Well out of my depth. oh and im now raped of my board virginity.
Day before my eighteenth birthday party. Split up with long term girlfriend you were still in love with (on account of her being the coldest bitch ever known to man and me being 'no effort' any more). Try and prove my manly not botherdness by still inviting her. Three hours into the party and more than a few snakebites with jack daniels chasers im sucking up the vastly flowing beer tears (as my name suggests im practically alchoholic, so as this was my 18th..... imagine the intake). Worked that one didnt it. Oh and not mentioning the resulting alchoholic rantings my poor best mate had to put up with. Out of my depth at all??... love eh....
(boozemercenary, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 21:01, Reply)

year 8 english lesson
one day many years ago (around 7 years now), we were set an english assignment. We were set an assignment where we had to choose a topic and speak about it for 10 minutes to the whole year. Given weeks to plan this and hours of class time ofcourse i ended up with no planning and no idea what we were supposed to be doing. The day came, and i got to what would usually be my lesson to realise that i would actually have to do this (i tried to talk my way out of it but my teacher was big and scarey). I frantically searched for a topic for which i could speak about over 10 minutes. Apon raiding my bag i discovered plenty of paper, books and 2 marmalade sandwhiches. I chose the sandwhiches. To this day i am unsure why. About three minutes into my talking crap about my mum making them and how the marmalade had bits of orange in it -seperated by awkward silences- i ran out of ideas. I sat down (and people laughed..). I had gained popularity and was kept in over lunchbreaks for a week.
(redhaze, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 20:02, Reply)

when i was in primary school..
i declared to, not only my teacher. not only my class. but my entire fucking SCHOOL, that i was a prostitute and proud of it.

..

ahhh... happy days.
(melancholica, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 19:51, Reply)

Oh dear god, this was awful...
My friends decided it would be an excellent idea to play at the school rock concert at the end of year 11. They rehearsed alot and I was looking forward to seeing it. The big night came and they played. Oh god, they played. Awfully. Not in time. Not in tune. The singer sounded as though she was in pain. People laughed. A lot. when they asked me how it was, I swallowed all musical pride and told them it had been 'well lit'...
(Pixel, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 19:02, Reply)

I was never good at French
Mock speaking exam, one and a half minutes of hell, no revision and a vocabluary consisting of "voiture" and "la". Walk in, sit down opposite the teacher, and proceed to mime "what do you want me to say?! I dont speak French?!!" to her, she was less than impressed, she turns on the tape and says something in French and then stares at me. I sit back, pretending not to be so scared and realise my doom, trying to avoid her evil gaze I look past her and notice a friends hand writing on a piece of paper taped to the wall: "IF YOU DONT KNOW WHAT TO SAY THEN READ THIS OUT, BUT MIX UP THE PHRASES SO WE DONT GET CAUGHT". I love that girl, she had written out about 4 minutes of perfect French for us all to reel off. Better than that, it was spelled phoenetically!
Only out of my depth for about 30 seconds of perspiration and heavy breathing. Bitch didnt do it for the real thing though.
Still got a C.
As always, apologies for length.
(carpediem, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 17:20, Reply)

I once
drowned an ice cream van because it rang its bell and had no ice cream. Bastard.

/obligatoryicecreamvanpost
( ArthurTheRat, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 16:44, Reply)

Out of my depth?!
Yes; I am in a fantasticly deep 10 month relationship with a girl who is in every way perfect for me.

My previous girlfriend experiences never normally last longer than a couple of hours!

Out of my depth? I can't even see the bottom...
(Smoking Joe, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 16:40, Reply)

More smuggling
Peelmytangerines' story reminds me of a smuggling story of my own. So, end of first year at uni and, what with it being first year of uni and everything, I'd been having a somewhat on-off fling with Mary Joe Anna.
Come the end of year and time to be picked up I'm left with about half an eighth left. Do I chuck it or donate it to the numerous needy individuals living around my Halls in Camberwell (for those unfamiliar with the nature of this particular area of South London, watch Withnail and I). Do I bollocks. Tight arse that I am I stick it, along with some tobacco and skins, in an empty fag packet and tuck it into my shoulder bag.

So, all's progressing well untill a week or so later and my family and I are belting down the M1 heading towards Heathrow, late as usual for a flight on our way to Trinidad (does it make it any better if I point out that it was all paid for through Air Miles and Hotel loyalty points my Dad got through work?). Suddenly a chorus of angels appear singing to me: "you still have illegal drugs in your bag, in a container that will look mightily suspicious on an X-Ray. You are just about to go through airport security. You are fuuuuuccccckkkeeeed."

