The French Connection…

This happened well over 10 years ago – and not even in this country, but I still think about it every now and again.

We were just 18 years old, and following a semi-successful final stint at our respective schools and colleges, a couple of my dearest chums and I decided to celebrate our new found independence (and impending adulthood) by spending the approaching bank holiday weekend pressing our noses into what we considered to be a veritable smorgasboard of culture, history, art and ambience this side of, well, anywhere really.

Ah, gay Paris.

We were there for spiritual fulfillment, and our decision to embark on such a trip was in no way down to the fact that it was a cheapo weekend, coupled with the fact that we had heard from friends and relatives that this place was a proper ‘scutter-central’, and that within five minutes of stumbling off the boat at Calais we would be up to the greasy gizzards in top notch, stripey-shirt-and-onions-round-the-neck wearing, rusty-bike-riding, frothy ‘Flange-a-la-Francais’.

Oh yes, we were there for the museums…or whatever.

So fast forward to the day in hand, and to be honest it started quite badly. We got piss-tarded to the ring-piece on the ferry, and the heavy boaks we roared over the side did little to add to our efforts at a ‘classy’ demeanour. A few hours later we were subsequently hoofed off the coach on the outskirts of the City of Light - this was a bit earlier than planned but as the driver eloquently put it, we ‘shouldn’t be such twats then’.

We were stranded, so did the first constructive thing that leapt to our minds. We tossed a coin – heads = filthy bar, tails = filthy strip joint.

Tails never fails – strip joint it was!

We hailed a cab whose driver seemed to have had his sense of humour abandon him at birth; he didn’t find our ‘Clousaeu-esqe’ accents and jokes regarding ‘cheese-eating surrender-monkeys’ even half as amusing as we did. His loss I suppose.

As we pootled along down what seemed like one bloody big straight road after another, we soon found ourselves near the ‘Place de la Concorde’ – and we proceeded to grunt, chortle, and rubbed our hands together in anticipation of the rudey-gyrate-a-fest that was surely just moments away, I happened to glance out of the window and was instantly transfixed…

She was stunning, from her brown hair in a neat bob, to the pencil skirt and delicate shoes, she was the very essence of sophistication. As she stood seductively smoking a cigarette, seemingly alone, outside an embarrassingly stereotypical-looking cafe I found myself making a decision so bum-chewingly impulsive that I could scarcely believe the garbled words splurging forth from my own cake-hole.

“Stop the car!” I squawked awkwardly, and as my mates sat with mouths agape I clamboured out and began to explain my rash actions.

“Leave me here”, I continued, pointing back down the road. “You see her?, she’s the girl of my dreams – If I don’t at least try and fire-in to her I will never forgive myself. THIS is why we are here, I’m sure of it!”

My buddies glared at each other perplexed, before Carl finally broke the silence…

“You dozy bell-end…” he exclaimed: “…you’ve got no fucking chance!”.

“I don’t care!” I replied, “I’ve got to try. I’ll meet you at the B&B Later on. Wish me luck”

And with their derisory comments, general insults, hand gestures and sneering guffaws of laughter ringing in my shell-likes, I began sprinting down the boulevard – where destiny was waiting for me.

As I finally approached her I was speechless with pure admiration at the vision sat before me. Eventually she spoke first: “Can I ‘elp you?” She enquired. (She immediately realised I was English, I’m one hanky-on-the-head and a football riot away from the archetypal scum-of-the-earth-johnny-Englander)

I stammered worse than George VI with full-on Parkinsons, on one of those wobbly belt exercise machine things: “E-e-e-rrrrm…I…I….Was w-w-w-wondering if I could b-b-buy you a drink?” I enquired meekly.

She looked me up and down…..I sighed with admiration at her sheer beauty as she answered with one of those famous French nonchalant shrugs of the shoulders. “I suppose….Oui”

My heart skipped a beat as I sat down, ordered a bottle of la-de-da plonk blanc (what else?), and asked her name – which was ‘Estelle’. As we began to speak we found that although she was 3 years older than me, we had much in common. We liked the same music, and shared the same sense of humour – this was too perfect.

Soon, the hours were ticking by, but each one seemed like fleeting minutes that I never wanted to end...but the night was going to get better still. As the conversation began to turn slightly steamier and more suggestive (She started to talk about the ‘sexual thrill of danger’, ‘alfresco sex’, and how she got off on the possibility of getting caught whilst being on the arse end of a pork-portion in public) I realised that I had to seize the moment. I leaned forward for a kiss, and to my intense delight (and attentive undercarriage), she reciprocated. Result!

As our wine stained tongues wrestled and intermingled in the finest example of Détente ever experienced this side of Alpha Centauri, she suggested that we go back to her place, and she took my hand as she guided me to a backstreet where her car was waiting.

Although I was desperate not to ruin the mood, I stopped as we approached her little foreign shit-box mini-hatchback effort and decided to do the decent thing. “Are you sure you’re alright to drive?” I asked tentatively. “We will be fine”, she assured me. “We will take ze back roads.” She spoke with a soft, calming voice and then kissed me again. It was wrong, I know, but I wasn’t going to argue.

Unfortunately, fate then suddenly decided that it had given me all the good luck I was going to get for that night. In my slightly rat-arsed state, I instinctively open the dirty white door and climbed into the wrong side of the car...Yep...The driver’s side.

Before I could say ‘I’ve only had a couple of lessons’, Estelle was thanking me for my chivalry, before telling me that she didn’t live too far away, and that she would ‘make the journey worth my while…’

‘Deliciously ominous’ I thought, and once again, I kept silent and chose to ignore common sense for the far more overpowering feeling that I might soon be getting my balls wet.

Before long, we were gently razzing down the avenues and boulevards as I desperately tried to look like I knew what I was doing. Despite it being long past midnight, the streets were still packed with traffic, and I was concentrating as hard as I could to just fit in with the flow of cars and bikes as they sped around me.

“Go faster” she said, with a breathless excitement in her voice. Remembering our earlier conversations I decided it couldn’t hurt to put my foot down a bit, and she watched with slightly-mental glee as the speedo (and my cock) started to rise.

