I'm not very squeamish,
But these stories are honestly making my skin crawl...

Anyway, onto my story.

Picture the scene, three year-old hatrack pootling about in his bed room, waiting for Papa hatrack to call "bath time" from the far end of the landing. I use to love bath time, don't really know why, I just got a real kick from sitting around in warm water and splashing about, like any normal three year-old... kids who make a fuss about bathing are just weird.

So anyway, that eagerly awaited cry of "bath time!" floated across the landing into my little three year-old ears. I jumped off my little bed and sprinted the five metres or so from my room to the bathroom. Just as I reached the door, I somehow caught my little foot on the carpet separator and tripped at an incredible speed, directly towards the toilet. I reached the apex of my flight around halfway across the room, and my wee forehead smacked right against the edge of the toilet seat.

Now, I remember the bathticipation, I remember the sprinting across the landing, I remember the flight through the air, but the actual collision and subsequent blood-bath (fnar-fnar) are a complete blank to me. Put it down to trauma. Needless to say, I had split my forhead right across the middle and as has already been mentioned many times in this QOTW, heads just never stop bleeding! My dear old daddy hoisted me off the floor and wrapped a towel round my head. Apparently the towel almost instantly went red, and I looked like some sort of flamboyant Arab.

I was rushed out the front door, my dad shouting "Accident! Going to the hospital!" to my heavily pregnant mother and two older brothers... I spent the night at Lewisham Hospital, and passed a few weeks with a big white cross shaped plaster on my forehead. Even now, sixteen years after the fact, I have a quite noticeable scar bang in the middle of my forehead. And yes, I have been called Harry Potter, which is why I generally wear my hair with a fringe.

Enormous cock, I've got. Really, just massive.
(notjustahatrack peeling a sausage..., Mon 11 Aug 2008, 21:39, 2 replies)

Despite the general rule of thumb (WHOA PUNNAGE)
Never take people back to your house for a party after the nightclubs ended.

Well I broke the rules and took a whole host of people back. In fact such was the fun and frolics that we decided to drink even more cheap Glenns Vodka stolen from my parents!! Yay!

Either we didn't have any mixers (unlikely) or we were collectively retarded (almost certain) but it was decided that we would use Colemans mustard as a mixer for our Vodka shooting.

I only had a fresh jar and fans of Colemans mustard will know, new jars of the hot yellow paste have a thin sheet of tamper proof plastic sealing the lid. I know Mr Coleman must have designed this to stop idiot drunken 21 year old party animals using the condiment with alcohol, and for the best part it had worked. I couldn't get the fucking thing off with teeth, finger nails and nor could my drinking buddies. Mr Coleman didn't count on my drunken ingenuity.

Pulling a fork out of the drawer I started attacking the tight seal. Everyone knows forks slide straight off slippery surfaces and so it did. In fact it slid off the surface, with reasonable force and lodged itself from the base of my left thumb (entry wound), through the fleshy part of my thumb and exiting through the very top, just to the left of my thumbnail.

Interestingly, I couldn't feel a thing although most of the room were quite shocked and appalled. There was blood everywhere and due to the lack of pain I ran around shaking it at people looking all hardcore. Why didn't anyone take a picture on the camera phone? Jealousy I assume.

So jealous was my friend John of my extreme-ness he ripped the fork out himself and I pretended it was agony. IM SO AHRDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 21:01, 7 replies)

corker
this is a corker. This may or may not have happened. It might have even only happened in casualty. Either way, a friend told me he did/witnessed this.

Out swimming at the local leisure centre with another friend, my pal Mark got out to get changed. His friend - lets call him Steve, followed him out. As he was pulling himself up the little stairs that hang over the edge of pools, Mark thought it would be funny - don't we all - to push Steve back in. Steve didn't think this funny at all. Mainly because, as Mark pushed him, Steve saw it coming and flinched. His right foot slipped and firmly lodged itself between the metal steps and the wall of the pool.

Mark had given him quite a good shove and there was no way Steve could stop the inevitable. He fell backwards, and his foot stayed where it was. He passed out before he hit the water and luckily, before the bones in his ankles snapped. The pain had been excruciating for a few milliseconds prior to unconsciousness.

Mark watched in horror as Steve dangled backwards, arched under the water, contorted into a position no human should have to witness or take. One of the bones (or maybe several) broke through the skin and the pool rapidly darkened.

