I may have mentioned before that I do occassional security work.
This is generally quite tedious, until summer arrives, at which point in time it becomes a series of weekends away at music festivals up and down the UK. At one of the larger UK festival a call comes over the radio from a fairly bemused response team.

The victim had a lobe extension, what this effectively is, is a ear piercing that has been stretched and a hoop inserted to give a clear opening. Sometimes these are a few millimetres at most, sometimes they're wide enough to fit a can of redbull through.

Someone completely unknown to the victim approached him and after a brief conversation, then said the following "You know what would make a cool picture? If I was to padlock you to that fencing through your ear!"

The victim agreed that it indeed would make a cool picture. The protagonist produced a padlock from his pocket, they approached the nearest fencing and he was duly locked to it through a lovingly stretched hole in his flesh.

The protagonist unfortunately didn't stick around to take a picture. He didn't even release the poor sod. Instead, he just fucked off and left him.
( Muns, Fri 19 Jul 2013, 14:43, 25 replies)

The Zone
I went to a boarding school. Yeah, I know, bumming fags in the showers who burnt your toast, very funny. One of the ways in which the school attempted to "give back to the community" was to run a charity fair every November, at which each boarding house would be tasked with providing some kind of paid entertainment, with the profits going to a worthy local cause. On the one hand this promoted leadership and entrepreneurial spirit among the boys but, honestly, its true value to the school was that it soaked up a lot of idle hands in painting "Soak a teacher!!" signs and constructing rat-whacking tubes, which would otherwise have been vandalising school property or, frankly, lifting cheap lagers in the pub.

The top earner at the fair was always the raffle, for which one dull but eminently profitable house had been granted some kind of unofficial monopoly, but attaining second place was a hotly contested challenge which many boys took quite to heart. The year before I started, my house had offered "put out the candle with the water pistol" which, due to a lack of advance experimentation, turned out to be so easy it actually made a loss. The following year, we did a rowing machine challenge which very few people were energetic enough to actually pay for. It wasn't going well.

The following year was time for a shake up. One evening two senior boys were tooling around the corridors on their usual bedtime-enforcement rounds, armed as was the custom with rolled up copies of The Sun. While causing actual injury was generally frowned upon, landing a good whack with the masthead, leaving !AHCTOG or similar imprinted on an arm or a trouser leg was usually enough to send all but the hardiest of tardy first years scampering for the safety of their duvet. It also had the satisfying side effect of being quite the stress reliever for strung-out A level students.

Discussion between the prefects had turned to the charity fair and what kind of activity teenage boys might pay money to enjoy when one of them, it remains unclear exactly who, looked down at the paper staff in his hands and was struck with inspiration. Rolled-newspaper gladiatorial combat.

The school's theatre studio was promptly booked, for a "performance art installation" according to our housemaster, being perfectly proportioned and having a suitably dramatic entrance corridor which we resolved should be almost unlit to heighten the anticipation. We collected "safety equipment" in the shape of pillows, which were to be strapped to competitors with two of the fattest kids' belts, and two plastic helmets, stolen from the housemaster's children and labelled inside "NOT SAFETY EQUIPMENT, FOR PLAY ONLY". We installed as many strobes as my mates could "borrow" from the theatre supplies department and Ollie the mad Swiss exchange student was recruited to play the loudest German techno in his collection. And, yes, much time was spent crafting the large, blood-spattered sign welcoming all comers to... THE ZONE.

In the days leading up to the big event all newspaper recycling stopped and piles of copies of The Times and its brethren started to build up in the common room. On the night before we stayed up until the small hours rolling, taping and cramming into plastic bins the glorious weapons of traditional schoolboy combat. As we worked, excitement grew - this was going to be the ultimate, the break-out event of the fair. We speculated on how, many generations hence, we would be lauded as heroes for inventing the greatest stall that charitable school events had ever seen. Occasional bouts of "product testing" were broken up by industry-oriented prefects, determined to take the raffle down. We weren't going for second place, we were going to own the afternoon.

The fair opened at 11am. I was one of the first to try out the experience, and went in with Arthur, a good friend against whom I bore no malice. I had pillows strapped to me front and back, the helmet placed on my head and was handed a rolled paper which I noted with some satisfaction was a good broadsheet of considerable density, probably rolled by an older boy.

