I was running for a train at Manchester Piccadilly and I tripped over a peach. Yes, a peach. The whole train roared. I really hurt myself.

But not as embarrassing as a friend who caught her trousers in an escalator at Victoria Tube station. Her trousers slowly came down until they were around her knees. She could step out of them or anything.

She screamed, they stopped the escalator, but they had to reverse it get her trousers out. By this time a crowd had formed at the bottom and about 200 people saw her knickers.

She's still single.

I just properly burst out laughing at both those posts. Amazing.

I was taken around and introduced to every single one of my new colleagues one at a time, shook hands, had the quick "This is our new starter..." chat and then was ushered into my new manager's office, who was the first to point out that my flies were open.

and got a new pair of grey trousers from matron but I had lost a bit of weight since the last measure up and they weren't as snug as usual.
Later that day in the vast dining hall I finished my tea and my tray was heavy with various plates and cups and bowls. I decided to put my large jar of Marmite in my trouser pocket and proceeded to walk past the three hundred boys all feasting on their turkey cutlets and I could feel the trousers slip floorbound under the weight of the yeast extract.
My tray was so heavy I couldn't carry it one handed and hoist the trousers back into place and all of the tables were full so I couldn't put it down either.
By now I was closer to the exit than the table I was sat at so I tried to walk with the legs further apart to each side and make it to the tray dump. This tactic did not work and the trousers made it to the waxy wooden floor exposing my school issue beige Y fronts with dark brown trim for the last ten metres.
I always borrowed someone else's Marmite from that day forth.

I'm not the worlds greatest gardener. But I do have a pond and at one time had some fish in it. One day I noticed a heron looking gluttonously at my fish from the edge of the pond. I am a keen birdwatcher and normally would welcome such a sight. But they do have horrendously large and sharp beaks which I reasoned could puncture the lining of said pond. So I decided the best way to deter the heron would be to put some defensive lines of fishing wire around the pond. It seemed to work as the heron didn't come back and my fish remained safe.

However...it does help if you remmber where you put the lines. One day the following summer I decided that the dead leaves floating on the pond were just too irritating. SO I stepped toWARDS the edge of the pond to fish them out. You guessed it. A over T followed by a tidal wave as the then 18 stone me belly flopped into the surprisingly chilly water. This was the day of a BBQ attended by 3 sets of friends, my in-laws and the GLWs sister's family. And do they ever forget......

and I have received several emails and instant messages about my plight. My 3 year old son ran up to me as soon as I got in because he wanted to see my bum through my trousers. He shrieked with laughter.

It's not getting better.

#1
Went for an interview once, and was faced with a line of people waiting to be introduced to me. Remembering my mother's instructions about the importance of a firm handshake I went down the line, only to see the last peson veering away before I reached him. Determined to show my mettle I zipped round him and proffered my hand. And saw that he only had one arm.

#2
Was sent to meet a very stroppy client who was unhappy with our services. He kept me waiting an hour, which I spent sat on a stool at the bar of their impressive in house cafe. Four coffees later, nerves jangling I saw said client appear. I jumped off the stool to greet him and realised the stool had robbed one leg of way more circulation than I thought. I lurched towards him, but the right hand side of my body was way ahead of my left. Within 2 steps my right leg gave up trying to drag what felt like a dead seal and I pitched sideways into some neatly manicured shrubbery. Which had a lot more, rank, slimey water in the bottom than you would think. And we lost the contract.

My attempt to impersonate Adam Ant. In 2009. In the office. If I can find the picture, I may post.

I work in HR, and in 2009 we were doing lay offs. Not fun, but professionally challenging. I had to do some exit processes. This afternoon, I had to deal with someone called, let's say, "RJ". As a favor to my boss because said person was a bolshie git at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

RJ due in at 4.30. 415 swing by to see colleague Liz (junior member of team, checking in...). Decide to sit down in the nice office chair. There was a noise, and a slight tug from the pocket area. I looked down, as did Liz. Seam. Split. All the way from waist to knees.

Words of wisdom from Liz "That, well, that's not good". She did an emergency run to the local pharmacy and I spent 5 minutes safety pinning up the seam. It was very apparent what had happened.

