Not wanking related
Glastonbury, 2004, not drunk, no drugs involved. I was wondering around the food areas when I felt those tell-tale vibrations in my lower gut that meant I needed to visit one of the conveniences RIGHT NOW. Unforunately, it was around midday, and it was busy and walking was slow. Relief was far away, and probably decorated with a queue. I clenched hard.

Of course, a competent clench means that the option of running like a striped-tailed ape is impossible. So I started the shuffling walk that was my only option. Another rumble from down below. Oh no. Not looking good. Sweat started prickling on my skin, and panic started to set in. And then came the pain.

I shuffled for all I was worth, and I neared the bridge over the stream to the right of the Pyramid stage. It was a long way to got, and There was no way I could make it. I had to find somewhere concealed. Rumble. Pain.

There was nowhere. I had seconds to go before disaster and humiliation. Rumble. Pain. I excused myself from my girlfriend and shuffled to a short length of fence, right next to a burger van and put my back to the fence. As discretely as possible, I pulled down my trousers and squatted as casually as I could. I unclenched, and after a few seconds, the cause of the rumbling and pain was voided lavishly on the grass.

People walked past, but no-one appeared to look over to my now bright red, squatting form. Maybe no-one had noticed? I finished up and hid the evidence to the best of my abilities and proceeded to make my way to where my girlfriend was waiting.

She repeated a conversation she had just overheard:

"Hey Dave, there is a bloke back there taking a shit."
"What, near all those food vans?"
"Yeah."
"No way."
"Yes there is, go on, take a look."

They didn't, but I haven't been back to Glastonbury since, however now each time I feel The Rumble, I am magically transported back there.
(lardaholics anonymous, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 14:17, Reply)