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This is a question Festivals

Mud, rubbish sex, food poisoning and the Quo replacing the headline act you've mortgaged your house to see. Tell us your experiences

Question from Chart Cat

(, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 12:33)
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When you get off the train at Roskilde train station you walk under a little tunnel and join the queue to take one of the quaint looking yellow school buses to the festival grounds a couple of miles further down the road. Sean and I looked like a nice young gay couple, carrying our quite frankly fucking huge bag between us, Sean on one side holding one handle and me on the other. I put the bag down. It was heavy, fucking heavy, heavier than an elephant on a Guiness and Big Mac diet heavy.

“What the fuck have you got in here, mate?” I asked. “I don’t remember it being as heavy as this when I packed it last night.”

Sean stopped, stooped and unzipped the bag: “I put a few extra supplies in this morning.”

I thought on the train various lumps inside the bag were slightly beer-esque can in shape and density. I set about having a fucking pop at the prick for carting a shitload of beer all the way from London to Scandanavia – the home of fucking beer – when I looked down and saw what Sean had actually packed.

I was ever-so-slightly gobsmacked. “You fucking CUNT !!!” I said. “What the FUCK have you brought this stuff for – who are you, Oliva-fucking-Newton-John?”

You see, Sean had managed to cram about thirty cans of Slimfast strawberry shake on top of the camping stuff and few changes of cloths we’d brought. On the bus on the way to the Festival Sean explained he was planning to go the next four days without having a poo. Apparently the thought of shitting somewhere covered in vom, cum, period blood, and shit was a little off putting for him. I pointed out that our local’s bogs were usually like that most Saturday nights, but Sean was adamant. He was not, under any circumstances, going to be dropping any kids off at the pool for the duration. And he came up with the genius plan of surving on beer and Slimfast food replacement shakes so all he’d have to do was: “piss out everything I eat... you know... through me cock...”

Fast forward to day two. Sean’s already downed half his supply of shakes. He’s looking at me enviously as I make love to a bacon butty. I notice his stomach has started to swell up. His complexion looks a little bit, well, pink – like an oversized, sweaty, hairy boiled prawn. But, true to form, Sean has yet to have the urge to take a Richard the Third.

Fast forward to day three. Sean’s finished all his supply and we still have a day of music to go. He says stoically he’ll be ok without any sort of food for a day; he’ll get all his nourishment from hops and barley instead. Sean’s stomach has now bloated up considerably – he looks like Mr Greedy out of the Mr. Men. And his complexion is, well, fucking puce. I point out that surving on beer and Slimfast probably isn’t too good for the digestive system, being a bit of an entusiastic amature physician regarding certain parts of the human anatomy, I suggest Sean should: “Go and have a fucking big dump.” He shakes his head, says he’s alright, and fucks off to see another obscure South American thrash metal band.

Later that day while we’re fucking about, chatting up a few ladies, I decide to do the decent honorable matey thing – I turn to Sean while he’s busy letching and twat him firmly and squarly in his stomach and than run off hooting like a spider monkey. He goes pale. His guts start rumbling like Krakatoa, and he goes running off to find the nearest bogs. A few minutes later he returns, grabs me by the arm and drags me away from the young lady I’m trying my fucking hardest to make a little progress with.

“I can’t go unless you hold the door shut – there isn’t a lock on it,” he says, his stomach still growling. It sounds like a speedway event’s taking place in his colon.

“Oh, for fucks sake!” I say, as I follow him to the line of portaloos.

Sean dives inside, slams the door shut, and demands I remain outside and hold the door shut for him. Fucking muppet...

A sound like a brass band having violent sex with each other eminated from the portaloo as Sean’s colon opened up and a series of spectacular farts escaped his man-flange. I cringed and tried to ignore it. Then, after a while, there was one spectacular THUD - it was as if a motar had exploded, or a labourer had turned over a wheelbarrow full of bricks on a concrete path. It actually made me jump.

Spanky... SPANKY!!!” Came a weary and yet completely awed voice from inside the portaloo. I wondered for a brief moment if Sean had become delerious from his efforts and been visited by the shimmery, spectral vision of an angel (or possibly Jo Guest wearing nothing but nipple tassles, knowing Sean). Then Sean said something scary, something strange, something ultimately terrifying. Sean said: “Spanky, come and take a look at this...”

But I was intrugied, so I pushed open the door and had a look at the produce of Sean’s labours....

Fuck me....

All I can say is don’t mix beer, slimfast, and jumping up and down for three days without having anything to eat. The turd was HUGE, a massive, MASSIVE sticky gloopy, and roughly cannon ball shaped. It was the king of turds, other turds would’ve bowed down and worshipped this mighty monstrosity – only this one was peculiar, this one was strange beyond belief, this one was pink, bright fucking pink. And – oddly – it gave off the sickly sweet smell of strawberries. It looked like a massive fucking bon bon. And it just sat there, stuck in the pan – too big to fall through the hole. It was a defiant looking bugger.

I actually had to fight the urge to reach out and touch it...

Sean broke the spell, though – “Fuck me, that was hard fucking work,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Was like being buggered by John Holmes, that was.... You fancy going and getting a burger? Don’t reckon I’ll need to shit for a month after that...”

And Sean stalked off on the hunt for food. I just stared...
(, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 11:15, closed)
Im always surprised by what you can find in the bogs
The worst ive seen is a good foot long bum cigarre that gradually changed colour along its girth... ending with a trail of blood.

(, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 11:39, closed)
Bloody 'ell !
Why do men have such a strange facination with shit? *clicks*
(, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 11:55, closed)
You wouldn't understand

(, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 12:05, closed)
for 'man-flange'
(, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 12:32, closed)
the portaloos at Roskilde were by far the cleanest and best maintained bogs I've seen at any festival before or since.

*may not be ironic
(, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 12:39, closed)
Gotta agree -
they really are the best. The red brick coloured ones with the REAL flush action are the Ferrari of festival toilets. Think the site is a park in non-festival times and they just take it over for four days of beer n band related fun... But they do have the usual shitty toilets too, dotted about (or at least they have done on the handful of occasions I've been).
(, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 12:43, closed)
they had crews constantly driving round with the shit-sucker trucks
when I was there. was great. admittedly when you've eaten loads of mushrooms you tend not to need to take a crap.
(, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 13:17, closed)
Another shit story
But the best one of the week. Have a click.
(, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 13:15, closed)
Dirty and visceral
Just the way I like 'em dear boy. You get a gold star for the bit about the labourer's bricks, which made me do a trump.

(, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 14:45, closed)
am actually crying at that one! *click*
(, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 23:22, closed)
*click* for man-flange...
...and I'd *click* again for the Jo Guest reference if I could - whatever happened to her?
(, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 9:30, closed)
The funniest thing I've read this week by a country mile.

Bonus click for mental imagery. How do you do it Spanky, how do you do it?
(, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 12:49, closed)
dear god

clicks of course
(, Thu 11 Jun 2009, 8:52, closed)

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