RJ turned up. Did I mention that as well as being bolshie, he looked like a GQ model even on his worst day. I spent the meeting contorted to not display my state of (un)dress.

Oh, did I mention what I was doing at 530 that evening, straight from the office? Yep. Hot date. Deal clinching date. That's a whole other story.

Once during a class to a group of unruly 10 year olds, as I was sitting myself down, I audibly bottom-burped. Ensuing pandemonium and hilarity. I , in vain, attempted to pass it off as the sound of the chair rasping along the ground as I sat in it but they were having none of it.

Mr Drakeygirl and myself were going for a drink with his mum and dad in a little village pub. It was a gloriously sunny day, so the pub garden was packed.

We walked across the grass to grab one of the few remaining tables before someone else sat down.
This was a good plan, but there were several factors we didn't pay close enough attention to:

1) The table, one of those picnic ones with bench style seats attached, was on a slope.
2) Mr DG and I are rather generously built.
3) Both sitting down at the same time on the bench situated on the downward slope may not have been a good idea.

So everyone was duly treated to to sight of us being completely up-ended, staring at the sky, our backs on the ground, our feet pointing into the air, and the table perfectly perpendicular to the ground.

The one thing which allows me to claw back some dignity from this memory is recalling how this picture was completed by an arm sticking out of either side of the bench. We were both gripping our freshly-poured pints. And neither of us had spilled a drop.

My ex-girlfriend was visiting. (Why??) We went down the pub with a group of my mates. They sat round a block of four small, square tables in a benched alcove which they had to share with a load of big locals. I was the last to get drinks in and the only empty place was at the back of the alcove. I decided to "impress" my ex by walking over the tables. It went wrong immediately. I went straight through the lot of them and fragged every drink in sight. Damaged leg. Expensive round. Barred. Did not win ex back.

"Sketchy Ice Creams" from BBC Comedy

Never having driven one before. asked if it was possible to have a go. 'Sure, accelerator and brake all you need to know" Drive round corner which is the brake, accelerator? Press the brake whoops accelarator shoot forward and run over a tin of paint. Unfortunately eight gallons of it A vast green parabola of paint shoots in the air and floods the floor.
Foreman returns later to find a group of workmates sweeping and scooping paint into buckets. can't remember his exact words but he wasn't best pleased.

About 2 years ago my wife and I got a night off from the kids and went up the West End of Glasgow for a meal and a few drinks. To add to our freedom my mate let us stay in his flat overnight as he and his wife were away that weekend. Well...needless to say we somewhat overindulged as we were on an overnight pass and for an evening we relived our boozy, woozy days of courtship.
However, on awaking the next morning my wife sheepishly admitted that during the night she had vomited ( copiously it must be said ) in the bed. In the middle of the night she had got up ( unfortunately post vomiting ) and changed all the bedding which I had slept trough as I was basically in a coma. On examining the mattress there was no avoiding a large and very smelly stain of red vomit ( with bits in ) which needed to be addressed. After half an hour of frantic scrubbing we were left with a soggy vomit stained mattress which had soaked through to the other side ( which meant we couldn't just flip the mattress and hope it was never discovered ). My wife then went to have a shower and, left unsupervised, I had a flash of inspiration and opted to dry the mattress with a hair dryer. Well, not for one moment would I have thought wet vomit would be flamable! But now I know better. Like that map at the beginning of Bonanza my mates bed burst into flames which led to more water being quickly applied. When the smoke cleared I could only stare in disbelief at the plate sized hole in his mattress as my eyes watered from the stench of burning mattress ( with a subtle undertone of fried sick). I informed my better half of the latest developments and, understandably,she didn't believe me! However, when faced with the carnage in the bedroom she had to accept that maybe it was time for us to cut our losses and get the hell out of dodge.
My friend was very understanding as it turned out...we laugh about it now! i must admit we left out the bit about the vomiting - he thinks I spilled a cup of tea in his bed by accident ( although given his bedroom must have stunk of stale alcohol, burned vomit and detergent I doubt if he was convinced about that !!)

