Shameless Pearoast

One wet and miserable afternoon where the heavy leaden skies merged with the grimy cityscape I decided a bit of Hollywood escapism was needed.

As is traditional when wanting to watch a film I deposited myself in the sticky floored chav breeding ground that is the modern multiplex.

Upon entering the theatre it was already dark as I had spent ten minutes explaing to a pus filled dimwit of a sweet vendor that his popcorn had risen in price by more than 17% in the last year tracking way above inflation and that I was loath to part with almost £5 for something that is 50% air.

Alas my lamentations and sound economics fell of deaf ears and I parted his company with a small bag of popcorn, a heavy debt and a seething resentment towards anything and anyone involved in the corn or corn popping industries.

I took my seat and resolved to enjoy the film with no more ire inducing episodes. This was not to be the case for behind me seemed to be the noisiest people in the world.

Snippets of whispered conversation buzzed around my head like so many malarial mosquitoes, the incessant crackle and crunch of sweet bags felt as loud as gufire, the soft sucking of humbugs pulled at the marrow in my bones and the random kicking of the back of my seat did little to ease my back pain.

I should have asked nicely for some peace and quiet, but past experience had taught me that these dark dwelling monsters would only increase their attacks if provocked with reasonable requests. Hence I sat and I seethed for what felt like hours, I balled up my rage in a way only an emotionally stunted Englishman can.

Like Krakatoa the pressure became too much and I exploded! Swivelling around in my chair I shouted in no uncertain terms for this utter shower of shits to, and I quote, "SHUT THE FUCK UP BEFORE I RIP YOUR FUCKING HEADS OFF!"

All was silent, for a brief second I thought I had done the impossible and won against the tyranny of teenagers. Unfortunately as my eyes adjusted to the dark I saw quivering chins and frightened watery eyes.

In a line sat 6 very scared and on the verge of tears children with Down Syndrome. My heart absolutely sank. Their carer lent forward and apologised only making things worse, I begged her and the children's forgiveness and sank so deeply into my seat that my arse got stuck to the fetid sticky floor. It was where I belonged. I have never felt so guilty.

Luckily after the movie I managed to apologise properly to all involved and we all went away happy, but I have learnt how stupid it is to let the rage grow inside you and to release it with out doing some pre flight checks.

*starts walking to hull*
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:22, 4 replies)

Better out than in?
Some will tell you this, and in certain cases it's true, I'm sure.

However, when your entire school is gathered in the hall being entertained by an explorer gent, this isn't necessarily the case.

And a school friend once discovered this, much to his dismay.

He'd needed to fart before the presentation had begun, but it wouldn't pass during the pre-speech applause.

So he held it.

It strained against his inner cheeks; like champagne against a cork, the pressure was immense and he had to squeeze with all his might to restrain it.

But he held it.

The pressure refused to pass as might be expected. Indeed, he could feel it building and intensifying as the speaker droned on and on about his marvellous adventure that he was so very excited about.

And still he held it.

But his defences must have weakened. His resolve remained, but a chink was to be found in his armour and the slightest gap appeared between his cheeks.

And so it was, that despite all his best efforts he unleashed a high pitched, 15 second long squeak, which sounded loudly off his plastic chair and reverberated crudely about the high ceiling of the hall.

His chair refused to swallow him as the whole school was left in no doubt as to the culprit, due largely to the bright red face that was trying desperately to disappear into the shoulders beneath it.

300+ people laughing at you like special children, until tears flowed freely over their gurning faces, will make you cringe like nothing else.
( Moey, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:17, 4 replies)

Typo cringe
I was working as a web designer, specialising in not-for-profit/ charity gigs. Anything community orientated and right-on basically. We took pride in such things.

I had a preliminary meeting with the head mistress of a local 'special needs' school, who wanted an ambitious website that would be both high profile and a decent slice of cash. It fitted in perfectly with what we were about and we were keen to get the job.

As soon as I returned to the office, I set about writing them a "Great to meet you ... " follow-up email.

Send.

Two days later, I get a reply. "It was lovely to meet you too ..." blah blah blah ... "looking forward to seeing the spec"... blah blah blah ... and there was my original email below.

