We call it acieeeeed!
I'm telling this story on behalf of one of the woman with whom my mother used to share an office.

You know how in hard-water areas you can de-scale your kettle using citric acid?

Make sure you change the water before making a cup of coffee.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 12:18, 2 replies)

a few years ago i was attempting to enter the reading festival campsite.
for you see, my birthday usually falls on said hallowed festival.
me and my mate rich were kitted out. cool threads- check. air of barely contained glee- check. rucksack full of beers- check. bag of illicit powders and potions (for personal use) check. wristbands- ah.

for you see we did not wish to see bands, merely to enter and party with other like minded hooligans.

so it came to be that we found ourselves climbin a smalll wizened tree by the big security fence, in the dark, trying to get over. my mate drops in (with the beer) and runs into the crowd. a shout goes up, oh no! intruders! i'm half onto the fence (i'm a big chap- not entirely unathletic but at 6'3" and 17st, somewhat cumbersome?
missiles start to fly past my head, shoes, a tin of beans, empty calor gas canisters.. i can see security heading towards my position from two points, closing fast. a glass bottle smashes by my face, i decide discretion to be the better part of valour and promptly bail.
forgetting i was directly above a spindly-ass dead tree, and a barb wire fence.

so thus it came to be that i was rolling about on the muddy path in the dark, clutching my beleaguered arse, whimpering, covered in small scratches from the tree with a big welt right across both buttocks from the amazing bounce-hit tree again-hit floor trick i performed.
by some miracle, or more likely the previous entrants, the particular stretch of wire i landed on was devoid of barbs, or i'd probably be able to shit in two toilets at once right now, but i was still there, rolling about in the dark, alone, sans beer, coked off my tits, on my birthday, feeling like i hired jona lomu as a dominatrix.


bugger.
click if you think i'm a cheapskate and should have paid for a ticket to see some bunch of pretentious indie-fags in spray-fit jeans singing about sex they'll never have.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 12:17, 4 replies)

How I fell into, and fell asleep inside the crater of, an erupting volcano
I was cold and tired. We had covered four kilometres the previous day, and it had taken us about four hours. We'd arrived at the refuge, cooked some food, and gone to bed. At midnight, we had got up again, made porridge, decided it was inedible, and started climbing. We had wanted to be at the summit for sunrise, but after another four hours of dodging falling scree from the person in front with our torches turned off - the moon had been bright - we hadn't made it.

Instead, we watched the dawn from the snowline as we put on our crampons and roped up as best we could with frozen fingers in thick gloves.

The sun began to warm us. We made our move. The summit of Tungurahua - "Little Hell" - called us. We kicked our spikes into the ice and walked up the slope.

I don't know how long I lasted. I wanted to get to the top, but, with only a couple of hundred metres to go, I had to stop. I signalled to the group, untied myself, and told them that I would wait for them back by the snowline.

I took a step. Another. My right crampon came off. I stumbled. My left crampon followed its twin. I fell and let go of my ice-axe. I slithered. I could not stop slithering on the dense white ice.

R was quick. Having been slightly behind me, he grabbed my ice-axe as it passed him. Realising I'd need it, he threw it down to me.

As I descended, feet first, down the slope, the axe missed my head by inches.

I grabbed it, stopped my slide, and looked for my crampons. Fortunately, they were close. I put them back on... and slipped again. At least this time I had equipment. I could control where I went.

The wind was howling. I looked for shelter. The crater offered it, and it was warm. I found a flat stone out of the wind and not too close to a vent, curled up, and went to sleep.

I don't know how long I slept - but I awoke wet from the sulphurous steam. Climbing out of the crater, I stood in the wind and the sun and air-dried myself quickly. In a very few minutes, the rest of the group appeared. They had climbed the mountain.

And that is how I fell into, and fell asleep inside the crater of, an erupting volcano.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 12:14, 3 replies)

When I was a little I found "sweeties" in the bathroom
and proceeded to scoff the lot. My parents discovered what I had done, rushed me to hospital at neck breaking speeds where I had my stomache pumped and spent a day or 2 in observation. I was fine I don't believe that I suffered any after effects (apart from the evil turnip)

My hazy childhood memories of the incident are as follows:

Finding sweeties in a white draw in bathroom
Feeling very strange and half walking half falling down the stairs.
Leaving the Hospital with a sore tummy and throat.

Have to leave now. The turnip is getting closer
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 12:05, 3 replies)

Camping
This one time, at scout camp.

Our first, unaccompanied camping trip. Sans leaders. Get in.

We took a tent, and that was about it in terms of 'official camping gear'. The only other items we took were about 40 Kilos of assorted fireworks, a couple of crates of Skol, some bread and bacon, 5 packs of B&H.

We got to the camp, and probably because it was sleeting, -2 degrees, and dark 20 hours a day, we were the only ones staying.

We spent 2 days, launching rockets at the ENORMOUS gas tank round the back of the camp buildings. Imagine one of those large oil tankers you see being hauled up and down the country, it was that big. But quite clearly labelled with things like "GAS" and "Danger of Explosion" and other irritating stuff.

It would not, for the life of us, explode. We gave up on firing at it, only for the puny rockets to bounce off it, and for a while it was far more interesting to set them off inside the games room. Thats quite fun, launching really big rockets indoors. Its a rush and no small amount of scary.

On the last day, we climbed on top of the gas tank, and set about loosening the hatch. It was secured by about 12 large bolts. We nicked a wrench out of the gardeners shed and loosened them all.

