Club Arnage

It seems to me there's a lot of traffic on the site at the moment, but unless you count killing cats, pingus etc, there's really not a great deal happening in the land of Le Mnas. The lull before the storm so to speak. I guess things will get better as we ease into spring and pre qual is just around the corner.

Which leads me very neatly into the subject of this thread and that's Tramps. The bronchitus follows on later. I've never actually seen a tramp in Le Mnas curcuit but we saw a cracker in 1988 on the way to the race. Generally I have no wish to make sport of homeless drunken people but he really was remarkably good, if you have a finely honed sense of the disgusting. If you don't, then I suggest you stop reading now.

We had stopped for a ham'n'cheese roll at a roadside cafe just south of the curcuit and were just tucking in with a Biere Grande when we all looked at each other as if to say WTF is that horrible smell. I thought I may have trodden in something repugnant. But that would be ridiculous of course because I never do. Basically, we could smell him before we could see him. Around the corner he hove into sight, flies buzzing about his matted head, he was singing and swearing at the cars in the road. Clasped in his hand was a bottle of Normandy cider. He had clearly consumed tens of thousands of them over the years. It was equally obvious that hygene was not over high on his list of priorities. His face was black with filth and was a disgraceful sight. Given the temperature that day, I could not understand his requirement for wearing six thick overcoats. He had also seemingly spilled something vile in his trousers, I hate to think what it could have been, but it certainly added to the general aroma of uncleanliness.

Anyway, fortunately for us he collapsed into the hedge opposite our roadside table before he could come over and show us what was in his carrier bag. I don't know what was in there but it had almost certainly been dead for some time. The stench was by now indescribable. Our friend was now reclining in the hedge and he had a coughing fit as he lit up a Gaulloise.

We watched with morbid facination as a bright green bolus of bronchial mucus slowly began to develop in his left nostril. Gradually, it trickled in one long thick string down his upper lip, off his chin and down the front of his overcoat. It was fully one foot long. By now, I have to confess we where having a degree of difficulty in finishing our delicious sandwiches.

Now comes the really horrible bit. Our friend appeared to be upset that the snot was ruinning his appearance, so he pressed a finger against his right nostril and sucked in. The stringy dayglo snotty thing went into reverse and quickly shot back up his chin and face before disappearing back to where it had come from. It had entirely vanished! Magic! But ACK ACK ACK!!! Queue to barfing all round from our lot. I will never forget it. We were back in the Cavalier before you could say Claude Greengrass.

Like I say, not much going on round here at the moment.

Usually your eloquence brings me much amusement but this is one instance with you'd kept to yourself...

No doubt someone will be along soon with an even more gross sighting...


 :)

I sincerely hope so!  ;D :-[

and this is what he looked like without his coats on...
sorry Smokie couldnt resist.
PM

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Many years ago in our local wimpey, i was having a cup of tea with  some friends, in walks a tramp(although not as smelly as the one zarse saw) and sat down beside me.
You could feel every ones relief as he talked to me and not them. I can't remember the conversation but eventually it ended up with him asking  me to guess what he had in his bag. In true jasper carrots nutter story he showed me the can of corned beef that he claimed was a bomb, and how he was off up to the houses of parliment to blow them up.
I did the only thing you can do, i gave him a 50p piece for his trainfare.

Thanks PM for the re-exposure. How much for the negative?  :)

...I think I saw the same guy, and I thought it was the shithouse family that was stinkin so bad.

That's him!

THAT'S OUR TRAMP!!!  :o :o :o

Bit slow of me, but I've only just read Mr Zarse's opening contribution.  I can honestly say I was cringing at the end.  :-X :-X :-X :-X

That's really disgusting that early in the morning.  :o

What a truly awful image. I have barely been able to keep my coffee and morning biscuits down.
This is sure to cause nightmares.

Andy Zarse's story was a cracker though !

I have something terrible to show you, people. Who wants to see it? :o

Let me fisnish my meal first.  ;D

Dave H, are you going to tell everyone about "Throaty", or shall I?

I really think you need to take that one Matt.  My therapist told me I should put that memory behind me.

OK. Hold on to your stomachs!!

