In Australia I can't afford the heroic quantities of massive drugs ya'll can hover up
When I get to the UK...that may change

Hmmmmm hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...drugs
(lemonadegame, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 4:52, 3 replies)

My Boss...
... cannot physically smoke. At all. One night after a shift in the bar I work at myself and one of the girls I work with were sharing a joint when he came outside drunk as a skunk and demanded some. He took a drag but couldnt bring himself to inhale and just blew it out. My workmate offered to give him a blowback, so put the joint inbetween her lips, cupped her hands round her mouth and his and told him to just breathe in on the count of three.
One...two...three...
He immediately puked in her face. The joint was ruined too.

As a side note, bosses brother (a chef, no less) also works with us and had never smoked weed before either. He came to my house for a smoke and asked if he could roll a joint, I was dubious and asked if he even knew how. His answer?
"Yeah. Well, I can make spring rolls."
I can clarify that line is a lot funnier when fatigued/drunk/stoned.
(Formaly Over say's hello, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 3:37, Reply)

Pot
I'm very ambivalent about pot. I first tried it during my fresher year at uni (yeah, I know) having avoided it up until then. It had never impressed me - looking like a bunch of people sitting about apathetically, dozy and stupid. But once I moved away I fancied trying all sorts so I gave it a go, and really liked it. It made music and books much more vivid, in a here-and-now kind of way - I could never really remember what I'd been thinking about when reading, unlike when straight, so although I read a lot, it didn't really help my studying. I didn't smoke vast amounts - a quarter to a half a week (some I knew smoked about an ounce a week) - but it was always a given. But thanks to pot I spent many fun hours talking nonsense, listening to music (which was so VIVID, man!) and idling time away so comfortably.

Until then I had been an energetic, can-do kind of guy but with pot my horizons shrank (going to the vending machines became a day's highlight), and I became timid and found it difficult to be at ease with people I didn't know well. I grew increasingly depedent on it, and more and more of my actions were based around it - and my friends were doing much the same, so it became all we did.

Eventually it led to ectasy, shrooms and acid, which is where it all went pete tong. Too much of that just isn't good for you, and typically I overdid them. So now I haven't smoked pot regularly for nearly ten years. Eventually I shook off the lethargy and timidity that plagued me in my early 20s and I now feel so much better for it. Pot does have its good points, but I regret all the time I spent doing nothing. My student days should have been so much more fruitful and rewarding, instead of me skulking in my room with a j in my hand re-reading old books and wanking.

But every time I have a drink, I still think, "I could murder a joint".
(McChinaman banned, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 2:49, 2 replies)

Once smoked a pipe at a party, turned out to have heroin in it, I was violently sick for hours, never assume it's just pot, kids.
A friend got a space birthday cake once, there was about a full henry in just the chocolate icing, it smelt amazing, we all had a piece, it tasted amazing. Then we couldn't move, then we got the munchies real bad, then all there was was more cake, this went on all night! After much giggles it became the quietest party I've ever attended, all we did was look at each other and breath. It took 3 days just to come back to Earth.

I used to live a short ride away from Amsterdam, I spent every weekend there, this was after I'd long since lost my Brit mentality of beating closing time by speedy ingestion of everything I could afford, as it seems there aren't any closing hours in the rest of Europe, so I was a good boy and never over did it, but then you end up in other countries where it's illegal to even be a good boy and they may wanna piss test you (if you got a hippy haircut like I have it's not uncommon), not a problem, you just say you were in Amsterdam last weekend! You could even get mushrooms legally there and any country within driving distance couldn't touch you. Happy times.

I would invite friends over from England at the time, fellow spliffers, due to the unique way our public transport system is funded it was often much cheaper for them to book a flight to my gaffe in Brussels than a trip to, say, Scarborough. Probably still is. Cos they were used to the stuff they got in England they would always, against my strongest advice, always get the strongest stuff, meaning each friend without fail, spent their first day puking up in a gutter for an hour or three. Fun times!

Happily if you needed to stay in for prolonged periods of time you could order a party by courier. It was called Pizza Delivery. You not only could get the pizza and beer quite legally over there, you could also unofficially get prize weed fresh from an Amsterdam cafe brought to your door along with the same delivery. You didn't even have to leave the house. And if too many friends arrived and you ran out, one more phone call, more at the door. Great times!

I got plenty more stories, if there's any recreational drug I haven't tried at some point in my life I don't know about it, but if I go on I'll sound like a right druggy chav, which I ain't. Don't even touch grass now. No saint like.