Suddenly there was a huge whoosh as the gas escaped. We toyed with the idea of firing a rocket now but as one of us was sitting on the tanker we reluctantly decided not to.

We waited a while and the air was rich with the weird chemical they use to make gas smell. Then we lit a little bottle rocket. The air seemed to ignite but quite gently. A rippling whitey blue-ish orangey fire cloud expanded quickly and the noise was strange. Its a bit like the island in Lost when it jumps in time a bit. This wave of fire, just went everywhere, all around us. It was very cool. One of us noticed that our hair caught fire, which stinks incidentally. It lasted about 30 seconds and eventually the fire kind of evaporated upwards in a pleasant sort of mushroom cloud style.

It was all nice and serene really, but looking back now, it seems quite utterly insane that we blew up a giant gas tanker.

However, I highly recommend it. Probably not to adults, the sensiblity kicks in. But kids - knock yerself out.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 12:03, 2 replies)

School daze
Back when I was in forced education, i was sitting in the front of a physics class, must have been just before GCSE's.

We were calmly writing out notes after a practical, teacher at the back of the class chatting to someone in the doorway.

Then in slow motion, the class twat decides it would be brilliant to throw a 2 p coin across the room at full pelt to his best mate.

Now maybe i hadn't had my weetabix in the morning and had bad karma, but fate had decided I was going to be sat in-between C.T and his best mate. Cue hurtling 2p coin across room, me getting it at full pelt in the eyebrow from just over a meter away.

Now I've broken a leg, ribs, an arm, fingers, toes, you name it. But none of them compared to the pain of a 2p coin attempting to lodge itself into your skull.

Of course I leapt up to let the phys teacher know what had just happened, hadn't realised the mess I was making in the process.

As I stumbled over hand over eye I'll never forget the immortal line:

"YOU'RE HEADS BLEEDING!"

at which point the C.T had run over to try and explain the situation and she told him casually before he could blurt it out to take me down to reception.

So I'm stumbling through the school, bleeding on every surface I got within a metre of, with this idiot trying to stop me getting him into trouble for what's just happened.

Cue me feeling rather faint and him having to prop me up on the way to reception saying "SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT" over and over again and panicking.

Cue deputy head meeting us in reception, letting me know that my heads bleeding, i hadn't bloody noticed to be honest, even though I'd had it pointed out to me by the blood, leaving my head rather quickly.

If I could find a little bit of sympathy for the C.T in me, then wasn't the time, as I was a mix of dizzy and extremely pissed off. So the deputy head felt the full wrath of my dobbing in the C.T, and advised i got to hospital.

Free ride to hospital, glued eyebrow together 2 days off school, and a warm fuzzy feeling inside when I found I'd got let off the homework.

Saturday detention for the C.T = 2p. (funnily enough his excuse of "I wasn't aiming for him!" didn't wash)
Running into the physics class the next lesson and pointing at the physics teacher and saying "YOU'RE HEADS NOT BLEEDING!".......priceless.
( Laice , was Rogitating on, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 12:01, 4 replies)

Aftershave
I got my dad a dads day gift set of something relatively cheap - i would like to think brut 33 but it may have been old spice.

As i wandered back from town i decided to smell it (maybe i should have done that bit before buying it). It was a small squeezy bottle with about 50ml of aftershave. I held it to my nostril, sniffed, nothing. I had another crack, nothing - so i gave it a squeeze. Up shoots a jet of alochol stuff with scent in it right up into my sinuses. I drop to the floor screaming for about 20 minutes, my eyesight went in one eye and for about 3 days i swear i could still smell cheap aftershave. The closest pain this relates to is snorting vodka - but change vodka for absinthe and it would be closer.

It was sad that i was about 15 when i did this.

All this was to make up for the previous week when i tested the theory that a magnet could pull a pin from a plug socket. It can't. also pins don't "fall into" wall sockets. And they melt when the magnet touches them. No grand prix for dad, as he fixes the socket and fuses.
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:56, Reply)

Tourist
It turns out that walking along the Copa Cabana beach in Rio after dark, sporting flipflops, sunglasses, bermuda shorts, a beach towel playfully tossed over one shoulder and clutching a digital camera and guidebook is a fairly efficient way of arousing the Grim Reaper's interest..

Along that stretch of seafront the personification of evil manifests himself in the shape of a sweaty-toothed madman with hollow eyes and a big gun that he will wave in your face while spitting "Money Money Money" in foamy Portuguese.

But fear not!! All he really wants is a few Marlboros and a packet of crisps!! A small price to pay to cheat death in such spectacularly pant-shitting fashion!
(Backdoor Fury .. is my wrestling alias., Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:51, 6 replies)

Whilst working on my car
I was 18 & it was my first car, one of the the old 'hearse' shaped Volkswagen polo 'C's and I loved it very much. 70,000 miles and it had cost me £400 of my own money (None of my folks buying my first car for me thankyouverymuch) I had great fun with it, from local track days to just pottering round the back roads of where I lived at the time.

I had done silly (but insurance declared - I had the premiums to prove it - £1000 plus!) things to it and I was forever tinkering with it. Out had come the old 1.1 head and a rebuilt, ported and skimmed 1.3 had been put in (same block) Twin carbs, alloys, better sparks, uprated ignition points and cables, decent filters, uprated brakes and slightly stiffer gas shocks and lowered springs. I also in the latter stages of ownership added a custom built 4-2-1 stainless steel exhaust. I'd spent a fortune on the damn thing and I was throughly enjoying the whole tinkering part of car ownership, finding out the whys and hows and I was really starting to fancy myself as a bit of a mechanic.

