Barium Shits.
Years ago I was diagnosed with a stomach ulcer and had to go for hospital for tests, the main one being a Barium Meal.

Now this is a process where you drink a polystyrene beaker of sludge and they X-ray you to find out what your insides look like as Barium is opaque to x-rays. So they strapped me on the table (the table moves and swivels as well) and gave a this beaker of "Strawberry Flavoured" barium sludge. I nearly broke my wrist! It was a bout a pint of barium sludge and it weighed a fucking ton. It felt as if the beaker was filled with lead. And drinking it was like pouring slow-setting concrete down my throat. Not nice.

Anyway, tests over I headed for home. The next day I awoke bright and early and went for my usual morning dump. But something was wrong. I could feel immense pressure in my guts, but strain as I might, nothing was moving. Refusing to be beaten by a turd, I gathered my will and went for a knuckle-biting strain and Glory Be! I felt the obstruction start to move. Now once this fucker was on it's way, nothing was going to stop it. It was with a feeling of horror that I felt my poor arsehole stretching to dimensions it was never designed for. I was actually moaning softly now. The Turd Of Gods continued to force it's way out of my and eventually crashed into the waiting bowl with the power and majesty of the launching of the Titanic. The noise was deafening - a bit like hearing a torpedo being launched.

Now rid of my burden, I wiped and stood up (and to borrow a line off Stutz79) weak and shaken like a freshly raped dog. I peered into the bowl for the cause of my discomfort and gazed upon an enormous, bright pink turd. It was a thing of awe. About 10 inches long and about 4 inches thick, it lay there at the bottom of my toilet bowl like decomposing shark. I was impressed!

After a while of looking at my handiwork I thought I'd better flush and get on with the day. So I did. And looked and there it was. The flushing hadn't even moved it a millimetre. So I tired again, and again. Still the fucker wouldn't move. Eventually I gave up and went downstairs for a carrier bag which I put over my arm and reached in to grasp the offender and lift it out of the bog. I swear the bugger weighed about 5 pounds. It truly was the Turd of The Gods.

I disposed of it, well wrapped up, into the dustbin but, looking back, I really wish I'd taken a picture of the bugger.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 12:25, Reply)

Went for a long overdue wee

in a posh-looking bar. Statues and paintings everywhere. Lots of arty-looking types.

"Excuse me, where's the bog?" I asked an overworked-looking barman, elbows deep in glasses and hot water, who casually nodded to the other side of the room.

Door with a familiar symbol on it. Enter. Lock. Someone banging on door. Fuckit. Zip. Wang. Relief.

Zip up. Notice that the whole WC is covered in newspaper. Everywhere. Everything, toilet included. WTF? Open door, exit. Met by a look of sheer horror on face of an arty type.

I'd pissed in his art display.
(roysin, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 12:00, Reply)

it's shit.
I am 23, staggering in to the kitchen of my family home, fighting a hangover bigger than the flab roll that hangs over the waist band of Lisa Riely's hot pants. I am wearing my trusty towelling dressing gown, and nothing else. Now, I knew that we had family staying, cus I had to sleep on the sofa. I open the fridge door, with my back to the rest of the kitchen. I thought I was alone. I take a big refreshing gulp of apple juice, and feel a big rumble bubble in the old belly. "Ah, I feel a little windy-pop a-rising!" I happily sing to myself, looking forward to the gas release relief. I squeeze a little, too hard in hind’s sight and out pops a slimy; booze endued jobbie, right on the kitchen floor. It looked like I had broken off one of Bungles (from TV show Rainbow) fingers at the knuckle and smothered it in Vaseline. I am slightly taken a back by this, but not over come. That was until I shut the fridge door, turn around and see my mum, dad, uncle, auntie, sister, gran and grandpa sitting quietly having tea and toasted crumpets.
I had just sang a song about farting, then shat myself in the kitchen. In front of every respected member of my family.

