this might be someone’s

[url=https://imgflip.com/gifgenerator]via Imgflip GIF Maker[/url]

In Melbourne years ago for my best mate’s 21st. After a lot of tequila we ended up in a strip club. Now he knew I didn’t like strip clubs, so after more tequila, then some more tequila, he paid for me to have a lapdance. The smell of baby oil on her body was enough. I projectile vomited on her boobies, all over the corridor and into the gents.
The club was up a flight of about 20 stairs, I think my head bounced off every one of them when the bouncers “helped” me out.
My mate nicked my fags, then put me in a taxi home.

Here’s one from what is quite an extensive collection: I was in the army, and a pal invited me to stay at his parents house for the weekend which turned out to be a big old detached victorian villa in Twickenham. Mum was a small mousy woman, but posh. Me and said pal were out on the town on Saturday night getting lathered and woke up just before lunch. Ma had been in the kitchen all morning cooking a full-on Sunday lunch, and when we sat down at the table she went to get changed. She came back down and sat opposite me in an extremely low cut dress with everything only just hanging in there. I was desperately trying to look anywhere but there when my pal’s little brother asked if I wanted a beer. I said yes, and he handed me a can of lager which he had obviously vigorously pre-shaken. I opened it and it sprayed straight across the table and all over Ma. I can still see the droplets of beer glistening on the massive acreage of bare cleavage, but the weird thing is that not one of them said a bloody thing, just carried on with their lunch. Trying to look elsewhere all I could see was the massive smirk on my pal’s brother’s face, the little fecker.

The story above about the dumping baby reminds me of probably my Mum’s lowest moment…. she is the world’s biggest snob and when we lived in Newcastle she used to have snooty WI ladies round for tea parties. One fine day they were all sitting around drinking tea and eating cake in the living room and Mum’s setter shambled into sight outside the patio doors. Various “Oohs” and “Aahs” were uttered and “what a lovely doggy!” and Mum was proud of her setter.

…Until the dog squatted down right in front of everybody and nipped off a huge steaming pile.

This was horrifying enough for the assembled ladies but there was worse…. the dog turned round, took a sniff then scoffed the lot!

This is not really a funny story but it is definitely the lowest moment in my entire life:

In the mid 80s I was in my first languages graduate job as a green and completely untrained export representative for a huge, incompetently-managed company in east London. They caught the Paris sales manager stealing so they sacked him. “Oh, you speak French don’t you?” they asked. “You can go and be the new sales manager in Paris – how would you like that?” A great basis for a significant overseas appointment, eh?

Anyway the day came and I was to go to Paris with two extremely senior colleagues, one of whom we had just recruited after retirement from his management job in a worldwide megacorp, to help open doors and get us accredited as a supplier to the megacorp. We were to do a major presentation to the chief buyer in the Champs Elysées, they would fly home and I would stay and pick up the reins and show the Frenchies how to do it.

We checked into our hotel just off the Champs Elysées and went out for a slap up dinner at a top Paris restaurant, getting thoroughly drunk on expenses. Staggering back up the avenue we nipped into a bar for a nightcap where we got chatting with a Dutch guy who had several very glamorous girls with him. They persuaded us to come on to the Pink Pussycat Club, which was down some stairs in a side street. One thing led to another and bottles of Scotch and Champagne kept appearing on our table along with packets of fags for the girls as we got steadily paralytic while watching some strip act. The two senior guys thought I had everything in control and I thought they did.

Through my alcoholic stupour, the room spinning upwards, I realised that the Dutch guy was leaning over and whispering something in my ear: “You’d better be careful – you don’t realise how much all this is costing you!” I suddenly twigged, asked for the bill and and sent my colleagues to get their coats. The bill was something like £1,200, this was in 1985. I told the waiters I refused to pay and anyway, where were the prices? Somebody reached behind a sofa and produced a cardboard box lid with some prices scrawled on it in felt pen. I still refused to pay and suddenly I found myself surrounded by five French guys in DJs who took my glasses off me and started kicking my shins, out of sight of the other drinkers. My mouth was bone dry with fear but one of the heavies seemed ready to discuss it so we haggled, and I got it down to £290, which I paid on my personal Visa card and I got my specs back. As we staggered up the stairs we were pursued by the girls shouting that we owed them money so my colleagues threw some Francs at them and we scarpered. My kicked shins were bruised and cut and blood was stuck to my socks.