The first blow caught me by surprise with its ferocity. The disorienting blare of "Eins, zwei, Polizei" made the flashing, oppressive room into some kind of personal hell, like being waterboarded with sound and light and I hadn't had time to get myself ready. I struck back, catching a sideways impact on Art's arm and pillow, so hard the newspaper sabre bent halfway down. He caught me on the head and the helmet immediately cracked, pinching my face on the rebound. Bastard! I smacked him in the face, then whirled it around and got him in the back of the knee, making him stagger backwards. He clocked his head on a supporting beam and dropped like a sack of rocks. I was triumphant, but he was faking, rolling over twice to strike me in the midriff right below my trusty pillow and knocking the wind out of my lungs in an instant. I felt myself falling away from him, stumbling in the flashing darkness as I attempted to stay upright, then as I saw him rush in for the kill I managed to swing at just the right moment and connect with his shoulder, a glancing blow which simultaneously moved him sideways and pushed me in the other direction, right into an open store-room door. Or maybe one of Olly's speakers. I don't know, all I know is it hurt like a bastard and I was having the best time of my life.

Anyway, after about 60 seconds of this we were pulled apart by force, stripped of our frayed swords and safety equipment and bundled out of the door, blinking in the bright autumn sunlight. Outside, The Zone had been open barely fifteen minutes and there was already a queue. By noon the line was round the side of the building and into the quad and people were actually blocking other stalls to queue for THE ZONE. This continued all day. Adolescent boys' thirst for beating the shit out of their mates had far exceeded our wildest expectations.

In the end, sadly, the profit just wasn't there; we only had so many hours in the day and, even though we were busy all day, with a two minute turn around time it was just impossible to make all the 50ps add up fast enough. A brief experimentation with a higher fee nearly caused a riot from those who'd been queueing for the lower price, and putting people in more than four at a time made getting in to break up the resulting brawl almost impossible. It was a brilliant business plan, exploiting the inexhaustible resource of schoolboy violence, and held back only by the limitations of practical reality.

Out of over 1,000 pupils I think only a small minority didn't visit THE ZONE, even if it was just the viewing gallery, and for days afterwards talk was of little else. Those who'd braved the plastic helmets bore cuts on their faces which were worn with pride. We thought we were the arm-baring guy out of that speech in Henry V. "THESE SCARS WON I IN THE ZONE". It was, of course, subsquently banned by the school and never happened again but there is a small slice of the UK population who will never forget that glorious day when entrepreneurship overtook the authorities just long enough to prove that when it comes to physical violence against each other, teenage boys have no limits.
( pineapplecharm D d M Y, H:i, Mon 22 Jul 2013, 11:51, 4 replies)

Late nineties, backpacking through Nepal.
We spent 9 days trekking in the hills outside Bharatpur. If you’ve never visited Nepal, it’s a stunningly beautiful country, but extremely poor – the rural areas especially so. And take it from me, genuine Nepalese cuisine (as opposed to the Westernised version) is nothing to sing about . So hiking all day with only the local delicacies to look forward to can be a fairly dispiriting experience.

One particular favourite is ‘bhat’, a kind of stewed rice and grain porridge flavoured with locally foraged herbs, moss, yak’s milk and whatever the fuck else they can find to put in it. Worse, to make it go a bit further they massively overcook it to allow the herbs to ‘brew’, then water it down to a thin consistency and drink it out of mugs or bowls. Pretty soul-crushing when there’s nothing else on offer.

Another common myth about Nepal is that it’s bollock fucking freezing the whole time. When you think of the place you imagine snow, sherpas and toes lost to frostbite but parts of it are actually fairly warm all year round, and pretty fucking hot in the summertime (we were there in July, and it was 30+). Despite this, they insist on serving steaming hot mugs of delicious bhat all year round, regardless of the weather.

Long story short, after a long day’s hiking I’d have chewed off my own arm for a cold beer, but all we could get was unseasonable gruel tea.
(Joy Division Oven Gloves Death to false metal, Sun 21 Jul 2013, 14:27, 6 replies)

As a littl'un, about 6 or 7 years old
we used to hang about and ride our BMXs in a gravelly lane behind a friends house. One day someone came off their bike at speed and scraped practically all the skin off his forearm.

