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This is a question Filth!

Enzyme says: Tell us your tales of grot, grime, dirt, detritus and mess

(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:04)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I once climbed up a tree
And I done a whopping great shit on a cow.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:46, 3 replies)
The ferry from Aswan to Wadi Halfa
is a boat built for 75, carrying over 500. It has the one toilet (that I could find) per deck. Anyway - after the first day at "sea" (it was on a lake, obviously) the toilets backed up and overflowed. The bathrooms/toilets were ankle deep in shit, piss and the rest. It reached about 5 inches by the time we hit Wadi Halfa.

Add chronic food poisoning and people sneezing into communal food and it was a fun trip!
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:46, 3 replies)
When I worked in a catering butchery
it was my first job in the UK... Anyway, I was asked to go through a large tub (5feetx5feet) full of livers and sort out the fresh ones... It was elbow deep in blood, so you had to really fish around for them. The quality ones were bagged up for later use.

Not my happiest job, the really rotten ones fell apart in your hands...

My hands stank for ages :(
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:36, 1 reply)
A few years ago I worked in an office that was one of many in a large old WWII bunker, owned by Barry.

Lovely bloke, salt of the earth. Worth a bob or two as well.

Anyhow, one afternoon I nipped down to the communal kitchen area to fill the kettle for our office. As I entered I could see Barry at the sink. He looked up, a bit alarmed.

He was washing his shoe. The one he'd just stepped into dogshit. And he was using the washing-up brush.

Worryingly he muttered in a sorrowful tone "I suppose I should throw this away now...", as if it was a shame he'd have to spend 50p on a new brush.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:26, 1 reply)
More student grubbiness
In my second year at Uni (you can read about my first year here) I shared a house with four other blokes. Our collective regard for hygiene was effectively non-existent: cleaning used up valuable time that could be spent...well, doing anything else, really.

The bathroom was simply never cleaned. The sheer quantity and variety of fungi that occupied its various corners and surfaces was a natural wonder in itself. Luckily it was in an extension on the back of the house, so the smell didn't really bother anyone.

Washing up was on a strict rota basis but, thanks to our forward-thinking -- during our first year we'd waged a slow but steady campaign of cutlery/crockery theft from the halls of residence canteen -- it was only ever necessary about once a fortnight. So the sink and surrounding surfaces would gradually disappear under teetering mountains of dirty dishes until the next poor sap on the rota would set aside an afternoon to work their way through it.

It all came to something of a head, though, during the Easter holiday. It'd been a cold winter and we hadn't been out in the garden for months when Scott and I -- the others had gone home -- saw that it was a lovely sunny day and we should go out and have a barbie or something. But on opening the door, we were all but overcome by a stomach-churningly powerful stench.

It turned out that all the while we'd been merrily washing our dishes in the sink and flushing down it whatever lumps and scraps of food as were left, the drain had blocked solid. Over the weeks (months?) this had all collected in what can only be described as a slick; the cold weather had kept it from smelling too badly but the warm weather had changed all that.

It was like a thousand people had all vomited simultaneously in the same place.

We were too poor to get someone in to deal with it, so off we went to the Hire Shop to get some drain rods. Oh, the smell! I can still remember the sensation of having to put my hands into the gloopy, stinky mess to get to the drain cover underneath.

Great, now I've put myself off my lunch.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:23, Reply)
High school
One day at school all 450 boys were called to a special assembly in the sports hall. Much to my amusement, the reason for this was an attempt to find the particularly mucky culprit who had crimped off a length of dirty Richard and left it steaming in the middle of the bathroom floor.

I never did discover who the phantom cable-layer was.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:14, 5 replies)
Needed a shit and no toilet paper.
Wandering home through the woods one day and I desperately needed a poo. It was a bit of a flappy one and there was fuck all to wipe my arse on, so I took the desperate measure of using the inside bottom of my jacket. A week later there was a bad smell following me everywhere and I remembered what I'd done so chucked it in the washing machine in disgust.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:06, 8 replies)
Second week in a row where the topic ties tightly to my urban exploration habit. This story is about my messiest mistake, and a girl's even messier mistake.

