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This is a question Shit Stories: Part Number Two

As a regular service to our readers, we've been re-opening old questions.

Once again, we want to hear your stories of shit, poo and number twos. Go on - be filthier than last time.

(, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 14:57)
Pages: Latest, 21, 20, 19, 18, 17, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Glycerol Explosions
If there's ever a question that calls for TMI, this is it.

Normally, I'm a reasonably regular kind of guy. No problems down there whatsoever. However, a few months ago, I had an unfortunate lack of crap for a few days, and was beginning to feel a bit... bloated and unpleasant. So, I decide to shift the crap.

Allow me to tell you the story of The Glycerol Suppositories.

Our story begins when our hero purchases a 12-pack of these from Boots, and cycles off home for dinner. He goes through all the normal motions of the evening, he eats, he showers, and then he pops two of the little buggers in, after reading the instructions.

Time = 0

Now, you're supposed to leave them in for about 15-30 minutes before you have a movement, so they have time to work on the whole area instead of just stimulating the rectum (not in that way, you filthy filthy people). Slight burn as they went in, but nothing after that. And so I waited, making sure that there was a clear path to the toilet, listening to internet radio, and generally surfing the internet.

Time = 5 minutes

At this point, feeling nothing. I'm wondering if I need to put a third one in, or whether they're just not compatible with me. This feeling of wonder continues until

Time = 6 minutes

Whoah jesus! Massive wave of pressure. Disappears as quickly as it came. Sudden sinking feeling in my stomach, realising that yes, they're working. And yes, they're working damned well. Even more sinking feeling as I realise that I've got to wait at least 10 minutes before I can go to the loo.

Time = 8 minutes

There are pirates in my arse! They're jumping around, sailing ships and shouting YARRRRRR! loudly. Not only that, they've recruited vikings too, and are trying to batter down the gates of my sphincter with a series of cannonblasts! Back and forth!

Time = 10 minutes

All conscious thought has ceased. Nicholas Parsons's melodic voice on Radio 4 does nothing to distract me from my rump. I have never been more aware of it until now. The pirates and vikings have been joined by ninjas, throwing their weight against the brown gates in waves. I believe they're composing some kind of anthem of destruction in C Major.

Time = 13 minutes

Being an atheist, I unexpectedly find religion, praying to God to let me hold out long enough to make it to the 15 minutes on the label without a rather disgusting accident. My rectum has been inspired by Transformers now, as the ninjas, pirates, vikings and newly arrived bulldozers have all joined together into one gestalt entity, named "Crapicon", who is jumping around like a 4 ft nun trying to operate a firehose

Time = 15 minutes

I've gone the time needed on the label. Now begins the short but precarious walk. I don't dare to run, no matter how desperate I am. Crapicon has brought forth the lasers and has managed to invent photon and quantum torpedoes just from my knowledge of Star Trek. One small step, followed by another small step, buttocks tightly clenched... I make it to the bathroom. Thank God there's loo paper, otherwise I would have lost my newfound religion. The door is locked... relief is in sight, the armed forces are about to make a report to head command saying "All men drowned at sea"... and then...

I fart. Long and loud, amplified by the porcelain bowl. It turns out Crapicon and his components were just bluster and hot air, no actual substance. All is well, I can go back toOHJESUSCHRISTMYARSE!

The resulting outflow of shit could have fertilised every farm in East Anglia for a year. It was loud, it was varied in texture, globule size and consistency. If there had been but a pea-sized drip more, it could have reached critical mass and gone nuclear. I'm curled up on the toilet, and whimpering like a newly sodomized yorkshire terrier, praying for it to stop. The window was open, so any passers by would have gotten an entertaining audio show, at least until the stench drifted downwards. It could have stripped the enamel off your teeth, and knocked out a small child at thirty paces.

About 2 minutes later, with intermittent blasts... it does stop. But I'm not fooled. I sit there for fifteen more minutes, waiting... patiently. I shall not be deceived. But this time, it was indeed truly done. The enemies were defeated. I lived to tell the tale, and felt much better later than evening.

Those little translucent bullet things should be shipped out to Iraq as weapons of mass destruction. They work. Oh dear god do they work. I purchased a 12-pack, it has 10 in it now, and it will remain 10 until I throw it out.

Apologies for length. And for the smell.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 17:17, 16 replies)
I was in a public toilet
I went into the end cubicle and sat down to do my business when from the adjacent cubicle came "Hello mate".

Not one to be ignorant I replied, "erm.. Hi"

"What are you doing?" Came the voice.

"Just Taking a crap, you?" I replied.

Then I heard:
"Yeah sorry mate Ill call you back, the idiot next to me keeps replying"
(, Wed 2 Apr 2008, 16:52, 16 replies)
Dog Poo Grenade
Once while out walking with my dog he stopped, as dogs tend to do and curled out the biggest, foul smelling shite that I've ever seen. The fucker pretty much filled the plastic bag I shovelled it into. With no turd bin in sight I ended up carrying it around with me for most of the walk. Going across a playing field he decides he wants to run around like a lunatic and be a general annoyance...cue me running around trying to put him on his lead before he upsets someone...he's not violent, just way too friendly for his own good. A bunch of the local chav brigade were gathered in one corner drinking and on spotting my labrador generally enjoying life they decided to start chucking rocks at him. Without a second though I launched the plastic bag full of shit through the air at them. The smelly missile flew through the air, hitting one of the group square in the chest, bursting on impact. The sight was funny for about 20 seconds until I had to sprint back home with hound in tow as they did the natural thing and chased us. A dangerous game to play but if you mess with my dog then I tend to get quite protective.
(, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 18:54, 6 replies)
I told you I didn't want to go out
Only two people know this story, and now you lucky lot can hear it too. Apologies in advance for length, my brevity seems to have gone the same way as my bowel control.

Now this was around the time of my birthday a couple of years ago. I'd been off work most of the week with a condition which had me backed up pretty badly. I was spending my time lying in bed, watching Family Guy DVDs, eating ice cream and wanking whenever I felt too sorry for myself. On my girlfriends insistence I went to see the doctor and she prescribed me a senna-based product to ease things along. Not being familiar with the wonderful world of laxatives I imagined that on my gridlocked digestive system the effect would be to induce normal bowel movements once again. Oh how wrong I was. We'd planned to go for a meal with friends in the evening to celebrate my birthday, but I wasn't really feeling up to it. However, the missus insisted I come out. Not for the last time in that relationship, I really should have stood my ground.

So we're in Soho enjoying a curry (why?). After the big meal and a few beers I'm really not feeling too hot. Everyone else wants to go elsewhere and carry on drinking, but I make my excuses and leave, thinking I can get home and watch some more Family Guy. And maybe have another wank.

As I'm walking back to Charing Cross I feel a rumbling omen in my gut and a small *FFFRRRP* escapes my butt cheeks. Alright thinks I, I'll just stop into the crapper at the station and release this long overdue load.

A couple of minutes later and I realise the situation is rather more urgent than I'd previously anticipated when a sharp cramp hits me, causing me to stop and do that cross-legged, doubled-over pose as I try to rearrange the contents of my rectum into a less explosive configuration using my buttocks.

By the time I reach the station entrance I'm in serious trouble. Sweating like a paedo in a playground, I inch forward painfully slowly, as every movement of my lower body threatens to unleash the fury within with a comical *PARP*. Just a hundred yards further and I'll be ok. Other people arriving at the station are shooting me puzzled and pitiful glances as I struggle forwards, looking to all the world like a parkinson's sufferer attempting the tightrope. But I can make it, I know I can.

Just as I reach the main concourse, barely 20 yards from the toilet entrance, it happens. With an almighty bubbling roar from my lower intenstines--it felt like the depth-charge scene from U-571 was being replayed in my gut--I momentarily lose sphincter control and I feel my pants fill with a gritty warmth. There's no other option now, I have to make a dash for the toilet before this gets worse!

Bad idea. As soon as I start to run, the full force of the faecal flood smashes through my puny anus. Within seconds it's too much for my underpants as several days worth of shit makes its sloppy break for freedom. It's steaming in a raging torrent down my leg and as I run I can feel it flicking off my shoes. I think I hear a scream of disgust from behind me, but all I can concentrate on is the toilet steps ahead. Down the step and through the turnstile, I secure myself in the closest free cubicle, barely landing on the seat in time to expel the last remnants safely and I pebble-dash the bowl so violently it sprays back onto my buttocks. My groans and the *PRRRAAP-PRAAARRAP-PRRAAAAAARRRRP* trumpeting from my burning arsehole combine to make a terrible symphony for anyone unfortunate enough to be listening.

Exhausted, I clean myself off using an entire roll of paper. My underpants are filled and will have to be discarded. The legs of my jeans are completely soaked in runny, stinking shit. It's coated the backs of my shoes and even managed to find its way inside my socks. I am essentially a huge, walking shit stain. I start to rub at my clothes with the cheap, scratchy paper. It's not absorbing anything, so, dignity in shreds, I resort to scooping the crap out of my jeans with my bare hands.

It took me a full half hour to clean myself up, but you'd hardly notice the difference. I'd managed to get the worst off my shoes, but my jeans are still heavy with shit. My hands are stained a muddy brown colour. Then I realise I have no change of clothes, and still have to take a 25-minute train ride home. I feel utterly wretched, ashamed and alone and I sit back on the toilet seat and begin to cry.

