It wasn't like I meant it ...
.
My Dad was very squeamish. The mere sight of blood made him go all pale and wobbly. As kids, we knew this and used to ensure that we avoided him when sporting the latest in a very long line of childhood "ouchies".

But one day, Mum was shopping. Dad was in charge, and there was a football match on telly. Which he was desperate to watch. So when I asked if I could go out and play on my new roller skates, he agreed without any of the usual admonitions regarding safety. Yee hah!

Off I went, strapped on the skates (this was pre-roller blade days, and skates were big four wheeled jobs which weighed a ton) and headed for the street. I skated along the pavement and back. Did the same again. And again. Until I got bored.

I wanted to try turning in a circle on my skates, like I'd seen Robin Cousins do (overlooking the fact that his were ice skates and mine were not).

I looked around, and realised no-one was watching. I nipped out on to the road and started trying to circle. Which wasn't as easy as old Robin had made it look. I was so engrossed, I didn't hear the car coming.

When I didn't retreat to the pavement, the car driver tooted his horn to make me get the hell out of his way. I got such a fright I lost all sense of balance - and may well have pee-ed a little as well. I went over on my ankle, and tried to reach out and grab the hurty bit. Which was when my face slammed into the bumper of a parked car. The impact of face-on-bumper shoved my front teeth through my bottom lip. Profuse bleeding swiftly followed.

I stumbled back to the house, trying to catch the blood in my hand to keep it off my t shirt, and managed to get the skates off with one hand. I went into the kitchen, grabbed some kitchen roll, and did my best to stem the bleeding. With little success.

I eventually admitted defeat after what felt like a lifetime but was more than likely less than 5 minutes, and shouted for Dad.

He entered the kitchen to find his youngest child stood there, blood all over her face and clothing, and came as close to fainting as you can without actually passing out. He shouted on my brother to go and get our next-door neighbour. Thank the heavens, she wasn't at work. Even better, she was an A&E nurse (or Casualty as it was then known) and totally unfazed by the sight of so much blood.

She stemmed the bleeding, decided it didn't need stitches, and told my Dad to make sure he cleaned me up before my mother came home. And to rinse the clothes in cold water to get the blood out before it dried in.

When Mum came home, she didn't know who to bollock first. Dad, for letting me skate unsupervised (I'd only just learned to stay upright on the damn things) or me, for going onto the road when I knew that was absolutely forbidden. We spent a long night in the dog-house, Dad and I. Not for the first time, or the last.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:51, Reply)

When I was in the Army (some years ago!)


As some of you know I served for my country as a Military Policeman.

Liked by some, hated by others (the uniform) I was very fair I might add!.

Anyway, one Friday night in Chichester we get a phone call off Shore Patrol in Southampton saying that our boys are kicking off on some sailors and could we come and give them a hand.

No probs, it's only 30 mins away with blues on so off we sped (3.0 Omega if you care to know)

So we get there and all hell's breaking loose and to cut a long story short I got bottled by one of my own (little fucker! I got revenge at the glass house, but that's another story) and was knocked out cold.

Blood? Plenty, but the real problem occurred when I went to the hospital 3 months later for a check up.

The Doctor noticed that although my head had healed nicely not all of the hair around the area had grown and suggested I have another operation to sort it out, so I agreed.

Roll on 6 months and I get to the M.O.D hospital at Southampton and await my fate, I was let into this room and the Doctor put this white towel around my neck and I was told to lie on my front and I was given a local anaesthetic, the operation went well and the doctor sat me up and asked if I was OK? I said fine and he said he would go and get a nurse to clean me up, so off he popped.

So there I am sat on this surgery table feet dangling over the edge, when I notice a mirror on the wall in font of me, what possessed me I don't know but I sat up a bit higher and looked at my self.

The first thing I noticed was the white towel was now red and the second thing was the trolley of surgical instruments heading towards me at a rate of knots.

I'd fainted - Yes, me! Someone who's seen bodies with holes in them, fainted at the sight of his own blood.

