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This is a question Cringe!

Chickenlady winces, "I told a Hugh Grant/Divine Brown joke to my dad, pretending that Ms Brown was chewing gum so she'd be more American. Instead I just appeared to be still giving the blow-job. Even as I'm writing this I'm cringing inside."

Tell us your cringeworthy stories of embarrassment. Go on, you're amongst friends here...

(, Thu 27 Nov 2008, 18:58)
Pages: Latest, 27, 26, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Mate of mine, disabled,
parked on the street, driver's door wide open, trying to get her gammy leg into the car.

Another car pulls up behind her and honks.

Mate leans out of car, and screams at the driver, 'Fuck off! Can't you see I'm disabled? I'll fucking go when I've got my fucking leg in! Fuck off, you impatient bastard!' etc, then resumes struggling with leg.

Just then, a woman comes out of a house across the road and jumps into the taxi which has just honked outside her house. Taxi pulls away, easily clearing Mate's still open car door.

Mate finally heaves leg in, slams car door, cringes.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 14:16, Reply)
School cringe 2
As mentioned in cringe 1 below I was lucky enough to be sent away to boarding school. I say lucky, as since I already lived on a quiet street on a military base I wasn't in much danger from the opposite sex, but this masterstroke of my parents' ensured I was completely safe until Sixth Form (which was mixed). As a result I was pretty naive and clueless when it came to wimmin, and it wasn't until my dad's boss's 18-year old daughter pounced on 16-year old me at a barbecue at half-term that I properly "got off with a girl". Reesult!

Back at school I was soon bragging about my conquest to my Fifth Form mates, but it was a slightly perverted Dutch bloke in the Lower Sixth who wanted all the gruesome details.

"Did you finger her?" Not fully understanding what he meant, I explained that, well, I had put my hand up her shirt and had a good old feel. I don't know if he picked up on this, as the next question was "how many fingers?". Seemed like a stupid question to me at the time, but not wanting to call him a retard I just gave him a blank look and said "er, the whole hand" (with a silent "obviously"). Guffaws of laughter from everybody who'd not picked up my initial explanation.

From then until my Lower Sixth tormentors left a year and a bit later, my nickname to them was... Fist Man. Oh yes.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:56, Reply)
Whilst bartending at a wedding a few years ago
I was witness to one of the greatest cringes ever. It was during the best man's speech which seemed to be fairly run of the mill: 'I've known the groom since we were both knee-high to a grasshopper, insert embarrassing drink related anecdote here, etc. Then almost out of nowhere came the gut-wrenching, slow motion car-crash which unfolded like the bad cliche that it was.

'So the bride and groom will be off on there honeymoon next week and I hope they have a fantastic time. However I think there's some confusion as to where exactly they're going'. My ears suddenly pricked up, I'd heard this set-up before. 'You see, the bride is convinced that they're going to spending two weeks in the Maldives but I'm fairly sure the groom mentioned something about going to North Wales'. Oh God, no! He surely can't! These are lines from a bad joke book, this doesn't happen in real life! But I couldn't look away...

'You see, I asked him what the two of them would be doing for their honeymoon and he said he was going to Bangor for two weeks!' Freeze frame! There's this idiot standing up at the top table with the sleaziest grin and raised eyebrow waiting for the ovation he felt this deserved. All he got was a collective groan from all around the room, the shocked indignation of all the elderly guests and the father of the bride covering his eyes and shaking his head. A mass cringe if you will.

Not as bad as the bridesmaids singing 'It's the bridal countdown' to the tune of Europe's most famous hit though. They even 'sang' the keyboard part!
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:53, 3 replies)
The Screaming
Several years back, Ms. Witch-Finder General lived in a large apartment just off Tottenham Court Road. It was ex local authority housing and the lucky lady was paying only 25 quid a week to live in luxury with all of Central London at her doorstep. Needless to say we lived it large, rolling in in the not so small hours 5 days a week when she wasn't away.
However, just downstairs from her lived The Screamers.

I had never met the couple, but my missus regularly baby-sat for their 12-year old, which will give you a vague idea of their age. However, I had heard them. Regularly.
Every Friday and Saturday evening when we were getting ready to go out, like clockwork The Screaming would start, unmistakably the sound of vigorous coitus drifting up from the open window below. For an older gentleman, he certainly had a fair bit of stamina and she was very vocal in her support. Occasionally , we would compete with them, trying to shag for longer than they did, and would celebrate with a cheer when we 'won.' This later became more creative with us trying to match their often fairly 'lively' bedtalk with more unlikely and imaginative interjections of our own "Grease up the dwarf'" was a good'un as was "Use the whole fist! Now!"

