Weirdest thing a colleague has done
Comments
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And more besidescharltonkeston said:
Probably, but I bet you’ve seen some arseholes in your time ;-)ShootersHillGuru said:The world of Radiography must be more boring than accountancy.
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Cheers mate I new I was not getting confused.Brendan_O_Connell said:
Nope, there is an OFAH where Uncle Albert eats the dog pills and Duke eats Albert's sleeping pills.golfaddick said:
Aren't you mixing up 2 classic comedies. Porridge had an episode where some pills were stolen, which Fletch had to swallow when Mckay caught him & which turned out to be for the Governors dog's bad breathblackpool72 said:
Bit like the fools and horses scratch when uncle Albert eats some BobMartin dog tablets.ForeverAddickted said:
Damn was hoping that you'd say that he'd taken some women's pills or somethingStuart the Red said:A guy I worked with wasn’t feeling well and complaining of a headache. As noone had any painkillers, he wandered around opening random peoples draws until he found some tablets lying loosely about and swallowed them.
Next thing you know he (unsurprisingly) has an allegic reaction, his head swells to almost twice its size. This cues instant panic, ambulance trip and a visit to A&E,
The funny thing was, that he was back in the office the next morning as though nothing had happened.
We never found out what it was he swallowed as the bloke whose desk it was couldn't even remember having left any tablets in it!
Woof woof
Del and Rodney think they've killed the dog.
Although at my age I often am0 -
Back in time one of my Engineer colleagues was a pompous gay magician.
Jack (not his real name) was in his sixties and a fairly successful as a magician but not the best engineer.
We spent a couple of years travelling from Norfolk working on a large construction project in North Wales.
From our site office in North Wales Jack would often spend time on the telephone purchasing magical stuff from the U.K. and abroad.
I remember quizzing him about one stilted telephone conversation he often had with a bloke in Manchester.
He said the bloke who had a bad stutter was working on a sawing a woman in half illusion but hadn’t quite perfected it. I wondered if there were loads of women wondering around Manchester with saw cuts around their midriffs!!
I digress but you get the picture.
So, our two year routine. On Monday morning my wife would drop me off at work in Norwich with my suitcase.
Jack would meet me at work and we would proceed the long journey to North Wales via Jacks house to collect his baggage and return to Norfolk on Thursday week 11 days later.
On one occasion as we were collecting his suitcase from his house Jack introduced me to Mrs Whatshername. I was confused, what would a gay bloke want with a rather attractive lady more than half his age.
“She’s my new cleaner” he said.
“Don’t forget to clean this and that” he said pointing in his pompous way.
“And don’t forget to lock the house because I’ve loads of valuable magic illusions”.
So off we went to Wales for our 11 days of graft (at least that’s what we told the boss).
Thursday 11 days later leaving work late afternoon we raced back to Norfolk arriving late at night to enjoy Friday off work at least that was the plan that had worked for months.
This time was different. Jack dropped me off at my house about midnight and proceeded to his home. Unfortunately Jack somehow lost his house keys when he arrived home.
He went round to his new cleaner’s house banging on the door, a big bloke in a pair of underpants unhappily woken by Jack answered the door.
I can only guess Jack demanded to speak in his pompous way to the bloke’s wife.
So Jack, with his spare house key retrieved from the lady went back home, and that would be the end of the story but.
The bloke presumably in his underpants fumed all night. Not only with Jacks audacity for waking him after midnight but more importantly unknown to Jack the cleaner had been occasionally sleeping in Jacks house while we were in North Wales.
But worst of all the bloke unaware that Jack was gay, thought Jack was having an afire with his wife.
Next morning while sitting in his favourite hairdresser having his near bald pate trimmed Jack got a frantic message that police were swarming over his house.
Apparently his cleaners husband was seen running up Jacks drive shouting “Where’s that bastard I’m going to kill him”.
He banged on the door and when there was no answer he smashed the glass door pane opened the door, grabbed one of Jacks swords that he used for his magic and proceeded to wreck the house blood spurting from his arm.
