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This is a question Self-Inflicted injuries

Spanishfly asks: Ever injured yourself in a moment of frustration? When have you ever done something stupid or sensible that has ended up with you injured? Punched an Asda sign because they didn't have tiger bread? Yeah, us too

This isn't a question about intentional self-harm

(, Thu 28 Nov 2013, 13:06)
Pages: Popular, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Mom had a twisted sense of humor
My friend T and I spent a year living with my parents and working in a sheet metal shop to save up some money before going off to uni. One Friday he was tasked with moving a few score heavy sheets from one pile to another and the guy assisting him grew annoyed at the slow pace. So they started flipping several of the plates at one time. One set slipped and slammed T's hand into an upright stack, slicing through his glove and into the back of his hand. Bad cut, but no serious damage.

Off to the emergency room in a company truck with T holding a wad of paper towels against the cut with his hand in his lap. Four stitches later he was back at work to finish the day. When we got home that night, he discovered that blood had soaked through the lap of his pants and into his Y-fronts. He dropped them into the bathroom trashcan. We ate dinner with my parents and went out for a night on the town.

Next morning we discover that my mom had fished T's underwear out of the trash and laundered them, getting out the bloodstain. They were neatly folded next to the bathroom sink, along with an ancient box of Kotex and a pamphlet titled "Now You're a Woman".
(, Mon 2 Dec 2013, 15:10, 2 replies)
Ricochet
English being the only subject at secondary school that I felt remotely confident in, I used those precious hours to break out of my uber-nerd persona and become the very epitome of cool.

At least, that's how it seemed to me as I leaned my chair back to put my feet up on my desk in what must surely have been the coolest move since Fonzie invented the double thumbs up during a particularly surprising sexual encounter. Everyone would doubtless be blown away by my relaxed, easygoing charm and staggering physical ability in keeping the front two legs of my chair suspended inches above the dusty parquet.

As those who hadn't turned up for class distressingly, swottily early (i.e. everyone but me) started to file into the room, I let my head loll backward to show just them how much I didn't care.

Just as, no doubt, every girl in the room immediately became aware of my disdainful brilliance, the light caught my eye and my sinuses twinged - just - so.

Sucking up air with the force of a Rolls Royce turbine, I launched forward into a titanic sneeze, folding in half like some kind of demonic castanet and double-kneeing my forehead with laser precision.

Ricocheting back from my powerful patella-prangs, I reeled backward, flailing arms and teetering in space as I reached, then inched past the point of balance as the chair arced on its two spindly metal legs.

I went over, cracking my head on a bookshelf and then collapsing in an angular, twisted heap on the floor, the chair perched delicately atop like some kind of idiot-garnish.

The silence that rushed in was just as quickly dispelled by a gale of laughter.

I resisted the urge to get up and shout 'taa-daa', and settled for covering my beetroot face with my crashingly unfashionable curtain haircut.

Length? Just below the ears.
(, Thu 28 Nov 2013, 17:50, 5 replies)
The slops jar
When I were a lad, I was heavily into model railways. (Stamp collecting was a bit too exciting, and internet porn was several decades into the future). I particularly liked the modelling part, creating the landscapes, buildings and so on. I always tried to make things look realistic, which meant dirtying things up - rust streaks, soot blackening, and so on. For that purpose, when I'd finished a project I'd tip any spare paint into my Slops Jar - which ended up a nice grungy brown colour, and watered down with thinners made a great "dirty wash".

As my skills improved, I eventually asked for an airbrush as a Christmas present. With great excitement I started to practice using it, first spraying a nice cloudscape as a backdrop, then experimenting with other effects. Eventually I decided to quit for the day, and, as was my habit, dumped the remaining paint into the slops jar.

Now when I say "dumped", I actually mean "picked up the jar, pointed the airbrush into it, and pressed the trigger." Which meant that the entire contents of the jar of brownish, spirit-thinned glop was blasted out, and straight into my face, mouth and eyes. Apparently there was a perfect silhouette, like a Hiroshima victim, on the wall behind me, but I was too busy howling in agony as my eyes and mouth burned to notice.

