Cheese Fondue Shits
I'll always remember the first time I had a Fondue. I was staying in France with some friends of mine, sleeping in my Transit van in the village car park and spending the days out enjoying the scenery and drinking, smoking and eating with them.

One evening, we had a Fondue. We also had several liters of white wine between us, some Pastis, some apricot-flavoured liqour, lots of joints, and probably some rum too. At about 2am, I went to my van to crash out.

Around 6am, I woke up with a rumbling down below. I needed to shit, and I needed to shit now. And the toilet was in the house 500 yards away. I'd never make it that far.

There was nothing for it. I flung open the side door, perched my arse over the side, and unleashed a torrent of foamy yellow shite.

But that wasn't all. Of course there was nothing to wipe my arse on. I would have to jump over the pool of foul-smelling matter in order to get out of the van, and run to the house to get some bog roll.

Yep, you guessed it. I slipped on the shit, and fell backwards into a pool of my own filth. Then I vommited.

So there I was. Lying naked on the road covered in shit and vomit in a tiny village in southern France. It doesn't get much better than this, I thought. And I was right.

I heard the rumbling of an engine in the distance. It was the postman.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 11:12, Reply)