Everything in moderation kids, and remember, we did it first, so when you discover it, bear in mind everyone older than you has been through teenhood and probably done twice as much for 4 times as long, and that includes sex, try not to think you invented it love, alright?
( ..wil, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 1:27, Reply)

Reading 98
Standing there watching Beastie Boys and fellow festival goer hands me a jazz ciggie

Cue MASSIVE panic attack induced by whatever the fuck was in it and i had to be led away by my pal to recover in my tent.


Lenght ?- nearly a long brown streak
(shug, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 23:46, Reply)

I once (my big sis told me the next day about my behavior) apparenlty, while stoned drunk and pilled up tried to chat a woman up; fair enough except I was only 14 and was 40ish and askin someone if "they feel like f**ckin as well?" isnt known as a sophisticated line :)
(SpIrItZ420 If alcohol isn't the answer...fuckit, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 23:46, Reply)

Granny's House
By 1999 I had stayed at so many friend's houses in London that after two years of blagging it from sofa to sofa the only place left to stay was Granny's house. I was staying for a week and on day three I got up with the inevitable hangover and went looking for paracetamol in the kitchen. Sure enough there was a blister pack of pills and I popped three of the fuckers to sort my head out.

I was working as a Runner on a pouncy Indie film and felt profoundly weird, by lunch time I was shaking pretty badly and not feeling great. After the shoot in Euston I had to drive the van with the camera kit back, pulling out of the car park I hit a parked car pretty badly, denting in the side door. Then scrapped the van on the way out and finally 10 miles north of London I destroyed the gear box by driving so badly. The very annoyed art director sent me home and told me not to bother coming back. When I got back to Granny's she was there in the kitchen looking concerned, it was then she told me that I had taken her HRTs.
(Riggleberry, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 23:42, 1 reply)

A friend once said to me
My wife didn't know I was a cokehead until one day I came home straight*.

*stolen/adapted from a famous line about alcoholism
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 22:04, Reply)

MMM Legal drugs
(Slightly of topic but ho hum)

Well having the pain in the arse disease that is crohn's I am lucky enough to sample the best that the NHS and occasionally BUPA has to offer, of many legal and often mind bending drugs, usually whilst having cameras forced into my, now all to often abused brown bat cave.

Whilst becoming my own discovery channel special a number of highly embarassing moments ensued, well more embarrasing than being lubed up and having a good 4 foot of endoscope inside me whilst i was being inflated like a lilo.

I decided, as you do, to make small talk with my long suffering doctor whilst he abused my insides. Whilst watching the screen with my insides being shown on (thank god it wasnt HD) we arrive at what appears to be a brown lump and before i can say anything my doctor chips in "Oooh and theres a bit of poo" in a massively patronising voice. Excellent now my doctor and 2 unfortunatly quite hot nurses had seen my poo INSIDE ME.

Not to worry the camera was expertly manouvered around the offending log and the journey into my insides was continued. So now for more small talk.

"Its not uncomfortable is it?"
"No actually its not too bad, I mean hell some people do this for fun dont they."

At which point one nurse stifles a giggle, and the doctor fixes me with a very serious stare and says "We are definatly not doing this for fun though are we!?"

Heavier and less embarrasing sedation next time please.

lenght? oooh a good few feet
(bumless The man with the hole in the middle, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 21:59, 1 reply)

Why I don't touch owt stronger than coffee...
Not very funny.
I have a stepbrother, much older. Poor blokes had a thoroughly shit upbringing, his Dad got his mum pregnant and buggered off before she met my Dad. Around his 20's he had various breakdowns, and became paranoid schizophrenic. Kept under control with prescription drugs, even managed to hold down a job for a bit.
Few years back our half brother died, since then he's gone a bit to pieces. Drinking heavily, and wound up in a bad crowd, including various dealers who started using his flat for "business". Obviously mentally ill chap + massive drugs is a pretty poor combination. Went to see him at his flat once, it was utterly revolting.
Last year he got arrested for an assault. Whether he did it or not is unknown, we strongly suspect it was a fit up by one of said dealer types, but he was so out of it he hasn't got a clue. Whilst on bail awaiting trial he drank more and more, and possibly worse. Wound up with two years prison, which has actually turned out the best thing that has happened-he's now not drinking, and getting various adult literacy classes etc.
Whay am I posting this? It's the other side of drugs, legal or otherwise. An already crap life completely fucked by drink. Above all, the abuse of a vulnerable bloke by the dealers.
( Greenbat, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 21:47, 2 replies)

My brother...
...got in to a cab, rather late in the evening shall we say, and said to the girl sitting opposite "Hey baby where you from?"

