Some people shouldn't be allowed to teach
This was recalled by someone much earlier telling tales of scientists doing stupid things.

For my sins, I am a science teacher in what would be politely referred to as a 'Comprehensive' school. Seeing as we're in the near-vicinity of several grammar schools, we are in fact more of a bottom-feeder. Needless to say, any illusions I once possessed of being a cross between Mr Chips and Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society have been crushed under the sheer weight of imbecility I have to deal with while attempting to be inspirational.

Most of the teenage twunts I have to deal with aren't permitted to go near glass or tweezers, let alone Bunsen burners, because of their incessant need to attempt to burn, lacerate or throw things at each other, rather than carry out the carefully-planned and sterile experiment I had in mind. The aforesaid seem to be very contented with the 'turn to page 152 and copy this diagram' style of teaching. It keeps them out of my hair while I sit at my desk and read b3ta and my email under the guise of 'writing reports'.

But every now and then, I get a fresh intake of wide-eyed youngsters who are pretty well-behaved and I feel inclined to show a bit of practical work to. So the first thing we do is a little Health And Safety exercise. I say 'little' - this can often drag on for several lessons. We're talking here about youngsters who will look straight down into a lit Bunsen to 'see if it is working properly', and take a sip of sodium hydroxide because they weren't sure what it was and thought their gustatory senses would be better able to cope with it than the complicated business of reading a fecking great big label with 'caustic soda - harmful' written on in child-friendly 50-point Comic Sans.

So, eventually, we work our way round to 'safely handling glassware', for which I have to demonstrate the use of a test tube rack. I make sure to warn the little chitterlings not to put anything containing glass on the edge of the bench and never to put an empty tube straight onto the bench, because it will roll straight off and break. I also deliver a stern lecture on the perils of broken glass, not trying to clear it up themselves, and making sure they don't have more contact with it than necessary. I tell gruesome, and largely fictional, tales of what happens to people when fragments of glass get into the bloodstream or the digestive system. To be honest, I terrify this bunch of 11-year-olds about as much as amorphous silica ever could do.

And then I lean over to the sink to carefully rinse out the tube I had been showing them. I had neglected to wear my lab coat for this bit of the lesson, as it's bulky and smells of cats' piss, for reasons that I've never been able to identify.

The corner of my suit jacket catches in a tub of 50 test tubes which I had, against my prudent advice, left on the edge of the bench. 50 test tubes shatter on the floor. I don't think I've ever seen so much broken glass. The floor of the lab ceases to be pristinely swept and now more closely resembles the shoot-out scene from The Matrix.

Every pupil in the room instantly flattens themselves against the back wall, terrified in their new knowledge that they might "inhale some and rupture their pulmonary blood vessels" (why did I tell them that? Why?!). The inevitable cynical kid, that even the nicest class always contains, is pissing himself laughing. The words "Oh Cock" have unavoidably escaped my lips and the Teaching Assistant, who is a firm Catholic, is standing there mortified and already composing a letter of complaint to the Head.

As I tell the youngsters not to worry (so much), I shift slightly towards my trusty dustpan-and-brush and realise that a large shard of hitherto test tube has somehow entered the top of my shoe and is burrowing along my instep, apprarently intent on severing any tendons it may encounter. The blood is already oozing out of my tasteful grey sock. Several pupils are then further alarmed by my bellowing like a werewolf with his goolies trapped in a vice.

I bend down to remove the offending glass, headbutt the bench on the way down, and collapse in a heap on the floor. Only the certain knowledge that there will be chaos if I pass out stops me going for a little sleep right there and then.

Trying to regain what's left of my composure, I lever myself up on the side of the desk, and address the class: "OK. Now you need to open the textbook to page 152 and copy the diagram".

Length? A full page of your exercise book, and don't forget to label with a pencil and a ruler.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Thu 27 Dec 2007, 17:02, 14 replies)

This has JUST happened…
It is the last day of work before the Christmas holidays. There is nothing to do but make up the numbers. Girls are going about with Santa Hats on, the Xmas CD is playing, the chocolates are being handed out…jovial behaviour all round…you get the picture.

Because there is nothing to do, I thought I’d make myself scarce. Sloping off to the toilets to read some B3ta posts and play Solitaire on my phone ensures that I can get a good 30 minutes ‘me’ time (they’re lucky to have me aren’t they?). I won’t be disturbed…result.

So I’m sat there, the actual toilet ‘activity’ is concluded in a surprisingly short amount of time. Now there’s no point in continuing to sit there with my trollies round my ankles but it’s still way too early to go back to the office; so I flush, pull up my trousers etc and sit back down to continue with the game.

Another 10 minutes pass by…my guts stir a bit…and I think to myself: ‘Well…I’m in the right place…’

And I promptly proceed to shit my pants. A big, runny, sub-atomic dump.

“AAAAARRRGHHHH” I scream (in my head) as I desperately scramble to rip off my kex. I now have no alternative but to survey the ‘damage’.

‘Please don’t be too bad, please don’t be too bad’ I murmour as I beseech the gods of feaces-related chaos to be kind.

As I peel open my undercrackers and peek into the gusset…

The scene is one of total devestation. I have no alternative but to start the long and arduous cleanup process.

I start to frantically wipe and rub with an ever increasing panic (induced by the fact that it doesn’t seem to be making any difference). I have to keep stopping as other people come in to use the lavvies and the walls are as thin as the bog roll that is rapidly running out in my stall.

I haven’t even got to checking my arse yet…as I grab the last wad of roll, I begin to wipe my crack, forgetting the fact that shit is now completely splattered across my entire arse. ‘Oh god, NOOOO!’ I sigh as I stare at my brown-slush covered hand.

I then think to check my Jeans…at this point I would gladly sell my soul and testicles for there to be an untainted pair on the floor.

It’s just not my day. The force of the blast went straight through my tattered grots and splashed a huge stain down the back of my jeans.

And now I have no more bog roll….I have to take a chance…

Covered in shit, crap-caked kex and pants still round my ankles, stinking to high heaven and wondering how this could possibly happen to me, I have to try and switch to the trap next door.

I gently unlock the door and open it. ‘If someone walks in now, I will quit my job…I mean it…I’ll walk…never to return.’ I promise myself as I waddle from cubicle to cubicle.

