I farted once
Usually that's not much of a claim; everyone lets slip a sharp little gust from their arsehole on a daily basis, but this one, this fart, was like Zeus and Thor hurling simultaneous thunderbolts at eachother. It was an Epic Fart.

I was 14, and playing football at school. This was a proper Games session, so I was wearing tracksuit trousers a size too large and a rugby top turned inside out. Like most people on the internet I'm shit at sport, and never really had any enthusiasm, and since it was November and bollock-achingly cold I couldn't have given less of a fuck about the game in hand.

Being shit, I was told to stay back near the goal while my teammates scuffled over a sodden leather sack at the other end of the pitch. So I had plenty of time to dawdle around and gawp at the 100+ other boys scattered around the vast playing field, playing their own matches with varying degrees of gusto.

I was snapped out of my reverie by a broken voice squawking "HEADS UP!", and I saw it - the manky grey and white ball, with half the leather hexagons peeled off, hurtling towards my end of the pitch. Someone had punted it from the other end in a huge lazy arc, and it was coming straight towards me. It was my ball - I was the only one at that end of the field - so I went for it. With three steps I lunged forward to intercept.

Since I'm so shit at sport, I misjudged it, and in the final second I realised I needed to correct the stride of my pathetic teenage body. So like Van Damme on that fucking lorry advert, I stretched my legs as far apart as I could in a wild kick, desperately hoping that my flailing limb would connect with the ball. That's when my sphincter ruptured space and time.

With my bumcheeks spread farther apart than they ever had been before, the fart erupted from my overstretched arsehole like Concorde breaking the sound barrier. It blasted across the playing field like a shockwave, silencing everything it swept across. One by one, the other boys in other matches faltered in their running or stopped altogether, turning their heads towards the sounds of the colonic explosion. Referees halted, teachers froze, and still the fart rolled on across the flat November field. Then it hit the tall brick wall surrounding the school environs and rolled back in a sulphuric, farting echo, a mocking doppelganger of the original fart repeated over and over until it was swept away in the autumn wind.

I stood still, letting the last waves of flatuence wash over myself and my classmates. No-one moved for what felt like eternity. Then the teacher slowly, robotically, lifted his whistle to his lips and blew a single solitary peep. The ball had rolled into my goal, and we'd lost the game.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 7:46, 42 replies)

Well this has all the poo related boxes ticked....have a cheeky pea!!
*****wavy lines*****

6 years ago this story took place, and what a torrid time it was too!!

I had backache, and a lump on my right bollock, and nothing eased the pain (the doctors were failing to diagnose me properly but that stories been done) i started with paracetamol, no change, codiene, nothing, Tramadol, nada, zilch zero nothing. Then came the eventual diagnosis....a rather nasty and aggressive dose of cancer....fucksocks!! Well it turned out the backache was caused by the spread of the cancer into my lymph nodes in my abdomen which in turn were pressing on my spine, causing said pain. Anyway, to combat the pain I was introduced to Morphine, both slow release 12hr tablets with oramorph liquid in between as top ups. Now one of the side effects of morphine in the quantities i was taking, apart from being totally spaced out and seeing things, was constipation.....proper didnt shit for 3 weeks constipation....and the more i didnt shit, the more my bowel grew, pressing further on the tumours, in turn pressing harder on my spine, increasing the pain and taking more morphine to combat it...ad infinitum....see a pattern emerging here??

Eventually the doctors listened to me and gave me an examination properly, fecal impaction with 2 possible outcomes.

1. Take a shit and feel better
2. Dont take a shit, burst my bowel, become badly infected and probably die

I decided that dropping the kids off at the pool was probably a good idea but i just couldnt go..at all....i was blocked solid....enter my friend the anal suppository! (inserted by a rather attractive nurse i must add). What followed stripped me of any semblance of dignity i may of been holding onto during the build up to chemo. Suppository inserted with instructions to hold on at least 5 minutes before visiting the hospital bathroom 30 yards down the hall (did i mention i hadnt checked where the toilet was beforehand, or whether it was free?). So i laid in my hospital bed and waited :-