Imagine te scene. My mates 6 month old baby had been suffering from severe cold for about four weeks. Thick gunge everywhere and of course too young to know how to blow his nose to clear it. Round comes the health visitor. Queue large Afro-Caribbean woman.

"I know how to sort this out" she says, "leave it to me"

Takes the lad into the bathroom, places her lips over his nose and mouth and with a large slurping action clears the little fell's congestion, followed by a large spit into the toilet bowl !!!  :P :-X :-\ :'(

Queue my mate and his missus emptying their stomachs into the same toiolet bowl.

Scarily it worked though!! The little lad was much better afterwards!

Brilliant JP!!! LOL!!!  ;D

JP That's really quite revolting, but if it helped the wee chap out, then who are we to criticise?

Matt, tell us about Throaty. He sounds great! ;)

Throaty was a very strange chap. We encountered him in Dieppe. We had rented 2 motorhomes and there were about 10 of us. We'd had a great Le Mans, we were all knacked and we had for the most part 'done our wedges'. We were all sunburned, grubby, hung-over. On the 'Le Mans Rollercoaster', we were slowly rumbling back into the station. I'll explain the concept of the rollercoaster another time, but I'm sure you get my jist.
Worst of all, we'd missed our ferry - there wasn't another one until the next morning, it was dark and dreary - and on Sunday night, everything in France is closed.
Dave H, Ricardo and myself were sent forth into the town, in search of 'refreshments'. We needed to ask a local where we could find an offy or bar that would supply some carry-out. We spotted Throaty shambling along the sea-front. He was a little dishevelled - but not in the same league as Zarse's snotmeister. He seemed very interested in our clumsy requests for directions to purveyors of liquor - on reflection, I suspect he thought we were inviting him along. Our questions were answered with much gesticulating and facial contortion, but no dialogue, French or otherwise. It got to the point were maps were being drawn in the condensation on car windscreens, but still not a single word was uttered by our new-found vagrant friend, despite our ever more urgent pleas for assistance in aquiring more booze. I was losing the will to live by this point and decided it was time to take matters in hand. I confronted this chap and tacitly demanded that he tell us where we needed to go. He made a smoking gesture (two fingers up to his mouth - at least, I think it was a smoking gesture) so I gave him one of my biffo's. At this point, he rolled down the collar of his polo necked jumper and deftly removed the gauze pad that was covering the gastly ragged and very recent looking tacheotomy hole in the front of his neck. It was an unseasonably chilly evening and his breath created a vapour in the air, as it rattled out of this hideous gaping orifice. I very nearly passed-out, Dave's "Ohforfuckssake" and Richard's "Mmmmotherfucker!" galvanised me and I regained my composure, only for Throaty to snatch it away again by covering his tracheotomy with the heel of his palm, lighting the Marly I'd just given him and blowing the smoke out of his neck hole. That finished it for me.
Poor bugger. He obviously was lonely and hopeful that we would be his hosts for the rest of the evening. We had considerable difficulty in shaking him off. It was about that time that I figured that maybe I should quit smoking.    

 ANDY
yet another eloquent rendition, I love jps one about the baby, sounds like a midwife where i work

Matt

What a wonderful "only at LM" story!! ;D ;D

But maybe Throaty was not French? By coincidence I think you guys may have bumped into one of our crew.

Everyone looks like a tramp after Le Mnas, particularly Chris, otherwise known as Stilton. Our man Chris usually manages to smoke 10 packs of fags a day at Le Mnsa. He even smokes in his sleep. His morning coughing fit is really something to behold, he goes perfectly purple in the face and the awful internal rattling noise sounds like breakfast time on a geriatric ward.

One year his throat decided it had had enough with all the various poisons being poured down it and constricted itself shut; he was unable to continue smoking. In an act of desparation and self mutilation, he did a DIY tracheotomy in the shaving mirror of the commer, using only his pen knife and a Bic biro as the valve, which handily, is the same diameter as a filter tip.

If Throaty also had a very muscly right arm and thick glasses (his other vice), then it was almost certainly Chris.

Anyway that's what I think.

Just reread your post Matt and if he was that foul, why did you entertain such sexual antics with him? :-* Maybe the tracheotomy caused him some "other" problems and made him unable to perform to your expectations.

