was Rasta inside?"

"Probably. RASTA! Were you being tortured, or was it a Yoda doll?"

"Yes, I bloody well was!" yelled Rasta from the door.

"Who re-opened the catflap?"

Rasta crawled through said catflap, sulkily.

"How does one climb sulkily, exactly?" I asked.

Stupid little git, I mused. He is being very sulky at the moment. I think it's because the Arabs played on his Gamecube.

"They raped her!" he sobbed when we rescued him.

I considered this. "No, they didn't. They played Wave Race."

"She wasn't consenting!"

"How bloody consenting can a console get?"

I swear that Rasta is an anti-grower. By this I mean he grows downwards. Soon I'll have to invent a Rasta-trap, and I can sell it to stoners. Heheheh...Right, back to the story. I wants me free pint.

"So we charged in and told them we were emissaries from God!" announced Ant.

"No, you did that, Ant." I said. "Then they chucked you out of the window."

"They were screaming in French!" yelled Ant.

"Ant, I'm going to go out on a limb and say they were screaming in Arabic." mused Grix.

"Why?"

"Because they were Arabs, Ant."

"Oh..."

"So, we ran out with the Yoda doll..."

"I AM NOT A YODA DOLL!" screamed Rasta. Some dogs ran in through the door. Pb sighed.

"Rasta, you've gone so high-pitched that you are attracting dogs. Shut it."

"Yeah, so we rescued Rasta and then Happy acted as a diversionary tactic and ran through Oxford with screaming Arabs on his tail." said I, desperate for that free pint.

"What happened to the Happy man?"

"What always bloody happens. I got chucked in the canal."

"Fair enough. You OK?"

"Well..."

"Excellent. Is that all, AliBoy?"

"Indeedy. Do I get my free pint?"

"Yes. What'll it be?"

I thought about this. Then an idea popped into my idea.

"Pint of Archers please."

Stryke wrote:
> TURN TO PAGE 231 if you own the Sword of Beer
> TURN TO PAGE 1 if you are drunk
> TURN TO PAGE 56 if you are a Arabic jihad member
> SOD OFF if you are Shaneo.

LOL LOL bloody excellent!

"Oh...right." He traipsed out of the bar looking downtrodden. Which is quite an achievement for a
chap that doesn't need the metric system to measure himself.

LMAO!
Excellenté, Gaz.

:0D