Profile for Northern Lovely:
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- a member for 18 years, 11 months and 17 days
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» What's the most horrific thing you've seen?
Oh dear lord, dear lord above
This is a story from my dad, and it is so gruesome it gives me an instant headache and the cold shivers whenever I think about it too hard. I shall begin.
My dad, for years, was a miner in our sleepy Yorkshire village. After working down the pit for years he worked his way up to the control room, which controls the washing devices used to clean the dust off coal (still a messy, noisy, dangerous job, but not *quite* as bad as being a miner proper.)
He used to regularly go into what I believe was called the pit face, which was the section being liberated of it's shiny bounty at the time. A tunnel would be dug directly into the rock, and steel props would be used to bear some of the load of the ground above, and these tunnels would be used for access between faces, and to the lifts up to ground level.
My dad was down there one day, talking to a guy, standing in the access tunnel. It's dark down the pit, and you only have the gloomy light on your hard hat shining on the other person's face to see who you're talking to.
Now, the props used to hold up the tunnel were steel, adjusted by a steel peg through holes in the prop. The pressure of the mass above must have bent the steel prop slightly, causing a peg to 'pop' out of the wall with the speed and force of a bullet.
Straight into my dad's friend's temple. Just under the rim of his hard hat. He was killed instantly.
My dad says one minute he was talking to the man, and the next the bloke looked wide eyed, as his brain oozed out of the other temple.
My dad was sick. But he continued working down that pit for another 20 years. Needs must. Family to feed. Jobs scarce.
Click 'I like this' if you think my dad is very, very, very brave to have ever stepped foot in a pit again.
(Fri 22nd Jun 2007, 12:27, More)
Oh dear lord, dear lord above
This is a story from my dad, and it is so gruesome it gives me an instant headache and the cold shivers whenever I think about it too hard. I shall begin.
My dad, for years, was a miner in our sleepy Yorkshire village. After working down the pit for years he worked his way up to the control room, which controls the washing devices used to clean the dust off coal (still a messy, noisy, dangerous job, but not *quite* as bad as being a miner proper.)
He used to regularly go into what I believe was called the pit face, which was the section being liberated of it's shiny bounty at the time. A tunnel would be dug directly into the rock, and steel props would be used to bear some of the load of the ground above, and these tunnels would be used for access between faces, and to the lifts up to ground level.
My dad was down there one day, talking to a guy, standing in the access tunnel. It's dark down the pit, and you only have the gloomy light on your hard hat shining on the other person's face to see who you're talking to.
Now, the props used to hold up the tunnel were steel, adjusted by a steel peg through holes in the prop. The pressure of the mass above must have bent the steel prop slightly, causing a peg to 'pop' out of the wall with the speed and force of a bullet.
Straight into my dad's friend's temple. Just under the rim of his hard hat. He was killed instantly.
My dad says one minute he was talking to the man, and the next the bloke looked wide eyed, as his brain oozed out of the other temple.
My dad was sick. But he continued working down that pit for another 20 years. Needs must. Family to feed. Jobs scarce.
Click 'I like this' if you think my dad is very, very, very brave to have ever stepped foot in a pit again.
(Fri 22nd Jun 2007, 12:27, More)
» Turning into your parents
I chanced upon this QOTW when I was feeling a bit down.
I've just been to the local Mobility shop to browse their (admittedly fine, and extensive) range of 'low range scooters' (they only go 12 miles before needing plugging in).
Not for me, for my dad. I'm 26 and he is 66. After his stroke two years ago, he has become almost totally dependent on me. I go shopping for him, cut his hair, help wash him, clean for him, and the rest. And I'm no martyr - he's done the same for me, and then some.
I never thought that at my age (or his) that I'd be caring for him as if he was my child, not my dad. He's 'all there' (ie, still a cynical awkward old Northern sod ;) ) and I've had to teach him to speak, read and write. He's come so far. And yet him wanting this scooter is brilliant to me, because he can nip to the shops, buy milk and bread, and go for a walk. Well, a scoot, anyhow.
