About eight or nine years ago
I was working with a group of lads cleaning windows. We worked all over the local area, and one day we were cleaning the windows of a large house owned by an ex teacher of mine.

It was a typical old sandstone house, massive and with huge, awkward windows. It also sported a quaint little outside toilet tacked on to the side of the building. I'd noticed it before, the little door with "toilet" written on it, but had never peeked inside.

This particular day, though, my back teeth were floating. I was bursting. I knew I would never be able to hold it until we got somewhere I could use a toilet, but I'm not one of those folk who can just drop the strides and pish anywhere (not when I'm sober, anyway), and I thought it would be quite rude to ask one of the customers if I could trail my muddy feet through their house, so I had formulated the plan that I would nip in to outside cludgy when we got to the big house.

I checked no-one was looking and tried the door. It was open, and I could see the beautiful sight of a porcelain throne through the crack. I sneaked inside and shut the door, popped the porridge gun out and pointed at the water. But there was no water. A quick peek round the back confirmed that the shunky wasn't, in fact, plumbed in. It just sat there, laughing at me. I had no choice.

The piddle was running out the u-bend and all over the floor and the toilet itself was full of dark yellow piddle by the time I finished. It was a warm summer day, and I knew that within a few hours the whole place would reek of piss, but the deed was done.

It was still stinking when we returned to clean the windows again a few weeks later.

Every time afterwards that we did that house I had my shocked face ready to repel any accusations.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sun 29 Aug 2010, 16:35, Reply)