I've just had to walk out of the office after reading huskaris post. No pretend coughing fit could disguise my laughter. I'm struggling to think of what to say when I go back in. Can't really tell my manager and A.D. that I'm on a football website reading about other people's unpleasant bowel moving experiences.
Just had to read through whole thread as sure have posted this before but couldnt see it.
Back in the early 90's had been to Buzz Bar off Leicester Square one Saturday night. Got a hot dog from one of those little pushcart stalls to eat en route to station.
On last train home from Charing Cross and was on one of the old slam door trains, and the carriage we were in had the individual 6/8 seater compartments with doors and a corridor running along it.
Had just left London bridge when the stomach suddenly churned and I knew a particularly liquid eruption was coming. No toilets on these trains so had to dispatch one mate to stand outside the door to our compartment to prevent anyone walking past. The windows were the old pull down style, I then stood astride the two sets of seats in the compartment, holding onto the netted luggage racks above, stuck my arse out the train window and literally let flow with a couple of litres of liquid shite.
My mates were taking the mickey out of me when I was in agony, and telling them what I was going to have to do, but they were not laughing so much when, because I was holding onto the luggage racks with both hands I had no control of my todger which then proceeded to spray piss all around the compartment.
I just hope no one was having a crafty cigarette out of a window that was downstream of my flow of shit.
Great thread. Never had myself down as one for toilet humour but obviously I am as been in bits reading through this on the train home.
One morning after an absolute skin full my lovely missus made me a bacon sarnie to nurse me back to humanity. Little did I know that innocuous act of kindness would lead to one of the most humiliating experiences in a relatively short lifetime peppered with frequent humiliating experiences.
About half an hour after devouring said sarnie with the gusto of John Prescott attacking a tin of condensed milk I knew something was not right.
Managed to drag myself out of my pit whack on the dressing gown and plonk myself in front of Soccer Am as my guts did somersaults. Missus popped down the shops and I was doing the obligatory contemplation of “must crack one off as am alone in the flat with a window of opportunity” pondering that seemed to take up most of my twenties and as I considered firing up the laptop and mustering enough enthusiasm to rouse a very sad, alcohol- demolished “little Rodders” I felt a very overwhelming urge to fart….and so I did. Stomach felt much better and all was well with the world for a microsecond (I believe I even may have mustered a chuckle at a hackneyed Lovejoy gag) until I glanced downwards and saw the stream of liquid shite that adorned my dressing gown resembling an oil slick in the Atlantic that would dominate 4 consecutive episodes of Newsround in my childhood and seen Craven distraught at the mammoth yet futile clean-up effort required to get back to any semblance of normality.
Little did I know this was just the pre cursor to the big boy. The false alarm, the warm up act so to speak. Cut this part short… ended up with a trip to the Princess Royal a few days later after pretty much 36 hours of brown bukkake- ing out of my harris and a diagnosis of salmonella from the dodgy bacon sarnie.
Fast forward to Rodder’s humiliating episode #386… the following weekend me and the missus (then girlfriend) were due to attend Kent’s premier music festival “Wardstock” as an in law was playing one of the main sets. The missus suggested swerving it due to my ailments but being a hard bastard Charlton fan I wasn’t going to let some poxy virus that Edwina Curry had banged on about inbetween between being slipped Major lengths in the late 80s stop me from having a weekend of debauchery in the outskirts of Maidstone.
As a concession I took my antibiotics and switched to Boddingtons for the day conceding that my usual choice of gaseous lager probably wouldn’t do my shaky stomach any favours. A quality day/ night was had by all, future brother in law’s band smashed it and even saw a band of middle age rockers (one decked out in a Charlton shirt) do a cracking set and all was good with the world. Then near the end of the gig I saw one of the best bands I’ve ever seen at a random place (can’t remember the name of them but they had a song on FIFA back in the day). They were hugely unknown (and still are) and there were probably only 500 people in this little recreation ground festival but in my Boddington’s- induced state of euphoria they were the next Oasis and me and the missus raved about them in gurning disbelief that they weren’t headlining V.
The lead singer had the voice of an angel and was a bloody good looking fella n’all (not in my league of course but definitely up there) and although one of the hottest days of summer it was like Glastonbury in the mud such was the effect he had on the lust- struck female attendees in the audience.
Anyway just as they finished their set the old stomach started proper growling and my missus helped me to the portaloos at the side of the stage. 12 hours of drinking and eating crap at the back end of food poisioning it was only going to be a matter of time. Huge queue and the festival was winding down so about 10 people in front of me and I was starting to think that caning a crate of bitter 4 days into major bout of salmonella wasn’t my brightest idea.
Made it to the front of the queue and dived into a portaloo with my girlfriend waiting next to it to make sure I didn’t pass out and die as I had the house keys. Sat there and being prude and shy felt really self conscious as aware of the huge number of people outside on the other side of the paper thin portaloo walls who I could hear chatting and even breathing. “Fuck it” I thought “at least the music will drown out the sounds I’m about to bestow”….just about then I heard my girlfriend on the other side of the door getting chatted up by none other than the pretty boy Bon Jovi fucker who’d just absolutely smashed the festival on stage in the way Hendrix did at Wardstock.
As I sat there waiting to unleash inevitable hell, with my stomach now gurgling and growling like a cornered hyena I could hear my girlfriend telling this Michael Hutchence protégé how amazing their set was and what a great voice yada yada yada yada….just then then music stopped as the very last song from the very last band ended and the festival location was draped in a silence that trappist monks would be proud of….just as 11 cans of Boddingtons, 2 cheeseburgers and a jerk chicken wrap decided to vacate the premises of chez Rodder’s arse in a cacophony of sound, bodily fluids, stench emotion (and no doubt blood) that surely inspired the opening 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan and the closing bits of Apocalypse Now.
All I recall is the deathly silence outside being broken by horrified shrieks of “Jaysus fecking christ!!”, “My God!!!” and “What the fuck!” as horrified hipster festival goers were treated to an impromptu symphony of Rodder’s dicky tum. In that instant I made my mind up…that was it I would stay in the portaloo and live out the remainder of my days there either dying of starvation or more likely from the smell and unleashed detritus rather than opening the door and facing the audience who had just heard the soundtrack and would soon get the director’s cut visual tour once I stepped out of the now floodlit bog.
All this time I can still hear smooth talking Bon Jovi junior trying it on with my missus and surely now by virtue of having delivered a cracking set minutes earlier (and being an extraordinarily good looking potential rock star rather than a part- qualified accountant with salmonella poisoning who has just destroyed a portaloo in full sound of about 50 people) I may have deemed it somewhat reasonable had she walked off with him there and then rather than claim the perpetrator of the shock and awe campaign that had been unleashed in the bog.
Sheepishly I made my way out to looks of disgust usually reserved for chicken molesters and Tories and my girlfriend asked “Are you ok Rodders?” to which Kid Rock said “You know him?!!!” with a look of bemusement and disgust.
“Yes he’s my boyfriend”. Weak and barely able to stand after the relinquishing of 5 days of bodily fluids in 45 seconds i limped away into the night supported by my future wife. And it was at that moment covered head to toe in beer shit in a rec in medway I knew she was a keeper.
PS sorry for the essay. This has been a form of counselling for me.
Great thread. Never had myself down as one for toilet humour but obviously I am as been in bits reading through this on the train home.
One morning after an absolute skin full my lovely missus made me a bacon sarnie to nurse me back to humanity. Little did I know that innocuous act of kindness would lead to one of the most humiliating experiences in a relatively short lifetime peppered with frequent humiliating experiences.
About half an hour after devouring said sarnie with the gusto of John Prescott attacking a tin of condensed milk I knew something was not right.
Managed to drag myself out of my pit whack on the dressing gown and plonk myself in front of Soccer Am as my guts did somersaults. Missus popped down the shops and I was doing the obligatory contemplation of “must crack one off as am alone in the flat with a window of opportunity” pondering that seemed to take up most of my twenties and as I considered firing up the laptop and mustering enough enthusiasm to rouse a very sad, alcohol- demolished “little Rodders” I felt a very overwhelming urge to fart….and so I did. Stomach felt much better and all was well with the world for a microsecond (I believe I even may have mustered a chuckle at a hackneyed Lovejoy gag) until I glanced downwards and saw the stream of liquid shite that adorned my dressing gown resembling an oil slick in the Atlantic that would dominate 4 consecutive episodes of Newsround in my childhood and seen Craven distraught at the mammoth yet futile clean-up effort required to get back to any semblance of normality.
