Those awful descisions you make
It was a Friday morning like any other Firday morning at that time in my life. I had gone a club the night before with the girl I was living with at the time. We had polished off the best part of a litre of vodka before going, had "one or two" in the club and had rolled in, clutching kebabs at around 3am. I probably went to bed at 4 or thereabouts.

At eight, I woke up and realised I was going to be late for work. I threw some clothes on, not even pausing to bathe. Ironically enough, as I did this, I thought "well I won't be likely to meet any women today anyway". I exited my flat, car keys in hand.

I paused at this point and thought about what I was going to do next. I had three choices:
1) Walk to work - I would definitely be late and in trouble with my boss
2) Walk to the top of the road, get a taxi and run the risk of being late and being in trouble with my boss
3) Drive and arrive in work on time

Like the complete fuckwit I was at that point, I chose to drive.

Litterally ten minutes later, I was sat in the passenger seat of a police car, explaining how I'd managed to not see the woman who I turned right in front of. I was very, very lucky not to get breathalised.

Net result: her car was only slightly damaged, mine was written off, I ended up getting three points and a £140 fine and a knackered back that still hasn't really healed, despite all this happening 12 years ago.

I've not got drunk if I have to drive the next day since then.
(ScousersPet, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 14:56, 3 replies)

Used to do a bit of travelling
Usually around the US. Love the country. To fund my travelling though I'd have to pick up work wherever I could, which usually involved menial construction jobs, labouring etc. Health and safety regs weren't great back then though (this was quite a few years ago). A lot of risks were taken, quite often people got hurt or worse. I remember on one particular job, a new skyscraper that was being built, we used to actually eat our lunch while sitting precariously on a steel girder a thousand feet up. Often ten of us or so on the same girder. Someone took a picture of it once that has since become quite famous. You may have seen it actually
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 14:46, 4 replies)

Not myself...
But my dad.

Many a time as a child, he would regail me with tales of his childhood. Riding knackered motor bikes, throwing potatos at people and mice making their way into his brothers trousers. There is one I feel fits well with this subject.

During one fine day, many, many years ago, while with the same brother who would later find a mouse occupying his britches, father was in dire need of a slash.

So, out of all places in 1960s Britain, you couldn't really find much of a worse place to take a leak.


I have no idea how taking a piss on a substation could ever seem appealing to anyone other than a diahrretic lemming whos life has taken a turn for the worst, but hell, i'm just glad i'm here to tell the story.
(Lordfudgington is hiding the expense report filed on, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 14:37, Reply)

Darwins Turkeys?
Possibly not a full on entry to the Darwin awards but still a rather funny dice with death involving motorbikes, cars, flying and turkeys !!

Righty ho. just over 2 years ago I was working in IT distribution in basingstoke, about 35 miles from where i live and as the M3 is SUCH a stupid 2 lane motorway, I decide to do it on my motorbike. so 70 miles a day of fun with no smelly people on trains/bus's, no sitting in crap traffic jams, no idiot workmates to talk to any annoy the arse off of me, just relative peace and quiet with a smile on my face.(cue plenty of ghostrider style naughtyness ripping through traffic!!!)

Anyway, as i digress about the wonders of biking !!

So 2 years ago, there I was. Last day of work for the year, my 3 boys are coming down from scotland with the ex wife for xmas, full of excitement and xmas cheer !! Now, luckily this day is a non uniform day, so in i go in my bike leathers which my lovely ex colleagues refer to as my "power ranger" suit. The office is more full of piss taking and abuse than anywhere i have heard about, but to be honest, i loved it !! anyway, Stuff it, not many of them even drive a car let alone a bike. twunts. So my employers being the caring folk that they were, always gave away a pretty good fresh free range turkey to each memeber of staff for xmas. This was a nice perk as there's nothing worse than that last crap looking turkey in the bottom of the freezer in the supermarket. The one that you can see has been kicked about the floor like a football but if you don't buy it your mrs will have your knackers on the chopping block.

So end of day, i pick up my turkey, but as there was 1 left and I was one of the last folk left, I was offered a second !! SHAZAM !! Turkey munching to continue for several weeks !! Whats amount of turkey feasts can i cunjure up in my kitchen !!

