Going on a "lads holiday".

Full of football supporters with football on multiple screens.

Lad fun multiplied by all day booze squared by gang mentality. Horrible.

... with Jeremy Clarkson, with Steely Dan playing on a loop through the lift speakers.

that lasts for all eternity.

have nailed it. Being with or near large groups of 'lads'

That and being in meetings.

If I was ever ask to attend a meeting with loads of lads then I would go Tracy Jacks.

Plus all the stuff above about lads and football.

Anything involving over-compensatory masculinity (team sports and the partisanship it provokes, teens trying to be (or actually being) 'hard'), being trapped in an environment where sodcasting is unavoidable or a polite request may provoke a stabbing, and being with a bunch of liberal wankers rhetorically defending the above to make themselves feel good. Oh, and 'leisure centres' with their air of humidity, sweat and ignorance. Once I left school, I never wanted the whole degrading PE thing again.

Never ask me.

And you're sat in the middle of the stalls, bursting for a piss.

...is not being able to see my wife and daughters. Life without them would be unliveable.

Or more to the point, *having to* go to mass. I am sure that my high tolerance of dull work presentations and meetings is because I spent so many hundreds of childhood hours in pointless, vapid silence on some pew somewhere - listening to words that never connected with me at all.

Being surrounded by people yelling at me to "CHEER UP!!!".

For all eternity.

where Jimmy Tarbuck is the guest speaker.

(Again...)

Locked in a cell for 48 hours and been forced to listen to
the entire work of Scouting For Girls for that period.

stuck on the car stereo with no off switch.

so succinctly put it
'Hell is other people"

All the people who apply to be on The Apprentice or Big Brother.

The 'experts' from The Apprentice and Dragon's Den.

Anyone who would put 'celebrity' down as their job title.

People for whom intimidation is a big part of their personality - boozy lads looking for fights, the kind of vermin that hang around bus stations drinking strong cider, anyone who has a dog that is more like a killing machine than a family pet, etc.

People in business who behave like total w*nkers and excuse it because they're 'ex-army and don't suffer fools'. Will they ever realise that not suffering fools and being downright rude and arrogant are two totally separate things??

Stag do's and hen do's (at least 100 of which can be spotted in Edinburgh every Saturday night).

People use the phrase "it was hell" without knowing what hell is like. I've been there. I know. No Breughel painting, no heroin horror, can come close to a delayed flight at Birmingham International. At Christmas. With one Best Of Christmas CD playing, over, and over, and over ...

On station on the radio: Autotune FM
Only prog on the telly: Endless re-runs of Top Gear
Only film showing at the cinema: Moulin Rouge
Only people around: bunch of pissed up blokes on a stag year
Only art gallery showing: stuff that failed to make it into the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition
Only food available: Brawn
Only drink available: Sweet cider
Only website available: newsmax.com

or just spending a day in a shopping mall?

I can think of nothing worse. Ooo, maybe, just maybe, being stuck in a very slow moving traffic jam on a motorway, desperate for a tomtit, might just be slightly worse (but only just).

...don't worry pal, I'd kick you out pretty smartish.

without a banjo.

Or someone playing polkas on an accordion?
Being stuck in a room with Steve Martin and Snoopy sounds pretty
good to me.

backing the wrong horse again.

. with live authentic Irish / Gaelic band. I'd rather lose a testicle.

Interesting that there is so much hate for "Lads Nights" I can't think of anything better - few pints, good chat with my pals, no FPO's - what on earth is wrong with that

The problem with lad's night's out is the bravado that turns into violence, the collective pissing competitions (sometimes literally), the unintellectual conversation (suddenly you've got to be an expert on sport, the off-side rule, or gear boxes), the hangovers, the excessive addition to one's gut by drinking too much beer, the getting home, the responsibilities the next day, the whole 'gang' thing...

I've been on plenty of piss ups, enjoyed them to start with, and can say that i don't care to go on another again. Personally, I grew out of them in my early 30s (and was tired of them before). Talking over drinks and food with male pals remains fun - just not in poxy pubs or the situation being dictated by the persons with the least responsibility in the group. I no longer find getting drunk or being around people who like getting drunk fun - now they just seem sad.

Surprised so many on here view male company in such negative terms.

There are few things I enjoy more than a few beers with friends, usually a bit of shooting or sport midday, more beer, food and home.That's my idea of a grand day out.

Our next gathering will kick off at 9am this Saturday morning with a full English and the Rugby. Can't wait.

