Brilliant. How can anyone possibly argue drugs are bad?
Worst state you've been in due to substance abuse
- Thread starter The Kid Frankie
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Brilliant. How can anyone possibly argue drugs are bad?
Barrel of Fun
Abort, retry, fail
Censoring drug use and a blanket ban on discussion is definitely the way forward... 
paul & shark
New member
- Sep 17, 2013
- 192
I once thought a geezer with a big blue foam hand looked over my garden to keep noise down
Turned music down, and shhhh everyone
Went out for another ciggy, then the penny dropped it was the blue top of a climbing frame thing in park by my house
Laughed loads out Loud, then cracked on
Turned music down, and shhhh everyone
Went out for another ciggy, then the penny dropped it was the blue top of a climbing frame thing in park by my house
Laughed loads out Loud, then cracked on
Colossal Squid
Returning video tapes
Great thread. I'm very much enjoying how the ignorant are being quite rightly put in their place by the educated.
As for my own "messiest" I think it would have to be another Ketamine story I'm afraid.
On one occasion, after a fairly hefty dose, everything around me appeared to be made of cloth. It all looked the same, it was just made from fabric now. The walls, furniture, lights, it was all material. Then it started unravelling, like someone was pulling at a loose thread. Bit by bit everything I could see and feel around me was unravelling in front of my eyes, until I realised that I too was unravelling, at a gathering pace. Before long it was apparent that the very fabric of space and time was coming to an end and the entire world as I knew it was gone, as was my body. I was a conscious beam of light, shooting along a path, somewhat like a circuit board, surrounded by distant stars in the vacuum of space. I couldn't move, I had no body, and there was this lingering feeling of eternal nothingness being all that was left forever.
Pretty scary stuff at the time. Although of course I came back from it and had no qualms about tucking in the next time the wonky came out.
Whilst it's very unpredictable in high doses, if you can really focus and control your adventure, you can do some incredible things on Ketamine. And no, I've never shat myself, pissed myself, done myself any physical harm or even managed to upset anyone. That's not me saying it doesn't happen and everyone should get on board. It's just for reference
As for my own "messiest" I think it would have to be another Ketamine story I'm afraid.
On one occasion, after a fairly hefty dose, everything around me appeared to be made of cloth. It all looked the same, it was just made from fabric now. The walls, furniture, lights, it was all material. Then it started unravelling, like someone was pulling at a loose thread. Bit by bit everything I could see and feel around me was unravelling in front of my eyes, until I realised that I too was unravelling, at a gathering pace. Before long it was apparent that the very fabric of space and time was coming to an end and the entire world as I knew it was gone, as was my body. I was a conscious beam of light, shooting along a path, somewhat like a circuit board, surrounded by distant stars in the vacuum of space. I couldn't move, I had no body, and there was this lingering feeling of eternal nothingness being all that was left forever.
Pretty scary stuff at the time. Although of course I came back from it and had no qualms about tucking in the next time the wonky came out.
Whilst it's very unpredictable in high doses, if you can really focus and control your adventure, you can do some incredible things on Ketamine. And no, I've never shat myself, pissed myself, done myself any physical harm or even managed to upset anyone. That's not me saying it doesn't happen and everyone should get on board. It's just for reference
fat old seagull
New member
Skaville
Well-known member
I fondly remember meeting a turtle called Bernard. He was actually a green plastic bag.
Baldseagull
Well-known member
1. More than you, and they all had bigger tits than any of your conquests
2. More than you, and they were all bigger than any of your conquests
3. More MPH than you, and in a bigger car than yours.
4. More than you, and threw up a bigger amount than you.
5. Not many, but variety is the spice of life, and all things in moderation.
I grew up and took life seriously for a while, it's not all that.
paul & shark
New member
- Sep 17, 2013
- 192
Amazing stuff
Makes me wanna crack on, takes till Wednesday to sort my head out now if i
Roll through at weekends
but he had a lot of fun
fat old seagull
New member
I'm not sure what she's getting at, but the Mrs wants to know if it works with Willies ?
greyseagull
New member
Texas
I remember this one surprisingly well. I was 17, and had decided to nip round to my best mate's before we went for a night out on Cleethorpes seafront. Fortunately for me, my mate's house also happened to be a corner shop which his mum and dad owned. As was customary at the time, we slyly helped ourselves to a bottle apiece of booze from behind the counter. Since we were effectively stealing his mum and dad's stock we never took the expensive stuff, so my weapon of choice that night was a bottle of cheap as fúck whiskey. The sort you could clean your toilet with.