Mark, not being the total cunt he was obviously feeling, shit himself and dived in. As it was the deep end he had to hold Steve out of the water, holding on to the steps with his other hand screaming for help. Even for a few minutes this must have been exhausting. I cant imagine those few moments that he'll never forget, treading blood, the regret, the terrifying thought that you've just crippled your best mate.

I've never used one of those steps since, its been 15 years since I heard that and I'll only ever exit a pool via the proper mans method of going under water and then shooting upwards, casually hauling myself out with maximum muscle and minimal effort, with the water pouring off me in slow motion as shake the excess from my golden hair. Imagine it. Its quite beautiful, my tanned, rippl... hang on sorry where am I Oh yeah, blood. Yeah kids, don't push your friends off pool steps and stuff.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 20:48, 4 replies)

Aint nothin like
letting a Canadian come at you with a scalpel.

Not particularly safe for work

More

[That would be my very own leg]

Glad I'm not a weirdo, unlike you crazy bastards!

{Funny thing is, I nearly faint when I get a paper cut. Or just think about it. Ouch.)
(Hanargh, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 17:47, 11 replies)

If your football gets stuck in a tree
don't try and get it out with a brick. No matter how clever you think you are it'll deflect off a branch and twat you on the noggin.

This will lead to you spending the entire afternoon with a teatowl full of ice on your bonce; scalps do not not stop bleeding...ever.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 17:12, Reply)

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)

I read this QOTW over breakfast
and it put me right off my toast.

The black pudding was lush though.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 16:28, 3 replies)

3 weeks in hell ...
... was the result of one afternoon of fun and games at a friends house in darkest Africa.

The pool pump was being repaired so it had been emptied apart from about 12 inches of dirty brown water over the filter trench. Enter stage right 5 hot, bored and hyperactive 10 year olds full to the gills with Coke and Black cat gum. Their leader held in one hand a plastic surf board and in the other a hosepipe ...
moments later he was sat on the board, feet out in front, in the running water encouraging his mates to push him down the slope. The two biggest, already good second row material, obliged and sent the young 3in7 speeding down the slope. He arrived in a huge plume of water and dead leaves with a faintly painful bump to the soles of his feet - as he discovered that the filter trench was open ...

With barely a moments thought the surf board was flung back up the slope towards the next willing rider while 3in7 began to climb the drier side of the slope to join the queue ... he was half way up when he started to feel a slight itch in the soles of his feet and was about to turn round and have a look when the screams from the top started ... he looked back over his should and was greated by a scene remenicent of a Greenpeace anti-whaling video. The crawl up the rest of the slope followed by man handling out of the pool, succeeded in spreading the blood far and wide - in dead 3in7's mother later described it like something out of Lord of the Flies and she wasn't sure who or indeed what was injured let alone where when she answered the cries for help.

10 stiches in one foot and 6 in the other later - it was a long 3 weeks!
(Biff..., Mon 11 Aug 2008, 16:26, Reply)

Back through the mists of time when I was a barman.....
During a Friday night lock in, two of the regulars were having a bit of banter while stood at the bar - Chris went to cuff Alec playfully around the head, Alec ducked down laughing behind his own forearm.....that was holding a pint glass 2/3 full of Tennents Extra (This is going back a few years as I said...). The glass smashed out of Alecs hand and Chris yelped a bit, they both stepped back and I reached for the sweeping brush and mop for a quick cleanup....by the time I got around the other side of the bar to start clearing up the mess, there was a bit of blood on the floor and Chris was looking a bit pale with claret dripping down his raised forearm - not too much as his hand was clamped firmly shut over his palm.....which looked a bit odd. What had happened was that he'd managed to slice a very clean horseshoe shape in his palm on Alecs pint glass, chopping a few tendony/ ligamenty bits on the way and making some of his fingers fold a bit flat to his palm...anyway the plan was fairly simple, no one was kicking off, we were just concerned for our mate. I fetched clean bar towels and someone else stepped outside to hail a taxi for the short journey to A&E.....lock in over and everyone would make their way to casualty or home until tomorrow...this was all fine until big Phil decided he wanted to check the wound and tenderly peeled back the flattened fingers that until know had been covering the wound.....

