A work colleague came back from a skiing/snowboarding trip

Said that someone there had gone to do a jump and basically landed at a 45 degree angle, pushing both his shin bones through his knee caps.

I don't think skiing's for me :o/
( Turquoise Hexagon Sun has just dropped acid on, Sun 8 Sep 2013, 13:13, 2 replies)

Dr. Shambolic.

(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Sun 8 Sep 2013, 11:38, 2 replies)

b3ta

( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Sun 8 Sep 2013, 11:26, 2 replies)

Using a room after a smelly person
It seemed everything was conspiring against me: no other free rooms, hot, sunny weather, unopenable window, no AC.

In such situations one says to oneself that one is strong, one is resourceful, one can get used to it after a while.

After 5 minutes I was still reacting like someone was tickling the back of my throat with a used tampon wrapped in a crusty's sock dipped in dog shit.

Smelly person was, naturellement, French.
(roysin, Sun 8 Sep 2013, 1:05, 11 replies)

Another Shocking Tale
This is one that should be told as a Lurid Work Story, but it's no myth: it happened about a week before I started at the company in question. I saw the scars, both physical and emotional, on the people who worked there.

As part of the apprenticeship I mentioned in "Hot Steel Suicide", in South Africa, I was seconded to other parts of the company, and this was the last such secondment, to a subsidiary on a different site. This was a company which used massive arc furnaces to smelt metals to produce specialised alloys. When all the furnaces were going at full whack - which was most of the time - the place used as much electric power as a medium-sized town (they said).

Slightly techie bit: the electricity comes in via 33kV (high voltage) lines, and is fed in to massive transformers (bigger than shipping containers) where it is stepped down to a much lower voltage (200-300V) but at a MUCH higher current. A 220V kettle draws around 9 amps, but the current going to each furnace was measured in hundreds of kiloamps, with solid steel beams as conductors (basically). The transformer power handling capacity was measured in megawatts (MW), and occasionally one would blow up spectacularly (but safely, since they were away from people).

So here's the scene: a furnace is offline, and a team needs to work on top of a transformer. They have safety procedures, and so the high voltage side is isolated, tested, and tested again. No-one's going to get shocked today. You'd think.

The problem was this: a welder, with an electric arc welding machine, is fixing a flaw on the low voltage side - those massive steel conductors I mentioned. And those are still connected to the transformer. So the low voltage from the welder gets stepped *up* to a high voltage, which is then fed in to the people working on top of the transformer. The current was fairly low, but it doesn't take much current to hurt people. One was killed, and three more suffered burns and injuries by falling off, including the supervisor.

I guess that's how safety procedures evolve: by trial and error. It did cast a shadow on my time there, made worse by my immediate boss having severe health problems and dying of cancer not long after I left. That and the sheer filth of the place. They actually hired me after my apprenticeship was over, but I lasted only a couple of years before I said "sod it" returned to the UK.
(Tsukemono, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 20:35, 22 replies)

BARRY!
(I just wrote this out for something else, but realised that with a little intro and postscript I can force it into this week's question. This was Barry Roach's day at work, remember.)

12 seconds into the second half of Southend's game today, Morecambe scored. Two minutes after that, we're all miserable and aware that it's just going to be one of those days, we're not going to win. And then there was a break in play. The ground was silent. And I wondered if it would be possible to get their goalkeeper to react. so I shouted his name in the silence.

"BAAAARRRRYYY!"

I was sure I saw him nearly turn round. Just a twitch. But I assumed I was wrong. Until I realised someone else must have seen it too. A shout came out frome somewhere to my left. "BAAAAARRRRRYYYY!".

And then a few seconds later, from somewhere behind me. "BAAAAAARRRRRRYYYYY!". From somewhere else, "BAAAAARRRRYYYYY!". from me, "BAAAARRRRYYYY!". from somewhere to my right, "BAAAARRRYYYY!". And then Barry Roach turned round and smiled at us. I assumed I'd be the only one to do this, but as I did at least three other voices yelled "MADE YOU LOOK!"

Then someone shouted "Barry, I love you!" and it escalated.

For the entire second half. In no particular order, my favourite shouts: "Barry, You're my hero', "Barry, you kicked that ball good", "Barry, What did you have for breakfast?", and, actually in particular order because it's by far my favourite, , "Barry, Dance for me like Louis Spence."

