Back in the day
when as kids the weekends provided endless fun. We used to gather in numbers and obviously get bored and seek out engenious ways to cause mayhem. I was determined to blow something up and I knew at some point in the day someone would start a fire (as you do). Twas in the woods near the railway tracks we found a quiet spot. Fire going. Without prior warning I throw an aerosol can in the middle of that fire. This caused a lot of my mates to run for cover, but not I. I stood close by (not too close) waiting for a wonderful display. After 30 or so seconds nothing happens. So clever me gets a stick and pokes it... BOOM!
Black face and a 10 minute ringing in my ears. Fun.
(Moofster, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 1:12, Reply)

Brushes with the Grim Reaper? That night, a good few.
I'll keep this as short and sweet as I can, was only the other week or so when the country went barmy over the snow. I don't know whether it was the snow or the copious amounts of red stripe that had been consumed that made us do these things.

So I'll set the scene, just around the corner from my girlfriends house is quite a large reservoir, Edgbaston reservoir for those who live in Birmingham. Its got quite a large hill, ideal for sledging. No sledge? but you've a pair of the pallets that your mattress lies on? - You can see where this is going.

On the way back to the reservoir with many a can of red stripe in hand and enough masking tape to seal the San Andreas fault we pass a toilet. Some people steal traffic signs, some people steal cones. This night, we stole a second hand toilet off some-ones doorstep. See figure a:



I say again, I don't know whether it was the snow or the red stripe that made us do these things.

This is where the danger begins, illustrated better by this picture:



I could end this story here and say that having your feet heavily strapped to two, 3ft non-ski fit planks on a snowy hill is how I met the grim reaper. But i'll carry on.

After much more farting about in the snow and failing to ski, we made our way to the bottom of the hill. Toilet in hand.
We discovered a football in a nearby tree and as you may or may not do when drunk, (I'm thinking about that advert where the lass loses her balloon...) my friend decides to climb such tree. Can you guess what happens next?

We pass the toilet to him in hope of placing it within the tree and for it to forever be one of those wierd, urban things what no-one can explain. Seemed logical at the time, in hindsight no-one would have been impressed. Another picture to show such friend in tree:



Standing under a tree while drunk, when slippery and snowy, of which a toilet is being balanced is where my story of my brush with the Grim Reaper nears an end. I just don't understand how in a split second of seeing the toilet hurtle towards my face, being able to gain cat like features and flinch out the way.

To conclude, me and my 3 mates that night did indeed have a couple of encounters with death but we all survived. For the toilet that was destined for a meeting with death himself at the local tip, we gave him his last hurrah, having fun with a bunch of arses and a second life :



Apologies for poor grammar and thanks for reading.
(PassTheKhat, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 1:12, 12 replies)

Still bearing the scars
Enter the Cap'n, a happy-go-lucky 8 year old with nary a care in the world.

Our front door was effectively just a massive load of windows with thin bits of wood separating them. One day, after an argument with a friend... shove wooden bit, hand slips off and straight through window.

Result? An inch long gash right in the middle of my wrist, which now allows my friends immense amusement in giving it all the "LOL EMO CUT WRISTS BLAH BLAH" lark.

Doesn't sound too serious right now. Well... there's a lot of veins, arteries and tendons in that part of the wrist. A severed vein or artery (wasn't really in a position to take note of which) resulted in a scene out of CSI, while three severed tendons went *ping* like elastic, requiring surgery just to find the buggers. 50 stitches and a scar half way up my forearm the result.

I don't remember a whole lot between window smashing and arrival at casualty.

(An honourable mention goes to last week's episode where I managed to drink myself blind and collapsed in the street. Apparently I was OK for a while after that, then became completely unresponsive. Cue a trip to hospital that I have no memory of. I'm now teetotal.)
( Dave McF wrote some words on, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 1:07, Reply)

