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this is my shit story
A long time ago in the late 70's me and my motorbike parted company on a wet winters day,causing me to smash my left hip in pieces. ambulance...hospital.. operation ..drugs omnopon and DF118,s followed by 3 months in traction in bed.After 2 weeks the drugs bound me up solid despite laxatives.the nurse said were going to give you some suppositories,i said ok ill swallow them (i was young),she said you dont swallow them we push them up your back passage.I told her where she could stick them,doctor said leave him, in about 3 hours he will be screaming for them.He was right,they shoved them up and 20 minutes later i spat them back out solid.Enema time now,the enema bag looked like one of old breathalyser bags with the tube on it .the nurse shoved it up my arse and it got blocked up with rock hard shit,she asked me if i had a match and picked the shit out the tube with it ..up it went again she squeezed the bag and a few seconds later i exploded....there was shit all over bed on the floor and all over her midriff...i was laying on my side
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hey lynchman,theres pictures of my surgical metal hip plate on another thread on here
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So why did they remove the plate? Good story btw!
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I dont know,why they took the plate out,they should have left it in.because 6 weeks after they took it out,i was playing football and it broke across one of the screw holes....another 3 months in hospital with a denham pin just below my knee to attach the traction strings to.Happy days,long term orthopaedic patients could smoke on the ward then.got caught by a nurse smoking block black couldnt exactly throw me out or lock me up for it.i was already locked to the bed.my mates used to visit,chew tootie frooties up and stick them between my toes along with peeled grapes and anything else they could decorate my foot with.once i was off the drugs (legal ones) you could drink.mates used to fill me full of beer and then sneakily stab a hole in my cardboard piss bottle...soaking wet sheets it was a fucking madhouse but it helped the boredom
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Hahaha
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I dont know,why they took the plate out,they should have left it in.because 6 weeks after they took it out,i was playing football and it broke across one of the screw holes....another 3 months in hospital with a denham pin just below my knee to attach the traction strings to.Happy days,long term orthopaedic patients could smoke on the ward then.got caught by a nurse smoking block black couldnt exactly throw me out or lock me up for it.i was already locked to the bed.my mates used to visit,chew tootie frooties up and stick them between my toes along with peeled grapes and anything else they could decorate my foot with.once i was off the drugs (legal ones) you could drink.mates used to fill me full of beer and then sneakily stab a hole in my cardboard piss bottle...soaking wet sheets it was a fucking madhouse but it helped the boredom
epic, repped
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The things are immigrating, I spotted this today and had to do a double take just to check it was a ploppa. I cant believe someone went to the trouble and expense of freight or excess baggage for a custom build.
The guy was locking it up as I went past and he checked the lock about three time before he left, I think he thought I was going to pinch it - not likely...
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There's a famous curry centre in Blackpool,
That's noted for hot vindaloos,
Where they've buckets of water on t' tables,
And steel straining bars in the loos.
Now young Albert had been constipated,
For three weeks his tum had been funny,
'Till someone told him a curry,
Would give him a good run for his money.So Albert determined to try one,
And not knowing which one to choose,
Shut his eyes, stabbed his fork in the menu,
It came down in the hot vindaloos.It was number eight Albert had chosen,
To relieve him of all constipation,
With extra hot sauce to disguise the fact,
It was off the bone Alsatian.They had a good laugh in the kitchen,
When somebody picked number eight,
And they brought it in quick 'cos it soon dissolves,
The enamel from off of t' plate.Albert said a prayer and picked up his fork,
Then thought he had better make certain,
He'd have the time to cross the floor,
To the gents past the plastic curtain.From table to toilet took twelve seconds flat,
Provided he didn't slip,
And the coin operated lock on the door,
Said tuppence per person per trip.So Albert went back and ate his vindaloo,
'Till his eyes filled up with tears,
And the hairs on his legs turned round and round,
And steam came out of his ears.But that infamous number eight curry,
Had no more effect on his guts,
Than a pint of Watneys red barrel,
And a packet of planter's nuts.He waited for twenty minutes,
With no results, and then,
The customers gave a round of applause,
As he asked for the same again.He re-timed his run to the toilet,
Ten seconds a nip,
To the door marked gents and the sign that said,
Tuppence per person per trip.But after another plateful,
He didn't feel too grand,
As he clenched his teeth and sat there,
On his arse with his fork in his hand.The waiters waited and waited,
For the curry to do its worst,
But that second Alsation vindaloo,
Had no more effect than the first.Another twenty minutes passed,
He couldn't speak a word,
He just had to point to the menu,
In order to order his third.A hush fell over the restaurant,
They were all too impressed to laugh,
And one of the waiters, two sikhs and the chef,
Asked him for his autograph.The manager tried to dissuade him,
But Albert just shook his head,
As he re-timed his run to the toilet,
And make it in eight seconds dead.And as he began the third one,
His stomach felt just like Stonehenge,
And he'd only forced down four forkfuls,
When the curry began its revenge.The customers cleared a gangway,
As, feeling the end was certain,
Albert leapt to his feet and in three seconds flat,
Had vanished through the plastic curtain.As the customers waited and wondered,
About the fate of the boy,
They heard a muffled explosion,
And a cry, half anguish, half joy.The minutes passed, then Albert emerged,
His face full of venom and hate,
They could tell by the way he walked all bow legged,
That he'd got to the toilet too late.He looked round the crowded restaurant,
And a moan passed through his lips,
It was lucky for the carpet,
He was wearing his bicycle clips.At last he spoke to the waiting crowd,
In a voice so plaintive and strange,
With a five pound note in his hand, he gasped,
" Has anyone got any change?" -
^cpb
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this is my shit story
I'm suitably repulsed.Repped, obviously.
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^^ Haha class. Inspired by the news a few years ago that a few people got sick eating a curry for a charity contest?
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-edinburgh-east-fife-15183070
Boat where people got the "backdoor trots"
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-24386344
Was moored near area where I pass hope the bugs haven't drifted over...
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The things are immigrating, I spotted this today and had to do a double take just to check it was a ploppa. I cant believe someone went to the trouble and expense of freight or excess baggage for a custom build.
The guy was locking it up as I went past and he checked the lock about three time before he left, I think he thought I was going to pinch it - not likely...
Look how custom it is though.
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Proper custom.
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Customarily shit
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Maybe he had gone to get a haircut:
reculver
Lynchman
Vanneau
ChainBreaker
adroit
JWestland
Lambchop
finger_jockey
NotThamesWater
French_Touch
snottyotter
dancing james
Wrongcog
Cornish_Bike
_wegAbout
For Sale: Foffa Single Speed Custom-built bicycle
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Found it! Is that you on the left, grüber? Or that other guy seven perhaps, a bit confused as to who really tastes/smells of smegma atm. Apart from my mother, as pointed out earlier of course.