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This is a question The B3TA Confessional

With the Pope about to visit the UK, what better time to unburden yourself of anything that's weighing on your mind by posting it on the internet? Pay particular attention to the Seven Deadly Sins of lust, greed, envy, pride, posting puns on the QOTW board and the other ones. Top story gets to kneel before His Holiness's noodly appendage, or something

(, Thu 26 Aug 2010, 12:47)
Pages: Latest, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I pissed in a friends t-shirt
I was only about 10 at the time and he was staying over. My mum had put us to bed with strict instructions to go straight to sleep but about an hour later I was awoken by a full bladder. I didn't want to sneak out of the bedroom for fear of getting heard and shouted at, so I did the only thing that my young mind could think of, I searched around (in the dark) on the floor till I found something to rap around my cock to piss in, unfortunatly for my friend it was his t-shirt. So if you're out there Paul, Sorry about that.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 12:39, 1 reply)
A tale of someone else's MASSIVE DRUGS.
I'll make this as quick as I can, because to really set all the backstory would be boring and take a long long time.

When I was fifteen or so, my mates and I hung around with a group of sixth form lads. As you do.
One of our number was a lovely girl called J, lovely person, but with a face like a smashed crab and carrying abit more around the middle than was healthy for a teenage girl. She was full of hormones but never got dates because - well, the poor love was pug ugly to be fair to her.

She got a crush on an older boy who was a sort of hanger on to our "usual" lads - he was into drugs in a big way. Speed was his thing but he wasn't choosy, anything would do. This was not exactly normal for a seventeen year old twenty or so years ago where I come from. So he wasn't exactly popular with us, but the lads tolerated him as they had grown up with him, but she was besotted.

One night when we were all hanging around the local church youth club (outside, we didn't go in), he turns up, and starts talking to her out of the blue. She's transfixed. A while later they go around the back of the church, and we all think "Ah well, at least she's finally getting a snog / fumble / whatever."
Time passes and he appears again, looking smug and cheery, but she doesn't.
Me and a mate pop around to see where J is. She's behind the church, split lip, crying, torn top, you get the idea. She won't exactly say what happened but the gen is, he was responsible for her split lip and roughed up appearance. He had wanted more than she was prepared to give aged fifteen - she, being naive and not used to dates, is thinking it's going to be a quick fumble and a snog, he has other ideas.

At this point I lost all rational thought and went after him. He was still sitting outside with the others, laughing and joking. I am told I suddenly appeared (I don't remember much of this, the red mist had descended), knocked him over, punched him in the face a few times, grabbed him by his hair and dragged him over to the wall that bordered the churchyard. We clustered around it of an evening but we couldn't sit on it because it was embedded at the top with bits of broken glass (nice !) and chunks of brick. I held his face about an inch from the pointy shards and expressed in no uncertain terms my displeasure at his actions and added that should I see him around her or us again, I would cut his fucking face off.

I shoved him away and he stumbled off down the road, blood and snot dripping. My mates, who had just stood there in utter surprise whilst this happened, asked me what it was all about and I told them. J comes back with my friend, still crying and blowing snot and blood. They discussed whether to go after him, but we decided against it.
Although we knew he was into drugs, we didn't know he was an utter, utter speed freak. It didn't seem conceivable really, we were on the whole "nice" kids. A couple of days later at school, one of the older lads came to tell me that the reason we hadn't seen the lad around for a few days was because he had had stumbled off down the street and promptly had a suspected heart attacked on the side of the road. Someone passing in a car had picked him up and taken him to hospital. The police suspected he had been done over but he told them he fell down earlier in the evening. He spent a couple of days in hospital and then went into what I guess you would call a drug rehab programme. He didn't return to school and we didn't hear much about him after that.

To this day I am not sure whether he had the heart attack coming, as he was a heavy heavy user of all sorts of drugs, and what I did was coincidence. Perhaps my actions were the things that brought it on (most likely). I know now I was pretty lucky to have not been at least questioned by the police, but I'm guessing as he had just sexually assaulted a fifteen year old girl, he didn't want the spotlight turned in him, or me, or her, too much.

