Cider Discovery
Well, about 3 years back i discovered proper cider when one of our mates made up a barrell and let us all have a taste. about 8% and pretty dry so well tasty.

We decided to have an annual apple festival in our village, and hence it started. we renovated a press, collected 3tonnes of apples and made 3 barrells - close to 700 pints - of cider. We picked a date in May and got a pig in and a big barbecue/fire pit and spit roast the piggy-wiggy for about 8 hours and then opened the festival. All went well, i was a helper so i got free cider (although i did donate as it was non-profit and any excess went to the local school and church).

About 8 pints in i managed to be very little help.

1. I did the karaoke that was set up to keep the kids entertained - and then mooned the whole vlilage whilst singing "Somethings gotten hold of my heart", the bit where gene pitney first kicks in.
2. I was then chased round the village by some very young girl villagers- one of whom pushed me over. Ordinarily, fine - that day i did the full del boy falling off the bar trick. I put an arm out to stop me and went right through the side of the gazebo and took a kerbstone to the ribs. This is just in between the gap between bottom rib and next up.
3. I then went and got a couple of pints of real ale down me (why???) and got a lift home with some friends.

The next morning i awoke and thought "what a great day". I then tried to rise. Nothing. couldn't move at all. I had torn my intercostal muscles and was gripped in agony on every movement and locked up solid with inflammation to stop me moving and let it recover. A trip to A&E was called for later on. When i came back my friends started laughing - i had propositioned my mates girl with something so disgusting she would not repeat it to me. and then they emigrated to NZ and she still will not repeat it to me!

That was year 1. Year 2 i behaved myself. or so i thought.

I worked really hard. Then woke up - bright sunlight and 7am. "shit - who's looking after the pig" - thats when my wife woke and told me it had all been done the day before.

Confused. Search in youtube for spetisbury cider i am the first result. I was sent home moments later, locked my wife out and then awoke next day, refreshed and more than a touch embarassed as i simply had not learnt from the previous year and done it all again.

I am now banned from drinking before i have 6 signatures of the rest of the organisers by the Head of the Parish council.

When i awoke after our pirate summer party, to be told how i made loads of spliffs on the top table, using my headtorch to illuminate the rolling area. Wouldn't have been a problem without the 2 local magistrates, 4 solicitors and a QC all present. And my wife works for CPS so these things are frowned up (some regard them as non-legal).

Oh Magoo, i have done it again.....
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Fri 28 Nov 2008, 13:19, 1 reply)

I just typed a reply about Josef Fritzl to The Elcat's post
but my reply isn't there now for some reason. I know I typed it and clicked "post". So where did I post it? It's there somewhere.

This is rather embarrassing.
(Seance Trumpet has got no beef with a man enjoying a croissant, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 13:11, 1 reply)

Oh and another one!
I think i was about 16 or 17 at the time, but for medical reasons I had to have an endoscopy operation.

Basically an endoscopy involves some doctor shoving some uncomfortable tubey-camera thing up your ass so they can have a look at your intestines and if needs be snip off little samples of tissues etc.

At the time it wasnt embarassing as I was pissed off my face on whatever drug was given to me. I was concious though so I did know what was going on and I can remember it. Plus my dad was in the room with me aswell.

Basically they blew loads of air into my ass hole to "open it up for camera insertion" or whatever. Lots of air/gas going into ass = Lots of gas innevitably leaving ass.

I managed to hold a fart, apparently for 10 FULL SECONDS!

That in itself could be seen as embarassing, but what i said afterwards still haunts me now. I turned to my dad after said fart, open mouthed in shock at what had just happened, and in one those really fascinated childish voices proclaimed; "Wow that was AMAZINGGGGG!"

When i came round to my senses after the operation, the doctor came in to see me to check all was okay and i'd had my medicine etc. I asked if everything went ok with the operation and if everything looked alright in there. His response?

"I have never in my 8 years of doing endoscopys, had a patient enjoy the experience as much as you did earlier today"

Because normally I love people shoving fucking camcorders up my ass.

