My left foot…

I must have posted about this before…but I’m afraid I can’t be bothered to properly check. Either way, it applies for this week, so here goes…

~~~~~~~~~And lo, there were lines…and indeed they were wavey ~~~~~~~~~~~

I was in my late teens and had secured my first ‘proper’ job – working for a newspaper (that btw has subsequently provided me with more anecdotes from 2 years working there than the following 20 years of gainful employment has managed – but hey ho).

This newspaper was one of those ‘free delivery’ jobs, rammed up to the gusset with Adverts for general wankalots – it was one of those rags that irritates you as it pops through the door – for the brief second before you wang it directly in the bin without even looking at it. Not at all a waste of everybody's time.

I worked many different jobs there, but at this point in time, I was part of the distribution office – and part of my job was to be a ‘house-checker’; meaning I was to be suited and booted, and occasionally go to areas that had rumours of potentially dodgy delivery boys / girls. I would knock on the doors of random unsuspecting locals, and ask if they had received a paper, or if the delivery scrote had merely squandered their whopping 1p-per-paper wages before saving the public time and lobbing the lot in a nearby skip.

Of course, this job was sweet for a lazy lump of baboon-snaffle such as myself. My usual routine would be to arrive at work, have a nap, stroll out, get picked up by a mate, then go to the pub. Once there, I would get quite cunt-tastically piss-tarded, then grab a cab back several hours later and declare to my bosses: ‘Yeshhh….they alllssshh got their papersshshh’ before slouching in a corner and waiting for a lift home. Indeed. I.am.a.top.professional.

I must explain that on the previous evening I had dined quite hugely on a weapons grade chilli-con-carne. One of those that tended to redefine the ‘spicy-o-meter’, and should really have been served out of a luminous oil drum, before being consumed with the aid of a haz-mat suit…in a bunker somewhere…off the coast of the south pacific.

However, on the day in question I did not have any pub plans available, so I had heroically decided to buck the trend and actually do my fucking job for a change. I checked out one of the pool cars and before long I was pootling down a road, readily prepared to annoy some locals. But as I drove…like a bowel-powered thunderbolt, the previous night’s chilli extravaganza starting repeating on me. Quite violently. In fact, at one juncture I thought I might actually break not just wind, but the veritable laws of physics by parping myself into another dimension. As I wound the window down and dangled my head outside like a panting dog, I became aware that each whiffy own goal was nudging the inevitable horror another inch down my intestines towards a fateful ‘turtle-head-touching-cloth’ scenario…only my gut cramps were suggesting with dread that this wasn’t so much going to be a turtle - but more like a T-Rex. My pitiful log-launcher was exacerbating itself so rapidly that it became increasingly apparent an impending implosion was a case of mere seconds…I didn’t even have minutes. I had to do something to get rid.

Unfortunately, at that time I was not particularly knowledgeable of my locality, and I drove around ever-more frantically looking for a possible place to evacuate my rotting guts; as each bump in the road made the agony slide a little bit further down my rippling poo-pipe.

I ended up descending down a hill and was even ‘eyeing up’ the glove box as a potential porta-loo before I spotted something that seemed like the only available option in my increasing desperation. Like a gift from the bog-gods themselves – it was a small patch of what seemed like quite dense wooded park land, in-between two sections of an estate on my left hand side.

It would have to do. Logic had long since departed…this was a state of emergency. The wonderful patch of foresty shrubland I saw before me may have been an exquisite site of greenbelt to brighten up urban drudgery, but as far as I was concerned, It might as well have had ‘SHIT HERE!’ written in 90ft neon letters - like a particularly rambunctious fairground ride…that results in you having to tuck your bum-grapes back in afterwards.

Sweating profusely with the sheer physicality of trying to ‘hold it in’, I parked the car and bolted into the trees, desperately looking for some kind of cover. With my hand tucked between the crack of my arse I remember considering that soldiers properly earn their coin, because amongst this entire thickly forested area, I couldn’t find anywhere that I was absolutely confident of full camouflage …I mean if I attempt a crouch’n’crap behind a tree, knowing my luck some poor dog walker will stroll by and cop an eyeful of my head sticking out of one side, and a quite disgraceful arse peeling out a mega dump at the other side…and nobody deserves that – not even in Coventry.

I was royally screwed, but then I saw bush…sweet, glorious bush.

This isn’t going to get sexy, I’m afraid. not that type of bush…but an actual, large, bushy, bush type of bush. It was enough for cover. I was safe!

Heading from the direction facing the road, I dived behind its thorny goodness and my scuddies were already down by my ankles within a microsecond. As I squatted and momentarily looked down, I even noticed a load of generously proportioned leaves lying conveniently on the ground beside me. Result! I would even have some bum-wad to wipe my soon-to-be-disfigured dungfunnel on…

‘This was going to be one of those secrets that would never be shared’, I thought to myself as I adopted a stance that would make Bear Grylls drink his own piss in admiration. My knees locked into position and I was really careful to ensure that at no point would my poo-chute contents touch any part of my clothing - I bet even the dambusters didn’t put as much thought into their bomb depositories as I did. I even grabbed a convenient tree branch for added stability and leverage should it be required…I was confident - The perfect crime!

What happened next I would not like to overstate. Now, women are amazing, wonderful creatures who perform nothing short of a miracle. I could not for a moment comprehend what the pain and anguish of childbirth is actually like…but I consider that what happened next possibly came as close as a man can get.

My quivering anus began to split as this thing slowly started to emerge from my rusty bullet hole like an extra from a Japanese monster movie. I was groaning heavily…coaching myself to push…then pausing to leave some breather rings on the succinctly staggering torpedo that was emerging slowly but ever-so surely from my disgraced dirtbox. As the minutes went on and cramp set in I continued to squat – and eventually I resorted to using my free hand to ‘part a cheek’ in a vain attempt to assist the process.

Time ticked away enough for me to curse to my own existence, especially when considering that due to the spicy element of my previous dinings, this should have been one of those splattering, sandblasting jetwash jobs that can actually splinter porcelain...but no…for my sins this mahoosive unit decided to be like the Costa Concordia, a girthsome, badly maintained vessel, slowly departing and steaming away before running aground and pathetically flopping to one side.

As each second passed I could almost sense the value of house prices start to drop in the area, before becoming more concerned that the sheer magnitude of what I was ejecting could potentially knock the earth off its axis. I was then dragged back to reality by a brief, glorious moment when initial contact was made with the ground…and the world and I were became an organic one, joined together by a bum-bursting behemoth so foully magnificent that if I had been positioned differently, it might have resulted in me hitting my head on one of the higher branches of the tree I was perched under.

Inevitably…I started to feel the initial spasms of the ‘crimp’…my gaping guy-gash was starting to finish the job, and provided I didn’t have to hang around for any ‘poo-placenta’…or even some sort of umbilical cord to cut…I could soon make good my getaway.

Finally, this lengthy leviathan snapped off with a ‘thud’ as it collided with the unsuspecting stinging nettles perched precariously below. As I gazed upon its pale brown* splendour I honestly didn’t know whether to start the painful wiping process, run away, or place a flag in what I had just deposited so I could claim it for her majesty as a new country. I decided to start wiping, and proceeded to thank the lord for the invention of autumn as I wiped my hoop frantically with the surrounding foliage.

Exhausted, I was coming to the conclusion that my Al fresco adventure was soon going to be over and I had gotten away with it, The relief ebbed from my forehead as I wiped away the tears of strain…but this moment however, was the first opportunity I had afforded myself to properly check the validity of my chosen hiding place, and as I glanced around I rapidly came to the conclusion that In my haste to find a suitable dumpage destination, I had somewhat neglected to check on the nature of exactly how well covered the side of my new toilet was to the general public.

I looked up, and became quickly aware that the bush I was using for my own personal chod bin was, although disguised quite well from the area I was heading from, was in fact raised on a slight hillock, which had lifted me above ground just a few feet…Just sufficiently enough in fact that I could easily peer over the fence a few yards away and see a garden…and more importantly the kitchen window of the house right in front of me. This allowed me to thusly witness the frankly flabbergasted face of the poor old woman who was merrily doing the washing up, before her chores were interrupted by catching me full in the act of gurning with glory…with my dunghampers round my ankles, and curling out a ‘Thora Hird’ so profound that Norris McWhirter himself might have be tempted out of retirement to deem it the world’s very best (or worst, depending on how you look at it I suppose)

My eyes widened as I watched the poor old bird, who was recoiled in shock, but was managing to bellow a number of obscenities in my direction that were frankly not befitting of a lady her age. As she pointed, screamed, and banged on the window I noticed that she was also holding a phone. I therefore became convinced that she had called the dibbles, and that it was merely a matter of time before they would arrest me and I would have to explain myself in court – whilst my monumental mound of effluence would be used in evidence (no doubt it would be Exhibit ‘P’).

Having no sense of preparation, and having only one thing on my mind at the time, this presented a new element to the proceedings, and my body reacted before my feeble brain could compute what was going on.