Hmmm though, just me, a large bag and oh fucksocks, on my motorbike. Plan emerging.

2 x 14lb turkeys into a bag, got it done (luckilly they were not frozen) but with the aid of a couple of roles of sellotape, then getting someone to haul the bag on me and I strap up. Bit heavy but when on the bike ok.

Now its 2.30pm, southbound on the M3, As happy as a pig in the proverbial as my 3 young sons are coming down from scotland, got 2 turkeys and already got a fridge full of the usual xmas stuff. Sorted. With that glee and happiness, cue the "ride of the valkyries" in my head. Throttle gets pulled back, "WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" goes I with 1 wheel on the ground !! Few miles down the road, i slow down (ahem to nearer speed limit) when some dozy woman switches lanes without looking WHILST putting on her make up !! The f*cking nerve !! now this made me swerve from the middle lane to the fast lane at around about 90.

Now this is where things go in mad slow motion !

As i swerve the dozy bint, this is on the crest of a hill, fast lane is now rapidly the slowest moving of all 3 lanes yet strangely the slower 2 lanes were completely clear!! Heart in mouth, ANCHORS ON !!!!!! PLEASE DONT LET MY TRUSTY ZZR GET HURT !!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH !!!!!!!

Slowed down to 40 in those few meters but hit someone up the arse. Things get even more slow motion !!

CLANG !!!!!!!

Last thing i remember was my head being about the same 6ft in the air as when i stand up, looking through some cars rear window, but being COMPLETELY the wrong way up !

15 mins later.

eyes open, cannot feel anything, start to hear things, try to push myself up but being wierdly week. figure out i'm laying down on my front in the middle lane of the M3. Manage to get up, start to feel pain down my side, Also wondering whey everything was blurred but soon figured out that my glasses where missing. turned around, looked down the hill, 3 lanes of standstill traffic. Some people standing around, some people mentioning the other driver i swerved as she almost hit some other folk. But I can guess most people sat in their cars where just narked off as they were getting late for their xmas fun !!

Anyway, where is my trusty steed? My beautifull ZZR? What has happened to her? I see her laying on her side in a puddle of oil. Over i walk, tear in eye. pick her up. push to side of road.

But where are my tukeys???????

An old chap 2 cars in front of the car I hit just happened to look up at exactly the right time and saw them fly about 6 ft over his car in a last ditch for freedom as if they knew this was their last chance before a few hours at 160deg C with some stuffing and sausage up their arse !!
He saw them hit some cars then both bounce (leaving dents in ANOTHER car) and off to the left and into a bush at the side of the motorway !! So he see's me and brings them over. "at least you still have these buggers !! Sorry, but the bags fooked"

Lets take stock
Bike, damaged but repairable.
me? 4 cracked ribs, lost glasses, torn muscles, Some cool looking battle scars on the leathers. Helmet smashed, but did I have any marks on me? NOT FOOKING ONE. NO PROOF, NOTHING I CAN SHOW OFF AT A PARTY OR GET SOME SYMPATHY/SHAG FROM THE LADIES, BOOOOOOOOOO !!!

But The turkeys? For their last flight and taste of freedom with a triple crash land? Not a mark on them. Nothing at all.

Tasted AWESOME !!

Moral of the tale !! Watch out for women drivers putting on make up !! And make sure your turkeys are secured although they are worse than escaping that the forger from the great escape !! " let me come with you !, I can see, I can see perfectly !!"

Length? 70 miles plus 30 meters flying, weight? 16 stone plus 28lb of turkey meat.
(shagbolt, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 14:29, 14 replies)

Back in the day
I was in the forces, logistics corps if you must know. This role not only involved ensuring that supplies got to the right place at the right time but we were also involved in construction as well (this was before the age of contractors).

As I was an officer I was in charge of the rank and file guys and had to make sure that they did the work on time otherwise we'd all be in trouble and as the adage goes - shit rolls downhill.

I eventually was asked to start work on a large project, one of the largest we'd ever actually partaken in and it was quite an honour! Work on the project didn't always go as planned, there were a large number of sick calls and the guys just weren't as motivated, plus the higher echelons had given us really tight time-scales, so as a result we fell behind schedule.

