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This is a question Gambling

Broke the bank at Las Vegas, or won a packet of smokes for getting your tinkle out in class? Outrageous, heroic or plain stupid bets.

Suggested by SpankyHanky

(, Thu 7 May 2009, 13:04)
Pages: Popular, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

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.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 17:29, 3 replies)
Bin dun
I was once bet that I couldnt find 54 people with the same name as me... Anyway after a long time it transpired that I could so I wrote a book and became a famous

Ta Muchly
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 17:24, Reply)
Beggers belief
On some P&O ferry or similar, on the way back from a long holiday on the continent, I was trying to while away the hours and desperately trying to ignore the hordes of obese, sunburnt Brits that are enough to make any proud englishman cringe at our his own national heritage. It was then that I witnessed an amazing scene; some lucky bugger had managed to win the jackpot on some fruit machine. And not just any jackpot, this seriously looked like hundreds of pounds, jangling out, overfilling the machine and flowing into the astonished punters grubby outstretched Tshirt. Needless to say this gathered quite a crowd of greedy-eyed onlookers, so with darting, suspicious eyes the winner fled for the duty-free and the safety of security guards.
Needless to say I was impressed and somewhat envious, though I have always felt those games were for mugs. Well, I thought, maybe not everyone who plays them is a moron.

Turns out I was wrong, as I then witnessed a group of excited chavs who started pouring coins into the SAME machine because: "Fuck man, this ones paying out!"

(, Thu 7 May 2009, 17:10, 1 reply)
Last one
About 5 years ago, completely out of my fishbowl on all kinds of fun stuff.

Rileys' pool hall, £250 jackpot machines.

'Anyone wanna put a quid in with me and go 50/50? I've only got a two pound coin.

'No way!' 'Nope' 'Loser!' 'What's the point?'


*ching ching ching ching.........

...ching ching ching*

'Have you just won the jackpot?'


'Fuck!' 'Shit!' 'Arse!' 'What?!'

Heh. Sucks to be you.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 17:02, Reply)
I'm one of those bastards who knows how fruit machines work.

On any night out, I'll stagger up to one, drink in hand, shrapnel in the other.

'Oh, Miraclefish, don't waste your money, you can't win on them!'
'Why? Oh, OK, throw your money away. It's all down to chance.'
'See, you've not got three symbols.'
'Tsk, how much have you put in?'
'Four quid...'
'Oh dear...'
*ching ching ching*
'Oh...have you won?'
'Yep. Only £20, though.'

Heh. Years of working in nightclubs do help, of course. Though I still can't hear the Grease/Dirty Dancing Megamix without breaking down and going fetal. It still hurts...
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 17:00, 2 replies)
On a recent ferry crossing to Santander...
...with not a lot to do and much time in which to do it. Myself and two friends, Greg and Ade, were killing time in the overpriced, underwhelming restaurant.

Much to their chagrin, I never get sea-sick. They do.

'Yeah, well, I bet you'd get sea-sick if you ate that small tub of butter,' wagered Greg.

Nah, says I, I really don't think so.

'Bet you five Euros.'

'I'm not going to eat butter.'

'Bet you 50 Euros!'

'That's way too much money you fool. Fuck it, you want to see me eat the butter that much?'

I ate the butter.

I wasn't sick.

I then found out how much he earns in a year. I should have had his money. Damn my foolish sense of friendship.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:49, 1 reply)
Not me
But a friend of mines favorite joke is to bet a young lady 50p that he can guess the size her tits without touching them. If she accepts he does about 10 seconds of air groping and the says "Fuckit you win" and has a proper grope.

Well it keeps him amused :)
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:42, 3 replies)
every time
i have to strain a little to push out some arse gas
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:39, Reply)
System of a down(s)
A few years ago I realised something. If I could come up with a gambling system that could increase your initial stake by at least 5% over the duration of a year, I would have an investment scheme better than any savings account. It all seemed so simple. If I could turn £100 into £105 within 12 months I would quite literally be onto a winner. Compound interest would make me a millionaire.

I thought it would be easy to come up with such a system, what with being an accountant and a science graduate and edumaKated. I reasoned that people lost money through gambling because they were greedy and stupid and didn’t have the cognitive capacity to treat gambling like a long-term investment.

To cut a very long story short, I chose to base my system on football (soccer) results, just how hard could it be to predict the result when there are only 3 possible outcomes? (Win, lose or draw). It took me 2 years to come up with a system based on league position, games won and goals scored. The equation even factored in whether the past results were home or away matches. There was just one problem. It was shit.

