How I Met Monty
Stupid bets, you say? I've made a few of 'em. Most of these come about drunkenly between me and my friends, when my decision-making prowess (not great at the best of times) dwindles to Corbett-esque proportions.

The majority of these are normally settled through a text to our good friends at the Texperts, whose word is taken as gospel in drunken disputes, despite them having been subsequently proven wrong on numerous occasions.

The frequency of these bets has led to our group developing standard betting units; bets are not deemed valid unless they are for:

a) 80p (which must be referred to as "point eight of a sheet" for the bet to count);
b) A pie (filling and supplier decided at victor's discretion); or
c) £300

These units have been carefully developed over time, and no-one is really sure of the origins of most of them. The one time an exception was allowed was when I lost my skeleton in a bet regarding our local takeaway.

*makes mental note to update will accordingly*

Anywho, the story begins last summer in Dublin. When we're abroad we don't just like to do the usual sightseeing rubbish, we tend to try to immerse ourselves fully in the local culture. So, being Dublin, we'd decided to spend the entire weekend in the pub.
Usual apologies for casual racism

On the Saturday, we were working our way around the windy streets, before settling in a lovely little establishment called the Hairy Lemon (like my Grand National bets, I like to choose my pubs entirely based on how funny their name is). Imagine my delight to walk inside and find live coverage of a pre-season game of my footy team.

The conversation inevitably turned to football, and the upcoming season. Alcohol levels had reached the point where our confidence in our respective teams' chances for the forthcoming season had crossed from the realms of realism, sashayed obnoxiously through optimism, before settling into blind faith.

For those interested in football, I'm a Villa fan, whereas my friends support Bolton and Sunderland respectively - my blind faith was marginally saner.

Inevitably, drunken machismo took over, and the Boltonian (I shall call him Scott, for that is almost his name) and I were betting on whose team would finish higher in the forthcoming season. I was quite hungry by this point, and so started the betting reasonably, at a pie.

"Fook that, sunshine - it's three hundred or nowt".

With 8 pints of Dublin's finest inside me, and - albeit to a lesser extent - with logic on my side, I accepted.

Waking the next day to the realisation that the odds were stacked in my favour, I offered Scott the choice of either rescinding the bet, or lowering the stakes. However, his machismo hadn't left the same door by which his hangover entered, and he refused, letting me know I was "not getting away with it that easy, mate".

The season progressed, and my team built a comfortable lead, to the point where I stopped worrying about that bet, and started making other bets (all to be settled by the Texperts). I won't go into too much detail about those, but the findings can be summarised as:

- Oasis' The Masterplan does count as a studio album
- penguins grow to a maximum of 3 feet tall, NOT 6 feet (I lost that one); and
- a badger would win a fight with a dwarf, unless the dwarf had a weapon

We had always said that the football bet would be paid up in full when it became mathematically certain. Despite a prolonged attempt by my team to throw away the lead, this moment came when I was away from home on a business trip.

Obviously, I took the opportunity to ring home and celebrate graciously. I think I probably pushed it a bit far by demanding the money in crisp £5 notes - "it'll look like more that way". How wrong I was...

A week or so later, I get back from a (heavily delayed) flight at 7 in the morning, and walk into my room. Expecting nothing more than maybe some post and my beautiful, comfortable bed, I was instead greeted by...

A 6-foot penguin, literally pissing money on my floor.

*rubs eyes, squints a bit*

Actually, it was a 6-foot cardboard cutout of a penguin, pissing 1p coins onto my floor. As a way of gaining revenge for losing the bet, Scott had decided to pay me in 1p coins (30,000 of the fuckers), as "it'll look like more that way".

The 6-foot penguin (with penny-pissing genitalia attached) were simply an added extra "for the aesthetics".

A couple of weeks on, and there's still 30,000 1p coins sitting on my floor. I've counted £50 of them into bags, but I think it's going to take the best part of the summer to count them all.

The penguin - which has since been christened Monty - now stands in the corner of my room, as an eternal reminder that when gambling, even when you win, you sometimes lose.

That said, I reckon I've got a sound basis to argue my point on my earlier penguin bet. Now, what pie to choose...

PS If you look at the replies (and - more pertinently - if I can get it to work), you can meet Monty too...
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:06, 11 replies)

A story about not gambling.
Milton Friedman once famously said 'There is no such thing as a free lunch'. I'm sure he is entirely correct. What he failed to mention was a free dinner.

In 2004 I moved down to Portsmouth as a student, naive in that ways of the world. Being away from home for the first time, I was wide eyed, fresh faced and a bit of a chancer.

My halls of residence were right opposite a casino - the Grosvenor on Commercial road. We first worked out after a big night out that the casino stayed open until 4 am, and as long as you behaved yourself they were more than happy to serve you beer until then. The only proviso was that you had to change up about £10 worth of chips.

One evening an older guy in a sharp suit and shiny shoes turned up, changed up £100 worth of chips, sat at the blackjack table, all the staff flapping round him, getting him drinks, and snacks and finally a big plate of steak and chips.

Being skint, a student and always after food, the prospect of steak and chips was too much to bear. Steak is unobtainable to almost all students unless in a food parcel sent from home, in fact I ate very little meat at uni just because vegetarian food was cheaper, leaving more money for beer. To me the idea of a big juicy steak was irresistible, I had to get some and soon.

I knew there was another Grosvenor Casino about a 15 minute walk away in a new shopping and leisure complex. The next day I shaved, got my suit on, polished my shoes, even ironed a shirt.

I walked into the casino, changed up the sum total of my entire bank balance - £255, I still have the receipt pinned to my corkboard. This really put the shitters up the staff, a young guy, well dressed, changing up a large amount of money with a devil may care look in his eye. Having sat down at the bar I was offered a beer which I took, the manager came over and introduced himself and handed me the restaurant menu. One ribeye steak rare and chips and peas please. I sit at the bar biding my time, acting cool, my dinner arrives. I eat it all.

I meander over to the blackjack table play the sum total of 2 hands, I lose both hands, change my chips up and leave £2 poorer but one dinner and two pints richer. I managed this charade once a week alternating between the casinos for a couple of months before the manager collared me for taking the piss. I ate an awful lot of steak in that time.

The moral of this story? Not gambling but acting as if you might will, in the right circumstances, get you a free dinner.
( Anthropos Was making beer on, Thu 7 May 2009, 20:59, 11 replies)

La vache qui rit
I was 18, working comme plongeur in the kitchens of a restaurant in a French coastal resort in Normandy. The work was hard and long hours and the (English) boss was a total cunt, and subsequently the staff, a mixture of French and Brits, used what little free time we had to let off steam in a fairly major way.

The usual plan on a Saturday was to finish about midnight, all pile in Laurent, the head waiter's car, drive to a FUCKING AWFUL nightclub which was truly and honestly called Le Rendezvous, drink ourselves silly while watching men in open necked shirts dance to Joe le Taxi and Tinita Tikaram (why? why?!). Then Laurent would drive us home drunk at 6am and we'd go straight to work. Happy days.

On the way to work was a butchers that had a large metal sign outside it with a picture of a smiling, happy cow stood up on two feet pointing in the direction of the shop as if to say 'Please, come inside and eat some of my fat bovine arse!'. I was and still am a vegetarian. These days, I couldn't give a shit about animals. Fuck em, I say. But back then, I was a bit more militant and immature and the sign used to rile me something rotten. It also used to rile this girl Julie too, a fellow vegetarian that I fancied really quite badly. So one dawn after a trip to Le Rendezvous, we're all staggering past le boucherie and I notice the sign and mention how much it gets on my tits. A devious smile passes across Julie's face. "Bet you a pack of Gauloises you can't throw in in the river". It was too good a challenge to resist. Fellow plongeur Tim and I decided we'd give it a go, so checking there was no one around, we picked up the sodding thing and starting walking it over to the riverside. Trouble is, we'd seriously underestimated how heavy it was. The concrete base was actually huge and we could barely lift it. But spurred on by male bravado and the promise of a pack of stinky French fags, we persevered. By the time we reached the riverside, we were knackered, so without looking, we lifted it one over and it plummeted into the river. Except there wasn't a splashing sound. It was a sound I'll remember for the rest of my life. The sound of a luxury boat's exterior having a large hole smashed into by a metal cow with a concrete base.

We looked over the edge and the cow had indeed landed on a yacht and fallen right through. I remember thinking the hole looked like something out of a cartoon. And the boat. Boy, it looked expensive. And there, right on the bow of the yacht, the cow stood proud through the hole, pointing cheerfully in the direction of the open seas. It was, I think, probably the funniest thing I've ever seen in my life. And even though we knew we were in more trouble than we could imagine, we all fell about laughing. Even after the owners woke up and we realised we had to flee before they saw our faces, and eve as luck wouldn't have it, a police car spotted us leaving the site and chased us down the backstreets of the town, we still had tears rolling down our eyes as we fled.