The following conversation ensues at the airport:
"Mum, I need to go to the loo"
"Don't worry, you can go after the security check"
"No, I'd prefer to go now"
"Don't be so silly it's only a few minutes"
[Staring deeply into her eyes in the manner of a stage hyptonist/Obi-Wan Kenobi]
"No, Mum, I. Really. Need. To. Go. NOW."

Anyway, even after getting licence to go to the loo (I fessed up, thankfully Mum was something of a hippy chick in her younger days and just laughed) I still hadn't learnt my lesson. Flush it? Hell, no, imagine getting stoned on a Trinidadian beach. Down the sock it goes.

So, Security check at Heathrow was breezed through and everything looked plain sailing. Except for the fact that we had to change at Miami ariport. Miami airport. Home of the most intense anti-drugs policing of any airport in the world. Oh, poo.

Sure enough, while waiting at the carousel for the bags along comes an armed-to-the-teeth (well, he had a gun which is scary enough for us Brits) cop with the obigatory Alsatian in tow. And guess what the Alsation immediately takes an interest in? That's right, My Left Foot. The longest, most agonising minute of my life is then spent whistling and attempting to look nonchalant (and I'm not even sure I can spell it) while German Shepphard spittle is trickling into my left shoe. And then... the cop just tugs his adorable doggy away.

I was completely baffled until I saw the sign on the wall reading "Attention all UK visitors: no meat or dairy products are permitted to be imported into the USA." It was right in the middle of the foot and mouth crisis and I can only suppose that the cop in question figured that I wasn't likely to be smuggling a frozen hamburger in my shoe.

The story ends happily with me succeeding in getting stoned on a beach in Trinidad, having become probably the only person in human history to smuggle marijuana from Europe to the Carribean.
(Captcheese, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 15:08, Reply)

I lived in Sydney and went on holiday; met a girl from Melbourne
and next holiday, went to stay with her. She lived on a farm.

Horses? Oh, yes. Knew all about them. No problem. Vaulted on board, trotted along and then committed the sin of turning the horse towards its stable. It bolted towards its main source of food and I fell. Hard.

Next day. On the coast...

Windsurfing? Oh, yes. Knew all about that. No problem. Got on board and cruised along with the wind - but had never tacked in my life. Tried putting the sail down (draaag) and paddling against the current. In the end they had to bring a small boat out and tow me back to shore.

Before I left for home, she bought me a pack of tampons, explaining that with these, I could go swimming, I could go sailing, I could go horse-back riding...
( Manic can teach you the secret of fire, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 14:57, Reply)

Let's see...
LMAO... I did yoga for 7 months.

Stupid bitch.
(BurningFeetMan, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 14:21, Reply)

Virign Radio c. 1992
I was about 12, and really faniced this girl in my class. I went so far as to write her anonymous poems.
Anyhoo, Nick Abbott was doing his phone-in show on Virgin Radio, and silly me phoned up to talk about my infatuation with this girl.

Nick proceeded to take the complete piss out of me and I clammed up, pretended that I had got cut off I shut up and just listened as Nick said to me "I know you're still there, I can hear you breathing".

I promptly hung up. Next day practically the whole school (including the girl I liked) had listened to me and my life was hell.

I have never phoned another radio show, and never will.
( just mike, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 13:14, Reply)

put in my place for life..
when i was in year 6, i was a school captain sort-of-thing, and i was announcing assembly. well i continously said my principal's name wrong and one day, someone cracked, he(still to this day unknown) stood up and bellowed at what seemed to be the top of his voice and said, "ITS MR.RICHARDS, F--KWIT!" i was told. so i sat down and let my partner finish the assembly...
(Ireul, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 8:55, Reply)

Way out of my depth....
Moved to Melbourne, got a job with a dodgy "Consultancy" and was asked to "just show some slides about the GST (VAT) to some members of staff at a Transport Company. So I turn up, all prepared, Got the puter and projector set up, called IT for access to SAP, got it. People start milling in, then more people, then the Financial Director, then The CEO. FUCKING HELL!!! I thought, ok what would Anthony Robbins do here? So I did the only honourable thing a freshly landed English lad would say in Australia, I said, "Before we start, does anybody know what this GST is about? Some guy said "Yes" so I said "Over to you" and got me coat!!! I went straight to the office called them a shower of cunts for landing me in it and resigned!!
(SkinnyBoy, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 6:37, Reply)

Out of my depth...
Was sitting 'round in my favorite saloon. Talking to some friends about the Great Janet Jackson Titty Incident that had happened the week before, at "te" Superbowl half time.

