My balls came off!
My friend, lets call him Mike, for that is blah blah. His girlfriend Jane tells this story quite nicely. I shall recall.

Mike liked a puff. Not the Elton John variety, but the weed variety. Quite often, with the missus fast asleep, Mike liked nothing more than to settle down on the sofa and smoke a few fatties watching late night telly (joints, not cocks) wearing just his boxers. (Lets be honest, this is a great thing to do occasionally).

Often he would get peckish, and nip to the fridge in order to sample the delights from within. On the evening of this story, the delights were in the form of the little babybel cheeses, the ones in the thick red waxy stuff that feels ace when you peel off.

Lying back on the sofa, babybels arranged on his chest, mike had a good munch (on the cheese, not on a cock, stop thinking gay things) and at somepoint passed out in a cheesy smokey blur, chest covered in ash, babybel wrappers and the waxy shells. A beautiful sight you'll agree.

In the morning, Mike woke in a bit of a stupor. Still pretty stoned, he stumbled in to the bathroom, and the shower not really very awake. As he stood in the hot water, steam rising, lathering up, he started to wash his balls (god this is really not a gay story) only to find they came off in his hand. Literally.

Looking down through the lather, in the steam and with soapy blurry stoned eyes, Mike stared at the bloody red mess in his hands, his balls had literally melted and come off and now he was holding them, quite separate from his groin, in his hand. An unusual event, and quite a scary one.

Jane recalls a bloodcurling scream from the bathroom, one with a tone and volume usually reserved for very serious events, like running out of weed, and she ran into the bathroom. Mike had flung the door open and was standing, hand outreached, showing her the big red bloody mess that was his testicles and screamed "my balls! my balls have come off!".

Jane of course was now pissing herself laughing. It took Mike a few minutes to work out that he was clutching a soft pile of waxy red babybel 'shell'. Whilst on the sofa all night, they had obviously worked their way down his front, and ended up in the crotch of his boxers. His body heat warmed them, and they formed a nice cup around his bollocks which survived until he inadvertently washed them off in the shower.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:18, 5 replies)

Warning! This story contains partial nudity, vomiting and needles!
The year was 1986. I was no more than a tiny Devlet, aged six and a half. I was a sickly child, and on this particular occasion I had been admitted to hospital to have my tonsils removed, my adenoids taken out, and to have grommets put in to my ears.

In short, I must’ve been an ENT Surgeon’s wet dream. If they were in to that sort of thing, I mean.

And here starts my tale of surgical woe. I had been in hospital a year previously to have a *ahem* delicate operation on my manly maracas. As it was, I lay on the hospital bed in the comforting arms of my mother, wrapped in a surgical gown, crying about how I "didn’t wanna" have the operation done, as I knew it’d be all "hurty afterwards." My mother cooed and soothed me with words like “don’t worry darling. They’ll come and give you a magic drink that will make you go to sleep, like last time, remember?”

“P-p-promise?” I snuffled.

“I promise.” She gazed down in to my eyes, and I trusted her.

Then, the nurse entered the room. As I had been clinging on to my mother, my surgical gown had come open at the back, revealing the pale peach that was, and remains to be, my bottom.

“That’s what I like to see!” she cried and, with athletic grace, gleefully drove a needle deep in to the flesh of my rump.

Half an hour later, they managed to prise me off of the ceiling. I’d already learned two things that day – the NHS is staffed purely by psychopathic nurses and grown-ups always – without exception – lie. I was beginning to feel woozy as they placed me on the bed, and started the journey to the operating theatre.

The next thing I remember I awoke to see a lady in a green mask, leaning over me with a mask attached to a tube in her hand.

“Would you like to play space-men,” she said “or would you like to play with the gas?”

“Play wi’ th’ gas...” I replied.

With that, the mask came down on my face. “Count to ten for me, sweetheart” she said (well, perhaps they’re not all psycho after all). “Easy!” thought I “10... 9...” – and that was it. Sent deep in to an anaesthetic sleep to dream of robot sheep.

Some 24 hours later, I awoke (even now, I have notes in my records advising medical staff that my body’s reaction to anaesthesia is to sleep for ages). Blearily, I looked around. I saw my mother and my father standing at my bedside, looking tired and stressed. I saw Fred, the Pound Puppy I had been brought to keep me company, on my pillow. Mum leaned in, smiled, and said:

“How are we, my brave soldier?”

“BLEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRCCHHHHHHHHH!!” I replied, with some force. Straight in to her face.

Now, the thing with tonsil operations in the 80’s was the tool they used was, without a shadow of a doubt, evil. They place a loop around your tonsil, then slid a knife down the length of the handle, cutting the tonsil off. It would then drop neatly in to a small basket under the loop. This would leave the freely bleeding wound to pour huge amounts of blood straight down your gullet.

So now I was throwing up my own blood on to the angelic face of my mother. She hurried aside to clean herself off. Dad approached, with an appreciable degree of caution, holding a sort of plate for catching sick on.

I greeted him:

“ BLEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRCCHHHHHHHHH!!”, the force of my vomitus rebounding off the plate and leaping in a graceful arc in to his face.

“ BLEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRCCHHHHHHHHH!!” I said again, this time covering the length of my beadsheet with a river of crimson sick.

One by one the other children on the ward were waking up and, as if in some kind of grotesque call of the wild, began throwing up.

“ BLEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRCCHHHHHHHHH!!” we all sang in unison, the many and varied colours of our projections staining the sheets and walls and parents of the ward, the assorted smells of post-op bile filling the air.

I learnt another thing that day. Parents, no matter how much they say they love you, can look mightily disappointed when you upchuck your own blood in to their faces.

As a small epilogue to this story, my tonsils actually ended up in a teaching hospital, as an example of the biggest tonsils they’d ever seen. Dunno what happened to my adenoids though, I guess no-one cares about those.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 14:35, 11 replies)

Blood aplenty in threesome-related incident!*

The present Mrs Pooflake is what is known as a ‘paradoxical’ person.

Fascinated by, and highly respectful of all medical practice, whilst being incredibly knowledgeable of all sorts of diagnosis and surgical procedures, I’m sure she could give your average quack a run for their money.

To her immense credit, she also has an unquenchable desire to help heal the sick and damaged…

Or at least watch someone else do it anyway.

If there is ever a TV show called something like ’Miracle Surgery’, ‘Fucked-Up Facelifts’, or ‘Whoops Mrs Miggins, there pops ya kidney!’ she’ll have her nose pressed up against the telly screen like she’d been shot out of a nail gun.

Nothing wrong with that I know, but here’s the paradox.

She really, reeeeally, can’t stand the sight of blood. On quite an epic scale. At the merest hint of a whiff of a droplet of the old red gloop, she proceeds to violently spray cuboid carrot chunks around the room with the finesse of an epileptic bullfrog on acid, before fainting and hitting the deck in the style of a 112 year old Parkinson’s sufferer trying to balance a hippo on their head whilst performing ‘Lord Of The Dance’.

Even whilst watching these programmes she’s continually back-swallowing her own barf so she looks like she’s doing a Bob Monkhouse impression, yet she still endures it due to her fascination.

Anyway, that’s enough back story – here’s what happened.

A few years before I met her, when she was the ‘Future Mrs Pooflake’ (FMP) and long before she chose to consequently forsake all genres of domestic and housework-related activity for religious purposes**, she was merrily doing the dishes*** one day…

So she’s scrubbing and rub-a-dub-dubbing away when her soapy hand slips as she is holding a knife, and it slices into her finger a bit. Naturally, she looks down to check…

Oh dear.

‘BLLLEEEEUUUURRGGGGHH!’ she hastily proclaimed as she attempted to get all ‘Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen’ on her parent’s kitchen and redecorate it in a subtle shade of bile yellow.

Then…‘WHOOMPH’, down she goes into a pathetic heap in a way that you would about half a second after telling Mike Tyson that he ‘likes it up the chod-bin’

As she lay there motionless, her pinkie finger continues to trickle claret ooze in a semi-dramatic fashion across the floor.

On hearing a bit of a commotion, her mum went into the kitchen to investigate.

Here’s where we find out that FMP’s condition runs in her family. Big time. Future Mum-in law discovers FMP spark out on the floor and rushes over to assist, whereby amidst the discarded crockery and vomit splat-a-thon she spots the little puddle of blood…

Oh dear again.

‘BLLLEEEEUUUURRGGGGHH!’ quoth the Mum-In-law, adding the second coat to the already dripping walls. She then proceeds to join her daughter’s 'conked out' state and collapses like a veritable sack of spuds…after all the spuds have been taken out of the sack and replaced by flipping great lumps of lead.