The story made the local press and the police came to interview all of us at the restaurant as the yacht owner said he heard the culprits swearing in English. We stuck to our story ('We were asleep at the time') and amazingly, the trail went cold. The best thing was walking past the butchers every day seeing an empty spot where there used to be a laughing cow pointing us in the direction of its own meat. Linda McCartney and her underwhelming sausages would have been proud.
(bernard_h_christ, Tue 12 May 2009, 18:44, 8 replies)

SEA OF VOM
The recent outbreak of piggy sniffles reminded me of the bet I made with one of my delinquent gang of halfwits that led to the closure of my school and cautionary letters being sent out to every parent advising them not to panic.

My mate Toots, Paul Toothill, would do just about anything for a fiver. He was the source of hours of endless entertainment – getting Toots to perform like the poorly shaved orangutan he was proved even more enjoyable than trudging home at dinner time and wanking over reruns of Sesame Street - there was just something strangely alluring and at the same time slutty about Grundgetta Grouch (Oscar's hot girlfriend) wasn't there?

Anyway; back to Toots. During the lunch break, sat round in the canteen eating reconstituted shit with added shit on the side, smeared in shit, with a choice of shit to sprinkle on this medley of spectacular shit that passed as food, a bet occurred to me.

“Toots,” I said. “Would you eat some of my shit for a fiver?”

Toots raised his big ginger head and pondered for a moment. Then he shrugged and said matter-of-factly: “For a fiver? ‘Course!” You could do a shitload in Coventry with a fiver back then – you could purchase more glue than you could sniff in a month, or if you went to Mr. Patel’s corner shop you could acquire one of his under the counter, fruity as fuck Swedish jazz mags and still have change for a Cornetto.

But there was a problem. I didn’t have a shit brewing. My colon was emptier than Gary Glitters spunk sack at a Toys R Us January sale. “I’m running on empty at the minute, Toots. Should be able to sort something out by afternoon break.”

Toots actually sighed despondently – the lad was a real trooper and really, really wanted to eat my shit.

Thankfully, my mate Greg who was sat on the same table piped up: “I’ve got a doozy brewing.” Toots and I turned to Greg. He stared back at us with an evil grin on his mong-twat face: “Ohh, it’s a biggun…”

So, moments later Toots and I are in the crowded schoolyard, kicking our heels, waiting for Greg to birth his steamy backdoor baby. After a few minutes Greg appears cradling something in one of those cheap scratchy paper towels you get in school toilets.

“This is fucking great!” He declared as he passes the paper towel and its contents over to Toots.

Toots unwraps it like he’s about to attack a kebab after ten pints. And stating us in the face is the biggest, hardest, longest turd I have ever seen in my life. It was so fucking big if it’d been fired out of a torpedo tube it would’ve easily sunk the Bismark.

“Fuck me…” was all I could say.

Obviously, this after-dinner delicacy had received the attention of several other kids in the yard. A small crowd had gathered. Toots examined the turd for a moment, considering the best way to tackle it, and then in one swift motion he brought it up to his mouth and took a healthy bite - chunks of sweetcorn and all - and chewed with his mouth open for all to see.

Then he doubled over and vomited heroically.

And then Greg vomited.

And then I vomited.

And then a weird chunder chain reaction occured as several other kids round us, upon seeing this unholy sight of skat delight and having only just eaten their fill in the canteen, opened up and technicolour yawned, Exorcist-style, all over the schoolyard. All you could hear for several minutes was the retching and splashing of puke hitting concrete, and the dry heaves as pupils emptied the contents of their stomachs in a slick of chunky, stinky, acrid vom.

It was like that scene at the start of Saving Private Ryan – only instead of bombs and bullets; there were chunks of carrot and half digested spotted dick and custard splattered amoungst the walking wounded.

It looked like someone had set off a hand grenade in a HUGE fucking vat of pig swill.

It was awesome.

And when the deputy head happened to glance out his office window to see a schoolyard full of vomiting boys. He rushed downstairs as fast as his stumpy little legs could carry him and closed the canteen immediately. Then he rounded us up and sent us home with a quickly composed letter apologizing to our parents for the dodgy food which he assumed had caused the yellow-and-brown mouth shitting outbreak.

And Toots didn’t get his fiver.

Though everyone in our year group got the next day off school.

The cunt Toots didn’t eat any of Greg’s remarkable turd of the Century. He only managed to chew it for a bit before gobbing it out.

And, as they say, a bet’s a bet…

...I just felt sorry for the poor caretaker who turned up, whistling, with a broom and a solitary bucket of sawdust; scanned the sea of vom sloshing about in the schoolyard and very nearly shat himself.

EDIT: Toots now works as a bank manager in Coventry city centre. I don't imagine he mentioned his amazing shit eating endevours during that interview...

( SpankyHanky, Fri 8 May 2009, 11:28, 18 replies)

An egg too far
Many years ago, on the way home from a night on the sauce, my friend Ollie suggested that, instead of the customary bag of chips, we should go for the three-egg-challenge. That is, for the uninitiated, three Cadbury's Creme Eggs at the same time. And no chomping until they're all in.

So we stop off at the corner shop and I go first, in the misguided hope that this is going to impress our rather cute blonde friend, C. One, two, three, in they go.

"That was easy" I splutter, or rather "thaaawaassshhheezzii".

"Bet you can't do four" Ollie replies, the cock.

Alcohol, lust and chocolate conspire inside me and I accept this ridiculous challenge. To a reticulated python or professional fluffer, it might have been a possibility. I am neither and this is not going to pretty.

"Such a thing has never been done before" says the shopkeeper in his best Apu-impression. But I am undeterred. I shove the fourth one into my gob and stagger triumphantly out of the shop just as the back egg explodes and spluffs a huge load of fondanty goodness down the back of my throat, immediately followed by similar spunkifications from its three fellows

As I leave the shop, a car pulls in alongside me - "Scuse me, mate can you tell me how to get to XXX?".

I lean terrfiyingly into the car. With my horrible, distended mouth, I look like Wallace after an extended session of bukkake and coprophagy.

"Nnneeexxxrrrighpaaaasshhtthepaarrk" I honk, dribbling chocolate between the comely norks of the girl in the passenger seat. They drive off fast.
and I wave them off, cackling like a mong.

No, it didn't impress C. either.
( MacCruiskeen, Fri 8 May 2009, 12:29, 8 replies)

Suicide Lottery
Best game ever, and it's free.

Wait for the national lottery program to come on, and then you and each of your compatriots get a piece of paper each, and write down 6 numbers.

Here's the important bit - at no point must you have bought a ticket.

So to put it simply: you've got your lottery numbers, but no ticket.

Then watch the results. Hoping and praying your numbers don't come up.

It's brilliant. Got the first three numbers once, and I thought my heart was going to explode.
(inflateable, Sun 10 May 2009, 21:07, 7 replies)

Hmm...
I've been trying to think of an answer to this weeks question, when all of a sudden it clicked into place. I'm known to quite a lot of people by a stupid bet I made.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was January 2005, and a younger Agnostic was at his girlfriend's at the time. Her Mum was out for the night, but had left a considerable amount of alcohol for us, so the gf had invited her friend over.

As the night went on, conversation started to get dirtier and dirtier, with my gf telling her friend all the things I did that got her off (well, all 3 of them). The friend is starting to look more and more interested, and starts giving me the eye. I notice this clearly. Unfortunately, so does the gf, and she does not look impressed.

At this point the conversation changes, as I was mildly afraid of getting my head ripped off for even looking at another girl. Conversation then slips to football, and how Liverpool would of course beat United the next day, I'm so confident I'd bet on it. I told them to think of the bet, while I disappeared to drain my rather full bladder.

I come back downstairs and they're rather enjoying the taste of each others tonsils (God bless what alcohol does to 16 year old girls!), and I'm quite happy for them to carry on. They then turn to me, and announce they've thought of a bet. If I lose, they get to do whatever they like to me (they made it rather ambiguous what it'd be). I then said if I won, I'd get to do what I like to them (and yes, it would include many many filthy things).

Not long after, the gf's Mum came home, and we had to cease all activity.

The next day rolls around, and we're out all day, so I've no idea what the score is. It gets to the end of the day, and I get back, flick on teletext, and see the score.

Liverpool 0-1 Manchester United.

Shit.

The missus gets a somewhat mischievous look on her face, and tells me it's time for my punishment. I follow her upstairs, somewhat hopeful.

I shouldn't have been.

If you want to know what my forfeit was, the picture is in replies...
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Fri 8 May 2009, 14:06, 19 replies)

You can’t spell ‘Diesel’ without the word ‘Die’…

Nice to see some lengthy posts this week. Now feast your eyes on this fucker!