I am not prone to outbreaks of violence, fwiw.

So there you are. Aged fifteen I very nearly killed a junkie sex fiend.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 12:31, 4 replies)
My wife asked me to stop wanking
I haven't...

Usually rub out one or two a day...

I am, indeed, a wanker.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 12:18, 2 replies)
I'm a sexy girl with tits who might show them to you.
I painted a big willy on a jew.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 12:09, 2 replies)
late entry
Claire that used to work with me, if you still read B3ta - when you picked up that plastic cup off my desk and the contents went over your top, it wasn't water like I said - it was my urine. I tried to wee into the little plastic tube the nurse gave me but my aim is poor at the best of times, so I used the cup and planned to decant it later.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 11:34, Reply)
i broke my sister's arm.
it may have already been broken, she was holding it funny and my mum was taking her to the hospital and she got a kit-kat and i really wanted a kit-kat and to stay at home. and we were having an argument, so while my mum ran about being stressed i twisted her arm. and i heard it snap.

it was only a greenstick fracture so i might have just worsened it. but i'm sorry little sister. i think you've forgotten, you were only 6.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 11:17, Reply)
Garden Escargo....
back in the 80's like any lad back then I enjoyed playing outdoors and getting up to mischief.

I remember one year the bin men were getting increasingly petty about what they would and wouldn't collect as rubbish and for reasons unknown (since we now have a wheelie bin dedicated for it) they refused to take away garden refuse like grass cuttings and trimmed branches. The shocking price of 4 star petrol now being over 40 pence a litre Dad was reluctant to drive to the tip with the rubbish. This led to him buying a garden incinerator!

To those not familiar with one, it's basically a metal dustbin with short legs, some holes in the sides near the bottom to let in air and a lid with a chimney on it, so you could have hot bonfire action in a small confined space, possibly a bit safely.

After a few weeks of enjoying the magic of watching dad burn everything he could in this thing I began to experiment when his back was turned. In went the occasional old toy, one of mums flowers etc.

The critical lesson I learnt was that the metal lid of this thing was seriously hot. Think griddle pan on high heat, sears anything that touches it hot.... the garden was also full of snails.

I'm sure you've seen for yourself that if you pick up a snail it quickly withdraws into it's shell, but is keen to get itself back onto something so will "grip" the first thing it touches.... this includes the 200 degree hot lid of an incinerator.

That's right, for one summer I continually sought out snails happily sunbathing on fences, plants etc and "stuck" them onto the searing hot lid of an incinerator to watch them bubble, boil and fry themselves to a gooey death.

Sorry. Though it did put me right off the idea of eating French cuisine.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 10:13, 2 replies)
I regret all my thieving except only one.
I confess to having had a bit of kleptomania when I was growing up.
My brother and I started shoplifting from about the aged of 8, the usual sweets and chocolate. The very first was Turkish delight which I blackmailed my brother over till I started with a peppermint cream. As time progressed we became a great team, one of us distracting while the other helped himself to whatever came to hand. We were brazen in that after stuffing a good selection in our pockets we would pay for one item and always got away with it.
By the time of secondary school, and gotten very good at it. We had a paper round at the same shop (the Warren, bottom of Wote street Basingstoke), and while the owners were out front, we would collect our pile of papers for delivery put it in the bag and walk out, we got jars of sweets and chocolate and but had progressed to nicking cigarettes (we were selling them at school) not just single packets but the wrapped 200 type.
Mr Watson had clearly gotten wise that something was awry as so much stuff was going missing and after exiting with 200 Rothmans king size, I was stopped by Mr. Watson ‘just checking you have the right papers’ and my heart stopped, I opened my bag and he looked and found nothing. Clearly puzzled he walked back into the shop shaking his head.
How had he not found an item as large as that? Easy, you put the brick of fags laid across the bottom and stack the papers end on as normal, with a full bag he was expecting to see it and all there was on view were the papers even when he moved them they were still easily concealed from view. I did exactly the same the following day with 200 players No6.
All this did was to bolster my invincibility and Saturday’s were the days to go on a ‘nicking spree’ in the town centre.
We never targeted Woolies or any of the bigger stores as they always had store detectives but smaller busier shops, especially newsagents, were good targets. Nudey mags were very sought after as they were easily sold and a high value item, difficult to reach the top shelf but one us would buy a paper and in passing would pass to and put the mag into the paper and walk out, timing and distraction again were key to successful thievery.
But the one I remember most was from Cordings , a sports and toy shop at the top of the town, where I bagged a huge Hornby train set and as I was walking out with it I picked up a cricket ball from the display by the door and continued on out.
I also started a craze for nicking pen sets from WH Smiths but when the police came to the school and interviewed everyone about where they had got them from I knew the game was up and stopped shoplifting. Apart from the cider thefts from the Bulmer’s warehouse in Popley and ‘collecting’ the car badges.
The money made from by juvenile criminality meant very little and twoccing or burglary never interested me. Looking back I got a huge buzz from doing it, and it was getting into music, drinking and becoming a punk rocker that changed my burgeoning criminal career.

