Itchy
I went through a phase as a young teenager whereby if I had to scratch an itch, I would then have to unscratch my nails on my shirt or trouser leg as if the act of scratching caused a build up of detritus that needed to be wiped off again.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 17:15, Reply)

Band rehearsal.
I was in a band. As we got closer, played more gigs, and spent more time together, our kit grew, and the electric mandolin player set me off.

His new additions were generally computer-based, and therefore more expensive, though my stuff, being poorer, and a drummer/percussionist was generally cheaper, smaller, and a bit more fiddly - a drum key, an egg shaker, etc, but being poor I was quite keen on not losing them.

It got to the point when, after rehearsal, it would take me half an hour to leave the room, checking and rechecking to make sure I'd not left anything.

Like I said in my earlier thread - it became debilitating and annoying, so ... I stopped taking half an hour to check and recheck.

I made the executive decision that if I'd left something, then I'd have to either deal with the consequence or go back for it.

Simple.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 17:09, Reply)

Checking the Iron
I use the iron pretty much every morning on a daily basis. I actually have to sometimes physically hold the plug in my hand and say to myself that the iron is off. Then soon as I get in the car to the station I text or call my girlfriend who I live with and say "can you check I have switched the iron off?"

I also sometimes double back to make sure I have shut the windows, which I am almost certian I have closed.

Drives me bloody mad.
(Headsbollockskuntz, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 16:49, 8 replies)

How "The Shining" gave me a bizarre habit.
When I was about 7 years old my parents had sent my sister and I to bed and started watching "The Shining". As a curious, mischievous seven year old I wanted to know what was so particular about this movie that I had to go to bed. So I snuck out of bed and watched the movie from a gap at the top of the stars. I was wondering what all the fuss was about until the bathroom scene. That was possibly the first time I saw a naked woman who wasn't my mother. And then it all went wrong. Somehow she turned into a bloated, rotten hag who rose from the bath and reached for the film's protagonist. I silently freaked out, crept away from the stairs and returned to my bed.
And that's where my habit began. From then on I could not enter our bathroom at night without first reaching around the door frame from the outside and turning the light on. Then slowly peering around the corner into the bath to make sure there wasn't a naked female corpse in there. When I deemed it safe to enter I would do so. My little heart would be beating like a fucked clock everytime, expecting something to either grab my hand or jump on me as soon as I entered. We moved house 2 years later and the habit came with me. Didn't really shake it until I was about 12 and to this day I have moments of reluctance upon entering a bathroom. Of course I'm old enough to know better now.

Not really sure if that's a true bizarre habit or an example of why film certification is a good thing.

Incidentally I also have the "double touch" thing everyone else seems to have. The wife has an OCD about the number 3 (like third item on a shelf, checking a door three times etc..)

And we once drove an hour away from home before the wife became convinced she'd left the iron plugged in. Back we went.
(Erasmusmicroman is inside your T.V., Mon 5 Jul 2010, 16:41, Reply)

Seen the bloke nextdoor
sweeping the top of his garden wall with a dustpan and brush.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 16:11, 9 replies)

I wash my stomach for at least
20 solid minutes every time I have a shower.

I know it's irrational, but I find it difficult to feel 'properly clean' once a prostitute has defecated on me.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 15:58, 5 replies)

Number plates
Every car I pass or passes me, even on the opposite side of the carriageway, I have to read them. Not just number plates, road signs, street signs (even my own bloody street), I can't stop reading things.

Oh and the light switch thing too, and the volume level, and things have to be straight/aligned together or evenly spaced/stacked. My wife hates me putting the groceries away as it takes me twice as long as her, so I wait until she's finished and buggered off elsewhere in the house then sneakily rearrange the fridge/cupboard. Drives her absolutely scatty next time she opens it, every time.

I'd better stop now before I get myself worried.
(back to the lurkers cupboard)
(steel_rat Uncloseted lurker, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 15:54, 1 reply)

When I masturbate
I simply cannot stop until my mutton musket has gone off. Well, that's not strictly true, I have to be in a position where I aren't going to be disturbed, but you get the idea. I suppose I could've just said "I enjoy the occasional tug when in private"
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 15:41, Reply)

I'll only eat crisps
that are blemish free. If they are marked, probably from where the potato had an eye, or if they're slightly too brown, or god forbid they are slightly green then they are duly discarded.

