Bagging Aunt Flo... Got my Red-wings!
Several years ago I finally took a woman home that I had been pursuing for quite awhile. We had both been drinking heavily at a Pub and went back to my apartment to shag.
My room-mate was home and asleep in the living room so we decided not to wake him and just do it in his bed because it was the closest to the front-door. It was pitch dark and I remember thinking how wet she was and how she must really be into this!

An hour of drunken fun later I stumble into the living room and my roomie gasps and asks if I'd been in a fight! I look up into the big mirror and it looks like I am wearing Native Warpaint! Blood is everywhere! Handmarks on my arms and back, face and mouth covered like a sloppy vampire!
Was so drunk I had absolutely no idea it was that time of the month. And so heavy!
His bedding was ruined and there were smeared bloody handprints on everything I had touched.
She ran off into the night and I showered for about an hour. I even remember washing my mouth out with shampoo.....

Not sure if there is a term for this in other parts of the world, but here it is affectionately called "Earning your Red-Wings!" ;D
( CaptainKirk, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 18:52, 2 replies)

Rainbow colour hues
In my miss-spent youth I once ate spaghetti bolognaise and then got royally pissed on rum and blackcurrent. The resulting mess on the public toilet floor - admittedly it wasn't bloody, but it was very very red. I have never been able to drink rum & blackcurrent since.
( oucheh I am have confused, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 18:51, Reply)

Sorry I bled all over your kids!
A couple of years ago the shingles on my house needed replacing so to save money I decided I would fix it all myself.
In the process I didn't secure the ladder properly and fell 15 feet into a pile of old shingles and rusty nails! I pretty much punctured myself like a voo-doo doll! I had about 100 bleeding nail holes in my side and arms, broke my shoulder and 3 ribs.
Friends of mine felt sorry for me and brought their kids over to cheer me up when I got out of the hospital. I was all hopped up on beer and painkillers and remember picking their young kids up and playing with them, broken bones and all.
At one point I remember looking down at their three year old and some of my stitches had ruptured and her face was covered in blood! She looked like Carrie from the Stephen King horror movie!
I looked around at the other 2 kids and they all had bloody hand marks across their faces and bodies. As soon as they noticed they all started to cry and throw tantrums! ;)
We threw them all into my shower to clean them off and all I remember is teh swirling blood going down the drain like in Psycho! ;(

I felt pretty crappy afterwards although no one was genuinely hurt. (I'm sure I'll get the therapy bills when the kids get older!)
I searched high and low, but believe it or not - no one makes an apology card that says : "Sorry I bled all over your kids."
Whatever.
( CaptainKirk, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 18:31, 2 replies)

Only had three major incidents involving lots of blood...
1) Good old banjo-string snappage. Was doing it sneakily with my missus at the time in the living room, as we were attending a gig the next day in Manchester (I was living in Chester, the missus in Bangor), and we also had a joint friend of ours staying with us for the night (He was from Swindon, so he couldn't exactly do a massive drive up and then go straight into a gig, as ironically he's anaemic and would be absolutely knackered for the gig), who was sleeping in my room at the time.

Anyway, neither of us were quite adequately lubed up for doing it sneakily, but we were both tanked up and were in the mood, so we tried to do it. About a minute in, it becomes suddenly easier to get in and out for some reason (Guess why.) "Ah-ha!" thinks I whilst I'm doing her on the floor of the living room, and then suddenly realise I'm not wearing a rubber, and that the missus has come off the pill. So I communicate this knowledge to her, and she agrees to let me finish off in her mouth. Vinegar strokes time, and I pull out and go for her mouth, and unload. She swallows it, and has an absolutely horrified expression on her face.

Turns out that I had snapped my banjo-string, and was too pissed to notice. Poor lass had to swallow a load of blood and population paste, which she wasn't too impressed about. Cue me trying, and successfully sneaking around the house like a naked Solid Snake with a cock spraying blood, in order to get cleaned up without waking up my mate in the next room, or my housemates in the rooms above (I lived with two girls at this point, and trying to explain to them why I was running around the living room stark naked and looking like I'd just butchered a pig with my cock would have been really hard to explain). The gig the next day was absolute hell as I started to bleed again in the car on the way to Manchester, and didn't stop bleeding until I'd gotten home.

2) I trod on a nail once in bare feet. Hilarity and claret ensue as I leap about pulling the nail out of my foot and then try and leap to my parents to get some sort of attention for my foot which was leaking blood at quite an interesting rate. Got a new pair of jeans and a scar out of it, which was pretty good.

3) Not me this time, thankfully, but a brother of a mate of mine. Me, my friend, we shall call him JC for that is his nickname, JC's brother, and another mate who we shall call S (The mate mentioned previously, oddly enough), all liked to play badminton. We used to play weekly, until this event, after which we stopped, for very good reason. JC's brother was dicking around by the poles holding the net up in the middle, and for those who don't know, there are little sticky-outy metal bits which you can loop stuff onto, they point up and down. Think of it as a bit like a K with the spine of the K being the pole and the metal bits as the other parts of the K. Anyway, he decides it'd be a great idea to jump onto it and use it as a fireman's slide.

So he does so.

Unfortunately forgetting one very vital important thing.

The metal sticky-outy-bits.

He only remembers this when it is far, far too late.

Far, far too late being him hanging, literally by the remains of his ballbag, off the top-most metal part. He had jumped and slid down with enough force to rip through his shorts, underwear, and rip his ballbag in half and leave him hanging off it. Anyone seen the Pain Olympics? I had just had part of it recreated by accident in front of me.

The amount of blood was impressive though, I must admit. Soaked his undies, his shorts, his shoes and quite a lot of everywhere else.

