Growing up in Pegswood...
...Was actually not as bad as people make it out, I acquired some awesome skills for life in 'ghetto'...

Anyway, there's this big lump of earth with trees growing out of it near where I used to live, named 'The Lonin'...think Ronin..

We used to set that big arsed thing on fire more times than i care to recall, coppers would be called out with the fire blokes and we'd scarper.

Note to coppers, never underestimate a native Pegswardian, we might be fat but we can run like fook and know all the best hiding places..
(Dr_Wookie_Phd The world loves a bastard!, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 14:51, 5 replies)

I've never been buggered by a viking
But I came perilously close to being banged up in a Swedish jail once.

Pre-marriage, I was visiting Mrs Huple Pelmet in her home town of Stockholm. It was before the days of airports checking every single bag and - stupidly, I know - I had thrown a small amount of smokeable but illegal material in my bag. (I am shaking my own head now at the cocky twat I was.)

I have subsequently encountered sniffer dogs on several occasions entering Sweden but back then I wasn't aware on how keen the Swedish authorities were on using our four-legged friends to nab dope-smugglers.

They often position the dogs round a corner, so you get no warning. I nearly shat myself when, in a queue of people coming off the plane, I rounded the corner and about five yards away were a couple of spaniels sniffing everyone's case as they trundled by. I looked dead ahead, and as the dog sniffed my bag, and continued sniffing as I strode ahead, I pretended I hadn't noticed.

Then: "Excuse me sir. Sir? Over here please sir. " I was directed to the long benches and a lady officer asked me to open up my square zip-up case. I knew the little wrap of dope would be the first thing she would see. God knows how I got away with the next bit, but I did. As I opened the case with the lid towards her (i.e. so she couldn't see inside). At the same time, I slung the bag that had been over my shoulder onto the desk in front of her, saying, "would you like to look in this one as well?" The second her attention was distracted by the other bag,I smoothly grabbed the packet in my right hand and sort of palmed it, magician-style. I then folded my arms, right palm against my left upper arm, concealing the packet.

She searched my bags. Found nowt. Probably wondered why I was grey and sweating clammily, mind. She smiled at me. "Thank you." (No - thank YOU. The Swedes, unlike many nations, take a very dim view of the ol' cannabis resin and back then - and for all I know, still - a short jail sentence would have been a distinct probability.)

I've not done that since. A small amount of hashish can, I now find, be concealed in one's mouth ready to be simply swallowed in extremis.
(Hurple Pelmet, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 14:47, 1 reply)

wandsworth mcdonalds before paddock
in the early naughties it would seem you could order a little more than the bog big mac and fries at the wandsworth 24 drive thru.

i found this out as, standing at the pedestrian hatch, the place was busted in a large way by lots of drug plod and drug plod dogs.

i know that the german shepherd that took interest in me was probably after the eighth (edit - massive drugs?) in my pocket and not the double cheesburgers in my hand, but if the policeman grining at me knew that, he must have decided he had bigger filet o fish to fry.
(magictorch, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 12:56, Reply)

I nearly got arrested once
while out with a friend. Fortunately for us though we weren’t the droids they were looking for :|
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 12:09, 9 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)

So I was in Reno, right ...

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 10:56, Reply)

I dodged a shit-load of shit
'cause some people on this website appear to have put me on "Ignore"
Sqweeeee!
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Fri 27 Jan 2012, 10:44, 13 replies)

I shot the sheriff
but managed to framed it on someone else.

Well, got that one out of the way.
(ParaSitius is an Optimistic Pessimist, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 9:54, 3 replies)

I should be arrested for being so marvellous
frankly.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 9:40, 19 replies)

