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This is a question Desperate Times

Stranded in a hotel in an African war zone with no internet access for two weeks, I was forced to resort to desperate measures. Possessing only my passport and the clothes I stood up in; and the warning "You can catch it shaking hands with a vicar out there" ringing in my ears, I had to draw my own porn in order to preserve my sanity.

Alas, it all came out looking like Coronation Street's Audrey Roberts, but, as they say, any port in a storm.

What have you done in times of great desperation?

(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 10:10)
Pages: Latest, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Is it desperation if you do it repeatedly.
As students most saturday nights we would eat takeaway pizza (not that unusual). We just couldnt face washing up plates and it occured to us that the added bonus of pizza is that it comes in a box. Which is perfect for using as a plate the next day for roast dinners, gravy and all.

If you ate fast it was fine.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 16:50, 1 reply)
A friend of mine told me this one....

She was on a long drive home with her baby son in the car. The expected happened and she ended up stuck in a long tail back, traffic moving very, very slowly.

Fortunately her baby had just been fed and was sleeping soundly.

Unfortunately she was desperate for a pee.

She tried thinking of other things.

She tried listening to the radio.

She tried singing along with songs.

She tried crossing her legs (no mean feat when you're trying to drive).

Eventually she gave in.

Grabbing the baby's changing bag she retrieved a clean nappy...opened it up....slipped it under her skirt, knickers aside and began to pee....

Babies nappies are designed for baby amounts of pee.

She attempted to stop the flow....

The baby was still very young and she hadn't been as diligent with her pelvic floor muscles as she should have been.

It cost £40 to get the car valeted.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 16:37, 2 replies)
urine + cold = no good
when we were 14, my best friend miranda and i went to baseball practice with her dad one freezing sunday morning. since it was bloody cold out, and we were wearing clothes that weren't too warm, we elected to just sit in the cab of the truck for the hour and a half.

during that time, miranda announced that her bladder was going to explode if she didn't take a piss soon. while she squirmed and grabbed at her crotch to avoid pissing on the seat, we did the math - finding a way to empty urine in a nice warm place > 5 minutes walking to the toilets in 4.5 degree celsius cold (not including wind chill factor). she made her decision, the only question now was whether or not we could find an adequate wee container.

our answer was an old mcdonald's cup sitting in the cupholder on the dash. it had a drink in it, so she opened the car door and dumped it out (...don't know what the difference was if it was pissy coke or just straight piss, her preference i s'pose). finding a position to squat into was challenging, especially considering the entire baseball field could see us if they were paying attention. i got to hold the cup!

miranda peed, but felt drip drying was too precarious considering the cold and the potential audience, so now we had to find the proverbial t.p., which came in the shape of a small package of barbie tissues we discovered in the glove compartment.

once it was over, she wadded up the barbie tissue, threw it in the mcd's cup and jumped out of the truck (with her pants back up, natch) to place the makeshift toilet not in the garbage, but behind the wheel of the truck... because the garbage was about 10 feet too far.

the great thing about it is, neither of us really felt it was desperate at the time... it was simply "smart".
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 16:23, 1 reply)
Payperwank porn
I'm facinated by the psychology behind this. Recently, in a hotel in Amsterdam, through extensive research, there would appear to be the following formula:

- Welcome to Payperview TV!!!!! Tissues at ready!!
- Give a reasonable amount of time free, say 5mins, no build up, just on with the old in out.
- Suddenly obscure vision and sound with ceefax style grafix..eeriely quiet huh?
- On surfing away from and back to PPV TV channel, re-reveal porn *just to remind lazy-lobbed and rapidly detumescing guests what they're missing
- After a much shorter time, suddenly obscure vision with ceefax style grafix again.
- Repeat, iteratively, until max one 1 individual frame/nanosecond of porn is visible between surf flix before obscuring...

It is now impossible to conjure images sufficiently quickly and masturbate simultaneously.

You must now delve into your delible recent memory lest you spill your seed to ENTER YOUR ROOM NUMBER XXX CONFIRM.

Did someone make this m.o. up? Was it Mary Whitehouse's last revenge?
And don't get me started on the 'camouflage' movies they also have as ppv so that you can claim to work that you were bored and it was 'better than sitting on my own in a pub all night, and cheaper for you too'

In my early twenties, I spent six weeks on my own in northern Sweden, at a place I can't spell without googling.