I almost threw up, and went off to the reception to get them to ring for a doctor and then had to sit outside and wait for the ambulance and stuff. Declined the offer to go to the hospital with them, and caught the rest of the story later. Apparently he had to have his nuts put back in, and many stitches to repair his nutsack.

Apologies for length, it usually satisfies.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 18:23, 3 replies)

blood on the dancefloor
have you ever noticed that, when you're drunk, pain doesn't, well, hurt?

i'm very glad of this.

one night, my mates and i went to our usual drinking pit. it was £10 to get in, then all your drinks were free. being the greedy bastards that we are, we were gulping down the headache juice as fast as we could. as a result, we were soon very drunk.
one of my mates had come out straight from work, wearing his steel toe-capped boots. i, on the other hand, was wearing open-toed sandals. during a sedate amble around the dancefloor to the strains of gloria gaynor, he brought his size 12 down sharply onto my unprotected foot.
crunch! went my toenail, as it split in two. then, crunch! squeak! it went, as he pulled his foot-and my toenail-away.

we may not have been drinking claret, but there was plenty spilling from my mangled hoof.

our other mate sauntered over with a bottle of some variety of alcopop, which he proceeded to pour over my foot, muttering as he did so about "sterilising qualities" of alcohol.

the dancefloor was now liberally coated in an orangey-brown sticky mass, which was quite nauseating to look at. fortunately, the pain fairy was running late, so i felt fine to continue dancing the night away.

did i mention that i was pissed?

my mate took my hands and said "come and dance with me."
that's the last thing i remember.
however, my mates took great pleasure the following day in telling me that, despite the fact that my upper body followed him towards the dancefloor, my feet stayed firmly where they were, which resulted in me hitting the floor chest first(and bouncing a little, apparently). this, finally, saw us evicted from the club.
not content with the carnage i'd already wreaked, i fell down the stairs outside the club, too.

sitting the next morning with a manky, swollen foot and the hangover from hell, i still firmly believed it was one of our best nights out ever.

length? the damn thing took 2 months to grow back!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 18:16, 3 replies)

Can I get a reeepost?

I was working as a KP/pref chef in this small restaurant, so small in fact that there were only two chef.This particular week one of the chefs was off on holiday, leaving the other chef to cover every shift.
He was in from 9 until 11/12 every day as we had a lot of lunchtime business, and by Thursday he was feeling pretty knackered. After the lunchtime rush he adjourned to the neighbouring pub for a pint or two and returned to work seeming somewhat more sprightly. Just as customers were starting to appear for dinner he was in the kitchen, chopping chops with his chopper, he said something to me and I turned around just in time to see him whack the cleaver right into his hand.
(brief pause to allow the hand/cleaver interface moment sink in)
So he's standing there in the middle of the kitchen, holding his hand which is litterally spurting blood, it's not gushing but it is oozing and squirting somewhat, the waitress has dropped her plates, he's screaming, she's screaming, the manager has just walked in and is blethering like he can't figure out what's going on (which is business as usual for him), I'm laughing and trying to find a cleanish cloth to wrap his hand with.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, this restaurant has an open kitchen.
That means the customers have a full view of this scene just as they're tucking into their brioche, they're sitting there, open mouthed as this 6 foot 5 frenchman screams like a little girl and gets the wrong kind of claret all over his whites and the manager blubbers like a fat kid who's just found a sheeps lung in his lunch box (don't tell me you've never played that trick at school)
We had to ask the customers to leave and we closed up early, the chef returned to work the next day with severed tendons and a fractured thumb, I was promoted to "assistant chef" for my trouble, and the restaurant itself closed a few months later due to managerial incompetence.

So remember kids, always keep your eye on your chopper when you swing it.

Length? A good six inches of british steel
( VampireMonkeyOnSpeed a super sexy sexual sex terrorist sex, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 18:12, Reply)

Blood Sugar Sex Magik
(No, this has nothing to do with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I just like that title.)

I haven't read all of the entries yet, but I would assume that someone somewhere has already made reference to extremely messy sex? If so, add me to the list.

A few years ago I was in a relationship with a woman who get incredibly horny during her menstrual cycle. Apparently this is fairly common, but most women don't like the mess any more than we do, so when the painters are in she's up on blocks, as they say.

Not this one.

I arrived at her flat one night for our usual dinner-movie-shag, and she informed me of her condition. All well and good- I was fine with just dinner and a movie, followed by sleep- but she was most insistent. Throughout the movie her hands traveled my body, and finally we had to stop the movie as we had both lost the plotline.

We went to her bed and she practically tore both our clothes off, save for her thong. She was absolutely ravenous as her lips crushed mine, followed by her working her way down my body to ensure that there was no question of me stopping. She excused herself for a moment and went to the loo, then returned, climbed on top of me and ground with a ferocity I had never encountered in her before. I could feel hot wetness from my belly to my thighs as she rode me, until finally I couldn't hold back any longer. She let out a wail that must have scared the cat, then collapsed next to me and lay gasping.

All was right with the world.

Just one little problem. When blood dries, as we all know, it forms brittle flakes. When blood dries on flesh, it itches. When blood dries on your nadgers, it REALLY itches.

And I most definitely did not want to reach down and scratch.

I kissed her and started to get up. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"I need to clean up, luv. Won't be but a minute."

"Right. Well, just don't look down."

Good advice, that.

I carefully made my way to the shower and turned the tap. As I did so, all I could think of was an old joke: how is getting a blow job from Maggie Thatcher like walking a tightrope?

See her advice above.
(Shimrod, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 17:24, 1 reply)

Quack
I have a story about blood that has really affected my job.