one minute....a little light gurgling in my anal tract
two minutes....this gurgling is intense (nurse returns with small cardoard tray that sits inside the toilet for me to shit into so they can check what i have passed)
Three minutes....toes curling, chocolate starfish in spasm
Four minutes....gotta get to toilet....quick...fucking quick!!
Five minutes....race down hall in blind panic trying to find an empty room for a shit...luck is on my side as the second one is free, i hurl myself in throwing the cardboard thing in the pan ready as my arse dances the foxtrot and my guts spasm, finally i turn to seat myself but not quick enough.....VESUVIUS erupts out of my arse at mach 10 and three weeks worth of food sprays forth as i lower myself. the first blast sprays the toilet cistern, the wall and most of the back of my legs. the second convulsive expulsion makes it into the cardboard tray only to bounce back out and spray me up the back and cover what is left of the toilet room!
I sat there for what felt like 20 minutes endlessly shitting and gone past caring where it was going before ringing the bell and requesting some nurse assistance. The attractive nurse came back! the shame was written on my face (well the bits of my face that werent covered in liquid shit)....her face was covered in shock, shock and awe that one person could cause so much damage and degredation with just one shit!
I was helped into an adjacent cubicle and showered off for half an hour and in the meantime a cleaning crew were called (after "biohazard" tapes were put up stopping entry into the toilet).
The last thing i saw before sleep mercifully took me in its warm embrace was a team of 3 cleaners in chemical suits and face masks entering the toilet...poor fuckers.

Thankfully the cancer was treated well and i am now in remission. and thats my story of the horrors of morphine!!!

Length?? none whatsoever, it was all liquid!
(spinks its only kinky the first time, Sat 20 Jun 2015, 5:34, 6 replies)

Many years ago I was returning to the homestead after a classic Friday night in The City.
Cab hailed and an uneventful journey back to Camberwell save for the odd 5 minutes of sleep was the order of the night.

Whilst standing paying for the cab I let out a cheeky fart not expecting the litre of hot liquid shart that was now in my suit trousers.

Luckily for me there is a super loo on Camberwell Green so I very gingerly and very straight legged walk the short distance to the convenience and pays my 20p. The door opens to my great relief so I go in and sit down surveying the devastation that needs cleaning before the short walk home.

2 handfuls of paper, which cleans next to nothing, was the only available paper before the dispenser gives up the ghost. I then spend ages balling up newspaper and trying to finish the job off when I am timed out and the DOOR OPENS.

I hastily pull up my trousers and walk home with the cold wet matter touching my arse and legs. Walk straight into the bathroom and get immediately in the shower.

I did manage to have the last laugh as my flatmate went to the dry cleaner the next day and took my balled up suit in a plastic bag on my behalf. However the next day when he picked up our clean dry cleaning he was told in no uncertain terms that he wasn't welcome in that shop ever again.
(Set your faces to Stunned Bigly, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 9:17, 4 replies)

I once shit myself when the computer game I was playing didn't have a pause button.
I think I must have been about 13.
(Baggenfrock get fucked, Thu 18 Jun 2015, 14:48, 4 replies)

And since we're on the subject of shit...
I used to be in a sub aqua club, which has long since disbanded through general apathy and stupid politics. I used to look forward to Thursday evenings, where I could get dressed in rubber and stick hoses in my gob for an hour, before retiring to the bar for a good debriefing.

The missus used to work in a special needs unit of a school at the time, and Thursdays were also 'take the specials swimming day'. For which they used the same pool as me and my fellow neoprene enthusiasts used for training purposes. One Thursday afternoon I got an email from her.

"Is the dive club meeting tonight?"

I responded in the affirmative.

"Oh. Well in that case you'd better contact as many people as you can and let them know that the pool has had to be drained, and it won't be ready to use again until Monday at least."

Turned out one of the more disabled kids had shat himself quite spectacularly, and even his swim nappy couldn't contain the resultant effluent that had proceeded to spread itself around. I think the school was banned from using the facilities as a result.

We just went to the pub instead.

Good toimes.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 19 Jun 2015, 19:18, 8 replies)

I shat myself
We're doing poo stories, yeah?

One day at work, instead of going to the canteen, I went down the road and got an ebola burger and a can of pop. Fifteen minutes later, I was back at my desk, but I felt a rumbling and my tail was twitching.

I stood up. Now I couldn't possibly crap in bog No. 1, so I had to trot over the corridor to the other one. Would I make it in time? I walked awkwardly past bog No. 2, my pace quickening. Some fool was blocking the door in front of me. Hurry up! Overtake him, across the corridor, into bog No. 3, I was practically sprinting at this point.

Once through both doors, my hands were already on my belt. Luckily a cubicle was free. I dashed in, spun round, and yanked my trousers and pants down in one go, unhindered by my belt.