My only regret is that after he pulled a corner out of the air and someone shouted "Barry, you're breaking my heart" I didn't think until i was on the train home that I should have shouted "Barry, you're shaking my confidence daily".

(Also, there were some lurid things said. See, told you I could make it fit.)
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 20:02, 8 replies)

Hot Steel Suicide
My first real job after school was as an apprentice in a steel factory in South Africa. The process could be roughly divided in to four parts: smelting of iron in blast furnaces, conversion to steel in the steel mill (basic oxygen process), casting in to rough shape, and finally forging or rolling in to the final shape. The iron was transported to the steel mill in huge open pots which crusted over in transit, but the product of the steel mill was pure molten steel, moved around by crane in open pots which didn't crust over. Sometimes large drops of molten steel would fall in to puddles of rainwater (the roof leaked), and it went off like a bomb, shaking the whole building.

You can probably guess where this is going: the story I was told was about a worker who committed suicide by jumping, from a significant height, in to an open pot of molten steel. One counter-intuitive point to note is that molten steel is still steel, nearly 7x as dense as water: the result being that (even at high impact velocity) packages of meat and water don't go "splash", or even "splot", they just go "thud" and float on top.

I don't believe anyone stopped to check whether he survived the actual fall, given that he was soon melting / burning / disintegrating at temperatures exceeding 1500°C. The worst part? That whole vat of steel was contaminated and had to be recycled, costing thousands of Rand.
(Tsukemono, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 19:38, 14 replies)

"Phantom shitter"
Seems to be a common workplace occurrence and also I coined the phrase so fuck off
( spanishfly is so fucking sexy people impersonate him, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 16:48, 9 replies)

An electrical engineer
that I used to work with (he's now retired) was telling me about an experience when he was a callow youth.
He was working up on about the 7th floor where I currently work (a power station - so there's very few people up at that sort of area) and he heard a noise. He popped around the corner and saw a couple of blokes at it, and I don't mean fighting.
They didn't see him as they were a bit too "engrossed", so he went back down to the engineering office to tell his gaffer what he'd seen. The gaffers response being "don't talk such bollocks lad!". Anyway, he persuaded his gaffer to come and look, so that he would be believed - on arriving at the area, the two blokes were still "engrossed" but for one subtle difference - they'd changed ends.

Oh, and they were contractors that had come in to do some specialist work on some the equipment that they had supplied. The company's name? Fairey Engineering.
( social hand grenade I was a lurker before you were a lurker, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 15:02, 1 reply)

I think every office has a 'Phantom Shitter'
You know, that one person who blends in with everyone else. Seems totally normal, even has friends and a social life.

Some of them even post on B3TA.

And then they go into the toilet cubicle and just shit EVERYWHERE.
(Frample Tromwibbler climbs an obstacle like old people fuck, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 14:17, 4 replies)

Not me but a mate has just given me this. Tear to your eye sort of stuff.
I remember one Saturday morning in early autumn, very like this one, a good few years ago, when, in one of my many odd jobs, I had to move a huge amount of those old 3x2 council paving stones with some hulking, silent brute called Frank. It was a back-breaking task, but one which I carried out with the utmost alacrity. Well, I was on a tenner a day! Anyroad, on trip 400 or so to the truck, I ripped off a tremendous fart, with quite alarming ferocity. It really was a cracker, I'm still proud of it to this day. To my surprise, this led to Frank breaking his trappist vow. In the lilting September sun, this huge fella slowly put down his end of the paving flag we were carrying, stood stock still, took off his gloves and stated, in a loud, clear, steady voice "By eck! It's a confident man as does that on a Sat'dee mornin!" I'd never associated farts with confidence before. Me Nan had always referred to them as "letters from shit. To let you know 'e's comin!" However, here Frank stands before me, unwittingly shaking the entire foundations of my world to the core with a simple remark. It was obvious that, when it came to farts, Frank took the more prosaic view. He viewed them as an expression of self-worth, strength, confidence. Frank had provided me with a clear insight into the worldview of blokes, something absent from my upbringing in an all-female household. As this simple, hard-working man put his gloves back on, I'm sure he had no idea that, in many ways, he had played a significant part in my growing up. For one brief, fleeting moment, it felt like I'd had a Father. I owe a lot to Frank and, wherever he is, I wish him well!
( rjmrjm, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 14:04, 1 reply)

Not me but my dad
Used to drive tipper wagons. Big ones like these:

www.apwebbplanthire.co.uk/images/plant/haulage/scaniatipper.jpg

One of the trucks had a hydraulic crane mounted behind the cab allowing the driver to load his own truck, i believe they are called HIAB's. this could be an acronym. they look like this:

www.sbtippers.co.uk/images/theFleet/hiabWagons_large.jpg

One day my dad got back to the yard and parked up. On his way to the office he found the operator of the HIAB had somehow managed to pin himself between the bucket and the body of the tipper and crushed himself to death.

