Leeds Festival 2007
Thursday night, watching the bands on the unsigned stage, one guitarist advises the crowds 'if you need a shit...just go', or thereabouts.
Friday morning, I wake up bright and early (and not yet sunburnt- my sunburn is still visible to this day) and my bowels are making the same command. I have a cup of tea and a fag and a few biscuits before I can't ignore it any more, grab my pack of Tesco Value baby wipes and trot off to the holes in the ground at the end of the campsite.
These are thoroughly unpleasant affairs, green metal cubicles with a seat over the troughs, but it was only Friday morning, they weren't too bad yet. I wipe the seat with a couple of wipes, tuck my pack under my arm, park my arse and get started.
I knew I should have hovered. There was splashback. I'm not the most squeamish person in the world but the thought of someone else's poowater gently stroking my bumhole puts the shivers up me. In my rush to get the pack of wipes open to clean myself, I dropped it down the open hole.
Brilliant. I hadn't even brought any bog roll into the cubicle, and now I had a shitty and poowatered arse. I had to pull my tights up, leave the cubicle, waddle over to get some bog roll, and go back to wipe my arse.
I didn't poo for the rest of the weekend.
(and now for someone completely different, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 23:41, Reply)