I turned into a parent, somehow, and now I think like a parent, despite not having children of my own yet. I buy him treats, worry about him when he goes somewhere in a taxi, and I phone him to make sure he's had a healthy dinner. As a result I've become a lot more pragmatic and patient in the rest of my life, which has meant I very rarely get stressed, as nothing fazes me now.
In a few weeks I'm getting married. Dads are supposed to be proud of their daughters on their wedding day. But watching my dad take those few difficult steps down the aisle with me, and listening to him speak, will make me the proudest daughter in the world.
I will probably cry!
(Thu 30th Apr 2009, 19:03, More)
I chanced upon this QOTW when I was feeling a bit down.
I've just been to the local Mobility shop to browse their (admittedly fine, and extensive) range of 'low range scooters' (they only go 12 miles before needing plugging in).
Not for me, for my dad. I'm 26 and he is 66. After his stroke two years ago, he has become almost totally dependent on me. I go shopping for him, cut his hair, help wash him, clean for him, and the rest. And I'm no martyr - he's done the same for me, and then some.
I never thought that at my age (or his) that I'd be caring for him as if he was my child, not my dad. He's 'all there' (ie, still a cynical awkward old Northern sod ;) ) and I've had to teach him to speak, read and write. He's come so far. And yet him wanting this scooter is brilliant to me, because he can nip to the shops, buy milk and bread, and go for a walk. Well, a scoot, anyhow.
I turned into a parent, somehow, and now I think like a parent, despite not having children of my own yet. I buy him treats, worry about him when he goes somewhere in a taxi, and I phone him to make sure he's had a healthy dinner. As a result I've become a lot more pragmatic and patient in the rest of my life, which has meant I very rarely get stressed, as nothing fazes me now.
In a few weeks I'm getting married. Dads are supposed to be proud of their daughters on their wedding day. But watching my dad take those few difficult steps down the aisle with me, and listening to him speak, will make me the proudest daughter in the world.
I will probably cry!
(Thu 30th Apr 2009, 19:03, More)
» Spoooky Coincidence
Car-incidence
Friend of my mum's, called Cassie (so not me, but it's such a freakishly coincidental coincidence it quite frankly terrifies me)
Long ago, before the time of mobiles, my mum's friend's car broke down mid-journey leaving her to walk the rest of the way to work.
Walking past a phone box in an area she'd never walked through before, the phone rang. Though it was unlike her to answer it, she did anyway.
"Cassie! You're late for work - is everything OK?" Panics her boss.
Cassie was suitably freaked out. Turns out that her boss had looked at her (paper, back then) employee file, and dialled what she thought was her home phone number.
But it wasn't her home phone number. It was her employee number. The exact same number as the one for the telephone box she happened to walk past at that specific time - having never done so before or since!
(Thu 8th Feb 2007, 16:40, More)
Car-incidence
Friend of my mum's, called Cassie (so not me, but it's such a freakishly coincidental coincidence it quite frankly terrifies me)
Long ago, before the time of mobiles, my mum's friend's car broke down mid-journey leaving her to walk the rest of the way to work.
Walking past a phone box in an area she'd never walked through before, the phone rang. Though it was unlike her to answer it, she did anyway.
"Cassie! You're late for work - is everything OK?" Panics her boss.
Cassie was suitably freaked out. Turns out that her boss had looked at her (paper, back then) employee file, and dialled what she thought was her home phone number.
But it wasn't her home phone number. It was her employee number. The exact same number as the one for the telephone box she happened to walk past at that specific time - having never done so before or since!
(Thu 8th Feb 2007, 16:40, More)
» Personal Hygiene
*sob* *sob* *sob*
I sit next to a man called Jim at work. He is obese. He has a ponytail of long, greasy hair. Apart from him being a lazy tosser who spends most of his time on forums, he stinks. I mean he really fucking stinks.
He has worn the same shirt and trousers to work for 12 months now. Every day. It's gone, you know, 'bobbly'. I shudder to think of his undergarments.