I allowed that it was not such a big deal. My friends hotly debated that it was a big deal..Janet's titty was obscene! The Nipple! She SHOWED HER NIPPLE!~ And it was an ADORNED NIPPLE! Oh, Mother of Jesus!

I know for a fact that these above mentioned are uptight, yuppie people, and ALL of their children had been breastfed...so a titty is obscene only when it DOESN'T have a baby attached to it? Some of my friend's children are old enough to ASK, in plain English, to be breastfed. And they are obliged. Which creeps me out entirely.

The argument progressed from there...and I sucked back a good draught of cheap bar wine, went down the wrong pipe...I started violently coughing (and peeing..i have Multiple Sclerosis and my bladder is very weak) I made really good points..but hoped they didn't notice my little "problem."

So, here I am, peeing myself, coughing,and and having an unpopular opinion(all three big no-no's in Amurrica)...and trying to make points for a woman who showed little Johnny her bare-ass nippy.

It's FUN being a statistical outlier! April
(April, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 5:53, Reply)

Three day hangover
When I was at university I was living in halls and one of my flatmates was a rather nice muslim chap from Malaysia. He made it clear to me he had no intention of staying devout to his religion when he arrived in the UK. One night he decided to treat us to a carry out. Unfortunatly his lack of alcohol knowledge caused a few problems. He assumed bottles of Smirnoff and Jack Daniels were the same as bottles of Carlsberg and Stella. So he turns up with several botlles of both and we tuck in.

Oh dear!!!! We were absolutely shit faced in a way I had never been before or ever hope to be again. I conked out on the floor of the living room in my own vomit and found myself stuck to the floor when I woke up in the morning. Not that I wanted to get up, as I was suffering from the hangover from hell. It took three days to recover fully from that experience. I learnt an important lesson that day, never ever down pints of vodka and whisky mixed together.

In case your wondering my Malaysain friend suffered far, far worse than me and surprisingly it didn't turn him off the booze. I didn't drink for several months afterwards.
(Grundie, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 2:09, Reply)

French Oral.
Had spend most of my one year learning GCSE French by teasing the teacher I had something of a platonic love-hate relationship with. In hindsight, I may have been better served by brushing up on my vocab.


Sitting in a small dark room preparing the compulsory phrases I would need to voice next door in mere minutes time, I broke into a feverish perspiration; I knew how to say "I have a little..." but something in my mind froze. Or perhaps it was never there and I simply refused to believe I had such an embarrasing hole in my knowledge?

Either way, I knew that in about 60 seconds time I would be reeling of the line, "Je prends un petit... ...umm ...rabbit".

The feeling I felt as I sat down with the impending recitation of the sentence was like being the first person on a bus to find out the brakes aren't working.

It seemed I was not without some semblance of sink or swim instinct though. I managed to raise my game to the extent of a swarmy french accent - an attempt no doubt to cover up my astonishing lack of vocabulary.

"ehhh... je pronnnndune aaahhhh... pooteeeeaaaahhhh..."

"umm"

Silence.

The tape recorder continued to turn.
For a moment I found it amusing that it recorded even when there was nothing to listen to. Poor little tape recorder, oblivious as to whether his only function in life was being used. Was this really the time to be anthropomorphising objects in the room I asked myself?

I looked up to bulging eyes. I gave her my "I have bad news to tell you" look hoping it might be worth half a mark. Didn't I hear somewhere that they mark you up for a good accent?

To my amazement her mouth began to move.

At first I could not figure out what was going on - for goodness sake, the tape was running ! - this was no time to be gaping like carp, surely? Realisation flushed through me in an instant - focus - read her lips.

"errr... ois.

bon.

je prends un...

ahhhhh, petit..."

My eyebrows raised with the incredulity of what was about to be said,

"rabah?"

She sat back in her chair.

After a moment, I sat back in mine.
(Ged, Sat 16 Oct 2004, 2:08, Reply)

also...
not exactly out of my depth, but i felt a twat anyway (unfortunately not literally, but anyways..), i failed an interview for Wilkinsons yesterday. how the hell did i manage that? at least i have my iPod to comfort me.

*strokes iPod in non to conventional if not slightly provocative manner*
( SocialRobot, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 22:13, Reply)

French
Teacher: A load of french crap, probably a question, followed by my name.

