With friends like these ...
Part 1. We were 16, waiting at the bus stop to go to the Metro Centre. One of us farted, we all laughed in the way that only 16 year old boys can laugh at farts. Eventually the chatter moves on to higher matters, and the fartee sneaks over to me. "PaulieG", he says, "I think I've followed through, I'm going to go home to change my trousers, don't say anything to anyone, I'm going to pretend I need to go back to get some cash."

"Okay" says I. So the fartee makes his excuses and leaves. As he crosses the road, I blurt out "He's not going for money, he's shat hisself". He looks back hurt, then runs home with the run of one trying not to encourage more liquid out of their pants. Everyone else nearly cacks it from laughing so hard.

Now, the fartee would never have told me if he knew about ...

2. Five years previously. A beautiful summers day, me and a friend are playing in the local woods. He disappears behind a bush complaining of needing the toilet. Minutes pass, he comes out looking abashed. "It was a poo" he says, but the yellow-ish matter dribbling down his legs from his shorts tell me all I need to know. We head home, me keeping watch for anyone getting too close to notice the mishap, my friend hiding in the suburban gardens between the wood and the new pants awaiting him at home. We manage to get close to his house with no-one noticing, but the final, tortuous leg of the journey still remains.

There is a grassy area near my friends house where on a hot summers day the locals, both parents and children, were prone to gather to take in the rays. We cower at the corner, my friend beseeching me to see if the coast is clear. I peer round, and spot what can only be described as summer suburban bliss. Couples sunbathing, dogs panting, children playing. Certainly, the coast was anything but clear. "There's no-one there, you'll be fine" I say, shoving my friend around the corner. He stumbles into the crowd and teeters on the brink ... does he turn and hide and wait 'til darkness, or run the gauntlet now. He runs, and as I wipe the tears of laughter from my eye I'm sure I see a spray of yellowy liquid following his path.

Its odd really, I'd like to think I'm actually a very honest, trustworthy person. There's just something about poo-based accidents that makes me toss my moral compass into the copper coils of madness. The moral of this story: if you've had an unfortunate defecatory incident, whatever you do, don't tell me.
( paulieg La, la, la, not listening, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 1:19, Reply)