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      PLEASE READ: TAMB is not closing!   10/12/2017

      Just to provide an update on the future of the Tartan Army Message Board. To be clear the board will not be closing and instead will be staying open and will hopefully go from strength to strength. Who Are We? We are a group of Scotland supporters who have varied skills and expertise, along with experience of  being involved in football and running football message boards. When we heard the TAMB faced closure, we contacted the old team with a detailed plan which involved financing and running the board. After speaking to the old team on a number of occasions they have allowed us to put our plan into action. While speaking to them and going on their experience and that of those before them, we have elected to keep our identity private, however rest assured we have the best intentions for the board and those on it. Our Plans. Our plan will involve a number of stages which we hope will not only keep the board going but help improve and rejuvenate it. Our first step will be to do a bit of a clean-up of the board. This will involve some downtime for a few hours where posting will be disabled. We plan to do this early next week, a full notice will be posted on the board then. Once that is completed we will be upgrading the current board platform, both behind the scenes and hopefully aesthetically too. There will be an ongoing process of board improvements which we hope you, the user will help us with, so you have a board you will enjoy We thank the old board team for all their hard work, dedication and their help during this handover and hope you will all help support our plans going forward.


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About ThistleWhistle

  • Birthday 04/21/1980

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  1. I was 25 and had a life threatening addiction to Milfs. Perusing ‘Mature Dating’ for women at least a decade older than me and just as desperate I noticed a banner to the side ‘TAMB – where you can call a spade a spade because some smart arse has proved the etymology is from Greek, and Oscar Wilde used it in 1880 four decades prior to racial connotations, but under no circumstance can you call a Hun a Hun or a Tim a Tim’. In small print beneath was written ‘Sheep Shagger dealt with on a moderator to moderator basis’. Although semi interested my attention was more drawn to Rebecca who had somehow moved 10 miles closer to me since yesterday. Swiftly clicking on I found a pretty Joanne but in front of a wendy house. Either she was looking for a stepfather or someone to help her out of her current property ladder issues and I was not the man for either. Next was Claire who was the same colour as her floor and overly proud of her French doors. Next was a lass who hadn’t made her single bed probably since the last fella had scarpered and next was a lass whose profile picture looked like it had been taken in an Eastern European asylum. It was dawning on me that I might actually have to go down the Ferry and try to separate one of these feral beasts from their herd personally in person with free Breezers and a promise of chips. Just then a message popped up ‘Boy – if you want a lesson come to this address now’. My brain was sending alarm signals but my knob was well up for it so ordered a taxi. I waited for half an hour and was about to leave when I suddenly felt a dull thump to the back of my head and was bundled in to the boot of a car. On waking I was tied to a chair with a spotlight in my face. From the impenetrable darkness beyond came a melodious voice ‘Nod if you want shit to get real; say you want your mum if you want to go home’. My brain screamed ‘Mummy’ but my knob was still game so nodded like the Churchill dog going over speedbumps. Next thing I recall was waking up on a pristine white bed with my head hurting almost as much as my anus. On casting an investigative finger around there I discovered the unmistakable texture and dimples of a tumble dryer efficiency ball before just about managing to wrestle it out. I was momentarily relieved because these things usually come in pairs but on standing up I realised they did. Dreading the upcoming difficult situation for all concerned at the local A&E I also caught by reflection on the full length mirror. Although the bruised wrists, ankles and ribs were disturbing it was nothing on the ‘Admin Bitch’ scratched in to my chest. I figured I must have been moaning about my job and fully deserved the branding. Heels then clacked on the hall outside and in walked what can only be described as the most petrifyingly erotic vision I had ever seen wearing nothing but heels, my shirt and a blood chilling scowl. Without saying a word, sat in front of three screens totally ignoring me. After an eternity in a pathetic voice I enquire as to their name. ‘No names’ Stamping on my foot breaking bones but also spasming my sphincter enough for the second to drop out ‘you may call me Mod11 and that better not stain the carpet or you’re cleaning it with your tongue. Ironically 11 is the same mark I gave your performance’ handing me a feedback form ‘don’t look so smug because I mark out of 100. It would have been low 40’s if you hadn’t screamed for your mammy when I turned the Dyson on’. ‘What do you moderate?’ I asked secretly chuffed I nearly got a 40! ‘The TAMB message board’ ‘Is no names the first rule of Moderator club’ I asked trying to be funny ‘No first rule is pretend to be unbiased but if in doubt take Celtic’s side’. ‘Seems unfair’. ‘Yeah but it saves getting 100 page dossiers twice a week’. ‘Why the three screens?’ ‘This one has Chaff telling everyone it’s his birthday and complaining about admin’s failure to celebrate; this one has some fella trying to pass off a fat seagull as an eagle and some fella 100’s of miles away arguing disputing what he saw and; this one has some bloke worrying women at a bus station so I need to keep an eye on them all’. ‘What about that mentalist banging on about 9/11 getting called all sorts?’ ‘Och dunna worry about that looney tune – he thinks everything adds up to 11 and it’s the devils work’ I nodded in agreement patting my baboon like arse before they continued ‘anyway if it gets too hot for him he’ll just log on to his mod account and start randomly banning people anyway so don’t worry about him’. ‘Can I get a log-in?’ ‘You need to be either clever, funny, arrogant, confrontation or batshit mental to survive in there and you are none of those. BalochThistle would eat you alive and he’s four foot seven’. Then a message popped up ‘PistonBroke online’ ‘Oh bollocks this is all I need’ Then a siren dropped from the ceiling and lights flashed everywhere ‘Ron Alias activated’. ‘Shit Google Ads will freak out and pull their funding if this reprobate gets posting – can you please off I’m busy.’ ‘Can I see you again?’ ‘You got 11/100 – you don’t even get a small bear from the bottom shelf now go!’ she said glancing menacingly at the hoover. As I walked toward the bus stop I decided I would show MOD11 I could survive on here trying to be funny under ThistleWhistle and succeeding in being an intellectual under my Phart log-in but we’ve never been acknowledged outwith an official capacity. In an attempt to prompt jealousy I set myself the target of shagging all the mods so when the closure notice came, and I was still missing two, I was mortified – it was like the Sheff Wednesday shiney sticker fiasco all over again. It was at this point I offered the financial incentive to save the TAMB in exchange for completing my collection but it has to be said one mod was a lot cheaper than the other!! I have a dichotomy now though as I thought I had closed my set before MOD6 popped up sounding pretty foxy….
  2. Fatherhood

