[Humour] What was your mother’s or father’s weapon of choice

[BNthree]

Slap/spank.

 

[dazzer6666]

I vividly recall the bamboo cane at primary and secondary school (not often but administered when it was ‘deserved’) - sometimes the hand, sometimes the arse. Nothing from my own folks (father just once, bit of a slap but not hard). Did have a couple of mates who had fathers that seemed to delight in dishing out beatings to them - pretty horrible to see.

 

[Saltydog]

Oh dear, perhaps this was an ill thought out post on reflection. I too had some rather shocking experiences at school, however to open painful memories of others was not why I started this post.

This was meant to be light hearted but I appear to have opened a can of worms for some on here. Sincere and gratious apologies to those people as this certainly was not my intent.

Saltydog.

 

[Brian Parsons]

Got three of the best for the old favourite, smoking behind the bike shed. Couldn't ride my bike home and when Mum said tea was ready I tried my best to sit without wincing in pain. After numerous times of being told to sit properly she made me stand up. She pulled my shorts down and slapped me flat handed across the three weals. It bloody hurt.
Our Maths master was a dab hand of throwing a little bit of chalk and ping your earholes. Ouch.

Sent from my SM-A505FN using Tapatalk

 

[Worried Man Blues]

Apparently I was a joy, but was sent to my room once, so organised a Subbuteo comp. , half an hour later dad said you can come down now, So I said will be down later just doing something. YOU COME DOWN NOW! That never happened again. Got the dowling at school for fighting over a piece of wood in the woodwork lesson, 6 of the best and broke it on my arse as well

 

[The Clamp]

Oh dear, perhaps this was an ill thought out post on reflection. I too had some rather shocking experiences at school, however to open painful memories of others was not why I started this post.

This was meant to be light hearted but I appear to have opened a can of worms for some on here. Sincere apologies to those as this was not my intent.

Saltydog.

Can’t speak for anyone else but I genuinely look back on it and laugh. I don’t find it particularly painful, more glad that I got through it and can get on with adulthood. It wasn’t much fun but it wasn’t the worst childhood by a long shot. Made a man of me and all that.

 

[Is it PotG?]

Was in Maths one dreary afternoon.

Me and my mate were messing about, the teacher (who was known to enjoy a lunchtime pint or two) strolled down the aisle in his white loafers giving us both a solid right hook in the ear.

Happy Days

 

[bluenitsuj]

Wooden spoon or slipper. Done me no harm

 

[Mr Bridger]

Belt.
Kicked my dad in the balls when I was about 5 and thus tested the strength of his leather.

 

[AmexRuislip]

Oh dear, perhaps this was an ill thought out post on reflection. I too had some rather shocking experiences at school, however to open painful memories of others was not why I started this post.

This was meant to be light hearted but I appear to have opened a can of worms for some on here. Sincere apologies to those as this was not my intent.

Saltydog.

Hey, don't apologise.
Its up each individual to digress on their own personal self flagellation

 

[The Antikythera Mechanism]

The only time one of my parents ever hit me was when I broke a feather duster on a bamboo pole that my mum had as a wedding present. She gave me a light slap on the leg with the remnant.

 

[Poojah]

Funny, I posted in a different thread about a surreal and slightly comical altercation I had with my dad in my late teens involving some flying fruit, but this thread does rekindle a darker memory.

He was, and is, a funny character my dad. An absolutely top bloke in his heart, but beneath all that was an angry, sinister alter ego that would suddenly emerge from nowhere and unleash all hell. He's an old man now and that side of him has seemingly calmed with retirement, but even now I struggle to wrap my head around the duality of his personality when I was growing up. One moment, best dad in the world. The next, worst dad in the world.

Nothing quite captures that better than a weekend back in June 1996, a few weeks after my 11th birthday when I had received what remains my most treasured gift of my childhood - two tickets to watch England and Switzerland at Wembley, the opening game of Euro 96. To this day I don't know how he got them, but that's the kind of thing he'd do - he'd find a way to do anything for me when it came to football.

