Red-faced revelations: Tales of embarrassment from Team Weekend

How are the New Year Resolutions going? Did you manage to quit smoking? Still keeping off the booze? Have you lost the half stone you vowed to lose when the clock struck midnight and you tucked into your final prawn cocktail vol-au-vent? Thought not. Embarrassing, isn’t it?

But not as embarrassing as the stuff that goes on at Weekend Towers. We have a garlanded leader who licks the hands of innocent dental hygienists. And with that example being set, we fall into line and embarrass ourselves and others as we show the same respect for convention as a partying Prime Minister who raves in the Downing Street flat while the rest of the country stays home. Ha. Big Dog can’t expect to have all the fun.

But where were we? Ahh, yes. Embarrassing moments. We’ll quickly glide over the dental hygienist incident.

And we will definitely not mention the time said-leader took a shine to a man involved in the motor trade and took her entire street’s cars to be valeted by the same, drop-dead gorgeous bloke. Booking a car transporter was a step too far, we thought, but she knows best.

Laydees and gentlepeople, it is time to come clean. It is time to fess up. It is time to declaim what all of you already know, which is this: Life is a rollercoaster. As the great 21st century philosopher, Ronan Keating, told us: Just gotta ride it. Na, na, na, na, na.

And so today we will ride that rollercoaster until it screeches to a halt. We will fling ourselves upside down and defy gravity as we reveal our own most embarrassing moments.

And we will have so much fun that we will return each week, throughout the month of February, with another tale of acute awkwardness, discomfiture and humiliation. No unease is too great for Team Weekend. No ignominy too hard to handle. We are down with mortification and shame. We revel in our own perturbation.

Rather than focusing on a single moment – on an embarrassing situation that still causes a crimson glow – I will race through a selection of highlights like a cross between Jimmy Carr and Tim Vine, rattling off one-line faux pas as though my journalistic life depended on it.

There was the stray firework on bonfire night that exploded in the street nearly killing a passer-by. Then there was the stray firework on another bonfire night that exploded in a park and caused post traumatic stress disorder to a dog. There was the bonfire that very nearly melted a neighbour’s telephone wire. I know, there’s a theme here and I now lock myself away on November 5, handing the key to a local fire office. But before I leave it; there was the garden-clearing conifer bonfire at my brother’s former gaff that generated so much smoke we closed an A-road and were told to put it out by the fire brigade. Kill-joys.

Then there was the date where a potential Wife told the man sitting opposite that she really didn’t like him and they had nothing in common. The potential Husband replied that he found nothing about her attractive and would she mind if he paid the bill early so that they could both go home. Separately.

There was the unwillingness to diss Wife Number One when divorce papers were served as we both – sort of – got on. And so, much to my then-lawyer’s embarrassment, there was the suggestion that divorce be filed on the grounds that she hadn’t ever offered to mow the lawn on a Saturday. Apparently, that’s not a reason to file for divorce. Who knew?

There was the moment when hosting a theatre show that a power point crashed and instead of displaying an image of a household name to an audience of 150, I accidentally showed a picture of a tortoise. Let’s face it. Could’ve been much worse.

And then there was the moment a row between Wife One and her soon-to-be-Ex-Husband was observed and over-heard by the very vicar who’d married them a few years earlier and who just so happened to be standing within earshot beside the unexpectedly-open front door.

Heather Large: Car park faux pas

One of my most embarrassing moments happened fairly recently so it’s still fresh in the memory and just thinking about this cringe-worthy scene is making my face go red.

It was time to do our weekly shop and as I always prefer to get in and out of the supermarket as quickly as possible, I opted for a smaller store a few miles from home.

I found a parking space easily – first battle won – and went inside to buy everything on our list, emerging 30 minutes later with three or four Bags for Life.

As my car has keyless entry, I just have to press a button on the boot and it will open, making the process a little bit easier.

Except this time nothing happened. I tried again and still no response. I hunted in my bag for my key card, and pressed the relevant button. Again my car ignored me. I decided to try the button on the driver’s door handle to see if it was just the boot playing up. But that wasn’t working either. I resorted to trying the key card buttons and moving around the car waving and pointing it in different directions in case it was a signal issue.

While trying the boot again, I suddenly became aware of a couple with a trolley standing next to me. I wasn’t sure how long they had been there as I had been desperately trying to gain access to my car.

I assumed I must be in their way and blocking access to their vehicle in the next parking space so I stepped to the side. But they didn’t move and just looked at me with confused expressions, making it very awkward. I started to explain the problem, glancing towards my car as I did so. It was only then that I noticed the number plate. It wasn’t my car. Same make, model, and colour but definitely not mine. Completely embarrassed, all I could manage to say was ‘sorry’ and I hurried off to find my actual car.

As I located it I could see they were still watching me, so hopefully they now understood the mistake I had made, but that didn’t make it any less mortifying.

I’ve not been able to face returning to that particular store since then for fear of running into that couple again.

Matt Panter: Supermarket sweat

The look on my nine-year-old daughter’s face often says it all. It seems, in my case, embarrassing nowadays has moved from me feeling embarrassed to causing ‘dad embarrassment’, by trying to act cool in any way.

She’s right to be fair. I’m pretty much stuck in the 1980s and 90s most days, so me trying to remain current is probably mortifying to her.

It’s a dad’s job to embarrass his kids though, right?

That’s not to say I haven’t had my fair share of moments where I have felt red-faced. Many have been while drunk, spectacular falls down hills and all.

My first night at university, many moons ago now, resulted in the consumption of way too much alcohol and a spectacular incident of sickness in front of new flatmates. But, there’s no one huge toe-curling moment that I look back on with complete shame – just an inventory of silly little things in every day life which make you feel quite awkward.

