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This is a question Desperate Times

Stranded in a hotel in an African war zone with no internet access for two weeks, I was forced to resort to desperate measures. Possessing only my passport and the clothes I stood up in; and the warning "You can catch it shaking hands with a vicar out there" ringing in my ears, I had to draw my own porn in order to preserve my sanity.

Alas, it all came out looking like Coronation Street's Audrey Roberts, but, as they say, any port in a storm.

What have you done in times of great desperation?

(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 10:10)
Pages: Latest, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, ... 1

This question is now closed.

This is a friend's act of desperation, but also an act of pathetic genius.
He wanted a cat. His mother didn't want a cat about the house. So he bought a kitten, and just before bringing it home he poured water all over it. Then he told her that someone had put it in a bag and thrown it in a river. She felt so sorry for the wee kitty she let him keep it.
He was 26 at the time.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 19:26, 6 replies)
For the love of a hamster
Just for a change I will spare you the tales of my desperate sex and desperate poo and instead regale you with this tugging-at-the-heartstrings tale.


I've wanted a hamster for years. Actually, I've wanted a dog for years but there's no way I can keep one in a house with no garden. So I settled on a hamster. My ex (hello ex! I know he cyberstalks me cos he told me) owned a hamster as a child, so he's had his hamster-owning moment of glory. He knows what it's like to coo over a ball of fluff spinning on a cute wee wheel. Me? No. My mother is phobic about rodents. We kept ducks.

Valentines Day last year. A Hallmark holiday of utter shite. I don't buy into that red rose crap, but woe betide the bloke who doesn't do something to acknowledge the fact that my high-maintenance friends are all getting presents.

My ex arrives home all excited. "What do you really, really want?" he grins.

"A hamster?" I gasp, "You got me a hamster?!"

His smile broadens, and from beneath his coat he whips out... 'Getting To Know Your Hamster: An illustrated guide to pet care for young owners'. That's no hamster. He got me a fucking book. A book written from the hamster's point of view. ("I just love making nests and digging tunnels!")

My face crumbled but I tried to be brave. "I-I-I thought you'd got me a real hamster" (which, by the way, I was going to call Asbo - I had the names picked out and everything - O! cruelty! Gone! And never called me Mother!).

He looked at me as if I was simple. "Let's start with a plant. If you can keep that alive then we'll think about a hamster."

I'm now sitting here with a pot of geraniums and a bitter disposition. Here's the desperation bit: on my Facebook page I have a picture of a hamster. It vibrates when you click on it. I am so desperate to shower love on a small, furry, bitey thing that I have a virtual hamster.

Pity me. And weep.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 19:14, 16 replies)
I never claimed kids were as intelligent as we were
just that A-levels are still worth the same for university entry. 1999 was the peak year for intelligent A-level students - it was all down hill after that (Modular framework? WTF?!).
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 17:36, 1 reply)
In Florida as a kid,
I was obsessed with the 'All you could eat' Buffets they have over there (Denny's, Ponderosa etc) and dutifully gorged myself on all manner of unhealthy coloured sweets and cakes.

Was so constipated after a few days thet the 'rents had to get me a wheelchair to go around Disney Land.

Length? - The Queues were tiny - Straight to the front...
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 17:06, Reply)
As a child much younger than i am now...
...I was left in a car at the top of a multistory carpark with my brother who usually convinces me to do things against my better judgement. My mum had gone into the shopping centre which was adjacent to said multistory. However as i was a youngun my timing of poo's was not as good as it now (once in the morning, one after school, one at night since you ask).

Desperate for a poo my brother convinces me that the ideal place would be behind a selection of boxes in the car park. So off i waddle (doing the sort of dance only a man turtle heading can do) to poo behind the boxes.

However, without loo paper how on earth would i keep clean? A perfect solution came to me with a 1980 edition of the Surrey A-Z.

My mum was furious, not at me, at my brother.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 16:59, 1 reply)
In my teenage years, a friend and I decided to venture into the depths of The Queens Woods (just next to Highgate Woods) in North London to consume much alcohol and smoke a few doobs.

