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.
(pmsc, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:20, 10 replies)

"I sit back on the toilet seat and begin to cry."
LOL!

Had me in stiches!
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:28, closed)

Absolutely fantastic
if this doesn't make it to the front page, I am no judge of comedy

'ker-leeek'
( Droog is too orangey for crows, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:28, closed)

Oh.
My.
God.

You poor, poor bastard...
( Mike Fishcake teamfishcake.co.uk - better than your mum's face, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:28, closed)

Aww, mate :(
*hugs*
( Jessie © needs pirate name suggestions, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:28, closed)

Pathos, pure and simple
*Clicks*
( jim_bob can herd cats., Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:34, closed)

Fucking hell... you poor little (runny) shit! Haha!
(LadyTramp79 Left a bit, right a bit..., Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:40, closed)

And that's why I always check the seat before I sit down when on public transport.
Although in all fairness, you couldn't help it.

"Click"
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:49, closed)

In honesty...
I would have bloody well cried too. But this is a hilarious account of a horrific situation nonetheless - and therefore:

*click*
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 16:54, closed)

Click-tastic
Mind you, it would probably be a fairly sound defence if you had hoyed your GF off a tall building for dragging you out to your dooooom.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Mon 31 Mar 2008, 17:17, closed)

Reminds me of the time...
At a festival, the then gf reappeared covered in (what I thought was) mud...oh no, she'd decided it was a great idea to go mud wrestling in the vicinity of the loos - she was covered from head to toe in shit and stank to high heaven. Cue me stripping her by a water tap late at night and triple bagging her clothes for disposal

*click*
( snee held his breath since, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 14:04, closed)