We’ve all walked into a lamppost, haven’t we? Or had those off-days with driving, where we make reversing out of a parking spot seem like a major military manoeuvre.

And then, there are supermarkets. I’m the guy who the automatic doors never seem to open for and then, when they do, seem to close on me.

And on many an occasion I’ve lost my bearings going wild around the aisles.

I’ll think my partner, Amy, is stood behind me and starts merrily chatting away. I’ll ask if she fancies a curry for tea, only to turn round and find there’s an elderly chap there.

‘No thanks’ he’ll respond, ‘I just want to reach past to get to the basmati rice’.

Amy’s long gone and I’m left feeling sheepish.

Christmas. That’s occasionally left me blushing too. Specifically, Christmas cards.

One particular loss of face last Christmas was the realisation that I had sent blank cards to certain people.

But, at least then, as they weren’t signed, no one was any the wiser. I’d just embarrassed myself. A quick shake of my head in the mirror and move on.

However, for three years, I wrote cards to one couple across the street, calling them ‘Lisa and Paddy’.

On the third Christmas, we had one back from Lisa and James. To this day, I don’t know where ‘Paddy’ came from.

They have since moved away. I didn’t get an address, which is a shame, as I could have sent them a blank Christmas card.

Andy Richardson: Dad's the word

While the crack team of writers at Weekend Towers are busy delving into the deepest, darkest recesses of their mind to humiliate themselves for your entertainment, I have a different plan. Dad, I hope you’re reading, writes Andy Richardson.

Rather than debase myself by revealing any embarrassing moments – and, in hindsight, there’s a near lifetime’s worth – I’ll hide behind the human shield that is the man I love second most (nobody quite beats my son).

Before I begin to sully the reputation of an innocent man – and before you ask: no, I have no shame – I ought to make this point clear. The story about to be revealed is only the second most embarrassing of my father’s lifetime. Quite cleverly, he’s decided not to reveal the most embarrassing to a third child who is utterly unreliable and deeply unloyal. Can’t imagine why.

But I digress. It was a bitterly cold evening and my beloved father had generously agreed to meet me at a local nightclub. I kid you not. A show by the late John Challis – aka Boycie – was taking place at Bilston’s Robin 2 and muggins was the promoter. And so my still-fit-and-rockin’-it dad decided to come along, even insisting on paying the admission price when a free ticket was in the offing.

A quiet, reserved man who eschews fuss and is the acme of decorum, he was quietly celebrating his birthday. He just wanted a quiet time, without fanfare, while watching a show.

So his idiot son phoned the man hosting Boycie’s gig at halftime. “Carl, do us a favour, ask John to wish my old man a happy birthday from the stage.” Boycie, of course, decided to go one further. What better than an impromptu sing-song with 200 Bilstonites singing Happy Birthday to a man who recoils at fuss, fanfare or needless celebration.

And so as I drove merrily along the M54, miles from the crime scene, my dad recoiled inside as 200 people turned and applauded the big day that he very definitely didn’t want to celebrate.

Now, if I only I could persuade him to let me know what his most embarrassing moment was…

Dan Morris: Losing the ladies

This one – very deservedly – still makes me cringe, and I apologise humbly to all involved and implicated. Here goes nothing folks...

Many years ago during my young and carefree bachelor days, a group of male friends and I were on a staycation down south, writes Dan Morris.

An uncle of mine had joined us for what would be nothing short of five days worth of firewater-fuelled revelry, yet on our first day he decided to overindulge somewhat.

Consequently, at a very early hour I was forced to escort him out of the bar that had become the prime arena for our debauchery, and get him safely to his hotel bed. Following the completion of this mission however, I made my way back to the rest of the merry band, fully intending to join back in with the fun and frolicking.

By the time I returned to resume my place among our cohort of heroes, the rest of the lads were, shall we say, rather ‘enchanted’. This played quite well into my hands as in my absence, two of them had somehow conjured up the company of a pair of delightful young ladies. Though in the boys’ increasing level of inebriation, they were losing them fast.

More than happy to step in and play the part of ‘knight in coherent armour’, I began chatting away to the pair of them, getting on well with one in particular.

As the evening progressed, the drinks continued to flow, yet while my pals passed way beyond the point of eloquence, I was stunned that despite my efforts to catch up, my composure seemed indestructible. Or so I thought...

The evening grew louder, the drinks grew more ridiculous, and the time for a taxi to our abode-away-from-home got nearer. Unfortunately it failed to arrive before Mate No.1 had decided to vomit all over the shoes of my fair maiden’s pal, and Mate No.2 had, within another 20 seconds, spilled a full pitcher of Cheeky Vimto into her handbag.

Marvelling somewhat at the truly zombified state of my brothers-in-arms, and the fury of the damsel they had distressed, I was unaware of just how intoxicated I myself had now become.

However, bent only on securing the affections of the young lady that after knowing for three hours I was certain would become Mrs Morris the First, I moved to distract her from her pal’s horrific predicament.

“I hope you can forgive the drunkenness of my friends, Nikki,” I said, shamefully throwing the lads squarely under the bus (and with only a teeny, tiny hint of a stagger, I promise), “I really hope I can see you again tomorrow.” Then, I moved in for the surely inevitable end-of-night kiss...

“As I’ve told you eight times, my name’s Sarah,” she said, promptly swerving my truly ‘enchanted’ move towards her. “And I don’t think so somehow, no.”

Suffice to say, as both ladies made their intelligent departure from the car crash we’d become, we learnt a very valuable lesson. The trouble was that the following morning, not a single one of us could remember what it was...

Luckily though, years later – and after being knocked by far too many other shameful experiences – it was eventually burned into the grey matter of each and every one of us.

If you’re going to be a man, be a gentleman. And for goodness sake leave the Cheeky Vimto to the pros...