Cheers mate.
(arse_biscuit, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 13:00, 4 replies)

Bastarding Dad
This is extremely cathartic.

When I first learned how to drive, I immediately became a taxi service for my parents. I suppose it is only fair as they had ferried me around for the previous 17 years.

Every year prior to my taxi-able status, for my father’s Christmas work’s do, my mum had to pick him up, often bringing me and my sisters as we couldn’t be left alone. I will never forget being the first to see my dad wandering along a bridge at one in the morning slurping a bottle of wine and dressed as a Christmas tree complete with blinking fairy lights and the star of Bethlehem on his balding head.

So as soon as possible, my mother delegated me to pick him up. Fine. So one Christmas, I went to the hotel where the work’s do is being held, parked the car outside, and went in to winkle him out. He was predictably slewed as newt, with some of his fellow employees holding him upright. He saw me and his drunken distorted face lit up.

“My son has come to pick me up! Son, Son! I remember when he was this thigh!”

I would like to take this moment to explain that it was an NHS party with roughly a thousand people present, in a gigantic room, in the city’s biggest hotel.

My dad broke free from his supporting captors and lurched over to me, with his arm around me, and breathed winy fumes in my face.

“OK, dad, tell everyone goodbye, we are going now.”

“Wait, wait, I need to finish my drink-wine.”

“Alright dad, quickly drink it and then let’s go”.

I let him go and he ambled off. I turned to have a look around, and then suddenly I find he is on the stage with a microphone, having taken it from the compere (who had given it to him - there’s nothing like a drunken twat to entertain).

I froze.

“That’s my shon there, look at him, drove all he way here. I love him.”

A 1000 faces turned to look at me.

“Come here shon, shon, come here, sho’ them what you can doo.”

Oh fuck I thought. As I started to walk over to him in front of the stage, “come here dad”.

“My shon is a genius at the piano.”

What? Eh? What the hell are you talking about? “Come on dad.”

“He’s amazing, like a young Mozhoven”.

Cries from the audience of “give us a song”.

I jumped up on stage, to grab my dad, and the compere took my hand, and led me over to and fucking sat me down at the grand piano on stage.

I am not musical. I have never played a musical instrument. I am musically challenged. When I die, the average per capita musical ability of the world will increase slightly.

I had a thousand faces looking at me, and the best I could do is to take a deep breath, and plink, plonk as if in some sort of harmony. I stop. There is a deep, chasm-like silence. People look at me and my dad in a drunken pity. I get up, drag my bastarding father outside, stuff him in the car, and drive home.

Unbelievably, my dad doesn’t remember any of the events that occurred and when I told him the story, he claimed that it sounded like I had embarrassed him.

Jesus wept.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:58, 2 replies)

I get the bus to work every day...
...and on my way home two of my work friends also get the same bus. One evening I was freezing cold waiting with them, and a very big crowd including a few other collegues, for the bus home which was now late.

It appeared around the corner and everyone moved to one end of the stop to queue up. It went past a few feet to the other end of the stop, putting me now at the front of the queue.

In a rather loud voice I shout in a childish manner "me first, me first!" and leap on.

I remained airborn for rather longer than I would have expected, and it wasnt until I felt the thud across my chest I realised I had missed the step up to the bus and gone head first across the floor.

I looked up to see the driver staring down at me with an irritated expression, the contents of my handbag scattered all down the isle.

The rest of the crowd had to wait while I peeled myself up, my friend retrieved my shoe which had flown about 10feet down the pavement and I gathered my posesssions and what little dignity I could.

I still get laughed at today over this and it took about 2 months for the hole in my shin to heal.
( TheGirlWithNoName, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:54, 1 reply)

My little bunny's tail
I have a few answers for this QOTW, but I’m too shy for this. Some of them involve being caught when having sex. Some of them vomiting in inappropriate places. However, the most embarrassing moment of my live happened when I was only 7 years old.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I was at school, wearing my school uniform. To this day I still can’t understand why my mother would insist on my wearing these very thick wool tights when the coldest temperature was 16degC. But there I was. My belly was feeling funny, so I tried the toilet, but it didn’t work. So back to the playground. I had a very vivid imagination (still have) and I liked being on my own. I think I would have been diagnosed with Autism if it wasn’t because my friends would drag me out of myself so I invented games for them.

