The Red Hand of Ulster
When I was a student in the 2000 I lived with six other guys in what, for all intents and purposes, was akin to a U.S. frat house. We we're the archetypal "lads" who went boozing every day and night, missed lectures, slept around and generally had a blast.

Two of the lads in my house were Irish and we had a bit of fun with the culture clash (we remain firm friends to this day). They used to rib us English lads about "The Troubles" and we would mock them back for their Irish-isms.

Anyway, about two weeks into the year I managed the unlikely feat of pulling a real hottie. We had a massive house party at our house and as it was winding down I got talking to this blonde girl who wasn't backwards in coming forwards. A few smokes and drinks later and she suggested we go back to my room for a bit of fun.

How can I explain this?.... I was in that magic zone whereby the alcohol in my system gave me super-staying power. To be fair, she was really enjoying it as well. The lights were out and after a while I was pretty shattered so I asked her to get on top and eventually nature took it's course. It was, by my admittedly tame standards, one of the best one night stands I've ever had.

About 5am I woke up in the pitch black needing a piss, stumbled over to the door and opened it into a deserted, bright stairwell. I was naked and, to my horror, covered from my belly to my thighs in blood!

I dashed upstairs to the bathroom, had a piss, cleaned myself up and thought about how to delicately break it to the girl that she had come on during the act (it wasn't something you could ignore because my bed covers were bloody as well). Anyway, a few hours later I tried to be gentle and understanding but she left crying and ashamed - a real downer on the night before I can tell you.

In those days if one of the lads had scored on the previous night then the rest would be sniffing for details the following morning. Still hungover, the lads hammered on my door 'til I let them in and then reacted like I was some sort of nutter. "There's fucking blood everywhere - what did you do?!", that sort of thing. Being a gentleman I gave them a blow by blow account and they ended up having a sort of semi horrified-admiration for my exploits. Then one of the Irish lads noticed my England flag above the headboard of my bed. The room dissolved into laughter.

Whilst she was on top, to steady herself she had put her hands up against the wall and inadvertantly put a perfect bloody hand-print on my St George Cross.

The night was known as "The Red Hand of Ulster" from then on.

Interesting side note, I found out about 18 months later from one of the girl's friends that she was actually a virgin. I would never have believed it at the time because she seemed to know what she was doing and she was gorgeous. It makes me cringe to think about our little talk of her "coming on". She must have been so disillusioned. I'm not proud of myself but that's the truth!
( Hitler's Barber Soylent Green is high in saturated fat, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:41, Reply)

my nose's last chapter
one morning i was riding my scooter with my older friend when i got a little a HEAD of myself i tried to bunny hop ovver a large curb.....(not the best idea in the fuckin world) my front wheel got caught and i flew over the scooter and landed nose first on the hot ass pavement busting my nose in 2 places, bending my teeth and cookin up a concussion, my nose was squirting blood like it was a special effect from kill bill all the way to my house,up the stairs to my room i made a trail of warm, fresh blood, my mom took me to a hospital that let me suffer a painful concussion and a sore nose that was squirting blood, after that i was taken somewhere else where i was treated instantly, to this day i will not re-attempt that fucked up stunt
(Destroyer6 http://freewebs.com/shawnproductions, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:25, Reply)

Gangrenous blood infection
OH yes.

There I was skateboarding at the soon-to-be-defunct Harrow Skatepark, ripping the shit out of the affectionately labelled "Bollocks".

The guy I was with (a Texan, no less, Texas Tim we called him) was a less experienced skater and didnt forsee my incredible cutbacks, and dropped in on me, with his 80's 50kg tankboard, stopping it, and his entire body weight, on one small spot on my shin.

It hurt, like an unexpected goatse in the morning. There was a big dent in my shin, the bone had shattered at the point of impact and all you could see was white at first, but hen came the blood. Not too much of it really, enough to stick my trousers to my shins every time I took a step.

In my young and pig-headed way I failed to get medical attention and in fact kept skating once the pain had numbed.

cue 2 days later, I wake up in agony, unable to walk properly. The congealed location of impact was a funny colour, but even worse was the blue/green cololur of the veins running up the leg. This blue/green/yellow colour continued up to just below my groin.

