I am the scud fairy.
My Mum's an Occupational Therapist.
Simply put, she goes into disabled peoples' houses and reccomends adaptations that will make it possible for them to lead relatively normal lives.

Now, this job puts her into regular contact with some utter scroungers: people whose only disability is morbid obesity, and who view social services as a kind of get-your-bathroom-done-up-for-free fund. For these people, she has very little time. But of course, there are also people who genuinely need the help and for them, she'll always go the extra mile.

In this case, there was a mentally disabled man who was utterly dependent on his mother to live a normal life. Sadly, his mother had passed away some months before, and since then, he'd been fending for himself. It was only when he showed up at the doctor's with some third-world ailment that someone thought to ask how he was doing, and when they sent my mum in she was appalled.

The place was a hellhole: There were microwave ready-meal packets mouldering in every corner (The only kind of food this bloke knew how to cook for himself), and towers of empty baked-bean tins as tall as a man. The toilet looked like someone had tried shitting through a tea-strainer at high pressure, and the mattresses had...stuff...growing on them that I don't want to think about.

Now when my mum saw this, she knew that she could call in a clean-up team and they'd sort the place out in two-to-three months, once their backlog was cleared.
Or, she reasoned, she could put her two feckless vacationing student sons to work, and get it sorted out that weekend.

I'd say she bribed, threatened and cajoled us into doing it, but she didn't:
she just threatened. She doesn't believe in wasting good money.

So along we went. We knew we were in for some horror when my mum passed round some dust masks and goggles.
We spent an entire Saturday cleaning out that house, while the man in question was staying with some people from my mum's church and getting himself cleaned up. The carpets had to be pulled up. For some of the stains and accumulated goop, we had to use a paint-scraper. And I had the unenviable task of taking out his green furry mattress to the skip, from whence it would hopefully be taken somewhere to be humanely euthanised.

And underneath the mattress, I found his porn stash.

It was a sad, sorry little collection; a couple of ripped out pages that the damp had got to; rendering the hot MILFs therein not so hot at all.

Now I'm not on my mum's level of saintliness, not by a longshot, but I suddenly found myself moved by this man's plight. He lived in this shitty maisonette surrounded by filth, his only refuge form a world that didn't give a shit whether he lived or died, eating nothing but ready meals and beans. And to top it all, his only entertainment was a tiny black-and-white television and this feeble pile of scud.

What, I asked myself, Would Jesus Do?

That was the morning. In the afternoon, we had to put in the new mattresses and prepare the new carpet for the fitters. But at lunchtime, I took a quick walk to the local newsagent's.

I took responsibility for the bloke's room, putting in the new mattress and laying the bed. And under the mattress, in plastic bags to cheat the damp, as many hot MILF jazz-mags as I could afford.

Was it What Jesus would have Done? Probably not. But I hope it brought him pleasure.
(universalpsykopath loves what you've done with your hair., Thu 2 Feb 2012, 17:11, 73 replies)

Working On A Farm

The Boss asked me to clear out a pit of peas where the water had gotten in and made them rotten. So, shovel in hand, I headed to the pit and dug in. I broke the crust and came up with a shovel full of rotten peas and........maggots. Billions upon billions of maggots.

It wasn't the maggots that dropped me to my knees - I'm an angler and actually like maggots. It was the smell. The stench. The over-powering effluvium of rotting death.

I bowked, I hurled, I threw up everything I had eaten for the last ten years. And I was still crawling along the ground, nose streaming, tears pouring down my face until I could get out of this cloud of Satan.

Eventually I recovered enough to tell the Boss that there wasn't a chance in hell of me completing that task.

"Fuck it" says the Boss. "Check will sort it. You go clean out the seed silos"

Check was what the Boss called the Czechoslovakian farm worker. He was coming up to 70 but could out-work me. Out-eat me, out-drink me and, very probably outlive me. He was, originally, a prisoner of war who been allocated to the farm during WWII. After the war, he stayed on. Interesting bloke.

Check did get in the pit and clear it with a shovel.

That night, in the pub, I asked how the shuddering fuck he done it without losing his lunch.

" I chose not to smell - you chose to smell it. You can shut down most of your senses if you have need enough. That? That was just a little job. Try shutting down your eyes. To live. I did that during the war."

Zen from a Czech.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:48, 3 replies)

Cleaning up someone's rancid backyard with a pressure washer
I was delighted to be covered in a thin slurry of shite, old broken eggs, mouse corpses, chicken shit and other wonderful detritus.
When I gave up and went indoors for a beer my eye was itching.
After I went back to work and carried on swishing the filth, my eye was still itching.
When I got home hours later I had a few pre-bath beers and sat reading the paper, all the while, my eye was itching.

Finally I decanted my filthy self into the bath and had a good old soak to be rid of the day's accumulated horrors, although...my eye was still itching.

Eventually I sprang from the bath, shiny and cleansed and looked hard at my eye in the bathroom mirror. Nothing; nothing that is until I pulled my lower eyelid down.

Crawling along, without a care in the world was a small, white maggot.




I wear goggles now for that kind of job.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 0:49, 15 replies)

Fruit and Vag.
My third answer to this weeks QOTW has me wondering if perhaps my life is a little too grotty.

Many years ago, as a teenager, I had a weekend job working for a supermarket in the fruit and veg department. On the Saturday I'd have to start at 6am, unloading the delivery truck before putting out all the fresh produce. The early start was a bit of a pain in the arse, but as with most young men of that age, Friday night beer didn't really affect me in the way it does today.

This one particular Saturday morning, whilst unloading the lorry an unsavoury odour was noticed but my colleagues and I dismissed it as the work of a beer/curry/physical exersion/fart combination on behalf of the driver.

We were wrong. Once the stock was off the lorry I loaded up the trolleys and wheeled them out onto the shop floor. It would all come in these collapsable green trays, and loose veg would be in a black polythene bag inside one of these trays that you'd slice open and tip out.

Not today though. I sliced open a bag carrots and was immediately hit with the stench of farmyard excrement. Not just excrement though, there was an artistic bonus too. The tray was packed with horse shit and someone had rather thoughtfully layed out eleven carrots on top of it spelling out the world 'CUNT'. This wasn't a spur of the moment act though- these carrots were massive and whoever had performed the act must have been saving these carrots over his shift, which I imagine was his last.

Truth be told I really admired his artistry- the slight itallic lean in the capital letters and the choice of word itself- this farm worker had clearly had enough and was going out with a bang.

So Mr Unhappy Carrotpacker, if you ever read this and have wondered after all these years just where your handywork ended up, It arrived at Hertford Waitrose one Saturday morning and caused one of my colleagues to dry wretch repeatedly for about 90 minutes before eventually throwing up in the cardboard box compactor out the back.

For that I salute you.
(FartThroughAWalkieTalkie wished you were dead in ditch on, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 19:34, 2 replies)

Time for a cheeky pea regarding filth!!
*****wavy lines*****
2 years ago this story took place, and what a torrid time it was too!!