    I loved this thread when it was on the go as it was great reading all the proud new dad stories so thought I’d resurrect it to share the mixed bag that was Father’s Day in the Whistle zoo. It got off to a flyer when I awoke to find Hazel from work straddling me and slapping my face with her wondrously pendulous bosom. Suddenly worried that Mrs Whistle may appear at any time with my once a year bacon-butty-in-bed I was about to chuck Hazel out of the window as a divorce seems very time consuming. However, the voice at the back of my brain reassured me this was just a dream and so long as we didn’t wake the big voice at the front I’d be asleep for a few minutes yet. My slight concern of being schizophrenic was soon knocked out of me as her left tit skelped me in the coupon whilst she accosted me for never refilling the office kettle nor wiping up stray coffee granules after myself. Now I know for a cast iron fact that it’s the lad whom sits at the desk opposite who is the guilty party but I am no grass so settled in to take my punishment like a man. Thereafter though it got a bit autoerotic for my liking as she totally smothered me with them thus I felt a distinct, although not wholly unpleasant, inability to breath. Suddenly front voice pipes up ‘Well done ya fanny – you didn’t have sex for a month when you cheated on her in her dream so if she’s heard you gumming on about Hazel from the office’s jugs the crazy bitch will likely be suffocating you!’ Given my diary on Monday was two horrible meetings and a dull presentation interspersed with idiotic colleagues finding new and ingenious ways of being stupid death under misconceived mammoth mammary glands was quite appealing however; the pressure momentarily abated, and experiencing a surge in my desire to live, writhed for all my worth. “Hello Daddy” says my 2 ½ year old with a pillow a foot from my face. “How did you escape?” I groggily enquire trying to adjust to reality as there is a four-foot fence specifically in place to keep her within the confines of her toy laden prison that I’m now semi-considering running a small electrical current through. “What that?” she asks in response and, although she is obviously versed in physical escape artistry I doubt she is being Socratic in order to evade metaphorically so I’m about to point out answering a question with a question is poor form unless she harbours aspirations of becoming Prime Minister when I suddenly realise in my fight for survival I have wriggled the duvet off of me thus showing off the morning glory fully blazing within my football shorts. I promised my daughter when she was a few days old I would never lie to her which, although this scenario could never have been envisaged, is still bloody stupid. Instead scrambling for a plausible post-truth variant so she can become accustomed to the lie infested shithole we’ll hand down, I tell her it is my phone. ‘Whistle-Annie want video’ she squeals all excited and shit gets real very quickly because she leaps towards my right honourable member with both hands out. I have only one option open to me because even I’m savvy enough in parenting to know this is social worker territory so I spin over as quickly as possible and only just in time given the wee lass is like a cheetah fuelled on pure glucose. Unfortunately, we’ve just replaced the mattress with a new Tempur one after reading about them on here and there is absolutely zero give as I stub, then friction burn, my bell-end on it. I bury my head in the pillow like a petrified ostrich hoping her usually minute attention span will kick in and we can leave this incident behind us relatively unscathed. ‘MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY’ Nothing ‘MUMMY,MUMMY,MUMMY’ I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and I’m still nursing a lob-on. ‘Daddy no share phone Mummy’ – grassing wee dick must get it from her mum. ‘Stop being a B.A.W.B.A.G. daddy and give her your phone’. I get in trouble if I swear in front of the wee lass, especially when driving, which I totally accept but my wife suffers from the misnomer that it is ok if you spell them out instead. She can deal with this when it invariably comes home to roost – imagine in 7-8 years’ time when the headmaster rings to say during an end of term games day Whistle-Annie was playing Scrabble and she took her opponent’s word ‘LOCKS’ before attaching ‘BOL’ to the front of it. I’m not confident I’d chastise the profanity or praise the quality of her Scrabbling especially if it hit a treble word score, getting 