which story do you want?
a friend (yes, a friend, i.e. not me) did this almost shameful, racist, homophobic, anti-equestrian thing a while ago. the story was relayed to me by my brother:

whilst around at another friend's house (whom i shall call friend sheena, and is, shall we say, not caucasian), my friend (i'll call damien) was having a laugh with another friend (james). at the house too, with sheena, james and damien, my brother and more of his mates, were two lady-loving-ladies. great.

now, rumours had abounded previously of our friend james enjoying the manlove. with a friend, who, again, name changed, i shall call pete. these rumours had abounded, but neither involved would say anything on the subject.

so, anyways, james and damien were having a laugh together. then james insults friend a (the insult has been lost to time, due to it's rubbishness), and my friend replies with possibly one of the best lines ever:

"yeah, well you sucked pete off like a c**n!"

two lesbians and a non-white in da house.
classic.
(No. 52, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 21:06, Reply)

Staying Alive
One news years eve, I once did the whole John Travolta dance from Staying Alive in front my mate's sister.

Who was stone cold sober.


Thankfully, she's either forgotten about it or has taken pity but my mates won't let me forget.
(tranmerefan, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 20:59, Reply)

I was just thinking
whilst reading the latest batch of posts, isn't it a shame that people who post later have less time to have their I like this button pressed, and therefore less chance of getting on the front page? Perhaps some sort of weighted average system where the later the post, each vote for it is worth propotionately more, would be appropriate.

Then I was ashamed at myself for thinking such patently banal and trite thoughts.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 20:21, Reply)

Spent all week trying to think of something good
And have failed miserably. But hey.

Still mildly ashamed of the incident doing the school Christmas play in first school (aged about... 5 or 6, at a guess). For some reason about half a dozen people were playing hula dancers, including me, and we had these yellow crepe paper wraparound skirts that had to be stapled before each performance. One day, we were all lined up waiting to go into the hall and do our thing, and the harassed teacher organising the whole thing comes and staples us in to our costumes... well, everyone except me. Someone distracted her just before she got to me, and we got sent on stage. I was far too shy and embarrassed to say anything, so I stook there and did my dance, keeping my hands firmly on my hips to keep this skirt on - until the teacher organising it gestures to me from the audience to do the arm movements, so what else could I do? I had to drop the skirt and do the rest of it in my knickers. I still live in fear that somewhere out there is a paedophile with a copy of the video shooting his load over me.
( useful_idiot, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 20:10, Reply)

'bout a month ago
Having a few too many and throwing up. On the top floor of a double decker bus at 3am. Infront of a dozen strangers. And then there were a few of my brothers old school mates.

Watching it trickle down towards the end of the bus wasn't pretty.

Oh God the shame...
(Graz Da Frog, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 20:08, Reply)

Harvest Festival
At school a friend and I were given permission to deliver a delicious bag of donated edible treats to the local elderly residents.

We ate all the nice chocolatey type things (and, as twelve year olds are wont to do, a packet of raw jelly). The old folk got tins of beans.
( The Helpful Bear, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 19:15, Reply)

The Summer Holiday Turd
I must have been around 17 at the time, it was my last holiday abroad with my family. We booked a nice 2 week holiday in cala forcat, Menorca. as I was 17 my parents allowed me to invite my best mate Jordan to come along so I had someone to hang out with.

Anyhow as expected we spent most of the time getting plastered and chasing women. Plenty of great stories to tell but the best and most shameful by far was my morning run.