Thankfully I only glanced off the trolley, but it was the nylon carpet that did the most damage, I had a carpet burn down the right hand side of my face that most knee's would be proud of!

It took a few years to shake of the abuse I got off my colleagues for that one let me tell you.

All better now - although the hair still doesn't grow there for some reason, but ho hum, at least I'm OK.



(Kip, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:48, 3 replies)

Face plant...
It was night, the folks were in bed and my younger brother and I decided the time was right for a final nifty spliff before retiring for the evening.

First things first says I, I need a piss. There's a whole garden to piss in, my brother wisely points out, but I knew best and set off through the darkened house to point Percy at the porcelain.

Walking back through the darkened hallway, I'm in mind of the cupboard that juts out menacingly into the path of unsighted muppets like myself, so I set my arms swinging across my body and out to the sides as a rudimentary cupboard detector thing.

My timing couldn't have been worse as both arms reached the outer extreme of their swing, just as my face made acquaintance with a poorly placed corner.

A dull thud complimented the 'oof' that I emitted and I staggered back a little, slightly stunned.

I gave my head a cursory touch and, sensing nothing amiss, continued my journey unperturbed by the collision.

It was only when I wondered back into the living room, ready to convey the hilarious tale of my cupboardy calamity that I became aware of the stream of claret dripping steadily onto my jumper.

It was more than a little tricky explaining the bulging, bloodied mess on my forehead as I came down for breakfast in the morning.
( Moey, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:47, Reply)

Enyzme just reminded me
My mate H once went down on his missus.
The little string from the chufty plug should have told him now was not a good time, but too many Stellas can impair your judgment.
Woke up the next day, came downstairs, whereupon we all pissed ourselves. He looked like some kind of Satanic Father Christmas.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:47, 1 reply)

If blokes had periods
I'm willing to bet there'd be no VAT on tampons and sanitary towels.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:43, 15 replies)

First of many...
because my brother and I used to fight like weasels when smaller.

My brother is 7 years older than me. When I was 8, he was 15. He was also not above belting his younger sister when she was being an annoying little beast (as I frequently was).

One day, the following exchange took place between us:
SisterBobFossil: "Oi! BrotherBobFossil!" *kicks in BBF in shins*
BBF: "Arghyoulittlehorror!" *Smacks round head*
SBF: "Meanie!" *punches BBF in stomach*
BBF: "Arghyoulittlebloodyshit!" *Pushes SBF to ground, kneels on her stomach and starts pulling her hair*
SBF: "Owowowowowstopitpleasegodthere'somethingwrongwithmykneegetoffgetoffgetoff!"
BBF: *finally realises something really is wrong and gets off*
SBF: *knee spurting blood*. *spurt spurt spurt*
SiblingsBobFossil: "Shit".

The prong from his belt had come loose, stuck into my knee, and gouged a huge chuck out of the skin covering my kneecap, so it was flapping loose and bleeding everywhere. Cue a panicked trip to casualty with my mother. The first of many; I'm a clumsy, clumsy person.

We get on really well now, you'll be pleased to hear. It just took a few years of him strangling me, cracking my skull with a paving slab, and twatting me in the face with a coil of hose. To be fair though, I was a horrible little child, and deserved most of what I got.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:43, 1 reply)

A few short ones...
Like the time I was at the dentist, and he was a complete noob. Probably hadn't even finished dentist school. Getting a filling, the twazzock slipped and ripped open my gum with the drill, spraying my lovely claret all over his white smock. The bastard.

Or the time I was working for a parcel company loading/unloading lorries. One of the metal railings had become broken on the inside of a lorry and I grazed my arm on it. Or so I thought. A little while later, I notice a trail of blood circling around the loading bay floor. Following the trail with my eyes, it led back to my arm, which was pouring a nice trail of blood all over the place. Didn't hurt a bit, oddly.