We got some of those "stick in the ground" lanterns and consumed a few beers...unfortunately, the wicks on our lanterns were burning low and occasionally blowing out. Disgusted with the unreliability of my disposable lighter, I trudged off for a well needed piss to leave Tony to reignite the only source of light we had left. Returning to our plot spot, in the middle of quite a large woodland in the middle of the night, I find my old pal Tony pouring Stella Artois into his Zippo because "all alcohol is flammable...isn't it?". Needless to say, our venture back OUT of the woods took a few more hours than our trip into it...

Desperate times? Desperate measures? Not really, but I do still think that old Tone is a bit of a cunt...
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 16:56, 2 replies)
I remember once I was moved to answer a QOTW after lurking for about four years, only to discover I didn't have any 'hilarious' anecdotes about improvised, poverty-stricken recipes or having a shit in less than ideal circumstances.

My desperation was almost palpable.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 16:00, 3 replies)
Another poo story
I wasn't going to post this again, as I've done so a couple of times in other QOTWs, but WTF. Here again is the story of my Lake Michigan dump:

I was on holiday in 2003 in the US, and was swimming in Lake Michigan when I urgently needed to drop one. Really urgently. (OK, maybe not quite Pooflake-urgently, but you get the idea).

I had three options:

1 - get out of the water and run the half mile or so to the toilet block

2 - make like a cat and dig a hole up in the sand dunes (the beach was pretty quiet!)

3 - drop my shorts in the water and let rip there and then

Needless to say, I chose option 3.

Interestingly, because of the buoyancy afforded by the water, the turd (which was impressively long!) didn't snap under its own weight as it would do under normal circumstances. Instead it emerged intact and tumbled slowly and gracefully to the lake floor in a manner akin to an astronaut aboard an orbiting spacecraft.

I had to make sure I didn't catch it in my shorts though!

Length - at least a foot.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 15:31, 3 replies)
I Shagged A Cushion Once....
i wont go into detail, but with enough lube.... anything is shaggable

(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 14:56, 29 replies)
Desperate? Never
Ive never been desperate in my entire life.


click 'I like This' if you found that funny.

no really please I implore you click 'I like this'

(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 14:37, 3 replies)
A few years ago...
...at the University of KwaZulu-Natal, I was having an disagreement on argument maps and their place in Philosophy with the then esteemed teacher. Dave Spurrett. This is how the row unfolded:

Dave: “Fuck off Pooflake, They are useful tools”
Me: “Oh yeah? You know cock all. I bet you can’t prove it.”
Dave: “I could if I wanted to, you shagstain”
Me: “ You reckon? I Dare you… I fuckin’ DARE YOU!”

And he proved it.

This kind of thing happened a lot.

They were my ‘Dare-Spurrett Times’


*gets coat*
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 14:30, 2 replies)
Cruel fate, cruel timing, cruel world
Only last Friday, I was invited to a mates’s house. When this happens, it's always a neat arrangement. He buys me copious amounts of cider and a Chinese takeaway; I fix all of his and his family’s PC and electrical issues. If there is any time left at the end of the evening, we go out on the piss.


Over the last few times, this arrangement has been less and less PC fixing…and more and more just plain going out on the lash. Last Friday was no exception. I turned up at his house at 7:30pm, had hardly cracked open my first can of DBC* when my mate says:

“Bollocks to PC fixing, I’ve arranged a lift into town at 8 o’ clock. We’re getting shit-faced”.


Fast forward a few hours. I have drunk enough cider to sink the Arc Royal and we’ve moved onto Vodka and Redbull, (although none of this is going down too well with the medication I’m on). I’ve been bet £40 to kiss what looked like (from the back) to be just a rather tall young lady, when in actual fact it was a 7ft-something transsexual with arms like Popeye and a 5 o’clock shadow like Homer Simpson. NOT a pleasant surprise let me tell you.

Anyhoo, in other words, a normal Friday night in Pooflake land.

But it starts getting very late. My eyes, ears, arms and legs were no longer functioning properly or as a collective and my internal organs were trying to merge together with a swirling motion in the middle of my head. My inner compass felt like it had some cunt with a magnet running in circles around me. I now had ‘2 hopes’ of getting the takeaway in and I was absolutely ravenous.

Desperate times.

We went to one of those ‘Not-even-close-to-edible-or-even-KFC-and-you-know-it-will-be-rank-but-at-least-they-are-still-open-at-3am’ places.