I don't know about you, but I have this narcissistic habit of reading my own emails whenever I come across them, checking for form, expression and grammar. Sometimes I give them a mark out of ten in my head. This time was no exception and it was at that precise moment I noticed to my horror that in my haste I had bungled my usual sign-off. Beneath the final sentence ("And what a lovely school it is!") I had written:

"Retards,
Andrew"

I don't know if they noticed, but they never mentioned it. Likewise, I was too embarrassed to bring it up. That "Retards, Andrew" hung in the air like an awkward pinata during every subsequent meeting.
(Tarka_the_Frotter, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:16, 4 replies)

knoblong
my mate had been going out with her then-boyfriend for about 6 months, when she decided to introduce me to his brother, adie.
adie was a nice bloke, we got on well, but after spending the whole night talking on my friend's couch, nothing had happened.
of course, because i couldn't have him, i now wanted him.
badly.

i made it my mission to snag this elusive beast and, about six weeks later, i finally did. as usual, once i'd got him, i no longer wanted him(i know, i'm a fickle bitch).
next morning, my mate was asking how things went.
"well, he's got an oblong knob" i said.
"what do you mean, an oblong knob?" asks my friend.
"it's shaped like a small book," i
said. "it's completely flat top and bottom. it looks like it's been plonked on a table and twatted with a meat tenderiser."
we enjoyed a laugh at his expense, then carried on with our conversation.

several weeks later, we were all in the pub. by this point, i'd started calling him knoblong, but never explained why. we were all quite drunk that night and adie had decided he was going to try it on with a very attractive girl who, unfortunately, was having none of it.
"what's wrong with me?" he demanded. "she thinks i'm good in bed" he says, pointing at me. "she calls me knoblong, because my cock is huge!" "that's not why she calls you it!" my mate chimed up in the now silent pool room. "she calls you knoblong because you've got a cock like a bar of nougat! if a girl lets you shag her, the corners will rip her fanny!"
as he stood there, open-mouthed, the girl he had been trying it on with erupted into laughter.
unfortunately for her, she was also pissed and not quite as in control of her bodily functions as she thought she was, which resulted in her pissing all over the pool room floor.

neither of them set foot in that pub again.

length? about 6 inches with edges.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:15, Reply)

Picture the scene
Lanzarote - on holiday with the lads and we run into and pull a couple of members of a hen party and much fun is had...

My mate pulls the hen and I pull her mate who has a great personality.

Much fumbling and fun is had and it's going on for a while until my mate (who pulled the hen) barges in wanting to get to bed (we shared the room, it was twin beds, honest!) and ot be fair it's about 6AM

Why oh why did I decide at this point to say to him 'would you like a go?'

said girl was not impressed...
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:14, 1 reply)

"You shouldn't smoke in Bed y'know..."
.... Was where it started to go wrong.

I have no idea how the conversation had started, but I ended up coming out with that line at a party... I was faced down with one of the most piercing stares I've ever got, and then discarded.

It was then that someone filled in the gap for me.

This was early 2005, shortly after - so I was to find out - the death of Monica Zetterlund. I was with a bunch of Musos, and amongst them was one of her relatives.

Monica was an Iconic Jazz singer who had become bed-ridden, yet still craved her ciggies. Her cause of death was simple.. she accidentally set her bed on fire while having a smoke. At the age of 67, bed-ridden and terrified, she rang the fire department the instant she realised her potential fate and stayed on the line long enough to tell the switchboard operator that her legs were burning and asking "Could you please ask them to hurry? I don't want to go this way"

The lads did hurry, but weren't fast enough to stop potential turning into reality.

I had just told one of her relatives the dangers of smoking in bed.... And EVERYONE apart from me had known who they were. :o(
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:14, 2 replies)

Years ago
I was in a job that involved emailing daily financial reports around to a number of high ranking staff. Directors etc, you know the type.

Now, on this one day on September the 11th 2001, a certain world changing event took place.

Meaning to send an email to friends, I wrote "Bush will want *serious* payback for this. Feal the fear" and fired it off.

The sales director soon arrived at my desk, and uttered the phrase "feal the fear eh?" upon which I must have done that Vertigo film focus thing. Our american owners weren't best impressed, but hey, I was right.
(Rimfeast, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:13, Reply)

Oh, all right then.
I've been on a University Challenge team.


