A friend of mine (honest)
Woke up in the morning after a heavy night. Felt a bit sticky 'downstairs'. He thought 'Oh my God, I've shat myself'.

With trepidation, he peeled back the duvet, and glanced down. It wasn't shit. It was a mixture of garlic sauce, donner meat, and shredded lettuce smeared all over his lower torso and genitals. To one side, a sad looking, torn up pitta bread.

He'd had sex with a kebab.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 26 Apr 2012, 14:58, 11 replies)

In one of my life's more "colourful" periods
I stole a full keg from the back of one of the student bars on campus, whilst severely inebriated. This was, to my drunken mind, the most cunning and genius thing ever carried out by anyone. "Free beer for a week!" thinks I.

I then, being too afraid to call a taxi or get on the bus for fear of being dobbed in, carried the fucking thing approximately 3 miles on my back, to my house. It weighed a frigging tonne. This took me about 4 hours or so if I remember correctly (which I probably don't, because I was pissed) and involved "staying off the roads" to avoid detection, choosing farmer's fields instead.

In my drunken mind I was Frodo, heading to Mt Doom to destroy the one ring by drinking ALL THE BEERS. I was Willard, off to terminate the Kurtz that was my sobriety. In my head, I was carrying this thing across mountaintops and through canyons and jungles, in the kind of storm that would make Thor wince. This was definitely the most epic undertaking I had ever undertaken.

In actuality, I seem to remember spending about 20 minutes trying to lift it over a fence stile because my arms were knackered. Then I sat on it for a bit and had a rest.

Nevertheless, and spurred on by the thought of free booze and the best drunken story ever, I persevered and eventually got it through my front door. I then spent the next 20 minutes of so trying to lever the cap off it with a chisel.

Eventually it yielded, and I hoisted it onto my weary shoulders once again in order to partake of it's contents. I carefully (for which, read "clumsily") stood over the sink and poured it into a waiting pint glass.


It was full of fucking water.


In one of my other posts this week I mentioned meeting my girlfriend around this time. She worked in the pub I stole the keg from. The first time she came round to my house, she saw the keg (now with a cushion on it and being used as a stool,) and asked me if I had stolen it from her bar. Rather sheepishly I admitted that I had. I told her the story.

"Yeah, we used to fill them up with water before we'd send them back to the brewery. It was to stop dickheads from stealing them."




.......
( PMGT -Bacon., Wed 2 May 2012, 16:40, 5 replies)

Let it be…

I’m really not sure about posting this, considering the amount of detail I am going to provide, even though it does not specifically involve me. Hey ho, let’s crack on…

The date was June 15th, 1968. I was not even an itch in my dad’s nads at the time, yet the present Mrs Pooflake’s Mum was flinging herself thighboot deep into the end of the swinging sixties. You’d be quite flabbergasted to understand that she was a Beatles fan, as I understand a few others shared her admiration of that particular beat combo around that time.

Motherflake-in-law (M.I.L) was busying herself dabbling into whatever young sorts did in the 60’s (If you’re young and unsure about what occured around that time, I believe there are some documentaries available), and was busy partaking in such radical experiences with a girl who was at that time her best friend.

She and her friend had something in common. Rebellion. M.I.L was brought up into a snobbish, almost puritan upbringing, and her friend was part of a very religious family. Sorry, did I say ‘religious’? What I meant to say was quite.fuckingly.bastardly.religious. In fact, her friend’s father was at that time the Verger of Coventry Cathedral. You get the idea.

The free-spirited, short-skirted, screaming at boys’ nature of these strong willed young ladies successfully managed to confuse and appall both sets of parents respectively to their wit’s end. I mean, these girls even occasionally wore leather jackets FFS! They should’ve been locked up.

Back to the date in question. It was a fine summer’s day, and Coventry was awash with the kind of activity that only occurs when people more important than the likes of us can be arsed to turn up…and this day was no different. Our unworthy, preposterous, shitheap of a city was going to be visited by none other than John Lennon (legend) and Yoko Ono (*facepalms*)

They were there on a mission…a mission of peace, togetherness and all that other bollocks they repeatedly bleated about. But how could they fully express their extreme dedication to plant-hugging, hippy crap? …They hadn’t yet conjured up the frankly fruitlooped idea of lounging about in a massive fartsack for yonks in some American hotel room yet, but they were determined on this day to make some meaningful stand.