Bikeov
~~~wavy lines~~~

Picture the scene if you will. It's Northumberland in the summer. The birds are tweeting and suchlike, and all is good with the world. This is the area that inspired Postman Pat.

I was around 8 years old. My parents lived in a village in the middle of nowhere (no shop, no pub, but there was a church...) Now, the newspapers got delivered to the next little hamlet around a mile from where my parents lived, and as a child I was entrusted to get on my sister's old bike (phnar phnar) and ride along the lane to get the papers.

My sister's bike was a monstrous green contraption that looked like it was made in a tractor factory in Treblinsk during the dark days of the Soviet Motherland. Somehow, bikeov (for that was what my sister had christened it) had made its way from the icy steppes to the slightly less icy hills of the north of England. Now, bikeov was far, far too fucking big for me, but as my sister had bought herself a brand new racing bike, and my old bike was far too small for me, and my parent's were tighter than an ugly nun's clunge, it was bikeov or walking. So, I picked bikeov out of the shed and wobbled up the road.

As I was returning with my newsly bounty (one could virtually hear bikeov complaining at the lack of state controlled media in the imperialist west - well, it was the Guardian) I saw a wonderful thing. It was half a broom handle. Discarded at the side of the road. Yes, OK, there was no broom attached, but to an 8 year old boy, suddenly, this was a gun! Huzzah! So I pulled over on bikeov, picked up my trophy, hauled myself back on, and started cycling away, with the pole held in something akin to a jousting position.
"Hmm," I thought as I rode along "I wonder if that scene in Indiana Jones really works." For those of you scratching your heads, I was of course referring to the scene where Indy sticks a flagpole through the wheels of a motorcycle being ridden by a Nazi. The Nazi then does a fairly spetacular somersault. I pull out the broom handle...

...here, things go a little fuzzy. I have had to work out the details afterwards.

I wake up to see a rather concerned neighbour standing over me. I can see sky....well out of one eye. The other eye I can see purple fireworks. Hmm...this is an interesting sensation. What's that noise? It seems to be a car. Mmm...this is nice and comfy lying here. I wont move too much. The neighbour has disappeared. I can hear him talking to someone quite urgently. Ah well, I might just go back to sleep....

....hey, what's this? I seem to be being lifted onto a bed. Ah, that's nice. My road was very comfy. Ohh...the bed seems to move. Oh, the sky's gone now. I'm in the back of some kind of van...oh well, quite tired....

...ah. I'm somewhere else. I don't know where. There's mum. She looks a bit worried...hi mum!!

....BLAUEUERUEURAGHHGHGHHHHHHHHHHHH.....

oh, sorry mum, I seem to have been a bit sick there. Why does my face hurt so much....?


I was in hospital for several days.

Bikeov survived in stoic communist style.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Fri 13 Feb 2009, 1:02, 12 replies)

Flaming balls of shit!
I have a mate. He's a bad influence. When he and I get together, we're positively chaotic. This episode tells of a time shortly after he was blessed with his first child. Sit back and enjoy.

So my mate lives on a fairly remote farm. Not served by regular trash pickup, he is quite canny with his rubbish. Once their little crotchfruit came along, however, he and the missus quickly (within three days) tired of terry-towelling nappies, and bought disposables. All was fine for four months. To deal with the disposables, he simply tossed them into a 55-gallon oil drum outside the house.

Well, the inevitable happened and one day, the drum was full. This happily coincided with a hot autumn day, a visit from yours truly, and less happily, after quite a lot of beer had been drunk. What to do, what to do?

Burying? Nope - not biodegradable. Can't take it to the tip, we're all too pissed. No more drums, so can't start another load. I know; let's burn it! It's, after all, a metal oil drum. That'll work great! Ah, but the drum is full - to the very brim - with sh*tty nappies.

So Dumb and Dumber dug out a drill and cut a hole about a foot from the bottom of the drum. We then dribbled, over the course of the next two hours, five (FIVE!) gallons of petrol into the top of the barrel.

Then - and we both thought we were SO very clever - we used some detonation cord, and ran it through the hole in the bottom of the drum to light the petrol from the base of the fire.

Now - picture this in slow motion - the following things happened. The det cord lit. The burning ACME-like spark travelled prettily along the cord. It vanished into the freshly cut hole in the drum. There was a rumbling sound. That was the oh-no-second. We turned around and began to run. Behind us there was a sort of squishBOOM sound as the tragically explosive mixture of petrol and festering, rancid nappies exploded.