6 Nurofen liquid and some good old British grit and I made it to the doctor to be told if I'd left it any longer there would have been a chance the horrendous infection would have made it to my heart and then I would have been in some serious trouble.

Its a good thing the penecillin worked as it would have been an amputation job otherwise.

That was 5 years ago and the wound is still scabbing today! Lovely.

The moral: Clean your wounds. Clean them you fools!
(Pensive, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:21, 1 reply)

London 2001
Coming to the last few weeks of my Uni degree myself and my fellow musician society members decided to have a last hurrah down in London.
I was very depressed around this time as I knew I was going back to Scotland to a marriage I wasn't happy in and I was pretty much permanently drunk to block the world out.

Unfortunately, my depression meant I got really aggressive when I'd had a few. I'd sunk around 8 cans of Stella during the day, and the hot weather had contributed to my inebriated state and I was fairly sozzled by the time we went out.

I managed to get us all kicked out of the Indian restaurant we were eating at for being generally obnoxious and abusive to the staff, so my friends understandably took exception and buggered off and left me stuck in the middle of Hampstead.

I eventually managed to make my way back to the youth hostel after my alcohol-homing system kicked in. I went up to the room and finding no-one there decided to punch the window. It went through easy enough, on the way out however, I managed to leave a large chuck of my wrist on the jagged shards. Cue a spray or arterial red. I stumbled down to reception holding my arm and waved it about at the guy manning the desk. Avoiding the arcing scoosh of blood, the nice man kindly phoned and ambulance after wrapping a bandage round my damaged limb.

I got to Hampstead hospital and sat and waited...and waited...and waited. Two hours later I finally twigged that I hadn't checked in at reception. After this it was another two hours before I was seen to and by this time I was in a pretty bad way and they had to wheel me into the surgery as my legs had pretty much ceased to function.

I knew it wasn't good when the doctor peeled the sodden bandage off and grimaced. Where there had been nice, smooth skin was now a gaping hole in the centre of wrist, tendons and muscle clearly visible. By this time I had grey creeping in the corner of my vision and I could feel my self slipping into oblivion. Deciding I didn't care if I woke up or not I let myself drift.

I awoke to a vision of auburn loveliness, a gorgeous redhead in a nurses uniform.
"You've been a silly boy, haven't you?" she said in an Australian accent with a slight mocking tone, which roughly translated as, "You've been a complete wanksock, haven't you?"
Nodding dumbly, I gingerly raised my arm. It was now whole again, but I now had four seperate areas of stitching, and my fingers were stiff and a little bit blue.
I was informed I'd sliced a vein, which had explained the jet, and lost a lot of blood.

I've never been so dumb again, but I can't wear a watch on my left wrist as all the scar tissue tethered itself around the nerves, and my hand just goes completely dead.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:12, Reply)

my hand has a vagina!!!!!!
one night after i turned the lights out i was going back to my bed and instead of stepping on my dog i took a step too far past him and when i went to crawl into bed from the foot of the bed i missed and my hand slipped off the side of the bed and my hand landed on the fucking corner of the bedframe, instantly i yanked up my blood-drooling hand and turned on the light , my mom quickly drove me to the hospital in 25 minutes and i got that large bloody gaping v-shaped gouge on my hand 2 stitches (not much you think, well u b wrong) and the doctors told me that i officially bcame a man that day , today i have a very faint scar. that morning (4 am) was the most fucked up morningbof my life so far...
(Destroyer6 http://freewebs.com/shawnproductions, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:11, 1 reply)

Ever smacked yourself in the face with a wooden mallet ???
I have. It hurts.

The screams could be heard across the campsite, all the way into teignmouth.

Parents had bought those boxes of wine, and when emptied, if you open the box there is a bag with the tap on. If you blow into the tap, you can make a fancy pillow for yourself..to much amusement. *coughs*.. anyway, I asked my drunk father if I could burst the pillow with the mallet (large, about 5 " diameter - used to bang in the windbreaks) to which he thought this would be an excellent idea.. so off I trundled, a handful of paces away from the family.. and in a motion that was replicated by Bobby the Barbarian in Dungeons & Dragons, I brought down the mallet with both hands in one almighty smash !

