lampost man
I used to date a rather attractive Swede who most certainly didn't share my love of shadenfreufedenen, she just thought it was cruel. We were walking to work together talking about this very thing when a man, who was reading a book whilst walking, strolled straight into lamp post. He did that beautiful look around to see if anyone had spotted it and it being London no one other then me had seen him. I started to guffaw like a lunatic, tears streaming down my face, she got quite angry and walked off leaving me unable to catch my breath.
It wasn't long before we split up with the 'it's not you' line but really, I think it probably was me. I'm smiling now remembering him when it should be making me sad remembering her.
( spingers, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 18:33, Reply)

Dogs are fantastic
There's nothing like a dog chasing a fly out of a window in a 3rd story flat, hearing the "arrrrooo"*thud* then silence for a bit until it runs around the building and up the stairs to be let back in, only to do it again almost immediately upon re-entering the lounge.
(mmmm curry doesn't really understand this sig lark, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 18:25, Reply)

Back when I were small
I once saw a guy with crutches slip up on a banana peel.

Seriously. Just like in the cartoons. Slip. Thud.

Luckily, the fact that the guy laughed it off helped to reduce guilt for laughing.

Not that I had any guilt because I'm a cunt.
( Green Spanner and his magical lack of activity, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 18:25, Reply)

And another bike one...
Taking part in a mountain bike race this summer, the start was a steep uphill on a narrow country lane with switchbacks. Trying to get 1200 riders up it was entertaining although I was at the front so didn't see the worst of it.

Several "pros" were being nobs and pushing through forcing others to swerve and stop and due to the gradient and volume of riders they couldn't get going again.

1 of these "pros" got within about 5m of the top and his chain snapped. A few of us grinned as we went past.

Slightly further on, the route went into a forest and we were on a fire road (4m wide good quality stone track for those who don't know) and the riders had thinned out quite a bit. On the gentlest of downhill gradients, on a gentle bend that can easily be taken at 30 mph another "pro" had totally lost it and was in the ditch legs in the air and his lycra arse shredded.
I stopped and offered to give him a hand out but he wasn't interested!
( thistle, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 18:24, Reply)

Another bike one
Two postmen crossing the road without looking coming out of the sorting office. One steps out in front of me and I have to brake hard.

Tell him to watch where he's fucking going next time and he starts kicking off. Getting a bit nervous as I'm sat in some crazy cycle lane waiting for a gap in the traffic before I can escape and he's after some blood.

While giving me evils, he walks into some railings. Hopefully he whacked his bollocks on it, it was the right height for it.

His colleague was laughing at him too :)
( thistle, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 18:12, Reply)

cycling lurls, not the most original
in my "wear system of a down t-shirt and unnecessary wallet chains" phase many years ago (shudder), I left my house whilst 3 young fellows cycled past to the chant of "greeeebooooo", as was the thing at the time. the one in front turned round to wankfist me and crashes straight into a postbox, the two behind following soon after in a tangle of limbs, wheels and bike frames.

from the heap of whimpering and moaning, one of them wails "you fucking greebo twat!" at me. didn't really have the same impact as it would have before their dignity was shredded away like mark heap jumping into a muck spreader.
(injektilo smoking the weed that killed elvis, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:55, 7 replies)

About a month ago,
right at the beginning of trout season, the local lake was packed. Any angler with any courtesy gives 5ft of space between them and the next angler so lines don't get tangled etc.
After spending all night queuing in the parking lot, my friends and I got "the hot spot" on the tip of what's called Trout Island and went about setting our gear up. Fun times was had by all and we were nailing the fish.

Some twat decides to come along and start throwing out lures in between us all (throw it out, reel in slowly instead of the bait and wait method that most of our team employ).
Naturally, this was pissing us off. A lot. We asked the guy to refrain, and got talkign to him....meanwhile, while we're talking, one of my friends little 9 year old daughter sneaks up behind this chap after noticing his lure is dangling close to his bum. She then proceeds to carefully snag the lure on his trousers.

