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This is a question Personal Hygiene

There comes a point at which your hygiene becomes less your problem and more everyone else's:

My old school nurse never seemed to wash - instead she wrapped herself in crepe bandages from the first aid kits. The smell was beyond pungent. If you got ill at school, it was better to suffer than try and explain symptoms whilst only breathing out.

When she was eventually 'let go',they had to strip the wallpaper in her office to get rid of the lingering odour.

How scuzzy have you got? Or, failing that, how bad have people you know got?

(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 12:40)
Pages: Latest, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Me tits hurt
I have one for you all. A mate of mine is a real, honest-to-dog doctor. At the beginning of his career, he acted as a locum doctor in Gloucester for several surgeries. One night, after such a locumage, I went around to visit him and he wasn't his usual chirpy self. Over a beer, the story came out.

He was holding court in a doctor's office, and being a locum, didn't enjoy the services of a nice nurse to get the next person in from the waiting room. About four patients in, with a full waiting room, he went out to ask for "next please" and became aware of an odour. In the waiting room.

Over the next hour or so, the number of patients waiting seemed to shrink, while the stench grew and grew. As he put it "it stank of corpse".

Eventually, he called the next patient, and the stench came in with this somewhat worn-looking woman. He surreptitiously sprang to the window and flung it open, subtly hanging his head outside in the pouring rain gasping huge lungfuls of air.

When he'd controlled his gag reflex, he asked the lady what seemed to be the problem. Opening her topcoat (which proved to be the only item of clothing she was wearing, bar only shoes) she claimed "Me tits hurt. And me cunt, too".

He asked her to move to the examination table (little point in asking her to disrobe behind the curtain) while he smeared Vicks under his nose, and put on two pairs of rubber gloves. Using a tongue depressor, he began the examination. Starting with the lady's boobs, he lifted one of the sagging, pendulous dugs to discover advanced gangrene underneath. The other was the same.

Investigating her lady parts, and talking to her at the same time, it turned out that she'd been a lady of the evening for some three years, didn't believe in condoms, and hadn't washed since her new business venture.

There was crusty cum and other deposits all around her floppy catflap, turning green and mouldy. She had gangrene in her taint. She had public lice (so much that he could see her pubes seethe). The same lice were in her armpits and probably her head hair, too.

By this time, my mate was gipping - the Vicks not being particularly efficacious against this WMD onslaught. He referred her to the hospital, and called an ambulance to take her there.

The ambulance crew later posted him a dog turd to thank him for this kindness.

The stench was so bad in the doctor's office that they couldn't use the room until the carpet had been replaced.

He said that the combination of sights and smells, along with the wet squelching sounds as he manipulated various parts of her body were the most disgusting thing he'd ever had to endure. He hurled, periodically, for three days afterwards because the smell had coated the inside of his nose and he occasionally smelled it.
(, Sat 24 Mar 2007, 20:28, Reply)
Bar accomodation
is fantastic, as you have to share a room with whom so ever your boss sees fit, which leads to a whole raft of wrong-un related anecdotes.

This one relates to a certain fellow from yorkshire, who i'll lovingly refer to as yorkie, and my brother, with whom i worked, who i'll refer to as, oh, you'll figure it out!

Yorkie liked drinking very, very much. When he was pissed he looked like he had down's syndrome, despite his possession of a degree in spanish. He also had a friend with a remarkably high personal best in the how-many-weetabix-can-you-eat-in-one-sitting departmant.

Yorkie liked a challenge, so he tried to break it. Even though he ate nought save the 'bix all day, he still failed, but notched up a highly respectable score of about 15. After finishing work that day, he fancied getting drunk. On Guinness.

Bruv was his roommate at this time. At about the wee small hours of the morning he was awoken by the sound of a retarded-looking fat northerner shuffling around it the dark. Not lifting his head he saw Yorkie's bumbling silhouette stagger across the room bogwards. Then there followed what sounded like a buffoon falling to the floor. Followed by some groaning. Then a noise that words cannot describe. Then more groaning. Then someone getting up and leaving the room.

Bruv was curious as to the appalling sound he had heard. He rose from his bed, turned on the light, and discovered what happens when you force about 15 weetabix and 8 pints of guiness through a man's empty digestive tract. The result was a dustbin-lid sized, laid-in cowpat.

