I ruined a kids day trip
As an experienced traveller of buses, I feel that I have gained a invaluable insight into the problems of public transport. The main problem is that OTHER PEOPLE ARE ANNOYING. This rule applies tenfold in the case of children.

So, one particular day I get on the bus to go into town. I take my seat towards the back of the bus. Far back enough to not be sat with the elderly, but not too far back to be stuck with the thugs. All is going as well as a journey in a clapped out stinking bus can possibly go, when the child from hell jumps aboard with his fat arsed chav mother. They sit in the gap thats designed for the elderly and the crippled in the standard display of selfish procrastinating lazyarsed effortless behaviour that you now seem to expect from the tax swallowing handout dependent wasters that are the chav class. The mother opens a family bag of doritos, and proceeds to munch her way to an early grave, while satans fart stands on his seat and starts pressing the bell over and over...and over again.

This went on for about 10 minutes, and I could see everyone on the bus becoming restless as they all got closer and closer to a total nervous breakdown. And then, something incredible happened. Something so extraordinary, noone saw it coming... The mother actually did some parenting.

"IF YOU TOUCH THAT BELL ONE MORE FUCKING TIME WE'RE GOING HOME YOU LITTLE SHIT!" she bellowed menacingly at the perfectly described "little shit". The child immediatly stopped, looking shocked and upset but kept his hand near the button mostly for balance. And so, the perfect opportunity for vengeance had shown itself.

With a quick glance at the mother to make sure she wasn't looking at either me or the demon spawn, I reached up and rang the bell in quick succession. The mother glared at the child, his hand still over his button, and with wails of protest she picked him up, and marched off of the bus screaming at him that he was no longer going to the zoo.
( Furness, Tue 4 Sep 2007, 0:48, Reply)

Love is blind ..... thankfully!
A few years back, when I was less choosy than now, I once met up with a lovely woman of t'internet, the only possibly problem that she was blind.

Being, as I said, of the less choosy nature things happened and we went to her place.

As we were having fun (it'd been a while for her apparently!), a sudden flash of realisation hit me.

No, not "why am I shagging a blind woman"

but, "she can feel me, but she can't see me!!"

As I lay there with her on top, I started pulling stupid faces, gurning like a right mong at her, and she was none the wiser until I started laughing to myself. She stopped and asked if I was ok, I just said yeah, I was loving it.

I still feel so ashamed at myself for that whole episode and especially my childish actions, but then I start laughing again.
(Laxly, Wed 5 Sep 2007, 15:20, Reply)

About 10 years ago
Our football team were having its usual monthly riotous night out.Myself and another player in the team,picked up what could loosely be termed as females and were invited back to one of their houses.

After a quick discussion on the pros and cons,(they were both a bit on the large side but a shag is a shag in the end) we decided to go back with them.

After having done the deed,taking ages to locate the hole among the layers of fat,I decided to go to sleep,so the thing beside me puts on her knickers and a t shirt and announces she is ready to sleep too.

I awoke in the early hours of the morning,feeling the worse for wear and dying for a piss,I had no idea where the toilet was and as it was a fairly big house,I couldn't be arsed wandering about looking for it.I must have drifted back to sleep because I awoke soon after and could feel myself just about to empty my bladder.

My 'conquest' was in a deep sleep next to me,facing me,so I turned towards her and pissed over the front of her massive pants and over her thighs and sheets.I shook her awake and said"Er,I think you have had an accident in your sleep" or words to that effect. She was totally mortified,she burst into tears and begged me not to say anything.I promised I wouldn't and she was that grateful,she gave me a blowjob before I left.

I still have no idea to this day what possessed me to do such a deed,I told one of mates about it a day or 2 after the event,instead of the expected reaction of him pissing himself laughing,he looked at me in complete disgust and said I was a dirty bastard.

I saw her a few weeks after it and she apologised profusely,I didn't feel any guilt whatsoever,as she kept saying sorry and asked me to go back to hers.

I'm not a bad person really,honest
( Stu71 ....bad money dies, I love the scene, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 13:20, Reply)

Facebook
When I upload photos of me and my friends to Facebook, I Photoshop my friends very slightly to make them look a bit fat.
(Tricksy, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 18:26, Reply)

Santa Scam
This is terrible, and I hope that my Mum isn't a b3ta reader (I find it unlikely: she's offended by nearly everything). I've never told anyone this before.

I'd figured out the Santa thing by the time I was 6 or so. No malicious playground revelations, just me putting two and two together and coming up with a rather disappointing four. Christmas was always a massive event at our house, with thousands of dollars spent on presents. I was spoiled, no question. I never told my parents that I knew about Santa, because I didn't want to reduce my haul of gifts. I just continued to write the yearly missive, put out the treats, and pretend that everything was normal.

Not too bad, right? Well, here's the bad, highly manipulative part.

I exploited my knowledge when I was nine. I wrote a letter to "Santa", saying how I didn't want any presents that year, and instead to get something nice for my parents, because they deserved it more. (I feel dirty just typing that.) God, I was a manipulative little shit. But a highly effective manipulative little shit. I got reams of presents that year.

Children=devious and evil. I know that from personal experience.
(BlackArmadillo Avoided writing that article on, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 15:21, Reply)

Well, someones gotta say it.......
Well, im gunna let my guilty secret out, something ive thought about reading though here.


