Just yesterday
my friends and I were walking through a shopping centre, chatting away, when suddenly we heard a wierd half scream-half squawking noise.

"What the hell is that?" I cried out, "Is that a child making that noise, or is someone stomping on a parakeet?"

It was at this point that the crowd in front of us parted, and we caught sight of the wheelchair-bound mentally ill person being pushed, still squawking, towards the exit by a couple of a very offended-looking carers.

"Oh," I said quietly, "Well, I feel very guilty now."

Whoops.
(Uncle Comrade, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 14:03, 1 reply)

Pulling...
.....up in the disabled parking space, all three of us jumped out of the car and headed to the spar.

Old lady appears from nowhere, red-faced and furious. 'Fit young lads like you parking in a disabled space, it's disgusting, you should be ashamed of yourselves..' and generally working herself up into a lather of self-righteous fury.

'Piss off' our driver replies.

Granny goes even more mental, threatening us with her walking stick.

Our driver sighs and pulls up both his trouser legs, revealing the metal cylinders of his artificial legs rising up from the urethane bumpers he calls ankles.

Old lady stops mid-rant.

I ask driver why he just didn't do that straight away instead of letting the old lady work herself up.

'I'm fed up with it. Stupid old biddies, that shit happens at least once a week.'

We walk on while I, not for the first time, try to work out how he can have no legs and yet still be 6inches taller than me.
(inflateable, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 14:02, 2 replies)

How not to chat up a girl
Once during my student days I met a girl at some party and got chatting, got to the stage of walking her home and being invited in...

I said 'nah sorry got stuff to do, see you round and have a nice life'

Ten years later and my wife still won't let me forget that line, but she is having a nice life.
(bluehamster, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 13:56, 1 reply)

Another musical friend of mine
whom we'll call Gordon, for the usual reason, is a master at putting his foot in it.

One night, at rather a posh function in Edinburgh, he was making polite small talk with some woman when a piper started playing. He was abysmal. Well played bagpipes are tolerable. Badly played bagpipes remind you that they are not really a musical instrument but in fact a weapon of war.

Anyway, Gordon turned to the woman, and apologised for missing what she'd just said to him because of this piper having started murdering a good tune. "Sorry", he said. "Could you repeat that please. I can't hear myself think for that piper. He must be the worst bloody piper I've heard in my life. Do you know who he is?"

"Yes" she replied. "He's my husband"
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 13:55, 2 replies)

Reminded by Rakky's post below
I was once playing in the band at a wedding of a girl who'd been married before, and indeed we'd played for both her first wedding and also her sister's.

So everything was going swimmingly, and the bride and her mother came up to us to thank us for making the reception such an enjoyable night.

"Oh, thanks", said my bandmate Iain. "We like to try to do a good job at weddings - after all, you only do it once in your life".

We derigged the gear quite efficiently that night and got out quickly.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 13:50, Reply)

My Best Friend's Wedding
Well, her second one to be precise. My wonderful best mate had a terrible time a few years back, when her wonderful first husband turned out to be a cunt of the highest order. After a messy and painful divorce, she met her current husband, a fantastic bloke and has now got an adorable two year old son.

But before he could become her second husband, there had to be a wedding. I was a bridesmaid at her first wedding. I’m still reliving the trauma of the dress she made me wear (that deserves its own story and will doubtless get it); this time around, as she now had four nieces, she decided that she would like them to be bridesmaids. However, I didn’t get away with things that easily, I was to be unofficial wedding bitch and music person. This involved going to the venue on the morning of the do and checking that everything was in order, setting up the ipod with the speakers at the hotel and cueing up the music for when she made her entrance.

It didn’t start well; her ipod packed in the night before the wedding so we had to hastily transfer the wedding music to mine and check that everything still worked okay. The day dawns and I run round to the hotel, check the balloons, decorations, flowers, place settings, special meals, timings of the toast, all the things that help the day go smoothly. I set up the music, escort the errant latecomers to the correct function suite then stand at the back waiting for the nod from the hotel manager.

