Not quite in the bedroom
but in the hotel corridor outside as we arrived tired, sweaty and grumpy after a long journey. Young Master 5 asks if he can use the keycard to open the door. 'Sure, why not?' we said. 'Because I will drop the feckin thing on to my foot and kick it with impeccable precision for a six year old under the door and then you will need to trudge downstairs to the reception and explain in your broken and pathetic attempts at 'foreign' what has happened to the original before coming all the way back up here whilst we stand in a hotel corridor looking like muppets' was not what he said, unfortunately.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:42, 2 replies)

Woke up after a heavy night out in what I thought was my bedroom.
Then I realised I was sitting on a toilet, covered in sick. It was 6.30. Wandered drunkenly around in the dark until I found my way out of the gents toilets and into the bar. Took me what seemed like half an hour to figure out that I had to turn the locks at the top and bottom of the main door at the same time and then I stumbled out of the club, setting the alarms off.
I set off in the direction of what I assumed was home and after a few minutes a couple of police cars shot past me with their sirens on. I asked a kindly passing rastafarian for directions and discovered I was walking in completely the wrong direction. A couple of hours later I arrived back at halls and managed to put my key in the door before I collapsed in the corridor outside my room and fell asleep.
An hour later my delighted hall mates discovered me with my key still in the door.
The next time I woke up I was in bed.
My bed was in the lift, as were most of the contents of my room.
( 2 Can Chunder Word to your mums, I came to prod bums, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:42, 1 reply)

Not my bedroom, but...
A couple of years ago, five of us were sharing a grotty little flat in the North of Edinburgh. Being dirty students, the flat soon descended into a replica of the set of the Young Ones and the dishes started to pile up.

Enraged at the constant squalor the other four of us were happy to live in (or too drugged up to notice), one of our flatmates took a stand and moved out, leaving us with a room that needed filled to pay the rent.

But karma came knocking, when we managed to get someone to take the room. He worked in a local grungy nightclub that plays mostly pop-punk tracks and teen rock anthems from the early 2000's with one of our flatmates. He was the sort of guy who never seemed to wash but always had time to straighten his long, greasy hair. He shall be known as 'Z'.

We barely saw the guy. He was either sleeping or at the nightclub regardless of whether he was working that night or not, then usually inviting his drunken, cuntish friends back to the flat at about five in the morning. He even invited a girl back for sexy times once who was so intoxicated she fell asleep on the toilet for several hours. We only know this because she was too drunk to go back home, but was adamant she wasn't going back into Z's room for some unexplained reason, so sheltered for the night with another flatmate who chivalrously gave up his bed when she randomly knocked on his door at 4am.

But our unwashed dish problem seemed to be going away, replaced by a mysteriously disappearing dish problem, as all our bowls, plates, cups and cutlery slowly started to go missing.

None of us four original flatmates could work out where they were going. We'd check Z's room from time to time when we got really desperate for crockery, maybe finding a plate or two, but hardly the amount that had been going missing.

So time came to move back to my parent's for the Summer. We were all glad to be getting out of that flat. My brother had come to pick up most of my stuff, but there was a few bits I'd left behind. So a couple of weeks later I went back to collect the rest of my belongings and scrub my room from top to bottom, in order to get the much-needed deposit back.

Z, clearly discontent with the biggest room in the flat, was now sleeping in my old bed. I was greeted by lad's mags, used tissues, a cup full of cigarette butts and a basin of sick discarded around my room. After throwing his shit into the hallway, thoroughly washing my hands and leaving the only passive-aggressive note I've ever written, warning him to stay the fuck out, I left that flat for the last time.

Anyway, the end of this story comes a few weeks later, when I was visiting two of my previous flatmates in their new abode. We were talking about moving out and I asked if Z had cleaned up after himself. He hadn't, just left all his belongings there and never returned, leaving these two guys to clear out his room and chuck everything he owned into a skip.

After wading through the mountains of pubes piled up in thin layers on the floor, they found the source of the missing dishes. He'd been neatly filing away plates and bowls into his cupboards and drawers, most often with half eaten food still sitting on them, now covered in mould after months and months of festering.

They also found an almost-full bin bag full of porn DVDs. Which, in this internet age, is pure dedication.

But the piece de resistance was a giant, clear, plastic sack, which the guys were so confused as to its contents, they had to take a picture. I had no idea what it was either... But you know that bit in Fight Club where they break into the liposuction clinic to steal a huge bag of human fat?