Legless posts the most shit ever!


How the hell could anyone acutally belive that twat? He seems to have a story for EVERY occasion. Gets more unbelivable the more stories i read.

Everyone click 'I like this' if you feel the same way
(DebbieDoesDerby, Sat 1 Sep 2007, 14:46, Reply)

I left my pregnant girlfriend...
My girlfriend at the time, a long time ago, was up the duff with twins. Wooyay! thinks I at the thought of the patter of tiny feet.

Sadly it was not to be. It turns out she was into my best mate, Ben who was always around my house back then. Understandably upset I did the only thing that seemed sensible to me at that age (early 20s): I left her and tried to find a new life with a religious cult who made me change my name...wankers.

Years pass as they do.

Not so long ago, some lads appear at my house and try smashing it up. I go after them but they run off. Later, I find out that one of the little bastards is my son who has fallen in with a bad crowd so I go and see him to patch things up. He is rightfully pissed at the way I treated him and we end up having a BIG bust up and he leaves me again.

It turns out Ben, the guy who was into my ex-missus, had told him I was dead so Me turning up was something of a surprise to him and turned him nearly suicidal.

I was pretty down about him hating me so much so I went back to my cult guys and they told me to try to bring him into the fold so to speak. I finally got him to come for a few days but we ended up having another even bigger bust up.

Turns out I was the arsehole in this as the Cult Leader tried attacking my boy during the bust up so I got a few in on him and we left sharpish.

Long story short, We patched it up but I feel very guilty about both leaving my preggers gf and not telling my kids I was their dad. My son was fine and the daughter was okay about it after a bit and forgave me for what I did.

Great kids, really.

D. Vader
(71 hour Ahmed wasn't working at, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 18:14, Reply)

Tortoises can't fly. Can't even glide.
When I was but a young Enzyme, I was asked to look after the neighbours' tortoise while they were on holiday. One fine morning, as I picked her up, she pooed. I was only young, and it freaked me out a bit (I was easily freaked); result: dropped the beast.

A little while later, the tortoise had to be put down because of a nasty infection in a crack down her shell. Oops. Think that might have had something to do with me.

I've been carrying that around with me for something like 20 or 25 years. I am genuinely ashamed. When I get to Hell, one of my punishments will involve being dropped onto a garden path by a giant tortoise. For eternity.

Click "I like this!" if you think that personal visions of Hell would provide an amusing QOTW.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 14:06, Reply)

Farmyard Frolics - Long
I've mentioned before that I used to occasionally work on a farm in the summer, so here's a tale from those days.


An incident springs to mind and that was the night of the cider run. So this is how it happened.......

After a hard few weeks in the fields, Roger the farm manager decided to take a bunch of us out in a couple of mini buses to a town a few miles away that had a cider-house. It was a kind of pub but it only sold cider in two-pint stone flagons. Well I say cider, it was really a kind of lethal scrumpy which I'm sure couldn't have been legal.

When we got there, we grabbed a couple of tables - big old-fashioned solid oak jobbies the were which could seat about 12 people. We grabbed seats and settled in for a night of drinking and silliness. Roger had already warned us not to have more than two flagons as "It be straaanger than it looks". Heh.. What did he know? I was a Geordie and was proud of my drinking capacity. 10 plus pints a night wasn't unknown in those days. (Jesus. If I tried that now I'd be in bed for a week!) And so we bought our flagons and started drinking.

It tasted a little odd "That'll be the dead rats they throw in to give it some body" cracked Roger and I wasn't entirely sure he was joking. Still, it went down and stayed down and I was soon on my way for my second flagon. That one went down without problems as well. It was also having the usual effect of making the conversation sparkle and anything anyone said was funny. 2 flagons down and I still felt fine so it was soon off for my third. After finishing that I felt marvelous. On top of the world. A tiny, tiny bit tipsy but nothing much. So I decided to get myself another one. After all, what did a farmer know about drinking? So I started to stand up and......

My knees didn't work. Halfway through standing up they just gave way and my face came down with a horrible bang straight into the solid oak table. My nose took the brunt of the impact and there was claret (blood) everywhere. Of course, everyone (including me) found this hilarious. After cleaning myself up I did finally get my fourth jug of cider and then everything became a blur. I've no memory at all of leaving the cider-house, the journey home or why I was waking up in the wood-pile back at the campsite.

No work got done that day. At least not by any of us who'd been to the cider-house. Most of the day was spent drinking vast quantities of water and trying to hide from the sun. Still, by the evening I was feeling almost human again so it was off to the local pub for a very quiet nights drinking. When we arrived, Roger (who hadn’t been drinking the night before as he was driving) filled us in on what had happened when we got back to the camp-site.

"It was like a bomb exploding" he said "Every door in the bus opened - including some sill bugger who managed to crawl out of the roof - and you all just wandered off in totally random directions. Jeff fell in the cess-pit, Sue and Chris were being sick in the cornfield and Legless was trying to make a nest in the woodpile. I did watch for 10 minutes or so to make sure nobody hurt themselves and I did pull Jeff out of the shit but I was most interested in watching Craig trying to find the door at the back of his tent....."

