i had a poo,
and a wank. lucky escape.
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Wed 2 Feb 2011, 20:41, 2 replies)

Sex-haunted castle
Many years ago, I had the privilege to be my best friends Best Man. The wedding and the reception was to be held at a beautiful castle in the Scottish Borders. This thing proudly presents a massive hole in it's outer layer of stone where someone at sometime fired a cannonball at it, and didn't make it through the double glazing of the dark ages.

About 2 weeks before the beautiful day, the bride/groom, their respective families, and myself all roll up to the castle to go over various last minute things. As we're driving up onto the shingle, the sun beats down, and the air is beautifully clear. Things couldn't get much better than this.

But as we parked up, I realised that I had been driving for 2 hours and needed to clear my back alley from a minor obstruction that was starting to cause a backlog. So once we had made the pleasantries of introductions, I quickly scurried away to find the nearest public convenience, which was conveniently close by.

So I'm sat there, relaxing away, have myself a little pee, and then the blockage started to free itself. This was no eye watering event, it was no larger than I normally attain. Other than the mere fact I was in a beautiful castle, in beautiful surroundings on a gorgeous summer's day, it was merely an every day event taking place.

Every day event, except this time, I jizzed. Somehow, I must have been wanked off by a dirty ghost from the history of the castle, without me even realising it, and the knobbly brown fingers of the tickling turd had finally milked the old prostate, and made my little fella cry tears of joy. I was neither erect, nor did I have any feeling of exultation.

I was rather glad that nobody had seen me get wanked off by a ghost, and poo fingered to bring forth the haunted seed.

But obviously the ghost that wanked me off was not content with that, and probably somewhat annoyed that I neither got erectus maximus for her, nor did I actually orgasm. As come the wedding night, after having far too much alcohol to drink, I was neither capable, nor wanting to have any fun, but the morning after, oh yes I was. So me and the then girlfriend got down to some naughtiness. I got two strokes of the piston engine, and I came! The ghost had gotten her own back, and made me look a right failure in front of the girlfriend. And the girlfriend never let me live that one down.

Still, it was beautiful!
( DavyBoyInGravyJoy Grey Goose Vodka on Ice, nothing finer, Wed 2 Feb 2011, 20:07, 2 replies)

This thread....
........might as well be invisible for all the interest it (hasn't) generated!
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Wed 2 Feb 2011, 19:00, 1 reply)

Buck
Fell asleep, on my back, stark naked and pissed out of my head on the bathroom floor of my girlfriend's house, with the door wide open, in a house she shared with two other women.

I woke up and my first thought was "I don't have a skylight in my bedroom".

Second thought was "where are my pants"
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Wed 2 Feb 2011, 18:25, Reply)

i'm glad nobody saw me
i'm a ninja.
( monstrinho do biscoito teeeshurts = www.nogunarmy.com, Wed 2 Feb 2011, 18:15, Reply)

i deleted the whole of a 3 week animation project, the day before it was to be delivered, thinking i was just cleaning up the file structure,
It was on a server, so no recycle bin options were available.

Fortunately i had made a partial backup for my own records (i was freelancing)on DVD the previous day and was able to resonstruct 90%, then worked late to re-do the rest. I shudder to think of explaining to big business advertising company that their ad campaign wouldn't be going on TV due to my fimble fingered deleting tactics.
( monstrinho do biscoito teeeshurts = www.nogunarmy.com, Wed 2 Feb 2011, 18:13, 1 reply)

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)

Fire + idiot = panic
I was a young lad of about 13 and already a smoker, which unsurprisingly was not knowledge my parents at the time were privvy to, the aforementioned parents were out for the night and I was on my own in the house and had decided that there was a decent enough window to get drunk before they came home, a feat I had quite well achived by about 9pm. In a drunken state I decided that I needed a crafty smoke outside of the house, to do this all that I needed was to fill my zippo, luckly the lighter fluid is in the empty stone floored larder. In my rather cidered state I go about refiling the lighter, at which point I proceed to zone out for a while overfilling the lighter and pouring fluid on the floor. Brain being on holiday I then test the lighter setting fire to both hands, which in a shock causes me to drop the lighter setting fire to my socks and feet. The human torch runs from the larder through the kitchen and out into the garden afraid of leaving drunken firey footprints as he goes. Finally I make it to the garden and whilst every logical part of my brain should be say roll in the grass it is now saying pond and yep I listen and jump into the about three foot deep pond, (nicely pucturing the lino inside) leaving me thrashing like a one of the fish I have depoisited out of the pond onto the grass finally finishing with the coup de grass (tee-hee) of launching the apple tainted contents of my stomach onto our lawn. As I haul myself out of the pond and sit up to ascertain what damage I have managed to do to myself (thankfully little) and the pond (not so little, sorry fish) I make sure that no one in the ajoining houses have seen their darkness pierced by the worlds most stupid firework, luckly I had not, it was at this point I remembered the larder and comically lumber-ran back into the house.
(Syndex, Wed 2 Feb 2011, 16:48, 3 replies)

D'oh
On another forum, I posted something about "Dumbing down having gone too far" - in essence it was my misunderstanding of the Welsh "Language" and was outright stupidity.

