My dad was a healthcare professional for over thirty years.
He had saved numerous lives, and would always answer the call of duty no matter what time of day it was. He was absolutely devoted to his craft until one small mistake cost him his livelihood and everything he stood and worked himself ragged for.

I'll tell the story from his point of view. A young blonde came into his surgery. Apparently she was struggling to conceive. A few questions about lifestyle and diet were asked in an effort to establish whether there were any obvious issues. Whilst answers were given, the patient was playfully toying with a pen from his desk and gently nibbling the tip. He felt a little aroused by the way she was doing this, and as he was unable to establish any obvious issues from the line of questionning, eventually he had no other option other than to perform an internal examination to see what issues he could find.

While she was being examined, she started to purr contentedly, my dad, rather foolishly, saw this as a sign and proceeded to fuck her until he blew his load all over her back.

Inevitably, this all came to a head and he was struck off for this inappropriate behaviour and has never practised again.

I agree with what pretty much all of you are thinking. He only has himself to blame, but he still holds a grudge against the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons to this day.
( Muns, Tue 21 May 2013, 13:19, 15 replies)

Exactly 12 years ago
Thinking about it, it was probably 11 years ago. I remember because it was near the mother-in-laws birthday and she's 61 now, and she was 54 at the time. We got her a little baby dingo for her birthday, cute little fella til it fell out the back of the forby ute and got scoffed by an angry roo. There's nothing cute about half a baby dingo.

We were 50k's south of Woop Woop and the Sheila was getting aggro coz she'd got us lost. Don't rattle your dags I told her as we roamed around like a lost sheep. The whippersnippers in the back were getting as bent as a scrub tick, so we made them sit on the roo bars til they were all wool and a yard wide. Then the wife hit a rock and jiggered the forby ute. We'll I was as happy as a bastard on Father's Day. I tried pushing the forby ute but was soon clagged out and wheezing like your mum on kookaburra. Time to call for help.

I found the phone and picked it up, then dialled the numbers. First I dialled the first number, then I followed the first number with the second number. Then, after dialling the first number and following the first number with the second number, I dialled the third number. I remember thinking at the time that I wished all those people at work who said I couldn't train a choko vine over a country dunny could see me here remembering all these numbers and in the right order, but that made me lose track of where I was. So I pressed the end call button and dialled the first number, then followed that with the second number, then third and so on, and so on and so on until I dialled all the numbers one after the other. "Hurro!" said the man who had answered the phone at the other end of the line. "Hello" I said back to the man who'd answered the phone, "Is this the police?" I asked. "No this Chang's Laundry wha' you wan" said the policeman. Then the wife wrestled the phone from me. I tried to stop her but she could kick the arse off an emu when she's angry. Turns out I'd rung the wrong number and it wasn't the police at all.
(ringofyre, Sat 18 May 2013, 9:50, 37 replies)

I fell in with a bad crowd
Travelling back to university one weekend, I found my train delayed due to "a carriage on fire" at the preceding stop. That's probably a whole story on its own but in this case it merely provided the impetus for me, and a few other irritated patrons of Network Southeast to retire to the pub across the way for a pint while we awaited the next scheduled service.

There weren't many of us, and being alone I quickly got chatting to a gang of four or five chaps a little older than I who were returning to Staines for a Sunday evening curry. "Come with us," one of them said. "and try the best curry in Berkshire." Not an offer at which I'd normally jump but, by the time the train had been, inevitably, delayed another hour and I had quaffed another couple of pints, my curry craving intensified to unignorable levels.

Had I been a girl, I suppose the situation might have seemed sinister but the group seemed to be entertained by the nineteen year-old hanger-on they had acquired and were more than happy to keep bankrolling my steadily increasing intoxication. By the time we actually reached Staines, that city of dreams, I dimly recall having trouble effecting egress from the train without tripping over the door frame.

"I need to be back on the train by nine," I slurred them. "Or I won't make it back home to Brighton."

"Sod that, bud," came the confident reply. "You can stay at mine." In my present state this seemed perfectly natural.

The curry I have no idea about, but I do recall becoming nervous about the mounting expense and being astonished when they wouldn't let me even chip in for the bill. Again, a wiser man would have been concerned about what they expected in return but I was young, dumb, full of poppadom and possessed of a comprehensive lack of self-awareness such as only excesses of youth and lager can bestow.

We left the restaurant and, figuring that a free meal and bed for the night was fine but pinching a man's snouts was beyond the pale, I stumbled into the nearest tobacconists. Normally this would have been a quick transaction but there was a bit of a queue, they didn't have my brand.. long story short, the Beer Tardis came into effect and by the time I actually got out of the shop such a long time had passed that my guardian angels had departed and left no clue as to their destination.