Apart from a Finnish hen party that decided to share the hotel's jacuzzi with me (thank fuck for bubbles), ppv was my only respite.

Imagine my joy, then, in week two (yes I know, rsi for 10 fucking days), that a particular combination and speed (think 'track and field') would jam their 'naughty naughtyometer' and give free porn all night.

But my dismay that they only changed the films once a week... I don't remember any of the films names, the decor, or the pool boy's car registrations.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 16:15, 4 replies)
I once fucked a coffee machine
How desperate am I?
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 16:08, 6 replies)
Just saw this on the BBC website......
Now if this isn't desperate, i don't know what is:

In 1997 Robert Watt, 38, was fined £100 for trying to have sex with a shoe in an Edinburgh street
In 2002 the same man was arrested for simulating sex with a traffic cone in front of a crowd of people

Earlier this month, sentence was deferred on teenager Steven Marshall, from Galashiels, who admitted simulating sex on a pavement while drunk.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 16:06, 1 reply)
It's not porn, I know
but once, when I was left alone and feverish with the flu in a strange house, I found there was no more shampoo left and, too ill to go out and get some, I washed my waist length lady hair with a bar of soap.
Oatmeal, Buttermilk and Honey soap, if I recall correctly.
I'm sure you can imagine the result.
If not, try to imagine what your hair, long or otherwise, would look like after dipping your head into goose fat, towelling it off in a bag of porridge and adding a sprinkling of grated cheese.

When I came out of my fever I got a friend to come over with a jumbo bottle of mega-strong shampoo.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 16:00, 6 replies)
Pot Noodle
Came home from the pub when I was a student with a severe case of the munchies.

We had 2 things in the fridge. Some green cheese and half a tin of Whiska's.

We had one thing in the cupboard. A pot noodle.

I decided that a pot noodle and cheese wasn't going to work - but a pot noodle and Whiska's?

Tasted all right really, but it was a desperate time.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 15:59, 2 replies)

At Uni (theres a time and a place for everything) we had cable TV. This was quite a novelty at the time and maybe pre-Sky.

There were a couple of porn channels that started at midnight. For the first 10 minutes they were unencrypted, and showed mainly tits. But quite a lot. They would cram in as many plugs for the upcoming films after the encrypted switch, but as any gentleman knows, 10 minutes is often more than enough.

What is definitely more than enough is filling a 3 hour VHS cassette with 10 minute previews with no gaps. Hey presto, free porn tape!

I think I lent that tape to about 50 people over the years, I might still have it somewhere.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 15:44, 4 replies)
At my Aunty H and Uncle M's golden wedding anniversary (lovely couple, excellent do) the younger generation (me, two cousins and a second cousin) decided that we had had enough of watching oldies dancing to Abba and worried that they were slipping from happy drunk to maudlin adjourned to my nearby cousins house.

We hadn't all met up in years, possibly not since puberty and were delighted to find that we had all independently acquired hard drinkining, gambling, drugs and other vice habits. Having a lot of catching up to do it wasn't many hands before we had run out of drink. In the middle of nowhere and unable to face our financial loss (some of us), the fallout of our assorted powders (not sleepy) and each other without some reality damper all eyes turned to my cousin V and his chesty cough. true to form he had a bottle and a half of Covonia and we toasted the morning in with shots of sleep giving, throat calming Cov :o)

first time I have ever put a smiley after the word Cov
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 15:44, Reply)
My top wank fantasies - if you need material
1) A parade of lovelies (whether Page 3 stunnas or girls from class) line up to fondle your boner through a hatch. They don't know who you are, but they all have a tug. Kylie traditionally brings me off.
2) Your girlfriend become the mascot of a rugby/football team and has to wear a demeaning micro skirt and tight top. One day you arive early to collect her after a match and observe her enthusiastically servicing the whole team. They invite you in to have a go, not realising who you are and she does you too.
3) For one night only, your girlfriend agrees to be a prostitute (with fit men only, of course) and with the proviso that she can't choose what she does. Rather, the punters roll a dice and she has to perform 1) a hand job, 2) a BJ, 3) messy facial, 4) straight sex in any position, 5) anal, 6) two guys and they both get to roll a dice.
4) You are enlisted as a sex coach for an almost illegally young sexpot and go through a week of escalating porn (see earlier post).
5) Historical - your girlfriend or object of lust is the personal sex slave of an oriental pasha, and is expected to provide top-of-the-line action for any visiting dignitaries. One day, you are at court and witness her in action.
6) Similar to 3 above, you join a club in which the men are allowed to go to a sex party on condition that their other halves provide the action for all. The girls wear colour-coded bikinis delinating what service they provide: red (hand jobs), gold (BJ), white (bukkake) etc etc. Naked girls do it all. Oh, and to be part of the club, the girls have to promise they'll complete every level.
7) There's a hot waitress at your local bar. She is primed to offer a variety of sexual favours if a codeword is spoken. For example, if you say "on the rocks" she is obliged to suck you off. Your job is to guess the words and get a complete service. One of the keywords results in her doing everyone.

