Thought you had a bad night?

[Rob Evans]

When a 40-year old man turned up at a hospital asking to see a doctor
specialising in men's troubles, he was shown into a cubicle,
where he gingerly unwrapped three yards of foul smelling stained gauze
from around his scrotum, which had swollen to twice the size of a
grapefruit. On further inspection, it was discovered that his left
testicle was missing completely, and, embedded within the swollen,
tender and weeping wound, were a number of dark objects which the
patient confessed were one inch staple nails from an industrial staple
gun.

It transpired that the man spent his lunch times alone in his workshop,
where he regularly enjoyed the sexual thrill of placing his penis on
the moving canvas fan-belt of a piece of machinery. One day, the
excitement had caused him to lose his concentration, and the fan-belt
had snatched his scrotum into the fly-wheel, throwing him several feet
across the floor tearing off his left nut. Rather than go to the
hospital, he performed first-aid on himself with the stapling gun, then
went back to work when his colleagues returned. It was two weeks before
he got around to visiting the hospital.

A man turned up at a hospital wearing an overcoat, and with blood
dripping down his leg. When he removed the coat, the doctor saw he had a
geranium inserted in his penis. The man had got the flower in without
any difficulty, but when he tried to remove it, the hairs on the stem of
the
flower had dug into the urethra and ripped it to shreds.

A policeman in Staffordshire returned home from a night shift to
his wife preparing breakfast. For some unknown reason, he wrapped a
slice of bread around his penis, at which point the dog leapt up and
took a bite out of it. The man needed cosmetic surgery to restore the
damage.

A 34-year old New Yorker injected a cocaine solution into his
penis to heighten his sexual pleasure. After enjoying intercourse with
his girlfriend on not one but two occasions he noticed that his erection
was still at its full glory. Having struggled to sleep through the night
he woke up to find his boner still standing proud, and, due to him
worrying about the police finding out about his possession and indeed
the use of an illegal substance he decided against visiting his doctor.
However after three days of enduring headaches and nausea caused by the
constant trouser swelling, he went to the hospital in search of help. He
was admitted immediately and referred to a specialist who diagnosed lack
of oxygen to vital bloodstreams in his body as the cause of his sickness.
He was given numerous drugs and antibiotics to combat the swelling, but
shortly afterwards, developed blood clots in various parts of his body
and gangrene set in. As a result he lost both legs, nine fingers and
his penis.

When a mate was studying in Ireland, he took up rugby. As his
first season wore on, the lads and him were eventually scheduled to play
a team which had a reputation for violent play. Considering that they
weren't the most talented outfit to have ever taken the field, they
decided to accept the challenge with a "do or die" attitude, hoping
things would eventually swing their way.
They didn't, and to make matters worse their star player dislocated his
hip after a particularly ferocious tackle. He was clearly in a lot of
pain, so they all stood back to allow the medic to, in one swift
movement, slot the hip back into its socket. Then Alan began a long
blood curdling scream.
To their horror, they realised that one of his testicles had also been
jammed into the socket and was now firmly held in the place by the hip.

Incidentally, Alan managed to rip a vocal chord with his screaming.

[Mr T.]

Oi-vay! I think that most of the above can be written-up under the 'I wish this hadn't happened' banner!

Speaking of which, and talk about puke-inducing, when I lived in Ozz (Glebe, in Sydney, amongst other places), I shared a house with an oppo from Liverpool (where they clean the windows with dead cats), Mark, and he once shared this true story with me. I know it's true, coz his fiancée, one 'Julie', subsequently turned up in-country and varified same! (Any decent chap might have asked for dark room and a Service Revolver...)

Our hero, Mark, was happily living in Liverpool (where you can't move in second gear, or they nick your wheels) and joyfully plying his new trade as a 'DC Winder'.

Blissfully ensconced in a 'We're about to get married.....someday' relationship with 'Julie', Mark was used to finishing his day's work, as a artful artisan of the Winding profession-type-styleee, and then making his way home to the pre-marital home; which he shared with 'Julie' and her mother; in the goodly environs of the afore-mentioned Soviet of Liverpool (where road-kill is considered a delicacy).

Anyway, it was their ('Julie's' and our hero, Mark's) wont, of a weekend, to go out as a 'stepping-out' couple and 'do the tiles' (i.e. go down town, do a club, have a skin-full, thence return home via a local, 'Deep-fried for your Pleasure', uber-high cholesterol eatery) and then settle in for the evening in front of the TV (I won't use 'Box', for reasons which might become apparent, later).