So there I was, thinking my things outside the toilet. My belly feeling funny. And I farted. Just a little tiny fart, you know. Kid’s fart. And stay there, outside the toilet, thinking my things (I can see myself right now, with my face of “wonderland”). Then one of my friends called me to play, and I went.

While I was walking, I felt something strange under my pants. Mmmm… I touched and… OMG!!! How could that happened!! How could that be!! It couldn’t be true!!! All of a sudden, I had grown a little bunny’s tail!!!

My friend called me again and I forgot about it.

Lunch time passed; afternoon lessons too; and I went home, thinking, while walking, on my little bunny’s tail. Until it was bath time and my mother started undressing me. Suddenly she shouted “Abe!! What’s that!! You did a poo on your pants!!!”
“Really?” Said I with relief “I thought I had grown a little bunny’s tail!”

I didn’t understand my mother’s laugh; but slowly, very slowly, I started to realize what I had done. It took me time, but for days, weeks, months… what the hell! Still nowadays friends and family come and ask me for my little bunny’s tail. I’m 28. It stopped being funny the same day that it happened.

I’ve done things that would be embarrassing for a lot of people, but this one, by far, is the worst for me.

I can’t believe I’ve told you all about it.
(Aberracion Life's getting very complicated, but a lot of fun., Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:45, 5 replies)

Red-faced brother
I have plenty of cringeworthy episodes of my own but nothing tops the embarrassment that befell my brother on his stag night a few years back.

After starting off with a bit of a pub crawl on the South Bank and getting well tanked up, we headed off to our final stop of the evening, The Comedy Store, where tickets had been booked for all of us.

A comedy club. On his stag night. What on earth was he thinking?

Anyway, about halfway through the evening, the MC said, "I believe that A (my brother) is here tonight and he's getting married next week to N, let's all give him a big hand!"

(Cue applause, spotlight shines on brother, audience all look his way)

The MC continued, "Of course, I understand he's used to giving himself a big hand, too!"

(Audience guffaws in anticipation. Brother goes red).

"And it's thanks to his mum that A and N lasted more than a couple of weeks, isn't that right, A?"

(Audience silent, wondering where this one is going. Brother goes pale).

"Apparently, the first time N came to stay at the house where A lived with his parents, A realised as soon as he and N walked through the door that he'd forgotten to hide his substantial stash of porn mags that morning and they were sitting on his bedside table with a box of Kleenex man-size tissues next to them - and it was only by taking his mum to one side and whispering to her to quickly go upstairs and conceal the evidence that the scenario was avoided of N, who is a bit of a feminist, storming out and going back to her own parents that night. What a great mum, eh?".

Well, that brought the house down, or at least everyone except my brother, who had by now gone beetroot-coloured.

Some people were coming up to him later in the bar, saying "Wow, your mum sounds really cool" (she was, and we still miss her).

Others were just pointing at him and sniggering.

This was the first time I'd ever heard this story and I was torn between pissing myself laughing, and keeping a stony face to display solidarity with my brother. Needless to say, I chose the former.

Luckily, the best man decided not to use this story in his speech, but I may have mentioned it separately to Mrs Capo, and possibly to my sisters as well.

I'm pretty sure his wife has no idea to this day (and I'm certainly not going to be the one to tell her).