...and the artery that had been sliced through as well as the tendony bits....Phil got a faceful as if from a vampirical soda syphon, it rebounded off his glasses spattering everything in a ten foot radius before he quickly let go in horror, the fingers snapped back into place and the pressure was back on the vessel.....that meant washing every single bloody glass and surface in the place before opening time the next morning. Not good when you're half smashed...

Length? About six months of wearing a cast, regular microsurgery and occasionally numb fingers for Alec 15 years later.
(Oil Slick, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 16:21, 1 reply)

Venison doom.
Just before christmas a friend and I stopped on the way home from work to move a crippled deer out of the road – it was twitching in the middle of the lane and drivers were skidding and swerving to avoid it. An accident was inevitable.

Yes it was.

My mate tossed the dying beast onto the verge and crossed the road back towards me, which is when a car zoomed over the hill at fifty and splatted the poor fucker like, ahem, a deer in the headlights. He sailed about 20 metres through the air and landed in an ungainly heap on the other side of the road. I could see immediately that his leg was destroyed – it was pointing in four different directions. Unfortunately, another car then came along and went over the mangled limb, crushing all the bone ends and muscle into the tarmac.

I got over there and found him with the left side of his forehead hanging off, making what we now jokingly refer to as 'the bad noise' – think of a sheep being forcibly deflated through its japs eye, something like that. Paramedics and the like soon turned up, and cut away his trousers, exposing a horror the likes of which I've never seen.

Basically, everything below the knee had pretty much exploded. There were three large gaping holes with muscle and bone and blood oozing out. On top of that, it later transpired that he had a broken skull, snapped left arm, broken collarbone, fractured vertebrae, broken pelvis, broken knee cap, broken ribs, and severe tissue loss on both legs from the second car. Also, they had to take out his stomach muscle and graft into his calf, as the original leg muscle was still on the road. Amazingly, he'll have made a full recovery in about six months from now. Jammy twat.

Went back to the scene two weeks later and got that fucking deer's bastard head. It's in a bucket of bleach in the garden still.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 16:12, 2 replies)

Just when you thought it was 'all' fake,
this was an accident, made me feel sicky when i saw it.....

www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGBKC_3O6d8
(djgalaxe, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 16:11, 1 reply)

I'm Cold
"I'm cold," Snowden whimpered. "I'm cold."
"There, there," Yossarian mumbled mechanically in a voice too low to be heard. "There, there."

Yossarian was cold, too, and shivering uncontrollably. He felt goose pimples clacking all ove rhim as he gazed down despondently at the grim secret Snowden had spilled all over the messy floor. It was easy to read the message in his entrails. Man was matter, that was Snowden's secret. Drop him out a window and he'll fall. Set fire to him and he'll burn. Bury him and he'll rot, like other kinds of garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden's secret. Ripeness was all.

I'm cold," Snowden said. "I'm cold."

"There, there, said Yossarian. "There, there." He pulled the rip cord of Snowden's parachute and covered his body with the white nylon sheets.

"I'm cold."

"There, there."
( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 16:10, 4 replies)

Extreme Pron
I was read an interview with Trent Reznor where he describes the extreme porn film "Roys Nut Hang - Extreme Male Genital Torture".

The film was preceeded by an hour of Canadian Parliamentary footage to throw customs off the scent.

Then the image on screen was something black and ungainly. It took him a few seconds to realise he was looking at a close up image of a cock bound tightly with twine, and going black with lack of blood.

Then the guy is pan frying his cock and balls, and its bubbling, so he's trying to flip it with a spatula.

Then it's time to remove the problem. He draws out a knife and proceeds to carve his boner off.
Apparently it was the last 'snap' of meat which caused the most nausea to ol' Trent. (Personally I'd have started throwing up at the beginning)

Now I know strictly there's no mention of blood in there, but I imagine (from my experience of the old block and tackle - see my earlier posts) that a fair amount of the red stuff would've spilled forth.
(Vic Flange, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 16:04, 5 replies)

Greencloud reminds me...
Almost ten years ago (Christ, I feel old...) I happened to spend a night at a Masai settlement. Apparently pretty much their whole diet consists of a mixture of milk and cow blood.

It curdles.

It looks like baby poo.

I refrained from trying it and stuck to my honky-food.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 15:37, 9 replies)

Another joyful A&E tale......
Mr Q was brought in from a nursing home because he was passing arge amounts of blood into is catheter and no one could tell why. So the wise docs decided the best course of action would be to remove the catheter and put a new one in.

