Drilling to put up some coat hooks after a couple of lunchtime beers. Big bang. Electricity goes off. Look up. Drilling directly below the electricty meter cupboard.

I'd actually drilled through the main cable into the flat blowing the eff-off master fuse. The electrician who came to fix it was so surprised that I wasn't a smoking corpse that he forgot to pour scorn on my blatant idiocy.

Not for a public forum, I'm afraid.

but this is by far the most stupid thing I've ever said...

A few years ago, while watching the video for the New Order World Cup song, "World in Motion", my other half remarked, "That's Lily Allen's dad, you know." To which I replied, "What, John Barnes?"

Bear in mind there were two people on the screen at that time - one of whom was white and had the surname Allen.

I have never been allowed to forget this incident and it is brought up every time this video is played, Lily Allen/Keith Allen/John Barnes is on TV or radio or there is mention of the World Cup, New Order, football, anytime really, and it never gets any less embarrassing!

on a cruise ship as the host - supposedly running the show. It was a music cruise, the ECO and their renowned guest soloists.
At lunch on the first day, I was looking for a place to sit and spotted a chap sitting alone, so I asked if I could join him. The conversation went something like this:
Me: So what do you do for a living?
Him: I'm a musician.
Me: What do you play?
Him: Cello.
Me: Can you make a living playing the cello?
Him: I manage.
That evening, there he was, centre stage: Arto Noras, world renowned cellist, known to everyone except me. It's fair to say that I felt a bit of a tit.
He is also one of the nicest, most unassuming "stars" of the classical music world. I've since met a few others who would have had me flogged in public for not knowing who they were.

Awaking one morning with a monumental hangover I sought to sooth my complaining synapses with a little gentle music.I selected a record and raised the lid on my deck,it was soaking wet.I couldn't figure out where the liquid had originated or what sort of liquid it was.Then the full disgraceful truth dawned on me,I must have got up in the night and thinking I was in the loo,pissed on my record deck.Think about it,raising the lid,seeing a round dark space below me.....

...some years ago.
1: She took her (rather fat) cat to the vet. "The Vet sez I must have the largest pussy in Aberdeen".
2: Beginning her shift some years ago, there was a World Cup game on tele... either 1990/94, Cameroon or Nigeria playing Sweden...
"Hey Boyz, whose playing tonight?".
(answer)
"Which one is which?".

she might have been looking at Martin Dahlin at the time...

I was a college bar officer at uni - cellarman, to be precise. Anyway, this was a year or so before our college got a jukebox, so the duty bar officer had dibs on the musical choices. Naturally, I abused this privilege riotously.

So one night, it's dead in the bar. Our only customers are ten trainee vicars from the theological college next door, and a couple of my mates who were helping me get through the shift by stealing quantities of my booze in the name of companionship.

One of the vicars comes over and tells - not asks, TELLS - me to turn the music down. Very peremptory, very self righteous. Cunt, think I. So I acquiesce humbly, then go in the back to the stereo, dime the volume up full blast and go back out to the bar and start pogoing to 'Tame' by the Pixies while offering the holy twat a double middle-fingered salute. I'm bouncing away, smiling beatifically at the vicars' appalled faces, and I forget one very important detail: our bar has a very low ceiling.

I wake up in Casualty an hour later with concussion and ten stitches.

a history of car-related stupidity in my family.

Back in the 60's, as my dad was the oldest brother of 3, he became a sort of car guru for the other 2 when they became drivers. One time, he got the call from one brother requesting his urgent attention for a car-related problem. On arriving, he spotted brother Jack under the bonnet obviously concentrating hard on his task. As dad approached, Jack shouted over his shoulder, "you'd think they would find an easier way to do this, I've been at it now about an hour".
On reaching the car, dad spotted the problem immediately, elbowed his way in and removed the oil filler cap saying, "you'll probably find the oil goes in there a bit faster than the dipstick hole!". Poor Jack had actually fabricated a tiny funnel out of a fairy liquid bottle to get the oil into the equally tiny hole.

In the 80's dad had a white mini. He parked it outside my sister's house overnight when visiting. It snowed heavily overnight so the car was covered in the morning when he was leaving. He cleared the windscreen of the car and stuck the key in the door-lock. No joy. "it's frozen", he announced and went back into sister's for a jug of hot water which he applied liberally. No joy. "got any WD40?". 10 minutes later a can was produced and applied. No joy. Cigarette lighter, more water, another blast of WD40. About an hour had passed when the bloke next door (a mini owner) appeared, thanked dad for clearing his windscreen etc. and drove off in HIS mini. My sister then directed poor father to his car which was parked on the other side of the road.

I won't bore you with my own car-related stupidity. Suffice to say I have followed in the family tradition.

In 1988 aged 19 I spent six months travelling around the USA, Canada and Mexico with a friend. We wound up in New Orleans and went on our first night to Preservation Hall, home of Dixieland jazz. Whilst we were queueing to get in we started talking to two Texan women, a mother and daughter. The younger one was probably around 35. They seemed friendly so when they asked if we wanted to go on somewhere else with them afterwards we said yes. I was not prepared for what followed...

