Men Gruntin while in the mens room
Discussion
I had another, but it was similar to the last one I posted so decided to leave it for a couple of pages.
I was out on a Christmas dinner with some mates last year.
Recently my body has developed a dislike to possibly Garlic or Chilli I haven't made my mind up yet, but anyway, I decided to order safely seeing it was the start of the night & went for a mixed grill.
Half an hour later, food is downed & we're onto the beer. Maybe another 10 minutes pass before I get the usual belly-aching associated with eating a 'f
k-off red hot Kebab'. I go to the lavatory to find the only cubical has two blokes in there.
They were either bumming or doing drugs- I could'nt stand still long to over hear the conversation.
So I run back in to the bar & ask for the Disabled toilet key, which they refused to give to me. Stuck for options I dart back in the bogs to find the cubical now empty, but fk me, the dirty bds have pissed on the seat, so I have to hover.
I positioned my crack directly over the pan, hovering 1" above the rim with the skill an RAF SAR Sea King Pilot would be proud of. Usual story, once your arse sees the pan it has to go, you're 'locked on' the pin is pulled on the 'st-grenade' you're about to throw. So I ease the brakes off gently, no big deal bit of a trickle- great I think, got it in the bag.
Then came the undoing, nugget pace car jammed up proceedings so I eased off a little more & BOOM, the entire contents of my colon decides to rush the door.
What started off as a small trickle became a torrent & went from going verticle to going horizontal like a jet set with a wide angle spray- It was only a short blast, but it was enough to completely cover the cistern with st.
fk, fk, fk! Quick check & i've missed my clothes, thank God for that.
Next it becomes apparent that there's a queue outside waiting to come in. I can't escape, the cubical looks like i've been practicing some sort of banned Pagan ritual so I hunt for toilet paper.
It was the little hankercheif sized ones that are no good to man or beast.
I found the brush & managed to clear most of it off but was mostly just pushing the stuff around, so I gave up. Nothing else I could do.
I beat a hasty retreat from the lavs without turning around & begged everyone to move on to the next pub after that.
I was out on a Christmas dinner with some mates last year.
Recently my body has developed a dislike to possibly Garlic or Chilli I haven't made my mind up yet, but anyway, I decided to order safely seeing it was the start of the night & went for a mixed grill.
Half an hour later, food is downed & we're onto the beer. Maybe another 10 minutes pass before I get the usual belly-aching associated with eating a 'f
k-off red hot Kebab'. I go to the lavatory to find the only cubical has two blokes in there.They were either bumming or doing drugs- I could'nt stand still long to over hear the conversation.
So I run back in to the bar & ask for the Disabled toilet key, which they refused to give to me. Stuck for options I dart back in the bogs to find the cubical now empty, but f
k me, the dirty bds have pissed on the seat, so I have to hover.I positioned my crack directly over the pan, hovering 1" above the rim with the skill an RAF SAR Sea King Pilot would be proud of. Usual story, once your arse sees the pan it has to go, you're 'locked on' the pin is pulled on the 's
t-grenade' you're about to throw. So I ease the brakes off gently, no big deal bit of a trickle- great I think, got it in the bag.Then came the undoing, nugget pace car jammed up proceedings so I eased off a little more & BOOM, the entire contents of my colon decides to rush the door.
What started off as a small trickle became a torrent & went from going verticle to going horizontal like a jet set with a wide angle spray- It was only a short blast, but it was enough to completely cover the cistern with s
t.f
k, fk, fk! Quick check & i've missed my clothes, thank God for that.Next it becomes apparent that there's a queue outside waiting to come in. I can't escape, the cubical looks like i've been practicing some sort of banned Pagan ritual so I hunt for toilet paper.
It was the little hankercheif sized ones that are no good to man or beast.
I found the brush & managed to clear most of it off but was mostly just pushing the stuff around, so I gave up. Nothing else I could do.
I beat a hasty retreat from the lavs without turning around & begged everyone to move on to the next pub after that.
Edited by Vidal Baboon on Tuesday 24th August 14:13
WorAl said:
Quickly going back to things happening in the mens toilets, I was quietly sitting havin my after-lunch jobbie when someone came in, walked to the porcelain, unzipped his fly.....then "chu-chi" the sound of an iPhone camera going off, WTF?