The guy walks another five feet down to where some other people are fishing, and as he gets ready to cast the lure digs into his ass! He falls on the floor screaming and flailing, we all piss ourselves laughing and meanwhile we offer to take him to the Emergency Room or if he wants us to get the lure out for him.
I've never seen a grown man scream and cry as much as he did when one of the guys (who's a nurse) used the accepted method to remove the hook from his bum!

Lauren, the little girl, got a right telling off from her dad while the rest of us high fived her!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:48, 1 reply)

This is a semi pearoast - and I'm not sure whose misfortune we were laughing at.
It's either mine or my brother's.

I once ran into his bedroom after getting out of the bath, to fart in his face as he laid in bed. Like you do. Sadly I was rather over-exhuberant and accidentally did a huge poo instead. As I was clad only in a dressing gown the aforementioned log simply dropped to the floor and onto his deep pile bedside rug.

Once we'd got our father to show him and we'd all got stitches from laughing so much, I had to pick it up with lavatory paper and send it to its watery grave by hand.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:39, 3 replies)

Seaside town 5 Feb 2004
A couple of years ago I was ambling along the promenade remarking at how wild the approaching waves that were lapping up were getting. I noticed a foreign family on the beach feverishly picking up shells, for what would have been a truly stellar shell collection.

Long story short, a huge wave came crashing down on them.

Come to think about it, I remember reading something in the news about this.
(ihaveab3tanamenow, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:34, 3 replies)

Snow
The snow reminds me of a story that would be perfect for this QoTW if my boyfriend was telling it. He's too busy though, so I will:

Last year, my loving boyfriend and I were near Alston, happily playing in the snow, until he threw a massive snowball that hit me right in the middle of my face.

Overriding my desire to cry and hide in the car, I made the biggest snowball my girly hands could carry and chased off to get my revenge. CALAMITY! So preoccupied was I with my vicious vendetta that I failed to observe the slidiness of this patch of mud, and instead of exacting revenge on the evil beast, I flipped, comic-book style, into the cold sludge.

Luckily for you, he thoughtfully recorded the aftermath in a series of flattering photographs, whilst laughing till he wheezed and the tears froze solid on his cheeks. Filthy, and freezing, and banned from the car, I got undressed at the side of the road, using bits of rubbish from the boot as wellies. I eventually removed enough of the sludge for him let me in whilst he took photos of me looking like a swamp creature and poked my bruises.
(floella, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:32, 21 replies)

You meet the nicest people on trains.
Friday night, off to visit some friends and bounce around in a greasy rock club – Rock City in Nottingham, I think. Four lads (17 or so) from Peterborough were on the carriage I joined, standing room only, huddled in the space by the doors. Here’s how the conversation went.

‘Your missus is a bit mental, Mark’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Yeah, but she is, isn’t she?’
‘No!’
‘What about that time you didn’t answer your phone and she left you a million messages?’
‘Oh, well, yeah. Maybe a bit.’
‘Haha, Steve’s right, Mark, she is.’
‘Like you’re allowed to comment, Danny, you’re dating a schoolgirl.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Yeah, but you are.’
‘I’m not!’
‘You’re not going out with her, or she’s not at school?’
‘Just leave it.’
‘Haha fine, fine, whatever… Grab his phone!’
‘Hey! Fuck off! Leave it! Get off me! Give that back!’
‘Haha got it! Hold his arms, boys, I’m gonna read out some messages!’
‘Look, it’s nothing dodgy. I’m not a paedo or anything!’
At this point I’m giggling to myself, unable to hold it in.
‘Look, even that dude thinks you’re a paedo!’

To be honest mate, it does sound like you’re a bit of a paedo…

‘Haha lets find out!’
‘Just leave it, Mark…’
‘Lets see. “HI BABE HOW R U? XX TB” Aww. That’s nice. Lets read another.’
‘Stop it or I’ll fucking knock you out!’
‘Ohh! Here we go! “WANT 2 MEET UP AFTER SCHOOL?” Paedo!’
‘Ahh, fuck…’

At which point the whole carriage bursts out laughing at him, to shouts of 'nonce' and 'paedo'.