There was no BANG! that day.. The motion of my two handed swing brought my upper body closer to the ground, and the mallet bounced back of the wine pillow and smacked me squarely in the nose.

Blood erupted like mount vesuvius, endlessly pouring everywhere.. cue my mother going hysterical, and my father trying not to laugh as they argued to the point of divorce.

Miraculously I didn't break my nose.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:01, 3 replies)

haha
clicked
(Neomancer last looked smug on, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:54, 3 replies)

Live Gigs MkII
Similar to 442's response, live gigs have led to some amazing injuries (including my mate's lip ring getting torn out at a Bush concert. Of all fucking places.) Best one had to be at the Wedgewood Rooms, which if you're not familiar with the South Coast's premier music venue, is not much bigger than someone's bedroom (although bigger than the Joiners in Southampton, natch.). Whilst the satisfyingly disjointed and wholly raucous Dillinger Escape Plan ruined my hearing permanently, I saw a mohawked chump in front of me get rather carried away during 'Sugar Coated Sour', and belt the guy next to him across the mouth. Said guy's mouth was pissing blood, although I'm not sure what was better - the gap-toothed mouth pissing blood, or the tooth still firmly lodged in the other guy's arm. Metallers get a bad name, you know. They were both very nice to each other afterwards.
(Nimrod's Son Boredom provokes some interesting habits..., Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:52, 4 replies)

left a big ol scar
aged 7, i was playing in a back garden and my friend was standing on the roof of the shed. he knocked his ball off the roof and i go to pick it up. he then kicks a brick off the roof of the shed and it just so happens to smack me on the head.

"doink"

i was dazed. so much so that i dropped the ball and staggered out of the garden. my older friend came along and being not sure what to do, i cried a little bit. my friend jumped off the roof and started nervously laughing at me. my head was feeling funny. i put my hands up to my hair and pulled them away.

i screamed my head off.

a LOT of blood leaking out of my head. my friend from the roof shuts up and goes bloody pale. i managed to run all the way back home with red smeared all down my face.

i dont tie my hair up because there's a charming bald patch along my hairline.
(ladyintheradiator, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:42, Reply)

DSS Junkie Paradise
Way back when, as I was gradually coming to the realisation that a life of trying to persuade people that working for a living was a fucking great idea and that they should try it sometime wasn't really what I wanted from life, I heard a tale that, for a moment, convinced me that my own position really wasn't that bad in comparison.

The North East of England is mostly characterised by its sparsity of population, open rural landscapes, and small towns. Oh, and whippets*. You would think that a rampant drug problem wasn't really part of the makeup of the area, but in some instances, you'd be way off the mark.

Take Blyth, in Northumberland for example. A few years ago it had a mahoosive heroin problem, partly on account of it being a sea port. Blyth is still on my list of virtual no-go areas to be honest and I try to avoid it wherever possible. But on occasion I had to do a stint at the DSS office there. Thankfully, as it turned out, not on reception.

The customer area of the buidling was actually upstairs, accessed by a split level flight of stairs. The climbing of which posed a serious health risk owing to all the discarded hypodermics lying around. One day the whole area had to be closed off...

One punter had come in to claim a crisis loan for something (more than likely to all intents and purposes a new fridge, but in reality probably his next fix). Just prior to entering the waiting area though, he had the oh-so-bright idea of shooting up with his last remaining stash.

In his groin.

Which started to bleed rather profusely.

At which point he decided that it would be a good idea to give the receptionist nightmares by pressing his blood-soaked member up against the glass screen and rub it back and forth, ensuring a nice bloody smear for the cleaners to deal with when they came in.

I still think that Blyth should be razed to the ground.

*For purely stereotypical reasons, natch
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:35, 5 replies)

I love live music...
Live bands are often fantastic fun, other than the odd crap band and small incident that inevitably happens during the more enthusiastic shows, which leads to the day I was happily bouncing about, until some kid managed to bounce backwards straight into my face...

