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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, ... 1

This question is now closed.

About 10.8593 years ago, I was suffering from a long running cough, sometimes tickly, sometimes chesty. My voice went, came back, went hoarse. Every conceivable permutation over the period of about 6 weeks.

After one particularly heavy coughing fit, something shot out my mouth and landed on the carpet. I got up to investigate and found what looked like a blood clot.

Urggh! I told my wife, who also said "Urggh!"
My cough reflex was getting more urgent, I coughed up something and went to spit it out into the toilet. It turned out to be a mouthful of blood. More coughing, and more blood.

I'd never seen that much of my own blood before, not even when my brother stabbed through the egg tray I was holding and into my leg just above the kneecap. (Exquisite agony I assure you).

I tried to reassure myself that it's not really bad because the blood wasn't entering my lungs (providing I didn't stop coughing)

Words from a Wilfred Owen poem entered my mind.

.. I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

Am I going to drown in my own blood?

I must've coughed up at least a good mugful of blood, and it showed no sign of stopping until about 3 mins before the ambulance arrived (that I'd requested in a fit of rising panic).

As I coughed up the last trace of blood, which looked pitifully insignificant compared to earlier, I decided to go to A&E to find out what happened.

I had a chest X_Ray which showed an infection in the top of my lungs. The Doc said that it had gone unchecked for a while, the weeks of coughing had inflamed the throat to the point it broke the skin. He said a large area of skin must've been inflamed to produce so much blood. He gave me some anti-biotics (which worked perfectly) and I went home.

Although that night, I managed to cough up an equal quantity of blood, and resorted to sleeping in an upright position.

I woke up during the night thinking I'd pissed the bed, but it turned out that I'd sweated loads whilst asleep, which left a comedy man-shaped wet patch on the sheet, much to my wife's amusement.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 19:18, 2 replies)
Just remembered another...
Working as a trainee stage manager a few years back with a youth theatre company it was my first big break as I was calling the show (basically every lighting, sound and acting cue was announced by me to all listening backstage)

In the show there was a big rotating stage that was rotated by hand with a large handle backstage close to my desk.. I'm sure you can see where this is going...

On the night of the dress rehearsal the show went smoothly without a hitch, and when the final notes had been given I went to walk round the dimly lit back of the stage behind the scenery... and walked straight into the winder right eyeball first!

Not feeling too much pain and seeing as my eye hadn't popped out I continued at a regular pace towards the loo to survey the damage in the mirror expecting a bit of a red mark and the beginnings of a cracking shiner.. When I bumped into some of the cast members and they leaped out my way wordlessly I sped up a little..

When I got to the mirror I saw the extent.. I had cut the underneath of my eye (the bit where you get dark circles and bags) badly in several places and looked like a creepy halloween mask on one side! There was blood all over my top and it was not a pretty sight. In the end the damage was only superficial and I got a huge bruise, but it all healed nicely and I look fine today.

The worst bit however was travelling home on the train. For my sins.. I was born and gre up in the hole that is Newport, South Wales, and there had been a football match that night as well.. on the train were several policemen on their way home and all of whom were sat looking me up and down with much suspicion as I got on the train looking like I'd been in a particularly nasty fight.

Length, about 20 mins of awkward eye avoiding on the train home - first time I've ever shyed away from a man in uniform!
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 18:48, 2 replies)
Possibly bindun, but I really should mention it
One thing I hate is people who get squeamish about blood.

You don't complain about the 9 pints of blood inside you, but you get scared over a few drops of blood.

If you hate blood so much, try living without it, and see how long you last.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 18:06, 5 replies)
Home made bombs
(tenuous blood mention below)

During the early days of the joinery business my brother started, we had the occasional downtime. My brother, no stranger to danger, bought some Crow-Scarer Rockets from the local farm supplies store.

Funnily enough, these rockets were designed to scare crows. Much like your regular firework rocket, these were attached to a stick, with a fuse. You lit them, and WHOOSH! They’d shoot upwards at quite a rate of knots, then BANG! They’d explode, scattering avians, crow or otherwise, in every direction.