Anyway, if this is the case, then it can't have been Chris. No one ever has difficulty shaking him off!

Pity it's not a friday or we could have ruined BigH's weekend again....

One year, late eighties, one of our crew who shall remain nameless, Micky I think it was, sparked up a great bit of repartee with an LM local, he may have been called Francois.
To be fair, I think Francois was a ham sandwich (as well as a thermos, yoghurt, scotch egg, hamper and all the cutlery) short of a picnic, but he was very smartly turned out, and this gave him an uncertain air of respectability. He had the best set of facial tics I've ever seen, within the space of a few seconds his eyebrows would be flying all over his forehead, each eye would bulge alternately and he'd sort of cluck his tongue while the corners of his mouth did a little dance. All would go quite for a minute, and you'd just begin to think that you'd imagined it, then he'd be off again.
Micky, a seasoned loony spotter, was over like a shot as soon as he came into view, this is mid monday morning on the main road opposite the station. Mick speaks no French at all, but soon struck up a lively conversation with Francois. To be honest it wasn't clear to anyone watching and listening just exactly what language Francois had mastered, perhaps it was one of those dying languages we're always reading about. Micky seemed to be taking it all in his stride and pretty soon had dropped his trousers, and convinced Francois that he should do the same. The two of them then bunny hopped through the shoppers and up the road, towards the tobacconists I think. You guessed it, after then 'We Had Trouble Shaking Him Off'.
Micky was great value that year, he had a marvellous talent for juggling his bollocks, like Francois' eyebrows you just didn't know where they would pop up next. I tell you, he had a crowd of Germans mesmerised in a bar near Tertre Rouge. Think of an act that crosses the rabbit/top hat trick with the disappearing walnuts under upturned beakers trick and you're sort of on the right track. I'm sure he produced one out of his breast pocket at one stage. Maybe simultaneously he had a bollock on each side of his head rolling slowly forward over each ear. It sounds impossible I know, but surprise was amongst his weaponry, and who knows what we saw.
Something strange happens when we cross that water. Do you think P&O put something in the drinks?
H

Indeed, Andy - only at Le Mans - and H, you're right, something does change when we cross the water.
I love these threads, because there is so much that trickles back into recall, through the beer haze, particularly when you've been doing it for a few years.
I'd like to share a couple of highly memorable quotes from friends of mine, whilst engaged in the business of Le Mans over the years. Some of 'em - you had to be there, but one or two are lessons in life, as seen through beer goggles.
I'd like to start with the absolutely pitch-perfect, "You don't realise how much you piss on yourself, til your wearing shorts and sandals, do you" and move through, "I've done me f**k*n' wedge and it's only Friday", skirting around, "We're going to run out of petrol" - When?" - "Er, Now", trying our best to ignore, "f**k me, it's the Milk Marketing Board", in reference to a particularly attractive and buxom lass who accompanied us one year - and finishing with the immortal, but gruesome, "If your toilet paper looks like that, you haven't finished yet".
Can anyone out there contribute to this theme of 'LeMansisms'.
And finally, touching on something Andy said, some of us must have, inadvertently or otherwise interacted with one another at Le Mans, over the many years that some of us have been goingand not know it. I'm really looking forward to a tale being told and one of us realising, "f**k*ng hell, that was me!"

"Christ, look at the queue for the showers!  Sod it, I'll have a wash tomorrow"

"Christ, look at the queue for the bogs!  Sod it, I'll use a bucket"

(in Carrefour) "Do we really need all that beer?"  "Bloody right, we're at Le Mans"

(to some mad arse handbrake turning his TVR in Houx Annexe on the dirt roads)  "Oi, you nearly ran into my tent" (reply from toff driving)  "This is Le Mans you know!"

My wife works at the intensive care unit at the hospital
Occasionally they get tramps coming in because of various accidents they have had.
First thing they have to do is clean them. She says they literally have to cut and peel the pants and socks off the meth drinkers, then its a wipe down with antiseptic wipes whilst dashing out of the room to gasp fresh air.
I try never to complain about my work.