15 for the ‘K’ alone so this is all mum’s to deal with. ‘It’s not my phone – I must have needed a wee’ I try to explain ‘B.O.L.L.O.C.K.S. bet you were dreaming about Hazel again; you must have moaned on about her six times since that leaving doo a few weeks back-even humped my leg one night’ I stuck my face back in the pillow to hide my disappointment and frustration at not remembering any of these dreamy dalliances. ‘Deny it quickly’ shouts back brain voice but I’ve missed the window. ‘I wish I had a body like Hazel’ From the safety of my pillow I mumble ‘so do I’ ‘WHAT’ screams the bat eared wife and realising tonight’s Father’s Day Parade is in serious jeopardy of cancellation I attempt reconciliation ‘I love your body – you know I think the lopsided one is adorable’ ‘I’m piloting a moron’ states front of brain voice. At this moment I feel an envelope bounce off my head and inside is a card confirming I’m the best dad in the world; there is a cup with a ‘1’ on and everything. Even I realise there has probably been some mistake at the awarding panel given: Dad 1 travels 30 miles a day to get clean drinking water; Dad 2 donated a kidney then ran a marathon Dad 3 got his kids out of Syria and in to a safe haven Dad 4 pranged his wang in the mattress to save his daughter from touching it. But looking at my daughter now flying a dolly around like it is a spaceship I think how special my life has become since 2014 and how I want to become the very best me I can be for the benefit of her. ‘Here have mummy’s phone’ says my wife like a fully trained UN negotiator I look at my daughter, an absolute bundle of magic, and think ‘I unreservedly love you’. ‘Wow mummy phone bigger than daddy phone’ ‘No it F.U.C.K.I.N.G. isn’t!’ And her mum shouts at me again. I counter that we’ve been worried that she has a slight squint, my eyes are a bit dodgy and poor depth perception meant I was rubbish at coming for crosses in the goal so maybe she has the same and we should get it looked at. I now get a look that confirms tonight’s parade is off, so to the all you can eat anniversary buffet, and she takes the phone back from the wee lass which seemed a strange manoeuvre until my phone pinged: ‘If you ****ing think I’m ****ing going to Spec Savers to say we think she needs ****ing glasses because she didn’t realise her dad’s cock was a centimetre and a ****ing half bigger than a mobile you’re a ****ing reprobate!’ ‘Come on – it’s at least a good two; two and a half’ but her eyes are twitching now so I’m not pushing any further and the voices seem to have left me to deal with this on my own. ‘I want to swear then throw it at you but you’ll just use it to measure and I’ll be picking stray pubes off the screen later’ ‘She might have squint tits but she knows you’ says the internal voices in unison and I concur that is worth more than a set of wondrously pendulous boobies just about. We then had an awkward breakfast but did loads of dad stuff after and it was awesome.
  3. Point scoring wives, kids' tele and hangovers don't mix... For only the second time in my daughter’s 2.5 years existence was I hungover and in charge as my wholly irresponsible wife took a last minute extra shift Sunday morning even though she knew I would boot the @rse out of my window of freedom at my work colleague’s wedding despite my empty promises to the contrary. At 7 o’clock on the dot the 3 foot dynamo ball of chaos awoke immediately demanding attention and with some reticence I enquired what she wanted because the day before she’d asked for an elephant and a big cow with me currently in no fit state for conflict. Luckily she wanted a pee, Coco Pops and Paw Patrol in that order; I would have kissed her but my mouth smelt like a tramp’s arse so just ruffled her hair instead. However, after only 3 episodes of Paw Patrol, and 15 proclamations ‘Chase was on the case’ I was willing to put my frazzled head through the tv. Not only was this wee b@stard going full John Terry claiming all the glory from the rest of the team but I’d just spent £300 on vets bills. What was needed here was a responsible cartoon adult to tell him in a firm voice to get out of the f**king tree and sit down unless he was willing to pay his own insurance – a kite costs a fiver but if you fall it’ll be thousands you f@nny! Taking an executive decision I flicked to the new Tom & Jerry cartoons. I thought Tom Hanks version of the Lady Killers would take some beating as the worst remake ever but these monstrosities set the bar much, much, much lower. We lasted 2 episodes of this