Not funny...
...when I was in the upper 6th form, there was a kid in the lower 6th who was fairly fragile. Seemed to be a great kid, funny, smart, pleasant company in as much as we bothered to mix with the snotty lower 6th.

On the last Friday before Christmas, we went into the common room at about 11 am and he was there with a nosebleed.

He was still there with a nosebleed when we came back from lunch.

Sometime during the afternoon he went home, still bleeding.

We never saw him again. Apparently, he went to the Dr and was rushed straight to hospital.

He never came home.

Nosebleeds are normal, but if you get one that won't stop, get checke out very quickly. You might have Leukemia.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:16, Reply)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I need to see the doctor, please."

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

"I cut myself with a chainsaw."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

blood?
this question isnt very good.... i bleed every bloody month!! no one wants to hear about it then!
(Serbitar Has a furry shit canon called Whitey., Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:09, Reply)

An old rugby coach of mine
used to tell you to hold still if you had a nosebleed, while he smacked you on the back of the neck. Like a karate chop, but not as hard.

Without fail it would stop your nose bleeding. I have no idea why. Perhaps he was a ninja.
(Stevie Ruggling, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:07, 1 reply)

Lumpy
Blood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In our innocence, we told them.

Within moments, the whispering campaign had begun.

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

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

to

"What's wrong with your blood?"

to

"Do you have AIDS?"

to

"Are you like Rock Hudson?"

to

"HAHA You're gay!"

"You have AIDS!"

"Rock Hudson is your Da!"

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

I was maybe, ten years old.

My nickname was now, "Aidser".

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

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

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

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

I went back to work.

Hoped you liked my story!

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

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

Nipples
Years ago, my husband decided he wanted to get his nipples pierced, as one does. Down to the most reputable tattoo place in town we went (and it was actually very nice), into the piercing room went the husband, and metal was introduced to flesh.

Sexy and fabulous, right? Well, except for when I woke up late that same night, feeling a warm dampness on my back. I turn on the lights to discover that one of the spouse's newly adorned nipples has sprung a leak and there is blood all over him, me and the bed. He, naturally, is fast asleep.

I wake him, we clean up and then get to stopping the bleeding. Unfortunately, we are out of plasters. One 'feminine hygiene product' and a bit of tape later and it's back to bed again.

In the morning, he stumbles out of bed, puts on some jeans and goes to make some coffee. The roommate gives him a curious look and asks why he has a pantyliner taped to his chest. I'm wondering how long it would have taken him to realise otherwise.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:06, Reply)

Evil Prank
I once worked with someone who was really not-so-good with the sight of blood.
Obviously this needed to be exploited.
Cue me putting one of those tomato sauce sachets in my hand, with just a small corner torn off, then holding a pencil next to it.
I walked up to the guy, using my penknife to sharpen the pencil. Just as he was looking I pretended I'd cut my finger and squeezed on the sachet.
It was quite an impressive spurt, and I've never seen someone look so horrified before (or since).
I don't think he ever did forgive me.
(Kliper Filllets Getting noticed by twats on the internet since, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 17:00, Reply)

Not quite so bloody, but bloody painful
After suffering from on/off sinus and throat infections for years, my GP decided that my tonsils and I would be much better off if we parted company at the tender age of twenty five.

A few weeks later I received a card inviting me to sample the tender mercies of the NHS while my back of mouth gubbins were removed. I duly packed my things and presented myself at the hospital, only to find that they don't fuck about in the NHS, within an hour of my arrival I was being plied with some rather excellent pre-med drugs.

Fuck knows what they were, but normally taciturn me was attempting to flirt rather outrageously with the very comely anaesthetist while being wheeled into the operating theatre.

*Off Topic* If anyone knows what these pre-med drugs were, or where I can get some more then please Gaz me

Where was I? Ah yes, the comely brunette anaesthetist. Moving swiftly as I asked her for her number, she shoved a cannula in my hand and I felt something colder than Alister Darling's heart coursing through my veins.