Little did I know this was just the pre cursor to the big boy. The false alarm, the warm up act so to speak. Cut this part short… ended up with a trip to the Princess Royal a few days later after pretty much 36 hours of brown bukkake- ing out of my harris and a diagnosis of salmonella from the dodgy bacon sarnie.
Fast forward to Rodder’s humiliating episode #386… the following weekend me and the missus (then girlfriend) were due to attend Kent’s premier music festival “Wardstock” as an in law was playing one of the main sets. The missus suggested swerving it due to my ailments but being a hard bastard Charlton fan I wasn’t going to let some poxy virus that Edwina Curry had banged on about inbetween between being slipped Major lengths in the late 80s stop me from having a weekend of debauchery in the outskirts of Maidstone.
As a concession I took my antibiotics and switched to Boddingtons for the day conceding that my usual choice of gaseous lager probably wouldn’t do my shaky stomach any favours. A quality day/ night was had by all, future brother in law’s band smashed it and even saw a band of middle age rockers (one decked out in a Charlton shirt) do a cracking set and all was good with the world. Then near the end of the gig I saw one of the best bands I’ve ever seen at a random place (can’t remember the name of them but they had a song on FIFA back in the day). They were hugely unknown (and still are) and there were probably only 500 people in this little recreation ground festival but in my Boddington’s- induced state of euphoria they were the next Oasis and me and the missus raved about them in gurning disbelief that they weren’t headlining V.
The lead singer had the voice of an angel and was a bloody good looking fella n’all (not in my league of course but definitely up there) and although one of the hottest days of summer it was like Glastonbury in the mud such was the effect he had on the lust- struck female attendees in the audience.
Anyway just as they finished their set the old stomach started proper growling and my missus helped me to the portaloos at the side of the stage. 12 hours of drinking and eating crap at the back end of food poisioning it was only going to be a matter of time. Huge queue and the festival was winding down so about 10 people in front of me and I was starting to think that caning a crate of bitter 4 days into major bout of salmonella wasn’t my brightest idea.
Made it to the front of the queue and dived into a portaloo with my girlfriend waiting next to it to make sure I didn’t pass out and die as I had the house keys. Sat there and being prude and shy felt really self conscious as aware of the huge number of people outside on the other side of the paper thin portaloo walls who I could hear chatting and even breathing. “Fuck it” I thought “at least the music will drown out the sounds I’m about to bestow”….just about then I heard my girlfriend on the other side of the door getting chatted up by none other than the pretty boy Bon Jovi fucker who’d just absolutely smashed the festival on stage in the way Hendrix did at Wardstock.
As I sat there waiting to unleash inevitable hell, with my stomach now gurgling and growling like a cornered hyena I could hear my girlfriend telling this Michael Hutchence protégé how amazing their set was and what a great voice yada yada yada yada….just then then music stopped as the very last song from the very last band ended and the festival location was draped in a silence that trappist monks would be proud of….just as 11 cans of Boddingtons, 2 cheeseburgers and a jerk chicken wrap decided to vacate the premises of chez Rodder’s arse in a cacophony of sound, bodily fluids, stench emotion (and no doubt blood) that surely inspired the opening 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan and the closing bits of Apocalypse Now.
All I recall is the deathly silence outside being broken by horrified shrieks of “Jaysus fecking christ!!”, “My God!!!” and “What the fuck!” as horrified hipster festival goers were treated to an impromptu symphony of Rodder’s dicky tum. In that instant I made my mind up…that was it I would stay in the portaloo and live out the remainder of my days there either dying of starvation or more likely from the smell and unleashed detritus rather than opening the door and facing the audience who had just heard the soundtrack and would soon get the director’s cut visual tour once I stepped out of the now floodlit bog.
All this time I can still hear smooth talking Bon Jovi junior trying it on with my missus and surely now by virtue of having delivered a cracking set minutes earlier (and being an extraordinarily good looking potential rock star rather than a part- qualified accountant with salmonella poisoning who has just destroyed a portaloo in full sound of about 50 people) I may have deemed it somewhat reasonable had she walked off with him there and then rather than claim the perpetrator of the shock and awe campaign that had been unleashed in the bog.
Sheepishly I made my way out to looks of disgust usually reserved for chicken molesters and Tories and my girlfriend asked “Are you ok Rodders?” to which Kid Rock said “You know him?!!!” with a look of bemusement and disgust.
“Yes he’s my boyfriend”. Weak and barely able to stand after the relinquishing of 5 days of bodily fluids in 45 seconds i limped away into the night supported by my future wife. And it was at that moment covered head to toe in beer shit in a rec in medway I knew she was a keeper.
PS sorry for the essay. This has been a form of counselling for me.
You have a beautiful writing style
I haven't had to put my phone down and wipe tears of laughter away from my seized cheeks for years. God bless your missus.
Great thread. Never had myself down as one for toilet humour but obviously I am as been in bits reading through this on the train home.
One morning after an absolute skin full my lovely missus made me a bacon sarnie to nurse me back to humanity. Little did I know that innocuous act of kindness would lead to one of the most humiliating experiences in a relatively short lifetime peppered with frequent humiliating experiences.
About half an hour after devouring said sarnie with the gusto of John Prescott attacking a tin of condensed milk I knew something was not right.
Managed to drag myself out of my pit whack on the dressing gown and plonk myself in front of Soccer Am as my guts did somersaults. Missus popped down the shops and I was doing the obligatory contemplation of “must crack one off as am alone in the flat with a window of opportunity” pondering that seemed to take up most of my twenties and as I considered firing up the laptop and mustering enough enthusiasm to rouse a very sad, alcohol- demolished “little Rodders” I felt a very overwhelming urge to fart….and so I did. Stomach felt much better and all was well with the world for a microsecond (I believe I even may have mustered a chuckle at a hackneyed Lovejoy gag) until I glanced downwards and saw the stream of liquid shite that adorned my dressing gown resembling an oil slick in the Atlantic that would dominate 4 consecutive episodes of Newsround in my childhood and seen Craven distraught at the mammoth yet futile clean-up effort required to get back to any semblance of normality.
Little did I know this was just the pre cursor to the big boy. The false alarm, the warm up act so to speak. Cut this part short… ended up with a trip to the Princess Royal a few days later after pretty much 36 hours of brown bukkake- ing out of my harris and a diagnosis of salmonella from the dodgy bacon sarnie.
Fast forward to Rodder’s humiliating episode #386… the following weekend me and the missus (then girlfriend) were due to attend Kent’s premier music festival “Wardstock” as an in law was playing one of the main sets. The missus suggested swerving it due to my ailments but being a hard bastard Charlton fan I wasn’t going to let some poxy virus that Edwina Curry had banged on about inbetween between being slipped Major lengths in the late 80s stop me from having a weekend of debauchery in the outskirts of Maidstone.
As a concession I took my antibiotics and switched to Boddingtons for the day conceding that my usual choice of gaseous lager probably wouldn’t do my shaky stomach any favours. A quality day/ night was had by all, future brother in law’s band smashed it and even saw a band of middle age rockers (one decked out in a Charlton shirt) do a cracking set and all was good with the world. Then near the end of the gig I saw one of the best bands I’ve ever seen at a random place (can’t remember the name of them but they had a song on FIFA back in the day). They were hugely unknown (and still are) and there were probably only 500 people in this little recreation ground festival but in my Boddington’s- induced state of euphoria they were the next Oasis and me and the missus raved about them in gurning disbelief that they weren’t headlining V.
The lead singer had the voice of an angel and was a bloody good looking fella n’all (not in my league of course but definitely up there) and although one of the hottest days of summer it was like Glastonbury in the mud such was the effect he had on the lust- struck female attendees in the audience.
Anyway just as they finished their set the old stomach started proper growling and my missus helped me to the portaloos at the side of the stage. 12 hours of drinking and eating crap at the back end of food poisioning it was only going to be a matter of time. Huge queue and the festival was winding down so about 10 people in front of me and I was starting to think that caning a crate of bitter 4 days into major bout of salmonella wasn’t my brightest idea.