Hearing Yorkie stumbling back down the stairs armed with bin liners and other stuff, bruv turned the light off and lay in his bed, motionless, sniggering a little. Across the room a man with bin-liner coated hands shovelled excrement into another bin liner, here vomiting into the rancid mess of his anus, there falling in it again, and so on. Then, the carpet de-shitted, he disappeared upstairs, but did not return.

The next morning Yorkie was back in his bed, awoke, and warned about the damp carpet due to spillage. When laughed at, he confessed all, even that after he had left the room, he had hosed himself off it the shower, then ran a bath. He fell asleep in the bath. Then he shit the bath. He woke up shortly afterwards in a bath full of shit.

And the moral of this tale is that this man now works for the government.
(, Sun 25 Mar 2007, 4:21, Reply)
*sob* *sob* *sob*
I sit next to a man called Jim at work. He is obese. He has a ponytail of long, greasy hair. Apart from him being a lazy tosser who spends most of his time on forums, he stinks. I mean he really fucking stinks.

He has worn the same shirt and trousers to work for 12 months now. Every day. It's gone, you know, 'bobbly'. I shudder to think of his undergarments.

A week or so ago I (cruelly but desperately) put a blob of lipgloss on the back of his chair (I am female, not gay). He sat down and said blob was transferred. A week ago.

It's still there. My 'dirty bastard test' had proven conclusive.

He smells like my boyfriend's underpants after a particularly hot and sweaty day. He smells like fetid, old, bottom-of-basket, don't-skimp-on-Persil laundry.

I have tried everything. Our manager is a 'virtual manager' (ie never in the sodding office) and she is also too embarrased to confront him. Every time he walks past me I smell satan's arse crack.

I have applied for a new job. So has Jim. In the same company. I am seriously considering pulling my application as the year long smell which permeates my nostrils has started to affect my home life (constantly doing laundry and slightly obesessively cleaning the loo) and what I eat (smell/taste..I can't eat anything 'sweaty'..yes food can be sweaty - lettuce wrapped in plastic for example)

This man is ruining my life..this man is only a foot away and smells like Johnny Vegas' armpit after a sauna. I have spent one working year inhaling his crusty, sweaty balls. Please God someone help me!!

*admits defeat, curls up and cries, munching on a tree-shaped airfreshener*
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 13:02, Reply)
The Crusty Jumper
Working at my first law firm, aged 18, I was a quiet little mouse until Claire, who shared an equally filthy sense of humour, started.

One morning Claire came into the office in a black polo-neck jumper. As I followed her down the corridor I couldn't help but ask "What is that big white stain on the back of your jumper?" She then remembered, in horror, that her boyfriend had pulled it out of the laundry basket the previous night, wiped his cock on it and put it back. Claire, in her haste to get ready for work and with no clean clothes had obviously forgotten. Oh how we laughed.
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 13:15, Reply)
Festival toilets...
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.
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 15:29, Reply)
This tale has been doing the rounds at bashes and on /talk for a whle now so it's time to share...
...I call this tale 'The Most Disgusting Thing I ever Saw' or for those in the know, 'THAT story'.

About 8 years back I was a student nurse coming into my final year.
As part of my final year you get to do two 'trauma' placements in areas like ICU, A&E or theatres. Mine involved being sent to theatres.

On the day of this tale I was detailed to work in a partiular theatre on the urology list. the list for the day comprised exclusively circumcisions, mainly in young lads who'd got a phimosis.
Finally the last customer of the morning comes in.
Gentleman in his 60's, rather shy, had needed YEARS of nagging by his wife to get it seen to apparently.

The first stage of the op, once the patient is safely aneasthetised is for the surgeon, or his assistant to 'prepare' the area for sugery.
In the case of a circumcision this involves yanking down the tight collar of the world's smallest polo neck and cleaning underneath.

Operating theatres are often warm places, which tends to make them PARTICULARLY fragrant after a long session in there.
The foreskin came back to reveal that this chap had quite possibly never washed under it his whole adult life, it must have been inches thick with knob cheese, but, mercifully, there was no smell.
So the surgeon whips out his forceps and gauze and begins cleaning.

Did I mention that it was last case of the morning?

Keen to get out for his urgent appointment with the golf course the surgeon set about prepaing the area vigourously.
The cheese was EVERYWHERE, including into the goggles of his assistant and the scrub nurse, the overhead lights, the patient's ear and as a coup de grace, the aneasthetist's cup of water, which the aformentioned gasman then drank.

