A short essay on how I once ended up dating someone entirely by accident
and regretted pretty much every minute. Now, I have had my fair share of 'what the fuck?' moments in my life, but this stands out as one of my more gargantuan brain=wrong moments.

I'd dropped out of uni and reapplied the following year to a better one, doing a foundation year to get on to the course of my choice. As such, most of the people on my course were mature students or foreign, and I hadn't really made any friends either in my classes or my halls - my block of flats in particular seemed to be populated exclusively by knobheads of the very highest order. My halls were mainly self catered, but twice a week we would wander down to the canteen for a helping of institutional-style pap, or 'college dining', as the university liked to (rather ambitiously - it was shite) call it. I would go at the usual time I ate - around 7:30. This happened to be after pretty much everyone else had finished. So, not making friends there either.

One evening I had somewhere else to be, so I went down early to a packed hall; the tables look rather intimidatingly full of loud and laughing groups. No way I'm intruding so nowhere to sit.

Except... I spot one table with a solitary young man on it, so I sidle over and ask if he minds if I sit with him. 'Not at all,' he smiles, and puts down his book. He seems alright, and we make a bit of small talk whilst I bolt down the congealed gunk the university has the affrontery to call food. Dinner finished, I bid him goodbye and leave. The following week I wander down at my customary time, grab my tray and turn to sit down in the empty hall.

Except... it's not empty. The solitary young man is seated a few tables away, picking disinterestedly at his food - although when he sees me, he perks up and beckons me over. Again, we make small talk and he invites me over to his flat to meet his flatmates, who, inexplicably for students, are out at the pub. So we sit in his kitchen for a bit and chat some more before I wander back to my room. Rinse and repeat for the second college dining of the week, except this time, after discussing what dvds I'd bought with the student loan I should have been spending on textbooks (or beer), he asked if I fancied going to the cinema at some point. Sure, says I, thinking no more of it. Okay, so he's a bit of a loner and a little strange, but it's nice to have made a friend and there's a film out I quite want to see, so why not?

The following week after college dining he invited me over to meet his flatmates again, who were at the pub, again. So, we head to the pub, and imagine my surprise when someone who I consider to be a casual acquantaince, someone I have met a grand total of 4 or 5 times, introduces me as his girlfriend. Drinks are drunk, small talk is talked. As the strange young man gets up to go for a piss, one of his 'mates' leans over and asks me 'Are you really his girlfriend? You seem pretty normal, is all...'. I explain that where I come from an invitation to go to the cinema does not equal hand holding and sexytime privileges, and the 'mate' nods sagely. 'We've not been able to get rid of him since we got here. He's alright in a mental sort of way, I suppose, although he does your head in if you spend any amount of time around him. Are you going to tell him you're not his girlfriend?'.

At that time I was in the middle of a dry patch of Saharan proportions. Foolishly - oh, so, so foolishly, I figured I'd see how it panned out. After all, it was the work of minutes to bin him if he got weird, and besides, how wrong could it go?

Very.

Either taking my silence for assent or it never occurring to his addled brain that asking 'Do you want to see a film' is not the same as 'Would you like to have sex?', it was seemingly carte blanche for him to follow me round everywhere, attempting to stick his tongue rather inexpertly down my throat half the time and rubbing against me like a cat in heat the remaining half of the time. After three days - just three days - I cracked and very gently had the 'I don't think this will work' talk with him. My not inconsiderable capacity for surprise was yet again taxed to its limits the following day when he bounced up to me as normal, pawing and nuzzling and talking bollocks. Following me up to my room and pouting when I politely but firmly closed the door in his face, then texting me bewildered and hurt messages. Two days after that I had a slightly less gentle chat with him about how I didn't really want a relationship right now. The next day - nothing. He's got the message, I thought in relief.

