Sure, I'd love to blow up some caravans
My parents had this nasty habit of taking us caravaning.

One time, we wound up in North Wales. The caravan was parked up in a fairly crowded campsite (otherwise known as a field with a cesspit and a tap) in a valley. I might have possibly stood some chance of being able to enjoy and appreciate this a bit better if I hadn't been horribly constipated.

Fed up with this state of affairs, I resolved to do something about it, so I went off to the chemical toilet we had in the usual little porta potty-style tent next to the caravan and sat there straining away for about ten minutes. Unbeknown to me, the toilet had recently been emptied, and was sat astride a dip in the ground. This meant that when the compacted turd landed in the toilet's tank there was nothing to deaden the impact and it made a sound rather like someone throwing half a brick into a bucket. I swear I could hear it echoing down the valley. I sat there rather embarassed for another five minutes thinking that they must have heard that in Cardiff.

Length? Not much, but it helped.
(An eejit passing by in a purple satin skirt with sparkly bits, Thu 29 Mar 2012, 21:26, Reply)