As a footnote to this tale, something amusing happened the following week when instead of going to the pub we sent a car over to the cider house to get a couple of gallons of cider which we intended to drink around the campfire. That week, there was a load of Moroccans guys over who were strict Muslims. As we were drinking, playing guitar and singing around the fires, a couple came over to chat to us.

(I can't do accents even when I'm writing so bear with me...)

"Wos is zat you are drinking" says a Moroccan?

"Apple juice mate. Just Apple juice" I said.

"Oh - can we try some?" says Moroccan.

And in the interests of International brotherhood I said

"Course you can mate. And here's some for your pals" and slung a gallon container over to him.

Well how was I to know that Moslems didn't drink? There were bugger all Moslems where I came from. So the silly buggers had about half a pint each and they were away with the fairies. It was fucking Bedlam. A couple of fights started, three of them were trying to climb one of the greenhouses but the funniest were a group who decided that they were going to try and shag Paddy.

Paddy was a young, good-looking Irish lad (Never!!) with bright blonde hair and the Moroccans were fascinated with him. They pursued him around the field, babbling away in French about what they wanted to do to him and eventually he holed up in his tent. Even there he wasn't safe. About 5 of them were clustered around the door to his tent and were trying to persuade him to open the door.

"Legless" yelled Paddy - "Legless!! - You speak some frog. What's French for fuck off?"

"Err. That would be Je t'aime mate. Try that" I said trying to get the words out through my laughter.

"Je t'aime you bastards, je t'aime!!!" screamed Paddy and the Moroccans redoubled their efforts to get into his tent....

He never did forgive me, and I've always felt a wee bit guilty about it...

Cheers all
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Mon 3 Sep 2007, 14:05, Reply)

Used a Labrador as a weapon.
As a bored teenager, I once removed the non-slip covering from my parents window seat knowing full well that our dog used to leap onto said window seat barking furiously whenever anybody came to the door.

A few minutes later the man from the local Labour party turned up to collect membership subs. When he knocked on the door he was greeted by an explosion of glass and a Labrador hurtling towards him.

I never saw him again.

The dog was OK as well (amazingly).

I replaced the cover and told my mum that the dog had "just gone mental".

Glad to get that off my chest...
(barlick, Tue 4 Sep 2007, 16:23, Reply)

I have just...
---peed in the kitchen sink at work. It has one of those protectors in the plug-hole that stop the bits of food getting into it, and when I peed, I made it spin.

This is the happiest I have been at work for months.
(lardaholics anonymous, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 18:01, Reply)

horny dogs and children...
...so in my youth I lived in a picturesque suburban court. All the families that lived there got along and played cricket and chasey, etc. Weekends were like the opening sequence to Neighbours with the smiling and waving as you go out to get your paper.

But there was one kid that none of us could stand, he was kind of like Toady, except we hated him (and none of the people on Nieghbours seem to hate Toady. Why!? He's always been a twat!). Anyways, Toady was about six and would try to get in on whatever we were doing, be it football or frisbee. One day, we were having fun, he was tagging along, when the resident horny dog made an appearance.

It just happened that this dog was quite a large doberman, we shall call him Bruce. And Toady was petrified of him, especially when Bruce had wood.

So as all the kids scatter back inside, up trees, etc, Toady approaches me, teary eyed and hysterical, begging for help and advice on what he should do...

...I told him that if he got down on all fours in the middle of the court, Bruce would think he was another dog and not attack him...
(lessmiserable, Mon 3 Sep 2007, 2:57, Reply)

OK i feel a little guilty for this one
Only a little.

Long long ago in a rented flat far far away..... when I was with a mentalist highland bitch with whom I had mistaken lust for love*.
Anyhoo, said mentalist was rather into, well not quiet BDSM but shall we say kinky bondage with a few extras. She was rather more into it than me, as I regarded it somewhat of a kerfuffle on occasion. But I was confusing lust with love and proceeded to fulfil all her desires to be tied up in various positions/places and spanked/fucked/what-evered. To give her fair dues, I was rather entranced by her kinky suggestions on most occasions.

This went on for a while.

Once day, having, I suspect, been reading too many Nancy Friday books, she requested to be tied upside down over a door and thoroughly pleasured, i was rather/extremely dubious but encouraged by promised of unearthly delights partaken from her upside-down form I consented to help. This was an engineering challenge of the first water as she wasn’t by any means anorexic and I was thinking with the main brain only by this stage.

So I get her to do a handstand, protect her ankles with a towel, loop some tow rope over the door and her ankles, go round to the other side and hoist away. As she grunted aroused success on the other side i was stuck with a more practical problem, how did I attach the rope to prevent her falling on her head? I couldn’t attach it to the radiator, that would impede my re-entrance to the room and much anticipated unusual sex. So what to do? I failed around and spotted an old metal hoop on the bottom of the door, presumably to hold the door back or something (I know it was outside the room but perhaps someone had reversed the door in aeons past), so I looped the tow rope through the hoop and job done.

I stood back to admire my handiwork and to let the creative tension build on the other side of the door. Opening the handle I prepared to enter the room and my gf, only to have the door snatched from my hand as the silly bitch’s weight ripped the fucking door clean from the frame and wedged it firmly both on top of her and into the door frame.

There was a moment of dread calm as I rapidly achieved de-tumescence.

Jesus-Titty-Fucking-Christ, I’ve killed my gf I thought.