They took us to a club called 'Boys Will Be Girls', or something similar. It was the first (and only) time I've seen pole dancing. I was a pretty innocent young chap and this was all quite a novelty for me. During the evening I went to the bar and spotted a very lovely looking Asian girl who I believed I'd seen clinging to the aforementioned pole some minutes before. I asked her if I could buy her a drink and she said yes. So I bought her some revolting-looking cocktail, she necked it and then grabbed my hand and put it to her crotch. I was somewhat alarmed to feel the unmistakable shape of a pair of bollocks. "You're... you're... a MAN!" I whimpered, before simultaneously running away and questioning the little I knew about my own sexuality. The significance of the club's name then dawned on me - I was perturbed, let me tell you.

Shortly afterwards our Texan friends (who had been enjoying themselves enormously) decided the night was still young and that we should head off somewhere else. This time I found myself watching a female mud wrestling contest. Two rather butch ladies clambered into the ring, started writhing about and then their clothes fell off. I have to admit that I found it all rather distasteful, but once again our hosts were loving every minute, hollering and whooping the whole time. This evening couldn't get any stranger, could it? Oh yes it could.

For our final excursion (it was now around 4am) we ended up in a bar with a dancefloor. I was by this time exceptionally drunk. The younger Texan had rather taken a shine to me and was repeatedly asking me to dance with her. I continually refused, as dancing was not one of the few talents with which I had been blessed at that tender age. But she wouldn't take no for an answer and eventually I relented and made my way under the glitterball of doom. There was a rock n' roll record playing. I asked myself one question - what the hell I was supposed to do with my arms and legs in order to simulate 'dancing'? In my paralytic state my brain helpfully reminded me of a scene from 'Grease' in which a fella throws his dancing partner over his head. "That's it!" I convinced myself, "I can do that!" So I tried to perform this manoeuvre but forgot that you aren't supposed to let go of the lady. She sailed across the dancefloor and came to rest with a crash against a pile of stacked chairs. Her ankle was very badly sprained and she left the scene in an ambulance, saying goodbye to me in a much less friendly fashion than how she'd greeted me a few hours before. The words "fucking" and "asshole" may have been uttered, if I remember rightly. I turned to my friend and said "Well I did tell her I wasn't very good at dancing", trying to disguise my extreme guilt. We decided that enough was enough for one evening's entertainment and went back to our guest house.

...will remain a secret between me and the duvet I'm crawling under whenever I think of it. However I couldn't let the story of your suiting disaster go by without pointing out, as I always do on these occasions, that off-the-peg suits are for mugs. For the same money you could have one that fits you and only you. In your local high street there's some kind of tailor who is clinging on to a living who would be happy to copy your last successful suit and you wouldn't be in any danger of running into somebody else at a wedding wearing the same one. Made to measure. Do it before it's too late.

Possibly one every 7 hours or so.

Far too many to remember but one has just come to mind.

My first visit to New York City in 1999. My girlfriend (now FPO) and I were happy tourists in Manhattan pacing down Broadway and doing a lot of shopping. We popped into a jeans-type store to be politely but firmly accosted by a young black guy sat by the door behind a high desk affair, 'Hey buddy, bag check' he intoned in pure Noo Yoik.

Indeed I had a man-bag affair across my shoulders and I slipped it off. I opened it and gestured with it for him to check inside it. He didn't. He simply held out his hand to take it.

I didn't give it to him, just opened it wider.

He raised his eyebrows and held his hand out further.

At this I raised it up to my head height, held it horizontal and opened it wide Mick-Jagger-lips style so he could peer right inside. To check it.

'No, man. I need to check it. Here with me under the counter. Just while your in the store...'

At that moment I realised I had all the street cred of Jimmy Clitheroe.

As a youngster of about 12 I was coasting down a small hill on my bike. Being the curious type I wondered what would happen if I stuck my foot into the spokes of the front wheel. Well, you have to try these things. Don't you? There then followed a forward somersault/arse over tit manouevre. Fortunately without injury.

Not to be recommended.

- which shows how long ago it was - with my mother. I was about 9 or 10 years old, we reached the doorway and I decided to stick my arm out and lean nonchalantly against the glass, except for some reason there wasn't any and I found myself face down in the fish in the shop window.

I have hundreds I can't bear to recall without howling, but here's one from last week.

I'm in a mate's garage, late evening. There's a double socket on the wall, one plug for the freezer, one for the light.

He asks me to turn off the light when I leave. I say "How will I know I haven't unplugged the freezer by mistake?"

After a brief pause, and with remarkable restraint, he replies: "Because it will go fucking dark."

... I was challenged by a mate to try and chat up a woman that he pointed out.

Being a bit drunk I replied "No bother!" marched up bravely, and said something along the lines of "That was brilliant wasn't it?"

The woman replied, in a somewhat deep, Glasweigan and distinctly manly voice "Aye, it was brilliant."

Somewhat taken aback I replied "I'm really sorry, I thought you were a woman."

To which he/she replied "That's the whole idea wee man."

My pals truly thought that this was funniest thing they ever saw in their lives...

Student's Union Christmas free bar, empty stomach, Guinness, whiskey etc. Early bed time (smashed/ unconscious) with the electric fire on.
An interface of said fire with a long sleeve t-shirt (probably James or Stone Roses) dangling from my arm results in a small fire which luckily my less drunk mate was alert to and dealt with.
The full horror was apparent the next morning with the burnt hole in carpet, the charred t-shirt in the sink and the overwhelming smell of burning through the flat.
Incredibly lucky.

