Lurid Work Stories
"I know a railwayman of 40-odd years' service," says Juan Quar, "and he tells me a new gruesome yarn each time we meet. Last week's was of checking the time on the wristwatch of a severed arm he'd just collected after a track fatality."
Tell us the horrible stories you tease the new hires with, or that you've been told.
NB By definition, these are probably all made up. Roll with it
( , Thu 5 Sep 2013, 17:33)
"I know a railwayman of 40-odd years' service," says Juan Quar, "and he tells me a new gruesome yarn each time we meet. Last week's was of checking the time on the wristwatch of a severed arm he'd just collected after a track fatality."
Tell us the horrible stories you tease the new hires with, or that you've been told.
NB By definition, these are probably all made up. Roll with it
( , Thu 5 Sep 2013, 17:33)
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More knocking shop shenanigans
My friend Jim used to live in London, Westminster to be precise. He got to know a lot of the local people, including the proprieter of a "high-class" brothel that catered to a number of well-known names, including some serving MPs.
One day when I was visiting him, we got talking about the brothel. He said that as he was on such good terms with the madam, we would be able to go and visit to have a look around if we wanted. This would have been a good offer at any time, but six pints of cider down and it seemed like the best idea ever.
So he led me down a back street, and we knocked at an unmarked door. We were warmly greeted by Madam Charlotte. Jim evidently wasn't lying when he said he knew her as they spent a good ten minutes catching up and having a surreally normal conversation.
Sat in the office, Charlotte told us that we were welcome to go on a tour, but that we weren't to open any closed doors for obvious reasons. However, she told us with a knowing smile, there was a secret passage past some of the rooms, and due to the two-way mirrors we would be able to catch a glimpse of the goings-on therein.
Sworn to absolute silence, we tiptoed down the hidden corridor. The first room was empty, but I still took a minute to take in the decor: lots of red velvet, an expensive-looking chandelier and one wall made up entirely of a (normal) mirror.
At the next room we were greeted by a frankly disturbing sight - a very much larger lady sitting on the face of a man who, judging by the pin-striped suit littering the floor, was some sort of banker or other City high-flyer.
The next room was far more normal, a beautiful and well-presented young lady was pleasuring a gentleman using conventional methods, although she did seem to be very good at it.
The fourth room was quite a shock. There were two men in there, and on the bedside table there was a lot of white powder, some of it cut into lines. One man had black, curly hair but I couldn't see his face as he was fellating the other man, who looked somehow familiar. After a minute or so, I realised who the fellatee was. I had seen him being interviewed on Newsnight barely a week previously. I was witnessing a senior government minister being serviced by a man, in a whorehouse. I won't name him as he's still in office and I imagine that there would be quite a fuss if it came out, so to speak.
Anyway, the biggest shock was still to come. The kneeling man stood to walk over to the bedside table to powder his nose, and he also looked familiar. He turned round after beaking his line and there was no doubt, it was Velvet Undergroundist Lou Reed!
The cider was starting to sit uneasily in my stomach, so we decided to leave. As we were leaving, Jim said to me, "I told you you'd see some sights, didn't I?"
"Well yes," said I, "but I never would have guessed that Lou Reed works Tories".
( , Fri 6 Sep 2013, 17:54, 15 replies)
My friend Jim used to live in London, Westminster to be precise. He got to know a lot of the local people, including the proprieter of a "high-class" brothel that catered to a number of well-known names, including some serving MPs.
One day when I was visiting him, we got talking about the brothel. He said that as he was on such good terms with the madam, we would be able to go and visit to have a look around if we wanted. This would have been a good offer at any time, but six pints of cider down and it seemed like the best idea ever.
So he led me down a back street, and we knocked at an unmarked door. We were warmly greeted by Madam Charlotte. Jim evidently wasn't lying when he said he knew her as they spent a good ten minutes catching up and having a surreally normal conversation.
Sat in the office, Charlotte told us that we were welcome to go on a tour, but that we weren't to open any closed doors for obvious reasons. However, she told us with a knowing smile, there was a secret passage past some of the rooms, and due to the two-way mirrors we would be able to catch a glimpse of the goings-on therein.
Sworn to absolute silence, we tiptoed down the hidden corridor. The first room was empty, but I still took a minute to take in the decor: lots of red velvet, an expensive-looking chandelier and one wall made up entirely of a (normal) mirror.