This caused the higher echelons to take notice and send over one of the big cheeses to motivate us. This guy was a big black dude, so he had the nickname Darth Vader.

How did he do this? He told me and the men that 'the emperor is not as forgiving as him'

How did I escape death? I was sacked due to ineptitude and sent to Endor to be captured by the rebels, who treated my quite nicely!

Although I never did find out old Darth's proper name
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 14:03, 5 replies)

The A5
Some years ago I was the proud owner of an Austin/MG Maestro turbo (fairly rare, I later found out) a truly mental car with far more power than the stone-age chassis and suspension could safely handle.

I was driving along the A5 on the straight bit just west of Cerigyddrudion at about 6 am on a fine, clear june morning when I decided to see just what the car was capable of. Silly, I know, but there was no traffic about, and this was before the advent of GATSO cameras (bastard bastard bastard things).

Pedal to the metal etc and I was flying! As I hit the 119mph mark I spied a couple of lorries in the distance coming the other way. "No prob", thought I, "the closing speed is fairly rapid but they're on the other side and I've got lots of time to slow down".

As I got within about 400 yards of them I eased off the throttle. All was well.


Then the front offside wheel blew into a million bits.

According to the marks on the road, I pirouetted three times, swerved BETWEEN the lorries and back to my side of the road before coasting to a stop, facing the wrong way and shaking like a freshly raped whippet. I don't remember the accident itself, just the aftermath of incoherent babbling and crying to the two rural coppers that turned up. I was mentally going through the rest of the route through the mountains in my mind and picturing all the places I could have plunged to my death. The shock took me weeks to get over and I was very close to jacking in my job.

It seemed that there was a casting fault that had caused the wheel to crack between the bolt-holes on the wheel, under the paint, which meant that it could have come off (leaving the centre of the wheel still attached) at any time.

On examination by the dealer, three of the wheels had the same fault, albeit to a lesser degree. I'd done over 12,000 miles in this car, transporting my then wife (pregnant with our first child), my parents, her parents and loads of mates on various jaunts.

Never drove it again.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 13:56, 6 replies)

Not a darwin award on his part.
Just sheer cruelty.

(Classy) Friend takes a slash on a night out after the 3 pint tipping point, against a wall approx 2 feet high.

I grabbed his legs and 'flip' him over the wall.

Not only into a puddle of his own piss, but also approximately a 10 foot drop over the other side of the wall.

He was okay bar a wet jacket and a slight bruise, and has still promised vengence on me 9 years on (I don't blame him)

In my defence I am a massive bastard.
(Pat_Gash, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 13:49, 1 reply)

And if anyone knows City University
We used to sit out on the concrete ledge of the building, outside the windows of the 18th floor of Northampton Hall and shout hello to the people far down below.

The ledge was, I guess, half a metre wide and we'd sit outside drunk and stoned.

Uber-crap story but the memory still gives me the fear.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 13:21, 2 replies)

Pearoast from the Captain
I have a friend who I will refer to as Jeff, for that is his name.
Jeff is the kind of guy who won't actually ask you to do something for him, he's a bit of a wheedler until you profess any sort of "expertise" in the field he particularly wants help in.
Jeff bought a bungalow from the estate of a recently deceased gentleman, with a view to living in it whilst doing it up. The first thing was to gut the kitchen, I was between contracts at the time so I pitched up to help. Ripping out 70's style wallpaper, tiles, lino and cupboards was just the therapy I needed.
Once we'd cleared the mess (just leaving the sink so we had running water)we decided to have a cuppa. I put the full kettle on the windowsill and, leaning with one hand on the bare plaster, flicked the switch.

Some time later, I woke up in casualty. I'd recieved a 240v belt straight across my chest which had thrown me over the room and I'd cracked my head on the opposite wall.
Once we decided to have another look at the kitchen, we took a real live electrician to test the circuits.

Christ on a fucking candy-pink bike with flashing LEDs!

The walls were live.

240 volt live.

