One of those giggle-loop moments...
I once attended the funeral of a friend's grandfather at a crematorium near here.

It was a beautiful service, and although I'd only met the man twice, the emotional send-off his friends and family gave him brought a lump to my throat.

That is, until the final words were said and the coffin made its short journey toward its fiery destination, and 'Fields of Gold' started playing over the PA...

And my mind, being what it is, started reciting 'I'm a firestarter, twisted firestarter!' over and over again.

*internal cringe*
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 8:39, Reply)

RIGHT
None of you lot know the definition of true cringeworthy-ness. Try putting yourself in my paws for once;
Every single week this enormous guy in tiny, hairy little hotpants jumps on my back, and rides me around like I'm his personal slave. That's not even the worst thing though, because when he's doing this, I swear I can feel his mighty sword poking me in the back, plus, each time he decides to strip off to have a good ride, there are enormous claps of thunder, and I nearly shit myself every time.

Signed,

Cringer, aka BattleCat
bindun?
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 8:24, 2 replies)

awkward!
In a past job (when I was no long out of college) I worked in an insurance company on their IT helpdesk. There was about 500 people in the building, and doing the work we did you got to know most people.

Anyways I digress... My mate Mike took a call from a rather cute young lady, (who we'd chatted to once or twice in the pub before), she was having network issues with her PC and couldn't resolve it over the phone, so it necessitated going down to check the cabling out on the computer. So off Mike went relishing the opportunity to have a chat in person with the rather cute girl.

So first things first, he tries to rule out if there's a cable problem. (Typically in most big companies, you will find 100+ people to a floor crammed into small cubicles, and the data & phone points are usually under the desk).
So Mike tries his best to act cool and collected, having got the small talk out of the way, he utters the words without thinking and probably a bit too loudly..

"would you mind if I get down under your desk and check out your box"

ooops! I'd heard that the laughter went like a wave across the floor. Poor guy had to spend another ten mins red-faced at the desk fixing the problem.
(sarcasmo needs more sleep, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 7:49, Reply)

Easy- can do it in one sentence.
The sponge I used in the shower to scrape off my dead skin cells had maggots growing in it after a few weeks.
(denki, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 6:43, 5 replies)

Let my tale be one of caution
I received my first pair of boxer shorts and a robe as a Christmas gift at the exciting, pubescent age of 13. Very soon after unwrapping the presents, for some reason, I then decided it would be a great idea to try them on and model for my dad & sister. Moments later, cue me throwing open the robe flasher-style and realizing suddenly that boxers have a certain way of letting you catch the breeze rather directly.

If you ever get underwear and a robe as gifts, DO NOT SHOWCASE THEM FOR YOUR FAMILY because you will end up showing them your penis.
( intesvensk can't recall when I last checked the newsletter, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 6:39, 3 replies)

So there I was....
I'm hiking in Iceland*.I'm on top of a fairly high ridge, fog is down all around me. I'm having to use GPS as well as map and compass to find my way. The fog is so thick I can see it between my hand and face.

I start to feel the grumblings of 2 days worth of dried soup mix and beans I've been eating whilst on the trail start to book their ticket to freedom. I soldier on regardless, ignoring the developing turtle head in my long johns.

Half hour passes, and I cannot hold on any longer. My face is tingling from the effort and my steps are reduced to those of a kitten. I have to let this out. I find some conveniently placed rocks, formed by glorious mother nature into an almost chair shape. I figure that the fog will hide my scatological assault on the mountain and proceed....the pile builds and builds and I wish I had brought my camera to record the massive heap.

Standing proudly I begin to buckle up and turn to examine my wonderous coprolith. About 10 meters behind my spot, stand 5-6 Japanese tourists who had decided to stay put until the fog decided to clear. The fog, judging by the look on their faces, had started to clear quite soon after I had dropped trow.

Feeling duty bound to help after making them witness my covering the top of a ridge with fresh slurry, I offered to guide them down.

At the bottom not one of them shook my hand for some reason....





