Collapsed lung
Ive since had a few more, but the first time.. was pretty scary.

Being told by the doctor that your lung "couldnt be seen" on the X-ray as he chuckled to himself (seriously, we all had a giggle)

"so whats next doc? some pills?"
"nope - we're going to stick a needle in your chest" (still chuckling)

I stop laughing
"seriously now, whats the treatment"

(doctor serious look on face) "we're going to stick a needle in your chest"

Blood drains from my face, Im no good with needles anyway.... but into my chest? I had images in my head of the ending to The Rock.

"will i be put to sleep?" Im now physically shaking
"nah" the doctor says - filling up a syringe with Lidocaine "we will do it right here right now"

Whats worse, he does it right infront of me. on my front. he goes in to the left of my armpit.

"Look away, you wont like this bit" he says... so i try to look away, but its a bit like driving past a road accident, apart from the fact - I was the road accident, and I could feel his syringe entering my chest space. Its a strange sensation seeing things being pushed into a chest... when its your chest. Ever stranger when the begin to open the hole up to allow a garden hose to be pushed in.

"you will feel some tugging now" the doctor said, i could feel blood trickling into my belly button. It felt like someone was tugging on my osophegus.

Then, POP!

Strangely I could hear a fart noise as my lung began to re-inflate. I could breath easier... it felt better.


I have had 4 of these so far... each one as bad as the last.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 14:27, 15 replies)

A Romanian Pea
Romania, 1994.

We were there to teach, but had discovered that being English was our credit card to pretty well anything at all, and that the £300 we'd saved each for the duration, added to the fact that they were paying us 50% of a teacher's wage as well - which we hadn't been expecting - meant that we were among the richest people in the city. This was not something of amusement for the ex-KGB-type who was our guardian, and who really wasn't very impressed with this invasion of capitalism into his once-great motherland.

We were 18. All we were aware of was that we could get 40 cigarettes and shit-faced for under a tenner for the both of us.

We'd been warned about drugs, and warned about our behaviour in general - although now technically a democracy, the hangover from Communism in Romania was by no means over, and people still had a tendency to sort of disappear-and-only-emerge-unrecognisable-several-years-later occasionally.

Late one evening, we were swaying down a dark side road, trudging through pouring rain, loomed over on each side by enormous, faceless grey tower blocks. Quietly over the top of us floated the music of a house party, and we discussed drunkenly and earnestly whatever matter was at hand that evening.

Up ahead a big, black Mercedes pulled into the street, splashed through the puddles, and headed slowly towards us, just as I finished my cigarette, and flicked the butt towards the middle of the road.

Instead of behaving politely and falling into the road, the butt flew upwards in a slow arch, pausing momentarily at its zenith, and falling in a splash of glowing red embers exactly in the middle of the windscreen of the car - it was the sort of shot it's impossible to repeat.

The driver hit the brakes with a squelch. The door opened, and from the driver's side unfolded a guy who made Jaws in James Bond look like Penfold. Sillouetted by the street lamp behind him, he was dressed entirely in black, and wore a leather trenchcoat, which gleamed softly in the reflective orange hues.

I watched with rapidly-sobering numbness.

He crunched towards us more purposefully than your mum to a cake shop.

Oh shit, I thought, I'm going to disappear. I'm going to disappear, and my mum is going to cry for the rest of her life, and all because I was more interested in beer than manners. Oh shit. He's going to wear my balls for earrings, and then he's going wander around the dimly-lit room they hold me in, saying "Look at me, I'm wearing Vagabond's balls as earrings" while his friends laugh and stub out cigarettes on my tiny manhood.

"I'm sorry!" I squealed, "I'm sorry I didn't mean to it's just I was smoking and I tried to flick it and I didn't mean to flick it at you I'm really sorry I just meant that ... " as he came closer, ever closer dear Christ this guy is built like a fucking aircraft carrier oh Christ "I just meant that we'd been for some beers and I just wanted to ... "

He was in front of me, blocking out all direct light. My mate watched with disconnected fascination.

"It's just, you see, we're from England, and, well - I didn't understand, I mean, that wasn't deliberate or anything, it's just that I was, well ... " I whined.

He leaned down, his face level with mine, as I stared, terrified, up at him.

"I just ... I'm really sorry ... " I had gone beyond whining now - my voice was pitched somewhere in the range between dog whistles and bats.

"Sorry is all I wanted to hear." he said, his accent thicker than your sister. "It is no matter, I know you didn't mean it."

He turned, walked back to his car, got in, and drove off.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 14:22, 12 replies)

Snakes, spiders, and scorpions...
Anyone who knows me knows my various animals. I've rehomed dozens of exotic pets, often taking on those that others can't or won't look after. I've been bitten many a time, but never been put off.

Some would say I'm a bit of an adrenaline junkie, I've tested motorcycles for a living, raced them and done crazy-stupid adventures. But no matter.

I've kept and handled (and adored) them all. From birdeater spiders to rear-fanged venomous snakes, hand-sized scorpions to big constrictor snakes, I'm happy around any animals.

But there's one creature, which I own, which terrifies me. It's the one I won't handle, won't pick up and, essentially, don't go near except to throw food in and rapidly close the (locked) glass doors.



The tokay gecko.

Now, I know, you're thinking "that cute little thing? It's adorable! Look at its big eyes and happy, smiling face."

Yeah, smiling because it's SATAN!