If anyone here's passingly familiar with Korean cinema, there's one horror/comedy/sci fi movie called The Host about a mutated monster living in the storm drain system under Seoul. A family goes after it in search of their missing daughter, and a lot of absurd stuff happens that characterises Korean culture perfectly.

Anyway, the tunnels they filmed it in are all (mostly?) real. I learned about them thanks to a Korean artist who is known for going to these sorts of places and posing for non-erotic nudes. Her work ties in very well with the "filth" theme.

Seoul used to have a lot of streams, but they were covered up to make room for more construction, leaving these bizarre underground rivers across the city. The biggest one has an entrance so huge, you could fly a 747 through tne entrance (it would be shredded by the the pillars very quickly, but it gives you a sense of how huge the tunnel is).

First expedition was Christmas Day 2009. Foreign workers in Korea tend not to have anything special to do for the holidays, so I rounded up the first expedition. Five strong, we got rubber boots, lights, batteries, and more batteries, we got together, and headed in. Immediately we agreed on the rule "No talking about the smell." Keep in mind this isn't a sewage drain or anything, mainly just runoff, but the place had this putrid stench to it I can only describe as wet slime. As it happened we discovered a ledge on the side we could safely walk to avoid water, ice, and uneven rocky ground.

We got about 500 meters in, and the tunnel curved to the point where there was no light coming in from behind. Not long after, we saw a light ahead. At first I thought we were looking at a subway station or some kind of subterranean lighting. When we got close enough, it turned out to be natural lighting from outside. The tunnel stretched 1.6 kilometers and surfaced at an intersection with a railway bridge. The way beyond this was through a five-foot-tall tunnel over thin ice, meaning if we wanted to continue we'd either have to go over the active train tracks or under on the thin ice. I took one tentative step and got a rubber boot full of black viscous sludge. Fortunately we found a way out here so we didn't have to go all the way back down to the river. It was in a surprisingly convenient place for us all, transportation-wise.

Second visit, I came back with a smaller group of three in colder weather, and we made it under in the low tunnel thanks to the thicker ice. It just involved 20 meters of hunched-over sliding across ice. The second leg was much more frightening than the first. There was no dry ledge, so we had to wade in our rubber boots. Along the edge was a small dry area, and we found what appeared to be an animal's jawbone inexplicably lying there. One of my companions put it in her bag. Soon after, we found another, and another, and another, and soon we were counting them by the dozen. All lined up and arranged the same way, inner side down with the jaw pointing back the way we came. Wherever they came from, I'm not sure I want to know. We gave up after about 500 meters, and pledged to come back with more people, weapons, and fire, to fight whatever monsters lay ahead.

We came back two weeks later to try it again, this time with four people. There was Stig, the gigantic Welshman whose feet were too big for all footwear in Korea, who had been on the previous trip, an American girl whose ex-boyfriend was dating my ex-wife, and a Korean girl I was in an "it's complicated" situation with. The weather had warmed a bit, but not enough to totally melt all the ice. It was the day before Valentine's Day, and also Lunar New Year.

We did the first 1.6-kilometer leg fine, and came to the uncomfortably low tunnel under the train tracks. I scooted ahead, camera in hand, wanting to get awkward pictures of the others as they came out the other side. As I neared the other side, I heard a loud crack. The ice in the tunnel cleaved in three places.

Consult the following diamgram, with me positioned over the middle cleave.

| (next |
| person) |

Basically, the ice opened up like a two-flap trap-door, dropping me perfectly vertically downward. I went straight down, and fortunately the water was only abit less than a meter deep, so I was soaked up to my upper thighs. Plus, I somehow managed to keep my camera dry.

