Suburban spelunky
As the eldest and best child, I had the attic room at my parents' place. It had big velux windows that offered a splendid view over the sunken garden at the back of the house, and meant I could smoke crafty jazz fags without alerting my elders and betters.

Being the super-rebellious punk fan I was, my pride and joy was an ashtray I'd made by nicking a 7" Simply Red single and dunking it in boiling water before squishing it between two breakfast bowls. I called it 'Flick Hucknall'. Sophisticated and ironic, the ladies, my suave self imagined, wouldn't stand a chance when faced with such awesome art/terror.

Emptying the ashtray out the window one night, the jam-jar base came unstuck and my prized posession clattered eight feet down the roof tiles before getting caught in the gutter. Gulp. Although my parents would never see it if it stayed there, the wind would likely send it spinning into the back garden where the 'rents could cop a glance meaning I'd be i) done for nicking/ruining a 'perfectly good' single ii) done for smoking in the house. I needed to get it back then and there.

Several McGuyver-style aerial lead and coathanger contrivances later, and Flick Hucknall was still resolutely stuck - I could hook it, but the leading edges of the tiles made it impossible to pull it back up. There was nothing for it, I'd have to climb down.

I looked out the window again. Eight feet to the gutter. Four storeys down.

Now, I wasn't totally stupid - I knew climbing out there with no rope was a fool's errand, so using my superior intellect, I reasoned that a 20-foot aerial cable would do the job admirably. I lashed one end around an exposed beam, tied the other end round my waist and climbed out the window.

The descent, inch by inch, would be the second-longest three minutes of my life. The roof offered little or no purchase, so it must have been sheer terror that held me on. I reached the ashtray, stuck it in my back pocket and, splayed like a hand under an opportune bottom, I began to ascend. Perversely, this was better than the descent - I was now moving in the right direction. Hurrah!

The cable stretched and I slid four feet backward.

Had our neighbours been listening at open window, they would have surely heard the high, keening whistle that emerged from my bottom as I abandoned sense, pulled hard on the cable and tried cover the remaining distance before my bumrocket power gave out and gravity realised what I was up to. I cleared the windowledge and crashed gratefully onto my bedroom floor.

I was subsequently bollocked for 'making a loud noise'. I didn't mind.
(SimianKid internet faffer, Tue 9 Jul 2013, 17:13, 7 replies)

Dave the biker
I knew Dave a few years back. He, like many two-wheel enthusiasts, was known for his polite opinions of car drivers, respect for the speed limit and eagerness to conform to any and all road sign instructions.

Just kidding, he was a total speed demon scofflaw rebel. He rode some kind of tuned-up Yamaha and he rode it fast. It was not unusual for him to slice a good third off your perception of how long a journey took and he would proudly boast about the many occasions when he had "out run" the local constabulary. To Dave, other road users were basically street furniture to be navigated like other road features such as curves and junctions.

One night he took off for a high speed burn through country lanes back to town, a couple of hundred kilometres away. The way he tells it, it was a good thing it was so dark because he could see the lights on the other vehicles from much further away than he could have spotted them during the day. At one point, he spied the distinctive diagonal reflectors of a heavy goods lorry up ahead and, rightly, figures the poor sod is limited to 60mph or so. Dave thinks, I'll liven this guy's night up a bit, and absolutely floors it, pushing over an hundredty million just as he reaches the back of the truck...and disappears off the road into a field.

You see the 'back of the truck' had actually been a T junction warning sign and Dave had just hit the kerb at right angles, and at top speed. Unbelievably luckily for him, he was thrown off the bike and straight into a field full of young and bendy sugar cane, cushioning what would otherwise have been a way beyond fatal impact into a merely life-threatening one. An astonished car passing by from the other direction stopped to help - apparently he was a good five minute walk from the road - and he was, in time, fixed and back on his bike. But whenever he mentioned how fast he'd ridden thereafter, some wag was always heard to say, "wow, must've been almost as fast as that time you overtook a road sign."
( pineapplecharm D d M Y, H:i, Sat 6 Jul 2013, 14:07, Reply)

Yes, it's that story - AGAIN!
The A5
Some years ago I was the proud owner of an Austin/MG Maestro turbo (fairly rare, I later found out) a truly mental car with far more power than the stone-age chassis and suspension could safely handle.
I was driving along the A5 on the straight bit just west of Cerigyddrudion at about 6 am on a fine, clear june morning when I decided to see just what the car was capable of. Silly, I know, but there was no traffic about, and this was before the advent of GATSO cameras (bastard bastard bastard things).
Pedal to the metal etc and I was flying! As I hit the 119mph mark I spied a couple of lorries in the distance coming the other way. "No prob", thought I, "the closing speed is fairly rapid but they're on the other side and I've got lots of time to slow down".
As I got within about 400 yards of them I eased off the throttle. All was well.
Then the front offside wheel blew into a million bits.
According to the marks on the road, I pirouetted three times, swerved BETWEEN the lorries and back to my side of the road before coasting to a stop, facing the wrong way and shaking like a freshly raped whippet. I don't remember the accident itself, just the aftermath of incoherent babbling and crying to the two rural coppers that turned up. I was mentally going through the rest of the route through the mountains in my mind and picturing all the places I could have plunged to my death. The shock took me weeks to get over and I was very close to jacking in my job.
It seemed that there was a casting fault that had caused the wheel to crack between the bolt-holes on the wheel, under the paint, which meant that it could have come off (leaving the centre of the wheel still attached) at any time.
On examination by the dealer, three of the wheels had the same fault, albeit to a lesser degree. I'd done over 12,000 miles in this car, transporting my then wife (pregnant with our first child), my parents, her parents and loads of mates on various jaunts.
Never drove it again.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 5 Jul 2013, 6:34, 2 replies)

This is a pearoast from three years ago, but I feel it merits dusting down and re-airing
I have a mate who is a psychiatric nurse. His job has stresses that I can barely comprehend; many and various are the tales of psychotic patients doing amusing/amazing/appalling things. To compensate for this, he does of course do massive drugs at the weekends...

So, bright one Monday morning, a rather worse-for-wear psychie turns up at work. He's barely conscious, with parts of his brain still asleep, and others orbiting somewhere in the vicinity of Neptune.

The entrance door opens onto a staircase leading upwards. As he opens the door, he sees movement above, and instinctively catches the object that's flying through the air toward him. Now I have to say at this point that "coordinated" is not a word that I associate with this guy - he's more like a shambling pile of dirty laundry that leaves a trail of fag papers, knocked-over mugs and broken appliances behind him - so this was a pretty lucky catch.

