flaming bosoms
never try and ignite a dodgy hob whilst wearing a dressing gown.

fancying a breakfast fry-up, I turned on the gas, pushed the ignition, didn't work, pushed it again, didn't work, tried again... WHOOOOMPH! the gas finally ignited, along with the front of my dressing gown. I ran round the kitchen shrieking, tits aflame, until I managed to smack the fire out.
( biscuitbiscuit is in ur garden, watering ur plantz, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 10:24, Reply)

Evil Devil Fires
I live on the very-edge of Bourne Valley (a pretty place in Bournemouth, through which the Bourne Valley runs - into the seeeea). It's all heathland here, and we get a lot of fires in the summer. They *rarely* come near the house, and when they do they're usually put out quickly enough by the fire-brigade. HOWEVER!

This time, I was inside, with my curtains drawn, PS2ing I think when the doorbell goes. I go downstairs but no-one's there, so I guess it was just kids, or there's a catalogue outside or something. BUT upon turning around; I see out of the kitchen window, kitchen door, and dinining room windows - pure angry red flame! As a seemingly mad BA Photography student, my first point-of-call was running back upstairs and grabbing my camera.

Then I got outside (the cars weren't outside so people thought no one was in, but rang the bell to check) and saw a kinda huge fire attacking my house;



Fire Service had already been rang; but as per every fire - they have quite a bit of trouble finding us - so looking along the heath we see fire-men randomally appearing a few 100 metres along, looking at us, and realising they'd missed again. Before they got here, my Grandad appeared and went to the backgarden to try and put out the above fire, with a garden hose. We needed to go back and drag him out before the smoke got to him.

It eventually moved to the front of the house, and we all honestly thought that was it for our lovely house



But alas, no; very borked drainage, smashed and cracked windows on that side of the house, and said side of house was also completely black. The grass in the gardens was kinda dead, and I even had my own small victory over the fire by putting out some leaves. Go me.

But what freaked me out later was inspecting the above photo, someone pointed out that the flame had a face;



Not edited at all! DEVIL FIRE!
( stevierar, Fri 4 Nov 2005, 17:54, Reply)

November 5th 199x
One fine day I decided to make my own fireworks for November 5th and, using my limited knowledge of physics and chemistry, I hit on the following method.

I filled an old plastic bathtub full of water and put in an anode and a cathode and then ran a DC current through the bugger. As predicted, I got a stream of oxygen bubbles from one end and hydrogen bubbles from the other. I collected the hydrogen into bin bags and, as they filled up, sealed them and tied them to a handy fence post. After a few hours work I had 25 of the fuckers bobbing prettily in the breeze.

I'd already prepared the fuses. I'd made a potassium nitrate solution, soaked a load of twisted lengths of toilet paper in it and dried my fuses off in the airing cupboard. Then I tied the fuses, about 10 foot to a fuse, to the bottom of each hydrogen filled bin bag. Phase one complete.

Then I had a couple of beers with my mates and waited for dark to fall. After a few more beers 7pm rolled round and I was ready to setoff my fireworks. I'd reckoned that once I lit the fuses and released the bin bags, they'd float up a couple of hundred feet and then explode with pretty flames and big bangs.

Wrong.

I lit the fuses and let the bin bags loose as planned but then things started to go awry. Instead of gently floating up to the desired altitude and exploding these bloody things shot up at an incredible speed. Far too fast. After a short time they disappeared from view and continued their rapid ascent - straight into the flight path of Manchester Airport where they exploded with a drawn out series of enormous bangs and huge fireballs. Bugger.

The next day, the newspapers had this harrowing tale told by a shaking pilot who described how he'd been gently descending on his glide path when, all of a sudden, these fireballs started exploding all around him. He said it was like being back in the Korean War and flying through enemy flak.


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Tue 8 Nov 2005, 16:13, Reply)

When you play with ladies you play with FIRE!
Every office has a miserable old cow. Ours is called Wendy. Not only is she miserable (Number of years worked there - 10. Number of smiles sighted - 0) but because of her size and the colour of her hair she contrives to look eerily like the Honey Monster from the Sugar Puffs box.

Anyhow there was a team meeting called which, due to a badly timed cigarette break, I arrived late for. As I entered I quickly scanned the room for Wendy for the simple reason that any team meeting she's present for will always last twice as long as she rattles of a list of petty complaints. I had a lot of work on and needed to get back so was very happy when I didn't see her. As soon as I'm settled the meeting continues, apparently our fire safety certificate was being renewed so everyone was being asked if they could think of anything the management should be made aware of to put right before the inspection.