Paul the electrician cut the power and we set to ripping the plaster from the walls.
The previous occupant had had a DIY bent and he'd obviously decided to add wires to lights, cooker, extra sockets and a feed for the garage. He was not as enamoured with spending money. ALL the wiring was made up of redundant wires from old appliances, held together with pvc tape, in one case MASKING tape. There were bare wires wrapped in newspaper and then plastered over, the cooker point was wired with three lengths of flymo cable in parallel NO EARTH, then spurred off to the 9kW shower!!

The whole place had to be rewired.

I wish I'd taken photos (the permanent non-fused feed to the fan heater above the bath was a doozy!). Once the electricians were leaving they told my mate "You were lucky, this place was a fire waiting to happen".

Beware buying any property from a DIY "expert", I was nearly killed making a cuppa, god knows what would have happened if I'd taken a shower!


No apologies for length, girth or stamina.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 13:12, 3 replies)

Tesco
Basically I had moved to Southport and there was a 24hr tesco - first night at the house I needed a few items - tea - milk - boil in the bag kipper and some loo roll - jazz mag - I drove down to tesco it was raining and for some reason in the deserted car park I had to park the furthest away from the doors that I possibly could! - I ran full pelt towards the doors and I thought I would at the last moment plant a full of side ways skid and slide gracefully into the stores anticipating that the sliding automatic doors would err slide open.... except it wasn’t a door it was a full length plate glass window. I shattered the panel and slide unceremoniously into a crumpled pile - my head starting to morphed into something the elephant man would have been proud of... I ended up filling in a rather embarrassing accident form and return home in a daze with tampons, hair remover and a block of cheese.....
(tarkatronic stand back I don't know how big this thing gets..., Tue 17 Feb 2009, 13:00, 2 replies)

wanna watch
I too discovered the magical force that is electricity at around 4 or 5 years old. Having been fascinated by the plug sockets for some time i wondered what effect this mysterious force had on other objects.

For my first (and only) experiment i chose my fathers antique fob watch as it had a handy and rather fetching gold chain and had been left easily accessible to 5 year old hands.
First i experimented with pushing the chain into the socket but was frustrated when it wouldn't go in.
Suddenly a flash of genius struck me. I would not be thwarted in my plans. I took the watch chain and wrappped it round aand round the television plug. Shivering with anticipation at what would happen i eased the plug into the socket. Would the watch hands whizz round really fast? Would i be able to control time itself?

What i didn't expect was a large blue flash a lot of smoke and me being blown across the room before the fuse tripped out.

The result of my experiments were

One very broken Tv
One very broken antique fob watch with a slightly melted chain
One blown household main fuse.
and one sore smacked bottom from when my parents found out.(back in the dark old days when smacking children wasn't frowned upon)

length? about 6 feet backwards
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 12:53, Reply)

Back in my younger days...
... I was quite the go-getter. I'd flirt with numerous ladies, (some quite older than me) and would generally cause a ruckus at the military academy I was enrolled in.

Anyway, my friend always played this game like snooker or billiards in the recreational area. One day, this foreign guy came up, speaking in this really drawn-out, deep voice, saying how funny it was that someone like him could play this game, and that he'd like to challenge him at it. He was quite intimidating, but my friend wouldn't refuse a challenge.

After my friend lost, he wanted a re-match. I REALLY tried to stop it going ahead, but this foreign guy and his two friends eventually came back to the rec room to challenge my friend. I warned them both off, and the guy ended up insulting not only my friend but me too. He called me a coward, to which I responded with a hefty punch. Three of these large, imposing, scary-looking (and physically stronger) guys against me, my friend and my female friend. Despite a few good blows, I was eventually subdued. Well, I say subdued, but I was stabbed through the back with a knife and had to have a fake heart implanted. I had a good laugh about it at the time though.

The moral of the story: Never, ever challenge a Nausicaan to dom-jot. Or at least let your starfleet buddies take care of their own mess.

Sincerely, Jean-Luc Picard.
(AnonyQ, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 12:19, 4 replies)

Barry Chuckle 0 - Phylum Arthropoda 1
I should have plummetted to a messy, mangled,undignified death on the patio of a $15 a night motel in South Carolina.

