UKBouldering.com
the shizzle => shootin' the shit => Topic started by: Houdini on May 29, 2006, 01:32:17 pm
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As you might have guessed, I only use computers for fun and not to earn money, and that's why I can get away with this kind of shit (without Simpkin's from Accounts giving me a hard time):
We all enjoy ripping-the-shit out of each other; but just how much shit are you prepared to rip out of yourself in the name of raising a smile on the faces of your fellow internet spazztards?
"Rid-i-cule is nothing to be scared of!" Adam Ant.
And with that quote in mind, allow me get the turd rolling with my own tale of derring doo-doo.
Once upon a time, in a lavatory far far from here, I was hunched above the porcelain doing my number two's and The Guardian crossword. My ablutions came to an end, and I left the little boy's room in hunt of food. However, something smelled out of place...
"Can you smell shit?" I asked my girlfriend.
"Well, yes, you've left a right stink in the loo!"
"No, no! I mean in here!"
"I can't smell anything in here, love." She replied.
But I was adamant, "Show me your shoes! I bet you've brought dogshit in the house again, haven't you!?"
"Well, I'll have a look... ...nope, nothing!", She replied with relief, "Ask Christoph."
I scooted to our flatmates' room, "Dude, show me your shoes! I tell ja, man, someone's dragged shit into the house!"
He scrutinized the soles of his shoes, before replying, "Not me, mate."
"Crap! It must've been you! I can smell it in here too!", I countered.
Checking and sniffing his shoes for the second time, "No way man! What about you?!"
'This is weird', I thought. It was then that I remembered I'd used the toilet but minutes ago. I rushed to the full-length mirror in the hall, turned the light on, and Lo! There it was! Evidently I had forgotten to wash my hands and itched my nose soon after, and as my reflection could prove beyond all reasonable doubt...
...I'd given myself a Dirty Sanchez, soon after wiping!
Shit gets around, doesn't it? I've been laughed at in more than one country for this one. Thank God I never got as far as making breakfast!
Right, now it's your turn!
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Suddenly, "Spouting shit since 1972" seems to have come true...
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C'mon Andi, you ain't playin' by the rules!
Take the piss out of YOURSELF. I've think I've done enough to myself already.
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Well, I usually wait for someone to insult me before taking the piss out of myself... I've got no "put you off whilst you're eating" stories or indeed any other kind, I'm just an idiot in general. A tactless, over-enthusiastic boy with no common sense what so ever.
Most of the time, I don't need to take this piss out of myself, others do it for me. Saves me the hassle.
:boohoo:
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Take the piss out of YOURSELF. I've think I've done enough to myself already.
Evidently - under the rule outlined above (and only under said rule) - I'm twice the man you are!
Must I embarrass myself further before you all spill the beans?
So be it!
#2:
I once worked for the Co-op in a distribution warehouse. And one time I was packing some frozen foodstuffs into an enormous icebox on trolley wheels (the co-op used these to keep their hams etc.. frozen til they could be delivered and put in the shop deli freezer).
After changing the now defrosted, large (fluid filled) aluminium cooling slabs in the top of the icebox with fully frozen ones, for some inexplicable reason, and please don't question me on this as I truly - honestly - have no fucking idea as to what possessed me to commit such an act of terminal dumb-assery, but I stuck my tongue out... yeah! ...and licked the aluminium plate!
Fuck me!
Yep! There I was! Glued fast to this sub-zero piece of metal!
Recognising the aloneness of my predicament: there was no co-worker in sight to piss in my mouth, I pulled back my head sharpish. Looking to the plate, I saw immediately what the underside of a strip of frozen tastebuds resemble, as the blood sprayed forth!
For the rest of the day I had no idea what to do: I found it hard to keep my mouth shut as the tongue would not stop bleeding; and keeping it open tortured it with cold air.
Eventually, it stopped bleeding. And there I was, a twat of the highest order, having just been taught a very very important lesson in life. Acting on impulses can, and will, damage your health!
C'mon! Are you men or mice? I know I'm not the only dumb-schmuck on this forum!
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Yesterday I was fitting some new brakes to my downhill bike.
I was trying to remove a rather awkward cable tie from the frame with a pair of scissors. Suddenly the cable tie pinged and the scissors plunged downwards....straight into my other arm. Holy fuck, I've just stabbed myself :o
Luckily, my bone stopped them going all the way through my arm, but as you can imagine I was a little worried as the blood started spewing forth and I went into shock and started feeling rather odd.
A quick phone to Fatdoc had him racing round to check me out. Luckily, the puncture had just missed some nerves by about a centimetre so I won't need to go to hospital :)
Oddly it didn't really hurt, but I do feel a bit silly. Just lucky it didn't go into my leg which was below the arm I reckon.
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in 2003 i was working in a bank in rome. hot, sweaty summer with temps up to 43°.
i hated that work.
no climbing.
no surfing.
so, one day, i found this friends email with a picture showing a big south west swell getting in. i immediately took the afternoon off faking i was sick, and jumped onto a train. got home four hours later, said hello to a shocked girlfriend, packed my car and said goodbye to get to the sea. next day i surfed the whole day overhead in tropical climate. in the night there was a party for a friend of mine who had become lawyer. it was a SURPRISE PARTY. or it was supposed to be, cos as i paddled in, i realized i was a bit late for the party, and found nothing better than calling the girl and say: hey i will be late for the party tonite, but be sure ill be there. she said: what party? surprise gone.
then,
i got to the party and realized i was the only one without suit and tie. in fact i had a t-shirt, shorties and flip flops. i was burned by the sun and completely numb. i also realized her father wanted to kill me for the surprise phone call to his daughter...
after one glass of beer i was fucked.
later, as i went for some water, there were the girls father and her uncle talking at the table. they were minding their own business, but as i was pouring water, i thought i heard her father saying to me: water? not tonite! like he was meaning i had to be happy and party hard. so, i leaned over the table and screamed right in his face: DONT WORRY STARTING FROM NOW IM HAVING ONLY WHISKEY!!! exploding in a laugh while the whole party froze.
then i decided to go home.
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In for a penny....
Saturday we were at Bowden, where the wind was howling, as it often does, but it was really howling, I was blown off my feet at one point. Nature called, as it always does, so I snuck off to the dry stone wall to relieve myself. I faced downwind, but failed to take into account the turbulent effect of the wind blowing against the wall, so managed the spray myself with a decent jet, even managing some on my glasses, as I was in full flow and unable to cut it off. I had to go for a walk to "look at a route" before returning to where my friends where.
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Nearly 1000 members . . .
. . . yet so few prepared to raise a smile at their own expense . . .
Is this a case of people being prepared to 'dish it out', in triplicate? But unable or unwilling to 'take it on the chin'?
Pah!
I've slipped on banana skins in crowded places . . .
One time on the loo, dealing with that 'morning-after' feeling, I managed to gross myself out so comprehensively with the pong that I vommed straight into the boxers around my ankles. At a very posh friends house . . .
One time I took a boot at a dog that had taken a snap at my leg, I was barefoot, the dog was quicker than I and I kicked the slate wall behind it and broke a toe . . .
Fuck, I've even stepped onto a garden rake and saw more stars than Neil Armstrong!
Schadenfreude is funny! C'mon!
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(http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/7333/pictures/BobRake.jpg)
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Ooooooooooo.... That's gotta hurt! It really does!
Reckon that the text on the side of Side-show Bobs' (or as they call him in The Reich, "Tingle-Tangle Bob" eh?) trailer is the beginning of U - T O S S E R.
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slipped on a banana skin? pah.... i have sleep climbed out of a second story window and shattered my calcaneus.
on the sleepwalking theme - first night having moved into new hall of residence at a certain london university, i decided to venture out drinking. a huge quantity of horrendous liquids were put away. real tramp shit - cheap vodka and diamond white as i don't remember. my memory is then hazy, but involved vomiting, buses, fried food and possibly some damage to property (both public and private). i do however remember getting back to my new home. however, what is indelibly marked on my memory was waking up with no clothes on in a stairwell, not knowing where the fuck i was. i banged on a door which was answered by a very attractive girl. i like to think that she was laughing with me. unfortunately, the only sound that i could get out of my mouth was laughter. i couldn't speak. it was like my tongue had been injected with botox. these days i wouldn't let something as irrelevant as dribbling drunken nakedness and a non-functioning tongue get in the way of me nailing some 18 year old hottie, but at the time i think i was quite embarrassed. anyway, her and her friend wrapped me in a towel and eventually tracked down my room. after waking up half the building to see if they recognised the slobbering imbecile.
and a nice holiday story - when i was a bit drunk (and wired) on an island off belize i had the brilliant idea of organising a substantial drug deal with a man (i'd just met) called lion. when i woke up with a tremendous hangover the next morning my only thoughts were "oh not again you fucking idiot". so i gathered my possessions and ran away. luckily there were some marines waiting for the ferry too. i hid behind them...
actually, on that note, there's another (taking the piss out of friends more than yours truly, but hey) - having just ridden our pushbikes from calais to malaga, myself and my 3 idiot friends decided to celebrate. many beers were consumed, and then some tequila, and friend number one has to go home. me, 2 and 3 continue drinking. now it's nasty spanish brandy and horrid cocktails. we totally fail to pull in a number of bars, but that is not enough to douse the fire in the loin of number 2. we enter another bar, and number 3 attempts to fall asleep on a sofa while i congratulate myself for not managing to injure myself sleepwalking or getting any electric shocks for a while. meanwhile, number 2 is at the bar, explaining to the waitress that he would like to fuck her on top of the bar. the owner appears, and beckons me over. it appears that the waitress is in fact his wife. however, far from being outraged, he appreciates the compliment and offers number 2 a card with details of a fine spanish brothel. we pick up number 3 and find a taxi. when we offer taxi driver the card he draws a blank, so number 2 screams "take me to fucky fucky". taxi driver drives us to fuengirola, and deposits us outside a white concrete building. the three enter. after 2 minutes myself and number 3 exit, and number 3 starts vomiting against the wall. various brothel creeps try to move him, but the liquid is really flowing. suddenly, number 2 comes bounding out of the brothel, screaming "run, run". we run. and the we notice him holding aloft a flowered bra... it turns out that, just as he was getting into the swing of things, the girl pressed a switch and a huge spaniard appeared. number 2 correctly realised that his time was up, but decided to take a souvenir. anyway, we escaped unharmed, but found ourselves 15km from out campsite with no money. number 3 decided that a light fingered hooker had stolen our kitty, and number 2 had paid for his evenings entertainment on his credit card. (not sure if they added the bra to his bill after the event). the night came to an end when we caught a taxi to about 400m past the campsite on the dual carriageway and then did a runner.
happy days
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I will read all of your post, I will, but I only got as far as the phrase "real tramp shit" before spraying the screen with beer that is far too tasty to blow out of my nose! Consider yourself wadded, dude! :thumbsup:
Having read all, gotta say it, 'credit where credit's due!' Hilarious post Yoss'. That's what I'm after, Real Tramp Shit! All of us, every single one of us, has been in situations that defy belief, rationale, and anything else you'd care to sight. I want more! I'm insatiable!
Now if you'll excuse me, I've more midget tossing to perform.
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I have also awarded you with waddage, and you too Houdini, for i now have aching sides. :thumbsup:
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Dear all, I do not know why I feel I should share this, out of the respect I for Yoss and Houdini and their tales I will…
I was once staying on a campsite with my (now) ex girlfriend when I woke in the dead of night with a bad feeling in my guts and some strange movements going on.
I immediately jumped (in just my boxers) up and set out across the pitch black campsite trying my hardest to remember where the tents were and made my way to the toilet block. Only thing is I didn't make it that far….
To my horror I started to see blotchy patches in front of my face and felt week and faint, next thing I know, im coming round, lying on the ground and ive SHIT MYSELF :o. NIGHTMARE!! :o
So I made some feeble attempts to clean myself up and bin my shitty pants at the toilet block then headed back to the tent, now naked, to fetch some shower gel and have a proper clean up, unfortunately I woke up the bird, which lead to me having to explain what had happened, and her insisting on helping me clean myself up. We split up shortly afterwards. :'(
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that reminds me something.
last august, one of my best friends got mad and got married. very very wealthy family. that meant a castle in the mid of chianti, all set up for dinner and party. aperitvo, with a buffet that could have ended poverty in mozambico. then dinner, a mere excuse for drinking excellent wine while singing obscenities. then the party. i was perfectly dresses in my best suit, and perfectly drunk. the last thing i remember (and its a fucking good memory) is leading a congo line half naked, bottle of whiskey in my right hand. then i dunno.
i woke up at the light of a cold dawn, under heavy rain. i was liying in the woods behind the castle, shirtless and covered in vomit. i struggled to feel if i was still alive. more or less alive. then i crawled back to the castle. i was alone. it was 7 30 am. i was 30 miles away from home. i found my jacket and went for help. luckily, there still were all the employees of the catering service, dismounting tables and stuff. i walked towards them and they looked like theyve just seen the devil. i asked: take me home.
so i got home, took two aspirines and went to bed. girlfriend was not at home. she got back in the afternoon a bit pissed, also about the fact that i was flirting with every girl at the party, actually trying to undress one in front of her. usual split occurred few afterwards, after five years living together.
two weeks after my death, i received this text message from my friend: dear lore, thank you so much for your performance at my ceremony. i just got back from honeymoon. all the guys from the catering service say hello to you.
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I remember an anecdote that has me feeling a little embarrased.
Last easter (2005) I was on a German Work Experience Exchange in Bonn. The first night there we went out with our exchange partners (obviously) for a few drinks at the local Jugendclub. It was a sort of "come down, play some music with your mates" kinda gig too. A few guys played a few tunes, then some lads began to rap. Being slightly under the influence of wonderful German beer, I asked if I could have a rap. Sure, they said. So here I was, in a random club in the middle of Germany, rapping in front of some guys I'e never met before, I can't even remember what ill rhymes I doped out, some freestyles I had heard and copied, I think some KRS lyrics were thrown in...
Thankfully, they were all drunk too, so everyone enjoyed it (or at least enjoyed laughing at it).
The beginning and end of my glorious HipHop career.
EDIT: I don't think I made it clear how utterly crap I am at rapping... but you could have worked that out anyway.
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in reply to chappers
:oops: :thumbsup:
that story is too funny not to go public ;D well done
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Since Chappers just had to take it back to scat...
In the words of Magnus "I've started, so I'll finish." Magnussen, let's cut the shit with this final Ode to Ass-Offal:
Back in 2000 in an appartment in Hamburg, myself and the lads from work were having a few beers and smokes up in our bedroom, where our tight-assed firm had squeezed so many of us in we were living like rats. The lads from the flat below were also present. And the jokes/insults were flying - as per usual - and in retaliation to something Ug said, I asked, "This your bed, dude?"
"Aaaaye...!"
"Cool." As I sat down in just in a pair of thin shorts - and let rip on his sheets.
Yeah! Y'know it! I followed-through with a wet one, soiling his bed, his shelter, his respite from a hard day's Ug.
There were far too many people than I would of liked present... And I guess, if it was just myself and Ug he would've said something nice like, "Don't worry mate, shit happens...", but instead joined in with the rest of the lad's laughter, more than necessary actually, and I backed out of the room cupping my perineum with one hand, and dragging his sheet off the bed with the other.
Yeah!
Has anyone got any other types of story to offer? Anyone got anything up-top they'd like to exorcise? Stories involving pain and nudity welcome.
Anyone here been in the Forces? Oooh! That's where they do it good!
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echoing andi's experiences abroad, and continuing the poo theme...
so i was aged 14. nearly 15 i think, and really quite sophisticated. me and some mates were on a french exchange, near font as it happens, but there were much more important things in our lives at the time. we were staying with different families in the same village. me with 2 brothers who were obsessed with firing one of those james bond spear gun things at stray cats, another with a manic depressive and his depressive mother-less family, and the third with a fat kid and his french drink drive champion dad.
i say sophisticated because, while our new french friends spent their afternoons fiddling with animals and playing arcade games, we spent our time sitting in a very bohemian bar drinking pernod and eau de vie, and smoking my fabulous yves saint laurent cigarettes. a right trio of proto-art student fuckheads we were. (the one staying with the manic depressive has actually gone on to have a moderately successful film career, but that's by the by). anyway, we loved that pernod. so much so that i had bought a litre bottle of the stuff. and it was extra strong, 60something percent. anyway, i had had a few snifters at the start of the week, but it was pretty much undented. however, one evening (which was something of a turning point in my life, and one i'm sure i share with a great many other great soaks - essentially the discovery that there is nothing better than an uniterrupted evenings dose of one's own hilarious personality, together with a large bottle of something strongly alcoholic. possibly with the addition of illegal substances.) i decided to excuse myself from the cat spearing, and retire to my quarters. i sparked up an yves, poured a tumbler of neat pernod, and after every couple of gulps added a bit of water. i then started writing a novel...
when i woke up i didn't actually feel too bad. then i moved. as i shifted i experienced a sensation that was akin to having one's head cracked in two with a pickaxe. not only that, but i disturbed something warm and wet. then the smell hit me. as my eyes adjusted to the real world, i noticed a lake of vomit around the pillow. it had kind of flowed around under the duvet, and also dripped off the matress. as i moved again i detected something moving in my pants. something that was much bigger than i was used to, and something that had defintely not been there when i was awake. although, judging by the slimy sludge against my leg, the mysterious substance was no longer contained by the flimsy cotton membrane.
shit i thought. and i was right. how do you explain at age 14 to a hermes scarf wearing frenchwoman that you have ejected pretty much the entire contents of your gastrointestinal tract all over her pristine white sheets?
i wrapped it all up in the sheet, ran to the bathroom to douse myself with water and try and poke all the bits of boeuf down her plughole, and then came up with a genius excuse.
i blamed it on the cat. the cat shat on the mat, or words to that effect.
of course, they didn't believe a word of it. but neither did they ever realise that the little cherub who returned every afternoon with hicups and slightly slurred speech had spent the evening consuming enough alcohol to give oliver reed a hangover. no, i think it just reinforced their opinion of the english. a horrible bunch of fuckers....