*Believe it or not, I'm quite a rugged bastard, I've hiked Coast to Coast in the UK twice, once in 12 days, once in 9 and finished the Appalachian Trail in the US in 18 weeks whilst fighting bears and rednecks along the way.
( Beejay Proper old bastard, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 5:44, 1 reply)

Patrick Swayze, Hollywood Actor
I have a two-foot-high Patrick Swayze living under my bed at night.
I keep him on a piece of five-foot-long nylon fishing line, and I like him.
He's a perfectly formed little man with his head in perfect proportion to his body.
"Oh Swayze, I'm better than you!"
I measure him every second night at random, if you know what I mean.
With a Steadler clear Steadler plastic 24-inch ruler.
'Cos he's 24 inches long, so I measure him with a ruler.
And if he's grown he's in trouble.
Then it's "Swayze, you've grown! Swayze, you've grown!"
But my favourite is the Elvis gear.
My favourite is when my mum went to John Lewis and picked up a pattern,
To make into a white Elvis jumpsuit,
And this Elvis jumpsuit is two-feet high, with 'SWAYZE' in rhinestones on the back.
"Swayze! Get that bleeding Elvis gear on, now!"
I like the Elvis gear, that's one of my favourites, now downhill all the way.
At night my friends come round.
Swayze serves us cocktails wearing men's, but women's suspenders and stockings and stilettos.
'Cos that's what I tell him to wear.
"Swayze! Where the flipping hell is my gin and tonic and bloody mary?"
So then we get the gaffer tape out, and after that we wrap him up in gaffer tape.
"Swayze, it's pass the parcel! You're the parcel. You're the prize."
It's not even that interesting.
It's just a little two-feet-high Patrick Swayze.
It's just a little 24-inch-high Hollywood actor.
Doesn't really interest us any more.
( Zuowan, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 0:56, 2 replies)

I told a joke to my mum.
You know the one where the punchline is something about "a little head". I then had to explain what that meant to my Mum, because apparently she isn't overly familiar with the phrase.

Sh!t, I knew I should have told that one to my Dad.
(lympicita_ie, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 0:15, 2 replies)

The veggie stand
This was totally out of character for me, I am usually more politically correct than this!

Summer of 2007, I went to Leeds festival with a few friends. Myself and 2 friends were watching bands in the NME/Radio 1 tent while another friend was watching a different band elsewhere. He wanted to meet up with the rest of us so my friend was trying to explain to him in a text exactly where to find us, as it's difficult in the dense crowds.

He said "I've told him we're just in front of the veggie stand"

I turned around and saw, behind us, the raised platform where disabled people can get a better view of the bands playing, at the back of the tent. Without really thinking about it,

"That's not a very nice thing to say about the disabled" I responded.

"I meant the vegetarian food stall outside the tent!" my friend clarified.

I have never had such a non-PC thought in my life. I genuinely thought he was referring the disabled platform as the 'veggie stand'. My friends haven't let me forget it.
( lrjlo, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 23:58, Reply)

Gorko, Gorko.
A mate of mine got married, in Russia, to a Russian girl and invited a small number of us out for the festivities. Now, the groom’s family, who we had known for years, are very, very English and spoke no Russian. The bride’s family, who we had never met, are very, very Russian and spoke no English. Each viewed the other with ill-disguised suspicion. They were united only by the even greater suspicion with which they viewed me and the groom’s other disreputable mates.

The ceremony was very beautiful and very moving. At the end, as is traditional, everyone started chanting “Gorko, Gorko”. This is a post-wedding custom, where before anyone can drink, the bride and groom have to kiss, but pretend to be too embarrassed. Gorko means “bitter” as in “life is bitter, the wine is bitter” and you keep chanting it louder and louder until they kiss, and then everyone starts cheering and the drinking begins. That’s how they do it in Russia.

Anyway, standing at the back during the chanting, I decided to shout out “Give her a kiss!” which seemed appropriate enough. Or rather, it would have been appropriate. Unfortunately, my brain short-circuited at the vital moment and instead I bellowed loutishly: “GIVE HER ONE!” Accompanied (why, God, why?) by an equally inappropriate hand gesture.