Let me explain. Tokay geckos are notoriously, insanely brave. Most reptiles will shy away from confrontation, even venomous snakes and big monitor lizards.

Not the tiny, foot-long tokay gecko. Oh, no. They have balls like coconuts. They'll charge at you with their mouth gaping, hissing and honking (they're the only lizard to call, and they shout 'to-kay', hence their name).

Did I mention that they're also lightning fast, they can climb on any surface, including wet glass, and their jaw locks solid for up to an hour when they bite?



Yep. Bright blue and orange lizard-monster which shouts its own name, charges at things a hundred times its size and ignores gravity? It's pretty much a Pokemon isn't it.



And even though it can't do much damage to a person, that damned honk sends a shiver down my spine, and that of most other owners…

It's coming for me. One day...
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 12:43, 7 replies)

The only time I really, really thought I was going to die.
I've done a whole bunch of adrenaline-sport-type nonsense involving bungie ropes, snowboards, paragliders and kitesurfers (not all at the same time), but the most terrified I've ever been was in a minibus.

Mid '90s. Me and five other blokes - two mates of mine and three of their mates who I didn't know - were on a week's hols in Majorca. Suntan, beer and birds was the plan, and so far, it was going well. I had, against all odds and reason, pulled the night before, but we'd booked the minibus rental so we were GOING on a trip round the island, driven by the only one of us old enough to drive the bus - a guy named Chris. All was fine as we drove up the east coast, all was fine as we headed into the mountains in the north. Then we stopped for a drink and saw the postcards for a place called Torrente de Pareils, which looked impressive, and from the shop/cafe we could see the sign pointing down the road. "Thattaway" was agreed, so we piled into the bus and got moving. Mistake.

Straight line distance from the junction to the pretty little coastal village of Sa Calobra is less than three miles. What we didn't realise was that in those three miles there was:
(a) a vertical drop of several thousand feet
(b) about sixty hairpin bends with huge drops off the side
(c) roads so narrow there was barely room for one vehicle, let alone two
(d) at least six burned out remains of vehicles that had clearly recently failed to negotiate the above and had fallen to their fiery deaths off the side of the road and into the chasms beneath.

Add to that Chris's unfailing enthusiasm, annoying laugh, and tendency to turn round and tell bad jokes to the rest of us instead of looking at the road, and I really, honestly, thought I was going to die. I was sitting in that bus thinking "I pulled last night. I am definitely on for another go tonight... but it's never going to happen, because I am going to die in the wreckage of this bus with this cockney w****r probably still bloody braying like a donkey as I breath my last." And I was in the middle row of the bus, and in relatively good spirits compared to the two guys in the back, who if me and another bloke weren't in the way would probably have killed Chris with their flipflops and thrown him in the sea.

Obviously we made it down to the coast - alive, but not undamaged, Chris managed to crash into a coach (a COACH!) that was coming the other way.

A couple of years ago I went back there, and this time drove myself. I wondered if I was perhaps in my memory exaggerating how scary the road was. I wasn't. On the way back up out of the place, people were stopping to take pictures of where, presumably within the last week or two, a seventy seater luxury coach had gone over one of the cliffs as it tried to negotiate the road, and having fallen "only" fifty feet or so was still clearly visible, upside down in a tree still a couple of hundred feet from the rocks beneath, held where it had stopped by webbing straps presumably put there by some sort of salvage crew.
(SonofRojBlake, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 12:43, Reply)

A Tenuous Tale of Two Types of Terrified…

My good friend, dear Captain Placid, is a massive, hairy, scary grizzly bear of a man. On befriending you, he can be amongst the most warmhearted, soft as shite, generous powderkeg of funnies you are ever likely to meet, but at the merest hint of something that qualifies as an injustice, he can go off like a cheap firework and turn into a snarling, weapons grade, silver backed gorilla.

I’ve known the old scrote for many years – this means I can fortunately get away with certain things (despite the fact that in the pub I still ensure I sit just out of reach of him so I can rapidly bolt should he finally snap to my non-stop piss-taking.)

A couple of weeks ago – the big bugger borked his beloved Blackberry (yup, you guessed it - he was rat-arsed at the time) subsequently denting it a bit and breaking the screen. He was understandably narked a tad, and sought out ways to remedy this tragedy. He checked online and the repair job looked pretty fiddly, and because of his hands like cow’s tits and big sausage-fingers, CP wisely decided to employ a professional to do the job rather than fork out for the parts and make a complete bollock up of it. Good choice I reckon.

He then trawled the ‘tinterwebz’ further and checked out a few places online, but was never fully happy with either the service promised, price, or the fact that they would have to keep his precious phone with them for the next millennium before they would even have a sniff of it.

‘Fuck this for a Jaffa Cake’ Exclaimed the Captain, getting somewhat frustrated.

Fast forward (a bit) to last week…we were in the pub with some friends (including a couple of fellow B3tards), and CP was whinging like a little bitch belligerently bemoaning about what he should do regarding his newly fucked-up-phone predicament, when one of the locals piped up with a friendly voice: “Hey Cap, there are a couple of shops nearby that will sort that for ya”

Monsieur Placid was intrigued. “Do tell” he responded (doing his best effort to smile without looking too intimidating as he was in ‘friendly, yet heavily refreshed mode’ at this point).

He was then given the locations of two shops nearby that he was certain could satisfy CP’s stringent requirements to get the job done – i.e: Cheaper, faster, and significantly better quality than a blowie from a Taiwanese lady boy.