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"I ain't no faecal-freak!" - A quote from a hermetic, paranoid man with too many guns, also starring (I think, Pacino). Name that flick - as I've forgotten.
O Kay... Let's move our expulsions north with another tale from the vom-vaults:
I'm 17 years old, and coming to the end of my first and last drinking problem. Night after night I would blow my cash in Fakenham's Rampant Horse pub. It was Woodpecker back then, just about the only drink my naive gut could handle (I'd by this point stopped lying to myself and given up pretending that Guinness was tasty) and besides, the fat but kind and 'sympathetic to my needs' landlord let me drink there knowing full-well how old I was. Hell, I only stopped getting ID'd when I was 28; I must've looked like a babe back then.
I'd ride back home on my bicyle - fucking cunted. And I recall one occassion in my drunken confidence, actually believing I could ride the last few hundred meters home - at midnight - with no lights and my eyes closed. I managed a fair way, but occassionally found myself cheating, well, who wouldn't? But not the last corner, oh no, this one I had to do. Which was unfornunate: I rounded the corner (looking behind me as I sped - to avoid snatching a peek) and hit that wanker, my neighbours' bakery van at full peddle, who normally parked elsewhere. It was 10 feet high and the back was as square as the Hampshire bint from the old Heineken ad' who said, "The water... from Majorca... doesn't taste... quite like it... should?"
The sound of impact was enough to wake Windy Miller, and the pain was excruciating. It was the immediate changes in my vision that disturbed me most: first, there were psychedelic flashes before my eyes; the kind of flashes the Terminator might see if he was being shot in the face with a Glock, by Jason in his Technicolour Raincoat. Then it went black & white for a few seconds, before settling back to mere drunken normalcy.
I limped back home astonished I was unbroken, crept in, snuck into bed and settled back for a couple of hours of the spins.
These didn't last much longer than that; as I knew from the previous nights, I'd be vomming out of my bedroom window - positioned, conveniently for the morning clear up - above the front door. I'd always managed to get it slooshed away before my Mother noticed; but what I'd never noticed was the shit-eating grin of my Mums' boyfriend, illuminating these nightly scenes.
My aim that night was particularly poor, which I put down to the savage blow from the two-tonner round the corner, and I'd barfed down the front of the house (not that long before painted in brilliant white) from my window to the floor. It stained the paint real nasty, and I ended up forking-out for the overpriced Dulux toss Mother had paid for, and insisted that I do the same. And of course, re-painting it sharpish.
After that, I went straight-edge for five years.
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i know that terminator gone berserk feeling. i was once cycling back from a club (think it was grooverider at bar rumba) off my tits, and also decided that riding down streets while looking anywhere other than forwards was a great idea. i fell off in the middle of elephant and castle roundabout, removing a bit of skin and ruining clothing, but my enormous pickled brain was still intact. however, i pulled into a street and was giving it the whole "why the fuck don't blind people get up off their lazy arses and ride bikes" when was thrown very violently upwards. and then shortly after downwards. some irresponsable road mender had blocked the road off with one of those steel mesh walls. you know, the really hard ones, fixed to big concrete blocks. i was so pissed off. man, i was livid. the idiot who'd put the signs up saying "road closed" had made the stupid assumption that everyone using the road would be looking forwards. and what if i had been blind? i guess they could run a braille sign along the edge of the pavement or something. anyway, i ended up with a mesh shaped haematoma across one side of my face. i should have really added some stick-on noughts and crosses, as it would be pretty hard to look any more like a cunt. well, unless i had instead got a big gash between my lips and nose. and then grown a moustache...
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Your violent meshing has just reminded me of my own near near-miss with wire:
I must've been 12 or 13, and I was legging it as fast as I could through the back of... hang on, I think this pursuit has a technical name such as Garden Running. So there I was, garden running: leaping over fences, rows of minature fur trees and the like. By now it's getting dusky, and should've returned home for tea by this time. Just one more garden to speed through before I get to the pasture behind it. I see a glint at about knee-cap level and I jump quickly to avoid what I'd quickly guessed must've been barbed wire. Guessed? I don't know why I used that word, as it proved it's own 'wiresome-ness' as the wire that I had not seen clothes-lined into my Adams' Apple. Luckily for me, my neck was between the barbs. Which I was thankful for, as it crucified me enough.
Maybe, you're sitting there thinking: twat! But perhaps you are asking yourself, what the fuck was I doing trespassing at highspeed through so many gardens as dusk approaches and my egg 'n' chips were getting cold on the dinner table?
That's a reasonable question.
Thing is, not that much earlier, myself and people that I am afraid to name had been choring-down some of our first ever cigarettes (Sovereign, if I remember correctly) in a hay-bale house we had made not that much earlier in the day. This was in the day of rectangular bales, not these enormous cylinders, which are no fun at all. Anyway - and here's the rub - some of us thought that it would be cool to play sparklers with the glowing cherry-ends of straw lit by a Sovereign. Some cunt, and this was not I! Touched his sparkler to the roof of our straw cottage which promptly erupted like a fucking volcano! I stood up and crashed through the structure, getting a wee bit singed in the process. Deserted the other dumbass fux and legged it to, or what I thought was freedom.
Well, not quite, first I nearly behead myself on my 'cunning' short cut back home. But when I get home, a little charred, and stinking of blaze, and feelin' that neck something chronic, I did the worst thing any guilty kid should start doing when he's fucked-up. I made myself helpful, "Don't worry Mum, I'll finish drying the dishes!", which baffled the fuck out of her, but not as much as the sound of what must have been the entire Fakenham Fire Brigade's sirens giving it, nee and then nah and then nee and then nah as they rushed to tend to the now quite large stubble fire that ultimately covered more than a few acres.
Now, she ain't exactly Sherlock Holmes, me old Ma, but even Watsons' spastic, blind, deaf and dumb brother, the one you never heard about, the one that never cracked 'tens & units', the one that got put in the asylum aged 12, shortly before he was strangled in disgust for his stupidity by Watsons' cousin: Ebeneezer Childsqueezer, would have worked out that even if I had not started the blaze deliberately, I was certainly up to my fucking neck.
After that, all Hell broke loose, and I got one of the phattest lashings the Old Dear ever administered. Those rosy cheeks weren't from shame or embarrassment, but from Ma, who used to be pretty handy back in the day.
And then there was the Filth to deal with.
And I'd like to stop here, thanks all the same... :oops:
This thread is getting ludicrous - I mean - where will it end?
Yoss?
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Fucking class read lads :lol:
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i was rather hoping that someone would come forward with a brilliant dogging story, or a tale about the time they spent a night in a somalian whorehouse...
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i was rather hoping that someone would come forward with a brilliant dogging story
Confused, I reached for the ever useful OED. But was disappointed.
Thank heavens for the bright sparks at the Urban Dictionary!
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=dogging
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This year the newly created Ultimate Dogging Championships was held at Rivington nr Chorley, Lancs.
:lol:
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carring on the "fucking stupid things we did when younger" theme...
my bother and a few chums and i had a massive obsession with all things military when we were kids which lead us to spend all of our pocket money in an army surplus store in Catford.
anyhow we used to go get dressed up in combats and sneak around the woods - harmless.
until one November we added a load of fire works to the mix, or as we thought with the addition of a poster tube a "grenade launcher".
so there we were in the woods with our home made RPG which my bothers mate (against our strong attempts to persuade him otherwise) decided to unleash on some mountain bikers.
(i will point out at this juncture that it did NOT hit any one) but they were mighty pissed off. and decided to chase us through the woods with murder on their minds.
of course, my bigger brother made his get away in time, to leave me to take the rap.
needless to say my membership of our weekend army was cut short by my enraged parents who had to explain my behavior to the police.
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Fucking stupid I did two minutes ago:
After reading something on UKC I leant forward to type a reply. With an ominous creak and a groan, the bottom of the chair gave way and broke, sending me forward into the screen, and sending the (now separated) circular leg support of the chair flying backwards into our new shredder, also taking out an old stereo. Whoopsee.
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Chappers?
Chappers?
C H A P P E R S !
Wake up, mate!
Coffee?
(http://i37.photobucket.com/albums/e67/houdini2/f1843631.jpg)
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Houdini. "I ain't no fucking fecal freak..." Not certain, but I think it's from Things to do in Denver when you're dead with Andy Garcia, Steve Buscemi as Mr Sssh and Christopher Walken as the truly terrifying, wheelchair-bound mastervillain. "Buckwheats..." Awesome film.
Also an awesome thread. Am reading in Russian hotel room and nearly fell off bed with laughter. Good work, chaps. Don't know if it qualifies because it's not gross enough, but was working as a runner once in an edit facility as a young, keen to impress media-whore wannabe back in the day. Was bringing drinks into senior editor and managing director of the company when I managed to walk straight into the closed perspex door with a loud "FUCK" whilst spilling coffee all over the myself and the surrounding hitech VT equipment. Luckily they saw the funny side and ended up working there for a year. Serves me right for trying to be a brown-nose I guess... :)
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Yep! That's the flick in question, Garcia not Pacino. "It was only an itty-bitty bit..."
Chappers - I've been doing a little snooping into your family tree and confirmed what I had suspected, that you are in fact a cousin (13 times removed) from a certain firebug frog I met in Thailand, as the video below clearly illustrates:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBAC7kk9Gho
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another one. they keep on rearing their ugly heads...
picture the scene. aged 18 and i'm a nasty little student. a medical school friend invites me down to his parents pad for a bit of a session. together with a gaggle of his wannabe doctor friends. we drive down in convoy, me in my tastefully dented (another story) escort popular van. the parents have a pool, in a rather impressive ex barn. this is kent, don't you know. anyway, there's a big beam above the pool. (i know what you're thinking - did he rack up a 20ft line of charlie, snort it in one nostril and then do a double back-flip to pike into the water? erm, no). so, one of the medics has a bit of a reputation. he had an enormous penis. and there are lots of females around. so when we all pull in there is a race. a race to get naked, and a race to grab the beam and make sure every manhood is on display. big cock wins by a length.
the party continues. the booze is flowing, and there are plenty of juices flowing too. unfortunately, one of the girls finds herself ejecting all sorts of horrible liquid from between her very pretty lips. suddenly 9 months of dissection and gel electrophoresis don't look quite so flash. so the patron and some others drive her off to hospital.
now, the house is in the middle of about 3 acres of fine kentish land. nicely manicured turf. i've had a few drinks, and my car keys are burning a hole in my levis. then i have an out of body experience. i can see myself from 6 ft up, and do you know who i've turned into? no? juha kankkunen... i run to the van, fire that fine diesel up, and go out for a lap of honour. after that i load up with some other dieselheads, and we do like 10 laps of the garden. when i finally park up there are chunks of grass and earth dropping off the undercarriage and onto the drive.
the ill girl stays in hospital and the others return. the drinking continues...
i am woken suddenly. in fact, i am shaken awake. then dragged to an upstairs window. the view is amazing. and at the same time worrying. because before me, lit up by the pale november sun, is a view of total and utter destruction. imagine if you will a finely tended lawn, neatly trimmed. and then slap on top of it a huge wiggly "O" of ruts, tyre marks and ruin. it was like someone had invited a very mad mad max along. awful.
there was nothing we could do about it. absolutely nothing. the place was a disaster area. the friend had to tell his parents that some gatecrashers turned up, and it was all their fault. and it cost a fortune to have it all re-turfed.
what made me feel extra bad was that his mother bought be a very nice bottle of olive oil for my birthday the following year. i almost wrote back saying "thank you very much. you probably haven't worked it out yet, but i was the cunt who destroyed your beautiful plot last autumn. erm, sorry." but i couldn't bear it.
they've never worked out who it was, thank god...
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Y'know Yoss, I'm kinda running out these Tales of the Expected, and I'm just gonna have to sit back and watch for a while as I'm not really looking forward to even about thinking about one of my ultimate acts of cuntitude, never mind writing it.
Rah rah - there's an unopened bottle of Jägermeister chilling in the freezer.....
......I'm gonna crack it open now and...
see what happens....
(EDIT - A bastard behind the eyes the following morning is what happened.... Jäger' Not 'alf!)
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As you can see from his last post, Yossarian has set a precedent. So . . .
It's Official!
This thread is now officially open, not just for those Tales of the Expected, but also for general acts of grossness and bastardism against your fellow 'friends'
The way I see it, Yoss and I are holding the fort here. What is this? Some kinda, some kinda circus? Expecting people to have a laugh at their own expense was foolish of me. So let's expand the parameters a little:
The only place left to go is...
D O W N H I L L !!!!
As Hugh Cornwell of the Strangler's once said, "Let the flood-gates open wiiiiiiide."
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yeah. come on you fuckers... you must have done something wrong, once.
i feel like i've just opened my heart up at an AA meeting, to suddenly discover that i am in fact in the middle of a bible group discussing the benefits of pom wonderful over pomegreat.
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Let's rest a while, and see what we can learn from this:
http://www.amirtofangsazan.blogspot.com/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amir_Massoud_Tofangsazan
http://googtube.blogspot.com/2006/06/amir-ebay-and-broken-laptop.html
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Ah yes the leg-fetishist wannabe terrorist - I bet he's having trouble living it down since the whole internet now knows him!
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OK then, here's a real cracker:
Wooooooo, this is going back some now - I can't have been more than 8 years old.
I really don't recall where we came across a left-handed 7-iron; but it was well-shiny, and looked cool. Golf! Wow, that was something we got to see on the b/w box. Myself and - at that time - a friend, blagged a golf ball from someone, and went onto the large field that was next to the Derbyshire County Cricket grounds, we used to call this place the Reck; I guess it's been long built over...
After some attempts, we were having very little success... My friend had the bright idea of perhaps using it with our left hand. Aye, much better, but it was long, so long was this iron and we were so small. We did manage to crack-off a few reasonable shots, not very far of course; swapping over with a "Give it 'ere, it's my go now!".
I do, and always have, dressed to the left and clearly this was not the correct tool for the job, but, well it was fun.
Anyway, as my confidence with the left-hooker rose, I thought it was time to give it some real welly. I settled into my far from perfect 8 year olds stance, swung hard to my left....
.....and felt an unusual resistance.
This was my friends head: his nose to be precise. And fuck me did I open him a good one! It was broke, it was clearly bust to fuck - as were my ear drums as the high pitched wwWWaaaAAARRRGGHHH! shattered our once peaceful play.
I'd never seen quite so much blood in my life: not just that which gurgled from his open wound, but all over the poor lads clothes and the ground beneath his feet. We rushed back as fast as we could. We reached my place first, grabbed the first towel I saw and shoved it in his face. It was no use at all, he just wouldn't stop bleeding!
My mate ran out of the house, and started running so damn fast I wouldn't keep up with him even if I'd possessed half of Linford Christies' genes; he was well outta sight; I mean, there wouldn't have been any trouble deciding where he had gone: the blood trail would have shown his direction quite clearly. I knew where he lived anyway, but being shocked to the hilt and petrified that I might have killed him, I gave up pursuit.
Nothing happened. I mean nothing. I waited for the axe to fall, but it never did. No calls from his parents and absolutely no contact with my mate, ever again. A few months later when I did summon the courage to visit his house, I was greeted by a stranger at the door, "No, sorry chap. But they moved out a while back. We live here now."
To this day I often think of this lad. He wasn't at all ugly, or at least, not before I rearranged his face for him; and I wonder if he ever had any psychological problems brought on by what was a truly horrible break; y'know, difficulty getting girls? A phobia of golf? For all I know he might even go into a state of shock every time The Masters is on TV.
Never did see him again...
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On an embarrasing personal story theme (one of many I may or may not share with you...)
I was on a staff night out, nice restaurant, free food and booze etc, plate of mussels....
Very drunk, felt the need for a shit, hastened down to the stairs to the toilet. On the way down, thought I'd have be able to let a nice big fart out only I followed through enormously and totally shat myself. Nice....
I took myself in a cubicle to clean myself up and did my best but was left with a shitty pair of bills and nowhere to put em. So I lifted the lid of the cistern and threw them in, exited the toilet, went straight through the fire escape into a taxi and home....
Had to think of a good excuse for work colleagues and often wonder who discovered the evidence and what they did with them/thought....
What the fuck...
I was once nicked, by my Dad, pissing over the bannisters onto the landing directly outside their bedroom....
I once got into bed, naked, with my brother and his girlfriend and my mother had to come and take me back to my own bed as I wouldn't leave....
:oops:
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When you are ten years old, a zip line always sounds like a great idea. Here's what you need to make one; about 50 ft of that shitty old multicoloured nylon rope. All you need to do is climb as high as you dare up the tallest tree in the garden and tie it off using whatever knot you can remember. Then you stretch it across the lawn and lie it off to the bottom of another one. Don't worry about making it too tight, as the tree it's tied to the top of just bends anyway. Next you need something to hold on to while you are sliding down. If a large old steel tentpeg bent in half using the vice in the garage is all you can find, just use that. Next find a guinea pig to try it out first. The lanky gung ho one called Chris is probably your best bet.
So there I was, standing on this branch, visions of commando assult units in my head, tentpeg in hands. And I jumped....
When i looked up from the ground I could see a narrow gap between the branches. I somehow missed every single one and came to land flat on my back in a flowerbed, and walked away unharmed. Unharmed, that, is, apart from the fact that the flowerbed was the one favoured by the cat as its "parking lot" for shit, hairballs, etc.
Fuck knows what happened to the tentpeg, it probably went into orbit having been launched by the largest bow and arrow in the world.
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:great: keep it up fellas.
Chris - Your story of literally pissing in the wind reminds me.
I was on my way to Harrogate to run a workshop for some very senior civil servants. It was blowing a hoolie that day and the A1 was full of lorries lying on their side... I'd driven up early from home and had a big mug of coffee on the way - just outside Harrogate I'm absolutely busting for a waz and stop in a layby to relieve myself. I face away from the howling wind, but it was so strong my body created some kind of turbulence zone and everything just sprayed everywhere. I was wearing the full monty business outfit, white shirt, tie, suit etc. and I was covered in about of gallon of piss with ten minutes to go before I had to stand at the front of a room in front of about twenty people. Nothing for it but to carry on regardless... I kept my jacket buttoned up and got on with the job and hope that I didn't smell like Catweasle.