The pictures of chicken pieces they were displaying looked alright…then again, by this time; the Tranny who could play for England at the back of the scrum would probably have looked alright too.

But what to order? My mate fires straight in. “Gimme 2 pieces of chicken ‘n’ chips” he slurs. In my lack of independent thought, I said “Ssssame fah me”.

We receive our cack in greasy boxes and move over to a small seated area. I open the box to be presented with something that looks like it has just been dredged out of Bernard Manning’s rotting corpse. Despite this, I start to munch wearily away

Then….hold on a mo…what’s this? 2 Spicy chicken wings at the bottom of my now rancid, partly dissolved in its own grease, semi masticated ‘meal’. I hadn’t ordered them…I hadn’t been charged for them…


I perk up a bit as I gnaw away on the slim, grim pickings that are these spicy wing-things. We finish up and stagger straight into a taxi. Upon arrival to his pad we crack open a tinny each but it’s not long before I crawl into bed, totally wrecked. I survived the night. Life is good.

The next morning…

Mate’s 17 year old daughter wakes me up and offers me breakfast. Naturally, I am busting for a piss, so groan loudly and stagger off towards the bog. Suddenly, there’s a shout from downstairs: “Don’t forget, you can’t use the bog, we’ve got a bloke in there doing the tiling.”


Really Desperate times.

I try to hold on as long as I can…the build up is hurting and taking control of my mind. I can wait no longer and tap gently on the door. It is opened by a smiling bloke I used to work with (FFS!)

Tiling bloke: “Oh hello PF, Haven’t seen you for a while”.
Me: “Look, I’m really sorry but I’ve gotta go for a whizz”
TB: “No probs mate, I’ll just wait outside”

Now in I go, and struggle to get started, knowing that somebody is right outside the door not only listening, but actually trying to spark up a conversation! I try to apply a little pressure to aid the wee impetus…when…PARP!

Oh Jesus! My eyes open widely as the shame hits home. Not only must he have heard me, but either way, any minute now he was going to walk face first straight into my green cloud of botty gas. There was no air freshener, no nothing. Lummee. So all I can do is turn bright red, open the window and waft my arms around like a madman…Bastard spicy wings.

I finish my half-petrified slash and walk out, not even looking Tiling Bloke in the eye. ‘I’m really sorry’ I mutter under my breath. I’m not sure he heard.

But ‘ah well’, I start to think after a while. ‘It’s not like I’ll ever see him again. Fuck him’. I put the incident behind me and go downstairs to lashings of tea and bacon butties.

A few minutes pass by…then it starts…the fart I had done earlier had only served to make way in my poo-cute for the main event that was now knock-knock-knocking on my sphincter’s door…


I couldn’t go back upstairs and squit out what was undoubtedly going to be a huge, smelly ‘Brad Pitt’ with that bloke up there could I?


We have now arrived at absolutely fucking desperate times.

I clench for as long as I can…it buys me about a minute. It’s starting to seethe as the concentrated faeces compounds within my crap-factory. Every movement seems to produce a ‘pfft’ either internally or externally and makes the inevitable one step nearer. The rat’s nose was not so much touching cloth as sniffing down my trouser leg.

Here’s when my mate decides that it’s computer fixing time.

Racked with gut-trouble and swollen with intestinal gloop that felt like I was carry a 9lb bowling ball of a turd, I make my way over to PC number one and realise this is going to take some time to fix. I’m dripping with sweat, gurning, trumping and bent over double, trying to pretend that I had to look at a particular part of the PC case from a particular angle. But it’s all too much….

Me: “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go…I haven’t got time today to fix this”
Mate’s daughter: “Awwww, but it’ll be the new year before we see you again…Isn’t there anything you can do now? Puuuurrrrleeease??
Me: “NO!”
Mate: “Well what about my PC?”
Me: “Look, I’ll come back soon…I’ll come back next week….tomorrow….2 hours even. I’ll take your PCs home with me…I’LL BUY YOU ALL NEW PC’S FOR FUCKS SAKE….I’VE JUST REALLY REALLY GOT TO GO…NOW!”