It was 1994, I was in my shabby student kitchen, wearing a dressing gown and trying to cook my breakfast.

The hob was a bit dodgy: I switched the gas on, tried to ignite it, nothing. Tried again with the ignition, nothing. Tried again and again and again and again and then

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMP!

A large ball of gas finally ignited, along with the front of my dressing gown.

I ran round the kitchen, shrieking, and trying to put out my flaming bosoms.

Not my finest moment.

I love this thread so much!

One chilly night, a group of us were leaving the pub. A mate of mine had his car with him; someone suggested that it might have been funny had a random passer-by etched a male member into the frost on his motor.

"Wouldn't have been as big as the knob inside," I quipped, pleased with myself.

My mate proceeded to kick me (playfully) up the 'arris. I turned round to continue the banter, meanwhile continuing forward. As I turned back, I faceplanted straight into a lamp post.

It hurt. The gales of laughter were not helpful

Taking a shortcut through one of Leeds' shopping centres just after closing, halfway through an evening on the tiles, I espied a solitary traffic cone sitting invitingly in our path. I thought it would be - oooh - a great lark to boot it one as far as I could, so I took a 25 yard run-up and... it was filled with sand. As my toe connected with it, I was coolly flipped a neat 90 degrees, and landed right on my face. The cone remained sat there, looking smug and unperturbed.

In the summer of 1989, aged 18 and having hada reasonably sheltered life, I travelled from County Down to Reading Festival, my first time away from the province on my own (and essentially unsupervised) My friend & I caught a coach from Stranraer to Bristol, then cadged a lift from them to Reading, and camped.

The weekend is something of a blur, but I do recall experiencing my first hallucinogens watching Spacemen 3 in the rain - and they were sitting down. However, that was the Friday afternoon and set the tone for the weekend.

Great weekend, great music, wonderful learning experience, and so we made our weary (very weary) way home.

On the return ferry from Stranraer to Larne, we thought we'd catch a few winks stretched out in the seats in the - actually really substantially sized - passenger lounge. AS this was Reading, it was August Bank Holiday, so the thing was *heaving* but we did get a spot and qucikly drifted off to sleep.

Now, I don't know exactly what I dreamed about, but I'm guessing it was pretty bloody scary because *whatever* was trying to catch me, obviously caught me and I screamed to get it off me. Loudly. At the top of my voice in fact. Loud enough, in fact, to wake me up to see a lounge of literally hundreds of people staring at this piteous creature screaming at the very top of his range. Mothers pulled their children to their bosom, and I slunk off the sound of ringing laugher bouncing off the steel ferry decks to spend the remainder of the journey outside in the cold spray...I never forgot that feeling, my blood runs cold now just thinking of the way they looked at me.

but an embarrassing comedy moment nonetheless:

I recently visited a potential client for the first time with a colleague of mine, who is of Asian origin with an appropriately Asian name. For those of you who've not met me, I'm slightly paler and more anglo-saxon.

Door opens, in potential client walks, straight up to me, proffering hand with a big smile...

"Morning Toro"

"Morning Neil" says I "you've obviously been looking at the pictures on our website".

Client (with a slightly puzzled look) "Errrr....nooooo"

But what the hey.

In my first year at uni, I tried to tempt a very pretty girl called Liz to join the short but august list entitled "Ladies Who Have Proven Willing To Sleep With Me". I'd had some limited success (to wit, one snog) and was keen to capitalise on this triumph.

So anyway, one night I decided that I would attempt to close the deal. And as a precautionary measure, decided to get absolutely shitfaced before doing so, because that's always a winner.

Now, Liz's room was on the same floor as mine in college, but up a funny sort of mezzanine, with its own landing. So up I staggered, knocked on her door and engaged her in lively conversation.

Things were going quite well - chatter chatter, ha ha - when I decided that I would adopt a relaxed position befitting a suave motherfucker such as myself. I sat back - suavely - against the bannister. That went well, so I swung my legs up - suavely - such that I was entirely sitting on the bannister, balanced with a cat-like and yet effortless grace.

Theoretically.