As rebuffals go, this was probably my most spectacular to date as I was unconscious before I could say "Has anyone ever told you you're lovely?".

Then it all went ink black and the sound of the lovely lady doctor's voice faded as if moving off into the distance...

"We need to get something done about ^{those pre-meds.} _{He's the third one this week"}

Moments later, I recall being dimply aware of being aware of something, before it all began to slowly slide into hazy focus.

My eyesight slowly began to return, along with the feeling in my body, which I quickly regretted as I realised my throat felt like I'd been fellating a particularly girth-some elephant, wearing a 350 grade carborundum condom.

The inky blackness beckoned again, but not before I apparently requested a bottle of vodka from a passing nurse in a voice which seemed to belong to Baron Greenback, then everything fell back into focus once more.

My then g/f turned up to visit, apparently the nurse had taken her aside and warned her that the operation had been particularly traumatic for me. Apparently I was grey and the plastic curtains around my bed were spattered with blood. I am sure I later found the doctor's footprints embossed in my chest.

Then the pain in my throat really began to kick in...

However, I bravely requested "Chicken Curry" from the menu and was taking painful and slow bites within six hours of regaining consciousness. All seemed good, despite the scraping pains whenever I swallowed (and it's amazing how often you have to swallow, especially when it's absolutely the last thing you want to do), so the next morning I grabbed a bath and slowly pulled the cannula from the vein in my hand.

No squirting of blood to be seen, not even a gentle ooze.

Taking this as my cue, I discharged myself and nearly being mistaken for a pervert I phoned my folks to let them know m g/f was bringing me home.

Back at home, my mother decided that she was going to cook me an easy to eat meal. She was under orders to make absolutely, expressly sure that there was no peppers, chilli powder or indeed anything spicier than a simple tomato in the meal.

"Oh, yes I'll make absolutely sure there's nothing that'll hurt you in it!" she replied enthusiastically, after I'd again explained the presence of raw wounds at the back of my mouth which were angrier than a pub full of Glaswegians during an old firm derby.

Ten seconds later, I gently lifted a forkfull of pasta and sauce to my lips, began to chew slowly and attempted to swallow.

"Jesusfuckingchrist!" I screamed in ascending pitch, as I clawed at my throat and jumped from the table.

It was as if someone had forced my mouth open and had stabbed at the dangly thing at the back of my mouth with a red hot poker. This was worse even than football-in-the-testicles pain.

"Fuck" [wheeze] "Fuck" [gasp] "Fuck" [wheeze] I hoarsely exclaimed as I held my head under the sink to the sink pouring water into my tortured mouth as fast as I could go.

Apparently, while cooking the pasta she'd absentmindedly made use of the a new and rather well filled pepper grinder in her kitchen.

Cheers for that one mum.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:56, 2 replies)

Look before you sit...
The year was 1984 and the 8 year old Gunther was spending an afternoon at a friends house.

Said friend had a train set that was the envy of many an 8 year old boy and young Gunther was lucky enough to have the privilege of exclusive access to it for the afternoon (under the watchful eye of a very protective custodian).

Weary of leg, I sat down in the chair that furnished the corner of the room... or so I thought.

When I came too, my head felt slightly painful and I found myself to be slumped against the wall while the room swayed gently about me.

Not overly concerned by my fall and eager to get back to the train set; I keenly picked myself up and gingerly touched my hand to the back of my head.

It was only when I saw the mass of blood pooled in my tiny hand that I let fly with a volley of demonic screaming that must have alerted the entire village to my plight.

Three stitches (my very first, I proudly announced to the kindly nurse through my sobs) and an ice cream later I was suitably placated and finally ceased my puerile sniffling.

The scar still provides a small but noticeable bald patch as if to compliment the far larger one that adorns the top of my head.
( Moey, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:53, Reply)

Giving more that I wanted.
After a session at the Donor clinic I was just walking along to get my well earned cup of tea when I noticed a warm feeling on my arm.