And gents - choosing a comedy club as a venue for your stag night is NEVER a good idea.
(Capo, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:41, Reply)

Also, I once commented
to the husband of a friend of Mrs Chalkwitheringlicktacklefeff who had just had a baby that I thought it was really chavy to get one's childrens names tattooed on oneself (it is - I stand by my beliefs). He then showed me the tattoo of his child's name.
(Seance Trumpet has got no beef with a man enjoying a croissant, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:39, 2 replies)

When I was younger (about 9)
I was playing an away game of rugby. The pitch had a railing around it that was only about waist high to me at that age. Not noticing that there was a space to enter the pitch, we all climbed over the railings. I got my shorts caught on a bolt head and fell forward and ended up face down with my shorts around my ankles.
(Seance Trumpet has got no beef with a man enjoying a croissant, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:37, Reply)

i am the absolute king of putting my foot in it
and whilst i have many stories for this particular post, i'm still a little haunted by a gaffe t'other week.
me and the missus had stopped in a pub (on the way home from another pub) in a desperate search for food / more booze. despite being quite the worse for wear, we struck up a few immediate friendships, and our drinks were all paid for by one kindly benefactor who insisted on plenty of shots of whiskey. who am i to turn down a free dram?
anyway, i wander up to the bar, and see the bartender is shaking a little, and his balance is off. i heartily pronounce 'jesus christ son, you're all over the place. you must be pissed as a fart!'

'no i'm not,' came the reply, 'i have cerebral palsy'.
( the brass moustache putting the ass moust in brache since, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:37, Reply)

My brother's stag-night
Aren't stag-nights fun? Eh? Really?

After all, it's not as if we teamed up with a random hen party. Not as if I ended up on the dancefloor of a nasty place in Cardiff with my right hand exploring the region beneath the skirt of the bride-to-be.

And not at all as if my Dad was there, looking bemused.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:36, 1 reply)

Dentist related embarrassment
Scaryduck's story reminded me of my own private hell moment with dentists...

Couple of years ago, around Christmas time, I was stricken with a hugely painful toothache. I managed to get an emergency appointment with a dentist in a town about twenty miles away: the night beforehand, we had a friend over and spent the evening having a few drinks - a combination of Guiness and Jack Daniels, never a good idea.

As a direct result, I woke up ridiculously late the next morning, starving hungry and with 25 minutes to get to my appointment. Cue a hideously fast and bleary drive through the freezing weather and much swearing at lorries as I tried to make it in some semblance of 'on time'.

Got there only five minutes late, and the very lovely lady dentists strapped me down and had a poke about in my mouth. Turns out I needed a tooth removed, so they stuck me full of anesthetic and got to work.

Except it was all a bit sensitive, and I could well and truly feel them probing around. I made my protest felt, and they happily stuck another needle-full into my gum.

Now. Here's a top tip. Don't ever get a local anesthetic without having made sure you've had something to eat within the last few hours. Low blood sugar + anesthetic = not much fun.

Because what happened next was unexpected: full body paralysis.

Except for my sphincter.

OK, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Basically, I found myself totally unable to move or make any noise other than a panicked grunt - and then I started farting to wake the dead. The previous nights booze took its toll and there was *nothing* I could do to stop it.

To their credit, the lovely lady dentists managed to stay almost straight-faced while opening all the windows and standing well away from me.
( trumpet, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:35, 1 reply)

Making an arse of yourself
I was in a long term relationship. My long term relationships don't tend to be great as I get bored and the sex stops and then I feel bad and guilty and evil. Anyway, I was in bed with him one night, we felt obliged to make an effort at the whole shagging thing, and I decided that I would be generous and giving, and would offer him a little extra excitement to see if we could inject any kind of interest into our sex life.

"Y'know," I whispered with all the sauciness I could muster as he ran his hands over my skin, "we could do something a little different. F'rinstance... there's always... my ass."

He stopped. He looked at me. "No thank you," he said.

Trust me, the humiliation of hearing that was far, far greater than the humiliation of typing it up for this QOTW. Do not offer anal as a refusal often offends.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:33, 14 replies)

Not a funny one... (no change there then)
My Dad was a teacher. He retired not so long ago...

In the classroom next door was a bloke teaching maths. This man was a gentle giant, known for being a joker and keeping his class on the edges of their seats with moments of silliness.

One day my dad felt the floor shake and heard an almighty thump.... Silence from next door, So my dad runs out of his room and into the back of the other classroom just all all the kids erupt into raucous laughter.

At the front of the classroom on the floor was that gentle giant of a teacher, clutching at his chest, gasping and wheezing with a look of utter panic on his face, while the kids looked on and laughed.