Worst thing about the whole affair?


Like cheap mozzarella.

Gone off.

And then eaten and sicked up by the dog.

Length? slightly less than it was before but nice and clean now.
(, Wed 28 Mar 2007, 8:30, Reply)
Guilty smell pleasures
Admit it - you love the smells you make. My list of greatest hits:

1) The 'hot' fart under the duvet.
2) The mackeral stench of an unwashed foreskin after yesterday's shagging.
3)The nacho cheese bouquet of toenail clippings.
4) A freshly laid crap - my faves are 'christmas pudding' and 'Guinness'
5) The earthy tang of your own a-hole, drifting to you on a hot day.
6) Hair grease - sometimes I get some under a fingernail just for a sniff.
7) That chopped onion/vomit aroma of armpit sweat just about to turn bad.
8) That early morning tomcat piss that's orange in hue.
9) Earwax - nothing like that golden stuff furtively sniffed off a fingertip.
10) Bogeys - mine smell like roast chicken (but only when pull 'em out, oddly).

Come on - you know I'm talking sense. The only thing that turns my stomach is day-old jis. Even the fresh stuff is pretty rank.
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 16:28, Reply)
Militantly Foul
When I was in middle school (6-8th grade, US) there was a kid in my gym class named Donald. He was a quiet kid who had dorky hair and a stench that followed him like a puppy that just came out of a week in a pool of raw sewage. As a result, he was particularly unpopular.

So one day after gym, I notice that he never showered with the rest of the class...which, me thinks, is contributing to his stench! I figure the way to help this kid out is to make sure he showers so that other kids won’t be so disgusted by his wretched stench!

So what do I do? I go tell Mr. B the gym teacher who liked me because he was National Guard (territorial army) and I was dead set on going to military college and serving my country as a Marine. The conversation goes something like this:

Me: Good afternoon Mr. B. I wanted to share something with you about one of my classmates, Donald.

Mr. B: Go ahead.

Me: Donald seems to avoid the showers like a cat with rabies and I believe it contributes to his rather malodorous olfactory emissions...

Before I finished the sentence, in true National Guard fashion, Mr. B was on his way down the row of lockers where Mr. Donald changed.

Feeling as though I had done my good deed for the day, I sauntered back to my locker to strip down for a quick shower before heading off to my next class....

As I turn the corner, I see Mr. B berating Donald for not showering and escorting him to the communal showers literally by his ear. And I knew in an instant WHY Donald was not showering with the rest of us...

I do not make a hobby of noticing the size of my fellow man's genitalia, but this kid was DEFINITELY at the end of the line when they were distributing them and failed to get much.

Ever since, whenever I smell someone bad, I automatically assume that they have a really small package.

Click "I like this" if you think that theory makes sense.

(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 14:41, Reply)
The most unimaginable stench...
This happened in the gents' toilets at Cannon Street Station about ten years ago:

There I was, minding my own business and having a pee into a urinal, as were several other respectful-looking commuter types.

Down the stairs comes a tramp; a proper tramp as well: wearing six jackets, one on top of the other; the outer one shiny with stains. His hair and beard were long, matted and greasy and his skin was brown with layer upon layer of grime.

He stood in the middle of the toilets (the actual room; not a cubicle), dropped his trousers and appeared to simply lose control of all his bodily functions at once.

Standing with his trousers round his knees, he proceeded to shit, really runny shit into his trousers and onto the floor. At the same time, he pissed and puked: three foul-smelling outpourings at once, over himself and the floor. It wasn't a particularly nice site either.

Once he'd finished, he pulled his trousers up and stumbled out. He didn't clean himself at all: just left covered in shit, piss and puke.

Bless my dad*

*Not really my dad: inserted for humourage reasons.
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 14:24, Reply)
back in the good old days...
When I was still at school there was a particular history lesson that sticks out in my memory particularly well.

The sun was high in the sky and we were keen to get the lesson over and outside for dinner, the crap portable classroom with far too many windows we were in didn't help the heat situation much either. As you're probably aware certains smells seem to be 'enhanced' in heat, and very shortly after the lesson had started the unmistakeable scent of shit was in the air. We could all smell it. And everyone knew that someone in that room would never live it down. After enduring the smell for a good 20 minutes it was not getting any better, however at this point one of the usually very quiet kids who always wore a cap raises his hand and asks to use the toilet, suspicions aroused I also noticed the smell was almost completely gone...