It took weeks for people to stop asking me if I was Indian.
(, Fri 29 Nov 2013, 11:41, 4 replies)
Dagnabbit
One day I was getting ready to go on a hike and was tying my boots. Gripping the laces firmly I tugged hard but the laces stayed slack. I pulled again-no joy. Irritated, I hauled off and gave a mighty yank..only to have my fingers slip off and a) punch myself in the face with my left and b)sustain a compound fracture of the fucking right elbow.



Hurt like a bitch.
(, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 5:17, 9 replies)
Rather than casually cracking the egg on the edge of the frying pan
such that I would be mere moments away from a delicious eggy breakfast instead my arms misunderstood the instructions from my brain and flung the whole egg down into the extraordinarily hot fat. My research would suggest that one standard large hen egg exploding is sufficient to relocate sufficient scalding oil to cover one entire forearm and burn it to fuckery.
(, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 18:21, Reply)
So there I was, right, in a ten by ten foot room.
Guarding a chest, not doing anyone any harm, and then this elf comes in and shoots a fireball at me.
That was my elf-inflicted singe-ry.
(, Sat 30 Nov 2013, 18:31, 4 replies)

It's the end-of-year college ball at the all-girls college (St Marys, FYI). Our band is playing in the cool-and-edgy basement, it's a great, hot, intense, sweaty gig. Crowds of female students dancing away - feeling like proper rock stars we strip to the waist (whoops and cat calls all-round) and finish on a jazz-funk version of Black Sabbath's "Paranoid". The crowd goes wild!

It comes to the guitar solo, and BANG! We suddenly shift gear from slow funk to full-on metal as I hurtle into a hilariously over the top speed-widdly tapping frenzy, the girls go even wilder and I climb the amp stack giving it the full-on rock god treatment. It doesn't *get* any better than this!

Climax of the solo, big drum roll, and I leap like Dave Lee Roth off the amp stack, arm wheeling like Pete Townshend at his finest.
I pull the splits in mid-air.

I remember that we're in a low-ceilinged basement, just *after* I crack my head on the a pipe in the ceiling, spin wildly in mid-air, and land on my hip & elbow from a height of about 8 feet up.

Half-unconscious, flat on the floor and crippled with pain, I've bent my guitar lead's jack plug into a right angle with the impact, there's no sound coming out, and I still have a full minute of the song left to go.

With one hand, I pull myself round to my effects pedals, plug my guitar into a patch cable (about a foot long) and finish the song completely horizontal.

I'm in pain and unable to walk for about 4 days afterwards, and 20 yrs later I *still* have the scar in my forehead from the bolt in the pipe.

Rock 'n' roll, maaaaan, roggenroll
(, Fri 29 Nov 2013, 19:14, Reply)
Chopper
On the roof of a certain block of flats in Bethnal Green, London is a spontaneous and natural garden comprising a few wind-lashed shrubs and some tufts of wheatgrass. There is also, less spontaneously, a cast iron bathtub. The plug's still in it and if you go onto the roof after a lengthy rainstorm with a genny and a couple of coil heaters, you can have yourself a decently warm bath.

It was an afternoon in late August; it had been raining since early morning up until but it was a sultry day, so you could go out and get wet in the knowledge you'd stay warm. The rain had finally stopped about half an hour before so I went up on the roof with a towel and a book. The bath had about a foot of water in it, enough for a soak. The sky was exceptionally clear after the rain and I could see one or two stars beginning to appear behind the blue expanse. On a whim I took my cock in my hand and traced the form of where I imagined the constellations to be, based on those solitary stars. I have no idea whether I was right or wrong, but it did give me an erection, so I decided to keep going without my hands. If anyone had been looking out of their office window that afternoon, they might have seen a pasty figure in a bathtub on the roof of a block of flats gyrating his hips at the sky. The, something magical happened. I had just given a particularly meaty thrust when my cock began to rotate in a circle, slowly at first but quickly getting faster like the flywheel of a gyroscope. It didn't hurt, really, although I could feel the blood rushing to my cockhead. The water in the bathtub was being blown up against the sides in waves and the downdraft was beginning to make itself felt. I grabbed hold of the bathtub to anchor myself down but it was futile: with a low splash, my dripping body lifted itself from the warm cast iron and before I had time to pick up a delivery order for Amazon, I was rising into the late summer sky over East London.