It was our seccond or third night in South Carolina and still weeks before i got used to the cockroaches. They were massive. Absoultley massive and they scared the bejaysus out of me.

Our third floor motel room had a balcony with a fence that came up to about my arse, behind that was a straight drop to an unforgiving, melting tarmac street. We all used to sit on this balcony drinking piss poor american beer before we'd go out on the town and woo the local ladys with our sunburnt, sweaty faces.

Anyways..we were sitting around and i noticed the biggest, ugliest, beast of a coackroach just clinging to the wall, no regard for my feelings or for the laws of gravity. I couldn't take my eyes off him and i couldn't relax. My friends didn't mind - reasoning that you cant come to a really hot climate, stay in the shitest little hovel and then get all prissy when it comes to cockroaches. Not me though, i was going to do something about this.

I didnt want to squish him because of that stuff about them laying eggs so i went for the old areosol-and-lighter combo. I put a tie around my head and ash tray ash on my cheeks so that i would look like John Rambo.
I crept up, my heart was beating and i was sweating a little more than usual, i could see his antennae moving around, i could almost see my reflection in his black exoskeleton. At any minute he would just jump at my face and destroy my life. *click* - lighter flame is lit and the lynx can poised *WHOOOOSH* our nemesis is engulfed. Now, I was kind of expecting him to just stay there and take it, to admit defeat and burn.Instead he just dropped, obviously he dropped, this caught me off guard and I jumped backwards with fright, straight onto the fence where I fell at an almost 90 degree angle over the balcony my arse resting on the ledge and legs in the air. My friend grabbed my knees and tilted me back on my feet. I went pale, I looked down at the ground about 30 feet below where the lynx can had fallen - that could have been me, I looked at my friends, all wide eyed and jaws agape, then I looked at the cockroach scuttling away into the woodwork unscathed and laughing his balls off.

To say i was shaken would be an understatement and I felt damn stupid finishing my drink with my Rambo headband and war paint on.

He was *THIS* big.
(BarryChuckle, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 12:14, 1 reply)

The Red List
I work in the construction 'game', as I have done for a number of years. We're not a big firm, pretty small actually. We don't build skyscrapers or football stadiums or any of that stuff. On the contrary the majority of our work if made up of council house/flat renovation works. New kitchens and bathrooms etc. Small fry.

Anyway, before any of these works can go ahead, by law we have to get a nice helpful list from the relevant council called the 'red list'. It being a list of potentially dangerous tenants of whom we are due to carry out works in the properties of, so that the workmen know who not to agitate too much and who only to visit in pairs etc.

On one occasion a few years back, we hadn't yet received the red list, but were due to carry out pre-work surveys of the properties to determine the scope of works required. That's my job, I'm a surveyor (exciting huh). Anyway, not having the time to wait for the list. I decided to take the risk; only a small percentage of the properties on our programme being featured on said red list, afterall. So I trot up to this respectable looking house to carry out the survey, having prearranged an appointment with the rather polite and normal sounding Irish tenant.

He buzzes me in, I walk up to the top floor where his flat is, he greets me with a smile and a handshake and I walk through the door. And that's when I noticed things were a little weird. For starters the flat was in a complete state. Well, most are to be honest but this one was different. The kitchen was a complete wreck. Stained walls everywhere, litter all over the floor, the lot. And also there was no furniture in the whole flat, which I thought was mighty strange. No beds, sofas. Nothing. The only seating being a few old cushions on the living room floor that my host invited me to sit on while we talked about the works that were due be carried out. To be fair he was a pretty charming bloke, if ever so slightly odd. Got on with him fine. No problems whatsoever. I did my survey, left the property and went back to my office. Thought no more about it.

About a fortnight later we eventually get the long overdue red list. I glance through it as I usually do. Makes for some fun reading. ' Abusive tenant'. 'Previous convictions for assault'. etc etc. The normal stuff. And then I notice a familiar address, the address of the nice but odd Irish chap I'd visited two weeks previous.

Mr X - No.X, X Road - Dangerous tenant. History of mental illness. Visit in pairs only. Known to carry a knife.


