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This is a question Dumb things you've done

What's the stupidest thing you've ever done to yourself?

We're keeping this one open for two weeks to allow you to get up to stupid stuff and send it in.

(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:36)
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This question is now closed.

Mentioned before I think, but anyway...
I had a day off school (aged about eight or nine), so my Mum took me to work with her (she was a receptionist) and let people know that if they wanted odd jobs doing, I was available to help.

I ended up with a pile of documents to photocopy, collate and staple together. All was going well until the stapler jammed. So I opened it out, turned it over and squeezed as hard as I could with my thumbs.


Hurray! Stapler's not jammed any more.

Fucksocks*! I've stapled my thumbs together.

To be honest, it didn't really hurt that much but you could see the points of the staple on the underside of my thumbnails. And once it was established that I wasn't in danger of bleeding to death, it gave everyone in the office a good laugh -- apart from my Mum, who just rolled here eyes like Mums do.

* OK this was 30 years ago and I was only nine so probably more like "Blimey!"
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:39, 2 replies)
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.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:34, 1 reply)
Speed and carelessness don't mix
I was working on my dads farm forking silage in for the cows using a T handled manure fork, while rushing to get it done, I managed to spear my own foot with the prong, passing through the welly, through my big toe and inbed itself in the sole of the boot.

Pulling that out was painfull enough, as was the sensation of a welly filling with blood, and the resulting trip to get a tenus booster wasn't much fun either.

I do however follow in my fathers footsteps, he once tried to kick his sister when they were on the farm as children, sadly failing to notice she was holding a similarly sharp fork. through his foot too.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:33, 4 replies)
Now listen to me.
Marriage should be left to the criminaly insane and born again christains.

Bugger - posted in teh wrong place again.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:32, Reply)
Stupid Stunt Blade
When I was about 13 I saw a programme on kiddy telly that showed you how they made fake blood come out of stunt blades. Basically the edge of the fake blade was dipped into a fake blood solution, then when drawn across the skin would leave a convincing (ish) line of red blood.

So that afternoon in art I proceeded to get a stanley knife blade and dip it in red paint and then drew the blade quickly down the length of my right arm whilst telling all my mates to 'Watch This!'

Not only did I slice my arm open but due to it getting infected because it was full of red paint I still have the scar.

(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:27, Reply)
Youth, wet roundabout and Golf GIT
"What happens if I abruptly lift off the throttle now?" thought 23 year old me as I was negotiating a roundabout in my Golf GIT.

*lifts off*

The Golf lurched sideways, the rear suspension on Mk 2 Golfs has a "passive rear steer" effect, which means that it will tuck into corners under load. Normally, the effect is grin inducing on a dry roundabout but I hadn't factored in the fact that my left rear tyre was knackered and that there was diesel spilled on the road. Oh, and it was wet. And I'm a numpty.


I'm executing a lovely pirouette, the car is neatly sideways and I'm sure I can catch the slide.

*steers sharper*

Whoops. I appear to be looking where I'm going using the side windows. Not good.

The accepted technique for getting out of a skid like this is to turn into the slide and and gently add a teensy bit of power (front wheel drive only of course). Applying the brakes and shouting "Oh fuck it!" is not the recommended course of action, as I soon discovered.


Reversing out of the armco with £815.79 damage done to the front of my Golf amid the accusing glares of other road users was enough to learn me not to play silly buggers.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:25, 3 replies)
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. :-(
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:24, Reply)
As a teenager I drank a pint of neat gin before seeing a band play and ended up in an ambulance. I don't know what was worse, the amount of puke that went everywhere, the hangover I had the next morning or the fact the band I was going to see was Mansun.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:21, 1 reply)
And here we have a QOTW just for me...
Loads of them, really. For instance, I was once cutting the limbs off of a tree I had just felled when one of the branches whipped around and threw the fast-running chainsaw across my knee. I then realized that not only was I alone and had to drive myself to the doctor, but I had a manual transmission and had to push in the clutch with that leg...

And that was only a couple of years after I had been in forestry school.

EDIT: I suppose I should fill this in a bit.

The branch in question was doubled over, and when you see that you stand well clear of it knowing that it's going to whip around like a spring. I didn't.

The saw took out about 4" of skin just above my left kneecap, but fortunately didn't hit the tendons. When it happened I stood there in shock for a moment, knowing what had just happened, then realized that I was still standing so it wasn't that bad. I then realized that I couldn't deal with it at that moment, so I put away the tools and cleaned up a bit before going inside to take off my jeans and look at my knee.