My best guess... human fat.
( Butters and his titanium codsocket, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:37, 2 replies)

Cleaning Stories
Mainly concerning my brother's room:

We tidied his room for him when he was 12.

1. We found my old lunch box, which he had hidden in a fit of pique when he was 6. We think the fur-encrusted fossils within used to be sandwiches.

2. Hamsters musk when they fight. Either that or he hadn't cleaned up the 2 years of it peeing on the wallpaper and tearing bits of it off for bedding. Hamster had recently died under 'mysterious' circumstances which probably had nothing to do with swallowing more wallpaper paste and piss soaked plaster than (insert name of drug-addled celebrity here).

3. He also had pet mice. The tank broke so we put them in my mum's vivarium. They made a complex system of tunnels and promptly disappeared into them, never to be seen again. We're not allowed to recover the bodies because mum has a certain fondness for the plant. This vivarium is also in his room.

We have a dog at the moment. If it disappears I know where I'm looking for it...
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:33, 2 replies)

Following one very enjoyable beer festival
I woke up to find that I had a stone cold (and very full) cup of tea in one hand and a equally cool but significantly more flaccid keema naan in the other. Considering I had settled down for a post booze munch some eight hours previously I thought this quite an achievement.

EDIT: no I don't wank in the tea, nor did anyone else...I think.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:30, 3 replies)

do yourself a favour..
An empty crisp bag isn't a substitute for a real condom..
(frightfullybored, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:28, 10 replies)

I awoke to find
a semi-set, 'Barney'-purple, tea cozy sized disc of sick on my feet once. It wasn't mine.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:26, 1 reply)

Not strictly a bedroom, but we were all asleep, and alcohol was involved previously.
I'd been to a student party, and after many games of I Have Never, Ibble Dibble and something that doesn't bear repeating, we all passed out in our respective corners, awaiting the hangover that was to come in the morning. Alas, my sleep was cut short. I was laying on a very comfortable bean bag, right next to the coffee table. The coffee table which still had a half-drunk glass of wine on it. Lambrini, if I recall. The incredibly precarious coffee table. Which collapsed when kicked by someone rolling over in their sleep, dumping several empty glasses, and the half full glass of cut-price pisswater onto me. Much swearing ensued.
(The Luggage is haunted..., Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:07, 2 replies)

My brother and I had a game
and to avoid being told off by our mum, we would hide upstairs and play it. We would play the highly ill-advised "Dart & Cushion game", the idea being that you take it in turns to throw a dart at each other, and try to block it with the cushion.
It was quite a gentle game really because we didn't throw the dart very hard.
Although one time, it bounced off his cushion and landed on his foot. So he picked it up and threw it hard. It would have bounced of my cushion, only my thumb was in the way. It stuck into the side of the joint in the middle of my thumb.

I was just about to scream when he dived on me, shoved me on to the bed and stuffed the cushion in my face so mum wouldn't hear us, and woebetide us if she found out we'd been playing that again; (You daft gets, you'll have each other's eyes out, you're not right in the head, don't catch me playing that again or you'll both get a bloody good hiding off your dad).

It was firmly stuck and I had to wedge my thumb on the top of the chest of drawers to pull the fucking thing out. After that, my thumb swelled up making it look like a bruised misplaced toe.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:05, 2 replies)

Went to a party, I dance all night, drank sixteen beers and ... nearly smashed the host's head clean off.
I'd been promised a doss on the sofa at the end of the night but the host passed out on it. Being a well-brought-up young man, I decided the decent thing would be to carry her to her own bed and then settle in on the sofa. Unfortunately, she was a lot heavier than she looked and I was considerably more mashed than I anticipated so rather than gallantly sweeping her to her chamber, I stumbled a few steps across the room and then properly smacked her head into a doorframe.

She didn't wake up so I dropped her back on the sofa and slept in the bed instead. She had a hell of a hangover the next morning. An unusual blue-black hangover that spread all up the side of her face.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:59, 7 replies)

"Look who got out of the wrong side of bed this morning!"
my Mum said to me after I'd rolled out of bed, out of the open window by the side of the bed onto the patio below, breaking several ribs, my right leg and puncturing one of my lungs...

