Men Gruntin while in the mens room
Discussion
Last month I was taking a pee in Meadowhell when I heard a presumably old gent in the traps let out a quiet 'heeeah.......aa...gedout' followed swiftly by a splash and an accompanying sigh of relief. Couldn't stop myself from giggling, nearly pissed on my kneecaps and headed out as quick as possible as I wasn't able to stifle the laughs anymore
About half an hour ago, I nipped outside for a smoke and let out a fart that had been building for a good hour or so. One of those ones where you have to shake your leg to make sure it's not coming back to bite you. Soon as I'd released it I knew it was a good one, then heard a tutting 'f
ks sake' from one the neighbours who I guess was waiting for his dog to come back in 
About half an hour ago, I nipped outside for a smoke and let out a fart that had been building for a good hour or so. One of those ones where you have to shake your leg to make sure it's not coming back to bite you. Soon as I'd released it I knew it was a good one, then heard a tutting 'f
ks sake' from one the neighbours who I guess was waiting for his dog to come back in 
Possibly my favourite PH post ever. 
So I am reposting in case folks have missed this absolute gem.
So I am reposting in case folks have missed this absolute gem.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.
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.
Ace-T said:
Possibly my favourite PH post ever. So I am reposting in case folks have missed this absolute gem.
About time this was bumped! So I am reposting in case folks have missed this absolute gem.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.
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.
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.
This really, really needs to go on the back of a PH T-shirt.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.
Rather enjoyed reading this again even though I'm currently suffering a bout myself 
Can't come up with such prose as to the others but I thought I'd let Micky Flanagan say it all......
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qK9KTlNWH8&fea...
Can't come up with such prose as to the others but I thought I'd let Micky Flanagan say it all......
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qK9KTlNWH8&fea...
Tango13 said:
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.
This really, really needs to go on the back of a PH T-shirt.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.
Giggle,snigger etc etc
Tango13 said:
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.
This really, really needs to go on the back of a PH T-shirt.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.
I realised today that you can recognise people from the tone of their sighs and grunts.
For example, this morning, settled into trap 1 (best wifi signal), start browsing this thread, when trap 2 starts the audio...
'HAARRRUMMMPH* *splash*
'Morning Jamie - sounds an impressive turnout!'
'How the fk did you know it was me?'
'the tone of your grunt'
'oh, how was your weekend?'
'Not bad mate, just offloading last nights curry, yours?'
'Yeah getting hell from the Mrs...'
At this point the door squeaks and someone walks up to one of the urinals
'Arggghhhhhhhhhhummmmmm'*sounds of reverb off the porcelain*
'Morning Cal!'
'Hey Ads, good weekend?'
'yes mate, you.'
'Great thanks'
'fancy a coffee?'
'yeah 2 sugars please, be back at my desk in 10'
Most civilised conversation, totally ruined my browsing experience though.
For example, this morning, settled into trap 1 (best wifi signal), start browsing this thread, when trap 2 starts the audio...
'HAARRRUMMMPH* *splash*
'Morning Jamie - sounds an impressive turnout!'
'How the f
k did you know it was me?''the tone of your grunt'
'oh, how was your weekend?'
'Not bad mate, just offloading last nights curry, yours?'
'Yeah getting hell from the Mrs...'
At this point the door squeaks and someone walks up to one of the urinals
'Arggghhhhhhhhhhummmmmm'*sounds of reverb off the porcelain*
'Morning Cal!'
'Hey Ads, good weekend?'
'yes mate, you.'
'Great thanks'
'fancy a coffee?'
'yeah 2 sugars please, be back at my desk in 10'
Most civilised conversation, totally ruined my browsing experience though.
A couple of years ago the bloke who sits on the desk accross from me was moaning all day about having a dodgy gut etc. In the afternoon he got up from his chair and went out of the office rather quickly.
A few min had passed i needed a slash so off i go to the loo. All i could hear was loads grunting and farting from trap 2. I presumed it was the fella from accross the desk so i banged like mad on the wall, made a few childish trumping sounds and lobbed a cup of cold water over the top of the wall.