That's a few to be going on with - and example enough of how desperate I am that I still continue to think these things up even though I'm married and get regular sex.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 15:42, 14 replies)
At Uni, I had shared a house with a couple of other guys and we'd all got on well for the duration of our 4 year courses. By the last term we were just tired. Not just physically, but exhausted from 4 years of work/drinking/cheap food/smoking/dissertations/11am starts/shit houses etc and the novelty had worn off. TO be honest, we were kind of looking forward to starting our careers and at least be able to eat food that contained actual calorific value and items from a price range greater than 20p.

I got home early one afternoon and settled on the knackered old sofa in the lounge. We had a great big clean patch in the middle where one of the girlfriends had pissed her self one night and slept there. Who knew ammonia could clean stuff huh? Anyway.

I heard Mark come home, via the kitchen door at the back (In Leicester, almost universally the front doors usually led to the front room which would have been a bedroom). He rattled round the kitchen and he was unaware of my presence, I could see him reflected in the door glass and he hadnt looked toward it. I watched half interestedly as he rummaged around in the enormous mess of pans, pots, cutlery, empty tins and the general mess that develops when the household agreed that washing up was only done on extremely special occasions. He was holding a tin of value Baked Beans and was looking for a pan. After a few mins he gave up and he wearily sighed and gave in to the situation, he was never going to find anything to put his beans in. Resigned to what he would have to do warm his beans, he opened the tin, and peeled off the label. He removed all the crap off the gas stove and lit a burner. He put the tin on the burner and left it to 'cook'.

Being an engineering student, Mark knew the value of time and motion studies. Not wanting to waste precious time in the kitchen/sewer he prepared dessert. Grabbing a malt fruit loaf from the cupboard, he stumbled instantly upon the next dilemma, no clean knives to spread the margarine with, or cut the loaf. A 'fruitless' search later, and Mark again, sighed and you could almost hear a the little crushing defeat inside of him. With no shame whatsoever, Mark grabbed the loaf, and forcefully dipped the it into the marg, and managed to scoop out a sizeable chunk on to the loaf.

Meanwhile the beans had boiled, a quick whisk with the handle of a (bizarrely clean) spatuala, and with the use of a tea towel to protect from the heat of a 200 degree tin of beans Mark walked in to the lounge. He stopped as he saw me and realised I'd watched the last 10 minutes activity passively. His expression motionless, he sat down next to me, arranged his food on the arm of the sofa and flicked on the cable.
There was no need to comment, we just *knew*. He remained unjudged and unashamed.

Ok not the worst student meal or anything I'm sure, but I've never forgotten the cumulative series of tiny little acts of desperation in that kitchen that day.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 15:39, 2 replies)
My Wet Ride Home From Slough
(Not me - but a friend... lets caller her Missy...)

I had been talking all day and my mouth was rather dry. We had had our coffee break quite late, and I had drunk a nice cup of tea. After that I had another couple of glasses of water because the central heating was on and it made my throat dry. That and all the talking anyway.

I must have left Slough, which is on the outskirts of London, at about 5 pm. I had a journey of about 100 miles – probably take me about 2 and a half hours given the traffic at that time of the evening.

I did have a wee before I left Slough office. Got in the car and set off. Headed for Windsor and the M3, but was still thirsty so started to drink the bottle of water I keep in the car for such times. About a half a litre I guess. Bad mistake number 1!