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Ok, on a young lad getting injured tip!
me and Bubba used to spend out formative years pissing around symonds yat, getting scared on run out hvs with mud cornices and grovelling around in caves when it rained! Back in them days it was common for us to carry an ice axe which was used to clean new lines, mainly by a mate of ours who was pretty handy! The yat was pretty loose (prob still is) and did need a lot of cleaning ,but we were young and didnt know better!
So im at the bottom of the Hole in the Wall area wielding this axe and generally being an arse. Theres loads of trees so im whacking the axe into the trunk of this live tree and pulling up on it. Bubba tells me to stop, I ignore him and whack in it goes, he tells me again, whack in again with a resounding fuck off from me, swing...bubba tries to grab my hand...ice axe trajectory is deflected and the head hits the trunk sideways bounces back and twats me full on just above my eye.
'BASTARD!!!!! I yell with my hand clutched to my face......claret starts to gush through my fingers from my now classic boxer type eye injury thats gaping like an opened envelope. bubba now goes white and starts to apologies.
Ended up in ross on wye hozzer where i had insult to injury when a nurse stitched me back up for 35mins all the time thinking I was a girl. Had to tell my folks I had tripped over
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piss, blood, poo...
this thread is infectious.
i think it needs a health warning.
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Catweasle.
!
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A Death Slide story
I'll recount this tale as if I were the one who told it to me.
No, I'd better not. He's fucking illiterate and from a Dead-Zone of deepest, deeeeeepest Norfolk; that's deeper than Fakenham, even deeper than East Dereham (and if you've ever spent time in E. Dereham, or have driven through this most obvious of examples of what happens when too many people have spent far, far too long 'pissing in the gene pool', you'll be diggin' ma jive! Or as a friend of mine calls it, the place where the sub-species Derehamibia chromoretarda was first discovered...
....but that's another tale.
Essentially, the guy who told me this was in the Scouts during the early 60's. And in a pine forest by a N. Norfolk beach, the scouts set up a zip line.
They drew straws for who would be the first to test it, and one lucky, lucky boy was chosen. He climbs the rope ladder to the high point, where Bageira; or some other paedophile, helped him into the stirrup/leashy things.
And he's off! Watch as he wiggles with pure, undilute joy as the very well-greased pulley affords him a quite frightening pace! Listen to his squeals of excitement as he feels his tummy churn! It's like, it's as if he wants it never to end!
He was sharply disappointed.
No doubt Bageira was faaaar too interested in sizing-up young Reginald Smoog or perhaps little Jimmy Braithwaite for a good hard fuck back at the ranch, when in fact he should have been checking the line, and in particular, tying-in a good 'stopper knot' to prevent the unthinkable, yet sadly, now a reality....
Crunch! or rather THWACK! As the young winner loses damn near every fucking tooth in his now very very bloody head...
The guy who told me this tale - he mentioned the boy literally spitting tooth after tooth after bloody tooth from his mouth. Needless to say, his days in the scouts had come to an end.
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thanks for the video houdini.
once upon a time i was in vancover with quite a few mates. we had had a few too many drinks in our hotel and decided it would be a good idea to go up to the roof balcony. this invloved us walking through the gym and out through the sliding doors.
i thought it would be a great idea to go on the treadmill with my bum out to amuse all my chums. fine.
only then i decided it would be a great idea to try to run backwards (which believe it or not i could not manage).
this lead to me skidding off my feet, onto my bare arse which then shot me off the tred mill onto the carpet where i ended up with some quite substantial carpet burns on both "cheeks" and my shoulder blades.
turns out the "injured by rough sex look" is not in??!! :shag: :-[
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::)
Wad points awarded.
That would earn a fortune on You've Been Framed.
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another embarrassing, not so gruesome story:
Recently I have been clearing a lot of stuff up getting ready to move up north again, and I found my swimming badges from when I was a child. I was pretty impressed that I got the 400m badge so I told my girlfriend.
To which her response was “getting mine was the most distressing day of my life to dateâ€
The story is as follows. She was swimming away, (a lot slower than other children in her class) and ended up with all of the peers outside of the pool watching her after they had finished a few lengths earlier.
The more she swam, the slower and more tired she got and worst of all, the more she needed to go for a piss.
Eventually the end to the embarrassing ordeal arrived, and she hopped out of the pool to make for the toilets, but to her horror she was stopped on the way to be awarded with her badge in front of her class.
To which her response was…………..to piss herself, and once she started she didn't want to stop, she just let rip, and did (in her words) “one of those long, just woke up, really satisfying pee'sâ€. Not even a towel to cover up her shameful act.
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Some of us may merely dream at the amount of waddage flying!
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Chapper's story of his GF's swimming disaster put this in my mind. Genuine story. Happened to my housemate's, colleague's best mate and has been reliably authenticated.
The girl in question was on a business trip in New York and the day before she was due to fly back had been suffering from a touch of a stomach bug. The day of her early flight back to blighty she woke feeling much much better for a good nights sleep; she packed in a hurry and rushed to the airport. In the lull after check-in and prior to being called to her flight she decided to have a quick cup of coffee to celebrate a succesful business trip, and to pep her up after the early start. First mistake.
The flight was called and she boarded without incident, but was a little disappointed to find she was sat in the middle seat between 2 strangers. However they seemed nice, without wanting to launch into conversation so she started to relax and looked forward to getting home. Her second mistake.
The plane took off and with the increased altitude came a difference in cabin pressure, manifesting itself in a need to expel a little waste gas (we all know girls don't fart, don't we!). Still it was a packed flight, she was certain she no-one would think it was her - perfect innocent creature as she was. He third mistake. Three strikes you're out!
Not only did she follow through a little, but the wave of liquid faeces (exarcebated by drinking coffee) slopped over the waste band of her trousers and into the laps of the startled fellow passengers in her row, before slopping onto the floor and running backwards towards the rear of the plane over the feet of the people behind as the plane was still pointing up and ascending.
She had to sit there - seconds like months - stunned, mortified and disgusted before the plane settled down enough for her to scarper to the toilets and attempt to clean herself up. She then had to endure the rest of the flight home in the thinly veiled stench of her own bodily motions, dressed in a spare stewardess's uniform (her own clothes being in her bag - safely checked in, in the hold) under the disgusted gazes of her fellow passengers and the withering, silent contempt of the stewardesses who had to - the best they could - round up and clean up her liquid stools, which like brown mercury had slipped under two or three rows of seats.
As the man Colonel Kurtz so aptly said...
"The horror.... The horror...."
That must have been a loooooooong flight!
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PS
I apologise in advance that this account is not true to Houdini's guidelines for this thread - namely that we must learn to laugh at ourselves. It's just that it's too good an event not to share given enough of an opportunity.
I too have farted once in my life and followed thru (hungover - on the morning of my 26th birthday) but never on the collossal scale described above or with such awful consequences. It's not an interesting story, but I hope it redresses the balance a little.:)
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Errrrrr I don't have any drunken ones as I don't get drunk, nor any bastardly ones that I can remember.
I do have a couple of kinda unexpected sexual events but I don't know if I can post those for my own (and other's) sakes. Someone tell me that it doesn't fit the thread and let me off the hook, k?
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Someone tell me that it doesn't fit the thread and let me off the hook, k?
The Church of the Laugh, is an extremely broad church, my child. Always room for another to join our flock.
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i was rather hoping that someone would come forward with a brilliant dogging story, or a tale about the time they spent a night in a somalian whorehouse...
come on fiend. how were those pretty somalis?
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Okay, okay, I am soooooo going to regret this but since I've gained a fair bit of respect for UKB (and since I've been wanting to get the last one off my chest)...
Note there is no way in hell I am revealing who these were with or even when. Both female though.
#1. In campsite. 69ing. Girl on top, me underneath. Yum yum very nice, breakfast etc etc. As part of the process I have various digits in various places including one up the emergency exit... As the sordid act proceeds to it's inevitable conclusion, girl gets increasingly excited. At the moment of of particular excitment, I remove aforementioned digit to to find that something really needed to exit in an emergency. Namely, a warm friendly squirt of turd, straight into my eye. SHE was embarrassed, I was rather amused, but even so the skulk to the campsite showers has never been skulked so skulkily.
:oops:
#2. In bed. Fucking. Girl underneath, me on top. Very nice. In a radical break from the male tradition this has been going on for quite a while. In fact it could be described as a good long hard shag. Which it was. As the sordid act proceeds to it's inevitable conclusion, the shag is getting longer and indeed harder. At the moment of indeed conclusion there is some particularly excited thrusting....and then a sharp stabbing pain.
Girl: Are you okay?
Me: Actually I'm not...
I withdraw.
Me: Fuck, I've broken my dick.
As I can tell straight away I've torn the little bit of skin that joins the foreskin to the underside of one's dome. It is a very small and insignificant injury. Nevertheless, there is rather a lot of blood in a tumescent penis. And that blood is pouring out my dick, onto the girl and onto the bed. Oh dear. Thankfully it slows to a trickle and I managed to lie down instead of fainting although the temptation is unsurprisingly strong. In the end a bit of TLC, a phonecall to the NHS direct, and a couple of weeks of semi-active rest and it all heals. Still....
:oops:
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Fiend - I could be wrong here; I'm relying entirely on er... circumstancial evidence.... but I think I've worked out who you are! ;)
Nay! Do not be ashamed, my child. Infact, before I was excommunicated, myself all of my fellow redfrocks found ourselves in equally luxurious disturbing situations... And it came to pass, that Our Lords' finger did also rend the tissue. Revelations 69:69
#1 - Made me do one of those weird ultra high-pitched breathy-in Flipper-style squeal-chuckles!
#2 - Won't comment. But I'll be logging in & out all day to provide you and your partner some 4-ply wads...
Sweet! Savoury!!
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which I had time to read all this thread. some of these are tres amusent
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Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it...
This one's a two-parter: to understand the second one needs to understand the first...
There are two baccy pouches on the mantlepiece. I take a pouch in one hand and the GF in the other, we're in a hurry. Catch the bus to Bangor from 'Beris, then the train to Holyhead: we're off to Dublin to get lost, eat lots, and of course, get pissed.
It all goes smoothly until it's time to go through customs, we are perhaps the last to walk through, and I, being the curious-type, am looking hither and thither as we pass the checkpoint. I make eye contact for the briefest of moments with a customs official behind the desk, who points at us and asks us to come over.
The lady asks me to empty my pockets, which I do quite quickly as I know that I've nothing to hide... I plonk my baccy on the desk, and suddenly begin to think the worst. Fuck! Wrong pouch! The official had begun to delve into the tobacco and found what I'd hoped I'd left at home...
"What's this?"
"I think you know what that is, don't you?"
"I do, but what is it?"
"That's pollen, Maam, probably some of the best I've ever smoked."
"Where did you get it from?"
"Berlin."
"What's it doing here in Holyhead?"
"That's a question I was just asking myself actually..."
She spins on her heels and disappears through the swinging doors behind her, but quickly returns with the Fat Controller.
"What?!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "You're going to bust me for a trifling dice of hashish?!"
"Yes I am." Replied the Fat Controller.
"Been a slow week, has it?" I taunted him.
"Would you come with me Sir?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really Sir..."
The poor GF was looking pretty scared by now, but I managed to flash her a quick wink as I was escorted through the doors and along to the questioning room.
I was asked all manner of questions. Mostly, these just wound me up.
"Look!" I said, "I've no criminal record whatsoever, and I know that this is fuck all, and I know you can do very little. Would you mind just getting on with it please?"
"Certainly Sir." She disappeared and I was left on my own for the briefest of moments, before the Fat Controller came in with another indecently large gentleman, and gave me the score.
"Would you remove your clothes please, starting with your coat, give it to my assistant, please."
"Sure."
It was time to get naked in front of strange men.
The Fat Controllers' assistant reached into his pockets and donned a pair of surgical gloves... This freaked me out: I was convinced they were going in for more.
"Don't worry, we won't be doing an internal search. This are just to protect me from anything I might find."
Suddenly the world felt a brighter place, and I slowly stripped off and handed the assistant my clothing - all under the watchful darting eyes of the Fat Controller.
"Would you raise your arms please, Sir" (I would indeed!)
"Would you turn around please, Sir" (I could do that!)
"Would you bend over, Sir" (I was confused...)
"Excuse me?" I replied.
"Would you bend over and part your buttocks please, Sir." He clarified
"Be my guest."
I'm pretty flexible, me... I bent all the way down til my head was between my knee's and gave him a good clear view of my asshole. Making sure I caught his eye, upsidedown.
"Thankyou Sir. Now would you lift your scrotum for me Sir?"
"Yes, indeed I will." Lifting my meat and two veg so the lucky chap could get a good look at the half pound of crack that wasn't there.
"Do you enjoy your work?" I asked the assistant, cheekily.
"Not always, Sir" He answered, dry as you like.
He seemed to take the greatest exception to handling my socks. I didn't blame him, they'd been on my feet for at least two days. They were minging.
I was allowed to dress, and I settled in to receive the Far Controllers' spiel. By now I was beginning to enjoy myself. All the fear of the previous 15 minutes had evaporated and now it was just the Fat Controller and I. He still looked pretty narked from my quip about it being "a slow week". I knew he would do the worst he could...
Turned out it was 2.09g of awesome pollen. Good shit: it needed only a breath of flame before it would crumble effortlessly into a joint; it was the remnants of a small slab I'd purchased in Berlin at the Love Parade. It wasn't expensive at the time, but it had transformed itself into the most expensive smoke I'd ever toot.
The Fat Controller gave me his terms. I was to pay a ton there and then, or within 28 days and still be in possession of a clean record. Or - I could contest the fine at a county court (which I knew I would lose) pay the same fine, but walk away with a black mark on my record. I paid up there and then.
Eventually I was released. They didn't take my prints or photograph me. However I, or rather we, had missed our ferry and had to return to the hills straightaway. To make maters worse I lost some shit hot RayBans on the train back, and had to deal with a less than happy girlfriend who thought the holiday in Wales was over there and then.
We returned the follwing day and without even a packet of straights in our pockets. Thankfully Dublin turned out to be a blast. But I was about 150 quid lighter, all things taken into consideration...
And two strange men had seen my willy.
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:lol:
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Alright, I'm in. But this is pretty mild compared to others.
During a training course in Paris, the smarmy account manager took us out for a meal. I rather unwisely had a meat fondue thing.
God knows why, but the ingestion of too much hot oil and barely cooked meat triggered a rather urgent faecal moment. I managed to comprehensively fill my pants with liquid shit whilst walking to the toilet (situated at the back of the kitchen). Each hurried step squirted out a little more. Happily I didn't dribble in the food preparation area.
After cleaning up as best I could, and consigning my underpants to the small bin, I returned to the table, tied my sweater around my waist to conceal the brown stains, expalined I was feeling a little unwell and went outside while the others finished.
After about an hour wandering around a wet Parisien suburb the others finished and smarmy account manager insisted that I talk to his friend the drunken restaurant owner. He kindly pressed upon me his remedy for not feeling well - a glass of neat pastis. Yes, that really helped.
The final stage of the evening was long drawn out and uncomfortable, as I loitered as far as politely possible from my colleagues in a bar, and then on the rainy streets for THREE FUCKING HOURS as we tried to find a taxi (smarm-boy having dumped us after the restaurant). I cannot recommend walking around for a whole evening in chafing, shitty trousers with no pants on.
The shower back in the hotel was one of the best I've ever had.
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Wow, what a thread. I figured it was all about the naff gameshow and ignored it until today. I've been spraying wad points since I started reading it. Mega wad points for Fiend in particular, good self-effacing stuff there dude.
My life has been full of embarrasing moments, but I ain't got time for much right now having spent my lunch hour reading all about everyone elses woes. But here's a couple of pretty lowkey poo related ones from my past.
1) Early on in my days as a swimmer I remember being told off by my coach for some probably daft and childish act. I was never a child to take critism very well, always crying the moment a teacher even began to suggest that I had done wrong. Anyway, there I was, on the side of the pool being told off with maybe twenty other kids looking on, when some observant fellow swimmer noticed that rather than crying I was this time using my behind to show my contrition. All very embarrasing in my formative years, being carted off down the pool side with poo running out of my Speedos and down my legs. I was only about 25 8 at the time though, so it's a bit of a cop out story really.
2) In the Alps, aged about 18, heading upwards through the woods to the Aiguilles Rouges. Sudden need to have a fart proved to be rather more than a fart. Luckily I realised just in time and ducked behind a tree and away from my mates so they missed the explosion of liquid out of my behind. Had to bury my underwear and the shorts I was wearing. Waste of good (previously) clean clothes that.
Will try to think of some more and post them if they're embarrassing enough.
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yeah. come on you fuckers... you must have done something wrong, once.
I've got soooo many. Quid pro quo....
in chafing, shitty trousers with no pants on.
Ãœber-wad! :bow:
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the other month I did a similar thing. something that we call locally a 'shart' (an obvious cross between a shit and a fart).
the moment I set foot in the local respectable bar, out came the shart. Why does this happen!? Is it a loss of bowel control or indicative of something more serious?
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Why does this happen!? Is it ... indicative of something more serious?
For Every Arse Rips
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nice! was hell on earth at the time, away from home. I'm amazed Palomides survived for a day on his Paris trip. Mind you, given some of the whiffs I recently encountered in Paris, it may well have blended in!
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Fiend has something to tell us...
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Why does this happen!? Is it ... indicative of something more serious?
For every arse rips
Liberally Oozing Vented Excrement
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Why does this happen!? Is it ... indicative of something more serious?