Wrong. The day after that he was back, apologising that he couldn't find his charger the day before, and that he'd rung and rung the bell to my flat but nobody answered so he couldn't get hold of me. A further two days pass, and I have another, even less gentle chat about the direction of our 'relationship', this time making it very, very clear -whilst remaining pleasant - that I am not interested. Yet again, it makes no difference. So I have another chat. And another. Finally, this triggers a spate of increasingly anguished texts of a Morrissey-esque 'I'll write a poem for you in my blood if you'll take me back, I hate my life' nature. Then nothing, for a day or so. Foolishly - incredibly foolishly, in the face of my experience so far - I dare to hope that this is finally it, and he's got the message.

How wrong can one person be? 12 days after my shocked silence was taken for agreement, fell Valentine's day. As he'd taken to coming down to college dining late, as I did, I went early as I thought I'd avoid him that way. Wrong, again. So wrong. He bounced in to the hall like a 6 foot andrex puppy, bearing roses and chocolate and a card with a poem in it, blissfully declaring his love and his belief that we could overcome our problems.

I believe I actually left fingernail marks in my face clutching at it in horror. And I started off pleasant and logical, but got increasingly agitated and strident in response to his 'but, but, I didn't know you felt this way, I love you' and trying to take my hand, before shrieking 'Just leave me the fuck alone!' and him bursting in to noisy sobs.
He then stalked me for a couple of months but was so pathetic that it was laughable rather than scary. I'd apologise for length etc but to be frank I'm glad I never found out.

I still ate the chocolates though.
(berk, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 23:48, 9 replies)

For a school talent show...
I must have been, ooh, 8, and as this was the spring of '95, a small band called Oasis were being hailed as gods by every music publication. You may have heard of them. This is relevant. Anyway, at my primary school, it'd just been announced there was going to be a talent contest the following week, with EVERYONE performing. The maximum amount of time we'd have was going to be five minutes, in which we had to wow our audience, which was the rest of our class. Each class would have a specific day in which they were performing, during that week. My class was to perform on Monday.

Crap.

I was 8, I had no real talents then.

So, being brainless, I went home, and didn't tell my parents about the talent-show, figuring I could just wing it somehow. I pass through the week in my usual absent-mindedness, and come Sunday night, I'm bricking myself, as the talent show was the next day. So I potter around the house, wondering just what I can do, wandering from room to room. As I tended to do this anyway, my parents thought nothing of it. I happened to wander into the living room, and find a few magazines on the coffee table. These provide the idea for the talent show that, 15 years on, is still haunting me.

I go to school the next day, attracting a few odd looks from, well, virtually everyone, parents included. I pass through the day with the occasional "Are you alright?" from the teachers, and stares from my mates, but I don't care. My masterplan is in fruition. And then, it's time for the talent show. By random chance, my name is called out first as it's drawn first from the hat, and I swagger onto the stage. Or attempt to. I'm only 8.

And proceed to randomly bellow out "GONNA LIVE FOREVER!".

In my best Liam Gallagher impression. I hasten to add that I had a west country accent. After my (awesome, or so I thought) impression, I stand on stage for a good thirty seconds, whilst everyone continues to stare at me, before deciding to just leave the stage. Without saying anything else. There was utter, shocked silence from everyone.

I had spent the entire day wearing a parka. In the middle of summer. Just to look like Liam. Hence the strange looks. I'd also tried to recreate Liam's smoking habit, but without actually using cigarettes, instead figuring that a lollipop looked roughly the same as a fag if I had only the white stick showing. So somehow, I'd combined Liam Gallagher with Kojak. Except back then, I also wore glasses. Massive, thick glasses.

In essence, I looked nothing like Liam Gallagher, sounded nothing like him, and I'd just tried to impersonate him in front of about 30 odd kids. And the teachers.

15 years on, and I'm still haunted by this.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 22:36, 5 replies)

Why O Why?
As a regular visitor to this site, this QOW made me decide to sign up and share my ignorance with the masses. Apologies for length.

I was working as a temp and started seeing this girl, let's call her Vicky, for that was her name. She was 5'2", gorgeous face, ample bosom and perfect rear. In short, she was out of my league and I was a lucky fucker.

The relationship naturally went slow as we both had come out of long term relationships that ended like an A-bomb on a children's hospital. This was fine as we enjoyed each others company and always had a great time.