One in particular springs to mind. Back in about 1996, I enjoyed a night of drunken, enthusiastic and uninhibited rumpo with a staggeringly pretty girl called Mizzi who I had first met a couple of weeks previously and had bumped into again in a bar in Southsea. One thing led to another and.. well.. she wasn't made of wood, her eyes weren't painted on, etcetera..

There was, however, a problem. Mizzi's boyfriend. A chap called A.J. who was one of Portsmouth's more, erm, "colourful" businessmen and was responsible for most of the cocaine flowing through the city. I knew this. I just didn't care with my brain clouded by lust and lager.

I spent weeks very, very worried, waiting for a knock on the door but none came. Those who knew about what had happened kept quiet and A.J. and Mizzi soon afterwards departed the city for a life in Spain.

I'd moved to a new city (Birmingham) and bumped into an ex-work colleague who'd also moved there. Let's call him Adam.

We started seeing each other - nothing serious, just a bit of fun, and it fizzled out when I moved to London, for a new job.

Shortly after I started the new job, I ran into another ex-colleague (from the same place where we'd worked with Adam). Let's call her Sarah.

I hadn't seen her in years, so we had a good old gossip to catch up.

We exchanged pleasantries and then our conversation went something like this:

Sarah: so, are you seeing anyone at the moment?
Me: not right now. although, you won't believe who I was seeing when I lived in Birmingham... remember Adam?
Sarah: Adam Smith?
Me: Yeah, Adam Smith from work. Weird, huh?
Sarah: You mean, Adam Smith, my boyfriend?
Me: What?
Sarah: We've been together for the last three years. Did he not mention me at any point?
Me: Funnily enough, no, he didn't.

Then we both went awkwardly quiet, and I hoped the ground would suddenly swallow me up.

Can't tell you how stupid I felt. How completely mortified.

I honestly honestly honestly had no idea they were together (not for much longer though, obviously).

1/A popular method of removing fluff from clothing is to wrap sellotape around your hand and dab away at the fluff.
I did this but had the sticky side inwards and so I had only succeeded in taping up my hand.

2/This one involved a train with doors that open either side depending on which side the platform happens to be.
The train stops at the station and I pull at the doors but they won't budge. I frantically tug at the doors as the train will be pulling out any second. By this time I'm beginning to panic, not to mention about to burst a blood vessel.
Yes....wrong side.
It was late at night so I don't think anyone saw me.

my ex told a friend she was getting a half leg wax- whyonly one leg responded friend

my uncle's apprentice ( some years ago) was asked to check why there was no power to the drill- " i see the problem the lad said condfidently - the lead's all knotted up down the other end"

I once attempted to mix a wheelbarrow of cement with only powder & water. It was only after I had achieved the consistency of glue when I realised... I'd neglected the sand.

But here's one I've done twice...

To unblock the sink I removed and cleaned the trap... ensuring a bucket was under the sink to catch the water. I then picked up the bucket and threw the water down the sink... without replacing the trap.

you need to do your stupid thing on stage in front of 300 people. Fortunately I'm eminently capable of this.

I was chairing a conference session in Frankfurt. It's easy enough; you introduce each of the five speakers, organise a bit of Q+A, thank everyone and get off.

Every speaker uses their native language, but that's okay, you just put on headphones, select the appropriate channel, and get an simultaneous English version from the translators in a booth at the back of the room.

It's going well until the third speaker. I introduce her, then put my headphones on and.. nothing. There's no translation. I'm sitting on stage with hissing in my ears and no idea what the woman is saying.

I make a few subtle gestures to the IT guys and the translators in the booth. They looked confused, then amused, then pitiful. After about three minutes of desperately checking connections and switching channels, a terrible thought occurs to me.

The speaker is speaking English.

That's when I look up and realise the whole audience is ignoring the speaker and looking at me. The English guy in headphones waiting for the English translation of the English speaker. Short of ducking under the desk and coming back up again sans headphones, there's no avoiding the fact that I'm just going to have to slip the things off in full view of everyone. Which I do, to a round of applause and laughter.

That's followed by a second laugh from the German members of the audience - the result, I'm told later, of a hilarious ad lib at my expense by the English/German translator. Bastard.

for a comprehensive breakdown of my stupidity. But back in the day when Friday lunch meant going to the pub and having one or three too many, we returned to the office one time where I thought coffee was a necessity. Went in to kitchen, filled the drip filter and water container, hit the button and went back to my desk. Returned 15 minutes later to realise I had omitted the all important jug, and 2 pints of coffee were now swilling around on the lino, in the cupboards and on the counter. Lovely. I made one half-arsed attempt at mopping it up and retired to a safe distance.

Late for a night out I backed the car out of the garage one evening and when I got to end of driveway I realised that the brakes had completely gone - absolutely nothing there at all! Luckily for me I didn't hit anything as I rolled out into the road.

I can't possibly get this fixed tonight I thought and I'm late already , so I better have a look at it in the morning. Throwing it into first gear I shot back down the drive into the garage....

I've been emotionally repressing this for no little time.