As I sit down again, I check for loo-roll…Loads of it…’Thank god’ I mutter as I restart the rubbing / wiping / cursing my own existence.

As I fill up my second toilet with spent bum-wad, I slowly come to the conclusion that there is no easy way out of this…I have to ask myself the questions that no man should ever have to do in his lifetime…

Do I discard the pappered boxers? If so, where? What if I try and flush them and they block the bog?

I decide to keep on rubbing away….after a while it looks like there is no more that can be wiped and there is nothing more than a grotesque stain on my clothes…by which time I have noticed suspicious-looking marks on my WHITE shirt!

God hates me…that’s what it is…

It’s now time for my leap of faith…or as close as I can get to a 'leap' considering my legs are numb by this time. I am as ‘clean’ as I can be (given the circumstances) and I have to pull up the offending garments.

Despite my best efforts…there’s still a ‘squelch’. By Christ it’s uncomfortable. I scrub my hands and arms raw before checking my reflection in the toilet mirrors. I then cross my fingers, hope for the best and make my shit-splattered way back to my desk.

So now I’m sitting here…some people are asking what the smell is…Yet people keep coming up to me and gathering round to wish me a happy Christmas…You know what I wish?...I wish they would all fuck off and leave me alone to stink in peace. I do not plan to move before I leave for home…but it gets worse…as I type, my crap-factory is starting to gurgle again…the outlook is bleak...

So, whatever terrible things may be happening to all you B3tards out there right now…consider this...

It could be worse…..you could be me.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 21 Dec 2007, 12:37, 27 replies)

I lost my phone...
One night I was being dropped off at home by a few mates after quite a heavy night drinking. After fumbling around for my keys, I realised that my phone wasn't in the pocket where I usually keep it. Hoping that I'd left it in the car, as opposed to losing it in the pub, I quickly rang my friends who were at that very minute speeding away. The conversation went something like:

"Hi"
"Hi, have I left my phone in the car, cos I don't have it?"
"What are you speaking to me on?"
"Shit"
( Furness, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 14:37, 1 reply)

Stupid, and rather embarrassing......
I hope no one connects this to the real me...

One bright balmy summers evening, I'm reclining on my couch recieving a spot of togerlingus from my filly (a rarity in itself!).

As I approach the Billy Mill roundabout, I suddenly remember that this particular young lady is neither a spitter not a swallower - nay, she's more of a move out of the way and say 'oooh that's horrible, look at it going everywhere' type.

Noticing that there is nothing to hand with which to shield my tee shirt and indeed my soft furnishings from the imminent (and now irrevocable) baby paste fountain, and also realising thatin my supine position I'm never gonna catch it in my dirty little mitts, I decide to clamp down on either side of the glans with thumb and finger, trapping the Oil of Goolay inside the truncheon until I can shuffle off to the water closet.

Don't do this kids. I burst my dick. At least internally. There was a nasty feeling of pressure, and then an even nastier feeling of internal rippage which quite took the fun out of the proceedings. With much panicked yelling, I let go (firing man batter up the tee shirt), and ran off to the loo.

To cut the rest of this sordid and graphic tale short, having your jap constantly drip blood for 2 days straight, and not daring to pee, let alone wank for nearly a week is not something to stick on your to-do list. I'm not even counting the vague feeling of shame going to work with half a bog roll wrapped round your cock like Mumm-Ra's sex aid so blood doesn't run down your leg and into your shoe.

Length? Unchanged, but probably bigger on the inside.
(NoveltyCondomHead Clanks Wams., Wed 2 Jan 2008, 0:15, 9 replies)

WEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!...........ouch.
After a particularly heavy night on the beer, me and a few friends were sorting the sleeping arrangements back at mine.
All the sofas had been claimed, so I volunteer to haul the futon mattress I have stashed in my room downstairs so everyone gets a comfy nights sleep. Aren't I nice?
Whilst pulling/rolling/shoving the mattress out of my bedroom onto the landing, I have an idea. A fucking brilliant idea (or so I thought).

How cool would it be to ride the mattress all the way down the stairs? The mattress gets downstairs, I get a bit of fun and everyone will want a go!

Trembling with childish anticipation, I line the mattress up at the top of the stairs and take a few paces back into the bathroom. This is it, the ultimate in drunken entertainment (after porn).
I ran at the mattress and take a flying leap; I soar through the air with grace and style. I am Lord of the Mattress-stair-riding!!!!!!!


Or I would have been, had I grabbed the mattress.


Unfortunately I realised my mistake mid-flight. Rather than put my arms out to break the fall, I just left them flailing out behind me. My head connected with the floor three foot away from the front door. I then slide head first into the front door, my body crumpling up behind me.
Apparently I was conscious but very limb and unable to talk for some time. Still, I perked up after a while and went to bed, nursing a nasty headache.

Awoke next day with the pillow stuck to my face by blood and pus from the carpet burn/graze behind my ear and a slight twinge in my neck.

My friends have never let me forget the fact I dived head first down my own stairs, for no good reason. :-(
(FerretTrout be illin', Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:24, Reply)

Welllll...
I accidently shut myself in a suitcase for a few hours once.

And then disclocated my arm getting out.
(towels, Sun 30 Dec 2007, 13:15, 10 replies)

English rage....
One wet and miserable afternoon where the heavy leaden skies merged with the grimy cityscape I decided a bit of Hollywood escapism was needed.

As is traditional when wanting to watch a film I deposited myself in the sticky floored chav breeding ground that is the modern multiplex.

Upon entering the theatre it was already dark as I had spent ten minutes explaing to a pus filled dimwit of a sweet vendor that his popcorn had risen in price by more than 17% in the last year tracking way above inflation and that I was loath to part with almost £5 for something that is 50% air.

Alas my lamentations and sound economics fell of deaf ears and I parted his company with a small bag of popcorn, a heavy debt and a seething resentment towards anything and anyone involved in the corn or corn popping industries.

I took my seat and resolved to enjoy the film with no more ire inducing episodes. This was not to be the case foir behind me seemed to be the noisiest people in the world.

Snippets of whispered conversation buzzed around my head like so many malarial mosquitoes, the incessant crackle and crunch of sweet bags felt as loud as gufire, the soft sucking of humbugs pulled at the marrow in my bones the and random kicking of the back of my seat did little to ease my back pain.

