Getting pissed on my own..
..and posting weirdness on the qotw boards. It's got to stop.. can't I just insult people on youtube or something like everyone else?
(lost, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 18:47, 3 replies)

Oh well, they can be used for rags still...
House party

Mid 90s.

Old friends getting together, getting very drunk.

As the night goes on, I find myself sitting next to a long standing female friend, squashed against the end of the sofa because four people are trying to sit on a sofa made for three.

She snuggles up to me and I put my arm round her, nothing flirty, we’ve always been a touchy feely bunch, so it wasn’t odd in any way.

My arm is over her shoulders, more drinks are consumed and I realise that the other two people have got up, so she could move down, but she hasn’t.

People start to go to bed, we’ve all got our designated sleeping places, and our rooms are next to each other.

Eventually we are the last two people up and the inevitable happens. We kiss, we fumble, and we end up in my bed making passionate, violent, beautiful love.

Or more accurately, I expect, we have an inept drunken fuck.

Then we talk and decide that it would probably be better all round if we didn’t tell anyone, as she was, admittedly not happily, involved with someone else, so she snuck off back to her room and I fell fast asleep.

Later, I hear people knocking about outside, so I wake, bleary eyed and stumble into the midday sun to a room of hungover people.

I help myself to coffee, settle down to watch ‘Football Focus’ or whatever it was on at midday on a Saturday.

Then the door flies open, and in storms the girl whose house we were staying in, waving a bed sheet in front of her and yelling
‘Scarpe, what the fucking hell did you do this bed?’

As she hurls the sheet in my direction and I look at it to see a huge, browny red stain right across the middle of it.

I look up and see that my nights fun is studiously looking anywhere that doesn’t involve making eye contact with me.
And I realise that the claim ‘Oh, shit, I must have had a nosebleed or something’ doesn’t really convince anyone when you can’t just say ‘Christ, she didn’t tell me she had her period’.

To this day, I still have no idea what these people think happened. It’s one of those things that we just don’t talk about.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 18:10, 1 reply)

Mental images
I suffer from "mental image syndrome" and frequently have to suppress laughter when someone says something and I get a literal mental image - such as when a mate was chatting up a rather pleasant looking dark skinned lady in a bar and later told me he was "in there with the black bird" (think about it ...)
This same mate, knowing of my condition, used to wind me up by suddenly coming out with "What ever you do, don't imagine ..." and adding something ridiculous or sexual or both, knowing that the thought would be stuck in my mind for ages.

Anyway, we were both at a party at the house of one of his ex-girlfriends (let's call her Stacey) and he'd spent all day going on about how he thought her parents were a bit on the pervy side as well as winding me up in general.

In the middle of the party he was doing his usual "whatever you do" malarkey and, being slightly pissed and fed up, I suddenly blurted out "Yeah, well whatever YOU do, don't imagine Stacey's mum shagging her dad up the arse with a strap on".

Naturally this happened during a sudden drop in the level of background noise in the room, creating a rather awkward silence ... thankfully the afore-mentioned mum and dad were in a different room at the time.
(Terrible Tiger, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 18:07, 2 replies)

I am distinctly average at pool

and often get stage fright where the pressure can be too much and I fluff the shot.

This is often worse when trying to pot the ball, so much so that I recently missed a sitter and loudly proclaimed, "I fucking hate the blacks!"

The baggy trousered, cap wearing , blinged up wannabe gangsters at the next table were not amused.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 17:47, 5 replies)

God, the floodgates are opening.
Coming down the stairs, 12 0r 13, in baggy school trousers, in that "special" state of pre brekkie arousal.
My mum notices, and asks me "Are your underpants giving you enough support?"
AHHHHHHHHHHH. In front of my sister.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Mon 1 Dec 2008, 17:45, 2 replies)

Hearing the phrase,"....started in America..."
and realising that none of them have a clue how to deal with it.
(SSSSS, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 17:42, Reply)