Made it to the front of the queue and dived into a portaloo with my girlfriend waiting next to it to make sure I didn’t pass out and die as I had the house keys. Sat there and being prude and shy felt really self conscious as aware of the huge number of people outside on the other side of the paper thin portaloo walls who I could hear chatting and even breathing. “Fuck it” I thought “at least the music will drown out the sounds I’m about to bestow”….just about then I heard my girlfriend on the other side of the door getting chatted up by none other than the pretty boy Bon Jovi fucker who’d just absolutely smashed the festival on stage in the way Hendrix did at Wardstock.
As I sat there waiting to unleash inevitable hell, with my stomach now gurgling and growling like a cornered hyena I could hear my girlfriend telling this Michael Hutchence protégé how amazing their set was and what a great voice yada yada yada yada….just then then music stopped as the very last song from the very last band ended and the festival location was draped in a silence that trappist monks would be proud of….just as 11 cans of Boddingtons, 2 cheeseburgers and a jerk chicken wrap decided to vacate the premises of chez Rodder’s arse in a cacophony of sound, bodily fluids, stench emotion (and no doubt blood) that surely inspired the opening 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan and the closing bits of Apocalypse Now.
All I recall is the deathly silence outside being broken by horrified shrieks of “Jaysus fecking christ!!”, “My God!!!” and “What the fuck!” as horrified hipster festival goers were treated to an impromptu symphony of Rodder’s dicky tum. In that instant I made my mind up…that was it I would stay in the portaloo and live out the remainder of my days there either dying of starvation or more likely from the smell and unleashed detritus rather than opening the door and facing the audience who had just heard the soundtrack and would soon get the director’s cut visual tour once I stepped out of the now floodlit bog.
All this time I can still hear smooth talking Bon Jovi junior trying it on with my missus and surely now by virtue of having delivered a cracking set minutes earlier (and being an extraordinarily good looking potential rock star rather than a part- qualified accountant with salmonella poisoning who has just destroyed a portaloo in full sound of about 50 people) I may have deemed it somewhat reasonable had she walked off with him there and then rather than claim the perpetrator of the shock and awe campaign that had been unleashed in the bog.
Sheepishly I made my way out to looks of disgust usually reserved for chicken molesters and Tories and my girlfriend asked “Are you ok Rodders?” to which Kid Rock said “You know him?!!!” with a look of bemusement and disgust.
“Yes he’s my boyfriend”. Weak and barely able to stand after the relinquishing of 5 days of bodily fluids in 45 seconds i limped away into the night supported by my future wife. And it was at that moment covered head to toe in beer shit in a rec in medway I knew she was a keeper.
PS sorry for the essay. This has been a form of counselling for me.
Great thread. Never had myself down as one for toilet humour but obviously I am as been in bits reading through this on the train home.
One morning after an absolute skin full my lovely missus made me a bacon sarnie to nurse me back to humanity. Little did I know that innocuous act of kindness would lead to one of the most humiliating experiences in a relatively short lifetime peppered with frequent humiliating experiences.
About half an hour after devouring said sarnie with the gusto of John Prescott attacking a tin of condensed milk I knew something was not right.
Managed to drag myself out of my pit whack on the dressing gown and plonk myself in front of Soccer Am as my guts did somersaults. Missus popped down the shops and I was doing the obligatory contemplation of “must crack one off as am alone in the flat with a window of opportunity” pondering that seemed to take up most of my twenties and as I considered firing up the laptop and mustering enough enthusiasm to rouse a very sad, alcohol- demolished “little Rodders” I felt a very overwhelming urge to fart….and so I did. Stomach felt much better and all was well with the world for a microsecond (I believe I even may have mustered a chuckle at a hackneyed Lovejoy gag) until I glanced downwards and saw the stream of liquid shite that adorned my dressing gown resembling an oil slick in the Atlantic that would dominate 4 consecutive episodes of Newsround in my childhood and seen Craven distraught at the mammoth yet futile clean-up effort required to get back to any semblance of normality.
Little did I know this was just the pre cursor to the big boy. The false alarm, the warm up act so to speak. Cut this part short… ended up with a trip to the Princess Royal a few days later after pretty much 36 hours of brown bukkake- ing out of my harris and a diagnosis of salmonella from the dodgy bacon sarnie.
Fast forward to Rodder’s humiliating episode #386… the following weekend me and the missus (then girlfriend) were due to attend Kent’s premier music festival “Wardstock” as an in law was playing one of the main sets. The missus suggested swerving it due to my ailments but being a hard bastard Charlton fan I wasn’t going to let some poxy virus that Edwina Curry had banged on about inbetween between being slipped Major lengths in the late 80s stop me from having a weekend of debauchery in the outskirts of Maidstone.
As a concession I took my antibiotics and switched to Boddingtons for the day conceding that my usual choice of gaseous lager probably wouldn’t do my shaky stomach any favours. A quality day/ night was had by all, future brother in law’s band smashed it and even saw a band of middle age rockers (one decked out in a Charlton shirt) do a cracking set and all was good with the world. Then near the end of the gig I saw one of the best bands I’ve ever seen at a random place (can’t remember the name of them but they had a song on FIFA back in the day). They were hugely unknown (and still are) and there were probably only 500 people in this little recreation ground festival but in my Boddington’s- induced state of euphoria they were the next Oasis and me and the missus raved about them in gurning disbelief that they weren’t headlining V.
The lead singer had the voice of an angel and was a bloody good looking fella n’all (not in my league of course but definitely up there) and although one of the hottest days of summer it was like Glastonbury in the mud such was the effect he had on the lust- struck female attendees in the audience.
Anyway just as they finished their set the old stomach started proper growling and my missus helped me to the portaloos at the side of the stage. 12 hours of drinking and eating crap at the back end of food poisioning it was only going to be a matter of time. Huge queue and the festival was winding down so about 10 people in front of me and I was starting to think that caning a crate of bitter 4 days into major bout of salmonella wasn’t my brightest idea.
Made it to the front of the queue and dived into a portaloo with my girlfriend waiting next to it to make sure I didn’t pass out and die as I had the house keys. Sat there and being prude and shy felt really self conscious as aware of the huge number of people outside on the other side of the paper thin portaloo walls who I could hear chatting and even breathing. “Fuck it” I thought “at least the music will drown out the sounds I’m about to bestow”….just about then I heard my girlfriend on the other side of the door getting chatted up by none other than the pretty boy Bon Jovi fucker who’d just absolutely smashed the festival on stage in the way Hendrix did at Wardstock.
As I sat there waiting to unleash inevitable hell, with my stomach now gurgling and growling like a cornered hyena I could hear my girlfriend telling this Michael Hutchence protégé how amazing their set was and what a great voice yada yada yada yada….just then then music stopped as the very last song from the very last band ended and the festival location was draped in a silence that trappist monks would be proud of….just as 11 cans of Boddingtons, 2 cheeseburgers and a jerk chicken wrap decided to vacate the premises of chez Rodder’s arse in a cacophony of sound, bodily fluids, stench emotion (and no doubt blood) that surely inspired the opening 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan and the closing bits of Apocalypse Now.
All I recall is the deathly silence outside being broken by horrified shrieks of “Jaysus fecking christ!!”, “My God!!!” and “What the fuck!” as horrified hipster festival goers were treated to an impromptu symphony of Rodder’s dicky tum. In that instant I made my mind up…that was it I would stay in the portaloo and live out the remainder of my days there either dying of starvation or more likely from the smell and unleashed detritus rather than opening the door and facing the audience who had just heard the soundtrack and would soon get the director’s cut visual tour once I stepped out of the now floodlit bog.
All this time I can still hear smooth talking Bon Jovi junior trying it on with my missus and surely now by virtue of having delivered a cracking set minutes earlier (and being an extraordinarily good looking potential rock star rather than a part- qualified accountant with salmonella poisoning who has just destroyed a portaloo in full sound of about 50 people) I may have deemed it somewhat reasonable had she walked off with him there and then rather than claim the perpetrator of the shock and awe campaign that had been unleashed in the bog.
Sheepishly I made my way out to looks of disgust usually reserved for chicken molesters and Tories and my girlfriend asked “Are you ok Rodders?” to which Kid Rock said “You know him?!!!” with a look of bemusement and disgust.
“Yes he’s my boyfriend”. Weak and barely able to stand after the relinquishing of 5 days of bodily fluids in 45 seconds i limped away into the night supported by my future wife. And it was at that moment covered head to toe in beer shit in a rec in medway I knew she was a keeper.
PS sorry for the essay. This has been a form of counselling for me.