Like the time I was about 7 and playing with broken glass (as you do). Naturally I ended up with a cut hand. Mum wrapped my gushing hand in a teatowel and off we trot to casualty. By the time we get there, the towel is almost completely red on one side. When the doctor took off the towel and cleaned away the excess blood, the cut was all of 1cm long, but I had skillfully managed to nick one of the main arteries in my hand.
( Damocles wants no part of your debauchery, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:43, Reply)

Useful advice
In France a couple of weeks ago, I ended up having lunch with an American couple. After the meal, as we sat on the verandah, Heidi - for that was her name - offered into the conversation that one should never go diving with a menstruating woman if there are Great White sharks in the area.

OK. Personally, I tend to think that the phrase "with a menstruating woman" is a bit superfluous.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:41, 4 replies)

Right
Back in the days of yore at school, we wrote with fountain pens that had little ink cartridge refills. I used to cut them open when I was finished with them, remove the little ball inside, and stick them into the body of my pen (where there's room for a spare cartridge) so that they rattled annoyingly.

One History lesson aged about 11, I was bored out of my skull. We had been learning about the Bayer tapestry for the millionth consecutive lesson with the dullest woman to have ever walked the earth. It was double History, and I thought my brain would explode if I had to sit there any longer. I had also just finished an ink cartridge.

I started to cut it open, then a brainwave occurred. If I also cut my finger badly enough, then I will be able to go to the nurse and skip the lesson! (Start of a running theme here)

So I did. Rather too well. I not only removed a mahoosive amount of flesh, I also partially severed the tendon. Blood pissed everywhere, over my desk, over the floor as I walked up to the teacher to explain why I couldn't possibly continue with the lesson, and all the way down the corridor as I made my way to the nurse.

Length- two hours of blissful avoidance.
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:39, 6 replies)

setting up a corporate event in a museum in glasgow
not much time lots to do , six guys on the gig and we had all worked up a sweat . I had also bumped my head while building the stage but thought little of it ..

Cut to the ten minute tweak before the gig starts and I'm noticing that all the little waiting people are staring at me but avoiding eye contact , then noticing that my guys on the job are pissing themselves . Quick self check reveals that the sweat I thought I had been brushing off my forehead was actually blood and I looked like a crazy axe murdering psycho rather than a consumate event technician. Hey ho
(happyjoy last changed sig on, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:34, Reply)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ooh, another.
Quicker this time.

About 16, in a derelict farmhouse in the country, you had to get in by climbing through the space where a large window had once been, doing a 'seance' in the loft, we left the room and heard a noise from the empty room we'd just been in (the imagination is a powerful thing kids) we shat it and ran 2 more flights down stairs, get to the window and both hurdle through in perfect unison. Except my foot caught the lower sill, tumbling me to the floor outside the missing window, arms first ,where said window now lays.

Cue plenty of blood and 6 stitches across a burn scar. Pretty cool.
(ice9, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:31, Reply)

Prince Albert
I'd wanted a PA for as long as I could remember (not long ago thanks to a long history of drug and alchol abuse)and one sunny day popped down to Perforations in sunny Brighton to get a metal ring put through my knob.
Now, a quick aside. Last time I'd been there to get my tongue done I witnessed a young girl, who had just got her flaps done. Said girl was wearing tight white jeans sporting a growing, red patch in the crotch area. I knew dark coloured jeans and thick pants were the order of the day.
Now, no real blood or pain through the piercing, yes I did opt for the anaesthetic spray, and I did get to look at my feet through a new hole in my penis.
Monkeyboy thinks all is well and nips off to the pub for a couple of fizzy pops.
After a few pints I feel the need to break the seal and pootle off to the little monkeys room.
Cue agony.
Child birth, pffh. Broken limbs, childsplay.
I had just pissed out a 90 degree stream of boiling, bloody piss, hitting the fellow in the urinal next to me with this red urine(his face would have been a picture if I'd been able to focus on it) and causing my knees to buckle.
I clambered into the cubicle where I sat down like a girl and slowly, painfully trickled out the rest of my two pints. Ow.
But does it end here? No.
After sheepishly making excuses I went home, one careful step at a time and smoked myself into oblivion in the hope that the pain would be gone when I woke up.
Now, I'd had to move back in with my folks at this time, and early the next morning my mum came in to see how I was after the night before where I'd rushed upstairs without so much as a how do you do?
She opens the bedroom door and is greeted by her son, groggily opening his eyes to find his mother screaming in shock. Looking down, Monkey boy sees that there has been leakage during the night, a bloody map of Africa emanating from his nether region like some kind of perverted boy period.
I had to slowly peel my pants from my sheet, calm my mother down, get her to leave the room, peel my cock from my pants and wash everything. Twice.

