Act of God!
We live on a cul-de-sac on a typical 60's housing estate, it's a great place to live, the dozen or so kids are not glue sniffing ASBO's, and if there is a party the neighbours won't complain as the chances are that it is them seeing who can trampoline onto the garage roof or whatever while pissed at 3am. Its a bit like Neighbours, but without Harold Bishop. Everyone gets on well with each other.....apart from one childless couple who are known locally as 'The moaning cunts'.

The woman is the worst. She once called the police as 'the children keep riding their bikes all day long on the road' - not on the pavement or anywhere, but up and down the close! She was told it was not actually an offence to ride a bike on a public road, and to stop wasting their time. (She has a friend she told this to, who also knew one of the mothers, who couldn't wait to tell her)

This summer, on one of the few hot days, the kids decided to have a water fight. Within minutes, she was out, gobbing off.

(Details provided by my 12 year old daughter)

'If you don't stop that right now I'm calling the police. Look at the mess you have made in the road, it's all wet. And.....OH MY GOD...... YOU'VE WET MY GARDEN WALL!!!!'

At that point she went bright red and looked about to cry.

Also at that point, my neighbour, a copper no less, also appeared from his garage with his hosepipe and squirted the road for a few seconds. (Turns out he was actually planning on drenching the kids for a laugh, but she came out just before him, so he stayed hidden)

'There, i've just wet the road too, are you going to bollock me as well, or are you only able to use threatening behaviour to minors?'

This had the desired effect of making her rapidly shrink down in size and look suitably sheepish.

Killer comment - well that came from a 9 year old girl.

'You know when it rains, do you rush outside and shout at God for wetting your wall?'

Exit one moaning cunt, feeling totally stupid for not thinking her complaint through, and a dozen kids at high speed to tell their parents the good news.
(turtles head is touching cloth poked a dwarf on the forehead at, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 15:30, Reply)

Shop monkey
Little Hitlers of the world unite! Though many people would consider being a supervisor (not even a manager) in a small convenience store at the age of 40 as evidence of a failed existence, they'd be wrong.

For they get to bollock young adults on a daily basis simultaneously allowing them to vent their frustrations at how inadequate they and their little life truly is. I don't mean to be needlessly vindictive in saying this but I once worked a till in a shop part-time to make ends meet so I could buy some food and beer. I didn't do it so I could be the butt of unwarranted abuse.

The specific answer I have for this question of the week is not the time I got shouted at but when my superviser did :D

I was the only person on the shop floor while my evil troll of a superviser was back in the office counting money/having a fag/scratching herself.

Cardinal rule #1: never leave the till when you're the only member of staff in the shop.

Customer comes in asking where the talcum powder is.

"Back of the store, up the ramp."

"Where aboots?"

"I'll show you."

The store is completely empty, no other customers around and the front door has a little buzzer so that if someone else comes in I'll be able to hear. I decide to leave the till and show the guy where the talc is.

"That middle shelf there."

At this moment the troll beast has decided to waddle out of her cave.

"You've left the till unguarded! Anyone could have come in here and... blah blah blah."

Now I'm not a moron, I know *why* we don't leave the till but I made a judgement call to be helpful to a customer when I thought the risk of theft was non-existant.

But for whatever reason, I now have to endure a shouting match explaining basic concepts to me which I've already heard before. She's well into the third minute of this when the customer comes to the till to purchase his item. The lecture continues apace with me completely unable to respond as I'm just a shop monkey and easily replaceable. Any subordination and I could be given the sack (or have my weekly hours reduced to 0).

The customer however is not a victim of this strict regime and addresses the hobgoblin thusly:

"What's a matter wi you ya miserable bitch? Your boy only showed me where ma fuckin' talc wiz. Did your man no' gie ya one this morn'?"

Her jaw drops and I bite my tongue trying not to laugh as I hand him his change.

"An' wan more thing. You shouldnie discipline him in front o' customers. Dae ye ken nothin' aboot running a store?"

:D

She turned beetroot red in embarrasment and immediately started to stack some magazines in silence out of my sight.

I carried on for the rest of my shift smiling on the inside in the glow of a small victory.
( djtrialprice, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 14:01, Reply)

I told someone off once
I was crossing the road at some traffic lights a while back. The driver at the front of the queue used the following technique.

1. Stare at the lights, only the lights, not around the lights, stare at the lights.
2. Accelerate hard on the ‘O’ of orange.

I had enough time to think ‘fu..’ before a I was on his bonnet and then as quickly dumped back on the road when he braked. Brilliant I thought as a stood up and inspected my cut hands...but I wasn’t angry.

Stood in front of the car I looked at the guy, he stared back impassively no sign of an apology...I still felt calm.

I decided to get on with my day, I gave the guy a barley perceptible shake of my head and turned to go. I felt proud I’d managed to keep it tight.

A movement caught my eye, he was pointing at the lights. Then he pointed at the lights again and waved his finger at me, telling me off for being on the road when the lights turned orange.

Did I tell you about my anger issues? I have two emotonal states. Perfectly calm and angrier than the angriest person you’ve ever seen. It’s not a red mist, it’s a deep dark well, a pitch black elevator with the cables cut. A frightening descent to a place where I have no control.

Or much memory.

But on this occasion I was with a work colleague who was able to tell me later what I’d done.

In short the guy got a rather server telling off. Screaming incoherently I leapt round to the side of the car, opened the door, removed the keys and threw them in some bushes, dragged him out of the car. Still not making any sense very loudly, I slammed him against the car a few times, held him around the throat for a while and generally led him to believe he was going to die. Then I bellowed at him;

“WHAT DO YOU DO?”

“WHAT DO YOU DO?”

Five or six times

“YOU WAIT FOR THE LIGHTS TO CHANGE, CHECK THE WAY IS CLEAR, THEN YOU PROCEED”

And threw him to the ground. I was a hundred yards up the road before I properly came to. My work mate gabbling about the fella shitting himself and me going psycho and getting ‘highway code on his arse’.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Wed 26 Sep 2007, 14:59, Reply)

Tailgating
I was driving down the M11 very early one morning in my artic, far too close to the artic in front. I was tired, but it isn't an excuse.
Anyhoo, Plod lit me up and pulled me over. Instant acknowledgement of crime and fervent grovelling. He grunted, and then said this:

"Do you carry a picture of a loved one on you, sir?"

"Er, yeah"

"May I see it please?"