Ah, tis just the sound of the iPhone locking/unlocking...Beefmeister said:
WorAl said:
Quickly going back to things happening in the mens toilets, I was quietly sitting havin my after-lunch jobbie when someone came in, walked to the porcelain, unzipped his fly.....then "chu-chi" the sound of an iPhone camera going off, WTF?
Ah, tis just the sound of the iPhone locking/unlocking...
OK another tale of woe, this time it wasn't me, I promise.
A few years back me and a few mates went on holiday to Cavos. Lads holiday, so drink, food & women on the agenda.
One night we went for a meal to celebrate on of the lads' birthdays, got some local cuisine and washed it down with a couple of dozen bevvies.
The next day I awoke to the sound of my mate 3 rooms away stting his brains out and throwing up everywhere, the bathroom was a state, he couldn't throw into the sink as it was too far away, as was the shower and he couldn't get up to spin round as when his stomach was contracting to throw it was forcing watery st out his arse.
So after a few minutes of taking the piss through his window (couldn't go in the apartment due to the smell) and crying with laughter, he cleaned up and set about hosing the room down.
After a while he joined us by the pool. As he got there we decided to go to the local shop, a kind of small supermarket type affair, to stock up the essentials.
Once in the shop he got the pains in his stomach again, unfortunately once he mentioned this we all walked away and left him as we knew what was going to happen. Just as a group of quite fit young ladies walked in he sharted a liquid, dead-animal-smelling, shart. He was also wearing white shorts which made matters worse. So there he was head to head with a group of sexy young women, a brown patch the size of his arse on his shorts and the remains running down his leg into his shoes and a smell that would kill a rat at 50 paces.
"excuse me ladies" he muttered as he walked past and left the shop to head back.
Obviously, being full of sympathy, we were all completely creased with laughter 2 or 3 isles away.
A few years back me and a few mates went on holiday to Cavos. Lads holiday, so drink, food & women on the agenda.
One night we went for a meal to celebrate on of the lads' birthdays, got some local cuisine and washed it down with a couple of dozen bevvies.
The next day I awoke to the sound of my mate 3 rooms away s
tting his brains out and throwing up everywhere, the bathroom was a state, he couldn't throw into the sink as it was too far away, as was the shower and he couldn't get up to spin round as when his stomach was contracting to throw it was forcing watery st out his arse.So after a few minutes of taking the piss through his window (couldn't go in the apartment due to the smell) and crying with laughter, he cleaned up and set about hosing the room down.
After a while he joined us by the pool. As he got there we decided to go to the local shop, a kind of small supermarket type affair, to stock up the essentials.
Once in the shop he got the pains in his stomach again, unfortunately once he mentioned this we all walked away and left him as we knew what was going to happen. Just as a group of quite fit young ladies walked in he sharted a liquid, dead-animal-smelling, shart. He was also wearing white shorts which made matters worse. So there he was head to head with a group of sexy young women, a brown patch the size of his arse on his shorts and the remains running down his leg into his shoes and a smell that would kill a rat at 50 paces.
"excuse me ladies" he muttered as he walked past and left the shop to head back.
Obviously, being full of sympathy, we were all completely creased with laughter 2 or 3 isles away.
Edited by WorAl on Tuesday 24th August 15:38
Beefmeister said:
WorAl said:
Quickly going back to things happening in the mens toilets, I was quietly sitting havin my after-lunch jobbie when someone came in, walked to the porcelain, unzipped his fly.....then "chu-chi" the sound of an iPhone camera going off, WTF?
Ah, tis just the sound of the iPhone locking/unlocking..."Look man, it was my iPhone locking/unlocking - it totally was NOT the camera. Really. Honest. Guv."
Was wondering whether to contribute to this but as everyone else is doing so here's something I wrote on another board in an answer to a question about being caught short:
My time happened to be on the Isles of Scilly, the island of Tresco to be precise. We’d been told to wait for our boat that would ferry us to St Mary’s on a rocky promontory called Carn Near. The small quay was full of blue-rinses and other coffin-dodgers who had come to marvel at the beauty of Valhalla (the supposed resting place of Vikings on Tresco).