It was his then girlfriend of 4 years or so.
(grizzlybadums, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 20:55, 3 replies)

pea, again, sorry
Mrs Spimf can’t do drugs...

not at all, she’s tried coke a few times and it always went like this...

"Want some of this coke baby?"

"No I cant, I cant, I really cant"

"Sure?"

"Well maybe just a wee bit"

Snnnnnnnnnnnnnnort!

FFW 6 hours... and we have a raging Hoover nosed maniac with one eye going to the shops and the other one coming back with the change - demanding more sex, coke,porn,sex,coke,porn - you get the picture. She even got so off her face on a bottle of poppers at T in the Park she had to be carried a good mile or so back to the bloody tent. But that's just the preamble...

A good few years back we went to a really nice hotel in a wee fishing village in Scotland - Portpatrick to be precise. With some time to kill before dinner, lolling around in our room, I decide to roll a joint.

"Want to try some hash babes"

"No I can't smoke"

"You can eat it though"

"Hmmm? Ok - not much though!"

A small piece of hash the size of a pea is consumed then we took the dogs for a walk along the beach. Drugs? No effect. An hour later there we are in the rather posh hotel bar, Mrs Spimf in a LBD looking leggy, demure and pretty damn hot.

"Would you like a drink before dinner darling”?

"Yes, sherry please"

Now I don’t know what sort of fucked up constitution my Mrs has but it would seem a tiny speck of cannabis can lie dormant in her tumblyboos until one small sherry is sloshed down there, then it begins...

Giggling - fair enough
Talking Pish - fair enough
Sudden loss of short term memory resulting is said pish being repeated on loop - fair enough
Attempt to get off bar stool and go to the loo resulting in KO style collapse in the middle of the room - erm no.

To make matters even better she had landed smack on the floor at the owner’s feet who was chatting with her daughter. Soon revived and seemingly now ok (ish) while rubbing a slight bump on her head, Mrs Spimf (brilliantly) explains to the hotel owner she might have had an adverse reaction to some prescription medicine. Owner promptly offers to call a doctor; she even offered to act as a witness in the lawsuit she had conjured from nowhere that was going to 'ruin' the 'idiot' doctor that would prescribe such powerful drugs without proper warning. Suddenly Mrs Spimf is fine and dandy again so we decide to proceed with dinner. She's now hungry - celle surprise! A sip of wine and a nibble at her starter and she’s off again. Talking pish, swaying about, stuck on a Groundhog Day loop - the lot!

Tits.

Quietly, I ask the waiter if he could sent the rest of the food up to the room and try to make as dignified an exit as one can with Ken Fucking Dodd in a cocktail dress waving and belming to a room full of bemused diners. So there we are back in the room - immediately Mrs Spimf strips naked. No idea why, the only thing I was intending eating at that point was my bloody steak, which was supposedly on its way up.

Knock knock - "room service"

"Come in" coos my idiot bloody wife, naked as a Tory MP in a boys dormitory.

The poor bloke trundles in with a splendid tray of delights, complete with comedy silver dome things on them. Give him his due he barely batted an eyelid as I hastily tried to cover my mad as a bat butt naked wife. He left with a smirk and large tip. After ten minutes of watching my wife struggling to use cutlery (she seemed to be knitting an imaginary scarf from invisible wool) I suggested at that point she might well be better in bed. So in she pops.

Thank. Fuck! Peace at last. Just as I finish my steak the convulsions start. Yes fucking convulsions.

Su-fucking-perb.

So there she is: Portpatrick's answer to Jon Belushi writhing around in bed like Linda Blair's epileptic understudy. After some 'discussion' Mrs Spimf decides it is in fact...

"Nothing to do with the drugs - it must have been when I hit my head"

She then panics - decides she has a 'brain clot' from her tumble earlier (I had a few choice words on that one). Nevertheless Mrs Spimf demands a doctor be summoned.

"Head injuries must be investigated!"

So there I am - no choice. I called the owner and asked if she could discreetly request a local doctor give us a quick call just to reassure my idiot wife she is not destined to spend the remainder of her days communicating with one eyebrow. Ten minutes later an ambulance with full blues and twos rocks up.

Fuck.

All too soon the paramedics enter the room, along with the bloody owner and her daughter as well for good measure. After I managed to tactfully ask them to get the fuck out I had a quite word with the paramedic.

"Don’t think its the bump to the head mate" (looks around conspiratorially) "she's actually eaten a little bit of cannabis"

Paramedic looks confused,

"How much"

"Erm maybe enough for two fairly miserly joints"

Paramedic scratches head.

