after night out!!!
Ok this happened the very early hours of sunday morning just gone 10/07/11.
I had been out on a stag do in Rochester Kent and had a good laugh and got slaughtered. At the end of the night my mate offered me a bed for the night in sittingbourne because i live in Canterbury (roughly 30-35 miles away).
it was about 3am on a sunday morning so couldn't get a bus or train.
Got back to his house and i was just about to go to sleep then i decided i wasn't going to and i got my shoes on and left the without telling anyone and started to walk home at about 3:30am and realised i didnt know where i was walking and i had been walking for a while.

I was thirty for a high energy for my mission so i found a petrol station i went over to the door and was trying the open the door for about 5 min then relised it was locked(god know what i looked like on cctv i would love to see it) i was preety embarrassed so left without drink.

So i proceeded and headed for Maidstone as i knew how to get home from there. As i was strolling down the hard shoulder of the M20 a taxi pulled over and gave me a lift home.

Once stumblering through the door at 6am and another £40 down from the the taxi fares. I had a look at the map and i had walked 12 miles in the wrong direction.

So that reminded me why i don't really go out on the piss anymore because i just make stupid choices
(bakerboy, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 14:51, 6 replies)

Best way to move a barcalounger...
A fair few months ago now my friend moved out of his flat in Paddington, London to spend some time in America. He was originally from Spain and didn't have family here with which to store the crap he'd accumulated, so instead of putting it into storage, he just decided to flog it all on Gumtree. Before doing so, however, he decided to ask around the office if we wanted anything to save him listing everything online. One thing certainly took my eye - his reclining chair. The kind of barcalounger/la-z-boy in Friends. I foolishly agreed to take it, and even paid him that day, without even thinking about how I would get it all the way across and down to Clapham.

My crude solution was to borrow a cart-like contraption from work, wheel it all the way to Paddington, pick up the chair and wheel it back. Simple. I told my housemates the idea, and they decided we could make a day of it. Take a little break in Hyde Park, few beers/ciders, carry on down through Kensington, another break in Battersea Park, then down to Clapham. Maybe a break in Clapham Common too before the three-flight ascent to our flat.

The plan sounded fantastic, until we went to work to pick up the trolley/cart thing. Firstly it was blocked in behind a load of bikes, and lifting it over got our hands covered in axle grease. Not the best start. As we started pulling it along, the lack of suspension in any form caused it to rattle uneasily on the flattest of surfaces. This wasn't going to be as easy as I'd hoped.

As it bumped along, I realised what absolute cunts Londoners can be. No-one ever gave way to us on the pavement. It was a Saturday, and people were still walking like they were late for a meeting. It was about this time we stopped off at Saino's for the first of our alcoholic purchases. Getting through Hyde Park on the way up was quite pleasant in fact, maybe the alcohol had kicked in, or there weren't so many dicks about. We all perched on the trolley, and let it crawl slowly down the minor decline while quoting from pirate films, and finishing our supplies. We'd run dry halfway through Hyde Park, followed by that line from Pirates of the Caribbean about the rum being gone...garrrr!!!

Eventually we got to my friend's house, and picked up the bounty, and restocked our hold with precious alcohol. Yar! We felt like real pirates now! We took it in turns sitting on the barcalounger at the helm as 'captain' of the 'ship' while the rest of us pulled the cart along singing sea shanties. More specifically, 'Drunken Sailor' over and over again. We got strange looks through Hyde Park, and through most of Kensington as four drunk, 20-somethings pushed a reclining chair through the richest part of London pretending to be pirates. It didn't help that we were being taught the lyrics to 'Good Ship Venus' by one of my housemates, which is a particularly fruity number. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLotX3HE-4c)

As we sailed south through Battersea, we found more favourable sea mates. A few homeless/mentally unstable people followed us briefly and helped us push, which was greatly welcomed. With a headwind, we made great progress. We missed Battersea Park by being too drunk to remember we vaguely planned to stop there, and before long we'd entered the north border of Clapham Common. Nearly home...