As I suavely plummeted the eleven or twelve feet to the corridor below, I reflected that I may have miscalculated. I went down like a sack of suave shit, backwards, and landed on my arse and hip, very nearly breaking the latter, entirely knocking the wind out of myself and shaking the entire college to its foundations.

This might come as a surprise, but I never did have sexual relations with that woman.

Her loss.

the last thing you would expect to see would be a manhole cover. Sure enough the last thing I saw was not only the manhole cover but also the fact it hadn't been fitted securely. One foot descended in the wrong place and I duly disappeared down said hole. I still have the scars.

But my mate and me went to France on a camping holiday when we were about 18. First time abroad, and a long trip to the South of France. Was midnight when we arrived on the site. Very humid. My mate declared he was going for a dump. I had settled and unpacked when he came breathlessly in to the tent and said he couldn't find the bogs, so had to have a shit in a shower instead. Fearing being discovered and getting kicked off the site on our first night, I said we would have to clean it up. With no lights working and only a Bic lighter, the horrendous task was completed with me vomiting half way through and having to clean that up as well. The heat, the stench, the flies buzzing around will haunt me to my dying day. Only next day did we discover that it wasn't a shower after all. It was one of those French bogs with just a hole in the floor. No shit.

I used to work in Travel Assistance (helping poor distressed souls abroad by settling medical expenses, repatriation, that sort of thing)

Mrs Bloggs calls us. Husband has, somewhat stupidly broken his ankle. Out walking, top of a slope, larks and shenanigans, falls, ankles, Ouchie.

Next day she calls back. Mr Bloggs has broken his ankle. Why, yes Mrs Bloggs, I believe we spoke not yesterday on the very matter. Oh no....

Mrt Bloggs had, in the dewy morning decided he needed to micturate. They were in a tent, so no lavvy. He hops - and hats off to the man for doing it - to the bog complex. Relieves bodily pressure.
Hops back. Now, for those of you not aware of the old Eurocamp/Sunsites type tents, they had a plastic floor mat that extended about a yard from the tent flap. Dewy morning. Hop hop hoppity hop. Mrs Bloggs finishes the story with "and the silly bugger slipped and broke his other ankle".

I tried to stifle the giggle, and ended up telling her I had a bad cough and had to put her on mute. "No, go on, laugh. I did. He's such a prat".

That was a great job.

really rather fancied himself as a youth. He did, he has never tired of telling me, have the best quiff in Glasgow.

So one day, in the burbs, he was waiting for a bus. Saturday afternoon, and everyone and their granny was going into town, so the bus stop was packed. A rather pretty young lass caught his eye, he smiled, she blushed, it coulda been the start of a beautiful friendship.

Except, except. He tried to look just a little too cool and nonchalant by putting his left foot up behind him on the glass of the bus shelter, and leaning gently back against it. Which would have been fine, had that glass been there.

Instead he did a full "Del Boy", with arms folded, smacking his head on the pavement just as a packed bus pulled up, to join the mockery of all those at the bus stop.

The pretty girl got on the bus. He decided to wait for the next one.

And, can I just say, this is the best thread ever. Thanks Leedsboy.

How uncanny. Not ten minutes ago I stepped on a garden rake in my garage and got smacked right in the chin. Not the best way to start the morning.

Other examples? Standing side of stage at a Mekons gig. Jon Langford very kindly gave me a name-check for one reason or another and I casually and rather smugly leaned against the wall basking in the glory of such recognition. Thing was, it wasn't a wall but a curtain and I promptly fell through the fucker and dropped three foot off the side of the stage.
Cool, eh?

Bur the sister of an ex girlfriend and her husband. They went out with friends. Susan was pregnant and her normally mild, well behaved husband got comprehensively bladdered. They had arranged to stay in their friends spare room and Gerry passed out, only to wake in the morning in damp, smelly sheets as he had wet the bed. What Susan never forgave him for was he tried to persuade her to tell their friends that her waters had broken.