Usual routine being in situ, all was going well to plan (young couple, beer, curry, close-of-night-knee-trembler....possibly involving leaping off top of wardrone in Batman outfit, and with 'toys', if you're lucky), our hero relates: he and 'Julie' were on the couch, post piss-up nosebag now scattered asunder on the deck before the couch, TV on and both protagonists getting into the 'clinches'.

'Julie's' mother - being, what is euphemistically referred to as, a 'Modern Mum' - knew that this was the usual Friday night gig and has, on hearing them come through the front-door, made a bid for the border and gone to bed; leaving the young couple to do 'what young couples do', after a sherry or fifteen and in the throes 'we're young, we're rampant and we're gonna boots-fill'.

Anyway, and cutting to the chase, post 'wrist-watch-deep', our couple have fallen asleep on the couch and wake up in the wee hours with the TV giving it 'GO TO BED NOW COZ WHATEVER IS ON IS SHITE AND ONLY ON BECAUSE YOU LEFT THE TV ON WHILST YOU FELL ASLEEP'. Our Romeo and Juliette head for the hills (sans 'Balcony Scene') and go up stairs to bed together.

Now I've never been afflicted with the condition known as 'positively gotta go to the bog and empty my bladder as I've got a gallon packed behind it - post night on the piss' syndrome, at any stage of my sleep cycle; once I'm akip, that's me; asleep; dead to the world.......alas: Mark is a four-times a night chap and will probably need to seek counselling on his prosate, in later life.

This being the case, our couple, now enoying the bliss of  post 'We've laid-cable on the couch, and there's every prospect (given that her mother allows such 'shinnanigans' under her roof, and in our own room) that we're on for second-helpings of the Knee de Tremble variety (herein after referred to as the 'Oliver Twist' conjecture: "Please Sir, can I have some more?&quot, they fall alseep.....

You'll not have forgotten that Mark needs the dunny at regular intervals during the night. You'll also not have forgotten that he and his paramour have been out on the piss all night - ergo 'judgement affecting' in its delivery, cosequence and eventual 'here's the consequences'.

So, our hero, Mark, gets up to visit the ablutions, as is his wont/need. He gleefully empties a bag-full (queue a more than moderately contented grin on his face whilst the stream hits the porcelain). But also bear in mind that yer man's still James Hunted from the night's prior boots-fill.

Mark leaves the bathroom - no problem: any adult can, under the right circumstances, make this manoeuvre (without compass) and successfully resolve to regain warm space in bed next to his/her intended.

Alas: nature now throws fucks into the proceedings by introducing a 'landing with choices of various doors' for our still-sherry-filled-hero to negotiate. What looked, on the outward leg of the journey, a simple 'in-and-out' job now takes on the iniquitous task of remembering precisely from whence he came. Rarely a more crueller joke played on a chap!

Mark tries to retrace his steps from the Le Bog and picks the door he is convinced fits the bill as giving him a 'warm reception'. Quietly opening said door, and taking a Butcher's inside, and seeing a contented figure asleep amid covers, he's happy he's made the right choice. Our hero advances - bladder now empty, awake, ardour raised and in the mood for 'Round Two' with his betrothed - someone with whom he's recently been 'spraying the man-fat' in a 'in front the TV couch-styleee'.

Mark gets into bed. He sneaks under the covers and is in 'Ready to Snuggle' mode.

Now 'up for it', and trying that male sure-fire (ahem) "I'm sure she'll be up for it as long as I 'prod the necessary with the requisite'" type deployment, he's already made his battle plans and is in full 'send in the calvalry' mind-set.

'On a promise', our hero then proceeds to 'get in amongst' the requisite areas which a young lady might like to be 'got in amongst' - should the occasion and the mood allow.

Alas, our hero has gone in to completley the wrong room and now found himself 'trying to acquire target' with 'Julie's'  mother....He's gone in for the 'I hope we can still do this when we're married' shot, and found that his amourous assaults are being defended (vigourously) by 'Julie's' mother!

Consider if you will: given the circumstances, where on earth do you put your face? And what exactly might you try and burble by way of explanation? Getiing, in the Glaswegian vernacular, "fired-in to" your prosepective mother-in-law! Now get out of that?!

NOTHING YOU MIGHY SAY OR DO, HERE, IS GONNA DIG YOU OUT OF THE NORZ IN WHICH YOU NOW FIND YOURSELF!! A whole new world of hurt awaits you.

It may come as no shock for you to read that Mark and 'Julie' never got married.......

[Narked@50]

Right then - If this were Liverpool, then our hero could have claimed that he was from Manchester and it was common knowlege there that this was the done thing in Liverpool.

On the other hand, if it were Glasgow, our hero would have probabaly been drained to a meer shaddow of a man before being disgarded like a wet towel, but at least getting a cooked breakfast in the morning for his troubles.

Worth a try,

James