The Game
About 5 years ago, I was entrusted with the task of looking after my sister's cats over the new year while she and her boyfriend spent a month in Australia. As I was still living at home at the time, I jumped at the chance.

In the run-up to their holiday, my sister's boyfriend (Johnny) started hinting that he would be leaving a not-inconsiderable amount of booze somewhere in their flat, but that this would have to be earned. It was all a bit cloak and dagger and when I tried to enquire further all I would get was an enigmatic smile and shrug.

Cue mid-December and my sis and Johnny are heading off to the airport. My sister hands me the keys and her boyfriend hands me a video tape that he says I'm not allowed to watch until I've got friends round (which, jakey student that I was, I had planned for that very evening). The tape was a blank VHS simply marked "The Game". 30 seconds after they leave, I pop it into the video player, feeling the need to check that I'm not going to be showing my friends a scat film. It turns out to be a cloe-up of Johnny's face. His first words are something to the effect of "Don't worry. This is not a scat film, but the start of a wonderful adventure." He then goes on to say that if my friends haven't arrived yet (which they haven't) I should turn of and wait for them.

The man's a psychic.

Time passes and 4 of my friends turn up. We crack open some beers and I tell them that the evening's entertainment appears to be some sort of treasure hunt dreamt up by my sister's other half.

To cut a long story short, Johnny had hidden 4 video tapes in various locations around Govanhill (one of Glasgow's less salubrious areas) and each of these tapes gave the location of the next one. Over the course of about two hours, all the while drinking ourselves silly, we collect 3 of these 4 tapes and traipse back to base feeling both silly and invigorated to watch the penultimate tape.

This one's a bit different from the others. Instead of the usual talking head, it has Johnny's face half-lit, something akin to a Scottish Colonel Kurtz. He stares at the camera for what feels like an eternity before slowly and deliberately starting to speak:

"You think you've got all the answers, don't you. Well it's going to get a little bit more tricky from here on in. Your final mission is a tough one, but my mother used to tell me that if something's not worth doing right, it's not doing at all. There is a shop about 5 minutes along the road from here called Vivo's. Mr Vivo is a very close personal friend of mine and he's holding an item that you'll need to complete your task. One of you must go into Vivo's, tell him that Johnny sent you and ask for the latest copy of "Asian Babes". Mr Vivo is holding this for you behind the counter. Contained in this magazine is a map to where your reward has been hidden. Once you have selected one of your party to get this item and he has left the flat, the rest of you must wait for three minutes before resuming this tape. I will then issue my final orders. Press stop NOW."

Since we'd got that far, we figured we might as well go along with this too, so we stopped the tape and, after much deliberation (read: arguing) we decided that my friend Stephen would be the one to go to Vivo's for said pornographic publication. He cantered off at pace and the rest of us waited for the longest three minutes of our lives before pressing play again. Johnny's face spooled back into view:

"Have you waited your three minutes? You'd better have, you slimy wee shites. Here we go:
You've just sent your friend to an Asian-owned shop to ask for a copy of Asian Babes. There's only two outcomes from that. Mr Vivo (who I have never met, having never been into his shop) will either laugh your friend out of there or beat him into a pulp for his insolence. The booze is in the cupboard under the sink. Now, the real question is whether you care enough about your friend to stop him getting a kicking. I suggest you run. FUDS!"

From the line "who I have never met", I had been pulling on my trainers and getting ready to go running from the flat to try and catch up with Stephen. He won't mind me saying that he was a 20-a-day man and I fancied my chances of catching him before he made a twat of himself, or worse.

I pelted off through the heaving throng of junkies and neds that make up most of Govanhill. It's a straight road to Vivo's from my sister's and after about 30 seconds I caught sight of Stephen. But he seemed to be going the wrong way. Why was he coming towards me? And why was his face so red?

It would seem that I'd underestimated Stephen's athletic prowess and overestimted my own. Rather than taking a leisurely stroll to Vivo's, he'd ran all the way there too. What Mr Vivo thought of this panting, sweating man coming rushing in to request Asian Babes, we'll never know. Maybe he got it all the time, grown men scurrying into his shop because they'd run out of porn and were approaching the vinegar strokes. To my amusement and my friend's relief, Mr. Vivo wasn't phased at all. He advised my friend that he didn't have that particular publication, but directed him to the myriad other top-shelf publications that he stocked. Stephen declined, thanked him and bought a packet of Orbit before commencing his walk of shame. I explained what had happened on the way home.

The prize for these shenanigans was better than expected. A bottle of Jack, a bottle of Aftershock and 24 cans of Tennents. Okay, so the hiding place was obvious, but that only added to the hilarity.

Well played, Johnny. Well played.

A man can only apologise for length so much.
(roidoid, Tue 18 Dec 2007, 18:07, 5 replies)

Not entirely evil...
I'm in my first term of uni, and i have a big rugby playing second year on my corridoor in my halls.
He decided to initiate us with many pranks, including the general turning-upside-down of everything in your room, removal of furniture when you're pissed, etc...
Anyway, he went away for the weekend, we got a rather small friend to climb through his window, and we decided to cover his room in tin foil.
What started off as a small prank quickly escalated.
Within 2 hours we had over 20 people working in the room, including several parents who had come to see the hall play.
Over 1km of tin foil was used and everything from his ceiling, down to individual drawing pins on his poster board was covered. My favourite touch was a pencil case in which every pencil was individually wrapped. Like i said, it wasn't entirely evil, but reflection of heat and al that physics malarkey means that its either absolutely boiling, or arctic in there.
i82.photobucket.com/albums/j260/Luke2442/foil1.jpg
i82.photobucket.com/albums/j260/Luke2442/foil3.jpg
i82.photobucket.com/albums/j260/Luke2442/foil2.jpg
length? 20 people, 6 hours, and over 1 kilometer.
(Pingoo likes cheese, Thu 13 Dec 2007, 20:27, 10 replies)

My office mate ..
.. has set his Windows backdrop to a photo of his house. It's a nice house and he doesn't lock his PC. I'm subtly photoshopping the image every weekend, replacing it by a new version on Monday morning. This far I've removed several windows, the mailbox, various stuff, and the chimney, and I have changed some colours.

He hasn't noticed yet. I hope that once he notices, he'll wonder for a while if his memory is failing him. I don't think he knows the capabilities of Photoshop, so there is a fair chance that it will be fun.

This weekend I plan to add the first garden gnome.

Come to think of it, I'm probably not evil, but I might be mildly irritating.
(spinoza, Fri 14 Dec 2007, 15:05, 14 replies)

The Death of Dave
Apologies in advance for length - it was a bit of an epic prank.

