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This is a question Blood

Like a scene from The Exorcist, I once spewed a stomach-full of blood all over a charming nurse as I came round after a major dental operation. Tell us your tales of red, red horror.

(, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 14:39)
Pages: Latest, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I Say I Say I Say
Anyone here had a go at themselves
for a laugh? Anyone opened their wrists
with a blade in the bath? Those in the dark
at the back, listen hard. Those at the front
in the know, those of us who have, hands up,
let's show that inch of lacerated skin
between the forearm and the fist. Let's tell it
like it is: strong drink, a crimson tidemark
round the tub, a yard of lint, white towels
washed a dozen times, still pink. Tough luck.
A passion then for watches, bangles, cuffs.
A likely story: you were lashed by brambles
picking berries from the woods. Come clean, come good,
repeat with me the punch line 'Just like blood'
when those at the back rush forward to say
how a little love goes a long long long way.

(Simon Armitage)
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 0:04, 1 reply)
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.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 23:41, 7 replies)
blodd, blood, glorious blood, nothing quite like it for scaring the shit out of little kids
One of my many many vehicular acidents involved a little red austin seven, a wet road, some bald tyres and a ditch. It was fairly spectacular in a ¨spin round 3 times, hit the verge, flip and fly through the air backwards before falling out of (luckily) open topped car before it landed¨
The net result was a busted gearlever, a broken collar bone and blood gushing from a broken nose and good old fashioned teeth through the lower lip.
I clambered out of the ditch, swore gently several times as this was not going to be easy to explain to dear mama (her car) and staggered over to a nearby farmhouse to procure some telephonic assistance (a mobile phone in those days involved gypsies, big red phone boxes and a scrap yard)
The door was answered by a charming little girl in school uniform all ready for her day with Mrs. Tompkins and the other 5 year olds.
I was a little bloody.
She screamed.

I did get to call my mum. She wasn´t happy. (You did what? AGAIN!) and the bruise from the collar bone break was massive. Almost like wearing a purple shirt.
Cool crash.
One of my better attempts.
Sorry for traumatising you little girl. ps your mum was v.v.hot.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 23:33, Reply)
Most horrific thing I've seen
Long time lurker, first time poster, so be gentle please.

I used to work with animals way back in the mists of time and worked with some interesting characters.

Probably the most horrific thing I've ever seen was the biopsy that needed to be done on a female Golden Retriever. Said bitch was three years old and often suffered from UTI's (urinary tract infections for the uninitiated). The current one had been so bad that she was hospitalised with it for a few days. She had her abdomen x-rayed and scanned to check what was going on with her bladder, as she was thought to have drunk three bowls of water on Monday and not passed anything of note since (although I have a feeling that she’d kicked them over as her bed was dripping wet and didn't smell of urine).

So her abdomen was scanned which elicited a few 'Hmms...' and 'Mmm interesting's...' from the vet [!!!] Then her bladder was x-rayed several times. First filled with water, then with air in it, then a silvery compound, very similar to barium, but I've forgotten what it's called right now. Then she was taken back to scan again where we found that she had an abnormal utethra as it was filling the bladder from two places instead of one. This admittedly was rather interesting to view; the bladder filling itself one one hand, but due to it being a genetic abnormality, not so wonderful for doggy.

Finally - and this is the horrible bit - the decision was made to take some biopsy samples from her, after she was examined with a speculum and they noticed some white bumps along the wall. They tried to get some biopsies the traditional way with a scope and long forceps, but someone had borrowed the good scope and not returned it, so her vagina was inverted and biopsies were taken via a scalpel. Guess who was in charge of the ‘vaginal inverting’?

Yup, that's right, your friendly animal technician had to turn a dogs cunt inside out so the vet could chop chunks out to be sent away for testing. Can you imagine the pain?
*tries to get image out of head*
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 23:24, 1 reply)
Bloody in Brixton
I'm on the P4 heading for Brixton tube, late for a meeting. Two stops before the tube, an old lady gets up as the bus lurches. Her fold-up seat folds (up) as she falls and gashes her shin really badly on a bolt sticking out from underneath the seat.

Blood dripping fast from the wound as I get to her and help her onto another seat. I take off my jacket (yes, Kenzo - so would you) and roll up shirtsleeves before lifting her leg and gently lay it horizontally. She is in shock at the sight of the wound and tries to get up - I hold her back and retrieve the leg from the floor again as the blood flows faster.