Thank you very much for the warning, Brent Council!
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 12:09, Reply)

Meh
My one and only true Darwin Award moment is worth mentioning here. Due to my own pig- headedness (And my own fashion beliefs) I chose to ignore the warnings of my friends and co-workers, and even previous employees (Our company injury book is ¾ full of similar style incidents).

It was only moments after beaming down to the planet’s surface with Kirk, Spock and company (when I was being eaten by a monster that looked like a bloke in a badly designed rubber suit) that I realised the people warning me were right….I should not have worn my red uniform for work that day.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 12:04, 1 reply)

Well there I was
A thousand years in the future.

I managed to make us all travel back in time, back to the 1950s.

Fortunately, I met up with my Grandfather.

Unfortunately, I killed him by trying to hide him from harm on a nuclear testing site.

It's OK, though, I fucked his fiancée. She was a right goer too.
(David CopAFeel Used to be The_Elcat - Spouting crap since 1970., Tue 17 Feb 2009, 12:00, 5 replies)

Beer immortality
Following on from my "climbing up buildings" shenanigans, lived in Belgium for a bit and came up with the "let's climb one of those massive t-cranes when we're pissed at night" game. That progressed into the "bet you can't walk out on the long bit at the top" game, etc etc. Darwinism in full effect.

But was this enough? Oh no no. We were beer-immortal (similar to beer goggles but causes men to think they are superman) so it became the "bet you can't chat up a girl, get her to go up with you and then shag her up there" game.
Step 1. Check.
Step 2. Check (with a lot of female doubts).
Step 3. FORGET IT YOU MAD NUTTER.
Unanticipated Step 4. How to get a very nervous lady DOWN a massive t-crane.

So, not only was I actively trying to remove my genes from the pool, I was also attempting to sow my seed and then kill the potential future mother of my offspring! Now THAT's Darwinism :)
(47_monkeys, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 11:45, 3 replies)

Advice for young people.
If you are about to ride a trail bike for the very first time, don't start it up at the edge of a quarry.

If for some odd reason you have to - point it away from the edge.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 11:25, 2 replies)

The Holy Land my arse.
When you are in a bar in Europe and you hear shouting and see people running past the window you go out and have a look don't you? If it is interesting you may even take a picture.

It was a bad idea to take that stance in 1988 whilst in Jerusalem at the height of the Intifada protests. As I put my beer down and tried to open my camera I was hit on the back of the head with a rifle butt by an Israeli soldier who stamped on my camera and put the business end of his gun to the back of head.

I am not sure where it came from but I heard myself saying 'You didn't have to break my camera, you soft cunt'.

He hit me again and I was carted off for 36 hours in the cells without food, water, or my passport. (Which I think is against the rules of hockey.)

Still, at least he didn't shoot me like the soldiers did with 24 other people in the area -including tourists.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 11:23, 4 replies)

I keep having near death experiences...
There was the time I was running along the road and I ran into a cliff, cleverly painted as a tunnel...

Then, one time I ran off a cliff without realising and made a huge crater when I hit the floor...

I've also almost killed myself with explosives, various ACME devices...

I've also had several anvils and rocks fall on me from a great height.

How I've survived, I don't know. The worst thing is, I'm still hungry.

Signed,
Wile E. Coyote.
(Strangechap I look normal on the outside..., Tue 17 Feb 2009, 11:12, Reply)

K2k6 reminded me...
... of a trip I made up the A9 many years ago.

Now, for those who don't know it, it's worth pointing out that the A9 is the most dangerous road in the UK. The section that joins Perth to Inverness is a weird mixture of dual-carriageway and single-carriageway, with not much space to overtake on the single-carriageway bits. Just after the bit that K2k6 was talking about, the two halves of the dual-carriageway separate by a couple of hundred yards, so when you're heading north you appear to be on a two-lane road with no obvious indication that it's half a dual carriageway. The southbound half is 100 feet or so above you, and you can't see it for the trees that grow in the massive "central reservation". With this in mind, it's easy to see how when you're tired and "get-home-itis" has set in, you can get confused between the dual- and single-carriageway sections.

