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This is a question The most childish thing you've done as an adult

Davros' Grandad confesses: On visiting my ex-wife's house, I wiped my bum on the toothbrush belonging to the bloke she ran off with. At least, I thought it was his toothbrush.

(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 14:36)
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This question is now closed.

Severely pissed off
fighting through the hoards of tourists and shoplifters in Primarks on Oxford Street, my girlfriend asks the shop assistant:

"Excuse me, do you have any brown dressing gowns?" she turns to me as I stand sheepishly behind her. We'd had a row about me walking round in Le Buff at home; what with the terrible unintentional flashing incident involving the Japanese couple next door who saw my meat and two veg while they were doing their gardening. I had to get a dressing gown. I was on an official warning.

The tired, bored shop assistant starts: "We've got blue, green, red-"

My girlfriend, Liz, tired and irritable from a hard days work raises her hand: "Sorry, has to be brown," then she turns to me and says: "Tell the lady why it has to be brown, go on!"

And I mumble: "So I can pretend to be Obi Wan Kenobi when I'm doing the hoovering..."
(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:45, 10 replies)
Don't fall asleep in my car....
My ex girlfriend, Emily, and I were travelling home from Brighton on a beautiful Sunday afternoon two years ago. The journey itself was about an hour and a half long, so I thought it very rude of her when she fell asleep about 20 minutes from home, rather than keep me company. Afterall, she was meant to be navigating.

The childish part comes next and may go some of the way to explaining why we are no longer together. I pulled the car over at an angle down a country lane and up slowly in front of a tree so that the bumper of the car was just touching it. Then, I put my head down on the steering wheel, closed my eyes, stuck my tongue out the side of my mouth and sounded the horn.

"Shhiiiiiit! Wake up, wake up!" a rather startled Emily screamed, shaking my shoulders. "We've crashed!"

A broad grin formed across my face and Emily realised what I had done. She didn't speak to me for the rest of the journey.
(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:27, 5 replies)
Bathtime fun...
Long ago when I had just started going out with the Mrs Finch we were having some sexy-time in the bath together. She was on top and we are kissing etc.

I gleefully let out a massive fart that bubbled up... but it didn't break the surface straightaway.

It rolled up the Mrs belly, tickling all the way between her lovely boobs and broke the surface right under her chin.

Best. Fart. Ever.

Bathtime was over....I'm laughing now as I remember it......
(, Fri 18 Sep 2009, 16:08, 5 replies)
Morning farts
I'm in the habit of doing loud farts after getting out of bed in the morning (Mudskipperess doesn't appreciate dutch oven pranks). A few days ago, I rattled out a particularly euphonious effort while making Daughter #2 (aged 6) her breakfast. "That disgusting, daddy" she said (she has a slight speech impediment).
I promptly blamed the budgie.
Far from finding that funny, Daughter got angrier. "No, it you! You do fart! Stop lying!!"
I responded by doing another fart.
I blamed the budgie again, and to compound the hilarity I wafted the smell over the Daughter and the caged bird.
By this time, Daughter is close to tears.
What's a loving father to do?
If you're me, a final, hideously rancid fart, this time while wordlessly pointing an accusing finger at the budgie.

It took a few minutes to regain my daughter's love after all this.
(, Fri 18 Sep 2009, 10:24, 9 replies)
at the age of 25 I took the conscious decision to poop my pants
not immediately upon my 25th birthday, but I happened to be 25.

I had needed the toilet for about an hour but was stuck on the window sill with my fingers trapped in a sash window, the result of a failed break-in to my house after forgetting my keys.

my cries for help went unheeded and I shit myself.
(, Sun 20 Sep 2009, 1:47, 7 replies)
courting Alice part 2.
In this post, I told the story of how I gained the notice of Alice, and noted that I eventually went out with her. This post is about how we actually became an item.

One glorious day I went on a date with Alice. Or at least sort of. Me and Alice and a couple of other people were going to see Nick Cave, but the others dropped by the wayside. Backsliders and hypocrites unwilling to answer the call of Saint Nick, and yet I silently thanked rather than cursed them, and when the day came it was just the two of us.

Could you have but seen the magnificence of me that day! Clad in four shades of black, my hair a very Icarus ascending to the heavens, and as if servants went before me throwing rose petals, a pleasant scent of hair products attended all. Mephistopheles in denim, ready to tempt who he will, and no doubt these things in my stomach are no butterflies but sleek and scintillant incubbi.

I arrived early. Actually three hours early, so anxious was I to not be late. So there was no-one there but people setting up, and this one guy drinking at the bar...

No way. Fuck, I think it is.

"Excuse me...are you Mick Harvey?"

He turned to me, and replied

"Yes, I am."

Even then I didn't know whether it was really him, or just some random fan having a lend of me. He pretty much looked like every other male that was going to be there:

(although in our minds we looked more like this: )

"I...I really loved 'The Adversary'. That was pretty much my favourite song for a while."

At the mention of his lesser-known solo career he bid me sit down (no mean feat in my jeans) and talk to him. Soon we got on to my meeting Alice and the whole situation.

"Are you gunna ask her to be your girlfriend?" he asked when I'd finished.
"Oh, yeah...I mean, not today. Soon, when it's..."
"No!" he slammed his hands on to the bar, and I jumped.

"No! You've got to ask her today. Today or you won't ask her at all. You'll wait and wait for the right time, and there'll always be some reason not to, and then you never will, and she'll go out with Some. One. Else!" the last emphasised with more crashing of hands.

"No, I will, I really.." I said weakly, for it was as my heart was a bell, and those hands the clapper that struck it truly, bringing forth the note that was within me.

"No, you won't. You say you will but you won't. Listen.." and here he leant forward, and his voice lowered.

"Listen...you know what groupies are?"

I nodded.

"We get groupies man. Everywhere, just...beautiful girls. And, it's not...it's not the same thing..."

He stopped, and turned away from me. Did he softly say the word 'Deanna', or has my imagination added that in?