I hope you haven't been making your missus feel guilty about that sandwich all this time because 30 minutes is not even close to the incubation period for salmonella. You picked it up elsewhere!
I woke up this morning and headed to the loo to take my daily good morning dump.
Nothing happening... Quite uncomfortable in fact.
I have a shake for breakfast and bang a couple of prunes in... Just to test their effectiveness.
Before leaving home I think 'why not try for another squeeze?' Still nothing happening...
10:30 rolls around so I come to the loos, ready for the mid morning dump that usually arrives now when the morning regularity isn't there.
So here I was sat on the work kkhazi still nothing. I decide I'll give it a minute and have a little read. Just as your story starts getting funny some bloke comes in and sits in the stall next to mine. It's a row of 3 I picked the furthest one when the loo was empty... He's the only person to come into the loos and he picks the one next to the one in use? Weirdo.
Anyway no doubt he could hear me muffling my laughs as I read about your experience and he probably thinks I'm cracking one off...
Just as I get to the end of your story I attempt the old coughing fit laughter muffle as I do I release a demonic smelling, ear shattering wave of brown sludge and gas into the bowl.
Now I'm waiting for him to leave so that I can! I'm terrified that if I hit the flusher he'll purposefully open his door to see which fucker had just released a chemical warfare level of stink into the loos
@RodneyCharltonTrotta . That deserves @Stig post of the week or at least a nomination for the Nobel prize for literature. Got to the John Prescott reference and after yesterday's failed attempt at disguising laughter in the office, realised I had to pop out for an early lunch. Marvellous work sir.
I woke up this morning and headed to the loo to take my daily good morning dump.
Nothing happening... Quite uncomfortable in fact.
I have a shake for breakfast and bang a couple of prunes in... Just to test their effectiveness.
Before leaving home I think 'why not try for another squeeze?' Still nothing happening...
10:30 rolls around so I come to the loos, ready for the mid morning dump that usually arrives now when the morning regularity isn't there.
So here I was sat on the work kkhazi still nothing. I decide I'll give it a minute and have a little read. Just as your story starts getting funny some bloke comes in and sits in the stall next to mine. It's a row of 3 I picked the furthest one when the loo was empty... He's the only person to come into the loos and he picks the one next to the one in use? Weirdo.
Anyway no doubt he could hear me muffling my laughs as I read about your experience and he probably thinks I'm cracking one off...
Just as I get to the end of your story I attempt the old coughing fit laughter muffle as I do I release a demonic smelling, ear shattering wave of brown sludge and gas into the bowl.
Now I'm waiting for him to leave so that I can! I'm terrified that if I hit the flusher he'll purposefully open his door to see which fucker had just released a chemical warfare level of stink into the loos
Not being up with modern "speak", is that what you actually had for breakfast or a celebration of what you did at breakfast?
God I wish I hadn't read this brings back a really horrendous toilet memory. Walking to work one morning got a vicious stomach spasm which could well have been due to a serious curry night previously and the fact that I have IBS a deadly combination at the best of times, worse when you're in the middle of nowhere. I remembered that there was a dodgy looking outhouse (toilet is too polite for this place) near this run down block of flats. My only chance of salvation but still about half a mile away. I quickened up as best I could trying to take small quick strides, worried that anything longer would mean me shitting myself. I get to the loo just in time, this toilet makes the trainspotting loo look like something you'd find in the Savoy. The loo seat is speckled with a variety of different colors but at this point I didn't even want to think what this might be. I managed to hover over the loo and release my belt, literally as my underwear comes down my sphincter gives up its battle of the bulge and I spatter the loo and the floor around it. It's at this moment of sheer relief I look around for toilet paper newspaper whatever, absolutely buggar all, in desperation I delve into my bag and find some A4 paper, but not enough. At this point I realize I have no choice I take off my socks and wipe as best I can. Realizing that this is not enough, i carefully extricate myself from my grundies and do final clean up. Disposing of underwear and socks into rancid toilet, I beat a rapid retreat for work, before the next wave hits. Not surprisingly I didn't survive the day which was just as well as I was working as a chef in an old age home at the time
I think Rodney's wife is the one who deserves a medal, first standing outside, then admitting she was with him, and finally after all that she married him. She must be a saint
No where near as bad as anyone else as it's more what happened after my shit rather than what happened beforehand and during it... Got to work one morning feeling fine when I realised that about 10am I needed my daily dump, walked downstairs did the business and thats where the troubles began
Working in a small office, no one had sent round an email that the toilet was blocked so when I flushed the toilet it started to disappear yet then the water started to rise and mix with the poo which thankfully didnt overspill yet left what can only be described as a toilet filled with tea (which obviously wasnt and definitely wouldnt be drinkable).
Panicking I decided to go out and act as though it wasnt me who'd blocked the toilet and as a Gentleman I thought I'd find the plunger from someone to unblock the "original" damage... Halfway through the attempt though I realised I'm not a plumber and my attempts to unblock the toilet werent working, to top it off the handle wasnt screwed on properly so after a while I was left with the handle in my hand yet plunger remained in the toilet.
Only thing I could do was reach into the toilet water with my bare hand as didnt have any gloves and blindly get the plunger (the colour of the toilet water meant I couldnt actually see the plunger) - Thankfully managed to get it attached and got the toilet unblocked thereafter yet looking back I can only be glad that my hand searching under the water didnt hit any solids, dread to think what else would have been added to that toilet had that happened!!
The year is 1997. The place is India. Me, my mate and his girlfriend and are on the first few days of a road trip round south India riding Enfield Bullets. We were going through a village after a few hours of driving through the countryside when my bike decides to pack up for the day. Fortunately I break down right outside the first house in the village. One of the members of the house comes out and notices my situation and in broken English says he has an uncle in the next village that can fix bikes but won't be able to arrive until the next day. They very kindly offer me a bed for the night while I wait for the mechanic. So I agree with my mates that they both head into the town we scheduled to stop at and I meet them the next day once the bike is ready. So I am entertained for the evening and fed by this very kind family and then it's time for bed. I wake up in the middle of the night desperate for a dump and after 20 or 30 minutes of trying to hold it in I decide that the turtle head is breaching the shell. Not knowing where the shitter was I wander off in the dark into the field next to the house and squat down to drop the kids off realising just then that I don't have anything to wipe with. So I make like Macgyver and use my No Fear t-shirt to wipe and then discard it near a bush, walk back to the house and back to bed. The next day, while waiting for the mechanic to turn up, I am taken out to the local sights and a coffee plantation that the family own. On my return I find the mechanic has fixed my bike and after a test ride I bid my farewells to the kind family only to find one of them wearing the very same shirt I had used to wipe my arse with.
One night I got the last train home from London after a night on the booze and having missed my preferred New Eltham train had to jump on the Eltham train instead.
Got off the train and began walking to the High Street from where I planned to jump a cab home - this was 1993 so before mobiles were around.
Anyway, having consumed 10 pints + curry my guts announced that they were giving up the ghost about halfway up Well Hall Road- immediate action was required.
There were no public options available - McDonalds was too far and closed anyway - and even late at night (around 1230) that's a busy road so you have to be discreet.
It was pitch black out there, could not see much at all, but sensed an opening to my left which I knew would get me off the street and able to do what I needed.
The event itself was utterly horrific but it got the job done and I made my way home.
Next morning - as fate would have it - the New Eltham line was fucked so had to get a bus to Eltham High Street and re-trace my steps from the previous night back down to the station.
I wasn't really giving the previous nights activities much thought until I noticed a pair of coppers in front of me talking to a very, very angry bloke who was gesticulating wildly at the industrial sized pool of shit on his otherwise beautifully tiled pathway to his front door.
I obviously did not fancy hanging around too long to catch the full conversation but needless to say that I am hoping that the old 'what goes around comes around' mantra doesn't apply in this case.