Yep you guessed it the hole in my arm hadn't quite healed yet and blood was pissing out my arm in a torrent of red. A quick thinking nurse soon grabbed me and thrust my arm in the air and applied pressure to the area. We both looked we had been in a horror movie, there was red stuff everywhere.

hey ho, all for a good cause.
Give Blood people.
( Terry Oblong There's nobody here but us chickens on, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:52, Reply)

Donations
I've given blood enough times to know which arm I prefer to be bled. It's my left arm by the way. My left arm bleeds like a motherfucker so I'm in, bled dry and have a biscuit in my gob before the pretty nurse gets back off her lunch break (every pissing time I miss her, all I get are the dowdy housewives). So if you ever feel like amputating one of my arms could you go for the right? If I'm going to bleed like a stuck pig I'd prefer it to take long enough to give me time to grab my severed limb and smack you with the soggy end.
(maca2kx, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:51, Reply)

"He's LICKING ME!!!!!!!!"
(10 points for getting the movie quote - it's NOT pron!)

When just a cheeky young vapour pocket of a cloud, I used to love Bazooka Joe bubblegums. Aside from the sugary goodness of chewing gum, they included the holy grail of my 4 y/o mind - a lick'n'stick tattoo. The only disappointing thing about them was the transfer quality and lack of durability once applied.

An oft' retold family tale is the time when my quest stretched into the third day of preservation of a particularly treasured 'ink' masterpiece. I'd been holding my wrist out of the bath, avoiding washing, refusing sleeved garments, the works. Whatever measures were attempted, I manged to evade my tattoo-destroying ablutions.

We used to climb into bed with my mother of a weekend morning, probably so she could attemp a close resemblance of a lie-in. One such morning, resplendent in my additional 'ink' I awoke from slumber to find my brother LICKING my wrist. (lubricating his attempt to rub the sticker from my infant arm).

In surprise, I must have smacked him one, which didn't mix well with his being a 'nose-bleeder'. My mother turned over to see what the fuss was about and was faced with me shouting the title line while my brother cupped his face. Both us, the bed, the walls, he floor and my mother were sprayed with blood.

Moral: Don't fuck with Bazooka Joe!
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:44, 3 replies)

Punch Drunk
I leaned back against the window of Dixie Fried Chicken, amongst the assorted detritus of a night out in cosmopolitan Wakefield. My nose was just starting to throb. I looked down at my chest, and saw the sticky mass of blood and mucus, felt it as it began to seep through my shirt and cling grimly to my chest. I ran my tongue along my teeth, tasting iron but realising they were, in fact, all there, and I wondered (in the way that only a drunken philosopher can) how on Earth I came to be in that spot. Horribly, everything in my life had lead up to the previous few hours...

It all began at 6pm. The assorted staff of one of Wakefield’s premier eateries had got together to celebrate Christmas. We were a tight-knit group of people, we’d worked hard for the previous six weeks, and we were ready to do some drinking. We began our crawl at the bottom of Westgate, moving from dodgy bar to dodgy bar, aiming for the quickest ever completion of the Westgate run.

Time sped up, and flowed in to one continuous montage of slammed shots, necked pints, raucous dancing and sincere cries of “I bloody love you, mate!”

Staggering slightly, a few of us made our way to the Taxi rank. And that was when I heard the shouting behind me. Time and sobriety have ensured that I have forgotten exactly what was said, but I’ll give you the gist of it:

Drunken General Manager: What? Don’t be a bloody idiot?
Drunken Mad Irish Chef: Ah, to be sure y’do. You and him are tryin’ te push me out!
Drunken Head Chef: Don’t be right stupid, lad.
Drunken Mad Irish Chef: Oi hoird you say it! Oi hoird you say that you were gonna fuppin’ sack me, ya baxtards! O, me lucky charms, etc.

I waded in. These were three of my good friends, fighting! On a bonding night out!

Me: Come on now, matey, let’s leave it til we’re sober, eh?
DMIC: And YEW! YEW’VE BEEN WORRKIN’ WITH THEM, HAVEN’T YE?
Me: (laying a hand on his chest) Come on mate, we’re frie....

WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.

The fist connected once, twice, thrice, four times. Sadly, all of the connections were a crunching meeting of his fist and my face. I am not ashamed to say that he knocked me right out. I came to to see another of my colleagues lob his kebab at the guy who hit me, and then all hell broke loose. Punches were thrown, kicks were kicked, a couple of the girls even got involved. And so I leaned back against the window of Dixie Fried Chicken, amongst the assorted detritus of a night out in cosmopolitan Wakefield. My nose was just starting to throb. I looked down at my chest, and saw the sticky mass of blood and mucus, felt it as it began to seep through my shirt and cling grimly to my chest. Strangely, the fuzz in my head was beginning to clear and as I looked to my left I saw, through blurry eyes, my girlfriend crying.

I thought this would be an opportune time to get myself some TLC. I staggered to my feet, and walked over to her. She looked at me, cried even louder, and backed away. Looking back on it, I must’ve come at her out of the night like some kind of gore encrusted vision of boozey nastiness, but I felt it was a bit strong.

That night was the first night that I’d seen my own blood spilt in anger. I was shocked at how much there was. And I resolved that if ever a situation comes up where I have to convince a Mad, Irish, Drunken Chef of our friendship, I’ll wear a fucking hockey mask.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:44, Reply)

Not real blood but .....
When I was younger and impressed by a number of martial arts movies myself and a number of like minded mates decided to re-create a couple of scenes using our own props to make it look more realistic. After arranging the garden furniture to look more oriental (Quite hard when you have nothing but white plastic patio furniture and a couple of cricket stumps) and a trip to the local sweet shop for a bottle of cheap cherryade and a bag of millions we were ready.

After borrowing my mates video camera we would put the millions in a our mouths along with a small amount of cherryade and pretend to knock each others teeth out- accompanied with the fake blood (The millions turned white after two seconds in your mouth- therefore the were your fake teeth).

I really wish there were better alternatives than the cherryade for the fake blood because it tasted rank and also we could have fooled a few more people with a ‘blood’ that didn’t foam after it hit the ground (saying that we still got reported to the local neighbourhood watch a number of older residents for filming each other while fighting ).
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:42, Reply)

Giving blood
I was giving blood for the first time, as they'd set up a mobile bloodbank for a couple of days in my school's town. The routine they had was do a quick finger-prick to check the blood is ok, and then take a pint (or is it half a pint?).

Anyway, I turned up after afternoon lessons, they pricked my finger, and the test showed that it was very low iron. So they took a proper blood-test to get analysed at a lab. Then, to keep the queue moving, they lobbed me on the bed, impaled me with a hollow rusty spear (well, it's what it felt like), sucked me dry and then informed me they'd run out of biscuits.

I woke up the following morning to find a large patch of bloodstain in my bed. Looked at the inside of my elbow, where they'd punctured me, and nearly fainted: there was a huge purple-black bruise there, still leaking. I went to my matron, but in typical school-nurse fashion she just put a plaster on it and told me to bugger off to lessons. The damn thing didn't get better for days, and then I got a letter from the blood people saying that my tests showed I was very anaemic, and that they'd had to reject my blood in the end. Arse.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:37, 1 reply)

Strange lumps
I was about ten, and spending the afternoon at a school friend's house. We were in the kitchen, and for reasons that now escape me he had his tracksuit top by the sleeve and was spinning it around in a circle. Faster, faster...whack, the metal zip caught me on the side of the head just in front of the right temple.

The damage wasn't too bad -- a cut, quite deep but only an inch or so long and there was a lot of blood. It wasn't the first time I'd split my head open (I was a clumsy kid) so I was pretty calm and didn't make a fuss. It stopped after a while and I went home.

Odd thing is, as it healed the scar turned into sort of lump about an inch long and half an inch across. And it didn't go away. After a couple of years, it had shrunk enough that you'd have to pay attention to notice it, but it was -- and is, nearly thirty years later -- still there.

