One day in Hamburg
So there I was, spending a day shopping in Hamburg. At the end I had amassed 4 carrier bags of stuff, plus one fuckoff-sized bag containing a new suit, and then...

"Where the fuck is my train ticket?"

I searched and searched. Yes, I had definitely lost it. Crap. Off to the ticket machines (5 euro surcharge if you want to speak to a human being) I went, and lightened the wallet.

---2 hours of public transport rage omitted---

When I came home, there was no car in the driveway. "Germangal must be grocery shopping", I say to myself. Luckily, I had only lost the ticket and not my keys.
Opening the door, I was greeted by Germangal and the two Germandaughters.

"Where's the car?" ask I.

Then it clicked. I'd only gone and forgotten the fucking CAR in a city 180km away.

Went to the parking garage I usually use the next day, got back Germanride, payed for another train ticket and overnight parking. Total cost to bank account: 143 euros. Total profits for future alzheimer's doc: Probably millions. Total cost to dignity: Infinite.

First post be gentle, long time lurker first time poster, length, girth, something something star wars something, bins (stayed about from), magenta CDC.
(GermanGuy invaded on, Tue 26 Mar 2013, 14:47, 15 replies)

I went on holiday once..
...and the taxi driver commented that there was a strong smell of fish in the back of his cab.

"I was too polite to mention it!", I replied brightly.
"Well it doesn't normally smell of fish in here".
"Well I'm pretty sure its not me! I have many faults, but being a fish is absolutely not one of them, and neither is my wife".
"You've got a carrier bag of fish bones next to you".

I had. I had taken a carrier bag of fish bones into the taxi, and popped my wife's hand luggage into the wheelie bin before we left.

She roared with laughter. "Never a dull moment with you!", she smiled, eyes shining as she ruffled my hair. "I'm so glad I married you". This last bit isn't true.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 22 Mar 2013, 0:27, 8 replies)

I bought a convertible
Yeah, I know, in the UK ha ha. The interesting thing about it was the little differences. For example, to fold down the rear seats you needed the key, rather than just pulling a lever. Why? Well, if you park with the roof down you want the boot secure. For similar reasons the boot release button in the door only worked with the roof closed.

You can see where this is going.

Girlfriend and I, driving back from the countryside with the car in "millionaire" mode (at 70mph having the roof down meant dropping from 35mpg to more like 25 - ouch) decided to stop for a cheeky pub lunch in the sunshine. So, we pulled into a likely looking village, parked up in the square and set about securing various road-trip valuables (ipod, emergency biscuits etc) in the boot.

After tossing everything in and closing said boot, I felt for the keys in my pocket to set the immobiliser. Nothing. The enormity of what I'd just done hit me like a train: it wasn't just music and sustenance I'd managed to lock in the boot. There was, by design, no way in without the key and the spare was 150 miles away in Berkshire.

I looked skywards to let out a moan and noticed that, just to rub it in, an enormous raincloud had appeared above us. Fucksocks.

Once the lady had finished calling me every word for "idiot" she could muster, we embarked on an extended and hurried problem solving session. I had a small screwdriver in the door bin (you can take a boy out of the cub scouts..) so I investigated whether there were any interior fixings or panels that could be loosened to achieve boot access or to fold the seats without unlatching them. No dice. I looked at the fuse box and considered whether judicious shorting might fool the car into thinking the roof was up long enough to trigger the release button. Non-starter; I didn't know even nearly enough about the wiring of the car to pull that one off.

Eventually we decided there was nothing to be done but call the AA and hope that the rain held off long enough for them to show up. I know now how ridiculous that sounds but at the time I convinced myself this was not only likely, but the only possible sequence of events.

I dialled straight away. Brilliantly, my call was answered within seconds and was timed perfectly with my slamming the car door to reveal, dangling cheekily in the lock, the keys.