As the bridal party arrives at the door, I have a momentary, bowel-loosening panic. What if I’ve cued up the wrong song? Suppose she walks down the aisle to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails? Suppose I’ve lined up a podcast by mistake. I check again, no, fine and hit play… And out comes the strains of the wedding march. I’ve done it. I got it right. I didn’t fuck up. Thank God…

So what was cringeworthy?

6 hours later, lubricated by a fair amount of cava and generally feeling relaxed, I was standing waiting to go into the dinner talking to her mum (very religious), grandmother (very religious), sister (terrifying), boss (also terrifying) and my mother (known for laughing at inappropriate moments). I was complemented on how well the organisation had gone in the morning and how hard I must have worked. I thought it would be cute and charmingly self deprecating to tell them about my panic about cueing up the music. As I’m telling them I’m thinking “can’t use Nine Inch Nails as a reference point, think more contemporary.”

So I finish with the line “So imagine the embarrassment if she walked down the aisle to… *thinks* ‘Ooops, I did it again…”

Silence. Silence as the group process the fact that I’ve drawn painful attention to the fact that this is her disapproved of second wedding. Silence only punctuated by the sound of my mother trying to cram her entire fist into her mouth to stop the laughter.

Fuckwit.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 13:36, 3 replies)

chrisdood's story
www.b3ta.com/questions/cringe/post315154

Reminds me of when I was at my first work's xmas party. I had just joined the company and the party was a fancy dress affair, where the theme was "fantasy" - you know, trolls, fairies, ogres, etc.

Me and my work colleagues (who were also new to the company) spent part of the evening openly pointing and laughing at the funny & hideous rubber troll mask some bloke was wearing.

In the upcoming months as I started to get to know more colleagues, I learned in fact it wasn't a mask at all - his face was genetically deformed.

Yes, he had been born that way.
( Dixipoos Bye Bye Blackbird, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 13:36, Reply)

Will telling you make it better?
Picture it; the late 70s, I was a young teen, CB radio was not yet legal to use but a friend of a friend had one. There'd be about 4 or 5 of us circling this thing as if we were planning the Italian Job and expecting the police to burst in any moment. Any road, being a shy, teenager I was reticent to have a go but happy just to watch and listen and maybe peek out from the curtains from time to time to make sure the sweeney weren't about to burst in and give us a good beating.
Until that fateful day.
We were on the channel where you hook up with people to talk, (was it 14? I seem to remember the phrase' one-four a copy') when up pops this higher than normal voice.
'It's a lass', says my mate in amazement, this was unheard of.
Suddenly I was brave and could talk, I wasn't good with girls but with her being out of sight, I'd suddenly got the confidence of an Ayia Napa holiday rep.
There were less of us than usual which helped me get my hands on the mic and i was straight in with the questions and cheesy chat up lines, i'd been talking for a couple of minutes when my mind starting coming back on line and i asked, 'how many candles you burning?'
'Eleven'
Fuckin' hell i'd been chatting someone up young enough to be my younger sister, at an age where a 3 year age gap was very significant.
'Well you're probably a bit young for me to take out.'
Shitty death! Did i just say that?
There was a silence at the end of the line.
My mate took the mic back and asked the question that any normal person would've.
'What's your handle good buddy?'
'Ballboy'
I had made a pass at an eleven year old lad, in the days when homosexuality would get you beaten up by your mates, strangers, the police, your parents, the local vicar, even the Prime Minister would've belted you one.
I went so red my face would've warned passing planes that there was a hazard, whilst my mates simply soiled themselves.

Post script: if ever i meet the chap i did this to, i'd like to buy him a pint to say sorry. I only hope that i haven't damaged this chap in anyway and maybe started him on a life of taking it up 'the wrong un'.
(Discreditor wants the dream to come true, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 13:31, 3 replies)

pearoast
Painful, just painful

The only prick in the vill-age.