Being the witty gent I am I instantly quipped "I think Wendy might constitute a fire hazard."

Everyone loves a good joke at the miserable buggers expense but this time the howls of laughter were absent. Replaced, instead, by one person nervously laughing and then badly trying to pretend she was coughing. My first reaction was that they didn't get it and I was about to add "Cause she's so huge, see? Couldn't get past her in an emergency see?" but luckily my boss caught my eye with a look of unholy panic. I twigged what was going on at roughly the same time I heard a very pointed cough from my left. Turning in horror Wendy leant forward and seemed to magically appear from behind two other ladies.

Shit.

My mind whirled in panic and I desperately groped for some way out of the situation. Before I even knew what was happening my mouth started speaking on its own. Sounding very unsure of itself it asked Wendy "Because you're just too damn hot?"

Wendy raised her eyebrows in shock. In the background I could hear everybody laughing but for me time froze. To be honest I really wish it still was, because after a terrifying amount of time she dropped me a wink and smiled shyly. I could only madly grin back at her in blind panic. When the laughter died down the meeting resumed as normal.

Nice save Gleeballs. Nice.

Since then she's started brushing past me in corridors. She handed me a file the other day and gently gripped my arm, smiling as she did so. Goddamn you fire safety! The Honey Monster is going to rape me! For the love of god help me!
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Sun 6 Nov 2005, 15:51, Reply)

Not a fire but it got very hot.
Whilst in halls at Uni one flatmate had a penchant for collecting/stealing strange objects.

Anyway he had acquired this pickled dog foetus in a jar which was pretty revolting.

Before we went out one night he placed it on a lampshade next to the bed of a girl we lived with, thinking it would be funny for her to roll in drunk, get into bed and be greeted by a deceased baby dog in a jar.

Problem was, the lampshade was on and while we were out it heated up ths jar to the point that it COOKED the foetus and then EXPLODED, covering the poor girls pillow with weird pickling juice and a shrivelled up tiny dog.

She wasn't best pleased.
(Sameranda, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 11:47, Reply)

Mango Juice
Sorry this is a long story! :)

Among my group of friends we have a long running tradition of birthday road-trips. This particular fire related incident took place on the return from Cornwall summer this year.

It was about 11pm, 5 occupants relaxing in the comfort of my friends new (he had been talking about it all weekend) Vauxhall Omega. Everything smooth, everything safe, bombing up the M5 on our way back to the fine city of Oxford.

I must have drifted off slightly as I woke to the sound of my friend James (the driver) muttering profanities under his breath. I asked what the problem was and he indicated towards the rear-view mirror. I looked and to my horror observed what can only be described as a total whiteout behind us! The nice tidy Omega was chucking out so much smoke it had obscured about 2/3rds of the motorway and cars where rapidly pulling back to avoid the smokescreen!

A mild sense of panic ensued and James hit the anchors pulling rapidly over to the hard shoulder. By this time everyone was awake and wondering what the fuck was going on. I (doing what mechanics do best) popped the catch and ran round the front of the car to “inspect” the damage. Lifting the bonnet was like a scene from Backdraft, 3ft flames leapt from the engine causing me to jump back flailing my arms surprise!

From my point of the view what happened next was side-splittingly funny, all 4 doors of the car sprung open in unison and in a blur of movement I was able to make out the shapes of my four friends as they legged it full pelt away from the car and down the hard shoulder. I followed, catching up and forming a small huddle about 100 yards from the inferno. Everyone was too shocked to talk… then it seemed that sense began to creep back into our instinct overridden brains….

“My phone!” one friend cried… “My bag!” said another… “My Camera!” I declared! We exchanged glances and knew what we had to do, we ran back rescue our possessions (you would do the same!!!)! I was first and when grabbing my bag noticed a 2lt bottle of water we had on the back seat. I decided since I was here I might as well try and put out the fire. I ran round to the front of the car spraying the icy Evian over the inferno with reckless abandon… the water had no effect, the fire raged on. Looking perplexed and panicked I decided smothering would be the key and went looking for something I could use for this purpose.