I was performing an ancient ritual that could be only done once a century to bring my master back to life, sadly the incantation did not go according to plan (Thanks to an incident where tomato ketchup was used instead of blood).

Now I'm stuck with a bloke who sounds like David Jason and is a vegetarian.

Serves me right for trusting that hen with a bandaged arm to go get the bottle marked blood
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 17:17, 1 reply)

Another banjo string story...
The banjo story on here reminded me of a time when I was getting down and dirty with my then-girlfriend. We were getting it on and she seemed to be enjoying it so I started to get a bit over confident with my thrusting - pulling right out and thrusting it all the way back in. This was fine for about a few minutes but then I went to slam it back in and I missed...

My banjo ripped and instantly started pissing with blood. I screamed in pain, jumped up and ran to the sink where the blood could spill out without damaging the bedsheets/carpet, etc.

Now what happened next I cannot explain. I'm welcoming people's opinions on this, and if anyone has had the same thing happen to them then please tell me... but *something* came out of the tear in my cock. It was about 3 inches long (yes, my cock is bigger than that), 3/4 of an inch wide and was deep red. It looked like a leech but made out of my own blood. I have no idea what the fuck it was. It felt like jelly in my hands, and when I lifted it out of the sink to show my girlfriend she was sick all over the landing.

I thought it might be some sort of erectile tissue but my cock felt the same afterwards and have never had a problem getting it up. I just had to lay off the sex for about 6 months afterwards to let my banjo heal.

Weird.
(kabukisteve, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 16:39, 4 replies)

If you don't like blood...
don't put a frog in a blender
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 16:28, Reply)

Nose + Carabiner Clip = Pain (oh and blood of course)
In a pointless attempt to reduce the size and flacidity of my moobs, I have for some time been attending a gym.

On and off.

More off than on admittedly, but the thought is there.

Anyhoo, one evening after a particularly grueling workout (ahem) I decided to chance my arm at the overhead pull down exercise machine - imagine a bar on a long wire attached to various weights...the aim being to sit down and pull the bar down from over your head to level with your chest.

All was going swimmingly until, after one pull down too many, I let me head drop forward and...as you can guess...the carabiner clip which holds the bar to the wire got caught in my nostril and ripped my nose open.

Cue the blood. Everwhere. In a public gym. There was even bits of my skin attached to the clip. NICE!

Didn't hurt at first, but when I could pull my nose apart (predator's mouth stylee) and see the cartilege beneath I felt a bit quesy. After a dramatic trip to hospital, an injection INSIDE MY NOSE then about six stitches, all was tickety boo. Still got a lovely line around the nostril.....
(ruttiger, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 16:20, Reply)

Mornings are rubbish.
During my second year at university, I became largely nocturnal. Naturally this was a bad thing in terms of attending lectures, handing in essays etc, so one day I decided it had to stop. I went to bed early and set my alarm for 4am, intending to finish off some coursework, have a healthy breakfast (toast and Nutella, like every other meal that week) and then toddle in for my 9am lecture.

The alarm went off promptly at 4am. I shot upright in pitch darkness having had a good three quarters of an hour of sleep and, somewhat disoriented, headed for the bathroom. A few minutes later I got up again, this time from the floor, with a pounding headache.

"Oh great, another rainy day," I muttered to myself, hearing the tell-tale pitter-patter of precipitation, as I stumbled into the hallway and thence to the bathroom. "Odd that it's no quieter further from the window though." Still bleary-eyed and blinking I had the traditional just-woken up slash and then turned to the sink for hand-washing and teeth-brushing, only to discover that half my face and most of my chest was now startlingly red, and that I appeared to be leaking at a frankly startling rate. Obviously the only reasonable course of action would be to clean myself up with someone else's flannel and then make myself a kind of toilet-roll turban and go back to bed.

At about a quarter past eight, my long suffering housemate knocked on my door to ask if I was coming to lectures, a thankless task if ever there was one. "Guh!" I announced, and sat up in bed. Owing to my poor toilet-roll-turban-constructing skills my pillow came with me, before peeling off and falling to the floor, accompanied by unpleasant sound effects and renewed bleeding. I the harsh light of day my room looked like an abbatoir, and my housemate strongly recommended that I get myself to a doctor.

I finally turned up to university at about a quarter past five with a huge wad of gauze taped to my head, after a day-long odyssey of GPs, buses and hospitals. My head had been superglued back together, I had a fantastic excuse for not having done my essay and, I later found out, my injured appearance made quite an impression on the young lady who would eventually take my cherry.

That evening, I applied CSI-esque levels of forensic examination to figure out what had actually happened. I concluded that I must have been so surprised at successfully getting up at 4am that I immediately collapsed in shock, unfortunately landing eyebrow-first on the corner of my radiator. This led me to conclude that getting up in the morning would likely be extremely hazardous to my health, and as a result I got to do my second year again, thus gaining a free bonus year of studenthood. Hurrah!
(wellgroomedwookiee is a filthy-minded hobgoblin, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 16:05, Reply)

One in a billion
Many moons ago myself and my brother, aged about 13 or so, were hitting golf balls up and down an un-used football pitch as we were bored. We made a game whereby we tried hitting the crossbar with the golf ball from as far away as possible. Now, we played this game for about 4 hours without any luck, its hard enough to hit a crossbar with a golf ball when properly aimed after all, never mind swinging a golf club at it.