Also, I suppose this could have made the recent ‘nightclubs’ Qotw…but hey ho, you can have it now…


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Wavy Lines~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The name of the place was ‘Crazy Daisy’s…and it was a wretched hive of scum and villainy on the A45 near Stretton-On-Dunsmore. I don’t know if it’s still about these days. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t demolish the building and nuke the entire site from orbit after the following incident took place.

Anyway, there I was, partaking in the activity of what you young folk call 'bustin some moves to some bangin choons' (or more accurately in my case: 'standing near the dancefloor ogling and getting pissed) with a chap called Graham.

Graham was a cocky cock-itch, but because he was even more obnoxious than I was, it made him perfect ‘buddy’ material for a night’s attempt at pulling. Sure, I was a cunt, but he was an uglier, even fatter cunt; and despite the fact we were just 19 or so inexperienced years old, he had already developed lank, thinning hair and a bald spot…from which he tried to distract people’s glances by growing a David Brent-esque ‘twatmouth’ beard. His 'quim-chin' was also coupled with layers of excess flab which seemed to link his bottom jaw to his moobs…making it look like an ‘airbag’ had deployed out of his neck, releasing what resembled a gaping set of ladies’ fleshy saddlebags underneath.

When I used to call him ‘cunt-face’, he had no idea exactly how literal I was being.

However, on the plus side, he was a serious drinker. By Jingo's fragrant ringpiece, this guy couldn’t half put some beer away.

So the night stumbles on, we get our usual half-dozen-or-so rejections each from available girlie-sorts, and are collectively roly-polying into a pissed-up eclectic euphoria of hormones, alcohol and questionable substances.

Suddenly, Graham glances up despondently from his glass and declares: “Let’s have a drinking competition, I bet you £10 I can drink more ‘Diesel’ than you”.

His face then took on a sly, evil expression, with the kind of ‘glint in the eye’ you’d expect from someone announcing a game of Russian Roullette to be played with bazookas and blindfolds.

“Erm….what’s Diesel?” I queried naively, desperately trying to hide the sound of fear in my voice, and hoping to sweet buggery he wasn’t talking about actual diesel fuel.

“Ah-HA!” continued Graham enthusiastically: “It’s half a pint of lager, a bottle of strong cider (Diamond White), a dash of blackcurrant (makes all the difference obviously)…and 4 shots of vodka”

“crikey” I whimper to myself, but having already made myself out to be a monumental lightweight I didn’t want to back down now…besides, I liked all the ingredients…how bad could it be if they were all mixed together?

I soon found out that the answer was 'very bad indeed', because after several pints of this accursed purple chemical weapon I was conceding defeat, as I unsteadily began to lose my power of sight and previously impressive grasp of gravity. For a fleeting minute I thought I was a gonner.

Of course, this started Graham off with the piss-taking.

“Pooflake can’t handle his ale…Pooflake is a big 'wet pants'…no wonder girls don’t like you” etc et-fucking-cetera.

Then he decided to hammer his victory home with this ‘epiphany’. He slurred: “I’ll tell you what – how about another bet?…double or quits!”

“Erm…What’s the bet?” I enquired

Graham then proudly declared: “First one to pull...and get a shag…on the premises – wins”

I considered that in our state it was going to be a monumental task…but then I remembered…we were in ‘slapper central’ after all. If you can’t pull in here, then you may as well just shoot yourself.

Then, as if by magic, as we were slumped against the bar discussing the terms of the bet, we were approached by a couple of girls…One of which was actually quite attractive…albeit in an ‘overly-made-up-and-dressed-like-a-total-tart’ kind of way.

"Whassshh that you’re drinking?" slurred the girl with a friendly smile and a very forward demeanour. She then took a swig of my ‘Diesel’.

Through my pissed mist I began to think that this bet might just be ‘on’ after all. I bought her a drink and asked her name:

“I’m Catherine, and this is Julie”: she said, motioning with her hand towards her mate, who then hoved into view like the HMS 'Fucking Gargantuan'.

Julie was the size of one of the larger moons of Jupiter, and looked sweatily resplendent having shoe-horned acres of flesh into skin-tight leggings, and her 4 sets of tits were trying to make a desperate bid for freedom from within the sequined prison of her spangled boob-tube. I’m sure she had a delightful personality, but she was doing a bloody good job of hiding it.

Graham indicated in no uncertain terms that he was ‘not having any of that’...

“I’m not fucking well having any of THAT!” he shouted at me whilst pointing to the girl who looked like she could have previously ousted mighty Jabba himself as the ugliest and most rotund ‘black sheep’ of the Hutt family.

Graham then took it upon himself to embark on a ‘sensuous explorative voyage of carnal discovery’…or to use his words: “I’m fucking off to find some other dirty bird to shag who’s less of a minger”. Such poetry and class is hard to come by these days.

This meant that Catherine was left to be ‘my conquest’…and I didn’t have to wait very long. She seemed really responsive to my crap chat-up lines, and quickly leaned over to kiss and claw at me with all the horny ferocity of a mountain goat in heat with an industrial carpet washer attached.

Result!

Then, without further ado, and in a romantic gesture that would make Romeo & Juliet look like a pair of skanky crackheads, she rammed her hand down the front of my pants, and started to tug frantically at my twitching tallywaggle like a hungry monkey reaching for a prize-winning pink veiny banana.

However, as her tongue expertly inspected my dental work, I was being constantly distracted by Julie, who was hovering around like a badly dropped gut that refused to dissipate.

As I tried to make ‘motioning’ signs, hinting to Catherine to get shot of her multiple-bosomed buddy, I was then suddenly approached by an overjoyed returning Graham, who bounded over as if he was a Labrador puppy straight out of a bogroll advert (only a lot less loveable).

“I win again!” he declares triumphantly “I’ve just fucked some lass in the bogs!”

“Bollocks!” I say, eyeing him up suspiciously. He must’ve only been gone about 10 minutes.

“I’ll prove it to you” He says cheerily…

…and with that, he pulls his hand out of his pocket, produces a spaff splattered, still warm, soiled condom, then waves it not 3 inches from my face, where it wafts and festers like a fuck-fuelled fungus-pouch in the nightclub heat.

As the sight of this foul, simmering spunk-bag started to churn my stomach like an intestinal cement mixer, Catherine seemed totally undeterred and resumed kissing…

But at that unfortunate moment, when my rancid guts were delicately balanced at 50/50, she pushed a bit too hard with her tongue, and it proceeded to ‘twang’ on my tonsils…setting my gag reflex to start initial preperations for a potentially violent lunch-related exit strategy.

With our mouths still locked together I could feel the telltale rumbling in my crap factory, informing me that an eruption was imminent…and this had me thinking back to what I had eaten previously for dinner.

Oh dear…it had been a hastily masticated cheap microwavable lasagne that was suddenly deciding that it wasn’t yet ready for the boring bodily function of turning into a turd, and that it wanted to see the world one last time.

“mmmmph” I spluttered, struggling a little, but Catherine was having none of it. With her lips firmly pressed onto mine, she excavated my mouth as if my fillings were precious artifacts and her tongue was on ‘Time Team’.

I briefly stopped groping her arse and even tried pushing her away – I knew I was merely seconds away from gob-cack-calamity

We finally broke the kiss, but the damage had been done. Her lips were just a few meagre inches from mine…when…

I unleashed a full volley of thermo atomic vom right into her face – then watched, close up and helpless as her thick makeup intermingled with the almost fluorescent, bright purple goo, little brown lumps of meat and cheap Italian pasta.

She was physically taken aback by the sheer force and velocity from this blast…and the resultant shock and speed of the 'attack' meant that unfortunately…her mouth was still open.

She instinctively tried to clamp her cake-hole shut as she came into close contact with the hideous booze, bile and barf banquet flying towards her…but it was too late, and the closing of her mouth merely ‘sealed the deal’ leading to a spontaneous moment of beer–powered involuntary spasms…

In other words…she ‘gulped’…hard – swallowing what seemed to be about half a gallon of second hand stench-infested stomach produce as it went rocketing into her gullet like a ballistic missile of boke.

Her head jerked back as our collective chunder contents entwined in a way that our saliva had only moments before, only unfortunately, this didn’t have quite the same amorous effect, and she proceeded to spew forth a phenomenal filth fountain of gross gut garbage from deep within her petite frame.

However, all this time…whilst we were launching ourselves backwards and forwards, open-throated towards each other’s faces, she was still stubbornly clinging on to my cock like it was a saddle horn atop a frenzied belming bucking bronco.

It was only when my cheeks filled with a second bout of barf that she decided to relinquish my spam javelin. (to be honest, it wasn’t exactly ‘doing me proud’ anyway…this was not the most erotic experience of my life).