The English half of the wedding party fell into a shocked silence, and the groom’s dad went bright red. Then my friend helpfully translated my remark, including the gesture, to the bride’s mother and sister, who went even redder. We had met these people half an hour ago and I had now befouled their sacred moment.

Bollocks.

Luckily, we all got apocalyptically pissed not long after and, apart from everyone shouting “give her one” at me for the rest of the weekend, had a pretty good time.
( MacCruiskeen, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 22:22, Reply)

I have a much missed friend who lacks the ability to cringe..
..to his benefit.

He regularly greets strangers as "doctor", "nurse", "cheeseman", "maverick", "douche" etc. This is often followed with, "What's the beef?".

At the age of 29 he has taken up rollerskating with charity shop wheels - no rollerblading, no tricks, just rollerskating through the park 80s style.

Once deliberately jumped off a 10 foot high stairwell in an effort to look cool. Broke his legs but all he'd say about it afterwards was that he was "back in training for the next jump".

Took stealing traffic signs at university to a new level by nicking all the roadworks paraphernalia in the area and stacking it up in a mate's room, after he'd broken in. Still laughs about it, and about how he'd exchange pleasantries with puzzled cops as he went around stealing.

Tried to pay for a 4* hotel room with a banana.

Used to blag his way into music venues by claiming he was writing for whatever local music publication (sometimes he had vague affiliations mostly through sending off strange emails to said publications). Everyone with him was a radio mole/photographer/general +1. He was very good at it. Half an hour into one night where the tickets would have cost £15 each he passed out cold, but still wrote a totally fictitious review in screwball nonsense style that Chris Morris would have blushed at.

Plays David Bowie songs on a battered charity shop-guitar covered in black paint and dayglow monsters.

He's now head of physics at a private school in Surrey and thinking of getting married. WTF?
(lost, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 22:18, 1 reply)

the first time I met mr tulip's parents
They're lovely, funny, affectionate, wise, kind, generous people. No-one could wish for better in-laws-to-be. They're amazing and I love them.

However, the first time I ever met them, Mr tulip hadn't told them he was bringing me home for the weekend. The crafty so-and-so told them he was bringing his friend. They assumed I was going to be mr tulip's big, strapping, rugby-loving, pie-eating, willy-owning best friend. And when I arrived, and was none of those things, mr tulip's father blurted out "Oh, we thought Scott was coming! Thank god he isn't! You're much more attractive!"

But if that wasn't embarrassing enough, once we'd had dinner and several bottles of wine, and I'd relaxed a bit and managed to do all the lovely nice helpful polite well-brought-up things that parents love you for, and managed not to do any of the filthy dirty depraved things their sons love you for, they showed me a videotape of a documentary about naked ramblers.

Worse than that, they knew the naked ramblers.

Worse than that, the naked ramblers were, erm, past their prime, and a bit saggy.

Worse than that, they all thought it was hilarious.

It's been five years and I've only just uncurled my toes.

Oh, sure, now it's funny...
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 22:10, 4 replies)

I still cry myself to sleep about this
Id actually supressed this so much I completely forgot about it. I was only reminded of it before and the memories came flooding back. Unfortunately. And Im really scared to write about it just incase someone happens to work out who I am by it. Oh well.

It was only a couple of years ago when I was in college and mother and father had gone off on a jaunt somewhere around the globe and palmed my brother off on the grandprarents so I had the house to myself. So as any self-respecting teenager would do, I had a party.

It was a pretty random bunch of people because we'd all been booted out of a pub for being underage and shouting 'party at mine' seemed to go down rather well with everyone within a 100m radius. Anywaay we all got drunk and had a merry time. Nothing too disruptive just loud music and plenty of beer with everyone leaving at about 4ish.

Just as the last few people left one of my friends rang me for a chat. He worked in a bar in town and was walking home. He mentioned that he had a chinese so I invited him round to share. Anyway it mustn’t have been long before we were sexing away.

But I don’t remember.

It was obvious that we did, considering I woke up next to him being very naked. However, it seemed that an entire bottle of rum was hindering my memory. Anyway I told him to get dressed and booted him out in the nicest way possible and sat in a world of shame for about an hour before I had to go to work.