Back in College (all of 3 years ago now, how old I feel), the second year was fantastic. We felt like we owned the college - we'd been there an entire twelve months, we knew all the staff, how to blag free food from the canteen, who in the smoking area sold weed, everything. And so owning the college itself, we also owned any first years that were stupid enough to hang out with us. And hang out with us they did.

One girl in particular attached herself to our group (we will call her Sammy, for that was, and probably still is, her name). She was intensely irritating, loud and generally obnoxious and after a few weeks of following us from the canteen to the smoking area, smoking area to the field, around college and then on the bus into town, we decided enough was enough - she had to be ditched. But how to do it? She seemed intent on shadowing one guy in particular (the aforementioned Dave) and so with his blessing (it may even have been his idea, I forget now) we set about faking Dave's death.

It began one evening with someone calling Sammy's mobile in a panic - "Dave's been in a car accident! He's at the hospital in a really bad way. We're all here but he's asking for you, Sammy!". Being a first year, and thus only 17, Sammy could not drive. She ended up getting her mother out of bed at 11pm to drive her to the hospital where, upon arriving and not being able to trace Dave's location (what with him being happily at home having a beer and a good laugh at Sammy's expense), she called back the person who'd rung her earlier. "No," she was told, "we're not there! We're at {hospital name} hospital, in {town name} But oh God Sammy, it's too late! Dave's DEAD!" Cue floods of tears from both parties - fake from the person 'breaking the news' of course, but oh so very real from poor old Sammy. In his hour of need, Dave had asked for her, and she hadn't got there in time. How would she ever live with the guilt?

But it wasn't over there. Oh no. The next day someone "confided" to Sammy that in his last moments Dave had said that he wished she could have been there, as he thought he loved her, and wanted to tell her before he died. Hearing this of course, Sammy gushed that she wished she'd known, as she'd loved Dave all along, etc. which was quite plainly bullshit, but when the person in question is dead, I suppose you can get away with that sort of thing. Anyway, that evening we conviened on MSN as young folks do (or did in my day, they're probably all too busy doing drugs and mugging pensioners these days) and began to discuss the fun of this prank. We started a group conversation (with everyone's display names being "RIP DAVE I'LL MISS YOU!!1" and other such sentimentalities) and invited Sammy in. It started out as you might expect, people sharing their grief at the loss of their friend and discussing details of the funeral to be held the next week. That is, until one person who 'hadn't heard' of Dave's death (let's call this gent Larry) entered the conversation, and asked what all the fuss was about. "Haven't you heard? Dave's dead." Larry enquires as to which Dave this is. "Dave Smith." (name changed to protect the oh-so-guilty). "That cunt?" says Larry, "Good riddance."

Cue general outrage from the group until one by one, people start to turn.

"Well actually, he owed me money, the bastard."

"He stole my girlfriend in year 11."

"He slept with my sister you know. Git."

The final straw was when Mike, Dave's brother entered the room, and showed absolutely no grief over his brother's untimely demise, but instead was just pleased as he'd be "getting the bigger bedroom now!". This conversation went on for about 3 hours, I have the full transcript somewhere for anyone who doubts that people this evil truly exist. Eventually it turned to the absolutely ridiculous, with two people claiming that when the hospital had refused to honour Dave's final wishes (to do with some bizarre religion he belonged to, I believe), they had 'liberated' Dave's body from the hospital mortuary and were keeping it in a giant freezer in their basement. Sammy actually bought all of this, and was disgusted by her apparent friends' callous attitude towards their friend's tragic death.

The next day we were stood in the smoking area, which at our college was generally just part of the car park. Whilst we stood there badmouthing Dave and talking about who was going to get his stuff, Sammy stood in stoney silence. After a few minutes, a Ford Ka whizzed into the car park and parked up a small distance away. Out got Dave, who sauntered casually up to the group and hugged Sammy. She burst into tears.

I've never been more certain I'm going to hell.
(Mr. In-Between has regretted posting this ever since, Sat 15 Dec 2007, 10:19, 7 replies)

I killed my grandfather...
My paternal grandparents used to live - when they lived at all, that is - in a house with a large garden. And when I say "large", I mean "measured in acres" kind of large. It was ace; there were lots of rocky bits, coppices, paths through bushes and so on - everything a child could need for hours of adventure.

An obvious trope was to hide behind a bush or rock, wait for someone to come past, and yell "BOO!" at them. One day, that's exactly what I did to my grandfather.

My grandfather, I knew, had a slightly weak heart. I didn't take this into account. I was young.

I could see him coming; I crouched in a clump of bracken. Closer... closer... closer...



"BOO!"

My grandfather looked startled for a moment - but only for a moment. He fell. He stayed fallen.
"Oh, Jesus H Macy; I've fucking killed Grandad," I would have thought had I not been only 9. "Oh, bother, I've flipping well killed Grandad," is what I probably did think.

Not knowing what else to do, I simply looked at his very still body for what looked like hours but can only have been seconds.
"Grandad?" I ventured. "Are you all right? Can you hear me? Grandad?"

Nothing.

More nothing.

Pinteresque nothing.





















"BOO!" he yelled.

I was the one who had a heart attack that day.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 14 Dec 2007, 9:46, 8 replies)

BOO! – (or ‘Simple, but effective, the art of making someone jump out of their skin whilst simultaneously shitting their pants’).
This is the story of two friends of mine, brothers called Craig & Trevor. When they were young they were close, but choc-full-to-the-brim of the healthy, mentalist competitive edge and sense of one-upmanship that pushes sibling rivalry into the farthest stratosphere of knob-rottery.

Like so many stories of this type (which you will no doubt be subjected to this week), this ongoing series of pranks started off small and harmless, before snowballing into the depths of the ridiculous and ever intensifying dangerous proportions.

Now, nobody really 'likes it' when something or somebody makes them ‘jump’. From the controlled conditions of the cinema whilst watching a horror flick, which serves for your ladyfriend an opportunity to give your arm a squeeze and make you appear all manly-like, to the real-life sudden-shock scenarios where you feel like your heart will burst from your chest.

Either way, the fear and uncertainty of the unknown when coupled with it’s effect on our survival instincts creates the most unpleasant gut-wrenching reaction.

Then again, when it happens to somebody else, that’s different. Watching somebody shit their pants with fright when you know that all is actually perfectly safe…well, that’s just as funny as fuck.

So…back to Craig & Trevor.

Who knows who started it, for all we know it could’ve been accidental, but one of them at one point, had a genuine fright and ‘jumped’ in full view of the other.

In the way that pretty much everybody does, his shoulders shot up over his ears, his eyes opened wide and he shuddered whilst shouting “WAHUHUUHURGH!”