The very next day he set off like an overstuffed whippet, ready to plunge into the magical, enchanting world of shitty mobile repair shops in darkest Coventry.

The first shop was a disappointment; the staff annoyed CP by not giving him assurances with completion times, ‘umm’d and ‘ah’d about whether they had the right parts, and when they said they wouldn’t give him a price until after the work was completed, our hero then promptly told them where they could shove their entire shop, before kindly volunteering to assist with the process.

The next place however, was a different story. The guy seemed professional and courteous, and said he would do it right away, had the parts on site, he would be quick, and for only £35. Result!

Before he handed the patient over he sent me a quick text: ‘Pooflake you preposterous twat. Heavy drinking is still on for 2pm, but don’t try to contact me until then, I’m just handing my phone over now to get it fixed. They’ll have it for the next hour or so.’

Now, I don’t know what came over me, but suddenly I concocted a quite blisteringly stupid plan. I left it about 45-50 minutes, thinking that the repair work would be nearing completion and that the phone was probably being tested to see if everything still worked ok. With this in mind, I then sent the following text, hoping that the repair guy would be likely to read it.

“(CP’s real name), you dirty bastard! Big Todj Tony has just let me know how you two broke your phone. How the fuck did you manage to fit it all the way up his arse? Anyway, he says it was ‘great on vibrate…’?

I then waited, wondering if the repair guy would get to read the text whilst holding the now offending item in his hands. I didn’t have to wait too long to find out

Later that day, The Captain dutifully joined me for some drinkiepoos, and I asked him how his experience with the phone fixing had gone.

“A bit odd, to be honest Poofers…”, he declared. “The guy seemed really friendly when I first gave him the phone, but when I went back later, the guy looked…well…different. Sort of ‘scared’, but disgusted at the same time. All I did was smile at him and pay, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I swear he was shaking! Anyway, he then handed the phone to me...in a plastic bag...with his arm outstretched!”

“PFFFT!” I said before regaining some composure. “Erm..I mean, Pah!, some people eh?” I continued, shrugging my shoulders whilst doing a frankly crap attempt at stifling my giggles.

“I suppose…” He continued. “What’s even stranger is I’m sure I heard him say ‘Don’t come back’ under his breath as I left!”

With that, I couldn’t hold it in any more. “Mwuhahahahahahahaaaaa!” I chortled, much to the Captain’s bemusement as I tried to imagine what must’ve been going through the poor repair guy’s mind. Nobody likes being confronted by the sight of a huge bearded rhinoceros of a man who had just been ‘outed’ as to being into kinky bum fun.
.
And the ‘terrified’ bit? Well, obviously he’s since discovered the text and sussed what happened, so now I’m terrified for my life – If you don’t hear from me again then please call the Rozzers, because it’s very likely that Captain Placid has since bumped into me in a dark alley and squished me like a flabby, over-ripe tomato
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 10 Apr 2012, 12:30, 16 replies)

Greathall Gill and the what could of been murder
First post ever, be gentle!

I had a lovely week long holiday in lakes last week (could of posted this in last weeks thread, meh) anyways, as holidays like this go it was full of hiking, great views and the ever classic getting wankered in a small country pub* after 8 miles of gruelling uphill struggle.

If anybody is familiar with the lakes we went on a walk right up to an impressive Geological wonder called Greathall gill, which basicly is a massive crack that runs up a hill. The height of this crack is about 365ft and going down the side of it as you can imgagine is a very steep gradient (nearly a cliff).

And this is where the terror part comes in:

A) I fell over twice and nearly tumbled to my death, only being stopped on both occasions by a lovely not painful in the slightest piece of rock I would fall onto.

B) is a little longer so bear with me, whilst descending down this "geological wonder" me and my old man (for I was walking with him) were talking about how epic it would be to have a football and kick it right off the top and see where the ball would land.

So me being the resourceful bloke I am picked a large stone up, gave it a good throw And watched it tumble down the hill! I was Impressed with my throw and happily watched it bounce from rock to grassy knoll, this is when the short, but completely terrifying wave of sickness hit me.

What if the rock hits someone on the way down and kills them? Would I be condemned for manslaughter? Would me and my father have to bury the dead body like on deliverance and never speak of it again, forever living with the guilt of killing an innocent hiker.


Turned out not and it happily tumbled to the bottom, no casualties crisis averted!

*cocker hoop by the way was the ale of choice, it's a cracking pint :D
(Pennisons Revenge All this trouble over squealing meat, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 11:59, Reply)

Eejit
My first time in Ireland, 5 or 6 of us altogether. We'd arrived in the pitch dark, so apart from knowing I was in a rented cottage in a fairly rural area, I had little idea of my surroundings.

We settled in, lit the fire, got some tunes on, let the Jamesons flow.

I open the steamed-over window, trying to let a bit of the "cig" smoke out, and a few minutes later, hear a low, but fairly loud groaning noise.

I put it down to the music and the "cigs", but a few minutes later, there it is again, a guttural, deep moan, coming from outside.

My heart racing, I push open the window, and there on the ground below, sat staring up at me, is one of the smallest dogs I've ever seen, maybe a Jack Russell, that sort of size. "Hello little feller" says I, chuckling at my cowardice.

"MMMMMMMMMUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRR!!!!!"

FUCK! (Jumps out of skin).