The phrase ‘Knee-jerk reaction’ quite spiffingly applies here. Partially reacting to the cramp, my right knee actually ‘jerked’ – and straightened up instinctively…yet with my grots still round my ankles the other leg sort of stayed where it was. This merely made an already water-tight case for indecent exposure even worse for the aghast, fuming old prune as my cock dangled haplessly – waving in front of her as I wobbled about desperately trying to regain my balance…

In the panic-fuelled rush of what was transpiring, my body resorted to basic instincts, and as my left foot was so tangled up in my undercrackers I had only two alternatives – either fall over, or stamp my trailing leg down to prevent my self from toppling…

Oh very dear…

With a painful inevitability I plonked my foot squarely and securely on the very tip of the tapered end of the beleaguered brown trout that I had abandoned just moments before…. It smeared itself all over my shoe before opening up a new stink so foul it made the previous aroma seem like a bottle of Chanel number 5 poured over a bag of pot-pourri**. This of course, caused my foot to slip forward with momentum, so my increasingly fruitless attempt at holding some element of dignity disappeared as I managed to completely lose my balance and fell over with a moderately impressive attempt at a double-somersault. However, I would like to consider my self fortunate at this point that at the point when one leg shot forward, the other one buckled underneath me, so it was only down one side of my body that I got catastrophically caked in my own cack-tasticness. I also avoided the stinging nettles...It could have been so much worse.

I heaved up my newly shit-stained suit trousers and started to waddle away in a Chaplin-esque fashion. After getting to the car I tried to manoeuvre myself whilst sitting down so that minimum stainage would occur to the interior. I failed quite abysmally. To my lifelong relief though, I was just able to compose myself, start the engine and move away from the curb in time to watch the police car approach.

I stared straight ahead innocently as the panda car pulled up by the woodland, and before I nipped around the corner to freedom, I was just able to watch the poor, unsuspecting young copper step bravely out of the car and into a scenario that probably still traumatises him to this very day.

I think I should carry a bucket around with me in future. And at the very least, a bottle of toilet duck.

*Question 1: REALLY pale brown …what’s that all about? Why are they lighter in colour when done outside?
**Question 2: Why does shit smell more after it’s been ‘disturbed’?
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 30 Jan 2012, 12:47, 26 replies)

R. Jimlad and the Dangerously Inept and Eerily Decrepit Speedsters.
Get yourself a cuppa, it's a long 'un.

I attended a Speed Awareness course today. For those not familiar with the concept; when you get caught speeding by “a little bit”, you get the offer to attend one of these courses rather than pay a £60 fine and get three points on your licence. The course itself costs £85. So you’re basically paying an EXTRA £25 to avoid the points. You also have to sacrifice four hours to attend said course.

Until I was going on one I didn’t know anything about them. Until I mentioned I was going on one, I didn’t know anyone who’d been on one. But as soon as I did mention it people started emerging, blinking from the shadows saying they’d been on one too. As though the mention had jogged a memory of something they’d tried to blank out. Reports were mixed. Some felt patronised or that they’d had their time wasted. Others lauded them, praising content and delivery. So, to clear up for those still ponderous; here’s the full exposé.

You’re told to turn up 15 minutes beforehand or face possible forfeiture of the course. Not attending (or failing to complete) the course leaves the police with two options. By accepting the course you’ve rescinded the offer of a fixed penalty notice; that deal’s no longer on the table amigo. It’s re-booking the course or standing in front of a magistrate – and it’s not your decision which. It’s the cops’. It’s no surprise, then, that everyone’s there on time. What *is* surprising is the people on these courses. I was expecting boy racers and white-van men. What I got was Dad’s Army. I was the youngest. By some distance. The closest in age to me was a woman I’d put at about 50. More on her later.

So there are 24 of us sat around in the reception area of the Holiday Inn waiting for the course to start. Everyone’s chatting away in the way the elderly do – y’know, everything’s gone to shit and things were much better when we had the Germans bombing us. Me, I’m in a corner buried in my phone. I am not being part of Walmington-On-Sea’s finest till I absolutely have to. I’ve already made the decision to sit at the back, keep my head down and just hope I don’t get asked a question.

At 2pm on the dot a rotund camp man who introduces himself as Graham ushers us into a conference room. Graham could also be part of the home guard. The seating arrangements are dismaying. There will be no ‘hiding at the back’. The chairs are assembled in a ‘U’shape with a white board and projector screen at the open end. Great. After introducing himself and running through the health and safety rigmarole Graham (who has that annoying “I’m not your instructor, I’m your pal!” demeanour) lays out the course content and makes it absolutely clear we have to stay till the very end to complete the course. And that the very end will be at least four hours away.

He then gets us to introduce ourselves one by one. “Hello, I’m Mark. I drive a 2008 Fiat Punto, mainly for social and commuting use, I do about 8000 miles a year and was caught doing 38mph in a 30 zone. The reason I’m here today is that I didn’t want 3 points on my licence.” Now, everyone else in the group had given a clearly made-up reason. “I’m here to learn”; “I’m here to improve myself”. I was the only one being honest.

Graham didn’t like this.

“Oh my! Mark!” He makes an exaggerated head-shaking gesture. Then, trying to chivvy me along, “That’s not the attitude is it Marky? Do you mind me calling you Marky?”

(Cute girls can call me Marky. Friends can call me Marky. Relatives too. But not fat camp men in their 50’s that I’ve only just met.)

“I’d prefer Mark.”

He pulls an exaggerated sad face. “We’ll soon get you on the right track.”

Graham is not my pal. Graham is a dick.

The only other person of note, at this stage at least, is the lady I mentioned earlier. It turns out her name is Posh Elaine and she’s from Underhill. Or as she pronounced it Unnndahhh-hiiil. Like she was Michael Bolton serenading a lady. She got caught speeding in a courtesy car after her Mercedes convertible was crushed by a falling tree. Whilst parked outside her daughter’s ballet school. Four days after she bought it. You’ve got to laugh, haven’t you?

And so we begin. And it’s pretty much what I expected. Long, drawn-out examples of why speeding’s bad, the damage it can cause, what causes people to speed and what can be done to prevent it. After about an hour Graham announces we’re going to watch a short video. A man to my right (Arthur) immediately puts his hand up. “Can I sit nearer the front please? My eyes aren’t what they were”. “Mine neither” another adds (Ted).

Graham gazes around looking for volunteers to move. No-one is. A lady, whose name I didn’t catch, is also saying she won’t be able to see if she’s not at the front. Before I know it the three of them are stood up and having a competition to see who has the worst eyesight by gradually walking to the front and saying “Nope, here’s no good”, “Closer still I think”.

I seem to be the only one thinking “HOW ARE THESE PEOPLE ALLOWED TO DRIVE!?” I am RP McMurphy and the cuckoos have taken over the nest.

After much rearrangement of chairs the video finally starts. Graham urging us to note down any potential hazards as a car-mounted camera makes its way around town. “Remember, any thing that could distract you is a potential hazard.” are his last words before the projector kicks into life.

Once done, he asks me what I’d observed. “Uh, residential area so possibly kids or other pedestrians around. Road was wet. Oncoming traffic. Cars parked at the side of the road could be hiding junctions.”

“Excellent Marky!” (Graham really is a dick) “Anyone else?”

“Animals”, pipes up a man who’s been silent till now.

“Yes. Good! Like cats and dogs running out you mean?”

“Well no, I meant from the trees you can see. Squirrels and that.”

“Oh don’t mention trees dear, we’ve got far too bloody many in Underhill (Unnndahhh-hiiil)”

Everyone laughs. Save for me. I want to die.


“Ok, here’s one for you then”, Graham addresses the group, “Do you get to where you’re going to more quickly if you drive faster? Hmm?”

Silence. It’s like he’d asked them to remember whether they’d left the oven on.

I can’t stand awkward silences.

“Well, yeah. Of course you do.”

“WRONG!”

“Uhhhh. What? How?”

“Well what makes you think you’d get there quicker? Hmm?”

“The laws of Physics, basically.”

“Ah, Marky. But do the laws of Physics allow for roundabouts? Stopping at traffic lights or dense urban gridlock?”

At this point I just want to punch him. Or myself. Just so I don’t have to listen anymore.

And so it goes on. One man putting on a show, twenty three being hypnotised and me, wanting to chew my own face off.

Other highlights:

“What are some of the signs that we’re driving to fast?”
“My wife normally shouts at me” (completely deadpan and bereft of humour – I nearly pissed myself)

“What causes the most accidents?”

(Ted) “The bloody government!”

“....Ummm. Ok. How?”

“I once fitted out a fleet of cars for the police and was going to make them four-star (petrol) runnable. But the government said they had to be two-star so they’d be cheaper. But two-star petrol ignites and burns at a much lower temperature than four-star. Firebombs on wheels I tell you.”

“Right. When was this, Ted?”

“1969.”

Finally, we’re all handed a different picture depicting a road-scene and given 5 minutes to identify all potential hazards and highlight the most dangerous. It’s 5.55pm and I’ve been here precisely 3 hours 55 minutes longer than I’d ever want to be again. When it’s your turn, you’re picture is projected on to the screen for all to see while you run through the hazards.

I’m last.

“Right, well. Woman walking her dog on the pavement could lose control at any point. Blind corner up ahead and the sun is very low in the sky so visibility is reduced. Parked cars also blocking vision on the left.”

“Good! Biggest hazard?”

