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)

not me, but a friend
so this friend, despite being, by outward appearances, a scruffy ne'er-do-well was in fact a very well paid and well respected IT whizzkid. so well respected in fact, he was able to regularly rock up in last night's club shirt, untucked, an hour or more late, and spend half the day in the canteen eating, but i digress.
he had recently, after some haggling and long drawn out delivery options, taken delivery of a nice new 5.7ltr v8 corvette z06 (car thing wot goes like teflon-coated shit off a greased shovel) and, having been driving it for a week, had it written off by a dozy old lady in a micra who forgot that you stop and look at roundabouts.
he was getting it fixed, and his insurance company provided him with a hire car- a rather nippy bmw, 5 or 7 series, i fail to recall.
Now there's an unwritten rule that when faced with a hire car, you take bleeding liberties. in the spirit of this, one boring sunday, we found ourselves, five of us, out for a spin to cause some minor mischief.
when drifting round the local car park in a cloud of tyre smoke gre boring, we decided to move on, but as wel pulled out, a small car blocked our path, and two coppers hopped out and round to the drivers window. the conversation went thus:

copper1: "do you know why we've stopped you sir?"
mate(legend) : (contritely) "yeah. i was being a dick...."
copper1: "is this your car sir?"
mate: "no. it's a hire car."
copper2: " don't tell me they gave you this to replace a bloody corsa or something.."
mate: "no actually, it's a 5.7 v8 corvette z06 race edition"
coppers: "!?! bloody hell. well, don't be so stupid in that then, you'll get yourself killed. off you go now"

legend.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 12:17, 16 replies)

Never mind 'should have been arrested'....
I think MatJ and Scaryduck should be arrested just for this QOTW; it must be the slowest and least contributed QOTW on record....

In my opinion anyway.
(FF_Sam is currently on call...., Wed 1 Feb 2012, 12:14, 20 replies)

Stupid things that I have been threatened with arrest for:
"Firing a projectile weapon from a moving vehicle". Basically firing a water pistol at some friends out of a car. I did get a fine for not wearing a seat belt though.
"Theft of a beer glass", with the added threat of "That won't look good in the evening papers"
And a couple of "Obstructing a police officer", though on both occasions I have received an apology from higher up the food chain after complaining.
"Defacing council property" essentially kicking up double yellow lines (I was 8 at the time and was scared shitless by this threat).
"Almost being run over by a police car", though not an actual charge, the primary school age me was taken home after driving an action man tank in front of a police car. Again, was terrified and my mum was mortified by the police turning up on the door step with a chastened Monkeyboy.
I'm not going to bother with drink driving (never done it but been in the car a few times) which is plain idiotic and dealt with elsewhere.
Might do the massive drugs one later as this QotW seems very slow.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 10:50, 1 reply)

The Perfect Crime
At my very Catholic school, a sixth former pulled off what I still think is the perfect crime

We had a school newsletter that was just an outlet for those who wanted to study English at Uni, to write some lame articles about the Bring & Buy, or worse, a bio of a new teacher. I can't remember a single thing about it apart from this

Anyone remember the old Mayfair magazine? The fact that it was the British equivalent of Playboy and had the nerve to supply a generation of men with articles on steam tractors and vintage cars amazes me to this day (especially when the alternative for teenage top shelf browsing was Health & Efficiency). Anyway, there was a section in the middle of the magazine that was printed on dark brown paper (again, why?) that had dirty stories and had a cartoon section. Some of these were pornographic, but many were as innocent as MAD magazine

This sixth former (who was studying art A'Level, so maybe he did have a genuine use for Mayfair apart from wanking,, uhm, maybe not) volunteered to draw some 'humourous' cartoons for the school newsletter and proceeded to simply trace these cartoons. They were printed exactly as they had originally appeared in Mayfair

Can you believe the shock at his audacity on the playground? What happened to him? Absolutely nothing. He got away with it for four quarterly issues till he left upper-six. It was the perfect crime because of course no lay-teacher could bring the cartoons to the attention of the Catholic Brothers (who all dressed like Monks and presumably thought 'Mayfair' was a rich area somewhere near Knightsbridge) without revealing that the only reason they would know it the first place was if they were a reader

