My first boyfriend - a long story
We were in year 11 at school and had been friendly for a couple of years beforehand. We were part of a loose geeky clique and along with my actual undisguised fondness for learning, fondness for heavy metal and general disregard  for boys and fashion generally made me and that group social lepers. But hey, I had been a social leper since primary school.

So we got together as a result that we actually liked each other's company and could talk about stuff like sci-fi and plans for the summer.

  So Steve* and I got together and at first it was fun. Both sets of parents approved (even if our brothers hated it), we spent much time round each others houses and it made us feel good.

 Now I had never bothered much with boys, finding that they eitherwere indifferent or hostile or creeping stalkery, reckoning to hang on to University. But I was surprised at how good he made me feel. 

Now until then most comments made about my appearance were in general negative such that if they were all to be believed I would have resembled Ctullu's younger acne-riddled sister with the personality to match. However I owned a mirror what I actually saw was a short person with long red hair, glasses, a little flat chested (but perfectly formed), well covered and pre-babies a 25" waist. So although I wasn't likely to be on Britain's Top Model I did not resemble a reject from Deliverence which was what a scary number of people at school DID look like. As for Steve he was no oil-painting and slightly overweight but I knew that and he did look presentable when he scrubbed up. Besides I didn't go out for his looks, I went out with him because I felt so good to be myself around someone.

It was the summer of 1995 our GCSEs and we did the usual teenage first love things like promising to stay together for ever etc. I did get to learn about how to refurbish boats ( they were very into boats) and spent 5 weeks in the summer on canal boats with his family and friends. Much running about, swimming in rivers and exploring unexpected corners of England followed. I do recommend trying canal-boating as there are so many places you can only see from the canals but I digress.

But all good things come to an end. I decided to go back home a week before our GCSEs came out, a combination of quitting when ahead and missing things like fridges, baths and ice-cubes all of which are in short supply on a narrowboat. Then the GCSEs came out. I did OK by my standards - 9 A-Cs and in the top 5 of the year while Steve did better than expected, but was he happy? Naahh. I didn't deserve my grades because I was a girl and everybody knows that boys are discriminated against in education.

I didn't think too much about that since he did tend to have the odd bout of paranoia and depression brought on by relentless bullying at school although I thought it was a bit rich aiming it at me. Still we had our post-exam celebrations and I took him on a trip to London where we did the sights of the Big City and he even convinced me he had enjoyed himself.

So sixth form came along and with that the good riddance of the dead-heads and the joys of free periods where we got round to furtive teenage experimentation at my house before anybody else came home. Even with this fun and frolics Steve became more miserable and paranoid. He gave up washing and embarked on a regime of compulsive overeating with predictable results. Naturally I was concerned by this but attempts to get him to come out with me, go to the gym with me along with washing and wearing clothes that still looked like something was wearing them was met with sulking and accusations that wanting to do anything in company was a sign of weakness.

Still the furtive experimentation continued along with the less furtive experimentation of finding out what was wrong with Steve. Que me entering counsellor mode (-a place I have been to too often) where I tried to talk through the problems. This revealed to me that I was irritating, needy ( ie wanting to do things OTHER than clandestine tomfoolery together), demanding and thinking I was smarter than I really was. I agreed I had my faults but strangely when I tried to discuss his faults he was silent.

So I did start a mental tally as to why he was my boyfriend:

1. He is convinced that I am stupid, needy and has ideas above my station.
2. He is critical of my protogoth- metally style of dress while he dressed like a 1970s trainspotter who hadn't washed since then.
3. Critical of MY figure, well BOTH his cleavages were bigger than mine. Not to mention hairier.
4. I have a VERY high embarrassment threshold ( I did LARP for instance) but am getting embarrassed to be seen with him.
5. I am not happy in his company.

WHY AM I STILL HIS GIRLFRIEND?!

So I dumped him. Strangely he was surprised by this? But it turned he was only with me because he wanted to dump the dreaded V-plates then dump me.

*name changed to protect the guilty
(Cockroach-Sombrero Cook Pass Babtridge, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 19:54, Reply)

Crime against hair
I have no hair - it's a crew cut if you will.

However, back in the day, I have commited two serious crimes against hair.