So it was that, instead of relaxing in halls in Brighton this very middle-class white boy found himself alone and drunk in Staines at midnight on a Sunday night in the 1990s. Had Ali G been more of a thing, I might have been better equipped to deal with my situation but as it was I felt marooned in an alien landscape and was seized by social-displacement panic.

Blurrily, a Venn diagram began to form in my mind. Friend... near Staines... owns car... likely to be sober... clearly the centre spot was glaringly unpopulated but I did know a guy who ticked the first three and I called him. Of course when I say "him" I mean "his parents" who were as you can imagine thrilled to hear from their progeny's intoxicated aquaintance in the wee hours of Monday morning.

Chris, thank God, was uncharacteristically fit to drive and he agreed to come and fetch me from the big junction on the A30 "in about half an hour". I was saved.

Of course this was well before smart phones (indeed, in my skint student case, before any mobile phone) but sadly also prior to my having a working geographical knowledge of Staines town centre, so it took me a while to find the roundabout in question. When I got there I was tired and, unable to communicate further with my saviour, decided that the least hassle was to go and stand quietly on the top of the roundabout and keep a look out for his blue Fiesta.

Within 30 seconds I was bored.

It was a warm Summer that year (remember those?!) and what Staines council had intended to be a lush green mound had dessicated into fractured lumps of crumbly earth which looked like the surface of the moon in old sci-fi films. I pried up a good lump and hefted it in my hands. There was a lamp post on the far side of the roundabout and, looking around to see I was unobserved, I lobbed the mud at it. Missed. I flung another, which missed again.

The third connected. It was fucking glorious! The mud exploded into a cloud of dirt-dust and the pole resonated with a deep metallic gong sound that was straight out of a gothic horror film.

I was hooked. Occasionally glancing around to see if Chris was on his way, I must have lifted up and thrown about ten percent by weight of that roundabout at my target, and by the end I was getting a good ninety percent hit rate. It was wonderfully satisfying.

And then the riot van showed up.

No word of a lie, as I stood there dumbfounded a white Transit with metal caging on its windscreen screeched up to the roundabout and disgorged three fully-kitted riot police - helmets, shields, the lot - who rushed me and performed what, looking back, was a textbook three-sided kettling manouvre to enclose me facing a large uniformed man I presumed was their senior officer.

"We've had reports," he said to me. "Of a gang throwing stones at passing cars."

My first instinct being to save myself a night in the cells, I opened my mouth to deny the charge but then looked down and saw I was still holding a large clod of earth. Fucksocks.

"Erm," I stuttered. "I don't know about that but I have been throwing mud at a lamp post." Realising how unconvincing that sounded, I cast around for evidence to support my case. "Look! Look at all the mud in the road, barely any stones.. in it..." slowly my brain was realising what a total tool I'd been.

The cop, now that it was clear they weren't dealing with an outbreak of anti-government protest or wanton vandalism but rather just a drunken moron with a penchant for flying earth, smirked.

"Lamp post, eh?" He gestured up. "See that camera on the top of it?" And he was right.

Instantly, the image popped into my head of a mystified CCTV operator watching the young hoodlum throwing every projectile within his grasp and the image periodically blurring every ten seconds as the weapons connected. BONG! BONG! If they'd had the sound on it must have been rather like the intro to the News at Ten during the poll tax riots. Only shit.

I was utterly deflated. The cop was clearly fighting twin urges to (a) book me for various offences and (b) laugh uproariously in my face. At that exact moment, a very nervous looking Ford hatchback hove into view.

"Oh God, that's my friend," I said with relief. "He's come to take me home, I am so sorry I won't do it again, if I can just get out of your hair I promise I'll be good he's right there I'm not even from Staines.."

"Just go," the cop interrupted me. "And for fuck's sake don't do it again."

Personally, I blame Network Southeast and their flammable trains.
( pineapplecharm D d M Y, H:i, Fri 17 May 2013, 11:56, 12 replies)

Police escort
The duckling used to have really bad asthma. One night she went from being 'a bit wheezy' to 'fuck me lets call an ambulance' rather quickly. and 999 was called.

So Mrs Duck went in the ambulance and I quickly sorted out an overnight bag fed the dogs & cats then followed in the car.

When she left in the ambulance I'd never seen her looking so bad so I was really tanking it, so inevitably the police seeing a car belting through the outskirts of Bristol at 3am I got pulled over.

As soon as I got out the car I'm afraid I turned into a big girl and began to cry. The emotion of seeing my little girl in such a state combined with the panic and being pulled. The police just looked bemused and obviously wanted to breathalyze me. But I pulled myself together sufficiently and explained about the duckling at deaths door.