From here we walked a few doors down to the house of another mate who had already been joined by several other friends of ours. As I supped my way through a couple of cans of cheap lager, I began to hatch a plan. A plan to look not only cool, but also hard, in front of my pals. Since I was immortal, or at least I assumed I was at the time, why not pour a pint of my cheap as fúck whiskey into a glass and down it? In one. I couldn't think of a good reason not to so, having pitched the idea to the room and having received much encouragement, I began to pour whilst simultaneously attaching a Tesco bag over my ears and under my chin in anticipation of the inevitable chunder that was to follow.
1, 2, 3, and down we go! Shítting hell, that was easy. I hadn't actually considered that I'd be able to do it, but it turned out that this particular brand of cheap as fúck whiskey was smoother than expected and there I was in a room full of astounded teenagers with an empty glass and a belly full of booze. Strong booze. You'd be forgiven for thinking that at this point, I might feel a bit shít, but other than a light sweat I felt fine. I suspect I may have smelled like shit, but I felt as fit as a fiddle.
And so, having all but forgotten about my amazing feat, out on the píss we went. And that was all fine for the first hour or so until things started to kick-in. And boy, did they kick-in. Within the space of about 10 minutes I'd gone from relatively sober to as píssed as I've ever been, either before or since. Speech was out of the question, walking was fast on it's way out and my vision was limited to a vague impersonation of reality, blurred and in slow motion.
With my last remaining ounce of sensibility, I calculated that I probably wasn't going to see this night out and decided that I best attempt to head home. Anyway, it's only about 3 miles back to my mum and dad's house. Piece of píss.
I began to slowly slalom my way home, sometimes on on my hind legs, other on all fours. But one inch at a time, I was going to make it home. What I found odd at this point was that despite the fact I was so incredibly píssed, I didn't actually feel sick. At all. However, that didn't mean that my body's internal chemistry set wasn't hard at work. Something was brewing, and that something was heading south. Fast. Faster than I could walk home anyway.
And there was another problem. It was only about 9:30 in the evening. And it was July. A lovely summer's evening and it was barely even dusky. I'm walking through a residential area and everyone has their curtains and windows open - I can't just pull my keks down and take a shít in the middle of the street. Can I? Ah fúck it, of course I can. Pants round my ankles, I start the job, but I'm clearly not a well boy and have a weapons grade dose of diarrhea. And of course, since I'm in the middle of a densely populated street, I have no toilet paper to hand. Never mind, I've only got about another mile to go, it'll be alright.
And I make it. I don't know how, but I've made it home. Now I may be home, but I'm not in good shape as I crawl onto my mum and dad's porch and headbutt the door in order to get their attention. Naturally, my dad's a little surprised. He was enjoying the final moments of Holby City whilst tucking into to a Chinese takeaway and he's not expecting me home for hours. He's even more surprised to find his incapacitated son lying prone on the floor, pursued by what can only be described as a giant breadcrumb trail of human shít (and, I think, a little bit of píss as well).
It would appear that I didn't do quite as well with my impromptu-poo as I had first thought. Rather than depositing onto the street as I had imagined, I'd instead caught pretty much the whole lot in my underpants. Some of it remained there, but the lions share had slipped and seeped its way through my jeans, down my legs and onto (not to mention into) my shoes. Somehow, somewhat gravity defying, it was also up my back as I lay there like some kind of oversized, drunken baby. I know it's hard to quantify this, but there really was a lot of poo. Ever so much. Think of the most poo you've ever seen in one place before, and it was probably at least three times as much as that.
And there, as my dad looked down on me not knowing whether to beat me senseless (I was pretty much already there, to be fair) or call for an ambulance, my night ended as my whole world slowly faded to black. Possibly for the last time, I really wasn't sure.
I don't really like whiskey any more.
From here we walked a few doors down to the house of another mate who had already been joined by several other friends of ours. As I supped my way through a couple of cans of cheap lager, I began to hatch a plan. A plan to look not only cool, but also hard, in front of my pals. Since I was immortal, or at least I assumed I was at the time, why not pour a pint of my cheap as fúck whiskey into a glass and down it? In one. I couldn't think of a good reason not to so, having pitched the idea to the room and having received much encouragement, I began to pour whilst simultaneously attaching a Tesco bag over my ears and under my chin in anticipation of the inevitable chunder that was to follow.