Luckily for Jack the police arrived and arrested the bloke before Jack returned from the Hairdressers.
They said the bloke would have killed Jack.
I couldn't believe how much damage the bloke had done in a few minutes when Jack showed me around his wrecked house.
The court case was some time later and somehow I missed the outcome.
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The question is, were you the giver or the taker?0
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Not sure what you mean by that comment RobboRobbo on the wing said:The question is, were you the giver or the taker?
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No, nor do I.
I was answering a completely different persons comment.
Looking back, it was cafcdaves, but the sudden flurry of comments meant it was pushed down the order.11 -
If "colleague" can be extended to sports team-mate, then I will tell you about someone I played cricket with for twenty years called Steve.
Steve was a brilliant wicket-keeper batsman about twenty years before I knew him. But, by the time I had been introduced to him, booze, fags and an odd diet had put paid to any sporting prowess. In fact, he was usually only picked to make the rest of the team look better.
For a while, Steve lived in Brighton and worked in Victoria. So he had a simple train journey home every night. Things didn't always go to plan, however. One night, after too many beers, he got the Brighton train from Victoria, but fell into a deep sleep. He woke up several hours later, surrounded by commuters, just as the train was pulling in to Victoria. He got out of the train and walked to work.
He used to eat a lot of curry. Typically, he would buy a chicken phall somewhere in Victoria, take it home on the train, eat half of it that night when he got home, stick it in the fridge and have the rest for breakfast the next morning. One day, he went through this routine, bought the curry, got on the train, put the curry on the overhead luggage rack and sat opposite it. A man - specifically a bald man - got on, sat opposite him (under the curry) and promptly fell asleep. Steve fell asleep too, but woke up before the bald passenger and looked up at his curry to check it was ok. It wasn't. It had slipped out of the bag, the lid had come off and chicken phall was now dripping down the wall of the train carriage from the bag and onto the bald head of the bloke opposite him. An unguent, gooey, pungent gloop, smothering the bald stranger's pate. Steve got up, changed carriages, and went hungry that night.
One night, in Brighton, Steve was mugged. The mugger told him to give him any cash he had. Steve - absolutely pissed at this time - said he didn't have any, but would he accept a cheque? The bloke agreed. So Steve wrote him a cheque. Then, as he didn't have a cheque card, wrote his address on the back.
He umpired a game of cricket once, at Bexleyheath (or is it Bexley? The ground next to Welling Utd, anyway). The opening bowler bowled his first delivery and Steve signalled a no-ball. The bowler asked him whether it was for his front foot or back foot, so he could make adjustments on his next delivery. Steve told him it wasn't because of his feet, it was because the bowler hadn't told him he was bowling "right arm over". The bowler got the hump and bowled a vicious bouncer next ball. Steve gave another no-ball. "What was THAT for?" he said. "You still haven't told me".
He got fined for a minor financial misdemeanour. The judge handed down the fine - £500. "That's ok" said Steve, "is a pound a year ok?"
A mutual friend - Pete - got a visit from the police looking for Steve once. They explained why they were looking for him - something "unusual" had happened with one of the companies Steve owned. Pete said he was sorry, but didn't know where Steve was. The police said that's ok, because they were after him - Pete - too. "Why?" "Because you're the Company Secretary". Steve had set up a limited company and put Pete down as Company Secretary, without bothering to tell him.
Lovely man. Sadly missed. RIP Steve.
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That is both funny and sadChizz said:If "colleague" can be extended to sports team-mate, then I will tell you about someone I played cricket with for twenty years called Steve.
Steve was a brilliant wicket-keeper batsman about twenty years before I knew him. But, by the time I had been introduced to him, booze, fags and an odd diet had put paid to any sporting prowess. In fact, he was usually only picked to make the rest of the team look better.