So what did they do? Throw a sort of ‘Live aid’ event? Nah. A charity auction perhaps? I’m afraid not. What they did instead was plant a couple of fucking acorns that was in some way meant to symbolise love, harmony and no doubt better living accomodation for squirrels or something.

However, the location of this ridiculous publicity stunt happened to be at our very own Coventry Cathedral. So of course, having somebody ‘on the inside’ as it were, my M.I.L and her friend were allowed unprecedented access to these pointless proceedings. They were instantly the envy of their friends, and most of the teenage girls in the country, if not the world. In accordance to the importance of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, They thought they should prepare…

They decided to spend the day getting spacktardedly ratarsed on some home made cider they had blagged. This was the type that has bits of rat-hair and straw in it, and makes you go mental…then blind…then dead a bit.

Once suitably refreshed, they embarked on the Cathedral, snuck through the residential entrance, and barged the throngs of fans and media out of the way. “My Dad runs this gaff, he could have you killed!” My M.I.L’s friend spat at everybody who dared prevent them getting closer to their hero (and Yoko).

Eventually they made it to within a few yards of the couple. “WOOOO! John! Joooooooohhhhnn! I LOOOOOOVE YOU!!!!!!!” My M.I.L squawked, whilst making ‘kissy’ faces and attempting to thrust her hips provocatively at him. “Oi, YOKO! FUCK OFF!” her friend kindly bellowed whilst waving two fingers, just to add her particular ‘panache’ to the happy atmosphere.

They were largely ignored, and the ceremony merrily chuntered to it’s conclusion. Soon, it was time for everyone to piss off and leave the planted acorns under the bench where they had been stuck. The place cleared rapidly after the celebs had departed, and my MIL and her friend celebrated by starting to quaff the scotch from her mate’s dad’s liquor cabinet.

However, soon they were alone…properly alone, inside the grounds that had now long been been locked to the general public, and they thought to themselves ‘What shall we do now…?’

I’m sure you can guess what they did.

In a heartbeat, they staggered out wearily to the bench in the grounds where this statement of world love and understanding had been sited…They dropped to their knees, briefly looked at each other, then promptly dug the fucking acorns up that had been planted just a couple of hours before.

Sometime later, when there wasn’t so much as a twig sprouting from the ground, suspicions started to materialise that perhaps some peace-hating fucker had half-inched the acorns. Everyone felt a bit stupid. My M.I.L and her mate wisely remained tight lipped. The story here states: ‘Tourists dug up the acorns and Lennon had a row with the exhibition organizers over the moving of the bench that had been sitting above the acorn ground". My hairy arse was it 'Tourists'! My M.I.L kept hers for years before it finally got lost somewhere in the midst of time. Her friend, however, also kept hers (They were too pissed to remember who had John’s and who had Yoko’s btw) and she may still have it.

However, at this point the story gets quite surreal. Later on in life, my M.I.L. friend sorted herself out, got into religion and actually ended up spending some time as the Verger of the aforementioned Cathedral. Once, during an interview she was asked her opinion of the acorn theft. She replied: “I have no idea who did it, but it’s a tragic and senseless act” Pfft!

I used to think that my generation was the first to do naughty stuff. I obviously haven’t got a fucking clue.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 26 Apr 2012, 16:48, 11 replies)

Going to try and keep this one short and honest:
I used to drink a lot. Too much in fact. When I was at University, I would wake up in the afternoon and start drinking from a bottle of vodka I kept next to my bed. I never went to any lectures. Despite this, I completed my first year, but then quit. I spent nine months looking for work to no avail. I felt like I had fucked my entire life up by dropping out and failing to get work. I would drink all day because I was hideously depressed, for a variety of self-pitying reasons. I nearly joined the army (part of me still regrets not doing).