I know this sounds like an old man complaining about his gippy knees, but if there's high pressure the whole area becomes very sensitive and often I'll get a headache radiating from that area.

Odder still, press on it and I get a weird 'pulse' sensation that goes up from my temple, over the top of my head and becomes most noticeable at the back/right hand side of my skull.

...and then I wake up in ditch, covered in blood and with £1,000 in cash in my back pocket*.

* this part may not be entirely true.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:33, Reply)

I hates blood I do

Have taken the tip of a finger off twice - once with a Kitchen Devil, once (more spectacularly) with a table saw and they both caused a fair amount of bleedage but the only time I need an ambulance was more unusual.

I had to get in to work early as there was lots to do so I got up at 5.30am. Not un-heard of, but early nonetheless. We were about three years past the point where we should have got a new mattress and my back was always stiff when I first got up. I was still half asleep when I got down to the kitchen, leaving the misses fast asleep upstairs; the teenager wouldn't be stirring for a good couple of hours yet, all was quiet. I put the kettle on sat down on the kitchen stool to wait for it to boil. My back was really acting up, so I sat forward and gently leaned further over, stretching my spine nicely.

I didn't notice the stool start to tip forwards until the crown of my head connected with the stove. Then, as I disentagled myself from the stool and picked myself off the floor, I saw the blood splashing on the floor and noticed it pouring down my face. I started screaming like a sergeant major in the 100m shout-off olympic trials - bringing a sleepy, yet curious Mrs G wandering sedately down the stairs to see what the all the fuss was about.

It was nasty enough for an ambulance, which turned up pretty quickly. They led me outside and sat me down in the back to take a look and clean it up a bit, while asking how it happened. A bit embarassed, I explained exactly how I'd done it.

"Had an argument did you?"

I couldn't believe it, they thought I'd make up something like that to cover up the fact that my misses beat me with a frying pan. Mind you, I'm not saying she's not capable of it, but I think she'd do a better job of it than that.

Now I'm a bit thinner on top, the scar is fairly plain to see...

semi-circular and about four inches long.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:33, Reply)

My Brother
The story that I'm about to tell happened during the school holidays when I was about 10 yrs old. It was only years later that I realised the full extent of my brothers injuries and how serious the accident really was.

So lets set the scene. It was day two of our marathon summer holidays. You know the ones that seem to last forever and every day takes an eternity to finish. I grew up in South Africa so the days were always hot and balmy and we'd spend endless hours swimming, skateboarding and generally running around like headless chickens. A lot of our time was also spent defeating our evil overlords (our grumpy neighbour up the road) and evading capture by cretinous villians who would hold us captive (mum & dad trying to make us go to bed).

The day in question was particularly hot with a perfect sky and a lazy wind from the east. Only the slightest whisper of white cloud was visible which made it feel like you were looking at the worlds best and biggest impressionist painting. Following our morning swim and customary spat with my younger sister we decided to burn up some calories by going skateboarding. We had no particular skills in this area other that going as fast as we possibly could down the hill on which we lived. A friend of ours was over that weekend and after a short debate it was decided that he would go tandem with my brother on the skateboard. Well, I say debate, but it was more like they just pushed me into a bush and went off down the hill together laughing. Anyway I digress...

Skateboarding continued for much of the afternoon with occasional stops for sweets and more goading of my younger sister. We climbed the hill once again and my brother and Michael set off as usual, my brother sitting while Michael stood on the back holding his shoulders. We lived in a complex of about 150 houses and the road twisted and turned for a good few hundred yards downwards. They carved their way round corners with consummate ease - until the very last corner that is. They went round the corner on the wrong side of the road and just as they rounded it a car was coming full on at them. Michael managed to escape and landed in some bushed, but my brother wasn't so lucky.

His face connected the bumper with enough combined velocity to rip it clean off. Now a bumper is not the easiest thing to remove at the best of times, but my brother had managed to do so with his head in 0.5 seconds. The car continued in its trajectory as the brakes were called into action and the car screeched to a halt. By this time my brother was lying under the car and had been dragged a number of yards up the road on his back. As you can imagine this obviously didn't do much for the skin on his back.