I had backache, and a lump on my right bollock, and nothing eased the pain (the doctors were failing to diagnose me properly but that stories been done) i started with paracetamol, no change, codiene, nothing, Tramadol, nada, zilch zero nothing. Then came the eventual diagnosis....a rather nasty and aggressive dose of cancer....fucksocks!! Well it turned out the backache was caused by the spread of the cancer into my lymph nodes in my abdomen which in turn were pressing on my spine, causing said pain. Anyway, to combat the pain I was introduced to Morphine, both slow release 12hr tablets with oramorph liquid in between as top ups. Now one of the side effects of morphine in the quantities i was taking, apart from being totally spaced out and seeing things, was constipation.....proper didnt shit for 3 weeks constipation....and the more i didnt shit, the more my bowel grew, pressing further on the tumours, in turn pressing harder on my spine, increasing the pain and taking more morphine to combat it...ad infinitum....see a pattern emerging here??

Eventually the doctors listened to me and gave me an examination properly, fecal impaction with 2 possible outcomes.

1. Take a shit and feel better
2. Dont take a shit, burst my bowel, become badly infected and probably die

I decided that dropping the kids off at the pool was probably a good idea but i just couldnt go..at all....i was blocked solid....enter my friend the anal suppository! (inserted by a rather attractive nurse i must add). What followed stripped me of any semblance of dignity i may of been holding onto during the build up to chemo. Suppository inserted with instructions to hold on at least 5 minutes before visiting the hospital bathroom 30 yards down the hall (did i mention i hadnt checked where the toilet was beforehand, or whether it was free?). So i laid in my hospital bed and waited :-

one minute....a little light gurgling in my anal tract
two minutes....this gurgling is intense (nurse returns with small cardoard tray that sits inside the toilet for me to shit into so they can check what i have passed)
Three minutes....toes curling, chocolate starfish in spasm
Four minutes....gotta get to toilet....quick...fucking quick!!
Five minutes....race down hall in blind panic trying to find an empty room for a shit...luck is on my side as the second one is free, i hurl myself in throwing the cardboard thing in the pan ready as my arse dances the foxtrot and my guts spasm, finally i turn to seat myself but not quick enough.....VESUVIUS erupts out of my arse at mach 10 and three weeks worth of food sprays forth as i lower myself. the first blast sprays the toilet cistern, the wall and most of the back of my legs. the second convulsive expulsion makes it into the cardoard tray only to bounce back out and spray me up the back and cover what is left of the toilet room!
I sat there for what felt like 20 minutes endlessly shitting and gone past caring where it was going before ringing the bell and requesting some nurse assistance. The attractive nurse came back! the shame was written on my face (well the bits of my face that werent covered in liquid shit)....her face was covered in shock, shock and awe that one person could cause so much damage and degredation with just one shit!
I was helped into an adjacent cubicle and showered off for half an hour and in the meantime a cleaning crew were called (after "biohazard" tapes were put up stopping entry into the toilet).
The last thing i saw before sleep mercifully took me in its warm embrace was a team of 3 cleaners in chemical suits and face masks entering the toilet...poor fuckers.

Thankfully the cancer was treated well and i am now in remission. and thats my story of the horrors of morphine!!!

Length?? none whatsoever, it was all liquid!
(spinks its only kinky the first time, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 19:05, 10 replies)

My friend
Joanne walked into her local dry cleaning store and told the guy at the counter, "I've got another dress for you to clean."

Slightly hard of hearing, the guy replied, "Come again?"

"No," said Joanne. "Mustard."
( The Mock Turtle ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:28, 4 replies)

Essen mein scheisse, ja?
Not really, but...

When my cat were but a mere slip of a kitty, just after I'd adopted him, he had some arse related issues. Mainly that due to a stomach infection, and some severe mistreatment in his previous home, he was having trouble holding down (and in fact, in) any solid food.

Essentially, after using his tray, his bumhole was so sore, it couldn't contract sufficiently to contain the last dribbles of effluvium.

He immediately got whisked to the vet, upon which she lifted his twitching tail, revealing a seriously unhappy sphincter and proclaimed, in her lilting Irish accent.

"See, there's your problem. He has an angry anus..."

Sad to say, this prompted me to dissolve into a fit of giggles, as all I could think was "that would make a great name for a German Death Metal band".

A year on, and the anus no longer struggles with anger issues, thanks to the beauty of antibiotics, and teh fluffeh is as fat and happy as a cat can be.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 16:38, 6 replies)

The finest use of a pool table I have ever witnessed…

A few years ago I was a fledgling young potential alcoholic…working hard to forge myself a reputation as an utter waste of space to all and sundry whilst occasionally dragging along a guitar to certain establishments and strumming out a few tunes to unfortunate locals. This tended to cement a general begrudged acceptance that I was a ‘half-decent singer who is also a bit of a twat…’ Fair enough.

Moving on…due to my locality at the time (brother flake and his fiancé were letting me crash at their shag pad at the time), my local booze emporium inevitably became a place that was within staggering distance of our collective rented accommodation*. Sweet.

The landlord of said establishment was a guy named Justin. Now Justin was a good looking, charming, intelligent, ball-bag of a man. You hated him because he was so.cocking.brilliant. (oh, leave off - I’m English…that’s my job). His wife Denise however, also just so happened to be a smoking hot phenomenal globule of pure beauty – she would occasionally dress her ‘bite-the-back-of-your-hand-beautiful’ body for certain ‘theme nights’ and if you weren’t instantly and impressively aroused by what you saw when she wore such lovely slutty clothing (on things like ‘naughty nurses evening’ for instance) then you must officially be a bumder. I don’t make the rules – that’s how it is.

On the day in question, I was up early, seemingly determined to remain young and jobless, and was attempting to maximise my pitiful unemployment benefit by getting as rat-arsed as humanly possible - as cheaply and quickly as possible - whilst maintaining some slight hint of dignity and still getting pissed at a licensed establishment...as opposed to blagging cans of christ-knows-what-sort-of-rat’s-piss from Tesco or the local offie.

I know.

In keeping with tradition I managed to stagger from the night before manoeuvre my way to the pub at the very stroke of 11:00am…yet as I walked towards the door and gave it a manly ‘shove’ I noticed that it was still firmly locked and bolted. Of course I stepped back, recoiling in horror, and looked around for any sort of confirmation that something wasn’t right. It was then that I spotted something that immediately didn’t quite compute as ‘normal’ with my meagre brain…

Outside the front of the building there were some chaps gathered around. I quickly deduced from the massive lorry parked nearby that these fellas were brewery delivery guys, dropping off the latest wonderful barrels to keep me in the manner to which I had become accustomed. They’re saints, all of ‘em – god bless ‘em etc.

Only now they weren’t doing their usual job…the three of them were crouched down by the front bay window of the pub and were sneaking glances into the extended bar section where the pool table was situated.

Call me ‘Sherlock’, but I gathered my thoughts…and then rapidly reasoned: ‘this must be juicy, I’m having a gander at this!’