After nine months, I reapplied to university to study film. I was accepted back and saw it as being my second chance at doing something with my life. But, for whatever reason, I could not get my head together to actually apply myself to the course. I missed lectures regularly, missed coursework deadlines and was basically a law unto myself. I had a shaved head at this point, looked like a scrote, and spent all day every day feeling pissed off without ever knowing why. This was when I met my girlfriend, although we didn't start going out until two years later, when I grew my hair long and got my shit together. She told me years later she was not attracted to me in any way at this point. I also had my arm in a cast from a fight I'd gotten in where I shattered the knuckles on my right hand. Definitely boyfriend material.

Eventually my attitude caught up to me, and the University decided to kick me out. I was dragged up before a senate committee, where I had to explain to a panel full of people who I had never met, why I thought I should be allowed to stay. This was a humiliating and uncomfortable process that involved me speaking about things I had never spoken to anyone at all about, and now they were taking notes on me. This largely consisted of me explaining why I fucking hated everyone around me and why I couldn't cry at my Grandad's funeral that had recently taken place (I don't mean that in a dodgy way...) and a whole host of other self-pitying topics that I was not comfortable discussing at that point. It's no exagerration to say I had never talked to anyone about how I felt about anything at that point.

They let me continue on the course, providing I was under report. Basically if I fucked up, I was gone.

This should have been enough to kick me into touch but it wasn't. I was in my second year by this point, and still not falling in line. I received several more cautions over the next few months.

How does this have any relation to this week's QOTW?

My morning-after souvenir was not a pleasant one. A few months after the meeting with the senate, I had gone back home to Manchester, and went out with friends. At some point in the night I got into an argument with someone, then got into an argument with my mates who were trying to calm me down as I had over-reacted massively and flown off the handle. I stormed off apparently. I don't remember it.

I woke up the next day, still dressed and covered in blood. I had no idea if it was mine or not. This is one of the scariest things that has ever happened to me. I could not remember for the fucking life of me what had happened. I genuinely thought I might have killed someone, or beaten the fuck out of someone. There was a lot of blood.

I looked down at myself, and saw a shard of glass about three inches long sticking out of my hand. That was where the blood had come from. I pulled it out, winced for a while, then had a bath.

At that point I felt like I had a complete lack of control over myself, and that scared the shit out of me. I decided there and then - in the bath - that I wouldn't drink any more. Out of all the things I felt were wrong with my life, that was one thing I could control. I literally stopped drinking on the spot.

From the second I decided that, I was completely teetotal for the next three years. I didn't touch a single drop of alcohol whilst I forced myself into sobriety, and more importantly, adult responsibility. I was 21 at this point and it was like being reborn. I went into my third year of University completely sober, and actually managed to apply myself for a year. I got a 2:2 in the end. I could have done better. I spent the next few years rediscovering a love for learning and educating myself, and I found a lot of things to replace drinking; martial arts, film-making, writing music... I can drink in moderation now, and do. To be honest, I don't really enjoy it though. I don't think I ever did. I'd much rather be sober now.

So, that's how a morning after souvenir changed my entire life.

By the way, eventually I remembered how the glass got stuck in my hand. I had put my fist through a bus stop on the way home because I didn't have a constructive means of dealing with or venting my frustration. I remembered this a couple of days later when I walked past said smashed bus stop. I was a fucking idiot.
( PMGT -Bacon., Fri 27 Apr 2012, 4:21, 7 replies)

You Shall Not Pass!
In which Purple Martin stopped traffic (for the wrong reason, unfortunately).

In my first year at Uni I had a habit of collecting bollards, flashing yellow roadworks lights, etc. Every morning I'd wake up to find a couple more of said items in my room. Sometimes there was even a 'ROAD CLOSED' sign or two.

It got to the point that I could hardly move around my room for all the council-clutter. So I hatched a cunning plan, and later that very night I swung (staggered drunkenly) into action...

I closed off an entire, admittedly quite small, road. Yep, there were ROAD CLOSED signs, dozens of bollards, and plenty of those yellow flashing lights. Very impressive if I say so myself (and if you happen to be interested, the street in question was Upper Marsh in Lambeth).