Twice.


For different universities.


I was still a fresher the first time.


I was team captain the second, a few years later.


We didn't cover ourselves in glory for either.






And I have a face made for radio, and a voice made for zoetropes.

*shudders*
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:12, 10 replies)

Gigamortification
One typical Friday night out in the local last summer, a bunch of mates and I were steadily getting bladdered and having a right old giggle. We'd been kicking a ball about and drinking cider in the park in the afternoon, and were suitably garbed in teeshirts and shorts.

Around eleven o'clock and the pub is heaving - not a chair to be sat upon and three-drunks deep to the bar. It's my round, so I take orders and join the throng to get the drinks in.

At this point, one of my 'mates' crept up behind me and tugged my shorts down. Laughter blasts through the room and I turn around to berate the culprit, somewhat embarrassed at showing my pants to the collective punters in the pub.

Looking down, it was only then I realised he'd snatched my pants down too, leaving Little No3L on display for all to see.

Cue one hand in a fist in my mouth while the other scrabbled around trying to recover my modesty.

Length? I'm still trying to work out if they were laughing at me, or my cock.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:11, Reply)

Paper knob
Alcohol appears to be one of the prime instigators of truly cringeworthy moments. The following tale is no exception to this rule, and it's a personal reminder to never again consume alcoholic beverages in larger-than-average quantities:

--------------------------------
(Wavy lines deserve to die.)

A few years ago, a somewhat smaller and definately more teenage me accompanied a couple of friends on a night at the pub. After all, very few teenage boys can withstand the promise of alcohol and female company.

And indeed, a couple of hours later, most of us found ourselves with a beer in one hand, girly parts in the other, and a large number of glasses, contents ranging from empty to nearly full, sitting idly on the table. As the night came to an end, me and my lucky catch* decided on a meeting the following day at my house, as we both agreed our intoxicated selves would not be able to engage in any sexytime activities.

So we parted ways briefly, but my hormones were obviously not as patient as the rest of me. Back home, I decided on a good wank in the preperation of all the sex that was sure to be had the day after.

Being downright drunk, I managed to make a total mess of myself. Not wanting my future girlfriend** to find me in such a state, I got hold of a toilet paper roll and made my best effort to clean up myself, especially my soldier's helmet, which was now getting stickier by the second.

Happy with the effort I made in cleaning myself from my own immoral juices, I fell sound asleep, to wake up the next morning to the sound of my mother's voice, telling me I had a female visitor.

Carrying an extreme hangover, I slowly made my way downstairs, where I was greeted by a kiss from equally hungover Girlperson. After a drink and a snack, I returned to my bedroom, company following me up the stairs.

Back in my bed, kissing ensued. Followed by touching, more kissing, up until the moment of truth.

As she stripped herself from her panties, I unzipped my pants, and left it to her to remove my undies.

As she slowly pulled them down, an erect Obsidian Soldier anxiously jumped out, ready to invade the Ladybit Country lying before him...

Only to be met with a look of proper disgust, as the girl involved noticed crusting pieces of low quality toilet paper, attached to Obsidian's manhood due to the stickyness of dried-up lovejuice.


* At this age, we still lacked any form of respect towards the better half of humanity.

** From this moment, as you could very well guess, any chances at a relationship were reduced to absolute zero. In fact, we haven't seen or spoken to one another since.

(Obsidian, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:09, 4 replies)

Office
In a job years ago, the field sales supervisor was leaving, and some old pics of her were brought out from well before I started.

Although she had a decent figure, she'd lost a shedload of weight as looking at the pics, she must've been a good 15 stone (210 pounds).
I uttered 'fuck me, is that you?'.

The 'fuck me' bit was meant to be under my breath, however I said it out loud, and as soon as I realised, I stopped before the 'is that you?' bit.
So now everyone is looking at me wondering why I'd just exclaimed 'Fuck me!' when she dug out some fat pics.

I am currently cringing as if someone's dragging a steel gauntlet down a blackboard; contorting, biting my fist and going ngarrr.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:01, Reply)

She said, she said "you don't know shit, because you've never been there"…

In my youth, I used to frequent the gigging scene, and one band that I particularly liked were called ‘The Wonder Stuff’.