Length, well it was cold in the piercing room and I was nervous.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:29, 6 replies)

The quickest way to get over a fear of blood draws?
Get an illness where you need to have blood draws every 2 or 3 months. The first few times you get a bit freaked, the next few times you just grimace and bear it, and by year two you're sighing and saying "no, not that vein, no one ever gets any from that vein. Hell, just give me the damn needle and I'll get it for you".

It bugs me that they never give me biscuits though. At least the blood donation people give you biscuits. I mean, would it kill them to fork out for a packet of custard creams once in a while?
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:28, 1 reply)

CSI: Leytonstone
Spring, 2005, and I’d just had a fairly sizeable tattoo etched on to my back, between my shoulder blades. Although a fairly simple design, I’d been under the needle for about two hours in the window of the tattoo parlour in London’s Selfridges.

After the man who had been leaning on my back for the last two hours wiped me off (fnar!), he placed what can only be described as four rectangles of surgical cling film to the area the tattoo covered.

“Do not” he said to me “remove these for at least four hours, preferably eight.”

“OK.” I solemnly agreed. I handed over a fistful of cash, bought some care lotion, and made my careful way along Bond Street towards home. Sitting on the tube, I could feel the skin on my back begin to swell and throb slightly, and unless I was very much mistaken it was getting hot, too. I leaned forwards, relieving the pressure, and rode the train home.

By this time I was becoming woozy – like an idiot I’d had a few pints the night before and my blood must’ve still been quite thin – I’d certainly lost a lot in the studio. I grabbed a subway, returned to the flat, and crashed on to my bed, face first. I lay there for half an hour or so, before the combination of heat, loss of blood and food lulled me in to a sleep. I woke up briefly to take my t shirt off, and then fell immediately in to a deep and dreamless state. It was 3pm.

I awoke some 5 hours later to a text message from my friend, in the local pub, asking me where the hell I was. Quickly, I grabbed a shirt and a towel and ran to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I could see the tattoo, pink around the edges, glistening on my back. I was going to show it off. I showered, letting the hot, soapy water work the glue on the dressings free, and then peeled them off with my fingers. Patting it dry, I applied some healing cream, got dressed, and went to the pub.

Drinking on blood loss is not a good idea; let’s get that straight right now. I remember trying to chat up the barmaid in a suave and debonair fashion but have since been informed it involved me leaning over the bar swearing indiscriminately and making inappropriate gestures. Surprisingly, I didn’t get a date, and it did cost me a bunch of flowers and a grovelling apology.

Anyway, a few hours later I arrive home. I say arrive, I crashed through the door with all the grace and aplomb of an elephant in roller skates. To find my housemate, standing in my doorway, white as a sheet.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Oh, thank God you’re home!” she said “I’ve been so worried. I’ve been trying to ring you but couldn’t get through, I nearly called the police. What happened?”

“What do you mean? I had my tattoo, and have been out for some beers...”

“I think you’d better have a look.”

I stepped through the door to my bedroom. It looked like a scene out of CSI Miami. And then it came flooding back. I’d gone to sleep on my front. I’d woken up... on my back. The dressings applied to my back must have contained the flow of quite a lot of blood, and, when I turned on my back, they popped.

There was blood on my pillows. There was blood on my bedsheet. There was blood on my duvet. I had obviously put my hand in some, because there was blood on the bedframe and yes, there was some on the doorhandle.

And that, dear friends, is how having a tattoo can lead your housemates to believe that you’ve been brutally murdered in your own bed.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:27, 5 replies)

blood stained axe
I should have taken a picture of the axe I used a few weeks back to slaughter some elderly chickens who weren't laying any more - it looked awesome.
When you chop their heads off the bodies leap around like crazy for about a minute with blood pulsing out of the neck before they stop.