Some film characters are terrified the first time they fly under their own steam and some are exhilarated. I found the whole sensation quite peaceful; despite the supersonic rotation of my cock, I was moving pretty slowly, more like a glider than any sort of powered aircraft. I levelled off at around twenty storeys’ altitude and began to pitch towards Aldgate. I realised I had no way of steering. Flapping my arms had no noticeable effect so I forced myself to think like a pilot. What I needed was a joystick, close to the drive axis. I stuck my thumb up my arse and pressed right and left, up and down, which had the desired effect. I yawed around and swept down Bethnal Green High Street until I could see the Museum of Childhood and York Hall past the railway bridge. People walked in ant-like meanders beneath me, carrying bags of shopping and mobile phones. As I was borne along the warm risers and the wafts of fried fish and petrol by my trusty helicockter, I let my thoughts drift to how ephemeral we all are, how like marks on a sheet of paper that could be penstrokes or could be dust, to be shooed away by the wind. This made me lose my erection.

My tackle was still spinning but it was now flapping as ineffectually as a dormouse at a disco. I withdrew my thumb and frantically began fapping to control my descent but it was no use, and in a couple of seconds I had crashed folded in half into a large council bin left open on the pavement. The impact made me knee myself in the face and put my back out for the next fortnight; the pain was so intense that I completely forgot I was bursting for a piss. Probably just as well, as my cock was inches from my face at this point. The cruel irony of it all was that I ended up covered in bin-slime when I’d just had a bath.
(, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 14:03, 2 replies)
I put my head in a car crusher once.
There was this dead fit girl who worked at Londis. God she was great - lovely face, fantastic arse and huge (put pert) tits - the whole works!
Well, we got chatting once - and she let on she was really into Jackass.
"AHA!" I thought - "I know what'll make her laugh!"
So invited her round to mu "uncle" Dave's scrapyard.
I said - "SO! You like Jackass, eh? Well check this out.." and put my head in the crushing mechanism.
She mumbled something - but I couldn't make out what she said as the machine was already running...

I feel I can explain it best using poetry - so here goes...



I got my head and stuffed it in an industrial compressor,
Cos I had met this nice chick and I wanted to impress 'er,
It didn't go to plan, you know, she might have called me 'queer',
I couldn't tell because my brain was leaking out my ear.

She jumped around quite madly, like she'd just learned semaphore,
I cant see what she meant because my eyes were both quite sore,
And I was right, you know, I'll say, that seemed to be the case!
Cos both my fucking eyeballs had exploded from my face.

My head was squashed beyond all fuck, the fucking thing was mangled,
The floor all around me is with blood and gore quite spangled,
The girl I liked said that my face looked quite like fresh ground beef,
But instead of saying "thank you" I just spat out half my teeth.

My idea had back-fired totally, I felt like such a chump,
There was nothing more than blended flesh above my old neck stump,
I screamed aloud in fear and pain, just like a wild rhinoceros,
Then puke and blood and tears and pain erupted from my oesophagus.

My torn face was agony, and looked like such a mess,
I'll not try that again know - I've said but I confess,
I'll never try that once more - if you think I will start bidding!
Oh go on then, just one more time, just who the fuck am I kidding!
(, Sun 1 Dec 2013, 16:32, 9 replies)
Death slide
summer '83. hot, sunny and a day out in blackpool. as it was so hot and we were planning to go swimming, i decided to wear my swimming costume in an effort to stay cool.
now, back then, you didn't go to the fair without going to the funhouse. if you went to the funhouse, you had to go on the death slide.
i loved the death slide.
sadly, i did not consider the effects of sliding down a wooden slide at a shockingly steep angle, at speed, wearing a swimming costume.
the effects were that my costume immediately wedged itself into my arse crack, leaving my bare cheeks to skid(fnar) down the slide, getting extremely hot and pretty much taking the skin off. to stop this, i tried to stand up and run.
this did not go well.
i tumbled headlong down the slide, crashing into the side and breaking my toe. much pain,massive embarrassment and a backside like a baboon. not exactly the perfect end to the day. i didn't even get to go swimming!
(, Sat 30 Nov 2013, 14:33, 3 replies)
Bungee cord in the face and a cows arse
As part of my normal morning routine of feeding calves down on the farm, I have to open a home made feeding device whish is secured overnight with a few bungee cords and 6 bolts. As usual the little calves were swarming around me making my job really difficult, tiny hooves crushing my feet and sandpaper tongues licking my hands. ( I am not even going to start on cow breath at this point.)As my temper was reaching breaking point I was trying to get the last few wing nuts unscrewed whilst kneeling in cow shit, I started to unhook the first bungee cord. As predicted the 2 cords hooked together under considerable strain unhooked themselves in the middle causing one end to hit me square in the forehead and the other to shoot off the feeder and make a consderable thwacking sound as it hit a small cow on the arse. The result was an instant egg forming on the forehead for me and 40 calves bolting out the gate towards the house. With a thumping head ache causing me to be slightly blind I still had to go and round the little fuckers up.
(, Sat 30 Nov 2013, 1:18, 4 replies)
Once you pop...
Walking home from the pub with my mate one night, we spotted a pringles can sitting perfectly upright on the pavement.