The Mrs delivered a barrage of insults without repetition, deviation or hesitation, right through lunch.
( pineapplecharm D d M Y, H:i, Tue 26 Mar 2013, 15:28, 8 replies)

One of my ex-colleagues…
Let’s call her Marie (for that was not her name) used to suffer brain-fade on a regular basis. Highlights included reaching into her handbag for her mobile phone and pulling out her home phone, or on one occasion her TV remote control. My personal favourite though was the melon episode:

Marie used to bring a packed lunch in every day. Nothing fancy, just a couple of sandwiches, maybe some crisps, and a slice of melon. One Monday, she complained that the melon she’d bought wasn’t very nice; it was hard, a bit dry and not very tasty. Reasoning that it probably wasn’t ripe, she soldiered on and said she’d put it somewhere warm to ripen up overnight.

This happened again on Tuesday. And Wednesday. Then on Thursday, she came into the office and announced that she’d found out why her melon wasn’t very nice:

It was a pumpkin.
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Tue 26 Mar 2013, 12:09, 7 replies)

All watched over by machines of loving grace
A few years back I used to DJ and help out at my favourite pub. It was a nice pub, never any trouble, so they didn't have door-staff or bouncers. If anything did start it was generally diffused by myself or some of the other more burly regulars.

One particular night the splendid bonhomie of said pub was rudely interrupted by one rather loud gentleman banging rather fiercely on the side of the jukebox and swearing a lot.

A few of us looked at each other with mild perturbance. Glances were exchanged. I got up to have a quiet word.

"What's up mate?"

"This fucking thing!"

"Have you put the right money in?"

"YES! Fucking thing!"

"Well what do you want?"

"I couldn't give a shit mate. Anything!"

"Uh... well what would you like? There's plenty of choice."

"Any fucking thing!"

"Well what's your favourite band?"

"WHAT!? The fuck's that got to do with you?"

"I'm just trying to help you get what you want! What did you want when you put your money in?"

"Marlboro lights."

I don't think he came in again.
(R. Jimlad twitter.com/sirmarkymark, Sat 23 Mar 2013, 14:18, 8 replies)

Alzheimer's
Wet-chinned bag shanker's link below reminded me of my Nan. This happened about halfway between the conversation at the hospital where she didn't know who the Prime Minister was and the end, when my Nan was still able to live at home, albeit with the support of relatives who lived nearby. Due to living in London I'd not seen her for a while and my Mum had warned me that she had good days and bad days so I was prepared for the worst but when she opened the door she burst into a big smile and said "Oh, it's you!", gave me a big hug and took me into the living room for tea and biscuits.

We had a long conversation - she was very lucid about things that had happened years ago and she told me all about how she had met my grandad, her first job sewing at the clothes factory - and then the conversation turned to holidays she'd had. She talked a lot about Spain, as she and my grandad used to go out there all the time, but ultimately decided that her favourite country was Scotland. Then she got serious for a moment, touched my arm and said that she really wanted to go to Scotland again before she died.

I knew that she wouldn't be able to go to Scotland again, besides the Alzheimer's she had a number of other health issues and was physically very frail, so I tried to offer an alternative - rather than the mountains of Scotland, would she settle for visiting her sister who lived in the mountains of Wales, which were much closer and (just) possible to visit in a day? And after thinking about it, she said that she'd like that just as much.

I said my goodbyes and went back to London soon after. It was about three days later when my Mum rang. We talked a bit about my Nan and she said, "I shouldn't laugh, but she keeps coming out with these stories and some of them are hilarious. What's the name of that song, 'I been talking to Jesus' and all that?"
"Uh, Genesis? Has she gone all Phil Collins?"
"Well, I went round today and she was sitting with the Bible out, reading it. You know she's never been religious much and she said she was mostly reading the dedications written by members of the family over the years in the front pages, but she said she'd got it out because she'd been talking to Jesus."
"Uh, right?"
"Yes, she said that Jesus had been to visit her and that they'd had a long talk and everything was sorted out."
"Oh."
"Apparently Jesus was very nice but he said that she couldn't go to Scotland before she died."
"Ah."
"But then she said Jesus had told her that she could go to Wales."
"Oh. Um. Mum, there's something I need to tell you about Jesus."
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 21 Mar 2013, 20:58, 13 replies)

My first job was in the head office of a Halfords-y type shop
One day the bike buyer says, "Oi, pineapplecharm; if I get you a new bike will you test it out and let me know if it's any good?" Being a selfless and generous man, I agreed and only a few days later was rewarded with a shiny new bike. Front and back suspension, whizzy decals, even a bottle holder - this thing had it all! RRP was about £79.99 (for all its features the thing was made out of processed cheese and string) but it was a FREE BIKE and I wasn't going to be snooty about it.