Alas...the seas around Clapham are not friendly waters - well that's what we'd convinced ourselves. It gets a bit fuzzy here, but my kiwi crew member had reminded me that Aussies and Saffers were commonplace here, and that they would try and steal our barcalounger at any cost, as they loved sitting down.

We wheeled the cart slowly through the common, weary of antipodal types. Our plan was to pretend to be Australian in the event of seeing Australians, and hopefully we'd blend in. It was seamless. Our Aussie accents were spot on! If anyone was listening to us they would have been entirely convinced that we were going to put another shrimp on our barbecue.

After another break we picked up final supplies, and delivered the swag to our flat. No one really remembers carrying the chair up the stairs, and in the morning the pristine cream chair was covered in horrible muddy/greasy hand marks, as were some walls.

In conclusion, this is a sound method to move a large item of furniture in theory. Recommendations would be to cut down on the drink, and try not to watch an influential movie about pirates/samurai/marines in the month leading up the the move.
( guffguff fuckes your gradeds balls!, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 14:32, 4 replies)

I needed to get to London so asked my mate for a lift
on the way there the alternator went so we had to call the RAC out, they replaced and after a few hours we were on out way again. We stopped at a service station and the daft twat locked his keys in the boot. RAC came out again and opened the car. On the way home the engine blew up. The RAC came out again and towed us home.

He hasn't offered me a lift again, he says I'm bad luck.
( Peej, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 14:16, Reply)

Rollercoaster bus ride
Everyone jump into the Delorean as we have to travel back in time, back to the year of 1979 (or thereabouts).

Summertime in County Offaly, Ireland; the annual pilgrimage from London to visit the grandparents and the other members of the Irish clan. This particular day my elder sister and myself (I would've been around 5 years old at this point in my life) have been given permission to use (what passed as) the local bus to visit some cousins where they lived several miles away.

After standing around for a while the bus finally made an appearance, I don't remember the specifics of what type it was but it was a single decker that could carry about 30-40 people. Apart from the driver this bus was also very empty, I later learned this was the norm and to this day I wonder if it was more of a hobby for the driver rather then a job to drive it about.

As is usual for kids we headed straight to the back of the bus where the long seat was situated and settled in for the 20 minute ride to the next town. Pretty much immediately we discovered an interesting fact, the seat we were sat on was made out of some type of plastic which was very smooth. This became apparent at the first right hand corner when we both found ourselves sliding along the seat to the left side of the bus. Followed immediately by a left turn which found both of us sliding along to all the way to the opposite window on the right.

Queue much laughter and giggling from the pair of us at this brand new game, which only got better when the bus hit its first bump. As anyone who has travelled back lanes in the countryside, the roads are never the smoothest with lots of dinks and small hillocks just waiting for a vehicle to come along and launch them in the air.

This particular bus must have had kangaroo legs installed on the rear axle as the first bump we hit threw me a good foot in the air before I landed back on the seat to immediately find myself airborne again as the bus hit another bump.

What followed was a rollercoaster ride that had us both sliding left and right along the seat while also being thrown upwards mid-slide. How I survived without an injury is still a mystery but I was greatly disappointed when we reached our destination.

I had hoped to get the bus again for the return journey but alas my hopes were dashed when we were taken back to my grans in a car. I never did get to ride that particular bus again but it will always hold a special place in my memories.
(ParaSitius is an Optimistic Pessimist, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 14:16, Reply)

The Boys From Brazil
After spending a long weekend goggling at the bikinis on Copacabana beach (and frightening the locals by being the whitest thing they'd ever seen), it was time to travel to my fiancee's home town. This turned out to be some 900km from Rio de Janiero, which our driver casually mentioned he planned to do non-stop.

It was quite a journey. 10 hours straight in a car with no air conditioning, and a driver who, by the end of it, only stayed awake because his girlfriend in the passenger seat would hit him every time the car started to drift toward the verge.