Kept driving – traffic heavy but moving. Got to M3 - only needed to drive one junction down, then come off and head for Farnborough and Farnham. As I approached Farnham – guess I was about half way by now, it started to get dark. I guess it was about 7 o’clock by now.

And my bladder was starting to tell me how full it was getting. I was getting very uncomfortable! But although there were services along the way I decided to plod on. I had to stop off at Andy’s on the way home to drop something off for Chris, and that was only about 40 minutes away. I could wait until then for a pee.

The trouble with water is – it goes through me VERY quickly. And that bottle was getting through now. I got onto the Petersfield road. Not that much further but getting more desperate by the second. There was no way now I could stop because there were no services and as it was now pitch black and I was on a country road I was not going to risk a lay by stop. I had my black business suit on – with trousers. Not as easy to pee discreetly in that. Had I had a skirt I may have been able to swivel my bum out of the door discreetly and pee without getting out the car – but not with trousers.

So on I went. Feeling more uncomfortable and full all the time. That particular road is quite bumpy. As I approached the A3 near Petersfield I hit a nasty pothole, and that was enough to make me leak pee into my panties. Not a lot but enough to make them and my trousers quite damp.

I was getting very uncomfortable and desperate by now. There was nowhere to stop. I was cursing myself for not stopping earlier. By now I was leaking pee quite often – every time I moved or hit a bump. My trousers were getting very damp and my car seat was in danger of getting soaked. I really didn’t know what to do for the best. I put my foot down and arrived at Andy’s about 5 minutes later.

I very carefully got out the car and realised there was no way I could use his loo – I would have had to walk right through the house and my trousers were quite obviously wet by now. I could feel there was a patch at the back about a foot across. So I went to the front door, dropped off Chris’s money, and hastily got back into the car for the 20 minute drive home.
I knew I was going to struggle, so I got the car rug from the back of the car and sat on that – just in case. I rolled it up into a big pad and stuck it under my bum.

I hit the M27 which took me almost home and put my foot down. But by now I was beginning to feel quite ill and faint with desperation. The rug was jammed up between my legs and doing a good job stopping me leak. But actually I needed to because I felt so bad. So every so often I lifted my bum and squirted some pee out. But the trouble was it didn’t ease it – I was SO full up. So I jiggled myself around a bit so that I could pee and let out as much as I could. It gushed out and flooded the rug. But I still had more to go – lots of it and the rug was getting full.

I was feeling quite sick now. I pulled off the motorway at my junction. Only about 5 minutes to go. Still had to let a bit out – a squirt here and there – to relieve the pressure a bit.
I did a lot more than the 30 mph limit. Luckily I didn’t get stopped. If the police had stopped me and made me get out of the car they would definitely have got more than they bargained for!

I got to the turning for my estate. Nearly there. By now my trousers were uncomfortably soaked and cold and I was planning my escape to the loo. I wouldn’t unload my bags from the car until I had rushed in to the loo. I knew where my key was – I could make it. Pulled up onto the drive. Nearly there. Just fleetingly I considered whether I would make it to the kitchen and pee all over the floor.

I let a thought flash through my mind that perhaps it would be better to piss myself outside and make a mess there. That was enough for my brain to tell my bladder to let go. As I swung my legs from the car and stood up I started. I peed and peed and peed. I kicked my shoes off quickly because they were in danger of getting a good soaking. I could smell the urine smell even though I was out in the open. My trousers were absolutely soaked. The piss was pouring down my legs in rivers and puddling at my feet. My socks were dripping I must have kept going for several minutes.

Fortunately the car door was sheltering me from prying eyes of neighbours, but if they could see the look of relief on my face I feel sure they would have known what was going on! They could probably see the pee running out of the bottom of my trousers and dripping through the gravel drive anyway

When I had eventually finished, I grabbed the rug, sploshed up the garden, opened the back door and just dropped my trousers and socks on the doorstep on the rug. I have never been so wet in my life.

I grabbed a towel, unloaded the car with the towel round my waist and had a shower. The clothes and rug all went into the washing machine. Luckily my car seat, which is leather, didn’t suffer any lasting damage.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 15:26, 3 replies)
I'm sure I'm not the only one who's tried this...
"Scrape the inside of a bananna skin, dry it int he oven and then smoke it" was the advice given to us once. This was theoretically meant to be a hallucinogen, and when smoke with Ter'baccy, would give a sensation close to skunk.