I go back to my desk only to find the bloke who i thought it was already sitting working away. A few min later my boss walked back into the office with wet hair and shirt. He never found out it was me lol
A few min had passed i needed a slash so off i go to the loo. All i could hear was loads grunting and farting from trap 2. I presumed it was the fella from accross the desk so i banged like mad on the wall, made a few childish trumping sounds and lobbed a cup of cold water over the top of the wall.
I go back to my desk only to find the bloke who i thought it was already sitting working away. A few min later my boss walked back into the office with wet hair and shirt. He never found out it was me lol
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.
In the spirit of never knowingly keeping up with the curve...this is just magic!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.
Thought you guys may like this one.
http://www.lemans2006.co.uk/socks.htm
Team stty socks said:
tty socks said: 1998
Well, it all started with the choice of campsite I suppose. Expo. Opposite the pub, and just down the road from the main entrance and grandstand. It was my first time at le Mans, the atmosphere was great during qualifying, and I was really looking forward to watching the start from Tetre Rouge, one of the best places to watch it from according to Skipper.
We arrived on Wednesday afternoon, pitched the tents, got some food down our necks and proceeded to drink beer. After 8 or 9 of those crappy little French bottles, it was time to drop some off at the urinals, so I wandered off to the nearby toilet block. There was some strange French woman sitting outside with a plastic tin full of change, and a retard grin on her face. Must be a janitor type person I guessed, whilst noting the size of her arse, and figuring a massive dose of gene therapy would be the only way to breed it out of her family. I bet the midwife slapped her mother instead of the baby when she was born. Anyway, in I went. No urinals to be seen. Must have to piss in the bogs then, I guessed as I swung the door open on the first trap.
“Some has nicked the bog” was my first thought. Closer inspection however revealed a shower tray type thing with a 5 or 6 inch hole towards the back, and some mouldings towards the front on each side.
Slowly it dawned on me. These were the infamous “long drop” toilets that I had heard old people in pubs talking about when discussing their trips to “the continent” when they were young. Apparently you have to squat like a homesick muslim whilst trying to aim your turd down the hole, simultaneously doing your very best to not to piss on the shorts you didn’t have the foresight to remove.
'Well, I’m fked if I’m pissing in that' I thought to myself, even though the previous tenant had done a fine job of pissing all over the entire apparatus, (probably in a effort to wash some of the st off of it, in my considered opinion) so I moved on to the next door in search of a proper bog. No such luck, and a cursory inspection of all the other cubicles revealed that they were all long drops. Never being one to duck a challenge, I decided to have a piss in the last cubicle, being careful to adopt the Gallic custom of pissing all over it. No point in going abroad and not absorbing the local culture in my view.
Once relieved, I sauntered out of the toilet block, and even said “Bonjour Monsieur” in my most fluent French to the woman sitting outside, doing my bit for Anglo-French relations. She gave me a funny look, but I think it may have just been her face, as she looked like she had fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. I made a mental note not to st in that particular toilet block under any circumstances.
Thursday and Friday passed rather quickly, I think we went go-karting on Thursday, Friday night we had quite a few beers, and a really good barbeque, plenty of food. Skipper didn’t eat any of the spicy red sausages, so I had his share. There were even quite a few of the red sausages left over when everyone had finished eating, so I polished them off as I get hungry after a few pints. Not a lot of the people who had been to le Mans before ate the red sausages. Odd that, they were really tasty.
Saturday morning I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. Must be the excitement of being race day. We did breakfast, and went for a drive up the Mulsanne straight, which was quite good. We got back to the campsite at around 1pm, and settled down for a couple of pints before the planned 2:30 walk up to Tetre Rouge. The butterflies in my stomach had developed, and I was beginning to wonder if I might need a turd, as I hadn’t had one since Tuesday.
2:30 pm arrived, and I came to the conclusion that I actually did need a dump, but was forced to bake it for a while as everybody was getting ready to go to the track, and there was no way I was going to crap in the campsite toilets. No problem I thought, I’ll drop the kids off at the pool after watching the start, there was bound to be plenty of toilets at a place as famous as le Mans, and with any luck, they wouldn’t be long drops.