The journey home is one I never, ever want to repeat. As I leave the toilet I take a furtive glance back the way I came and see a brown trail leading back towards the station entrance. Luckily (well I bloody well deserved some luck at some point in this story), my train is waiting on the platform and I am able to put my head down and quickly get on board. I'm terrified someone I know will get on the train and discover my shame, so slide down in my seat as low as possible to try and avoid being seen. The stench is awful and hangs in my nose, almost making me sick. Every time I move my jeans squelch and stick to my clothes. My spirit broken, I pray for the ground to open and swallow me whole, but then realise it would probably spit me straight back out again.

If you were the poor girl who sat on the seat in front of me for that entire journey, covering your nose and mouth with your scarf and periodically making retching noises, I am so, so sorry.

My girlfriend returned home somewhat later to find me (post-shower) in bed, shellshocked and hugging my pillow, the washing machine putting my dirty clothes through their second cycle of the night. "What happened?" she asks. All I can manage is to look straight ahead at the wall, still clutching my pillow for comfort. "I told you I didn't want to go out", I whimper.
(, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:20, 10 replies)
For cat lovers
A friend of mine was asked to look after a cat that was known to have some bowel trouble. He found the experience so traumatic that he kept a diary (from the cat's point of view):

I left a nice surprise for Bob: a sloppy crap so powerful that it actually emitted its own frequency, and about 4 litres of piss. He wept while he dealt with that! I must have had a bit of an upset tummy. So I did that squinty-eyed, tongue-out thing to make myself look cute.

Tummy back to normal now and a left a firm cigar in the box. I think he’s proud of the way I always drop them right at the back, halfway up the plastic bag. Did a little wee, too.

I greeted Bob at the door today. Not personally, you understand, but via the medium of smell. He’d tried to trick me by evenly distributing the litter about the box to catch every dribble – but I defeated him! I distributed three sloppy turds: one in each back corner and one up the side. All of them missed the litter completely! Call me Catson Pollock. Oh, and I managed to leave a squit on the floor outside the box, too.

Had a little sleep and went downstairs for another back-of-the-box special. When Bob arrived (the stench of this morning’s faecal bonanza still ringing in his nostrils), he saw the food bowl and decided to bring a fresh bowl of shrimp and jelly upstairs to me. Then he tickled my ears and neck for a while and I purred like a motorbike.

Finished all my food overnight but didn’t do a poo. That means I’ll have a monster offering waiting tonight!

I wasn’t very impressed with today’s turd. Just a bit of a splat really – not much body to it.

Ha! Managed some rectal gymnastics last night. I squirted it up the back and over the lip of the tray into the box – I think it was wind-assisted. Bob was visibly moved. As usual, he topped up my bowls with something tasty… or should I say he topped up my bowels

Only a little wee. Today I washed my bum and generally gave myself a good clean.

Just when Bob thought he had seen everything, I managed a work of scatological art: two craps one on top of the other… both of entirely different hues and textures! It was like a birthday cake for him – albeit one with a teeth-clenching stench. I also managed to scratch though the plastic so that my wee ran into the box and had to be washed out. After Bob had cleaned up, we had a nice chat – or rather, I ignored him as I ate my hake and halibut. Lovely!

I managed to excel myself by presenting Bob with something entirely new. It looked like a desiccated turd or a mummified cocoon of some kind. It was a fur ball I’d been carrying around all week and I’m sure glad to be rid of it! (Sorry about the dribbly vomit, though.

Feeling very affectionate this morning. I was waiting for Bob when he came through the door and I meowed constantly as he dealt with a rather unimpressive splat I’d done in the litter. Then I gambolled about his legs and cried for more cuddles – he’s a specialist with the ears. I think I’ll do a gigantic crap for him tonight! I know he likes that.

An interesting litter tray this morning. I did the usual back-of-the-box, but also one on the right hand side for variety. He gave me a tasty stick and tickled my head for a while. He also noticed the crap dribble I seem to have made on the carpet in the corridor upstairs – sorry about that!

I was feeling very affectionate and tried to climb on Bob for a cuddle, but he wouldn’t let me (saying my back end was too clotted with abomination).

(Did a little poo – about the size and shape of one of those brown slugs. Oh, and I washed my bum.)

A nice big crap for Bob to clear up. As he was holding his breath, he noticed the claim on the side of the litter bag that it neutralises all odours. We laughed about that one!

Galileo revolutionised the way we see the sun. Einstein changed relativity. And today I did a perfectly formed, firm panatela at the front of the box. And I rolled it in litter a bit to kill the smell! Impressive, eh!

Bob arrived to find my entire body surrounded by a bizarre iridescent chrysalis. Clearly, I had been co-opted in a strange alien experiment and would emerge a month later as a pterodactyl. Only joking! It was the same old story – did a shit, had some food and a stroke.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:24, 5 replies)
On an island far, far away
I’m sure that many people reading this are thinking, no way, it’ll never happen to me... I was one of you once. Have faith, good things come to all men (and ladies of course). One time is all you need.

My time happened to be on the Isles of Scilly, the island of Tresco to be precise. We’d been told to wait for our boat that would ferry us to St Mary’s on a rocky promontory called Carn Near. The small quay was full of blue-rinses and other coffin-dodgers who had come to marvel at the beauty of Valhalla (the supposed resting place of various Vikings on Tresco).

The boat picking us up was late and I had consumed a magnificent lunch of “freshly-caught” shellfish at a bargain price from the hospitable islanders.

“Freshly-caught??”. Hold on, weren’t these rascals here yesterday?? Hmmm, I thought as the first errant toot slipped between my cheeks not half an hour after my gluttonous meal.

I shuffled to the side a little in an attempt to release pressure… “No Deal” said my inner Edmonds… Jesus H Christ on a bike; this piscine poison was making itself known.

Oh Fuck, that’s not good… there was no release of pressure, all I could feel was an urgent straining of explosive poo with absolutely nowhere to go.

Most people will not know Carn Near, but essentially it is a concrete finger pointing into the ocean and I was right on the end of the fucker, cut off from dry land by the crowds of OAPs swarming to try and spot the delayed boat.

Two choices then:

1) Try and gallantly fight my way back through the hordes of angry pensioners, already riled at the tardiness of their motor-launch.

2) Shit down my legs and try to enjoy the momentary warmth of my own faeces and suffer the miserable feeling of dirtiness that would inevitably follow.

I was overcome by a cold sweat. The sweat of those who have been touched by bad fish and require urgent attention.. 1) above was not an option, and I was going to try and avoid 2) at all costs – it was a 40 minute ride back to the main island, a long time to be sitting I your own filth.

Still to this day I do not know what overcame me. With the bellow of a man possessed with an urgent need to shed his load, I wrenched down my jeans and undergarments, pale arse and genitatlia exposed to the horrified onlookers. Fortunately, there was one young lad near the front of the queue who recognised my predicament and held my hands as I hung my arse over the side of the quay and let fly.

I recall a couple of pensioners fainting as the fish came to the surface to nibble on my shit.

Heh, that’ll teach them.


Hi by the way, I'm Steve x
(, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 5:34, 5 replies)
The Hot Bag
I am moving house to a lovely place that offers FOUR toilets, a far cry from the mono-shittered place where I currently live.

It all went wrong one Sunday morning whilst watching the repeat of Match of the Day. Suddenly attacked by a turtle's head in my pyjama bottoms, I dashed upstairs to do the necessary.

Alas, it was occupied by my charming wife taking a shower, and my pleas fell on deaf ears.

Only one thing for it - I grabbed a Tesco carrier bag, dashed out to the shed and filled it with hot, steaming semi-liquid containing, I am sad to say, Green Giant sweet corn.

Of course, there's a problem with supermarket carrier bags - they make them with air holes to prevent stupid people from suffocating themselves. These air holes also allow semi-solid turds to escape as you dash up the garden, hoping to conceal your foul mess behind the water feature, showering your carpet slippers with turds.

Then, the seagulls came. Loads and loads of seagulls.

Full 12-inch remix version HERE
(, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:24, 10 replies)
My Great Granddad, Patrick “Newtie” Newton, was one of the lucky few who survived being in the front line trenches during the First World War. When my dad was a little boy, my granddad would tell him story of the war. Most often they would be stories of extreme British Courage or sacrifice, but, there were sometimes stories about the fun and foolery they all had during the more peaceful times.

For seven months Newtie was stationed at a point know as “shake hand alley”. It was called this because the apposing trenches were so close that it felt like you could almost shake hands with your enemy.
Being this close was, of course, incredibly dangerous. Tunnels were being constantly dug and filled with explosives, Snipers had it very easy and there were constant raids to each trench. A man serving in shake hand alley was a man walking with death.
The men knew this. The constant reminder of death made them search for ways to lighten up the mood. One of the favorites was the Germapult.
The Germapult was a large wooden catapult which had been built by the many carpenters out of spare wood from the trench walls. Over the years it had been there some men had become expert marksman with it. My Great Granddad admitted that the Germapult was about as lethal as cotton wool, but, nothing boosted morale more than knocking off a German officer’s hat with a dead rat.
Anything that could be used as ammo was;

Rats – dunked in lamp oil, set alight and flung
Legs, arms, heads of fallen Germans.
Cups of piss (left to ferment over summer)
Letters tied to rocks with lovely messages like “fuck off”
And, of course, SHIT. Lots of British shit.