before I looked to the heavens and proffered a personal apology to Fred Quimby for what we’d done. Our next port of call was Mr Tumble whose work is truly admirable and my bundle of mental was fully ensconced. I couldn’t shift the gnawing voice in my head though that Operation Bonsai Tree in 2035 could destroy her childhood innocent memories so switched again. Who could have known back in the day that the answer to ‘Can you guess what it is yet?’ was generally ‘Your cock Rolf’?. We then found Postman Pat which was my absolute favourite as an infant. Since I’d last watched in 1985 Pat is married and got busy – although a bit mumsy still think Pat’s punching above his weight. Given he’s a Postie she obviously loves him for his personality rather than money although what female could really resist the occasional copulation in the back of PAT1 whilst making Jess watch? Even though they’ve called their offspring Julian I still presume they love him and on considering his future I hit a startling realisation. Whilst they used to speak Gaelic 30 years ago, and Hamden Loon’s daily proclamations of doom, I now suspect Greendale is in Banff and Buchan and full to the brim with f**king tories! Dr. Gilbertson never seems to be in practice cutting about in her flashy Morgan and has a sister in Wales with a castle so she’s not NHS and defo a tory. Farmer Alf will no doubt be a tory brexiteer who’ll be foaming at the mouth with the SNP when he doesn’t receive oodles of cash for his fallow fields aka Greendale Marsh. In this episode Pat delivers him a drone to watch over his farm but what they don’t mention is that it has been custom fitted with machine guns to mow down Bulgarians if they slack off picking berries. Arthur the Policeman will no doubt be looking forward to getting down the lodge for a swally to toast a fellow brother’s election to the cooncil and the vicar is bound to be tory too. Ajay, the train driver who is an immigrant from Mumbai, is presumably here on an Entrepreneur visa given he re-opened the trainline so with JC threatening renationalisation he is a certainty too. Mrs Goggins is an old wifey from the shop and keeps banging on about the good old days which presumably means the period before Ajay moved in and procreated. She’s waiting on an urgent mail but is disappointed when Pat hasn’t got it. Putting two and two together but reckon, after recent immigration cases, she is well aware of the income Ajay has to generate to stay in the country and is therefore awaiting feedback from Megabus to see if they’ll include Greendale in their Inverness to Aberdeen route in competition. Even with the dementia tax she’ll still vote tory as she’ll just carrying on blaming the swarm of immigrants hitting the village and Natalie Surgeon for everything anyway. Ben, who manages the sorting office, says every episode ‘Got a special delivery for you Pat’ but really he means ‘I’ve cocked up again Pat and need you to fix it’. He forgot to buy bubble wrap for a fragile commemorative plate and none of the seven vehicles at their disposal has a refrigerated section when Pat was given an ice statue. Ben is obviously too much of a pussy to admit to himself he is a tory though so, even worse, suspect given his fringe that he votes Lib Dem. It’s no wander that postage is so bloody expensive though given Ben is so logistically challenged that Pat utilised 2 vans, a 4x4 jeep and a helicopter to deliver a camera from one side of Greendale to the other. Ben’s Mrs though looks like a Green and seems the sort who would blaze the campaign trail. Unfortunately for her their daughter is paralysed and Pat’s probably delivering notification that her mobility scooter is to be confiscated whilst ATOS have deemed her fit enough to return to work as a papergirl so mum’s time is going to be otherwise engaged. So with a strong and stable hard Brexit hurtling their way free study will likely be out the window and without freedom of movement Julian’s local job options would seem to be berry picking, fixing Ben’s f**k ups or wiping old racist Goggins’ backside. I was feeling sorry for poor old Pat then realised him and Ben are the only ones working at the sorting office so he has survived the privatisation staff cull and therefore suspect he could be an ‘I’m alright Jack’ too. Realising I was doing my typical hungover overthinking decided to take the wee lass to the park instead hoping fresh air and hill based shuttle runs would lead to an early nap before tagging mum back in to deal with the afternoon session.
  4. Gene Wilder