Back in the early nineties I moved from the city to a fairly crappy rural location. The local pub was a deliberately quaint affair with a few loyal regulars who had probably been there since the days when it was still a proper village pub. My girlfriend was away overnight 'on business' and I couldn't be arsed cooking for one, so duly headed off to said local for some pub grub. They did a decent steak so I decided a bottle of red was a good idea. The locals, who I knew only vaguely, had already on previous visits decided I was a 'yuppie incomer' for the following reasons.

1. I worked as a graphic designer
2. We owned two cars and commuted to 'the city'
3. My girlfriend was not a blood relative

...and crucially I had a HUGE twunty mobile phone, this was back in the day when they were a distinct novelty. So after my meal I got chatting, started necking double brandies (yup! ...prick) ostentatiously buying rounds and generally playing up to the 'townie arsehole/yuppie' image they had of me. I then proceeded to get massively pissed, bragging about my 'highflying' career (at that time shit job in a shit company) talking utter pish and generally being a right tit. Sadly - I do NOT suffer from alcohol induced memory loss. So the two most outstanding perfectly clear memories I have are: having a loud 'conversation' on my 'fancy yuppie phone' with, brilliantly, no one on the other end. Also - lurching out of the gents, where I had thoughtfully pebbledashed the only cubicle with a foul cocktail of (very rare) steak, red wine, and multiple brandy vomit, safe in the belief that 'someone else' would get the blame - who 'someone else' was in a pub with 3 locals quietly sipping pints and marveling at the eye wateringly staggering level of irksome cuntage that was moving into their little village, is still a mystery to this very day.

Genius
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 13:26, Reply)

Cannot be embarrassed
A couple of years ago I was invited to a house party at the house of a boyfriend. When I say house, we are talking about a 5 story house with around 5 tenants to each floor, which made for quite a busy party. They had tables and benches set up in the ground floor and guests were invited from the neighbourhood.

The party was excellent and started winding down at about 5am - leaving me and the boyfriend in the basement, surrounded by full ashtrays, empty bottles, abandoned meals, etc.

We were about to go upstairs to bed when I had the sudden urge to take all my clothes off and stand on one of the tables, grabbing my boyfriend's head and guiding it to the required body part. He was in the middle of sucking me when he suddenly said, "shit - I need to go and let the cat in (???) - be back in a minute", leaving me alone there.

Now I could have jumped back down and waited for him to come back, but I stood there starkers, straddling 2 tables with a gently-bouncing hard on eagerly awaiting his return, excited by the thought of being naked in this very public place that had been only half an hour ago full of party revellers.

The door opened and in he came.

Except, it wasn't him.

Another house tenant had come into the room looking for something. He spotted me in the middle of the room and stood absolutely still. He looked at my cock, then my face and simply said "good night", before closing the door behind him.

RE: the subject of this post. I had believed for a while that I couldn't be shamed. I had done so many dodgy things and been in so many situations that it was no longer possible for me to get embarrassed.

I was so, so wrong.
( Dixipoos Bye Bye Blackbird, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 13:23, Reply)

"I'm pretty sure you got the address wrong"
"Stop saying that. It'll be fine."


(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 12:50, 1 reply)

Double cringe
My mate Stacy (who is also going to be my best woman at my wedding - tradition can fuck right off in my book) is a lovely lady. She has cerebal palsy, but fortunately it only affects her ability to walk - which she can do, but sometimes with difficulty.

A good few years ago now, Tourette's and I travelled to hers for a barbeque. It was the first time we'd met her now-husband, and many of her friends were there, none of whom I'd met before.

As the day wore on, one of her friends asked Stacy something. Stacy gave her an answer, but she didn't catch the reply and asked her what she said. Again, Stacy replied, and again, her friend didn't catch the response.

"I said 'x' you silly cow; what are you, deaf?", laughing as she replied.