It was now obvious to everyone one that this kid had shat himself, in a history lesson, at school. He'd practically signed his own death certificate, the boy who always wore a cap. A few minutes passed and he hadn't returned, even the teacher was beginning to wonder. After 10 minutes she felt it in her duty to investigate and the lack of authority transformed the classroom into a mass of conversation. Potential nicknames were being conceived and no one could wait until dinner to spread the news.

Finally the teacher returned together with the kid and left him outside and she entered and quietly explained he'd had an 'accident' and that anyone didnt keep it to themselves would be punished.

By the next day everyone in the school knew, and took pleasure in coming up with the best insults. A few weeks later he stops attending school at all and we begin to wonder if we actually managed to embarrass him out of the school.

Eventually news came of his whereabouts in a 'special assembly' - he'd died the day before from a cancerous brain tumor. It at this point that we all made the connection between his cap and hairloss due to chemotherapy. It was also at this point in time we realised he'd probably shit himself for this very same reason and it was the fault of our school that the last times he spent at school in his life were a misery.

I still feel an utter cunt about it, so the moral of the story is don't judge a book by its er... smell.

It might have cancer.
(, Wed 28 Mar 2007, 0:06, Reply)
Dirty Duvet
A long, long time ago I was living and working in London. Whilst visiting some friends from home we used to regularly wonder about the mysterious moving duvet that lived in my friends squalid but sunny squat.

Every day when she would leave the house her duvet was on her bed but every night she got home it had moved half way across the floor. All rational explanations for this were ruled out. It being a rather temporary squat for young Irish students not much was really thought about it I suppose. This particular duvets origins were unknown. Nobody knew who bought it or how long it had been there or indeed when or how it had appeared and indeed apart from its rambling nature and some curious staining not much was thought of it – I mean it was a dirty squat anyway.

It came to pass that some overly curious individual decided to investigate further and found out something which nearly 20 years later still makes my stomach flip. The duvet in question was one enormous breeding ground for some type of bug. The bugs used to follow the sun around the room and so the sheer volume of bugs was able to physically move the duvet across the room following the path of the sun.

The poor individual who used to sleep with this fetid blanket of bugs was later to remark that no other duvet would ever be the same as the bugs predilection for warmth meant that whilst sleeping the duvet “used to hug her back” was the way she put it.
(, Tue 27 Mar 2007, 11:18, Reply)
The saga of semenfungi
In an IRC channel I used to hang out in was a guy who we will call Josh, for that was his nick. This is his story, in his own words (minus spelling mistakes). Apologies in advance for length / girth / disgustingness.

About a year or so ago, being the lazy fuck I am, would do my business (that means jacking off, people) on this chair, and my seed would land on this loney stretch of carpet at the corner of the room, far enough out of the way that I didn't have to worry about cleaning

Disgusting, yes.

This goes on for a few months, with me paying little attention to the condition of my carpeting. Then I start noticing that whenever I enter said room, something sets off my sensitive allergies and sends me into a pleasant sneezing/coughing fit. I search the room as best I can for the source, but to no avail. Anywho, few more weeks pass as I learn to live with it, usually by scarfing numerous antihistamines whenever I go in.

Then one day I notice it.

There's shit GROWING on that lone, semen-stained stretch of carpet.

Initially this is subject to my amusement. I watch it for a few days, and hey, more and more fungi begin sprouting at an alarming rate. This is when I inform [IRC channel] of the strange mushroom-like fungus propagating on my carpet, and its milky origins.

Many laughs are had, and a few loud vomits.

The matter passes, and shortly after when I go to move out, we notice something. And by 'we', I mean the landlord's guys. They discover that there is a horrendous case of mutant mildew (or so it was assumed) in the room. This was no news to me, and I explain it had been there for a while, but am mum about its origins (later I tell them it was spilt milk).

The carpet in this area is completely destroyed by fungus. So, the head super decides in his infinite wisdow to pull up the carpet, kill the fungus, then replace the damaged spot
So they pull up ALL the carpet in the room, only to discover..


Yes, my friends, this mutant semen fungi had not only consumed its allotted square, but then it had gone and SPREAD UNDER THE CARPET! So strong was its roots, that it was learned that it had dug into the concrete - I repeat: the fungus had dug into the concrete!