Then "shit happened" as they say. I wasn't even seated at this point.

It went everywhere. In the bog, on the bog, up the wall, across the floor. My pants were a write-off.

Needless to say, the bog roll was those stupid flimsy sheets rather than the real deal you have at home. Wipe wipe, in the bog, lid down, flush. Repeat. At this rate I reckoned I could kind of clean the place up in a couple of hours.

Then the cleaner stuck her head round the outer door and asked whether anyone was in there. I confirmed there was. Damn! I couldn't ask her to come back at 3pm. Now she was waiting outside the door, and she'd know I was the dirty bastard who'd soiled the place.

What was I supposed to do with my pants? I couldn't stick them in my pocket, they were too far gone for that.

I gave up, and chucked them in the corner.

I legged it. That poor woman. I never wore that shirt or tie again in the hope she wouldn't recognise me.

The following day I noticed there was shit on my ID badge.
(Bob the Builder killed Captain Alex, Mon 22 Jun 2015, 22:17, Reply)

Ha ha poo poo story
Not me, but a mate of a mate ...
had a summer job as inspector of the public toilets. He saw some pretty eye-opening stuff, but nothing weirder than in this beachfront bog, where some depraved mutant had:
laid a perfect sausage-shaped log in the middle of the floor;
pushed two bolts into either end;
and stuck a row of seagull feathers along the top.
(mudskipper, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 10:14, 3 replies)

I sold this Makita cordless power drill in the local paper, and then 6 months later I received the very same one back as a Christmas present from my brother-in-law, minus the power pack.
(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Thu 18 Jun 2015, 12:48, 5 replies)

Here's a poo story. It starts the night before when I ate a huge pile of fresh strawberries for tea.
Cycling to work next morning, I'd just joined a roundabout with a car close behind me when I felt the need to pass wind. I stood up on the pedals a bit as you do and discreetly let rip.

However, instead of a ladylike fart I felt a sudden torrent of hot shit.

As the car was still following I decided to continue round the roundabout and head back home, trusting that nobody had seen my performance.

No such luck. The car followed me all the way home, where I found that the mess had shot right up my back, almost to my shoulders, staining my fancy hi-viz cycling shirt a striking shade of brown. It must've looked like a volcano going off to that driver. I bet they were WELL amused.

I still had to clean myself up and ring my boss with a story about why I was late and then set off again, timidly this time, pedalling very gently, listening hard for any rumblings.

I still like strawberries.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 20 Jun 2015, 23:28, 2 replies)

Poo Pea
Broken Arrow and the case of the missing underpants
Now first of all, this isn't my proudest moment but in hindsight I laugh my ass off at my stupidity.

Cue wavy lines to about 30 years ago when I was 5 years old. In those days the estate we lived on was perfectly safe, or so it seemed, so kids were let out all day, without parents worrying that some paedo was going to nab them in broad daylight. In other words, the days before peado mania hit the headlines

So most weekends were spent riding round on my bike looking for things to do, it was a grifter if my memory serves me right and my trusty stead, sporting spokey dokeys was ready for action on the upper part of the estate.

Usually there was some sort of competition going and on that day it was who could leave the biggest tyre skid on the pavement (grifters ruled the roost in that dept, due to the pedal back breaking), although the competition had nothing to do with the story, skids were definitely going to happen again that day, just not from a tyre and not on the pavement.

Anyway after my glory of winning one skid competition I was suddenly hit with an almighty shit ache. A shit ache of such epic proportions that I couldn’t actually move. I had to think fast as I didn’t want to be riding home with a full load and like a German bomber saving fuel, I knew I had to un-load the cargo somewhere. Eureka ka ka ka!! -Paul’s house.

Paul was one of those kids your mum dropped you off with when she was busy and his house was meters away. Brilliant I thought, I’ll knock on Paul’s house, explain the difficulty and that would be that.....Wrong....very wrong, I knocked once, no answer, knocked again, still nothing. By this time my bowels had decided that Paul would be in and had set off a silent timer and it was coming close to explosion time...Think Broken think mate...FWAPP !!!!! Too late!!!!! Although I would handle the situation totally different now, a young Broken decided in his ultimate wisdom that this was one shipment he didn’t want to take back home, in fear of a tanned shitty backside. So this is what I did next.