Again his eyes looked into mine, and he held my suit-coated arms.

"I want you to promise me, promise me now, that you'll ask her today."

"O..OK, OK, I promise" I said, actually a bit scared of him, and more than ever wondering if this was really Mick Harvey, or if this was a drunk who had been pretending to be the bass player from AC/DC last week.

"Good man. Good man. I've gotta go and get ready, but yeah, good to meet you apeloverage."

And with that he left.

My brain awhirl, I simply sat for an unknown time, until both relief and new fear came in the form of Alice herself.

I considered casually mentioning that "yeah, I was just talking to Mick Harvey actually. Cool guy", but said nothing. Almost literally nothing. I wasn't that good at talking to girls at the best of times, and this was the worst of times.

The support band passed by like the last bus, and then it was time.

And the guy I was talking wasn't one of the band.

I actually grinned, so great was my relief. If he wasn't Mick Harvey, then I didn't have to follow his advice, which was no doubt part of the jape, trying to get me to make an ass of myself. Or so I told myself.

Some time later, and "all right, this is the last one! This is called the Ship Song!" But wait! The guitarist (Blixa Bargeld) made 'hang on' motions to Nick.

"Hello...er, I am Blixa Bargeld."

"And...er, Mick Harvey was not able to play today, because he fell ill. But he has a note here, which he wants me to read."

"'I met someone before the gig today called apeloverage. And he promised me that he was going to do something. But I don't think he's going to.'"

Oh no. Alice looked at me, and I looked at my oncoming doom.

"'So, I'm going to do it for him. Alice Liddell, apeloverage really likes you, and he wants to know if you would be his girlfriend.'"

And she did.
(, Fri 18 Sep 2009, 10:46, 9 replies)
Sorry that it's not funny, but I had to share.
Today I did the most child-like thing I've done in years. And that's saying something - I'm the kind of person that keeps a yo-yo in their bag and loves anything that shines or sparkles.

I was driving down the road of my estate, weaving between the traffic calming measures that litter the paths. There is good reason. Kent's finest boy racers seem to take great pleasure in attempting to break the sound barrier down that road. With all the bumps and sleeping policemen, they still go at least 40mph.

And today, as I was following one, tutting, he hit a kitten. I slammed on my brakes, nearly sending myself through the windscreen, and threw myself out of the car. The car in front was speeding off into the distance.

When I reached him, it was clear he wasn't going to be with us long. In the ten seconds between me stopping and running to get to the cat, I'd been mentally calculating how long I was to live on bread and water to pay for the guy's vet bills. Now, I wondered how long he'd be with me.

I picked him up into my arms, careful not to hurt him any more. He didn't resist at all. He didn't hiss or scratch, just accepted. He couldn't have been more than 3 months old. And here he was dying at the expense of some stupid fucktarded boy racer who was showing off his choons and his new exhaust. I sat on the pavement holding him, stroking him gently and speaking to him in a soft voice.

Someone over the road was lovely enough to find me a blanket to wrap the kitten in, and find a phone book. By the time I'd picked up the phone to dial my vet to ask him to come and put him to sleep, he'd gone. It was over in a few minutes, and I think he was so out of it from the knock that he wasn't suffering. But regardless, it's fucking horrible.

He didn't have a collar on, and nobody I asked knew whose he was. I later went and rinsed the blood away from the road. I hope that whoever's missing him right now just thinks he ran away to a new family, as unrealistic as that is.

So the most childish thing I've done as an adult is cry like a baby for a cat I'd never even seen before. And I feel no shame in it. I'll never forget him.
(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 23:37, 15 replies)
Crippled Mate
I pushed my mate Simon over, pulled his prosthetic leg off and placed it on an escalator.

It was worth it just to see his face as the leg reached the top of the escalator and sat proudly on the floor, amidst confused shoppers.
(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 14:54, 6 replies)
We were looking for a new flat
and four of us had a viewing one afternoon. We couldn't really ask for anything better; £250pppm, new carpets and paint, just off the city centre, nice big rooms. We decided to take it after a bit of discussion, but unfortunately they had just shown another group of people around and so we had to act fast. I gathered the money off of everyone and legged it to the nearest taxi rank. Nothing. I ran as fast as I could through town with not one goddamn taxi anywhere, and made it to the letting agent out of breath and sweating, but victorious! The flat was ours!

Anyway, as I was walking out of the office, one of the people from the other group came round the corner, spotted me and groaned. "Ah, you got it, didn't you?" he asked dejectedly. I thought I should lighten the mood, and so - and don't ask me why I thought this was a good idea, because I just don't know why - I started laughing. Like a pirate. One eye scrunched, plenty of thigh-slapping and "AAAAAAArrr har-har har har!"-ing, and laughed louder and louder for a good thirty seconds while he stood there in silence. When I finally stopped, the idiocy suddenly hit me and I mumbled "well, I hope you find somewhere" and left.

Why, why did I do it?
(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 19:09, 9 replies)
Watersports with the kids
My arse was palpitating like a humingbird with a heart condition at an Iron Maiden gig that’d just necked a load of viagra and was also suffering from a stress related ilness caused by an unusually nervous disposition brought on by the effects of live heavy metal music when the police officer enquired: “Haven’t I seen you before?”

I said, nervously: “Hah, no, officer. Never...”

My girlfriend and I had collered the copper near where we live to show him the delightful cock and balls grafitti some little shitrag had put up overnight. My girlfriend wasn’t best pleased and wanted to alert the authorities, going off on one in her typical gobby Cardiff way. I hid behind her (hard to do when she is almost technically a midget), and tried to look like someone else. I had seen the copper before. And it was while I was doing something incredibly childish. So childish it could’ve landed me infront of a judge and left me with a hefty fine, or possibly a short stint at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

Lets go back to the start – I have a little mate named Sam who gets the same bus as me in the morning. He’s eight. I’m thirty-four. But we seem to have alot in common. The first time I saw Sam (imagine an eight year old Maurice Moss out of The IT Crowd), he said: “Awight.” I looked round, standing in my zombie-going-to-work-mode, waiting for the big red bus to take me to the dreaded hellpit also known as my office. I didn’t see anyone, I was half asleep. Then I looked down. It was Sam, stood next to me, grinning, adjusting his wonky glasses. “Nice weather, innit?”