As you can imagine, my dad was a wreck for the next few weeks. I was about 10 at the time and I remember it was the 1st time (of 3 such occasions in my life) that I saw my dad cry.

Apols for lack of funny etc.
(Frample Tromwibbler climbs an obstacle like old people fuck, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 13:59, 8 replies)

Don't sit on chemical drums
I worked in a PCB plating factory for years. One of the production lines used fluorine-based chemistry of some sort (I forget what exactly) to etch off the patterns of circuits on PCBs.

Now, apparently, a new batch of this chemistry was being made up by the chemical company rep and one of our technicians. There are dozens of drum of chemicals being added into the production line - all very heavy hard work.

Chem Co rep, tired, takes a short sit down break on one of the empty drums.
He feels his arse dampen, then itch.
He stands up, and sees that the top of the barrel is wet with the dreaded fluorine-based etchant.

Fluorine compounds can be quite insidious and nasty, as many a chemist will tell you. As it was explained to me, the fluorine ion is small, and can pass through cell membranes without much fuss. It'll move through flesh without damaging it very much, cause it's not too interested in reacting with organic stuff.

Calcium, however, it loves. It'll chew through the calcium in bones, turning them rubbery and floppy.

So Chem Co rep had to be rushed to hospital, and have the flesh of his buttocks cut away to halt the spread of the fluorine to his pelvis.

Arsectomy.
( Invisible Wizard - 10th Level Nerf-herder, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 13:49, 17 replies)

I said I had a couple.
Ewww!!!!!

As I mentioned in my other post I was one of two men working in a facility with nearly two dozen women. Aged from "uni student teens" to "probably should be retired by now". Many of them being really lovely ladies who were really good at their jobs and were absolute sticklers for hygiene and cleanliness. And many who still menstruated.
"Why do you include that particular fact, ringo?" I hear you ask. Well, be patient my dear reader and you'll be sure to find out.

When I started at this site there were two toilets, 1 was used by the ladies who worked there specifically and the other was a "Public Toilet" used also by us blokes. Sounds horribly sexist I know but since the "Ladies" was much bigger, had a shower and was doubly lockable (a slide bolt as well as a door lock compared to our simple door lock) what was I going to whinge about?

When we got a new manager she decided that the larger loo should be for the residents (what with all it's assisted living bar-work) and all of the staff should use the much smaller public lavatory. Seeing as I was the only bloke on staff then I agreed very quickly and decided that I'd have to time my post lunch shit to not coincide with the the ladies toilet needs - what can I say, I'm a sensitive fellow not a Phantom Shitter.
A new addition to the new-old blokes loo was a tampon bin - you know the narrow rectangular plastic bins with the one-way lid that ladies put their "soaked in menstrual blood" pad or tampons in. Once every couple of weeks someone from a "hygiene company" turns up to replace them with clean ones. A bit like water deliveries. Only most of the ladies don't like to watch the bulging muscles of the butch-dyke lady that did the pickups and dropoffs for them in the same way they liked to watch the young, Mediterranean adonis who delivered the water.
Anyhoo.
One day I entered the toilet and just prior to siphoning the python I noted a bloody tampon that had been left in the bowl. Leeching its ova bearing blood into the water of the bowl as the tampon slowly expanded to fill the pipe width. I donned a pair of gloves and placed the offending tampon in the correct receptacle.
I bought it up at the next staff meeting as politely as I could. I mentioned that since our enforced sharing of dunnies I always put the lid down, and the that I always cleaned up any mess. Yet there was someone who didn't realise that there was a container in the toilet specifically for women's hygiene products and was putting them in the toilet.