Poor Danny.
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:31, 1 reply)

Being on the receiving end
A few years ago, while staggering home with two friends after a heavy nights drinking, I decided it would be a great idea to try to climb onto a bus shelter. This, as you have no doubt already guessed, went horribly wrong and I fell from a height of over 6 feet, with my elbow hitting the hard concrete first.

Arm completely fucked. Took over a year to fully heal and still gives me a bit of grief today due to the fracture having been right on the elbow joint.

Length? They didn't stop laughing for about two minutes. The cunts.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:22, Reply)

Learning to drive
Coming out of Guildford, on a driving lesson (I'd had quite a few, not much interest in passing over that summer as it would mean that I would have had to be the sober one for some pub trips, and parents seemed happy enough to keep paying for lessons), and some posh bloke in a BMW is tailgating me. I, with my instructor sniggering next to me (he was worse for this sort of thing than I was (and still am)), was very conscientiously doing slightly under the speed limit*, right up until the traffic lights, where, with ninja like timing, I leave the BMW stopped at the lights just after I sail on through.

Since that was one of the main roads out of town, there were quite a few tailgaters, so I managed to make an art of it before I went off to uni.

Another example of the instructors sense of humour happened a few weeks after this, seeing one of him former pupils in the car behind at traffic lights, he decided to scare them a bit. He had only just got a new car, and didnt have the sign up on it yet, so knew he wouldn't be recognised. He told me to hold the clutch down, puts the car in reverse, and tells me to rev the engine. We both sit thee giggling like loons, and laugh even harder when we see the poor guy completely white faced as he overtakes us.


*I had been driving properly until the BMW came up behind, but since I wasnt slowing anyone else down by annoying him, and was in no particular hurry, I was told to slow down a bit to annoy him
( Tedium Alduce me to interlow myself., Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:19, 1 reply)

Bamboo
Actually this one is about me.

About ten years back, when I was a spotty teenager, me and my older brother were messing about in the garden. We’d climbed up a pallet and onto the fence. A big, wooden one that’s about 10ft tall. My foot slipped and I lost my grip, sliding down and dropping to the floor.

Only I didn’t quite. I fell almost to the floor – my descent was interrupted. By a bamboo pole stuck in a flower pot. The (mercifully blunt) top end caught me between my arse cheeks, taking a good inch or so of jeans, underkex and all with it into the ‘exit only’ zone.

Oh good lord. Thankfully the sturdy, pre-Tesco jeans denim held, saving me from resembling a victim of Vlad the impaler. But my feet were still a good half-a-foot from the earth and blessed escape. And the wall was just beyond my reach.

‘Owwwww help me! Ahhh it hurts!’ I thought, I expected, I hoped that my older brother would spring to my rescue and lift me off. Only he couldn’t, what with being crippled with laughter. He fell off the wall, landing on the soft grass (bastard), racked with belly-laughs so hard he was crying.

I was close to tears myself. At this point it was clear I had to save myself. So I leant forwards, felt the pot wobble, then shifted my weight back, forwards again, building up momentum until my fingers almost touched the fence. Every movement hurt like a bastard, but it was the only way to gain freedom.

I managed it, gripped the wood and scrabbled upwards towards blessed, sweet release!

I then booted him as hard as I could in the stomach, being as he was still on the floor, giggling furiously, having watched my comedy pendulum plan come to fruition. Sadly it wasn’t that hard, what with having just being violated by a bit of stick and the laws of physics.

Bastard.
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:18, 2 replies)

Bombs Away!
Volunteering with the BTCV is a great way to spend a weekend, and generally meet fellow deviants it also provides a great opportunity to get pissed and mess about with sharp tools. (Bit like a B3ta Bash?)

