worst scrape you were in

[steve sanders]

in the spring of 1917 i was billeted with the royal munsters in a farm near the village of auchy. fritz had been giving our boys a real pasting for quite a few nights solid and i daresay the french troops to the east were of neglible help. i was to lead my men on a dawn raid to retake this particular strongpoint which had changed hands six times in as many weeks.

oh it was a horrible, inglorious affair. i lost three men in a pre dawn rugger game against the welch, and another brace to trench foot. in my anger i shot the remaining men for a rather crude impersonation of yours truly singing "what ho terry tulip".

[Proinsias]

Sparkoptv, on assignment in the winter of 1967.

I can't talk about it, I've already said too much.

[pseudonominous]

2nd class. Jennie drank way too much milk and the calcium made her nails as tough as titanium and whenever she scraped that blackboard....whoa-momma!

[Ciotóg]

In the summer of '95 I led my family and a group of my friends across the county bounds to face the hellish fomhóirigh of the Kerry clan. We travelled in the dead of night across mountains and moors with nothing to sustain us except poitín. As we neared Muckross, the foxes and badgers started chattering, and our bare feet began to peel. We lost our father at Myer's ditch. On reaching the castle, we found the fomhóirigh had left before us to take on the O' Sullivan Beres, so we just rested in the courtyard a while. It was a devilish trek though.

[Proinsias]

So there I was, August, 2002, stuck in a queue for the Savoy. Jill and Kate had gotten in before us. I knew I was in there. Possibly with both of them. Them fuckers on the door stopped me for my white trainers, man, do they know anything about STYLE!!!

One quick mugging later and I was in. I tell ya, they loved me. I was buying em drinks all night, LEGEND!!!

I rode both of them so much that night that my lad got friction burns.

[Azrael]

Originally Posted by Scipio Africanus

Me.

A knife.

A nun.

No more to be said.

One thing needs to be said... who'd the knife?

[northmallexile]

It was the summer of 1925, and I had managed to cadge an invitation from my Aunt Dahlia to stay in her place in Totleigh Towers, and sample the cooking of her excellent French chef, Anatole. Within 30 mins of my arrival, I had managed to inadvertantly become engaged to that lamentable drip Madeline Bassett, narrowly escape throttling by Roderick Spode, who also loved the Bassett disaster, and alienate my manservant Jeeves with whom I didn't see eye to eye over a pair of Old Etonian spats.

Meanwhile, I discovered that my aunt had an ulterior motive for issuing an invitation. Turns out that she wanted me to snaffle an 18th-century cow creamer from Sir Watkyn Basset's room in order that she could pawn it and use the proceeds towards supporting her women's periodical Milady's Boudoir. Threats and entreaties all being useless, I found myself entering Sir Watkyn's 2nd-floor room via a stepladder soon after 1am. Witness my surprise on being confronted by Honoria Glossop, the daughter of the renowned loony-doctor Sir Roderick Glossop, to whom I was once engaged. (To Honoria, that is, not Sir Roderick). At that very moment a passing cat knocked over the ladder, thus rousing the household...

[gomey]

Delhi I believe it was,1858

[Nicewanbiy]

Originally Posted by northmallexile

It was the summer of 1925, and I had managed to cadge an invitation from my Aunt Dahlia to stay in her place in Totleigh Towers, and sample the cooking of her excellent French chef, Anatole. Within 30 mins of my arrival, I had managed to inadvertantly become engaged to that lamentable drip Madeline Bassett, narrowly escape throttling by Roderick Spode, who also loved the Bassett disaster, and alienate my manservant Jeeves with whom I didn't see eye to eye over a pair of Old Etonian spats.

Meanwhile, I discovered that my aunt had an ulterior motive for issuing an invitation. Turns out that she wanted me to snaffle an 18th-century cow creamer from Sir Watkyn Basset's room in order that she could pawn it and use the proceeds towards supporting her women's periodical Milady's Boudoir. Threats and entreaties all being useless, I found myself entering Sir Watkyn's 2nd-floor room via a stepladder soon after 1am. Witness my surprise on being confronted by Honoria Glossop, the daughter of the renowned loony-doctor Sir Roderick Glossop, to whom I was once engaged. (To Honoria, that is, not Sir Roderick). At that very moment a passing cat knocked over the ladder, thus rousing the household...

Anyone got a lighter? Gas is gone in mine.

[trasnanadtonnta]

Originally Posted by northmallexile

It was the summer of 1925, and I had managed to cadge an invitation from my Aunt Dahlia to stay in her place in Totleigh Towers, and sample the cooking of her excellent French chef, Anatole. Within 30 mins of my arrival, I had managed to inadvertantly become engaged to that lamentable drip Madeline Bassett, narrowly escape throttling by Roderick Spode, who also loved the Bassett disaster, and alienate my manservant Jeeves with whom I didn't see eye to eye over a pair of Old Etonian spats.

Meanwhile, I discovered that my aunt had an ulterior motive for issuing an invitation. Turns out that she wanted me to snaffle an 18th-century cow creamer from Sir Watkyn Basset's room in order that she could pawn it and use the proceeds towards supporting her women's periodical Milady's Boudoir. Threats and entreaties all being useless, I found myself entering Sir Watkyn's 2nd-floor room via a stepladder soon after 1am. Witness my surprise on being confronted by Honoria Glossop, the daughter of the renowned loony-doctor Sir Roderick Glossop, to whom I was once engaged. (To Honoria, that is, not Sir Roderick). At that very moment a passing cat knocked over the ladder, thus rousing the household...

NME, Tom and Dahlia's pile was Brinkley Court, no? Totleigh was someone else...

When I was a gel we'd get these things right. One's not too formal, don't you know, but one ought to ascribe the right heaps to the right people. I remember the time I rode whipper in to the Braes (they were the North Durham in my young days you know). Solid pack. No sissies. Man and beast as one, you know. I daresay it's bragging if I tell you I was the fastest woman over timber in 26, but I'm an old lady now and I shall say what I like. I never forgot the time old Dinky, the nincompoop, went spur over jowl into old Gorson's briar patch. Stuck fast, you know. Rode home with his pinks ripped to shreds. Dislocated shoulder. They'd give you morphine for that now, I spose. No fortitude, d'you see? They say he died in Japan, old Dinky, in a camp. He was a nincompoop the old dear...