Now, at every opportunity, does not matter if in front of one or hundreds of people, my father is always, “ hey every one, you wanna hear the story when T-bone Jnr shat on the kitchen floor?” I reply with, “ you wanna hear a story about when dad was caught touching the 8 year old boy next door?”. My stories never get a big laugh.
(Jeeves, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 16:27, Reply)

Strange things in the undergrowth...
.
Many moons ago I was a loyal servant of the Queen (Gawd Bless ‘Er), a fearless fighting soldier holding the borders of Germany against the menace of the Slavic Horde. Every year we were sent out into the countryside to lurk in the bushes, waiting for Ivan to come storming through the Fulda Gap, massed tank divisions of the Red Army poised to cut a bloody path to the Rhine. Every exercise season my unit lurked in the forests on Minden Ridge, passing the time away in time honoured tradition, eg, bullying new recruits, winding up officers and stealing each other’s turds.

Yep, that’s right, stealing turds. There are no toilets deep in the forest, and before the arrival of German contractors with their portaloos the solution was to grab a shovel, wander off into the bushes, dig a little hole, crap into it, then tidily fill it in before groping your way back to the tank laagers.

All the old soldiers took great delight in winding up the new boys. We used to warn them of the dangers of the deep German forests, strange animals that hid in the undergrowth, so starving they would eat the shit out of your arse before it hit the ground. Then ply them with illicit lager, crates of Herforder Pils hidden strategically in the ammunition lockers, topped up with bottles of Apple Korn and Jagermeister which all good squaddies have stashed away. Eventually one of these lads would stand up and fart, grab a shovel, and stumble off into the darkness….and the hunt was on!!!!

We would take our own shovel and follow, using our superior fieldcraft skills to silently creep up on the unsuspecting rookie, waiting for him to dig his hole, drop his trousers and squat over to drop his lot. Then snake forward, quietly reach forward with the shovel, place it strategically to catch whatever came out, then quietly withdraw with the spoils. There’s not a man alive who doesn’t turn to inspect his turds after crapping in the forest. But on looking into the hole, there’s a severe lack of evidence, even though he knows he’s just unloaded a good kilo of crap somewhere. So where the fuck is it?

The hardest part is not to laugh when watching this dickhead searching for his missing turds. The red-screened torch would come on, he’d pat the grass with his hands, walk in ever-increasing circles, then start flailing the bushes with his shovel. ‘Get out of it, you little shit-eating bastards!! Where the fuck are you?’ At this point we would fade silently into the background and leg it back to the camp, so by the time he found his way back we would be sitting quietly as before. As he excitedly poured out his story we would all look serious, wonder aloud about ‘Spetsnaz Infiltrators’, then get him to repeat his story ad infinitum, each repetition growing in detail about ‘noises in the bushes’, or ‘something moving in the shadows. Or even, God Save us, ‘a strange smell of corrupt flesh’. The more gullible among them could even be induced to write up an official ‘Contact Report’.

Guarding the West against the Red Menace that never so much fun again.

All true, as God is my witness. So where did those turds really go?


It’s a
(Conundrum, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 13:34, Reply)

Oh man, I can't believe I'm relating this one...
Legless's Barium Shit story reminded me of the last time I was.. uh.. clogged up. The easily squeamed may wish to look away now.

To this day I don't know what happened, but for some reason I was having problems producing anything one morning. I could feel something lurking in there ready to emerge but the bloody thing just would fit through the exit. Immense pain, cold sweats, tensing and relaxing, mild panic, dear lord in heaven please don't leave me looking like Mr. Goatse!

After wondering if a trip to casualty was in order, I hit upon the bright idea of cutting it up with a fork handle. I wiped up what little I'd managed and waddled into the kitchen (feeling dainty at this point) and selected the thinnest handled fork I could fine - a spare from the old set no longer used. Back in the toilet I stuck the handle up my arse into... omg... a solid lump. Oh my god.

I waggled it a bit, and could feel the entire mass turning slowly within my bowels. It was the most disturbing thing I have ever experienced. Somehow, while my eyes streamed tears of pain, panic and probably shame, I managed to draw and quarter the bastard. A couple of minutes waggling my hips to try and reshape it and I was ready to try again.

Success! (Praise Jebus!) The monstrosity slid out into the tranquil waters of the toilet bowl with nary a wimper, and all was well. I turned to face my vanquished foe (because you just have to, right?) and discovered a flat, tennis-ball-sized lump that was the colour of earwax and the consistency of plasticine. Have you ever tried cutting plasticine? Imagine trying to cut it with a fork handle. While it's up your arse. Oh my.