A few years ago went to see a new prospective client I had never met before. Took a seat in the reception area which was under the stairs leading to the first floor. Waited for about 10 minutes - when the client arrived I stood up rather too enthusiastically and didnt realise that I was taller than the part of the stairs where I was sitting. I had a terrific bang on the head that left me reeling and rubbing my head while trying to conduct a meaningful conversation.

Another visit to another customer - someone I had at least met before so they knew I was a bit dippy. Held the meeting and left. I got into my car a reversed straight into a metal barrier I had never noticed before - there was quite a loud bang. Rather than risk the embarrassment of getting out and looking at the damage I had done to my car I sped off and thought I had escaped ridicule. Later on in the day I called the client to verify some details of the discussions we had held. She rtold me that the entire office had witnessed my little accident and had roared with laughter.

Seems to attract these sorts of stories. He has far too many to mention to his name, so I'll give you just one of his finest.

He's a dentist, like me. His surgery is on the top floor of a four storey building. He finishes with a patient and leaves the nurse to take the said patient down to reception three floors below, prior to the nurse escorting up the next patient. He has a couple of minute's grace and, as such, turns to his monitor for a quick look at a spectacularly pornographic email sent by a mate (not me, for once) and, at the same time, lifts a leg to let rip a truly spectacular bent-knee fart. So magnificent is the fart that it makes him giggle to himself. He becomes aware that something is wrong. He has shat himself. Big style. He becomes aware that, as the sensation of damp squidgyness spreads around his nether regions, that something else isn't right. He turns around.

His nurse and the patient, who has come back to pick up her forgotten handbag, are standing horrorstruck in the doorway as Justin, in his obviously heavily befouled set of surgical scrubs, struggles to manoevre himself between them and the monitor currently showing a video of a lady and a pig engaged in activities not normally covered by Countryfile.

The nurse is still working for him. The patient is still a patient. This gives some indication of how charming Justin can be when the situation demands it.

The quickest way to tell this story is to list component parts .

1) A Platform of similar height to most flat bed trucks .

2) Stacks of milk crates in three distinct groupings ,empty crates , crates full of empty returned bottles ( unwashed ) , crates full of returned milk ( a large percentage of which is sour ) .

3) Lots of water flowing not all into the ground drains designed, thus footwear was wellies .

4) A young Danmac with a clipboard counting said stacks .

I step backwards into an area where someone has neglected to build any platform . Both hands endeavour to rescue the situation by grabbing the nearest structure . This , alas , consists of empty crates . I continue to fall backwards . Providence has placed a flat bed VW van ( thus a few inches lower than the trucks ) in locale to arrest my decent . Sadly instead of providing respite , my mid air attempt to rectify my situation only results in a painful collision of said vans tail gate and my ribs . I am now spinning as well as decending to the unwelcoming tarmac . The resulting impact leaves me winded and confused . I then look up only to spot the stack had decided to join me . This is when I discover it is a hybrid stack . Yes there are empty crates ,however someone has put 2 crates of empty bottles and topped it with a crate of full sour milk . As I lay there covered in sour milk , glass and crates the manager appeared , suggested I should " stop arseing around , clean up and get on with it " 30 years on and I can still play the whole thing in slo mo in my head .

until this thread reminded me.
The store I work in has its loading entrance on the side of the building facing a busy street just before a traffic junction.
Most of the time that street is full of cars waiting for the lights to turn green.
The delivery trucks back up towards the loading ramp, leaving a slim corridor between the truck and the wall where you'll have to pass if you want to get to the entrance. As my bus stops a little distance ahead on said street I tend to let myself in through that door rather than walking around the building to go through the customer entrance.
Before it was paved that corridor used to consist of sloping flower beds and a tiny tree with its branches sticking out at eye level.
One winters day I came from the bus and as a huge truck was parked beside the loading entrance I went forward on the frozen slope. And being too busy ducking underneath those tree branches I didn't notice the ice patch on the slope and was totally unprepared when my feet slid down that slope at a surprising speed.
I fell backwards and the speed of my fall made me slide helplessly all the way underneath that truck, landing in the dirty sloppy mess that the wheels of many trucks had turned the snow into.
Getting myself out from under there proved to be rather more difficult than getting there in the first place. I was wet and greasy from top to toe before I finally could crawl out of there and get inside to wash off and change my clothes.
My only comfort during my ridiculous circus act was that the same truck that was the reason for my problems also helped to shield me from the stares and laughter of queueing motorists...
I've never felt sillier in my entire life ( and that's saying something as I am notoriously clumsy ).