"what engine you got there?" he said looking at my car
"1.8" I replied
"okay he said "you'll keep up...we'll give you an escort to the BRI (Bristol's main hospital)"

So we got back into the cars and they put the lights on and they set off at fuckingstupidmilesanhour into Bristol and found me a cheeky free parking space I didn't know about. Geezers.
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Thu 16 May 2013, 21:26, 2 replies)

oh the shame
called the police once because someone was hanging out of the window of a 12th-floor flat in the local high-rise.
they called back half an hour later to tell me they'd successfully rescued a pair of damp jeans.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 16 May 2013, 14:13, 2 replies)

In common with every second cove one meets now-a-days I have a peanut allergy.
A single nut could kill me. By following scientifically proven homeopathic principles I've discovered that a second peanut provides a perfect antidote to the first. I keep track by shouting POISON and CURE as each nut is ingested.

Over the years I've saved the NHS millions by using this simple technique, though I have been banned from every cinema in the county.

I am my own best doctor!
(Brigadier an old boot sitting on a man's face - forever, Fri 17 May 2013, 8:07, 6 replies)

A & E
I went to get my scalp stitched. The doctor asked how I cut it. I had to tell him that I was walking round the sea-bathing pool wall, when I hit my head on the sign that says "Don't walk on the pool wall".
(A Blair, Sat 18 May 2013, 18:42, 3 replies)

I took my daughter to A&E
... because she told me that she had a green bb pellet in her ear.

We signed in at the local hospital and were told that the nurse who specialised in objects in the ear had just come on duty, so we would not have a long wait.

The nurse easily removed the bb pellet followed by a length of cotton, half a pink bead, 2 sequins, an inch of metal chain, a blue bead and a ball bearing. The nurse was going to mount these objects, each in its own container, on her wall of along with previous contributions. She was rather pleased to meet my daughter, then aged 8, as it almost doubled her display.
(harem-member hiding in the corner, Fri 17 May 2013, 19:20, 6 replies)

I work as a police emergency calltaker.....
I took a call one evening, it was probably the most angry man i' ve ever had to deal with, imagine a man with a gravelly voice shouting into the phone. The exchange went something like this.

Me: Police emergency, what is your emergency?

Angry man: I want the police!

Me: Why do you want the police?

Angry man: it's serious, I want the fuckin' police, and I want the fuckin' police NOW!

Me: I need to know what happened, or I can't send police.

Angry man: Alright, it's my fuckin' neighbour, he painted his wall blue, and I leaned against the fuckin' wall and now my jacket is wrecked.

Me: That is not an emergency....

Angry man: It is an emergency, because he didn't put a wet paint sign up.

Me: That is not an emergency, it is not even a call for the police, and I will not be sending police around.

Angry man: What? You're not sending police around? Are you fuckin' serious? Would you send them around if I was stabbed?.....

Me: Well, yes because if you were stabbed, then that would be an emergency, and I would send police, and would have to contact the ambulance service on your behalf.

Angry man: Alright, I've been stabbed!

Me: No sir, I don't believe you have been stabbed, and I am disconnecting this line, as you are holding up an emergency line, reserved for genuine emergencies.

I then disconnected the line. 15 seconds later he called back.

Angry man: hello, I want the police, I've been stabbed and shot. Get them here now...
( Lord & Lady Pants, Thu 16 May 2013, 13:22, 9 replies)

A Pearoast
In my job with the Civil Service I often find myself at the Defence Rehabilitation Centre at Headley Court in Surrey. For those of you who don't know about this place it is where injured soldiers are sent for rehabilitation after they leave hospital.

Some of these folks have some of the most horrific injuries I have ever seen ranging from horrific burns to single, double, and often triple amputees not mention some of the psychiatric problems that many of these soldiers need treatment for.

Without fail each and everyone of these people (outwardly at least) hold no bitterness, no hatred and no anger to anyone. To a man, each and every one of those soldiers says they would rather it have been them that was injured rather than a mate and that they would return to active duty would their injuries permit it.

The courage these people show in the face of such injuries and their determination to do the things that we all take for granted, such as wiping their own backsides or just being able to walk from the living room to the kitchen unaided is genuinely astonishing.

To this day I don't think I've laughed as I did during the wheelchair tennis tournament of 2012 during which a young Lance Corporal took an almighty swing at the ball with his adapted prosthetic arm. In doing so the tether that attached the limb to his body became detached resulting in the limb flying out of control (with the racquet still attached) across the net and striking the Umpire (an Army Doctor) right between the eyes. Knocking him bandy for about five minutes. Hearing the L/CPL bemoan the fact "me fuckin' arm just fell off" and collapsing into a fit of giggles can't fail to raise your spirits.

The rather rambling point I'm trying to make is we've uttered the immortal words about how that particular day at work could not have been worse.



Trust me. Yes it could have been.