The same goes for chippy chips. Those covered in black patches or are green go the same way as the crisps
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 15:39, 5 replies)

Having lived for a year with someone who had every little OCD habit you could imagine
Can I just say that I am immeasurably glad I don't live with him anymore, and that judging by the answers on this QOTW I am also eternally grateful I don't have to spend much time with the posters here either?
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 15:21, Reply)

My Stupid Life in 4155 Characters (including spaces) (but not including this bit)
You want to know about my OCD-like habits? You’re leaning against an open door there. Except the door wouldn’t be open, because I would’ve locked it, tried the handle to check it was locked, saying “Locked” out loud as I did so, then walked to the car, thought “Did I lock the door?”, walked back, tried the handle, confirmed to my stupid bastard brain that it was indeed locked, walked back to the car, driven off, thought “Yes, but did I lock the BACK door?”, stopped, driven back, unlocked the front door, dashed to the back door, checked the handle and realised that Yes, it was locked, dashed back, locked the front door, got in the car, driven off again, then thought “Ah, but when I checked the back door, did I lock the front door that second time?”, stopped, driven back, tried the handle, driven off again, thought “Hang on, as I was leaving, could the kitten have run down the stairs silently and fled the house without me noticing?”, stopped, driven back, and so on and so on, repeat until flung into a padded cell (where some other poor sod can worry about whether my bloody door’s locked). Here are some highlights from my life;

The TV in the living room displays the volume as a number onscreen. When changing the volume, that number must be even. If you pick an odd volume it’ll probably break the TV, like putting unleaded in your diesel car, or watching E4.

I can’t put ‘my’ rubbish in a public bin. Let’s say I’m in town and feel peckish, so I buy some food. I have no problem dumping the wrapper in the nearest bin. But now let’s say instead of buying food, I find a bag of pork scratchings in my devastatingly stylish man-bag, which I took from home in case I needed a fat-and-bristle-based snack whilst out. Once I’ve finished scoffing the fried pig-bum, I can’t drop the empty bag in a nearby bin. Why? I’m not sure. But I have this pang of almost parental care towards that bag. It has seen the warm indoor life of my home. It has been carried in the bosom of my man-bag. It’s not some cheap floozy I picked up in Superdrug, it’s a bag from my house. To dump it outside, in amongst the public, left to withstand the elements, would be cruel. Pigeons would peck it. Tramps would inspect it. Jordan would feed her young with it. No, I have to take that litter home, where I dispose of it in the comfort of a nice indoor bin (in amongst the rotting food and cat-shit).

I’m a chuffing riot when it comes to cooking. Like many other B3tans, I’m wary of cross-contamination between the various ingredients - When making a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich, I wipe the knife more thoroughly than Pete Townshend deleting his Temporary Internet Files. If I’m cooking burgers, the spatula will get a thorough washing between flips - Hot water, Fairy Liquid, the lot. Otherwise the evil germy burger-juice it picked up on the first flip will get deposited back on the burger on the last, leading to horrific poo-based death for all. Until only recently (when the missus showed me the right way to do it), if I was cooking any sort of meat, it would spend longer under the grill than it did on the planet.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who, after using a public toilet, tries to pull the main door open by using my little finger at the very bottom of the handle. I’m also fairly sure there are people who see me do this and, just for fun, wipe their nob on the handle.

PS Bizarrely, given my slavishness to hygiene, I absolutely abhor that advert for the hands-free soap-dispenser. “Imagine the germs that live on your soap pump!” Yes, just imagine. Now imagine the very next thing everyone does immediately after touching a soap pump, i.e. WASH THEIR HANDS. Stop bloody trying to scare us all into a Howard Hughes-like paranoia in which we’re convinced every surface is crawling with evil unless we drench it in your miracle cure, you bastards. I’m convinced these companies are being run by an alien race who are softening us up with hand-sanitiser and bumwash in preparation for a global attack, in which they sneeze on one of us and our puny immune systems collapse instantly. You know, like in War of the Worlds, only without the songs.
(costas, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 15:02, 7 replies)

Bad Eating Habits
I have terrible eating habits- it’s not the variety of food, it’s the way it I eat it. I pick at it like a fussy child and for some reason dissect it all.

I can’t eat a chocolate bar normally. Take a Mars Bar for example- I pick off all the chocolate with my teeth, then peel off the caramel, and then eat the nougat. I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten one “normally”.
I have no idea why I do this, there’s probably a reason why it’s all together in the first place, and it just creates mess!

I lick the flavouring off crisps before I eat them.

If I have something like a burger or an enchilada, I’ll start eating it normally but pretty much always end up taking it apart and eating it in bits.

I’m also like a child in that I can get bored of eating something halfway through and start something else.

I hardly ever leave a clean plate; it’s a habit to leave something there, even if it’s a couple of bits of pasta, or a piece of vegetable.

