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» Evil Pranks
Spit the winkle
An Aussie mate of mine used to play cricket at the weekends. When his side were called to field he would regularly slip behind the clubhouse and locate the hoses used to water the playing field. Dropping his kecks he'd carefully insert the hose into his ringer and gently turn on the tap, thus filling his poo tube with water. Trousers back up and onto the field of play he'd adopt a crouching position as if ready to commence play. At the opportune moment he would then drop his pants and squeeze hard squirting a fountain of shitty water across the field of play, hitting anyone who happened to be in it's path. Apparently with practice he could achieve quite a distance.
This came to be known as "spitting the winkle", and needless to say he got a few kickings for it. Didn't stop him doing it though, strangely.
(Thu 13th Dec 2007, 16:34, More)
Spit the winkle
An Aussie mate of mine used to play cricket at the weekends. When his side were called to field he would regularly slip behind the clubhouse and locate the hoses used to water the playing field. Dropping his kecks he'd carefully insert the hose into his ringer and gently turn on the tap, thus filling his poo tube with water. Trousers back up and onto the field of play he'd adopt a crouching position as if ready to commence play. At the opportune moment he would then drop his pants and squeeze hard squirting a fountain of shitty water across the field of play, hitting anyone who happened to be in it's path. Apparently with practice he could achieve quite a distance.
This came to be known as "spitting the winkle", and needless to say he got a few kickings for it. Didn't stop him doing it though, strangely.
(Thu 13th Dec 2007, 16:34, More)
» Desperate Times
i needed a poo during rush hour
I was driving to a business meeting early one morning on the M25 when my guts decided to drop. The brown bear was knocking at the backdoor and he wanted out. Immediately. The road was busy and my junction was miles away, so the welcoming sanctuary of a Holiday Inn or motorway service lavatory was but a distant dream.
With my sphincter pulsating and a sense of panic setting in I feared that I was about to shit myself. Spying the next exit I pulled across 3 lanes of traffic like a demented loon hoping I could find somewhere other than my undercrackers to evacuate my bowels.
It was getting desperate now, I was whimpering like a dog and sweating whilst clenching my buttocks frantically. Driving for a mile or so into some country lanes I spied a rural pub. Being 7am in the morning it was closed. No matter. I pulled into the car park, scanned for CCTV and then hopped out and scarpered behind a set of commercial wheely bins. Pants down and an epic torrent of poo poured forth. Relief! Until I realised I had no tissues to hand.
Past caring by this point and fearing that I was about to appear on Police Camera Action 5 I pulled up my kecks and left the scene of the crime. Arriving at my meeting an hour or so later I gave my colleagues a cheery wave before diverting to the toilets to survey the damage. My pants were beyond salvation so after an extensive clean up I spent the rest of the day commando nodding earnestly to corporate wonk-speak.
To the landlord of that pub, I apologise. It wasn't fox poo you (probably) trod in by the bins. It was real human faeces.
(Mon 19th Nov 2007, 9:13, More)
i needed a poo during rush hour
I was driving to a business meeting early one morning on the M25 when my guts decided to drop. The brown bear was knocking at the backdoor and he wanted out. Immediately. The road was busy and my junction was miles away, so the welcoming sanctuary of a Holiday Inn or motorway service lavatory was but a distant dream.
With my sphincter pulsating and a sense of panic setting in I feared that I was about to shit myself. Spying the next exit I pulled across 3 lanes of traffic like a demented loon hoping I could find somewhere other than my undercrackers to evacuate my bowels.
It was getting desperate now, I was whimpering like a dog and sweating whilst clenching my buttocks frantically. Driving for a mile or so into some country lanes I spied a rural pub. Being 7am in the morning it was closed. No matter. I pulled into the car park, scanned for CCTV and then hopped out and scarpered behind a set of commercial wheely bins. Pants down and an epic torrent of poo poured forth. Relief! Until I realised I had no tissues to hand.
Past caring by this point and fearing that I was about to appear on Police Camera Action 5 I pulled up my kecks and left the scene of the crime. Arriving at my meeting an hour or so later I gave my colleagues a cheery wave before diverting to the toilets to survey the damage. My pants were beyond salvation so after an extensive clean up I spent the rest of the day commando nodding earnestly to corporate wonk-speak.
To the landlord of that pub, I apologise. It wasn't fox poo you (probably) trod in by the bins. It was real human faeces.
(Mon 19th Nov 2007, 9:13, More)
» I'm your biggest Fan
Celebrity Cricket
It was late summer 2001. England had just spanked zee Germans 5-1 in the footie and I'd spent the previous day moving my stuff into my first house in Reading.
