The River of Actual Human Urine
Myself and two mates lost our Glastonbury cherry back when Tom Jones played in the early nineties. That year it was a scorcher, the heat turning tents into saunas and causing impressive dust-devils to whirl around the site like tornadoes. To reach the action from the campsite, we had to cross over a dry ditch via a small bridge populated by dodgy dealers. Needless to say, this could take a little time so most people opted to jump the ditch. After three days, this dry furrow filled up almost to the brim, around 3 feet deep. There had been no rain and the liquid had an unusual colour and pungent odour; it could only be one thing.
Even on Sunday we kept on leaping over it to get back to our tent, the consequences of falling in blocked from our minds by twelve hours' intake of cold lager. Late on Sunday night, as we made our way gingerly by torchlight, I'll never forget the sounds of the couple next to me traversing the deadly torrent of effluent.
"You WILL catch me, won't you Martin?"
"Course darlin', just jump."
"You SURE, Martin?"
"Come on love, I haven't got all night."
"ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! Jesus."

Splosh.

"Oh God."
(Mr McKenzie Mr McKenzie, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 10:55, Reply)