I hoped that noone would notice and that it would die, but the thread has been running now for 3 years and I often cringe when it rears its ugly head.

Stupidity, is seems, one spotted is never forgotten.
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Wed 2 Feb 2011, 15:19, 16 replies)

One time in primary school class....
....I called my teacher Mum!
(Oatmeal&Rasin, Wed 2 Feb 2011, 12:20, 13 replies)

I once wrote a B3ta post…

About a time when I was a Karate-toting mega-hard-man who spotted my old school bully in the street strung out on Heroin one day. I pinned him to the wall using my Honda Accord, and then dished out some proper justice by jumping out of the car and getting all ‘kung’fu’ on him big stylie, before pushing him over said wall!!!

OMFGLOLZ!

Although I was understandably dead proud of myself, I later considered that the post might possibly leave me open to a certain amount of piss-taking so I deleted it. Thankfully, I think I acted in time before anyone spotted it, and fortunately prevented it from being mentioned in the future.

Phew…dodged a bullet there I reckon!

Love,

Hoogie
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 2 Feb 2011, 11:32, 6 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)

The shame
I was drinking with friends one lazy Friday afternoon last year. After a few beers we agreed we needed to see some naked ladies. Being in south shields, there was only option, a bar with a semi legal strip club above.

For £2 we got to see what passed for a woman take her clothes off while we drank cheap drinks. As we left I was first out the door and promptly threw up outside. No one saw but it was a low moment.
(Mong goose, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 23:21, 4 replies)

I am glad nobody saw me.
I want live in peace with no cutting.
(cringes at own post)
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 18:41, Reply)

Many moons ago
Whilst in college "studying" for an art foundation certificate, one of the other students had tied several bits of junk to strings and attached them to the ceiling pipes in the name of art.

Being a lunchtime and fetching my own food with me, i was left in the classroom alone while the others fetched their dinners from various parts of Newport town centre...god help them.
I sat myself on the edge of a table in front one of these dangling monstrosities and in my mind numbing boredom, proceeded to swing it back and forth, occasionally jerking left and right, like a Parkinson's afflicted boxer, to avoid it as it arc'd through the air towards me.
One particularly heavy swing though, sent the bugger clean over the top of the pipe and was coming back at me at great speed.

"right...duck" thinks I

I brought my torso forward at great speed...

...face first, straight into the back of a hard plastic chair...my lip split wide open and started pissing claret in great quantities all over the classroom floor.

I still have the scar to remind me of that particular fuck up!
(Pectacular Almost spectacular...but somethings missing!, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 18:14, 2 replies)

I'm glad nobody saw me
(insert interminable paragraph of turgid drivel here)



....BECAUSE I'M LUKE SKYWALKER!!!111111!!!!
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 17:50, 3 replies)

a few years ago
i moved into my current abode, which is roughly a mile away from where i grew up.
one fine and warm early summer's day, i decided to take myself off for a walk to one of the local parks and revisit my childhood. i loved playing in that park as a kid, it had some great hide-and-seek spots, a little pond and the best climbing tree ever.
humming softly to myself, i ambled along the path when, lo and behold, i spotted my old climbing tree. my, that took me back. despite the fact that i'd only grown about 3 inches taller(and 3 feet wider), that tree looked so much smaller than it used to. after a quick look round for dog-walkers or playing children, i decided to try and climb the tree.
huffing and puffing, hauling my excess girth with me, i climbed to the flattened-out top branches, wherein lay my favourite spot, which was like a seat. i sat there for a while, happily looking out over the park to my right and the marina to my left. sadly, my bulk made sitting on a branch far more uncomfortable than i remembered so, after ten minutes, i decidedd to climb back down.
i manouvered myself towards what appeared to be a sturdy branch and put my weight on it. one ominous CRACK! and the feeling of leaves hitting all parts of my body later, i was lying flat on my back on the hard-packed dirt under the tree, completely winded. it took about half a minute before i could breathe again and at least 3 times that before i could drag my carcass into an upright position. i stumbled out of the undergrowth, again searching for potential witnesses. thankfully, there were none.
untangling bits of twig and leaves from my hair as i went, i made my painfully bruised way back home.
i've never climbed a tree since.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 17:47, Reply)

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)

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)

By thunder...
Last night I had a couple of hot dogs with fried onions, LOTS of fried onions. I don't know about you folks but fried onions has an effect on my guts which leads to nice build up excess gas that the following day feels the need to escape.

The moment I woke up this morning, I'm parping like an over excited trumpet player, I could almost play a pitch perfect rendition of God Save the Queen.