------wavy lines to indicate the passing of time----------

A few years later I was living with the missus in North London and working in a film studio quite a way out of town. One week, I was temporarily without a car, so the young lad we had as a runner / work experience / general shit-monkey kindly offered to run me back to Central London on the Friday night. Being the amiable soul that I am, I suggested I buy him a couple of pints for his trouble, so it that was why I found myself droppping into his flat where he still lived with his Mum and Dad for a cup of tea and a chat.

Just off Tottenham Court Road.

In the flat below my girlfriends old flat.

And trying to make polite conversation with a woman who I had once shouted "Keep sucking the Donkeys Cock!" at.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:51, 3 replies)
A friend of mine
used to work for an engineering company that did a lot of work with roads and in particular traffic lights.

One day my mate was at work when a member of the public called him up to complain that the bit that buzzes and beeps to tell blind people that it is safe to cross wasn't working. This chap was blind.

During the course of the conversation it transpired that my mate and this chap had been at that spot earlier that day....

My mate: I was there at that time too, I think I saw you, were you wearing a yellow jacket?
Chap: I don't know, I'm fucking blind!

I swear this is true.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:46, 1 reply)
School cringe 1
When I was in the Sixth Form at school a friend of mine, not content with doing five A Levels (he ended up sitting six), decided to direct and produce a play (I think it was Pinter or something similar). I wasn't allowed to join the cast as I already had a large part (fnarr!) in the main school production, but he needed a prompter so I ended up sitting in the wings with the script both nights.

Anyway, once it was finished there was a small party for cast and crew, with nibbles and wine (a bigger deal at a boarding school in the 1980s than it would be now). I liberally helped myself to the latter, which meant that when the time came for a group photo I somehow thought it would be hilarious to sit next to the pretty female lead - who I barely knew - and "mime" kissing her on the cheek. On Every Single Photo.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:33, Reply)
Strangers on a bus

I was a precocious little mite when I was 5 and thought nothing of starting conversations with random people who were nearby much to the cringing of my mother.

So you know the old classic, "What do you call a man with a seagull on his head?" "Cliff." I told a complete stranger sitting behind my mum and I, my own reworked version.

"Hello Mister. What do you call a man with a fountain on his head."

*confused look*

"I'm sorry, are you talking to me?"

*mother cringes slightly*

"What do you call a man with a fountain on his head?"

"I don't know."


Don't worry world, I fully intend never to procreate.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:30, 4 replies)
Sales managers = twats
I was working in a call centre for a well known mobile phone vendor a few years ago. Day times were pretty quiet so surfing the internet and reading was permitted whilst waiting for calls.

I was sat reading my book when the sales manager came up for a jovial chat. "What are you reading?" he asked. "Oh, it's 'Down and Out in London and Paris, by George Orwell' I replied. He made a 'hmm interesting'-face to try to convey that he was a man that appreciated literature, then completely blew it by asking "oh, is that his new one?". Tosser.

The moral of this story? blagging doesn't work.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:09, 1 reply)
Barage of abuse for the blind man
A man walking his dog walked into me and made me fall over... I said "Why don't you fecking look where your bloody walking you stupid barsteward muppet".... He said "I'm sorry, I'm blind and my dog forgot to put his glasses on this morning".
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 12:54, 1 reply)
Email blunder
A co-worker is currently cringing like nobody's business, thanks to the following email exchange:

[stuff about shopping snipped]

Me: It's OK - I want to treat myself (and blow my bonus :-)

Her: Will you buy me something

Me: Is it your birthday?

Her: no just like gifts

Me: Do I *look* like Father Christmas?


It turns out she had replied, but hadn't paid close enough attention to where she was typing - this is another email conversation that occurred at the same time:

Manager: Can you give any information on below that I can pass back to customer?

Her: well - you are a funny looking man
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 12:53, 2 replies)
Confessions of a Teenage Poet
1996. Bill Clinton has defeated Bob Dole to earn his second term in the White House. Prince Charles and Princess Diana have divorced. The Nintendo 64 is released in Japan. And Devil In Tights goes to college.