About ten yards behind the world's smallest dog, is a fucking huge black cow, well camouflaged against the night. Being a stoned idiot, it was the last thing I was expecting, despite the area having more cows than people by about 1000:1. Even the dog laughed at me.
(Udidin is chuffed to have made the newsletter, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 11:53, Reply)

Paper Round
Like most kids, when I hit age 13 I wanted to earn a little more pocket money, so my Mum promptly put me on the waiting list for a local paper round job.

I didn't have to wait long, and for about 2 years I would deliver the local rag to every house on our estate, including the outlying social housing (the scummy council houses) and a close that seemed to house an abundance of old people and fuck ups.

About a year into the round, one old man would always be waiting on his front porch to greet me when I arrived with his paper.

He was harmless really, an ugly bugger but harmless. Or so I thought…

Things started to get weird, when he would periodically have gifts waiting for me every week. A bag of sweets, the odd 50p, it felt weird but I gave him his paper, and politely accepted the gifts.

One Christmas when I delivered his paper, I was promptly chased up the road by one of his relations who had come to visit, and she handed me a crisp £5 note.

Again, given my age, I accepted it with a huge smile on my face and went about my business.

In the summer of the following year, I remember it was an unbearably hot Friday evening, and I was struggling with the round, I was wearing shorts and a sports vest.

The old man was waiting on his porch once again, only this time - he asked if I would like a cold drink.

Given the temperature - I couldn't refuse, and stupidly followed him into his house.

Looking back on this now, I don't know what I was thinking.

This frail old man who I would normally see sat outside - seemingly chairbound moved with swift purpose back passed me, and locked the front door.

"Do you want a fizzy orange or lemonade sweetheart" He said in a creepy tone.

"ummmmm, water would be fine thanks"

Sweetheart??? what the fuck?? I'm a guy.

He walked back passed me again and into the kitchen

I stood around for what seemed like ages, which is when I suddenly felt very very uncomfortable. I peered round the kitchen door to see what the hold up was, only to catch the old fucker taking his clothes off.

Shit….. I made a break for the front door - locked. I turned round still carrying what was left of my paper round bag. I noticed that his back door through the kitchen was open, and walked as fast as I could through the kitchen and out into his garden.

"GET OUT OF MY FUCKING GARDEN!!!!" he shouted.

I turned around to see him fumbling to put on the clothes he had just removed.

I threw my paper round bag over the fence, and promptly vaulted over it.

I ran so fucking hard, my heart smashing against my chest, the heat no longer bothering me. When I got home, I told my Mum what had transpired, and she promptly called the newsagent rep to tell her what happened.

For the following couple of weeks, I was taken off the paper round and my parents were visited by the police on a couple of occasions.

I never found out what the hell was going on - and only did a few more paper rounds before jacking it in.

I never saw the old man on his front porch again...
(Oobla, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 9:38, 10 replies)

I don't know why this happened.
This tale is not suitable for those of a nervous disposition.
I have no explanation for what took place on that day and the story ends with great uncertainty.
It all began in primary school, one of the first days of year three.
I wouldn't have said that I was a particularly jumpy child, but what I experienced has left a blank in my memory.
All I remember is sitting in class happily doing my work, when unexpectedly the person sitting next to me though it would be a good idea to sharpen a pencil over my head.
Of course this did not go over very well, though I can't remember exactly what happened anymore...
( tangledupinblue hairy badge with moving eyes, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 8:50, 4 replies)

Probably the shittest thing i've ever been scared of.
I have a feeling this may be a pearost, but I once had a mild 'episode' after smoking strong skunk alone above an empty pub.

As a young, naive and gangly assistant-manager of said pub, one of my perks was a flat above my workplace. This came with a few other such as free beer, tips, free food and a mild fling with a barmaid amongst other such Honda accord bravado. But the downside was, the pub was a bit spooky and some of the locals were a bit 'odd' (think boisterous farmers, cokeheads, pretend gangsters and such) and quite often I would get up at night to double check all the alarms and doors and such as a matter of principle.

Anyhoo, I quite often traded the odd pint for a wee 'smoke' from some of the locals and most of the time, it was weak enough to just give me the giggles and not much else.
Until I got handed a packed to buggery and super strong 'skunk' spliff (and back then I'd never heard of such devilry).

So picture the scene, I'm getting heavily mashed alone, upstairs (listening to Moby for some reason) and start to get quite anxious from the overwhelming effects of the smoke (and possibly listening to Moby). I hear a noise from a nearby room and I jump in fright. I pause the music, but then think 'Oh fuck now the burglars know i've heard them because i've turned the music off' ,and for a few moments everything is deathly quiet besides my thumping heart and my own sickly panic.

Trying not to make a sound, I go and place my ear against my bedroom door (as you do) and I hear nothing. Just as i'm about to open my door, I hear a FUCKING RUSTLING sound right outside. I jump back and freeze, panicking - I'm trapped.

Adrenaline kicks in, I grab the nearest heavy object and sit on my bed waiting for whatever was outside to finally discover I was the sole inhabitant of the pub, the only thing I can hear is my heart again. After a few moments - nothing stirs. No footsteps. Finally after enough of this horror I finally brave it and venture out ready to ambush my would-be-assailants, I spring open the door, gazing into the darkness of the hall and see nothing.Just a dark hallway, barely lit from the lamp in my room behind me.

But then something in front of me starts FLUTTERING, rising from the darkness, a blackened claw, a wing(?), a beak(?). I could have at that point died. My mind created an image of something terrible, a giant evil bird reaching out to kill me. Fluttering and rustling and... and....