So you can imagine, it was with great delight that to celebrate passing our exams we got tickets to see them at the Aston Villa Leisure Centre.

With gleeful anticipation on the big day, we arrived early…before anyone else in fact…and someone must’ve spotted us waiting outside on our own because they sent a roadie out to bring us in, introduce us to the band and watch them soundcheck. That bit of the day was fucking brilliant.

Whilst we were walking around we got talking to the support act, a group of bloody nice fellas called ‘Neds Atomic Dustbin’.

After a while we went out to rejoin the queue, and got talking to the other people in line about our experience.

Although I admit I had never heard of ‘Neds’ at this point, I was informed that they were a) very good, and b) most famous for a song called ‘Kill Your Television’.

This was the sole information with which I entered the gig.

So the band eventually started and lo, they were indeed excellent. As they started playing the opening bars to ‘Kill Your Television’ the 10000 strong crowd cheered extra hard and I realised that this must be the song in question.

It’s important at this juncture to explain just how the chorus of ‘Kill Your Television’ actually goes…

In a hard, loud, grungy pop stylie, It goes a bit like:

*bar of music* *dead stop* *shout :“KILL!“*

*bar of music* *dead stop* *shout: “YOUR!“

*bar of music* *dead stop* “...“

*bar of music* *shout “TELEVISION!.“*

The gap in between the words ‘your’ and ‘television' are vital to the catchiness of the song.

I was not aware of this.

In the midst of moshing like a mongatoid marshmallow I was swept away by the intensity of the music, and was desperate to sing along with the chanting hordes…

Then I noticed my big chance – The chorus started and I began to recognise some words. This was my opportunity to become one with the hot, sweaty mass of band and crowd…

Before long there came the inevitable…

*bar of music* *dead stop*

Everybody shouts “KILL!“

Fuck! – I missed it!...right then, I know where I’m going with this song...I’m ready to join in…This is it!

*bar of music* *dead stop*

With my fist punching the air I scream a triumphant “YOUR!“

‘Yay!’ I think to myself – ‘This is brilliant! – what a night! – Nothing can go wrong!’

*bar of music* *dead stop* “...“

At this point, the band tightly perform a perfect dead stop. 10000 fans jam their mouths completely shut and the huge building instantly plunges into complete and total silence…

…except me…who shouts “TELEVISION!....Woo!!!... ooh fucking hell ” at the top of my phenomenally loud, lung bursting voice.

The band bailed me out by continuing the song but even they were laughing at me. As for everyone else, following bouts of hysterical bladder-exploding laughter they simply backed off, distancing themselves to such an effect that after about 30 seconds there was a complete 6ft circle of space around me in the middle of the packed mosh pit, such was everyone’s determination to have absolutely nothing to do with me whatsoever.

And I stood there…alone…with nothing to keep me company but a permanent scar on my memory and a face glowing so brightly that it put the lightshow to shame.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:00, 5 replies)

A friend of mine
was getting over nasty bout of gastric flu, and said to me "oh well, what doesn't kill makes you stronger"

To which I quipped, "tell that to my grandad, he had a stoke in 2000 and now can't move his face and shits in bag!"

At which point the third member of our party decided to mention that his grandfather had died of a stoke just last year, "he had fallen down the stairs, shat himself and no one had found him for three days", he went on to tell me.

We lost touch...
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 15:00, 1 reply)

Eep...
Apologies to the one person here who has heard this Tale of Cringe before…

Once upon a time in the land of Berkshire, I worked for a multi-national billion pound corporation. As is befitting of a company of such stature, the Christmas party was a rather posh soirée, complete with nibbles that fall well outside my usual ‘Twiglets and crisps’ range. The champagne was both free and free flowing, and much merriment was to be had at the expense of the bosses. We weren’t just minions for the day, we were royalty!

I went out and maxed my credit card purchasing a exceedingly stunning D&G dress and shoes, got my makeup professionally done and spent a week’s food budget on receiving The Wax of a Lifetime. I borrowed jewels befitting of a queen and had my hair highlighted to golden perfection. My lipstick never faded and my teeth gleamed with smiles. I cut a fine picture of lithe sophistication, charming and being charmed alike.

