So much self inflicted pain...
I once went to Chatham in Kent. I suffered. I STILL suffer. It was ghastly...
(kasterborous, Thu 5 Dec 2013, 0:18, Reply)

far and away the most painful thing you'll read this week...
one drunken evening I got ready for bed and threw my clothes in a heap to be dealt with in the sober morning. when i woke up later on, I forgot they were there, and staggered out of bed to try and find some sort of liquid. and stood on my bra hook.

WORST. PAIN. EVER. I couldn't walk properly for weeks. how can something so small cause so much pain? how?
( rachelswipe with a fork, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 23:07, 15 replies)

Every now and then
I manage to sit on my own bollocks.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Wed 4 Dec 2013, 19:36, 5 replies)

The most pain we can cause ourselves is deliberately infecting ourselves with ebola and then stepping into fire.
That or believing in fictional gods.
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 19:34, 5 replies)

The most pain we can cause ourselves is to deny the love of God.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 18:57, 4 replies)

Though you may think
you are having fun now,
you only hurt
the one you love.
( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 18:04, 1 reply)

I was doing something, when I realised that I was unaware of my own strength.
As a result, I seriously injured myself in an exaggerated cartoonish and barely believable fashion, but will happily play down the extent of the pain that I was experiencing at the time.
( Muns, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 16:04, 4 replies)

Surely the greatest damage we do to ourselves is when we tell lies.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 15:58, 5 replies)

Always make sure you get a good run up when kicking yourself in the goolies.

( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 15:48, Reply)

I once got kicked in the kneecap while munching out a horse.

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 15:40, 7 replies)

Danger! Chair!
Not me, but a friend from many years ago was sitting backwards on a wooden chair during a meeting at work. He was a bodybuilder and was unconsciously flexing his arms, pulling up on the back of the chair. After a few reps, the entire back of the chair broke off completely and he smashed himself in the face with it, full force.

Cue lots of blood, a broken nose, and the adjournment of the meeting. His glasses miraculously survived.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 12:41, 4 replies)

Dagnabbit
One day I was getting ready to go on a hike and was tying my boots. Gripping the laces firmly I tugged hard but the laces stayed slack. I pulled again-no joy. Irritated, I hauled off and gave a mighty yank..only to have my fingers slip off and a) punch myself in the face with my left and b)sustain a compound fracture of the fucking right elbow.



Hurt like a bitch.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 5:17, 9 replies)

My Holo-Mat Misadventure
As you may know, we Time Lords can live forever, barring accidents. When our bodies become old or sick or injured, we have this process called 'regeneration' - a tumultuous biological upheaval that rearranges the cells in our body, renewing and rejuvenating, giving us a body and a new personality, often wildly different to the preceding ones. Normally, we can do this twelve times, giving us thirteen 'incarnations'; this was a rule imposed by the High Council in order to avoid the immortality trap. There are, however, ways round this, and we can be given new regenerative cycles; this is not done often, and usually as a reward for great work done (in the case of, for example, the beloved President Pandak). That cunt the Doctor is about to be given a new regenerative cycle, in the televisual representation of his adventures, as you will find out at Christmas. In addition, Time Lords can become quasi-vampires, leeching off the energy of other beings to prolong their lives, as in the case of my good mate the Master. As for myself, I am on my eighth incarnation (I think), so I have regenerated seven times. I therefore have a good long while yet before I think of bothering the Time Lords or half-inching the Source of Traken or some such other alien life-force.

We Time Lords can, therefore, survive a lot more harm, self-inflicted or otherwise, than you puny humans. The story I am about to relate is an excellent example of this.

You puny humans have probably, no certainly, never heard of Professor Julius Scanlon. He is one of the most brilliant scientists I have ever known. His work was (or will be from your point of view) instrumental in the development of T-Mat, the Tachyon Accelerator and the Continuous Event Transmitter. I collaborated with him on several projects, one of which combined the technology of T-Mat and the CET in order to project physical objects into a holographic recording. This device, the Holo-Mat, was designed to be the future of entertainment technology. With it, you could project yourself into any holographic recording, and walk around it as if you were part of it. The Holo-Mat project was eventually abandoned due to the instability of the projection - it would only last for a few minutes at a time, and then snap you back to reality with an uncomfortable jolt. But during the exciting research phase, I became the test subject, and got to use Holo-Mat to enter a great many recordings, mostly TV programmes and films.

I bet you think you know where this is going, but I didn't do that; it's bad enough having to live in a universe where the bugger exists, without diving into fictional representations of him. No, instead, I used Holo-Mat to enter holographic representations of various of my favourite films. Many you won't have heard of, as they haven't been made yet, as of December 2013; but there are two from your era I did explore, one of which led to my moment of accidental self-harm. These were Blade Runner and Fargo.