But the most memorable thing was the music: by the end we'd realised that there was only one track that everyone in the car liked, so we ended up playing it again and again and again. And then again.

Brazil is too large not to sort out the music carefully!
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 13:54, Reply)

Got another one!
As a kid we used to go and visit our family in Northern Ireland. We made the epic journey from Clacton-on-sea, in Essex to Northern Ireland. Imagine it is 1987......

My mother plus my brother aged 8 plus me aged 6 plus luggage.
1. Bus from bottom of our road to train Clacton station.
2. Train from Clacton to Liverpool Street.
3. Liverpool Street sleeper to Edinburgh.
4. Train from Edinburgh to Glasgow.
5. Train Glasgow to Stranraer.
6. Ferry from Stranraer to Larne.
7. Bus from Larne to Belfast.
8. Coach from Belfast to Omagh.
9. Phone call to family to pick us up.

My brother managed to be sick in to the hood of his Parka jacket when on the bus from the end of our road to Clacton train station.
(Free pens 100, 101, 102 is still counting on, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 13:53, 2 replies)

Long haul to Lisbon
It was Christmas and we were going to visit the Mr Freepen's family in Lisbon, Portugal.

In usual circumstances the flight from Gatwick to Lisbon takes 2 and half hours, ours took longer.

It was winter and it had snowed – delay number one. 1 and half hour wait in freezing cold for the coach to airport. I was thinking, it’s not so bad at least the coach turned up and we plenty of time before our flight goes anyway.

It was winter and it had snowed – delay number two. Easyjet flight delayed by 3 hours, I was thinking 3 hours in departures it’s not so bad at least I am not one of the package deal travellers who’s flights had been cancelled, the would be holiday makers had congregated around the information desk chanting ‘We want justice.’

It was Easyjet – delay number three. Easyjet had some trouble matching the head count to the number passengers on the flight itinerary (in short too many people for the seats booked). I thought, its not so bad at least we are on the plane. The flight crew had to manually check all boarding passes, it took an hour and half to do this, everyone must stay in their seat while it is happening. They had to do it 3 times each time it took an hour and a half – passengers could not use the toilets and refreshments were not offered. The flight was originally an afternoon flight, so there were families with children on the plane and the poor kids just had to wait. This all got a bit much for one man, who ended up getting a police escort off the plane. The flight was further delayed as his luggage then had to be removed.

Finally 4 and half hours later the pilot requested the plane be taken to the runway. 3 hour wait in departures plus 4 and half hours wait in the plane plus 2 and half hours fling plus luggage collection in Lisbon, Lisbon airport had closed down for the night. From crossing the door at Gatwick to waiting for a taxi in Lisbon it took just over 12 hours.

I have promised myself never to travel at Christmas again, Mr Freepens, his family nor wild horses could drag me from my home.
(Free pens 100, 101, 102 is still counting on, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 13:32, Reply)

On the back of motorway junction road signs there exists an invisible world:
"Stu n Boz 2 pilton 1994"

"KT see you at the ranch - bring Rob"

"Chicken's got gear!"

"Rockaz cru to brum bash - c u there"

"A Vagabond - 3 hours, still fucking waiting"
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 13:19, 2 replies)