His brother, instead of offering support and understanding, felt that this merely highlighted what a girly wimpo wuss-bandit his brother was; therefore he decided that the only decent thing to do was to submit said brother to be subject of much mirth and general pisstaking.

Unfortunately, brother one wasn’t having any of that…he understandably believed that anybody, despite how ‘hard as nails’ they were, would ‘jump’ under those circumstances and indeed, he knew he was ‘all man’.

Therefore, the thoughts of revenge began to fester and the cycle of retaliation started.

It begins.

To start with, one of them would hide behind a door…as the other walked in, they would jump out and shout:

“RAAAAARGH!”

The other brother would quite justifiably jump 3 feet into the air and squawk:

“WAHUHUUHURGH!” before following with a statement such as “You utter bastard, you nearly gave me a fucking heart-attack!”

Then much laughter would ensue.

Now , there’s no real problem with this, and it continued happily for a while, but unfortunately they adjusted, evolved if you will, and before long neither of them would open any sort of door without creeping round and checking with a look of total paranoid expectation.

So things had to change.

They would procure themselves at ever more difficult positions using increasingly complex tools, techniques and alibis to accomplish the goal of:

Brother 1:“RAAAAARGH!”
Brother 2: “WAHUHUUHURGH!”

It started to get worse…and out of control.

Trevor had noticed that Craig had accumulated a pile of clothes next to his bed (his washing ‘to do’ pile). After informing his parents of what he was going to do (and getting their blessing – how great is that?) he hid under the pile of clothes one evening while his brother was out.

He waited…..and waited.

When Craig got home, his mum & dad informed him that Trevor had already gone to bed. Blissfully dismissive of the huge pile of clothes and wotnot by his bed, and completely unaware that Trevor was lurking underneath, Craig slumped into his own bed and prepared for a good night’s sleep…

Trevor meanwhile waited silently beside…not even daring to breathe…waiting for the moment to strike.

Craig let out a big sigh, rolled over towards the pile of clothes, sighed again…and

“RAAAAARGH!” Trevor dived out of the pile of clothes and grabbed Craig.

“FAAAAAAAARRRRGHHH!!!!” Screamed Craig, leaping into the air like someone had inserted a red hot cattleprod up his arse. Not fully conscious and without even looking back to acknowledge who had done this, he catapulted himself out of his bedroom and yelped down the stairs whereupon he was greeted by two parents bursting kidneys with laughter.

As he slowly stopped shaking and began to regain some composure, the slow realisation of what had happened slapped him in the face like a wet haddock.

“What’s going on? Whaaa?........YOU BASTARD TREVOR!!!”

Now you might think that still to this point, this was not a particularly ‘evil’ run of prankery and you’d be right….there’s dedication, maybe a touch of obsession, but no ‘Evil’ as such.

Here’s where it falls off the total deep end.

Craig waited…and plotted. We all know revenge is a dish best served cold and Craig was prepared to bide his time. As the months passed by, Craig finally hit upon the ultimate ‘Boo’ prank…

He would get him in the car. Whilst he was driving. Oh yes.

Craig went out for the day, knowing that Trevor was going to be at home until late in the evening when he would be going out and taking the car.

To avoid any possibility of missing the opportunity due to Trevor leaving early, Craig sneaked into the back of the car with about an hour to spare. He covered himself with a few coats and assorted rubbish then lay in the dark, motionless in the rear footwells. he waited…

As cramp started to set in…he waited…and didn’t move…this was his chance and he wasn't about to blow it by moving.

As time ticked on…he waited.

Suddenly, he heard the door ‘click’ and squinting from the corner of his hideaway he managed to see Trevor merrily climb into the drivers seat, start the car and slowly drove away.

After a few yards (and with a complete disregard for his own safety given the possible reactions of what was going to happen), Craig gently and silently creeps up from the footwell, then quick as a flash swung his left arm around Trevor’s neck and grabbed him.

“RAAAAARGH!”

“WAAAARRRGHHHFUCKINGFUCKINGHELLAAAAARRRGHH-HELP-ME-ARRRGH!!!!!!” Wailed Trevor, with his head belting the car ceiling as he tries to evacuate both his bowels and his own skin at the same time.

But it doesn’t end there. Before Craig even has time to start laughing, Trevor in his blind panic has opened the door and jumped from the moving car, rolling into the road before bounding up and sprinting away…leaving Craig abandoned in the back seat, cruising towards the nearest garden wall.

The car had just mounted the kerb by the time Craig had clambered in the front and stopped it, by which time Trevor was nowhere to be seen.

Suffice to say, the ‘Boo’ pranks stopped from that day on.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 13 Dec 2007, 17:32, Reply)

loft
My girlfriend is petrified of the loft (attic to merkins) and wont go in unless I'm there, on the ladder, head in the loft to make sure she's ok and body outside to keep ladder in place. Things (in no particular order) that could go wrong in her opinion:

Standing between girders = fall through ceiling.
Ladders fall away = no way down
Light goes out in loft and landing = no visbility
Insulation brushes against leg = death (glass fibres get in to bloodstream and slash brain open from the inside)
A sudden gust of wind rips entire loft off house with her inside resulting in a kind of new airborne life spent in loft from hell that somehow permanently 'surfs' the planet in the jet stream.
Spiders obviously.

Its all quite rational to her and under no circumstances am I am to in anyway make jokes about any part of the loft, or the mission to retrieve/return items from or to the loft.
The only weird thing is that she organised the whole loft so I'm not allowed to move stuff or get stuff out.

The other week, perched on the ladder whilst she rummaged around for a spare suitcase, I hatched and executed my plan. When she wasnt looking i ducked down the ladder, knocked the ladder out of the hatch so it crashed down to the landing, i hit the ground with a loud yell that appeared to just cut off half way and lay very still face down.

I listened, trying not to laugh.

"Geoff? Geoff? GEOFF!!!!" wild hysterical screaming as she ran accross the loft, losing her footing and one foot through the plasterboard, tripping and grabbing the extension cable to the lamp we hang up in the beams which is promptly torn out and the light goes off. It all took about 5 seconds. I turn over with a big smile and look up at her face hanging over the hatch literally unable to stop screaming at 'seeing me dead'.

It's really weird when you feel worse than you've ever done yet at the same time in agony from laughing so hard watching the love of your life screaming like her whole world just ended.

Seriously, try it. She'll get over it.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 13 Dec 2007, 14:44, 8 replies)

Picture the scene...
There's a girl you like. Big time. You adore her. She's perfect. And she's single. You flirt a little, but it goes nowhere. She's wary of being hurt or messed around.