Upon careful dismantling, the rockets were found to be comprised of two self-contained cardboard tubes. The first, attached to the fuse and dubbed the “Whoosh”, shot the rocket into the sky. The second part, named the “Bang” created the noise required to shock birds into submission.

There were three of us at the time – myself, my brother and the joiner we’d taken on to ease us into the world of working wood. Fnarr.

We had a number of ideas and experiments involving the separate parts. My brightest idea was to attach two, then three, and finally four Whooshes to a stick and link them together, to see how high a rocket would reach. Turns out, pretty damned high!

My brother, though, was the explosives mastermind. He rigged an ignition mechanism using a car battery and a length of basic electrical wire. I didn’t realise previously, but car batteries can pack quite a punch; indeed, enough to make electric wire glow with enough heat to light explosives over quite a length of wire.

So, the first experiment: Take a Bang, plug the wires into it, retire to a “safe” distance and connect the wires to the battery. BANG! And much giggles.

Experiment two: dig a one-foot hole in the ground, connect the wires, bury said Bang, cover with mud, pack tightly, retire to a “safe” distance and connect the wires to the battery. THUMP! And much soil spread over a reasonable diameter.

Third experiment, and here comes the crux. My brother, through either previous experience or enlightened research noted that, if you tightly enclose an explosion, it can create an extremely magnified blast.

So, using our joinery knowledge, we fashioned a block of wood to contain the Bang. We took a fair chunk of hardwood, say 10” tall by 6” deep by 8” wide. We sawed the top couple of inches off, drilled a hole in the larger section just bigger than the diameter of the Bang, drilled a small hole in the top section through which to feed the cable, popped the Bang in the hole with the wires connected through the lid. Some PVA glue was applied, and the lid was screwed down tight. We left the explosive block for some time to let the glue go off and, soon enough, everything was ready for the ultimate experiment.

So. Put the wooden block on the ground, trail the wire back a good number of metres (i.e. “safe distance”), and brace yourselves.

(I should note at this point that my comrades-in-arms had decided to hide behind a small portion of 12mm plywood in case of flying shrapnel – a detail I should have taken note of)

“Three, two, one...”

BANG! Fucking hell! Immense fucking explosion! Wood fragments everywhere! Oh wow that was...


A fair-sized fragment of wood, about 8” long, 1” in diameter flew in a very straight line from the bomb, straight into the shin of my right leg. I swear, it did not arc at all; just a straight line, from bomb to leg. Much hilarity ensued, including (here it comes!) lots of blood all down my leg and into my workboots, swearing and general amazement.

The moral of the story is, if you’re going to play with explosives, make sure you’ve got at least a bit of 12mm ply to hide behind. I have a scar to this day, and an impressive dent in my shin you can feel if anyone ever... touched me.

Length? Not much, I just enjoy the story.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 17:37, 3 replies)
A couple of years back I treated myself to the indulgence of a brand new mountain bike, in exchange for £1700 well earned portraits of the Queen's enigmatically smiling face.

I know what you're thinking; "£1700? For a bicycle? He's fucking mad". And you'd probably be right, so my protestation that my bike is a piece of industrial beauty is do doubt being read by disbelieving eyes. You should see her, you really should... Resplendent in black enamel, made of swoopy bits of aircraft grade aluminium, she'd happily draw many an admiring glance if hung on the wall of the Tate Modern as a monument to industrial design...

Sorry, I drifted away there for a moment. Yes, the post purchase guilt still pangs from time to time.

The following weekend, I arranged to spend a couple of days biking on the Cumbria / Yorkshire border with a friend of mine. Now this is proper off road cycling up and down rocky terrain and admiring breathtaking scenery. My new bike would surely endow me with the kind of skill that would allow me tom hurl myself into the air and perform acrobatic feats like the freeride bikers you see on the cover of magazines?

Not quite.

Preparing to descend a very steep slope, I launched myself downward with reckless abandon, grinning like an idiot safe in the knowledge that his bike will cope with whatever the worst of the UK could throw at it.