First dates tend not to include dinner…

(I have a feeling I'm going to get flamed for this...)
( awayfromthenumbers, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 14:56, 4 replies)

Whenever I have a shit
I get a compulsion to wipe my arse.

Sometimes I'll do it three or four times.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 14:20, 10 replies)

Showers are for self-loathing in. Loudly.
I talk to myself, probably daily. Sometimes, I re-enact moments of embarrassment from decades ago, usually without props. At other times, something faintly Tourettes-like happens, where I swear without heed to grammar, coherence or whether I even want to say anything. Occasionally, I have proper conversations. One party to said conversation speaks only in my head, while the other gets use of my mouth.

So far, we seem to argue. A lot. Both of us agree that I'm a cunt, though.
(Mr. W. K. Kellogg's Anusol Flakes (TM) is the other Special K, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 13:50, 7 replies)

I will freely admit
to a bit of compulsive tidying periodically, or being tourette's-twitchingly particular about some things (use a fucking coaster!) but I would say by far the most aberrant thing I do is when driving.

I passed my test nearly 8 years ago and have seemingly never encountered anyone else who can even see them, let alone abide by them. It's these funny numbers in a red circle by the side of the road. You see them every mile or so generally - or at least, I do, but then I'm becoming increasingly convinced I'm hallucinating the little fuckers. Freakish behaviour, I know, but I always thought that they denote the legal speed limit. Weird, eh?
(berk, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 13:30, 15 replies)

Sitting here....
reading everyones hangups and bizarre habits and I realise that I am not the only strange person out there....

or should I be worried that I have so many hangups and bizarre habits?
(Lip Up Fatty Fatty Reggae still loves BBQ food on, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 13:06, Reply)

It's not OCD it's Respect for Condiments
I have a long running dispute with the missus and her parents over condiments. As far as I am concerned, a knife goes in to a spreadable entity, transfers said entity on to a slice of breaded good and is then REMOVED FROM THE FIELD OF PLAY.

I feel violated when I open the honey only to find those awful swirls of butter/margarine eddying around in an ocean of bee spit. Oh yes! Look a little closer and you'll see an armada of breadcrumb galleons gently listing to and fro.

Bastards.

Our two children (8 and 6) are now locked in a titanic struggle between two opposing and irreconcilable forces. I feel I am slowly winning them over to the right side of things, but it is touch and go.

Contrary to what I am told, it's not OCD or even a bizarre habit. I just want to see strawberry jam in a jar of strawberry jam, not a snapshot of the contents of some other cunt's breakfast.

A couple of weeks ago we were over at the inlaws and the FIL opened a jar of ginger preserve only to find mould growing inside. As my eight year old son rushed over to have a look, it was announced that the jar was 'only a month old'. Sure enough on inspection in a non-moudly area on the surface of the preserve was a scum of bread, butter and other flotsam and jetsam.
(mersault, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 13:01, 17 replies)

Mon Dieu
These betans are crazy

paf paf paf


(itsOnlyGoingToGetHairier, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 12:55, 1 reply)

Ahhh, there's alot of them.
Not entirely sure where to start.

- I don't like looking in mirrors for fear of seeing something there that doesn't exist. Like a monster.
- I sing "walking on sunshine" whilst taking a pee
- I'm rather weird about my wrists. Stemming from a fear of paper cuts. I used to wear bandannas around them in my youth. I had this idea that people would rip the paper out from underneath them when I was writing on them and paper cut me and I'd bleed to death.
- After sex (when using a condom) I always flick the used Jonny in the direction of the lucky lady I've just spooged in. I then flick it out of my window into passing traffic.
- I always flush the toilet after washing my hands/having a shower or bath if I've used it. Afraid that the pipes might get confused and I'll have a shitty pissy shower.


That's all I can think of for now. Christ, I think I need help.
(spiderslut, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 12:17, 9 replies)

Fans will remember my dad is a bit of an eccentric - an original mad scientist.
He lives on his own, and is thoroughly enjoying his third batchelorhood.

His flat reflects his personality and lifestyle perfickly - it's a one-bedroomed place in a Georgian block in Bath, with very high ceilings, and the bookcases he's had put in right up to them, filled with literature, there are books everywhere, and the place is full of Important Pieces of Paper. It is the very definition of organised chaos - he knows how it all works perfectly, but to an outsider it's some sort of bizarre intellectual's maze.

Everything in his flat nearly works, and being a warchild, he hates to throw anything away or replace it, but would rather make do and mend. The shower door, for example, does not quite meet the bath side, and as such, he has a magic paperclip, which is bent in such a way that, if you hold the door so, and then slide it in, then hook that bit over there and put that part in there, it will hold.