I think it's fair to say that he suffered a fair bit from his accident. He fractured his skull, burst an ear drum, scrapped a hell of a lot skin off his back, broke an ankle and sprained the other one. While he was in the recovery phase we were sharing a room at home and it was quite upsetting to have to wake up
next to someone who's ear just leached a load of blood onto his pillow. Even worse than that was the skin taken off his back which meant that every morning for about 2 weeks my mom would come in and quite literally peel the sheet off his back which had stuck to his open wound. Then she would put some antiseptic liquid that would make him howl like a man possessed. I don't think I'll ever forget him screaming.

Still, there was a positive side to this all. We got shit hot at popping wheelies in his wheelchair and the timed obstacle course we set up for it in the garden. It's also rather important to note that my mom was driving the car that almost killed him. She said she only realised it was him after she had reversed the car off him. That must have been a shock.

Length: about 1 min 35s which included a wheelie across the course finish line.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:31, Reply)

Top tip: Cold objects on the base of the neck at the back help stop a nosebleed
Just thought I'd mention this. Haven't tried it myself, but one way of helping stop a nosebleed is to place a cold metal object (like a key or an entire keyring’s worth of keys) in the fridge and when it's cooled down, place it at the base of the neck on the back (or just below that - perhaps the top of the spine). This is supposed to make the body think it’s gone colder outside and this is supposed to reduce bloodflow.

Just thought I’d share that.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:24, 4 replies)

Horses
At the ripe old age of 10, I was horseback riding with my Father. We'd gotten lost and had no idea where we were, so we were wandering about in these woods, hoping to find a familiar landmark or two...

I spotted a turtle on it's back, just alongside the trail. In school, I had literally just learned that when turtles battle over territory, the loser is the one that gets flipped...and dies because they cant right themselves (these are American Box Turtles). Thinking I would help him out I dismounted and crept over to him, flipped him over and was day dreaming that he was going to piss off to go find the bastarding turtle that flipped him, when I realized my horse was walking away from me.

No worries, thinks I! I shall just approach him from the rear and put my hand on his rump like Dad always taught me. Imagining my Father's pride, sat only a couple of horse lengths away, as he saw me approach the business end of a horse like a cowboy on the range...

I put my hand on the horses rump, in order to not 'frighten' the animal (personally, I would think having a hand just suddenly pat you on the hind parts would be more startling than some other options, but I was not born on a ranch, so I took my Dad's word for it.) and it worked! He wasnt frightened! He looked back at me, alongside his withers and I am nearly positive he squinted, as if taking aim at a distant object through a high powered scope:

And took two quick horse steps and then "WHAM!"
He kicked me right in the chest and as my wee body crumpled around the impact, my chin caught it as well. Needless to say, I woke up on the ground a moment or two later.

Result: one broken sternum. one broken jaw. two broken ribs. And, suprisingly: one NASTY gaping hole in my chin!

It was bleeding like it was it's job. And I was FINE with the wonky jaw and the pain in my chest. It was when I looked down and saw that my once white t-shirt was now covered in a crimson, sticky mess...which seemed to be growing.

My Dad was becoming more and more pale whilst looking at me...not the admiring glance of a man who knows his Son knows how to approach the backside of a thoroughbred.

Obviously I survived, but trust me: H.R. Puffinstuff and the complete bastarding cast of the Care Bears were in the car with me on that final leg to the hospital. I was apparently talking about swimming pools and watermelon when my Dad half-carried me into the emergency room.

The horse was sent to the glue factory the very next day. Thanks Dad.

(New note to self: the hand on the rump thing works with MOST horses...but thoroughbreds are a tad bit higher strung)
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:24, 8 replies)

I'm a forensic scientist
I've seen lots of blood spilled in many, many situations and it's never particularly nice or funny. Odd that.