It remains one of the best days of my life, even though the game was shít. The excitement of getting up early and heading down from the industrial north to the big smoke on the train. He was always a worrier, so I think we arrived at the foot of Wembley Way about 10am ahead of the 3pm kick-off. Despite the enormity of the occasion we were practically the only ones there so early and so we were able to walk up Wembley Way in the sunshine on our own as he recounted stories of his old man taking him to cup finals in the 50's when cup finals were well and truly 'proper'. It was fúcking magical - just people watching as the atmosphere gradually built in the run up to the game.

The game was forgettable, certainly the least entertaining of England's Euro 96 campaign, but none of that mattered. I was at fúcking Wembley, watching fúcking England, with my fúcking dad. I could write a book about that day, I remember it so well.

Regrettably, I remember the following day incredibly well as well. I even remember the fact that it all began as I was watching another dour Euro 96 fixture - Spain v Bulgaria. Just me and my dad in the living room, chilling. My mum and sister were out. Then dad got a call from work - he always got wound up when he got a call from work, particularly if it happened on a weekend or during the night. That was that, but then I must have done something that angered him, I don't remember what but I don't think it was anything significant, and wow, did he unleash hell.

There was a scuffle, I made it as far as the hallway, but then came the slipper. And again. And again. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Shorts pulled down for maximum impact, I don't know how long it lasted for but it felt relentless. I don't know this for certain but I think I may have blacked out at one point. I couldn't move. He left me in the hallway and went back to watch the football like nothing had happened.

Mum was horrified when she got home. My arse was in tatters, like some kind of squashed plum. After a couple of days the bruises began to run the full length of my legs, so I wasn't able to do PE at school for a couple of weeks until they had dissipated. Worst beating I ever had, and if it taught me anything it's that I never want to treat my own kids like that, no matter what. And they don't half try my patience at times.

It's odd really, it's quite a strange relationship to have had and to have with your dad. If he had been an ******** my entire childhood, a full on binary dickhead, then it's quite easy to process. But my very best and worst childhood memories are practically all thanks to my dad. It's emotionally confuddling to say the least.

Anyway, therapy session over!

 

[METALMICKY]

wooden spoon

Always threatened by my mum but never actually delivered. In reality it what a rare clip round the back of the legs.

 

[Seasidesage]

My Mum used to threaten to put my hand in the mangle, which for anyone under 50 was two rollers turned with a handle
I was terrified but from my fat fingers you can surmise that she never went through with that but she could go a bit with a Bamboo
cane like the time I took all the bedsheets to the park to make a camp and then left them there I looked like a red and white Zebra after that one...

 

[Weststander]

Funny, I posted in a different thread about a surreal and slightly comical altercation I had with my dad in my late teens involving some flying fruit, but this thread does rekindle a darker memory.

He was, and is, a funny character my dad. An absolutely top bloke in his heart, but beneath all that was an angry, sinister alter ego that would suddenly emerge from nowhere and unleash all hell. He's an old man now and that side of him has seemingly calmed with retirement, but even now I struggle to wrap my head around the duality of his personality when I was growing up. One moment, best dad in the world. The next, worst dad in the world.

Nothing quite captures that better than a weekend back in June 1996, a few weeks after my 11th birthday when I had received what remains my most treasured gift of my childhood - two tickets to watch England and Switzerland at Wembley, the opening game of Euro 96. To this day I don't know how he got them, but that's the kind of thing he'd do - he'd find a way to do anything for me when it came to football.

It remains one of the best days of my life, even though the game was shít. The excitement of getting up early and heading down from the industrial north to the big smoke on the train. He was always a worrier, so I think we arrived at the foot of Wembley Way about 10am ahead of the 3pm kick-off. Despite the enormity of the occasion we were practically the only ones there so early and so we were able to walk up Wembley Way in the sunshine on our own as he recounted stories of his old man taking him to cup finals in the 50's when cup finals were well and truly 'proper'. It was fúcking magical - just people watching as the atmosphere gradually built in the run up to the game.

The game was forgettable, certainly the least entertaining of England's Euro 96 campaign, but none of that mattered. I was at fúcking Wembley, watching fúcking England, with my fúcking dad. I could write a book about that day, I remember it so well.

