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» Anything For Money

There seems to be very few stories / anecdotes / cries for 'help' this week, so have some filler:
Once at the primary school I attended we were set the task of making a diagram of a microscope for our science homework. I completed my diagram during playtime (‘cos I’m a dweeb). Some classmates saw this and offered me money if I would do theirs. One wealthy little fellow even offered £10! How could ten year old me possibly refuse? I diligently worked through the lunch break drafting each pupil’s diagram, clever enough to make each one different enough to not be copied. The boys were delighted and each promised to bring me the money the next day.

They didn’t.

TL:DR - I once did the homework for several classmates, all of whom promised cash. We were all 10. I didn’t get paid.
(Wed 16th Jul 2014, 14:48, More)

» Stags and Hens

Peak District Stag Weekend
Last summer I attended a stag weekend in the Peak District. This was a bit of a magic mystery tour for all except the two best men. We were all asked to arrive at a pub a few miles from Buxton, for a weekend varying activities.

The stag, Jim, had arrived much earlier in the day, along with the two hi-vis jacketed best men (the jackets an attempt at whackiness). Throughout the afternoon and evening the rest of the 16 strong group arrived, each in turn buying Jim a pint and a chaser. By the time I reached the venue (about 9pm) Jim was very merry indeed. The last of the group to arrive was Rolly, a portly young man with a fondness for port. Indeed this fondness for said fortified wine led him to bring a bottle that had been laid down in 1978, to share amongst us, Jim included. Rolly’s arrival gave the crap raver versions of the Chuckle Brothers to announce that our night’s accommodation was in fact the very pub we were drinking in. We then scrambled to bag ourselves good rooms. Wisely the best men chose not to share a room with Jim; instead that honour was left to his young chum Dan.

Before actually going to bed Rolly insisted on sharing his wonderful, rare bottle of port, giving the lion’s share, rather generously to Jim. The port was rather ripe, with a strong aroma of mildew and fear. Jim wasn’t put off by this and downed it, on top of the variety of ales, lagers, spirits, liqueurs and malevolent little shooter drinks that he’d been consuming throughout the afternoon and evening. We all retired to our respective beds.

We were all woken at 8am on the Saturday, breakfasted and dressed, to await the ‘party bus’ (a minibus with a loud stereo and strobe lights). This arrived, we boarded, but there was no sign of either Jim or Dan. The DayGlo Duo ventured up to the stag’s room, before rushing down to announce a delay. Half an hour later Jim and Dan toddled out, green faced and whimpering in the light. Dan apologised for the delay and explained what had transpired in the night.

He was woken up by the sound of Jim being violently sick in his bed. Dan went to help and make sure that Jim wasn’t going to choke. He turned on the light and was confronted by the sight of Jim’s vomit marinated top half and a rich brown aroma emanating from his bottom half, which upon further inspection was found to be accompanied by a rich, brown, semi-solid sludge. This was too much for young Dan, which led him to in turn vomit his share of port, ale and miscellaneous drinks on to the mixture currently embalming Jim.

Jim blames Rolly’s port. He would have been fine aside from that.

TL/DR: My friend shat the bed and sicked up in it. His chum then sicked up on top of him too.
(Wed 5th Feb 2014, 13:56, More)

» Brain Fade

The Dim Emergency Pub Plumbers
I worked in a north London public house for several years. I hated working on the bar, because I hate people. I slowly usurped as many back of house jobs as possible, including ‘cellar management’. This involved using line cleaner and a broom to scrub the cellar, before cleaning the beer lines once the pub shut.

One night I was scrubbing the cellar when I heard a cracking noise. I looked over to see a dribble of piss running down the wall from a cracked soil pipe connected to the urinals above, and leading into the main soil pipe. A straight rod was sticking through the crack, which quickly disappeared. This piqued my interest, so I went up to the pub to see two plumbers faffing about by the gents. I asked if they had anything to do with the cracked pipe. They initially denied it, but came down to the cellar to have a look. After complaining of the caustic atmosphere and laughing at the puddle of piss around the bottles of blue WKD they admitted their mistake. This they compounded when one of them decided to ‘get at the blockage from down here’. They got their rods out and jammed them into the crack, making it larger for extra manoeuvrability. After some to-ing and fro-ing they cleared the blockage.

How is this a “Brain Fade”? Well, they cleared the blockage and in the process sprayed themselves with an ochre coloured liquid reminiscent of diarrhoea. The surprise and disgust upon their faces was something that one would expect to see only on a spoilt toddler not getting the expensive and gaudy Christmas presents it was demanding.

TL:DR – Two plumbers rammed their rods into a crack in a blocked soil pipe from below and got covered in turd-like water, the consistency of low quality gravy.
(Fri 22nd Mar 2013, 16:48, More)

» The Meaning Of Giff

The ache in a man's tescticles when they become mildly injured.
"Keith's walking funny cos he's got a bit of Penge from when he sat down too quickly last night."
(Tue 6th Nov 2018, 11:32, More)

» Real Life Slapstick II

Jon-Jon's Lack of Spacial Awareness
At college I made the acquaintance of a fellow I'll refer to as Jon-Jon. He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, scribbling in textbooks like a tot, bullshitting about how he shot at pensioners in the park, was a 'satanist' etc...

One day a small group of us were standing outside a seminar room as Jon-Jon approached the door whistling to himself with a very large cricket bag slung horizontally over his back. As he attempted to pass through the door there was a dull 'donk!' noise as the bag wedged itself against the frame.

'Huh?' said Jon-Jon as he took a step back before trying to pass through the doorway once more. Once again the bag responded with its characteristic 'donk!' as it conspired with the door frame to deny his passage.

The scene repeated itself about four times, whilst I and my equally dweeby few chums sniggered and pointed at Jon-Jon, ultimately rousing his attention to turn and look at us, allowing the bag to finally pass through the door with him following behind.

Last I heard (around 2007-8ish) Jon-Jon was working for Anglo-Irish Bank, at their head office in Dublin.
(Mon 6th Oct 2014, 12:03, More)
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