“Well Graham, the frost on the car windows and lack of leaves on the trees suggest it’s wintry. And with it being wintry it could also be quite blustery”

“...Right....”

“So if it’s blustery, whoever it is who’s parked their car alongside those frail looking trees is just asking for them to fall down”

He managed a chuckle, but I know he hates me. As does Posh Elaine from Unnndahhh-hiiil.

As a course, it’s torture. As a deterrent to speeding... Well I never want to go through that again.
(R. Jimlad twitter.com/sirmarkymark, Sat 28 Jan 2012, 14:24, 21 replies)

Farm girl
Years ago we lived near a farm and the farmer was one of the grumpiest bastards ever to walk this Earth. He used to hire temporary workers - hard up students most of the time - and pay them peanuts. And when I say peanuts I mean the cheap, generic ultra-discount variety. He made these people do back-breaking work for absurdly long hours, and not surprisingly none of them stayed very long. Then along came Abina. She was a sweet little thing and how she managed the work I don't know, but she stuck it out for months and months. As far as I could tell the farmer (whose name I unfortunately can't remember) made her work harder than any of the others - he probably still believed that people with dark skin were fair game to be made into slaves. So he was a racist, grumpy bastard.

One day I was walking past the farm and saw Abina running up and down the field waving her arms around and making strange noises. I asked her what she was doing and she explained that the birds had got used to the scarecrow so she was having to do its duty along with all her other work. Now that was one of the times I really wished that I was big and hard and tough, so that I could have gone and smacked the farmer, but at around 10 years old that was a mere fantasy. So I did the next best thing - partly out of chivalry, partly because I had a bit of a crush on the girl - and took over her bird-scaring duties while Abina had a long and well-deserved sit-down.

So I shooed; Abina rested.

(gets coat and rushes for nearest exit)
(eesnahk, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 21:54, 6 replies)

Caught fucking (2)
This was originally only a reply, but I've been persuaded to open it up to a wider audience in a desperate attempt to seek some community approval, in direct contravention to my sigline.

---

Age 17: young, horny and with my own car. We took her off to a quiet layby, flipped the back seats down and proceeded to get down with it. Having successfully done the jiggy in the back of an Austin Metro (no mean feat in itself), Emma proceeds to wander off to have a wee in the bushes. No sooner does she squat down hidden behind a tree, then the police pull up next to me and shine their torches through the windows to find me lying on the back-seat, tackle still semi-proud, apparently enjoying a good solo session. Trying to contain her mirth and urine, my loving lady simply stayed crouched down out of view while I tried to explain to the police that I wasn't in fact enjoying a lonely roadside wank. And then she laughed at me for about 3 months afterwards.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Sat 28 Jan 2012, 19:26, 7 replies)

Epic tale of a Czech boy
Growing up I lived in a tough neighbourhood. Like really fucking tough. I didn’t know anyone who didn’t carry a knife. Or anyone that wasn’t in a gang. People think gangs are a lifestyle choice - they are not. You just get swept up and carried along. Sometimes fantasy and real life blurred at the edges. But this was the cold reality of my existence and there was no escape from it. I looked up at the same sky as everyone else but we were shit poor. I didn't ask anything of anyone. I learned quickly to accept the ebb and flow of things. Some of the times we had were great others were the lowest points of my young life. I learned to just go with it, whatever happened – to be honest I didn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything.

Until that is, the day I had to break it to my mother I had committed murder. She couldn’t accept it, simply refused to believe it. The worst part was when she demanded to know how I had killed the poor bloke. Having to tell my own mother I had shot another young man at point blank range is still to this day indescribable. He died instantly of massive head wounds. Pulling the trigger was simple, but I hadn’t any idea of the consequences. She was distraught. She told me I had thrown my entire life away. I have never seen anyone cry with such gut-wrenching pain. I didn’t want this for her. I didn't mean to make this happen. I did to do the only thing I could. I ran. The following day i was gone but my mother had to try and pretend she knew nothing of this terrible thing and continue life as normal.

But all too soon the game was up. By the time i was caught i was in a terrible state, I was petrified and every part of my body ached. I waved goodbye to my life, my mother, I didn't want it all to be over but frankly by this time I wished I’d never even been fucking born.

In court I looked at the judge, a little thin wisp of a man. He was a joke, a fucking buffoon. We danced around the whole stupid legal process. Being in remand was terrifying. The first night in prison there was a huge storm, thunder scares me but the banging of doors and the clatter of hundreds of other men terrified me. All at once my place in the gang – the security of it meant nothing. I was just another dirt poor fucker trapped in a hole. My family was skint, there would be no fancy lawyers to come save me from the inevitability of the situation. But my attitude was still – who gives a fuck?

Clearly there was no way out of this one, but then, on a technicality I got off. Reluctantly they let me go, well got off for now that is - if there is a Hell then there is surely a place set aside for me.

You can think what you like of me. Some people call me scum others just turned their backs on me. But when it comes down to it I have realised in this life that if you look closely enough, nothing really matters, anyone can see. Nothing really matters to me.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sat 28 Jan 2012, 10:17, 13 replies)

Shopping hatred - with some MASSIVE RACISM thrown in…

Thanks to TheManWithThePlan for (sort of) reminding me of this.

I’ll begin with a statement on shopping.

Ladies, we understand that you are truly wonderful – phenomenal creatures, but…can’t you get it through your heads that – just as you may not truly understand the timeless beauty of a particularly well taken free-kick, that us men sure as shit could not give the very slightest modicum of a fuck regarding whether or not an item of clothing is ‘too frumpy’, or...god forbid…’makes your arse look big’. In short – blokes generally hate ‘girlie’ shopping. Specifically as we tend to have no real sense of taste or style in that department, therefore we don’t see the point. ‘Women are from Venus’ and all that.

My love for the present Mrs Pooflake is quite unprecedented. As far as I am concerned, she is quite the most staggeringly amazing human being to have ever walked the planet…and I’ve been married for over 12 years now. Perhaps to put it another way – she puts up with me – and that in itself is a task worthy of a veritable sainthood and thusly I worship her relentlessly for it.

But she does have an Achilles heel. And that is the fact that she shops…like a goddamn machine.

Believe it or not, I also have two young sons…'flakelets' if you will, and I have managed through the magical medium of DNA to pass on to them via heredity, the realisation that having to accompany girls as they trundle aimlessly around shitty department stores quite boils our collective piss to an alarming degree.

Ooh they so hate it too. Bless ‘em. It’s almost like synchronised swimming - the way we all whinge and whine in unison like the deadweights we are as my poor lady drags us round clothes shop after clothes shop….after fucking clothes shop. You get the point.

However, The present Mrs PF has another weakness…and that is camping…you know – as in tents and wotnot...as opposed to wearing a pink neckerchief and saying things such as 'Oooh! don't touch what you can't afford, treacle'.

I have devoted my life in trying to be suitably affluent so that we don’t have to spend our holidays dragging our own faeces across a field every morning, but she happens to love it – so of course I indulge. Crikey I'm spineless.

Anyhoo - to try and drag this back into something remotely relevant for the QotW, one Saturday morning the missus decided to drop the inevitable yet sorrowful bombshell from hell that I and my flakelets dread:

“We’re going shopping today…”

“Oh sweet cunting fuck-stagger clackervalves” I mutter under my breath, and glance over to the flakelets to see them muttering something probably very similar (but hopefully minus the blatant expletives)

The missus then proceeded to insist that we accompany her on a dismal day of bum-biting drudgery wonderful voyage of discovery around several supermarkets, then just enough clothes shops for us all to lose the will to live.

A few hours in, my youngest son plucked up the courage to pipe up: “Pleeeeeeeease…..mummy…..can we go home now…? Pleeeeease?...”

…

The pause was just long enough to fill all three of us males with a tinge of hope…

…

Mrs PF: “NO!, after this we’re going to the camping shop”

Now, when she said this we were in some posh ladies clothes boutique that was quite busy; and we were surrounded by various people - almost every race, colour and creed was represented by the women who were knuckle-deep into clothes on the rails, and the smattering of poor blokes who were all in the same boat as we were as we collectively rolled our eyes and shared glances of dismay.

At this point I should point out that we had all been to ‘the camping shop’ many times before. It’s a place on the outskirts of Coventry called ‘Blacks’…

You can soooooo see where this is going…

In front of a packed shop on a Saturday afternoon, my youngest son decided to man-the-fuck-up and state a protest at the utter disregard of how his afternoon of playing Minecraft and suchlike had been squandered mercilessly just so he could be dragged around and get asked his frankly redundant opinion as to whether he thought certain handbags ‘looked pretty’.

Unlike his entirely less-brave father...He took a stand. However, in his innocence, he wasn’t quite aware of the implications.

“NOOOOO!......NO MORE!!!” He screamed: “I…HATE...BLACKS!!!!” He yelled at the very top of his little voice, stomping his tiny feet and throwing his very best attempt at a hissy fit.

As I lunged for him he continued: “I HATE BLACKS AND SO DOES DADDY! WE ALL HATE BLACKS!!!!” at this point, with my eyes as wide as dinner plates I tried to smile meekly as I glanced at the massive 6ft 4 black guy nearby who was looking at me with a rather understandable disgust, and who had the physical capability of squishing me into the ground with a mere flick of his little finger.