Until i heard her snarling lilt from under the door requesting in plain terms for me to get the fucking door off her sharpish you fucking twat.

Problem is i couldn’t.

Fucking thing wouldn’t budge, not a fucking inch, it was fucking wedged, now we’d only just moved in and there were no tools in the house, so i (luckly it was Saturday lunchtime) volunteered to go get a saw/crow bar and a new door, I’d be back in under an hour i said as i gallantly stepped on the door to get back into our room and get dressed.

This was met with a torrent of the single least lady like language i’ve ever heard from a woman. Ever!

I scarpered out, bought the tools/door and rescued her but a mere two hours later. What a hero. After promising my eternal silence on the matter i repair the damage and normality resumes.

So where’s the guilt? Well before i went to the DIY place, I went for a pint or two to calm my nerves and had to tell the entire bar why i was laughing so much i spilled the first pint and had to sit down, she coudl never quite udnerstand why i stopped taking her to that pub and why my colledges/friends/relations/people in the street where either all soo very flirty or so very cool with her for years afterwards until we split up and i really started telling the story to all and sundry.

I still giggle when i think of it nearly 15 years later.
( edz314 smelled the glove on, Tue 4 Sep 2007, 17:28, Reply)

a long long time ago (not a distant galaxy tho')
I was on a stag night and about 4.a.m we all crashed...I half awoke to a faint pulling at the nethers...the groom to be was blowing me!
dilemma:
A) rudely awake and say WTF dude! (thus outing the un-outed at that point groom to be)
or
B) let nature run its course...?

I chose B and fell asleep after the er, natural response.
at the wedding I did get to finger the missus to be; "He's not been near me of late" she said and then I shagged his sister-out on the lawn, doggy style behind the rose bushes tho' not entirely out of sight of the catering staff apparently...a resounding cheer at orgasm does wonders for the ego, I find.
He, the groom that is, divorced within 6 months for some reason, which, i'm sure is entirely unconnected to any of these events.

guilty secret? er, I think i might have enjoyed it!
(mickturate if i could be arsed i'd be bored, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 12:56, Reply)

Partridge
Not so much guilty as I'm quite proud of it but still slightly embarrassing.

Steve Coogan was doing a book signing in Bristol and a friend and I went to see him as we were big Partridge fans. So much so that we took along a 'hilarious' picture of my friend sat on the lap of a 'mock up' Alan sitting in an armchair in our living room. We had a 'cut out and keep' Alan Partridge mask as the head and we had recreated his body in 'Guy Fawkes' style, it was quite convincing.

Unfortunatly when my friend handed the photo over to Steve to sign his face went white and all he could say was something along the lines of 'that is very disturbing'. He signed the photo 'you sick, sick people' or words to that effect.

And that was the end of that, until we sat down to watch the episode in the next series of the show, where Alan gets stalked by a mad fan.....who has a entire room dedicated to Alan.....with an armchair in the middle.....with a mock up 'Alan' very much like the one we had produced, in fact exactly like it...

As I said slightly proud, but also mildly ashamed to be tarred with the mad stalking fan brush.
(barrington, Tue 4 Sep 2007, 11:28, Reply)

Three hail marys and a packet of chocolate buttons.
When I was much, much younger I always used to eat waaay too much chocolate before I went to bed. The result of which was generally a really dodgy tum during the night. But I didn't want my parents to hear me get up to go to the loo because then they'd know I'd been sneaking chocolate when they'd specifically told me not to.

So I shat in the cat's litter tray instead.

The result of which was that after a few times of finding gargantuan turds in Kitty's crap box, Kitty got taken to the vets for a shot of "stop-crap" or whatever they give cats to bung them up.

I'm sorry Kitty...
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 14:47, Reply)

I wish I'd never remembered this one
First off, I'd like to say that I have never told anyone about this. Even, now, in total anonymity, I'm cringing as I type this.

Let me set the scene - I was 18, had recently stopped hanging around with my closest friends (for reasons I can't quite remember now), in a job I hated, when I made a sudden spontaneous decision to take a week-long trip to Amsterdam. I booked the flights, managed to get the holidays short notice, packed up and flew off.

Let me say at this point that you should never go on holiday by yourself. It is probably the single worst holiday I've had, and I've been caravaning in Wales for fuck sake.

Anyway, after wandering around feeling lost and bored, and after getting far more stoned than was good for me, I stumbled across the Red Light District. I haven't seen a bigger collection of ropey-looking underdressed tramps since my last big night out in Glasgow. As a horny teenager, however, I was in a moral dilemma. Would I pay for sex? The inner dispute took about three seconds to come up with the answer : Hell yeah!

The only problem was, I couldn't decide which 'lucky lady' I was gonna have some fun with. Did I want, fat, thin, blonde, brunette, old or young? It's like you've been asked to choose which whiney-faced James-Blunt-carbon-copy singer-songwriter should be savaged by a pack of wild dogs. Too much choice...

I decided to go with the one that caught my eye, that seemed to stand out. As I turned a corner, one of the girls in the windows performed a dance with her hands at her waist, firing them like pistols. This made me laugh, so I stepped up and asked how much.

"50 eauros dahrling" she said in a dodgy italian accent.

"Lead on" said I.