So here's what happened next. It turns out that (who knew?) 55-gallon oil drums are stronger than nappies, especially when the top of the drum is missing. When you ignite a tightly packed drum full of nappies from the bottom, you have created a superb nappy cannon. As we found out. After the squishBOOM, there was a louder FLOOOOOOM sound. I looked over my shoulder to see a huge tongue of fire leaping out of the drum, and balls of fire above that.

The balls of fire turned out to be flaming, shit filled nappies - which flew about 300 feet into the air and then started raining down on the house, the cars, the tractor, us and everything else. We also found out that stamping on them to put them out isn't nice.

The smell was truly incredible. Some of those nappies had been festering throughout a British summer, at the bottom of the nappy cannon. The sound of the molotov shittails thumping down around us, along with the smell of roasting piss, shit and rotten nappy will stay with me forever.

The final crowning glory was when his wife came out of the farmhouse, looked around at the still-unfolding carnage, muttered "fucking hell" and went back inside - not knowing that at least 30 flaming balls of shite were setting fire to the roof above her head.

We eventually got the fires put out, with not too much damage to property, but I was banned for a LONG time.
(lustfish, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:56, 24 replies)

Me, blood from my head, and a nurses tits.
This event must have taken place a good 5 or 6 years ago when I was about 15. Long enough ago for me to attempt stupid things, but too long ago for these things not to be chatting (well, attempting to) up women whilst extremely drunk in the pub. This of course meant we had to find our own fun, and luckily, my friends and I lived near a huge park. This park has been the scene of some of my finest moments, and some of my lowest. This was perhaps my lowest.

It was the summer, it was bloody hot so we were naturally all outside sweating and wondering what to do short of hanging around the playground hoping for a go on the swings (yeah, we hung around in parks but we weren't chavs who would kick young kids out of their swings). All of sudden another one of our friends turned up with one of those big bins with wheels on the bottom. We knew this would be really, really fun.

It started off just sitting in it, perhaps getting pushed around a bit. It then elevated to being pushed down slight gradients but there would always have to be someone pushing. However, there was a really slopey bit between two paths but it was covered in trees, no clear path. Apart from one bit. This was it, this was going to be our finale after a week of being pushed around.

Me and my friend Jay sat down and prepared for a bumpy ride. Of course, by prepared, I mean us each going "Yeah, fuck it. I'll do it!" We were at the top, ready to be pushed, and probably both secretly cacking ourselves. We felt the pushing begin and our descent began. Before I knew it we were at the bottom, it wasn't a long trip but it was steep.

It came to me that my head was hurting and as it normal, went to feel it. Blood. Fuck. I realised that I must have hit my head on the huge metal fucking lock on the inside of the bin that we had all failed to notice throughout the week. I knew I'd have to go to hospital but there was no way I was telling my parents I'd be riding down hills in a bin. The story we agreed on was that I fell over and hit my head on the curb. The problem with this is that the cut was right on the top of my head. Really in the middle. If you put you finger on where you think the middle of your head it, that's where I was bleeding from. This place, as it happens, is the most awkward place to hit when falling over. My dad, who was with us, now in my friend's house mentioned this, but to his grace didn't ask further. He must have known that I didn't fall over but like all good fathers, didn't want to know so didn't ask.

Anyway, so I got to the hospital and I had to have my head glued together. Now this is the best bit, the nurse was really fit and had to lean over me to apply the glue. "Oh hello awesome cleavage" is what I was thinking. I now have a really fat scar on the top of my head, but thanks to my head full of hair, no-one knows. I feel it sometimes and it reminds of simpler times, when I could have fun with nothing but a bin. Though thinking about it, I'd do it again, but this time I might sellotape a pillow to my head.

I hit my head and it bled, that's probably the closest I've come to dying so I consider myself quite lucky. But I have fucked myself up in other ways which I may post later.

Length? A few inches and made of cold, hard steel. I did not enjoy it penetrating me.
(Martin1337 was trying and failing to be funny at, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:53, Reply)

Giant zit!
When I was about 13 I had a massive zit on my nose. No matter what I did it wouldn't pop. I couldn't go to school the next day with this thing on my face.