Years later I was out for a nights heavy drinking with my best friend and his university student girlfriend and her friends in Canterbury and was I was so utterly drunk that when one of the particularly lovely girls expressed an interest in the cute Garfield that was stuck to the window of a card shop on the high street, I kicked the window in and nicked it for her. It was the start of our relationship. But TCALSS, 22 years and 4 children later Mrs. N and I are still together, all the other criminality I really do regret but I have none whatsoever about the criminal damage and nicking the Garfield.
My Brother later became a policeman and when he left, he was a store detective for woolworths for a while, all that practice made him very good at it.

Apologies for the length, I realise I have also stolen your time.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 10:11, 1 reply)
I Confess
to being surprised that such flagrant sinners as the B3tans seem to have run out of sins to confess. And that less than half are real confessions.

Oh, and your taste in music doesn't count as a confession.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 9:59, 8 replies)
It's a late one, but was just reminded of it.
Circa 1990 aged around 15/16 I used to visit my mate at his house in a little hamlet outside of Nantwich called Sound.

Sound had a Heath which as Sound was in the middle of nowhere (i.e. 5 miles from the nearest shop) it was the place we would frequent when we got bored of trashing his own garden. It was a lovely place very quiet due to its location and had very few visitors, we used to go down there with his school friends and have a laugh as teens do, parties, girls, booze and frolics in the long dry grass.

One of these summer days we set to making a small bonfire which as you may have guessed got ever so slightly out of hand, we tried our hardest to put it out but to no avail, it spread like, well, fire!

1 acre of natural beauty was alight within minutes, well we did what any young lads would do, we ran like fuck… at arriving at his house some 5 minutes full tilt running, we hid in his garden, we stank of smoke, you could see the smoke rising into the clouds, someone must have called 999 then we heard the fire engines FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, we need a plan, light a bonfire in his garden was the only thing we could come up with, they normally had one lit so it was nothing out of the ordinary.

The engines (all 3 of them) came flying down the road past his house closely followed by the police and an ambulance, we were going to get in some shit for this we thought… time passed, the fire was extinguished and then came the knock at the door, ‘yes officer, how can I help?’ his mum says when opening the door. Blah, blah, fire on the common, have you seen anything suspicious, what a star his mum is, ‘nothing she says’ knowing damn well that it will have had something to do with us. Ok says the copper and gets back into his car.

We were hiding in the hay barn at this point looking through the cracks on the boards waiting for the fateful call of ‘x and x’ get here now!!! Down we get from our lofty hiding place, we got bollocked and I mean bollocked, he was grounded for weeks my parents were called and told to come and pick me up. But still neither sets of parents grassed us up, thank you all.

I’m so sorry to all the creatures that must have been scarred to death trying to outrun a fire.
And sorry to all the emergency services that risked their lives.