A friend asked him, "So ... is this paperclip unique, or do you have a box of them?" and verily I saw a light go on in his head.

He has a culture of rare, tiny snails that he's studying at the moment on his window sill.

One will find champagne corks in strange places - he likes to leave them where they fall, as each one tells a story of that bottle: who it was drunk with and what was discussed that evening. As such he's rather proud of the amount of dents in the ceiling.

Recycling is very important to him personally, and also to Bath as a town - they're really big on it there, so tea bags go in here, plastic bags in here, plastic boxes in there, fruit and vegetable waste in here, meat in there, cans there and bottles in there.

And do not, ever, put the top of your next bottle of beer back onto the empty bottle you've just drained.

Perhaps these aren't so much bizarre habits, as a man who very much knows his own systems and household mechanisms, but as a guest ... it's like visiting a Heath Robinson contraption built by a graphophile.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 11:41, 2 replies)

Reading this qotw has got me thinking....
Is the personal care business trying to get more and more people to suffer from bizarre personal hygiene issues? Case in point is the new automatic had wash dispenser being advertised on TV at the moment.

Let's scare everyone into thinking they're going to catch some nasty disease by touching the top of their hand wash dispenser so they will spend a fortune on one they don't have to touch!!!

Surely you only touch the top of your soap pump when you're about to wash your hands and therefore kill off any germs you get on your hands from the top of the pump???!!!!!

Surely creating demand for a problem that doesn't exist.....or maybe gullibility goes with OCD.....
(penrose your dog's got tits, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 11:32, 10 replies)

Weird things I say
A few rhymes/sayings that I always recite and make sure I do so, without fail:

When my dog farts:
Naughty dog, smelly dog, go outside and lay a log

Putting my daughter to bed:
Coconut head, coconut head, my little tiny baby has a coconut head. She’s got bananas for arms and bananas for legs, but my little tiny baby has a coconut head
This can only be sung if she’s lying in her cot, I won’t sing it in any other location. Not sure why.

When the missus is applying make-up in the bedroom:
Here I go, I’m gonna pat the boobies. Sneaking ‘round the back, to pat me some boobies. Up come my hands, to pat the boobies. I better get a grope before she kicks my goolies
(She hates this)

When her phone rings I always say ‘Your phone is ringing’, even if she is holding it

If I walk into the pub with my brother:
Bounce, bounce, bounce on the ground, you get a table, I’ll get a round. What do you want, you cunt?

Upon seeing a magpie:
Hello Mr. Magpie, how are you today? How are your wife and children? Apologies if you’re a female magpie
Always followed with a salute

Greeting my mums’ two cats (Yeti and Snowy) and the sheepdog Heidi – sung to the tune of Moloko’s ‘Bring it Back’:
Yeti’s white, Snowy’s black, Heidi’s both, but she’s not a cat

When descending stairs, I alternate the words ‘Bomp’ and ‘Splat’ in my head with each step. If I'm at home, I never look into the mirror at the bottom of the stairs in case I see a figure pass by on the landing behind me

Whenever I hear the ‘tax doesn’t have to be taxing’ bit of the related advert, I always add ‘But it helps’.

If I hear a car sound it’s horn:
Honky honk, he’s done a honk, beeping his horn like a twat.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 11:10, 18 replies)

small change
I save up all my coinage, with an open coin bag for each denomination (will quite often go out and buy something costing less than 50p and use a fiver or tenner just so I can 'complete' a bag of coins and close it up) and then every month pay off my credit card bill with whatever amount of full bags I have.
(Halfy By light alone, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 10:14, Reply)

No solids
In my youth I did a couple of Reading festivals. Those were the days, no flags, no singing along to all the bands. Saw Nirvana before Kurt had had enough, and saw New Order the next year. Brilliant. Anyway, a friend of mine was not keen on using the toilets there, so he devised a plan to not have a dump for the entire weekend. He didn't attempt any pre-festival training of any sort, he was just going to wing it. He managed it; from Thursday lunchtime when we stopped at South Mimms services, right through to Monday afternoon, Colin passed no solids. For this Herculean David Blaine-esque example of self-control Colin achieved cult-status among his peers. To this day I don't know why he didn't use any of the department stores in town or even McDonalds early in the morning. I also would not have wanted to happen upon the cubicle he used in South Mimms on the way home either...
(mersault, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 9:05, 7 replies)

Reading below about knife-fork-spoon
I am currently locked into a battle of wills with one (or more) of my housemates. Our cutlery tray doesn't quite fit in the drawer, meaning there's either a gap at the front or the back. Whenever I do the washing up or unload the dishwasher, I put all the cutlery away in the tray and all the "extra" items like the can opener, garlic press and pizza slicer at the back of the drawer - my logic being that nine times out of ten whenever I open that drawer I am wanting a knife, spoon or fork. It's handy having them right in front of you. Now one (or more) of my housemates seems to think that the pizza slicer etc. should be at the front of the drawer and all the cutlery at the back, so I'll open the drawer to find that they've moved everything...To which the only response is for me to move it all back again.