He wasn't joking, and he died that afternoon to the sound of laughter.

So, Once more for posterity, Here's that man's favourite phrase - honouring the curvyness of a fellow teacher. "Not to big, Not to small, Just like Mrs Gallimore"
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:33, 3 replies)

A word of advice
This is based on a story I've told before.

IF you happen to be a minor ethicist, and IF you happen to be invited to a big lawyers' dinner, and IF you start sounding off about a recent and very newsworthy ruling from the Law Lords, then you would do well to remember that the person to whom you are currently sounding off might well know the case well.

He might, for example, have been one of the Law Lords in question.

Just possibly.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:28, 3 replies)

Androgynous? Moi?
This embarrassing escapade may necessitate a brief description of my appearance. Despite having a thick mane of long, dark hair - at least, longer than is currently socially acceptable for men (fuck you, Waitrose*) - I am a gangly 6'2" or so, with a distinctly non-feminine gait and a large, unsightly corvine nose (hence the screen name).

A couple of years ago, my flatmate came home looking very ill, describing nausea and a sharp pain in his lower abdomen. He elected to lie down, but after half an hour or so he had vomited twice, and the pain was not subsiding. I, fearing appendicitis, decided to take him to hospital.

We only lived five minutes' walk from Charing Cross Hospital, so I made him walk.

So at reception, because he wasn't registered with this particular hospital, and because the NHS seem to be completely unable to share information across their network, I have to stand at the desk and watch him sweat and wince as he gives the unsympathetic receptionist the details of his parents, their home address, their contact numbers, names of any pets and their medical history, the consistency of his semen, stools and blood and for what it's worth his opinion on the death of Princess fucking Diana, and eventually he is told to sit down and wait for a doctor.

We take a seat at the far end of the waiting room. Eventually a doctor calls for him. He staggers over to this chap's office and is examined. Eventually the doctor says
"We'll have to keep you in overnight. Does your girlfriend want to come through?"
My flatmate is a little confused...
"Oh...him? That's not my girlfriend, mate, that's my flatmate."
"Oh, that's fine, she can come through."
"You mean, he can come through."

It apparently took my friend a lot of effort (in spite of his swollen appendix) to convince this doctor that I was, in fact, male.

And even when I was beckoned over to this guy's office, he had the nerve to say to me
"I'm very sorry, I thought you were female."

This, b3tans, is the state of the NHS: we now have doctors who cannot distinguish male from female.

I hope he cringed for days afterwards. I was somehow simultaneously embarrassed and flabbergasted. (Just to put this one back on-topic.)

Length? Evidently he wanted proof...

*_{Shortest job interview I ever had}
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:27, Reply)

One of my best mates...
One of the guy in our year's dad had just died of a stroke. Likeable guy so everyone was a bit down, standing outside in near silence. His girlfriend was crying, huddled with some of her friends in a circle. The mood, as to be expected, was awful.

Joe was unaware of this unfortunate passing and, due to his habit of coming in late, bounced in, pushed into the circle and proclaimed "Cheer up! Who's died!?"

Even I want to die when I remember it. I can't even imagine how he felt.
(Martin1337 was trying and failing to be funny at, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:22, 1 reply)

One more quick one
I was early for meeting a friend for drinks in the west end, so I had a wander round Soho on my own.

I bumped into my parents as I was leaving a sex shop.

And they were going in.

After some very awkward "hello’s" it has never been mentioned again.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:21, 3 replies)

Putting the ‘Fux’ into ‘Faux Pas’…

I used to work for a local newspaper, and if there was an assignment that required meeting company directors, celebrities or royalty, I would have to get suited and booted up to the nines and razz about in the company Jag.

Without fail, every time I walked into the office tarted up, I would be on the arse end of a tirade of friendly, but mildly abusive banter about how I ‘scrub up well’ etc, before their tasteless guesses at the reason for my attire would be bandied about.

In the end, these jibes became second nature, and whenever anybody else smartened up I would fire the same tired old gags in their direction.