Especially as the flying object turns out to be a baby.

Some muppet on the night-shift had given a patient access to her child, which turned out to be one of their less impressive (and career-changing) judgement calls. My mate says that he's never sobered up quite so quickly: spangled to straight in 0.00005 of a second.

So, I don't know who you are, little baby, but you had the luckiest of escapes that morning...
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 8 Jul 2013, 13:51, 8 replies)

once, many years ago
I was in the bath, with an erection, busting for a piss.
long story short, I accidentally pissed into my own mouth
( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Thu 4 Jul 2013, 17:02, 11 replies)

Eaten by Crocs
Back in 2000, when traveling around Australia, my skint friends and I arrived in Innisfail with no money and no food. We exchanged our passports for a nights refuge and promptly set off in the search of some scran. Due to severe lack of funds, we whipped out the fishing rods from out trusty steed and set about trying to catch our evening meal. Whilst two of my pals sat on the pier, Sam and I decided to venture down onto the banks and have a little swim and a paddle. After 10-15mins of frolicking our pier based companions exclaimed they had caught something. We promptly climbed back up the bank and assisted in the reeling in and netting of our meal.
Whilst we sat there basking in our man skills and ability to 'live off the land' a grubby looking local approached and asked us 'Are you fuckers stupid enough to have been swimming in there?'
'Why yes, we are of limited enough intelligence to consider swimming in such a place-why?"
He then proceeded to inform us that we are the luckiest fuckers on earth as the river we chose to swim was not only a tidal estuary containing the uber lethal and aggressive salt water crocodiles but it was also quite common for people to witness dorsal fins of rather large sharks in there too.
We were understandably a little shaken by this news, but not as shaken as we were then next day when we walked along the road looking down onto the small beach where me and Sam spent 10-15 mins paddling and swimming and there basking in the sun were 5, 6-7 metre long salt water crocodiles. We had essentially been swimming around above and with these massive killers and we didn't have a scooby. That was our lucky escape.
(lankynyack, Wed 10 Jul 2013, 13:45, 8 replies)

Told this one before, but anyway
When I was a mere slip of a lad, maybe 13 or 14, I went on a summer "Outward Bound" camping week with my school. This was in the Sussex countryside, and we did all the usual things: climbing, canoeing, orienteering and so on. One night, we did night maneouvres - orienteering in the dark.

Now I freely admit that, as team leader, I cocked up and we got rather lost. It was a misty night, and we were a little way from where we should have been. Perhaps half a kilometre or so, nothing major. But this was a mistake that nearly cost us dearly...

We were tromping through a field. A fence loomed out of the mist, so we clambered over it. As we continued, I noticed that the grass seemed to change colour up ahead. Curiously I wondered what was causing the change. Right up until I realised that the grass hadn't changed colour, it had in fact stopped. About a metre away was the edge of a rather well-known cliff known as Beachy Head.

Yes, Beachy Head. 162 metres (530 ft for the Merkins) of sheer, ball-shrinkingly terrifying verticality. Which I'd come within about two steps from reaching.

What the FESTERING LEFT-HANDED WANK were they thinking, sending a bunch of kids out on night manoeuvres, in poor visibility, on BEACHY FUCKING HEAD????

Still gives me cold shivers, 35 years later.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Tue 9 Jul 2013, 10:20, 1 reply)

I have of late, lost all my mirth.
I am leaving you. It was fun once but I can see the writing on the wall. It will only end in tears if I stay.

I have no desire to see ten candles next to my oh-so-funny username. It will not make me happy. I’ll only see dead years and forgotten hours. No pleasure will be gained. Equally I have no desire to urge myself towards that wonderful goal of 100,000+ posts, or to forgo sleep, family and relationships in the process.

So here’s your last Albert Marshmallow story. A tale of pain, sorrow and regret – but ultimately, of redemption.

Some fond farewells:

Amorous Badger – after providing you with the single most important moment of your life (the Hotmail story), I feel there’s nothing further I can offer you. I do however remain deeply impressed with your colossal insight into message board posts. Your understanding of ‘Legless Gambits’ and ‘Trolling the Trolls’ is the most informed I have ever come across - but then again, after 65,000+ posts on this site alone, I'm just happy you've learned something in the process. I hope this knowledge serves you well in life.

Dr Shambolic – very few people in life actually achieve their goals, yet I will hold you up as a constant reminder that nothing is impossible. Watching Andy Murray over the weekend, I was struck by his tenacity and ferocious attitude towards winning at all costs – but on reflection his achievement pales into insignificance when placed alongside yours. A British Wimbledon winner for the first time in 77yrs? Pah! What is that when compared to a man who has single-handedly corralled a tiny internet backwater into the palm of his hand? Your continuous, ever-present, 24/7 contributions to this site are insurmountable, no one will ever be able to match the commitment you have for your cause. Your omnipotence knows no bounds. And I do realise that this will be music to your ears, the ultimate crystallisation of your dreams, the final acknowledgement of the effort you have put in year after year, after year. But you’ve done it! You are their god! In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is truly king.

Misery McUglywife – where do I start? It is your presence here that has finally seen me off. Not only does your username depress me no end - but your masochism sickens me. If this were a fight, you’d be in lying prostrate in the centre of a baying mob, blood pouring from every orifice, shit and piss streaming down your legs, your skin torn off as if you’d been dragged for 20 miles behind a truck. Yet you’d still be begging for more. You’d crawl back to the centre demanding they beat you again. Demand that they strip you of every last modicum of self-respect and dignity.
Your inane witterings are the most banal, unfunny and depressing ‘stories’ I have ever had the misfortune to come across. You open yourself to ridicule yet seem to thrive off it. If what I have read is true and you are indeed a man in his 50’s, then may I state an oft used insult? Get a fucking life.

So it is here that I make my great escape. An escape that I know in years to come will be a lucky one. Maybe I’ll check in, maybe I’ll have a look from time to time. Just to see if grown men are still conducting pan-continental arguments. See if they’re still recycling lines from kiddie space movies. I’ll enjoy the images and stories from afar but participate I will not.

Until such time as we meet again, I bid you all, adieu.