Didn't really bother me particularly much as it wasn't that painful and blood dosen't bother me, though the chap I met as I went to the toilets to clean up did seem rather shocked at the amount of blood pouring from my nose.

The best bit came as I went back to rejoin my friends watching the bands and discovered I had left a perfect trail of blood from the dancefloor back to the toilets where it had dripped through my fingers as I tried to contain it.

I have always wondered if I managed to leave a red stain on the back of the head of the blonde haired chap that cannoned into me in the first place. If you were at a gig a few years ago in Aberdeen and found a mysterious bloodstain on the top of your head, I would say sorry but it serves you right for smacking me one (even if it was accidental).
(442, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:34, Reply)

Patio windows and doors
Now I'm sure there are many B3tans here who have at one time or another walked into a patio door. I managed it the other week, it was partially open so could hear noises and assumed it was open, it wasn't so belted my head with a lovely 'DUUUUNNNNGGGG' sort of noise from the glass (and I was bloody sober).

However, this story isn't about me but a mate who was at a house party and tripped over a lawn ornament and ended up going face first through a patio window slicing clean through his cheek (the only injury, I'm very surprised at that).

The idiot kept on drinking and was curious as to why stuff was coming out of his face when his mouth was closed, we finally got him to A and E and after some stitches and a night in to be observed (he was too leathered for proper treatment that night) he was ok, but now has an evil scar which looks pretty cool.

So, any patio door/window manufacturers who read this, please put some sort of decoration on the door, at about eye level please, this will stop many, many accidents!

You read it here first, I expect some type of heath and safety reward now...
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:26, Reply)

My balls came off!
My friend, lets call him Mike, for that is blah blah. His girlfriend Jane tells this story quite nicely. I shall recall.

Mike liked a puff. Not the Elton John variety, but the weed variety. Quite often, with the missus fast asleep, Mike liked nothing more than to settle down on the sofa and smoke a few fatties watching late night telly (joints, not cocks) wearing just his boxers. (Lets be honest, this is a great thing to do occasionally).

Often he would get peckish, and nip to the fridge in order to sample the delights from within. On the evening of this story, the delights were in the form of the little babybel cheeses, the ones in the thick red waxy stuff that feels ace when you peel off.

Lying back on the sofa, babybels arranged on his chest, mike had a good munch (on the cheese, not on a cock, stop thinking gay things) and at somepoint passed out in a cheesy smokey blur, chest covered in ash, babybel wrappers and the waxy shells. A beautiful sight you'll agree.

In the morning, Mike woke in a bit of a stupor. Still pretty stoned, he stumbled in to the bathroom, and the shower not really very awake. As he stood in the hot water, steam rising, lathering up, he started to wash his balls (god this is really not a gay story) only to find they came off in his hand. Literally.

Looking down through the lather, in the steam and with soapy blurry stoned eyes, Mike stared at the bloody red mess in his hands, his balls had literally melted and come off and now he was holding them, quite separate from his groin, in his hand. An unusual event, and quite a scary one.

Jane recalls a bloodcurling scream from the bathroom, one with a tone and volume usually reserved for very serious events, like running out of weed, and she ran into the bathroom. Mike had flung the door open and was standing, hand outreached, showing her the big red bloody mess that was his testicles and screamed "my balls! my balls have come off!".

Jane of course was now pissing herself laughing. It took Mike a few minutes to work out that he was clutching a soft pile of waxy red babybel 'shell'. Whilst on the sofa all night, they had obviously worked their way down his front, and ended up in the crotch of his boxers. His body heat warmed them, and they formed a nice cup around his bollocks which survived until he inadvertently washed them off in the shower.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:18, 5 replies)

Several weeks after ripping the roll neck jumper on my john thomas
due to an enthusiastic bout of rumpy pumpy, I ended up in hospital getting a few stitches in the old chap, and being told to abstain for any fun activies for the next 4 weeks.

I can handle that, I thought. Well after 2 weeks, I couldn't handle it. Fuck it, I thought, I'll be gentle, and crack one out, what's the worst that can happen.