"Erm, yeah", replied her mate, indicating the hearing aid.

"Oh fuck, I forgot".

Not long after, same friend asked where the bottle opener was, and again, Stacy responded by pointing out it was on the table.

"Where on the table?" asked her friend.

"Oh for Christ's sake", Stacy laughed, "are you blind as well as deaf?"

Heartbeat pause. Realisation dawns quickly.

"Shit, I forgot. You've got a false eye as well, haven't you"?

Happy days.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Sun 30 Nov 2008, 12:34, 3 replies)

whilst driving to uni last year
my friend sarah decided to comment on the passing semi-famous landmark the Milperra Palms (where apparently a large bikie-gang massacre happened in the 80's)

'That's the Milperra Palms. they have topless tuesdays from 5-8pm. and lingerie waitresses'

they do, but that did'nt make the trip home any less awkard for sarah and her elderly, conservative grandather who was her driving companion that day.
(charlottebronte stalking through the moors, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 10:42, Reply)

Hi There!
My Wifes Family are really weird...

Now as a young man, it was taken as an inviolate rule that the only people allowed to shag in my Dad's house were my Mam and Dad.

My Parents aren't religious, it's just that my Dad liked spoiling stuff for me.

My GF (now Wife)'s family were a lot more understanding, in that we could do whatever we liked, as long as Mammo and Daddo (Grandparents) never found out.

As we were Welsh, and living in a village, people walked in and out of people's houses continuously. Something I never got the hang of (I was a 'townie' from 'that Swansea' and didn't understand they ways of honest, simple country folk)

So one Saturday I am in bed with my 18yo GF, when we hear "don't go in Jacqui's room, she's not up yet", then with a bit of panic "Micmac is there, don't do in", the door opens and I dive under the covers, hiding like a 4 year old.

Moments pass, then the covers are drawn back.

I look up at the frankly flabbergasted face of Mammo, and I say the first thing that comes into my head...Hi There! (like the start of Big Time by Peter Gabriel, fake US accent and everything).

"What you doing under there Micmac?" "errr....things?"

Mammo went home, and it was never spoken of again.
(micmac is happy as a pig in shite, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 8:01, 1 reply)

Another one!
In quick succession, one which must be told, pretty safely since nobody I know will read this.
Just today I partially shat myself on the bus. I'm currently working in retail and was riding with my co-worker on the bus after work to our respective destinations when poor flu having me is motivated to cough ferociously. The extreme motion of my diaphragm and whatever other muscles are involved in coughing also seem to have forced out a small though worrisome mass of poo into my boxers. Sadly, I being sick; have no sense of smell, I did not notice any offensive odours but they must have been present since they certainly were once I got home and into the shower. What a day...
(The Bloody Awful Warsaw Concerto, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 4:24, 1 reply)

Public Wanking
For those unfamiliar with Vancouver BC, Bentall place is a shopping mall under a large office tower development in the downtown area. The lady I love and I had just finished a day of window shopping with a nice coffee when I had the urge to visit the bathroom of said mall. I entered the can and proceeded to a urinal one space to the left of the nearest occupied one, as one does, when I noticed the gentle back and forth motion of my neighbour's left arm in the corner of my eye. He kept up the tempo for the whole length of time I was in the room, the pissing as well as the minute I took to thoroughly wash my hands, his breathing getting noticeably heavier. I left before he hit the inevitable finishing move, fortunately, but I was shaken nonetheless since the whole time I stood at my insufficiently private urinal he was staring at me; that steady back and forth back and forth in his crotchal zone. *cringe*
(The Bloody Awful Warsaw Concerto, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 3:27, 1 reply)

Just say no
Not that I don't still paint myself into myriad cringe-inducing situations nowadays, but I think it's fair to say that the vast majority of my cringeworthy/degrading/humiliating activity took place between about 2003 and 2006 whilst in the grip of class-A and alcohol addiction.