By now I had no idea where I was going, but before I could ask, Estelle had unzipped my flies and began to shovel heapfuls of my grateful cock into her mouth, and as her lips gently caressed my shaft I quickly came…to the conclusion that I suddenly wasn't particularly fussed about where our impending destination would be. I also noticed that with every rev of the engine, this 'gagging-for-it-Gaul' was showing her appreciation by sucking harder and ‘throating deeper’ until I thought I could hold back no more…

Relaxing into the standard mong-tastic gurn that proceeds the emptying of my gonad-gloy, I leaned my head slightly to the left…

…and saw a bunch of twats on bikes copping a fucking eyeful of my sexeh exploits as they kept up with the car!

As the pervy, snail-quaffing fuck-knuckles tried to stick their beret-clad barnets against my driver's window I was quite taken aback. “FUCK OFF!” I bellowed at them, pointlessly waving my fist in their general direction as they zipped around me, jostling with each other for a better view.

Estelle, somewhat unsurprisingly, became aware of the commotion, then suddenly seemed to be getting off on the situation even more. “Go faster!” She purred, urging me on whilst tugging and squeezing on my luncheon-meat truncheon in such a fashion that I was convinced she was expecting some sort of 'fleshy banana' was eventually going to shoot out of it.

I put the hammer down and sped down the road. 'Where are the fucking police?' I thought to myself before wisely reasoning that it was probably for the best if the old 'Gendarmerie' actually stayed in their holes for the night…I would sort this out myself.

As my speed increased, Estelle’s raging horniness seemed to multiply ever further, and she started stripping off, jiggling about and pleasuring herself as she gorged on my spam javelin, (which by now had a helmet so shiny I could see my reflection in it), and of course this just served to attract the biker’s attention even more. Again, I was hardly going to ask her to stop, but as we sped into the Pont de l'Alma tunnel I clapped eyes on what I considered to be the last straw…

There was another fucking car keeping up with us and the people inside were watching too! particularly the couple of 'enthusiastic' voyeurs in the back seat, who were gawping out of the window, and clearly enjoying a full-on, ringside seat of my nudey-noshing mobile sex-show action!

I had decided that I had had quite enough of this...besides, my straining love-spuds were poised to go off like a cheap firework. I pulled Estelle’s head back so she could catch the full facial 'finale', and consequently let fly a splurging cacophony of jizz streaming out of my pink-veined, spitting king cobra, right into her mouth. Although she must have been expecting it, it still seemed to catch her by surprise and Estelle twitched, then recoiled somewhat, and as she grabbed at the steering wheel to regain her balance...she sent our car careering into the other one!

We only made a light contact before I regained control, but it was obviously enough to put the other driver off a bit, and as I grabbed the wheel again and ‘gave it the beans’ (in more ways than one), I took the lead, sped out of the tunnel and into the night.

We didn't check to see if they were still following us for a while, but as my spent, exhausted, and expertly polished knob finally began to cough out nought but dust, I gave my rear-view mirror a quick glance and was relieved to discover that our peeping-Tom admirers were nowhere to be seen. We had gotten away with it!

Of course, once things had settled down later I was worried that there might be some possible recourse in the future, maybe CCTV or something, but luckily for me it appears that nobody saw us in that little white Fiat Uno, so it just got forgotten about.

Strangely, I never found out who was in that other car, I would have liked to hear what excuse they'd no doubt invent for their behaviour. But you know what? quite frankly, I couldn’t give a hovering fuck. 'Cos whoever it was, and whatever happened to them…that’ll teach ‘em.

The dirty leering bastards.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 1 Feb 2011, 13:58, 18 replies)

Oh god, this is grim
Got back to my car after a long day at work, only to discover that some friendly bird had done an enormous poop on my windscreen, right in the middle of my field of vision.

I had nothing in the car to clean it off with - no water, no tissues, no scraper, nothing. But I couldn't have driven off, I wouldn't have been able to see anything.

So I cleaned it off with my hand.

Then, I reached into my pocket for my car keys. As I pulled them out, I had a bizarre moment of brain-fade and thought "What's that all over my hand?".

So I cheerfully licked my hand.

And then, of course, realised exactly what it was. And then immediately commenced with hacking, gagging and spitting to try and get the bird poop out of my mouth. I am an idiot. An idiot who was lucky not to be ill. An idiot who was also very lucky not to be seen by anyone for doing something so stupid and embarrassing.
( biscuitbiscuit is in ur garden, watering ur plantz, Fri 28 Jan 2011, 18:24, 18 replies)

Almost a Darwin award contender

I was snorkelling and spearfishing just near the cliffs when I lived in Babbacombe (Torquay). I'd caught a couple of nice fish and left them on a rock.

I then swam away a short distance, dived down, only to come up and see a gull starting to snack on my hard won catch.

A/ Tried shouting. The result? No reaction whatsoever from a gull.

B/ Aimed speargun, pulled trigger. The initial result? Missed the gull by a smidge. The rest of the result? The discovery that speargun string, when used in the medium of air, is actually *very* elastic. The spear missed my head by, oh, about one bugger-allth of an inch.

Interesting that in the moment that it took the spear to come back, I had time to imagine how ridiculous a way this would be to die and what the post mortem report would have said..but not to duck.

I think that the gull flew away, although it may have just fallen off the rock laughing.
(BeatsWork, Fri 28 Jan 2011, 9:38, 11 replies)

SCORE!
Was walking back from football training when I saw my whore of an ex-gf strolling along with some of her skanky chums. Without even really thinking about it I gave the ball a real punt in their direction ( I recall even cackling to myself as it left my foot), then as it flew through the air realised it was a bit of a childish thing to do, so countered this by hiding behind a bush.

It walloped her in the back of the head and spilt her pepsi all over her clown-caked face. The ball ricocheted off her noggin over a garden fence and was nowhere to be seen, they looked around in confusion then after a minute carried on walking. I was about 19 at the time and it's probably one of the most immature things I've ever done, but it still makes me laugh.
( Regger, Fri 28 Jan 2011, 16:58, 4 replies)

In which I panic about Facebook
This only happened last Wednesday and is still making me cringe at the thought of what might have happened.

I was home alone, so like every bloke does in that situation, and rolled my dice. As I was about to throw a double-six, I hit upon a cracking idea. I grabbed my phone, started the camera and filmed the happy ending with the intention of emailing it to Mrs Sandettie for her viewing pleasure when she went on her break at work and checked her phone. The plan being that she'd see it, get the hint and then later that evening treat me to ten minutes peace and quiet.