I was participating some years ago in such a BTCV task, the work was the pulling up and removal of Ragwort, a nasty thankless backbreaking task which can rapidly destroy a fellow’s moral and sense of humour. The site on which we were working was split by a canal; as such one group was working on one side and vica versa. Soon the monotony of the work too its toll and a brisk game of 'fling the cowpat' was initiated. Simply slide your shovel under the cowpat, pick your target and let fly.

I should point out that this is a highly skilled game requiring the knowledge of which cowpats are crusty enough to hold their shape during flight but soft enough in the middle to provide a suitably comical splat upon impact.

It wasn’t long before cowpats were being hastily flung back and forth over the canal which provided the natural split between the two 'teams.' The comedy from the misfortune of others came when one volunteers flung cowpat went a little astray and collided which a middle aged gentleman standing atop a narrow boat which happened to be chugging down the canal at that moment, perhaps inevitably the force of this shitty missile was also enough to dump him off the boat and into the canal.

I couldn’t stop laughing for days.

Length? About 12ft from launch to collision
(Psymon_Spark Jesus Saves! The rest of you take 4d6 damage, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:08, 2 replies)

Repost for me
Still makes me chuckle. Wavey lines.....

Driving home from work one day, I looked in my rear view mirror to see a moped riding, trackie wearing, chav inches away from the back of my car. Although it's not going to hurt me if I brake suddenly, I don't fancy his ugly mug going through my rear window. So I brake a few times to show him the red lights, see if he'll back off. He seems to take this as a challenge, however, and tries to get even closer.

So I try the other option, up the speed a little and take off down the road, only doing 40, but just trying to put a bit of space between us. Go down to second for and mini-roundabout and turn right.

Look in my rearview as I'm heading off in this new direction and the chav, still following me, takes the roundabout too fast, clips a kerb and rides straight into a bollard, and it being one of the new plastic affairs, bounces off onto his arse, moped scraping along the road. Was the most I could do to avoid crashing into oncoming traffic I laughed so much watching his dwindling form gingerly pick itself up off the road. From the looks of it, he only ended up with a bruised ego and a few scratches on his bike, but fuck me it was funny.
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:07, Reply)

OK, so this doesn't involve any kind of falling over. At all.
Coming as I do from a small town, and living it up as I now do in a reasonably large conurbation, it falls to me around ths time of year to descend on the ol' spawning ground to visit relatives over the festive period.

As most people will testify, 10 stultifying minutes in the company of said relatives will lead to a scrambling en-masse to the pub (or, during more skint days, a bench) whereupon several others in a similar position may be chanced upon. Certain pubs, certain clientele, and this can be a true source of schadenfreude, a bit like an annual school reunion but also with people you didn't go to school with.

My personal favourite was a chap I had gone to school with, the sort you might call a 'Billy Big-Bollocks'. sporty, chatty, and a bit of a turbo-knacker to those less fortunate in these respects at the time. Looking back, I feel he must have been insecure, foisting his own perceived shortcomings onto others to mask the deep-seated self-loathing he MUST HAVE FELT. Either that or he was a just a right old tosser, irrelevant. Bizaarely for a short toothy ginger, he was also possessed of an admittedly impressive line in faux-Jamaican patois, 'toasting' I believe they call it. Hearmenow.

I saw him a couple of years ago, and he a fat bald estate agent with the pallour of a man who knows the best is a long way behind him, and all he has to look forward to is Redtube, Fray Bentos, and the cold embrace of the grave. In fact, given the whole thing with house prices and the like, he might very well be unemployed. Or dead. I suppose that isn't that funny really. Nonetheless...