She doesn’t fall straight down though, of course. Oh no, that would be too easy…on her rapid and up-close visit to our old friend ‘the ground’, she twonks her bonce on the kitchen work surface on the way and splits her forehead wide open before flopping on top of a still bleeding, twitching and relentlessly chundering FMP.

By now, there was a warm little burbling brook of blood developing on the kitchen floor…as yes, you guessed it…

With a crushingly predictable inevitability, in walks Granny for a visit…Granny, who in her own ‘Hyacinth Bucket’ way, is also accursed with the same affliction as the other two. This becomes apparent when Granny suddenly decides that ‘Conscious mode’ is an over-rated concept and lunges head first like a saggy, semi-transparent, bone-filled bin-liner into the ever growing pile of blood, flesh and oodles of purest vom.

But before she does this however, she does manage to say:

‘Oh me dearies, what’s going o.....?.... BLLLEEEEUUUURRGGGGHH!’ before chucking up copious amounts of prune juice, apple sauce, masticated Werther’s Originals (and whatever else old people eat) into the fray and all over her ‘out-for-the-count’ daughter and grand-daughter.

So there they were…3 generations of blood****, puke and unconsciousness...all lightly coating a small kitchen extension in Copsewood…laying there like a monument to squeamishness, giddy heads and weak stomachs.

In fact it was quite sometime later that my father-in-law walked in, assessed the situation, heroically muttered something like ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake’, stepped over the gibbering, wobbly gaggle of multi-stained devastation…and got a beer out of the fridge.




* Well, there were three people involved. I had to get your attention somehow

**i.e. – she can’t be arsed, and preaches to the Gods of ‘Loose Women’ every day.

***When I say ‘doing’, I mean ‘washing’…you know…not ‘doing’ – that would just be plain old wrong.

****Yes, I know that Granny didn’t actually bleed but she did get quite covered in it from the other two...

( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 13 Aug 2008, 11:33, 9 replies)

The bloodmobile had come to town
and I was explaining to my team at work why I couldn't donate blood.

Me: "I've recently had innoculations so they couldnt use my blood"

Michelle: "Me too, they said I could give blood in a year or so though"

Paul: "I couldnt give blood because i've recently had the flu"

Ian: "They didnt want my blood because i've had sex with prostitutes"

*Every head turns to look at Ian and our manager spits coffee over his keyboard*
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 14:24, 12 replies)

A few years back before I joined the real world
Aside from being a ski instructor in Canada I was also a mountain medic and frequently worked weekends. This was because:
1. Most of the “work” involved sitting in a deck chair chatting shite with your mates
2. the base was at the top of the hill so you could check out the fanny on the lifts
3. attempting to look good in Oakleys and working on my tan was quite important in those days; and
4. it paid more if you worked weekends.

Obviously there was the odd drama. Broken wrists and arms, busted knees, altitude sickness, having an attack of the Yanks (being American and too bastard fat to get up if you fall over and feigning an injury) and the everyday cuts, sprains, bumps and bruises that you associate with a sport that involves progressing rapidly down a mountain on a slick surface at inadvisable velocity.

And generally it was thoroughly enjoyable. I only had one person die on me and there’s fuck all you can do about a massive heart attack so it didn’t bother me so much. What did bother me happened one fateful afternoon in March and really did scare the poo out of me.

Picture this; lovely sunny day, cold and crisp, great snow and only an hour left on my shift. Get a call at the hut that someone has had a “whoopsie” on one of the more difficult runs down into resort. This gets our attention as a “whoopsie” is a technical term for a massive fucking accident. So off we ski, complete with all our paraphernalia nicely packed into the bloodwagon (basically a stretcher on skis). Arrive at a set of crossed skis to see a young woman waving frantically at us from the side of the piste. Her jacket has a fair bit of claret on it so we assume someone has tried to nut the mountain again as head wounds, however small, are always bleeders and they’re relatively common on the slopes.

We were wrong. She grabs us and starts yammering away in Spanish. Not particularly helpful as me and my partner in crime Alain no speaka da lingo comprende? Still we walk over to the side of the piste and are confronted with a guy flat on his back with a ski pole straight through his thigh.

Bugger me. How the hell did he manage that?!?

Getting over our initial shock at seeing something we never thought we’d see we move in to check the poor fella out. Aside from the obvious he seems ok and there isn’t too much blood on the ground. But. He is very, very pale though. And I mean grey. Anyone that’s seen terminally ill people or a corpse knows what I mean. This probably means internal bleeding and exploratory surgery really isn’t an option on the side of a snow covered mountain so we have to get him off the hill sharpish. It’ll be quicker to get him down to the heliport in town in the bloodwagon than to call the chopper up direct so we work on stabilising the aluminium pole in his leg before attempting to put him in the wagon. For this we need our little Spanish girly. So Alain holds the guy still, I gesture at the girly to hold the pole as still as she can as I get some gauze, tape and bandaging ready to try and keep the pole still. I nod to Alain, who lies pretty much over the guys chest, and then to the girl who takes a firm grasp on the pole.

And then promptly pulls the thing straight out in a clean swift movement. I have a millisecond to stare at her before I am hit full in the face with a jet of nice warm arterial blood. Oh Fuck. For the uninitiated most wounds don’t tend to spurt all over the place like they do in the movies. The exception is a cut or break in a major artery. Put a hole in one of those and the blood will hit the ceiling in most rooms, and probably the far wall as well. Severing the femoral artery that runs through your leg is one of the quickest ways to bleed out. If nothing is done you will be dead in 5 minutes. You are literally a little closer to death every time your heart beats and forces more blood out of the wound. And as it does so it tries to maintain blood pressure by, you’ve guessed it boys and girls, beating faster.

So, the pressure was well and truly on, as it were. With a hysterical Spanish girl screaming at us Alain and I spin the guy around so that his head is down the slope, lift the knackered leg up and get a tourniquet onto the top of his thigh in record time. Tourniquets are not ideal but this at least stops the geysers of blood going in our faces as we rip the guys trouser leg open to the groin and Alain starts slapping pressure bandages on to the really quite small holes that are still farting out a worrying amount of blood.

Here is where nature gave us an extremely welcome helping hand. It can get really rather cold in the mountains, especially in eastern Canada. And by cold I mean about -25 degrees on that day. Not many exposed liquids remain unfrozen for long in those temperatures and that includes blood. The bandages helped contain the bleeding and as blood seeped through it started to help its unfortunate owner as well by freezing into the bandage. We added cold water to this to speed things up and I made the scramble call to the medevac guys in town as Alain got a line in the guys arm to get some plasma into him. The chopper was with us in less than ten minutes and we bundled the guy into a stretcher and piled snow up around his leg to keep the freeze effect going. Then off they soared into the wild blue yonder.

The guy made it. He’d ripped the artery rather than severed it and they patched him up good and proper.

Alain and I tidied up our kit, all the time looking at the huge sprays of blood over the slope and then skied into town. We arrived at the bottom and the first thing that happened was a toddler saw us and started bawling her eyes out. Then a lifty came sprinting over and asked us if we were ok. Non-plussed I looked at Alain who gestured to the hut next to us and in the window I could see why people were a tad concerned. Our reflections showed us to be covered in blood. And by that I mean it looked like we’d been for a bath in the stuff. And then all of a sudden I could smell it and taste it and feel it on my skin and in my hair. A shower couldn’t come quick enough. Followed by a full set of blood tests (my own this time) to make sure our wounded protagonist hadn’t given me something nasty. Then lots and lots of beers to toast another day on the hill.

Not a funny this one but a worthy contender I hope.

Length? About 120cm long, covered in claret with a handle at one end and a spike at the other.
(DarkHarlequin putting babies on spikes since, Thu 14 Aug 2008, 11:54, 10 replies)

(Warning: this is gross...). My father
was on a flight from the UK to Germany to do some work, when he developed a nosebleed mind-flight. Which didn't stop. He spent two days working over there, giving lectures and doing research, with tissue stuffed up his nose. The bleeding didn't stop.

He fell asleep on the flight back, and the tissue had become so sodden through that it plopped out; he was only alerted to this when the man next to him woke him up to point out that the front of his shirt was drenched in blood. The bleeding hadn't stopped.

After a day of dripping blood through the house, my mother finally persuaded him to go to the hospital to have it checked out. 8 hours later, with his wife and daughter nearly falling asleep in the waiting room, the doctors came out to tell us that they'd tried cauterising him twice, but the bleeding wouldn't stop. By this point, he'd been feeling rather shit for quite a while, so they decided to keep him in overnight, give him a transfusion, and work out what was happening.

