The lovely Jessie was always pretending to spot something behind me...
...and using the distraction to steal some of my food/sweets/beer/whatever.

It was a standing joke between us, mainly because I always fell for it.

One Sunday we were in a Chinese restaurant, and she suddenly exclaimed "Ah, that's why those fish look weird, they're sucker fish!"

I craned my neck and looked at the fish tank. Unable to see any "sucker fish" and also hurting my neck from the angle, I swivelled round on my seat.

"I can't see any su..." my words died off as I turned back round just in time to see Jess giggling like a loon and dropping the scalding hot Szechuan king prawn she'd just stolen, not realising that it was going to burn her mouth.

We laughed lots at that... I realise it's lost something in the retelling.

Fuck I miss her...
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 7 Jun 2010, 18:56, 17 replies)

Rakky's story reminded me
I used to work in a lab. I was on my own with the radio on. Most experiments I did required incubation periods. I was sort of twiddling my thumbs during a 10 min incubations when "Hit me baby one more time" by Britney came on the radio I was singing along when a genius thought came to me. I quicky filled a rubber glove with some helum so I could make the high notes in the "still believe" backing vocal.

When doing this very silly thing one of the professors of the department came in to ask me somthing. My voice was still squeaky when I answered him.
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Fri 4 Jun 2010, 16:01, 5 replies)

When I was 15...
My friend Stuart's father walked in to find his son (also 15) drunk on the sofa, trousers around his ankles, legs over his head with me standing at the end, hands on hips peering at his arse. I can still see the crestfallen look on his face as he walked away, and Stuart stumbling after him trying to pull up his jeans and shouting "We were lighting farts...Dad, we were only lighting farts!"

And before you ask - we were only lighting farts.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Mon 7 Jun 2010, 15:11, 4 replies)

Working as a labourer in my teens
I was given the task of making spotless the top floor, the first finished, of a posh office development in The City for inspection by the top brass of the developers and owners.

I did all the heavy lifting then got to hoovering. The hoover was a sort of industrial Henry vacuum cleaner and the floorspace massive.

My task nearly complete in plenty of time I started arsing about, walking like C3PO and dragging my R2 like hoover after me while going, "Master Luke! Master Luke! BRRR BRRT PHWEEE trrrr BWEEE OOOON THRIP!".

Turned round to see all the big nobs staring at me in disbelief.
(twattybanjo, Tue 8 Jun 2010, 10:52, 8 replies)

Half-Pint...
At Uni (a good few years ago... 1989 in fact), I was dating a young lady called Trish...

Now, Trish was a dirty-girl (no, she wasn't into that sort of dirt. Just had a healthy approach to any sort of ad-hoc "rumpy-pumpy").

She lived in shared accomodation in town. I was in a shared room on campus.

She shared with a young lady, Helen, who was so short she was nick-named "Half-Pint".

Well, their room was set out with two single beds side-by-side, a gap of about 2 feet between them (approx 1/2 a whale's snout in metric).

One night, after a particularly enjoyable session at the Garrick's Head (no - not a bird turgler - thanks), we perambulated to hers for a nice "cuddle".

Alas, Helen was already a-bed. And asleep. And snoring. So, we decided to "do the deed" anyway - keeping each other "quiet" with the judicious use of hands.

I'm on top, and, as we get really hot'n'steamy, I glance over to Helen's bed, to see her staring wide at us.

She winked.

Her hands were vigorously moving under the covers as I watched.

As I started to lose all control, Trish started to wail, and Helen shuddered, pulled one hand from under the covers and *licked her finger*.

****GAME OVER****

I doubt I have ever come so hard, or felt so surreptitiously dirty and turned on at the same time.

She'd gone in the morning to see her boyfriend.

I split with Trish later that week.

Haven't seen either of them again.

But Half-Pint is still in my mind. Anytime I feel I can't get there, in she pops.

So, getting caught can be good!
(SatchmoR No, mummy, don't put knitting needles in my ears!, Fri 4 Jun 2010, 15:30, 18 replies)

I love a cup of tea in bed in the morning.
One morning I was particularly enjoying my brew, from the first short "it's still a bit hot" sips through the increasingly large gulps which were allowed to swirl pleasurably around the mouth before swallowing, and then arriving at the last mouthful, I closed my eyes, tilted back my head and slowy drained the cup, savouring every last lingering drop and remaining motionless for several moments afterwards.

When I opened my eyes I realised that my Mum had been in, and left some tissues that she'd wanked onto on the bedside table.
( Cave Duck, Fri 4 Jun 2010, 14:58, 15 replies)

When I was but small
I and my esteemed family were on holiday in Cornwall somewhere. I was caught short near the pool, but having too awesome a time to go all the way to the toilets back in our room, or the (probably quite nearby) public loos. The writing was on the wall, in a neat typeface 2 foot high:

It was time for a stealth-dump.

This required a combination of cunning, daring, speed, agility, and above all, bog roll. Posessing none of these things, my little self scampered off behind a bush to drop trou, make mess, and get back to the pool, leaving no-one any the wiser to my James Bond-esque poopery. Alas, this was not to be. I quickly discovered a few things about the situation that were less than ideal:

1) The ground was very spiky behind the tree.
2) This caused me to tread very gingerly on the sides of my feet.
3) Once pants were round the ankles, I was basically going to shit on them, as they were directly underneath my arse.
4) It was too late the stop this from ocurring.