For every arse rips
Liberally Oozing Vented Excrement
Heaving All Turds Egested
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When I should be packing to go to Thailand tomorrow…
I was sat in the car eating a sandwich with “hippy Dave†from this very forum when he came out with... “I really should post that story about pissing up on ukb.â€
“what story about pissing???â€
it turns out that Dave had been out bouldering on the coast in Devon and needed a piss, so off he went and balanced himself precariously on top of a rock, and pulled down his trousers (elastic waist Prana jobs). Happily taking a piss when he suddenly loses his footing due to the wind or something (cant really remember), and readies himself to hit the ground by holding out his hands, which causes his elasticated waist to nip upwards, and with it his still pissing Johnson. Which shot a jet of warm piss straight into his mouth! :o
By all accounts it didn't taste too good…
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Fuck me - a mouthful of yer own piss :lol:
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Fiend has something to tell us...
UKB isn't ready for it I'm sure...
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Cue inevitable pantomime chorus...
OH YES WE ARE!
Spill beans dude, share the humiliation and ease your pain - safe in the knowledge that we laugh with and not at you. 8)
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UKB isn't ready for it I'm sure...
You mean ready for it again...
Some of us read real fast. ;D :read: :oops: :wave:
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Sigh, how many more posts before we're onto page 6, and I don't get my contribution at the top of the page??
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Unfortunately this is yet another incident in the same genre, and unfortunately (for me and my pride - particularly if Dave, Scouse, Bonjoy etc ever meet me in a Sheffield wall again) I have failed to resist sharing it...
#3. In bed, in the middle of the night, fucking. There was a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Mmmmm hmmmm. The next day proceeds without incident or so it seems. I do some stuff, and end up going swimming in the afternoon. I sauna, swim, dry off and get changed. I am just putting my pants on when I notice a brown stain in them. So far, so normal - at least if the freakish confessions on this thread are any benchmark of normality. Except....I look closely....
The brown stain is on the front of my underpants.
Oh no.
I look under the hood and check what colour helmet my brave soldier is wearing today.
Oh NO!
It looks like I got more than just a smug grin from the previous night's shennanigans...
That smug grin is rapidly fading as I dress with appropriate haste and rush home to my own bathroom to have a long over-due "proper clean". Never has a dome been scrubbed so thoroughly! As for the smell....no...best not think about it...
:oops:
Edit: There you go, palo. Oh wait....that means my post stays at the top....dear god!
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Fiend: you just keep getting better. I think you're gifted. And that you're holding back on us.
You just wait a bit, I'm off to sort something out...
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I think you're gifted.
"Special", maybe ;) Mercifully that really is the last one, my life is pretty tame.
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This is my bike.
And I ride like the wind!
(http://i37.photobucket.com/albums/e67/houdini2/8a655351.jpg)
Checkin' dese decals out!
(http://i37.photobucket.com/albums/e67/houdini2/044593b3.jpg)
Hmmm... classy shots!
I found it. Hundreds of miles away. This pic is atypical as she is safe under lock and key. I never lock it, and only lock it at home to avoid a domestic.
It's always there!
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Fiend, that is sick man...I mean, didn't you notice the strange smell eminating from your chap's flap when you got dressed that morning :lol:
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chap's flap when you got dressed
Such confusion is this day! I was looking at the saddle of me bike - which is plain nasty, your quote, and thinking also of Yossarians ye new-y Little Red Baloon Cycling Formula at the same time. Jikes!
I regularly pull up alongside other cyclists on the heap, and they always see me drudgingly envy their wheels - but more often than not, their saddle. Not far from here there is a cycle shop, Elbe-Coast Psycles, where they film Pimp Mein Fahrad, the German version of Pimp my Ride for pushbikes. I dream of pimped saddle.
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(http://www5.ocn.ne.jp/~bikes/P10105961.jpg)
this is the saddle on my road bike. it is pretty uncomfortable, but just as i was about to get a new one the bald bearded drug taking superstar and total hero of mine died rather unpleasantly. i took this as a sign, and the saddle has never left the bike since.
i can sometimes experience a heavenly sensation when i'm riding. it's as if the angel pantani is feeding me a mixture of epo and top quality coke through the conduit of my arse.
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i can sometimes experience a heavenly sensation when i'm riding. it's as if the angel pantani is feeding me a mixture of epo and top quality coke through the conduit of my arse.
I NEED one of those saddles :lol:
Houdini, I'm just rendered speechless by your bike. It's kinda retro-cool but I don't think it'd last long if I rode it anywhere because I can't resist jumping off things.
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is'nt it a girls bike.
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It would be here, but everyone rides things like that in Amsterdam - their probably less hung up about their gender identity there mind.
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You can't jump off anything on Pegasus. That's not so good. The back wheel is not er... unidirectional, and has intermitent wobbling. Pegasus especially hates cobbles. Maintenance is limited to air in the wings only, why tinker with perfection? The brakes don't brake so good and then there are the rattles, too. An MP3-player solves this though.
Clearly Webbo. That is a question that doesn't need asking. Indeed it is a girl's bike. We rescued it after it was abandoned for some time by the train tracks at the bottom of my girlfriends' parents place. It's embarrassing, sure, but not as embarrassing as say, admitting you'd paid money for it.
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its nothing to do with gender identity.its about fashion rules.for instance lance armstrong may have won the tour de france more times than anyone else but those long white socks he wears would have got him disquaified from my local road race league. :spank:
p.s. do you bubba and houdini still climb in lycra tights.no i wonder why.
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I stopped wearing tights after catching a falling, lit JPS between my tights and my leg-loop whilst belaying a mate from the top of the dervish. I could feel it but I couldn't see it, it was freakish and painful and burning lycra is not nice.
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once upon a time many years ago.i went on a trip to the states with a mate and 3 female friends.we ended upon in zion where we spent time bouldering down by the river.this local turned up and invited us back to his place.which was a trailer park and the guy turned out to be the real deal i.e trailer trash.
he supplied us liberally with drink and drugs and proceed to show us his gun collection.after a while this arsehole started to get on my tits so i tried to persude the others to leave.unfortunatley they were all to far gone.so in my drunken whisdom i decieded i would drive calfornia.there were a couple of problems with this 1 i could'nt drive 2 it was my mates car.
anyhow not letting this put me off i set off only to immediatley run in to the parks main electricity pylon.i was arrested and breathalised,drug tested and bundled off to jail.where i was given this real cool jump suit as a swop for my clothes and spent the next day with a cell full off native american winos.
.i was the sent before the judge who gave me a severe bollocking about drink and drugs and charged me $400 for the privalage.i had to borrow some of the money to pay of my mate whos car i'd wrecked.
i belive someone once printed a version of this story in a mag many years ago.this the real version. :-[
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when you hit the pylon did your hair go like einstein's?
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not that i remember.but maybe this is the reason for my bald spot which apparently is so distinctive that recently friends walking on the opposite side of the river at wetherby were able to identify me.
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History repeats itself....
A Hamburg club, and I'm hunting for illegal substances with my new friend Techno-boy. The hunt is not going so well, Techno-boy suggests we retire outdoors and smoke a joint away of the watchful eyes of the undercover narcotics police who we know are on the edge of the dancefloor. I agree and we leave the club.
Outside I spark-up a table-leg sized reefer and chat with Techno-boy. One moment Techno-boy is excited and animated - in the next moment the colour drains from his face as a hand reaches over my shoulder and with a "Danke" robs my reefer. I turn round ready to give the joint-thief a piece of my mind... 'Allo allo allo' it's the Heckler & Koch-packing boys in green! Shit! I'm clearly talented...
Techno-boy disappeared into the shadows leaving me to deal with the situation. Don't know about you, but when getting spasticated I tend to leave the passport at home. This doesn't go down too well with tha Nazis, and my ass belongs to them. I imagine I was nervous/fidgetty and my body language gave it away - the 'it' being my tobacco pouch with a two killer pre-rolled and a baggy with maybe 2 grams of weed.
They cart me off and slam me in the cells. It wasn't the first time I'd seen the inside of a police cell, but this one took the biscuit: 4 * 3 meters and painted in a horrific shit-brown hue. Swasticas and other fascist graffiti adorn the walls. The filth had already made it clear that the only way I would get out that night would be if my girl found my passport and handed it in... I had very little hope of that happening as she was getting plastered somewhere, and was unlikely to return home before 7 am.
I sit on the floor of the cell in the Lotus position and summon up some Chi and keep the dope paranoia at bay. After 15 minutes I'm on top of it and press the emergency button - for some time - till an officer comes to check me out. An obese and hideous man opens the door and asks me what I want. I want the officer that arrested me, here, now. 20 minutes later said officer arrives and attempts to scare me into revealing my dealer (a large Turkish man whom I knew carried a knife) I told him right away that he was dreaming and that would not happen, and that he should get me out of here and take me to my girlfriends' flat (as I'd just remembered there was someone at home: I had no keys with me and had forgotten about Marvin, the young impressionable and devout Christian who had just moved in).
They bundle me in a car with 3 armed policemen and we head home. I need to sit on the doorbell for around 3 minutes before Marvin is woken. The expression on his face was priceless as myself and 3 pigs enter the flat. I head to my bag where I take it apart, and then the room hunting for my passport. After a while of getting nowhere I summise I must have left it at my girlfriends parents' house in Hannover. Oops! Pig #1 (the one with some vestige of a sense of humour) gets his cuffs out and spins them on a finger in the air; he's enjoying this!
We leave and head back to the copshop. I have no passport and I've just been nicked for possession in Germany, Land of the Caring Public Servant.
They take me in to a private chamber, surgical gloves were donned and once more I removed my clothing in front of 3 strange men. I chose not to be cheeky with these guys... for there is nothing amusing about being naked in front of uniformed men with handguns and night-sticks. The fuckers go through all my clothing with a fine toothcomb eventually allowing me to dress. They take my photo from the front and side, and move onto the matter of finger prints. Here I had the last laugh: I'd only just returned from bouldering in Val di Mello for two weeks in shocking temperatures, every single tip was trashed with scab and scar tissue (including my thumbs). Time after time my prints were taken yet not one looked satisfactory! I love Italian granite! Sensing I had the upperhand I proceeded to lie through my teeth at every question they now asked. With no passport to cross reference, they swallowed my false name and address readily.
Then they let me go, having got nowhere. I was down 20€ on skunk, but what the fuck. I had at least put the shit up Marvin, which was worth it.
I hot-foot it back to the Reeperbahn, and make it back to the club to meet up with Techno-boy (who was gobsmacked at where I'd been these past three hours), score, and dance my tits off to some particularly dark, grinding beats.
These things tend to come in three's, they say. Just hope my next bust isn't in Kazakstan.
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Scary :)
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Was just thinkin last nite, it's about time this thread was resurrected.
Houdini I salute thee. A fine narcotic adventure. Waddage will be awarded when I'm next near a PC (blackberry - schmackberry = no dice for such niceties.)
Reminds me of when my spasser mate (who nearly put his shoe thru a geordie's window on a recent post) and I went to homelands a few years back. My folks lived nearby so had a day down there prior to event to organise the infiltration past the sniffer dogs that the police have every year on the gate. At the top of my rucksack (away from canine noses) is a marmite, lettuce and skunk in clingfilm/then coffee/then more clingfilm wrapped sandwich. Sitting uncomfortably up me jacksee are four disco biscuits of tried and tested quality (obviously extremely well and individually wrapped in clingfilm! God the lengths you need to go to these days! Shocking!) All prepartions undertaken and "administered" wearing disposable rubber gloves with a no-caning-the-sensimillion policy 24 hours prior to the event to stop any residual scent traces on skin and in hair etc. Good job that caners are so paranoid as it turns out.
Anyways - we're queuing waiting to get into said festival and punters are dropping like flies to the noses of these bastard sniffer dogs. All these folk being carted off and strip searched just cos fido wagged his tail and barked at them. Drugs confiscated and names and addresses taken, cautions given and barred from entry to festival. All a bit childish really. Why else would someone want to go to an all night rave festival if not to get battered, stay up all night and dance?
We're up next and we slope past the dogs... And fuck me! We're through! The dogs completely ignore us and some blokes just behind us get collared instead. Result - for us at least!
Right then celebrations. We find a portaloo which we take in turns to use to remove our ecstacy enemas. Not a pleasant experience, but once you've removed the outer clingfilm the inner clingfilm is clean and intact.Ok. We buy some ridiculously-pricey- cheap-and-nasty lager and look for a discreet place to wash down our first pill of the day. We sit down in a massive crowd at the side of a dance tent- safety in numbers. I keep watch while unklefukka (my pal) unwraps one very well wrapped tablet. It takes ages and he's less than discreet. With much cursing he gets it out and bosh.
My turn. "Unklefukka, watch my back while I unwrap this bad boy will ya?"
"Yeah mate. Nay problem."
I unwrap. It's awkward but finally it's done. I admire it's crystalline structure briefly and bite down. Just a half for now. Notice that the sun's gone in and then there's a tap on my shoulder. I turn. Some scrawny little cockney geezer says "You don't wanna be doing that 'ere mate."
"Why not, pray tell?"
"Well I don't mind but he's not to 'appy abaht it!"
He gestures to Geoff Capes big brother standing over us, blocking out the sunshine, staring with murderous intent in his eyes with. Then I notice his flourescent jacket with "Event Security" emblazoned across the front. I freeze, adrenaline kicks in like a motherfucker. Without thinking I dry swallow the other half of my pill and stare back at the man-mountain before me. Seconds tick past... Time expands... I feel my heart pounding, the sound of rave music loud in my ears, I feel the grass beneath me. I see only the man in the jacket. I take in his every detail - I will never forget his face, or the fact that he was ginger, or the naval tattoos on his bunched forearms. Everthing is clear. I wink at the him. The spell is broken. He turns on his heel and is gone.
"Fackin ell" the cockney says "That was lucky, wannit!"
"Er, Unklefukka. I thought you were keeping watch for me?!"
"Ay. Wassat mate? Sorry. I was distracted. There's a raht fit lass over there, with just a bikini top on"
Complete :wank:
Fifteen minutes later, I come up like I've never come up before and go on to have one of the best nights of life. Unkle (the beats and remix merchants - not my mate) play an awesome, awesome set. I dance til sunrise.
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two wonderful tales of derring do...
i'm sure i've got another one lurking in a misty corner of my brain somewhere.
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a mate of mine had a party trick,which was to shin up a lamp post,mantle on to the cross beam.stand up with his arms out stretched,step backwards and catch the beam as he dropped.how ever one wet evening after a session in the royal park in leeds and in front of large crowd of admirers,he failed to perform it correctly catching the beam with only one hand.which resulted in a spectacular summersalt followed by a hands first landing.
the nurses at a/e were very sympathetic at first,this poor lad with two broken wrists.that was till they found out how he'd done it.
he had to pay another mate blond nik a fiver to wipe his arse. :spank:
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Ok, my best and most painful sleepwalking story.
I am cooking a paella of enormous proportions for my family and friend. I am in a celebratory frame of mind for a number of reasons, with the foremost probably being because it is only 2 weeks before I am due to leave for a month of surfing in Costa Rica. (Please don't make the mistake of thinking I'm some rad stoking surfer - my total surfing experience at this point was 2 rather flat and hungover days on a stag weekend in Devon.) Anyway, in the family tradition, I am getting royally drunk while I dissect chicken and rabbit, crumble saffron, and coo over my Valencian rice. I don't know what I started with, but I know i finished a bottle of ice cold Fino before i'd finished cooking it. Keith Floyd, what an inspiration... The meal was spectacular, and the atmosphere intoxicating. My old man muttered "Have you taken something?" to which I slurred some kind of denial. After that Dr Tom and I stumble off down the road to the pub. A few pints of Master Brew later and this woman at the bar turns round to Dr Tom and says "You better drink up". Dr Tom, never a man to let self restraint get in the way of a good argument replies "Do you work here? You don't work here. Why the fuck are you telling me to drink up if you don't work here?" To which freaky lady retorts "Don't talk to me like that - you have to finish your drink." Dr Tom goes red, probably has an image in his head of giving the broad a hip replacement without anaesthetic, and starts shouting at the pub psycho. Unfortunately the landlord in his drunken ignorance decides that we are to blame rather than the witch, and decides to eject us. I mutter something about how my bar bill the previous Christmas Eve probably paid for his whole families present assortment. This unfortunately made no difference... We get home, everyone has gone to bed. Not daunted by this, we crack open a bottle of scotch and stick on a video of that Leo Houlding My Right Foot thing. The bottle beats us and it's time to sleep.
I'm suddenly wide awake. Well, as wide awake as you can be after that lot. I notice a chill in the air. I am not inside, and for some reason I'm crouching down. I can feel something dripping out of my nose. It's blood. And it's gushing quite impressively. I feel the ground - stone paving. Interesting. I stumble to my feet and try and take a step forward. Though the pain is dulled by the booze, there is an almighty stabbing sensation coming from my right foot when I put weight on it. So I reassume what I later describe as the Joe Simpson position. I look up at the house, and notice the window of the room I had been sleeping in is wide open. My eyes run down the side of the house - on one side of the dropzone is a large cast iron railing running down from a door, and on the other side is the edge of a pitched roof from an extension. The gap between the two is just about the width of the window, and the drop is over 20ft. Oh fuck, that was lucky. So, I crawl to the nearest door, and start pummelling on it. My sister is asleep above, and it soon becomes obvious that she is not going to wake up. Undeterred, I continue my own personal Touching the Void, and crawl off into the night. To reach what I quickly decided was the best door to bang on I had to crawl though the building site at the side of the house. Like a infantryman at the Somme, I crawled through trenches, up muddy slopes, and managed to avoid the lumps of twisted metal. Only the lack of barbed wire and German machine gun emplacements meant that I didn't get the full WW1 experience. At last I reached the door, and banged on it repeatedly. At last, a light! Then the rather hostile face of my mother. She had seen her son wander off to the pub some 5 hours earlier, and now she saw him barely clothed and covered in mud, blood and sand, shivering uncontrollably, and giving off a pretty potent boozy aroma. The next bit is fairly hazy in my memory, but what I do remember is somehow pulling myself up, putting my hand on my Dad's shoulder, and the hopping all the way back to bed. Dr Tom is woken, and springs into action. An ambulance is called. I get woken up again, and am rolled onto a back-board thing. They try and carry me downstairs, but my enormous muscular body is too much for the paramedics. So a second ambulance is called, and the 4 of them manhandle me down to the flashing wagon. I eventually end up in hospital. My back is fine, but I have shattered the calcaneus in my right foot. I was watching Leo recover from his broken talus not 4 hours previously, and now, here I am having done almost exactly the same thing. Oh, you fool. Luckily for me, Dr Tom's boss at the time was a very fine foot and ankle specialist, so I was carted off to London, and am now the proud owner of a foot full of metal.