This doesn’t seem that bad, however:
I was only 17
I went to a small college
He was College President
Therefore he was extremely popular
Oh.. and everyone thought he was gay
And he was a virgin.

And during the course of the day went on to tell anyone and everyone that would listen.

I finished work and had 30+ missed calls on my phone from people wanting to know what happened.

Even worse was that when I went to college on tuesday (I skived the monday, Im not daft) no-one breathed a word about it to me. Even my friends didnt say a word. But EVERYONE knew. Theres nothing worse than knowing that 150 people know everything about your weekend antics teemed with the paranoia of everyone talking about you everytime you walk past. Which they did. I was told.

Only 4 people from college have ever spoken to me about it ever.

I like to hope people forget things easily.


*cries in shame*
(i should have joined myspace, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 22:07, 2 replies)

Tramp related cringe...
I was out with my college friends, having just met them at the start of my course, when we stopped off at a cash machine which a few of us needed to use.

I left the small group of five or six people with whom I was standing and went to get some cash. While I was at the machine a highly dishevelled looking tramp came up and mutteringly asked me for some money. I muttered the obligatory, "sorry mate..." back and he wandered off.

Forgetting all about the tramp, I then checked my balance and found, much to my delight, that the maintenance grant from my sponsoring employer which I had been waiting for had finally been paid into my account since the last time I'd checked it, meaning I would, after all, be able to eat/pay my rent/etc.

Having got my cash out I went rushing back to my group of friends and, grinning in an over-the-top way, though I'd amuse them and tell them about my new found solvency at the same time by shouting, "Guys! I'm really rich!"

Strangely, this didn't meet with the amused response I'd been expecting, in fact my friends instead looked at me with embarrassment approaching horror. It was at that point I realised that there was one more person in the circle than there had been when I left…

"So you're really rich then, are you?" Asked the tramp, with a definite undertone of affronted anger. "Err.....yes" I replied turning a beautiful shade of purple and staring at the ground while my friends all did the same. "Can I have some money then?" asked the tramp reasonably. "Err....no?" I mumbled under my breath before beating a very hasty and humiliated retreat.

We walked the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence.
(Stripes, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 22:00, 1 reply)

Belsen.
A few years ago, I went to a beer festival in Germany. A minibus was hired, and filled up with heavy drinking Salford geezers. Most looking like members of the BNP, myself included. A lot of shaved heads, tattoos and gym type muscles. Actually, they were a top bunch of guys, and not rabid Nazis at all.
After a few days on the lash, someone, fuck knows why, suggested visiting Belsen. Half a days drive there.
Anyway, we forgot the map, and got totally lost. So our driver pulls up next to this old dear, very much the European type, and bellows, "'Scuse love, where's Belsen?"
The poor cow looked terrified, a bus full of shaven heads looking or the site of a Nazi concentration camp, and she scurried off. Some of us had our heads in our hands, some of us were laughing-sorry-and some genuinely couldn't see why she was bricking it.
We'd been talking about dinner ladies previous to this. Someone said to the driver, she could have been at Belsen. He looked blank for a few seconds, then said "She could have been a dinner lady there." Sorry, but you had to laugh.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Mon 1 Dec 2008, 21:54, Reply)

Why do we get so embarrased at farting?
We all do it. And why is it so funny when someone else does it?
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Mon 1 Dec 2008, 21:27, 6 replies)

So Many To Choose From....
But I think we'll settle on this one for now.

I work at a swimming pool in Putney, as a Lifeguard, and one day, an angry, Polish colleague comes up to me and tells me to shut the childrens pool at 10 minutes to 3, in case there is a party later.

Not wanting to piss him off more than he already looks, I agree and start clearing people out.

Everyone is complient, except one German woman and her very obese, rather unpleasant looking son. She claims the pool closes at 3 and starts ranting on about how ridiculous the situation is. She asks for the manager.

I tell her I can't get the manager because she is still in the pool, and I can't leave her on her own. She insists, so off I go, coming back some minutes later with my manager.

He tells me that the pool shuts at 3, not 10 to 3, and advises me to apologise, which I do not do.