Hoick out piccie of LittleScars, who was about 3 then.

"Try and imagine the look on her face when she hears her daddy isn't coming home. Drive safely , Sir".

Size? I could 'ave crept down a mousehole.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Mon 24 Sep 2007, 16:45, Reply)

Not me but I really enjoyed dishing this one out
As I am a salesman (what's the difference between a salesman and a rep I hear you ask? About £20k/yr) I use the road system a LOT. One day a few years ago I was stopped on the slip from the M69 on to the M1 by the police. There were about 8-10 cars all stopped with 3 police cars at the front. I noticed while waiting that all of the cars were newish mondeo/vectra/passat types with single occupants all in suits. Sales types.
So! When the noddy PC arrived at my car I wound down the window. He stuck his head in and asked, very politely "Good morning sir, sorry for the inconvenience but, can I ask where you're going?" To which I replied, equally politely "no officer".
He appeared taken aback somewhat and said "pardon?".
The conversation went like this from then on
"No I won't tell you where I'm going"
"Sir I must ask you again, where are you going?"
"I'm not going to tell you"
After several rounds like this the Johnny-no-stars PC (I still have his collar number) went to get reinforcements.
Over waddled a Sergeant. Sergeant says "Sir, we require to know where you're going"
I replied "Unless you tell me why, I'm not going to tell you".
By this time quite a queue had formed behind me and something of an audience was earwigging.
Sergeant spoke on his taking brooch for a little while. A higher-ranking policeman turned up, somewhat younger than both coppers (and myself!)
"Be reasonable sir, we only want to know where you're going" said the young officer "and, if you'd take my advice and answer you'll get to your destination a lot quicker".
I calculated that enough of a crowd had formed by this time and, as I was out of the car by now, it was time to let them have it.
"RIGHT! You may ask my name and address. You may ask to see the documents for the car. You may ask to see my driving licence. However, as a freeborn Englishman on the Queen's highway going about my lawful business YOU MAY NOT ASK WHERE I'M GOING".
They appeared a tad crestfallen by this time. To add insult to injury I then said "Now are you going to tell me why I and all of these motorists have been stopped? Or am I going to call your Chief Constable?"
The three were standing like naughty schoolboys at this point.
One piped up (to glares from the others) "We're checking that you've budgeted enough time for your journey"
THAT. WAS. IT.
I replied very icily and loudly enough so that the other drivers could hear
"You mean to say that I and these other drivers are being held on suspicion of "driving with intent to speed"!?" "As far as I am aware there is no such offence officers and, unless you are going to arrest me, get out of my way". After scrutinising my documents and the car (4 days old)and finding nothing untoward they obviously decided that discretion was the better part of valour and were about to wave me on (I had all their collar numbers by now) As they trudged defeated to their cars, I wound down the window and as a final remark I said to the young ranking officer "by the way, as to taking your advice? I own shoes older than you!".
I could see him in the rear view mirror, shoulders slumped, with his two cronies giggling behind him as I drove away.
Cheered me up no end!







Hope they all die slowly of a lingering disfiguring and agonising disease. Twunts.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Mon 24 Sep 2007, 9:31, Reply)

fucking plod!
several years ago, while still living with my parents, i was going out with a boy i shall call arsehole, because he was one.
one night, arsehole and i were smoking some very fine weed by the train station, waiting for the last train. as we heard the train coming, arsehole passed the spliff to me and ran off to get the train.
i started walking home, enjoying my drugly goodness right down to the roach, which i threw into the gutter.
cue an horrendous screech of elderly rage from behind me: "you can't throw fag stumps there! my dog might eat them!" i turned around to see the wizened she-homunculus and her vile rat-faced hound(it was wearing a doggy coat and hat. stupid bitch.) glaring at me. "who do you think you are?" she yells, "children could pick that up and smoke it! you should be ashamed of yourself!"
being more than a little stoned, i decided that this harridan warranted an answer greater than the usual "sorry".
looking her squarely in the eye, i mustered every ounce of outraged dignity i had, and let rip.
"madam," says i, "it is hardly my fault if you cannot control your dog well enough to stop it eating cigarette ends. as for children, it is now 10.50 at night and they should all be at home. you, however, should be IN a home. please, take your poorly-dressed mongrel out of my sight before i eat it."
the look on her face was more than worth it. i left her spluttering with rage and continued on my way home.
i decided to walk through the park, which is very open and well-lit.
halfway through the park, however, i was rather surprised to see a car coming across the grass towards me. realising that it was a police car and that it was making a beeline for me, i decided to stop and wait for it to get to me. this seemed to infuriate the ginger plod therein, who had obviously been anticipating a chase. he slammed on the brakes and fairly catapulted himself out of the car, trying his best to look stern and officious.
this does not work with ginger hair.
"where do you think you're going?" he demanded. i had thought i was about to be pulled for scaring old women.
"home," i replied, pointing in the direction of my house.
"no you're not, you don't even live around here!"
this was a surprise to me, as i was fairly sure that i had lived there for over ten years.
"yes i do," i said, "i live at ** ******* street."
"you do not!" he roared, "i know the man who owns that house, he hasn't even got any kids!"
i took out my purse and produced my railcard. "then can you explain why my railcard says quite clearly that i do live there?" i asked.
"you cheeky little shit!" he yelled, white foam by now appearing at the corners of his mouth. "i'm going to follow you all the way there and then, when he says he doesn't know you, i'm going to arrest you for lying to a police officer!"
gotcha! thinks i. "feel free," i tells plod, "you're the one who's going to look foolish."
well, he did follow me. he pulled his car up right outside my house and got out. i had a key, but i wanted my parents to see and hear this, so i knocked. my mum answered the door. this was getting better and better. mum will not stand for bullying of any kind, especially from the police.
"mum, this policeman says i don't live here, and when i said i did and showed him my railcard, he called me a liar and said he was going to arrest me!" cue waterworks from me, as mother becomes irate to the point of steaming.
"HOW DARE YOU!" she screams at the cowering plod. "MY DAUGHTER IS NO LIAR! HOW DARE YOU HARRASS MY CHILD(i was 24) FOR NO REASON!"
plod is now attempting to stutter his apologies, but this does nothing to calm my irate parent, who demands his name and badge number. "you haven't heard the last of this, you can count on that!"
plod now makes his escape, his face redder than a baboon's arse. mum immediately phones the police station and demands to speak to a superior officer. after ten minutes of haranguing, my mother yells "my daughter had better get a full apology, or i'll press charges of harrassment!" and slams the phone down.
i got my apology. i've seen that ginger pig around the place a few times, he always makes sure that he fails to see me...

no apologies for length, i can take it.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sun 23 Sep 2007, 3:53, Reply)

Hospital Story
Ok, a few years ago, I went to Addenbrokes Hospital in Cambridge to have some kidney stones blasted out with Lithotripsy.