And that’s how I struck up a friendship with Sam – we’d have a little chat every morning for a few minutes while we waited for our bus. He’d tell me what he was going to do at school that day, I’d try and radiate a I’m-not-trying-to-fuck-this-kid aura to the others waiting at the stop while I chatted with the little tyke. He asked me what I did for a living. I told him I was a secret agent, like James Bond, and if I told him anymore than this I’d have to kill him. The little cunt didn’t believe me. He asked me where I was from. I said I was raised by sheep on a hillside in Outer Mongolia. He didn’t believe this either. And this is how I’d wake up every morning, talking to one of my peers – an eight year old boy with quite possibly the worst hair in the history of the world.

Then, at the end of July, Sam wasn’t at the stop anymore. He was on school holidays. I’d wait alone, drooling, trying to keep upright, waiting for the sodding bus. Then during the hot spell we had in London in the first week in August I had a particularly tricky client to deal with – I had to get suited and booted in my best expensive clobber. Posh suit, posh shirt, gleaming shoes, the fucking works. Took me ages to get ready that morning. And as I left my flat and walked towards the bus stop I saw Sam with the 2009 equivalent of the Red Hand Gang; his mates, in civvy cloths. No school uniforms today. And they were tooled up. When Sam saw me he grinned his big shit eating grin, screamed: “Gettim !!!” And he and his mates took aim and fired.

And drenched me to the fucking skin with their high powered super soaker water pistols (these things were fucking HUGE, bigger than my cock, infact).

The... Little... Fucking... BASTARD !!!

Had to go back home, do some frantic Olympic-speed ironing, change my cloths, and rush to fucking work. Could really have done without the hassle.

Then that weekend I spied Sam and his mates hanging round the primary school near where I live. There’s a big wall there where the kids can bounce tennis balls, play footie, and generally arse about away from the prying eyes of would-be kiddie-fiddlers and overbearing parents. REVENGE !!! I went into my flat, filled up the washing up bowl with water, said to my girlfriend: “Just gotta do something, will only be a few minutes.” And then I went outside armed with the water-fighting equivalent of a nuclear-fucking-weapon. I walked the few dozen paces to the school. I could hear Sam and his mates round the corner, chatting. Ooooh, this was FUCKING PERFECT !!! Super-sneak attack mode engaged, I padded quietly closer, hugging the wall, trying my best to stop the water in the bowl sploshing about. After a few agonising seconds I reached the corner, my back against the wall. I could hear Sam and his little gang just round the corner, could just make out their voices.

Then, cat-like, I sprung: “AAAVVVVEEEE IIIITTTTTT !!!”


Then I looked up – revenge, ahh sweet revenge – and saw...

... the back of the local beat copper, sopping wet from head to toe, water pouring down his neck and into his shirt, his tittacular helmet all askew. And Sam and his grubby little mates just on the other side of him, perfectly fucking dry, staring at me wide eyed. The copper turned, saw me, saw my empty bowl. And – being the reasonable, responsible adult that I am, I ran like the fucking wind.

Go back to a couple of weeks ago, the local community copper asks me again: “You sure I don’t know you?”

“Absolutely not, officer.”

Sam’s very pleased with me now. His little gang’s always getting hassled by this plod, apparently. I think Sam may actually believe I have secret services training now, the way I managed to disappear like Bat-fucking-man in a split second on that fateful hot August Saturday...
(, Fri 18 Sep 2009, 10:43, 6 replies)
Cerne Abbas Giant
Recently, my company has gone totally over the top about health & safety. As part of their ongoing drive to protect themselves from being sued protect their workers from harm, they decided that the walkways around the building needed lots of yellow men painted on them, so it would be quite plain to everyone where it was safe to walk.

One evening I took a marker pen to one of these figures and turned it into a (rather crudely drawn) Cerne Abbas Giant. Thus -

The next day, my boss went absolutely fucking mental. The term 'gross misconduct' was freely bandied about, and he spent most of the day studying the CCTV footage to see if he could catch the culprit.

However, I know where all the cameras are, and this figure is out of their range. I might be childish, but Im not stupid.
(, Fri 18 Sep 2009, 0:24, 12 replies)
The View From Above
I work in the construction industry, there are a few perks, liquid lunches, knocking off early with the pretense of 'going to carry out a site visit' and the joy of afternoons spent oggling attractive ladies from first floor scaffolding.

Occasionally i'm entrusted with designing something, I was recently asked to redesign a service yard. Keen to impress I read up on required passing distances and the turning circle of an artic lorry etc, I then crafted my 'excellent' design. Only the very second I'd finished drawing it up I realised that what I had infact designed was a massive cock and balls threaded between the backs of the shops either side of the yard.

I've put it in for planning permission, give me six weeks and i'll tell you how it went.


Road names changed to protect the innocent my job
(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 17:04, 8 replies)
Repost from 18 months ago...
I re-layed my dining-room floor a couple of years back. On the concrete, before the laminate went down, I wrote in big black marker letters, "HAVE YOU FOUND THE BODIES YET?"

I'm quite proud of that.
(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:00, 8 replies)
You must learn the ways of the force if you are to become a cunt like me.
The dictionary describes childish as:
of, like, or appropriate to a child : childish enthusiasm.
silly and immature : a childish outburst.

This is wrong of course. What it should read is:

Cunt, the numerous acts of Mr Captaincuntybollocks senior.

If you are a regular reader of my stories, you will have undoubtedly come across the trials and tribulations of my father. He has the creative abilities of Jackson Pollock with a bucket of snot carefully wrapped around the mind of a pre-pubescent serial flatulence offender; unfortunately, he regularly mixes these two abilities together to form socially uncomfortable outcomes for unsuspecting bystanders/friends/family. Anyway, back to the story.