If you go back there now there is still charred bits of it some 20yrs later

(Posted under a different account so as to attempt to keep anonymity)
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 8:53, Reply)
I've got one
My confession is that I regard you all with suspicion. When I start reading a particularly good post, I stop when I get two or three lines in, check the name at the bottom, and then go back and start again, slowly. It's all spimf's fault.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 8:05, 2 replies)
Another one with alcohol. I am literally a tit, and am probably only posting now as I'm pished.
Chester, UK. Possibly around august 2009. I'd decided to go out with a few old mates from high school, one of whom has a penchant for rediculous hats. I pinched one for the night out as I concluded (apparentlty correctly) that it'd give me immense pulling skills. We eventually wound up in some shitehole goth club (not Rosies, although it did have an upstairs). Whilst getting increasingly hammered I take it upon myself to go in search of "Narnia" and discover the closed bar upstairs. I leap over said bar, in a quest for free alcohol - but find a much greater prize - a fucking tin of black paint! Result! This was like a red rag to a bull in my addled mind. That tin of paint needed fucking opening. Now. I had nothing to hand so I opened it with my teeth, plunged my hand in and wrote my name all over the walls and tables. I then realised if the bouncers found me I'd get my arse (rightfully) kicked, so I legged it out, and ran for hours and hours, taking refuge in chico land (which, as it happened, was about two minutes away). It later transpired that the waitress had seen a guy in a hat daubing his name everywhere, and reported him to the bouncers. Remember my mate who always wears rediculous hats when he goes out? Yeah, he's banned from there now. He has a name very similar to mine, which also didn't help his defence. Sorry, chap.

Apologies for spelling, grammar, lack of intelligible prose, it's 5am, suck the sack.

Length? Six feet high and black.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 5:04, Reply)
Tramps and fireworks. You don't need to read past the title.
First time poster, long time lurker, be gentle, softly, softly.

Anyway - It's Christmas eve, 2008. Cusco, Peru. It'd been a rather eventful day (a story perhaps I should've posted last week but late as usual) and feeling the need to de-stress we all went out for drinks in Cusco - little did we know that Christmas Eve in Peru is like New Year's on speed here, literally everyone crammed into the square getting rat arsed and partying like it's 2008. There are some particularly enterprising young shits aged from 8-10 selling fireworks to pissed tourists in order to scrape together a few monies for llama feed or whatever they buy with it. They had a peculiar marketing strategy - if you didn't buy their fireworks they'd start launching them at you, so an Aussie from our tour group bought a fistful of rockets and firecrackers, we let a few off and thought nothing of it. Being the total pisshead I am, I agreed to be the fireworks "mule" and carry them on my person as we entered the club, just in case we're searched. The night goes on, I get progressively more drunk, and as we're looking out of a balcony Joey (one letter changed for coincidental lulz) pointed out one of the kids who'd been launching fireworks at him all night, and suggested that I fire a firework over to scare him. I decide that wouldn't be accurate enough, so construct a makeshift bazooka using a beer bottle as a rudimentary aiming device. I miss spectacularly and hit a lit oildrum around which a group of tramps were huddling. The rocket exploded lighting up the whole square, and sending the tramps fleeing.
I cried with laughter at the time, and took at as some sort of reverse karma for the shite day I'd just had, but I feel guilty now. I think no tramps were harmed in the making of that lol.

length? About 9 inches, including the stick.

*ninja edit* I seem to recall through the mists of alcohol that immediately after I was approached by a HUGE bald egyptian guy, looking meanacing as hell, thinking I was about to get my ass handed to me, who proceeded to high five me and said "Good effort". :|
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 4:49, 1 reply)
I, too, killed a small animal.
The fuckin little hamster pissed me off so I threw it in with our boa.

100% true, I'm not sorry in the least.
(, Thu 2 Sep 2010, 0:02, 5 replies)
About five weeks ago...
When I was 13 which is going back a very long time I was big into home computers. I owned a ZX Spectrum which was an awesome computer with 48k of throbbing power. Unfortunately as a 13 year old I was unable to afford any games for it.