A woman who threw her poo out of her date's toilet window because it "would not flush" had to be rescued after she got stuck trying to retrieve it. The amateur gymnast was on a first date with Bristol student Liam Smith when she "panicked" and threw the faeces out of the window. It did not land in the garden, but became wedged between two non-opening windows. After climbing in head first after it, she became wedged. Mr Smith had to call the fire brigade for help. The story appeared on a crowdfunding page, set up by the University of Bristol student. Mr Smith, who is hoping to raise funds to fix his broken window, wrote that he was on a Tinder date with the woman and they went back to the shared house he lives in. He said the woman went to the toilet and when she came back she had a "panicked look in her eye" and told him what she had done. He said the toilet window opened into a narrow gap separated by another double glazed window. "It was into this twilight zone that my date had thrown her poo," he said. He went to find a hammer to smash the window, but she decided to "climb in head first" after the "offending package" and became jammed. "I was starting to grow concerned, so I called the fire brigade and once they had composed themselves, they set to work removing her from the window. Although the woman was rescued unharmed, Mr Smith said his bathroom window was destroyed. "I'm not complaining, they did what they had to do," he said. "Problem is, I've been quoted north of £300 to replace the window and as a postgraduate student, that is a significant chunk of my monthly budget. Unsurprisingly, the woman does not want to be named but Mr Smith said he had seen her since and "who knows what the future holds". Avon Fire and Rescue service confirmed it had received a call and freed a woman trapped between external and double glazing. It also confirmed that a "window was broken in the process".
I remember back in the days when I was about 18 I was playing regular Sunday morning football, this was possibly at the time I played for Old Shooterhillians and we had a game at what was the old Co-op ground in Footscray Road.
Now, Sunday morning football at the time to me was the epitome of the week,something to look forward to, and even more so if we'd been victorious at the Valley the previous afternoon. Boots cleaned, freshly laundered kit and all that.
Well, I can honestly at that tender age the build up to Sunday morning's games did not go without the usual pre-match nerves, and all that it entailed, including the mandatory pre-match dump.
At 18 I had been drinking for a couple of years only light ales or the odd lager, but the night before I remember I had had a few with the usual crowd down the Dover Patrol.
It was Spring time I remember distinctly, and I got the bus from Rochester Way down to Footscray Road, and the usual stirrings were evident in the lower regions of my gut, but not actually pressing on the trap door.
As usual I was first to arrive at the ground, however, I did notice it was a little quieter than usual for a Sunday morning. The bus journey have obviously shifted some of the liquid and solids in my insides and I realised that the turtle had commenced it's journey along the tunnel of no return.
I made my way to the dressing room in full anticipation of getting in early and relieving my sphincter muscles in the appropriate place. As I tried the door I realized it was locked. Fuck it, I thought, what's going on here!
I looked at the fixture list, and we definitely had a game here at 10.30, so where was everyone and why were the dressings rooms locked.
By now the turtle had seen the light at the end of the tunnel and was getting close to the rusty bullet hole, and I was beginning to get into a bit of a panic. I needed a shit and quickly.
At that moment it dawned on me. The fucking clocks had changed the night before and I was an hour early. That's why nobody was there and the dressing rooms were locked.
Not being one to make a drama out of a crisis, I knew that unless I relaxed my back end within the next few minutes, God would intervene and do it for me.
I looked round for somewhere discreet to unload, and noticed what looked like an old coal bunker across the other side of the field. Problem was would I make it? I rushed over there as quick as I could, moving like somebody who had just had two hip replacements and found that it was in fact a coal bunker. I thought to myself I could hang my arse over the edge of here and let go. I got my strides down as quick as I could an sat on the end of the bunker.
Relief! Now, what do I wipe my aris with I thought?
Fortunately or otherwise, there was an old News of the World floating about on the grass in front of me, so I got up and waddled over and grabbed. I did the business, got myself back to normality and hung around for the rest of the lads and for someone to open the dressing rooms.
I'll keep this to myself I thought, I don't want them knowing I turned up an hour early and nearly shat my pants.
All was going well until we were getting changed, and somebody shouted across:
'Joe, why have you got coal dust all over your arse?'
I remember back in the days when I was about 18 I was playing regular Sunday morning football, this was possibly at the time I played for Old Shooterhillians and we had a game at what was the old Co-op ground in Footscray Road.
Now, Sunday morning football at the time to me was the epitome of the week,something to look forward to, and even more so if we'd been victorious at the Valley the previous afternoon. Boots cleaned, freshly laundered kit and all that.
Well, I can honestly at that tender age the build up to Sunday morning's games did not go without the usual pre-match nerves, and all that it entailed, including the mandatory pre-match dump.
At 18 I had been drinking for a couple of years only light ales or the odd lager, but the night before I remember I had had a few with the usual crowd down the Dover Patrol.
It was Spring time I remember distinctly, and I got the bus from Rochester Way down to Footscray Road, and the usual stirrings were evident in the lower regions of my gut, but not actually pressing on the trap door.
As usual I was first to arrive at the ground, however, I did notice it was a little quieter than usual for a Sunday morning. The bus journey have obviously shifted some of the liquid and solids in my insides and I realised that the turtle had commenced it's journey along the tunnel of no return.
I made my way to the dressing room in full anticipation of getting in early and relieving my sphincter muscles in the appropriate place. As I tried the door I realized it was locked. Fuck it, I thought, what's going on here!
I looked at the fixture list, and we definitely had a game here at 10.30, so where was everyone and why were the dressings rooms locked.
By now the turtle had seen the light at the end of the tunnel and was getting close to the rusty bullet hole, and I was beginning to get into a bit of a panic. I needed a shit and quickly.
At that moment it dawned on me. The fucking clocks had changed the night before and I was an hour early. That's why nobody was there and the dressing rooms were locked.
Not being one to make a drama out of a crisis, I knew that unless I relaxed my back end within the next few minutes, God would intervene and do it for me.
I looked round for somewhere discreet to unload, and noticed what looked like an old coal bunker across the other side of the field. Problem was would I make it? I rushed over there as quick as I could, moving like somebody who had just had two hip replacements and found that it was in fact a coal bunker. I thought to myself I could hang my arse over the edge of here and let go. I got my strides down as quick as I could an sat on the end of the bunker.
Relief! Now, what do I wipe my aris with I thought?
Fortunately or otherwise, there was an old News of the World floating about on the grass in front of me, so I got up and waddled over and grabbed. I did the business, got myself back to normality and hung around for the rest of the lads and for someone to open the dressing rooms.
I'll keep this to myself I thought, I don't want them knowing I turned up an hour early and nearly shat my pants.
All was going well until we were getting changed, and somebody shouted across:
'Joe, why have you got coal dust all over your arse?'
Happy days.
Keeping in the spirit of Sunday league shitting
My old side used to play at a school in Strood, one game I was filling in at centre half alongside my old mate Jim. Jim is nails absolute hard bastard and a big fucker too. Anyway about 15 minutes or so into the game, a pretty physical one at that I noticed a pooey smell and casually mentioned to Jim about it when play was up the other end.
"Yeah, that's me mate, a bit of shit came out when I stretched for a 50/50" really matter of fact about it
This set me off with the giggles for the rest of the first half and as the half time whistle blew Jim took off like a rocket towards the changing rooms. The rest of the team were watching him and asking where he was going, so I told them. Sure as eggs is eggs they are all laughing and howling like a pack of gorillas and the manager is trying to calm us all down and give a bit of a talk.
Just before we take our positions for the second half and as the manager is distracting the ref to buy a few more seconds to see if Jim is going to make it out for the second half or of he needs to make a sub, Jim bounces back up the hill and long jump pit that was near the changing rooms as of nothing is wrong.
I ask him if he's ok
"Not fucking really mate, the changing rooms were locked and I've just had to squat over the bin and pipe one out and wipe my arse with my pants"
I'd calmed down from him telling me about the initial shit and just picturing 16 stone of big Jim curling out into a bin whilst perched like a raven over a litter bin set me off laughing again.
Game finishes, we've won and all of us have forgotten about the bincident until we round the corner heading back to the changing rooms to be met with a swarm of bluebottles feasting on Jim's shite and disgusting pants. Hilarity doesn't ensue this time as we are all too busy retching and trying to get as far away from ground zero as possible.
We got a letter from the KCFA demanding the club sent an apology to the school caretaker.
A resident saw him crouched over the bin apparently and threatened to go to the newspapers about it.
Walking in the Shropshire Hills, pretty much middle of nowhere. In need of a piss so I decide to head for the nearest tree. Hanging Percy towards er tree bark, farmer on quad bike comes hurtling past, I zip it in quick, have quick welsh sing song conversation, I limp back towards my car tensing bladder muscles all the way, about to go for 2nd try ,blessing the Mitchell folds stone circle in the process, and bloody hell, local hunt (wankers) storm past. So eventually within sight of my car, no-one around this is my moment of relief , and I tell you this is the truth, half way through said piss, what should turn up but a landrover fitted up with 360 google earth cameras ! I really need to check the place out on google earth sometime.