Ok, maybe he shouldn't have been arrested. Maybe a medal of some kind

Wish I had done it (but I was studying Maths)
(sabre32, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 10:43, 1 reply)

Stupid things that I have been threatened with arrest for:

( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 10:40, 4 replies)

Between August and November of 1888
I murdered and dismembered 5 women in the Whitechapel area of London
( Peej, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 10:31, 2 replies)

can't be bothered to look through the posts on this one so
Has anyone mentioned Maddy yet?
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 10:07, 15 replies)

They just wouldn't shut up.
They just wouldn't shut up.

*weeps*
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 9:03, 1 reply)

I should have been arrested for numerous offences but I have managed to get away with them all so far and I am fucked if I am going to land myself in trouble by telling you gossips all about it.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 8:22, 1 reply)

Drrrrrunk Twat worthy of arrest = Me.
There have been a couple of posts by drunk drivers on this thread so I worry how bad a kicking I'll be subject to after recounting this tale of (self inflicted) woe.
Erm. Seeing as i've been drinking (but not driving) how can I put this? Quite rightly, no-one in their right mind would drink 'n' drive. The problem is though, is that when you're smashed out of your gourd you are not in your right mind.
I've done it myself, truth be told. If i've had 3 or 4 there's no way in hell i'd go near a steering wheel. There was one time though, when after an all day session I decided to drive 10 miles along one of the most dangerous roads in England to visit my fiancee.
The inevitable happened, of course. Rounding a blind corner at 70mph I lost control and ended up rolling the car, ending up upside-down in a ditch on the wrong side of the road. Never mind 'should have been arrested', I should've been killed - I wasn't, although I did cut my thumb.
That night I was lucky - not only to avoid arrest, but avoiding killing some poor innocent.

I have never drunk-driven since that day, though I have of course drunk-posted. This has caused a more widespread, though lower key, distress to the world in general than my behaviour on that sorry occasion. When I see on the news that some unfortunate has fallen victim to some fuckhead pisshead at the wheel, I know that I could've done that. Never say never, if you've had a few and have your car keys on you.
(HarvsPenzance was tired and confused at, Wed 1 Feb 2012, 0:50, 27 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)

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)

Driving offences
I drove from Glasgow to Edinburgh airport in 20 mins to pick up a mates brother who had just flown in at 2am.
On the way back while in no hurry I got flashed by a speed camera doing 50 through some roadworks. 3 points and a £60 fine for helping a mate out.
(BiggestNizzy your company name here pm for rates., Tue 31 Jan 2012, 17:54, 9 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 put the toilet seat down
Then had a poo on it. At the cinema.

Extremely childish of me, but then I was 8 at the time.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Tue 31 Jan 2012, 15:06, 10 replies)

Gunman
Not me but my mate, several years ago:

There was a bunch of friends all gone away to Belper for a week or so in a big house. Around 16 lads and lasses all fairly well behaved and in favour of a drink or two. It was just a nice holiday away with plenty bbq's and hi-jinx in the Derbyshire sunshine.

On a fairly routine drive through town for supplies; "G" at a set of traffic lights pointed a cap gun out of the window at an elderly lady and gave the "pew pew" motion, before the car set off again.

A nice afternoon was had by all until a very worrying phonecall came through from "B's" parents back up north. They'd had a phonecall from the Derbyshire police who were in the process of hunting a gunman that had been shooting at members of the public. "B's" reg plate had been sighted so they called the number it was registered to.

Quite a large amount of resources had been employed to find this vehicle and very real threat to the public; helicopter, squad cars, traffic surveillance, the lot.

A nice bbq turned into everyone sat in the main room of the house, on the receiving end of an industrial scale bollocking off a few very very angry police officers. Should have been arrested? It would have been much funnier if they'd been found while driving through town!
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Tue 31 Jan 2012, 15:04, 2 replies)

Indecent Exposure
On a mate's stag night, we hustled him down to the beach, stripped him and dressed him in a basque, fishnets, suspenders and stilettos, before parading him (handcuffed) up and down the promenade to the merriment of all and sundry.