Then I hit on a cunning plan. Most game companies still accepted mail order purchases and even had forms on their ads to buy games so I started writing letters to the addresses on the ads - "Dear Sir, About five weeks ago I sent a £5.50 postal order to purchase game X which I saw in Crash! magazine. I have not received my game, can you please send it immediately, Yours XXX".

About 50% of the time it worked and the game duly arrived. I must have gotten 10 games that way. I was so successful I blabbed of my scheme to friends and they all did it. Ocean software must have been hit 5 times with the same scam. I'm surprised the plod didn't pay a friendly visit.

With hindsight I'm horrified by what I did. Not so much by the scam but by being so transparently, thievingly greedy. Hitting the same company more than once is just stupid. The only company I feel sorry for was one which sent me a Zaxxon clone game that I saw in a small ad. Mere weeks after I got my game they went out of business. It wasn't even a good game, but I felt that I played my small part in their demise.
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 21:36, 10 replies)
When I was about 16 or 17...
my friend's parents had gone away on holiday for a bit, and we had a spare house for the weekend! PARTY!

Now, I didn't really drink at that age, and still don't really to this day, but that doesn't stop me from being a bit of a dick once I know my friends won't remember what I did. I also liked suggesting things for my friends to do and watch them drunkenly carry out my idiotic ideas.

One of my friends turned up fresh from the chip shop, and had a nice oily paper that his fish was wrapped in. I rolled the whole paper into a massive cone, and persuaded my friends to light it and smoke it. They agreed, and the three guys with me at the time had a toke each, before spluttering their guts out. When it got to me, I thought it wise not to puff on it, and tried to put it out. I blew on it, but it only fanned the flames and it set on fire like a mighty torch. I panicked, and thrust it into the pond.

The monday after, my friend came in looking very distant. We asked him what was up, and he told us that after tidying up he'd found his pond covered in black soot and oil, and his dad's prize carp were no where to be found. My heart sunk. Fortunately, no one remembered the what happened very well, and one of my other friends who did remember smoking a chip shop wrapper presumed it was him and confessed. All that week I felt like shit until my friend's parents came home to reveal their carp died months ago.

On another occasion at uni, my housemate's geeky friend came round to our first houseparty. Me and a few others got him to down 2 or 3 shots of absinthe. After the first, he almost suffocated on the fumes, and began coughing like I'd never seen. Soon, however, he was getting into the swing of things. We began marching him round the party, informing any girl we could find how cool he was because he could down absinthe. Every time we told them that, he gulped a few mouthfuls of the stuff to show off. Soon, I lost interest, and thought he was going to enjoy the rest of his night. The next morning we found him on the floor in the bathroom with bloodshot eyes in a pool of vomit. There was also vomit all over the walls, sink, and worst of all, on the toothbrushes. To add insult to injury, my toothbrush was in my room - result! No one rememebered my antics, and purely blamed poor Dan. I feel bad for doing it, but at least he didn't die.
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 21:08, 2 replies)
Angelic.
I,ve read through 95% of these confessions,and to be honest,quite a lot have made me laugh,sick and angry.That aside its made me realise that even though I was a little bastrad when the occasion took me,some of you lot make me look like a saint.Thanks....Now for my story.......

Many years ago I used to live in a 3 story house,my bedroom was on the top floor of all and the toilet was the furthest point of all,1st floor freezing cold in winter.
My confession is that the cold water tank was in my bedroom and you could lift the lid off, perfect hieght to piss in.
So sorry to my parents,brothers and sister.
You must have wondered why i never why i drank the water.
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 16:38, 4 replies)
Robert got blamed
... but I shot the Deputy!
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 16:23, Reply)
I'm really sorry Mum
But when I was 14, you bought me a Sega Megadrive as a surprise Christmas present and hid it in your cupboard. You bought it early (maybe around August) to ensure you had it in plenty of time.

Unfortunately you underestimated the sheer nosiness of your son, and one bored afternoon when you took my sister to ballet, I found it along with a copy of Sonic the Hedgehog.