I’d never been much interested in poetry before. I’d read a little, sure, as part of my GCSE programme, but had never even thought of writing my own. Until, that is, I discovered free-form poetry. No rhyming schemes, no strict rules – just pen, paper and stream of thought.

For months, I was a writing machine. Every detail of my angst-ridden teenage years was thrust upon the lined paper of a Black ‘N Red notepad. I would wake in the night and write. I would come home from a night out and write. Every single little thing that could even remotely be called human experience was scribbled down in heavy pencil. I would read my work back to myself, imagining that I was some kind of modern-day beat poet – nay, surely I was a beacon to the millions of teenagers everywhere who felt as I did, but did not have the bravery to put it in to words.

And yet, I never showed anyone my work. It was too introspective, too personal.

Soon after, however, a defining moment in my teenage years occurred. I had never been clubbing. Nature gifted me with a baby face – at sixteen I had little facial hair and could never have passed for eighteen plus. One fateful night, some people from my college course were going out to the pinnacle of all night club venues – Dukes in Chelmsford. I arranged some fake ID (borrowing a friends brother’s driving licence), and headed off. I was last in the queue, and all of my chums wound their way in to the club. As I approached the door, a massive hand held me back.

“ID please.” Growled the man-mountain stood before me.

I produced the driver’s license with a flourish. “Here,” I said, handing it to him “it is!”

He looked at the license. He looked at me. Then, with great care, he handed me a piece of paper and a pen. “If youse are who youse say you are,” he rumbled “then you’ll sign your name here.”

Damn! Damn, drat and double-blast. I hadn’t looked at the signature. I hadn’t even practised. I hung my head. I took the offending document from the bouncer, and headed for the nearest call-box for my Mum to come and pick me up.

I arrived home, hot with embarrassment and angry that not one of my friends had come out to see where I was. I grabbed a piece of paper, and scrawled (from memory) the following:

“I get to the club
And you ask me for ID
You see it’s not me
I know it’s not me
My friends got in
I turn away shame-faced
You Bastard Bouncer.”

I fell asleep, the laughter of others in the queue still ringing in my ears. When I awoke in the morning, I read my poem back, and found that it was good. Not only was it good, it really captured the frustration of being a teenager, yeah?

And so it was that I decided to share this masterpiece at the next English Literature class (we were often invited to share our work with each other). I stood at the front of the room, nervously fondling the piece of paper held tightly in my sweaty palm. I coughed and slowly, with the assured confidence of someone who knows that they are imparting Wisdom unto others, I read the poem.

I finished, and closed my eyes. A second later, I opened them, to see thirty-odd faces staring back at me in something approaching pity. There was no clap, and sixty eyes watched me silently as I made my way back to my seat. I sat there, having realised what an abominable mistake I just made, willing my body to turn itself inside out, or for the ground to swallow me up, or a thousand other things to occur just to get me the hell out of there.

Nothing did occur, sadly, and I spent the rest of my college years being ribbed about it. But I didn’t mind, I wholly deserved it.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 12:43, 5 replies)
A short and cringe-worthy tale.
My best friend, John, went to art school in London.
While he was there he met lots of interesting people, and got drunk rather a lot.
One of his friends was a lad called Joshua, who invited him to a party.

So, along goes John to this party, and realises he doesn't know anyone.
He was expecting a drunken, drug-fuelled night of mayhem, not Joshua's cousin's Bar Mitzvah.
It was at this point that John decided that the pre-emptive speed that he'd taken was a mistake.

He sat in the corner, not knowing anyone, keeping quiet.

This was the point at which a lovely young lady came over and started talking to him.
After about half an hour of chatting and giggling, John was convinced that he was "well in there".
She turned to him and said "You're really funny, tell me a joke."

Panic set in.
His brain couldn't think of any.

He thought for a moment and said:
"What's the difference between a Jew and a pizza?"

She smiled and replied "I'm not sure, tell me..."

Realisation hit him hard.
He realised where he was, and who he was talking to.
Blushing red as a chimp's arse, he muttered "I've got to go.", and ran off to get the bus home.

For the record, the punchline to that joke is "Pizzas don't scream when you put 'em in a gas oven"...
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 12:38, 4 replies)
I once had the pleasure of working with the man with the worst wig in the world lets call him D to protect the innocent. This man had problems enough with his bottle bottom glasses odd odour and unusual attitudes towards women but to compound all these he wore a wig.
Now i have always thought that if i ever went bald i would shave my head and live with the problem. After all people don't look twice at a bald bloke but when you put a wig on your head, even a good one, you immediately open yourself up to stares and ridicule. This wig was no ordinary wig though.
This nylon monstrosity shared its owners peculiar pong and looked like a nylon squirrel had collapsed of exhaustion after making love to his head. Whats worse it was so ill fitting that you could see the nylon crossply on the bottom of the wig from under his forehead.

