Because I can't handle the pressure and don't want to be put in a compromising position. So you have 14 minutes to decide on who goes.
Countdown from now...
Because I can't handle the pressure and don't want to be put in a compromising position. So you have 14 minutes to decide on who goes.
Countdown from now...
Posted by Timbo at 21:16 | Permalink | Comments (7)
My parents were away on a short holiday break, which meant that for the next few days, I had their house to myself. After having to work late one day, I spoke to the girl I was seeing briefly on the phone and we agreed we would skip tonight and see each other tomorrow instead.
Later on that evening, after possibly one or two beers and a spliff or two, my mobile bleeped. A text message, from her. She was asking about what I was doing. I replied to her with a "not much, you?" and before my backlight had chance to go off, she replied.
What followed were several text messages from her, beginning with "Thinking about you", followed by "Thinking about how you make me feel", followed by "I'm getting turned on thinking about you" and finally "It's making me horny....I'm touching myself".
Not wanting this to be such a one sided affair, I sent her a text message saying that she was turning me on with the thought of what she's doing to herself. She replied with a more explicit description of what she was doing and wanted to know more about what I was doing and if I was touching myself.
At this point I will save any innocent reader from any details of what I was doing at this point, but let's just say I'd taken the task in hand.
A few more messages were sent to and fro, each one a little more daring, a little more explicit. I was presuming at this point, that she was feeling as hot and sweaty as I was and as if by magic (or the sheer will power of my mind chanting 'please send me a picture message, please send me a picture message) she confirmed just how 'hot and sweaty' she was feeling by sending me a picture of herself masturbating. Getting caught up in the whole adrenalin rush, I flicked on my camera phone and captured what might be better known as 'the Money (That's What I Want) shot'.
With my hands still trembling a little, I tapped at the buttons on my phone:
Menu....Messaging....Picture Messaging....Compose Message....Attach Picture.....Send Message....Select Destination....
A few minutes passed. A few more. And a few more. After about 20 minutes, I'd gone past the 'I bet she's frantically bringing herself off right now' phase and entered into the 'what the fuck is she doing' phase.
I sent her a text message asking what she thought about what she does to me. She replied with a "Oh I wondered what happened to you....". Several messages later and it was becoming apparent that she'd not received my picture. Whilst I really wanted to think 'Sometimes picture messages have a delay on them', instead, I was over whelmed with an 'Oh shit' feeling. I checked my outbox and sure enough, there it was with a little tick next to it to confirm delivery....
My mum sent me a text shortly afterwards, wondering what the hell was going on.
Posted by bedshaped at 20:58 | Permalink | Comments (5)
This is officially an even closer vote than that time when George Dubya lost but won despite losing and was the winner even though he lost in that election what he won. But lost. You remember the one.
Anyway, this one is closer and tighter and squeakier than that one.
There is practically nothing in it, so right up to the wire please keep those votes coming in.
Shit! If the final week is like this I may end up pooing myself.
BB
Posted by Timbo at 20:45 | Permalink | Comments (9)
Way back when, when I was a weary business traveler, I frequented a certain upscale hotel quite a bit, and I'd earned the perks and recognition of becoming a regular client.
One night, on an extended stay, I went out to a local watering hole for gentlemen-who-prefer-showtunes after an extended business dinner that involved a good deal of wine and vodka. Several more drinks later, I found myself being chatted up by a swarthily charming Latino. Names weren't so important it seems, as we both kept forgetting each other's. This is understandable because Bob is a tough one to remember, and I'm pretty much shit with names.
Anyway, we bought each other some tequila shots, did the flirty thing and in reasonably short order were back at the hotel having hot, sweaty, porn-star quality sex. And then we went to sleep, as you do.
And then I remember the phone ringing.
Whaaa? A wake-up call already? I'd only been asleep a few minutes, it seemed. And where was Raul or Miguel or Pablo or whatever his name was? He didn't want to stay for breakfast? Not necessarily a bad thing. At least I wouldn't have to ask him his name again.
