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This is a question Expensive Weekends

Chthonic says he's still reeling from a trip to a wedding that cost him nearly £600; while a friend of ours hazily presented his credit card to the bar staff in a shady club in the Baltic states. You know how that one ended.

(, Thu 13 May 2010, 13:03)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Mrs Spimf can’t do drugs...
not at all, she’s tried coke a few times and it always went like this...

"Want some of this coke baby?"

"No I cant, I cant, I really cant"

"Sure?"

"Well maybe just a wee bit"

Snnnnnnnnnnnnnnort!

FFW 6 hours... and we have a raging Hoover nosed maniac with one eye going to the shops and the other one coming back with the change - demanding more sex, coke,porn,sex,coke,porn - you get the picture. She even got so off her face on a bottle of poppers at T in the Park she had to be carried a good mile or so back to the bloody tent. But that's just the preamble...

A good few years back we went to a really nice hotel in a wee fishing village in Scotland - Portpatrick to be precise. With some time to kill before dinner, lolling around in our room, I decide to roll a joint.

"Want to try some hash babes"

"No I can't smoke"

"You can eat it though"

"Hmmm? Ok - not much though!"

A small piece of hash the size of a pea is consumed then we took the dogs for a walk along the beach. Drugs? No effect. An hour later there we are in the rather posh hotel bar, Mrs Spimf in a LBD looking leggy, demure and pretty damn hot.

"Would you like a drink before dinner darling”?

"Yes, sherry please"

Now I don’t know what sort of fucked up constitution my Mrs has but it would seem a tiny speck of cannabis can lie dormant in her tumblyboos until one small sherry is sloshed down there, then it begins...

Giggling - fair enough
Talking Pish - fair enough
Sudden loss of short term memory resulting is said pish being repeated on loop - fair enough
Attempt to get off bar stool and go to the loo resulting in KO style collapse in the middle of the room - erm no.

To make matters even better she had landed smack on the floor at the owner’s feet who was chatting with her daughter. Soon revived and seemingly now ok (ish) while rubbing a slight bump on her head, Mrs Spimf (brilliantly) explains to the hotel owner she might have had an adverse reaction to some prescription medicine. Owner promptly offers to call a doctor; she even offered to act as a witness in the lawsuit she had conjured from nowhere that was going to 'ruin' the 'idiot' doctor that would prescribe such powerful drugs without proper warning. Suddenly Mrs Spimf is fine and dandy again so we decide to proceed with dinner. She's now hungry - celle surprise! A sip of wine and a nibble at her starter and she’s off again. Talking pish, swaying about, stuck on a Groundhog Day loop - the lot!

Tits.

Quietly, I ask the waiter if he could sent the rest of the food up to the room and try to make as dignified an exit as one can with Ken Fucking Dodd in a cocktail dress waving and belming to a room full of bemused diners. So there we are back in the room - immediately Mrs Spimf strips naked. No idea why, the only thing I was intending eating at that point was my bloody steak, which was supposedly on its way up.

Knock knock - "room service"

"Come in" coos my idiot bloody wife, naked as a Tory MP in a boys dormitory.

The poor bloke trundles in with a splendid tray of delights, complete with comedy silver dome things on them. Give him his due he barely batted an eyelid as I hastily tried to cover my mad as a bat butt naked wife. He left with a smirk and large tip. After ten minutes of watching my wife struggling to use cutlery (she seemed to be knitting an imaginary scarf from invisible wool) I suggested at that point she might well be better in bed. So in she pops.

Thank. Fuck! Peace at last. Just as I finish my steak the convulsions start. Yes fucking convulsions.

Su-fucking-perb.

So there she is: Portpatrick's answer to Jon Belushi writhing around in bed like Linda Blair's epileptic understudy. After some 'discussion' Mrs Spimf decides it is in fact...

"Nothing to do with the drugs - it must have been when I hit my head"

She then panics - decides she has a 'brain clot' from her tumble earlier (I had a few choice words on that one). Nevertheless Mrs Spimf demands a doctor be summoned.

"Head injuries must be investigated!"

So there I am - no choice. I called the owner and asked if she could discreetly request a local doctor give us a quick call just to reassure my idiot wife she is not destined to spend the remainder of her days communicating with one eyebrow. Ten minutes later an ambulance with full blues and twos rocks up.

Fuck.

All too soon the paramedics enter the room, along with the bloody owner and her daughter as well for good measure. After I managed to tactfully ask them to get the fuck out I had a quite word with the paramedic.

"Don’t think its the bump to the head mate" (looks around conspiratorially) "she's actually eaten a little bit of cannabis"

Paramedic looks confused,

"How much"

"Erm maybe enough for two fairly miserly joints"

Paramedic scratches head.

"What’s she doing eating it - your supposed to smoke it, at least that's what I do (winks), having said that if she's had a bump to the head we should maybe take her in for observation"

Tits.

So they go to lift the pale and shaking Mrs Spimf out of bed

"Wait!"

"She’s naked"

"Oh right, fine where are her clothes"

I gather up the frilly black undies, stockings heels and LBD and realise the chances of getting her dressed without more drama were, to even the most optimistic observer, bugger all.

"Fuck it, wrap her up in the duvet, I’ll take the clothes with me"

And so they did. Then popped her on a little chair with wheels affair and lifted her up....

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" cries my lunatic wife - "I'M SCARED OF HEIGHTS!!!!"

"Erm your only about 6 inches off the floor love"

"OH? ...Well it felt a lot higher"

*faceplams*

So we process through the hotel lobby - the entire staff and guests it would seem had now lined up to see the drama unfolding with 'my lovely wife' now back on a high waving like a mong on a day trip to a window factory.

Kill me now, please God - end this now.

So we sat in the ambulance - it was at least 40 minutes to the nearest A&E. Mrs Spimf cracking jokes all the way. Me sitting there with a face like thunder. They treated Mrs Spimf and I like we had been up all night smearing methadone on a baby, they grilled me on what she had 'actually taken' then eventually they let us home at around 3 am. So on top of the cost of the fancy hotel, meal and a ruined LBD, the taxi back to the hotel cost nearly 50 quid - about 15 years ago.

I don't allow my wife drugs anymore. Muppet.
(, Thu 13 May 2010, 13:33, 21 replies)
Money back guarantee...
Usual Vegas extravagance story...but with added bonus.

The Wynn Hotel, Las Vegas, NV - one of the finest places on this earth. They have a new club there called 'XS', which is built around a huge, shallow swimming pool, which without fail, 100's of scantily clad American bimbo wannabes throw themselves into every night. The trick is to hire a 'cabana' by the waters edge, so the dripping wet girls have a place to enter and exit the pool, they really appreciate the free towels and drinks that cabana owners can supply them with.

My mate and I, just the two of us, hired a cabana and put down a $1000 min drinks tab with my Amex card. What a night. We were outnumbered 8-1 by desperate, stunning, nubile girls. They LOVED our cabana, they ordered vodka by the bottle and champagne by the magnum. My friend and I sat there resplendent, the stars of our very own hip-hop video, fully satisfied and content that a few of their American dollars could purchase such a wonderful, short-lived fantasy.

But all good things must come to an end. And end they did, with the addition of a $2,400 drinks bill. The waitress brought my card on a silver tray and asked me to sign (no chip & pin in the US of A), I drunkenly pointed to my far drunker mate, who grabbed the receipt and duly signed it. I was too pissed to care. Plus one of the girls had accepted my invitation to come use one of the luxuriant Wynnn bathrobes that I had in my room...