1. I had a "High top" - shaved back and sides - I looked like Will Smith. So I thought. I looked more like Carlton.....
2. I had that little tuft of hair at the front of my head - like Jonah Lomu. No, Like a tit. I even used to use gel to "spike it up"

The crew cut is far, far better - I wish I knew of it when my hair started to mutate....

Oh the shame....
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 19:36, 2 replies)

The post about the mills bomb reminds me
when I was 18 I took a howitzer shell off a ww2 wreck, for no good reason. After a bit of monkeying around I defused it (I think) and then, not really having a day to day need for a possibly defused howitzer shell, I shoved in a box up the loft.

And there it stayed. It was like a physical manifestation of a dirty little secret, out of sight and mind. Every now and then I'd remember the fucker and get a bit of a sinking feeling, thinking 'I really really ought to do something about this'.

The bugger even moved house with me 5 times. Marriage, the birth of my first child, the howitzer shell stayed with me.

Finally, after 16 years of constant companionship, I got round to talking the wee fella on a fishing trip and dropped over the side.

Sleep tight my friend.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Wed 29 Sep 2010, 19:22, Reply)

floppy bits
when my consultant said "don't worry about all the loose skin you'll have after the weight loss surgery, the NHS will give you a tumy tuck", i believed he was right.
what WAS i thinking?
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 18:57, 4 replies)

I got a lawnmower at Home Depot
He doesn't understand english
(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 18:49, Reply)

In my more reckless youth...
A bit of pea, but it kind of fits.

When I was a mere 18 year old and still living with my parents my dad had arranged for my mum and him to go on a British Legion trip to Ypres.
On the morning that they were due to go, my dad woke me at 6am telling me that my mum didn't really feel all that well and that I'd be going instead.
Being the British Legion, I expected a long and boozy day so I jumped at the chance...and in fact, that's exactly what I got.
I phoned my girlfriend from Dunkirque (sp?) (eventually, after lots of French people decided that they didn't speak English when asking for a phone card) to let her know that I wasn't going to be able to pick her up 2 hours earlier.
We carried on and got to Ypres, witnessed the last post, saw the HUGE arch etc... and then after yet more drinks, went to the trenches.
Walking along, I saw a lump of mud that looked just like a hand grenade, I said, "That lump of mud looks just like a hand grenade" to my dad, and then picked it up. I flaked chunks of mud away, and low and behold! A WWI Mills Bomb (as I have since discovered that is what they are called).
"Put it in your pocket and shut up" replied my dad. Being slightly inebriated I did just that.
To cut a long story short, a few hours later, a very pissed up me turns up at a mates house who's dad just happened to own a B&B with a hotel bar, banging on the door with two crates of lager (duty free) balanced on each shoulder and a bloody hand grenade in my hand.
They wouldn't let me in unless I deposited the hand grenade at the end of the garden.
The next day, my old man takes the grenade and goes, as usual, to the British Legion club. He pushes the door open and hurls the grenade through to the bar shouting "Incoming!". Cue much pissed off and mostly horrified old piss heads.
Once back at home, I set about trying to get the grenade apart in a vice. I couldn't do it, it was rusted solid after sitting in wet mud for the last 80 years, so I cleaned it up. With a wire brush.
The next day was a Monday, so I was back at work. My dad phones me at work about half way through the day to tell me that the grenade had started leaking, so he had put it in a bucket of water. Not sure what that would do, I'm pretty sure if that was all it would take to defuse the things then there wouldn't have been quite so many deaths in the first world war.
He also tells me that he tried to take it to the army barraks about 3 or 4 miles from where we lived, but when he got there the bloke on the door (civvy) was a mate of his and thought he was having him on, and so wasn't taken seriously.
After the phone call he took it to the local police station, where, of course, the copper knew my dad and also didn't believe him, "Ok...so where is it now then?" asks the copper in a way that suggested he thought a trick was being played on him.
"Here." says my dad, and puts it down on the counter.
The copper couldn't get away fast enough!
Eventually, the bomb squad is called (and after a quiet word, my dad is assured that I'll not be in any trouble for finding old war artifacts 'in our garden'), they take my dad and my sister to a local field, put semtex (sp?) around it and get my sister to touch two wires together and blow the thing up.
It through nails everywhere, bits of glass etc... (nasty fucking thing by all accounts) and left a bloody great crater in the field.