Anyway the game cumulated in a swift ending when my brother, a full 30 or so feet from the goal, whacked the ball as hard as he could and brought probability to its knees. Imagine if you will the following sounds in succession all within half a second of one another...metal club hits golf bally golf ball, golf ball hits metal crossbar, golf ball hits spongey head, spongey head lets out piercing howl. I laughed so much I fell over as I saw him fall backwards in a comic motion grabbing his forehead, that is, until I went over to him and his face, hair, arm and t-shirt were all drenched in blood! Anyway usual yada yada went to parents, parents brought him to hospital etc and now he has a scar just at his hairline in a nice inverted V-shape.

However it wasnt until years later that I fully appreciated the chances of that happening. One spherical object with dents on it, hitting another spherical object at an exact right angle to cause it to travel back in the same path of motion but maybe 1 degree higher to hit my brother in the forehead. I dont think it could be repeated no matter how hard anyone tried.

Oh and on a side note, he was using one of my golf balls so a few hours later I went searching for the offending ball and found it about 20 feet from where he had been hit, and attached to said ball was a small clump of hair, some skin and some fleshy bits. I brought it over to him to see if it would still fit into his head. To say my mother was unimpressed is an understatement.
(BigFatPaulie, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 16:00, 3 replies)

Bloody Women ! >:(
You know when they have a grump on, a mardy, TV on mute..(there's picture but no sound).. we've all been there fella's. Your best option is to stay out of her way.

But no matter where you go.. sooner or fucking later, you're gonna be 'in her way'.

Bitch.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Fri 8 Aug 2008, 15:58, Reply)

Bloody divers...
I have a scuba diving associate called Dave. Dave’s a nice bloke, very easy going. Had his kids young, and now he and his wife can do what they want, when they want, and are still in their late 30s and therefore still young enough to appreciate it.

For a while though, scuba diving caused Dave a slight problem in the nasal department. Essentially, dives over a certain depth would cause the blood vessels in his nose to go ‘splurge’. This first became apparent to him when he thought his mask was flooding slightly, and so he followed the standard procedure to clear it. Which, for anyone interested, is to pinch your nose, tilt your head back slightly, and blow out through your nose. It does work, honest.

Anyway, he was somewhat startled to see that the unusually crystal clear waters of the North Sea had turned a sort of inky black colour as a result. But not feeling any ill effects he continued with the dive, giving up on trying to clear his mask after a couple of goes of de-flooding it.

The poor sod on the boat (i.e. me), however, got the fright of his life when Dave surfaced, and on going to help him get his kit back on board was confronted by a man with what appeared to be a whole can of Campbell’s Condensed cream of tomato soup in his mask.

Put me off tomato soup for a few seconds, I can tell you.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 8 Aug 2008, 15:46, Reply)

Argh my fingers!
One summer I got a job at a place that tested soil samples. Mainly to see if it would support structures etc.

One of the guys there, Alan, was a fantastic laugh and always pulling pranks on us. Alan only had two fingers on one hand. I forget the exact reasons but he'd had to have his pointer and middle finger lopped off just below the first knuckle and they were also joined together by a thin layer of skin. I think that part was a birth defect, but he managed fine with them and only very occasionally would the skin split due to catching or knocking it, in which case we would get him to make us all tea until it had stopped.

Alan was also a keen cricket player and used to play every Thursday and bore tell us the tale on Friday. Turns out he had received a warning the previous day as on catching the ball, which was traveling slightly faster than he anticipated, it had struck his stump and split the skin causing a reletivly high amount of blood to gush out.

However when the umpire, who was rather pleased about umpiring his very first match, ran over to see how Alan was. Alan decided to scream "Argh it's taken my fooking fingers off" and run around with blood spraying everywhere.

Apparently causing an umpire unnecessary grief is violation of some rule or the other....
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 15:35, Reply)

Childbirth!
I assure you, this isn't going to be a gross and gory one.

Back when Nurse Ratched was knocked up and approximately the size and shape of a Volkswagen, we discussed the various options open to us for childbirth. Being a Modern Father ^TM, I was all in favor of what was called a Birth Place- that is, instead of the standard delivery room with stainless steel and mercury lights, it was very much like a hotel room with linoleum floors and strange things stored in the closets. Instead of a standard obstetrician, we went with a nurse midwife. (The midwife was part of a practice that included an OB/GYN, so it was safe.) We went through Lamaze class and all that, and watched the films of the various couples squeezing out their sprogs like a cinema verite version of Alien.

I discussed all of this with my boss at work, who had been through the process himself. Unfortunately Mike also had something of a weak stomach, especially when it came to blood, so he admitted that during the really graphic part of the films he had averted his eyes and tried to keep from heaving.

The day came when she started leaking and moaning, so we got her to the hospital as planned. It was a very long labor, but it went smoothly enough. When it came time to actually bear down and make noises like Yoko Ono, she was lying propped up on a beanbag chair in a standard double bed. Her left hand had a death grip on my right wrist, and her left heel was against my right shoulder- so my face was only a little over a foot from her mimsy at the critical moment.

Aside from shitting the bed slightly, nothing to out of the ordinary happened- Splinky came out, covered in the usual primordial ooze, then they handed me a rather nasty looking pair of scissors and had me cut the umbilical cord. She then pushed and shoved out what looked like a couple of pounds of liver, then lay back wheezing and let them stitch her mimsy back together while they washed the ooze off of our son.

Now in truth this entire experience didn't bother me or make me queasy at all- I was fine with everything, really. I had managed to smuggle in a couple of St. Pauli darks, so I opened one to celebrate- and as we were both quite hungry, we ordered and ate a pizza with black olives and mushrooms.

When I returned to the office I described it in detail to Mike, sadistically noting the shades of green he was turning as I did so. He held it together, though- up until I mentioned eating pizza.