It didn’t work. Plain and simple. I tested it out for a year with very small bets. Instead of my pot steadily increasing over time it steadily decreased. I was gutted, my dreams of easy wealth evaporated overnight. I had made the mistake of telling 3 friends what I was working on and they were even more excited about the system than I was. That’s 3 times I had to crush unrealistic hopes and dreams that I had created.

I would love to be able to end this with some witty quip that encompasses redemption and humour, but I can’t think of anything. I was arrogant enough to think I could beat the bookies and all I did was set myself and 3 friends up for a fall.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:36, 2 replies)
Newhaven-Dieppe ferry
1989, in the days before Eurostar, going over to watch Scotland play France in a World Cup qualifier (we lost the match but still qualified - yay!)

I had a pack of cards with me, started playing a game of something or other with my mate Ian, suddenly we were everyone's best mates because we had a deck and they didn't.

So a good few tartan army foot soldiers (Scotland fans in other words) joined us on our table, we were playing a variation of pontoon called shoot pontoon, never heard of it before or since.

From memory, though this game involved players putting money in at the start of every hand, and that if someone won with a particular combination of cards they would scoop the lot. If no-one did, players would put in their stakes for the next game, and in this way the pot could very quickly mount up after a few hands.

Now, rule number one of playing cards is never put money on a game you've never played before. Rule number two is never play when off your face on the booze. Of course, I broke both.

Two or three hours later, and about fifteen minutes outside Dieppe, I suddenly have the rather sobering realisation that I've blown my spending money for the trip.


And as I'm wondering whether Ian has brought enough to sub me some money in Paris, I'm still playing the current hand when all of a sudden I turn over a card and - holy fuck - I have THE fucking hand.

Went off the boat with three times the money I boarded with, which was just as well - first pint we had there (admittedly with a nice view of Notre Dame) cost over £4, and this was 20 years ago...
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:32, Reply)
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.


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.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:32, 17 replies)
says I can get you to bet by the end of the day..."

Dumb and dumber... superb
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:19, Reply)
Stag Trip to Bratislava
Back in 2007 I believe it was now, We went for my older brothers Stag Night in Bratislava and did the usual as you can imagine...Easter Europe, Cheap Beer, Women you name it.

Its well know that things like Casinos still have a mafia influence out there and you need to be careful....

Anyway one night I was shall we say as pissed as a newt when we went to a club and casino on a boat. I managed to almost triple my whole trip budge in about 20 mins go up and left.

Little did I know until the next morning but according to a few of my brothers close friends there were several bouncers looking rather annoyed behind me pointing and talking to each other about what I was doing and some rather horible gestures along the lines of beat the fucker up and throw him off the boat.

In retrospect I am glad I left when I did and Paintballing with a hangover cains!!!!
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:10, 1 reply)
In a pub
Oh why do so many of my bets happen in pubs, when I'm drunk.

Well a night on the drink, devolved into us betting each other to do increasingly random and impossible things.

I ended it by being bet, the whole nights drinking bill, that I couldn't drink a pint without touching it with my hands, or anybody elses hands for that matter.

I won the bet by picking the glass up with my teeth and slowly drinking the pint. It did go a bit wrong at the end when the glass slipped on the table and spilt a tiny amount of beer, they weren't going to pay out, so I sucked the beer from the table.

Not a nice thing to do really, the beer tasted terrible!
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:07, 3 replies)
I used to live in Brighton
and had a problem with those 2p pusher machines.

Finally I left town when I was spunking anything up to 48p in a single week.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:04, 4 replies)
The Dust
I used to work on the Warranty and Repair line for a well known computer firm which rymes with Fudgit and Sue.

We user to get peoples home PC's in for repair and one of the most common things we go was overheats due to dust buildup on the old Heatsink and Fan.

I was cleaning out a particularly horible PC and I bet someone £20 I would eat the biggest clump of dust from it. I had a few other people also get in on the action that I could not do it and would blow chunks so I ate it all. £50 better off and a video floats around somewhere of me doing it.


Dust anyone, DUST ?????

(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:04, 3 replies)
Blaggable Loz
Years ago I used to knock around with a group of pub-going ne'er-do-wells, one of whom was Loz. For the price of a pint he'd try his best to do whatever we asked him, which ranged from scoffing the biggest ice-cream on the menu at 10pm, to downing whole jars of vinegar, to swallowing coins. Actually thinking about it he mostly just ate/drank weird stuff.

The high/low point must have been when he swallowed a whole 50p piece quite happily then returned a couple of days later to present it to us in a bag - fresh from the toilet bowl that morning. Lovely.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:00, Reply)
Aside from regularly...
...helping to fill Camelot's coffers in the remote hope of early retirement, my career in gambling began and ended when I was about 12.