So, yeah, what the F*** was I thinking smuggling an 80 year old, quite possibly unstable, unexploded bomb across two borders and on a ferry with 1000+ people on it?

I have no idea but, now much older........I'd do it again.
(dchurch bah, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 18:47, 1 reply)

Every time I scratch my ass
I sniff my finger

Why? Every time I do, I regret it.
(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 18:36, 6 replies)

Kilimanjaro
Just got back from climbing it a few days ago and at the time of the trek I was thinking "What the hell am I doing?!" as it was the hardest thing I'd ever done (and will probably remain the hardest thing I'll ever do) but, on reflection, I am so glad that I did it. It's the best decision I've ever made, it's helped me to learn more about myself and have more faith in my abilities. Plus my mates and I have raised, so far, almost £12,000 for Everyman, which is an amazing feeling in its own right! If anyone here gets a chance to do it, I'd recommend it.

Sorry it's not really keeping on-topic but I just had to share that with everyone!! :)
(RVD420 has his world coming down on, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 17:53, 6 replies)

Sawed open a shotgun cartridge to get the explosives out
In hindsight this was a foolhardy move as I'd no real idea where the exploding stuff was in relation to where I was cheerfully sawing, and could easily have removed a few fingers if it decided to go *bang*

As it turns out, it's not gun powder they put in there, but some beige pellets that look like sweeteners - which still burn fairly rapid.

Being 12 at the time is a better excuse than being drunk I suppose.
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 17:44, 2 replies)

Not my decision, but I was involved...
When I was a mere slip of a lad, maybe 13 or 14, I went on a summer "Outward Bound" camping week with my school. This was in the Sussex countryside, and we did all the usual things: climbing, canoeing, orienteering and so on. One night, we did night maneouvres - orienteering in the dark.

Now I freely admit that, as team leader, I cocked up and we got rather lost. It was a misty night, and we were a little way from where we should have been. Perhaps half a kilometre or so, nothing major. But this was a mistake that nearly cost us dearly, as we only noticed the edge when we were about a metre from it.

The edge. As in the edge of Beachy Head. A rather well-known 162 metre high cliff. That's 530 ft (for the Merkins) of sheer, ball-shrinkingly terrifying verticality.

What the FESTERING LEFT-HANDED WANK were they thinking, sending a bunch of kids out on night manoeuvres, in poor visibility, on BEACHY FUCKING HEAD????

.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 17:25, 5 replies)

If you've met a girl in a night club,
shared several drinks, danced with her a couple of times, and even done that mouth/tongue thing all the cool kids seem to be doing these days, you should still tread with care.
If you need to go to the toilets to vent some bladder-juice, simply say "I'll be back in a minute". If you have to be amusing, try saying "I'm just going to powder my nose" or "I'm going to point the pink pistol at the porcelain firing range".
Don't say "Don't go anywhere, I'm just going to fish my lucky rohypnol out of my sock".
Yes. I did. And yes. She'd gone by the time I got back. The doorman was looking at me with surly inquisitiveness in his eyes, too. It's not like I can even afford rohypnol. Not that that matters, it's free on the NHS for me.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 17:21, 5 replies)

I once paid a Bosnian hooker and her friend $10000 to have sex with me thinking she wouldn't tell the press.

What was I thinking ?

David
(ukraine space monkey, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 17:00, 1 reply)

mmm toast
Our student house was plagued with mice, we used to stay up until the wee hours off our knackers on goofballs shooting them with water pistols.

We also had no money and lived mainly on porridge and/or toast. The financial situation was, I now realised, probably due to the amount of goofballs we consumed.

Come the end of the year we decided that we would actually like our deposit back for a change so we all mucked in cleaning the house and all the landlord provided electrical appliances.

When it came to cleaning the toaster we couldn't open the crumb tray to empty it so I thought it would be a good idea to hold it upside down and shake it. After about five minutes of crumb snowstorm something mouldy and charred plonked out onto the kitchen surface.