  5. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfUV-F9jFro
  6. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfUV-F9jFro
  7. Portugal v France

    Watched every minute of the World Cup but this tournament passed me by. Groups were dull and then got worse. Wwtched a few games on highlights and a few didn't even bother at all. My interest in football has defo dropped but this is the worst tournament in terms of internationals I can remember.
  8. Most Irritating Adverts

    I was watching Countdown about a month back with few days off from work when saw an advert for Senokot. Hadn't has a shit in three days and struggling to bend so thought that was the stuff for me. Next day, I thought I had an 8 letter bute but couldn't hang about for Sussie Dent to verify it as couldn't stop shitting. Luckily I got back just in time to catch an imodium based advert and bought a dose. Consequently I didn't have a shit for three days. I'm now locked in a cycle addicted to both. Even the Tesco driver is smirking at me when he delivers my weekly three kilo bananas, prune juice and ten rolls of Bounty. I can't help having a schizophrenic arse!
  9. I think he is wrong about Mein Kampf too. There's no way he could have climbed to the top if his manifesto from the off stated he wanted to cull 6 million jews and 5 million others. Only read bits (christ it is badly written hate filled pish) but remember seeing a program on History about it and a couple of articles after in which all stated it was deeply anti-semitic but never stipulated he intended to kill them off. At that point the plan was shipping them to Madagascar. They actually looked at doing this with Polish Jews but postponed it after losing the Battle of Britain. Then there were speeches in October and December 1940 where the Final Solution has then been decided. Off topic but something I found interesting was after school and basic media exposure I thought Germany was totally Nazi. In the 32 elections they got 30 and 37%. In 1933, even with brown coats kicking the shit out of folk, this dropped to 33%. Milliband got 30% in our last election as comparison and he iscridiculed for being unpopular.
  10. There is a limitation in the Telegraph Article in that it'll only include income hmrc is aware of surely? Maybe idealistic but if the top 1% own/earn the same as the lowest 55% then their contributions should be similar. I don't share the view we should be thankful to the 10% that their moral compass has graced us with a third of our tax return and they haven't jetted off to an even more loopholed climate.
  11. Got a greyhound and a 14 month toddler. Dog sleeps 18 hours a day, one half hour walk and totally sound with wee lass. We leave dog in the kitchen when baby is about and she's happy. Best 100 quid ever spent from Scottish Greyhound Sanctury.
  12. 2015

    Wolfie lad I hope 2016 will be to you what 15 was to me. Our wee lass 1st birthday was in December and watching her grow over that year has been amazing. Also have a nephew who is three weeks older than wee lass so watching them together is simply wonderful. My brother got married and had a winner of a weekend with her French family over who totally fell in love with the place. My cousin got married in Ireland and in to a wonderful family. He lost his mum a few years back so was brilliant to see him so happy. Both ladies in question are both more attractive than either of my family members and could defo handle themselves in a pub fight so welcome additions. In my job I'm bored daft. I get home every nght for 6 and keeps us comfy so even at my most pissed off I realise time is more important than anything. Football - Scotland v Georgia was awful. Stoke- Playing stuff beyond my wildest dreams. Dundee United- pish.
  13. Your Club Highlights 2015

    Seeing this front four on the teamsheet Arnautovic Afellay Shaqiri Bojan Stoke fans will speak aboutthis side for years and got to enjoy it while it lasts.
  14. Poppy Day

    My granddad was just a boy on the merchant ships. He got a change of ship off his usual then saw it blown up in convoy two days later. Total head to realise that's how close a chunk of my family were to never existing. He always told my old man the poppy was to remember everyone because it represented the futility of war. It's origins are in a Canadian poem 'In Flanders Fields'. Moina Michael, a US YWCA worker, penned the following response: Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields, Sleep sweet - to rise anew! We caught the torch you threw And holding high, we keep the Faith With All who died. We cherish, too, the poppy red That grows on fields where valor led; It seems to signal to the skies That blood of heroes never dies, But lends a lustre to the red Of the flower that blooms above the dead In Flanders Fields. And now the Torch and Poppy Red We wear in honor of our dead. Fear not that ye have died for naught; We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought In Flanders Fields She handed out 25 silk red poppies at a YWCA conference in 1918 and that is where the tradition started with France attempting to adopt it thereafter before spreading to the UK in 1921. The lesson was the futility of war and I personally think this concept has been completely lost.