As you can imagine, it was mint wandering around inside Blade Runner. Mint! I explored the crowded neon-lit rainy streets, of LA, the corporate edifice of Tyrell Corporation, and the smoky bachelor squalor Deckard's apartment. Thanks to the immense processing power of Holo-Mat it all felt real, sounded real, even smelled and tasted real. With Holo-Mat, you could fast-forward and rewind yourself to any point in a holographic representation using a special watch that you wore before you were projected. You could even use this to pause events so you could examine them up close. As the characters are recordings, they cannot interact with you.

So I could, and did, kick Harrison Ford in the bollocks, many times, and he didn't even notice or react. And I had a good long look at and grope of Sean Young and Zhora and Pris. Hell yeah, I had a lot of fun in Blade Runner.

I also had a lot of fun in Fargo, before the rather unfortunate accident which led to a regeneration. To start off I spent a lot of time wandering around Brainerd, trudging through the freezing snow, marvelling at the ability of Professor Scanlon's machine to make this feel so real. To warm up, I fast forwarded to that cafe in where Marge meets Mike, and watched their painful conversation as I warmed up over coffee. Then I went to the motel where Shep Proudfoot beats up Steve Buscemi, always a hilarious scene, and even more thrilling to actually be there. I joined in when Shep whaled on Buscemi but of course neither of them noticed or reacted.

Things came to a messy end when I fast-forwarded to the woodchipper scene. Everyone who has seen Fargo will know this as a grotesque comedy highlight of the movie, as Peter Stormare morosely feeds Steve Buscemi's remains into a woodchipper, which then sprays him relentlessly and incontinently out onto the pure white snow. Unfortunately, I got a bit too close to the woodchipper, and as I tried to rewind the scene I must have done something wrong, as the whole projection seemed to convulse and heave around me, and I was pitched into the woodchipper, head first!

I remember opening my mouth to scream, then a moment of blinding white pain, and then waking up, naked, in an office chair, the concerned, kindly blue eyes of Professor Scanlon staring down at me.

'What do you think?' he said, and held up a mirror. I beheld a stranger's face staring back at me. 'What the hell happened?' I asked the Professor.

'Well,’ he said, ‘You hit rewind a bit too harshly, causing a stochastic manglewrench in the flungward niddle-noddle of the Holo-Mat projector, and so into the woodchipper you went! I hit Eject and you emerged from the projector cone - or rather your remains did.' He pointed to the projector cone, a giant metal cowling surrounded by electric coils and tubes and all sorts of technical gubbins the like of which I barely understood. 'A great big geyser of mashed-up flesh, blood, bone, guts, brain, gristle and grue came fountaining out of there, spraying and splattering all over my nice clean lab floor. When it finally finished, I was about to go and fetch a mop and bucket, but then I noticed a golden spangly glow break out all over the glistening mess. This golden spangly glow spread all over the grisly puddle and shone brighter and brighter until I could barely look at it. Then with a sort of scrunching, cracking, popping, whooshing sound it coalesced into a golden pillar of fire, which then resolved itself into a golden glowing humanoid shape, which then transformed into - you. It was quite fascinating. I've never seen a regeneration at first hand!'

I stood up and paced around the room, getting used to my new body. Professor Scanlon threw me a lab coat which I donned to hide my nudity, and then we sent out for Chinese food. I never used the Holo-Mat again, and the project was abandoned several weeks later.

Last I heard, Professor Scanlon was working on something to do with transdimensional energy transduction.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 22:44, 2 replies)

Once, in a moment of frustration, I stood up too quickly and fell over.

( brb Learn Ukrainian and prepare for a referendum, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 22:34, 1 reply)

I once fell off my bike, and broke my arm.
While stopped.
(Raki, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 22:20, 2 replies)

Bouncy crunchy...
My University had a lovely group of folks who took inflatables to kids' playgrounds in deprived areas (Bradford - you get the picture) for them to experience some fun.
One night they set some bouncy things up in the union building for us regular plebs to have a play and appreciate their good work. After several pints, it seemed a great idea to sit on top of a huge 12ft cushion. It was great fun until some idiot with a cigarette caused the whole thing to deflate. I slid to the parquet floor face first and one of my mates landed on top of me. He managed to get my dislocated jaw back in place and I carried on drinking, but I couldn't speak or eat solid food for a week afterwards.
Then we did it all again in an enclosed bouncy castle and almost suffocated. Sometimes you just can't win...
(grumpypolecat, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 18:54, 2 replies)

I was in Earl's Court and found a bar. I made the mistake of talking to an Australian girl.

( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 18:44, 8 replies)

Rather than casually cracking the egg on the edge of the frying pan
such that I would be mere moments away from a delicious eggy breakfast instead my arms misunderstood the instructions from my brain and flung the whole egg down into the extraordinarily hot fat. My research would suggest that one standard large hen egg exploding is sufficient to relocate sufficient scalding oil to cover one entire forearm and burn it to fuckery.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Tue 3 Dec 2013, 18:21, Reply)

Hedge Trimming
I decided to trim the bushes one hot summer day using an electric hedge trimmer. My husband (now my 2nd ex-husband) advised me to put on long pants and sturdy shoes. But it was hot and humid so I was in shorts and flip-flops. After about 1/2 hour I felt something on my leg, immediately jumped to the conclusion it was a bug and lashed out...with the hedge trimmer and my finger firmly pressing the on button. It took a big chunk off my shin bone and was excruciating however I kept absolutely quiet because he would have said "I told you so" and I'd rather have bled to death than give him the satisfaction.
(retrojo, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 17:10, 7 replies)

Do Your Best.
Back when I was a bonny member of the local cub-scout group, we were packed off on a 'survival weekend' to some godforsaken bit of scrubland near the Norfolk Broads.

The weekend involved a whole host of activities: setting up tents; cooking our own food; singing demented songs round the campfire and making our own medieval torches for a nighttime walkabout.

So far, so good. Apart from the making torches bit. We'd all been given a decent sized stick, a bundle of twine and a shitload of straw. The idea was to somehow secure the straw at the end of the stick by wrapping it tightly in the twine and then igniting it from the campfire. We were to then all gather, torches aloft and march to the local village like some pre-teen Wicker Man cultists.

But try as I might, I couldn't get the fucking straw to stay on the stick, the bastard twine cut my hands and my torch never stayed lit for more than 30 seconds. I watched angrily as my fellow cubs waved perfectly made torches in the air and were patted on the head by Akela. Desperate to fit in and prove my survival credentials (a badge was at stake here ffs), I looked around urgently for a solution to my problem. And then I saw one.

Earlier in the day, in the 'cook your own food' session, I had expertly boiled water on the fire and emptied it into the Sweet & Sour Pot Noodle that my mother had so kindly packed for me. I retrieved the empty Pot Noodle pot, quickly and expertly bound it to my stick and held it over the fire.

Result! My torch ignited with a stunning display of blue and orange flames and the other boys turned to regard me with pure envy as their straw-based shitsticks seemed to dim in embarrassment. But needless to say, THEY had the last laugh - as unbeknown to me, huge globules of molten, burning plastic were steadily dripping my Pot Noodle Torch. Suddenly my cries of joy were replaced by cries of pain. I looked down at my right hand and saw a bubbling, burning mess where my knuckles used to be.

Not knowing what to do, I screamed at the nearest person, shoving my hand in their face. 'Be Prepared' that's the motto, well this idiot didn't run off to find water or anything useful, no, he took it upon himself to spit violently at my hand and then scream louder than me.

Up bounded Haati, or one of the other weird adults who enjoyed taking names from children's stories (I mean why chose the fat, dim elephant?) and he finally found a bucket of in which I could dowse my hand. The searing pain was unimaginable. After my hand had cooled off, it was retrieved from the bucket - but still covered with a sticky, black mess that had bound itself so well to my skin, that I couldn't move a single finger.

'We'll have to get that off' stated the fat elephant man. And again, trusting him completely, I allowed the moron to pull the plastic off my hand. Skin, bone, gristle and fat had all fused together. The plastic hand burned so deeply that when he finally managed to rip it away, I could see the bones working when I moved my fingers. And then I fainted.

As this was back in the non-litigious, 'Health and WHAT?' era of the early 80's, I was simply allowed to come round in Akela's tent. All the cubs gathered as they demonstrated 'First Aid in Action' and bound my hand with whatever was in the sparse first aid kit. I still went on the stupid torch-hike and spent the night on the campsite.

The hospital saw things differently and when I'd finally made it there, they cleaned the wound properly. I will never feel such pain again. A few skin-grafts later and I have a very decent scar. It's shaped a bit like Australia, and for a party trick I can stick needles a good way into my skin till they stand up straight - and feel no pain.