So it came to pass that I was held up behind a van. "I'll get him after this bend", I thought, "No hang on, it's dual." <snick> and I cogged my trusty steed down one (Mercedes W123 230TE, huge old 80s bus of a thing) and started to pass.

It wasn't dual, was it?

I got back in with a reasonable amount of room to spare. What seriously braketested the car coming the other way was the chap on a bike who'd followed me out. He managed to squeeze through the gap between me and the southbound car, but he was close enough that I could read his clocks...

I saw him stopped for a fag in a layby about a mile further on. So, I stopped to share my flask of tea. By fsck he looked like he needed it.
(gordonjcp, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 10:54, 2 replies)

I'm too scared to do anything really stupid
so it'll have to be my grandad i tell thee about.

He was a munitions wagon driver during the war. His only job was to drive the truck full of bullets to where they needed them. Once they came under attack from a German plane, and in the panic, the hid...under the big munitions truck full of things that blow up. Luckily the plane decided this was too easy, and decided not to come back for a second try.
( useless_rocker twitter.com/phillipteague, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 10:50, 1 reply)

Luck luck luck luck lucky
I used to have a thing about climbing up the outside of buildings for some reason. It's possible that alcohol was involved. Anyway, there we are in a boring party on the second floor of some block of flats when my friend decides it would be a good idea to exit via the windows and do a spot of urban rock climbing.
So, I'm going along this narrow ledge when I trip a bit and fall backwards. Oh dear, thinks I, this is really going to hurt. It's amazing how your head slows down at these moments.
Luck! I fall backwards into a skip filled with rubbish from a shop, ie empty boxes, tissue paper (i kid you not) and get not a scratch. Then I try to get up and realise something is blocking my right arm. I look over and see a massive piece of jagged glass sticking straight up between my arm and my body. Missed me by millimetres.
This is technically anti-Darwinism I guess.
"Pop" :)
(47_monkeys, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 10:39, Reply)

I'll keep it short and sweet
M1

70+mph

Blowjob

Three-lane swerve through traffic

Very nearly a blumpkin
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 9:44, 8 replies)

Summer Holiday Petrol Japes
Ah, the long summer holidays as kids, weeks and weeks with nothing to do but bask in the sun, pester our parents for food and drink and watch Why Don't You.... God we were bored.
Luckily my Uncle had a petrol mower, and a tin of petrol to fill it with. So what else were we going to do when everyone was out and we were left to our own devices? It was only natural to start making fires with pools of petrol.
At first we were very careful, small spot of petrol on the patio, put the tin in the garage, light the petrol, admire the flames, job done. But we wanted more, much more, so the small spot became a small puddle, then a bigger puddle, then we covered a whole flag stone and got a bit lazy with the tin.... it was inevitable what would happen in the end.
We covered 2 large patio flags with petrol, put the tin casually to the side and lit the pool. The resultant blaze was momentarily out of control, then we realised, far too late, that we'd left a trail of petrol leading to the tin.
We watched in horror as the trail of flame shot up the side of the tin and then one of us had the bright idea of kicking the tin over to stop the flames going into it (of course we hadn't put the top back on.)
Flames literally shot out of the top of the tin to a height of about 10 feet. We were thinking that only Red Adair would be able to put them out, they were that high. God knows how we managed to control it, but we got the fire out on the tin, leaving a small fire in the soil that would not go out for ages, no matter how much water we put on it (the petrol must have really soaked in around there.)
We tidied up as best we could, put the tin of petrol back in the garage, cleaned the scorched patio, and then ran off to hide. When my Aunt came home it took her all of 5 seconds to realise what had happened - the whole house reeked of petrol. Then she looked at us and laughed. We all had singed hair, eyebrows and eyelashes - we hadn't realised. We got away reasonably lightly, although my eyebrows still have patches missing, over 20 years later, but looking back it could have been a whole lot worse. Happy Days!
Length? Longer than my eyelashes!
(jrabrfc, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 8:50, 1 reply)

Double Points!
In the school days QOTW, I wrote about a mental teacher I had called Mr Bod. He was an old-fashioned physics teacher who was always blowing the shit out of stuff waaaay too near us.
As many stories as there are from our class, I have instead decided to tell you a story that he told us, warning of the dangers of electricity.