With the wind rushing past my ears, I sight a craggy rock garden looming, which had been hidden from view. Facing with making a snap decision, I leaned backwards and yanked on the handlebars, pulling the bike upwards.


It was probably the finest piece of riding I have ever achieved, the bike and I skipped the rocks and landed like a feather back on the grass, having picked up a considerable amount of speed on the way.

I was going to get away with it. I was going to get away with it! The elation began to course through my veins in celebration of eluding a nasty accident.

However, my self congratulations were premature. In the style of Douglas Bader, I'd cocked up the landing a smidge. The front wheel had landed exactly where I wanted it, however the rear had stepped sideways a tad. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue, physics would take over and snap the bike's path straight.

I was fighting a losing battle now, for the slope was off camber and the grass was wet, so the rear wheel snapped sideways, forcing the bike to jack-knife.

I tried in vain to get the bike pointing forwards, but it just wouldn't happen. Inevitably I fell sideways onto the slippery grass with a bike trapped in between my knees.

"Not like this, no!" I pleaded with the Great Gods of bicycle crashes, my only option considering that I was now a passenger onboard the runaway Nasty Accident Express and headed straight for the bollock buffers.

Sure enough, the front and rear wheels both struck adjacent rocks, arresting the bike in the blink of an eye.

I however, was carried onward by twelve and a half stone's worth of inertia. I felt my inner thigh being thumped by the hard frame briefly before I blacked out.

As the blackness faded, I saw the concerned face of my riding companion looking at me. The lower half of me felt numb and unresponsive. I did not want to move, fearful of what would happen next. I tried to extricate my legs from the frame and immediately winced at the burning pain centered on the inside of my hip joint. The bike was pulled from under me as I woozily protested while my friend helped me to my feet.

*cough* "M-m-my boll..." *cough* "m-m-my n-n-n-nu..." *splutter*

Then the pain started. My lower body slowly sank into a lake of sheer agony, as the pain advanced up my thighs all the way to my waist. Once lapping at my navel, it continued to wash over me in tortuous waves, never subsiding in it's intensity. I nearly blacked out again as I wiped the tears from my watery eyes and struggled to stop myself from puking.

Forty minutes later I'd been helped to the bottom of the hill, with my friend wheeling my beloved bike behind me. Now the bike itself was undamaged, apart from having the handlebars bent out of shape and needing replacement.

I however was anxious to get somewhere private so that I could inspect the damage. With an exaggerated swagger (the only method of locomotion I was capable of), I managed to walk myself into the toilets of a nearby pub.

I had no idea what to expect. Sweat and pain in my lower region partly made me think I was expecting to see blood, so I carefully removed my cycle shorts and assessed the damage in front of me. Everything above the knees and below the navel was an angry bluish-purple. I looked further back still and was greeted by a sight not dissimilar to this, but in stereo.


A week after that incident, I was on best man duty at a wedding. You can see from the DVD that my eyes are slightly crossed and that I'm shuffling with a distinct limp.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 17:05, 8 replies)
Bilateral trimming of yer turbinates
"Turbinate bone refers to any of the scrolled spongy bones of the nasal passages in humans and other vertebrates" (thanks wiki).
So, I'm 16, had a few nasal operations to stop gigantic nose bleeds and generally open up my airtubes for breathing purposes. I go out for the count, and wake up feeling croggy, and as I come peoperly to, I notice, out of the bottom vision of my eyes, that my nose appears to be several sizes bigger than I recall. Feel pretty groggy, and as the day wears on, I start feeling a bit spewy. Eventually, I decide that spewing is the only thing that will make me feel better, so imagine my delight when all I barf up is a mass of congealed clots of blood. This continues all day, until they stop giving me the recycled cardboard hat things they have, and start giving me shiny metal bowls to spew into. Eventually, in the evening, as I start to resemble a vampire, they decide to take me back into theatre to see why I'm filling my stomach with blood. Naturally enough, they've just not cauterised my nose properly. Anyhoo, blood transfusions ahoy, and next day I'm feeling a bit better. Imagine my delight when it comes to changing my bandages. Doctor pulls out the old sticky bloody ones, dips the light gauze into some novocaine substance and begins ramming it up my nose. And continues. And continues. 6 fecking feet PER NOSTRIL. To top it all I had little blue plastic splint things stapled to the inside of my nose, which stuck out making me look like a retard. And can I breathe any better? Go on, guess....
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 17:02, 3 replies)
At my last job, I was responsible for sourcing some bar code scanners.
They were for tracking patient's casenotes around a hospital, but they also had to work with the "Bloodtrack" system we'd just brought in which tracked packets of blood and made sure that patients got the right blood, rather than another type which would make them ill, or in fact die.

