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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)
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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)
Tree foam
What sort of foam was it that was stuck to a tree? Discarded foam rubber packaging, or a natural tree sap-type foam, if such a thing exists?

Either way, I'd be wary of rubbing my arse on it!

Good story though. *clicks*
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 9:03, closed)
Cider = laxative?

Would explain the smell that inevitably follows tramps around.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 9:20, closed)
Poo stories make me chuckle!
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 11:12, closed)
Ah the illusive "perfect crap"
I imagine that's the sort Jesus had.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 11:56, closed)
I call them "magic poo's"
Andy McNab says in "Bravo Two-Zero" that he never needs to wipe when he takes a crap out in the wilds because he squats.
(, Wed 21 Nov 2007, 12:24, closed)
I say tree foam
It was actually more like insulation that was wrapped round something. Either way, it was super absorbent and at least double quilted.
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 8:04, closed)

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