For a while, Steve lived in Brighton and worked in Victoria. So he had a simple train journey home every night. Things didn't always go to plan, however. One night, after too many beers, he got the Brighton train from Victoria, but fell into a deep sleep. He woke up several hours later, surrounded by commuters, just as the train was pulling in to Victoria. He got out of the train and walked to work.
He used to eat a lot of curry. Typically, he would buy a chicken phall somewhere in Victoria, take it home on the train, eat half of it that night when he got home, stick it in the fridge and have the rest for breakfast the next morning. One day, he went through this routine, bought the curry, got on the train, put the curry on the overhead luggage rack and sat opposite it. A man - specifically a bald man - got on, sat opposite him (under the curry) and promptly fell asleep. Steve fell asleep too, but woke up before the bald passenger and looked up at his curry to check it was ok. It wasn't. It had slipped out of the bag, the lid had come off and chicken phall was now dripping down the wall of the train carriage from the bag and onto the bald head of the bloke opposite him. An unguent, gooey, pungent gloop, smothering the bald stranger's pate. Steve got up, changed carriages, and went hungry that night.
One night, in Brighton, Steve was mugged. The mugger told him to give him any cash he had. Steve - absolutely pissed at this time - said he didn't have any, but would he accept a cheque? The bloke agreed. So Steve wrote him a cheque. Then, as he didn't have a cheque card, wrote his address on the back.
He umpired a game of cricket once, at Bexleyheath (or is it Bexley? The ground next to Welling Utd, anyway). The opening bowler bowled his first delivery and Steve signalled a no-ball. The bowler asked him whether it was for his front foot or back foot, so he could make adjustments on his next delivery. Steve told him it wasn't because of his feet, it was because the bowler hadn't told him he was bowling "right arm over". The bowler got the hump and bowled a vicious bouncer next ball. Steve gave another no-ball. "What was THAT for?" he said. "You still haven't told me".
He got fined for a minor financial misdemeanour. The judge handed down the fine - £500. "That's ok" said Steve, "is a pound a year ok?"
A mutual friend - Pete - got a visit from the police looking for Steve once. They explained why they were looking for him - something "unusual" had happened with one of the companies Steve owned. Pete said he was sorry, but didn't know where Steve was. The police said that's ok, because they were after him - Pete - too. "Why?" "Because you're the Company Secretary". Steve had set up a limited company and put Pete down as Company Secretary, without bothering to tell him.
Lovely man. Sadly missed. RIP Steve.3 -
That's a myth.Robbo on the wing said:The question is, were you the giver or the taker?
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A bit like CLB74.blackpool72 said:
That is both funny and sadChizz said:If "colleague" can be extended to sports team-mate, then I will tell you about someone I played cricket with for twenty years called Steve.
Steve was a brilliant wicket-keeper batsman about twenty years before I knew him. But, by the time I had been introduced to him, booze, fags and an odd diet had put paid to any sporting prowess. In fact, he was usually only picked to make the rest of the team look better.
For a while, Steve lived in Brighton and worked in Victoria. So he had a simple train journey home every night. Things didn't always go to plan, however. One night, after too many beers, he got the Brighton train from Victoria, but fell into a deep sleep. He woke up several hours later, surrounded by commuters, just as the train was pulling in to Victoria. He got out of the train and walked to work.
He used to eat a lot of curry. Typically, he would buy a chicken phall somewhere in Victoria, take it home on the train, eat half of it that night when he got home, stick it in the fridge and have the rest for breakfast the next morning. One day, he went through this routine, bought the curry, got on the train, put the curry on the overhead luggage rack and sat opposite it. A man - specifically a bald man - got on, sat opposite him (under the curry) and promptly fell asleep. Steve fell asleep too, but woke up before the bald passenger and looked up at his curry to check it was ok. It wasn't. It had slipped out of the bag, the lid had come off and chicken phall was now dripping down the wall of the train carriage from the bag and onto the bald head of the bloke opposite him. An unguent, gooey, pungent gloop, smothering the bald stranger's pate. Steve got up, changed carriages, and went hungry that night.