All went according to plan, it didn't fall off which was a bonus, and wasn't painful (the stitches having dissolved thankfully, though the industrial strenght painkillers might have helped here). In a dozy, post-wank, state, I lay there blisfully dozing off, when I felt a warm sensation inside my kex. The docs stern warning started coming back to me, and feeling apprehensive, I stuck my hand down there. It came back covered in blood. Covered. Fucking loads of it.

I was still feeling faint, but no longer from a bout of one armed exercise. I was feeling faint because I thought I'd just wanked my cock clean off my body. Looking on the bright (red) side, there was no pain. On the down side, there was no cock either.

Well there was, but the little trooper had decided to to the honourable thing, and retreat as far from danger, and my hands, as it could. Balls.

After panicking for a half hour, things began to sort themselves out, and a quick shower revealed the tiniest of cuts, where a stitch hadn't quite finished doing it's stuff, and which I'd ripped open. No longer sensing danger, my trouser snake felt confident in making a re-appearance, much to my delight.

Abstaining for the next two weeks wasn't nearly as difficult.
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:18, Reply)

NYE two years ago...
...and I ended up with a bloody nose after play-fighting with a colleague on the bed of the hotel room we were staying in, after finishing a late, drunken shift at said hotel.

**************************
Fast forward 1 year...
**************************

...and my nose is giving me trouble breathing, inner cartilage having been knocked out of place after the elbow-drop from NYE.

Trot off to the GP and I was put forward for a simple operation to correct it.

After a night in hospital and a straight-forward op, I returned home with my tender nose and got in bed.

Awaking the next morning with the familiar morning glory, I decided to sort it out after abstaining from self-love whilst in hospital.

After the initial first strokes, I realised that my face felt wet and my mouth tasted coppery and there was bloody pissing from my nose! Running to the bathroom, I spent the next half hour trying to stop the flow, which stopped after pulling a few lovely clotted bits out of my nose...

The next morning I felt the similar urge when I awoke, and after summing up the pros and cons for a couple of seconds, I gave it another try. With similar consequences. Only this time, the blood wouldn't stop!

Having left a trail of blood from my bedroom, across the hall, into my bathroom, I know proceeded to try and decide which receptacle was the best to hold my head over: toilet, sink, or bath?

Well, I used all three, including a vast amount on the floor, the mirror, and all the toiletries. The blood would just not stop! My bathroom resembled the scene from Scarface when the guy is cut up with the chainsaw, not a pretty sight...

I'd lost quite a lot of blood by this point, had gone quite pale and felt very faint. I managed to get to the phone to ask a mate for a lift to l'hopital, which was achieved with a tupperware container held under my nose for the duration.

Upon arrival at the hospital, I was promptly told to sit down before I "made a mess" by the lovely nurse and waited about half an hour before going to ask if I should be worried about how much blood i'd lost. Unfortunately I never made it to the desk, and passed out en route.

When I woke up, I was sat on a bed with a nurse holding my hand and a doctor extracting the bloody with a mini hoover type thing, to stop it long enough to stick the inflatable-tampon-thing up my nostrils.

He was really friendly, especially when he blocked my nose so the blood came down my throat into my mouth, which I immediately choked on and coughed in his general direction. I was asked 'extremely politely' "not to spit blood at him", like a had a fecking choice!

This link is the container he filled sucking blood out of nose, i'd guess it was a 3-4 litre capacity, and this was after it'd been bleeding for a good hour and a half!

In the end, had to spend another four nights in hospital, I was finally released after having the inflatable-tampon-things removed, after being told it was the most excrutiating pain i'd ever experience, it wasn't too bad, just bloody relieved to have them out!

Apologies for length, probably took a couple of mm cartilage out though!
(gin'll fix it, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:12, 1 reply)

Mega supa big nose bleeds
This must have been about 5 years ago, which would have made me 15. I've never had particularly good luck with nosebleeds in particular, and combined with the 15 year-old compulsion to pick whenever possible, I found myself on the bog at school, merrily cleaving away at my nose, and unplugged something up there. Nose started to bleed copiously, almost a full-on stream coming out my nose. Now the normal procedure at this point is tissue, ball it up, and ram it up your nostril towards your brain. But I'd gotten a fair bit of blood on the floor already, and I was skiving off from a lesson in no hurry to get back. So I decided to see just how big a puddle I could make.