"Oh bollocks! This is the worst case of nappy rash I've ever had"..........Some time after taking a very large, and urgent dump, forgetting the bog paper, having to run back outside to get some, only just getting back in before some other barsteward nicked the only trap, and failing to get rid of all the clingons.

It bloody hurt :-[

Was anyone was walking twixt the Dunlop bridge down to the Village, past the old barn sort of thingy that ain't there any more, at about nine pm on the saturday in 1991?

If so did you notice the twat who was sooo pissed he could only walk in twenty yard bursts before falling over or grabbing hold of something to stay upright. Very funny, cos when he did manage to walk it was sort of sideways like a crab with St Vitus' Dance, his head cocked to one side and squinting through one bright red eyeball. You'll probably remember the barbeque made out of half an oil drum too (before the days of corporate catering) the grill of which which was covered in about a hundred sizzling merquez and andoullette. Did anyone see our pissed up twat blunder into into the BBQ grill knocking the barrell out of it's legs and sending the whole edifice, sossies, hot coals and drunkard crashing to the ground with hilarious consequences.

If so, then I think I can safely say, you almost certainly saw me.

H Top top story!!

One of our guys, big Paul, does the world's best Jack Douglas impression. For those of you unaware of the seminal work of Douglas, he was the big thick dopey one with glasses in the Carry On films, who used to "twitch" a lot. For example, he'd be in a pub talking to Syd James quite normally, then quickly look over each shoulder, shout "Shubbaddy Fwaaay!!", tip his own pint of beer on his head, pull a facial tic, say Hahhhzoooma! and finally carry on as if nothing has happened. Classic genius comedy.

Anyway Paul is very good at it and all quite out of the blue he often twitches and makes strange squawking, quacking, farting, cuckooing and popping noises, when in the queue for the bar, talking to a shop assistant etc. and is totally deadpan about it. If you are a fan of slapstick, it's fu cking priceless.

We used to work together years ago and how we got through company meetings without getting sacked for childish behaviour and giggling I will never know.

Looks like Paul is the man to go to the bar each time at the Shampoo Bar  ;D

Really enjoying this thread, its priceless!  ;D

Absolutely priceless Zarse.  :D  How on earth do you recall so many details from having been in such a state?

I vaguely remember doing it, but the scene was described in graphic detail the next day by my pals, once they had discharged me from the burns unit.  ;D ;)

It was my mate's stag night (the gambling god from the Grimbergen thread BTW), I was the best man, we'd been up all night taking "refreshment" on the friday overnight pompey ferry and no one was allowed to sleep till we got back on Monday am. I'm afraid to say, rather like our snotty tramp friend, I had become massively "over-refreshed".  :P

I think I cheated as I caught a few hours kip on the grass bank at Tertre Rouge. Then for brekky we were re-invigourated when we found for sale ice cold pints of normandy cidre, our choice of breakfast drink ever since. It cheers you up. :D :D :D

It was also the first year they did bungee jumping and we nicked some certificates off the man. :-\

Oh yes, if I remember correctly, in character I think he was known as Fred Hippytittymus. With a career spanning a decade or two, the shadda-adda-ffffwayyy! bit was his only trick, a talented man and no mistaking.
You've got to hand it to those 60/70's comics, they were real pros. How many years did Norman Collier earn a living doing the 'broken down microphone' sketch which then morphed into the (jacket off shoulders) chicken impersonation.
I'm ashamed to admit, they still crack me up.
H

Jack Douglas would be in a world of hurt over here - taking the piss out of Tourettes sufferers in such a cruel way. I think Tourettes Syndrome is absolutely fantastic, by the way. I'm not so keen on the nervous ticks and grunts and groans and weird posturing, but the explosive outbursts of disgusting profanity are f**k*ng brilliant!
I have to say that Norman Collier is a singularly unfunny twat however. It's ironic that Big H, who's wit and sense of humour I so  admire, could find this moron to be in the slightest bit amusing, but I digress. Chubby Brown, Peter Kay and Johnny Vegas - now they're funny f**k*rs.
Picking up the thread that Andy has cultivated, if you witnessed (or participated in) the 1992 Garage Vert Superbowl, saw a guy do a bugee jump (1st year it was there, inside of Tetre Rouge) dressed in collar and tie and cable knit cricket jumper, saw the rather nasty punch-up on the car-deck of the Portsmouth/Le Harve overnighter in 1994 (French truck drivers V us), seen successive years of Indy 500 T shirts and initially a hefty drinks carrier called "Coolio", a later wheeled incarnation of same ("Coolio avec pneus) and finally R2D2, the quintesential all-terrain Grimbergen hauler and Sunday pm baptism vessel, cheered on the 1998 female dust wrestling on the sat night at Champagne Bar, then you have probably been in close proximity to our happy little band. I'm the one who looks like Brad Pitt.  
 