AM
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Mon 8 Jul 2013, 14:25, 103 replies)

Farewell my beautiful motorcycle
I've been riding bikes 12 months a year since I was 16, including 4 years as a despatch rider ni London, but only ever had one new motorbike - a red 1998 Triumph Thunderbird Sport:

image.motorcyclecruiser.com/f/9160592+w750+st0/xl+1998_triumph_thunderbird_sport+front_side_view.jpg

I rode it every day and it was the best piece of engineering I've ever sat on. Took me 5 years to pay for.

About a year after that I was literally going to see a man about a dog one Sunday in April. I clearly remember backing the bike out of the drive and pulling off up the road. Lovely day.

The next thing I remember is waking up in hospital. My wife and my 16 week old daughter are there. My right arm and left foot are bandaged up. I ask several times what happened.

I'd had a head on collision with a car over by the Devil's Dyke. According to the police, we were both doing 40mph, I was in the middle of my lane but unfortunately so was the car. We'd met on the brow of a humpback bridge, as the car driver was overtaking a cyclist.

To this day I have no memory of any of this. I had a broken wrist and a broken heel bone. I also managed to put a 6-inch split into a £200 crash helmet. I'm told that I got up and started hopping and swearing. Apparently I had to be 'restrained'. And somehow in the middle of all this I managed to leave a message on my wife's voicemail: "I've had a bit of a prang"

5 days in hospital (God bless the NHS),6 months of a crutch on the wrong arm, 4 years of solicitor hell. Came very close to running out of cash a few times. No more riding or driving for me, I get sweaty hands sitting in a taxi.

Lucky escape? It could have been luckier, but I'm still here, still walking, wife's still got a husband, girls got a dad.
(CADmonkey rollllllllled another one, just like the other one, Fri 5 Jul 2013, 15:34, 6 replies)

Surfing for porn
can't remember which browser it was, but a few years ago I was doing some research on the Internet, ahem, and my girlfriend at the time turned up.

I slickly hit the 'home' button to bring up whatever my homepage was, probably Yahoo in those days, and all was well. Food was cooked, TV was watched, usual stuff. Unusually, neither of us went near the computer.

Later on, I need to do something on the computer, GF wanders into the kitchen.

So, you know on some browsers, the 'save image as', and the 'set as desktop wallpaper' are right next to each other?

During the 10 seconds GF doesn't actually have a direct line of sight to the computer, I close whatever browser it was, see with horror that my wallpaper is now a large picture of 2 thai lesbians doing a 69, and manage to change it back to something slightly more appropriate.

"What's up with you?" she says, emerging from the kitchen. "You look like you saw a ghost".

No, I saw a Thai hooker with her tongue up her best mates twat, but we'll go with ghost, I reckon.
(username failed moderation, Thu 4 Jul 2013, 16:38, 7 replies)

I had a narrow escape from a life of boredom
in the publishing industry when I last my jib as a poof raider.
( edjogs Collared doves are shit., Tue 9 Jul 2013, 8:47, 1 reply)

SAVED
A decade and several years ago, I was a student living in the geographical anus that is High Wycombe.

One cool August night, I was meandering home from the nearby confectionary store. It was a Thursday evening, about 9pm.

It was queerly quiet. No cars. No pedestrians. Few streetlights.

I spotted two gentlemen heading in my direction, and thought to myself, "these look like two dangerous fellows".

Then one of the chaps pulled a rather fetching scarf up over his face and I thought, "cripes".

"Mate, mate", says the more diminutive chap through his scarf...

The hulking beast behind him glowered and kept watch simultaneously.

"Mate, mate..."

I stammered something along the lines of "How may I be of assistance gentlemen?"

The chatty one put one hand on my shoulder and the other in his pocket.

My mind chose that moment to remind me of the recent spate of attacks on students. The vivid descriptions of bright young people being found beaten to a pulp in local car parks and and other unsavoury places.

"Jiminy," I thought, "I'm in a right old scrape here".

Once again, I inquired as to the mode of assistance I might be able to offer the two gentlemen, and suddenly the silent beast growled, "Give us twenty quid or you're fucked!".

Being a student, I didn't even have 20p, never mind twenty pounds sterling. I tried to barter, offering up all the contents of my pockets - my wallet, a lighter, some coppers, and a shiny telephone.

The diminutive ruffian seemed to contemplate my offer, turning the things over in his hand. Though I got the distinct impression he was considering where to injure me first, rather than which of my items he'd like to retain.

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, an impressively muscled gentleman appeared, wearing a dazzling helmet and some sort of lycra suit.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

The scallywags seemed genuinely rattled by this heroic new presence. And doubly-so upon his pronouncement that he was an off-duty police officer.

Holy smokes, thought I, this beefy chap's just saved me from a rather brutal pummelling.

The ruffians threw my belongings to the ground. And the obscured gentlemen pulled down his nice scarf.

The off-duty police officer told me to go home, and stopping only to gather up my scant apparel, I did. As fast as my little legs could carry me.

The officer caught up to me just before I walked into my abode.

He told me he knew the perpetrators of my ordeal, and quite forcibly reminded me to inform the on-duty authorities. Which I did forthwith.

Many weeks later, I was called to the police station to identify one of the unredeemable cads. I did.

While there, I met others he'd victimised. Including a blind girl who he'd tied to a chair in her own home for two days, while he took her debit card to the nearest cash machine and sold all of her property (and that's all he did, thank God).

For what he did to that poor girl and his numerous other crimes, he was given just three months in jail. A pathetic punishment if you ask me.

Happily, he ended up doing five years for his attempted muggery on myself. Some sort of local crackdown on street crime, I later heard.

And that was my lucky escape.
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Mon 8 Jul 2013, 13:18, 7 replies)

I didn't think I had anything for this QOTW, but then I remembered:
A few years ago a friend of mine that we shall call Joe went for a night out around Bradford. It was for a woman at his works birthday or some shit like that, and she had of course insisted that it be fancy dress. Now being a man of seeming limitless imagination, he decided that he would go dressed as...the Angel of the North. It was of course everybodies first thought. He spent hours with paint and cardboard, but eventually emerged dressed from head to foot in brown, with lots of brown face paint and big cardboard arms splayed out at right-angles. Looking very pleased with himself, he wandered off into the night.

A few hours went by and of course after some time drinking, he got sick of the stupid cardboard arms. He binned them and carried on drinking until somebody pointed out that an Angel of the North costume without the arms, is just a brown man. He had to all intents and purposes gone out blacked up...in Bradford...the weekend after the race riots. Amazingly he got home alive. A lucky escape if ever there was one
( Furness, Sun 7 Jul 2013, 20:35, 1 reply)

Aloha can also mean goodbye...
I used to know two astronomy students, at university. They were due to fly to Mauna Kea in Hawaii, for some observatory experience.