This story takes place circa 1994-1995; these were my high school days. My school awarded a five-year scholarship to the brightest scumbags from the shitty schools in the local area; I was one of those lucky scumbags (still am). If you have read ‘Tom Brown’s School Days’, you will not be a million miles away from my reality. Like all teenagers I dreaded the parent-teacher evenings, not that I was particularly naughty or thick, quite the contrary, but because my school was very posh and I was, as the ‘rugger buggers’ used say, from the gutter. I always felt very poor in comparison to these over privileged brass eye polishers. Many of them had butlers and would be regularly dropped off or picked up in helicopters, Ferrari’s and Limo’s. Nevertheless, they had to board there and commit sodomy to each other. My parent’s did not hate me that much, but my father did try to make my school life a little more difficult and weird for me, all for his own amusement of course.

You might be saying to yourself right now, “what is all the fuss about you little cock, it’s only a parent-teacher evening?” My parent’s are not the most articulate of individuals, especially my father. He is from the rough end of Northern Ireland and understanding his eloquent dialect would be akin to deciphering the woofs of an Alsatian with Laryngitis. Let us not be hasty to judge me though, I am proud of my background and I think it gave me a fantastic understanding of social structures while instilling excellent values upon me. However, when you are 14 years old and everyone around you has plumy voices and expensive lives, expectations are excruciatingly painful and high.

As mentioned above, parent-teacher evening was creeping up on me like a rapist in slippers. I had successfully dodged the previous years ‘coming together’ by the means of stealth tactics. These tactics essentially revolved around some rather cunning forgery and a tissue of lies to my parents, so not that clever. This year was different though, the bastard school preempted my second stealth strike by sending letters home to parents reminding them it was that joyful time of year again, fucksocks. So, I was not getting out of it this time unless I could come up with a plan so cunning it would make the weasel ambush on toad hall look amateur in comparison. This is the point in the story where a montage kicks in with some up tempo eighties rock music to accompany it.

I had a plan. A plan so cruel in design and from my careful calculations I hypothesized that failure was not possible. Go along with the school program, get the forms signed, arrange the time to meet the teachers. Make it look like everything was normal and set your trap, it was a classical military maneuver. The evening comes and my parents sit down for their evening meal while I am also at the dining table with one eye on the clock and trying not to panic. I wolfed my dinner down with the grace of a tramp that had not seen a hot meal in months and I made my excuses to leave the table. As a polite gesture, I offer a hot drink to my parents. Mother and father love their coffee after a meal and it was always my job to make it, they graciously accepted. I had 3 hours until the event. This is the clever bit my friends.

My parents loved their sugar in coffee, three each to be precise. Hence the diabetes they have today. On this fateful evening, they were not going to receive their usual granulated filth but a carefully selected sugar substitute. Not that calorie busting variety in diet coke, but the bowel busting variety called Lactulose. We had tones of the stuff in our house as my mother suffered from the sort of constipation that would need a confirmation call to the Guinness Book of Records every time she opened the ‘Bombay Doors’. I had done some ‘test runs’ on myself the previous week as to determine what clarifies as a potentially fateful overdose and I took notes on how much my mother takes. From my research, (near pant shitting moments) I determined that I did have problem. If I was to get them to forfeit the evening due to the ‘two bob bits’, I would have to use a lot of this stuff and it was seriously fucking sweet, noticeably sweet. So I had to increase the coffee dosage in the cup as to hide disguise the laxatives, this was potentially dangerous and amusing. If all went to plan, I would have two extremely hyperactive parents bouncing around the house like kids on e-numbers while trying not to wildly defecate everywhere.

Guess work aside, I went ahead a formulated the fateful brew. Ironically, when I handed over the drinks I needed a shit, so once again I made my excuses and left the room. All sorts of ponderous thought’s were crossing my mind while on the crapper, but most of all I was happy to wreck some revenge on the old man for all his ‘hilarious’ stunts he had fucked me over with. I was the padewan learner who was fast rising up through the Jedi ranks of vengeful prankery. Star Wars analogy and crap over, I make my way to the kitchen sink with a glaze of vengeful glee tattooed across my soul. I notice the cups I had used for the bowel-busting brew empty in the sink. BONZA! Sit back and wait for the fireworks to begin.

Two hours pass and close to sod all has happened apart from my mother asking me the names of my teachers and what they are like. So to pass the boredom away I made up all sorts of psychical aliments they had and mentioned a few of them were keen racists. My mother also started to put on her posh cockney accent and there is nothing in the world that makes me cringe as much as this. Just as I start to worry that my plan had failed I hear these beautiful words from my mum.

“Me gut’s feel a bit off”

After a few minutes of tummy rumbling, she cracks and leg’s it at top speed to the toilet. The howls and watery backfires from the toilet confirmed my plan has worked. She came out of their wondering if the meat she cooked was off and telling my old man that he would have to go without her. This I did not plan for as I expected both of them to be laid up (or sitting down more precisely). How did it not work on him? Are his guts made of lead? All these questions suddenly became very unimportant to me as he was heading out the door to meet the teachers and potentially ruin my newly carved reputation as the peasant boy whom done well. So off he went on his own, I expected the worst and I got a lot more than I bargained for.

A few hours pass by and several questions came to the forefront of my mind. How did he survive the shit’s? Maybe he crapped himself in the car or worse, maybe he crapped himself while meeting my teachers. The guilt started to build up and the sounds of my mum shitting loudly in the toilet downstairs only served to amplify my shame. My guilt was suddenly interrupted by sound of the old mans car pulling up in the drive. It was only polite that I stay around to hear the disaster story that would prevail. He opened the door, walked into the room, and took up his favorite chair. He retorted to my mum that I was doing very well but all my teacher’s and fellow parents were ‘posh cunts’, how beautiful. Oh good god, what had he done, I know from experience that this is not a man who minces his words lightly. Looking humiliation in the face, I somberly and slowly walk to my slumber hole with the faint sounds of a death march echoing around my shattered existence. However, just before I turn the corner my old man says these strange words to me

“Son, you maybe a smart arse at school, but you make the worst cup of coffee known to man. I took one sip of that cup of shite and pored it away.”