I put my camera down and then realised I was without cloth or tissue. It then hit me. Earlier on I was messing about with the settings on my phone, and there was a feature whereby when I took a picture, it would upload it to Facebook. I couldn't remember if I had disabled the feature. Nor could I think if it only applied to pictures or it would do video as well.

Panic set in. Every second I sat there, my phone could be streaming data up to the Facebook servers before displaying it on my Wall for everyone to see me spilling Aphrodite's evostick. I opened up the gallery, located the video and deleted it.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!!!

I stood up, and my jeans slid down my leg, I hoisted them up enough to wedge them against my hips so they wouldn't slide back down, and I shuffled through to the hallway where the broadband router was plugged in, my rapidly deflating member still drooling as I went, all the while balancing a small amount of man-goo on the clenched fist. Passing through the kitchen, I grabbed the tea-towel and wiped my hand before casting it onto the floor.

I got to the router and switched it off. Hoping that
a: I'd cut off the connection so any upload would fail and
b: Nobody came to the front door.

I fastened my jeans properly and went back through to retrieve my phone. As I turned to go back, I heard the high-pitched squeal of our front gate being opened. Someone was coming, I glanced back and saw no one. It was next door's gate. My relief was short-lived however.

I picked my phone up to notice that the little wireless symbol had disappeared from the display and had been replaced with '3G'.

"ARRGGHHH!!" my brain shrieked. The crafty twat had sidestepped me, reconnected and was still uploading. I went to shut the phone down. This brings up a small menu. With my hands trembling with nerves I pressed silent mode by mistake. It took a good seconds to bring that menu up again and I pressed shutdown. Had I been quick enough?

I sat down and opened Facebook to check. If it was there, I could remove it quickly before anybody had a chance to see it.

"Problem loading page. Server not found. etc etc".

What?? I clicked the Try Again button. Nothing. Then I realised, the router was off. Oh christ. I picked up my phone and turned it back on. My phone takes a fucking century to start up. Well 30 seconds anyway. "Fuck this" I thought, and ran through to the hallway again and turned on the router. I went and sat back down.
The computer was still fannying about trying to get a connection but my phone was back on. I opened the Facebook App and checked. Nothing there.

Finally I brought up the site on the computer and yes, there was nothing there. I collapsed back in overwhelming relief. But I will still unsure. I sat there for almost an hour, occasionally pressing F5 to see if anything changed.

Now I was damn glad nobody saw me.

That night in bed, I related the story to my wife who just called me a 'scruffy get' and then burst out laughing.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 28 Jan 2011, 16:28, 8 replies)

One day many years ago...
I thought it would be a laugh to make a candle in the shape of my cock, and send it to my ex girlfriend. Let her know what she was missing, that kind of caper. Also give her light for MANY hours (modest cough),

At that time I hadn't heard of dental algenate, so I set about making a mould out of plaster. How clever am I, I thought, because when the erection goes down it will shrink and I'll be left with a perfect cast, with no need to make a two-part split mould.

So, I set about it. I immediately hit a problem: plaster of paris takes about 20 minutes to cure, and gets pretty hot while it happens. That's rather distracting, and makes it difficult to maintain a hands-free erection -- despite the "gentleman's literature" I had carefully prepared for this very task.

But eventually the plaster went hard, with at least a semi remaining, so it was time to remove the cast. And here is where I get to the "I'm glad no-one saw me" bit: I found that I had effectively invented fibre-glass, with the pubes on my balls embedded in the plaster. So I'm standing in my room, naked and with about 2kg of rock swinging from my tenderest parts, firmly attached by the hairs.

After trying everything I could, I eventually realised that there was nothing for it but to rip the damn thing off by brute force. Thankfully my house-mates were all out, so didn't hear the agonised primal scream that accompanied this DIY velcro experience.

I ended up with a far-from-impressive candle - like a tea-light that's been left in a hot car - but on the plus side, a beautifully waxed scrotum.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Wed 2 Feb 2011, 11:25, 17 replies)

Woo Woo!
So, I was 10 years and getting curious about my ever changing body. One day after having a bath I was stood naked in front of my bedroom mirror and my curiosity turned its attention to my bum hole. Being much more flexible back in those days I managed to contort myself into a position whereby I was stood, bent over double with my head between my legs examining my starfish in the mirror. At the very moment I parted my arse cheeks to get a more in depth look I heard a very loud and very appreciative, “WOO WOO!!!” shout coming from behind me.

I was horrified to realise that someone had entered my room without knocking and had now caught me in this very compromising position with no excuse ready. I sprang bolt upright, face flushed from embarrassment and heart pounding with fear as I scanned the room for my brother (embarrassing, but could laugh it off), my sister (mortifying as she would laugh it off with her friends), or my mother (Please God, just don’t do THAT to me) and there was no one to be seen. I quickly identified the source of the excitable “WOO WOO!!!” noise. It was actually my tape player jauntily playing the intro to Bad Boys by Wham! My cassette player was doing that thing where one side finishes and the tape trundles on silently to the end and then reverses sides and starts playing the other side automatically.

I laughed so hard that my brother actually came in to see what was going on and stupidly I recounted the whole lurid affair just utterly relieved that no one had actually caught me in the act. He still teases me relentlessly to this day for listening to Wham!
(Kintandi all lower case, Fri 28 Jan 2011, 16:37, 4 replies)

Cat Talking
I was walking down the street from work a few years ago...It'd been a shit of a day to be honest. We'd just laid some people off and our CEO had come down to "make everything better".

Didn't help at all. He kept introducing himself to everyone in the office by saying "And what's your's name?" "What's your name?" "Your name?" "And what's your name?"
He was plesasent enough but he had a bit of an annoying nasally voice.

Anyhoo...so like I say I was walking home...rather exhausted. I passed a house a few doors down from my place. The garage door was open and it was completely empty except for an orange cat sitting in the middle of the doorway...his tail swaying violently...looking at me bewildered.

So in my exhausted state, and in my loudest voice I screeched, like the Spice girls in a room full of helium: "AND WHAT'S YOUR NAME!!!!"

The cat just sat there...but from the side of the garage a man stepped into view. "I beg your pardon?" he said.

I froze...
...after an eternity I said "your name?"
"Graham" he said.
"I'm mark" I replied...
...and promptly walked away as quick as I could.

