Cheshire Cat
The most curious thing..
The pies they sold in Halifax at the Shay were even worse. No wonder there was hardly anyone there.
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[Misc] Things that you've done that could have killed you, making you die to death
- Thread starter Swansman
- Start date
The pies they sold in Halifax at the Shay were even worse. No wonder there was hardly anyone there.
jakarta
Well-known member
Bet you wish you'd kept at least one of your TZ's - now going for stupid money IF you can find one. Myself I should have kept at least one of my Yamahas, had a lovely RD400F and bought a 350LC YPVS new in 1987, best part of £20K worth now! Majority of them stacked into walls and telephone poles back in the day means there is a bit of a shortage...
The evidence on this thread would suggest eating a meat pie is the most dangerous life threatening thing any Northstandchater has ever done, and is held in the highest esteem among the peer group..
I'd imagine the OP is a tad confused.
It was indeed her pussy. I was required to pull various items out of her lady area with my teeth. Whilst nursing my bloody and broken nose.
She told me that if we don't complete the show she wouldn't get paid so I laid down and did what was required.
Anything for Bozza on his stag do
Sent from my SM-G975F using Tapatalk
Birdie Boy
Well-known member
- Jun 17, 2011
- 4,134
Was she a big black lady with a banana, as this is pretty much what happen to me as well? [emoji4]
Some night that was then....
It was a chain of handkerchiefs - the kind you'd expect a magician to pull from a hat. They just kept coming and coming.
It was one helluva show.
LamieRobertson
Not awoke
Oh no that’s much better ...you just hand them back when you’ve had enough
LamieRobertson
Not awoke
My Dad would say taking me on driving lessons was a near death experience...ive no idea why he stuck at it
m20gull
Well-known member
As students 8 of us went boating on the Broads for what was essentially a 14 day slow pub crawl. One night we were back on the boat and nobody noticed there were only 7 of us until the last man turned up soaking wet.
Frankie
Put him in the curry
They usually bite hard , hence the nickname , very lucky to avoid anything but death there .
I've had a few close calls over the years. The first one was when I was about twelve years old and at school. Me and a couple of mates would club together some of our school dinner money to buy a couple of packs of fags for the week. There was a shop just round the corner from the school that would happily sell them to you, school uniform or not.
On this particular day it was my turn to sneak out at breaktime to go and source 40 Lambert & Butler. The tricky thing was getting out of the school grounds without getting caught, which carried reasonably serious punishment in the context of a 12 year old schoolkid. I was just about out of the school's back gates when I noticed the headmaster, who could be a real nasty piece of work if you got on the wrong side of him, emerge from the main building. I shat my pants (figuratively), and opted to leg it across the 40mph main road which flanked the school.
Without looking. I ran into the road and felt an immediate whoosh as a Ford Mondeo sped by me, missing me by what must have been millimetres. The woman driving wrote a letter to the school that was read out at assembly a few days later, saying that she was certain she was going to kill me and that she'd had to pull over to compose herself and had nightmares in the days following. I never mentioned it to a soul until now, and casually returned with the ciggies. Haven't smoked in nearly 10 years mind, and I don't miss it.
That period was a tough time for me as it happens. I had made the mistake of attempting to buy some weed off a new kid at school. I hadn't really been looking for it, but we got chatting, he said he had some and I thought it would look cool in front of my mates to agree to buy some. Anyway, I was by no means a connoisseur of the stuff and it transpired that what I had actually purchased for my ten English pounds was a small ziplock bag of parsley.
I made the mistake of slagging this kid off to a few people, only to quickly learn he wasn't someone I should be slagging off. Shit escalated, and I spent literally weeks trying to avoid the lad and his mates who had form for dishing out some pretty nasty beatings - one kid had already ended up in hospital with little more than a **** given by the school. I worked out a little route that would lead me the bus stop I needed whilst encountering as few people as possible, and this worked for some time.
One day however I realised that I'd been rumbled and I was being followed. This lad and at least five of his mates were behind me, heckling me, letting me know I was about to get it. I was about to get the beating of a lifetime. And then, lo and behold, there's my dad in his car, waiting for me. This NEVER happened, either before or after. It turned out he'd secretly taken the day off work to get tickets to Grimsby's game against Bournemouth in the 1998 Auto Windscreens Shield final - our first ever Wembley appearance, and had rocked up to bring me the exciting news. I might not have died if he hadn't done that, but I'd have had my ****ing head kicked in, absolutely no doubt about that.