I ended up working in Morocco for a month a few years ago
Myself and another brit were working with a local guy, Hassan, on the edge of the Sahara desert. We were doing long days in extreme heat, and the hotel we were staying in was - charitably - basic. After a while we started to get a bit itchy and when Hassan suggested we go for a drive to an oasis he knew about to have a splash about and some really lovely food, we jumped at the chance.
Early on a saturday morning we piled into the back of the un-air conditioned work pick up with Hassan and his brother, who it turned out, was the one who knew where this place was. We asked how long it was going to take 'Oh not long'
after an hour of driving the heat was building and we were starting to stick to the vinyl seats. 'How far is it?' 'Not long now'
after another hour, civilisation, such as it was, was a distant memory, and any sort of landmarks are become rather sparse. We'd got no water with us, and us two brits are crammed uncomfortably in the back of a very hot car with two uncommunicative Moroccans. We start to get a bit grumpy.
It was only in our 3rd hour hour in the car, as we drove along a dead straight 'road' that stretched from horizon to horizon through a featureless desert, with no other vehicles on the road. My brit colleague broke down and loudly screamed
'OK OK! I'll talk! I'll talk! Just stop the torture!'
We eventually arrived at a fetid stream that dribbled odourously past a truly disasterous restaurant that gave us all food poisoning. The relief that we could get out of the car was rather spoiled by the knowledge we'd have to get back in it to go home.
( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 13:10, 1 reply)

I needed a lift - it was getting dark, was starting to rain, and I was in the middle of bloody nowhere. This wasn't good.
A car pulled up thank feck, and I ran to it - the driver was an old chap - probably in his early to mid 60s.

We set off, and he started telling me about his hip replacement. I listened politely, and drifted off into the passing scenery, watching the countryside slide past in streaks of green and grey. He was telling me about how to exercise he had to carry his mate on his shoulders for half an hour each day, wasn't that something, eh? He bets I can't do that.

"Hmm?" I say, "Oh - sure."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Of course."

And so ... he pulls over. What?

"Get out" he said, "And carry me on your shoulders."

"What?!"

"Carry me on your shoulders. Or not - I can go if you like."

Oh for fuck's sake. "We're in the middle of nowhere ... !" I protest.

"Well then it's probably best if you prove you can carry me on your shoulders." he responds.

"OK then" I reply, crouching, "Hop on."

He straddles my shoulders, I stand up, and start walking 'round the car.

It's at that point I start to feel his little fellah against the back of my neck, starting to harden.

I drop down and land him "FUCK YOU" I say, "I'm walking."

I spent the night under a tree, with only my cigarettes to keep out the chill.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 12:32, 4 replies)

I got the bus driver to stop the bus
so I could take a piss through the doors. It was very long piss, as I had been drinking all afternoon. I was not popular with the other passengers.

Why the driver didn't just push me out the door, and drive off, I'll never know.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 12:15, 4 replies)

Used to go skiing with my family every year as a kid...
Which (being a South Australian) meant a ten hour drive there at the start and a ten hour drive on the way back at the end.
As you can imagine, the drives were BORING, so to to break up the boredom, hijinks ensued.
Many stupid things happened, but the best thing I can remember is being overtaken, while we were already doing about 100mp/h, by another family.
They were all hanging out the windows waving like mad as they drove past.
Their six year old was at the wheel.
( difficultchild, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 12:07, 2 replies)

Bikes and Dykes
One of the weirdest journeys I ever had was a day-long tour of lesbian pubs on a motorcycle.

On a morning which just happened to be the day after the very first time I'd taken Ecstacy (Yay! MASSIVE DRUGS!), there was an unexpected knock on my door. I was rather surprised to see my ex-girlfriend's gay sister standing there. We knew each other quite well, of course, but weren't really close friends. It was certainly unusual for her to come to my house.

She explained that she'd had a row with her girlfriend the day before, who had stormed off back to her home town. I was the only person she could think of with a vehicle, so could I give her a lift there so she could try to find her missing girlfriend?

Well, for some reason (ahem) I was in a very good mood that morning, and working on the basis that "It never hurts to have a lesbian owing you a favour", we hopped on my bike and set off.

Once we reached the town, she dropped a bit of a bombshell. Apparently, dyke culture is rather bitchy and cliquey (who'da thunk it?) so she didn't want to go into any of the pubs because she might "meet the wrong people". So we would drive from one pub to the next, all around the area, and I would have to go in, find a group of rug-munchers, and ask if they'd seen the girlfriend that day.