I couldn't believe my luck, so I thought I would push it as far as humanly possible. I very carefully unpacked it from the box and proceeded to plug in and play for the next hour until I was certain you were due home.

I repeated this little ritual twice a week (in tandem with my sister's ballet lessons) right up until Christmas when to be honest I was a bit bored of it.

The lack of enthusiasm on my face Xmas morning must have broken your heart, as I barely touched the thing all day. I always feel bad about this at Xmas, especially as I now have my own kids and know how hard it is to save up for things you think they'll love.

Still it serves her right for never buying me a Mr.Frosty when I asked for one every year, and buying my sister one when she didn't even want it.
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 16:18, 11 replies)
Few people know that John Fashanu spent a few years as a prison guard
... and in that position of power, became surprisingly popular with some of the inmates. One in particular.

This was in the days before civil partnerships, so when the inmate finally got out, they disappeared to whatever part of the world it was that allowed gay marriage in those days, returned, and lived happily.

But not ever after. Soon enough, things began to fall apart, but as the other partner was a serial offender and on parole most of the time, they couldn't travel back to the same country they were going to get the marriage dissolved.

So they went to a pheasant shoot, talked to the gamekeeper, and he said he didn't mind lending them one of his boys for a little while.

Adultery being grounds for a divorce, the young estate worker did his duty for both of them, and the marriage could then be declared null, by means of the Beater Con-Fash Annul.

(I think it needs work, personally).
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 15:58, 8 replies)
Chilly
Late one July night when I was about 16, I left my mate's house who lived in a small satellite village of Hull and set off on my bike, but rather then go straight home, I took a detour and went down a dark lane and stopped near a gap in a hedge. I wheeled my bike behind the hedge and stripped off. For no reason whatsoever, I wanted to know what it felt like to be naked out of doors. But I wasn't going to join a nudist camp as I didn't want people seeing me naked, so I wanted to do it out of sight of prying eyes.

It's a weird feeling, even relaxing with a light breeze giving my crutch, genitals and buttocks an airing, in the dark with the glowing street-lights of Hull a few miles away.

I strode about a bit enjoying the exhilarating freedom with a lazy semi flopping about as it did feel quite rude, but not that rude. But then I froze. I heard an engine and saw a couple of headlights up the lane. Fuckity Fuckity fuck!

My clothes were on my bike which was lying on the ground hidden by the hedge. They were a good 20 yards away and I realised that the car would pass by before I could get to the bike, get dressed and pretend I'd stopped for a slash. I ducked down and waiting for the car to pass. It didn't pass. It slowed down and stopped at the other side of the hedge about 5 yards further up from me. With the engine still running, I heard a car door open and someone getting out.

fuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshit!. If they spot me or my bike through the hedge, they're going to investigate. Surely they could hear my heart pounding, to me it sounded like someone trying to break into a kettle-drum with a mallet. I didn't dare move. To make matters worse, long grass was brushing against my buttocks and something was fluttering about near my right ear - a moth of sorts I think. I tried to waft it away but in doing so, I lost balance and tipped backwards. I managed to stop myself by putting my hands behind me. Did he hear me? I kept as still as possible, in a ridiculous crab-like posture, holding my rear up off the long grass for fear of ticks latching on and feeding on my blood. I must've looked like someone doing a performance art show, entitled "sausage on crooked coffee-table in starlight"

I struggled to wring out my brain for any plausible excuse. I had three stories:-

The truth
I was drunk
I was a werewolf who had just changed back to a human again.

Notwithstanding the lack of alcohol on my breath and that there was only at best only a half-moon, the truth, no matter how cripplingly embarrassing, would have to be my excuse.

I heard a zip and a splashing sound. It was a bloke stopping for a piss. He was taking forever. At least three hours. Well it seemed like that, it was more like 20 seconds. Then I heard a female voice.