So it was that one auspicious Tuesday morning I found myself in the blood unit, holding a sample scanner in one hand and a bag of chilled blood in the other. It wasn't how I expected; almost black, fading to red at the edges where the pack was thinner...quite near to freezing but not actually freezing, and more solid than liquid, with just enough movement in the bag to suggest an "oozing" sensation.

I didn't eat any ice-pops for a while after that.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 16:58, Reply)
The other guitarist in one of the bands I'm in...
...slipped while repairing a washing machine and dragged the back of his hand along the edge of one of the pieces of sheet metal the machine was made of.

Pints of claret issued forth, and terrifyingly, the index finger of his left hand hung uselessly as he'd severed all the tendons on the back of it, right by the knuckle.

He's okay now - had it strapped at odd angles for ages to let the tendons heal, then physio, and now he's still able to play amazing stunt guitar, so no harm done. I can only imagine the horror of those first weeks though, I know that I'd be convinced I was never going to be able to play again O_o
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 16:50, 3 replies)
So much blood...
15 years back, decided to try and open a very glass door with my tiny 9 year old bodeh. Door didn't want to open even though it should have. Was in a local leisure centre. In *this* day and age, multiple sue-age would have occurred. But as I didn't lose the finger or use, we didn't.
Have a bitchin' scar that goes from the finger tip of my right index finger all the way along the side to the knuckle.
A sheet of glass sliced down into my left knee too. I didn't realise at the time, as my hand was busy bleeding onto the floor. I noticed I had a red sock and told the first aid person I thought I'd cut my leg too.
Got some stitches in there. And when I bent my leg the flap pulled up so you could see lots of whitey fat stuff :)

My hands are a mess :(

\edit - I think I posted about this in the scars QOTW a few years back. I shall do some digging...
\editedit - here she is!
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 15:38, Reply)
Red horror and humiliation
Staying over at the parents, it's 11pm and I'm thinking about bedtime. Visit the downstairs karzi for a pre-snooze slash. There's a small feeling of discomfort so I look down to see small specks of what looks like Tabasco sauce in the karzi pan.

I shudder as the prospect of yet another camera up the willy looms large and decide on further inspection. I drop my willy over the edge of the bathroom sink and reach for the Andrex.

At this moment the rectangular shaving mirror fixed about two feet above the sink decides it has had enough of life and plunges downwards. Straight into the sink. Corner first.

Trapping my foreskin between it and the sink.

Seconds passed in agonised shock, then I removed the mirror. Tabasco spray all over the sink. Several sheets of Andrex to dab down a very nervous rinse. There's no sign of this bleeder stopping bleeding. I wrapped it in some Andrex and then made a big mistake: I phoned NHS Direct. I then made an even bigger mistake: I gave them my name.

Picture this if you will...

Jamie stood in the kitchen, clutching his Andrex swathed bleeding prick. being laughed at by silly cows at NHS Direct. I'd never thought of the line "I've lacerated my foreskin" as being so hysterically funny. Then when the bovine brigade realised my name they spent 10 minutes trying to convince me that I was that twat from off the telly.

I told them to f**k off and took myself off to hospital. The A&E receptionist also thought the line "I've lacerated my foreskin" was rather funny but at least made an effort to repress the smirk and apologise.