"What’s she doing eating it - your supposed to smoke it, at least that's what I do (winks), having said that if she's had a bump to the head we should maybe take her in for observation"

Tits.

So they go to lift the pale and shaking Mrs Spimf out of bed

"Wait!"

"She’s naked"

"Oh right, fine where are her clothes"

I gather up the frilly black undies, stockings heels and LBD and realise the chances of getting her dressed without more drama were, to even the most optimistic observer, bugger all.

"Fuck it, wrap her up in the duvet, I’ll take the clothes with me"

And so they did. Then popped her on a little chair with wheels affair and lifted her up....

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" cries my lunatic wife - "I'M SCARED OF HEIGHTS!!!!"

"Erm your only about 6 inches off the floor love"

"OH? ...Well it felt a lot higher"

*faceplams*

So we process through the hotel lobby - the entire staff and guests it would seem had now lined up to see the drama unfolding with 'my lovely wife' now back on a high waving like a mong on a day trip to a window factory.

Kill me now, please God - end this now.

So we sat in the ambulance - it was at least 40 minutes to the nearest A&E. Mrs Spimf cracking jokes all the way. Me sitting there with a face like thunder. They treated Mrs Spimf and I like we had been up all night smearing methadone on a baby, they grilled me on what she had 'actually taken' then eventually they let us home at around 3 am. So on top of the cost of the fancy hotel, meal and a ruined LBD, the taxi back to the hotel cost nearly 50 quid - about 15 years ago.

I don't allow my wife drugs anymore. Muppet.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 20:35, 10 replies)

Scared.
Am I the only one here who is really scared of drugs?

Never done em as they terrify me... I was 14 when the Leah Betts thing happened. The pic of her lying dead on a hospital bed was shown to us about 400 times a day. It scared me off drugs for life!

Can't say the same for booze, which I do indeed partake in and I know that it kills more people... No logic really.
(Just a girl., Sun 19 Sep 2010, 19:57, 27 replies)

My kids found a handbag at the seaside so I did the 'Now we honest people will take it to the police station so the owner can claim it' thing.
The kids looked inside in case there was anything valuable and, ooer, there it was, a large lump of cannabis resin, neatly marked off ready for sale.

'What's this, Mum?' they asked. I explained and they passed it around curiously.

The bag contained benefit books for a woman and her kids. Looked like she'd been selling the stuff and perhaps had her handbag stolen, and her purse taken and the bag chucked over the sea wall.

There was no address for where she was staying so I couldn't get the bag back to her directly, and to get new benefit books she'd have to prove she'd reported the old ones lost.

So we took the bag with contents intact to the police station, where the kids watched the woman on the desk itemise it all.

Felt sorry for the woman who owned the bag, and I could have kept the cannabis so the woman wouldn't get arrested when she turned up for the bag. But I didn't use it - I don't even smoke - and my kids needed me to set a good example. I wasn't about to cover up for a drug dealer or pocket the stuff in front of them.

Poor woman, I bet she was in a world of trouble.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 19:02, Reply)

Only users
lose drugs.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 17:35, Reply)

Only today
a salient example appeared in my inbox on facebook of why it is that (barring an annual indulgence in a bit of MDMA at a certain event) I don't have any time for drugs, massive or otherwise. Specifically weed.

I'm pretty anti the stuff, inasmuch as I think it makes people boring and can do a lot more damage than it's given credit for (perhaps not an appropriate phrase, but you know what I mean.) I smoked a bit at sixth form and in the year before uni, but I grew out of it. Maybe I'm just lucky enough not to have an addictive personality, but I can't see the attraction of getting so monged out you can't talk or move and you lose hours and hours of your life that you could have spent, y'know, having fun or making new friends or something.

There's more to it than that, though. I'm no expert at classification or whatnot but it's always seemed odd that something like ecstasy - which as long as it's pure and you don't act like a bellend with it isn't going to have any long-term effects whatsoever - is supposed to me more risky than a psychoactive than can permanently fuck you up mentally. My younger brother's best friend killed himself at the age of 20 after suffering from cannabis psychosis. Think about that. A young human life sniffed out and a family devastated because of a supposedly harmless drug.

Back to the salient point, though. Got a message on facebook from a lad I was good friends with at school called Paul. He was smart, funny, bright, a really good cricketer and a good friend, if a bit daft. He'd done well in his A levels and went off to Leeds to study politics.

