The lowest point.
Another shameful tale from my stoned student days:-

This one relates to the ill fated time we decided to buy sqidgy black in quantity (half a bar) for the house (four single scummy male dope fiends). You know the sort of gear - the type you don't even need to burn, just roll into little worms a-la plasticine, surround with tobacco, wrap with a rizla, slam in a roach and you're ready to go. Anyway, the good times rolled for a week or so, then abruptly and prematurely ceased. We had been smoking quite a lot and quite fast to "make sure we got our share" and were in no state to face reality without a spliff. To avoid this unpleasantness we ended up dissecting the nub ends in the ashtrays around the flat, picking out the little unburned sausages of resin and re-rolling them.

Genius!

A couple of decent joints later and we were again faced with the same dilemma. Becoming more active my cousin Wobert's eyes alight on the undisposed of five black bin bags of rubbish that have accumulated in our top floorflat during the course of this binge. He reasoned that there was a huge bounty of nub ends in them thar sacks and all we needed to do to "cash in" was cut hole in the lowest point of each sack, shake them hard and nub ends would cascade out like the jackpot from some druggy fruit machine. After a bit of discussion and in desparation we decided that the idea was a go-er, so after a little preparation (two sheets of newspaper on the kitchen floor) the venture commenced.

First came the smell. Even to our deadened senses in an already smelly smoke filled flat this was enough to make us retch. It wasn't so much the sickly sweet stench of three week old kebeb, biryani and used tissues but the tang of penicillin oranges and old cider empties that really made our eyes water - still - windows were opened - it was bearable and far too late to back down. The shaking down continued.

We were rewarded with about 30 dog ends, hopes were raised and all was well until something in a bag shifted and a stream of black, noxious, phoetid liquid poured out over our beautiful butts. Gagging I left the flat for some fresh air (for the first time in days). On my return (15 minutes later - I still didn't want to miss out) Wob was dissecting the "rinsed" mushy smelly results with tweezers and placing potential bits of dope on a sheet of A4 to dry. Another 15 mins and we had a pile of stuff that looked and smelled like guinea pig droppings, another 5 and we had what looked like a respectable reefer.

Wob took the first toke, and to do him justice held it. His face went pale but he got his heaving under control. Then he relaxes, turns to me, says "it's a bit of an acquired taste but it definately gets you stoned!" and passes me the joint.

I inhale .......

<sub>This was also the time we got the munchies for Remegel as it was the closest thing to sweets in the house but that's another story.

I have also smoked resin that someone has picked out of their poo with a pen but at least it was in clingfilm.</sub>
(jmaxi returned again on, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 13:22, 3 replies)

not particularly funny but
When I went to Ghana this summer, me and the other volunteers decided to got to Wli waterfalls in the northeast, which was quite a treck. On the way we decided to stop at an eco village, where the huts were pretty basic (basically a room with a hatched roof). It was more expensive than expected but we payed anyway. When we got to the waterfalls though we realised that we didn't have enough money for a room so we slept in the garden of some pleasant peoples' lodge, covered in mosquito nets and me in my hammock! It got worse though when we saw the price of the food at the place and off we went to find a loaf of bread and some water. It would have been just enough to go see the falls with what we had left and get home. Luckily in one bar we met some other vols who were with a Ghanaian organisation, working at the waterfalls, and they offered us actual eadible stuff! They were great, and we were actually full.
Not only that, but they then proceeded to invite us out that evening for drinks (enough for me to get rather drunk) and took us to the falls for free by pretending we worked with them! And then, just as a final act of goodwill, they drove us to a bigger place so that we could get a busride home immediately at the locals' rate and not tourists, so we had money to spare on the way home...

Some fantastic people helped us out in a desperate time where we wouldnt have had anywhere near as good a time as we did in the end. Thanks Salford uni RAG!
( morrybyte made a subtle namechange at, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 13:18, Reply)

Looking at a rather large orange one day,
I decided to try shagging it (vertically down the middle)

After a couple of initial thrusts, the quite intense pain caused by the citric acid in my japs eye put me off trying that one again.

Also, when i'd broken my wrist once, I had to wrap layer upon layer of toilet tissue around it to give it enough girth to create any friction, as I couldn't clench my palm together enough.