My mate looks a bit disgruntled now as I shuffle quickly down the stairs like Charlie Chaplin, trying with all my might to create some kind of vacuum that could schlurp my stack back up my crack and buy me a few more seconds.

I grab my coat and don’t even put it on…I haven’t got that much time. I look dazed and distant and still now cannot remember what was said to me or what I said at this point. All I could think about was dropping this monster butt-cutlet and how the hell I was going to manage it. I was in Leicester and didn’t have a clue where the nearest toilet was.

Leaving my mate to wonder what he’d said or done the previous night to hurt my feelings, I burst out the door with a quick ‘Byeee’, sit down in my car with a bit of a ‘squish’ and speed off up the road.

Next thing I’m at a busy junction. The level of discomfort has become intolerable. This just can’t go on….I have to do something. I turn the wrong way, just because it’s easier than waiting, I am now delirious and the movement of the car is somehow pushing the brown trout slightly back up my tea-towel holder.

Despite the pain and my state bordering maximum human comprehension, I was trying to think rationally of the consequences of actually shitting myself in the car. Who would know? It’s only a couple of feet from my driveway to my front door…surely there’s nothing in my car that can’t be sorted afterwards with a bit of elbow grease and some industrial strength cleaner?? No??

But here’s the problem with that. I lived an HOUR AWAY. I couldn’t drive for that long with a big squishy alligator in my trollies. No.fucking.way.

As the pressure is building up to thermo-nuclear levels, I know I am just seconds away from the unholy when I see a sign for a pub nearby. HOPE! I put my foot to the floor and have a total blind disregard for other road users and pedestrians as I screech my car through the narrow town streets like a scene from Starsky & Hutch.

I pull up round the back of the pub car park with a ticking timebomb constantly nudging my gusset. It’s 11:45am and the back door is open. Thank Christ.

As I get out of the car I consider yet another potentially uber-embarrasing situation. ‘What if I had to go past the bar first? What if I get funny looks and have to stop and buy a drink? This dump will not wait for pleasantries!’

As if to remind me, my arse starts to give….there’s nothing that clenching, or even praying can do now…the bumwaters have broke if you will. It’s gonna BLOW!

I sprint through the back door and the toilets are there on my right…no bar interference...brilliant. There’s gotta be half an inch of gronk hanging out of my clay-hole at this point as I kick the door in. The bog is grubby and dark…There’s no lock on the door….I have long since past caring. I press my leg against the trap door and my pants have hardly left my crevice when….


The full violence of the blast became evident when remnants of the subsequent splashback actually left the bowl itself (even after pebble-dashing my bum-cheeks).

Minutes ticked by. My bum-hole was left puckering and dry-heaving. I couldn’t get up. I thanked god for the small mercy of there being bog-roll as I slid my quivering carcass off the surely shattered remains of the lavvy.

As I finally managed to bring myself to my feet I then did something that you know you should never do…but you can’t help yourself. I looked back into the pappered bowl to survey the horror and devastation like a visiting dignitary.

From a brown watery cesspit, think of a combination of pig slurry, blood and atomic waste, into which somebody has expertly detonated a hand grenade and you’d get pretty close to what I was looking at.

I shuffled out of the back door and didn’t stop for a drink. In fact I decided that I was never going to visit that pub again…after 5 minutes it already held too many bad memories.

Length? I think this was my biggest yet…

*DBC=Dry Blackthorn Cider
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 13:21, 17 replies)
b3ta cookbook
Here's a gumbo recipe I got from a friend:


1/2 lb smoked sausage, cut into 1/2 inch slices
1-3 tablespoons vegetable oil
5 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 cup coarsely chopped onions
1 cup chopped celery
2 cloves fresh garlic, pressed, or 2 tablespoons minced garlic
1 medium green bell pepper, chopped
2 cups chicken broth (use the low-sodium, low-fat kind)
1 28 ounce can diced tomatoes, or 3 cups fresh diced roma or plum tomatoes, plus 1/2 cup water
1-2 teaspoon creole seasoning
4 cups chopped cooked chicken breasts

Cook sausage over high heat in large saucepot 5 minutes, stirring often.