And that is the last time i ever engaged in a conversation with both Graham, and his cat.
(Markygee Surname: "Balls". First name: "Lick-mah", Mon 31 Jan 2011, 23:49, 6 replies)

Running late...
.. I was heading for the cinema one winter's night such as this. And I was late. I was meeting a group of friends which included the proto Mrs Ugi and I was keen not to miss it so I was running. I claim no greatness in running but it wasn't far and I was putting in some effort so I was moving pretty fast as I crossed through the alley at the side of the multiplex.

Pan out for a moment as my mercifully imaginary witness and you will see in the neck of this unlit, late-evening alleyway a concrete bollard. Not one in fact but a matching pair with, suspended therebetween, a robust metal chain - all but invisible to our young hero with his eyes on the lights ahead and his mind on the pleasant evening in prospect, with who-knows what to follow. You can guess what followed.

Envisage then, as thankfully nobody did, the sprinting young man coming to an inexplicable, instantaneous halt. As the chain snapped taught across my upper-thighs I somehow balanced for a moment, perceptible only perhaps in the sudden rush of adrenaline, before crashing over the top into a whimpering heap of pain on the other side.

For the first five-minute hour that I lay there I was certain that I must have snapped both legs like twigs and would be forced to drag myself by my fingernails into the light to have any hope of rescue. Gradually it dawned on me, however, that there were in fact no jagged splinters of femur thrust through my jeans and, agonising though it was, I had apparently done myself no substantial injury.

I hobbled into the film having taken nearly a half-hour to cover the last 200 yards of distance. My excuse was told and duly dismissed as nonsense or at best as gross exaggeration, even by the prospective Mrs Ugi. However, a day or so later a witness did come forward. My ever-blackening thighs. You could see every link in that chain, strangely white against the blue and purple background of my miraculously intact legs.

So I give you my legs - sole and silent witness to their own mistreatment.
( Ugi , it's a game of give and cake, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 17:43, 12 replies)

Being silly
A couple of months back, I opened up Google Earth, entered an address and clicked 'search'. As it zoomed in to the location, I started flailing my arms about and going 'aarrgghhh!' as if I was plummeting to Earth. Luckily nobody was about.

But I've taken to doing it every time, and it's only a matter of time before Mrs Sandettie or one of the kids sees me.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 28 Jan 2011, 12:38, 5 replies)

I'd just started going out with the to be Mrs Ring Of Fire in the distant future.
My Mum had invited us for a stroll along a canal and a Sunday afternoon pub lunch.

We hadn't been going out quite long enough to be totally honest about our revolting habits, still on our best behavior as it were. So when a little cough deposited a gilbert the size and consistency of a shucked oyster in my hand I didn't thrust it towards her face with a shout of "CHECK THIS OUT". I bent to one knee to 'tighten a shoe lace' whilst surreptitiously wiping my hand on the grass....and right through a huge soft dog turd.

The Mrs turned just in time to see me looking in horror at the hand of shit but she never saw the snot that caused it all, so one nil to me I think.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Mon 31 Jan 2011, 19:31, 4 replies)

In my horny and experimental
teenage years, I once came into a large'ish plastic syringe, inserted it into my rectum and depressed the plunger. I wanted to give myself a taste of passive gay sex. Didn't really do much for me. I think I'm pretty glad nobody saw me do that!
(Happybara The jungle came alive and took him, Wed 2 Feb 2011, 17:37, 32 replies)

My cat once fell off the bird table,
he sometimes sits up there in an attempt to hunt incognito, despite it scaring away all the birds he's trying to catch. He swipes for a bird which was stupid enough to fly too close. He falls out the bird table. So when he hits the floor, he does a quite spectacular faceplant and rolls over. I'm sitting indoors looking at him through the window while having a cup of tea. He looks around quickly, as if making sure nobody saw his epic failure. Our eyes meet. His face slowly turns to an "oh crap" look. He slowly saunters towards the house, head down, disgraced.

Funny how primal the feeling of embarrassment is :-D
(The Oscillating Gibbon is eating curried squid, Thu 27 Jan 2011, 18:41, 8 replies)

I'm glad *for them* that noone witnessed it....
I was once in a group of people who drive little kit.cars based on the original Mini. They're road legal, but more amusing offroad. One weekend each summer, we'd all meet up and hammer them around a massive area usually frequented by landrover-ish people. This used to be a "Blokey" thing with only a few hard-core lasses turning up... and then women started to come, and then some guys decided that the ladies needed comfort, and bought frikking landrovers and caravans instead of tents.. and it all started to go tits-up.

Before too long, it had become an event that needed to be "organised" and a porta-toilet was ordered at great expense. No longer was taking the shovel up the field a valid option, and sooner or later, it became frowned upon.

************'

One morning after spending the night on the ale my guts and body weren't feeling too good. It was long after sunrise and desperately in need of lettings a serious cludgie go, I exited a foul-smelling CO2-rich tent and swayed off to the porta-toilet which by this time, had spent 3 days in the sun. I opened the door to a horrific smell, a fly-swarm and a pile of shit that peaked at seat-level. I baulked: No way was I going to manage to keep my guts from exploding at both ends...

I toddled off into the morning with a small roll of bog-roll clutched tightly in one sweating hand, and vainly attempted to walk smoothly lest I should upset the growling beast that was my bowel. About half way up the hill I realised that what I needed most was a drink of water... momentarily I stopped and considered the re-percussions of returning to camp, but instantly resumed my waddle of shame on when my sphincter was nearly overcome by a wave of hot pressure.

A few minutes later I was deep in the woods, surveying the area and getting pissed at myself for not bringing a spade... The day was hot and still, the woods were warm, and the buzz of insects held the promise of a seriously frustrating crap.

I stood and surveyed the site. After a deeply agonising moment, weighing up the known blast-radius that my arse was capable of, the lack of hole and blast wall (didn't have a spade) and the predicted consistency of what was to follow.... I decided to squat on a slope, hoping that exit would be brought closer to the ground, thus narrowing the blast-zone.

After another brief moment of thought - (those of you who know me well will remember that I'm genuinely scared of my own arse's capabilities) - I decided to remove my boxers, trousers and boots.. working on the theory that it was easier to clean crap off my legs.

So.. Squatting on a slope in the woods, wearing only a T-Shirt and a hung-over grimace, I closed my eyes, concentrated on the buzzing of the insects and tried to relax my sphincter gently... I jumped as a fly landed on my ring-piece.. calmed my nerves and tried again.

The next 5 minutes are etched into my mind as a "what not to do" tutorial for the future.