We moved into the back room, a squalid, yet somehow clinical affair. The place stank of sweat and baby oil. I handed over the money to my hired whore, taking the time to look her over as she counted it.

She was tall, leggy, with long brunette hair, strong features, and a very full bra. She looked good, though I now put this down to a combination of bad lighting and the number of joints I had smoked throughout the day. I was wasted.

"You get undreassed, dahrling?" she said huskily. At this point, I did notice her voice was lower than what I was used to, but figured it must be the same in all Mediterranean women.

I promptly stripped, and joined her on the leather couch. She then proceeded to start sucking on my already hard member, without using a condom. I lay back, enjoying the sensation. It shamefully remains, to this day, one of the best blowjobs I have ever had.

After a while I decided I was ready for action. I tapped her on the head and motioned I was ready for sex. After helping me on with the condom (it's worth repeating that I was pretty fucking wasted) she proceeded to turn her back to me, took my cock in her hand, and helped guide it into what I thought was her 'lady-chamber' (or, for all you foul-mothed fuckers out there, her cunt).

I was really getting into the sex, thrusting away, and she was responding well, making all the right noises. I felt myself approaching the point of no return, so decided it would be a good time to change positions. I stopped, and indicated with what I'm sure was a ridiculous hand motion for her to turn over onto her front.

She looked at me uncertainly. "You suare?" she asked. "What about..." She nodded downwards, I looked down, and her hand seemed to be covering something over her crotch. At this point, I still hadn't cottoned on. I actually said "What about what?" in a genuinely confused tone.

'She' removed her hand, and at this point I probably don't have to tell you what was under there. If you haven't guessed it already, I'll spell it out for you. It was a cock and fucking balls, meat and two veg, George Bush and his advisers.

She/he looked at me with concerned eyes. "Is okay?"

A million questions swarmed through me at once. Does this make me gay? Can I ever look at myself in the mirror again? Is it too late to ask for my 50 euros back?

Then I realised I had 5 minutes left, and I didn't have enough money for another actual girl. So I shrugged and asked her/him to finish me off with a blowjob. I'll say it again, I was really fucking wasted.

As she/he was sucking away I glanced down and noticed her/his 'full' bra was actually full of toilet paper, and, to make matters worse, the long brunette hair was a long brunette wig. This wasn't even a transsexual, it was a guy in drag.

Somehow, I closed my eyes and climaxed. Afterwards, I couldn't put my clothes on fast enough, and as I was going through the door, all I could say was "That was...interesting"

I went to my hotel room, and took the longest shower I have ever had in my life. The smell of baby oil seemed to linger for days.

Upon returning home, whenever anyone asked me how my holiday was, I said "Fine" and quickly changed the subject. To this day, the smell of baby oil makes me quesy.

So now you know my deepest, darkest, guiltiest secret. Just don't tell anyone. Please?




P.S I don't apologise for length, but she bloody well should have.
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 4:29, Reply)

mondane
I had often mused on the nature of addiction. What is it, exactly, to be “addicted”? Are the parameters self defined, and if so, how can consensus be reached to define the essence of “addiction”? Was it measured and defined only by its effects? If so, how could one theorise on consequences? Is a man who mainlines heroin, but is nice to his wife and children more or less an addict than a homeless waster who dabbles in lieu of other, accepted, entertainment? Was there such a thing at all, or was it just a necessary invention of the caustic jealousy of a society to those who had rejected its imposed mores in favour of the individuals own?

Normally, this sort of half arsed speculation idly filled my comedowns, as the strychnine and bicarbonate made the jaw ache, and Screamadelica made the impending sleep seem an even more delicious draught. It made me feel clever: a cheap blanket to cover my insecurity.

But this time I was thinking of, shall we say an acquaintance called Jeremy (I refuse to call any man named Jeremy a friend). I had given Jeremy his first tab of LSD and he had taken to it with a passion I had unanticipated.

Within six months he was living in a tree. To misquote Marwood: His mechanism had fucking gone. He was like those tapes we used to make in the old days: a copy of a copy of a copy of a human. Blurred, fady and distorted. Whatever. His choice.

Now I am old, and my bones feel as brittle as flint and my guts spill like an ugly confession over my cheap jeans. Mostly I can’t sleep and I lie awake in my IKEA bed and construct fantasies based on half imagined fragments of memory. I pluck the glistering shards from the sea of misery which fills my head: a cheap blanket to cover my insecurity, and my failures. And I know the morning will come. The nights pass in restlessness and sighing, and from the sea of my sadness, I cling to my ashamed achievements. And I await morning, and a day at the office.

And that is my dark secret. It is that I have failed. Regardless of the others, I have failed. It is that I have accepted this life. I did not spiral out, instead, like a coward, I hunkered down and “sobered” up and accepted the nature of “addiction” and became “clean”. And every day my sorrow is matched my society’s joy at my conformity. My black socks. My direct debits. My email account. The everyday darkness of the secret failure in me.

Also, I am too scared to piss in a shower.
(sirolimus, Mon 3 Sep 2007, 9:55, Reply)

ropey bird, paid off children!
Me and my best mate whizzed out of our tiny minds in the local pub circa '95. Ropey bird walks in (actually a mates wife), shes pissed out of her head and is locked out of her house. Now we already know she is a total spunk dump and do the honorable thing. We walk her back to her house and break in.