The next person behind me, the Korean girl, shrieked my name and ran to my aid. Worst thing she could've done. I broke the ice in a way that plunged me straight down; she ran to the edge which snapped off, sort of like walking out out on a pirate ship plank and having it fall out from under you. She fell on her back on the ice and slid in with me, certainly getting more of her body submerged, including her backpack.

We were now both trapped in meter-deep water. Somehow we both managed to scramble up on the remaining ice shelf and run for safety back the way we came. I managed to cut up my legs on the sharp edges of the ice, because the best thing to do in this situation is to allow these toxins into your bloodstream. Also in retrospect, fortunately one of the others had a camera out to capture our desperation and the subsequent cleanup.

It was subzero weather, and we were now both soaked in a wet substance that can't quite be classified as water. When I poured out my rubber boots, the fluid was as black as Guinness, only with more of a scent of motor oil and rancid moss. We squeezed out as much of the liquid as we could and went up the escape route, not wanting to freeze to death.

Ultimately her and I decided to take a taxi home for immediate decontamination showers. We decided against the metro because it would be slower and we'd be exposed to more people. Fortunately the taxi driver didn't notice our state. Unfortunately, she ended up getting a different taxi taking her to her own home.

Sometimes I get a whiff of an open drain grating, and it flashes me back to standing thigh-deep in black sludge.

Anyway, I've always said that if you're still clean after going urban exploring, you're doing it wrong.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:06, 5 replies)
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.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:03, 4 replies)
The phlem jar
Onboard some royal navy ships and subs it was customary to spit into a jar and put £1 in another jar for the privilege. The person who drank/ate the contents of the phlem jar got the money.

Smudge Smith won the money whilst instantaneously making half the mess throw up. The throw up wasn't kept in a jar unfortunately.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:02, 8 replies)
When I got my first "proper" job...
... I started off living in B&Bs during the week. Then I found a place literally round the corner from work where I could rent a room, sharing with a placement student (good bloke) and the woman who owned the house, and her dog. It was cheap and close to work and I had been a student, so I wasn't that fussy... but oh my god. I'm no OCD anal retentive clean freak or anything, but I'd be led to believe that men (i.e. me) were disgusting and all women were magically hygienic creatures. Well... not this one. I won't bore you with most of the details, but suffice to say I was amazed to find myself in a pair of marigolds spending nearly an hour cleaning the toilet before I considered it clean enough to shit in. I don't think she'd ever cleaned it in the entire time she lived there. The rim was caked with pubes. I'm being a little bit sick in my mouth thinking about it even now.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:59, Reply)
In my student days
I shared a house with another student, a Mr Bean clone civil servant, and the other students sister would appear for a few weeks at a time, as the house was owned by their parents.

Not long after I moved in, a bee died in the bath. It was still there when I moved out, 3 years later. It became slightly notorious, visitors would check it was there and comment on it.

We lived in general qualor. The civil servant guy was very anal, and used to get home and go straight to his room, never interacting with us at all, other than once a month or so he would explosively burst into the sitting room, shriek at us for 10 minutes about the mess, then disappear again.

As we were normally baked out of our heads on pot, we'd just look at each other and burst into giggles.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:54, 1 reply)
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.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:52, 5 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.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:51, 4 replies)
I tried shitting in the shower once, as my stupidness or laziness vied to win the daily bonus.
Stupidy won on the day. My efforts to stamp the turds through the plughole simply resulted in a plughole clogged up with shit, and mix of water and faecal matter overflowing on the bathmat. I should add that when I took this decision it wasn't in my own house.
Let this be a lesson, as I know you've all thought about doing the same. Some of you can think of nothing else
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:43, 3 replies)
Looking forward
Moving forward
Bench marking
Best practice
Yeah, baby
Solutions opportunity
Crux of the matter
Playing on a level field
Oh yeah
Getting the jump on the competition
Early market strategy

How ya like me now, bitches?
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:42, Reply)
Why haven't women been put on the moon?