1, 2, 3, and down we go! Shítting hell, that was easy. I hadn't actually considered that I'd be able to do it, but it turned out that this particular brand of cheap as fúck whiskey was smoother than expected and there I was in a room full of astounded teenagers with an empty glass and a belly full of booze. Strong booze. You'd be forgiven for thinking that at this point, I might feel a bit shít, but other than a light sweat I felt fine. I suspect I may have smelled like shit, but I felt as fit as a fiddle.
And so, having all but forgotten about my amazing feat, out on the píss we went. And that was all fine for the first hour or so until things started to kick-in. And boy, did they kick-in. Within the space of about 10 minutes I'd gone from relatively sober to as píssed as I've ever been, either before or since. Speech was out of the question, walking was fast on it's way out and my vision was limited to a vague impersonation of reality, blurred and in slow motion.
With my last remaining ounce of sensibility, I calculated that I probably wasn't going to see this night out and decided that I best attempt to head home. Anyway, it's only about 3 miles back to my mum and dad's house. Piece of píss.
I began to slowly slalom my way home, sometimes on on my hind legs, other on all fours. But one inch at a time, I was going to make it home. What I found odd at this point was that despite the fact I was so incredibly píssed, I didn't actually feel sick. At all. However, that didn't mean that my body's internal chemistry set wasn't hard at work. Something was brewing, and that something was heading south. Fast. Faster than I could walk home anyway.
And there was another problem. It was only about 9:30 in the evening. And it was July. A lovely summer's evening and it was barely even dusky. I'm walking through a residential area and everyone has their curtains and windows open - I can't just pull my keks down and take a shít in the middle of the street. Can I? Ah fúck it, of course I can. Pants round my ankles, I start the job, but I'm clearly not a well boy and have a weapons grade dose of diarrhea. And of course, since I'm in the middle of a densely populated street, I have no toilet paper to hand. Never mind, I've only got about another mile to go, it'll be alright.
And I make it. I don't know how, but I've made it home. Now I may be home, but I'm not in good shape as I crawl onto my mum and dad's porch and headbutt the door in order to get their attention. Naturally, my dad's a little surprised. He was enjoying the final moments of Holby City whilst tucking into to a Chinese takeaway and he's not expecting me home for hours. He's even more surprised to find his incapacitated son lying prone on the floor, pursued by what can only be described as a giant breadcrumb trail of human shít (and, I think, a little bit of píss as well).
It would appear that I didn't do quite as well with my impromptu-poo as I had first thought. Rather than depositing onto the street as I had imagined, I'd instead caught pretty much the whole lot in my underpants. Some of it remained there, but the lions share had slipped and seeped its way through my jeans, down my legs and onto (not to mention into) my shoes. Somehow, somewhat gravity defying, it was also up my back as I lay there like some kind of oversized, drunken baby. I know it's hard to quantify this, but there really was a lot of poo. Ever so much. Think of the most poo you've ever seen in one place before, and it was probably at least three times as much as that.
And there, as my dad looked down on me not knowing whether to beat me senseless (I was pretty much already there, to be fair) or call for an ambulance, my night ended as my whole world slowly faded to black. Possibly for the last time, I really wasn't sure.
I don't really like whiskey any more.
Motogull
Todd Warrior
- Sep 16, 2005
- 10,481
That's a cracking way to end that post.
But you only had the one drink ?
Dumseagull
Active member
Woke up in the early hours of the morning in Stene Gardens, covered in a layer of dew, being dragged into the bushes by three hungry foxes, who presumed i was dead...
Colossal Squid
Returning video tapes
Poojah that is an absolute poem to teenage inebriation.
Top work
Top work
How many people took an E and thought it was a dud,so took another one and bang?
On more than one occassion!
Paris
Well-known member
In sterns in its love days you only needed 1 tab and boom you were the nuts right through until 6am. Happy days
Out of interest where was Sterns? A bit before my time.
Hillian1
( . ) ( . )
Worthing I think.
Although I went there many times I'm not sure how I got there or where we were. It was known as The mansion House.
Good times, I think.
Uncle C
Well-known member
So if apprearance on the 6 o'clock news is your criteria for being acceptable practice then lets get a few You Tube videos of Islamic extreemists on here. Would that be OK?