My friend Tom was that guy. And after nearly a year of groundwork and being turned down times beyond number, the girl, the perfect girl, finally agrees to go out on a date.

Tom is beside himself. 'I'll take her to the finest restaurant in town. The new Thai one - it'll be perfect. For weeks, he rants and raves, gushes and giggles. Tom is on cloud nine.

We're all rooting for Tom. As D-Day approaches, we slap him on the back, ease his nerves and wish him well.

On the night itself, most of us have forgotten, or merely pushed it to the back of our minds.

Not Alan. Oh, no. Alan's car turns up outside everyone's house at 8PM, beeping like a maniac. What's going on?

Ten minutes later the answer is clear - we're parked opposite the new Thai place. And look, just inside is Tom, the perfect gentleman, the happiest man in the world.

Al begs silence. Al's phone appears. A number is dialed. Not a whisper is heard.

"Hello, Thai Kingom?"

"Good evening, this is doctor Wilkinson of Grantham Hospital - could you please pass on a message to a gentleman I believe is dining with you tonight? A Mr Thomas Lastname? Yes, please, could you tell him that his wife has just gone into labour? Thank you. Good evening."

The helpful manager strolls over to the table. We lip read. Word for word, the message is relayed. The girl stands up. Slaps him. Leaves. He runs after her. A few steps outside he pauses, then stops.

He sees our car. He sees his friends in stitches. He clicks. He screams. He runs towards the car, profanities flying. Five people are laughing so hard that they are in danger of having a cardiac arrest. The car lurches away.

We avoid Tom for three weeks....
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Thu 13 Dec 2007, 20:42, 10 replies)

School boy larks
This was suprisingly effective. All we did was paper the school with a teacher's name.

Just his last name. On little scraps of paper stuck onto pipes as you walked past. Or dropped as cryptic litter.

The effect? Every class he took would be asking him why his name was everywhere. He had no answer.

And gradually the posters started saying 'Teacher's Name for President' 'For Pope' 'has been abducted by Aliens'.

All culminating with a giant 'TEACHER'S NAME' in A4 sized letters taped above the lunch counter just before break (had to run like the blinders to get downstairs in time to stroll into the hall just behind the teacher and the Headmaster).

Its a bit like Chinese water torture, the young kids especially became completely unteachable as they pestered the teacher to find out what was going on.

Click 'I like this' if you like abstract pranks.
(timewasterboy now with added wastage, Fri 14 Dec 2007, 0:40, 3 replies)

not really evil
but a few weeks ago i went into Waterstones. Someone had left a sheet of "signed by the author" stickers on a table, so I swiped it and spent a while sticking them on copies of The Bible, Dickens, Jane Austen etc.
( shavedchimp something something oranges something, Wed 19 Dec 2007, 21:29, 8 replies)

rag week
not mine, my gf's uncle - he's a good laugh, is Alan.

So anyway.

It's rag week. At a University in a large town. Kingston-upon-Thames, as it goes.

What you do is, inform the workmen digging up the road that a bunch of students dressed as coppers are going to try to stop you digging up the road. Then go round the police station and inform the duty chap that a bunch of students dressed as workmen are going to dig the road up...

Retreat to safe distance and watch. Coppers and workmen *hate* students...

PS apologies if bindun, and that.
(johnnyevil, Mon 17 Dec 2007, 20:41, 4 replies)

Cubicles full of paper....
OK, so it's not 'evil' like many of the things that'll be claimed this week, but (a) this one actually happened, and (b) it took ages to clean away afterwards, so it's evil as far as I'm concerned.

Anyway. I used to work in a typical cubicle farm, and there were always practical jokes being played. Boxes full of crumpled paper with the bottoms cut out, keyboard and mouse cables being switched (PS2 connectors obviously - not USB. That wouldn't achieve anything). Monitors being plugged into the PC next to it. Then we got a shredder.

Someone in the office mentioned that they had a hamster, and would appreciate some shredded paper. After a couple of days of finding bags and bags of the stuff, he begged us to stop. However, then we hit on the best idea.

One friday afternoon, after he'd gone home early, we taped up the entrance to his cubicle with big sheets of paper. We then removed the top part of the shredder, and suspended it over the side.

We obtained a five ream box of fanfold A4 (2500 sheets).

We put one end of the paper into the shredder, and made sure it caught. We stopped and restarted it a few times, until we had it straight. Then we went home.

On monday morning, the entire cubicle was full (and I mean full) of shredded paper.

It took him about four hours to get it out of everything.

I should say that we had tried to use a roll that we had with about two miles of 200mm wide paper on it. Unfortunately it weighed too much and the motor wouldn't pull it through.

Length? About 60 strips, each about 700m long. That's about 26 miles.

(edited to add that actually, it's about as evil as most of these. I'd expected 'so-and-so laughed at me, so I chopped his head off!! Hahahahaha!!!!eleventyone!!)
(ReAndyMator has been very bored since July, Thu 13 Dec 2007, 14:47, 4 replies)

Another of my Dad's stories
Just to recap - my Dad is a retired policeman, he's Scots but lives down South.

One morning my Dad had gone into work and was called down to the cells where the custody officer was a fellow Scot.

Apparently a drunk had been brought in overnight and now the custody office decided he was going to teach the drunk a lesson....

My Dad and the CO go to the door of the drunk cell which is open and a very forlorn young man sits on the edge of the 'bed' (they didn't have a bed, it was a step with a mattress on it so if the drunk fell out of bed he wouldn't hurt himself - see, British policemen *are* considerate! Mind you, they would probably thump him later...). So there he sits, head in hands muttering about never drinking again - yep, we've all been there.

He looks up at the two officers, "Where am I?" he asks,
"A long way from home pal" says the CO in a broad Scots accent.
"Eh?" replies confused drunk,
"You're in Glasgow Central"

The drunk denies this and insists that it's impossible for him to have been out drinking in Kent last night but this morning to be nearly 500 miles way in Glasgow, Scotland. He insists that the policeman is having a laugh....

The CO turns to my Dad, "Tell him"
"Glasgow Central pal. How'd you get up here?" answers my Scots father.

The drunk begins to look horrified.
"You're 'avin' a laugh!" he still refuses to believe....

So now the police begin to get really evil....
"Hang on a moment pal."
My Dad disappears into the corridor and finds another uniformed officer...who just happens to be a fellow Scot....."Tell this joker where he is"

The large policeman puts his head around the door, looks slightly quizzically at the drunk and then says, "D'ye no ken y'rin Glasgow Central?"

At this point the drunk began to shake his head and tears appeared in his eyes, "My wife is going to kill me!"