The last thing I remember was being bundled into a taxi, having been rendered unable to see. I woke up the next morning, passed out half hanging out of my front door, back bum exposed to all and sundry on a crisp December day.

The children and parents from the posh day care across the street had stopped to titter, point and stare at me. So imagine the further cringe when I had to stand to look these strangers in the eye, only to find that I had also emptied a bladder full of champagne all over myself.

Then having to look them in the eyes daily for months afterwards as they mentally recalled the time the saw me with a £800 dress stuck to my skin with urine.

~fin~
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:58, Reply)

"Are you free on friday Rakky?"
"we're having a party for Professor X as it's his birthday..."

"That sounds nice, I'd love to come"

"Well, it should be good, it's a pretty big deal.. it's *that* birthday!"

"ooh, congratulations Professor X, do you actually turn 50 on Friday then?"







"I'm 40...."

*fucksocks*
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:52, 4 replies)

One moring

I was happyly wanking off the dog while listening to The Carpenters at full volume when I noticed that Nigel Havers had walked in and was in the proces of leaving me a cup a soup.

It was beef flavour when I had specifically requested chicken, stupid cunt.

He never made that embarassing mistake again.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:45, Reply)

A Few Weeks Ago....
Up until about 3-4 weeks ago, I was training to become a professional wrestler. It wasn't because I had delusions of grandeur of being a champion or anything, instead it looked like something that was fun, I enjoyed as a kid, and figured that it could get me fit (which was the main goal, as I'm a bit of a lard arse, and my gargantuan behind in spandex may actually get me to do something).

Anyway, the most cringeworthy thing I had done was done was blissfully explain the character I was playing.

I planned to play an Alcoholic, called "Al Jager", subscribing to the common mantra that characters that are based on exaggerated aspects of the wrestler's personality work the best, and the fact that I have been known to have a few drinks. I came up with a theme song ("Cigarettes & Alcohol" by Oasis), a finishing move ("The Jagerbomb") and even a hand signal. All of this was blissfully regailed to one of the more experienced wrestlers in the group, who also was responsible in ordering the gear.

Who also was teetotal.

Who's dad died a week before.

From alcohol poisoning.

Two or three people were there and were cringing. I was not aware, though one of the other guys did take me to one side (again, somebody experienced) and gave his own story of cringeworthiness.

The guy (called Bad Barry....not actually his wrestling name) was a heel. That means that he's a bad guy, and has to do everything in his power to make you hate him, usually involving yelling at small children. Barry took it one stage further and actually swore at the kids. Barry's character was a bit of a coward, and in a match in Liverpool he was thrown clear of the ring. Barry, being the heel, immediately complained to the referee that the other guy pulled his hair (he didn't but it's a common tactic). One child who was in the front row, shouted at Barry, calling him a poofter for complaining (or words to that effect).

Barry turned around and said "Well obviously you couldn't complain could you, you bald little shit! What's wrong you scouser? Can't you grow hair? Or you shaved it off to look tough? Or maybe you are growing old and losing hair already!"

It was later established during a meet and greet session that the kid was undergoing chemotherapy.
(rhyswynne - on every social network mullarkey known to man, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:45, Reply)

Mingling with the work folk...
Nothing major.... But for some reason this has happened a few times at the current job I'm at, and when I was a newbie to add to the embarrassment..

Walking past someone and hearing them say "Hi" or "Hi, you alright?", so me merrily chirping back "Hiya, yeah I'm good thanks, you?"....

.. then realising they're on the phone and talking to that person.... oopsies...
( awayfromthenumbers, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:44, Reply)

Don't talk to grown kids in pushchairs.
I was working at Footlocker. They have that very American thing of getting staff to greet every customer.

A couple came in with a just-too-large-to-really-still-be-pushed-around-in-a-pushchair sized kid.

"Hey, it's alright for some, getting pushed around all day eh?" I chipped in.

"He can't walk".

I should have stopped talking but tried to gamely chat on. The kid was friendly but not saying anything while I served them.

"He's very quiet, isn't he"

"He can't speak".

At this point I should have just left, but while fitting his trainers my mouth has basically gone over the top of the trenches.

"Funny shaped feet he's got"

"Polio".
(kidcamel is due to call your mum at, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:44, 2 replies)

A good mate of mine plays for a local rugby team

On said team is a chap called beast.