At this moment I hear a PISSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH noise and turn to see my friend Mike standing triumphantly, wide legged and grinning, pouring the contains of a 1lt bottle of CO-OP brand Orange and Mango Juice over the rapidly diminishing flames. To my utter disbelieve the fire was almost out but licks of flames could still be witnessed. Mike strolled casually round to the boot of the car, produced yet another carton of Orange and Mango juice (still grinning madly) and proceeded to douse the hissing engine, extinguishing the last of the fire.

We exchanged looks, paused, then fell about laughing. Every one of my friends (with the exception of the driver\owner) was in now in hysterics, clutching our stomachs in pain from laughing so hard.

Ironically at the precise moment the laughter was starting to subside an AA van, emergency lights flashing, sped down the hard shoulder towards us. We begin to giggle. The AA driver emerged, fire extinguisher in hand and with the war cry “Stand Back Lads!!” proceeded to coat the entire vehicle with a thick layer of white foam. Giggles became chuckles and before we knew it we where laughing again, mostly at the horrified look on James’ face as the guy heroically splattered his car with the foam.

You would think by this point the event was over… oh no! The next vehicle to arrive on the scene was a full-blown fire engine!!! The AA man ran over and explained that he had taken care of business with this extinguisher but not wishing to be outdone and firemen insisted they must make the car “safe”. This basically meant they had to wash it for us… with the fire hose!

We watched with joy as they thoroughly hosed down the engine-bay then the rest of the car whilst making comments like “you missed a bit mate”, indecently the firemen did not find this in the least bit amusing.

The AA man wished us good luck in getting home until I proudly sported my AA membership, we where loaded onto the back of the truck and with barley 20min lost we continued on our way to merry Oxford. The AA guy even let us crack open a bottle of wine in his truck to celebrate our victory over the fire!


(Minty Hit, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 9:20, Reply)

My first wife's arse
Visiting the in-laws one evening, we're all watching telly. First wife was lying face down on the carpet, head propped-up in hands style. She lets a nasty one rip that makes my eyes water. To deal with the smell I whip out my lighter and flick it on while holding it close to the source. As she's wearing tight lycra pants there's a fair amount of trapped gas which promptly ignites. I had to beat out the flames with my bare hands.

That marriage never lasted. Funny that.
( Udderbelly A tale of four titties, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 11:37, Reply)

When we didn't have any matches in our student house
and I wanted to light the hob, rather than walk all the way down to the shop at the end of the road (wasn't sure if it would even be open so early on a Saturday afternoon), I decided man must be able to start fire without them.
So I crumpled up some foil and crafted a crude crucible into which I tore some kitchen towel.
Then, with dead match in hand, I whacked it in the microwave, turned it on and withdrew to arm's length.
Sorry - no hilarious results: The sparks from the foil ignited the kitchen towel, I quickly opened the door and lit the dead match off the small fire, and lit the stove.
Felt like how the cavemen must have felt.
Ray Mears stand aside. Drop me anywhere, and, with nothing more than a gas stove, microwave, gas and electricity supplies, some two-, or three-ply tissue and a used match, I could cook anything someone else may be able to catch. Grrrr.
(Garnett, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 11:36, Reply)

Fun with ligher fuel
My chum who we'll call "Beaker" once tried to demonstrate how you can pour lighter fuel into your palm, light it and the flame hovers over your hand.

Unfortunately he rather overdid it on the lighter fuel and ended up with his hand on fire which he tried to put out by shaking it violently around the lounge.

The resulting effect was not unlike something out of the X-men. Only with more swearing.
( shavedchimp something something oranges something, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 9:41, Reply)

Great Balls on Fire
A "friend" of mine, who was minding his little brother and sister whilst the parents holidayed in Corfu, noticed a small ember remaining on the wick of a candle he'd just blown out before going to bed. Too tired to extinguish it he figured it would burn itself out anyway.
He awakes a while later to find the entire opposite wall of his room engulfed in flame. He makes a pathetic attempt to put it out with the cup of cold tea on his bedside table, but to no effect. He ran in to his siblings room and ushered them outside, calling on a neighbour to mind them and alert the fire brigade. Against all advice he ran back inside to see if he could salvage anything/heroically put the fire out. Alas, he found the entire upper level of the house succumbing to the firey wrath.
Crestfallen and slightly delerious from smoke inhalation, he stumbled outside to discover his entire street had congregated outside, watching the flames turn a lifetime to dust.
Life could not get any worse for my sorry friend. Or so he thought. He felt a tap on his shoulder, it was his neighbour. A word of consolation perhaps? Not quite.
He asked my mate if he'd like a pair of trousers. Only then did he realise he was standing in a crowd of 35 people watching his parents house burn down with nowt but a small, cropped style t-shirt on, barely covering his belly button, his singed scrotal sack swaying slowly in the breeze.
(Smell eep!, Mon 7 Nov 2005, 14:24, Reply)

I got home last night and it was cold
so I put the fire on.