So, a month or so down the line after several occasions of me walking her home and her saying, "you're not coming in", and my reply of "I wasn't asking to" before a kiss goodnight (it was our "thing"), we were on our way back after a drink on her birthday.

It was a freezing night and she said I could come in for a bit to warm up before I went for my bus. Not cottoning on to this change in attitude I accepted with no thought of an ulterior motive. Once inside she starts to say "you can stay if you want" shortly followed by "not really" and a cheeky smile.

Now, after I had actually warmed up I get my self together and start to leave. She hugs me as usual and I say goodbye. She then pulls me back to her and says "not yet" as she holds me tighter. Now any normal red blooded, testosterone infused man would of got the hint, sat back down, done the deed and woken up in the morning next to what can only be called the perfect girl.

But me? I say "come on I really have to go or I'll miss my bus". Leaving the girl of my dreams standing in her doorway with a look on her face of sadness and disappointment. I wake up the next morning and then my brain decides to see the truth of everything that happened the night before.

Not surprisingly, she stopped talking to me as much and was never available until we eventually fizzled out. Every single day for two years I have been kicking myself for not manning up, seeing the signals, and giving her the birthday present she wanted.
(SillyBugger, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 21:52, 10 replies)

Once...
A bit of bread got stuck in the toaster...

Clever me tried to spear it with a knife and promptly electrocuted myself.

The knife flew out of my hand and almost landed in my foot!

I now use plastic cutlery.
(MissFlee tried again on, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 18:22, 4 replies)

Urban robin hood.
As a teen, I had a rather strange school jacket, due to strange rules about it needing to be plain black with a logo no bigger then a 50 pence peice. I ended up getting a Nike one, with removable sleves and a hood lined with elastic. The hood toggles seemed to be super streachy, and with a friend to lend a hand, it made a great crossbow. Pen lids and folded paper became my ammo of choice, though a steady hand could launch a biro, and I quickly became a fair shot.

After growing bored with shooting mates and missing seaguls (only ever hit one, and it didn't seem to mind), we naturaly decided to shoot pens at cars. This was tricky, though I hit a couple, totaly ignorant to the stupidity of what I was doing. One afternoon, on the way home from school, my friend and I were taking shots at busses. From my position, I couldent see cars untill the last second, so my mate was spotting and I was using sound to guage the position.

"There's a van coming, then a bus. I say wait for the bus." advised my spotter. "No, I'm going for the van!" I boasted, full of confidence at my marksmanship. It was getting louder, seemed to be going fast, so release earlier. Letting the pen go, we watched in glee as the White van zoomed by, with a sudden bang as the pen hit it.

We cheered and air punched, then the break lights came on, the van was turning round! SHIT!!! Lacking the sanctuary of a Forrest like the Robin of legend, we heroicly ean away. Not fast enough it eould seem, van screeches up, out steps a very angry builder, who rightly shouted at us, told us how stupid we had been and made us feel like utter bastards.

Looking back, it was stupid, it was dangerous and it was a fucking stupid thing to do. Still, a fucking great shot.
(Mong goose, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 18:11, 1 reply)

I am the Firestarter
When I was a lad, I had a pyro faze. Don't know why, just loved the fire. Two examples:

Sub age of eight: wanted to burn little pieces of paper. Had paper; had matches. Looking for way to do it in my bedroom so no one would catch me. Answer? A cardboard shoe box! So I ripped up the paper into little squares, and had 15 minutes of pure joy. After all the paper had burned out and I had congratulated myself on a sneaky job well done, I lifted the shoe box and noticed that it had burned a hole in the bottom and the carpet beneath was melted and scorched. Cue sick feeling in the gut. Got a hiding for that one.

Around 9-10 years old: went hiking in the mountains with cub scout troop. Had some stick matches and was lighting them and watching them until we went out. Repeat. Well, this was in New Mexico, on the desert side of the mountain and, well, I started a huuuuugge brush fire on the mountain. We had walked about 50 yards beyond where it started and were alerted that it was there by a huge "whooooosh", leaping flames and the snap, crackle, pop of burning sage, cactus and grasses.