Length? It stayed closed for four whole days, with annoyed looking drivers trying to turn into their usual short-cut then having to reverse back out into main-road traffic. Only on the fifth day did the council come and unblock my road. Yes, that's right, I now consider it to be MY road, forever more, because for four entire days I OWNED that road. Hell Yeah!
( Purple Martin is board sigless, Fri 27 Apr 2012, 7:56, 4 replies)

Mine's rubbish
In the late 1990s, the capital was regularly plastered with fly-posters plugging the latest sounds in the hit parade. On one night out in the Big Smoke, I spied one such poster for one of my favourite tunes of the moment, Air's sublime Sexy Boy. The poster was ace - A minimal affair with the main focus being a picture of the iconic monkey from the video and CD sleeve.

This poster was attached to one of those green junction boxes on the pavement, and was pretty much peeling off (along with the 45 posters underneath it, over which it had been pasted). I give it a quick tug. Then, when I'd calmed down, I carefully pulled at the poster and - Huzzah! It came away in one piece. I'd just bagged a cool free poster!

What with it actually being a stack of posters glued together, one on top of the other, it was able to stand up by itself. And so, back home, it took pride of place in my bedroom, propped up on a radiator.

It was only when the heating came on the next day that I realised exactly how many passers-by had used that junction box as an impromptu urinal.
(costas, Thu 26 Apr 2012, 20:20, 2 replies)

Amnesia and wildlife
Some years ago I was working with a great bunch of guys who were the epitome of the 'work hard, play a billion times harder' ethos.
We'd secured a mahoosive contract to supply a large Danish company with some serious hardware and, as I was the 'Engineer' of the company it fell to me to be there when it arrived - fuck knows why, I wasn't doing anything to it but hey ho.
I'd been on the lash with the guys in the departure airport for quite a while whan the flight was called and I was 'quite refreshed'. Luckily I was allowed on to the plane into first class, whereupon I was given more booze. And then more booze - rinse and repeat.
The plane was then diverted to Schipol - where I hit the complimentary (at the time - dunno if it's free now) first-class bar. An hour later, now 'heavily refreshed' I got on a plane to Copenhagen.
On bumbling out of baggage claim in Copenhagen I was at a loose end for a while until the car we'd re-booked could come for me.
I don't remember getting from Copenhagen to Roskilde. I don't remember booking into the hotel. I don't remember getting to my room.
I DO remember waking up thinking I'd got a Somali refugee camp in my mouth and a drummer's convention in my head. In my bleary state I looked for a familiar room landmark to let me have at least an idea of which country I was in. Luckily there was a brochure from the hotel on the nightstand next to a polystyrene box bound with blue tape that clearly I'd put there the previous night.
I opened it.

There was a lobster inside.

I looked again.

Still a lobster.

Where the fuck did I get a lobster? WHY the fuck did I have a lobster on my nightstand?
I had not a scooby, no frickin' idea.
I closed the box, went for breakfast and waited for my car to the factory, brooding on the fact that I had a/ clearly bought a lobster and b/ what the fuck was I doing with it?
I gave it to the hotel kitchen. They looked at me like I was a pissed Englishman trying to pass off a lobster to them - and they were right.
All was revealed when my lift came. It's not easy to raise the subject of random lobsters on your nightstand - to a man who has only just met you - but raise it I did.
Apparently there are lobster salespeople in Copenhagen airport who sell lobsters to travellers. I'd bought one and promptly forgotten, Thank god I didn't think it was a kebab!
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 27 Apr 2012, 10:59, 20 replies)

I once woke up on a pallet in the middle of a field in mid Wales...
...with my jeans pulled down, a dog asleep beside me, a cold curry butty on a plate on the ground and bloke having a shit nearby.

I wasn't at a festival, or anything. I don't know how I got there.
(IHateSprouts is baking a huge pie shaped like an enormous pie, Thu 26 Apr 2012, 15:58, 13 replies)

Ow...
Was having a slightly tricky time of life, so did the sensible thing and went out and got utterly twatted with a mate.

Woke up the next day, in my own bed, next to my own missus, but with two of my fingers taped together and a fair bit of pain in said finger.