I'm sure you can imagine the reaction that a hairy bloke in bike leathers walking into lesbian pubs can get. That scene in "An American Werewolf In London" is very familiar: the music stopped, all eyes swivelled to me, backed by aggressive scowls, and the barman shaking his head in disbelief while reaching for the "argument settler" under the bar.

Thank god I was in a friendly and affable mood. The E afterglow was probably the only thing that prevented me from ending up being roughly castrated by a gang of enraged bull dykes, that day.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 11:49, 6 replies)

Are we nearly there yet?
... those was the infamous words my brother would ask. It was not his eagerness to get where our parents were dragging us to, it meant "I am travel sick and in 10 seconds I am going to throw up everywhere". Queue mad scramble for the carrier bag which my mum always had ready in the glove box for the occasion.

Every car journey longer than 30 minutes (UK is small so this counts as a road trip?) he would do this. My nan came up with the brilliant suggestion that the handles on carrier bags made good hooks for my brothers ears while he was throwing up into the bag :)
(emuholic, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 11:33, Reply)

You don't know shit about road trips until you've tried to pull over by a pine tree only to discover after 3 hours of frustration that it's been your air freshner all along.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 11:26, 1 reply)

I was hitchhiking from Padstow, Cornwall, back home to Midsomer Norton, near Bath.
My first lift took me to the M5 at Exeter! Result.

My second lift - a stereotypical white van man van.

"I'm going up Bath way." I said.

"Go for it" he said, "Just bang on the doors" he said, indicating the back of the van.

Bang I did. The doors opened, to great cheers!

"Hooray!" the occupants cried, "Welcome in!"

I was handed a joint, a tin mug of cider, and asked to tell my story.
It turns out the guy was going up to Birmingham, and picking up every single hitchhiker he saw. He called out the junctions as we reached them, and I was back home quicker than if I'd got the train.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 11:15, 4 replies)

Exeter to Oslo
About ten years ago, a friend of mine and I decided to take a road trip from Exeter to Oslo. Being locked in a car for a week is a great way of getting to know someone (provided neither of you are gaffa taped in the boot). When we left Exeter he was a strict vegan, but after three days in my hydrofluoric company, I'd gotten him eating a McDonalds hamburger (which I'm still not sure he's forgiven me for). I'm not sure how it came about, but the Dutch chap who invented Big Brother let us stay in his flat, and had I known at the time how long it was going to run for, I'd have taken the opportunity for some judicious top-decking.
(luckybluecoat, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:25, 41 replies)

Pebbly beach in Suffolk
This time last year I got on my bike at the Pub on the Park in London Fields on a Saturday night (after a few sharpeners) and headed north east. The Dunwich Dynamo is a fairly disorganised ride to the sea that's been going for about 15 years. It's twice the distance of the London to Brighton, but less hilly and (in my case at least) a bit more relaxed. There's no backup, no marshals, noone to help you if you break something other than people riding around you. And it's utterly brill. There's no official start time and it's very much not-a-race. It's very surreal to be riding along a dark country lane in the middle of the night with a string of flashing red lights going off into the distance in front of you and a similar string of white flashing lights behind you. i wrote a thingy about it last year ( www.urbantravelblog.com/feature/dunwich-dynamo ) and am too lazy to retype it here.

It's on again this Saturday. There's no need to register, just turn up with a bike. And it's all about the journey, the destination is a bit rubbish. So next week I'll do another answer to this qotw. any other b3tans doing it?


