Paying The Bill
My most shameful moment, without a shadow of a doubt, occurred roughly ten years ago. To cut a massive story slightly shorter, growing up I was never really interested in being fashionable and cool. Whenever I hung around with my mates as soon as they started listening to trendy underground music I'd get bored and wander off. This is how I first started hanging around with John, one of my friend's younger brothers. We had an odd relationship, he looked up to me because I was older and I was fiercely protective over him because he was younger. Between us something just clicked, we became inseparable. He was the closest friend I'll ever have. When I say fiercely protective I mean way past patronising and bordering on absurd. I'd tell him off if he picked up something sharp and several times, when he left my house, I'd follow him secretly to make sure nothing happened to him on his way home. At the time I had no idea why I acted so paranoid. Teenagers do weird things; blame it on hormones.

Looking back, it was almost as if I was prophetically setting myself up for a fall.

Just after I turned 16 and he 14 I was hanging around with him just outside his house one morning when two girls turned up he knew. I couldn't stand them but luckily another of my mates just happened to walk past. I quickly made my excuses and ditched John and the girls, walking home with my friend pretty relieved to have escaped. The shame that surrounds this one act will haunt me for the rest of my days. I couldn't have been more than a hundred yards down the road when John started swinging on the trees outside his house. Unluckily I'd already rounded a corner, otherwise I would have seen what he was doing and stopped him. Yes I was that protective and that patronising. But like I said I was around the corner. I was probably nearly home when John jumped out of the tree, landed on his feet and overbalanced. I was probably in my house when his mother was taking him to hospital after he'd fallen over backwards, smashed his head on the concrete and fractured his skull. I got a phone call shortly afterwards to tell me what happened. I cursed myself for ditching him, knowing my being selfish had put him in hospital. At least in a couple of days he'd by fine though, no major damage done and the opportunity to joke that he was now 'brain damaged mong boy'.

Ha.

It was later on that I was out doing some errands that I walked past John's house. One of the girls from earlier ran past me, away from the house, crying. I knew something serious had happened but such was the guilt and shame of it being my fault I couldn't bring myself to knock on the door. Instead I went home and sat alone, crying my eyes out and waiting for the phone call. I remember the weather had been getting worse all day and now there was a storm building. I watched the rain streaking down the window and waited. It only took an hour. His brother rang me to tell me that John was in a bad way. A blood clot had formed on his brain and he'd been rushed to theatre. He didn't know if his brother would live or die. If he lived he might be brain damaged.

It wasn't so funny now.

One of our mutual friends knew how close I was to him and turned up almost immediately to try and take my mind of it. Just to show my age; we spent an hour playing Street Fighter II (in between taking breaks to watch the pretty storm). For every fight, no matter which characters we picked, he would be brain damage and blood clots and I would be hospitals and doctors. I beat him fifty times in a row; he never came close to winning. I'd like to think he didn't let me win but I suppose I'll never know. Eventually he had to go and I was again left with my fear and worry. Waiting for the call I wandered downstairs to sit with my parents, hoping they would ease my terror. Stupid me. Time for someone else's shame. My mother asked me why I looked upset, despite knowing full well that John was fighting for his life that very moment. I reminded her in no uncertain terms. My father responded to this by yelling at me that I couldn't be that worried as I'd been 'upstairs carrying on with your mate for an hour'. 'I heard you laughing!' he finished accusingly. I can't remember the string of expletives that flowed from my mouth then but I do remember it being quite impressive for a sixteen year old. My mother stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Seconds later I followed, tears welling, and stumbled blindly outside into the storm.

People who are lucky enough have one moment of their lives that they can look back on and say that was when I grew up, that was when I became a man, that was my rite of passage. That was mine. With that simple exchange my entire childhood fell apart before my eyes and I saw my family for the stupid, self-centered, emotion cripples they were and still are. I finally understood. The reason I'd been so close to John, so ridiculously protective was because he was my family. He was like my little brother, my son even. I was trying to be, to him, what my parents never were to me. John was the one that was there to put an arm round me when I needed it, to cheer me up when I was down, not them. He was the person I wanted to be around me. Not them.