Regrettably, I remember the following day incredibly well as well. I even remember the fact that it all began as I was watching another dour Euro 96 fixture - Spain v Bulgaria. Just me and my dad in the living room, chilling. My mum and sister were out. Then dad got a call from work - he always got wound up when he got a call from work, particularly if it happened on a weekend or during the night. That was that, but then I must have done something that angered him, I don't remember what but I don't think it was anything significant, and wow, did he unleash hell.

There was a scuffle, I made it as far as the hallway, but then came the slipper. And again. And again. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Shorts pulled down for maximum impact, I don't know how long it lasted for but it felt relentless. I don't know this for certain but I think I may have blacked out at one point. I couldn't move. He left me in the hallway and went back to watch the football like nothing had happened.

Mum was horrified when she got home. My arse was in tatters, like some kind of squashed plum. After a couple of days the bruises began to run the full length of my legs, so I wasn't able to do PE at school for a couple of weeks until they had dissipated. Worst beating I ever had, and if it taught me anything it's that I never want to treat my own kids like that, no matter what. And they don't half try my patience at times.

It's odd really, it's quite a strange relationship to have had and to have with your dad. If he had been an ******** my entire childhood, a full on binary dickhead, then it's quite easy to process. But my very best and worst childhood memories are practically all thanks to my dad. It's emotionally confuddling to say the least.

Anyway, therapy session over!

I think that you consciously go one way or the other after experiencing an aggressive parent or smacker. Aggression can include non physical intimidation or control.

Either carry on in that exact vein, as our parents did ... it was what they knew as kids.

Or completely desist with your own kids. It was natural to me to be far kinder to mine.

I know through family that my Dad (now in his 80’s) remembers and regrets a few key occasions where he completely unjustly used his hands. I remember those incidents too. A 13 stone man who could ‘look after himself’ in any situation, in the moment, struck offspring half his size.

If I hear a mouthy parent or grandparent aggressively f’ing and blinding at their nippers in a supermarket, I feel sorry for those younguns.

 

[Psychobilly freakout]

A variety of weapons used by my father, the most painful apart from being kicked and punched down the stairs a few times at the age of 6, was the green garden canes you use for plants, but the worst was the yellow bendy race track for hot wheels cars, you know the one that bent round for loop the loop, he called it his flippey stick because it bent and he thought it hurt more... it did, drawing blood several times....

I promised myself I would never hit a child if I ever became a parent and I’ve stuck to it.
45plus years later after he’s had a stroke and contemplating life, he knows why he’s way down on my list and hardly speak to him.

As for my mum, she pissed off at the age of 6months old, never to be seen again but was by all accounts just as feckin mental.

You get out, what you put in....

 

[Live by the sea]

Can’t remember ever being hit by parents but did get the slipper at school .

 

[Super Steve Earle]

None. My parents loved me

 

[Poojah]

I think that you consciously go one way or the other after experiencing an aggressive parent or smacker. Aggression can include non physical intimidation or control.

Either carry on in that exact vein, as our parents did ... it was what they knew as kids.

Or completely desist with your own kids. It was natural to me to be far kinder to mine.

I know through family that my Dad (now in his 80’s) remembers and regrets a few key occasions where he completely unjustly used his hands. I remember those incidents too. A 13 stone man who could ‘look after himself’ in any situation, in the moment, struck offspring half his size.

If I hear a mouthy parent or grandparent aggressively f’ing and blinding at their nippers in a supermarket, I feel sorry for those younguns.

It’s difficult really because kids do wind you up and you do get angry and my lad in particular is such a reincarnation of me it’s scary - you can kind of see things as if through your own father’s eyes. But like you say, no matter what they’ve done wrong it’s not a fair ‘fight’ when they’re less than half your weight and size.

I definitely have a different relationship with my kids, that’s for sure. I think it would be easy to misconstrue their attitude towards me as respecting me less than I respected my dad - they say things to me on occasion that I’d never have dreamed of. But I’m not sure that’s true - they just fear me less, in fact they don’t ‘fear’ me at all.

But I don’t think that’s really such a bad thing.

 

[neilbard]