The boat picking us up was late and I had consumed a magnificent lunch of “freshly-caught” shellfish at a bargain price from the hospitable islanders.
“Freshly-caught??”. Hold on, weren’t these rascals here yesterday?? Hmmm, I thought as the first errant toot slipped between my cheeks not half an hour after my gluttonous meal.
I shuffled to the side a little in an attempt to release pressure… “No Deal” said my inner Edmonds… Jesus H Christ on a bike; this piscine poison was making itself known.
Oh F
k, that’s not good… there was no release of pressure, all I could feel was an urgent straining of explosive poo with absolutely nowhere to go.Most people will not know Carn Near, but essentially it is a concrete finger pointing into the ocean and I was right on the end of it, cut off from dry land by the crowds of OAPs swarming to try and spot the delayed boat.
Two choices then:
1) Try and gallantly fight my way back through the hordes of angry pensioners, already riled at the tardiness of their motor-launch.
2) S
t down my legs and try to enjoy the momentary warmth of my own faeces then suffer the miserable feeling of dirtiness that would inevitably follow.I was overcome by a cold sweat. The sweat of those who have been touched by bad fish and require urgent attention. 1) above was not an option, and I was going to try and avoid 2) at all costs – it was a 40 minute ride back to the main island, a long time to be sitting in your own filth.
Still to this day I do not know what overcame me. With the bellow of a man possessed with an urgent need to shed his load, I wrenched down my jeans and undergarments, pale arse and genitalia exposed to the horrified onlookers. Fortunately, there was one young lad near the front of the queue who recognised my predicament and held my hands as I hung my arse over the side of the quay and let fly.
I recall a couple of pensioners retching as the fish came to the surface to feast on my droppings.
Heh, that’ll teach them.
OzzyR1 said:
<snip>
Fortunately, there was one young lad near the front of the queue who recognised my predicament and held my hands as I hung my arse over the side of the quay and let fly.
<snip>
I can't help but wonder if that young lad has ever mentioned this as a funny story about his holidays.Fortunately, there was one young lad near the front of the queue who recognised my predicament and held my hands as I hung my arse over the side of the quay and let fly.
<snip>
Or possibly, if he is still in therapy.
Mine isnt so much a tale of epic toilet disaster, more a case of warning.
Years ago i went camping in brittany with my brother(neither of us could afford anything else) and stayed in cancale which is juts up the road from st.malo. Anyway, good weather, nice food, equally as nice beer, although for some reason the food and beer combo bunged me up a bit, so much so that by the third day of the holiday i was seriously contemplating laxatives. That night whilst out, i had managed to consume more than my usual amount of alcohol, and by about 9ish, decided i finally needed to go to the loo. We were in a bar called roberto's, i think, which wasnt far from the campsite, and so, trying out my rather drunken french, i managed to find where the dunnie was, and set off to deal with the urging. I should point out at this point, that this was the only loo in the building, even the owner had to use it
It wasnt so much the size of the dump, as the smell. I swear it smelt like a 6 year old corpse, which had been dumped in a sewage farm for a couple of years, and made me want to be sick. However, i cleaned up, left the karzy and after negotiating my way back to the bar, suggested to my brother that we should leave asap. He didnt want to know, so i persisted in my suggestion, to the point he finished his beer, and said okay, but i need to take a leak first. Not 1 minute later he reappeared, told my i was a dirty smelly, and we both left, and never dared go back to that bar again.
SO, if you ever visit cancale in brittany, dont visit the late night bar in the top of the town, as the owner probably still blames the english for ruining his toilet to this day
Years ago i went camping in brittany with my brother(neither of us could afford anything else) and stayed in cancale which is juts up the road from st.malo. Anyway, good weather, nice food, equally as nice beer, although for some reason the food and beer combo bunged me up a bit, so much so that by the third day of the holiday i was seriously contemplating laxatives. That night whilst out, i had managed to consume more than my usual amount of alcohol, and by about 9ish, decided i finally needed to go to the loo. We were in a bar called roberto's, i think, which wasnt far from the campsite, and so, trying out my rather drunken french, i managed to find where the dunnie was, and set off to deal with the urging. I should point out at this point, that this was the only loo in the building, even the owner had to use it
It wasnt so much the size of the dump, as the smell. I swear it smelt like a 6 year old corpse, which had been dumped in a sewage farm for a couple of years, and made me want to be sick. However, i cleaned up, left the karzy and after negotiating my way back to the bar, suggested to my brother that we should leave asap. He didnt want to know, so i persisted in my suggestion, to the point he finished his beer, and said okay, but i need to take a leak first. Not 1 minute later he reappeared, told my i was a dirty smelly
, and we both left, and never dared go back to that bar again.SO, if you ever visit cancale in brittany, dont visit the late night bar in the top of the town, as the owner probably still blames the english for ruining his toilet to this day
Vidal Baboon said:
I
It was only a short blast, but it was enough to completely cover the cistern with st.