I stood outside under that raging storm for nearly an hour, heartbroken that my revelation had come too late. It seemed to be reaching a crescendo directly over my house. The lightning was blinding and the thunder deafening. The rain lashed down hard enough to sting my eyes; the water mixing with my constant tears. I never noticed any of it. It was the eerie silence that followed a particularly loud thunderclap that made me realise I'd been shouting as I looked up at that dark sky. I'm not sure I really believed in God but I knew that other people did and that seemed to be enough. I'd gotten angry with him; screamed that I would kill myself just so I could turn up at the pearly gates with a sledgehammer and exact revenge. Then I'd begged his forgiveness. I'd pleaded with him, told him I'd do anything he wanted, told him he could have me if he let John live. There was no price I wouldn't pay. After an hour or so I'd cried all my tears and exhausted myself so I just sat down there, in the rain, and waited.

John died three times during the operation. Every time they just managed to bring him back. He kept fighting and miraculously held on throughout. It took him over a year to fully recover and I spent nearly the whole time with tears of elation in my eyes as I watched him fighting back. Slowly regaining the ability to think, then speak and finally walk again. He's 24 now and still the closest friend I'll ever have. He's sitting near me as I write this occasionally calling me a soppy get and throwing things at me. There's rarely a day goes by when he doesn't make me laugh and there's rarely a day goes by when I can resist remembering that I nearly lost him and being a really soppy get and telling him how much he means to me. Sometimes, when the fear returns suddenly and overcomes me I'll be a really, REALLY soppy get and I'll tell him I love him and grab him in a giant bear hug (you should see his face when I do it in public!)

I still don't really believe in God but I know that I owe someone, somewhere, big time. The payback makes life kinda fun. I got really ill shortly afterwards and still haven't fully recovered but every time I think about it I just smile. It's just payback to whoever I owe for this massive favour. Every time something bad happens; when I lose something, when I get passed over for promotion in my shitty dead end job, when expensive things get broken, when I stub my damn toe the shrieks of pain and anguish are always quickly replaced by grinning and laughing.

I'm just paying the bill. And it's worth every single fucking penny.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Sat 26 Nov 2005, 10:13, Reply)

Illuminous Horse of Course!
I once spray canned the words "I AM A CUNT HORSE" in massive letters on the side of a horse in illuminous green paint. Obviously I was very drunk.

However I nearly had a seisure 2 days later when I saw said Horse in the same field being scrubbed by a geezer as I flew past on the Blackpool - London train
(hoogie Original Cunt Horse Author, Tue 29 Nov 2005, 16:14, Reply)

On The Piss
In Newcastle, decides to jump a cab and head down to the coast to a nightclub. We'd had a couple of spliffs while waiting from the cab and were feeling well mellow.

Cab is speeding down the motorway about 90 miles an hours, radio is bellowing out tunes when all of a sudden one of my mates in the front seat yells:

"STOP!!! STOP THE CAR!! NOW! PULL OVER!! STOPPPPPPP!!!!"

The taxi-driver, thinking something dreadful had happend - perhaps someone was having a heart attack, swerves the car across three lanes of traffic and screeches to a halt on the hard shoulder.

Mate jumps out of the car onto the hard shoulder and starts dancing.

"I fucking LOVE this record" he croons

I curled up into a ball and wanted to die.....
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 25 Nov 2005, 15:15, Reply)

The ONLY Time Ive been truly ashamed of Myself
A year or so ago I started a rather seedy little fling with a 17 yr old girl I know (I was 29 at the time)..and the morning after a particularly sordid night of coke fuelled depravity with this girl in a cheap hotel, I had to attend the memorial service for my Fiancee's grandfather.It was also that weird day in the catholic church when they wheel all the sick oldies out to be blessed and I was taking catechism classes at the time (being a somewhat lapsed catholic) so that I could marry the poor girl that I was cheating on- and had to do a reading in the church...So not only did I have to sit with my fiancee's family and listen to them say what a 'good boy' I was and that my fiancee was 'soooo lucky to have me' but I had to read a passage from the good book while loads of poor old wheelchair bound wops blubbered in front of me..
All the way through I couldnt help but remember with near sickening shame, that only 12 hours earlier I had been snorting class A drugs off a 17 yr old girls arse cleft before sodomising her for about an hour.
( bigmeuprudeboy is using powerpoint or paint...have MERCY, Fri 25 Nov 2005, 10:54, Reply)