Well it must have been around 6am I was feeling pretty rough from the night before, I'd only had a couple of hours sleep. Being a bit of a fitness junkie at the time I always went for a morning run before breakfast. Normally I'd clock up a good 5 miles regardless of what had happened the previous night. On this perticular morning I decided to run along the coastal road which ran along a rocky clifftop for about 3 miles end to end. this place was pretty much desserted and your rarely saw a single vechile pass alday. I'd only been running for about 10 minutes when this intense urge to shit came over me. So I'm up in the middle of nowhere and about to crap my self. The clifftop was basically completely flat land and i wasn't to comfortable with the idea of shitting there.
Then by chance I noticed a set of steps running down the side of the cliff face, it was like a blessing from god himself at this point. So nipping my ars together I crossed the road and made my decent down the steps looking for a nice spot to dump my load. I made it al the way to the bottom of the steps where I found what I can only describe as a small concrete jetty at sea level which loked like it hadn't been used in years. What a treat, the pressure was off, so i drop my shorts right in the middle of the jetty and produce the largest shit of my life. The smell was rancid even though it was outside, it had a rather smooth glossy finish which can only be achieved through a combination of san migueal larger and kebabs. So i jumped in the sea washed my ars and though i'd better head back for breakfast. I take one final look at my turd perfectly placed in the middle of the concrete jetty, a thing of beauty. so as i made my way back up the steps to the road i hear voices, the fear kicks in. so I continue making my way up then suddenly in front of me is a huge line of people making their way down the steps towards what i thought was a disused jetty. The guy at the front of the line smiles at me and asked if the tourboat had arrived yet, I just looked up at him and muttered "naa, not yet mate".
then I made my way past the rest of the line of people as fast as possible. Many of them giving me a smile or a polite greeting as i pasted there must have been at least 50 people. The jetty was so small they probably wouldn't all fit on it at once. the guilt and shame i felt was so bad i sprinted back to my apartment at record speed. all i could think of was what those people were thinking of me for doing a huge minging shite in the middle of a jetty.

I spend the following days of my holiday in hiding..... nice
(mad_dan Stilton or knob cheese ma'am?, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 18:50, Reply)

yay! vomit!
I never could get the hang of drinking any kind of beer rapidly. But an early experience is the best.

At a pub with my mates, aged about 16...After everyone else had necked their second pint, I was still only about a third down my first, and Akhmed told me thatif I didn't neck it in within a minute, he would, 'cause they all wanted to leave. I promptly guzzled it down as quick as anyone, and we got up to go.

As we were walking out, I felt the need to burp, and pursed my lips to do a comedy "ook" burp.

Only it wasn't a burp. A stream of semi digested chips mixed with beer flew out of my mouth, and landed on the brightly polished shoe of this six foot tall and 4 foot wide lump of muscle.

We legged it as fast as we could, and no-one ever told me to hurry with a pint again. Never went back to that pub again either.
(teasus likes tea, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 18:35, Reply)

A couple of years later, after a friend's birthday party
The headline from the Sudbury Evening News said it all:

LOUTS WRECK TOWN CENTRE
Drunken hooligans go on rampage

Actually I probably don't feel that much shame, as I have the original framed.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 17:13, 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)

New York City
My Big Brother (6 years older than me) came up to visit me while I was living in Manhattan. It was an excellent excuse for too much drinking...and we did. On the way home, after mixing Guinness with Jamieson's, I was a little confused as to the exact train to get back down to the Staten Island Ferry (yes, I lived on Staten Island when I first moved there and yes, I still feel the great shame of it).

After figuring it out, we boarded the NY City Subway to head downtown to the ferry and then home...I was tired...it was after 4am...and of course, we both fell asleep on the train. We missed our stop and I ended up being woken up in Brooklyn by a kind and concerned NYC Policeman...poking his nightclub in my chest(thank God thats the only place he poked that nightclub). I sprang to my feet (not recognizing the station) and asked "What train takes me to the Staten Island Ferry?" and the copper said "That train across the platform."

"Thanks" said I as I dashed across to catch the train which was preparing to leave the station.

"HEY! Arent you going to take your buddy?!" asked the nice Copper. "DOH!"

So I get my brother up and we just make the train.

At this point, people are heading to work in the City. We finally make it to the Ferry Terminal and board the boat for the ride to Staten Island. Of course, we both immediately laid our heads down on the benchs and slept for the 15 minute journey. When the Ferry docked, up I went and made my way to my apartment and went immediately to bed.

After about 45 minutes of blissful sleep I awoke, needing a drink of something and went to the kitchen, opened up my refrigerator and wondered: Why are there TWO half drank bottles of Coke in there? Then it hit me: I had left my Brother, who did not know NYC at all, on the Ferry.