Picking over the bones of the evening the next day, we struggled to remember our total bill. A brief search of my mate's wallet found the copy receipt and the enormity of our overspend hit home. But closer inspection of it revealed a get out clause. I immediately called Amex and complained that I'd misplaced my card between 1am and 6am, somewhere in the greater Las Vegas area.

Back home I was sent a pack by Amex. It contained a list of all my expenditure during that time, plus photcopies of my signed receipts. And there it was. The biggie.

A receipt for $2,400.00 spent at XS Club, Wynn Hotel.

Agreed and signed, clear as day, by a 'Mr M. Mouse Esq.'

They re-credited every cent onto my next statement.
(, Thu 13 May 2010, 15:55, 13 replies)
paragliding
I used to live in Brighton and there were a few hills in the area that people used to paraglide from. It looked great, soaring around like a bird high above the clouds. So I went down to the paragliding shop and took their beginner deal- 2k, you got lessons until you passed, and your 'wing' all included in the price. You only got your wing once you'd passed your test and got your certificate. I learnt as much as I could about it but every weekend it was pissing down with rain.
A few months later it was finally the perfect day, not too windy, not too wet. I was shown how to strap myself in, and I stood on the edge of the hill. the old instructor dude was holding on to my trousers and saying 'i daren't let you go until you've had a bit more expetirnce'. Then it started raining. The next day the company went bust.
So two grand to stand on a hill with an old dude holding my trousers.
(, Sun 16 May 2010, 20:21, 5 replies)
Expensive….and terrifying (For me anyway)
Time for my entry for this week and apologies for length in advance.

Last weekend was my daughters 5th birthday and as it was her first birthday at primary school my other half decided that the best thing to do would be to set up a party and invite all her classmates. As things are pretty tight cash wise at the moment the wife decided to host it our house and so the past few weeks I have been in the back garden making the whole thing presentable, buying a shedload of decorative gravel etc etc. I don’t actually class this as a wasted expense as the back garden looks pretty good now and we will use it for future barbecues. The thing that bothers me did not turn up until my daughters classmates had arrived.

As the party guests were running around the house screaming/ overdosing on diluted orange there was a knock at the door. Wifey yelled at me to go get it as she has her hands full. In retrospect I should have seen the evil glint in her eye but I was welcome to escape the mass hysteria from the group of 4 to 5 year olds.

I opened the front door to the sight of a 6 foot tall bloke dressed in neon colours , every patch of his skin was covered in face paint and had a comedy purple wig that was styled on the mad hatter. For anyone else this may not be worrying its just a kiddies entertainer turning up but for me it was as if time had stood still and my skin had turned ice cold. I may not have mentioned this before on this site but I have an irrational fear of clowns*. I know it sounds stupid to be afraid of blokes in facepaint but really that’s the only thing I have a problem with I am not affected by spiders, wasps, heights, ghosts, snakes, the dark etc etc, clowns just freak me out and will make me break into a cold sweat. What came next was even worse.

“HELLOOOO MON” screeched the brillo haired man from my nightmares

(Shit he knows my name thinks I while scanning the nearby area for something hard to hit him with before he bursts out into song or forces me to watch the entire run of 2 pints of larger and a packet of crisps**)

Clown: I’M HERE TO ENTERTAIN YOUR DAUGHTER AND FRIENDS TODAAAAAAY (Everything is in caps because the git actually yelled it and did the whole jazz hands thing simultaneously)

Me: You’re going to kill them aren’t you

Clown: IT’S OK MON I KNOW YOU ARE SCARED OF MY KIND, I LOVE ALL PEOPLE AND KIDDIES

(I would have cracked a pedophile joke but I was too petrified that he classed all clowns as his kind, which solidifies my theory that all clowns are either alien or demons created from souls of scriptwriters from unfunny BBC sitcoms)

While Mr Clown ran off to amuse the kids in the garden I hid in the kitchen and cautiously checked every so often as I didn’t want him appearing behind me when I was unaware. The other party guests were pissing themselves as the wife had posted the fact that the clown was coming and that I was bound to spack out due to my phobia on facebook earlier in the week. My plan was to stay out of the way while the clown did his magic tricks, made balloon animals and played DJ Otzi and the crazy frog at full pelt from his portable CD player. As he was finishing his act he decided to end on a high before the cake arrived:

NOW THEN I’M GOING TO NEED THE BIRTHDAY GIRL TO HELP ME WITH MY FINAL MAGIC TRICK declared the large footed vision of evil

My daughter went up to the front)

NOW THEN MONSDAUGHTER, WE MIGHT NEED SOME HELP FOR THIS ONE WOULD YOU LIKE TO GET SOMEONE TO COME UP HERE AND JOIN YOU?

(Choose the girl with the wonky eye or better yet the psychopathic little spoilt brat who has spent the last ten minutes twatting everyone with that plastc sword thinks I but we all know where this is going don’t we…)

HOW ABOUT YOUR DADDY? sings my new arch nemesis smiling like a rapist in a dormitory of heavily sedated convent girls

YAAYY yell a select few of parents that are now on my newly created list of people I plan on sending anthrax to

I then sat there and tried to look my best while the clown wrapped me in balloons, after an inappropriate amount of fondling from coco he eventually made the balloons spell the words happy birthday and made the kids sing to my daughter while the missuis brought in the cake.

As he finished packing up Mr Clown decided to leave me with one parting shot to scar me for a while:

REEEEMEMBER MON I KNOW WHERE YOU LIIIIVVEEEEEEEE!!!!!! HE HE HE HE!

(I Make a note to myself to arm the house via an array of heavy, swingable objects and if feasible a tesla coil or even look at another property)

So this weekend has been quite expensive for the missus as she has paid for the party, the entertainer and the therapy bills for her husband who is also plotting revenge on her in some possible way. I know that she is scared of wasps but I think that the chance of me being able training a wasp to turn up at our house and annoy her is fairly slim so any ideas from you B3tans would be appreciated.

*Before anyone asks it has nothing to do with watching a film involving Pennywise the clown at an early age, by the time I had seen it I realized that Pennywise was played by Tim Curry so everytime I saw him I had thoughts of him as Frank N Furter so he wasn’t really that scary.

**Both are actual nightmares that would probably force me to give up sleep without some form of tranquilizers
(, Tue 18 May 2010, 14:15, 14 replies)
One night in Paris, is like a year in any other place.
Before we begin, let me just state that at no point in this story did I ever enter a Honda Accord. (Also, this is more of a mid-week thing)

Back in November 2009, I was working in a fucking awful job. I'd just decided to leave university due to the fact that studying management is essentially saying to the world "I wasn't smart enough to study economics" and was desperately scraping enough money together to keep paying the rent on my shared student accomodation as well as being able to maintain a 35% alcohol to blood ratio.
Days drudged by and I was getting more and more depressed, until suddenly out of nowhere an e-mail came in for a job at a well known Paris-based themepark.

I was absolutely stunned! They wanted to meet me urgently to see if I would be able to digitally animate and voice a small blue alien in one of their live shows. After a number of phonecalls and e-mails they arranged for me to head to their interview facility in Paris on the upcoming Thursday. Time is requested off work, flights are booked (£315 return).

Then I receive a voicemail, the interview needs to be moved to Tuesday. I'm in work so I call my mum asking her to take care of the details (£26.50 to change the date), time is booked off work and I begin to anticipate what could be the start of a whole new life for me.

Tuesday morning rolls around, I head to Manchester Airport from York via the train (£22 return), iPhone in hand with all flight check-in numbers stored. Sandwich & Starbucks at Station (£8)

Arrive at Manchester Airport and head to self check-in, tap in details... doesn't work. Try again... doesn't work. Storm Angrily over AirFrance's help desk and complain I can't log in, portly gentleman asks for check in details, he taps them into his computer and sighs heavily.