I should have asked nicely for some peace and quiet, but past experience had taught me that these dark dwelling monsters would only increase their attacks if provocked with reasonable requests. Hence I sat and I seethed for felt like hours, I balled up my rage in a way only an emotionally stunted Englishman can.

Like Krakatoa the pressure became too much and I exploded! Swivelling around in my chair a shouted in no uncertain terms for this utter shower of shits to, and I quote, "SHUT THE FUCK UP BEFORE I RIP YOUR FUCKING HEADS OFF!"

All was silent, for a brief second I thought I had done the impossible and won against the tyranny of teenagers. Unfortunately as my eyes adjusted to the dark I saw quivering chins and frightened watery eyes.

In a line sat 6 very scared and on the verge of tears children with Down Syndrome. My heart absolutely sank. Their carer lent forward and apologised only making things worse, i begged her and the children's forgiveness and sank so deeply into my seat that my arse got stuck to the fetid sticky floor. It was where I belonged. I have never felt so guilty.

Luckily after the movie I managed to apologise properly to all involved and we all went away happy, but I have learnt how stupid it is to let the rage grow inside you and to release it with out doing some pre flight checks.

*starts walking to hull*
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Mon 31 Dec 2007, 10:28, 6 replies)

roidin thur traaaactor
As a 14 year old I used to work on a farm at the weekends, doing (literally) shitty jobs and helping out in the slaughterhouse sorting out piles of still-warm and twitching cow guts.

This particular story is out on the fields though, so some pubescent slaughterhouse stories some other time perhaps.

The farm was a very small holding and the equipment was pretty damn old. They had one tractor which looked like it was built in the 50's and looks pretty much like this:

www.hpj.com/wsdocs/ffa/images/News/shane_blaes_old_tractor.jpg

Imagine it with inflated tyres, painted grey and with a sack instead of a seat and you're there.

The farmer was a smug cunt who I hated, but he also paid my wages (50p an hour in 1984 CUUUUUUUNT). He said he had a job for me to do and would I like to drive the tractor?

OH YES PLEASE, SIR!

So he drove this heap of shit into the yard, attached a scary-looking trailer to it and pulled up outside the cowshed. He handed me a shovel, pointed first to the floor then to the trailer and said, "this shit - in there". 2 hours later, the trailer was full of shit (much like the farmer) and I went to fetch him.

"Grand job lad" he said. "Now you get to drive the tractor".

So he drove it out into the entrance to the field and parked up. He then explained that my job would be to drive the tractor up and down the field, muck-spreading - for the scary-looking tractor was a mechanical muckspreader.

Now I don't know if anyone is familiar with these things, but it is basically a huge conveyor belt that moves the shit slowly towards the rear of the trailer, where scary-looking rotating prongs flick the crap out to the rear. The whole contraption works through the movement of the wheels.

As I had never driven a combustion-engine driven vehicle before, he showed me what to do.

"See that pedal there lad? Press that if you want to go faster. That pedal there? Press that down if you want to stop."

Seemed pretty straightforward and I did a 100 yard test run to check I understood the concept. He seemed happy, opened the gate and sent me on my merry way, me beaming from ear to ear on my very own tractor, flicking cow shit to the four winds.

The field was on the side of a hill and the first part was up, so I ascended the incline, pressing the "GO" pedal. The ancient old engine roared and I headed up the hill, looking back at my bovine dung fountain. As I reached the top, I hit the "STOP" pedal and slowed down, to do a U turn and head back down the hill.

Off I went again, little smiling Dixon shit flicker.

As I descended the hill, the tractor started picking up speed and I noticed this was causing the shit to flick higher and higher, so I hit the "STOP" pedal. This however caused the tractor to speed up further - so in a panic I tried the other pedal, which made the engine roar and gave more speed. At this point the tractor was going so fast it was causing the shit to be flicked violently and was going over my head, up my back, in my hair, behind my ears, with me all the while pushing pedals and pulling levers like the first chimp in space having a panic attack. I reached the bottom of the hill and it levelled off and the "STOP" pedal worked again.

I had to go through this "Up the hill, engine roaring, down the hill 'jester in the stocks being pelted by dung'" process another 5 times until the trailer was empty.

When I got back to the gate, the farmer was waiting for me with a bright red face and tears in his eyes from laughing. I got off the tractor and I looked like fucking yin and yang.

Later when I started to learn to drive properly and was slightly wiser, I realised the "STOP" pedal which he had showed me was in fact, the clutch.
( Dixipoos Bye Bye Blackbird, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 15:55, 6 replies)

The Ring of Pain
This story is in two parts, separated by some 30 or so years....and one generation.


Part One
I was about seven years old and then (as now) I
was rather fond of dressing up.
Picture the scene....

Small Chickenlady dressed in her mother's 1960s and 70s finery - beautiful little Jackie O dresses and fabulous stiletto winklepicker shoes.

All of these stunning outfits had to be set off by just the right costume jewellery.

My favourite items were the necklace, bracelet, ring and earring sets that could be bought for about 25p from Woolworths - the cheaper and gaudier the better (to be honest, I've not changed, I simply get my accessories from Primark now and not Woolies).

On this particular occasion I was sporting a lovely acid orange plastic set of jewels and even if I do say so myself, I looked stunning in a way that only a small child wearing oversized clothes and trashy plastic junk can.

I was very happy with my outfit that day and went off to bed a satisfied Chickenlady.

Just one thing....I had overlooked removing my jewellery, namely the orange ring.


The following morning - a Monday and therefore a school day - my finger was swollen and the ring seemed stuck fast.

First of all my mother tried to use soap to slide the ring off.
No.
Butter.
No.
Cold water and then butter.
No.
Cold water and then soap.
No, no, no.

So my dad came to the rescue...he had just the thing in the shed...out he went and then returned...with a hacksaw.

I began to scream - as would any normal sane child who believes her finger is about to be amputated.

Both my parents attempt to calm me down...utterly useless.

So my mother holds me tight and my hand is held firmly while my father begins to saw. Backwards and forwards went the hacksaw (I can honestly remember every draw of the blade across my young finger) until the ring was broken and eventually my small dimpled digit set free without so much as a scratch upon it.