"Hurry up Steve for fuck's sake. My dad'll kill me if I'm not in for 12"
"I can't piss any faster, christ stop fretting will yer. Besides my tubes are still full of spunk" he retorted.
She giggled, "I didn't hear you complain at the time."
"I didn't see you offer to suck the remnants out so I could piss faster"
"Fuck off." she requested.

He finished, zipped up and wandered away. He got back in his car and drove off.
'Thank fuck that they came from that end of the lane' I thought. Had they have been going the other way, the headlights would have more than likely picked out my bike lying on the ground behind the hedge.

As soon as they were gone, I hot-footed it to my bike, got dressed faster than I ever had before and biked home rather swiftly.
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 15:32, 8 replies)
i made a bomb hoax
When I was 14 I would go to a phonebox with my mate and make prank calls. Harmless enough and we found it hilarious as I could do some funny accents quite well.

Then we found a freephone number for a hotel reservation service

I made a few calls pretending to be michael jacksons assistant etc acted very stressed stating we must have the best room, all cutlery must be galvanised etc

I began to draw a crowd. At school during lunch I used the school payphone and rang the number. I had about 6 people stood around listening and I went blank.

God knows why but I said in a very posh voice " haha there's a bomb in the *insert very large hotel in leeds centre next to the train station* hotel. Put the phone down and went about my business

2 hours later an emergency assembly was called. We saw SOCO officers removing the payphone. I shit myself and ran home

Unfortunately by the time I got home I had already been grassed and my parents had been informed. They were the opposite of happy

In the end I got a police caution. And a 3 week suspension from school. Had it been a few years later I would probably still be in prison for terrorism

Whilst cautioning me, the police explained that my hoax had not been taken as a serious threat, but the hotel had been searched. Had they took it serious they would have had to evacuate the city centre and stop all trains at an estimated cost of £3 million.
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 15:16, 9 replies)
I kissed a girl,
and I liked it.

(plus it didn't do my music career any harm to whip up a froth of faux-sapphic controversy)
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 14:50, 4 replies)
I sing hyms in the car.
I'm an atheist.
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 14:31, 11 replies)
Things i shot as a teenager
with my air rifle

sparrows
swifts
lots of baby rabbits
moles
pheasant (it didn't die)
coypu
moorhen
four male pullets (teenage chickens) point blank in the head to be sure
pike
carp

The trick with the fish is to get them as they surface to eat the breadcrumbs you scatter on the surface of the river. Airgun pellets lose power and accuracy very soon in water, so they have to be a few centimetres from the surface.


I'm not proud.

*EDIT*
Oh yes, and;
Sellotape a frog to a rocket and set it off
Light a banger and stick it in a jam jar full of tadpoles

Not proud of those either.
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 14:24, 21 replies)
I stole from my brother.
Aged about 8 or 9, I had been saving for months. We got 50p pocket money each, fortnightly, and the deal was that 25p would go towards subs for “Friday Club” and 25p was for tuck whilst we were there. (Friday Club was for 7-11 year olds, 2 hours of games and crafts and general rowdiness on a fortnightly basis – give the parents some peace.) I didn’t have a lot of access to money, but I’d managed to scrimp and save £4.13. I remember the amount precisely. I was so proud of myself, and impressed with my riches.

But my brother got a five pound note in a birthday card from a relative. I never ever received money, and I’d certainly never possessed a note. I was envious. I stole it, and he said it was missing, and my parents eventually checked my belongings and found it. I had no reason to own a fiver, no defence to fall back on, just my greed and shame.

So instead, I made a fuss about my missing Barbie and Sindy dolls. I knew exactly where they were, naked, facedown under his bed, and I didn’t give a monkeys – I never liked them and had basically been saving this as ammo should rivalry arise. It totally worked – I had to return the money but got no more shame or retribution. Mwa ha ha.
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 14:20, 1 reply)
It happens to everyone
Let's get the really embarrassing confession out of the way first of all... I love a good McDonald's. My girlfriend is vegetarian and in the last year I've started jogging to try and shift the last of my man-gut, but I still can't resist a properly filthy Bic Mac. The sort of burger where you're sure barely 5% of it was ever alive, and all the better for it. Don't pretend you don't know exactly what I mean.