This has been going on for about 8 months now, with no signs of abating.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 9:00, 15 replies)

Toilet flushing
As soon as I've flushed the loo I have to immediately get out of the room, otherwise I get serious heebie jeebies.
(Freakmandu, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 8:38, 7 replies)

Vive la France!
I once knew a girl with the bizarre habit of singing La Marseillaise whenever she had an orgasm. Actually it wasn't really singing, more of a breathy 'ha-ha-hah' but you get the idea. It all started off as a bit of a joke but soon got to the point where she had to sing it whenever she came.

She was Mathilde: she ran the shop at the campsite in France where I was working as a courier for one of those fancy camping holiday firms, where the luxury tent is already put up for you when you arrive. We'd started flirting from the moment we met and after a week or so were shagging whenever the opportunity arose. She was beautiful, had long, wavy brunette hair and a body that an entire platoon of Foreign Legion soldiers would desert for. Our favourite sex location was in an old barn on the campsite where I'd put some blankets over a heap of hay, just under an open window, as it was very hot that summer.

I was lucky enough to be there in 1989, the 200th anniversary of the French Revolution, and all the Frenchies were going wild. National symbols were everywhere, and the hunt was on to find 'Marianne', a symbol of the revolution, usually depicted as a pretty girl with a revolutionary cap and her breasts bared. The campsite owner had decided to put on a barbecue, dancing and then fireworks, like most of the rest of France.

After the meal and a little dancing, Mathilde and I sneaked off to the barn for some drunken celebratory shagging before the fireworks began. The disco and the tables for the barbecue were in the yard in front of the barn, just below our window, but the music was loud and we thought no one would be looking our way while they were still dancing. She was on top, and had tied her hair up in a loose bun to stop it drooping over me.

Mathilde, squirming on top of me, soon started to come. Now I don't know whether it was her nationalistic pride, revolutionary fervour, or simply a bottle of cheap red wine, but this time she started to sing La Marseillaise at the top of her voice, really singing the words out loud instead of her normal breathy panting. She strained upwards, her delightful breasts thrusting forwards. She sat up straight, appearing like a vision in the window of the barn. At that very moment the music stopped, a huge firework went off behind the barn, and the entire campsite, gathered in the yard below, turned to look up.

Two hundred drunk french campers saw this vision of beauty, perfectly lit by the lights from the disco, her bare breasts gleaming, brunette hair cascading round her shoulders, the unfolding bun on her head looking a little like a revolutionary cap, loudly declaring their national anthem, and they stood up as one and joined in, saluting her and calling 'Marianne, elle vit!'.

We were both beyond the point of no return, the fireworks were going off around us, and with the huge chorus below, yelling La Marseillaise at the tops of their voices, Mathilde nobly carried on to the end, ending with Abreuve nos sillons ! to which the campsite responded with the traditional 'pom pa-pom'. At that moment someone had the presence of mind to switch the lights off and we disappeared from view. The campers ooh-ed and aah-ed at the fireworks, apparently thinking that she had been an additional show put on by the campsite owner. We crouched down beneath the window, got dressed, and sneaked back down to the party.

Next day everyone got up late, mostly nursing hangovers. Mathilde was in the shop as usual, selling croissants and pains au chocolats, and receiving many strange looks as people struggled to put two and two together. The campsite owner came in, gave her a big hug, and told her she was a star and that her idea had been wonderful; could she do it every year on National Day? Disappointingly, my part in the whole affair was never acknowledged.
(Smale is stuffed, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 8:24, 11 replies)

Angles...
everything has to be at either 45, 90 or 180 degrees to things so they all line up or look like paving slabs...

if they dont I have to straighten them....crazy paving does my head in!
(Lip Up Fatty Fatty Reggae still loves BBQ food on, Mon 5 Jul 2010, 7:53, Reply)

Regarding my girlfriend
My girlfriend and I once went out for a cup of coffe. She knows I'm obsessed with my new iPad I got a few months ago. She says to me, "I know you like that but I'm here so you have someone to talk to." I looked up and said, "It's either I play with my iPad or I masturbate on you at home. You pick." There was a soft silence and she said, "Play with your iPad." WIN!!
(ami2weird4u I have 10 penises., Mon 5 Jul 2010, 6:43, 23 replies)