Ultimate Biscuit Tournament (Mod Note Post #1 and #984)

Daithi101 · 12-09-2019 6:31pm

Pretzill wrote:

Jaffa cakes because they never grow old, just soggy

No they go hard - obviously something you will never manage limp dick

Earthhorse · 12-09-2019 6:34pm

Jaffa Cakes

Because if another one of these tournaments goes the way of the blandest I might just become an AH mod.

Gregor Samsa · 12-09-2019 6:35pm

Ward J. Littell wrote: »

TLDR

Attention span of the typical Jaffa Cake guzzler.

Leg End Reject · 12-09-2019 6:35pm

Q. What kind of sick bastards only gives their kids one present at Christmas?

A. The kind that has jaffa cakes in the house.

Green&Red · 12-09-2019 6:35pm

I f**king hate you and your three c**tish children, f**k Santa too

Your wife is the only one to come out of that sh!te story with any credit

adox · 12-09-2019 6:36pm

Gregor Samsa wrote: »

My humble vote is for Chocolate HobNobs.

I should just leave it at that. I've said some terrible things about Jaffa Cakes in earlier rounds. Untrue things. Things I'm not proud of. But as we end this contest, I feel that I must be straight with you. I should come clean, and bear by soul. And tell you the terrible truth.

Christmas Eve 1983, we had a happy home and a happy life. I worked as a doctor. My wife and three girls (9,7 and 4 at the time) had everything they wanted. We spent the evening preparing the food for the next-day meal together, singing Christmas songs, surrounded by decorations and treats of all sorts. As was the tradition, at bedtime, the girls hung out their stockings for Santa, and were to leave him a glass of milk and some biscuits. They always squabbled about what biscuits to leave, so we said they could use a plate each. I got a sudden call to say that a long-time patient of mine was dying, so I rushed out to that house in a nearby village, leaving my wife to handle the biscuits and get the excited children to bed.

The patient unfortunately passed around midnight. I stayed with the family for a short time, then headed home exhausted. I got home to a quiet house. Everyone was wrapped up in bed. Before I headed up myself, I had to put out the presents from Santa. The eldest was getting a bike, the middle girl a pair of rollerblades, and they youngest a Furby. I put the presents under the tree, and started heading to bed. Half way up the stairs, I remembered that I'd forgotten about the milk and biscuits. Obviously I couldn't leave them out, Santa was supposed to have them. So I headed back down and drank the milk and ate the first two biscuits - a Custard Cream and a some kind of chocolate chip cookie, if I remember correctly. The youngest girl had left her plate up on the mantlepiece, so I had to reach to take it down. I took the biscuit to my mouth, and took a bite. Soft base, with dull, tasteless chocolate on top. But what's this goo in the middle? It's not jam, and it's not marmalade. It has the texture of the bits of EvoStick that gather on the nozzle and lid when you leave a tube unused for too long. I dropped the plate and spat. It couldn't be? It is! A Jaffa Cake.

I had long instilled a strong sense of right and wrong in my children. Obviously, I could not let this stand. If they were bad, they would get a lump of coal from Santa. Everyone knows the rules, right? It was time to enforce the rules. In my panic, I immediately looked for the coal bucket - forgetting that we'd switched to gas heating many years prior. We did have a gas fire, but those little lumps of fake coal would not do. They're too light, and not dirty. It wouldn't send the appropriate message. So had to think. It was 1am on Christmas Day at this point. Where would I get coal? It seemed hopeless. Was my 4 year old to get away with this?

A revelation came to me. The patient's house had a roaring fire in the very room he lay. I jumped in the car, and sped back though the snowy night, taking the Furby with me to discard in a ditch en-route. The family were still up, grieving over the body. Neighbours had joined them. I burst in to the house, loudly declaring that there was something wrong with the Death Certificate I'd issued - the wrong date, and we had to do it again. Can't it wait, they asked? No, this is serious. I produced the form, and as they reluctantly gathered to sign it, I backed towards the coal scuttle. I reached back and took a large lump, and tried to squeeze it into my pocket. It was too big and I dropped it. Bang! Everyone stopped and looked? What are you doing with the coal, Dr. Samsa? I picked it up and ran, knocking over brooms and bags of cattle feed to thwart them following me.

At home, I placed the coal under the tree with the bike and the rollerblades, and went to bed. I did not sleep. It was only a couple of hours later that I heard the children get up, giggling. I went down stairs to them. The eldest loved her bike, the middle girl was in the process of lacing up her roller blades. The four-year old was standing in the middle of the floor, tears welling in her eyes, holding the lump of coal. “Why did I get this, Daddy? Where’s my Furby?” she whined. I knelt down to her, and placed my hands on her trembling shoulders. I looked her straight in the eyes. “Santa hates you.” I told her bluntly. “You left him a Jaffa Cake, and now you’re on his bad list forever. Look at the floor. Look at where he spat it in disgust. You ruined Christmas for Santa.” She burst out crying. Screaming. My wife came down to see what the commotion was. I explained, as the child roared. ”Daddy says Santa hates me! I’m a bad girl!”. “Give her the Furby!” my wife kept screaming at me. “She’s only 4! It was only a fúcking Jaffa Cake! GIVE HER THE FKING FURBY!!!”.