Oh it was a fucking bin bag rustling in a slight breeze.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 7:12, Reply)

eye of the storm
It was good friday 2011, I was out having a drink with some friends in South Shields. It was an all day affair, I'd been drinking for aroubd 5 hours, but drinking slowly, which tends to make me a jolly drunk with an easy confidence. It was in this state that I found myself in the crab shack, normaly a fairly decent bar on the sea front. Being a bank holiday, it was busy, far busier than normal.

We'd been there a good half hour and I needed another drink, which in turn meant braving the crowd. Maybe I was just oblivious to the mood but at what seemed the drop of a hat violence erupted all around me, wild west saloon shit, 5 or 6 seperate fights all around me. I watched the scene unfold with indifference, it was the the scene in dead man's chest when Captain Jack Sparrow saunters through the pub brawl, without the hats.A pint glass was thrown, I watched it's flight path as it sailed over my shoulder and hit the guy directly behind me full in the face. Bouncers were swooping all around me to try and return the peace. I arived at the bar, smile at the clearly shaken barmaid and order a bottle of corona.

It was only the next morning that I realised how close I came too getting glaased in the face, caught in a brawl (where I would not have done well) or faced the rough justice of the bouncers. Hell, I could have been taken to be the ring leader as I was in the dead centre of the whole thing. Dumb luck kept me safe, but when I think how easily I could have ended up in trouble, it frightens me how much booze lowers my awareness and that there are some truly scummy people about, that pint glass could have blinded some one.
(Mong goose, Tue 10 Apr 2012, 1:20, Reply)

The Whitby Dracula death experience of doom.....
I hate ghost trains. Absolutly fucking hate them, they scare me shitless. I ALSO HATE waxworksand ghost trains usually contain both. I know this is silly, usually they are a dark tunnel with flashing lights and a big plastic spider on a string.

However, I was once forced to go on the ghost train of death. I had gone to Whitby with my mum, sister and elderly Grandma. Some of you might know that in 'Dracula', the ship crashes at Whitby bay and Dracula walks up the hundred steps to the church. Whitbyhad capitilised on this by creating the 'Dracular experience'.

Ilove the book Dracular, but never, in a million years will I go on a walk through waxwork ghost train. Mum brought two tickets, one for her and sis. Sister chickened out, I couldnt let old granny go on so i was forced (through guilt and you love the book...)

I asked to walk in the middle, small child in front of me for protection, OAPbehind. Darkness,lightning, waxworks, vampires, shit my pants.... things jumping out, screaming...im still shitting my pants. My heart felt like it was jumping out of my chest... then a hideous creature jumped out from behind a grave. I screamed, the black figure grabbed me.

I did all i could do to save myself, I shouted 'Fuck off' in its face, made a child cry and threatened to punch it in its evil face. I ran, ran and left my mum in the dark. I had actually weed myself a little, because someone in black touched my shoulder.
( squiddylyd Once you pop you can't stop!, Mon 9 Apr 2012, 19:05, 3 replies)

Marzipan
I used to find marzipan quite scary.

I worked for years in a circuit board factory, which stinks of ammonia so much that you lose most of your sense of smell. One of the chemicals we used a lot was gold-potassium cyanide, for gold plating. The only way you'll know if its broken down and gone gaseous is the smell of almonds. Then you may die.

So, with my bad sense of smell, the stink of marzipan used to fill me with fear.
( Invisible Wizard - 10th Level Nerf-herder, Mon 9 Apr 2012, 17:39, 2 replies)

Not So Much Terror...
...as the sheer inevitability that once a chain of events unfolds, one is relatively powerless to affect the eventual outcome.

Having been cut up on a very wet road, I swerved to avoid the front end of my car being hit, only to hit a large muddy puddle, which immediately spun me round. And round. And round. Into the armco, once, twice, three times.

The twunt that cut me up didn't stop, and Lord alone knows how the cars behind avoided me.

However, the kindness and concern of complete strangers in a situation like this did have a profound effect on me. They were ace, checking me out, moving my car, picking up the various pieces that fell off & putting them in the boot. The car was a complete write-off, & I escaped with a couple of bangs to the head, this being pre-airbag days.

The shaking and realisation of what might have happened (shock, I guess) didn't hit me for a couple of hours. I try to give back wherever I can after this.

Length? Over & done with in about 10 seconds I guess.
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Mon 9 Apr 2012, 17:31, 1 reply)

I'm scared stiff
of naked ladies.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 9 Apr 2012, 16:02, 4 replies)

Well, here goes...

The SECONDMOST scared I've ever been was when I was about nine or ten, being pulled along on roller blades on the back of a mate's BMX. He pulled me along the wrong side of the road, around a corner in front of a car. He cycled out of the way, leaving me - arms flailing - to trip and fall over the kerb so that my head went underneath the car. I was led with my cheek to the ground, looking at the car's back wheel coming towards me and expecting iminent death. The reason this was the second scariest moment of my life is that even at that age, in a split second I went from absolute fear to 'well, there's nothing you can do about it, just accept it'. I closed my eyes, and the car wheel stopped half an inch in front of my face.