With the precision of a surgeon and in broad daylight I took my pants off and tried to chuck them over Paul’s fence...Opps hit the fence and left shit stain, I had to try a different technique. Ah Yes, I thought, the faithful slingshot, now my shits in those days were perfect, because I hadn’t had time or authority to ruin my diet so no sticky mess just a perfectly formed turd.....Bingo, got the turd and the pants over there first try, result!!!!!! A sneaky look out to the pavement and I was off, a little discomfort due to non- wipeage but still feeling fairly proud of myself for dealing with the situation and the ride home smelt of victory....Well kind of.

Got home and all was well, just in time for bath time, sweet I thought, good opportunity to clean up my stinging rusty sheriffs badge. Fobbed my mum off in regards to why I didn’t have any pants, however I will always remember my mum’s words when she uttered this sentence.

“Well god knows where your pants went Broken but luckily I brought this new machine a couple of days ago and I have written your name in every pair of Y-fronts you own, so they may turn up”

Weirdly enough I never did go round to Pauls to play again and we moved shortly afterwards....I always wondered whether it was my shitty sling shot that was the reason for getting out of there......I guess I’ll just never know.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 14:33, 7 replies)

here, sir, have a cheekily roasted pea!!!!!!!!!!
It was 1998. I was 18.
I was extremely stoned, and waiting for my bus. I was paranoid; every pedestrian walking past could see my red eyes, white face and idiotic grin. They could smell the low grade hashish I was carrying, and they were laughing about it. Yeah, and the people driving past? They were on their way to the police station to report me.

My bus pulled up, I got on board. I asked the driver for a return to Aberdeen.

'Are you a fool?' he asked me.

I was stunned. He knew. He was going to either harangue me about the stultifying effects of cannabis resin, or he was going to somehow contact the police.

'What?' I stammered.

'Are you a fool?' he repeated. Was I on the wrong bus? I was! I must be! Why else would this man be asking me if I was a fool? I was a fool! It was the wrong bus! It wasn't though, I saw the number. It's the right one, so what's he getting at?

'What?' I asked again. I was adrift on a floating island of confusion.

'Are you a full fare, or a half fare?' he barked out.

'Adult fare!' I replied, then realised that I had just answered the question he hadn't asked, and I was in fact, a very stoned fool.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 14:17, 10 replies)

having one off the wrist
Lad I worked with in Royal Mail once admitted to us that he had, for a long time, been under the impression that 'having one off the wrist' was slang for going for a pint (no explanation was ever given for this misunderstanding). He went on to document several instances in which he'd asked friends if they wanted to go for a 'quick one off the wrist' with him, and a subsequent time when someone asked him if he'd ever been caught by him mum doing the same, which caused him much confusion
(r0bm867, Thu 18 Jun 2015, 15:48, 4 replies)

I shit myself outside M&S on Oxford St when I was 23.
I went in and bought new pants, socks and jeans. Then got changed/cleaned up in the gents of The Tottenham on Oxford Street leaving my shitty clothing in the cubicle.

About half an hour later the barman came out of the toilets exclaiming that I wouldn't believe what some dirty bastard had done to his toilets.
(Set your faces to Stunned Bigly, Thu 18 Jun 2015, 15:47, 6 replies)

I once did a Prap (portmanteau swearing of Poo + Crap) in my Trants (portmanteau swearing of Trousers + Pants)
So I cliped (portmanteau swearing of Cleaned + Wiped) my shirty (portmanteau swearing of Shitty + Dirty) Barse (a barse).
Alright?
( Two Hats 🎩🎩, Wed 24 Jun 2015, 15:40, 25 replies)

This story is well lol even if you think it isn't
I have a mate who is a liability, lets call him Alan. Growing up he used to do daft stuff like running over the top of peoples cars and stuff like that. He would always get caught and bollocked for it too. He hasn't changed much.
One night we were walking home escorting some young ladies back from the pub to an after pub party at my house. Alan saw two massive blokes walking up the other side of the road and thought he would offer them a chip. When they replied to the negative my dear friend thought it would be best to help them change their mind by throwing chips at them. We dragged him away but they followed us home and after some strong words they decided the best thing to do was to kick my front door in.
The police were called and came out they asked who got the best look at them and one of my other mates replied that he had and off he went in the police car to see if he could find them. The rest of us sat down with the other policeman and some of us gave statements. Shortly afterwards we realised Alan wasn't in the house, very shortly afterwards it came through on the radio that they had found them. All three of them and arrested them. Alan had gone in to the kitchen and nicked a carving knife and was found outside a supermarket holding them at knifepoint. He tried to explain to the police that he just didn't want them to get away and was helping them out. They of course bought it and gave him one of those hero medals? No, he spent the night in the cells and was let off with a caution for possession of a bladed article the next morning (luckily). The two guys went to court and had to pay compensation to the tune of about a third of what it cost to replace the door and frame. Thats why we have insurance apparently.

