» World's Sickest Joke

I offended someone with this:
I was in a pub and told the following joke:

What do you do if an epileptic has a fit in the bath?

Throw your clothes in so they get a wash.

Once the guffawing of my friends had died down, I became aware of a man on the other side of the bar, looking quite choked and talking to the landlord. The landlord came over to me and told me that the gentleman at the bar had recently lost his son and that my joke had offended him. I thought I should apologise. I approached the gentleman at the bar and offered my condolences for his loss and my apologies if my joke had upset him. He said that the joke had only got to him because his son was an epileptic and it was a fit which killed him.

I wondered as to how a fit could actually kill someone and the man said that his son had slipped and hit his head and that was what had killed him. I asked where his son had slipped and the man said it was in the bath. Well, I realised then how inappropriate my joke had been in the circumstances.

"Did your son hit his head on a tap then?" I asked.

"No," replied the man; "he choked on one of my socks".
(Tue 6th Dec 2005, 14:29, More)

» Messing with the Dark Side

Our mate wet himself
When we were 14 or 15, me and a group of mates decided to hold a "seance", mainly for the benefit of one particular member of our group, who was scared of absolutely everything it seemed. I'll call this friend Danny Groves, as that was his name.

Four of us met at my house before Danny was due to arrive. We pulled the curtains in my bedroom and lit candles to get a nice, dark ambience. We then gathered around my pool table, whereupon we would contact the dead via the medium of a home-made ouija board.

It was then my job to attach lengths of cotton to my friends: one end around each of their big toes and the other end around random bedroom objects. I then took my seat and tied cotton around my own toes, the other ends of which were attached to the overhead lamp and the wardrobe door respectively.

Danny duly arrives and we commence our seance. Once the usual schoolboy giggles at "is there anybody out there?" had subsided, we were on our way.

All of us except Danny had arranged a script for our "spirit", so that we all knew where to push the ouija pointer on the board. As we were all in on it (except Danny), Danny would feel the irresistible push and pull of the pointer and couldn't blame it's movements on any one individual.

So, "John" arrives and proceeds to tell us that he's seven years old and that he died in the woods that surrounded my house. We ask "John" how he died and he says that there's a scary man following him. He tells us that he's running away and that he can see a house. We ask him to describe the house and he describes the very house in which we're sitting: DUN DUN DAAAAAR!

By now, Danny is crying.

"John" continues to run towards the house. We tell him to go in and he replies that he's opened the front door and is walking up the stairs. He comes to a door, which he pushes. At this point, a length of cotton attached to my mate Toby's toe is employed to open my bedroom door.

Danny's gone quiet and is ashen faced.

"John" says that he can see five boys sitting around a table and that he's angry with them for contacting him. He says that he's going to break things.

This is when all of the lengths of cotton attached to our toes come into action for the grand crescendo. The wardrobe door opens, the overhead lamp swings. The TV switches on and a book falls from a shelf; the window latch starts tapping on the window sill and a cup falls off of a shelf. A toy car shoots across the carpet and there would've been more but Danny scarpered to the bathroom as he'd wet himself. Literally.

Obligatory apology for length / girth.
(Thu 20th Apr 2006, 14:59, More)

» Personal Hygiene

The most unimaginable stench...
This happened in the gents' toilets at Cannon Street Station about ten years ago:

There I was, minding my own business and having a pee into a urinal, as were several other respectful-looking commuter types.

Down the stairs comes a tramp; a proper tramp as well: wearing six jackets, one on top of the other; the outer one shiny with stains. His hair and beard were long, matted and greasy and his skin was brown with layer upon layer of grime.

He stood in the middle of the toilets (the actual room; not a cubicle), dropped his trousers and appeared to simply lose control of all his bodily functions at once.

Standing with his trousers round his knees, he proceeded to shit, really runny shit into his trousers and onto the floor. At the same time, he pissed and puked: three foul-smelling outpourings at once, over himself and the floor. It wasn't a particularly nice site either.

Once he'd finished, he pulled his trousers up and stumbled out. He didn't clean himself at all: just left covered in shit, piss and puke.

Bless my dad*

*Not really my dad: inserted for humourage reasons.
(Thu 22nd Mar 2007, 14:24, More)

» Injured Siblings

I shot my sister in the head
I would've been about 12 years old and my sister around nine.

We lived in a lovely big house in the country, surrounded by its own woods. Sis and me both had air pistols and we'd often go pigeon hunting in the woods. We never hit a single one as our pistols were pretty crap and the sights were no good.

One day, we were out with our pistols and I decided it'd be a good idea to shoot my sister. She was wearing a big puffa jacket, so I figured my air gun pellet would just bounce harmlessly off.

Lisa (my sister) stood about 20 feet from me, I took aim and fired at her torso. Half a second later, she just collapsed.

I ran over and realised that the crappy sights on my air pistol meant that I'd shot her in the head and not the body. These were only .177 calibre air guns and there was no entry wound or blood but the impact had knocked her out.

Being a kid, I just ran away. I ran home and shouted to my mum:

"Mum, if Lisa is laying on the ground somewhere in the woods, she might not have been shot; she might have just fallen over."

World's worst lier, me. And poorest shot with an air pistol.
(Fri 19th Aug 2005, 15:33, More)

» Mini Cabs From Hell

Not the cabbie's fault but...
I was walking home, very, very drunk one night and decided to take a short cut down an alley. I live on quite a large housing estate, on which many of the rows of houses look the same. So, I emerge from my short cut and walk down a couple of familiar-looking roads before arriving at my road, only to find that it's not my road. In fact, squinting to read the road sign, it's a road of never heard of. Somehow, I've got myself lost.

I wandered around, lost for about two hours before I happened upon a phone box, wherein I phoned the local cab firm. I read out the address of the phone box, from the information displayed inside and requested a cab home. I thought I detected laughter at the other end of the line as I put the receiver down.

Five minutes later, a taxi turns up and I get in. "Martin Hardie Way", I say and the driver pulls away, changes up to second gear, turns a corner and stops. 20 seconds into the cab ride and I'm home. For nearly three hours, I'd been wandering around on my bloody doorstep.
(Thu 27th May 2004, 9:36, More)