Hmm, odd how loads of these involve alcohol...
Asking a security guard a question, calling him "Mate", then noticing the norks. A VERY VERY butch lesbian. That was actually done sober.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Mon 1 Dec 2008, 17:32, Reply)

Oh and another time
I thought it would be a jolly wheeze to pose for a photo with a replica assault rifle whilst clad all in black, looking like a member of Al-Qaeda. Sometimes I'm just full of good ideas.
(RVD420 has his world coming down on, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 17:31, Reply)

The mad woman's son
My school had a tradition of staging a mock general election whenever there happened to be a real one going on. Each major political party was represented by a candidate, normally a Sixth Former. In addition, there were a few made up parties: "The Ban Maths Coalition", "More Geography Field Trips Alliance", "Emo Suicide Cult", that type of thing.

We had various debates and special assemblies for a week or two all culminating in the big vote on Election Day.

The "Monster Raving Looney" candidate was also the school goth/metal/hippy type. He had very long hair and dressed in black, I think his dad was a vicar. He also happened to sometimes get the same bus as me.

On the bus one afternoon, he was on there and I was nearer the back of the bus sitting next to my mother, for some reason she had had to get that bus that day. I pointed him out to her and told her "That's the Monster Raving Looney candidate in the election".

We all got off at the same stop and my mother called out to him. He said "hello". She then verbally laid into him saying things like "What you people are doing is stupid", "Don't you care about the economy?", "Are you mad?", etc, etc with me cowering in the background.

She'd thought I meant that he was the candidate in the real election (as if that makes a difference).

Next day at school in the corridor, I heard him telling his mates about this "mad woman" then as I walked past he exclaimed "That's her son! That's the mad woman's son!".
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 17:30, Reply)

At the doctor's the other day
Walked into the waiting room, where an adorable little child was waiting with her mother, amongst the usual collection of old biddies etc. She jumped up and began bossing me around in that way that small children do, shouting "Come in, sit down!" Wanting to humour her, I went to say, "Thank you, where should I sit?" but of course I mumbled and said "Where should I shit?" to the five year old. As every pair of eyes swivelled to stare at me, I slunk off to the corner and hid behind the Camden New Journal.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 16:59, Reply)

Drink & Religion
Christmas Eve many many years ago.. Tradition dictated that we all would go up to the pub and sing 12 Days of Christmas with revised lyrics. cannot recall them all, but they were pretty lurid (five licking lesbians being one).

The object of the idea was for those who wanted to would leave the pub and head towards the church in time for the midnight service. As usual we were too late to be let in, but undeterred, I decided that it would be a fine plan to wander through the churchyard and tap on the windows of the tiny Saxon church so that I could wave at my mates who had made it inside. Even now, so 14 years later, I am squirming. Eventually I tired of this game and retired to my mother's Volvo (she was in the church and had steadfastly refused to turn around to see who had been tapping on the window - I can only suppose that she may have guessed). It was not long before I felt the need to empty my stomach, no problem - except that the church is now kicking out and there is a gathering throng... ah quelle faux pas. Climb back in to car and pretend nothing has happened. Joined by mother sisters and grandmother. Set off for home - motion causes further need to empty guts. Only one thing for it - wind down window and let rip down side of the car. All the while thinking that I am being hyper-smooth about the whole thing and that nobody could possibly have noticed. ….

December 25th 1994 7.15am – Me trying to clean dried vomit of my poor mum’s Volvo, ably assisted by the dog snacking on the lumpy bits.

My late mother never said a word
(conanow, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 16:54, Reply)

Pirates
A friend of mine, Ian, has a young son. Aged about 4 at the time, he was fascinated by pirates. Everything he thought or said was pirate-related.

He and his wife took the wee boy to a hotel on holiday that summer. At breakfast one morning, the kid piped up, "Daddy! Look - a pirate!"

"What's that son?, Ian said, hamming it up, "A REAL, LIVE PIRATE?"