He did the whole 'I'm a grown up and don't cry' breathing, wincing and lip-wobbling thing when an older girl, probably about 16-ish came running up with a bag of shopping. 'Bloody hell, are you OK? I've got something for that in my bag' she says and promptly gets out a plastic lemon full of lemon juice and squirts it all over his arm.

She then ran off up the lane laughing while he screamed his fucking head off. I imagine she's in prison now for poisoning people's pets or something.
(FartThroughAWalkieTalkie wished you were dead in ditch on, Fri 19 Jul 2013, 12:40, 2 replies)

not sure if this counts
but there was a very stupid boy in my class at school. I managed to sell him fuzzy little pussy willow catkin things as pets. I told him they were In the pupal stage and would soon emerge as poisonous fighting butterflies. when he came to me 2 weeks later to tell me nothing had happened, I told him they'd obviously died due to his mistreatment of them.
I did feel guilty watching the tears well up in the poor little fucker's eyes, but not for very long.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 20 Jul 2013, 18:58, 10 replies)

Death of a Facilities Support Unit
As some of you may already know, during one of my incarnations, I held a senior position within a large organisation. One year, after a merger, we inherited a substantial number of the other organisation's staff. This included Tim, an autistic fellow with a speech impediment and significant learning difficulties. He was a nice chap, but almost completely useless: because of his speech defect, he couldn't answer the phone; he was terrified of using a computer; and couldn't handle any but the most menial of tasks. The other company had employed him as part of their Diversity Plan and used him for filing, which he was admittedly quite good at; however, we already had enough filing clerks, so Tim had no role to play in our organisation. Senior Management were all for making him redundant, but I thought of a way we could retain him, and - once I'd explained this to them - they agreed to my plan.

So one day I called Tim into Meeting Room 2.2 and sat him down to explain his options. He could either accept redundancy and take three weeks' notice, or remain in employment in a brand new role with reduced pay as a Facilities Support Unit. This role would involve acting as various inanimate objects as and when required. Each morning, when he came in, he would need to report to the Facilities Office, where he would change out of his normal clothes into a body-stocking, and then be stored in a cabinet until he was required. When required, he would be taken from the cabinet, and used. I had to explain this several times to get past Tim's learning difficulties, but, once he understood what was required of him, he accepted. He had little choice - the alternative was unemployment, and, in this economy, who would employ such a one as Tim?

The next day he duly reported to Facilities and changed into the body stocking. I then showed him to the cabinet where he would be stored. It was a beauty: a pearl grey metal Triumph Metrix double-door model with fully-welded carcass construction for increased strength and stability, wardrobe-sized, just big enough to accommodate a person standing up. Tim stepped inside as I reassured him that the casing was scratch-resistant and anti-static. As I began to close the door he said, "What if I need to go to the toilet?" I smiled and said, "Inanimate objects don't need to go to the toilet", and closed and locked the door.

His first task in his new role was at a meeting where I was not present, so I heard about it from a colleague who chaired the meeting. The meeting room (1.3) didn't have a coat and hat stand, so Tim was required to, er, stand in. So he was fetched from his cupboard and told to stand, arms outstretched, in a corner of the room so people could hang their coats on it - I mean him. This he did, and he stood there for the entirety of the two and a half hour meeting, laden down with half a dozen coats (including a couple of heavy overcoats) and with two umbrellas inserted between his legs. I was quite impressed by his performance so went to Facilities to congratulate him. I opened the cupboard and Tim's gleaming eyes stared out at me blinking in the sudden light. There was a strong smell of urine. "Well done Tim! You're settling in to your new role very well." I then closed and locked the door and walked away. Did I hear sobbing? I think I imagined it.

A few days later we had two important clients turn up for a visit, but all our meeting rooms were booked so they had to use the break-out area, which had plenty of chairs but no tables. No problem; Tim was brought out and deployed as a table, kneeling on all fours between the two clients so they could rest their papers, laptops, cups of coffee etc on him. This wasn't a complete success - papers and laptops were okay, but Tim's back wasn't too level so there was some spillage of scalding hot coffee. I therefore requisitioned a section of appropriately-sized hardboard which could be strapped to Tim's back next time he needed to be used as a table.