One night, in Brighton, Steve was mugged. The mugger told him to give him any cash he had. Steve - absolutely pissed at this time - said he didn't have any, but would he accept a cheque? The bloke agreed. So Steve wrote him a cheque. Then, as he didn't have a cheque card, wrote his address on the back.
He umpired a game of cricket once, at Bexleyheath (or is it Bexley? The ground next to Welling Utd, anyway). The opening bowler bowled his first delivery and Steve signalled a no-ball. The bowler asked him whether it was for his front foot or back foot, so he could make adjustments on his next delivery. Steve told him it wasn't because of his feet, it was because the bowler hadn't told him he was bowling "right arm over". The bowler got the hump and bowled a vicious bouncer next ball. Steve gave another no-ball. "What was THAT for?" he said. "You still haven't told me".
He got fined for a minor financial misdemeanour. The judge handed down the fine - £500. "That's ok" said Steve, "is a pound a year ok?"
A mutual friend - Pete - got a visit from the police looking for Steve once. They explained why they were looking for him - something "unusual" had happened with one of the companies Steve owned. Pete said he was sorry, but didn't know where Steve was. The police said that's ok, because they were after him - Pete - too. "Why?" "Because you're the Company Secretary". Steve had set up a limited company and put Pete down as Company Secretary, without bothering to tell him.
Lovely man. Sadly missed. RIP Steve.1 - Sponsored links:
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That umpiring one is a classic!Chizz said:If "colleague" can be extended to sports team-mate, then I will tell you about someone I played cricket with for twenty years called Steve.
Steve was a brilliant wicket-keeper batsman about twenty years before I knew him. But, by the time I had been introduced to him, booze, fags and an odd diet had put paid to any sporting prowess. In fact, he was usually only picked to make the rest of the team look better.
For a while, Steve lived in Brighton and worked in Victoria. So he had a simple train journey home every night. Things didn't always go to plan, however. One night, after too many beers, he got the Brighton train from Victoria, but fell into a deep sleep. He woke up several hours later, surrounded by commuters, just as the train was pulling in to Victoria. He got out of the train and walked to work.
He used to eat a lot of curry. Typically, he would buy a chicken phall somewhere in Victoria, take it home on the train, eat half of it that night when he got home, stick it in the fridge and have the rest for breakfast the next morning. One day, he went through this routine, bought the curry, got on the train, put the curry on the overhead luggage rack and sat opposite it. A man - specifically a bald man - got on, sat opposite him (under the curry) and promptly fell asleep. Steve fell asleep too, but woke up before the bald passenger and looked up at his curry to check it was ok. It wasn't. It had slipped out of the bag, the lid had come off and chicken phall was now dripping down the wall of the train carriage from the bag and onto the bald head of the bloke opposite him. An unguent, gooey, pungent gloop, smothering the bald stranger's pate. Steve got up, changed carriages, and went hungry that night.
One night, in Brighton, Steve was mugged. The mugger told him to give him any cash he had. Steve - absolutely pissed at this time - said he didn't have any, but would he accept a cheque? The bloke agreed. So Steve wrote him a cheque. Then, as he didn't have a cheque card, wrote his address on the back.
He umpired a game of cricket once, at Bexleyheath (or is it Bexley? The ground next to Welling Utd, anyway). The opening bowler bowled his first delivery and Steve signalled a no-ball. The bowler asked him whether it was for his front foot or back foot, so he could make adjustments on his next delivery. Steve told him it wasn't because of his feet, it was because the bowler hadn't told him he was bowling "right arm over". The bowler got the hump and bowled a vicious bouncer next ball. Steve gave another no-ball. "What was THAT for?" he said. "You still haven't told me".
He got fined for a minor financial misdemeanour. The judge handed down the fine - £500. "That's ok" said Steve, "is a pound a year ok?"