Pulling little bits of spermy-tissue out for hours after...
(gin'll fix it, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 13:15, 5 replies)

Circle jerking, as the terminology goes
This QOTW is probably going to be 99% wanking stories, so allow me to add my own handful (sorry..), kicking off with one that did the rounds at my university in the mid 90's.

In the early hours of one morning a group of students stole down to the computer room in their halls of residence, with PCs arranged along the walls and monitors facing inward, logged in and opened a diverse selection of pornographic nutrition on every single one of the 30 or so screens.

They proceeded, so the story goes, to kneel in a circle in the middle of the room for a hearty thrap, entirely unaware of the CCTV recording every tug, while the hall security guards watched the low budget skin flick being relayed to them and pissed themselves laughing.

Of course, the students were pulled before the dean (again, sorry) who identified each and every one of them, from the log-in records and video, as they stood before him.

Apparently, as punishment, they were made to clean the room, which included doing the keyboards with toothbrushes...
(Dr. Scambolic, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 13:07, Reply)

Desperate times, desperate lunges, desperate housewives
(Apologies for the Britishness of this post in advance….)

My mum was like an undercover special agent / reconnaissance ninja when it came to finding P0rn in my bedroom. Tidying up? Yeah right! She was constantly scanning for rudie material so she could revoke my fwapping licence. Even the discovery of the Grattan catalogue under my bed was enough to warrant a verbal kicking.

Me: “Honestly, it just FELL OPEN on the lingerie page, mum…I was looking for Christmas present ideas…”
Mum: “You’re a filthy little tosser pervert and you’re going to hell”

Busted. Bastard.

My dad didn’t even buy the Sun, let alone the Sport. He did have his own stash of p0rn but I couldn’t steal any of it – not even a glance. I was in too much paranoid fear that it had been placed in a certain way that if I even disrupted the pile I would be in for the veritable embarrassment-inducing bollocking of my short life.

I was in teenage hell.

My imagination was just not good enough (no experience) and my goolies were rapidly swelling and resembling Mr Creosote. In fact, if you put your ear to my nads and listened closely (nice mental picture huh?) I’m sure you could actually HEAR them groaning under the increasing pressure.

I was so young…I needed stimulation…I had a portable TV in my room. Thus my saviour presented itself in the form of an advert for the following Friday's Movie…

Let me explain.

Anybody remember ‘Red Triangle’ films on Channel 4? They were late night, gobshite ‘arty-farty-continental’ films that displayed a red triangle icon in the top corner of the screen. This was an indication you see…a warning if you will, of the ‘adult’ content in the ‘culturally genre-challenging and pioneering’ movie you were watching.

In other words…if you sat through 2 hours of utter armpit, you’d know that somewhere down the line there was going to be a ‘quim-shot guarantee’

The thought process and masterstroke (pun intended) of Channel 4 was to display the triangle so that the easily offended would be immediately alerted to impending nudity and would know to switch off…surprise surprise the ratings went through the fucking roof.

As soon as I heard about these films, my plan leapt into action. There’s no way even my parents can stop a film being broadcast...in fact, they don’t even know about the ‘red triangle movies’. There was no stopping me. The perfect crime

So fast forward to the next Friday night around 11:30 and I’m sat in my low-lit bedroom, my tongue and cock hanging out, remote at easily reachable distance (and successful rehearsal of leaning over to press the ‘standby button at the slightest noise) ….bracing myself for something with a title like ‘L’escapades erotique de femme’ (or god knows).

As the film starts…I begin to narrate to myself: ’Ooh she’s quite nice…I hope it’s her that gets ‘em out…Christ, I’d even settle for her….Oh, she looks a bit miserable, still, she might have a nice bod under all those cardigans etc etc’

(Abso-fucking-lutely no idea what is going on in the film…like the rest of Britain. And like the rest of Britain, not giving a toss (literally). Just waiting…..waiting…waiting.)

Then Hey-ho…what’s this? Angry looking fellow with ‘tache has ripped off average looking girls’ blouse…First bra shot…I start to twitch. She doesn’t look happy. I sure as shit do.

He’s pulling away at more clothes…she’s struggling. “Oh give it up woman and get on with it” I mutter.

Then the FUCKING ADVERTS start! (Channel 4 – genius. I wonder how much they charged for those?)