Being born a Newton comes with many positive and negative hereditary points.
1. We all have great eyes and ears
2. We are all good with numbers
3. Our shits stink. REALLY REALLY STINKS!
With this in mind, mixed with the less than choice sanitation, my Great granddad was often not too popular in the trenches. He could stink out an entire half mile with the foul acrid smell of his anal devastation. In his own words “you know when I had taken time out because everyone had a tear in their eye”.
One day, after a particularly pungent defecation, the wind changed direction. Instead of blowing the nuclear fumes along the trench – It blew it straight across no-mans-land into the German lines. Within seconds the British could hear sequels of pain, after a minute they could hear the distinct call of “Gas” from their German enemies. It took at least half hour for the panic to subside and normality to flow.
An British officer noticed this and approached my Great granddad
“Son, that was disgusting, your bowels truly are a place of living hell. But, if you can recreate that panic every time nature takes its course, the Germans moral will be crushed”

My Great granddad was then positioned right next to the Germapult. Every time he needed a dump he would do it on a scrap of cloth, place it on the pult and an expert would fire it straight into the trenches. Sometimes they would scream GAS, sometimes they just screamed for the war to end. As this was obviously killing the German moral, my granddad was given sprouts and other Veg to further intensify his odour.
He claims that this extra food and the shelter of being by the Germapult saved his life. He also claimed that they fired a large amount of his shit at a machine gun post minutes before a big push. The gunners were so busy wiping the pain from their eyes that a few hundred british (including my Gread granddad) made the push and lived to fight on.

I have one memory of the man from when i was about four and it was walking into the toilet straight after him.
(, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 11:44, 8 replies)
Important Question
You know how sometimes when you have not been chewing your corn on the cob enough how you get bits of it in your poo? Well what other foods does it happen with?

If you eat enough funny coloured food, will it change the colour of your poo?

If you freeze poo for a few months, will it regain its original texture and smell when it thaws? Why or why not?

You know how sometimes you have those 'Phantom Poos'? You know the type that I mean ... You go for a big poo, and you are sitting their straining away, feels like it is never gonna come out ... Suddenly, sweet release. You stand up, wipe and look down and the bowl is empty!#@ Who stole my poo? Do you lend any credence to the existence of poo gnomes? Where do they hide when you are pooing?

Do girls poo? Someone told me I often ruin my chances with women by talking about poo. Why is this? I make sure to include all other important points in the conversation too! "Hi, you look very pretty today. Did you get your hair done? It suits you! How do you feel about going for a meal later? If you want I can take you shopping first, it's on me! I had a big poo today, ohh God the smell! It streaked the bowl and everything! There was bits of corn and everything! How about you? Did you poo today? Have you seen that movie about poo? It's called two girls one cup. Here, look I have a video on my phone!"
Why does this ruin my chances? I thought girls liked complements, food, shopping, mutual hobbies and sharing of interesting stories.

You know how when dog poo gets old it goes white and hard? Does this happen to human poo? Why or why not?

When I wipe I use big handfuls of paper, big giant ones. But some people only use a couple of sheets at a time. Do they get poo on their fingers?

How come only some farts smell but all poo smells?

How come some poo floats and some sinks? If you tied a lot of the floaty poo together could you make a boat? How long would it last? I think the captain would be safe, cause no sharks would eat something that sails across the ocean on a giant poo.

If you can freeze poo, can you shave it down and use it as a poo pencil?

Why do people call an emerging poo a turtle head? That's silly! Poo has no flippers!

How come some people poo every day but some people poo every other day and some other people only poo once a week!

Is it possible to poo without going for a wee half way through? Is it possible to poo, wee and sneeze at the same time?

You know those explosion poos? The ones where you sit down, grunt, and pebble blast the side of the toilet? I don't like them. They make my bum sore.

Thank you for the time you have taken to answer my important questions.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:41, 14 replies)
Shitting of a bridge
I used to know a guy called Marcus who defined the word disgusting.

He was the sort of man who would cupcake complete strangers. He once farted into a polystyrene cup, put the lid on and gave it to his girlfriend to “drink”. Rumor had it that he once ate someone’s verucca as a bet. For the time I knew him he was mostly single.

This is the story of how someone saved his life and then beat him to within an inch of it.

After a very heavy night on the disco biscuits at a house party, Marcus found himself wandering the lonely streets of Richmond.
The train station was closed, there were no buses and he could not afford a Taxi home. He wandered around the streets until he came to Richmond Bridge and he decided to kill an hour or two there until the trains started coming.
He told me that he sat and watch the sun break over the Thames and he basked in its beauty.
At around 5 in the morning he noticed a large amount of rowers splashing there way up the river, he could hear the posh voice of the cox screaming orders. In a moment of sicko genius he decided to take a shit on them as they rowed beneath the bridge.
He jumped onto the concrete ledge, removed garments and assumed the basic “crouching for a shit position. He said it took all his concentration to start to push and balance at the same time. This was made all the more difficult as he was physically trembling with laughter, but, with determination he got the beginnings of a coil poking out.
He listened intently, he could hear the subtle change in sound as the group of boats entered under the bridge and with one final push his morning glory took flight.

“What the fuck…Errr…you sick mother” came the shouts below

Marcus had managed a direct hit on his first attempt. He later told me that it was the happiest moment of his life – shortly followed by the worst. With all the commotion below he started to uncontrollably laugh. In a comic slow motion way he started to flap his arms to try and keep balance, but, almost instantly fell off the bridge into the dirty water below.

With credit to the rowers – they immediately pulled him onto the boat, made sure he was all right and then rowed him straight to the shore. They got out of there boats, dragged him onto dry land and then took it in turns trying to kick any remaining shit out of his body. The last thing he saw before he fell unconscious was the expanding anus of a burly rower about to take a shit on his face.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 14:10, 5 replies)
It's shit
Re post. no time.

I am 23, staggering in to the kitchen of my family home, fighting a hangover bigger than the flab roll that hangs over the waist band of Lisa Riely's hot pants. I am wearing my trusty towelling dressing gown, and nothing else. Now, I knew that we had family staying, cus I had to sleep on the sofa. I open the fridge door, with my back to the rest of the kitchen. I thought I was alone. I take a big refreshing gulp of apple juice, and feel a big rumble bubble in the old belly. "Ah, I feel a little windy-pop a-rising!" I happily sing to myself, looking forward to the gas release relief. I squeeze a little, too hard in hind’s sight and out pops a slimy; booze induced jobbie, right on the kitchen floor. It looked like I had broken off one of Bungles (from TV show Rainbow) fingers at the knuckle and smothered it in Vaseline. I am slightly taken a back by this, but not over come. That was until I shut the fridge door, turn around and see my mum, dad, uncle, auntie, sister, gran and grandpa sitting quietly having tea and toasted crumpets.
I had just sang a song about farting, then shat myself in the kitchen. In front of every respected member of my family.

Now, at every opportunity, does not matter if in front of one or hundreds of people, my father is always, “ hey every one, you wanna hear the story when Jeeves shat on the kitchen floor?” I reply with, “ you wanna hear a story about when dad was caught touching the 8 year old boy next door?”. My stories never get a big laugh.
(, Wed 2 Apr 2008, 11:54, 4 replies)
Ocean spawning.
As a geezer, I’m never going to experience the joy of giving birth, but last Summer I had a pretty good taste of it.

September, a very quiet Greek beach, miles from anywhere, and the urge to purge is upon me. Now I had picked a spot to spend the day at the foot of some cliffs and there was no fucking way I was climbing back up, leaving my kit on the beach, picking my way through the minefield of gorse bushes to find a clear spot to lay the cable. No, sod that.
Similarly, there was no way I could unleash it on the beach itself, there were about a dozen people dotted about, so I’d have to search for a suitable place, but I didn’t particularly want to pollute that fantastic sandy area..

So what to do?

Weeeeell, I decided to go for a swim and think about it, which was where I had the fantastic idea of “tagging a Loggerhead”. I swam up and down for a bit, in front of my bit of beach, checking out how far away the neighbours were, how much attention they were paying etc, before rolling on to my back and doing the deed (thankfully I was doing the nudist thing, so had no trunks to wrestle with).

They say that dolphins and humans may have evolved from a common ancestor, a theory to which I now subscribe following the way I gracefully expelled the stool whilst in the water, truly magical, just like the timeless miracle of birth. I could imagine David Attenborough, whispering in awe at the spectacle he would have witnessed, had his camera crew been in attendance.

Which is why I started laughing.

Now, together, laughing and swimming in the sea are not to be recommended, it kind of interferes with your breathing. Which makes you choke, which makes you splash about a bit…….which makes the whole fucking beach look up from their paperback to see exactly WTF is going on.

Couple this with the fact that my new-born was reluctant to leave and find its own way in life,it must have looked like I was being attacked by a sea-lion. Well, it felt like that, anyhow, as I shooed it away, flailing at it with my feet and trying to swim casually back into the shallows.
Reaching safety, I triumphantly turned to sit on a rock….only to find the bastard had followed me.