In 1987 I passed my driving test. Then, in short order, left home for London where I found I didn't really need and more to the point couldn't really afford a car.

So I was a qualified licensed driver who had not actually driven himself solo from A to B anywhere or (crucial point) built up any kind of road sense.

Some years passed. Eventually I decided I could now afford and would like a little car. A small amount of common sense filtered in from somewhere and I signed up with a local driving school for some refresher sessions.

Cut to a large and busy roundabout somewhere in the Limehouse area of London. I am behind the wheel of a dual control Vauxhall Corsa with a kindly young instructor in the passenger seat. It is evening. It is busy. I have discovered I have forgotten virtually everything and my practical skill (clutch control etc) is rudimentary.

I'm not happy and in a state.

'Ok', says nice man as we approach the multi-laned vortex of Hades, we're going to bear left here, so get in lane... good. Now when the lights change its hard straight left'

The lights changed. But not for my lanes. This didn't stop me turning hard left into the path of 3 (or 27 it seemed) other lanes of suddenly fast moving traffic.

I had tried to turn left into oncoming traffic virtually the way I had come. Brakes squealled and many cars stalled. Nice man wasn't that nice to me anymore. A lady in another car called me a fucking idiot. Nobody was hurt, except me. I don't like being called a fucking idiot.

And do you know as I was doing it all I could think was, 'Blimey. This is dangerous. I don't remmber this from my test'

I drive better now. In fact you won't find a steadier eddie. I always keep 2 chevrons apart. I indicate at the slightest lane change. I check my blind spot constantly. Because I know that out there somewhere behind a wheel is a prick dozier than me.

Apart from the frequent ridiculously alarmingly dangerous drink-driving I did as a student (never done it since)...

I went out on a window ledge of a fourth floor flat in north London and worked my way along to the next window, all the time gripping on for dear life but feeling like I was in control.

It was only when a caring friend hoiked me in through that next window that I realised the magnitude of what I'd just done. I go cold just thinking about it now. I don't really even know how I did it.

Oh, and let's not forget writing off a car during a test drive. But that wasn't really my fault.

Both completely refreshed, my mate and I went round to our old rented house cos they hadn't forwarded mail on. It was late at night and so we decided to break in round the back where we knew a sash window was easy to open. We got in, took the pile of old post (duuurrrr!) and some items from the fridge. Thankfully no-one was in. I cringe now at the memory.

One of the assistants in my x ray department (let's call her R)is of the 'simple, bless her, but she's happy' persuasion. Lovely woman, but tales about her could fill a book. Here's 3 faves -

1. Deaf patient arrives for CT scan, needing an injection of contrast. She needs a signer to explain what's going off and check for contraindications. R has recently done a signing course, so she is called. She walks up to the patient, begins to frantically point at her arm whilst yelling 'YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE AN IN-JECT-ION!!'

2. The assistants are told that one of their roles will be to clean the lifts. 'What? On every floor?' cries R.

3. Someone in the staffroom is singing Wham's well known festive ditty. 'There's something about this song that always reminds me of christmas', says R.

When it comes to acts of personal stupidity there is a rich vein of material to plunder. I am going to opt for the first episode of nitwittedness I can remember, simply because its combination of naivety, extreme gullibility and lack of consideration for my own well-being became the tri-cornerstone foundations for the many acts of idiocy that followed after.

On the morning of my 5th birthday my parents handed me a card and a present, both purportedly from Captain James T Kirk of the USS Enterprise. It was not the first time that the legendary starship captain had sent me gifts. He had proven to be a decent present giver in the past. On this occasion he had strayed from the usual Star Trek theme and bought me a die-cast Batman Helicopter. It had red and black bat-winged rotors and a primitive winch (a piece of string with a small hook on the end), wound-up inside the fuselage, that you could raise or lower via a red wheel embedded in the undercarriage. I spent the afternoon using it to pick up Matchbox cars.

That evening after my brother and I had been put to bed I devised another use for the winch. I lay on my back holding the Batcopter over my head. Using the dial I slowly lowered the hook into my mouth.

It turned out the string wasn't long enough to reach all the way down to my stomach as I had hoped. When I rewound the winch the hook was noticeably absent. My parents were alerted and having made a fruitless search in the vicinity of my bed they drove me to the hospital where I was X-rayed. The hook never tuned up. It may well still be embedded in the lining of my gut, along with the gnawed-off feet of all those first generation Star Wars figures.

After this episode, which in hindsight marked the first flowering of a precocious talent for stupidity, the Batcopter was temporarily removed from my possession and replaced by a disappointing Bat Boat. It was the last time that Captain Kirk ever sent me a card or a present. He had obviously been made party to the evening’s events and decided that I wasn’t Starfleet material.

lived in a squat (ahem) it was a shitehole as you'd expect but at least the people who lived there were OK. I used to like extremely loud music to get me me to sleep with my ghetto blaster (size of a suitcase) but I was fortunate to have some right big Phillips headphones to be considerate to my squatting neighbours. One night I staggered in, put me 'phones on and bunged on a cassette. Whilst drifting to sleep I thought the sound to be muffled and vowed to clean the tape head, so cranked the volume and treble up. 10 seconds later I was asleep. Next morning I was awoken by a loud banging on my door. Upon opening it I was confronted by everyone in the building, screaming that I was a bastard and kept them awake all night with my shitty music etc. Only after looking around did I realise that yes, I'd put the headphones on, but neglected to plug them into the jack. There were repercussions for months afterwards.

to wheel out my piece de resistance.