Oh, the humanity...!
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:54, Reply)

My advice: if you're going to involve squirty cream make sure it's UHT or something...
...four showers later we both still smelt of rancid cheese.
(Mr Eraserhead Why aren't you a lemon?, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:54, Reply)

Have a pea
An Alabama hotpocket
(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:51, 1 reply)

My Mum made my bed using my Star Wars pillow cases
but my Superman bedspread.

So I cried.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:50, 4 replies)

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:47, 13 replies)

1st year of university,
horribly drunk (ale and red wine, I think), and kindly tucked into bed by my loving flatmates (who took time to draw on my face). Threw up repeatedly (someone kindly held me over the bin, for part of the night, saving me from drowning), so woke up encrusted with a flaky, red substance, and stuck to the bed.

Turned out that I'd been vomitting blood.

I got to know the campus laundry after that, as it didn't seem fair to take that home to mother (not to mention having to sleep in it).
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:42, 4 replies)

When I was about 15 years of age...
I brought back a girlfriend back to my bedroom, and hoped I might get some *rumpy-pumpy*, or at a minimum some *touchy-fumble*...

Sadly, she was unimpressed with my (very cool, and not at all immature) cabin bed, and the small ladder up to it didn't do anything for her either apparently.

I slept* alone.

*wept
(Pat_Gash, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:39, 7 replies)

First!
She wasn't impressed
( Peej, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:32, 1 reply)

First time baby brother was drunk,
was at a family BBQ. At 14 all the relatives had filled him with enough booze to send him to another planet. Instead he was sent to bed. In order to get there he had to first overcome our T juntion hallway. Starting at the bottom of the T and walking straight not being an option he began the ping pong journey bouncing from wall to wall, which worked well til the top of the T were, lo and behold, he ran out of wall. And into bathroom.

Picked up and sent in the right direction me and a few cousins directed him to his bedroom and watched bemusedly as he tried to feebly walk over to his bed. His old 1900's metal frame bed with springs instead of a solid base bed. As he threw himself onto it the bed sunk mightily and, newtons law and all that, catapulted him verily up into the air landing with a meaty thunk on the other side of the bed. Followed by a liquidy "Thurghurglll". Had to change the carpet.
( dazbrilliantwhites has been meaning to change this..., Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:31, Reply)

I'm going to avoid sexytime stories, as I suspect there will be pages and pages of such.
However, one incident that happened in my bedroom has stayed with me for years.

I was about 12 and had just made a dartboard box thingee in woodwork (you know, the things that open up and give you little blackboards either side).

I had just hung the thing up, and was throwing my first dart when a friend, with amazing timing, popped his head around the door and said 'hellooo' just in time to intercept my wayward dart with his face.

The noise of impact, the sight (it stuck there at 90 degrees, square in the middle of his forehead), the changing expressions on his face as he realised what just happened followed by the noised he made as he danced up and down, with his little hands flopping on his wrists, will remain with me forever.

Once he calmed-down, we tentatively pulled out the dart, half expecting a jet of blood or an ooze of brain to follow but only got a teeny tiny spot of blood. Thankfully.
( Zak McFlimby Twibbling @McFlimby, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:31, 1 reply)

After a thoroughly enjoyable cards night I decided to retire to my bedroom.
Despite the whisky fuelled fug clouding my senses and my coordination I managed to dig the keys and wallet and phone etc out of my pockets and chuck them on the bed and take my clothes off. As I started the semi controlled descent towards my duvet I realised that not only had the cat done a massive sloppy shit right in the middle of it but that I had just added several of my more valuable possessions into it too.

Just you try berating a cat at three in the morning whilst stripping a duvet and trying to wash the stench of digested KiteKat from a wad of ten pound notes, a wallet and a Nokia 6310.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:26, 2 replies)

Ruined bedsheets
During Christmas holidays in my second year of uni, the water pipes above my room burst, and dirty water ruined my duvet. Had to pay £8 to replace them.
(Hoaxy The only living boy in new cross, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:25, 11 replies)

Pearoast time
In the absence of any new stories for now allow me to reissue the following tale of woe.

Painful memories Picture the scene if you will...

It’s the summer of the year 2001 all is well with the world and I the young Rhubarb Triangle am living what passes for the good life in the fair city of Newcastle. I’ve just recently met the young lady who will later become the ex Mrs Triangle and as she lives in Leeds am spending a fair amount of time travelling up and down the country to spend “time” with her (for time here, you can read “horizontal time”).