One of them went to the doctors for some unrelated reason, and was told that he had a previously undiscovered heart condition, which meant that he would probably have dropped dead in the thin air at the top of Mauna Kea.

In the confusion caused by his sudden removal from the trip, it had to be put back a week. Which turned out to be lucky for the other fellow, as the plane they were due to be on turned into the worlds first 737 convertible at 24,000 feet:


(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Tue 9 Jul 2013, 17:00, 5 replies)

On the very rare occasion I do something dramatic/athletic/brave, I always
wrongly assume that my limbs and muscles and bits are aware of the plan.

My friends were sat on the other side of a fence, on the cliff-top, having a picnic. This is all much safer than it sounds; there was a lot of grass to sit on.

I made the decision to do a spectacular and manly leap over the fence. I had occasionally leapt before and it had always gone well. This time, my limbs were not aware of what I wished them to do and my legs and arms got it all wrong.

My intention was one hand on the fence, swing my legs over, land triumphantly. Instead, I just ran into the fence at quite some speed whilst doing a pathetic little jump with my arms to my sides. My colossal momentum caused me to pivot, like a hairy windmill, over the top of the fence into an accidental-somersault. The edge of the cliff is quite some distance away when you've gently lowered yourself over the fence, but when you propel yourself over the fence, upside-down, the resulting sausage-roll will accelerate you to it quite quickly.

I did not die because I grabbed onto a bit of tree and my friends arms. They laughed at me afterwards.
( stevierar, Tue 9 Jul 2013, 4:28, Reply)

Snow
Cast your mind back to my childhood it was a wonderous time filled with weather and beans.
I went to school as a child and I learned many things.
At school I got picked on for being tall and weird.
Anyway one horribly snowy day I was skipping through the halls holding a ruler.
I then emerged into the playground to see a really large snow ball fight in process.
I decided the smart thing to do would be to walk around the edge of the playground and towards the safety of the library.
I managed to get within ten feet of the door when the cry came.
"Get the lanky prick" it said. Well I didn't waste any time contemplating who that prick was and bolted for the door. Unfortunately it was closed and I winced as the volley came, they all missed.
I then turned into Samuel L Jackson quoted some verse from the bible and shot Ringo Starr.

After school was finished i got pushed over and my face was centimeters away from a dog turd.
(shake'n'bake Tally Ho, Biatch!, Mon 8 Jul 2013, 22:50, 1 reply)

How am I alive??
Don’t do anything mentioned below it’s pointless, stupid and will probably kill you!
Read some of the highlights and wonder at my staggering idiocy and inordinate amount of luck! This is only the stuff I can remember right now but I got away with just scrapes (and bitemarks!) all my bits and pieces are in good working order so I really can’t complain.

Sticking the business end of an air bomb into a moped shock absorber to make a small hand held cannon and firing it indoors. Newton’s law sent it backwards, nicking my shoulder and embedding itself in the wall behind me (it blew the windows out and I could hear nothing but ‘eeeeeee’ for a day or two!)
Having the great idea of sliding down a scaffolding support pole without gloves and letting go when my hands got hot. I was falling long enough to hear the wind in my ears before I hit the deck.
Another wind in my ears moment was in Spain, I leapt over a wall for a slash without looking what was on the other side… about 30 feet of fuck all apparently, thankfully the ground sloped away from the wall at the bottom so I bounced off that and eventually rolled to a halt, got up and shouted ‘I’m okay!’
Making my own sky rockets… When it doesn’t light properly, returning to it is not a good thing to do, I heard a rising ‘sssssssSSSSSS!’ and jumped at the right moment, I have a nice still from a bit of video with me in an Austin Powers time tunnel pose, mid-air, and a massive fireball beneath me.

Involuntarily ducking during the storm of ’87 and narrowly avoiding a high speed sheet or corrugated iron which soon embedded itself 2 feet into an earth bank, I felt it brush my head as it went by so I’m guessing it was a close thing!
Sauntering down the pavement, minding my own business and getting hit by a car, I took the wing mirror off and was still able to chase the fucker down the road.

Almost got pearly gatified by a car whilst on a motorbike, he indicated left, I overtook and he turned right. I dropped the bike, shaving the foot pegs off and went under. I crushed the petrol tank with my legs about two inches on each side but still managed to push the bike home (and when my mum brought me a cup of tea and I’d sat down I immediately burst into tears!)

Pouring some old black powder from a knackered firework onto a candle with my hand, not realising that the trail of powder will set off the stuff I was holding, that was a very bright, loud, and stingy experience.
Running away from a goat is the best thing to do if it’s hell bent on killing you. It caught me and had me pinned up against a wall by my chest, after I started feeling faint my dad (finally) noticed and smacked it one with a decent sized lump of wood.
Idly mixing everything I could find in the bathroom to make something fun. Instead I made chlorine gas and didn’t feel right for a couple of days.
Cantering along on a horse with a saddle far too large for it, flipping upside down and seeing nothing but nasty crushy hooves until I managed to extricate myself (I was 8 at the time!)
Kicked a dog when I was 13 (After the fucker had latched on to my arm!) and alerted the police when I’d got free, one copper knocked on the owners door and it leapt at his face destroying his radio in the process. It ragged him a fair bit apparently!

:-)
( JamHamster My eyes, my beautiful eyes!, Mon 8 Jul 2013, 21:44, Reply)

The Great Eskape
This actually happened...