I crept up beside said delivery chaps, and we shared that instant connection that happens when something naughty is going on. They did the old ‘put your finger to your lips….Shhhhhh’ motion with an accompanying ‘wink’ that suggested I should remain still and generally shut the fuck up. So that’s what I did. They all then gently nudged along the window frame giving me the opportunity to look in.

My jaw almost hit the window frame as I peered in and saw the lovely Denise bent over the pool table, writhing back and forth in such a responsive fashion that it kind of reminded me of when I used to play ‘Buckaroo’ when I was a kid and tried to put the oversized lasso on. Justin, in the meantime, proceeded to thrunge back and forth with a quite genuinely impressive gusto.

Denise’s leg lifted up against one of the pockets, ensuring to position herself for maximum pleasure for the both of them, and as she gasped, she grabbed lumps out of the green baize; rocking back and forth, as I began to doubt the usefulness of the table in future following such shenannigans. Justin was understandably curling his lip and trying desperately not to splooge too soon as he pumped away enthusiastically.

Soon, several other regulars approached the pub door before spotting what we were all looking at, and they crawled over to join in the voyeurism. At the end there was quite a few of us, all jostling for a place to get the best viewing angle – all dirty pervs the lot of us. I have no excuse.

At that moment - had it been a more perfect moment - I wish it had actually been a snooker table they were on, because I could have used the ‘missed the easy pink and slid on to the tight brown’ metaphor…but either way, our eyes collectively opened even wider as Justin decided to go the ‘whole hog’, and slipped her a glistening portion up her glorious dirtbox, whilst remaining completely oblivious that more people were watching this blisteringly impressive display than apparently admit to watching the last series of X-Factor. i.e.- there was about 15 of us.

I have to admit - It truly was a magnificent performance…yet as I watched, I began to remember the reason I was there, and I wasn’t the only one. However, one of the onlookers decided to be decidedly cruel in their timing of what was to transpire.

As Justin began to ‘quicken his step’ somewhat, thrusting even more enthusiastically than usual, we could all tell that he was inching ever nearer to the jester’s shoes. With seconds to go before the final vinegar stroke, one of the locals decide to 'bang' on the window ‘RAT-A-TAT-TAT’ as hard as he could on the glass and bellow “Oi!, Are you open or what? I want a fuckin’ drink!”

Now not only myself, but my entire entourage of filthy onlookers decided to do the decent thing and dart cowardly down behind the wall – before tentatively glancing back up again to see a red-faced pair, still in mid-copulation, realising that they had been properly busted, before deciding whether to drop what they were doing and flee back to their paid vocations…or finish the job at hand.

To their eternal credit – they finished the job.

As he spoffed with such ferocity that it could have been a tourist attraction to rival Niagra falls, Justin couldn’t help but smirk as he looked around to see a gaggle of locals giving the pair of them a standing ovation. He eventually zipped up and opened the doors for us all to enjoy the hush-fund of the first drink being on the house.

What a pair of legends.

The respect we had for them both following that was awesome - Other than a few practical jokes – I remember a lump of bogroll being left by the pool table, a few jokes being made about 'irregular stains', and there was also a quite spirited reluctance to have the first game of pool following what we had witnessed, but other than that they pretty much got away with it.

Hmmm – But what relevance could this possibly have to the QotW? I hear you ask...

Well…‘Filth’? …She certainly bloody well was...pure filth…and although I never got to experience her first hand, I can heartily concur that she was brilliant.

God bless her, and all who sail in her.


*The pub was called the ‘Peeping Tom’ – what are the odds of that!
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 2 Feb 2012, 17:01, 3 replies)

Probably not the last story about students
In my first year at Uni, I was unlucky enough to occupy the room opposite the bathroom nearest the main entrance to what, at the time, was the largest student halls of residence in the UK. Unlucky because this meant that it was the first port of call for pretty much every single one of the several hundred blokes that lived there, when on their way back to their room after a night out.

So naturally the corridor outside the bathroom was noisy at all hours, and smelly (some residents didn't quite make it through the door) while the bathroom itself was...indescribable, much of the time.

I never went in in bare feet, for obvious reasons. I always went to a different floor to have a shower or bath, because as far as everyone else was concerned these were just larger urinals (and therefore easier to hit when you're trolleyed).

The cleaners hated the place, of course, because it was their job once per week to try to make the place vaguely sanitary. So, stem the tide of piss that was threatening to seep out the door; scrape up the dried shit and puke that didn't quite make the bowl; and retrieve whatever had been left to fester in the baths and showers.

They staged a work-to-rule, however, when they encountered THE BIGGEST SHIT IN THE WORLD. I'm honestly not exaggerating when I tell you that it stood up, ramrod-straight, and its tip was only slightly below the lip of the bowl. And to top it off -- literally -- it had a couple of bits of undigested corn that peered out at you like beady little eyes. It was so impressive, lads were taking their girlfriends into the stall to witness its magnificence.

A note appeared on the bathroom door, Monday morning after the cleaners had been in, with words to effect that they weren't going near it and whoever had produced it could jolly well get rid of it themselves.

Oddly, nobody wanted to own up. It sat there for another day or so, its stink seeping out, along with an amusing poster ("Roll up and see the eight wonder of the world" and so forth) on the door.

It was clear that no-one else was going to do anything about it and being closest, my room was most likely to be invaded by its stench. Reluctantly, I stepped up.

Flushing did nothing. Half-hearted pokes with the brush -- I really didn't want to get too close -- only seem to amuse it. In the end, it took a thorough mashing and untold flushes to finally slay the beast and clear the cubicle for the next client.

I still have nightmares about it.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:51, 4 replies)

A friend of mine
came into the bar one afternoon just as I was having my first pint. "Hey, you know that hot brunette who works behind the counter at the gas station on 18th and Main? We're getting together tonight!"

"Wait, you mean Jessie?" I asked, with a feeling of dread.

"Yup!" he grinned. "I'm taking her fro drinks at the Taphouse!"

I set down my beer. "Jerm, hasn't anyone told you about her?"

Jerome looked a bit wary. "What do you mean?"

I waved the bartender over. "Hey Doug, you know Jessie at the gas station at 18th and Main?"

Doug chuckled. "The tranny? Yeah, I know her. Him. Whatever."

"Jerm's got a date with her tonight!"

"What!" Doug stared at Jerm. "She's got a dick bigger than mine! You didn't know?"

Jerm put up with our jokes for a few minutes before storming out. But from what I hear, he decided he didn't believe us and kept the date anyway.

They went out for drinks, and after quite a few rounds Jerm decided she was hot enough to take a chance on. She was drunk by that point as well, so they went off for a drive to a quiet spot. As they parked she said, "I have to go to the bathroom. No peeking, okay?" And she went behind some bushes.

Jerm couldn't resist and followed behind her quietly and found her squatting down facing away from him. Sure enough he saw something hanging down between her legs, so he reached out and grabbed it.

She jumped up with a scream. "I didn't know you were behind me!"