But then Paul got into weed, in a big way. A couple of other boys from our school went there too, and from what they reported he spent most of his first year permanently stoned or one some other substance. Failed his first year and had to resit - no biggie, happens to a lot of people. Paul doesn't learn though, and keeps on smoking - now he's dealing a bit too. He stops going out. His friends drift away, his flatmates end up kicking him out for not paying rent. Paul starts acting a bit strange. He turns up to his old friend's house in the middle of the night, laughing and talking to himself. He accuses another friend of stealing from him. He changes his name by deed poll. The boys from the group really put in a lot of time with him, trying to include him, being patient when he got violent or delusional but after a few years and an incident where he destroyed the kitchen, broke the windows and threatened the mother of his best friend, they more or less washed their hands of him.

He came from a really close-knit family, and understandably this was hell for them too. In the year when he should have graduated he's forced to move back home and work in his dad's garden centre. We think it might be good, a fresh start, nice environment away from bad influences etc, but by then it was too late. He attacked his own father with a knife in front of his young sister and gets arrested, where he's assessed by a psychiatrist and committed, whereupon they discover he's a paranoid schizophrenic.

Paul's been in and out of this institution for six years now. He will never get better. He will very probably never hold down a job, find a partner or live independently. The message he has just sent the few of us who've remained in any kind of touch over the years is to inform us that he is in fact a powerful archangel called Aaron Amadeo who is able to communicate directly with God and the Prince of Darkness. If it wasn't violating his privacy I'd post it verbatim so you could see exactly how sad and frightening it is inside the head of a schizophrenic. This is someone I remember as a happy lad who was really going somewhere in life and is now irreversibly fucked-up because of weed. The worst thing is, he's not even the only person I knew who this has happened to - two boys in my final year of uni were committed (and one of them remains so) to asylums as well, all because of Massive Drugs. Sigh.

And that's why I hate weed.

At any rate, I am an impossibly perfect and superior being who is above such gross mortal indulgences. In fact, I'm so disgusted at the idea of being so pathetically dependent on chemicals to have a good time that I'm off to the pub.

Tara.
(jennymnemonic, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 15:57, 24 replies)

Smoking a spliff last night while playing Tennis on the Wii with some mates
got a little exuberant with a backhand and smashed the joint right out of my hand and across the room.

My mates had only just moved in as well. They didn't mind too much that I'd just burnt their new carpet.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 15:38, Reply)

My friend was so drunk
I sold him an empty rolled up rizla for five pounds, he lit it and burned his eyebrows.

I love dealing drugs.
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 14:30, Reply)

Yet another Pea
Global gathering is fucking shite. I found this after I got a free ticket to it...

It is for this reason that I decided on taking copious amounts of mind grenade type disco biscuits, despite quitting over a year ago, in order to pass the time more effectively. Which as it turns out was a bit of a crap idea.

During this time my girlfriend had to look after me, and to this day she still says she hated me a bit that night...

A few excerpts include, getting into a fight with a chav who shouted 'Why don't you go back to freak town!?' at me for wearing a wizard hat and kimono... She admits this looked hilarious, as it consisted of me in technicolour outfit, hair and beard, scuffling half heartedly with an increasingly concerned chav, whilst shouting about not having the train fare.... For some reason.

In a crowded bar, going to put my arm out to rest on the wall, and falling, due to the lack of wall there, a la Delboy style. This too was apparently, very funny.

Trying to break my way on to the bungee jumping crane and being wrestled away from it by the steward.

Having a full conversation with my girlfriend about what she does for a living and how weird that was, because 'that's what my girlfriend does!'.

Finding myself in the middle of a circle of people, shouting and cheering whilst a randomer tackled me to the floor and ran away. I have no idea what that was about. Nor how I got there. Neither does she.

At 8 in the morning on the Monday, arguing with her and having to get a passer by to clarify that in fact, yes it is Monday morning, and no there are no more bands. And that, yes we have already seen Hadouken, they were shit and will not be playing again today.

Never go to global..
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 13:58, 1 reply)

My boss couldn't inhale
and wanted to get stoned so I made him cupcakes from some hash he gave me. What the hell was in that stuff I don't know but I received a terse message from my Dad a few days later to 'call Andy at the shop.' Thinking nothing had happened and he was pissed at me I avoided him until work the next Saturday.

Turns out Andy ate a cake at his mates and a few hours later after deciding nothing was happening went home. Driving along the motorway Andy felt he was going a bit fast and checked his speed. It was 20mph. He somehow managed to get home through a descending veil of paranoia to find his legs stopped working when he got to the front door. Dragging himself through the hallway by his arms he made it into bed only to spend hours 'paralysed' from the waist down fighting off a 6ft teddy bear intent on eating him.