On the outside it still looked like a bog standard 1.1 as well. I had avoided those horrendous bolt on kit monstrosities that seemed to be so common in my (then) age bracket. Hell, it even had the same amount of speakers as it did when it rolled out of the factory.
It also went like stink (well, for a 1.3 shopping trolley) very much to the annoyance of a few 1.3 Nova Sr owners and a few track day participants at the time... Anyways.

It was a Sunday morning and I was moderately hung over and perhaps, in hindsight, not thinking the best. I was replacing the front brake pads, cleaning the carbs and replacing the jets at the same time. Not a particularly hard job, just fiddly and awkward.
I was with my girlfriend of the time and she was 'helping' me by sitting on the garage bench and talking at me about the cause of last nights hangover...

I had jacked the car up at one corner on one of those scissor jacks and was working on one of the front brakes when my aforementioned girlfriend decided that it would be a good time to change the radio station, which she did by jumping in the car, crawling over the front seat and proceeding to change the radio station / Cd track. This had the result of knocking the car off the jack and onto the ground. Onto me. I had started to roll out of the way as soon as I had caught the movement out of the corner of my eye and the car crashed down onto its brake disk about six inches from my face, one of the suspension / steering arms catching me across the cheek and grazing me, This also had the effect of pinning me under the car, by my head. It was that close...

Once the shrieking was over and my father had been called from the house to help jack the car up again. I'd had to console my then partner, mostly due to two things, one was the shock of her having nearly killed me and the other was over the names I'd called her as I was pinned underneath.

Anyways, luckily, as it turns out the car was fine, the jack had collapsed under the brake disc, giving it a softish landing and giving me an extra half inch or so, so there was no real damage done bar soiling of underwear. We each had a smoke and I proceeded to change the front brakes with no further incidences. I also was now using my father's hastily supplied trolley jack which I initially couldn't be bothered to get from his car.

When that was complete I'd moved onto the carbs. I'd removed them, cleaned them, re-jetted them and replaced them back in the engine, and I was adjusting the mix and idle screws to get it 'just sweet'. The engine was running and the filters were off the top of the carbs so I could get under them with the screwdriver. I was about 98% of the way complete when I decided to have a break, a coffee and smoke and just let the engine properly warm up so i could listen to it for any obvious hitches or hiccups.

We were chatting, well actually I was re-iterating very loudly about how stupid it was of her, what was she thinking and how careful you have to be whilst working round machines and how you had to have your wits about you at all time etc.. We had nearly finished our coffee when the engine started to run off a little and I asked the missus to blip the throttle a few times while I had another fiddle with the carbs.

This is when I 'woke up' from my hangover and found myself, a lit cigarette in mouth and pulling on it deeply, hanging about an inch over a set of dual carbs just as my better half floored the throttle in the drivers seat.

I never had a chance, a large whoosh of flame engulfed my head. I fell backwards out it, but alas it was too late, my eyebrows, fringe and eyelashes had went the way of all good things and to add insult to injury - I had also spilled my coffee. :-(

I didn't say a word to my girlfriend, at least not after the initial shock - I couldn't have, she'd never have heard as she was too busy laughing.

For two weeks later - My face had the appearance of having been sat under a sunlamp for two long. Think of a blotchy, red, hairless egg and you wouldn't be far wrong.


I now work in I.T.
(uk_viper stopped lurking on, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:49, 19 replies)

Snow can be dangerous.
I had some time off from school recently, because of the snow.
This was great, as I've been working my arse off trying to get to Oxford or Cambridge in a couple of years time.

Anyway, school was closed for a few days, and I decided to give myself a break from studying, and go out with a few of my friends to make the most of the snow.

We had a great time building snowmen, but we fancied doing a bit of sledging.
The problem here was our lack of a sledge, but one of my friends had an idea.
Her Dad was doing up a Land Rover, and he'd cut the roof off it, leaving a flat, smooth piece of metal which was big enough for all four of us.

We took it from his garage and dragged it to the top of a hill in the Rother Valley Country Park, sat on it and shot off down the hill.

It was amazing! I don't think I've ever been on a sledge that went so fast!

It was all great, until we hit a barbed wire fence, and it ripped my head half-way off my body.
( Cawl, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:48, 2 replies)

Knobhead wins…..Fatality!
Back in 1993 when I was at secondary school and in the last class of the day (Chemistry) waiting for it to end a classmate of mine submitted his Darwin attempt for the year- True he probably couldn’t have died from it but for a few seconds I did think he was in trouble. A bit of background our school had a very lax approach to guarding the chemical cupboard and a number of times students would pop back from the cupboard with various flammable substances to play with during the lesson.

The lesson in particular we were doing a practical involving separating salt from saltwater using a Bunsen burner when Wayne returned to our group with a petri dish of magnesium powder. We spent most of the lesson throwing the powder into the flame of the Bunsen burner until Wayne hit upon a better idea. He filled his palm with the powder that was left and brought it up to his mouth, before we could ask what the hell he was doing he grabbed the Bunsen burner and yelled “Watch this lads I’m Sonya “Blaze . For anyone who doesn’t know who she is, Sonya is a character from the game Mortal Kombat, a game that we had been playing on at the local arcade quite recently, and our moronic friend Wayne was about to attempt her finishing move by blowing the powder through the flame and creating a fireball type effect that would have looked pretty cool (And if I’m being really pedantic not really like the move she did in the game at all).

The problem was instead of leaving Bunsen burner at the end of his hand, Wayne placed the burner directly over the powder and set fire to it in the palm of his hand. What happened next only took a few seconds but to everyone else watching the incident it seemed to happen in slow motion.