So I filed it away, with my mothers metal nail file! I'm not quite stupid enough to use a best sander or anything, besides it was late at night and there was no way I was going to my Grandads!

Cue a giant abscess growing in the middle of my face and me facing nightly salt baths for my nose and heaps of anti biotics!

My school picture was that week!

That's not the really stupid part though. Two years later I did it again, on my arse!
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:31, Reply)

Hit by a car
funny that this is the qotw as i just got hit by a car 2 days ago, i was turning left and the guy went through a red light and hit me off my scooter i just got a bruise and my scooter is fine...not so much his BMW muahahahah
(MissJune75, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:27, Reply)

Climbing a small cliff.
Without ropes.

In flip-flops.
(The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:23, 5 replies)

Back in the days of GCSE DT...
I was building a power supply from an old computer PSU. Simple stuff, just connecting the outputs to various sockets, and adding an LED or two. After finishing, I put it all back together and all was seemingly well. However, attaching the outputs to shiny things made it switch off for no apparent reason. So I took it apart again, but neglected (by purely accidental means) to remove the very powered power cord. Of course, whilst poking around inside, the inevitable happened and I got a sizeable shock. Made me arm feel all funny, it did.

"Hm. That was a bit dangerous," thought I. So I unplugged the cord, and continued poking, albeit with a numb-feeling right side.

Unfortunately, it had conveniently slipped my mind that PSUs contain a few large capacitors. They hadn't been discharged.

Yup, numb-feeling left side for the rest of the day.

Length? About a metre, and full of electrons.
(tty, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:22, 1 reply)

Pylons of Joy
One summer aged about 11 I made this fabulous longbow with a range of around 200 feet. A group of us tried all sorts of ways to use the range to either annoy people or attack things. After hitting cows from a wood we noticed lovely pylons and cables going across a field. Using a ball of unwound string tied to the arrow we found we could get a massive blue spark from the cables to the ground by firing the arrow over the cable and running. It was all well until the one day in the autumn when the ground was damp. We ran about 30 feet from the end of the string by the time the arrow struck its mark, but the power came down and raced across the ground leaving 4 of us with paralysed legs for about an hour. Didn’t do that again, but went on to pipe bombs, another tale.
(DepletedUrainium, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:18, 1 reply)

brief, yes.
I got shitfaced off tequila, made out with my best friend, went to a house party in the city, was blacked out. left the house and stumbled around the dark city. ran int some guys who beat the absolute shit out of me and left me bleeding for dead on the street.

lucky a cop found me and i was hospitalized, then later left with staples in my head, my lip stitched up, and half of my face swollen and scabby.
(yourworldwontcollapse reminds you, it isn't incest after second cousins!, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:08, 1 reply)

The bloodletting....
I once nearly died of bloodloss due to my own stupidity, I was practicing some moves with my masamune (think sephiroth's sword from FF7 and that's the one i got, actually I got 2, dual-wielding them is awesome), and decided to take a break and so I rested it against a table, what my brain failed to register was that the table was curved and therefore almost possible to balance something against, least of all a 6 foot katana, I heard it slipping off the table a split second before it struck, I tried to dodge it by jumping onto the side, and that was like trying to run directly backwards from a huge falling tree, it still got me, it cut open a couple of inches of my right foot. Although the wound I got from that was fairly serious, the bleeding stopped after about 20 minutes, the wound itself closed not long after that, and the wound fully healed about 2 weeks after that, (though it did leave a rather nice scar) and I didn't require any medical attention. I still can't help but think everytime I'm reminded of it, if I hadn't tried to dodge it, it could well have cut off my entire foot.
(Howling_Mad Gave God the finger on:, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:05, Reply)

Danger! Danger! High Volatility!
I used to work in a laboratory and that was a period of my life where I regularly brushed with death.

My most memorable experience was with a beaker of Nitrogen Tri-iodide. Now, for the uninitiated, Nitrogen Tri-iodide is an EXTREMELY unstable compound. You could leave a bowl of it on a laboratory bench for weeks, exposed to any manner of conditions and nothing could happen. Then, one day you could walk past, catch a gentle breeze and get thrown halfway across the laboratory! The UK military say it is an effective explosive, but refuse to use it because of this volatility. So when I say this is an extremely unstable compound, I'm not joking!

