This story
from Andrew Lang's Red Fairy Book
"The Voice of Death"

Yes, this is a fairy tale. For a child.

In the name of all that is holy, never read this to your six year old kid unless you really hate them. Yeah, thanks mum. Maybe that explains the severe mental illness, eh?
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:50, 8 replies)

being alone
generally being on my own for a while is ok but I'm not great when left alone with myself, particularly if I haven't got a good book to read.

I guess you would call this next bit a phobia though...

Mrs Vipros and I have pretty much decided not to have kids, if it happens, then so be it, but we aren't going to be making any conscious attempts to have them.

Sometimes however I get to thinking "what about when I'm old, and maybe my wife (gf at the moment) has passed away, and I've got no friends left."

imagine it, you're left in your old age, possibly infirm to some degree, with no one to keep you company.

frankly, the thought terrifies me. so I try not to think of it too often
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:47, 16 replies)

Maths
I don't like numbers
they don't like me

if I have to do mental arithmatic, I just can't, my brain turns to treacle and refuses to process the numbers. I panic and tell myself that I'm stupid rather than figure out the answer.

strange as I'm pretty good at equasions/theory of maths. and I'm really not thick...

but ask me to ad 24 and 68 and i'l turn to jelly, ask me to multiply something and I'm a cowering wreck
(Katzilla Follow Me! @Kat_Zilla (I don't promise funnehs), Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:44, 2 replies)

Stuffed monkeys and dolls.
You know how when someone moves in with you, there will be one thing- just ONE LITTLE THING- that you have to ask the other person not to do, or to change?

I've had two women live with me since my divorce.

The first one collected dolls, mostly Barbies. While Barbie is a bit on the scary side, I could tolerate her- but there was one doll that she had that scared the living hell out of me. It had eyes that looked to one side, eyebrows that seemed to denote a certain malice that the smile couldn't offset, and- *shudder*- teeth. Apparently it was very rare and came from Germany just after WWII, so it was very valuable and was a prized possession- but I've read enough Stephen King to know better. Into storage it went.

Sometime after she moved out with all her dolls, the Lunatic Artist moved in. All was fine, except for the One Thing: she collects stuffed monkeys.

I don't know why, but apes in general creep me out. Maybe it's how quasi-human they are. I really don't know. but the stuffed monkeys stared at me every time I came into the living room, so she was kind enough to put them into storage.

I fear that my attic is going to become the Home For Frightening Things.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:43, Reply)

The Noises Video Game Monsters Make
Its seems like there is nothing in this world that can scare me more than one of the following sounds:

Black Head-Crabs - Half-Life 2
Oh Dear Jesus, that noise they make, like a hiss and a rattle, dear God I can hear it now... there’s one in the room but I can't see where it is!

Those floating brain things from Duke Nukem 3D
They made a sort of high pitched noise that used to really fuck me up.

Anything at all from Silent Hill
...but worse of all were those little semi-transparent toddler ghosts and the noise they made, like 'Bwipp Bwipp'. Just hearing the noise and knowing I’m going to have to beat another toddler to death by caving its head in with a lead pipe, I really think I’ll need counseling for that one day.

The Lickers from Resident Evil
You go in to a new room and although you can't see it, you can hear it moving about with the suction cups on their hands like 'shl-tuk, shl-tuk, shl-tuk, shltukshltukshltukshltuk' and then a bit of raspy heavy breathing, fresh pants please!

I can't be alone in being permanently traumatized by these sounds, perhaps we can from some sort of support group?
(Dean, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:41, 1 reply)

1970s public information films
As a nipper in the 1970s, I'd spend my Saturday mornings watching Tizwas or Swap Shop, generally feeling quite contended and calm unless DIY was on the agenda.

However, my Saturday morning entertainment was ruined by those horrific public information films, which were accompanied by stern voiced narration (by the likes of Donald Pleasance, David Prowse and Jon Pertwee amongst others) and creepy keyboard music. The film makers seemed to harbour an obsession with electricity too, judging by the amount of pylon induced roastage that was shown in all it's charred glory across the family TV set.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0xmSV6aq0g

The one involving the boy flying a cable-controlled model plane underneath pylons had me whimpering with a cushion over my face, while the one about not playing where you shouldn't (ie playing on substations) had me running out of the room.

