Golden shower
Back in 2005 I went to Leeds Festival with my new girlfriend, Valerie, and her rather eclectic group of friends, none of whom I really knew that well. As a result, I was either canoodling and moshing with my young lady, or stuck with a bunch of weirdos I discovered I had nothing at all in common with while she was off doing things with one or more of her girly mates. The lazy solution to this predicament seemed to me to be to get as pished as possible, the logic being that the alcohol would either do its job as a social lubricant, and make the oddballs seem a whole lot more interesting, or just be a fun selfish alternative.

As a result I ended up waking up on the second night with a bladder fit to burst and a head less than ideally equipped for nocturnal navigation. After tripping over several guy ropes and realising my mission was doomed to failure, I succumbed to nature and less-than-quietly drained the snake into a tuft of long grass than I reasoned nobody was likely to walk through. The next morning however, it transpired that I’d completely failed to take into account the local gradient, as gravity had done its job and channelled my golden stream right into one of our group’s tents, as the unsuspecting occupants discovered when they woke up with pillows reeking of my high-octane piss. I was way too cowardly to publicly admit it was me, but I did later ‘fess to Val.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 12:11, Reply)