After a few weeks of speedy two-wheeled commuting, I provided the feedback required and was then told I could keep the bike. Result! As luck would have it my father was in town so I decided to ride the new steed to the pub to meet him and celebrate. Dinner was consumed, beer was drunk, bills were paid by a willing parent already nostalgic for the days when my every penny came directly from his wallet.

Upon my return home, I locked the bike downstairs in its usual place by the door and retired to bed to dream of pixies and cut price car accessories.

In the morning, the bike was gone.

My fury and shame drove me to extreme acts of justification and paranoia. I didn't think it was sod's law that the very night the bike passed officially into my possession was the one chosen by the thief. That would be too simple. No, I was convinced it was no coincidence; they knew. They had been watching. And once the corporate might had been removed from the ownership picture, they struck.

It took three months for me to pluck up the courage to admit what happened to my colleagues. I mean, what kind of an arsehole loses a bike - a free bike mind you - from his own front yard? What kind of a pillock would leave it locked up where it was visible from the street? Who could live with themselves knowing they treated with such disregard such a treasured, generous gift? It was a character forming moment when I approached the buyer's desk and, in a wavering voice, admitted my transgression.

He reached for the phone, clearly to warn the rest of his department never to trust me with company property again.

"Hi, is that Darrell? Can you send another one of those P-100's over? No, we won't be paying; it's a sample. Yeah, head office. Cheers." He looked at me. "Should be here on Tuesday. Alright?"

I was, if anything, doubly mortified that I'd felt so bad about it.

When the bike arrived, I was determined not to lose it. I rode it home that evening absolutely convinced I had to find a new place to lock up the steed so that this time, no matter how psychic the local criminal fraternity were, they would be foxed by my cunning and bamboozled by my brilliance.

This time, I avoided the front yard and cycled round to the car park behind the flats, hidden from the road. This was a good start. There was no bike rack, just eight parking spaces which offered little you could loop a chain through. The fence was solid, which was good for privacy but lacking in lock-friendly orifices. The lighting was on short poles which weren't much use for attaching anything a man could lift. I was running out of ideas.

And then I noticed that the building didn't quite meet the fence on one side. Approaching with rising excitement I realised there was a good 18 inch gap - more than enough to fit a bike in. It would be completely hidden from anyone - in fact even other residents using the car park would be unaware of the bike's presence. Genius! I hurried over and peered around the corner into the gap.

And there, leaning nonchalantly against the wall with its arse towards me, was the old bike. It wasn't even chained.

Three months of walking to work. Three.

I can only surmise that, after a particularly inspirational pint of local ale, I had been struck with the idea (possibly after my dear Dad saying something along the lines of "obviously you're not still locking that bike up in the front yard are you?" in his normal passive-instructive way) of researching a new storage location but, cruelly, also robbed of the memory of such research.

Still, at least my flatmate got a free bike too!
( pineapplecharm D d M Y, H:i, Tue 26 Mar 2013, 10:58, 3 replies)

Gambling
Many moons ago, I was gambling a lot. If there was an event on, I had to have a bet.

Came home from a night out, logged into Bet365 (other worse betting sites are use-able, but now I realise this is the worst) and thought I would have my usual treble.

£20, Arsenal to win, Newcastle win and West Brom to draw. Been doing this bet as a "standard" one over the last 4 seasons. Been doing well. Up about £300.

Trouble was, they had just updated their website and it was no longer in price order. So I'd backed.