As she slumped off the chair, we both heard a now familiar sound, and we glanced over just in time to see her friend start to retch forcefully, before exploding into a display of sympathetic vomiting that eclipsed both of our efforts combined. As she hurled herself full bodied into ‘cosmic chunder’ mode, she bounced off furniture, walls and the bar, trying in vain to steady herself before collapsing in a burbling puddle of unmentionable horror.

Imagine if someone had gone to 'ground zero' the day after September the 11th, stood on top of the biggest pile of rubble and devastation, pushed their fingers down their throat and yakked a bio-luminescent ‘vom-bomb’…this was what the bar area now resembled.

Bouncers rushed to the scene, and in their haste started slipping over in the puddles of gloopy hideousness and cut price beefy chunks...and the obligatory diced carrot pieces.

Onlookers tried standing back as this abomination of bodily contents was starting to get out of hand; and the collective gulps, splatters, ‘Bleeuurgh's, ‘Gaaaah’s and what can only be described as ‘Uuhgjschljjshjsha’s were beginning to drown out the sound of the Happy Mondays tootling on the dancefloor.

As our heads continued to spin around spraying vomitus jet-wash, like out-take auditions for 'The Exorcist', nobody within 15 yards had any alternative but to ‘taste the rainbow’, as we redecorated the bar area into our own internal catastrophic disaster area.

It was around that point when I realised my chances of scoring with anybody else that night were slightly dented…possibly by the fact that I now had caked-on bright purple bilge down the front of my trousers, (white) shirt…and chin

I looked at Catherine through my double-vision and said (between belches and gulp-backs): “I’m really sorry”

She simply wiped herself down and replied: “You owe me £30.”

“Oh, I see” I slurred before meekly enquiring: “...for the cleaning bill?”

Catherine then rolled her eyes and spat derisively: “No, you thick twat, for the hand job!..I don’t do this stuff for the fun of it, you know!".

ooh fucking hell

It turns out that when Graham first left the bar area, he was approached by the girls' pimp and asked if he wanted to ‘do business’. Then, without informing me, he had set himself up with another prossie, got his ugly oats, and abandoned me to my fate. Catherine (and Julie) both just took it for granted that I was a willing 'customer'.

Suffice to say the saucy, sloshed, downright slutty Catherine, and more importantly her pimp, were less than chuffed about the fact that I refused to pay (although the fact that I only had about £2.50 left may have had something to do with my taking a ‘moral stand').

In my rancid, oblivious, purple stained and utterly rat-arsed state, I was only saved from the resultant fray because I was grabbed by a humungous bouncer who had seemingly taken pity on my puke-pappered plight.

The next (and last) thing I can remember about that night was being forcibly thrown from the building and vowing to never return…or gamble, again.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 7 May 2009, 16:32, 17 replies)

Don't accept daft bets...
Just remembered a weird bet, actually. An 'I bet you...' sort of bet rather than an 'Alf Ramsey's Porn Dungeon each-way in the 3:30 at Sandown' sort of bet, but still...

I work in advertising. The nuts and bolts side rather than the 'Let's just have a Gorilla drumming' side. I plan campaigns, basically.

Now, a lot of people who work in Marketing are lovely, but like any job you do get your fair share of born arseholes who cover up their lack of knowledge and intelligence by being aggressive and overbearing, normally by belittling any point anyone else makes. The sort of people you normally see on the Apprentice, in fact.

One such was a South African Marketing Manager who was brought in one one of my clients a few years back. True to national stereotypes, he was loud, brash, snide, and aggressive (sorry to any Saffers reading, I know you're not all like that). Anyway, he hadn't been in the UK long, meaning he had very little idea of the UK media, but he nonetheless felt he knew enough to pull apart every recommendation we made and basically tell us what to do. This would have been fine if there was any logic to his criticisms, but it was simply that everything we did must be wrong, because he hadn't done it himself, therefore it was inferior. The situation could only be remedied by being a cock till he got what he wanted.

Now, it came to be that we were looking at appropriate TV programmes to sponsor for his brand. We'd go in and suggest programmes which we thought were a great fit with the audience (middle aged or retired women), supply videos and detailed justifications of why they were a good fit, and he'd slag them off.

Heartbeat? 'I want to sell to them - I can't do that if they're asleep'
Loose Women? 'I watched that the other day... what the fuck was that about?'
Countdown? 'Who enjoys that? People with Asperger's?'

Anyway, it so happens he has seen a programme he thinks is bang on.

'I was watching it the other day - 'Coast'. It's cosy, it's on at the right time, it's perfect....'
'Erm, admittedly it's a good fit but...'
'No buts, alright? Just let's get on it. We've wasted enough time'
'We can't do it'

He started to steam:

'Oh for fuck's sake, man.You mean YOU can't do it. If I can't get anywhere with you lot I'm going to have to find an agency I can work with. Or fuck that - you give me a contact and I'm going to call them myself and show you.'
'I am telling you now you cannot sponsor Coast'
'I bet you twenty quid I can at least have a fucking conversation about it , alright? everyone's in this business for the same reason. Money talks, right? I know that if you don't'
'OK, twenty quid'
'What's the contact'
'Just Google 'BBC Switchboard''
'You don't even have a fucking sales contact.'
'Afraid not'.

Apparently, he did call them as well. His successor, who was at this time his assistant, later described to me how he sat there turning increasingly crimson as the Licence Fee was patiently explained to him.

Did I get my twenty quid? Did I fuck. He claimed he had at least had a conversation about it. Cock...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 7 May 2009, 14:29, 8 replies)

A cautionary tale
Firstly, apologies for lack of funnies in this, and apologies for the length. It’s gonna be a biggun. It’s also fairly cathartic. And yes, it is related to gambling.

Wavy lines back in time.

January, 2008. Specifically the thirty first of January. The day I tried to kill myself for the second time. But I’m jumping ahead of the story here. Let’s go back before that. I come from a family of people with mental disorders. All three of my parents (I have a stepdad, and a biological dad and a mother) are all affected in one way or another by mental illness, or in the case of my stepdad, physical illness too as he’s diabetic amongst other things. My mother always hid hers very well from me and my younger brother until fairly recently. My biological dad, I inherited a lot from.

I had been an odd kid. I did well at school to start off with, but then found the jumping through hoops that school taught to be boring, so I got into drugs as did a lot of kids my age. I hid this from my parents, as you do, but my grades started slipping, and I started to fuck off from school. I was being bullied too, for being the smart kid and all that shit, because nobody knew much about me because I kept myself to myself. All they knew was, I was the smart kid, and therefore got picked on. So school started to slip. I lost weight, I lost self-esteem, I started to lose things I couldn’t afford to lose.

I tried to hang myself when I was 16 because it was the only way out that I could see to all my problems. My parents caught me just as I was looping my school tie around my neck after hanging it over the curtain rail. They told me to stop acting like a fool and to grow up. I was stood on a small chest of drawers in order to hang my tie over my curtain rail, and jumped off. The curtain rail snapped on my descent down. In retrospect, it was a really bad idea to try and hang myself off a really flimsy plastic curtain rail.

After that incident, I took up drinking. At the age of eighteen, I almost ODed on ecstasy and decided to stop doing drugs. So I began drinking even more to compensate. In the summer of 2006, I got my first serious girlfriend, B. She was pretty, a year older than me and absolutely filthy in bed. I later found out that because she had low self-esteem too, she slept with a lot of people at university, including one time asking a randomer in a pub if he had a condom on him, and when he replied in the affirmative, sat on his lap, spread her legs and hoiked her skirt up and got it on then and there with him.

I finished sixth form at the beginning of the summer of 2006. I scraped enough to get into university. I can remember about half of the first day of Freshers week, nothing more. I remember unpacking, waving my parents goodbye, and saying hi to the people who lived in the rooms next to mine in the halls of residence, and then I started drinking because someone offered free drinks.

I cannot remember my Freshers week. I cannot remember much of my first, first year of university because I spent it in an alcoholic haze. Because I had no parents around to criticise me, I was free to do whatever I wanted. I hit the bottle big time. The girlfriend, B, wasn’t a restraint as she used to try and match me in drinking. There were times when I was sober, and I do remember some of those times. I remember spending more money than I could afford on shiny things for B, and alcohol for me. I was a fan of vodka, and used to get the massive bottles and work my way through them. I became a loner at my university, and because nobody really saw me, I could get away with drinking lots. I toned it down when I was over in North Wales at B’s university.

I fail my first year of university. My grades are too low to let me pass, all because I spent most of the year pissed out of my skull and rarely turned up for lectures. I used to teach myself online whenever I could remember to. I had talent at writing, which is always useful when you’re doing a journalism degree, but I let myself down with everything else. The uni agree to let me resit the entire first year. Essentially, I have spent a gap year drinking.