The resulting flow of man-slurry exited fast, It flowed downhill at speed, and my placement of the bog-roll (infront of me) suddenly seemed less than smart. Then the smell hit me. Buoyed up by it's own heat, the stench floated upwards in the still humid air and assaulted me. Suddenly I was retching again, and on an empty stomach I produced only bile. Gasping for breath resulted in large nasal inhalations, more retching... for the second time of my life I was in a disastrous shit-induced positive-feedback loop. Morbid curiosity forced me to look as green bile surfed atop a torrent of liquid turd, only to realise with horror what I was looking at - and the cycle would start again.

I moved - Sideways - like a shitty crab. Clutching a trees for much-needed stability, I evaded the stench and rode out the rest of my bodily convulsions in relative comfort: even the flies trying to munch my ass were pleasant by comparison.

I walked back without underwear and T-shirt.... always put your bog-roll uphill. Always.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Sun 30 Jan 2011, 21:35, 7 replies)

A genuine Tear-Jerker.
Read this to yourself in a slow, gentle, and un-hurried way.

NEARLY FOUR

A teddy bear sits on a mattress
One glass eye and threadbare paw
Looking at a cuckoo clock
Which shows it's ten to four

Four o'clock is teddy's teatime
Lots of friends and fancy cake
Although it's only pretend eating
Oh how long ten minutes take

Shadows grow on distant hillsides
Orange sun on glassy sea
All in his amber eye reflected
And still ten minutes left 'til tea

The mattress, striped, is old and broken
Rusty springs through stuffing show
The cuckoo clock is also broken
But how's a teddy supposed to know?

Unaware he's been discarded
That this is not the nursery cot
The hills and sea just glass, old papers
On a disused rubbish plot

A telephone that no one answers
Empty tins that once held tea
The clock that still says nearly teatime
Where can all the children be?

For ages now he's lain unwanted
Saluting with his threadbare paw
He'll never know he's been abandoned
'Til the clock reads after four

Don't tell him that the clock is broken
For as long as teddy doesn't know
It'll always soon be teatime
As it was so long ago.

********

Makes me well up every time.

However....

In the early days of wanking I used to shag my old teddy - Right In his little brown fuzzy arse. So while causing me to blub, this poem with a naughty little bear - *clearly* begging to go dogging on his worn out mattress - also makes me horny.... and as my mum taught me: never waste a hardon.


The good old Tear-Jerk: Best done without witnesses.
.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Mon 31 Jan 2011, 12:15, 13 replies)

roasted loin of pea with a rose tinted jus.
Started working for a new company. day 5 in my new shiny job, and i feel the bowels of brimstone begin to gear up for a toilet mugging.
capitulating to the will of my sulphurous masters, i make my way to the toilet, and have a gargantuan shit. we're not talking a normal human poop, this thing felt like shitting captain caveman's club sideways, i thought it would have to be born by c-section, i'm sweating like a madman, there's a stench like a million dogfarts stored in a room full of unwashedf socks, for a brief moment i went blind, and i saw the face of god- he looked unimpressed.
now up until this point it's normal. everyday. mundane. however i should point out i'm wearing a coat (on my way out for lunch) now being a large gentleman (just large not fatc per se) it's a tight squeeze in these minimalist midget toilets (even the bog itself is retardedly low- at 6'3" that's a long way to haul ass) and as i stand up,holding the trousers of immobilising doom, my jacket catches the stupidly placed loo-roll holder.
tottering, i am left with one option, to fall back , regroup, and try a new assault. so i flop back onto the silly low toilet, at which point it loudly and rather definitively informs me i'm not a safe weight to be dropped onto it at such a forceful and untoward angle, and becomes VERY unstable.
leaping to my feet like a startled cat, i pull up my keks, and turn round to be greeted by the sight of the water draining rapidly from the bowl (god knows where to- the floor was dry as a statue's tit) and my bowel behemoth jutting proudly forth from the water like a diorama of some majestic mountain range, complete with toilet paper snow.

i did what any sensible, responsible employee would do.

i checked for witnesses, flushed, and left rapidly.
i feel for the poor maintenance man who had to wrangle mount crapatoa..
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Fri 28 Jan 2011, 0:01, 7 replies)

bad postman
I once stumbled into my house at about 5am one Saturday morning so utterly drunk fucked that I literally could not make it to my bedroom.
So I shut the front door behind me and passed out in the hallway with my head using the inside doormat as a pillow.

Fast forward about 3 hours and the postman delivered me a book from amazon... Which landed on my macara fucked, door matt dimpled man face and woke me immediately the fuck up..

I bet the postman didn't even realise that some dumb bint was the other side of the front door trying to be quiet as poss as he checked his bag for my other letters.

THANK FUCK.

I still laid there for a good 45 minutes more before finally taking my shoes off and moving to the sofa.
(nettestar meeow, Mon 31 Jan 2011, 23:55, 2 replies)

Walking to my grandmas house about 2 years ago.
Came to a section of the road with a barrier round the edge of the pavement. Can't be arsed walking round (it was quite a long barrier), decide to be like Fonzy and hop over it casually.

Too casually. Didn't put anywhere near enough effort into it, caught my foot on the top of the barrier and nearly faceplanted into the ground.

Midway down, i realise I'm about to smash my face into the concrete in what would undoubtably be a painful and embarrassing memory to cherish for years to come, and elect to try and commando roll out of it, thus saving my dignity and teeth.

I quickly tucked my shoulder in, got my head down and did my best ever commando roll, right across the road.