Later I was a bit too warm so I turned it off.

Then I went to bed.

With a goat.
( Goatworrier had your mum and she was shit, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 9:27, Reply)

Well
Not *quite* on topic, but funny all the same -

Last year, my (quite Christian) school had a bonfire as usual - however they let the year 11s make the guy. Being insanely clever, the year 11s had tied the guy onto a wooden "crucifix" type thing using STRING, despite repeated warnings of what would happen. Anywho, it came to the night, and the bonfire was lit from the bottom - it reached the guy, burnt through the string so the guy promptly fell off, leaving an eight-foot burning crucifix which could be seen for quite a way. Smooth.
(Balue Free From Tetanus, Sat 5 Nov 2005, 14:13, Reply)

I was sat outside my house
with Neil Smith and Richard Brown when the Garage door blew off its hinges and bent over the rear of our car. Neil Smith ran away, cheeky bugger, he was a ginger though. I ran into the house and made sure the dog got out, yeah that’s right: screw my family, Samson the Alsatian ruled!
We all stood outside and watched as crates of WD40 cans exploded for all they were worth, my dad used to sell em to businesses in the area and had just bought in a shed load wholesale. It took 3 fire engines about 3 hours to bring the garage under control. Scary thing was, the gas mains ran through the garage, another few minutes and the whole street was a gonna! My sister cried, I (being only 11) thought it was great. There were cans of WD40 embedded in the ceiling so deep, they were sticking out of the floor above! All my dads stock was melted, which was fortunate for him as a few weeks earlier he had moaned about all the crap he had in the garage and would never sell…hmmm! It made the local rag and I had the chance to excuse my lack of home work in maths the next day with: ‘my house blew up sir’ He didn’t believe me, I hated Mr Smith.
(I came for the penguins, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 10:35, Reply)

wheee

(meagle, Tue 8 Nov 2005, 18:42, Reply)

fiery grandma
my grandma, god rest her soul, wasn't so keen on the old gits home for the senile that my parents had to put her in after she put an electric kettle on the hob whilst babysitting me and my little sister.

so once in the home, her anarchic antics included slinging a cup of wee at Douglas Hurd on an official visit, playing dead in her bed every morning for a fortnight, only to then sit bolt upright with a deafening scream when the nurse tapped her on the shoulder to see if she was alive, and telling my parents that she was raped 120 times in one week by the care manager (who was plainly gay when you met him).

But the best had to be her deft use of various cosmetics, blanket and chairleg to create a torch that lit her path as she ran through the home at four am one winter's morning. security were forced to let her out lest she burned the place down, and before the police could get hold of her she'd made it down to the beachfront (home was in Swanage) and thrown it through the window of a games arcade.

there was no need to ask granny why she'd thrown the torch into the gambling mecca, for she was quick to provide a justification.

'don't like them places'. and that was all she'd say on the matter.

made the papers and everything.
(bossypops, Fri 4 Nov 2005, 14:16, Reply)

fire!
you cannot burn a £5 note.
( GTA, Fri 4 Nov 2005, 11:48, Reply)

Flaming snowman
Back in high school, my friends were trying to come up with a list of oxymorons. One guy said "Flaming snowman." Then another friend said "It...could...work!"

All it needed was gasoline(petrol, whatever). The first time we tried it was in a huge open field in full view of a very large mall parking lot. We were 16-year-old kids and had no idea how to obtain some gas. I tried getting some at the gas station with a two-liter bottle, but they lent me a gascan. We sent the thing up in flames.

The next year we started doing it in a more secluded ravine. Once, we heard people coming, so we all ran and hid, leaving these two adults to walk past a flaming snowman at night. I can't imagine what was going through their minds.

I've done everything I could to make this a tradition. Last Christmas I went back to my hometown and got some friends together on Christmas Eve to burn a snowman.