The one which caused the most lasting damage though was the film warning you about the perils of running along a beach. For those of you short of memory or years, the camera panned across to a small boy running along at the seaside without a care in the world. All of a sudden, the film stops with a lingering shot of the boy's foot mid-run hovering *just* above a broken bottle.

To this very day I cannot walk into seawater barefoot.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:39, 8 replies)

...
when i rub my willy, im scared of the white wee that comes out becuase it sticks to my hands and my clothes
(Foulkesy123 The one and only..., Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:39, 1 reply)

The song
"Bright Eyes" sung by Art Garfunkel.

I'm not being facetious here. As a child I was terrified by that film, utterly terrified. But the song... the song makes me want to cry with sadness and scream with terror at the same time.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:39, 15 replies)

Bit of a strange one.
I'm horrified by Beetroot. The idea of it. The taste of it. The SMELL of it. The look of it. Blaarrrgh.

Even being near it can cause me to hyperventilate, the wife thinks it's really funny however and keeps a jar of it in the house to threaten me with if I don't do my chores.

Am I alone in this irrational fear of the purply dribbly horror?
(allyourbasekris Hotdog, Jumping Frog, Alberquerque, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:38, 2 replies)

Oh, dear...
The first time I saw The Blair Witch Project I was at the cinema. I suppose enjoyed it, but it didn't have any great impact.

The second time I saw it, though, it was on TV. I was at home, with the lights on. Maybe because I knew what was coming, it scared the living bejeezus out of me. I don't want to see it a third time.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:36, 8 replies)

Emetophobia
I have an all-encompassing fear of vomit. I haven't puked since I was 19 (I'm 33 now), and carry anti-emetics with me "just in case".
At one point, I was so bad I couldn't go out of the house for about 6 months, just in case I saw a puddle of it in the street.
When a close friend of mine was diagnosed with cancer, I couldn't see her on chemo days as she'd be puking her guts up - fortunately, she understood but how lame is that?
If anyone tells me they're nauseous, I back off, and if anyone gets sick at work I scrub the entire toilet cubicle with bleach.
If I feel sick, I have to go to one of my "safe places" and be alone. Sometimes, a safe place is nothing other than a park bench, but I prefer my car.
Ironically, I will go on roller coasters and drink like a chimney and eat steak medium rare.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:36, 2 replies)

Moo-NO!
OK, this has just come back to me and it's made me go a bit funny.

I've mentioned before that I'm half Danish. As such, I spent a fair amount of my childhood being shipped between Ribe and Struer.

Back then, in the mid-80's, Denmark was slightly behind on the old technological sensation that we call 'television': to whit - there was only telly from 6pm to 11pm, the first hour of which was Childrens Hour.

Which brings me to my irrational hatred of something that many, many people the world over love.

The. Fucking. Moomins.

Tove Jansson is singularly responsible for me retreating to my bed night after night being absolutely fucking terrified that the Groke was going to come and get me.

The problem is that I know the Moomins weren't bad creatures - it just happens that the original animations were that very very freaky Scandinavian stop motion animation. Absolutely ruddy terrifying.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:33, 4 replies)

nuclear war
I had my childhood in the 80s. There were books like "Brother in the Land", "Children of the Dust" and "Z for Zachariah" on the library shelves. The Cold War was still hot news. Primary schools told us to duck and cover.

I was utterly convinced there'd be a nuclear holocaust. I had it all worked out, though. I mean, who the hell would waste a missile on Norn Iron? No, we'd get the fallout from somewhere else (er, Chernobyl, as it happened).

I had a survival kit stored cleverly in a matchbox. It contained matches (natch) and a safety pin or two, some sticking plasters and an iodine tablet.

My house had a tiny crawlspace at the back, under the kitchen. I'd seal it off with blankets when I heard the four minute warning and I'd live in there with a couple of buckets of water until the radiation had settled, then I'd build a home in the forest to tide me through the nuclear winter.

I'm not sure how many times I panicked about the impending radioactive doom. It never transpired though, as well you know. I say: face your fears - I can survive anything now because I was prepared for nuclear war.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:31, 18 replies)

I only really have one phobia
and the only way I can think of making it interesting is to tie it in with my own QOTW suggestion.
It is a true story though.

A few years back I met my estranged father, it turns out he was a fat, sleazy waste of space, who wasn't worth knowing anyway. But, through him I got to meet my three long-lost half sisters.