Whilst at university, my housemates and I had gone to do the weekly shop one week. Once back at home, it transpired that somebody had bought a pack of jam doughnuts and kindly offered to share them round. I picked up a doughnut, looked at it, thought for a second, and then uttered the words that will haunt me to my grave:

"Do you reckon I can fit this all in my mouth in one go?"

Nobody seemed too interested, other than a half-hearted shrug and a "dunno, give it a go", so I did just that.

At the final "push for victory", I was a little over-exuberant and while the doughnut was now fully inside my mouth, it was also lodged in the back of my throat.

"Mmmmf! Mmmmf!" I shouted, as I realised the doughnut was completely stuck. All of my housemates laughed, not realising I couldn't actually breathe at this point.

I bolted upstairs to the bathroom and tried to make myself sick, but nothing happened. I began frantically clawing at my neck and, rather inconveniently given the situation, began to hyperventilate.

Just before I went into full panic-attack, I managed to muster up the biggest swallow I could, and slowly, the doughnut - still mostly whole - it must be said, gradually slipped down my throat and into my stomach.

I gasped for air, coughed, and realised just how sore my throat really was. When I got downstairs, my housemates laughed again until I shakily explained what had just happened and how I thought I was going to suffocate. It was at this point that someone pointed out I had scratches all down my neck, which I'd inflicted upon myself in sheer panic.

It was a terrifying experience and the closest I've ever come to death. But I'm sure that had that story not had such a happy ending, I'd have still managed to feel some acute embarrassment from the afterlife that I inadvertently killed myself with a jam doughnut.

I once got upgraded to first class on a transatlantic flight. The seat didn't go flat, but went a fair way back whilst a footrest slipped forward from under the chair. So I'm relaxing, shoes off, seat back, when the announcement comes that we're about to land, please stow tables, put seats back in upright position etc.

I push the button to make the chair return to normal, but it doesn't quite get there. The footrest doesn't seem to want to return under the seat. So I try again. Same result.

Instead of doing what anyone used to first class would have done, viz. snap fingers and get cabin crew to sort it out, I tried and tried again, with the same result each time. I got increasingly anxious, and tried surrreptitiously forcing the rogue footrest back into position. No joy. I kept moving the seat up and down - a hot sweat breaking out as I get convinced everyone is looking at me.

Back and forth the footrest goes, until I admit defeat, take off my seatbelt, crouch down, reach under the chair and retrieve one of my shoes, now almost completely cut in half by repeated footrest trauma.

Felt, and looked, a complete berk.

I've got another one. I lived in some digs when I went to college with a family of 3. Ma, Pa and "Maffyew, the kid, in Chislehurst, of all places. They wouldn't allow me a key to the house, or let me in the living room or the kitchen, and still had plastic covers over the furniture, 3 years after they'd moved in. I think she was OCD looking back. I went for a night on the Liffey water and was awakened the next day by the landlady taking her kid to school. I had to exit the house at the same time as her 'cause she didn't trust a drunk Northerner in her pristine palace. I HAD to have a shite and did so whilst she was yelling up "We've gotta go naa!" The size of this black monster was beyond description, above the water line and as thick as your arm. I wiped and flushed the bog...and it was still there...flush number 2 and still nothing, all the bog roll had gone, In a panic I looked around the bathroom with her still yelling at me to get "aat" from downstairs. My eyes alighted on an Airfix Stuka the kid used to play with in the bath, so I used the wing to chop the turd up and flushed again. Success. I ran the plane under the tap and wiped it off, and went to college. Only that night, she was giving the kid a bath and my room was next door I heard him say "Mum, what's this on the pilot of my plane? My shit had squeezed through the joints of the Stuka and smothered the poor Luftwaffe Airfix pilot within. The cold sweat on my brow that night would have frozen Hades itself.

Wilson's Promontory is a picturesque national park in southern Victoria.

There is what we in Australia would call a mountain but what europeans would probably,at best, call a peak. As students, we would go camping and enjoy the great outdoors. Actually more often we sat around smoking copious bongs and going through batteries for the portable cassette player at a great rate listening to mid 70s rock.

The evening's entertainment would sometimes involve driving to the top car park at Mt Oberon and having the cars roll down without headlights.Someone would be appointed to hold a torch, only turning it on at the last second to illuminate the white posts on the edge of the road.

If this wasn't enough fun, driver and passenger would sometimes change places with the driver taking his place in the the pasenger's seat by climbing out the driver's side window and entering through the front passenger window.

I think it may have been the opium in the hash

When I was about Eighteen I was invited to stay by a Art School friend at his Mothers' apartment.His Mother,he assured me would be absent,away in Ireland on some family Business.
We had been there a couple of days having a drunken,stoned good time and after a very heavy afternoon session of abuse I had retired to my allocated bed early.I woke in the night and sleepily set out to find the lavatory.Now I always sleep in the buff and had awoken sporting a profound example of Morning Glory.
Being In strange surroundings and still mostly asleep I stumbled my way to the door I believed led to the ablutions,opened it,stepped through the door to find myself in the sitting room.The room was not unoccupied,around a small card table were sat four middle aged ladies engaged in a game of Bridge.My friends Mother didn't bat an eye she just said " I think we've found somewhere to hang your Mink Stole Sarah ".