Months later I received an unexpected delivery. The police sent me the knife back.

Oh yeh and it made me shit my pants!
( Peej, Wed 24 Jun 2015, 12:07, 6 replies)

pearoast
For about 6 months after I finished uni I worked in a towbar factory and one of the few pleasures I had while working there involved walking through the workshop where the towbars were welded to fetch boxes to pack the finished bars in.

Because of the amount of noise created by a dozen or so men busily welding I was free to drop my guts as loudly as I liked on my way through only to pause on my way back while everyone was standing around accusing each other of releasing such an offensive odour to register my disgust and enquire "which one of you filthy gypos did that?"

However thiss is probably not relavent to this weeks question as no matter how hard I strained I never shit mysleft
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Sat 20 Jun 2015, 23:09, Reply)

I'm always posting this!
Pearoast: a bit long, but this one still cracks me up years after the old bag's probably popped her clogs.

I had a job where I had to do home visits and do jobs for clients. One old cow used to watch for my car to arrive and then complain to my boss - before I'd even parked - if I had anyone in the car with me. Obviously my time was all hers and I wasn't allowed to give my mum a lift.

I used to have to cash her pension and do some shopping - incontinence pants, haemorrhoid cream and so on - for which I took care to collect itemised receipts, which she would carefully scrutinise for fraud.

All in all she was a hateful old witch, always looking for a way to do me over.

One day I went for the pension as usual and was told that there was a new pension book.

The Post Office clerk said 'I'll have to tear up the old book in case of fraud', while looking meaningfully at me. I swear the old bag had rung ahead to warn the Post Office of the Famous Embezzling Home Help.

So... the snobby clerk then flourished in my face, and ripped in half, the NEW pension book.

The look on her face was priceless - she realised what she was doing just too late to stop herself.

I immediately collapsed into helpless laughter and pointed at her and gasped 'You ripped up the new book! You ripped up the new book!'

The clerk answered 'It's not funny!' but as I assured her, oh, it was, very funny indeed.

She wanted to keep the new ripped-up book until the next week when the replacement came, but I refused on the grounds that Mrs Hagwitch would accuse me of stealing it. The boss was called and she and I stood over the clerk as she taped up every page. Then she had to write a letter of explanation and apology.

I screamed with laughter all the way back, trying to get it out of my system, and really did think I'd kept a straight face when explaining the incident to the old boiler.

Must've let something slip as she was soon on the blower to my boss, complaining that I had laughed at her pension book.

I wasn't in trouble though as everyone in the office was hysterical too. Happy days!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 20 Jun 2015, 23:04, Reply)

I once got alcohol poisoning and shit out of my mouth. The end.

(yo man river INVINCIBLE, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 14:47, 14 replies)

Have a lightly roasted pea
Probably my most memorable event at school happened during a swimming lesson. Our secondary school (now alas none existent)was lucky enough to have its own onsite swimming pool allowing for regular and much enjoyed swimming lessons. These were the days before my phenominal pie intake when i could still go to the pool without Greenpeace turning up to transport me back to the open oceans.

Now we had one lad in our class who shall be known as JN to protect the guilty. JN was, at that point, on the periphery of the cool kids without being completely accepted. He bought the usual sports wear and expensive trainers and claimed to be able to break dance in an attempt to fit in but never quite made it. His doom was to be sealed one swimming lesson after dinner.

We had been herded into the changing rooms ignoring the pervading smell of old unwashed football socks and teenage bodies and had begun to change into our speedos. JN had sat very quietly on the slatted bench seats through all the usual larking about. He hadn't even tried to curry favour and participate in Lyndons "prick of the week" contest. He had just got his trolleys off and was about to pull his trunks on when with a panicked look on his face his bowels released and a turd of mammoth proportions squeezed its way out of his colon, passed through the bench and landed on the cold tiles with an audible splat.

There was a brief look of amazement on everyones faces before gales of laughter erupted around the room with cries of "JNS shit himself!" Everyone stampeded out to escape the unholy smell and to alert the teacher.