Ads over…a different scene starts. But I’ve got a semi-on, there’s a couple of attractive laydees on screen & I try to keep up momentum…

Then – JACKPOT! It looks like the angry man was attempting to rape earlier woman – result! She seems a bit hairy (boo), but she’s starkers now (yay), has got away from angry man (boo), and has legged it out of the house and through a forest (running! – woo yay!).

This’ll do for me.

The tip of my tongue poking out the side of my mouth, I start to pull my pud frantically as I don’t know how long this scene is going to last – I have no video recorder and this scene could be followed by the fat, sweaty, bearded folk I saw earlier on.

(I become such a total, uber mega wanker that even Prince would’ve been jealous)

Before long…’Uh..uh…uh…That’s all it can take Captain Vinegar..it’s gonna blow!’

HUUUURRRRGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Suddenly… there’s a noise on the stairs…right beside my room… Noooooo. I reach for the remote and begrudgingly press the ‘standby’ button. The dream is over.

But the button doesn’t work…must be the batteries…shitshitshitshitshit. I press again and again. No joy. FUCKING HELL SHE’S JUST OUTSIDE MY DOOR!

I see the handle start to turn...I can't be caught watching this...I have no alternative…

From my horizontal position, lying on the bed – I launch myself like a teenage, spluff covered Jedi, lifting vertically upwards Harrier Jump Jet-esque before lunging for the 'off' button on the TV.

But it’s too late – and now even worse. “What’s all the noise?” my mum complains as she walks in and turns to see me…with my arm outstretched, 1 cm from the 'off' switch…bang to rights with a fast-depleting, spunk dribbling stonk-on, whilst on the TV… a bollock-nekked hairy Frenchwoman is running through some forest looking like she had been kicked between the legs with a bag of soot.

Mum: “AAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!”
Me “AAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!”

…

…

Mum: “Just get to bed”

She turned round, walked out, and to be fair. Neither of us have mentioned it since. I think the situation was just too extreme for words. I mean, where do you start?

Length? I’m sure there were stragglers down to her knees.

EDIT ON LENGTH GAG: I was talking about the woman in the film...NOT my mum
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 15 Nov 2007, 13:04, 18 replies)

Sorry!
Mis-posted again.
( girlinthehole, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 13:00, 2 replies)

I have a few medical friends
One has a story the details of which I will spare you: here's the stripped down version.

Chester A&E. Christmas. Man desperate for wee. Weed into hedgerow. Sheep "backed into" weeing man. Startled sheep's sphincter contracted. Man attached to sheep, hence trip to A&E. Didn't even want to have sex therewith.

That was his version of events, anyway.

The sheep died.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:56, 2 replies)

Putting the Fun in Funeral Pt3
You may or may not be aware that some years ago, I was employed by a local funeral directors in a grim market town. Apart from the titillating anecdotes to which you all have been privvy, the following acts of desperation were undertaken (sic).

1. A grieving widow, whilst viewing her husband in the chapel of rest, decided that life no longer had any meaning and she would like to follow her husband off of this mortal coil. She grabbed the nearest heavy implement, which happened to be a large earthenware candleholder, and raised it over her head, with the intention of giving herself enough cranial trauma to snuff out her candle, so to speak. The problem was she had applied rather too much handcream, and the candleholder shot backwards out of her greased palm, and connected with the back of a neighbouring mourner, knocking him into the coffin of the deceased family member to whom he was paying his last respects.

2. One young, newly employed funeral director, was taking a body to a funeral in a nearby city on his own. To avoid paying the "One person in car" surcharge on a particular stretch of highway, he placed the deceased in the passenger seat. This might not have been so bad, had he been able to bend the body's legs into the sitting position, and ended up driving along with a dead man's head poking out of the sunroof.