I don't think Mike ever ate pizza again...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 8 Aug 2008, 15:35, 3 replies)

The Apparition
One night many years ago, at about 1am, I was awoken from my delightful slumber by a hideous apparition. Towering over my bed at over six foot tall, the horror loomed over my half-awake form, revealing its face to be nothing more than a skinless, gory pulp, dripping gore onto my pillow.

I did the only thing a sane man would in the circumstances: panicked, and punched it in the bollocks. Whereupon it folded up on the floor, revealing itself not to be an apparition from beyond the grave but my friend, Andy, with whom I had entrusted a key.

Turns out Andy had been to the local and had drunk copious amounts of beer. At closing time he'd decided it'd be fun to roll down the big steep hill in the park next to the pub. Which it might well have been had he done it on his side. But he did it head first, rolling down and down the hill like a human wheel, gathering speed, careering out of control until the stupid twat finally went face-first into the pavement at the bottom.

He'd lost most of the blood on the way back to the flat. But there was still plenty left to stain the carpets, the sheets, the old clothes scattered around and indeed everything else he went near.

Next day, when he'd had the chance to clean and bandage his wounds, I made sure to take the key away, sharpish.
(MattDP (Squiggle), Fri 8 Aug 2008, 15:32, Reply)

Getting a tooth out
was a strangely unthreatening affair for a nervous wreck like me. My dentist is very good, unlike some of the butchers around here.... he gives jabs stealthily so you never see the needle, he always ensures you are well and truly numbed before any work is carried out, and all fear of dentists has been utterly assuaged by years of good service. So although I was a tad nervous, getting the one half of my broken tooth that remained in my head pulled out when I was 16 was something I could handle.

He numbed my mouth completely, but had difficulty pulling the tooth. This was odd, as the other half of it had been easily removed by a mini cheddar... a bloody mini cheddar broke my tooth! I actually began nervously giggling as he wrenched the bugger free with a "Schleeerrrrp!". Lovely. Didn't feel a thing.

Puffed up by my own bravery, I manfully strolled into the reception area with the pretty dental nurse. I spoke with the pretty receptionist about how I hadn't felt a thing and nah, it was nothing really. Nervous? Ptchah! They both gave me an "awwwww" look, as though I was a little puppy, and the receptionist handed me a hanky. "Here you go love, you're dribbling a wee bit."

Dammit.

I felt a little annoyed that my macho display of uber-manliness had been spoiled by my numb-faced drooling, so I took the hanky and wiped my chin. The hanky was dark red. The spots in front of my eyes were instantly there as the first symptoms of passing out came on. I managed to get to the foot of the stairs and spat out a thick black glob of blood.

I had to lay in the back seat of the car on the way home. I don't think I've ever tried to impress a lady since. The weird thing was, I never realised it was the blood, I just thought it was because of the jabs!
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 15:09, Reply)

well errm blood obviously
A very long time ago when I was at university in the sunny shitty of Scarborough, me and a friend randomly blundered to another friends house. Whilst lounging around there we were offered a new kind of alcoholic beverage. It was called Irish Meadow and was basically a poor mans Baileys. Finishing off the bottle I decided it was almost the best thing ever and proceded to search for it at the supermarket. Every supermarket has it in some form or another - its usually about 4 or 5 quid and looks like baileys.

Anyway enough backstory, let the blood flow...
A few years later, I was working in a different supermarket in a different part of the country, My parents had gone away for a week and left me in charge of the house with specific instructions not to have anyone over. Now being the rebellious soul I am I had pre arranged that very same friend to come up to visit from Scarborough. After drinking many beer we take a trip to the shops for more. Both of us having a fondness for cheap baileys flavour drink we got a few bottles - The bottle from ASDA is called Irish Knights (the lettering looks a bit like fenceposts so we call it fencepost...)

Crossing the school field casually drinking this 15% drink like it was cola, we finish our bottles at the end of the corner of the field and decide to smash them on the concrete fencepost (a fitting end ay) anyway - A skilled bash from me shatters the bottle neatly leaving me with a pretty dangerous looking shanker. My friend does the same but hes a little bit more drunk and careless then me and he cuts his thumb open. Cue the blood.

Anyway its pretty bad, not an artery or anything but it just wont stop flowing - and we have nothing to slow the blood. Still I dont live far and we only have a fence to climbover .

Once over the fence we are making our way down a back street and some local chavscum notice us from quite a distance and come to 'borrow some money' or something. Anyway - only one of then runs to catch us and he stops to have a little chat, then noticed the blood pouring from my friends thumb, where on he backs off saying sorry and legs it to his mate.

Minutes later we are at my house at the kitchin sink washing the wound. It was about this time that my friend waved his thumb - still bleeding in my face. Being sufficiently drunk by this time I take the opposite action and instead of reeling away i take my shirt off and have my friend write 'arab' on my chest. You might be wondering why that word, well It was part of a long running joke that always amused our circle of friends but no-one else got it untill they heard it 100 times. The joke for that record was this ' "So anyway, There was this arab" Anyway the bleeding didnt stop and I got painted with more blood.

Now the pair of us, me covered in blood and him nursing his still bleeding thumb went to my friends house. His parents were also away somewhere and we wanted to 'show off'

Immediatly panicking a bit my friend brought us in and told us to clean up. Which we did, managing to splash blood around in the process.
While we were doing this my other friend ( the guy that lived there ) called an abulance for us mainly to get us to leave and we were in no fit state for much.

Now I've never been tremendously concious the last few times I have been in an ambulance and I was gonna enjoy it this time there was nothing wrong with me. The nice ambulance lady let me take a beer with me on the trip so I could have it in the waiting room.

Anyways at the hospital while my friend is having his thumb bandaged - a security guard caught me with it and took it off me - just as I finished (yay - i dont need to find a bin) we were dischaged shortly after that and left to go home and sleep it off. However we had no moneys and were a good 4 hours walk home. So we set off towards the town in high spirits causing trouble.