He was genuinely freaked out by the whole experience and completely exhausted the next day. He told me he had dialled 99 several times that night but didn't dial the third 9 as it would be too humiliating to ring an ambulance because he got stoned.
( bland is bland, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 12:38, Reply)

In a club in Holborn one time...
...I got so spanked I hallucinated a man on horseback in the middle of the dancefloor.

A man. On a horse. On the dancefloor.

At this point I remember thinking it was a good idea if I have a sit down, so I attempted to make my confused and unsteady way over to the comfy looking sofas at the back of the dancefloor.

Sofas weren't there either.
(Monkey Tennis isn't Spartacus, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 10:57, 4 replies)

Technically not my story..
5am This morning I got a text from someone I barely speak to, this is a direct quote;

'MissFlee u awake,sorry its early, im in my room in manchester and im tripping out on mcat, cud i call coz im goin slightly insane'

Now, I haven't called back...And I'm pretty much reminded of why I don't speak to him! Though his reply may be Talk to Frank with the appropriate sex line number attached.
(MissFlee tried again on, Sun 19 Sep 2010, 7:20, Reply)

Well I done poppers at TITP
my head went a bit dizzy, like when you stand up too fast. And then I really wanted to sit down. Then I wanted to do it again. Repeat until bottle is finished and your nose is bleeding.
( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Sat 18 Sep 2010, 20:20, 4 replies)

Tenuous pea
Not so much MASSIVEDRUGSLOLZ as legal-drugs-disaster. This was around the time of my birthday a few of years ago.

I'd been off work most of the week with a condition which had me backed up pretty badly. I was spending my time lying in bed, watching Family Guy DVDs, eating ice cream and wanking whenever I felt too sorry for myself. On my girlfriends insistence I went to see the doctor and she prescribed me a senna-based product to ease things along. Not being familiar with the wonderful world of laxatives I imagined that on my gridlocked digestive system the effect would be to induce normal bowel movements once again. Oh how wrong I was.

I dutifully necked the prescribed drugs and went back to bed. We'd planned to go for a meal with friends in the evening to celebrate my birthday, but I really wasn't feeling up to it. However, the missus insisted I come out. Not for the last time in that relationship, I really should have stood my ground.

So we're in Soho enjoying a curry (why?). After the big meal and a few beers I'm really not feeling too hot. Everyone else wants to go elsewhere and carry on drinking, but I make my excuses and leave, thinking I can get home and watch some more Family Guy. And maybe have another wank.

As I'm walking back to Charing Cross I feel a rumbling omen in my gut and a small *FFFRRRP* escapes my butt cheeks. Alright thinks I, I'll just stop into the crapper at the station and release this long overdue load.

A couple of minutes later and I realise the situation is rather more urgent than I'd previously anticipated when a sharp cramp hits me, causing me to stop and do that cross-legged, doubled-over pose as I try to use my buttocks to rearrange the contents of my rectum into a less explosive configuration.

By the time I reach the station entrance I'm in serious trouble. Sweating like a Pope in a playground, I inch forward painfully slowly, as every movement of my lower body threatens to unleash the fury within with a comical *PARP*. Just a hundred yards further and I'll be ok. Other people arriving at the station are shooting me puzzled and pitiful glances as I struggle forwards, looking to all the world like a parkinson's sufferer attempting the tightrope. But I can make it, I know I can.

Just as I reach the main concourse, barely 20 yards from the toilet entrance, it happens. With an almighty bubbling roar from my lower intenstines--it felt like the depth-charge scene from U-571 was being replayed in my gut--I momentarily lose sphincter control and I feel my pants fill with a gritty warmth. There's no other option now, I have to make a dash for the toilet before this gets worse!

Bad idea. As soon as I start to run, the full force of the faecal flood smashes through my puny anus. Within seconds it's too much for my underpants as several days worth of shit makes its sloppy rush for freedom. It's steaming in a raging torrent down my leg and as I run I can feel it flicking off my shoes. I think I hear a scream of disgust from behind me, but all I can concentrate on is the toilet steps ahead. Down the steps and through the turnstile, I secure myself in the closest free cubicle, barely landing on the seat in time to expel the last remnants safely and I pebble-dash the bowl so violently it sprays back onto my arse cheeks. My groans and the *PRRRAAP-PRAAARRAP-PRRAAAAAARRRRP* trumpeting from my burning arsehole combine to make a terrible symphony for anyone unfortunate enough to be listening.