A week or so ago I (cruelly but desperately) put a blob of lipgloss on the back of his chair (I am female, not gay). He sat down and said blob was transferred. A week ago.
It's still there. My 'dirty bastard test' had proven conclusive.
He smells like my boyfriend's underpants after a particularly hot and sweaty day. He smells like fetid, old, bottom-of-basket, don't-skimp-on-Persil laundry.
I have tried everything. Our manager is a 'virtual manager' (ie never in the sodding office) and she is also too embarrased to confront him. Every time he walks past me I smell satan's arse crack.
I have applied for a new job. So has Jim. In the same company. I am seriously considering pulling my application as the year long smell which permeates my nostrils has started to affect my home life (constantly doing laundry and slightly obesessively cleaning the loo) and what I eat (smell/taste..I can't eat anything 'sweaty'..yes food can be sweaty - lettuce wrapped in plastic for example)
This man is ruining my life..this man is only a foot away and smells like Johnny Vegas' armpit after a sauna. I have spent one working year inhaling his crusty, sweaty balls. Please God someone help me!!
*admits defeat, curls up and cries, munching on a tree-shaped airfreshener*
(Thu 22nd Mar 2007, 13:02, More)
*sob* *sob* *sob*
I sit next to a man called Jim at work. He is obese. He has a ponytail of long, greasy hair. Apart from him being a lazy tosser who spends most of his time on forums, he stinks. I mean he really fucking stinks.
He has worn the same shirt and trousers to work for 12 months now. Every day. It's gone, you know, 'bobbly'. I shudder to think of his undergarments.
A week or so ago I (cruelly but desperately) put a blob of lipgloss on the back of his chair (I am female, not gay). He sat down and said blob was transferred. A week ago.
It's still there. My 'dirty bastard test' had proven conclusive.
He smells like my boyfriend's underpants after a particularly hot and sweaty day. He smells like fetid, old, bottom-of-basket, don't-skimp-on-Persil laundry.
I have tried everything. Our manager is a 'virtual manager' (ie never in the sodding office) and she is also too embarrased to confront him. Every time he walks past me I smell satan's arse crack.
I have applied for a new job. So has Jim. In the same company. I am seriously considering pulling my application as the year long smell which permeates my nostrils has started to affect my home life (constantly doing laundry and slightly obesessively cleaning the loo) and what I eat (smell/taste..I can't eat anything 'sweaty'..yes food can be sweaty - lettuce wrapped in plastic for example)
This man is ruining my life..this man is only a foot away and smells like Johnny Vegas' armpit after a sauna. I have spent one working year inhaling his crusty, sweaty balls. Please God someone help me!!
*admits defeat, curls up and cries, munching on a tree-shaped airfreshener*
(Thu 22nd Mar 2007, 13:02, More)
» * PFFT *
Girl Fart of Death
Some years ago, I had an operation on my fallopian tube. Sadly for me, the operation wasn't the 'cut into the skin and be left with a kickass scar' type of operation but an -ahem- 'natural entry' type op. And I think we all know where the doctor was intending to shove his speculum.
Anyway, to make the op easier, a butch nurse had to stick a well lubed finger somewhere a woman had previously never explored. On the end of this (gloved!) finger was a pessary type pill intended to relax my unsuspecting mimsy. (If you're feeling sorry for me yet, it gets worse)
Anyway, I hadn't been allowed food for something like 24 hours, so I was somewhat suprised when the urge to poo swayed over my suffering self. I hopped off my steel framed bed, waddled (the urge was HUGE) to the loos, wearing nowt but an open backed hospital gown and a pair of big knickers, to the ladies.
Where I passed what can only be described as nuclear waste. Seriously. I'm suprised the toilet didn't melt. It was *yellow* (and I mean, neon had nothing on this literal shit) and it smelt like death itself. I know shit smells bad. I know. But seriously I needed a breathing mask. And it was my OWN. I'm so glad no-one else joined me in the loo in that 10 minute freakout. It seems these relaxant pills relax *everything*.