I was late to school that morning but entertained the class at Show and Tell time with my story of Frankensteinesque proportions - even then I was never one to understate things for the sake of a good (or indifferent) story.

Part Two

Thirtyish years later.....

Chickenlady is now the proud mother of twin boys.

Boys for whom no stone is left unthrown when their brother is in sight.

Boys for whom no torture or adventure is avoided.

Boys, in other words, who will no doubt follow in their mother's footsteps and become, one day, true B3tans (god help us).


Son #2 has a magnet set which comes with various bits of washers, coils and springs and other odds and ends of metalwork.

Can you see where this is going yet?

I have to say that I'm eternally grateful that this happened when he was about seven or eight and not five or six years later........

So, adventurous soul that he is, decides he fancies wearing a ring on his finger (see...that's why I'm glad it happened while he was under 10) for a while...overnight actually.

Around half past ten I went up to bed and as usual I checked on them to ensure they were both in bed and the wreckage in their bedroom wasn't too bad or life-threatening.
Fortunately I notice that son #2 has a swollen finger and is sporting a fetching metal ring on said finger.

Yes, like mother, like son.

So I call the ex-Mr Chickenlady (the boys' father) and we decide we can't leave the child like this overnight. I wake him up and first of all I try to remove the ring using soap.
No.
Hand cream.
No.
Cold water and soap.
No...and for god's sake woman, do you not have a memory!

Ah...yes....

Bearing in mind this was all taking place on a farm, we didn't have a shed at the bottom of the garden with a hacksaw...no...we had a tractor shed with a small pair of wire cutters - Ideal!

Son #2 is quickly kitted out with slippers and dressing gown and sleepily walked over to the yard.

We open up the huge shed doors.

We go into the workshop.

The first thing he sees on the workbench is...


A CHAINSAW

He screams and becomes hysterical.

Both ex-Mr Chickenlady and myself try hard to both calm the child and stop laughing like loons while also attempting to find the wirecutters....We finally find them and the boy is set free, but forever mentally scarred by the experience.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Sat 22 Dec 2007, 23:02, 3 replies)

Toilet face
I woke up a while back needing a shit something horrible but also needed a piss, top this off with a relentless morning glory. I sat down on the loo and tried bending it into the bowl etc but had no chance of making that work. I honestly thought I could squeeze the tip of my nob hard enough to stop the flow, I gripped hard, released my bowels and promptly sprayed concentrated morning piss all over my own face.
(el perro grande, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 17:04, 3 replies)

Wasps and Beetroot...
I used to live in the Wilds of Herefordshire and its no exaggeration when they used to say (proudly) 'Herefordshire born and bred, strong in the arm, thick in the head'

One of the guys who played crib with my ex husband had issues with a growing wasp nest outside his front door.

Inspired by my then husband's tale of how I ridded the house of pesky flies (they used to hibernate in the thick walls in the winter, and hundreds used to reappear on warm spring days) by hoovering up the filthy little buggers with my hoover (it gave me a perverse sense of satisfaction, and made me giggle a bit madly - look, life can be pretty boring being married to a sheep farmer!!) SO, his mate took his own hoover to the wasps nest early one evening (when they start bedding down for the night) and hoovered the bloody lot up!!

Ok, so that sounds a pretty good idea so far - I may would have attempted that myself...

But not even Mr Stupid of number 1, Stupid Street, Idiot Town, would then take the hoover INSIDE, and remove the "now filled to the brim with a thousand angry stinging things" hoover bag - and open it in his front room!

OBVIOUSLY, he got stung hundreds of times, and eventually the stinging frenzy subsided and he managed to escape, desperately looking for some vinegar to neutralise the stings - but all he could find was a jar of beetroot - which he tipped over himself - and then, somehow, managed to get himself to hospital.

I can't imagine what A&E staff thought when they saw THAT coming through their doors!!
( curvylittlegoth heard the voices in your head on, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 15:28, 1 reply)

A pain in the back. And the arse.
So many, many possible answers and only two weeks to tell them all. Jesus.

One bright, sunny morning, I’m getting ready for university. Shower, check. Brekkie, done? Clean teeth? Oh, right. Upstairs I pop, paste on brush, scrubby scrubby. Tap on, bend slightly to rinse mouth and… Aaah AAAAAHH AAACHOOOOOOOO.

Ow.

Pain soars across my lower back and I try to straighten up. I can’t. The force of the sneeze, coupled with the awkward angle I was leaning at had conspired to tear a muscle in my back and the rest of the muscles had responded by going into lockdown.

I shuffled gingerly out of the bathroom. What to do? I’ll go to the doctors, I thought (not daft, me). But how to get there? Driving’s out, I couldn’t even sit down, let alone operate pedals. Taxi is a no-no. There’s no buses, so I’ll just have to walk.

The walk would normally take me 20 minutes. Two hours later I shuffle into the doctor’s surgery, crying and sweating like a fat man running after the pie van. I’m bent at about 35 degrees and clutching my back like a woman about to go into labour with sextuplets. The receptionist tells me to take a seat. Through gritted teeth I explain that due to the unfortunate nature of my injury, sitting isn’t an option and would it be okay to stand somewhere more private as people are starting to gawp.

Eventually she hustles me into an empty examining room where I prop myself up against a table and spend a pain filled hour looking at a map of the world pinned to the wall. It was not fun. On the plus side, my middle eastern geography is now excellent.

The doctor comes in, takes one look at me and says “Christ, what the hell did you do?” I explained and once he’d stopped sniggering, he wrote me a prescription for two types of elephant tranquilizer painkillers and some muscle relaxants. I shuffled out of the surgery and into a nearby chemists to get me some drugs.

But that’s not the stupid bit. By this time I was in so much pain I wasn’t really thinking straight. I picked up the tablets and a bottle of water and went outside, necked some much needed analgesics and the muscle relaxants and began the shuffle home.

Boy, those things work fast. Within what seemed like seconds (but was obviously much longer) I began to feel distinctly weird. Drunk, almost. You know on some packets of tablets they warn you to “not drive or operate heavy machinery”? These should have had “Don’t drive, operate machinery, walk or attempt to speak in coherent sentences.” Basically I was minced. The pain subsided to a degree and I could straighten to my normal angle. However I was now staggering like an idiot and had realized that the pain and clenching had been masking the fact that I was desperate for a poo. And you don’t want to need a poo when you’ve just taken muscle relaxants…

I entered the house in the same state I’d left, crying and sweating, only this time with the effort of not soiling myself in public. Once I’d unloaded, I got into bed and lay motionless for the next two hours until I felt well enough to drug myself again.