I think it's the sheer hopelessness of the whole chicken/phone scenario that gets me.

A good reference for any aspiring Tourettes victim can be found at:

http://www.viz.co.uk/profanisaurus/profanis.htm

Have you dried out yet Matt?

H

Oh, and Peter Kay fans should check this one out:

http://www.aviz.co.uk/stuff/johnsmiths/babies.wmv

H

Matt, oh ye of little humour! I had taken you to be a man of at least average taste in comedy but this cannot be so. Surely you can see that the comic genius of Collier is at least on a parr with a classic play like Waiting For Godot. Samuel Beckett was a great fan of Collier by the way and of Duncan Norvell, the camp one who used to tap people, shout "Chase me!" and skip off.

BTW a pal once ruined a performance of Godot when he was at college. He dressed up as a tramp and twenty minutes into the play, he burst into the auditorium and ran on stage shouting "Oh God, I'm so sorry I'm late".

Where on earth do you get all these freinds Andy.  you must have led a spectacular life so far ::)

Andy, you flatter me undeservedly. I am an ill-educated yobbo. I thought Samuel Beckett got knifed up the jacksy in some cathedral somewher down south.
Furthermore, I wouldn't know the difference between Waiting for Godot and waiting for the #73 nightbus from Stanningley.

In more ways than one - thanks for asking H. Now praying for fair weather for the 12 hour race. Sebring in the wet is rumoured to be very unpalateable. Thank you for the link to the profanosaurus. I find filthy language so expressive.

None Matt. The point is that Godot never turns up. It's a great work of hopelessness.

I assume does the bus never shows either.

See, you learn something new every day!
I now understand the gag about the tramp. Andy, are you telling me that you sat through a play about waiting for some character to turn up, who fails to put in an appearence? Why were they waiting for Godot anyway? I'd have thought the least Godot could have done was send a note - or leave a message, saying that he'd been indisposed. Some people are so rude. Was it ever explained what the hold-up was? Who knows - there could have been an accident, or family sickness - or maybe he just couldn't get to a phone. Perhaps he got lucky, met a nice bit of skirt and got laid - or maybe he just plain couldn't be arsed. What were they going to do when he finally dained to show up anyway? Was everybody pissed off that the ignorant bugger kept them hanging around all day? It's a disgrace.

Matt

I think half the problem, and this is a personal opinion you understand, is that Godot doesn't actually exist. As to why the pair of twits, Estragon and Vladimir, are hanging around on the roadside, I can offer no rational explanation. So I think that puts paid to your getting getting laid theory, although i am open to be pursuaded otherwise.

Basically it's an existential play, their waiting for the eponymous and rhetorical Mr Godot is a demonstration of our desire to know answers to which maybe there are no answers in the empirical sense. It is also boring and a load of utter sh ite in my book, unless you happen to be a rather fey effete chap who ponces around in a corduroy jacket, drinking pale sherry and discussing shakespeare's odes etc. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you are.

Being late is still bad manners in my book but then again the characters are fu cking halfwitted idiots. Without going into racial stereotypes, the Irish have a charming record of poor timekeeping generally. Which may go some way to explaning why the two tw ats are not effing and blinding because someone who doesn't exist hasn't bothered to turn up or send their apologies. If only they'd both been given tracheotomys we would not have to listen to this crap. Bring back Throaty I say.

I'm off to Norfolk in the morning and if I see two tramps waiting by the road, I'm gonna run the mothers down.

Bloody Godot!