The odd thing is that throughout it all JN just sat there with a forlorn broken look on his face making no attempt to get his shit splattered body into the toilet or to clean himself up in any way. The caretaker was called ( the look of absolute contempt and disgust on his face as he tried to clear up the mess was a picture on its own)and JN was excused swimming much to the relief of the rest of us who didn't fancy a floating Richard making an appearance in the deep end.

Now aside from no one wanting to go near him again in the changing room that should have been the end of it. However JN proved that lightning could strike in the same place twice. During a particularly long and dull science lesson the class clowns had tried to liven up things (setting light to gas taps anyone?) and this had put the teacher, King Rollo in an understandably sour mood. This wasn't helped when some of the cool people on JN's table had been using the excuse of going to the toilet to suck on some B&H. They had been taking it in turns and kids turning up back from the toilets stinking of fags was the last straw for our good teacher.

When JN (who didn't smoke) put his hand up he banned anyone else from going to the toilet. Again JN made no attempt to move from his seat. He just sat there, changing colour, looking more and more uncomfortable before the inevitable yellow stream running under the desk made his life unbearable again
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 11:35, 1 reply)

My old colleague Brian
was afflicted with an extremely windy digestive system. One Saturday morning as he lay in bed, he felt his guts churn in that way that indicates a particularly satisfying fart is brewing, especially when one has eaten a massive curry the night before. And so it was, giggling to himself as he did, that he drew his knees up to his chest and prepared to let rip.

And let rip he did, followed immediately by an arcing stream of hot molten shit which proceeded to splatter the marital bed, covering the duvet, the bottom sheet, and pretty much liquidising his boxers in the process. Thankfully, his missus was in the bathroom at the time, and so well placed to bring him the bog roll. I say "bring", what she actually did was throw the packet at his head, call him a disgusting, filthy animal,and storm off to her parents for a bit until she felt it was safe to come home.

Brian told us about this the next day when we were doing an overtime shift.

I haven't seen Brian for a while, but he did turn up recently in an episode of Robson Green's Tales of Northumberland, building a fishing coble in Amble. He looked happy.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 18 Jun 2015, 20:28, 2 replies)

John
John was a fellow i used to know in work. Nice chap. but suffered from being a bit round. When i say a bit round, he was very fat, and pretty much circular from every angle. One of those fat people whose fat seems to be immune to gravity and holds onto the waste.

Anyway - like i said nice chap, but probably because of effects of school, very timid, shy etc. Didn't have much of a voice. As a result, he held an air of awkwardness in conversation. What would normally be easy to talk to someone else would be difficult with John as he didnt seem to have a close rapport with anyone.

One day Me and another colleague were sitting at our desk, I was taking a Barrocca and offering to my mate, when John walked by... Naturally as i had just offered my mate one, I now felt obliged to ask John he he wanted a Barrocca too.

John being as nice as he is, accepted my offer, picked a tablet out of the tube and promptly put it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed it.

Me and my mate froze in stunned silence... seconds ticked by... but we didnt raise our concerns to him - more out of shock than anything.

Anyone else at this point would be a throthing mess, but not john. He quietly walked back to his desk, whilst me and my mate slowly turned to each other realising it was now to late to tell John what Barrocca's were.

An hour later we found him in the toilet wimpering whilst voilently shitting in a cubicle.

poor sod. Really couldnt have happened to a nicer guy.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Tue 23 Jun 2015, 10:28, 12 replies)

I shat myself, and I liked it.
I hope my boyfriend don't mind it.
( MyFrontFellOff ; his mouth full of teddies, urinating defiantly, Mon 22 Jun 2015, 22:48, 4 replies)

Happened just last night.
My wife and I are in Bangkok for a week before touring other parts of Thailand, and a good friend of ours joined us for a few days. The hotel we're in happens to be a ten minute walk from the red light district, so Ben wanted to go check it out. My wife didn't want to join us, obviously, but after stern warnings to both of us she let me accompany him. (No, neither of us were looking for sex, so we didn't do anything but observe. Calm yourselves.)

There is a place called Nana Plaza which has a load of girly bars in it, among other things. (I wouldn't call them strip clubs because they aren't- the girls are on a stage wearing minimal bikinis or less with a number so you can summon them.) Ben and I were wandering about from one to the other when a tall, pretty girl in a bikini stood, brushed by me and latched onto Ben in what one might call an intimate embrace. I stepped back to give them some space, so I didn't hear what he said to her but after a moment she presented him with her lacy backside. He gave her a slap on the ass and turned away and walked toward me.