We set off at around 3:15. My arse was starting to get a bit twitchy, and was informing me that a long greasy turd would be forthcoming in approximately one hour, come what may. No problem, I thought : race starts at 4pm, we will watch ten laps or so, then we would wander off to a trackside bar, I would have a pint or two, then go to the toilets and unleash the beast, so to speak.
This turned out to be wishful thinking.
We made it to Tetre Rouge, and by five to four, I was developing an urgent knocking at the back door. Mr Brown and his children, wanted out, and he was letting me know in no uncertain terms. As this was my first le Mans, I was determined not to miss the start, and sent a message to the back door, informing it as to who was in charge. The contractions miraculously stopped, and thankfully nobody was aware of my predicament, the blazing sun giving me a perfect excuse for sweating like a and not moving a lot.
A helicopter flew overhead, in line with the cars on the parade lap. Absolutely amazing, couldn’t wait for the cars to come round on the first hot lap. Unfortunately this surge of enthusiasm seemed to motivate the manitou trapped within my bowels, causing it to surge towards the exit gate at top speed. Mission Control sent an urgent message to the sphincter, which slammed itself shut with only milliseconds to spare. A gust of fetid air managed to escape just before the doors slammed shut. Luckily a Panoz was going past at the time, hiding the noise of the fart, while the smell blended in nicely with rural France. Urban France too for that matter, but that is beside the point. At this point my brain went into survival mode, and I revised my original estimate down from ten laps and a couple of pints down to five laps and no pints. I was in serious and terminal danger of stting myself, and thirty degree heat at le Mans while wearing shorts was neither the time nor the place to do it in public for the first time since the age of six.
Thankfully 4 o’clock came, the race started, and all the cars came blasting past us. I managed to get seven or eight really good photos of the wire fence by the time they all went past for the first time. Unfortunately this lack of concentration on the major issue of the day had encouraged the beast within me, and it had now produced its “get out of jail free card” and was heading for the gate with renewed vigour.
“er, just going for a st, see you at the bar !” I shouted to the rest of our group. Nobody heard, as the leaders were just coming round for lap two.
I strode off purposefully towards the Dunlop bridge, confident of coming across a toilet block within five minutes. Ten yards later the demon turd made its presence felt again, and again I slammed my ahole shut, hoping that I hadn’t beheaded the fker in the process. Drastic times mean drastic measures, and I was forced to walk like Charlie Chaplin to keep the beast at bay. By this time I was sweating like Michael Jackson at a Primary School swimming gala, and was receiving some strange looks. fk ‘em, I was on a mission, and they were probably all French anyway.
Somehow I made it to the Dunlop Bridge without stting myself, and spotted what looked like a small toilet block in the not too far distance. I grabbed my shorts, pushed my arse cheeks together with some authority, and headed for the turd oasis.
As I got closer, there appeared to be a rather long queue outside it. A quick mental calculation of a maximum of two toilets inside, a thirty person queue outside it at 5 minutes average per dump would give me 45 minute wait. There was no choice, I had to head for the stters behind the main grandstand, from memory they were about 100 yards long, and would have a quick turnaround time. Charlie Chaplin took charge again, and off I went.
I arrived about fifteen minutes later, sweat pouring off me, and not sure if I had done a certain percentage of poo in my pants already. The queue wasn’t too bad, and it was moving forward at about one person every two minutes. After a while I got to the entrance, and saw another French woman with a bowl of change, and little mounds of two or three sheets of pink toilet paper on her desk. I figured she was selling posh toilet paper so the women could pat their delicate little beavers dry after a dainty girly pee, and that there would be some industrial waxy type paper in the men’s for some serious arse wiping. I smiled condescendingly on my way past. She smiled back, obviously noticing the six inch steps I was taking, the grey face, and the rapist-like sweating going on. bh.
The mental release of being in close proximity to a porcelain palace was having a detrimental affect on my ability to control the leviathan and potentially prize winning poo. I had a tortoise head that was more like an ostrich head, and it felt like it had Arnold Schwarzenegger's neck muscles. There were seven people in front of me, and by my calculations of previous st/piss ratios and timings, I had 8.4 minutes to go. Time stood still for what seemed like half an hour, but I suddenly found myself at the front of the queue. Ominously, I was starting to develop cramp in my left arse cheek, and my right leg was starting to tremble uncontrollably. A door opened about halfway down, and a skinny French tt staggered out. The gene pool was obviously somewhat silted up when he was conceived.