The sprint to the ferry terminal was occupied by only one single thought: How on earth do I tell my Mom that I lost my Big Brother?

As far as I know, he is still on that ferry, sailing Happily, back and forth. Fortunately, the Staten Island Ferry sells beer.

Whenever I see the Staten Island Ferry in a film or on a news story, I cringe.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 16:41, Reply)

Running man
I couldn’t resist spreading a friends tale of shame from an ill fated morning jog. Whilst running merrily through one of the most posh Auckland suburbs Pablo* felt a rather disconcerting cramp form in his bowls signaling the dire need for a complete evacuation. Pablo firmly clenched and continued on, feeling a bit shaken and frantically looked for somewhere to dump his load. A short while later further cramping ensued and the jogging turned into a bizarre clenched/hunched walk. Just as his body gave it’s best impression of the Chernobyl power plant our copper-topped hero dived into the first available hiding place, number 222 Remuera Rd. As the two concrete walls and a closed garage door offered little shelter from the busy road just metres away, a vital decision had to be made, to give them the front or to give them the back.

Now under normal circumstances this would be a simple choice, to display ones rear in public may provide passers by with a touch of Sunday morning amusement, yet full frontal copper top would be far to much for our church going Sunday traffic to handle. But this, my dear reader, was not normal circumstances and as far as he knew the scene at the rear was absolute carnage. Pablo turned to face the road, took a deep breath and tore of his drawers, quick as a flash he cast his undergarments to the corner of the drive way knowing they had seen their last hoorah. He quickly inspected the damage to his outer layer, not insignificant by any stretch but better than what lay in a steaming pile amongst the golden autumn leaves less than three feet away. Sheepishly (and somewhat squishily) he jogged back out on the road, what more can he do but make for home and hope, hope that no-one notices that smear on his leg, plead that no-one looks down to his shoe to see a splattering of evidence. Traffic was much heavier now, numerous folk and their dogs are out walking oblivious to the terror that Pablo is going through. He darted from side to side of the road like a pinball as to come within 10 metres of another human or god forbid a K9 would mean certain damnation.

The journey home seems to take an age but by some freak of nature he makes it home unnoticed. Clothes, shoes included, undergo an intense hosing then are dumped into the wash, heavy cycle! After a very thorough shower fails to wash away the feeling of dirtiness, he washes his hands over and over again until the conclusion is reached that although hard to believe he must be clean. He brushes his teeth then washes his tooth-brush.

Finally he dives into the kitchen drawer and returns with a yellow plastic grocery bag. A new man, tarnished and broken, he sets off to collect what is his from old number 222.
* name has been thinly disguised in a rather feeble attempt to protect his identity.
Should I feel shame for laughing heartily at his misfortune? Ah well, next time maybe.
(toffee pop, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 16:39, Reply)

What is it about the youth of today......
.....that they all seem to have problems pissing or shitting themselves after one sniff of the barmaid's apron. My guess is that their parents didn't fit the electrodes properly during potty training.
( Spackweasel - because weasels get Downs Syndrome too, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 16:37, Reply)