With the ambulance called we reach Brixton and I now have blood up to both elbows - really, a lot of blood, dark red, shiny, all over...

Paramedics board with copper. Cop asks me a few questions, even takes my mobile number, thanks me for helping and I start to get off the bus. No one has any tissues for me to mop up or seems to want to know, so I grab my jacket in my teeth and head into WH Smith for a bottle of water to rid myself of the copious gore. This is Brixton tube by the way, one of the most mental places in London - trust me.

The Smiths assistant looks up at wild-haired, sweaty man waving heavily bloodstained arms and making loud, guttural noises through the jacket hanging from his mouth, calls security guard who chucks me out of shop. Cop from bus now approaches, pushes me against a wall and calls for backup. What a goldfish-memoried wankpot he turned out to be.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 23:21, Reply)
I lost 2 pints of blood from an impressive cratered headwound
two summers ago. It was during that very hot spell in the middle of July. I can recommend the loss of 2 pints of blood as an effective cooling measure. Plus it is more environmentally friendly than almost every other alternative.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 22:35, Reply)
There's nothing quite like...
...an arterial bleed. I mean really.

Dahn Lahndan (or, "down in London" for those of us who are not cocker-knees) we were called by the fuzz to a block of flats south of the river to a "stabbing, injuries unknown, lots of blood."

We get there to be met by policeman doing what we in the trade call the "epileptic windmill" (see my profile for a description). The policeman used the phrase "sarge says he's fucked - you need to get there right now."

Bugger, I think. I've just had a kebab.

So up we run, 4 flights of stairs. At this stage I ask "why...the...cunting...fuck...aren't...we....using...the...lift?"

The copper says...."you don't want to use the lift. We've cordoned it off."


We get to the 4th floor, and the hallway is...covered. And when I say covered, I mean covered. Ceiling, floor, walls, windows. There was even a slightly pissed off looking cat with spatters of blood sitting on a windowsill.

"Where's the patient?" I ask

At this stage, a sergeant wanders round a corner.

"He's round here. Don't worry - you won't need any of that gear."

I'm assuming that the policeman has enough grasp of basic physiology to work out that the patient is (forgive the medical term) "proper fucked, like."


Yes...he was.

The patient was not alive. Alive people have more neck. And colour. And warmth. He was lying in the lift. Knifed in the carotid artery. He got a whole 6 steps before he ran out of blood.

Length? Well about 2 hours until the coroner arrived. Then the paperwork. Then the statements....
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 22:35, Reply)
Thanks Tia....
My dog was chewing on her bone and a tiny bit splintered and cut her tongue.

So she decided to tell me this by licking my face.

There's nothing like dog spit and blood all over your face to make you irresistible to members of the opposite sex.

Edit: Here is a (more reasonably sized) photo of the little blighter
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 20:18, 7 replies)
Rusty-looking marks
I went to help a mate of mine collect a tractor once from some forestery. It had a bloody great winch on the back, and a sort of a plate that you could sit a sawn-off tree trunk on. The idea was, you'd unroll the winch cable, hook it to a chain securely fastened around the tree trunk, haul it in and up onto the plate, and drive off dragging it behind you.

One thing that was very very important, apparently, was that you sat in the cab to operate the winch, and if it stuck you released the tension in the cable and went to find out what was wrong.

This particular tractor was liberally splashed with brownish stuff around the back, on the plate, on the rear wings and on the back of the cab. Mud? Rust? No.

Seems that the chap who had been using it hadn't been following the safety instructions, but had been standing at the back of the tractor operating the winch, with one foot on the plate. Then the tree trunk hit a snag, so he gave the winch a bit more rev. That's when the cable parted, and came whipping back towards him and piled into the skid plate - right where his foot was.

Length? Not as far back as I stood while washing it.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 19:22, 2 replies)
Band madness...
Back in day...ahh the days....

Anyway, back in the day, I was quite the active guitarist in our 'community' and was playing in a band in a local town, and as usual got extremely pissed in the process.

The gig was our first (with this particular line-up) and was a belter - we had girls dancing on tables with their tops off, beers lined up from punters etc... (ah, gotta stop the reminiscing)

The keys player came back to my house for some more grog and as luck would have it we'd both pulled. I can't even remember the name of the girl that came back with me, but the keys player had pulled my SISTER!!!!!!