Lithotripsy involves you lying on a contraption which is essentially a cross between a sink and a bed whilst a fat man in thick child-molester glasses shatters your stones with ultrasound.

I arrived prompt for my appointment at 2pm, to be shown promptly at 4pm into the pre-med area. A plump nurse in black stockings and brogue shoes asked me to disrobe and put on one of those gowns that hospitals have which leave your posterior exposed to the elements. You're about to find out why they need to get to your bottom in a hurry when you wear one of those gowns.

Now, the Lithotripsy process is an outpatient one, and takes around an hour from start to finish, so they need to administer pain relief which will take effect quickly.

In short, they give you a strong painkiller in the form of a suppositary.

I was asked to lie down, turn to one side and being my knees up to my chest whilst stern matron shoved the lozenge up my chutney chute.

The trouble was, I had felt that I might need to pass a stool or two after the session had completed. Once the suppositary had been propelled up its trajectory that need turned to desperation.

I started to laugh.

"Are you ok?" she bellowed.

I couldnt answer, I was laughing too hard, and then my ringpiece gave way.
What I can only describe as a shit tsunami erupted from my brown knot, and in staccato fashion splattered her perfect whites.

This made me laugh even more

When the barrage subsided, she angrily scolded me for not telling her I needed to go to the toilet before she administered the medication.

There will always be a special place in my heart for Lithotripsy.
(Vic Flange, Wed 26 Sep 2007, 14:43, Reply)

Funny that this topic of the week should come up ...
February last year. I'm sitting in the bar, surrounded by mates (and women) who were lapping up my every word as I told brilliant joke after brilliant joke, not easy after 26 pints but then again, I've always been able to hold my booze like a hero.

A guy comes up to me, American accent I can hear. "I'm sure you hear this all the time," he says, "but you look just like George Clooney. I run an agency for body doubles, and I think it was meant to be." I didn't want to go, I'd worked hard enough as it is to become Creative Director of Apple UK, but then again the seven-figure salary offered was quite tempting.

We got over to LA in the morning. The plane we booked had broken down, but luckily I had just met Hugh Hefner - what a guy! - in the first class lounge. We hit it off instantly, and after a couple of drinks and manly jokes, he offers us a lift in his private jet. Carnage all over the place! I must say, my penis dined well that night. Anyhow, after bidding goodbye to the 16 Playboy bunnies that I 'entertained,' turning down no less than 6 offers of marriage, I get round to my first day of shooting.

'Shooting' was certainly what I did a lot of, seeing as George didn't turn up, and because all the sets had been booked and paid for, I had to fill in a whole day's work for George. Luckily, I could do my own stunts, as I had previously trained as a WWF wrestler back when they were based in Barnet, and also knew my way around a gun pretty well after my three tours of duty in Iraq. It was an action movie, as you can probably guess, but luckily there was also a scene where I got to do a certain Jessica Alba. She's shorter in real life.

From there, it got even more unbelievable, as director Steven Spielberg had been kidnapped by Islamic fundamentalists on account of him being Jewish. Why can't we all just get along? I, for one, am instantly best mates with every person I meet. Like Eminem, Nelson Mandela, Hillary Clinton and every member of the Arctic Monkeys, all of whom were involved in some way as I mounted an incredible rescue mission where my abrupt Northern manner and lessons I'd somehow learned in the pub proved their worth over and over again and everybody, even the Islamic fundamentalists, agreed what a fantastic guy I am.

I remain forever,

Legless.
(CerberaSpeedTwelve, Mon 24 Sep 2007, 23:56, Reply)

Misanthropic ex-workmate
This mate of mine has come up with some classy ways of telling people off. It usually happens on buses as well...

We were once waiting to get off a packed bus which was stuck in traffic, standing near the exit doors. A short, fat Burberry-clad woman tried to muscle past him into the tiny space remaining. Being the man he is, instead of letting her in, he used his body as a barricade between the door and the errant passenger. He turned round to her and said in the driest tone you can imagine "What ... are... you ... doing?". "I need to get off, innit!" she replied, whilst trying to squirm past him.

The reaction was instantaneous. He looked at her with dead, cold eyes and said "Actually, you only *need* to shut up and calm down"

This patronising rebuke was enough to make her stop pushing and wait behind him like a scolded child until the bus reached the stop some minutes later.

The funniest example I can remember was when our bus driver was tearing along the route like a rally driver. My friend really hates this, so at the next red light, he paced up to the driver and said (in his standard condescending tone) "Oi, 'mate', what... are... you ... doing? It's a bus, not a sports car"

The bus driver replied, irritably, "I'm the driver, I know what I'm doing"

His immediate response has become legendary amongst my friends: "No mate, if you knew what you were doing, you wouldn't be *doing* what you're doing."

The open-mouthed driver pondered this fact for a few seconds, then his head dropped as he suddenly realised that his entire career was shit. Then the lights turned green. The bus pulled away slowly and we enjoyed the rest of the journey in limousine-smooth style.

Mind you, he's been punched in the face twice on buses as well. I wonder why...
( chart cat has an itch, Thu 20 Sep 2007, 18:31, Reply)

golf twat
Oh yeah I'd forgotten about this..

I was walking across a golf course once (with public right of way) when a middle aged man screamed at me "get out of the bloody way you bloody idiot, can't you see we're trying to bloody well tee off here? Get lost!".

I marched straight up to him and said "Sir, if I wished to be yelled at by a clown wearing Rupert the Bear trousers I would visit a circus, not a park. Your choice of attire leads me to believe you may be blind, in which case you might be forgiven for not observing the signs indicating this is a public right of way. Otherwise might I suggest that you undergo an anger management course or keep your opinions to yourself, or the next time you will find yourself charged with assault and threatening behaviour. Good afternoon to you". With that I walked away, to the sound of his companions cheering, and my adversery red-faced and downcast in his wretched defeat.