As I always do, here are some photos of the event:

Adding the secret ingredient
www.indecline.net/korea/archive/snowman/93.JPG

On fire



Blowing it out
www.indecline.net/korea/archive/snowman/85.JPG

The grand finale: tackling the crap out of it
www.indecline.net/korea/archive/snowman/83.JPG

Sorry if I don't usually
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Fri 4 Nov 2005, 6:24, Reply)

aerosol cans+open fire = FUN
Picture the scene....three 13 year old herberts clustered round a Sega system playing Pole Postition....one of the herberts spots the roaring fire in the front room nearby...he also spots several cans of hairspray left by an older sister.
Gathering up the aerosol cans the aforementioned herbert, his eyes a-sparkle, runs into the front room and deposits the volatile load onto the fire.
His 2 friends soon follow him into the room only to be greeted by him screaming 'get down!' at the top of his lungs as the cans of hairspray explode, flinging the Fire grate across the room, embedding it in the wall , setting fire to the nearby curtains & carpet and demolishing most of the brick work around it.

Later the herbert's friend's mother returned from a long day at work to find three rather sooty faced and guilty looking little cherubs desperately trying to superglue her fireplace back together.
( bigmeuprudeboy is using powerpoint or paint...have MERCY, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 16:51, Reply)

Traffic cones make great flamethrowers.
I don't have any disasterous fire stories, just a bit of firey pyromaniac fun!

After sawing off the top of a traffic cone, we sprayed copious amounts of deodorant and hairspray into the interior, and proceeded to light the thing.

The result was...interesting.
(meagle, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 15:43, Reply)

What's that smell..?
Mrs Manbutter's old college room mate stays over, gets stinko on Lambrini, sleeps in living room on couch and throws up into 'bin'. Bin happens to be Mrs M's hippy chick aromatherapy cauldron. Smell of her own vomit cooking wakes our elegant houseguest who drunkenly flails around (in own words - after event) "seeking the source of the stench" knocking over 'bin'in process, falls back to sleep. The heating element from the newly busted new age smelly cauldron is exposed and now touching our delicate houseguests discarded underkrackers from the night before. Mrs M walks into living room to see old roomate asleep on couch, pile of cooling vomit and a small smoking grundy blaze in the middle of the living room. She shouts for me. I run into room (half nudey and fresh from the arms of morpheus), step on the sick, realise and smell at same time 'it's sick' sensate and promptly gag, throwing up myself (fortuitously) over the knicker fire. Old roomate is roused by the commotion and starts getting defensively lippy over the shouting and vomiting until she see's the sick and burnt knickers and busted furniture whereupon she starts to sob remorsefully for 20 minutes. You really had to be there - Mrs M took some pictures on her phone but they are blurry and make it difficult to add credibility to the tale. Still - if you are trying to control a small blaze and water is in short supply it wont hurt to remember that, at a pinch, your stomach contents can act as a useful extinguisher.
( Woolworth Smells of festive spices, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 13:47, Reply)

How to get thrown out of a gig
Mike Woz Ere has reminded me of a story a friend recounted to me about his wierdest ever gig experience. If you're reading this, Tracy gave you my number and I've still not heard from you, you crazy fool.

Anyway - picture the scene. Gurning friend, wearing (IIRC) a flowery dress, DMs, eyeliner and a few days' stubble, goes to see Sultans of Ping. From the outset he was a bit the worse for wear. Actually, I think that was pretty much his ground state.

Much wobbling in time to music commences and said friend decides some poppers might be a nice idea. Now, I personally know nothing about them, so I have no idea why he decided to set them alight at that point.

So there he is, flaming poppers in hand, when he gets bumped by another SoP gurner in the mosh. Poppers promptly spill over his hand. "Oh dear", he thinks, "that's not good. My hand is on fire somewhat".

The logical thing to do is therefore move the bottle of poppers from the flaming hand - which he does by throwing them to his other hand. Spilling more flaming poppers - over his *other* hand. So now both hands are on fire and panic starts to set in.

Self preservation dictates that he really should get rid of the bottle. So he drops it, whereupon flaming poppers spill all over his feet. Stamping out the flames makes it worse. In fact, it covers his boots in flaming poppers.

Before they burnt out and he was ejected from the premises - and, unerstandably, not allowed to return - he briefly stood in the middle of the gig, panic on his face, sister's flowery dress flapping around his hairy legs, both hands and both feet blazing away.

What a twat. Lovely bloke, but a twat.