EDIT: Not strictly speaking the emergency services but near enough as far as I'm concerned.
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Mon 20 May 2013, 15:21, 17 replies)

Dr.Brother
My brother is a G.P.
One night about 2.00am he gets a call from a patient.
"Doctor, I can't sleep... I think I have insomnia"
His retort was short and sweet...
"And what are you trying to do? Start a fucking epidemic?"
and hung up.
(bof, Tue 21 May 2013, 12:45, 13 replies)

Another pearoast.
Chubby Chasing Doormen
While working at the Australian theme bar on broad Street I had the pleasure to work with K. A nice enough chap who was always game for a laugh but was as thick as a whale omelette and like women who weighed about twice as much as Lisa Riley.

On one particular night at closing time he forgoes the usual staff pint and buggers off, we assume he has headed home early as he has work early the next morning.

My colleagues and I leave the pub about an hour later having unwound from a night of student excess and dodging hen parties. As we get to the car park we bump into K.

"Guys gimme a hand with the car will you" he asks.

"Yeah sure says us" thinking he needed a jump start. How wrong we were.

As previously mentioned K liked the larger lasses and this week unbeknownst to us he had excelled himself. We got to the car to be greeted by quite a shocking sight.

K had pulled a rather large lady and she had met him by his car so they could engage in a little push and pull. However she was so large she had become stuck between the front two seats so we al had to grab a limb and pull till she popped free.

The exact sight of this has been burned to my memory. Seeing a 25st woman with a fanny like a hippos yawn stuck between the front seats of a Datsun Cherry will stay with me forever.

So will the look on the fireman's face when we couldn't free her and they had to remove one of the front seats
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Mon 20 May 2013, 19:39, 2 replies)

How to get 6 firemen and a couple of coppers to run around like loons for about a minute:
1. Buy brand spanking new motorbike.
2. Take bike out for a spin with girlfriend on the back.
3. Have drunk driver slam head on into the car in front of you.
4. Plough into back of said car at about 40 mph.
5. Sit dazed at side of road with broken arm, comforting girlfriend with broken ankle. Wait for emergency services to arrive.
6. When they are milling around cutting people out of cars, have girlfriend look at the chaos and say "Oh, look what they've done to our baby!".
(username failed moderation, Mon 20 May 2013, 8:30, 20 replies)

This happened about ten years ago now.
I was in Shrewsbury, attending a conference about the representation of science in the media - it was about as exciting as it sounds, but there was to be a guest debate between Dr. Stephen Amiss and noted Channel 4 journalist Jon Snow, so I hung around a little so that I could at least look at a celebrity.

The debate started oddly; for some reason Snow had leather fingerless gloves on, but he rose to form admirably in a stirring debate about the ethics and responsibility of scientists and journalists when reporting scientific news to the general public. However, whenever Dr. Amiss made a good counterpoint or remark, Snow seemed visibly angry, which built up until he couldn't take it any more. "Fuck you Amiss!" he shouted, "And fuck you all!! I don't need to take this BS!" following which he stormed off the stage. The crowd was shocked and embarrassed, naturally, and we thought that this alone would be a strange story to tell our friends, and we carried on with the conference.

This wasn't the end of it though. About half an hour later, we started hearing engines being revved outside, and suddenly, without warning, Jon Snow in full biker gear burst in through the window riding a dirty great chopper. "I've had it with you nerds!" he announced to the shocked and scared audience, "I've rounded up a gang of street toughs to wipe you out! Snowmen, attack!!". At this signal, more thugs burst in on their motorcycles, hitting people with chains and bits of pipe. I managed to escape the fray, and dialled 999.

"Help, police! Jon Snow and his biker thugs are attacking our conference!".
"Snow? We'll be right over."

It didn't take long for over a dozen police cars to arrive, and Snow, rumbled, rode out of the front doors with his gang following him, in a bid to escape. Running outside to see what was happening, I caught the eye of the chief officer. "Son," he said, "we need all the help we can get. Are you up to the job?". I was rattled, but I didn't want to let the chief down. "Yes sir!". I sat in the passenger seat of his car, and as we set off in chase, he told me to open the glove compartment. Inside was a loaded revolver. "You'll need it to take down Snow." I nodded, then rolled down the window and took aim.

Bang! The first shot missed. Snow was ducking and weaving between pedestrians, which made it hard to aim. Bang! Closer this time, but now Snow was turning round and pulling faces at me, and I was starting to feel embarrassed about not having shot him yet. Bang! Another miss, this one hit a stray dog instead. Bang! Much closer this time, I managed to crack the ornamental gnome Snow had on the back of his bike. Bang! Kaboom! One of his ruffians blocked the bullet, instantly exploding as a result. This was it. From what I understand of revolvers, they only hold six bullets, and I wasn't about to search the car for extra ammunition. Snow was laughing that derisory laugh of his. "Missed me, missed me, now you've got to kiss me!" he was taunting. I took aim.