Anyhoo as the team troubleshooter it was my job to deal with any problems that arose during work. I was in the middle of sorting a problem out when our hero came over red faced and puffing and looking fit to burst. "Pieman!" he interupted "you need to sort this out NOW!"
my response?.....

Keep your hair on D.

I wanted to crawl away and die but his wig looked like it had beat me to it.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 12:32, 4 replies)
i'll get my coat.
whenm i was much younger, i was at a friend's house, lets call him lee. his younger sister was throwing ice cubes at us from the kitchen.

i retaliated by grabbing a big handful of them, and dropping them down her back

she retaliated by pitching a MASSIVE epileptic fit, thrashing, foaming, screaming, the works
apparently she doesn't deal well with sudden shocks.

i was persona non grata for some time.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 11:46, Reply)
my then rather new gf caught me bending into a low cupboard looking, no doubt, for snacks.
she decided it would be funny to dig me in the ribs, to which i responded by unleashing a fart that sounded like the not-too-distant crackle of small arms fire, smacking my head on the drawer handle, and swearing.
bless her, she does put up with a lot :D
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 11:30, 4 replies)
Oh dear god.
I thought I had exhausted all my storied for the week, but the sight of the word Labia a few posts down just made me think of another one.

At about 12 or 13 I had a crush on my friends older sister. About the same time, a friends older brother had just come into the possession of a lot of porn, which he was happy to share liberally with us.

I'm perusing the letters page of some copy of Mayfair or somesuch when I get the bright idea to try to write a letter in that vein about myself and my unrequited crush.

I duly did. I was quite pleased with it.

I read it back to myself. Then knocked out a quick one.

And then I was struck by this feeling of guilt and panic. What the hell was I going to do with the letter? I was certain someone would find it if I put it in the bin,

I was struck by inspiration.

In my room was a homemade desk, it had three floor tiles on top, glued to the wooden surface. If I could prise one up, I could slide the letter under the tile and place the tile back and no one would be any the wiser.

Foolproof, right?

Well, it would have been, had I thought to glue, or at least blu-tak the tile back in place.

But no, I wasn't THAT smart.

For nights I'd do my homework at the desk, with one tile sliding out all the time.

Until the day I came home from school and my Mum said, 'I noticed the tile on your desk had come lose, so I got Dad to stick it back down'

And the cold sweats started.

Had he found it? Had he found my work of teenage porn that contained phrases like 'shivering quim' and 'lick your lovely labia' and 'furiously finger your fanny'?

Of course he fucking had.

He came in later that night, handed it to me. Said 'I never want to find anything like that again. Just be glad I didn't tell your Mum' and walked out again.

If that was the end of the matter, that would be bad enough.

But did I then decide to tear it into little pieces and throw it away, putting the whole sorry episode behind us?

Or did I decide that I'd hide it in the pages of the magazine under my bed?

Which I then promptly took back to the friends brother who had lent it to me?


I don't even want to talk about the consequences.

(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 11:30, 6 replies)
Hairy Shoe
If recoiling in horror is a type of cringe, then this should count.

I went to Rome on Friday from Stanstead airport. When i got to security, the officials were all in a state of excitement, some were falling about laughing and some were retching, and the others were having a go at the ones who were laughing.

I asked what was going on and the guy in charge of the x-ray machine said "look for yourself" and passed me one of those little plastic trays.

Inside was a pair of ladies shoes. One was normal, inside the other was a thick black layer of hair. And it looked human.

The shoes belonged to an old lady who had been taken to one side for a fill search. One security man was staring straight ahead repeating "its not possible, its just not possible" while another two were having a noisy argument about "what possible security risk is there from an old ladies hairy shoe".
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 11:25, 1 reply)
Public speaking isn't for everyone...
Clendrix reminds me of an event that made my whole company cringe.

It was a conference, and the entire company is packed into the sort of stuffy room that hotels like to hire out for these types of occasion.

We're into day two and there is a mist of alcohol infused sweat being slowly moved about above our heads by the ineffective, noisy air-con.