A bunch of us decided to go to the annual "celebrity" cricket match hosted at Bray Cricket Club by Michael Parkinson. A chance to get pissed up in the sunshine whilst heckling Ralph Little and Rolph Harris and perving at Carol Vorderman in a summer dress.
It was getting to late afternoon, we were all pretty much the worse for wear when Parkie and his missus come over to our small group to sell us some raffle tickets. At this point, my mate Prior pipes up:
Prior: "Ere, Parkie I've had a fucking brilliant weekend!"
Parkie: "Why's that young man?"
Prior: "I've just moved house, I'm getting sloshed up in the sunshine with my mates and last night I got laid!"
Parkie: (completely deadpan) "Sounds great - shall I put you down for 10 tickets?"
bless him!
(Fri 17th Apr 2009, 14:11, More)
Celebrity Cricket
It was late summer 2001. England had just spanked zee Germans 5-1 in the footie and I'd spent the previous day moving my stuff into my first house in Reading.
A bunch of us decided to go to the annual "celebrity" cricket match hosted at Bray Cricket Club by Michael Parkinson. A chance to get pissed up in the sunshine whilst heckling Ralph Little and Rolph Harris and perving at Carol Vorderman in a summer dress.
It was getting to late afternoon, we were all pretty much the worse for wear when Parkie and his missus come over to our small group to sell us some raffle tickets. At this point, my mate Prior pipes up:
Prior: "Ere, Parkie I've had a fucking brilliant weekend!"
Parkie: "Why's that young man?"
Prior: "I've just moved house, I'm getting sloshed up in the sunshine with my mates and last night I got laid!"
Parkie: (completely deadpan) "Sounds great - shall I put you down for 10 tickets?"
bless him!
(Fri 17th Apr 2009, 14:11, More)
» The nicest thing someone's ever done for me
yay for venezuelans
Apologies for backstory but it helps set the scene a bit.
I was heading home to the UK from Venezuela after 9 months backpacking around Latin America - arriving in Caracas from Panama City I had an overnight stay before catching a flight to London the following evening. I needed to find a hotel near to the airport, but with only $30 on me I first needed to get to a cash machine. There were three at the airport. None of them accepted my card.
Feck.
It was getting late by this point and the "cabbie" who picked me up gave assurances that the hotel would accept my card. I was too tired to argue so we set off. On arriving at the hotel I had a nervous wait whilst my card took an age to be accepted by the swipe machine before it eventually went through. Down to $20 after paying the cab fare I hit the sack.
The following morning I walked into town to get some money. I tried some more banks but with no success. My flight didn't leave until 11pm, I was hungry, and there was also a worrying rumour that I would have to pay a local "departure" tax, in cash, at the check-in desk.
After haggling with a cabbie I got back to the airport in the afternoon and had a 6 hour wait for my flight in possibly one of the most boring airports in the world. I moped about for hours, trying to kill time without spending money - still nervous about the possibility of having to pay some kind of additional charge.
At around 9.30 a message flashed up on the departure board. My flight was delayed in Bogota and we wouldn't be leaving until 1am. The prospect of another 2 hours sitting around was too much to bear so I decided to go and check in anyway and see if I could get through to the departure lounge. This was when the fun really started.
On reaching the check-in desk the women examining my ticket announced that it did not include the airport tax.
"How much is that?" I asked
"$45" was the reply.
Feck. No wonder it was so cheap. All I had was $8 in cash, and a Visa card that had seen me through Central America, but was apparently not good enough for the Venezuelan banking system. I couldn't pay the fee.
I explained my predicament to the woman and she told me to check in anyway whilst they tried to come up with a solution. As I handed my bags in, the BA guy informed me that the airline would not accept responsibility for me and that I would have to come up with the cash, unless he could sweet talk customs on my behalf. He told me to sit tight whilst he went off to speak to them.
It was a good job that the flight was delayed, because he was gone for over 2 hours leaving me by check-in shitting myself and nearly in tears. I watched the last passenger head through to departure and still no sign of the BA guy.
It was around this time that a baggage handler began to take an unhealthy interest in my new Casio watch.
"How much for the watch?" he asked, fully aware of my predicament and consequent lack of bargaining power.
"No f*cking way are you getting the watch, Pedro" I thought to myself; "Maybe if things get REALLY desperate you can have my discman, but definitely not the watch".
Fortunately it didn't come to that. In a meticulously planned operation incorporating a combination of British Airways staff, customs officials, a security guard and the girl at the tax desk I was snuck through to departures when the departures supervisor went home. I got away without paying the $45 and made my flight. I was ecstatic and so grateful to the staff for bailing me out; it was incredibly kind of them and I couldn't imagine somebody doing the same at, say, Heathrow.
Venezuelans. Seriously cool people.