AF EMPLOYEE - "You can't check in today sir, because your flight is not within the next 5 days"
ME - "I'm sorry, I'm flying today"
AF EMPLOYEE - "No sir, You're booked for next Tuesday"

MY MIND GOES COMPLETELY BLANK.... Then I flashback to the phonecall to mum and me saying "Can you change the flight to the Tuesday before".

ME - "(Top Note in the middle of Terminal 2) I'LL BLOODY KILL HER!"
I scramble for my phone and desperately try calling her, she's at work, so I get put through and we have a lengthy debate about who was to blame, ultimately ending with me pleading with her to try changing my flight to today which it turns out is impossible, but theres a British Airways flight leaving in 45 minutes with open seats... from Terminal 1.

Ever seen that running scene in Home Alone in the Airport? I was re-enacting that but in fast forward, I find the desk and finally get to use the line "I need a ticket for the next plane to Paris, it's an emergency". They've only got first class tickets left. I reluctantly take it on the credit card. (£535 one way)

By now I'm running about an hour and a half late, so I make a series of calls to the team at Paris-based themepark to let them know, finally board the plane and land at Charles De Gaulle.
I rush to the train station and desperately try to buy a ticket (in extremely broken french) to Chessy as it's pretty much inside Paris-based themepark only to be told (I think) that the train has left and there's not another for an hour and a half.

I try to call the recruiter again, no reply. I decide a taxi would be the best way to get there so rush up the escalator out into the taxi stand without looking and my bag gets clipped by a large taxi-bus-thing and I crash to the floor. The driver gets out and begins apologising in French as I find my feet, I reach for my phone which has cracked in the fall and realise that this might be my only chance to get there on time... I try to ask him to take me to the themepark... he doesn't understand, eventually, I try to load the themeparks website on my horrifically broken phone and it clicks, he sits me in the front and off we go. (I can only assume he thought he'd really hurt me because he drove me the equivalent of Manchester to Liverpool for 5€)

I get to the interview sweaty, tired, stressed and a little bruised but it goes pretty well, not the greatest, but I'm hopeful. I thank them for meeting me and step to the front gates of the park and suddenly realise.
I'm in Paris, I only bought a one way ticket, I've no real way to get back to Charles De Gaulle, I'm due back in work tomorrow and I can't speak french. SHIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!

Eventually I end up buying a Eurostar from Chessy Gare to London, and upon reaching London buy a train ticket to York (£212).

18 hours after it all started I reach my bed £1118.50 and 5€ lighter, and to cap it all off... I didn't get the job.

Oh well, they're recruiting for the same position in Hong Kong next month.
(, Sat 15 May 2010, 18:29, 11 replies)
A quick family visit back to the UK cost me a fortune!
Sorry this is probably going to be a long one. I'll try and keep it as brief as possible:

You may, or probably dont remember my story about my Ex Kelly and why I quit the UK but its here: b3ta.com/questions/quitters/post164419 .

But as a quick round up, kind of how Home and Away and Neighbours used to start with the review of the previous episode:

Basically me and Kelly got together, she was pregnant with her ex's kid. I practically became daddy to kid. We rented a house together. Then found her cheating on me with a so called friend. So we broke up, and I moved to Spain.

Despite what happened, me and Kelly remained really good friends. I was afterall the baby's Godfather. Tho I'm not particularly religious, this has meaning to me and I see him as family. I will always be there for him till the day I die. He's the closest thing I have to a son, and whenever I go back to the UK, I always make sure to stop in and see them. They've been out to Spain a few times too, and its always good to see them.

Two years ago I went back to the UK for a quick weekend. It was a family members birthday. It literally was a flying visit, only being back for two nights and then having to jet back out to Spain again. Cheap winter flights. No problem!

I managed to find a couple of hours and stopped by to the old house to see Kelly and baby (who is now a full grown toddler!). I was going through some mail that had arrived for me, and happened to notice a letter from the landlord. He was kicking them out. Unfortunately Kelly had been struggling to keep up with the rent. She'd been having a lot of problems with illness and needing a lot of time of work. The doctors were being utterly useless prescribing paracetamol as the cure for everything. As such she was struggling financially, she was £500 in arrears with the rent and had two weeks to vacate the property.

Did she leave the letter out on purpose? I have no idea. We had a chat about it, and I said why didnt you tell me this before? She didnt want to burden me with it. She had two options: One was to take an emergency council house on the filthiest, most dodgiest drug ridden estate in town. Or move back to Mums and be crammed into a box room with a toddler. There was many other issues and problems with her going back to mums too. Basically not really an option.

This house was this kids home, he learned to crawl here, walk here and say his first words here. This rented house was sentimental. Not to mention Kellys independance from mother was also very important. I thought there is no way my godson is going to be brought up on a chavvy scum hole estate.

When we rented the house it was all done via friend of a friend and as such we got away without having to pay any deposit which was pretty awesome. So I phoned the landlord up and explained to him the situation with Kellys illness. He said that he'd had to borrow money from the bank as he was falling behind on the mortgage repayments on the house too. I could understand his situation. He doesnt get paid, it throws him in trouble too financially. Anyway we came to a deal.

That weekend cost me £2,000!!! £500 to cover the rent arrears and £1,500 as three months rent deposit. If she fell behind in the rent again then he could take the money out of the deposit so he wouldnt be left in the lurch. Once the deposit ran out he can give her marching orders. Papers were signed and I transferred the money to him there and then.

I just figured, well I had managed to save up a couple of grand for a rainy day and here was a storm if i ever saw one. I didnt do it for her. I made sure she knew that. I did it for my godson. He's such a great kid and he doesnt deserve to be thrown out of his home like that. Kelly had assured me she was better and she was financially capable of continuing to run the house. I told her to pay me back in small installments, even if its a tenner here and there. Then when it came to moving house in the future, she'd have a lump sum to come back. Saves me from spending my savings on crap, and gives her the opportunity to save up some money for when she moves house. So all in all a pretty win win situation.

Reality? She never did manage to pay anything back. She slipped on the rent twice more. Moved out 4 months ago with her new boyfriend and I got £500 back. woo!

That was an expensive weekend! Still, it was money well spent.
(, Fri 14 May 2010, 16:46, 15 replies)
Explain this Derren
Was watching that Uri Geller geezer on the telly doing a live spoon bending thing. Not wanting to break my cutlery, I grabbed some biros and set about trying to bend them. I rubbed and rubbed them between forefinger and thumb but didn't manage to achieve much more than a slight kink where the outer casing has lost some of it's strength. The spooky thing is that none of the biros now work, they have ink in them but no matter how much I shake them or scribble, no mark is made upon the paper. Those are the ex-pens I've weakened.
(, Wed 19 May 2010, 10:33, 7 replies)
Amsterdam
Technically speaking, it wasn't a weekend, but I think it fits the spirit of the question quite nicely.

Last summer my good friend George and I went to see a japanese jazz band (Soil and "Pimp" Sessions, if you're interested, they're amazing) at the koko club in Camden. Naturally, for such an occasion, we dressed as pimps. We met an old friend of ours there, and his new girlfriend, one of those strange sorts of people who 'don't like jazz' and spent the whole evening not enjoying herself.

In sharp contrast, George and I did very much enjoy ourselves, and proceeded to get all the way down with the help of no small quantity of beer. It was a long set, but it still ended too soon, and elated, we made our way to a nearby sainsbury's to buy some cheap wine and see if we could make a night of it. We got chatting to a bloke in the queue, and by happy coincidence, he happened to be the band's tour manager.