So the moral of the story is, when your doctor tells you “wait till you get home before taking these painkillers,” listen to him. There’s usually a good reason.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 16:12, 5 replies)

Playing football on the field aged 15ish...
I, in my permanently unfit state, was bent over at the side of the pitch recovering from a stitch whilst my friends played on with their game.

I noticed a large (about 10ft square?), thin(ish) piece of corrugated iron lying on the grass. Intrigued, I began to lift one end of this extremely heavy object.

I managed to get one end up to chest level, and then proceeded to slowly walk forward, trying to flip it over.

Suddenly, my feet stepped into thin air and i fell about 6ft down an open manhole - luckily my elbows opened out keeping my head and shoulders from going down, but then the metal fell on my head.

My friends, hearing my muffled screams for help as I was about to sealed into the hole by the metal sheet, ran over to help lift it up and pull me out.

Damage? Mild concussion, and 12 stitches on my shins where the rungs of the ladder had dug in on the way down.

Still, got a nice scar to show the ladies!

In retrospect, should really have put a claim in due to the councils negligence put that's a bit of a cop out, was my fault after all...
(gin'll fix it, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 14:34, 7 replies)

in the eye
a few years ago i was sat in my room by my pc chatting away on msn. Hunger struck me and a snack was in order.
So off i went downstairs in search of something to munch on. While in the kitchen i grab myself a banana and start walking back to my bedroom.
Halfway up the stairs i get an itchy nose, forgetting that i've got a banana in my hand i decide to reach up to scratch my nose.

I poked myself in the eye with the banana.....
( schizophrenic_sheep, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 17:49, Reply)

Dumb kid
When i was about 9 I got stuck up a tree (actually wedged in stuck, not just scared like a cat stuck). The fire brigade were called to rescue me.

When I was 14 I had a pair of Doc Martin steel toecapped boots. I didn't like the yelow thread on the bottom so spent ages cutting it off. It turns out that yellow thread isn't just there for decoration, it holds the sole on.

Just a couple of years ago I was walking home drunk in the middle of winter down a long and dark country lane. I decided to spark up a cigarette for warmth, turning my back against the oncoming wind. Cigarette lit, I carried on walking the way I was facing. Back in to town and where I'd just come from. I nearly cried when I got in 2 hours later than planned, frozen and drunk and really angry with myself for being such a doombrained eejit.
(fatcock has decided to be more mysterious.....or has he?, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:54, Reply)

as usual i thought long and hard before posting this...
when i was about 10 or 11 and just finding out what fun a stiffy is...
for reasons that still remain a complete and utter mystery to me...
i pushed a 10mm steel ball bearing down the japs eye of my erect todger...
and wondered why it wouldn't come out...
for 2 days...
had to use a magnet in the end, or should that be on the end...
and got metal splinters im my cock into the bargain...
it was very frightening indeeeeeed, especially when rusty stuff came out next time i had a wank...
and you are the first people i have ever told and that was 28 years ago!!!

and in reply to the questions raised...

couldn't pee it out, wanking was so painfull you wouldn't believe and in true scaredy-cat style there was no way i was going to tell anyone what i'd done. i mean, a steel ball bearing up the japs eye? you've got to be having a laugh???

as for length, about as long as it is now, give or take an inch but i gave up measuring it years ago...
( blaireau69 , the Cumbrian Travis Bickle., Tue 1 Jan 2008, 17:14, 7 replies)

There's a lot to be said for Hellman's
Well, it wasn't physically painful, but it sure as hell was embarrassing.

My girlfriend and I had just moved into a new house, and after a busy morning moving boxes around and cleaning the place we decided to break for lunch. We were a bit limited in terms of what we had to eat in the place, having mainly breakfast stuff - eggs, sausage and suchlike. We settled on a sausage and egg mayonnaise sandwich. This was all well and good, except that of course we didn't have any mayonnaise. Now, I could have hopped into the car and driven down to the shop to buy some, but with visions of Ready Steady Cook flashing before my eyes I elected to make some.
Second problem - no whisk. But I had a plan for that as well. Because the house needed some work doing, I'd brought my tools with me and amongst them was a rechargeable drill - one of those where the harder you squeeze the trigger the faster it goes. I bent a coathanger into a suitable shape, attached it to the drill, cracked an egg into a bowl and set the drill whirring away, drizzling oil as I went and feeling pretty good about my "Man against the Elements" improvisation.

Except it didn't work. I ended up with an eggy, oily mass that was distinctly unmayonnaisy. I thought about going to the shop for a moment, then thought again that actually what I needed to do was to whisk it harder to get the emulsion started.

So I took my bent coathanger off the rechargeable drill and put it into my mains hammer drill.

Now, the little drill has a controllable speed, and goes up to about 350 RPM flat out. My mains hammer drill has two speeds; ON and OFF, and goes up to 5000 RPM. Coathanger goes in the mixture and - click. Suddenly the world went white as the entire contents of the bowl energetically leapt clear of the whirring wire and redistributed themselves liberally over the whole just-cleaned kitchen: walls, floor, windows, cupboards, ceiling, me. I thought I'd broken the drill as well because I could hear a loud screeching noise, but that turned out to be coming from my girlfriend.
(richardm, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 11:14, 1 reply)

drunken dumbness
I was once out on the lash in Peterborough. We were staying at the Formula One hotel which to the unitiated is probably the worst 'hotel' in the world. The next morning my mates, on wondering where I was had got someone to open my door and found my bed unslept in but my shoes neatly arranged at the side of my bed.