“It’s gone!” I told her with my head in my hands. “It’s all gone!”.

I slept in the car that night. I tried to go to friends the next night, but my wife had told them what happened, and they wouldn’t let me in. That's repeated itself for everyone I knew. When I reopened the practice the day after Stephen's day, all my patients had cancelled. My receptionist walked out. A couple of weeks later, I got notice from the Medical Council that proceedings were being taken against me for theft from a patient and inappropriate behaviour unbecoming of a Doctor. My licence to practice was suspended. The lease on my surgery was withdrawn. Soon, I had to sell the car, and I was forced to take to the streets.

I’m rambling now. I’ve drink taken. I roam from town to town, village to village. They’re always welcoming to me, until they hear my story. Then I have to move on. Winter is closing in. I’ve never taken part in one of these food tournaments before, and I’m certain I won’t be around for the next one. The streets are no place for an old man.

I’m not looking for forgiveness, that ship has long sailed. I’m not looking for charity or pity. But all I ask of you, dear boardsies, it to spare a thought for a man who lost everything standing up for what he believed in. Please don’t let my sacrifice, and the suffering of me and my family be in vein.

Don't let that cursed four year old be right. Don’t vote for Jaffa Cakes.

Before I cast my vote, can I just point out what an utter **** stain you are.

A fûcking monologue and you probably think you are cool probably typed in mammy and daddy’s study in Sandymount. Typed with one hand with that excuse for a micro penis in the tweezers in your other hand.

You make boring seem interesting.

Greyfox · 12-09-2019 6:36pm

Gregor Samsa wrote: »

My humble vote is for Chocolate HobNobs.

I should just leave it at that. I've said some terrible things about Jaffa Cakes in earlier rounds. Untrue things. Things I'm not proud of. But as we end this contest, I feel that I must be straight with you. I should come clean, and bear by soul. And tell you the terrible truth.

Christmas Eve 1983, we had a happy home and a happy life. I worked as a doctor. My wife and three girls (9,7 and 4 at the time) had everything they wanted. We spent the evening preparing the food for the next-day meal together, singing Christmas songs, surrounded by decorations and treats of all sorts. As was the tradition, at bedtime, the girls hung out their stockings for Santa, and were to leave him a glass of milk and some biscuits. They always squabbled about what biscuits to leave, so we said they could use a plate each. I got a sudden call to say that a long-time patient of mine was dying, so I rushed out to that house in a nearby village, leaving my wife to handle the biscuits and get the excited children to bed.

The patient unfortunately passed around midnight. I stayed with the family for a short time, then headed home exhausted. I got home to a quiet house. Everyone was wrapped up in bed. Before I headed up myself, I had to put out the presents from Santa. The eldest was getting a bike, the middle girl a pair of rollerblades, and they youngest a Furby. I put the presents under the tree, and started heading to bed. Half way up the stairs, I remembered that I'd forgotten about the milk and biscuits. Obviously I couldn't leave them out, Santa was supposed to have them. So I headed back down and drank the milk and ate the first two biscuits - a Custard Cream and a some kind of chocolate chip cookie, if I remember correctly. The youngest girl had left her plate up on the mantlepiece, so I had to reach to take it down. I took the biscuit to my mouth, and took a bite. Soft base, with dull, tasteless chocolate on top. But what's this goo in the middle? It's not jam, and it's not marmalade. It has the texture of the bits of EvoStick that gather on the nozzle and lid when you leave a tube unused for too long. I dropped the plate and spat. It couldn't be? It is! A Jaffa Cake.

I had long instilled a strong sense of right and wrong in my children. Obviously, I could not let this stand. If they were bad, they would get a lump of coal from Santa. Everyone knows the rules, right? It was time to enforce the rules. In my panic, I immediately looked for the coal bucket - forgetting that we'd switched to gas heating many years prior. We did have a gas fire, but those little lumps of fake coal would not do. They're too light, and not dirty. It wouldn't send the appropriate message. So had to think. It was 1am on Christmas Day at this point. Where would I get coal? It seemed hopeless. Was my 4 year old to get away with this?

A revelation came to me. The patient's house had a roaring fire in the very room he lay. I jumped in the car, and sped back though the snowy night, taking the Furby with me to discard in a ditch en-route. The family were still up, grieving over the body. Neighbours had joined them. I burst in to the house, loudly declaring that there was something wrong with the Death Certificate I'd issued - the wrong date, and we had to do it again. Can't it wait, they asked? No, this is serious. I produced the form, and as they reluctantly gathered to sign it, I backed towards the coal scuttle. I reached back and took a large lump, and tried to squeeze it into my pocket. It was too big and I dropped it. Bang! Everyone stopped and looked? What are you doing with the coal, Dr. Samsa? I picked it up and ran, knocking over brooms and bags of cattle feed to thwart them following me.