I had reached the point of no return, and as such my the best of the situation by pulling my underpants taunt from both sides quickly, in an effort to catapult the offending mud-monkey from twixt my soiled undies. Spiky floor + bad balance + childhood obesity + unexpected bum cigar+ keks-round-legs-catapult-action = staggering in a small circle, whimpering due to foot pain, before tripping over my poo-covered pants and landing in a pile of my own effluence. As well as a lot of spiky things.

Realising that the situation would require some aid, and being of sound enougn mind to realise that explaining this one to my parents was pretty much guaranteed to result in some kind of kicking, I had an inspired moment. I would wipe myself down with some leaves, and stroll back, to cool off in the refreshing pool. 'A temporary setback only...' thought I- '...I AM James Bond'.

Once again though, fate conspired against me, as if an army of invisible Blofelds and Jawses and that bloke with the hatses AND that wierd midget fella, decided 'No Mr Bond, we expect you to be imminently embarrassed and shamed beyond measure'. The wiping down went badly, due to my inspired choice of stinging nettles, so with a very sore bottom, still shit-streaked all down my back and legs, with knckered feet and my hat a distant memory, I was found by a kindly stranger, shaking in a ball on the floor, a wild-eyed feral child smearing in excreta, murmuring something about living twice.

To this day, I remember my reaction was to pull a remarkably shocked face, and cover my nipple areas with my hands. Please bear in mind that I was naked from the waist down only, and thus the nipple coverage must have been some sort of gut reaction (pardon the pun). I was eventually presented to my concerned parents, and laughing sibling/cousins/assorted other JOKERS, as my own tiny golgothon.
(Gertcha_cowson NAH MATE, Tue 8 Jun 2010, 16:40, 9 replies)

Caught being a twat
Recently, just before the election, I had got several political telemarketing calls in succession. I am usually very quick and polite at giving them the brush off as well as with telemarketing calls.

As I work for myself and partly from home I can get a occasionally get a little stir crazy and sometimes answer the home phone in different accents(my work line is different)

So, a week before the big day I had a call from a perky Scottish lady who asked for me by name
‘Hullo, is that Mr. Nimrodihnio?

Adopting an old, out of breath, hard of hearing, cockney codger accent i said, ‘yes darling oos that? do I know yer?’

‘no Mr. N I’m Susan calling from Scottish power do you know you can save money by switching energy providers’

'Wassat darling your doing wat?'

'You can save money by switching energy provider’

‘Ooo do you say you are?

slowly and loudly ‘SCOTTISH ENERGY’

‘No darling av voted labour all me life I int changing naa’

‘No Mr N I’m calling about saving you money?

‘Thas wat them Tories said last time’

'No Mr N, it’s about saving you money through changing your supplier’

‘A int votin for ya, anyways I live in London you int got no candidates ere, that trout fella in charge always going on abat haggis and whisky’

By this time she is taken in and amused with the old duffer on the other end of the line

‘We are not a political party mr N’ She patiently explains yet again

‘Sorry Darlin am not gonna vot for ya no matter how much money I can save, be lucky’ says I and then feign chest pains

‘ooooh’ (groaning) ‘can you do any fink abat power for me pacemaker its a bit dodgy at the mo’

‘Oh no’ she says concernedly and I fake some more pains ‘oooh me chest, gotta go love and find a batt.....’ and I put the phone down.
Giggling to myself I go and make a cup of tea in the kitchen and reward myself with a hob nob, highly amused at my cleverness and ‘improv skills’

Less than 10 minutes later I hear the sirens coming closer and screaming to a stop outside the door bell rings and there is a desperate banging on the door.
I answer it and 2 paramedics and a policeman are looking for a Mr. Nimrodihnio and is he ok.....

In shock I invite them in shamefacedly explain all that has just occurred while my neighbours and various random passersby rubberneck outside while I am dearly wishing the ground would open up and swallow me forthwith.
Susan had apparently desperately tried calling but as I hadn’t returned the phone properly to the cradle and was in the kitchen not hearing the buzzing and not hearing the please hang up was unaware of this. She then phoned 999 hence the visit to ascertain my well being.
I was let off with a severe warning and a lecture on wasting the emergency service time and putting others lives in danger.

3 sincere letters of apology later, I have not been remotely tempted to do any comedy accents on the phones ...or change my energy supplier.
(nimrodihnio making gravy for one., Thu 3 Jun 2010, 16:44, 5 replies)

My drug paraphernalia
When I got home from a nice kick about in the park one Saturday in the summer, my mum was waiting for me, sat at the table, stern faced with a small item in front of her on the table.

'Sit down, you're father's on his way home. I want to ask first of all is there anything you're doing that you want to tell us about?'

Shit! I'm mentally tallying up everything that I've done as a 15 year old male. It's a bit. Nothing too bad. I'm racking my brains. Drinking? smoking? Weed? Porn!? Shit. I'll bet it's smoking. Fuck. My dad's a vigilant anti smoker...

'Ummm. No. What's up?' I said, eyeing the offending item and taking a seat opposite. Weighing up my options I considered confessing to something and hoping that was it. 'Sorry, but yes most of the phone bill was me looking at smut and wanking into a stupor' didn't seem like a good route to go down... 'let's see how this plays out' I thought.

'I was cleaning your room earlier and found this' She pushed the item towards me, still solemn faced. 'I know you've been smoking drugs, your father and I are both very upset'

Fuck, fuckety-fuck. FUCK! Anything but the weed. Smoking I'll get lectured for, but the weed will see me really fu... Hang on....

'Ermm. What do you think this is mum?'