So we got all set up and started to take it out. As we were pulling on it, one of the doctors noticed that his japs eye was split all the way across.
"aye lad. Tis always been like that".
So we continue.

As the tip of the catheter passes out of his japs eye, his penis splits down the middle to leave his urethra standing alone. The two halves of his penis begin squirting blood on all members of the medical team. Queue all members of the medical running around like headless chickens while student nurse is left holding the penis together while trying to make small talk.

Length: couldn't sew it back together, so now its just a hole.
(minsh, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 15:30, 5 replies)

Bastard discovery channel
Not me or mine or even mates, just an "I seen on telly"

Picture this:
Nomadic african goat-herding tribe walking in idyllic fashion across the savannah.

Group stops for meagre lunch of basic bread type substance. Man beging milking goat directly into dirty looking metal beaker - fills about halfway. Slaps goat on arse in shooing gesture and has friend / relative / employee bring forward another goat.

This goat, however, has a penis. Thankfully it is not 'milked'. Instead, the poor fucker bleats in panic as a small hollow pipe about the size of a biro casing is stuck into its neck and begins to leak blood. Dirty looking metal beaker is placed under 'nozzle' to create frothy blood milkshake.

Tribesmen lift beaker of grimness aloft in triumphant gesture among chatter of bretheren, then swig heartily, passing their arterial aperatif around the group and supping greedily.

Greencloud steps outside for fresh air.
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 15:28, Reply)

A Tale Of Two Piercings.
It's fair to say I was a studious child, however I was troubled by numerical dyslexia.

I guess it must have been in a maths lesson at Primary School, but one day I was holding one of those old early 80's biros [long blue barrel, pointed at the non-business end, with a clear cap to hold in the refill], with the tip resting against the roof of my mouth, whilst trying to work out the answer to a problem.

However, I must have been pressing too hard, because with one short pop, I'd pushed it straight through the soft tissue in the roof of my mouth, and of course, blood ensued. My mother worked at my school and was on hand to see my crouched over the sink gargling for all I was worth in an attempt to stop the bloodflow. Even now, some 30 years later, I can still feel the mark of where the pen went through my palate if I feel with the tip of my tongue.

However, this is by far not the worst experience I've had with my own blood. The second is far more contemporary.

For various personal reasons, I decided a few years ago to have an intimate piercing, namely an Apadravya. Off I went to visit my parents in Dorset, via a burning train at Didcot and a taxi to Reading, before arriving at Bournemouth. I figured Metal Fatigue in Bournemouth would be a great place to get my piercing as it's just down the road from my folks, and the studio owner is one of the best piercers in the country. Also, my mum is a nurse, so should anything go awry I'd have a trained medical professional on-hand.

So - I handed over the cash, got skewered, got the latex glove over my old chap and sent on my way. Arriving back at my parents place later that afternoon I decided it was time to have a bath.
Without exaggeration, the water in the comfortable white plastic corner bath turned a disturbing shade of crimson. I sat there boggling at the amount of my blood in the water, and wondered to myself why I wasn't as shocked as I might be at the prospect.

The next few days were akin to what menstruation must be like for women, however, after about 3, the bleeding stopped, and I've been happy with it ever since. One day I might go for an Ampallang to complete the set, although at least I know what I'm letting myself in for, should I do.
(caescarna Hell's Roomba, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 15:14, Reply)

Trains don't kill people....
You all know the whole" sorry, service has been delayed due to a person under the train" bollocks. Well, I was on that train once. And I would seriously advise anyone suicidal not to attempt it.

We all had to walk back along the platform. It was an open air one, so there was only the one exit, and I was at the front, meaning I had to walk the length of the platform.

About halfway along, I hear screaming. Horrible, blood curdling screaming. And you know what that what you are about to be confronted with is not going to be pleasant.

There was a man trying to crawl out between the carriages. Covered in blood. Only there was a slight problem with this plan. Under the train, his legs were much further away from him than the average person. This screaming, terrified bloke was covered in blood, pissing out everywhere, and trying to drag his torso out onto the platform with his arms.

You know the gap under the train at platforms? There's a reason for that. It's to try and ensure that if you jump in front of a train, you will fall into the gap and probably not die. The problem with this is that if you miss, your legs get sheared off by a train, and the suicidal rest of you gets to continue living.