Not wishing this Exxon Valdez of a steamer to wash up on the shore, I had to swim back out, sloshing water to push it ahead because I didn’t want to handle it. (Just like a young bird, fallen from the nest, touch it and you can’t return it to the wild, it will be rejected)

Some way out I managed to give it the slip whilst it was distracted and headed back inshore.
I sat in the shallows in a patch of seaweed, slyly wiping up with this handy natural alternative to Andrex, giggling to myself again, before heroically striding up the beach, knackers a-swinging. I really thought those German chicks were impressed with my tackle, they were agog, I’d dry off and make my move.

Which is when I discovered I had a long Godzilla tail of kelp dangling from my arse.
(, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:35, 3 replies)
The Hot Bag II
As a sort-of-prequel to this story of woe, it's time I owned up to another Tale of The Hot Bag.

The scene: Wembley Stadium's Hallowed Turf

The occasion: Genesis Live in Concert, some time in the late 1980s

The company: 80,000 people, equally divided between braying yuppies having the time of their lives at Phil Collins' oh-so-witty banter and pissed-off former Genesis fans who expected some music at some stage

I was in the latter camp, and enormously hacked off at being poisoned by a killer hotdog sold to me by a CMOT Dibbler lookalike on a street approaching The Venue of Legends.

Caught short in the middle of the Wembley turf, far too far from the toilets and the famous Wembley River of Piss, I did what any sensible festival goer would do: I shat in a carrier bag. An explosion of half-digested fecal matter containing meat from at least one named animal.

I admit I did something evil after this. There was a dreadful pink-Pringle-jumper-clad yuppie couple who had brought their own picnic, and judging by the pile of bags at their feet, had bought the entire official merchandise store.

They'd made everybody else's lives hell by elbowing in front of us, and then committing the Cardinal Sin of Stadium Gig of blocking everybody's view by hoiking his bird up onto his rugger-bugger shoulders.

So, as Collins prattled on with his mindless nonsense, I added my own Hot Bag to their possessions, and retired to a safe distance.

I can - as must you - only imagine the scene as they returned to their East London warehouse flat later that evening for a nice Chianti and a bout of joyless love-making.

I am not sorry in the slightest.
(, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 12:44, 1 reply)
Holy shit!
I was in Italy staying with a local family when my alimentary canal produced something of a national sensation.

The familial toilet was one of those continental ones where you squat over a ceramic tray and place your feet on specified spaces. Not ideal - but I got used to using it. One day, after a particularly heavy Italian meal lasting three hours, I spent about 20 minutes on this crapper, shifting my weight about to keep comfortable. On standing, I was amused to note that the turd I had produced looked uncannily like the face of Lord Jesus, his countenance a vision of serenity. It was a passing thought and I looked for a bucket to flush the brownster away. No water - I slunk off to find some, hoping that no one would happen upon the soiled WC.

The next thing I heard was a wailing. Clearly, someone had wanted to use the toilet and found my mess. I raced back to the lav to discover the elderly grandmother on her knees muttering what I took to be a prayer and raising her eyes to heaven in thanks for the glory of my Divine dump. I made to wash the offending chod away, but I was roughly manhandled to the ground by the whiskery old cuss.

Before I knew it, the local priest had been called and villagers were flooding to view the miraculous scat I had wrought. "It's just a shit!" I complained. But they paid no heed. There were soon dozens of people prostrating themselves at my still steaming crap, which maintained its uncanny resemblance. If anything, it looked even more beatific. The 'bearded face' seemed to bestow a blessing on all who beheld it, and the eyes were full of compassion for a world gone astray. A tear came to many an eye, but this was due largely to the hideous reek of shite.

Well, the media were there by the afternoon and the Catholic church had issued a statement saying that the ceramic toilet tray was to be enshrined for all of Italy to see. In the coming months, enterprising locals would be selling tap water to gullible tourists as holy water. A crippled girl jumped out her wheelchair and did and impomptu performance of "Singin' in the Rain" as her blind mother suddenly read the barcode off a passing satellite. Serial killers handed themselves into the police all over the nation, and a t-shirt bearing the scatological image became a bestselling item.

Of course, I didn't get a thing. Not a word of thanks. It was my arse that had produced the miracle. Fortunately, after leaving Italy, I wound up in Jordan, where I was amused to shat out a calligraphic prayer from the Koran that made me an instant star, earning me my own TV show: "Frank Shits Miracles."

Happy days.
(, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 20:30, 4 replies)
Types of Shit
1. The auto-flusher.
A stool which feels like a leviathon, but exits the sphincter with such velocity that it hits the water and traverses the U-Bend before you have time to peer in and admire your handiwork.

2. The Stroke
So called because you strain and grunt, and gurn as though you're having one, feel as though you're passing a motion of biblical proportions, only to have a small nugget of dark matter pop out and plop, unsatisfyingly into the depths below.

3. Blowing Mud
Not to be confused with the post-curry motion, this is generally the epilogue to a night of uncomfortable and very odious wind, which leaves the bedroom smelling as though a diarrhitic episode has already passed betwixt the sheets. Blowing mud normally involves a protracted run to the toilet, followed by an involuntary shit tsunami which liberally coats the bowl with a sticky layer of faeces and proves hard to shift even after several flushes.

4. The Eye of the needle.
The result of an ill thought out choice in the curry house the previous night, and fuelled by several imbibed pints of fermented vegetable products, this precision shitting normally leaves the anus puckered, red and sore. So called because of the perpetrators ability to shit through the eye of a needle without splashing the sides.

5. The Gillian McKeith
The foulest and most repugnant of all bowel motions, eponymously named because it bears resemblance to the visage of TV's favourite, faecally-fixated would-be doctor.

6. The Trans-Atlantic Cable
A stool which, once the pace car drops lazily into the bowl, continues to come out in an unbroken session, similar to the laying of subsea communications cable. Often the perpetrator feels as though their insides are physically unravelling, and panic attacks ensue.

7. The Clown
A cruel joke played on the passer. He/she will spend hours in a meeting with an urgent pressure on their ringpiece, followed by a hurried run to the nearest facilities, only to discover that the monstrous motion their body has promised them is merely a large build up of wind, which rasps out of the sphincter like a 650 norton starting up, much to the amusement of other patrons in the facilities.
(, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 10:35, 5 replies)
How crackhouseceilidhband got into The Guardian for the wrong reasons
Libya, Christmas 2004. I was there doing some work which involved poking around at old rocks and the suchlike. On Christmas Eve we took a short trip to the Ubari sand sea to play in the dunes. I was a tad distracted as I felt a little queasy. I dismissed it, ran through the sand as the sun set, then returned to the camp for dinner.

At midnight the trouble started. I found myself vomiting copiously into a cracked bucket while hovering over a squat toilet unable to halt the flow of shit. TMI? It gets a lot worse. Also, bear in mind I was staying in a hut of sorts with sporadic electricity, an even more sporadic water supply, an average nightly temperature of around 1 degree celsius, and a phenomenal amount of mosquitos.

For three long days I spent my time running from mosquito-net-draped mattress to dodgy toilet and bucket, expelling bile and excrement of Type 7 on the Bristol Stool Scale. I was weak, burning, cold and really tired. Every ounce of strength was mustered to stop myself from just lying in a bed of my own filth. I was very, very ill. I couldn't even keep water in me.

On the fourth day one of my colleagues insisted I go to hospital. I was bundled into the back of a pick-up truck and driven on pothole-laced roads to the next town (miles away...) to a near-empty room with just a desk and a distinguished looking man in it. Our translator told me to give my name, my father's name and my husband's name. I could answer the first two at least but couldn't be arsed to make up an imaginary husband. The doctor looked at me for a moment, muttered something about amoebic dysentry, scribbled something on a scrap of paper, and handed it to our translator. He ushered me back to the pick-up and we drove to the nearby pharmacy, a small, badly shelved room in the next village.

I sat, weakly shivering in the pick-up as the translator went to pick up the drugs. I had lost over a stone in weight by this time, and there's not that much of me to begin with. I was also trying not to boke - or worse - in the pick-up.

The translator returned bearing a plastic bag which he triumphantly handed over to me. It was full of syringes. I blanched, wondered how the hell one actually administers injections, and then politely asked if I could have the tablets instead. He returned a few moments later with three different medications - an antibiotic, something to stop the pain and a third drug with the name "Spasmopan". I kid you not. I didn't care how ill I felt, I was not taking anything called Spasmopan.

For three more days I repeated the cycle of shit-vomit-sleep (sometimes achieving all three at once). I found that the only thing I could consume was halal chicken stock cubes, which were fortunately in plentiful supply. One fateful night I left the toilet having spewed my guts up into the leaky bucket while shitting dirty water, preparing to return to my germy bed. As I went to flush the toilet I found that the water supply had gone off. In my shivery state I did the only thing I could think of - I wrote a note saying "Please flush this! Do not look!". The next day I was thrilled to discover that one of my workmates had flushed it... but he gleefully informed me that he'd had a quick peek as well.

I flew home early as I was so utterly weakened. I still wasn't fit to travel but what BA didn't know wouldn't harm them. On returning, I went to my doctor and relayed my tale. I showed him the drugs I'd been given. He laughed and said "No, dear. We don't use those in Europe". He requested a stool sample. Now, no one ever tells you how best to provide this, but here's my top tip: use an old takeaway container in the toilet.

A week later I found out I had contracted the cryptosporidium parasite. It's a bugger to get rid off. The crowning glory was when, two days later, I received a letter from the Council telling me I was banned from all their swimming pools for two weeks. The only thing to top that was the trip I'd been on got a write up in the Guardian and my contribution - my named contribution as a leading researcher - was listed as me having contracted cryptosporidiosis. Er, thanks.