Anyway, that wasn't the end of it. My miraculous reprieve from said head-kicking had not got down well. I heard through a friend of a friend one day that the kid had got hold of a gun and was coming for me. I was nervous, but brushed it off as bullshit. This was 1998, Cleethorpes. There weren't any guns. But no, that wasn't the case, he'd manage to steal his mate's dad licensed hunting rifle and was on the lookout for me. Fortunately, word spread quickly, police were called and the gun was dumped and later retrieved from a lake in a local park.
Whether he'd actually have shot me had he found me in time, I'll never know. I don't like to think about it in truth. The lad in question died from a combination of dodgy Heroin and asthma aged 21, the same day I picked up the keys to my first house. I feel no animosity. I later learned that he had witnessed his own dad's murder by his uncle as a small child, and so without excusing his actions its understandable that he bared his anger.
The other time was much later, I was in my early twenties I think. I was playing a football tournament in Leeds. It's a tournament I played in every year from 2002 until 2013, and the acommodation was some horrendous student digs which have since been demolished. The tournament was always in July, so it was usually hot.
I was pretty tanked up one night when I returned with a kebab and a few tinnies. My bedroom was roasting, so I went to open the window, which was a funny, large single glazed affair which opened vertically outwards on some kind of tilt mechanism. It would only open about an inch, and it was sweltering, and so in my anger I used brute force to try and open it further, not noticing there was a catch preventining it from opening any wider.
The entire pane of glass dropped out on me. It left me with hundreds of tiny cuts, except for a large piece of glass in the pit of my forearm. I removed the glass, and boy did I start pissing blood. At this point, my mates who had heard the smash had arrived and managed to tournaquet the arm. Not wanting to make a big deal of things, got myself a taxi and went off to Leeds General Infirmary. The bleeding had more or less stopped by this point, however after a thorough investigation I was told pieces of glass has travelled millimetres from my brachial artery at which point the bleeding would have been unstemmable.
Here but by the grace of God.
On this particular day it was my turn to sneak out at breaktime to go and source 40 Lambert & Butler. The tricky thing was getting out of the school grounds without getting caught, which carried reasonably serious punishment in the context of a 12 year old schoolkid. I was just about out of the school's back gates when I noticed the headmaster, who could be a real nasty piece of work if you got on the wrong side of him, emerge from the main building. I shat my pants (figuratively), and opted to leg it across the 40mph main road which flanked the school.
Without looking. I ran into the road and felt an immediate whoosh as a Ford Mondeo sped by me, missing me by what must have been millimetres. The woman driving wrote a letter to the school that was read out at assembly a few days later, saying that she was certain she was going to kill me and that she'd had to pull over to compose herself and had nightmares in the days following. I never mentioned it to a soul until now, and casually returned with the ciggies. Haven't smoked in nearly 10 years mind, and I don't miss it.
That period was a tough time for me as it happens. I had made the mistake of attempting to buy some weed off a new kid at school. I hadn't really been looking for it, but we got chatting, he said he had some and I thought it would look cool in front of my mates to agree to buy some. Anyway, I was by no means a connoisseur of the stuff and it transpired that what I had actually purchased for my ten English pounds was a small ziplock bag of parsley.
I made the mistake of slagging this kid off to a few people, only to quickly learn he wasn't someone I should be slagging off. Shit escalated, and I spent literally weeks trying to avoid the lad and his mates who had form for dishing out some pretty nasty beatings - one kid had already ended up in hospital with little more than a **** given by the school. I worked out a little route that would lead me the bus stop I needed whilst encountering as few people as possible, and this worked for some time.
One day however I realised that I'd been rumbled and I was being followed. This lad and at least five of his mates were behind me, heckling me, letting me know I was about to get it. I was about to get the beating of a lifetime. And then, lo and behold, there's my dad in his car, waiting for me. This NEVER happened, either before or after. It turned out he'd secretly taken the day off work to get tickets to Grimsby's game against Bournemouth in the 1998 Auto Windscreens Shield final - our first ever Wembley appearance, and had rocked up to bring me the exciting news. I might not have died if he hadn't done that, but I'd have had my ****ing head kicked in, absolutely no doubt about that.
Anyway, that wasn't the end of it. My miraculous reprieve from said head-kicking had not got down well. I heard through a friend of a friend one day that the kid had got hold of a gun and was coming for me. I was nervous, but brushed it off as bullshit. This was 1998, Cleethorpes. There weren't any guns. But no, that wasn't the case, he'd manage to steal his mate's dad licensed hunting rifle and was on the lookout for me. Fortunately, word spread quickly, police were called and the gun was dumped and later retrieved from a lake in a local park.