My mum used to take my brother and I to Blackpool on day trips every now and again, where she would become a small change dispenser for the day as we both trawled the arcades. For me video games where da thing, and for my brother it was bandits.

I wondered how he could have any fun on a game like that, so one time I gave it a try on one of the 10p bandits (remember, this was the eighties). I put 10p in and won 20p whilst my brother looked on. My brother clapped me on the shoulder in congratulation and asked me which one I would try next - he told me later that I looked at him as if he was touched in the head.

To my mind, I'd essentially 'won' that game and didn't need to bother with it any further so I buggered off with the intention of blowing my winnings on a game of Star Wars. I enjoyed that a lot more.

Geek? Me?
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:55, Reply)
I once bet a girlfriend a fiver she couldn't fit a Nescafe jar up her vag.

I lost that bet...

But I gained so much more.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:55, 5 replies)
Rescued by the fruit machine
My brother and I really shouldn't get together; it generally ends messily.

This night was no different; we'd used the excuse of a family wedding at the Director's Club in London to get stoned in the garden (during the boring bits of the ceremony) and then to get skulled on the free champers and other delights.

We had hoped - poor fools that we were - that our (very) rich aunt would stand us a hotel room that night. We were wrong. So we end up in our DJs at 3am, far from a bed, and somewhat unsteady.

My Top Tip in such circumstances is to take the night bus to Heathrow - where you can sleep inside in relative safety and warmth.

On arrival after the late night bus of drunkenness, I spotted a fruit machine. I'm pretty much seeing double at this point, but somehow manage not just to put the money in the slot, but play it until it dropped about £40.

So we got a taxi back and slept in our own pits, rather than on the seats in a brightly-lit airport.

Result !
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:51, Reply)
I bet...
A friend of mine, we shall call him Mike, had just acquired a sling shot, one of those super-powered ones with a wrist brace and lots of safety warnings mmmmmmm

Mike also has a dart board in his room... see where this is going yet? We'd already lost the darts somehow, so the bet was on. Bet you cant make this pen-knife stick in the dart board... Dont think any money was placed down, just a friendly wager to pass the time

First attempt and with pre-pubescent eyes closed Mike let fly. With a resounding "Twang!" the pen knife ricochetted(?) off the wire divider and hurtled back at us at 100mph, smashing into the wall behind. We looked at each other, as the squelchy butt mud trickled down our quivering legs, and decided that this was entirely too dangerous...

So we errected a barrier, between us and the dartboard, out of whatever we could find. Chairs mostly as i remember with some carboard boxes and the like. Then we merrily took it in turns, take aim aaaaaand... duck! As the pen knife invariably smashed into the wall surrounding the dartboard,leaving what property developers call a 'stressed' look around most of his room.

This continued for the best part of a day until it finally happened... Mike pulled back with all his might and let fly... but no thud of knife on wall? What could have happened?

I peeked over the top of our make-shift barracade and saw the pen-knife magnificently, proudly protruding from the darboard (20 as well not bad!) and turned to hi-five Mike on a sound victory... But he was saying something along the lines of:


Turns out that en-route to it final resting place the projectile had gorged quite a large hole in Mikes wrist, just behind the thumb. Was hard to keep a strait face when explaining what had happened to the people in the minor injuries clinic...

Even harder when I came back in the next week with an identical wound. Got to know the staff there by name that summer, good times.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:50, 5 replies)
Football bets
In my local is a chap who I shall call 'Chan'.

Now Chan likes a bet, and as a gooner (Arsenal fan), is convinced his team will win something one day (poor disillusioned fool...). Anyhoo, as a Spurs fan, he always wants to bet me.

T'other week, Spurs were playing Man Utd. at Old Trafford. I was out of town with my beautiful lady, sitting in a pub having a quiet pint when my phone rang - it was Chan.

"Paul, want a bet on the game? you're 0-2 up, but you have to give me the draw."

I checked, and sure enough, we WERE 0-2 up, so I bet £10.

As I hung up the phone, the witch my delightful other half said "Final score will be 5-2 to Utd." to which I laughed.

And so it ended. Fucksocks. I gritted my teeth and paid up when I next met Chan.

Midweek, Man Utd. were playing Arsenal, and I got a text from the witch my delightful other half saying "My prediction: 3-2 to Utd., Rooney to score first"

So off I toddled to the bookies and put £10 on it (got odds of 135-1, so I was in for a good result if it came in).

Bastard O'Shea pops up and scores the only goal in the game.