I never did discover how I actually fell. It's quite hard to tell exactly where I landed, as the blood was spread across quite a large area. It seems likely though that my nose and my knee collided, and I also cracked a tooth. So the rather romantic notion of me actually climbing like some kind of James Bond stuntman across the side of the building are rather unlikely, especially as I would've landed on the aforementioned railing or roof. What is more likely is that I climbed on to the windowsill and jumped. Maybe I was dreaming about jumping into a swimming pool full of Bollinger and naked dusky beauties. Who knows. What is really scary though is that, some three months ago, I was staying there again, and I woke up with the window wide open. It was closed when I went to sleep....
(I never made it to Costa Rica. When I woke up after the operation, I asked whether they thought that I would make it to Heathrow in 5 days time. They laughed and then gave me a big bolus of morphine.)
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That's brightened up my morning no end :) :)
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Brief and to the point...
Me and the then pre Mrs-FD at a 'Hardcore' night (Club Kinetic??) in a nightclub in Stoke circa 1991 with very dark breakbeats and 'ting - for the yoots among us this means pre-jungle and happy hardcore when D&B was just a glint in the Ruffige Krew's eye. DJ-SS, Andy-C and an young Ray Keith on the bill, strobes on 'Epileptic' mode and sweat pouring from the walls.
The club is full of face-chewing lunatics, petty criminals and nutters. We encounter an almost full-on strip search at the door but I've taped our evenings entertainment to my 'stinky bridge' and get through unscathed - probably because I'm with am attractive female rather than two pasty faced spotty youths.
Once inside, we pick our way to the Gents where I proceed I drop our £18 a piece 'Rhubarb and Custards' capsules (not tablets mind) sourced from the very best connections in the f*cking mens Urinal.....
To Rinse or not to Rinse - that is the question? The capsules are already disintegrating and softening up... so the answer was no... a big swig of Red Stripe and a down in one and off we go.
Probably the seediest thing I've ever done (or prepared to admit publicly) :whistle:
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reminds me of a night i sheff,
in 2001, when foot in mouth rooted pretty much the climbing for that period, i thought, well, going out and getting hammered 3 nights a week would keep my fitness up. :bounce:
we'd been to 'bed' then not ready yet to turn in, 'niche' was next port of call. we latched on to some vitamins which unknowingly had been spiced up with ket. boy o boy, all i remember was dancing away and then lost 30 mins. i don't know if i was just standing still chewing stupidly or kept dancing. we all kept having these empty moments.
worse still, i had to catch a plane to the canaries at 12 o'clock later in the day. i
just got to manchester in time. walked through customs in a lather of sweat and still chewing with dish pan eyes. i got on the plane and slept and sweated my way to the canaries. a great night but fuck knows what i looked like going through customs..
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another moment of chemical affected judgement.
went surfing on west coast of ireland. had to catch a train from dublin to sligo. the night previous was weighing heavy on me. i got to the train very early. they said i could put my board and luggage on, but then they would take the train to the cleaning depot for 20 mins. i grabbed my wallet and headed to the bar.
mid way through my 2nd pint of guiness i see my train leaving the platform. i think, fuck there goes my board and luggage.
i neck the pint and run out chasing the moving train, open a cabin door indiana jones stylee, and jump aboard.
a train inspector comes storming into the carrige, 'what on jesus are you doing??'
i tell him about my belongings, and he says, i told you we'd be cleaning the train before leaving!!! scratching his head in disbelieve..
the train gets cleaned and we go back to the station. by now the head honcho of dublin station is breathing fire.. gives me a complete hair dryer treatment and i suddenly shrank to the size of a 5 yr old.
on my return to dublin, i go out for a few beers and check some clubs and bars. met some girl and her friend, some body spikes my drink and i end up in a house party some where in dublin. luckily someone takes me to the hostel where my gear was. but as it's after 11 am, my bed is gone. my flight wasn't til 7pm. so i get a ticket on a open top tour bus. go to the back seat on the top and sleep for a few hours.
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where I proceed I drop our £18 a piece 'Rhubarb and Custards' capsules (not tablets mind) sourced from the very best connections in the f*cking mens Urinal.....
To Rinse or not to Rinse - that is the question? The capsules are already disintegrating and softening up... so the answer was no... a big swig of Red Stripe and a down in one and off we go.
Snap! :)
I was at a night at the (now demolished) Palais at the bottom of London Rd in about '91/2. Went to a toilet cubicle to hurridly gobble down a juicy genuine White Dove. The bouncers had a habit of peering in at you over the top of the toilet door and if you were found with anything on you then they took it away (to sell later) and booted you from the club, so time was of the essence.
Anyway, I was already fairly off my rocker and fumbled with the baggy containing the Dove. Inevitably it leaves my unsteady hands and plops straight into the bottom of the u-bend which is filled with assorted junk and much piss and gob - luckily no number twos were present.
Only a second's thought was necessary before I plunged my hand down to retrieve the little fella and pop it straight into my mouth. I felt dirty. Very dirty.
But strangely, half an hour later I couldn't care less :)
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Bubbas' tale disturbed something from the depths; something I was hoping to forget...
Myself, Bitch Cross and Sick Boy are in quite simply the seeeeeediest, nastiest, dirtiest, filthiest shithole tech-tard club in the whole of Northern Germany. It's name? The Lucky Strike. (The only reason we were there of course was the easy availability of illegal stimulants/cock shrinkers. And for minxy teutonette disco-slut eye-candy, naturallement ;))
The music was utterly dire (perfect for Proll the German Chavs) but we had made our choice and were determined to be as seedy and filthy as those around us.
I meet and befriend a particularly beautiful young woman (blonder than you've ever seen) and her equally young boyfriend. They are good kids - I learn that for them, this club is the bee's knees which they had travelled a long way to attend. Alas they have no drugs...
...But I do, and in thanks for the crack etc.. I give them a pill each: they were Supermen. I didn't like them and thought them somewhat smacky and found it easy to give them away. But I'm not Santa Claus and thought that a gift of two was plenty - as naturally they returned and wanted more. I fobbed them off with a go seek yourself to which they did and returned empty handed.
In the mean time, Sick Boy had been mooching in a dark corner and had found what appeared to be a baggy full of powder. We'd struck gold. No. A quick dab revealed the powder to be an unholy concoction of speed, perhaps coke, maybe Ketamine, cut with a healthy dose of No Idea. The dab was foul, shite beyond description, it could have been Vim for all we knew... It tasted like it was made in Iraq.
The kids return and started to bug me for more of whatever. I have nothing more to offer, I say. But wait, hang-on, Sick Boys' baggie! I explain that the baggy was found. I explain we have not one clue as to it's contents and begin to hammer home the message that it could be poison and that if you take this, you are on your own. The lad barely listens, sees the baggy with rolling eyes and takes it downstairs to the cubicles immediately. He returns sharpish, having snorted a few grams in one - all of it!
And for a time after, it was as good as one could expect with smacky pills in your blood and poor, anonymous techno in your head. About 10 to 12 minutes later, the blonde lass is concerned about her boyfriend, she's fairly angry too as her guy is clutching his head with white knuckles and sweating profusely. She's frightened and pissed off at the same time, so I take her aside and remind her of all that I said not 10 minutes ago. None of which she is buying, You don't just find a bag of drugs in the corner... etc.. Well actually yes, you do occassionally, like today. I point out that both her and her boyfriend are greedy cashless blaggers and well, shit happens. None of this washes with the lad who is clearly in pain, but he gave me a look which said, It know it was me that snorted this, not you.
Bitch and Sick Boy suggest we leave the Lucky Strike while we still can. I was inclined to agree with them before we had a body on our hands. Luckily the couple decide to cut their losses and retire, to where I don't know or care, leaving us three to sleaze it up as intended. Our actions during the remainder of the morning are unclear and perhaps best forgotten.
But that lad, ah tell thee. Scary stuff!
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Some people are just too greedy :lol:
A mate of mine found a mysterious bag of powder on the floor at Glasto - it sent him fucking mad - he was a viscious snarling beast all the way home apparantly. I'm glad I wasn't there.
I think found bags of powder are best left alone.
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Just remembered another.
It's paper-scissors-stone for who will ring Galaxy Taxis. I lose.
Galaxy Taxis are infact (or rather were) a cover for a Turkish drug distribution service here in the 'burg. I'd give my man a call and we'd meet at the prearranged spot of a Shell garage round the corner from an old abode.
I make the call and half an hour later I leave the flat and head to the station. I see the car parked it the usual spot, open the rear passenger door and dive in. Normally my man works alone but it was not unusual for him to have an accomplice on occassions, so I didn't consider it unusual that shotgun was taken. I sit down and realise for the first time it's not my man and his friend at all but two bewildered strangers.
You're not my drugdealer! I said surprised.
No. I'm not. The driver replied.
I laughed nervously, gave them a quick wave and legged it sharpish. Felt a right twat.
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Classic thread, somehow slipped me by. But :lol:
My personnel embarrassment always involves alcohol and are particularly dangerous when unaccompanied. Of the repeatable.
Here in Berlin the public transport is superb, cheap and running late in the week and all night at weekends. However, this is combined with the German conviction that parties start at midnight, which is already an hour past my pre-loaded ex-pat besoffen program. So another 3-4 hours of liver abuse and I'm ready for bed, trouble is I'm an hour from home and the lids are already heavy. Then the real problem starts as the gentle rocking motion of the late night trains, trams and buses coax you into a a dangerous slumber and a roller-coaster adventure of guess where you're going to wake up. I've tried everything, reading, music, standing up but the sleep always wins.
So anyway, I generally escaped pretty lightly - going on a few circles of the tram route, getting woken by the bus driver, waking up a station past home etc... But then the girlfriend went on holiday, a few friends returned from theirs and a major beer and cocktail session was planned and executed. I left the bar, maybe somewhere about 3am, got on the S-bahn, the plush velor seat was just begging me to put my head down and have a quick rest, of coarse I'd be able to stay awake... I woke up at 6:30am, having been to my station and then back to the other side of Berlin. Still completely wasted, knackered but nothing too bad. However, I'd just like to add at this point, that my eyesight is -11 and my glasses were not where I left them. Now, if you're not aware -11 is really bad, I can't see the big H at the top of the opticians board (what board come to think of it), my focal distance is ~5cm, I get free eye tests and even a government sympathy voucher with 'complex vision' printed on the top. Anyway, the rest is obvious, no idea where I am, can't see shit, what I can see is on its alcohol assisted dance, my German's worse than my eyesight, the Train maps are stuck to the train ceilings which are ~20cm beyond my focal distance and my glasses cost 300quids.
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Ok. My story involves nakedness.
I went up to Dundee to do training for my new job. I had been there 4 days and this was my last night. The chick who had been doing my training had managed to get us tickets to go and see a band called The View (their song "wasted little DJ's gets played on Radio 1 a bit) at the student union.
We went, got hammered and danced and moshed and had a great night. Anyhow it finished and we headed off for the post gig kebab, and nice it was.
Off went my host back home to her hubby.
I headed back to my hotel, a Travelodge with no bar or anything so was gonna hit the sack. The last thing I remember is getting into bed and being too hot so removing all my clothes. This is where things get interesting.
The next thing I know is waking up to find myself having a piss............. but not in the toilet.............. in the corridor outside my room............... naked.................. and with no key................. at 3.30am........... It had been a while since I had gone sleepwalking.
So I kinda stood there, dazed and thinking I must be dreaming. Obviously I wasn't so I cupped, as any man would and proceeded up the corridor, still VERY drunk by the way. I heard music coming from a room, so plucked up the courage to knock. Out comes a fit young chick who hasn't got a clue what to do with herself!!! Then 2 blokes come out and fucking piss themselves at my predicament, offering me such items as a bible and a pen to cover up my bits, cheeky buggers.
In the end they gave me a sheet and I had to get the lift down to reception and then be escorted back to my room by the porter chap.
But what makes this story EVEN better, was the state of my legs. For those who can remeber my photo of my leg in the Wickerman topic, you will know. For those who cant, here it is again
(http://i60.photobucket.com/albums/h26/sillytyson/myleg.jpg)
Imagine my white boy body and 3rd degree burned legs contrasting in the pale lit corridor.............
Is now a legendary tale to my mates.
:oops:
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Thanks for your tale Matt - It had special relevance to my hausmate Brenner, who, every time he goes out on the lashs ends up going hin und züruck between Wedel und Poppenbuttel about 12 times - hammered in the seats. Binge drinking, eh?
I just remembered another that amused me back in the day. Rick can't tell it as he's not a member so I will.
Rick's just undergone some serious dental work under general anaesthesia. After partially waking up he is driven home to his parents house in Blackpool. Rick's mum likes a hot house and the radiators are always on full. He snoozes off in a chair... His arm makes contact with an adjacent radiator... He shifts in his sleep and ends up with his head against his arm which pushes the limb onto the radiator even harder.
Couple of hours later he wakes up from his snooze feeling vague pain in his arm. Tit's been asleep for so long he's given himself 3rd° burns along the length of his forearm - which luckily for him he can't feel anywhere near as much as he should. Back to hospital for Rick. What a day he's had!
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Heading back to leeds from tangled or havok or some such in manc town we are in rainbirds pink van; given/lent/whatever to him by some chick in the lakes. when we are but mere minutes from tea and spliffs all round back in harold st, what do we see in the old wing mirror but the merry blue lights of the filth.
pat's unfeasibly large pupils seem to dilate further and his head moves side to side as he gazes entranced at such a colourful display. ulp.
up walks our friend the officer and taps on the window - would you mind getting out of the vehicle sir. i try to smile straightly (ahem) from the front seat.
out climbs pat remarkably co-ordinated
-is this your vehicle sir?
-yes um no um..
we're off to a good start.
-who's this in the back?
-ciaran and haley
-got their seatbelts on have they? - (there are quite blatently no seats - just a bed type set up)
-no but they're pretty well tucked in!
-would you mind coming to answer a few questions in the car sir
we see pat being marched off quietly shitting ourselves - as i wonder if i'm going to have to take one for the team and eat the two hundred mushrooms out of the glove compartment.
there follows a protracted time of the police holdng a clipboard and chatting to pat - while we panic some more - then back over they come.
-you guys are going to have to get out of the back of the van - its illegal to drive with people in a van without seats. our shifts ending now - so if you wait 5 minutes we'll probably never know if you got back in the back- which of course you won't as its illegal.
- yes officer we nod
off they drive
-pat, pat what did he say
-he said give me 3 goood reasons why i shouldn't give you 6 points and a fine on the spot
what did you say?
i said a) i'm a really good driver
b) i need my van for work
c) look at my van its pink its awesome
what did they say to that?
one of them said - i think we should take this van back to the lock up and search it for drugs
what did you say
i said- ahahahahah!
what happened?
i got a producer
that was lucky
it would be if i had any insurance
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arf! k.w.a.l.i.d.e.e. :lol:
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after reading many a shameless tale it would only be right to confess one of the most toe-curling events that henceforth shaped my drinking habits for ever
about 8 years ago, after a particularly heavy drinking session at a third rate discoteque establishment in my home town i ended up going back to a fellow students house, where she lived with (I found out later) a large extended family, including grandparents, great uncles and cousins thrice removed. after a rowdy home-coming and tip toeing around the larbyrinth-esque house on rather unsteady feet we all bedded down for the night, all of us three girls in a big double bed. as it does, nature called in the tiny hours, and i embarked on a lengthy mission to find the toilet. after what seemed like days adventuring around this tardis i eventually found my bedroom again, crept into bed, and snuggled up into the big double bed between my two friends.
*two or three hours pass*.... as the sun came in through the curtains my eyes opened and i stretched out, a bit hazy from the previous nights activities... and to my delight there was a glass of water on the bedside table. i stretched out to pick it up... and to my astonishment, inside the glass sat a pair of old man's gnashers sitting next to some glasses which looked like they had just dropped off danger mouse's mate. across the room i could make out a walking stick and old mans slippers which i swore had not been there the day before. i closed my eyes in the realisation that i was no longer cosied up between my two partners in crime from the night before.... but a gran and grandpa, who it seemed were not long for this world anyway, even before they woke up to find some whipper snapper sharing their bed sheets. imagine explaining your way out of that one. and also to all your mates when the story had been spread around college. :whistle:
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ah,
choppers in a glass
the sweet honied aroma of leaking bladders
don't knock it red
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eight years later and i still have an involuntary flinch
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flinch, you mean an involuntary pelvic floor muscle contraction..?!
filthy mare!!!!
:jaw:
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do i KNOW you? you know too much.....
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That Soapy's damn good at spyhole drilling. Be warned. You're probably on the internet somewhere already...
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people are driven by two things only:
lust
fear
we're all characters from a bosch scape
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I'm driven by a chauffeur...
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I'm driven by a chauffeur...
I'm driven to drink.
Normally by a designated driver.
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Houdini, it's not just your mates and myself having trouble with staying awake on the public transport, it's a common affliction of young German society.