Bang! I missed him! But that wasn't what I was aiming for. A shrill buzzing noise filled the air as the RC plane I hit headed straight for him. He was wide eyed with terror, unable to avoid it, as it collided with his bike, and for the second time today, a huge fireball erupted, leaving nothing behind but a smouldering crater. That was it - the ordeal was over. The gathered crowd cheered and chanted my name, jubilant over the death of Jon Snow. His mob either disappeared or were rounded up, the dog lived, I won an award from the council for my bravery, and the police chief gave me the most sensual and erotic kiss of my life.
( Lightguy hail satan, Sun 19 May 2013, 20:04, 3 replies)

t've never had to call the fire brigade
and through mugging, burglary, home invasion, getting beaten up by a stranger and teenage wankers trying to kick my door in, the police have been as much use as a condom machine in the vatican.
the NHS, however, i owe my life to.
without them, i'd still have one eye higher than the other.
without them, i'd still have a faceful of twisted nerves.
without them, i'd have been blind for over 20 years.
without them, i'd likely have drowned.
without them, i'd likely have died from a punctured lung.
without them, my body would still be full of more holes than a swiss cheese.
without them, i'd be minus maybe one sister and definitely one brother and my mother.
say what you like about the police, but the NHS are lifesavers. they've saved mine and made it far better than i could ever have imagined as the sickly and damaged child that i was before they got their hands on me.
length? 23 operations so far, with hopefully only another 3 to go.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 18 May 2013, 21:44, 17 replies)

Love at first sight
It's a Saturday afternoon in mid April and for once the sun is shining. Since the morning I've spent a bus journey swigging cans of cheap lager followed by a couple of hours watching my footie team batter the shit out of our local rivals on their own turf. After the final whistle it's the inevitable crossing of paths of the rival fans on the street just outside the stadium. Mostly it's pretenders trying to give it large but occasionally it does brim over into actual physical confrontation.

With most people pumped up on drink and the rivalry between the teams boiling over it unsurprisingly leads to a bit of a scrap, nothing over the top, but a scrap none the less. Noses are bloodied, shirts are ripped and the odd tooth is extracted by force. The old bill are amongst it all in full riot gear trying to separate the fans and that's when I spot her.

It's like everything fades to a blur around her and she's all I can focus on with any clarity; a vision amongst the mayhem. She's petite and slender, and there's something about the way she handles the pissheads despite her diminutive size that leaves me in awe. Through the veil of her riot helmet I can see that she is a beauty. Her blonde hair shines brightly like a beacon drawing me in and her eyes are intoxicating, even when they're narrowed above a nose scrunched up in determination to bring these troublemakers to heel. She stands her ground again and again and repels men twice her size, urging them to retreat behind an imaginary line.

I freeze on the spot and let go of the guy's collar I'm clutching, just to stare at her through the chaos. She's young, beautiful, confident and strong and I'm enraptured, almost forgetting that I'm involved in a brawl. It truly is love at first sight.

I just can't let this one slip away. I have to speak to her. I have to know who she is, and fuelled by the confidence of alcohol I decide that it's now or never. I push my way to the front of the crowd nearest her and wedge myself between two hoolies, just enough to reach out and tap her on the shoulder.

"You're gorgeous!" I say in a genuine compliment, amongst the chorus of shouting and swearing all around.

She turns and looks me dead in the eyes. I melt instantly, before tentatively squeaking out "can I have your number?"

"812," she replies bluntly, while raising her baton. "Now get back behind the line."

I never saw her again.
( Regger, Sat 18 May 2013, 0:35, 5 replies)

In which drugs are bad and coppers are amused
Had a party round mine years back, based on the key ingredients of brown microdots and an Ozric Tentacles CD. Don't judge me; the past is a foreign country, they do things differently there. Anyway, the "highlight" of the album is a track called Abduction. Cue us lot milling about dementedly in the garden shouting about having been abducted.
The excitement subsides a few hours later, and a few of us are sat down trying to smoke our way into oblivion.
Knock knock at the door. Oh fuck, it's either the neighbours or the police. I peer round the the curtain, and there's three big chaps in suits. Police, then. One mate sticks his spliff in the microwave, another throws his stash out of the catflap. Deep breath and I open the door.
"Stay exactly where you fucking are, nobody move"
Biggest copper has his hand inside his jacket, finger on the trigger. Another is on the radio.
"Can we have confirmation on the object thrown from the door?"
"Fuck all, area secure"
"Stand down lads"
Apparently there are several coppers with rifles trained on the back door. A couple get up from behind the neighbour's wall. Dressed in black, Heckler and Koched right up. Nice one, I'm terrified and tripping.
They hustle me inside, sit me down and ask in no uncertain terms -
"So, who's been abducted then?"