I'd awoken one day to the man who had spaffed up my mum 27 years ago calling my mobile and telling me to meet him in a pub that was local to me.
Having only met the guy a few times, and rapidly going off him due to his constant sleazy remarks about girls half his age, boasting about not paying his child support and abandoning his alcoholic second wife, I was reluctant to go to say the least.
But go I did, and I took my little girl along too, as it was a family pub, and she seemed to like him, but I have a feeling that was purely because he would buy her toys, and her other grandad passed away before she was even so much as a twinkle in her mother's eye.

It was the middle of June, and a lovely sunny day, I walked into the beer garden, holding my little girl by the hand, and we approached his table. There I saw that he was sitting with three dark haired, pretty young women, who I instantly recognised as my long lost half sisters. It would be an understatement to say that I was shocked, I was totally over the moon. You have no idea how ecstatic you'll feel in that kind of situation, or the instant bond that forms when it happens, unless you go through it yourself.
We introduced ourselves, there was D (15) who was the eldest, M (13) and C (10), and they all absolutely loved my daughter from the moment they saw her. C even said that she'd always wanted a younger sister, and she was going to adore my little un as if she were her own.

Their confidence was staggering, they all talked with so much gusto and self-assurance it actually intimidated me a little.
Time passed and I became more shy and quiet as they all continued to talk over each other, bicker, and give far too much information far too quickly, just as any normal group of teenage girls would do.
It was lunch time, so 'sleazy little man who knocked my mum up and didn't pay a penny for us, or his three daughters', suggests we order food in the pub, which we did, and I distinctly remember ordering a jacket potato with cheese.
More time passed, and I sat quietly in the sunshine, sipping my pint and trying to digest as much of the 'she said, they did, omg can you believe what my teacher did?!' that my semi-siblings were spouting at me like crazed zealots. Then lunch arrived, and I was faced with my achilles heel, my one nemesis, the only thing on Earth capable of rendering me a fearful wreck.

They had put beans on my potato.

Beans, for me, are more than a phobia, they are the root source of all that is wrong with the world. I can't stand the smell, the shape or the colour, don't even think about getting them anywhere near my mouth, I'll vomit all over you before you even get close.

But this is the first time I've ever met my three massively over-confident half sisters, I was scared, surely I couldn't show weakness in front of them? I can't send them back, after all, everybody loves beans, don't they? I'd have looked silly.
So, faced with this conundrum, and the three teenage harpies of doom, I did what any real man would. I faced my fear. I was going to have to eat the beans.

I can still feel them in my throat as I write this, they were truly horrible, the smell filled my nostrils and I could even feel their slimy, bean-y texture flowing over my tongue, oozing down to my stomach, and my teeth were coated in their tomato sauce-beany juices.
I had to hold my breath and hold back the bile rising in my chest with every single bite. But I stayed calm, I held my nerve, I was smiling and nodding nonchalantly as i listened to my sisters' incessant warblings, they had no idea how easy it would've been for me to have given up and just spew all over their faces. But I persevered, until every last mouthful was gone.
I was filled with an enormous amount of pride at my achievement, and silently vowed to never do it again. They hadn't even noticed anything different about me, and in my own mind I was champion of the world for eating that lunch.

Anyways, a few months later, 'sleazy little greaseball who knocked up my mum' disappeared again, but I stayed in touch with my sisters. M, the middle child and definitely the most outspoken and confident, emailed me one day to tell me that, 'I can't believe you ate all those beans that first time we met, I have this totally irrational fear of them.'

Arse.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:31, 15 replies)

I'm well balanced really
Wasps, well that was from childhood as I was stung badly when I was 4.

Clowns, they just creep me out. Don't watch Stephen Kings IT

Spiders, who doesn't worst experience was watching arachnaphobia with the missus, then going to bed to find a HOOGE one on the wall above the bed. Shat meself bigtime
(Sir Tainley Barking Ezekiel 23:20, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:30, 1 reply)

Fear of flying
I'm scared of flying. I hate the enclosed space, the complete helplessnes insofar that you're entirely at the mercy of the actions of others and Newton's Laws.

This is a bugger, because I'm a pretty frequent flyer in my job, and I was told I wasn't allowed to hitch to Seoul.

In a fit of self-analysis, I've worked out the exact time this state of affairs came to be -when I was a sixteen-year-old Air Cadet.

They send you up in some elastic-band-and-sticky-tape two-seater aircraft, where the former RAF fighter pilot throws the thing about like a madman in the hope that you might be impressed enough to sign your life away into the Armed Services.