Looking at my sore hand, I asked my missus what the fuck had happened to it.

She replied: "you don't remember? Have a look at the latest picture on your phone"

Painful picture in first reply...
(ScousersPet, Fri 27 Apr 2012, 15:55, 16 replies)

I never suffer memory loss when drinking, so I'll crowbar this in.
A group of work colleagues and I went go-karting. Fortunately they failed to show any concern over the fact that a most of us had spent the best part of the day getting completely pissed and let us all have a shot anyway. It was a lovely spring day and four of us spent more time popping out for cigarettes than actually driving because, frankly, the alcohol was causing us to spend more time in the "Sin Bin" than actually on the track. For the record, our team came in dead last.

Anyone who has spent an evening Karting will know that for the sake of safety they kit you out with a helmet and overalls. In the case of this particular venue the overalls were black with a coloured chest that indicated the size of the overall. All four of us were different sizes and we therefore looked like a set of petrol-head power rangers.

The evenings proceedings came to an end, a small prize ceremony was held and everyone returned their kit. We left our helmets on the bench and had left before the ceremony, possibly due to the shame of knowing we had failed badly and had given half of the people on the track whiplash, but probably because our taxi was already waiting and we just wanted to carry on drinking at this point. We didn't actually remember to return the uniforms due to inebriation.

The funniest part of the evening that I can remember was when Mike, the burliest of us, noticed a fight down a side street, he turned down and walked towards the fracas, we all followed him (just in case...)

The four of us stood there, him in front, he raised his hand, palm outfacing and at the top of his unnecessarily well-spoken voice said "Stop, citizens!"

It only fucking worked, but probably more because they were confused and a bit weirded out than anything else.

We briefly considered careers as superheroes.
( Muns, Mon 30 Apr 2012, 9:59, Reply)

Best story I know
is a musician friend who was on tour. Had a night out at the last performance, and woke up the next morning INSIDE a piano. With the lid shut.

Said he thought he was in a coffin, until it went "ping".
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Fri 27 Apr 2012, 11:06, Reply)

I once woke up with a 15ft (ish) pub sign in my room.
It was for a pub called "The Barley Mow". I decided to take in back to the pub in question. Whilst walking it down the road a Police car pulled up next to me. The Copper asked me "Where did you get that from?" and I, looked down at the 15 ft long sign that read Barley Mow upside down and still drunk replied, "the Wheatsheaf", "make sure you take it back" came the reply. I've never understood if he was taking the piss out of me, or me him.
( The only Dave is pushing things forward, Mon 30 Apr 2012, 13:13, 2 replies)

More memories than souvenirs
But myself and another member of these fine boards used to get drunk and spend the early hours of the morning making up miniature protest banners which read such things as "I hate fishing!", "This hat make me look stupid!" and "Rights for gnomes". We would then go out at about 3 am and rearrange the gardens of any houses with a certain popular garden ornament.

In retrospect this does seem rather silly but we didn't break anything and I can't help but giggle at the thought of the home owners opening their front door in the morning to find all their garden gnomes carefully arranged as if marching up their garden path in protest against their mistreatment.
( Peej, Thu 26 Apr 2012, 21:52, 2 replies)

A prisoner
Everyone reacts differently to alcohol. When I lived with allot of people in a big old house I would say that a full spectrum of drunk stereotypes were represented. After £1 vodka-redbull night, our groups primary shared interest at the time, this was plain to see.

Around about 2am one housemate (H) was starting to get slightly annoying. Another housemate (J) took on this as a challenge.

J: "Right H, if you don't shut up I'm going to put you away in jail"

H:"Try me"

At this point, the other housemates decided to join in on J's side. As we agreed with him about the shutting up part, but mostly we wanted to see where this was going. After some manhandling, we finally got H behind bars. Furiously H began to shout "let me out" and " want a lawyer" while we retired to watch Dr Who using the volume to drown him out.

The morning after I came down into the kitchen for some aspirin and a cup of tea. Putting the kettle on I saw H was back and clearly hungover.

"What happened last night? why am I here?"