If you want to raise the stakes you can opt for the regional express trains instead of the S-bahn - twice as fast home, so less time that you have to stay awake, BUT, if you do catch some shut-eye then there is double trouble - the potential to be >2h from home, and outside your ticket boundary so it hits your pocket too (but not as much as my 300quids on the glasses), and that's excluding the fact you'll probably end up in Magdeburg - somewhere you really don't want to be in the middle of the night anytime. My mate thought he had stacked the odds in his favor by setting his mobile phone alarm to wake him just before potsdam, however, he then woke up in Magdeburg, where the guys in the opposite seat usefully informed him that his phone kept going off :furious:
Then another friend, how he laughed when I recounted my lost glasses story, was out with us in potsdam, so it was his turn to face the danger. As we got off the S-bahn we told him to not fall asleep - he'd even got a book to read to help advert disaster - guess what - wakes up 2 stations past his own. Only a minor problem, although as the late night trains aren't so frequent he was 1/2 hour late home and I got my turn to take the piss :lol:
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Have now completed some marathon reading and have seen every story on the topic. I have a couple of my own to add to the fray. (Fiends poo in the eye was the best by the way)
#1 Today we had a free period and seeing as theres nothing else to do in the common room we had a raucous game of Smash Football on the comunal gamecube. It was best of 3 matches and in the final seconds things were getting heated. People on both teams got excited and started shouting at the screen. As a goal was scored in the final second to make it 4-3 against us the tension exploded and everyone started to make some very loud noises. It was only after several seconds of shouting (Im not sure why) "SPANK MY MONKEY. SPANK MY MONKEY" and slapping my groin that I realised that everyone except me had gone quiet and the head of sixth form was standing behind us watching me "Spank my monkey". Oh the embarrasement.
#2 There is another story that I have cherished because it is simply so unbelievable to some who hear it. I assure you its true.
In my prime I was an athletic young lad and had been selected for the school athletics match. The rest of the year had gone off to a camping thing and us athletes were to follow on after our event. Of course we were pretty damn hungry so we pulled in at McDonalds on the way. McFlurrys had just been created so everyone but me and another girl had one of them and after tucking into my burger and chips I boarded the bus with the others. It was while we were travelling down the motorway that the fun began.
A big chav at the back hurled. As I turned round i swear I could see chips sticking out of his mound of vom. The person sitting next to him soon followed suit. Then another, and another until everyone who had had a McFlurry had been sick EVERYWHERE on this jam packed minibus. The sick was covering just about every surface other than me as I had resisted the temptations of a McFlurry. I climbed over seats frontwards to avoid getting my share of half digested McDonalds all over me. There was one final act to come. Still travelling at 70mph down the motorway trying to find services to stop at a young girl called Stephanie needed one last retch. She opened the sliding window, stuck out her head and unleashed a torrent of Big Mac, chips and McFlurry into the car behind. The window got covered in puke. on finally stopping at services the teachers set about cleaning the minibuses outside while Stephanie cleaned her hair in a sink. I have never had a McFlurry.
Oh. I had a poo while having a bath once as well.
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Since birth, I've had a problem with my left wrist(go on, get it out of your system). It's an entanglement and narrowing of the veins in it. It's perplexed the doctors for years and it's only recently that they've just identified this. The calcified bone deposits in it threw them off the trail for a long time, but less about the mutant limb.
That last trip to the vascular surgeon a year ago proved to be pretty entertaining. I arrived at the hospital reception in good time and remained seated until my calling came from the nurse. "In you go Mr.Mills, the doctor will be through with you in a minute." Fine.
Some 15 minutes later, enter nurse two: "Sorry about the delay Mr.Mills, the doctor won't be long. If you'd just like to strip your bottom half off, he'll be through in a minute." She remained in the doorway for a moment and made some small talk about it being busy, all the while I am attending to her request. I have no idea why I unbuttoned my jeans, pulled down the boxers in front of her and only thought as I peeled said items off the ankles that this was a rather bizarre request for someone with a wrist problem (perhaps she made the same associative connection that all men make when a pal comments about having a sore wrist). As she carried on with this chit-chat, I finally realised the weirdness of the situation and interjected: "Can I just ask why I need to take my pants off?" "So that the doctor can take a look at your testicles" she replied.
"Why would the doctor want to look at my testicles for a wrist problem?" A lengthy pause ensued and eventually resulted in her commenting "Oh I'm terribly sorry sir, I had you down for a testicle examination."
She scurried off, mildly embarrassed. Just as the jeans are coming back up, in walks the doctor looking bemused at my actions. I tell him what he's just missed, and he looks down at his notepad chuckling. "Nurses hey!?" he comments.
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if you were a woman and she were a man some might say that would be a different story altogether.....
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Quite. I was rather perplexed by the situation at the time and was a bit too busy being anxious with my hatred of hospitals to notice. My girlfriends mother is a lecturer in Primary Healthcare, and she has told me at lengths about the hierarchy that exists in hospitals between doctors and nurses. Things are changing she tells me, and now nurses are being given the adequate training and license to perform tasks that previously only doctors could.
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what, like manipulating vunerable young men in to getting their kit off? :lol:
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:lol:
Maybe in this case the doctor and nurse were good friends and lodged a wager that she could get a man to take his pants down for an unrelated condition. It all makes perfect sense now Red!!!!
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:o
got me thinking what else would be included in a hospital workers' version of office dares (http://www.geocities.com/spitfire8to5/officedares.html)
getting monolith to drop his kecks would probably rate pretty lowly in the score.
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i find saying to the homidal,schizophrenic,psychopathic,tattooed round the neck and knuckles patient
that i don't belive they are as hard as they reckon and also i belive they might be gay.
this usually causes a chuckle or two
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:o
got me thinking what else would be included in a hospital workers' version of office dares (http://www.geocities.com/spitfire8to5/officedares.html)
got me laughing so hard i had to leave the office weeping and choking
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i find saying to the homidal,schizophrenic,psychopathic,tattooed round the neck and knuckles patient
that i don't belive they are as hard as they reckon and also i belive they might be gay.
this usually causes a chuckle or two
:lol:
how may points is that worth? come on webbo - we know you actually play this game - what are the other ones??
waiting til the patient is stitched up after complicated surgery and then pretending you lost a contact lens??
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usually find that you don't have to play games as what people say or do is funny enough.like monilth reckoning that a female nurse told him to get his kit off,where as he just couldn't wait to get naked in front of the young junior doctor. :spank:
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haha :lol:
doctor - what are you doing with your pants off
monolith - that nurse told me to
doctor - what nurse?
monolith - um well...come'ere!
doctor - unhand me....
monolith - sorry - i er i don't know what came over me
doctor - came over me more like
sometimes my chain of thought goes too far
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:P
You reprobates you! Gutted I've been sussed out with my love of junior doctors.
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You mean... all of my clothes?!
(http://www.hustlerpanties.com/prodimages/zipnurse.jpg)
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Now did you specifically search for that picture or did you just happen to stumble across it on your web travels? :-\
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How dare you! That's my mum!
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what's your mum doing on www.hustlerpanties.com ?
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Do I complain about your mother winning Ann Summers Rep of the Year 9 times in a row, huh? Girl's gotta eat...
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I wasn't complaining, but I was just suprised to see she had fallen to the lows of hustler panties. Last year she was on the pages of www.classyexotica.com...
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Weeeeell, she got into money trouble after buying herself a new pair... And the endless rounds of facial surgury in Sao Paulo...
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Sorry to hear, hope things prick up for her.
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She'll be doing a live show on www.milf-cam.com later this evening Unc'. Check her out in your own time.
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Sporting the lovely new NHS uniform I see!
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B U M P !
I thought it was time some of the newer UKBers got the chance to peruse and hopefully contribute a hellish, woeful schadenfreude infused tale.
You remember the rules, peeps. The more horrific the better ;D
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There was one final act to come. Still travelling at 70mph down the motorway trying to find services to stop at a young girl called Stephanie needed one last retch. She opened the sliding window, stuck out her head and unleashed a torrent of Big Mac, chips and McFlurry into the car behind. The window got covered in puke. on finally stopping at services the teachers set about cleaning the minibuses outside while Stephanie cleaned her hair in a sink. I have never had a McFlurry.
Just thought I'd mention that the Stephanie mentioned above is the very same Stephanie here http://stephanie-mcmichael.org/ (http://stephanie-mcmichael.org/)
Mental.
This was a funny thread. More please.
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There was one final act to come. Still travelling at 70mph down the motorway trying to find services to stop at a young girl called Stephanie needed one last retch. She opened the sliding window, stuck out her head and unleashed a torrent of Big Mac, chips and McFlurry into the car behind. The window got covered in puke. on finally stopping at services the teachers set about cleaning the minibuses outside while Stephanie cleaned her hair in a sink. I have never had a McFlurry.
Just thought I'd mention that the Stephanie mentioned above is the very same Stephanie here http://stephanie-mcmichael.org/ (http://stephanie-mcmichael.org/)
(http://stephmcmichael.co.uk/images/steph19.jpg)
If she's a Maths student, then I'm taking it up again!
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A great thread indeed.
I'm sorry, but I just haven't done anything worthy of reportage for ages.
Perhaps I should ditch the girlfriend, take a plane to Nigeria, and then insert dog food into my anus whilst squatting on all fours reading Now We are Six so a pack of wandering jackals don't go hungry?
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Embarrassing, you say?
The end of a 3 day binge. By rights I shouldn't even be standing at this point. The cunts wouldn't let me have any more techno, so I had to make do. Still got layed though :shag:
http://www.vimeo.com/2884809 (http://www.vimeo.com/2884809)
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It's a step in the right direction :)
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Thread of legend. My eyes are practically bleeding from reading the entire litany, but I feel obliged to make a contribution having enjoyed the miseries of others:
In my younger days (c. 11 - 12ish) I was quite a keen swimmer, training with the local club in the evenings. So one evening, after a particularly raucous public session, my club mates and I are lined up next to the pool only to be greeted by a turd of what seemed like tremendous proportions marinating in the shallow end. Obviously one of the kids had been caught a little short, and in the throng of people enjoying the tepid piss infected waters, had gotten away with letting one go. So there I was, shivering my undescended little bollocks off, while being treated to the sight of our coach retrieving the offending fecal matter with an oversize butterfly net. It left a trail of brown jetstream lingering in the water worthy of a scatological 747. Obviously we expected training to be canceled, I mean who would expect us to swim in this shit?
"Right kids, into the pool"
And being young and impressionable..... we did :(
I've not been keen on public swimming pools ever since.
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I can't believe I missed this thread first time round, it's a fucking gold mine. I will be awarding waddage shortly. However first my tale. It would seem that the essential elements of the events related thus far are:
Booze
Shit
Vomit
Sex (ideally in some deviant fashion)
Piss
Humiliation
Relationship breakdown
I think I can cover most of these bases with my 21st.
I was at the time a student at the fine establishment of learning that is Sheffield University and the plan for the weekend was thus. Saturday late afternoon the parentals would arrive with the girlfriend of the time (of the time, subtle clue hey?) and her parents. We would all go out for a meal then all the parents would bugger off and me and the lady (although perhaps not as much of a lady as I thought, see further on) would return to my house where my wonderfull friends were laying on a small social gathering by way of celebration.
The venue of choice for the meal with the parents was a Thai place in Broomhill, the Bahn Nahn (I think?). At this point it is worth stating the merely mentioning Thai fishcakes still causes a not insignificant sweep of nausea. Anyway back to the tale. Numerous Thai fishcakes were consumed along with various forms of alcohol (champagne, wine, beer, some spirit thing which wasn't very nice). So by the end of the meal I am both full of rich fish based food and well oiled. The parents drift of into the early evening, I have a hazy memory that I might have waved as they departed. I only wish they had taken me with them, but alas no, we instead returned to my house. It would seem that the afforementioned social gathering was going to be on a slightly grander scale than I had anticipated, and here was me thinking I didn't have many friends. How nice to see so many faces I just didn't recognise at all. At this point my sensible fuse should have blown and my drinking abated to be replaced with a vague sense of house protection. But no, I was young and lacking such wisdom so instead I managed to spend the (short) time that I spent at the party developing some hazy and poorly recalled memories of "dancing" and "enjoying a couple of drinks". Suffice it to say my limited capacity for alcohol was very soon well and truly exceeded and I felt spectacularly drunk. And joy of joys the lady-friend was equally inhebriated. Both feeling the pace we made an early, stumbling exit to bed. At the time I occupied one of a pair of attic rooms and in an attempt to prevent unfortunate incidents occurring within said rooms my fellow attic dweller and I had placed a lock on the door at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the attic. How very cunning. The failing of the plan was that it could only be locked from below. I.e. once someone had gone up to bed the attic was no longer secure. All a bit academic anyway as I couldn't find my key so just ripped the door open and the lock ripped out of the wall. Anyway to the bedroom where drunken sleep awaited, however young drunk couples have certain amorous expectations to be satisfied before sleep could be considered. Details about the following activities are sketchy at best but let us skip on to the next point of significant note. It involves somewhat canine positioning and an unconventional insertion option. Sadly at this point the female in question is overcome with nausea and is rather colourfully and violently sick across the bed, this causes an almost instantaneous vomit response from me, all over her back. In and of itself this is shameful enough. However an equally horny (if somewhat less vomit strewn) couple have wandered up to the attic in the hope of finding a quiet area for physical intimacy and choose the moment of hurl to peer round the door. We now appear as some Romanesque vomitorium perverts of the highest order.
Anyway ardour well and truly dampened we both collapse to sleep in pools of our own fetid vomit. Awakening in the morning we discover that in addition to entirely vomit covered bodies during our period of sleep there had been urine and faeces based incidents (it would be indiscrete of me to suggest who had done what). I will stop there, and only add the following snippets:
1) Our relationship limped on for a time but really it was over that night
2) Our spectators were apparently of a more liberal mind than we thought as their desire for intimacy was undiminished. Unfortunately they apparently expressed this intimacy in forms of what I believe is termed "piss play" in my housemates bed
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*cries of laughter*
tiz a shame the best non climbing post of the year has been placed so early in the year, I defy anyone to better this
waddage
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Two genius posts there.
Did anybody hear the drunken fart from Lagers at about 28 seconds in? :lol:
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This thread's brilliant, it made my day. :thumbsup:
I, being a lady, have nothing to add. :ang:
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The
only first tale that comes to mind was when I was at secondary school, probably aged 14 or so. To get there I used to cycle to a friend's house, then walk 5 minutes to the station, then half an hour on the train.
On the way home one day I had some gut-related illness. I managed to clench my sphincter all the way on the train (no toilets), but walking back to my friend's place I developed sphinter exhaustion and a bit of diarrheoa popped out. Needless to say it stank.
In order to save embarrassment (?) I opted to sprint to my mate's to get the bike. He must have wondered what was going on when one second we were walking and talking, the next I ran away in a cloud of shitty smell.
So I grabbed the bike and escaped. Unfortunately, cycling and avoiding defaecation ain't easy, so a merciless release of bowel contents was unavoidable. Ever cycled with diarrhoea filled underwear? It's not nice, the feeling is grim.
Anyway, I cycled the 10 minutes home, shit dripping out the bottom of my trousers and presented myself at the back door, which my mother opened.
Somehow the fact she pissed herself with laughter just made it worse :-[
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Just remembered a classic that a mate of mine performed a couple of years back.
He works locally, and was out for a run from his office at midday, following his usual circuit up past the river Dee. Mid run he releases what he thinks is a fart, and promptly shits his pants. At this point he panics as he has to go through main reception to get to showers, and has no phone or anything with him, just security pass. So he ducks into bushes next to river bank, strips off, puts shorts and shoes aside and discards soiled keks, and wades into river to rinse off. At this point he thinks he is safe, as he is out of view from the road, but forgets that a river has two sides and gets some funny looks from dog walkers on the other side, so he turns and waves, wades out of water, dries off as best he can, puts shorts back on and runs back to office.
(and no, it's not me, I don't do jogging).
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The Alain Robert thread just reminded me of this...
I was doing rope access work in Hong Kong (1995ish). We were doing a hammer-tap survey of Wanchai Tower on Harbour Road. Wanchai Tower is one of the government buildings, with the top couple of floors being dedicated to the Organised Crime busting team - this was the nearest toilets when working on the roof and it was a bit of hassle getting through their security just to have a piss. So I found a spot on the roof where I could wee straight into a drain hole near the edge of the roof.
After about a week of using this spot I found myself having a very satisfying slash whilst enjoying the peace and isolation of being on top of the city away from the crowds and watching a Hong Kong Kite (big bird) cruising the sky. I was interested to see the Kite attack its own reflection in the mirrored glass of Immigration Tower. Then it struck me that I was looking up at this spectacle - which meant that the offices behind the glass provided a clear view looking down on my regular piss hole.
This wasn't just a couple of offices, this was 10 floors worth of the side of a big building, not to mention the other big buildings that overlook Wanchai Tower. The buildings round there are pretty close together, so anyone looking out of any one of the many windows would have had a very clear view of me confidently pissing away. As this thought dawned on me, I started to chuckle at my stupidity; which turned into uncontrollable laughter (piss still flowing). I managed to finish my slash and gave a wave and a smile to the people that I couldn't see behind the glass and quickly jumped onto my ropes on the other side of the building.
I worked out that I had probably used that spot at least 20 times and have often wondered about who might have been enjoying the "Diet Coke" moments that I supplied. I particularly wonder what they must have thought when I cracked up laughing and waved at them.
I guess that seeing Alain Robert's tiny penis after witnessing my python can only disappoint the secretaries of HK.
I've marked the approximate location of my weewee spot on the roof with an arrow - you can see how the adjacent buildings overlook it (I don't remember the huge building with the antenna though?)
(http://jknujknu1.googlepages.com/wanchai.jpg)
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Details about the following activities are sketchy at best but let us skip on to the next point of significant note.
Nik you are both a gentleman and a genius.
Lagers you are just a genius.
Chris I have a friend of a friend with a variation on that tale. This....character was out in a local park one fine day (or possibly night) and found himself overcome with the runs. Instead of attempting conventional tactics like "hiding behind a tree" or "squatting in the bushes", he removed several of his garments and waded into a nearby stream. This chap is in the music industry not the rocket science industry so hadn't really calculated the different effects of solid vs. liquid releases in such an enviroment and upon release ended up surrounded by a fetid oil slick of diarrhoea. I've never been told what happened next, nor, more importantly, why he ever though the stream option was the best idea.