Except, on this particular flight, the previous passenger had shown his appreciation of the pilot by bowking rich, brown vomit all over the rear cockpit of the plane.

It had not, sadly, been cleared up properly, and the second Flt-Lt Farquar-de-farquar pulled the stick back and put the plane into a loop, gravity took hold and the cold, stinking contents of Cadet Chunder's stomach came flying towards me.

I was covered head-to-toe in somebody else's chunder (I even found - after landing - diced carrots under my helmet), and I reacted in the only way a callow youth would when assaulted this way whilst his horizon spun in front of his eyes.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!" I said. "YAAAAAAAAARCH!"

I admit that I panicked a little from there, and the rest of the flight was punctuated with my pitiful pleas to get the crate back on the ground.

I was cured of wanting to be a fighter pilot, and sweat like Shannon's stepfather in PC World whenever I set foot in airport buildings.

Flying: Not natural
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:30, 2 replies)

Defo Clowns - No 2 ways...
When I was 3 years old my mother took me to the circus and within 5 seconds of us being sat in the front row with all the 'highly amusing' (evil) clowns passing us by I threw up all over myself and her with fear.... Many years later she thought it would be amusing to leave clown ornaments round the house for me to find - like at eye level in the airing cupboard... Needless to say this did nothing to get me over the phobia but did get my mother's ornaments thrown out of the window to their evil smashing death on the patio.

Even the thought of being within a couple of miles of a clown brings me out in a cold sweat and makes me feel ill - if I ever had the extraordinary misfortune to bump into one I would probably go psycho killer on it's sorry ass.

As for all this tosh about getting over your phobias with Paul McKenna, etc... as my phobia doesn't rule my life I would rather live with it and not have to be hypnotised whilst some (no doubt sexual deviant) clown undresses me whilst I am out of it ta very much...
(Senora Veranos cannot and will not so ner..., Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:29, Reply)

Canals..
..no, really.

As far as I'm concerned canals are full of dead bodies and smashed avacado bath suites. Both are as horribile as each other.

I remember the local kids used to jump into the lock, urgh....THERE ARE DEAD BODIES AND BATH SUITES RIGHT UNDER YOU!!

I never screamed that, i wish i did.
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:27, 1 reply)

Not all too likely but...
Being left adrift in outer space.

Talk about an irrational fear but even the end of "Space Oddity" leaves me shivering, it's just a horrible concept.

Oh, and massive dogs. I don't trust any animal with bollocks bigger than it's brain and a mouth wider than my face.

That one isn't so irrational.
(Dok Zombie Cash, gash, pie and mash., Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:27, 1 reply)

The War of the Worlds album.
Not really a phobia but it gave me the creeps when I was a kid and I've never grown out of it.
( Smithlick is often seen at the bottom of threads, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:26, 7 replies)

At least my phobia can be explained
Mid 70s, my family and I were on holiday in the chalets in Belhaven. One day I happened to get my feet wet down at the sea so due to general lack of facilities I put my socks over the fenceposts to dry overnight. (At this stage some of you may guess what's coming.)

In the morning they were sufficiently dry so I quickly slipped them on followed by my 32 hole Doc Martens. It wasn't until I had the boots fully laced up that I felt the wriggling in the toes of my socks.

Needless to say I just about shit myself and couldn't get these bloody DMs of quick enough.

When I eventually did both socks were full off earwigs .... maybe 50 or 60 each foot.

Now I'm usually a bit of an Bhuddist and think that everything has right to life .... except fucking eary-wigs. To this day they're the only one of God's creatures that are killed on sight. I hate the fuckers AND EVEN MORE SO SINCE I LEARNED THEY CAN FLY.
( Ramsay Tupper, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:25, 4 replies)

I used to be scared of cockroaches
But a bit of a roach infestation is nothing compared to the Parktown Prawn, a hideous 'king cricket/ roach/ scorpion/ beelzebub hybrid that used to pay numerous visits into our house in Johannesburg. One night, having dealt with about 6, we just got into the car and drove until dawn, whereupon the heinous creatures would desert us...

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parktown_Prawn
(Bertie Wooster dont see nuffink rong wiv payin for a bit o ruff, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:25, Reply)

Oh God, B3ta, what have you done?
Just reading all the answers to this question have brought a few more well hidden phobias oozing to the fore like festering sores (nice image for you there).