Wheee 1st post, sorry if I waffled on a bit there and for the spelling mistakes I know I made.
(FlangeCat, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 15:00, 1 reply)

Not for the sqeamish.
Back in the heady days of adolescence, something happened to one of my friends that has gone down in infamy and still to this day causes me to squirm. It was during the summer holidays, and I shall begin the tale by relaying the message to you as I got it. Imagine I had just knocked on your door.

"Charlie's sat on a spike!"

This was as much information as I had, apart from that he had been rushed to hospital. My youthful imagination filled with images of my mate impaled on a 6 foot rusty metal spear, then cleared to the realisation that it was probably just a slight bum-meets-pin accident and he needed tetanus shots.

The reality was worse than anything.

It turns out that, whilst playing with my other friend, he had attempted a maneuver that was, at best, risky. He tried to leap, Indiana Jones style, from the top of a garage, grab a tree branch and swing gracefully over a fence. The planning had been less than meticulous as is the way of youngsters, and disaster struck. The branch broke.

It was one of those spiky wooden affairs held together with wire, the kind you rarely see nowadays. He had landed full force from a height of about 10 feet up onto the sharpest stake on the whole fence. According to my mate, he had to lift himself off it. But we were a hardy bunch in those days, and there were no tears, just a worried "I need to go home". My mate was worried, so went with him. The odd thing was that the only symptom from what looked like a catastrophic injury was a sudden desire to pee, so he immediately rushed to the bogs when he got home..... ten seconds later, a worried "M..m....MUUUUM!" rang out. He was pissing blood. Not blood-laced urine, not red piss.... thick red blood.

The spike had pierced his.... I don't know if it's still called the urethra by the time it's that far in, but it had pierced it. He was rushed to hospital and unfortunately gave us all the details later, like taking an unwanted erection when the nurse examined him and having his winky frozen with jabs.

We laughed like lunatics at him for months. It's absolutely amazing to think of it now how we could laugh at such a horrendous injury!

But we did.

*shudder*
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 14:55, Reply)

Farmers.
I've just recently recovered from a dose of the farmer Giles's.

I was away with work and was wondering why I had a pain round the old chocolate starfish.

The conference was somewhat uncomfortable, the standing around at the airport took my mind off it as the pressure was slightly less.

The plane journey was agony and the drive back was unmentionable pain.

Slept poorly the following night and decided that I should probably visit the doctor the following morning, I book an appointment and get myself down to the docs.

Sitting in the waiting room slightly on one side generated some bizarre looks.

The doctor asks me some questions, then says he is off to get a colleague for a second opinion. Great I think, this bloke doesn't have a clue.

Second doctor has a look and tells me that I have a rare condition for someone of my age (23). Having two grown men poking their finger up your bum is not an experience I want to repeat. Ever!

It turns out that I have external thrombosed hemorrhoids. These little babies are different to normal ones, normally they come from within and hang out. These ones sit on the outside, where you have a huge mass of nerves, thus making the pain far more intolerable than just having the grapes hanging out.

I'm prescribed some cream to help clear the matter up and told to come back the following day to see how I'm doing or else its off to hospital for a general to have them chopped out. Off I trudge to boots, whereby the lady behind the counter asks if she can see me in the consultation room.

Great I think, now what?!

She tells me that what the doc had prescribed isn't available by its standard name and is only available as its marketed name, which happens to be.... Vagisil.

Great, not only do I have quite an embarrassing bum problem, I now have thrush cream to try and sort it out!

Queue later on, at home ready for bed. Im in my bathroom readying myself to apply this cream. Applying cream to your bum is a very wierd sensation and leaves you feeling rather uncomfortable.

I sleep like a baby as the previous night's lack of kip had taken its toll. Upon waking up, the pain has gone, however it would appear a mini nuclear blood bomb had gone off and there was blood everywhere from the anal explosion.

All over the bed sheets, my pants that I had slept in, the bed etc...

I hope no-one ever gets this problem as it is really something that is incredibly painful and rather embarrassing!

I returned to the doctor to find out that only one had burst, but this had released the pressure, as they were no longer forcing themselves against each other and I was good to carry on using the cream until the other one went.

1.5 weeks off work and another bloodbath in bed, I was still bleeding (albeit more of a trickle) 3 weeks later.

I now have some "skin-tags" which are the empty remains of my lovely experience.


/edit

To add insult to injury, I went to see my girlfriend the afternoon I got back from the doctors whereby we had "a talk" leaving me rather single.

One pain in the ass replaced with two!

Length - round and about the size of a nobbys nut each.
(stevio is on the prowl for a girlfriend!, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 14:43, 6 replies)

Taxpayers money
I used to work away a lot as part of film crews. Once, I was staying in a rather nice hotel down by the waterfront in Bristol. All the rooms were very light and bright and airy with pale walls and tiled floors.

Film crews drink fairly heavily and this one friday evening we knew we had a rare saturday off the next day so we went out and got twatted. I ended up rocking into bed God knows what time still clutching a glass of whiskey and promptly fell asleep.

I woke up in the middle of the night dying for a slash, hopped out of bad and with unnerring accuracy stood slap bang onto a now empty crystal tumbler lying next to the bedside table.

*crunch*

Aaaarrghh! Ow! Ow! Fuckitybuggercuntflaps! Oooooooooooooooow! Fuck! Oh fuck! Oh No!! Oooh Fuuuuuurrrghhhhhh!!!!!