Anyway, chemistry lesson aside and back to the story.

I was bored in the laboratory and wondered what I could do to relieve the boredom. I started looking around the chemical cupboard, in the same way a hungry person would look at their larder. After a little foraging, I found a bottle of iodine. Then, I had an idea. I ran out to the warehouse and found a barrel of industrial strength ammonia. I took both chemicals and mixed them together, to form this highly unstable compound. When I created this compound, which could put Alfred Nobel to shame, I got a phone call. I put the beaker down in the fume cupboard and answered the phone, it was my boss.

"Stiggy! I need you to check some Tetra potassium Pyrophosphate, for the presence of phosphate!" he bellowed.

"Right-o!" I said, cheerfully.

Now, part of this test to check for the presence of phosphate, is to heat a mixture up to form a yellow precipitate. Which I did.....right next to the beaker of Nitrogen tri-iodide!

I stood there with my goggles on heating this phosphate mixture on a raging bunsen burner next to this beaker of evil! Eventually, I finished the test and turned the bunsen burner off.

I, then, walked outside to go home and got run over by a car.

I didn't look both ways.

Damn my stupidity......
(The Stig, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:04, 3 replies)

Advice for the future
If, after a few pints, it seems like a good idea to stand at the side of the one-way system giving passing chav cars the finger and/or the hitler salute, make sure the chavs are smaller than you.

If you fail to do this, at least make sure there are more of you than them.

If you fail to do THIS, make sure it's only chavs you do it to, not pickup-driving drug dealers.

They don't have much a sense of humour, and will chase you all over town (along with all their friends they will rope in to help) for the next two hours.

With big, fuck off bits of metal.





The killer as far as I was concerned was when one of them walked up to my friend in the street (apparently not recognising him), and asked him if he'd seen anyone running for their lives. He thought for a moment then pointed in the opposite direction to where the rest of us were hiding. The guy shook my friend's hand and walked off.



To this day, I'm still a little scared of red toyota pickups.
( MatJ LOOK, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:04, 1 reply)

I almost;
Stepped out from behind the van into the path of a car yesterday.

Was decapitated by a tile falling from a roof which fortunately landed a few feet away when i was two.

I thought I might die from too much weed, but that was just silly.
(GesticularDancer is sorry if my jokes been done better before, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 23:51, 1 reply)

Big Jake
This was the most scared I've ever been in my life.

I really did think I was going to die, and worse still, I thought I was going to be on the front of every tabloid newspaper the length and breadth of the land, possibly abroad too. During my ordeal all I could think about was my poor parents and how they would cope with the swarms of reporters asking probing questions. I imagined my distraught mother having a nervous breakdown...

And all because of Big Jake.

A few years back I used to knock boots with a girl named Emma. Nice girl, scouser, bit erratic but incredibly kinky. Nice arse too.

One fateful day I was off work with a busted foot. Had the fucker in plaster and could only hobble about. Emma had gone to work and I was seriously bored by eleven o'clock.

Seriously...

After a bit of Richard & Judy, I remember limping to the bedroom. I thought about lying on the bed for a marathon wank session (watching Judy on the TV had that weird sexy effect on me), but I just didn't feel up to it. I was too bored to wank, this was fucking serious!

Eventually I settled in front of Emma's dresser. I hit on an idea - basically I figured I could while away a bit of time thumbing through her sexy undies drawer, just sort of feeling the fabric, perhaps having a bit of a smell, reminiscing about the times I'd seen Emma wear the frilly, flimsy, lacy erection inducing gear.

And that's what I did. For about a minute.

And then I found Big Jake.

Now, I knew of Big Jake already - I'd been lucky enough to see Emma ram him up her vertical smile on several occasions. Big Jake reminded me of happy, loving, and downright squelchy times.

Ahh, Big Jake! I thought, as I got him out the draw and felt the weight of him in my hands. Nice. Felt a bit like I imagine a good heavy club would feel. Only Big Jake was jet black, veiny, and had a motor your average 125cc motorcycle would be proud of. Emma had picked Big Jake up in Amsterdam. He was, quite frankly, fucking HUGE and FAT, fat like an American fat.