Hours of tedium have dragged everyone into an hypnotic despair, and the sight from the back is of a sea of nodding dogs like those seen in the Churchill ads, as heads drop into a fuzzy half sleep before swiflty bouncing back to consciousness.

Then a new speaker steps up onto the stage. He's a sales man, and not accustomed to speaking at these events, and it's immediately obvious to the assembled masses that he's not just a little nervous.

He bumbles through the beginning of his speech, firing off slide after slide with machine-gun like rapidity. I've done these things myself, so I know just how nerve racking it can be at first.

I don't really remember what he was talking about, as I'd spent the first five minutes of his presentation likening him to a hyperactive insect; buzzing about the stage as though high on a heady mix of speed and red bull.

But then he began discussing the multi-national nature of his project. This meant listing each nation involved and, as if there were any doubt, he would provide further clarification with an ever so slightly racist gesture.

After rattling off an extensive list of collaborating nations, he arrives at the coup de grace. The moment that caused an entire room to bend double in a full, physical cringe; his supporting gesture to help clarify what he meant by "Ze Germans" was to turn sideways and shout Heil Hitler, complete with outstretched arm and finger moustache, before taking a few goose-steps along the stage.

The synchronised wince would have been impressive, if it weren't so utterly painful.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 11:23, 5 replies)
Doctor Hottie
One of the doctors in my local GP surgery is fit. Like really fit. She has to be one of the best looking people I've seen "in the flesh" so to speak. Absolutely gorgeous, she is. Really. Like a lot. She is known as "Doctor Hottie" for she is a doctor and a hottie.

Now, not only do I use this particular surgery, but also a couple of my mates do as well. Between us, there have been three cringe-worthy incidents:
1) "M" has, for a reason he will not divulge, been banned from getting an appointment with this lass. We want to know why, but he just goes really red whenever we mention it.
2) "T" had a very embarassing injury - he managed to rip his foreskin, which then scared funny and stopped him from being able to wee properly. Decided to get it sorted. First appointment at the GP's for this was with Doctor Hottie. He says he had to thin very unsexy thoughts as she was examining him, but there was still a slight "twicth" at one point.
3) And this is the worst, because I happened to me. I went to see Doctor Hottie for whatever was wrong with me at the time. Part of the exam required me to have my bl;ood pressure taken. As the went to put the cuff around my arm, I helpfully moved my hand forwards, to make it easier for her. unfortunately, she leant forwards at the same time. This resulted into what can only be described as "hand-to-boob" contact. It wasn't deliberate, but there was definite cuppage then an awkward pause then we moved appart. She then commented on my elevated blood-pressure.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 11:05, 4 replies)
It's just a toy
I swear the thing was cursed.

I had a couple of hours to kill at Frankfurt airport. I was reliably informed by my missus that there was a sex shop at the airport, so I sought it out, and spent a leisurely hour perusing the merchandise.

I splashed out on a rather vibrantly packaged (but reduced for quick sale) BOB (hey it's the bon mot de jour) as a treat for us/her.

I hadn't realised that I had to check my hand luggage back in - nor had I appreciated (as the infernal toy was still in one of those impossible to enter plastic packs, that underneath the black plastic exterior beat a heart of pure metal... which showed up rather well on the x-ray machine going through customs...I got a slight funny look but fortunately I didn't get pulled.

So, on my return, a naughty night ensued, the packaging being disposed of in the kitchen bin.

The next morning we had a meeting with my ex wife's friend's husband, who is a financial advisor. We were all sitting round the kitchen table when my son, espying said vibrant packaging peeking out of the bin, hoicked the packet out of the bin and said "What's this" (he was only 5 at the time).

"It's just a toy" said my wife - [as if, for some inexplicable reason, this would assuage his curiousity]. I then had to wrestle the packaging off him, in full view of the financial advisor.

The toy? An anal probe.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 11:03, Reply)
Dead Dog
Disclaimer: A friend told me this story. It's therefore a friend-of-a-friend story, and so if it's actually an urban legend or shaggy dog story you've heard umpteen times before, I apologise profusely. I just found it very amusing, if a little too good to be true, so I hope this did actually happen.

This guy's friend was looking after her neighbours' dog whilst they were on holiday. Unfortunately, whilst the neighbours were still on holiday, the dog snuffed it. So, she did the decent thing and broke the news over the telephone:
"Oh dear. Well, thank you for letting us know."
"It's the least I can do. Sorry to put a damper on your holiday."
"...would you mind doing us one more favour? We...well, we don't want the kids to see the body, they're only young. Do you think you could...dispose of the body?"

