The last time I was told off
I was working for a company just north of London. There were 2 developers, including me and a bunch of hardware guys. 2 of the hardware guys were admins of the work network, and they tried their very best to stop us developers having any amount of access, it was extremely frustrating!

Anyway, one day I was fiddling with VB6, working out how to send emails with code. At the time I didn't really know what I was doing but I thought as a laugh, I would try to send one of the network guys an email from himself, not understanding the principals of relaying at the time, I was highly surprised when it worked.

Question from my boss,

Boss: "Hi Nick, how are you doing?"

Me: "Not bad thanks, how are you?"

Boss: "Good, listen, do you know anything about sending Frank an email, from himself, reminding him how fat he is?"

Me: "Uuuh, yeah, sorry, I didn't think it would work."

Boss: "HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW DESTRUCTIVE THIS IS????"

....

We ended up having a staff meeting about it, and Frankie was dead set on giving me as much shit as possible. He even accused me of hacking his email and informed me that he was taking issues up with his mail provider. I managed to flip the meeting around so nicely, saying that he was overreacting and that he should get a sense of humour that the boss ended up having a pop at him more than me! Hahah have that, you fat bastard!
( Firkinfedup last shat on your wife's tits at, Sun 23 Sep 2007, 10:02, 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)

everytime I go out with my mum
She tells me not to "dress up". What she means is "don't dress like a total goth with all your makeup like you did when you were fourteen".

Peh.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Sun 23 Sep 2007, 2:00, Reply)

I'm in upper sixth, does this count? People say I have to behave more like an adult.
I've been told off a lot in the last year, many times by my mother. Many times by school for various things.

Last week I was told off for wearing black jeans to school by the head of sixth form. None of the other teachers care and I've previously worn them several times. Another breech of school uniform policy is to wear something that shows your shoulders. Many people wear clothes as such, it's a joke that if you show your shoulders in school, you'll get pregnant.

Among the list of things I've been told off for, one is not attending a 2 hour talk, which was described by my friends later as boring, on Religious Studies. I was immensely glad to be dropping this subject the previous year, as it was no longer compulsory to take as a subject. Unfortunately the teachers invented a law which says you have to go. I've researched on the web, and it says that over 16s can opt out of Religious Education. I presume this means any talks that the school says you have to go to. Well they gave me the whole "These people have come a long way just for you." talk and I was told to write a 2 hour paper on religion in the UK or something like that. I ended up writing a decent paragraph on the amount of jedis in the UK, and how they were discriminated against, and pulled the rest of the piss poor paper out of my arse.

I'd have to say the best time I'd ever been told off was in year 11. Form teacher was ace, if you saw him in the street you'd think he was 'ard. We were all surprised he'd never been a drill sarge. He was ace, you'd be late a bit, and he'd mark you as on time. He'd even put up with lots of noise in the class room, and help you with your maths homework. He told us stories about how he used to move his teacher's cars together so they couldn't get in. A fantastic teacher. A bit scary when angry though.
One day I found an e-sure stress ball at home. Must have come from a conference. When you squeezed it it said "Calm down dear, calm down dear" in the classic Michael Winner way. Click if you can't remember. We had great fun with this ball. We were constantly squeezing it in the form room, every five minutes "calm down dear". This went on for a couple of days, with "calm down dear". resounding throughout the school. One afternoon registration our form tutor had had enough. He shouted in his drill sarge voice "CLEO. GET OVER TO THE DESK AND GIVE ME THAT BALL." The whole room had gone silent, everyone looked to see what would happen next. I was used to shouting, having a mildly bonkers mother going insane frequently. So I wasn't fazed that much. I walked over to the desk, the white stress ball in my hand. I handed it to him, and he said the immortal words. "Do you find this funny?" Squeezes the ball "Calm down dear, calm down dear." It still cracks me up thinking of it. I sheepishly muttered an apology, held the laughter in as I went back to my place, and got my ball back at the end of the day, I've no idea where it is now.

My mother seems to believe the best thing to do when she does something, or loses something or anything goes vaguely wrong is immediately blame everyone else and insist nothing can be fixed in any way what so ever.