Arsenal to lose to Hull at Home
Newcastle to lose to Blackburn at home
West Brom to win away at Middlesburgh.

I tried to cancel the bet. Rang Bet365 and they (correctly) said I'd been sober enough to get through security so the bet stands.

Won just under 2 grand.
(Strump striving for imperfection since, Sun 24 Mar 2013, 23:10, 1 reply)

I was walking around our house during some renovations
staring at the latest set of plans ... and walked face-first into a doorway that we hadn't yet built.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 21 Mar 2013, 12:26, 8 replies)

nothing comperes to you
several years ago, my best mate was a compere for a stripper. he would get up on stage, warm up the crowd and call the birthday boy up on stage to be waggled at by said stripper. at that time, the irritating catchphrase was "WASSUP?", from that stupid fucking budweiser ad.
one particular night, i'd gone to work with him, as we were heading off to town straight after. waiting outside the last venue of the evening was the mother of the 18-year-old birthday boy who was set to receive the strippers' attentions. she pulled my mate aside for a quick word.
"my son really loves that budweiser advert, can you go in and shout "WASSUP?" over the mic? he'd love that."
"ok," my mate says, "what is it again?"
"wassup", replies the mother.
waiting at the edge of the stage for his cue, my mate repeatedly asks both me and the stripper "what is it?"
"wassup!" we both reply, getting a bit fed up by now.
of course, the inevitable happens. my mate receives his cue, walks out onto the stage, grabs the mic and shouts "WHAT IS IT?"
apparently, it's hard to take your clothes off when you can't stop laughing.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 21 Mar 2013, 14:51, 10 replies)

Spending hours carefully crafting a nuanced stock only to strain it through the colander into the sink.
That moment of realisation never gets any less frustrating however many times I do this.
( Pig Bodine., Thu 21 Mar 2013, 12:41, 10 replies)

I moved abroad for work in the 90s.
Was given a company car about a month after I arrived.

On more than one occasion I got in the car, closed the door, put on my seat belt, then looked and asked myself "Oh. Where's the fucking steering wheel gone?"
(username failed moderation, Mon 25 Mar 2013, 8:41, 4 replies)

Icelandfail
This year, I finally got off my arse to go to Iceland to see the Northern Lights (which was the best thing I have ever, ever, ever done in the history of ever).

While there, with a bunch of mates, we also went exploring. One of the highlights was a huge set of river rapids, half of which had frozen solid.

My friend, who we shall call Bender, for her preference for boozin' rather than the same sexin', spoke thus:

"Oh, what's that thing we're going to see.... I've forgotten the word.... it's... falling water?"

"You mean a waterfall?"

"Yeah!"

(Oh, and the lights? OH MY GOD THE SKY IS ON FIRE! Best. Thing. Ever. Lucky doesn't cover it, managed to be there during a solar story and saw the FUCK out of the Aurora. And, yes, I did the Freddy Mercury. Because balls to all those beautiful, respectful photos of nature's greatest wonder. Someone's gotta show it who's boss!)


(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Fri 22 Mar 2013, 17:38, 8 replies)

I work night shifts
and a friend at work had got me one of those black night masks (those velvety blindfold things) to help me sleep during the day.

I took the night mask out of its packet and thought 'Cool! I wonder what I look like while wearing them...' - so I went and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. And put them on.

*headslap*
( The Silent Channel is getting his recommended 5-a-day, Fri 22 Mar 2013, 12:41, Reply)

I work in a callcenter
and rang a customer back, reached their answerphone - and instinctively left a voicemail beginning
"Hello, you're through to Dave. How can I help you?"
(Davethefan began lurking again on or around, Fri 22 Mar 2013, 0:21, Reply)

I was sucking this girl off the other night when I suddenly thought
...hang on a minute
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Mon 25 Mar 2013, 10:22, 2 replies)

It was 1998. I was 18.
I was extremely stoned, and waiting for my bus. I was paranoid; every pedestrian walking past could see my red eyes, white face and idiotic grin. They could smell the low grade hashish I was carrying, and they were laughing about it. Yeah, and the people driving past? They were on their way to the police station to report me.