What utter bollocks.

The only reason we got high was because we were smoking SO many skinny little rollies in an attempt to feel the effects that we probably were simply suffereing from lack of oxygen.

Sorry for length, I only had short skins...
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 15:01, Reply)
I was working on a project in the middle east
In an arab country with very strict laws.
There was no filth on the hotel TV, internet access was strictly monitored, and the women on the street were no allowed to wear anything more revealing than a barrel.

To begin with I relied on the standard 'Male Wank Fantasy' to get me through the coming months, but having gone from fantasising about good looking girls I knew at school, through the slightly plain, brogue wearing secretary from my department in the UK with thick glasses and a dropped womb, I ended up thinking about Bella Emberg whilst I ononized, (Actually, it was quite saucy. In one fantasy, she was shitting on my chest whilst I masturbated into some ham... Mmmm, ham), I found it increasingly hard (sic) to get off on anything other than an oven ready roast chicken.

It was this reason alone that saw me regularly in the frozen foods section of my local supermarket, right arm moving vigorously in my pocket, getting off on my new found avian erotica..
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 14:51, 6 replies)
Rice with...
After I was made redundant, I got a temp job, that led by way of recommendation to another temp job and then another. My luck and work ran out around 18 months later and I was severely skint. I signed on but my job seekers allowance was delayed through various bureaucratic bollox about the number of day's leave I had and when I took them in the past 12 months.

I drew the last few quid out of my account and bought a load of cat food!! (no not for me silly, for my cat - yeah I'm a softie when it comes to cats!). About the only thing of substance I had in my food cupboards was rice. When it came to meal times I would have rice with sweet and sour sauce, when the sugar ran out I started making a curry sauce. This went on for a week and both rice and cat food supplies were getting dangerously low. I was close to either begging outside supermarkets or going cap in hand to my parents.

Salvation came in the shape of a phone call "Hi Vambo it's Val. Listen we are really short staffed because four people have gone down with the 'flu! Can you start right away?!"

Is the bear a Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods?! Quick shit, shower and shave and I was there. Later that day "Val, any chance of a sub until pay day?"

I finally got my back dated job seekers allowance two weeks later.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 14:46, Reply)
Not five minutes ago...
This is real-time QOTW-ing, people:

There I was, sitting in the third cubicle along, quietly going about my business.

Suddenly there is the sound of feet and someone dashes into the next stall along, bolting the door behind himself.

There is the rustling of clothing before a pained cry of "Oh, God, NO! heralds an explosion of nutty slack, most of which seemed to be coming under the partition in my direction.

Having completely missed the target area the air is rent with the smell of faeces, and I look down with a great deal of dismay to see a quantity had settled on my Ben Sherman boots.

"Sorry!" said a voice before further explosions left me with no alternative but to flee for my life.

Desperate times, indeed.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 14:44, 8 replies)
Weed grinder

Non pot smokers may not be familiar with this gadget but as the subject line suggests its a device for grinding up your weed. Chuck a lump in and give it a few twists and then tip into your desired smoking device. Saves a lot of messing around and also makes your weed go further.

Each time you use it very small amounts of weed collect on the inside edges and around the teeth.

I’m not too proud a man to admit, that in times of desperation the small deposits of weed can be carefully scraped out with a knife into tobacco and then smoked.

Addicted - moi??

(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 14:41, 7 replies)
When we first got together
Myself and a then new g/f were a tad keen to jump between the sheets at every opportunity, she had apparently been "without" for some considerable amount of time and was keen to catch up on what she'd been missing out on. I was more than happy to oblige, but in retrospect the back of a VW Golf, the loos in a town centre coffee shop and the grounds of a friends wedding reception (Hi Mark and Jo!) were probably a tad OTT. But hey, I wasn't complaining.

Anyway, for some bizarre reason we agreed to abstain for a whole seven days. Just to see if we could. That's complete abstenence, no DIY or anything. All of a sudden, those seven days seemed an awful long time.

Day one required distractions, so I buried myself in a couple of good books. Day three meant I was burning myself out at the gym to calm things down. By day five I began to go cross-eyed and by day six I was scarcely able to concentrate on anything at all. I had become little more than a grunting, drooling troglodyte.