I later learned that that room had required signifigant renovation and fumigation. But, fuck, I didn't care, I had already moved. So, to sum up: My semen caused what may have added up to thousands of dollars of damage to a room. And I am also responsible for creating the most disgusting form of fungi ever.

In short: Clean up after yourselves, you lazy bitches.

Oh, and I didn't pay a cent towards the damages.
(, Fri 23 Mar 2007, 17:57, Reply)
"Meh, something doesn't feel quite right down th-...ah. Um, ohgod..."
...was pretty much the exactly thought process immediately preceding one of my less heroic poses: teasing the still-twitching thorax of (half) a fucking huge orange-and-black beetle out from under my foreskin, by torchlight, in a crowd of 30,000 people dancing to Kraftwerk at Benicassim 2004. It hurt.
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 13:35, Reply)
I'm currently sat here at 7:17 am not having had a shower in a long time.

It all started about 3 weeks ago, 2 operations, bla bla stitchy stitchy don't get them wet. Would have been easy enough if one set of the stitches wasn't in my ARSECRACK.

Got even worse a week after this, armpit is slightly pongy and a bit sore, i ignore it. Go play a night of pool with the lads and come home with a lump in my armpit the size of a golf ball. Bit worried, go to bed.

Wake up in 4 hours time and wonder why I'm soaking wet, why my bedsheets around my arm are brown and why my arm hurts more than imaginable.

Turns out it was an abscess caused by a blocked sweat gland after not showering for a week and having problems there before. The pus ridden monstrosity had burst while i was asleep, releasing pus and poison everywhere that smelt worse than rotting meat (used to work in a rotisserie, side tip, don't workin a rotisserie!) and was a little scary cos my oxter had made it...

The process they heal these with involves having a hole in your arm for around 2 weeks (there is still a hole in my armpit as we "speak") which is packed with stuff to absorb excess pus and arm curds and so that it heals from the bottom up so as not to create a void in my arm. Not cool, cue every 2 days, smelly old me going to hospital to have this changed and nearly choking on the smell of the crazy arm cheddar coming out of my pits.

Stitches out of ass and leg today woo and yay. Arm still being poked for at least another week, not so woo and yay.

Length? Sorry, It's my first time. *POP* posting cherry, bye bye.

*edit* jesus, 2 years as a lurker...
(, Fri 23 Mar 2007, 7:25, Reply)
Not really involuntary lack of hygiene, but disgusting none the less
There was a boy at my school in the year below me who was and, quite likely, still is, a complete knob. Sometimes funny, but only second hand. This, dear reader, is how I present him to you.

He once wrenched the top off the soap dispenser, had an unfeasibly runny shit into it whilst standing on the sink, and, having finished, put the top back on and walked off as though nothing had happened.

No one noticed, because that area of the changing room ALWAYS smelt like shit.

So, some weeks later, some poor soul, I forget who, washed his hands like the good, conscientious boy he no doubt was only to decant a dollop of months-old shit onto his hands.

(, Sun 25 Mar 2007, 12:21, Reply)
Cat Man
I used to have a regular thing with a guy who lived in a communal house in Berlin. He basically had the one tiny room in which was his bed, sofa bed, TV and his cat's litter tray.

This stank as cat litter trays tend to do and after a while I got used to its presence (which can't be said about the rotting cat food and cat milk in the kitty dish, but you can't have everything).

I went to visit him one evening and noticed he'd had a bit of a furniture move around. After opening up the sofa bed and getting dirty, we settled down to sleep. It was at this point I noticed the cat litter smell seemed to be stronger than normal.

It was only when I heard light footsteps on clay granules next to my ear and turned my head to see a moist cat turd slowly sliding from a fully relaxed feline arsehole inches from my face, I realised that he had put the tray right next to the sofabed.

I will never forget that raw meaty smell ever.

(, Sat 24 Mar 2007, 16:10, Reply)
U smelly .......
About 6 years ago, just after A-levels, myself and a few friends decided to go on holiday to France for a few days. We decided (in all great knowledge.....yeah) to go by coach. Cue a fucking great long 18 hour trip to Paris. And what was worse was the smell on the coach, especially the fella sitting with his family infront of me and my mate Tom. To say he smelt is an understatement . The guy stank like he'd never even heard of the word shower let alone ever used one. So for 18 hours this smell lingered like an evil beast from the lowest order of Hell......and it got worse. This guy stands up and turns back to talk to his missus and leans over the seat hand on the chair in front.....with his stinking armpit right above my mate Tom's head! Tom, one of the nicest people in the world, has had enough. Cue the quickest, Bruce Lee-esque solution. Tom's head snaps quickly to face me an grimace on his face, his hand snaps up wards with a can of Lynx, he quickly sprays the fellas armpit and the can is hidden again. This takes less than 4 seconds. Seriously he moved like a machine, almost Matrix style in precision. And the best bit was the smelly bastard didn't even realise what had happened, he just wondered what the hissing noise was (probably never heard it before!)
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 13:26, Reply)
brown velvet
for everyone who gaz'd asking for more bedshitter stories (and apologies to frankspencer who begged for no more of them!):