I inspected the damage, said a lot of very bad words as I realized that I was going to have to push a clutch with that leg, then took out a roll of packing tape- the stuff that's like masking tape, but two inches wide- and wrapped my knee in that to hold things together. I pulled back on the bloody jeans and drove about 10 miles to the doctor who treated my kids and was told by the nurse at the desk that if I didn't have an appointment I couldn't see the doctor- at which point I told her that I was bleeding on her floor, and she took me to the examining room.

Once it healed, my wife- a nurse- declared that there was no need to go anywhere to take out the stitches as she had brought home a suture kit from the hospital and could do it herself. I sat in a rocking chair as she dug around under the sutures with the tip of the scissors and told me to stop being such a wimp as I tried hard not to vomit on her head.

It was less fun than it sounds.

ps- nurses are made of pure evil.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:11, 8 replies)
Lazy cow, that's me.
Spending too much time faffing about at polytechnic and not doing any work - thus resulting in not passing my Ba in fine art. I mean, its art for Gods sake, hardly difficult if you have an apptitude for it. I did get a pass on my thesis though which is a small consolation.

In retrospect I doubt anything that's happened to me since would have changed work wise. I still would have gone into office work and ended up exactly where I am now.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:09, 3 replies)
Getting Married

And all before I even hit 30.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 13:06, 12 replies)
Superglue and GCSE maths coursework.
These two things do not go together well, especially on the night before the deadline.

Or, rather, they go together rather too well. Arse.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:59, Reply)
Hot footing it out of there!!!
As a kid, all things flammable were interesting.

One summer holiday we went rummaging about in some abandoned garages and found a petrol tin which still had a litre or so of fuel sloshing round in it.

After much discussion about how best to utilise our new discovery, we decided on smoking the moles out of their molehills from the field outside.

So, we traipsed across to the molehills, used a stick to dig down to the tunnel under the mound of earth and then poured a little petrol into each one.

After sharing out the matches, we struck and lit the petrol. Totally unimpressed with the lack of 20 foot high fireballs, we watched the small flames flickering away, resigning ourselves that we weren't going to be getting any moles out of those holes.

Next thing we heard was ashout from the top of the field....THE FARMER!!! I shouted to the others. This farmer was one for the old 12 guage double barrel rock salt punishment and was heading rapidly down the field towards us.

Trying to destroy the evidence I stamped out the flames and legged it in true 'bomb burst' fashion away from the others. (The thinking being, if you get caught, you dont grass on the others and they will do the same for you!).

I get no more than 10 yards before realising my shoes were on fire and the cheap plastic bits on them was melting through my socks to my feet. Panicking, I ripped them off and threw them into the stream before making off in my bare feet!

My poor mind had not worked out that liquid (petrol) plus soft soil (molehills) equals mud!.....mud that sticks to things and stays burning!

I didnt get caught off the farmer, but I got the hiding of my life off my mother when she caught me with scorched feet. She had a penchant for using bamboo canes for whipping me with (this wasnt China either, this was North East England, mid 1980s!) but at least the pain from all the open weals on my arms and legs took my mind off my singed feet!
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:58, 1 reply)
Christ Church
Since the age of 3, I'd wanted to go to Oxford - even before I knew what it was.* I took the entrance exams the week before my 18th birthday, and - I'm told - walked them.

I'd been advised to apply to Christ Church (plus, if I remember correctly, Brasenose and Magdelene) rather than anywhere smaller; I wanted to read PPE, and someone from the year above me at school had been accepted there for the same thing, so the omens were good - plus I went to a pushy school. I was duly invited for interview.

My first error had been to accept the advice to apply to Christ Church. It's simply too big and venerable: you don't get accepted there unless you're waaaaaay smarter than I. But my other errors arose in the interview itself.

For example, I went to the wrong waiting room. It is never advisable to force your interviewer to come looking for you if that interviewer happens to be a world-leading political theorist.

Worse was to come. One of my interviewers was an economist who had just been consulted by the Armenian government concerning whether they should declare war on Russia over oil. (This was 1994, so Russia was vulnerable.)
"I see you speak Russian," he said.
"Well, some."
"Have you ever been to the country?"
"Yes - last Easter I visited Moscow and St Petersburg."
"Ah, good. What do you think of its economic prospects?"

