My brother and I used to fight when we were little.
We were both vicious little bastards and so our fights would go on for ages and often land one or both of us in casualty. This one day when I was ten and he was six we were having a spectacular scrap and he was winning. He was beating the crap out of me. In my defence I should say that being beaten up by your six-year-old brother when you're ten is a deeply humiliating experience which I simply could not allow to happen, and that is why I clobbered him over the head with a cricket bat. It was a great shot and I'm frankly amazed he retained consciousness, but alas he did, and went screaming to mummy.

It was at this point that I realised that although he had been giving me a sound beating up until this point, I had no physical evidence of such. Therefore, when Mum came to interrogate me I was going to be in Deep Shit. I did the only thing I could do - I bit my arm. I bit my arm so hard I drew blood, so that when she thundered into my room I could say, "See what he did to me! SEE?"

All went to plan up until this point, when my mum said, "You did that yourself, didn't you?" How did she know? My brother had lost a milk tooth a couple of weeks previously. I had a complete set of toothmarks on my arm. Bugger.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Sun 21 Aug 2005, 21:02, Reply)