Cue eight cub scouters kicking and throwing sand like blue colored bullies at nerd day on the beach. We weren't too far away from civilization so it was stopped by the firemans after just an acre or so had burned.

One of the cubbies narc'd me out and my dad had me stand by him for hours that night so that when he remembered what a dork I'd been that day he could reach out, grab me by the back of the hair and give a good shake.

In hindsight, I don't know what I was thinking or why the allure was so strong. Had two friends who later played with matches and gasoline and really mucked themselves up, so I guess I was lucky.

Now I have channeled my pyromania and my fire is contained happily in a backyard firepit. I am now the hero of the local neighbor kids for being so willing to make a fire for their marshmallows and s'mores.
( BrokenCoccyx doesn't mind if you grope on, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 17:41, 3 replies)

Death at the gym
Almost killed some guy at the gym when I was distracted by a hot fitness instructor, and stopped to talk to her while removing the weights from the squat bar. She laughed along at my jokes while I removed all 60kgs from the one side of the bar only to watch it flip up on the rack, drop down 6 foot to the other side and almost spang some guy in the face on the bench press. Complete facepalm moment. He just got up and handed the bar to me as well, didn't say a word. In the reverse situation I would have knocked myself out for such stupidity.
( Regger, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 17:28, 1 reply)

"Well, I mean I don't normally.
But I suppose your first record contract is a special occasion. All right, just one."

Shane MacGowan.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 17:02, Reply)

Je ne regrette rien

( kappynitty doubled your entendre on, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 16:10, 7 replies)

Well it seemed like a good idea at the time ...
All I needed was to hand over the details to my bank account, and he'd give me £15m. I mean - the interest alone would be enough ...
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 15:49, Reply)

'Nokia NGage for only 500 rand? Games! Music! Serious cool! Sold!'
...arsecock. Still haven't lived that one down.
(Tiktock Beating off flamers with a shitty stick, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 15:33, 1 reply)

'Sure, this jar will fit up my arse'
-crunch-
(Tiktock Beating off flamers with a shitty stick, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 15:30, 9 replies)

For the process of a quick read, don't repair electrical things...
.. and then plug them in to make sure they work before putting them back together.

Required:

1 x PC with dodgy power unit (worn fan)
1 x Replacement fan
1 x Power cord
1 x Live power socket
1 x Idiot (me)

Method:

1. Shut down PC.
2. Turn power off at socket.
3. Unplug all cables from PC except for power cable (keeps it earthed if there are any problems)
4. Remove internal plugs from hard drives, and other PC bits inside the case.
5. Remove power unit from PC as you can't open it up to change the fan.
5a. Unplug the power cord.
5b. Remove the screws holding the unit in.
6. Rest power unit on the PC, and remove cover.
7. Replace fan.
This is where I question 'why?'
8. Sod putting it back together, plug it in first.
9. The power cable is a bit stiff, push harder.
10. Pushing is making the power unit slide around, steady it with other hand.
11. Wake up! You've been lying there for ages!
12. Note to self, capacitor on the other side of the power cord socket is not a good steadying medium.

Length? Out for almost an hour, thrown a good couple of feet and red raw fingers enough?
(Ethelred is watching cheese grow, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 15:12, 3 replies)

What was I thinking? Absolutely FUCK knows ...
I'd just discovered Ecstacy, and, as such, was on an INCREDIBLY strong pill. Almost (almost) too high, at a house party (as in, it was in a house).

Chatting to some geezer, for some reason, I remember him giving me the advice "Never look in a mirror when on a pill."

So I was having a lovely time, but needed a slash, and off I went to the bog.

In I go - the door opens outwards, and the bog is to the left, over which there is a long mirror.

So I'm having a nice slash and dear CHRIST am I high but god this slash is good this pill is good this music is good these people are good CHRIST I am so high I am so, so high ooo that's a nice slash lovely lovely lovely ...

And I hear a noise.

A nice noise.

Girls. Lovely girls. Girls laughing. Lovely girls, laughing. Let's hope they're experimenting happily with bisexuality GOD am I high lovely girls laughing laughing lovely girls laughing away what are they laughing at what do they see, lovely girls laughing, laughing at me ...