We confessed our hearty appreciation, and he said that they were playing the North Sea Jazz festival in Rotterdam the next day, mentioning some other big jazz names that would make it worth our while.

George looked at me. I looked at George. I should mention at this point we had both been lucky enough to receive quite substantial inheritances at the beginning of the summer, and, while we were in agreement that we should be more or less sensible with how we spent them, the look we exchanged was not a sensible one.

'Ben?'
'Yes?'
'Do you wanna go to Rotterdam?'
'D'you know what? I think I might!'

And so, buzzing from the alcohol with hot jazz riffs bouncing off the possibilities in our heads, we went back to the girl who didn't like jazz's house and set about booking ourself an adventure.

Neither of us drive, so we both carry our passports with us for ID. We looked at lastminute.com; there were flights from London Stansted to Amsterdam at seven am the next morning. We had the means. We had the money. The stars aligned and spelled travel and excitement for my dear friend and I. The girl's brother was even kind enough to offer us a lift to Stansted there and then, although in hindsight maybe he just wanted to get these two pissed weirdos the fuck out of his house. Either way, fortune was smiling on us.

So it came to pass, with hangovers starting to kick in, that at seven o'clock in the morning, still dressed as by now slightly dishevelled pimps, the plane to jazzy goodness was sat on the runway with us sat in it. I hadn't slept. I felt rough as a saloon in a spaghetti western, but by goodness, was I excited!

In so far as we'd thought about it at all, we assumed that we'd have some breakfast in Amsterdam before seeing if we could get a train to Rotterdam and then try and blag our way into the festival. Not the best of plans, but we were too caught up with the wanderlust to really consider it rationally.

We did, as it turns out, manage to get some breakfast, but we still were hanging out of our arses. Being as were in Amsterdam, though, and no strangers to a nice little morning smoke to set up the day, we thought we could see a very pleasant solution to our hangover-based woes.

The pretty lady behind the counter in the Grasshopper asked us what we'd like in perfect english. What a wondrous place, we though, miles away from having some sketchy dude meet you in a public toilets telling you he's got 'the boomting, mate' and then giving you a little bag of leaves. This was definitely a good idea.

'Err, I guess we'll just have a few spliffs of white widow, then, we can always have the one now then smoke the rest later'.

I didn't really know what white widow was, but it sounded like something I wanted.

With casual arrogance befitting out age, we failed to take into account that something called 'white widow' might actually be quite a lot stronger than we were used to, and sure enough by the time we'd smoked most of one joint we had no choice to put it out. My god! I don't think I've ever been more stoned. I wasn't bothered by my hangover any more, but then I was pretty much not bothered by anything except how pretty the floral pattern on the chairs was. George, even more blase about it than I had been, was transfixed on the tv.

An hour later, it became clear to us there was no way we were going to Rotterdam. Mustering the huge energy it took to stand up, we thanked the kind pretty lady and left to do some gentle sightseeing.

Amsterdam is a beautiful city. Obviously, we checked out the red light district, and I can report that few things are odder than hundreds of beautiful women (and some less so. And some men in wigs) standing in windows wearing... well, not much and making sexy gestures at you when you're tripping balls. Later on, we'd have the whole 'well, I mean we could. Should we? We are in Amsterdam after all' conversation, deciding eventually against it, but at first I was pretty much lost for words. Outside of that, there are some lovely buildings and fascinating streets, tranquil canals, etc. There are also few cities where two incredibly baked teenagers dressed as pimps carrying a 'celebrate marijuana' unbrella we'd purchased can pass by almost completely unnoticed. I love that.

This has already become very self-indulgent, for which I apologise, so I will skip through the rest of a wonderful day to the part where we ended up on a pub crawl for tourists. I still hadn't slept. People were pouring shots down my throat. The other two spliffs we'd bought were still very much lingering in the system. in short, it was an utterly fantastic night. Probably the best thirty six hours I've ever had, before we caught the plane home at midday the nexy day, still drunk.

Money well spent.
(, Fri 14 May 2010, 20:45, 6 replies)
I haven't any "expensive" stories
I can, however, recount a cheap weekend that may be familiar to some:

It's Saturday morning. You're ten, and the sun is shining. Despite this, you want to spend your weekend hiding like a groundhog from Murray and playing Resident Evil with your siblings (but not letting them get the controller, you may be ten but you're not a complete fucking moron...) Just as you've settled down with your bag of penny sweets on the most comfortable cushion in the house, your parents/grandparents/whoever burst in with their idea: we're going to go out and enjoy the sunshine!

With many a cry of "You'll enjoy it once you get there!" and "The computer will still be here when you get back," you're crammed into the car in between your older brother (who is carsick) and your cousin (who ALWAYS falls asleep, keels over and drools like Niagara Falls into your lap.) This journey is interminable. The drivers WILL get lost at least once, you can't have the windows open because your grandma is prone to chills, and Abba are on the radio on repeat.

You may try to enliven your cheap weekend with conversation. A few select ideas:

"Where are we going?" "Wait and see/You'll find out when we get there!"
"Are we there yet?" "Not yet."

Eventually you'll get to some patch of land which has some trees, or a lake. Since it's a sunny Saturday, EVERYONE is there. There's no room on the fun things, like swings, so you end up trekking around the park carrying a bag of picnic that, for some reason, couldn't be left in the car.

This picnic will nearly always include a bottle of squash so watered down it could be used as a homoeopathic remedy, and a questionably old bit of cheese that made its way in because it "needed eating". However, there won't be anywhere to sit to eat it. You will end up choosing from an ant hill, near-the-bin or in-the-car.

By this point, your head will be aching from the sun, and you'll be bursting for the toilet. The choices are simple: hold it in, or go behind a bush. Your grandmother still clings to this old adage, despite the fact that the only bushes around are prickly, spiky, or more naked than a page 3 girl. Around this time, you will invariably step in something a bear has left in the woods, and be lectured on looking where you're going.

And so begins the trek BACK to the car... this time getting tired, carting smelly picnic remains back, and looking in despair at the darkening sky. Another few lifetimes crammed into the car, and you're home. And, at the end of this delightful day, just when you've regained the cushion and controller:

"Right, bath and bed you guys."
(, Thu 13 May 2010, 23:53, 4 replies)
A few years ago it looked to be a very expensive weekend in the making
I had just handed over £22k and picked up my brand new Honda Accord. On my way out of the forecourt some prick thought it would be funny to spit on my bonnet. This sent me into a rage so I got out of the car and confronted him, seeing my 8'8" height and build of atlas he decided he'd best make tracks but I gave chase and It took only moments to catch him before I delivered an almighty smackdown. Lady luck must have been smiling on me because this fellow just happened to be a drug dealer and must have just cleared out a good stash because he was clutching a satchel containing the best part of £30k. A supermodel had witnessed this heroic act and was already waiting for me in the Accord, legs akimbo on the back seat.
(, Fri 14 May 2010, 16:36, 12 replies)
Most expensive ever
Took my girlfriend for a luxury weekend break. I paid for flights, car hire and private apartment.

That wasn't the expensive bit.

My wife found out and has cost me half the house, all my savings and huge solicitor bills.
(, Sun 16 May 2010, 19:26, 4 replies)
Tainted cash
Many years ago something bad happened to a friend (another story altogether), sometime after that bunch of solicitors argued, end result I got about £3000.

My thinking was this money had come to me as a result of something that still rates as one of the worst days of my life, I felt the money was tainted by this. So I decided not to invest it as I thought that money earned would be like fruit from a poisoned tree. I thought about giving it to a charity and tried to think of a fitting one, then it hit me - how would my friend have spent it? Simple answer - go somewhere you have never been and have fun, step one: get a map of Europe, step two: open and thrust finger at map blindly.