Summer 2007, and we celebrate our one year anniversary. This is important for both of us, because in my case, I’ve never had a proper relationship, and she’s gone through men like a monkey goes through bananas. By now, the cracks were visible. Our arguments were now becoming weekly, and because I was drunk a lot of the time, I wouldn’t keep quiet. B, when she was at university, lived in a four storey house at the top. People used to say they could hear me shouting when I was at the top and they were on ground level.

I go back to uni at the end of the summer, moving in with two girls I knew and talked to the most when we were all in halls. I tried to tone down my drinking, but then decided it would be easier if I just kept drinking but turned up to lectures. So I do so. I make a couple of new friends at university, not many though. But I fall back into my old habits, and by Christmas, have stopped turning up to lectures once again.

Christmas 2007 comes and passes quietly. By now, mine and B’s relationship is really strained, and I am becoming more and more depressed. She comes over in the middle of January, and for once, I remain sober whilst she is over. I can remember the last time we had sex, even though it didn’t seem that it was going to be the last. She was violent, and because I was sober, I felt it more and ended up losing it halfway through. You might say the Meltyman struck. We argue again, and things are coming undone spectacularly. She tells me she needs some time to herself and that I shouldn’t contact her.

I spend the next two weeks in bed when she leaves. I hit the bottle again. I can remember waking up on the 31st of January 2007 and thinking to myself “I’m going to go jump in the canal today.” I text B some depressing song lyrics and tell her to forget about me. She correctly assumes that something is majorly wrong, and comes over with a mutual friend. We argue, and she tells me we’re splitting up. I didn’t see this coming because I was stupidly naïve like that, and try to drown myself. I get dragged to the doctor by B and her friend, who says that my suicidal tendencies aren’t good and that I’m being referred to the local hospital to see someone there.

So I go to the hospital and see someone there, who incorrectly assumes that I’m in a bad way because of splitting up with B that morning. I try to tell him that these thoughts and feelings were there before, but he ignores them. I’m told to go home and then to go see my GP in a few days so they can sort me out with some anti-depressants. B leaves, and our friend stays with me for a few days to make sure I don’t do anything stupid again.

I go to the GP. We have a chat. They refer me to the primary mental health care team. I go see them, and we have a chat. They diagnose me as being bipolar type two. They also try me out on various anti-depressants to see which ones I respond well to. I lie about my drinking habits, and carry on drinking extremely heavily. Even with my medication.

The third time I almost end up dead, is on the 24th of February 2008. I overdose on alcohol and sleeping pills and fluoxetine. I remember panicking, and ringing up the emergency services to get an ambulance before passing out in the doorway of my house. Since nobody else is home, because my two housemates have buggered off for a week in Ireland, I almost died from choking on my vomit and from hitting my head on the tiled surface of my hallway. I woke up in hospital, and swore never to drink again. I’ve been clean since then.

I found out a while after that, that I inherited my alcoholism from my biological dad, and my bipolarity from my mother, because whilst she doesn’t have the full thing, she does have a partial effect of it.

So here’s the gambling part. It’s gambling Jim, but not as we know it, but it’s the link here. Ever since I was a teenager, I have been gambling my life with a lot of major decisions. I could have died because I gambled incorrectly. I’m 21 now, and whilst I may not be dead, because of my gambling with drink and drugs, I am forever changed. I cannot form new memories very well, and I have a lot of trouble articulating my thoughts into speech. It often comes out incoherently or so badly phrased that I need to explain it to people. I have essentially gambled those away because I’ve been a fucking idiot and almost gotten myself killed repeatedly.

I don’t want people’s pity here, by the way. I brought it all on myself, and I’m a damn sight lucky to be sat here typing this as a warning to people, so save your pity for something else.

If you have problems, of any kind, don’t gamble with them and hope you get lucky. You may get lucky sometimes, like the first time I tried to kill myself by hanging myself, but at others, you won’t end up so lucky. I kept gambling my life, and now I’ve lost parts of me that I cannot replace. I am still young, and I have fucked myself over and cannot fix it. If you yourself have problems of any kind, whether its mental problems like mine, physical or whatever, or if you know anyone with problems, don’t gamble and expect to win all the time. Seek help, either for yourself or for your friend. The effects of your gambling may not be known until it’s far too late to fix.

Now for something more cheerful. I recently won a black fedora in a competition. Any ideas of what I should do with it? And what do black fedoras go well with?

Whew, that was a long fucker. Apologies again for length and lack of funnies. I just hope people take notice of it and don’t ignore it just because it's massive.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Sun 10 May 2009, 13:26, 16 replies)

I am death
I vowed to stop betting on horses 20 years ago.The horse I chose in an office grand national sweepsteak died.
Ten yearsish later,some workmates were talking about a horse winning everything in sight.It was called "roll a joint"
I bet on it.It died.
Renew vow.A few years later,Someone talks about a horse called "rust never sleeps".I like neil young too.I bet on the horse.It died.

When I was at college,A girl bet me 3 wispas I couldn't vault over the common room railing onto the floor below without hurting myself.It was a piece of piss,but I never collected the bet.She was killed in a car crash on the way to the first live aid concert a couple of weeks later.
(ruff secks R.I.P. uncle Jim :(, Sun 10 May 2009, 14:18, 11 replies)

Things go a little differently in the countryside.
A friend of mine is involved in a charitable organization that contributes health care to adopted kids from other countries, and they had their fund raiser last night at a cattle ranch in northern Virginia. Loads of barbecue, kegs of beer, cases of wine, live music and a silent auction- all the things you'd expect, really. As I had contributed a piece of stained glass for the auction I was brought along and partook.

Since this was a family friendly event they also had activities for the small kids, but as it was a fund raiser they had various opportunities for bets, such as a 50/50 raffle. (Meaning that if you won, you got half the pot and the organization got the other half.) One of the events was a sheep race- they herded a bunch of sheep into a pasture, color coded each one, herded them to the far end of the field, and on the signal were sent scampering for the barn as fast as possible through a gate open only wide enough for one sheep. You can imagine the scene as these city folk all watched the border collie running at warp speed, snapping at heels as the panicked little buggers ran for their woolly little lives.

Then came the piece de resistance: cow bingo.

You set up a grid in a pasture, one axis letters and the other numbered, then put bets on various squares. A cow is then led into the grid, and whatever square she poos in wins. If it lands on a line, it's scraped off and another cow is brought in.

I will forever treasure the memory of a load of rich city folk standing around a pasture, tickets in hand, anxiously waiting for a cow to shit.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Sun 10 May 2009, 20:41, 1 reply)

JAWS
One time I was attacked by a lifesize cardboard cutout of Jaws. The fucker growled:

"Give me all your fucking stationery!"

Odd... But I handed over the Biro I had in my top pocket and put my hands in the air like the true coward I am. Then the fucker ripped off my kneecap and finned it, leaving me lying in a pool of my own blood.

Its true what they say: Watch out for card sharks - they'll leave you pen-knee less...

*fuck me, sorry about that...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 8 May 2009, 16:55, 6 replies)

One armed bandit!
Back when I was 18 a mate and I went on a camping/cycling trip around the South West coast. Being 18 we essentially had no money so everything was on a shoe string.

Having booked onto a campsite in Illfracombe (North Devon) we decided to treat ourselves to a drink in the onsite pub. As you can imagine shoe string budget didn't equate to a fine family holiday park, more the kind of campsite that might have been popular 30 years ago and still has the same annual pilgrims who dare not try somewhere else for their holiday, next years one no doubt paid for before they leave this year.

I took the last £2 I had on me and bought a pint of cider (£1.95). I spied they had an old fashioned one armed bandit on the wall which ran on the old style 5p coins which were available from the bar, so I decided to fritter my last coin away on that.

In the coin went with the chink chink metal on metal sound those of us old enough will remember from reliable BT payphone engineering in the 1980's. I grasped the ball of the lever in my weary sweaty palm and gave it a tug. Having never been one of those kids who understood the concept of gambling and especially not fruit machines it can have only been in my best interest that there were no complex nudge buttons etc.

Chink! Cherry.
Chink! Cherry.
"ooh!" thought I as I desperately scanned the payout instructions to see if I might have won enough for some crisps. Meanwhile the third wheel spun and whirled for what seemed like an eternity.....
Chink! Cherry!
Alarms went off like I was breaking into the Queens bedroom and the machine began a metallic pumping farting noise as it began to spit coin after coin out into the small metal dish beneath it which quickly overflowed with Queen Liz branded shrapnel.

The bar fell silent and a dozen pair of eyes glared at the giggling idiot who was now standing in a puddle of silver coins on the sticky 70's patterned carpet.

I grabbed a couple of empty ashtrays and began gathering up what felt like the entire royal mints production run of 5p coins. If you've ever seen £10 in old 5p coins you can appreciate the mess I'd made but I was beaming from ear to ear.