So yeah. Sorry for unfunnies.
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 15:01, 16 replies)

You think your hangovers are bad?
My success with booze is variable. Sometimes I can drink and drink and not be significantly the worse for wear in the morning. Sometimes, though - and even without having drunk all that much - I get the most catastrophic hangovers known to humanity.

So it was that, on one memorable occasion a couple of years ago, 1 pint + 1 pint = 48 hours of vomiting blood.

I'm sure that that's not entirely healthy...
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 14:46, 27 replies)

Jim gets his red wings.
It was a sultry summer, I was dating the village bike. She was up for it pretty much non-stop. We did it everywhere, her bed, her parents bed, the begonia bed at the front of her house, and on the bonnet of the parson's mini metro (her being of not unsizable girth this last managed to seriously damage his suspension).

One afternoon as I sneaked off from my job at the spam packing factory, we met up to indulge in a little cunnilingus in the back of her car.

I went down, yodelling in the fishy forest, but had no idea it was closed for redecoration.

I came up and caught sight of myself in the rear view mirror, looking for all the world like one of the ribena men.

Not only that, but she apparently had a tendancy towards heavy menstruation, and the residue on her clothes and mine appeared to have what looked like small lumps of liver in.

Reminded me of the Perl Jam song "Even flow"
(Vic Flange, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 14:43, 7 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)

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)

Not my blood, but...
I once flew to the Czech Republic to visit a friend over Christmas and New Year, I had a serious bout of flu, but that's rather irrelevent.

Flew into Prague about 9pm, got picked up around 10ish after customs etc... then driven for hours in a 23 year old Skoda with no lights, in a blizard to a place called Starry Pilnec.

When we got there, despite the flu, we went into a pub called 'non-stop' - no prizes for guessing what time that one closed!

Anyway, I get in there and there's all these big burly central european looking geezers with big mistaches etc... and one HUGE bloke.

The huge bloke comes over and starts laughing and chatting with me (sounded like, nyetz mityev nanninsk nipple-tweak, fokyo, but I digress).

After a quick translation from aforementioned friend it turns out that on Christmas eve this chap was ploughing his (small) field with a hand plough. The hand-plough had one handle missing exposing a rather nasty and rusty spiked peice of metal.

Yep, as he's pushing it, it gets stuck in the ground and he impales his stomach on it.

Rather than go to hospital like a rather more normal person, he just walks calmly to his house, pulls out an old (typically white!) t-shirt and rips it into a makeshift bandage, wraps it round himself and walks to the pub to numb the pain.

Now this is 29th December - he's been in 'non-stop' for 6 days!!! His clothes are completely covered in a dark crimson coloured load of claret, yet STILL he hasn't eaten or gone to a hospital.

His black trousers were purple.

How the hell he was still alive is beyond me!
(dchurch bah, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 14:20, Reply)

Deadly foods
A fair few moons ago during a house party me and a good friend decided to try and out-do each other.

Using breadsticks.

The idea of the game is you bite the end off the breadstick leaving it a deadly pike of crunchiness before striking each other in the forehead, first one to give up loses.

I take the first hit and was suprised to find out that not only do breadsticks go through flesh suprisingly easily but if they're salted they sting like hell afterwards.

Although at the end we did trade sticks and eat our own blood soaked snacks, so it wasn't all bad.
(Vikingheadache, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 13:47, 2 replies)

If you want blood.........
This was the first blood story that came to my head.

We were in this bar in Saigon and this kid comes up, this kid is carrying a shoe-shine box.
And he says "Shine, please, shine!" I said "No".
He kept askin', and Joey said "Yeah."
I went to get a couple of beers, and the box was wired, and he opened up the box, fucking blew his body all over the place.
And he's laying there, he's fucking screaming. There's pieces of him all over me, and I'm tryin' to pull him off, you know, my friend that's all over me!
I've got blood and everything and I'm tryin' to hold him together! I'm puttin'....... the guy's fuckin' insides keep coming out! And nobody would help! Nobody would help!
He's sayin' "I wanna go home! I wanna go home!" He keeps calling my name! "I wanna go home, Johnny! I wanna drive my Chevy!"
I said "Why? I can't find your fuckin' legs! I can't find your legs!"