Oh, and I wouldn't take Chan's bet the other day - his car against mine on the 2nd leg of the Man Utd. v Arsenal game.

I'm not very good at gambling really...

* goes off to check lotto results for last night *
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:40, Reply)
Every time I order out...

(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:36, 2 replies)
Fruit machine on holiday
I was on holiday a few years ago, it was in a place were there was bugger all to do at night so we ended up sitting in a bar, every night for two weeks.

Right at the end of the bar was a fruit machine, it was on of those 50p a go ones, and it had a £500 jackpot.

Every time we went up to get a round of drinks we'd put the change into this machine and just hit the button and walk back to the table with the drinks.

So there we were on the third night happily drinking and chatting away, I go up, get a round and put the change into the machine and walk back to the table. I had just sat down when the barman shouted me back to the bar, the machine had spat out some winnings, it was a token for £200, result, that covered the drinks bill for a bit.

We carried on doing this with every round, and at the end of about the tenth day or so, we got shouted back again, only this time we'd hit the jackpot, £500, we collected the winnings, and put another 50p in the machine, which then decided that it would activate the hold feature, we held all three wheels, and won another £500!

We collected that, and never put another penny into that machine. We were told later by the barman that it hadn't paid out anything in the two years that he'd been working there!
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:36, Reply)
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)...
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:32, 2 replies)
Damned Japs
the worst moment of my life happened at the weekend just gone.
i placed the biggest accumulator your ever likely to see. i had nearly every team playing football that weekend on it.

i had brentford, chelsea, man u, arsenal, liverpool, everton, watford ect

they all won and i was one match away from about 30 grand off of a £2 bet

all except for a dodgy fucking japanese team that went 3-0 at half time then let in 3 in the final 8 mins.

sorry for lack of funnies i just had to get it off my chest.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:17, Reply)
Skybet accumulators
I do these on a regular basis. Only a fiver a week like...

About a month ago I did my usual league 1 accumulator, and visited my account on the Sunday and saw the usual £0.00 account balance. I then looked at the betting slip on one of my accumulators:

Leeds - Win
Millwall - Win (yay!)
Scunthorpe - Win etc...

Out of 15 predicitions, every one came up except MK fucking Dons who lost.

Looking at my little pad I write my odds on at work on a Monday confirmed the awful truth. If MK Dons had won (and they usually do the fake plastic wankers,) my £1 stake would have netted me over £118,000.

A thousand minges.

I won £260 on saturday though, which is better than an uppercut up the fudge pipe I suppose.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:15, 5 replies)
Milky milky
"I bet you any money you couldn't drink that bottle of milk," said Seany to his rival in stupidity, Ju-Vid.

The bottle in question was in our old school kitchens, which had been locked up and forgotten as the new ones opened on the other side of the playground.

In the rush to move to the new facilities, a pint of milk had been left on the side, where, clearly visible from the window, it had turned over the weeks from white to yellow to green to brown.



Hands were shaken. The bet was ON.

All Ju-Vid had to do was break into the old kitchens, swipe the bottle, bring it outside and neck it in one.

The breaking-and-entering was no problem for Ju – he knew all the nooks and crannies around the school, and had once turned a French lesson to French farce by taunting Madame Talbot with the words "Pompt de pompt de pompt" from an air-con grating just above her head.

He was in and out within seconds, clutching his prize to his chest.

"Now – down in one."

The lid came off the bottle, and as the rancid smell escaped, he suddenly didn't feel up to it. But a bet was a bet and 50p was 50p.

He held his nose, and poured it down, the last lumps disappearing with a final, shuddering swallow.

"50p, you bastards. Each. The lot of ya."

We reached into our pockets to give him his prize, but Ju was not in much of a position to collect.

The position he was in was bent double, making strange bubbling noises, before:


A stream of chunder that would have put Mr Creosote to shame.


Evil-smelling spew that covered not only himself, but we poor spectators, and anyone in a ten foot radius.

"YAAAAAAAAAAARCH!" and: "I've shit meself"

Rules are rules. He lost that bet.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:06, Reply)
Childhood Gamling
Back when I was about 9 years old my family decided to splash out on a lavish holiday. What a dream come true!

Surely my parents would plan a holiday of epic proportions. Sun, sand, sea, theme parks and unlimited ice cream! I could barely contain myself.

Alas the destination was finally revealed unto me as GREAT Yarmouth!!!

Enough back-story… on to the gambling. As a part of this no expense spared ‘can barely contain my pre-pubescent (lack-of) happy juice’ experience my dad took me to the arcades and gave me one pound sterling. Breaking this down into a pot of 2p coins I felt like a rich man. A feeling which multiplied with the cascades of coins falling from the hypnotic sliding shelves.