”Oh…ho ho ho…what a misunderstanding!...*forced laugh*…It’s a shop, everybody….he’s talking about a shop…please believe me…” I whimpered pathetically. I even considered mumbling the tune of ‘Ebony & Ivory’ in a desperate attempt to placate the surrounding crowd…who thankfully were too busy ‘tutting’ and calling me a ‘cunt’ under their breaths to notice as I dragged both flakelets out of the shop and lectured them on why they must never say that again.

Yes, perhaps this is a bit tenous in accordance with the QotW, as I probably wouldn’t have been actually arrested, but on the other hand, I was very nearly torn a new clay-hole by various well-built onlookers - who if it wasn’t for their staggering ability to not be arsed wasting their time on a ball-sack like me, could have possibly reported me as a member of the Coventry branch of the KKK or something, if such a thing exists. God I hope it doesn't.

if you wish to check - www.blacks.co.uk - I can recommend the chunky socks.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 1 Feb 2012, 16:20, 13 replies)

Unlucky
A lot of you thought I should have been arrested for this b3ta.com/questions/bodger/post1122441

Some of you tried to get me arrested for this b3ta.com/questions/anon/post614634

And I was actually arrested for this b3ta.com/questions/massivedrugs/post871413

But it’s another incident that springs to mind, one which luckily avoided the long arm of the law and probably spared me an early criminal record.

As a fourteen year old in the early nineties I had expensive habits – computer games, bike accessories, new trainers, the latest albums and hair gel – but apart from a fiver a week pocket money and a couple of quid for cleaning the car on a Sunday, I had no disposable income.

Being a fairly dishonest chap, the scams came thick and fast. An early money-spinner was the ‘endless return’. I’d take the train to the huge Tower Records in Piccadilly, subtlety browse the CD and video racks, select a title, pop it in a previously procured Tower Records bag and head to the checkout. There I’d tell my story about receiving this album / film for my birthday from my aunt – but also having received the very same one from my Mum. I’d present the sealed, stamped product from the bag, stating that I, ‘didn’t even open it’ – and ask for a refund. The bored teenager behind the counter would never even look up whilst he processed my cash.

This worked for a while, until I was spotted. I’ve never run so fast.

I was back to square one. But I needed things. There were girls to impress and I’d run out of gel. A new money-spinner was required. As luck would have it our school was building a new sports hall, it was a big event, there were fund-raisers, dinners, dances and local businesses were being pushed to sponsor the place. We’d all been asked to hassle parents, family and friends to contribute to the sports hall fund. So I decided to help as much as I could.

Some preparations were needed. Off to WHSmith to buy a book of raffle tickets (the type with two sets of corresponding numbers), then off to my parent’s drinks cabinet and my father’s cellar to procure some fine, unopened bottles of Scotch and a few sumptuous reds from his collection. A little capital was invested in a lovely boxed radio cassette player and then it was off to Thomas Cook for some glossy Caribbean holiday brochures.

When the above was all complete, I took my mother’s finest tray and made a sturdy loop with a belt, carefully arranged all the items on the tray and attached random raffle tickets to them. I then grabbed my little brother, got us both into our school uniforms, put the tray round my neck and hit the streets of our well-to-do, commuter-belt town.

The plan was simple - £1 for one ticket, £5 for ten. I’d diligently removed the ‘winning’ tickets from the raffle book and placed the remaining in a huge cloth bag. The pitch was even simpler – ‘Hi we’re from ******* School and we’re raising money for the new sports hall. You could win anything on this tray, from a bottle of wine to a holiday for two!’ They lapped it up.

The first house bought £10 worth. We allowed them to fumble in the bag and pull out twenty tickets – but unluckily for them, none of them was a winning number. By the end of the first day we had over £200 – more money than we’d seen in our lives. By the end of the 5th day we were sitting in a stranger’s living room whilst the owner of the house was on the phone to the filth.

Like the goons in Goodfellas I’d been stupid. I’d the splashed the cash. Fellow students wondered about my new shoes and endless supply of SNES games. Word had gone round the school. I was flashing bundles of £20 notes during break time. It was fate that fucked us over eventually, the last house we visited was of someone in my year – and the cunt told his daddy that we were being less than economical with the truth.

Cue stifling meeting with parents, headman and local police sergeant. My bro got away with it (I only paid him £2 a day in any case) and I was hung out to dry - but not arrested. Grounded, suspended, vilified but not arrested, for a scam that netted me a shade over £1k in under a week.

And the worst thing? They made me give every penny back and donate it to the cunting sports hall fund. A building that I never had cause to set foot in during the remainder of my school days.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 15:30, 23 replies)

Did ever mention that I drove a land Rover all the way around Africa? Well technically that’s a lie – rather than get fleeced by the Egyptian vehicle import charges I figured out a route from Suakin on the Sudanese coast that would take me across to Riyadh in Saudi Arabia. Once the transit visa was sorted out it was just a matter of the solo drive from Khartoum along Kitchener’s railway line (literally for some stretches) to the coast. It was an amazing crossing – I managed to get to the coast in a hard day’s driving from Atbara, and then spent a few hours faffing over the tickets for the ferry.

By this time I’d been in Africa for a year and a half and was used to African ways. I was expecting some rusting hulk, so the ferry came as a bit of a surprise; a modern looking behemoth that still had posters up from its recent service in the Scottish isles. I drove into a cavernous hold that was pretty much empty, and then went topside to watch the coral-built ruins of Old Suakin slip into the sunset.

On arrival I suddenly found myself in the first world again. In case you haven’t figured it out they call the third world the third world because of the gaping chasm between it and the first world, so there I am waiting for uniformed officials to arrange the offloading of my Landy in a smart ferry terminal, when I start thinking about my bottle of whisky.

This bottle had travelled up with me from Kenya, a good single malt about two thirds gone, and I hadn’t really thought about it for a while because, for a ‘dry’ country, Sudan proved to include quite a few good watering holes along the way (the best was the splendidly hospitable British High Commission) so I hadn’t needed to fall back on reserves. Once in the desert I realised that I’d mislaid the bottle – it had probably slipped behind the dead fridge, but looking for it was going to raise huge clouds of dust, so I let it be.

Fast forward an hour and now I’m in a Saudi customs shed where they are going over my paperwork prior to checking out the vehicle. I still wasn’t too fussed – if they found it I decided I’d offer to pour it down the drain or gift it, claiming (as was the case) that I’d lost it ages ago, and showing the dust that covered everything in the car as evidence. A genuine mistake which I was sure the friendly officials in pristine starched white dishdashes would accept. In the event I needn’t have worried – the search was perfunctory, and the bottle remained lost until I decided to share it with a friendly Syrian border guard a few weeks later.

I recently told this story to a friend who had worked with the Saudi military, and he shook his head. “Fifty lashes and a year in prison minimum, idiot”. Fuck knows what I’d have got for the cruise missile engine I was smuggling home in my top box.




Length? 18 months and 70,000km
(strongp, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 21:01, 16 replies)

Wreckheads in minor misjudgement
Over the last two years I have delved in and out of a massive drugs problem (thankfully now done with). The drug in question was mephedrone which you may remember as being the subject of one of the biggest tabloid moral panics the UK has seen for quite some time. For those that don't know, the drug is somewhere between MDMA and crystal meth both in chemical structure and also in terms of the subjective effects.

As you might expect, there were many days where going to bed simply did not happen, and many occasions where good judgement went on an extended holiday, because after all, EVERYTHING is the BEST IDEA EVER.

After the drug was banned in the UK I continued using it quite prodigiously, and this story concerns a time well after it had become illegal.

I have a female friend (we'll call her R) who is somewhat eccentric, she's got dreadlocks in which she keeps interesting things she's found, such as pegs, springs, coloured bits of plastic etc. She likes finding absurdly tasteless '70s dresses and wearing them with enthusiasm, and she pretty much refuses to wear shoes.

One Saturday morning, after a Friday night on the mcat had bled through into the next day, it was decided that we should leave R's house and sit in the park in the sunshine. R decided that she would take an ornamental sword with her, because EVERYTHING is the BEST IDEA EVER. I was apprehensive enough to suggest it might not be wise, but not so apprehensive that I didn't pose like Conan the Barbarian next to a car I judged particularly manly.

So four of us wandered towards the park, R with no shoes, "individual" hair and multi-coloured clothes flapping in the breeze. My girlfriend and I took a detour to our flat, and met up with R and the other gentleman outside the Tesco convenience store. It should be noted that at this point R was sitting on the pavement with her legs stretched out halfway across the pavement, bare feet on display and the sword leant against a lamppost. Saturday morning shoppers milled around us as she explained rather too loudly how the other gentleman had successfully stolen some red wine from Tesco.

As we walked towards the park, she mentioned how the police never bother stopping her for drugs or anything because she looks so unusual that they assume she can't possibly be a miscreant.

Or so she thought.

So there we were, 10am in the middle of the park with stolen wine, some other booze, at least a gram or two of mcat on us each and a sword proudly sticking out of the ground.