The policemen offered no sympathy with his plight, they were hard even, refusing to agree to his pleas for some sort of help to buy a train ticket, or even allow him a phone call home. Instead they kicked him out of the police station onto the mean streets of Whitstable, Kent.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 19 Dec 2007, 18:18, 3 replies)

combining
last week's animal sagas and this week's pranks into a hideous experience which, quite literally, saw me being the butt of it.

my friends wanted a puppy. a specific puppy that they had found online. problem was, he was a welsh puppy, from the darkest part of rural wales. they live in london and neither of them drive.

so for much bribery (well, a free dinner), i agreed to drive them all the way there and back. if you take the middle of nowhere and go 5 miles east, 3 miles south, 2 miles north and turn around five times before walking west for a bit, that's where this damn place was. no phone reception. no road names. no names on the farms. no telephone boxes. nightmare.

plus my car is only a 2 seater so we'd had to hire one. they had thoughtfully upgraded us and given us a brand new one, so i was utterly terrified about scratching it. not good when you're slithering around dirt tracks, ditches, fields etc.

eventually we found it, and they must have had 40 dogs, including 20 puppies of all breeds, all happy and running around enormous fields and it was lovely. and lo the infant puppy was produced, and verily he was divine.

until we got halfway back down the m4. we stopped at a roadchef, and my friends went inside for a mcpiss and a burger. i didn't want anything, so volunteered to stay in the car and snuggle with the puppy.

biggest mistake of my life (bar the bedshitter, but this has a verrrrry similar theme).

it was all cute and grunty and snuffly. then it wriggled up my chest. when it was level with my ear, it suddenly stiffened, lifted its tail, farted audibly (serves me right for asking last week) and sprayed liquid stinking brown shit all over me.

i did not know what to do. i was holding this tiny wriggling barking puppy, which was still spewing shit from its arse, and trying to make sure the shit didn't go all over the brand new hire car, and the putrid stench was indescribable. i wrapped the puppy in its blanket, which it promptly shat in, and called my friends.

both mobiles rang out cheerily from the back seat. i had to sit, dripping in shit and retching uncontrollably, for another 137 years until they came out munching happily on their damn burgers.

then i had to have my tits sponged down by my friend whilst her husband cleaned the puppy. the worst thing was the couple in the car next to us, who sat there staring at the drama and solidly munching away at their sandwiches without being peturbed or amused or horrified in the least.

once i was a bit cleaner they went in to buy me a new t-shirt. we must have picked the only service station in the world not to have a lame shop selling them. i had to drive the whole way back to london in a bra and jeans, coated in chanel (didn't help. made it worse, in fact, in manner of pot pourri spray in the bathroom) and shit. well, the shit was by this time rolled up in the boot, but it still felt like it was all over my top.

i don't care what they call him, his name is scatdog.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Mon 17 Dec 2007, 9:48, 20 replies)

Coffee arse
I can't believe I've just remembered this. Another tale of scuba diving japery.

Years ago some of the club went on a week's diving holiday in Scotland and stayed in a caravan park.

One of the lads (we'll call him Davey) could be a bit obnoxious, and was always taking the piss, especially after a skinful. One evening, after a heavy post-dive debriefing, i.e. piss up, the lads had decamped back to their caravan. Davey, somehat the worse for wear, declined the 'one for the road' and slunk off to bed, pausing only to undress himself before slumping bollock naked into bed. The others were still up for a bit more drinking and were by now very, very drunk.

One of them decides that Davey needs to be taught a lesson, having been particularly offensive to everyone that night. In his drunken wisdom, he grabs the coffee jar and a teaspoon, stumbles to where Davey is by now comatose, and pulls back the duvet to reveal Davey's naked arse, which was quivering rythmically as he snored.

Opening the coffee jar, he kneels down next to the bed, dips the spoon in, and proceeds to ever-so-gently part Davey's buttocks. He then inserts several spoonfuls of coffee in Davey's sweaty arse crack. However, while he's doing this, another of the lads spots what he's doing and is less than impressed.

"What the fuck are you doing"? he asks, swaying unsteadily in the doorway. "give us that bloody spoon you idiot, coffee costs a fucking fortune". And with that he grabs the teaspoon, and proceeds to scoop the coffee granuals (by now a bit damp) out from Davey's arse cheeks and back into the jar.

At this point, everyone has been hit mightily by the effects of a day's diving and excess alcohol, and all stumble into their beds where they spark out instantly.

Can you see what's coming?

Next day, as they are all nursing stonking hangovers, Davey arises and apologises for being such an obnoxious cunt the night before. By way of amends, he offers to make everyone a cup of coffee. Having been totally pissed to the point of oblivion the night before, no one remembers what happened and accept his caffeine-tinged apology.

One by one they are all sitting enjoying their brew, when Davey exclaims, "I don't know what I ate last night, but my arsehole is absolutely burning this morning. Don't think I'll be diving today".

It was at this point that collective memories started coming back, and four divers, in pefect synchronicity, pushed their by now half empty coffee mugs away from them in horrified realisation...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 13 Dec 2007, 19:35, 6 replies)

Bears
Back when I was at uni, on of my housemates got his hands on a full body bear costume.

For some reason the kitchen window above the sink in the neighbours house looked directly into our living room.

Anyway, the day this bear costume turned up, one of the neighbours was doing the washing up, and got highly excited as she saw a life size bear next door - off she ran to get all her mates.

At which point my mate promptly got out of the bear costume, and we all sat there watching the TV, and looking a little confused why there are 4 girls staring at us from next door.

5 months we kept this up. Only ever letting one of the 4 neighbours see the bear costume, and making every effort to make sure that she saw it every day. If I'm being honest, we were trying to make her (and her house mates) think she'd lost the plot.

One day we realised she was working behind the bar in one of the locals. In walks Joe, fully dressed, and asks her if they serve honey.

She was literally rolling around on the floor, unable to speak!
(charlie1105, Mon 17 Dec 2007, 14:21, 3 replies)

Toilet video
How to really freak out a young lady.

Step one - set up a stepladder or suchlike in the corner of the toilet. Place video camera on step ladder and position (with tape if necessary) so that the toilet is in the viewfinder (or whatever they call it nowadays).

Step two - video the unoccupied toilet for at least 10 minutes, the longer the better. Keep the sound off.

Step three - wait until you have some mates round. A big party is best.

Step four - wait until a young lady you wish to victimise goes to the toilet. Then play the video of the empty toilet on the living room TV while she is on the throne.

Step five - when she returns to the room start laughing and see her look of horror as she sees the 'live' video feed of the toilet, and all the dirty so-called friends who have just watched her use it.