On the lighter side of things, rotten blood smells like dark chocolate. Rotten meat smells bad, but if it's just blood? Chocolate. Mmmmm.
( Mockingbird Practitioner of SCIENCE, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:18, Reply)

Nice chap
took a lady into a cupboard for a bit of hanky-panky at a sixth-form party.

He emerged later covered from head to toe in blood.

She was unhurt.

What happened??
(Waspard has your wank bank account details, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:12, 2 replies)

Yet another mortuary tale (apologies people, it's all I know).........
I love horror films and particularly those gory blood-drenched ones, so when I started working at the mortuary, I wasn't sure how I'd take seeing blood for real.

After a while I realised that some days are really clean, as if there isn't a whiff of a post mortem in the air. But other days, oh those other days, where you can't move for dead people, the stench of copper filling your nostrils, the floor covered in claret, the walls spattered with meat, nay the entire room looking like the tail-end of a vampire massacre - they can get quite messy.

Yes, those are the days when the most fun can be had.........

The favourite to date is when we waited for the delicate and sensitive "Adrian Mole clone" pathologist to disappear out of the room dictating a case, and then secretly finger-wrote "murder" on the wall by his table in blood. The way the blood started to drip after a minute or so down the wall was fantastic, but for utterly maniacal humour you sure couldn't beat the look of pure horror on his face, when he re-entered the room........in the middle of dictating, of course.

He still hasn't forgiven us so we tried to make him laugh the other day by wheeling a colleague into a post mortem, sitting in an abandoned wheelchair (aren't hospital rubbish areas great?) doing Davros impressions. He seems to like us again now.

Mrs tubs was severely reprimanded by Mr Tubs on...
(HappyBoofy, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:11, Reply)

Pasta with tomato sauce.
About 4 years ago, we'd just moved into new office space and were taking delivery of new gym equipment for the spare office (my boss liked lifting iron).
The only two people in the building that day were myself and the receptionist.
I was in the back, and I heard the delivery guy and Valerie was dealing with him. All of a sudden, she screamed and came running into the back saying "he's cut himself".
I said to her to calm down, get some papertowels and I'd be right there.

So off I toddle to the front, and delivery guy is outside the door.....you know in the Itchy & Scratchy Show where blood is spurting 5ft in the air...yeah, his arm was doing that. He'd punctured his artery with the box knife he was using to cut open the cellophane from the pallets.

Valerie meanwhile was doing a Michael Jackson - turning from black to white very quickly.

So.....I grabbed paper towels, forced her back inside with a "call 911" and grabbed the guys arm. I'm getting covered in blood as I try to stop the artery spurting, the guy is almost a dead weight in my arms and is valiantly telling me he's ok.

Finally, as the paramedics pulled up the spurting started slowing down and the paramedics were able to stop the bleeding.

I collapsed on the floor (well, sat down heavily) and started shaking like a leaf, and myself and the delivery guy chain smoked about 4 cigarettes. He didn't want to go to the hospital, so we had to call his wife and have her come pick him up, then we had to call the delivery company and tell them what happened.

I then went inside to grab stuff to clean up the blood that was everywhere.......the paramedics handed me rubber gloves - just in case of any infection! (I was already covered in the stuff!)

I went home shortly after that, and after regaling the husband with the tale of what happened......he offered to make me pasta and tomato sauce for dinner!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:09, Reply)

Why I'm a bit of a bitch.
Yeah I know I've been moody the last few days, I can't help it. It's the hormones, they're all over the place.

Yes, I am aware I'm crying for no reason thank you very much but maybe if you would just fuck off and leave me alone I'd be ok, oh and you're spot on there, you can't do anything right.

No, I don't want sex, oh wait actually I do. Now. Right now. Nopes, you missed your chance. Leave me alone.

Me? Irrational? How the fuck am I being irrational you prick?! Oh just fuck off!

What's my problem? I'll tell what my fucking problem is mate. The lining from my uterus is DRIPPING OUT OF MY VAGINA and you know what, it actually hurts quite a bit.