Upon closer inspection it turned out to be the charred and mouldering remains of a small rodent. God knows how long it had been there. £50 bond was not enough to cover the feelings of disgust that continue to this day when I think of how much rodent infested toast we ate
( shitkicker, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 16:58, Reply)

This one time
Some friends and I decided it would be an absolutely phenomenal idea to make a flamethrower. I say my friends, but I do them a disservice as I was in fact the architect and driving force behind the idea.

Having observed that spray paint creates a foot-long yellow flame when applied to a cigarette lighter, and that deodorant creates one about half the length and blue, I was much enamoured of the idea of sticking a metal pole on the nozzle and seeing if, by concentrating the blast of deodorant, I could create a weaponized spray can. I have no idea what I was expecting to achieve, to be honest.

In any case it ended up with one man at one end of a two-feet long hollow pole wielding his can of Lynx Africa, and another at the other end with a lit match, and myself holding the pole up with both hands and one glove on in a pathetic nod to safety. I haven't the first clue about the physics of what happened next but a firestorm erupted in front of me, a tongue of flame shooting from the match backwards towards the deodorant end of the pipe. My hands, of course, were neatly contained within the inferno and I dropped the pole like it was on fire, which it was.

One red and blistered left hand later, I had learned an important lesson in not being as thick as pig shit.
(StapMyVitals wouldn't mind a bit of that, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 16:40, Reply)

Trying to be happy.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 16:14, 5 replies)

two words....
Brillo & Tefal

let me assure you people, these two words do NOT mix
(Anne Frank started to build a loft conversion on, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 15:48, 3 replies)

Brushing teeth and Showering
In a misguided attempt to save valuable minutes in the morning routine I took to brushing my teeth in the shower..

worked well for a coupleof days untill..

.. I bleary eyed put too much toothpaste on the brush..

foamed a bit too much.. so it started actually falling from my mouth..

some fell right on the tip of my knob..Minty fresh? I think not..stung like feck.
(wankymcwankwank Eels, tobacconists, hovercraft and bouncy bouncy., Wed 29 Sep 2010, 15:34, 9 replies)

Time for me to roast my first ever pea
When I was young and stupid - as opposed to now when I am old and stupid - and horny, I hit upon the idea of using washing-up liquid as wanking lubricant.

NEVER, EVER DO THIS!

It stang. It stang. It stang. IT STANG LIKE A HORDE OF FIRE ANTS HURLING THEMSELVES GLEEFULLY UP MY JAP'S EYE.

I screamed. I SCREAMED.

The pain faded gradually over 2 days and I was too scared to wank for at least a week.

WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?!?
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 15:17, 10 replies)

Not your typical I didn't shag someone story
Sorry about the length, skip to the end for the digested read:

So wavy lines and all, 5 years or so ago I was travelling on my own through Thailand, I started in Bangkok and after a few miserable lonely days there I hopped on a train to Chaing Mai, this is about 16 hours long and provides beds, food and beer. Where I finally met some people, A slightly mental Brummie (he's another story), a fit, American girl and a hideous, ginger, Aussie Sheila. So after staying up drinking with the 2 ladies who were sort of travelling together, the Thai train attendants turned our seats into beds. We carried on drinking I carried on being charming until everyone was ready for bed.

So guess which one crawled into my bed minutes after I had got in myself. Nope it wasn't the attractive, funny, smart septic, it was the Aussie.

"What you doing?" She grunted.
"Nothing just looking at the stars watching the jungle go by, but it's making me tired, but I can't sleep because I'm missing my girlfriend." Trying to sound as disinterested and tired as possible.
"Yeah, it's really romantic" She said grabbing my hand, obviously grasping subtle hints not being one of her strong points."I really like holding hands," she whispered into my ear "What do you like?"
I looked at her and said "Blowjobs!"

I don't know why I thought that would turn her off, in my drunken state I had already lied about having a girlfriend back in England, I didn't want to tell one of the first people to be friendly to me in days to fuck off, but I thought that something so crass like that would make her think twice and bugger off.