Released from the starting blocks, I headed towards the cubicle like Ian Dury on speed. A five millisecond scan of the facilities revealed a proper toilet, no toilet seat though, and porcelain covered in the statutory French piss. Instantaneously I formed a plan of action : turn round, bolt the door, shorts down, and hover six inches above the bog.
I tentatively relaxed my arse muscles for the first time in approximately two hours, and felt a vacuum forming in my chest as the mother and father of all turds headed south and out quicker than Nelson Mandela on release day, and almost as smelly. After a couple of feet of steaming coil had fallen out, my arse closed with a loud fart of satisfaction, and all the stress and tension drained from my body. I smiled and awarded myself three pints of beer over and above what I felt capable of potentially drinking at any point during the next day, just like any proud father would. Mission accomplished, I looked around for the industrial toilet paper.
There were no toilet roll holders on the wall. There were no toilet rolls stacked nicely on the cistern. There was no toilet paper on the floor behind the bowl. There was a waste paper basket in the corner. Closer inspection revealed that it contained used pink toilet paper.
fk.
I was faced with three options. 1: Not wipe my arse and wander around in the blazing sun back to the tent to get toilet paper, 2: Not wipe my arse, go to the back of the queue, queue up again and buy some pink toilet paper on the way past from the smirking inbred Frenchwoman, or 3: Improvise.
It was quite tricky getting my trainers off, then my socks, without standing on the piss on the floor in my socks and then bare feet with my shorts around my knees, but somehow I made it.
I pulled the first sock onto my hand, then pulled it tight up to my elbow, and held it there with my spare hand. The sweat in the sock from the two hour route march was particularly unpleasant so I ignored it. I then gave a gentle wipe to the overworked and stressed chocolate starfish with sock number one. When the first pass was complete, I rotated the sock through 180 degrees, then repeated the process more vigorously, and then did the same with sock number two. Pity I wasn’t born with four feet.
The rushed arse wiping with the socks had not entirely polished my ring to its normal standards, and I was beginning to think that maybe in the same way Scrapie jumped species from sheep and manifested itself as BSE in cows, I feared that I had developed “Athletes Arse” as there was a certain degree of itchiness going on. When we got back to camp at around six, I got my roll of as yet unused Andrex out of the bag and headed for the toilet block.
The swamp monster had been replaced by a younger version with an excellent pair of tits, but the leggings made her arse look like God had once stuffed a duvet into a pillow case, then replicated it in a human being just for a laugh. Must have been the other one’s daughter. “Bon Nuit” I said cheerily as I went in for a minor bum wiping session. She gave me a funny look, so I made a mental note to check for st on the back of my legs.
Minor bum wiping session my arse. Now I know why Andrex put toilet paper on rolls rather than socks. Whilst socks feel nice and soft on your feet, wiping them across your ahole four times in anger removes approximately thirty layers of skin from it. My fking ahole was in tatters. The Andrex wasn’t sure if it was mopping up a st or a period, and I was beginning to wonder myself. Beats me how poofters go on with all those funny condoms they stick up their arses. Anyway, half a roll of Andrex later, the old ringpeice was polished to an acceptable standard, so I lobbed the rest of the roll down the hole in the long drop, as statistically I wasn’t due for another dump until Thursday. Whilst doing so, I noted that the cubicle and toilet were remarkably clean. The janitor totty must have cleaned it just before I arrived. "Must remember to compliment her on the way out" I thoughtidly to myself. I flushed the toilet, and just made it out before the overflow got to the door. Janitor totty fluttered her eyelids at me, “la merdes sont tres bon” I remarked to her in perfect French. She looked at me oddly. Bugger, I had forgotten to check for st on the back of my legs.
Turdwise, the rest of the trip went without a hitch, although the Athletes Arse didn’t dissipate. Luckily the girlfriend at the time insisted on giving me thrush twice or so a week, so when I got home I went hunting for her canasten cream (found it right next to her anti-blowjob pills), applied it to the affected area and it cleared up in a couple of days.