In a state of panic Wayne threw both the now burning powder and the Bunsen burner out of his hand hot potato style in the air , straight into his own face. The burning powder and the Bunsen burner managed to melt part of his safety goggles and set fire to part of his hair as well. Wayne let out a high pitched shriek that could be heard two classrooms away and dived under the nearest table while smacking himself on the head to put out the flames. The incident was then passed round school and Wayne couldn’t go nowhere for a while without people taking the piss.

I also had to ait a bit longer for that day to end as our group was also held back in detention to write up and essay about safety in science classes.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:43, Reply)

Dumb shit I have done and what I've learnt from this
A vauge, mostly complete list of what I've learnt from near death/serious injury incidents.

1)Do not ever throw fireworks/batteries/deoderant cans or pretty much anything splashy and flammable on a bonfire.

2)If you don't listen to rule 1 and whatever it is doesn't explode, don't go to check why.

3)A lighter is not the appropriate tool to check wether someone has left the gas on.

5)Spirits hit you harder than most other drinks. Don't drink them too fast.

6)Playing Halloween pranks on someone with a nervous disposition who is holding something heavy (because you've been scrabbling at the windows and making creepy noises) is going to hurt.

7)When you are in school, some of the acid that they occasionaly use in the labs is pretty weak. Some of it isn't.

8)Respect and fear elecricity.

9)Don't climb over a deep pool on a rotten branch. Thinking that you might actualy drown is horrible.

10) Never, ever, ever get in a car with someone who is very drunk, or on a lot of drugs.
(Fredz A graveyard of hopes, a dump of ambition, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:42, 3 replies)

Pepper spray
Just after xmas my friend was taking his xmas cards down, and behind one of the cards he found a tin of pepper spray (no idea where it came from)- The kind the German police use to subdue hooligans. So my mate picks it up and goes "watch this" and proceeded to spray himself in the face. He couldn't open his eyes, breath properly and copious amount of snot flowed from his nose. Some went in his girlfriends mouth who was sitting next to him, she threw up over his leg.

This is how he remained for the next five hours, covered in sick and snot and unable to see. The fun to be had when inebriated.
(javpanda, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:41, Reply)

Pick on someone your own size...
'I can make it.' said my brain.

'There's loads of room.' agreed my brain.

"Just a quick twist of the throttle and I'll be passed the lorry and away." I said to the inside of my helmet.

'Fuckingcuntyshittingarsenuggets!' my brain screamed at itself as the lorry suddenly turned across me.



"That'll be £40, please." said the shop assistant as she handed over the bag containing new trousers and underwear.
( Moey, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:41, 1 reply)

Only really cheated death the once
I was about 8-9 at the time and me and a friend went "out to play" (those were the days, we didn't have the parental fear of being kidnapped and being buggered up the ass looming over every street corner like we do nowadays). Across the road from my house was a gradual embankment that led to a forest. In the summer it was not uncommon for us to take the BMX's over through the forest and spend a few hours there, great times :p

This particular day me 'n' said friend wonder down to a stream which was about 50 yards from the house. We cross it and spy an old tree leaning next to a barbed wire fence. Me friend starts egging me on "Go on, bet ya can't climb that!" Like a little twat I accepted the bet, and the climb was on.

I did quite well actually, got most of the way up this 10-15 foot tree (it was quite dinky but hey, I was 8). That was until the branch I was standing on snapped, and I fell to the ground. Luckily for me though, there was some barbed wire sticking out to catch me by the throat, otherwise I could've hurt myself.
I ran back to me house, holding my throat as blood pissed out of it and screaming my head off. Me mum comes outside, almost fills her kegs and gets me bundled into a car upto the nearest hospital. A few stitches later and all was ok.

Turns out, about a centimetre either way and it was artery time at the Jeccy neck party. Would've bled to death in a few minutes. Oh well. 2/3 weeks later I was back climbing trees again (I'm dull as fuck at times).

EDIT; post now with "Anti Moan Spaces" :D
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:31, Reply)

Back in March of last year
I went to see Steve Earle at The Roundhouse in Camden.

Before the encore I nipped up the stairs to the outside balcony for a cigarette.

I then bought myself a beer.

Then went to go back to see the encore.

I remember being at the top of the big flight of concrete stairs, hearing a cheer and wanting to get back quickly so I didn't miss anything.

Then I remember waking up in back of an ambulance, covered in blood from my nose, my head, my lips, my hands and my chin.

The reason i think this qualifies for a Darwin near miss is that the very last thing I remember thinking was:

'Oh, my shoelaces are undone, better do them up when I get back down there so I don't trip over them'
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:30, 1 reply)

Caravan grill
We were staying in a tautoloigically shitty caravan.

For breakfast we had to make toast in the gas grill. The grill was scary. It could only be lit by turning it on, lighting a match, then moving that match to the back of the grill - then the whole of the top of the grill caught fire, and you had to pull your arm out very quickly before it got burnt.

Burnt arm is not as nice as yummy toast.

The grill was scary.

One morning I was the first up, and the hungriest, so I had to start the grill.

The grill was scary.

So I turned the gas on, crouched down lit the match, and held it just outside the grill while I tried to psyche myself up.

"That's funny" I thought "I can smell burning. The grill isn't on yet, where's that coming from"

When you are crouched in front of the grill, the area just outside the grill is just below your face.

The area just outside the grill is where I was holding the match.

I keep my nose on the front of my face.

To put it another way "the firey bit" was directly under my nose.

