...
I'm in the County Court representing some rascal who believes he should be allowed access to his children. It's the first case of the day. I'm in front of a family judge with a reputation for pricklyness at the best of times.

I begin my opening submission, "good morning sir..." He interrupted almost immediately with, "whether the morning is good or not is irrelevant to this case. Proceed."
(LC, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 16:44, 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)

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)

Taxi Drivers
I imagine, will feature quite heavily on this QOTW.

I was told off by a taxi driver for meditating.

We got to discussing insomnia (why? dunno!) and I mentioned that meditation helped me when I suffered a couple of years back.

The taxi driver got very upset and started shouting at me saying that meditation was the easiest way to get the devil in my soul and he had a sister who had been institutionalised after meditation and subsequent demon-infestation.

He then got very "passionate" about my soul and ranted on about Jesus (as a cure I think, not sure though, I stopped listening) for the rest of the journey.

I know Jesus by his real name - Cheesus

It's kind of hard to imagine why anyone would get told off for meditating, but we can thank the Lord Cheesus Mice for making my taxi driver a taxi driver, instead of a doctor or something important!
(Jugular, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 16:31, Reply)

My son has recently bereted me
for not making a fortune from running East End brothels for 8 years.

Do I look bothered?
(bensMum I'm a tart. Why can't you cope with that?, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 16:26, Reply)

oh how we laughed
About a year ago, misterballoons and I were invited to go and stay with some friends in Prague.

A few weeks previous, mister realised that his passport had expired so sent off for a new one only to have the application returned to him as there was something wrong with the photos he'd supplied. He got new photos and re-sent the application. We knew that we were cutting it fine as there was only about 10 days to go to our holiday so paid extra to have the passport couriered back to him.

We were assured that it would arrive before 8am on the morning of our flight which was at 10.45am from an airport at least an hour's drive away.

8.15 it arrived, we jumped in the car and promptly hit the morning rush hour. To cut an agonisingly long journey short, we arrived at the airport with about 40 minutes to spare before our flight. We had to wait about 10 minutes for the shuttle bus from the car park so by the time we reached the departure lounge we really felt that we'd battled against all the odds to get there, in time.

Congratulating ourselves, we took off our belts and shoes to walk through the beep-beep machine, put everything out of our pockets into the tray on the conveyor belt, along with our hand luggage, to go through the x-ray machine. We could see our plane through the window.

"Excuse me sir, is this yours?" a uniformed gent asked misterballoons. "Could you please step this way".

We'd packed our hand luggage carefully knowing that we couldn't take any sharp objects, lighters, liquids, etc through. What could they be objecting to?

Only the fucking five spent machine gun bullets on mister's keyring! (We didn't think of those did we?) He'd picked them up years ago from a box of tat in a second-hand shop and they'd since lived quite happily next to his keys.

Cue mister being taken to a sectioned off area and questioned by customs officials and two armed (!?) coppers. In the light off all the recent terrorist activity they were taking it very seriously and needed to check the history of the bullets, had they been used in any reported crime, etc.

We still had a chance of catching the flight so mister tried to keep the interview as brief as possible. Bless him; when asked what possessed him to try and take bullets onto the flight he answered "Because I'm a twat". They believed him and let him board.

And Prague was fucking great.
(rubberballoons, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 16:23, Reply)

Frankspencer
To punctuate your remark, you should've shot 8 ropes of hot plasm over her red, indignant face.

That would've been a triumph both for reason and for art!
(Vic Flange, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 16:19, Reply)

uniform
It's the same all over the world: give a retard a uniform and they come over all third-world dictator.

I was working in a building in which numerous Chinese students were having English lessons. As I was walking down a stairwell, I was accosted by a butch lezza in uniform telling me that the Chinese kids had been riding in service lifts.

I laughed, as it was no business of mine. She went into a rage about security and how it was no laughing matter. So I just turned my back on her and kept walking down the stairs. This made her even more angry and she heaped further badly-worded and ignorant lectures upon my retreating back.