Click "I like this" if you know someone who's the same.
( Rev. Cleo still alive, Sun 23 Sep 2007, 0:35, Reply)

told off for getting a shower!!
being in the army certainly has its moments...
recently after a field training exercise 7 people had to share 4 showers to wash, and clean the accomodation. we had 45 mins
i said i'd start to clean the accom and get a shower when one was free. as the 3rd person came in from his shower i started to get ready, however the CSM (company sergeant major) walked in as i was getting my boots off and said "why are you still in uniform?... you dont have time to wash, just get into civvies"
as i hadn't had a decent nights sleep in 5 days i kinda forgot/thought chuff off so got a shower anyway.
the following monday i found myself in front of said CSM getting my arse chewed for not wanting to travel for 90 mins or so through the middle of Northern Ireland stinking and in cam cream.
( Crack <--- Lurker..... came out of hiding on, Sun 23 Sep 2007, 0:31, Reply)

Supermarket Trolleys
I'll never stop jumping on the back and gliding - I don't care how old I am (36).

Fuck em and their law.
(devasa, Sun 23 Sep 2007, 0:09, Reply)

disciplinary meeting
I once had to attend a disciplinary meeting for a mate (you know - when you're allowed to bring someone in with you for a laugh).

He got torn a new arsehole for not carrying forward the deferred tax calculation correctly.

Oh how we laughed


Sorry
(devasa, Sun 23 Sep 2007, 0:08, Reply)

join the army, get told off in foreign countries
I've spent most of my adult life being told off by large men with big shouty voices.
I once was found fast asleep in a skip after a particularly heavy session on the ale, the CSM (Company Sergent Major) made me stand in a bin by the main gate gaurd house for the rest of the day shouting "I am Rubbish!!" at the top of my voice when anyone approached.
happy days.
oh and women frequently tell me off saying "I'm not that drunk!" and "it's not supposed to go in there!"
(The kneeling rifleman Is slowly getting there.., Sat 22 Sep 2007, 23:56, Reply)

I keep getting hounded for something i didn't do...
yours sincerely

Kate McCann
( Gerbilinafishtank Gerbil in a fish tank...TURTLE POWER!, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 23:38, Reply)

You see,
The thing is that if you're under 21 you are immediately disqualified from posting in this QOTW, because the chances are very high that you regularly do things which should lead to you being told off.


(I just turned 30. Does it show?)
(MrC. Having the most boring username on b3ta since 2004, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 23:28, Reply)

i get told off all the time...
by the police, but i think i'm being targeted.

regards,

Pete "talentless feck/drug infested little shit" Doherty
(Squid83, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 22:31, Reply)

Who Me?
I seem to have been "Told Off" like a child a lot in the last few weeks. Mainly by the Medical staff who have been treating me, but think I am a maniac.

I have been very poorly for months, with severe pain and nerve damage after I had to be sterilised last year. Before I got ill, I had been an athlete and a rock climber.

However I was recently chastised by one of my best friends when I got home from a day out. I had just *solo climbed a 40 foot face, my 1st climb in a year.

I was elated, but once back home, could not walk for the next 4 days because of the pain I was in.



*with out rope or harnesses
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 22:24, Reply)

TV! Fridge! Birmingham University!
This happened to a mate, rather than to me, but I am still baffled by it.

I used to live on Griffin Close, which was a complex of student accommodation at Bunglingham University. I was a postgrad supervisor, which means that if you were there between 1998 and 2001, you probably know (and resent) me: Hi, BTW.

But I digress. All flats were subject to inspection every now and again by the caretaker, a wanker whom we shall call Barry, for that was his name. His function was senseless whinging. On entering the kitchen/ living area in my mate Ed’s flat, he sucked his teeth.
“You can’t put that there.”
“What, where?” asks Ed.
“You can’t put the telly on top of the fridge like that.”
“Oh. Why not?”
[Pause]
“Well,” says Barry, “You wouldn’t put the fridge on top of the TV, would you? Now move it or I’ll have you fined.”

Like, wha’?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 21:39, Reply)

Kite Jr again
Some weeks back, Kite Jr (7 YO) was tucked up in bed, dreaming of My Litle Ponies and other such innocent, girly subjects..when she is disturbed by "uh...uh...uh" sounds coming from Mrs. Kite, in our bedroom, with my good self causing said pleasurable moans.
Kite Jr proceeds to run down stairs (we have 3 stories), bangs loudly on parents door and shouts "Will you be quuiet Im trying to sleep and all I can hear is "Uh...uh...uh" sounds" and then runs back upstairs to bed.