Now it turns out that genuine women's lingerie isn't built for the male anatomy, and so his cock and balls were not completely encased. He was, in fact popping out all over. All part of the fun until we rounded a corner and came face to face with two coppers, doing the pub 'n' club patrol.

They stood there, staring at this apparition in lace and body hair. We stood there, holding our breath to see which way it would go.

"Stag night is it, lads? Fair enough." And they wandered off. Much to our merriment, the last thing we heard as they disappeared into the crowd was one turning to the other and saying "Well, I would..."
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Tue 31 Jan 2012, 11:01, 26 replies)

My nominations for B3TA Villain Of The Year 2012
Are MatJ & ScaryDuck.
Do we have a benchmark for the QOTW with the lowest number of stories inputted?
I've been talking to my mate Edward (....) & I asked him - "So whaddya reckon, should we give them a rest, Ted?"
Edward concurred.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Tue 31 Jan 2012, 7:34, 2 replies)

This has literally just happened
X should be arrested for:

Standing up in the back of the minibus I was driving the entire way from Glasgow to Edinburgh.

Climbing over the front row of seats while I was doing 65mph, nearly kicking me in the face as he did so.

The sheer number of times he demanded we stop for food. Absolutely nowhere is open at 3am Tuesday morning.

Sliding open the window (again at 65mph, on the westbound carriageway of the M8) and pissing out of the minibus in full view of the other eleven passengers, who were watching in open-mouthed horror. Apparently he "just felt like it".*

His hair. Seriously, it's dreadful.




*Under most circumstances I would have braked heavily, but I wasn't about to clean it up if any ended up inside.
( MatJ LOOK, Tue 31 Jan 2012, 3:38, 10 replies)

Matrimony, Intrigue, Pope
My parents were great ones for culture and were always taking me around museums, art galleries, country houses and so on in the hopes that my already precocious brain would turn into some kind of genius. Sadly I was an odious little swot and revelled in it all.

Picture the scene at one such mansion, full of the usual antique furniture and dreary old paintings. Picture the young Cabbage following the guide around. Picture the guide pointing to an ornament and saying "...and this is some kind of item used in card games..."

"It's a Pope Joan board," quote I. (Google them. They're very distinctive. And I'd been reading a book about card games that very week.)

The guide was mightily impressed that a mere 8 year old could correct him on the nuances of antique card game accoutrements.

Which was a good job really, as a quarter of an hour later he caught me nicking handfuls of coins out of the wishing well in the garden.
(Rise and Fall of the Atomic Cabbage Haven't you heard of suspension of disbelief?, Tue 31 Jan 2012, 2:47, 2 replies)

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)

A younger Daz,
was spending the day showing his best mates Danish student, Benny around Dublin. Now, us Irish lads weren't used to Bennys crazy fucking stunts and his wild lifestyle (or at least the one he claimed to have) left us in awe of him.

Anyway ,as we were strolling along chatting Benny suddenly said to me to run. I asked "what the fuck for?" and he grinned and said "just run". So, I did. Seconds later I had Benny in full pursuit screaming at me in his Danish lilt to "give his fooking wallet back".

This was a thrill I had never experienced! Adrenaline raced through me , my blood roaring in my ears as stunned pedestrians leaped out of my way. Up until the point that is that my neck made very sudden contact with my jumper which had decided to strangle me. Not of its own accord however but because Detective Nasty Bastard had grabbed it rather roughly as I sped past.

Whilst demonstrating (very thoroughly) how to restrain a young thug against a brick wall he explained to me what happened to young thief's in Care Homes and terrified, I began to sob uncontrollably. When Benny finally explained to the Garda what the fuck we were playing at they were none too pleased but let us off. Their threat of life in jail would have been far more poignant had they not started bursting their holes laughing as soon as they turned their backs on my tear streaked face.
( dazbrilliantwhites has been meaning to change this..., Tue 31 Jan 2012, 1:25, 1 reply)

Mums ashes
Before mum died, she requested her ashes be spread off Brighton pier, in the North Sea, and in the Pacific. My brother dutifully did the stuff in the UK, and then August of that year him, my sis in law, mums partner and mums best friend flew out to California to visit me and to do the Pacific ashes.