Turns out a girl had gone missing locally. Watford's top copper and the armed response unit for Hertfordshire quickly established that we were "a bunch of silly cunts" and took my explanation of being tipsy at face value. Still, I had to present myself at Watford police station the next day, armed only with a copy of "Abduction" on CD as mitigating evidence. The coppers on duty were highly amused, some making pew pew noises and gun fingers as I walked down the corridor to the interview room. Went home, opened the microwave, sparked up and decided I'd stick to taking massive drugs in the safety of nightclubs from then on.
(woocfot friends with Sacha Distel, Fri 17 May 2013, 1:05, 18 replies)

What does an ex-Royal Marine do?
An acquaintance of mine from school joined the Royal Marines and had a great lark. He was fully sponsored to study undergraduate History at a posh university before taking up a commission and travelling the world. He was recently invalided out and was finding it quite hard to adjust to life in 'civvy street'. I hear he has now rekindled his academic career and is again being fully sponsored at university on a postgraduate course. His thesis reflects his one true calling though: "An early history of soldiers on ships: An emergent sea service".
( wakeupandsmellthebacon, Wed 22 May 2013, 17:24, 5 replies)

Sumo
21st birthday party. I had hired sumo suits. About midnight a friend did a flying jump onto me as I lay on the ground. Now, as you sit reading this, completely straighten and relax your leg. Wiggle your kneecap. Notice it no longer sits in its little crevice? Well, if 14 stone of sumo-suited Scotsman happens to hit the side of it while it's in that precise position, then your kneecap might well end up travelling about a third of the way round your leg. And that is what happened to me. It looked pretty much like this - www.kneeclinic.info/images/contribute/Dislocatedpatella.jpg (not me). Screaming agony, couldn't stand up with support let alone walk.

Quite rightly, the ambulance service considered me a low priority compared to the drunks in town glassing each other in the eyes, and I had to wait 90 minutes for the ambulance to turn up. But drunk I certainly was. Reeling drunk. Eventually the crew got me into the ambulance and started to administer plentiful gas and air to quell my incessant screaming. Boy did it do the trick, and I was reduced to good-natured swearing instead.

'Careful', joked one of the paramedics, 'this is a truth drug'.

'I've got a ten inch knob!*' I immediately riposted.

'Shut up, you're being obnoxious' said my Mum, who was sat next to me.

We got to A&E where they gave me even more drugs, and I was honestly completely off my tits. Several doctors and a nurse tried to relocate my kneecap, and when they couldn't do it they would just give me more drugs. It was my happiest birthday ever.

The final straw came when a doctor came and sat next to my leg and said 'I'm just going to feel your kneecap to see where it is laying'. The liar - I could see his knuckles turning white as he unsuccessfully tried to push it back in.

'I'm not hurting you am I?' he said.

'No' I replied, then turning to my mum and saying in a loud stage whisper 'he's turning me on'. The doctor's hands stopped immediately, and he walked off.

Next thing, and no doubt as a result, a consultant arrived with a team of medical students, a trolley of equipment tactfully covered with a cloth, and an anaesthetist who put me under completely, no doubt because they were fed up with me.

I guess my point is that I was an obnoxious (albeit good natured and non-aggressive) twat the entire time, and I got nothing but caring and friendly treatment from everyone who treated me - despite it being the middle of the night and my injury sustained in silly circumstances. I don't know if I would have been as patient as them.

*Gas and air is not a truth drug
(ricully, Fri 17 May 2013, 3:11, Reply)

In hindsight, this was a silly question to be asked....
So, there I was, lying on the cold hard tarmac, motorbike in pieces and leg similarly smashed up, one ambulance crew to my left, another to the right, a passing doctor on the periphery and the air ambulance landing...

Paramedic, "Right then, so where do you want to go?"

And after a brief pause as i tried to stop swearing and process the question...

Mr J.B., "Err....Hospital?"

Turns out they wanted to know which one (to which I replied "Whichever is best") i.e. closest to get to for family etc, but at the time the answer seemed pretty self-evident to me and the question worked better than the morphine at distracting my mind...
(Mr Joe Bangles, Wed 22 May 2013, 17:35, 4 replies)

I used to do a bit of hunt-sabbing. I wasn't as dedicated as some, but I'd go whenever I had the time.
One day it was all getting rather physically expressive and the local village plod were having trouble maintaining order, so they called in some proper police from a different force based in a nearby city.
The divide between the yokel bobbies and the the townie force they called on was nearly as marked as the difference between the sabs and the hunters.
One of the redcoats was getting a bit aggy with one of our lot and turned his riding crop round so he could use the heavy handle as a weapon against him.
On seeing this, a city police stopped him and told him to get off his horse. A local bobby asked 'what are you doing? He's the master of the hunt'. 'I don't give a fuck', said the other cop, 'that constitutes an offensive weapon' and dragged the posh twat off his horse and nicked him.
( 4Q just lurking, Thu 16 May 2013, 20:44, 5 replies)