The doctor took the now blood soaked Andrex off, rinsed it and told me that the only way he could fix it was with paper stitches. At least he didn't end up using a needle! That was the only good thing to come out of the whole incident. No wanking for Jamie, for two weeks!
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 15:24, Reply)
Trauma - A medical Textbook
I very good friend of mine from my A Levels left college to train as a nurse. During his three years of debauchery training he acquired several textbooks to accompany his studies, the content of one of them Trauma continues to bring me out in cold sweats to this very day.

Now part of being a student nurse is spending time in Accident and Emergency wards, where - just like in Thunderbirds - anything can happen. My friend used to come back from a shift and regularly fill me in on some of the scary sights he'd witnessed during a stint on A&E, most of which seemed to include foreign objects lodged in the unfortunate patients' anuses.

The one that's making me shiver just thinking about it though involved the poor, unfortunate chap who appeared in Trauma at various stages of recovery having been dragged from a burning building.

Now the poor chap had suffered extensive burns to his lower torso as evidenced by the first photograph, which shows the lower abdomen a very unhealthy charred colour with what resembled a severely overcooked sausage lurking twixt singed thighs. The sight of this was enough to have me clamping my legs closed in sympathy.

However it gets worse...

The second photograph shows the burned skin beginning to slowly debriding itself from the body. Small, angry looking patches of rawness seem to be appearing.

The third photograph shows the same guys a few weeks later, with no carbonized flesh on show but with what now resembles a butcher's shop window where his genitals should be. Having experienced minor chafing from badly adjusted gym shorts, my eyes were watering in sympathy.

The fourth illustration was the most horrific. By now the chap's genitals were well on the way to healing, the colour having become a tender pink, however the scarring from the burns left his todger rather mutilated and less than half it's original size if compared to picture #1.

This illustration was accompanied by the caption "Genital reconstruction may well be possible at this point..."

Whoever the poor guy was, my heart bleeds for him
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 15:22, 5 replies)
Mmm blood
I've never had a nosebleed.

(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 15:15, Reply)
Computers: Dangerous business
I'm sure anyone who repairs computers has encountered the peril of cheap sheet-metal cases.

Yes, they're fucking lethal.

Especially the way that you think you've only got a scratch, and then realise that it's severed an entire chunk of your finger in a similar way to a scalpel blade.

I have many scars.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 15:08, 6 replies)
Soggy Moggy
Just went back to the 'rents house. Moggy is sitting on ma's lap.
"This one hasn't been well."
"What's he done?"
"Well he was sitting at the top of the stairs last night. Fell over sideways, screamed then pissed blood everywhere."

We loves our cats, we does.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 14:36, Reply)
I'm feeling so queasy.
All this mention of blood has made me realise why I'm feeling so weird.
I had an early night last night and I think that may have allowed enough time for some to enter my alcohol stream.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 13:25, Reply)
theres blood in it
This is pretty funny if you like that sort of thing.

Canned laughter is a bit annoying, turn it down after the first minute.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 13:24, Reply)
A mosquito bite on my back
went well and truly manky, all septic and gross. I asked my wife to put a dressing on it, but before she did, I flexed my back, and it burst, jizzing a large gout of icky green pus. She, undertandably, puked.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 13:12, 2 replies)
The aftermath
Apologies in advance to lunchtime readers

Im not much of a bleeder, I can mulch joints (both times I have torn ligaments in my left knee my entire leg from knee to toe went very impressively blue / green / brown / puce / purple splodge and stripes after having the knee drained and strapped up) and break silly little bones but not really hacked and slashed myself into a bloody mess.

However, a lot of the stories here have ended up in hospital, and I had the pleasure for a few years of doing a job that involved collecting the operating instruments from the theatres, washing/cleaning them, checking, packing and finally sterilizing by autoclave ready for use again.

Each and every day would involve handling blood and gore splattered instruments, trying to remove hundreds of tiny bone fragments from neurosurgery drills and lugging all of the threatre waste to the disposal chutes that go to the incenerators. If I was lucky I would maybe have to completely change theatre blues and shower once for getting covered in blood or general entrails.