And here's the Spasmopan:

(, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:31, 12 replies)
Thomas the Jedi
This relates to the home for the handicapped I lived near (mentioned in previous post)

When I still believed in the Easter bunny, Santa and God I used to play with a boy called Thomas. Thomas was a great laugh and a great friend, he loved star wars and was convinced he was a Jedi. He was mentally handicapped – during birth he was strangled by the cord and suffered some brain damage. The thing is he was incredibly clever. He was just completely tuned into his surroundings and very aware. Even at the age of 6.
I don’t understand the science in all this, but, he couldn’t control parts of his body which we do automatically. You sometimes had to remind him to breath, drink, blink and go to the toilet. He also had problems sitting still – no ADHD (don’t think it was diagnosed then) - he just had to be constantly active. Give him a puzzle, game, anything and he would be lost in it for hours.

Anyway – one day I jumped over my back garden fence and walked into the day centre to play some Jedi sword fights with Thomas. We wandered around the garden and found a sutible stick each and they quickly became light sabers in our child minds. For an hour we battled in the garden, in the hall, up the stairs and through the wards.

We were surrounded by storm troopers intent on killing the last two Jedi warriors, but, the force was doing all kinds of crazy stuff to us and WE.WERE.ON.FIRE!!
As I sliced through two more storm troopers – Thomas ran for the landing to take on the fresh attach which was darting up the stairs. With the grace of a decapitated chicken he span round and cleanly removed the heads of another two badies. I ducked down under some laser fire and made a forward roll towards Thomas.
We stood back to back, panting slightly out of breath, and looked down the stairs.
“Darth Vader must be down there” I said “I can feel the dark side”.
In a flash Thomas jumped on the banister getting ready to slide down.

Something was wrong though – his face contorted slightly and then I heard a very wet and bubbling fart. He burst out laughing and started sliding down the banister leaving a very fresh coat of shit all the way down.

However shocked I was and however bad it smelt – I always, always remember laughing my head off at the sight of a Fierce Jedi Warrior painting a white sanatised banister with a dirty brown smudge.

When he reached the bottom he shouted up “may the force be with poo”.
To a young boy – this is about the funniest thing you can hear.
(, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 13:41, 3 replies)
Cat Fart of Doom


Woo, first post! Ever so slightly off topic…

Before I left home for university, my family owned two cats. They were grand, did all the usual catty things and generally, on the surface, all seemed well with them.

Outward appearances can be deceiving.

It was the weekend, and myself and a friend were chilling in my room, when in saunters the male cat, plopping himself at my feet and started to groom himself. A quick scratch behind the ears was all the attention I gave him while I turned my attention back to my mate.

Suddenly, a drawn out, banshee like, high pitch squeal cut through the air, much like the one a balloon makes when you let the air out of it and you pull the neck. It was so unexpected that I almost shat it myself. I look around to see where the hell it was coming from and see the cat with a look of pure terror on his feline face, obviously startled by the strange noise as well. His claws were digging into the carpet, ears flat, eyes as wide as they would go and his head snapping from side to side as he tried to locate the origin of this terrifying, alien sound.

Alas, apparently unbeknownst to him, the source of this noise was emanating from his sphincter.

It spooked the poor mog so much, he sprinted hell for leather out of the room, whilst still farting. As such, there was no escape from the noise, which only spurred him on the more. Seriously, the bugger moved so quickly, the damn thing Doppler shifted, resulting in a bass undertone that reverberated around the walls.

The two of us fell about pissing ourselves at the cat’s misfortune, until the smell hit us. Oh god, did it hit us. I have truly smelled hell. This was the most evil, sulphuric, malignant aroma to scorch itself onto my sinuses. Revolting. Utterly revolting. Words fail me when trying to convey the extent of the fart’s horror.

I remember trying to cover the smell with deodorant which only succeeded in creating a tangy cloying scent which bound itself to the very fibres of our clothes. Not a pleasant afternoon in the end. Thinking back to the cause of the bowel misadventure, the cat food we fed them wasn’t exactly the best stuff: ash was listed as one of the ingredients. Even worse, I hate to think what other subtle shitty tones the cat detected with his superior sense of smell.

Apologies for length etc...
(, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:59, 7 replies)
What's Greek for Shit?
The year was 1999, and a group of us who had just finished our studies at the world-renowned Braintree College of Further Education decided that it was Time For A Holiday. Our destination?

The picturesque Greek island of Zakynthos.

I don’t know if it’s true of all Greek islands, or even Greece itself, but the first thing that we were told at the orientation meeting was this:

“For the love of all that is holy, when you have a poo and wipe your bum, put the tissue in the bin.” Apparently, the plumbing on the island dates back to the time of Plato, and really can’t stand having tissue running through it as well as all the other detritus. Anyway, thanks for the info, nice lady – if you would kindly show me to the bar I’ll be out of your hair!

Roll on 11 days, and we’re nearing the end of our holiday. Lounging by the pool, eyeing up the locals, the conversation inevitably turned to matters of the smallest room.

“I dunno about you guys,” I said “but I’m tired of putting the tissue in the bin. It just doesn’t feel civilised.”
“I know what you mean,” said someone else “I feel sorry for the maids.”

Silence reigned for a couple of seconds.

“Hang on…” said Suzi, “what do you mean “putting tissue in the bin”? You haven’t been flushing your poo away, have you?”
“Um, yes… Why?”
“You bloody idiots!” She yelled “You’re not meant to put any solids down the toilet or it’ll block the drains!”

It turned out (to cut a long story short), that Suzi hadn’t listened properly. She had, instead of passing her jobbies into the toilet, been folding tissue paper in to her hand, pooing on to that, and depositing the whole shitty, tissuey mess in to the small bin by the throne.

She left the maid a big tip, in more ways than one.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 16:55, 7 replies)
I warned you!
As some of you know, I had spinal surgery last year to correct the cumulative damage of being a semi-pro silly bugger for about 40 years. Before any surgeon gets his hammers, chisels, shears and saws out they'll try ANYTHING to stop you having to go "under the knife". Especially if there's a chance that you'll:-
a/ be righteously fucked if they get it wrong and
b/ Still be able to sue them into the stone age if you survive the fuckup.
I came into both categories so I took a long course of Physio and serious painkillers, neither of which did jack to the underlying damage (as an aside, I think the physio accelerated the problem)until I met the surgeon. He needed a particular team and a particular operating theatre to do the 2-level ACDF I needed so I had to wait.

For three months.

He prescribed morphine-based painkillers YAY!
However, opiates cause constipation. Serious constipation. I went off my food for three months as it was going nowhere, except for occasional perfectly sherical, satsuma sized, eye waterer.

I had the surgery, spent two days in a haze of injected morphine and left the hospital with a big scar on my neck and a plate with bolts holding three of my vertebrae together while the bone harvested from my hip fused in and replaced the two shagged out discs.

I came home, a little pained but happy. Unfortunately I was no longer on opiates, therefore I was no longer constipated.

On the third moring I felt a bowel twinge I'd not felt for some time, I was actually happy that I'd be able to have my morning dump, a routine that had been denied me for too long! I took my ususal dumping accesories, book, radio, wet wipes etc in to the bog, sat and waited for the blessed relief that was to be my first post-operative-and-morphine-free log.
Sitting in the warm bosom of my bathroom I awaited the mudchild.
Now, I don't know about you, gentle reader, but I have only ever had to perform the minimal amount of straining to release a brown otter, normally I have the opposite. Open, dump, wipe check and flush, dead easy.




Turtles head!? It felt like I'd got the great A'Tuin and the elephants all vying (sp?) for pole position, goatse himself would have been saying "I say chaps, steady on!". After what seemd like a cliche but was only a figure of speech, I thought I was done. Lacking the neck mobility to look over my shoulder I stood up to survey the monster.

Imagine a 5" ball made of maltesers of all different shades, from light brown to black actually wedged in the pan OVER the water. For a moment I was impressed, I'd battled the fecal monster and won, I was Beowulf, Arnie and Chuck Norris all rolled into one heroic shit-battling ninja. I'd WON!

Then the smell hit me. THEN my bowels, freed from the blockage and the morphine paralysis decided to let go. Spectacularly. All over the batroom door 6 feet away. I was hoiking my guts up, face down in the pan, my nose not more than 2" from the malteser ball, inhaling the fetid stench which gave me more reason to hurl, the resulting bowel pressure spraying slimy greenish blood-streaked sluglike lumps over the door.
After 10-15 minutes of this, I was empty. Completely empty. Lucky thing, because I had to clean the bathroom. Took an hour and a half and five towels I'd never use again.
Once safely bagged in THREE binbags I placed the towels in the bin.
The malteser ball was still there. Broke that up with the bog brush and had to flush in relays.
Never mind the anti-drug propaganda we peddle out, just get the junkies to stop for a day or two, then make them clear up the resulting mess.
Apologies for diameter and smell.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:44, 3 replies)
Not really a shit story
but it will have to do - I don't have any amusing stories about poo - possibly no amusing stories at all, but still. So possibly this is a "shit story" in the true sense of the word. But it's true.

I am somewhat worried right now, sitting at my desk in London. Back home nearly 100 miles away, in my bedroom, there is an object. Anyone going into that room will instantly see, on a shelf by the bed, an 8 inch cock. Plastic, I hasten to add, but relatively life-like.