Thanks B3ta
What a weird coincidence this question is. I was sitting bored out of my mind at work, humming along to my mp3 player, desperately waiting for the new question of the week. To keep me going I started flicking through some of the old questions and their various answers. Hoping to cheer myself up I clicked on 'Beautiful Moments' and read this post...

www.b3ta.com/questions/beautifulmoments/post25869/

Floored by the subtle poigiancy I blindly clicked onto a different question, 'The last thing that made you cry'. So immediately after reading and being moved by that last post I read the following one which is, without a doubt, the most heartbreaking thing I have ever read in my short and fairly worthless life.

www.b3ta.com/questions/crybabies/post29498/

I stood up and staggered towards the door suddenly overcome with emotion. It was at this point that my mp3 player flicked onto the next track which just happened to be Cloudbursting by Kate Bush, the very song that was playing in the background when I found out my Grandad had died. I hope they weren't but if anyone was looking in my particular direction at that moment they would have seen me, a tall well built northern bloke instantly, much to my embarrassment, burst into tears in the middle of the office like a little girl and quickly leg it for the fire escape. I came back in a couple of minutes later thankful for the high winds outside. It blew things into my eyes and irritated my contacts, that's why my eyes were red, honest. The thing is, the actual shame this story is about, after re-reading those posts, is the shame at myself for feeling embarrassed by what happened and making excuses for it.

Sorry about that, I'll return to the usual knob gags after a good nights sleep.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Thu 24 Nov 2005, 22:27, Reply)

I don't live here...
Very very drunken night out, drank about 25 bottles of cheap beer and a few vodka martini's (Was going through a James Bond fetish at the time). Left the crap local bar we were in and went into town to carry on drinking. Lost friends between pubs as I was a drunken mess, so decided to go for a piss around the back of some nearby terraced houses before I tried to find a bus/taxi anything to get home, fell asleep for about 30 mins in a pile of black binbags...

So good so far, nothing too shameful, however this is the part it gets bad.
- I lived in a flat above a very similar looking terraced block and thought that one of the houses was mine. (Although some bastard had nicked the fire escape up to my front door.) Scaled a 15 foot wall, crawled 30 foot along it, jumped onto the roof of the house via a sloped extension, edged along a further 15 foot on the roof, lowered myself onto the kitchen window ledge, put the top window through with my elbow and climbed in- went into the lounge of the place and went to sleep on the sofa so I didn't disturb my missus (not that she was in this random house)... Trouble is that I sleep in the nude...
Next thing I know I'm being woke up by two police women (!?!?) and carted off to the cells for the rest of the night- I was in such a drunken state I hadn't got a clue what was happening, so started asking the police women if they were the strippers, and if they spat or swallowed...
I'd blacked out during this whole event and I couldn't actually remember what had happened when I woke in the morning, until I asked the duty sargent why I was in the cell...

Shame?
The word is not enough to describe it.

Luckily the woman who lived in the flat and the police saw the funny side- the police kept calling me spiderman, and asked if I was a professional cat burgler, and the flat owner didn't press charges- Although I paid for the glazier to go round and repair the window.

Apologies for the length (although the police women didn't make any comment about that)

NOTE: 1st post wooyay
(KinkyNinja, Sun 27 Nov 2005, 19:08, Reply)

Faecal Graffiti
WARNING: This is pretty foul.

Whilst studying at Brighton Uni I found myself in the 'Market Diner', a 24 filth hole of a cafe with a staff consisting of 15 year old proto rapists and greasy-haired old hags. It was about 4.00am, I was very drunk.

I had been there many times before and been a lot drunker, but something was different this time.

After finishing my egg and sausage sandwich, I made my excuses to my friends and staggered to the toilets. After a good long drunken piss, something caught my eye; the toilet brush.

In my drunken haze I thought it might be a laugh to check if there was any poo on the end. There was. My actions from this point on are worthy of both revulsion and worship in equal measure; both the greatest and the most terrible thing I have ever done at the same time.

I took the soiled brush and wrote on the tiled wall in foot high letters, as carefully as I could: CLEAN ME

Whenever I look back on this incident, I always try to imagine the expression on the member of staffs face who went in there on a routine toilet roll check and found my dirty, stinking protest.

Can something be both unimaginably foul and breathtakingly beautiful at the same time? I like to think it can...
(mark schmark, Thu 24 Nov 2005, 22:57, Reply)

Oooh I wish I hadn't thought of this.
When I was 15-16 my friends dad used to organise dinner/classical music concerts.