JR
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 13:24, 1 reply)

experiment#2 testing the strength of NHS stitches.
Experiment number one was performed by my friend in order to prove the hypothesis of that if test subject A was hard enough he would come and have ago.

But I digress, the 2 inch gash caused by a sovereign ring in said friends scalp was promptly stitched up by the good people at hull royal A+E.

In the interests of science the stitches were tested by kneeling down on the kitchen floor and standing up very fast under an open cupboard door. A bullseye on the first attempt caused a fair degree of blood to erupt from the wound. I piled my friend into the car and took our findings directly to the very same A+E. Shocked by new data pertaining to the strength of their stitches, they glued the wound shut.

Retuning home we had a cup of tea. I cleaned up the blood whist my friend planned experiment three: home made tattoos
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 11:46, 2 replies)

A little off topic, but there is blood involved
I'm incredibly accident prone, do retardedly foolish things and have a sense of immortality in my approach to certain dangerous activities.

As an example, let me tell you of my last week, to give you some idea of how foolish I can be.

Sunday - smash big toe, causing bleeding and complications (ingrown toenail) this continues for the week, finally getting better on Wednesday

Monday - slice open index finger with a very sharp surgical knife, cut is incredibly deep

Tuesday - slice same finger as before, this time with a rusty old craft knife, cut not as deep, but still quite bad (blunt knifes tear more than cut, lots of surface damage)

Wednesday - nothing happens, spend the evening in fear of divine bolts from on high (it's rare that nothing happens, but usually it's just because whatever divine force has it in for me is storing it up for something big later on)

Thursday - the dam breaks and..... hit by a car while riding my bike back from work, that was a mess for sure, I got off fairly light - mostly just cuts and grazes with some bruising on my right side (where I impacted the road) but nothing life threatening

Friday - despite most of this day being spent in recovery from the previous day, still manage to smash my big toe again causing it to flare up again and then burn myself on the oven

Saturday - spent curled up in the foetal position for fear of angering anything that may wish me harm - get stung by a wasp when I venture outside to fix my bike


For the record - getting hit by a car hurts like you wouldn't believe - and not just the initial blow, it hurts for days afterwards.




Click 'I Like This' if you think I should start sacrificing small children to appease the gods and ensure safe transit through my everyday life.
(UncleChuckles "Cthulhu fhtagn", Mon 11 Aug 2008, 11:36, 2 replies)

girls, grit and the law
Some years ago, after a house party A group of friends where heading back to our own house for a post party drinking session. It was about 4am when we finally got back.

We were all sat round in the living room, some of the people having never visited our house before were commenting on the astronomically poor upkeep of the property. We were wondering where the rest of our group had got to when there was a scream and a frantic banging on the back door.

"what the fucks all that noise about?" I asked my housemate D as he barged in. Then shut up as a girl with a bloody face stumbled behind leaking a mixture of blood and tears on the kitchen floor.

Lacking money for a taxi the girl had elected to get a piggyback ride from aforementioned housemate. Within sight of the house, D had tripped and sent the girl flying into a graceful and majestic faceplant onto the road.

Thanks to the ceaceless effort of a nocturnal drum and base lovin' housemate we were not on the best of terms with the neighbors. Two of witch had come out of their houses to remonstrate. neighbor#1 saw the gravel splattered bloody stump that was once a face and offered some help. neighbor#2 was not so ready to forgive being woken up at this godforsaken hour.

Neighbor 2 got into a screaming row with D's brother. who tried to explain that they hadn't to cause alarm, but someone was hurt and the most chivalrous option was to see to the poor girl. neighbor 2 agreed to disagree and a fight ensued. As is often the case the police showed up.

I turned to the guy siting next to me and asked if he wanted to come out again next weekend. He said something had come up.

Now unless a party ends in tears and an assault conviction its a wasted evening in my book.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 11:33, Reply)

Date Nosebleeds
I have a pretty strong nose, I've been punched in it a few times (there's a video somewhere of me in a competition being knackered and walking into a haymaker) and it's not really bled and it's never broken so nosebleeds are a bit weird to me.

Go back about 13 years and I dated a young lady from the Wirral, one day we go out for a date and for no reason whatsoever my nose pours forth a torrent of blood, it was everywhere and this young lady was definitely not impressed with my new found ability...

it soon petered out after that which is a good thing cos she was a ginger...

That's a pretty rubbish story actually...
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 10:54, 2 replies)