I've never really been a fan of the theatre, I think I was given the Pavlovs Dogs treatment at an early age when a couple of school trips to The Empire went badly wrong.
A few years after school, a friend I was sharing some digs with suggested we all go to the local theatre to see a 'great production of Waiting for Godot', he reckoned we'd have a great time, and I thought well, it's the theatre, so there could be a chance of some gratuitous nudity and anyway, they've got a bar.
Kinnell. The first half lasted about an hour and a half, and as Andy says absolutely nothing happens!. I just couldn't believe it, and after ten minutes was looking around the place, sure there was going to be a riot any minute, but people seemed to be actually paying attention. In the bar during the interval I couldn't speak for astonishment, I'd assumed that everyone else would be up in arms about being ripped off. But no! There were even punters talking loudly about magnificent interpretations and the like, and then I was dragged back in for another 90 f*cking minutes!
You can talk about existentialism all you like, I'm never ever going back into one of those places. Makes me realise that pyromania can actually be a virtue.
H

When i was staying with a friend in san francisco, a dvd arrived he had been waiting for. I, for the life of me, cant remember what it was called but it was about 2 guys paying tramps 10 bucks to have a fight and filming them. It was bloody violent and the tramps got a servere beating. One also got in a shopping trolley and was pushed down a set of steps. It was sick but in a strange way, amusing.

Was it called "Geoffrey Dahmer Entertains?"  :o ;D

http://www.thephilipsphile.com/ripvid/v-eye-smoker.swf

One year, my brother when after a heavy day and night drinking some very odd looking wine, that was in fact cider, woke up and decided he needed a piss, I was sharing a tent with him, one of those large frame type ones with sleeping sections and a storage area, being slightly confused where he was, stumbled towards our food store and gas cooker and proceed to piss all over them and the inside of the tent.

It made for a slightly tence day when the true horror of why the french bread smelled odd and the cooker was soaking.

I brought my own tent the next year.

Was it not Winston Churchill who said something about being in tents and pissing? Serves you right for having such a subdivided palace  :) :)

My dear dryhen.  Sub-divided palaces do have one great advantage.  You can divide the snorers and farters from the rest of humanity.  Or in our case one snorer in one side, and one farter in the other side.  Each sharing with a quiet person ::)

We gave up sharing tents for the snoring, farting, pissing & ' :opersonal hygine :o' issues mentioned.

Each person now has a little dome that can be called home for the week, except one guy who is rather afraid of confined spaces so has the camping equilvent of an Amish barn instead.

One of the lads who came with us once, and I honestly do know who invited him, is none too worldly wise. A cracking bloke, but somewhat naive and he had only been abroad once before. Here are a couple of his more understandable quotes:

In a small family-run country bistro - " Do you think the waitress is English?" Then "Do they sell any English food?"

In the Auchan - "Do they take Francs in France?"

On the way home - "It's nice to get your feet back on firm terracota". And we were still on the boat!

There was also a terrible mix up at the counter of a shop selling mini radios. He bought alkali batteries, we told him he needed acid ones otherwise the radio would explode and to go back and argue....

An endless source of amusement.

That's funny. Is this called a malapropism? 'Er indoors sent off on that t'internet for a video collection called Pheonix Nights, staring my new hero Peter Kay. I spent 4 hours watching them back to back and they are frickin' priceless! The malapropisms (if that's what they're called) come thick and fast and had me pissing my pants. If you haven't seen this series don't hesitate, go and buy it. If you did catch it on TV, geddit anyway. It'll be a classic, you mark my words.

Already is Matt!! Is right great that t'internet 'int it?

Mr. Kay made a cameo appearance on Corry recently (Bore-a-nation Street to the uninitiated) and my wife knew he was coming on so persuaded me to part with my tradition of missing that 7.30pm bollocks and I was glad I did! It was belter!

 ;D

In 1988 on the inside of the esses came across an unopened beer bottle which i picked up, few paces further up found another. Looked further ahead and there was an extremely pissed Jaguar supporter who kept dropping a bottle leaning over to pick it up  and the from the open top of his rucksack fell some more.
I could see a little of me in him so in the kindness of my heart i gave his beers back did his rucksack up and sent him on his way, when he promptly collapsed at the side of the path where i left him.
I wonder now was it Zarse???