Actually the truth is I called out "oh sorry!" and scurried past, but I had plenty of time to compose the above retort as I replayed the humiliating incident over and over again in my head over the following months.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 25 Sep 2007, 16:21, Reply)

You can bl**dy walk!
My mum has never been one for looking after cars. Combining her boot fair addiction and interest in plants the car normally looks like a rag and bone van. Think moss on the dashboard (I kid thee not).

As a driver myself (and not a particularly good passenger) its quite rare for me to ever travel with her. However one unforftunate day I was forced to accept a lift in the Red-Death-Mobile as my car had broken down. Thats when the fun started:

1.) Every time she braked the oil-light would come on.
2.) The steering wheel visibly shook side to side from a "coming-together" with a kurb.
3.) Speed bumps were taken at 40mph+ (think dukes of hazard stylee).
4.) She was not happy about going out of her way to collect me.

Being a male (read petrolhead) I decided it was only reasonable for me to let her know the dangerous faults with her car (and some of her creative driving habits). Oh boy... NOT a good idea.

Full-on hystrionics about how her driving was always good enough when I was a kid and wanted to go to a friends. The more irate she got the more faults I mentioned. After 2 minutes of throwing the car (even more) around she screeches to a halt in a side road screaming "GET OUT...IF ALL YOU ARE GOING TO DO IS INSULT MY CAR YOU CAN WALK!". We werent that far from home anyway so I decided it was probably safer.

The following memory will live with me forever:

I climb out and close the car door looking at a betroot-faced mum still fuming with rage. Tapping on the window she lowers it expecting an apology. With a smile on my face I then handed her back the door handle from the car.

Both of us cried with laughter and had to sit in the car for 10minutes to calm down before I drove the red-shed back home.
(skintagain, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 18:08, Reply)

Tequila
I hadn't worked in an office for very long when I had to attend a meeting at Eversheds, a big law firm. I was essentially there to make up the numbers and was instructed not to say anything unless necessary, and just smile politely.

Anyway the first thing I did was panic when a caterer put a plate of biscuits on the table. I picked up the plate and took a Rocky Robin, I'd never seen such a luxury biscuit at a meeting before, it was wrapped and everything. Remembering my manners I offered the woman sitting beside me one.

"Rocky Robin?"

She declined, but instead of leaving it at that I actually got up, and walked around the outside of the table of around 20 people offering each one a biscuit.

"Rocky Robin? Rocky Robin?"

When I eventually sat down someone said "OK.... perhaps can we start then?"
The meeting began, but a few minutes later the worst possible thing happened - I crossed my leg and set off my musical sock. I don't know if you've heard the tequila song, but its a really silly tune with someone shouting "TEQUILA!" over and over again.

The room fell silent and I pretended not to hear anything, but it just went on and on.
The woman in charge of the meeting said "Oh dear, can we have that phone off please?"
I said "I'm terribly sorry, its my sock, it should stop soon".
The woman said "your sock??", so by way of explanation I put my leg up on the desk and said "Yes. Father Christmas gave it to me".

This is slightly off topic as I wasn't told off, the people I was with who didn't win their contract were so pale with rage they just didn't speak to me for ages, but I've never been asked along to anything like that since.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 25 Sep 2007, 11:05, Reply)

Lost in translation
I received one of the worst bollockings of my life when I went to work in Japan for a 3 month project.

My company was paying for everything, which was great. Unfortunately, the serviced apartment they had provided didn't contain any consumables so I had to venture out to the shops to buy some on my second night in town. I didn't speak any Japanese but my then-flatmate in London had supplied me with some essential phrases to help me get by. For anyone who's been to Tokyo, you will know that often shop staff don't speak any English at all. He tipped me off that many English words had been 'Japanglified', so if in doubt, guess by adding a vowel to the end. For example, McDonalds is Mac-Donald-O. Simple!

I went to the closest store and spent ten minutes hunting around the myriad of products, all in identical garishly-coloured plastic bags and all with cartoon characters or alien symbols explaining what was inside. It was hopeless, so I approached a middle-aged shop assistant and, in my best attempt at Japanglish said... "Soap-o wa doko desu ka?", as I hoped that would suffice for “Where is the soap?”

She looked shocked, presumably at my poor language skills so I repeated it more slowly. She muttered something at me and then spun around and disappeared into the back of the shop as I was preparing for my third attempt.

Feeling knocked back, I went round the shop again thinking that I might have more luck this time. I didn't, and after another few minutes of fruitless searching I remembered I had almost no cash on me. Japan is a cash-based economy. Even large stores sometimes don’t accept cards, but I didn’t know where the ATM machines could be found. I went back to my favourite assistant again and thought about a suitable word for ATM. It certainly wouldn’t be “A-T-M-o” so I settled on looking for the bank instead. “Bank-o wa doko desu ka?” I asked the lady, as she glared at me in silence. Nothing. I asked it again but before I could finish she started shouting, nay screaming at me. She slapped my arms a couple of times and continued with the most amazing tirade for what felt like minutes as I stood prostrate and unable to respond, before finally she ushered me out of the shop and slammed the door behind me. I’d no idea what had just happened, but sensing defeat, I went back to my apartment soapless and cash-poor.

The next morning at work I told my Japanese colleagues this tale. They chuckled as I recounted the erratic behaviour of this clearly-mad woman when I merely needed some soap, then my friend Hanada-san explained what had happened. It would seem that in Japan there are various ways for disgusting Gaijin to entertain themselves, one of which is the bathhouse, known locally as the “Soap-land-o”. It’s essentially a brothel, and the local vernacular for these establishments is “Soap-o”. I’d asked an ageing woman shopkeeper for directions to a whorehouse.

I continued with the anecdote and they practically fell off their chairs when I got to the second part. My voice is a litte nasal at times, so my attempt to locate the bank with ‘bank-o” was mistaken for another Japanese word, ‘manko’. To all intents and purposes, after failing to get the address of the local knocking shop, I’d asked this middle-aged woman “Manko wa doko desu ka”. This translates to “Where is your pussy?” so naturally she must have thought I was desperate enough to try it on with her as well.

Ironically, the next day I ended up going for a slightly dodgy massage in Roppongi, originally intended to relieve my jet lag. It ended up including a complementary (and really rather excellent) ‘happy ending’ from the very sweet girl who was giving it, apparently because she liked the look of me. So I am a disgusting Gaijin after all.