I did a bunch of research, and discovered it's illegal to scatter ashes off a pier or into a harbour area - basically, you have to charter a boat to take you out beyond the breakwaters. And it costs a fucking fortune. And sis in law gets seasick, and the option of fishing wasn't an option (arse!)

Bollocks to that. We went to the pier in Huntington Beach, and sneakily threw mums ashes into the ocean, along with a bunch of flowers. After the goodbyes and the hugs between us all, we turned around to find 5 motorbike cops with their helmets off.

Turns out the penalty for illegal ash scattering is *up to a year in jail and a $1,000 fine*.
(nolongernuts, Mon 30 Jan 2012, 23:23, 10 replies)

On the Northernmost tip of Catalonia,
where the Pyrenees begin their eastward descent into Spanish chaos, is a small , scattered collection of hill farms in the tiny municipality known as Arres.
I went there with my mate Edward, or rather tried to, but we got lost and couldn't find his grandfather's house. I tried to tell him where we were supposed to be.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Mon 30 Jan 2012, 20:36, 4 replies)

My friend and I stupidly decided to drink drive home from Cardiff to Birmingham
Me behind the wheel we managed to get as far as Monmouth, when I was pulled over by a police car, then breathalysed and arrested.

The police officer was a really decent bloke, informed me we'd have about a half an hour wait for a van to pick me up, my mate asked if he could jump in the van with me so as we were in the middle of know where, copper said that'd be fine.

So, the van tuned up i was put in the back with handcuffs on and my mate was put in there with me to keep me company on the 30 min drive to newport police station, my friend then told me, as soon as you get in to the station tell them that he (my mate) had a bottle of vodka on him and we've been drinking it on the way to the station, i said it'd never work, he said just do it and i'll defo get off with it.

we arrived at the station, they let my mate out at the front then drove me round the back in to the custody suite, i was booked in then taken in to the room with the testing machine, when i got in there i was asked a series of questions, one of them being have you had a drink in the last hour, bearing in my mind i'd been in the company of the police officer for around an hour and a half, i said yes, my mate had a bottle vodka on him and we were drinking it on the way to the station, my defense was i thought i was fucked so didn't think it could get any worse, now the copper is looking extremely pissed off, he leaves me and goes to see my mate who's waiting in the reception for me, he ask my mate who confirms the vodka in the van story, he comes back to me, reads the riot act to me then bails me, turns out my mate was right as i got a call about 2 weeks later saying that they were taking no further action. apparently the roadside test is just an indication and it's the machine at the station is what is used as evidence.
(serge, Mon 30 Jan 2012, 16:12, 54 replies)

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)

Music, the international language
A mate of mine went travelling, supporting himself by busking with, of all things, a hurdy-gurdy. Now, busking naturally brings one into frequent contact with local law enforcement, but he was expecting this. What really pissed him off was the attitude of customs officers, who saw him carrying a strange-shaped case and invariably decided to pull him and have a butchers inside it.

After the umtpy-umpth time this had happened, he started to sing a song about it, while waiting in the queue. Ever the busker. Something along the lines of "Ain't got no mariujana, ain't got no ecstacy. Not carrying cocaine, or even LSD."

Not, in the end, the wisest decision, as any non-english-fluent officers would just have heard "xxxxxxxx DRUGS xxxxxxxx DRUGS xxxxxx DRUGS xxxxx..." Consequently his ringpiece got fingered more often than the fretboard.*

The ironic part was he lived his life entirely drug-free, didn't even drink.

* If hurdy-gurdies even have a fretboard, which I have no idea about
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 30 Jan 2012, 10:29, 2 replies)

As a kid from a town without road signage (usually too shot up to read), I got to visit the city of Perth and I stood under a 'No Standing' sign right in front of the police. Toughness oozed from every pore and I have never been as naughty since.
(boozehound is drinking your bar dry, Mon 30 Jan 2012, 9:53, 3 replies)