Remove and drain on paper towels. Add enough oil to drippings in
saucepot to equal appx. 3 tablespoons, and whisk in flour; cook over
medium-high heat, whisking constantly, 5 minutes, or until roux is
golden brown. Add onion, celery, garlic and bell pepper; cook 5 minutes, stirring often. Stir in broth, tomatoes and creole seasoning. Bring to a boil; cover, reduce heat, and simmer 7-10 minutes. Add sausage and chicken; simmer, covered, 5 minutes. Serve over rice.

The really great thing about gumbo is that you can change it up... use
shrimp instead of sausage, use yellow peppers with the green ones, etc.
You can really take a basic recipe like this and make it your own. I
usually serve it with thick slices of toasted sourdough bread.

Do play with it. If you can't find creole seasoning, use 1/4 tsp red pepper flakes, 1/4 teaspoon cayenne, 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg and 1/2 teaspoon good paprika. Maybe some onion powder, but only a dash or two.

You can turn the heat up or down on this one just by adjusting the pepper.

It usually doesn't need any salt because of the sausage, but taste varies so keep that in mind.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 13:14, 1 reply)
try japanese beer
I had a similar experience when I was in Japan for christmas, I woke up in someone elses house and decided to walk back to my apartment... my after-drinking-poo decided to try pushing out when i was walking home... its fucking painful i will agree.
+rep (if we can rep here :P)
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 13:05, Reply)
7:45am this morning
Thats when i was desparate for the loo..

Unfortunately the wife got there before me - Today I have a faint whiff of wee wee about me
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 12:09, 1 reply)
And now current events have made desperation return.
Apparently the semiconductor market is not doing too well at the moment. The company I do contract work announced at 4:00 yesterday that all of the contract employees are being forced to take a five day weekend as a cost saving measure. They have a sociopathic indifference to the fact that most of us don't get paid time off, which means that we get a very small paycheck next week.

Fucking bastards. If they fired a few MBAs and didn't give them Golden Parachutes, they'd save enough money to keep the plant roaring right along.

So now in my desperation I'm putting out my resume yet again, and hoping that I land something before my contract runs out or they decide that they don't need contractors after all...

Anyone know a company looking for a degreed mechanical engineer in the Central Virginia area? I've told my representative at work to put out my resume and promise them that I can walk on water, and I'll learn how as I go; to promise them the moon and I'll build a rocket; to promise them blowjobs and I'll arrive on my knees...
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 11:48, 7 replies)
Hanging on by the shirt tails
Not me but a FOF, fortunately. On a works do, all suited and booted, very formal. As the evening wore on they found themselves in a restaurant.
Half way through the meal he suddenly realised he was about to soil himself unless he got to a toilet rather quickly. He made his excuses and waddled off to the kazi. He just managed to get his kecks down in time, and in time honoured fashion sprayed the bowl and back-splashed his arse. he then looked around for toilet paper,but in his haste to void, he hadn't checked, and alas there was none.
He looked for alternatives, and short of using his hand, there was nothing, when an idea came to him.
He was weaing one of those shirts with an extra 'D' of material (well D on its side) at the bottom on the back. Without further ado he tore the bottom of the shirt off, carefully leaving enough to still tuck in, and liberally cleansed and refreshed.

He then chucked the torn piece of material down the pan, flushed and walked out....

Breathing an audible sigh of relief, he went to resume his place at the table. A hushed silence came over the room, and he noticed many other diners staring over his shoulder.

There, like a puppy on a leash, trailing by a few untorn and previously unnoticed threads, was the offending piece of folorn, soggy, brown, shit stained shirt.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 11:13, 2 replies)
Food Desperation
Best thing I've ever found for cheapness, if you're absolutely skint and don't want to eat miserably...

Stock cubes and cornflour. Simple as that. It's strongly flavoured, quite tasty, and one cube will make enough gravy/sauce to add to about four meals worth of pasta. The cornflour's just there to thicken it so it's not flavoured water. Twelve stock cubes will sell for about 30p. Used to be just beef, but now you can get beef, vegetable, chicken, pork, the works.

Plus, Tesco/ASDA/Sainsburys value ranges really aren't that bad, provided you don't buy any pre-prepared stuff. The Smartprice tinned tomatoes, or vegetables are hardly any worse than the regular stuff.

