pride comes before a fall, but i didn't.
if you've spent £30 on sexy underwear, £20 on vodka, £30 on a meal and 4 hours washing, shaving, primping and polishing, all for the first big night of sexy time with your new bloke, tripping over a shoe on the bedroom floor and chipping your front teeth on the windowsill whilst mid sexy walk is NOT the perfect way to end the night and ensure plenty of sex.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 16:04, 13 replies)

Two rules of thumb
I've established from years of bedroom related disasters.

Rule 1
If the hot thirty something you've been seeing for a month brings you back to her place and your first impression on entering her bedroom is that the spermatozoans you have been diligently saving up all week are outnumbered by the cuddly toy animals arrayed all over every surface of the room, trust your instincts and GTFO. OK, maybe wait until she's gone to the bathroom to rinse the you-goo out of her hair.

Rule 2
Somethings go together, other things don't.
Anal sex and IBD (Inflammatory Bowel Disease) don't.
Unless scat's your thing.
( wakeupandsmellthebacon, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 15:02, 11 replies)

Out of the mouths of babes....
Many years ago, my 3rd son, then aged about 7, said at breakfast,
"Mummy, did you have a nightmare last night?"
"Um - not sure..."
"You were going 'ooh, ooh, ooh!' it went on for AGES!"
I went scarlet and caught my husband's eye. He was beaming across the scrambled eggs....
(grumpy old ratbag, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 14:54, 1 reply)

Deep Heat back rub for the lady...
and my wandering fingers....
( Joe Scaramanga with a G-double-O-D vibration, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 14:53, 11 replies)

If that's what helping does for you..
I was about six years old and shared a room with my younger sister. We'd been watching my folks decorating all day and it was time for bed.

Being a helpful sort of kid, I spotted an edge of wallpaper that had curled up and decided, monkey-see-monkey-do stylee that I would do my bit. Carefully I peeled the paper off the wall, getting a whole strip off in one go!

My sis, not wanting to miss out, had woken up and we decided to have a bit of a competition to see who could remove the most whole sheets. I can't remember who won but we were found the next morning, on the floor, surrounded by what had been freshly applied wallpaper. Oops.

Length? About seven and a half feet each.
(scythesmith is doing something boring on, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 14:48, Reply)

Breaking Protocol - Not everything I do is a disaster..
Happy Midsummer Everyone :)



EDIT: Lol. 2 deleted relies already... MTFU ;o)
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 24 Jun 2011, 14:31, 31 replies)

Porno flip
About 15 years ago, some friends of mine lived in a big, shared house. One of the blokes (we’ll call him Dave) had a girlfriend who would come round every evening, and, no matter how well he was doing at Mario Kart, they would immediately go upstairs and make the beast with two backs. We knew this because she squeaked when being rodgered – not moan, not pant, squeak – she sounded like a wheel that needed oiling.

So one evening, she’d popped round and they’d popped upstairs and he’d popped in. We were trying not to hear the barrage of squeaks coming from upstairs when there was suddenly a sound not unlike a coconut being smashed into a wall, followed by a loud, female scream of pain.

Thinking the squeaking had started to annoy him as much as it annoyed us and he’d done her in, we all, quick as a flash, did nothing. After a few minutes, his now crying girlfriend ran down the stairs and out the front door, with him following saying stuff like “I’m sorry, it wasn’t meant to go like that”. She left, he didn’t.

When he wandered into the lounge, looking glum, I voiced all our thoughts and asked him “what the fuck happened then?”
He replied “well, we were shagging. She was on top, like, then I tried to do a prono flip and she hit her head on a wall”
“A what?” said I
“A wall” he said
“No, not that bit” I said “the porno flip thing. What’s a porno flip?”
He just looked embarrassed and said “Y’know: a porno flip. A porno flip!” and gyrated his hips in a fairly disturbing manner. He then said “she put a fucking hole in the wall and everything”

We legged it upstairs and, sure enough, he’d knocked a hole in the plaster with her head by doing a porno flip. Y’know: a porno flip.

What the fuck is a porno flip?
(ScousersPet, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 14:27, 8 replies)

Cancer of the colon
One of my friends - let’s call him Barry, is a funny bloke, not bad looking, but really shy around girls and was single for a long time. He got a new girlfriend and things progressed to spending quite a lot of time at each others’ place.

One night, Barry and his new girlfriend were lying in bed together, about to turn out the light. Barry plucked up all his courage and told her the thing he’d being thinking all day.