Turns out, very. By the time I had dried up, the puddle on the floor was too big to step over to get to the door. As I got to my feet, I slipped on the blood/lino combination and landed directly in it. I spent the rest of the day looking like I'd been stabbed, and the toilet spent the rest of the day looking like someone had been stabbed.

Hmm.
( Rookie You'll have to speak up, I'm wearing a towel, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:59, Reply)

This is making me retch as I type.......
One summer in the early 1990's I was working on a decrepit oil platform about 130 miles to the North East of Aberdeen as part of a crew that were bringing some of the knackered drilling equipment out of 'mothballs' prior to it being upgraded or written off, I forget. This rustbucket had been built in the mid 70's and now was in such a dangerous state that a whole new accommodation platform had been built alongside at huge expense seperated by a 100m long bridge, they'd condemned the office space due to it being built almost entirely of asbestos and the pipework was in such a state that we had to wear breathing apparatus escape sets at all times when on the old platform in case of a gas leak - the methane from below the sea around there comes up laced with a pretty high concentration of hydrogen sulphide mixed in - take a look here at what it can do to you:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hydrogen_sulfide#Safety

It all sounds pretty horrific, but in fact this was an easy job, there were about eight of us, all on dayshift for three weeks. No-one was really hassling us, the sun, for once had been shining for the entire trip, most of the work was out on deck with the sea sparkling below and there was only the background noise of the generators as everything else was shut down for this period of work.

One day we had to test that the foam fire fighting system was working for one part of the platform that hadn't required covering for a couple of years. This consists of nozzles placed at various locations around the area that would pump foam into an area and (supposedly) buy a little time for everyone to escape and maybe suppress or contain any fire while the source of fuel is shut off.

Skinny Jimmy noticed that an important valve was closed and would need to be opened before we could proceed (Jimmy was not the luckiest man around - the trip before he'd fallen asleep in his cabin mid tug and was discovered still sat in the chair with the porn on, cock in hand by the Cabin Stewardess the following morning - naturally she called us all in to gather 'round before we woke him with a clap and cheer....six months later he somehow managed to twist his testicles around one another stepping down out of a shipping container, I can still hear the screams as we stretchered him up to the helideck).

I digress, sorry. The job shut down, Jimmy toddled off to fetch a large pipe wrench to assist with opening the rusty valve, comes back with it, attaches it to the valve and hangs off it with all of his seven stone wieght to get it turning.

The whole rusty four inch diameter pipe sheared off, jimmy falling to the deck and landing on his back as a couple of hundred gallons of FFFP (Film Forming Fluoroprotein Foam) concentrate washed over him. What's so bad about that? I hear you ask...foamy bubbles? Some sort of detergent base perhaps....? No, FFFP is a euphemism for slaughterhouse waste - blood if you will that's treated to stop it clotting and partially going off, in a nutshell it then mixes with a chemical that makes it foam up when mixed with water and gives you the nice foam blanket for blocking the oxygen to your fire. It's been superceded pretty much all over now by other stuff due to the risk of BSE 'prions' that might be in it.

So poor old Jimmy is getting covered in this, unable to get up as he's been winded by the fall, gasping for breath, its in his mouth, eyes, ears nose, clothing, everywhere as we all stand around gawping, not wanting to get too close (and giggling a bit)....it stinks, but there's a breeze blowing and mercifully the floor is steel grating and it's basically running to the sea a hundred feet below.

Except for one thing, the red hot generator exhausts are below too and a fair whack of it is landing on them so a huge cloud of *boke* boiling rotten *boke* years old blood flavoured *retch* steam comes floating up to envelope us all......Barfmongous, you could smell it for weeks.....
(Oil Slick, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:58, Reply)

Listen yeah this ting ere is my story

Definitely I hustle blood, definitely I grind
You can try anything you want I definitely don't mind
Definitely got my ting, I definitely know your face
So don't jump out your promo, definitely put you in your place
Definitely I hustle blood, definitely I graft
So you can chat anything you want, 'cause I'll definitely will jus laugh
Definitely got my swords, definitely got them sharp
So don't keep talking like you bright, 'cause it definitely will get dark
Listen, definitely I hustle blood, definitely I fly, so you can chat anything you want,
I'll definitely jus sigh


lost of love and friendly kisses
Dizzee Rascal
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:57, Reply)

Nose-Periods arising from Non-Viral Hepatitis
When I was younger I was put on some medication that didn't agree with me. In actuality I later learned that there was no need for any medication at all, but that is another story.