I had previously imagined, before my brother's Le Mans episode, that this sort of repellant art form where it goes absolutely everywhere including the door handle, could only be the work of a food-poisoned runaway from the Cirque du Soleil. Happily, your incident it confirms my latter hypothesis is in fact correct.It was only a short blast, but it was enough to completely cover the cistern with s
t.ajcj said:
I confess to feeling selfconscious when last night's lamb dhansak, chana massala, keema naan and Cobra is struggling its way out and making a lot of fuss while it does, especially when the traps to either side are occupied by chaps who seem to be able to lay one down with barely a splash, but for true embarrassment, you need a hotel room on your first night away with a new cutie.
So lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.
To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.
Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?
Kind of killed the mood, rather.
Just read this while watching police interceptors on five and this reply made me laugh out loud!So lots of charming conversation and civilised behaviour and attention to personal hygiene and nipping outside to fart have paid off, and several months in it's time for a romantic weekend away. The hotel room is in a dead trendy boutique place, and the wall between bedroom and bathroom is frosted glass. All other bathroom walls are tiled for maximum reverb. The door is also glass, and does not seal in any way - half-inch gaps all round. So you are effectively in the same room as the bed, which is where you leave your amour, curled up and warm ("hurry back", she murmurs) on the morning after a nice moroccan meal with plenty of chickpeas, spiced lamb, felafel and so on, plus a couple of bottles of rough red, and whisky to finish. You pace with measured tread to the echo chamber, then hunker down to answer the insistent call from the lower colon.
To begin with, it sounded like a duck being strangled half-underwater, then as if thirty clowns wearing oversize rubber shoes were having a sprinting race over a massive bowl of jelly, then as I desperately applied restrictive pressure, it faded into an anguished squeak like a deflating balloon, then as my muscle control gave out, a series of small escaping explosions escalated into a titanic rasp that echoed for several seconds.
Having done the paperwork, brushed everywhere in the bowl, including the underside of the seat (how in the name of gravity could that have happened?), washed hands, and assumed as nonchalant an expression as I could muster, I strolled back in to find her sitting up, covers drawn protectively up under her chin, eyes like a lemur, asking whether I was ok, and did I need medical attention?
Kind of killed the mood, rather.
Well done that man although i'm aware this was way back in 2009
snowy slopes said:
toohuge said:
This thread is epic. Thank you ajcj, i giggled so much. When questioned by the OH what are you laughing about I told her. She didn't share the same enthusiasm as I did.
Isnt it funny how women dont find this funny, but blokes doNot true in my case. I love this thread!
Tow Vehicle Rqrd said:
snowy slopes said:
toohuge said:
This thread is epic. Thank you ajcj, i giggled so much. When questioned by the OH what are you laughing about I told her. She didn't share the same enthusiasm as I did.
Isnt it funny how women dont find this funny, but blokes doNot true in my case. I love this thread!
aclivity said:
OzzyR1 said:
<snip>
Fortunately, there was one young lad near the front of the queue who recognised my predicament and held my hands as I hung my arse over the side of the quay and let fly.
<snip>
I can't help but wonder if that young lad has ever mentioned this as a funny story about his holidays.Fortunately, there was one young lad near the front of the queue who recognised my predicament and held my hands as I hung my arse over the side of the quay and let fly.
<snip>
Or possibly, if he is still in therapy.