Then there was one time…

I was drinking heavily with some friends in a nearby Hotel which was our local haunt, when in walks Mark, the guitarist in our band. He was dressed impeccably, with a black suit, white shirt, black tie…and face like a smacked arse.

(Yes, by now you can see where this is going and you’d be spot on…but where the hell were you when this happened to me?)

Within earshot of about a dozen drinkers in the bar and a few friends around, I bellow out:

Me: “Oi, Mark, you miserable cunt. What’s with the get-up? – going to a fancy dress party as a Blues Brother?”

*awkward silence*

Mark: ”Erm…”

Me: *laughs loudly* “I mean, how did the trial go? Did you get off with a caution?”

At this point someone gently elbows me in the ribs whilst whispering: ”Pooflake, for christ’s sake, shut the fuck up”

Me (unperturbed): “Come on, Mark…Where’s the bloody funeral?...I hope I was mentioned in the will!…*loud belly laughs*…Tell me, Who fucking DIED? HAHAHAHAAA!”

Time then seemed to stop, before Mark welled up with tears and whimpered: “My Nanna. It was the funeral today. I told you. Don’t you remember? She died last week.”

Me: “Wha?....Yeah, right! - bollocks!. Erm…….*penny drops*…oh…oh yeah…”

The strained silence continued, occasionally punctuated by the quiet, gentle sobbing of Mark.

At this point, the decent thing would have been to profusely apologise, buy him a drink, make my excuses and leave the building immediately.

But this is me we’re talking about here…

Now, I desperately didn’t want the conversation to end like that, but finding myself completely lacking in something appropriate to say, I proceeded to blurt out the first thing that popped into my head, which was the sublimely sensitive:

“Hey ho, well…at least you got the day off then. Beat’s working, eh?”

Cue much forehead slapping by the entire bar population and Mark’s tear-splashed jaw almost hitting the floor in grief-ridden disbelief.

Alas, not even 5 minutes had passed before I had forgotten again, and launched into another anecdote which ended with a timely:

“Honestly, I thought I was gonna fucking DIE! HAHAHAHAAA!...oh, sorry Mark”

I’m great company to have around, I am.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:20, 4 replies)

Welll
The main cringe worthy moment I can think of was one that helped towards me going to prison.

Every time I think back to it I always ask myself why didn’t I just shoot Batman in the head, instead of leaving him in an easily escapable deathtrap with no-one guarding him.

Pfft better luck next time.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:16, 2 replies)

Open the floodgates.
I don't remember the embarrassment at the time. I was young. About 6 or 7 at a guess, but that is a long time ago now and I don't remember precisely.

What I do remember is that it was music class. The class room had been rearranged and we each stood or sat with an instrument before us.

I remember that I had been given a note to play. It was from a xylophone that could be dismantled so each child could play one note in turn.

I also remember needing a piss. Really needing a piss, but being too shy to say anything before our beautiful rendition of a tune that I don't quite remember.

I vaguely remember not really hearing the other kids play their sections.

I vaguely remember only just noticing the silence that descended as the room turned to stare at me.

I vaguely remember the distant voice repeating my name, imploring me to hit my note so we could finish the piece.

I vaguely remember the warm, damp feeling on my legs as I lost my battle against the strain in my bladder, and the floodgates finally opened.

I vaguely remember the kids in front of me clambering to get out of the way, as the steaming yellow stream meandered along the floor away from my soggy shoes.

I vaguely remember the itchy brown trousers that the teacher produced as a replacement for my own, urine soaked ones.

And I clearly remember cringing each and every time I've been reminded of this by pretty much everyone I knew at the time.

Bastards.
( Moey, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:16, 3 replies)

I want to hold your hand
I went for a quick drink with my other half near Victoria station (god I take her to classy places) before going on to meet friends for dinner.

We came out of the pub and I put my arm around her as we crossed the road. The path we got to was quite narrow, with people going both directions, so I moved my arm and we went single file.

I reached behind me to take her hand, but our hands just brushed and didn’t connect, so I tried again and the same thing happened.

