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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

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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)
Fucking Grim
and Fucking hilarious too!

I've been laughing like a demented spastic reading that!

And hats off for the prossie for going 'beyond the call of duty'
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:51, closed)
Ive got to stop reading your posts at work
Your gonna get me fired soon!

oh and *click*
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:52, closed)
Please stop Pooflake from writing any more of these!!!!
I think I pulled a muscle trying to hold my laughter in. These stories are just too funny.

(Actually, Pooflake has to keep writing stories or I will have serious withdrawal symptoms.)
(, Mon 11 May 2009, 15:36, closed)
Reading your stuff
is more educational and downright erotic than watching the Adult Channel. Cheers, mate *click*
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 16:59, closed)
hahaha! that was amazing!
pooflake does it again!!
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 17:16, closed)
Ah, Crazy Daisy's.
As you fear, dear Pooflake, Crazy Daisy's is no more*. Good job too, it really must've gone downhill to let the likes of YOU in!!

Nice story *click*

*The only place that Tom advised me NOT to do "the doors". He said the place was mental. I took his word for it.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 17:32, closed)
Crazy Daisies wasn't really mental, because it catered for a specific clientele, and one not particularly noted for lagered-up violence. If you wanted to trade pharmaceuticals.......hmmm, that was a little livelier. Anyway, it was very sedate and serene compared to the shithole a couple of miles back towards Coventry.
I'm talking about the infamous Dilke Arms. ABSOLUTELY GUARANTEED a glassing, or stabbing, or shooting, or a punch-up requiring Transits full of coppers from Cov, Rugby and Leamington all at the same time. That's what happens when you have a late licence (1am? Gasp!!), get idiots from all 3 places (the punters, not the coppers) with absolutely no interest in music or dancing, just on getting pissed, trying to get laid, and showing how hard they were. Add good old fashioned glass pint mugs and there you go,the perfect recipe for lots of claret and multiple stitches.

Daisies became a Chinese Restaurant and currently stands boarded up.

I'll have a bet that it gets turned into a housing plot, just like the Dilke (RIP).
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 19:18, closed)
Christ, The Dilke...!

What a shithole that place was. I used to live in Ryton, just around the corner from the Blacksmith's Arms and a well aimed stone's throw away from that godforsaken dump that was the Dilke.

I used to stay well away from the Dilke...which is probably why I'm still around today
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 19:30, closed)
The Dilke!
Ooooh that takes me back to the invention of "The Coventry fruit cup".
A Pint glass, two shots of Cointreau (oranges) two shots of brandy (grapes) two of Kirsch (cherries) all topped-up to a pint with cider (apples).
My hangover was so bad my HAIR ached!

Happy days.
(, Fri 8 May 2009, 14:25, closed)
The Dilke
was a favourite way to scare Mothers for all 16 year old hardos.
"Where are you going sweetie?"

"Over to the Dilke"

"Aaaaaargghhhhh noooooooooooooo, here, have £20 if you stay in town, just DON'T.....GO....TO....THE.....DILKE!"

Driving down the A45 early in the morning was like Dawn of The Dead. There'd be a procession of idiots staggering along the road in ripped shirts, absolutely drenched in blood, generally heading in the opposite direction to where they lived. A great night out.
(, Fri 8 May 2009, 20:16, closed)
I clicked...
...but I really didn't like it.
Grim. Beautifully told, of course. But grim nevertheless.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 17:37, closed)
Like a modern-day Byron...
You had me at "Jingo's fragrant ringpiece".

(, Thu 7 May 2009, 18:36, closed)
I began to lose my previously impressive grasp of gravity
*click* for that alone.

Wonderful stuff.

Psssst... it's "retch" in this context. Lose the "w" and I'll click again from another computer...
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 20:52, closed)
Done and done...

'retch' duly edited.

Had a bit of a blind spot there.

Thanks Enzyme.
(, Thu 7 May 2009, 20:58, closed)
There is now salsa caking my monitor
much like the lasagna that was on your shirt. Thanks for that, and clicked.
(, Fri 8 May 2009, 22:48, closed)
You vile, disgusting...
...and utterly wonderful man.

I could see where you were leading me but was inexorably drawn toward the hideous conclusion like a passenger in a car crash.

Still didn't stop me chewing on sliced Pek though.

(, Sat 9 May 2009, 17:07, closed)
That is turely horrible
How you manage to cram quite so many horrendous experiences into a single lifetime and still have time and energy to write so .... erm ... [i]evocatively[/i] about them never ceases to amaze me.

*clicks in awe and revulsion*
(, Mon 11 May 2009, 18:08, closed)

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