'It's a hash pipe Scrumpy. I wasn't born yesterday.'

'You mean a kazoo mum....?'

'....... What?'

At this I picked up the 'hash pipe' and walked off, humming 'Crosstown Traffic' (If I was quicker at the time I would have gone for 'Purple Haze').

I heard my dad piss himself about 30 seconds after he came steaming through the front door...
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Tue 8 Jun 2010, 17:16, 2 replies)

Fixing a PC for a gay friend.
I had my daughter with me (then 9 years old) and switched on my mates PC to be confronted with the inevitable gay porn wallpaper. As my red faced friend quickly switched off the monitor, I noticed the confused look on my daughters' face.

On the way home she asked me "What was that picture on Uncle Ians' computer?"
I replied "Umm, it was American wrestlers I think".
She thought about this for a moment and then whispered "I thought it was two gay men doing rude things".
"Nah love, I don't think so" I replied.

She later asked my wife to break it to me gently that Uncle Ian was gay...
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Fri 4 Jun 2010, 5:21, 3 replies)

Once upon a time....
I once fell asleep in class at school. The teacher had shut the shades, dimmed the lights and stuck on a boring video. I quickly fell asleep with my head resting in my hands. Apparently at some point during the hours lesson I had begun snoring, which alerted the little fuck next to me, who promptly, and quietly, let the teacher know I was asleep.

Luckily this teacher was more of a prankster than a twat, as I woke up to him gently shaking me, telling me it was gone past 6pm and all the buses had gone, and that I would have to stay the night with him. This was confirmed by the clock on the wall and the absence of the whole class.

Cue me thinking I was about to be bummed, I pushed everything into my bag and tried to run away. I got to the door to realise the whole class were outside and proceeded to fall about in laughter as I tried to escape the potential rape dungeon.

It turns out my teacher had quietly led the whole class outside, turned the clocks forward, and woke me, to make me panic about missing my bus. I nearly had a fucking heart attack, and never even blinked in his lessons ever again.
(g-rex, Tue 8 Jun 2010, 17:22, 3 replies)

How long have you got?
I spent 5 years of the 1980s at a slightly famous public (boarding) school in Scotland; a school that, predictably, was full of privileged twats (I suppose in relative terms you could include me in that - and indeed the point of this story is me being a twat) - offspring of minor celebrities and royals, etc. To succeed in such a place you needed to be either a) academically bright, b) particularly good at sport, or c) rich. I wasn't any of these, because I am naturally lazy and spend an awful lot of time pissing about - hence why b3ta has such appeal (and I have about £3 to my name). I spent my first two years there realising that I wasn't academically bright enough, so I resigned myself to getting by on the bare minimum. The spare time previously invested in academic effort would now be invested in pissing about.

The new intake of kids in 1987 brought a new guy, Paul, straight into the 5th form (15/16). He was rather odd: his 'music' collection consisted of a complete set of Churchill's speeches and nothing else, and he had a thing for knives, but nevertheless we got on because he was a) academically lazy, and b) spent all his time pissing about. We soon found out that two people can do much more pissing about than one person.

At that time drinking and smoking at school was completely banned - get caught 3 times and you'd be out. The height of rebellion was to acquire a single(!) B&H and sneak off into the woods with your 8 mates, and share it - then return to a ritual of chewing gum and dousing yourself in deodorant - as much to say "Look, I've just been for a fag, I'm well hard" as to say "I haven't been smoking, honest sir".

Not for us - too boring. In our final 2 years there, Paul and I embarked on what we would have said was a trail of destruction, but in fact was a string of petty, minor 'offences'. We started with the easy stuff: letting teachers' car tyres down. Phoning teachers at 3am (and 3.30am, and 4am...etc.). Ordering them pizza. Ringing the chapel bell at night (a long-standing challenge: see how many rings you can do before a teacher turns up and you have to leg it). We put on balaclavas and spent the occasional Saturday evening jumping up and down on the roof of the detention block until the teacher came out - then we'd soak him with water pistols. We bugged (thanks to some friends who were in the electronics club) the staffroom and our housemaster's office, listening in on 108.8 FM - range of about 250 metres.

So far, so petty. Soon it expanded to the slightly more serious. The fairly large school grounds were next to an RAF base. Paul had a plan for it. We donned our balaclavas and...er...camo gear, and armed with a pair of wire cutters (where did he get this stuff?) we sneaked off, snipped the wire and went trespassing. Outside one of the hangars was a Hawk - a training jet, same kind as the Red Arrows use - which was the 'victim' of stage 2 of our plan. We'd brought with us a shoebox covered in brown paper, with BOMB written on it. We gaffer taped it to the plane's canopy and legged it. The massive rush of adrenaline we got soon faded - we were disappointed that there was no comeback; no mention of a bomb scare, no RAF people at the school asking for an inquiry. No satisfaction of thinking "Yeah, we did that".

We upped the stakes a bit. A new boarding house - strictly off-limits - was being built. We investigated it quite often at night - but one evening we found a 2-ton dumper truck (one with the skip on the front) on the site, and - oh dear - the key was in the ignition. We started it; fucking hell, what a noise - and took it for a spin round the site. They're not easy to drive, but they are easy to drive into trees. And also remarkably resilient when being driven into trees. After about 20 minutes we got a bit scared that someone would turn up because of the noise, so we decided to call it day - only the fucking thing wouldn't stop. We turned the ignition off but no luck, it was still grinding away. We tried to stall it - put it in 4th and drop the clutch. No difference. In the end we just left it in neutral. It was still idling away the next morning when the site staff arrived.