Laughing at me?

Laughing at ... what? At me?

I slowly come to my senses. I am standing at the toilet, my cock in my hand, my nose millimeters from mirror, staring - intensley - at myself.

The door was wide, wide open.

I had been like that for several minutes.

The lovely girls laughing? They were openly pointing and specifically laughing at me, inviting their mates to enjoy the spectacle.

I hadn't even lifted the lid.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 14:57, 10 replies)

Fat girls
"This is clearly her minge, it's a crevice between her legs and is sopping wet."

Nope, sweaty fold of flab.
( Ungersven would support SpankyHanky's patreon, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 14:41, 10 replies)

deodorant
I was 16 (it seems that many a genius fell foul of his own ingenuity at this tender age) and heading to the local nightclub Atlantis. While pocketing my fake ID I remember my buddy telling me that a sure fire way to be a hit with the ladies was spraying you man-parts with deodorant.

You probably don't need telling that Lynx Africa and testicles should be kept separate at all times. 100% eye-watering ball blazing pain.
(Fennestrator, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 14:33, 2 replies)

"Sure I'll give you a hand - I've got no other work on at the moment."

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 14:33, Reply)

Two Weeks Ago

Up a small step-ladder, changing a lightbulb.

"Hmm. Did I switch the light switch off? Is this fitting live?"

Stuck my finger in to find out.

While lying on the floor I discovered that our two cats can laugh.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 14:28, 4 replies)

I gave away my star wars toys...
...to the children's hospital. I realised my mistake as the parentmobile disappeared round the corner of the road. No such things as mobile phones those days and there they were gone... even Boba Fett. There were figures and machines that you could only get by sending off obscure proofs of purchase and the like.

arse.

and then years later, my friend from uni asked if I would like a job with his new company. £120 a week cash in hand. I didn't understand the phrase 'cash in hand' and thought "I'm getting £120 a week now from my factory job, I don't want to sell advertising over the phone" and politely declined. 6 months later, I heard about my friend again when he'd sold his company (in the dotcom bubble) for £10million.

arse.

My gfriend at the time however... on the night we got together, she had the option of me or him (the £10 million bloke) and she chose me. When I found out about his success, I told her about it. On the day before her re-sit exam, which she failed and ended up with a 'pass' which means she may as well have not done the 3rd year of her degree. We went out for another 4 years or so before it all imploded and she was left with the rabbit but I got all the friends.

I feel utterly terrible about all of that. No one deserves that.
(Ross McBingobangobongo bingobangobongo, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 14:10, 1 reply)

Like many B3tans,
I was, and still am, a complete pyromaniac. Needless to say, I have endless 'what was I thinking?' moments, like the time I tried to see how far away I could stand and light a candle in my room using a deodorant can...but one time sticks out particularly.

At university I had a side project of raising a brine shrimp colony, which I'd then drop blocks of Americium into to see what effects it had, and whether it caused any mutations. This was purely a hobby, it had nothing to do with my degree; I'm just cruel. Anyway, I bought some oxygenating tablets to keep the water nice and aerated, when I realised that if I could crush these up with a source of fuel, it'd really fizz and spark. I crushed up one capsule with some sugar, and lit it. Nothing happened.

For some reason however, fate really wanted me to cause myself harm, and despite my initial failure, I crushed all of the tablets up, and mixed it up with about twice as much sugar. I took it outside, and lit it, then scuttled back into my observation dome (the conservatory). It didn't work again.

This called for some serious ignition power. I opened my little box of fire, and dug out a small ribbon of magnesium that I had lying around. I poured the powder into a piece of PVC tubing I also had lying around (I have a lot of crap lying around), and slid the magnesium halfway in. I took this outside, and lit the magnesium wick, and again ran to cover. Again it didn't work.