I threw the fork away. No way was it staying in my house.

Length? It was the width that was giving me problems!
( Biggus Dickus , it was like that when I found it, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 12:45, Reply)

A few years back
me and a few mates were knocking around town having a few afternoon refreshments when one of the group felt the urge to go. Looking round he went to the nearest bog in the local shopping centre closly followed by me, needing to get rid of several pints.
He darts into the bog and takes position in trap number one and starts trying to heave out a massive grogan. I'm spraying liberal amounts of piss around as I can't aim strait from laughing at the tortured sounds coming over the partion wall. 'How can I make this a more enjoyable experience for him?' I think to myself and come up with the simple idea of switching off the light to shit in total darkness. CLICK
It was at that exact moment that he was straing his hardest, eyes screwed tightly shut with concentration and grunting that he didn't hear the click or see the lights go out. There was a splash and a relieved sigh quickly followed by panicked screams as he thought he'd ruptured the blood vessels in his eyes with the effort of giving birth to the baby bog fish and sent himself blind.
A concerned shopper comes in to see what's going on to find themselves confronted with a darkend toilet, one man in the cubicle whimpering about his eyes and me almost doubled over and crying with silent laughter.
(boltneck sacrificed a smurf to Cthulhu on, Sat 3 Sep 2005, 0:31, Reply)

Nightmare
I had a nightmare recently where an Austrian policeman broke down the door of my toilet and then weed on me. This was quite disturbing and I blame George Michael.

I once used a toilet on a National Express coach and it was horrible begrimed by a previous occupant, with wee (and other stuff)all over the place. I came out and sat down, some doddery old git came up to me and said "Did you see the mess in the toilet?"

"Yes" I replied.

He grinned toothlessly and said "That was me, hahahahahahahahahaha!"
(Wascally Weasel now with 100% fewer jokes., Fri 2 Sep 2005, 11:34, Reply)

Poor kitty
Today I have awoken with a sense of mild shame, and feel it is my duty to confess.

Last night I went to a barbeque at my friend's parents' new house. After several tins of wifebeater had been tucked away I politely enquired of my friend's mother the whereabouts of the lavatory.

She directed me into the house but warned me that they had two new kittens who were being kept shut in the hall by the toilet this evening, for fear of wandering into the garden and being trodden on by drunken oafs such as myself, and so to be sure not to let them out.

I wandered through the new house feeling rather impressed with it to be honest, a vast improvement on their old place. Then I reached the french doors leading to the aforementioned hall by the toilet, opened them, and nearly fell over.

The most appalling, overwhelming, sickening stench of cat shit I have ever smelt. These two dirty bastard cats had filled their litter tray with shite, evidently it hadn't been emptied to their satisfaction as they had proceeded to extrude soggy turds all around it on the carpet. However the culprits were nowhere to be seen.

I walked into the toilet, and found them. One was on the floor looking up at me quizically, the other was sat on the edge of the toilet seat giving me evils and twitching its tail. And they smelt every bit as bad as the contents of their little anuses.

I couldn't be arsed to get them out so I proceeded to have a piss anyway, which fascinated the one perched on the edge of the pan. It stared transfixed at the stream of piss, adopting that position cats get into when they're about to charge and leap onto a toy/mouse/your hand/etc.

Suddenly I experienced a moment of loathing for this small, smelly, toilet-fascinated creature, and the discomfort it had was causing me.

So I raised my aim and pissed directly into its face.
(Ali Bongo 9000 Ali Bongo 9000, Sun 4 Sep 2005, 11:54, Reply)

self cleaning toilets
some of you may know that in queens square in liverpool there is a row of self cleaning toilets. knowning this, i paid my 10 pence and did my business and held the door open for the next person to use... now...once a person has used the toilet, left the cubical and shut the door, the toilets begin to self clean...what the toilet didnt realise was that i had held the door open for another guy to use and he had shut it behind him, causing the door to lock, jets of water and steam to shoot out of the walls and little sprays of bleach to make sure he was REALLY clean, out he stepped to a crowd of histerical people laughing at his "manly" screams for help.

just think about that next time someone offers to hold the door open for you...
( Sir T. Skellington, Sat 3 Sep 2005, 20:53, Reply)

Never lose hope. Even in the direst of situations.
It was a summer Sunday's afternoon and I was enjoying a few pints with my chums, Greg the Loafer and Harry the Chink, in a country pub only a short bicycle ride away from our home town. It was a clean establishment and clearly very old, yet well-maintained. Half-way through my fourth Guinness I felt the call of nature and so decided to shuffle off to the men's room to relieve myself.