And, of course, not at the time, but either when my memory came back to me some hours/days later, or when some helpful person (usually the friendly bar staff at any one of my 'locals') took great delight in relating the previous evening to me.

Highlights include:

-Throwing up down the front of my top whilst sitting at the bar. Wiped mouth, looked around. It was dark. Guy I was having interesting conversation with didn't seem to have noticed. Fuck it, thought I. Stayed put. Ordered another drink, forgot all about it and then stood up...

-Attending a work's do and deciding to handcuff both myself and the (frankly disgusting and 20-years-my-senior) colleague I had an obvious and unrequited crush on to the bar. Attempted intoxicated search for keys. Colleague not impressed when keys not found for a good hour and a half. (In my defence, the party was fancy dress...I didn't carry handcuffs as a general rule. Honest).

-During another work's do, sidled up to Ops Manager and Technical Director having decided that my coke-fuelled rendition of 'Eric the half-a-bee' would go down a storm. It did not.

-Having somehow mislaid a 200 quid bag of the aforementioned in my local, searched the place from top to bottom (apparently strangers were asked to get up from the couches so I could feel down the backs of them). Barman told me the next day that eventually I strode up to the bar, leaned across it, and with a very serious look on my face asked: "Have you seen my big bag of coke?" Somehow, was not barred. Probably due to the sheer amount of money I was putting over the bar every week.

-Attempting to sleep in the middle of the road in Blackburn town centre. At 4pm. (though, if you've ever been there, not a good idea at any time, really).

-Managing to be both intoxicated and hungover (not an uncommon state) when a big-deal manager from a very well known mobile phone company called me to query various ridiculous details about a software fix, which I provided a semi-coherent answer. Unfortunately, immediately and inexplicably found the whole conversation hilarious and eloquently informed him that 'You know what? That's probably a load of old bollocks, mate!' ...Silence. Looked up to find my assistant staring across the room at me with utter horror etched across her face. Dropped phone.

And yet somehow, I have never been fired from a job, arrested or kicked out of a bar.

If you think I was probably a grade-A cunt at the time, you're probably right.

As of today, I am 2 years clean and sober. I might still be a cunt but at least I won't throw up on your shoes.
(Samara Morgan is a small blue thing, like a marble or an eye, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 1:39, 8 replies)

Why are you all looking at me funny?
A few years ago, I was round a friends house, having a few drinks and watching telly. We had a music channel on and an artist appeared who I was not too fond of.

"I hope he dies of cancer!", I exclaimed.

Little did I know, my friends dad had recently passed away from... got it in one... cancer.

Seeing as how I didn't know, this obviously wasn't cringe worthy for me but I don't want to know what the people around me were thinking when I was just sitting there with a smirk on my face.

To her fairness she didn't mention it and I didn't know until a couple of months later when my other mate brought it up. To say I wanted to die was an understatement. I was in a metaphorical limbo, it was too late to say anything but I couldn't believe at what I'd said.

Length? Shorter after a swift bout of cock cancer.
(Martin1337 was trying and failing to be funny at, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 1:30, 2 replies)

It was late July, or possibly early August
I stared out of the window. I felt slightly sick.

The rain was falling harder than I can remember for this time of year. It hit the street and bounced back, droplets of water appearing like thousands of diamonds in the bright morning sun light which blazed through the breaks in the cloud.

The bedroom door slammed open, plaster dust bursting into the quiet air of my apartment as the chrome handle hit the wall. A dull thud reverberated as her bags hit the floor. I could hear the crunch of her heels, destroying the sanded floorboards I had spent so many hours preparing as she raced back into the bedroom to get more stuff.

I stared out of the window. I felt her pain.

I heard the latch on the main door click as she struggled to open it. I had never bothered to replace it in the three years we had been here. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway as she carried her bags to the taxi.

I stared out of the window. I felt a slight pang in my stomach for a love long since gone.