HA!
(Gertcha_cowson NAH MATE, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:06, 2 replies)

Nick
Nick was our Dungeon Master when we used to play Dungeons and Dragons about twenty years ago, and was well into it. The games with him at the helm oozed with imagination and rich story telling. Anyway, after one night's adventuring in the 'Caves of the Shadow Seer' or something people began leaving. I can't remember why, but Nick left first, and about ten minutes later someone calmly lifted up a pair of shoes and said 'Look, Nick forgot his shoes!' It was the middle of Winter and I think he left first because he had furthest to go, in the middle of London. Given about ten minutes had passed I did think it curious he might have noticed he was walking along the street just in his socks, and turned back sooner (well like the moment he stepped out the front door). No one else was surprised as they had all been to the same school as him and knew Nick much better and longer than me, and he apparently had a history of flipping out like this and slightly odd behaviour. I was chuckling about it to myself all the way home picturing Nick walking home completely oblivious he was wearing just a pair of socks.
( Jahled Three shades of black, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 17:00, Reply)

My old mate Ciaran
...is more than a bit of a smartarse. He becomes even worse when there are lots of people around. He's one of those people who, whatever is being discussed, knows more about it than you do etc etc. He also loves bluntly telling people to shut up.

On one occasion we were all on the train, he was being his usual arsey self and went off for a pee. When he came back he made some stupid wisecrack - and everyone absolutely cracked up. Hooting with laughter, crying etc. Thinking he must really be on fire today he cranked up his act even more.

....all the while blissfully unaware that his flaccid, freckly cock was hanging out of his open fly.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:56, 3 replies)

Ah, Karma
It's such a cruel mistress. Yet, occasionally, can deliver some of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life. I used to work with a man who was the worst I can see in humanity- boorish, dull, and on a slightly higher pay grade than me. The kind of man who thought buying an entry-level Evo made him some kind of demigod. Who luckily, also never looks where he is going, or what kind of room he is heading into.

Given that he was the kind of man to bray loudly into his mobile phone, and not really concentrate, one day whilst communicating with some poor soul on the end of the phone, I saw him blunder his way into the women's loos. The loud conversation was quickly cut off with some loud screams, and the hero of our story crying out loudly in pain, as he was chased out of the loo by the angriest Yorkshirewoman I have ever seen. The completion of his humiliation came when he (now much more meekly) requested another woman to go in and fetch his mobile for him.

He was a broken man after that.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:55, Reply)

For once I did the decent thing
I didn't laugh at this guy's misfortune.

I was in a dingy underground music venue in Exeter called the Cavern. It was a mate's birthday and I was hammered.

While sat in a corner with a friend I noticed that there seemed to be more than the usual amount of smoke coming from the trousers of one punter. Further investigation revealed that he had a smouldering patch on the bottom of his jeans about the size of a 50p and rapidly expanding.

Quick as a flash I jumped up and went over to him. The conversation went like this:

Me: "Excuse me, your trousers appear to be on fire"
Him: *neanderthal grunt* (accompanied by him glaring at me as if I had deliberately set him on fire. He looked incredibly pissed off at me and didn't make any effort to extinguish the now fist-sized burning hole in his trousers)
Me: "fuck you then. Next time you can just fucking burn"

I should have stuck to my normal behaviour. Watch and laugh.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:55, Reply)

Last one before I go pick Mrs Sandettie up from work
On the beach at Bridlington earlier this year, and I notice a family setting up camp - deck-chairs, packing up, windbreaks etc. The portly patriarch gets out a big umbrella, the sort you get with your garden furniture. He clearly hasn't stopped to consider the wind and as he opens it, the stiff onshore breeze catches the umbrella and it drags him backwards making him sit rather unceremoniously in a deckchair. However, the wind still has it's grip and it pushes the umbrella behind his head, but he wouldn't let go, even when a gust causes him and the chair to tip over onto his back.

In order to get up, he would have to let go ofthe umbrella, but he won't let go, so now he is laid on his back in a deckchair with his arms outstretched behind his head hanging onto the damn thing. All the while shouting at his family to come help him get up, but they were far too helpless to offer any assistance.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:53, Reply)

DEATH FROM ABOVE
The sea obviously scares the living crap out of me.