I made my way to the bar and the barman, who for some reason pissed off at me, and began to count up the £10 in coins. After a bit of chitter chatter it turns out the pissed off middle aged lady at the bar has been on holiday there for 6 of her 7 nights and has for the last week been sat filling the machine with her drinking money each night like mentalist pops pills.

After about 5 minutes the barman has finished counting the coins, £10.05. He hands me 2 £5 notes and my original 5p coin.

"It's not done to leave the winning line" he scowls at me like I've broken some ultimate bar taboo of leaving a gambling machine displaying the fact that somebody actually won something.

Ok I think to myself, I've done ok here. £8 in my pocket and a pint in my tummy.

I saunter back to the machine, the weight the glares from disgruntled holidaymakers digging in my back like a polar bear on a German tourist.

I stick the lone 5p coin into the machine and pull the handle, turning immediately to walk back to my mate at the bar without having any interest in the result.

Chink!..... Chink!......Chink!

The only thing louder than the 2nd set of alarm bells and river of coins raining down onto the carpet behind me was the silence of stunned bar and the thump thump thump of the throbbing vein on the gambling grannie's temple as I scooped another 3 cherry jackpot. I thought she was gonna explode with rage or just die on the spot.

Needless to say I wasn't asked to clear the winning line again.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 7 May 2009, 14:26, Reply)

I got a cold call the other day:
"What would you say if I told you that you won ONE MIIIIILION POUNDS!!"
"Whoooo, yay?"

"And what would you spend it on?"
"Why, I would give it all to you."

"No, be serious."
"A hamster ranch."

And then the cold caller hung up on me.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Tue 12 May 2009, 19:52, 7 replies)

From working in a Bookmakers.
About ten years ago, I worked in a small office of one of the larger bookmakers. From that time, there's a few tips I'd share with you to make your betting experience a better one.

- DON'T BET IN A BOOKMAKERS. Seriously, if you were buying a computer or something, you'd compare prices online, find the cheapest and then get it delivered. You wouldn't go to Currys and pick one in there, so why would you do the same with a bet? Decide what you're going to bet on, look at a few major sites, find the best odds and place your bet there. OddsChecker is a good site to shop around with.

- BET ON WHAT YOU KNOW. You'd think this would be an obvious one, but the number of people who came into the shop and didn't follow this was astounding. They'd come in at opening time, and place bets on whatever was running on the screens - horse racing, dogs, golf, football, whatever. A bet's essentially you pitting your knowledge against the bookmaker, so you want as much of an advantage as possible.

- DON'T BACK IF THE ODDS ARE BAD. If you think that half the time the team you're backing will win the match, and the odds are 4/5, then don't place the bet. You think it's going to come in one out of every two times, then less than evens (1/1) is a return that is worse than your prediction. Easier way to think about it is with a coin flip - the bookie is telling you that if the coin comes up heads you give him £10, but if it's tails he'll give you £8. See why it's dumb to not think about if the odds match your predictions?

- BET WITH YOUR HEAD, NOT YOUR HEART. I don't care if you're a fourth generation Wolves fan, you'd still be an idiot to put any money on them winning the Premier League next year. Relates to the above, if it's less than thousands and thousands to one for something that unlikely, then it's a dumb bet.

- THINK ABOUT ALL THE OUTCOMES. Number of bloody people who do this. If you back Newcastle to win tonight with one bookie, and Middlesbrough to win tonight with another, you can almost guarantee that the match'll be a draw. Don't be that idiot, think about everything that can happen.

- KNOW THE RULES. This is something that applies mainly to in shop betting, as most sites will cross check bets automatically, but it's not impossible for something to happen. Gambling debts are not legally enforceable, and the wagers are covered by the bookie's own rules. You'll find there are rules surrounding things like related contingencies, which is the main one. A related contingency is where the first bet in an accumulator affects the second one - like if you'd placed Barca to beat Chelsea in the semi-final, and Barca to win the Champions League before the semi. The odds at that point for Barca to win the whole thing are a combination of them winning the semi and the final, so putting that in an accumulator with them to win the semi would be in effect having the same bet twice in the accumulator. Don't think that if you get this past the assistant in a shop you'll get paid out on it either, there's also normally a rule that covers palpable error. If the shop assistant makes a mistake in taking your bet, then the bookie doesn't have to pay out.

- KNOW WHAT YOUR BET IS. Kind of goes with the above, but make sure you know what you're backing. Using the Champions League matches again, check to see if you're backing the result at 90 minutes, AET, for the full tie, or whatever. If you're betting in a shop, make the slip very, very, very clear. Because if you aren't, you run the risk of it being interpreted in some other way - a 90 minutes bet on a draw being settled as an AET draw when one team's won for example.

- STAGGER YOUR ACCUMULATORS AND LAY OFF. If you're putting together an accumulator, try to avoid having every result coming in at the same time. I'll use football as an example here because it works very well for it. If you place a £5 accumulator with four matches kicking off on a Saturday afternoon at 3pm, you're dependant on all four coming in at the same time, and have no control. However, let's say you have an accumulator with a Friday evening match, a Saturday afternoon and evening match, and one on Sunday. The Friday and Saturday results all go your way, and now you've got a £67 pay out riding on the Sunday result to win. You know what you do? No, you don't bloody pray for your team to win, you back the draw and the other team. If the odds for that are evens and you put £10 on them, you're going to be up either way. This is called laying off, and it'll save you money in the long term.

The last two are pretty simple, but are probably the most important. Take these with you if nothing else.

- THIS IS ENTERTAINMENT, NOT A MONEY MAKING ENTERPRISE. Working in that bookies, I reckon there were possibly three or four regular customers out of around 100 to 150 who actually made money. These were people with massive amounts of knowledge on the subjects they bet on, one was an ex-golfing pro for example. They weren't the average person walking in off the street. Again, it's pitting your knowledge against the bookmaker, that's all.

- DO NOT BET WHAT YOU CAN'T AFFORD TO LOSE. This is the saddest one to see people not following. Please don't go to bookies and put down money that you need to pay your rent, even if you know it's a sure tip that your mate gave you. What if this is the one time that it doesn't come in? Don't be the person who's standing there shell shocked, staring at the monitor after seeing the easy money favourite fall after they'd put the deposit for the flat you and your fiancée are buying on it (saw this). Set your limits and stick to them.











~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Couple of bonus semi-gambling related ones.

- DON'T EVER START PLAYING FRUIT MACHINES. Horribly addictive flashing lights and noises, with a sign on them telling you they will keep 30% of your money. I wish I had never ever played the damn things. Start playing them and you run the risk of putting money back in after winning £15, because you just really need to get that jackpot and see the lights all start flashing, really need to see it. Horrible, horrible things. Manage to go cold turkey for months at a time, and then end up playing one in a pub to kill time and get sucked back in. I need more willpower.

- IF YOU ARE EVER 14 YEARS OLD AND FIND A CHANGE MACHINE IN AN ARCADE ON A FERRY THAT WILL GIVE YOU £20 OF CHANGE WHEN YOU PUT A £10 NOTE IN IT AT EXACTLY THE TIME THE DISPLAY SHOWS WHAT YOU GET IF YOU PUT A £20 NOTE IN, THEN KEEP CHANGING THE COINS BACK UP FOR NOTES AT EVERY SINGLE SHOP ON THE FERRY AS LONG AS YOU CAN. Couple of us ended up coming home from that French exchange with more money than we took. Wheeeeeee...!
(MattWPBS, Mon 11 May 2009, 16:46, 8 replies)

Just the other day I placed my first wager on a horse race
£100 on Flippetigibbet.

I was watching the race on tenterhooks, the horse being a hot favourite and recommended by a friend in the know.

My horse came in at 20 to 1! Unfuckingbelievable!

Unfortunately, the other horses came in at 12:35

Bah!
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Thu 7 May 2009, 21:19, 3 replies)

VIDAL SASSOON (the bastard)
It was a genius plan. It was completely foolproof. If James Bond would’ve crashed in through the patio windows, guns blazing in an attempt to foil ‘the genius plan’, he would’ve stopped, shurgged his shoulders, and said:

“Fuck me, boys – that’s a fucking genius plan you’ve devised there.” And then he would’ve fucked off to shag Miss Moneypenny up the wrong un, or continued his clandestine and somewhat disturbing homoerotic adventures with Q’s saggy old gonads and wrinkly, naked-baby-hamster-resembling orgasm stick.

My best mate Greg and I were sixteen and horny as a pair of horny toads during mating season, sat on a big horny log examining the pullout centrefold pages of an importened continental x-rated copy of I’m Horny magazine. We were both at that annoying age where we were desperate, I mean FUCKING KILL YOUR OWN MOTHER DESPERATE, to discover what rubbing your cock on the insides of a female meat gofherhole was like. I think at one stage we’d even considered fucking Greg’s dog, Daisy – but that would’ve been too fucking weird. And anyway, Daisy was a big fucking dog, a rotweiller – she would probably have ripped our cocks off if we went near her with a hard on and a tub of swarfega.

