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Seeing As You Like Leon’s Hospital Misery, Here’s Some More…

Last month, we posted this story about Leon’s face mask accident, which left him in A&E for 11 hours.  It had a lot of hits, leading us to believe that although you may like our musical comedy, you prefer seeing us getting hurt.  So here’s a story from a few years ago, regarding another trip to A&E for poor Leon (warning: story involves serious penis pain):

 

“I suffer from kidney stones.  “Suffer” is the correct word; I’ve never known pain like it when one of those tiny, spiky fuckers gets lodged in your ureter.  It is a pain only comparable to getting one lodged in your urethra, which usually happens 3 or 4 days later.

Today, at approximately 10am, whilst at work, I felt the sudden & reasonably traumatic pain of a kidney stone lodging in my left ureter.  An hour later, the pain was such that I was having difficulty breathing.  An online self-help site recommended “bumping” up & down on a toilet seat (as so not to damage my testicles, thoughtfully), so I tried this.  It hurt.  I looked & felt stupid.  So I stopped.

Six hours later, the pain had not subsided.  This is not normal.  Normally, the pain is there for an hour or so, then the pressure of the piss above the stone forces it further down the pipe.  Not so this time; the piss was in a queue, & it wasn’t getting out.  In fact, I’ve only pissed four times today (I normally piss four times before I leave the house) – imagine a day’s worth of piss trapped in your kidney.  It hurts.  My boss decided she’d seen quite enough of me turning pale & grunting in what she considered to be a pseudo-sexual way, & sent me home. I don’t even remember making the decision to go to A&E instead, I just kind of drove myself there without thinking. It was here that the fun really began –

- I arrived at 4:10. I hobbled to the front desk, & managed to get the words “Leon Camfield”, “kidney stone”, “lodged”, & “very painful” out.  Within 5 minutes, the following announcement was made, at full volume, across a crowded A&E -

“Mr Camfield, we have a suppository painkiller for you”

Now, I’ve always preferred a girlfriend who enjoys anal sex, but I’ve always been giver, not a taker, if one catches my drift.  But I digress –

- A nurse held out a cardboard tray for me.  On it was a piece of gauze, on top of which was a bullet-sized pill, a dollop of lube & a rubber glove.  It suddenly occurred to me that I was expected to administer my own medicine. Now, I pay my taxes, surely my NI contributions extend to having a nurse poke a painkiller up my arse.  But no – this is a job for Leon, apparently.  Having never done this before, I went to pick up the pill.

“You’ll need the glove, Mr Camfield”

Now, I don’t use the glove when I wipe my arse.  I don’t use the glove when pulling stray hairs out of my buttock cleft.  Hell – I don’t use the glove when performing the above-mentioned rites with open-minded ladies.  But apparently, it is not The Done Thing to shove painkillers up your arse for the first time without a layer of latex between finger & sphincter, & so on goes the glove.  I bend over, trying to relax, & am just about to stick this bullet in my anus, when I catch my eye in the mirror.  Truly, a new low has been reached.  As I push the suppository in, I’m both repulsed & fascinated by how readily my arse sucks it up, like you would suck up a strand of spaghetti, if you will.  I was expecting my arse to try & reject it, or at least leave it sticking halfway out.  I briefly wonder if this makes me gay.  Probably not. 20 minutes after doing this, the positive benefits of the painkiller kick in, & I’m a new man.  This stuff is awesome!  I honestly feel like I could take a jumbo cock up the arse & not feel a thing.

After some prodding & poking by a blonde, Scandinavian nurse (she wasn’t fit, or particularly easy to understand), I’m sent for x-rays.  As it’s my kidneys they need to see, clothes are surplus to requirements here, but instead of letting me strip to my boxers, they force me into 2 backless gowns (one put on backwards so nobody can see my bum).  Then a urologist comes to see me, & for the first time today I’m concerned.  I’ve been getting kidney stones all my adult life, why am I wasting this qualified man’s time?  He takes blood & piss, & asks me to wait.

My next low – the painkillers start to wear off.  The pain is getting quite intense, & in a moment of weakness, I accidentally fart.  The fart is not entirely gaseous.  Rushing to the toilet, I pull down my trousers to find I’ve farted out a combination of air, lube & melted painkiller.  Unpleasant.  I then find there is no toilet paper.  I recant this tale to a young male nurse who countered, “We’ve all been there, mate”.