I fell into bed absolutely slaughtered at 3.00 and had to get up at 7.00 to be ready for the meeting. We staggered down the avenue to Megacorp where the chief buyer, who had a heavy cold, had come in specially to receive our visit. He must have smelled the alcohol as we were all still drunk. After the meeting my colleagues took a taxi back to the airport and I went to our office to introduce myself. I had to sit all day feeling absolutely wretched with a massive hangover while my subordinate sales guy, an enthusiastic French lad far far better at selling than me, lectured me on all the things I was expected to do as Directeur Commercial. After the worst day in my life he drove me to his flat where the lecture continued until late that evening when he finally allowed me to crash on his sofa bed where I lodged for some miserable weeks until I was able to find my own apartment.

My new secretary loathed me and refused to do anything for me because she had been in a great sales double act with the sacked sales guy, so I told her either to work with me or leave and she left, which was traumatic for me, for her and everybody. It was the most frustrating two years of my life and I was desperately lonely and homesick. London wanted me to keep visiting the big industry boys and the French wanted to visit the tiny French specialists. The technical backup was dire and I made several embarrassing and costly errors through inexperience. The UK sales service manager came to visit us and told me he would give me a job if I ever wanted to go back to London. After two years of this torture I decided to leave after overhearing two French colleagues discussing me and realising how much they hated my presence. I rang the UK sales service manager and asked for that job. “Ah….” he replied. “You’d be welcome…. except that I’ve had enough and I’m also leaving!”

So I left my car keys and credit cards on my boss’s desk, got on a bus to the airport and flew home to recover at my parents’ house.

And people wonder why big British companies were failing in the eighties. It was crap management, plain and simple.

My first ever job, aged 15, was in John Menzies, now WH Smith. Very first day and they stick me on a till next to a girl who was a couple of years older than me at school and was totally stunning. I was painfully shy as a teenager so there was probably an awkward introduction where I blushed a lot then said nothing else.

After a few hours she turns to me and asks “Do you have any ones?”

To which blurted out “I got a 1 for English, a 1 for Chemistry, a 1 for music…”

At which point she interrupted me and said “No, I meant to you have any one pences in your till, I’ve ran out”

I think I cried that night.

I was on a night out in the Bondi Beach Club in Leeds some time in the first half of the 2000s*. The unique selling point of this club was that it had a revolving dancefloor**. Somewhat encouraged by the all-you-can-drink-for-£10 cocktails** I and my mates were putting this through its paces when they played the Can Can**. Cue massed high kicking shenangigans**. Unfortunately I was on the edge of the disc and I failed to account for my changing location relative to the patrons around me. This resulted in kick catching a young lass with dwarfism in the side of the head and knocking her off her feet. I was so simultaneously mortified and mortalled that I apologised profusely, burst into tears, threw up on her shoes and ran out of the club and legged it the four miles home to Bodington Halls. I then hid in the wardrobe until the next morning.

*Actually that’s probably enough.

**yes, it was that kind of place

I’d just come out of Uni, first job, on a high and earning loads. Been a good call by me to move out to the sticks when my mates went into the City.