"Ah", I thought "the burning smell is coming from inside my nose". I didn't like it.

If you are ever in this situation I recommend breathing in through the mouth and out through the nose as hard as you can until danger has passed. Later on you may want to feel like a complete bellend.

Maybe start eating cornflakes?
(teebie jeebie, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:27, Reply)

Young, Dumb and full of...
Stupidity! That's what. I would say that most of my dalliances with death came at an age when I still harboured thoughts of becoming a super hero and my sister was a punch bag crying machine. 'Punch her in the stomach, it doesn't bruise' was the rallying cry of my somewhat misguided youth. Well, actually my brother passed that nugget of info onto me, but I fear I'm drifting off topic...

I believe electricity was a reoccurring theme throughout these gloriously carefree times. I had a fascination with all things electric. This culminated in me issuing instructions that all failed appliances should henceforth be delivered to my room so that I could dismantle them. Many an afternoon was spent with components from items such as the food blender or dads old drill strewn across the floor. My weapons of choice for the job were a small set of screwdrivers and a hammer. It was however a particularly sad day when the tv died and I was party to its disposal without even being offered first refusal on its utter destruction at my skilled hands. Dad said that there were dangerous gasses inside so I wouldn't be allowed to take it apart. My counter argument that I'd take apart outside on a windy day were swiftly diffused with a chocolate bribe. Many a situation was solved with a bribe or a trip to my room for several hours. I do mostly recall the latter being the preferred choice for my parents. I also think it may have only been a few minutes, but when you're 9 time seems to move infinitely more slowly. Anyway, back to the topic at hand.

By the age of 10 I was sufficiently skilled to be able to perform delicate work on numerous appliances. My thirst for knowledge was unerring, but unfortunately the supply of broken appliances was unable to match it. So it came to pass that I decided to disassemble working appliances. After all was I not an electrical genius at this point? Any person who can strip a blender into its component parts in under 5 hrs was more than qualified in my books.

The sense of right and wrong was very strong within me after being marshalled by such awesome parents. I knew it was right to take apart my bedside lamp, but equally I knew it was wrong to do it in view of mum & dad in the lounge. I waited until she was busy with sunday lunch and dad was mowing the lawn. A blend of ruthless efficiency, cunning and adrenalin took hold as I stripped my lamp down to a shell of its former self and rebuilt it in less time than it took dad to fill up the lawn mower with petrol and shout at the dog to bugger off or he'd set about it with the garden shears.

The moment of truth arrived and reached confidently towards the light switch. All I recall after the massive flash of light was the searing pain that ran through my hand. I lay sprawled on the floor, dazed and in extreme agony. I looked at my blackened hand with tears streaming down my face. My cries of agony had brought both parents to my aid. Although I don't recall this happening, I'm quite sure they would have both breathed a collective sigh and thought, 'What the fuck has he done now!'. Yes, I was that sort of kid.

I would like to say that was my last ever electrical experiment, but alas that would be a lie. On one particularly dull Sunday morning I decided that rather than traipse all the way to the toilet I shall relieve myself on mums electric heater in her room. Why on earth I did that I shall never know, but at the time it was practically begging to be pissed on. The smell was horrendous. Even the dog left the room in disgust. Fortunately on this occasion I didn't get a shock, but I do recall having a burning sensation in my ears and on my arse for some time afterwards.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:20, 1 reply)

I did done a whoopsy.
When I was a chemical undergrad (my first ‘dregree’, ahem), I was renowned for fucking up quite badly in practical experiment class to the extent that nobody wanted to be my lab partner. Although not totally moronic, the reason why I always fucked up was because the practical class was always on a Friday morning and the Thursday night before was the BIG night out of the week and I always got hammered and came home late, then rocked up to the class late, horrifically hungover, and probably inflammable. Anyway, this usually meant that a PHD student would be my partner.

This was good because I always managed to do well because of this by getting them to do the work and obtain decent product or whatever the aim of that particular experiment was.

Until the day that I was banned from practical experiment class.

We were tasked with trying to do some complex multi-staged series of reactions starting off with fluorite, a type of mineral. As you might guess, it contained fluorine. Not the nicest of elements. Also, there were a few PHD students missing so I was without a partner.

Due to my hungover and regular ineptitude, I unfortunately used the wrong reagent by mistake and instead used concentrated sulphuric acid. A product of this reaction was HF (hydrofluoric acid). Of course I didn’t really know this at the time.

I realised that I had perhaps had fucked up when I noticed an odd smell and that the glass of the fume cupboard had started to ‘frost up’. I called a supervisor over, and he amiably asked me what the matter was? I asked him about the glass. He quickly looked at the bottle of reagent that I had used, then grabbed me and sprinted over to the chemical spill place and smashed the fire/hazmat alarm.

Oh dear I thought. Oh dearie me. Also, my hands and wrists were tingling.

Everyone in the whole building was evacuated and a few minutes later some ambulances and a fire engine turned up. My supervisor ran over to the ambulance, dumped me with some paramedics, and ran over to the fire fighters. It turned out that once the fire brigade knew the nature of the alarm they refused to go in as they weren’t equipped. We had to wait for another twenty minutes before a specialist chemical spill team got there tooled up like a SWAT team with rebreathers.

I was taken to hospital and was diagnosed with HF poisoning and immediately was placed on a life support as HF can react with the calcium in the body to cause a cardiac arrest. As it was, I was already hypocalcaemic due to the sudden low levels of calcium in my body. The bones in my hands were fucked (they were ‘etched’ with HF) and I had to undergo treatment for weeks afterwards. I was told I was lucky to have kept them and if I had been splashed with HF they would have had to amputate.