On the evening of day seven I was preparing dinner for two - thankfully the 'rents were on holiday. I was running round the kitchen, boss-eyed with lust and sexual frustration and attempting to unleash a culinary masterpiece. The plan was to entertain said lady with a meal and wine before retiring to the bedroom for and agreeable evening spending of quality time together.

"Knock, knock!"

Jebus... I don't think she got as far as the hallway before we were kissing passionately and hands were a-wondering. Any attempt to cool things down enough to contemplate eating was utterly futile, I have never been so utterly mindbendingly horny in all my life. I don't think my pulse dipped below 120, I was burning god knows how many calories just standing still and trying not to spontaneously combust.

We both staggered into the kitchen where I had intended to serve up, but I failed miserably. Attempting to wield a serving spoon while your other hand is grasping the back of someone's head as you kiss them as if your life depends on it isn't easy.

She ended up pushed against the worktop when I gave up and flung the serving spoon in the sink. I had hold of her head with both hands, grasping palmfulls of hair and damn near hyperventilating as we kissed passionately. I don't quite know how she got there but she ended up sat on the worktop with her legs around my waist, frantically loosening my shirt and tie with her hands.

It doesn't take a leap of imagination to figure what happened next. To be honest, it was as welcome an event as seeing the Prime Minister disembowel himself live on the news at ten, I can't recall the details, just a recollection of utter and complete relief and delight as the deed was done. I have no idea as to the passage of time or much else other than the fact that it was damn nice and I could smell her perfume as my head was buried in the nape of her neck.

However, at some point I had noticed that the kitchen blinds were up and that at 7:30 in the evening probably everyone in the whole street could see her back and my furrowed and sweaty brow. Did that stop me? Did it heck.

Her: "What *pant* about the *gasp* neighbours?"

Me: "Grrrraaaagggghhhhh...."

Her: "Oh, okay then!"

My folks were getting odd looks in the street for weeks.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 14:13, 6 replies)
I heard a rumour that Prince was into bestiality and heroin
and originally wrote the lyrics...

My name is Prince, and I'm a junkie,
I once had sex, with a monkey.

How true it is I can't say, but he was evidently pretty desperate.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 14:06, 3 replies)
In a time of great desperation not very long ago, I signed up to... *gulp* an internet dating-site.
Not, I hasten to add, a site for dating internets; a site on the internet for meeting similarly desperate wastrels as myself.

Anyhow, soon after I joined up I encountered a beautiful lass about the same age as me (let's call her K, for that was her initial), who was not only good-looking (and had full-length pics to prove it) but had a similiar sense of humour and was absolutely filthy on the inside with a shy, quietly-spoken exterior. My kind of lass indeed! Soon after we started talking (and making each other laugh a lot), we met up for a drink in a nearby town (she lived about five miles up the road from me.)

The occasion was no disappointment, even though it was slightly awkward - until we'd got a few drinks down us. She was everything she said she was, and then some. She was a self-appellated freak, albeit a beautiful one (like that song by the Eels.) And so far, she's been the only person I've met who can make two entire armfuls of tattoos look sexy. Although not a roaring success, I regarded that date as an honourable draw. The only real occasions on which alarm-bells sounded were when she let slip that she'd given her number to two different blokes on a drunken night out a couple of days before, and when she was discussing the attractiveness of her male colleagues. Oops.

Not long afterwards, I suggested going out for another drink. Her enthusiasm seemed to have waned somewhat, as she initally agreed readily, then kept putting it off - i.e. blowing hot and cold, so I'd no idea of what exactly was going on between us. The second time this happened, I lost my rag a bit, a heated exchange occurred, and we never spoke again.

And now when I hear that song "Beautiful Freak", it just reminds me of my own capacity for acting like a twat, and my lack of faith in the opposite sex.

Sorry this story's not funny, I just had to get it off my chest.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 14:05, 3 replies)
Bin Dining Out

Many years ago and I was a labourer on the building sites in London.

I'd just paid every penny I had on a deposit for a flat and, after two taxi fares to move my stuff, was utterly broke. I handed over all my cash to the letting agency on a Friday evening and collected the keys. I'd asked at work for a sub to tide me over until the following Friday but was refused - thanks to a cunt of a gaffer who hated my guts - he'd fucking give the alcoholic, never do more than a two day week fuckers a sub though, the cunt. I was facing no food for the Saturday and Sunday until I could get into work on Monday morning where the site canteen would allow me two square meals a day on the slate until I got to Friday lunchtime and my week's pay.

