Task:

Click on the 'Show All Comments' button.

Expected Result:

All Comments are shown.

Task:

Repeat while holding the Ctrl key down.

Expected Result:

Nothing.

Task:

Repeat while holding Shift key down.

Expected Result:

Nothing.

Task:

Repeat while holding the Alt key down.

Expected Result:

Nothing.

Task:

Repeat while furiously knocking one out to the mental image of Danii Minogue licking maple syrup out of your belly button.

Expected Result:

A slightly more interesting afternoon than I've had writing this.


42 pages of that shite today :(



More Ninestein, you lucky, lucky people!
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She once came into my work and put a keylogger on my pc.

She then got every password for every email, facebook, work application, and began mailing the females that I was in touch with through work.

I work in a very senior role.

She would then delete the messages she'd sent, and would monitor how I reacted to replies. So for example if you were an attractive woman, she sent things like "I've always wanted you, when am I taking you out to dinner?"

I began to wonder when I recieved messages saying things like "What are you talking about, we're both married!?" although I did get some back saying "when and where" etc.

Anyway, I didn't have the energy for affairs, or the inclination, so I would just delete the messages for a while.

Then I got one with the original sent message attached...

She had told them to delete my mail and reply with a new message so we wouldn't be caught.

When I say 'them', I'm talking about over 15 women I had working relationships with.

That took some explaining.

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I was at her sister's house, had walked over as she lived close to us, and I was helping her to learn french. We sat in the lounge, chatting and me testing her on her french, one of her kids was off school, so he was running around, making a nuisance of himself.

We sat at the table in her lounge, going through vocab, teaching her phrases etc.

Anyway, Conor, the young boy, about 5 I think, runs into the lounge and starts bashing away at the piano keys. It's an upright piano, with a bit you can take off the back, as with most of them...

Now Sarah, louise's sister, is a big old hippie, so the theory is that we just let him be a boy, and carry on.

After a while though, he's been bashing at the keys for ages and I hear a note that's rather unlike the normal piano notes.

After a few minutes I can take no more, so I walk over to the piano, where conor is now looking around the back saying "Auntie Louise, Auntie louise.

With some trepidation I look behind, to see my darling wife lying on her side in the bottom of the piano, which is pretty filthy and dusty. The cover is lying against the wall and she has somehow managed to slide in there and get the piano quite close to the wall again.

Once I have completed the perfectly normal activity of removing my dust-covered mentalist from the back of a victorian musical instrument we all stand in a bemused circle in the room.

Even young Conor, normally quite the whirling dervish, is silently watching his auntie removing 50 year old hair, dust and mouse droppings from her top.

She smiles and says "just having a laugh!"

Later at home she tells me she knows I'm f**king her sister. I just agree, I think it's best...

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Warning: Long story.

When we first moved to london we had a pretty hard time. We had some savings, but I wanted to protect them, so we both decided to job hunt like mad.

We lived in Wood Green, in kind of a bedsit thing, on the top floor of a terraced house, haringey road it was, grim it was.

The other occupants of the house (and there were at least 12) were albanians and poles, we didn't get much sleep, and it was unbearably hot that summer.

In short, getting a job and getting the f**k out of there became a real pressing priority.

There was an Internet cafe about 10 minutes walk away, which is where we used to spend our days, applying for job after job.

I'd been fairly successful before, and I sat and applied for at least 100 jobs per week, mostly as sales director or commercial director for IT companies in central and West London, and mostly paid far more than anything I'd applied for before.

Louise was more modest. Despite a marketing degree and some decent experience she would spend her day applying for admin jobs, secretarial and low-paid stuff, and after a week or so I started getting mails and calls offering me interviews for some great positions.

One agency in particular seemed to be doing really well for me, the contact was a girl (AAAAAAAARRRGHHH) called Anna something, and she was ringing me almost daily offering me jobs.

I went to the agency and was interviewed by them, they seemed impressed, and Anna gave me her business card.