It was very wrong, but very funny.
(woodchopper likes chopping wood, Sat 15 Dec 2007, 18:28, 2 replies)

Some years ago, I used to work in the City of London...
...which meant that going out for a drink in the evening often ended up with me and my colleagues being surrounded by braying yahoos in pinstripe.

One evening, we unaccountably found ourselves in Skinker's wine bar near London Bridge, making a fair job of several bottles of Pinot. It was a reasonably busy evening for such a small place, with perhaps 50 people in the main bar area and nearby alcoves.

I like my wine. But I'm no connoiseur and I'm not a snob about it. I'll find something I like and stick with it for a while, then move on. I was thinking this very thing as my round approached and I pored over Skinker's wine list . And that's when the aged wooden door with the dirty panes of leaded glass opened.

In strode a man whose bearing said "Alpha Male" with every step. I expected him to lift the flap of his £1000 suit and spray the doorframe. He was closely followed by a mixed entourage, all of whom had the look of people who were drinking someone else's company Barclaycard.

Alpha quietened them, and announced loudly that he would - blindfolded - take a sip of any person's glass and proclaim not only the grape, but also the vinyard. If he was wrong, he would buy the challenger a bottle of what they were drinking. If he was correct, he would receive the same from them.

Surprisingly, there were a few takers. He applied the blindfold and a glass was handed to him. He raised it. He swilled it. He breathed it. He drank deeply.

"Ahh, he said. A Chateau de Fremulence Burgundy. Marvellous."

The gathering crowd clapped delightedly at this, and the vinter opened a fresh bottle, which was presented to his party.

The second glass;

"Ah - a saucy little Chateau Neuf du Pape from the vinyard of M. LeBeauregard!"

Again the debt was paid.

And then he raised the glass that a member of my group proferred to him. He sipped. He sputtered and spat everywhere and the blindfold flew off.

"My God! This is PISS!"

"Yes", I replied. "But whose?"
(Guizmeaux, Tue 18 Dec 2007, 18:51, 6 replies)

Wasp Bombs
Wasp bombs are a cunning prank a mate and I invented at school. A word of warning though...they do work and they can turn nasty. Instructions are as follows:

1. Get a good size, clean jam jar and put a teaspoon of honey or syrup in the bottom.

2. Cover the top of the jar with a stiff piece of card and secure with a strong elastic band, making a drum skin type cover.

3. Take a freshly sharpened pencil and puncture the card lid ten or so times, thereby making inverse triangular holes in it.

4. Place the jar in a hedge, bush or any other space where you believe wasps are known to frequent on a regular basis.

5. Leave the jar for a couple of days. On your return you should find the jar contains a lot of angry wasps. They are attracted in by the syrup but cannot get out because of the shape of the holes in the lid.

6. Find your victim's bag in the cloakroom and unzip about six inches. Place the jar (now a "wasp bomb") in the bag. In one quick movement pull the lid off the jar and quickly zip the bag back up again.

7. Wait for your vicitm to retrieve his bag and watch him open from a safe distance.

We did this several times. The best result was a 50 odd wasper which we placed in the bag of a class "mate". Cut to first lesson after lunch...chemistry. The lad opens his bag to immediately be attacked by the angry yellow and black boys within. He received at least 8 stings to the face and neck. (oops).

No one ever found who did it. Truly an evil but somewhat amusing gag.
(Mandrill, Tue 18 Dec 2007, 3:13, 6 replies)

Never shave the hair off my barbie.
A couple of years ago I was living with my brother in his flat. During a particularly lively house party my brother took it upon himself to attempt to shave my head, a quick kick in the twig and giggleberries soon put pay to that idea. Sadly he decided to shave the hair off my barbie. This was an outright declaration of war.

A few weeks later and I'm still waiting for my opportunity to get my own back. The chance presented itself late on a Saturday night. I had left early after a few too many falling over waters. I find out on the grapevine that my brother is on the way home with a young lady whom he has met in of Newcastle's finer hostelries. My plan was hatched.

As he stumbles in with his soon to be conquered companion, I start to scream at her and him, along the lines of

"I cant believe you would do this again to me"

Girl looks across at me and so I start screaming at her about I cant believe my husband would do this to me for the fourth time. She starts looking sheepish and wondering where the exits are, my brother in his somewhat addled state is now truly confused. Just to complete the scene I frisbee'd a plate with the kind of accuracy that Geoff Capes would have been happy with. As the plate smashes into a thousand pieces, my brothers companion looks about ready to risk the four storey drop rather than try and get passed me to the exit. It was at this point I felt I had had my fun, and promptly wandered over to her introduced myself as his sister and told her not to make too much noise.

Length ? He shaved my Barbie, he deserved it.
(snugglesacks, Mon 17 Dec 2007, 19:08, 2 replies)

Hubris!
Imagine in the distant past that was the late 80's. University. Students. Practical jokes.

How. Fucking. Dull.

I was the dullest of the dull thinking he was oh so fucking hilarious with the patently irritating practical "jokes".

Anyhoo one i came up with was this, you need one pissed up mate, his bed, the central heating turned WAY up and a kilo of icing sugar. This works best if said mate is hairy and tends to sleep in or almost in the all together.

Before he (or she) goes to pass out, sprinkle the icing sugar evenly over the sheets and pillow, rub it in well so it escapes casual inspection.

Mate/Victim goes to bed, extra hot house, drunken sweats, et voila, icing sugar firmly glues them into bed. Bon Appétit. Cries of agony and woe when said mate wakes up and gives themselves a full body wax as they struggle out of bed or even more “hilariously” can’t get out of the bed and either pisses themselves or if they’ve been drinking stout suffers from “fart o’doom” syndrome and befouls their mattress.

Now the paranoia engendered in the successful perpetrator of such an “extinction level event” prank meant that I used to regularly rub a wetted finger down my sheets prior to sleep and taste the resultant finger looking for sugar.

Even on my honeymoon.

Now my wife commented upon this to my mates who through the mists of time, recalled how the jape worked, they should, two of them had suffered it decades previously.

Rewenge is a dish best served ice cold I hear. And they, with the willing aid of my fragrant bride, plotted my downfall.

Now I like to drink a fair bit, I’m rather hirsute and I usually sleep au naturel. Perfect fodder for the jape, apart from my ingrained survival skills around sugared sheets.

This is where my wife came in, she informed my friends that she’d take care of this, so basically she jumped me every night for several months, just as I was about to perform my nightly sugar security routine and screwed my brains out. For long enough to for to forget my battle hardened icing reflex and become lulled into a false sense of security.

Our tale moves forward a year or so, a friend’s stag weekend, the subject of japes crops up and I’m reminded by one of the conspirators that I used to have a mean reputation for japes at university. Something about sugar one piped up.