It didn't within seconds she hand her hands in my pants and was swinging her pendulous udders in my face. Everytime she tried to kiss me I kept on repeating "I have a girlfriend it would feel like cheating if we kissed but you know, that's not cheating" and I would sort of encourage her head down again. I didn't really want to kiss her, and even less so after her mouth had been round my cock, but I was drunk and getting really horny and turned off in equal measures, so finishing seemed like a pipe dream. Eventually after spurning her attempts at kissing one time to many she gave up, went to her bunk, I had a posh wank and tossed it out into the Thai countryside (sorry Thailand).

The next morning I wake up complete with massive hangover and sense of shame and meet her again and her son, she was travelling with her six year old son, who was sleeping a couple of feet away while she was licking my love pump the night before, she probably kissed him goodnight with the taste of my cock still on her lips. That made me feel like a bigger twat than before.

Unable to look her in the eye, and any attempts to talk to the American girl were swiftly blocked by the territorial antipodean. In the end I ended up befriending her son, who was cool. We stayed travelling together for a few more days, it was hard to say no, and I continued to spurn her advances.

As we approached our final night together, I had mentioned that I was going to be in Melbourne around Christmas time, so she invited me to her house for Christmas. I instinctively wanted to say no, but I had actually become quite close to her son, and he was clearly lacking a father figure, and it broke my heart to say no to him. So I promised him I would visit him.

So fast forward a few months and I visited their home in the Aussie sticks, where possum hunting was rife, and hygiene still a myth. After meeting her racist, but welcoming family and seeing her son turn into a spoilt little brat, by the third night in a row of having been woken up in the middle of the night by her, scantily clad prodding me with her finger and wanting to "talk", I found myself thinking "What was I thinking?" I was trapped with these bogans, with no way back to civilisation without their assistance. I felt like I was being held hostage there until I agreed to marry her. After 5 days of this hell, I was finally taken back to Melbourne, all limbs in tact and no physical only mental scarring.

I do feel bad writing this, because they did welcome me into their home, cook for me and look after me, they weren't all bad, but it really was an unpleasant experience and one that I should have seen coming, but I thought Christmas with a family would have been better than sitting on my own in a hostel feeling homesick. I was wrong.

Summary: Women throws herself at me I don't have sex with her I didn't regret it.
(Little Animal Disaster isn't finishing what he started, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 14:57, 4 replies)

"Why don't I dye my shoulder-length hair green?
"It will look cool, and show the world how rebellious and devil-may-care I am."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 12:55, 2 replies)

"I wonder what my own diarrhea tastes like?"
"Think I'd best try this in the bath, it could get a tad messy."
(MrOli is ugly, but in the morning you will be sober, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 12:47, 10 replies)

Ian Dury's playing at the Warwick Arts Centre
I'll wait as he's playing in Birmingham shortly..
(Chuckman, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 12:25, 6 replies)

Toaster Electrocutions and Similar Musings
I read the previous QOtW's and laughed at how silly they all were and how I, as the superior specimen, have never regretted anything that I've done and have always considered each scenario and outcome before expertly executing a well-thought out plan.

Then my memory jolted into a deep regret that I once bleached my mind of.

I was younger, about 15 (my only and rubbish excuse). I was in Malaysia, a country where no electrical circuit is earthed and air moisture can be around 100% during the rainy season.

The bread was stuck. It was burning a lot and was ready to supply the toaster and kitchen units with some of its burny-ness if no action was taken. "A Knife!" I thought. I promptly plunged my hand into the unorganised, jingling cutlery draw and drew out a small, pointy, metal knife.

I would first try the straight 1-2 approach; spearing and withdrawing it as a Spartan Warrior would - quick and painless. The motion proved effective but the toast simply slid off leaving an oily residue. This toast would not best me, I thought and tried again, with more furvence and aggression than before, *clink* the little, oily knife sprang out of my hands and fell in the toaster.

Mildly set back, there was now some burning toast and a small metal knife in there. Of course - the toaster was still plugged in. I was too involved in Spartan bread strategy to worry about plugs.

I know: I would try and launch up the ejector seat and fire out the toast and knife like a flourded-shrapnel cannon. The trigger-job was pulled all the way down, then heaved up with all my force. A scraping, metallic screech prefaced the knife lodging itself into the heating element (which, due to the depression of the trigger was now ablaze with 'lectrics and heat) and the toast wrapped its seedy-self around the knife in big, cozy blanket of annoyance.