The next task was even less satisfactory - in fact it resulted in disciplinary action. One afternoon we had an emergency all-staff meeting and despite using the biggest room (1.1) we ran out of chairs. A colleague went to get a chair from another meeting room but I intervened, and so Tim was fetched and deployed as a chair, again going down on hands and knees so that the delegate could sit. This worked very well indeed, until, an hour into the meeting, Tim's lisping voice was heard to splutter loudly, "This isn't much fun for me you know!" I apologised to all present, and bent down to order Tim to remain silent or face immediate dismissal.

Tim did stay quiet and after the meeting I took him into Room 2.2 for a quick chat. "What the FUCK did you think you were doing?" I shouted at him. "Chairs don't speak!" He started crying so I kicked him, hard, on the shin. He fell to the floor and started wailing. "SHUT THE FUCK UP, you CUNT" I screamed. "Chairs don't make any sounds AT ALL!" I kicked the chair next to him. "See? Nothing!" I spat on the chair and kicked it again, harder. "I can't hear anything - can you?!" His sobbing had subsided and he had crawled into a corner of the room and curled up into the foetal position. I loomed over him and hissed into his ear, "Chairs don't make any noise. I am going to hurt you again, and then spit on you, and you are NOT going to make a SOUND. Understand?" He just stared up at me through a face full of snot and tears. "UNDERSTAND?" I bellowed. He got the message and nodded, choking back another sob. So I kicked him in the stomach a few times, grabbed and savagely twisted his ears, stepped on his ankle until I could feel the bones start to crack, and then spat copiously in his face. To his credit, he remained completely silent through all this. I then helped him to his feet and shoved him limping from Room 2.2 back to his cupboard. After I closed and locked the door he banged and bashed from the inside, and I was worried that he might damage the cabinet, but the good people at Triumph Storage know their stuff, and soon the clamour subsided. I then went to the toilets for, yes, you guessed it, a well-deserved power wank.

I don't believe we treated Tim - I mean, our Facilities Support Unit - too harshly; well, not until we deployed it outside as a cycle-rack in mid-January and it contracted hypothermia and expired. Took us ages to get another one.

TL/DR - fuck off you lazy cunts, go back and read it.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Fri 19 Jul 2013, 20:25, 11 replies)

I thought long and hard about this one.
I weighed up how much monkey-shit I'm going to have flung at me compared with how cathartic this would be and how much it would ease my conscience. Seeing the amount this "incident" has weighed upon my soul - letting it all out seemed like the best choice.
(Wavy Lines)

We find the young ringofyre MizMcUg playing He-Man with his (then) besty Jezza. MM has just got the Battle-Cat/Cringer toy. It is fucking beaut. One moment it is a mild-mannered green & yellow striped tiger - Cringer, the next moment - by the power of Grey-Skull and draping a reddish, rubber saddle over him, he is magically transformed into Battle-Cat - harbinger of doom of all who stand against He-Man.
Jezza seemed quite taken with my new acquisition as the best pose-able toy he brought to the party was Beast-Man and some Action Man guns (which kind fitted into the hand grips).
At then end of our days play MM discovers that Battle-Cat has decamped. At first concerned and then down-right panicking the young man and his seemingly indifferent friend search for the lost toy. No-where to be found.
At 1st MM is not suspicious when the following day Jezza appears at school with a BRAND NEW Battle-Cat, that he apparently got as a present from some long lost cousin the night before when he got home from visiting MM. And then doubt begins to creep in. MM eventually accuses Jezza, who of course denies it completely and the friendship slowly crumbles like Corn Flakes getting soggy at the bottom of the bowl.

Cue many years later on the other side of the country - a young MM is bipping and bopping thru the 90's going to clubs and taking some AVERAGE-SIZED drugs. One night at a gay club (where else were you going to get good drugs?) MM comes across someone in the dunnies whilst scoring a couple of pills. The someone, as he turns his head over his shoulder whilst ramming his cock down the throat of guy on the dunny seems familiar. At first MM can't place the face. & then it hits him - JEZZA!!!!. *To those of you crying "Gaaay" - bear in mind this is the 90's, buying pills in a gay club toilet*
MM and Jezza reunite at the club, exchange numbers and then never call each other. As you do when you buy/sell drugs in a gay club toilets. The pills were shit btw - I've had better highs off my kid's multivitamins.