My girlfriend has been kind enough to say that mine is of comparative size. It isn't, but it's not too far off. Well, that's what I like to think.

Anyway, said cock was purchased with a strap-on kit. You have to try these things, don't you ?

Well, no, you don't. Sunday night saw me gripping the sides of the bed in some pain as the object was pushed into me.

It really hurt. My God it hurt.

That, however, isn't the problem. The problem is that the cock is still on display. For various reasons, we left my house and went back to my girlfriend's without having time to tidy up the place.

And I was intending to be back at home on Tuesday night, but thanks to Network Rail, that never happened. I'll be back home sometime on Saturday night.

By then, it will be too late. Because by then, my neighbour will have been in the house. She's been away at a friend's, but she's back tonight.

She's 86. To my shame but also delight, she insists on cleaning my house for me.

Seriously. As soon as I gave her a key of her own, she started cleaning my house and doing my washing up. She even takes the bins out. She moans she gets bored if she doesn't get out of the house and tidy up for me. Seriously, she asks in a plaintive voice if I have any washing up for her.

She's 86. God knows, I help her out as much as I can, sorting out her life for her wherever possible. She hardly speaks English - she's Serbian. No children, widowed. I'm the nearest thing to a son she'll ever have.

She's very religious.

She's going to see, erect at the side of my bed, an 8 inch cock.

And I'm not sure how I can ever look her in the eye again.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:14, 12 replies)
The one that wouldn't
Other half's parent's house, a Sunday afternoon, feel the urge. Opt to use the downstairs toilet.

Now their downstairs toilet is rather like an American toilet, shallow bowl, high water level, and a flush so weak that throwing a cup of water in the bowl would have been more effective. The cistern also takes a good 5 minutes to refill. Being lazy and somewhat naive, I ran the gauntlet.

I produced one to be proud of. A smooth admirable type 4 requiring little wipe-age. It was one of those that is maybe a couple of mil larger than the bore of the balloon knot requiring a solid effort in birthing, and it sat proudly in the bowl.

My pride was cut short by the thought "god-damn, is this thing going to flush?!"

With crossed fingers I pulled the handle, and watched with relief as everything disappeared around the u-bend. I finished washing my hands and glanced back at the toilet.

The turd was back in the bowl again. "What ... the ... hell...?"

After waiting for the cistern to fill I flushed and I kept watch this time. Everything disappeared again but as the flush subsided the turd reappeared slowly and smoothly from around the u-bend, like some sort of disgusting eel, swaying in the current. I swear it had a grin on it's face.

Dammit, Dammit, Dammit. It was brush time. I thrust downward into the water, in the hope I could just break it up a bit. I pulled the brush out again to find I had merely dented it, it's grin now upturned into a grimace. Another flush, the same slow ominous reappearance. More bashing, more flushing, and still the thing re-emerged, merely dented. It was like I was playing a perverted, scatological game of whack-a-mole.

I needed to slice this thing some how, but in the small room all I had was the toilet brush. I couldn't go and fetch a spoon/knife/hanger as I would have to walk past confused girlfriend and parents. There was only one option left, the hand...

I pulled up my sleeve, swathed my hand in toilet paper (thankfully it was the posh double ply stuff), reached in to the depths and clawed the thing in half. I was surprised at how dense it was, like clay or plasticine. It took quite some effort to break it.

Towelled off my arm (the toilet paper had made a surprisingly good glove), another flush, this time no movement. It was stuck to the bottom of the bowl where I had clawed at it. I may have started crying at this point.

In my anger I grabbed the toilet brush again, and in a desperate frenzy thrust, stabbed, twisted and churned the bowl. The water went murky and with one last flush everything disappeared and stayed disappeared. I breathed a sigh of relief, washed up and left what had been my temporary dungeon.

Now I just had to explain to girlfriend and her folks why I'd been in the toilet for 45 minutes...

genuine apologies for length!
(, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 15:21, 4 replies)

In 1981 or so, an interail card cost about £120 and gave you free unlimited rail travel throughout Europe. I loved them and being a loner, used to travel about by myself, staying in youth hostels and having fun.

One time I'd been travelling in Germany, Heidelburg etc, living cheaply and eating mainly bread and tinned tuna. German bread is wonderful stuff. A loaf weighs about a pound, is very dark brown, full of rye, keeps fresh for ages and tastes good too. A couple of slices is a full meal. The only problem being that as it is 99.4% roughage, it moves very slowly through the old digestive tract. In fact I went about four days without a crap though I was eating regularly.

When I'd had enough of Germany, I moved south to Italy and my first stop was Venice (ah, Venice), where I stayed at the youth hostel. I checked in, found my bunk, had a wash etc. and got chatting with a couple of nice girls from Birmingham. We all ate at the canteen that night and the food was good, cheap and plentiful...and Italian. Loads of pasta cooked with loads of olive oil and a side salad with a nice oily salad dressing. I went to bed full and contented, though feeling a little bloated.

In the morning, after a bread and coffee breakfast, we were kicked out so that they could clean the rooms. I headed for the Peggy Guggenheim museum - home to many fine works of modern art. I got there to find that it didn't open until 11am, not a problem, I wasn't in a rush. It was sunny, it was 10 o'clock; I found a bench nearby overlooking the Grand Canal, sat down, got a book out of my army surplus 'man bag' and rolled myself a cig.

As soon as I took a drag, I felt something stir. I don't think there was much mention in the '1st cig' answers of the power of tobacco to move guts, well it does. My guts moved into first gear and slowly let out the clutch. Italian oil had met German bread and, with a helpful word from Old Holborn, told it to move along please. I looked at my watch, 10.15: still 45 minutes to go. I pondered the wisdom of looking for a toilet elsewhere, but as every movement was proving hazardous, I judged it safer to wait where I was and rush to the loo as soon as the gallery opened. By 10.30 I was clenching so hard I had cramp in my buttocks. By 10.45 my vision was going blurry and I was moaning out loud....at 11 O'clock, I was first through the door - I'd got the right money ready for my ticket, almost ran from the ticket office and flew straight for the bog. There was just one toilet, one sink and a towel, I slammed the door shut, locked it and dropped my trousers and pants as I turned to drop my arse on the seat.

It was the most wonderful shit of my life. Ten pounds of well-digested German rye bread came out like an ocean liner sliding majestically down the slipway on its grand launch. It made a similar splash as it hit the water and, in all probability, you could have cracked a bottle of champagne on it. I could even hear the cheering of the crowds and see their brightly coloured flags being waved - children perched on their fathers' shoulders for a better view.

I practically floated off the bog with the lifting of the weight. There were tears in my eyes, my legs were shaky and my poor anus was slowly easing closed again, having been stretched to limits usually reserved for the poor young victims of well-endowed peados. Savouring the moment I gingerly wiped and checked for blood - nothing but Guiness-black poo. I sat back and luxuriated for a minute. That was when I heard a voice from outside the toilet say in a worried American accent:

"I don't know, I saw a young man go in a some time ago"

Feeling euphoric, I smiled broadly to myself in the mirror as I pulled up the now-loose-fitting jeans, took my time, washed my face, dried my hands and rolled myself a fresh ciggie for when I got out. I stuck the roly behind my ear and emerged smiling broadly to an audience of geriactic yanks queing up with their legs crossed.

I do like a bit of culture.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:21, 3 replies)
Shitting gauze
A few weeks ago, I had all my wisdom teeth out. In the weeks preceding the operation I spent an inordinate amount of time looking it up on the internet, practically memorising the wikipedia page on wisdom teeth, googling every possible complication, reading the entirety of the "dentists" QOTW (damn you all, you made me terrified) and even typing "wisdom tooth extraction" into the search bar on YouTube, which I do not recommend anyone does under any circumstances. By the time the day of the operation dawned, I thought I knew what to expect. I thought I was prepared. I had painkillers, sleeping pills, mouthwash, ice packs, everything I could possibly need. I had become an expert on wisdom tooth extractions and all of their possible complications. However, I suffered a terrible complication that not even google, YouTube or b3ta could have prepared me for. "But pray tell, grandmasterfluffles," I hear you cry, "What could a grisly dental operation possibly have to do with poo?"

More than you think.

There were quite a few complications with the operation itself which I won't go into in great detail, but most importantly, the nasty fuckers at the bottom were impacted not just in the gum but also in the jaw bone itself, meaning that they had to remove chunks of my jaw to get them out. Although I had taken my surgeon's advice and taken a maximum dose of painkillers well before the anaesthetic wore off I was, as might be expected, in a fuck load of pain. However, it was much more bearable than I had feared. "This is fine," I thought, "I can easily handle this for a couple of days..." It then occurred to me that it was probably time to take out my gauze packs. For anyone not in the know, when you have a tooth extracted, you're given a rolled up bit of damp gauze to bite on to soak up the blood. Mine had become decidedly gross and soggy and I seemed to have stopped bleeding, so I removed them. Within a couple of seconds I was in unbearable, excruciating agony. Remember how they'd had to break my jaw to get the teeth out? Well, I basically had two open fractures in my mouth, and the gauze packs had been the only things stopping my mangled jaw bone from being exposed. I made myself another couple of gauze packs immediately, and the hideous, excruciating, mind-mangling pain abated swiftly. By the time I went to bed, it was still excruciatingly painful taking the gauze packs out, so I went to sleep with them in.