I decided to give up, and went outside to retrieve my PVC tube for another project, when the mixture spontaneously ignited, spewing caramel and molten plastic everywhere, before exploding. Amazingly, I got none on my face, but a hell of a lot of droplets landed on my neck, all over my chest and hands, leaving little red scars and blisters that took weeks to heal. Thank god I hadn't been a little hastier and picked the thing up and looked down the tube though.
( guffguff fuckes your gradeds balls!, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 13:37, 2 replies)

Light Bulb
Sitting at my desk one evening with the desk lamp on I thought "that bulbs to bright"

To late to go buy another bulb I thought I would defuse the light by wrapping the bulb in toilet paper.

When I had extinguished the resulting fire I realised the desk, carpet, curtains and self respect would never be the same again!!!
(HughJorgans, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 12:50, Reply)

Ah, the drugs, the drugs.
Out for an evening on the piss, met up with an acquaintance's ex. Not a friend, mind you, an acquaintance, and an acquaintance who had gone seriously doolally at that.
Said ex was astonishingly good looking, and for some reason, as the beer and wine flowed, we hit it off.

I am pudgy, bespectacled, pock-faced web-developer, gentlemen, and these things do not happen to me. A few lagers in, she was on a rant about her ex and for some reason, something awoke within me.
"Want to get revenge?" I said, in perhaps the smoothest moment of caddery I have ever experienced in my life.
"Hell yes." says she. And off we toddle out of the club back to her palace for nooky.

Now as I'm walking, my head clears and the neuroses that had been in retreat for the only ten seconds of suave I have ever experienced suddenly came back with reinforcements.
"WTF are you doing?" they said. "You're drunk! You'll not get it up! She's too good for you! Girls like this don't go for you! There's got to be a catch! It's a trap! It's a trap! Fleeeeeeeeeeeee!"
"Silence, neuroses!" say I, mercifully internally. "I'm getting my end away and there's nothing you can do about it."
Unfortunately, there was.
We were lying in bed, in our underwear about to get jiggy with it and I'm extremely nervous, having never seen a naked woman this hot in three dimensions. And she can tell. "Would you like a spliff first?" she says, soothingly.
"Hell yes."

In summary:

Beer + Wine + Nerves + Weed = vomiting

On her breasts.
(universalpsykopath loves what you've done with your hair., Tue 28 Sep 2010, 12:50, 11 replies)

Artnecdote
I used to live in Brighton and, in around 2002, I inherited a little bit of money and decided to buy a picture.
I had about £400 to spend and I was torn in the gallery between a nice painting of the pier, and a more modern-art type one. I went for the nice seaside one. I liked the other one, but it was by someone called Banksy, and I felt it wouldn't hold its value.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 11:59, 6 replies)

I had the lucky, lucky position of sharing a house with an attractive, female student genuinely studying to become a masseuse.
So, willingly, I would play the victim upon whom she practiced.

This girl was a complete bloody hippy - lentils, paganism, aura, saving the planet - the lot. She was actually lovely, though - slightly hard, and - oddly - not really that airy-fairy (even over the obvious).

Of course, as students, we smoked a huge amount of hashish.

After one massage, we sat and smoked a strong joint, and she said "What shall we do now?"

"Now", I said, in my lowest, cheesiest voice, and adopting my cheesiest look-into-my-eyes stance, which invariably gets a laugh, followed by a slap if I keep it up, "We go to my bedroom ... for hot lurrrve ... "

"Oh - OK then." she said.

"Erm ... no, H, I was joking ..." I said.

"Oh - OK then." she said.

Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 9:18, 2 replies)

Just because a confidence isn't whispered ...
doesn't make it any less of a confidence.

Back story; my dad is one of eight kids born on a Glaswegian sink estate to a washer woman in the 40s. His childhood was four kids to a bed, cabbage soup for supper and 'one bath on Saturday to be clean for the Sabbath whether you need it or not' kinda poverty.

He and three of his siblings migrated to Australia in the 60s to seek a better life. They found a white working class man’s paradise. Good work, decent schools, cheap beer and smokes.

I am the family rebel. I am the first and only of my extended family to go to University. I got a great job, married a nice fella, had my kids in wedlock and don’t have a single tattoo. On the scale of Chavness I am an Epic Fail.