And that's when the thought went through my head...

God, how I wish I could turn back time, put Big Jake back in the draw, and go back to a bit more Richard and Judy before a lunchtime ham sandwich.

But no, not me.

I thought: I wonder what it feels like to have a cock up your arse? I mean, several million gay fellas can't be wrong, can they?

And the thought stuck in my head and crystalised.

I considered having a go on Big Jake in the bedroom, but thought: what if I shit myself? So decided somewhere easier to clean would be more practical.

Moments later, I'd hobbled over to the bathroom, stark bollock naked except for my foot cast, my clothes tossed about the flat in *ahem* gay abandon. I found myself squatting in the empty bath, using the sides for support, with Big Jake greased and ready to go below me, humming like a bandsaw.

Then I lowered my arse over him, and when he was tickling my ring, in a sudden and incredibly painful split second, my fucked up foot gave way and I slipped-

-DIRECTLY ONTO BIG JAKE, RIGHT UP TO THE MOTHERING HILT-

Fuck me!

Pain?

I had never felt that much agony in my fucking life...

It was like being fisted by the Statue of Liberty, with the tourch on fire.

I nearly passed out, but somehow managed to keep it together. My teeth were vibrating from the raw power of Big Jake, it was fucking horrible. When Emma had him in her she was usually howling... but not in the same way I was now.

Eventually, when the ability to move my arms returned, I managed to reach down between my legs and switch Big Jake off. My brain stopped buzzing. It stopped feeling like I was having an epileptic fit. I was weak and sweaty and had a fake cock up my arse. Not a very pleasant feeling...

And there I stayed, for a good fifteen minutes, lying prostrate in an empty bath with Big Jake buried deep in my colon.

That's when I started thinking about the tabloids.

Then I started to panic. And when I panic, I take the only sensible course of action. I cry.

Eventually, after lots of crying and failed attempts, I managed to free Big Jake from my raw ring, which had sort of spasmed and clamped Big Jake in place like a steel vice.

As soon as he was out, I did an absolutely amazing shit in the bath that looked like a large coiled brown python, and then I collapsed on top of it, smearing splashy shit up the walls and even managing to get a few flecks on the ceiling.

After a few more frantic minutes of crying, I could feel the movement ebb back into my legs.

Took me ages to clean the place up... What with the broken foot and sore arse.

When Emma came home that evening she asked me what I'd been up to.

"Oh, the usual," I smiled back nervously. She didn't seem to notice that I couldn't sit down properly.

Couldn't exactly say: "Oh, I impaled myself on your twelve inch dildo in the bath, could've ruptured some internal organs and died in a slick of my own shit, blood, piss and vomit."

And I have to admit the next time Emma used Big Jake infront of me, all I could do was wince inwardly...

...maybe I should've cleaned him properly before I put him back in the drawer???
( SpankyHanky, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 23:37, 28 replies)

Whilst fixing
A coin pushing machine I was sat adjusting some parts and the screw driver touched the side of a big capacitor,
bang I went and flew to the other side of the room.
I twitched for a while after
( Plomien is Polish for flame, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 23:35, 1 reply)

I will say Hi to Charlie for you.
Sadly I have been vilified as being a stupid idiot on some sick Wikipedia site and portrayed as an ‘angle’ in some Sheffield news rags. Basically me and my mates found the roof of a land rover during the snowful period and we just dragged it up to the top of a very, very steep hill. Perhaps if we had used our eyes we might have seen the barbed wire fence at the bottom but we only saw it when we were going 50mph.

Oh well.

I will say hi to Darwin for you.

Signed,

Fran Snow—mobile.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 23:15, 5 replies)

Bum
Placeholder
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 23:04, Reply)

A while back
I went a little bit crazy and tried to off myself. I did this by taking a sizeable cocktail of paracetamol, ibuprofen and sleeping pills. A tip to people: If you do want to off yourself, overdose is the worst fucking way, it's excruciatingly painful and messy. Your blood might turn acidic and you spend hours puking until your oesophagus gets ripped to shreds from the strain and come damn close to liver damage. That was fucking stupid, yes.

Oh, and if you want some mild haha: When first admitted, I was in one of those temporary little rooms off of AnE. While there, I was put on a Saline drip, which an orderly mounted onto a pole, jolly good.