Moving on, I was working in Sainsbury's when I was sixteen. It was a Sunday, the shop closed at four, and most of the staff were away by six. I was asked to stay on until eight as for some reason there was a lot to do in preparation for the next day. All the doors were locked and there were just four of us in the store - me, the supervisor, another guy out the front and one in the back sorting out the freezers.
I was given some keys and asked to take a DVD player and put it back in the electrical cage. The cage was right at the deepest darkest region of the storeroom, especially as it was very low-lit due to most people already being home. I walked past the two guys out front as well as the one at the freezers - therefore I knew that even though it was eerie walking to the back of this usually busy huge storeroom, I was quite safe.
I found the electrical cage which was too small for itself and quite claustrophobic, brimming over with various electrical items. I fumbled in the dark with the key and eventually managed to find the lock, and, holding the DVD player still under my left arm, went inside.
I reached around in the dark for the lightswitch and eventually found it and flicked the switch. Computer games and CD's were in front of me. As I turned around, I didn't see more electrical stuff, but a man, about 6'2" and quite stocky, stood only a couple of feet behind me. Now with the roller blading incident, I thought to myself, 'don't panic, there's nothing you can do about this'. Here however, again in a split second, I thought, 'panic. He's going to kill you. Do whatever you can to get out of there'. So, as I was holding a DVD player, I launched it at his head before doing a 180 and got the fuck out of there.
I was at this moment - only a second or two after seeing the man, that I realised it was in fact a life-sized cardboard cutout of David Seaman, grinning and holding a football. I had to explain that I'd 'slipped' and dropped the DVD player. I've always had a massive distrust for David Seaman after that.
( Turquoise Hexagon Sun has just dropped acid on, Mon 9 Apr 2012, 15:34, 1 reply)

Get out, get the fire brigade out and STAY out
Now most kids were scared of ghosts and monsters, those shadows that terrorise you in the night, but my fear was a very real one.

Fire

My Dad constantly fretted about house fires and never tired of telling me how serious they were and how a TV left plugged in overnight or a slightly coiled cable could cause us all to perish in an inferno.

Cruely, to coincide with my Dad's terrifying lectures, in the mid-late 80s there were a series of Public Info Films on the TV all concerning the threat of house fires, how two breaths of smoke is fatal and how every electrical appliance is conspiring to send you to a firey doom. They always seemed to be on just before bedtime too!

Here are some of the most notorious ones that caused me sleepless nights:


youtu.be/92xPM7JR2NU

youtu.be/3bVQ_0TyUSI

youtu.be/GGRDS7Lr5Yo

eeep!
( h3donist tryin' to play me out as if my name is Sega.., Mon 9 Apr 2012, 12:15, 2 replies)

I took a bit ill in August 2010. Sorry about the words...
Started at the weekend with some flu-like symptoms; fever, sweating, tiredness, neck ache, leg ache and a cough but I just got the fuck on with it and kept going to work (I work with teenagers who have behavioural problems so this mostly meant sitting playing PS3 and watching films).

Friday morning I wake up busting for a piss and off to the toilet I go. Only... There's something wrong... something that in my half-asleep haze it takes me a moment to realise... then it hits me... WHY THE FUCK ARE MY NUTS THE SIZE OF GRAPEFRUITS?! I did what any man would do and panicked. Called the Dr, got an appointment and got told I had a virus which had caused some swelling (no shit) and home with pills.

That night I'm in the bath and I see all these spots running from my feet to my knees. The Dr had said any changes to call NHS24 so that's what I did. The lady on the phone was lovely but more concerned that I was having pains when breathing (something I hadn't really registered until she asked) than my spotty legs and giant testicles. Ambulance is called for me and off to hospital.

Turns out I had swelling, not just around the legs and balls, but around my heart too. Viral Myocarditis. The infection had caused the lining of my Heart to swell, causing it to beat oddly. I had a group of student Doctors all listen to my heartbeat one after the other as it had a triple rhythm. This had caused my lungs and chest cavity to fill with fluid, causing the difficulty breathing. This wasn't aided by the Hospital believing I was dehydrated and putting 3 IV units of fluid into me. Apparently my Chest X-ray over that weekend were completely white due to the amount of fluid in me.

On Sunday I was told that, IF I stabilized, I would require a left ventricle assist device or a Heart transplant so they wanted to move me to Glasgow as they were better equipped to do the procedures if it came to it. Only problem was I wasn't stable enough to move, at that point I was on 19 litres of Oxygen a minute and the Ambulance could only provide a maximum of 15. I was told (but I don't remember it) that I was Gravely ill and my Mum was told that I was a very, very sick man and to be prepared for the worst.

On Tuesday the decision was made to move me anyway, I had improved slightly due to me spending hours on a CPAP but my Blood Oxygen level was still in the low 70%'s. My heart rate had been 150+ for 3 or 4 days now and I was on an intake of 1.2 litres of fluid a day and pissing out 4.5L. I got a sexy yellow Aeroplane to fly my from Aberdeen to Glasgow.

Once in Glasgow things changed quickly. For the best. I got all the excess liquid out, lots of injections, MRI's, X-rays, lots of pills to drain fluids, regulate heart beats etc. And spent a total of 2 weeks in Hospital. No transplants or anything. In 20+ years of being a Cardiac consultant my Doctor says it's the quickest, fullest recovery he has ever seen and he was still astounded to see me walking around after 2 weeks as most people in my condition ended up in bed for 6 months and would be very lucky to go back to a "normal" lifestyle again.