At home, I placed the coal under the tree with the bike and the rollerblades, and went to bed. I did not sleep. It was only a couple of hours later that I heard the children get up, giggling. I went down stairs to them. The eldest loved her bike, the middle girl was in the process of lacing up her roller blades. The four-year old was standing in the middle of the floor, tears welling in her eyes, holding the lump of coal. “Why did I get this, Daddy? Where’s my Furby?” she whined. I knelt down to her, and placed my hands on her trembling shoulders. I looked her straight in the eyes. “Santa hates you.” I told her bluntly. “You left him a Jaffa Cake, and now you’re on his bad list forever. Look at the floor. Look at where he spat it in disgust. You ruined Christmas for Santa.” She burst out crying. Screaming. My wife came down to see what the commotion was. I explained, as the child roared. ”Daddy says Santa hates me! I’m a bad girl!”. “Give her the Furby!” my wife kept screaming at me. “She’s only 4! It was only a fúcking Jaffa Cake! GIVE HER THE FÚCKING FURBY!!!”.

“It’s gone!” I told her with my head in my hands. “It’s all gone!”.

I slept in the car that night. I tried to go to friends the next night, but my wife had told them what happened, and they wouldn’t let me in. That's repeated itself for everyone I knew. When I reopened the practice the day after Stephen's day, all my patients had cancelled. My receptionist walked out. A couple of weeks later, I got notice from the Medical Council that proceedings were being taken against me for theft from a patient and inappropriate behaviour unbecoming of a Doctor. My licence to practice was suspended. The lease on my surgery was withdrawn. Soon, I had to sell the car, and I was forced to take to the streets.

I’m rambling now. I’ve drink taken. I roam from town to town, village to village. They’re always welcoming to me, until they hear my story. Then I have to move on. Winter is closing in. I’ve never taken part in one of these food tournaments before, and I’m certain I won’t be around for the next one. The streets are no place for an old man.

I’m not looking for forgiveness, that ship has long sailed. I’m not looking for charity or pity. But all I ask of you, dear boardsies, it to spare a thought for a man who lost everything standing up for what he believed in. Please don’t let my sacrifice, and the suffering of me and my family be in vein.

Don't let that cursed four year old be right. Don’t vote for Jaffa Cakes.

Can you elaborate a bit please

Leg End Reject · 12-09-2019 6:38pm

Can all you fcukwits stop quoting that fcuking thesis?

Necro · 12-09-2019 6:38pm

Gregor Samsa wrote: »

My humble vote is for Chocolate HobNobs.

I should just leave it at that. I've said some terrible things about Jaffa Cakes in earlier rounds. Untrue things. Things I'm not proud of. But as we end this contest, I feel that I must be straight with you. I should come clean, and bear by soul. And tell you the terrible truth.

Christmas Eve 1983, we had a happy home and a happy life. I worked as a doctor. My wife and three girls (9,7 and 4 at the time) had everything they wanted. We spent the evening preparing the food for the next-day meal together, singing Christmas songs, surrounded by decorations and treats of all sorts. As was the tradition, at bedtime, the girls hung out their stockings for Santa, and were to leave him a glass of milk and some biscuits. They always squabbled about what biscuits to leave, so we said they could use a plate each. I got a sudden call to say that a long-time patient of mine was dying, so I rushed out to that house in a nearby village, leaving my wife to handle the biscuits and get the excited children to bed.

The patient unfortunately passed around midnight. I stayed with the family for a short time, then headed home exhausted. I got home to a quiet house. Everyone was wrapped up in bed. Before I headed up myself, I had to put out the presents from Santa. The eldest was getting a bike, the middle girl a pair of rollerblades, and they youngest a Furby. I put the presents under the tree, and started heading to bed. Half way up the stairs, I remembered that I'd forgotten about the milk and biscuits. Obviously I couldn't leave them out, Santa was supposed to have them. So I headed back down and drank the milk and ate the first two biscuits - a Custard Cream and a some kind of chocolate chip cookie, if I remember correctly. The youngest girl had left her plate up on the mantlepiece, so I had to reach to take it down. I took the biscuit to my mouth, and took a bite. Soft base, with dull, tasteless chocolate on top. But what's this goo in the middle? It's not jam, and it's not marmalade. It has the texture of the bits of EvoStick that gather on the nozzle and lid when you leave a tube unused for too long. I dropped the plate and spat. It couldn't be? It is! A Jaffa Cake.