Magpie, a lady, yeah, suuurrrrre.
P.S. I feel highly ashamed of myself and my life that I have nothing further to contribute in my previous vein. I shall attempt to remedy that.
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I may have little to contribute to the bouldering threads but I do have a tale of prolonged embarassement from a few years ago.
Knowing that the night bus from Arequipa to Lima was to be a pretty uncomfortable journey I decided a bag of cocoa leaves would help to pass the time. Although reputed to do all sorts of good stuff I was pretty unimpressed on the first few hours of the journey along the Pan American Highway, in fact, I was pretty sure that they had had no effect on me whatsoever. Given the calm way I dealt with y subsequent tribulations I can only assume that wasn't the case and that, in fact, they may have been a contributory factor in my down fall.
Some time in the early hours the bus stopped at a services on the road, not a gleaming Welcome Break with overpriced coffee and pr0n mags but it did at least have a brightly lit cafe which everyone from the over crowded bus piled into. Fed and watered I went to avail myself of the toilets and this is really where the place let itself down. Such was the rank state of them I was not even prepared to stand and have a slash in there and instead decided to nip around the side for an al fresco piss. Stood there, under a full moon, and faced with swell of the mighty Atlantic not more than 50 meters away and a few meters below I was over taken by the urge to go for a paddle and I gingerly started to make my way down to the water's edge. I'd only taken a few steps before I felt the sensation of falling quickly followed by the sensation of rolling down some scree. Once I'd skidded to a halt I turned to review my journey. Now, with the moon behind me, I could see that there was a 20 foot vertical cliff separating the cafe from the sea. With my passport and posesssions on the bus I began to panic, all thoughts of paddling left my head and I set about getting back up the cliff which consisted of rounded pebbles embedded in mud. Necessity and luck eventually got me to the top without further mishap and I was delighted to see my fellow travellers still there when I staggered back in to the cafe. They, however, seemed less pleased to see me. I assumed they had been oblivious to my excursion and although I guessed I was looking a bit dishevelled I couldn't work out what the commotion was about. It was only now, in the light and with danger passed that I was able to properly take stock. I looked down at myself to see that I was covered, head to toe, in some blue gloopy chemical stuff and shit. It was now apparent that I'd fallen into, down and along the open sewerage outlet from the toilets which, quarter of an hour earlier, I'd been two proud to have a slash in!
After much gesticulation I managed to negotiate my way back on to the bus but only after I'd stripped to boxers and vest. Luckly I'd come prepared and had in my hand luggage a sleeping bag. My fellow passangers were less lucky. As well as being crowded two to a seat at either end of the bus (in order to get as far away from my stench as possible, the two rows in front of and behind me were both empty!) they also thought it preferable to leave all the windows open despite the near freezing temps. I was even able to get some sleep until being awoken by a machine gun toting man in army uniform. As the only gringo on the bus I had to go to some sort of passport type control as we entered Lima, this was the time when the Sendero Luminos were active. Pulling back my sleeping bag he made it clear I was to dress before coming to his office so I got back into my fetid clothes (now covered in coaco leaves, I'd shoved them in that bag as it was plastic and thus shit proof) trooped over to the passport control office. I got as far as the door before the military man looked up at me and shouted something like, I'm guessing here, "Get out you stinking, shit covered, bastard". He decided to dispense with the formality of the passport check and and I got back on to the bus for the final short hop into Lima bus station where my ordeal ended and I was able to get at my rucksac from the depths of the bus' boot.
The saddest thing about recounting this tale on here is that I had to choose between it and another incident from the same holiday when I literally shat myself at the bottom of Alpamayo and had to endure the climb and subsequnt 3 day journey back to my guest house in Huraz in shit encrusted Buffalo salopettes.
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:lol:
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Not sure if this counts, as we did it deliberately.
On Sunday evening the VERY pregnant (and overdue) Mrs Starfish was complaining about being not having anything fun to do and not knowing what she wanted to eat. I have been abstaining from beer in support of her situation, so was not in a position to provide my usual entertaining performances.
We live within a couple of hundred yards of both a KFC and a McD's. They both have drive throughs. Since we hadn't ever used either drive through we decided that it would be pointless and silly and therefore possibly fun to drive the 30 seconds to both drive throughs and buy a meal at each. Just to make it more fun I decided to wear socks AND sandals :bounce:
It kept us amused for half an hour.
I am so ashamed on several levels :-[
PS
3 pc variety meal with Pepsi and a McChicken meal with still Fanta; in case you were wondering.
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One step away. (http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/article2399352.ece)
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??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ???
As someone who has not eaten any fast-food takeaways this year, I am actually lost for words Lagers, despite there being a very obvious conclusion / progression from this event.
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??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ???
As someone who has not eaten any fast-food takeaways this year, I am actually lost for words Lagers, despite there being a very obvious conclusion / progression from this event.
You're right.
I'll text/phone you if we do it again. Sorry for being so thoughtless.
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??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ???
As someone who has not eaten any fast-food takeaways this year, I am actually lost for words Lagers, despite there being a very obvious conclusion / progression from this event.
You're right.
I'll text/phone you if we do it again. Sorry for being so thoughtless.
:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:
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Nice work - especially on the sandal / sock combo, but gotta as what are you doing going there Lagers?
I thought it was hot curry that was meant to induce labour, not fried chicken / beef patties...
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As someone who has not eaten any fast-food takeaways this year.......
Yeah Fiend always eats in for the full McXperience.
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I think that story is more sweet than embarrassing :hug:
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but gotta as what are you doing going there Lagers?
I thought it was hot curry that was meant to induce labour, not fried chicken / beef patties...
Curry, chilli, spicy salads, tom yam soup etc twice a day every day left her wanting a change.
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I think that story is more sweet than embarrassing :hug:
You learning from this, Fiend?
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Curry, chilli, spicy salads, tom yam soup etc twice a day every day left her wanting a change.
Pineapple! There are more things you can eat too, I just can't remember off hand, I can find out for you if you're still waiting. Another is possibly raspberry leaf tea, or something similar?
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Pineapple!
She was chopping one up when I last saw her
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I'm looking forward to a new entry to the future wad on the scene thread.
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Gimme a bell next time you're going out for, say, oysters. I eat more oysters than I do fast food burgers at the moment. Dunno what they'd do for Mrs Lagers tho.
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Lagers - try some clary sage oil on an oil burner. My friend is a midwife and she reckons it works everytime (to the point that pregnant women are advised not to go near it until their due date).
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How come I've never seen this thread till now?
Anyway, its back in the day (the 80s) and we're at Manchester Airport, of on our jollies in Spain - we being me, a certain Beris-based welshman and a certain accident prone Beris-based Lancastrian. Funds for the trip are extremely limited, consisting in their entirety of my freshly cashed giro. Nonetheless we clearly feel its worth investing in a pre-flight tipple and purchase from duty free 1.25Ls of gin. To the bar, where we buy a single pint of lager. One big gulp each sees this down to a half, which is topped up with the gin. Down that goes. Now we are in a fit state to drink the rest of the gin neat in the 30 minutes remaining before boarding. Remarkably, we are allowed on and the flight passes in blur of deeply crass behaviour (much shouting, groping the women in front through the gap in the seats, falling over in the aisles, on top of people etc.). We disembark and are stood in the queue for passport control when the Lancastrian starts fumbling about his person in a rising panic. He's lost his passport. Next minute he's back out the door and sprinting across the tarmac towards the plane, with the heavily armed police in hot pursuit. Bounding up the steps he barges through the wall of stewards trying to prevent his entry and starts scrabbling under the seats. He emerges two minutes later looking rather sheepish; it was in his pocket the whole time. Remarkably nothing more his said (nowadays they'd have laid waste to him without hesitation). Its night now and lie down immediately in front of the airport and go to sleep. We awake to baking sun and to find ourselves in the midst of a rapidly filling taxi rank. They have no intention of stopping filling it one bay after another and only a last minute scrabble prevents us being runover. A rather long and dull trudge into the city follows. Two very enjoyable weeks later we get on the plane home to be greeted by the very same cabin crew. Remarkably they even give us a welcoming smile. Sorry, no vomiting, shitting, or shagging.
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Good tale although the lancastrian's name is curiously absent
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Top stuff. If we're going down the "Old Skool trip story" path then I suppose this (http://ukbouldering.com/board/index.php/topic,8319.msg126810.html#msg126810) is worth a read for those who've not seen it.
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Good tale although the lancastrian's name is curiously absent
Total no-brainer. To the Naughty Step w/ you...
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Not sure if this counts, as we did it deliberately.
On Sunday evening the VERY pregnant (and overdue) Mrs Starfish
Help out with SCIENCE (http://www.cochrane.org/reviews/en/ab003093.html) ;)
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this thread is dynamite, best read in a long time. altough my stories are very similar to a couple already posted i feel compelled to post them anyway.
1 My step brother and I went snowboarding in Italy a few years ago, after landing and going through customs I walked round the corner and to my disbelief i found him petting a sniffer dog. He's always been a sandwich short of a picnic, but this was pretty special, even for him. Obviously the customs officials decided we were prime candidates for a strip search and we were dragged off. They then proceded to go through our luggage with a fine tooth comb. The contents of his hand luggage were equally dumb. First they pulled out a syringe and a blackened spoon, apparently he was doing some tie-dye art project, and hadn't unpacked his bag before we left. the officials had a field day,saying "heroin, heroin?" etc. then out popped a sealy bag full of little paper stars followed by a mirror, by which stage I'm staring at him thinking, fuck, what have you done to me (fucking art students, ay?). Then it dawned on me, Shit i lent my dealer my jacket last night and he was in a hell of a state when i got it back , fuck knows what could be in my pockets. Luckily it turned out there was nothing but for five minutes i honestly thought i was gonna shit myself. Man, the sweat was literally pouring off me.. Then the we both got led into separate private cubicles and told to strip off, bend over etc.. We were clean so they let us go but it was a pretty humiliating experience to say the least. Cheers, Kev, I love you man.
2, this one is entirely my own fault, My dad was in the army so I got sent off to boarding school, i was about about fifteen at the time and my friends and I had managed to get a couple of bottle of tequila and sneaked them back to our rooms. I have no recollection of rest of the night...
I woke up at 7am in somebody Else's study, in their bed, butt naked. Ironical, the first thing i saw was that "tequila, have you hugged your toilet? poster hanging on the wall opposite me. How the the fuck did i end up here, I thought to my self and noticed a pool of what i thought was water in the corner of the room, odd, i thought, i must have knocked over a glass during the night. I then proceded to head back to my own room noticing several other pools of 'water' in the corridor on the way. i donned some clothes and headed to my mates room to find out why there was water everywhere and i had woken up in somebody Else's bed. Upon entering his room i found I found him and 2 other friends of mine, one with a black eye, sat on his bed looking rather pissed off. "why is there water spilled all over the place and why the fuck did i wake up in Nico's study?" I asked him. "It's not water, it's piss" he replied, "yours" He then proceded to enlighten me as to exactly what i had done the previous night. Apparently I got up a few hours after we had all crashed, trying to find the toilet and failing miserable I pissed in the corridor before headind back to bed, but i got lost on the way and ended up in somebody Else's study, where I promptly took another piss all over his desk, ruining his coursework in the process. I then noticed that someone was sleeping in 'my' bed so i dragged him out into the corridor and punched him in face a few times. Luckily my friends had been disturbed by the noise and saved me from a beating. My unfortunate victim then slept in my room as I refused to leave his. I woke up an hour later and repeated the whole thing again, inflicting myself upon another one of my friends in the process.
How I'm still friends with them, I'll never know...
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Had forgotten how good this thread was...here's my contribution, from last autumn.
Went out with some workmates to the beer festival at the Showroom, was having a very pleasant and surprisingly sedate evening - they were doing a 'book of tokens' thing for getting ales in, and as it was we decided to leave a bit early, as while the beers were pleasant the atmosphere was a bit, well, quiet.
So, off we decamp to the Red Lion up the road for a few more pints and a couple of games of pool. There were a few people round the table and it was 'winner stays on' so I wind up playing this wily Sheff local who as I remember inflicted successive defeats on me and my mate so we gave up while we were ahead and went back to drinking and chatting.
I'm not sure how the subject came up (I'm assuming it was the proximity of the establishment), but I confessed that despite having been on 2 stag dos in the last year, I'm still yet to have been in a strip club. So, given such a 'gentleman's club' is practically next door and the pub was chucking out anyway, off we went.
So, a while later (I'm skimming over the detail here to preserve my dignity, but also as I don't remember a great deal due to Black Sheep levels in my bloodstream...) I'm making a move so I leave, get my stuff from the cloakroom, grab a taxi and get dropped of back at my flat.
Having waved the cab off, I rifled through my pockets and couldn't find find my house keys, but no worries I think, I must have put them in my bag for safe keeping. I haven't.
So, I size up the options - the best one is to call the very-newly-ex-Mrs-TTT (out of whose flat I've pretty much just moved), who has a spare key for my place for such eventualities. I'm sure she'll not be very pleased with me waking her up at 4am on a Saturday, but she's a very understanding person, knows that this is the sort of stupid thing I do and also it's better than spending the night freezing in the corridor or my building. Except I haven't got my phone on me either.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, I end up spending a few hours in the (thankfully) 24hr Tescos on Abbeydale Rd where I can buy a thermal vest to warm me up (for some reason I've still got my wallet), and wait until a sociable hour to walk up to the very-newly-ex-Mrs-TTT's flat to acquire my spare key, which I did at about 8am, feeling half drunk / half hungover, freezing cold and obviously looking really rough having not been to bed for the whole night. She was strangely sympathetic, and in fact told me I should have walked up at 4am and woken her up.
After much confusion and retracing of my steps (and having cancelled my phone), I went back to the places I'd been and was told the nowhere had found my stuff.
The week after, I happened to be in the Red Lion again and on the off-chance asked about my stuff again - suddenly she exclaimed "ahhh, so it was you!", and returned all my worldy possesions.
It turns out that I while playing pool I'd been playing a shot where I was stretched over the table, had emptied my pockets onto a nearby table to alleviate the groinal discomfort resulting and had then walked off, leaving all my stuff in the pub.
Safe to say I always check I've got my keys with me before I go anywhere now...
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Fucking hell, TTT.
As I read it, you put a deal of effort into having a good time doing something that you had never done before that might impress your peers, but due to your own stupidity you found yourself stranded in the cold with limited options of how to resolve the situation. You used what little resources you had to get youself through this tricky time and ended up making your way to a person who might well have abandoned you to finally be rescued to tell the tale.
You should write a book and keep the film rights.
You could call it "Avoiding Annoying The Ex" or "Touching The Void" or something?
Some bloke called Simpson made a right packet doing the same thing.
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Had a minor issue on Monday.
With a lingering blinder of a headache from a weekends driving/heat visiting the outlaws, I spent the first half of my Monday van driving shift in a terrible mood.
My mood lightened however upon arriving at an lighting firm in Rotherham. As follows.
Pulled into their car park obeying absolutely none of the usual parking procedures. Reception on the left, line of parked cars on the right. As I pulled up as close to the foyer as possible I noticed out of the corner of my eye a figure leaning into a vehicle. I looked in my wing mirror as I ground to a halt and lo, the female form. I picked up my clipboard and opened the van door for a better look as I step out. The hot receptionist (dressed accordingly) in short skirt was leaning into the rear seats of her car to retrieve god knows what. Mmmmm thinks I as I loiter from a few yards away. Peachy. I turned round, and within a heartbeat, walked nose first into the wingmirror. Pif Paf Poof.
Oh, how I would like this to be the end of the tale.
With what I can only describe as a boundless fury I screamed 2 words. No more, no less. Fucking Cunt. I must have had some degree of self awareness however as I started to spin around as they exited my head. Bad move. She immediately extracted herself from the rear of her vehicle to sight the scumbag. I stared back at her though teary eyes, hand over my nose/mouth. Fucking Cunt. I don't know if she took it as some sort of request, observation or tourettes as clarifying the point was clearly a no no. Fucking Cunt.
I go back tomorrow to, err, see what the crack is.
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Reminds me of being a Junior Doctor in Paisley. Anyone that's ever been there may know of the basement corridors. A friend and I used to go there regularly to head to the yellow walled, thick aired room.
One day I was heading down there and saw my mate away down the corridor behind me. Ho ho, thought I. At the bend in the corridor I slipped into a doorway and waited.
Footsteps approached and just as they reached my hiding place I leapt out, arms aloft like some Daddy Longlegs, and shouted "boo" at the top of my lungs.
The first thing I saw was a very scared young nurse staring at me like I was a loon.
The second thing I saw was Alan Cameron a little way down the corridor pissing himself laughing.
Fuck, where's a hole in the ground when you need one?
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[Bump]
Just thought I'd re-ignite this.. seems we could all do with cheering up at the moment and this thread has had me metaphorically wetting myself having somehow re-discovered it whilst searching for something else.
Unfortunately, I cant add anything more to it. But maybe there are newer members of the forums who, a: haven't had the pleasure of this thread and b: might contribute further to it.
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God I bet oldmanmatt has enough to keep us going till we've all been vaccinated!
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God I bet oldmanmatt has enough to keep us going till we've all been vaccinated!
If I said I hadnt thought about it, Id be lying.
Its just, most of (what I think) are my funniest tales are, um, incriminating.
Not like Ill be able to resist.
Bollocks.
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I can provide a story about being caught on the university roof at midnight with a couple of members of the university mountaineering club, or, the time I broke my friend's nose in the middle of Prague after a night out.
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I've nearly type a story a here a few times and deleted it as it's too cringeworthy. Desperate times though.
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Anyway, so, I got deported from Italy.
It was October 1990, and I was on a certain Warship, that shall remain nameless, because its not like any of this made the tabloids back home, or anything.
Or caused diplomatic issues with important, at the time, allies preparing for war together.
It all got lost in the whole Desert Shield thing.