1.If you eat the spicy red sausages, make sure you eat one immodium per red sausage without fail
2. If you need a dump, go for one immediately. There will never be a better time.
3. Never wipe your arse with your socks. Try your tee shirt instead, or :
4. Carry some toilet paper with you whenever you go to the track. At worst you wont use it, at best you will go home with the same number of clothes you came with and your ahole in one piece.
5.Use the cripple toilets wherever possible. They are pretty spacious and you don’t face butt the door when attempting to remove or replace your shorts.
Your second best option is to use the women’s toilets, as they tend not to piss all over the seats.
Third best is the pub opposite the expo campsite (BYO toilet paper) or Carre Four/ Macdonalds (BYO noseclip).
Fourth best is the toilets anywhere except Expo.
from here:Well, it all started with the choice of campsite I suppose. Expo. Opposite the pub, and just down the road from the main entrance and grandstand. It was my first time at le Mans, the atmosphere was great during qualifying, and I was really looking forward to watching the start from Tetre Rouge, one of the best places to watch it from according to Skipper.
We arrived on Wednesday afternoon, pitched the tents, got some food down our necks and proceeded to drink beer. After 8 or 9 of those crappy little French bottles, it was time to drop some off at the urinals, so I wandered off to the nearby toilet block. There was some strange French woman sitting outside with a plastic tin full of change, and a retard grin on her face. Must be a janitor type person I guessed, whilst noting the size of her arse, and figuring a massive dose of gene therapy would be the only way to breed it out of her family. I bet the midwife slapped her mother instead of the baby when she was born. Anyway, in I went. No urinals to be seen. Must have to piss in the bogs then, I guessed as I swung the door open on the first trap.
“Some
has nicked the bog” was my first thought. Closer inspection however revealed a shower tray type thing with a 5 or 6 inch hole towards the back, and some mouldings towards the front on each side.Slowly it dawned on me. These were the infamous “long drop” toilets that I had heard old people in pubs talking about when discussing their trips to “the continent” when they were young. Apparently you have to squat like a homesick muslim whilst trying to aim your turd down the hole, simultaneously doing your very best to not to piss on the shorts you didn’t have the foresight to remove.
'Well, I’m f
ked if I’m pissing in that' I thought to myself, even though the previous tenant had done a fine job of pissing all over the entire apparatus, (probably in a effort to wash some of the st off of it, in my considered opinion) so I moved on to the next door in search of a proper bog. No such luck, and a cursory inspection of all the other cubicles revealed that they were all long drops. Never being one to duck a challenge, I decided to have a piss in the last cubicle, being careful to adopt the Gallic custom of pissing all over it. No point in going abroad and not absorbing the local culture in my view.Once relieved, I sauntered out of the toilet block, and even said “Bonjour Monsieur” in my most fluent French to the woman sitting outside, doing my bit for Anglo-French relations. She gave me a funny look, but I think it may have just been her face, as she looked like she had fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. I made a mental note not to s
t in that particular toilet block under any circumstances.Thursday and Friday passed rather quickly, I think we went go-karting on Thursday, Friday night we had quite a few beers, and a really good barbeque, plenty of food. Skipper didn’t eat any of the spicy red sausages, so I had his share. There were even quite a few of the red sausages left over when everyone had finished eating, so I polished them off as I get hungry after a few pints. Not a lot of the people who had been to le Mans before ate the red sausages. Odd that, they were really tasty.
Saturday morning I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. Must be the excitement of being race day. We did breakfast, and went for a drive up the Mulsanne straight, which was quite good. We got back to the campsite at around 1pm, and settled down for a couple of pints before the planned 2:30 walk up to Tetre Rouge. The butterflies in my stomach had developed, and I was beginning to wonder if I might need a turd, as I hadn’t had one since Tuesday.
2:30 pm arrived, and I came to the conclusion that I actually did need a dump, but was forced to bake it for a while as everybody was getting ready to go to the track, and there was no way I was going to crap in the campsite toilets. No problem I thought, I’ll drop the kids off at the pool after watching the start, there was bound to be plenty of toilets at a place as famous as le Mans, and with any luck, they wouldn’t be long drops.