3 days and another transfusion later (the bleeding hadn't stopped), they finally discovered that he'd had an aneurism (sp?) in his brain, caused by the change in pressure as his plane took off. It was pure luck that it was in his frontal lobe, and that the blood was able to escape down his sinuses; if it hadn't been able to escape, it would have built up in his brain, and he would have died. I thank God for the wonderful doctors and nurses in Addenbrookes ENT department, because as soon as it was diagnosed, they knew what to do. It was just going to take some time to do it.

They shifted him over to a private room so he could do some work, and gave him a bucket to spit the blood running down the back of his throat into every 5 minutes or so. Apparently they were also giving him some rather good cocaine, which helped to lessen the bleeding (and stop him feeling quite so shit, I suspect).

Finally, having taken scan after scan of his face, they got to work: they cut the skin of his face around the chin and up to the ears, and peeled it back until his face was skinless (I can visualise it now: a flayed head, with his face lying in folds on his forehead till they were ready to lay it back down again like some fleshy turf).
They then chiselled away the cartilage of his nose (to this day, he has no structure to his nose and can squash it flat against his face in all directions with phenomenal ease) to give easier access to the sinuses. Then they basically just poked a large stapler up there and liberally stapled the bleeding bits of his brain back together. They relaid his face and stiched it back down, and sent him into recovery. He woke up, and for the first time in 2 months, didn't feel sick from having swallowed a load of blood in his sleep. Finally, the bleeding had stopped.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 13:28, 9 replies)

I do actually have a relevant story....
when we moved into our uni house I was living with three guys and another girl and the girl (Sarah) had real issues with one of the guys (Jay) girlfriend (Alice). The cause of which we never discovered but she would badmouth her when she wasn't there and ignore her when she was.

Alice would stay over a fair amount but the rest of us got on with her fine as she was doing a catering course and had a real passion for cooking which meant she tried out a lot of her new ideas and recipes on us.

One evening Sarah went out to meet some of her friends down the union and the rest of the house got drunk. And then we got a little high. Then we got the munchies. Rummaging in the kitchen we discovered two of those little bottles of fake blood. "Oooh" thought our twisted drunken minds "what fun could we have with these!"

Fun translated to throwing blood at each other and all over the kitchen, posing for pictures with blood stained knives and so on. As this was happening the door bell rang and Alice arrived, somewhat confused as why we were all looking like we had been mauled by werewolves.

More drinking and smoking then we must have passed out because the next thing I remember was hearing a shrieking scream and a rather loud thud.

Turns out Sarah has arrived home after a few bevvies herself, seen us covered in blood and unmoving in the lounge then gone into the kitchen where Alice was cleaning the blood off the knives and walls, instantly concluded that Alice was a psycho knife welding maniac murderer, screamed, turned to run out the house, misjudged it and smacked into the door frame knocking herself clean out.

Alice as the only sober person then had to drive Sarah to the hospital with Jay. He reported the journey as being uncomfortably hilarious, although the girls did get on slightly better afterwards.
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:33, 7 replies)

Re: Madam Malboro's Trains Don't kill People Story.
My mate was a train spotter and he was run over by a train.

Chuffed to bits, he was.
(Rich T has a clever and witty sig, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 23:41, 7 replies)

Birth.
When my wife was in labour with our first son things got a bit messy.

He just didn't want to come out of there (can't really blame him for that!) no matter what they did. He was the right way up, i.e. head first, but facing the wrong way - babies should face backwards but he wasn't having that, no sir.

First off they tried a ventouse which is a bit like a medieval torture device. It's essentially a suction cup that they stick on the baby's head and apply suction - then pull! The midwife was a big old unit and there she was with one leg up on the bed going red in the face tugging on this thing trying to get him out. Meanwhile I'm sat in the corner feeling a little detached from reality as I cannot stand hospitals, blood, surgery - none of it.

Anyway, the ventouse "pops" off and the midwife goes flying across the room. Not to be defeated she calls the doctor who decides that forceps need to be used. Squeamish old me is starting to feel a bit faint at this point as they stick the forceps in to try and turn him around to face the right way - but again he wasn't moving.

After a bit of a conflab they decide that they need to make a "little cut". At this point Mrs BDMG wants me to hold her hand. To this day I don't know how I did that without falling over. They make the cut, there's not too much blood and out comes Charlie looking like a Conehead (remember that film?) due to having a vacuum cleaner attached to his head and then having it squeezed with a pair of giant pliers for good measure.

We then have to wait for the afterbirth to come out (I didn't know about this bit!), but after 10 minutes there's no sign of it. Cue a bit more poking and peering from the assorted medical staff and then we got the blood. I don't know how many pints, but they shot out of there with my wife still on the bed straight into surgery leaving a trail of blood with someone shouting at me to "WAIT THERE!".

So there I am in this room that resembled something from M*A*S*H* - blood all over the floor, surgical instruments scattered everywhere - all on my own, thinking "FUCK! What do I do now?"

That's when I remembered that there was a baby. What was I supposed to do now? I know that sounds a bit daft but really, you have no idea what to do. I'd never even held a baby before that moment. I picked him up and looked at the mess all round me and just started blubbing.

After about half an hour a midwife poked her nose in and asked if I was alright and did I need any help with nappies? Nappies?! She gave me a 5 minute crash course in nappies and how to dress a small baby and we just sat there and waited for my wife to come back.

After an hour she came back! They'd had to scrape the afterbirth out (yuck!) and she lost a lot of blood but she'd had a small transfusion and was OK!! They let us go home the next day and that should have been the end of it.

But some of the afterbirth had been left behind and started an infection. Three days later at 2am my wife woke up saying she was bleeding and didn't dare move. We lifted up the duvet and it was not good. Pints of blood. I called an ambulance and the 10 minutes it took was the longest 10 minutes that there has ever been. Later on Mrs BDMG told me she said goodbye to Charlie whilst we waited for the ambulance. Makes me well up just to think of that.

I then had 3 days of looking after our new baby on my own whilst she was in hospital. Thankfully she was fine but she did have another transfusion.

Last year I started giving blood even though I am still very squeamish and hate needles. Only wish I'd started sooner.
( Blackdogmanguitar is out with Fat Larry's Jazz Band on, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:33, 11 replies)

Kaol's many tales of blood:
Long, fairly nasty post ahead, beware!

As many of you know, I've worked in a saw mill as the health and safety manager. This means I've seen my fair share of accidents. And had to clean up the meat afterwards.

Hand, meet circular saw:

One of the gentlemen in the mill was sawing pieces of wood, same as every other day.
All it takes is one second of mind-wandering and OH JESUS HE'S CUT HIS HAND IN HALF!
Yes, this brainbox had managed to slice between his middle and index fingers, all the way back to the wrist.
Sliced a lot of blood-pipes, lost a pint of the stuff, all over the machine.
Now, a lot of blood went onto the floor too, and soaked into the sawdust there, drying quickly and forming strange, pick-up-able lumps.
Anyway, I cleaned the machine up as best I could, and some other guy started working on it.
Not long after, a horrible smell filled the building. After a bit of investigation, it turned out that there was a lot of blood and a few chunks of meat inside the machine, and as the blade span and the bearings heated up, the meaty leakages were burning like black pudding chunks.
Lovely...
Anyway, his hand got fixed, all good.


I can count to eight and a half:

Another gentleman was cutting away at wood on his machine when the blade jammed against the wood.
Now, rather than turn the power off, he got a socket set, took the maintainance panel off the machine and looked at the cogs and workings, poking about.

The insides of these machines are, to put it mildly, fucking lethal.
Many of the cogs and shafts spin faster than the blade does.

It was at the point when this quick-minded and clever man was elbow-deep in the workings of the machine that the jammed piece of wood splintered, the blade began to spin and the cogs whirled into life.

A digital degloving is nothing to do with unsafe internet porn. It's where the entire skin-covering on a finger is ripped away, leaving the muscle and tendons beneath.
This was worse than that, the muscles were ripped off the bone too, and into the workings of the machine.
This left him with a boney, tendony stick for an index finger, a meaty stump, spurting wetly for a middle finger and the blood from the missing parts chunked into a fine mist, covering his screaming face.
As I said, the outcome was that he can now count to eight and a half.

Forked in the leg. Hard:

In the warehouse there were forklift trucks. Forklifts are very, very dangerous things, causing more accidents that all the cutty-machines put together.
For this reason we only let trained people drive them, and kept the keys on the operators.
One morning, a real mensa-level brainbox from the factory floor finds the keys to a forklift on top of a pile of wood. Rather than hand them back to the operator, or leave them there, he decides that he'll take it for a spin.
"I've driven forklifts before, no problem", he thinks.
There is a problem though... The ones he'd driven before had the forks directly in front of the driver. Our forklift had forks on the "passenger door" side.
So, our brainy friend slams the thing into reverse, whips it round to the right and shatters most of the bones in the leg of another worker who's walking past.