Exhausted, I clean myself off using an entire roll of paper. My underpants are filled and will have to be discarded. The legs of my jeans are completely soaked in runny, stinking shit. It's coated the backs of my shoes and even managed to find its way inside my socks. I am essentially a huge, walking shit stain. I start to rub at my clothes with the cheap, scratchy paper. It's not absorbing anything, so, dignity in shreds, I resort to scooping the crap out of my jeans with my bare hands.

It took me a full half hour to clean myself up, but you'd hardly notice the difference. I'd managed to get the worst off my shoes, but my jeans are still heavy with shit. My hands are stained a muddy brown colour. Then I realise I have no change of clothes, and still have to take a 25-minute train ride home. I feel utterly wretched, ashamed and alone and I sit back on the toilet seat and begin to cry.

The journey home is one I never, ever want to repeat. As I leave the toilet I take a furtive glance back the way I came and see a brown trail leading back towards the station entrance. Luckily (well I bloody well deserved some luck at some point in this story), my train is waiting on the platform and I am able to put my head down and quickly get on board. I'm terrified someone I know will get on the train and discover my shame, so slide down in my seat as low as possible to try and avoid being seen. The stench is awful and hangs in my nose, almost making me sick. Every time I move my jeans squelch and stick to my clothes. My spirit broken, I pray for the ground to open and swallow me whole, but then realise it would probably spit me straight back out again in disgust.

If you were the poor girl who sat on the seat in front of me for that entire journey, covering your nose and mouth with your scarf and periodically making retching noises, I am so, so sorry.

My girlfriend returned home somewhat later to find me (post-shower) in bed, shellshocked and hugging my pillow, the washing machine putting my dirty clothes through their second cycle of the night. "What happened?" she asks. All I can manage is to look straight ahead at the wall, still clutching my pillow for comfort. "I told you I didn't want to go out", I whimper.
(pmsc, Sat 18 Sep 2010, 20:14, 7 replies)

headache volcano...
I once woke up in bed at about midnight with the most stonking headache anyone could imagine..

i whacked my boyfriend awake and ordered him to go and get me some asprin, paracetamol, ectasy - anything he could find in the bathroom cabinet.

He came back up with a pint of water and the only drug he could find downstairs was a packet of dispersible asprin (those large thick 50p sized tablets that you dissolve in a pint of water then guzzle down)

I absolutely HATE the taste of tablets/ medicines, and these were hideous NHS issued one not ones with a flavour or anything that you find in boots.. i was not going to drink that fucking poison even if i was dying.

So... what i decided was that i would break the two large asprins into four peices each, and just take them as 8 normal sized tablets.. genius.

swig of water, little bit of asprin, swallow.. gulp of water, bit of asprin, swallow... glug of water, bit of asprin, swallow.. swig of water QUEUE FUCKING VOLCANOE STYLE EXPLOSION OF FIZZY WHITE MESS SPILLING OUT MY NOSE, MOUTH, AND FUCKING ANY ORIFICE IT COULD FIND ITS WAY OUT OF ALL OVER THE BED SHEETS FOLLOWED BY VOMIT.

turns out its best to just stick to the instructions. you need at least 20 pints of water to dissolve those fuckers. oops.
(nettestar meeow, Sat 18 Sep 2010, 17:45, 10 replies)

When I had only been smoking jazz-cigarettes for about a month
I was in a small bedroom with about 7 other people all smoking pot, and watching Pineapple Express. About halfway through the film, everyone's pretty baked, and me and my friends hear someone come into the house. There were 10 other people living in the house, so we assumed it was just one of them.

A few minutes pass, and we then hear a very loud knock on the door to the room we were in. Not the sort of knock a housemate would give. Everyone just looks at each other quizically, until we hear a gruff voice inquire "Are you smoking cannbis in there?". Everyone's eye's widened in absolute horror, as various people start trying to hide everything incriminating. "Open the door!" shouts the voice. One of the residents goes to the door and opens it. A cloud of smoke exits the room and everyone could see a police officer standing there, visibly recoiling at the pungent fog of smoke which confronted him. I shat a brick.

"Everybody out of the room, please." said the voice, in a relaxed but authorative tone. Everybody slowly shuffled out of the room, eye's blood-shot and pupils wide, all looking at their shoes, knowing they were in trouble. As I exited the room I saw another police officer, looking rather stern, accompanied by one of the accommodation's security guards, who'd obviously let them in. I knew we were in trouble.

Then something unexpected happened.