I had long instilled a strong sense of right and wrong in my children. Obviously, I could not let this stand. If they were bad, they would get a lump of coal from Santa. Everyone knows the rules, right? It was time to enforce the rules. In my panic, I immediately looked for the coal bucket - forgetting that we'd switched to gas heating many years prior. We did have a gas fire, but those little lumps of fake coal would not do. They're too light, and not dirty. It wouldn't send the appropriate message. So had to think. It was 1am on Christmas Day at this point. Where would I get coal? It seemed hopeless. Was my 4 year old to get away with this?

A revelation came to me. The patient's house had a roaring fire in the very room he lay. I jumped in the car, and sped back though the snowy night, taking the Furby with me to discard in a ditch en-route. The family were still up, grieving over the body. Neighbours had joined them. I burst in to the house, loudly declaring that there was something wrong with the Death Certificate I'd issued - the wrong date, and we had to do it again. Can't it wait, they asked? No, this is serious. I produced the form, and as they reluctantly gathered to sign it, I backed towards the coal scuttle. I reached back and took a large lump, and tried to squeeze it into my pocket. It was too big and I dropped it. Bang! Everyone stopped and looked? What are you doing with the coal, Dr. Samsa? I picked it up and ran, knocking over brooms and bags of cattle feed to thwart them following me.

At home, I placed the coal under the tree with the bike and the rollerblades, and went to bed. I did not sleep. It was only a couple of hours later that I heard the children get up, giggling. I went down stairs to them. The eldest loved her bike, the middle girl was in the process of lacing up her roller blades. The four-year old was standing in the middle of the floor, tears welling in her eyes, holding the lump of coal. “Why did I get this, Daddy? Where’s my Furby?” she whined. I knelt down to her, and placed my hands on her trembling shoulders. I looked her straight in the eyes. “Santa hates you.” I told her bluntly. “You left him a Jaffa Cake, and now you’re on his bad list forever. Look at the floor. Look at where he spat it in disgust. You ruined Christmas for Santa.” She burst out crying. Screaming. My wife came down to see what the commotion was. I explained, as the child roared. ”Daddy says Santa hates me! I’m a bad girl!”. “Give her the Furby!” my wife kept screaming at me. “She’s only 4! It was only a fúcking Jaffa Cake! GIVE HER THE FÚCKING FURBY!!!”.

“It’s gone!” I told her with my head in my hands. “It’s all gone!”.

I slept in the car that night. I tried to go to friends the next night, but my wife had told them what happened, and they wouldn’t let me in. That's repeated itself for everyone I knew. When I reopened the practice the day after Stephen's day, all my patients had cancelled. My receptionist walked out. A couple of weeks later, I got notice from the Medical Council that proceedings were being taken against me for theft from a patient and inappropriate behaviour unbecoming of a Doctor. My licence to practice was suspended. The lease on my surgery was withdrawn. Soon, I had to sell the car, and I was forced to take to the streets.

I’m rambling now. I’ve drink taken. I roam from town to town, village to village. They’re always welcoming to me, until they hear my story. Then I have to move on. Winter is closing in. I’ve never taken part in one of these food tournaments before, and I’m certain I won’t be around for the next one. The streets are no place for an old man.

I’m not looking for forgiveness, that ship has long sailed. I’m not looking for charity or pity. But all I ask of you, dear boardsies, it to spare a thought for a man who lost everything standing up for what he believed in. Please don’t let my sacrifice, and the suffering of me and my family be in vein.

Don't let that cursed four year old be right. Don’t vote for Jaffa Cakes.

Firstly, the fact your house had Jaffa Cakes is a sad indictment on you as a person Gregor.

Really it's your fault for allowing them to be purchased.

Also what the hell did you do with the Furby

tenor.gif?itemid=14759509

12-09-2019 6:38pm

Santa isn’t real?

12-09-2019 6:39pm

Gregor Samsa wrote: »

Attention span of the typical Jaffa Cake guzzler.

I voted for the hobnobs but I'd nearly change my vote just to spite you, you cretin. Nearly.

coffee_cake · 12-09-2019 6:40pm

Earthhorse wrote: »

Jaffa Cakes

Because if another one of these tournaments goes the way of the blandest I might just become an AH mod.

You're the blandest

Los Lobos · 12-09-2019 6:40pm

Chocolate hobnobs, the only true winner in this, a biscuit other biscuits wish they were

Leg End Reject · 12-09-2019 6:40pm

Strawberry Milkshake wrote: »

Santa isn’t real?

He'll cum for you if you keep up the sex talk. Licking and sucking like a body double in a Pamela Anderson sex tape

adox · 12-09-2019 6:40pm

Jaffa cakes. Sweet orange balanced with bitter dark chocolate on top of the “carb” spongey base. A real thing of beauty.

While I like hobnobs, no one has addressed the elephant in the room. Oats are for breakfast. A healthy breakfast. Dipping them in glue and putting chocolate on top of them doesn’t hide that.

Hobnobs are ashamed of what they are. They are breakfast wearing a disguise.