I walked in taking great care as the tiled blue floor was damp. The gents' was quite a spacious room with five urinals against the longest wall and two cubicals at the far end, all lit by a single strip light down the centre of the ceiling. I positioned myself in front of the cubicle second from the left and unzipped my jeans. My flaccid member rubbed gently against the starched navy denim of the trousers as I handled it and it came to rest upon the cold brass of the zip, its musty odour dispersing in the cold air of the room. I relaxed completely. My bladder flushed. The sense of relief was so great that my face contorted involuntarily into an expression somewhere between that of an elated Down's Syndrome and a weeping Spanish nurse.

It was in this state of guilt-ridden bliss that I first became aware of the presence behind me. It was the aroma of toffee permeating the soupy smell of urea and bleach that initially caught my attention. Still in full flow, I turned my head to look behind me, and there she stood - five foot of panting old woman, her mouth open to reveal a set of false teeth that moved in and out like a diaphragm as she breathed. Her beige, knee-length overcoat was fully buttoned and looked new, while her black, flat-soled shoes encased a pair of tiny feet, her thin varicose-riddled legs masked by tan stockings. Her face, surrounded by a flyaway mane of permed, snow-white hair, would have appeared kindly had it not been transformed by her wild, goose-like eyes and her sinister, thin-lipped half-smile.

I was about to offer her directions to the ladies' room when, without warning, she opened her coat and let it fall to the floor. It was clear that beneath she was wearing only stockings and shoes, her matted, silver, piss-stained thatch on full display. The moisture was evident. The shock caused my whole body to spasm, directing a golden arc of liquid feculence up the tiled wall and onto the underside of the cistern. Above her pubis she had a small pot belly, her belly button only just visible in the shadow of her veiny, milk-white breastflaps. Before I could replace my freshly-drained fleshy hose she lunged at me head first with a calf-like grunt, but I was quick to move. With the reflex of a souped up heron I evaded her unexpected attack and dashed to the right towards the relative safety of the first cubicle as her head glanced off the gargling urinal with a dull thud.

Inside the cubicle I had hoped that there would be a small window that I might escape through, but there was only a small ventilation fan. I could hear my attacker outside the cubicle flailing wildly on the floor outside, her naked limbs slapping against the cold, wet surface. I felt tired and helpless, but I thought of my cousin and our imminent marriage and vowed to myself there and then that I would survive this terrible ordeal. I resolved to turn the tables on this rampant, haggard old sex-witch.

I brandished the brush located in the holder to the left of the toilet bowl and burst from the cubicle, my aggression and determination to survive equalled only by my fear. "Stay down, vile lavatorial hag!" I cried, as I thrust the toilet brush threateningly at the wrinkled, loose-skinned figure on the floor. This did not repel her as much as I had hoped, so I continued. "Do not force me to bloody my hands with thine vital juices!" But the old crone would not heed my warning and lunged again. By now I was weak and ready to surrender to her and as she flung her hideous, ancient frame open-mouthed and headlong towards my crotch, I begged my twitching phallus to perform quickly and efficiently so that this ordeal might be over as soon as possible. But I had reckoned without the young velociraptor that burst from its hideout in the second cubicle and seized the vicious old harpy by the throat. As it tore into her flesh with long, rapid strokes of it's muscular, scaly hind legs, I made a swift exit.

Even today I look back on that afternoon and, as I feel one should from every bad situation, I learned something from my mistake: when in times of trouble do not fear - there may be a late-Cretaceous Period bipedal lizard concealing itself nearby.
(stusut79, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 16:07, Reply)

a quickie
mate of mine used to be a plumber before he decided to engage in mature studentness.

anyhoo, says he got a call out to a blocked crapper this one day, a blockage of such proportions that all his 15 years in the job couldn't shift.

through a combination of skill & guile however, he coaxed a richard of epic propotions from beyond the u bend.

his description of it will go to my grave with me......."it was like ET's neck".
(davidblunkettsdogblankets, Mon 5 Sep 2005, 8:47, Reply)

Signs
When I was travelling I look a few pics of toilet signs that amused me.

