There comes a time in every one's life when he/she is forced by circumstances, usually beyond their control, to fess up to past indiscretions of one kind or another. To my utter chagrin, that time has finally arrived for me. Long have I wrestled with the pain and self loathing that this matter has caused me. The truth must out. So to this end, I have decided to risk bringing down total humiliation and contempt upon myself, by making this admission. The following may well come as a complete shock to many of the good people who regularly haunt not606, but I have a full and frank confession to make. My name is not, nor has it ever been, cyclonic111. Yes my friends, I am someone else! As much as I'm ashamed to admit it, I have no option but to declare, that I am no more than a hairy arsed, baldfaced liar. A bounder! And what possible excuse could I have for this appalling behavior? I could sit here and trot out a myriad of half baked reasons for my repugnant actions, trying all the while to paint myself in a more acceptable light, but to do so would be just a rather pathetic attempt at concealing my own short comings. Why would a man want to hide behind a false name? Obviously, I don't want the world at large to know who I am. But this has never stopped others who have sought fame and glory, for the world is full of people who are happy to put the names to their deeds. Even infamous deeds. So despite not using the name that I was born with, do I seek renown? I suppose that I must do, am I not here every day? Yet, I have chosen not to post under my real title. Ergo, I am not brave enough. If I am not brave, can I still be not cowardly? Is there a grass filled meadow, somewhere between these two extremes, where I can seek salvation? Today, lying on the pristine beach, while looking at the yachts racing in the azure waters off beautiful Mooloolaba, I pondered on the problem at hand. After several cheese, tomato, beetroot and pickle sandwiches, liberally washed down with copious amounts of black, sugarless tea, I had an epiphany. No, I think it might have been a fruit sorbet. Either way, it went down well. Then it hit me. If I was to worm my way out of this terrible bind, I'd have to somehow find a way of playing off the front foot. If in the process, I copped the occasional short ball to the chest, then so be it. If I'm going down, I'm going down swinging! Within minutes, I'd devised a way out of the predicament. And so a daring plan was hatched, and with it, a huge weight came off my wife's shoulders. I've always made her carry the heavy loads. I couldn't believe how quickly the plot thickened. What was initially a hair brained idea began to flesh out to such an extent, that I was now looking at the greatest hit in the history of racing. Forget Barney Curley and his hit and miss operations, this is going to be a cyclonic symphony, the likes of which will live long in this sites history. But as with all off the wall plans, the risks are enormous. If it pays off, I'll have at least taken some small steps toward my own deliverance. However, better plans than mine have been trashed by unforseen circumstances. If my well thought out scheme comes to nothing, I'm sure that it will have nothing to do with me, it will be the fault of Mr. Hughes and Mr. Queally. I don't know what they have against me, but it does seem a bit personal as far as I'm concerned. Make no mistakes my friends, deliverance for me today will come at 3:10 at Glorious Goodwood, in the Qipco Sussex Stakes. I doubt that there is a sane person on this site who doesn't think the winner will be either Canford Cliffs or Frankel. But as seen above, my claim to sanity can only be tenuous at best, so I'm predicting that they both will be beaten. There, I've said it. Boy do I feel released. At last, I've managed to cast off the yoke of oppression. So if Canford Cliffs and Frankel are to be undone, who is to do the deed? Rajsaman.
There I was, spread out on my beach towel, in my "budgie smugglers." The wife had to keep beating the busties off with sun brolly. Half way through the afternoon though, I spotted a young topless woman flailing about in the surf. Just after I got her out and did mouth to mouth, I found out that she was practicing her breaststroke. That made two of us.
Cyclonic: Take no notice of the Mad Mapper from Marlborough, your essay deserves a "sticky". Sincerely, F.Filon, Filon D'or Adhesives GmbH.
Nassau: Tough one to answer, but all I'll say is "too late, it's too late.....almost!". (That's why this exceptional product is so costly)..........
Cyclonic, I hate to admit it but, judged on what you have just disgorged, you are way beyond redemption! Anyone who eats cheese, pickle, beetroot, and tomato- on one sandwich- definitely needs a cranial labotomy; if you meant 'separate sandwiches,' then I would suggest a small but relatively inexpensive cyanide pill will solve all your problems. As for calling yourself Cyclonic 111, I quite like the first part of your name. It's the second part that worries me. Does the 111 show you are a cricket lover - or would Freud say it's just a way of bragging that your middle leg is as long as your other two limbs? Either way, it's delusional- likewise your tip of Rajsaman. Of course Rajsaman can win, and then you will be able to enter The Australian Outback Guiness Book Of Records- and substitute your pickle and beetroot in favour of nectar and ambrosia. Unfortunately, when the sun sets over your Mooloolaba beach, I'm afraid you'll still remain the second most insane person in this Forum.
Tam, we Aussies are raised on all kinds exotic food, it's what has made us the most uncouth people on the planet. 111 is just one, three times. The first ring in Dante's Divine Comedy is Limbo. I tried to get into Lust and Gluttony, but as I lack a rational mind, I'm stuck in Limbo.
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These replies look familiar. I this a Repost- or have you gone into delirium tremens and amended it? Cyclonic, I'm afraid you've spent too much time on that Moolalaba Beach- which means you've either contracted Alzheimers- or Aids! Don't worry, there's a surefire cure to sort that out- and determine which one it is... Tell your good lady to drive you to the beach at midnight; tell you to find your own way home; and then drive off. If she never sees you again, then your real name won't matter because you'll just be a piece of flotsam and jetsam. However, if you do make your way home, for God's sake tell her not to go to bed with you!! Kind regards, John Tamerlo. PS. And I really thought that Cyclonic was your real name!
No this was not a re-post Tam. I was as surprised as the next man when it popped up again. Guitar posted less than an hour ago. So I might be ok...I think. What were talking about..... Jeez if only I could remember.