Just don't ever eat a Smartprice Pork Pie no matter how hungry you are. Just. Don't.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 10:43, 5 replies)
I was poor at uni
becuase I was a lazy cnut student that wouldn't get a job and was more interested in spending other people's money on booze for me.

The upshot is that I had very little money for food and lived for a week on peanut butter and jam sandwiches.

The following week I could afford only a bag of flour and some eggs. So using a few other ingredients I had lying around, I devised a sort of high energy biscuit which I lived off for a few days.

There was another time when I spent all my money on a second hand monitor rather than food and ended up eating the packaging for a couple of days (It was that rice based polystyrene stuff).

Finally, I wrote a letter to my old careers advisor at school who promptly sent me 4 bags of couscous.

I was very unhealthy at uni.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 10:21, 6 replies)
b3ta cookbook again
This one taught to me by an Italian friend, who swears it's an actual recipe. You've all done one, thought I'd add the single cheapest, tastiest quick meal EVER.

You will need:
Dried spaghetti (that fresh stuff in supermarkets? Bollocks)
Dried chillies (preferably whole, preferably the small bird's eye chillis)

That's it.

Boil water.
Put in dried spaghetti.
Whilst that's cooking, put a fair sized chod of butter in a pan and fry till slightly foamy.
Add three dried bird's eye chillis. No more. No less.
Stir for a bit, turn off heat.
Drain now-cooked (to al dente, not sloppy - should have a little resistance when you bite, but not chewy) pasta fully.
Chuck into pan with the butter and chillies, turning heat back on so it spits a bit and stir, stir, stir.

Now eat. Pick out the obvious chillis, not for eating.

What you are now munching on is simple goodness with a kick of chilli, and extremely tasty on the palette. And let's add this up, in the traditional Tesco style of my student days:

Dried spaghetti - 39p
Block of butter - 60p
Dried chillies - £1.00 (but bought in market, to be honest)
These ingredients will make this meal about 6 times, depending on how much you eat.
That's 33p a meal.

For glamour, or to impress date, you may add crushed garlic, being careful not to burn it in hot butter, or even parmesan cheese. Hell, go all out and chuck in a little parsley (fresh is better, but the freezer section does cheap herbs too - woo) for colour and REAL fanciness.

Desperate should not mean quality is comprimised, peeps.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 10:12, 8 replies)
I have nothing to do at work.
Zip Nada zero


I sat and watched the clock for a few hours, watched movies etc on my PC and even obtained a laptop so I can fuck around with Ejay...

of course the online games are all blocked by the IT gestapo so I can't do that.

So in true and utter desperation. scraping the bottom of a very very deep barrell,

I registered with B3ta and read the QOTW...
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 9:22, 3 replies)
Travelling light
I was scheduled to go on a two day business trip to Luxembourg straight from work and, wanting to travel light, figured that I could wear the very same dress two days running and simply travel with my toothbrush. I was meeting different people each day and if I was very very careful, I would get away with just the one outfit. Needless to say, I was just about to leave for London City Airport when my lunch (a cold salmon fillet) landed in my lap leaving a fatty, fish shaped imprint on my dress. Having no time to spare I pulled from the bottom of my wardrobe a long-forgotten shift dress, unworn since I had stopped going to the gym, shoved it in my handbag and sped off, smelling increasingly of salmon.

Once at the airport, I ran to the ladies, stripped the fishy item off and forced the shift dress on, my intention being to scrub off the stain in the wash basin using the toothbrush and dry the dress thoroughly with the hand drier. Even though the shift dress barely made it past my hips, due to my increased hip size, and I looked like a cheap whore, I figured that in the privacy of the ladies, I could scrub away and get the good dress clean and dry again before my flight was called.

How wrong I was. The stain proved stubbornly resistant to both elbow grease and the toxic soap that London City provided and, with 5 minutes to go before my flight closed, I hauled the sorry, fishy, dripping garment across to the hand drier. Sadly, the machine had all the force of an effete heavy breather and, as I personally was called to board, I had the stark choice of boarding the flight wearing a sopping wet dress or simply accept that I would have to fly dressed as a common prostitute. It was a desperate choice but I went down the hooker route, and stuffed the dripping dress into my bag, chucked the toothbrush away and headed out of the door. I snagged my tights (my only pair) on the way down to the gate and boarded the plane, smelling of fish, my dress 14 inches above my knees, ladders in my tights, and my handbag dripping mysteriously. Hats off to the professionalism of the Luxair staff who (hardly) batted an eyelid.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 0:31, 4 replies)
My Darkest Hour
I can honestly say, this was the most terrifying day of my life, bar none. I was sat on a train headed to a party with two of my friends who also happen to be complete bastards.