Cambodia: showing you how to sit on the loo.



New Zealand: where to put your loo paper



Cambodia again, a sign to the toilet.



This last one perplexed me somewhat, until I went to the toilet and did indeed encounter a number of live crocodiles on the way.
(Pachey, Sun 4 Sep 2005, 15:47, Reply)

Travelling across the centre of Australia by bus
I got chatting to the driver. He was bored. It takes hours to get anywhere and he's got to keep himself awake somehow, for his benefit as well as ours.

He had three favourite methods:
* He'd transfer a pen from his left shirt pocket to his right with his right hand, then from his right to the left with his left hand. The rhythym of this would give him something to fill the hours.
* He'd find a nose hair and very gently, very slowly pull it out. This is would wake even the dead.
* But, best of all he'd wait for someone to go to the onboard toilet, wait for a count of 5 and then gently dip the brakes. The subsequent *thunk* would keep him awake and giggling all night long.
( chthonic, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 11:57, Reply)

TO LET:
Two bedroom apartment.
South coast location, all mod cons, balcony, seaviews, 2 mins from town centre.
Ideal holiday home.

£450 per week (Available July/August)



oh. Toilets, sorry.
(nappy rash, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 11:48, Reply)

Possibly the worst night of your life....
A Classic tale of booze, poo, vomit and fighting.

Whilst at Newcastle uni, one of my mates used to go out and get twatted on a regular basis. No surprises there. But one night he and his mates had gone on a particularly fruitful Leo Sayer and had ended up in reasonably classy nightclub.

All was going well until one of said mates had realised the days proceedings had caught up with him and that a mighty vomit was imminent. Off he rushes to the bogs only to find that all the cubicle doors are locked and taken.

For those of us who have also been in this torrid situation and there are only a couple of options open to you:

1) Tell yourself to get a grip, take deep breaths and try to hold it in till it either goes away or a toilet becomes available.

2) Think "Fucksocks" and just let rip in the nearest sink/urinal/trough/floor.

So which option does said friend choose?

In fact he chose secret option 3 which involves walking aimlessly around the bogs and then decide to boot one of the cubicle doors in to projectile vomit several gallons of Snakey B, redecorating the inside of the toilet a speckly purple. Unfortunately there just happens to be one large, now very pissed off, Geordie with trousers round ankles, curling one out.

Now what do you do here? Say sorry and leg it to avoid the imminent beating?

No, you get your punches in first whilst he's defenceless, break his nose and cover him in his own blood.

Then leg it.

Let's face it, if you're that guy who has just been covered in sick and got beaten up whilst trying to have a quiet turd, you've had a shit night.

What do you say to your mates when you return to the bar?
(Roy Horn, Wed 7 Sep 2005, 14:47, Reply)

elderly care
i'm a nurse on the elderly care ward of my local hospital. 36 beds full of old old old people.

i opened the door of a single bed room a few months ago to find a lady called doris, stark naked. she was attached to a hoist which is basically a series of purple pvc straps which sort of encircle your thighs whilst pulling your buttocks apart and suspending you in the air. doris was a good 2/3 feet above her chair. she was swaying gently in the wind, and playing on the radio, in a soundtrack to the moment manner, was 'dancing queen' by abba. as i took in this scene, she suddenly let fly the hugest amount of diarroea i have witnessed in a while, which hit the bedpan 2 feet below, whilst her facial expression didn't change. she just carried on swaying gently in the breeze.

i still count that as the most surreal moment of my life.
(imitation, Tue 6 Sep 2005, 20:55, Reply)

what's the worst kind of skid?
I once was *really* busting for a wee, and had broken into something of a panic, and then a run, into a manky public loo. As I crossed the threshold of the convenience I whipped out the old fella, but became aware that the trough urinal that I was headed for was blocked and flooded, I began to skid, too late, my feet slid into the trough up to my ankles, I fell onto my back in a puddle of piss, and weed on my face.
(brainburger, Tue 6 Sep 2005, 13:33, Reply)

Testicle in the water.
Whilst on an eventful trip to Dublin to celebrate a mate's 21st birthday, we holed ourselves up in the Youth Hostel and proceeded to spend the weekend getting incredibly wankered.