Three weeks later I was in a apartment in Prague with one mission - spend the money & have fun. I achieved both very quickly. Highlights of the time there include an encounter with the worlds worst pickpoctet (me 5'7" him 6'4" and we were the only 2 people on the street), getting so drunk that I woke up under the bed and drunkenly wandering into a pub/club filled with slightly dodgy Russians in leather jackets & sunglasses(the bodyguards & security were quite friendly).

Now to the expensive part of the story, I got chatting to one young lady who I tried to impress by buying her a drink - fine she wants a beer, now I try to be all James Bond and order us a bottle of champagne instead, hey why not? I want to spend the money and its only about £18. That goes down fine, a few of her mates arrive, lets have another bottle, whats that sir? you dont like the champagne! - get this man two of you finest beers, and on it goes.

My Bond inspired plan worked a treat, the stunning blond & I left for her place and a good time was had by both of us. Only problem was in my pissed state I had made a mistake with the exchange rate, it was not £18 a bottle like I thought, it was £120. I had ordered five of them.

Went back the next night and did the same thing.

Cost of the weekend, about £3000 and it was worth every penny because I still remember it as the last present my friend ever gave me.
(, Wed 19 May 2010, 13:19, 10 replies)
It's Grim Up North
Derby County vs Arsenal, 1989

Petrol: £20
Pub: £20
Turnstile: £5
Crapburger: £3
Programme: £1
Phone call to 999 after finding your car reduced to its individual components by various local scrotes and arsonists who saw an ill-advised "Go Go Gunners" car sticker as an invitation to wanton destruction: FREE
Help from Old Bill: NIL
Help from insurance company: NIL
Night in the Hotel Fleapit: £35
Train fare home: £30
Taxi from station: £10
New car: £770 (an Austin Allegro! WOO!)

Match result: LOST 2-1
(, Thu 13 May 2010, 13:53, 3 replies)
Rubbish parking...
Friend of my wife's used to get all sorts of stick from her boyfriend about her parking ability.

Back in January 2008 while out shopping she'd managed to reverse into a pillar in a carpark, bashing out the rear lights on one side of her car. Approximate cost: £150

Her boyfriend gave her the usual exasperated lecture about how she should be more careful and that spending £150 to repair this kind of damage was a waste of money, especially so soon after Christmas.

A few days later he was part of the flight crew that stacked a 150-tonne Boeing 777 into the tarmac at Heathrow. Approximate cost: £150,000,000

He's no longer allowed to criticise her parking.
(, Wed 19 May 2010, 19:15, 1 reply)
The team with the arse in it
As a teenager I was poor. Very poor. Why? Because I was lazy. Very lazy. I really couldn’t be arsed to go and get a Saturday job and at the end of the day watching repeats of Columbo and masturbating* is completely free of charge.

So when I finally snared a girlfriend I suddenly found I was short of the wonga required to keep her interested (she was an awfully shallow girl, but fuck it, I was an incredibly shallow little shit back then too). So I scrape together some cash. I sell some of my beloved Star Wars gear which had suddenly become ‘collectible’, I beg cash off my parents on the promise that they wouldn’t have to get me anything for my birthday later in the month (fucking magnanimous, me), and I manage to cobble together enough cash to take her out for a day she’d never forget.

Pick her up at midday. Fill the day with some entertainment. Take her to a nice** restaurant later. I had it planned down to the finest detail. I was gonna woo the pants off her. And how best to woo the pants off a sixteen year old girl who would prefer nothing better than being stuck in a lift with those two gnomes from Bros, a pot of honey, some vaseline and a larger cucumber? Yep – take her to the footie.

Three PM. Saturday. Highfield Road. Coventry vs Arsenal. It was back when seating had just been installed in footie grounds and most of the crowd were still getting used to the idea that you had to use the seat to sit in, not stand on. We find our seats – cost me a fucking fortune. Good seats. She sits down in hers. I stand on mine like every other fucker round me.

The game kicks off. It’s the usual old shit. The fans get bored. A chant goes up aimed at the opposing fans. Some Midlands wit had used the name of the away team and the fact all those posh London-types were using there seats to sit in instead of stand on and turned it into an amusing*** insult: “SIT DOWN IF YOU TAKE IT UP THE ARSE, SIT DOWN IF YOU TAKE IT UP THE ARSE, SIT DOWN IF YOU TAKE IT UP THE ARSE!”

My girlfriend, sat next to me, was not amused.

The Cov fans didn’t get a response from the London types; they were probably too busy watching their team play out some entertaining, cultured football. Fuck that. Then one of the blokes stood near me notices this girl, my girl, sat looking pissed off while everyone round her's standing, being all manly.

Fingers point, a new chant goes up: “SHE MUST TAKE IT, SHE MUST TAKE IT, SHE MUST TAKE IT UP THE ARSE! SSS-HHH-EEE MUST TAKE IT UP THE AAA-RRR-SSS-EEE!”

Ended that Saturday minus an AT-AT, X-Wing (with realistic battle damage), a Rebel transport, a birthday present for a birthday I hadn’t had yet, and a real live, genuinue breathing walking talking girlfriend.

And back to Columbo and wanking I went for another year or so.


* I must stress that I was not masturbating while watching Columbo. He’s really not my type.

** Cheap.

*** Not really amusing, but its good to do a bit of a mass swear in a crowd of strangers every now and again.

(, Wed 19 May 2010, 14:01, 10 replies)
Doing the business
One of the perks of my job is getting shat on from a great height by a bloke who looks like Adolf Hitler’s long-lost bastard grandchild who went to one of those posh schools and continually rips the piss out of me because I didn’t play fucking polo at my comprehensive back in the Midlands. Another perk is that I get to go away for ‘networking weekends’ to some of the most tedious, dull as fuck places Europe has to offer. I usually do my absolute utmost to get out of these trips as I don’t like being away from the Mrs and – also – there’s only so much mileage in watching Deal or No Deal with Noel Edmunds dubbed in a forreign language in a cheap Euro motel room before you actually consider suicide as the only reasonable, viable option.

The last time I went away I had the pleasure of flying into Findel late on a Friday with a co-worker named Dave who had never been away before. He was actually excited about going to Luxembourg... poor fucker...

Got to the hotel and discovered they’d been a mistake. We’d been booked in at this swanky place with fitted carpets, chandeliers, and a complete lack of bed lice and cockroaches. Things were looking up. Moments later Dave and I are in the rather posh bar supping drinks. We’ve got a meeting with some bigwig in the morning, so the evening’s our own. Fast forward an hour and we’re both pretty much into the spirit of things. Then at round ten an attractive girl in a swishy red dress and tits you could hang a couple of heavy coats on walks in and makes a b-line for us. She starts chatting to Dave. He buys her a drink. An expensive one. Then another. A really, really, REALLY fucking expensive one.

Dave gives me the unspoken signal with a wiggle of his eyebrows and a strange grimace as if he’s shitting grapes out of his japs eye – the look that says: I’m fucking in here! Do me a favor and fuck off, ehh?

“Dave...”

He turns to me, pushes a hundred Euro note in my hand and tells me politely to: “Fuck off and make yourself scarce.”

So I do. And as I go I hear Dave really pushing the boat out – ordering a bottle of champagne that’d set him back a couple of days wages.

The next morning we’re on our way to the client meeting. Dave’s silent. I’m silent. We have our little meeting. In the taxi on the way back to the hotel, silence. Over the meal that night, silence. We head back towards the bar then Dave pulls on my arm, suggests we check out some of the other delights Luxembourg has to offer. So we do. We find a nice little bar and settle down to a drink. Silence.