Jerm sat looking at his hand. "Yeah, and I didn't know you were taking a shit."
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 2 Feb 2012, 19:35, 10 replies)

Is it time for a pooroast?
Many years ago I worked in a scabby little nightclub in a scabby little town. The majority of the tales I have to tell from this time involve either stupid people, poo, or stupid people pooing.
I'm not sure if they are are funny, but they are all true, and they all stand as a testament to the utter mankyness of some of the poor pathetic souls who have darkened my life.
I think the easiest way to do this is in bite sized easily digestible chunks, so without further ado:
POO STORY NUMBER ONE
To start you off with an easy one, I once found a pint glass full of poo in the centre of the dance floor, with a cherry perched on top. It looked like some kind of Angel Delight dessert thing, though if any angels were delighted by it they need some serious psychological attention.
POO STORY NUMBER TWO...arf... ...number two...
The club I worked in was invariably quiet in the winter, especially mid-week. On an average Thursday we'd get about 30 people in, and most of them were of the older, more respectable persuasion.
This particular night we had a silly young scruff in who, for reasons that now escape me, we had to kick out. As he was frogmarched from the building he repeatedly informed us that he was going to "shit us up", giggling like a two year old on nitrous oxide all the while.
Skip forward a few hours, it's 2am, the club is closed, and I'm just about to get a lift home with the head of security (who, contrary to stereotype, was a bloody nice bloke).
We get in his land rover, shake off the drizzle, buckle up, he flicks on the wipers and...
...shit is lovingly, tenderly smeared over his windscreen, subtly filtered so that the lumpiest bits are clinging to the wipers and the smoother, more refined discharge is spread over the whole windscreen.
No prizes for guessing who was responsible.
No prizes either for guessing what happened to laughing boy the next time he came in. I've not seen a head flushed down a toilet since junior school...
POO STORY NUMBER THREE
On my very first shift I was informed that there was a mess in the gents that needed clearing. I had a nose around but couldn't find anything, and was just about to leave when it caught my eye.
An 18 inch steamy behemoth in the urinal trough.
Now, it wasn't the fact that someone had gotten their todger and their arse the wrong way around (I've seen it several time since, only now I have minions to deal with things like that). It was the fact that it was in a perfect straight line. Whoever had done it must've shimmied along as they strained their bowels, holding up the queue of wannabe pissers while he created his masterpiece. Sir, whoever you are: I salute you.
POO STORY NUMBER FOUR
Somewhat inadvisably, there was a brief time when Friday evenings played host to a childrens disco. They were well behaved little shits, mostly, and we used to enjoy selling cans of 7up and packets of space raiders to them.
One night a little girl (who looked disturbingly like a ladybird) came up and said that her 7up tasted funny, so we replaced it for her and then investigated the contents of the can. It was slightly brown, and slightly sour.
Me and my fellow barmaid looked at each other and the same thought went through our minds: there would be no way of detecting the change of taste or colour if it was in alcohol. This little girl's been spiked.
I wandered around the room staring intently at the other kids, feeling like an unsubtle Gary Glitter impersonator, but to no avail. After about half an hour I checked in the gents and found six empty laxative packets. Six!
One of the little shitrags had been spiking the other kids with laxatives! We had a hurried chat with the manager and closed early that night to save our toiletsfrom the inevitable splattering. I still wonder if there was a reported outbreak of diarrhoea that week...
POO STORY NUMBER FIVE
How do girls manage to break so many toilet seats? I mean, honestly ladies, it seemed like at least once a fortnight I'd have a nose around and find one hanging off it's hinges.
I had about ten minutes to replace this particular toilet seat before we opened, so I dig a new seat out of the store cupboard, squat in front of the bowl, and set to work, reaching around to unscrew the wingnuts.
Trying to distract myself from the brown-streaked porcelain drop-off point mere inches from my face, I look away and hum a little tune.
*Humming a little tune, humming a little tune, (squeak, squeak, go the wingnuts) humming a little t-
humming a...
humm...
humming a little...*
My fingers are covered in shit.
My fingers are covered in shit!
Some filthy, spiteful bint had deliberately smeared her own feces (hopefully her own feces) under the toilet seat, all over the wingnuts, right where you can't see it, right where someone's poor unprotected fingers are going to blindly probe the next time the toilet seat needs replacing.
I can think of no reason for there to be excrement on the underside of a toilet, other than the attempted spread of disease and unhappiness.
POO STORY NUMBER SIX
Again, another quiet night, and again, poo related carnage. Someone had presumably eaten something that disagreed with them because when the toilets were checked at the end of the night one particular cubical resembled a bowel-themed armageddon. I can understand someone not making it in time, but this seriously looked like someone had attempted to eat a prune and castor oil curry before trying out some Micheal Jackson style body popping.
There was runny, grainy pebbledashing to a height of 3 feet, with a 180 degree spread centered on the toilet, and for comedy value, there were two foot-shaped spaces on the floor that were clean and untouched where his feet had taken the brunt of the battering.
Thankfully I had the night off, so I stood back and pissed myself while my manager and assistant manager donned latex gloves and retched and gipped for 20 minutes...
POO STORY NUMBER SEVEN
And so we reach the pièce de résistance. The middle of summer, stupidly busy, the end of the night, and a toilet that smells worse that Satan's own starfish. The reason? A mountain of rectal produce that reached so high it left the bowl.
It took me and Jemma (in the unlikely event that you're reading this, I still owe you a pint for your help) about 20 minutes of tag teaming to clear it up.
We compared notes after, and, judging by the strata left by the various deviants and misfits, the events unrolled something like this:
Some funny, intelligent willy dribble thought that it'd be hilarious to push their empty beer can down the bog as far as they could. Fair enough. However, someone else later came along with the urge to evacuate their bowels, and they did so on top of the can.
Obviously it wouldn't flush, so they covered it with loo roll and wandered off. Unfortunately another like-minded individual arrived later and did likewise, leading to a properly clogged loo.
So far, so normal. At around this point someone with a weak stomach entered, and decided that the sight of two friendly turds nestling side-by-side in the same bowl was too much for their delicate stomach to take, and they proceeded to yark on top of them.
By now the mountain of bodily fluids had nearly reached the top of the bowl, so obviously one dumb shitstain, in their infinite wisdom, decided to add to it. God knows how they achieved it, but achieve it they did.
When I confronted the hideous monstrosity the top was a good three inches clear of the bowl. He must've stood up as he deposited his final food baby, or else it would've been gently brushing his nipsy like a caring mother removing smudges from her grubby offspring's face...
I had to cover my arm in a bin bag and remove handfuls of damp shit from the bowl to another bag Jemma was holding, with two or three vomit breaks. Not something I'd like to experience again soon.

No apologies for length. The one in the urinal was probably longer, anyway.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 14:21, 10 replies)

Duvet stuffing.
Many years ago a chum of mine had recently moved into his first flat.

He's a lovely, warm spirited guy. Very talented in anything creative,
when his guitars were in transit between his old place and this new flat, he was given a keyboard. He equated the keys with the frets on a guitar and was playing classic rock numbers tonally perfect within three days, having never touched a keyboard before in his life. We're talking borderline savant qualities, but matters of a practical nature have always troubled him.