OzzyR1 said:
Was wondering whether to contribute to this but as everyone else is doing so here's something I wrote on another board in an answer to a question about being caught short:
My time happened to be on the Isles of Scilly, the island of Tresco to be precise. We’d been told to wait for our boat that would ferry us to St Mary’s on a rocky promontory called Carn Near. The small quay was full of blue-rinses and other coffin-dodgers who had come to marvel at the beauty of Valhalla (the supposed resting place of Vikings on Tresco).
The boat picking us up was late and I had consumed a magnificent lunch of “freshly-caught” shellfish at a bargain price from the hospitable islanders.
“Freshly-caught??”. Hold on, weren’t these rascals here yesterday?? Hmmm, I thought as the first errant toot slipped between my cheeks not half an hour after my gluttonous meal.
I shuffled to the side a little in an attempt to release pressure… “No Deal” said my inner Edmonds… Jesus H Christ on a bike; this piscine poison was making itself known.
Oh Fk, that’s not good… there was no release of pressure, all I could feel was an urgent straining of explosive poo with absolutely nowhere to go.
Most people will not know Carn Near, but essentially it is a concrete finger pointing into the ocean and I was right on the end of it, cut off from dry land by the crowds of OAPs swarming to try and spot the delayed boat.
Two choices then:
1) Try and gallantly fight my way back through the hordes of angry pensioners, already riled at the tardiness of their motor-launch.
2) St down my legs and try to enjoy the momentary warmth of my own faeces then suffer the miserable feeling of dirtiness that would inevitably follow.
I was overcome by a cold sweat. The sweat of those who have been touched by bad fish and require urgent attention. 1) above was not an option, and I was going to try and avoid 2) at all costs – it was a 40 minute ride back to the main island, a long time to be sitting in your own filth.
Still to this day I do not know what overcame me. With the bellow of a man possessed with an urgent need to shed his load, I wrenched down my jeans and undergarments, pale arse and genitalia exposed to the horrified onlookers. Fortunately, there was one young lad near the front of the queue who recognised my predicament and held my hands as I hung my arse over the side of the quay and let fly.
I recall a couple of pensioners retching as the fish came to the surface to feast on my droppings.
Heh, that’ll teach them.
My time happened to be on the Isles of Scilly, the island of Tresco to be precise. We’d been told to wait for our boat that would ferry us to St Mary’s on a rocky promontory called Carn Near. The small quay was full of blue-rinses and other coffin-dodgers who had come to marvel at the beauty of Valhalla (the supposed resting place of Vikings on Tresco).
The boat picking us up was late and I had consumed a magnificent lunch of “freshly-caught” shellfish at a bargain price from the hospitable islanders.
“Freshly-caught??”. Hold on, weren’t these rascals here yesterday?? Hmmm, I thought as the first errant toot slipped between my cheeks not half an hour after my gluttonous meal.
I shuffled to the side a little in an attempt to release pressure… “No Deal” said my inner Edmonds… Jesus H Christ on a bike; this piscine poison was making itself known.
Oh F
k, that’s not good… there was no release of pressure, all I could feel was an urgent straining of explosive poo with absolutely nowhere to go.Most people will not know Carn Near, but essentially it is a concrete finger pointing into the ocean and I was right on the end of it, cut off from dry land by the crowds of OAPs swarming to try and spot the delayed boat.
Two choices then:
1) Try and gallantly fight my way back through the hordes of angry pensioners, already riled at the tardiness of their motor-launch.
2) S
t down my legs and try to enjoy the momentary warmth of my own faeces then suffer the miserable feeling of dirtiness that would inevitably follow.I was overcome by a cold sweat. The sweat of those who have been touched by bad fish and require urgent attention. 1) above was not an option, and I was going to try and avoid 2) at all costs – it was a 40 minute ride back to the main island, a long time to be sitting in your own filth.
Still to this day I do not know what overcame me. With the bellow of a man possessed with an urgent need to shed his load, I wrenched down my jeans and undergarments, pale arse and genitalia exposed to the horrified onlookers. Fortunately, there was one young lad near the front of the queue who recognised my predicament and held my hands as I hung my arse over the side of the quay and let fly.
I recall a couple of pensioners retching as the fish came to the surface to feast on my droppings.
Heh, that’ll teach them.
excellent, if that lad had have been me, I would have definitely let you drop into the water.Gassing Station | The Lounge | Top of Page | What's New | My Stuff