Jaffa cakes are snack fluid. They can be a biscuit or they can be a cake. They have no secrets. They don’t pretend. They live their snack life openly and to the full. Long live Jaffa cakes.

Lil Sally Anne Jnr. · 12-09-2019 6:41pm

Gregor Samsa wrote: »

My humble vote is for Chocolate HobNobs.

I should just leave it at that. I've said some terrible things about Jaffa Cakes in earlier rounds. Untrue things. Things I'm not proud of. But as we end this contest, I feel that I must be straight with you. I should come clean, and bear by soul. And tell you the terrible truth.

Christmas Eve 1983, we had a happy home and a happy life. I worked as a doctor. My wife and three girls (9,7 and 4 at the time) had everything they wanted. We spent the evening preparing the food for the next-day meal together, singing Christmas songs, surrounded by decorations and treats of all sorts. As was the tradition, at bedtime, the girls hung out their stockings for Santa, and were to leave him a glass of milk and some biscuits. They always squabbled about what biscuits to leave, so we said they could use a plate each. I got a sudden call to say that a long-time patient of mine was dying, so I rushed out to that house in a nearby village, leaving my wife to handle the biscuits and get the excited children to bed.

The patient unfortunately passed around midnight. I stayed with the family for a short time, then headed home exhausted. I got home to a quiet house. Everyone was wrapped up in bed. Before I headed up myself, I had to put out the presents from Santa. The eldest was getting a bike, the middle girl a pair of rollerblades, and they youngest a Furby. I put the presents under the tree, and started heading to bed. Half way up the stairs, I remembered that I'd forgotten about the milk and biscuits. Obviously I couldn't leave them out, Santa was supposed to have them. So I headed back down and drank the milk and ate the first two biscuits - a Custard Cream and a some kind of chocolate chip cookie, if I remember correctly. The youngest girl had left her plate up on the mantlepiece, so I had to reach to take it down. I took the biscuit to my mouth, and took a bite. Soft base, with dull, tasteless chocolate on top. But what's this goo in the middle? It's not jam, and it's not marmalade. It has the texture of the bits of EvoStick that gather on the nozzle and lid when you leave a tube unused for too long. I dropped the plate and spat. It couldn't be? It is! A Jaffa Cake.

I had long instilled a strong sense of right and wrong in my children. Obviously, I could not let this stand. If they were bad, they would get a lump of coal from Santa. Everyone knows the rules, right? It was time to enforce the rules. In my panic, I immediately looked for the coal bucket - forgetting that we'd switched to gas heating many years prior. We did have a gas fire, but those little lumps of fake coal would not do. They're too light, and not dirty. It wouldn't send the appropriate message. So had to think. It was 1am on Christmas Day at this point. Where would I get coal? It seemed hopeless. Was my 4 year old to get away with this?

A revelation came to me. The patient's house had a roaring fire in the very room he lay. I jumped in the car, and sped back though the snowy night, taking the Furby with me to discard in a ditch en-route. The family were still up, grieving over the body. Neighbours had joined them. I burst in to the house, loudly declaring that there was something wrong with the Death Certificate I'd issued - the wrong date, and we had to do it again. Can't it wait, they asked? No, this is serious. I produced the form, and as they reluctantly gathered to sign it, I backed towards the coal scuttle. I reached back and took a large lump, and tried to squeeze it into my pocket. It was too big and I dropped it. Bang! Everyone stopped and looked? What are you doing with the coal, Dr. Samsa? I picked it up and ran, knocking over brooms and bags of cattle feed to thwart them following me.

At home, I placed the coal under the tree with the bike and the rollerblades, and went to bed. I did not sleep. It was only a couple of hours later that I heard the children get up, giggling. I went down stairs to them. The eldest loved her bike, the middle girl was in the process of lacing up her roller blades. The four-year old was standing in the middle of the floor, tears welling in her eyes, holding the lump of coal. “Why did I get this, Daddy? Where’s my Furby?” she whined. I knelt down to her, and placed my hands on her trembling shoulders. I looked her straight in the eyes. “Santa hates you.” I told her bluntly. “You left him a Jaffa Cake, and now you’re on his bad list forever. Look at the floor. Look at where he spat it in disgust. You ruined Christmas for Santa.” She burst out crying. Screaming. My wife came down to see what the commotion was. I explained, as the child roared. ”Daddy says Santa hates me! I’m a bad girl!”. “Give her the Furby!” my wife kept screaming at me. “She’s only 4! It was only a fúcking Jaffa Cake! GIVE HER THE FÚCKING FURBY!!!”.

“It’s gone!” I told her with my head in my hands. “It’s all gone!”.

I slept in the car that night. I tried to go to friends the next night, but my wife had told them what happened, and they wouldn’t let me in. That's repeated itself for everyone I knew. When I reopened the practice the day after Stephen's day, all my patients had cancelled. My receptionist walked out. A couple of weeks later, I got notice from the Medical Council that proceedings were being taken against me for theft from a patient and inappropriate behaviour unbecoming of a Doctor. My licence to practice was suspended. The lease on my surgery was withdrawn. Soon, I had to sell the car, and I was forced to take to the streets.