I remember as a kid a fella who lived a few doors down was a contestant on Bullseye. He did well. He did very fucking well indeed. In fact he won himself a shiny new speedboat…

… neighborhood kids would come from miles round to point and stare and wonder what the fuck was the point of a car without any wheels. I imagine several elderly passersby considered telephoning the local constabulary to report a strange, mysterious, alien artifact sitting out front a crappy old terrace house on the Walsgrave Road. It became a local oddity (akin to finding a virgin at a Catholic girls school), and – in time – that speedboat sat like an overturned giant albino turtle and turned as manky as a crack addicted prostitutes gusset after a session with the horniest rugby team in the fucking world.

You see, this was the Midlands. The middle of the country. We may have the occasional river, stream and pond large enough to drown your average witch in– but, when it comes to any larger expanse of water we had sweet fuck all. Fish came from the chippy, not from the sea.

And this is why the coast scares the living crap out of me.

Although I’ve recently discovered another reason to be absolutely fucking petrified of anything remotely beachy. I now go to a small seaside town in South Wales a fair bit, a place named Penarth. It’s got a pier. It’s got a place that sells chips and ice cream. It’s even got a few bars where, being English, you can venture in and have some Welsh hick call you a cunt and suggesting you “like going down on the Queen’s hairy beaver while Prince Phillip tickles your chocolate brownstar with his fetid old cock”. Nice place. Anyway, being a greedy cunt the first thing I tend to do is grab some chips then feign interest as my girlfriend, who’s from this place, goes off on one about how much she misses the view. Yeah, great. Water. Shitloads of it. Fucking marvelous. Haven’t had this much fun since the last time I ran a fucking bath…

So, I’m there eating my chips when suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, winged fucking death descends, flapping mighty wings stronger than Thor, and I watch – horrified, letting out a girly scream – as this great big fucking beast fucks off with half my chips, tipping the tray out of my hands as it ascends like one of those big fucking scary fuckers out of The Lord of the Rings.

“Arrrgggghhhh!” I reason.

My girlfriend starts laughing. “It’s only a seagull, you great big poof.”

“IT NICKED MY CHIPS!!!”

Seagulls. Fucking horrible. Hate the fuckers. If Charles Manson ever actually decides to fucking die, he’ll probably come back as a seagull and succeed in his dastardly plans to fuck up the world through the awesome power of annoying the fuck out of anyone with a snack at the seaside. I’m standing there silently shitting myself, scanning the skies for any telltale signs of death from above. Then I notice the fucker’s perched on a post a little way away, guzzling down my chips and giving me the evils with its beady little Damien from Omen eyes. Then I notice something that really gets my interest, and so does my new arch nemesis, the feathery little shit with the huge yellow webbed feet and personality of Jordan after she’s been out on the sauce.

We both spot an old woman. Probably down from the Valleys for the day. She’s doddering along with a walking stick, using it to keep herself upright. And in her other trembling, age-feebled hand, she’s holding a tray of chips. The seagull, seeing a nice easy second course, takes flight, circles. I’m entranced – fair play, it was either watch someone else get mugged by this winged bastard, King of the Skies, or listen to my girlfriend drone on about her happy childhood summers twatting about on the pier playing Pac Man. The bird swoops lower. This is going to be good. In a weird way I was enjoying seeing this masterful hunter do its thing. I hated the little shit, but still, this was nature. This was probably educational. The seagull swoops, makes a strafing run. I’m encapsulated. It was a like watching one of those wildlife programs where the lioness stalks the wildebeest… The seagull cuts effortlessly through the air like a hot knife through butter, swoops towards the old ladies chips –

- and then, at the last possible moment, the old lady drops her walking stick and punches the fucker hard in the throat with the skill, poise and dexterity of Jackie Chan.

It squawks, lands on the ground in a crumpled heap, then fucks off on foot making a strange choking noise. I just gaped as the old lady stooped and picked up her stick and carried on ambling towards a bench; if I’d have just pulled off a move like that I’d be screaming like I’d just scored the winning injury time goal in the World Cup and demanding free blowjobs from every living human being within a ten mile radius.

“Did you just see that?” I asked my girlfriend.