ME: [Vacant look on my face] err.
(as1232004, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 22:06, Reply)

I have a small elephant..
...who lives on my shoulder. he always tells me what to do. i am never "out of my depth". hurrar for elephants! (but he only appeared tonight after my 8th bottle)
( SocialRobot, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 21:53, Reply)

i am now.x
(1.618..., Fri 15 Oct 2004, 20:27, Reply)

Ahhhh Amsterdam.....
A friend and I with only about about 3 hours to spare before our flight home from Amsterdam, decided to enjoy the 'delights' of the great Amsterdam coffee house.

Being complete virgins at buying weed legally, we looked like total morons while buying it, marvelling at all the different types, etc.

Anyway, we rolled a fattie and started a game of chess. About 5 mins into it, my friend began to play erratically (leaving his Queen exposed -tsk), and then promptly turned blue. Through my chemical haze I was starting to size this up as a bad sign when he grabbed his coat and ran outside.

My immediate reaction was not to follow my friend to find out if he was still breathing, but to throw the rest of the weed into my purse, thinking 'waste not, want not'.

I found him chunderring down a dodgy alleyway. He continued to do this all the way to the train station to the airport.

Not feeling too peppy and in-focus myself, I don't know how we made it to the airport, but somehow we stumbled upon it.

As we were about to go through the security gate I remembered the weed in my purse. I ran to the loo and found it had spilt out of the baggie in little fragrant bits all through my purse. I tried to empty it down the loo, but spent the whole rest of the trip deep in a mega paranoid delusion, with my bag clutched suspiciously to my side, afraid I was about to be attacked by sniffer dogs at every turn.
(Peelmytangerines, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 19:52, Reply)

Well out of my depth
Got a job in my sandwich year as an Export Sales Rep, spoke reasonably good French and Spanish, so those customers weren't so much of a problem. Although the trouble was, 70% of our customer base was, in fact, in Germany and Austria. I managed to wing it for the year and get by using a my one years' study of the language, a phrasebook and the customer's knowledge of English. While I was well out of my depth, I was a jammy little sod and this subtle lack of language skill was never apparent to my boss - it probably helped that he was UK based, and I was usually abroad.
(texasjohn, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 19:46, Reply)

QUITE
I live in Hull and I'm a jolly nice gal you scallious remedial tard.

I pitty the fool.
(iheartyourmum, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 18:08, Reply)

It’s July 2001. As part of my university course I have to spend a year living in France…
I have my work placement sorted out, have saved up a bit of money and have all the overdraft, passport photos and positive attitude you could wish for. I have my car with me. I can even speak pretty good French (well, it was part of the degree). The one thing I don’t have is any realistic idea of how I’m going to find somewhere to live: I happily think that I’ll stay a couple of nights in a Formule1 motel (£15/night), find a flat and move in.

After a great week staying with my girlfriend (who had her flat sorted out and paid for by her employers), I go up to Paris and start looking. Of course, the only time I’ve ever looked for somewhere to live before was in Birmingham for the second year (first year in campus halls) – and shall we say it’s a buyer’s market if you get in early (and don’t mind damp houses that smell of death and have temperamental heating).

Paris is a different kettle of fish. For one thing, it’s a touch expensive compared to student slums in Brum. For seconds, I’m internet-less and hate using phones. So I basically buy a Michelin map of the south-west suburbs and drive around the town centres asking in estate agents, who are typically unhelpful. After four days of this, it starts raining and to cap it all I’m driving through Issy-les-Moulineaux in the evening (having eaten nothing but junk food and baguettes for a week, and not having done anything constructive all day) when I get a puncture. I realise I’m not getting anywhere (took me four days) and start going mad. Seriously, gibbering, having arguments with myself for not planning this and that or at least having found out where the hell you find small ads in France.

I then take a day off and decide to start enjoying being in France. I go into Paris itself for the first time, and phone my Dad who recognises a floundering son when he hears one and mounts a rescue mission, coming to Paris (thank you Air Miles), showing me a couple of pubs and generally restoring my sanity and confidence. He lends the use of his work mobile, with which I call my future employers, who give me a list of student-halls-type residences popular with English placement students. I move into one the next morning, going on to have, as is traditional, the best time of my life… Paris rocks.