This wasn't my most terrifying thing, as most of it passed me by in a blur. My most terrifying thing happened about a week after I got home and the full reality of it all hit me. I was just sitting watching TV and then I was lying on the floor sobbing my eyes out, shaking like a leaf. The next few months were shit too... I felt weak and scared to go to busy places, every time I had a cough or felt under the weather I would start to get one up. "Is it happening again?", checking my pulse and freaking myself out. My pills made me lethargic and tired out easily. Even climbing the stairs left my breathless and dizzy, which didn't help as by that stage I was "sick of feeling sick".

I still get freaked out by it all, especially when I think about my daughter and what could have happened, but I'm better now. No pills; heart rate of 82 beats a minute, reasonable blood pressure; my own heart; still alive lol.
( Maffers I flow kinda strange like Spina Bifida footprints, Mon 9 Apr 2012, 11:23, 22 replies)

"Fuck off Gabe and put him on the phone"
I had spoken to my mate Alex on Thurs. he was gonna come to my place on Fri. arvo. He was going to come from the hospital pharmacy where he was doing his internship (a couple of blocks from mine and close to the city centre) and then we were going to head into town. On the piss. & what not.
@ about 1730 I rang his old mans place to query where he was. His brother answered. I asked where Alex was. He faltered & then said "You haven't heard"
"Alex is dead." "Fuck off Gabe put Alex on" says I, thinking this was 1 of many attempts by his bro to stir shit.
It wasn't.
He'd topped himself at his dad's house, after work. His old man had found him dead on the living room couch.
That moment of absolute horror and terror realising that someone I loved was dead will never leave me. You know that feeling when you're on a plane and it feels as tho your stomach drops - it's a lot like that except it's a lot more unpleasant. I'm crying now as I type this.
"The Sleeper must Awaken." & I miss you Little Geek.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Mon 9 Apr 2012, 10:17, 4 replies)

Outta juice.
Alt: Carrying spare fuel, food & water is ALWAYS a good idea.
T'was the best of times, it was not 2012. ('kin hell this story took place 30 years ago. Fuck!)

The year is 1982, my mum and I had driven down to Brisbane for the Commonwealth Games and then back up to Townsville and then a couple of days later we set out on the trip back home to Mt. Isa. For trainspotters - this also happened on that trip.

Now. My mother had been a rally-car navigator, pilot/instructor and head of her computing dept. (I don't think the term "IT" or it's derivatives even existed back then). But she was also a woman. A woman who could include the kitchen sink in her detailed list of things to take away with us whilst forgetting the absolute essentials. This was a woman who insisted on having a suitcase of clothes packed for her when she went into palliative care... A week prior to her death.
Anyhoo. We had a 2 day drive with no extra water or fuel. From memory we stopped in Charters Towers for a rest and fill up.
A few hundred kays from there mum's Toyota T-18 spluttered to death having shown the fuel warning light for about 50 km. We pushed the car off the road and waited for a few hours for a passing freight truck to go by. Which didn't.
That was when I started to worry. There we were a small, skinny single woman and her 10 yo. son out in the middle of fucking nowhere with not very much food or water, no fuel and no way of communicating our predicament.
Mum locked me in the car & told me she was walking to the last town we'd passed (50 odd km. away) to get fuel. She told me not to open the car doors to anyone.

Then I panicked. For about 9 hours.
Eventually a passing truckie saw me sitting in the passengers seat and then picked my mum up about 10 to 15 km. (apparently his estimate) down the road, took her to the nearest town, organised a jerrycan of fuel and then dropped her back off. He got my attention by rapping on the car window loudly. In the dark.

I wouldn't say I shat myself, but I'm glad I didn't have to do the "post-holiday" laundry that particular time.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Mon 9 Apr 2012, 7:02, 5 replies)

Erk...
I'm a journalist and one day I was interviewing Temuera Morrison, the actor who played (among other brilliant roles) Jake The Muss from Once Were Warriors, arguably the scariest character to grace the silver screen.
So I've spent a day on set watching Morrison work, chatting away when we could and being thoroughly charmed by someone who's not only professional but a lovely guy.
At the end I thanked him for his time and confessed I'd been somewhat worried about the interview having watched Once Were Warriors at the weekend as part of my research.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you were so bloody frightening as Jake," I replied.
And in a heartbeat, Morrison's entire demeanor changed.
He went livid with rage, veins popped out on his forehead and leaned across the table until he was about two inches from my face and snarled: "What. The. FUCK! Do you mean by that!!!"
I couldn't speak, I couldn't move, I just sat there thinking "This is how I die".
Then Morrison sat back with a huge grin on his face and said: "See that? That's called acting!"
Give that man an Oscar... and give me a new pair of pants.
( difficultchild, Mon 9 Apr 2012, 4:16, 1 reply)

I have a confession to make.
I don't like heights.
Now up until fairly recently. I didn't know I had this little problem, after all, in my younger years I climbed trees and the odd abandoned building with no qualms whatsoever and since then I've happily wandered about on rooftops and clifftops, happy as a mong with an icecream.
Thing is, all of these have one common feature.
I might be splatting distance from the ground but there's something nice and solid under my feet.
A cable-car, on the other hand, is a fragile box suspended from a worryingly thin bit of wire by another worryingly thin bit of wire.
You know when is a bad time to discover that cable-cars freak you out?
When you've just pulled away from the platform and the car begins to sway in the hitherto unremarkable breeze and you can't help but look down at the Matchbox sized cars at the bottom of the valley and you realise that if the cable snaps it will take a team of JCBs to fill in the hole you will make in the earth's crust...
The next ten minutes were possibly the least fun I've ever had in my life. Whimpering may have been involved.
Aging Teddy boys in pubs scare me too. Psychos the lot of them.
(Big D, Sun 8 Apr 2012, 23:20, 2 replies)

I'm shite at posting here....
But oh well.