3. We realised with horror some hours after a particularly harrowing enterrment, that we had, in fact, buried the wrong body. Normally we'd have simply not bothered and buried the original body in the next funeral, since what the eye does not see, but the next funeral was a catholic one, and they wanted the body on show for the blessing.
In a flash of inspiration, one member of the team proclaimed he would 'deal with it'.
It was for this reason, that a negro gentleman was presented for blessing at the funeral of a white Catholic, wearing a Power-Rangers mask and yellow rubber gloves to cover our shame, because "the fire had disfigured him too much and the funeral directors didnt want to upset anyone".
One of the relatives was heard to ask "But didnt Arthur die of drowning?"
"That's why he's wearing rubber gloves" retorted another mourner.
(Vic Flange, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:41, 7 replies)

It would either be...
...The shots of "port" I bought in Goa which worked out at slightly more than 1p each (1993) (oooh...very ill)

...or, shots of a slightly different nature, the not terribly good dot matrix printouts I made of Danni Minogue on discovering her first run of nudie pics (If I still had them, the timestamp might indicate that this event occured sometime March 1996. About the 3rd, perhaps).

To give you youngsters some idea of timescales, this was prior to any sillicone enhancements.
(Mousy Tongue ...Generally bemused by life..., Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:34, 2 replies)

water poisoning
On a climbing club trip to deepest darkest wales, we discovered to our horror that we had no alcohol left. So we drank supermarket Value Lager. With tabasco sauce. It was either that or the crusty bottle of pernod we found in a dusty cupboard.
Not sure whether you would get drunk on the value lager before you underwent hyperhydration...
( ascorbate, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:33, 1 reply)

Rice Surprise
Way back in the early 90s - at the same time as my last QoTW about getting pissed in front of royalty - I was living in the Redditch YMCA.

That in itself was a sign of how desperate the times were; I remember the landlord of the local pub there getting a round of applause for saying (this is when Gulf War I was on) "they should bloody well bomb this shithole" because frankly it could only have been an improvement to a New Town that had patently been designed by the manufacturers of Prozac to increase sales - but I digress.

When I moved into the YMCA, little did I know I was moving into a shared flat. Luckily, the guy who was sharing with me was OK; although I'm so tolerant, or was then, that someone would have to be certifiable to have ruffled my feathers.

First night I was there, I cooked spaghetti bolognese. I noticed that my flatmate (let's call him Dave)had little in the way of possessions, and certainly hardly any kitchen utensils.

Dave was basically a functioning alcoholic. He could, and did, keep a job down in a factory - far below his intellectual abilities, but the booze got in the way. We swiftly became the Odd Couple.

As I was working for a charity, I didn't get paid much, but got paid monthly. Dave got paid less, but paid weekly (every Thursday, cash in hand).

Soon we got into a rota - my monthly money would pay our rent and bills, his weekly money would pay for our food and drugs (cannabis resin, the infamous squidgy black ubiquitous in those days).

However, it was a constant struggle to get Dave to put in more than say £30 to feed both of us for the week. In his world, any money not going on alcohol was money wasted.

He'd take into work, for his lunch, several slices of bread with whatever was left in the fridge. Cheese was a luxury - some days it was just the bread.

Thursday nights we'd live well - I'd generally cook a big chilli, meant to last us for days, it never did.

Wednesday nights weren't so good, especially at the end of the month when I was skint. On several occasions, we had to eat "Rice Surprise". The surprise was ketchup. That was it - a sachet of Uncle Ben's and a dob of red gunk on top. Happy days.

One week, I left Dave at the flat and went to visit my father, who lived in France. He decided to take me and his girlfriend off for a week's good living in posh hotels in the South of France. I lived like a king that week, and on our last night, finished off a four course meal with brandy and a cigar. Feeling chatty whilst my Dad spoke French like the smooth bastard he is to his French girlfriend, I rang up Dave for a chat. I told him, at some length, what I had been eating over the past week. Then it was his turn to talk.

I shouldn't have called him on a Wednesday. He'd just eaten a tasty recipe of our own devising - rice surprise.
( I_Was_Mordred, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:32, Reply)

Sunday suppliment
When I was about 14/15 I was staying at a friends house with some others, one girl bought some weed that she'd nicked off her mum.
We all sat outside in the freezing cold sharing it, but eventually ran out of Rizlas.
We decided that using a page out of a magazine would suffice. The smoke coming out of it was thick and black, and tasted rather inky.
( Lollylegs lite, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:31, 1 reply)

ancrenne has reminded me...
...at uni we had a bottle of Mount Gay (fnar fnar) Barbados Rum that was always the last resort post night out, want to carry on drinking, desperate as next stage will be Brasso, option. We tried every mixer we had and it was still both amazingly unpalatable as can be and harsher than Princes' legal team. Like the time I started to watch the equally unpalatable Braveheart, it remained unfinished.