of the time when I worked for the then nationalised British Rail back in the 70s. It was at the time of a lot of IRA activity and we had to be alert to potential bombs on the platforms. I walked along the crowded Platform One and espied an unattended briefcase against the wall. Still walking, but looking at the briefcase, I ploughed straight into a stanchion, in full view of dozens of passengers. Not wishing to lose face, but forgetting about the briefcase, I shook my head, walked on, and dived into the Gents loos. Once inside, I let out an almighty howl and whacked on the cold water and splashed it all over my face. You can imagine the look of consternation on the faces of the others in the loos. I never went back to investigate the briefcase but it didn't explode anyway.

Then there was the time I got rather tired and emotional on the top floor of a pizza restaurant and, walking down the rather wide stairs, tripped and hurtled down, crashing into a large pot plant and a group of people at the bottom. Remember being incredibly witty and saying "Hi, just dropped in!" before getting up and lurching off.

Not one's finest moments!

had a waitress throw two complete banana splits into my lap in the middle of a busy restaurant.

When young and foolish I was bet that I couldn't climb up two storeys of scaffolding and jump off into a pile of sand Easy. Climbed up jumped off no problems. Pride goeth before a fall. I climb up again bang head on jutting scaffold pole and fall off, this time a three storey fall towards the foundations and a pile of bricks. I came to, to see the scaffolding shooting upwards and me hurtling downwards.
Put out hand and manage to catch hold of another scaffold pole and stop my descent. Shaken ( and somewhat stirred). Whenever I go past those flats, I give a small involutary shudder.

Oh and I had to break into my then girlfriend's house as she had lost her key. Started to climb up the drainpipe part way up a neighbour looked out( someone that I knew from work) I waved and said I was just trying to gain entry through the skylight window, lost key etc.
Made it to the roof, tried to shimmy across the tiles to the window started to slide and the edge of the roof came closer. I managed to stop myself and climbed up the side to the apex. Lining myself up with the skylight window I let go and slid down to the open window. I dropped down and opened the door to a hero's welcome. I think I shook for the rest of the night. (Harold Lloyd eat your heart out).
Mind you the work colleague kept giving me funny looks at work.

Not forgetting the time I was cycling back from teaching bricklaying, bag on the front carrying line and pins(to ensure that a wall was running true)Pins were quite substantial pieces of metal and wore a hole in the carrier bag, just picking up speed went A over T and the road came up to meet me.

In my London cycling days used to ride around in a maxi skirt, bunched up under bum in trad fashion; of course one day it escaped and got caught in the chain and ripped right round at hip level, leaving me to pedal home, and walk upstairs to our 3rd floor flat, in a tiny ragged pelmet fringing my knicks.
Next year hot pants came in so wouldn't have been a problem. ndeed, dare say it wasn't a problem anyway for the male denizens of Streatham Hill, I mean when you're 20 years old not much is a problem is it?
In fact, on the hot pants theme, I then acquired a motorbike which I used to ride attired in said items. (Don't try this at home kids.) At the traffic lights at Brompton Oratory, another biker drew up alongside - I think on a scooter, to add insult to injury - and made a lunging attempt to kiss me. I jammed down the visor on my helmet, chopping his nose, before roaring off. More the infliction of embarrassment than suffering it I suppose.

On Saturday, I had the honour of being best man at my friend's wedding. Hooray for me, but I'm a very nervous public speaker and was extremely worried about giving my speech. Luckily, the speech went really well, but I still managed to make a complete fool of myself earlier in the day.

The rings were brought in tied to a cushion. My task was to untie them and place on a tray I'd been given. This I managed with some aplomb. I then just had to leave them on the tray until it was time for that part of the ceremony.