EDIT: and it's much easier than you'd think. My mate Stuart did it last year having never cycled more than 5 miles in one go. if you're thinking about doing it, do it.
(Alphabet Soap boshboshboshbosh, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:22, 5 replies)

It's a long way to Tip...tree.
My Nan & Grandad used to love taking little me and my littler brother off to Tiptree to pick strawberries, on the basis that it must be where the best strawberries come from because it's where they make the jam. Old people logic, it's not worth questionning. So one sunny Saturday, off we go, me and my brother playing in the back, no seat belts or car seats required for kids in the back seat at the time. Grandad concentrating on driving and listening to Desert Island Discs or The Archers or somesuch, and Nan dozing in the passsanger seat. And the picnic bag sat on the floor in front of me, behind the drivers seat. The journey was uneventful, apart from a couple of 'You boys are quiet' comments from my granddad. And yes, we were quiet. We had access to the picnic bag...

Tiptree arrived, the blankets and chairs were fetched from the boot by granddad, while Nan opened the back doors of the car to start sorting through the goodies so she could start making the sandwiches (she always made them when we arrived, not before we left home), the bread came out, the cheese, the ham, the lettuce, as I watched, quietly, not feeling too well.

'Oh, I think i forgot to pack the butter', she said, 'Oh well, it will be OK'. And she went to pick me out of the seat, just as I decided to vomit a greasy, yellow, rancid dairy filled projectile all over her, the door, the seat, the floor and myself.

She hadn't forgotten to pack the butter.

I'd eaten it.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:21, 4 replies)

we had to go to get a film i had posted by mistake
and we ended up stealing a coach from a blind girl and we even stopped in a house full of blacks man they played some shit with us and a kkk hood had such a good time i am going to do it again maybe around Europe this time
( fluffybunnykiller Is feasting on the clitoris of life, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:11, 1 reply)

Got bullied
into escorting the wifes batshit crazy friend to Cornwall from London as she didn't know the way.

Twelve and a half hours in a Morris Minor nearly killed me.
That averages as 21 mph.
She managed to slow to 30mph on the M5 near Exeter.
I offered to drive even though I didn't have a license.

Then we spent 3 days wandering around cornwall looking for a house for her to buy.
She ended up buying the bloody holiday home she was staying in.

Worst 4 days of my life.
(Captain Spacker I lick windows, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:10, 11 replies)

You got on at Zwolle?
I was paying off a ship in Delfzijl, northern Holland. Me and my mate Tom were given 2 x 50Euro notes to get the train to Amsterdam where we'd catch the ferry back to Newcastle. Simple yes?

The agent drops us at the train station, its a Sunday and deserted. Ticket machine only take coins and we have no idea how we get 100 Euros changed into enough shrapnel to get us to Amsterdam. We're only vaguely aware that Amsterdam is the other end of the country.

We get on the train anyways, figuring we can just buy a ticket once we're moving. As the stops fly past we're starting to realise we may have a free ride! Already counting the beers this 100 Euro is going to buy us on the ferry we are suddenly being talked to by a forrin, in a uniform. Our puzzled O's means the nice lady switches to English and asks in a lovely sing-song voice if she can see our tickets....uh oh.

"oh we didnt know how to get one so we hoped we could buy one once onboard", I explained. Nice lady enquired where we had got on.....brain engages, we've been on for about an hour and stopped paying attention to stations a while back.

"erm Zwolle", is the last stop I recall....not knowing if it was even a station the train stopped at.

"you got on at Zwolle?" she looks bemused, but proceeds to give us a 2 tickets anyways. They cost around £40 in total.....! I still dont know if the train did stop there.

Once into Amsterdam Centraal, we dodge trams trying to kill us and look for the bus to IJmuiden. Its meant to be waiting outside some hotel but its not there. So we ask a taxi how much...."taxi is 50 Euro" the cabby says. There is no way we're spending our train profit so wait about, getting more panicky until at the final hour the coach turns up. We thought it left at 5, but in fact it only arrived then!

Once on the Ferry we spent all our money (and more) on pints of grolsch and Blue Lagoon chasers. Every time we got too drunk we walked up to the bow and stuck our heads in the wind, it was a force 8 gale and it was sobering. Back to cabin to reapply some gel then back to the bar.