---------------------------

There was a moment of disorientation, and then Doctor Skagra found himself, to his rage and disbelief, in the brig.
‘Ship!’ he bellowed, ‘Let me out of here! I am your Lord Skagra! Let me out!
‘I am very much afraid I can no longer accept your orders.’ There was a haughty tone to the Ship’s female voice which set Skagra’s teeth on edge. ‘You are an enemy of my Lord, the Doctor.’
The Doctor! Skagra grimaced, his whole body vibrating in anger. ‘I am your Lord! I built you! Release me, I command you! And launch instantly!’
Again, the Ship disregarded his commands. ‘Do you know the Doctor well? He is a wonderful man. He has done the most extraordinary things to my circuitry.’
Skagra pressed his hands to his head, hardly believing what he was hearing. What had the Doctor done to his Ship? Skagra couldn’t bear the thought of being outwitted by such an irreverent buffoon. ‘Release me!’
‘Truly wonderful,’ said the Ship in a tone of syrupy admiration. ‘If you like I will tell you all about him.’
Skagra fell to his knees, despair swamping him. ‘Let me out,’ he sobbed. ‘Let me out.’
A ripple of mocking laughter was the Ship’s response. It had never laughed before. Skagra curled into the foetal position, hands clamped over his ears. But he couldn’t blot out the voice.
‘Greatest of all the Time Lords, the Doctor left Gallifrey to explore the universe and meet lots of new friends. Like me! Along the way he vanquished many evil foes. Let me tell you about all his victories. I’ll start with his struggle against the vile Lard Men of Mazzolia...’
Skagra screamed. Truly, he was in hell. But despair wasn’t in Doctor Skagra’s nature, so he got back to his feet and pounded the wall until his fists were numb. The Ship should be singing his, Skagra’s, praises!
‘Ship!’ he commanded. ‘I order you to stop this catalogue of inanities!’
It paid him no attention whatsoever.

Over the next few hours, Doctor Skagra tried endless combinations of orders, hoping that one of them would jog the Ship into remembering its true Lord, but it had clearly been too thoroughly re-programmed. He changed tack and tried reasoning with the Ship, trying to make it see how the Doctor had perverted its nature. But it completely ignored him, continuing to list the Doctor’s victories. Despair began to eat at him again – but even so, Skagra did not once try pleading with the Ship. He didn’t entertain the idea for even a second.
Doctor Nikkolai Skagra, beg for mercy?!
He would rather suffer an infinity of exquisite surgical torture on the most sensitive parts of his body before lowering himself to that. Begging was, to Skagra, a sign of weakness. And Doctor Skagra would not admit to a single weakness. Doctor Skagra was invincible, irresistible, invulnerable –
- Imprisoned. In the brig of his own Ship.

Finally, after what seemed like days, Doctor Skagra lay down exhausted, arms folded across his chest, and waited with psychotic patience for death or madness, whichever came first. The harsh lighting of the brig combined with the pristine walls to create an achromatic glare so intense that Skagra could imagine that he was already in limbo. His stomach growled with hunger, and Skagra cursed his body, the body he would have left behind had his plans for the Universal Mind come to fruition.
And still the Ship wittered on and on in a tone of insane enthusiasm about the exploits of its new Lord. There seemed to be an endless series of them, an eternity of miraculous last-minute victories over power-mad dictators, insane computers, implacable hive minds, amorphous alien masses, evil corporations, warmongering clone races, emotionless cyborgs – and hubristic scientists...
Was Doctor Skagra merely the latest in the long line of the beaten? Had his defeat been inevitable all along, the Doctor’s victory somehow guaranteed by the invisible forces which bound the universe together? The unending stream of triumphs seemed to imply this, to doom Skagra to rot in the brig of his own Ship, forgotten, shoved casually to the side of the chessboard.
Though his hatred of the Doctor was infinite, a small flame within Skagra burned with admiration for the Time Lord. A worthy foe indeed. The way he’d trapped Skagra by turning his own Ship against him was exquisite. And to have the Ship recount the Doctor’s adventures indicated a streak of cruelty in the Doctor with which Skagra could well identify. Cruelty, arrogance, intelligence – all these both Skagra and the Doctor possessed. If things had been different, they could have been allies. But no, the Doctor had to have it his own way, couldn’t see the brilliance of Skagra’s plan to create a Universal Mind - with Skagra ruling over all, of course. No, the Doctor had to speak up for the individual, make stupid jokes, wear ridiculous clothes and not appear to take anything seriously, even the dangerous business of time travel. And now this, the final humiliation.
‘The inhabitants of the planet Centreb Minor were so grateful that he had saved them from the dreaded slobberings of the foul Scrunge Worms that they built a giant statue of the Doctor in honour of his glory – a statue fashioned completely of raspberry ripple ice-cream!’
Skagra couldn’t take much more of this. ‘Ship, I beg of you, stop! Please, stop.’
With cold shock, Doctor Skagra realised what he’d done. He’d pleaded. The Doctor had brought him to this! He put his head in his hands and screamed. Through the sound of his own yelling voice, he heard – nothing. The Ship had stopped!
He stood up, hope flowering within him. ‘Ship! Return me to the bridge.’
‘Are you listening now?’ came the Ship’s voice, treacly and indulgent. ‘Then I’ll continue... the ghastly affair of the Fombugg seemed at first to spell certain doom for my wonderful Lord...’
And so the endless fanfare continued.
Skagra roared in rage, beyond despair now.
He paced the floor of the brig, recalling better days, trying to blank out the horror of the present with the glories of the past...

Back on the planet Drornid when he’d ruled the domain of Nixidom from his Kastle, Skagra had been a feared figure, commanding the respect of the crime bosses who more or less ran the planet. The whole of Drornid was a mess; shanty-towns, mobs, factions, bounty-hunters, and its level of technology was rapidly regressing. The perfect base for Doctor Skagra, geneticist, astro-engineer, cyberneticist, neuro-structuralist and moral theologian, to formulate his plans for universal domination. Nixidom was the only area on Drornid that the crime syndicates left alone. They sometimes asked for his assistance in technical matters, but only rarely, and since the beginning of his Universal Mind project he’d stopped answering any requests. He’d become a recluse, left to perform his experiments in peace within the ebon walls of Kastle Skagra, far away from the deteriorating chaos which passed for society on Drornid. Of course, the parlous state of the planet was mostly the fault of the Time Lords. They’d ruined Drornid after they’d taken their rival President back into their dusty, dour fold. Doctor Skagra had always borne them a grudge for that, though the bits of technology they’d left lying around had allowed him to make quantum leaps in his work. And now, to be defeated by one of their milk-blooded number. It was almost as if they had set him up to knock him down...