My bus pulled up, I got on board. I asked the driver for a return to Aberdeen.

'Are you a fool?' he asked me.

I was stunned. He knew. He was going to either harangue me about the stultifying effects of cannabis resin, or he was going to somehow contact the police.

'What?' I stammered.

'Are you a fool?' he repeated. Was I on the wrong bus? I was! I must be! Why else would this man be asking me if I was a fool? I was a fool! It was the wrong bus! It wasn't though, I saw the number. It's the right one, so what's he getting at?

'What?' I asked again. I was adrift on a floating island of confusion.

'Are you a full fare, or a half fare?' he barked out.

'Adult fare!' I replied, then realised that I had just answered the question he hadn't asked, and I was in fact, a very stoned fool.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Mon 25 Mar 2013, 0:05, 1 reply)

Fucking students
A student I was, at a rather fancy university to boot, and as such I had a bike, just like all the other spotty little future prime ministers. I was rather pleased with my choice of mount. It cost me a pittance and was so shit and so blatantly trumpeted its shitness to all who beheld it that I believed it to be un-nickable, which is the vital quality a student bike needs. Who but me would be seen dead riding such a thing? Certainly none of these fuckers with their ambitions to high office. It might have been a racer once but someone had cackhandedly daubed the frame all over with blue house-paint and fitted a set of handlebars that made it look like a girl's bike. Despite its place near the bottom of any bike-rustlers hitlist I religiously secured it with a combination lock that having set me back £11.99 was worth more than my valiant steed.

After a term of chilly rides to lectures on which the bike and I came to understand each others' foibles (squeaky ineffectual brakes, wobbly hungover ineptitude) there came a January morning when the damn bastard lock would not open. I struggled to maintain my laid-back demeanour, hard won though eight weeks' careful shrugging and moping. Stupid cock fuck arse bastard thing didn't it realise I was late already? I knew the code with the intimate familiarity that comes of long use. I could even hum it, it had a tune - three-six-NINE-seven. But my self-belief was severely shaken by the reality of the cold metal in my hands. My numb fingers fumbled for agonizing minutes with its fiddly, unforgiving wheels, trying variations on the theme... four-six-nine-eight?... Utterly useless of course because I KNEW perfectly well what the code was. Four digits of inscrutable cold steel stood between me and mobility.

At that point I did what any student would do. Murmured "fuck it" and wandered off to be late for lectures. For several days afterwards a tense stand-off existed between me and that lock... often as I walked past it I would have an urge to try one last time but I was damned if I would sacrifice my studied nonchalance to fumble again with that self-satisfied assemblage of cogs. Time passed and I adjusted to life on foot: getting up a few minutes earlier, shambling in a few minutes more sullenly late.

Spring came and the birds began to sing in the trees above the bikeshed, drowned out of course by the daily tides of students braying about Proust and Special Relativity and generally trying to sound clever. With a pang of guilt and nostalgia I noticed my neglected bike languishing beneath a pile of similarly rusting wrecks whose owners were clearly as uncaring and/or hopeless as I was. I wrestled it upright and had one last go at the lock that had so long defeated me. Choosing numbers at random I tugged gently and... there was an uncanny lack of resistance. I recoiled in shock. Each hand held one half of the lock and for several seconds they retained the sickening sensation of unexpected pliance, a bit like reaching down for a bit of self love only for the old fella to come off in your hand. Or something.

Slowly I tried to piece together what had happened. How had my subconscious guided me to the right code out of the 10000 possibilities? Was it a good day to do the lottery? On reflection it seemed more likely that I had been a tit and changed the code last autumn whilst simultaneously blanking out all recollection of the event. We'd had a lot of lectures on computer security around that time and I must have felt compelled to change my "password" for something more secure. Try as I might I could not coax from my brain any hint of a memory... it was as if my having coughed up the code it was too embarrassed to provide further details of its own fallibility.