“You fucker!” She stood at the door, her sports bag in one hand, a pair of black stilettos in the other. I glanced at her and turned back to the window. The heel of her left shoe caught my cheek, I felt the skin tear as it bounced of the window, leaving a crack from the top right corner to halfway across the panel. The shoe must have caught my whiskey glass as it ricocheted off the window.

I stared out of the window. I felt a stinging from my cheek as the blood dripped slowly onto my shirt.

I looked to my left to see the remains of my glass lying on the floor and the 12 year old malt soaking into my carpet. Jagged shards of glass glistened in the harsh light.

I thought back to yesterday night. She was sitting at the bar when I came in. I ordered my usual beer and a manhattan for her. She drank it quickly while I sipped my drink and starred at the bottles reflected in the mirror. We made the usual small talk while she drank a second cocktail. When she turned to me I realised she must have been there all night. Her breath stank of vodka and her words were slurring.

I took her back to my room and lay her down on the bed. I guessed she would pass out until morning, but tonight she must have eaten or something as she reached out and grabbed my belt before I could leave her.

Her fingers fumbled at the buckle, I was surprised, she was never usually like this, she was normally snoring before I turned to pull the blinds. I stood there as she unzipped my fly, tugging on my boxer shorts.

I could feel her tongue flicking urgently at my glans. My breathing quickened as I swelled in her mouth, I still didn’t move. I couldn’t decide if this was taking advantage or not. By this time I was fully erect and she was slurping and sucking like a child on an ice cream. I couldn't hold off and erupted over her cheeks and chin.

The bedroom door swung open and Claire stood there open mouthed. “You fucker.” She turned and walked away.

I stared out of the window. I didn’t move.

Her mother, apparently sated, rolled over and slipped into unconsciousness.

I guess she must have still been there as Claire packed and left, I never saw her leave. I had been sitting at the dining table drinking whiskey ever since it happened.

I cringed slightly inside as the memories returned.

I stood up, walked to cupboard, retrieved a new glass and poured myself another large measure of whiskey.

I stared out of the window. I felt nothing.
(Bazongaloid, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 1:20, 12 replies)

Bloody cars
There's probably more, but have this short one for now.

A few years ago, I was coming home from work after a nightshift in Leeds, and as I left the M62 for the A1, and came down the sliproad, my mind was elsewhere.

Imagine my suprise when I realised that there was a queue at the traffic lights. I hammered on the anchors, and managed to stop at an almost 90 degree angle to the rest of the traffic. I then had to spend the next 30 seconds, unable to move - lights are on red - while everybody else has a good tut-and-shake-of-the-head at the knobhead in the Corsa, who can now look left and see the people in the car that should be behind.

Sheepish doesn't even begin to describe it.
( Biscuitzs -.. . -- ----- ...- -.- --. -.-, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 1:12, 1 reply)

Oh...and
Not normally a lover of work socialising, on the two occaisions that I did....wrong.

Halloween Party - thought it would be fun to go the fancy dress party as a dominatrix. PVC, Spike coller...you get the drift. He was a totally willing participant, one of my Boss's, to be handcuffed to the doors and whipped. Didnt know it at the time but he as secretly seeing one of my colleagues. I do cringe when I look back at that. Im sure I wasn't at my slimmest.

Christmas do - long term casual squeeze decided to be a dick. So what do I do to handle it, I go and push the bendy bird over that he's getting jiggy with. What a dick I was more like.

Thats the thing, I have so many cringey moments in my life, but the trick is to carry them all out away from people who actually know you. Then it can just be notched up to random tapestry that one can enjoy in the life. And not actually classed as cringey. Theres no shame when others dont know ;)
(Oops....did I say that out loud cos I really bloody want to., Sun 30 Nov 2008, 1:06, Reply)

Fun House...
I am currently sporting a full on Pat Sharpe mullet after the hairdresser misunderstood what I mean by 'a bit of a fringe'. Makes it worse that I'm a girl....*tears*
(Strangemiester, Sun 30 Nov 2008, 1:03, 3 replies)

A morning lift
Within reason, I'll generally use the stairs in preference to taking the lift.