Skagra stopped his pacing, alert to this worrying new possibility. Was he being too paranoid? Or were they really out to get him? Had that gangling, embarrassing idiot the Doctor really been a crack Time Lord agent? Skagra couldn’t believe it. More likely, it had been the Time Lady, Romana. Cool, calm, calculating - everything the Doctor wasn’t. Skagra remembered her fine, aristocratic features well. He let his mind linger on her image. Now there was a fitting consort for Skagra. If only he could escape... but he’d tried everything, everything, everything!
But...
Maybe not. Maybe he could exploit the Ship’s new loyalty.
It would not be pleasant, but nothing could possibly be worse than his current predicament. Skagra stood in the centre of the brig, braced himself, and listened to what the Ship was saying:
‘The Doctor ducked down behind the font with his good friends Sarah Jane Smith and Harry Sullivan, and smiled reassuringly at the quaking Reverend Insteppe. Suddenly there was a deafening explosion and the Urgfiend shrine was utterly destroyed, killing all the hateful worshippers within and sealing in the Urg-Demon forever. Once more the Doctor had saved the day...’
In a burst of action, Skagra applauded and cheered loudly, shouting the Doctor’s praises until his throat ached.
As he’d hoped, the Ship’s voice faltered.
A moment of silence, then:
‘So at last you see what a wonderful man the Doctor is!’ it gushed.
‘Absolutely,’ said Skagra, forcing himself to say the words, though they stuck in his throat. ‘He is, perhaps, the most... intelligent, witty, charming, sublime being in the whole universe.’
‘There’s no “perhaps” about it,’ said the Ship prissily.
‘Of course, of course.’ Skagra thought quickly. ‘You are right to worship the Doctor as your Lord. But -’
‘But?’
‘But,’ said Skagra, feeling as though he was walking on eggshells, ‘where is he now, this exalted Doctor, this Lord of yours? Where is he to give you commands, set your co-ordinates?’
Silence.
Then: ‘The Doctor is dead.’
Skagra almost choked. Dead? He remembered how he had assumed that the Doctor had died after his mind had been taken into the Sphere. He remembered how surprised he had been later on seeing the Doctor alive. He had no idea how the Doctor had survived, but clearly the Ship still thought he was dead. Victory was in Skagra’s grasp!
‘If the Doctor is dead,’ said Skagra slowly, ‘how can he be your Lord?’
More silence, which seemed to last an age.
Then: ‘The Doctor... is my Lord.’
Skagra glared up at the ceiling. He almost had it! ‘But he’s dead! You said so yourself.’
‘The Doctor... is dead. There is a certain confusion in my circuitry but he is truly my Lord.’ Its voice perked up again. ‘Let me tell you about his exciting confrontation with Phulorg J’Hoox, Intergalactic Purloiner of Cutlery!’
‘No!’ cried Skagra, beginning to panic. ‘Maybe later... tell me, how can he be your Lord if he does not exist?’ Skagra felt light-headed, almost giddy. ‘I am alive, I exist. Therefore, logic dictates that I, the living Doctor Skagra, am your Lord, not this phantom Doctor!’ Skagra struck a pose, hand on hips, brow raised upwards, fiercely willing the Ship to obey.
There was a pause.
And then the Ship spoke. ‘You exist.’
‘Yes!’ said Skagra, maintaining his pose.
‘And the Doctor does not.’
‘He does not!’
There was another, longer pause. Then:
‘What are your orders, my Lord Skagra?’
Skagra strutted around the brig, hands on hips, a sense of joy swelling within him, a laugh almost escaping from him – until he checked himself, remembering that laughing was a Doctor thing to do. ‘Release me! Release me now!’
A glowing cube surrounded him, and after a moment of disorientation, Skagra found himself back on the bridge of the Ship. His Ship, no doubt about that now. He swayed on his feet, hardly able to believe he was free. But then, of course, he was Skagra – as if a fool such as the Doctor could outwit him! How long had he been imprisoned? A quick check – two days. Was that all? The recounting of the Doctor’s interminable travels had made it seem much, much longer, especially the tale of the Planet of the Badger-Men. Skagra shuddered. How had he survived? ‘Take us out of here!’
‘Destination?’ said the Ship. Its voice held no hint of remorse or apology. Should he punish it? He decided against it – the main thing was, he was free; once back in Kastle Skagra he would re-program the Ship, make it tamper-proof.
And then he would hunt down and destroy the Doctor.
‘Destination, Drornid.’
The image of Kastle Skagra rose in his mind like a dark phantom. Unable to hold back his mirth any longer, Doctor Skagra allowed himself a small, taut smile of satisfaction.
They had only been travelling for a few minutes when the Ship spoke up, its pleasingly obsequious tone carrying a note of urgency ‘My Lord Skagra...’
‘What is it?’
‘We’re under attack.’ The Ship sounded surprised.
‘What!’ Skagra activated the screen. It showed a flotilla of large ships bristling with weaponry bearing right down on them. Military insignia graced the side of the larger vessels.
‘You fool!’ he cried. ‘Whilst you sang that cretin’s praises you left us vulnerable! Engage -’
Before Skagra could complete the command, the Ship shuddered under the impact of a great many energy weapons, the floor rocked under Skagra’s feet and with a yell he overbalanced.
The last thing he heard before his head hit the side of a console and he blacked out was the Ship’s voice, humbled in apology:
‘I’m very, very sor -’

Doctor Skagra regained consciousness to find himself wrapped in chilly darkness. He sat up, his booted feet scraping against a scarred metal floor. Dark shadows pressed in from every side, the only thing he could make out was the mist of his breath meeting the cold air of - wherever this was. Far above, murky light filtered through a tiny window.
‘Ship!’ he bellowed, more out of habit than for any logical reason. His voice echoed like that of someone at the bottom of a very deep well. A throbbing pain asserted itself, pulsing away behind his eyes as though there was something trying to get out. Wincing, he lifted his hands to his head, gently probing the injury. A tender bruise swelled beneath his fingers. A metallic chinking sound accompanied his every movement but it was a while before he realised what it was, his mind being preoccupied with wondering where he was and how he got there. Then he remembered – his escape, the ships, the attack...
Spurred on by anger, Doctor Skagra leapt to his feet. Something was dragging at his arms and legs, and he realised with horror and rage that his hands and feet were chained to the wall behind him. Thick, flaking hoops of rusted metal encased his ankles and wrists. He could only move about in a small arc, barely a pace into the cell. He tugged frantically at his bonds, but they held fast. No reasoning his way out of this prison.
Skagra twisted round and pounded on the wall, creating a noise like rolling thunder, sending the chains jangling and bouncing against his body. His bellowing voice rose above all. ‘Let me out! Let me out of here now, I demand it!’
No answer came.
He sank back down to the floor, nursing his throbbing head.
As his eyes adjusted to the near-darkness, Skagra realised that he was not alone. There was someone slumped against the far wall of the cell, a mere ten feet away. A gaunt figure in rags with eyes which gleamed wetly. From an invisible mouth a voice cackled. ‘Company! Company at la la last...’
Moving as far forward as his bonds allowed, Skagra squinted at the figure, nose wrinkling up at the foetid smell which rose from it. He could just make out thin legs splayed wide, pale crab-like hands twisted in a hollow lap, chains snaking from them to the wall behind. An egg-shaped head sunk on a narrow chest, a strand of saliva drooling from the corner of a mouth which gaped in a toothless smile. And eyes like marbles which caught the distant light from the window far above.
Skagra felt uncomfortable in the dull glare of such an ancient creature. ‘Who are you, old man?’
‘A prisoner, just like you, la la. I’ve been here so la la long I’d almost forgotten how to talk.’
An ancient, worthless imbecile. Skagra’s lip curled in a sneer of disgust. ‘Where am I? Who has dared to imprison me?’
The old man laughed in reply, a deranged cackle that snaked its way through the darkness and invaded Skagra’s head. He remembered the way his Ship had laughed...
‘Silence!’ cried Skagra, pounding his fists against the metal floor, feeling his bonds bite into his wrists, almost welcoming the pain.
In answer, more laughter. ‘La la la! La... But now that I’ve remembered how to talk, let me tell you my story, la la.’
A black pit opened in Skagra’s mind, over which his sanity teetered back and forth like an undecided suicide.
‘Let me tell you the story of my la la life.’
‘No!’ bellowed Skagra, straining forward, hands reaching out to strangle, pulling against the chains. It was no use. He couldn’t reach the gibbering, dribbling wreck, couldn’t even get anywhere near. Skagra cried out, wishing his voice was a weapon to crush this senile old fool. But it wasn’t. He slumped back against the wall, defeated.
And so the old man began the long, rambling and disjointed story of his long, long life, and there was nothing Doctor Skagra could do but listen.