The Navy had this thing called R&R (pretty sure that stands for Rum and Riots, never bothered to check, seems likely, based on experience). Wed been stooging around the Eastern Med, bravely patrolling mere hundreds of Kilometres beyond Sadams longest range weapons and we were tired (the air conditioning onboard, just didnt work properly and the ship was packed to the mast head with officer cadets on training. Very arduous).
So we got packed off for a week in a certain little Italian town, that didnt have any roads, but did have lots of canals, one of which was quite big, you could say Grand.
It is possible that the warship, was the largest destroyer in the Navy, at the time and carried some 475 officers and crew (mixed, already). It might also have been a very old steam ship.
Steam ships are not what you might call convenient. You cant just leap onboard, flick a switch and sail off on a whim. A small crew of Stokers and Tiffs (look it up), the Steaming Watch turn too, 24hrs before departure, to fire up and warm through boilers and turbines (were talking superheated steam, takes a while to make and you cant just throw it into a cold turbine without shit getting all catastrophic and stuff). This lady did not stop so easily either, what with being a few thousand tons of steel, oil, big things that go bang and thirsty Matelots.
It was deemed to be a big deal, there would be cocktail parties and soire galore. We were to moor right in that big canal, right next to this big square (nice tower, St Somethings, Mikes? Forgotten). We couldnt be right at the end of the square though, because that spot was already taken by the Sultan of Omans yacht (this was also, partly, why we were there).
Our Skipper, being the consummate professional, declined to take lines from the attending tugs and bade them standby in case of emergency. Skill would be demonstrated.
By chance, some rather special people, from a large, brash, fellow ally, were also in town. These gentlemen took their name from a certain marine mammal and had some security role in the goings on.
They came out to greet us in their little rubber boats, a sort of guard of honour, if you will.
Now that big canal, looks kinda wide, to the untrained eye, but the big a big ship can fit in, really isnt.
This meant, when one of those little rubber boats stalled, despite our skilful Masters best effort, we did, in fact steam right over the top of it, causing some damage to the marine mammal driving it. Not serious, but enough to put him out of the coming war.
It also meant that we went quite hard to Starboard, failed to slow down (because of not wanting to lose steerage way). This resulted in our bow, entering the stern cabin of the Sultans yacht.
We had this thing called Procedure Alpha, where everyone not actually driving, manned the rails and waists in No.1 rig and looked pretty.
I happened to be quite a way Forward, on the Starboard side. The face of the poor bloody steward, peering out of the new ventilation hole in the Sultans cabin, will haunt me forever.
Finally, ropes are over and gathered on the flight deck are the Steaming Watch, who by right and tradition, are first to be granted leave on arrival and usually the first to set foot on foreign soil.
Today, however, they had to wait, as our glorious leader was in a bit of a rush to visit with the Sultan. Looked a bit flustered. A bit pink and sweaty.
Fastest walk Ive ever seen or heard of a condemned man manage.
Not laughing at all, the twenty or so men of the Steaming Watch, follow him down the brow and head to the first bar in that square, just out of sight from the ship.
I did mention it was quite a big ship, didnt I? The brow was not just a ramp. The ramp extended to a stage, the switchbacked through two flights of steps to the ground. This will be important later.
Not long after, myself and my particular bunch, left with our boss for a quick bimble in the Dolomites. This is another story, for another day, but I would break my ankle, which did make the rest of the war, um, fun.
From this point, until we returned to the watery little town, I have only the word of the entire crew to rely on, when describing the subsequent events.
It seems, those Marine Mammal fellows were offended by their comrades misfortune and took the, unreasonable, line that it was somehow the fault of our chaps. Upon finding the Steaming Watch, already half cut, in the tourist crowded square, they proceeded to remonstrate, somewhat physically with them. This was not a fair fight, despite the Marine Mammals being outnumbered. The Steaming Watch were mainly skilled in lifting pint glasses, eating pies and getting covered in oil. They were only fighting men in the broadest sense and their combat skills extended as far as those drunken, flailing, wrestling matches that sometimes followed a particularly good night out with uncooperative locals, but no further.
A prudent young Junior Stoker, accurately assessing the relative value of discretion vis a vis valour, slipped away and ran back to the ship.
Now, the Stokers mess aboard that humble War Canoe, housed a meagre compliment of some eighty men.
I understand that most of them decided not to wait for the Officer of the day to grant leave and save him the trouble of piping it, by simply streaming down the brow to join our glorious allies for an impromptu dance...
Some four days later, my bunch stepped off the train in that little town again. I was somewhat hampered by my ankle, which our medic assured me was just sprained (wanker) but was, in fact, broken. However with some pharmaceutical assistance (Oramorph) I could shuffke along with a trekking axe to lean on.
As we moved down the platform, we were intercepted by some serious, heavily armed, Carabinieri types, who didnt seem inclined to engage in conversation, or even speak any English. They did manage to convey a desire that we should go with them, though, cleverly, with their gun barrels.
Universal language, I suppose.
I can attest, that being frogmarched along uneven paving, cobbles and over innumerable arched bridges, in an immensely circuitous route, with a broken ankle; is not on my lets do that again list. Im pretty sure theres something in the Geneva Convention about it (bloody well should be).
Arriving back at the ship, we found a somewhat baffling scene. A smart ring of Carabinieri encircled the foot of the brow. A little man in a shiny suit, stood behind a small folding desk. On the brow, two somewhat unsteady matelots , were trying to get a large, black, curly ended, punt type boat; around one of the switchbacks and failing. While we watched, some helpful police types took away the punt and helped the lads up the brow, often managing to use both boots (in defiance of gravity) to encourage them on their way.
The little man at the table politely requested our passports and put a pretty little stamp in them, in red, and asked if we could please not come back.
My father had for many years, a newspaper cutting, from a well known tabloid, that seemed to compare Her Majestys Royal Navy sailors with Football Hooligans, but it was lost in a house flood, some years ago. I have, half heartedly tried to find it online, but no joy.
Of course, at this point, the war hadnt even started, so things got better after that.
Or not.
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(https://i.ibb.co/9TyhFJv/DE362-CCE-AAF0-4707-9941-E1-CDC3366-E50.webp)
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(https://i.ibb.co/9TyhFJv/DE362-CCE-AAF0-4707-9941-E1-CDC3366-E50.webp)
Yeah, got that the other day from an old oppo. The 9th of Jan was the 32nd anniversary of our joining.
The fucking realisation was devastating.
Uncle Albert.
Uncle Bloody Albert.
Has more hair than me.
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So, this is not about me, it's a mate, who got a holiday job during uni days doing some gardening work. He got dropped round someone's leafy Surrey garden, armed with all necessary tools, and while they were hard at work at the office, he would have the job of weeding, pruning etc, and work on his suntan. Boss would come round at lunchtime, check in, go to pub for a bit of lunch etc.
Trouble was mate had had a few beers and a curry the night before, and it wasn't going to wait until the lunchtime pub, so he took the only option available, selected the largest tree in the garden, went behind it, dug the deepest hole he could and did what was required in what he thought was total secrecy, using the wrapper from his morning sandwich as makeshift paper and buried it as best he could.
He emerged from behind the tree, spade under arm, feeling somewhat satisfied, only to look up and see one of the neighbours looking on, somewhat horrified from an upstairs bedroom window.
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Not my story and had I heard it from anyone else I would have said it was nonsense. But I heard it, in a tent in the Dolomites, from the very person at its centre.
Some years ago my friend (let's call him John to protect his identity) was signed up to do the Morocco Hitch for RAG week. The idea is to set off from university and hitch-hike to Morocco as fast as you can. John and his mate were doing well and were in France.
The worst thing that can happen in hitch-hiking is to be dropped in the middle of a town centre. All the traffic is local and nobody stops, or even has a place to pull in and stop amidst all the traffic. John and Matey had been dropped in the centre of a French town and it was getting dark. Nobody was stopping to give them a lift so they started walking, hoping to hit the edge of town and get a lift to a motorway. Along the way they entered a kebab shop (or French equivalent. Maybe an all-night boulangerie or something) to ask for directions. As they opened the door, the interior fell silent, as it might in an old western when the gunslinger barges through the saloon doors. The assembled drug dealers glared at them as they asked at the counter for directions. The pair exited again and were walking along the road, perhaps half an hour later, when a van screeched to a halt beside them. The panel door flew open, and weed smoke billowed out. "Get in," called the drug dealers, "we'll give you a lift".
With great trepidation, John and Matey climb in, and the van careers off down the street. When they reach the edge of town, the demands for petrol money start which, somehow, John manages to talk them out of. So here they are, in the night, and they're now at the edge of town on the periphery of what looks like a refinery. So they begin to walk alongside it in search of a motorway. An hour or more passes when a police car pulls up and 3 gendarmes jump out and draw their batons. "Je suis desole! Je suis desole!" they scream. After some negotiation, the police decide they cannot leave the two unfortunates where they are and take them to the motorway where they can be picked up at a service station. John and Matey bed down in the services and sleep for the rest of the night.
In the morning, their luck is in. A nice, smart-looking, late middle-aged gentleman in a BMW says he will give them a lift. He secures their bags in the boot and they climb into the back. Nothing happens. They are waiting for someone. A pretty young lady in her early twenties climbs into the front passenger seat. Ah, they think, his daughter. The car pulls away and they're off.
It isn't long into their trip down the autoroute when the girl reaches out her hand, rests it on the driver's leg, and then starts to rub it up and down. A silent glance is exchanged between our heroes: not his daughter then. The rubbing intensifies. "Trs excitant, trs excitant!" she gasps. The girl unclips her seatbelt and climbs into the back, sitting herself down between John and Matey, and now she starts to rub their legs! "Trs excitant, trs excitant!" The driver looks back. "Un prservatif?" he asks. A pair of condoms are tossed into the back of the car.
I will not give an extended description of what then took place. But let us just say that everything took place. Everything. As it was happening, the driver's eyes flicked back and forth between the road ahead and his rear view mirror. When the car drew level with a lorry he would slow to drive alongside the cab for a while, allowing the trucker to enjoy the spectacle as well.
Eventually, the driver said, "There is a toll booth. You will have to put your seatbelt on." The girl climbed into the front seat and they passed the toll. Nothing more was said. The BMW pulled into the next service station and the nice, smart-looking, late middle-aged gentleman took their bags from the boot and handed them to the boys, before climbing back into the car and driving away. John and Matey stood there, the condoms still clinging to their now flaccid members, wondering whether their lives had just passed their zenith. They went into the service station to clean up and it was here that John realised that his phone was in the BMW. He ran outside panic-stricken, and there was the girl. "Silly boy!" she sang, and she twirled around and got back into the car, which drove off and disappeared onto the motorway slip road.
John is still convinced that in the depths of some pr0n website's servers there is a video of him and his friend in the back of that car.
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The more I read this thread, the more I've come to realise that while I thought my life had had its fair share of adventure and debauchery, it seems other have had a much bigger share.
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I really dont drink much, these days.
I never did and that was, at heart, why it was often problem when I did, because I really shouldnt, even though I did.
I was prone to impulsive decisions, easily bored and a tendency to volunteer for anything that might break the daily cycle of tedium. Alcohol is something to be avoided, if that sentence describes you.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words and Im usually pretty crap at providing evidence, so Ill make this an illustrated tale.
To set the scene, I was 2 i/c of a five man team, that went (for training purposes, honest) to climb Mt Paget, highest peak on South Georgia. We failed and that is a long story, but not very funny. Pics for context:
Trekking in to advanced base camp, from our main camp at the coast.
(https://i.ibb.co/0MyGTKK/68-CD21-F7-0-DCF-44-E5-8827-A2390702-E731.jpg)
In the Col, between Paget and Roots (behind) just before everything went wrong).
(https://i.ibb.co/d4XMB0x/79-F4-F5-CB-74-A9-475-C-8336-E4-C6-AF5-E6-A24.jpg)
Looking back over the many miles to the coast, that we now had to cross, frostbitten and snow blind. Looks pretty doesnt it. Even though that sun wont set, night is rapidly approaching and the Katabatics are already building. Soon well be huddling in -50⁰ windchill and gale force winds and driving ice.
(https://i.ibb.co/mFRHnn0/769160-D5-3-D78-4-D66-8-BA0-14-CDC8-E63-C25.jpg)
One epic later, we were rescued by the RM MLs from the garrison at King Edward Point. It was Xmas eve, 1992.
(https://i.ibb.co/5kmTbNj/B8-F56-AFB-0-F2-E-43-EA-93-A1-C8100-D59-DD00.jpg)
Since the 1982 war, there has been a garrison on South Georgia, mainly Army with RM Mountain and Arctic cadre support (there was some rivalry between my little team and the Cadre, they did laugh as they rescued us).
The garrison welcomed us in and in true British Army tradition, began our treatment and therapy. Rewarm the frozen bits and get us royally drunk.
I awoke on Christmas morning, in the Seargents mess, sprawled on a years supply of toilet rolls, in some store room. I was blind, or at least I couldnt open my eyes, because the sun burn blisters on my forehead had burst, gunk had run down into my eyes, hardened and sealed them shut.
I was woken by a very jovial Seargent, who bade me a Merry Crimbo Princess pressed a mug of Gunfire into my mits and helped me sponge my eyes open.
Gunfire is tea and Rum. It bagan.
The garrison CO thought it a wonderful idea that we join the annual Reindeer hunt (long story, its a cull because theyre an introduced/invasive species with no natural predators) and despite our shocking state, with a little Dutch courage, we did. My first time firing the then new Arctic Warfare sniper rifle and I was well over the legal driving limit...
Head shot. 300 meters. Im an engineer not a marksman.
Anyway, by the midday church service in Grytviken I must have been quite sozzled, because I actually set foot in the church and it wasnt a wedding or a funeral.
(https://i.ibb.co/5x491th/FAF93486-95-FB-406-A-88-F1-6-F63-F9399596.jpg)
Yes, thats Gunfire in my hand.
So, after church, we decided to pay homage to Shackltons grave, a short walk away.
(https://i.ibb.co/Dp6wFdS/E245-BA45-436-C-42-B3-ACDC-82-B6-EF3-D9-F0-B.jpg)
Note that pretty fence. It will save my life.
From the graveyard, we spied quite a large colony of Elephant seal, about two hundred meters along the coast. We were not wildlife experts. We had been told to treat all the local wildlife as dangerous, but the Gunfire was in command. So we went to have a look.
Here is a picture of me demonstrating an activity that is not recommended for those who desire to exist more than a couple of minutes after carrying it out.
Hes only a young bull, not a patch on the Beach Master, deeper in the colony:
(https://i.ibb.co/TbP9SNZ/B3-B594-CA-7-DEE-4-A9-A-92-C3-327-FFA23-EBDA.jpg)
Holyfuckingshitcanthesebastardsfuckingmoveonfuckingland!!!
To this day, I do not know how we outran him, especially half cut. I cant find the scars where the wings appeared, but Im sure they did. I dont remember clearing the graveyard fence, but we did. Cowering behind grave stones until the fella calmed down and flubbered back to the colony.
Chastised, were wandered back to the garrison for Xmas lunch, a food fight and quite a lot more alcohol.
Now, I like to think I have an affinity with animals and my fragile ego was dented by that creatures lack of appreciation of my Dr Dolittle pretensions (aka, I was a twat). After lunch, by now absolutely rat-arsed and burbling, I set out to find some Elephant seals and explain why they should accept me as one of their own. Still wearing the silly orange crown from my Xmas cracker.
(https://i.ibb.co/316X1Cw/A9-CF5-A9-E-B221-4132-B296-5-AB0-BC6121-FD.jpg)
Anyway, I dont actually remember that bit. I fell asleep, just after the photo was taken. The seals didnt give a toss that I was there, until I started snoring, apparently, which irritated them so much they flubbered away into the water. That was when my oppos decided it was safe to go in and carry me back to my pit.
Most days, when my memory decides to actually work, I wonder how Im still here.
I wasnt very well on Boxing day.
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The more I read this thread, the more I've come to realise that while I thought my life had had its fair share of adventure and debauchery, it seems other have had a much bigger share.
To be fair, Will's story does take some beating.
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The more I read this thread, the more I've come to realise that while I thought my life had had its fair share of adventure and debauchery, it seems other have had a much bigger share.
To be fair, Will's story does take some beating.
did you find the video, or are you using your imagination?
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very good.
"Just finish the f*ucking story!"
(if you know the punchline, you'll know the joke. If you don't it's not repeatable here).
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Get a pint or 2 down him, and Will will be saying that "John" embarked on a successful pron career off the back of it, or goes to the same service station every year as an annual pilgrimage hoping the young lady and old man return or some other embellishment....
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Get a pint or 2 down him, and Will will be saying that "John" embarked on a successful pron career off the back of it, or goes to the same service station every year as an annual pilgrimage hoping the young lady and old man return or some other embellishment....
I admit that I would normally never let the truth spoil a good story (as Ben knows only too well), but I can honestly say that the story of the Morocco Hitch required no exaggeration whatsoever.
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I have met "John" and heard the story from him. All Will's other stories are conplete fabrications though. He is actually a bronzed 60 year old 5 ft Greek who has never been to yorkshire.
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Is Will the Greek the bastard love child of Phil the Greek by any chance.
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3 am. Woken by a loud "Beep!", one I recognise instantly "please no, please no" I recite, trying to get back to sleep. "Beep!" FFS, smoke alarm, low battery. I stumble from the bed onto the landing and stand in the dark trying to figure out which one is beeping. "Beep!" oh great, the sound comes from the one just above the stairwell. I reach up and can just hold it, but not open it. I turn on hall light and squint up at it and see some words about inserting screwdriver. Stumble downstairs, find a flat screwdriver and try and insert and dislodge. Does not budge. So i go into the office, drag out swivel chair, and am then balanced on chair at the top of the stairs, screwdriver in hand and in my mind the HSE Alarm is going off - this is dangerous, do not fuck up. Eventually i manage to dislodge it and slide it off, and safely step down. I peer at it and it's a wired in one, and so I wonder why it's beeping. At this point the one in the corner beeps, not the one in my hand I thought it was! I reach up, flick this one open, remove the battery, and go back to bed.