We set off at around 3:15. My arse was starting to get a bit twitchy, and was informing me that a long greasy turd would be forthcoming in approximately one hour, come what may. No problem, I thought : race starts at 4pm, we will watch ten laps or so, then we would wander off to a trackside bar, I would have a pint or two, then go to the toilets and unleash the beast, so to speak.
This turned out to be wishful thinking.
We made it to Tetre Rouge, and by five to four, I was developing an urgent knocking at the back door. Mr Brown and his children, wanted out, and he was letting me know in no uncertain terms. As this was my first le Mans, I was determined not to miss the start, and sent a message to the back door, informing it as to who was in charge. The contractions miraculously stopped, and thankfully nobody was aware of my predicament, the blazing sun giving me a perfect excuse for sweating like a
and not moving a lot.A helicopter flew overhead, in line with the cars on the parade lap. Absolutely amazing, couldn’t wait for the cars to come round on the first hot lap. Unfortunately this surge of enthusiasm seemed to motivate the manitou trapped within my bowels, causing it to surge towards the exit gate at top speed. Mission Control sent an urgent message to the sphincter, which slammed itself shut with only milliseconds to spare. A gust of fetid air managed to escape just before the doors slammed shut. Luckily a Panoz was going past at the time, hiding the noise of the fart, while the smell blended in nicely with rural France. Urban France too for that matter, but that is beside the point. At this point my brain went into survival mode, and I revised my original estimate down from ten laps and a couple of pints down to five laps and no pints. I was in serious and terminal danger of s
tting myself, and thirty degree heat at le Mans while wearing shorts was neither the time nor the place to do it in public for the first time since the age of six.Thankfully 4 o’clock came, the race started, and all the cars came blasting past us. I managed to get seven or eight really good photos of the wire fence by the time they all went past for the first time. Unfortunately this lack of concentration on the major issue of the day had encouraged the beast within me, and it had now produced its “get out of jail free card” and was heading for the gate with renewed vigour.
“er, just going for a s
t, see you at the bar !” I shouted to the rest of our group. Nobody heard, as the leaders were just coming round for lap two.I strode off purposefully towards the Dunlop bridge, confident of coming across a toilet block within five minutes. Ten yards later the demon turd made its presence felt again, and again I slammed my a
hole shut, hoping that I hadn’t beheaded the fker in the process. Drastic times mean drastic measures, and I was forced to walk like Charlie Chaplin to keep the beast at bay. By this time I was sweating like Michael Jackson at a Primary School swimming gala, and was receiving some strange looks. fk ‘em, I was on a mission, and they were probably all French anyway.Somehow I made it to the Dunlop Bridge without s
tting myself, and spotted what looked like a small toilet block in the not too far distance. I grabbed my shorts, pushed my arse cheeks together with some authority, and headed for the turd oasis.As I got closer, there appeared to be a rather long queue outside it. A quick mental calculation of a maximum of two toilets inside, a thirty person queue outside it at 5 minutes average per dump would give me 45 minute wait. There was no choice, I had to head for the s
tters behind the main grandstand, from memory they were about 100 yards long, and would have a quick turnaround time. Charlie Chaplin took charge again, and off I went.I arrived about fifteen minutes later, sweat pouring off me, and not sure if I had done a certain percentage of poo in my pants already. The queue wasn’t too bad, and it was moving forward at about one person every two minutes. After a while I got to the entrance, and saw another French woman with a bowl of change, and little mounds of two or three sheets of pink toilet paper on her desk. I figured she was selling posh toilet paper so the women could pat their delicate little beavers dry after a dainty girly pee, and that there would be some industrial waxy type paper in the men’s for some serious arse wiping. I smiled condescendingly on my way past. She smiled back, obviously noticing the six inch steps I was taking, the grey face, and the rapist-like sweating going on. b
h.The mental release of being in close proximity to a porcelain palace was having a detrimental affect on my ability to control the leviathan and potentially prize winning poo. I had a tortoise head that was more like an ostrich head, and it felt like it had Arnold Schwarzenegger's neck muscles. There were seven people in front of me, and by my calculations of previous s
t/piss ratios and timings, I had 8.4 minutes to go. Time stood still for what seemed like half an hour, but I suddenly found myself at the front of the queue. Ominously, I was starting to develop cramp in my left arse cheek, and my right leg was starting to tremble uncontrollably. A door opened about halfway down, and a skinny French tt staggered out. The gene pool was obviously somewhat silted up when he was conceived.Released from the starting blocks, I headed towards the cubicle like Ian Dury on speed. A five millisecond scan of the facilities revealed a proper toilet, no toilet seat though, and porcelain covered in the statutory French piss. Instantaneously I formed a plan of action : turn round, bolt the door, shorts down, and hover six inches above the bog.