---------------------------

One day I'll relate the story of how I got out of that.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Mon 8 Jul 2013, 20:09, 9 replies)

I was driving over to Halifax once, a couple of years ago
I was in the middle lane and a big truck was in the slow lane, just in front of me. Suddenly, as I went under scammonden bridge, the truck swerved at me, and a blood covered person bounced in front of me. I screamed and yanked the wheel without thinking. I managed to avoid the truck and the person, but luckily for me, there was nobody in the fast lane, or it would have been v messy.

Then his trainers flew onto the road ahead of me. One still had a foot in it.

For a few seconds I assumed the truck had hit a motorbike, but then I cottoned on that he must have jumped off the bridge. And yes, it was in the papers a few weeks later, poor bastard had been a father of 3 who'd lost his job. Poor bastard truck driver too.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 7 Jul 2013, 0:56, 13 replies)

Speaking of motorcycle escapes...
Approaching red lights in the rain, I was being cautious because the road was very slippery. As my engine note decreased, I became aware of a strange noise behind me. Glancing in the mirror I was distressed to see an 18-wheel rig jacknifing right behind me, sliding sideways toward me at a bowel-loosening rate. It was already so close that it didn't all fit in the mirror...

Luckily there was just enough space between the two cars waiting at the lights to nip through; the rig managed to grind to a halt just before hitting them, stopping about where I'd been, a far-too-small number of milliseconds earlier.

Waterproof trousers work both ways, you know...
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 5 Jul 2013, 14:10, 1 reply)

Oh la la
One year while on holiday in France, my wife and I decided we'd try the local zoo.

It was much the same as any other zoo we'd ever been to, except they had a sort of carnival/fairground too. You know the type of thing - Hook-a-duck and so on.

Then I saw the rifle range and decided the best thing to do was to spend the day shooting at tin cans in the vain hope of winning the stuffed monkey, which took price of place at the back of the ticket booth.

I shot the place up in spectacular fashion and collected my prize...

Le kiosk ape.
(Inflatable Giraffe Punctureless since 1985, Fri 5 Jul 2013, 12:59, 1 reply)

My Grandad..
(well, Ivor wasn't really my Grandad, but Grandad was dead and Ivor was boffing my Grandma for most of my childhood, so he was functionally my Grandad even though I just called him Uncle Ivor...)

...used to tell two stories about being in the infantry in WW2.

The first was about his mate who was terribly superstitious. One day, shortly after the D Day landings, they were in the back of a truck in France, and his mate decides he doesn't like where he's sitting in the truck, because being at the back is 'unlucky'. Ivor, who's sitting at the front, tells him he's a silly bugger, but agrees to switch with him anyway. Five minutes later, the truck goes straight off the road and a tree branch comes through the canvas at the front and crushes his mate's head, killing him instantly.

The second story was about when they'd got hold of some brandy in a town, and his squad had got totally hammered. Ivor goes out into a field at the back of the house for a piss. He's standing there, happily peeing away, and starts wondering "What's that popping sound? there it is again... and again... weird". Then a bullet whizzes past his ear and he realises he's been standing stock still in the middle of a field letting a sniper shoot at him for the last minute. "If you've never tried running for cover whilst shitting yourself at the same time, son, I can tell you it's not very dignified".

Nothing from my own experience can really compete with either of those.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 5 Jul 2013, 9:59, 1 reply)

When we were about 11 or 12, my friend's dad had bought him a nice bow and arrow for his birthday, so we went out to the field near his to shoot at thistles.
It was his turn to go and collect the arrows, when I discovered I had one left.

"Hey!" I shouted, "I've got one left!"

Having collected the other arrows, he turned and struck a crucifix pose, daring me to shoot at him.

Considering that my previous performance suggested a barn door/shovel-like quality, I pulled back and fired.

The arrow hit him square in the chest, and bounced perfectly off his sternum, causing him to double up in pain, crying.

Half an inch either way and I would be the original John Venables or something.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 10 Jul 2013, 8:54, 7 replies)

Vale Fluffy
I was slow to the whole First Car thing, mainly because I'd been driving on a farm since I was 9 which diminished the novelty, and because my Dad was adamant that I didn't need a car if I moved to a flat near Uni. Which was great if the only place I ever needed to go was Uni, but less great if I had to go into town to buy groceries, or go to work. I'm amazed that I managed with irregular buses and shanks pony until I was 22.

My patience and stupidity gave me the chance to save up for my first car, a 1996 Hyundai Excel, for which I paid the gargantuan sum of $6000 AUD. She was all tinted windows and no aircon. I was now able to travel halfway across the state to visit my parents, and make the occasional adventure to Melbourne, which was AMAAH-ZING! I even drove to Wagga Wagga once, just because I could. I was young, single, and unencumbered, and driving was still fun.