The next day, at morning assembly, the headmaster strolled up to the lectern. If that happened, you could guarantee that something serious was up, and indeed it was - he gave it the "own up and your punishment will be lessened" treatment. Paul and I sat poker-faced and anonymous among the 500 or so other pupils as he read out the details. The "own up" tactic was an empty hand - they hadn't a clue who'd done it. We got away with it.

We also got away with stealing and joyriding a school minibus - the keys were kept in the staffroom which was always unlocked (duh!). Neither of us had a licence. I'm aware that this probably would have got us a criminal record had we been caught; I'm in equal parts proud (for sticking up two fingers to public schools) and ashamed of it. This was another one for the "own up" speech in assembly.

In my final term we got a bit creative: one of the things at school which gave you some kudos was having a treehouse (sounds a bit childish now!). A friend of ours was doing Woodwork A-level and had a key for the workshops, which we stole from him while he was asleep, and helped ourselves to supplies. We ran a cable from our treehouse to the canteen (about 150 metres away), plugging the extension in behind a freezer so we could have a TV in the treehouse. It was on this occasion that we noticed an opportunity to liberate as much chocolate as we could possibly eat, as we found out the location of the (locked) canteen storeroom.

We broke in through a skylight, then in through the crawlspace above the false ceiling - polystyrene tiles. It appeared to be the EU Chocolate Mountain, and we nicked it, along with - for some reason - a box of forks (curse you, forks!). We ferried the boxes of Mars bars, Marathons (those were the days) etc. back to the treehouse. Into assembly the next day and we managed not to smirk as an increasingly frustrated headmaster let us know that someone had burgled the canteen and they ought to own up.

About a month after this I accidentally (honest!) set my bedsit on fire (I wasn't in it at the time); I left a lamp on which had fallen over and set fire to the curtains. I remember hearing the house fire alarm and seeing the fire engines roll up, then going to see what was going on, only to find them pumping water through my bedsit window. Everything was ruined - either burnt or had water damage, including my precious Sisters of Mercy 12"s.

The next day I was in the housemaster's office.

"Ah, Nibus. The fire crew found these in your study. Can you explain?"

He handed me a small box. In it were 8 forks. The same forks I'd stolen from the canteen and which had eventually made their way, stupidly, back to my now burnt-out bedsit. Fuck.

"Ahhh, errr, I don't know where they came from sir."

"Well I'll tell you. They're from the canteen. I think you know exactly how they got into your study."

Fuck it - he had me. He'd caught me on the hop enough for "I don't know sir" to hold no water. He'd searched Paul's study as well and found a rather large amount of chocolate, plus Paul's ever-increasing collection of knives (which were also contraband).

We were both expelled the next day. The housemaster had been after us for a while - he'd twigged we were up to something - and he'd finally got us. He could pin all the chocolate on Paul (and of course his knives) but all he had on me was the fucking forks! Expelled for 8 fucking forks!

That was it for my criminal career, and a good thing too. Paul, however, is due for release in 3 years' time. Convicted in 1994 for a £300k armed robbery that went wrong, he served 8 years. He'd been out for a year when he was up before the High Court in Aberdeen accused of a stabbing and firearms offences. He got 15 years, reduced to 10 on appeal.

I eat my dinners with a knife and spoon now.

Length: I'm sorry.
( Mighty Nibus who dares gins | @nibus, Tue 8 Jun 2010, 20:39, 10 replies)

In my first year of university
... flatmate burst into the room in the middle of my first shag of freshers week, then danced about the bed making a Zoidberg noise.
(Second sign of madness, Thu 3 Jun 2010, 17:43, 2 replies)

Too soft to be a career criminal
I think i was about 7 or 8
Myself and a couple of friends were messing around in the schoolyard at morning break,
When we discovered the back door to the kitchen was open.
And on a table a tray of the biggest chocolate sponge we'd ever seen.
It must have been 2 foot by 3 and cut into squares, probably to be served with that pink custard you never saw anywhere outside of school
(WTF was that weird pink custard?)
We looked at each other, looked around and back to the sponge.
They wouldn't notice if we took all the pieces from one side would they?
Ah the innocence of youth.
So we crept in, took the cake and legged it round the back of the yard.
Unfortunately this meant we had about a dozen slabs of cake and morning break was going to end soon.
Theres only so much dry cake you can eat in a short time and we couldnt give any away, so most of it ended up being flushed down a toilet.
Spent the rest of the morning terrified that suddenly bells were going to start ringing and wild eyed snake haired dinner ladies were going to be rampaging through the school weilding knives and rolling pins, baying for blood.
So it was with great relief when the dinner bell sounded as normal and we trooped into the dining room.
Chattering, laughing, clanking the dinner trays together, all the usual school dinner time noises.
Which ground to a halt when we saw the metal grills over the serving hatches weren't open.
And the dinner ladies were all lined up in front of it, and the headmaster standing in front of them.
I had never been so terrified in all my life and looking around to check my co-conspiritors i guess they felt the same.
Kristians lip was quivering, Susan had tears in her eyes, and me, my heart was pounding and my stomach was churning.
Confused mutterings grew until the headmaster held up his hand for silence.
I cant for the life of me remember what he then said because the combination of fear and hastily consumed cake overcame me.
I barfed and blew chunks of chocolate sponge all over the dining room floor.
And I think I may even have wet myself a little
Events that followed are a little bit hazy, but I have vague memories of grassing up my friends, detention,
line writing, lack of any pudding for a week , the disdain of fellow schoolmates, specially the ones I grassed up , the dinner ladies giving me short rations and a right bollocking from parents
Schooldays, the best days of your life eh?
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Sat 5 Jun 2010, 22:47, 6 replies)

Ventrillo. . .
First post, be gentle!