Ey oop t'Matt

Kay is a genius. Two things in Phoenix Nights stand out. One is the inflatable penis shaped bouncy castle which explodes. Potter says to his lacky, "Have you swept that cock up yet?". Also the one legged Elvis impersonator whom Potter asks if has has a further tune in his reportoir. "Aye" Elvis replies in a geordie accent, "Blue suede shoe". Magic. Oh and the fortune cooky when opened that says piss flaps. And Potter's tiger. I could go on...

Yes I was there in '88, but I don't think I was carrying a rucksack that year, I was driving and I am loathed to drop bottles of beer generally. So it was probably not me. Although on the evidence put forward, I can well understand why you'd think it might be.

Zarse you do my head in. Thought it was great last year when some of your crew visited Big Hs abode, I must state that they where the worst for wear, we saw what happened, as they stood there drinking free beers, all of  H's crew started swaying in their chairs, your crew went green and soon made their excuses to leave, I am sure that once they had vacated the site they all felt better, have got to put on record that you were not in attendance.
he he ;D ;D. did they not mention it.
Brian.

Who remembers Corky, the complete wierdo at the Champagne bar in 2000 who was collecting Champagne corks? He had two supermarket bags full of 'em. I have a somewhat fuzzy recollection of him shambling around the area of the bar, in the pissing rain hoovering up spent stoppers. He seemed absolutely delighted when I handed him one, like it was a prize truffle - smiling benignly and shuffling off in search of more. Perhaps he knew something I didn't - like there was a deposit on them.

Sorry to drag this one up again but just in case anyone didn't get the full picture, I'd just like to say it was very similar to this:

http://www.filecabi.net/rejected/86.html

I always have trouble getting these things to load - but smittenkitten (26/F) to the right of the empty screen looks rather cute.  :P

Eeww.

I used to work as a radiographer, and have had to take some rather enlightening pictures in my time.

The most memorable one involves a gentleman with erectile difficulties.

He had been tring to achieve 'wood' but could only get as far as 'rope' so, sitting around in his flat lonely, and in need of a sherman, started thinking if there was a 'button' or similar that could be pressed, so he fished a foil kit kat wrapper out of the BIN, rolled it up nice and tight and pushed it down the third eye.

Needless to say, the non existent button remained well and truly un - pushed, so he withdrew the foil. One slight problem though, only about 1/2 the foil came out.

He came in to casualty, was X - rayed, and spend an hour in theatre on the end of some very thin pliers.

We thought that this would be the end of the matter, but no.

About 3 weeks later we were asked to do a urethrogram (Clues in the name) an examination where a radioluscent dye is put in the urethra so you can see the workings of what is a delicate and important piece of plumbing.

Lo and behold, I opened the door to the changing cubicle to see caprain kit kat sitting there, so as he was sitting on the table waiting for the doctor to arrive I asked him what the problem was, he recounted the kit kat tale to me, and then said that when he went for a whizz, there was about 1/2 a cupful of urine that came out when he had finished (Why he was piddling into a tea cup I neglected to ask)

The doctor arrived, a giant of a man from Zambia, and captain kit kat recounted the sorry tale again. He also asked the doctor a few choice questions:-

1. I'm 42 and still a virgin, is that normal? Doc replied, 'No, I'm 38 and have 6 children'
2. Is my penis a funny shape, would that put women off? Doc replied 'It might if the first thing you do is show them it'
Then
I'd heard that long and thin goes too far in and serves to hurt the lady, but short and thick is just the trick, and always brings the baby' To which the doc had no reply.

Have you ever seen a 20 stone zambian doctor crying tears of laughter doing silent shoulder heaves while wearing a lead apron? I have.

The procedure was carried out, and the poor chaps old chap was in a very sorry state, where there should have been a nice thin tube from the tip to the bladder, here the whole inside of his penis had disappeared, leaving little more than a skin sheath.

I left that hospital shortly after that, so do not know what became of this guy.

Here endeth the lesson. you can uncross your legs now.

I did once have to X ray someone who had put a large (Easter egg size) brass egg up his bottom. When I asked him why he did it, he replied
'I wanted to know what it would be like to be a chicken'