A few years later MM is working as a cook for a catering company. One day he has to do the prep and presentation for a wedding. Imagine his surprise on the day when he meets the groom and (no prizes for guesses) it's Jezza! Marrying some pretty young thing.
During the speeches Jezzas best man (having found out that we knew each other when we were younger) calls me up both to thank us (the catering co.) and to ask me to say a few words.
"I knew the groom when we were kids". I say. Then whilst Jezza (and everyone else) is looking at me with the doe-eyed nostalgia that only weddings can inspire, I comment - "I knew him when he was getting blowjobs in [popular gay nightclub] and selling drugs. I also knew him when he stole my He-Man Battle-Cat figurine."
The room was silent. I strolled off into the kitchen.

Unreasonably cruel?
You go without owning Battle-Cat during your upbringing and then get back to me.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Fri 19 Jul 2013, 9:02, 9 replies)

I used to have a blacksmiths dog called Fido,
If I kicked him in the head hard enough, he would make a bolt for the door.
( The Mock Turtle ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Fri 19 Jul 2013, 21:14, 82 replies)

I like to water my plants with ice cubes

(DingoChavez I will be good. I will be good., Sat 20 Jul 2013, 13:15, 14 replies)

I deserved it
When we were teenagers (14/15) my friends and I found a derelict house on a fairly nice street (basketball landed in back yard and noticed nobody home/back windows all broken).

It became the subject of a series of dares as to who would go the furthest into the darkness....resulting in us all ending up in the loft one day where we found candles and some old armchairs.

This became a den, and we would all creep up and basically arse about and chat.

One day me and a mate were late out so missed the bunch all climbing in, for some reason that still escapes me I imagined a hilarious jape.

I walked up to the front door - brayed several times on the massive knocker, opened the letterbox and shouted "I know you're in here and I'm going to fucking kill you!"

Hilarity ensued for the 2 of us outside, "They'll be shitting it" we chuckled, and walked to the rear to share the laughs.

They didn't emerge until 30 minutes or so later - in a huddle, shaking and white faced. We had gotten bored waiting so the laughs had dried up mostly and so they started to explain the banging and shouting...still looking left and right expecting to find owner of voice and his fury.

"oh that was just us"

I got a massive kick in the bollocks off one of the girls
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Thu 25 Jul 2013, 12:28, 3 replies)

I invented vuvuzelas

(McChinaman banned, Wed 24 Jul 2013, 12:46, 6 replies)

You know what's really cruel?
Making baby lizard people wear human skin suits just so they'll be accepted as our heads of state.
( Muns, Mon 22 Jul 2013, 16:31, 8 replies)

There I was working hard, studying, to make something of my life.
When all of a sudden, New Labour got in, fucked everyone's pensions, encouraged the mother of all mortgage debt, encouraged everyone to piss away 20 grand on a media degree, and sycophantically took up with the Yank's idea of a Police State based on some "War of Terror" predicate.
Then the ConLibs did fuck all except kick the can down the road and avoid too many mass riots, hoping not to be elected next time so that Labour, for once in their history, would have to deal with the consequence of populist chequebook incontinence.

And you're putting up with it. You cunts.
(SSSSSSSSSS, Sun 21 Jul 2013, 20:12, 24 replies)

The fountains in Nottingham's market square.
Before the square was redeveloped there were two fountains in front of the council house.

On occasion someone would fill these with a bottle of washing up liquid, leaving nothing more than a mass of foam until the council had them cleaned out.

Sometimes, people would climb in to the fountain to cool off on a cool day, using it as a giant paddling pool.

The victim in this story was on a stag weekend, he had stripped out of all of his clothes and climbed into the fountain, which fortunately had received the fairy liquid treatment and therefore protected his modesty. He was prancing about, acting the fool for the amusement of his friends who were drunkenly encouraging him from the steps of the council house.

Unfortunately, he had neatly left all of his clothes in a pile on the edge of the fountain. This meant that an opportunistic Chav, reasoning that his wallet was still in his trouser pockets, ran from the onlookers, grabbed all of his clothing and proceeded at speed down a nearby street.