I am, for my sins, a gamer. I am also in my late teens.

One afternoon, late last summer, my boyfriend and I were doing our usual thing on World of Warcraft, no-life healing a raid. Amongst the usual spam of "OMG U N00B" over ventrillo, we were all told to take a 10 minute break.

Two half naked lovers, glistening in the early evening heat, look into each others eyes, and the inevitable happens. Yes! That's right, loud, rauchy, passionate sex on the sofa.

The heat was rising, the moans were getting louder, the passion building, then at the point of no return a little voice pipes up nervously from the computer, "Do you think they are done?".

Yes, we'd forgotten to turn ventrillo off.
(TenTinyGnomes, Wed 9 Jun 2010, 13:54, 47 replies)

“Some dirty bastard has shat on the seat”,
..were the words of disgust from the bargirl as she stepped out from behind the bar, face contorted with disbelief, coat hanger in hand. A few of us went silent, pints held inches from our open mouths.

“Erm, what’s the coat hanger for?”, someone asked. “Are you going to hang it out to dry?”

There was stifled laughter amongst my group of friends; I tried my hardest to get the image of a turd hanging gracefully on a washing line, swaying in the wind, out of my head.

“No. I’m going to knock it in with it.”

We fell about laughing. As the bargirl ventured into the murky gents toilets, talk turned to the culprit of such a heinous (but quite amusing nonetheless) crime. One friend, Ashley, was particularly quiet and wasn’t joining in much. Whilst most of us sniggered, and found the episode thoroughly enjoyable, he had gone quite coy. Fingers were soon pointed in the direction of Ashley.

“Shut up, she’s fucking livid” Ashley said, starting to turn crimson.

“Did you do it? Did you?”. We were all eager to hear his story, but after much probing, there was still no owning up from Ashley, despite all evidence pointing to him. He'd been to the toilets recently, and for quite a while. We carried on with the questioning until the bargirl returned from the gents, hand over her mouth, gagging.

“I can’t do it. It’s making me heave”.

With the evidence literally still sat there waiting, we ventured in to see the damage. As we piled into the gents, there were cries of both horror and joy. There, on the back on the toilet seat, was a perfectly formed baby toilet truffle, about 5 inches long. The damage to the fecal matter from the hook on the coat hanger was visible with a few vertical ‘stripes’ down the side of it where the bargirl had tried to hook it off the seat and into the bowl. This turd was sticking around it seemed.

With none of us brave enough to try and shift it, we spilled back out into the bar and returned to our pints. Simon grabbed Ashley’s phone from his hand,

“Just need to text…WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT??!!!”

Ashley’s head dropped. We all gathered round. There was the all the evidence needed to convict him of the crime right in front of us. A photo, taken on his mobile, which he’d been trying desperately to delete. We ribbed him mercifully.

“Why, Ash? Why?” one of us enquired.

“I just thought it would be a laugh, but then I saw her reaction”, he motioned towards the bar “and thought better of it.”

I wasn’t sure what to think, but things took a further twist.

“Ashley, in this photo, the shit is on the right hand side, but in the toilet, it’s slap bang in the centre. Why?”

“It looked better in the middle”, came Ash’s reply, and with that, we collapsed into fits of giggles once more.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 4 Jun 2010, 13:20, 1 reply)

Nige
When I was a 3rd year undergrad, I lived in a nice modern College-owned block that had student facilities and also a few really nice, swish conference rooms which were rented out for events and conferences to make a bit of extra money. If you wanted to go the whole hog and get a really big room, you could rent out the common room, which annoyed us lot because it meant our common room was shut to us.

The particular time in question it had been closed to students for a few days whilst some sort of conference had gone on, which had culminated in a load of people getting pissed up to celebrate the end of their 'away-day', or whatever it was, before sloping off in the late afternoon...

Straight away, an email goes round to tell people we're allowed back in the Common Room, so me and a few mates who were too busy/poor to have gone out for the evening headed down for a cuppa and a natter.

One thing stood out to us like an Oasis in the desert as we entered - there was a table left in the corner of the room with a few bottles of still-cool Champagne. Bonus! For a poor undergrad, of course, free booze is the ultimate thing to make your day, and we all gave thanks for this incredible blessing....

Then, we opened the fridge.

Other than a couple of milk-cartons, it was jam-packed with more Champagne. Just sitting there - shiny, cold, and expensive looking... Shit! The tension of an unspoken, but universally felt doubt hung in the air.... This was an amazing opportunity, clearly, and had fallen into our laps without our asking. At the same time, however, what had originally been a chance to swipe a couple of bottles had just escalated to a question of pilfering £200 plus worth of (very heavy) booze. Of course, we were going to do it. We couldn't really help ourselves. How could we live with ourselves if we passed this up?

Coat pockets were loaded, and we each grabbed a bottle or two under our jackets.... we still only had about half of it. One trip up to the nearest of our rooms to dump what we had, and we headed back down to the Common Room with bags.

This is where it all went wrong. In our desire to get the booze out as fast as possible, we'd ignored the CCTV Camera outside the Common Room, so Nigel, the porter, had been sitting in his little office at the gate to the complex, watching us wander out of the Common Room laden with booze. Naturally, his curiosity was aroused. Just as we were loading the remainder of our loot into bags, in walks Nige.