The fact that I had to help her carry her 'child' down the steps after did not help my cheeks return to normal colour.
(Jem Harley is finding it difficult to sleep, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 21:26, Reply)

I once voted...
...for the Labour Party.

:-(
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 1 Dec 2008, 21:18, 5 replies)

Thanksgiving Racism!
This thanksgiving, I was outside, entertaining my little cousins by playing touch football(american football).

That's when the shit got real.

Some of the neighbor kids, who were black, decided they were gonna join in. I had no problem with it, and everything was ok.

Until my 6 year old cousin decided that he'd had enough.

In the span of a few second, he snatches this little black kid up, power-slams him, and shouts the he's going to "Slap all the black off his face."

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit," I mumble helpfully, as I pull him off the kid. So I'd have to say my most cringe worthy moment was...
























...when that little bastard got away with our football when I took my cousin inside.
(DarkSol, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 21:11, 4 replies)

Garys house
The estate that Gary lived on had a main road with three similar cul-de-sac spur roads coming off it. I turned into the cul-de-sac that Gary lived on and parked behind a red Cavalier. This was Tims car, and meant that he was also round at Garys.

I walked up to the house and knocked on the door. A middle aged woman who I had never seen before answered. This was not unusual as Garys partner Di often had lots of people around the house, most of whom I didnt know.

"Is Gary in?" I enquired.

The woman smiled. "yes dear, come through"

Everything looked normal. The wood floor in the hall. The staircase opposite the front door with the wood panel walls. Turn right and walk into the kitchen.

The kitchen was different though. Well it wasnt a kitchen. There were no appliances for a start. And the walls had been stripped bare. Di must be having a new kitchen fitted, I thought. Nothing unusual about that.

Sat at a small pine table in the kitchen was a man in a business suit with a briefcase open on the table in front of him. He looked like he might be an insurance salesman. Or maybe he was from the company who were fitting the kitchen? Who knows. Who cares? I was here to see my friends, who were at this moment out in the studio.

Gary had converted the garage into a music studio, which was accessed by going through the kitchen, into the garden and into the back door of the garage. So I started to walk through the kitchen towards the back door.

At this point I realised that the man in the suit and the middle aged woman were both staring at me in an odd kind of way. Better say something, I thought.

"erm.....are they out in the studio?"

no answer. both still just staring at me.

Oh cunting fuckflaps. Im in the wrong house! I must have pulled into the wrong cul-de-sac! The man in the suit is also a Gary! ARSE!

The next few seconds were the longest of my life, as I tried frantically to get the hell out of there as quickly as I could. As I walked away from the house I glanced back, and saw suited Gary and the woman both staring at me out the window.

Still makes me shudder.
(Lionel Tiger, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 20:54, 1 reply)

Well, marketing are a bunch of stubborn bastards
My boss positively encourages brutal honesty in my - confidential - monthly report, which is for his eyes only ... it works well, in fact has become a rather cathartic process at the end of every month.

Sadly, I also produce the monthly brief on our part of the business which goes to the CEO and then, via his PA, around the whole business - c. 1,500 UK employees.

Predictably, in a rush, I extracted the wrong file from the wrong folder and e mailed it off, oblivious.

So, instead of my usual PC offering, our section of the company announced ... "Well, marketing are still being stubborn bastards ..."

The marketing meeting I had to attend the following week was not the most comfortable afternoon of my life - in fact I think I'd rather have been double-teamed by my gynaecologist and dentist.
(Penguins_Made_Me_Do_It is a dolt ... and she don't care, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 20:45, 3 replies)

Dirty theiving scum...
I'm a good wee girl. Yep, I am. I think.

At work once, going down to the checkouts just after closing with some reduced stock to buy the checkout girl asked if I wanted a bag. Yep, thought my mind, so people don't think I'm nicking anything. Good idea!

"Yep, thanks, "I said to her, "so people don't know I'm nicking anything."

She handed me my change in stoney silence, giving me an odd look, and I slunk back off to the bakery branded a theif by my own lying tongue.
( vix0r was not Matthew on, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 19:57, Reply)

I don't get out much
Upon turning 19, I moved out of my parental abode. My cat was far too old to move with me and, frankly, my parents would have done anything to retain possession of the fluffeh little girl. And so it was, I became a young and innocent little Flirt out on my own for the first time.