Parp in the shower (nice echo effect there), parp eating breakfast, parp in the car on the way to work. I'm having a parping good time, and thankfully these farts of thunder don't smell... at least I don't think they do.

Of course, I can't exactly parp once I got to the office, what with it being open planned and my colleagues being mostly of the female persuasion. So, much sneaky parpiness is required where I raise one arse cheek off my chair and gently let loose a fart-light.

Time passes as it does and people go in and out of the office, meetings to attend, coffee breaks to be had, gossiping to gossip over. The office at lunch time is fairly quite with me and only a couple of other ladies in the office,

I've got a pair of headphones on listening to some tunes to get me through a particular tedious bit of repetition when I feel the pressure building down below. This one felt like a doozy, I knew it was gonna be a special one, the thumping tunes I'm listening to seem to be aiding on the build up of pressure. I'm so caught up in the music though that I'm not thinking and without any sort of hesitation I let loose a thunderous thunderclap of a fart that shook my seat and rattled the fillings in my teeth. I was quite surprised by the ferocity of it that it drowned out the music I was listening too.

I was pleased and gave it a hearty 10/10.

Then my brain kicked in when I realised where I was, a look around the office thankfully showed that I was on my own.

Releived that no-one heard the wonderpuff I settled back down and carried on working, though I do admit to being slightly disappointed that it wasn't a shared experience.
(ParaSitius is an Optimistic Pessimist, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 16:35, 4 replies)

I farted in a lift once
and got away with it by looking accusingly at the only old person in the lift...It was wrong on soo many different levels.

SF
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 16:23, 3 replies)

It was stupid, portentially embarrassing and I'm damn proud I did it!
We're going back probably about fifteen years ago when TV regailed us in the ay-em with the magazine pogramme 'This Morning'. I forget where they filmed it, I think it was Manchester and I was doing some entry level audio work, basically making tea and rolling cables.
There was a work do one night and there was a cute young runner who I'd been flirting with, alcohol was flowing freely and it was clear that I was going to get my end away. I was staying in a youth hostel so couldn't take her back there and she lived with her folks miles away. Then I had an idea. Ladies and gentleman. I can stand proud and say with fair certainty that I am one of two people who have ever shagged on Fred's weather map!
A fact that is pure pub top trumpery when you've had a couple and someone asks, 'Where's the strangest place you've ever shagged?' thinking that they're going to win with in a hedge or something.
( riverghost servicing your mum since, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 14:29, 21 replies)

when I played hopscotch in the street
I'll get me coat...
(Anne Frank started to build a loft conversion on, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 14:24, Reply)

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)

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)

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 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 did a sex dance..
In front of the mirror while completely naked after I'd just got out the shower.It's not unlike the clichéd tribal rain dance you're likely to see on some disneyesque type show...only more animated.The important bit,and please indulge me for a moment here by closing your eyes and creating a timeless mental image, is that your testicles and flaccid member swing in unison while you hold your hands above your head and make faces at the mirror akin to a monkey on crack having a pineapple inserted up it's rectum while being gently shocked with 10 000 volts.

Thankfully the mrs exited the bathroom directly after the completion of said dance and was none the wiser, save for the smug self satisfied look on my face.

Later that night I did indeed get sex, but I'm still not entirely sure if it was the sex dance,my devastatingly good look looks and quick wit or the fact that I surreptitiously snuck up on her while she was sleeping.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 10:26, 1 reply)

Now it's funny. Then, not so much.
Older brother pays 16 year old me to change the oil on his '75 Buick Riviera, a 40 foot long, 10 ton pimp wagon.
Sits too low to crawl under, so set out the ramps under the front wheels on the gravel driveway. Give some it gas to climb the ramps, gravel starts spitting out. More gas, rear wheels dig holes in the gravel down to the axle.
Shit! Can't let big bro, see this.
Put it in reverse, back up, WHUMP. Front wheels drop into the holes the rears wheels made.
SHIT! Hit the gas, rear wheels now dig two more holes down in the gravel.
All four wheels are now buried axle deep in the driveway. Had to jack up each wheel and shovel gravel back under the tires.
Had just finished the last wheel when my big bro comes out of the house.
"What are you doing?"
"Jacking up the car so I can get underneath."
"...You should use the ramps. It'd be easier."
(MrShineHimDiamond, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 3:19, Reply)

Red Eye
Can you fill up my wind proof lighter? Of course I can, it is a manly task with dangerous chemicals . . .

Didn't light first time, gave it a shake and still no flame just a spark.

Look in to check spark it lights then sending a small ball of flame into my eye. I have just removed my eye lashes, but fortunately not my sight!.

Was spied by the lighter’s owner but got away with it at work and carried on with OH & S inspections and audits for the next few months.
(CarlosNotlaw Is doing the opposite of you at, Tue 1 Feb 2011, 1:32, 1 reply)