I say shatters, it looked like he'd been shotgunned, at close range.
Bits of bone poking out the skin, a raw steak-mince texture, blood pissing out everywhere.

The ambulance arrived quickly, had to give him two units of the red stuff on the way to the hospital, and it took about six months of physio and operations to get the poor guy walking again.
( Cawl, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 10:16, 21 replies)

But I can explain, honest.
I've never grown out of my childhood love of horror films, and while excessive gore for gore's sake without decent plot behind it is boring, a bit of the ol' claret is kinda inherent to the genre.

I made my first zero budget effort at nine years old. 'Wolf Streak'. A classic of the werewolf sub-genre which blended the mundane realism of early Shane Meadows work with a powerful methaphorical statement on pre-pubescent angst and alienation. The special effects bought to mind Tom Savini's finest work.

Actually, it was me with cotton wool on my face unconvincingly killing two chums. The severed arms were my mum's neon-pink marigold gloves stuffed with newspaper and the transformation scene, a classic piece of stop motion photography, which was only slightly spoiled by the sound of the cameraman, my dad, laughing at his moomin of a son.

Real Son Of Rambow stuff.

24 years later, the films haven't improved much. A couple of 'em are on YouTube if you can be arsed to look.

Skip joyously forward to 2006. A chum of mine was in a pretty good heavy metal band and wanted to make a video to one of their songs. Being a fellow horror nut, he wanted something of a Hostel *sigh* vibe to it. Scenes of grim, graphic torture spliced with images of them performing live. Fair enough, that's what he wanted and I'm willing to film any old cock for a laugh.

My flat was the location. I knocked up a quick set using whatever I could. I played the victim, him the torturer. The benefit was that it was the start, Saturday, of my week off where I had to do a lot of work on the place for it to go on the market to be sold. Repainting, new carpet and a few other things.

We filmed it, using the hallway and my bedroom. To make the place suitably grim looking I hang a few chains on the wall, splashed lots of fake blood and drawings on the wall which were a combination of weird, made up runic script and pub toilet like obscenities, genetalia, swears etc.

The filming went well, in the sense of one fat guy pretending to torture and kill another.

As everything, decoration wise, was being strpped out and replaced/painted I didn't really bother with much of a clean up.

So, Monday came around and I was woken up early by the entry buzzer. It was the guy from the carpet shop come round to measure up for Wednesday's fitting. Bleary eyed, I let him in and confirmed a few details. He was a pleasant chap. One of those fellas in their late fiftys, doing the easy carpet job until the pension plans kick in properly. Thick of sideburn and a cheery face that suggested an appreciation of cricket and real ale. Like your dad's best mate who you always enjoyed visiting. I almost expected him to pull a pound coin from behind my ear.

Anyway, I left him to it as I went for a piss, clean my teeth and whatnot. I could hear him whistling happily in the front room, then into the spare bedroom, still whistling, then into my room.

The whistling stopped.

I noticed this and thought "Why has he gone silent?.."



Oh

Fuck



The bedroom was still covered in fake blood, ripped, 'bloodstained' sheets and clothing, chains, hacksaws, irons, crowbars. Walls with pictures of odd occult symbols, tits, cocks and fannys and things like 'die c***!' written on the wall.

His silence was matched by my stillness. I kept thinking, if you didn't know I make really shite horror films for the amusement of myself and my friends, you could probably wander into that room and think something odd had happened.

I came out of the bathroom ready to make my excuses, he came out of the bedroom, still silent, at opposite end of the hallway our gaze met.

The whistling resumed and he cheerily wrote me out the quote for fourty square yards of carpet and said that the chaps would be round on Wednesday to fit it.

He might not of seen anything?

He left and I decided it was a good time to start painting.

I spent the reast of that week a little worried my door would be kicked down at any moment by the murder police.

The vid's online somewhere.

Length and stuff.

Ta.
Spicious.
( sir_spicious2000 Crap I've watched: www.filmplop.blogspot.com/, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 18:31, 4 replies)

Not much blood, but I'll throw the vom and poo in as well
Bear with me, I get to the point somewhere down there....

A few years ago, pre spawn, myself and the fragrant Mrs went on holiday with the rest of the clan Osok -they'd rented a BFO gite in the Dordogne and invited us over. Hey ho, sez we, a nice relaxing holiday, sounds good.

Now, it was a punishing trip. Finish work in Manchester, drive to Chester then drive down to the Saaarf East, arriving at stupidly-late O'Clock. Have 2 hours kip, collect Sis and Bro-In-Law, belt down to the Chunnel, and then drive about 600 miles in a oner.

Naturally everyone else immediately lapsed into a coma, so I was propping my eyes open and frantically chainsmoking to try and stay awake as I drove and navigated all the way down Johnny-Frogland, with only lound music and the occasional spurt of adrenalin as I clocked a Gendarme keeping me going. (I had a radar detector which at the time meant confiscation and hefty fine in the land of Cruelty To Geese and Collaborating).

I did however take the elementary precaution of making sure that someone with German plates was going faster than me at all time so if Monsieur Plod was playing the Gallic equivalent of Motorway Snooker I'd be OK. I digress.

Approximately halfway through the trip, the three passengers made it known that starvation was gripping their malnourished and frail bodies, and they wanted feeding now. Cue a bloody awful soss & frites with extra grease.

300 miles later, with much cursing of directions, French Road Sign Hiding Pixies, the world, the designers of the drivers seat of the C-Class and so forth, we arrived. To give you an idea of how fragile we were feeling, my B-I-L hurled himself fully dressed into the pool, while I was unwound from the car like a pretzel, except swearier.

(Get to the frigging point, I hear you shout. Patience is a virtue)

Now I wasn't feeling great, with extreme tiredness, greasy food, nicotine poisoning and being polite to Customs Monkeys all taking their toll. So I hie me off to the scratcher for a well deserved zonk. Lovely Gite BTW, an old farmhouse with lots of heavy oak furniture. This was to spell doom shortly....

I awoke later, with that old familiar feeling welling up. Yup, Captain Chunder had boarded the good ship Osok, and was arranging for my stomach contents to abandon ship right NOW.

In the bleary horrified seconds of realisation before I could move I realised that (a) no chance of reaching the bathroom (b) there was a convenient shuttered window within range.

Girding my loins, I leapt like a gazelle from the bed...... no.

Girding my loins I leapt about six inches at full leap-speed, to collect the oak bedside table with my face. This knocked me back onto the bed dazed and somewhat concussed, but before I could work out why the room was spinning, the first boatload of Captain Chunder's scurvy crew arrived.

"Yaaaarrrrrcccchhhh" is the correct term.

"Yaaaaarrrrrcccchhh".

Two boatloads, and the immediate pressure was off. Window time!

Loins duly girded again, I leapt like a concussed gazelle, duly skidded on the steaming pool I had thoughtfully deposited on the floor (wall, furniture etc), and collected the heavy wooden shutter with my napper.

My dear lady wife, who had been lying petrified at the noises (well, "Hgnn" *THUD* "Owww" "Yaaaaarrrrrrccchhhh" Splush "Yaaaarrrrccchhh" Splush "Hgnn" Slither *THUD*" is a fairly odd thing to wake up to), gets the light on to discover me slumped whimpering in a lake of chunder in my shreddies, bleeding spectacularly from my nose/lip and shutter-induced scalp-wound.

After a final "Yaarrch"-lette, I crawled on hands and knees to the bathroom, where I had just enough energy to shove bog roll at the dripping claret, before without warning, a stomach spasm gripped so hard that Captain Chunder's assistant, Bosun Follow-Through, pounced. I had just filled my shreddies with foul Frenchness.

I don't think I have wanted to be shot in the head quite so much as at that point, swaying blearily in the bathroom, blood dripping and mixing with the vomit that had coated my entire body, with Haz-Chem material filled kecks, and crucially no glasses so I couldn't even find my way out again. It took me three hours to clean the bathroom and myself before tottering out to meet the pitying look from my lovely wife, who had, bless her, shoveled the evidence into a bin and cleaned up in my absence.

This went on for three days.

The only three days that it didn't rain for the whole two weeks.

Bloody holidays.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 17:12, 9 replies)

New house, new flatmates, best make a good impression ...
So they were all out one night and I wasn't feeling great, so I decided to stay in. Noticed the mountain of washing up and decided to score some points and do the lot.

It was while I had my entire hand inside a pint glass, doing that twisty-cleany motion you do to clean the inside of glasses, that it cracked and I twisted my hand fully onto the new razor-sharp edge, right down to the bone. The sink turned red in an instant.