3 hours into my trip to A&E, & I see the urologist again, & he tells me that I’m turning yellow.  Now, my favourite TV show is undoubtedly The Simpsons, but I have no intention of looking like them, so I’m worried.  He gibbers something to me about my liver readings being slightly high, inserts a venlon into my arm, then he once more gets me to wait outside.  Then the male nurse comes & takes me to a ward.  Alarm bells are now ringing, & rightly so – they want to keep me in.  A million thoughts go through my head.  It’s only a kidney stone.  I haven’t eaten since 12pm.  I’m parked on single yellows.  But before I know it, I’ve got my very own non-charity wristband & a bed with 3 other people; a man in his 80’s who doesn’t appear to know where he is, a similarly-aged fellow whose only clue to not being dead is his snoring.  The 3rd occupant is an attractive young thing who is covered in wires, heart monitors & visitors.

Snoring Beauty wakes up; he has no idea how long he’s been in hospital, nor does he know when he’s getting out.  Methinks he’s in the wrong hospital.  I start to entertain the heart monitor girl, when I’m told that I’m being moved to Ward 7B.  Ward 7B does not sound good; Ward 7B has Room 101-esque vibe about it.  Amid fears that I’m being taken up there for rehabilitation, I start to try to convince myself that 2+2=5.  Instead of the totalitarian state I was expecting, I’m put in a ward with a young man who looks like a heroin addict, & an old man with breathing apparatus on.  Both are asleep.  The Matron brings me water; she looks like David Ginola & sounds like Ian Paisley.  This night just keeps getting weirder.

At midnight, I’m awoken by nurses bringing in a guy who has let a tonne of industrial bin land on his fingers.  He sounds quite chilled, given the circumstances.

At 2am I’m awoken, Gestapo-style, by a faceless doctor who wants to know how I’m feeling.  I bite back on the obvious answer of “tired & hungry”, & she links me up to a drip.  It is only now that I realise that they are in fact starving me.

It’s now midday.  I haven’t eaten for 23 hours.  Squidge Fingers has been taken away for reconstructive surgery, & The Heroin Addict (who in fact had a swelling in his neck so big it looked like he’d swallowed a grapefruit) has been moved to a different ward; this just leaves me & The Mask. He’s not much of a talker.

My only visitor turns up; Cara is an old friend & she’s looking a whole lot better than I do. “You don’t look so good” is the uncharacteristically subtle way she greets me.  On my way to the toilet (dragging my drip behind me), I look in the mirror for the first time since sticking the painkiller up my arse.  I look like total shit.

At 8pm, they decide to let me out.  They show me a cross-section scan of my body, & it turns out that I in fact have 3 stones inside me – a personal best.  I’m asked to go back tomorrow to get some drugs which will hasten their passing, & also make me cum back into my bladder – can’t wait to try this out!

All in all, I had that venlon in my arm for 23 hours, & I was starved for 28 hours, & they didn’t really do anything to me in return. They kept me drugged, hungry, uncomfortable, cold, lonely & bored just to tell me what I already knew. In a couple of weeks, I’ll have to piss all 3 of them out – I’ll let you know how that goes…”

 

I can now let you know how that went – I pissed them all out within 44 hours, & it was fucking agony.  Each one was the size of a piece of shingle, & because the hospital wanted to see them, I had to piss through a nylon sieve for 3 days.  Oh & orgasming into my bladder?  Horrific.  Below is one of the stones, on a 5p piece for scale.

 

n563259912 853056 9613 225x300 Seeing As You Like Leons Hospital Misery, Heres Some More...

 

 

Leon’s Mask Accident: Story & Pics

In preparation for our forthcoming video for the song “The Lonely Irishman” (launch date 17 November 2011), Leon’s girlfriend offered to prepare latex make-up to make Chris look old.  To achieve this, she proposed to make a Plaster of Paris mould of his face, then fill it with latex.  However, as she’d not done it in a while, Leon volunteered his face for a trial run.  It went horribly wrong.  Leon promised he would blog this as soon as he had all the pics.  He now does, so in his own words:

 

“I really, genuinely didn’t think anything could go wrong with such an innocent plan.  It started at Em’s flat, which looks out onto the main shopping street in Letchworth.  She covered her sofa in plastic sheets, then I lay on them whilst she mixed up the plaster.  She slapped it liberally over my face, leaving me two nose holes (without which I would most certainly now be dead).