Whereupon he turned round, following the gaze of his wife, who was rapidly reddening and about to burst trying to contain her laughter, to see behind him at the next table a rather indignant man with an eye patch.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 16:48, 1 reply)

Thank God it wasn't my Mum...
Once upon a time, an (almost) innocent 15-year-old Mole was cycling home from school when something caught his eye. It couldn't be... not in a bush... but that's such a cliche! Everybody knows that doesn't happen in real life!

Yup, it was a fully formed grot-mag, just sitting there in the branches, all inviting. I popped it in my bag (hidden between textbooks) and cycled home somewhat faster than usual.

When I finally opened it, heart beating so hard for fear of being caught I thought it might explode, I couldn't believe my luck. It was completely unsullied! No pages stuck together, no suspect stains, no missing pages, nothing. Absolutely brilliant. To this day, I cannot quite figure out why someone would seemingly buy some porn, take it out for a fifteen minute stroll, and then leave it sitting there for some plucky young thing to take away. Whoever it was, I thank them.

Of course, I boasted about it to my friends like nobody's business. They would come round specifically to look at it. I would even sell them their favourite pages (aren't teenage boys hillarious?) - except for Claire. I loved Claire. Still do, in a little way.

Anyway, around this time there was a guy, J, who really annoyed me, but I didn't have it in me to tell him. So he thought we were friends. He had an infuriating habit of coming round to my house uninvited EVERY SODDING AFTERNOON to play on my computer. So there we are in the front room, J on the computer, me doing my homework, nobody else home, when he asks to see the mag. Sure, why not? After a while of cheerfully perusing lady-bits, he returns to the games, and I to my work.

A little later, nature calls. Being a cautious Mole, I say "if you see my Mum pulling up outside, hide the mag back in my room".

I attend to my lavatorial needs.

Upon exit, mother dearest is in the kitchen. She's not upset or angry, so clearly J has done what I asked.

Several hours later, J gone, dinner eaten, my sister and I are watching television in the living room, when in walks my Dad.

"Harry, I've got something you really want to see..."
"Really, what?"
"Just come and see."

Intrigued, but slightly annoyed at my programme being interrupted, I got up to follow him, as did my sister.

"No, not you Molette."
"But I want to see!"
"No, you don't."

So Molette sits back down, and I follow my Dad into the front room. He turns to me and, with a slight glint in his eye and the stirings of a smirk on the corner of his mouth, says "Pick up that cushion" and leaves the room.

Perplexed now, I lift the cushion...

COME OVER MY LOVELY TITS!!! stares back at me.

Yup, J had simply shoved it under a cushion - the first cushion anyone would move if they wanted to sit down - and then not told me. Dad had gone in to read a book, and had something of a surprise waiting for him.

Smuggling it back upstairs with my Mum on the landing wasn't much fun either. Nor were my sister's enquiries as to what the mystery was (my face nearly combusted from blushing).

Still, I'm bloody glad it was my Dad. My Mum got upset when, a couple of years later, she realised I had a couple of copies of FHM (I'm sorry, I'm sorry - I was 18, ok?) - and it was up to my other sister to reassure her it wasn't really pornography...

Apologies for length. I'll go lurk again now.

*Lurks*
(HarryTheMole whatever's on my finger is going in your mouth, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 16:45, 4 replies)

The Toilet
A large group of us were staying at the Adelphi hotel in liverpool. I was having a drink in the pub (attached to the side of the hotel if I remember correctly) whilst waiting for everyone to arive so we could be on our way out for a pub crawl.
A few people I didn't know were also present so I get introduced and various conversation start up. I go to shake hands with a new fella when he promptly knocks his fresh pint all over my jeans.
Not a problem, off I trot to my room for I have brought additional jeans.

On the way up, and after having had a few pints I decided a nice shite would be in order to gain an extra bit of space for the nights drinking.