At least once a week you would get some sets wrapped up in biohazard tape and environmental waste bags, from a patient who would be at least one of MRSA+ HIV+ or alphabet Hepatitis+ (usually B or C) all instuments have to be counted, opened up to be cleaned properly and wiped clean if going through the washers brokje them, air powered drills for instance. Fear of needlestick injuries from scissors or accidentally left scalpel blades and needles was constant and very intense if again the used stuff was a biohazard risk, all of this for the joy of NHS wages (when I left after 5 years my basic was £9,500)

Highlights of the job include

A nurse walking out of a theatre and waving at me with a hand of an arm freshly amputated above the elbow.

Someone accidentally leaving a removed eyeball on the trolley for us to collect.

Watching a motorcyclist having his leg rebuilt at 10pm christmas day after he went under a lorry, the surgeon spent a good hour wading through so much minced meat of thigh to try and pin his leg back up. Most major orthopeadic trauma kits cost tens of thousands of pounds so hospitals can only afford 1 or 2, meaning as soon as they are used they need to be turned round and available within 3 hours, as autoclaves take 2 hours to fire up we would get called out mid operation, and the cooler surgeons and staff would let us scrub up and watch.

The low-lights? doesnt include blood so will add as a reply, and its even grimmer than the above!
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 12:54, 8 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...

(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 11:33, 9 replies)
He left a trail a mile long...
He being me in this case.

When I were but a firefly, I went on a school skiing trip. This is natural territory for injuries, with kids being kids and son on. True to expectations, there were a couple of minor breaks and sprains, but these were neither here nor there.

As a child, I was (and still am to some degree) prone to nosebleeds, and it so happened that the altitude in this resort seemed to set me off. Two incidents stick in the mind.

The first was fairly mundane - being perched over the kitchen sink and watching my nose literally flow with blood. If I didn't lose half a pint at least, I'd be very surprised.

The second was much more fun. We were on a 4 person chairlift, me sitting on the side, when my nasal gremlins struck again. With no tissues readily available, I ended up having to dribble over the side - and this was a long chairlift! The journey came to an end, and I eventually dried up, leaving a large patch of deep red snow at the top of the lift. So, what would you as a gore hungry 14 year old do?

We followed the trail down of course, and had one of the best runs of the week, doing an impromptu off-piste trek down the chair lift trail and through the trees.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 11:26, Reply)
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.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 11:04, 5 replies)
For Prof Kenny Martin:
Got asked to leave a TGI's once
when a colleagues joke had made me laugh and snort a heavily Tabascoed mouthful of Bloody Mary out of my nostrils and onto me, him and a couple of other customers. The shrieking with pain and the watering eyes didn't really help my case.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 10:46, Reply)
Where'd it all come from?
Once upon a time, when I had a job, the small-minded twunts at Head Office decided to reduce the risk of injury by replacing all the Stanley Knives with poncey little safety blades. I took one of these home to explore it's effectiveness, and had a bit of a play about, carving up plastic items I found around the house. Now there is a simple equation: booze + blade = Cut finger, and sure enough in no time I had sliced a notch out of my left index finger. I did all the usual things, you know, running water, plaster, etc, but it wouldn't stop spouting the claret. In the end - after a bandage and a bunch of plasters - I gave up and sat with my wounded finger over a pint mug, which then proceeded to fill up. By the time it had finally stopped I'd lost the best part of a pint. I set the glass down and got back to the serious business of drinking and watching a dvd.
At which point the large white cat I lived with decided to have a drink...
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 10:45, Reply)
Jacuzzi horror...
My wife (then gf) was babysitting for wealthy friends who were spending a weekend in t'country. I came round after the kiddies had gone to bed with the expressed intention of bonking her unconscious in their large jacuzzi.
We get in and soon she is looming over me, her pendulous, soapy breasts engulfing my face. She gently mounts my cock and wiggles downwards. Suddenly - shark attack! The jacuzzi turns red. The water-jets and bubble-bath combine to create a groovy but gory, crimson froth effect. Yup, the ol' banjo string done snapped itself. Cue worst blue balls in recorded history. Couldn't even wank for weeks. Plus the outer skin of my penis became obscenely mobile to the point where I could pull it almost down to my abdomen, allowing me to see more of the purple sausage than any man ever should.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 10:20, Reply)
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.
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.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 10:16, 21 replies)
I feel Babydad's pain
My very British mother used to always say 'skin the rabbit' when taking off a skivvy or jumper...