One Friday I was feeling a bit worse for wear, and retired to bed after leaving work around 11am.

As the day wore on I began to feel more and more like death, with a high fever, sick but unable to throw up and so on.

That afternoon my nose started bleeding fairly heavily. It bled almost constantly between friday and monday, and when it did occasionally stop I couldn't resist pulling out the clots and it would inevitably start again. I did try sticking a slim tampon in each nostril, which only resulted in a stomach full of blood.

The torrent of blood coming out of my nose, coupled with the fact that I went an odd shade of baby-poo yellow finally led me to see a doctor, who pointed out that because of a bad reaction to the medication my liver protested, going on strike and refusing to do any work. Hence the jaundice, and low platelet count.

All in all I left work on the friday weighing ~75 kilos, and was measured at 63kg the following monday.
I spent the weekend quite delirious but am told I made it out to the Ministry of Sound tour in Melbourne, and even enjoyed a quantity of beer. I don't remember but I imagine the hangover would have been horrific, and am now inclined to avoid anything that may cause my liver to pack it in in future. Other than the fun stuff...

Length? 12kg in 3 days = 160g an hour lost through my body eating all my muscle to feed the fever.
(Edktstsss, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:53, Reply)

Blunt toe cutter.
Just a short one....

Getting out of bed, I sat up, shuffled round a bit, coughed, farted, scratched my balls, and flung back the quilt - ready to start a brand new day.

When I swung my legs around to stand up though, I caught my big toe on the 'seam' edge of the radiator. Thrown off balance by my legs suffering interuption mid-swing, I ended up on all fours on the bedroom floor (fnarr fnarr) momentarily before doing the hopping shouty "Stubbed toe dance".

The astute among us will have noticed that I deliberately described the edge of the radiator, that's because I kicked it with enough force to cut my big toe from root to tip, splitting the nail in half en-route. The blood was plentiful, though not excessive. The blood I found that night when I took my work boots off had soaked my sock to the ankle.

See what happens if you wake up bright & cheery?!
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:43, Reply)

Haiii-ya!
I was playing ninjas with a friend and managed to knee myself in the nose. There was lots of blood after that.

Length? Well I'm hoping my mention of ninjas will get me a few clicks.
(Martin1337 was trying and failing to be funny at, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:38, Reply)

In conjunction with the period posts
Down our local market there's a chap selling tampons.
His chalkboard reads thus:

"TAMPAX TAMPONS - Box of 100 for £1 - Absolute bargain offer, no strings attached."
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:35, 2 replies)

black pudding cannibalism
My granddad was a butcher. Like any butcher, he occasioanlly suffered a nasty cut while chopping and slicing, especially when the meat was fresh out of the cold locker and his hands were numb. Indeed, on one occasion he chopped of the top off his right index finger while trimmin some pork.

But he was of the old school. Waste not want not was his refrain, and as the claret pulsed from the wound, he was quick-minded enough to grab a receptacle and collect the precious fluid as he phoned the emergency services with the other hand.

How he laughed next morning when we tucked into a full English breakfast, icluding a small black pudding he'd made with his very own blood and some supplementary pork fat! Mum vomited herself dry, dad swore immoderately and my sister became a vegetarian for life. I thoght it was quite nice.
(frankspencer, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:29, Reply)

Just come back from Honeymoon in Mexico
Blood sucking mother fucking spindly sneaky cunting Mosquitos.

It was a 5 star all inclusive.

I didn't fucking realise I was on the menu.