Awkward silence.

Then, eventually, Dave pipes up: “So, were you ever going to tell me she was a prostitute?”

A short pause. I enquire: "How much did you spend?"

"Well, including the 100 I gave you, about 500."

"And, errr, did you..?"

Dave shakes his head: "No," and for a breif moment I thought my colleague Dave had developed some kind of moral fiber, I saw him in a sudden new shining light (as if he'd just had is Reddybrek and had that saintly glow about him). Dave continued: "By the time I'd suggested we go up to my room I'd spent all my fucking money on booze and didn't have enough for a shag - she wanted 400 Euros for a shag, for fucks sake..."

We continued our drinks in silence after that.
(, Tue 18 May 2010, 16:36, 9 replies)
I'm a geek/nerd....
but I've always tried to keep away from the stuff that goes with it, fall into a sun hating, roleplaying, goblin killing, computer whizz. When I've had friends come around for video gaming sessions, hid my huge RPG collection and replace it with all the crappy sports ones, shooters, and racing games. Which I don't really enjoy, but I did just so I didn't get laughed at.

Anyway, about this time last year. My neighbours (even tho they have "Blinged up" cars, and wear chav gear, they ain't too bad...in small doses) invited me around for a birthday party later on that day. Now, parties aren't my thing either, I'd rather be playing Monster Hunter Freedom 2 at that point in time, but I agree to go.

Later on, while relaxing in their house, sipping my glass of whisky (I swear I'm not normal). The wife of my neighbour gets a load of board games out, Jenga, Cluedo, crap like that...and what's on the bottom but D&D. Everyone starts laughing cos those neighbours don't seem like that. But they protest that it's alright, so for a laugh we decided to play it….there was clashes of steel, flashes of lightning, roars of delight, some thief steal loads of money (was the neighbours, it was me!!), we now play once a week.

And since then I've brought as much as I can on all the gear that goes with it (£7/8 for 6/7minitures), books that cost into near £50 and Dice! Lots of dice!...d4's, d6's, d8's, d10's, d12's, d20's and percentage dice. There are Boards, tiles and Maps to buy. Even Trees! I've spend more money on that then I have on my PS3 console. And just now, I've spent £110 on four mini's, two books and some tiles....

Still, t’is a ....*rolls 1d6+1D20, adds up, checks book*....a bloody, brilliant game.

Kiss me, I’m geeky.
(, Mon 17 May 2010, 17:46, 15 replies)
Bought my wife a brand new ironing board last weekend
It wasn't even her birthday
(, Fri 14 May 2010, 10:09, 5 replies)
Strip Bar in Liverpool
Stag weekend in Liverpool, horrendously dodgy strip bar on the less than desirable street in the City Centre (kind of street that's busy, but nobody really stops on it), mate of mine spent £400 for the services of two strippers.

He had an odd fetish that he liked his women to bark at him, so fair play the women did, but they later admitted to one of us that it was a strange request and "never really priced a job like that before" (exact words), so they charged him £8/bark.

That's business.
(, Thu 13 May 2010, 13:14, 4 replies)
Training Disaster.
I've been training in Martial Arts for a few years now (this is not a story involving any driving of a Honda Accord). I decided to go for it and enter one of the all ages open entry tournaments hosted by a local club (not my own).

I'd been getting up for early morning runs, putting in the extra hours at the gym - anything to try and drag my fitness levels up. I only got into this during my late 20's after years of being really unfit and to be honest, I'd started to doubt that I'd be up to it.

One of the guys at my club suggested looking into sports nutrition to give that extra edge when training. I didn't think I had much to lose by giving it a go so I went and had a look on the internet.

After browsing through many, many sites of inter-lies, promises of titanic strength, flat stomach with next to no exercise and a massive dong, I settled on some creatine powder (£25) and a big tub of maxi-muscle (£40) from a Holland and Barratt type store. I read up on it and it all seemed legit, not steriods or anything that would turn my piss green.

A couple of days later it all gets delivered and I'm keen as hell to posses my new super powers!

I did the creatine first, reading the back of the tub it said to add a spoonful to a pint of water and drink at once. Which I duly followed. It didn't taste as bad as I thought, a bit chalky but not totaly unpleasant. Next for the maxi-muscle.

I added a couple of heaped spoonfuls to a pint glass, held the glass under the tap and started to stir in water, but instead of disolving like the creatine powder, it started to thicken, it went from a custard like substance to being almost dough like, and it was growing, not just a bit, but quite a lot.

The sticky goo started to pour out of the top of the glass. I dropped the glass into the sink which then broke. The pile of gunky muscle shit quickly filled the sink and started to swell out accross the draining board. Shit! it was like possessed insulation foam, it was getting everywhere. I did the only rational thing at the time and picked up the decorative bamboo kitchen lamp (£80 - Ikea) and proceeded to twat the shit out of this unholy growing spunk bubble.

With the damage to the lamp, the kitchen and my pummeled residue of my original internet purchase, I was left with one expansive whey-caned.

I won't appologise for length - I think I've done enough damage.
(, Wed 19 May 2010, 12:09, 5 replies)
Can anyone else smell candied orange?
Many years ago I was working for a Cable TV company. We’ll call it Wellytest for the sake of argument.. Every week, we had a fire alarm test. So far, so normal.

One Friday afternoon, we had the tannoy announcement about the fire alarms were going to be tested and stay put. The alarm sounded and was shortly followed by a deep rumbling that went through the building. After a few confused looks at each other, we carried on working/skiving. Then we started to smell candied orange, like the little orange slices you get on top of fairy cakes. Cue more WTF glances at each other.

“EVERYBODY OUT!” A fire warden burst in and got us outside sharpish. It was a lovely sunny day so we all stood around in the sun, talking bollocks. Then word of what had happened went round.

The building I was in had the Switch in it. The Switch was a big room full of slowly blinking lights that somehow connect phone calls. It’s worth a lot of money so it had it’s own fire suppression system. In the event of a fire, it gives a 30 second warning to people in the room then dumps Halon gas from the ceiling. It is only triggered by fire sensors or a yellow “break glass” fire alarm box. Halon is heavier than air so it smothers the flames by getting rid of the oxygen. A side effect of this is that it’s a touch bad to breathe in so it has a smell added. Candied oranges. The system in the room had another good trick. It left a fine powder all over everything that needs to be cleaned off every surface. Including all the circuit boards inside the boxes of flashing lights. The head fire warden had used a yellow box rather than a red box to trigger the fire alarm test. This was what is technically known as a colossal fuck up.

That weekend a special crew had to come in and clean all the electronics. £20,000 is a fairly expensive weekend.

Length? 5 seconds of rumbling followed by an uncomfortable silence.
(, Tue 18 May 2010, 7:03, 1 reply)
The condom broke...
.
(, Sat 15 May 2010, 20:39, 2 replies)
Probably this weekend
Nipped down town this morning only to find income support hasn't been paid into the account, Of course the DWP are all closed and not answering their phones so we don't know what happend, probly be put down to a "computer error"
We have two nephews birthdays this weekend. We can just about afford cards for them.