And then Fluffy, for that was my car's name, met her tragic and violent demise. On the freeway, doing 110km, heading home from Melbourne in 2006, I was overtaken by a B Double. I'm not sure what happened - either the truck clipped my car as it pulled out, or one of my rear tires popped. Fluffy surged forward, her gearbox screaming that fifth gear was not sufficiently fast enough to match the speed of her wheels. I instinctively braked and she fishtailed, sailing back and forth across both lanes, before sliding of the left side of the road, through an electric fence, and down into a paddock. She rolled three times before she stopped moving.

Four vehicles pulled up on the side of the road to check how dead I was, for which I am immensely grateful. I was hanging upside down in my seatbelt, and the weight of my body meant that the clip couldn't detach from the socket. A very stunned truckie had to reach in and unclip me. He then poured his water bottle over the engine to try and cool it down so that the dry grass didn't catch on fire. Another couple called me an ambulance. I asked the truckie if we could roll the car back onto its wheels, because I had 2 hours of driving left to get home, and I had work in the morning. He didn't realise how serious I was, thank god.

I had a tiny scratch on my right neck, from the seatbelt, and a tiny hole in my good slacks, where they caught on the underside of the dash while I was hanging upside down. I should have been thoroughly dead, or at least very badly injured.

I have a photo of poor Fluffy after the accident, but I don't know how to append it to this post.

(Boodicka, Wed 10 Jul 2013, 8:45, 16 replies)

Back when it was possible to recognise the bits under the bonnet of a car...
Late one night driving through Basildon in my old 850 Mini, I was obviously keen to get home. You could see the car fires in the distance all around, and I didn’t want to add to the usual festivities of the area.

Going up a slight hill I had my foot flat down to ensure I’d actually see the peak before dawn broke. Sure enough, at a magnificent 50mph I reached the top, and was greeted with the sight of a nice 500 yard slope down to a roundabout and then the freedom of the A127 and my exit route.

Surprisingly my trusty old David Vizard-inspired engine was picking up a nice bit of speed and I got to the giddy heights of around 80mph before I decided that the feeble drum brakes should start doing their thing before I got to the small tree-covered roundabout.

Unfortunately as soon as I pressed the clutch in I heard BOLLOCKS! BOLLOCKS! BOLLOCKS! from the engine as it hit about 9000rpm. The throttle cable had worn and gotten stuck in the sleeve at full throttle. Back in gear and braking hard I was still accelerating. I didn’t want to turn the engine off as the steering lock would have negated any chance of negotiating the junction (and surviving) and leaving it out of gear would blow my engine up. Thank God for legendary Mini handling, I just managed to make the left then right corner before I turned the engine off and coasted to a stop on the other side.

Thankfully my bloodstream was full of adrenaline, so I could get out, swap the choke cable for the throttle cable (to accelerate with my left hand) and get back on my way before the chavs started creeping out of the darkness...
(Kliper Filllets Getting noticed by twats on the internet since, Tue 9 Jul 2013, 14:24, 11 replies)

We had a smoke, we went to the pub for a couple of beers, we had another smoke on the return home.
During which my friend helpfully informed me, "I assume you realise that, were you to fall in front of a car and die now, or were I to push you, the media would probably describe us as being 'on a cocktail of drink and drugs'."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 8 Jul 2013, 17:57, 13 replies)

off with her head!
my first proper grown-up place on my own was in a high-rise block that had seen better days. after 6 years there, we(the other tenants and i) were told we all had to be out within a year, as the block was no longer fit for habitation. we all knew that very well. the close proximity of a train station meant wind would come up over the platform, then howl around the side of the building. this damaged pretty much all of the windows on that side. not only that, but the foundations were damaged and there were a multitude of structural problems. bouncy floors are just not right.
as we were all having to vacate, the council pretty much stopped doing repairs. this meant that i, like everyone on my side of the building, had to put up with damaged or broken window locks. on windy days, everyone's windows would fly open.
one night, i was watching telly, when my window blew open again. i had to stand on the sofa and lean halfway out of the window in order to reach it and pull it closed. twice the wind yanked it out of my hands. the third time, i managed to get a good grip of it and haul it closed, pulling my top half back inside and out of the wind. the second i fastened the window, the entire window and frame from the flat three floors up came crashing past, right where my head had been seconds before.
so yeah, that was me, almost decapitated.

tl;dr: shit window falls out and nearly takes my head off.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Mon 8 Jul 2013, 14:32, 25 replies)

Family skiing holiday
I must have been about 12 and getting really rather good at this whizzing-downhill-on-two-planks lark, so I wanted to go off and do a bit of skiing by myself. Mum set her face and insisted that I go with my aunt and take my little sister with me for good measure. I wasn't too happy about it, but agreed that we'd go down a few red routes together.

So there we were coming down a fairly narrow part of the run that snaked around the mountain, a rock face to the right and a sheer drop on the left. I was in the lead, with my aunt in the middle and my sister bringing up the rear when a couple who looked to be in their mid-twenties came bombing down the hill and managed to get in the middle of our group. I looked back and seeing that we were getting in their way, decided to pull up at the side and let them go past.

The bloke went past fairly sharpish, then his other half went to pull a parallel turn...exactly where I was standing, knocking me off the side of the mountain. According to my aunt, she came down the slope just in time to see me disappear completely - the woman didn't even stop but skied off.

Her heart sinking in her chest and panicking about how she was going to tell my mum that she'd lost her only son, my aunt told my sister to stay back and approached the mountain edge, where she found me - just like in the movies - hanging by both hands from a tiny, tiny tree. It was the only bit of purchase on the sheer drop for hundreds of metres in either direction, but I'd managed to grab hold of it as I plummetted. Some very careful scrambling later, I was back on my skis - all I'd managed to lose during my brush with certain death had been one of my poles.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 8 Jul 2013, 12:32, 5 replies)

3 weeks ago had a stabbing pain...
in my abdomen, went to see the Doctor on Tuesday morning and was on a ward Tuesday afternoon, turns out my liver had given up on me. Yes it was booze and I'm under 40.

Cue a barrage of blood tests, scans, x-rays, gastroscopy, sonogram.

I was on a drip 24/7 sometimes saline, sometimes I haven't got a fucking clue what was in them by it was all a detox course.

When I saw the consultant, he said to me "If I'd seen you in 6 months, you'd be on daily dialysis waiting for a transplant or dead"

So that's my lucky escape - apologies for no funnies.
(Speshal, Sun 7 Jul 2013, 1:22, 8 replies)