Suddenly, however, I needed to be sick. I knew where the toilet was, so I got up to run to it, I then realised I had an IV in. "Fair enough", thought I, "They're mounted onto rolly things so I can run with that." Except it wasn't. The fucker had mounted it onto a pole which was attached to the wall, so before I could do anything I ended up heaving on the floor and promptly passed out.

Upon gaining consciousness I saw the same orderly who had mounted my IV standing over me. What did he do? Offer words of comfort? No. The fucker told me off for being sick on the floor. What a cunt.
( B.T., Thu 12 Feb 2009, 22:59, 2 replies)

Telephones plug into the wall, right?
Me and the same half-blind mate who featured in the nut and bolt story were much younger for this extravaganza...

Ferreting about in the loft at the age of perhaps 7 or 8, we discovered one of those old bakelite telephones. Fantastic, we think. Score. Now we can call people without having to do it from the living room in front of folks.

We lug it to his room and contemplate. We know that telephones plug in to the wall, so we fetch a plug and some tools from his old man's toolbox. After much learned (well as learned as you get at 7!) debate as to which wire should go into which terminal, we end up with what should be a working telephone.

We plug it into the wall, switch it on (at this point, the educated reader may already be smelling a rat) and we decide to make a call.

Lift up the receiver and *BLAM*. Cue worried parents tearing up the stairs wonder what the f*ck happened, and two kids white-faced in shock.

Thing is, we hadn't exactly wired it up to a modular plug, we'd wired it up to a 13A plug and plugged it in to the mains...

The telephone never worked after that. In fact it was in a bit of a sorry state with the bakelite cracked and slightly burnt.
(airbiscuit last dropped a meaty one in the lift on, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 22:11, Reply)

nearly getting abducted by a PDF file
well, possibly. you decide...

i was about six or seven. playing football with my slightly older brother in the nearby rundown concrete excuse for a football pitch. steel fences and high walls with just one entrance. you know the kind. anyway, there we are, just the two of use, having a kickabout, parents at home, nobody else in sight. all of a sudden a guy walks past holding a bag of chips. i remember him looking mid-thirtysish, possibly with a ponytail though i can't remember for sure.

'hey, just wondering, do you want these guys? i don't want em, i'm only gonna throw em away otherwise'.

to my naive mind he seemed genuine, and i was indeed a bit peckish, so i opted yes for chips.. only to suddenly have my older and somewhat wiser brother butt-in and refuse said chips, telling the chap to jog on in no uncertain terms. which he did. i remember feeling a bit pissed at my brother for that. very soon after we picked up the ball and went home, at which point my brother detailed the incident to my parents and i quickly found myself on the receiving end of the smacking off my life from my furious father. proper over the knee stuff. i'll never forget the whole incident from that alone.

of course there's no way to know for sure if he was a pervert with twisted intentions. but surely you wouldn't offer chips/sweets/anything to a pair of unsupervised children that you didn't know? even if you did have good intentions it'd still be an incredible irresponsible thing to do! i'm pretty sure he was a bummer.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 22:02, 1 reply)

Nut and bolt bombs
As a kid, me and my mates discovered that you could do entertaining things with nuts, bolts and matches.

The premise: get a nut and partially screw in a bolt not even half way in, just enough to leave a little pit in the middle of the nut.

Pour in a some crushed up matchheads and screw in another bolt from the top as tight as you dare.

If you then hit the assembled contraption with a hammer it makes an almighty noise. Great fun!

Until the day when some mastermind (i.e. yours truly) made an extra big one by hardly screwing in the bottom bolt at all and pouring in a ton of matchheads.

I was busy giving it a good seeing to with the hammer and when it exploded it also managed to strip the thread from that bottom bolt and send the bolt flying through the air... and straight into my gob.

I still have a chipped front tooth due to this feat of stupidity. Lucky it didn't go anywhere else: my mate, today, is actually blind in one eye on account of other stupidity later on that year. That time with fireworks. He didn't take very kindly to being called Cyclops for the entire rest of his school life... but that didn't stop us taking the piss constantly. What a sympathetic bunch we were!

#undef VIRGINITY
(airbiscuit last dropped a meaty one in the lift on, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 22:01, Reply)

The price of life - 40 pence
I'm beginning to think this QOTW is quite menacingly requesting I unearth a lot of my childhood antics on the basis that I was - and come to think of it, still am - a bit of a stupid reckless dolt with all the common sense of sour cream.