Imagine my surprise when a policeman suddenly appeared, and made a lunge for the sword before grabbing it and throwing it well out of reach. Imagine my further surprise when I realised that he had several friends with him, three of whom were in full riot gear waving bloody sub-machine guns at us.

My natural response to coppers is to go into full cooperation mode, because I am fully aware that being a cocky twat results in unfavourable treatment. In this particular incident I'm also starting to brick it about the recently-illegal and very highly witch-hunted drugs in my pocket. However, this is not R's reaction. She initially started saying that we were going to do a photoshoot involving the sword, then she tried to say that it was harmless and they were wasting their time as it wasn't even sharp.

I did my best to make apologetic faces at the coppers and make a joke of it, but R kept on about her sword, despite the three MP5s pointing at her. Much to my exasperation and growing panic, she was trying to stop them taking her sword due to its sentimental value.

Eventually, and after I had said to her very loudly that there was plenty more extent of the law available if the police chose to use it, she agreed to let them take the sword in exchange for an agreement that she'd be able to pick it up later.

As I understand it you can potentially get five years for carrying a bladed weapon and fourteen years for intent to supply class B drugs (I had quite a collection at home).

So yeah, very fucking lucky that day. :-)
(Eukanuba, Tue 31 Jan 2012, 20:14, 21 replies)

You know those events in your life that cause pride and shame in equal measure?
This is one of those.

Upon learning that I was being dumped it is safe to say that I was a little emotional. Hearing it on Boxing Day felt like a particularly expertly applied cockpunch in additional to the overall kick to the balls that the end of this relationship felt like.*

On the other hand, as it was Boxing Day it meant that all of my mates were available to go to the pub to commeriserate. Or at least, pretend to whilst getting festively pissed.

So I drove direct from the house that I would very soon have to move out of, to the pub. Had me a couple of small glasses of wine as a warm up and thought "Hmm. Before I get pissed, I really should drive to my parents' place and drop the car off. It's only a couple of miles, and I can walk back here."

Hm? Why yes. Yes, I was a thunderously stupid prick in thinking that.

Into the car I got, off I drove. Less than a mile later, the blue flashing lights appeared in my rear view mirror. I pulled over into a street.

Now I should say, I didn't think I was remotely drunk at this point. So I hopped out of the car beaming with the confidence of the slightly pissed. "Afternoon officers. Documents check is it?" I politely enquired.

"Eh, yeah mate." replied a policeman who, to my eye, looked slightly thrown off balance by this.

"Okay, hang on a sec..."

I rummaged in the glovebox and brought out the necessary documentation. Handed it over. Engaged in pleasant chat as I did so. Was the literal essence of easy charm and casual bonhomie throughout. In no way slurred or stumbled over words. Realised over the course of the minute or so that it took that it was Xmas. And they probably wanted to breathalyse me, not pore over my certificate of insurance.

Bugger.

I took back the various bits of paper. And as I did so I said "Oh, by the way do you want me to do a breathalyser while I'm here?"

This time the other officer replied. "Actually, yeah if you could mate that'd be great. Shouldn't take too long."

I genuinely cannot think of another time that I have ever been so perfectly sanguine in the presence of the law. But I digress.

I blew into the black box and handed it back. We carried on our earlier pleasant chit chat. 30 seconds later, his face fell.

"Oh. Erm...right. Right. You've failed it." I felt the colour drain from my face. Dumped and banned for drink driving. MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS YOU CUNT!

"Okay...will your car be okay here dyou think?"

"I...yeah, I would've thought so." I replied with more than a hint of dejection in my voice.

"Do you live nearby?"

"Yeah I..."

"Jump in; we'll give you a lift home. Leave your car, don't go near it again until tomorrow. Promise?"

There was a pause whilst I took this in. I got in the car. They took me back to the ex's house. She wasn't in (to my knowledge, she still doesn't know this happened). I waved a cheery goodbye to the two policemen (who are my personal heroes by the way), went into the house, called a taxi, and went back to the pub to recount this exact story.

They thought it was shit too.



* - I saw her recently. She's the size of a fucking house. My joyful reaction to this is another source of pride and shame in equal measure.
(Light, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 18:50, 10 replies)

One night
after a particularly raucous night out in Bristol I caught the last train back to Bath (of 'Give me that phone!' fame). Somehow, I'd managed to wrangle a pint out of that particularly soulless Wetherspoons near Temple Meads and - despite my inebriated state - I hadn't managed to drink or spill the majority of it.

The train pulled into Bath Spa station. It must have been a rugby day, because the station was crawling with police officers. I didn't put the two together of getting drunkenly caught with a pint glass spelling a night in the cells, and swaggered out of the train straight into a policeman.

Somehow my brain, most of which had probably evaporated in Bristol, caught up with me, and I thought I might have been in for it.

"Is that your glass?" asked the neon yellow authoritarian gent.

"No," I said. "But the beer in it belongs to me."

The policeman chuckled. "Well, go and finish it off in the toilets, then give the glass to me and I'll make sure it gets returned to its rightful owner."

I dutifully did as I was told and then handed the policeman the glass.
( krang, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 15:51, 3 replies)

Aged 5
My brother and I were left temporarily unattended in a Woolworths. Near the pick n' mix.

We dared each other to eat one each, and did. And we got away with it! And then we noticed that there was a security guard near the doors.

We panicked. We were going to be caught. A few months previously we'd stolen eaten some pills from mummy, and she wanted them back so badly she'd made us drink salt water to throw them up! Surely the guard would be much worse!

We were so scared and guilty that we thought we'd own up. Everyone knows if you just admit it, it'll go better for you. So when mummy got back to the front of the store she found two little children crying their eyes out in horror at the single piece of pick'n mix they'd eaten.

So she took us to the back of the store, asked to see the manager, and made us apologise. We were each docked 5p of our 20p pocket money for our crime, and awash with tears we were taken home and made to go to bed early.

Still, a lucky escape I feel.
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 15:45, 5 replies)

On the eve of our wedding we had another mini Stag-do & Hen-do in different Parts of Las Vegas.
We'd already had them back in Blighty a few weeks beforehand but it seemed like a good idea to have another one the night before the wedding. My best man, another mate and myself went to the 'World famous' Palomino's strip club to see how they compared to British ones and lo it was good. Sensibly, and somewhat uncharactaristically, my best man made sure we were all back at the hotel safely for around 1am.

Not so the soon-to-be Mrs Airman Gabber and her friends. They ended up in some famous bar or other, drinking Bowls of cocktails and scamming champagne off randoms until some ungodly hour. When they were finally thrown out of the club they found themselves at the back of a very long Taxi queue. One of the girls was down for the count, slumped on a bench, the other 2 were being raucus in the traditional English style.

It seems that the Yanks don't appreciate pissed up Brits making a scene and before long someone had called the Police on them.

If they weren't so completely wasted it may have been a sobering experience to find themselves being manhandled by some burly American cops sporting side-arms. As they were being dragged away my wife was fearing the worst, a sobering night in the cells on the eve of her wedding.

They found themselves at the front of the Taxi queue.

"Take them back to their hotel and don't stop anywhere on the way." One of the cops ordered the somewhat reluctant looking driver.

Result!

The next day the wife to be had to spend 4 hours horribly horribly hungover getting her hair, nails and make-up done. That'll teach the lush*.


* It didn't teach the lush.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 11:41, Reply)

Nina
Working as a data entry gnome in a stuffy and labyrinthine office just off Chancery Lane one summer (for non-Londoners, Chancery Lane is the abode of lawyers and oiks in suits, which occasionally are overlapping subsets), we had been given a mammoth of an engineering tender to prepare for publication. It qualified for mammoth status by being both enormous and extremely woolly, and for me involved reproducing shedloads of tables stuffed with thousands of numbers. Not forgetting the decimal points. I took pleasure in smiting the decimal points in percussively, knowing there were two decimal point keys on the keyboard in case one broke. After six long weeks of this, the tender was complete and it was left to the crew manning the electronic presses to go out on the piss to commemorate the fact.

Someone mentioned on the way down the stairs that they knew a pub nearby with that prized rarity in London summer weather: a beer garden. Given the choice between sitting inside in an atmosphere virtually every bit as stifling as the office in which we'd spent the past eight hours or actually feeling the sun's rays on our face while there were any left, we virtually raced each other to the garden. It was a nice enough pub, formulaic as you'd expect from any place anywhere near the City, but we could actually sit outside and let the oxygen whip the froth on our beers into something approximating health food, so we were happy campers. Four pints later, we were extremely happy campers, and decided an impromptu sing-song was in order. Four pissed-up idiots and a pissed-up idiotess singing at the tops of their voices in the middle of a beer garden populated with QCs and investment bankers did attract a bit of attention. Mostly it was the "Good grief, look at the state of the youth of today" pitying kind of attention, but for one of the other residents at leat it wasn't. For a twentysomething girl with short brown spiky hair in a figure-hugging t-shirt and jeans, it was pitying but amused attention. This was Nina.

Nina wandered over and started singing along in a way that was clearly intended to poke fun, except we were too hammered to realise she was poking fun and immediately decided she loved the song we were singing and had come along to join us. She must have had an exceptionally boring week because she allowed herself to be pulled in by my enthusiastic arms and dumped on my lap, then continued to smile while I belted out the next verse particularly tunelessly. I seem to remember that after that point we forgot how the song finished, so discussions returned to getting more beer in.