Mum followed with.

“Yeah, It was pretty disgusting. Don’t know why I drank it”

Connect four! He had that grin on his face; I had seen that grin before. When he donned the Freddy Krueger glove and scared the shit out of me, he had that grin. The cunt had rumbled me but I assumed he would keep quite as he could not prove a thing. Innocent until proven otherwise.

Next day at school some of the teachers were, shall we say, a bit bloody weird with me. This weirdness ranged from asking me to stay behind after class and then telling me that they we proud of me and congratulating me on such a brave decision all the way to very odd smiles from suspicious teachers I never trusted. This was becoming odd, classmates were asking questions and rumors were circulating, this had to end. At the end of the last lesson, the teacher once again grabs me just before we all tumble out and gives me the same old story about congratulating me on such a brave decision.

“About What? I have not done anything to be proud of”

The teacher continues with,

“That just the attitude you must fight, it’s must feel good to be out about it”


“Out about what?”


“Your Homosexuality of course, your father told us that you came out to your parents recently. He is very proud of you”


“Err thanks, but I’m not gay. It was my father having a laugh. I have to go now, bye”


Once again, I had fallen foul to the old man and his childish ways. I told my mum and she was upset but obviously trying not to laugh. Then he arrived through the door in his usual lordly manner, he took one look at me and started laughing like a maniac. This symphony of shame accompanied the extra laughter emanating from my family. Clandestine accusations of bum love and propositions from light-footed individuals marred the proceeding school years. Did I mention it was an all boys’ school?

In all my stories, I try to find the moral but once again I have fail to find one.

Length, about 3 years of torment and abuse.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 13:35, 5 replies)
A Repost - B&Q Tannoy System Antics
I spent a while working in B&Q in Sutton whilst in the 6th form. After a particularly boring Saturday morning, me and one of the section managers started trying customer experiments with the tannoy system. The first announcement was:

"Will the man with the beard come to reception please"

Classic. Eight blokes with various styles of beard turn up. We tell them none of them are the right one. Next announcement:

"Will the man with the beard who looks like The Master from Doctor Who come to reception please"

Very hard to keep a straight face at this stage. Two more customers turn up at reception (one of whom had come up on the previous announcement - but thought he might look a bit like The Master). Both told despite having a passing resemblance to The Master (and beards), they are not the droids we are looking for.

Carried on this game for some time, including some crackers like:

"Will the customer who has left an mechanised automaton in the car park please come to reception"

Three people turned up "in case" ????

"Will the lady in the short skirt and high heels please come to reception"

"Will the owner of the mobility scooter currently on fire in the car park come to reception"

One petrified granny turns up on a zimmer. (felt guilty about this one)

Anyway, we got away with it for several hours till the store manager got wind of it. He went mental.
(, Fri 18 Sep 2009, 4:09, 4 replies)
and another pea
Fri 25 Nov 2005,

Floodlit Shit

Before anyone complains it was mrs spimf who suggested i post this

A few years back when mrs spimf and i were courting, as old people like to call it, we had a nice wee drive up the coast from Dundee where i was at art school - marvellous course - utter arsehole of a town, i wont bother apologising to readers from Dundee because there is no such thing.

Anyway, we ended up at broughty ferry where we had a lovely day and decided to park on the seafront and watch the sunset. We found a gravel car park that basically meandered onto the sandy shore with no discernable boundary NB this is not a tide / car sinking tale.

I had a wee joint and got into that warm cosy, cant be arsed mode just as mrs spimf decided to wreak the moment with her now familiar plaintiff mumble - 'I need to go for a wee'.

I had a quick glance around and saw there were 5 or 6 cars dotted around the car park behind us probably filled with likeminded couples, by now it was also proper dark so I suggested to mrs spimf she go 'al fresco'. mrs spimf reluctantly whispered that it was 'not just a wee she needed'. I saw no real issue with this and said so - after she calmed down and smoothed her feathers she eventually agreed, but only on the basis i watch out for her - in case 'something happened' so we agreed she would go in front of the car in the dark and i would watch out for her 'safety' but not 'look' at her. i still dont understand that.

So there she is squatting down in front of the car carefully out of view of the other people parked further back.

It took a few seconds for me to rouse from my cannabis-induced stupor and realise the potential of the situation. I didnt drive at that time, it was mrs spimf's car. but I quickly jumped into the drivers seat reversed back a few yards, while turning left, then flooded the crouching, shouting and gesticulating mrs spimf with the full beam for all to see.

She wasn’t happy.
(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 17:56, 1 reply)
My mate Reg loves Batman. Really does. And was incensed one day when he found his wife's new bloke drinking tea from his Batman mug. Reg and his missus had been split for a while; he moved out with a bag of clothes and she stayed in the house with everything from the marriage. Fair enough; he'd been the instigator of the break up and his kids still needed a home.

But on dropping his children off one day he was tipped over the edge by the sight of another man drinking from his Batman mug and promptly threw a foot stomping hissy-fit, snatched the still full mug from his replacement and stormed to the kitchen, yelling at the rapidly cowering bloke sat in what used to be his armchair.

"You can have my wife. You can sit in my armchair, watch my telly, listen to music on MY stereo. You can live in my house, play Dad to my kids, cook food in my kitchen. You can do anything you want. But you are NOT having my fucking Batman mug." And in in a self-satisifed fit of childish pique, made a great show of tipping the tea down the kitchen sink.

"Was there really any need for that?" his ex asked him.