i could wax very lyrical about just how much of a stranger to personal hygiene my ex was. the very fact that his nickname is "the bedshitter" is, of course, not something to aspire to. examples include not brushing his mossy yellow teeth all weekend unless i begged (i'm obsessive about personal hygiene!); a toilet that was rejected by the props dept of trainspotting for being too grim and, not helped by a rather unhealthy relationship with his good friend charles, cuffs that looked like velvet on most of his clothes.

one particularly grim occasion, he was staying with me at my parents' house. my bedroom there has its own bathroom so i'd gone downstairs and left him to it. he took ages. we were going out for lunch and dad (who hated him, as you would) was getting quite irritable over his newspaper when the bedshitter lurched in. he sidled up to me and muttered something.

"what?" i said. he mumbled a bit louder, casting furtive glances at my dad. "WHAT?" i said again. eventually, he hissed loudly,

"do you have a toilet brush?" i stared at him blankly.

"can't it wait? we need to go." at which point the bedshitter shook his head and said the immortal words...

"experience has taught me it's best not to let it dry."

fucking fucking hell. apologies for length of skid.
(, Sun 25 Mar 2007, 14:00, Reply)
Satan's Feet!
My best friend and his little brother have quite possibly the worst feet in the world. On at least 3 occasions, I can remember both not being able to go swimming due to in-growing toenails...on every toe...on each foot! How the fuck do you manage that! 20 toes, all swollen and leaking pus. At the ages of 15 and 13 too! The elder also never cuts his toenails. One day sat around playing abit of PS2, I look down at his foot and see a black mark on his big toenail - on closer inspection the mark starts to move. Seconds later, a live ANT crawls out from the yellow, rotten cavity behind the nail and walks across the carpet!
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 14:34, Reply)
an actually true one

Someone in my then-girlfriend's share house met some people somewhere, and they came home and hung out with us.

A couple of days later when they were still there, someone asked them politely why...

The house was so filthy that they'd assumed it was a squat!
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 13:51, Reply)
Smelly wee bastard
As a young Venture scout away camping for a week, I discovered the stinkiest little shit I've ever had the misfortune to know. His very presence caused such an unholy assault on the beak that you instinctively wanted to beat him with a shitty stick. Not only that, but he was a bit of a bloater, so he regularly sweated like a blind lesbo in a fish shop.

After five days of avoiding having to wash, or even change his clothes, young Stuart was starting to get more than a bit ripe. To make it worse he spent all day on his own playing soldiers near the pit we dug for rubbish and bodily waste. Using discarded mushy cornflakes, among other things, he'd set them out in formation and have them attack each other while he provided the sound effects.

So when we went swimming in the river, it was decided by all that Stuart WOULD use the opportunity in the water to wash, change, and above all stop playing with rubbish.

On the way to the river in the van, someone commented on the stink of shite, which was jokingly believed to be Stuart, but no more was thought of it. But Christ, we had no idea how close to the mark we were.

He was ordered to get cleaned up the moment we arrived at the river, and after he heaved his Speedos over his bulky sweating frame, he held up the scants he'd just taken off, having worn them all week. Thinking none of the people around him would notice, he held the previously white Y-fronts up to the light.

What we saw made us all heave. They were utterly caked to the point of overflowing with dried fudge. It appeared to have hardened to the point it began pouring out the sides. He'd shat himself on the first day of the trip and left it there for five days. He hadn't even tried to scoop any of it out. He'd simply left it all there to fester for days and refused to do anything about it. The front of his soiled grundies was also stained - completely yellow!

He was commanded to get down stream and clean out his shitty crack with a bar of soap. A request to borrow my facecloth was politely denied.

