I'm good at injuring myself.
Possibly the most wince-worthy took place in Amsterdam in May this year. A friend an I decided to take a couple of days out there, doing the holiday on a shoestring budget, so we stayed in a Dorm hotel in the centre of the city.

All went very well for the first evening; much beer was consumed, much weed was smoked, much Shorma was eaten. Around 2am, we headed back to the hotel, both sobering up nicely, and after chilling out in the bar for a bit watching a DVD, we scooted off to sleep.

I found that my bed had been taken by someone else, so I moved to the top bunk in the darkest corner of the room (each room slept 12). About an hour after drifting off to sleep, I woke up to discover I _really_ needed a Gypsy's Kiss, and made moves to scuttle out of bed to the lavvy.

Sadly, my bladder was more full than I realised, and I got off the bed quite awkwardly, the ball of my foot slipping off the ladder. Depending on how you look at it, I was fortunate not to hit the floor, as I had grabbed out and caught hold of the bed. But the vast percentage of my fall was broken by me landing on the pole at the top of the ladder.

The sound of ripping boxer shorts was nothing more than a prelude to the pain that was about to hit me, as I found myself dangling from a bunk bed by my testicles. A surge of adrenylin allowed me to hoist myself clear of the offending pole, and scuttle down the ladder for my piss. On closer inspection, I discovered that my legs and boxers were quite clearly covered in blood, and I had a nice big tear straight through my family jewels, so I hobbled crab-like down to the hotel reception, tattered boxers flapping around me. They kindly arranged a taxi to a hospital, where I proceeded to have two men (in their 30s and 40s respectively) fondle my knackers, give two local anaestetic injections into my scrotum followed by several non-disovlable stitches, give me a tetanus injection in my leg (which went dead for the next four days), and then pack me on my way into the cold morning air.

The following day was a bit of a wash-out. I had been told not to drink or do anything else and keep a close eye on my bleeding and bruised spuds. Hell, even walking around was painful, and in the end the highlight of the day was going to shop for more supportive underwear.

Persuading people that you've been to Amsterdam and managed to sustained a genital injury WIHTOUT the need of a specialist prostitute is rather difficult, as I've found out!

The scar's fading, the indignity of registering with a local doctor back home to have the stitches removed was only a minor one, but the fact I'd managed to lose my E111 form during my recent move meant that the 180 Euro bill I had to pay for the treatment was just a final kick in the balls.
(Glis, Thu 2 Sep 2004, 12:37, Reply)