I shall drop my pea just about... here.
Yes... Not really proud of this one.
It was about twenty years ago, some friends and I were in the airport going to Malta of all places for a bit of a lash.
I was (cough use of past tense cough) a bit of a smoker back then, and really didn't want to go the two weeks without a bifta, so came up with a cunning plan. I packed about a quarter into a little tube about the size of my finger, and parcel taped it to my thigh, as high up as possible.
Going through customs to get to the 'plane, the guy points at me.
"Mind stepping over here sir?"
You know that feeling when your stomach gets lodged in your mouth, and you can see the hole opening up in front of you?
"Just a quick search, sir" as he starts to pat me down.
Under the arms, down the sides of the body, then to the turn ups and up the legs.
As he got closer, I knew I was bound for a dirty life as some crim's bitch. I could see the look on my parent's faces, the life I could have had washing away from me with every pat.
Past the knee, and at the thigh I was literally preparing the "It's a fair cop guv'" speech when he touched the tube. He looked up at me, no doubt seeing the panic break out on my face, and pulled back sharpish.
"(Something garbled)"
My mind didn't comprehend. I knew I'd been busted, in the most stupid way I could have chosen. This was stupid. I stood there, waiting for the officers to wrestle me down and ping the rubber gloves on the ends of their fingers.
"(More garble) you go sir."
Tears started to well up in me as the reality struck home and I knew home was somewhere I'd be dreaming of for a while.
"I said you can go sir."
The inner workings of my brain finally kicked in. I said nothing, but stumbled through to the departure lounge where I shakily lit up a Marlborough. (Yes, and you could smoke 'em on the 'planes back then as well!)
I can only surmise he thought he'd touched my dick and was as shocked as I was.

Now, before you start, I am fully aware of just how stupid I was, even so, any flaming may well be justified. I learnt a lot of lessons that holiday, and hopefully grew up a fair bit in the process. I mean, Malta? I may as well have been taking snow to the Arctic.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 9:18, 4 replies)

Mama…Just killed a man…
I was in York a few years back when I decided to find out what it would be like to kill someone. I purchased a gun and waited in a dark alley one Friday night for someone to pass by. Sure enough eventually, I spotted this chap in a kilt who was wandering down the alley carrying a bag.

I took a deep breath, carefully took aim, before gently squeezing the trigger – letting a single bullet explode from my gun and into the back of his head. There was blood everywhere and as I approached his still twitching corpse, I saw something that filled me with an immense sense of relief.

In his bag was a very small crossbow…so I just waited for the police to arrive.
(King Nightmare, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 9:05, 10 replies)

Old cop/Young cop.
About 8 years ago.
My missus was pregnant and said to me one evening "Go and get me some KFC, I want KFC, craaaaaaaviiiings!"
So into her Corolla Station Wagon I climbed and drove to the nearest place of poisonous deep fried batter & mechanically separated chicken places and acquired her (& myself) some tasty treats.
I should at this point say that the missus' car had a serious case of "blown head gasket" cancer, was about 20 yo. (which in some car-years makes Joan Rivers look young) and had a death-rattle which sounded like it had been sampled from Trent Reznor.
As I drove home with my vittles I got pulled over by "The D's" due to the obvious sickness of the car. There was a younger cop who bounced around the car pointing out all it faults and threatening to give me a "canary" (a yellow sticker which denotes un-road-worthiness) with much glee & an older copper who sat back and said not much.
Once the catalog of faults had been compiled the 2 orificers of the piece approached me and told me the bad news.
So I said to the cops (mainly aimed at the older fella) - "So you're going to send me home to my pregnant wife with cold KFC and a ticket that says we basically have to scrap her car?"
"Fair call" he said, "Off you go - get rid of this heap of shit as quick as you can." The young bloke sat there with his ticket-book open doing goldfish impressions.
I managed to get home, give SWMBO some KFC and a couple of days later we sent the Corolla to the Car knackers & got hold of a lovely "baby-spew yellow" Corolla hatchback that went the distance.
Not so much avoided arrest - but it's nice to know that there are some grizzled, road-weary cops out there that can remember what it's like to be married.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Fri 27 Jan 2012, 8:57, 6 replies)

sex, mugs and rock 'n' roll
I often 'liberate' things from any venue my band plays at, mainly manchester places, usually fancy pint glasses, poster, beer, beer mats, those beer towel things.

Played a Beer festival once and borrowed a few french breads to use a pillows for the night.

After an Academy gig we managed to get a massive trolley into our van (later to be used to cart all our equipment around).

Headlined a few, so we're usually the last band there, so managed to get a guitar stand.