So I turned round, and with a cheery smile, informed her that I wasn't going to be lectured by an uneducated lackey in a polyester uniform and that could she please continue her monologue with someone who was impressed by it. Because I didn't give a tupenny fuck if she lived or died.

She went quiet after that.
(frankspencer, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 16:13, Reply)

A battleaxe of an old woman
who worked as a table cleaner in the cafe in one of the Morrisons in Bradford once told me off for putting pepper in the salt pot and vice versa.

I suppose it was a bit of a silly thing to do. So was living in Bradford.

Three line answer this time.
( M3rx likes the Asian ladies, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:59, Reply)

Liverpool airport
Don't get me wrong, I'm an ardent fan of the North, but fuck me stereotypes leap out and twat you round the head at Liverpool airport.

They’ve recently introduced this scam where they took out the round and round and round we go queuing system for security checks and put up 'queue from here 15mins' type notices, with and option to pay £2 to jump it. It's that sort of place.

Their "International Arrivals" hall is one of the least auspicious places I've ever arrived, it's like turning up in the stair well of a multi-story car park (really - it's a small door and some bad concrete screed and railings, then a snaky queue through to the mephitic, malodorous stench of fear and reprisal in immigration).
Whoever designed it had no civic pride and an eye for a bargain.
By a sedimentary process, the staff there are well, bottom feeders. The brawn of bouncers but the intellect of NCP car park attendants. Grim.
We wanted to bring a coffee machine out in hand luggage, £20 on ebay, job and knock. Weight, 9kg. Size, comfortable in an overhead locker.
Profile on X-Ray (or whatever it is that makes everything apart from metal go a funny shade of Tango or snot) LOOKS LIKE A FUCKING TRIDENT MISSILE (apparently).

Hauled out of the queue by Gorilla.

"You can't bring that through it's too heavy."
"No, it's 9kg, we weighed it."
"No, it's too heavy. You can't bring it through, it might hit someone on the head'"

[thinks - shit - 5.30am is not the time to start exploring the subtle differences between weight and density, 'prithee, which is heaviest, a kilo of lead or a kilo of feathers' etc - we'd get killed]

Mrs Slicker adopts wobbly toned empassioned plea girly voice - "please we've bought it all the way here (obviously) we're no bother etc etc."

"Very well. (how magnaminous). But I don't EVER want to see you bringing one of those through here again, DO YOU UNDERSTAND."

Fuck. That's our import-export business stymied then.
(Countryslicker, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:57, Reply)

Being dragged out of a pub
I was out with my best friend, Jo.
She and I had gone to her local for a few quiet drinks and to watch a band play (The Angry Pirates - they're very good).

Anyway the pub was packed out with a gang of men in suits – all Down From London to play golf – they looked like Essex Wideboys and it turned out that some of them were just that.

I ended up being very rude to one of them – he sold Double Glazing and was rather taken with me – I told him (bearing in mind I’d had 6 or 7 glasses of wine and knew no fear by that point) that he was lucky I even looked at him, let alone spoke to him….I’m not usually like that (ever) but he was incredibly cocky and asked for it…
He then gave me his room number – I laughed and told him he didn’t stand a hope in hell’s chance.

Jo decided at that point to take me home, so while she waited outside for a taxi to turn up I decided to chat to a rather nice looking young chap who had a lovely Celtic design tattoo on his arm. The tattoo went up his arm, over his shoulder and onto his collar bone, he also had a perfect six-pack stomach and surprisingly the pub has a ‘no shirts off’ rule too….Which I found out about when I was told off for making him strip....
And then Jo came into the pub and dragged me by the arm like I was a badly behaved four year old...all the time I'm shouting out, "But he's lovely! I only wanted to see his tattoo!"