We both had girlfriends – mine was called Amy, Greg’s was called Amy’s friend (fucked if I can remember her name; it was fucking years ago). They were typical teenage relationships – we’d take them to the cinema to watch Top Gun, we’d buy them some chips on the way home, and in return they allowed us a brief fumble on their budding mammeries through their jumpers. Everyone was happy. But Greg and I wanted, no, NEEDED to take it to the next stage. To put it bluntly – if we didn’t loose our virginity in the next few weeks we would die...

Plain and simple...

My parents had gone to a family do, dragging my sister with them - I had the house to myself. And that’s when the genius plan formulated in my mind; it was gonna be fucking GREAT!!! Greg fucked off to the local off licence to purchase the alcohol on account of him having whispy pubes growing out of his chin – it made him look at least fifty, we reckoned. He came back with ten cans of kestrel super strength and a hipflask bottle of maddog 20/20 (kiwi fruit flavor). That stuff was guarenteed to remove the knickers from a nun, apparently – so my cousin Gino said. And I really wouldn’t have put it past Gino to have fucked a nun.

I stayed at the house, preparing the love nest. I laid out the game and, when Greg returned weighed down with more booze than your average P&O ferry returning from Calais, we waited for our lovely ladyfriends to arrive. And they did – plastic bangles rattling, the finest Superdrug ownbrand lipstick money could buy, permed hair smelling like a fucking chemical refinery. And then we started drinking – put on some sexy music (Level 42, Running in the Family; I thought the incredible baseline would have an arousing effect on the girls clitoral area), and after a couple of cans I suggested:

“Shall we play now?” And the girls agreed. And then I added as innocently as possible with my quivery teenage voice: “Why don’t we make it a bit more interesting – why don’t we play for cloths.”

Amy and Amy’s mate looked at me like I was a great big fucking perv, which I suppose I was. But I pressd on:

“Boys against girls – if you win a round, Greg and I will take off an item of clothing.”
And then Greg chipped in: “And if Spanky and me win... well...”

Suprisingly, the girls agreed. ZOUNDS!!!

So we started playing – not cards. Neither Greg or I had a fucking clue about cards - except maybe for a quick game of snap, which, lets face it, would've made us look as hard as Julian Clary doing a bit of sewing. We started playing Trivial Pursuit.

The first question was: Do porcupines masturbate?

50 – 50 chance. Fuck! Oh, well. “Ermm, no???” I said, swigging back my super strength lager - it tasted like alcoholic marmite.

And then Greg and I had to take off our sweaters, apparently the dirty little feckers DO wank. Fuck!

The girls got an easy one. And so it continued. There was a flaw in our plan. Greg and I had failed to remember that we were absolutely, monumentally, incredibly fucking stupid. It took about ten minutes before we were in our pants – the girls, on the otherhand, were showing only a sexy flash of ankle, having only had to remove their socks.
The really fucking annoying thing was that neither of the girls seemed impressed or in the least bit sexed up looking at our scrawny teenage bodies. But God thank alcohol. Amy, who’d been knocking it back like Oliver Reed fifteen minutes before last orders, leaned forward and slurred: “How about a sudden death? If you answer the next question right, we’ll snog each other?” she said, giggling to her mate. “And if you get it wrong...”

“Okay!”

So, moments later, I had Greg’s tongue pokling round inside my gob like a slab of wet liver. It was not good. Not good at all. I hate to admit it, but I may have got a bit of a lazy lob on. The plan was going horribly wrong. I stopped snogging my best mate, drank half the bottle of maddog, belched romantically, and said: “What about this – if we get the next question right... we get to see you play with each other? And if we get it wrong-“ I could see Greg motioning to me to shut the fuck up. Well, I didn’t reallly fancy wanking Greg off, so I left it open. “Well, we’ll do anything, and I mean ANYTHING you tell us to do.”

Amy’s mate said, matter-of-factly: “OK. You’re on.”

And so, my hand trebling, I drew the next question card on the pile and passed it over to the girls. And, being a thick twat, asked for an entertainment question. And the girls laughed and read:

“Who was the offical hair consultant to the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics?”

OH... SHIT...

Obviously, we got it wrong, our gamble in the hope of a tad of girl-on-girl-hot-teen-sex-action had fallen flat on its arse. Now we had to face the consequences...

“Now you’ll do anything, won’t you,” said Amy.

We nodded, feeling fucking miserable. I had a very werid feeling I might have to suck Greg off. And I could tell by the look of abject horror on his face he was thinking the same about me.

“So,” said Amy’s mate. “You’ll do absolutely anything we want? You can’t back down? We can ask and you’ll just do it?” she was really enjoying this.

Greg and I nod. The girls confered with each other for a while. Then we did what they asked us to do. And soon afterwards the girls put on their socks and shoes and went home. We completely disregarded the fact they were in the top sets for every fucking subject at school, while Greg and I spent most of our time in school drawing willies in the excercise books.

“If my mum finds out about this, she’ll fucking kill me,” I said. Greg didn’t speak, just put his cloths back on glumly.

"That REALLY IS the last fucking time I kiss you, Spanky..."

I shrugged agreement.

And what did the girls ask us to do? What terrible pennance did we undertake for not knowing who the fuck Vidal Sassoon was, let alone that he did some poncy-arsed haircuts at the Olympics?

Well, Amy and Amy’s mate had no fucking interest in our puny little bodies. Or in seeing the two of us get it on in – what I’m sure would’ve been – an incredibly hot gay tryst. No.

Did they fuck.

Instead they went home happy as pigs in shit.

And later that evening, when my parents got back home and I’d received a level eight hiding on my ‘getting a good hiding from my old man scale’, I sneaked the phone into my bedroom and gave Greg a call:

“Mate – stay away from my place for a bit... I had to tell my dad you forced open the lock on his drinks cabinet and stole all his booze... Sorry...”

-Silence-

-Click- as the phoneline went dead.

Don’t gamble. Just don’t do it. Well, especially not when you could be outwitted by the sheer fucking intellectal prowess of the rotting corpse of a dead horse...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:27, 6 replies)

My American Friend
I went to school with a fantastically patriotic American girl called Allison.

Sitting around watching the 4x100 metres men's relay freestyle swimming at the Sydney Olympics, I unintentionally wound Allison up.

I made the mistake of casually remarking after the first swimmers had nearly completed their legs, that the Australians, who were the only ones good enough to stop the US from clean-sweeping the swimming events, would go on to win the race.

Immediately Allison leapt on my comments, calling me many of the names under the sun, and unfairly accusing me of an anti-American bias and of not knowing anything about swimming.

I'm not the biggest gambler in the world, but I was reasonably confident that the Australians would win, so we bet £10 on it.

Without wanting to recall the race blow-for-blow, the Australians spanked the USA by a country mile, and I duly collected my winnings.

But Allison’s experience taught me a valuable lesson: never let your heart overrule your head when gambling.

Oh, and to make sure that what you’re betting on isn’t in fact a re-run of a race that happened earlier in the day and the person you are making the bet with hasn’t already seen the result and is desperately not trying to giggle like a giddy schoolgirl at the easiest money ever made.
(jimmy spankhands, Fri 8 May 2009, 18:55, Reply)

Jewellery
I have a gold medallion with a picture of a pheasant on it.

Is that game bling?
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Tue 12 May 2009, 14:22, 2 replies)

Butchers
I went into the butchers today. as it was not busy I said to him "I bet you a fiver you cant reach the meat on the top shelf without your footstool?"
He said "no way the steaks are to high"

Sorry its late
(BobbyLove, Mon 11 May 2009, 2:02, 2 replies)

It was one of those rounds where nobody folded
The bets kept coming and coming, everyone was eying each other up trying to read the bluffs in our faces. But the sheer amount at stake kept the sweat dripping of our collective poker faces.

The next card came up

"im in, raise by 10"

one by one all the other players folded till it was just me and him. I looked at the bet trying to remain calm, this guy had owned the table all night. I calmly downed my single malt in one, and replied

"all in"

neither of us was backing down this was it. He slapped his pocket aces down and reached for the winnings. Wordlessly I raised my hand to stop him the revealed my hand, a flush on the river card.