When I say practical, I mean from the very basics upwards. Soon after moving in he would phone me asking if boiling water is a fire hazard, where to buy bin bags, bill paying procedures etc. He was far from useless, just very poorly informed.

As you can probably imagine, his diet wasn't great during this period. There was a Burger King, kebab shop, Indian takeaway and a generic southern fried chicken place 'round the corner from his new home, so they provided 100% of his nutritional intake.

All was well for about a fortnight, but then his stomach essentailly decreed its own dirty protest. He woke up on a Saturday morning and started shitting. heavily. By Sunday he had run out of toilet paper.

In the absence of traditional bum-paper, and in a mild state of arse-peril, he'd cut open his duvet and started using the stuffing. Any port in a liquid storm. It turns out that duvet stuffing, at least ones of this tog rating, don't actually flush away.

The problem was, when me and two other mates went over there to visit him the following weekend, we found out that rather than address the problem at the early stage, my chum had created a festering excrement/duvet wadding layer cake. After a week of poorly digested, processed-meat-heavy, watery mud-biscuits had been laid, one on top of the other, his toilet was now blocked and VERY full. To the actual brim. With Heinz consitency shit.

The smell was approaching chemical weapon potency. Very, very unpleasant.

We decided that a night in the pub might be a good idea.

One problem. Just before we left and without warning, my own stomach started somersaulting violently. I had eaten something that had obviously given me the right belly-grump and I went from normal to brown defcon 5 within 30 seconds. It was coming out irrelevant of my say in the matter. The toilet was honestly too full. My chum's toxic quicksand was actually flush (excuse he pun) to the the lip of the chod-bin. I had to go, but I had to find a different recepticle for my emmisions.

So, dear reader, that is how I found myself in the hallway of a friends flat, releasing a tsunami of angry bovril into a washing up bowl.

When I finished, I looked down to see there was a teacup and a fork still in there. Meh. I wiped with some duvet stuffing. It's really good for the job.

Apologies for length and grimness, but it was coming out either way.
( sir_spicious2000 Crap I've watched: www.filmplop.blogspot.com/, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 1:42, 3 replies)

My brother in law told me this tale from his backpacking in India days.
The story begins with a bout of dysentery, as every filth and India related tale should.

The pair of 'em had it and had it bad. As student doctors they were well aware of how to treat themselves and contrary to popular legend, it's not always "all that bad" though can become very serious depending on the pathogen in question. So, they were into day 3 and the symptoms were subsiding but the odd "urge" still came to visit every hour or so.

Standing on the platform of a very congested railway station, bro in law's mate indicates that he needs to open the floodgates and reduce the pressure so to speak. He wanders away and returns a few minutes later looking pained and miserable. Apparently the toilet was out of order and he wasn't ready to crap in the street, so he decided to try and hold on until they were on the train.
Duly, the train arrives; close to its appointed time.
The two guys have seats reserved in whatever passes for 1st class, and having located them and relieved themselves of their packs, they sit and wait for the train to get moving so the unfortunate fellow can find the toilet and unload some gravy.

Eventually the train set off and the rumbling of the wheels was echoed by the trouble fermenting in this poor chap's guts. Armed with his 5 sheets of paper he rushes off to locate the carriage's shitter.

This is when things start to go a little off course.
For a start, the crapper has a sort of 3/4 door that you can see under and over which fazes him a tad; however it is the horror of what awaits inside that has him reeling back in terror.
The "toilet" for want of a better word, is a hole in the floor, or rather a hole in a pool of runny shit, piss and bits of newspaper and rags.
"Ah well", thinks he, "when you gotta go..."
Thinking himself rather clever he very carefully removed his shorts so that they can't dangle in the slurry, placed them safely on his head and squatted over the hole with that sense of relief that cannot be matched by any experience in life; sweet release.

As he began to liberally spray his foetid effluent in wave after wave of high pressure jets; the train, having gathered a bit of speed, entered a tunnel.

The resulting backdraught sent a mixture of his and everyone else's shite all the way up his back and into his hair.
He had 5 sheets of paper to clean himself up with, nowhere to wash and nowhere to go except back to his premier class seat in the packed carriage looking and smelling like a man who'd fallen into a sewer.

Apparently the whole carriage was awash with his delicate aroma within a few minutes and he had to endure the disgusted stares and twitching noses of fellow passengers for several hours as they trundled slowly through the countryside.

But he did have clean shorts.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 16:21, 2 replies)

Student summer job from Hell
As with most impoverished students, I had to work through the summer in a variety of shitty jobs in order to fund my alcohol and pizza Uni related antics. The worst job I has was when I was a contract cleaner. It had some highs (working for Williams F1 and getting to watch them build full-size replica cars was wicked) but it also had many, many lows...

I was sent to work for one day at what can only be described as a chicken concentration camp. Upon arrival, they made me strip, and then dressed me in an all-enclosed white paper suit so that I looked like a cross between a bleached Teletubby and a giant baby (who's bollocks you could see through the suit) They then walked me around the factory for all the people on the lines to take the piss. After this ritual humiliation, they put me in a room that could only have been designed to extract confessions from poultry, told me to clean it and then they left me.

Fuck me, I am gipping just thinking about this. It was the height of summer and the smell was horrendous, and the carnage that I saw inside this 'Hell Room' sent my imagination into overdrive. I found one machine that was the chicken equivalent of a rack. Another was of a 'spinny' design that I can only assume made the chickens dizzy. Fuck knows why they needed this machinery, or dizzy chickens for that matter, but I figured I just needed to get the place clean, and then I could bugger off home and never think about it again.

I grabbed a broom and started sweeping up the feathers hidden under the units, and I felt something come into contact with the bristles but it wouldn't shift. I got onto my knees, to see what it was but it was too dark under there. So I got a dustpan and brush, and reached back under using the brush to get better leverage, I pulled hard... And a complete, rotting chicken's head flew out from under the unit and smashed wetly into my face! The bastard thing had an agonised, tortured expression upon its once benign feathered features, and one eye was missing. I screamed like a girl. And then shat my paper onesy.
(Mr Fudge It shouldn't be illegal to have sex with an eagle, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 16:10, 3 replies)

It's fucking cold, so I'm roasting a pea. Times are hard.
From September until December of 1998 I lived in a student flat with three other men.
Whilst I could just let you use your imaginations, I will elaborate. The truth may even be more disgusting than what your terrifying brains can conjure. But I'm willing to be proved wrong :-)

Our story revolves around two pints of milk in a plastic container thingy (what are they called anyway? They're not cartons. Cartons are made of cardboard) which quite literally sat in our kitchen, unclaimed, from September to late November. Our kitchen was, as you might expect, fucking disgusting. There were four of us, so it took about a week to get to the point where if you wanted to cook, or eat off a plate instead of out of takeaway wrappings (rare), or drink beer from a glass instead of from the can (Guinness nights only), you HAD to wash up. But none of us ever washed up more than what we needed right there and then. So two pints of milk just blended into the general carnage until it visibly solidified under the plastic.

I never knew milk could turn black.