That night with the wind in my ears I sailed across town to a house-party, bikeborn once again. None of my mates seemed to have turned up but I settled down to some purposeful substance consumption and at one point I believe I may even have talked to a girl. Much later in the wee small hours I meandered happily home again on foot, the substances of course helping me to forget that I was once again the owner of a functioning bike.

Morning came and with it the unwelcome task of hauling myself to lectures. To my credit I spent less than half an hour prodding listlessly amongst the racks of bikes before I recalled that I had walked home the previous night. "Ah well," I laughed lightly to myself, "I'll just have to pop back and get it when I have a spare hour some time." Two weekends later I set off on my rescue mission... with a growing realisation that my memories of the party were really rather vague. Could I recall its location? Could I tits. Could I remember the names of anyone I had met there? Well no, not now you come to mention it.

So long, soldier.

TLDR: Idiot is idiot and finds a needlessly complicated way to lose a valued possession
(stairmaster, Fri 22 Mar 2013, 20:37, 2 replies)

This is grim (and a pearoast), sorry
Got back to my car after a long day at work, only to discover that some friendly bird had done an enormous poop on my windscreen, right in the middle of my field of vision.

I had nothing in the car to clean it off with - no water, no tissues, no scraper, nothing. But I couldn't have driven off, I wouldn't have been able to see anything.

So I cleaned it off with my hand.

Then, I reached into my pocket for my car keys. As I pulled them out, I had a bizarre moment of brain-fade and thought "What's that all over my hand?".

So I cheerfully licked my hand.

And then, of course, realised exactly what it was. And then immediately commenced with hacking, gagging and spitting to try and get the bird poop out of my mouth. I am an idiot.
( biscuitbiscuit is in ur garden, watering ur plantz, Thu 21 Mar 2013, 22:44, 3 replies)

Psychometric testing
We were doing a psychometric thing for work and had taken the Myers-Briggs test.

For the uninitiated, this is a pseudo-scientific test where you are quizzed and then measured on four axes E-I (Extrovert/Introvert), S-N (Sensing/Intuition), T-F (Thinking/Feeling) and J-P (Judgement/Perception). I came out on the J-P axis as being a perceptive person (P).

Later, we were doing some other exercise and it took me quite some time to figure our why people were smirking at me, after I opined out loud that I was doing quite well because of my P-ness.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Thu 21 Mar 2013, 14:05, Reply)

One new year's eve
I was very very drunk. When I got home at 5am the door was locked and everyone was asleep. I wanted someone to let me in the house, so I knocked on the door. Very very quietly, so as to not wake anyone up.

After ten pointless minutes I got my keys out and let myself in.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Thu 21 Mar 2013, 13:39, Reply)

Crown of Thorns
Took an old door up to the council tip to dump it. It was basicaly a 'garden door' wooden framed with about 12 small rectangular panes of glass in it.
All the workers at the tip sit around drinking tea for most of the day and only come to help you if you're about to dump something that they could keep for themselves or sell on Ebay. Their Portakabin is fully equipped with sofas, armchairs, TV, microwave, 'fridge etc all 'saved' from being binned.
As it was a summer's day they were all sat outside on some garden furniture, drinking tea and watching all the poor punters struggling to heave things into the skips. The door I had brought up to dump was not particularly heavy but as the handle had been removed it was hard to get a grip on it.
The tip staff watched me struggle for a while but none came to help. I had the brainwave of hefting it up onto my head and carrying it like an African woman going to market if she had a market stall selling garden doors.