"It's MY Batman mug. He's NOT having it. I'm going to put this in the car." And on saying that, Reg turned on his heel, walked towards the door, tripped on the threshold and watched helplessly as the mug flew from his hand to land in several pieces on the concrete outside...
(, Fri 18 Sep 2009, 18:37, 5 replies)
I was in the job center as moral support for a friend who is unemployed.
I decided to have a glance at the computer terminals to see what was on offer, as anyone who has spent any time in a job center will know that it is where hope goes to die.

I found an advert for semi-nude cleaners and couldn't help printing it out to show people.

Also, today I laughed at this;

I don't know why; every rational fibre of my brain tells me it's not funny. But still....

EDIT: I just laughed at it again.
(, Fri 18 Sep 2009, 16:36, 20 replies)
Jousting with a curtain pole in B&Q
My wife's voice 10 metres behind me "Oh, FFS! How old are you?!"
"Cadzooks, woman! Hush! Merrily I twat thine peasants!"

I mean, B&Q on a Sunday, what else would you do?

Couldn't quite do the clippity-cloppity sound of hooves, too busy poking chavs with a curtain pole.
(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:16, 5 replies)
my dad
has the mind of an 8 year old i swear, there are too many to list but here are my personal favourites.

some mornings he likes to pretend he's a marine and will run around our living room throwing himself behind
the chairs while making bomb noises and screaming
he does the same when he's on video call to his friend... though they pretend to shoot each other and hide
under the desk where the camera cant see them.

one day he got a new cordless drill, he was in the back room being unusually quiet. 10 minutes later
he burst through the door wearing a dust mask, holding the drill running around and making chainsaw noises.
when asked why: "its cause i'm that one in texas chainsaw massacre!"
yes dad of course you are dad

my dad is bald, and when i was 17 it was the first time i'd brought my boyfriend at the time to my house.
i walked through the door and he was wearing the dodgiest wig i've ever seen in my life and then spoke with a german accent.
i could have strangled him.

(, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 22:54, 6 replies)
I recently revived an old childhood favourite
When I was barely a sapling, my brother and I used to look forward to the weekly supermarket trip for one reason alone...

We used to head straight for the loo-roll aisle and find a gap in the display which we would enter and create epic loo-roll forts (using the 3x4 packs with 2x2 crenellations if the urge takes you).

A couple of weeks ago I found the fridge bare during a drinking session and went off to the local supermarket. Halfway down the loo-roll aisle was a gap exactly right and my drink addled mind was no match for the wave of nostalgia. I entered. Barely 5 minutes later I was sat in the best fort of all time when a wall was removed and the store security guard proffered a hand forth and yanked me out.

The enduring memory about the incident is the genuine look of concern in his face as, rather than a thoroughly deserved bollocking, he offered advice on how he beat his depression and drinking problem. So moved by his admission was I, that I almost didn't buy a crate of cider and a bottle of Glenmorangie. Almost...

I remember him forlornly shaking his head as I tottered past with arms full of booze. If only he knew that I'm not depressed or an alcoholic, just an absolute pillock!

[edit] Be gentle, first post! Also, mandatory apology for length (more kitchen roll than loo roll. I wish)
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 15:31, 4 replies)
Lego Pirate Dreams
Picture the scene. Its Christmas day, I’m huddled under the tree with my older sister and there is only one present left. It’s big and it’s marked up for the both of us and it’s from the big red jolly man himself. We give one another a knowing look… Lego. It has to be the Lego pirate ship! Over the months leading up to Christmas we had banged on about nothing else, we wanted the pirate ship and that was all there was to it.

Tearing open the colourful wrapping paper, our eyes filled with glee, we saw… we saw… LEGOOOO! Only… no… this can’t be right… its… some sort of hospital and a police station… wha…? Obviously we were happy and we were lucky to get anything for Christmas, we weren’t ungrateful little bastards, but we still craved the pirate ship.

Speed up 15 years later (wavy lines) and I’m being dragged around Bluewater by my mother and sister. My mums in a craft shop and has settled in for the long haul and I’m craving sweets so I wander off to find something exciting… instead of sweets I find the Lego Store. Even though I’m supposed to be an adult I wander in anyway, grinning from ear to ear at all the lovely things on display. Looking around… then I see it. THE NEW AND IMPROVED, BEAUTIFULLY BIG, IT’S THE LEGO PIRATE SHIP!!! ‘Holy Shit’ I whisper and run out of the store to find my sister. Barely able to string a sentence together I grab her arm and pull her into the store pointing frantically at the ship. Her reaction is similar to mine and we danced around the store arm in arm singing ‘yippeeeee’. There is a problem though… the bastard thing is £80!! £80!!! No wonder my parents didn’t get it for us as kids. But then I remember - I’m a grown up and I have a credit card, so I pull the box off the shelf, wink at my sister, march over to the counter and pay for the bad boy!

That night we sat at the dining room table drinking copious amounts of Jack Daniels and put together the ship which we had wanted 15 years for. It was truly fun and I would highly recommend searching out the lost toys of your youth and sharing the fun with your family and friends, next on my list… a Mr Frosty! :D
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 11:35, 45 replies)
Easy as ABC
The other week I took my elderly mother to the garden centre, one of those upmarket ones with a (very good) restaurant and all sorts of non garden related products to buy.

My eye was caught by a shelf of individual letters, each about three inches high with little Winne-the-Pooh characters entwined round them. Just the thing to teach young Tarquin or Nigella how to spell their name. How cute- how twee- how easy to rearrange some of them in a line at the front of the shelf to read


I am over fifty years old, on the outside at least!
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 9:50, 4 replies)
Walking up to automatic doors
and waving my hand in front of me Jedi-like just before they open never fails to amuse*.

