» Drugs

Nightclub toilets
Whilst working as a bouncer a few years back, I regularly worked with a truly psychotic, but genuinely very intelligent and funny individual. One night, doing a routine toilet check, we heard two guys inside one cubicle, obviously indulging in the devil's dandruff.
He started banging on the door with his fist, and shouted, "One of you had better be sucking cock in there, or you are both in a world of shit!"
(Thu 16th Sep 2010, 20:07, More)

» * PFFT *

Farting under a blast heater
I used to work as a nightclub bouncer, and was renowned for stinking, silent farts. My trademark was to wait until a large queue had built up outside the club, and the box office had a captive audience. I would then fart right under the blast heater about the front door, which would pick it up, bake my sneaky air biscuit and spread it around for the joy and edification of all the punters waiting to get inside, who could not rush off for fear of losing their space in the queue, whilst I stood there laughing my arse off as my colleagues scattered.
(Fri 13th Jul 2007, 18:39, More)

» Vandalism

Busted in Biology
Back in 4th form, I took advantage of my seating position at the back of the biology lab to scratch a caricature of my biology teacher E.J. on the side of the wooden desk, which turned out rather well, I thought at the time. Schoolboy error, I forgot that he passed by that desk on his way to and from his office at the end of the lab, and he only took four classes, of which only two were large enough to have students sitting where I sat.

So, at the next biology class, I was confronted with the indisputable evidence, issued with a square of sandpaper and told to remove my artwork in the afternoon. I was then renamed 'Leonardo' for the next two and a half years of my time in his class. Every time I entered the lab and saw the lighter wood square where I had sanded off my masterpiece, I smiled.

Postscript: I saw my old biology teacher a couple of years back, some fifteen years after I had left school, and he still greeted me as Leonardo.
(Sun 10th Oct 2010, 15:54, More)

» When were you last really scared?

In a country far, far away...
About ten years ago, I was on a family holiday on Lake Kariba in Zimbabwe. We had chartered a houseboat, and were moored within a national park. I had woken early, and taken a tender boat to the shore to try and get some good pictures on my camera of wildlife or whatever else I could find. It was a warm, sunny day, the birds were singing, the air was fresh and all was right with the world.

Whilst all seemed peaceful and calm, I wandered blissfully along, absorbing the ambience. The path took me past several large grey rocks. I then noticed that the birds had stopped singing. The silence was overwhelming. I slowed my steps, and looked around, snapped out of my reverie.

This was when I realised that the large grey rocks of which I had not taken much notice, were not rocks at all, but in fact were a herd of elephants! They had all gone quiet, and had stopped their browsing, as I had bumbled into the middle of them. Several thoughts crossed my mind at this point; did I spin round and run, or carry on forward, or very slowly walk backwards and away.

The last plan of action seemed to be the best, with the least chance of spooking the herd and getting myself trampled. I slowly backed up, keeping the large grey shapes in my peripheral vision as I kept my eyes forward in a non-threatening manner, and moved back until I was able to turn and walk away with a bit more speed, my heart jack-hammering in my chest.

My camera still hung around my neck, completely forgotten, and I realised afterwards that taking pictures, with the loud mechanism of my motordrive, whilst in the middle of the herd, could have got me stampeded.

Shat myself? Nearly!

First post! Yay for nooby Tuesday!
(Tue 27th Feb 2007, 11:21, More)

» Waste of money

Dodgy Soho Bars
About 9 years ago, when I still lived in England, and was going through an epic dry spell, in London for the day, feel myself drawn to Soho to seek out anything involving naked women, go into some dive, pay an entrance fee of 15 quid, in the fucking afternoon, then spending 20 mins chatting to some plump tart in comedy lingerie, with a face like a slapped arse, and with rather limited Engrish skills. She asked me to buy her a drink, I do, some cheap-looking cocktail appears, I am told she is not stripping for several hours still, but I can wait. I realise I am not going to be seeing any nakedness, I get ready to leave, and am presented with a bill for 300 fucking quid! For mindless conversation with an ugly fat stripper! Cue me apologising profusely, and being escorted to a nearby hole in the wall to withdraw more cash, and me being left wiser, poorer and extremely frustrated...
(Sat 2nd Oct 2010, 22:45, More)