“I… I think I love you”

She looked at him. He swallowed nervously; had he messed everything up?

“I think I love you too” she replied. Barry’s heart leapt! Hooray! He hadn’t frightened her off! Turning over to turn out the light, he plucked up just a tiny bit more courage and said “Actually, I don’t think: I do”

She went quiet and they lay awkwardly in the darkness. Barry’s mind raced; had he ruined everything after all? Come on too strong?

The following morning was a little strained, then that evening after work he plucked up yet more courage and asked her the question he was dreading: “What happened last night? I told you that I love you and you went all quiet”

Whereupon his girlfriend flew into his arms, showered him with kisses and explained that what she’d heard was subtly but importantly different to what he’d meant:

“I think I love you”
“I think I love you too”
“Actually, I don’t think I do”


:D

 

 

No apologies for length – it just looks longer coz of the line breaks – and I’m not apologising for them either. You love it
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 13:50, 20 replies)

After a night heavy on the beer and tzatziki...
... when i was still living at home, my mum wanted to wake me up. At around 1pm.

Door opens, my eyes still closed, I hear my mum go: "Oh my god" and quickly shut the door again.

I then heard her dry-retching just outside. After a while she took a deep breath, opened the door again, wheezed a unconvincing "Good Morning!", proceeded hastily to the window, opened it wide and rushed out again.

It turned out later that the girl who had made the tzatziki got the measurements wrong and used 3 bulbs of garlic instead of 3 cloves.
( bierbelly, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 13:47, 1 reply)

Another pea:
It was my first weekend to spend consisting of just me and a proper girl - she was really fit, really up for it, and her parents were away for the weekend.

It was the early 1990s. I was 17, she was 18. It was Saturday morning, and I was getting ready for an hour's train journey through the West Country summertime countryside, ready to explode out into a world constructed only of the stuff poetry and porn is made of.

Thus to preclude all this, I listened to a steady diet of heavy metal, old school punk and new-school indie at top volume, while I laid out my finest, blackest band t-shirts, and made sure my dishevelled look was just so.

One particularly riotous, rebellious song came on, and I moshed enthusiastically and gleefully around my room, tripping on a fix of caffeine, nicotine, and the sheer, unadulterated and magnificent joy of teenage hormones.

I BELTED my head against my wardrobe, causing it to fall half-into me. In my stunned haste, I spun 'round, smashing my face against my shelf full of books. This tipped several of the heavier volumes on to me, with one particular hardback tome landing cornerside into my crown, causing me to sit down heavily on my bed, where I was then steadily pelted by the rest of my books, my cassettes and CDs, the speaker of my stereo, and all the other various pariphinalia and shelf crap of a teenage punk's life.

As I sat there, surrounded by the debris, I realised that in all the excitement my cigarette had dropped onto my bed and was burning a sizable hole in my duvet.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 12:51, 4 replies)

Meh 3
As a little boy I remember once when I got up to go to the toilet in the middle of the night.

As I passed my parent's bedroom I peeked in through the keyhole.

I watched for a moment, then continued on down the hallway, mumbling to myself, "Boy, and she gets mad at me for sucking my thumb"
( The Mock Turtle ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 12:46, 10 replies)

My dad got remaried and as a result I had to move to make way for the new wife and family.
I moved in with ol' Grandma, it was cushdy, cups of tea every 15 mins and a cooked dinner ever other night.
She never quite understood about privacy, I was paying rent and so to me my room was my room. Whether I wanted it to be tidy or untidy, the door was closed so out of the way. (My nan Is a clean freak)

However she always insisted on tidying my bedroom, my sanctuary. Which I hated.

Anyways one day I came home to find her on her knees folding clothes and boxing things. The bed had moved the drawers had moved, everything.

''Oh hello dear'' She said with a big grin ''Look Iv done you a favour and sorted out your room so its easier to keep tidy. Books are all in here, clothes I think you should keep in here....'' and holding up my Platinum Rampant Rabbit...''Im not sure what to do with this though lovey??''

She didn't have a danny what it was, so i muttered something about it being a kids toy of one of my siblings and said Id give it back to them. I binned it shortly.