Looked around for a towel and only saw filthy, brown, moulding ones. There's one in the downstairs loo! Walked calmly to the loo (which is right by the front door - this detail is important later), a thick trail of blood in my wake. It was bleeding a LOT. Wrapped my hand in the towel in the loo. Got blood everywhere, including on the mirror. Walked back to the kitchen, still dripping blood. Thought for a second and decided to drive myself to hospital.

Car keys in hand, I thought I'd better leave a note for my housemates should they return to explain the gorefest and my absence. With my left hand I started detailing the entire history, starting with "I decided to do the washing up..." However, since I cannot write well with my left hand at the best of times and I was losing blood at an astonishing rate from my right hand, I crossed it all out and scrawled "CUT MYSELF" I even put a "x" at the bottom. Placed the paper, complete with bloodstains in a prominent position on the table and left.

A&E was the usual 7 hour clusterfuck. When I finally got home at 4 in the morning, I found my ashen-faced housemates all sat in silence in the front room. They almost fainted with relief. All they knew is that they returned home at 3am, still speeding their tits off, found a trail of blood that they saw led FROM the toilet to the kitchen. Found the note. And assumed their new flatmate had performed some kind of self-castration operation and had then left the house to bleed to death in the streets.
(Tarka_the_Frotter, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 10:09, 1 reply)

Mummy!!!!!!
When I was about 8 or so, I suffered with really bad nose bleeds and this incident led to my nose being cauterised (ow).

I was casually sitting crosslegged in my nightie, talking to my Mum about The Far Away Tree and Mr Moonface or some other nonsense while my Mum was soaking in the bath.

I sneezed, nothing unusual there. Wiped the back of my hand across my nose and encountered the familiar sight of blood and thought fiddlesticks (in a Far Away Tree stylee) went to stand up to get a tissue to head a splat on the tiles. I looked down to see firstly a big bloody patch on the front of my nightie which made it look like I had been disemboweled, then I looked at the floor and saw that I had sneezed out a blood clot roughly the size of a tennis ball *spews*

Alarmed, I alerted this situation to my Mother by saying "Mummy, a lump of meat fell out of my nose".
(GirlOfTheWorld, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:06, 3 replies)

brighton casualty
I fell off my bicycle drunk, and my ear came off.

To cut a very long story short, a very nice Doctor sewed it back on, but accidentally got a "needle stick"; she stuck my dirty ear needle in her own finger.

An ambulance man came to ask me some questions later - I thought it was just admin. When he asked my profession I said, still drunk, that I was a gigolo. He asked me to repeat myself and I said "a man whore - a gentleman prostitute".

What I hadn't realised was that the Doctor thought there was a good chance she had contracted bad AIDS, and everyone went into a big panic.

I said i was sorry and that it was a joke, and I wasn't really a man whore, I worked in an office.

I thought that was the end of it until i went to get my stitches out and the man said "oh look! Its the man whore". I said I was terribly sorry and that I was no gentleman of the night. He replied that it made no difference, as "prostitute" was now a permanent feature of my medical records.

So if I ever die and my mother asks to see my medical records - she will learn that her son was secretly on the game.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 15:30, 6 replies)

I lost over 5 pints and bled for 19 hours FROM MY COCK!!!!
I was in hospital for an operation on my leg. I needed major reconstruction (the results of which can be seen here i21.photobucket.com/albums/b261/sybaf/P7110027.jpg ) and was going to be out for the count for a long while so they put a catheter in. For women this is a small tube but for guys it’s quite long.

I came round and the operation had gone as planned and I now just had to stay in bed for about a week.
The next day they took the catheter out and gave me a bottle to pee in too.
Three days later I started pissing blood. “It’s just blood in your urine” they said, “It's nothing to worry about. (Lying cunts)
So I’m lying there, not pissing with blood just pouring out of the end of my cock as if I was pissing. A friendly nurse holds the end of Mr Winkle whilst another cuts off all my pubic hair. They tell me to hold tight. It is about midnight. I hold.

It’s now morning. Clots are forming in my cock; they come out like cherries, bloody horrible cherries coming out of MY COCK! It’s horrible. I have filled several pee bottles with blood and still they keep telling me it’s blood in my urine. I am 22 years old and crying for my mummy.

Midday, mummy arrives. I am humiliated. I am holding my cock desperately trying to stop the bleeding, filling bottles with blood clots and crying whilst lying on bed sheets soaked in blood. “What’s going on?” she asks the nurse “Oh don’t worry it’s just blood in the urine” she replies sounding a little more nervous. “We’ve called for the urologist he will be here soon.

It’s now about 6 O’clock. Shift change. Man comes in to take my blood pressure. “Hmmmm this can’t be right he says and scuttles off to find another machine, it says the same. He calls the head nurse and tells her its wrong and all the machines have broken. She tells him that it’s probably right and that they have been trying to get someone up for hours to stop the bleeding.

7 O’clock arrives and finally the urologist arrives. He says “Oh nothing to worry about just a bit of blood in the urine” he does some checks and says “Oh……. Ummmm damn……..NURSE!”

Turns out it wasn’t blood in my urine. In fact he (for it was the same urologist) had had some trouble getting the catheter in and had stabbed me through the walls of the urethra with a blunt catheter tube, there was now a large clot sitting on the cut which had prevented the blleding from stopping. All this time they nurses had been phoning him and he had been telling them not to worry as it was blood in the urine and was quite common, they had relayed that information to me but not really believed it. I had been bleeding as if I was pissing cherries for 19 hours. The only way to stop it was to…….put the catheter back in, so that’s what they did and fuck it hurt. Then finally someone has the sense to ask “How long has he been bleeding like that?”

I remember lying there in a bed soaked in brown thick sticky blood, feeling way too hot and suddenly a cold feeling came over my body, it was wonderful. “I feel cold” I said. Suddenly it was panic stations everyone was running around me and a new doctor I hadn’t seen was literally stabbing a needle in to my wrist trying to find a vein. They started pumping saline in to me and I started to warm up. “I’m to hot! I’m too hot!” I shouted “Don’t worry “They said “Hot is good” all of a sudden the same wave of coldness washed over me and I said “Oh that’s better its nice and cold”

And that’s all I remember.

I woke up in the intensive care ward with a triple tap attached to my elbow crook pumping blood in to me. I felt shit but I was alive. I had lost over 5 pints of blood and if I hadn’t have been in a hospital I would be dead.
They let me out after 12 days but I had to have the catheter for another 2 weeks after that and they are horrible, they get infected and make you feel like you need to pee though of course with one in you never need to. I had to empty the bag all the bloody time and you had no control over how fast it filled up.

I am however happy to report that my cock made a full recovery as this SFW evidence shows i21.photobucket.com/albums/b261/sybaf/P6230024-1.jpg

Length? Not too bad considering what it’s been through.
( Peej, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 9:45, 6 replies)

I'll talk! I'll talk! Please don't hit me...
This is very long and like many such things will read somewhat like bullshit. I can assure you, gentle reader, that the tale is true in it’s entirety (to my shame) and that the payoff is hopefully worth the lengthy read.

The first shameful fact to report was that at the time this story dates from, I was a ticket inspector on London Underground (Boo! Hiss! &c, &c).

A sad state of affairs I’ll agree, but one that derives from having studied an arts degree during a recession in the late 1980s/early 90s. (During said recession, finding that there were no particular employment opportunities for experts on the ‘Survival of Byzantine political and social infrastructure models in the Eastern Mediterranean lands following the Arab Conquests, through to the Crusader Era’ ™, I became a Tube Monkey. Current students take note, especially the business studies ones, you’re so fucked in the present economic climate). Anyway, I digress…

So by the mid 1990s, after several jobs I found myself a Ticket Inspector for London Underground (except we had the exciting title of ‘Revenue Control Inspector’ (RCI)). This generally meant patrolling bits of the Underground network in uniform, inspecting tickets and getting hit in the face by drunks from time to time. It was comparatively well paid but it failed the Playmobil test of public sector work in that small children will not be clamouring for RCI action figures for Christmas anytime soon.*

Sometimes, we worked plain clothes duties, mostly I now believe as an attempt to make the job seem more exciting (no, really). In plain clothes, amongst other things, we waited at stations for people to double up through the barriers and then nicked them (Curiously, tube ticket inspectors are able to caution and question under PACE (Police And Criminal Evidence act) and have limited and very specific powers of arrest (based on the Regulation of the Railways Act 1889, as amended by the Transport Act 1980, sections 5(3)a-c). What this means is that semi-skilled idiots (such as I was) get to question you under caution and then take you to court. This wasn’t generally considered a perk. I still have my old notebooks: “Why did you not buy a ticket for your journey?” “Because you’re all old crates, fuck off, Hahahahahahahahah”. That’s a genuine Q&A just to show you exactly how boring the job was. I still don’t know what he meant either.