Third time lucky, and I got hold of her hand only for her to pull it away aggressively, which is the sort of thing she would do if I’d pissed her off, but this time I knew I hadn’t.

I turned inquisitively to see what was wrong to see a perplexed looking man glaring at me and my girlfriend standing behind him pissing herself with laughter.

Still, I got my revenge later that day after we’d been for Tapas with friends and I ignored her instruction never to tell anyone that she’d whispered to me ‘these onion rings taste funny’, which led me to be completely stumped until I realised she had tasted the calamari.

On the walk home that night, it really was her refusing to hold my hand.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:13, 1 reply)

Where's the gig?
In the hazy days of Indie pop 3 friends & I headed to Northampton to see the Wannadies play a live gig.

Having had to park somewhere unfamiliar and time being against us we were walking briskly in what felt like the right direction but just wern't sure where the gig was.

Upon spying a group of suitably Indie looking chaps I walk up to them and ask "Do you know where the Wannadies gig is mate?".

The guy looks at me like I'm a total twat, realises I'm serious and points me in the right direction.

I walk back over to my mates who tell me I've just asked the Wannadies if they know where their own gig is.

In fairness it's not like their photos were on the album covers....
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:12, Reply)

PJ Harvey
I was at a PJ Harvey gig at Bristol Uni Anson Rooms in 1992. This was during her "Rid of Me" stage and the music was, to say the least, heavy and raw. Intense.

She, basically, rocked, and it was a fantastic gig. She performed songs off her debut and Rid of Me and it was amazing. But one thing was spoiling it. Whilst dressed austerely in black t-shirt and leggings, with a similarly clad backing band, Peej was wearing a pair of bright pink Elton John sunglasses.

It was distracting me from the power of her performance.

So, after a particularly traumatic renditionof Rub Till It Bleeds, I shouted, "Take those glasses off! They make you look like Woody Allen!"

Silence.

Then Peej hissed, in a voice of ice, "Thank. You."

I wished the Earth would open up and devour me.

(She took them off a couple of songs later though)

Sorry Peej... if its any consolation you still rule, and White Chalk is your best album yet.

Dktr S
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:11, Reply)

My German Boss
My company has an office in Frankfurt and I had been doing some work at a German bank. I had had to stay there two consecutive (and unplanned) weekends which I hadn't been happy about. When I had to do the same for a third weekend, my boss offered to fly my wife and eight year-old son over and said we could stay at his gaff.

This was a nice gesture, I thought. My boss was a charming and courteous German bloke, with a beautiful house with a pool, sauna etc, so it would be a very pleasant weekend. He said we could borrow his Mercedes and do some touring. It would be a bit of a treat.

Come Friday afternoon, and my boss's wife (two metres of Claudia Schiffer lookalike) went to collect my wife from the airport while I finished my work at the bank. After finishing, I went to my company's offices, where my boss had invited all the staff into his big corner office for some Champagne to welcome this English family to Frankfurt. So, there were about twenty people gathered there, together with my boss's wife and his young daughter who was drawing horses on the whiteboard.

My boss cracked out the Champers, we all had a bit of banter, and my son politely asked the daughter (in English) if he could borrow the pen and do some drawing too. Ah, it was a warm moment.

Until one of my colleagues said "Oh, I think maybe it is better if you see what your son is doing on the whiteboard."

I turned around to see my son had drawn a huge airship covered in swastikas.

Clearly, in the eyes of the Germans, this is what I had taught him to do.
(Super Jet Shoes, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:11, 5 replies)

K2k6's post reminds me...
When I was very young, I never quite understood this 'football' lark. But some of the kids used to have a game after school, and a friend invited me to play for his team (despite the fact that I didn't quite understand what that entailed).

So. Right in the middle of a game, there I was, dawdling around and not really doing much.

The ball came my way. I had an idea. I got posession. I ran, dodging my way through the lines of defenders. I took my shot. I scored!

Or at least I thought I did. Turns out you're supposed to aim for the opposing team's net.

D'oh.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:08, 2 replies)