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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, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Possible southern fried and roasted pea
Sitting through a typically dull seminar on trust administration back when I was involved in that particularly tedious industry a cople of us decided that rather than hang around at the lunch break we would take a quick drive down to the nearby harbour and enjoy a bacon roll and a cup of tea in the fresh air. My colleague suggested we take his car. In I jumped only to find the interior resembled one of those Channel 4 documentaries about hoarders with no floor space visible through the litter of crisp packets, coke cans, orange and banana skins, plastic bags (remember them?!?), sweet wrappers etc. I sat down, carefully, and gingerly lowered my feet into the hidden delights. I felt resistance so pressed my foot a bit harder...SNAP...something gave way.

Now ask yourself how you would react if you discovered that your foot encased in what looked suspiciously like the carcass of a southern fried chicken.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 18:48, 6 replies)
Polite notice
At Uni back in 't nineties I lived in halls next to two scouse lads known to us all as Paddy and Dixon. Nice lads but a bit stereotypical scouse, loud, lary and a bit waaaaaay. Paddy had a girlfriend who would regularly come for 'conjugal' visits. After one holiday break he came back to find a note from the cleaners as follows:

"Dear occupant, we are glad you practice safe sex but can you please refrain from leaving used condoms under your pillow for us to find when we clean your room"
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 18:35, 1 reply)
When I was young
my pals and I used sneak onto the local golf course at night to fish balls out of the water hazards. One night I was inspired to take a crap in the 9th hole. For months after that the golfers refused to buy any of our scavenged golf balls.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 18:09, 5 replies)
Babe's Pillow
youtu.be/LLRE6c6ntrg
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 17:41, 2 replies)
When you get your hands dirty, you need to wash your hands.
That means you have to touch the top of the soap dispenser with your dirty hands.

Those dirty, dirty hands.

Those hands that have held onto the handrail on the tube that so many hundreds of hands have held onto today already, some of whom didn't wash their hands after going to the toilet.

That toilet where so many people have already gone today, some of whom didn't wash their hands after they went.

So many hundreds of hands with bits of poo and wee on them, that have touched the stuff you touch.

You can get dystentry from poo and wee.

Dysentry is a terrible way to die, and so easily passed from one human to the next human, by touch alone. Even just by touching the same thing that the infected touched.

It would be a terrible way for your baby to die.

They really should invent some sort of soap dispenser that was activated by infra red, so that it would pour soap into your hands without you having to touch it.

They already have taps like that now, after all.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 17:38, 19 replies)
My mum owns a husky cross which moults like mad.
Being disabled, she rarely walks the poor thing. Or hoovers.

When the fluff reaches about 1cm thick on all surfaces, she gathers it all up and puts it in a carrier bag. She then uses it to stuff cushions.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 17:20, 3 replies)
Tidied my brother's room out when he was 15.
We found a box of flapjacks which had mysteriously vanished when we were both 4. He'd pinched them from the kitchen, and then been too scared to do anything except hide them.

Eleven years later, they still looked like flapjacks. They just had lovely wooly winter coats...
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 17:18, Reply)
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.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 17:11, 73 replies)
cat
Our landlady went on holiday for the first time in about 10 years and asked us to look after her beloved cat. Within a day or two it had been hit by a car (decimated - eyes hanging out etc) and we were scratching our heads wondering how to deal with it.

My housemate volunteered to bury it and I'd have to handle phoning her up to let her know.

I thought I had the easier job amongst the two, until I had to scoop all of the pieces back up and rebury it a week later thanks to a hungry fox, with her stood behind me crying the whole time.

What upset her most was that he'd wrapped it in a Sainsbury's carrier bag before putting it to rest.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 17:06, 2 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!
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 17:01, 3 replies)
Putting my foot in it...
Sat at my desk one warm morning my nostrils were assaulted by a nasty, meaty stench that just kept coming back for more.

"Dave!" I yelled in the direction of our IT dept. "Have you farted?"

"Nope" he replied

The awful truth dawned and one look at the sole of my shoe confirmed it. I'd stood in dogshit somewhere between Charing Cross station and my office, a quarter mile up the road.