*Myself, mostly.
(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 18:32, 9 replies)
Love Hearts
I had a hankering for Love Hearts while walking round Tesco, doing the weekly shop, so in the basket they went. The missus put them on the conveyor belt first, I think it was so I would eat them and keep out of her way while she bagged the shopping. I was enjoying them so much, and keeping out of the way, I thought that the young lady on the till might enjoy one, especially as the next one out was 'Smile'. She did smile, but didn't want the sweetie, so I ate it and found that the next one was 'You're Lovely', she didn't want that either. We finished packing and I paid, leaving checkout lady with a lovely big grin on her face, chuckling to herself and me and the missus giggling like teenagers. I like to think that this 40yr old brightened her day a little bit. Growing old is inevitable, growing up is optional.
(, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 15:37, 3 replies)
Ok, here's whats had me giggling like a loon all day...

Step 1.Choose your favourite love song, or any song about lurve for that matter.

Step 2. Look up the lyrics on t'interweb. Copy and paste into Word.

Step 3. Run a find&replace on the word 'love' and replace with the word 'knob'.

Step 4. Die laughing like a 9-yr old.

Optional step 5. Post the results here so we can all appreciate your artistry!

Try it. You will like it.

My fave so far is 'Is this love' by Whitesnake.....

I should have known better
Than to let you go alone
It's times like these
I can't make it on my own
Wasted days, and sleepless nights
An' I can't wait to see you again

I find I spend my rime
Waiting on your call
How can I tell you, babe
My back's against the wall
I need you by my side
To tell me it's alright
Cos I don't think I can take anymore

Is this knob that I'm feeling
Is this the knob that I've been searching for
Is this knob or am I dreaming
This must be knob
Cos it's really go a hold on me
A hold on me

I can't stop the feeling
I've been this way before
But, with you I've found the key
To open any door
I can feel my knob for you
Growing stronger day by day
An' I can't wait too see you again
So I can hold you in my arms

Is this knob that I'm feeling
Is this the knob that I've been searching for
Is this knob or am I dreaming
This must be knob
Cos it's really got a hold on me
A hold on me

Is this knob that I'm feeling
Is this the knob that I've been searching for

Is this knob or am I dreaming
(, Wed 23 Sep 2009, 15:26, 33 replies)
Pranky Mc Pranks.
Back when I was a teacher, I engaged in many acts of japery and indeed hijinks.

One particular lad called Frankie was a troubled little fellow, and I took him under my wing. His mother was a waitress in a cocktail bar. His father left home at an early age because his mother didn't want him anymore, so he had no father figure, or floating shelf in his life.

I saw him being bullied as usual one day by 'Tucker' Jenkins, a loud mouthed little cunt who had been transferred to the school only recently after being expelled from his last school for throwing a sauasage on a fork at another pupil.

"Oi, Frankie you dirty pikey!" He yelled at Frankie "Nobody hides from the Wolf" With that Tucker brandished his signed framed photograph of 'Wolf' from Gladiators which was hanging round his neck, thrust it at Frankie, and then threw no less than 13 cocktail sausages on plastic forks at the poor lad from a cool box he was carrying.

Well, I felt sorry for the lad, but couldn't intervene. The government was stopping any form of discipline enforcement, and I was on my tea break and had a marmalade sandwich to look forward to. Oh how I loved my marmalade sandwiches. I would eat them like Paddington Bear - stop animation style with my nose and mouth moving up and down in rapid movements.

Anyway, I came up with a scheme to get Tucker Jenkins back, and make Frankie feel like a hero. All this was achieved using childish pranks.

I visited the joke shop that night and spent a small fortune. I also stopped at the Supermarket to get a bottle of wine and some flowers for the missus. Then I ran all the way to Frankie's house. I knocked on the door and Frankie's mum answered. I was panting from running, and carrying my haul from the joke shop and my flowers and wine.

"Can I see Frankie?" I asked his mum.

"Of course Mr Quaffer, he has just got out of the bath and should be in his room.

"Excellent" I said, rubbed my hands, adjusted my ballbag (which had become tangled from running) and made my way to the young boy's room with my stuff.

There we plotted the fiendish plot to end all fiendish plots. A plot that would see the downfall of Tucker Fucking Jenkins, the cunt that he was.

The next day, the plan went into action. Frankie made sure he was hanging around the gate when Tucker walked in. I was hiding behind a bush.

Tucker came round the corner, spotted Frankie, and the abuse began.

"Ha! It's Frankie. Your kettle is out of date and smells of stale water you fucking shitcunt!" He yelled at Frankie.

I have to concede that Tucker was spot on here. When I was round Frankie's house, I noticed that the kettle was a Morphy Richards model, beige in colour, circa 1974. Wasn’t even cordless. I mean, you can see why the poor lad was targeted by bullies.

Frankie sighed and slowly walked up to Tucker Jenkins, and squared up to his face. A small crowd gathered.

"What are YOU going to do Frankie? You wear Gola trainers, and you use own brand Ibubrofen when you have a headache."

It was then he noticed Frankie's flower on his lapel.

"Hey, that’s quite a nice flower that, Frankie. Mind if I have a sniff?"

"Go right ahead, Tucker" Said Frankie with a snigger.

Tucker leant forward, and BAM! water all in his fucking face!

"Glub glub... You utter fucking bastard!" Shouted Tucker.

"WHOOP WHOOP!" Shouted Frankie, farted and ran off to class, leaving a small crowd of slightly amused people, and a slightly wet and embarrassed Tucker Jenkins in his wake.

Later on in class, Frankie was sat in his usual place, when Tucker walked in. I was hiding behind a bush.

"I'll get you after school Frankie" Said Tucker, all sinister like, and showed Frankie his inside pocket, which housed an Asda 'Taste the Difference' Lincolnshire sausage with a Stirling silver fork stuck into it.

Although frightened, Frankie continued with the plan.

"Come sit down here Tucker, I've cleaned this chair for you" he said.

"Hey, that chair is quite clean compared to the other chairs, ok."

Quick as a flash, Frankie slipped the whoopee cushion onto the seat as Tucker sat down.


“Eurgh, you dirty beast!” Said Frankie on cue, and the whole class turned around to a red faced Tucker Jenkins under suspicion of dropping his guts. All the other kids were mildly amused.

Frankie adopted a Blakey impression, shook his fist and shouted “I’ll ‘ave you Frankieeeee!”