IMAG0325 300x225 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Within seconds, I could feel the mask solidifying around my face.  This was not initially unpleasant, although I found that I immediately couldn’t talk properly.  Fortunately, Em can read me like a book, & could pretty much understand what I was saying, after the third time of saying it, at least.  10 minutes passed, & Em decided it was time for the mask to come off.  I felt her grab either side of the plaster, & gently pull.  I’m sure you’ve all guessed what happened next, but just in case, I’ll proffer the obvious – it didn’t come off.  ”Didn’t come off” is actually a bit of an understatement – it didn’t budge a millimetre.  ”Hmm, it’s never done this before”, chuckled Em, & I must admit, I laughed too.  It took us a good 15 minutes to work out what was going on, but we eventually realised that Em had forgotten to Vaseline me, & that the mask was adhered to every single hair on my face.  I hadn’t shaved for a good 3-4 days, & the cast had plenty to grip on to.  Taking into consideration my morbid fear of water, we decided to soak my jaw in a hot bath.  Half an hour later, we managed to remove plaster from my forehead, but that was it.  I then (through muffled mouth & rising panic) suggested she call ‘someone’.  She didn’t take this the way I intended it, & did what every girl would have done, & called her Dad.  Now, Mike’s a wise old soul, but he was unsurprisingly useless here, having never actually dealt with a Plaster of Paris mould stuck to a man’s face before.  I was a little firmer with Em, & through a serious of muffled grunts & mimed finger-jabbing, told her to ring 999.  She did, & whilst we waited for the ambulance, I had to go through my first humiliation of the evening – having my girlfriend dress me.  I only had a limited amount of clothing with me, & so for all of you looking at the pics below & wondering why I decided to wear that particularly natty green shirt – well, it was the only item of clothing I had that didn’t have to go over my head.

 

The ambulance arrived reasonably promptly, & as the crew entered the flat, they both burst into laughter at the sight of me.  Indeed, they even asked if they could take photos on their phones.  I willingly obliged, & was relieved by their mirth; despite admitting they’d “never seen anything like this before”, their humour confirmed what Em & I were both thinking – removing this should be pretty easy.  I had to be led down two flights of stairs onto the busiest street in Letchworth, into the ambulance.  Once inside, I got Em to take some pics, thinking it would provide a funny blog.  Here’s me somehow managing to give her an evil glare through an inch of plaster -

IMAG0327 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We arrived at hospital – I believe they took me in the back way to spare my blushes, but this was short-lived, as – just like the ambulance crew – every member of staff found the sight of me hilarious.  More photos.  The head doctor (formerly a surgeon, which turned out to be a bloody good thing) took one look at me & said, “You really shouldn’t try this at home”.  He then left me to continue soaking my face (in a dish you piss into, brilliantly) whilst he dealt with the genuinely ill.  He kept popping in to see if it was coming off.  It wasn’t.  He sounded more & more worried, every time he came to see me.

 

It must have been around 10:30pm when he finally gave me his full attention.  Having considered every option, he figured the only way to get it off was to use a stitch cutter (just like this one), & to cut (or in about half the cases, tear out) every hair on my face, one at a time.  And so it began, primarily with my throat/neck area; a sharp piece of plaster was jabbing my Adam’s apple, & they wanted a clear airway.  Here’s what that looked like after he’d cut (& then snapped) that section off -

 

IMAG0332 300x225 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, it was as sore as it looks.  And this was how the next six hours carried on for me; I hadn’t figured out that the cast would also be stuck to my eyebrows & eyelashes, & I found out the hard way.  Having a lump of plaster hanging off my eyelashes & then having a scalpel that close to my eye to cut off/tear out said lashes will stay with me to the grave.  I’ve not cried in pain since I was a little boy, but I’m not ashamed to admit that the mask filled with tears & dribble on more than one occasion that night.  Here are some more pics of the removal procedure; I especially like the expression on the face of the male nurse in one of these -

 

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I’m wet because they doused me in several litres of water to soften the hair (remember what I said earlier about the fear of water), & I’m holding me eye because it was full of grit & it hurt if I didn’t hold it.

 

All in all, it took 11 hours from the mask going on, to the last of it to be removed.  I had my mouth covered for a good seven hours, & my eyes for a good nine hours.  I had to piss in front of Em, fart in front of nurses & scream within earshot of everyone else in A&E.  I’d like to publicly thank the doctor, who worked five hours later than he was supposed to, & despite it being her fault, I’d like to thank my girlfriend, who was incredibly supportive, & risked her job to ensure she didn’t abandon me (yes, her employers considered disciplining her for not going into work three hours after we got out of hospital).

 

This happened on 31 August/01 September 2011, & I’m writing this on 04 November 2011, where I can confirm that my eyebrows/eyelashes are 95% back to normal.  The eyelashes grew back quite stubbly, which was painful every time I blinked.  There are a few patches of beard between my chin & my throat that haven’t started growing back yet, too.

 

Finally, here are the pics I took when we got home from hospital.  Zoom in if you’re feeling brave…”

 

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