The urinals are over there...
Some years ago, I was driving the wagon up through darkest Lincolnshire at about 5 in the morning, when the chocolate U-boat alarm went off. It was a rural B-road, nobody about.

Just up ahead I spied a layby. Result! Park up, grab yesterday's Daily Spurt and leg it for the field gate that I'd carefully obscured with the trailer. Drop half the paper over the gate and on the deck, kecks down and bombs away.

Just as I was hiding the evidence, another wagon pulled in. The driver leapt out and ran for the gate, obviously on the same mission. He saw me, pulled up short and stuttered out an embarrassed question about a local industrial estate.

"2 miles up the road mate. Oh, and you might want to go to the right of the gate when you climb over it."

Length? Standard adult descending colon. And yes, I washed my hands, with wiper fluid.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Thu 3 Jun 2010, 20:35, Reply)