A bit of background. Being a boys' flat we were not big on originality. We played Tekken 3, a lot, watched films, drank beer and wound each other up. This last point is especially pertinent to the story. When first I moved in I drove up from Nottingham with a carful of stuff, none of which I still own since I came to discover DVD players/a modicum of fashion sense/a more attractive woman than my then-girlfriend. The others had already moved in and informed me in advance that they would be in the pub when I arrived. Steve said he'd leave a key inside the bathroom window, so I just needed to pop round the back and reach through, then let myself in.

Steve failed to mention the full condom he would enclose the key in for "security" purposes.

The bathroom window was one of those frosted affairs so I was reaching in blind. Imagine the horror. I was expecting something hard and metallic; instead my fingers found a prophylactic filled with a suspicious cloudy white liquid. Try to guess how it feels to work out what you're holding as you drag it back through the window.

So I did what I'm confident any one of you would have done; I let myself into the flat, washed my hands incredibly thoroughly, was a bit sick, unpacked the car, marched over to the pub, bought a pint, downed it, bought another pint and walked into the bar where my flatmates were playing pool, loudly referring to Steve as a disgusting cunt. After they'd finished laughing, by which time I needed another pint, Steve assured me that the worrying substance my key had been swimming in was garlic sauce.

"Don't believe me? Smell your fingers"

Nice. My revenge was a long time coming - not because I believed it was a dish best served cold or anything (spaff is usually quite warm in my experience) but because creativity abandoned me in my stereotypically bombed student mindset. Until I asked, for the hundreth time, whose fucking milk was turning black in the fucking kitchen you disgusting fuckers. And then I had an idea.

Many of you will have worked out where I'm going with this. Bear with me, it was fucking funny.

Steve was, and still is to my knowledge, I don't know, I haven't seen him in years, look him up on Facebook if you really want to know, cyber-stalking is so easy these days, seeing a lovely girl called Donna. We all liked her, and I almost feel sorry for how much she had to suffer as part of my hideous prank. I timed it for when they had a weekend away at her parents'. I took a bowl from the kitchen - picked one which had curry smears around the rim for extra "eeewww, fuuuuckk" factor - and decanted as much of the substance formerly known as milk into it. This remains one of the most hideous experiences of my life. The stench of three-month-old milk is ungodly. It rates somewhere between "Rancor" and "Gillian McKeith" on my patented disgustingness scale.

I then placed this bowl under Steve's bed.

Alongside a box of tissues...

...and a borrowed (honest) copy of "Red Hot 60+" magazine.

I then closed the doors and windows of Steve's room and forgot all about it until the Sunday night, when Steve and Donna returned to our flat for a night of "oh thank god we're out from under the parents' watchful gaze let's have lots of sex" sex.

Myself and the other lads were watching TV in the front room until we heard a frankly inhuman noise coming from Steve's room next door. I muted the TV and sit upright in alert, gleeful anticipation. With hindsight, this may have identified me as the culprit. After a series of half-choked exclamations were crescendo'd with a very, very loud "WHAT THE HOLY FUCK?!!", Steve stormed into the next room demanding to know who had sucked the air out of his room and replaced it with camembert in a gaseous state.

I wish I could tell you I said something witty about garlic sauce, or smelling his fingers, but I was laughing so hard that witty repartee was even further from my grasp than normal. Again, not helping any claims I may have laid to innocence. Steve was proper angry. Apparently the stench and the discovery that her boyfriend was rubbing one out over grannies then keeping the produce of said self-flagellation in a bowl under his bed for long enough for it to turn black and solidify like some hideous splunge Star Trek villain (think of the episode where Tasha Yar dies) was a right turn-off for Donna.

I calmed down long enough to assure him that I'd planned for this eventuality and he could keep the mag for as long as was necessary.

And then he hit me.

Totally worth it.

Length... three months, in a warm kitchen, before it was unleashed into a hot room. Think about it. SO proud of myself.
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 8:59, 2 replies)

Lets have a game of Breastitty Breast, with your host Les QOTWson
The other day, while I was breasts my breasts with my supermodel breasts, I couldn't help to notice breasts breasts breasts breasts. Naturally, I breasts immediately. Well, you can't ignore an offer like that! I then proceeded to breasts like I'd never breasts before. Needless to say, breasts breasts breasts breasts breasts breasts breasts.

Breasts!

cheers
( broadsword now that's fresh, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 9:09, 22 replies)

It takes a lot to put me off my food...
However, it can be done.

I used to work at a lab where part of the job involved injecting mice with radiactive goop, putting them to sleep, before chopping them up into lots of tiny pieces and then trying to find which bits the radiation had gone into. There was some vague intent to develop new reagents for those unfortunate to need a tumour scanned.

Anyway, because all of our waste (lots and lots of little pots of mouse-giblets) was rather excitingly radioactive, it had to be stored for a couple of weeks in an enormous lead-lined freezer before we could throw it away. The main freezer was (usually) brilliant, you could walk right inside, and it had a massive metal door that looked like it belonged in Bowzer Castle.

Predictably, however, this freezer decided to fail. In June. When the weather was warm. And the air conditioning also broken. This left about 3 thousand little pots of mouse innards sitting at a balmy room temperature. For over a week. Because of their radioactive nature, we couldn't throw them out, and although we had one little freezer still working, it wasn't enough for all of the samples. That was, unless we could make the big bags of waste smaller. It was at this point my boss realised that if we tipped the bits of mouse out of their little pots, and stored the pots separately, the pots could go out as merely 'contaminated', and we would have enough room to store all of the actual 'radioactive waste'.

So, there I am. My first job out of uni, and I am standing in a small room, for 4 hours, unscrewing little pots of week-old, briefly frozen, and then thawed mouse-parts, and tipping the part-liquefied, dribbly genatinous mess into one bag, whilst throwing the pots into another. For. Four. Hours. This was a level of horror I simply wasn't prepared for. Visually, you can just sort of de-focus, but then there was the smell. The smell almost felt solid after a while; a real, visceral, physical presence, forcing itself wetly up into my nostrils and straight into my brain. Most bad smells you can get used to, after a while, but there's something about rotting meat. Even through a properly fitted paper face-mask, this smell just stayed there, terribly, defiantly, arrogantly horrible. For. FOUR. HOURS.

After re-zoning roughly 2 thousand pots in the morning session (powering through my break to try and get it over and done with) I still had about half as much again to attempt. I went to the canteen, bought some food, and stared at it for 10 minutes. Now, I LIKE my food. I hesitate to call it love, but this is largely commitment-phobia. It takes an utterly monumental feat to get me to turn down good food. And yet, the whole lot was scraped into the bit, and I trudged back to the lab building.

As well as being a gourmand, I am also a colossal goodie-goodie, and I usually have a pathetic, sniveling level of deference to authority. This is why I found it so surprising when my boss asked me how well I had done in the morning, and whether I was going to complete the job in the afternoon, I found myself answering "Um... actually... no. Sorry..."

Her reply? "To be honest, I didn't think you'd manage even that many, it sounds like a horrible job."