To summarise the next three hours: Nina turned out to like beer; she told us all about the record company for which she worked; including by dropping lots of names of people we pretended to have heard of; two of the other guys had an incredibly stupid bet involving guitars and the Underground; and Nina and I looked each other in the eye and dared each other to finish our last orders at the same time. Down in one, and our respective last mouthfulls went down together. Then she kissed me.

We left, in search of kebabs.

By the time we got to my flat it was after midnight; the house was hot, and dark, and silent. I didn't know whether my flatmates had gone out clubbing (it was a Friday) or whether they were just asleep in bed, so I wrapped my arms around Nina and walked her Madness-style up the stairs and into my bedroom. Thinking I knew my own flat far too well in the dark, I walked her right up to the end of my bed and kept going, pushing her flat on her face into the duvet and falling right on top of her. The buzz of drunkenness had worn off by this point, absorbed by pitta bread and chips, but I was enjoying being squeezed up behind her so much that I ploughed ahead like a Labrador puppy. Then I realised that I had just taken a girl home only to fall on top of her and likely crush the stuffing out of her: I am a strapping six-footer and she was a strapless five footer. She started to tremble and I had one hand on her shoulder asking if she was OK when she let loose an enormous muffled laugh into the duvet. Seconds later she surrendered herself to the hugest burst of hysterics I have ever witnessed. I kept thinking my flatmates were in the adjoining bedrooms and were about to kick the door down so I made a series of theatrical "SSSHHHH"s until I realised that it was actually kind of cute. She kept shaking with silent laughter as I reached under her and unbuttoned her jeans before shucking them off. Her skin was warm and incredibly smooth, and I could see the outline of her bum in the petrochemical streaks of light from the streetlamp outside. Her shaking was starting to subside and she was making a string of secretly amused hums as I lifted her arms over her head and peeled off her t-shirt. She had decided to be a cooperative dead weight at this point: she wouldn't stop me from doing anything, but she wouldn't help me either. The elastic of the t-shirt pinging over her head set her off on another minor laughing fit but I was leaning over far enough to feel the heat from her crotch and wanted to see what she would do. So I leant over her and kissed the back of her neck while running my fingertips the length of her bum-cheeks and down to her wetness, gently tracing the curve of her pussy lips as she danced against me. That's it, spread your legs a bit. I slipped one finger all the way inside her and lay down on top of her when I felt a bulge in my pocket.

This called for gymnastics.

My abs would hate me, but that was not important. I could support myself on my right elbow while my left hand reached into my right pocket, to find...a miniature bottle of whisky. Ah yes, I remember. Well, this was an excellent moment. Staying propped up on my right elbow, I started an in-and-out massage with my finger and found her clit with another one, while clamping the bottle in my teeth to unscrew it. She jumped at the contact of the prickly liquid on her back, but that only helped: it ran down between her shoulder blades, along her backbone and down between her buttocks. She had started to writhe in mock indignation so I hunkered down and ran my tongue between her cheeks until I found her pucker, smoky and salty with the malt as it soaked into the muscle under my tongue. She bucked into my face and I pushed inside her; I remember how smooth she felt, trying instinctively to push me out yet smooshing herself against my face at the same time. I kept up the massage on her clit and sought out that last drop of whisky inside her until my own trousers had to come off and I crawled up to press against her.

As she felt my hardness push against her she slid her hips up and down under me until I was slick with her excitement, then kept pushing into the mattress. I held her hips and pushed slowly, all the way inside her one time, then out, up and down her slit to see if she'd push again. She pushed and let slip a sudden sort of sigh; when she came to rest the head of my cock was resting perfectly against her pucker. I could see the vague outline of her face in the dark bedroom; her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open, her cheeks a sort of dusty copper in the halogen glare from the street. There was a very slight pulse from under her and I realised she was fingering herself as I was pressed against her. Slowly I teased her open; her soft, tight arsehole grabbed me and finally accepted to pull me in, drawing a groan halfway between confusion and ecstasy. Nina started breathing in a series of short, sharp gasps as I opened her up. When I was all the way in and her buttocks pressed against my hips I stayed still for a moment, watching her. She curled her lip so I bent forward and grabbed in between my teeth, compelling her into a kiss. Then I began to thrust.

She made a breathless grunting sound as she came, and she timed it perfectly. As we lay in the fresh steam of sweat from the post-coital sheets, she half-started to laugh again, and sang that stupid song we'd been singing so loudly in the pub.

I should clearly have been arrested, though. That miniature bottle of whisky? I nicked it from my boss's filing cabinet with not a care in the world.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 0:23, 9 replies)

Second!
I've mentioned on here before that I'm an urban explorer. In other words, a recreational trespasser. It's given me some incredibly useful skills as a cop-whisperer. I've been caught many many times, but haven't been arrested since I was 18 (around 1998).

It helps that I'm white. It additionally helps that I live in Korea and I (look like I) don't speak a word of Korean. In truth I get by, but sometimes it works out best not being able to speak the native language.

I'll arrange a few close-call stories in increasing order of seriousness.

1) I was in a large abandoned neighbourhood. Huge tracts of land in Seoul get evicted all at one time, and often spend a couple years wasting away while all the court cases get settled. In a few years, the smaller buildings are all demolished and replaced with very ugly highrises.

In the interim, the buildings are just blanketed off, covered up with these ugly green-and-pink-striped blankets intended not to prevent entry, just protect straying eyes from seeing ugly abandoned buildings. In fact, it's especially easy to get around in blanketed-off areas because you're more well hidden from passersby.

On the other side of some blankets once, we saw a dog in the distance, and the dog saw us. A tiny lapdog, as all dogs that are not meat are in Korea. We kept our distance, but it was barking. Not too long after, we ran into the owner, an old man who refused to leave his home. He was living alone with two dogs in the middle of this abandoned neighbourhood, and rather than do anything about us being there, he asked me to take pictures of his dogs.
www.uer.ca/locations/viewgal.asp?picid=265911
The neighbourhood's gone now, and I wonder where he is. Probably living outside the city somewhere.

2) Inside an abandoned office building, we hear a huge racket somewhere above. Followed by below. Eventually, we discover the source: a scrapper is taking whatever has any kind of value and chucking it out the window to collect it below later. Looking back, he probably had every bit as much right to be there as me.

He sees my camera, and asks my ex-wife what we're doing there. She explains the basics of what we're doing. He replies, "I'm so embarrassed on behalf of my company that this foreigner is seeing these abandoned buildings, which will lead him to think Korea is a third-world nation" though in not so many words. He continues on with his work, as do we.

Somewhere in this vicinity:
www.uer.ca/locations/viewgal.asp?picid=254097

3) A lot of evictees in abandoned neighbourhoods don't want to leave, so the construction companies hire companies that provide something in between a security guard and hired muscle. They have a set of tactics to hasten the evictions, such as dumping garbage in doorways, graffiti, roughing people up, installing large metal shutters in doorways, arson, defecation, knocking out walls with a sledgehammer, and so on. Some are relatively professional; others are hobos with a jacket and a day's training and a chip on their shoulders.

I got caught by one of them in the middle of an abandoned neighbourhood, not a soul around for at least 100 meters (that's pretty far in a metropolis of 10 million packed into an area a little over 1/3 the surface area of London). Basically, if I screamed nobody would hear me. The conversation went thusly (translated into English as all of this was conducted in Korean):

Goon: What are you doing here?
Me: I'm sorry, I can't speak Korean.
Goon: There are only binjib (empty houses) here. You shouldn't be here. It's a safety hazard.
Me: I don't understand any of what you just said (but you just taught me some very useful words).
Goon: Are you taking pictures?
Me: I'm going now, bye.

A clean escape, and I went back into another part of the neighbourhood for more.
www.uer.ca/locations/viewgal.asp?picid=328728

4) One of Seoul's many landmarks, the old Byzantine-style Seoul Station sits in the shadow of the newer, bigger, glassier Seoul Station. That is, until I find a ridiculous exploit in the temporary fencing. Right around the corner from a police station.

I slipped in one night and managed to get some pictures of the amazing architecture.
www.uer.ca/locations/viewgal.asp?picid=335774
In back I found a stairway to nowhere, probably once used to go out to the train platform. I was there taking long exposure shots with my tripod (ie www.uer.ca/locations/viewgal.asp?picid=335778 ). To get up the stairs, I had to step over a meter-high temporary fence.

On the way out, camera still mounted in the tripod, I used the tripod to vault over. I landed in the hallway which was pitch black but with light sources at either end, and I saw the silhouette of a security guard about five meters away. Too late to jump back over, so I just crouched and pretended to be taking a picture, looking as nonthreatening as possible. As the guard got closer, his flashlight turned on and it swung around to me. For this conversation I used a bit more Korean because the circumstances were different (he was just a real guard doing his job). Also, ever since one of Seoul's other major historic landmarks was burned down (http://blog.joinsmsn.com/usr/b/s/bsjh2/8/%EB%B6%88%ED%83%80%EB%8A%94%20%EC%88%AD%EB%A1%80%EB%AC%B8-4%281%29.jpg) I've been paranoid of being caught in any kind of historic property, lest I end up public enemy number one along with the arsonist who set that fire.