Blagged a free hotel room and put our name down as the chairman of the biker group we were playing for (he couldn't make it so his room became free, enter us.) so he ended up picking up the bill (we assumed)

Nothing too dodgy, but all nice and free.

Oh yeah and the odd coffee mug from major coffee outlet stores, but that's fair game right?
( Ya What Skiddlyboop, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 8:39, 11 replies)

Should have, could have, would have, was not
A good few years back now - before I headed to uni for some good old hedonistic fun - I was in a bus with a bunch of folks from my martial arts class. We were heading down to Liverpool to compete in a tournament (the same tournament at which I received my black belt, well chuffed) in a minibus. It was one of those really shite winters where God decided that then would be the time to give his hair a good nit-combing and all his manky dandruff froze on the way to the ground. As such, the driver was having a right arse of a job trying to keep all four wheels from having a trajectory resulting in the bus intersecting with the tangent of the cliff to the left, and proceeding to carry us over.

I asked the appropriate question, "What better time to do MASSIVE DRUGS?"

Being a gang of cocky wee Highland shites with only enough brains to contain a few key pharmaceutical receptors - definitely not enough to be sensibly scared shitless - we started with my plentiful selection of uppers. As we picked through the supply, stopping the bus as necessary to do what the journey should have made us do with more explosive spontaneity, we eventually realised we'd have to get some sleep so we could compete in the compo the day after.

A few sniffs and puffs later and at least some of us were starting to drop off and make Chinese. One bloke, as he laid back on me, said in his addled state, "Mate, you should have been a head rest."

"Goodnight."
( clockworkrat has nice pants, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 3:41, 2 replies)

about 15 years ago, a mate and I were driving in a van through the bayous of Lousiana heading to New Orleans, when we saw the flashing lights of a police car in the mirror
I wasn't speeding, couldn't think of anything we might have done, but this copper was closing in fast and wanted us to pull over. We stopped and two policeman got out of their vehicle. When I opened the door, one pulled his gun and yelled at us to stay in the car. He then commanded us to get out slowly, still with his gun drawn, and put our hands on his police car and not move. I asked them what we were being pulled over for and he said he had a report of an escaping van from the next county, and we were all just going to wait until the other county police arrived. He thought that it might be a break-in.
I exchanged a glance with my friend, and his stare back showed me he was thinking the same thing. We were going to a big street party in New Orleans, not the Mardi Gras, and had bought LSD in San Francisco, to add to our substantial stash of marijuana. On top of this, an open bucket-bong was sitting unhidden in the rear of the van. If they opened the van door, we were fucked. If it's a break-in, they're going to search the van I thought, whether we did it or not. I also recalled reading that Louisiana had automatic jail time for class A possesion, and was silently cursing my idiocy for not at least hiding it somewhere. My mate had also just got married to a Mexican girl in Austin (who years later left him for another man and then got a role in the Star Wars movie, by the by), and had even more to lose if we ended up in a backwater jail.
More police kept arriving, and had the sort of exchanges that in hindsight were amusing, but at the time my mind was a bit preoccupied. "They're Orrstraylian." "Do they speak English" "Oh yeah. They speak it real good". After half an hour in limbo, the sherrif of the next county showed up and was able to explain why the call had been put out. We had stayed the night in the carpark of a Fisheries and Wildlife office. My mate had woken up and taken a morning piss against a tree. Some women had rung up who must have been sticky-beaking from the window of a house at least 100 yards away to say that a man was flashing his cock at her.
We apologised, the police lost interest and started talking about gumbo that one of their wives was cooking, I shit you not. After driving a few clicks away from the scene, my mate had a bit of a turn as the reality sunk in of how close we'd come to whole heap of unwanted shit, I imagine, and asked me to take over the driving.
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 2:00, 1 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., Fri 27 Jan 2012, 0:23, 9 replies)

I think that guy's mate who beheaded a drug dealer with a samurai sword should have been arrested

( WormuIus, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 0:10, 4 replies)

as a mild teenage anarchist
I wore all sorts of t-shirts with "witty" slogans. But it was only the "FUCK CEN***SHIP" one which caused the irony police* to ask me to cover it up in Euston station once.