I moved back to Old Blighty 15 years ago and thought I’d introduce myself to my Glaswegian cousins. Sadly, I found that the kids of the siblings who stayed in Glasgow were living on the same estate as their folks in a slightly elevated level of poverty than that which their parents endured.

Like most working class Glaswegian extended households, my Clan is ruled with an iron fist by a fearsome Matriarch. She’s a 2 pack a day ex-mental health nurse. If she ever met Catherine Tate’s Nan, she’d spang her round the back of the head with her oxygen bottle. She’s well ‘ard.

I was round at her house one day when my 15yo cousin announces that she’s pregnant. To my surprise, the womenfolk were all ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ and ‘well that’s a good way to leave home’. No questions such as; ‘Who’s the father?’ or ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ or ‘What about school?’. I sighed and kept my disapproval to myself.

The conversation rolled on and went to put on the kettle. I returned to hear my 15yo cousin moan 'I suppose I'll have to quit the fags now'. At this point the Matriarch pipes up. 'Don't you believe any of that shite love! I smoked through all my pregnancies and never had any bother at all.'

My bullshit tether broke.

'Really? All four of them?' I said into a room containing her THREE adult children. What was I thinking?

The conversation stopped dead as icicles started to form. The red hot glare of hatred from the Matriarch made it clear that I was never to darken her doorstep again.

I learned that day that Aspiration, the expectation that your children will do better than you, is a peculiarly middle class thing.
(Que?, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 6:06, 5 replies)

Dance of the flaming arsehole
On a uni fieldtrip in the early 1990's - the last day I decided to start drinking early to celebrate my smuggy intelligence at digging holes really well. By the end of the evening I had danced the flamers - with lecturers, students and potential employers watching me. I was too far gone to even take my shorts all the way off, so they lay like a bowl of soggy weeties around my ankles while I took dainty lady steps into the darkened night.

The next morning I awoke to the horror of it all, whispering to all viewers how terribly sorry I was to have offended them. The last person I apologised to was sitting outside at the table, looked coolly at me and then took a garbage bin lid off the table to reveal the butt end of the charred newspaper. What the hell, someone actually touched that. What were they thinking?
(boozehound is drinking your bar dry, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 4:33, 11 replies)

In my 1st year at uni...
I shared a house with a lad from south wales and two girls. One of the girls was rather attractive and was often the topic of conversation amongst my pissed student friends. One night after the christmas break, myself and fit housemate returned to our shared accomodation a few days early to do a resit exam. Instead of getting down to revision we decided to head out for a night on the piss. Fast forward several hours later and we are both laid out on the floor of our living room. The conversation went something like this...

Her: What shall we do now, I don't want to go to bed by myself yet.

Me: Dunno, I'm really pissed.

Her: Me too, maybe we could play a game.

Me: Like what?

Her: I don't know, something like truth or dare.

Me: Ok then, you go first?

Her: Truth or dare?

Me: Truth.

Her: Do you fancy me?

Me: Er, yes, but, er, i don't know, Dare!

Her: Come upstairs with me.

Me: I don't think that would be a good idea, we are both pissed and would regret it tomorrow.

With that she stormed off upstairs. What the hell made me say that?

Apologies for length.
(Andino, Tue 28 Sep 2010, 0:40, 11 replies)

I had been working a long shift as overtime.....
...my brain was dull and it was nearing the end of the shift so I was thinking of getting home, showering and going to bed. Then one of the machines ground to a halt, some kind of electric motor failure or something. I called the maintenance crew who duly turned up, sucked air through their teeth, made non-committal 'Hmmmmm' noises and decided they'd have to strip it down.
I left them to it and finished my shift.
As I was leaving, I passed through the machine floor to see how they were getting on when I noticed the power switch wasn't locked off. This was achieved by putting a padlock through the handle so it couldn't be turned on by mistake. 'Hey guys, you haven't locked the power switch off!' I yelled as I reached out and turned it just to prove a point........
I turned it on. I reached out and unleashed 415 volts of direct current straight through the hands of the maintenance guy who was fixing the motor.