She pouted and flounced, then called out "Where you go? Where you goooo?" in a baritone voice.

The look on Ben's face when he realized he had just fondled and been fondled by a ladyboy was priceless.
( Wanderer, Mon 22 Jun 2015, 6:50, 17 replies)

This Guy Ate Some All-Bran Then Did The London Marathon, What Happened Next Won't Particularly Surprise You

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 22:00, 2 replies)

Imagine my surprise when Boris Johnson, David Cameron and Margaret Thatcher dropped out of me muff
it appears they are my fannys tories
( broadsword now that's fresh, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 19:30, 1 reply)

Since mcbeef and others are roasting peas, here's a genuine tale of a trip to the countryside.
OK. I’m the first to admit that I like nothing more than a good double-entendre. Thus, I never pass up the opportunity to get one in. In fact, I regularly go off on one, and often have to take a moment to get a hold of myself. I frequently have to take myself off in a little room in order to calm down. Tourette’s is also a serial innuendo-er – it’s one of the reasons I love her. Well, there are a couple of other reasons as well. But anyway.

There can be no greater love demonstrated, I think, than when a man is prepared to administer medical treatment in an intimate area. A few years back, myself and Tourettes took ourselves and our lunatic dog off to the countryside (Warkworth, to be precise). We took a picnic in a rucksack, a couple of bottles beer, and had a walk along the river. Spotting an overgrown bushy area, we decided to divert from the path and wander through the long, hairy grass and find a spot where I could unload my bulging sack. Tourette’s couldn't wait, and started helping herself to the contents with relish.

We were both quite thirsty by this time, and the bottles of beer were an inviting prospect. The bottles, naturally, required the use of a bottle opener because they were sealed by those crimped metal bottle caps. I reached down and cracked one off with ease, but somehow the second took a little longer. However, with a flick of the wrist and a sharp tug, it soon came away in my hand. We lay there for a bit, having the odd munch, and finished our beer.

This being the countryside of course, public toilets were short in supply. As a bloke, it doesn’t usually present a problem – it’s no great hardship to have to take yourself off behind a tree, but for the ladies it’s a bit more of a complex exercise. So I was sorted quite quickly, but it took a bit longer to locate the right spot for Tourette’s. Anyway, I was lying there, half dozing, when I heard a piercing cry. I looked up to see Tourette’s struggling a bit and jerking up and down slightly. She managed to find her composure, and came stomping through the grass. I asked her if anything was up, and she explained to me that she’d managed to lose her balance, and ended up sat in a bunch of stinging nettles.

Obviously I was sympathetic to her plight, but we didn’t have anything medical to hand.

“I’ve got some sting relief at home, that should sort it” she said, “but I can’t reach where it stings myself”.

“OK”, said I, ever the gallant gent. “Let’s head home, and I’ll spray your arse with cream”.

Happy days.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 19 Jun 2015, 19:09, 2 replies)

Met her in a pub in Kensington, shocked by how fat she waso
She called me gay to a homeless man.
But we had a relative laugh, she'd helped me with the eviction chatted for like an hour and a half.
Had a few drinks, thought ahh fuck it lets go back to hers.
Went back to hers, had a pizza apparently (I have no idea) I was freaked out by the fridge content. Can't remember exactly but I think it was a single tomato and like 40 bottles of water.
Both stayed in the spare room. had depressing sex
I smoked on her balcony as far as I remember I put the fags in the ashtray but who knows.
Went for lunch the next day.
Went to euston.
( Muns, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 13:22, 8 replies)

Well, if we're talking of bodily functions...
I once managed to fart, sneeze, hiccup, cough and belch simultaneously. It wasn't intentional, it just happened, and I was a shattered wreck afterwards - slumped in a corner, moaning gently.

Go on, try to simulate it. Even faking it is surprisingly intense.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 19 Jun 2015, 12:32, Reply)

I took a long bus journey in a crowded bus in china once
The bloke beside me was dressed in a suit. his expression turned to a mix of horror and disgust as the smell hit him. I had a bad case of the trots and had shit my pants. We went for another three hours before the bus stopped again, and I was able scrape a bit of the gravy off my underdungers with a bottle top. i then shit them again, but it was more like shitty water by that stage
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Thu 18 Jun 2015, 23:55, Reply)