I explained I was a friend, without really being able to elaborate, and he showed me to the front gate and let me out without any sort of follow-up.

5) I really wanted to get into an abandoned church, and as the demolition crews were starting I knew I had to hurry.
www.uer.ca/locations/viewgal.asp?picid=326883
I was suffering from insomnia, so I slipped in one summer morning after dawn before any workers were around. I went in, looked at the wreckage, saw a few workers coming in, and headed out. Security caught me at the front entrance and made it clear I wasn't allowed up here, even though there was still an active church building. They asked for my name and phone number, so of course I gave them an alias and a number that was a couple digits off from my real number. No clue why they were so concerned; probably something to do with demolishing a historic building.

6) I had just moved to a new neighbourhood, and I was out taking pictures of the area to show my parents. I pulled into a parking lot for a second, and suddenly realised I was facing an abandoned building. It was on the edge of a university campus. And there were more abandoned buildings there. It was an entire abandoned university, right in the middle of the city.

This was basically what I saw.
www.uer.ca/locations/viewgal.asp?picid=246121
There was a guard box just on the other side of the white mesh gate. I walked in, saw that the security guard happened to not look up, and strolled past. I wandered around a bit, careful to avoid security guards. Then it came to getting out. I couldn't easily go back the way I came.

While walking around one corner, I came face-to-face with a security guard. Well, he was about ten meters off. And he was sort of looking down, at what he was holding in his hands: his own wang which was hosing the ground with urine.

I quietly backed off and he either didn't see me or decided it wasn't the best time to start a chase. I later found a mountain pass that safely took me back to civilisation, and I ended up having many, many return visits.

7) The first time I ever went exploring, a friend brought me to a long row of abandoned apartment buildings. They were about seven storeys high, and the main floors were active while the upper floors were burned out.
www.uer.ca/locations/viewgal.asp?picid=236298
We went up and marvelled at the fire damage. On the way down, we spotted a sign we'd passed on the way in. Neither of us knew much Korean, but there was one English word: CCTV. Not knowing who could be watching, we hurried out a different way from where we'd come in.

Walking down the alley, a cop car pulled in behind us. My friend was getting ready to run, but I convinced him to play it cool. The cop car pulled up right behind us, and blared its siren. We casually stepped to the side, allowing it room to pass.

The cop driving saw we were foreigners, and laughed and shook his head, driving on. He probably figured it wasn't worth the trouble, and we were probably just clueless foreigners looking for the washroom.

8) Every September, Koreans celebrate an autumn harvest holiday called Chuseok. It basically involves going back to your hometown for a family feast and ancestral rites. Basically, 30 million Koreans hit the road on the same day (out of 50 million or so) to travel, and most of them are headed away from Seoul. The capital city becomes a virtual ghost town, and it's the perfect time for a bit of 'sploring. I organised a meetup on this weekend, which gathered people from the UK, Canada, the US, Hong Kong, Australia, France, and I think Germany (but they chickened out when they saw the ladder we'd have to climb). The event involved nearly every type of urban exploration: abandonments, whorehouses, rooftopping, active infiltration, draining, and craning.

The meet started on a 20th storey rooftop overlooking one of the busiest intersections of the country. We brought beer and snacks.
www.daehanmindecline.com/2011/20110910rooftopping/84.jpg
Next morning, we went draining under downtown. After that, on the way to meet more people, I remarked "Hey, not only is it Chuseok, but it's also 9/11!" and we made a few "Happy 9/11" jokes.

Next stop was an abandoned university hospital, right across the street from one of Seoul's main train stations. We hopped the fence, found an unlocked window, and slipped in. We were in there for maybe an hour, found the morgue, and climbed up to find a way onto the rooftop. The Australian of our group looked out the window and saw something unusual: a phone booth. We slowly realised that we were overlooking an American army base.

Shortly after, we were accosted by a very angry security guard carrying non-lethal weaponry. He lined us up outside and called the police. Yeah, turns out the US base was on high alert for the tenth anniversary of 9/11. The property owner came, and she looked like she only cared about getting back to her family. We sat around there for an hour as they mused our story of being "artists." The one female of the group was asked how much money she had on her; it was assumed she had taken us three johns there to earn a bit of money. Finally they asked for our ID cards, took down our information, and let us go on our way.

I made the mistake of suggesting we bow in apology to the property owner, and in the time it took us to do that they decided to detain us another ten minutes. Should've just left, no apologies.

No pictures of this place because I promised to delete all the pictures (I did, and undeleted them later, but never uploaded them).

Anyway, this post is probably getting long enough that it should be a crime.
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 13:45, 8 replies)

My 6 year old daughter loves it when I do my monkey impression
Whenever she throws a temper tantrum I start scratching my armpits and beating my chest while making all of the obligatory ape sounds. Has her giggling away in no time.
So when I was at Anfield for the Man U game last weekend and I knew she'd be watching out for Daddy on the telly at home, I couldn't resist the opportunitely to send my little girl a message when the camera panned round onto me.

And that, Constable, is how this whole misunderstanding happened.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 12:44, Reply)

An idiot abroad.
Back in '87 or '88, I forget which, while on hols, I illegally crossed the border from Senegal to Mauritania in a clapped out, windowless minibus full of stoned Senegalese musicians.
I think the original intention was to visit some warrior's graves and have a bit of a picnic and do some drumming on a 200 mile long beach before heading back to St.Louis, a large town near the border.
The journey took hours and hours and bloody hours. The driver had asked me earlier if I had a passport of any other form of identity with me; I didn't, I didn't think I'd need them as I had no idea we were about to wander into the kind of place the foreign office advises against visiting and I definitely hadn't expected to cross an international border.
When I told him I had nothing with me he glanced at the other guys and shrugged. "We'll take the bush route then, wouldn't want to get caught with this Tubab (foreigner) would we?"
There was general agreement that, nope- being caught with this Tubab wouldn't go at all well with the authorities.
I asked why but they just laughed it off and told me to chill and everything will be cool though maybe the cops would think I'd been kidnapped or something equally hilarious.It meant that we had to cross a river or two but this didn't seem to faze this driver who had eyes as red as the sunset from puffing on the local weed.

This had me wondering for a moment, had I been kidnapped? I mean, I'd had a drink and a smoke or two with these guys and met up with them a few times, they seemed alright. Perhaps they were about to rob me and cut me up for fishing bait; you hear these stories.

As it turned out, the trip was fun and mostly without incident, the one exception; this shitheap minibus being flagged down by a gun carrying guy in army gear just back inside the border. Soldier? Opportunist bandit? I didn't know. He saw my white face and began to question the driver; who was really stoned off his face. The driver giggled nervously and explained that "oh no, we hadn't been anywhere really, definitely not been across any border and that this tubab was a famous visiting recording artist from the United states of Europe" ; clearly bullshit.
The soldier glared at me and asked to see my travel documents, in French. My French is fairly crap but I understood exactly what he wanted. I answered that I didn't understand him and shrugged.
Staring into my eyes he very slowly and with much menace said something in a local dialect, I grinned like an idiot praying he wasn't planning to drag me away. The driver replied and the soldier glanced at the driver, cracked up laughing then waved us on as we all fell about laughing. Joining in the merriment, I had no idea why.

Apparently he asked me ,to my face, something like "Are you as stupid as a newborn goat?" (or whatever passes for an insult in those parts) A question which the driver was happy to report that "yes, in fact he's so stupid we had to show him how to wipe his arse" or another witty quip. It was obvious that he was testing me for a reaction, to see if I understood what he said.

I'd just been into a country in the middle of a serious diplomatic incident in which Senegal had been implicated in a coup. In Mauritania they were executing people and I'd just turned up there, in its trouble stewn Southern district with no papers and no excuse.

tldr? I'm a fucking idiot.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 22:41, Reply)

So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon,
at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
(Vigilante Man weeps because you're stupid., Thu 26 Jan 2012, 22:10, 1 reply)

I recommend you don't post an answer to this question from an O2 mobile

(Ravenous Bugblatter Beast This content may not be working. Please try again., Thu 26 Jan 2012, 20:37, 3 replies)

Cock
I once accidently shot and killed one of my neighbour’s chickens whilst standing outside my house, practicing my archery skills.

I should of been fined 5 Septims but the copper let me off because I’m the Thane of Whiterun.

AND joke on joke, it turn's out the guard used to be an adventurer!

Lollerskates.
( Dervel OTBC, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 15:17, 5 replies)

Bus Joy Riding
Not me, but a lad in school was bored, so stole one of the buses from the central station. He drove it around the entire bus route picking up everyone and dropping them off at the usual stops but without charging them, then parked it back in the bay at the station. The company received no complaints and as far as I know weren't even aware it had gone missing, so nothing came of it.