Turns out it was a metal pipe cemented into the ground. I laughed all the way home, with my mate trailing several yards behind me with a fucked foot.
(, Thu 28 Nov 2013, 21:25, 1 reply)
I was shovelling shit out of a pigsty with a four tine fork
when I managed to harpoon a kingsize cube of shit and straw that got stuck on the fork. I turned the fork over ready to smack it on the ground and dislodge the shite bale. Just at that moment, cue suspense music, the boar what lived in the sty came towards me. You don't mess with these quarter ton rasher trees so I pretended I wasn't looking at him and carried on. But I was looking at him, not at the fork and instead of it hitting the concrete it went straight through my instep and out the bottom of my boot. I squealed like a stuck pig and the unstuck pig cowered in a corner. Finished up in A & E with a pint of
anti tetanus.
Hope you're not eating.
(, Thu 28 Nov 2013, 18:23, 1 reply)
Smugly trying to look cool...
Arrived at the Odeon outside Coventry. Huge warehouse-style monstrosity of a multiplex with a big glass frontage. When you go in through the central glass doors, there's a box office desk about twenty yards away to your left... and another, identical desk the same distance away to your right. So my bestest friend and I walk in, and look left... bugger, there's a queue. A queue, it transpires, of unobservant dolts, because when we look to the right, SCORE! There's a rather nice young lady sitting there, just waiting to sell us some tickets. None of the dolts has noticed, so they're queueing like mugs. We, on the other hand, are now smug.

As is traditional, between us and the box office is one of those saggy thick velvet ropes designed to corral the queue into a space-saving zigzag. No need to walk around, oh no, I'm far too cool for that, and besides, the ropes barely four inches off the ground at its lowest point. Hands in pockets, I approach the rope, hop nimbly over it, and approach the nice young lady.

That's how it was supposed to go.

Hands in pockets, I approach the rope. I lead with my right foot, but my toes go UNDER the rope, not over it, lifting it. Thus, when my left foot leaves the ground, it also encounters the rope, and wraps round it. Now... if I was Buster Keaton, or Jackie Chan, I'd have tucked and rolled, and made a priceless moment of physical comedy look great.

I am not Buster Keaton. I am not Jackie Chan. I went down like a sack of shit. Hands in my pockets. Onto my FACE.

And I lay there for a bit. I thought about having a little cry. Then I got up. And I helped my bestest friend up off the floor. He hadn't tripped... he had literally fallen down laughing at me. He was still having difficulty breathing when we finally approached the nice young lady (whose face was a bit redder than I remembered) and bought our tickets.

On the up side, none of the unobservant dolts in the other queue noticed.
(, Thu 28 Nov 2013, 14:31, Reply)
Danger! Chair!
Not me, but a friend from many years ago was sitting backwards on a wooden chair during a meeting at work. He was a bodybuilder and was unconsciously flexing his arms, pulling up on the back of the chair. After a few reps, the entire back of the chair broke off completely and he smashed himself in the face with it, full force.

Cue lots of blood, a broken nose, and the adjournment of the meeting. His glasses miraculously survived.
(, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 12:41, 4 replies)
Bath-related injury
A tub filled with water, not the West Country back water.