She never mentioned it, and neither did we (Im not sure she knows what was occuring). but boy did we feel both embarrased and told off - by a 7 year old.
(kitescreech still here, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 20:24, Reply)

Morrisons
I was just minding my own business in morrisons, put 2 pizzas in my shopping basket and was making my way round to the alcohol section. Then i realised i needed cash, as i wanted change for the bus. As i turned the security guard clocked me. As i put my stuff out he pulled me over and started telling me i shouldn't be in here as i was banned. I started telling him i wasn't and he called the manager. As the manager was coming i asked if they took photos or names of the banned people. He said yes so i demanded they check it. He said that the system was only in place 5 months ago and i was banned before that. I pointed out that 5 months ago i was in birmingham. The manager got there and i told him what happened and if there was a way to see the banned names and i could prove my id i demand to go for it. In the end the manager said i would be given the benefit of the doubt.

Apparently the security guard never forgets a face, twat.
( Slippery Mick &#8207;, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 18:49, Reply)

Does this count?
After a multitude of recent headaches I finally took myself off for an eye test. It transpires my right eye no longer has any interest in my line of work. Now I was expecting a modicum of sympathy having never worn glasses before and being slightly annoyed about the situation. I was slightly perturbed by the (old, female and crotchity) optician suggesting, along with disapproving looks, that I'd perhaps been "using the internet too much". She was clearly suggesting an old-fashioned approach to the causes of eyesight reduction which I found a little unfair and unprofessional. I'm not normally lost for words but to be honest she was probably close to the mark and I felt a little ashamed.

So I'm officially a wanker...

On a more cheery note I do seem to be having a very slight degree of success in selling my body for charity.
( dan j the filthy bastard, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 18:27, Reply)

Twice in One Shop
Our local supermarket (well known for being big and more recently also posh*) used to have a car parking system that involved taking a ticket at the barrier and not getting out unless the cashier had OK'd it in a special machine.

The rule was that the tillperson would only OK your ticket if you'd spent at least five quid.

In practice they were very lenient about it. I ofttimes spent only two or three pounds and got my ticket stamped just the same.

Early one Christmas Eve morning I went in and spent just under a fiver. Not worrying about that, I got my shopping packed, paid for it, and handed over my parking ticket for stamping to the lady at the till, who, up until that moment, had been all happy and Merry-Christmas like in her Santa hat and tinsel accesories.

But suddenly a cloud descended over the erstwhile jolly physiognomy, and I received a tongue-lashing to the effect that she wasn't stamping any short receipts and I'd better go back and buy something else to make it up to a fiver.

OK, I went back and bought the first thing I could find for about a pound and went to another till. I handed over this item along with my previous receipt and parking ticket. As soon as she saw the parking ticket, the second lady pretty much exploded beneath in Santa hat and I had to wave my receipt right in front of her spittle-emitter until she calmed down.

Then she smiled, rang up my purchase, franked my card and wished me a Merry Christmas.

OK so it's not such a terrible thing, but for the way they were all dressed up and jollified. I appreciete that they had possibly just had some sort of pep talk about being more strict with the parking in the busy Christmas season, but they could still have been jolly and assertive, instead of acting like a bunch of bad elves.

*It couldn't have been Tesco's could it? Nah.
(DonnertUndBlitzen, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 16:35, Reply)

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)

my signature is wrong
I'm a new mature student at University College Dublin, and I was told off yesterday. Or, at least, someone tried to tell me off, but the years leading up to this, working for a large IT company, have left me with zero tolerance for bureaucratic bullshit.

Sequence of events:
- 1st Physics lab has a sign-in sheet, which I duly sign, next to my name in the column marked "signature"
- another bloke - prob. the course head - comes in to class, looks at the sign-in sheet, and calls out my name. The following (paraphrased) dialogue ensues:
"I can't accept this signature."
"Why not?"
"I can't read it."
"Eh?"
"I can't decipher your name from your signature."
"Well, it's my signature, next to my name."
"I need to read your name from the signature"
"Why? If you had a reference sample of my signature, you could match it."
"Well, I need to read your name, to see if it matches."
"Well, that's my signature. I can print my name if you like."
"No, I need to read your signature. This signature is wrong."
"How can my signature be wrong? It's my signature, and it's not going to change now."

