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» House Guests

An inadvertent golden shower
Many moons ago I stopped off at a nightclub where I knew my friend, G, would be DJ'ing in the hope of blagging a lift home. Instead after closing I found myself heading back G's place for a few drinks. As the night drew to a close and a need for sleep increased, I was directed outside into the old garage that G was "converting into a guest-room".

G's idea of a conversion basically entailed of bricking up the car door and replacing it with a house style windowed front door, placing an old rug on the floor and chucking in an old mattress with a couple of blankets. Niceties such as lighting, plastering the walls and a bed frame were still on the drawing board.

Still it was a bed to crash in, and that is all that mattered.

Come the morning, I awake like most people with need a pressing need for the loo. I make my way to the door and to my horror find it locked. I look for a latch but there isn't one as its one of those that lock at the handle. Then through the window I spot the key - the dozy drunken git has only locked me in from the outside and left the key in the lock. I quickly try his mobile, but it goes straight to voicemail. The garage isn't attached to the house, so there is no point hammering on the walls as he's not going to hear me. I'm left with two choices - piss on the floor, or find something to piss in.

Using the little available light I scour the floor until I find something suitable to go in amongst the building materials. In this case a half empty bottle of white sprit. With a sense of blessed relief I drain my bladder and it never felt so good.

Eventually G releases me from my real life 'The Sims' killing chamber and drives me home. On the way I confess about the white spirit and get him to pull in at the nearest B&Q where I buy him a replacement bottle. We have a laugh about it, and theres no harm done.

Until a couple of week later.

My phone rings. It's G. "What exactly did you piss in you bastard?!?" he thundered.

"That bottle of white spirit, its the only thing I could go in. Well that or the floor" comes my apologetic reply".

"It wasn't white spirit you fucking idiot, it was the fluid for my fucking smoke machine!". "Oh" says I.

The story comes out. G was doing a private function, a big 21st birthday party or similar. Of course he grabs his gear from the garage/guest-room - speakers, decks, lights, smoke machine and a bottle of fluid that looks remarkably similar to white spirit to a hungover houseguest in desperate need of something to piss in.

The nights going swimmingly and everyones enjoying themselves. G adds a bit of atmosphere by firing up the smoke machine. After a bit he notices a bit of a funny smell in the air which has only come along since the smoke machine has been turned on. Someone comments that it 'smells a bit like a urinal in here' at which point realisation strikes G and focuses his memory in only the way that discovering that you are currently covering 50 or 60 paying guest with your drunk mates two week old stale urine can do.

And that it how I accidentally gave a golden shower to a an entire room of people, and why I may possibly be a terrible houseguest.
(Tue 11th Jan 2011, 15:24, More)

» It's Not What It Looks Like!

Water, water everywhere.
I think most men can relate to this.

I haven't just pissed myself. The tap just ran a lot faster than expected and splashed everywhere.
(Mon 13th Dec 2010, 23:17, More)

» My computer gave away my secrets

Curse of the Big Gay Bear
My friends and I go on an annual camping trip, and each year a t-shirt is designed to commemorate the occasion.

Well a couple of years back, one of my friends decided his t-shirt would be based around the maxim "does a bear shit in the woods". After a quick Google, an appropriate image was discovered - namely the Charmin Ultra mascot.

Said picture was of a cartoon bear dancing in the woods, and quickly became known as the 'big gay bear'.

Once the photographs of our trip were uploaded to my website, with an appropriate caption, I began to notice a growing trend of hits to the site. In fact in 2004 a good 83% of hits to my site were from the search term "Gay Bear', naively I looked up this up in Google and was delighted to find my website on the first page.

Then I noticed my fellow page one hits.

Take my advice, never set up a website, and use the words Big Gay Bear and leave a guestbook with an e-mail address. Also, whatever you do, don't mention in the meta data that the site also contains photos of drunk blokes pissing around, and photos of the various motorbikes that you've owned, as well as camping trips.

Just don't.
(Tue 14th Feb 2006, 22:20, More)

» Trolls

But was it trolling?
Last time I was in London on a weekend away, a couple of mates and I went to see Peter Kay at the O2. Now I've nothing against him personally, but I had the slight hump as this was a complete spur of the moment decision; one made by majority vote despite my compelling argument that we should see Bill Bailey instead.

(My argument consisting mainly of "because it's Bill fucking Bailey, that's why". My debating skills when drunk do tend to go for a walk).

After sitting on the tube for an eternity, then making our way into the dome. We find our seats (so high up we were closer to *insert deity here* then the performer himself), we booby trap the surrounding area with a mirad of plastic pint glasses (well I didn't fancy having to make my way to the bar every few minutes) sit back, first plastic pint in hand and settle in to enjoy the show.

The lights dim, the crowd quietens in anticipation.

A slight crackle of the mic and the announcer speaks...

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please put your hands together for the biggest selling artist of the 1980's.... Mr.... Rick.... Astley!!!"

The music starts, a rhythm heard on a million PC's in a million houses around the globe...

"We're no strangers to love........."

I sit speechless, for Peter Kay has just rickrolled a live audience of 10,000 people, and not any mere video for Peter. No, he has hired the man himself to do it. He has done it with style.

Well played Peter. Well played.
(Thu 19th May 2011, 23:03, More)

» Mums

My mother has a 'thing' about her age. Insecurity, holding onto youth, call it what you will; but she gets really hung up about it.

Despite working in completely different professions. We somehow managed to work under the same roof for a while as the company that she worked for catered for our offices. Now my mum likes a bit of a natter and makes friends very easily. Eventually she would mention that her son worked in the same office and ask if her new friends knew me. When people realised who she is referring too, their first reaction was generally one of shock. The second incredulity.

I'd have people come up to me and ask it if was true that MummyKovacs was indeed my mother. When I'd answer in the affermative the confusion would only deepen. I could tell something was up.

You see, my mother had a dirty little secret. If asked, my mother would tell her new found friends that she was "older then 35, younger then 38" - I was 29 at the time, and she was much closer to 50 then 30!

I wish you could have been there when I had a quiet word about it with her. She couldn't see what was wrong with saying she was a 'little' younger then she really was. "Harmless, it all it is", she insisted. I told her - "It's OK with me mum, you get to be whatever age you want to be. You just might want to stop telling people that I'm your son if you want to pass for 38 though". "Why?" She enquired. "Because people are wondering how you managed to get pregnant when you were 7", I replied.

The penny dropped.

The expression was priceless.
(Sat 13th Feb 2010, 1:03, More)
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