We recently had a new boiler installed, replacing our old, decrepit excuse for a water heater, which barely raised the ambient temperature of the mains by a few degrees. So one of the first things I was looking forward to was hot, long soak.

Bath full, bubbles overflowing I stepped right into the water. What I wasn’t expecting was the lava-like temperature of the water, having been previously used to a luke-warm puddle.

I screamed in agony, but as I did, I lost my footing and slipped straight into the water, like shit flying out of a leather gun. Scalding hot water enveloped my body, the sensation too much to comprehend.

But that’s where it got weird. The burning turned into an odd wave of pleasure, the pain turning into a twisted feeling of arousal. My flapping member began to harden, as I writhed around in the soapy fluid.

I flailed, open mouthed as the pleasure became too much and in the excitement I became so ecstatic that I lost bladder control.
I ended up pissing into my own mouth.
(, Mon 2 Dec 2013, 14:12, 4 replies)
Tiny cable car across the river
Driving along, we noticed a cable across a river. There was a little cable car too. I guess they used it to measure water depth. We stopped and found it wasn't secured. We sat in the two tiny seats below the two wheels that rode on the cable, and rolled down the cable until we were halfway across the river. Then we stopped. It was uphill on both sides now, so if we wanted to get back to safety, we'd have to do some work. So, we put our hands on the cable to pull ourselves along. And one of the wheels promptly rode into my hand and ripped the skin off my thumb and fingertips, thrashing every sensitive nerve. Hurt like crazy, and we still had the entire distance to haul ourselves. Bled all over that cable on the journey back. Left unique scars on the fingertips too, so goodbye to any hope of a life of crime.
(, Sat 30 Nov 2013, 10:12, Reply)
I suppose this counts as self-inflicted.
"Could I have a hand moving this bookcase?"

"Fuck's sake, Love. You're pregnant, not handicapped".

Then, after a moment's quiet reflection...

"Should I save us both some time and just punch myself in the testicles?"
(, Fri 29 Nov 2013, 12:54, 2 replies)
I was once assembling a bookcase and one of the horizontal boards slipped out and hit me on the cock.

(, Thu 28 Nov 2013, 22:53, 1 reply)
Every one loves needles......don't they?
Many moons ago before I lost my brown leather bagel hole in 'nam, by that i mean a nice operating theater in The Royal London Hospital, I was on a a boat load of massive drugs. Unfortunately not the recreational kind but the immune-suppressant kind called Humira.

Now when I started on these self injection jobs I had to have 4 in the first go to get the drugs up to the right levels in my body. "Do one in the outside of each thigh, one in the stomach and one on the top of my thigh to see how they all feel" the nurse says. OK me thinks, I'm pretty well versed in needle play now, should be a doddle.

CLICK! FUCKCUNTSHITSOCK OWWW! It felt like someone had inserted an acid laced needle and then run a tazer through it, cue massive leg spasm and me kicking over a tray of dressings. "Oh yeah you probably hit a nerve, that can happen" Great, thanks for that.Right time for no 2. CLICK! no dramas, a bit stingy but no problems.

Right now for the stomach. "Pinch a bit of fat and inject into that" now here in lies the problem. At this point I was 6 foot 2 and just over 8 stone. I looked like I had just walked out of Auschwitz and had been captain of the camps long distance running team. There was fuck all fat on me. So anyway, pinch fat (read skin) and place the auto injector over the target and CLICK. OH MY FUCKING LORD THE PAIN WAS IMMENSE, like the devil him self had clenched his toothed bunghole down on my thumb! but why the fuck was it in my thumb? I had positioned the injector over my thumb with a thin layer of pinched skin in between it and the needle had gone clean through the skin and into my thumb and had hit the bone. Trust me those fuckers pop out with some force.

My Nurse thought it was funny to let me learn the hard way. Never injected in my stomach again. The last one was no dramas.