*actual police with either no sense or an extremely acute sense of irony.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 23:45, 5 replies)

Horsing around with friendly pigs
~Wavy lines~ A travelling Victorian fair came to my student town of choice...well...actually I had no choice, it was the only educational facility in the UK willing to take me through UCAS' clearing system.

Anyway...in this town - a Victorian fair had indeed arrived, complete with old-timey toffee apples, dunking stations and a wonderful carousel.

Somehow I'd managed to get the shitty short straw from our shittier student magazine and had to write a story about it.

I spent the afternoon going around the stalls, taking photos and talking to toffs, that fancied themselves as historians but had more in common with the gypsy stereotype that's usually associated with this craft.

Needless to say I got bored quite quickly and buggered off for more modern fare: the student union, complete with old timey table-tennis, drinking stations and a wonderful vomit smell.

After polishing off a few cans of the finest lager with a red stripe that Jamaica has ever produced, I stumbled not into the awaiting daylight as expected but into the cool air of a summer's night.

I was sozzled and had to walk all the way through town to get to the nearest (only) kebab shop and my grotty student flat.

As I zigzagged my way through the cobbled streets I suddenly found myself next to a tented monument. I admit that I was puzzled for a second or two until my brain suddenly kicked in and informed me that this canvass monstrosity was hiding the wonderful carousel, mentioned earlier, and it also tipped me off to the fact that the chain holding it all together was sans-padlock.

Without much thought, I quickly entered the moonlit merry-go-round. It was somewhat dark inside, creating quite an eerie spectacle. Gleaming golden gaudy horses with painted pained looks on their faces. The mistreatment of these splendid animals made something inside me snap. Short story: I unhooked a horse, bolted through the awning and made my way to the aforementioned kebab shop – where I ordered a meaty grease bomb for myself and a nosebag of greens for my newly acquainted friend who I propped up against the counter of the shop.

Now, I'm not quite sure what happened, whether a CCTV camera had caught me or whether the shop owners had taken exception to the neighing and braying of my friend but two chaps from the local multi-coloured cop shop arrived.

They asked me if I'd been where the fair is. I replied that I hadn’t been near any fairies, they laughed which was a good sign and then asked about my long-in-the-tooth friend who had now slumped in the corner and become suspiciously quiet since their arrival. Again, I chose banter as my recourse, since my racehorse was keeping schtum.

We were suddenly interrupted by the counter bell of the kebab shop, informing me that my kebab was now made up and ready to go. Nice lads that they were at that shop: my kebab was not only the meaty grease bomb as advertised but it was also sprouting all sorts of extra foliage for my foal.

The police and I agreed that we should all do the right thing and return my buddy to his stable mates. We bantered and cantered all the way back to carousel, the horse was replaced, we said our farewells and I galloped off home.

Length: a few furlongs
(durtydriscoll, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 23:15, 3 replies)

Narita Carrots.
Alt: We nearly got smoked in the Cunt-Ass.
Many, many, many moons ago.
Stop! Context time: I studied Japanese at school for about 5 years. I would call myself a dyslexic Japanese communicator - can speak some good but shit at writing (can hardly remember any kana let alone kanji).

Anyway I went on a school trip which culminated in me and 2 other blokes staying in a dodgy ryokan (B&B style inn) in Shinjuku (seedy nightclub district of Tokyo) for the last week of the trip tasting the seamier side of Tokyo whilst our teachers went off for a "conference". Including amongst other things: us buying a fucking huge stick of pot off some dodgy bloke at 0300 one morning for what amounted to AUD$60 - what a deal! Man, I know it's a cliche but, the things you can get from a vending machine in Tokyo - that's just absolutely astounding!

Anyway we find our young ringofyre on the bus to Narita Airport with the rest of the group ready to go home. As the bus approaches the entrance we notice hundreds of heavily armed guards and dogs. Apparently the government has annexed some farmland to extend something or other. Farmer's were supposedly unhappy and had threatened to retaliate - hence the heavy hardware everywhere.
Cue our trio of adventurers suddenly remembering we had a shitload of pot still on us. So we split from the group & proceed to roll up 2 huge spliffs that put shame to the Camberwell Carrot which we then proceeded to puff as quickly as we could hunkered down between some parked buses in the carpark (no Honda Accords in sight & this is Japan people! Japan!).
Then we entered the airport. Where things rapidly went from stoned to paranoid. Soldiers with guns and fucking sniffer dogs everywhere & I'm not talking Beagles, I'm talking big, fuckoff Alsatians that could rip your throat out with a snarl.