Fight the ban!
"56% say keep hunting!" "Fight discrimination! Fight the ban". Every day as I went to Northampton, I was bombarded by these slogans. I am a rural boy (no jokes please) and am completely against hunting. It is foul, cruel and not fun! But I digress.
1st Novemeber, 2004: I discover that my parents have been invited to a bonfire party (because of whom they work with does business with) and have got me and a friend a ticket. "Woo yay!" thinks I and invite aforementioned friend, thinking it would be a good night out.
9th November, 2004 2 days to go: My parents come home and tell me that this firework party has been put on by the Countryside Alliance (absolute twunts). "No worries", thinks I and go back to drinking
11th November the night: I arrive at the place to discover it teeming with countryside toffs and "Fight the ban!" etc posters. I was absolutely mortified but went in anyway. A few beers and food will calm me down. I scrounge off these posh twats, drinking their foul beer (tastes like liquidised horse-shit) and their skinny pig. It comes to the fireworks. Cue little man (probably a proletarian forced into doing the Bourgeoisie's dirty work. Workers of the world etc.) 'Twas a good display, i'll give them that. After firework show, people start to drift towards the bar again (why?!) and I notice a group of 6 youths about my age fucking over some signs. "Go them!" thinks I and me and friend proceed to fuck over one sign. Then another. Whilst doing the second sign in, I feel a tap on my shoulder and a "Will you come with us please lads."
"Shit" thinks I, knowing the game is up. I trudge wearily to the office area to sit quitely with my friend to wait further bollocking. My parents show up looking very dissapointed and the owner, who doesn't look dissimiler to Hermann Goering, comes storming in, his small head aglow with anger and proceeds to completely bollock us because we had done over some of his signs before fucking off to count his money for the seventh time in the hour. Escorted off the premises. No shame whatsoever. In fact, the only shame I felt was at being caught and missing my oppertunity to say to the fascist cunt "Do you want the 40p now or in the post for your signs?"

Ever since, my parents have reminded me about this incident to make me play better at Rugby. It fucking works, I can tell you!


Funny how those other people didn't get nabbed. Maybe the Fascists didn't have the SS with them on that night?

Length? I couldn't give a toss
(The_Reaper, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 16:32, Reply)

Woopsie.
A friend of mine pulled a young lass after a night's heavy drinking. Waking up in the early morning he realised he had wet the bed with the young lady in it next to him. Quietly he got out of bed, changed into some dry underwear, and slipped back into bed.
He then gently roused her from her slumber and quietly informed her 'I think you've had an accident'. Mortified, the girl grabbed her clothes and left sharpish.

I suppose my shame is that I held court in the pub last weekend with this story. Sorry mate.
(frasermoo, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 16:22, Reply)

Oh Dear.
My friend Claire went for a smear test - when she got there she found not the usual female doctor but a rather handsome young chap which made her blush and stammer. He asked her to undress, hop on the couch and conducted the test. Once completed, and noticing her flushed face he suggested she was to get dressed. As she walked to her clothes she was very embarrassed to find with each and every step she let rip a big queef - or fanny fart as we used to call them at school.
The shameful part is that a week later I was drunk at a party and told all of her friends the story.
Sorry Claire.
(DrTugnut, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 16:15, Reply)

I think...
It's shamefull to pretend it can take 11 hours on a plane from New York to London...

(See niceandwarm's post below)
(HoBag (TM) <-- Fookin' legend, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 15:39, Reply)

Breaking up with b/f...
via AOL Instant messenger.
( Joliet, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 15:39, Reply)

My friend will kill me for posting this, but it's too good to waste
Last week she was on an 11hr flight in business class from New York to London. She's fine for a while, then suddenly she gets this wave of heat run from the top of her head to her feet, and the awful knowledge she's not feeling right.

The air steward spots her and aks if she's ok. My friend replies "yes, I'm fine, I just need to remove all my clothes" and proceeds to do so. Fortunately, the steward stops her before she gets to her underwear and suggests maybe the loo is a better idea.

She manages to get up and walk through the aisle, edging nearer the toilet, whilst all the suits nearby back away. She's SOOO close, has the door open, then falls, deadweight, into the cubicle. And smacks her chin against the edge of the toilet and her leg on the door.

So she spends the next 2hrs vomiting then dry-heaving whilst her chin bleeds everywhere. She finally presses the Assistance button to say she's in a really bad way, and when she sticks her bleeding, vomit-soaked head out to talk realises there's not just a huge queue of angry loo-punters, but there's also a strong smell of sick, as she suddenly remembers not quite making it to the loo, and throwing up the whole way down the aisle.

To add insult to injury, when the plane lands, passengers are told to remain in their seats so the sick passenger can be escorted off the plane. They bring in a wheelchair, and my friend, a true New Yorker, shouts "I am not getting in that. Just bring me a coffee". It's 'policy' apperently, and though she's put in the chair and wheeled off the plane, they stop in a recess in the plane tunnel to check her out, right where all the other passengers can stop, watch and point.