Worse still was the realization that dogs don't normally eat sweetcorn...
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 16:54, 3 replies)
The Quare Fellow
Back in the Eighties, I used to work with this PR sort who was also a relatively well known voiceover/continuity announcer - we'll call him Michael Double-Barrell - and he told a great tale relating to the late great Brendan Behan.

Michael was living in London in the early sixties and through some of his drinking buddies was acquainted with Behan. One time a group of them were at a black tie function and Brendan was also there even though he hated such things, and so consequently was drinking anything that moved.

At the end of the evening they all went back to Michaels flat and continued drinking away. Eventually Behan passed out on a sofa but had to be woken up when someone saw that he had shit himself. He just shuffled outside, took off the dinner suit, used the jacket to wipe himself down, then tossed the whole thing on the compost heap and simply strolled back in and had a few for the road as if nothing had happened.

Next day, Michael lends the bold Brendan some trousers and sees him off in a taxi. End of tale, or so you might think.

Fast forward about a week, and Michael gets a phonecall. It's Brendan asking whether the Dinner Suit is still on the compost heap. When told that it was, Behan replied that he was on his way back for it.

He arrived about 10 minutes later - walked straight out into the garden, scooped the wet, stinking mess that had been the suit up with a stick and stuffed it in a carrier bag. He then walks straight back out the front to the waiting taxi.

"Hold on" says Michael, following him out. "Why on earth do you want that disgusting thing"

"I just remembered it's on hire from Moss Bros, and they want it back" says Brendan as he jumps in the cab and dissappears down the road.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 16:40, Reply)
One of my collegues
was in the crapper on a TAP flight from Rio to Lisbon.

When he hit the flush button, apprently there was some kind of blockage somewhere, and the thing launched several litres of shit, piss and whatever else had gone down the bowl back at him.

I understand the crew were a sympathetic and apologetic. I'm pretty sure whoever was sitting next to him was unhappy.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 16:39, Reply)
I used to be something of a crusty. I was only moments away from having dreadlocks.
As such, I went out with girls who reflected this rebellious, incredibly well thought-out, and totally individual lifestyle.

So not much washing went on, as you can imagine.

Me and my girl woke up one morning, and decided that some lovin' was in order.

Now - I love to give head. I am also - as previous posts will testify - awesomely stupid, and can be somewhat naiive.

What I discovered down there was about the size and the shape of the lid of my Zippo lighter.

Only it was green.

And translucent.

And oozed.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 16:22, 7 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.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 16:21, 2 replies)
Emesis Nemesis: a repost
S was a geneticist of some sort with whom I shared a flat for a year. The nature of his work meant that at times he had to be in the lab over the weekends to tend an experiment. I vaguely heard him moving about that morning... and then...
"OH MY FUCKING GOD! WHICH ONE OF YOU BASTARDS DID THIS? FUCKING GET OUT HERE AND CLEAN IT UP NOW!"




What?

* * *

There is in Hull a club called Spiders. It is - or was - famed for its silly cocktails. To create their version of the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster, you will need a pint glass. Into this, you throw a bit of ice. Then a shot each of vodka, Pernod, and Galliano. A dash of blackcurrant cordial, and a baby bottle of fresh orange juice. You top it up with dry cider, and charge £2.30 for the lot.

P, another flatmate that year, had also spent time living in Hull, and had also experienced and loved Spiders. So it seemed only right that we go to the pub on his birthday and recreate the experience for him. By the end of the evening, he was looking distinctly peaky. But we all managed to crawl home - we walked the two miles in an attempt to sober him up - and he collapsed into his bed.

* * *

I put my head around the door, amazed at the lack of a hangover. S was, by now, in the kitchen, making toast. R, a third flatmate, had also emerged wanting to know the reason for the noise.
"Was that you?" he demanded.
"What?"
"The toilet. I tell you, there's no way I'm using that until whoever did it cleans it up. And I fucking need a shit..."
Nice image. But I had only a minimal idea what he was talking about: nothing beyond an association of the toilet with filth.

S had by now deduced that the culprit of whatever the crime was must have been P, and was hammering on the door of his room. I, though, still lacked insight into the exact nature of this particular atrocity. I went to investigate. I opened the door.