Because it does not need cleaning yet.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:32, 11 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."
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:28, 4 replies)
I'm really not happy about how I'm being treated, and neither are my compatriots.

R Sands
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:24, Reply)
A clean kitchen is the sign of a wasted life.

(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:23, Reply)
As a student, I worked in a care home for old folks with serious fruitloop issues.
Waking one charming old alcoholic one morning the room smelled slightly worse than normal so I threw open the curtains to let in a bit of air. Turns out she'd been a bit constipated, performed a manual evacuation of her back package and arranged the extracted stools carefully along the window ledge like little brown porcelain figurines.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:22, 3 replies)

I had a really nasty fungal foot infection for years. It developed slowly, and I basically thought everyone's feet were like that (I was a teenager at the time, so there was some truth in it).

When I eventually went to the Doctor (people had got so fed up that several of them had had the awkward conversation with me about the smell), I had to peel my socks off in front of her, to show her my vile, peeling, pungent feet, and she informed me that it very much was not normal, and gave me some drugs and special soap.

I also once caught Scabies off a transvestite in a bar in Mauritius. I was there with my Dad. That story is actually much more innocent that it sounds...
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:17, 1 reply)
We all got this email from our admin department today. We work for a Software house.
Unfortunately, xxxxxx (the cleaner), has had to report to me that she has found the following in the gents toilets upstairs:-

1. Blood on the hand towel – which has occurred today as she put it out clean last night.

2. Poo on the floor and on the wall in the end cubicle (nearest the radiator).

When she showed one of the men today, they told her that a few weeks ago, they found blood on the toilet seat in that same cubicle which they cleaned up.

THIS IS TOTALLY UNACCEPTABLE – whoever has done this must know about it. You are causing a serious health issue to your colleagues and any visitors we may have. If you have a problem, you MUST CLEAR IT UP IMMEDIATELY AND LEAVE THE TOILETS IN A HYGIENIC STATE. We have plenty of rubber gloves, bleach and cleaning aids should you need them (please come and ask me where they are – I will obviously be very discreet and not tell anyone!).
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:14, Reply)
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:13, 8 replies)
The person who shat all *up* the wall outside my office. It's in farringdon so presumably a fabric goer. The odd thing was that they remembered toilet roll! AND LEFT IT BEHIND.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:13, Reply)
Grotbags was dirt.

(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:11, 1 reply)

(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:10, Reply)
the grotbag

I saw pissing in a bush 10 mins ago in tokyo station (no it wasn't me)

His hat hadn't been washed in months
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:10, 1 reply)
Anyway, now that childishness is over, I'd best think of an answer...

Public school in Cheshire, 1980(ish).

We were all called out of class, all the boys and told to go to the assembly hall. 5 minutes later there were 200 or so young lads aged between 6 and 13 all lined up in some sort of age order waiting patiently to see what was going on, there were hushed rumours going around with all sorts of mad theories as to why we were there.

Then entered the deputy head, Mr Shaw-Twillie (you couldn't make this up!), he bellowed 'who was it? We know it's one of you so just own up', we stood there in silence, all but one of us wondering what the fuck he was on about, 'COME ON, WHO DID IT?' Over and over again.

Some of the younger kids near the front were starting to cry.

One of the prefects bravely asked 'did what sir?'

'DID WHAT?' I'LL TELL YOU WHAT 'WHO WENT TO THE TOILET IN THE LAVATORY?' We all looked around at each other, were we not meant to go to the toilet in the lavatory, had they changed the rules and not told us?

No-one said a word, we all stood there looking straight at him, wondering what his problem was with us using the loo.

The same prefect put his hand up and asked 'What has happened Sir?'


That was it, we all lost it, we were all crying with laughter, he was screaming at us that he would find out who did it, but not a soul put their hand up and he eventually had to let us all leave, it was the talk of the school for weeks, but they never did find out.

Private school, £3k per term back then, very posh, not the sort of school to send 'me' to.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:07, 2 replies)

This question is now closed.

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