"We don't care if you're smoking weed. We just came 'round to tell you there's been a lot of robberies in the area, so just keep an eye out." said the officer in a friendly manner. Everyone let out a long sigh of relief. We then had quite a long chat with the policemen. They were asking if we were having a good night and if the film was any good etc. Really nice guys! Probably had a good chuckle about scaring us so much though.
( Incredibly Ordinary Dave needs your clothes, your boots and your motorcycle, Sat 18 Sep 2010, 16:35, 8 replies)

Total lightweight with apologies
I don’t usually do weed (but only because I don’t like the taste). However, was coaxed into a trip to Amsterdam with other half, my brother, brother’s wife and their two friends. All I can say is that the events even now unfurl in my mind in a very bitty, disjointed and stream of consciousness kind of way thusly…
First stop - the Grasshopper. Roll splendidly enormous joints with candy striped papers while the Dutch locals look on and roll their eyes.
Smoke the lot in about 25 minutes, washed down with hot chocolate. Nom. Hit the streets.
Decide to find the red light district – at 10 in the morning. Because, obviously, it’s even sexier at 10am.
See a shifty looking bloke carrying a pink and white striped plastic bag. See lots of nice houses leaning at improbable angles. (They lean at those angles when you are sober too, which is very confusing.)
See houses that are less nice and pass an alleyway with two large Alsatians on chains surrounded by more shifty looking blokes.
Take a wrong turn. Walk a bit.
See the bloke with the pink and white striped plastic bag again. Take another wrong turn.
Genuinely unsure which country I am in. Is it Taunton? No, too many sex shops. Plus they would be called Sex Shoppes if they were in Taunton.
See the bloke with the pink and white striped plastic bag again. Go into a sex shop.
Laugh in awed and hushed tones at the size of some of the dildos on display. Purchase pack of ‘naughty’ playing cards which, judging by volume of pubic hair, were probably made in 1972.
On leaving sex shop, take a wrong turn. Pass an alleyway with two large Alsatians on chains surrounded by shifty looking blokes.
See the bloke with the pink and white striped plastic bag again. Starts to rain.
While crossing a bridge remark to other half that why, if it is raining, he hasn’t put his hood up.
Other half puts his hood on then immediately takes hood off and makes an unhappy noise.
Hood was full of rain water.
Lunch. I don’t remember this bit.
Go to the sex museum. View lots of photos of ladies in bloomers with their baps out and 8ft tall wooden cocks and laugh in a very childish manner. Take photo of 8ft call wooden cocks to show my mum but when the photos are developed these, strangely, are the only ones that do not come out. Censored by Boots the Chemist?
Move on to a room with a warning outside along the lines of “abandon hope all ye who enter here…”
Enter room and proceed to abandon hope. Stand out moments involved a dildo that looked as big as a baby’s head and lots of pissing. Beyond that, I don’t want to talk about it. Even now.
Almost get run over by a tram. Twice. Go to coffee shop. Go to the Rijksmuseum.
Sister-in-law blows off in the Egypt room.
Husband blows off on a wooden bench in the Doll house room just as a very nice Dutch couple walk in to inspect the exhibits. (he’s allowed to fart; he’s not well after doing battle with hot dog repercussions all night. Sister-in-law has no excuse.) Raucous noise and a massive echo, followed by barely controlled laughter and room fleeing activities. See the Night Watch and say “cool….” Mainly because It’s massive.
Being unable to take much more art, frankly, go to coffee shop.
Go to Delft shop to purchase gift for my mum. All too stoned to enter, so other half goes in. The Delft shop is very long and narrow. Lots of expensive figurines and wares displayed on tippy tables and unstable book cases. During his conversation with the nice Dutch lady in the shop, other half turns around a lot and the rucksack on his back swings back and forth, seeming to narrowly miss aforementioned figurines and wares as we squeal and roar with laughter outside, alternately putting our heads in our hands and covering our eyes.
Sister-in-law wets herself. Literally, not metaphorically.
Other half emerges after purchasing a nice trinket with an expression that says “what is wrong with you?” Nice Dutch lady in shop looks out and rolls her eyes.
See the bloke with the pink and white striped plastic bag again.
Crash out in hotel. Get on plane.Go home.

That’s not all of it – there are some bits that I’m not sure where they fit in to the sequence of events. Like brothers friend dragging us along on his personal quest for an increasingly mythical sports bar/coffee shop that he remembered from his last visit. Bearing in mind that he was probably just as monged then as he was this time, we could have soggily and complainingly tramped along every street in Amsterdam and never found it. I am sure he was either making it up or, more likely, had dreamt it.

Length – well, it just seemed to go on and on until the end of time. Like this post.
(faghag, Sat 18 Sep 2010, 16:04, 1 reply)