I've just completed my intensive care course.
The course was divided into various 'days' of 'things', ie lung day, renal day, etc, etc with the form generally taking some formal teaching in the morning of the sort of Nasty Things you can get that would result in you being critically ill followed by a more interactive session in the afternoon in which you'd be given a case history and asked to present a likely plan of care for them.
The university running this particular course for my trust is of the 'bums-on-seats-is-more-money-for-us-red-brick-and-glass' variety and throws open the various days to any interested groups who might want to attend, so, you might see a couple of physiotherapists turning out to lung day, renal nurses on kidney key and so on.

Cardiovascular day saw a pair of jolly paramedics turning out. They were, smart, funny and interesting but the course tutor rather soured on them in the afternoon when it came to the 'make a plan of care for this cardiac nasty' part of the day.

Turns out that, whilst from their point of view an entirely correct plan of care was submitted, the plan of care for an aortic dissection she was looking for wasn't 'chuck 'em in the back of the van and drive like fuck to the nearest place with a vascular surgeon on site' written in big green letters on a flipchart.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Thu 16 May 2013, 13:34, 22 replies)

Oh God....where to start.
As a paramedic of several years' standing (and surprisingly few interactions with Them Upstairs) I have, naturlich, a few anecdotes to share, and I have on many occasions in the pages of this 'ere website. If boredom takes you, you can have a look.

On one hand, the job is excellent: every day is different, you meet different people and help them, and even if all you are doing is (medically) little or nothing, the general public are (as a rule) grateful for what we do for them. And occasionally, when you do get someone who is extremely broken, and you fix them (or at least unbreak them a bit) then that is what makes the job worthwhile.

What some people describe as the negatives (bodily fluids, night shifts, crawling under upside down cars, long hours etc.) are part of what make the job what it is. As a general rule with us and certainly the police, it's a Marmite career.

The things that I hate? Well...it's seeing a feckless, disingenuous bunch of smegma-ridden bastards covered in twatty sauce (can you guess who?) try and destroy a service that keeps people alive. It's sitting outside an A&E department at 3 in the morning with a little old granny who you can't offload because they have no beds. It's dealing with GPs who are often at the best clinically unskilled, at the worst downright maliciously negligent (not all of them, not even most, but in terms of workload, a significant majority). It's being assaulted by some micropenised steroid injected fuckstain who is so off his gourd on ketamine that he thinks the world is his punchbag, but knowing that reporting it is a massive waste of time.

The job's great; the system's fucked.

TL:DR Whiney whiney whine.....
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Sat 18 May 2013, 18:53, 20 replies)

Massive drugs and alcohol don't mix
Top Tip!

If you decide to indulge in a night of consuming massive drugs and enough booze to run a pub for a week, don't be surprised if upon your arrival to A&E for feeling "not very well" is met with general displeasure from us happy nursing staff.
Oh, and if you continue said grumbles at us happy nursing staff for not wiping your shitty arse because your bodily functions are currently out of order due to massive drugs and booze, then please, feel free to sign the self discharge form and fuck off home, so we can deal with the really poorly 80 year old lady in the next bed who is scared to fuck with your intoxicated ramblings and incessant swearing.
And no, we will NOT give you any pain killers to take away the headache or stomach cramps you have due to said ingestion of massive drugs and booze, as more drugs will probably kill you.

Oh, and I wholly concur with Amorous Badgers previous comments - namely "Don't be a cunt".
( Tesco Quality 60.825659, -0.788337, Sat 18 May 2013, 8:35, 7 replies)

The local plod
The local police in the little town where I grew up were notorious for overreacting to stuff. In fairness, this was probably because nothing ever happened, so they had to take their excitement where they could get it. As an example, two women once had a bit of a barney in the toilets of the local workingmen’s club during the Christmas Eve party, and two panda cars and a van turned up. This resulted in some confusion as the incident had passed by this point, the offenders had been chucked out, and 12 policemen suddenly burst through the doors of the function room to find nothing more sinister going on than a load of pissed people trying to do the Locomotion.

The weirdest occasion that I personally experienced though was partly my Mum’s fault. When I was about 11, we had an argument one night. Nothing serious – I can’t even remember what it was about. It was enough, however, for her to decide when she came back the next day at 6pm and I wasn’t already home, that I must have run away. She panicked as I was always home before her, unless I’d specifically told her to expect otherwise.

The local bobbies were there like a shot, swiftly followed by a plain clothes senior officer, who sat with my mum, got some recent photos to give to a WPC who dashed off with them to photocopy, etc. An alert was put out and a patrol car was even sent out to the nearest service station to see if I was trying to hitch-hike to London. Within half an hour, they were probably starting to think about getting the helicopter out from Birmingham...