His son and I were charged with videoing the concert but decided that classical music sounds much better when stoned out of your mind so we decided to indulge.

All the audio from the concert was going straight into the audio input of the camera, but in my state I had left the camera mic on as well.

Cue to the next morning sat round his folks house, when in the middle of a quiet interlude in a piano piece there comes on the tape, my unmistakable voice saying.

"Christ, Paul I really want to fuck your sister hard"

I ran, I ran as fast as my legs would carry me

Girth, lenght etc.
(Akuru, Tue 29 Nov 2005, 0:19, Reply)

Another beached tale
I bought a bus conductor's ticket machine, complete with ticket rolls, money bag and strap, for ten pounds from a collectors' mart one Saturday in July. The following weekend I took it down to the beach and walked for about two miles, charging everyone sitting in deck chairs fifty pee and issuing tickets. No-one noticed the tickets were all marked 'Nottingham City Transport' (this was two hundred miles further south, in Sussex), and no-one complained. Having made close to two hundred quid I retired to a safe distance to watch the real deck chair money collector try to do his job. He ended up surrounded by dozens of irate oldies all waving Nottingham bus tickets at him. Shame on me but boy was it funny at the time.
(Sirbacker, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 13:31, Reply)

Post piss up & meeting her parents.
My g/f's father and stepmum had invited me to a meal at a posh restaurant as a belated birthday present. I was under strict instructions to get to her place no later than midday to be picked up and whisked off to charm the in-laws.

No problem. Except that the night before I'd gone out with some mates and got absolutely munted. I'd crawled back to my flat and decided that I was hungry, so I cooked up a one off creation known as "Quorn Jalfrezi" which tasted pretty dire and left a mess on the hob that resembled a Glastonbury portaloo.

Next morning I felt ill. So ill in fact that I gagged after drinking a sip of water. I grabbed a bath, put on my finest white Ben Sherman shirt and made for g/f's house. I stopped for indigestion tablets on the way and felt fine...

An hour later, I was sitting down for starters and wishing I was still in bed. One bite of a bread roll had me scarpering to the bog. The lack of signage in the posh restaurant meant that I stopped in my tracks, puked up horrible red stained, quorn ridden chunder in full view of most of the diners (although out of sight of g/f & co). My shirt was covered in Jalfrezi sauce and I smelt like the floor of a kebab house.

Blushing in shame, I made my way to the toilet, guided by a waitress who could barely conceal her disgust. I washed my shirt in the sink, dried it under the drier and did my best to mop the vomit off my jeans and shoes.

I skulked back to my seat safe in the knowledge that I'd got away with it by the skin of my teeth and having spewed, could enjoy a meal and turn on the charm. Which I did....

Feeling smug on my way back home being driven by g/f's Dad I felt a slight twinge in my stomach. Oh no. The next ten seconds were the longest in my life. I asked him to pull over, which he did. I grasped in desperation at the door handle, pleading with g/f's dad to unlock the door quickly, with my other hand clamped over my mouth.

Bleeeeuuuuuuurrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh!

The door opened, but a full two seconds too late. I'd boffed up all over the inside of the car door and to add insult to injury, a large tomcat sauntered over to the now stationary car and started feasting on the chunks of vomit on the pavement.

Oh, the shame
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 25 Nov 2005, 12:36, Reply)

I'm ashamed of the joke I told on the underground.
My friend was annoying me by whispering things in my ear about really stupid things, so I waited for her to finish talking and then I suddenly shouted to her "What the fuck do you mean you forgot the deteonator?"

Everybody looked at us, trying to work out if we were trying to be funny or not.

"For fuck's sake, Jen, Osama's really going to have us this time... Look, I'll call Abdul and we'll get the fuck out of here."

We got off at the next stop.

I suppose it's not as bad as my other friend's trick of jumping off a train with one of his mates' bags, then throwing it back to them through the door just as the train leaves whilst grinning like a manic and waving, but still...the shame...
( Reid got it going on like Donkey Kong, Fri 25 Nov 2005, 1:09, Reply)

The pain...
Regress one year. I'm about 8 years old, and still mastering the techniques or urinating at a urinal.

I didn't miss the urinal. Oh no; every drop went in. Impressive, considering that I was late for lessons.

