» Sacked

I have a conscience, honestly.
My story. Worth reading I think, due to the spectacular shit.

I used to work at a small car accessory shop, and I got put in charge (due to manager having nervous breakdown), with one day a week off.

It was the custom for me to leave a practical joke, upon leaving for the evening, for the person who replaced me for the day after (a mate) and vice versa.

So, that Monday evening, I stuck the phone handset to the receiver with superglue, rigged the door 'che-ching' bell to sound constantly upon opening the front door, placed various obstacles in the way of the counter, and rigged the lightswitch so it didn't work. GENIUS!

Only problem was, I sort-of-forgot to shut the upstairs door. The alarm went off at 3am. Nervous-Breakdown man was the one on the list for the security company to ring.

So he flew down on his bike at 3am, already in a cold sweat, the thought of masked intruders already sending his brain into overdrive.

Piled through the front door, sprained his ankle on the stuff in the middle of the floor, bell going off, phone was ringing due to alarm company calling, crawled to the desk and promptly smashed himself in the face with an entire phone, all the time with the terrible ringing in his ears.

He was found some 7 hours later sobbing in a corner of the shop. he never returned to work. Ever. For anyone.

It was a shit job anyway, but I still (ticket to Hull please) laugh at the mental picture of the guy crying and clouting himself in the head with the phone in blind panic.

Absolutely sod all apologies for length. (This is the same man who left a perfectly-formed turd around the rim of the down-toilet seat) So I don't feel that bad anyway.
(Sat 25th Feb 2006, 2:56, More)

» Pubs

The first of many, but Oh God was I scared.
Our tale begins a long long time ago in a country far far away (Well, Stranraer). As impressionable kids, we'd rented a static caravan on the coast, and 6 of us piled up there in mini Metro type things, poor cars weighed down to the hubs with crates of beer.

The night after we arrived, we decided to have a look at the local pub. THE local pub. Bearing in mind this place was a little bit ... 'backwater'. It seemed to be full of biker types. Lots of extremely hairy ginger men with leather jackets and tattoos. And lots of extremely hairy ginger women with leather jackets and tattoos. As we entered (picture six, scruffy studenty-types shuffling in nervously) they all turned as one, with barely disguised contempt. The pub fell silent, but fortunately, the barman was friendly enough, and his cry of 'Ach! Newcomers! what'll it be sassenachs?' seemed to calm them down a bit.

Anyway. To cut this long story short (far too late), they had karaoke. Yes. I know. Karaoke. This consisted of another hairy biker man with a CD player, and some microphones. The karaoke itself seemed to consist of Ginger Hairy Shouting to 'Ace Of Spades'. Over and Over.

Then the shout over the mike 'And now, the wee visitors are gonnae give us a song'. Oh God. What? We all turned to look at Phil. The one member of our party who seemed to have no fear, and no social graces. While we'd been skulking at the end of the bar quietly, Phil had nipped off and requested a song.

As the pub volume dropped again, we all padded nervously up to the mics, whispering to Phil 'What have you done, you shit' whilst he grinned so hard it had to hurt. We took a mike each, and the opening piano of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' started out.

Oh Jesus. Rock Opera in front of Scotlands answer to the Hells Angels. Fuck it. Not backing down, we'll never reach the door. FUCK IT. 'Mamaaaa, just killed a man'...

I had my eyes shut tightly for the first few bars, hoping that I could just deny this was happening, and it'd hurt less when the first bottle hit. And then it started. Quietly. I un-clenched a bit. What the hell? un-clenched more. Shit, they are! eyes open.

Well fuck me, if there's not a bunch of twenty-stone psychopaths with Motorhead tattoos singing along to 70's glam rock. 3 of them in the front joined us to do improvised air-guitar for the Brian May bits... those nearest the bar are doing the high parts, those closer doing the low bits, big hairy blokes are flooding forward, their arms round our shoulders, bellowing out a camp classic opera like their lives depended on it.

7 minutes later, and all the strength had disappeared from my body. We were all sweating like Gary Glitter at Heathrow, and I have never needed a pint more than that in my life.