We were the last 2 off the ferry the next day, worst hangover of my life and dragging 4 months worth of gear behind us in our bags. 2 Officers stop us, see our big bags and smile "been stocking up have you boys".... We just about manage to explain we're cadets who've done a 4 month stint and they just laugh and move us on.

My bag had been full of cheap spirits I'd bought before leaving my ship....! lucky

Best journey ever
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:04, Reply)

Car sick
I fucking hated car journeys as a kid. As soon as I knew we were going on a trip that took longer than half an hour I started to feel a little funny and had to try to spend the rest of the journey in silence, with my eyes closed. Never worked though.
I've been sick all down the side of the car, I've managed to chunder 5 minutes into the journey, and in the exact same spot on the way back, I've thrown up over both my brothers and my parents, on people's hand luggage. You name it, I've projectiled all over it.
The one advantage to this affliction is never having to sit in the middle seat, sandwiched between my two brothers. Neither of them are ever going to take the chance and play chunder roulette to see who ends up covered in my breakfast.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:01, 1 reply)

So my story is...
me and a bunch of guys & girls from a very vocal internet messageboard mostly got bored dribbling the same old shit to each other that we do day to day so we decided to to leave our comfort-zone for sunnier climes. We found our destination in a place where people go to share life stories on a given subject on a weekly basis. Into our Honda Accord we jumped.
On the way we shared laughs, MASSIVE DRUGS and cahoots by belittling the people posting their stories, pointlessly criticizing their posts & replies and generally acting like recalcitrant teenagers & supermodels.
When we got there we turned into intolerant cunts who were quite happy to sling shit, but were not so quick in dodging when it was sent back our way. It was a blast even though most of us had missed the whole point of joining this bunch of story-tellers. Eventually we settled in and managed to really spoil the exercise for all of the people who were there simply to share a story with others.
That's how we got to being /wankers.
Thankyou, Allow for our Little amount of Knowledge.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Fri 15 Jul 2011, 9:54, 11 replies)

Sweden.
The first hundred miles of trees and lakes were very beautiful.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 9:37, 5 replies)

On a speed comedown, impatient, itchy and irritable, I was going across London to see my new girlfriend.
The tube was delayed, so I decided to get the 'bus.

The 'bus got held at the stop for a while so I decided to walk to the next stop.

The next 'bus got me to the tube, which I rejoined.

The tube got delayed a bit so I thought I'd walk the next stop.

Got the 'bus from the next stop but it wasn't fast enough so I thought I'd walk for a bit.

Got the tube again but delays were still occuring so I got out and walked.

Took me 4 1/2 hours to get from Walthamstow to Brixton.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 9:08, Reply)

Camping
When I was a kitten we used to go camping up to North Devon, my Mum, Dad, Sister and I. Sis and I would be sat on top of all the duvets on the back seat with our heads touching the top of the car. Ah, those were the days.

One time my Sister got very travel sick, we had these little hand puppets to abuse* us in the car. She filled hers with vom, then threw it at me. I'm not sure how intentional it was but it put me off The Wuzzles for quite a while.

Fuckers.

*meant to be amuse but I prefer autocorrect's version. Also autocorrect's wanted to come up as scroteberries - my phone is awesome
(Nigella Pussycat picking baked-in hair from creme brulee, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 9:07, 5 replies)

London to Mongolia in a Nissan Micra.
We'd finished all the Haribo before we'd even got outside the M25. Sad times.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 9:06, 4 replies)

While I think of something new,
Have this tangentially related pearoast of when I headed off with just me and a car to South Florida:



Part I: b3ta.com/questions/cougars/post319969

Part II: b3ta.com/questions/cougars/post320702

So, where were we?

Oh yes, your reluctant protaganist had just been pissed on in a bathroom in Miami by an actress 13 years his senior who he had known for less than a week. That about covers it.

(The original plan had been the other way round, but one thing these fetishists don't tell you is how hard it is for a man to direct things when he's 'excited'.)

Ahem.

Anyway.

