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(Tue 15th Sep 2009, 10:32, More)

» Mistaken Identity

Rudderless Hippies
A few years ago in some pub in Birmingham, some pissed up bloke spent about 3 hours convinced that I was his hero. But he couldn't tell me who his hero was. I was allegedy just "you know.... wossname. its you!"

So, rather than get into some sort of drubbing incident, I played along.

Everything I did caused him to crease up and laugh. Any shite joke. Some impropmtu puppet show using nothing but Wetherspoons menus. And the cunt was laughing.

At this point his mate told me who he though I was.

So, an hour of psuedo-hippy bullshit drivel later, I left.

To this day, the drunk probably thinks he spent the afternoon with Bill Bailey.



Note: I do have some resemeblence to Bill Bailey. I have a big gurning face, a stupid beard, and receding long hair.

Sadly, i'm about a foot taller that Mr. Bailey, and my hair is jet black (dyed, due to greyness), rather that a sort of greying dirty blonde.

I did meet BB once. He was entering somewhere carrying a guitar case, just as I was leaving carrying a bass-guitar case. I looked at him, he looked at me.
"Scary scary giant goth replica" spoke the man.
(Mon 4th Jun 2007, 5:28, More)

» Well, that taught 'em

Do not insult your taxi driver.
A number of years ago, our company had the contract to provide rail support services on part of the west coast main line. Basically, running replacement taxis and minibuses when Virgin fucked up.

The most prized run to get was the Stafford to Holyhead one, which took about 4 hours and was worth about 250 quid.

One night Virgin fucked up and I had to take 8 people through darkest Wales, to get to the ferry by 3am. Most of them were nice people, except one, who was a total wanker.

He complained constantly, like the train breaking down ws my fault, swigged repeatedly from a bottle of vodka, and smoked even though i told him it was a no smoking van (a lie really, but he was pissing me off).

By the time we'd go to Keele services, everyone wanted him off the minibus, so i threatened to dump him there if he didn't shut up an behave. He quietened down. For a while.

Just after Chester he was in a singing, swearing, fighting drunken state, and had called me a cunt several times.

By the second services on the A55 he was unconcious, and the rest of us had a vote.

Unanimus. Off he went.

I'd like to know his reaction to waking up on the forecourt of a Welsh petrol station with "Who's the cunt now?" written on his forehead in permanent marker.
(Thu 3rd May 2007, 2:20, More)

» Customers from Hell

taxi customers....
BRING BRING
"Hello ******** Taxis"
"I want a taxi from ## Rowley Crescent to the station."
"Sorry, but I don't know of a Rowley Crescent. Are you sure you don't mean Rowley Grove, Rowley Bank, Rowley Street or The Crescent, Rowley Park?"
"Are you saying I don't know where I fucking live? Send me a fucking taxi now or I'll report you. I need to get to the station now."
"Well I can't send one unless I know where you are."
"## Rowley Crescent, the fucking postcode is C37 XXX"
*now i know whats going on*
"Right, found it now... I can get you one in about 90 minutes."
"Ninety fucking minutes!?!? Thats no good! Why will it take that long?"
"Because, Sir, you are in Stratford-on-fucking-Avon, and we're in fucking Stafford. Have a nice fucking day."
CLICK
(Thu 4th Sep 2008, 22:58, More)

» * PFFT *

causing injury
Many years ago i worked as a programmer in a chicken-shit little company that has since ceased to exist. For a while, our office was above a branch of Next.

The staff used to come up and use our photocopier, as they didn't have their own.

One day this poor young girl climbed the steps to our office, laden down with a huge crate of documents to be copied. As she reached the top, she opened our door just as i let off the loudest, longest, nastiest smelling beer and curry fueled fart of my life.

she dropped the crate, grabbed her nose, pitched backwards down the hard concrete steps, breaking her arm in the progress.

Then the crate landed on her.
(Fri 13th Jul 2007, 20:14, More)

» Cringe!

fluffy and pink
Not too long ago I was in the habit of getting shit-faced every night. I ended up drinking with a diverse selection of people.
One night, after a massive amount of booze, I ended up going home with a woman in her early 40s (not that bad as i'm very late 30s myself).
To be honest she looked fucking stunning (even sober), and I couldn't believe my luck.
Anyway, after a night of very energetic and violent shagging (bite me! no, really fucking bite me! hit me, no give me fucking bruises!) i woke up dying for a slash and to get out of the place.
As it was a bit cold, as most of my clothes had been left downstairs, I borrowed her dressing gown while I went and retrieved my clobber.

So, imagine the scene: a 6'5" 18 stone lump in nothing but a fluffy pink dressing gown with a panda on the pocket.

I still cringe now everytime I see her 25 year old son (a former drinking buddy) because of what he said that morning.

As I bent over to get my kecks from behind the telly: "Coob, I can see your balls".
(Sat 29th Nov 2008, 22:37, More)