I was wandering along the street, being assaulted by foody aromas when I spotted a bloke in front of me. He exited a Pizza Hut, carrying a large pizza box and a paper bag. He opened the box, looked in, made an 'ugh!' face, and ditched the box and the bag in the nearest bin. Without even pausing, I was straight over to the bin, grabbed the box and the bag. Inside the box was a large pepperoni pizza and the bag contained garlic bread. Saturday was going to be okay. The pizza and garlic bread were fine so I don't know why matey didn't fancy them.

Sunday morning and I was up early wondering how to feed myself for the day. I reckoned I'd never get another stroke of luck like the day before but set off in search of a free meal in any case. As I wandered along, past all the still-closed shops and what have you, I passed a pub. Lord be praised! There was one of those sealed plastic bags containing washed & peeled carrots and potatoes propped against the door of a closed pub. I grabbed the bag and legged it only to pass a Greek shop which had a large bag of pitta bread and several pints of milk outside so I swiped them as well a selection of Sunday newspapers and made good my escape. So, I had a large plate of mash and carrots and a bread & butter pudding for dessert that wouldn't win me any prizes.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 13:47, 1 reply)
Not paying full attention to people...
...when they’re talking has gotten me into trouble a few times. Its not that I don’t listen... its just that inside my head, well its mainly comprised of pink fluff (along the lines of candyfloss) and if anything you say gets through the ‘fluff barrier’ its usually twisted around into gibberish, although some information is retained for me to mull over on a rainy day.

Anyhoo I can recall a particular time that caused me grief and I’ll share it with you lovely people... (Seeing as it’s Friday and I have nothing better to do!)

I was about 8 and sitting crossed-legged on the floor of my music class. My teacher was yammering on and I was dreamily staring out of the window thinking whatever an 8-year-old girl thinks about... (In my case probably puppies and sweets) when I was dragged back to reality by the screeching of my name. I turned around and looked at the looming figure, towering above me... “Yes miss?” I replied looking slightly confused... and then it happened!!

By answering my name it seemed I had unknowingly confirmed that I was some sort of Master of the Recorder!!? WTF!! I had neglected to hear that my teacher had been going through a list of names checking to see if we could all play the recorder, apparently she wanted us to form a group (the likes of which have never been seen) and perform in front of the ENTIRE school in an assembly the following week. Well. I. panicked!! I couldn’t very well tell her I didn’t know how to play the recorder, then she’d know I wasn’t listening to her so I did what any fool would do and muddled together some kind of dodgy plan!

We had three days to practice before the assembly, I thought there might be a slim chance that I was naturally talented and would pick up the recorder and dazzle everyone with my skills, sadly this was not the case, I would have to live with the fact that my only musical ability was playing The Wombles theme tune on the keyboard.

Then I had an epiphany, there were five other people in the group; I could probably fade into the background... right? Wrong... not only was I ludicrously shit but I also had no control over the pitch of the noise I was creating... it was horrendous, I was creating ear-bleeding sounds and deafening myself... shit and double shit, I was screwed... there was no way I would be able to play the thing and it was too late to back out now, so I decided to throw caution to the wind, I strolled into the assembly the following week and mimed my way through an entire performance!

Now you may think its easy to mime playing a recorder or any instrument for that matter, but I can tell you from previous experience, its fucking hard... you have to get the look right, the commanding look that says you have a clue what you’re doing, discipline. Also you have to mimic what everyone else is doing at the same time... which is difficult when you’re trying so hard to get the commanding look right!! I thought I was doing well, turns out I was overacting a little too much... evidently I looked a little insane and also like I was playing a tuba rather than a tiny plastic stick with holes in it!

Strangely enough I didn’t get asked to play for the school again!!
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 13:44, 1 reply)
Fortified wine and imported 'lager'
17 years of age, stuck in a shitty caravan on the North Wales coast with a few mates and desperate to get smashed. We had fuck all in terms of money so decided to club all our pennies together and make an exictable journey down to the cheapest booze emporium we could find. An hour later we come back to our 2 wheeled shithole with a 48-can crate of Generic Imported Lager Bier and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 each...

