|The stupidity displayed by the participants in the following tales stops short of the ultimate Darwin Awards sacrifice. Nevertheless, we salute the spirit and innovation of their misadventures.|
The Mettle of the Kettle
Sunday morning I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, put the kettle on, prepared the cups, and whilst waiting for the kettle to boil I thought I'd fill my lighter. Got the lighter fuel out, but it was a bit low and quite cold, and it didn't pour well. When this happens, I usually run hot tap water over the can to warm it, but as I already had hot water in the kettle, I decided to steam it for a minute or two.
You can see where this is going, can't you? Wish I had! But I had not yet had my tea, so...
I balanced the can on top of the kettle, leaving the kettle lid open. Then I got distracted and the next thing I heard was the sound of the kettle boiling furiously. I turned around just in time to see the fuel container disappear into the mouth of the kettle.
I thought, "Oh dear me!" (or words to that effect) and rushed over to switch off the kettle and s I pressed the switch the can let go with a mighty BANG!! The kettle was instantly transformed into bright yellow, sharp-edged, lethal plastic shrapnel.
A few moments after the explosion, I regained my senses sufficiently to realise I was suffering from a deep gash in my thumb, a couple of possibly broken ribs, and one little finger swollen up like a Newmarket sausage. The microwave had a bloody great dent in the side and the kitchen looked like Beirut.
All this time, Lynda had been sitting in the dining room watching the telly. "What the ?#@!ing hell was that?" says she.
"The kettle exploding." says I.
"How the ?#@! did that happen?"
"The gas can fell into it."
She: "How did the friggin' gas can get into the friggin' kettle?"
Me: "Erm, it was like this..."
Anyway, out she trots to survey the damage, and she says, "If it was the friggin' gas can that did it, where is the friggin' gas can? " At this point I hadn't realised that the gas can had left the scene of the crime, I looked left - not there. I looked right - not there either. I looked up.
"I think it went thataway!"
There was a neat 50mm hole punched straight through the suspended ceiling. I moved the ceiling panel and found a ragged 75mm hole in the artexed plasterboard above. With the aid of a torch, I could just see the scorched remains of the can jammed up in the joists, minus top and bottom but otherwise intact.
All the while, I had been bleeding copiously over the remains of the kitchen. I put a plaster on my thumb and had a look at my ribs, which were not broken but sported a kettle-lid-shaped bruise. When I realised that I wasn't seriously damaged & that the house was not in flames, I looked around and saw the funny side and p*ssed myself...! Lynda however was not amused. No sense of humour, some people.
I did think to grab the camera, so I have the proof!
[[Darwin says, ask Gareth if it's his story; the link was not accessible without a login/password.]]
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