Returning from InFest the other day, my appetite finally started waking up after three days of being stomped on by massive drugs. When we pulled into the service station the first sign I saw was for Marks & Spencers. Thanks to the missus I'm quite partial to their stuffed vine leaves and other poncey wares, and was well up for easing my guts back into action in a luxurious manner.

Until I saw the Golden Arches looming in the distance like a glorious beacon of ill health and filthy living. Yes please mate, double cheeseburger, actually make it two, lovely, cheers. First meal in three days, gone in five minutes. Fuck yeah. This is how we do it.

I should really have seen my metabolism's revenge coming, and paced myself. The first rumble informed me that I would not be leaving Ronald's house with my dignity intact, but the lack of squelching clamed my nerves; I was only going to pass gas, not manure. Now, to pucker my flaps and attempt to emit an SBD... no! No, it's too late for such desperate measures! The toxins are on their way out! This would be an excellent time to panic!

Genius is oft born of seemingly impossible situations. I likened my masterstroke to Ultra Magnus' decision to perform an emergency separation of the Autobots' shuttle, allowing Galvatron to destroy the bulk of the vessel and throwing him off the scent. The music in here is pretty loud and surprisingly bangy, thought I. Just wait for the crescendo and... release! In perfect synchronicity with the beats! Yes! Beautifully done! Now, to rise gracefully from my seat and leave the other conoisseurs to enjoy my stenches.

...but why is everyone - EVERYONE - staring at me with such rampant disgust? And why is McDonald's in-house radio playing "Lying Sack of Shit" by Combichrist?

I'm listening to my iPod, aren't I

oh dear

RUN
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 14:06, 14 replies)
Evil Twin
Aged five I wrote my twin brother’s name on the walls in the house so he’d get in trouble.

I can remember the bollocking he got as if it was yesterday…

Tearfully “But It wasn’t me mum…it must have been RoF”

“STOP LYING! Why on earth would your brother write YOUR name on the wall!”


SUCCESS!
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 14:01, 4 replies)
MIstaken Identity
When I was in Mexico a couple of years ago, I ended up in the one club town of Tulum: gorgeous ruins and beaches but very little in the way of a night club.

Being young and on my own, a couple from Leeds staying in my hostel adopted me for a few days and one night after a few bevvys, we wanted to head out. The guy in the hostel told us about a strip club down the way, so off we went for a laugh...turns out it wasn't a strip club but a wedding (perhaps a different story). This prompted us to make our way to the only club in town.

Cut a long story short, we, as white foreigners (i.e. rich) ended up being plied with booze, dancing on the stage and being accosted by various women...one of whom I shagged in the alley behind the club. I would love to tell you of the joys of her spam-sheath or how magnificent my performance was, but honestly, I remember very little.

Due to my poor level of Spanish, I was unaware she was a hooker. So I wandered off. Her pimp caught up with the Leeds couple to demand money, who thought the whole thing was so fucking hilarious that they paid, and informed me the next day when my hangover was at its zenith.

So I confess to solicitations with a lady of the night, and worse not paying. Incidentally, if you don't pay a hooker, does it count as shop-lifting?
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 13:59, 4 replies)
This one time...
I found a wallet in the street containing £50. I would have turned it in, but I like money too much, so I kept it and spent it on four prime steaks and a keg of beer, all of which I finished that very day. I was kind of drunk so I did that facebook thing of looking at an ex-girlfriend's profile, and to my horror her picture was her next to a new boyfriend with perfect washboard abs. I looked down at my own moobs and pot belly and was flushed with jealousy, so as revenge I printed out a picture of her and spludged over it eight times in two hours. I was still angry, and would have sent her a vitriolic message or something, but I couldn't be bothered.

I would say I'm ashamed, but I'm not, I'm very proud of it.

(any relation to real events is purely coincidental)
(, Wed 1 Sep 2010, 13:36, 11 replies)

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