Unsurprisingly this is because he is fucking huge and accordingly has the biggest penis this side of a seriously aroused narwhale.

Confident in the extreme about his mighty apendage he would often saunter out of the shower doing "the helicopter".

As is traditional and in some parts of the country compulsery, my friend, beast and some other neer do wells where, to coin a phrase, out on the lash.

Good times were had by all and the inebriated posse stumbled home in good spirits.

Now this friend only has a small apartment and such there really wasn't room for everyone to sleep and as such my friend and Beast ended up sharing a bed. Nothing wrong with that, they were all friends, however Beast has a girlfriend and was used to having a bedtime companion.

As the banter of the evening died down our two bed buddies dropped off into booze induced catatonia. That was until my friend was woken by something disturbing.

Beast was spooning him and not only that he was "poking" him in the back. Confused by sleep and alcohol my friend tried to shuffle out of the way only for the still sleeping Beast to tighten his grip and increase the pressure in his dry rutting.

"Piss off" muttered by eloquent friend.

"Shhh" replied Beast stretching out a hairy paw and stroking my friends face, "just take it!"

Needless to say my friend was out of bed in a shot and spent the rest on the night on the cold, but rape free floor.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:41, 1 reply)

shell suits - always a bad idea
I was at my then girlfirends house, indulging in her lady parts, when her mother knocked on the bedroom door for some pointless reason.
Being the ninja that I am, I immediately leapt silently from the bed, whipped my trousers from where they lay discarded and started putting them on by doing the 2-footed leap into them whilst simultaneously pulling them up trick.

Unfortunately the trousers were of the titular shell-suit variety (but I isn't a chav), and my un-socked feet were slightly clammy, preventing any kind of progess through the shiny material.

So instead of landing fully trousered to greet her mother at the door I landed face first behind the door with my trousers round my ankles and my willy out.

And yes she noticed, but did that mother thing of pretending nothing had happened. I think they do that to deepen your shame.

Shell suits are not for winners.
(Reverend Samson Fapohunda B3tan, B3tan, B3tan, B3tan, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:40, Reply)

Mother-in-Laws
My ex-mother-in-law used to work for a large transatlantic accountancy firm as the CEO's PA. She used to have to travel to the states on a regular basis and do a lot of meeting and greeting other heads of global corporations.

On one such occasion as she was being introduced to a very important client who had turned up unannounced, she suddenly became caught in two minds as how to greet said digitary who was notoriously bad tempered.


In the moment she couldn't decide if she should say "What an unexpected pleasure!" or "What a pleasant surprise!"

What she actually said was "What an unpleasant surprise!"

Cue general office corpsing and one very red face (his apparently)!!
( the idiot Did I say it was funny?, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:39, 2 replies)

Christ knows what he does to those Oompa Loompas......
A woman at my old work told me how she'd decided to take the day off work over the summer holidays to treat her two young girls by taking them out to see the Johnny Depp film that had just come out. She did this by bursting into their bedroom in the morning and shouting:

"WHO WANTS TO GO SEE WILLY WANKER?!"

She said she spent the first five minutes of the girls laughing at her by cringing and then the rest of the day as they still laughed at her wondering how a 7 and 9 year old already knew the word 'wanker'.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:39, 2 replies)

Cliche
There are a lot of oops-you're-fat-not-pregnant faux pas. I'm reading them thinking why would anyone say something so stupid unless they were sure?

Then I remembered my own cliched mistake at a family gathering.

It's my granddad's funeral and I'm chatting to his sister and her family which includes another woman and a bloke. The other woman is my granddad's sister's daughter.

"So you're my-granddad's-sister's-daughter's son then?"

Nope, it was her brother.

That is now, and forevermore, what I am remembered for by that side of the family.
( djtrialprice, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:35, Reply)

university breast and minge trauma!
wavy lines

time: december 1996
venue: then boyfriend oswald's student house
occasion: PARTY

i was wearing a very ill-advised boobtube that oswald had bought for me, which made me look like an overstuffed cottage loaf balanced on a pair of toothpicks, and no bra. this would never happen now, but back in 1996 there was a leetle bit less gravity involved!

so we'd all been drinking for quite a while, when one of my friends rang from the bus stop, saying she was lost. i borrowed the bloke's bomber jacket, ran out, retrieved her, wandered back. then spent the next couple of drinks in the garden, so the bomber jacket stayed on.

a bit later on, i went into the kitchen to get a drink. one of oswald's housemates was in there by herself. she was a really sweet girl, but her father was some sort of vicar, she was very very shy, and she found the whole student thing a bit daunting. i chatted to her for a bit, and then she said, "i saw you come in earlier, oswald bought you that top, didn't he?"