"Oh, you were being an arse, so we put you there and convinced drunk you that you were actually in prison. Fancy a brew?"

H replied in the affirmative, as he climbed out from underneath the upturned shopping trolley he had spend the night in.

I never woke up to find a prisoner again. Probably as now within our group, a shout of 'Trolley!' was now a huge hint that you should stop being an arse.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Thu 26 Apr 2012, 22:32, 1 reply)

Public Transport ftw
A 'quick one after work' turned into a session. Next thing I knew I was well over the limit. For once I decided to do the sensible thing and take a bus home.

How I managed to park it is anyone's guess.
( Bootsthealchemist is barred from the Masterchef Facebook page, Thu 26 Apr 2012, 22:12, 1 reply)

Dead hamster
My sister Susan decided to spruce up the hamster cage with thin layers of wood, like a log cabin effect.

We woke up the next day to find that unfortunately the fumes from the glue had killed the hamster!

We were really sad!

Hence.......

mourning after Sue Veneers!
( DanGleeballs Moist people don't notice spelling errors..., Thu 26 Apr 2012, 18:01, 1 reply)

eBay
The joys of modern technology now mean you can end up with souvenirs from an evening of drinks at home, without even leaving the house!

Unfortunately I have a bad habit of going on eBay when drunk. This has resulted in some really bizarre purchases, confusing the fuck out of me when the postman turns up with an armfull of random boxes for me. My most recent purchases include:
37 varieties of chilli plants. My other half is going to be eating spicy food until he retires now. Every window ledge in my house has sodding chilli plants growing on them.
A few hundred grams of dried lavender. I don't even like lavender.
20 giant pumpkin seeds. I don't even have space for the chilli plants, but no, I needed to get giant pumpkins too.
A neon pink wig.
A stuffed dinosaur.
A real (dead, obv.) mole's skull.
18,000 poppy seeds, which I have now sprinkled over my garden. Flanders Fields - you have competition.
Knee high socks with a zebra pattern on them.
Not one, but two random metal tiaras (apparently you can never have too many tiaras)

eBay needs a breathalyser.

(Apologies for lack of boobs, porn or drugs)
( Bathory, Mon 30 Apr 2012, 17:28, 14 replies)

rescuing wildlife
woke up to see a full size cardboard cutout of a bison staring at me.

Looked around and there were about fifteen more life size cardboard animals in the room...stags, wolves..even a wildebeeste

I was dressed as a ninja and covered in mud....I had gone out in a nice dress
( cakeburglar still bored with Freebase, Sat 28 Apr 2012, 14:12, Reply)

Shapeless Mass
Not me, but my Dad...

When he was a student in the 1930s, Dad and two of his friends thought it would be a wizard wheeze to sew three boiler suits together and go to a fancy dress party as a Shapeless Mass. Of course being students they all had too much to drink and found it even harder to get around in this conjoined manner. Eventually after aimlessly staggering round the streets of London they fell down the stairs of a Tube station. Dad woke up in hospital. His Morning After souvenir was a broken arm; one of the others had a broken leg and a broken hand, and the third was concussed.

When we were kids my siblings and I thought this story was mega cool. It still makes me smile.
(grumpy old ratbag, Sat 28 Apr 2012, 13:27, Reply)

Popped out for a few jars and a friendly chat with girl I fancied.
Nothing serious mind, but testing the water and finding out how she felt about me.
She suggests cider, I agree - although I seem to have some kind of genetic problem with cider (my dad is the same) in that it makes my legs wobbly even when I feel fine.
Not wanting to make a poor impression on the "1st date" I get stuck into the draught cider, matching her pint for pint. She's a tall girl who can handle her drink and I feel good to be with her and after more than a few pints am feeling warm and happy.
At this point I pop off the barstool for a p-break and manage to get my foot caught in the bottom bar, falling gracefully over.
She laughs. I laugh too. I return feeling much better and resolve to go steady on the booze.
Too late, I've already had enough for serious damage to occur.
Realising I'm now in a bit of a pickle I suggest we leave and I walk her home.
No more than 3 steps outside the pub I fall over, ON MY FACE.
She helps me up, we try again.
I fall over on my face on the kerb.
My sister arrives, laughs and calls a cab seeing that I won't get anywhere using my legs.
I stand and fall over backwards into the gutter where the rain runs down my collar.
I give up trying to stand and await my fate. I have been given a bag of frozen peas for my swelling face.
Time passes.
I awake in my bed and feel a bit rough. Standing slowly I walk towards the bathroom.
The duvet follows me. It is attached firmly to my elbow by a large crusty clot of blot.
I soak my elbow in the sink to remove the duvet.
A glance in the mirror reveals a face not dissimilar to the bit in Terminator where his face has been blown off with a shotgun.
I call work and tell them I'm sick.
I retire to bed a broken individual with a hole in my elbow like a cat's arse covered in ketchup.
One eyelid has split at the corner like an overripe fruit.