They had commenced the pre-party drinking from the first stop, but knowing the limits of my tempestuous bladder and that the train toilet was more than likely out of order, I had opted to show restraint.

I'd had my fingers burnt in the past wherein I had to drunkenly fill up a two litre strongbow bottle thanks to lack of proper facilities.

Anyway, there we all are about half way into the journey and I think 'sod it, I'll just have one' and start necking a bottle of warm Strongbow Sirrus.

Shortly after I've finished I suddenly feel a fart coming on. Nothing fancy, a wee trump, bit bubbly, but that's all. Then it's followed by another. And another.

The fear is now starting to set in, I'm getting the cold sweats and every word I say is through gritted teeth. The toilet, as predicted, is out of order and, in my desperation, I even briefly consider jumping off a stop or two early to relieve myself and then getting a taxi to the final destination.

I decide to hold fast and wait until we reach our stop then use the station toilet there.

Upon arrival at said station I vault out the train and leg it into the ticket office (taking very quick but short strides) only to be greeted by an empty ticket booth and a locked toilet door.

I franticly search for a ticketeer or whatever they're called and upon finally finding her and asking for key to the bogs am told 'no chance, son. Av got a husband to go home to.'

There isn't a night goes by that I don't hope her husband was dead when she got home.

It's zero hour now, and I am out of options. I wouldn't last the taxi journey to our party destination and I knew of no public toilets within reach. I had no choice, I was going to have to poo in a bush.

My friends sauntered off to the taxi office and told me to come get them when I was done, and with that I soldiered into the darkness to do the deed.

Without going into too much detail, the job got done relatively quickly. It was only afterwards, though, that I realised I needed something to wipe with. It was only then that I realised I had skinny jeans and converse on.

There were no ample leaves sight so my boxers seemed the only choice. This presented ANOTHER problem: Removing them without taking off my jeans, while perched over my own shit. The obvious solution was to rip them off, which all went swimmingly until I reached the elastic waistband. I wrestled with it for about five minutes before giving up and then, to my eternal shame, resorting to rubbing my bum up and down some foam stuff that was attached to one of the trees.

While engaging in this woodland poledancing, it occurred to me I could just lift the boxers up over my head, having now torn them to shreds. I pushed ahead with this plan of action only to discover I didn't need to wipe at all, which either means that foam was super absorbent or I took the perfect crap.

Mission complete, I tossed my boxers away and went to the party, where I still managed to get my end away, despite both my friends informing everyone of my little adventure. Told you they were bastards.
(, Tue 20 Nov 2007, 21:27, 6 replies)
So here I am...
approximatley 12,000 miles from home, here at the bottom of the earth. One of the most common questions I get from people is

"What do you do with your worldly possessions while you are down there?"

Well, some people get a storage unit, and some just leave them in their house and keep paying ungodly rent on it because they are idiots.

I present to B3ta myself..an idiot.

My room mate is..was..one of my closest friends, someone I knew I could trust to watch over all my stuff and pay the rent.

My landlord is my cousin who happens to live 5 houses down the same street. Who has also told me he is on the cusp of taking legal action against said friend for not paying his rent.

This friend has not returned any of my calls or given me at the least an e-mail. No one has actually seen him around and those who have seen a trace of him think he is living at his parents and hasn't been to our house in months. What does this mean for me?

My house is an older one but in decent shape...it was built in the 1960s, and we had to sign a legal agreement stating that there may be lead paint in the house, and should we decide to eat it we can hold no one responsible but outselves...I wish I could make that up on my own...but its true. So, old house, not perfectly weather proof, no one living there, semi-slob like room mate whos never around. The house was clean when i left but now, I desperatley wonder are those possestions still mine, or do they belong to whatever other living entities have moved into this presumably neglected home?

Ive asked my cousin/landlord for any insight he has, and as of this moment I await a response.