I shook my head, hoping to clear the Cuervo fuzziness, looked at the clock which read 3:30 and answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Yes, is this Mr. Bobzyeruncle?"
"Mmm hmmm."
"This is the front desk ... we have a Raul/Miguel/Pablo down here and he says he knows you?"
"Oh yes, send him up, by all means, thank you."
Bless, he must have gone out for smokes. They often come back. Quit rolling your eyes, they do. I swear.
And how good of reception to be on the lookout for unregistered guests trying to get back into the hotel?
A few minutes later there's a knock on the door.
I jump out of bed, wearing nothing but a smile, swing open the door and say, "Hola handsome, welcome back."
There's my friend, wearing a hotel bathrobe, accompanied by Security.
"You know this guy?" Security growled.
"Yes, yes, come in. Ohmygod, what happened?" I asked, ducking behind the door in a too-late-for-modesty-maneuver, not quite clear what was going on.
The security guard smirked and said, "He'll tell you" and then walked away.
R/M/P (we'll call him rump, because he did have a nice one) came in, totally freaked. Seemed he'd gotten up to have a pee and walked into the hallway instead of the bathroom ... stark naked, smelling of lube and whatnot, and more than a little sticky.
It seems I was dead-to-the-world passed out asleep and couldn't hear him knocking. So there Rump was, starkers, trying not to piss himself and trying to get into a room that wasn't his and he couldn't remember my name to tell security who the room was registered to. They called housekeeping, found him a robe, took him down to the front desk to sort out whose room we were in.
Poor guy, he was shattered. So we had a laugh (well, I did), opened the mini-bar, had another shag and both went back to sleep.
We had breakfast delivered, he took my number and then never called. Imagine.
It was probably more embarrassing for him than me, but for the next two days at the hotel, and for three subsequent stays, I couldn't pass by reception and/or security without a knowing smile, a snarky "how was your evening?", or an all-too-helpful "do you need an extra key today?"
Posted by bob at 20:09 | Permalink | Comments (4)
Apparently 'In the Quarter...' wasn't enough for BB. He wants something more than a genital/embarrassment combo to get his full on robot chubbie. The trouble is I don't really get embarrassed. Anyone who has been on the 6 o'clock news as 'one of those naked hippy revellers' just doesn't blush up that easy... here goes....
So we'd been playing at the bus stop for quite some time. Drunken fumbling. Hands in pants and knickers, that sort of thing. I think a vague attempt at shagging had occurred but it was all a bit 'on the high street' for that. So after finally clambering onto the bus and as soon as the only other passengers had got off (probably to escape the face sucking extravavganza) I was leapt upon and knickers and flies were soon yanked out of the way.
I remember looking up at one point and seeing a rather glaring pair of eyes in the rear view mirror - 'dirty old git' I thought and carried on regardless...
The next thing I knew there was a large hand on my shoulder yanking me and my new friend apart with grunts of 'not on my bleedin' bus' and 'fucking kids these days'. That sort of thing.
So we were ejected from the bus - as luck would have it a mere 100 metres from my flat. Closer than the bus stop. What a night. We then tried out the neighbours car bonnet, the stairs, the hall floor and eventually the bedroom. Fanfuckingtastic.
So there was some sex. Quite a lot in fact. Neither me nor my friend were embarrassed but I'm fairly sure that the bus driver and the other passengers were...
Does that count....?
Posted by Penfold at 18:06 | Permalink | Comments (3)
Despite learning to hit people as a hobby, I'm a girly girl and as such I don't allow my lovers to witness unpleasant bodily functions. One particular ex-boyfriend was fascinated by this and would do anything, including eavesdropping at the bathroom door, to try and catch me out. I forgave him this strange habit 'cos he adored me, plus he was an instant stiffy machine and could stay for days.