That in turn reminds me of when I bought some cheap Scotch from Kwik Save called Canadian Redwood that had a warning on the label advising that it was not to be drunk neat. What a misguided purchase that was, it was as rough as a nuns c*nt and best avoided.
( abefroman skating on the thin life of modern life on, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:18, 5 replies)

Mustabin desperate
I know it's been mentioned before, but he's in the news again. And it's still funny.

news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/glasgow_and_west/7095134.stm
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:18, 11 replies)

Top Tip
This is a suggestion passed between desperate colleagues of mine so I can't vouch for it myself...

"When a little eye-candy would make your dull morning commute easier, open your copy of Metro (free travel paper) to the Business Pages. In an effort to engage readers they will try and put interesting photos in to illustrate the fairly dull material. These may be pop starlets when dicussing a takeover bid by a media company or underwear models when mentioning the share price of a fashion brand."

I don't know how regularly they use photos of ladies rather than inanimate objects, but apparently it's worth a look. If anyone can tell me what's in today's Metro I'd be interested to know!

Failing that, Nemi is a bit of a fox ;)
( e.m.m.y. foxtrot uniform charlie kilo india tango, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 12:14, 3 replies)

As a student in halls
Some of the blokes on my floor decided it would be a good money saving ploy to brew our own beer. So the deed was done.

It wasn't very good, but it was alcoholic.

Then the idea was mooted to try to distil some of it. Well, none of us had access to a proper distillery, and I was too much of a wuss to nick stuff from the chemistry labs, so we rigged up our own apparatus. It consisted of a kettle, to provide the heat source to evaporate the alcohol, a piece of tubing (don't know where that came from), two bottles and a bucket of ice.

One bottle was filled with beer, and placed in the kettle of boiling water. The tube was sealed onto this bottle and led to the other bottle, which was in the bucket of ice, to condense the vital liquor.

It worked. Sort of.

We got about 5 ml each of throat-burning, essentially tasteless spirit.

But it was still cheaper than buying it.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:58, Reply)

Small change
I can distictly remember going to the garage to put some petrol in my car and paying for £3 of fuel in one pence peaces... I made it easier to count by stacking them in rolls of 10p and wrapping them in electrical tape... It was made worse by the fact that I knew the girl on the till as I went to school with her.

I can also remember (many moons ago) emptying my wallet and putting 50p in my spluttering (almost out of fuel) battered old XR3i in order to get me home.

Length? About five miles and I made it easily with a bit of clutch down free wheeling.
(SillyMoo, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:53, 1 reply)

Poll?
Time we had a poll here on most shaggable cartoon characters. The results could well be spectacular (esp if Frankspencer gets wind of it).

Come on, which cartoon character would you bump badly drawn uglies with?
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:51, 42 replies)

Drastic Measures
Never use the crap that Tesc*s sell as "full-bodied, robust" red wine for anything other than cleaning out your drain, or getting pets inebriated.

This includes using it as a mixer with vodka.
*Bad, bad hangover flashback*
( Cawl, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:50, 4 replies)

Not so much desperate as useful.
An old washing machine I had used to spin at just the right vibration - nuff said.
( girlinthehole, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:48, 1 reply)

I have been advised
That liver inside a toilet roll inner tube is better than the real thing (ie no nagging)

Someone feel free to try and tell us all.
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:43, 5 replies)

Junkie
Probably not so original, but I've smoked allsorts of shite in an effort to emulate the magical effects of proper weed.

I was introduced to it early (about 13 - that was early in my day!) by a step-sibling and from that moment on, loved it. Typically, I tried the classic substitutes of banana peel scrapings (looked vaguely convincing when dried) and peanut skins.