"Ok so, let me think. Metal is magnetic, so all I have to do," (as I wink to myself thinking how clever I was) "is use a magnet to draw up the knife! Genius. So off I trot and raid the 'Science Experiments' kit for the magnet and there I stood. Me, the proud magnet (proud and strong) and the toaster, which was now quite angry at the bread and knife splinter inside of it. But wait. How can I get the magnet in, and back out? Surely once it’s in it will attach itself to the belly of the toaster? I NEED ANOTHER KNIFE! Archimedes would have been proud. I would attach the magnet to another, larger knife and stab the construction into the toaster. But before I do? The magnet might jump off the larger knife onto the internals of the toaster pulling everything with it - and electrocuting me! I can't have that, ok so I need to glue it on? No, the glue wouldn't set in time and would ruin the knife. Celotape? That would simply melt, as to get any leverage on the jammed-in bread the toaster button needs to be depressed, so that wouldn't work. It needs to be secure but detachable. I know - Clingfilm? No, again it would melt. This tinfoil will do just fine.

I psyched myself up, pressed the button labelled 'cook' and I then tried to fish out a small metal knife, wedged in the heating element of a 'lit' metal toaster covered in blackened toast, with a magnet on a larger metal knife, wrapped in tinfoil, clutching at it with the combined force of my quivering middle and ring-fingers (as they were the only ones that would reach).

I woke up 30 minutes after when luckily my parents got home. Cried, and asked that we don’t have toast for a while.
(Cogentesque, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 11:39, 10 replies)

Changed my life..didn't really mean to..
Moved from my country of origin.. Was working 3 jobs at the time, none of them were jobs I could see myself in on a long term basis..

By pure chance I met an old friend at a new years party..hadn't seen him for about 6months but wasn't really sure why..

Conversation went some thing along the lines of..
--blurry lines, drinks had been consumed--

Him: Hey, you like computers dont you?
Me: Yeah, I guess - they're alright
Him: Why dont you apply for this job that I know is coming up in about a months time..It's in Ireland (Not where I'm from) - You might just get it.
Me: Sure I'll send you my cv.

2 Months Later.. I had a rucksack, an overpriced and TINY bedroom on the outskirts of Dublin..But more importantly I had what I'd at the time considered a proper job (Technical Support).

I thought to myself.. I can do this, six months... then it's on to Uni back home.

That's now about.. 8 years a go - and I've just married the Girl (now woman) that Interviewed me at my very first job here in Ireland..

Fantastic...

Uni? What was I thinking..
(wankymcwankwank Eels, tobacconists, hovercraft and bouncy bouncy., Wed 29 Sep 2010, 11:32, Reply)

Only with a knowledge of ballistics did we see the error in our ways.
There are many examples of general stupidity by me and my friend as children, but the one that immediately comes to mind is that we would obtain gunpowder from live ammunition. As a former gunshop owner his father had a locked storage shed full of some kind of assult rifle bullets. After gaining access we would use a sledgehammer to remove the projectile from the cartridge and happily pour ourselves a nice little pile of gunpowder for later. Using this method we dismantled possible hundreds of bullets before we realised how bullets worked and thought it a good idea to stop.
(augsav forgot about B3ta, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 10:34, 4 replies)

I took out a store-card with ACME
What the fuck was I thinking? I'm going with Ikea next time....

signed

Wile E.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 10:33, Reply)

My dear, soon to be ex,
wife wanted an extra 30 minutes in bed one morning. Unable to fathom the alarm clock, she put the nearby microwave on, empty, for the alloted time. Unsurprisingly, it blew up, taking the house fuses with it.
(Mousy Tongue ...Generally bemused by life..., Wed 29 Sep 2010, 4:37, 15 replies)