Length? Well, it took quite a long time to eat them as they were very chewy.
(teasus likes tea, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:27, 1 reply)

Bad morning...
Not mine, but too good not to repeat.

Act 1
Scene 1: Rachel meets her man in the pub and brings him home.

I was out one night and met this lovely guy. We hit off and after a many beers & drunken snogs ended up back at my place. Sex ensued long into the night and I woke up in the morning with a massive hangover and an empty bed. I lay in the bed for a while mulling over the nights events and the fact he hadn't event bothered to say goodbye. Just then I heard a rattle of keys at the door and someone come in. Given that I lived alone I felt a shudder of panic rush through my body as I shouted out a rather hopeful 'hello?'. The hope being that someone may just answer with something like, "Oh...I must have the wrong house. I actually live upstairs, Bye" or the even more hopeful "Don't worry, I'll just let myself out. I've decided not to rob your anymore. Do you know anywhere local I can pray?".

The panic soon dissipated as the guy I'd shagged the night before answered, "Hi, I just popped out the to shop to get some milk for coffee and a few bit for a breakfast". Phew, instant relief. I wasn't being robbed and the guy hadn't just left without saying goodbye.

I heard his footsteps come towards the room and I did a quick glance towards the mirror to see how I looked. God, I looked rough. He walked in and immediately I clocked his face. Something wasn't quite right. He had a browny red stain around his mouth and across his chin. With his stubble now poking through his skin I remember thinking for the briefest of moments that he looked like a strawberry.

He walked towards the bed to kiss me good morning, but his walk slowed as he got closer. He could see the look of sheer embarrassment creeping across my face as I realisation of what had happened dawned on me. I'd come back from the pub and in my drunken state I'd forget I was ON and he'd feasted on my bloodied nether regions! This mans face was covered in my blood and he'd gone to the shop. Not my finest moment, but certainly one I'll never forget.

/End
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:26, 2 replies)

When taking blood...
There are various stages that must be done in the correct order. At the end, this means:
1/ Remove tourniquet
2/ Remove needle.

What you don't do is:
1/ Remove needle
2/ Watch as pressure in veins caused by tourniquet fires blood several meters through the air
3/ Scream
(Merrep, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:26, Reply)

Animal blood
I used to work on the meat counter in tesco, it was an ok job and wasn't half as mind numbing as the checkouts. If anyone else had a similar job then like me they would hate it when the wee old grannies used to ask for lambs liver.

The packet of liver was always filled with excess blood, deep dark smelled kinda funny blood. You had to be careful otherwise it would spill over your chopping counter.

One of these grannies asked for liver, i hadn't cut any so i wandered through to the large walk in fridge to get some. We always kept the liver on the top shelf and as i reach up in to the basket to get a packet i didn't realise it was burst and with no time to react i very quickly looked like the famous Carrie at the end of the movie. It was in my eyes, hair even down my work shirt. I ran past a few horrified co-workers to the staff toilets where i almost threw up.

I gave up working on the meat counter not long after that to work in a cinema. Thankfully they never showed carrie.
(phe, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:26, Reply)

Open chest tree surgery.
Woo Hoo First post

When I was much younger, I used to climb tree a lot and as I was fairly good at it however one Saturday afternoon I had in my terms what I call an incident
After climbing particularly high I slipped and came crashing to the ground, brushed myself off and and though hmm lucky day and tore off to start climbing, At this point one of my friends pointed out the red patch on my chest. I looked down my top to where my nipple is (Or should have been) to discover that most of it was hanging off coupled with copious amounts of blood and ribcage, so off I trotted back home. On arrival home my ctop was getting rather badly stained and I immediately found my mother (Who coincidently was a maternity nurse and blood never phased her), she nearly passed out I’ve never seen my mother look so white.
Eventually I was taken to hospital given a few stitches and told to take it easy.
Two weeks later, I was back up the bloody trees again (As my mother put it)
And I did'nt tear the top either
(Jnex26, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:23, Reply)

reminded by scarpe's "WWF" post.
being the younger of 2 brothers, I was always the one who would skulk off, bruised and defeated from any sibling confrontations. It was a joyous day when I realised I could fight smarter, rather than harder.