I no longer drink cider.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Sat 28 Apr 2012, 2:32, 1 reply)

Not me but a friend of mine....
...woke up after a particularly messy night out in London. On the floor, in his room, a bit of "street furniture" - as you do when you're a student - in this case a street name sign - "Tavistock Square WC1H"

Me, staggering into his room, looks, in awe, at the bounty of the previous night.

"Where did you get that from?!" ... I asked.

"Where'd you f&*%ing think....."

I was rather hung over, honest!
( Heywood Djeblowmi is friends with Craven Moorehead, Thu 26 Apr 2012, 21:21, Reply)

Rotten hangover the next day as expected,
after a very drunken night ending in a good and proper night of raunchy sexy time with a woman I'd fancied for a while. The headache was to be expected, but what I couldn't understand was the slight buzz in my head. Jumping in the shower I found that somehow during the night of passion her nicotine patch had become attached to me, and being a non-smoker I was getting a full dose of an extra strong nicotine patch. Meanwhile, she was equally badly hung over and craving a fag something rotten.
( Varmint, Thu 26 Apr 2012, 20:22, 1 reply)

How could I not take it?
A large sign that said: "Caution, Explosive Powered Tool In Use". Hung it in my bedroom for months... Until I realised how ridiculous it made me look. I mean seriously, a compound adjective without a hyphen?
( difficultchild, Sun 29 Apr 2012, 4:54, 3 replies)

Highway code
This is a tale of that moment when the situation you find yourself in causes your hitherto drunken state to be replaced in an instant with clarity and bemusement.

One night, many years ago, I had gone to the pub with a mate (he subsequently turned out to be an absolute bellend who got busted for drink-driving and we don't speak anymore. But that's not really important here). Please bear in mind that at the time, I lived in a dry area. It was 25 minutes walk from my house to the nearest pub, and about 45 minutes to the nearest good pub. We of course chose the good pub (it had its own brewery and even gave us loyalty cards, dammit!). So we find ourselves at closing time, 5-6 pints down and 45 minutes from home (which as any drunkard will tell you, equated to upwards of an hour's stagger)

On the way home, we came upon the scene of some road-based modifications. Namely some keep left signs that had been replaced that day. The new signs were installed and happily informing traffic not to drive into a traffic island, but the old signs were lying at the side of the road, discarded and not yet collected.

You've all seen the sob-story adverts on TV asking you to sponsor an abandoned dog. But you never see the adverts asking you to think of the abandoned keep left signs. What if the workmen never came back, and the sign was just left there to decompose? That would be a tragedy. We did the only thing we could do. We rehomed the signs.

I picked up mine (they're surprisingly light, if a little bulky), put it on my shoulder, and marched (stumbled) purposefully home. Once there, I carried it up the stairs, and left it on the landing, no doubt planning to do something with it in the morning. Then I went to bed.

Now, dear reader, as I'm sure you're aware, things we do when drunk can sometimes be forgotten when we're sober. What was logical at the time now seems as breathtakingly stupid as voting Tory. They can also be forgotten when we're still drunk but have had an hour's sleep.