The desperate measures come in with the substitutes for rizlas I cooked up. Newspaper glued together with pritt stick anyone? That actually worked to some extent, although it tasted like Satans jock-strap.
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:37, Reply)

it aint half hot mum
Desperate times!! don't make me laugh, so should see my latest abode thanks to the great British army. I've taken to skiving off over to the Yanks base where they have internet access and a bloody 24hr cafe, we are lucky to get running water.
how desperate, I have to put up with the burger munching, sister shagging, red neck banjo playing battle dodging motherf**kers telling tales of their great country in order to access B3TA!!!!
make me post of the week or I'm coming over there and getting medievil on your ass!
(The kneeling rifleman Is slowly getting there.., Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:37, 1 reply)

last night
i was at a law society quiz and my team actually won. this was due in no small part to my shockingly in depth knowledge of 80s pop and chick flicks, so i was given the champagne.

and made to pose on the stage with the cup and a really stinky elvis impersonator ("smelvis" more like) but hopefully the photos will never see the light of day, never mind any legal magazines.

anyway, as if this wasn't enough desperate behaviour, i got a cab home and asked him to stop at the local tesco for cash before going onto my road. i left the door open as i went to the ATM, then decided to walk the rest of the way home as the cold air might have sobered me up a bit. it didn't, btw. so i shut the door before going to the passenger window to pay.

unfortunately, the taxi driver assumed i'd got back in when he heard the door slam, and he just drove off at high speed towards my road. leaving me desperate for him not to think i was doing a runner, staggering after him in stupid high heels, cash in one hand, bottle of champagne in the other, yelling for him to stop all the way down the street until eventually he did.

i am such a nob. if i had just walked 1 minute in the other direction, he'd never have found me again and i'd have saved myself £40. dammit. although i know my conscience would have kicked in really.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:37, 3 replies)

Repost from another Qotw
A friend in Sarajevo
It was 1992 and the country had gone to shit, there were Serb forces on the street, Mass killings, torture and rape were happening everywhere
It had been a few days since he had seen his friend who lived alone in a small apartment near the centre of the City so he took a risky visit to check up and see if he was still alive.
Food at the time was unavailable all of the shops had been looted or burned out and people were starving.
So when he arrived at the flat strangely there was a pot of meat boiling on the stove, when asked what was on the menu the guy admitted to killing his cat because there was nothing else to eat.

Desperate times indeed
( Terry Oblong There's nobody here but us chickens on, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:37, 2 replies)

Never mind the Kays catalogue...
...what about Ambrose Wilson? Desperate or what?

The Avon catalogue isn't too bad though.

And the latest Next Catalogue has Danni Minogue in her undercrackers! Holy shit!

/heads furtively back to magazine rack
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:36, 3 replies)

Once someone told me.....
that St Johns Wart was "Natures Prozac" I was young and like now incredably stupid. I open a capsule and poured line long line of powdered herb stuff and snorted it.

My nose bled for hours, I couldn't stop sneezing which made it worse and I had lungs and throat full of powdered herbs.

Turns out prozac takes weeks to kick in and St Johns Wart doesn't work.
( Peej, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:35, 3 replies)

Housemate! Homosexuality! Misogyny! Wallpaper!
At University I lived with a group of friends. One was Bob, a confused but exceptional artist with a lively range of mental issues. Racked by alcoholism and drug-confusion, Bob offered a lot of entertainment, tinged with concern.

One thing that will always stand out is the time he shit himself while we went for a walk, along with his horror after we all walked in on him fucking a moose in the bath, along with his constant animated conversation with his coat.

One of his defining characteristics was his confusion over his sexuality, and this wracked him terribly. He was both excited and ashamed of the fact he was, if not gay, certainly bi.

This actually came out (fnarr) in a number of ways, but he did have an appalling habit of being very self righteous. One weekend he objected to our porn collection. Neil, Ben and I had a few porn mags that were shared and shared about amongst us (the rule was don't get it sticky!) as we were desperate to empty our bollocks now and again.

Bob threw out our collection and launched into a lengthy monologue about how it exploited women and so on and so forth.

Naturally we disagreed and were desperate to annoy him in return, so when he went out in a strop we nipped to the shop and bought a colossal amount of bongo mags. The shopkeeper must have thought we were in a proper wank-frenzy!

However, we weren't. We painstakingly removed the staples, binned the covers and irrelevant pages, and began Project Piss Off Bob. The furniture was removed from the living room and every surface (walls, ceiling, floor, table, tv [except the screen], door) was covered by a pornographic image.

Bob got back home, and went berserk. He turned on his heel and left. We doubled up, helpless with laughter. Then got some beer and admired our decorations.

*Desperation comes in many forms!
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 15 Nov 2007, 11:32, 4 replies)