Once upon a time...
There was a little seaside town on the south coast, known for being the site of a certain english battle that occurred sometime back in 1066.
It has a slowly disintegrating pier which the council feels perfectly happy to tout as a tourist attraction but refuses to even touch it with money. Hardly any parking and park that has been commandeered in its entirety by seagulls. The best thing thats happened to it in years was that banksy came along and sprayed on one of the sea defence walls.
It goes by the name of Hastings. It is also completely surrounded by quite a few council estates.
By day it is relaxed, busy and occasionally you get someone coming up to you wanting you to sign up to a charity. However by some Jekyll and Hyde nature, the town turns ugly by night.
The crap nightclubs open and all manner of chavs come forth to spunk away their dole on sambuca, vodka and smirnoff ices.
Still it was better than nothing, and I lived there all my life. So there I found myself walking home at midnight having just said goodbye to a group of people and feeling completely drunk. I drag myself into super pizza whereapon I order myself a huge pizza. During this time a 60 year old guy gets angry that he had to wait 2 mins longer than what the guy said to him. He starts demanding his money back screaming about how he'll go to the press etc. I on the other hand in my drunken state start to share my negativity on his thoughts, (owing to that I had been working in a chinese takeaway and one thing that pisses me off is stupid drunk customers), he did not partake on my opinion that he was indeed a stupid cunt very well (for some reason). He then begin threatening to slit my throat open but grabbed his pizza and left.***
I finished my pizza after giving a statement to the police. I then went on my merry way back home with a level of new found drunk courage. The way I needed to walk took me through the town centre.
Whereapon I found myself walking past two topless chavs mugging some kids on a bench.
For some reason I stood behind the muggers and tried to make gestures that it was going to be ok to the people on the bench. What the fuck was I thinking??? I made eye contact with one of the muggers. Bad move. They both rounded on me asking what I was looking at. I needed to think my way out of this one fast.

Option 1 - Say I was just walking past.
Option 2 - Say I recognised one of them from the secondary school I used to go to (I did, year below) And came to say 'hi'.
Option 3 - Say I was never looking at them and was in fact standing still watching a nearby seagull.

Guess which one I chose.
Yep. I even pointed out the seagull in question.
At which point I noticed they both had weapons. One had a broken bottle, the other had wrapped something around his hands to make a garrot wire.
At which point they decided to punch, kick and headbutt me to the railings by costa. Out of sheer luck I managed to sucker punch one right in the face. They backed off for one second, then regained the upper hand. Seconds from being bottled by a chav remembering he has a bottle in his hand, a homeless guys come along and shouts the chavs away.
Thank you, again.
After this they walk off. By some miracle (i'm guessing alcohol) I was still standing and now had a swollen left eye and a badly bruised hand from punching randomly back.
I walked over to make sure the kids were ok on the bench.

***- Still a bit fuzzy on how this one played out, but I know I wasn't stabbed and got out ok.

[This was also the last night I saw one of my friends 'Joey' as she was part of the same group I was with. She died 8 hours after this all happened from a brain haemorrhage. :( ..]
( 6821isnotmyPIN Bored cig., Wed 29 Sep 2010, 3:16, 9 replies)

World of Warcraft.
I fancied a quick half hour playing on my shaman this afternoon, so I fired up WoW and.... nothing. Hmm. Tried again... nothing. Tried using the .exe file instead of the launcher. Error message - dvxdownloader.dll is missing. Bugger. How do I fix this? I know! I'll uninstall WoW, bound to fix it. Uninstalled WoW, spent 6 hours pissing about with discs, updates, patches, more patches, etc.

Finally get it installed, fire it up and... nothing. Tried the .exe file again - divxdownloader.dll is missing. Bugger. Spend under a minute searching for the file on google, find it, download it in about a nanosecond, copy it to my WoW folder, solved the problem.

Why on earth did I think uninstalling WoW would fix it.
(Freakmandu, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 1:54, 11 replies)

my first ever school trip
whn i was 11. my mother says to me why don't you wear your new jeanss? but ohno i knew better. i knew what i wantedto wear. and i did.

a niiiiiiiiiiiiiice black and white and bright p ink shellsuit.

toook me til 6thform to live that one down.

many other fahsion faux-pas (what is te plural of faux-pas anyway???). over the years. mahoooooooooosive floral glasses like dame edna. a pirple mini skirt and purple top to the disco, making me look likea dancing grape. a brown sweaater that made me look like a monk. it's amazin i had any friends/boyfrieds ever!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Wed 29 Sep 2010, 0:09, 13 replies)