I tried to make this look easy just to spite the hi-viz mafia but hadn't quite thought it through. As I easily lifted it on, the top of my head broke through the very centre glass panel and the jagged edges of the broken glass around the frame wedged onto my crown so I was wearing the door like a hat. Some of them heard the glass break and looked over but I made the decision to tough it out and carry on as though nothing had happened. Walked up the ramp, carefully lifted the door off my head (more painful than when it went on), threw the door into the skip and dusted my hands off in sitcom style before nonchalantly strolling back to my car.
After I got home I told my wife the story and we both giggled stupidly as she spent about 30 minutes picking shards of glass out of my scalp.
Length? Longest scar was about an inch.
(Barnetboy, Thu 21 Mar 2013, 13:15, Reply)

Once upon a time in the snow...
Got up one morning to find that it had snowed quite heavily overnight. No problem, a bit of shovelling is good exercise. I first went out the front door to check for mail, then donned parka, hat, gloves and boots and proceeded out the side door to attack the drifts. Just as I slammed the (self-locking) side door, I realized I had left my keys in the house. Bugger. No worries, though, my neighbours (a charming retired couple) had a key. I rang their bell but no reply, then I noticed their car wasn't in the garage. I shovelled my driveway. I shovelled my neighbour's driveway, then both sidewalks. By this time it was getting bloody cold and I realized the neighbours weren't coming home any time soon. I couldn't even use my car to drive to my mom's place where there was a spare key also, as my car keys were with my house keys. And this was before the days of mobile phones. Inspiration- I'll get the ladder out of the garage, climb in the second floor window and Bob's yer uncle. This proved a bit trickier than I had thought, and I almost ripped my balls off sliding through the window. After leaving huge muddy footprints all over the duvet of the bed under the window and down the hall, I finally retrieved my keys - then turned to look at the front door which was still standing open from earlier. It was a while before I saw the humour in the incident....
(Smudge the Demon, Mon 25 Mar 2013, 20:28, Reply)

Pretty sure I've mentioned this before...
Years ago I worked for a little company, based in an old sawmill. We decided to build a partition wall to turn our large and pointless reception area into a small reception and an office. We bought a door from B&Q, measured it up and built a studwork partition, onto which we would put boards, and paint.
To check the door fitted into the gap we'd left, we (rather predictably) put it where it was going to go. Stepping through a gap in the studwork, I checked that everything looked okay.

"Yep, that's all fine" I confirmed to my colleague, then went to rejoin him on the other side of the wall.

By going through the door.

My feet both got as far as the bottom of the door; my hand was still holding the door handle and I fell forwards with the door, unable to do anything to break my fall.

Approximately eight days later I managed to stop giggling.
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Sat 23 Mar 2013, 13:57, 1 reply)

I was using a food mixer to mix up an omelette and put the wrong lid on the top of it
Boy did I have egg on my face.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 21 Mar 2013, 14:46, 13 replies)

I shut my head in the fridge
Because I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing and forgot to move out of the way when I put the milk back and shut the door.

I then had to explain to my wife how I got a cut on my nose.
( Dervel OTBC, Thu 21 Mar 2013, 12:47, 1 reply)

Woke up at 8:55
Shit, late for work! Dressed in 2 mins, no time for breakfast, ran down 4 flights of stairs with my bike, down onto the canel towpath and pedalled like a mad man. Got to work only 15 minutes late. Phew! No sign of the boss either, might have got away with it. Get myself a coffee and check my emails. Strange that no-one else has turned up yet either, I think. That's because its Saturday, you fucking nana, my brain said to me seconds later.
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Wed 27 Mar 2013, 20:29, 3 replies)

Hello?
I was having a meeting with my then managing director. The phone rang and he picked up his cup of coffee and said "Hello" into it!

Naturally I was in hysterics at the time, but sadly old age must be creeping up on me because I recently did the very same thing!
( Vambo, Thu 21 Mar 2013, 12:41, Reply)

I had just shut down my computer for the night
when I thought I should post something before they change the QOTW. So I powered the computer back up, forgetting that I really didn't have anything to say.
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Thu 28 Mar 2013, 3:31, 1 reply)

...
*looks at watch*
Oh, good. It's only 10:20.

And it's reassuring that's been 10:20 for at least half an hour now. Nice to know that I've still got about 10 minutes before I have to go to that meeting.

*finds some menial task to fill the time*

*slow realisation*

Shit.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Wed 27 Mar 2013, 9:06, 1 reply)