That said, I used to work on the 6th floor so I reckoned it was OK to use the lift to go up.

Anyhoo, one morning, I get in the lift at the ground floor and am joined by another person - who presses the button for the 1st floor.

"That's a bit lazy, isn't it?" I half jokingly ask.

"Not really - I've got an artificial leg" they replied as the doors shut.



Length? About 15 seconds.
(fatboybubba, Sat 29 Nov 2008, 23:29, 3 replies)

Not mine, but MrCat's
At the tender age of 17, my fella had not one, but two cringeworthy encounters with Tim Wheeler, lead singer of Ash. The first directly led to the second, but I'm getting ahead of myself...

*wavy lines*

Having 2 friends whose 18th birthdays were within 2 days of each other, being a poorly paid, below minimum wage earning waiter, expensive presents were off the agenda. Thinking that the hand/homemade present was the way forward, with a little ingenuity (he thought) they would both receive presents to treasure for the forseeable future.

1) The first friend was to receive a scrapbook filled to bursting with trivia and clippings on his favourite bands, one of whom was the aforementioned Irish indie-poppers. The second friend was to receive a present that was more ingenious, but to those not in the know, perhaps slightly sinister. Ash were also her favourite band. He made her her very own Tim Wheeler doll.

A couple of days before the first birthday he found out that Ash were to be doing a signing in Liverpool, and the thought of signed presents was just too much to resist. So off he goes to Liverpool, scrapbook and doll in hand. Can you see where this is going?

He makes it to the signing table, having kept the gifts secret from the accompanying recipients-to-be, and suddenly thinks (slightly too late, some may say) about how presenting a singer with a doll of himself to sign may look. The outcome? One lanky, cringing youth, one slightly scared Tim Wheeler, and eventually, one signed doll.
But, he thinks, at least he'll never come face to face again.....

2) Three short months later, Leeds Festival. My fella finds himself once more in a queue to get something signed by Ash. "He'll never remember me" he thinks.

Wrong!

Steps up to the table, hands over the album to be signed. Guy looks at MrCat. Then at the album. Then up again.
Hang on, you're the guy with the doll....

*ground, open up...*

P.S. This was still not the last encounter between these two, there was almost an episode whilst getting drinks in a bar, but thinking of the potential restraining order, he wisely decided to walk away.
(TinyCat, Sat 29 Nov 2008, 23:18, 2 replies)

Whoa!
The fat bastard story below reminded me of this one.

A couple of Christmases ago I was having a drink in my local with a fellow B3tard, i, anglepoise, when we noticed a fat couple sitting across the room from us. When I say fat, they were occupying a bench designed for four and had managed to fill it all. What we didn't know was that they had Bat genes and could hear a pin drop in crowded room.

The fatties collared a passer-by and asked them to take a photo of them.

"I hope it's a wide-angled lens" cracked i anglepoise, sotto-voice

"I fucking heard that" screeched the female fatty.

To be fair, anglepoise did some of the best back-peddling I've ever seen...

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sat 29 Nov 2008, 23:16, 2 replies)

It's A Genetic Thing
.
I suffer from a rare genetic condition called Footinmouthitis. Basically, it's an inherited condition where I unconsciously blurt out whatever is the most inappropriate for the situation. Here's two examples.

I used to employ a disabled guy, Bob, as a programmer. He was a cracking bloke and had lost the use of his arm when he was blown off his motorbike during the London hurricane of '87. He hit a telegraph pole and the nerves in his arm were destroyed so he just had this withered limb which he used to tuck into his pocket.

So we were working away one day when the phone rang and it was one of my biggest customers, who I knew quite well, asking for an immediate change to a DNS server.