However, the tardiness of my lesson attendance led to retardedness of subsequent action. I pulled up my lovely tight fly without putting Jimmy away properly, and got my forskin stuck. Yay.

Back when I was that age, most of the teachers were female. I went to the form teacher, who insisted on having a look before declaring that there was nothing she could do. So we went to another female teacher, who found some magic lubricating cream or something, which she proceeded to rub into the tip of my very painful boyhood. All fairness, she got it out with a minimum of pain.

The most shame, however, came when I had to go to the nurse, who insisted that it was school policy that parents be told of such occurrences. So, home I toddled, clutching a note for my dear mother reading something like:

MEDICAL INCIDENT FORM

PUPIL: SAM X

INCIDENT: PENIS CAUGHT IN FLY

I've never been the same since.
(Mr_Jums, Thu 24 Nov 2005, 20:29, Reply)

Shame
Many years ago I pretended to be a socialist in order to join the Labour party. However, when I became Prime Minister I raised taxes for the poor, removed the right to trial by jury, deported everyone who looked a bit foreign and had hundreds of soldiers and thousands of civilians killed just to increase my poll ratings, making people look back on the good old days of Margaret Thatcher.

Sometimes when I'm sitting on a sun soaked beach in front of some multi-millionaire tobacco baron's palace in the Maldives I feel terribly ashamed.

I mean, the name Tony sounds sooo gay.

TB
( Vulthoom, Sun 27 Nov 2005, 8:11, Reply)

Oh God, another one that springs to mind....
When I was at a party I was speaking to a friend from college called Kate. She had obviously had a bit to drink as she was slurring and giggling at everything.

"If you drink any more you won't be able to walk!" I said.

Kate is in a wheelchair.
(wonderbrawl was pronounced dead on, Sun 27 Nov 2005, 0:16, Reply)

shame
my loving partner has something of a phobia about oral sex, and after months of reassurance, he was finally going down on me, when at the vital moment I let rip a stinky curry smelling fart right in his face. that was two years ago, we are still together but he still refuses to pleasure me orally.
This is the same man who once farted so loudly his flatmate came running in from the lounge as she thought furniture had fallen on us.
(ludditefreak, Fri 25 Nov 2005, 16:53, Reply)

I have a couple which put me to shame, although the people
on the receiving end think it's hilarious. I do feel some guilt when I think about these, as they are totally wrong things to say, but hey, if the people involved don't mind........

My best friend lost her mum 6 years ago, and her dad and stepmum 3 years ago. Last year, her uncle died and all that's left in the family is her and her brother (and her husband and kid). In February this year, after a visit to the doctor, she was diagnosed with cancer (at the time, they gave her 2 months to live). I get the first phone call, and what do I say?
"Thank fuck I'm not a member of your family!"
Although it still makes me feel guilty saying that, she insists that she still giggles about it to this day.

Shameful thing #2. I have a friend who is black, gay and in a wheelchair (seriously!). First time I met him, I asked what he did for a living (he's a partner in a law firm). What comes out of my mouth? "Fuck, if you had AIDS on top of that you'd be president!". Fortunately he found it hilarious, and that was what cemented our friendship. Now when we're out in public, he'll have me call him my little black crippled slave when he thinks we can shock someone!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sun 27 Nov 2005, 4:08, Reply)

In Primary School
The teacher asked us if anyone knew what the pink things underneath cows were (Have no idea what she was teaching us about but hey)

For some reason I instantly shout

"BOOBS!"
(therocker, Sat 26 Nov 2005, 21:34, Reply)

Deathknock
My shames have to do with working for Sunday tabloids, something I no longer do because I have a conscience.

I was once asked to doorstep an academic because he was a pre-op transsexual. Trust me: this was not going to be a touchy-feely, beard-tugging Guardianista effort about respecting other lifestyle choices. After many hours hanging about I deliberately fecked up the story because intruding on this person's life made me feel nasty.

I interviewed a crying mother by the grave of her son.

Then there was the time I did a very difficult "deathknock" (doostepping the relatives of someone who has died) of the family of a bus driver killed by his own bus. The son, a very very upset kid, went from threatening to whack me to giving me the only picture he had of his Dad. I swore I'd send it back to him.

The stupid cnuts in the mailroom only went and lost it - the only pic this poor kid had of his dad.