'Hello Lads. What's happening here, then?'

We all froze. It was like a cliched scene in a film where someone's caught in the act. He might as well have had a gun trained on us, for the way we reacted...

'Someone left this behind Nige, so we were just thinking about having a bit of a drink, mate.'
'Hmmm... I don't know how they'd feel about that, now... What do you reckon?'

Another pause...

'Reckon it serves the silly bastards right, to be honest, Nige'

He thought, for a moment. Our fates hung in the balance - whilst this wasn't necessarily going to get anyone prosecuted/kicked out of college, it certainly wasn't going to look good. We also had a Dean who was remarkably fond of giving out cash fines, and we were all broke (which, you will recall, had partly led to this in the first place, as we weren't out like everyone else, getting pissed). He was a decent Man, Nigel, but that could also swing him either way in this situation - he might decide that he could let this one go, or he might decide we were thieving toerags who deserved what we got.

Having mulled it over, he drew in breath to deliver his judgment...

'My Missus is quite fond of Champagne, you know.'
'Really, Nige. Why don't you have a bottle, then...'
'My daughter's home this weekend too.'
'Take two - plenty to go round...'
'Alright... I would thank you, like, but it's not yours anyhow, is it...'

Hmmm... what to make of this? Our bribe had been accepted, but he was still a bit frosty. He took his two bottles, and withdrew. The question of whether he'd betray our confidence or not would now only be resolved tomorrow, when the fallout from the missing booze would no doubt happen. In the meantime, we had a room full of Champagne. So we got pissed. Royally pissed. The effect of getting drunk solely on the fizzy stuff was euphoric. We had so much we actually struggled to drink it. The party went on for hours. As it wore on, we introduced a competitive element by seeing how far out of the window we could fire the champagne corks when it was time to open a new bottle. Eventually, of course, we went to sleep.

Next morning, 7am, there was a loud banging on the door of the chief instigator and negotiator from last night. Understandably, waking with a shocking hangover and recalling the previous night's events, and our total reliance on Nige to keep schtum, he was shitting himself. Moving to the door and opening it to peek round, he finds Nige, back on shift and still with a look of disapproval in his eyes, despite the bribe.

'Whilst I don't especially want to mention yesterday EVER again, I would suggest that you get rid of the bottles discreetly, do you understand?'
'Yes Nige.'
'And soon...'
'Yes Nige'
'...probably now - before the cleaners turn up at 8am.
'Yes Nige'

So we were each rounded up, given a binliner each, and formed a slovenly, drunken procession out of the back door of the building (no CCTV), and down to the recycling bins on the council estate nearby, then we slumped into bed.

Inevitably, questions were asked the next day. An email went around asking for information about what had happened and chastening the entire student body for what had happened, and the effect it had had on the college's relations with its paying customers.... but nothing came out. We were well and truly protected by our inside man, bought off with his two bottles of Champers.

The note that ended up going out to the company who had rented the room apparently read "Regrettably, when such items are left unsecured in the Common Room of a student residence, after an event had finished and after the room was no longer, in fact, rented to yourselves, these sort of things are liable to happen and the College can accept no responsibility."

Thanks Nige...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 3 Jun 2010, 16:56, Reply)

i wasn't caught but i have to tell the story
My wife works as an employment law consultant (basically she helps small firms sack rat boys and wasters alike) anyhow here's a cracking one of a ratboy getting caught.
This idiot (lets call him ratty) started work on Monday and by Tuesday had pissed off people enough to have a review that afternoon. Ratty was mouthing off to other workers that he would spark the supervisor in the meeting when they were alone so my wife advised to install cameras for recording purposes (as long as they told ratty that the meeting was being recorded), the meeting started and ratty was told during the meeting evidence was provided and the supervisor and hr girl left the room giving ratty enough time to read the evidence. He didn't even bother but he proceeded to take his knob out and dip it in the tea the supervisor left behind. A scream was heard so the supervisor and HR went to investigate. In the report my wife showed me the supervisors statement said "Upon entering the room I saw 'ratty' dancing on the spot holding his penis whilst my cup of tea was smashed against the wall"
They reviewed the video and ratty was sacked on the spot.
The best is yet to come - Ratty not having the balls to tell his mum why he was sacked said to his mum that they just didn't like me, so she marched him back down to the offices only to be shown her darling little ratboy dipping his knob into a cup of tea....
(bigbear45 scousers are the barnacles of society, Mon 7 Jun 2010, 8:30, 1 reply)

Kittens! Snoring! Making baby jesus cry!
Some years back I shared a house with two friends, one guy and one girl. The guy worked nights, and so would often come in late. He would watch tv and fall asleep on the couch, snoring like a water-buffalo after an all night bender.

Aside from the lack of sleep, we were a happy bunch. We lived, loved and laughed together like characters from an early 90s sitcom.

We were happier still when one day we were able to add to our little household. For, when walking down the main street, I found a little lost kitten. She was a cute mite, and very adventurous. It was clear how she had got lost, for she was constantly attempting to climb fences and use her ninja abilities to sneak through doors. We nick-named her Houdini. She looked like this:



We tried to find an owner. We put up posters (no one replied), checked to see if it had been microchipped (it hadn't). It was looking as though we might get to keep her.