She nods. “Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “Good job that doddery old lady was about to protect you from the big scary seagull, you great big ponce…”
( SpankyHanky, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:52, 16 replies)

A blind lady with a cane being monumentally unlucky and not picking up a new lampost with her 'canedar. She bopped it pretty hard and carried on like nothing had happened.

It was only last Friday, but I sniggered and still feel bad.
(stunt_penguin | missed his b3ta birthday :'(, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:51, Reply)

It's the simple things that get me.
I was sitting on a seat in a shopping centre recently near a jewellers. I notice a couple go to look in the window and the bloke misjudges how near the glass is bumps his head on it. Now, this doesn't hurt and we've all done it, but what made me snort was the way it startled him and it made him jump, and it made his g/f giggle.

Not 5 mins later, someone else did the same thing. A bit later someone else did. All in all, I saw 4 different people bop their head on that glass, and the same startled look of surprise on their face.

It's not a real belly-laugh sort of thing, but it had me chuckling for ages. Later that evening, I'd think about it and start chuckling again.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:43, Reply)

The car boot sale of tranquility...
About 8 years back when me and the ex were getting by on our means but still grateful for a handout we were offered the chance to join her parents on a caravan holiday in Somerset. Initially aprehensive I gave in when I figured a week by the sea for £70 (our share of the cost) was about the only break I'd get that summer. Plus I was still trying to gain favour with her family by showing I was a nice bloke and not a snob.

Having driven down in hot sticky furnace of a car at a pace that would make an undertaker get irate we arrived to a naff park of static caravans alongside a railway line with a glimpse of sea somewhere near Minehead.

I did my best to hide my dissappointment, even when we went to the pub for a plate of lowest cost highest markup deep fried imported sewer fish and value chips. The highlight of which was watching a family of scousers (i.e. about 15 of them) literally dressed in shell suits with perms just like the Harry Enfield sketch all arguing at another table while one of their criminal in training kids spat chewed up napkins through a peashooter drinking straw at the back of their grandads (i.e. about 45) head.

Anyway, after a few days of the mundane the ex could see I needed a dose of something I might enjoy (no not that) so we went along to a sunny car boot sale in a lush green field nearby.

The place was a haven of tranquil calm, the waves on the shore close by and all manner of bargains on offer. I sauntered around happy as anything, until the ex came up to me clearly a bit put out and explained about the no holds barred granny.

This old northern wench had pretty much steamrollered my ex out of the way having spotted a box of unmatched miscellaneous crockery on offer. Fearful this young lady may deprive her of a set of 5 assorted plates & bowls she waded in, taking no prisoners and loudly demanded to know the cost of such treasure. This much I had heard from several stalls away. Evidently a deal was had and you could see she struggled to get the coins out of her purse quickly enough.

Calm returned to the field and I continued strolling along, occasionally stopping to peruse some nik nak, until said brash granny caught up to me.

Like a Crow to a shiny trinkett she was drawn to something just out of reach and right in front of me. Obviously phrases such as "excuse me" or "could you pass that over please" were foreign tongue to her, so I watched as she stretched forward, counter balancing her box of assorted crap crockery at her side....

Then in slow motion her "Kankle" foot squeezed into shoes clearly not designed anything as impractical as grass gave way and she began to topple. Stood right next to me, I'm sure I had plenty of time to yell "Timber!" had the comedy of what was unfolding been realised, as instinctively she fell like a sack of spuds and the hurled the box in her arms upwards.

Imagine if you will the perfect serenity of a quiet morning at the seaside when the quiet is pierced by the comedy soundtrack of a box of 20 pieces of cheap crockery hitting the deck. It was like time stood still. The whole field turned to look in my direction to see a pair of Granny legs in Nora Batty tights pointing skywards, a fat old lady like a craggy island in a small sea of shattered crockery.

