Worst place you've slept.

Came home slaughtered after a good night out. It was cold & drizzly. Locked out of house & couldn't get anyone to answer the door. Climbed into back garden & had no luck with the back door either (Fnarr fnarr):D Dogs came ambling out to greet me & I thought that their kennel might do the trick. Could only fit my top half into the kennel but at least that much was dry. Dogs provided warmth and spittle while they licked my face until I passed out.
Woke up stinking with my bottom half soaked & OH pointing & laughing out the kitchen window:mad:

Birmingham Airport after a concert. Most of the seats have dividers so we had to sit on metal chairs with our heads on a metal table all night. The air-con was freezing and at about 5am they started up a loud audio track that just repeated the security rules on liquids over and over and over. We thought it'd be grand - gig over at 11pm, maybe a few drinks, last train to airport, flight home at 7am. Ended up being more-or-less awake for about 48hrs.

Other than that, a hostel in rural Scotland that was basically a shed in the middle of a forest. No phone signal and really dark. Straight out of a horror movie. The showers were in another corrugated iron outhouse, cold and full of spiders. Just after we went to bed, a middle-aged guy wearing a torch strapped to his forehead came in and decided he'd sleep in our room as he didn't like the people in his. I was convinced we'd be murdered...

I was homeless in the late 80's early 90 in the Netherlands and slept in a bus shelter for a while, was the kind of place you'd bring yer pickup to roger, so I've watched so many cúnts tell youngwans they loved them so they'd get their hole than you could believe

Brother in law's lounge floor. His dog had fleas. He hadn't vacuumed in a while.

Dublin Airport was a doddle in comparison.

In my mother's uterus.
Still freaks me out to think about it.

I slept rough in an alleyway in Buncrana one night, using a bulging black sack as a pillow, with both arms inside my t-shirt. This was the end of May but it was really very cold and at one point I wondered whether I'd die. I think it goes without saying that quite a lot of drink was taken; so much so that I woke up outside the pub at about 03:00, totally alone, but I couldn't find my Bed and Breakfast. I don't know if you've ever been to Buncrana, but the town is a little like that bit in The Matrix when Neo runs down a train track in a Subway station and ends up appearing from the other side. You walk the length of the 'strip' once and somehow you're back where you started. It's a bizarre place. Also, the only thing which separates a taxi from a normal car in Buncrana is an aerial - no taxi plates on the top, no glow-in-the-dark 'taxi' written on the side, just a ****ing aerial which you can't see in pitch black.

I somehow stumbled across a hotel and I'd never been more excited. I was hungry, cold, drunk, very tired, and I'd have paid €500 a night. Problem is, I was turned away almost immediately, as your man pretended the place was fully booked. "Nope. Fully booked," he goes. I had said about five words at this stage. I don't know whether it was the sick dripping from my beard or the Dublin accent, but there was no way he was letting me stay there that night.

I'm too drunk, tired, cold and hungry to make my way back to the town, so I find some random house and knock on the door. No lights on, but sure listen, it was life or death. I didn't want a bed, but I did want the owner to ring the police on me. I should also point that my phone had died at this point. My thinking here was that they'd lash me in a cell for the night or something. One man - probably late 60s, going by the voice and the grey hair I saw through the blurry glass - came to the door, but didn't open it. "Sorry about this sir, but I need you to ring the police on me." The poor bloke probably thought I'd just murdered seven people with an axe. "I'm cold and lost and I need the guards. Please." I'm leaning against his wall five minutes later and sure enough they arrive. I was expecting a squad car but the lads turn up in a riot van.

"Are you the Dublin fella, ye are?," one of them goes.

"I am yeah. Listen guard, I know this is weird but you'll need to bring me to the station."

"Why, what have you done?"

"Nothing but I'm ****ing freezing and tired."

"How old are you?," he says, a bit judgementally.

"Twenty seven."

"Twenty seven? Would ye ever cop on to yourself and stop wasting our time."

They get back in the riot van and **** off, but before taking my name and address. Bear in mind they were probably only in that van because they were already out looking for drunk people and messers. Yet because I sought them out, it doesn't count. Anyways, I don't know whether it was the sick drying on my beard or the Dublin accent, but there was no way he was letting me in that van with them.

So now I have to find this Bed and Breakfast, hook or by crook. I wander back up to the town and have another go at negotiating this horrendous stretch of Ulster. I'm also wearing Cheslea boots from Pennys, one size too small but too nice not to wear, and they're tighter on me than a ****ing python. Not only am I drunk, tired, hungry and a bit sick, but my feet are giving me gyp at this stage from the walking. Nothing is coming up Millhouse for me.

Anyways, I'm back on the main strip - yes they call it a strip. They call a stretch of road about 300 yards along, which has businesses called Bridey's Shop and Sean Graham bookmakers, a strip - and it's time for round two. Good news is that I find it eventually. The bad news is that it's closed. I'd never stayed in a B&B before, so this blew my mind, in a bad way. The other bad news is that I didn't have the key. To recap: I have no battery in the phone, no key to get in, the guards have betrayed me, no open businesses, it's not bright and there's a Yukon-type chill in the air, no taxis and even if there was you can't identify them without nightvision goggles. "I'm ****ed," I think to myself. I go looking for a place to die, like a cat with cat AIDS, and stumble across this little inviting alleyway which the locals probably have sex in every Saturday night. I lie down, lay my weary head against the black bag and wait for the night to take me. I'm ready.

Later on, it's bright and I'm woken up by a street sweeper. "Rough night, hi?," some chap asks. "You've no idea, pal."

So yeah, Buncrana is the worst place I've slept.

Beechwoodspark wrote: »

Just curious. Were ppl using the lift and just ignoring u in the corner passed out?

Similar story on a work conference in York many years ago, a colleague got absolutely smashed and we propped him up on a chair in the lift, comatose. He was a short, bald Scottish bloke and looked a bit like a gnome. The worst lift attendant ever!

People were getting in the lift, shaking their head and using the lift. He was up and down for a few hours before we dragged him off to his room.

Mine was in Liverpool around 1990 after leaving a nightclub. Me and a mate couldn't be bothered waiting in a queue for a taxi and thought we would kip in one of those ATM booths, thinking we were clever and it would be nice, warm and dry only to find out that the doors were locked at night. So we ended up in a pile of cardboard boxes behind McDonalds and got the first bus home.

On a pile of sheep shít under a tree outside Tramore. I hadn't realised I was on sheep shít until I woke up in the morning circled by curious sheep waiting to use their loo. It was comfortable though.
It took me hours to hitch home because everyone who picked me up only brought me a couple of miles 'cos of the state of me.

I've also done the tram stop bench in Munich. Got woken up by two cops with guns. They were grand though when they found out I was Irish.

In a hammock.

Sweet jesus my hamstring muscles were in absolute bits the next morning; I could barely walk!!

Glastonbury festival.. the worse for wear while a 'reveller' relieved himself against the side of my tent.
They must wonder why people don't take their tents home.