If you're among good pals whom you know aren't the pissed-up rugger bugger type out looking for a fight.

Choose your friends carefully!

That said, a 9am start to watch rugby sounds like my idea of hellI

The sights sound, and smells of an afternoon in a mall like Blue(hellandhigh)water, MerryHell, or MeadowHell during the Xmas shopping rush takes some beating.

Probably occurred last Winter during the heavy snow when I took 6 hours to travel 7 miles after already travelling 200 miles to attenda business meeting that was cancelled on arrival. The car was on the verge of a serious breakdown and I had a bad dose of the sh#ts.

I remember getting dragged to one of the "family days" organized by the catholic organization they were especially fond of. Shiny eyed people making polite, religious based small talk and jokes, priests with entourages, prayer involving people standing in circles holding hands, lots of speeches about how Jesus can help you in your everyday life.

I have been to hell. It was a room full of enthusiastic Christians. Heaven would therefore be my idea of hell.

My wife died in my arms, & I knew that I would shortly have to tell our sons.

Lowest point in my life.

To me, it was Hell.

Hell is having a catheter pulled out through the end of your penis. I can honestly say that it was the worst 5 minutes of my life :-(

"fancy dress".

.......on a Saturday afternoon.
Happened to me a couple of years ago when the game got postponed.
Ilford High Street at 3.00 pm might just have been Mars.
I just didn't get it.

Could just say the 1980s, though.
I was counting the days down from about 1985 onwards.

The idea of one more night spent in a crowd engaged in forced frivolity celebrating an arbitrary date is more than I can bear.

Big fiery bloke with pitchfork, bleedin' hot, noxious vapours, current UK Top 40 playing on a loop for the rest of time.

Other than the usual hot place, sulphurous atmosphere where your private parts are every one else's lunch buffet (ie Tarturus / Gehenna / Goethe's Abyss / Ayanappa), hell for me would be stuck in a room for all eternity in front of a TV showing a constant stream of modern day adverts.

And by modern-day ads, I mean the identikit 30-seconds-of-wretchedness that every company in the world uses, whether they be Weatherspoons, the Early Learning Centre or a part of the military-industrial complex. As well using words such as 'yummy', 'tummy' and 'mummy', the music will be some Jack Johnson type playing a ukelele, some child's xylophone, a kazoo, handclaps (in fact, any instrument you would expect to find in the smouldering remains of a mental asylum's rumpus room, that'd been torched by a firestarting former resident) - this score will also be accompanied by some whistling or 'dut-de-dut-de-dut's.

The visuals will be something willfully shite rendered via the medium of Crayola pens, in a stylee as if the under-10-section winners in Blue Peter drawing-compos back in the day really were drawn by under-10s (as opposed to their parents).

I almost get it if you were selling something like River Cottage Roadkill Burgers or Innocent Smoothies, the music kinda suits the supposed ethos of the company, but McDonalds?! And Tescos?! Really?! Drives me to batshit mentalism aiee!

BR
FT

or any soft furnishing shop. Or Past Times.

Playing drums in a holiday camp at Christmas to 500 pensioners.. again.

Mrs. BONO!!

So I'm taken up to heaven, where I join a long line of unbelievers. We're all feeling a bit silly.

One by one we're taken into a room where we are introduced to God. He is sitting there with a T-shirt that reads, "It's six thousand years old, evolution boy"; He gives me the finger and I am escorted to the Down escalator.

In Hell, it is always breakfast time. The radio is glued to a station that features the Zoo format and plays the Top 40. In the unlikely event a good song is played, the 'crew' talk over it. Oh, and there's only Murdoch tabloids to read, burnt toast to eat and tepid, cheap instant coffee to drink.

Especially at comedy gigs. *shivers*

Jim Dale resuming his singing career..

Until two years ago the Salisbury was my local. Miss the place despite the decade long wait to be served sometimes!

of he'll is the bloody predictive text on this iPhone.

Spending eternity watching re runs of Jonathan Toss's tv shows punctuated in between by Neil Young albums played at 150 decibels, whilst being forced to drink litres of lager that's clearly gone off, and being read aloud The Bible over and over again and, at the same time, having Megan Fox sitting six feet away buck nekkid, and I am not allowed to s**g her.

