Dear Auntie Tania
This isn't for me. It's for a friend. That's right. A friend.

As a sufferer of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, I am often caught short in the middle of nowhere with an urgent need to squirt rich, brown soup from where the sun doesn't shine. This happens, more often than not, on the long march between work and the railway station where the only place available to a man with a funny walk and a desperate look on his face is The Prince of Wales - a public house noted for its rough clientele and frequent bouts of open warfare with the local community.

Can you advise me of the correct course of action and the proper etiquette on using a pub solely for the toilet facilities, especially when I am painting most of the cubicle what can only be described as Dulux Faded Tan and Peanuts, emerging to face a crowd that possesses a single eyebrow between them?

Or should I just crap through the letterbox of the local Conservative Club to see if I can hit the framed portrait of Maggie Thatcher on the wall opposite?

This dilemma is just making the situation worse and I, I mean my friend, is fast running out of underwear. Please help.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Wed 19 May 2004, 13:52, Reply)