Upon returning to camp, the offending scants were burned in the name of hygiene - an act which prompted his distressed wail: "No! You can't do that. They're my dad's!"
So it begs the question: Did his dad shit the pants then give them to his son? possibly, but I think not. BEsides, if they really were his dad's, I doubt he'd want them back.
The next day, a routine trip to the waste pit brought us the shocking sight of a small clear plastic bag the size of a calculator, with another pair of pants taking up half the space, and a turd taking up the rest.

The guy was unstoppable!

Length? About 8 inches, with a portion of sweetcorn near the tip.
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 13:41, Reply)
haha, I'm going to make you all boke
I've just realised that I have the perfect story for this QOTW.

I took one summer whilst at uni and fucked off to Florida with it. Six weeks of sun, sand, booze and the most successful period of pulling I have ever experienced. Ever.

My friend and I started off in New Orleans (this was in 2001, so I didn't need to bring any wellies) and then decided to travel to Clearwater in Florida on a Greyhound bus. I'd say the trip was about 8 hours long, all in. Which wasn't too bad, really. Until we got to Mobile, Louisiana.

Then a big fat man got on. With a tshirt that he'd cut off above his gut so it wobbled about in plain view. The rest of his shirt was already dark with rancid sweat. As soon as he got on, the smell was overpowering. But that wasn't the worst thing about him, oh dearie me, no.

The worst thing was the clear plastic bag perched on top of his gut. It was half full of a greeny-brown, viscous substance. It was a colostomy bag. A half-full colostomy bag.

We were a little revolted by it, but at that point it was night, the air conditioning was on and we were far more concerned about the BO. Then, as we approached Jacksonville, at about the halfway point of our trip, the sun came up.

An interesting thing about colostomy bags is that unless changed regularly, they don't really deal with heat particularly well. All the urine and excrement and whatever else inside it starts to pong a touch. This was August. In Florida.

An interesting thing about the human nose is that it will filter out its own body smell, no matter how repellant, if it is a constant.

An interesting thing about Greyhound buses is that they make rest stops pretty frequently. They also stop to pick up more passengers.

An interesting thing about air conditioning in vehicles is that when the engine stops, so does the A/C.

The heat climbed and climbed with the sun. The stench got worse and worse. The air conditioning started to struggle to keep the temperature down. My face was starting to turn green. Everybody had gone quiet, clearly trying to control their breathing. The man got up and started to walk down the coach towards us. We realised with horror that we were sat just forward of the toilets.

He walked past and the smell was...unreal. I may have fainted. It stuck in my throat, it got in my eyes, I was retching openly along with everybody else within a two row range. It stuck to my clothes, it was in my mouth.

He didn't change the bag. He came back out with it still on him. We had to put up with it for a further three hours as the clock slowly moved towards noon. It was awful. Utterly awful.
(, Tue 27 Mar 2007, 10:23, Reply)
A friend of a friend married for love. Against the wishes of his parents and the warnings of his friends, he took it upon himself to raise a sullied young woman from the trials and tribulations of her chavvy background and into the middling echelons of semi-polite society. A kind of My Fair Lady for our age.

Anyway, part of this transformation involved the sanitising of her dwelling, which looked like one of those houses where old widowed men collect bottles of piss and yellow pages.

Anyway, while de-cluttering the lounge room, FoF dug beneath the 'mantle' of crusty pizza boxes and discovered... a dead hamster, it was not alone.

This woman had never had any pets, let alone hamsters, and had never noticed that they were in fact infesting her abode. HAMSTERS!
(, Mon 26 Mar 2007, 12:23, Reply)
Not me but a friend
Whilst at university a friend of mine use to work Saturday's at a supermarket in the centre of town. They would often get some strange characters come in but there was one customer who took the biscuit.

Just before closing one day a tramp walked in and started wondering the isles, he was obviously homeless as he was dressed like only a homeless person could, wearing the very best that the Red Cross could offer. Anyway whilst standing in the middle of an isle this tramp proceeded to take a shit. He didn't take down his trousers, he instead decided to take a shit in his trouser and then proceeded to shake his leg until the rancid turd landed on the floor. At this point one of the managers came over and asked the tramp to leave and my mate was instructed to clean up this mess.

My friend decided that instead of putting on some gloves, picking the turd up, disposing of it and then cleaning the floor he would just go and get the floor cleaner. Looking back on it that was probably a bad idea.