Fast forward to a few months ago, when I, revelling in the simple rural pleasures of my first kill with a rifle (courtesy of also being a wannabe country type) skinned my catch. After looking up instructions on the Internet, of course.

It all made terrible, horrible bloody sense then, and I wish I'd never ever heard the phrase.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 6:45, Reply)
I punched the missus last night...
Not as you would imagine.

Was doing the deed. Left arm gave way, just at that time i was "adjusting" myself as had popped out. Paniced and tried to keep up by slamming my right arm back onto the bed to keep myself up.

Missed the bed and smashed her right in the chops. Blood everywhere, took forever to clean up.

Her mum & dad get to ours on friday, this morning she had a lovely black eye coming on and a bloody nose.

Im in big trouble as her old man is a monster
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 3:36, 15 replies)
Musical interlude...
When I was a wee young 'un.. I was a bit of a dork to say the least. I used to play the oboe (I still do occasionally - but I don't care if its cool any more) I was also in the school orchestra. I was scheduled to play a solo piece in the next school concert, and my family were very excited.

I was crapping myself as the guy I fancied was going as well to see his younger sister sing or something. He had no idea I existed...

On the night I was petrified.. 14 years old, pale and shaking like a leaf. I'd been practising till I knew the piece backwards but still very nervous.

We took our seats and the first big number was played, I was on after that. I played fine in the big number and then my name was announced and I took my little stand and stood dead centre on the spot I'd been shown earlier.

I played the entire piece flawlessly, it was about two minutes long with a particularly tricky bit about three quarters of the way through. I got to the part and sailed through it.. only problem being I was meant to breathe at regular intervals... to this day I truly cannot remember breathing at all.

I passed out in front of an audience of 250 of my friends, family and the guy I fancied. Cracked my head and managed to cut it open quite badly. I came to to see my dad, my music teacher and my mum all covered in blood crowded round me. I made quite a mess and when I went to visit the school just before its closure to make room for a new housing estate last year, the stain could still be seen.

Length... two minutes of a lovely Concerto in D...
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 2:34, 4 replies)
Blood on a bike
Just before christmas 2006 I broke my nose for a second time. I generally work as a Motorcycle courier when I can be bothered to get out of bed of a morning and I was doing this that fate full day.

I was riding a 400BROS for work at the time with a huge screen on the front for weather protection.

Driving down Commercial road towards the Aldgate I turned into Backchurch lane which always seems to have cars parked on either side reduces the available space to drive down to one lane. There was a big silver Mercedes in front of me which had stopped as a Transit van was coming towards us and as I slowed down behind it I pulled out my XDA to have a quick look at it. As I looked there was a fucking huge bang and it felt like I'd been kicked in the head, blood sprayed every where. Over my face my bike the Merc absolutely every where. I got off the bike not being able to see due to the blood in my eyes and had to take off my Arai that was also covered with blood, wiped my face to discover that somehow I'd hit the Merc which was all a bit confusing as it had been about 20 foot in front of me.

The woman driving the Merc jumped out to see what had happened and turned a bit green at the sight of me, 6 foot long red headed bearded biker built like a brick shit house covered with still flowing blood spitting huge amounts of it every where whenever I said anything. She asked if I needed an Ambulance, when I said no she did a runner even with the back of her car smashed in.

I worked out what had happened after a while. To avoid being hit by the transit van the woman had reversed without looking and hit me, the screen on my bike had gone under my visor and hit the bottom of my nose smashing the cartilage. Serious pain and I still have trouble breathing out of my left nostril.

Sold the bike 6 months later still covered in my blood, seemed wrong to wash it off somehow.
(, Wed 13 Aug 2008, 2:23, 6 replies)

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