She also had her three kids with her who, although it was way past midnight, would not go to bed in order for the inevitable to happen to their mother.
A cunning plan was hatched by me. The kids were each paid the princely sum of one english pound to go to bed. They agreed and left their grot money on the mantlepiece.

Right, we thought as the pair of us ploughed straight into this monstrosity of a woman. I have never seen anyone so ugly and only have one head. It mattered not as we greedily helped ourselves to a tit each.

Things progressed and we took her up to her chamber. A good old fashioned spit roast ensued, even though we were momentarily interrupted by one of her kids walking in on the three of us and calling mummy a trollop. Fair enough though.

The guilty bit is still to come. On our way out I sneaked back into the front room and swiped the kids three quid so I could get some smokes from the 24 hour garage on the way home.
Any more proud and I could burst.
(SPLUFFMYPANTS, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 17:01, Reply)

Fat birds! Fucking! Foursomes!
Many years ago, while young, fit and (more) attractive I went on a University trip with a group of other students. Niall and I decided to room together in the apartment booked by the Uni, being great mates and partners in crime.

Niall and I, I should mention, had some weeks before spent an entire week closeted in my living room, surrounded by booze etc, leaving only for toilet breaks and showers. It was a hard week. I should also clarify we were solely friends and no manlove was on the agenda.

Now, we were away for several nights and decided that we would be well advised to take a stash with us, as well as a stereo and other assorted luxuries. Particularly vodka.

One evening we decided to dodge our more focussed colleagues and go out for a night. We subsequently found the grimiest hard house club we could, and ate our stash, spending the night dancing and prancing and having enormous fun.

About 10 minutes from closing I volunteered to get the coats, leaving Niall with a friendly warning against pulling a fat bird. I said this jokily as, after all, we were sharing a room and there had been no hint of ogling during the night.

At this juncture it is appropriate to mention that Niall had a taste for the, erm, larger lady (size 20+). Suffice to say, when I returned he had a bloater in tow. Doom. To compound the situation, she had brought a friend for me. More Doom.

These girls, as well as being (in my view) physically unappealing, were also rough as you like, coming from one of the rougher council estates in the area and in the taxi back were loudly debating "oo'd fucked the most blurks".

Niall rubbed his hands with glee at pulling a dirty bloater. I was polite, but inwardly terribly distressed.

We arrived back at the room, and Niall and his girl displayed an impressive abandon, having a good passionate snog and grope while I adjusted the stereo, made tea and made polite conversation with the girl nominated for me, who was beginning to regard me with that look you see on the face of a hungry lion when faced with a defenceless child.

My avoidance techniques didn't work, and as Niall and his partner began to remove clothes and get down to business it was impossible to dodge having a snog, all the while trying to remain aloof and uninterested.

Then it happened. Niall noticed I wasn't terribly keen on the girl I had been lumbered with. He made an inappropriate joke, and left me trying desperately for a clever and witty comment that wouldn't a) ruin his shag or b) leave me looking stupid.

I was saved, however, by his partner. Clearly believing herself to be stunning, and irresistable bait. she chimed in with a loud "Oo's up forra foursome?"

My squeak of horror was matched only by Niall's squeak of excitement. "Come on mate, let's go for it!" he said. "Eeeerrrrrrrr", I replied, eloquently. "Come on, it's not that I want to see your cock, but how often do you get offered a foursome with two birds! Look, I'll tell people yours was fit if they ask!"

And that, I'm afraid to say, did it. Off came the clothes and on I hopped. Away we went, and four hours later I felt dirty, used, regretful yet quite proud to have had a foursome. In a dirty kind of way.

We sneaked them out about 6.30am and retired to bed, thrilled to have achieved the perfect crime.

Or not.

The next morning the others in the apartment gave us a round of applause, mixed with catcalls and abuse. The supervising lecturer had a smile on his face and asked how the evening had been, along with a rebuke for not seeing the group that night, before adding "Mind you, it seems that you found yourself something else to do".

Sadly, we hadn't realised how noisy we were when discussing what we'd do, or how noisy we were while doing what we did.

Still, we had a foursome!
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Fri 31 Aug 2007, 14:15, Reply)

Is it just me ??
All these messages saying "oh, I like rachelswipes posts so much" .. I mean c'mon will ya, they aint THAT good, and the ones that say "never met her, but i fancy her" ... get reall will ya!

fwiw, there are three blokes in this house none of us have met her, none of us fancy her.

Well not much anyway.

Admittedly we sometimes print out her stories and have a quick wank over them, but its just a bit of harmless fun innit?

Not that we do that very often, well, not all of us together anyway. Well, we do get together for a group wank over her latest stories once a week, I admit it is becoming a bit of a ritual, maybe thats not so common, but I'm sure lots of other guys must do just that right?

Usually its on a Sunday, just after we have added the latest rachelswipe stories to our special shrine room. Its dedicated to her, and we keep a few candles burning .. along with some images of girls we think might look like her. Then we read out her latest postings, do the quick wank thing, and then take it in turns to read out a osting we think was really good. We all have a few favourites.