It wasn't so much the length I should have apologised for, more the mess.
( chart cat has an itch, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 12:58, Reply)

nazi
Not too long ago my eldest lad was playing football in the street. The nearest park is too far away for him to go on his own in the current paedo epidemic.

The ball lands in old german bastards front garden so my lad walks in the garden and picks it up.

Cue the old fascist ,who had probably been waiting for this all day, to storm out of his house as though the football was some kind of jew egg and take the ball back into his house.

My lad knocks the door and politely asks for it back.

"you can have it back after i have put a knife through it" he screams as though he was asking for his papers at a checkpoint.

My lad is in tears and reports back to me with what has happened.

I do what any father would do and go round there to sort him out.

"if you are going to put a knife through that ball because it lands in your garden, I am will put a knife through your cat and nail it to your door the next time it shits in my garden"

That told him. Fucking german cunt. And we got the ball back.
(SPLUFFMYPANTS, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 16:44, Reply)

Escalators
Come on, we've all wanted to run up a down escalator haven't we? As a kid I was never allowed free reign to do this so it had to wait until a drunken stag night a few years back.

After a day of drinking, four of us bundled up such an escalator at some godforsaken tube station. Being quite fit I managed to make it up first, jolly pleased with myself, but unfortunately alerted the guard/gestapo type person who took exception. There was no way he was going to catch me so he stood at the top of the escalator waiting and tapping his foot expectantly.

Along comes Geoff, who hasn't ever seen the inside of a gym and has 8 pints of kronenburg sloshing around his innards. Looking decidedly red faced Geoff is pounding up the stairs as fast as he can go. By the time he reaches the top, he's a pallid, grey colour and receiving a bollocking which is rudely interrupted when Geoff boffs up all over the guard's shoes.

Nice!
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 20 Sep 2007, 19:16, Reply)

Drink! Theft! JCBs! Disappointment! Celibacy!
I can, on prima facie evidence, be described as an adult. I hold down a semi-responsible job, I'm a father, I wear suits (and these days not just on court appearances), I own a house and these days rarely have cause for concern answering the front door.

This evidence however, while accurate, is totally misleading. There are a lot of incidents that have got me told off since turning 18; a succession of policemen, parents, magistrates, partners and bosses have looked at me with that exasperated, angry and disappointed expression in their eyes.

Particularly memorable tellings off have included the threat to ban me from the business park's car parks after Rob and I caused destruction of a grass verge and a number of flower beds while racing (neither of us would give way on a narrow corner). The end result was speed bumps every fifteen metres.

Another memorable telling off was from my girlfriend when she discovered that the people she'd heard about on the news, racing and crashing JCB's on a building site, were me and my mate. The police were looking for the culprits, and my girlfriend mentioned how disgusting it was. Then she looked at us. Danny and I were sitting there, smirking and a little proud to have been on the telly.

The night before I was drunk. Drunk beyond belief, and in the company of my mate Danny. Danny, while a good friend, was a catalyst for trouble. We met at KFC, where we worked, and the next year we left a trail of destruction, offence and hurt feelings. This particular evening we left the pub, staggering somewhat, and on the way home we saw a building site.

Now, despite the impression you may have, I was brought up as a reserved middle class boy and consequently had never played on a building site. Therefore, when Danny and I were walking home and saw a lonely, deserted and slightly spooky construction site I felt compelled to climb the fence and have a play. It took a while, and ruined our clothes, but we made it over the fence and began to look about. I climbed some scaffolding and then disaster struck.

Danny noticed that the JCB's and other earthmoving vehicles had been left with their keys in the ignition. Lightbulbs went off in mine and Danny's heads simultaeneously.

"Let's hide the keys!" said Danny.
"No. Lets get a vehicle each and race them!" I replied.
"That idea is much better than mine!" said Danny.
"Isn't it just." I concluded.

So we did. Danny picked a tractor unit, and I picked a digger. We hadn't realised how hard it would be to control them, so as we drove, we learned. Or didn't. Danny crashed into the perimeter fencing early on, abandoned his vehicle, and leapt into my cab, pulling randomly at the myriad levers. Swearing and throwing the odd punch at him, I gradually discovered he was bent on destruction; certainly the vehicle., possibly the pair of us. Suffice to say that after a corkscrew of turns we ended up dumping the digger in the foundations.

Oops.

As we stumbled from the cab, we heard sirens moving towards us, and we shit ourselves. In an uncharacteristic display of co-ordination and sense we legged it, almost hurdling the fence in our terror.

We took refuge beneath cars in the adjacent forecourt, and to our lasting amazement weren't found.

However there was a bit on Look North the next day, describing the thousands of pounds cost in damage and delays. We were red faced and sniggering and my girlfriend got cross; she queried the sort of man she was dating, invoked the disappointment I was bound to be to my parents, described the risks we had taken and all in all spoke constantly for about 45 minutes.

I have never felt so much like a 7 year old boy. Well, not since I was 7 anyway.

I got no sex for some time, and it took a lot of cooking and cups of tea before she even began to thaw.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Fri 21 Sep 2007, 9:46, Reply)

i went
to a christmas party when i was about 14 at my friend's aunt's house. they have a huge scarlet macaw (which has actually been on tv in a coffee advert in the past) called pedro. i did not know about pedro's existence at the time.

their house is lovely, but it's very old and split level. i was a bit drunk on illicit mulled wine and had wandered around looking for the bathroom. eventually i found the aunt and uncle's bedroom on the top floor, and decided to use their uber-luxurious ensuite.

washing my hands, i was awestruck by the incredible array of cosmetics. chanel. bobbi brown. estee lauder. elizabeth arden. lancome. they were all there. knowing it was really rude and naughty, but unable to resist, i chose a lipgloss from the jostling throng and leaned forwards to steal some with trembling hands.

"what are you doing? what the hell do you think you are doing?" a man's voice boomed out from behind me. shat myself? it's a good job i was in the bathroom. i turned around slowly, only to find that the parrot had been hidden away in the bathroom so he wasn't all disturbed and upset by the party.

"put that down!" he concluded beadily. don't tell me those damn birds don't understand every word they say...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Mon 24 Sep 2007, 16:59, Reply)

told off for not sleeping with a prostitute
For a while (1997?), I taught English in ******. It was a shit job, really. For the first time in my life, England had hope; I had a series of disappointing love affairs to obsessively brood over, three friends (two of whom are now dead) and a habit of drinking upwards of a bottle of cheap gin a day. My clockwise youth was disappearing down the plughole – a mixture of waste, dirt and dead skin – and all I had infront of me were blurry days, kidney pains and mournings of reluctant waking, the spray from the flush of the toilet like ocean spray on my nau-seas, ugly face.