Headfirst into a wall on the other side.
( PMGT -Bacon., Sat 29 Jan 2011, 18:04, Reply)

I have always loved knives, for as long as I can remember. Even as a wee nipper...
===wavey lines===
I was 7 or 8, it was maybe 2 or 3 years after we moved house.
So that'll make it getting on for 35 years ago.
I had an Opinel pocket knife my dad had let me buy on holiday in france that summer, I spent my days throwing it and sticking it into trees in the woods behind our house. Pure bliss.
In the september of that year my dad's elder brother, an alcoholic and shadow of his former self came to visit with his wife. Andrew was his name. He'd been in the army, a PT instructor. As fit as buggery in his day. Sadly that day was long gone, he'd been medicalled out of the army after being stabbed in the belly during the riots that engulfed Delhi in the period following the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi.
Anyway, Andrew took a shine to me, he'd seen me throwing my knife and was impressed by the skill I showed. He could see how my dad was really critical of me all the time, hard on me for no reason. Andrew didn't like that and made sure his wee brother knew it. Sadly that only served to cause friction between them and generally made things difficult.
Just before Andrew and Elsie left to head back to Ardrossan Andrew took me aside and told me he had something for me, something secret. He reached into his suitcase and handed me a roll of soft beige leather, about 11 inches long, tied with an old black boot lace. I can still remember how the weight of it felt in my young hand. He told me to open it and as I did so he told me to be careful with it and to treasure it forever. It was a knife, but unlike any knife I had seen before. Or since, for that matter. A heavy, finely stitched leather sheath, worn with age and use. A black leather handle, wrapped with plaited silver wire, a large silver pommel. The blade of dark steel, seven inches in length, hollow ground on both edges and inlaid with fine gold detail of foreign lettering.
It was, he told me quietly and lifting his shirt to reveal the scar, the knife he had been stabbed with.
Little else was said, just a few looks between us before they left.
I can feel the goosebumps as i type this.
Can you imagine how this felt? I was in hog-heaven. I was the envy of my gang of wee pals. The knife was perfectly balanced for throwing and in my expert delinquent hand it was a thing of wonder.
I could (and still can) stick it in the shed door from 30 feet, under or over-hand throw. I was obsessed and would practice throwing it for hours on end.
Until one day...
I had just been given an utter bollocking for no reason I could perceive, as often happened. I was "playing" with the knife, torturing my action man probably. When all at once, in a fit of childish rebellion I threw the knife and stuck it into the kitchen floor. Oh, that was satisfying. The beautiful "thunk" as it stuck through the lino and into the boards beneath. I couldn't resist and did it again. And again. And again. Just as I was letting the knife slip for the fifth or sixth time I heard a noise, my dad approaching from through the house with a "what the fuck's that noise you little bastard" and I flinched, momentarily afraid of the secret being blown.
And in that moment I pinned my slipper clad right foot to the floor.
Dad stomped into the room demanding an explanation just as I dropped to my left knee, right foot still skewered, my back to him. I made some excuse about dropping something I think, but I can't really remember. He harrumphed and left the room and that was pretty much that.
It didn't bleed much thankfully, I guess it could have been quite serious but all I got was a small scar and a knackered slipper.
I'm glad nobody saw, especially my dad, he would have killed me.
I only saw Andrew once after that before he died.
I still have the knife.
Length? Like I said, the blade's 7 inches long.
( blaireau69 , the Cumbrian Travis Bickle., Fri 28 Jan 2011, 22:25, 6 replies)

One in the eye
It was a barbeque at ours a few years ago. When you are the parents of (at the time) 10 and 7 year olds, you take these opportunities to gather with other parents with children of a similar age. The kids go and brain themselves on the trampoline and the grown ups sit in the garden and slowly drink themselves silly.

A bit later on food is prepared. The kids all eat first coz the adults are still happy drinking. And inevitably the kids want drinks with their food.

Thus I find myself dispatched to the kitchen to retrive lemonade. And there on the worktop I find two 2-litre plastic bottles. These are of the 2-pack variety that supermarkets sometimes do where the sleeve encompasses both bottles.

Also in the kitchen - out of reach of small hands - was a large kitchen knife. Aha, thinks me - a dashing way to split the bottles. So I snatch up the knife, and in an over-elaborate arc bring it swiftly down to quckly and neatly separate the two plastic bottles.

Except of course, I had been exuberantly partaking of the aforementioned alcohol. The knife pierces the right-hand bottle dead-centre about an inch below the lid. And a small, but incredibly precise jet of lemonade squirts out of the hole and hits me exactly in my right eye.

No one saw this.
(PunkBubble Lady, I couldn't take another 67 of those..., Fri 28 Jan 2011, 11:19, 3 replies)

I'll pea this - A snowy tale
It was the third week of February 2005 and it had snowed the day before, but here in Hull it had melted within about 24 hours and the roads were dry. Mrs SLVA was out, the kids were at school and I was home alone and bored. So I thought I might have a drive inland to see if there was any snow, if so I was going to park up and take some scenic pictures. So I headed towards Pocklington.

Into Pocklington, I saw a sign telling me of a scenic drive through Millington Pastures. That sounded good, so off I went, on to what become a single track road. Shit, thought I as I realised that such a tiny country lane would be nigh on impassable for my beat up old Ford Escort. But no, someone had been through with a snowplough and cleared it all. I've yet to work out why because it's the tiniest of back roads that winds in a dale between two very steep embankments. I stopped every so often and took some pics before realising I desperately needed a piss.

I pulled over at the side here

maps.google.co.uk/?ie=UTF8&ll=53.965686,-0.722812&spn=0.003206,0.006856&t=h&z=17 , hoping no one would come by now as they'd never get past what with the snow piled up either side of the lane. There was a sort of entrance to a field with a gate and I headed towards that.

maps.google.co.uk/?ie=UTF8&t=h&ll=53.966166,-0.723306&spn=0.000783,0.001725&z=19&layer=c&cbll=53.966144,-0.723158&panoid=q9jOS938vCgsbKLoGL8pKw&cbp=12,327.79,,0,17.74

As you can see there was a slight incline to the gate and I was already in the process of getting my cock out when I slipped. I put my hand down to stop myself face-planting. The snow looked about 3 inches deep and I expected a cold wet hand. No, the snow wasn't very deep at all, but the sloppy mud underneath was and my fingers sunk in. I managed to stand up but by now I was pissing like a horse and I slipped again, this time landing on both hands. Thank Christ nobody drove past to see what looked like me doing press-ups with my cock out fucking a patch of yellow snow.

I finished peeing, scrambled to my feet and began to put myself away again. It then dawned on me that my hands were muddy and I had got it on to my todger. I used a bit of snow to clean my hands and then tried to clean my penis the same way but it was cold. Very cold. Absolutely bastard freezing truth be told. "Fuck that" I thought, put myself away, zipped up and went back to the car where I pictured what I must have looked like to a passer-by and giggled like a loon.

I'd lost interest in scenic pictures by now and wanted to get cleaned up properly so I drove home, every so often hitting a patch of snow that made my car skitter sideways in the most alarming manner.