As that part was getting near, I thought I'd hold the tray (more of a glass dish with a silk cloth on top really) so I'd be EXTRA ready when the time came. Just before I was to be called up, I noticed one of the sleeves of my suit jacket had ridden up a bit high, so tried to adjust it.

Mistake.

The vicar left a gap in the vows at the exact moment the rings slid off the tray and bounced onto the floor. And bounce they did - very loudly. I managed to retrieve them both (with the help of an usher) but not before the entire congregation had laughed at me. I felt like an utter wally for the rest of the day.

Out for dinner with family. Put orange juice into youngest daughter's sippy cup. As I put the top on, it forces a jet of juice out of the spout about three feet into the air which then lands straight on my head. I actually heard people gasp and the whole restaurant go silent for a second before lots of stifled sniggers. I attempted unsuccessfully to wipe my face, hair and top in a nonchalant manner.

Many years earlier I was driving and decided to remove my fleece jacket at the next traffic lights. Underneath I had on only a stretchy little top (I was much younger and perkier in those days!) Quickly whipped jacket off and went duly on way. At the next traffic lights I could see a man in the next car grinning and gesticulating. I assumed he was motioning about the car (a sporty little mini) and mouthed "yes, have you never seen a woman in a sports car before, knob?" A few seconds later I realised I had managed to dislodge one boob while taking my jacket off and I was actually driving round with it on display to all and sundry.

Oh dear, that does bring back another partially-repressed memory - walking near Norfolk coast in a bikini (in my defence, it was a really hot day and near the seaside) when thunderstorm blew up out of nowhere. I donned my tiny sarong, which basically meant I was wearing a wet tea-towel, and we descended to the roadside and were trudging along through the torrents when a Volvo drew up and offered me a lift, at which point my husband, some steps behind, appeared and we both jumped in. Result. The driver spent a lot of time on the journey to our destination gazing into his rear-view mirror. I took it he was merely fascinated by the weird spectacle we presented. Well, maybe he was but when we got out, I realised that in shuffling along the back seat, the drag on the sarong had pulled down my strapless bikini top on one side, neatly revealing a nude breast which I was too cold and wet to notice .... Oh well, we'd never see him again and it may have been some compensation for his wet upholstery.
I think that's it for the flashing stories, I wouldn't like the world to think my life is a litany of inadvertent exposure incidents.

the 1st floor of a quaint little pub in Bruges is not a good idea, especially if you have been on the lash all day. As I recall it, came out of the gents looking and feeling triumphant having remembered not to pee down my trousers and/or safely zipped up, took one look at someone coming out of the ladies and took a tumble arse first straight down to the bottom. I thought I was quite dignified given the circumstances, she thought she had terrified me, the reasons were far more prosaic - an innate clumsiness combined with 13% proof beer. On the bright side, the atmosphere brightened quite a bit and we all got on famously. I didn't dare go back upstairs though, was bloody bursting when we left.

friend walks into work with half one eyebrow and small patch of hair from the back missing. Why please? Had been running late, decided to have a (her words) 'Rotherham Shower' consisting of a hefty squirt of Right Guard under each arm pit in her car. Promptly lit up a fag. Fireball up dashboard, across car ceiling, over her head.
She survived unscathed (except for the hair loss) so I can pee myself about it. What I found even more amusing was imagining what it must have looked like from the outside of the car.

I'm sure she wouldn't also mind me sharing that she once bought a tomato gro-bag from the garden centre, opened it and watered it for weeks but nothing grew...fortunately she complained to her dad first (rather than Notcutts who would have surely imposed a life ban) who asked her when she had planted the tomato plants in it. BLANK STARE.

Oh - also have a mate who got one foot stuck in a metal bucket. I do not have the details as to how this occured. I really must email her and find out.

Once splashed out on a taxi ( no, not like that! ) from Glasgow city centre to Dennistoun after a night on the tiles. Only a short journey, but on arriving at my destination I was aggrieved to see the meter indicated I owed £6.50 which was way over what the fare should be. As i began to argue the toss about this percieved injustice the taxi driver pointed out I was looking at his cabs digital clock and not the meter! DOH!! Profuse apologies followed and inordinate tip handed over.