One lonely evening, the bored moon sitting there, just fucking sitting there and shining on us with its fake smile, all around the city the soft sounds of love, boredom and domestic abuse fell like ash on skin. My friend Kev and I decided that sitting around in a hot flat sweating the afternoon’s gin out was not the way to be spending our lives. We were bright, young things. Men about town.

We decided a night on the town. We lived around the embassies, alas ******* being the administrative capital, there was not much “town” to do anything in.

So we stocked up on smokes, gin and brazil nuts and headed out. Now, at this point I should say we were drunken. We walked around the quiet streets, the tips of our cigarettes struggling to stay aflame in the mugginess of the night. There was gin and then there wasn’t. Locals had boasted to me that man had started his migration to Europe from here. It was easy to see why. There was fuck all else to do.

Even drunks get bored, so when we saw one single blurry neon light – we investigated. Turns out it was a police station. The virtual civil war that had gripped the country made the young policemen nervous and (in my opinion at least) rather over excitable. We were “invited” in by the apprehensive man with a gun. A rather terse conversation was enlivened by my friend remembering the name of the chief of Police to whom he taught English. The police Volted Their Face and became overly friendly. “A bar?” of course. So they bundled us into the armoured riot van and took us “downtown” (read: The Slums). I still remember the sound the long, stained wooden truncheons made as they swung against the side of the riot van. They sounded like the fingernails of someone you don't trust drumming on your teeth. We were deposited outside a brothel. The outside was full of fat men with thin wallets and thinner smiles. They saw us getting out the riot van. And they saw the police talk to the greasball owner. And then they saw the police give us a cheery wave and get back in the van, and leave.

“We don’t go to the toilet alone” said Kev. His adroitness indicated knowledge of behaviour in a wider range of social situations than me and I was confidenced. A sort of kevlar to protect my own piss weak, knock kneed, jellyfish bitter, stung-sore soul. If you like.

Now, I will never sleep with a prostitute. I, I just won’t. So when the brothel owner sent over two prostitutes (one with a black eye which choked me up so much I had to pretend inability to take the harsh smoke from the local cigarettes) and two large drinks, I was more than happy to drink the drink but there would be no way that I would sleep with the prostitute.

As Kev went off with the other girl, I told the girl this, who, with fear in her one good eye, went and told the owner.

Apparently, this was a grievous insult. So over waddled the owner. I was berated in a language I barely understood by a fat, balding lump of grease. He was so angry he sweated into his expensive suit, waving his arms around. Every time he lifted his arms, I could see a gun in a holster. I didn’t ask, but I doubted it was a replica.

I knew nothing of the culture. (“I am sorry”)
I knew nothing of manners. (“I am sorry”)
I was no English Gentleman, I was a ****. (“I am sorry”)
I had to stand there, shivering with fear.
I stared at my shoes.
I agreed with him.
I adopted submissive body language.
Every step I took backwards caused him to take two forward. I backed into a table, the edge digging into me just below my buttock.
The spittle from his voice showered my face. The last water to land there had been spray from the flush of the toilet as I'd vomited last night out this morning. I didn't dare rub it away. His teeth were crooked and the blackness between the rotten gaps was tainted red with anger.
I’d insulted his hospitality (“I am sorry”)
If I told the police that I’d refused a prostitute they’d close him down (I won’t I won’t).

And I took it all. In the end I sat on my own and waited for Kev. When Kev came down, the bastard put his arms around him and Kev said what a great fellow he was. The bastard told him he was welcome anytime. As we walked out, I ignored the stares of the men, and tried to keep Kev between me and the bastard in case his hair trigger temper went again. That bastard is doubtless still alive while Kev is dead. But I don’t care. In the end, we all fail. And that bastard will get his.
(sirolimus, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 16:39, Reply)

Farts! Wives! Shops! Disgrace!
I decided to go out. Long story short, did a lot of coke and a fair few pills. And was horribly pissed. I was out all night, got an hours kip, and consequently had a whole variety of noxious gases fighting one another for release.

I gamely held them in, but I was becoming more bloated by the second. Eventually the pressure became critical and a fart that had been brewing for hours was released.

It was a warm, cosy experience lasting whole seconds, and was blessedly silent. It was just bad luck that I happened to be in the downstairs of a particularly small and over populated shop.

I eased my way around the room, distancing myself from the scene of the crime. Then it started. People began to migrate towards my side of the shop discussing the smell. Some started discussing a potential drainage problem. Seconds passed and if anything the odour intensified as it wafted towards us.

My missus, recognising it as one of mine (partially because I was trying to suppress a grin), gave me a filthy look and left the store, hotly persued by every other customer, all looking around to see who had perpertrated this horific crime. I was trying to look equally insulted by the pong but all the time I was biting my cheek to prevent myself laughing and was feeling rather proud of myself.

Outside the shop I began to laugh, nearly weeping.My missus, less impressed, was very annoyed and embarrassed.

And that is the story of how I cleared an entire shop just by farting.

Oh, and as a post script, I did exactly the same 20 minutes later in a jewellers. I was sent home in disgrace and spent the entire evening chuckling.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Fri 21 Sep 2007, 14:10, Reply)

Talking stick...
That pen thing reminds me of when I worked in the NHS. Fuck me, what a bunch of easily offended lefties that lot are.

Whilst at a rather heated meeting where everyone clearly didn't want to make a decision for fear of offending anyone else I got told "look, I have the pen its my turn to talk. It's your turn to listen. We have all been patient and listened to you so please be quiet and respect my time"

To which I replied "I earn twenty grand more than you so my gold fucking plated fountain pen trumps your plastic biro now make a fucking decision or we will all be here till Christmas"

I have never seen so many women so shocked. One ran off in tears, several hugged each other and one gave me a stern lecture on womens rights and how I was a male abuser.
(Mong The Merciless Older not wiser, Thu 20 Sep 2007, 22:04, Reply)

Waltzing Junior Certs...
Not quite an adult yet, but last week our fuckwit English teacher launched into one of her numerous rants against us.

"...disgraceful...would you act like that at home...what would your parents think...you can't just come waltzing in here..."