About 5am I was literally fucked, and it was all I could do to stay awake. However, the fucking noise coming from the spare room (the room with my sister in it - no, no, not that noise, it was just loud music and pissed up shouting) was really starting to grate.

In my stupor, I thought it a good idea to politely knock on the door and perhaps ask if the lovely couple could keep the noise down as we were now trying to sleep. Well, in my memory it was like that although to be honest it was probably more like "Keep that f*cking row down you f*cking cnuts"

The keys player was not too happy about being, ahem, interupted and preceded to throw a punch at me - clocking me right in the face. It smarted.

Now, I'm quite a gentle chap, but if I get hurt the red mist comes down and well, I'm sure it's the same for all blokes.

So, 30 seconds later he's on the floor protecting his head while I'm beating down on it like the Brisbane sun in a heat wave.

My sister didn't take kindly to this, and it would seem all her 'family values' had gone out the window.

Bear in mind I was only wearing boxers at this point.

Eventually, with the girl (ahh, remembered her name, Claire!) screaming "stop, stop" etc... I stood up.

I was completely soaked in claret.

Claire started screaming "ahhhhh...who's blood is that"
"Fucked if I know" replies me.

Turns out it was mine.

My sister had repeatedly been beating me in the head with a newly nicked glass ashtray from the pub.

Seriously, I was soaked in the stuff.

Didn't have a phone in those days either (and it was long before Mobiles had been 'born' into the mainstream - not having a phone was another sister related incident, strangely involving Australia as well, odd I should have mentioned Brisbane??!), so Claire (as this was her name), sprinted virtually naked to the nearest phone box to phone an ambulance.

...and thus, one did arrive in a timely fashion too.

When they arrived, the place looked like a blood bath - I had a towel wrapped around my head that was now just completely deep red in colour despite starting out in life as a new white towel.

The carpet was drenched and actually squelched as you walked on it. And my upper torso was completely covered in, now dried (and itchy) blood.

Got to the hospital eventually and had my head sewn in places and glued in the rest in a childs bed as they had run out of *real* beds for adults - maybe it was just because they realised how pissed we were.

Anyway, all was eventually fogiven and the keys player, within a year, became my brother-in-law.

I still get asked about the bald scar on my head every time I get my hair cut.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 19:19, Reply)
Big shop of horrors (true story)
I used to work in a famous chain of stationers on the check out. One day, I was posted on the till right next to the big glass doors at the front.

I served this woman with three little bairns, and she went towards the doors, put her hand on it to open it... and it shattered. The razor sharp shards rained down on her, cutting her to shreds. Luckily, she shielded all her children. The sound was horrific - one of those moments where time stands still.

She tottered back to my till, dripping with blood, covered in scars, a glazed look on her face. I gave her my seat and shouted for help and mopped up the blood. I can't believe how far blood goes.

That poor woman.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 19:10, Reply)
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?.."



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.

(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 18:31, 4 replies)
Blood is my middle name
2 years ago, when i was a few months into my chemotherapy regime, i had a nosebleed, and i have a lot of bad nosebleeds, some that last hours and so forth, but this one was at 1am and was like a tap on full, it just wouldnt stop. Nothing would stop it, seriously.
No pinching, ice packs, nothign worked. then as it was dying down i fell asleep with some gauze wrapped under it. then at about 4 am i woke up SOAKED in my own nose blood and as i sat up i suddenly felt sick and i threw-up, but to my horro i found i was litereally vomiting blood. Then a few minutes later it happened again, and at this point the ENT doctor arrived and immediatly packed my nose (which is like having a bone dry sponge knife shoved int your nose and soaked in water) and then it stopped.

Thats just one of the many bloody incidents i had over the past two years.. Before that worst i had was falling off my bike at such a speed, half my face was completely grazed across the pavement, leaving me with a very bloody half of my face for a week or so.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 17:44, Reply)
I like shaving
when I have enough time to do it. It becomes a ritual, something that calls me back to simpler times. It's a peaceful calming activity, the pleasant warm sensation of the razor gliding over your skin, the contortions you go through to stretch the skin are like yoga for the face. I take my time, I have a nice shave, and by the end I'm smooth as a baby's bottom.

Why on earth then did I just buy a cut-throat razor? This will turn my usually serene safety razor wielding experience into a date with death. I have yet to use it, but I fear my hand will be shaking with terror, and I will end up looking like I had a fight with a lawnmower.