At the next room we were greeted by a frankly disturbing sight - a very much larger lady sitting on the face of a man who, judging by the pin-striped suit littering the floor, was some sort of banker or other City high-flyer.
The next room was far more normal, a beautiful and well-presented young lady was pleasuring a gentleman using conventional methods, although she did seem to be very good at it.
The fourth room was quite a shock. There were two men in there, and on the bedside table there was a lot of white powder, some of it cut into lines. One man had black, curly hair but I couldn't see his face as he was fellating the other man, who looked somehow familiar. After a minute or so, I realised who the fellatee was. I had seen him being interviewed on Newsnight barely a week previously. I was witnessing a senior government minister being serviced by a man, in a whorehouse. I won't name him as he's still in office and I imagine that there would be quite a fuss if it came out, so to speak.
Anyway, the biggest shock was still to come. The kneeling man stood to walk over to the bedside table to powder his nose, and he also looked familiar. He turned round after beaking his line and there was no doubt, it was Velvet Undergroundist Lou Reed!
The cider was starting to sit uneasily in my stomach, so we decided to leave. As we were leaving, Jim said to me, "I told you you'd see some sights, didn't I?"
"Well yes," said I, "but I never would have guessed that Lou Reed works Tories".
( , Fri 6 Sep 2013, 17:54, 15 replies)
I was enjoying this, until it turned into a bullshit fueled pun.
At least my "comedy" entries were mercifully brief.
( , Fri 6 Sep 2013, 18:14, closed)
At least my "comedy" entries were mercifully brief.
( , Fri 6 Sep 2013, 18:14, closed)
tl;dr
I probably wouldn't have been so upset if I'd read it work, but as I'd already knocked off for the day, it meant I'd wasted my time, not my employer's.
( , Fri 6 Sep 2013, 22:56, closed)
I probably wouldn't have been so upset if I'd read it work, but as I'd already knocked off for the day, it meant I'd wasted my time, not my employer's.
( , Fri 6 Sep 2013, 22:56, closed)
Calm down, Mr Grumpy Pants. We've all felt the bitter sting of reading an unnecessarily verbose entry, only to find that it was nothing but an excuse for a pun - but you're not exactly new here, so it's at least partly your own fault for not reading the last line of a long post first.
See, what the OP did here was to sucker you in - he's crafted an engrossing tale involving alcohol, sex, and drugs. Nothing highbrow - fuck your Times crosswords, your polite conversation - he's drawn you in with a hedonistic vignette intended to cut through the bullshit of modern life and and appeal directly to the basic, visceral lusts of the human psyche. And you fell for it. Hook, line, sinker, stupid deckchair thing, flask of weak lemon drink, and bivvy. You gulped it all down, and most of the annoyance you feel is annoyance at yourself. You know you should have been better. You know you should have skipped ahead, read that last line, and saved yourself the trouble.
But you couldn't. As soon as your primal hindbrain was made aware of the content, it compelled you to read the rest, hoping for a second-hand fix of all the delights that you may miss in your day-to-day life. And when the end came, when it turned out to be nothing but a clumsy pun - you were upset. Frustrated. It's understandable. But it's not entirely the OP's fault - yes, he laid and baited the trap, but you stepped willingly into it. I don't doubt that the payload came as an unwelcome and irritating surprise, especially once he'd aroused the atavistic elements of your primal nature - but you know you'll come back to it in the future. This is your stash, now. You'll want to read it again, get one more hit, feel the highs just one more time - even if it means enduring the aggravating annoyance of the pun at the end, fresh every time to the slow-learning animal instincts that evolution forgot to redact. Indeed, one might say that this is where your lure id irk store is.
Gvpyczjppcl
( , Fri 6 Sep 2013, 23:45, closed)
Not being one to make the same mistake twice,
I've not read the above.
( , Sat 7 Sep 2013, 11:14, closed)
I've not read the above.
( , Sat 7 Sep 2013, 11:14, closed)
Glutton for punishment that I am, I've gone back and read what you wrote.
I was upset before, I am literally incandescent, now.
( , Sat 7 Sep 2013, 21:28, closed)
I was upset before, I am literally incandescent, now.
( , Sat 7 Sep 2013, 21:28, closed)
Well worked
though by the time you mentioned watching an MP get fellated by a man I was getting suspicious.
( , Mon 9 Sep 2013, 1:14, closed)
though by the time you mentioned watching an MP get fellated by a man I was getting suspicious.
( , Mon 9 Sep 2013, 1:14, closed)
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