Oh, and one time my shower caught fire due to a short circuit. That was rather surreal.
(Fat Bear is adjusting your breasts on, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 10:12, Reply)

Smoking Is Bad For You
One cold and snowy winters night, when I was a mere teenager, me and some friends had been spending the night wandering the streets drinking whatever we'd managed to sneak past the old biddy at the off license. Feeling the impending need to wee I disappeared off behind some garages and prepared, with glee, to write my name in the snow.

I undid my flies and fished out 'the womb broom ' as I 'hilariously' called it at that age. As I did so I noticed my right hand was incredibly cold so clamped my cigarette between my teeth and switched hands. No sooner had I begun my fun deed (I think I'd written the G and the L) then I realised that my left hand was also incredibly cold so switched my hands back. Of course this time I forgot to clamp my cigarette between my teeth first.

I'd like to think that it was so cold my hand was numb and I couldn't feel the cigarette but the chances are that I'm just that stupid. Can you guess what happened next people? That's right. I jabbed myself in the cock with a lit cigarette.

Marvellous!

Sadly, it didn't stop there. Such was the shock that I dropped the cigarette and because God loves me it fell harmlessly to the ground. Or, as actually happened, I was waving my arms around in pain and somehow threw/dropped it past my frazzled member and through the opening of my boxer shorts.

Splendid!

With hindsight I could have just shoved my blistered willy back through my flies and fought fire with, well, wee. Instead, what followed can only be described as several (painfully long) seconds of spazzed out, agony filled, wee fountaining, break dancing.

According to my mates, behind me now after being alerted by the yelling, it was oddly akin to something that made millions for a certain MC Hammer. All it made for me was a smokey skid mark in my underwear and a few days of cautionary slowness when having a good old tug.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Mon 7 Nov 2005, 19:14, Reply)

Not strictly a fire (& I think a repost)
In short, my friends and I were camping.

When boredom kicks in with a bunch of 14 year olds, it really can get messy (as seems VERY evident in this QOTW).


Ingredients;
6x 14 year kids, one slightly more mental than the rest
1x port-a-loo
1x lighter
1x large banger

Once you have chosen a suitable banger, carefully select a disgustingly over used port-a-loo. Now, for the next part you may need to stand back, letting the 'Mental' kid spark the banger with said lighter while instructing him to chuck it down the 'ventilation pipe'.

There was shit ALL up the sides of the cubical and pooey smoke gently wafting out of the pipe.

Although absolutely REVOLTING, I massively recommend this! Although perhaps not in highly populated areas as the bang could be confused for a mild act of terrorism.
(Spoil Me please, oh, please, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 16:42, Reply)

My sister has been scared of fire
ever since her school's Christmas party back when she was about 8.

As it was a tiny village school with 40-odd pupils they couldn't afford any proper quality entertainment, so instead just had local parents do their party tricks for an afternoon. All well and good until one extrovert dad (who was by all accounts a bit of a mad bastard) decided to show off his fire-breathing 'routine'.

In actual fact it turned out later that he'd never tried it before and was hoping to pick it up as he went along - and hadn't really thought it through too well as he had a huge bushy Blessed-esque beard.

I sure I don't need to spell out what happened, but pretty much straight away he dribbled some fuel down his chin and his whole head went up. My mum was sat at the back of the room with an emergency bucket of water, but as she jumped up and ran over to put out the human torch she tripped over a panicking toddler and the water went flying... all over the screaming kids.

Eventually the bloke was extinguished and carted off to hospital having swapped his pride and joy facial hair for serious burns - scarring himself and 40 toddlers for life. Happy Christmas!
( Button Man ...a right bottom feeder., Thu 3 Nov 2005, 12:12, Reply)

I'm sure he'll forgive me for this
Well, he won't, but...

My best friend comes into the dining hall at school with both hands bandaged. He'd been in a design tech class heating a large steel bar with a blow torch when the bar slipped and fell to the floor.

So he bent down and picked it up. The crisp burning sound prompted him to drop it again, only to try picking it up with the other hand... it was about then that the pain reached his brain.

So, no fire, but plenty of burning :)
( chthonic, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 10:24, Reply)

not 2 days ago
i met a friend's boyfriend, who managed to set fire to the flowers he had brought on a candle and had to stamp them out on the floor. best Cluesoesque entrance ever.
( monstrinho do biscoito teeeshurts = www.nogunarmy.com, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 9:35, Reply)

My father
My father was a great man, and a man of principles. He had a motto that he lived by: Fight Fire With Fire!