It was clearly a business card - it had the name of the business, logo, her name, and her direct line, as well as her mobile.

Now you have an inkling of what may be coming, but be patient my little untouched innocents, you have no idea....

One interview was with a big IT accounts package company, a competitor for sage, and the job was as sales director - big salary, good package, nice car etc. etc.

They were based on Albert Embankment and they wanted to get me in for interview as soon as possible.

Louise read the mails they'd sent through, read the info from the agency, read the job description and heard me lots of times on the phone to Anna discussing the position.

I went to the interview on a Friday, I remember it was really hot, and I had foolishly worn a light blue shirt under a navy suit, and was stressed and sweaty when I got there.

Anyway, it went really well, and they virtually offered me the position then and there, I was on cloud nine, and called Louise to see if she wanted to meet me in town to have a few celebratory drinks.

No answer.

Now to most people, your other half not answering her phone might mean she's busy. Maybe she's gone out, maybe her battery has run out.

To me, it could mean anything from 'she's watching me right now' to 'I am in extreme mortal danger' and generally led me to start scanning the sky in the direction of North London looking for a menstrually-induced mushroom cloud.

I try several times, whilst having a beer in a bar near vauxhall station, it's about 5-45 now, so I think f**k it, and catch the tube for the 35 minute trip up the victoria line back to wood green.

Wood Green isn't a pretty place, and the walk from the grim station to my grimmer street is a good 10 minutes, past kebab shops, turkish hairdressers and newsagents.

I'm about 5 minutes in when I see the first clue that all is not well. On the pavement, half in the gutter and half out is a tie that looks very like one I own, it's yellow and white, now with a perfect black footprint in the middle.

A bit tipsy from my earlier beer, and a little shell-shocked I shrug it off as coincidence, and go back to my happy state until I turn a corner about 3 minutes from home.

There's a clothes bank against a high wall, and flapping happily in the breeze are a pair of my trousers. By now I know that this isn't coincidence, these are absolutely, definitely, unmistakably my trousers, mainly because littered across the pavement in front of the clothes bank right up to the top of the 9 foot wall behind it are a selection of my other clothes.

Oh dear.

I'm slightly confused now, and by the time I reach home, along with my bag I'm carrying armfulls of my filthy clothes, a slightly resigned expression, and the weight that comes along with marrying Heather Mills's more deranged cousin.

She opens the door at the top of the stairs and says nothing. She doesn't look angry, I give a confused look and walk past her, dumping the clothes in the middle of the room on the floor.

"So! You got the job! Well done babe!"

er

"Sorry I didn't come and meet you, I was out"

I just looked at her and said "What the f**k are my clothes doing all over the street?"

She said "I was doing a wash and I found some bitch's number in your jeans pocket and lipstick on the neck of your shirt."

"What?? Who's number?"

I'm now imagining a girl's number written on a bit of paper, and a big smear of red lipstick on my white shirt collar, but oh no. Apparently the weight of evidence required decreases in inverse proportion to the utter lunacy of the accuser.

"Here - this f**king slag"

She pulled out the card of Anna from the agency.

"That's Anna though, you know it is, you've seen me dealing with her for weeks."

"Yeah right, she's a f**king whore, why would you have her number?"

By now I'm wondering how much it would hurt if I leapt out of the velux window onto the albanian man's car below.

Then she marched over to the washing machine and grabbed my white shirt, holding it up triumphantly.

"This is HER lipstick, I f**king know it is. You've been f**king her for weeks the f**king slag."

I looked at the shirt, and on the collar is a tiny bloodstain from where I'd cut my neck shaving.

I'm talking minute here, imagine Louise's grasp on reality then divide by 12.

"It's blood" I said, "from shaving"

Then she just sat on the bed really calmly and said "yeah, I know, but you've still been f**king her."

I then found out she'd texted Anna, nothing too rude, just a text saying "how do you know my husband?"

I took the job, nice office, great view of parliament.

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