( Regger, Tue 31 Jan 2012, 17:24, 6 replies)

I should have been arrested
I was a bit of a pyro as a child and liked playing with matches in a field behind some local businesses. One afternoon, after exhausting my stash of matches, I wandered off up the road a bit. After a few minutes, I heard sirens, and then watched the fire trucks scream by me, heading in the direction of I had just come. I walked back and found the local firemen putting out a small brush fire where I had just been "playing". I overheard one of the bystanders say "It's a lucky thing some one spotted the fire before it got to the tanks". It was at that moment that I realized that those big, hulking things were gasoline (petrol) storage tanks, and that I had been lighting fires behind one of our local fuel and heating oil companies. At that moment, one of the firemen approached me and asked if I knew anything about the fire or who may have set it. Trying desperately not to burst into tears and praying I didn't look guilty, I stammered I thought I saw an older boy run away from the field just before the trucks arrived. He just looked at me and said "Ok, thanks". I never set another fire and for years couldn't hear a siren without jumping.
(auntienursey, Sun 29 Jan 2012, 23:15, 3 replies)

Through a series of events which resulted in me
being reincarnated as the person I am today, I missed out on my preferred path of being both the 49th and 53rd president of the republic of Haiti.

And that's how I should have been Aristide.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Sat 28 Jan 2012, 0:24, Reply)

Something something Portugal something something.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 14:36, 5 replies)

My Gran (God rest her soul)
Was a very bad driver, not that she was distracted by things more that she would knit at the wheel.

One day a policeman spotted her driving and knitting at the same time. Driving up beside her, he shouts out the window... "Pull over!"

"No," she shouts back, "a pair of socks!"

She got away with it as well.
( The Mock Turtle ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 15:15, 29 replies)

If not for Barratt homes .
As a pennyless tyke I used to jump at the chance of making money even if it wasn't quite legit. Fortunately my gullibility and poor planning managed to prevent me from becoming a career criminal.

I was about 12 years old and my best mate had heard that there was money to be had in car parts. We reasoned that the most expensive cars had to have more expensive parts but lacking any mechanical knowledge we aimed for the most noticeable yet easily removed part we could think of: the insignia. More specifically the Mercedes insignia that used to stick up from the front of the bonnet.

And so started our crime spree, nearly every Mercedes car within a 3 mile radius was hit and we managed to amass about 20 badges. The plan was to sell them to garages who would then resell them to the owners. We knew we couldn't resell them immediately without arousing suspicion and we couldn't risk having them in our houses, so we went with the only other option we could think of, we buried it in a plastic bag, just like the pirates did in the cartoons.

We picked an area of scrubland near the estate and decided we would leave it buried for a month. A week later the whole area was fenced off as building had started on a new housing estate. We never got to dig up our treasure. It was probably for the best though, I imagine that two 12 year olds selling a bag full of Mercedes badges would have been rather suspicious. But I often wonder if our bundle was dug up by a builder or if not, what a future archaelogist would make of it.
(Bo Nidle Coming back in from the cold., Tue 31 Jan 2012, 23:16, Reply)

Lil' Cusser
When I was about 11, I began to discover hateful feelings brewing inside me. This was at roughly the same time as I discovered both rap music and the art of profanity. One day, I put on my wicked-cool dungarees with some horrendously enormous hoop earrings and decided I was going to vent this new found frustration by writing my very own rap song. The topic of my song was adultery. Now, to clarify, I had hardly even kissed a boy on the lips by this time so I certainly didn't have any experience of being in a commited, sexually active relationship, let alone catching my man atop another 'ho.' Nonetheless, I felt wise enough and pissed off enough to empathise with those who had. (My inspiration, I'm assuming, came from some sort of totally realistic scandal on EastEnders.)

Anyway, I spent a couple of days getting my deep and meaningful phrases down on to paper, trying to make sure the anger really came through. Essentially, what this meant was cramming as many curse words as physically possible into a lot of fairly short phrases. An example of which went something like "Go f*ckin' cry to yo' new motherf*ckin' slut!" and "Don't want yo' f*ckin' d*ck no more."
For the record, I did actually try and rap this out loud which, considering I was eleven, SO white and reasonably middle class, must've been outstanding!

Well, once I was pretty much done with the 'song', I knew I had to hide it. My mum still isn't big on swearing and back then I was her sweet, innocent little girl, so there was no way she could see this sexed up, aggressive bit of verse. So I hid it in the most cunning, imaginative, private, secret place I could think of... under my pillow. As I'm sure you are aware, eleven year olds don't generally change their own sheets and what do you know, I just so happened to finish my masterpiece the day before my mum decided it was time for fresh covers.

Arriving home from school, I could sense tension in the air. I called "Hello!" in my usual cheery tone, but there was no response. Instead my mum walked solemnly out from the living room and, clutching a folded bit of paper, she uttered the words "Sophie, we need to have a talk." We sat in the living room and she challenged me about the writing. In true, hardened rap artist style I, of course, burst into tears and started stumbling towards some kind of excuse. Now, here's where the 'slightly out of order' bit comes in.

My best friend at the time was a girl called Hannah. She was a really lovely girl but her family were, to put it delicately, a little rough around the edges. Hannah's mum did used to swear occasionally in front of me but it was only the odd "Crap!" or "Bugger!" if she did something clumsy. All in all, she was a bit hard, but actually a pretty cool lady... Regardless, being a desperate, foolish tweenager, this woman's light cursing was the first thing that came to mind. So, I told my mum that Hannah's mum had taught me the words, played me rap music and even explained the concept of cheating to me...

As you can imagine, my mum was furious. She bought every word of my sob story, and believed that this fellow mother had been teaching her daughter about the evils of the world, just for fun. I used to see Hannah a lot, but it was never the same after that. I was hardly allowed to go to her house anymore and my mum even told a whole bunch of other mums about what the nasty woman had been doing. Hannah's mum had been quite popular but no one's reputation can survive an accusation like that, and gradually she lost touch with quite a few of the parents she'd been friendly with.

What I should've done at this point was confess, and explain to my mum that I was just going through an emotional shift and had found my calling in the medium of rap... Yet sadly, I did not. Too scared of my mum thinking I was a foul-mouthed jerk of my own accord, I let Hannah's mum take the heat, and although it's not a matter of laws, I definitely should have been arrested.

(Apologies for length..!)
( Face will put on her red shoes and nrans the blues, Tue 31 Jan 2012, 1:49, 4 replies)

Airport drugs
A good few years ago, I was flying away to visit a friend for a few days. As I walked to the security checkpoint, I realised that I was wearing my "good" coat and that it still had a reasonably sized chunk of resin in the pocket. I doubled back before joining the queue and returned to the lounge. My lift had already left so I couldn't ask her to hold it for me and I was unwilling to just dump it, but really didn't fancy trying my luck carrying it with me.
I sat down on a bench which was next to a large tree in a pot. Nobody was nearby so I dug under the smooth lumps of glass around the base of the tree and shoved the resin a couple of inches into the earth, replaced the glass beads and went on my way.

When I came back a few days later, I went back to the departures lounge, sat down and dug into the plant pot. Finding my stash still in place, I pocketed it and went home.
(dave likes cheese, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 21:02, 1 reply)

First?
Story to follow - honest

**Edit**

It's 1997 - Summer
Myself, my mate and our girlfriends were preparing to go to the Hippo Club in Cardiff. We'd already taken 1 gram of speed each and still had about 6 grams left on us. My mate (who was driving) lifted up the back seat of his car and hid them there. We then parked opposite the club and got out of the car. Suddenly two plain-clothes officers appeared and told us they were doing a random search, but that the girls could leave. So my mate and I emptied our pockets safe in the knowledge we were holding nothing, but also shitting ourselves should they check the back seat.
They then began searching the car. They checked everywhere. When they got to the back seats they picked up some coats that were there. I glanced at my mate who just turned white. Surely they were going lift the seat and check! My heart was beating like a fucked clock, my thumbs had gone weird; the lot.

"Ok lads, you can go. We've had reports of drugs being dealt in that club so be safe."

They put the coats back, wished us well and fucked off.

I have never sobered up so quickly in my life, the speed buzz was gone, replaced by my asshole quivering like a rabbit's nostril. It ruined the night for me. But at least we weren't arrested.

There are of course many other episodes but this one has always stuck in my mind.
(Erasmusmicroman is inside your T.V., Thu 26 Jan 2012, 13:41, 3 replies)

I didn't believe in sniffer dogs
I read that artice by Ben Goldacre about sniffer dogs being led more by the expectations and reactions of their handlers than actual sniffing. I also read a statistic that claimed sniffer dogs only get correct results 48% of the time - which is, surely, just chance.

Because of this, whenever I was walking past a sniffer dog while carrying weed, in train stations and on nights out and such, I would give the dog a nice big pat on the head and go "aww! what a cute doggy!", totally ignoring eye contact with the police officers and then scoot along.

Recently I read the study that Goldacre was actually talking about, and it turns out, despite what Goldacre said, that the authors of the study explicitly state that handler expectations only contribute to the dog's behaviour, and that actually there was quite a lot of evidence that sniffer dogs can actually do the thing that everyone thinks they can.

That shat me up a bit really, although maybe I've discovered the perfect tactic to evade sniffer dogs, perhaps I was just very lucky. I remember once in Preston train station seeing a guy ahead of me get pulled aside because of the dog. They emptied his rucksack to find an empty grinder. I was carrying a big smelly Q in my inside jacket pocket, I gave the dog a lot fuss and then just walked past.
(leviticus no longer likes the cut of your gib on, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 15:09, 10 replies)