One night we'd both had a fair bit to drink but it wasn't affecting him at all, he was on full power and aiming for a new record. Me? I was a bit knackered to be honest and after a couple of hours of being flung around, my eyes were closing more due to exhaustion than ecstasy. He seemed to take my slowing down as some sort of subservience game and got very excited as he positioned me somewhat awkwardly so that he could hold my hands and ankles as his tongue went south (though it may have been north-west, I think I was nearly upside down at that point.)
Skilled as he was and uncomfortable as I was, tiredness and alcohol still meant that I drifted off a couple of times, managing to keep this from him by disguising my 'shake-to-wake' as an 'ooh, you're so damn good!' motion. Unfortunately I couldn't keep this up and the next time I woke it was because he was shaking me, looking completely triumphant...
'I fucking knew it! You do fart! I just heard you!
I felt myself blushing and just hoped he'd had his fill and been lying next to me but before my groggy brain could grope for the words to form the question it was answered...
'I even felt it, right *pointing to chin* here!'
Posted by Angela Marshall at 01:53 | Permalink | Comments (3)
Well. It wasn't the sex that was embarrassing. I remember very little about the sex, as I'd been up all night and the person in question gave me free hallucinogens...
It all started with some high art. Well, highish. Well, wannabe-highish. I was acting in a St Werburgh's Amateur Dramatics' Society production of House of Bernarda Alba, by Lorca. It was the last night. I delivered my monologue, as a hunchback, in a spotlight, and just like every single bloody time when she helped me rehearse it, my friend Anya, who'd chosen that night to be in the audience, burst out laughing. When I reached the climax of the speech. "My heart is bursting like a bitter pomegranate!" I said, and she set the whole bloomin' audience off. Wrecked the show.
That's got nothing to do with Embarrassing Sex Experience, but it happened mere hours before it, and I like telling that story. So there you go, two embarrassing anecdotes for the price of one.
Anyway. That was in Manchester, and rather than hang around with a load of am-drammers and get politely tiddly, my plan was to drive, laughing-traitor-Anya in tow, down to London. Leaving after midnight, arriving in time for the night club Trade, which didn't open its doors 'til 3am on Sunday mornings.
You might remember the story of my sixteenth birthday party, when I snogged as many boys as I could lay my hands on. Well, six years later I'd got snogging down to a fine art, and I think me and Anya must have planned from the start that we'd find ourselves beds for the night / day / whatever. But we were vaguely sensible, and before we wandered off wide-pupilled with our New Best Friends, we got them to give us phone numbers, and swapped.
And thus it was that I found myself in Shepherd's Bush or thereabouts, not exactly sober or straight, at two o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, in some bloke's house (some bloke called Kevin and I still have his card, and a tape he made me of Man Mashine (sic) by Man Mashine (sic) - it was 1992) with he and his girlfriend, Tracy.
The thing is, it wasn't just his house. He lived with his parents. And little brother. And, what with it being a Sunday afternoon, they and various other assorted relatives were all having roast dinner. So we slunk upstairs to his little-boy's bedroom with its single bed, and he and Tracy gave me some hallucinogens, and we did... well, I haven't a clue what we did but it was at least inspired by sex.
And then the door started to open...
Kevin was impressively athletic, and managed to leap out of bed and hold it shut before his little brother marched in.
"What do you want?" he called through the door.
"There's a phone call, for someone called Clare."
It was my laughing friend Anya, checking I was all right.
Hastily clothed, I was led downstairs by Intrigued Young Boy, and as I took the call I overheard the family Eating Their Dinner in the dining room.
"I don't know what they're doing up there," said Little Brother, "but they're making some very strange noises."
Posted by Her Over There at 22:38 | Permalink | Comments (1)
I'm in a bar on Decatur and it's late. My lady has given up on me and the night - one too many Jagermeisters for both of us has made the decision easy for her.
It's a tiny place, only enough room for a wall of spirits, a few stools and a couple of booths. Postcards pinned into the peeling paint tell of customers that left their hearts behind in this mystical town.