I basically stayed with her for the rest of my holiday. I had an amazing time. There were times we even seemed just like a normal couple, with her added sparkle on top.


We went to the cinema, to see Zoolander. (blow job in the cinema; We drove across to Sanibel (shagged in the sea in front of a crowded beach; We went to South Beach (drank a bottle of vodka between us and then fucked on the sand; We rented a video (I am assuming you can guess which kind;
We sat on her porch and watched the sun come up after being up all night (vodka was again involved, and I missed the sun coming up because I couldn't see it with my face between her legs; We went to the aquarium (and, trust me there are LOTS of dark corners in an aquarium, you can get away with murder;
We went to Key Biscayne (where she asked me to bugger her over the bonnet of her car. I obliged)

There are many things I did with Miami Actress that I have not done before or since. But two stick out in my mind more than any. The nudist beach, the name of which I forget, but it's a long drive from South Beach. I think the name was pushed from my mind by the overwhelming memory of getting a very unsubtle hand job and then being straddled in the middle of the beach with no one batting an eyelid around us.

And the sex shop.

I can't pretend to be naive, I'd been in an American sex shop before. I’d been in the peep booth. I'd seen the holes in the walls, and I knew what they were for. I had, however, never used one until she pushed me into one booth then went into the one next door. You know the rest, I'm sure.

And, still amongst all this were long, long nights of listening to music, discussing books and plays and films and the famous people she'd worked with (her Ronnie Wood stories I still repeat to people today), our pasts, our regrets and hopes. All fuelled by glass after glass of straight vodka and ice. But, and now, dear reader, if you are just here for the titillation, I suggest you stop reading, because I am going to get serious. Among all this, she was a kind, caring, wise, gentle soul. She was a sex crazed alkie, but a kind, caring, wise, gentle soul nonetheless. We talked a lot. About everything.And this carried on long, long after my holiday was over and I was back home starting to rebuild my life from the state it had been in before I had left.

We talked regularly. She talked to me all night a couple of times when I was at risk of sliding back. She gave me the strength to change my job, move house, cut down my drinking and help me pull my life back together. I shaped up, I got better. We talked non stop on September 12 of that year. About what had happened the day before, about life, about what we wanted, where we were going We decided we wanted to see each other again before we moved on with our lives. Before the month was out, I was back in Miami.

Things were more sedate this time, largely because we were both drinking far less. But it was an amazing two weeks still. Another two weeks for which I will always be grateful. I last saw her in early 2002. She'd known Charlotte Coleman (the short spikey girl from 4 weddings, who had died in late 2001) and was over for a fundraising/memorial thing. This time we met as friends,nothing more and we parted the same way. We'd both calmed down completely, and she told me she'd met someone. I was in the very early stages of a relationship too. She's married now. Living in a big house in South Florida and is a very successful theatrical actress.

One day I'll pick up the phone and say hello again. But at the moment I am happy with the memory of what we had. How she energised my life and turned me around when I was the lowest I have ever been. And, any woman I have slept with since 2001 owes her a debt of gratitude too. learnt a lot.




(EDITED TO APPEASE PAGE BREAK FASCISTS)
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 9:03, 8 replies)

Menashem's story reminds me of something that happened to my brother.
He's in the air force, and was in the US for some kind of exercise. He'd flown in via a military airfield; but he was on a civvy plane back home.

For some reason, he'd not had his passport stamped on arrival, and, when he turned up at LAX, this was noticed by the border guy - who began to get shirty on the grounds that my brother was clearly illegal. Attempts at explanation were going nowhere particularly quickly, and there were murmurs concerning the gravity of the situation - up to and including deportation.

My brother could see the aeroplane that would bring him home through the window. "Deportation would be just fine," he offered. "I could go on that plane there. Look: I've already got a seat booked on it, so it'd be no trouble at all."

It apparently took the border ape far too long to see the virtue in the plan.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 9:02, 1 reply)