I waddled back to my bed after a good scrub-down, feeling violated. Even I didn't want to be with me right then, disgusted I was. I felt purged however, and sure the matter would not be repeated.
I had my op, and came to in some 'recovery room' which is basically hospital bollocks for 'if we lie all the invalids side to side we can check they're all still alive without having to walk too far' and then I was wheeled back to my bed to snooze. Snooze I did, for hours, and when I awoke, rather spaced out, my other half was sitting there, looking anxious. My first words? 'Where am I?' No. 'I love you?' Nope.
No, I let a soft and disturbingly long air biscuit float dramatically into the curtained enclosure. I thought there was a slight chance I had gotten away with it, as nothing was said. My nostrils then became gradually aware that this was not the case. I was still rather weak, and powerless to it's evil, meaty, poisonous fumes.
My partner's gaze changed from sympathy and love to disgust and confusion. His eyes started to water, his breathing stopped, he made odd choking noises. To make matters worse, a young nurse came into my pungent lair to bring me a cuppa. Nothing was said, but I SWEAR she gagged.
HOW BAD does a fart have to be that you make a nurse want to physically vomit? HOW BAD?! Nurses see exploded legs and popped eyeballs and all mater of vomit and snot and fecal abnormalities every day and don't even bat an eyelid!
I just lay there and grinned like a mong.
(Fri 13th Jul 2007, 17:36, More)
Girl Fart of Death
Some years ago, I had an operation on my fallopian tube. Sadly for me, the operation wasn't the 'cut into the skin and be left with a kickass scar' type of operation but an -ahem- 'natural entry' type op. And I think we all know where the doctor was intending to shove his speculum.
Anyway, to make the op easier, a butch nurse had to stick a well lubed finger somewhere a woman had previously never explored. On the end of this (gloved!) finger was a pessary type pill intended to relax my unsuspecting mimsy. (If you're feeling sorry for me yet, it gets worse)
Anyway, I hadn't been allowed food for something like 24 hours, so I was somewhat suprised when the urge to poo swayed over my suffering self. I hopped off my steel framed bed, waddled (the urge was HUGE) to the loos, wearing nowt but an open backed hospital gown and a pair of big knickers, to the ladies.
Where I passed what can only be described as nuclear waste. Seriously. I'm suprised the toilet didn't melt. It was *yellow* (and I mean, neon had nothing on this literal shit) and it smelt like death itself. I know shit smells bad. I know. But seriously I needed a breathing mask. And it was my OWN. I'm so glad no-one else joined me in the loo in that 10 minute freakout. It seems these relaxant pills relax *everything*.
I waddled back to my bed after a good scrub-down, feeling violated. Even I didn't want to be with me right then, disgusted I was. I felt purged however, and sure the matter would not be repeated.
I had my op, and came to in some 'recovery room' which is basically hospital bollocks for 'if we lie all the invalids side to side we can check they're all still alive without having to walk too far' and then I was wheeled back to my bed to snooze. Snooze I did, for hours, and when I awoke, rather spaced out, my other half was sitting there, looking anxious. My first words? 'Where am I?' No. 'I love you?' Nope.
No, I let a soft and disturbingly long air biscuit float dramatically into the curtained enclosure. I thought there was a slight chance I had gotten away with it, as nothing was said. My nostrils then became gradually aware that this was not the case. I was still rather weak, and powerless to it's evil, meaty, poisonous fumes.
My partner's gaze changed from sympathy and love to disgust and confusion. His eyes started to water, his breathing stopped, he made odd choking noises. To make matters worse, a young nurse came into my pungent lair to bring me a cuppa. Nothing was said, but I SWEAR she gagged.
HOW BAD does a fart have to be that you make a nurse want to physically vomit? HOW BAD?! Nurses see exploded legs and popped eyeballs and all mater of vomit and snot and fecal abnormalities every day and don't even bat an eyelid!
I just lay there and grinned like a mong.
(Fri 13th Jul 2007, 17:36, More)