I forget what the petty squabble was about now (it was 15 years or more ago) but it resulted in me lying face-down on my bedroom floor. Liftiing my head to see a small spot of darkening red, I immediately resumed my position and started to breathe as heavily as I could through my nose. The spatter effect was quite satisfying, although not exactly a gore-fest.

It worked though, my brother was panic stricken at the realisation that I could deviously employ the circumstances to my advantage. I think he even tried to reason and bribe me into a truce. Sadistic little shit I was, I'd rather seem him take a clip from my mum.
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:21, Reply)

Ooh! Another one!
Bit of a long one, but at least not a terrible pun.

A few years back my wife and I shared a house with her sister and their friend Chris. We were drinking that night, with a couple of mutual friends, wine in the back garden stuff. Chris was a bit of a piss head and on this particular night was skint and determined to drink himself to the point of no return with whatever he could scavenge from the cupboards. About 10pm he was fairly gone, wrestling with one of the friends (Nick) despite barely being able to stand unaided. He then swigged most of a bottle of red wine in one loooong glugging session. His eyes slowly glazed as the bottle emptied.
It was decided we'd hit the town about 11ish, however Chris insisted he needed a shower before going out, and dashed of upstairs, and we waited patiently in the lounge.
(Oh, just like to point out that the shower cubicle was underneath some stairs and fully tiled, and slightly difficult for tall guys to stand fully upright in)
About half an hour later we heard a crash and hysterical laughing, we dashed upstairs to see Nick on the bathroom floor laughing his ass off, and Chris standing in the shower looking like the end of "Carrie" blood all over him, literally coated in it. He was also holding his elbow.
He was too drunk to remember what'd happened, but according to Nick (not the most trustworthy source) Chris had slipped in the shower, hit his elbow against the tiled wall, broke through the tile, and with his elbow still in there, gravity took hold and sliced most of it off.
We wrapped it in a towel and bundled him into the car to take him to the hospital, but he insisted he just wanted a plaster as he was going out and it'd be fine.
We got there and my wife dropped us (Chris, Nick and myself) at A&E so she could get some petrol and park up. We dumped him in the gutter and went for a pee.
He swore like Father Jack in the waiting room, so had to be put into a children's room out of the way. Eventually he got seen to, elbow sewn back on and discharged.
I went with my wife to fetch the car and returned to find the wheelchair he'd been in empty and surrounded by cones, and a staggering, zombie-like figure stumbling alone down the A&E ramp. Nick had needed another pee and thought he'd be safe blocked in by cones...

Sorry about the length.
(ice9, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:16, Reply)

My Olympic dream, shattered...
If you think about it, I could've been flying out to Beijing about now...

Back when I was about seven years old, my sister and I used to obsessively spend our days - and nights - performing a variey of acrobatic manoeuvres that, if we were older teen sisters, could have easily got us featured on any number of unsalubrious web sites. I was a master of the forward roll, an expert at the straight handstand and a balancing queen. We would swing from branches like trapeze artists, nimbly gambol along crumbling walls, and leap and land perfectly on the ground, arms extended in triumphant joy. Our futures were bright. We would be world-class gymnasts - yes! - our only possible disadvantage being that we weren't Eastern European.

One fateful night, after my mother had tucked us into bed, we decided to extend our usual acrobatic routine around the bedroom. This night it would involve climbing up the shelves in the alcove, along the narrow iron frame of the bed, over the chest of drawers and a leap from table to bed again where we would finish with a stylish trampolining front pike.

All went well scaled the lofty heights of the bookshelves. My sister applauded as I delicately yet firmly pointed my dainty toes along the bedstead (a trick I occasionally put to good use in later life). The chest of drawers was an easy step and I decisively pushed forward to the table - but no! Overconfident, I forgot that the table had been polished that morning, and my feet slid from under me and I landed dazed on the floor, my only thought being the hope that my mother hadn't heard the thump and wouldn't come rushing upstairs to thump me for being out of bed.