I’m rambling now. I’ve drink taken. I roam from town to town, village to village. They’re always welcoming to me, until they hear my story. Then I have to move on. Winter is closing in. I’ve never taken part in one of these food tournaments before, and I’m certain I won’t be around for the next one. The streets are no place for an old man.

I’m not looking for forgiveness, that ship has long sailed. I’m not looking for charity or pity. But all I ask of you, dear boardsies, it to spare a thought for a man who lost everything standing up for what he believed in. Please don’t let my sacrifice, and the suffering of me and my family be in vein.

Don't let that cursed four year old be right. Don’t vote for Jaffa Cakes.

A fascinating piece of work.

Hannibal_Smith · 12-09-2019 6:42pm

Gregor Samsa wrote: »

My humble vote is for Chocolate HobNobs.

I should just leave it at that. I've said some terrible things about Jaffa Cakes in earlier rounds. Untrue things. Things I'm not proud of. But as we end this contest, I feel that I must be straight with you. I should come clean, and bear by soul. And tell you the terrible truth.

Christmas Eve 1983, we had a happy home and a happy life. I worked as a doctor. My wife and three girls (9,7 and 4 at the time) had everything they wanted. We spent the evening preparing the food for the next-day meal together, singing Christmas songs, surrounded by decorations and treats of all sorts. As was the tradition, at bedtime, the girls hung out their stockings for Santa, and were to leave him a glass of milk and some biscuits. They always squabbled about what biscuits to leave, so we said they could use a plate each. I got a sudden call to say that a long-time patient of mine was dying, so I rushed out to that house in a nearby village, leaving my wife to handle the biscuits and get the excited children to bed.

The patient unfortunately passed around midnight. I stayed with the family for a short time, then headed home exhausted. I got home to a quiet house. Everyone was wrapped up in bed. Before I headed up myself, I had to put out the presents from Santa. The eldest was getting a bike, the middle girl a pair of rollerblades, and they youngest a Furby. I put the presents under the tree, and started heading to bed. Half way up the stairs, I remembered that I'd forgotten about the milk and biscuits. Obviously I couldn't leave them out, Santa was supposed to have them. So I headed back down and drank the milk and ate the first two biscuits - a Custard Cream and a some kind of chocolate chip cookie, if I remember correctly. The youngest girl had left her plate up on the mantlepiece, so I had to reach to take it down. I took the biscuit to my mouth, and took a bite. Soft base, with dull, tasteless chocolate on top. But what's this goo in the middle? It's not jam, and it's not marmalade. It has the texture of the bits of EvoStick that gather on the nozzle and lid when you leave a tube unused for too long. I dropped the plate and spat. It couldn't be? It is! A Jaffa Cake.

I had long instilled a strong sense of right and wrong in my children. Obviously, I could not let this stand. If they were bad, they would get a lump of coal from Santa. Everyone knows the rules, right? It was time to enforce the rules. In my panic, I immediately looked for the coal bucket - forgetting that we'd switched to gas heating many years prior. We did have a gas fire, but those little lumps of fake coal would not do. They're too light, and not dirty. It wouldn't send the appropriate message. So had to think. It was 1am on Christmas Day at this point. Where would I get coal? It seemed hopeless. Was my 4 year old to get away with this?

A revelation came to me. The patient's house had a roaring fire in the very room he lay. I jumped in the car, and sped back though the snowy night, taking the Furby with me to discard in a ditch en-route. The family were still up, grieving over the body. Neighbours had joined them. I burst in to the house, loudly declaring that there was something wrong with the Death Certificate I'd issued - the wrong date, and we had to do it again. Can't it wait, they asked? No, this is serious. I produced the form, and as they reluctantly gathered to sign it, I backed towards the coal scuttle. I reached back and took a large lump, and tried to squeeze it into my pocket. It was too big and I dropped it. Bang! Everyone stopped and looked? What are you doing with the coal, Dr. Samsa? I picked it up and ran, knocking over brooms and bags of cattle feed to thwart them following me.

At home, I placed the coal under the tree with the bike and the rollerblades, and went to bed. I did not sleep. It was only a couple of hours later that I heard the children get up, giggling. I went down stairs to them. The eldest loved her bike, the middle girl was in the process of lacing up her roller blades. The four-year old was standing in the middle of the floor, tears welling in her eyes, holding the lump of coal. “Why did I get this, Daddy? Where’s my Furby?” she whined. I knelt down to her, and placed my hands on her trembling shoulders. I looked her straight in the eyes. “Santa hates you.” I told her bluntly. “You left him a Jaffa Cake, and now you’re on his bad list forever. Look at the floor. Look at where he spat it in disgust. You ruined Christmas for Santa.” She burst out crying. Screaming. My wife came down to see what the commotion was. I explained, as the child roared. ”Daddy says Santa hates me! I’m a bad girl!”. “Give her the Furby!” my wife kept screaming at me. “She’s only 4! It was only a fúcking Jaffa Cake! GIVE HER THE FÚCKING FURBY!!!”.

