Remembering my epic trouser-trumpet
has brought to mind another tale from my days in the sweet factory (a small family run one, but they sell to all the major scottish tourist resorts.... if you visited any historical sites in scotland around ten years ago, you might have eaten some of my handiwork..... fear not, I was hygeinic, even if the penny pinching bastards who owned the place were not.... but I digress)

The owner of the factory obviously had a very rich diet. There were, in total, 4 men (well, 3 men and a scrawny little me) who worked in the factory.... me, the handyman/dogsbody person, the factory owner and the manager, his son. So although it took a few weeks of staring at each other and looking disgusted, we soon figured out that it was the factory owner who produced an absolutely ungodly reek in the gents toilets on occasion. I have never smelt anything like it before or since, the man produced an odour satan himself would have boaked at.

It was fortunate for me that where I worked was at the other end of the factory to the toilets, as the stench he created regularly made it's way through 2 thick wooden doors and permeated at least helfway down the factory.... and this was a sweet factory... the air was thick with the smell of cooking fudge. Yet you could still smell it. The poor ladies who worked on the twist wrapping machines were stood a mere ten feet from the door of the gents and regularly got gassed.

It so happens, one of these ladies was a particularly attractive young thing. 2 years older than me, she was absolutley gorgeous.... long blonde hair, green eyes, amazing figure. I shall call her "E", as this is her initial. She was going out with the factory manager and I was engaged (and not the sort to cheat, poor fool that I am), and even so theres no way she would have been interested in a scrawny little runt like I was back then, but she knew I was in awe of her and it sort of made us quite good friends. We would have a great laugh at tea times, she would regularly stun me with her figure during summertime to the amusement of our other workmates (I once choked on a sandwich when she appeared in a crop top and cut off denim shorts in the tea room) and we got on very well. (I'm digressing aren't I.... she really was quite something)

So, when the factory owner had gone on one of his frequent holidays, the talk between us turned to his toilet habits. She was relieved to know he wouldn't be giving her his daily gassing, and we all had a great laugh about how vile he was.

Two weeks passed.

The nature of my job meant I had to take my breaks according to the stuff I was making..... I could have a break between boils or during a stirring period when no heat was being applied to the mix. This meant I often had to take my break alone too, which was rubbish. One day, after one such break, I returned to the factory floor and made my way to the clock next to the twist wrappers to clock back in. It hit me in the face like a frying pan. I was barely halfway to the clock and I swear he must not have shat for the whole two weeks. As I gagged, I looked up and saw, through the tears, E turning towards me with an insane grin on her face.

"He's BAAAAAAAACK"
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 17:09, 2 replies)

have you ever thought
that you might have irritable bowel syndrome?
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 3:12, closed)

I've just sort of
accepted it as fact :P No need to bother the docs, it was doing so that led to the carnage on my chutney highway in the first place!
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sun 30 Mar 2008, 15:16, closed)