Well, what can you say to a request like that? Nobly, she agreed, and it was only after she put the phone down that the question occurred to her - what the hell do you do with a dead dog?

I don't know why it didn't occur to her to simply bury it in the neighbours' garden, but she resolved the best thing to do was take it to a vet. So - how the hell do you transport a dead dog?

In the end, she borrowed one of their heavy-duty Samsonite briefcases, folded doggy into that and got on the tube, praying that the infernal heat of the Bakerloo Line wouldn't encourage doggy to decompose and smell funny.

Now a dog is quite heavy. Add the weight of a dead dog* to that of a Samsonite briefcase and you've got a substantial load to carry. A gentleman noticed her struggling with the case on the escalators on the way out of the tube station.

"Can I help you with that?"
"Oh...thank you...how kind"Oh god he's carrying a dead dog up the escalator for me
But all was well until they get to the top of the escalators. He even carried it through the ticket barriers for her. Then he dropped the bombshell:
"Quite heavy this, isn't it? What have you got in here?"
The festering corpse of my neighbours' dog? The best thing she could think of was:
"It's...um...computer parts."

Suddenly the "gentleman's" demeanour changed. He looked at her, looked at the Samsonite full of "Computer Parts" in his hand...and legged it with the briefcase.

So, cringe followed by a nice spoonful of karma. As I say, if this one isn't true then I'm sorry, but it made me laugh.

*Or a live one if you want to experiment...
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 10:56, 12 replies)
Bless her...
My elder Sparklet is known for her outspokenness, always has either suffered, or made others suffer for it, but she's a great girl and I'm very proud of her..

She was bullied to hell at her secondary school, there was one yound lad who had decided it was his "Turn" to make her life a misery, which he did, for the rest of the term. Then he was off school with a weird form of bone cancer, resulting in an amputation of one of his arms up to the elbow. During his illness, the school went into overdrive collecting money for him, extolling his virtues as Captain of the school rugby team, top student and all round nice guy, which pissed her off no end, given how he'd treated her. So much so that when the collection came round at parents evening, she asked the collector what the plans were for the funds raised, they replied that they were compiling a list of suggestions, and stood with pens poised.

"How's about half a juggling lesson?" asked my dear daughter, before turning on her heel, marching off and leaving me to deal with it..
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 10:54, 10 replies)
I have this French friend....
I once bumped into her on a night out. With a few drinks inside of me, I went in for a good old French-style kiss on both cheeks.

Unluckily for me, she went in for a very British hand shake.

What unfolded was one of the most awkward cultural exchanges that resulted in accidental snogging, morphed high fives and a whole load of her friends laughing.

I don't kiss anyone now.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 10:36, Reply)
Nigel. What a waste of fucking space that twat was. I went away for a weekend; when I returned, my idiot housemates had offered him the room we had up for grabs in our house.

Most of the things Nigel did were just dim. But then…

I came home from work to find Nigel sitting in the lounge looking despondent. My usual reaction would be to keep walking past, but this time I decided to pretend to be caring and nice.

‘What’s the matter, Nigel?’

He sighed. ‘I’ve had a shit day at work,’ he responded. When I pressed him on this, the following tale came to light.

‘I made a joke in the office today. I though it was funny, but this guy…well, he didn’t seem to think it was funny. I don’t know why. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘What did you do, Nigel?’

‘Well, he’s Jewish and he was being a bit bossy, so when he told me to do something, I said, “Heil Hitler” but he didn’t think it was funny.’

‘Did you do the sign as well, Nigel?’

‘Yes. The Jewish woman in the office didn’t laugh either.’

The very thought of Nigel still makes me cringe.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 10:31, Reply)
Italian cock up
..So I'd just finished some "Learn Italian' CDs and was feeling confident about the basics..

We were in Venice, meandering and floating round on a sea of delicious snacks, treats, and glasses of wine.

Said small glasses of wine go by the venetian vernacular of 'umbra', as in shade/shadow.

We wandered into this small bar, which was empty apart from us and the barman, a spit of the main singer in 'Right said Fred' (is it Fred?). Obviously gay.

Which probably explains, why, in my best Italian, I asked for "due hombre" (two men - not even in bloody Italian) instead.