Our room is at the end of a corridor (think the coridor in Ghostbusters when Bill Murray gets slimed by slimer) and our toilet is opposite the main door.
Being in the room myself I didn't close the bathroom door. I was hunched over in mid-wipe when the main door all of a sudden opened, no warning, no knock nothing.
It was housekeeping to come and drop off some extra pillows my wife had requested at reception.

I was in mid-wipe pose exposed to the entire corridor.

I wouldn't have minded, but the woman just looked right at my cock, nothing else and just froze.
Whilst I have a load of shit on the end of toilet paper.

I still try to blank out the people looking down the corridor at me, it felt like an entire minute before she reacted and closed the door, probably just 5 seconds.
(Opanoid Look sweats dripping off them, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 16:39, 4 replies)

Bottle "accommodation"
During my college days and at a college bash my rather drunken mate is chatting to a girl he's fancied for months.

All is going well, he likes her and she likes him.

Their conversation moves onto what each of them is drinking, she's drinking a bottle of Hooch which she proudly says she can "down in one" to which my mate replies: "yeah and I bet you could take the fat end first!"...

I do the gentlemanly thing and cringe on his behalf and wait till she's far enough away before I pretty much fall to the floor laughing uncontrollably.

Not suprisingly she never speaks to him again and my mate was gutted.
(Bad_Dogg, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 16:24, Reply)

have it off
So im trying to sit through a meal with the (now ex-girlfiend, though not for this reason) folks, mum dad and grandmother without swearing like a navvy and other such “good impression things”. Now we were living in a freezing cold rural cottage talk of keeping warm in winter came up a lot.

Dad “oh we had cavity wall insulation and the loft insulated keeps so much heat in, we don’t need to have the radiators on at all”

Me “wow you have it off every night?”

no one even laughs.... they think im being a smartass.
(jordanchaos isn’t just any PeaRoast, this is a M&S PeaRoast, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 16:15, Reply)

Oh, and another time...
...I "wrote" a song for a girl I really fancied which I played to her on my guitar. Cringing at my desk now as I type. What the hell was I thinking?!
(RVD420 has his world coming down on, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 16:15, 1 reply)

Oh lordy lordy!
Sometime around the year 1998-99, we had the University Ball coming up. One evening down the SU bar, they were having some sort of hootenany/shindig when the performing monkeys on stage (two students who were on the SU Council Of Elders) asked for some volunteers for a short performance, the prize being free tickets to the Uni Ball. One guy was hauled up, the other one was the hero of this fable (of course, why else would I be writing this??).

So anyway, us two suckers, I mean "volunteers" get dragged backstage to get glammed up while the rest of the rabble (somewhere around a couple hundred pissed up students) were entertained by a looped tape of lift music. What would we be made to look like? Disco heroes? Super heroes? Rock Stars? Nay, Nay and thrice, Nay. Standing there, quivering in anticipation (and due to alcohol shakes), we were shown our costumes. Two, rather worn-out dresses, as in the kind that nubile females wear (and only nubile females SHOULD wear, I hasten to add) and silver glitter wigs. Should have seen that one coming.

We get to work by stripping off to our undies, getting into the dress (although, given my ample frame, I should have required a girdle first!) and then donning the glitter wig. Even after sucking my gut in, I couldn't do up the front so my rather (ok, overly) hairy man-boobs burst out of their confines like King Kong's bollocks in a thong. I managed to catch sight of myself in the mirror and burst out laughing (must have been the alcohol) before being told to quickly make my way out to the stage. Oh yes, the stage. In front of hundreds of drunk students. Most likely with cameras.

Anyway, like the brave soldier I (wish I) am, I made the short (though at the time it could have been five hundred miles and it would still seem short!) walk out front along with the other unwitting soul (who looked a lot better than me in drag, though in fairness, he didn't have a beard that could rival Brian Blessed's exceptional face furniture) to face the adoring public. House system starts blaring out "Wannabe" by the Spice Girls and we prance on stage with the other monkeys as best we can. Imagine if you can, people. A six foot 2, 17 stone bloke with enough body hair to stuff a warehouse to bursting point, squeezed into a worn-out brown (BROWN!!!) dress (I think it may have been floral too) and a glitter wig (which was gaffer taped to my head as I wear a turban), dancing to "Wannabe" on stage in his army surplus boots. Any chance I may have had of pulling that night (or ever, after that display) disappeared in the wink of a (brown) eye.