Which is when my mum looked out of the back window and noticed that I was sat on the bench in the garden doing my homework. I'd forgotten my keys.

To be fair, they were very nice about the whole thing, and I think it probably made their afternoon. Mum sent a cake to the police station the next weekend.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 16 May 2013, 17:22, Reply)

When I was about three I did a shit in a fire engine.
They were having an open day and taking kids up in the cherry picker. I decided it was taking too long so dropped my Mickey Mouse shorts and curled one out between the fireman's shiny boots. Fortunately for the anxious parents staring up from directly below it was a relatively solid movement.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 16 May 2013, 12:09, Reply)

A couple of weeks ago...
I had the pleasure of getting Paramedics and an Ambulance out to me to deal with some chest pains, and I really have nothing but praise for them. (Ambulances are quite roomy on the inside)

Aside from the Paramedic wiring me up for and ECG while awaiting the Ambulance the whole 'rapid response' thing really took me by surprise as to how efficient it actually is (or was in my case, anyway)

The Ambulance crew, Pete & Lou Lou, couldn't have been any better. The latter keeping me calm, wired up and still as upbeat and professional, even though I was the last 'job' on their 12 hour shift, having started at 5am the same morning.
No sirens etc needed for the most part, as I wasn't crippled in pain at this point. It's also worth noting that while all this was going on, my better half was following us in the car to the hospital.

When we arrived on the outskirts of Norwich, there was more than a little traffic, being rush hour. So on came the lights and sirens and we had a very speedy cruise through the city in 10 mins. However, as we were doing this, Lou Lou looked at me and said

"Your missus is following us isn't she? Oh Gawd. If she saw the sirens and lights and everything in front she'll be thinking you've had a heart attack and died".

She then proceeded to burst out laughing.

As did I.

Thankfully, the better half did see the funny side.

Still, they were great and as said, nothing but praise for them. Thankfully no obvious Heart problems linked to why I went in, but other things are being assessed even now. And I shall always remember Lou Lou's comments about lemon-shaped furry cucumbers on the drive to Norwich.
( The Great Architect is still waiting for his account to be deleted on, Thu 16 May 2013, 11:59, 2 replies)

Cant trust the Po Po
A good friend of mine is local plod and was asked to attend a suspected burglary a while back. The owner of the house had come home to find windows open etc... that weren't before. My friend arrives with a couple of other bobbies and do the usual containment by covering the back and front and my friend offers to cover the back. Now getting round the back was a bit of an issue as the house was terraced so he had to scale a few gardens to get to this one, climb over the back fence then make his way through the flower beds to get to the back of the house. On arriving he finds the door open and can see the other coppers waiting outside the front door through the glass so he decides he will check the downstairs and open the door for them.
In he goes, all CSI like, waiting for the would be burglar to pounce on him, so he is keeping his feet planted and ready to react by pretty much shuffling to the front door. No masked bandits leap out by the time he gets to the front door so he turns and puts the on light to let his colleagues and the owner in, only to turn round as he does this to find he has just walked dog shit all through this poor ladies house! He didn't take the opportunity to cough to it being him as her reaction was along the lines of "It's bad enough they rob me but they didn't have to do this!" Now me, my family and friends found this so amusing my children and I created this little vid in honour of him.
Clickety click click.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-RBSi_Aiug
(reverseit, Wed 22 May 2013, 15:55, 7 replies)

Two-year-old pearoast. Seems that I haven't had any run-ins with uniforms since then...
Riding home from work one night, I was surprised to see the old flashing blues behind me, and an official finger indicating that I should pull over. The usual panicky feeling, but as far as I could remember there was nothing wrong with the bike - paperwork up to date etc - so it was a bit of a mystery.

The two policemen emerged from the car, talking into their radios and looking severe. But as they got closer they seemed to relax, and were actually positively friendly. It turned out that there had just been an armed robbery nearby, and the "perp" was seen to escape on a bike which was similar to mine. The cop said that he could see that it wasn't me, so it was just a routine stop. All smiles and relaxed chat. But then it took a turn for the worse...

"So, if I can just have a look in your rucksack, sir, we can all be on our way."

Oh shit. Why today? Why did I have to get stopped today, of all days, with what I have in my rucksack. My blood ran cold, but there was little I could do: I'm sure I must have looked pale as I wriggled out of the straps and unzipped it.

The policeman reached in, then hesitated. He looked at his colleague, then pulled out the contents. This was it. It was all over.

They looked at the complete set of Status Quo albums, then handed them back silently and waved me on. Oh, the shame.

insert "criminal record" joke here
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Wed 22 May 2013, 12:47, 4 replies)