The smart thing to do here would have been to say that I didn't know, but that it was a fascinating question and that I looked forward to studying the matter in the coming years. Instead, my world-beating response was...
"Um, well, it was the end of winter, so there were no leaves on the trees yet, and the whole place looked pretty grim."

I still have the rejection letter; it's framed and hung on the wall above my PC in the study at home so that, every time I look up, I'm reminded what a fuckwit I am. And, though the sensible part of my brain tells me that I've still done OK, I'm still very bitter at not having realised my only real childhood ambition.


* I was a peculiarly bookish child - and still am. At about the same age, I apparently used to worry about whether one went to college or university first. I explain it by reference to my mother's running a youth group, leading to early exposure to 18-year-old people. But, still...
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:58, 8 replies)
I shall be counting
How many of these posts will start with 'getting married', I wonder.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:58, 4 replies)
Using your teeth to open a particularly stubbon supaglue tube and inadvertantly gluing your bottom lip over your top lip on one side.

I looked like that alsatian with a hair lip from Jasper Carrot's dvd.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:57, 1 reply)
More pearoastage I'm afraid...
I have a mate who's surname is Sampson (who used to be a b3taphile, and may or may not be reading. *waves* just in case). He was introduced to me as "Sambo", and not being one for using racial epithets it had never occured to me the potential and obvious disaster waiting to happen.

Said disaster happened not less than a month later on a lunchtime maccyd's and doobage run, when, after going on ahead while he parked up we spotted him trying to locate us from the middle of a large gaggle of black students loitering just inside the door.

"Oi! Sambo! Over 'ere!" I bellowed, waving my arms in the air. I didn't stay long, and fortunately there was not only another door, but a very long and quiet period of shock from said coloured ladies and gentlemen.

I still go a nice shade of beetroot whenever I hear the word sambo as an epithet.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:53, 2 replies)
There are so many, I'll edit the list as i think of them
Not going out with the hot blonde who was infinitely hotter than anything i subsequently met as I'd rather keep it casual (I'd just got to uni so didn't want to miss out on fresher action by having a girlfriend)

Getting hammered at last years work xmas do, I'd been there a month, swigged wine out of a pint glass while slurring to the MD, called most people the wrong (and made up) name and falling asleep at the table at 10.30pm. To be fair we had been drinking since lunch

Stealing a complete set of roadworks and installing them is a housemates room.

I tried helping the son of an african prince move some money out of the country, all he did was empty my bank account*.

* May contain traces of lies
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:53, Reply)
this could just be a long list of shame and ignomy

some dumb things from the land of Halfy.

Supporting Cambridge United

Eating a kebab, drinking 3 pints of guinness, 2 pints of wherry and then going for a curry. The next day was spent on the toilet wearing a gasmask.

Having a nightcap of a bottle of bells whisky with my brother while playing golf on the computer, how i was supposed to control an 8 pixel ball when i couldn't even see the monitor properly is beyond me.

Choosing to go to Coventry University

Asking "what is Mer-in-gue?" during a cookery class at school

Finding out what a cup of coffee and tea combo tasted like. blurgh
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:51, Reply)
Not using fabric conditioner in my washing cycle on Monday.

My gym shorts came out with the texture of sandpaper in the seam and I'm currently sat at my desk wincing from friction burns of the general scrot area.

(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:51, 7 replies)
You know Wrigley's Extra Thin Ice?
Well, I was dared once to put one on my cock.

I swear, I could TASTE the mint through my bell end.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:50, 1 reply)
All of the things I have ever got up to on various QOTW's, recommended the site to a friend who told said girlfriend to have a look....

There's a lot she didn't need to know.

(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:48, Reply)
put Tcp on your bollo*ks for a dare
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:47, Reply)
Quite an old story...
About two years ago, I was invited out to Grantham by my friend Melissa. Whilst there, she introduced me to her friend Jemma. With a J. I liked Jemma. We got on like a house on fire, and by the end of the night, she was feeding me a potato.

Don't ask.

The following day, I text her, saying how much fun I had. She texts back agreeing, and wonders if I want to meet her Wednesday. I agree.

On Monday, I said hello, and she asked why I hadn't been texting her. "Oh, but I have been" I reply. I then check my phone logs.


Seems I'd been texting my ex-girlfriend Gemma - with a G - all weekend. And she wanted to meet up with me.

This shouldn't happen in real-life.