Waste of forty fucking quid.
(shezam slouching towards nirvana., Fri 24 Jun 2011, 12:12, 14 replies)

Smell it and see
Never eat chocolate in bed - but if you do, never EVER unkowingly drop a small piece on the sheet then sit on it wearing a pale coloured nightie. Telling your husband to smell it is not the best way to end the embarrassment.
(grumpy old ratbag, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 11:57, 2 replies)

I was climbing through the window into my bedroom
There was a black girl in my bed, and posters of Michael Jackson on the wall. Her dad then tried to beat me with a baseball bat. But that's the power of love.
(McChinaman banned, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 11:22, 9 replies)

Nearly had my head blown off!
Reading a post earlier reminded me of this.

When I was around 12 years of age, I was over a mate’s house. Think it was over the summer holidays as both his parents was at work and we had the house to ourselves. So we were just mucking about watching TV playing music eating junk etc. Then we went up stairs in to his parents bedroom jumping on there bed just acting like arseholes basically. My friend then walked over to the wardrobe and reached up to grab something. He walked over to me have a look at this. It was a hand gun silver like the one you would see in the American cop shows back in the day. Now his father was a member of a gun club so he had licenses etc. Also used to keep a shot gun in and old grandfather clock which I found out later on. Anyway my mate held the gun to my head and said listen to the click. As he was about to pull the trigger her realised the gun was loaded and pulled the gun away from my head! I replied you fucking idiot you could have killed me! He said sorry didn’t think it was loaded oh anyway it’s loaded with blanks!
(Headsbollockskuntz, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 11:21, 5 replies)

A short pea.
I could copy paste the original, but a summary will do.

Took a girl home; she pulled a knife on me in the morning.

I look a bit rapey.
( gone, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 10:42, 2 replies)

The fart that launched a thousand shits
So It was my friend Gary's 20th birthday. We'll call him Gary, for his real name was James. Gary, being a bit of a lad, decided that he'd like to go out for a bender pub crawl in London, have some good food and then go meet some fine ladies at a club. Sounded like a plan, we'd all meet in Leicester Square at 12pm and get things kicked off. I'd woken up with a bit of a funny tummy that morning, but nothing that was going to stop me having a good time. One of Gary's mates, Tony, decided it would be a great plan if we all downed a shot of tequila before each pint during the pub crawl. He'd also brought along a shitload of tabasco sauce to 'brighten up' Gary's pints of lager while most of us drank ale. It wasn't many pints later before we were all keen enough (and drunk enough) to start knocking up some macho points by necking shots of tabasco. I think I must have done five or so. Content that we'd proven to the world just how unbelievably cool we were, we headed off for some food. Spice still on the tongue, we headed into a relatively swanky looking curry place. By this point my stomach was REALLY starting to protest, but the tabasco sauce seemed to have passed through so I thought "fuck it, what's a curry going to do?"

...One extra hot chicken madras later, and Gibbons innards were not having a good time. I could feel my duodenum churning, twisting and turning. We paid the good men at the Indian and wandered through the now darkened streets to a club. I can't remember the name, but it was a fucking dive. There were groups of what looked like crack dealers amongst barely conscious women in darkened corners. The woman (at least I think she was a woman) behind the bar sounded like Barry White and had a tattoo of a snake on her neck. We downed a round of tequilas and danced for a bit.

My memory is hazy by this point - we've had 10 pints and 11 tequilas, and Gary got thrown out shortly after we started dancing for punching a lesbian "right in the fadge" as he put it, so we headed back to the outskirts of London on a train. Gibbon's innards were screaming with grumbles of protest by this point, and I was having serious regrets over that curry, let alone the 10 pints of beer, 5 shots of tabasco and 11 tequilas. Arriving home I quietly headed straight for the bog, trying not to wake my flatmates who didn't know I'd been out drinking, and released a long, foul fart that the devil himself would have been proud to have spawned.
...Nothing followed. "Is that all you were groaning about?" I chortled to my guts, before swaying to bed....


...11am I woke up to the foulest stench that could ever befall a human being. Words cannot describe the abhorrent, rancid, effluent malodour. It was utterly atrocious, and instantly made me retch. Vomming into the bin, I turned around to see the source from whence such sin arose: a vile, stinking pile of reddish-brown splutterings, literally COVERING my bed. With the abominable odour of a mixture of curry, drains and (strangely) cabbage, I certainly wasn't proud. In fact, I'd not only shat myself, I'd done it in shameful, epic style. Still ever so slightly drunk, I thought "fuck it", threw the horrendous feculent bedclothes out my window, and went back to bed.