Being dangled upside down over a vat of flaming brimstone whilst ravens peck at my eyeballs, cackling demons prod my feet with pitchforks, succubi and incubi queue to feast upon my partially eviscerated innards and the screams of the equally damned echo in my tormented ears for all eternity and, once eternity is over, more demons appear to tell me that THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING for my torment will begin again before repeating once more until time itself has run its course and then, when I think my punishment has ended, and that sweet release is upon me, He Who Shall No Be Namèd, who speaks with a million voices but sounds as of none, who walks but with footsteps that shall not be heard, he who knows all but tells of little, He will appear and make all that has gone before seem like aeons spent dancing in Halcyon Fields with angels upon either hand for He will put on a Belle And Sebastian CD. On repeat.

...only to find that the dog has ate your winning ticket and taken a shit in your new shoes. And you don't notice until you've put them on and walked into that job interview you've been waiting on for six months.

called a venogram (injecting a dye into your veins to identify clots) in hospital once and it was sheer bloody torture, all 40-45 minutes of it. I was screaming, singing, anything to forget the pain and it was bloody horrible. If anyone here should be unlucky to face one, get very pissed beforehand. What was worse, the nurse had told me beforehand I had to shave part of my pubes and when I proudly told the doctor I had done so, he looked at me as if I had lost my mind, telling me it wasn't necessary. They have grown back !

Continuing to live underneath the heavy-footed, rave-music loving CUNTS currently bouncing around on their wooden floorboards directly above me.

Bring on the house price crash and then maybe I can buy a fucking house.

Part of my old job. Hours and hours and hours of people joining late, not listening to the conversation, people dropping out, god awful line quality, people without mute buttons, ages spent agreeing which file we're looking at, and what order it should be sorted in, managed by people who can't decide what they'd like for tea...

And then I left. And now I have just finished my 4th week in my new job in a school. Please repeat this thread in a year or two and we'll see if "children" and "education" are new entries...

Panto - I would rather eat my own shit than go to a Panto.

"You absolutely MUST dance tonight" .

F**k off.

If you want to know if it's a book, film or a song then I'll tell you.

but for a male dancer on Strictly Come Dancing it must be learning you are paired with Edwina Currie and not Holly Valance. The horror, the horror!

at a desolate Harthill services on the M8, a Saturday teatime between November and February, the whole place closed, the only thing to do is listen to Your Call on BBC Radio Scotland with Jim Traynor where a succession of intellectually challenged individuals from west central Scotland phone in to complain about bias and conspiracies against their half of the Old Firm ... in perpetuity ... and it's raining ... and dark ... and cold ... and you're dying for a pee but daren't leave the car in case of feral neds from North Lanarkshire ... Then after fiddling with the radio control for half an eternity you finally manage to switch station and it's Melanie Phillips bullying some poor philosopher on the Moral Maze, Radio 4, presenter Michael Buerk long having given up the ghost of control ... All of which makes you long for Tommy from Cambuslang again and his theory that SPL referees are not only Protestants but also werewolves ... Sadly the radio is now jammed and you have to listen to Phillips' hectoring and rudeness forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever ...

On a hillside desolate.

are getting closer.
The FPO has just said the bedroom could do with a lick of paint...

Reading the new issue thread, hoping for a little light relief, instead witnessing the irrationally bilious reactions to both Queen and The Smiths (I happen to think both are 'not bad', by the way) and wondering why people were bothering.

Now, if it had been about the shortcomings of last night's episode of Inspector George Gently...

Ars*n*l winning the Champions League

with Wee Jimmy Krankie. Christ...

I went to watch a mate play rugby once and went for a few beers afterwards. What a mistake.

First of all his team mates took the hump that I ordered a pint of bitter. Apparantly there was a thing going that everyone, and I mean everyone, must drink Guinness. Secondly I refused to join in with their rules regarding downing your pint in one go if you don't whistle first and pick up your glass with your left hand etc. My reluctance to sing songs about virgins was met with utter contempt. I think my mate was embarrassed of me by this point.

When one of them broke a chair while larking about he gave the barmaid £30 and proudly told me "you wouldn't get that with a football crowd". Like a News of the World reporter, I made my excuses and left.

I would rather scoop out my eye with a blunt spoon and poke it up my bum with a stick dipped in dogshit than drink with a rugby team again... oh hang on, I think that was the forfeit for ordering a pint of Lager.

On a car journey with a golfer and the cd/radio is bust:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAh

anywhere

Standing on slow moving packed commuter train, still damp from standing on the platform awaiting the late running 7.10 to King's Cross.

Being stuck on a Ryan Air flight that never lands..