So, with all this in mind, I and my work (but not life) partner, Seamus were on plain clothes duty one day at King’s Cross station ‘looking for trouble’ (tea, bacon sandwiches from Big Dell’s Café** and an easy life).

At one point I spotted a likely lad waiting to double up behind someone and got ready to stop him when he barged through. Back then, King’s Cross was effectively two different stations, this meant that even if you had a single ticket, the gates would always return your ticket on exit in case you were continuing your journey via the other ticket hall and tube line. This meant that it was an awful lot easier to prove and/or get the punter to admit guilt. So when the guy pushed through, I was moving forward, showing my ID and trying to stop him. He shoulder charged me, barging me aside, then quickly swung his carrier bag of junk at Seamus who was swiftly moving in to intercept.

This was a big mistake. Seamus was half Irish and half German. He had the subtle wit of the Germans and the gentle disposition of the Irish (his dad, although an Irish national, for some reason joined the British Army in his youth, then while stationed in Germany married a German girl, hence Seamus’ mixed parentage and demeanour). On being whacked lightly in the face by a carrier bag, Seamus said “That’s assault!” and quickly smacked our assailant to the ground, bursting his nose on impact (see, relevance finally).

We took him back through the barrier, bleeding all the while, to the British Transport Police (BTP) interview and mess room that we were allowed to use to question all such people. It was my turn to ask the questions, so I made my way through the list of standard queries while Mr-by-now-very-subdued-Scrote bled on the table, wiping his bloody hands and face on the roller towel adjacent to the table (it was a very small room). I got to the end of the interview and had to ask him to sign my notebook to endorse that what I had written was a true record of our conversation. Only thing was, he was still bleeding profusely and left bloody fingerprints and drips on my notebook as he signed. At this point I was seriously hoping that the case would never see court as the defence have the right to view your notes if you refer to them in evidence (“So RCI Weasel, can you explain the bloodstains on your notebook under my clients endorsement of his confession?”).

Having dealt with this poor individual, we took him to the barrier and let him out of the station, still bleeding all the while. Immediately after letting him go we stopped another punter jumping the barrier so Seamus and I grabbed him and took him back to the interview room for questioning.

The still very bloodstained interview room that we hadn’t had a chance to clean up after the last guy. He looked at the blood all over the table, the completely bloodstained roller towel, looked at the pair of us and said “I’ll talk, I’ll talk!”

Gets you right there doesn’t it?


* Apologies to Christopher Brookmyre

** Sadly gone with the redevelopment of St Pancras/British Library etc. Trust me, this was the uber Greasy Spoon of which all other Greasy Spoons are mere pale shadows.
(Wascally Weasel now with 100% fewer jokes., Thu 7 Aug 2008, 23:39, 7 replies)

Lumpy
Blood

I had to go to hospital recently for blood tests for the first time in about ten years or so. The last time I recall I was in my late teens and horny as fuck and counting on the spurious reputation of nurses, I dressed up in my finest finery for them lest they should find my condition sympathetic and want to blow me. Condition = bleeding all over them. Sexy!

I am not a haemophiliac. I have a thing called VonWillembrandts Disease. It's like haemophilia's embarrassing little brother. It tries to stop your blood from clotting but you'd hardly notice it unless you had a massive gash.

Thing is, I'm led to believe it's rare, so haematologists drool over it. I would be gladly disavowed of the notion by any medical types out there so as I can be done with the cycle of pain and angst this thing represents to me.

Now, before you break out the Kleenex, whilst this tale has a pretty sad climax coming up, I do not require sympathy from anyone. This should otherwise, hopefully turn out a decent yarn or a vilification of the medical profession in Ireland in the 1980's. I can't comment about them now except to say that their notions of how people with jobs allocate their time are in need of some revision.

At the very least, it will allow me to excise the thing once and for all as I have never detailed it in it's entirety to anyone so what better place than the tenuous anonymity of an internet forum! :)

As a child, having a medical condition was a double-edged sword: Your family and close friends treated you kindly, swaddling you even to counteract the misery and the discomfort of being a pin cushion. For most of our childhood, my brothers and I referred to Doctors and nurses as vampires they took that much blood out of us for testing.

The conditions were generally cold and cramped portacabins. The Nuns were still running the show so sympathy was not on the menu and they worshipped the doctors like Gods as they zipped in and out, performed their nefarious tasks (after we waited hours despite having appointments) and disappeared again without ever pausing for question and never once looking you in the eye, addressing you civilly or treating you like anything other than a cadaver.

In later life we learned the Mengelesque haematology professor overseeing our suffering had been dining out on his findings for some time and so was much enthused to prolong the process.

The peak of our hospital attendances came in the mid eighties around the time when the AIDS epidemic was spiralling out of control. News stories of infected blood transfusions were rife and Rock Hudson was the first major star to be pronounced to be dying of the new "gay
" disease.

I do not have HIV. Nor do any of my brothers. This is not that kind of story.

The other side of the sword is as follows: Children are cruel. When little baz and his bros arrived home early as we had been given the day off school (YAY!) to attend hospital and were already out on the street playing football as the other kids arrived home from school, discarded their rucksacks and began to play kickabout, they noticed we were all sporting little cotton buds held by medical tape in the crooks of our arms so being kids, therefore curious, they asked "Why?".

In our innocence, we told them.

Within moments, the whispering campaign had begun.

In what seemed barely days in my fuzzy childish recollection, the other kids went from childish inquiries like,

"Why do you have cotton buds on your arms?"

to

"What's wrong with your blood?"

to

"Do you have AIDS?"

to

"Are you like Rock Hudson?"

to

"HAHA You're gay!"

"You have AIDS!"

"Rock Hudson is your Da!"

"Stay away from baz, lads or he'll try to kiss you"

I was maybe, ten years old.

My nickname was now, "Aidser".

As a kid, you try to persevere, don't you? You want to play football forever and run and bike and play kiss-chasing with girls but people look at you funny now. The news is exploding with AIDS stories and even parents start to tell their kids to play away from you. It quickly became too much to bear, standing there on your lonesome playing ball or that awful fucking name spelling it out for all to see as if you were some filthy diseased deviant child from hell.

My brothers were younger. I'm not sure how much it ever affected them. We never spoke about it. I became a recluse. I buried my head in my headphones and never looked at the kids who taunted me every day as I passed alone.

I thought I had left that shit behind me to be honest but I was back in the hospital recently as my Mother's behest to *finalise* the process once and for all. Then I was back the following week. "Results in September", they say, after twenty-some-odd years of not knowing what was really going on so I have to go back again.

I fucking fainted like a big pansy. The moment the needle hit, my mind raced back to childhood and the humiliation, the taunting and never understanding why children, FUCKING CHILDREN, could be so spectacularly cruel. I had to lie down and be brought water by a little fat lady. My Mother came over all, well, motherly and told me I never liked the needles. She then tried to support me as I walked away. I wasn't that bad but it was sweet and hilarious as she's all of about 4ft11 and I'm 5ft9 and not much shy of 14 stone. Me Ma said I didn't have to go back to work. Again, really sweet but can you imagine a thirty something year olds Ma calling in sick for him?

I went back to work.

Hoped you liked my story!

If you feel yourself coming over all hugs and fluffeh, please don't as I'll probably delete the whole thing. I hate sympathy. I've skin like a rhino but jaysus have I a lump in me throat right now.

rafter!
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:07, 10 replies)

Big Irish Ciaran.
I taught with him in Japan - the kids loved him because his name sounds like kirin, a word that can be used for 'giraffe' (he's particularly tall, even when not placed in a race of midgets).

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing - his Japanese was in a fledgling state, but he was fairly competent. So one day, when he's telling his class about a traditional Irish breakfast, he explains about black pudding. He accompanies this with the kanji for pig blood on the blackboard.

The kids go fucking nuts: the girls are screaming, the boys are petending to puke. 'WTF?' thinks Ciaran. 'This from a nation that eats snacks made from fried chicken cartilage and fermented beans?'

The Japanese teacher he works with sidles over. 'Erm, Ciaran-sensei? Is this true?' he asks, and points at the kanji. 'Sure,' replies Ciaran. 'Pig blood.'

There's a pause. 'Erm, Ciaran-sensei, this not say pig blood. This say, erm, pig period. You tell kids you eat pig period.'

Hmm...another bunch of potentially dumb tourists with crazed beliefs is on its way to England.
( thealternativefact, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 11:04, 5 replies)

My blood saved someone's life
In my last year at junior high school, they'd been doing a lot of work on the drainage in what had been waste ground, but would become our new playing fields. As a result, there'd been a lot of re-inforced concrete pipes around. Several of these had been broken up quite thoroughly by vandals and as such we were strictly forbidden to play on them. You may guess for yourself how well that worked.