I missed my kitty.

After a few weeks alone in my new apartment, I could stand the lack of furry purryness no more and obtained 2 new fluffehs. I even went out on a limb and procured male cats this time around.

One of my new kitties liked having his belly rubbed. During one such petting session, I noticed little bumps on his chest and tummy. I began to worry. Did I in fact acquire a diseased kitty? Would the one with bumps pass on his illness to the younger and bump-free new little brother?

I checked the kitten. I found bumps on him too. Oh the wailing and gnashing of teeth. My poor new kitties would not be long for this world!

I rushed my sweet little kittens, who were obviously dying of some grave disease, to the vet. My worries weren’t alleviated when the vet had to look twice, then thrice at said bumps.

Then the vet giggled and pronounced the bumps to be nipples.

“What?” I exclaimed, “But how can that be? They are boys!”

The vet, with a mostly straight face, explained that all mammals have nipples, regardless of gender. I remained confused.

And then it, along with the cringing embarrassment, finally sunk in. My fluffeh boys weren’t dying, they were normal kitty boys with nipples.

I slunk out of the vet’s office with my face burning and my checkbook a bit lighter for the visit.
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Mon 1 Dec 2008, 19:55, 6 replies)

mmm dead baby jokes
While chatting to a mate who I knew loved a good sick joke as much as the rest of us, I decided to fire off the old joke about the doctor in the maternity ward, dropping the baby, then playing basketball with it, then kicking it out the window.

"...april fool! It was still-born."

My mate went quiet. Not even a grin on his face. I could feel the next line coming in the pit of my stomach.

"I had a baby sister that was still born. She was gonna be called Emma"
( Damocles wants no part of your debauchery, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 19:28, 1 reply)

Not having the emotional strength
to get into one of the (many) drunken and/or romantic embarrassing stories of my life; I will instead tell you probably my most cringe-worthy but downright sober moment.

Back in 6th form I'd emerged from that frizzy-haired, awkward cuss stage of my entire primary/secondary school days, and actually had a grand time the whole 2 years (more socially than academically of course).

Anyway in my last year I - for some reason - volunteered to help a bunch of people in my year who were putting on a Christmas assembly/play thing for the secondary school kids (6th form was on a different site). Easy, thinks I; I'll just be a silent extra in the background or something.

Oh how wrong I was. The whole thing you see was a shambolic car crash that could have been better organised if left in the hands of a group of Haribo infused 4 year olds. The entire thing was constructed in about 15 minutes and there was no time for rehearsals. For the opening number the music teacher had fucked right off so muggins here has to sight read a piece of music that I’d never seen before. I barely got away with it.

The worst part however, was a bizarre little interlude number where the girls were meant to do a dance on stage to some horrible Christmas number. I knew they hadn't really practised, but I didn't care as I was uninvolved. Or so I thought. Somehow I get shoved on stage by one of the teachers who is helping out and lo to my horror as the curtain opens, I realise that this is not some nightmare and that I really am stood in front of a hundred slack jawed, evil eyed 15 year olds who look like they want to put a credit card in my mouth and cut the corners, and I have to improvise a dance to Jingle bell bloody rock or something.

I decide, through the dread, to go for it and I try to link arms with my friends to do some sort of jig (I'm sinking into my chair right now) but then realise to my utter horror that they're all LEAVING the stage while I stand there like a pillock, mutter an apology and run off. The whores!

The best part of this story? My friend, in the audience with his video camera.

AGGH! It makes me die a little inside every time. The moral of this story is to never volunteer or be nice. Ever.
(Eldoofus, Mon 1 Dec 2008, 19:03, Reply)

My kids and I
were in a restaurant over the weekend having some food, and my son started making rude jokes at my expense. (In all fairness we were here at the time.)

I looked him in the eye and said, "Don't forget- I can pull the Your Mom card at any time and make it stick."

He blue-screened for a moment...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 1 Dec 2008, 19:01, Reply)