19 years old, at university, I am involved with the student drama group in an attempt to meet girls and, lo and behold, I managed to persuade one to come on a date with me.

The obvious thing to do is take her to a play; we both do drama, if conversation flags we can discuss the play, it'll make me look all sensitive, clever and arty, what could possibly go wrong?

Well the play I took her to was a stage adaptation of Dennis Potter's Brimstone and Treacle and I was completely ignorant as to what happens in that.

So picture if you will, a boy on a first date with a girl, watching a play in which a disabled woman is cured of her disability by being raped on stage. There was no second date, sadly.

Haven't time to embellish this, but following an entire afternoon on the weed in my early 20s, found myself (along with my friends) with horrific munchies.

Went into the kitchen and all I could find was a tinned Heinz chocolate sponge (the ones where you put the tin in boiling water for half an hour). Promptly set everything up and returned to the living room.

Probably forty-five minutes later, still in the living room, I experienced the loudest bang I have ever heard. Of course the water had boiled dry, heated the can and promptly exploded. The distribution of sponge and chocolate sauce was a summary lesson in ballistics. I spent three hours removing chocolate sponge from the walls and ceiling.

The remnants of the tin had burned a large hole in the lino. As there had been recent IRA bombs in London, several neighbours were running round in apoplexy.

I sadly lost my mum last year and with her went the story she told, without fail, to every girlfriend I ever introduced to her, and to virtually everyone else she knew.

I was perhaps 6 or 7 years old, a neighbour who kept poultry donated a chicken to the Dyson household. I watched as Mum plucked it and started preparing it for the oven, having never seen this before I was fascinated (I thought all chickens came oven ready), she got a big knife to draw the bird, "What do you have to do now?"
"I've got to take the giblets out"
"Will they be in a plastic bag?"

This story was told at least 30-40 times and every time, without fail, Mum was almost crying with laughter.

Mind you I'd put up with her telling it twice a day every day to have her back.

Almost 20 years ago, had visited my parents, who were going out for the night.

Me and the now GLW dropped them off at the venue, and popped into the town to pickup a Chinese takeaway.

I stopped the car in a small side street, and skipped across the High St to the Chinese.

I heard a scream behind me, and turned to see the GLW out of the passenger door trying to pull the car back, as it was moving forwards.

Turned out, I had left the Mercedes in DRIVE, without any brake, and it had started to move forwards. The GLW had searched for the handbrake, not knowing that it was a pedal brake, and also never having been in an automatic car before, so didn't know to knock it into neutral.

Anyway, the car ticked across the road, mounted the pavement, and pushed in the window and wall of an estate agents office.

Suddenly the High Street was full of people coming out of pubs etc to see what the commotion was, and then the Police turned up, and I had to explain how I had crashed a car at low speed into a shop window, whilst not being in it.......

Then my Dad had to sort out the insurance claim for his company car and the damage to the shop.

Funnily enough this has yet to be forgotten by my family

...my bonus in to the work's share scheme.

I worked for HBOS at the time...

Me: In Sarajevo and hungry, looking at restaurant menu written wholly in Bosnian. Three days in the country have made me familiar with the word (long since forgotten) for chicken, so I order a menu item I take to be some sort of chicken-and-veg dish. Waiter looks at me oddly. Comes back ten minutes later and presents me with knife, fork and entire roast chicken, with not even a sprig of parsley for company. Am "fatty-mocked" openly by other diners for next 20 minutes while trying to retain air of someone who meant to order 'big chicken and nothing else at all'.

My Dad: Recently retired, takes up abstract water-colour painting. Gets bored with waiting for one of his first works to dry so puts it in the microwave. Painting is ball of flames in around four seconds.

On a holiday, I scored with a Glesga Girl... very pretty, VERY rich. Anyroads, as I was going to Uni in Glesga in the forthcoming months, we stayed in touch, and subsequently was invited to meet her parents in a posh part of the town (Pollock? Pollockshiels? somewhere like that). My instructions to get to her chateau was very clear.... "Get off train, go to the other side of the platform, up the stairs.See big park. Circle round park about 200 yards. Suchandsuch Avenue. Big house on the left". Well got off train, in the dark, went up stairs to be confronted with huge fucker of a fenced-in park that seemed to stretch for miles either side. Undaunted, I clambered over fence and strode thru unlit park like a good 'un. Over fence at other side. Right in front of me the avenue, then the house. Job well done, I thinks. Rang door bell, Maureen answered door, and I was invited in. Pristine lounge, immaculate parents. Hands shaken all round. Then her little sprog of a brother noticed some "debris" had followed me in, trailed from front door, thru the hallway and into the lounge. I had stood on dogshit in the park. A BIG dogs shit. It was everywhere. Next hour was spent on knees with scrubbing brush and dettol. Never saw her again. Funny that.