She now insists that if we go out I only drink three glasses of wine, no more.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:50, Reply)

Frisbee of doom
Many, many years ago (I remember when all this was fields you know!) as one did in the early 90s, three of us spent a day getting ripped to the tits on cheap weed and dubious acid while wandering around the leafy streets of Surrey. Being monged out of our minds we decided that to entertain ourselves we would throw a tennis ball between us as we walked (for eight or nine hours as it turned out, but hey we were easily pleased).

Staggering out of the pub at closing time (see told you it was a long time ago), we proceeded to wander down the road still throwing the ball and giggling like numbskulls until young Phil (of bloodhound eyes and dubious standards in the opposite sex) luzzed the ball a little too hard resulting in it landing on the roof of the 24 hour garage.

Dejected and crestfallen we stocked up on rizzla and tabs at the garage, then noticed a frisbee in the window. 'Gis the frisbee mate, we lost our ball' - fully armed again, G ran across the road at the pedestrian crossing and waiting until a bunch of cars were approaching, hit the button and waited for the lights to change. As said cars came to a halt at the lights, he threw the frisbee across (nice throw too - very smooth flight) - straight across the bonnet of the policecar that was the first at the lights.

Hmmmm, one quick burst on the woowoos and a very stern telling off later, we were sent on our way - pockets still brimming with class As and Bs, and our tails between our legs. Not the behaviour the police expected from a bunch of adults apparently.

Length? from one side of the road to the other.
(clockworkkillbot, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:49, Reply)

got told off by some bird for perving
"Wot you looking at?"

Saw her the next day on the train. I really wanted to go up and apologise for "staring at her fat thighs yesterday" ;).

I'm sure i'll think of a witty length related pun - 2 hours after it's too late.
( bluemeat has been best of all the animals since, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:47, Reply)

About 2 minutes ago
For beating the high score on snakes II on the company mobile. :P



Sorry for the one line answer.
(Belgaer is, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:46, Reply)

I told someone off on a train.....
... for wanting to put his feet exactly where mine were. He was some academic sort of prat, wearing a tweed jacket, motheaten trousers and thick horn-rimmed spectacles.

He sat opposite me in a group of 4 seats. The train was half full, there were plenty of free spaces.

He shuffled his feet forward and placed them over mine. Bear in mind I had my feet pretty well tucked in as commuter trains out of London are packed to the gunnels most nights.

I moved my feet forwards, he tried to push them back again.
This went on for about 20 seconds until I raised my heel and smashed it down on his toes.

"Oww" He protested, "Do you mind?"

"Not unless you get you stop trying to put your bloody feet on top of mine"

"You're taking up too much room"

"Oh sorry, where would you like me to put my feet? Out of the window perhaps? They'll go up your arse if you're not careful" (bear in mind I was always a bit stressed working in London)

"People like you are insufferable"

"People like you can always go and sit somewhere else"

"I always sit here"

"Well shut up, put your feet back under your seat, and stop behaving like a petulant child then" and I stared at him, not blinking. He looked at me for a few seconds, and then buried his head in his book where he remained until my stop.

I got up and he muttered something rude, I heard the word "twat".

"Pardon?" I asked as i swung my briefcase into his head.

I walked off, several of the other commuters were smiling, evidently this cretin *did* always sit there, and had a name for himself.
(Vic Flange, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:46, Reply)

Reminds me of a film
This QOTW reminded me of the bit in Monty Pythons 'The Life of Brian' where there are thousands of followers outside his house, who are then screamed at by his mum 'He's not the Messiah, he's a very naughty boy'.
(turtles head is touching cloth poked a dwarf on the forehead at, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:38, Reply)

Re: Pigeons
I once told a bloke off for feeding pigeons right next to me in the station once.