Anyway, this isn't really a guilty secret as I'm sure there are lots and lots of blokes who have similar shrines to her etc, so its all quite normal really.
(flipper is going to die in a bizarre gardenning accident, Tue 4 Sep 2007, 1:27, Reply)

Jack Russell revenge
I was house-sitting for an acquaintance who happened to have both a cat and a Jack Russell called Jacky. I hate dogs, and this one was the worst of its kind: yappy, irritating and with an aggressive streak. It would snarl at my heels whenever I was around and yap incessantly if in the same room.

The dog would chase the cat round the house pretty much all day, yap yap yapping endlessly. This pissed me off no end as I tried to enjoy Rambo III one evening on DVD, and I wished the dog dead on numerous occasions. But something better happened.

All internal doors had a catflap. On this occasion, the cat came rocketing through the flap to escape its tomentor and the chasing dog's head became wedged in the gap, causing a frenzy of high-pitched barking. I swear I heard the cat laughing.

So I got up and approached the door. Cue the dog going into yap overdrive and snarling at my legs. I opened the door and the dog moved with it, still barking. Then I closed the door and stood behind the dog, whose stumpy little legs were twitching insanely. I couldn't resist. I kicked its arse.

This resulted in an ecstasy of yapping and a frenzied tapdancing of canine legs. I found it so funny that I gave the arse another belt and grinned at the yaps became one uninterrupted yowl. It was quite securely trapped in the flap. There was some fun to be had.

In an upstairs room, I found a can of compresed air - the kind with a long plastic tube attached to clean camera lenses, keyboards and the like. So I went down and stood again behind the dog, which had not stopped barking the whole time. I positioned the end of the tube mere milimetres from the animals clenching knot and let loose a stream of chilled, compressed air.

And, do you know, the result was quite striking. Those stumpy little legs thrashed and jumped so fast that I fancied it a hummingbird. The howl was one of apocalyptic surprise - and not in a good way either. No - it was a crescendo of frustration... the kind of noise you'd want Scrappy Doo to make as you put him through a mangle. And then I gave the dog another kick, just for a garnish.

I don't know how many minutes we spent like that. But by the end of it, little Jacky was sobbing doggy tears and it's little arse was quite red raw. I didn't stop until the little fucker went silent. Then I sat down to enjoy the rest of Rambo III in peace.

I left the dog stuck in the door all night and the owner found him the next day, quite silent and forlorn. I denied all knowledge of the accident, but I think we'd reached an understanding, Jacky and I.
(frankspencer, Mon 3 Sep 2007, 14:20, Reply)

I have a huge penis
The guilty part is that it isn't mine.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 1 Sep 2007, 18:58, Reply)

I have a little confession to make.
My sister's 13. Yesterday, she went to her friend's house in town, and both my parents were in work. I walked past her room, and I noticed she'd left a pair of panties on the floor by the door. It was a cute little thong, like the tiny ones, and it was just lying there, like she didn't care. I guess she changed before she left. I don't know why, I guess I just wanted to have a look. So I picked them up, and I was like really nervous, checking all the windows. After a while my libido got the best of me, thinking about this little piece of cloth up her arse and everything...I ended up sniffing her panties, and wanking with them on my face. The smell and everything just got me so hard, I was streaming over her carpet and everything. Then I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said "Fresh" and there was dice in the mirror, if anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought nah forget it, yo home to Bel-Air! I pulled up to a house about seven or eight and I yelled to the cabbie "Yo home, smell ya later!" Looked at my kingdom, I was finally there, to sit on my throne, as the Prince of Bel-Air.
(David Fishwick Minibus Sales - notmad.co.uk, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 13:39, Reply)

So many
1) When I was nine, I stood up in front of the whole school at assembly to say that I was having a jumble sale to raise money for handicapped children. I had the sale and spent all the proceeds on chocolate eclairs for myself.
2) I had sexual intercourse with a tall glass of baked beans.
3) I stayed at the Holy Peninsua of Mount Athos in Greece after lying to them about being a Christian. Then I knocked one off in the lavs while there.
4) I stamped on the hand of a child beggar in Poland as he tried to get a coin from under my foot.
5) I shagged a friend who was unconscious after drinking all afternoon.
6) I regularly stole money from the Spastics Society donation box at my work and spent it on chocolate bars.
7) While working at B&Q I accused a child of breaking a lampshade I had dropped and then watched as his father beat him quite severely.
8) While trying to shag a Christian at univeristy, I was subjected to a group praying session and secretly prayed that everyone present would die instantly - apart from me, obviously.
9) I stole money from a girlfriend in China in order to go for a slap-up binge at Pizza Hut. I told her I needed it for an exit visa.
10) I don't love my family. I have no feelings for them at all.

Good job there's no god, eh?
(frankspencer, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 14:23, Reply)

my parents' guilty secret
One day when I was 10, I was watching tv in my parents' bedroom (I didn't have one in mine). I happened to drop something I was fiddling with - a reel of cotton, as I remember - which rolled under the bed.

So I started rooting around under there to find it.

Total haul: 1 'Joy of Sex' video, one 'art' book, a half-empty packet of condoms and 3 Viz annuals (wtf?).