One night I was awoken to the sound of my housemate snoring and the tv still blaring. Not being able to get back to sleep, I decided that I had to go and see if he could be roused and returned to his own room. I walked into the lounge to discover him sprawled asleep on the sofa, with his pants around his ankles and hand covering his wilted and spent cock. The kitten was sitting on the sofa, sheltering under the crook of my housemate's naked knees, with an expression something like this:



I did the only thing I could. I picked up a cushion, placed it over the housemate's face to muffle the snores and went back to bed.

The kitten and I made a pact never to speak of this moment.
(russet_gusset up the reds, Sat 5 Jun 2010, 4:30, Reply)

Pearoast (of sorts)
I moved back in with my dad for about a year after running out of money when I was at Uni. One particularly lonely and drunken night, I returned from the pub with a 'lady' that looked not unlike Grotbags.

After getting down to it in my room, my dad had obviously heard the noise as I furiously and drunkenly munched on her cavernous box and he came barging into the room. He thought it was either the TV or his son having one of his inebriated: "I'm going to trash my room" episodes, and was apparently coming in to tell me to "keep the fucking noise down" when he was greeted by the sight of his youngest son writhing around on what appeared to be a mass of whale blubber.

He fucking laughed his head off.

After he composed himself (which took far too long), he laughed his way right back out again. I could still hear the cunt laughing as he went to bed.

Thanks dad.
(god_is_a_ghoti Carpe Deum., Thu 3 Jun 2010, 16:07, 1 reply)

Caught in adulthood having a spot of ladies' cocoa (slight pearoast)
Most of us have been caught in the act of ultimate self-indulgence - by a parent / carer / proper grown-up at one time or another. Usually in our teens. Being interminably late for everything, I didn't discover the joys of creamy self love 'til I hit 20 - cue the purchase of my first vibrator. It was hearing-aid beige and ribbed from root to tip. Hours and hours ON END of this fantastic new pleasure spent I; until it went for a shit.

Being an electrician's daughter, I had half an idea what might have gone wrong with my favourite toy. Having already left home, I conjured up some lame excuse of wanting to catch up with my folks - why not make a night of it and sleep over? I waited until both parents had hit the sack - gave them half an hour to doze off - then went in search of my old man's soldering iron. I found it in the cubby hole, together with the solder and the bit resin stuff. Brimming with confidence in my Mad Soldering Skilz, I set about the minor surgical procedure.

Scalpel to the BOTTOM END, rotating 45 degrees.........
Expansion clamps in situ...........

Solder/surgery complete success. I bandaged the gaping wound with thick black NCB insulating tape (very fetching).

I tentatively turned the end, not sure what reaction to expect.....
My beloved beige bell end sprang into life, growling Aston Martin DB9 style. Eager to perform a test drive, yet anxious not to push my luck with the sleeping household, prudent methinks, to bide my time.......

Thus, I stole myself to procrastinate. Proper grown-up-getty-up time the following morning, both parents exit to Downstairs. Hoofuckingray! Nobody within earshot.

Jeremy Clarkson is about to test drive the DB9...
The powerful engine springs into life (all 0.28 horsepower of it).
Young Tourettes is literally in the throes of passion - ribbed rubber ruminator is doing it's thing.........

Ooooooooooooohhhhhhh....
aaaarrrrhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....
MMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...........
Yeah-yeah-yeah-oh-my-fucking-sweet-jesus....
pant-pant-pant-sniff-pant-etc.

My mother enters the room, or more accurately, what USED to be my room. Tis now the spare room.

This is what she says.........

"I was about to go up the street for a bit of shopping.
I was wondering if you'd like to come.........????"
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Mon 7 Jun 2010, 17:27, 6 replies)

i wonder what it would be like to screw on that table...
back when i was a baby lawyer and going out with one of the senior associates (yes, he who was not-so-affectionately known as "the bedshitter"), our firm moved offices. we took over from a bigger american firm that had carried out a state of the art fit-out, and the furnishings were amazing. especially the boardroom, which had an enormous, gigantic, round, polished, fancy table with electronic controls for various features of the room that had reputedly cost 75k.

it was also the filthiest thing you have ever seen. seriously, an 80 year old nun could not have looked at it without thinking, "i wonder what it would be like to screw on that table...". i first saw it on a tour of the office with the other trainees, and we all looked at it, and it was so obvious that everyone was thinking, "i wonder what it would be like to screw on that table..." that we caught each other's eyes and started giggling.

a few weeks later we had all been drinking in a bar, and it was heading up to being the end of the night. the last few stragglers said goodnight, and i dragged the bedshitter back to the office because i had forgotten something. it was about 2am by this point, and on the way there, i started to think, "i wonder what it would be like to screw on that table..."

the bedshitter was still whinging about being made to go back to the office, and needed a bit of persuasion. eventually, the lightbulb clicked on above his bald head, and he said excitedly, "i wonder what it would be like to screw on that table..."

so we got the lift up to the top floor and ran with much eagerness to the boardroom. unfortunately for me, i got there first, and swung the door open. only to see that the 20 stone head of tax had also clearly been wondering what it would be like to screw on that table. he was in his late 50s, corpulent, wheezing, pervy and red. and he was nailing his secretary. also in her late 50s, morbidly obese, bleached blonde and rougher than a ginger badger's arse. it was like seeing a pair of giant hams thrusting into an ancient jelly.

for the longest moment, the four of us just stared at each other. it was obvious why we were there, as various buttons were undone and hair was a bit dishevelled, and his buttocks were still quivering from his latest harpoon shaft. then i choked and we backed out slowly, eyes bleeding, unforgettable images seared onto our retinas. i don't think we had sex for about a week after that, it was a bigger libido-killer than walking in on your grandmother frotting on the cat. needless to say, none of us ever spoke of it. but it was very difficult taking advice from him about CGT and off-shore structuring after that!

and i never did find out what it would be like to screw on that table.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 6 Jun 2010, 12:59, 7 replies)

my friend told me
that at the age of 3 he went down to the bottom of his garden, and whispered "bum bum poo."