On this particular weekend the ex Mrs Triangle has decided to try something a little different and has elected to go on top, at first all is well and much fun is being had (well I was enjoying it, and lets be honest that’s all that counts here) Some time into our carnal aerobics and I begin to feel a little twinge from the “old chap” being the polite young chap I was at the time I say nothing and merely attempt to gently adjust the young ladies position to prevent further recurrence.

In fairness this meets with little success and the intermittent twinges of discomfort continue, until finally I experience what can only be described as a god-awful snapping sensation. I signal my distress to my partner in a subtle fashion by screaming “YEEEAAARGGHHH!!” at the top of my voice. Sensing my disquiet the young lady in question dismounts to see what the matter is. Looking down at my member I am greeted with a positively Scarlet crown to the appendage in question. In my confusion I wonder whether said young lady is experiencing that time of the month until I realise the scarlet fluid is inside the protective sheath.

Now gents I’m sure I don’t need to spell this out but there truly are few sights more distressing than the sight of blood flowing from that particular part of your anatomy.

In considerable discomfort and unsure as to the extent of the damage I dress in the loosest fittings garments I can muster and we elect to make our way to casualty with all speed.

Once arriving at the local A&E and going through the frank embarrassment of discussing the reason for our visit with a nurse who did a marvellous job of not collapsing in a fit of giggles I am assessed in terms of the seriousness of my injury and asked to wait.

For those of you not familiar with the city centre of Leeds of a weekend, allow me to assure you that when the Kaiser Chiefs sang “I predict a riot” they were spot on with there assumption. As such I am left sitting very carefully in the waiting room for about 6 hours while a procession of Drunks who felt the need to fight / drink far more than anyone would consider safe / beat themselves to a pulp on a variety of inanimate objects are passed forward for treatment. Eventually I am ushered through to a treatment room where I’m told to wait for a Doctor. Given my discomfort caused by clothing upon my damaged todger and frankly wooziness caused by my inability to handle the sight of my own mangle cock I elect to lie down and free the old chap from his cloth prison. After another two hours the male Dr arrives, dons a pair of rubber gloves, examines the old chap and declares that I have broken my Banjo String (in truth this is not the term he used but given the circumstances the noting of medical terms was not the matter most forefront in my mind)

Having cleaned the worst of the gore from my member the Dr packs me off and advises to stay off the nookie for a period of about 4 weeks (at that point I would comfortably have foresworn it for an eternity)

Now as if all this pain and humiliation was not bad enough I now realised that it is 8 am on a Sunday and I am due at work in a little over 2 hours in Newcastle, And so I am forced to call in sick. Now being the moral young fool I was I could not tell a mistruth, and on speaking to my manager I let slip the full horror and swear him to secrecy on the true reason for my absence.

The rest of that day is spent attempting to sleep whilst applying an icepack to my Nethers. On the next day I head back up North and return to work. Shortly after arriving I am called into the office to be greeted by every single manager/ supervisor /slack jawed Gawker who then proceed to mock me relentlessly up until the point I managed to do something more entertaining to them the pack of Geordie bastards that they were.

Apologies for length, although that wasn’t an issue for sometime after this let me tell you
( Rhubarb_Triangle, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:24, 3 replies)

Gaffe Tape. Does not a good lubricant make.

( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:22, Reply)

earliest post I've ever had.
and only have story of drunk girlfriend puking on me halfway through sexy shennanigans.

Not a great start is it?
( NooShmoo It's a fantazmagorical pile of ultra bollocks, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:21, Reply)

GET IN!!!!!
*runs round office with t-shirt over head*
( girlinthehole, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:18, 6 replies)

This will not end well.

( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:18, 5 replies)

3rds

( Light In Chains maker of the ikea sofa, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:17, Reply)

Yay!
...
(libraryboy Cheer up, you could be french!, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:15, Reply)

Too many, all disasters
After a very long drunken session with my mates I told them they all kip at my house (that I jointly owned with my, by then, ex girlfriend). She was away on holiday. I told them that under no circumstances could they sleep in her room as I could do without the inevitable hassle when she returned. So they didn't...

until I had caned out after which Edd slunk in, passed out, vomited all over her bank statements and investment reports before trying to hide it all under her bed.

I found out several days later when the smell became sentient.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:15, Reply)