This of course led to a full search of the room the next time they went out. And in the top of the wardrobe I found the second stash. I've never spoken of it to anyone, but it's burned on my memory forever - I'm hoping posting it will be a cathartic experience.

one set of love eggs;
two vibrators (one of the 'black mamba' variety);
another 2 sex videos;
a 'Spitting Image' video (again (wtf?);
a sailor's cap;
one photo album with grainy 70's pictures of my mum using aforementioned vibrator (only the top one of which I ever looked at, before slamming it shut in horror, but which I will NEVER forget);

and the most upsetting of all:

a video of Jim Davidson in pantomime.


Pray for me.
(pandora peroxide thinks it's a blocker, master! on, Wed 5 Sep 2007, 14:43, Reply)

I sent an innocent man to prison
I used to be mid-managemnt in a shop a few years back. We always had trouble with shoplifters, but one was particularly nasty. when confronted, assuming he wasnt too wasted, he would always turn violent, spit at people and try to bite. Turns out he has hepatitus and was trying to infect us. Thats the kind of charming gent he was.
Previous to the following event, he shacked up with a slightly dim but very nice girl who also worked with us in an effort to get her to steal from the till for him. Within weeks he had her hooked on drugs, infected with god-knows what and we had been forced to fire her when her clumsy efforts at theft were discovered. He fucked her life up good and proper.
He came into the shop a few months later, rather stoned and making a poor effort at shoplifting. He was thrown out. He came back 30 mins later and was thrown out again. this continued hrought the morning till I came in to work for the afternoon shift. I confronted him and with one of the other staff who was a bit of a hard-case, we subdued the scumbag and took him to the office. It should be noted that he hadnt actually stolen anything at this point.
I pressed the panic button which summons immediate police assistance in the case of emergency. We had the guy tied to the desk with cable ties so my workmate asked wtf I had pressed the button for. While waiting for the police I explained my plan, which he was happy to go along with.
I got an old Stanley knife from the shops tool kit, wiped it clean and we pressed it into his hands, covering it with his finger prints. When the police turned up (tyres screeching, sirens blaring, rolling over the bonnet like a proper cop-show!) we told them we had repeatedly warned the guy off but he had returned with a knife and tried to stab us. The scumbag obviously denied this, but it was our word against his.
The police commented that although he was known scum, knives were very out of character for him, but reckoned he must have been desperate for his next fix.
Charges went ahead and a trial was set.

I stood up in court and lied.

We stuck to our story and there were plenty of corrobarative witnesses who had seem him being repeatedly thrown out during the morning. The knife had his prints on it. He was already on parole for shoplifting and had a string of previous offences.
He was sent to prison for 2 years.

Legally, what I did was very wrong. Morally? I think I was right. Do I feel guilty? yes, I feel guilty about lying in court.
(dave likes cheese, Mon 3 Sep 2007, 23:02, Reply)

Found a Wallet
after clubbing at the Fridge in brixton (yay for hard trance) we went for a lucozade in a little shop.
On the floor was a wallet, clearly fallen out of some other poor souls pocket.

Now, we figured that this could have been the worst place to lose a wallet so pocketed it so the dodgy looking shopkeepers didn't claim it and got the first train home.

Once on the train, we looked through to a veritable treasure trove of amusement.

There was (check if my memory still works...)

3 years of Bus Travel cards with pictures of him on it.Very amusing to see it get grown to a pony tail (didn't suit him) and then cut.
Cash card, and a little slip of paper with 4 digits on it - may have been his pin.
His Driving license, with more pictures of him.
A passport application form partially completed.
And £20, and a selection of storecards and general crap.

So, thrust into this morale dilemma we formulate a plan. We spent the £20 and wrote a list of what we had bought. Frijj milkshakes, donuts, newspaper, Haribo, and more lucozade some baccy and some kingsize orange doobie makers.

We then posted all the important stuff back, to the address on the drivers license with an addtional letter, explaining how close he had come to his life getting cloned and how lucky he was! and that he should never grow his hair again.

We thought we did the right thing, but occasionally i feel we were too harsh on his hair.
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Mon 3 Sep 2007, 13:36, Reply)

of red high heels and polish men...
ok two guilty secrets that just added up to one horribly humiliating moment about 5 seconds ago.

first and understandable to women: i have a bit of a thing for very beautiful and uncomfortable shoes that i will probably never wear. so this morning i spent 250quid on the sexiest but classiest pair of red high heels you've ever seen. they should be illegal.

secondly, my flatmate and i both have a bit of a thing for the hot 22 year old polish blond delivery guy from waitrose. to the extent that we will happily order tons of groceries online instead of walking 2 mins to tesco, just in the sad hope that he is delivering.

i know, i know, but you should SEE this guy. then judge me.

so i'm marauding elegantly round the flat in a red towel and huge velcro rollers when flatmate rings and says she's left her keys, will i let her in as she's on the doorstep. fine. i walk past the full length mirror in the hall to do so, and can't resist slipping the shoes on as well. oh yes, they even look good with a towel. even if they hurt like fuck.

then i open the flat door. "get a load of these babies!" i cry. only to see that flatmate is not alone. no, she's standing right next to polishboy and this week's boxes of pointless shopping.

i've never looked/felt like such a prize twat. this was not a slinky seductive small towel and tanned legs job. this was a massive hair dye stained bath sheet, skinny pale legs sticking out of the bottom, jumbo blue rollers and a vivid green face mask...

fucking shoes, fucking waitrose, fucking fucking hell!!!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sat 1 Sep 2007, 17:05, Reply)