On the day of our departure, my mate Dave walked into the room ashen faced.

"What's up mate?"
"Dude, you need to see this. Someone has dropped a bollock."

Not quite understanding what he meant, we proceeded to one of the cubicles to see floating in the (bloody) water, quite innocuosly, a testicle. Honestly. When I got back I looked up on t'interweb, and it was without doubt a human bollock.

Now, here is the problem. We guys were the only blokes on that floor of the hostel. I know it was not me, and Dave swears blindly he has not lost one. So to whom did the phantom nut belong? How did it get there? Why?

I may not have length or girth, but I do have both testes.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Mon 5 Sep 2005, 20:11, Reply)

never the same again
Whilst trying to make some money as an impoverished student a few years back I took a summer job working in the warehouse of a very well known DIY store. This place was HUGE with around 500+ people working there and only 10 traps between us and come dinner time it was a race to get in one. Anyway, one day I dropped lucky due to being a bit of a raciing snake and managed to get into trap 1 quite sharpish, but some monster had managed to beat me to it. Just about to drop the old trollys when I saw the worlds biggest jobby laid out on top of the cistern!! someone was so impressed with this leviathon that they had fished it out of the depths by hand! and as a final flourish they had stuck a little note in it 'FOUND, ONE BROWN SHOE SIZE 12'

Genius
(Rinky dink pink, Mon 5 Sep 2005, 8:28, Reply)

I stopped at a motorway service station
once to go for a piss. It was one of those long tiled wall with trough at the bottom affairs. it was reasonably busy so I'm stood having a piss. Bloke next to me is also having a piss, both adopting the stare-at-tile-directly-in-front-of-face-as-if-it's-interesting approach. Then, what i presume was his son, who was about the 8/9 mark strolls up (not to piss) and just stands right bang next to me while staring at my cock (he was about japs-eye level and max of 10 inches distance from it). Obviously this is rather embarrassing for all but im continuing pissing while dad glances round in very embarrassed fashion picking up on my 'help me out here' glance, hoping his son would pick up on his glares and move along. son just kept staring at my cock until the dad is forced to say a curt 'Jamie! Stop it!'
The dad and I exchanged a shared embarrassed look with regards the whole affair and went off our seperate ways.
(hazey, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 12:59, Reply)

Brit abroad
It was a long drive across france - on the way to Avoriaz for skiing and what have you. As you all know, the french have jolly nice lay-bys, each one unique and with it's own charm.

Any how - me and my mate were very, very keen to pee...so pulled in at the next stop...parked and ran into the loos - we were faced with a completely tiled room with a drain running around the edge - unusual we thought, we obviously just have to pee up the wall and it all drains away around the edge. So we do, and it's a real horse-piss...just as I relax into it, it notice a movement to one side, and a French bloke carefully shuffles his family through the foyer where we were pissing, no doubt wondering why we couldn't make the last few metres to the loos inside the building!
( windsorphil, Mon 5 Sep 2005, 13:59, Reply)

Finding things
The "work toilet" theme seems to be coming up a lot, possibly because it's where you're exposed to the peculiar toilet habits of your fellow man. Only the other day I found a kiwi fruit skin on the floor in a cubicle at work, exactly where you'd expect to find it if someone ate a kiwi fruit while sitting on the crapper and then dropped the skin on the floor. Why?

Our best work toilet find was brought to us by the Health & Safety Committee minutes (they are, surprisingly, always very entertaining). A member of the maintenance staff had found 11.5kg of porn stashed in the false ceiling of the 1st floor toilet. The reason that it was a health & safety issue was, of course, that 11.5kg was above the safe load-bearing capacity of the false ceiling. We later tried to work out what 11.5kg of porn looks like. It's a lot.