The little room was caked in vomit. It wasn't that P had missed the bowl: he must have been standing up, and he must have done a full 360-degree rotation as the contents of his stomach had made their bid for freedom. It was as if someone had replaced his blood with sick, and then severed an artery. The guy had clearly turned into some sort of chunderfountain; a gushing spring of boke.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Remember that the PGGB had as in ingredient blackcurrant cordial? Running down the walls, splashed across the floor and - somehow - dripping from the ceiling, this surging tide of sick was bright, bright magenta.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 16:11, 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.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 16:10, 3 replies)
The other really embarrassing thing to happen to me was
I got really, REALLY drunk once when I was in Paris for the weekend, and I desperately needed a shit. All the cubicles were full, so I shat in some passed out dude's mouth.

I didn't know until much later of course, I thought it was some sort of fancy new toilet design.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:58, 4 replies)
Parisian Toilet
I was on a college trip to Paris and we decided to check out a few Parisian bars, as you do.

Half way through the night a member of our party emerged from the toilet looking quite pale, and urged us 'Not to go in there'. Being inquisitive we did what everyone would do, went to have a look...

We found an old, very drunk, french man passed out on the floor with a very solid, stinky poo emerging from his bearded mouth. Upon closer inspection we couldn't make our minds up if the log had been placed their after he passed out, during or if he was in fact pooing from his mouth?

Still, an image that has stuck with me to this day.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:50, 2 replies)
About 7 years ago
I was heading out to Tenerife for about 2 weeks (not recommended as it is a shit hole), and it was the wee hours of the morning, waiting to get our plane out there. So there's me, like a complete idiot, wolfing down Burger King and Red Bull, for what must have been a good reason, as I'd never combine the two again.

Fast-forward about 2 hours and on the plane, I realize I have made a horrible mistake. I unbuckle the seatbelt, dive down the other end of the plane, slam my arse onto the toilet and unleash pure fucking horror... which I continued to do for about 20 more minutes after that.
After causing Chernobyl 2, I sheepishly staggered back to my seat, only for for someone to say five minutes later "Who's fuckin' died on 'ere?"

Not only is it one of the more gross experiences I've had (not counting uni-related stuff), but one of the more embarrassing.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:46, Reply)
I was a student once.
We didn't wash up much.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:46, 1 reply)
Squalor is at large in tidy suburbia...
Filth and dirt abound in every corner, yes.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:41, 1 reply)
At Work
We had a brief, inglorious period where there was both a Phantom Shitter and a Phantom Wanker active.

The Phantom Shitter must have been on some sort of special diet, as I once saw he'd left a single turd about a foot long on the floor of a cubicle. This was apparently quite normal.

The Phantom Wanker used to shoot his load up the wall in the toilets and leave for others to discover.

How do we know it wasn't the same person? The Phantom Wanker got caught. He was probably too engrossed to realise the CEO was having a dump in the next cubicle. He waited outside after to see who came out, checked the cubicle to see that it was indeed the elusive wanker, and then summoned the culprit to his office and suggested he find alternative employment. He was last heard of working in an Estate Agent's in Bristol.

The Phantom Shitter remained active for at least another six months. We once worked up a spreadsheet which cross referenced the dates of the final known Shitter incident with the leaving dates of various people, but failed to definitively identify the person responsible.

He's like our very own Jack the Ripper.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:33, 4 replies)
Grocery shopping
Not "in your face" but pretty disgusting anyways:
I Had to use the toilets at my local Sainsburys a few weeks ago. I'd normally try to hang on until I got home, but this time nature was going to take it's course whether I did anything about it or not. Walked in just behind another chap - late twenties reasonably dressed, just a bloke. There are only two cubicles and, as I'd normally like a little privacy when making pooing sounds, I'd usually walk straight back out but this time I just had to go.
Plopping sounds
It turned out that this guy also made the usual noises so my potential embarrassment just evaporated. Anyway, I'm out of my stall before him and I'm in the process of giving my hands a good scrub, as you should, when the bloke comes out of his cubicle, walks over towards the sink and just wafts his hands in the general direction of the tap before walking out back into the store. Dirty bastard, I thought to myself.
Dirty cunt
Five minutes later I see him again, sorting through the loose apples, picking out the best the best ones and replacing the others.
This is the real reason why you should always wash your fruit and veg, not because of pesticide or herbicide residuals, but because it is highly likely that some filthy cunt or other has been smearing it with their faeces.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:25, 1 reply)
My mate dave
was (and probably still is) a massive pisshead. In university halls in Kent many years ago, he got positively steaming and wandered back to his room. The urge to spew took over him, so he staggered to the communal bogs just outside his door. Before he had a chance to aim, he did a massive beery, meaty spew all over the toilet, the cistern and the floor. And went to bed.
He was woken in the morning by the cleaners in the toilet talking very loudly to each other-
'I DONT KNOW WHETHER THAT CAME OUT OF HIS MOUTH OR HIS ARSE'
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:21, 1 reply)
A pint of piss
ThisCaledonianClown's post reminded me of this.