Bloke wanders off, muttering to himself, and I printed my name alongside my signature. I suppose he's used to dealing with 1st year kiddies, still wet behind the ears, whose signatures are not yet fully formed. Well, I've had 20+ years for my signature to solidify in to its current form, and it's not about to change just because someone can't read my name from it. Twunt.
( bnt what, me worry?, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 15:29, Reply)

In response to EuroSong's post below
about bus drivers closing the doors and driving away after you have run for the bus:

Driving off when someone is frantically knocking on the wondow of the bus door is how the drivers eliviate boredom. I believe some drivers also compare notes with other drivers and rate each others performance with an ellaborate scoring system in which you get more points by timing the closing of the doors at the lastest possible moment before you can board the bus... Bonus points are awarded for the longest distance the poor business man/woman/pensioner/school kid chases the bus down the road.

It is more important though, in the mind of the average bus driver to turn his attention from the road at the last minute and to look directly in to your confused, pleading eyes, as he slowly drives away. . . Mmmm Bliss.

This, ladies and gentleman is my, I mean, the bus driver's equivalent of job satisfaction. If it hasn't happened to you yet, it soon will.
(aroe_m0rre, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 14:25, Reply)

Midgets and exploding heads
Christ, I can't believe I'm going to post this story. Probably the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me...

I wasn't technically an adult, but in the first year of sixth form. At the start of each year they reset the school passwords to the same thing for everyone and there are some in the school who never use their accounts, making it pretty easy to use someone else's accounts for your misdoings as they could easily track your internet actions.

So here we were, ICT last lesson on a Monday and I have a friend (Well, more a friend of a friend, I can't stand the guy to be honest) who reveals he has no internet at home. So I decide to show him the best the net has to offer. Not wanting to get caught, I nick a random persons account.

Cue the next 30 minutes being spent showing him harlequin fetus, tubgirl, goatse, that video of the guys head exploding and worst of all: Midget porn.

A few minutes later the head IT tech comes in asking if the person who we had nicked the account from was in the room. When no one answered he left only to come in a minute later and make a beeline straight to our computer. We'd forgotten that each PC has a unique ID number which they can also use.

Busted.

Next day we had to stand in front of our headmistress who is about 60 and our 54 year old devout Irish Catholic head of year with the IT tech showing print outs with the titles and site info on one page of A4 each. There were about 15 pages. For each one we could see her shocked and disgusted expression.

Luckily, we both admitted it and got away punishment free AND our parents weren't called. I mean really, try explaining midget porn to them. And save for some major piss-taking we were all clear.

Where am I now? I'm Senior Prefect at my school. Funny how that works, eh?

Length? Not very big, but when you're 3 ft 2, it must have been massive.
( B.T., Sat 22 Sep 2007, 14:13, Reply)

judges
are the worst (or the best, depending on how you look at it) at making you feel about half an inch tall. amongst other comments, i have had the following. the italics represent the iciest of scorn:

"get your shopping out of my courtroom" (for carrying a file in a tesco carrier bag)

"ms swipe. you are an express train and i for one am not on board."

"well then. that means ms swipe will be working overnight. a matter of supreme indifference to this court."

"ms swipe. i. can. not. hear. you." (because i failed to stand up before clearing my throat. thank feck i didn't misunderstand and repeat myself a little louder...)

"i've never heard of section 10a housing act 1988" [hands me a gigantic tome] " YOU find it." [i find it, hand the book back to him. loooooong pause. disgusted sniff.] "well. i see i must apologise, ms swipe. [sub-text: there are cats roasting merrily away in hell with a better chance than you now have of winning this case after humiliating me by being right.]

him: "ms swipe. you haven't asked me if i've read the witness statement."

me: "i'm sorry, your honour. may i turn you to pp 337 - 394 of court bundle-"

him: "no. i have already read it."

for fuck's sake!!!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 13:55, 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)

below
fucking right you deserved a telling off.
(SPLUFFMYPANTS, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 12:50, Reply)

Is it just me...
...or a several of the posts on here just people reacting with misplaced incredulity at being told off for actually doing something wrong? It's like that Council QOTW all over again...