Met a girl, lovely girl, who I’d bumped into in the local Pub. We had a massive group of friends back then and she sort of hung around the sidelines (probably eyeing us up or keeping her distance) Took me months to pluck up the courage to ask her out for a drink, so I collect her in my new soft top a week later and we head out to the Cider House near Bridgnorth (remote location, middle of vast fields, down loads of country lanes). Sunny evening, top down, music on.. nice scene.
Few ciders later and she’s swaying around to the music outside, falls over and ends up on her bottom in some nettles. Got quite sore and stung and couldn’t sit down, I got out a blanket from the boot and wrapped it around her whilst she starts to take her dress off as it’s itching, off comes her undies too.. Gentlemanly I turned away only to discover whilst doing so I pulled the blanket with me leaving her naked in the Garden in front of about 30 genteel Cider Drinkers.
She stood dumbfound in shock, naked.
We got a round of applause and offers of help.
The drive home was hilarious, whilst she was scrawling around the car from cheek to cheek the blanket kept coming undone..

We had to laugh.

We didn’t go back to the Cider House for about 9-10mths and on our return a local approached her and congratulated her on her bottom, with a wink.

Oh how we laughed… 😳

I was conducting a due diligence at a smart boston Biotech company. Exited the meeting room in front of the companies high and mighty CEO and venture capitalists. Spoke to one of their scientists about some key data then re-entered the room.

Except I’d forgotten that the meeting room had a door in a glass wall. And of course I didn’t re-enter via the door. Yes walked straight into a glass wall and Bang! Straight down.

Subsequent visits were noted by large duct tape crosses on the glass partition wall 😉

I can’t think of any funny stories about myself but I’m enjoying this thread. The one about going to school wearing dad’s slippers really made me laugh.

My lowest point has got to be the first time I entered a Motorbike Enduro. It was only two laps of a forest near Scarborough but on the first lap I crashed heavily and lost my gear lever in the mud. Did the rest of the race with a pair of grips clamped to the shaft and changed gear with my toes & heel. However, the lowest point was reached when I stalled in the middle of a knee deep bog and trying to push the bike out (which stubbornly refused to re-start) the damn thing fell over onto me, trapping me chest deep and too weak to lift the bike. Just before the tears started to form, I heard the sound of another bike, which was odd as I was sure I was in last place. Turns out I was last, as it was the course marshall doing a sweep. He helped me out of the bog and guided me to safety and I managed to finish but I have never felt so “empty” in my life.

My 15th birthday, mate had me set up supposedly on a promise with a girl from the year above (his girlfriend’s mate). We met at her house but before we got there I’d drunk half a bottle of vodka mixed with another half a bottle of orange/pineapple squash.

Bit tipsy on arrival, I figured it would be best to show them who’s boss by drinking a pint of Martini

White lounge carpet, so I’m told. And a nice intricate tiled fireplace. 😳

Can’t stand the smell of orane & pineapple squash even now

stavromuller – Sounds like the course at Low North Camp. Tried riding across the track many years ago and only got about 5 yards before clay/mud blocked everything.

Wish I had stories like some of these. A couple have had me properly snorting in the office.

Soooo many to choose from, all alcohol related….

One of the best has to be meeting a housemate’s parents for the first time. A really nice couple and the mother was a great cook too, so I was looking forward to the meal. The father had a reputation for liking a drink and, back then, so did I, mostly rum. As I arrived at the house (with flowers for the mother and a bottle of wine for the meal) I got asked if I would like a pre-dinner sharpener, which got extended to a couple of rum and cokes. That progressed to red with the meal (a lovely game dish) and port with the cheese.

Now, the meal finishes and I’m feeling fine. Full, but fine. Coffee is touted and I have to be up before high tide the next morning (that’s a 0530) to do some photography, so I’m happy to take some on board. We all decamp to the lounge to the comfy chairs and I notice some Ella Fitzgerald int he CD collection. Halfway through the second song or something, I start getting ‘that feeling’ and ask for directions to the toilet. I nearly make it. So close.

My housemate found me kneeling over the bowl looking appalling with the near miss (red wine and port on a white carpet) around my knees. I was so ashamed, but the worst part was the mother cheerfully saying “Never mind about that, but you should never try and keep up with James!” as I felt wretched.

I went back the next day with more flowers to say sorry.

This resulted in kick catching a young lass with dwarfism in the side of the head and knocking her off her feet.

Winner.

Can’t compete with some of the hilariously shameful stories here, but I can offer freshness with the tale of my road ride yesterday.