The thing that she said made it so shameful was that she was being treated in turn as a drunk, then diseased, then pregnant, then annoying woman. Which she's been at various stages of her life, but none of them on that plane.

Just air sick.
Sorry for length.
(niceandwarmandhot vive la résistance, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 15:34, Reply)

Who ate all the pies?
I did! Well one at least. The more I think about it, after this weeks and last weeks questions I realise what a rotten little kid I was. Like in J1 at primary school when my friend had a reading test and foolishly left her meat pie unattended. Now meat pies were a luxury lunch item as far as I was concerned, my mum very rarely gave me lunch money to buy one so this was irresistible to me. Just a quick little taste here and there, and before I knew it I was scarfing down the whole pie like a half starved dog. Oh how she cried when she got back.
And that is just the tip of the iceberg of my shameful stories.
I'm going to go sit in the corner now.
(toffee pop, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 15:04, Reply)

I have no shame, guilt OR chance of redemption BUT !
older brother goes into bushes for a leak, comes back and asks me for the keys to the boot. why, asks I. just fookin give me the keys, says he.

I give him the keys. he goes to the back of the car, I give it a minute, jump out of the car and in one leap I'm at the back of the car in time to see my brother cleaning himself up after badly following through in the aforementioned bushes. later, in a club, I told some bird he was mithering that he'd shat himself earlier that day. HA!

oh, and some bloke called patrick leaving a cub early and everyone coming back and catching him post e unconcious with his little floppy weener in his hand. bless
(sham-il-eer-tak-tak noes better but still can't give a fuck at, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 14:53, Reply)

yay!
stusut's back!
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 14:33, Reply)

Dusky
I suffered the belt like an Eskimo suffers the cold. Father brought the leather down again, hot now from the force with which it had been striking my behind, again and again and again with a crack, thwack, badack! I had stopped crying out. I had ceased to curse. The agony simply couldn't get any worse. It had levelled off like a plane of pain flying in the rain. Again. The bane of my life, that belt. A Celtic cross of embossed steel I could feel from the buckle of the belt wrapped around his knuckles as he pelted my hide yet again.

"You have brought shame on this family once more!" bellowed Father as he flailed wildly with the belt in one hand and pure rage in the other. "Your mother is devastated! You've created such a mess! Now confess to your sins or I'll thrash you asunder! No wonder my hair is receding!"
"I won't start pleading," I told him, "for mercy because there're no laws against what I have done! It's not dirty!"
"She's black!" he replied. "She's as black as the night and I'm right when I say that that's wrong! You're a Yorkshireman, Stu, and you have Yorkshire blood so don't mix it with blood black as mud! That's no good!"
"Father, would that I could," I retorted, then snorted, "she's pregnant!"
"No!" Father cried. "Have it aborted!"
"I can't!"
"Yes you can! I knew you'd cause a stink. I could smell it last year when you brought home that Chink!"

And with that, I felt leather across my young face. The scar was permanent: an everlasting reminder of my shameful jimmynudgery with exotic ladies or, as Father likes to call them, duskyfucks.
(stusut79, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 14:15, Reply)

Ashamed. The venue was..
My grandmother's funeral.
Well, the wake anyway.
The reason for shame:
I pulled my slightly retarded cousin.
Another cousin discovered us going at it.

I am still shunned by some family members.

Good shag though.
( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Wed 30 Nov 2005, 13:42, Reply)

THIS
To help out a 'friend', I agreed to make up the numbers at a local Conservative Party where the drunken candidate was hosting a drinks party.

I am NOT a tory. I was, at the time, art student scum, with a strong history of liberalism and protesting (= teenager). I had to be polite and curteous to a drunken Thatcherite who kept trying to grab my tits.

This is the most shameful thing I have ever done.

However, I made myself feel better by throwing canapés at the portrait of Maggie when no-one was looking, and was being paid £50 to be there.
(niceandwarmandhot vive la résistance, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 13:32, 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)

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)