Now, after extensive research, it's my opinion that no amount of alcohol, in fact no substance whatsoever, is capable of producing quite the level of sheer stupidity, wooziness and general moronic behaviour that is possible when you haven't yet woken up properly. At about 2am that night I had a great dream that I was chewing a really yummy piece of French bread. It was the best baguette I'd ever tasted - crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, with really good unsalted butter... It did occur to me that crusty French bread wasn't the most sensible thing to be eating in my current condition, and I was having serious difficulty chewing it. A sensible person would have admitted defeat and spat it out, but alas, I am not at all sensible and also phenomenally greedy. I swallowed the bread almost whole. Then, joy of joys, I found that I had another yummy piece of baguette on the other side of my mouth! I began chewing that too. Then my semi-conscious self was jolted rapidly into full consciousness by the realisation that I was gnawing at one of my disgusting, bloody gauze packs, and the other one was making its uncomfortable way down to my stomach.

I phoned NHS Direct for some advice, and they laughed at me. Oh yes, they laughed at me! I had serious difficulty explaining the problem seeing as I was about as articulate as a chimpanzee with a cleft palate, but I managed it in the end. I got the distinct impression that every time I was put on hold, the whole office was probably exploding into hysterics. The nurse I spoke to asked me a few questions ("Do you have bloody stools?" Why would I when I'd only swallowed the thing an hour previously?) and told me that it would probably make its way through my digestive system with no complications. However, she did tell me that if I had any abdominal pain whatsoever I was to get myself to A&E immediately, where they would do a barium x-ray and probably operate to remove it. This did not sound pleasant, and in fact, the first thing that popped into my head was Legless' legendary QOTW contribution about barium shits. If it hadn't made its way out of my system within two weeks, I would also need a barium x-ray to check it wasn't stuck somewhere. And guess how I was going to have to track its reappearance? That's right - by dissecting everything that came out of my arse until it turned up!

I really had thought that the low point of my life had been on the day of the operation, drugged up to the eyeballs with two open fractures in my jaw, but no, nothing beats kneeling over a toilet bowl 24 hours later, still looking and feeling as if you've done ten rounds with Mike Tyson, poking at your own bowel movements with an old toothbrush. Since I wasn't eating much at all, my digestive transit was a little on the sluggish side, and I had to dissect three poos before I found the offending gauze pack. I then did a little victory dance around the bathroom, still smeared in my own excrement. I would not wish this experience on anyone, and have since had great sympathy for pathologists examining stool samples for a living.

Length? The surgeon said they were the longest roots he'd ever seen in such a small person.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 15:01, 7 replies)
Rectal abuse in Phnom Penh.
Apologies, this is quite long.

Last November, Mr BobFossil and I took ourselves off on a little trip across Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam, overland from Bangkok to Saigon, via Siem Riep and Phnom Penh. By our last night in Phnom Penh, we were craving something other than Cambodia food, so when we were offered the chance to dine at the FCC (Foreign Correspondents Club) we jumped at the chance. We had margheritas and pizza galore, and were looking forward to a good nights sleep before jumping on the bus to Saigon the following day at 8am. Sadly, this feeling of contentment was not to last.

I woke up at about 5am feeling slightly odd. I lay there, trying to get together the energy to go to the loo for a pee, which is what I assumed had woken me up. Then suddenly, the overwhelming knowledge that I was going to be imminently and violently unwell hit me. I knelt over the porcelain throne, and...nothing. Not even a little bit of bile.

However, as soon as I stood up, I suddenly had to sit down again, 0.5 seconds before my arse emitted a thin stream of pure brown hatred. I pushed until it sputtered to an end, wiped and flushed. Stood up, sat down and excreted more of this liquid venom that was sullying my innocent bowels. Funnily enough, it didn't smell too bad at this point. It must have been the scouting party, preparing for the anal assault I was about to suffer.

At this point, I began to feel a bit sick. Both bath and sink were too far to each side to aim for: I would have had to lean over, and risk propelling a jet of watery effluent all over the bathroom walls. Aha! There's a small bin for sanitary towels, cunningly lined with a carrier bag. I grabbed that and hurled a small amount of bile into it. By this point, it was getting on for 6.30am. I had an hour and a half to pack my bags, empty myself of whatever bug was raping my digestive system, and get cleaned. I strained gently on my bowels, and nothing came out. It would appear that I was empty. I emerged from the bathroom, told the boyfriend that I would not be coming to breakfast, and swallowed a couple of immodium. They immediately reappeared in a small pool of vomit. Oh dear. If I can't make my insides solid, then this 7 hour journey from Phnom Penh to Saigon, on a public bus, was going to be interesting...I needed to get whatever was still inside of me out, and fast.

I had a packet of "rehydration" powder to add to a glass of water to create "a delightfully effervescent drink, with a refreshing lemon taste". Bingo. As everyone knows, those things taste vile. I sat myself on the loo, bin clutched 'twixt knees in readiness, made a glass of the foul drink, downed it in one, and waited...for all of 10 seconds. Suddenly, hell came a-calling. I threw up a soggy mass of what felt like an entire baby (which was probably most of the calzone pizza from supper), and the sheer pain of this made my stomach buck around like a wild horse. Naturally, the violent muscle contractions in my torso managed to kick my arse into gear, and forced out a pint of liquid shit, which smelt truly horrendous. The smell made me retch, and bring up another diseased stomach-baby, which in its turn forced out another stream of steaming bum-bovril.

While I was imitating Etna at both ends, I thought about my situation. My boyfriend is outside getting acquainted with the harmonious strains of food poisoning whilst doing my packing for me, I'm in some weird vicious circle of digestive hell, and we have to get the bus in half an hour. It was very nearly depressing. Instead, as a true b3tan, I found it strangely hilarious. So now, the sounds coming from the bathroom were:


Every time I giggled, I would vomit. Every time I vomited, my arse exploded. And every time my arse exploded, I laughed at it all.

This did all actually help in the end though, as it forced everything out quite quickly, I tied the vomit-filled carrier bag handles together and left it in the loo, managed to keep down some immodium, and we (barely) made the bus. I'd stuffed my pants with sanitary towels, and had a dozen carrier bags at the ready, but fortunately the bus had a loo, and no accidents were had.

I didn't eat for the next three days though, as I really didn't want to be found dead in a Saigon hotel, leaking at both ends, with an inane grin on my face.

EDIT: I would like to point out that this was the only non-local meal I had for the entire trip, and I really am a very adventurous eater. The fried grasshoppers and beetles in Siep Reap were quite nice. It's ironic that the one western meal I had was also the source of my rectal doom.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 13:32, 5 replies)
Shitty shitty patient...
My ambulance was sent to a woman complaining of abdominal pain. No one mentioned the reason why…
My partner (nickname of Fabio) and I walked into the residence and I can handle a lot of gross smells but this smelled like the patient had done a shit, vomited into said shit, let it ferment in piss for week, added a heaped tablespoon of vinegar flavoured rat cum and then re-ingested the lot and shat it out again. There was shit on the sofa, shit in the carpet, shitty handprints on the walls, shit all over the patient (who had passed out and was laying in the shitty shit) and there was shit in the shit.

Fortunately, my partner was patient care officer on this job thus enabling me to tread shit whilst alternately making fake dry retching noises and laughing at his genuine retching.

The patient came round and my partner started to clean her up – we’d normally wrap such a patient in some blankets but she really did need to lose a few kilos of the shit which encased her.
In the end, I felt sorry for my partner so I swam over and helped him clean up the patient.

About a week later we received a thank-you card from the patient which surprisingly did not smell of shit. She was very embarrassed by the whole situation and was profusely apologetic.
Before my partner saw the card I forged an extra line of writing which said:
“Fabio, did your thumb slip up my arse because of the shit or was that just a way of stopping me doing any more? Either way, it was nice. Call me.”

I added a couple of brown thumb prints to the card courtesy of Cadburys.

He actually dry retched on reading the card, which was nice.
(, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 2:27, 2 replies)
Three is the magic number
There are many versions of a fabled 'Triple Crown'. Some involve booze, some involve sleeping with girls and other generations of her family. My own involves poo.

A Saturday night, two years ago, and Son #2 was overdue, so a night of sex and curry hurried the little blighter along. Quite a bit in fact, as a few hours later we were down the hospital and every time Lady St.Roker pushed, she hurled barely digested curry down my chest. Out he popped, and promptly pissed down my right arm.

I handed him back to nursey and while everyone did their tests or started putting stitches where you don't want them, I noticed a long snake of black rubber that had appeared on my left arm. I marvelled at it a while, picking at it, making shapes with it, pulling it off and putting it back on to see how it stuck to the hairs. At no point did I even consider that my shiney new son had shat all down my arm. That came later when a very nice nurse asked me to stop trying to stick it to the wall. Covered in puke, piss, and poo at the same time, now that's a Triple Crown.

Epi-log Part 1: He's just started potty training and has a younger sister. When he pinched his first one off, she picked it out of the potty, shook the wee off, and held it up to show me. Alas, no one was sick on her and she has to make do with the Double.

Epi-log Part 2: M'Lady's birthday yesterday, so took her to a posh hotel for afternoon tea. Sitting on the balcony, all very civilised until my little scatophile decided he needed a crap. He didn't feel the need to tell anyone about it, or even find a toilet for that matter, but simply dropped his Lightening McQueen pants, pushed his arse up against the railings and let one drop down, down, down, onto the bar area below. Oh how we ran.