A mutual friend - Pete - got a visit from the police looking for Steve once. They explained why they were looking for him - something "unusual" had happened with one of the companies Steve owned. Pete said he was sorry, but didn't know where Steve was. The police said that's ok, because they were after him - Pete - too. "Why?" "Because you're the Company Secretary". Steve had set up a limited company and put Pete down as Company Secretary, without bothering to tell him.
Lovely man. Sadly missed. RIP Steve.
Reminds me of the bloke who used to manage my junior team and also umpire.
"How the hell was that a wide umpire?"
"What? You want to learn to bowl before you try to umpire son!"16 -
The old office I worked at, we had what we called 'the usual place'. Essentially a spot on top of one of the filing cabinets. People would bring in biscuits, or cake etc. leave them there and send an email round saying "Cake in the usual place", or whatever.
One day I'm sat at my desk and one lad sends round an email saying "Spam in the usual place". Wondered if it was a poor passive aggressive joke about office circular emails clogging up his inbox, but no, in 'the usual place' was a plate of spam, all neatly sliced and arranged in a fan shape, with a jar of cocktail onions next to it.21 -
Steve sounds great.Chizz said:If "colleague" can be extended to sports team-mate, then I will tell you about someone I played cricket with for twenty years called Steve.
Steve was a brilliant wicket-keeper batsman about twenty years before I knew him. But, by the time I had been introduced to him, booze, fags and an odd diet had put paid to any sporting prowess. In fact, he was usually only picked to make the rest of the team look better.
For a while, Steve lived in Brighton and worked in Victoria. So he had a simple train journey home every night. Things didn't always go to plan, however. One night, after too many beers, he got the Brighton train from Victoria, but fell into a deep sleep. He woke up several hours later, surrounded by commuters, just as the train was pulling in to Victoria. He got out of the train and walked to work.
He used to eat a lot of curry. Typically, he would buy a chicken phall somewhere in Victoria, take it home on the train, eat half of it that night when he got home, stick it in the fridge and have the rest for breakfast the next morning. One day, he went through this routine, bought the curry, got on the train, put the curry on the overhead luggage rack and sat opposite it. A man - specifically a bald man - got on, sat opposite him (under the curry) and promptly fell asleep. Steve fell asleep too, but woke up before the bald passenger and looked up at his curry to check it was ok. It wasn't. It had slipped out of the bag, the lid had come off and chicken phall was now dripping down the wall of the train carriage from the bag and onto the bald head of the bloke opposite him. An unguent, gooey, pungent gloop, smothering the bald stranger's pate. Steve got up, changed carriages, and went hungry that night.
One night, in Brighton, Steve was mugged. The mugger told him to give him any cash he had. Steve - absolutely pissed at this time - said he didn't have any, but would he accept a cheque? The bloke agreed. So Steve wrote him a cheque. Then, as he didn't have a cheque card, wrote his address on the back.
He umpired a game of cricket once, at Bexleyheath (or is it Bexley? The ground next to Welling Utd, anyway). The opening bowler bowled his first delivery and Steve signalled a no-ball. The bowler asked him whether it was for his front foot or back foot, so he could make adjustments on his next delivery. Steve told him it wasn't because of his feet, it was because the bowler hadn't told him he was bowling "right arm over". The bowler got the hump and bowled a vicious bouncer next ball. Steve gave another no-ball. "What was THAT for?" he said. "You still haven't told me".
He got fined for a minor financial misdemeanour. The judge handed down the fine - £500. "That's ok" said Steve, "is a pound a year ok?"
A mutual friend - Pete - got a visit from the police looking for Steve once. They explained why they were looking for him - something "unusual" had happened with one of the companies Steve owned. Pete said he was sorry, but didn't know where Steve was. The police said that's ok, because they were after him - Pete - too. "Why?" "Because you're the Company Secretary". Steve had set up a limited company and put Pete down as Company Secretary, without bothering to tell him.
Lovely man. Sadly missed. RIP Steve.1 -
Both a taker and a giver eh?ElfsborgAddick said:
That's a myth.Robbo on the wing said:The question is, were you the giver or the taker?