I was in a really foul mood at the time (and there's your crap pun).
( Bazongaloid, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:35, Reply)

PIGEONS....
One day when I was about 18 years old I was sat on a bench in the town centre eating my lunch.
The sandwich turned out to be a bit rank and there were a few pigeons scuttling about nearby so I put the bread on the floor and enjoyed watching them scrabble over it.
The next thing I knew an old lady came marching over booming at the top of her voice "CAN'T YOU READ??!!!", I looked at her confused and so she repeated herself even louder and pointed at a nearby `Do Not Feed The Pigeons' sign. At the time I was quite meek and mild and didn't defend myself but see if any old biddy EVER humiliates me in public again she will really feel my wrath. I'm getting quite angry writing this actually. Silly old bag!!
( DUMBLONDE is a rubber lover girl, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:28, Reply)

Safe sex!
I was once given a stern lecture by a cab driver on the perils of loose morals as I took my one-night-stand home. How the driver knew I'd just picked him up I dont know, (maybe it was the look of fear in his eyes). I was 30 at the time and thought that It was a bit too late for saving myself for Mr Right. I sat there looking suitably chastised all the way home but it all went down hill when the guy was sick in the cab as we pulled up to the house.

The driver then lost his rag and called me a slag which made me giggle and so I refused to give extra money for the mess.

Even so, it was nice that he cared.
( girlinthehole, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:24, Reply)

An American told me off...
...which I think was a bit of a cheek because I was in Detroit and EVERYONE misbehaves there - it's de rigeur. Besides, the Americans I was with were being much naughtier.

See! See how this has reduced me to childish petulance, even three years later?

Anyway, I was in a bar and I pulled my top up for no other reason than I was tragically drunk, and he, being a security guard, came up and asked me to refrain. I put on my best Audrey Fforbes Hamilton voice and told him how terribly prudish he was being, but he was having none of it.

I was having such fun. My friends seemed disappointed too. I'm off to Texas for New Year - perhaps I'll compare those cowboys with the mid-west.
( thealternativefact, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:08, Reply)

Pubs! Spirits! Scams! Police!
Over the years I have fallen out with the various Mrs DP's about a range of things from money, through drugs, to absent mindedness, through suspected inappropriate dalliances, to inapropriate behaviour.

Now, some of this behavious has been boorish in the extreme, but the majority has been justified. Sadly I do not seem to have the same social filter that some others do and when I experience crap service etc I try my best to respond in kind and ruin their evening in the same way mine has been.

This is nothing to do with the tale though, I'm afraid.

I was 20 years old. I got a job in Sheffield's Rat & Parrot. There were a whole range of things I did here that would be suitable for this QOTW, but leaving aside the sex in the toilets, the drug dealing, and so on, I thought I'd tell you about the Great Spirits Heist.

I was a lowly barman, and my duties included restocking shelves and whatnot, as well as putting rubbish out. A plan formed, between me and Leo. We began to fill bin bags with bottles of spirits and organised for a mate to pick it up.

This worked well for several months, but once again a stocktake, and CCTV were my undoing. We were collared.

We wer given a severe talking to, and dismissed. But not prosecuted.

All's well that ends well, eh?
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Fri 21 Sep 2007, 15:03, Reply)

My dad
Used to always tell me off for driving too fast through puddles.

"They can put you off the road, you know!"

Well, this is undoubtably possible, but it's quite unlikely unless it's a major flood, not just a wee puddle at the roadside.

After several years of repeatedly being bollocked for it on every occasion when he was in my car in the rain, I asked him who had told him about being put off the road.

He told me.

"Aye, but Doug drives a Reliant Robin", I said. "You can put them off the road by driving too fast over a manhole cover."

He hadn't realised this bloke had a three-wheeler. I have since heard no more about it, thankfully, and can now make big splashes through puddles without paternal reproof.

_{There was also one time when I deliberately drove through a puddle and soaked a little kid at the side of the road, just for devilment, but because my dad didn't happen to be in the car that day, I got off with it.}
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 14:52, Reply)

Disabled Parking
I have no problem with Disbaled and childrens parking areas in supermarkets etc, but some old Bitch in My Local Tescos really got up my Nose!