Wish me luck
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 17:32, 2 replies)
That's what birth smells like...
Shortly before I became babydad and on a little visit to babymums old school country living grandmother, I developed a strong desire to skin and cook a rabbit. Being a wannabe river cottage type, I thought it would be an excellent way to better appreciate meat and it's origins.

So with rabbit duly delivered, offal removed and quickly fried (very fresh rabbit liver is delicious by the way), I hung the beast for a couple of days in the shed as instructed, before the skinning and jointing process began.

A odd experience pulling the pelt off, a bit like removing a very wet sock, but odder still, and definitely not advertised, is the smell... very, very richly irony with an undertone of fillet steak, not unpleasant but certainly new to my nostrils.

A couple of weeks later, babybaby pops his head into the world and slithers onto the sheets like an emotional firework, joy, relief, pride, fear, tears and a load more joy... all to the olfactory smelltrack of bunny butchery.

I've seen some humorous final lines about length which I don't quite understand, however I can tell you a little trim downstairs can help a great deal.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 17:15, 3 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.


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.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 17:12, 9 replies)
Not really related to blood
but I've just found out that I may need an injection into my eyeball.

How? Why? What?

I don't know how I'll be able to manage that. I can't even stand people putting eyedrops in my eyes.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 17:04, 9 replies)
Its related to blood
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 16:57, 1 reply)
The Thing
John Carpenters 'The Thing' is a fantastic horror film. Its hard to believe that its nearly 30 years old. There is extensive scenes of gore and blood and when i was 9, it was brill. Dogs explode and everything, its truly fucking barbaric some of the shit in that film. I loved every second of it.

The only bit that made me scream out "ohmyfuckinggodthatsjustWRONG!!" is when they have to cut their own thumbs open a bit with a scalpel. Who would do that shit? It should be banned.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 16:46, 2 replies)
Sparring at karate
I'd done 2 rounds with this guy already, and we were getting a bit knackered... and when you get tired, the control tends to go a bit.

Anyway, he fired off a lovely double combination kick to my head, I avoided the first one and copped the second quite heavily.

"Are you ok?" he says.
"Yeah, fine, carry on" I say whilst waiting for the buzzing in my head to die down.
"No you're not" he says.

I look down, and prompt have blood cloud my right eye, spill all over my suit and pour on the floor. Fuck knows why, but I thought at this point it would be sensible to cup my hands to catch the flow - this was not a good idea, as my mitts promptly overflowed.
The chief instructor wanders over, grabbing a first aid kit. "Are you ok?" he says. "Yes, I'm fine" I rather stupidly say.

"Oh" he says when he looks at it. "It's a Y-shaped cut over your eyebrow, about 2 inches long. Stitches, I think."

Off to A&E then.
I was seen to quite quickly by a lovely nurse, who said "I don't like the look of that, I'm going to get a doctor."

Doctor turns up, starts jabbing me with anaesthetic. Now, the flesh round your eye is pretty thin, so this fucking hurt. "Don't worry" she says "It's the worst bit and I won't have to do it again."

Then she digs around and goes "Hmm. I don't like the look of this. I'm going to get my senior."
Senior doc turns up, has a brief poke. "I don't like the look of this either. I'm going to call a plastic surgeon."

They think my sodding lachrymal gland is poking out now, which does not make me gleeful.
Luckily, the placcy surgeon tells them all is fine, it most likely just a bit of fat poking out.
Of course, the whole process of finding this out took about 20 minutes, and the first doctor now has to re-anaesthetize.

"So the bit that you said was the worst bit and you wouldn't have to do again, you're doing again?"

Length? 6 beautifully done stitches in a bit of my eyebrow you can hardly see.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 16:35, Reply)
Trick or Treat
A few Halloweens ago my Mum answered the door to a grubby little kid with some red horns and a comedy knife. When he said 'Trick or treat.' my mum replied, 'I'll have the trick please.' This seemed to confuse the poor lad and after a few seconds thought he replied, 'Give us a treat or I'll bleed on your doorstep.' We gave him a yorkie and told him to piss off.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 15:47, 1 reply)
A friend...sort of
...always had a thing for fast cars, despite the fact that he couldn't drive.