"nice, isn't it?" i said, unzipping the jacket with a flourish to show her. she went very quiet, and just stared at her drink. eventually it filtered through to my drunken brain that she wasn't exactly rushing to praise how nice i looked. i glanced down and, to my horror, the top had fallen down inside the bomber jacket at some point, and i had basically just flashed her.

if it had been one of my friends, they'd have pissed themselves at me, but this poor innocent girl looked as if i'd shot her...


more wavy lines

i love this story, if i can say it without sounding like a lesbian pervert, i wish i'd been there!!

when my friend sam was at uni, she spent the entire 4 year course trying to hook this guy in her class. eventually, after 4 years, she managed to pull him in the pub, and brought him home to her lair.

all her housemates were out, they were sitting alone in the lounge, having a civilised glass of wine, the lights were low, the candles were flickering, he had sat next to her on the same sofa, all the signs were very promising indeed.

then, just as she was wondering who would make the first move, the door flew open and her housemate abby ran in, drunk as a skunk, and wearing only a dressing gown.

"see my nunny! SEE MY NUNNNNNNY!!!!" she howled, lifting her dressing gown and flashing her minge at them both, before running up the stairs.

sam and the bloke just sat and stared at the space where abby had been for about 5 minutes with their mouths open. sam hadn't been expecting that. well, who would?

and after that, the mood well and truly shattered, he let himself out and went home.

as he later on turned out to be gay, however, there was no loss in the long term!


( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:30, 8 replies)

No me but my mum.
For some strange reason when we were having a conversation with my sister, she called her a twat.

My mum is 64 and doesn't swear AT ALL.

She cringed but we wet ourselves laughing.


We think she was aiming for twit but it came out wrong
( girlinthehole, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:29, 2 replies)

How do you spell cringeworthy?
A while back I was at my Granny's house over the christmas period along with my brother and his new girlfriend. We were a little bored so for some reason decided to play Scrabble. Now in my defence I'd only met my brother's new girlfriend once before and she was clearly thick to the point of mild retardation. To prove this, that first time we met she came to our house, decided to jump on my brother's bed like a five year old (she was 20 at the time) and on the third or fourth bounce went high enough to bang her head on the ceiling so sat down on the bed crying and sucking her thumb! So we're scrabbling away, it gets to her turn and she puts down her letters to spell SIEHLD.

"What's that meant to be?" I asked, sensing the opportunity for some mockery.
"Shield." She said. "You know, like a sword and shield." Like I was the retarded one.
I laughed at her stupidity. "What are you? Dyslexic?" I said.
"Yes." She calmly replied.

Arse.

As the shocked silence gathered I was so embarrassed I blurted out the first thing that came into my head.

"So....are you a member of the A.N.D.?"
"What's that?" She asked innocently.
"The National Dyslexic Association." I managed to squeak, genuinely wishing the ground would swallow me.

Such was the dyslexia that she thought about it for a second and then just said "No." while I continued to feel like the biggest bell end in the history of humanity.

Fuck.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:26, 3 replies)

At a wedding, just after the flower throwing...
everyone was making the "glad I didn't catch it"/"glad my girlfriend didn't catch it" joke.

Admitedly it isn't funny, so I don't know why I said to my friend "are you glad your girlfriend didn't catch the bouquet?"

And then I remembered...
he is getting married.
next.
to my ex.

I felt foolish.
(teebie jeebie, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:19, Reply)

Last week
while on the phone to my da he asked me my plans for the evening. I told him I had intended to go to my bloke's place but bloke was in a right grump so I wasn't going to bother. My father, who does not approve of my current bloke, responded with "yeah, fuck him".

We were both silent for slightly longer than was comfortable - him at his faux pas and me in thoughtful anticipation.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:19, 1 reply)