You get a slip of paper with a number on it that has the combination for your room. When I got back to my room the night before, I had just taken my shoes off and when found I needed a piss so I left my room and went to the bogs. When I got back to my room I found that I had forgotten my number and the slip of paper was inside the room. The 'hotel' does not have anyone on reception so I could not find out what my number was. Suddenly I had a brain wave, I knew that there was a card machine in the wall outside the 'hotel' that allowed people to buy rooms for the night, so I thought I would go outside and buy another room. I went outside and the door slammed behind me. I put my card into the machine and it told me that all the rooms were full. I was now stuck outside the hotel with no shoes. I phoned for a taxi and had to go around all the hotels in Peterborough until I found one that was about 20 miles from Peterborough that had a spare room.
(thrain, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:34, 1 reply)

Oh no.....................................
Dumbest thing I've done is put my girlfriend's presents in the sack that I gave to my daughters. The presents that would probably not be best opened in public. Think on-line shopping for items of a personal pleasurable nature and the clothing and lubricants that would go with them. These would be the same daughters that have just been picked up by my ex-wife to spend Xmas day with her. And her retired parents.

Bugger.

I'm screwed both ways.


G/F has no presents.

Kids (if they open said packages) will have strange new insight into dad's sex-life.

Ho Ho fuckin' Ho.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Mon 24 Dec 2007, 18:16, 5 replies)

Dumbass nurses
Let's see, I have performed the following stupid nurse's tricks:

* drank an entire pot of caffeinated coffee while studying and spent the afternoon on the toilet groaning and squirting instead of studying. I learned the meaning of pebbledash that day.

*the next weekend decided to be 'one of the cool kids' while studying and attempted to light a cigarette (I have never smoked) off the gas stove. You know, just like all the cool kids do. POOF Burned all my bangs off plus singed my eyebrows.

*chopped chiles for chili con carne and then went to work. Rubbed my eye during report and screamed bloody murder, scaring the bejebus out of the patients.

*not recognized a patient when she took her wig off and demanded to know what she had done with Mrs. Robinson!?!

*when preparing my first deceased patient for the morgue, noticed my friend's hand reaching under the curtain to seize my ankle and stomped on his hand, thereby dislocating his pinkie.

* called into work and when my friend answered the phone I felt the need to tell her I'd be late because I was having fantastico sex with my new hot hunky boyfriend, the Englishman. In detail. In great detail. I was on the speakerphone.

*accidently broke my dead patient's wrist while trying to wrestle her into the outfit in which the family wanted her taken to the funeral home.

*again, while dressing a dead patient, put her Capri pants on backwards. No one noticed.

*slipped and fell into the hydrotub when attempting to bathe a patient. Proved Archimedes' Principle of Displacement. She thought it wildly funny when left in an almost-empty tub.

*leaned across a quadriplegic patient to fluff pillows and almost suffocated the poor guy with my own "pillows". He said, "What a way to go!"

*managed to destroy 2 additional patients' narcotics when discontinuing my own dead patient's meds. Didn't look at the names on the blisterpaks. I am now banned from that Alzheimer's care home. Not because I made a med error, but because I shrieked "For Fuck's sake!" when the director chided me.

*ripped open my own scrub top catching it on a metal projection on the bed, letting my tits fall out. Thank goodness I was wearing a nice bra.

*got caught by the patient looking down the scrub top of my really good-looking male student and being aroused by admiring his perfect chest. Yum.

*bobbled a (thankfully clean) needle and had it land straight up, quivering, in my foot. Do not wear suede Birkenstocks to work, no matter how cool they look.

*asked a patient I ran into on the street how her baby was. "Oh, uh, he died." was the reply. Kill me now...

*grabbed my friend the doc's bottom and honked him only.... It wasn't my good friend, it was a new doc; one of the most handsome men I'd ever seen. For some reason he avoided me the rest of his rotation. Sigh.

*tripped over the cord and unplugged the iron lung. Yes, I am that old.

*fainted in the midst of a delivery. Twice. One time I had just enough time to slam-dunk the 45 second old infant in his crib before I hit the floor. He was ok; the tensile strength of infants is very high.

Last but not least,

*three days ago, a colleague was playing with a SIX AND A HALF INCH LONG remote control tarantula and made it crawl towards me: www.amazon.com/Discovery-Exclusive-Radio-Control-Tarantula/dp/B000JM4S8Y
I saw it, leapt backwards and screamed "Fucksox!" at the top of my lungs. I am one of the Clinical Instructors of Nursing. Classy.

Apologies for thick, meaty length. licks corner of mouth
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sat 22 Dec 2007, 0:52, 6 replies)

Still don't know how I managed this one... still feeling sick thinking about it
Got back to my car after a day at work; and noticed a pigeon had crapped on it.

Got paranoid about it taking the paint off my car... wanted to wipe it off with a tissue, but didn't have any in the car.

As it was reasonably dry, I then decided to rub it off with my hand. (Pretty grim enough...)

Then I got in the car, looked at my hand and thought "what's that mess on my hand?". And then licked it off. And then realised exactly what I'd done.

*shudders*
( biscuitbiscuit is in ur garden, watering ur plantz, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 20:53, 3 replies)

I once dropped....
...a toothpaste lid down my sink, which proceeded to get annoyingly jammed half way down on the way into the u-bend.

After placing a bucket under the unscrewable cap and removing it - I tried to 'flush' the lid through with lots of water.

Several minutes passed before, with the aid of a long knife, I was able to get it through the pipe and into the bucket.

Satisfied with my work, I promptly emptied the water from the bucket.

Into the sink.

Of which I hadn't put the u-bend cap back on.
(gin'll fix it, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:45, 2 replies)

I must’ve been about 6 years old…

But I was allowed to walk myself to and from school as it was only a short(ish) walk (long enough for there to be no way it would be allowed nowadays though).

In fact, everybody in our class lived only a short walk away and this gave our teacher the opportunity of a delightful incentive for good behaviour. The child that had been the ‘best behaved’ all day could leave school 5 minutes early and be home in plenty of time for Dogtanion and the Three Muskerhounds.

Result.

However, as I said, this hinged on being the ‘best behaved’ child…and as those who know me will instantly understand…that was never going to be me. Never.

Now, as you can no doubt imagine, this well and truly left my cheese out in the wind.

I tried really hard to be good, really I did, but something would always come along and royally shag up my efforts…mostly by being too tempting an opportunity at mischief to miss.

But one day…one glorious day…and I don’t know (or care) whether it was an act of charity or random selection, if the teacher had got lucky / pissed / stoned the night before or that she just couldn’t bear the sight of me any more, but I was given my big chance.

“Pooflake, you little twunt,” she said, “You are allowed to go home early”

“Fucking get in there!” I exclaimed, my face lighting up with a combination of glee and total surprise.