The jukebox, a rattling old Wurlitzer is scratching through some pearls of New Orleans - Lowell Fulson is asking me to 'Reconsider Baby' just one more time before I stagger two doors down to my tiny third floor room. I should have gone back with Louise but I'd crossed the threshold and was on a mission...
I find myself chatting and laughing and talking shit with a bunch of guys from out of town. Musicians on tour. They seem cool, blowing off some steam after a gig. We settle into a booth and get serious with a few shots and then a bottle hits the table.
At some point and I have no idea how, the converation turns to circumcision. American boys all get cut. It's a health issue apparently - although I've never met anyone who ever died from a dirty foreskin.
It turns out that every person around the table and indeed the bar has been circumcised as a child. Except me.
Not only that but I'm the only person that's even seen a foreskin.
So before you can say 'Christ - he's got his knob out!' I'm standing up, I'm unzipping and demonstrating the Great British foreskin in all it's rubbery glory. Slapped right on the table for all to see...
For some reason everyone feels they have to go home (including the barman) and the evening is concluded.
I realise this isn't exactly 'sexual' but it definitely involved my genitals and indeed vast amounts of embarrassment as the story greeted me with every public outing after for weeks - all beautifully compounded when the barman informed me the next day that I'd been waving my knob at 3/4 of a small band from Georgia known as REM...
Posted by Penfold at 16:38 | Permalink | Comments (18)
To keep you all on your toes (well, three of you at least) and because I'm an evil shitstirrer, I thought I'd keep you all up to speed with how the vote this week is progressing. Thrillingly, you'll be pleased to hear that it's a nail-biting three-way tie!
We've seen that before haven't we Tippler?
Currently Bob, Penfold and Clare are battling to save themselves, and as of 5 minutes ago there were only five votes separating first and third place. How exciting!
So every vote is a precious commodity, therefore if you haven't voted you really really must do. Now.
As I iterated in the sidebar, if anyone has voted for Tippler or Joseph and wants to change their vote then please email me here and I will add your new vote to the total.
Otherwise, I can't wait 'til tomorrow night when I get to stick my steel toecap up two people's bums.
With a kicking motion.
Nothing dodgy, if that's what you were thinking.
BB
Posted by Timbo at 13:35 | Permalink | Comments (2)
...the house is very quiet - everyone seems to be hiding in corners writing about their various sex blunders. As previously mentioned my man-hymen is still intact so I'm having problems with the task. So I'm a tad bored.
I say we rush the Diary room and hogtie Supply Blogger...
Pelt him with ripe tomatoes...
Saving a bushell for extremely large Bloody Marys. Then we all drink enough so I have something to write about before Monday evening. Genius.
Posted by Penfold at 12:07 | Permalink | Comments (3)
Those Responsible
Yes! I have an accomplice once again!
The Poll
Bollocks to the poll! It's finished!
The Concept
Welcome to the home of Big Blogger 2007. For the next eight weeks or so we will be watching (well, reading) the housemates as they complete their tasks, eake out a meagre existence, and do everything in their power to convince you, the blogging public, that they should be the ones to win the title of Big Blogger 2007. Who will win? You decide...
(I could swear I've heard that before somewhere.)
Click on this link if you require any further clarification. And in case anyone is still utterly confused, here are The Rules.
The Housemates
Check out all the freaky weirdos beautiful specimens we've caged up just for you - and all in the name of entertainment too!
And the newbies too:
The House
It's missing a library, a nail salon and a coffee bar, but other than that it's a design masterpiece. You lucky people!
The Diary Room
Little Blogger AKA Minxy is always about nowhere to be seen, and therefore she won't do you a fantastic line in body stockings. Medium-sized Blogger IS there however and he has the world record for making rollies. So GO! NOW!! Do it, before it's too late!