I had caused £22,000 worth of damage to the chemistry department and that didn’t include the cost of the hazard team callout which apparently was ‘not cheap’.

It was all insured, but I was severely reprimanded by the Head of Chemistry and the University Chancellor and I was almost expelled. I was also banned from practicals and so I had to change my degree to incorporate another discipline to make up for the lack of practical credits.

However I had pulled an absolute beauty on the Thursday night before though so it was totally worth it.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:16, 5 replies)

Never again.
As there is a likelihood that a lot of the posts will be substantially reliant on the effects of copious amounts of alcohol, I feel it incumbent that I do not buck the trend.

Suddenly it’s back in 1979 and a young Porky has his first regular job. And shitloads of spare money, more than he’s ever had before. Obviously it cannot be kept or used wisely so most of it is invested in cirrhosing my liver. By Christmas of 1980 my drinking had really progressed and I was getting quite good at it. Christmas Eve 1980 was to be an Epiphany.

As was traditional in the Civil Service Christmas Eve drinking started as soon after 11.30 am as was reasonably possible. By 1:30 I’d had at least a bottle of spirits and 6 pints of snakebite. After which the party started. Suffice to say I was in a grand mess by about 5.30. Wandering off to catch the train I dropped my travel pass. After falling over 3 times trying to pick it up my poor beknighted grey cells got together and suggested it would be better to pick it up while I was down there. Whoopee I could go for the train now. With that unerring accuracy available only to drunks and those beloved of a deity I managed to find the right platform, the right train and the right seat (next to the toilet). Unfortunately I fell asleep and woke at the station after the one I wanted. I got off the train and had my first close call.

Like any good drunk I had a good sit down before setting off again. At this point I realised stairs were a bad idea. A much better idea was to walk to the end of the platform and onto the tracks. And crawl across on hands and knees without checking for traffic. I was lucky. Outside the station I used all my charm and powers of persuasion (£15) to get the taxi driver to take me home. Where I had my second lucky escape. Deciding the (shared) upstairs toilet in the flat was too far away I went for the second choice: into the backyard and piss in the drain. I was so relieved. I felt warm and happy. And sleepy. So I lay down in the backyard, on the ice (it was -3C) and got some zeds in. Fortunately my flatmate arrived home to find all the lights blazing and the backdoor open. By the time he got me in there was a layer of ice on my coat.

Lucky? I think so. Didn’t stop me drinking though, just didn’t go home alone anymore.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:16, Reply)

Dad squealed and ran.
The firework had not gone off. He went to the piece of downpipe we were using as a launchtower and stared down in.


Something was glowing and moving...
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:08, 2 replies)

Muck-filled platypus
You know those platypus squishy water containers you get where you drink from a tube coming out of your rucksack? Well, thinking I was clever I got one of those to use while working in the Libyan desert. What I hadn't anticipated was the huge amount of dust. At least when you drink from a bottle, the lid keeps the mouthpiece fairly protected. Not so with the platypus tubing - it's a veritable dirt magnet.

I sucked from the tube of doom without properly cleaning the nipple. I swallowed down the contents without stopping to ask myself: "what's the worst that can happen?".

I ended up with cryptosporidiosis. Despite what my mates say, it cannot be caught from snogging cryptographers or rimming a goat (and I was guilty of only one of those things). It's a nasty parasite transmitted through water contaminated with diseased faecal matter. The symptoms are horrendous and not dissimilar to amoebic dysentery with extra vomiting. It's rarely fatal in healthy adults but my case was somewhat exacerbated by being in a hut in the middle of nowhere with sporadic water and electric and bugger all in the way of decent sanitation or appropriate medical supplies.

When I got home I had to shit in a test tube at the doctor's surgery and my local council sent me a letter saying I was banned from all the city's swimming pools until two weeks after my return to full health.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:08, 13 replies)

How not to dispose of shotgun cartridges...
A shameless pearoast, but it fits the bill. Plus there are some noobs who may not have seen it...

I have a friend who is a self employed builder. At the moment he's about half way through a massive renovation of a building in the wilds of Northumberland - the owner is a millionaire who wants some stables converting into a home. Nice.

Now, Reg is a lovely bloke, and gave another friend a labouring job, paying way above the going rate. All Brad had to do was help out, fetching and carrying, tidying up and assisting the other tradesmen, for which he received over a grand a month. Not bad at all, really.

Did I mention that this was in the wilds of Northumberland? I did? Good.

So anyway, one day Brad is asked to dispose of a bag full of spent shotgun cartridges - there's a lot of shooting goes on on the estate, and you don't really want spent shells lying all over the place. Especially as some of them might have been duds that hadn't gone off for some reason... Health & Safety and all that. No, no, you want to get rid of them in a safe and controlled manner, like burying them for example.

Brad, though, didn't. No, being the type of person who educated himself through watching TV, and the Open University in particular, he thought he knew everything about the disposal of ballistics, and wasn't going to listen to anyone regarding the proper and safe way to render them harmless. No, his way was best (honestly, if you ever met this bloke you'd know what I meant - decent feller, but you can't tell him anything).

So he emptied the bag full of shotgun cartridges onto an open fire...

When Reg heard the explosion, he wondered if there was some shooting going on, then realised that the noise was too close for that. Investigating, he saw Brad, still peering into the fire and wondering what the fuck has just happened. His eyebrows were totally singed off, nasal hair was gone and his fringe was just a tad on the crispy side.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 13 Feb 2009, 10:54, Reply)

fond memories of stupidity past ...
my mate and i were best of friends back in the day and both restless souls. he lived in the hills just outside of town and close to an abandoned quarry, a train tunnel, a dump and a hill full of old holes and caves.

