good thread this.

a few years back we were playing golf at an hotel just south of london, they had those lockers you could put a coin into and put your stuff in ubtill you wanted it back.

anyway after the game one of our number left his clubs in the locker room and went off somewhere, so we "hid" his clubs in one of the lockers and went into the bar to have a game of cards.

after a few minutes the geezer comes in and tells us that his clubs have been nicked, we tell him not to be silly he probably left them outside or something. he goes off, comes back a few minutes later moaning and groaning but joins in the card game.

after about half an hour a copper comes in and asks for him by name, the berk had reported them nicked to the hotel, and they'd called the police.he went out with them and went through the procedure, when he came back we all told him what a berk he was and what had happened.we took his clubs out of the locker and all went home.

a few weeks later we were having a meal after a game and he picked up the bill, we all looked at each other in astonishment and couldn't understand what he was up to.

he then told us he was treating us out of the money that he'd claimed of the insurance company for his stolen golf clubs,[ the police having given him a crime number and all that].

he couldn't see our argument that we should have been on a bigger drink for doing him such a favour

don't suppose we'd get away with that now with all the cameras everywhere.

lol mexicano - ur friend showed some class with his understated revenge

my school-mate decides to put tape recorder under parents bed,I nick long life batteries from shop for tape recorder.

he says they enjoy a drink on a Friday night,he's with his parents in living room,while I'm upstairs under there bed setting the recorder waiting,my school mate comes upstairs,shouts out out,I hit the record button

next day I ask mate if recording was any good---he stares @ me with a blank look

he parents must of been dirty bar stewards

Hilarious thread :)

In younger days, about 12/13 years old me and mates would go to the next estate and just act the boIIocks every evening when it was dark. The usual nic nacs and pebble dashing of windows soon got old so we start looking for houses with open windows. Proceed to find a suitable stick or anything we can use as a shovel and use it to pick up dog sh!t which then gets put in the open window. Would have loved to have seen the face's on the house owners upon discovering the sh!t!

Thanks Premier Absolutely howling at some of these.

None of these bad boys has ever run through a wheatfield enraging a local farmer - it seems thats how you get on in life

ttt for racoons

I once went through the supermarket express checkout (eight or fewer items) with nine.  It may haven been 10.

Didn't get this on Simon Mayo's confession...

I feel I should finally admit to a sin that has been troubling me for many years.  I very much regret it involves cruelty and disappointment to an entirely innocent victim and a lot of very poor acting.

By way of background I should explain that I attended a boys’ Grammar school and that these events took place in the late 1970’s.  It was the sort of school that had, and may indeed still have, pretentions at being a public school.  For example the existence of association football, a sport popular even then, was never admitted by the school and “Games” was a variety of sadistic and nasty pastimes.

I, however, was of a thespian bent.

The middle school play in the Easter term that year was to be RC Sherriff’s “Journey’s End”.  This choice presented a significant advantage as, being set in the trenches of the First World War, it employed only a male cast.  This meant that nobody had to dress up as a woman, always unsettling (and possibly permanently damaging) to a young man on the cusp of adolescence.

I was seeking, and was offered, the part of Stanhope, the avuncular, but troubled, company commander who, distressed by the futility of warfare, takes to the “bottle” to dull his senses – a curious precursor for future life which has turned out to be identical, apart from the war bit.

I should explain that the middle school play was, by tradition, taken part in by those in the fourth and fifth years (for some reason the third and fourth youngest year groups in the school).

To our horror this year’s auditions were gatecrashed by a 2nd year (the youngest year in the school – are you getting it?), who we will call Christopher.  His first announcement to the company was:

“My father’s a famous actor!”

It was true – to point at least.  His father did indeed have a small part in one of that period’s most desultory sitcoms.

Not only this, but the boy was keen, overflowing with excitement at the prospect of making his senior school stage debut.

Of course the inevitable happened and, because of his supposed “pedigree”, he was given a part, but the master in charge did at least bow to decorum a little by giving him the unnamed role of “Private Soldier”.  Private Soldier had 3 lines interspersed throughout the play along the lines of “Yes, sir.  Straightaway, sir”.

It was a disaster.  He delivered his three lines with jolly over-eagerness in a shrill unbroken voice that totally ruined the atmosphere of the trenches, so artfully created by the rest of the ensemble.

Still the show had to go on, and indeed it did until the very last night.

On this night Christopher announced that his father was in the audience.  His Dad wouldn’t be in the front row, as that would be filled with the headmaster’s cronies and various self-appointed dignitaries, but somewhere in the dark sat a minor celebrity waiting to see if his offspring was a chip off the old block.

The rest of the cast hatched a plan.

Simon, we butchered RC Sherriff’s revered text.  We made careful edits so that Christopher’s three lines would be missed.  He would be standing in the wings waiting for his cue and big entrance when the dialogue would inexplicably jump half a dozen lines omitting his oh-so-important intervention completely.

At the end of the performance Christopher was inconsolable.  Tears flowed and he was clearly devastated by what he believed were an entirely coincidental series of “mistakes”.  This has troubled me for many years.

But I am not seeking forgiveness from Christopher, who was an irritating child and is, anyway, probably Brad Pitt or someone by now.

Nor am I seeking forgiveness from his father, who has disappeared without trace and must be the only 1970’s bit part actor without his own self-penned Wikipedia page.

Instead I look for absolution from the audience who must have been bewildered by the somewhat circuitous plot.  At one stage, in our confusion following the changes in text, we got caught in a dialogue “loop” that we went round there times before breaking out into the next Act, missing the interval and several important plot points.

My acting days were anyway nearing a close.  The next term’s play was Hamlet and the headmaster felt that my portrayal of Ophelia as a fast-talking American lady of the night was a little too realistic and my career on the stage was diplomatically ended.

Please forgive me!

This and the moneysavingexpert thread are absolutely legendary

One Sunday morning long ago I was refereeing a game on Hackney Marshes.   One team comprised white players wearing red shirts.   The other team was of black players wearing blue shirts.   It was not uncommon then to have such teams largely or exclusively of white or black players.   They would often be pub teams, or based on local community clubs or even street or neighbourhood associations.   There wasn't anything racist about it, it's just the way things were in the East End of London at the time, and for all I know it may still be.

As I recall it was a pretty good game and I was doing a reasonable job of not spoiling it.   On the odd occasions when I had to give a disputable decision I would clarify, as many refs do, by pointing and calling out 'red ball' or 'blue ball' as apporopriate.

What I did well into the second half I can only put down to brain freeze.   Two players were tussling for the ball just ten or so yards from me.  The white player was just a bit too vigorous, so I blew up, pointed firmly and called out 'black ball'.

Ground....open up....please....swallow me.  :(

I have to say they took it well.

Not the worst thing, but had been playing football with a mate one Saturday and we went to his house afterwards. The front door was open, he went into the kitchen and I was standing by the stairs. After a few minutes I heard moaning from upstairs and it started to increase in intensity. He was wondering where his parents were and instead of saying "I wouldn't go up there if I were you" I let him bound up the stairs and burst in on his step-dad doing his mother. He came down with the reddest face I've seen in my life. Went on to have bad luck with women, first wife said she was pregnant with his kid before admitting it was someone else's, second went lezzie on him. Hope his poor choices of women wasn't based on that experience. Always wondered what position they were in when he walked in on them as his mother was pure filth.