A friend of mine who used to be in the army was at an Oasis concert a few years ago with a couple of his army pals, right at the front. As I understand it, standard practise is to just piss in an empty plastic cup rather than make the torrid journey through the crowds to the loos should you need a wee. On this particular occasion, as soon as my friend had filled his cup to the brim with urine one of his fellow troopers thought it would be awfully macho to grab the cup off of him and knock it back. He managed the whole lot and kept it down too by all accounts. As I understand it this sort of behaviour isn't entirely unusual within the military.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:11, 9 replies)
Coke can
Last week whilst attending the drudgery fest that masquerades laughingly as my job I felt the rumblings in my bowel that heralded an overwhelming urge to release the chocolate hostage. Dutifully I logged off my computer and made my way to the downstairs gents in search of a suitable porcelain receptacle where I could park my pristine backside and drop the kids off at the pool.

Perhaps I should have been warned by the grey faced man who pushed his way past me as I opened the door to the toilets, but my thoughts were on my badly rumbling guts and the relief that I was about to obtain. So I paid him no heed and entered that room a relative innocent with no thoughts of the horror that was to come.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Now due to inadequate drains and the usual casual attitude to accuracy displayed by men stood at the urinal the gents was never the most pleasantly fragrant part of the building. But this was new. This was different. It smelled like someone had taken something blasphemous and 6 months dead and fermented it for a fortnight in a blocked Turkish sewer. I reeled back under the jack hammer assault to my nostrils but my need was great and like a fool I pressed on. With trepidation and one hand covering my nose and mouth I pushed aside the door to trap one.
If the smell was bad it was nothing compared to what lay in wait inside. Firstly without the flimsy protection offered by the thin cubicle door the smell actually got slightly worse, but this wasn’t what caused me to nearly redecorate the walls a fetching green colour. No what lay in wait in the pan was much much worse. Calling it a turd would have like been like calling the QE2 a boat it just didn’t do it justice. This thing was at least as big around as a coke can and one end stuck a good 4 inches out of the turgid water. The devil alone only knows how its owner had parted with it but its chocolate starfish destroying qualities were evident in the several breather rings that had been left along its considerable length and the red tinge of blood in the water.

I staggered out of the bathroom leaving the grisly discovery for someone else and still desperate to drop my quads used the disabled facilities instead. As I sat however recovering from the shock of such a gruesome discovery I did get to thinking about who would leave such a monster without pulling the flush. Only then did the true twisted nature of the perpetrator of this poo crime dawn on me. You see whoever had left this monster unflushed had done so without leaving any evidence of toilet paper in the chod bin. Clearly whoever had done so had been so proud and eager to show off his fecal baby that he had forgone wiping his arse in order to leave the view unobstructed for those unlucky enough to follow.

The aftermath was disappointing. After a complaint from the cleaners, a terse (and cryptic) email from the boss and possibly a change of diet and a visit to a proctologist the phantom turd displayer never repeated his performance.


Tl:dr someone left a massive shit in the gents and didn’t wipe
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:09, 4 replies)
A pint of pus
Working on the detox ward of a hospital in Glasgow you get to see some sights and hear some tales. There was a sorry period in the late 1980s/early 1990s when some foolhardy addicts took to melting temazepam gelcaps then injecting them. When the gel resolidified (as it was bound to do), it led to some spectacular injuries. I once asked the consultant in charge of the ward what stood out in his memory. He thought for a second, then said, 'There was one time I drained a pint of pus from an abscess in someone's groin.' Ouch. Boke.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 15:01, 7 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
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:48, 3 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.
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 14:48, 1 reply)

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