It's hard to pick a winner
These sort of stories are very hard to write about without sounding like a boasty twat. Still that's exactly what I am so here goes.

One of the most memorable was when I travelled to Birmingham to pick up a batch of Hoffmans, some high strength blotter acid. We got home, and from then on the night is a blur. I awoke the next afternoon in the airing cupboard, clutching a flowerpot with a telephone taped to my chest.

I clambered out of my cupboard to survey a scene of devastation. Every door handle in the house had a carton of orange juice pushed on to it, with large puddles on the floor. Raising my eyes heavenwards I saw, instead of God, a variety of pizza packaging and canned food and drink gaffer taped to the ceiling.

Cursing, I made my way downstairs, and opened the balcony windows to let some fresh air in. As I did so I looked down, and there, twelve stories below, was the tv out of my bedroom, along with the contents of my freezer (mainly belonging to my housemate).

Sighing, I took a stella out of the fridge, rummaged through the kitchen ashtray to make a butt spliff, chuckled ruefully, and made an adult decision to clean up later, after a bit of shuteye.

I entered my bedroom, and all thoughts of a nice sleep left my head. Lying atop my bed, snoring manfully, was my friend Pete, with whom I'd gone out.

He had become a home made mutant hero turtle.

With the shock arrived some flashbacks - the gaffer tape fun had continued and with the aid of glowsticks had made him some nunchucks, a gaffer tape eye-band (which later removed his eyebrows), a wok as a shell (it was never the same afterwards) and some t-shirts as knee pads.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 15 Dec 2005, 12:45, Reply)