What could make this experience all the more enjoyable, not just for me but for Joe Six-pack watching me? Why, a flash of my grundies of course. Cue me going to the front of the stage, spotting my mates and then giving an eyeful of my pants before running around on stage like a diseased Yak in its final death throes. Of course, in my head I was a Dancing Diva with enough Sexual charisma to make the Mona Lisa wet. Still, I had the last laugh as I got a pair of ball tickets for free. Score!! Mind you, I did have to put up with the "Beardy Spice" comments for a while afterwards.

And that event, among others in my life, makes me cringe whenever I think back to it.

Apologies for length/width/hairyness. Hope the story was easy to follow and didn't bounce around too much (unlike my moobs), I'm writing this while I'm at work. Naughty naughty!!
(RVD420 has his world coming down on, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 16:09, 1 reply)

Fortunately she seems to have forgiven me.
One of the difficult things about being a single parent who's still trying to be sexually active is separating your sex life from your life with your kids. I mean, it's difficult enough for non-divorced couples when their kids walk in on them- but when one of the adults in question is not a parent, it can really twist the little minds around so that they detest the parent's love interest.

So I've always tried to shelter my kids from any sort of knowledge of my sex life, and have tried very hard to keep from making a lot of noise or letting them see anything that wasn't something I'd be willing to let my grandparents see.

Somehow this subject came up with my daughter one afternoon, and I commented that while obviously they were aware that Dad wasn't exactly a monk, I was doing my best to be discreet about it.

"You mean like you and the Lunatic Artist were being 'discreet' last night?"

Fucksocks.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 1 Dec 2008, 15:50, 7 replies)

My mate
has a cracking name for people who cause these kind of situations spoke of in the QOTW:

Social Hand Grenades...

If these are not part of the lexicon then they soon should be.
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 15:45, Reply)

We laughed, she cringed
At a mates house for a party one night, we were playing a game which involved people splitting into couples and one partner trying to guess the answer to the other partner's clues.

During one round the female of the couple was giving the clues and started with "Ooh, I don't know who this person is but I know they were in Star Wars". The male started guessing "Han Solo? . . . Luke Skywalker? . . . " but no names he could think of were right.

It turned out to be Attila the Hun.
(MrC. Having the most boring username on b3ta since 2004, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 15:40, Reply)

when i first moved to london
i had a wonderfully cramped little shithole of a flat in oval. it was the first floor of a townhouse, with a columbian family above us and newlyweds with child beneath.
thankfully there was absolutely no sound insulation in the place so it went down a treat when i used my entire student loan on a pair of decks and a big fuckoff amplifier.
my pride and joy took pride of place in our tiny living room, set up on a dining table where you could effectively play to the living room, with your back to the living room window.

about this window. it was plastered by foliage. if you so much as opened it, you'd get half a tree, replete with blackbirds, squirrels and half a billion aphids right in the mush. as it stood, i couldn't see out onto the street very well. nor could you see in, if you went down onto the street to check.

and so it came to be that a young monk learnt his dj chops, usually from about 9:30am onwards. monk sleeps naked. monk wakes naked after housemate has left. monk clambers behind decks every morning. butt naked.

fast forward three years of blissful, drunken, loud shenanigans later. i'm at AKA above The End, and am skullfucking myself with absinthe when a beautiful young thing saunters right up to me, a playful smile on her face.

'Don't I know you?' says she.
'I'm sure you may...' fap.
'I think you live on Offley Road, in Oval, don't you?'
'Number 33, that's me!' fap fap.
'I watch you dj every morning from my window across the street. you always look like you're having a lot of fun.'
no fap.
cringe.
( the brass moustache putting the ass moust in brache since, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 15:28, 3 replies)

Little jugs have big handles
my mother used to say to remind my dad that us kids never missed a thing they said. My beloved would do well to remember this ...