We were having a family dinner at my mum's house a few years back. All the siblings had arrived except for my brother of course. As this was more rule than exception we sat down at the table and started eating. The phone rang, and as my mother was busy serving I went in to the next room and answered, in my usual fashion; "yeah, hullo ?"
After a short silence the confused voice of a very old man asked;
"Hello ? Excuse me, have I reached Sunnyside Retirement Home ?"
To explain what happened next you need to know a few things.
1. My brother was at the time amusing himself by adopting comical voices and names on the phone, trying to trick you into having silly conversations about odd subjects.
2. I had fallen for it the first couple of times, but then I came to realize that all of his comical voices shared a common tone.
3. The "old man" had indeed a very odd and comical voice that displayed that same tone that I now was becoming very familiar with. It didn't sound like a real person, more like mr Magoo.
4. How difficult can it be to dial the correct number ? And isn't "Sunnyside Retirement Home" a very sitcome-name ?
5. I was expecting it to be my brother on the line as I picked up the phone to answer.
Here´s the conversation that ensued...:
Me: Ha-ha...you didn't think I would actually fall for that did you ?
Mr Magoo: ...eh, excuse me ? Who am I speaking to ?
Me: Oh, give over J; I can hear that it's you! When are you coming ?
MrM: I'm sorry, I don't understand! I'm trying to call Sunnyside Retirement Home! Have I got the right number ?
Me: Don't be such an ass! No one is falling for your silly voices anymore. Where are you ?
MrM: ( desperation in his voice ) Please, I don't know what you're saying! Is this the Retirement Home ?
Me: ( voice raised in anger ) Enough already! Quit talking in that stupid voice and tell me why you're so late!
MrM: ( really desperate trembling voice ) Please, who am I speaking to ? I just want to speak to somebody at Sunnyside Retirement Home!

This conversation must have continued for at least five minutes, and then all of a sudden listening to the desperate old mans voice I suddenly ( not a minute too soon ) understood that it in fact WAS an old man calling the retirement home and not my stupid brother!
All the blood shot up in my face, leaving the rest of my body ice cold and shaking with shame.
"Sorry, wrong numner!" I splurted out and slammed down the reciever ( this being back in the reciever-slamming days ). I went back into the dining room, sat down and said nothing of what had happened; too embarrassed about my behaviour towards this poor old man. I wondered if me yelling strange accusations at him over the phone would give him a stroke or a heart attack...maybe I had just taken years off his life! My cheeks was flushed for quite a while.
It wasn't until my brother finally arrived and got seated at the table with the rest of us that I had calmed down enough to see the funny side of this. I then told the story to my family and reenacted the telephone conversation complete with comedy voice of mr Magoo and me yelling at him. My family fell about laughing at this, wich made me feel a tiny bit better ( anything for a laugh! ), but to this day I wonder about "mr Magoo"... Could he go to sleep that night, or did a loop of my strange comments haunt him ? Did he ever pluck up the courage to try to reach the Sunnyside Retirement Home by phone ? Did his blood preassure suffer ?
Apologies mr Magoo, I sincerely hope you lived for many years after this incident ( though I assume he's been pushing up weed for years by now, judging by that oh so comical and very very old-sounding voice of his )...

voting Lib Dem on Thursday.

My ex boss told me the following story regarding an ex stores employee was legendary for his "daftness". The boss knew the stores lad was running an errand in town and asked him to pick up some lunch for him. Searching his wallet the smallest note he could find was a twenty pound note so he hands this to him, asks him to buy a pasty and get something for himself while he's there. So an hour later the lad returns, hands over the pasty and a small handful of change. Boss asks "what's going on, where's my change"? And the lad said "you said to get something for myself, so I bought this Cardigan". True story.

Tho my bro swears it is true. Daft Davie Steak Eye (HIS bros went by the monikers Crazy Colin Steak Eye and Alex The Mad Axe Killer Steak Eye) worked in a local bookies and earned his crust by sweeping floor, running errands for the punters, etc. Onceupomatime the betting shop owner asked him to go and buy a Daily Record newspaper.
"What if they havnae gotta Record?"
"Get me anything then".
Daft Davie came back with a cheese roll.

Sending young apprentice to Mr Smith "for a long stand".

When reaching Mr Smith is told to wait...and then totally ignored for ages.

Long stand. Geddit?

Either that or being sent to collect a bucket of steam.

. . . which I was already wearing of course.

me and my mates used to go to our local swimming pool for a lark about. One of the favourite games was to wait for one mate to start getting out the pool then launch through the water and rive his trunks down as he was half way up the steps....so , seeing one lad on his way i went under water, pounced on him still under water, then surfaced to find i had a handfull of a young mum,s bikini bottom, her kids were screaming, she was hysterical thinking she was being assaulted, and the lifeguard was trying to hit me with the pole for the windows...the horror, the horror...banned for life from Northumberland Rd Pool, Newcastle!!

I was going round to visit a friend - FPO in tow - and had phoned ahead only to be told that the house was full of children but they'd be on their way out by the time I got there.

On arrival the house was indeed bedlam. Children screaming, half drunk plastic glasses of diluting orange juice everywhere etc.

A slight curveball was thrown by the prescence of my friends brother in law and his partner who I hadn't previously met. We were introduced to them as they were hanging around the front door. My friend interjected, just as a particuarly blood curdling shriek was heard from the room the many children were installed in, by saying "They're just leaving".