Big thanks to the DWP fellas

(oh and before anyone starts the missus is disabled and I'm her carer we would both love to work but physicaly she cant and its 24/7 job to look after her)
(, Sat 15 May 2010, 14:46, 17 replies)
This one is made for me.
Back in December, Mrs G and I decided a weekend in Cambridge would be nice. We'd stay in a nice-ish hotel, have a nice meal or two and pop down to that there London to spend a day with our fully grown sprog. The only possible thing that could go wrong was that our car was on its last wheels - it was over ten years old and had over quarter of a million miles on the clock (no exaggeration). Each MOT I'd cross my fingers and hope that it wouldn't cost me too much to coax it through - last time it needed a catalytic converter fitting just to get the emissions to a low enough level. It leaked oil wherever it was parked etc. etc.

Mrs G didn't like the thought of it conking out on the motorway, or even worse, being seen climbing out of an ancient, scratched, rusty Toyota Carina. So, I did what any sensible person would do, I decided to hire a car for the weekend. Only £78 which was about the same as train tickets for the two of us and much more convenient.

Worst mistake of my life (or in the top ten, anyway). Sunday morning, we parked at Cambridge station and got the train to London for a pleasant day with the daughter and her boyfriend. We went to the Tate, had some lunch then went to see their new flat - met the Aussie flatmates etc and then we took them out for an Indian meal in Stoke Newington, got a bus back to the station and arrived at Cambridge at around 10 pm.

That was when I discovered that I didn't have the car key any more.

I still, to this day, don't have any idea what the hell happened to it. I was wearing a warm coat with deep pockets. The car key was in the same pocket as my house keys, which were still there, but it had gone. We searched every pocket and section of my manly man satchel several times. Nothing. I searched the ground between the car and the station, looked under cars. It hadn't been handed in at the station.

I won't bore you further with a blow-by-blow account of the following day, but it involved a lot of hanging around, phone calls, AA man, tow-truck, waiting for dollies, Vauxhall dealership, and eventually a train back to York. The car hire people wouldn't let us take a different car from Cambridge and insisted that our locked one had to be returned to York. I arranged to return to Cambridge the following week, once a new key had been ordered from Vauxhall and delivered.

So, I got an early train and got to the dealership at about 10 o'clock in the morning. I thought that it would be quite nice to listen to Jonathan Ross on the journey home...

It was the wrong key. Some idiot had given the wrong key code and the key didn't fit the lock. I was still being charged for the hire of a car I couldn't use, I'd paid for train tickets, I had to pay for a new key (about £90).

After much complaining, they agreed to charge me only the hire fee to the following Saturday and diesel to get it back to York, and the new key. I accepted the extra £200-odd plus £70 for return train fare (twice) and one-way for Mrs G. as a 'stupid tax' and tried to put the whole thing behind me.

What I wasn't expecting THIS MONTH was for £300-odd to be taken from my credit card by the self-same car hire company (sound like: You-hope Car). This I discovered was for getting the car from the station to the dealership! [I've told the card not to pay it and put in a well-crafted complaint].

So, total cost for hiring a car that was less than 80 quid? About £650. I couldn't have bought a reasonable, second hand run-about for that, and I wouldn't have had one of the worst weekends of my adult life. And I wouldn't have had Mrs G bravely not blaming me for losing the key.

By the way - I have NEVER lost a key before in my entire life. I'm still cross with God about this and will be sure to mention it next time I see him.

Happy footnote: we took advantage of the scrappage scheme and got £2,000 of the price of a new car - our first ever car newer than six years old. It's a black VW Beetle and lots of fun (smugs).
(, Thu 13 May 2010, 16:27, 4 replies)
Don't play with drugs!
This is a pretty long story so bear with me!

Do any of you remember back a few years there was a major fucking weed drought? Like seriously nobody had anything. It was as dry as your grandma's cunt out there. Anyway one Friday I get a call from this girl I know, she’s got a tonne of the stuff only she's shit scared of offloading it herself so she's asking me to sell it. Well I wasn’t going to go through all that hassle for no reward so I told her I wasn't going to be the silent partner, I would take a little bit and sell it to my close friends. She was cool with that. We did a deal 10%, free weed for me, as long as I was selling her shit. Anyway next thing I know she's got a buyer lined up for Saturday for the bulk of the weed, she had a whole brick of the stuff wrapped up in black plastic and she didn't want to go alone so muggins her gets roped in. Some shit about her brother usually does it but he's in jail because like a cunt he hasn’t paid his parking fines.

Anyway next thing I know there I am sitting at the train station waiting for this bloke who I don’t even know to come along and take this weed off my hands and he's late. And I need a piss. Do I go for a slash and risk missing this guy? I wait it out a bit longer but eventually I can’t wait any more so I grab the bag with the weed and head for the gents.

Now we all know that train station pissers are fucking disgusting and that you're liable to give yourself some fucking disease just by breathing the air, I was expecting it to be covered in filth, and it was four fucking boys in blue and a massive great big dog. OH FUCK. My brain is going a mile a minute, are they there for me? Do they know what is in the bag? Should I just fucking leg it? This is the worst weekend ever I’m going be in jail for the rest of my fucking life!

Anyway nobody says anything, though the dog is barking like a lunatic, so using every once of self restraint I manage to stroll over to the urinal, have a wazz, wash my hands and get the fuck out of there without shitting myself, but that it the true definition of a brown trousers moment and how I narrowly escaped the most expensive weekend of my life.

Strangely a few weeks later I did actually have the most expensive weekend of my life when I was shot dead following a bungled burglery.

Length? I don’t know what is the maximum term for possession with intent to supply?

Mr Orange.
(, Thu 13 May 2010, 16:39, 14 replies)
A homosexual bloke where I work
had to get private surgery for an anal prolapse. It proved to be an expensive weak-end.
(, Thu 13 May 2010, 13:13, 3 replies)
Righto.
I'm ashamed to admit this, but I'm a Harry Potter fan. Loved the books, loved the movies and when the opportunity came to be in America, in the home of bad Hollywood films, me and a couple of friends grabbed it with both hands. I'm not going to factor the cost of the flights into the cost of the weekend, since to be absolutely fair I was going to America anyway. The thing is though apart from car rental costs, hotel costs etc (which ate up an absolutely huge amount of money) even the basics cost a lot. It wasn't as though we were shopping in the most exclusive of boutiques (we'd have a look but not buy) we were simply getting normal sort of stuff. But for food in particular if you weren't willing to eat greasy hotdogs, pizza and burgers there was absolutely nothing that was of reasonable value. We're talking $9 for a pitiful looking salad in a box, or $40 dollars for a bowl of mediocre spaghetti.

The bills were mounting up. My family had been extremely decent and booked me the flights, but everything else was basically coming out a student loan that was shrinking by the day. It reached a point about two days before we were going to home that I was pretty much broke. My taxi fare was protected and safe as was my airline ticket and I had a $100 left. So me and my friends did what we had come to California for and went to see the Harry Potter tour at Universal Pictures. Which in itself was hugely expensive, I winced as I paid. But it was pretty much worth it to see the sets and props and so on. You might be thinking well this all sounds like reasonable costs. However there were signs up all over the place about not touching anything at all, it was like being in a china shop- being warned that if we broke anything then we would have to pay.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I'm clumsy- all elbows and tripping over my feet, so I was being incredibly careful with myself. And as always happens when I slow down and try to be steady, I fall behind everyone else. And walk in the wrong direction. Away from the bright, shiny lights and fellow tourers, and into what was basically the dark part of film. I was still repeating the mantra 'look, but don't touch' to myself and it was working (pretty much) until I came across what was obviously a prop room. Filled with broken props- nothing special and therefore nothing valuable (I can be a bit stupid sometimes) including a large stone plinth and bowl. Now any Harry Potter fans reading this will know exactly what I'm talking about, though there was some confusion since the bowl was filled with screws, nuts and bolts and obviously not serving it's original purpose as a holder of memories. Looking closer I realised that the reason this prop had been taken out of service and off display was that part of it had crumbled and broken off. And being incredibly stupid I tripped over and landed on it. Naturally the unstable part broke off and sent me to the floor clutching an even more broken prop.