Headed out for a two-hour hill-fest and things start off pretty well, it’s not as rainy as forecast and I’m feeling pretty strong.

However on the way down the final real hill of the day I’m dismayed to hear a pssss noise and realise the rear tyre is going down. I’m pretty angry about this because it’s another Lifeline tube from Wiggle – the last one of which had revealed itself to be defective when I tried to use it on Saturday – on top of Winter Hill in the freezing cloud (but that’s another story involving a £20 taxi ride home).

Never mind, I’m quick at changing tubes and I know my spare is a good old cheng shin so all should be well. Except it’s not, and the spare is leaking (despite having tested it). Oh and in my rush to get out I’d forgotten my resolution to take two spares on future winter rides.

So there I am in a lonely back lane at dusk with the temperature dropping and it’s started raining. My wife can’t come and get me and the bike in her little car and the local taxi firm isn’t picking up.

Eventually I decide to hide my bike in a thicket of trees and she comes for me with the kids in the car – though now the enormous pork sandwich I had at lunch is making my guts twitch and I realise I won’t be able to last. I waddle off back into the thicket, take off my top and jacket to remove the shoulder straps of my bibs and squat down behind a tree to unleash the full fury of my bowels onto the unsuspecting undergrowth.

It’s a really quiet road so I wasn’t too worried about being disturbed, but oh, what’s this? A car’s driving past as I’m mid-movement, and it’s slowing down to see what’s going on. I’ll just move further behind this tree and pretend it isn’t happening.

Fortunately it didn’t hang about, but unlike on MTB rides I don’t pack any bog roll for my road jaunts, so had to resort to wiping my arse with handfuls of handily located ferns (which was not an unpleasant sensation if I’m honest and seemed to do the job as well as the Andrex).

Waddling back out to the junction with the main road (in cleated shoes of course), I then had to wait a further 15 minutes as my teeth started to chatter and observed that the road was surprisingly busy with rush-hour traffic. A few vehicles slow down to gawp at the cyclist without a bike, but nobody stops to ask if I’m OK – possibly out of fear.

My wife’s been traumatised driving down the narrow country lanes in the dark so I have to handle the return journey still wearing my cleated shoes – and then to top it all off I get home to discover a big grease mark on the front of my Rapha waterproof jacket – which is the most expensive item of clothing (cycling or otherwise) that I have ever owned.

Hopefully that’ll be the lowest point this week, I’ll report back if not.

^ that last one had me sniggering 😆

A few vehicles slow down to gawp at the cyclist without a bike, but nobody stops to ask if I’m OK – possibly out of fear.

you did pull the shorts back up ? I mean, that and a big stripe’o’shite down your jacket would put me off TBH

Had to do a wild poo on the way to the FoD once and wipe my arse with my spare change of socks 🙁

That does remind me of mine, from the charming ‘ever shat yourself in public’ thread a while back.

Years ago I went through a brief phase of urgently needing to ‘release the hounds’ when out rock-climbing. Must’ve been a nervous thing. Normally I could sense the problem building and make the necessary arrangements, on a couple of occasions having to lower off the route and leg it into the woods.

However, one time myself and the missus were climbing a bolted route in France when the ‘appel d’urgence’ arrived. There was no question of retreat, so rather than despoil all the crucial handholds on the route, I swung off leftwards on the rope into a vegetated gully, undid my leg loops and delivered the coup de grace out of sight.

Or so I thought. Although my long-suffering wife was spared that view, by moving left I was left in full sight of a minibus-full of French schoolkids who had just arrived in the car park for their afternoon climbing lesson.

good friend of my wifes was coming home from the weekly shop, with her young lad in tow, and he’d been a bit of a whinebag all afternoon. Her house is a lovely big sandstone semi, but had been surrounded by new build lego houses in previous years, meaning she didn’t have car access into the house and had a 50 yard walk with shopping and our young hero.