I'm feeling sick with guilt even as I type this.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Thu 24 Nov 2005, 18:14, Reply)

It was me or him
I am not proud of this at all, I am deeply sorry but at the time it was a case of survival.

I grew up in the country, And did a whole matter of countryside pastimes including Shooting.

One evening I went out for some dusk Pigeon shooting, catching them as they come into roost is always a good plan.
After a few hours blasting away the wildlife I headed home. At some point the heavens opened and it pissed it down on me.
Cold and wet I decided to take a short cut across a different farmers land.
As I crossed the final field about half a mile from the warmth of my home I heard a loud angry shout of.
"I have told you fucking Gypsie cunts before, stop poaching on my land"
It was the game keeper a nasty old cunt at the best of times and proud owner of the bigest nastiest wolf-like creature you can imagine.
Before I could plead my innocence that I was niether a Gypsie or a poacher he set the thing on me.
I damn near shit myself as the ball of teeth and hate came bounding towards me with the soul intention of fucking me up.
I started to run but realised that was stupid, so I turned leveled my rifle and shot the dog in the head.... Twice.
Then ran for my fucking life.
I have never told a soul about this, the game keeper blamed the gypsies and they were evicted by an angry mob from the pub that same night.
(Barry Chuckle has gone out in the thong to feed the pigeons, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 13:27, Reply)

Morning Glory
Whilst living at home as a youngster with my parents and siblings I awoke with my usual dawn horn and proceed to crack one off in the privacy of my own bedroom. Deed done I throw soiled tissue into bin and go downstairs for breakfast with the family. A couple of minutes latter the family mutt is pattering into the kitchen with a bunch of tissues proudly clamped in its jaw’s … “Come here Jamie” says my mum bending down while I look on horrified… “What’s that in your mouth.. drop.. drop.. good girl” – my mum then picks up the tissue I’d previously and furiously masturbated into and looks curiously at them! She then proceeds to sniff and touch the contents. I look around everyone else is busy eating their bacon and eggs and I’m nervously looking down at my plate… when I hear an almighty *SLAP* and look up to hear my mum call my bedazzled and confused farther a dirty bastard…. (sorry dad)!
(tarkatronic stand back I don't know how big this thing gets..., Tue 29 Nov 2005, 14:40, Reply)

The one when I effectively ended my career...
I went on a high powered conference earlier this year with my boss to a small private college in the US. Behaved impeccably all week, spoke to all the right people and showed a keen interest in furthering my career. Until…

On the last night I got drunk. Monumentally, phenomenally drunk. On rum. Finally got to bed at about 6am, set my alarm for 8 as I had to catch the bus to the airport. I was awoken from my coma like state at 8.55am by my boss shrieking “What the f**king hell are you doing, the bus is leaving now. I mean now, this second.” A quick glance round my room was enough to tell me that while I’d tried to pack, all I’d done was throw clothes all over the floor. Chucked stuff in a bag while my boss went to go and tell the driver to wait. No such luck, I got outside and they’d gone. Leaving me 2 hours from the airport, still plastered. Managed to persuade a guy to give me a lift to the airport, remember very little of the dribbling conversation I must have had with the poor sod. Got there in time, checked in and found my boss. We had a good laugh over how wrong it had all nearly gone. And then…

As I queued for passport control, the hangover started to kick in. I’d drunk a bottle of coke and a coffee, but that was it. And my stomach wanted revenge. Feeling worse and worse I edged towards the desk, mentally willing myself through security so I could go and barf to my tum’s content. Handed my passport to the woman behind the counter, smiled sweetly and fainted. When I came to, I’d been propped against a wall and was being shaken by airport security. The panic in my eyes must have articulated what was coming next and the guy silently handed me a bin. Which I was promptly exorcist level sick into. In front of my boss and about 150 people queuing for passport control. Once the vomit-fest had subsided, I was asked would I like to go through security in order to board my flight. (Seriously, they were actually going to let me on the plane. Ah, these small provincial airports…). Except I couldn’t stand up.

So * takes deep breath * they put me in a wheelchair and pushed me through. And on the other side? All the people from the conference who’d had the good sense to stop drinking at a reasonable time and get the goddamn bus to the airport. Thus my humiliation was complete. I was sat in a wheelchair, covered in sick with one contact lens missing in front of a group of people who’d I’d tried to spend a week convincing they wanted to employ me. (*) I spent the 40 minute flight being sick in a bag. I then spent the 5 hour stopover at Newark on the floor in the toilets crying in shame at what I’d done. I still wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat thinking about it.