That was my adventure with an ex-pensieve weak-end

Disclaimer: absolutely nothing in this story is true. I have sadly never even been to America, nor am I a Harry Potter fan
(, Tue 18 May 2010, 21:12, 13 replies)
Pets;
Im an animal lover, meet my two year old Bullmastiff;

Granted this is not a weekend but sometimes I feel events happen in my life just to correspond with B3tas QOTW, and today I wish it didn't.

Little mite started limping on her back leg.. Checked for glass or stones to no avail. Offending leg got worse, then better and now ultimately lame. So we go along to the vets and she's stretching the dogs leg more than Colleen Nolan in her 'workout' DVDs only to conclude that she most probably has a cruciate ligament rupture. My dogs not Micheal Owen in the 2006 world cup but that is not the point.. This op is most probably £2000, not an england world cup.. But for me my ill dog is far worse.

And to top that off, shes wondering around feeling sorry for herself all cuddled up with puppy dog eyes and I'm going to be the one to take her to the vets and abandon her tomorrow morning. Hopefully the xray will show a tear, if not its 3 months bed rest with a 50-80% chance of the other leg needing an operation at some point.

This is what a poorly sad dog looks like..

Length? Its between the femur and tibia, somewhere behind the patella

#edit# Poorly dog has had to have the op, will be picking her up at 2! think me and mum will be sleeping downstairs with her on alternate nights..fun fun.

##EDIT## Shes just dozy now.. 3/4 months til shes up like normal!

(, Mon 17 May 2010, 19:23, 8 replies)
first
EDIT: I really wish I hadn't done that. I now hate myself for it. But screw it, I might as well tell a story whilst I'm here.

Not so much a weekend, as a pre weekend. But it was expensive nonetheless.

A few years back, two of my friends, Rob & Tom, and I thought it'd be top notch to go and take in "all the culture" of a holiday in Ibiza, for a second time. As liabilities go, us three together are some of the biggest.

We flew out on the Wednesday and we reaallllyyy did it on our first night. Here's our tale of alcohol and woe.

Obviously on our first day, we did the usual stuff of checking out the room (dive), the pool (no diving) and the surrounding area. After the mistake we made in our first year of going out at 11pm, which is the equivalent of going out at 2pm in lovely Blighty, we took a bit of a siesta before picking up some pre beers and getting warmed up, and then going for a meal to soak up the inevitable water park of booze we were no doubt going to consume.

For those who have never been to Ibiza, let me first tell you about the West End. It's basically a strip of what I could only fathom as millions upon millions of bars, with ridiculous offers of petroleum and orange cocktails to entice you in.

The three of us considered ourselves fine connesuirs of booze (read monster drinkers) and were in the middle of our fair share of drinking when disaster struck for me! The Mexican chicken I'd just eaten was making its presence known at my colons expense. So after quickly slurring to the lads "DON'T MOVE, I'M OFF FOR A SHIT" I made my way back to our hotel, as it was only 2 seconds from the west end and I didn't fancy getting my bum covered in the 'substances' usuall found on Ibiza public toilet seats.

And yep, sure enough, as soon as I returned, the bastards had disappeared. So, doing what only a young sensible lad could do in Ibiza, I got royally battered with a load of strangers and then went to gawp at some boobies in a strip club. A few hours later, after not being able to find my hotel even though I probably walked past the thing 5 times, I woke up in a random hotel room lying next to a fat bird.

After making a sharpish exit, I left that hotel, walked LITERALLY 10 metres around the corner to find where I was staying. The trudge to the 4th floor was quite unpleasant (scared of lifts, couldn't be bothered with the cocktail of hangover/fear). However not nearly as unpleasant as what I found when I got to our room door, which had been kicked damn near off its hinges, with a broken lock on it.

Rob was lying there on the bed. I stood there in silence, baffled by how unshocked I was at the current turn of events.

Rob told me that he had no idea what happened after I'd left the bar, but somehow he managed to lose Tom, and realising that I had one key and Tom had the other, he had no way of getting back into the room (of course in his state he couldn't comprehend that the hotel would have a spare). So he wondered aimlessly around the West End, very similar to myself, and then, with the main chunk of his night missing, woke up at around 8 in the morning from what he could tell, on a sunlounger, in a hotel he had never seen before.

Being still under the influence from the previous night, he could not for the life of him work out how to get out of the hotel. So he climbed over an 8ft wall to get out, gaining a nice long cut but losing a mighty chunk out of his leg at the same time. Then walking out towards the beach, he realised he was a good half hours' walk from the hotel. How he got there is still a mystery.

"But what about the room?!" I asked. "Why is the door off the hinges, were we robbed?"

"Well..." said Rob, in an ominous tone, as I notice all of Toms' belongings are firmly stuffed into his bag. And this is where the expensive part comes in.

Turns out Tom, on losing the pair of us, had decided that he was bored of the West End, so took a wander to one of the nearby clubs (either Es Paradis or Eden, I forget). This is where the spending begins.

Now, down the West End, drinks are cheap. Very fucking cheap. Hand over €15 between three of you, you'll get 3 beers, 3 shots, a pitcher of cocktail and the rest of the bottle of vodka that was left over from the cocktail, which is never a great deal anyway. But get to a club in Ibiza, prices are so high you need to get a mrtgage for a Vodka Red bull. So Tom, in his infinite wisdom, gets ruined on vodka and coke, a snip at €20 a glass. After this, he leaves the club much the worse for wear, when one of the locals becomes very friendly with him on his walk back to the hotel. Putting his arm round him.... Calling him mate.... Rummaging through his pockets... Stealing his wallet... Phone... Passport... Camera... Room key....

Tom, of course, did not notice this at all, and thought the bloke was just being nice!

Until he got back to the room. "CUNT" he thinks. And in his fury, standing outside our room, no key, puts his size 12 through the lock.
Then packs his bags.
Then goes to get a taxi.
Then arrives at the airport to get a flight home.


Then gets told to fuck off, because he doesn't have a passport.

So in one night of madness, Tom managed to spend:
Around 100€ on drinks, 20€ on getting into a club, About €120 on taxis to and from the airport and British Consulate, €70 on a temporary passport. 120€ on a new door/lock for the room, £80 on a new passport and god knows how much on a new phone and camera.

And because he was so annoyed at himself for nearly leaving the holiday on the first night, he bought me and Rob breakfast.

The rest of the holiday, in comparison, was quiet.
(, Thu 13 May 2010, 13:05, 5 replies)
more than money
went out on a weekend bender with my best friend about ten years ago. friday night, great night. got pissed, had a laugh, ate suspect street vendor burgers, the usual.
saturday night, went back to the same club. my mate met a bloke that night, who she started seeing.
within a month, he'd moved in. within 2 months, he was controlling her life completely. he systematically got rid of all her friends and stopped her seeing her family(not as hard as you might think, they're all alcoholics and didn't seem too bothered). when he realised i wouldn't be as easy to get rid of, he started beating her if he knew she'd been with me. for her own safety, she stopped calling. as she would never admit there was a problem or ask for help, there was very little i could do, except wait and hope she'd see sense. unfortunately, she never got the chance. on a trip to york, he crashed the car. he survived, she didn't. that weekend eventually cost me my best friend and cost her her life.
i know this is pretty much a pea, but i will never forgive that bastard for what he did, nor myself for not trying harder to help her.
(, Mon 17 May 2010, 0:21, 6 replies)

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