Do you think I like feeling like this? Do you think it's a walk in the park? My muscles ache, my back hurts, I feel bloated and My body tempetarue has gone up by 30 million degrees!

Well I'm sorry you find me difficult to talk to at the moment. Yeah go on then, fuck off down the pub, see if I care!

Ok, look, I'm sorry it looks like someone slaughtered a cow on the bed but I couldn't help it!

Oh, you made the how can something bleed so much for five days and not die joke? How original! Ha de fucking ha. You wanker!

Yeah maybe it is just best if you leave me alone for a bit. But give me a cuddle first please, and a glass of wine.
( wanderlust, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:07, 8 replies)

Banjo strings
bleed like bastards.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:07, 4 replies)

My Girlfriend...
...Once gave blood (before we met) and was warned not to do any exercise for a day or two to allow the wound to heal(?)

On her return home, she decided she needed a quick trip to drop the kids off at the pool, and then proceeded to strain a bit too hard and blood started squirting out of her needle hole! (no that's not a euphemism...)
(gin'll fix it, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 16:00, 3 replies)

This is going to be difficult to describe...

I don’t know about you, but in my life I have been asked a few times:

“Have you ever been knocked out?” & “Have you ever broken your nose”

My answer to both those questions is ‘yes’ but people are a little bit surprised to find out that I actually did both…at the same time…to myself.

I used to work in a car parts warehouse in Coventry. I was assigned to the ‘Large Parts’ department (Quite apt I thought…or should that be ironic?)

My daily duties involves chugging about on a little electric cart thingy, dragging a wooden crate behind me and filling it with assorted car parts from locations within the warehouse.

Think Ikea…but getting paid for it…and without the ‘Hell on earth-ness’

Anyhoo, as you can imagine these locations are different shapes and sizes and on this particular occasion I had to pick large heavy bags containing rubber car mats.

The mats were situated within a large location on the floor. It was a container about 4ft high and 5ft across. I climbed into it and scrabbled about trying to free a bag of mats from the tangled pile. A minute or so later I came up with the (clearly brilliant) idea of just lifting a bag straight out of the pile, thus freeing it from its entangled state.

So with clenched fists, I grabbed both corners of the bag and, remembering my finest manual handling training, stood straight up using my legs to bear the load and my arms to heave the bag straight up towards me, thus saving my back any strain.

It was relatively soon after I had made this decision (about 0.76 seconds) that I was suddenly reminded that the container was only 4ft high….and I am over 6ft tall.

Mere moments after twonking my dumb-ass head on the roof of the container, I was given a short sharp lesson in inertia as my arms continued to rise with the force of my lift…directly towards their new target…my face.

Still clutching the heavy bags, I promptly proceeded to punch myself smack in the mush. Or to be more precise, right on the end of my nose.

Really.really.bastard.hard.

I remember that ‘klong’ sound you get in your head as your vision blurs and you get a sweet millisecond of shock / disbelief before the pain sets in.

‘Did…that…hurt….did…...it?……ooooh bugger!’

Before I lost consciousness I had the happy experience of watching my poor hooter explode and a red river of precious lifejuice splurge over the contents of the brown paper bags like a fountain at Disney Land after someone had dumped a whole box of Daz Automatic with red dye in it.

It was about 15 minutes before I was found in a crumpled, burbling heap and by that time I had ejected so much blood that I resembled a walking period.

It was in my eyes…it covered my clothes…it was fucking everywhere. This dark little container of rubber mats looked like an out-take from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

I don’t know exactly how much blood I lost…you don’t think to ask for a measuring jug as blood pisses from your shattered nostrils at a rate like when you hold your finger over the end of a hose pipe.

I was dragged woosily to the inept onsite nurse and she sat there flapping and dabbing at me all over with bits of wet cotton wool as I monged and spacked in equal measure.

Still…it’s not all bad. I got to go home early on full pay so managed to be in the pub by half 2...even if I did have to sacrifice my boyish good looks to resemble Ricky Hatton’s uglier and less successful brother.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:53, 4 replies)