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Everyone is missing the glaringly obvious question.........The Red Robin said:
Steve sounds great.Chizz said:If "colleague" can be extended to sports team-mate, then I will tell you about someone I played cricket with for twenty years called Steve.
Steve was a brilliant wicket-keeper batsman about twenty years before I knew him. But, by the time I had been introduced to him, booze, fags and an odd diet had put paid to any sporting prowess. In fact, he was usually only picked to make the rest of the team look better.
For a while, Steve lived in Brighton and worked in Victoria. So he had a simple train journey home every night. Things didn't always go to plan, however. One night, after too many beers, he got the Brighton train from Victoria, but fell into a deep sleep. He woke up several hours later, surrounded by commuters, just as the train was pulling in to Victoria. He got out of the train and walked to work.
He used to eat a lot of curry. Typically, he would buy a chicken phall somewhere in Victoria, take it home on the train, eat half of it that night when he got home, stick it in the fridge and have the rest for breakfast the next morning. One day, he went through this routine, bought the curry, got on the train, put the curry on the overhead luggage rack and sat opposite it. A man - specifically a bald man - got on, sat opposite him (under the curry) and promptly fell asleep. Steve fell asleep too, but woke up before the bald passenger and looked up at his curry to check it was ok. It wasn't. It had slipped out of the bag, the lid had come off and chicken phall was now dripping down the wall of the train carriage from the bag and onto the bald head of the bloke opposite him. An unguent, gooey, pungent gloop, smothering the bald stranger's pate. Steve got up, changed carriages, and went hungry that night.
One night, in Brighton, Steve was mugged. The mugger told him to give him any cash he had. Steve - absolutely pissed at this time - said he didn't have any, but would he accept a cheque? The bloke agreed. So Steve wrote him a cheque. Then, as he didn't have a cheque card, wrote his address on the back.
He umpired a game of cricket once, at Bexleyheath (or is it Bexley? The ground next to Welling Utd, anyway). The opening bowler bowled his first delivery and Steve signalled a no-ball. The bowler asked him whether it was for his front foot or back foot, so he could make adjustments on his next delivery. Steve told him it wasn't because of his feet, it was because the bowler hadn't told him he was bowling "right arm over". The bowler got the hump and bowled a vicious bouncer next ball. Steve gave another no-ball. "What was THAT for?" he said. "You still haven't told me".
He got fined for a minor financial misdemeanour. The judge handed down the fine - £500. "That's ok" said Steve, "is a pound a year ok?"
A mutual friend - Pete - got a visit from the police looking for Steve once. They explained why they were looking for him - something "unusual" had happened with one of the companies Steve owned. Pete said he was sorry, but didn't know where Steve was. The police said that's ok, because they were after him - Pete - too. "Why?" "Because you're the Company Secretary". Steve had set up a limited company and put Pete down as Company Secretary, without bothering to tell him.
Lovely man. Sadly missed. RIP Steve.
Did the mugger cash the cheque?6 -
I'm booking marking this to come back to when ever I need cheering up.
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That mugging story!1
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The cheque story is brilliant!1
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As far-fetched as some of these stories are, this is still fast becoming my favourite thread.3
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I'd recommend this one for similar reasons:Rob7Lee said:I'm booking marking this to come back to when ever I need cheering up.
forum.charltonlife.com/discussion/74206/weirdest-things-that-have-happened-to-you-on-a-date/p16 - Sponsored links:
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These threads are classic. This site is the funniest thing on the Internet sometimes.North Lower Neil said:
I'd recommend this one for similar reasons:Rob7Lee said:I'm booking marking this to come back to when ever I need cheering up.
forum.charltonlife.com/discussion/74206/weirdest-things-that-have-happened-to-you-on-a-date/p111 -
There are some great threads on this forum, but this has become my favourite!
Some cracking stories!1 -
I know someone who on foreign travel was mugged of his wallet. A bit shaken up from it, got his phone out to call his wife and was promptly mugged of his mobileLeuth said:That mugging story!