I tentatively relaxed my arse muscles for the first time in approximately two hours, and felt a vacuum forming in my chest as the mother and father of all turds headed south and out quicker than Nelson Mandela on release day, and almost as smelly. After a couple of feet of steaming coil had fallen out, my arse closed with a loud fart of satisfaction, and all the stress and tension drained from my body. I smiled and awarded myself three pints of beer over and above what I felt capable of potentially drinking at any point during the next day, just like any proud father would. Mission accomplished, I looked around for the industrial toilet paper.
There were no toilet roll holders on the wall. There were no toilet rolls stacked nicely on the cistern. There was no toilet paper on the floor behind the bowl. There was a waste paper basket in the corner. Closer inspection revealed that it contained used pink toilet paper.
f
k.I was faced with three options. 1: Not wipe my arse and wander around in the blazing sun back to the tent to get toilet paper, 2: Not wipe my arse, go to the back of the queue, queue up again and buy some pink toilet paper on the way past from the smirking inbred Frenchwoman, or 3: Improvise.
It was quite tricky getting my trainers off, then my socks, without standing on the piss on the floor in my socks and then bare feet with my shorts around my knees, but somehow I made it.
I pulled the first sock onto my hand, then pulled it tight up to my elbow, and held it there with my spare hand. The sweat in the sock from the two hour route march was particularly unpleasant so I ignored it. I then gave a gentle wipe to the overworked and stressed chocolate starfish with sock number one. When the first pass was complete, I rotated the sock through 180 degrees, then repeated the process more vigorously, and then did the same with sock number two. Pity I wasn’t born with four feet.
- ********************************
The rushed arse wiping with the socks had not entirely polished my ring to its normal standards, and I was beginning to think that maybe in the same way Scrapie jumped species from sheep and manifested itself as BSE in cows, I feared that I had developed “Athletes Arse” as there was a certain degree of itchiness going on. When we got back to camp at around six, I got my roll of as yet unused Andrex out of the bag and headed for the toilet block.
The swamp monster had been replaced by a younger version with an excellent pair of tits, but the leggings made her arse look like God had once stuffed a duvet into a pillow case, then replicated it in a human being just for a laugh. Must have been the other one’s daughter. “Bon Nuit” I said cheerily as I went in for a minor bum wiping session. She gave me a funny look, so I made a mental note to check for s
t on the back of my legs.Minor bum wiping session my arse. Now I know why Andrex put toilet paper on rolls rather than socks. Whilst socks feel nice and soft on your feet, wiping them across your a
hole four times in anger removes approximately thirty layers of skin from it. My fking ahole was in tatters. The Andrex wasn’t sure if it was mopping up a st or a period, and I was beginning to wonder myself. Beats me how poofters go on with all those funny condoms they stick up their arses. Anyway, half a roll of Andrex later, the old ringpeice was polished to an acceptable standard, so I lobbed the rest of the roll down the hole in the long drop, as statistically I wasn’t due for another dump until Thursday. Whilst doing so, I noted that the cubicle and toilet were remarkably clean. The janitor totty must have cleaned it just before I arrived. "Must remember to compliment her on the way out" I thoughtidly to myself. I flushed the toilet, and just made it out before the overflow got to the door. Janitor totty fluttered her eyelids at me, “la merdes sont tres bon” I remarked to her in perfect French. She looked at me oddly. Bugger, I had forgotten to check for st on the back of my legs.Turdwise, the rest of the trip went without a hitch, although the Athletes Arse didn’t dissipate. Luckily the girlfriend at the time insisted on giving me thrush twice or so a week, so when I got home I went hunting for her canasten cream (found it right next to her anti-blowjob pills), applied it to the affected area and it cleared up in a couple of days.