Anyway, my own little tale of woe. Back in the day, in sunny Millom, I was serving my time in the local Green Day tribute. I believe this is required by law for every small-town Sixth-form drummer. One weekend, we had a super prestigious gig at TV's famous The Station. All was going pretty swimmingly, various pointless three-chord hammerings occurred, beer flowed and sticks were broken. About an hour in, we broke into that old pub staple, 'Wipeout'. Now, at the time I was a frankly terrible drummer, and at the bit where a drum solo is supposed to happen I merely sort of looked scared and tried desperately to keep time. Hardly a criminal offense.

After the set had finished, the guitarist(a whole month older than me, age fans) pulled me up and yelled "IF YOU EVER MAKE US LOOK THAT FOOLISH AND UNPROFESSIONAL AGAIN, YOU'RE OUT OF THE BAND!" I was shocked into a submissive silence. I mean, we were hardly headlining Donington...

Examination of photographs of the night reveal me to be wearing eyeliner, a Slipknot tshirt and a Pikachu necklace thing. I deserved more than a telling-off for that alone, I feel.
( Angry Boss Bee I love horses, death to other animals, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 12:13, Reply)

Landlady
My ex-landlady had me dragged out of bed by her Brazilian cleaning lady, whilst hungover to tell me off about having a cardboard box in my room. She also then proceeded to accuse me of stealing a 25ft roofing ladder (clearly visible in its usual place next to the shed) to "hang a picture on your wall".

Mind you she did also accuse a Japanese guy who came to visit of being a Palestinian terrorist and demanded to know where he kept the bombs... so she *may* have been a little unhinged.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 12:06, Reply)

Poo Club
In direct contravention of the topic, I'm going to post a story about not getting told off as a not-adult, knowing as I do how you lot love stories about poo and the fun you can have with it.

First, some background. For many years at my secondary school, two friends of mine would, every lunch time, at one o-clock, go to the toilets at the top of the school and commence in what they called 'poo club'. This consisted of occupying the two side-by-side cubicles, pooing as noisily as they could, talking loudly about their experiences, then comparing the fruits of their endeavours once they had finished. Any other occupants of the toilets they could make leave in disgust, were worth bonus points, and obviously, having finished, neither would flush, so the next unwary pooer would get a treat.

All very schoolboy. Anyway, as we neared our final days at the school, we naturally got up to the kind of shenanigans and low-level vandalism that only the courage the knowledge we were leaving gave us allowed. My two friends decided to leave their mark by writing a message in those toilets for future generations. So, poo club having finished, they took out a permanent marker, and wrote, on the otherwise pristine walls:


TRISTAN AND EGG DID POOS HERE 2006

Heartwarming, eh?

Anyway, having just finished, they turned around and saw, to their horror, a female junior school teacher (what she was doing in there , I don't know) looking at their handiwork. Fearing the worst, the two heroes of of our story opened their mouths to apologise, only for the teacher to just grin broadly and walk away without a word.

Perhaps she's a b3tan.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 11:00, Reply)

The Fire Alarm
I work in a school. Not a huge one, but large enough. This story happened a few years ago when I was still a smoker and hadn't yet learned about the wonderful uses that cigarette money can be put to like holidays, computers, more beer and wine and stuff like that. I digress; let us return to the story.

I was working in a small poky back office that only had a single window which should look out over a classroom, but was now covered in posters. The "back office" was a former server room and had been fitted with smoke detectors, an extractor fan, and, as a former kitchen, even had its own sink. It was and still is very useful to have as a coffee room. This particular day I was busy using Access to design a whole school reporting system for our end of year reports. This was quite a high profile job and if I messed this up I would be very humiliated indeed. Today I was concentrating on the output to parents, the design of the end of year report itself, and because the printer was in my classroom I was having to design the report in the back office and then go through my mate B**l's classroom to my own room to pick up the printed sheet.

As this was quite boring work I was aided by a cup of coffee to one side of my PC, and a cigarette to the other. I printed out the report, put the cigarette in the ashtray (a yellow Castlemaine XXXX one that I had nicked from a pub) and went through to look at the output. I was comparing layouts by holding the paper up to the window when all of a sudden, the fire alarm went off. I went back through to the back office to put my cig out and then leave when I saw a terrible thing.