There we were, getting ready for a "posh" night out. You know the kind. He's hired an outfit, I've got a spiffy new dress, been to the hairdressers, we're meeting others in the pub. Mainly because the "posh" night out is in one of those places where you need a second mortgage to buy a round of drinks...

He's ready first, and due to a last minute emergency involving a lost teddy, I'm running a little late. He pops into the bedroom to check on progress and finds me standing there, ready to put on the spiffy new dress. Wearing black hold ups, thong and push up bra. His eyes go wide, and he utters the immortal line,

"Well, there's a picture for the wank bank."

Only to realise that our then 3 year old daughter is right behind him. We spent the whole night praying that mummy's stern warning about repeating things mummy and daddy say in private has prevented her from repeating this to my very straight laced mother in law. Or at Nursery the following week. I'm not sure which would have been worse.

Any donations towards her future therapy will be gratefully received.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Mon 1 Dec 2008, 15:27, 3 replies)

Restaurant related mortification
One of the "joys" of parenthood is dealing with your childrens' social blunders in public. For instance:

-sitting in a restaurant after going to the zoo with my kids, we were having some much needed food. We had spent the afternoon wandering around and looking at the animals, me with a child in a backpack while Nurse Ratched took another in a stroller and the third mostly walked on his own, but sometimes needed to be carried by the Dad. So we went to a cheap "family restaurant" (meaning a place two steps removed from McDonalds, but at least I could get a beer) and were relaxing for a bit before the drive home. My son looks around at the other patrons, most of whom were ranging from rotund to morbidly obese, and announces at the tops of his lungs, "I call this BIG FAT family fun day!"

-we were in a Chinese restaurant one evening when neither Nurse Ratched or I felt like cooking. We were seated and looking over the menus when my son (the younger one) screamed "Chinese chicken!" in a bad accent and made buck teeth and slanted his eyes. My daughter giggled and then quoted from the old Disney movie "The Aristocats": "Hing hang hong hong, fortune cookie always wrong!" and made a similar face.

And we won't even go into the dinners out with my mom, my sisters and all of the various little cousins and my sons screaming nonsense at each other across the table to their cousins. My sisters saw that I was about to commit infanticide, fortunately, but I later informed them that I hoped that my nephew would one day get exactly what he kept saying to the boys to get them so wound up: a "poopy penis."

You younger folk: have you ever wondered why your parents embarrassed you so much as teens? Now you know.

It's payback time, bitches.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 1 Dec 2008, 15:27, Reply)

Oh Dear
While out in town one night and well on my way to merriment, my friends and I had met up with some guys we used to go to school with, one guy I knew really well and had been quite good friends with having also attended primary school with him and living in the same village at the time. Having had the usual catch up chat, I noticed that a rather ‘large’ lady, over my mate's shoulder had been looking at me and smiling, she was sat at the other side of the big round table we’d been sat at. Without thinking I turned around to my friend and said:

“See that fat bitch over there” nodding in the lady’s direction… “She keeps staring at me… I might be in here”

I then looked back to my mate, he didn’t say a word… he didn’t need to, his face said it all…

The lady was his new girlfriend…
(HungOver, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 15:25, 1 reply)

Some people just don't care
An old friend of mine from London visited us at our home up on the West Coast of Scotland, so we took him out to our local pub. This is the only pub for ten miles, so it's good to keep friendly with the landlord and other locals.

This is made slightly difficult when he introduces himself to a bar full of people at the top of his lungs in a cod Glaswegian accent and the immortal words "Och Aye the Noo! Ah'll have a Pint O' Heavy please Jimmy!"

I completed the introductions with "Hi Everyone, this is some bloke I've just met."
(richardm, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 15:04, Reply)