EDIT: The potato story is quiote humerous, but not really a 'dumb things' story. I shall post it if it's on the popular page :)
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:43, 4 replies)
Was out in Grantham with my good mate Penny on Saturday night.
The last time I went out in that particular town was to celebrate a Performance (when I was 15) that me and my college buddies had completed. I went to the bar with my mate Stacy and asked what she was having. In the loudness of the pub that we were in, I thought she asked for a "double JD", so I got one myself too. Giving the drink to her, she looked at me, confused. Apparently, she atuallly asked for a "WKD". So, my first drink that night was a quadruple bourbon. My hangover wasn't that spectacular in the morning.


And I know it's a bit off topic, but a similar event occured on Saturday. My mobile phone had ran out of batteries over the course of the night. No biggy. I was introduced to some of Penny's friends, each of them were fantastically funny. I started chatting to a really nice girl near the end of the night. We decided to keep in touch, so she asked to put her number into my phone.

"Sorry, my phone's battery has ran out. But.. do you have Facebook?" I asked, thinking that we could chat to each other on this particular social networking site.

"You WHAT?!" she replied, disgusted.

She explained later that she thought I was being a bit too forward. She then added "nobody's really asked me for a face fuck in the middle of a pub before".

"..." is the only was to express my response to this comment.
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:40, Reply)
Got the first...

(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:40, 2 replies)
Pearoast ahoy!
Standing on the corner of a main road in town with some mates, rather pissed and trying to decide where to go next, we were passed by a
police van. Five minutes or so pass and we're all still there, no closer to deciding where to go, when without saying a single word, two
rozzers appear from behind the corner, grab an arm each and lift and carry me backwards towards the van which had re-appeared from the other direction. They chucked me in the back despite my protestations of innocence, saying "we don't like being called wankers" by way of an explanation. My mates were meanwhile, in roughly equal numbers, getting close to being carted off themselves arguing my case or running away. Off we drove, back to the nick.

When we got there, there was a long delay while the desk sergeant fannied about freeing up space or somesuch, during which time I managed to remain sober enough to whingingly convince them that it wasn't in fact me that had been insulting them. I also managed to avoid the booking in routine, pocket search etc., which came in handy during the following... (I had plenty of cash left)

Them: Ok, you're free to go
Me: Great, now, how I am supposed to get home?
Them: Eh?
Me: I have two quid left, which would have been perfectly adequate to use for a cab split with my mates... if you hadn't have hauled me away.
Them: Pay when you get home?
Me: Two quid left for the month, not the night.
Them: Oh. Wait there a minute.

One of them buggers off in the direction of the sergeant, they leave for another room. There's then a lot of muffled shouting and he comes back looking very sheepish, as the sergeant goes back to the desk with red cheeks and a face like thunder. The copper says they are going to give me a lift home, and they do.

The back of the car was piled up with jackets, boots, hats, etc., and I had to squash the pile up to make room. Feeling quite peeved, and apparently not quite as sober as I'd thought, I decided that a nice policeman's hat would need to be added to the rollicking he got from the sarge and the lift home he wasn't obliged to give me, to make it up to a reasonable compensation for the slight of character and loss of an evening. And so, over the course of christ-knows-how-long, I managed to surrupticiously move one from the pile to my footwell, then up the inside of my shirt and get my coat done up without the zip maiing any noise. Yay. Got home, grudgingly thanked them for the lift, and went walked around the back of a house a few doors down from mine in case they were watching. As soon as they disappeared, one of my mates who had been there at the start appeared, seemingly from nowhere - he'd been waiting for me to get back, bless 'im, and had hidden when he saw the rozzers turn up.

Him: Did they charge you for it?
Me: For what? I didn't bloody do anything!
Him: Errr, yes you did.
Me: Eh?
Him: You screamed "Oi! Waaaannnkkeeerrrsssshhhh!" at them as they passed, accompanied with the appropriate gestures and gurning...
Me: Oh.

I felt suitably sheepish until the next day, when it suddenly dawned on me (I ain't always the sharpest tool in the shed) that to be legitimately arrested for being drunk and disorderly, you have to be warned first and ignore the warning. That, and of course be informed you're being arrested, read your rights etc. Two muppets jumping out from behind a corner and carting you off without a word doesn't cut it.

(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:40, Reply)
Polyfilla and eyes don't mix
Sealing a crack in the kitchen ceiling, looking up direclty into the line of polyfilla without any goggles or anything.

The inevitable happened and a big dollop of it landed in my eye.

Managed to get it rinsed out without any long term damage but it hurt for hours afterwards and my eye was bloodshot for days.

Woo yay first and all that malarky :)
(, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 12:39, Reply)

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