Then I noticed the blood. Somehow, whether it was on the corner of the table or caused by my own damn teeth, I had cut my tongue. I stared in astonishment as blood seeped out of my mouth. Who knew tongues could bleed so much? It was like a stormdrain disgorging water - the flow just did not stop. I did the first thing I could think of in terms of self-preservation: I stuffed my vest in my mouth.

Ten minutes later as I sat forlornly on the side of the bed, a limp cotton vest saturated deep red hanging from my lips, my sister and I made the brave decision to approach my mother. Downstairs we stumbled, me assuming the face of a suffering martyr, and as I lifted the latch on the kitchen door I watched my mother's face drain pale as she beheld her eldest daughter, vest-less and bleeding, cry "MMMHH mmhh Mm Mhh Mh Mh-mh-mh-mh" ["Mammy, I hurt my to-o-o-o-o-ongue"]. Fortunately she bought our story about how I slipped when getting up to adjust how ajar the door was (a common practice amongst children that age). There was talk of doctors and hospitals and stiches. She made me sit with ice in my mouth til the bleeding stopped, which was about 100 years later, though may actually have been about ten minutes more.

You'll all be pleased to hear that my tongue made a full recovery. At least, I've had no complaints yet. Quite the opposite, in fact - but they don't have an Olympic competition for that.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:16, Reply)

Freemason's initiation ceremony... nuff said.
Virgins are getting harder to find every week...


*taps nose* and awaits all the conspiracy doo-dah to commence.
( The Great Architect is still waiting for his account to be deleted on, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:16, Reply)

Quick one...
I once stayed in a B&B in Cardiff where I'd been put up for the night prior to an interview.

There was a bloodstain on the pillow.

Full horror here
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:15, Reply)

Anybody else out there that likes the taste of blood?
I don't mean drinking it by the goblet full on a moonlit night but when you have a small cut for example and sucking on it.

Yum yum.
( girlinthehole, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:12, 5 replies)

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

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

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

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

There aren't many mentallers wandering the streets of Japan.
Well, not that many obvious ones, anyway...I think they must still lock them away a la Victorian style.

But I did see a very entertaining one on the train home from work one day. He was wandering up and down the carriage; every now and again, he would whip his travel pass out and shove it in the face of some unsuspecting passenger before wandering off again.

This was quite entertaining in itself, but what made him even more attractive to the avid Nutspotter was the fact that he had two, large, bloody clumps of toilet roll sticking out of each nostril. They were rather dry and crusty - I suspected this was either the result of a rather ancient nosebleed, or blood from somewhere else.

Of course, he spotted me as I knew he would, the only gaijin in a sea of Japanesey faces. He lumbered up to me and everyone watched us from behind their papers. He stood in front of me, swaying and pointing, and the bloody tissue looked alarmingly precarious in its nasal hidey-hole, so I suddenly shrieked, 'FUCK OFF' at him. He screamed, ran down the carriage, shedding toilet roll as he went and disappeared at the next stop.

Now I travel on the number 29 nightbus in London and can only dream of such happy, bloody lunatics.
( thealternativefact, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:11, 3 replies)

Back when I was about 7.....
..... We lived in North Devon on an RAF base.
Just out the back from our garden was a play park, one of many in the area. Anyway, one day I was pissin around on the slide, running up it and the like, not letting anyone else on and generally being a c0ck.
One of the other (bigger) kids understandably got a bit peeved at this and decided to extract some revenge by lobbing a brick up the slide as I came down it. The brick promptly hit my shoe, flipped up, and twatted me in the jaw, forcing my two front teeth through the skin under my lip and out of my mouth.
I'm told there was alot of blood, I however, was unconscious at the side of the slide having fallen off.

Still have the scar now.

I was being a c0ck though so probably deserved it.

Now I have a fear of slides...... and bricks....... uh oh.
(batmowes Internet Dating Superstud, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:08, 2 replies)