I’d like to say that my sixth, seventh and eighth senses prickled my awareness at this point, but the lazy fuckers didn’t say a dickybird, so I blundered straight on into their trap.

I even bought the fucking icing sugar.

Nasty hotel, lots of beer and a ruby, giggles as the best man informs me that he’s spiked the groom-to-be’s bed and that he’s got a video camera set up to record the scene in the morning.

Any alarm bells on my side? None!

I go for a finishing few in the hotel bar with the lads, and crash out.

I awake with an urgent note from my prostrate that an Olympic swimming pool of urine has shown up and needs to be sorted asap.
I try to get out of bed.

Oh the humanity!

Oh the dawning realisation that i was at home to madame retribution and at all my friends and loved ones were in on it.

I decide on the course of gallantry and not pissing in the bed and through main force yank myself, the tightly tucked in sheets and the pillow from the bed and into the shower to attempt to remove two kilos of icing from my body without giving myself a back crack and sack wax.

It fucking hurt.

Removing bedclothes and gooey icing sugar from your scrotum using a fixed hotel shower is an experience I urge none of you to duplicate, unless you are very good at doing hand stands in the bath.

Years later I’m still checking the sheets for sugar.
( edz314 smelled the glove on, Mon 17 Dec 2007, 12:19, 4 replies)

Canadian Winter Fun
An old hall of residence trick we used to pass the time:
1) Pee on a baking sheet;
2) Leave it outside to freeze in the inclement winter climate;
3) Slide frozen pee off baking sheet and under a friend's locked door;
4) Enjoy the bemused look of friend on discovery of a pee-soaked carpet;
5) Enjoy a beating upon telling said friend the intricacies of the prank.
(Lord Blumpy is mildly off-topic on, Thu 13 Dec 2007, 17:00, 4 replies)

Wabbit! Eeeek!
A few years back, I was working in the wilds of North Wales, at an old fashioned car dealership. Everyone had been there for years, there were people who had only ever worked there since leaving school, that sort of place. There was a cute young girlie working there in a sort of ‘spare bod’ capacity. Enthusiastic, hardworking, conscientious and naïve. Definitely not the sort of person to expose to me, especially as she was based just outside my office. Mwahahahaha…

Chatting generally as you do, she found out that on occasion I went out and attempted to shoot inoffensive fluffy animals and then eat them. Cue much ‘Ewwwwww’ from the McDonald scoffing bint. SO for a while I would now and then attempt to gross her out with tales of my hunter-gatherer prowess. A customer had even left a shotgun cartridge in a courtesy car (no biggie, ‘twas a rural business) and she had given it to me. Naturally I inscribed it with the motto “xxxx’s bunny murder” or similar and informed her that next time I went out bunny-blatting I would knock one over for her, in graphic detail.

Time passes. I get an invite to spend the weekend in a veritable orgy of missing rabbits at close range and swearing. So, on the Friday, I skew the conversation around to organic food (she’s all in favour) and how the most organic thing you could eat was wild food. I promise faithfully to bring back an ex-bunny, so she could enter the world of the true carnivore. Slightly worried now, and a little green, she leaves for the weekend, glancing nervously over her shoulder at my no doubt demonic grin as I casually hold up ‘her’ cartridge.

Monday morning. She bounces in, all bright-eyed and bushy tailed, to find that I have for once turned up on time. With a cheery greeting she trots over to her desk… to find a pair of rabbit ears sticking out of a tesco carrier bag that quite obviously contains a deceased flopsy. I’ve never actually heard anyone scream at such a pitch that only dogs could hear it before, although a car alarm did go off and I believe she may have wet herself slightly before barricading herself in the ladies.

After dispatching a female to entice her out, trembling and gibbering slightly, and with the title of ‘COMPLETE BASTARD’ once again honourably earned, I present her with her rabbit.

£4.99. Toys ‘R’ Us.

I’d been clay pigeon shooting.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Thu 13 Dec 2007, 15:33, 4 replies)

Women are evil
A Few year back when my oldest was a toddler I had went on a works night out and got totally bladdered.

I got home and had the usual amorous drunken attempts at getting the wife to have sex knocked back as 'she hadn't been out, I stunk of beer and she was going to have to get up with the little one next day as I was in no fit state'.

Well of course I protested that of course I would get up with our child.. I loved her and of course it wasn't my fault as I had missed her all night and had been dying to get home and see her cos she was so sexy... After a great deal of persuasion I got my wicked little way and she got my thee inches of snarling death - only under the condition that I got up the next morning with Jake our 2yr old... seemed like a fair trade at the time.

The next morning 7am with a belly that was trying to vacate my body via my mouth and a headache against the world the 'deal' seemed less fair. Jake wanting to play and wanting breakfast was just too much to take, I love him to bits and would normally lay down and die for him but could he not understand that I had a major hangover???? I lay on the sofa and instantly had them sweats that tell you that you went silly the previous night.

Next thing I knew I was woken by my wife screaming, I realised I had fell into a deep hangover induced sleep.. however I also realised that this wasn't a you swine you went back to sleep, this was a panicked scream.

I jumped up to find our front door wide open with the wife screaming "where is Jake!!"... instantly I felt sick, not with beer but with fear, panic, guilt, the lot. What had I done? my little lad had got out of the house and was missing 'cos I was too hung-over to stay awake.. how bad a parent was I?.. what if something has happened to him.. how would I ever forgive myself?

I was in a state and was running round the street calling for him with tears starting to stream from my face.. about 2 minutes but what seemed like a lifetime later I heard my wife calling for me so I went back to the house fearing she had had some news of Jake's whereabouts and it wasn't going to be good...

I got back to the door and was met by my wife and a grinning 2yr old waving merrily at daddy - The wife had told Jake to hide from daddy upstairs, opened the front door and started screaming like a banshee. All just to get me back for falling asleep!!!

In fairness her little prank worked, I never fall asleep while in charge of the kids anymore and I NEVER make silly drunken promises in return for sex anymore but I feel that pranking you into thinking you are the cause of the loss of your child is maybe a touch harsh... if ever the story comes up she still has that look of womanly triumph that says "yeah, well it taught YOU who was boss though didn't it!"
(three inches of snarling death, Tue 18 Dec 2007, 11:10, 6 replies)

My Dad's tales
My Dad was a policeman (now retired) and tv programmes like Life On Mars are very near the truth apparently for the average nick in the 1970s and 80s. My Dad is full of stories about what happened then...some of them are exactly like LOM and some are more like Heartbeat....none really have the style and panache of The Sweeney...