Whether he'd actually have shot me had he found me in time, I'll never know. I don't like to think about it in truth. The lad in question died from a combination of dodgy Heroin and asthma aged 21, the same day I picked up the keys to my first house. I feel no animosity. I later learned that he had witnessed his own dad's murder by his uncle as a small child, and so without excusing his actions its understandable that he bared his anger.
The other time was much later, I was in my early twenties I think. I was playing a football tournament in Leeds. It's a tournament I played in every year from 2002 until 2013, and the acommodation was some horrendous student digs which have since been demolished. The tournament was always in July, so it was usually hot.
I was pretty tanked up one night when I returned with a kebab and a few tinnies. My bedroom was roasting, so I went to open the window, which was a funny, large single glazed affair which opened vertically outwards on some kind of tilt mechanism. It would only open about an inch, and it was sweltering, and so in my anger I used brute force to try and open it further, not noticing there was a catch preventining it from opening any wider.
The entire pane of glass dropped out on me. It left me with hundreds of tiny cuts, except for a large piece of glass in the pit of my forearm. I removed the glass, and boy did I start pissing blood. At this point, my mates who had heard the smash had arrived and managed to tournaquet the arm. Not wanting to make a big deal of things, got myself a taxi and went off to Leeds General Infirmary. The bleeding had more or less stopped by this point, however after a thorough investigation I was told pieces of glass has travelled millimetres from my brachial artery at which point the bleeding would have been unstemmable.
Here but by the grace of God.
rogersix
Well-known member
- Jan 18, 2014
- 7,938
the sound engineer with him fugged up and made him do the plinth again!
ForestRowSeagull
Well-known member
Canyoning is great fun. Done it a few times in France in the summer - what a buzz
Fighting a guy who pulled a gun on me at work.
Fighting a pikey who was trying to stab my neck with a screwdriver. He took a few good goes at my knee cap too before I got him restrained. At work.
Countless knives and needles pulled on me. At work.
I no longer do that job and I spend my free time hiking, watching SCCC, drinking ale in country pubs and generally avoiding fuss.
Fighting a pikey who was trying to stab my neck with a screwdriver. He took a few good goes at my knee cap too before I got him restrained. At work.
Countless knives and needles pulled on me. At work.
I no longer do that job and I spend my free time hiking, watching SCCC, drinking ale in country pubs and generally avoiding fuss.
Shropshire Seagull
Well-known member
Bet you wish you'd kept at least one of your TZ's - now going for stupid money IF you can find one. Myself I should have kept at least one of my Yamahas, had a lovely RD400F and bought a 350LC YPVS new in 1987, best part of £20K worth now! Majority of them stacked into walls and telephone poles back in the day means there is a bit of a shortage...
Yeah, I had 3 x 350LCs over the years - the black one with the bikini fairing was the best. I kept a scrapbook of all the bikes I have owned [worked in the bike trade for 10 years] - over 50 at last count ...
TZ's were great race bikes but my ex John Newbold RG500 was a delight to race - got expensive throwing that up the road with two magnesium carbs hanging off each side ....
And crank rebuilds [4 individuals] at £200 each every 1000 race miles made me very appreciative of the sponsorship I had at the time.
Happy days ....
sydney
tinky ****in winky
all sorts of silliness in the African bush / jungle , vehicle roll overs , brushes with local wildlife both 2 and 4 legged.
breaking both legs in a rock climbing incident and getting airlifted out 3 months hospital .
systemic speptaceamea (sic)........5 months in hospital , lost 28 kg's body still ****ed.
run in with bikie gand in Auckland , 5 weeks hospital.
breaking both legs in a rock climbing incident and getting airlifted out 3 months hospital .
systemic speptaceamea (sic)........5 months in hospital , lost 28 kg's body still ****ed.
run in with bikie gand in Auckland , 5 weeks hospital.
B-right-on
Living the dream
Bet you wish you'd kept at least one of your TZ's - now going for stupid money IF you can find one. Myself I should have kept at least one of my Yamahas, had a lovely RD400F and bought a 350LC YPVS new in 1987, best part of £20K worth now! Majority of them stacked into walls and telephone poles back in the day means there is a bit of a shortage...
'Back in the day', Yam RD250, air-cooled version, 17 years old on L plates, copious amounts of alcohol (long before ID was required) on a night out, decided to ride my bike home because I was too pissed to walk the 10 miles.
One stone wall later, I got home though other methods.
Managed to get the bike back on the road again, new forks, front wheel, headlight. Only for it to get nicked about 6 months later.
B-right-on
Living the dream
Got to love the accent, but, wtf.... Having a couple of pints and then going up the chimney
https://youtu.be/T00zEt1-3VA
https://youtu.be/T00zEt1-3VA