I packed up my books and basked in the envious stares of my classmates. I was the best, and I wanted everyone to know it. In fact, I decided that just getting up and leaving was not going to be enough and I came up with the ingenious idea to wait the remaining five minutes so I could continue gloating when everybody else leaves.

Now that’s pretty dumb for a start.

As I stood in the cloakroom all alone (and unsupervised) I decided to pass the remaining time by placing my hooded parka jacket on the cold hard floor tiles and using it as some kind of surf / skateboard. The plan was to place the coat in the middle of the floor, take a big run-up, jump, land on the coat and let inertia take its happy course.

It worked perfectly…to a point…and quite an important point as it goes.

After sprinting and running down the corridor, I leapt like a mentally-retarded gazelle and stamped down on the coat, which promptly slid backwards under my feet and sent my face accelerating towards the tiles.

Now at this point I would like to mention that there is a tradition in our family…let’s call it the ‘Pooflake scar’. Every male for generations has a scar of varying size under their chin, caused by different, anecdote-inducing stories.

I am positive that this was the moment destiny decided that I was to get my scar…all I had to do was hit the ground with my chin like any normal human being would do…job done.

It appears that I am not a normal human being.

As I hurtled towards the floor, I jutted my teeth out like a spazmo caricature of Janet Street Porter and smashed them into the rock-hard floor.

How the hell anybody can hit the floor ‘teeth-first’ is still a mystery to me, but I am living ‘Darwin Awards-esque’ proof that it’s possible.

Bits of teeth shattered about the place as my cake-hole exploded into a mass of mush.

And I was alone…everybody had thought I had gone home. I had to wait another four minutes, lying there in a pool of blood, tears and teeth before the teacher came out and found me.

“Aaaarrgh!” Squealed my teacher as she opened the door and clapped her eyes on the mangled wreckage that was mini-Pooflake.

Even though I was very young, I can still remember thinking to myself: ‘This woman is not handling this situation very well’ as she ran around in circles with arms waving, not touching me but stooping to gather up bits of teeth in a hankie for the tooth fairy.

The kids all stood round silently as her panic increased and another teacher eventually came by and said: “Just call his bloody mother”.

Even the thought of Parka Jackets make me wince now…suffice to say the 90’s ‘Oasis’ trend was a very difficult time…
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 2 Jan 2008, 11:30, 6 replies)

Genius of idiocy
As a nipper I saw a program on bungee jumping and decided that this was the thing for me. Sadly lacking in things of a bungee like quality I got a rope, (old hemp type sod all elasticity), tied it around one ankle, the other end to the top of the climbing frame and jumped off. I hit the ground very hard with one leg suspended about a foot above the dirt.

Now the above is stupid and any sane boy would have called it quits at this point. However, I knew where I'd gone wrong, I just had to make the rope shorter. So I jump off again, This time the pain is not from hitting the ground but because I've just attepted to dislocate my leg. This is where the real problem starts, I very securely tied the rope around my leg so that it wouldn't slip off, I don't have the strength to pull myself up to undo knots that are under too much tension to undo anyway and I am at the far end of the garden and no one can hear me scream.

An hour later my dad wanders up to find his inverted beatroot faced son and pisses himself with laughter before helping me down. Bastard.

Length, girth, etc
(Falco, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 11:40, Reply)

Roofing
After my brief sojourn in the Army, I took the first job I could find when I got out. A roofing felter.

We were the blokes who would climb on roofs carrying boiling hot buckets of tar and put down a nice tarmac roof for you. Hard and dangerous work but bloody well paid.

So I was on this one job where we had to dismantle this huge glass roof/skylight, board it over and then felt the dam thing. We started off by removing all the glass panes and lowering them to the ground until we were, eventually, left with a metal skeleton. All steel girders. The next step was to dismantle the girders. This meant getting a spanner around the 40 year-old nuts and twisting them free. It was a bastard of a job. The heads n the nuts were rusted on solid and no amount of penetration oil was going to help. Use too much force and you just stripped the heads. I did this on one nut on the very edge of the building that held one of the main horizontal girders. Only thing to do now, was hacksaw the bastards off.

So there I was, 50ft up in the air with one arm wrapped around an upright support and the other arm trying to get a hacksaw blade onto this bloody nut. The position of the nut meant that I could only move the blade about 3mm at a time so it was incredibly slow going. Eventually, after about two hours, the blade cut through the last of the bolt and the nut fell free. With a sigh of relief I poked the bolt through it's hole and watched it fall 50ft to the ground.

Then job done, I stepped backwards. Into fresh air.

So there I was, falling through the air towards a concrete floor and the only thing running through my mind was:

"You cunt. You stupid fucking cunt"

I honestly didn't have time to be frightened. It was all so quick.

And then I landed, flat on my back, onto an old galvanised water tank. Squashed the bugger flat and walked away without a scratch. But I did start shaking after a few minutes and threw my guts up.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 4:44, 6 replies)

Bad trip
First of all, Merry Christmas to each and every one of you. I'm as pissed as a fart and I'm feeling goodwill and love to all. In other words, I've had a typical Scottish Christmas.

And on with the story - as you may know, I've always had a special relationship with drugs. It's pretty similar to the relationship I have with women - I love them dearly, but they've really fucked me up over the years.

Our story takes place far back in the mists of time, when I was but 20 years old - just out my teens, smoking weed and taking E almost every weekend. I'd heard the stories about bad experiences and mental problems, but not once did I think it would affect me. I thought I was indestructible. Oh, what a fool I was.

It was a foggy November day - my mate Cowie had phoned to say he'd got hold of some magic mushrooms. I had never tried mushies before, so, needless to say, I was pretty excited by his illicit find. We made plans to meet up and get fucked - I had a couple of E's and a quarter ounce of dope left from the weekend previous, and, at the time, it seemed like a great idea to mix the drugs together and see what happened.

Cowie turned up around 8ish. My Mum and sister were away for the weekend, and we wasted no time in rolling a J, popping some E, then eventually trying the mushies. They tasted pretty foul - we had to wash them down with cans of Stella that were lying in the fridge. Since neither of us had taken them before, we thought we'd play it safe and take at least 20 each. They were pretty small, and we wanted to get properly fucked, after all. I should point out, for those that haven't taken magic mushrooms, that 5 of them would probably do the job. If only someone had told us that at the time...