Not surprisingly no one put their hand up for the crime.
Then our new manager found a "floater" a few weeks later. Later that week at our staff meeting it was raised again. Our new manager mentioned that the issue had been raised before and then pointed out that she herself had experienced it. She asked whoever it was to make sure they wrap their tampons and pads in toilet paper and place them inside the bins provided. She asked if anyone had anything to say or any questions.
I put my hand up and said -
"It wasn't me."
The culprit was never found and she even managed to strike again about a month later.
(s0ckpuppet logging out to reply to you if you're not careful, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 11:27, 1 reply)

The Pie Man
Further to my previous post on this subject, next door to the Precision Engineering Works was a place that made the... stuff... that goes into Steak and Kidney Pies. Meat, allegedly; but it looked like lumpy brown paint, as I found out when I went round to borrow their oxy-acetylene torch kit.

I got to know one of the blokes who worked there; let’s call him Simon, for obvious reasons. He was a big chap with disturbingly large muscly arms, and an incongruously donnish, ascetic face, complete with round wire-framed specs. He had a shy affable manner and we would often lunch on the riverbank, where we would discuss his favourite subject, wrestling. I chummed up with him mainly because he looked like he could handle himself in a fight, unlike the lardoes I worked with, in case the Graff’s ‘Livithian Invincibles’ should come a-calling.

Simon often called round to ask for our help in fixing bits of their machinery. He’d wander in, apron smeared in brown goo and red stains which looked disturbingly like blood, bearing machine parts that needed welding or lubricating or something. We would gladly help out in exchange for pies.

One day by the riverbank Simon seemed quieter than usual. I asked him what was wrong. He sighed and said they’d had to sack Hector, one of their oldest employees, as he kept turning up to work drunk and could not be trusted with the machinery. Oh, I said, that’s sad, how did he take it? Simon replied that Hector had taken it very badly. He had not said a word, but simply walked up to the big vat containing the pie mixture, dropped his trousers and crapped into the slowly rotating slurry.

Oh dear, I said, what a waste of ‘food’! Simon shrugged and said, not really. They figured that the ratio of faeces to pie mix was enough for the latter to sufficiently dilute the former.

Next time Simon wanted a part fixed I politely turned down his offer of a nice hot Steak and Kidney Pie as payment.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 9:55, 1 reply)

Things I have experienced...
1. A railroad worker in a trainyard stepped in between two tanker cars to straighten the couplers so they could be joined properly. The brake on the rear car hadn't been set properly and the car had just been shunted. The load shifted, propelling the car forward and cutting him in half at the waist. The pressure was such that it pretty much liquefied his internal organs, which then spilled out on the track. We found later that he had been the one who was responsible for the improperly set brake.
2. Discovering a dead newborn baby in a garbage bag tossed in a dumpster. Investigation found the teenage mom - who very nearly died of blood loss - and the father - who was also HER father.
3. The man whose neighbours hadn't seen him in two weeks and finally called the police and fire department. He had been dead all that time in a house with the central heating going full blast. The smell was indescribable. We had to borrow respirators from the fire department to even get into the house, and when we did find the body it had actually burst from decomposition. I had to throw my uniform away, and I heard later that the relatives had to have the house completely redone, and remove the flooring and subflooring in the room where he had died.
I do pass these on to the rookies, but never talk about them outside work - except I just did, didn't I?
(Smudge the Demon, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 5:01, 3 replies)

I would love to say that this was all my fault
Alas, we moved into a new building a few years back, and one day came into the office to a very strong and unpleasant odour had filled all 3 floors. Our boss was, to put it mildly, a clueless berk, and immediately decided this was some kind of gas leak which the gas board and fire service should be called to.

We were all duly punted outside, headed round to the pub, and sat there having soft drinks until the all clear was announced.

I will be honest, I initially thought that a prank-loving colleague of mine had shit in the recycling bin, but the truth was that a certain female member of staff had been stuffing her jam rag's down the toilet instead of sticking them in the bin, and over a 2-3 day period, had managed to back them up to the point where the female loo's on each of the 3 floors all emitted a smell of congealed death.

The usual cautionary email was sent round all users, but the clueless berk had no idea who it was, although he was the only person in an office of 95 people who didnt know.
(Kurashima, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 4:22, Reply)

had yer ma

(alright alright, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 2:54, 4 replies)

Pick'n'mix
I work for a cinema, and have a relatively high turnover. So we always have a bit of fun with te newbies. It's a test of their character, lets us see how well they'll fit in with the rest of the staff.

One of our favourite games to play is to send them to stick up the pick'n'mix. The majority of the list will be what we need, but we'll throw in a few made up sweets to see if the newbie is paying attention. One day we took it too far... having added the made up sweets such as marshmallow pillows, tangerine trees, sour trouts, a colleague wrote down clunge buckets at the end of the list. I thought he'd ruined it. I thought there was no way in hell that we were going to get away with this.