Mixed together on their own you have a pretty desperate combination but add the Worlds Shittest Funfair and the equally shitty Big Wheel and you get the young Jew heaving his bollocks through his mouth all over the rock defences for a good few hours.

Length? Several yards across the rocks and white...
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 13:38, Reply)
Can't belive I haven't seen it posted yet.
I, like most humans of the male persuasion with a reasonable grasp of literacy, require reading material while I evacuate my bowel.

Personal tastes differ, as is to be expected. Intellectual types may enjoy the works of shakespeare to soothe the aching sphincter, while more hirsuit gentlemen possibly prefer a red-top tabloid with nice short words and plenty of booby pictures. With my current lack of time and academic pressures, I currently peruse texts explaining fixed overhead variance analysis (oh joy *groan*).

As conferred with friends and aquaintances in typically guttural inebriated pub conversations, all of the above has been established as reliable fact. Another fact established and repeatedly confirmed (which I can't believe hasn't been posted) is that everyone at some time has been deperate enough for reading matter (usually after the lady of the house has tidied and cleaned the bathroom) to pick up the last resort of all possible throne literature, the shampoo bottle. (Of course this isn't strictly limited to shampoo and includes bubble bath / shower-gel / household cleaning products / deodorant cans etc.)

What the fuck does " Trimethylolpropane Tricaprylate/Tricaprate, Tetrasodium EDTA" actually 'do' anyway?

Length? Well it's hardly War & Peace, now is it?
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 13:09, 28 replies)
The Fremdo Spur
Is a famous snow and ice route in the Alps, famed for its difficulty, exposure (climbing term for 'fuck me it's a long way down')and speed at which you have to climb to get it done without leaving you in the lurch.

As well as plummeting to your death, there are other hazards, a major one being snow blindness, UV reflects into your eyes, if you're not wearing proper shades (the ones with side pieces and a nose piece) you very quickly suffer blurred vision, intense pain, and erm well blindness.

So - half way up said route would not be a very good place to have your only pair of sunglasses come off, would it?

Not that easy to fashion yourself an alternative - not many objects, when you think about it, are nascent or embryonic ray-bans.

It's hot in the sun, the glare is getting unbearable, you've got to go up, over snow, to get to the top, or down, over snow, to retreat.

The solution? A sleeping bag bag, with tiny pin holes in, worn over the head, for six hours. Classy, but a little bit stuffy.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 13:00, 1 reply)
When you've gotta go...
My bladder was fit to burst. I was driving home from work in the dark and my post-work pint was trying to make a break for it, so I pulled into the lay-by to use the public convenience that I knew to be there.

Now I would be lying if I said that I didn’t know that it used to be a notorious gay cruising spot, but my bladder didn’t care. A man had been stabbed to death there, but my bladder didn’t care. Looking back it seems a ridiculous thing to have done, but my bladder didn’t care.

I reasoned it out in my head. It was only early evening on a cold dark winters night and it was 1999 for god’s sake, homosexuals didn’t need to hang around toilets anymore, they had pubs and clubs and Celine Dion concerts for that sort of thing. I was using a public convenience for its correct purpose. Either way, my bladder didn’t care.

Straight away things looked bad. The small red brick building looked run down and there were no lights on inside, but my ever-present bladder pushed me on. I went inside, I could just about see my way by the orange sodium glow filtering in from the main road streetlights. It was a typical old fashioned public toilet, red tiled floors, toilet cubicles missing doors and toilet seats, crusty sinks without taps and the white porcelain communal urinal which I made my way to, careful not to slip on the wet slimy floor.

Fast footsteps were approaching the toilet. I was pissing like a carthorse. I wanted the footsteps to go away, I knew they wouldn’t. The footsteps entered the toilet and I was still pissing like a carthorse. A man came and stood next to me, a big man, a man that wasn’t there to urinate because he just stood there, looking at me in the gloom. Albert Einstein said that all time is relative, well that night I think it took a couple of hours for my bladder to empty.

I zipped up and calmly made my way back to my car. As I drove out of the lay-by my headlights illuminated the other cars that I had failed to notice in my desperation to relive myself. Each car had a man sat inside. Looking at me. Someone who had accidentally stepped into their world.
(, Fri 16 Nov 2007, 12:51, 4 replies)

This question is now closed.

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