Just as in LOM they didn't use tape machines to record interviews which meant that a certain amount of 'leeway' could be employed...

This did mean that on some occasions the result would actually be humorous (well, for the outside world perhaps, maybe not if it resulted in you being banged up for a long stretch just because the man in uniform didn't like you...but I digress...).


On one particular occasion a man had been brought in for questioning regarding a crime that the police knew he was responsible for but he refused to budge from his story.

The decision was made to attempt to provide a little 'pressure' to ensure the required outcome was arrived at....

One of the coppers on duty was a member of the police diving squad and just happened to have his wetsuit and gear with him.

This was at a coastal police station so someone was sent down to the pier and a large fish was purchased.

The accused had been left in the interview room for a while, alone...then the door opened and in walked a frogman - full kit including flippers and facemask, and carrying a large fish....The questions were posed again and this time with each 'incorrect' answer the accused received a mighty wet fish slap around his chops.

Eventually the chap 'coughed' to the crime and it all went to court in due course.

Once on the stand the defendant withdrew his earlier confession as it had been made under duress, and explained the situation surrounding it....

The judge had him sent off for psychiatric assessment.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Mon 17 Dec 2007, 20:57, 1 reply)

The prank that keeps on going......
IN the mid nineties, my mate ends up working in a high powered, serious money job in Thailand. He frequents the ahem bars ahem but has a problem. His name.

"Alastair" is completely unpronouncable by the girls, so, like about 90% of Thais he decides to use a nickname. Only he lets the girls help him choose it.......Biiiiiig mistake.

They explain that Alastair sounds similar to Oyster, and the Thai word for oyster is "hoi". OK, he thinks, I see the logic, so he goes around calling himself Khun Hoi (Mr. Hoi).

THREE YEARS LATER

While at a meeting tea break, an American Thai is casually chatting to him, and they swap business cards. The guy looks fazed, then looks at Alastair.

"Who gave you this nickname?"
"Er..some friends. Why isn't oyster a good name?"
"Technically Hoi can mean oyster, but usually it means cunt"

Long silence.
(mowlem, Fri 14 Dec 2007, 7:19, 1 reply)

Details have been changed to protect the guilty
Not me, but I’ll tell you the tale anyway.

Many years ago, the British Army were issued new rifles. Gone were the old SLR ‘Elephant Guns’ and in came the shiny new SA80 plastic things. Not the most reliable bit of kit in the world, but that’s another tale. So the rifles are now largely plastic to look at as most of the barrel is hidden. Some years later....

Going on exercise means getting cold, wet and muddy. So at some point you have to get your kit cleaned before you are allowed to piss off after your weekend exercise.

Now a certain genius in this unit reasoned thus: “I will buy one of the AirSoft SA80 jobbies that weighs a fraction of the real thing, but looks identical, carry it around all weekend on this non-firing exercise, and then I can hand my unused completely clean weapon back into the armoury and leg it”.

Cunning stunt eh? Easy weekend and early knock-off.

Now there was in this unit an NCO who apparently was of the opinion that our hero was not his favourite soldier. On his case all the time for the slightest of infractions, in fact he was pretty much universally disliked by the ranks.

Post exercise, he is necking a relaxing pint in the Mess when our hero bursts in with his apparently loaded SA80 screaming “you’re going to die you bastard!”

The NCO then spends approx 5 minutes literally begging for his life as our crazed hero points the weapon between his eyes.

The assembled throng is silent, convinced that any second the room will be decorated in Dulux Brainmatter Emulsion.

Finally our hero gently squeezes the trigger, slowly taking up the pressure while maintaining demented eye contact with the doomed NCO….





“Ping”


A small orange plastic BB bounces off his forehead.

This is not an advisable route to promotion.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Thu 13 Dec 2007, 16:23, 6 replies)

My brother, who was older and more mature than I was at the time
visited me at uni. His parting gift was to go through ALL the shower gels and add the appropriate food colouring to it (so orange to an orange gel, blue to a blue one.)

Stains the skin rotten, that does. I had a slight tang of jaundice for a week, whilst my housemate constantly reminded people of hypothermia.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Fri 14 Dec 2007, 8:29, 3 replies)

reminiscent of the last QOTW
My dad had a strange sense of humour. Once, we were all watching TV downstairs and he was upstairs talking to the cat. We could hear him taking such shite as: "Would you like to fly? Would you like to be a bird? Do you think you could fly down the stairs? Here, let's try..."

Then there was a series of thuds down the stairs and we all rushed out of the living room expecting to see the cat concussed at the bottom. But there was only the slipper he had thrown - and my dad pissing himself with the cat in his arms.
(frankspencer, Thu 13 Dec 2007, 16:04, 1 reply)

Score one for the nerds
Our school was way ahead of the curve when it came to IT provision. This was back in the 80s, but we had a dedicated computer block with four rooms full of kit. One room contained a couple of dozen networked RM Nimbus PCs -- state-of-the-art at that time, and us nerds were in hog heaven. We'd spend our break, lunch and even free study periods there (often sneaking into other peoples' lessons and using the free machines at the back). No, none of us had girlfriends.

Anyway, the whole system used a single, central hard drive (or 'Winchester Disk' as we called it, rather quaintly). This meant that machines could share files, and one bright spark realised that you could use this feature for a primitive form of Instant Messaging: a 'client' machine saved a message to a file, while the other client was looking for the file every second or so. Once a message was seen it was deleted, and another message could be sent back. And so on. Great for chatting across the classroom when you were supposed to be working.

At the same time, a friend of mine had been working on a little program that made a very basic stab at 'natural language' (a bit like Eliza). Although it was occasionally amusing, it was never more than a curiosity. However my devious little brain put two and two together...

There was this fella that no-one particularly liked: he hung around with us because we were the bottom of the social ladder, but he was an obnoxious twat and we just used him as the butt of our jokes. So one day my friend invited him into the lab to show him his secret project...a truly artificially-intelligent computer program! In under 50K of BASIC!

I sat on the back row, apparently working on some unrelated project. Dickhead was in the row in front, chatting (typing) away to this program and gradually becoming more and more astounded at its ability to understand and respond instantly to even the most complex questions. Not only had it mastered the English language and learned all about the world, it had even mastered insults:

Him: "What colour is the sky?"
Computer: "The sky is blue."
Him: "No it's not, the sky is pink."
Computer: "No you stupid bastard, the sky is blue."

The funniest part was watching him the following lunchtime, as he excitedly told everyone he met about this amazing program. Eventually, of course, we had to let him in on the joke -- and the payoff of watching his face as the truth dawned was simply priceless.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Thu 13 Dec 2007, 14:55, Reply)