He had been moaning that he was desperate for a pee all the way home, and as she’s got armfuls of shopping at the door, and trying to get keys from her pocket, she tells him to pee in the bushes in the garden. He was only 4 or 5 at the time.

She opens the door, gets into the kitchen and dumps the shopping bags etc. As she goes back out to the garden, our young hero runs back in shouting that he needed toilet paper as the number one had turned into a number two.

She runs out into the garden, just in time to see Scoobie, the family golden retriever, wander away from the spot in question, licking his lips with a look of contentment on his face.

She was mortified telling me the story!

The Night With The Cats

Went over to see an ex of mine. Ended up in bed together for old time’s sake, but she decided she didn’t really want to sleep the night together, it’d be weird. Fair enough, so off to the spare room. “Remember to shut the door, or the cats will get in”, she says, with great importance. I’m in a pretty happy warm place so yeah yeah, cats, something…

Wake up in the middle of the night to a cat walking over me. It comes and snuggles up beside me. I think, aw, how sweet… Night night cat. Fall asleep again

Wake up again, feeling a bit breathless- fat cat sat on my chest, another’s climbed under the duvet and is snuggled up to my balls. No bother, I’ll just get them off… Now I remember these cats from when they were kittens so I’ve never really corrected my mindset for them all being murderous fiends the size of lions. Til now anyway, try and move and HISSSSS. Chestcat stands up and starts eyeballing me. OK, show them who’s boss, I just decide to get up. It turns out, with just the slightest deployment of claws, that Ballcat is boss.

OK, no worries, I didn’t want to get up anyway. Lie back down. Nice Ballcat, we’re all friends here. Lie in slightly asphyxiated terror for about an hour, knowing that something will break the detente.

A new player arrives. Lets call him, for the sake of argument, Facecat. Facecat knows exactly what he wants, and that’s to stamp on a human face forever- not content to just lie on my head he does that stomping around in circles thing cats do before settling down. Ballcat’ll be asleep by now though so it’s fine, I’ll just throw them all off. Ballcat is not asleep. All I manage to do, at the expense of minor clawmarks, is turn so that Facecat ends up on the side of my head instead of actually killing me.

TS Elliot got it right when he said naming cats is a difficult matter. I don’t know all of Chestcat’s 3 names but I know the second one, because just at the last possible minute, just before the cats finally got bored of their toy and moved on to torture some other pathetic little animal, she revealed she’s also Pisscat. Cats are hygenic animals, so I’m pretty sure she didn’t get any on herself…

So in the morning I was glad that there was never any chance of getting together with my ex in the first place.

Brilliant!

Fitted bucket seats to an old Capri but neglected to fully tighten the front bolts.
This became apparent a week later when I tried to power off the line at the lights.
Seat tipped back, car eventually stalled in the middle of the lights.
I had to open the door & crawl out onto the road.

My first car, a Hillman Avenger, failed its MOT due to chassis rust.
As I filled the chassis with newspaper & smoothed the body filler over, I was convinced this would suffice; & the MOT tester would be fooled.
Fast forward to crowded garage reception area, & smirking mechanics.
“Had that thing long lad…?”
“About a year, why ?”
“Its failed, chassis is rotten. Someone’s filled it with newspaper”.
“Must have been the last owner”
Aforementioned Newspaper is presented on to counter.
“He must have had a bloody time machine then, this is last Thursdays Mirror”.

Travelling between Guatemala and El Salvador in 2011 in a minibus I had a bout of the explosive guts. Eventually, my devil-like grip was slipping and I asked the driver to stop so I could commune with nature (every spare bit of Guatemala is farmed by meticulous peasants). So, I had to find a bit of ground where I wasn’t festooning a local’s vegetables. Then I realised the force of expulsion was likely to leave me with spattered clothes with which to get back in the (hot and crowded) van. I had to get butt-naked and hang my clothes on trees to avoid the bugs without emitting so much as a squeak. I then released a stormy torrent and was lucky enough to get back in the van smelling like roses and was reassured that ‘not much’ could be seen through the windows. A humbling experience.