If only it had fallen through the ceiling, knocking some poor sod unconscious and leaving them on the loo surrounded by filthy porn.
( foop, Sat 3 Sep 2005, 9:07, Reply)

Mr Hanky's Cousin, Mr Turd
I used to work in a shared office block, obviously with shared bogs, just two toilet cubicles and no urinals. I was particularly busting for a wee one day, so into the loo I dashed. One cubicle was occupied so I used the empty one. I lifted the lid to find that someone had left me the gift of a pungent floater and what a big'un it was too. I left the lid up and flushed. Now these toilets had the most powerful flush you could imagine, and they seemed to gush water for ages. I flushed. Water gushed. Bog was blocked. I can still recall the water reaching the top of the toilet and that huge log-like turd making a break for freedom over the rim. Off he went across the cubicle floor, under the gap, into the cubicle next door. Now remember I said it was occupied. I could see the poor guy's trousers round his ankles. Mr Turd went straight into that guy's trousers. I don't mean it touched them, I mean it violated them, badly. Straight into the folds of material Mr Turd went. I left rapidly at that point. My last vision, a pair of hands rapidly scrambling for his shit stained pants, stained with someone else's shit mind you. He was probably wondering how he would explain this to his workmates, or his family, or whether he should sit in them all day or go home and change. Then I heard him puke. At least it was his puke though.
(RetroSquirrel, Tue 6 Sep 2005, 12:27, Reply)

When I were at college...
Training to be the plumber I am now, We used to have to use these underground toilets with no natural light.
They were pretty scary places as the Croydon hoods tended to hang out just outside the door(?)

Anyway.. I had this dump once and I saw a dashed line on the cubicle door with the words 'Follow this line' at the end. Whilst sitting on the bog I followed this line with my eyes for about 5 mins, up and down, around the back, under the toilet and finally, up and out of the cubicle via the ceiling.
I wiped up and flushed, then proceded to follow this line around the bogs (they were quite big so it took a while) - the line actually went out the door to the hall for a bit and then back in.

Finally about 10 mins later I followed the line to under the wash basin expecting something amazing and it said in writing so small i had to squint... 'cunt'

So that was nice.
( Terry Nutkins, Mon 5 Sep 2005, 8:04, Reply)

You'd never guess where I'm reading this...

(The miracles of laptops!)
(RowdsterDelux, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 12:31, Reply)

Racing the turtle
After I finished my finals I took a trip up to meet some friends at gorgeous, blessed Sandwood Bay in the far north-west of Scotland. Left Edinburgh in my car at 4am. At about 7.30am, I felt the need in my bowels for my regular "sit down for a read of the Guardian". Actually a very, very strong, urgent need.

Well, mes amis, there aren't too many public loos or service stations in the far north of Scotland. I drove for what felt like hours, sweat beading on my forehead, my hands shaking, tortured sphincter tensed, cursing my lack of foresight in not bringing anything resembling loo roll with me. And I knew tings would be ... very messy ... if I nipped behind a bush.

Finally, I saw a wondrous vision, a lay-by with a loo. Barely able to walk and sobbing with gratitude I staggered to the door, anticipating the blessed relief I was about to experience.

Then I saw the sign on the door: "Closed till 9am".

Bit of a blow. My heart sank and my guts tensed as they began to lose the battle against the inevtable.

Mercifully a couple of minutes down the road was an old rural petrol station (shed and a pump) that was equipped with a Deliverance-esque kludgie. By grunting and pointing, I communicated to the bloke that I would like use his khazi.

Quite what he made of the banging, whizzing and laughing noises coming out of his easance I do not know but when I emerged I was 10 years younger and a stone lighter.

Moral: always carry tissues, a plastic bag and a hosepipe.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 11:44, Reply)

pissing off wildlife
While backpacking in Oz a few years back, one of the coach drivers on our travels had advised us of some toiletry rituals we should observe while using public 'dunnies' in the more rurals areas. This involved approaching toilet, kicking up the toilet seat with foot and checking for deadly arachnids before sitting down. Being a bit of a girly aracnaphobic, I had been doing this religiously.

However one night, while in a particually 'earthy' pub in the outbacks of Queensland and after several scooners of weak Oz lager, I had to go out to the dunny (which was in a shed) with my mate maria. I went in first, drunkenly, forgot anti-spider precausion an sat down for one of those magic pisses that seem to go on for about ten minutes. Finished, and only then realised I'd forgotten to check for creepies. Being a kind friend, I thought I'd check anyway for maria and kicked up the seat, to find, at the bottom of the bowl, a severely pissed-off looking, and very soggy cane toad (they're massive) with a piece of wet toilet paper perched on its head.