These pipes were re-inforced with metal rods, and there were a number of these had been torn loose and used as swords etc. in play fights. But one day, Paul O'Malley got a bit cross with me and didn't want to play any more. I can't remember what we'd been doing immediately beforehand, but he picked up one of these bars, and said he'd hit me with it if I didn't leave him alone. I thought he was joking, but he swung it like a baseball bat and clipped me on the right side of my head, just above the ear.

Something went click. That wasn't a playful tap, he'd swung an iron bar at my head with malicious intent, and was probably planning on doing so again. He had to die. You've heard of the 'red mist'? This was the exact opposite. This wasn't a playground-style "I'm going to kill you!"; meaning "I might thump you about a bit, but we'll be friends again by lunchtime.". This was a clear, and reasoned decision to end the life of another human being, because in my eyes, he'd just tried to do the same to me.

I barrelled into him and got him down reasonably easily - I suspect he may also have been a bit stunned by what he'd just done. I knelt on his arms, clasped my hands tight around his throat and without any fuss at all, began to choke the life from him. It was clear very quickly that he realised what was happening; this wasn't a playground fight, there were no teachers within 100 yards, he'd crossed a line, and now he was going to die for it. I wasn't shouting or screaming, and he certainly couldn't - from a distance it would just look like a bit of rough-and-tumble.

What saved him, and in retrospect, me too, was when my blood began to drip from my hair and land in his face. At first, I couldn't work out where it was coming from, or why he'd be bleeding, as I hadn't even punched him. Then the vision went in my right eye as blood filled it. Something went click again.

I got off him and very calmly went off to find a teacher. Give him his due, Mr Barron handled it quite well when I walked up to him with blood covering half my face and running down my neck. The swipe with the bar had opened a two-inch-long gash which was bleeding profusely in the way of many scalp wounds. It was tended, cleaned and dressed, then I was sent for stitches and got to go home for the rest of the day.

I never got in trouble for trying to kill Paul O'Malley. He got a week's suspension, because he'd hit me with a weapon, but nobody believed that it had been anything other than a playground tussle that got a little heated. When he came back, the headmaster made us shake hands and promise no hard feelings, or reprisals. I've never felt like that again, but I have often wondered how different things would have been, if I'd been kneeling a little bit more upright, and the blood had run down my back instead.
(Leo Sasquatch hates being the grown-up, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:50, 2 replies)

It's a terrible thing, drink.
At a university summer ball I watched as a girl suddenly hit her boyfriend over the head with a champagne bottle.

I learned later that in her mind's eye she was expecting to see the bottle shatter in an impressive shower of shards, and for him to reel in an comical manner for a few moments to the amusement of all. Then there would be more drinks, a trip on the ferris wheel and some sex, perhaps simultaneously.

Sadly, while movie bottles are made of sugar, champagne bottles are made of quarter-inch thick glass.

So instead of shattering entertainingly the bottle made a kind of "Tonk!" noise, and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes in a dinner jacket, liberally distributing blood from a gash in the side of his head.

It was only as the pool of gore spread that she stopped laughing at his play acting ("Not enough reeling, although the eyes rolled back in the sockets are convincing") and started shouting for help instead.

He was fine after they'd patched him up. Although, mysteriously, their relationship came to an end shortly afterwards. Odd, that.
(richardm, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:12, 3 replies)

Tough ex-Navy turned copper.
That's my father.
One night he was roused from his sleep by some internal commotion of the mind. Sitting up in his marital bed he saw a darkened stranger stood in the room – "Protect the queen!" screamed his better senses.

Like an heroic bastard he leapt out of bed and clocked the intruder an almighty thunder bollocks of a left hook, right in the fucking gums.

Sadly, the demented twat had simply been having yet another nightmare. The evil burglar was nothing more than papa's reflection in the tall mirror next to the bed. Cue lots of screaming and a rather horrified Ma Bag Shanker waking to the sight of her beloved squirting high pressure arterial blood all over the room, right out of the wrist.

He has no feeling in that hand to this day, and a veritable canyon of a scar. But I tell you what – his reflection has never fucked with him since.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:12, 2 replies)

Lunar Jim has reminded me
A friend when he was younger eventually realised he had phimosis. For those of you who can't be bothered to read it, it basically means that the hole in the top of your tadger is too small to pass over your erect cock. Which is understandably incredibly painful.

So, at the grand old age of 15, he decided that something needed to be done. But how do you alert your quite strict Yorkshire parents to your willy woe? Well, you don't. And this is how he came to operate on himself.

Apparently he got hold of a scalpel, and started trying to cut a larger hole. For those of you who have had this done, you'll know that without free movement of the foreskin, it adheres to the head of your cock, which means that it needed to be sliced away from his bellend.

Cue copious amounts of blood, and a first ever orgasm as he broke free.

To give him his due, there's not a scar in sight :)
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 18:25, 5 replies)

Bloody Hell
.
Little Legless was at school when Jane got out of her seat and went to see the teacher. Lot's of whispering went on and the female teacher and Jane disappeared into the bathroom.

When they returned the teacher came to me and asked me if I'd walk Jane home as she wasn't very well. Jumping at the chance for a free afternoon off school, I agreed.

So we were walking home and I asked Jane what was wrong.

"I've started bleeding" she said "I've started bleeding down there"

"Gimme a look" I asked.

Jane was reluctant but, after a lot of pestering, agreed and we went intro the bushes. She hiked up her skirt and pulled down her knickers.

"Bloody hell" I exclaimed "No wonder you're bleeding - someone's chopped your cock off!"


Cheers

Thankyouverymuch. I'll be under the pier all week
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sat 9 Aug 2008, 4:53, 3 replies)

Bloody Work
.
I just know that I'm going to get a chorus of "you bloody liar!!" for this one. But I swear on Davros's life that it's true. I'll even dig the Google maps link out if pressed.

But as a wee nipper I once worked in a tampon factory.

But only for a short period.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 1:45, 5 replies)

Military College Blood Drives
As far too many of you know (because I seem to ALWAYS post about my time there or in the Marines) I went to a military college. My screename should be a giveaway...

Anyway, we had frequent blood drives. FREQUENT. And the company that donates the most blood would win themselves an overnight weekend (we didnt get overnights much). So we pressured our Freshmen (also known as Knobs) to donate...as often as they could get away with it.

So, as a Knob (no jokes please) I donated twice. I donated first with my right arm and when I went back, about 3o minutes after the first donation, I returned and advised the nurse who was to take the blood from me that I had "issues with the veins in my right arm" and she said "Okay Hon, whatever you need."

She punctured my left arm. I was chuffed. Two pints! That's GOTTA get me respect in the battalion! So one of the particularly twisted aspects of all this is that between companies (I was a Bravo Company Knob) we competed against one another on the first one to fill the donation bag. Squeezing your fist and flexing, does expedite the bag filling process...

So I am racing one of my classmates, but from another company: Kilo Company in this instance, and I race AND beat him to the finish! I filled my donation bag before he did! OOOH RAH!

Until I went to slide off the table...my knees were definitely wobbly. But I was "okay." I literally stood up like a gymnast who had just stuck their landing after a particularly challenging dismount (without pumping my fists however)...and about 6 steps later, I saw the floor approaching my face at what I considered to be an ALARMING rate.

I woke up with three Nurses (two of which were pretty hot in fact!) and they were inspecting BOTH my arms.

I was busted! They sent me to the infirmary. NOT GOOD.

The next day, I was released and when I returned to my company, I was an 'ing HERO! All because I bled enough to pass out! THAT is the essence of being a military cadet in the American Southeast! (we DID win the overnight by the way)

The Best Bleeder in Bravo Company!

Click "I Like This" if you think I should have been taken out back and shot to see how quickly the rest of my blood would leave my system!

Cheers,

Citadel
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Sun 10 Aug 2008, 7:18, 9 replies)

What's red and foolish?
A blood clot.

Sorry.

/coat
(onefishtwofish Redfishbluefish, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 19:22, 4 replies)

If only she'd been a redhead...
My best friend in primary school had been born with a serious heart defect. This had been rapidly fixed, leaving him with some interesting scars but no long-term ill effects, at least as far as I could tell. It did however mean that occasionally he'd be asked to go into Great Ormond Street Hospital for cardiovascular tests, and he'd be asked to bring along a healthy chum to provide a comparison. After the tests were complete there would be a visit to one of London's many tourist attractions. As a loyal best friend, how could I turn down a free day off school and a visit to the sights of London?