Next thing I know, I wake up at 2pm. Stumbling downstairs, I find my flatmates in the lounge, which was directly below my room and with a view out to the garden directly below my window. They're just sitting in silence. Glancing out the window, I notice the bedsheets aren't there. The washing machine is quietly whirring next door. Before I can open my mouth to speak, my flatmate Jen simply said "I don't know what the fuck you ate yesterday, but it's all over my courgette plants."
(The Oscillating Gibbon is eating curried squid, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 10:40, 6 replies)

Bedroom Disasters? I've got them in spades - have a pea:
In my late teens, I started going out with a vicar's daughter, and, as the relationship developed, I was invited to the vicarage for the weekend.

While the vicar and his wife were absolutely lovely, they couldn't have made their position on our relationship more clear: my girlfriend's room was at that end of a huge long corridor, and mine was at the other end, right next to the parents' bedroom.

While that wasn't too daunting in itself - all teenagers become adept at parent-evasion - I hadn't banked on the fact that the vicarage still had the old WWII black-out curtains which, I found out quickly, were employed each evening still.

So at about 2am, having stayed up with my girlfriend "watching telly" (and pretty well only that as it happens), I go to bed.

It is pitch black in the corridor - absolutely no light. She closed her door, and I was in complete darkness - not even vague light from reflections downstairs.

OK. I know my room's at the end. I walk fowards cautiously, my hands in front of me, and, reaching what feels to be the end of the corridor, turn to my right and go into the room.

Now, over-excited with the teenage horn, on my arrival I'd just thrown my bag on the bed and been done with it, so where the light switch is I have no idea.

Thus I start the tedious process of feeling my way around the room, trying to find some form of illumination. Instead - happily - I find the bed, and therefore strip to my shorts and start to get in, to be greeted by her mother screaming "WHO THE HELL IS THAT?!", her father banging the light on and the sight of myself in the mirror opposite with an erection dressed in only my shorts getting entangled rapidly in the blankets as I try desperately to run away from everything ever for the rest of my life.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 10:39, 3 replies)

I was laid down in my room, eyes shut, earphones on and listening to some music.
when all of a sudden I looked up and Mr T was next to my bed wanking over me.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 10:19, 2 replies)

Mysterious intruder bested by confused rage
Many moons ago my father had three major influences in his life - the Royal Navy, a chronic sleep disorder, and quick fists. Thanks to the first of these, he and my mother found themselves living a balmy tropical lifestyle on the island of Mauritius in the early seventies. Idyllic, halcyon days of rum and sunshine, tempered only by my father's minimal duties and occasional, absolute batshit mentalism …

One typically enchanting night, my parents were sleeping blissfully in the silence of their quarters. Unfortunately though, the nasty night demons were toying with my father's mind. Mumbling, tossing and turning, he suddenly sat bolt upright in bed like an electrocuted lobotomy patient.

Fuck … there was someone stood in their room!

There was no time to think. The time for action was now. "I AM MAN, AND MY KNUCKLES ARE LEGION" I like to think he screamed as he leaped at the shadowy stranger. A thunderous left hook was delivered right into the face (the FACE! Man this must have been exciting). So strong was my father's righteous justice muscle that the force of his almighty punch made the hapless intruder literally explode. Everywhere.
Just like a mirror would, in fact.

Yep, he'd decked his own reflection, completely severing an artery in the process.

My mother woke to the glorious vision of a totally bewildered, adrenaline-fuelled sailor squirting high pressure blood all over the bedroom, with a demented grin of victory on his face. She wrapped the wound and they hastily made their way to the hospital.

It being mid-week, the on-duty Navy surgeon had expected a quiet night. Quite reasonably, therefore, he had turned up for his shift and proceeded to get absolutely shitfaced. Nevertheless, he was determined to face the challenge of my father head-on. Operating under the assumption that 'nerves are a myth', he proceeded to sew my father's wrist back together with all the care and zeal of a depressed butcher.

40 years later my dad still has no feeling in half his hand, and an absolute canyon of a scar. He's never fought with his reflection since.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 9:10, 5 replies)

A bedroom disaster in the bathroom: a quickie on the bog seat.
Two words - banjo string.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 8:15, 4 replies)

My girlfriend banned me from eating Alphabetty Spaghetti in bed
She said one wrong move, and it could spell disaster.


(/Tim Vine...)
(MrOli is ugly, but in the morning you will be sober, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 8:12, Reply)

Opportunity for a repost!
Many moons ago, when I was but a lad (about 18 and discovering the joys of inappropriateness with the leydees) I suffered from a condition called Phimosis - feel free to google it but it's basically a foreskin that is too tight to retract without causing pain and swelling.....