When another friend of ours (who was very high up in a large medical firm and was one of the youngest self made entries into Who's Who) bought a stupidly fast double-turbo, whizz-bang sports car thing, the chap couldn't resist the constant "go on mate, how fast does it go", "It don't look that fast" etc... and took the goading friend in the car with him.

It was about midnight.

Anyway about 1 mile down the road there is a long straight with a twist in the road at the same time as a humped-back bridge.

It was at this point that the car (according to police reports) was doing about 130 mph (the road has been reduced to 40mph from 60mph now due to this incident - although how that would have stopped this from happening I have no idea).

The car hit the bridge and being mid engined had little weight at the back, and so the back of the car took off and upon hitting the ground again spun round and started what could only be described as a 'speed wobble'.

Then...BANG! the car hit something head on and the windscreen caved in ripping my friends ear clean off resulting in lots of blood. Everywhere.

Eventually the car comes to a halt and they realise that there is a LOT of blood all over the bonnet of the car. Far more than can be created from merely ripping your ear clean off.

In fact, there was blood all along the road, and all up the bank and all over the pavement...

...for about 200 yards.

It was then that the source of all the blood became very apparent.

Some poor old dear was out walking her dog and chose that exact moment to cross the road back to the side of the road where her house was.

The dog ended up on the other side of the sea wall (a wall on the adjacent side of the road, about 30 ft high!), she ended up about 200 yards down the same road. In bits.

There was so much blood it looked like the aftermath of a Scream movie.

In the car. Outside the car. On the walls. On the road. On other peoples houses. On the pavement.

It's a particularly sad story, and one made worse by the fact that the chap driving was only 24 years old, had just been made the youngest ever director of one of the worlds largest pharmacutical companies, the woman was the head of the 'road safety awareness' pressure group, and the dog. Well the poor bloody dog was just minding it's own business, probably rather pleased with itself after just having got rid of a steaming eric.

Driver got 4 years.

Bloke who's ear was ripped off, sued the driver and won (on the drivers advice mind you).

The road was closed for the next 10 hours while they got the fire brigade to come and hose all the blood away after they had taken all the measurements.

To be fair to the chap driving, he put his hands up to it straight away and plead guilty in court.

Just read that back - sorry for the lack of funnies.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 15:46, 9 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.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 15:30, 6 replies)
Not Human Blood.....
Fortunately, I'm not really prone to bleeding very often, and I don't consider myself that squeamish, but I've seen a few things that have made me go "Ewwww...." When it comes to blood.

1) When I'd just passed my driving test, I was quite happily pottering down a country road, and I spotted a rabbit, happily bouncing over the road ahead of me. It had seen me and stopped on the white line on the middle of the road. No problem, thinks I, and move over to the left of the road, giving it plenty of room. At about 15 metres away, it decided to go back the way it had come, and promptly ran under my wheel. Horrified, I pulled over. I really shouldn't have. I had run clean over its head. And the sight of its brain escaping through its nostril, and his back leg tapping on the ground like thumper, and the quite large pool of blood made me feel quite guilty.

2) A long time ago, I used to work on the railways, as a track surveyor. Good long walks, with only a 40% change of death or serious dismemberment by a train moving at 125mph. This was rather spectacularly demonstrated one day by a stag that wanted to cross the track a short distance ahead of the track walk we were currently on. Unfortunately, he hadn't been trained on the proper procedure on when it was safe to cross the track, and got hit head on by a train.

It quite literally exploded. Messy doesn't cover it. It went everywhere. We found an entire leg 150 metres up the track. The rest of it was 'chunked'. Gore, blood, and worse was all over the place. You could clearly see the point that the train hit it with an outward semicircle of splatter. We took 2 track angle measurements (every 20 metres) before there wasn't too much blood visible. We decided to call it a day early, and get a drink at the hotel we were staying at.

That kind of made my stomach a bit stronger.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 15:26, Reply)
not me but my old mate paul
or as he sometimes prefers to known - Denzil Victor Kyam Lewis - he actually had a credit card in this name when we were at college. Anyway Spimfy bonus - two bloody stories regarding Paul. A matinee double bill if you like.