- ********************************
1.If you eat the spicy red sausages, make sure you eat one immodium per red sausage without fail
2. If you need a dump, go for one immediately. There will never be a better time.
3. Never wipe your arse with your socks. Try your tee shirt instead, or :
4. Carry some toilet paper with you whenever you go to the track. At worst you wont use it, at best you will go home with the same number of clothes you came with and your a
hole in one piece.5.Use the cripple toilets wherever possible. They are pretty spacious and you don’t face butt the door when attempting to remove or replace your shorts.
Your second best option is to use the women’s toilets, as they tend not to piss all over the seats.
Third best is the pub opposite the expo campsite (BYO toilet paper) or Carre Four/ Macdonalds (BYO noseclip).
Fourth best is the toilets anywhere except Expo.
http://www.lemans2006.co.uk/socks.htm
Monday morning about 9:15 in work, I decided that nature was calling and headed for our three trap bogs.
On entering the room, trap two in the middle is already occupied.
I head to trap three at the end next to the wall (The favoured trap as there is less disturbance from your neighbours or visiting gents arriving at the main door.)
Unfortunately a quick recce reveals that there is a deficit of bog roll in there.
A quick retreat is beaten and I dive into trap one. Plenty of paper in here so that's fine.
I unbutton my waist band, only for the button to ping off and out under the cubicle door. So back outside I go again on the hunt for the errant button. Safely located and pocketed for later I head back to trap one.
Trap two is still occupied by a silent sitter, who so far has not made a single sound since I arrived.
I settle down to attend to the business at hand.
Just as I settle into it, I hear the hurried sound of clicky shoes entering the room. They dive past me and I hear the door click shut on the loo roll bereft trap three.
What follows can best be described as the worst sound ever heard in an office toilet ever. It was a historic Monday morning clearout after a weekend on beer, barbeque and more beer. If it had been wet cement hitting the bowl it couldn't have sounded worse. Even if a strangulated duck had been drowned in the said cement.
All the time this is happening, I am horror struck by the thought that there is NO BOG ROLL in that cubicle. There was obviously a moment of realisation in there as a small and muttered voice is heard to utter 'fk!' under his breath.
I quickly finished, washed and left the room before I was tempted to laugh out loud.
I still don't know how the unfortunate splatterer extricated himself from the dilemma they faced (Use the underpants, scuttle next door once the coast was clear or just sit and cry) or indeed who they were. I have no desire to find out either.
On entering the room, trap two in the middle is already occupied.
I head to trap three at the end next to the wall (The favoured trap as there is less disturbance from your neighbours or visiting gents arriving at the main door.)
Unfortunately a quick recce reveals that there is a deficit of bog roll in there.
A quick retreat is beaten and I dive into trap one. Plenty of paper in here so that's fine.
I unbutton my waist band, only for the button to ping off and out under the cubicle door. So back outside I go again on the hunt for the errant button. Safely located and pocketed for later I head back to trap one.
Trap two is still occupied by a silent sitter, who so far has not made a single sound since I arrived.
I settle down to attend to the business at hand.
Just as I settle into it, I hear the hurried sound of clicky shoes entering the room. They dive past me and I hear the door click shut on the loo roll bereft trap three.
What follows can best be described as the worst sound ever heard in an office toilet ever. It was a historic Monday morning clearout after a weekend on beer, barbeque and more beer. If it had been wet cement hitting the bowl it couldn't have sounded worse. Even if a strangulated duck had been drowned in the said cement.
All the time this is happening, I am horror struck by the thought that there is NO BOG ROLL in that cubicle. There was obviously a moment of realisation in there as a small and muttered voice is heard to utter 'f
k!' under his breath.I quickly finished, washed and left the room before I was tempted to laugh out loud.
I still don't know how the unfortunate splatterer extricated himself from the dilemma they faced (Use the underpants, scuttle next door once the coast was clear or just sit and cry) or indeed who they were. I have no desire to find out either.
Gassing Station | The Lounge | Top of Page | What's New | My Stuff