The victim looked a little crestfallen and just sat down in the fountain to the sound of his 'friends' pissing themselves with laughter. They fucked off to Yates when a few police on beat arrived.
( Muns, Fri 19 Jul 2013, 16:33, 1 reply)

Well bollocks, I was writing for the previous question so here it is:
Some of my earliest memories are of playing with myself. There was nothing sexual about it, just a wonder at how my frontside worked. No one diddled me or showed me how. I simply discovered one day that if I twiddled it around things felt wonderful, my nipples stood on end and my crotch felt like a thousand angels congregated on my landing strip and made music emanate from my crotch.

At 10 years old my sexuality had been blossoming for at least a year. When we moved house I found a magazine full of naked people in the loft and, for some reason, it made me feel funny even though I'd only thought about boys in an immature way like that before. Subsequently, barely-clothed Baywatch folk made my body squirm in a way I'd never felt before, some kind of tingly invader to my hips. I knew there was something more to be found than this profound shiver that ran through my soul every time I thought about intimacy.

My best friend Hannah showed me some of her dad's porn. It was complete rubbish to me. One image that sticks is a closeup of a construction worker in a digger ploughing away at a vagina. He had his way with the her but she appeared to have no real enjoyment of the situation. I came away from the evening unsatisfied and confused.

Later, in my excursions across the street and into the woods, my boy friends and I came across discarded porn magazines on no less than three occasions. I was 10, 11, 12 by now. On each occasion I'd look at them, becoming more aroused each time but with no idea what was going on beyond the vague and painful lessons on sex I got in school to draw from. Then I'd discard them, knowing that looking was for some reason wrong but with no clear understanding of why.

When I was twelve, we moved to a new town a couple of hours drive from our old one. In our new town I was painfully shy with absolutely no idea how to interact with other people, my age or otherwise. I learned early that things were less painful if I just shut up, kept my head down and tried not to attract attention. This mostly worked.

A friend of mine, Hayley, took me out to her parents detached garage one afternoon and showed me her dad's porn collection. This is the first time I remember experiencing an identifiable lust hit. Something about those naked people caused a powerful reaction in me. More powerful than anything I'd ever experienced before.

I couldn't stop thinking about all those naked people in the magazines, all that wonderful cock and sexual desire published in technicolour for our satisfaction. I decided to mount a midnight expedition to Hayley's garage, broke in and stole her dad's magazines. It was at about this same time that I became aware of just what all those clandestine conversations had been about. Boys, porn, masturbation and every kind of sexual reference you could think of. It all locked into place for me.

Once I'd acquired this basic gallery of pornography I was confused. Visually things seemed obvious but I couldn't imagine sharing myself with someone else that way. I embarked on a quest to find out what sex was all about. I asked all my girlfriends what they knew about sex, tried to dig out the truth from the hundreds of sexual lies that float around during our teens. As much as everyone seemed to know, none of it seemed realistic or romatic, and my early-teen mind couldn't cope with the explosion of taboo and dirty thoughts that chats with my peer groups produced.

It was a wonderfully sunny day when I finally succumbed to the big "O". After looking through my dad's collection, I read in "All Color Swedish Erotica 1987/4" that vibrations encourage orgasms. I spent a year listening to his Remington razor zizz away in the bathroom in the mornings before I realised that it vibrated. I borrowed it while he was at work that summer's day, sweaty and horny in my long white dress. I went up to my room and opened both the window and the skylight, it was so hot. I plugged the electric razor in and pushed the teddy-bears off to make it cooler. I lay back on my bed, hitched my skirt up and turned the razor on, pressing it gently on my sex.

It felt amazing. Every which way I moved, it made everything tingle and buzz and shout and distract and build. I pushed my back up and my hips spread naturally and it all started to feel wonderful. I lifted my legs up over my shoulders, opening myself to this wonderful new feeling. I revelled in the feeling of being so open, so bare to the world, totally available to anyone and anything that wanted to fuck me. I kept at it, pushed, rubbed, buzzed up and down and across and around until things started to go pink, an earthquake shook my room and the whole world took on new meaning as I shot stream after stream of sticky white spunk all over my face.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Thu 18 Jul 2013, 16:24, 1 reply)

Mikado Chills
My cousin is the type that, when faced with any challenge, will pour his heart and soul into the task at hand to claim the title victor. It was with this in mind that me and my brother had spiked half a packet of mikados (biscuits with Coconut foam on the sides with jam down the center) with dried chili's.