Length: Sharp pointy and an inch long.
(, Thu 28 Nov 2013, 17:07, 10 replies)
Eary ouchy woe
Many many years ago, when I were young, daft and fit as a butcher's dog, I used to cycle everywhere.
One fateful night, having finished a late shift portering at the local hospital, I was cycling home. I had an appointment with a beer at my local, so was not hanging around. Now chez Achtungmeinfield is in a village, way out in the sticks, so the last couple of miles of my journey home were down unlit tiddly country lanes.
Because I was skint/stupid/whatever, I tended to ride without lights if there was enough moonlight to see by, as it added to the atmos. Handily, this night, I had found a car to follow down said country lanes, so its headlights were providing lots of useful illumination for me as I pedalled like a bastard, keeping up with it.

Now one section of the ride home is a looong downhill stretch, so I and my beneficent companion were travelling at a rare old rate of knots at the point where I took a right turn to join another even teenier country lane that took me home, also unlit. The car, however, didn't turn right. He carried on down the hill. Also he took his headlights with him. Which meant that I suddenly found myself hurtling at great speed,with no night vision, completely blind, down this hedge-lined country lane.

Time did its usual thing of slowing down in these situations, so I vividly remember out of the blackness an area of even blacker blackness looming up at me, identifying it as a hedgerow, thinking "Oh fu.." BLAM

Shortly afterwards I came to, prone in the middle of the road. Managed to stagger up and grab the pushbike but, night vision now returned, it became obvious that the thing was fucked and I'd have to stagger the rest of the way home on foot. At that point I also felt something dripping down the right side of my neck, so I reached up to feel what was going on at the side of my head. As I did so, with my fingertips encountered a piece of warm, sticky flesh about an inch further away from my skull than I would normally expect to find any flesh. Eeek. My ear. Need to get home, like sharpish.

I threw the cycle to one side and proceeded to totter the rest of the way home. A couple of cars came by and I desperately tried to flag them down but, for some reason, they were't that keen on stopping for some mad swivel-eyed loon,covered in blood and with his ear hanging off.

Finally got home, pounded on the door. When my brother answered, his mouth went a funny O shape, and his face lost a couple of shades of colour. Youngest sister came galloping up to see what the fuss was about. Some vomiting happened.

Carted off to local A&E, where all were suprised to see me back so soon. Carted off to East Grinstead to have all it sewn back on again and all the gravel carefully removed. Scar? You betcha.

TL;DR Knobhead totals pushbike in the dark, skids along the road on his head, rips large chunk of ear off in the process.
(, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 13:22, Reply)
Ive seen the light
I don't mind doing all the little jobs that make the place run but every now and then you take on a little task which has adverse consequences.

When one of the fancy low energy bulbs decided to end its working life, it required replacement. These bulbs had been in position for many years, a happy side effect and testament to their longevity. However, at the time of installation, no-one had given any thought as to how the fittings were constructed or how to remove the light bulbs. The architect specified them, the electricians fitted them and no-one else had a clue

I grabbed the stepladder and confidently headed for the ceiling. Having utilised several implements to get to the bulb, I thought it would have been straightforward to remove it. Nope. twisting didn't work and neither did pulling. I struggled for quite a few minutes before the elderly glass gave way and crumbled in my hands, leaving the base of the bulb in the fitting, but slightly more concerning, having showered my face with a white dust and shards of glass.

I brushed this away and fought with the fitting, finally working out how to extract the bulb base. Now, I appreciate that it was simple once I had a acquired a new bulb, to work out how to change it, but I didn't know what bulb to buy until I had removed it.

After I finished, I was left with a slight irritation in the eyes and thought little of it until I got home that night. It still felt quite scratchy and I wasn't totally happy with it and it obviously wasn't just going to 'go away'. On looking in the bathroom mirror I noted that I could see a sizeable lump of glass moving up and down the surface of my eye with each blink of the eyelids.

A trip to A&E ensued, and a steady handed doctor, with the aid of some significant magnification, removed the offending article.

ALL light bulbs now require goggles for change, which probably looks a bit odd but I'm not keen to repeat the experience.

Oh and BTW if the doctors seem keen to put the orange dye "fluoroscein" into your eye, try asking for a bit of local first as it stings quite badly.