And so it was that the pints from before had decided that my bladder need emptied, and I woke up. Running on instinct alone, I left my bedroom and walked down the hall towards the bathroom. Except halfway there, I saw a keep left sign. "Hmmm", thought my drunken self, "I'd best keep left". So I kept left. Left, sadly, was the closet that led to the attic. And that closet was where we kept the spare toilet rolls. "Toilet rolls! I must be in the toilet! Best get my cock out and start pissing then"

It was at that moment that I realised just what in the fuck I was about to do, and let me tell you that holding the end of it to try and avert disaster while running to the actual bathroom is what we refer to in the business as REALLY FUCKING PAINFUL.

Nevertheless, disaster was averted. I've since moved out, but the sign's still there, albeit in a less dangerous position.
(Dr Death's Malpractice Suit, Fri 27 Apr 2012, 23:27, 3 replies)

I woke up one morning to find boxes of yoghurts and rice puddings
I must have been completely mullered...
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 27 Apr 2012, 12:34, Reply)

Some time in the mid nineties.
Imagine a much younger badger slowly opening his eyes. Then closing them hurridly. The light. God, not the light. Try and turn over carefully so as not to disturb the angry, rapey bear in your head. But you can't. The bed's too small. Shit, you've got a double bed, right? But this is a single. And there's someone in it. Oh. Arse.

But .. on the plus side, it's very, very definitely female. And stunning. Oh my. Search memory, fuckfuckfuck .. nothing. Not a sausage. There was ... it must be Thursday? there was definitely a BUSA game yesterday afternoon, we were at home, I think we won. Oh, christ, that probably means Los Locos. Fuckspiders.

She stirs. A bit of a cuddle. Good stuff. But I've not the faintest fucking idea what happened so I need to try and extracte myself with panache. I get up and try and find my clothes, conspicuously writing down my phone number so I don't get accused of legging it. Now the tricky bit

"erm, I'm a little hazy about exactly where we are now?"
"we're in my room, obviously"
"...."
"in the nurse's accomodation here?"
"...."
"Walthamstow Hospital"
".. ?"
"hang on ... can you even remember my name?"

Oh shit, that's the sucker punch. Desperately scan the room. Fair bit of Catholic stuff, sudden flash of inspiration! "of course I can, Mary!"

She punched me. So, my morning after souvenir was twofold. A lovely black eye, and no bastard memory whatsover, to this day, of a night spent with a gorgeous Catholic nurse.

she did call me though. She was called Sarah.
( the mighty badger Aphrodite, on a bar stool, by your side, Fri 27 Apr 2012, 9:49, 42 replies)

I won't forget the morning after my wedding in a hurry.
My wife's angry accusing face as I woke up reminded me that as usual I had COME FIRST.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 26 Apr 2012, 13:49, 7 replies)

Christ alone knows how they did it
A friend from school, like many other people, had the habit of pinching street furniture at the end of a night out as a souvenir.

He had quite a collection of signs and the like from all over the region, but he topped it all one particular night when he and his brother stole the life-size Jesus from the cross outside the local chapel. There’s a photo of them cheering with Jesus between them, with his outstretched arms hugging them in typical lad night out pose.

It caused a bit of a furore, and the guilt consumed them for ages as they debated what to do with their trophy. They fretted and fretted, until eventually the chapel reasoned they wouldn’t get Jesus back and just bought a new one. The brothers kept theirs.

The finest part was when they watched the replacement Jesus get nailed onto the cross.
(Land of Green Ginger It's dreamy weather, Fri 27 Apr 2012, 15:30, Reply)

Pay attention to your surroundings when planning to pilfer from a pub.
My friend and his wife were admiring the shot glasses they had just emptied and decided they'd rather fancy a set. So after ordering another 2 rounds they had a nice set of six hidden behind her handbag, ready to be snuck inside before they left.

Before the final stage of their plan was put into action a waiter walked over, calmly leaned over and retrieved all 6 shot glasses from behind her bag.

It was only then they noticed that the entire wall behind her was mirrored.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Fri 27 Apr 2012, 12:56, Reply)

A friend once woke up
with his arms wrapped around a very heavy, white-painted, wooden sign which said, "Warning: CCTV cameras operate in this area."
( Corkydog is neither a dog nor made of cork., Fri 27 Apr 2012, 12:27, 1 reply)