One thing I noticed as a lad was that the nose acts as highly reliable storage for small change. We've all thought of it. Tell me you haven't stuck a coin up your nose. If you haven't, do so now. I'll wait.

...


I discovered at school that a 10 pence piece can fit quite snugly up there without being too tedious to pull out. At the awe of my fellow students, I was encouraged to do a Johnny Rotten and degrade all my principles for cash. A couple of minutes later, I've got 40 pence up there. '30p profit, I'll be at the tuck shop if anyone needs me', I think.

And then I sneezed what can only be described as a metric fuckload of blood and silver across the playground. Went home and told my Grandad what had happened only to be slapped round the head for doing such a stupid thing as leaving the money on the floor 'for the Jews to claim'

No pleasing some people.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 12 Feb 2009, 22:01, Reply)

Think I'm in line for one someday
When I was about one and a half I tried stroking a bee - it was all furry and I thought it might be friendly.

It stung me.

Undeterred, about a week later I tried to stroke a wasp. Guess what happened?

This bodes. It bodes bad.
( Hampster Squared has stuff at www.tilla.co.uk, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 21:59, 4 replies)

I have no stories of my own
Yet I do have a husband. His favourite game as a child was to climb to the roof of the garage and jump off into the yard. That was the whole thing -- seeing if he could get to the top and then land without serious injury. Amazingly, he did.

Unfortunately, the time he decided to line up the chairs in the dining room and jump them like hurdles ended up in a broken front tooth and both his elbows being held together by pins. Fortunately, this happened when he was a child and not any time recently, or I would have had to second-guess my own taste in men. Whenever he does display a yen to engage in an activity that is likely to end in a trip to the nearest hospital and perhaps light surgery, I just point to the scars on his elbows and ask if he wants our insurance premiums to rise or not. So far, it's working.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 21:57, Reply)

40-40 over 100 stitches
when i was about 11 i was playing '40-40' with my younger sister and a girl from down the road in our back garden.

the 'home base' was the plate glass back door [you can see where this is going].

'dhingy lips' from down the road put her arm through the glass getting superficial cuts and i was sent to get help. as i went to open the door please from her and my sister were 'the glass will fall out if you open it, climb through the hole' so i climbed through the hole and tripped.

ripped a huge chunk of my left outer calf out of my leg. another cut a bit further up left another huge gaping hole with a chunk of leg flapping freely and also cut my hand [which bled the most as its wasnt such a deep cut.

my mum was a kip on the sofa and came out to the hallway to see what the screams were all about, she called for my dad who was sleeping off a sunday afternoon bevvy and almost fell down the stairs trying to dress himself in a rush.

mum said you could see the bones in 3 places. no one thought to retrieve the lost chunk that was in the doorway and i was bloody lucky not to have lost my leg let alone bled to death if it had been my thigh. thankfully the top surgeon in the area was at the hospital that day and managed to stretch the remaining skin and stitch it.

i tell everyone, including my kids, that its a shark bite!
(J R Hartley, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 21:56, Reply)

Idiots and explosives, part 2
So when I got a little older and was hanging with people who knew how to drive, we upped the ante a little.

One of the things that seems to never get old among teenage boys is to take a baseball bat and drive by the house of someone you don't like and smash their mailbox from within the moving car. You lean out the window like some demented cave man with your club, and as you approach you wind up and SMASH!

One kid's mailbox had been smashed enough that they bought a Rubbermaid one that was indestructible. Hit it with a bat and it bounces right back. Clever, eh? The old man had outwitted us.

Only it occurred to a certain idiot that if one bent a piece of wire to hold an aerosol can on its side about three inches above the surface it was sitting on so one could put a lit can of sterno beneath it, the results might be entertaining. Especially if you used a partial can of engine starting fluid, which is mostly ether.

Entertaining is perhaps the wrong word.

It's well that we were in a car and speeding away when it went off.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 12 Feb 2009, 21:48, Reply)

I was
admitted to hospital.

Unconscious.

I had snorted a large amount of sand.
(Waspard has your wank bank account details, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 21:46, 1 reply)