As he put it, "I felt like Al Capone."
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 6 Jun 2010, 9:09, 1 reply)

Caught shagging
A few months into our teenage relationship, we began to get somewhat amorous on her kitchen floor. (The future) Mrs Sandettie slipped a leg out of her jeans and we made like the beast with two backs. However, her dad walked in.
"What the bleeding hell are you doing?" he asked rhetorically. We both jumped up, he gave us a disgusted look and then he wandered out again. Had he have come in a few minutes later at the point where I was about to blow my beans, he would've had to wait because in that situation King Arthur couldn't have pulled me out.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 3 Jun 2010, 17:55, 7 replies)

Windows
Back to my late teenage years a mate of mine had tinted the side and back windows of his car using a reflective film. This was great for driving up and down the sea front where we lived during the summer admiring the talent without being seen. One day I became aware that the young lady I was studying while we were stopped at some traffic lights was starting to look rather annoyed. I then realised that I had wound the window down.
(jvz, Sat 5 Jun 2010, 1:55, 2 replies)

"You hav caught me, like a Treen in a disabled Space Cruiser"
Not me, but my daughter, the charming Scaryduckling who did what any teenage girl would do on spotting her arch-nemesis across a crowded shopping precinct on a Saturday afternoon – flash her the V-Sign.

Alas, this act of rebellion was spotted by some hatchet-faced harpy, who thought the gesture was intended for her:

Angry-looking not so Yummy Mummy: "You! Yes you! The not unattractive girl in the blue coat! Are you sticking two fingers up at me?"

Scaryduckling: "No... err... it was at the girl behind you."

Not Yummy Mummy: "That would be my daughter, then."

Scaryduckling (top marks for thinking on her feet here): "No. Not her. The girl behind her."

Not Yummy Mummy: "My other daughter."

Scaryduckling: "Yoinks!!!"

She fled

Social embarrassment - it's not just for grown-ups.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 3 Jun 2010, 14:57, 2 replies)

A friend of mine works in IT security for a major financial house.
At the time of this story she was in a fairly lowly position but destined for higher things.

The financial house was having to upgrade some software on a remote site. A difficult job with many potential security implications and there had been many briefings on the problem but my friend, being quite junior then didn't anticipate being too involved.

With an engineer on a remote site ready to do the upgrade a conference call was placed from there to the security centre. My friend's boss swept through the office with many bigwigs in tow, very important people who'd flown from all over the world just for this moment. The boss pointed to her and the most junior office junior and indicated they were to follow him to his office many many floors above. She'd never been to his office before. The office junior was shitting himself. They got in the lift with the men in expensive suits and ascended.

The conference call began with the remote engineer saying, "I've done what I can but haven't got permissions to go any further. I need a username and password from someone in security."

Head honcho turns to office junior and says, "Give him your username and password.".

Obviously, this is why he'd been brought along.

Office junior pulls himself to his full height and replies, "I'm sorry, I can't do that, it breaks all the protocols."

Head honcho smiles benevolently, "Well done son, that's the right answer but I wrote those protocols. These are exceptional circumstances and we need your username and password. Give him your username and password and when we're finished you can go back downstairs and change them."

Remote Engineer: Right. Username?
Office Junior: J.O.H.N.S.O.N.M.J
[tap tap tap of remote engineer entering username]

RE: Password?
OJ: [sweating profusely] Erm.....A.N.A.L.R.A.P.E
[tap tap tap........]
RE: Fuckin' 'ell! Anal rape????
[exeunt OJ]
(twattybanjo, Tue 8 Jun 2010, 12:49, 9 replies)

Only the other day, I was waiting for the tube at going home time on a Thursday. I was looking good, in my suit and hat - earlier that day I'd been likened to a classy mobster.
I was at King's Cross, and, being an experienced tube-getter, was standing right at the spot where the doors would open, and behind me was a crowd of similarly travel-wise commuters.

All of us were work-weary and silent, reading our papers, reading the adverts on the opposite wall, or staring into space.

I felt a fart coming.

"This is going to be a little naughty one" I thought, "Having been on the beer last night, this is going to be silent, and absolutely deadly". I chuckled to myself as I started thinking about the response and wonder about who dealt it among my fellow strangers.

Ready? Here we go - one cheek slightly higher and ...

PTHTHTHTHTHTHPPPPPPTTTTTTT!!!!!! shouted my arse - people 10 yards away were staring.

I decided not to get the next tube.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 8 Jun 2010, 11:12, Reply)

My girlfriend
walked in on me shouting "I'm no bastard, I'm Bruce Lee!" at the microwave yesterday.
( PMGT -Bacon., Sun 6 Jun 2010, 12:55, 2 replies)

Mum
A few years back I was laying on my bed, tugging myself silly whilst listening to music through my earphones. I had my eyes closed as I tried to delve into the back of my wank bank.

The music was quite loud, so I didn't hear my mum knock at the door. She walked in with a tray of tea and biscuits, and saw me frantically pulling my plonker. Things got worse. She pulled my earphones out and put them to her ear.

"Celine Dion??!!".

It was. I had been caught listening to Celine Dion. The shame.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 4 Jun 2010, 13:57, 2 replies)