(Fri 3rd Oct 2008, 13:18, More)
yay for venezuelans
Apologies for backstory but it helps set the scene a bit.
I was heading home to the UK from Venezuela after 9 months backpacking around Latin America - arriving in Caracas from Panama City I had an overnight stay before catching a flight to London the following evening. I needed to find a hotel near to the airport, but with only $30 on me I first needed to get to a cash machine. There were three at the airport. None of them accepted my card.
Feck.
It was getting late by this point and the "cabbie" who picked me up gave assurances that the hotel would accept my card. I was too tired to argue so we set off. On arriving at the hotel I had a nervous wait whilst my card took an age to be accepted by the swipe machine before it eventually went through. Down to $20 after paying the cab fare I hit the sack.
The following morning I walked into town to get some money. I tried some more banks but with no success. My flight didn't leave until 11pm, I was hungry, and there was also a worrying rumour that I would have to pay a local "departure" tax, in cash, at the check-in desk.
After haggling with a cabbie I got back to the airport in the afternoon and had a 6 hour wait for my flight in possibly one of the most boring airports in the world. I moped about for hours, trying to kill time without spending money - still nervous about the possibility of having to pay some kind of additional charge.
At around 9.30 a message flashed up on the departure board. My flight was delayed in Bogota and we wouldn't be leaving until 1am. The prospect of another 2 hours sitting around was too much to bear so I decided to go and check in anyway and see if I could get through to the departure lounge. This was when the fun really started.
On reaching the check-in desk the women examining my ticket announced that it did not include the airport tax.
"How much is that?" I asked
"$45" was the reply.
Feck. No wonder it was so cheap. All I had was $8 in cash, and a Visa card that had seen me through Central America, but was apparently not good enough for the Venezuelan banking system. I couldn't pay the fee.
I explained my predicament to the woman and she told me to check in anyway whilst they tried to come up with a solution. As I handed my bags in, the BA guy informed me that the airline would not accept responsibility for me and that I would have to come up with the cash, unless he could sweet talk customs on my behalf. He told me to sit tight whilst he went off to speak to them.
It was a good job that the flight was delayed, because he was gone for over 2 hours leaving me by check-in shitting myself and nearly in tears. I watched the last passenger head through to departure and still no sign of the BA guy.
It was around this time that a baggage handler began to take an unhealthy interest in my new Casio watch.
"How much for the watch?" he asked, fully aware of my predicament and consequent lack of bargaining power.
"No f*cking way are you getting the watch, Pedro" I thought to myself; "Maybe if things get REALLY desperate you can have my discman, but definitely not the watch".
Fortunately it didn't come to that. In a meticulously planned operation incorporating a combination of British Airways staff, customs officials, a security guard and the girl at the tax desk I was snuck through to departures when the departures supervisor went home. I got away without paying the $45 and made my flight. I was ecstatic and so grateful to the staff for bailing me out; it was incredibly kind of them and I couldn't imagine somebody doing the same at, say, Heathrow.
Venezuelans. Seriously cool people.
(Fri 3rd Oct 2008, 13:18, More)
» I don't understand the attraction
Those signs in the rear windows of cars
"Baby on board", "Little dude on board" etc... Seriously? Because you're transporting a smaller person than me in your vehicle means that it's suddenly worthy of some sort of on-board advertising? Should I suddenly adapt my driving style as a result?
It grates all the more when, on my way home last night, I see a woman driving the wrong way down a one way street in her chelsea tractor, yabbering into her crackberry, with two kids in the back and one of those aforementioned signs.
Perhaps I should put "33 year old single bloke on board" in the back of my car. And my phone number. I might get more attention then.
Oh, and Craig fucking Doyle. I hate his chirpy blue peter presenter-esque face and happy go lucky irish brogue. It was a cause for celebration in my house when he started advertising double glazing and got the heave ho from "Holiday".
(Wed 21st Oct 2009, 13:07, More)
Those signs in the rear windows of cars
"Baby on board", "Little dude on board" etc... Seriously? Because you're transporting a smaller person than me in your vehicle means that it's suddenly worthy of some sort of on-board advertising? Should I suddenly adapt my driving style as a result?
It grates all the more when, on my way home last night, I see a woman driving the wrong way down a one way street in her chelsea tractor, yabbering into her crackberry, with two kids in the back and one of those aforementioned signs.
Perhaps I should put "33 year old single bloke on board" in the back of my car. And my phone number. I might get more attention then.
Oh, and Craig fucking Doyle. I hate his chirpy blue peter presenter-esque face and happy go lucky irish brogue. It was a cause for celebration in my house when he started advertising double glazing and got the heave ho from "Holiday".
(Wed 21st Oct 2009, 13:07, More)