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I was really expecting the 'threw a wobbly about biscuits and smashed their computer up', 'told stories like Jay from the Inbetweeners' or 'ate an onion like an apple' type stories. Never thought we'd have stories about a woman's boyfriend shagging her gay flatmate, blokes jumping out of cupboards with a hard-on, people dropping grenades on dual carriageways, and someone beating their wife to death with a hammer.Chrissy\\\'s Army!! said:There are some great threads on this forum, but this has become my favourite!
Some cracking stories!12 -
Neither, but I do know the expression is a myth.Alwaysneil said:
Both a taker and a giver eh?ElfsborgAddick said:
That's a myth.Robbo on the wing said:The question is, were you the giver or the taker?
I mix in certain circles.1 -
Although my story is not a weird thing that a colleague done, it is a great story about a colleague.
In 1983 I was sharing an office with an Irish guy who was married and living in the ground floor flat at 23 Cranley Gardens, Muswell Hill, North London.
For a couple of weeks he had been coming into work and complaining about the drains in the building. The problem was that there were three flats in the block and no resident was taking responsibility for the problem.
A week or so later his wife rang him at work and told him that raw sewage and foul smelling water was lifting the inspection cover on the drain down their side path, directly underneath their window. Jim told her to get Dyno Rod or a plumber out to sort the problem, and he would speak to the other residents that evening regarding the bill.
His wife rang him back that a plumber would be coming, but it wouldn’t be to the end of the day. As it was winter and it got dark by 4.30pm the plumber told her he might not be able to clear the blockage until the next day.
The next day Jim comes in to work to tell me that the drains were still blocked, and the plumbers were coming back that morning to sort the problem, however something really weird happened last night.
About 1.30am he heard a noise down his side path and he could hear the Inspection Cover of the drain being lifted. He said that Dennis a guy living in the top floor flat had gone out in middle of the night and had looked down the manhole with a torch. Is that bizarre or what?
The next day was unbelievable.
The first phone call from his wife, she says that the plumbers had arrived. They started clearing the blockage and that they had found some strange items down the drain.
Remember this was before mobile phones, the plumber asks Jim’s wife to call the police and ask for a police car to be sent to the property. Jim asked what strange items have they found and his wife say’s the plumbers think they are human remains.
The second phone call. The police arrive; they also believe the items are probably human.
The third phone call. The police have arrived on mass. They have cordoned off the house and are searching all three properties within the building.
The fourth phone call. The police searched Jim’s flat, and the flat on the middle floor.
The police then told Jim’s wife that when they searched Dennis Nilsen’s flat on the top floor they found human remains stored in the flat.
That evening when I left work it was headlines in the Evening News and Standard, and the main item on the BBC and ITV News.
My colleague had been friends and a neighbour of Dennis Nielsen. The serial killer who killed between 12 and 18 men.
There were a couple of footnotes to this story.
As I have already mentioned this was before mobile phones. The following day Jim is back at work and he says, that evening there had been a knock on the door from an American TV News company. They had offered Jim and his wife £1,000 to allow them to be based in their flat, to let them have use of their telephone, and for Jim’s wife to keep them supplied with hot drinks and sandwiches throughout the day.
We were both earning about £175 per week at the time so this was a lot of money. Jim turned this offer down and said that he wasn’t interested. The house next door accepted the offer.
Jim, and Dennis Nilsen both owned dogs. Some evening they would walk their dogs together.
When the police broke into Nilsen’s flat they found his dog. Jim’s wife offered to look after the dog, which the police agreed to.
After a couple of weeks the police turned up and removed the dog. They told them that Nilsen had been feeding the dog human flesh (presumably he admitted this) and Jim said that the dog was going to be put down.
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wow9
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Fucking hell. We have a new winner!!26
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Quite the dinner party tale, that. Woooooooow.0
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Dennis Nilsen v bloke sneaking mini cheddars out of his office drawer...
Yes I think, on balance, the Nilsen story edges it
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