A Concise History
Click the links to go straight to each task and/or each particular housemate's downright ludicrous response:
Task 1: The Task, Clare (1)/(2), Joseph, Bob, Spanish Goth, Enidd, Cat, Invader Stu, Penfold, Tippler, Katy, bedshaped, Mr Angry, Ariel, Angelalala, Neil.
Task 2: The Task, Spanish Goth, Cat, Joseph, Enidd, Bob, Tippler, Invader Stu, Ariel, Penfold, Mr Angry, Katy, Neil, Angelalala, bedshaped, Clare.
Task 3: The Task, Penfold, Cat, Bob, Angelalala, Tippler (1)/(2), Spanish Goth, Invader Stu, Joseph, bedshaped, Mr Angry, Neil, Clare.
Task 4: The Task, Cat, Spanish Goth, Clare, Tippler (1)/(2), Invader Stu, Mr Angry, Joseph, Penfold, bedshaped, Bob, Neil, Angelalala.
Task 5: The Task, Clare, Spanish Goth, Cat, Joseph, Penfold, Angelalala, Tippler (1)/(2), Bob, Mr Angry, bedshaped, Ordinary Girl, Non-working monkey.
Task 6: The Task, Spanish Goth (1)/(2), Bob, Joseph, Non-working monkey (1)/(2), Penfold, Cat, Tippler, Ordinary Girl, bedshaped, Angelalala, Mr Angry, Clare.
Task 7: The Task, Angelalala, Clare, Cat, Joseph, Penfold, Bob, Spanish Goth, Tippler, bedshaped, Ordinary Girl, Mr Angry.
Task 8: The Task, Tippler, Cat, Bob, Clare (1)/(2), Penfold, bedshaped, Big Blogger, Mr Angry, Joseph, Angelalala.
Task 9: The Task, Penfold, Bob, Cat, Big Blogger, bedshaped, Tippler, Angelalala, Joseph, Clare.
Task 10: The Task, bedshaped (1) / (2) / (3) / (4) / (5) / (6) / (7), Clare (1a / b) / (2) / (3) / (4) / (5) / (6) / (7), Tippler (1) / (2) / (3) / (4) / (5), Cat (1) / (2) / (3) / (4), Bob (1) / (2) / (3) / (4) / (5) / (6), Penfold (1) / (2) / (3) / (4) / (5) / (6) / (7), Joseph (1) / (2), Angelalala
Task 11: The Task, Clare, Cat, Tippler, Penfold, Angelalala, bedshaped, Bob.
Task 12: The Task, Tippler, Cat, Penfold (1)/(2), Clare, Angelalala, Bob, bedshaped.
Task 13: The Task, Bob, Tippler, Cat, Angelalala.
Task 14: The Final Task, Tippler (1)/(2)/(3), Cat (1)/(2)/(3), Bob (1)/(2)/(3).
A Not Very Concise At All History
And feel free to browse the daily archives. No, honestly, be my guest. Some poor bastard has to.
Get In Touch
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Link To Us
If you love Big Blogger in an almost entirely non-physical way then be a good sort and whack one of these attractive Big Blogger-themed thingies into your sidebar.
Our Links
Huge thanks go to Lucy Pepper for her wonderful illustrations.
Plus, even though he's not blogging anymore, let's remember Watski for coming up with this godawful idea in the first place.
AND, if you've got 300 years spare time on your hands you could use it to re-read the whole of the original 2005 Big Blogger event. Go on, I dare you.
The only other place we should really link to is the official BIG BROTHER website. After all, they're the ones who bought the rights to the concept in the first place; we're just adjusting it for our own purposes. I'm sure they'll understand.
So if you want intellectual stimulation and laughs-a-plenty, stay right where you are. However, if you want boredom, drudgery and maybe some tits and arse, go there instead.
I know where I'm going. Okay, see you later...
Legal Mumbo-Jumbo
The idea may not be original but everything else on here is of our own making and 100% original. So don't go borrowing unless A) you link back to us, or B) you ask us really really nicely beforehand.
Copyright © Tim Stannard, or © the Author as stated, 2007