Understandably, we took these locations to be places where we could satisy every destructive urge that came upon us and many a weekend was spent alternately looking for interesting junk or blowing the living fuck out of something.

There was the time we attempted to drop home made explosives on the top of passing trains.

There was the time we climbed to the top of a rock wall and lobbed boulders at the beehives gently slumbering on the valley floor below.

There was the time we were caught in the train tunnel when the train came and we screamed like little girls as we pressed ourself agains the tunnel walls.

I am really quite sad about the bushfires that have killed a heap of people in Victoria and it makes me realise how a lot of our fun could have gone wrong.

I think I lost the Darwin Awards quite a few times by the thinnest of margins and I am getting out of the sport competitively, so it looks like my chances for 2009 are shot also.

Those times were awesome though ...
(randomscrub, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 10:54, Reply)

Sit down! Or, er ... don't ...
I grew up in the Somerset countryside, and as such climbed trees a lot. My friends and I developed an excellent method of getting up trees quickly: a long length of rope with a stout stick tied to the end. Throw the stick over a high branch, lower it down, then sit astride it. Pull yourself up to the branch with the rope, hold the rope and grab the branch - bosh - job's a good 'un.

And so we "climbed" many a-tree this way.

One day I was walking through a very large field, on a beautifully sunny day in the late spring. The skylarks were singing, and little fluffy clouds chased each other across the sky. The grass in the field was already quite long - waist-height to my nine-year old self - the morning's dew was still fresh on it, and the ground was damp and cloggy from the night's rain. The field was about a mile long, uphill, and after half a mile I was a little tired. I wanted to sit down, but couldn't due to the grass being wet.

Then I had an idea. I had my rope and stick with me. Going up trees ... I would sit on the stick ...

I put the stick between my legs ...

Held onto the rope ...

And promptly fell over backwards.


Length? About 20 feet.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 10:47, Reply)

Ooh - my first QOTW pearoast
I have to drop this one in again from the other week's school days question. (http://www.b3ta.com/questions/schooldays/post360597)

As a child, I had literally no sense of danger at all. For example, we developed a fun game, which was to climb out and move from window to window (a good two storeys up) along a ledge about three inches wide. I got very good at this, and eventually did a run of about twelve windows, ending on a windowless alcove, where I chalked some large words.

Shortly afterwards everyone was called in for a little talk. I managed to miss it, so I understand it went something like this:
'It's come to our attention that some people have been climbing outside the windows. This has to stop... Where's Flatfrog?'
'Out on the window ledge'

Further window-related japes were to be had when I discovered that sitting outside the window with a gown over my head after dark, I was completely invisible. This particular prank came to an end when our teacher (wonderful man) came in and looked around.
'Where's that frog?'
Shrugs all round. Then he notices a disembodied head floating outside the window going 'Wooooooooo'
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 10:45, Reply)

John and the Incredible Exploding Gunpowder Plot
I once shared a flat with an incredibly posh fella named John. He was great. Absolutely mental.

To say John was a bit of a ladies man is like saying Keith Richards likes a good night out. John was constantly getting laid, bringing strange girls back to the flat and doing the dirty deed.

One particular night, I was in the kitchen making some toast when John, with his latest conquest waiting in the bedroom, walks in wearing his dressing gown, he goes over to the cupboard and gets out the cheese grater.

"Alright, Spanky," said John, as he turned on his heels and fucked off back to his bedroom.

Nonplused, I continued making my toast.

The next morning I noticed the cheese grater on the draining board. I was scared...

"Errr, John, mate - what the fuck did you do with that last night?" I asked.

He looked at me with his cheeky Robbie Williams smile (aparently people said he looked like the monkey-faced twat from Take That), and said: "Spanky... you really don't want to know."

And from that moment on I never had grated cheese in that flat again, and I started sterilising any utensils in hot water before I used them.

Now, I've mentioned that John was posh. I mean, POSH. He was a proper toff. He even went shooting pheasants (not peasants like I thought he said), on Boxing Day with his old man.

And this is how he managed to get hold of some shotgun cartridges. He kept them in his draw.

A week or so after the cheese grater incident of shame, as I like to call it, John brought another young lady back. This one I'd seen before and I knew I was in for a sleepless night - I nicknamed her Screamy Sue, because it was in her nature to howl like she was being electrocuted when she was having a cock inside her.

John and Screamy Sue fucked off to his room, I settle down to watch Smokey and the Bandit on DVD.

After a few moments I heard the most incredible and enduring blood curdling scream. Fucking Screamy Sue, I thought, wondering if I could pop in John's room and gag her. But then I realised it was a masculine, manly scream. It was John.

Fuck me, that's a bit odd, I thought.

Then suddenly the flat was filled with: "SPAA-NNNNN-KKKK-YYYY !!! HEEEE-LLLL-PPPP MMMMEEEEEE !!!"

Oh, sweet holy mother of fuck! I thought. Screamy Sue's only gone and stabbed as part of some weird kinky sex game gone wrong.

I tear-arsed off the sofa, got to John's room, flung open the door-

-and saw something... really... fucking... strange...

Well, first off there was a rather sexy looking naked girl in the room, so I had a good look at her. Yes, she was crying and had mascara streaming down her face so she looked like she was a member of Kiss, but she was naked and rather hot.