So, the next day, we all took partners, and casually waltzed into her English class.
(bad touch, Sun 23 Sep 2007, 21:44, Reply)

I got my mate told off
In my mid twenties I had to go on some tedious and insufferably dull youth worker training about how to recognise if kids are being abused. At some point, after a hugely annoying extended question and answer session, we all had to do an exercise where we circle three words from a couple of dozen on a piece of paper that describe how we feel at that moment.

God alone knows why, but one of the words was "Turned on" so I lent over to my mate and circled it on his sheet. This caused him to break into a loud snort followed by a badly stifled snigger.

Then the woman leading barks across the room "Are you laughing at the back? Thats outrageous, Child abuse is a serious subject and shouldn't be treated at all lightly, you should be ashamed of yourself" Everyone turns to look at my mate, who's gone the colour of a lobster, convinced we've got some sicko kiddie fiddler chuckling with glee in the room.

I was lucky to get out with just a dead arm.
(Baggypants - The Trousered Avenger, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 21:43, Reply)

I wish it could be Christmas everyday (not)
I left the office to join 2 of my work colleagues for a sneaky liquid lunch. The pub was full of office workers as usual, but despite it being a hot summers day, the jukebox was playing "I wish it could be Christmas every day" by Wizzard. I assumed it was on random and made my way to the bar.

I got my pint and joined John and Mike at their table. They were sat giggling in a very conspiratory way, "What’s going on?" I asked. Mike managed to stop giggling for long enough to say; "Bob the barman gave us some free credits for the jukebox, we've put 'I wish it could be Christmas everyday' on about twenty times in a row"

I'm amazed we didn't get lynched. The first few times it was funny (sort of), but soon you could hear the discontent of the pub crowd. Just as one rendition ended everyone would go quiet hoping it wouldn’t start up again, but as sure as day follows night, it would start up again "Oh when the snowman brings the snow, Oh well he just might like to know..." to the cries of "Oh for fucks sake!" and "Which twat keeps putting this on?!"

I lost count of how many times it played before Bob the barman came out from behind the bar and turned the jukebox off to the cheers of the crowd. He stomped up to our table and berated us, "DO YOU THINK THAT WAS FUNNY? I TRUSTED YOU WITH FREE CREDITS AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME. I WONT MAKE THAT MISTAKE AGAIN".

I will never forget the sight of 2 men in their early twenties dressed in suits mumbling apologies to Bob and then grinning at each other when he walked away. I guess you can take the troublemaker out of the school but you can't take the school out of the troublemaker.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 16:38, Reply)

Respecting the law
A while back I was cycling home from my then girlfriend's house one Sunday morning and took a short cut through town.

My detour took me down a flight of steps, which I rode down pulling a wheelie. However I was stopped in my tracks by a policeman who promptly bollocked me about my anti-social cycling, much to the amusement of the kids walking past.

I'm 33.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 20 Sep 2007, 17:35, Reply)

Uni-farcity tom-foolery.
Sainsburys in Huddersfield had (at my time at the university) a large revolving door.
We had a the munchies and took our bikes to the store.
The carpark was for some reason, filled with chavs, so we opted not to leave our uninsured steeds outside.

The checkout girl didn't bat an eyelid as 3 of us pedalled up to the checkout and each bought a packed of doughnuts.

The Security bod however got all upset.

He lectured us for a bit until one of the lads pointed out that "Actually, there's no sign to say no bicycles"

We also used to wind up the fella who ran the multi-story carpark by racing up and down the levels on our bikes. Onedayhe even called Plod .. We were expecting them when they arrived abd each had a half-hour's worth of Pay'n Display sticker on our bikes.

We explained that we were legally paying customers wondering where to park our vehicles. Plod giggled, Carpark attendant fumed.

When he explained that there were no places for bikes, we demanded a re-fund... I've never seen 2 bobbies enjoy themselves so much.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Wed 26 Sep 2007, 14:23, Reply)

Are you sure you want to send that?
Not long after starting work I ended up on the IT desktop support team, which involved looking after the trading floor for the bank. It took me a while, but I gained the trust and respect of the fickle teams I supported by keeping my promises, fixing important things quickly and having a sense of humour.

Unfortunately, my reputation was almost destroyed by one click of the mouse.

When I started out-of-hours support, I received a pager. Contained in the box was the device itself and a printed sheet with two similar phone numbers on it. I thought it would be prudent to test it so I logged in to Vodafone's website, entered my name --big mistake-- then sent a test message to myself with a cheery reminder (“Don't forget Andy's birthday!"). There was no 'Are you sure?' message, no warnings whatsoever, it just sent it. I was impressed by the fluidity of it all…

…until about five seconds later, when I heard beeping behind me. Then to the left, then to my right, forwards, in the distance... then phones started going off all around me. It was like the final scene of Lawnmower Man, when all the phones in the world start ringing simultaneously. "Who's Andy?" asked my colleague. Oh crap.

As I was based on the trading floor, I had a dealerboard phone with 40 lines. They started lighting up quickly, then my boss raised his furrowed brow over my screen, grinned nervously and whispered "chart cat, do you realise what you just did?"

I'd paged the entire' Priority: RED' distribution list. This is reserved for disaster management so it included the entire management team for the bank, the board of directors, head traders, front, middle and back office and the IT department. Worldwide. Around 3,000 VIPs in total.

Suffice it to say that I spent most of the morning and afternoon fielding phone calls from high-ranking, irate people who wanted to know who this Andy figure was and why I was abusing the alert system. One director in New York called me to complain that I'd woken him up for nothing, another in Singapore called to tell me how I'd ruined the expensive dinner he was enjoying with his wife. One chap sarcastically wished Andy all the best and offered to send him a ‘present’. I felt dreadful; my fledgling career looked like it was in ruins just because Vodafone didn’t distinguish distribution lists from personal numbers, or provide any kind of warning on its website. Then my mates got wind of the situation and began prank-calling me, which was exactly what I didn't need.

After about 5 hours of apologising and being made to feel very small indeed, interspersed with my friends doing their best to make me feel even worse, I'd had enough. I picked up the phone for what felt like the millionth time and on the other end was one of my mates, again, this time pretending to be the head of Global Data Centres. He'd made up some ridiculous name and was speaking with a particularly ludicrous voice, so I gave him a piece of my mind using as many swear words as I could cram into the rant as possible.