The floor cleaner consisted of a motorized swirling mop that could spray water and soap onto the floor as it span. My mate turned on the floor cleaner and proceeded to run over the turd. Instead of the desired effect of removing this unsightly thing, it proceeded to smear it across the whole of the isle. It went from being a nice white clean floor with a singular turd to a mess of brown shitty water. When the manger saw this my mate got a right bollocking and was told to get a mop and a bucket and sort this mess out properly this time.
(, Sat 24 Mar 2007, 16:00, Reply)
A top tip
Even though my sense of smell is not great, and my ability to put up with bad smells is (years of boarding schools etc), even I need special measures sometimes, in this case to deal with my brother...

16 years old, likes to wear black, leather, metaller stuff with spikes on etc. Sleeps in the same clothes he wears in the day, never showers. I have to share a room with him at my dads and it's fucking vile.

Anyway, know those Vicks inhalers? Snort from them enough and you'll temporarily nuke your sense of smell, great stuff!

(Yes, I packed a top tip into the story about my brother in an effort to get this to the top, as he reads b3ta...)
(, Fri 23 Mar 2007, 20:17, Reply)
Watching CSI last night
We watched Gil sniff his wrist. My missus passed me her wrist, in what I thought was an amusing homage to the fat freak on the box. She delivered a stunning stink palm. Bastard had had her hand down her arse crack for ages.
(, Fri 23 Mar 2007, 9:13, Reply)
Dole Office
I once worked at the dole office, otherwise known as The Place That Personal Hygiene Forgot.

Thursdays were the worst - that was the day that all the homeless, drunks and tramps came in for their money, and staff would go about their work with blobs of Vicks Vapor Rub under their noses to mask the awful, awful smell of piss, shit, sweat, puke and cider.

It was even worse when it rained, as you could actually see the smell rolling about the place in a big, grey cloud.

I saw with my own eyes, one of the newer staff - unaware of the sheer awfulness of the situation - projectile vomit her lunch all over her big tray of claims, the desk, and the flexiglass which prevented the smelly old derelict on the other side from getting a face-full.

His reaction: "Am I still getting my money, or what?"

I packed it all in and got a job with cows.
(, Fri 23 Mar 2007, 7:54, Reply)
The shroud
I had a housemate a few years back who never never never washed his bedlinen. When he moved out you could see the entire imprint of his body on the sheet, just like the Shroud of Turin...
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 13:16, Reply)
"Can I borrow your deodorant?"
As I've mentioned in the past, I used to live in France. Every summer teams of twenty-somethings used to come out to do various volunteer work and enjoy the sun at the same time. Usually the teams were all UK-people, but occasionally we'd get some foreigners joining in.

One year there was a guy from the netherlands who had decided to "travel light". He had packed two shirts for the whole two weeks. Oh, and he didn't wear deodorant.

By the end of the first day, he was reeking. Thankfully he did take a shower every morning, but as the week went on, his smell of his shirts became more and more invasive. By the end of the first week, people were refusing to pair up with him, and making excuses to avoid sitting next to him at meals.

Then a miracle happened. During the weekend in between the two weeks, a lot of the team were washing their clothes. One guy had a quiet word with the smelly bloke, to suggest that he should do the same. So there was a huge sigh of relief when he joined the clothes-washing group, topless and carrying his two shirts.

Alas, no, it was not to be. He asked one of the other guys "Can I borrow your deodorant?" and proceeded to spray both shirts inside and out with Sure spray deo.

Ok, so it helped for an hour or so.

Thankfully coz I was a girl, I could avoid being paired with him :o)

F x

PS: I have had a vision of the future, I can see this thread filling with people who spell "hygiene" wrongly and people who complain about it. Click "I like this" if you agree.
(, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 12:58, Reply)
for a gay guy, one of my colleagues in a previous job was really sloppy about his personal hygiene. he reeked of piss and shit and would only change his shirt about once every three days.

he was also painfully bright but not a good lawyer. not even a little bit. the girls would leave him deodorants and wipes on his desk but he never took the hint.

eventually one of the partners was asked to talk to him. he called james into his office and explained there had been complaints about the stench.

james bowed his head. "i will do my best," he said. "but you have to understand that i have been a practising homosexual for many years and as a result i am not always able to control my sphincter".

and off he went, leaving the partner speechless (and chewing on the rancid miasma james left behind him).

i don't care how controversial you're trying to be, that's just downright unprofessional in my book!
(, Fri 23 Mar 2007, 18:34, Reply)

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