He got away with a quick air trip to other side of the gangway and shit himself a little, but I just stood there for about 10 minutes repeating the mantra over and over....
'What the fuck was I thinking? I could've killed him!'

Still, makes for a great anecdote when the chance presents itself.
( NooShmoo It's a fantazmagorical pile of ultra bollocks, Mon 27 Sep 2010, 23:31, 7 replies)

Took a boatload of meow
At a trance night. First time i'd ever done it. Was up until 10 the next night. 3 days later I was that messed up I believed it when I thought I didn't love my girlfriend. Told her exactly this.

We'ed been going out for 4 years, and living together for about 6 months. I totally and utterly crushed her.

What was I thinking taking that shit...never been near the stuff since. My head wasn't right for another 2 months.

Just because it has cat in the name it shouldn't remind you of 'meow meow, I'm cute a kitten' but 'I'm a lion and I'm gonna FFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCK you up!'. Ga!
(lemonadegame, Mon 27 Sep 2010, 23:14, 5 replies)

Don't crap in your own nest
was the stupid, stupid, stupid policy I took up at university.

I'd always been a shy retiring kid at school, but in sixth form I started to find my feet a little and by university I was a whole load more confident - still a little gawky and awkward, sure, but then I was going to a fairly spoddy university so I shouldn't be too out of place. And, hey, I might meet some equally gawky but gorgeous sensitive poetic etc etc GURLS.

And I did; plenty. Unfortunately for some reason I had decided "don't shit in your own nest". In other words, friends are friends. No matter how lovely and/or fuckable they might be, just don't. Things will go wrong, because they always do; and your friends will think the worse of you.

So how was I going to meet the poetic sensitive girl of my dreams, then, if she couldn't be a friend first? Hm. Never quite worked that one out. In the meantime I somehow valiantly contrived to shrug off the attentions of Cath, who made it perfectly clear she wanted me and reputedly went like a rabbit in a sack; of lithe little Sarah Jane who deposited herself on my knee at one Christmas party much to the envy (and subsequent disbelief when I did precisely nothing) of the male half of our department; of Karen, who was a little unhinged but nonetheless had some fairly obvious attractions and rather unnervingly appeared to consider me the sensitive poetic soul of her own dreams. After all, we were all friends, weren't we? What would our other friends think when it all went wrong?

My most excruciating face-palming hour ('hour' would have been better: this one played out over the best part of a year) was Mary. Mary was a canny little thing with a wicked sense of humour and an acerbic view on life, and I fancied her immensely. Clearly being nice, complimentary and flattering wouldn't get me anywhere with the most amusingly cynical thing ever to wear a skirt. So I wasn't. In fact, I was somewhere between dismissive and rude, purposefully taking against all the things she liked, and taking the piss at every opportunity. Somehow I thought this might endear me to her. Right? It was a few months after it had all imploded messily that a friend told me she'd said at the time "I used to fancy Guy quite a bit, you know. But suddenly he went all weird on me." Gah.

And then there was Clare. Thoughtful, beautiful, kind, stunningly talented (a cellist - I've always had a thing for cellists), the most alluringly filthy laugh, and she drank like a fish. Anyone in our department who wanted a poetic pre-Raphaelite girlfriend fancied her, and given that we were a fairly pretentious bunch that was most of us. Obviously this meant I couldn't even think of it: not only would I be an idiot in front of our friends, I'd earn their undying enmity if I did ever get anywhere.

A shame, really, given that we were best friends for a couple of years. She'd occasionally gently joke about how she was offended that I'd said I didn't fancy her. Of course I didn't fancy her. The fact she was the only girl I'd ever cried over was irrelevant, right? We were just really good friends.

Oh, Guy, you silly arse.

It all came right in the end, somehow. A couple of years later I met the future Mme Debord, quite by chance, far from any of my friends. I didn't have to worry about making an idiot of myself. So I didn't.

But when I think of the three years I spent with an entirely unnecessary self-imposed emotional chastity belt - yes, I was a complete idiot. Ha.
(Guy Debord cette mauvaise réputation..., Mon 27 Sep 2010, 22:39, 1 reply)