By the time I got in, Mrs Sandettie was home and was laying on the bed reading. I went upstairs, said hello and opened the wardrobe next to the bed to get some clean jeans out. I undid my jeans and took them off. She'd been feeling a bit horny when she'd come in and seeing me in my boxers she thought she'd fruit me up. She pulled my pants down and just as I remembered what had happened earlier, she uttered the line;

"Sandettie, why is your cock all brown?"
"Err, well, funny you should ask that..."
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 28 Jan 2011, 10:06, 4 replies)

Flying Condom
I used to wear trainers with the laces bundled up under the insoles. Occasionally the laces would work their way out and they would need to be put back inside. One time at work they were really uncomfortable at the end of a work day and I pulled my trainer off, yanked the insole out and a used condom came flying out of my shoe and landed on a colleague's desk. It was the condom that had vanished last night at my gf's house - we'd looked ofr it but were mystified as to where it had gone. My shoe was where.

My colleague and I just stared at it for a moment until I swept it off my desk into the bin cool as anything and just said "bye then" and walked out of the office as if nothing had happened and it was never mentioned again, thank god
(Nathalie Imbruglia's Cellist's Cello, Thu 27 Jan 2011, 22:07, 3 replies)

Too hairy for own good
I must have been about 20 or so and was impressed by a mate's ability to light his own farts. I must have been in my youth as this no longer impresses me, finding a savings account with a good return is now more my pace, anyway I digress.

I thought I would try to light own fart when returned home, even took on some fuel, a kebab. As one was brewing I prepared myself for my new talent. I thought if I was going to do this properly then trousers and pants must be removed.

So I perched on the side of my armchair, pants round ankles and leaned forward to get a good look. My fart was so fierce that it set light to my arse hair, which itself was so long that it was still alight when it floated up and hit me in the face.......and then proceeded to set my right eyebrow alight.

So running around room smacking myself in the face with a burnt arsehole then falling flat on said face due to trousers round ankles.

I was no longer impressed with such an activity.
(CaptainSpunker, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 11:57, 6 replies)

The 1998 TV3 weather fiasco: Disey saves the day.
The phone rang in Graphics, and it was Dianne calling me from downstairs in the TV3 program control room.
“Hey AJ, the weather’s gone.”
It was one of those telescoping pull-focus horrorshow moments like when Paul Scheider first sees that shark in Jaws.
“Oh shit, I just overwrote it with the Nightline weather!”
FUCK! It was 6.52 on a quiet Friday evening at TV3 and we were in the last commercial break before the weather bulletin. After the Friday bulletin the News Department always shouted Heinekens, wine and nibbles for the Friday evening crew, so, being on the Nightline late shift skeleton crew, I thought I’d be really efficient, save time and generate the late weather while the 6 o’clock went to air, then go kick back with a few brewskis in the newsroom.
Except that I’d forgotten which commercial break we were in, jumped the gun and overwritten the 6 o’clock weather still frames with the Nightline weather stills. Totally different ball game.
FUCK!
“Is there a problem, graphics?” I heard the news director ask, noticing Di’s sudden flurry of activity further down the console as she attempted to test the weather playback.
It was standard practice for graphics to monitor the control room comms during the bulletin. The director was an incompetent prick, one of those assholes who tries to bury his own mistakes by distributing the blame for them across as many departments as possible, in the hope that his signal would get lost in the noise.
Therefore Di hated him every last little bit as much as I did.

However just as history books are written by the victors in any war, TV station Fault Logs are written by the News Director. And this fiasco was a career breaker. And I was the department newbie.
Suddenly I had a flash.
“I can fix this. Tell him it’s OK!”
“No problem. It’s OK,” I heard Di’s icy reply to the director over the comms.
“What are you going to do?” she half-whispered into the phone.
“Praise God, I didn’t delete the 6 o’clock source files. I can re-copy them back down to your machine while we’re still in the break.”
“...In three minutes?”
“No, we’ve got about 6. I can still keep writing to your machine while we’re on-air as long as you’re not trying to read the same still frame that I’m writing.”
“…And if Rose doesn’t read too fast off the autocue and catch up. Go! Go then! Go!”

16 still frames, each with a 5 digit file name, and I would have to do it all manually. Using the auto routine would just re-dump the Nightline weather again now.
Run across the room, crank up the sleeping weather computer, load the first still frame onto the router, back over to the still frame store, grab the still, dump it to Di’s program control room computer. And again, all in exact sequence, 16 times, plus the cloud loop.

Just one digit out of place and God knows what half a million unsuspecting New Zealand weather punters would have seen: a blank frame, an error message, a picture of a frog, one of my bizarre Photoshop doodles… anything. Rose the weather girl could read faster than I could dump stills, and by the time I hit “save” on the last still it was a dead heat, and when I glanced up at the program line monitor as that last frame went to air I had no more idea what she would see there than she did, or Di.

YES! Off air! Nailed it, with literally milliseconds to spare! 12 years later and I still hyperventilate and my heart races when I think about it.

Downstairs, cool as a cucumber, Di put the presentation computers on standby and casually strolled back up to Graphics. By the time she got upstairs I was shaking like a leaf and the still frame store buttons were slick with sweat.

She didn’t get mad, she didn’t say anything. She waited until my normal hair colour returned and my pulse slowed and then we went out into the newsroom and drank beers with the news crew as if nothing had happened, because it hadn’t. Although the Director had his suspicions and the Producer (who sat next to graphics) was certain that something was up when Di spent the whole weather break whispering on the phone, because that never happens.

I quit TV3 on `04 but Di still works there part time and we are friends to this very day. If she hadn’t trusted me to fix the weather in that split second, both of our asses would have been well and truly in the fire, so if you’re reading this Disey, thanks again for saving my ass, I will never forget that.
You rock!!
(Brian O'Blivion contains hazardous material, Mon 31 Jan 2011, 7:42, 3 replies)