Footnote: anyone doing something similar, just go here: www.pap.fr . Thousands of ads for places to rent, every week (Thursday). Buy it EARLY and get phoning.
( Gizmo.mp3 does not exist, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 18:07, Reply)

Youre not a real aeroplane.
After a good old fashioned giggy night at the Adelphi club my chums and I decided to mosy off around the town and go for a couple of drinks. If I'd have known what was going to happen, I would have gone home then. Anyway, we stop off at one decidedly manky looking pub for a pint or so. My friend (lets call him Tim)offers to buy me a pint if I can drink a pint of vodka+coke in under 5 minutes. Naturally, I accept and down it in about 3 feeling like quite the little animal. I could have just said 'ok, sod off im pissed' but i instead insisted on continuing in my drinky blury quest. 'PISH POSH', you might think, '2 pints of alcohol..PEH!'. But consider I hadnt eaten all day, nor do I drink very often. To me this is like coccaine. However, barely feeling the effects at this point, I enjoy my FREE pint. He's mildly impressed and offers to buy me another if I can take 4 shots of tequilla as well. Everything after this point was a blur of socks and money. Long story short, I woke up on my doorstep the next morning shoeless in a puddle of vomit and blood and with sharp pains in my my foot and notice theres a big cock off shard of glass wedged in my heel. I don't remember any of this but APPARANTLY i'd given my shoes to a homeless man and then stood on a broken bottle. I then insisted that i wasn't carried and instead dragged myself home on an unfolded pizza box and laid in my semi-innebriated state against my door. The only thing worse than having an evil hangover is suffering one while waiting 3 hours in A+E on a tiny plastic/rubber foam chair with a dozen 8 year old cunts bombing around pretending to be aeroplanes.
(iheartyourmum, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 17:53, Reply)

The Amazing Christopher Columbus And His Dancing Troupe
In Year 6, I was asked by my teacher to be the lead in a musical, dance version of the story of Christopher Columbus. Even at my age, I could tell that this was going to end in complete and utter disaster.

To begin with, I couldn't sing all that well (now that my voice has broken I can't sing at all) - but not only could I not dance, but I didn't really want to either - not in front of a few hundred parents (including my own) and, finally, the entire sodding school of 600. Furthermore, I was one of only three boys doing the production. I was going to be killed.

Anyway, I rehearsed and rehearsed for the part for over a month, until my kind-hearted teacher saw how attrociously bad I was, and decided to "downsize" my steps. Now, instead of fancy twirls and leaps and whatnot, I was confined to going to the front of the stage and tapping my feet to the music, while all about me pranced and danced until they could prance and dance no more.

This was all very well in front of the parents, because they could probably tell that I, being tall and lanky (and thus unco-ordinated), was doing my best. But the rest of the school? Well... I chickened out. I claimed illness, and instead one of the other boys took my part - and probably did a better job than I ever could, too.
( Chrico is a bounder and a cad, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 17:20, Reply)

Repeated regurgitation
I am a total lightweight..

First year, first week of uni - I decide that I am on form and go to the student bar, I am then asked to take part in a drinking competition as I have been blagging about my drinking prowess,(to try and impress the bar tender).

In the next few hours I get wasted, I don't remember leaving but am told that I collapsed in the street and am then carried home by some stranger that was walking past. I throw up all down his back. Then back at student halls - everyone is coming back from the pub and I am still unable to walk or talk. They think I should have my stomach pumped. So off I go in the ambulance, as I still have not found my legs they put me in a wheel chair. I am fucking wheeled out of the hall with everyone watching me.
The next part I do remember - I wake up in the hospital and decide to discharge myself (not that sort of discharge). I am still drunk and stagger back to halls wearing only the hospital robe, to find that I don't have my keys, wallet or phone.

I spent an entire year getting ridiculed by people I barley know.

Apologies for length.
(StupidGlueBoy, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 17:03, Reply)

Really out of my depth
Whilst at school I volunteered for a sposored swim mainly due to the fact that it meant you got out of a few lessons and that there would be girls there (I attended and all boys school so this was quite a novelty).
Unfortunately I was not exactly what one would call a 'swimmer' let alone a 'good swimmer' and on the big day I was floundering on my first length whilst being lapped by the majority of the field; worst of all as I neared the end of the pool I panicked and started scrambling, went underwater and banged my head against the side of the pool.
I was dragged out vomiting and with a nasty head wound that left me covered in blood. I recall looking up and hearing someone shout out "Mark Spitz" before passing out and being taken to hospital by my embarassed Dad.
On a bright note, I raised fourteen quid for cancer research due to having the foresight to demand everyone donated 'all in'.
(DrTugnut, Fri 15 Oct 2004, 16:50, Reply)