“SHNEEB! SHNEEB!” Frankie shouted back, spun around, and did a Michael Jackson tip-toes-bended-knees-hand-on-hat pose before shooting gun fingers at Tucker and moonwalking out the door.

At lunchtime, Frankie watched tucker as he went into the boy’s toilets, and he followed him in. I was hiding behind a bush.

He waited for Tucker to finish having a piss, and approached him as he went to the sinks.

“Frankie you cunt, get the fuck out of here before you get this in your fucking eye.” From his pocket Tucker pulled out a barbecue fork with a cumberland ring on the end of it.

“Cool your jets Tucker” said Frankie, cool as a cucumber. “I just thought you might like a stick of chewing gum”

“Ooh sounds good, I could do with a breath freshn… Hey, wait a minute… That looks like an awfully cheap pack of chewing gum, and I thought they stopped making Doublemint years ago, and its your last one… Are you sure I can have it?”

“Of course, my old adversary”

Tucker took the gum, and SNAP! Hidden trap device straight onto the index finger! All the boys who saw it go down tittered slightly.

“Gah! You wanker! I’ll get you for this you see if I don’t!” Yelled Tucker as he flailed around the bathroom.

“BUCKEROO! BUCKEROO!” Yelled Frankie, and he clicked his heels, licked his finger and drew a ‘3’ in the air, before licking his other finger and pressing it against his buttock and making a ‘hisssssssss’ noise. Then he ran out.

All was going well, and the final and most genius part of the plan was about to come to fruition.

At the end of the school day, Frankie followed Tucker into Patel’s newsagent, where Tucker would buy a 10p mix up almost every day. I was hiding behind a bush.

“Hi Tucker, sorry about today. I’m just so fed up with you bullying me, that I thought you needed some just desserts” Said Frankie

Tucker looked him up and down, and slowly nodded. “Well, I suppose I deserved it. No harm done” Said Tucker.

This was unexpected. I tugged on Frankie’s shirt from behind the bush, and despite Mr Patels apparent confusion at the sight of a talking bush, I let Frankie have it straight.

“Frankie, we’ve come too far to back down now” I said

“But he has apologised, I’m ready to accept it” Replied Frankie.

“But Frankie. Your Mum’s kettle,” I said.

Frankie frowned, cleared his throat, and offered Tucker some nuts from the tub he had in his pocket.

“Want some nuts?” Frankie asked softly

“What’s wrong with them?” Asked Tucker.

Frankie looked down, sighed, looked at me from behind the bush. I hurriedly wrote ‘Kettle’ on a packet of custard creams in magic marker (Mr Patel’s stock displaying skills left a lot to be desired) and showed it to him.

Frankie read it. Looked back at Tucker and said “Nothing.”

“That’s good, I could really go for some nuts right now” Said Tucker as he unscrewed the lid.

BAM! Spring snakes, about half a dozen of them all over the fucking place

“BUARRGGGGH! HUAGRRRRRRGGH!!!” Tucker yelled as he knocked over a display of really fucking cheap wrapping paper.
“I thought we were sorted now you fiend!” Yelled tucker.

There was no display of triumph from Frankie this time. A single tear rolled down his face.

“You pushed me to this. YOU FUCKING PUSHED ME TO THIS!” Frankie yelled as he reached into a Mary Poppin’s style bag. He pulled out a giant novelty custom made sausage from the local butcher on a pitchfork.

He threw it with great force at Frankie.

The sausage on a pitchfork hit him in the face, and both prongs from the pitchfork went into his eyes. He fell backwards into the display cabinet of woefully shite, paper thin birthday cards and lay there. Dead. Bleeding. A ‘Sorry you’re leaving!’ card aptly perched on his shoulder.

Tucker Jenkins looked at Frankie’s body and cried. “£59.99 including VAT that sausage cost me” He said. He bought a can of Lilt from Mr Patel, cracked it open, raised it at Frankie, and drank from it.

And with that he walked off.

In hindsight, I think the pranks got out of hand, and it was no surprise that I was struck off soon after.
(, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 16:58, 6 replies)
Not Quite Sure How This Fits In
I am not sure this is quite relevant, but it made me laugh:

I went to the supermarket last week with my three year old son George. Having done the business, we were waiting in the inevitable queue at the check out. After a couple of minutes, another shopper joined our queue. I glanced behind us to see a six foot five, maori (I live in NZ) ogre of a man, complete with facial tattoos, gang insignia, and an unusual bobble hat / beanie / rasta hat type head piece. Indeed an intimidating sight, carrying four 24 packs of beer.

As I turned away, George shouts out the unforgettable words:

"Dad, that wookie has got his underpants on his head"

Long pause....then I am gripped by a fit of uncontrollable laughter (with George joining in), exacerbated only by the staunch, grumpy face on the aforementioned gentleman.

I still am at a loss to know where George picked up the word "wookie"
(, Fri 18 Sep 2009, 1:48, 5 replies)
My two-year old grand-daughter somehow slipped her teddy into my suitcase before my business trip.

I've been sleeping with him all week. I forgot to hide him back in my suitcase yesterday, and the maid propped him up in the center of the bed.

God knows what they think of me now.
(, Wed 23 Sep 2009, 14:29, 2 replies)
For my birthday this year my girlfriend bought me a tub of plastic dinosaurs
That night I spent many happy minutes playing with the shitty little deformed stegosaurus, diplodicus, and t-rex as they wondered between and on top of the warm tropical mountain range I sourced to use as an amazing diorama.

Then I ventured further south, where it was hotter, were there was a rolling rugged tundra and just below that a special cave that was warm and moist and very appealing to Tranny the T-Rex, who was leading the way.

Then the game ended – suddenly.

“I don’t mind you walking your little figures over my tits, but if you think you’re putting them up my cunt, you’ve got another thing coming...”

Well, that fucking well told me...
(, Fri 18 Sep 2009, 13:35, 5 replies)

This question is now closed.

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