Dib. Dib. Dob. Motherfuckers.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 17:08, 10 replies)

A few weeks ago I bougt one of them Asda pizzas
That come in a plastic wrapping. Anyway, I didn't have any scissors at hand, so holding the pizza upright, I made the foolish decision to cut the wrapping with a knife upright. Slicey slicey! Still have the gash on my thumb.
(SculptureOfMan Mmhmm, this IS a tasty burger!, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 14:59, 9 replies)

I once nailed my cock to a plank of wood then broke it in your mum's anus.
Her name isn't Beverly but that's what I called her anyway.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 14:51, 10 replies)

Late night bike ride
I once went out drinking one Friday night with some friends, and after the pub closed we all got invited to a party. I thought "we can't got without drink" so I went home, fetched about 2 dozen beer bottles from the fridge, slung them in a pair of carrier bags, one on each side the handlebars of my bike and off I went to the party.

Roll forward several hours and I'm so pissed when trying to ride my bike down a narrow alley that I fell into a hedge, bike and all, at least 3 times, whilst my house mate and her fella were pissing themselves laughing hauling me out of the hedge.

Anyway, we get into a bit of clear space, I get my balance and can suddenly ride again without falling off, so I breezily announce that I'm off to get chips. Housemate starts to go "but I"... and I cut her off and say "it's OK I've got enough"

After riding around town to each chippie and getting more and more annoyed cos they're all shut, the town clock strikes 3am and I suddenly realise what she was trying to tell me before. Arse. So I head off home, clip a kerb, land on my face and skid for a bit. Yikes, that hurt like a mofo.

So I drag myself home with mangled bike, get to the door, covered in blood, and yell upstairs "Jackie! I've hurt meself!"

Jackie comes down the stairs, takes one look at me quietly bleeding away, dripping blood everywhere, and utters the immortal line:

"Where's me fucking chips ya bastard?!"

Oh how we laughed, which just made me hurt more.

To be fair though, she did spend the next hour or so dabbing all of the road out of my face with several wet, blood soaked towels, bless her little cotton socks. I had an ace banana shaped scab from my forehead round to my chin for about 6 weeks.

TL;DR - partying and cycling don't mix terribly well, so let's be careful out there kids!
(morebasheder is still awake, damn it!, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 14:12, 6 replies)

Chopper
On the roof of a certain block of flats in Bethnal Green, London is a spontaneous and natural garden comprising a few wind-lashed shrubs and some tufts of wheatgrass. There is also, less spontaneously, a cast iron bathtub. The plug's still in it and if you go onto the roof after a lengthy rainstorm with a genny and a couple of coil heaters, you can have yourself a decently warm bath.

It was an afternoon in late August; it had been raining since early morning up until but it was a sultry day, so you could go out and get wet in the knowledge you'd stay warm. The rain had finally stopped about half an hour before so I went up on the roof with a towel and a book. The bath had about a foot of water in it, enough for a soak. The sky was exceptionally clear after the rain and I could see one or two stars beginning to appear behind the blue expanse. On a whim I took my cock in my hand and traced the form of where I imagined the constellations to be, based on those solitary stars. I have no idea whether I was right or wrong, but it did give me an erection, so I decided to keep going without my hands. If anyone had been looking out of their office window that afternoon, they might have seen a pasty figure in a bathtub on the roof of a block of flats gyrating his hips at the sky. The, something magical happened. I had just given a particularly meaty thrust when my cock began to rotate in a circle, slowly at first but quickly getting faster like the flywheel of a gyroscope. It didn't hurt, really, although I could feel the blood rushing to my cockhead. The water in the bathtub was being blown up against the sides in waves and the downdraft was beginning to make itself felt. I grabbed hold of the bathtub to anchor myself down but it was futile: with a low splash, my dripping body lifted itself from the warm cast iron and before I had time to pick up a delivery order for Amazon, I was rising into the late summer sky over East London.

Some film characters are terrified the first time they fly under their own steam and some are exhilarated. I found the whole sensation quite peaceful; despite the supersonic rotation of my cock, I was moving pretty slowly, more like a glider than any sort of powered aircraft. I levelled off at around twenty storeys’ altitude and began to pitch towards Aldgate. I realised I had no way of steering. Flapping my arms had no noticeable effect so I forced myself to think like a pilot. What I needed was a joystick, close to the drive axis. I stuck my thumb up my arse and pressed right and left, up and down, which had the desired effect. I yawed around and swept down Bethnal Green High Street until I could see the Museum of Childhood and York Hall past the railway bridge. People walked in ant-like meanders beneath me, carrying bags of shopping and mobile phones. As I was borne along the warm risers and the wafts of fried fish and petrol by my trusty helicockter, I let my thoughts drift to how ephemeral we all are, how like marks on a sheet of paper that could be penstrokes or could be dust, to be shooed away by the wind. This made me lose my erection.