30 minutes later the newbie reappeared with the list asking if I could help him to find the clunge buckets. I thought he must have clicked and was winding me up, but no he was being serious. Having realised this I sent in a more experienced member of staff to help him before running away to laugh. 5 minutes later the more experienced member of staff appeared in a fit of uncontrollable laughter proclaiming that the newbie was still looking for the clunge buckets.

I have no idea when the boy gave up looking for them, or if he has ever figured out exactly what clunge bucket really
Means. All I do know is we are evil bastards and I'm okay with that.
(mightneverreachyou, Sat 7 Sep 2013, 0:06, 3 replies)

What's Anti-Semitism among colleagues?
I remember my college professors. There was a big mystery who scrawled anti-Semitic slogans on the office door of one of the Jewish professors. Turned out, it was the professor two doors down, who was also Jewish.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 21:30, 2 replies)

Possibly pearoast, corpse-related
A FOAF* needed a job, so his mate who worked for a funeral director wangled a night shift for him to see if he'd like it. It involved collecting bodies, tidying up the premises and a lot of sitting around playing cards between calls.

The bloke who worked there said 'We can have a laugh on this job!' and took the FOAF round the corpses, lifting shrouds and showing him the women's breasts and the men's genitals and making lewd comments. Then he lifted up one of the smaller women and pretended to dance with her.

At that point, the FOAF was so horrified that he left right away and fled home. He couldn't sleep at night afterwards and had a breakdown, and last we heard (some years back) he was still on the sick and unable to work.

I drive past the same undertakers' most days and still have a shameful snigger to myself.

*that's my son's friend's dad's mate
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 20:45, 4 replies)

The Phantom Crapper ...
Fucksocks' story of the Phantom Shitter dredged 'The Phantom Crapper' from my subconscious....a slight variation on a familiar theme.
Back in the '70s during one summer RD worked in a large corporate HQ close to London with someone who later a B-list musician, producer and DJ. Usual stuff from back then... deliver this to that floor, count that, check this for 8 weeks for a pound-an-hour.
B-lister came back from the toilets and said 'Go an' 'ave a shifty in cubicle 3!" which I did. I've never seen anything like it, before or since. A hard tar-black turd about 18" long and about 4" in diameter sitting up proudly in the bowl at an angle of about 70° like a surface-to-air missile. No attempt to smash it up or flush it away had been made and nor did I attempt a demolition job and we left it for the cleaners.
The Phantom Crapper struck more or less weekly, Wednesdays or Thursdays as I recall. Always the same M.O but on various floors of the giant building. I never found out who it was and never returned to the summer job. Weird shit, Grayson Perry would have been proud of it but was it Art?
(Roger Darce sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 18:56, 3 replies)

A while back
I used to work for a large investment bank. My team looked after data feeds from the front office, where all the high paid barrow boys work, and back office, where people actually work. As the IT support people were elsewhere in the building, it wasn't always possible to contact them by phone, so we had implemented an instant messaging system that would hit them with a console message wherever they were. It was dead handy, but, as with all "dead handy" things, it got abused.

The rot set in with collating the bets for the office betting pool every other morning without it being obvious what was going on, went on to "organising trips to the strip clubs on Whitechapel Road", and slowly degraded into something that was taking up a lot of time. It was the "text-based fantasy spice girl mud wrestling" that got us into trouble. Unbeknownst to us, the office grass (who disapproved seriously of the betting pool) was logging everything, and the aforementioned TBFSGMW was, as he saw it, his chance of glory. Especially the bit Jim added where "the girl from HR with the big tits" joined in and the whole thing turned into a rather fun text-based fantasy lesbian romp. He duly logged the lot and turned it over to, of course, the girl from HR with the big tits.

Somehow we didn't eventually get fired - the girl from HR obviously had a sense of humour and had expunged the more gory bits before passing it upstream to management - although it was a close run thing and the meeting to discuss what sanctions should be applied was, shall we say, "stony" (although, once it was over, the boss indicated he knew the logs had been sanitised, and that he found the whole thing rather amusing). The chat server had to go, obviously, which was a shame.

The office grass suddenly found himself excluded from daily life, and within a week he asked for, and was granted, a transfer to another team. He handed in his resignation within a month; everyone in the building knew what had happened (and although several were slightly miffed not to have been invited onto our "private" chats, his new teammates were pretty much all disgusted that he had dobbed us in) so he took his pariah status with him.