I half hopped/half crawled to the bog where I sat on the crapper and, gently whimpering, pulled the shards of glass from the sole of my foot and deposited them in the sink. Once I'd calmed down a bit I wrapped my injured foot in toilet paper, had a piss, and hobbled back to bed.

Upon waking the next day I had completely forgotten about my nighttime excursions so imagine my surprise to open my eyes and be greeted by a scene straight out of A Nightmare on Elm Street.

There was fucking blood EVERYWHERE. Big angry smears all over the floor, bloody handprints on the walls, crispy, dried crinkles on the sheets.

As my eyes followed the horror that my room had become they were drawn inexorably to the en suite. I looked at the blood smeared doorhandle and all I could think was, "Oh God. What the fuck have I done this time?"

Recollection only came once I crept out of bed, whimpering for entirely different reasons this time, and put my weight on my knackered foot again. Fuck it hurt but with it came a whole jigsaw at once.

I have never been so happy to spend four hours in casualty in my life.
(Crowtyboy, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 14:43, Reply)

The prince of blood
I got my Prince Albert done about ten years ago. Tor the unknowing, this is a body piercing where you get a ring through the end of your winky.

In order to keep my newly-pierced penis from flopping about too much immediately afterwards, the thoughtful piercer attached a surgical glove to the end with a bit of micropore tape.

Hours later, when I got home I realised I was spotting blood onto the sofa through my trousers. The trousers were fashionably black so hadn't shown the leakage as I trotted around London. I popped upstairs to the sink, undid my trousers and checked.

Wow. So far it's the most of my blood I've ever seen. It had collected in the finger-ends of the gloves, clotted and dried all over the rest of me, and seemed to be everywhere.

In a state of panic I rang the piercer.

"It's bleeding!" I think I wailed down the phone.
"There are a lot of blood vessels down there. It will bleed." He assured me.

With hindsight, it was a little naive of me to get a piercing there and not expect some bleeding, and it was probably a little foolish to spend hours wandering round the shops afterwards.

So - the lesson to fellow readers is that if you get someone to stick a needle through your bell-end, expect it to bleed.
(uncle whippity, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 14:32, 2 replies)

I've had a few bumps and bruises over the years
However most memorable for me was

(A) as a 5-6 year old kid, running / playing whilst looking sideways at a friend with my arms fully outstretched I managed to run full bore into a lampost, my outstretched arms went either side of the lampost perfectly - meaning my face took the impact, however, my friend did manage to shout a warning a microsecond before I hit, giving me just enough time for me to turn and and hit it face first - think Hannah and Barberra cartoon stylelee and you have it pretty much perfect.
I split my head in a perfect "v" shape, knocked out a tooth, bust my nose, split my lip and cut my chin - this impact also had the bonus effect of knocking me unconcious for a minute or two. End result, more blood than I'd ever seen in my little life - Eight stictches in my forehead and two in my top lip where my tooth had shot through it. Still have the forehead scars today...

(B)On my raleigh "grifter" - anyone remember them? :-) I went over quite a large jump, made it about 5-6 feet in the air, only to watch in "that" type of horrified slow motion as the front wheel detatched itself from the frame of the bike.
I landed and burried the forks straight into the ground. The bike then stopped, I didn't - straight over the handlebars, the brake lever gouged my leg, which thankfully wasnt that deep. I did however mange to do a perfect face plant onto the ground. 'Twas dirt thankfully, though I did manage to land on some glass, not much glass, just enough to go through my top lip, just under and to the left of my nose and into my gum. End result, lots and lots of blood, 3 stictches and a very, very sore mouth for a week or two.

(C) Finally (and this is the biggie) a car accident on the motorway. I was getting a lift home from work from a mate when we hit a scaffolding plank on the motorway, one of the big thick fuckers with the metal banding round the edges, whilst in the fast lane, doing about 80.
This destroyed both front tyres and rims in an instant. The result being we basically skidded from fastlane into the breakdown lane, clipped the barrier there, then veered back out across the main motorway, fell into a broadside skid, then hit the central reservation (a grass verge about 4-5 high) at about 45 degrees with the front of the car, all whilst still moving a quite a high rate of knots in the initial direction of travel. We proceeded to climb it, dig in and barrelrolled twice along the top of it. We came to rest right side up in the middle lane, rolling backwards off the embankment onto (thankfully) our side of the motorway, about 60-80 metres from where we hit the plank.
I was wearing a seatbelt. My friend (the driver) wasn't. When we were rolling she had been flipped through the window - my passenger side window. She had slammed up against me, breaking all my ribs on my left hand side and caught my left arm in the process and pushed it in front of her as she went out the window, effecticely using it as a battering ram, the result was a 3-4 bone deep lacerations and deep punctured 'holes' packed full of broken glass on my left wrist. Had I not have wearing a decent metal strapped & bodied watch I would have probably lost my hand according to the doctors.
It bled, everywhere, and I mean everywhere. One of the guys who stopped at the scene stopped it with a t-shirt and a tourqinet using his belt. It wasn't arterial or anything just several deep cuts, you know the ones the pink muscle, the purpley bits and the white gleam of bone down in the depths.
End result - Lots of stitches and, rays and about an hour of surgical cleaning beforehand to the glass out. Not a very comfortable time in my life while they were digging around in a hole in your wrist with tweezers pulling out glass and bits of twigs, gravel etc...
I still have the scars, it took me ages to take to wearing a watch again as I didn't like the feel of any pressure on that wrist. Bar chords are a complete bastard now - about twenty minutes of guitar playing now is just about enough for me and my wrist gets very achey in cold weather and has to be strapped. However - apparently chicks dig scars...