Needed one so bad whilst camping In Dorset I made a bolt for the nearest stile as it was a good bit closer to the tent than the bogs and I knew I could drop everything off on the towpath
As I jumped over my ankle went from under me the instep of my foot felt like it touched my calf a massive crack and instant swelling of ankle didn't stop the shit cramp about to fire out hard and fast
Hopping on 1 leg I dropped me shorts and shit right there by the stile
Once wiped on the wipes I bought with me the pain kicked in the ankle was blackening and huge two walkers had come over the stile and nearly trod in my pile of shit whilst I hopped over the stile and back to my tent
5 hrs in the a and e in Weymouth but fortunately no break
Note left on tent reminding me about camping etiquette and not to shit on the tow path
no real classics to add to the many brilliant ones on here, but I've had my share of "delli belly", the notable ones being:
In a clients house & having to use their loo 3 times during my 1.5 hour meeting. Really loud, loose & smelly too.
many occasions whilst playing golf - known as a "Halifax" by me & my regular playing partner due to the first time this happened (to him) after playing a golf course in Halifax the day after our evening win at Huddersfield in 1997. That day we were joined by my little bro' (known on here as JimmyMelrose) who wasn't very good and the round took almost 6 hours & seeing as the course was basically on the Yorkshire Moors my mate had to go "in the rough" somewhere as we were miles from the clubhouse. I've lose count of the times I've squatted down in some foliage or a copse of trees to empty my bowels, but Princes in Sandwich and Royal St Davids in Harlech are just 2 that spring to mind.
Most notable ones that involved Charlton games directly - one away at Bristol Rovers (the one where Grant Basey broke his leg) where I laid a very wet one before the match & must have put the only cubicle out of action....and away at Coventry when my car broke down on the way there (been playing golf that morning just outside the city) and I needed a dump whilst stranded on the A45 & was lucky there were a few bushes out of site of the hard shoulder.
Hmmm, recall one occasion where I was out at a client for the first time reviewing their paperwork.
Had a few beers the night before but nothing too heavy.
Had a cheeky fart at the desk, unfortunate significant follow through, had to wadddle to nearest desk stinking of shit and ask where he toilets were.
Waddled off and, with good luck was able to dispose of boxers behind one of the loos and there had been no trickle through into the suit trousers. Cleaned up and walked back fresh as a daisy.
No one asked how I had miraculously stopped waffling about the place thank god....
Really didnt want to use this thread today seeing I was meant to start my new job this morning.
Last night had a dodgy watery shit so knew something was up which was made worse this morning when I had another with no solids and no control - Decided I had to risk the trip into London today regardless so not to set a bad impression, knew it would be a risk as would need about 2-hrs between incidents to last the train journey.
Just as I left Abbey Wood I knew it was an impossible task and knew I had to get off at Woolwich Arsenal, sadly the train crawled into the Station which did the damage... Made it to the toilet yet couldnt get my trousers down in time as felt my bowels loosen as I partly shit my pants, finally got the trousers down as the rest started to arrive, briefly catching the back just before I managed to sit down.
Finished up and walked back out to get the next train yet knew I wouldnt last again and quickly got back off and retreated back to the toilet for Part Two (thankfully didnt shite myself this time).
Realised I couldnt get into work without needing another shit so decided to retreat back home... Frustratingly I've not needed to go for two hours now so could have made it in although glad I didnt else Id have been forced to explain the brown patches on the back of my trousers!!
Apologies to anyone desperate to use the cubicle in the Woolwich Arsenal toilets - that toilet is going to take some unblocking the amount of paper I had to use
Really didnt want to use this thread today seeing I was meant to start my new job this morning.
Last night had a dodgy watery shit so knew something was up which was made worse this morning when I had another with no solids and no control - Decided I had to risk the trip into London today regardless so not to set a bad impression, knew it would be a risk as would need about 2-hrs between incidents to last the train journey.
Just as I left Abbey Wood I knew it was an impossible task and knew I had to get off at Woolwich Arsenal, sadly the train crawled into the Station which did the damage... Made it to the toilet yet couldnt get my trousers down in time as felt my bowels loosen as I partly shit my pants, finally got the trousers down as the rest started to arrive, briefly catching the back just before I managed to sit down.
Finished up and walked back out to get the next train yet knew I wouldnt last again and quickly got back off and retreated back to the toilet for Part Two (thankfully didnt shite myself this time).
Realised I couldnt get into work without needing another shit so decided to retreat back home... Frustratingly I've not needed to go for two hours now so could have made it in although glad I didnt else Id have been forced to explain the brown patches on the back of my trousers!!
Apologies to anyone desperate to use the cubicle in the Woolwich Arsenal toilets - that toilet is going to take some unblocking the amount of paper I had to use
Comments
No pretend coughing fit could disguise my laughter.
I'm struggling to think of what to say when I go back in. Can't really tell my manager and A.D. that I'm on a football website reading about other people's unpleasant bowel moving experiences.
Back in the early 90's had been to Buzz Bar off Leicester Square one Saturday night.
Got a hot dog from one of those little pushcart stalls to eat en route to station.
On last train home from Charing Cross and was on one of the old slam door trains, and the carriage we were in had the individual 6/8 seater compartments with doors and a corridor running along it.
Had just left London bridge when the stomach suddenly churned and I knew a particularly liquid eruption was coming. No toilets on these trains so had to dispatch one mate to stand outside the door to our compartment to prevent anyone walking past. The windows were the old pull down style, I then stood astride the two sets of seats in the compartment, holding onto the netted luggage racks above, stuck my arse out the train window and literally let flow with a couple of litres of liquid shite.
My mates were taking the mickey out of me when I was in agony, and telling them what I was going to have to do, but they were not laughing so much when, because I was holding onto the luggage racks with both hands I had no control of my todger which then proceeded to spray piss all around the compartment.
I just hope no one was having a crafty cigarette out of a window that was downstream of my flow of shit.
We moved carriage at next stop.
One morning after an absolute skin full my lovely missus made me a bacon sarnie to nurse me back to humanity. Little did I know that innocuous act of kindness would lead to one of the most humiliating experiences in a relatively short lifetime peppered with frequent humiliating experiences.
About half an hour after devouring said sarnie with the gusto of John Prescott attacking a tin of condensed milk I knew something was not right.
Managed to drag myself out of my pit whack on the dressing gown and plonk myself in front of Soccer Am as my guts did somersaults. Missus popped down the shops and I was doing the obligatory contemplation of “must crack one off as am alone in the flat with a window of opportunity” pondering that seemed to take up most of my twenties and as I considered firing up the laptop and mustering enough enthusiasm to rouse a very sad, alcohol- demolished “little Rodders” I felt a very overwhelming urge to fart….and so I did. Stomach felt much better and all was well with the world for a microsecond (I believe I even may have mustered a chuckle at a hackneyed Lovejoy gag) until I glanced downwards and saw the stream of liquid shite that adorned my dressing gown resembling an oil slick in the Atlantic that would dominate 4 consecutive episodes of Newsround in my childhood and seen Craven distraught at the mammoth yet futile clean-up effort required to get back to any semblance of normality.
Little did I know this was just the pre cursor to the big boy. The false alarm, the warm up act so to speak.
Cut this part short… ended up with a trip to the Princess Royal a few days later after pretty much 36 hours of brown bukkake- ing out of my harris and a diagnosis of salmonella from the dodgy bacon sarnie.
Fast forward to Rodder’s humiliating episode #386… the following weekend me and the missus (then girlfriend) were due to attend Kent’s premier music festival “Wardstock” as an in law was playing one of the main sets. The missus suggested swerving it due to my ailments but being a hard bastard Charlton fan I wasn’t going to let some poxy virus that Edwina Curry had banged on about inbetween between being slipped Major lengths in the late 80s stop me from having a weekend of debauchery in the outskirts of Maidstone.
As a concession I took my antibiotics and switched to Boddingtons for the day conceding that my usual choice of gaseous lager probably wouldn’t do my shaky stomach any favours. A quality day/ night was had by all, future brother in law’s band smashed it and even saw a band of middle age rockers (one decked out in a Charlton shirt) do a cracking set and all was good with the world. Then near the end of the gig I saw one of the best bands I’ve ever seen at a random place (can’t remember the name of them but they had a song on FIFA back in the day). They were hugely unknown (and still are) and there were probably only 500 people in this little recreation ground festival but in my Boddington’s- induced state of euphoria they were the next Oasis and me and the missus raved about them in gurning disbelief that they weren’t headlining V.