“It’s gone!” I told her with my head in my hands. “It’s all gone!”.

I slept in the car that night. I tried to go to friends the next night, but my wife had told them what happened, and they wouldn’t let me in. That's repeated itself for everyone I knew. When I reopened the practice the day after Stephen's day, all my patients had cancelled. My receptionist walked out. A couple of weeks later, I got notice from the Medical Council that proceedings were being taken against me for theft from a patient and inappropriate behaviour unbecoming of a Doctor. My licence to practice was suspended. The lease on my surgery was withdrawn. Soon, I had to sell the car, and I was forced to take to the streets.

I’m rambling now. I’ve drink taken. I roam from town to town, village to village. They’re always welcoming to me, until they hear my story. Then I have to move on. Winter is closing in. I’ve never taken part in one of these food tournaments before, and I’m certain I won’t be around for the next one. The streets are no place for an old man.

I’m not looking for forgiveness, that ship has long sailed. I’m not looking for charity or pity. But all I ask of you, dear boardsies, it to spare a thought for a man who lost everything standing up for what he believed in. Please don’t let my sacrifice, and the suffering of me and my family be in vein.

Don't let that cursed four year old be right. Don’t vote for Jaffa Cakes.

For Leg End

adox · 12-09-2019 6:42pm

Leg End Reject wrote: »

Can all you fcukwits stop quoting that fcuking thesis?

Sorry. You’ve probably never seen that many words without pictures.

Tell me how · 12-09-2019 6:42pm

Chocolate Hobnobs because the world isn't ready to give in to nouveau confectionery thinking just because it is popular at kids parties that it deserves to play with the big boys.

Earthhorse · 12-09-2019 6:42pm

Gregor Samsa wrote: »

I’m not looking for forgiveness, that ship has long sailed. I’m not looking for charity or pity. But all I ask of you, dear boardsies, it to spare a thought for a man who lost everything standing up for what he believed in. Please don’t let my sacrifice, and the suffering of me and my family be in vein.

That's a hilarious story, Samsa, especially the part where your life falls to pieces.

I'd like to change my vote.

Still voting for Jaffa Cakes but I'd like to change my reason to what they did to Gregor's life.

Cronin The Destroyer · 12-09-2019 6:43pm

Jaffa Cakes have fruit inside. They are fruity.

Leg End Reject · 12-09-2019 6:43pm

Hannibal_Smith wrote: »

For Leg End

You couldn't lead the Z Team out of an open paper bag you demented, quarter witted trail of puke.

Earthhorse · 12-09-2019 6:44pm

adox wrote: »

Oats are for breakfast.

Oats are for horses.

Wait a minute...

IAMAMORON · 12-09-2019 6:44pm

Keith Barry is the enemy , he must be stopped.

Thanks for sharing Gregor , I always felt a deep story within your blessed mind.

Cronin The Destroyer · 12-09-2019 6:44pm

Gregor Samsa wrote: »

My humble vote is for Chocolate HobNobs.

I should just leave it at that. I've said some terrible things about Jaffa Cakes in earlier rounds. Untrue things. Things I'm not proud of. But as we end this contest, I feel that I must be straight with you. I should come clean, and bear by soul. And tell you the terrible truth.

Christmas Eve 1983, we had a happy home and a happy life. I worked as a doctor. My wife and three girls (9,7 and 4 at the time) had everything they wanted. We spent the evening preparing the food for the next-day meal together, singing Christmas songs, surrounded by decorations and treats of all sorts. As was the tradition, at bedtime, the girls hung out their stockings for Santa, and were to leave him a glass of milk and some biscuits. They always squabbled about what biscuits to leave, so we said they could use a plate each. I got a sudden call to say that a long-time patient of mine was dying, so I rushed out to that house in a nearby village, leaving my wife to handle the biscuits and get the excited children to bed.

The patient unfortunately passed around midnight. I stayed with the family for a short time, then headed home exhausted. I got home to a quiet house. Everyone was wrapped up in bed. Before I headed up myself, I had to put out the presents from Santa. The eldest was getting a bike, the middle girl a pair of rollerblades, and they youngest a Furby. I put the presents under the tree, and started heading to bed. Half way up the stairs, I remembered that I'd forgotten about the milk and biscuits. Obviously I couldn't leave them out, Santa was supposed to have them. So I headed back down and drank the milk and ate the first two biscuits - a Custard Cream and a some kind of chocolate chip cookie, if I remember correctly. The youngest girl had left her plate up on the mantlepiece, so I had to reach to take it down. I took the biscuit to my mouth, and took a bite. Soft base, with dull, tasteless chocolate on top. But what's this goo in the middle? It's not jam, and it's not marmalade. It has the texture of the bits of EvoStick that gather on the nozzle and lid when you leave a tube unused for too long. I dropped the plate and spat. It couldn't be? It is! A Jaffa Cake.