Maybe reading the manual for the light fitting in the construction file would have prevented it. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe I couldn't be bothered to go into the loft and find said file before attempting such a job, it was only a light bulb after all.
(, Sun 1 Dec 2013, 13:54, 5 replies)
The other day I went to grab something and bent a nail back.
It left a white mark about halfway up the nail. Absolute agony. Worse than childbirth and kidney stones and shingles and I should know, I've had them all.
Contemplating this, although i'm obviously a tough guy with huge pain tolerance honed by years of poverty and hard living, I'd have succumbed instantly to that Japanese torture method of whacking bamboo splinters under the nails that people used to talk about when I was a kid.
Or was that the Chinese? Anyway,Burma railway. We should never forget what they did to our boys. Cruel people, they're just not like us, eating rice every day. I wouldn't eat that muck, there's cat and alsation dog in it, I'm a meat and two veg man, always have been.
Where was I? Where the hell are my glasses?
(, Sun 1 Dec 2013, 13:32, 11 replies)
Builders! Nothing gets me more angry than bloody builders
I had a builder scheduled to start some work on my house and he asked if he could drop a load of sand on my driveway a few days before starting the job. I told he that I would agree, but ONLY on condition that he do it with my supervision, so it can go where it will not block access. I said that I would be at home from 12:30 to 1pm the following day. I drove home (in my lunch break) as planned and arrived on the dot at 12:29... to be faced with the builder turning out of my driveway having ALREADY dropped the huge pile of sand RIGHT SMACK IN THE WRONG PLACE blocking access to both my front door and my neighbour's. He gave me a smile and a cheery wave as he sped off.

I got out of my car fuming with rage and punched a brick wall.

Afternoon spent in local A&E.
(, Fri 29 Nov 2013, 11:30, Reply)
knocked this up


wasn't a grate idea

/coat
(, Thu 28 Nov 2013, 13:09, 8 replies)
Hedge Trimming
I decided to trim the bushes one hot summer day using an electric hedge trimmer. My husband (now my 2nd ex-husband) advised me to put on long pants and sturdy shoes. But it was hot and humid so I was in shorts and flip-flops. After about 1/2 hour I felt something on my leg, immediately jumped to the conclusion it was a bug and lashed out...with the hedge trimmer and my finger firmly pressing the on button. It took a big chunk off my shin bone and was excruciating however I kept absolutely quiet because he would have said "I told you so" and I'd rather have bled to death than give him the satisfaction.
(, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 17:10, 7 replies)
Do Your Best.
Back when I was a bonny member of the local cub-scout group, we were packed off on a 'survival weekend' to some godforsaken bit of scrubland near the Norfolk Broads.

The weekend involved a whole host of activities: setting up tents; cooking our own food; singing demented songs round the campfire and making our own medieval torches for a nighttime walkabout.

So far, so good. Apart from the making torches bit. We'd all been given a decent sized stick, a bundle of twine and a shitload of straw. The idea was to somehow secure the straw at the end of the stick by wrapping it tightly in the twine and then igniting it from the campfire. We were to then all gather, torches aloft and march to the local village like some pre-teen Wicker Man cultists.

But try as I might, I couldn't get the fucking straw to stay on the stick, the bastard twine cut my hands and my torch never stayed lit for more than 30 seconds. I watched angrily as my fellow cubs waved perfectly made torches in the air and were patted on the head by Akela. Desperate to fit in and prove my survival credentials (a badge was at stake here ffs), I looked around urgently for a solution to my problem. And then I saw one.

Earlier in the day, in the 'cook your own food' session, I had expertly boiled water on the fire and emptied it into the Sweet & Sour Pot Noodle that my mother had so kindly packed for me. I retrieved the empty Pot Noodle pot, quickly and expertly bound it to my stick and held it over the fire.

Result! My torch ignited with a stunning display of blue and orange flames and the other boys turned to regard me with pure envy as their straw-based shitsticks seemed to dim in embarrassment. But needless to say, THEY had the last laugh - as unbeknown to me, huge globules of molten, burning plastic were steadily dripping my Pot Noodle Torch. Suddenly my cries of joy were replaced by cries of pain. I looked down at my right hand and saw a bubbling, burning mess where my knuckles used to be.

Not knowing what to do, I screamed at the nearest person, shoving my hand in their face. 'Be Prepared' that's the motto, well this idiot didn't run off to find water or anything useful, no, he took it upon himself to spit violently at my hand and then scream louder than me.