That trumps when he pulled them down in Boots for a pee over the Lynx deodorants.

He's ace.
(, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:21, 5 replies)
Travels on the sleeper bus
When I travelled in China in 1996, I had the chance to ride on one of the sleeper buses that runs through China. These are buses stripped of all their seats with narrow double bunks installed inside. The entire trip was spent lying down next to someone. The bunks on top were close enough to the ceiling that sitting up straight would cause you to slam your head, and the bottom ones were similar, though you could lean into the narrow rubber floored aisle. Obviously this bus had no toilet, so when the bus made a rare stop you took the opportunity. All bunks were shared, so I grabbed Mark, the smallest amongst our group, as my bunkmate.

The trip was interesting, I could lay on my side and watch the scenery slide past. As is typical, people were smoking, and noisily coughing up gouts of phlegm which would then be spat onto the floor, sometimes smeared with a foot to help it dry quickly.

As the night wore on things began to quieten. I managed to find a semi comfortable sleeping position that afforded me a view from the window. A couple of hours from the city we reached the roadworks between our destinations, and from there the road became a pitted stretch of dirt, which rocked the bus violently, and lead to such a slow speed that I almost could have walked alongside. Nevertheless, I managed to sleep for a while.

That is, until I woke needing to go to the toilet. Something I had eaten was not agreeing with me, and I clenched my buttocks shut, wondering if temporary denial of access for the broiling mass within me would perhaps change it's mind. I swallowed one of my anti-diarrhoea tablets, and waited to see if it would have an effect. No such luck. With deft efficiency born of desperation I grabbed my shoes and my precious roll of toilet paper, which I crammed into my left shoe. I crawled slowly over Mark, waking him first to make sure he wouldn't think he was about to be molested.

I dropped lightly into the aisle, not waking anyone, and stood up straight. I made my way to the driver, and said `Cesuo', meaning `Toilet'. He said something I didn't understand, and then gestured for me to get back. I tried again but he looked angry, and my knowledge of Chinese didn't cover such emergencies. I stood back, and began to clench in an attempt to prevent myself from making a real mess. I knew that if I `Broke the seal' I would be unable to stop myself. I clenched my jaw and waited, and waited. Several millenia passed, and I looked at my watch. It had been 10 minutes. Our arrival would be around 6 am, approximately 3 hours from now. There was no possible way I could hold it in. Just as this thought arrived, I noticed with delight that the urgency was waning! My body had finally received the message! Feeling substantially better, I climbed back into the bed.

I knew immediately I had made a serious error in judgement. The wave had not receded, it had merely fallen back and waited for reinforcements, like the ocean receding before the tsunami arrives.

The second I lay back down I was assaulted from within with renewed vigour. I climbed back over Mark in a hurry, and jumped into the aisle, stepping heavily on my tour leader's leg. She woke up for about 5 seconds and swore, then fell immediately back asleep. I began the process of clenching my jaw and anus once again, but realised fairly quickly that I had no chance. My options within the next minute were to get off the bus and relieve myself or stay on the bus and relieve myself.

With a confidence born of desperation, I stepped to the drivers side and said, loudly, `CESUO'. He looked at me, obviously pissed off at the long nose bastard, and muttered `Cesuo?'. `Dui, Cesuo!' I said, managing to retain a sweaty sort of composure. `Kwai, kwai (quick!)' he said angrily, and pulled over, opening the door. In a head slapping moment of insight some time later, I realised that I should have simply bribed him to stop when I first asked him.

I looked out into the wet sand that made the side of the road, and turned to get my shoes and toilet paper. One shoe had disappeared! It was nowhere in sight!

Can you guess which shoe it was, friends and neighbours?

That's right! The shoe with the toilet paper!

I was about to spend time looking when a muscle spasm caused me to nearly befoul myself. I leapt from the door, praying the driver would not take off, and looked about for somewhere to conceal myself. As I stood with my socks sinking slowly into the damp coarse sand, I realised there was absolutely nowhere to hide. We were hemmed in by a ridge of sand which was being used to make the road better, and was about half the height of the bus. This was to be my first squat in a very long time. Without much hesitation I dropped trousers in plain view of any awake passengers on my side of the bus who cared to look, and unleashed a great steaming pile of liquid shit.

Now, I know that there are heights of pleasure rarely accomplished without pharmaceuticals or years of meditation. If the overwhelming sensation of relief that I discovered at that moment could be bottled, I would be well and truly rich. I gasped in delight as waves of relief flushed through my body, and finished up. I looked down, and to my surprise realised I had not soiled my pants, legs or feet one bit! In the heat of the moment I had paid little attention to the direction of the spray of either my starfish or dick, and it seems that only luck prevented what would have been one of the messier experiences of my life.

Pleasure then turned to a sense of mild despair. I realised that I had no toilet paper of any form, and unless I chose to wipe with my socks, I was probably going back onto a bus, unwiped, in close quarters with my travelling companions. Thinking quickly I exercised the option that I considered to be most valid, I extended my index finger and wiped, once for each buttock. I then flicked my finger, scrubbed it with sand, and returned to the bus, where I sterilised with rubbing alcohol. I suppose I could have played a game of `smell my finger' with my bunkmate, but I'm not that evil (and I know that I must sleep at some point).

My shoe, with toilet paper, was found the next morning under a bunk. Other members of the group expressed disgust that I had walked on the floor in bare socks. I never had the heart to tell them about the high tech wipe. High tech? Yeah, it was digital.
(, Thu 3 Apr 2008, 1:16, 3 replies)
I know girls don't poo, but.....
(why don't I remember these things until the QOTW is almost over?)
Here is a story my mother has never let me forget.

When I was but a little flirt, my parents decided upon a bit of DIY. I couldn't have been more than 2 or 3 when they dragged me off to the hardware store with them. Naturally, I felt the need to poo. I informed mother, but she didn't understand my toddler babble, so I started wandering around the store by myself.

She found me soon after......perched on a display toilet, my one-piece outfit around my ankles, looking through a sales brochure. Apparently, I had even asked a passing salesman for a cup of water because she spotted one heading my way with said cup.

She pulled me off the toilet while apologizing to the salesman profusely. That was when she glanced in the display toilet and realized that I had done more than a little pee. She offered to clean it up but the salesman was not having it.

Unfortunately, this is not where the story ends.

When I moved out of the parental abode into my first apartment, I had a lovely landlord. He popped in while my parents were over for dinner shortly after I moved in. He was a retired gentleman, and as it transpired, retired from the very same hardware store of my childhood shame. Mother felt the need to share the story. My landlord started chuckling and said, "I remember that. And of course I had to bring her a cup of water, she was such a darling little thing!"

Oh the shame. I wish I had made this story up......it took 6 months before I was too embarassed to face my landlord.
(, Wed 2 Apr 2008, 5:00, 2 replies)
Don't eat the meat toasties!
Case #1

Istanbul and Bodrum, Turkey

Probable cause : Delicious meat toastie

1st Remedy : Lemon Juice mixed with Nescafe Coffee

Result - Copious vomiting

2nd Remedy : Laying in bed and attempting to die

Result - Auditory hallucinations - an entire episode of 'Moonlighting' (remember that?) heard in English, followed the plot, got the jokes, the lot. Except it was in Turkish. I don't speak Turkish.

1st Comedy Moment : I'm in the bathroom expelling from both ends. Boyfriend of the time in the bedroom asking me to hurry up. Now. Please. Hurry Up! Oh Dear God!

Don't bother.

2nd Comedy Moment : I will not be beaten by this bug so I book a daytrip to Ephesus. Feeling much better, managed the entire coach journey with no problems at all. Reach the ancient site, get off the coach.



3rd Comedy Moment : On return through Customs at Gatwick I am pulled over by the men in uniform. Why? I've just returned from a fortnight in the sun. I look like death - grey pallor, slightly sweaty, and who am I looking out for? My case has to be broken open - couldn't find the key. In an explosion of dirty knickers (eeww! But not *that* dirty) the Customs guys find……nothing but overspending. They fine me and tell me I'll be sent to prison if I do it again within five years. I cry as I watch men and women with healthy tans walk past wearing entire leather outfits and Turkish carpets strapped to their backs.

Final Results and Conclusion
I see my GP. I suggest I have Typhoid. He tells me I have Salmonella. I lose nearly 30 pounds in weight.


Case #2

Place: Tangier, Morocco

Probable cause : Delicious meat toastie

1st Remedy : 'Medicalcork' (that's the generic name, it's also known as 'Bungup' and 'Stopshits' ) from the local doctor.

Result - Stop producing pale brown fluid from both ends.

2nd Remedy : Eating small quantities of boiled rice

Result - entire bowel peristalsis is halted

Comedy Moment : I can't go. At. All. I try eating a little fruit. Nothing. A little fruit juice. Nothing. Two days later I feel the urge to go. I retire to the bathroom - a cupboard in the hotel room. I sit and wait. And wait. Then. Oh. My. God. I want to die. I begin to cry. My husband (at that time, #1) hears me, he comes and holds my hands. Slowly over the course of what seemed like hours I manage to pass a small white golf ball.

A golf ball.

(, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:16, 14 replies)

This question is now closed.

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