I responded by punching my fist in the air, making eye contact with the brother in law and, jokily, shouting "Yeeeessss!!" expecting nods of agreement and long suffering sighs of empathy.

My friend had been referring to the brother in law and his wife.

Needless to say I have never met these people again. And yes, the children were there throughout.

I used to delight it ribbing my wife for her blondest incident - the day I came home one to find her with a large pile of heavy parcels, all stamped and ready to be taken ot the post office. "I'm knackered," she told me. "I've been up and down stairs all day to weigh these parcels on the bathroom scales." As soon as these words left her mouth she realised that there might have been an easier solution...
My ammunition expired, however, when a few months later I was assiting a neighbour to move a heavy section of tree trunk. Together we could just about lift it but would clearly struggle to move it the 50 metres distance that circumstances required. "Hang on," I said, "I've just had a great idea. We just need to get it into that wheelbarrow over there and we can wheel it the rest of the way." The wheelbarrow was some 20 metres away. Only after we had struggled with the load halfway towards the barrow, did it occur to my neighbour that it might be easier to bring the barrow to the load.

Any members of the Massive on the 0827 from Sheffield to London St Pancras this morninig should be reassured that the dipshit who was the subject of the announcement that someone had left a very valuable piece of electrical equipment in the toilet was reunited with his work laptop. But only after a long and obvious trip to and from the buffet wearing a very sheepish grin.

The fact that he had taken said item to the bog in the first place to avoid it being nicked when left unattended means we now have a new benchmark definition for "irony" as well as "idiocy" (as well as, for that matter "sheepish grin")

One of those days...

Just shoot me...

Have moved to a different desk at work. It has a nice view over the Thames so I bagged it when it's last incumbent moved on.

I have to arrange for myself work travel every now and again (rail tickets etc)and schedule in visits to different locations. Normally I do this with the Calendar on MS Outlook. However, left behind on my new desk, there is a little anodised year planner with the entire year in calendar form just a glance to the right.

So, I've mentally worked out my schedule for the next few weeks and made notes of the dates on all my relevant documents.

I shan't be going to any of these now though. That planner? It's for 200-and f*cking-5 isn't it.

Patient turns up. He's pulled out a crown. "Sorry Mr Law, but it was a chew bar. I know I shouldn't, but.." I proceed to recement the crown and patient is sent on his way with a ticking-off.

Nurse is mystified. "How'd he manage to do that with a tuba? Wasn't he playing it properly?"

You have to do this in a Pompey accent. She has now gone off in a huff as I've reached for the laptop.

I went back to the bar for more drinks.

Barman pulls pints and says: "Have you got a tab?

I say: "Sorry mate I don't smoke."

That I'm just one of oh so many dipsticks on this board. If the rest of the nation is as daft as us we are in deep doo-doo. And if we are smarter than average...

Can I update my earlier entry regarding voting Lib Dem? The consequences of my new biggest mistake will last far longer than 5 years of Cleggamoran

My biggest mistake is volunteering to weed my wife's allotment whilst she visited her mum in hospital 100 miles away. Well, how was I to know those fiddly little weeds were newly spouted carrots, parnips and spring onions?

Never volunteer

Ram-raided a Christian book shop....in my own car.

not be the seminal influence everyone else thinks they are turns out to be pretty stupid.

Sat in a room once with a load of school mates, The B52s' Wild Planet (their 2nd) LP on the player. Conversation turns to subject of song playing, '53 Miles West of Venus' its name. Some bright spark asks 'I wonder what's 53 miles West of Venus'? Silence falls. I then ruin it rather sniffily by replying 'Well, it's obvious, stupid.... It's Earth, isn't it?'

First thing that came to my mind that.

17 years old. 3 mates and I go on a weeks Caravan holiday in Dawlish. When we get down there we decide to split up into pairs on first night as it is allegedly easier to pick up girls when there are 2 of you as opposed to 4. My mate and I strike lucky and meet 2 nice and friendly girls. We get on very well and agree to meet the following lunchtime. In our sophisticated teenage years we take them to a Wimpey on Dawlish High street. My girly looks lovely in a nice White Summer dress. We sit in the window of the Wimpey looking out onto the high street. Unfortunately a wasp had gotten into the eatery and was dive bombing the girl I had designs on. The wasp then settled on the window. Ever chivalrous I picked up the Tomato shaped plastic ketchup dispenser and squashed the wasp into oblivion. Simultaneously the ketchup dispenser spewed out a projectile stream of ketchup onto the girls lovely white dress. Suffice to say it was the end of my amorous ambitions with that particular girl!!!

On Wednesday, I needed to take a load of rubbish to the dump.

The buggy was in the car boot, so I took it out and put it straight down, leaving the boot nice and clear. I then stuffed the car full of rubbish, closed up the car and popped back into the house.

Ten minutes later, and now running late, I bounded out of the house, leapt into the car, stuck it in reverse and backed straight over the buggy - having completely forgotten that I'd left it behind the car. "What happened there?" I wondered, and drove forward and then reversed back again, thus driving over the buggy another two times.

So I found myself with a completely buggered buggy. Ready to come straight to the tip with me.

I got married.

That taught me; and the mistake will not be repeated.