I had long instilled a strong sense of right and wrong in my children. Obviously, I could not let this stand. If they were bad, they would get a lump of coal from Santa. Everyone knows the rules, right? It was time to enforce the rules. In my panic, I immediately looked for the coal bucket - forgetting that we'd switched to gas heating many years prior. We did have a gas fire, but those little lumps of fake coal would not do. They're too light, and not dirty. It wouldn't send the appropriate message. So had to think. It was 1am on Christmas Day at this point. Where would I get coal? It seemed hopeless. Was my 4 year old to get away with this?

A revelation came to me. The patient's house had a roaring fire in the very room he lay. I jumped in the car, and sped back though the snowy night, taking the Furby with me to discard in a ditch en-route. The family were still up, grieving over the body. Neighbours had joined them. I burst in to the house, loudly declaring that there was something wrong with the Death Certificate I'd issued - the wrong date, and we had to do it again. Can't it wait, they asked? No, this is serious. I produced the form, and as they reluctantly gathered to sign it, I backed towards the coal scuttle. I reached back and took a large lump, and tried to squeeze it into my pocket. It was too big and I dropped it. Bang! Everyone stopped and looked? What are you doing with the coal, Dr. Samsa? I picked it up and ran, knocking over brooms and bags of cattle feed to thwart them following me.

At home, I placed the coal under the tree with the bike and the rollerblades, and went to bed. I did not sleep. It was only a couple of hours later that I heard the children get up, giggling. I went down stairs to them. The eldest loved her bike, the middle girl was in the process of lacing up her roller blades. The four-year old was standing in the middle of the floor, tears welling in her eyes, holding the lump of coal. “Why did I get this, Daddy? Where’s my Furby?” she whined. I knelt down to her, and placed my hands on her trembling shoulders. I looked her straight in the eyes. “Santa hates you.” I told her bluntly. “You left him a Jaffa Cake, and now you’re on his bad list forever. Look at the floor. Look at where he spat it in disgust. You ruined Christmas for Santa.” She burst out crying. Screaming. My wife came down to see what the commotion was. I explained, as the child roared. ”Daddy says Santa hates me! I’m a bad girl!”. “Give her the Furby!” my wife kept screaming at me. “She’s only 4! It was only a fúcking Jaffa Cake! GIVE HER THE FÚCKING FURBY!!!”.

“It’s gone!” I told her with my head in my hands. “It’s all gone!”.

I slept in the car that night. I tried to go to friends the next night, but my wife had told them what happened, and they wouldn’t let me in. That's repeated itself for everyone I knew. When I reopened the practice the day after Stephen's day, all my patients had cancelled. My receptionist walked out. A couple of weeks later, I got notice from the Medical Council that proceedings were being taken against me for theft from a patient and inappropriate behaviour unbecoming of a Doctor. My licence to practice was suspended. The lease on my surgery was withdrawn. Soon, I had to sell the car, and I was forced to take to the streets.

I’m rambling now. I’ve drink taken. I roam from town to town, village to village. They’re always welcoming to me, until they hear my story. Then I have to move on. Winter is closing in. I’ve never taken part in one of these food tournaments before, and I’m certain I won’t be around for the next one. The streets are no place for an old man.

I’m not looking for forgiveness, that ship has long sailed. I’m not looking for charity or pity. But all I ask of you, dear boardsies, it to spare a thought for a man who lost everything standing up for what he believed in. Please don’t let my sacrifice, and the suffering of me and my family be in vein.

Don't let that cursed four year old be right. Don’t vote for Jaffa Cakes.

I like a story with a message.

Earthhorse · 12-09-2019 6:45pm

bluewolf wrote: »

You're the blandest

Must be why I'm friends with you. :cool:

toffeeshel · 12-09-2019 6:45pm

adox wrote: »

Sorry. You’ve probably never seen that many words without pictures.

While we’re on the subject of words- the p in your user name is upside down ya pox

adox · 12-09-2019 6:50pm

toffeeshel wrote: »

While we’re on the subject of words- the p in your user name is upside down ya pox

Yeah well anyway your name is spelled = cunt

JohnnyFlash · 12-09-2019 6:53pm

Lil Sally Anne Jnr. wrote: »

Is that a lino style tablecloth on your table? You absolute pov.

Leg End Reject · 12-09-2019 6:57pm

JohnnyFlash wrote: »

Is that a lino style tablecloth on your table? You absolute pov.

I think it one of those awful table with the tiled effect that are all the rage with the lower classes. Probably spent the last of his dole money on the marker, rich tea and crisps.

Ultimate Biscuit Tournament (Mod Note Post #1 and #984)

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