One evening, lubricated by a number of pints of the lunatic special at the Old Man and Scythe I managed to get lucky with a lady and managed to "do the deed". It hurt like hell but somehow the old fella managed to perform and all was good.

Until later that night. If you can imagine the scenario - the foreskin retracts but decides to shrink around my bellend. Basically I was priapic with a persistent erection and my helmet was turning an angry purple and getting larger. I managed to live with it for a few hours until the pain became too much to bear.

Now the object of my affection that evening was a nurse and thought (due to the effects of being shitfaced) that it would be a simple process to relieve the pressure until I could seek professional assistance. So we commenced the operation...

Nail scissors sterilised in a ligher flame, ice liberally applied to the offending area to numb the pain and the banjo string and the stubborn ring of foreskin around the base of the helmet is cut! I was very surprised how tough human flesh is, even in the most delicate of areas.....

All was good for about 30 seconds. The pressure subsided and things started to look normal then the pain decided to kick in together with copious blood flow. If didn't know I could bleed so much and live. It was everywhere, the sink, the bath, the floor, the bathmat, towels - you name it, it got a soaking.

We decided at that point that a trip to casualty was in order.....the member for Quimborough was wrapped in a towel and the ambulance was called.

It was worth the embarassment of the consultation as the next day I'd had an emergency circumcision and a few weeks later (once the stitches had disssolved/been picked out) I discovered the true joy of sex.

Absolutely true and the most painful thing I've ever encountered but worth it in the end.
(penrose your dog's got tits, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 8:00, 10 replies)

bedroomdisasters
I was 14 and listening to an original vinyl Jimi Hendrix - Are You Experienced, lying on on my back on the floor of my room with these massive 1960's bass reflex speakers positioned 1 foot on either side of my head and loud. In comes the Mum, pulls the plug, "When you are quite through with your emotional orgy, I'd like you to clean your room," plugs it back in so the music winds up and leaves. Whoa I thought, I should have been more careful when I picked my parents.
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 4:39, 1 reply)

Alcohol was a factor
My new girlfriend told me she liked it rough. Despite having never done anything like that before, I think "fuck it", and we decide to go for it one night after a trip to the pub.

We get through the door and take our roles. Music is put on to cover the oncoming storm of grunts. She gets shoved onto the bed, hard, and lies there, legs akimbo, to let me "ravish" her (her term, I might add).

After maybe a minute of such ravishing, I realise I'm getting minimal feedback. I look up.

She'd hit her head on the wall when I shoved her...

...and I'd molested her while she was unconscious.

We don't tell that one at dinner parties.
(a gun that fires other, smaller guns full of jizz, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 4:08, 11 replies)

Repost: The Bates Motel!
Or at least that's how we thought of it.

When my first son was a newborn my wife and I were going down to Westchester County (just north of NYC) to visit a friend for the weekend. Wally (a nickname, based on a slight resemblance to the older brother on "Leave It To Beaver") was engaged to a girl named Mary who turned out to be a true nutbar. The engagement was broken about a month before the wedding- and Wally, as one would expect from a friend of mine, decided to hold his own Bachelor Party on what would have been his wedding day, to celebrate still being a bachelor. Lots of food, lots of beer, lots of drunken louts hurling a football around and laughing like hell... in all, a great time.

So my wife and I left our son with his grandparents and started down toward NYC from the Utica area. We left rather late in the day, planning on getting as far as we could that night and finishing the trip in the morning.

As it happened, our route took us along the Taconic Parkway. To explain what this means, I will describe it thus: take a road going through the Yorkshire Dale, make it twice as wide with no shoulder, make it two lanes going the same way, and fill it with homicidal maniacs driving between 90 and 100 miles per hour. (That's between 145 and 160 kph for you metric types.) It was scary as hell for me as I was the one driving- so for my wife it was like being a Christian Scientist with appendicitis. (Cool points if you get the reference.)

So when we saw a sign for a motel, we got off the Parkway gladly and went looking.

Have you ever seen an American "motor court" from the 1950s? It's basically a square U-shape with parking in front of the units. This was a particularly grim little place, long since run to seed. When I went to check in I was confronted by a four foot tall woman with grey hair and wild staring eyes who rolled off of her bed in the next room to attend the front desk, and said about three words the entire time. In a prominent place behind the desk was an autographed photo of Phyllis Diller.