It didn't help that the Japanese way of pronouncing Qantas sounds exactly like "cunt-ass"! End result tho - got away with it. As the plane took off I listened to "Learning To Fly" by Pink Floyd on the new Sony Walkman my host family had given me earlier in the trip, and then as dutiful teenage boys we decided to try and beat Boonie's 52 not-out. We didn't and our parents weren't happy to see us pissed as farts coming off a 20 hr. flight on a Sunday morning from a school trip.
Jouzu desu ne!
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Thu 26 Jan 2012, 22:46, 4 replies)

i once sold Shannon Mathews
mum some under bed storage
( fluffybunnykiller Is feasting on the clitoris of life, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 22:12, 1 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)

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)

midnight shenanigans
me and several pissed mates setting off 'modified' fireworks at 3am from the hill overlooking our estate, saw the blue lights coming up the hill and we scattered into the countryside, i dived into a hedge and pulled the (thankfully)long black coat over my head and the box of remaining incendiaries. Was close enough to hear their radios as they made a half hearted attempt to search the area 'reports of explosions' was the theme of their conversation. Surreal night all over.
(amazinglasercow now sporting terawatt mining lasers, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 21:09, 5 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)

According to FriendsReunited,
loads of people I know went on to become hitmen and/or international drug smugglers.

I'm pretty sure this makes me an accessory to several crimes, but the fuzz haven't come for me yet.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 20:42, 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)

I got to Panama City, Florida for Spring Break 1999
Got out of the car, walked across the street, and got arrested. For walking across the street.


Oh, it's SHOULD'VE not SHOULDN'T HAVE.

Well, Fuck, I typed it, it's staying.
(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 20:32, 2 replies)

During a school trip to Paris...
Me and 4 friends went into an off licence near the Louvre and each brought 3 cans (I had Kronenbourg 1664 lager) to drink, though not all in one night!
We were all 15 or 16 at the time, and to buy alcohol in France you must be 18.
It's a surprise that a seemingly reputable outlet near a major tourist attraction would allow several underage English teenagers to purchase alcohol without asking for ID.
Can't complain, those were my first real alcoholic drinks.
(Glucose-Maximus All over the world., Thu 26 Jan 2012, 19:41, 3 replies)

Calcified campers.
Around age 11 or 12, the preferred weekend pursuit was to 'camp out' on whichever patch of weedy communal grass around the estate had least dog shit on it. Parental permission to do so meant at least 12 hours of unsupervised freedom. At night. Outside.

Even the occasional pop-in check did nothing to stifle the true illicit purpose of spending (much of) the night in some mildew stained, musty smelling tent... Milking.

No, not fumbling with bovines. Not a euphamism for wanking, or any other act of self abuse. Milking was the incorrect yet common (round our way at least) term for cavorting around the streets at 4am, stealing milk from doorsteps.

On the relative morning, we'd already scored the jackpot by having away half of the newsagents delivery, a full crate of yummy goodness each. The master plan had been to procure nesquick later.

We also were aware that some folk had other yummy dairy treats delivered too, so we toured the estate looking for yoghurts or orange juice for the taking. It was them we were spotted by a concerned citizen, on doubt believing that our furtive forray was that of burglars.

When the law caught up with us, we were found in possession of six ski fruit yoghurts and a pint of gold-top. I'd attempted to drop the milk, unseen into the long grass when I realised we 'had company' but when grasped tightly around the arm and posed with the loaded question; "What's that?" the shift-weary officer had a tiny wry grin when I enquired if it was a trick question.

My accomplice and I were duly bollocked, gave our names and addresses and were told to go tell our parents what we'd done and expect a visit from him later that day.

My mate duly did so and was rightly, severely punished by his folks. I hedged my bets and kept schtum. No police visit. No parental knowledge: no punishment.

Carlos the jackal's got fuck all on this bad boy.
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Thu 26 Jan 2012, 19:06, 1 reply)