Sorry for the length...but 12,000 miles has to impress someone.
(, Tue 20 Nov 2007, 20:21, 15 replies)
The Corby Groupie
There is told of a mythical piece of tour kit used by musicians in times of ultimate desperation, i.e. when there are no groupies and no porn on the hotel TV (it can happen). Here is the recipe as handed down to me..
A Night in with Miss Corby (serves one),
You open the metal tissue box and take out all the tissues. Hold on to the metal box you’re going need it later. Get the shower cap from the bathroom with all the conditioner and body lotion products. Place the wad of tissues in one hand and with a stiff finger hand, punch through the middle of the wad causing a ragged hole in the middle (can you see where this is going). Place the tissues inside the open shower cap and pour on all the conditioners, lotions etc. Replace the tissues in shower cap and lotions back into the tissue box remembering to ‘fluff’ the tissues up around the edge of the opening.
Next take the box and wedge it into the top of the Corby trouser press (or if in some uncivilised place without trouser press use radiator, heater etc) and turn on. For best results, allegedly, remove trouser press from wall but do not disconnect from power. When tissue box reaches body temperature, in either standing, kneeling or sitting position lower trouser press towards one and 'make love' until satisfied. Fall asleep sated, until the maid enters the room in the morning to discover the vile mess..
(, Tue 20 Nov 2007, 20:07, 1 reply)
Same old story.
Sarah, Laura , Debbie, Debbie again.

Desperate Times; but I'm thankful for the hand out.
(, Tue 20 Nov 2007, 19:18, Reply)
American train lines

I spent a month backpacking around the whole USA by rail as I had an unlimited pass I clocked up 17,500 miles in 30 days!

Anyway, on the longer journeys (2.5 days chicago to San Francisco) the toilets get a bit "ripe" after day one. As you can imagine your average cattle class American on a train doesn't eat too healthily and after 36 hours the bogs are unthinkable....

So I put it out of my mind and don't go to "drop the kids off"... for the whole 2 day journey. Thing is, by the time I arrive at my next destination I'm feeling a little blocked up. In fact, when walking I can pretty much feel a solid pole of poo inside that feels like it's so long it could me ticking my rib cage!

So, as you can imagine I didn't go when I arrived at my destination. Spent the day out and about and that night caught another train (I worked out it was cheapest to sleep on the trains at night and arrive somewhere new each morning). Next day I'm onto my 5th day without unleashing the nasties and could almost choke I feel that "full".

I went out walking and sightseeing until about 3pm I'm bored (small desert town) and I check my timetable. I've got a train ticket for 7pm so I decide to go to the station early. Unlike UK train stations this one had 1 track and about 2 trains a day so aside from 30 mins before a train the place was very very quiet.

I took a seat in the waiting room and decide to freshen up, have a wash, change my clothes etc. Then it dawns on me.... I have an entire public loo to myself and I'm feeling a little "looser" by now. In fact I became so relieved I was almost turtle necked in the 3 metre walk from sink & mirror to cubicle, but my god it was worth it! One good thing the Americans have got is HUGE cubicles... so I stood up and admired my work. I kid you not a proper french stick of a turd one end in the U-bend the other against the rim of the bowl. It must have stood 18 inches tall!

Thing is, if you don't poo for 5 days things get...well "compacted" a bit. So I now faced the task of flushing a turd with similar properties to a scaffolding pole.

Flush after flush all it did was spin around like a you can imagine a rolling pin in a sink waste disposal system. Somehow I had to break this turd in 2 and had no idea how.

I pondered the situation for so long that finally I felt my bladder was full again and had an idea, so utilising a "pressure washer" mentality I did directed the most forceful jet of pee I could at the offending bar and just as my kidneys felt like they'd explode I was delighted to see it sag to one side, quick as a flash I pulled the chain and with some relief the first half was gone. Just 6 flushes later and I was faced with an empty bowl.

So there you have it, desperate times stopped me from having a poo for 5 days resulting in the most spectacular feat of anal manufacturing I've ever witnessed.

There's no regret, I just can't bring myself to poo on a train.

Length: 18 inches and Nutty as a squirrels breakfast!
(, Tue 20 Nov 2007, 18:05, 15 replies)

This question is now closed.

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