Seriously- I was looking for Norman Bates as we went to our room.

We got our suitcase and went into the room, which reeked of old cigarettes and other things I didn't want to think about, and found it to be quite up-to-date if you were living in about 1962. There was no TV, and the only entertainment was a clock radio boasting "Solid State Electronics". But it had a flattish surface with some sort of soft things at the end that served as a bed, so we elected to go along with it.

Bear in mind that we were in our late 20s at the time, and our hormones were still boiling at an almost adolescent level. So I suppose it's not too much of a surprise that we got a bit horny despite the surroundings.

As she was still nursing at the time, my wife was not on birth control pills, so we were relying on a diaphragm and spermicidal foam. Unfortunately we never did quite get the hang of that- inserting the diaphragm was a skill neither of us ever really acquired, or at least we weren't very good at it. But my wife went into the bathroom to do her best with it anyway.

I lay there in the horrid little bed, naked and waiting for my wife to emerge in her while lacy nightgown, as ready for a good romp as any young man. I lay there, one thin partition away from her as she struggled with the unfamiliar and awkward equipment that she was trying to insert into her nether regions. As I lay there I heard a muffled explosion and some very bad language, followed by a muttered "...all over the fucking place!" and tried not to think about what was going on in the bathroom.

Then my wife emerged in her white lace nightgown, her nipples hard and very visible through the thin lace, with a shy and demure look on her face- and, perched like a white lacy bow on top of her head, a large puff of spermicidal foam in her hair.

It took a couple of minutes for me to get control of my laughter enough to gasp out that she should look at the mirror.

I did get laid- but it took a while to get her calmed enough, and for me to get the giggles out of my system.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 24 Jun 2011, 3:12, 4 replies)

Paging Sir Spanky Hanky!

( jakedamusss I understand, and dont care., Fri 24 Jun 2011, 2:36, 13 replies)

Like many teenagers, my bedroom walls were covered with posters.
This included a particularly massive one of Depeche Mode right above my bed. Since the poster to wall ratio was quite expansive, this meant that the blu-tack to poster rationing was a bit slim.

One Saturday morning, as I was having an especially nice dream about Judy Gill and her antics at the school sports day playing hockey in her short skirt and tight sports shirt, I was awoken by the unmistakeable sound of said poster peeling itself from the wall and flopping onto my face. It is somewhat disconcerting to awaken from a dream about the fittest girl in school only to find yourself confronted with a photo of Martin Gore dressed in bondage gear pressed firmly against you... Possibly no less disconcerting than having a poster with the fluffy haired yet angelic voiced perve on your wall, but nevertheless...

Startled, I sprang out of bed in order to re-stick the poster to the wall. Unfortunately, due to my just awake state, my coordination was less than well-honed, and as I went to fall back down to my slumber, I slipped on the duvet and crashed towards the floor, only stopping to introduce my forehead to the bedside cabinet on the way, giving myself an instant swelling that put my dreams of Judy's gym sweater into sharp relief.

It was at this point, as I dragged myself from the floor and back into bed that I realised that my bedroom carpet didn't match the curtains.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 24 Jun 2011, 2:04, 2 replies)

I once had a bout of food poisoning...
I drifted off some hours before, but I woke in the dead of the night only to realise that my stomach was rather unhappy with something it had eaten earlier in the evening. I felt weak and nauseous and before I could muster the energy to get to the toilet my guts started to expel their contents at top velocity. It hit the wall next to the bed and I proceeded to puke the rest onto the duvet. I was completely delirious by this point and I didn't have the strength to move so I just kept puking all over the bed and the wall. And when I stopped puking I felt instantly better. It was if the toxins were gone.

I surveyed the damage I had caused. One vomit encrusted wall - check. One fetid and violated duvet - check. And a bed where you could clearly see the bits of meat, peas and carrots I had eaten earlier - check. I felt completely spent from the whole episode so I decided the best thing to do would be to commandeer the bit of the duvet and bed that was still vomit free. I drifted off into a sweet slumber dreaming of soft white bunnies frolicking in the green grass and then being snatched away by an eagle with talons that popped their little eyeballs like grapes.

Apparently the smell in the morning when my mum came to wake me up for school was revolting . She said the sight of her son sleeping peacefully in a puke encrusted bed wasn't too pleasing either. The fact I'd rolled over in the night and had slept in vomit made me begrudgingly bring my weekly shower forward a few days.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 0:19, Reply)