I’m winning dad, look at me I’m fucking winning, aren’t you proud? I must have at least £1.50 by now! In my excitement I had almost emptied my pot, not having the time to reach down to collect the fruits of my labour. I risk a quick glance to evaluate whether I lunge for a handful of coins before its time to insert the next coin.

“What are you doing?” I enquire of the lady playing on the machine next to me. She is bent down fishing around in her tray, with her other hand sneakily pilfering coins from mine next to it. The pikey thieving scum was stealing 2p coins from a child.

Noticing my objection my dad cuts in and confronts the woman, demanding my money back. She handed over about three 2p coins from her overflowing pot and bolted.

And that ladies and gentleman is how I lost a small fortune through gambling.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 15:01, 3 replies)
Well, it kind of works...
And I did say I'd tell it if this was chosen...

How I came within sneezing distance of an icy death.

*The impatient should skip down to the next wibbly lines*


First things first: I like skiing. In fact, I really like skiing. I'll use any excuse to go, even if it's just a dry slope. Unfortunately, I tend to overestimate my own abilities.

Anyway, earlier this year when I heard my uni snowsports club was putting on a day trip to Glenshee, I jumped at the chance. What I had forgotten was that the other members of the club were all quite a lot better than me, and were snowboarders rather than skiers.

I also forgot to take my goggles. This will become important later.

Anyway, we got there nice and early and spent a while getting kitted up. For those that haven't had to change clothes in a minibus with the doors open and the windchill at -10, I can't recommend it. Anyway, we headed off into the mountains and all was well for a few hours. Loads of powder (that really fluffy snow that you can't make snowballs from) and while I had a few big crashes from trying to keep up with the others, crashing on powder doesn't hurt. Normally.

Around 11am we had reached quite a distance from the centre of the resort (Glas Maol for those that know it), onto a bit of mountain that was effectively off piste. I wasn't comfortable with the suggested route down the mountain, so I decided that I could work my way down further off piste to a shallow gully further down the mountain and get back to the lift from there.

It's here that the gambling comes in, because I didn't have any kind of survival equipment, I didn't know the terrain and I didn't have the phone numbers of any of my snowsports friends on me.

So I started skiing down the mountain towards what I believed to be the rough position of the gully. I say rough position, because I didn't have my goggles with me and it was snowing fairly heavily as well as being misty. As any skiers will know, you can't ski in those conditions without goggles. I was trying it in sunglasses.


*The impatient can start reading from here*

Condensed version of the above - I went off-piste skiing in Scotland on my own.

Anyway, I was happily pottering along, my thought processes running somewhere along the lines of "Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmOHSHITWHATTHECUNTINGFUCKAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGH".

I had, in the whiteout, entirely overlooked the start of the gully and plunged over the edge. It wasn't shallow either - about 50-60 degrees. Far steeper than it looked from a distance. I built up far too much speed far too quickly, and panicked. I threw myself to the side just as I smashed into a snowbank. My left ski released as it was supposed to. My right ski didn't. And when that happens, all the twisting forces go through the weakest link. In this case, my right knee.

In short, I was now lying in the bottom of a mostly invisible gully a long way from the main ski run, with no way of calling for help (no phone signal) and a fucked up knee. For the first 5 minutes of lying there, I thought I might be in for the long hall in terms of waiting for help. Fortunately after about 10 minutes I found that it would just about support my weight, albeit at the cost of a fair bit of pain. However, I wasn't safe yet. I still had to get off the damn mountain.

The more observant of you may be wondering why there was a gully on this mountainside in the first place. The more clever of you may have realised that this would be because it contained a stream at the bottom. I had plunged into the very top of the gully, about 20ft above where the stream came out from under the snow. Had I gone in 20ft further on, my situation would have been far worse.

I couldn't go back up the mountain because I couldn't bend my knee properly. I had to go forward or nowhere. I ended up shuffling along the side of a 70 degree gully in nearly waist deep snow, my heart in my mouth every time a ski shifted or slipped downhill. Because if I fell, I was going to go headfirst into the stream. And with the weather conditions and my injury, it's highly possible that if that had happened, I wouldn't be here to type this now. Fortunately I didn't realise this at the time - I just wanted to get off the mountain and find my friends.

I did eventually get off the mountain and somehow back to the minibus. I couldn't walk at all later that evening once my knee had stiffened up. Happily it has now healed, but I was walking with a limp for almost a month.

That's my biggest gamble - stupidity led me to gamble with my life.

Won't be doing that again.

At least, until the next time I go to Glenshee...
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 14:30, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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