"Due hombre eh?" He leared suggestively.

Sigh. Of all the places..
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 10:28, Reply)
Pearoast from some time last year
About 10 years ago our football team was having its usual monthly riotous night out. Myself and another player in the team picked up what could loosely be termed as females and were invited back to one of their houses.

After a quick discussion on the pros and cons, (they were both a bit on the large side but a shag is a shag in the end) we decided to go back with them.

After having done the deed, taking ages to locate the hole among the layers of fat, I decided to go to sleep, so the thing beside me puts on her knickers and a t-shirt and announces she is ready to sleep too.

I awoke in the early hours of the morning, feeling the worse for wear and dying for a piss, I had no idea where the toilet was and as it was a fairly big house I couldn't be arsed wandering about looking for it. I must have drifted back to sleep because I awoke soon after and could feel myself just about to empty my bladder.

My 'conquest' was in a deep sleep next to me, facing me,so I turned towards her and pissed over the front of her massive pants and over her thighs and sheets. I shook her awake and said "Er,I think you have had an accident in your sleep" or words to that effect. She was totally mortified, she burst into tears and begged me not to say anything. I promised I wouldn't and she was that grateful, she gave me a blowjob before I left.

I still have no idea to this day what possessed me to do such a deed, I told one of mates about it a day or 2 after the event, instead of the expected reaction of him pissing himself laughing, he looked at me in complete disgust and said I was a dirty bastard.

I'm not the complete cunt you probably think I am, I have no idea why I did it, but thinking back to it makes me cringe like fuck.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 10:06, 10 replies)
Post below, by the former MattDP reminded me of this one
A few years ago, the house I was living in was broken into by some nutjob, while I was there. I phoned the old bill who came round mob handed and arrested them. The police then came in to chat with me, find out if anything was missing etc. 3 of them standing in the living room with me, with a blim (probably an 1\8th) of hash lying on the sofa in full view. After 5 mins I noticed this, and sidled stealthily over to the sofa and managed to sit on the blim.

Thinking myself rather crafty, I carried on talking to the police for a bit, and then got up to show them out, but only when they were well away from the sofa. As they left the building, one of them turned to me and commented that the next time I phoned them up to report a burglary, I should really hide my stash. And that I was a numpty. Ooops.

Thanks for not taking my stash though.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 9:48, Reply)
I was working in an office and we had a new guy join us. He had come for an interview a few weeks before but none of us had met him. Our office manager led him out into the main office and took him round our cubicles.

So the guys stood up and shook his hand when he got to their cubicle. Only there was a little bit of confusion going on that I could see across the room. When it was my turn, I stood up and realised that this guy’s right hand stopped at the elbow and he had really long grabby fingers. So I was shaking his bad hand. With forced smiles like nothing was wrong. He was plasmically red in the face. I was burgundy once I realised but I couldn’t just stop shaking his hand. It went on for about 20 seconds while I said hello and introduced myself. I managed to sweat into my shoes I was so embarrassed.

It was horrible. Poor bastard.

Our twunt of a manager could have warned us to shake his left hand. We got him back though.
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 9:44, Reply)
I'm cringing right now...
As background noise I've put on a film called 'Naked Space' starring Leslie Nielsen, Patrick McNee, Cindy Williams, and Gerrit Graham.


And whats making me cringe is the fact that rather than turning the damned thing off I'm putting a reply on here about it !!

EDIT: Can you believe I actually watched it to the end?

If anybody wants it, send me a pm and I'll willingly post it to get it out of my life.
(Its region 2, in both English and German, with a German cover.)

Edit 2: Several hours later, and nobodies offered to take it off my hand.
You've all suffered through it before and didn't tell me, did you?
(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 9:33, Reply)
I play with liquid latex for prosthetics now and then, Star Trek stylee,
false brows and horns and such, it comes in very handy for Halloween:

Anyhoo, a close lady friend of mine had a BOB (Battery Operated Boyfriend) that she had essentially ruined by getting it involved with baby oil, which dissolves latex, and she wondered if was possible to 'resurface' it by giving it a fresh coat of liquid latex rather than buy a new one, I said I wasn't sure but if she'd scrub it up nice and clean for me I'd be happy to give it a try.

Long story short, gasman comes to read the meter and I've completely forgotten about the huge pink dildo sitting on a bottle over a bowl with some white goo dripping down it that was residing in the cellar.

(, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 9:10, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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