Going home that evening, you know that bloke who sits on the train, with a thousand-yard-stare, smelling faintly of death? That was me, that day.
(Serotonicity was a naughty boy on..., Fri 3 Feb 2012, 0:41, 2 replies)

How much is the cheesecake per pound?
Many years ago, when I was living in a shared house, a mate's girlfriend came round. She'd just got off shift at the local hospital.

"Anyone got any spliff?"

"Didn't know you smoked Sara?"

"I don't but I need the munchies or I won't be able to keep dinner down".

She'd assisted at a cyst drainage: the patient had not one but 17, spread over his back and ranging from dried pea to satsuma in size. The little ones went OK, with a quick slash to dissect them out intact. The 3 biggest...squirted. Apparently the smell was a cross between rotting flesh, halitosis and vomit. All the theatre staff were hit. The surgeon had to have his faceshield wiped off twice, and the theatre itself was out of action for 4 hours while pathology had it steamcleaned and then swabbed for cultures.

Poor Sara. She got the munchies, but had a flashback halfway down her Chinese and threw up.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 23:23, 2 replies)

The Animal of Twizel
Twizel may well be the grimmest town in New Zealand - built as a workers' dormitory for dam construction projects, and unaccountably not abandoned, its inhabitants tend towards the bored and brutal. A mate of mine spent his formative years there, and befriended a character known simply as the Animal.
It came to pass that my mate was at a typically feral party one evening and found himself being pestered by an annoying and drunk middle-aged woman ("What's your star sign?" That sort of nonsense). Hoping to distract her, he summoned the Animal and quietly asked him to work his rough charms.
This the Animal did - some 5 minutes later, he was seen leading the woman into the host' bedroom. Well and good, thought my friend, giving it no further theought for another 10 minutes, when suddenly was heard a high-pitched shriek.
The guests all piled into the bedroom in a state of high glee, to behold the woman staggering from the bed in her knickers, her body dripping with runny shit and urine. What had happened was that the Animal had been standing astride her trying to will an erection. In his drunken confusion he managed to lose control of his bowels instead. Of the great man himself there was no sign, only an open window.
(mudskipper, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 8:48, 1 reply)

In the last student house we lived in
the landlord had gone for the "classy wood floor look" by simply removing the carpet.

One of the boards in the living room wasn;t screwed to the joists, so cleaning up became as simple as lifting the board and sweeping/ scraping all the cans, bottles, food wrappers and fag butts into the cavity underneath.

Once a month we'd get a long stick and shove all the shite slighty further back to make a bit of space.

Day before we left we sprayed some glade down there and screwed the board down.

For this Mr Hops, I apologise.
(tyrefire2001 Is it a fast ship?, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 16:42, 1 reply)

When I was much younger, in my late teens,
I had a certain affection for a band called Biohazard, who in retrospect were rubbish. When I was 23, I found a second use for their albums. I got a sheet of paper, traced the 'biological hazard' logo from their cover art and then stuck it to Joizi's door. Joizi stank, Joizi was filthy. The cleaner refused to enter his room, because of the smell.

Home for me then was a halls corridor populated by six earlytwentysomthing males. It was reasonably clean because we drank from cans and ate from plastic trays, mess was just dirty forks or a full bin. We had a wall covered in porn. There was a dead christmas tree on top of the fridge covered in porn decorations. We called it 'the clitoris tree'. We had stolen it, from elsewhere. The decorations were ours, though.

Joizi sat in our kitchen, smoking a cigarette and drinking lager. He wore a stained tshirt and his 'ants in your pants' boxer shots. These were the clothes he had worn a few weeks earlier. Then he had run from his room, lapped the kitchen and cheered. He had finally overcome his girlfriend's vaginisthmus. She was nervous and eighteen and it had been her first time.

We called Joizi 'The Monkey' because of his personal habits. He didn't eat and lived on lager. He confessed to only cleaning his teeth twice in the first term. He never did laundry, ever. His clothes stank. He wore the ones that smelled the least. He almost never showered, and confessed he wanked in there when he did. This made me glad it was almost never, because he was a filthy animal. We called him 'The Monkey' because no matter how much shit he flung at the bars, he was always given bananas, and he loved bananas, and we all wanted bananas.

There had been a parade of women through his room, he was rarely single. One had recounted to us how a former lover had drunkenly vomited on her during sex. She had wiped it off and kept on going. One had claimed to have fucked a member of the band Pennywise. It may have been the one who died, but I forget. Another had lain there in his lightless stinking hovel while he thrust past her subliminal reservations and ground away her virginity with his rancid stinking penis. He did a lap of the kitchen afterwards, while she lay there like a badly iced cake.

Joizi sat in our kitchen in his 'ants in your pants' boxer shorts. It was January. In around a year his liquid diet would get so bad that he would randomly shit his pants as he walked down the road. He was never without women. They loved his stinking balls. His latest one did his laundry for him now, now he had lapped the kitchen. She came around, with news.

"Hi Joizi"
"Hi babes"
"We need to talk"
"Ok"
"Can I do this here, in front of everyone?"
"Ok"
"You have crabs"
"How do you know?"
"Because I have crabs, and there has been only you"

Joizi thought. Two of his friends had had crabs. They all had a sexual partner in common, who was ultimately responsible, the Pennywise girl. Joizi had shagged her in September.

It was January.

"I wondered where the itching came from"

He swigged from his can and drew on his cigarette. Those in the kitchen looked at each other in disbelief, then noticed his pants.
(cs1ca, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 21:19, 4 replies)

My 2 year old daughter once ate some little hairclips.
Hospital X-rayed her and were satisfied that they were not causing problems, and would probably pass naturally.

For the next two days I had to comb through each shitty nappy with a fork looking to make sure they had left her guts safely.

I washed them, and have kept them in a safe place. I'm going to have them made into cuff-links and wear them on a suitably embarrassing (for her) occasion.
( Pope Shax XIII uses Visio for picture editing, does it show?, Sat 4 Feb 2012, 8:02, 12 replies)

Suits, beer and cack encrusted tramps.
A few of years ago the sweary one and I were in town, doing some shopping. I’m after a black suit for my graduation, and she’s after a nice new dress for said occasion. As often happens in these situations, we both find what we want pretty quickly and are faced with the familiar, age old dilemma – back home, or pub?

Pub wins. Every time.

So, we are firmly ensconced in the Strawberry, enjoying a foamy pint of Old Cuntbuster (or some similarly ludicrously-named real ale), and having a smoke, when this bloke rolls up. I use the term ‘bloke’ loosely – he was barely recognisable as human. “Hev ye gorra tab I can borra mate”? slurs the man-thing, to us (I never understood that particular phrase – if I give you my name and address are you going to return said fag in the post to me)?

At this point we both become aware of an almighty foul stench that has just assaulted our olfactory senses, and realise it’s coming from this random cigarette-bumming missing link. Desperate to be rid of him the sweary one replies, “Yeah, here” and thrusts a cancer stick in his general direction. It was on doing this that we noticed a bit more about him.