And the girl from HR with the big tits started coming to the pub with us. But not the strip joints on the Whitechapel Road. She was definitely fun, but Jim got the lesbian bit wrong.
(m.auron, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 18:54, 4 replies)

I’ve worked in some risky jobs in the past including heavy industry and underwater demolitions. Sure enough some other people have come to grief, sometime permanently, but I wanted to write something about ME ME ME.

I’ve been wracking my brains for the worst work related injury I’ve had and all I can think of is the time I cleared a paper jam from the office copier with too much of a flourish and gave myself a paper-cut on the end of my nose.

It really really stung.
(Brigadier an old boot sitting on a man's face - forever, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 18:15, 4 replies)

We
have a few incidents in recent years of "toilet troubles" at work. The stink of piss in hidden corners usually. But one of the unusual ones was one of the lasses finding, in the Ladies toilets, a steaming turd in the Tampon bin.

Nice.
( social hand grenade I was a lurker before you were a lurker, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 18:13, 1 reply)

More knocking shop shenanigans
My friend Jim used to live in London, Westminster to be precise. He got to know a lot of the local people, including the proprieter of a "high-class" brothel that catered to a number of well-known names, including some serving MPs.

One day when I was visiting him, we got talking about the brothel. He said that as he was on such good terms with the madam, we would be able to go and visit to have a look around if we wanted. This would have been a good offer at any time, but six pints of cider down and it seemed like the best idea ever.

So he led me down a back street, and we knocked at an unmarked door. We were warmly greeted by Madam Charlotte. Jim evidently wasn't lying when he said he knew her as they spent a good ten minutes catching up and having a surreally normal conversation.

Sat in the office, Charlotte told us that we were welcome to go on a tour, but that we weren't to open any closed doors for obvious reasons. However, she told us with a knowing smile, there was a secret passage past some of the rooms, and due to the two-way mirrors we would be able to catch a glimpse of the goings-on therein.

Sworn to absolute silence, we tiptoed down the hidden corridor. The first room was empty, but I still took a minute to take in the decor: lots of red velvet, an expensive-looking chandelier and one wall made up entirely of a (normal) mirror.

At the next room we were greeted by a frankly disturbing sight - a very much larger lady sitting on the face of a man who, judging by the pin-striped suit littering the floor, was some sort of banker or other City high-flyer.

The next room was far more normal, a beautiful and well-presented young lady was pleasuring a gentleman using conventional methods, although she did seem to be very good at it.

The fourth room was quite a shock. There were two men in there, and on the bedside table there was a lot of white powder, some of it cut into lines. One man had black, curly hair but I couldn't see his face as he was fellating the other man, who looked somehow familiar. After a minute or so, I realised who the fellatee was. I had seen him being interviewed on Newsnight barely a week previously. I was witnessing a senior government minister being serviced by a man, in a whorehouse. I won't name him as he's still in office and I imagine that there would be quite a fuss if it came out, so to speak.

Anyway, the biggest shock was still to come. The kneeling man stood to walk over to the bedside table to powder his nose, and he also looked familiar. He turned round after beaking his line and there was no doubt, it was Velvet Undergroundist Lou Reed!

The cider was starting to sit uneasily in my stomach, so we decided to leave. As we were leaving, Jim said to me, "I told you you'd see some sights, didn't I?"

"Well yes," said I, "but I never would have guessed that Lou Reed works Tories".
(Eukanuba, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 17:54, 15 replies)

Sex at the office.
My brother told me that he found out that a couple of his colleagues had UNPROTECTED sex in a tiny meeting room in his office whilst there were some in-office after work drinks taking place a few weeks ago.

He said that the pair involved was fully naked and banging away like rabbits on the sofa in the tiny meeting room. The lady involved, when recounting the story to my brother and others, was proud to say that the man shot his load inside her twice and he shot a load on the sofa too.

Staff appraisals are conducted in the tiny meeting room and, more often than not, I am informed that the managers sit next to the other employees on the sofa and not at the meeting table. The sofa is made from cotton-like material so the spunk will have sunk right into it and been wholeheartedly absorbed...allow with any other incidental fluids.
(iamdoingapooasisignup, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 17:09, 7 replies)

I knelt on a drawing pin once....
Lived to tell the tale.

Sadly.
(Barnetboy, Fri 6 Sep 2013, 16:50, Reply)