"Give me a break" I said to the customer "There's only two of us here and I'm as busy as a one-armed paper-hanger"

And breathe.....

Another occasion was when I was working in a Government agency with two middle-eastern gentlemen and a mad Scotsman. I'd just come into work and was looking for a floppy disk that I'd left on my desk on Friday. I searched and searched but couldn't find it.

"OK" I said "Which thieving Arab has nicked my floppy disk?"


Nearly did the walk of shame for that one.....

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sat 29 Nov 2008, 23:02, Reply)

fluffy and pink
Not too long ago I was in the habit of getting shit-faced every night. I ended up drinking with a diverse selection of people.
One night, after a massive amount of booze, I ended up going home with a woman in her early 40s (not that bad as i'm very late 30s myself).
To be honest she looked fucking stunning (even sober), and I couldn't believe my luck.
Anyway, after a night of very energetic and violent shagging (bite me! no, really fucking bite me! hit me, no give me fucking bruises!) i woke up dying for a slash and to get out of the place.
As it was a bit cold, as most of my clothes had been left downstairs, I borrowed her dressing gown while I went and retrieved my clobber.

So, imagine the scene: a 6'5" 18 stone lump in nothing but a fluffy pink dressing gown with a panda on the pocket.

I still cringe now everytime I see her 25 year old son (a former drinking buddy) because of what he said that morning.

As I bent over to get my kecks from behind the telly: "Coob, I can see your balls".
(coobeastie Used to Be in Evil Gazebo, Sat 29 Nov 2008, 22:37, 3 replies)

I once made the mistake
of telling the barber that I didn't know what haircut to have, so he could do what he liked.

Bastard gave me a flat-top.

As I walked home my shadow looked like I had a square head. Thankfully I got home before many people saw me, and shaved it off.
(teasus likes tea, Sat 29 Nov 2008, 21:44, 4 replies)

The Hugh Grant/Divine Brown joke
The full story of the Hugh Grant/Divine Brown joke…

Okay, the joke first -

Hugh Grant has just picked up Ms Brown in his car in downtown LA (coincidently just around the time his latest film, Nine Months in which he played a father who went to jail…I believe - the film bombed, despite all the free publicity).
She's about to get down to business when Grant, being the perfect Englishman tells her she's beautiful and adds, "Are you part Native American Indian, Navaho perhaps?"
Divine in typical American deadpan style replies, "Navaho? No suh. I's a New York Ho."

Not a side-splitting belly laugh but at the time it raised a smirk.


So there am I all those years back (I think it was around ten or eleven years ago) and I was attempting to impress then husband and my dad with my joke telling prowess.

And in my opinion any story is always better told with the aid of actions and some embellishment - in other words if my joke was the family dog I would be dressing it up in full evening dress and parading it down the High Street.

Hugh Grant's lines were told with the added accompaniment of a stuttering toff accent, blinking and flicking of imaginary floppy fringe.

My audience were nodding with recognition of my Hugh Grant impression - all well and good. This was clearly going down well….as it were…ahem...

And then I launched into my impression of Divine Brown.

As a streetwise prostitute from the USA clearly I'd need to do the broad New York accent (never mind that she was in LA - a minor detail) and my entire experience of Yankee Hoes (of the lady type rather than the garden variety) was from Starsky and Hutch or Hill Street Blues. Therefore in my head she would wear a mini skirt, tight tee-shirt, platform shoes and chew gum. So I began….

*Lip smacking* "Navaho?" *Chew, lip smack*, "No suh." *Chew, chew, lip smack, chew*, "I's a New York Ho." *Chew, lip smack, chew*

My audience were crying with laughter. Fantastic! Brilliant! My joke is a success!

And at that moment I caught my dad's eye and realised….


The joke isn't that funny.


Unless you make out that Divine Brown is actually giving Hugh Grant a blow job as she's answering.


And then you tell that joke to your dad.



Your dad.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Sat 29 Nov 2008, 21:39, Reply)