Bastards.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:23, 4 replies)

Cock blood.
I once trapped the end of my wee man in a metal zip, a bit like in There's Something About Mary, but not as bad. Hurt like hell, bled a little, but the scar means I have an extra 'side-stream' when I piss.
(ice9, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:20, Reply)

Despite all the tales of bloody woe...
There is one reason why (pig's) blood is good.

BLACK PUDDING.

Sliced and fried for in an English breakfast, there is nothing better. Unless you use a whole one as some kind of gory marital aid, that is...
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:17, 8 replies)

Sunday Bloody Sunday...

Standing at the top of a hill in a park drinking whiskey in the moonlight with my pal…

At some point I vaguely remember him claiming he was going to "ride my carcass down the mountain" before launching himself at me, propelling us both through the hedge barrier and surfing me down a very steep hill at great speed like some kind of god-awful human sledge.
Luckily my head stopped us reaching warp speed thanks to a conveniently placed tree...
I don’t recall much else that night (or that year come to think of it) aside from both of us running off to my house whooping, to sleep the booze & pain off.

I awoke to see his chubby torso dangling from the spare bed opposite me and groggily fired two BB pellets from the permanantly loaded 'Webley Stinger' I kept next to my bed, into the flank of his leg to wake him up - which it did spectacularly.
As we both sat up I realised I had a bright red pillow attached to my head which I had to literally peel off and dispose of. Turns out I had been haemorrhaging all night long!
We both laughed, whislt marvelling at the dark pool of blood in my bed and the two trickles running down his leg.

About a year later I had to have an operation to remove a catarct from my eye, a unusual affliction for an eighteen year old boy, which the doctor told me was most likely caused by a severe blow to the head - I would have cried but my tear ducts had inexplicably stopped working...

Great days.
(wrigglesworth, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 11:04, 1 reply)

What, no blood?
When I were a lad, health & safety were two words that existed in their own right without being so inextricably linked as to ruin anything that may constitute fun.

This meant that blood would be spilled with alarming frequency and on the many times it was, my brothers and I would usually receive a swift slap and a "don't be so bloody stupid next time" from our dear mother.

So it was, when Dad returned one sunny afternoon with a tatty old see-saw that lifted far into the air, as well as spinning around in circles, my Mum simply tutted to herself and checked the cupboard for plasters while the three of us established who would first be subject to this unfounded joy that lay before us.

Dad would have been long gone, probably satisfied that he could sit in front of the motor racing without distraction. Mum would have been grateful for the peace and quiet, relaxing at the other end of the garden as the faint sound of lawnmowers provided a drone on top of which the sound of birdsong and the happy laughter of kids would add a merry melody (she knew well enough that silence indicated bad behaviour and only then need she concern herself as to our activities).

Completely unsupervised then, my older brother accessed his deviance gene and quickly formed a plan that would shatter this scene of domestic bliss, at the expense of yours truly, for he was a little shit in that way...

Spinning as quickly as the rusty old see-saw would allow, he waited until I was at the very peak of the spin when he dug his feet in and stopped fast. Not expecting such a battle with inertia my grip was weak and I found myself describing a perfect arc through the air before making my acquaintance with the ground below. My arms failed to take the opportunity to provide a buffer between face and ground, so my nose had to do it all by itself.

....

silence

.....

Older & younger sibling stood, watching, waiting.

......

I peeled myself from the hole my nose had dug in the soil and raised a nervous, shaking hand to my face, expecting blood, lots and lots of blood.

......

The sudden silence rang in Mum's ears like a fire alarm and she warmed her hands together in anticipation of reddening backsides.

.......

But there was nothing. My nose had met with the hard ground at such a pace that it should surely have bled furiously, and condemned big brother to a meeting with Mr Slipper, but it didn't. He'd gotten away scot free and I was told to stop my snivelling, as there was clearly nothing wrong with me.

That day set a precedent for my nose, as many a clash during rugby and football matches, the occasional fight I failed to avoid during my school days and much youthful misadventure failed entirely to draw blood from it. I haven't tested this theory for some years now, and with my aversion to fighting, pain & sport, don't intend to test it again any time soon, but until proven otherwise I will always believe that my nose is incapable of providing blood... and long may that be the case.
( Moey, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 10:56, Reply)