As anyone who's ever ingested drugs can testify, it can take a long fucking time for them to kick in. After half an hour, we were feeling the buzz from the ecstasy and we were pretty stoned, but the mushrooms hadn't affected us at all. So, in our infinite wisdom, we decided to neck another 20.

Not long after, the first batch we had taken began to kick in. We found ourselves staring at the wallpaper, appreciating the patterns, while giggling like lunatics. Around this time, Cowie suggested taking a walk down to his house, reasoning that the fresh air would do us some good. Normally, the walk would take us 15 minutes at the most. We staggered along the road, pausing to stare at lamposts and road signs, and comment on how beautiful they looked. We took a 'shortcut' down a country road and ended up lying on our backs, watching the leaves on the trees making pretty patterns in the air. An hour later, we arrived at Cowie's.

Thankfully, his parents were also away for the weekend. I hate to think what we would have looked like - a couple of dishevelled lunatics, eyes glazed, talking absolute shite and laughing at nothing. We were feeling amazing - the high from the ecstasy and the mushrooms combined to provide the most glorious trip that I've ever experienced.

We made our way, slowly, up to his room, and collapsed onto the sofa. Cowie stuck on a Simpson's DVD, and, as we sat back to watch it, the second batch of mushies hit us hard. All of a sudden, it was like I had stepped into a cartoon world - the Simpsons and reality collided in a kaleidoscope of senses, and every colour seemed brighter, and somehow alien. It was almost like a newborn experiencing the world for the first time - every sense was sharpened, and it felt like I had never properly looked at the world until now. The lamp in the corner twisted into amazing shapes, and seemed to dance in front of my eyes. Everything was right with the world, and, for one brief, fleeting moment, everything fell into place and seemed to make sense.

We were high as kites - sailing on a mix of weed, ecstasy and magic mushrooms. But, as the old saying goes, what goes up must come down.

And, as the ecstasy wore off, down we came. Hard. I don't know if you've ever experienced hallucinogens on a come-down, but it's something I wouldn't wish onto my worst enemy. All of a sudden, everything seemed to grow slightly darker, and a vague sense of panic infused my very being. The things that had delighted me took on a forbidding air - the lamp began to twist into demonic shapes, and the Simpsons became somehow sinister and evil. I could see Cowie wasn't faring much better - he sat bolt upright, and exclaimed "The room! It's melting!" I could offer him no sympathy, as my own trip began to get darker and darker.

All of a sudden I was revisiting parts of my life, experiencing them almost as an out of body experience, with a strange voice whispering in my ear everything I had done wrong - what I should have said, what I could have done - all my regrets, made solid and passing in front of my eyes. It's what I imagine hell is like - your whole life, flashing in front of your eyes, with some malevolent force pointing out exactly where you went wrong. It was horrendous. I'm only glad there weren't any sharp objects to hand, as it's the only part of my life where I have seriously considered ending it all, if only to stop the horrifying visions that seemed to never end.

My memory from that point on is a little hazy - I have no idea what happened to Cowie. He later told me he ended up in his front garden, shouting at the shadows that were threatening to attack him. It's probably no coincidence that his neighbours started avoiding him from then on.

I may have fallen asleep - I can only remember brief snatches of dream-like thoughts. Like my dead Gran turning up, face decayed, and telling me how disappointed she was with me. Or my legs fusing together and starting to melt, like a wax candle that had been burning for too long. Somehow, we made it through the night. In the morning, we headed to our local pub for a relaxing pint, and, over our drinks, we swore that we would never mix our drugs again. It's a promise I have kept to this day.

And that is possibly the most stupid thing I have ever done to myself. I still have nightmares about it - waking up in the middle of the night, sweating like a paedo in a nursery, shouting, "No Gran, I'm sorry!" Not easy to explain to whoever you're sleeping next to, let me tell you.





P.S I apologise for length, but the trip lasted far far longer.
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Tue 25 Dec 2007, 23:26, 5 replies)

Has anyone else ever absent-mindedly thanked a cash machine?
...or is that particular idiocy reserved solely for me. And yes, I was stone cold sober I'm sad to say.
(wing_cmdr I mean not real, but almost a real hologram, Tue 25 Dec 2007, 16:06, 10 replies)

Not Big. Not Clever
One sunny spring day a few year's ago I decided to burn lots of garden rubbish.

After making a nice big bonfire at the back of the garden I try to get it to light.

However I had a little bit of a problem getting it started, it was damp! So I decide to get a little help from a 1/2 gallon container of white spirit.

Result: whoosh, and we have it all burning nicely, if not a little smokily.

I put the top back onto the plastic container and for the next two hours I grab and burn anything not tied down or living.

Eventually however all good things come to an end and I find myself with practically nowt else left to burn.

Casting my eye round I eventually settled on the empty???? 1/2 gallon white spirit container, "it's plastic" thinks I, "it will burn".

So without another thought I duly drop the 4 pint pot into the glowing embers.........

First thing it does is blow up like sodding space hopper.

Clearly I did a god job when I screwed the cap back on thinks I, however I realise that all the compressed "and" flammable gas stuck inside the container is trying desperately to get out, and not in a good way. .

So I step up to the fire and swat it out of the embers, thinking result, no mini Hiroshima's here, don't want to annoy the nuns again (another fire another day).......

I then think how do I get all that gas out of there? At this point I looks at left hand and see the broken broom handle I've been using as a poker for most of the afternoon.

"That's do the trick", so I and promptly spear my baby space hopper, (even the hamster is starting to slow down at his wheel around about now)..

At this point that my brain clearly went into stand-by (the hamster must have seen what was coming and was no doubt trying to kiss it's arse goodbye) because instead of simply walking away I turned and put the "now" punctured container back into the fire.

There is the biggest fcuking bang I have ever heard in my life.

When I eventually open my eyes I see not only is the fire out but it's actually no longer there along with all the hairs on my left arm up to around elbow level, (use bigger stick next time).

Mrs Matter then got to spend about 30 mins picking little melted bits of plastic from my face, arm and hair...........

She wont let me play with matches anymore.
(Dark Matter All The Wonders In The World & We Invent Boredom, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 15:21, 1 reply)