Note - The friend in the accident was ok, miraculously every single following car had missed her. She did have several months of hospital treatment for her neck and back injuries and she still cant look over her left shoulder. By all accounts we were both very, very lucky.
The police were on site about 3 minutes after the accident due to other drivers reporting the debris on the motorway and I got my first ever ambulance ride out of the whole experience!
I also got to make 'that' phone call to my folks. "Ummm. Mum - I'm in the hospital, I'm ok - but..."

Note II - I'm an absolute stickler now for seatbelts, not just for me, but everyone in the car wears one or I'm going bloody nowhere.
(uk_viper stopped lurking on, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 14:24, 1 reply)

Banjo'd
In the changing room one morning before football Dave walks in slowly, sits down and doesn't move, he looks in pain and very tired. "You ok, mate?" one of his team mates asks. "No", replies Dave, "been up the hospital all night. Mrs was giving me a shufty and her bracelet caught the banjo string. Blood everywhere. Had to chuck out the sheets."

That killed the pre-match team talk.
(FiatPanda, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 14:23, Reply)

The Mad Dentist
that I had when a kid was useless. My Mum stopped using him / instigated an enquiry after this incident:

I was having something done that involved a lot of tooth drilling. Mad dentist must have got bored because his attention sort of wandered.

The image of his hand suddenly disappearing into my mouth as he said "oops" was perhaps only slightly less disturbing than the sensation of the drill ploughing quite a deep furrow through my anaesthetised tongue.

I only started to panic about 5 seconds later when I could feel my mouth filling up with what turned out to be... can you guess...?

Blood. Lots of it. I did a big red cough to clear it. The Mad Dentist started to panic when he looked at the damage and realised that a big chunk of my tongue was loose. He had to tell my Mum, phone an ambulance and make sure I wasn't drowning in my own blood.

I was fine right up to the point in A&E where the anaesthetic had worn off and they were making attempt number 5 to stitch it together: mirrors were being used and I caught a glimpse of the damage. Fuck me, it looked like a small animal had burst in my mouth. Then I spewed blood everywhere and fainted.

Ever had stitches in your tongue for a couple of weeks? It's horrible. Since this was school holidays I didn't even get to bunk off.

The Mad Dentist was struck off shortly after this and subsequently began practicing as a vet.

Length and girth unaffected.
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 14:04, 1 reply)

I started my period today.
What? You asked.
( Captain Wow currently being a cunt in Infamous, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:51, 2 replies)

My blood saved someone's life
In my last year at junior high school, they'd been doing a lot of work on the drainage in what had been waste ground, but would become our new playing fields. As a result, there'd been a lot of re-inforced concrete pipes around. Several of these had been broken up quite thoroughly by vandals and as such we were strictly forbidden to play on them. You may guess for yourself how well that worked.

These pipes were re-inforced with metal rods, and there were a number of these had been torn loose and used as swords etc. in play fights. But one day, Paul O'Malley got a bit cross with me and didn't want to play any more. I can't remember what we'd been doing immediately beforehand, but he picked up one of these bars, and said he'd hit me with it if I didn't leave him alone. I thought he was joking, but he swung it like a baseball bat and clipped me on the right side of my head, just above the ear.

Something went click. That wasn't a playful tap, he'd swung an iron bar at my head with malicious intent, and was probably planning on doing so again. He had to die. You've heard of the 'red mist'? This was the exact opposite. This wasn't a playground-style "I'm going to kill you!"; meaning "I might thump you about a bit, but we'll be friends again by lunchtime.". This was a clear, and reasoned decision to end the life of another human being, because in my eyes, he'd just tried to do the same to me.

I barrelled into him and got him down reasonably easily - I suspect he may also have been a bit stunned by what he'd just done. I knelt on his arms, clasped my hands tight around his throat and without any fuss at all, began to choke the life from him. It was clear very quickly that he realised what was happening; this wasn't a playground fight, there were no teachers within 100 yards, he'd crossed a line, and now he was going to die for it. I wasn't shouting or screaming, and he certainly couldn't - from a distance it would just look like a bit of rough-and-tumble.

What saved him, and in retrospect, me too, was when my blood began to drip from my hair and land in his face. At first, I couldn't work out where it was coming from, or why he'd be bleeding, as I hadn't even punched him. Then the vision went in my right eye as blood filled it. Something went click again.

I got off him and very calmly went off to find a teacher. Give him his due, Mr Barron handled it quite well when I walked up to him with blood covering half my face and running down my neck. The swipe with the bar had opened a two-inch-long gash which was bleeding profusely in the way of many scalp wounds. It was tended, cleaned and dressed, then I was sent for stitches and got to go home for the rest of the day.

I never got in trouble for trying to kill Paul O'Malley. He got a week's suspension, because he'd hit me with a weapon, but nobody believed that it had been anything other than a playground tussle that got a little heated. When he came back, the headmaster made us shake hands and promise no hard feelings, or reprisals. I've never felt like that again, but I have often wondered how different things would have been, if I'd been kneeling a little bit more upright, and the blood had run down my back instead.
(Leo Sasquatch hates being the grown-up, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:50, 2 replies)

One morning
My ex and I were staying at my parents house.
We'd both been a little tipsy and had had a nice evening of sexytime and cuddles.
I went down for breakfast a little the worse for wear, and wandered into the kitchen where my dad was indulging in some tea and toast. He saw me and his face fell.
"What happened to you ?" he asked.
Thinking he was referring to me looking hungover, I explained that I'd had a bit much the previous evening.
"No BK," he said. "Take a look in the mirror"

I did, and....well, they say you're not a real man until you've got 'blood on your sword'.

I had it on my visor.

Went back upstairs. My ex was still asleep on sheets resembling the Japanese flag.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:47, 1 reply)