Up bounded Haati, or one of the other weird adults who enjoyed taking names from children's stories (I mean why chose the fat, dim elephant?) and he finally found a bucket of in which I could dowse my hand. The searing pain was unimaginable. After my hand had cooled off, it was retrieved from the bucket - but still covered with a sticky, black mess that had bound itself so well to my skin, that I couldn't move a single finger.

'We'll have to get that off' stated the fat elephant man. And again, trusting him completely, I allowed the moron to pull the plastic off my hand. Skin, bone, gristle and fat had all fused together. The plastic hand burned so deeply that when he finally managed to rip it away, I could see the bones working when I moved my fingers. And then I fainted.

As this was back in the non-litigious, 'Health and WHAT?' era of the early 80's, I was simply allowed to come round in Akela's tent. All the cubs gathered as they demonstrated 'First Aid in Action' and bound my hand with whatever was in the sparse first aid kit. I still went on the stupid torch-hike and spent the night on the campsite.

The hospital saw things differently and when I'd finally made it there, they cleaned the wound properly. I will never feel such pain again. A few skin-grafts later and I have a very decent scar. It's shaped a bit like Australia, and for a party trick I can stick needles a good way into my skin till they stand up straight - and feel no pain.

Dib. Dib. Dob. Motherfuckers.
(, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 17:08, 10 replies)
I used to share a house
with an Irish biker, who was very much a drunken scrapper.

One night he got pissed, got in a fight and had the other guy down on the floor sharpish. He then grabbed a barstool and smacked him with it, only for it to rebound straight back into his own face, badly and messily breaking his nose.
(, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 2:45, Reply)
"It was a sporting injury. That's cool, right?"

One Monday morning, I turned up at work sporting a natty pair of crutches. Not surprisingly, people in the office noticed this, and naturally wanted to know what had happened. "Oh, sporting injury," I replied casually. Clearly implying that if you play as hard as I do, the odd fractured pelvis was just one of those things.

Annoyingly, they wouldn't leave it at that. There was, I have to admit, some skepticism. Not that I might have injured myself playing sports, but that I was playing sports in the first place. They demanded to know exactly what sport, and precisely how it had led to major bodily trauma.

Eventually, I had to admit that it had been roller-blading. At my 6-year-old daughter's Roller-Disco birthday party.

Nothing says "World's Greatest Dad" quite like leaving the child's birthday party in an ambulance. All the while having to smile, as if there was absolutely no searing agony whatsoever, so as not to upset the tinies.
(, Mon 2 Dec 2013, 16:55, 8 replies)
Towards the end of a Monopoly board pub crawl
I chopped the end off my finger. Absolutely no idea how I did it; I'm guessing I trapped it in a door or something.

I do recall noticing it suddenly while looking for my friends in Leicester Square. It looked pretty nasty so I chewed off the flap of skin and dipped the raw flesh in a pint to try and make it heal faster. That didn't really work so I put my Monopoly Guy white gloves (£1 on amazon) back on to try and stem the bleeding, and promptly forgot all about it until I got home.

We regrouped and got home otherwise safely but were all utterly blitzed so my flatmate was the first person to notice, or at least to show concern about, my finger. "You really need to put a plaster or something on that," she said.

"It's fine," quoth the beer, using my voice. Who did this meddlesome hag think she was? A doctor? I was fully confident after receiving the instant medical degree bequeathed to anyone after drinking twenty consecutive halves of lager.

"No, it doesn't look good."

"It's fucking fine you old windbag."

"No," she replied. "You really, really need to do something before you bleed on the carpet."

"FINE," I relented, stomped off to the bathroom. Frugality and care being the watchwords of the alcoholically obliterated, I wound about half a roll of toilet paper around the offending injury, giving myself a gigantic round index finger which would've impressed the guys who wrapped up Tutenkhamun. I finished off my masterpiece with about 400 turns of sellotape which I found in the kitchen, while giving her the sarcastic stare of doom.

I woke up to find my bed covered in hundreds of rusty-stained lengths of tissue and briefly wondered if I'd drunkenly wanked myself into a bloody coma.

Anyway, we missed two stops this year so if anyone's up for the rematch...
(, Mon 2 Dec 2013, 15:06, 1 reply)

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