On the plus side, it’s a great story and one that’s caused much hilarity, especially as my boss reckons it’s the funniest thing she’d ever seen. Did somebody say schedenfraude? I think I just did…

(*) They didn’t. I’m still looking for a job. Oh god…
(Rakky, Tue 29 Nov 2005, 13:18, Reply)

I think this QOTW was really a subtle "Hey guys I got laid" post
and Chthonic wants to leave it up for as long as possible to make sure everyone realises that he did, in fact, have sex.

It's a conspiracy!


edit: no :p

edit #2: Damn you and your tricksy ways!

Mod Edit: Yes, it's true. I did once have sex. It was highly over-rated and I'm not doing it again whatever anyone says.
(meagle, Fri 2 Dec 2005, 0:04, Reply)

Sell to the need
I work for a bank, selling loans to customers. Yep, I'm one of those annoying people that calls you as you sit down for dinner trying to convince you that a 35%APR loan is just what you need. No shame there, believe it or not.

The shame I have is that, when we are being preached to at work about the best ways to sell, we are told to "sell to the need".

For example, if I call you and offer you £5,000, the chances are that you won't want it. However, if I engage in conversation with you, lead you on with various open questions and you tell me how you've always longed to go on a world cruise, I can sell a £5,000 loan easier to you by offering it as the payment for the cruise you've always wanted. Easy, see?

So my shame comes from someone who I'd called in the middle of the day. They spoke politely, but weren't really opening up to anything.

"I'm sorry," said the customer, "but I need to go. I found out this morning that my mother had a heart attack and passed away last night."

My response? In hindsight it should have been words of comfort, or even regret. It should most definitely NOT have been what it was:

"Have you considered how you're going to pay for the funeral yet?".

Makes me shiver even thinking about it.
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Thu 1 Dec 2005, 21:25, Reply)

Shagging, not one, but two
Some time ago when I still lived with my parents, I had the fortune of a friend staying over (female friend - I am male).

My girlfriend was also staying over and at the time and I only had a single bed in which we would both sleep. In the middle of the night the aformentioned friend crept, naked, into the single bed that was occupied by myself and girlfriend. Much to my delight much lesbianism and shagging ensued.

Shortly after, my mum, who had got up to go to the toilet heard a variety of noises coming from my room and came into my bedroom.

A very quick shuffling followed, which ended up with all three of us sitting upright at the end of my bed, with me in the middle, and a naked girl on each side of me, both with uncovereed breasts.

My mum says "You don't all have to share the same bed you know. We have a spare I can make up."
"errr....it's ok mum" is all I could manage.

I still think she honestly thought it was all inoccent.

I am actually rather proud of the events, but ashamed that my mum came in.
(dchurch bah, Tue 29 Nov 2005, 12:25, Reply)

Once in a posh restaurant...
I developed an overwhelming desire to fart. I genuinely thought it was going to be silent, so I gave it the little push as required. It wasn't silent. The restaurant was. As if this wasn't bad enough, I had the quick-wit to shout 'Ah Dad, that's disgusting'.

There's a fine line between shame and pride.
(gmo, Thu 24 Nov 2005, 19:50, Reply)

Princess Di's funeral
1) My and a mate were pissed up during it on vodka (11amish?) listening to blasting Nine Inch Nails and dancing on his glass topped table.

I feel a little shame about the whole incident.

2) Another time me and same lad were leaving the pub at lunchtime, lashed again (a common thread in my experiences) and passed a garden toy sale this little girl was holding.

I feel terrible even writing this….

We bought a soft toy tomato off her for 50 pence. We proceeded to kick it down the street (she was bawling at this time) then impale it on the local church yards metal railings, and set fire to it. It was synthetic too, and went up in seconds.

I can still clearly remember the wails and screams of this horribly upset poor lass who’s just witnessed two yobs destroy a childhood toy, while her father attempted to comfort her with the subdued words “it’s theirs now…..”

No shame at the time, I cringe at the thought now.