But not the hottest thing in the room.

John was strapped to the bed with bondage tape.

And he was on fire. Well, his chest was on fire. He looked up at me and screamed for me to put the flames out.

I ran back to the kitchen, filled up a saucepan, ran back and chucked it on him, dousing the flames with a long sizzling sound. It smelt like burned hair and skin in John's room. Fucking horrible.

A few moments later Scarey Sue was in a taxi heading back to Kensington. John and I were in the livingroom, smoking. John was wrapped in sodden bogroll - he looked like a fucking mummy from the waist up and the neck down.

I just happened to ask John in as tactful a way as possible: "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED???"

And he explained.

Apparently, in his pissed up state, he managed to convince Scarey Sue to set fire to him. Well, to his chest hair. Apparently he got a bit of a buzz from the feel of his chest wig burning... He'd found a shotgun cartridge in his draw, broke it open, asked Sue to tie him to the bed, pour the gunpowder from the cartridge on his chest liberally, and...

... set fire to it...

*silence*

Eventually I piped up: "You owe me bigtime, fella... I don't mind saving your fucking life, but I've just seen your cock, and there's some things I just don't ever need to see..."

The upper classes are weird.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 10:38, 7 replies)

steep hill + rollerskates + cobbles = ouch
i grew up in lincoln.
i used to have some rollerskates.
for people not familiar with lincoln, there is a hill that leads up to the cathedral / castle area appropriately named 'steep hill' - it is steep.
there's smooth pavement down either side and a cobbled section in the middle.

i found out that pedestrians don't move out of the way when you come flying towards them on rollerskates on the smooth bit...

cobbles and rollerskates don't mix.
( bigshape like a glove!, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 10:37, 1 reply)

2-wheeled Fiend
I was about 6 (mid-70s), and me and my best mate used to go everywhere on our bikes (Tomahawks - I got a Chopper later and felt all grown-up, much cooler than that twat in Whizzer & Chips).

Anyway, we found it was fun to ride our bikes down a steep main road in our village (kids - born with a death wish, aren't they?). After a while it lost its edge, so we started doing it no-handed (looks cool, everyone knows it impresses 6 yr old girls, so of course we were gonna do it). Then we added a new twist - two-thirds of the way down the hill was a turning on the right, into an estate containing an old-people's home (I'm sure they we're retired Nazis, actually, given the warm and loving response we got any time we set foot in there). The twist was this - without slowing at all, you had to turn and cross 2 lanes of traffic - whilst still doing a no-hander. And to top it off, we came up with our own little catchphrase, which you had to yell at the top of your voice.

So, we give it a go. It was a red-hot sunny day, so there goes the shirt (revealing little sausage arms covered in 'lick & stick' tattoos - more things that we were convinced made us look attractive to the neigbour's daughters). We race off, picking up speed. A third of the way down, time for no hands. Now we're bombing it down this road, no-handed, and the right-turn is coming up. But here comes a red Morris Marina in the opposite direction, what to do? I do the only thing a 6-year old knows how to do, dammit - I lean my weight over to the right, make the bike cross the lanes, stare at the Marina driver as I whizz past (who I can still see, shitting himself) and scream "SCIROCCO SPECIALLLLLLLLLLLL"".......and crash into the pavement, sending me flying into a wall, lips-first - OUCH.

We shot off to me mate's Mum, who cleaned me up and said "Don't worry, soldiers have big lips - you look just like a soldier now!" (in that way that all Mum's have of making you feel like, actually, even though I look like the Elephant Man, I feel okay about it). Then I went home, and saw me Dad. "Hey Dad" I spluttered "Look what happened - I look like a Soldier!", at which point he clouted me round the back of the head and said "Don't be so bloody stupid". He'd worked out that HE'D get it in the neck from me Mum when she saw me, even though he had precisely frig-all to do with it. And then I got a right clouting about a week later, when the shop owner who lived opposite the old-people's home told him what I'd done whilst they were in the boozer, the big fat gobshite.

I see the occasional episode of Top Gear every now and again, and whenever I see a mad stunt, I think to myself "Whoa....Scirocco Special"....
(Apathyman Prepare to be underwhelmed..., Fri 13 Feb 2009, 10:35, Reply)

One spring day
I took advanced higher chemistry (scottish) at secondary school in my final year, along with another bloke in my year. Part of the course is a "research project" and due to much arsing around we were both running quite a bit behind schedule. The school had classes during easter break to help kids out before their big scary exams so we got permission to go into the adv. higher lab and finish our projects. Totally unsupervised.

The first thing that went wrong guess would be the massive white column of fire coming out of the cooking pot - which left a suspicious black mark on the ceiling. Anyone who has played around with oxidising agents may know that there is often a pause between mixing and stuff flaring. An that's exactly what happened here - with a teacher coming in to check on us in the intermittent period.

"Hey guys just wante-" then the extreme whoosh noise.

He was, needless to say, massively impressed. He had just graduated and spent his days teaching twelve year olds that water boiling isn't a chemical reaction. It was time for him to have fun.

And that's how I ended up outside next to said pot filled with various quantities of substances like potassium permanganate and aluminium powder. I was left to "guard it from the weans", because the other two had went back inside for more supplies and a small crowd of kids on bikes had gathered.

No sooner were they in the door than the billows of purple smoke started. The stuff filled this large half-enclosed car park in seconds. Then the whoosh came. Different from before: louder, more purple and not a column of fire, but more of a proper explosion.

If only it was the neds on bikes that got it and not me.
(Phase3Profit pees too much, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 10:32, Reply)