All the quality street was now mine. 2008 was the best boxing day ever.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Sat 9 May 2009, 1:52, 3 replies)

High stakes gambling
Some people like to push their luck a little too far
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 11 May 2009, 11:28, 9 replies)

Oral sex and Formula 1
I really fancied a girl who worked at the same place I did. We both turned out to be quite into F1 racing, and each had a preferred driver. I backed Coulthard and she backed Trulli. (this was a good few years ago before championship wins etc)
We placed a bet on whos driver would finish in highest position...but couldnt agree on what to stake. A tenner seemed a bit rich on our meagre salaries, and couldnt agree on a smaller amount.
We kind of dropped the matter till I wound her up a bit, so she stated that if Coulthard finished higher than Trulli, she would give me a blowjob in the staff toilet.
"yeah, right" I thought, and went back to work.
A few hours later, the miserable scotsman actually finished a few places higher, so I went to her desk to let her know. To my suprise, she took me to the bogs, sucked like a champion, swalllowed the lot and licked it clean.
I almost feinted.
This became a regular thing to spice up our weekends at work, with the looser having to perform oral sex on the winner. What with Coulthard being a bit useless actually and breaking his car very often, I spent more time giving than receiving, but I wasnt complaining too much.


Since then, betting seems a bit shit really.
(dave likes cheese, Sun 10 May 2009, 11:56, 5 replies)

Questions in French
I had very much a hate-hate relationship with my French teacher, Ms Durnoe. Which was a shame. Why? Because she was so incredibly spectacularly hot I felt my cock weep in admiration everytime she'd bend over and expose her downright sexy visible panty line to my eleven-year old eyes.

I was at that age where I was just venturing into my letching, I knew I liked women... but I just wasn't sure why, or what the fuck I was supposed to do if I ever caught one.

I couldn't stand up for most of the lesson. And the desk would just about rise infront of me with the awsome power of my erection. Many times I'd have to shoot off to the bogs just prior to double maths to, well, shoot off.

But she fucking hated me and I hated her. It didn't help when she asked me during my first lesson why I was looking out the window and I said:

"French is a bit shit, innit, Miss?" (That one got me a couple of weeks of detention).

But the clincher was later in the year when my mate Maurice (he was a hard kid - take the piss out of his name and you'd be taking your teeth home in a bag), bet me a bag of chips to ask Ms. Durnoe something.

I wimped out. Maurice resorted to dangerous, Machiavellian mindgames: he started calling me a wimp and jabbing me in the sides with his pencil. So I grew a spine and put my hand up.

"Miss Durnoe," I said. She stopped speaking this weird foreign language thing and looked at me. Now, I really should've known better. I realised what I was going to ask her was probably pretty bad. Maurice was a filthy little sod; I aspired to be as dirty as him one day. But I had no idea what it meant. I was a sweet, innocent little angelic child, desperately trying to be a fully paid up member of the dirty little perv society at our school.

I asked Ms. Durnoe: "Miss - do you gush when you come?"

And my world ended.

The worst part was sitting in the headmaster, Mr Liddington's office, not letting on that I didn't have a fucking clue what I'd just asked. Apparently it was very personal and incredibly filthy.

And it didn't have anything to do with plumming... (well, not the sort I had in mind, anyway)...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:32, 2 replies)

Tenner says you won't click this.

( Willwillwritehiswill An arse like a slapped face., Thu 7 May 2009, 13:33, 2 replies)

No
I don't think I'm turning into my parents. Lucky really, as they both have alzheimers.
( rofl harris, Wed 13 May 2009, 10:05, 2 replies)

A sure thing
My mate and the landlord of the local decided to club together to buy a share in a race horse. I think they spent about £5k between them in a syndicate. There reasoning was that they really would love to be in the owner’s enclosure and have a good day out every few months. Well a few years passed and their lame mare hadn't been out of the livery. The syndicate term was up and they decided just for a crack and to say they had with conviction entered her into a race, just for the day out.

Turns out this deceptively slow horse hated training but loved a race, competitive spirit or a need to get back to the stable quicker who knows but it won by a few lengths. Anyway he won a hat full, so on return to the pub he let slip that this horse was a rocket on four legs and as the 1st outing was a great success they had all renewed their stake in the horse and it will be running in a race in two weeks.
Rumour mill circulated my small town, the “its got a good chance have an e/w bet” (33/1 by the way it was a 16 horse charge) turned into a “it can’t lose, steak as much money as you can on it”. Well the bookies cut the odds to 16-1 by the off, with over 100 people lumping on the nose for this horse to win. Bets of over £1000 were being placed and my mate was not looking forward to that night back at the pub as the odds of 33-1 were probably right and it didn’t really stand a chance.
The race was at 3.30pm and the two Pub football teams in the town were playing next to each other on opposite pitches. With some guy on the radio listening to the race between the two pitches.

Ever seen a goal celebration with out a goal being scored, on two pitches, at the same time. Well it won, as did the entire town. The local Ladbrokes wouldn’t pay up on the day as they couldn’t cover the payout.
Furnished my flat 
Length about 16 hands
(wobbler, Sun 10 May 2009, 21:00, Reply)

A few years back

Theres nothing like hitting the town with a bunch of squaddies after crawling around in mud and crap all day.
I was just 'one of the lads' and therefore got to see all kinds of manly malarkey fun and games on these nights out.
One of these was for someone to pick out a woman and bet someone else to see if they could pull her.
Just a snog and her phone number also counted as a win
Within a given time limit.
Usually up to an hour max.
If they didnt win they had to buy a bottle of spirits to take back for a nightcap.
Now buying a bottle of booze in a bar isnt cheap so I was glad I never had to play that one.
Until one night.
I get slapped on the arm
Oi why dont you have a go
Me? no way
why not?
Er cos I'm a girly (ok so no real logic there but I needed any old excuse)
Another slap.
Dont be daft, you're one of us.
( i think there was a cack handed compliment somewhere in there)
Just pick a target for DD
Oh fuck,
DD is about 6 foot 3, looks a bit like Daniel Craig with muscles, and has a quite plummy accent.
Looks like I'm going to buying the booze tonight.
Hes grinning at me like a fox eating shit out of a wire brush.
So a quick check on the rules?
So I have to pick a woman in this room?
Yep.
Any woman, any woman at all?
Yep
My choice stands, no matter what?
Yep.
DD isnt grinning now, probably wondering what munter I'm going to settle him with
Ok says I, and I take a look round the room.
Now DD is a looker but he's also an arrogant tosser and were not exactly best mates.
But I give him my best smile and say DD you have 15 minutes to pull........................me
Of course it all goes a bit shouty for a while , lots of you dont count etc
But I'm a woman and im in this room and my choice stands remember.
A bit of conferring and the lads agree.
DD walks off
Someone asks him where hes going
Off to the fucking bar to buy a bottle

yay me :)
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Thu 7 May 2009, 19:29, 4 replies)

Consolation prize
Long time listener, first time caller. *pop*

I believe the appropriate thing now is to add some wavy lines, to denote time moving quickly backwards.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The scene iss the delightful seaside town of Margate. The cast, a gaggle of gangly Boy-Scouts, on a day-trip during a week-long camp. We had our allowance of pocket-money, a clingy-bag full of mysterious-looking sandwiches, and we were ready for some fun.

And what could be more fun, in a seaside town, than the bank after bank of ‘push’ machines? That’s right, nothing. For many of our merry little band, the height of excitement was to be found in watching 2p after 2p cascade into the bowels of the machine. Each time, with the vague possibility of building up a little shelf of coins, which might… just might … drop off the front, earning you another half an hour of blissful copper-based excitement, and possibly one of the ghastly plastic toys that sit above the wave of coins. We had never felt so alive.

But for a peculiar hardcore of the group, the thrill of the 2p machines wasn’t good enough. The 10p machines were a far bigger draw: high-stakes gaming, for a bunch of 10-year-olds. The real skill with the 10p machines, of course, was to wait for the correct machine, and late in the afternoon, the motherload was found.

On the end of a row of machines, there sat a forlorn figure, hunched over a machine, pounding it with 10p after 10p. We watched in hushed awe, as she must have fed this machine about £30. It was an awesome spectacle. Sensing she had an audience, the lady explained she didn’t have a gambling problem, she was merely collecting the toys. She had almost the entire line-up of the England football team, all in exquisite plastic with over-sized novelty heads. She was only missing one, and that one was sitting on top of the biggest wave of 10p’s that the world has possibly ever seen.

Slowly but surely, she reaches the end of her bucket, and vacates the machine. “That’s it, no more” she sighed, and began to walk off.
Meanwhile, being the caring and compassionate young gentlemen we were, her still-warm seat was already occupied. A 10p is inserted…
*tinkle*… *tinkle tinkle tinkle*… *tinkle CRASH!!!!!*…

The whole of 10p-mountain had collapsed, bringing with it the delightful plastic figurine. The lady, hearing the crash and our whoops of excited joy, turns around to see a crowd of boys descending on the small change she had spent the best part of an hour feeding the machine with, and looked every inch a broken woman. It was at this moment that the smuggest 10-year-old in the world decided to present her with a tiny plastic Teddy Sheringham, rescued from the bottom of the coin-trough. I don’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

Length… about 2 inches, head-to-toe.
(Serotonicity was a naughty boy on..., Thu 7 May 2009, 17:29, 3 replies)