On this particular occasion we had been blowing into tubes and running on treadmills for what seemed like hours, and our reward was to be a trip to Madame Tussauds. Initially all went well and we were very impressed by waxworks of such heroes as Arnold Schwarzenegger and Mel Gibson. Unfortunately half way though our exploration my friend felt the familiar stirrings of a nosebleed - a not uncommon occurence for him, but his mother was out of sight and we had no tissues between us.

Thinking quickly, we headed toward signs for the bathroom as blood began to seep between the fingers clenched over his nose. Spotting an exit we dashed into a stairwell where, finally giving up, my friend leant over the rail and released his nose. An impressive fountain of blood gushed forth, but surely here it could do no harm? It was dripping straight down so innocent bystanders on the stairs should be safe, and back through the doorway I could see his mother approaching.

Unfortunately, the stairwell had not been empty. Closer inspection would have revealed a flexible metal ladder descending from the ceiling above, and dangling one floor below us, her trademark turquoise jumpsuit slowly staining purple and her lovely blonde hair now soiled with blood and snot, was the pride of Madame Tussauds' waxwork collection - the legendary Anneka Rice.

We didn't stay long after that.
(wellgroomedwookiee is a filthy-minded hobgoblin, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 16:59, 2 replies)

Somerfield
when it used to be the mighty Gateway (to nowhere), opened a store not too far from where I lived. In the midst of our A'Levels as we were, my friends and I all applied to work there on Saturdays. We all got jobs. Much fucking fun was to be had from then on, because we were all simply arsing around all day, barely earning our miniscule pay, so we could all head over to Newquay in the evening and piss it all up the wall (in a manner of speaking).

I performed various functions; yes even that sort, as cherries popping were not only to be found in the greengrocery aisle. However, I digress...

I worked mainly on the tills: chewing gum, chatting to the girls on the adjacent tills, whizzing tins through at high speed in order to crush all the fruit, basically performing all the duties you look for in your checkout wench. But I also managed to wangle a stint in the butchery section.

Wangle may not sound like the right word; you might think 'be lumbered with' to be a more appropriate description. But when one of the butchers is a lunatic with a determined propensity for fun and the other one you're shagging, there is much potential for enjoyment. And blood. (Fortunately not during the shagging.)

Daily tasks included scraping the block (loved doing that!) and chopping things up (why didn't I stay in butchery, I wonder?). We also had to save any blood we could in a large bucket which was stored in the chiller. I never questioned this, just added the mortal liquids of various unfortunate animals to said bucket and headed off to join in The Great Warehouse Toilet Roll Fight, or whatever (for instigator of said fights, see Hugh G. Rection who lurketh here somewhere).

The day came when I found out what the blood was for. One of the assistant managers was due to leave and a lovely surprise had been arranged for him. At the end of his last day, he was dragged from the shop floor to the loading bay, where he himself was loaded into a cage and subjected to a pelting. Sadly for him, though this pelting began with flour and eggs, someone threw a tin and it went downhill from there.

And there, at the end of it all, stood the lunatic butcher with his bucket, to which had been added entrails and eyes and other pieces of animal that not even Gateway would try to sell, and which had been allowed to stand outside the chiller for the last few days. The butcher called to the assistant manager, who blinded by most of the contents of the last delivery turned to face the direction of the voice. Seconds later, the contents of the bucket were in his face, eyes, ears and mouth.

How proud I felt to have contributed to such fun. For the record, once he'd finished being violently sick and been home and showered, we did take him out and get him truly wrecked.

Footnote:
The butcher had a bit of blood left over; the next day he made a small hole in the base of a polystyrene tray and stuck his thumb through, so it looked like it was lying on it. Then he dripped blood all over it and went running to the hapless first-aider, claiming it belonged to the other butcher. She fainted, so it was handy to find out she couldn't be relied upon if any genuine chopping- related emergencies arose.
( thealternativefact, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 18:14, 4 replies)

A bit of blood, and some flesh too!
It was long ago, back when I lived in NY and had very small kids. Seventeen years? Something like that.

Anyway, we had a house along a lake up there. It was an old house with a cobblestone basement- it would be close to 200 years old about now- and had been a farm house for an orchard, until a dam was built across the end of the lake in the 1930s. The result was a long narrow triangular lot, very close to the road, with a long narrow side yard that was below the road level.

I had an old chainsaw, and wanted very much to clean up the place to make a nice shady yard out of that side yard with lots of room for the kids to play and a bench swing. So one afternoon when the wife and kids were absent I decided to start cleaning it up.

I took out a load of stuff and piled it to be burned later, then eyed the scraggly tree in the middle of things. It was a skinny little oak, maybe eight inches in diameter- trivial to take out. Three cuts later it was on the ground, right where I had wanted it to land.

I walked along the trunk, the tip of my bar making short work of the branches. Just as I had done for years, I sliced them all off flush with the trunk, letting them fall to the ground to be removed later. I got to one large-ish branch that was folded over under the tree and started cutting-

SPROING! The branch kicked out as it released, carrying the running chainsaw across my left knee. I felt it rip at my jeans, and felt the fire of it doing some work on my flesh as well.

I stood up straight, panic flaring, unable to look down at my leg. My finger found the switch and shut off the saw. I stood there in the silence, staring straight ahead as I realized what I had just done. I fought off the grey that came around the edges of my vision, and took a deep breath.

Okay, I'm standing. The saw had hit just above my left kneecap. It couldn't be but so bad- no tendons cut or anything like that, or I'd be on the ground. But still- shit. I can feel the blood running down my leg. Can't look down, though. Nope, can't handle that right now.

I put the saw in the shed, then put away the gas and the oil. I was able to walk, but I could still feel my leg getting wetter. Shit.

I climbed the stairs to the back door, went into the kitchen and opened the cabinet that held my tools. I took out a roll of masking tape, the kind you use to seal boxes when you move. No duct tape, dammit- well, this will have to do. I unbuttoned my jeans- damn 501 Levis, should have worn the ones with the zipper- and pulled them down. Then I looked.

Deep breath, then mopped the worst of it off with a paper towel. A wrap around the knee with the tape, followed by a few more passes. Okay, now the tape is holding things together, anyway.

Only thing is, the nearest hospital was 45 minutes away- and I was there alone. Nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away. Shit.

Well, let's see- the kids' doctor is about five miles away in the next village. He's a pediatrician/general practitioner, but hell, I don't need anything too fancy- he can stitch me up, right? Just got to drive myself there, just five miles away.

With a stick shift. Which means using my slashed leg to push on the clutch. Lovely.

I got there and parked, then hobbled in. The anvil-faced harridan behind the desk, of the sort who always seem to gravitate to such jobs, glared up at me. "Yes?"

"I need to see the doctor, please."

"You don't have an appointment," she snapped. "You need to make an appointment, and he's booked up until next Tuesday."

"I cut myself with a chainsaw."

It took her a second to process that. "So now you're bleeding all over my nice clean floor, aren't you? Come on, this way." And she ushered me into a room.

The doctor was in there moments later, a very nice guy in his early thirties. "Hi, Mr. Loon. Usually I don't see people your age- it's normally your son who comes in here." He grinned as he said this, then looked at my knee. "Nice job. Took out a fair amount of skin... well, we'll just have to pull it tight to make up for the missing skin." And he removed the blood-soaked tape, then started jabbing me with lidocaine. Which hurt worse than the initial wound.

He cleaned and sewed, and I left fingerprints in the steel of the table. At last he was done. "Okay, remember- limp like this." He hobbled like Igor around the room. "You have to play up the sympathy angle. This should get you out of mowing the lawn or doing dishes for a few weeks, anyway."

I pulled on my still-wet jeans, thanked him and left.

I got home, opened a beer, followed it with another, and was working on a third when Nurse Ratched arrived. "They called me from the doctor's office and told me what happened. Drop the jeans."

(That was the last time I ever heard her demand that I take off my pants, I might add.)

It didn't get me out of doing dishes for more than a week, of course. I still had to drive my stick shift to work, although I managed to avoid field work as it healed up. At the end of it, when it had healed and the stitches needed to be removed, Nurse Ratched came home from work with a suture kit. "Why take time off to go to the doctor? Here, sit down in the rocking chair... see, the scissors have this little hook on the end to go under the suture. Isn't that neat? Okay then, let's take this one out... Sit still, will you? The stitches are tight. Of course I have to dig under them!... Okay, there, it's cut. Now I'll just pull on the end... whoops, wrong end. The knot came through and there's a little blood, but not bad... Sit still, will you? It's not that bad! Stop being such a wimp!"

(I still believe to this day that her patients recovered quickly just so they could escape her.)

Eventually it healed, but even now I still have a large ragged line over my left knee to remind me of why one needs to respect power tools.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:12, 8 replies)