I'm sure I should have offered her a hand to get up.... however I had to focus on finding a tissue.... to deal with the candles of snot I accidentally decorated myself with as I failed to stifle a serious fit of giggles. I could only turn, go bright red as I sniggered as I sauntered away. By the time I could raise my head to look others in the eye it became clear I wasn't the only person to have enjoyed that and many of us exchanged looks of "that was good that" and "she deserved it" with all knowing smiles.

Length? Must have been heard a mile away!
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:40, Reply)

tl;dr broke my collar bone by doing the most fuck stupid thing I've done. Ever.
Simply put, I was about seven at the time, and I thought since I could jump from chair-to-chair like any other seven year old at the time, I decided to include space hoppers as well.

I jumped from chair, to chair, to space hopper, to wall, and hit the wall head-first. My mum walked in on the action, and later described the stunt as being rather graceful. Apparently I spread my arms to try and fly, and failed.

Oh, and later she told me that the only way she knew that something was broken was because I wasn't sucking my thumb that night.
(TescoPeeledPlums No, wait this post was made yesteday, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:35, Reply)

I still wish that someone...
...had been quick with their phone that day. I realise that it's not exactly schaden-whatsit, but some of you may view it as such purely because it features a cyclist (me) doing himself some unintentional harm. {wavy lines etc}

I ride to work and back on a push-bike. Before anyone starts, yes I do stop at traffic lights, yes I want to clothesline the many cunts who sail past me when I do so and yes I do my best to stay out of 'proper' road users' way. Moreover I believe that cyclists who use the roads should be licensed and insured to some extent in order to cut down on the majority cunt factor that gives us all a bad name. Anyway, enough digression.

I was just setting out for home and picking up speed as I wanted to get through the green light ahead of me. Unfortunately some twat had put a big-ish branch in the cycle lane which I had failed to see for concentrating on the light. I bumped over it and my handlebars came loose, prompting some serious wobbliness. Said wobbliness continued and I spotted the lights start to change as I was a few metres away. Fuck. I needed to stop. Quick. Braking as hard as I needed to at this point would probably fuck up my handlebars even more and dump me in the road so I tried to steer onto the kerb and hopefully come to a more sedate stop a little further on. Sadly my attention had now been diverted from the traffic light, resulting in me shoulder-barging the fucker at the best part of 25mph.

Ow.

I don't remember much of the impact itself, and my next memory is of laying on the kerb on the other side of the stoplight from the road with my bike on the kerb beside me. Essentially I must have hit the light, and with the gift of shoulder-ow, spun right around the fucker through about 250 degrees, dragging my bike part of the way with me. It must have been fucking spectacular. I would so have liked to see how that went down from a perspective other than mine, which is why I wish someone had been handy with a phone at the time.

I had to go to A&E so they could take a look at my badly bruised shoulder, hand, hip and leg and I somehow suffered major grazes on about half-a-dozen places on my body, some of which have since scarred. I fucked myself up quite well, but amazingly with nothing broken. Still, two silver linings exist in that at least I didn't land in the road and get my head run over, and it was the company conference the following weekend - my limping self was excluded from the wanky team-building activities that always fill the day before the black tie piss-up and back-slapping begins. I spent the afternoon in the hotel's bar chatting to a heavily pregnant colleague who had also been pardoned.

It also gave me an opportunity to strike up conversation with the now-other-half who works for the NHS, at the time doing X-Rays of which I'd had at 8 on account of my altercation with street furniture.
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:33, 2 replies)

Idiot
Many, many years ago as a courier in London I was heading into town along York Way in Kentish Town in typical rush hour traffic when some guy ahead of me got everything a bit wrong and managed to drive into the central bollards of a zebra crossing. To this day I have no idea how he did it, he wasn't at an angle as if he was changing lanes, he was completely straight.

It always amazes me how much damage those plastic traffic bollards can do, and I think he managed to right off his already pretty shite car. Laugh, I quite literally nearly died almost plowing into the back of the car ahead of me as uncontrollable laughter kicked in.

I was not alone in laughing aloud either
( Jahled Three shades of black, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 16:32, Reply)