I know it's sad, but I do it all the time.
Put on an album, pick up a cat, and dance the cat around while singing the songs re-worded to be about the cat. 'The Guns of Brixton' scans very well in particular. No, the cats don't like it; no, I am not unmarried and in my sixties.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 27 Jan 2011, 17:48, 10 replies)

woohoo...first ever post!
One fine summers evening, after seeing off enough alcohol to kill Keith Richards, I decided that it would be a great idea to save the tenner that the robbing bastard taxi drivers would charge and walk the 5 miles home instead.
The first 4 miles were completely uneventful, mostly consisting of staggering sideways and trying my best to stay upright. The last mile of the trip home took me alongside a leisure centre with 6 foot railings surrounding it with big sharp pointy spikes on top.
Being totally hammered and completely idiotic I somehow found myself on the wrong side of the fence and I didn't fancy the 1/4 mile walk back the way I came to right the situation...
"Fuck it, I'll climb the bastard"
and I did.....mostly
Having heaved myself up and balancing precariously on two arms locked at the elbows...I could suddenly feel myself teetering forward. I can't remember the actually topple, but topple I did. I was caught, hanging upside down. One of the fence spikes had managed to enter my pocket and exited via the thigh of my new jeans rendering me upside down, helpless and laughing like an idiot. Its damn near impossible to pull yourself out of a situation like that when you are absolutely pissing yourself at you own idiocy..
I have no idea how long I was upside down, but the pressure in my head was intense by the time I had de-shoed and de-pantsed myself, dropped to the deck in a heap where in retrieved my shoes and recently ruined leg wear.
Nobody saw me hanging there and it didnt hurt at the time, but the cut I found in the morning across my inner thigh smarted like fuck and showed me just how close I was to ripping my nutsack open\off
Cost of a Taxi £10
Cost of ruined jeans £90
Bastard!
(Pectacular Almost spectacular...but somethings missing!, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 12:58, 9 replies)

Chemical turns boy to soap
Christ, I still feel awful about this.

Many moons ago, I was a 15 year old schoolboy and a bit of a twat.

It was a boring chemistry lesson, and the teacher was prepping us for an experiment.

"This chemical" he explained "will dissolve flesh and turn it to soap." I have no idea what chemical this was. Perhaps some of you who realised that science is in fact awesomely interesting while still at school will know what I'm talking about. "Be very careful with it. If you get some on your skin, wash it off immediately. NO MESSING ABOUT!" he bellowed, letting out a little whistle from between is teeth, just like he did every time he pronounced the letter "T" too emphatically.

So there I was, bored out of my pubescent mind, with a little eyedropper full of flesh-burning fluid in my hand.

So I point it at my friend Matt. Right in his face.

“Don’t be a twat Levi” said my friend Zac. He was a really nice guy. I guffaw idiotically and point it right at Matt’s eye. No reaction from Matt, who had obviously decided to ignore my stupidity. No reaction from anyone. So, for some terrible reason, I gave the eyedropper a little squeeze, and watched as the little squirt of burny, nasty chemical flew straight into Matt’s open eye.

My heart hit my stomach, then my throat, then started drumming out a slow death march in my brain. Fuck. Fuck. In these few milliseconds I had already watched myself being arrested, put on trial and sent to the worst kind of prison. I was imagining Matt’s stricken parents, a lifetime of guilt and regret… Fuck. Fuck.

Matt immediately shoved his head under the tap and was washing his eyes out with some urgency. The teacher noticed Matt bent into the sink, and blew his fucking top.

“I HOPE THAT’S NOT WHAT I THINK IT IS!” He yelled, whistling his tees.

I stood there frozen. Zac was looking at me like I was the most massive cunt of them all. The rest of the class began to turn around, expecting to see the most exciting event of the school year unfold before their eyes. Matt pulls his head out of the sink.

“No sir” he says. ”I accidentally got some ink in my eye. I’m fine”

Do they still use ink cartridges in schools? I wonder. Anyway, I digress.

To say I felt relieved would be a massive overstatement. I think I actually felt a little worse than if I’d been caught bang to rights. I barely slept that night, convinced that Matt’s eye would soapify and drop out, and that I would be promptly arrested in the morning.

When the Sword of Damocles never fell, I gradually stopped worrying and started to forget about it. The only two people who saw me do it were Zac and Matt, who were nice enough to never mention it again. I reckon if the teacher had seen I’d have been expelled there and then, and rightly so.

I’d like to think that this experience made me a better person, especially Matt’s laudable knee-jerk kindness and forgiveness. But for purely selfish reasons, I’m glad no one else saw me.

Apologies for length, lack of funnies, being a massive dick etc.
(leviticus no longer likes the cut of your gib on, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 16:53, 2 replies)

It seemed fun at the time...

..to tug repeatedly at the 'For Sale' sign attached to the wall outside the house we passed on the walk back from the pub.

I don't really know what we planned to do with it, but we wanted it.

So we pulled and shook and tugged and pushed and with one last yank, we stumbled backwards, sign in hand...

,,,as the whole wall tumbled towards us.

I am not an athlete, but I have never run so fast in my life.

I am glad I wasn't seen then.

And I am glad I wasn't seen the next day, when I, with my paranoid gloved hands, withdrew £100 from the bank, put it in a brand new envelope and walked up the garden path to put it through their letterbox.

Noticing as I did the cement mixer and palette of last few brand new bricks next to the pile of now broken ones that must previously have been their brand new wall.

I hope £100 went someway towards the cost of the wall.

but i doubt it much made up for the delay it must have caused in selling their house.



It's OK to hate me for this. I still do, and it was nearly twenty years ago.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 28 Jan 2011, 17:26, 5 replies)

The Big Freeze
Everyone has their snowfail stories from the Great Cold of 2010, mine was more to do with frost though.

I came out of work one night, freezing my ass off and eager to get in the car and get the heating belting. Walks up and presses the fob, door is locked. Shit I think, have I left this unlocked all day?!

But no, I press the fob again and hear the locking mechanism. The door is completly frozen solid. I drive a coupe and the window is held to the rubber seal, not like a usual sturdy door frame.

I figure that yanking the door will probably shatter the window, so move around to the passenger door to climb over. Passy door opens but the lock freezes open so closing the door only makes a bang and it swings open again. I climb over the centre console and manage to push the drivers door gently open. Success! I have broken the frosty seal and im good to go, just got to go shut the other door.....

After much banging and slamming it closes, and isnt going to open again in a rush. So i head round and find I had closed the drivers door when i got out.....fucksocks.


With no other option at hand I decide to climb through the boot, over the back seats and into the drivers seat. Man has conquered nature.

But no, the boot is still open! I climb out and leave door wide open, close boot and the bang causes the door to swing onto the sneck (im parked on a gentle slope)...phew i think at least it didnt close fully. However the Gods were by now pissing themselves as the handle did not open the door as it should.



Back through the boot again.....
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 11:31, Reply)

I walked straight into
a 'Claims Direct' advertisment by a bus stop. The irony...
( Norbert Lightowler, Mon 31 Jan 2011, 22:19, 1 reply)