First is short and sweet. Paul went to watch cricket on a hot summers day - got pissed, passed out, came to and found everyone had gone home. Now it's fair to say that Paul cultivated a bit of a mean and moody look while we were at college - he had a number 2 with a little quiff at the front and wore nothing but black. He did scowl at fair bit too – or as he put – he usually got a seat to himself on the bus. I cant stress this enough though – Paul was and remains a lovely bloke. As he made his way home he realised people were treating him with a degree of trepidation. The ticket bloke on the tube seemed a bit freaked by him. People on the tube were keen not to catch his gaze. By the time he got on the bus and people were nervously avoiding him too he started to feel a bit uneasy. By the time he got home he was tired though and just crashed out.

Next morning Paul stumbles into the bathroom and had a heart attack, well not really but it was threatened for a moment at least. His entire face was covered in streaks of dried blood. His head was cut and had covered his entire face in claret - presumably while he was asleep. To this day he has no clue what happened.

My other bloody Paul story had more far reaching consequences. He went on a trip to Paris during our second year at college with his then girlfriend. As is sometimes the case, at the height of passion he suffered a snapped banjo – she must have been as tight as a fat birds shoe. Anyway apparently what followed was akin to the rave scene at the start Blade. So fast forward to Paul back in our flat after the trip. Paul is in the bath, I am pottering about waiting for the future Mrs Spimf to arrive. I had been on the phone to Mrs Spimf just a few minutes before, sadly it would seem I did not replace the receiver properly. An added feature of old BT landlines was that in certain circumstances if another call came in and the receiver was not replaced the phone wouldn’t ring but the caller would be connected allowing them to hear what was going on. It was at this point Paul’s girlfriend decided to call (to protect her innocence we’ll simply refer to her as Miserable Psychotic Self Centred Bitch) just as Paul (loudly from the bath) regaled me with how he had banged her so hard he “broke his cock on her” typical lad type tale, no malice though, and not (from my memory at least) in any discernable way derogatory towards his charming girlfriend.

The following day Miserable Psychotic Self Centred Bitch told him she had heard every word and they were ova! No bother you might think – unfortunately Paul had not only snapped his banjo but he had also managed to impregnate Miserable Psychotic Self Centred Bitch on their ill fated trip to gay Paris. Blood it seems is not thicker than sperm.

Paul’s kid is around 20 now and by all accounts is a decent bloke just like his old man - no thanks to the 20 years of access wrangles and general psychotic behaviour from the Miserable Psychotic Self Centred Bitch.

(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 14:29, 4 replies)
I've mentioned on here before that I'm not keen on sex when "the painters are in"...
...it's not because I find it disgusting or anything, it's mainly because I really can't stand the smell of blood when I wash myself afterwards.

I know exactly why this is: many years ago, I used to run a pub with my dad. It was a particularly rough one, and ne'er a weekend passed without at least one fight. The cleaners used to get a day off on Sundays, so I generally did the cleaning then. This was invariably after there'd been a huge fight on the Saturday night, and the smell of the hot steamy water, disinfectant and blood as I mopped the toilets came very close to making me actually puke on more than one occasion.

The most memorable week was when one of the local hardnuts got a serious kicking in the toilet cubicle itself: it looked like someone had sealed it and filled it with blood to a level of about 2 feet, then drained it all out again. I had to mop the floor, the walls, the pipes and the toilet, it was horrific. If I concentrate I can still smell it now*

EDIT: *Although obviously it's not something I try to recollect that often O_o
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 14:10, Reply)
I was visiting the rellies in Scotland earlier this year and had popped round to see my newlywed cousin and her husband.

After a few rounds of scottish hospitality I need to go to the loo....unfortunately there was a queue so I was told I could use the 'outisde one'

Now my cousins new husband is affectionately known as 'The Butcher' because:

A) He has very very scarey eyes


B) He used to work in an abbatoir.

Now 'The Butcher' says to me 'There may be a few feather on the floor, dont worry about it'

So off I go to the outisde loo, it's bloody cold outside so my bladder is shrinking at an exponential rate as I walk up to the loo I open the door.....


Not only were there a 'few feathers' there was blood on the floor and a great big rusty hook hanging from the ceiling!

Like a scene out of Hostel it was!

Plus the light didnt work so I had to leave the door partially open or I would have caught my eyes on the hook....

When I had finished (thank the lord it was only a piss cos I was not sitting in there for a shit I can tell you!) and moved my feet they were sticky with the blood on the floor.

I get's back in the house and i'm asked 'Are you alright, you look a wee bit pale?'

'kin right I do, i've just survived the scottish version of Hostel....next time i'll hold it in.
(, Tue 12 Aug 2008, 13:50, Reply)

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