In our Tescos Car Park the Disabled Bays are opposite some conventional Bays. This particular Day their was NO ONE coming down the Lane so i decided to reverse into the disabled Bay so that I could drive Nose first Into the Normal Parking space Opposite,(I was in my Works van and it is easier to stow shopping in the rear of my Van than struggle into my VERY untidy drivers Cab/Office).

Next thing I know is that I am Being Blocked in by this irate woman who demanded to know "..why was I parking in a disabled Bay when their was obviously nothing disabled about me"!!!!!!

I tried to point out to her very politely what I was trying to do but she wasnt having any of it, I was the lowest form of life in her opinion and she would be telephoning my firm to complain about me !!!!!

I gave her one of my Business cards to make sure she had the Correct No !!!!!

She then called Tesco security out and started ranting and raving at them that it was all their fault, Tescos were a Bunch of Twunts etc etc.

I dont supposed it helped much but all through her diatribe I was calmly eating My Sandwich in her face and having an occasional swig of Drink trying to be as cool as Possible.

I still to this day cant get the image of this rancid old cow frothing at the mouth as she tried to gain the upper hand but she failed miserably because having blocked me in she was blocking the entire Road system and the traffic jam was beginning to build up somewhat around Tescos car Park.

Sitting in the front Passenger seat of her car (Which was a Volvo) was a Little old man who by Now was visibly Shrinking into his Seat with embarrasment.

Eventually she moved her car and a form of Order was Installed to the Car park, at which point she went and parked in the Mother and bay area,I just Looked at the Security Guard who Just Burst Out Laughing and Pointed out that she was in the wrong Parking area !!!!!

I nearly feckin wet myself laughing !!!!!!

While I was doing my Bit of shopping I kept walking around the aisles and Kept bumping into her Pushng her Husband in his wheelchair.

If looks could Kill I would be dead with a six inch Look sticking out of my Chest
(pir881, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 14:44, Reply)

Most days
By Mrs Crabby, for various misdemeanors such as teaching Master Crabby to step on snails.
(Tom Jones's Mojo Hasn't had any since, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 14:30, Reply)

My last job
was in a factory outlet centre (basically a big warehouse which sells shit clothes).

I used to work in the mens department with a mate of mine. We used to sell plus size clothing for fat bastards, some of the sizes went up to a massive 9XL! We used to fritter away the quiet weekday afternoons by trying on the massive clothes, seeing if one person could fit down one leg of the 9XL jeans etc. There was one lady that worked there, a right miserable old cow, and one day she caught us in the act of larking about with the massive clothes. Her response?

"Go and stand in the corner! One at one end of the menswear department, one at the other!"

So there we were, two 19 year olds stood in 'the naughty corner' getting paid £5.50 per hour.
(WillyBean, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 14:28, 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)

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)

"Oh grow up"
I have a habit of engaging till operators in shops in conversation.

This annoys the lovely Mrs Duck because she thinks - quite wrongly - I am chatting them up. They are merely a captive audience for a one-on-one stand-up routine.

I have lost count of the number of times I have been given a public dressing-down in the middle of the High Street with the words:

"No! You cannot tell them to take the rest of the day off"

and

"It's like shopping with kids"

and the immortal

"I'm never taking you ANYWHERE ever again"

Thank you. I'm here all week.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 14:00, Reply)

Bollocking by Immigration
Years ago I was coming back through Heathrow on From a Rugby Tour to Amsterdam , Another Day Another story.

We were in the cue to come back through Immigration when an Immigration Officer walked past Holding a couple of Pints of Beer !!!!! (Where he was going with them I have no idea).

Next thing I know some bright spark tried to liberate him of these beers when he had a total Humour failure; Result near riot in the arrivals hall, Police Dogs, Several arrests and VERY delayed and VERY VERY severe bollockings allround.
(pir881, Fri 21 Sep 2007, 13:55, 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)