The guy had a beard that was obviously the result of several years’ growth. Within that beard was a carefully-cultivated mat of the most offensive looking vomit I have ever seen. I could feel the bile rising slowly and the colour draining from my cheeks as the smell he had brought with him became overpowering, and as he turned to stumble back towards the bar, we noticed what was an absolute tour-de-force of shit plastering the back of his jeans. From the inside. The guy had heroically shat himself in what can only be described as a voluminous manner, probably more than once, but was obviously too pissed to notice and had ground this horrific life-form into his jeans through the simple act of sitting on a bar stool (‘scuse pun) and shifting his weight around occasionally in order to get comfy.

Gagging, we stayed and continued our pints, lighting up again several times to combat the smell. How the barman continued to do his job without retching is a mystery I still ponder to this day.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 3 Feb 2012, 15:03, 6 replies)

My first repost in a while...
Everyone knows the state that festival toilets are in by the end of the weekend and really this one was no different to the rest... except for the fact that upon opening the door I discovered a mound of shit so high it had escaped the chemical bit at the bottom of the toilet, and formed a peak reaching a good foot above the level of the seat.

How the bluddering fuck did someone manage that?!?

Not only this however... Someone had put a Bakewell Tart on the top of the mound.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Thu 2 Feb 2012, 22:58, 6 replies)

The wrong kind of vacuum cleaner
On this occasion, the family alsatian had produced a massive puddle of diarrhea right outside my younger brother's bedroom door. It was brown, soupy and had a diameter of about 18 inches. I was there to witness the look of horror on my brother's face when he first saw it. I had to dash off to work, leaving my sibling to deal with the mess.

When I came home at 5 o'clock, there was not a trace of it to be found - all gone. I asked my brother how he had cleaned it up. 'I used the Hoover,' was his reply. As in, the brand new, upright Hoover (with paper dustbags) that our mum had bought a couple of weeks previously. 'You're joking?' I asked. He shook his head. I fetched the Hoover from the cupboard and opened it up. There was the sodden dustbag, oozing doggy discharge and stinking to high heaven. I turned the machine upside down and, sure enough, the brushes were all coated in a sticky brown sludge. I think he must have thought that all vacuum cleaners were the same and that, just like the Vax cleaners he had seen advertised on TV, they could all handle 'liquid' spills.

Despite stripping the Hoover down and soaking the parts in disinfectant, every time it was used thereafter left the house reeking of dog arse. It ended up in a skip.
( ThisCaledonianClown has left it far too late, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 11:17, 2 replies)

Another Student Story
The 5 lads in the flat downstairs had a particularly disgraceful abode. It so bad that one day, the cleaners refused to even enter it. They were promptly issued with a university branded letter saying they had to clean the flat, which they ignored.

My flatmate and I came into possession of this letter so decided to scan it, use the letterhead and write a second letter saying that the apartment was a health and safety risk, therefore, all tenants would have to evacuate the flat so that it could be fumigated.

Watching them move all their belongings out 2 days later was a highlight of my university career.
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:48, 1 reply)

When I returned to primary school
for the fourth year we all got called in to a special assembly.

It appeared that an act of diabolical vandalism had occured during the school holidays, when a gang of older youths had broken in to the school.

The good news was that nothing had been taken, and that no graffiti had been sprayed anywhere, and none of the classrooms damaged.

There was only one piece of vandalism that had occured, as was explained to us at the time by the headmaster.

Someone it appears had broken into our school with the sole intention of doing a "big job" in the piano.

An upright piano too, so it must have taken some amazing feat of dexterity and balance to hover up there.
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:03, 4 replies)

Thar she blows!
I worked in a pub when in my early twenties. I was responsible for the general maintenance of the place, no mean feat considering the majority of the building was constructed in the 14th Century. Certain aspects had been built on top of it, certain elements created in dug-out underground areas surrounding the access to the natural sandstone caves that formed the cellars, amongst other things, these included the toilets.

Unfortunately, these were limited in terms of size. In recent years, they have grown thanks to the excavation of additional areas under the main bar, but the gents had one cubicle. Sometime over Christmas 2001 someone decided to smash the toilet bowl, causing the water to spill out over the floor. This I could have coped with in itself, but before it came to our attention, more than one person discovered the lack of facilities suited to their requirements and opted to crap into the thigh-height urinal tray. Over the space of a busy Saturday afternoon, a combination of fecal matter, urine, paper hand towels and cigarette ends caused this to become completely blocked up and people just kept using it without saying a fucking word to us.

Once we were alerted, the water that flushed into the tray every twenty minutes, ironically for hygiene purposes, was causing the cocktail of detrius to spill the contents of the tray out onto the floor and was only reported because someone was unhappy about it getting on their shoes....

Either way, we had a mess that needed to be cleaned up and dealt with. I donned my arm length rubber gloves, overalls and grabbed a screwdriver which which to lever up the grill that was in place, with the intention of letting it all flow down the drain. Unfortunately this also became blocked.

Unfortunately, I didn't have a plunger to deal with it properly, so I left instructions to the young lad I was training to stand at the door and make sure that people used the disabled toilet instead, so I could run a mile down the road to get to Wilkinsons, get the required tool, get back and get the matter dealt with.

Unfortunately my twat of a boss had other ideas. He knew that commercial drain unblockers used a jet of pressurised water to clear blockages and sent the trainee into the cellar to get the pressure washer. He hooked it up, turned it on, put the nozzle into the drain and pressed the trigger. From what I was told, a few seconds passed before the pressure had built up sufficiently to cause the faecal cocktail to spray back, coating him from head to toe.

To be fair, it did clear the blockage.... unfortunately it took a while longer than expected to clean and sort the place out.
( Muns, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:52, 5 replies)

Christmas
I had a job cleaning trains. We got a £20 bonus for cleaning up vom or shit from the seats, £100 for a toilet ‘blowback incident’ and £400 for helping clean up after a fatality. The inevitable Christmas suicides were great for helping with those little extras. I salute every one of the selfish fuckers.
(Mr la-de-da Gunner Graham, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 16:01, 6 replies)

Hmm. Another long suppressed memory.
In our grotty student house, two people had cats. Friendly furry little chaps they were, everybody enjoyed having them around.

One of them (Arnold) got locked in the bathroom, and crapped in the corner behind the sink. No problem, these things happen. Cleanup crew to aisle 6 please. The only problem was that the bathroom had carpet. OK, well a bit of extra scrubbing, job done.

Things returned to normality, Arnold once again returned to shitting in the garden, and burying it, as cats normally do.

Over the next few weeks, the faint smell of catshit in the bathroom began to pervade. Rather than fading, it grew. We scrubbed the carpet again, used some flowery ungents, but no, the smell just wouldn't go.

After about a month of this, someone decided the carpet must go. £7.50 was collected from the 4 residents, and 6 square metres of cheap lino bought.

When the carpet was lifted, we discovered that Arnold had apprently discovered the joy of not having to shit in a cold garden. He had worked out that if you pull at the corner of the carpet with claws, it lifts. You can then crap, and drop the carpet back down - burying it, right?

There must have been about 2kg of catshit piled up in there. *bowk*
(username failed moderation, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 9:08, Reply)