We proposed the challenge that my brother would finish his half of the packet before him which he readily accepted bragging immediately of his superior biscuit eating skills and prowess. Placing the biscuits in front of each contender the countdown was started and finished with my cousin jamming the entire half pack into his mouth and chewing with a look of absolute smugness, albeit briefly.

The smugness was abruptly ended by gagging, a spray of mikados across the room and a whimpering cousin bolting to the sink. Followed by about a half hour of gentle crying.
( dazbrilliantwhites has been meaning to change this..., Thu 25 Jul 2013, 1:07, Reply)

There was a boy at my school who was bullied for 5 years, because of the first two words he ever uttered at that school.
Those words were his name, in the first lesson of his first day.

It was agreed that he'd given his name in 'a gay way' and for half a decade all he got all day long was people saying his name back to him in 'a gay way'. He's probably a serial killer by now.

I went to his house once, and decided to make up a lie that when I got round there his dad was wearing burgundy flares. This spread fast, and incredibly despite it being a complete lie I'd accidentally hit on something because he was forced to defend himself which he did, with - 'they're not burgundy, THEY'RE WINE COLOURED'.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Wed 24 Jul 2013, 9:18, 25 replies)

Sometimes the devil in me gets out
If I ever get in the cashier lineup in front of some Armani suit wearing ponce I have to pull out my pouch of small coins and slowly count out what I owe.
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Tue 23 Jul 2013, 13:14, 14 replies)

Once
I put on some music I quite liked in the presence of another person who, as I was fully aware, was less enthusiastic about that genre of music than I was.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Tue 23 Jul 2013, 11:43, 10 replies)

I was making irish coffees for people one day at my flat
When I suddenly had a idea of a great joke to play on my flat mate.
I filled the bottom of his large mug with very thick gravy.. then carefully created the irish coffee on top of it, lots of whiskey and cream to hide the fact it was sitting on an inch of thick bisto.
I placed it on the sideboard next to where he was sitting and sat back to wait...
10 mins later he picked it up as it had cooled down and took a massive slurp... "this is really nice" he said.. then took another slurp...this is where the whiskey cram and bisto fountained from his mouth and nose across the room...

Later he shot me with the BB gun on my ear as I fell asleep in the front room
( The invisible ham Fig rolls are the best, Sun 21 Jul 2013, 15:32, 4 replies)

Custard Factory Birmingham.
The Custard Factory in Birmingham was home to the Medicine Bar, it used to put on Drum and Bass nights and the like.

In the centre of this venue was a big pool, with bars either side and the main room where the Dj's played and people danced around in a mass of swinging chins. For big events this was sometimes drained and used as a dancefloor.

Occasionally you would see scallies throwing unsuspecting ravers into said pool.
( Slippery Mick ‏, Fri 19 Jul 2013, 17:01, 1 reply)

Not in your league but...
Not the usual School time taunts although I never inflicted any cruelty at school but did a corker a few years ago on Facebook. I friended an old school pal who is now an occasional theatre player and had always got on well with him. He is friends with another school pal who I did not get on with at all well at school. Dan would taunt me endless about my accent, physical build, mannerism, lack of friends etc - you get the picture and being of slight stature there was little I could do. Fast forward 30 years and the actor friend had a show coming up so I wished him well by saying "Break a leg" on his Facebook page.
To my utter amazement Dan added a comment along the lines of "Oh yes Pat, good luck, what ho, kiss kiss Hope you do well, love you" and so on, exactly how he used to mock me all those years ago. What did I do? Well I deleted my comment so it appeared as tho Dan had promptly wished Pat a very gay good luck. Pat then replied "Oh thanks Dan, kissey kissey to you too", etc and a very gay reply at that.
Browsing Dans FB page a day later and I saw a post about how he thought it was about time he lost weight and how he couldn't believe anyone could hold a grudge for 30 years. Not long after he pulled his FB page. I hadn't held any such hatred for him but found it absurdly amusing that he had relapsed into his school bullying with the first sight of my post, so I kept my cool and thought of the most vulgar way I could manipulate his riposte. Which I thought was fairly cruel.
(luckylife , 0 guests and 3 bots are online, Fri 19 Jul 2013, 15:41, Reply)