I've only been on this planet for 13 years, but I have one story to tell.

In the summer of 2010, I went on a camping trip with scouts (should've posted some stories last week, oh well) Anyhoo, we were on the return journey, where just before our stop to the sheds ( about 2 miles from the meetin place), our leader had to slam on the brakes because we got cut up by some twunt doing warp 10 down a b road.

That's not the scary part. Basically, we cocked up on timing and were speeding to the van centre. However, on one corner there was a open drain cover that a car went wide to get past. As we went round the corner. The van spun round into a ditch, and kept going for what felt like forever.

Time slowed down when I realised someone wasn't wearing a seatbelt, and was rolling around the floor when a window (whole window pane) came down on top of the , leaving some pretty nasty blood EVERYWHERE. Suddenly the fear set in, as my friend could have been killed, and I could have prevented it by telling them to put on the seatbelts.

As the van halted to a stop thanks to a now van shaped tree, I realised something. My friend wasn't moving. Everyone else had got up, but this one wasn't. She was unconscious as they put her into the ambulance, and everyone looked visibly terrified.

She turned out fine at hospital, just a few minor scratches, and there were no serious injuries. But as I lay there in bed that night, I was suddenly shit terrified. I remembered having a dream about this a few months before. This has happened only twice on my life (the dreams, not driving into a tree), and I hope I am lucky enough to never have to see a human just lying there, blood everywhere. I still shudder at what could have happened, and I hope I am never that terrified again (cos I'm a man and shit, grr)

Length? The fear lasted for hours.
(D.I.pshit solved another case on, Sun 8 Apr 2012, 22:05, 11 replies)

no wonder kids dont like their greens

( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Sun 8 Apr 2012, 22:01, 1 reply)

Just now
For the past half an hour I've been sitting at my desk hearing this strange, intermittent sound. Sort of like a baby crying, or a slow creaking noise, every now and then. A really tiny sound, like that made by a tiny, daemonic imp. Coming from under my bed!

I eventually tracked it down to a bottle of diet Pepsi. The lid was slightly loose and the sound was the escaping air.

It freaked me out quite a bit I can tell you, thought it was worth sharing!
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sun 8 Apr 2012, 18:50, 1 reply)

pidge in
about 4 hours ago i hit a pidgeon whilst driving at 'the speed limit' on the M11- it tightened my nutsack a little- but not as much as having to scoop it out of the radiator and grille at the services after- I have a pic but dont know how to upload it to here- much lols- B
(bangthedrum, Sun 8 Apr 2012, 17:41, 7 replies)

I was in Nepal, at the turning point of a very long trip
Me, my wife, and my (by then) 2 year old son had driven there in a bus, and were about to drive home. We were having dinner in a big, open-sided restaurant in Pokhara with two Dutch couples, and some very nice Swedish guys we'd been hanging out with. My son had finished with his dinner, and was playing with his cars around our feet. Suddenly, we realised we couldn't see him, so we started hunting around the restaurant; he was an adventurous and friendly kid, and we weren't really worried.

We couldn't see him though, so we went back to the table, and 3 of the Dutchies pitched in to help looking. The other, and the Swedish guys, were very stoned and deep in conversation. We searched the restaurant again, asked the staff, checked the kitchen, went out into the street (a dirt track) outside, checked in the shops over the road. There was no doubt about it, he was gone. The most likely explanation was that he had been kidnapped; Madelaine McCann was not yet born, and we were parodying her story. We figured we needed to go to the police station, but it seemed horribly likely that we'd never see him again. I've never known such a feeling of fear; my little blue-eyed boy gone, never to be seen again. We went back to the table to tell the Swedes what had happened, and that we needed to go to the Police station. They looked blearily at us, and about half way through the explanation one of them said "Wait, Sammy? But he's asleep here on the bench next to me......". He had got tired, scrambled up on to the bench, and dozed off, and somehow, the guys had been too stoned to notice us hunting for him in blind panic. I tell you what, you never take your kids for granted after something like that.
(Sammyhaswoefullyneglectedyou, Sun 8 Apr 2012, 17:33, Reply)

I'd been on a successful sortie to get royally pissed
And somehow in my inebriated state I'd managed to pull. We engaged in some vigorous rumpy-pumpy in all manner of positions, many of which are illegal in Kentucky. In fact, she was quite the most depraved sexual partner I have ever had.

In the morning it became apparent my beer goggles had hidden her wonky eye, missing teeth and all manner of minor physical deformities. I was especially terrified when I realised it was your mum.
(Eukanuba, Sun 8 Apr 2012, 16:42, 2 replies)

Murderous rage
Have you ever had someone give you a look square in the eyes that gives you a clear indication that you are about to get murdered? I have...

I used to work with a guy called "Nigel", six foot four built like a brick shithouse. Then on top of that add Falklands vet and angermanagement issues.

Long story short I inadvertently managed to drop a wardrobe on his head.

In complete silence he looked at the wardrobe, then at me, then back to the wardbobe before kicking it to splinters. As soon as it was reduced to matchwood, he lept at me and stared me down inches from my face shaking with rage. Then he went for a long walk and a quiet smoke.

I think I might be lucky to be alive.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Sun 8 Apr 2012, 15:08, 11 replies)