My tackle was still spinning but it was now flapping as ineffectually as a dormouse at a disco. I withdrew my thumb and frantically began fapping to control my descent but it was no use, and in a couple of seconds I had crashed folded in half into a large council bin left open on the pavement. The impact made me knee myself in the face and put my back out for the next fortnight; the pain was so intense that I completely forgot I was bursting for a piss. Probably just as well, as my cock was inches from my face at this point. The cruel irony of it all was that I ended up covered in bin-slime when I’d just had a bath.
( .Yeti., Tue 3 Dec 2013, 14:03, 2 replies)

As a child I discovered that
setting fire to the gun on your plastic stormtrooper's vehicle makes the gun burn with a pretty blue and green flame, and then covers your finger in molten plastic, which hurts a very, very lot.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 13:56, 4 replies)

I once dun hurt my penis having loads of straight sex with lots of real women with big tits and that was sex in there vaginas and not in their bum-bums.
There, that should redress the balance. Some of these stories were getting a bit gay for my liking.
( 2 Can Chunder Word to your mums, I came to prod bums, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 13:55, 14 replies)

Eary ouchy woe
Many many years ago, when I were young, daft and fit as a butcher's dog, I used to cycle everywhere.
One fateful night, having finished a late shift portering at the local hospital, I was cycling home. I had an appointment with a beer at my local, so was not hanging around. Now chez Achtungmeinfield is in a village, way out in the sticks, so the last couple of miles of my journey home were down unlit tiddly country lanes.
Because I was skint/stupid/whatever, I tended to ride without lights if there was enough moonlight to see by, as it added to the atmos. Handily, this night, I had found a car to follow down said country lanes, so its headlights were providing lots of useful illumination for me as I pedalled like a bastard, keeping up with it.

Now one section of the ride home is a looong downhill stretch, so I and my beneficent companion were travelling at a rare old rate of knots at the point where I took a right turn to join another even teenier country lane that took me home, also unlit. The car, however, didn't turn right. He carried on down the hill. Also he took his headlights with him. Which meant that I suddenly found myself hurtling at great speed,with no night vision, completely blind, down this hedge-lined country lane.

Time did its usual thing of slowing down in these situations, so I vividly remember out of the blackness an area of even blacker blackness looming up at me, identifying it as a hedgerow, thinking "Oh fu.." BLAM

Shortly afterwards I came to, prone in the middle of the road. Managed to stagger up and grab the pushbike but, night vision now returned, it became obvious that the thing was fucked and I'd have to stagger the rest of the way home on foot. At that point I also felt something dripping down the right side of my neck, so I reached up to feel what was going on at the side of my head. As I did so, with my fingertips encountered a piece of warm, sticky flesh about an inch further away from my skull than I would normally expect to find any flesh. Eeek. My ear. Need to get home, like sharpish.

I threw the cycle to one side and proceeded to totter the rest of the way home. A couple of cars came by and I desperately tried to flag them down but, for some reason, they were't that keen on stopping for some mad swivel-eyed loon,covered in blood and with his ear hanging off.

Finally got home, pounded on the door. When my brother answered, his mouth went a funny O shape, and his face lost a couple of shades of colour. Youngest sister came galloping up to see what the fuss was about. Some vomiting happened.

Carted off to local A&E, where all were suprised to see me back so soon. Carted off to East Grinstead to have all it sewn back on again and all the gravel carefully removed. Scar? You betcha.

TL;DR Knobhead totals pushbike in the dark, skids along the road on his head, rips large chunk of ear off in the process.
(Achtungmeinfield, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 13:22, Reply)

I walked into a door. Seriously
I'd been doing the 12-bar challenge (a pint in all 12 Durham Uni college bars before closing time) and I was running out of the college to get to the next one. We were VERY….very… drunk…. My mate in front of me opened the door in my face just as I ran in to that space - BANG! Cue yet another trip to Dryburn hospital and an interesting conversation with the A&E nurse -

Nurse: What happened to you then?
Me: I walked into a door
Nurse: Oh? OK. Now what really happened?
Me: No, really, I walked into a door
Nurse: You're going to need about 6 or 7 stitches in that, do you want to tell me what really happened?
Me: Seriously, I walked into a door! I'm not making this up!
Nurse: Have you been drinking?
Me: Yes, lots!
Nurse: I see - well, no anaesthetic for you then!

Length? About 2 inches of scar, still visible when I crinkle my forehead
( Young Master Ploppy, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 10:54, 11 replies)

I nailed a plank of wood to the wall with the intention of using it to store things, then immediately walked into it headfirst.

( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Tue 3 Dec 2013, 10:45, Reply)