He and a friend used to have an allotment, where they grew organic veggies, because he thought Tesco was evil. In the middle of the allotment was a pylon.
Mr Bod walked back to the car to get some tools, his friend stopped to scrape mud off his boots with a trowel. He held the pylon to keep his balance, while scraping the mud.

What Mr Bod saw was his friend with his hand on the pylon, shaking about, and assumed he had been electrocuted, causing his hand to grip the pylon.
So he did what all good friends would in the situation...he ran full pelt and twatted his friend with a shovel.
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 7:36, 7 replies)

I told Chuck Norris to stop his jibba jabba.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 7:29, 1 reply)

Not sure if this counts
Because it wasn't the fault of the person it happened to, but it'd certainly be a ridiculous reason to die.



My old maths teacher used to tell a few stories concerning the time he spent in the navy, and this one stuck in my mind:


Every so often (he said), the top brass would decide that things were getting a little slack below decks, and would decide an excercise was in order. This story concerns a gunnery excercise.

My teacher was a radar technician. His job was to cabilbrate the radar readings so that the guns would focus their fire onto one specific target.

(To go back a bit, I should describe the nature of this particular excercise. A small aircraft was detailed to fly by the ship several times, while trailing a large and radar-reflective target on a long wire behind it. It was this that the guns would aim at).

Unfortunately, my teacher was rather good at his job. So were all the other technicians.

So good, in fact, that the radar-guided guns didn't just register the target they were supposed to. They registered the wire it was attached to as well.

I should also point out here that the gun control rooms were deep in the ship - they couldn't see the plane or hear the pilot. This will become important shortly.

The shells from the guns started aiming at the wire. Slowly, slowly, slowly, they got closer toward the plane towing the target. When the pilot realised this, he radioed the ship to ask them to stop it before he was shot out of the sky by the guns (incidentally naval guns are fucking big - it dosen't take more than a few hits to take out a light aircraft so the pilot's concern is considerable by this point).

It was then that the second problem became apparent. You see, the command to cease fire is not quite that simple. There are procedures to be followed. For a start you never use the word "fire". That is reserved for the more serious occurance of something combusting onboard ship. The command used in this case is "shoot". To be certain that what you hear is what was meant, the command must be given clearly (by a person with the appropriate authority) three times. The relevant command here would be "stop shooting, stop shooting, stop shooting".

As I say, here is where the second problem came into play.

The chief petty officer in charge of this excercise had a stammer.

The more serious the situation with the plane got, the harder the officer tried to say the necessary words. And the more he stammered.

I'm informed that the pilot was hysterical, the officer was nearly unconscious and the shells were a few feet from the plane when someone higher up the chain of command was finally called in to give the order to stop...
( MatJ LOOK, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 2:27, 4 replies)

I was staying at a friend's house
And after some good old whiskey-fuelled romping (with HIM), we decided that we were starving, so we went downstairs to make food. We popped the oven on and started raiding the fridge. Then decided we wanted a parmo.

So off we trot to the local parmo eaterie, and brought it home with us, proud as punch.

After gobbling it up, we attempted more sex (we really were just friends, though) but couldn't be arsed. We couldn't even be arsed having a fag, just went straight to sleep.

We were woken the next morning by his nana (crazy woman) beating the shit out of us.
We'd left the oven on, gassed ourselves knackered, then pissed off to sleep for 14 hours. Whoops.


We also managed to finish a bottle of Teachers between us another night, and went to the shop for more, sober as judges. By the time we got back in, we were paralysed, and according to his mum, we'd left the house, slurring something about being sober, declaring that we were off for 'whishkey' and promptly fell over the doorstep.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 2:17, 2 replies)

Practically every day...
I live in London and often take the tube to wherever I'm working. At rush hour. From Liverpool Street.

If you're unfortunate enough to be the last person unable to squeeze on the train that's about to pull away, you are left with your toes less than an inch away from the platform ledge, and live track, with hundreds of people behind you all jostling for position as the next train hurtles towards you.

I felt safer the time I crashed my motorbike under a bus.
(Sloppy Giuseppe, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 0:12, 2 replies)