The AIDS adverts they used to show after Eastenders in the 1980s: When I was little girl, whenever this came on TV I'd always run screaming behind the sofa and have to be coaxed out with Jelly Tots. I saw it a few months ago and did exactly the same thing.

Carwash Rollers: Because when they roll over your car it always makes you feel as though they're going to crush the vehicle like a tin can. When my Dad used to take me to the car wash as a little girl I'd always have a massive freakout and attempt to escape through one of the passenger windows.

Phillip Schofield: I hate his eerie smile. He's just too...nice. I bet he secretly rapes children.

The Children's Channel which was on Sky in the early 1990s Yes, I know this is just downright odd, but they once showed a cartoon where a cat ate a load of food and got so bloated it thought it was pregnant until a mouse came along and popped its stomach and the cat held its stomach contents and cradled them like the kitten it would never have. I burst into tears and refused to watch anything on that channel ever again after that.
(jimbowensspeedboat is your secret Austrian cellar baby, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:24, 9 replies)

Razors.
Namely, the sort that you use for shaving- you know, the handle with the safety blades at the end.

I can shave my face with one without too much trauma- but I am UNABLE to watch someone else use one. It seriously makes my skin crawl to watch.

Ever seen the movie "The Wall"? Well, there's one scene in there that I have to cover my eyes for. EVERY. DAMN. TIME.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:24, 3 replies)

Updated List
My list of fears is reasonably extensive (not sure if that's a good or a bad thing but...):

- being bored
- being unable to count (weird, I know)
- being unable to read (less weird)
- losing my mind (OK, a bit late for that)
- electro convulsive therapy
- being sectioned
- loss of wonder at the world
- obtaining self-esteem / self-worth
- sense of humour failure (own or others)
- watching Scotland getting beaten in rugby
- my exes father (a much, much longer story than I have space or time for here)
- liver and kidneys (not the tubular structures, more the knowledge of what they do)

That'll do for now, I think.
(Eds Meds Mathskillz=1,Socialskillz=0, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:22, 5 replies)

Piercings
Further to Enzyme's fear of being penetrated with a needle, I extend this to any sort of skin piercing, especially those for the purposes of body adornment.

Even watching someone putting in earrings makes me greugh.

My sister has a pierced navel. That's right up there on the K2k6 grossness scale, but not as bad as 'intimate' piercings.

I can't imagine how anyone would voluntarily let someone stick a piece of metal through their bell-end, or the like!

*squirms violently*

_{For clarification, I have no idea whether my sister has anything other than her ears and belly button pierced, and I have no desire to find out.}
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:19, 6 replies)

All day long - my foot up a dog's ass! Yes, BANG BANG BANG up his ass!
Has anyone ever seen 'Fridays'?

I have a phobia of dogs. I think it's because when I was a child out for a walk with my dad, one attacked me and he had to fend it off. And obviously, because three year olds tend to be quite small, this drooling Rottie seemed enormous and very very frightening to me.

Well, over the years this phobia has dwindled to the point where, for the most part, they just piss me off. Hence the title - I have become like Craig's dad in Fridays. Every time I walk past someone's gate and some stupid little critter decides to bark at me, I fantasize about booting it in the arse repeatedly until it shuts up. Or pouring petrol on the little twit just to teach it a lesson.

Sometimes I stand there, look it in the eye, and try and project venomous thoughts at it. I have managed to make dogs back down this way.

But yes, dogs. I hate the fuckers.


(Not all of them, though. Gentle or playful dogs I can handle. It's just thick and agressive ones that make me want to burn them.)



(Oh, and I'm not enough of a cunt to really harm an animal. Not unless it actually did go for me.)
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:16, 1 reply)

Insects.
There's just something about their chitinous bodies that creeps me out- apparently it's the exoskeleton, as lobsters and crabs also give me Teh Fear.

But in particular? CAVE CRICKETS.

Changed to link by request.

I mean, just LOOK at that fucker. They're typically about the size of the end of my thumb, they jump about ten feet (and that's not an exaggeration), they inhabit dark damp places under houses, eating god-knows-what, and are damn near indestructible. I once froze one in a glass jar, and when I thawed him a day later he went springing about as happy as can be! Add to that the fact that they're cannibals...

I've been known to go after them with a can of WD-40 and a lighter.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:14, 3 replies)