The lead singer had the voice of an angel and was a bloody good looking fella n’all (not in my league of course but definitely up there) and although one of the hottest days of summer it was like Glastonbury in the mud such was the effect he had on the lust- struck female attendees in the audience.
Anyway just as they finished their set the old stomach started proper growling and my missus helped me to the portaloos at the side of the stage. 12 hours of drinking and eating crap at the back end of food poisioning it was only going to be a matter of time. Huge queue and the festival was winding down so about 10 people in front of me and I was starting to think that caning a crate of bitter 4 days into major bout of salmonella wasn’t my brightest idea.
Made it to the front of the queue and dived into a portaloo with my girlfriend waiting next to it to make sure I didn’t pass out and die as I had the house keys. Sat there and being prude and shy felt really self conscious as aware of the huge number of people outside on the other side of the paper thin portaloo walls who I could hear chatting and even breathing. “Fuck it” I thought “at least the music will drown out the sounds I’m about to bestow”….just about then I heard my girlfriend on the other side of the door getting chatted up by none other than the pretty boy Bon Jovi fucker who’d just absolutely smashed the festival on stage in the way Hendrix did at Wardstock.
As I sat there waiting to unleash inevitable hell, with my stomach now gurgling and growling like a cornered hyena I could hear my girlfriend telling this Michael Hutchence protégé how amazing their set was and what a great voice yada yada yada yada….just then then music stopped as the very last song from the very last band ended and the festival location was draped in a silence that trappist monks would be proud of….just as 11 cans of Boddingtons, 2 cheeseburgers and a jerk chicken wrap decided to vacate the premises of chez Rodder’s arse in a cacophony of sound, bodily fluids, stench emotion (and no doubt blood) that surely inspired the opening 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan and the closing bits of Apocalypse Now.
All I recall is the deathly silence outside being broken by horrified shrieks of “Jaysus fecking christ!!”, “My God!!!” and “What the fuck!” as horrified hipster festival goers were treated to an impromptu symphony of Rodder’s dicky tum.
In that instant I made my mind up…that was it I would stay in the portaloo and live out the remainder of my days there either dying of starvation or more likely from the smell and unleashed detritus rather than opening the door and facing the audience who had just heard the soundtrack and would soon get the director’s cut visual tour once I stepped out of the now floodlit bog.
All this time I can still hear smooth talking Bon Jovi junior trying it on with my missus and surely now by virtue of having delivered a cracking set minutes earlier (and being an extraordinarily good looking potential rock star rather than a part- qualified accountant with salmonella poisoning who has just destroyed a portaloo in full sound of about 50 people) I may have deemed it somewhat reasonable had she walked off with him there and then rather than claim the perpetrator of the shock and awe campaign that had been unleashed in the bog.
Sheepishly I made my way out to looks of disgust usually reserved for chicken molesters and Tories and my girlfriend asked “Are you ok Rodders?” to which Kid Rock said “You know him?!!!” with a look of bemusement and disgust.
“Yes he’s my boyfriend”. Weak and barely able to stand after the relinquishing of 5 days of bodily fluids in 45 seconds i limped away into the night supported by my future wife. And it was at that moment covered head to toe in beer shit in a rec in medway I knew she was a keeper.
PS sorry for the essay. This has been a form of counselling for me.
I haven't had to put my phone down and wipe tears of laughter away from my seized cheeks for years. God bless your missus.
I woke up this morning and headed to the loo to take my daily good morning dump.
Nothing happening... Quite uncomfortable in fact.
I have a shake for breakfast and bang a couple of prunes in... Just to test their effectiveness.
Before leaving home I think 'why not try for another squeeze?' Still nothing happening...
10:30 rolls around so I come to the loos, ready for the mid morning dump that usually arrives now when the morning regularity isn't there.
So here I was sat on the work kkhazi still nothing. I decide I'll give it a minute and have a little read. Just as your story starts getting funny some bloke comes in and sits in the stall next to mine. It's a row of 3 I picked the furthest one when the loo was empty... He's the only person to come into the loos and he picks the one next to the one in use? Weirdo.
Anyway no doubt he could hear me muffling my laughs as I read about your experience and he probably thinks I'm cracking one off...
Just as I get to the end of your story I attempt the old coughing fit laughter muffle as I do I release a demonic smelling, ear shattering wave of brown sludge and gas into the bowl.
Now I'm waiting for him to leave so that I can! I'm terrified that if I hit the flusher he'll purposefully open his door to see which fucker had just released a chemical warfare level of stink into the loos
That deserves @Stig post of the week or at least a nomination for the Nobel prize for literature.
Got to the John Prescott reference and after yesterday's failed attempt at disguising laughter in the office, realised I had to pop out for an early lunch.
Marvellous work sir.
Walking to work one morning got a vicious stomach spasm which could well have been due to a serious curry night previously and the fact that I have IBS a deadly combination at the best of times, worse when you're in the middle of nowhere.
I remembered that there was a dodgy looking outhouse (toilet is too polite for this place) near this run down block of flats. My only chance of salvation but still about half a mile away.
I quickened up as best I could trying to take small quick strides, worried that anything longer would mean me shitting myself.
I get to the loo just in time, this toilet makes the trainspotting loo look like something you'd find in the Savoy. The loo seat is speckled with a variety of different colors but at this point I didn't even want to think what this might be.
I managed to hover over the loo and release my belt, literally as my underwear comes down my sphincter gives up its battle of the bulge and I spatter the loo and the floor around it.
It's at this moment of sheer relief I look around for toilet paper newspaper whatever, absolutely buggar all, in desperation I delve into my bag and find some A4 paper, but not enough. At this point I realize I have no choice I take off my socks and wipe as best I can. Realizing that this is not enough, i carefully extricate myself from my grundies and do final clean up. Disposing of underwear and socks into rancid toilet, I beat a rapid retreat for work, before the next wave hits.
Not surprisingly I didn't survive the day which was just as well as I was working as a chef in an old age home at the time
Working in a small office, no one had sent round an email that the toilet was blocked so when I flushed the toilet it started to disappear yet then the water started to rise and mix with the poo which thankfully didnt overspill yet left what can only be described as a toilet filled with tea (which obviously wasnt and definitely wouldnt be drinkable).
Panicking I decided to go out and act as though it wasnt me who'd blocked the toilet and as a Gentleman I thought I'd find the plunger from someone to unblock the "original" damage... Halfway through the attempt though I realised I'm not a plumber and my attempts to unblock the toilet werent working, to top it off the handle wasnt screwed on properly so after a while I was left with the handle in my hand yet plunger remained in the toilet.
Only thing I could do was reach into the toilet water with my bare hand as didnt have any gloves and blindly get the plunger (the colour of the toilet water meant I couldnt actually see the plunger) - Thankfully managed to get it attached and got the toilet unblocked thereafter yet looking back I can only be glad that my hand searching under the water didnt hit any solids, dread to think what else would have been added to that toilet had that happened!!
Got off the train and began walking to the High Street from where I planned to jump a cab home - this was 1993 so before mobiles were around.
Anyway, having consumed 10 pints + curry my guts announced that they were giving up the ghost about halfway up Well Hall Road- immediate action was required.
There were no public options available - McDonalds was too far and closed anyway - and even late at night (around 1230) that's a busy road so you have to be discreet.
It was pitch black out there, could not see much at all, but sensed an opening to my left which I knew would get me off the street and able to do what I needed.
The event itself was utterly horrific but it got the job done and I made my way home.
Next morning - as fate would have it - the New Eltham line was fucked so had to get a bus to Eltham High Street and re-trace my steps from the previous night back down to the station.
I wasn't really giving the previous nights activities much thought until I noticed a pair of coppers in front of me talking to a very, very angry bloke who was gesticulating wildly at the industrial sized pool of shit on his otherwise beautifully tiled pathway to his front door.
I obviously did not fancy hanging around too long to catch the full conversation but needless to say that I am hoping that the old 'what goes around comes around' mantra doesn't apply in this case.
Classic!!!
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-41167296
The amateur gymnast was on a first date with Bristol student Liam Smith when she "panicked" and threw the faeces out of the window.
It did not land in the garden, but became wedged between two non-opening windows.
After climbing in head first after it, she became wedged.
Mr Smith had to call the fire brigade for help.