Horror soon turned to absolute hilarity at the unfortunate amphibian, and all the girls from the bar ended up cuing to have a look and the poor wet beast.

(appologies for length, of wee, to the toad)
(Gert-Big-Robot-Gal, Sun 4 Sep 2005, 14:44, Reply)

probably an old wive's tale (or husband's - but what the hell...)
A friend of a friend of a friend (isn't that how these all start?) was 17 and just coming to terms with the fact that he might be a bona fide 'bumgay'.

From the rumours at school, he had managed to glean information that there was a local public toilet where you go into a cubicle and wait. On the right hand side of the cubicle is a hole, where men of all shapes and sizes insert their custard chuckers for you to pleasure.

After waiting in the aforementioned cubicle for about 10 minutes, low and behold a one eyed trouser snake appears. Desperarely seeking his first sexual experience, the 17 year old proceeds to nosh down for some liquid refreshment.

After a few minutes, a note is slipped under the door saying

"if you want to go further, meet me outside in 5 minutes..."

Not wishing to pass up the opportunity, he waits the 5 minutes and heads off outside. Unfortunately, the only person waiting there (with a rather expectant look on his face) is



his father.




He apologised for the length (so i dont have to)
(well its not going to suck itself yadda yadda yadda, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 19:55, Reply)

foreign
morocco toilets are famously bad, i blame the french influence (on a trip to paris I stopped at a granada-like service station. they still had a hole-in-the-ground for those older, more nostalgic frenchies)

on a coach to marrakech, we stopped for a loo break, where they charged you the equivalent of £3 to crouch over a ceramic hole, behind a door made of woven straw that had all the opaqueness of glass, as a small, toothless, wizened old man leered at you as you pulled your keks down.

about, oh, 60 odd years before, my grandmother was stuck in the same situation (also in morocco), crouching down over a hole surrounded by newpaper. strangely, the paper laid on the floor was her local newspaper back home in blighty. bit bored, she started reading the bit between her feet, and discovered her brother had won the pools.
(niceandwarmandhot vive la résistance, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 13:47, Reply)

Dothiepin Turds
.
When I previously went bonkers the shrink eventually identified dothiepin as the anti-depressant that helped me during that paticular descent into madness, so around Jan 2003 they started me off on it again.

One of the more spectacular effects of this stuff is to produce the most enormous turds you can imagine. Truly eye-watering grunters. Real gut-clenching, teeth-grinding, face-grimacing pan-splashers. About the thickness of a toilet roll inner, averaging about 10 inches in length, these monsters take some serious straining to get out. Some times I've sat there with sweat rolling down my cheeks (top set!) wondering if I'd ever get this massive stink machine out of my rikker and down the pan. Very painful. Extremely embarressing. Very time comsuming. A huge pain in the arse. It took about 10 weeks for these symptoms to calm down, to return to what passes for normal motions. Quite big, mind, but nothing on the scale of the early days.

Another problem with DT's is how to get rid of them once the paperwork's done, they just won't flush away, they're far too big to negotiate the u-bend. Not too big a problem in the privacy of your own home, but if you happen to get caught short at someone else's crapper then as Apollo 13 might say "Houston, we have a problem". Many's the time I've stood there washing my hands wondering what to do about that bloody thing lying there smiling at me. I can't just leave it there. Maybe I could mash it up with the bog brush then flush like a madman and hope it goes away? Then that leaves the problem of the brush, which looks a real mess.......I mean, you can't wash it out in the sink, can you? So quietly open the bathroom window and sling it out into the bushes.....or up onto the roof...then nonchalantly stroll out, make my excuses and leg it.

Anyway, the Dothiepin Turds are back. It must be a function of the amount of dothiepin in my system, so as I reduce I've reached the drug/blood level which triggers these monsters. Over time the ADs will reduce further and eventually the problem will fade away......but it took about 8 weeks to get over the hump going up, so I expect a similar time coming down this side. So, if my beloved and I visit your homes over the next couple of months I suggest you chain up your bog brushes, or nail shut your bathroom windows.

Just thought I'd share that with you.

Why does a poxy antidepressant have such an effect?

It's a
(Conundrum, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 12:55, Reply)