We didn't buy a single drink for the rest of the night. When we finally left at about 3am, we hugged everyone in there, and were invited back the next year. We were taken up to the campsite on the back of 6 Harleys (or similar) still in a state of shock.

I've never forgotten that pub, and I never well.

And never forgotten that bikers like Queen.

No apologies for length, I'm still shaking at the memory.
(Sat 7th Feb 2009, 20:55, More)

» Spoooky Coincidence

Now this is *REALLY* Spooky...
Driving down the M6 a few years back, I saw a black Calibra, exactly like my mate's, on the hard shoulder.

'Shit!.. thinks I, does the honorable thing, goes to pull onto the hard shoulder to reverse back.

Except I couldn't, because a black Vectra Estate was also reversing down the hard shoulder towards them.

As I'm pulling in after it, a Red MR2 pulls onto the shoulder, and heads back as well.

----

My mate had lend his Calibra to his parents, who had a burst tyre. Randomly, he happened to be passing in his works' Vectra on his way to a job. I was on my way down south to see another mate, completely unconnected.

The lad in the MR2 was another good friend of ours on his way to to a job interview in Wigan.

What makes it even more insaaaanely coincidental is that we hadn't seen each other for about 6-8 months, it was about 2 in the afternoon, and there was no bugger else on the motorway.

Spoooooooky. And Stuff.

None of us completed our respective missions, and went to the pub to celebrate and discuss this immediately. The End.
(Tue 13th Feb 2007, 18:17, More)

» World's Sickest Joke

As told to me by a very inappropriate chap who looks a bit like Jimmy Carr...

St. Peter's standing at the Pearly Gates, and he spies a little brown face coming up the escalator.

A little Pakistani wanders up to him and says 'Good Morning please, be wanting to come into heaven thankyou'
'Look mate', says St. Peter 'It doesn't work that way, you're a muslim, aren't you'
'Yes, being a good muslim thankyou'
'No mate, look I'm sorry. You just can't come in, you're off down there'
'am GOOD muslim. Wanting to be coming in please'
'You can't be a good muslim, how?'
'But AM GOOD muslim. I am even giving things to charity all the time'
St. Peter sighs. 'Like what?'
The Pakistani stands up proudly. 'Only last week, am giving twenty pounds to the children in need'
St. Peter considers him for a second, and finally resigns himself to the fact that this chap deserves a bit of his time. 'Right, fine, okay" he sighs, "You win. I'll go and have a word with God, wait here'

So off he trots wearily through the Pearly Gates, and returns a couple of hours later. He walks back up to the Pakistani, and says 'Right, I've had a chat with God about you, and it's all sorted.'
'Here's your twenty quid back, now Fuck Off'.



I thought it was worth the length. *POP*...
(Tue 13th Dec 2005, 10:26, More)

» Sacked

I can recommend this to anyone
Minding my own business one Friday evening (read - Trying to think of new ways to chat up the till dolly), when the Store Manager (we'll call him Scott, as tis his name), informed me I was to be sacked the next day. This came as little surprise, due to my propensity for doing nothing in those days.

I sobbed for a brief picosecond, and then got minorly annoyed that the main man didn't have the balls to do it himself, and would have a lie-in to boot. 'So' thinks I.

Turned up the next morning (despite the understanding that I wouldn't) ready for work. Demanded aforementioned sleeping owner be summoned on the phone.

Now-apparantly-famous Quotes include :
'Listen love, I don't give a fuck where he was last night, I want that fat fuck on the phone, now'
'No, I don't give a shit that I'm sacked. I want to speak to the robbing fat bastard'
'If he's not down here in 20 minutes, I'll stand at the front door telling customers that you're permanently closed due to leprosy. With my cock out'.

He did turn up to sack me, but was so hungover that he let me stand there in his office for over half an hour and systematically character-assassinate his entire family and him, whilst using language usually reserved only for council-estate-single-mothers.

Psychiatrists? Say NO. That got five years of rage out of me, and didn't cost a penny ;-)
(Sat 25th Feb 2006, 3:07, More)