Sitting alone in its ashtray, in a room with only a single extractor fan for ventilation, the cigarette was discharging its smoke straight up in the air in a direct line without deviation or hesitation, and the smoke was enveloping the smoke detector which now had a flashing red light on its side.

I went back into B**l’s room, looked at his smoke detector which did not have a flashing red light on its side and said “Oh shit, I think it’s me” I was ok to swear at this point because B**l’s kids had left his room and he was about to lock up. I went through, walked downstairs and felt a trembling in my legs I went to register my group.

Towards the tennis courts I walked. As I approached them I saw B*b, one of the senior managers.
“I think it’s me B*b” I said.
“I know it’s you Occulus.” he replied, leering unpleasantly with an evil grin on his face.

It is a weird, yet strangely wonderful feeling to look out and see over a thousand people milling about in confusion and know it’s your fault. Even now the memory still fills me with a misplaced sense of pride. I had set the alarm off 10 minutes before the end of the last lesson of the day. I had completely wrecked my colleagues’ hard work. Even worse, the students would now have to go back to the teaching room, pick up their bags and equipment and then struggle through a mass of people to return to their form rooms to be registered again. Some students would return to find their stuff stolen by their classmates, some would simply not bother returning at all, and some would miss their buses home. Irate parents would be waiting angrily by the gates to pick up their beloved darling child, who was right now screaming, red in the face, at some little hooligan who’d nicked their coat for a laugh. The school’s attendance statistics would be wrecked, and staff blood pressures would be raised through the ceiling.

It was all my fault.

The next day my head was interviewing new staff and despite my best efforts (I tried her office about 10 times, I really wanted to get it over with) was unable to give me my bollocking. Unfortunately I came down with a viral infection the next day and was then off work for a week. Unkind colleagues remarked that I was sitting at home shitting myself and that I was too scared to some in. It was a week of hell. I was crapping myself, literally. I was feeling shit because of the cold. I was not a happy bunny.

When I came back the head was out on a course. One of the deputies volunteered to give me my bollocking after my line manager, A*, pleaded with the senior team that it was unfair to leave me hanging in limbo like this. I was sent to Ch******e’s office.

“Oh thank god for that,” I thought, “It’s only Ch******e, she’s a big softy.

Ch******e did not raise her voice. She did not have to. As I stood there on the carpet, in her office (which stank of cig’s), she gave me the most severe telling off I have ever had in my life.

Now let’s get this right. I have had people cross at me for many things in my life. I have had people screaming at me, their spittle bouncing off my cheeks, their veins throbbing violently in their forehead. I have been reprimanded, I have been sacked, I have been treated like shit until I left of my own accord.

None of this was as bad as Ch******e’s comments about my responsibilities as an educator of young people, of how we should behave professionally around school, about the building of future careers, and how they may swiftly be curtailed. She informed me that reputations could be destroyed by one silly mistake, and that everyone would remember this.

All this happened 6 years ago. People haven’t forgotten. The story will never die. I’ve only entered QOTW this week because I’ve been e-mailed by B**l who said “you've got to do the "smoking/fire alarm incident"



Apologies for length? I am sorry, but it wasn’t my fault. It was B**l, he made me do it.
( Occulus Swallowed, instead of spat, on, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 9:08, Reply)

Oldspeak
I was on the bus with a friend of mine and due to lack of seats we had to stand at the front near the ones reserved for the olds. At the time my friend either always bought his trousers many sizes too big or just liked wearing them round his knees. One of the grannies sitting nearby looked him over from top to bottom then commanded very loudly in oldspeak "Hoik your breechs up!"

I wouldve informed him that he was just 'pwned' but i may have got a slap with a wooden spoon or something
(Pimp my Clown is going back to the future on, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 5:53, Reply)

Most of the time actually...
The girlfriend thinks pretty much everything I do is puerile and immature, and I constantly get nagged for it....


...to be fair, she IS right.

Loud fart noises, later coupled with what she called "wet, following through noises" probably aren't appropriate in the food court :P
(Fleximus Rex briefly gave up lurking on, Sat 22 Sep 2007, 5:23, Reply)