The story appeared on a crowdfunding page, set up by the University of Bristol student.
Mr Smith, who is hoping to raise funds to fix his broken window, wrote that he was on a Tinder date with the woman and they went back to the shared house he lives in.
He said the woman went to the toilet and when she came back she had a "panicked look in her eye" and told him what she had done.
He said the toilet window opened into a narrow gap separated by another double glazed window.
"It was into this twilight zone that my date had thrown her poo," he said.
He went to find a hammer to smash the window, but she decided to "climb in head first" after the "offending package" and became jammed.
"I was starting to grow concerned, so I called the fire brigade and once they had composed themselves, they set to work removing her from the window.
Although the woman was rescued unharmed, Mr Smith said his bathroom window was destroyed.
"I'm not complaining, they did what they had to do," he said.
"Problem is, I've been quoted north of £300 to replace the window and as a postgraduate student, that is a significant chunk of my monthly budget.
Unsurprisingly, the woman does not want to be named but Mr Smith said he had seen her since and "who knows what the future holds".
Avon Fire and Rescue service confirmed it had received a call and freed a woman trapped between external and double glazing.
It also confirmed that a "window was broken in the process".
BBC News
Now, Sunday morning football at the time to me was the epitome of the week,something to look forward to, and even more so if we'd been victorious at the Valley the previous afternoon. Boots cleaned, freshly laundered kit and all that.
Well, I can honestly at that tender age the build up to Sunday morning's games did not go without the usual pre-match nerves, and all that it entailed, including the mandatory pre-match dump.
At 18 I had been drinking for a couple of years only light ales or the odd lager, but the night before I remember I had had a few with the usual crowd down the Dover Patrol.
It was Spring time I remember distinctly, and I got the bus from Rochester Way down to Footscray Road, and the usual stirrings were evident in the lower regions of my gut, but not actually pressing on the trap door.
As usual I was first to arrive at the ground, however, I did notice it was a little quieter than usual for a Sunday morning. The bus journey have obviously shifted some of the liquid and solids in my insides and I realised that the turtle had commenced it's journey along the tunnel of no return.
I made my way to the dressing room in full anticipation of getting in early and relieving my sphincter muscles in the appropriate place. As I tried the door I realized it was locked. Fuck it, I thought, what's going on here!
I looked at the fixture list, and we definitely had a game here at 10.30, so where was everyone and why were the dressings rooms locked.
By now the turtle had seen the light at the end of the tunnel and was getting close to the rusty bullet hole, and I was beginning to get into a bit of a panic. I needed a shit and quickly.
At that moment it dawned on me. The fucking clocks had changed the night before and I was an hour early. That's why nobody was there and the dressing rooms were locked.
Not being one to make a drama out of a crisis, I knew that unless I relaxed my back end within the next few minutes, God would intervene and do it for me.
I looked round for somewhere discreet to unload, and noticed what looked like an old coal bunker across the other side of the field. Problem was would I make it? I rushed over there as quick as I could, moving like somebody who had just had two hip replacements and found that it was in fact a coal bunker. I thought to myself I could hang my arse over the edge of here and let go. I got my strides down as quick as I could an sat on the end of the bunker.
Relief! Now, what do I wipe my aris with I thought?
Fortunately or otherwise, there was an old News of the World floating about on the grass in front of me, so I got up and waddled over and grabbed. I did the business, got myself back to normality and hung around for the rest of the lads and for someone to open the dressing rooms.
I'll keep this to myself I thought, I don't want them knowing I turned up an hour early and nearly shat my pants.
All was going well until we were getting changed, and somebody shouted across:
'Joe, why have you got coal dust all over your arse?'
Happy days.
My old side used to play at a school in Strood, one game I was filling in at centre half alongside my old mate Jim. Jim is nails absolute hard bastard and a big fucker too. Anyway about 15 minutes or so into the game, a pretty physical one at that I noticed a pooey smell and casually mentioned to Jim about it when play was up the other end.
"Yeah, that's me mate, a bit of shit came out when I stretched for a 50/50" really matter of fact about it
This set me off with the giggles for the rest of the first half and as the half time whistle blew Jim took off like a rocket towards the changing rooms. The rest of the team were watching him and asking where he was going, so I told them. Sure as eggs is eggs they are all laughing and howling like a pack of gorillas and the manager is trying to calm us all down and give a bit of a talk.
Just before we take our positions for the second half and as the manager is distracting the ref to buy a few more seconds to see if Jim is going to make it out for the second half or of he needs to make a sub, Jim bounces back up the hill and long jump pit that was near the changing rooms as of nothing is wrong.
I ask him if he's ok
"Not fucking really mate, the changing rooms were locked and I've just had to squat over the bin and pipe one out and wipe my arse with my pants"
I'd calmed down from him telling me about the initial shit and just picturing 16 stone of big Jim curling out into a bin whilst perched like a raven over a litter bin set me off laughing again.
Game finishes, we've won and all of us have forgotten about the bincident until we round the corner heading back to the changing rooms to be met with a swarm of bluebottles feasting on Jim's shite and disgusting pants. Hilarity doesn't ensue this time as we are all too busy retching and trying to get as far away from ground zero as possible.
We got a letter from the KCFA demanding the club sent an apology to the school caretaker.
A resident saw him crouched over the bin apparently and threatened to go to the newspapers about it.
As I jumped over my ankle went from under me the instep of my foot felt like it touched my calf a massive crack and instant swelling of ankle didn't stop the shit cramp about to fire out hard and fast
Hopping on 1 leg I dropped me shorts and shit right there by the stile
Once wiped on the wipes I bought with me the pain kicked in the ankle was blackening and huge two walkers had come over the stile and nearly trod in my pile of shit whilst I hopped over the stile and back to my tent
5 hrs in the a and e in Weymouth but fortunately no break
Note left on tent reminding me about camping etiquette and not to shit on the tow path
Grassing rambler bstds
In a clients house & having to use their loo 3 times during my 1.5 hour meeting. Really loud, loose & smelly too.
many occasions whilst playing golf - known as a "Halifax" by me & my regular playing partner due to the first time this happened (to him) after playing a golf course in Halifax the day after our evening win at Huddersfield in 1997. That day we were joined by my little bro' (known on here as JimmyMelrose) who wasn't very good and the round took almost 6 hours & seeing as the course was basically on the Yorkshire Moors my mate had to go "in the rough" somewhere as we were miles from the clubhouse. I've lose count of the times I've squatted down in some foliage or a copse of trees to empty my bowels, but Princes in Sandwich and Royal St Davids in Harlech are just 2 that spring to mind.
Most notable ones that involved Charlton games directly - one away at Bristol Rovers (the one where Grant Basey broke his leg) where I laid a very wet one before the match & must have put the only cubicle out of action....and away at Coventry when my car broke down on the way there (been playing golf that morning just outside the city) and I needed a dump whilst stranded on the A45 & was lucky there were a few bushes out of site of the hard shoulder.
Had a few beers the night before but nothing too heavy.
Had a cheeky fart at the desk, unfortunate significant follow through, had to wadddle to nearest desk stinking of shit and ask where he toilets were.
Waddled off and, with good luck was able to dispose of boxers behind one of the loos and there had been no trickle through into the suit trousers. Cleaned up and walked back fresh as a daisy.
No one asked how I had miraculously stopped waffling about the place thank god....
Last night had a dodgy watery shit so knew something was up which was made worse this morning when I had another with no solids and no control - Decided I had to risk the trip into London today regardless so not to set a bad impression, knew it would be a risk as would need about 2-hrs between incidents to last the train journey.
Just as I left Abbey Wood I knew it was an impossible task and knew I had to get off at Woolwich Arsenal, sadly the train crawled into the Station which did the damage... Made it to the toilet yet couldnt get my trousers down in time as felt my bowels loosen as I partly shit my pants, finally got the trousers down as the rest started to arrive, briefly catching the back just before I managed to sit down.
Finished up and walked back out to get the next train yet knew I wouldnt last again and quickly got back off and retreated back to the toilet for Part Two (thankfully didnt shite myself this time).
Realised I couldnt get into work without needing another shit so decided to retreat back home... Frustratingly I've not needed to go for two hours now so could have made it in although glad I didnt else Id have been forced to explain the brown patches on the back of my trousers!!
Apologies to anyone desperate to use the cubicle in the Woolwich Arsenal toilets - that toilet is going to take some unblocking the amount of paper I had to use