He didn't last long in the West Yorkshire Fire Service.
(stusut79, Wed 9 Nov 2005, 9:35, Reply)

Not a fire, but bloody hot
As I write this I currently have a bad back from being unable to stand-up properly, am holding my arm protectively across my stomach and am feeling slightly light headed due to being recently being unable to remember what the time was when I last took an antibiotic/paracetamol/ibuprofen and deciding it must be time for some more.

And no im not pregnant (bloody hope not anyway, mainly because im a bloke), rather I have an almost perfect shape of an iron imprinted on my chest. The reason I say almost, rather than exactly, perfect is that most of it is an open, bloody, puss-oozing wound.

The moral of this tale is that irons get fucking hot. And, more importantly, on no account should you EVER f#ck around with them, even after consuming a crate of carling export first. Perhaps especially after consuming a crate of carling. But failing this, you should never, ever, ever hit someone with an iron that has been plugged in long enough to get up to its normal sun-like operating temperature, because
1- this is not a nice thing to do, and
2- if they then get hold of the iron your in trouble.

Still I can see the funny side now, the doctor tells me it is probably going to scar and I will have a ‘Morphy Richards 40700 Comfigrip professional’ brand for the rest of my life... bugger

And to add insult to injury, not only is my ‘friends’ burn almost completely healed but the doctors at A&E asked him if he would like to make a complaint to the police about me, and the melon-headed, nob-jockey actually considered it.


[add own ironing board stomach joke here, ive heard them all already and none of them are funny]
(Digstar fu#king loves biscuits, Sun 6 Nov 2005, 19:25, Reply)

Earlier this week...
I was at our uni's LGBT Halloween bash - surrounded by pretty gay boys and drag queens and getting more than a little wasted on the triple vodkas everyone seemed to be buying me.

A few hours in and I've pretty much lost my fine motor skills, and end up pouring a shot of something horribly alcoholic down myself. Ah well, I think, 'tis only booze, it'll wash out, and get back to watching the queens dance.

Next minute some drunken gay has staggered up to me, draped his arm round my shoulder and given me a kiss on the ear - while dropping his cigarette down my alcohol-sodden cleavage.

Cue a beautiful blue glow with an orange tinge appearing down my shirt - which looked very pretty in the darkness of the club - but hurt like fuck. So naturally I squeal like the girly I am and beating at myself to try to put out the fire whilst screaming "My fucking TITS are on FIRE!" repeatedly and at great volume, elicting the wonderful response from some TV in the corner "Well take 'em off then luv!"



To add to it all, I manage to miss the bus back the next morning and have to wander round Durham, surrounded by rahs, for a couple of hours with my shirt burnt to fuck, still humiliated at having been mistaken for a drag queen. Fabulous darling.
( Seventh is somewhat subdued, Thu 3 Nov 2005, 14:28, Reply)

Fire made it good!
I burnt down the local cadet hut. I was six, it seemed the thing to do.

I was *far* too young to be allowed matches, but being as this was the 70's, the concept of parental supervision being a tad different than today and that shopkeepers would even sell fags to five years olds if they said it was "for my mum", procurement of fire making stuff was laughably simple.

Went into the local cornershop:

Me (in one breath) "please-may-I-have-a-box-of-matches-it's-for-my-uncle-he-wants-to-light-his-pipe" *pant pant*

Few pence handed over (2p I think) and box of incendiary fun called England's Glory matches handed over in return.

I went immediately down the road to the local cadet hut, piled up some dry grass, twigs and branches, set fire to them and watched the cadet hut burning, all halloween orange and chimminey red*

Nissen huts burn nicely don't they?

Bugger all idea why, just seemed like the thing to do. I think maybe I hoped it was full of ammo and would explode like stuff blows up in films like "Where Eagles Dare".

Sadly it just burned for a bit without exploding. Eventually the fire brigade came and put it out. The fact that I was sitting nearby watching and that on being asked if I had seen anything and responded with "I didn't burn it with these matches" sort of gave me away as the perpetrator.

What was my punishment? A trip to the fire station! I went on the pole, inside fire engines, got to ring the bell! It was Ace!

At the end of the trip, the firemen asked me really, really nicely not to burn any more stuff because it might mean that they could get killed fighting the fires.

It's mostly worked. Mostly...



*apologies to Tom Waits
(Wascally Weasel now with 100% fewer jokes., Thu 3 Nov 2005, 12:31, Reply)