Sadly for me, it really was the head of Global Data Centres. I frantically checked our group directory and lo' and behold, I was talking to the top IT manager for the company. I’d called him a stupid, feckless cunt and insisted he stop wasting my time. To his eternal credit, he took my disgraceful, provocative and seething gross misconduct unbelievably well and told me to be careful who I spoke to in future, as other managers might not be so forgiving.

From that day forwards, I was known as 'Pager' until I switched roles (hooray for graduate training programmes!).
( chart cat has an itch, Mon 24 Sep 2007, 12:39, Reply)

Mindless vandalism and nudity (not at the same time)
Both me and the missus have been told off recently.

Mine was on one of the few sunny days this summer. A mate of mine asked me to look after he 6 year old daughter while she went shopping. The kid is a quiet, arty type so I didn't mind at all. Since it was a lovely day and I didn't fancy being indoors, I stopped on the way to my mate's house and bought a box of coloured chalks. I then went to my mate's, took the kid out into the cul-de-sac they live in, gave her the chalk and told her to go for her life. She spent a happy afternoon decorating each paving slab with pictures of flowers, smiley faces, the sun etc. I read a book and got a tan.One of my mate's harridan neighbours spots this artwork and goes completely fucking tonto at me, claiming it was mindless and wanton vandalism and that she would be calling the police. She ranted at me for a good 10 minutes, even calling me "young man" (I'm 30). I continued reading my book. Once she had finished ranting and headed back indoors, my mate's kid drew a great picture of a witch on her drive with an arrow pointing towards her front door. I bought her an icecream.

My missus has been told off a number of times over the summer, in the changing rooms of the gym for getting her piercings and tattoos out in front of other women's kids. She merely tells them that they should fuck off to the familly changing rooms if they are offended by them. Normally in those words.
(ScousersPet, Mon 24 Sep 2007, 11:11, Reply)

I've often wondered if I'd make a good headmistress.
Back when I was just finishing my undergraduate chemistry degree, we had to give a presentation on the year-long lab project we'd been working on in front of the rest of the department. Being a girly swot, I'd worked pretty hard all year and had done what I thought was a rather nice piece of work. I put together my overheads (pre powerpoint days, which makes me feel older than you can possibly imagine) and prepared well for the day of the presentation.

I'm a fairly confident public speaker and I don't use notes when I talk as they just distract me so I had all the information clear in my head before I got up to talk. I was about third from last in my group and we were running late. So much so that the next group who were due to present in the lecture theatre were hanging round outside the door.

I made my way up to the lectern, put on my first overhead and began to speak. As I relayed my carefully worded introduction, I became aware that the group of students outside the door were getting noisy. I raised my voice slightly and carried on. About three overheads in, the noise had risen to the level where I was having to compete to be heard and the worst of it was I could clearly pick out the dulcet tones of one of our senior professors at the centre of it all. I glanced over to my supervisor, giving him a pained look. He shrugged; he was stuck at the far end of a row and couldn;t get out. the rest of the staff were either oblivious or shifting nervously in their seats.

It eventually got to the point where I couldn't concentrate and, because i had no notes, I was starting to lose track of what I was saying.

"Bollocks to this," my little internal voice said...

I stopped talking. I then stepped down from the platform, walked to the door, took a deep breath and opened it. It took a moment for the gaggle of undergrads outside to notice me but when they did, it didn't take that much longer to register the rage on my face. The prof had his back to me. As the students quieted, he exclaimed "what?", then turned round to be greeted with me standing in the doorway, arms folded. The was a look of confusion on his face then he saw the empty lecturn and the lecture theatre full of open mouthed students. I stepped to one side and gestured for him to come in, which he did.

I made my way silently back to the lecturn and very deliberately waited for him to settle in his seat. I then, icy cold, uttered the words,

"Professor Smith, may I continue?"

He nodded and without missing a beat I finished the talk. The whole incident took less than 30 seconds but I felt like I'd been there for about 2 years. I went back to my seat, shaking like a shitting dog and caught my supervisor with his head in his hands, torn between horror and hysterics.

I excused myself pretty quick smart after the talks were over and managed to avoid Prof Smith for the last two weeks of term.

And I got an A for my project. *beams*

Length? 10 minutes, plus 5 for questions.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 13:53, Reply)

You are about to enter another dimension, there's a signpost up ahead - your next stop, the Twilight Zone!
Consider the case if you will: Colonel Dracula, a 30 year old chartered accountant is about to be rudely awoken on this dreary work-day morning by the ringing of his bedside telephone:

Me: "Urghhhhello?"

Caller: "It's your mother"

Me: "Mum? It's really early...OH SHIT WHO'S DIED?!"

Mum: "Your tea towels are disgusting!"

Me: "What?"

Mum: "Your tea towels"

Me: "My what?"

Mum: "They're disgusting"

Me: "For fucks sake mother, I was asleep..."

Mum: "Don't swear at me"

Me: "Sorry Mum, look I was asleep and I now have to get up for..."

Mum: ..."it's not good enough you know, your tea towels are disgusting!"

Me: "Mum, I’m a grown man..."

Mum: ..."That's NO excuse for disgusting tea towels, I’m embarrassed when I see them, so I’m bringing round some clean ones"

Me: "What? SHIT...no-sorry, Mum can we do this another time, I have to get ready...

Mum: "I'm coming over now and I bet your kitchens in a state...and when did you last Hoover your stairs?"

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, between living with your parents and owning your own house and it lies between the pit of a man's fears of his mothers displeasure and the summit of his knowledge that his tea towels are a bit dirty. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 12:23, Reply)

I did the telling off....
Once upon a time when I worked for the local constabulary I got a rather disturbing call to the rememberence day service. Now, in the town where I live there is unfortunately a rather large mental institute which yields more nutters per square inch than any other town in the country. Fact. This is just one of many fun filled days it has provided me with.

Arriving at the church I was greeted by the sight of about a hundred old soldiers, all immaculately turned out with a chest full of medals. At the front was an honour party carrying the flags and it was a very emotional and dignified time for them all. Clearly there was some some sort of kerfuffle going on at the front and as I made my way down the isle I heard one of the old dears let out a yelp. She moved out of the way to reveal a cum splash right down her beautiful pink dress and a slightly cross eyed man, khaki pants down round his ankles, cock in hand and saluting just like Benny Hill. He took one look at me and said "I have been a very naughty boy haven't I?".

Apparently he does it every year and only on remembrance day for some reason.
(Mong The Merciless Older not wiser, Thu 20 Sep 2007, 18:35, Reply)