3) Stealing a little baby Jesus from the local Catholic church’s nativity scheme, me and same lad, again pissed, again kicking it down the street, but this time managing to kick it’s eyes out. That one was in the local residential paper.

Probably more, but I feel a bit sick now……
(Pandaemonium, Fri 25 Nov 2005, 11:20, Reply)

The Redfearn bar, Leicester University, crica 1998.
Me and a couple of friends were having some drinks before we went out clubbing. We had some rather strong "disco biscuits" and to get the evening off to a bang we necked them in the bar then washed them down with lager. About a beer later, I realised I had done a bad thing and my body was not going to accept this nonsense. The first mouthful of spew went straight back into my pint glass, which I dumped on the floor and sprinted to the bogs.

...too late, as it turned out. I managed to cover the area outside the toilets with some extremely messy puke indeed. However, it seems like I didn't vomit out everything, as the MDMA was now working its magic, rendering me chatty, friendly and good-natured towards everyone. Feeling bucketloads of shame I made my way back to the bar and asked if they could furnish me with a mop and bucket so I could clean up the mess I had made. The bar manager told me that no-one had ever admitted to throwing up in the bar before, and certainly no-one had ever offered to clean it up themselves, so when I was done I could have anything I wanted from the bar, on the house. I had a lemonade.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 16:56, Reply)

Sorry Mrs Blurrrrrrrgghhhhh
When indulging in the the joys of underage drinking I got really pissed on a mate's home brew. Got truly royally bladdered. Problem was it was rough stuff. And I remember vividly throwing up constantly, unable to move, on his spare bed. As his mother cleaned up my continually arriving sick. The words "Sorry Mrs Bleeeeeuuuuuuurggh," are burned in my soul.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Tue 29 Nov 2005, 16:59, Reply)

more private guilt than shame...
Once, when my boyfriend pissed me off, I put his toothbrush up my arse. Bristle end first. Then replaced it nicely in the toothbrush jar.

I later saw his mum merrily using it, as I'd picked up the wrong one.

Lovely woman too.
(mrmistoffeles, Tue 29 Nov 2005, 16:20, Reply)

Nightclub Launderette
My most shameful moment is as follows...

It was my mate's 18th birthday so I agreed to go out to town for a 'few' drinks. Obviously, a few turned into many and upon being told that a certain nightclub was selling all bottles for £1...I agreed to make it a night.

I soon learned that 'all' bottles actually meant 'vk iron brew' and after a few of these beastly drinks I was feeling a bit worse for wear on the dancefloor. However I fought on, until my stomach finally rejected the vile liquid and I promptly vomited all over my shirt.

Amazingly, I did manage to make it to a toilet cubicle without anyone noticing, not even the toilet attendant due to my effective secret agent skills. There I sat on the bog for 10 minutes in my puke-soaked shirt while holding the toilet door closed (the lock was broken).

I reasoned that as soon as I returned to the club, I would be ejected from the venue for looking a state so I did the only thing available to me at the time. I washed my shirt in the toilet.

Try to imagine it, there I am stood on one leg while holding the door closed with the other, naked above the waist while washing my shirt in the toilet water. Toilet water is shit (no pun intended) by the way and it took me at least an hour to clean it, even when I made use of the flush. But clean it I did. The fact that people had been pissing and shitting in it all night didn't worry me at all.

When it was clean, I figured the attendant would be suspicious if I used the hand dryer, so I just put the soaking wet shirt back on and cooly wandered back out to the dancefloor. My mates hadn't even noticed I had left, bastards, and everyone just assumed I was really sweaty from dancing.

Ahhh, but my tale does not end here. While walking home at the end of the night I smiled to myself, satisfied that I had got away with my earlier shirt-washing. Suddenly, some coppers pulled over, claiming that I appeared to be trying to evade them (wtf?). So, I was quickly questioned (which involved me reading my details off my driving license since I couldn't remember my date of birth or where I lived).

The lady copper decided to frisk me and upon wiping her hands over my shirt she enquired as to why I was soaking wet?

"Foam Party" I quickly replied, which was a brilliant answer come to think of it. She figured I was no threat and sent me on my way never knowing that she had just wiped her hands in Cardiff's finest toilet water, haha (the fact I wore the shirt all night means nothing to me).

Hahahahahha

Sorry, I mean...I'm so ashamed :(





:D
( Regger, Sat 26 Nov 2005, 23:23, Reply)