'Get out, get out, I've shit the bed.'

[El Unicornio, mang]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9t_8pfbCH-4

I've never done it, but when I was about 8 I had a bit left over that came out and hardened in my underpants, and I spent the day at school shaking crusty dry poo out of my trouser legs and hoping no-one noticed.

[Artemis]

I hate to cut and paste but the only time I've ever done this was a sorry incident I posted about just over a year ago. I probably couldn't tell it better today than I did then, so...

As I've mentioned before, I have just recently moved house. I'm now living in a small cabin on a boat on the Thames for money/living-on-boat-in-the-summer purposes. I didn't think I'd be hippie enough for boat-types when I first saw the place, so I was delighted that my meeting with one of the two people who already live there went well, and excited that I might pull this off.

I got a call a few days later saying the first person is happy but the second wants to meet me, so a few days ago, I popped over again and met the second person. On my way, I stopped off for a couple of drinks and had another on the boat. I didn't want to risk treading into all-too-familiar 'fucking up normal activity jeopardizes entire agenda' terrain, so I avoided using the toilet in case calamity struck and my weirdness was exposed. Instead, I held it in.

It was about 8.30pm when I left, and unbelievably, things had gone well so I decided I'd head into London and have a drink with myself to celebrate my own achievement, before heading back to where I lived at the time. The boat (near Vauxhall) is two or three tube stops away from where I wanted to be, and I couldn't keep holding back my desire to urinate for the time it would take for the tube to get me to any kind of toilet, so I dived behind some bushes and went there. While it was flowing, I took stock of the offer of somewhere cool to live with people who seemed lovely.

In all my excitement, I shat myself. I could feel the unmistakable sensation of a trickle emanating from between my buttocks, and couldn't seem to stop it until it had reached my shoe. There wasn't much solid there, but it was very obvious what had just happened.

I didn't have any tissues at the time, and for a moment, just stood there pondering on what the fuck I was going to do. My only option, I felt, was to wipe off everything I could and call off the trip to central London, going home instead for a shower and change of clothes. The problem was: cleaning up, and getting home.

I looked around for leaves or anything to mop up the discharge, but there was nothing. My last resort was now a horrible reality. I quickly stripped off, and used my underwear as a make-shift mop before putting my jeans back on and stuffing my boxers in my back pocket. I then adopted a most ridiculous walk, reacting to anybody approaching me by walking sideways to them, so that the back of my jeans were never on show. On the tube home, I made sure to always stand at the back of the carriage so only my front was ever seen.

The back pocket of my jeans really wasn't designed to contain a pair of shit-soaked undergarments, so unfortunately - as I discovered when I finally got home - the top of it was poking out and the evidence was all too clear to see. That would account for two occasions at Earls Court, where I had to change and where my crab dance was ineffective, when I heard an audible "urgh" and - although I'm not sure this was directed at me - a "revolting!".

In the end, I got home and the final outcome was I moved onto the boat last night. I don't think I'll be sharing that hilarious anecdote any time soon, though.

[mook]

poor sod. but why take the pants home? did you have your name and address sewn on a little label inside them?

[Small Man Big Horse]

poor sod. but why take the pants home? did you have your name and address sewn on a little label inside them?

When I shat myself at school, my pants did. Which is how the teachers discovered that it was me who'd clogged up the cistern with shitty y-fronts. I'd almost made it, too, I was inside the cubicle but before I could take my pants down copious amounts of sloppy turds  splurged in to them. I tried to clean them up best I could, but they were too far gone, so I stuffed them in the aforementioned cistern and made a run for it.

I thought I'd gotten away with it, but the next day during assembly the headmaster went on an angry rant about how someone had done this, and that they knew who it was because of the name sewn in to the pants. Fortunately he didn't out me, and so the mystery of the unknown shitter was never solved.

[tookish]

I probably shouldn't tell this, as it's about my best beloved sister and not me. Oh well. Blood may be thicker than water, but shit is thicker than blood.

When I was a kid, I was essentially Hermione Granger, but without the remotest possibility of growing up to look like Emma Watson. I didn't have any real friends, but at a Parents' Evening my good manners and old-fashioned clothing charmed the mothers of a couple of the fairly popular girls at school, and they had a quick word with my mum, who agreed that the three of us ought to have a sleepover.

After a couple of terrifying and conversationless hours in which the two girls showed each other the ringtones on their mobile phones, I suggested we put a film on. My sister - suffering at the time from gastroenteritis - left her bed of pain to join us. Waves of fart-smell emanated periodically from her as we watched, and after half an hour or so, she got up in a real hurry and disappeared upstairs. Thinking nothing more of it, we turned our attention back to the film.

When we went upstairs to go to bed, we were met with a horrendous smell. One of the girls stepped forward and let out a scream of horror as shit squished up between her toes. Yes, the landing was covered in little patties of faeces, which, on further inspection, led from the bathroom to my sister's bedroom.

She maintains to this day that our cat was responsible, though I don't recall us ever feeding the cat on carrots and sweetcorn.

[Cerys]

shit is thicker than blood.

Not always, my friend.  Not always.

[phes]

I experienced immediate, humiliating punishment for daring to urinate in a brighton alley. With award winning drunkenness I failed either to properly remove my penis from my undergarments, or even to open my trousers at all. The effect was somewhat clearer: about 2/3rds of a pint micturated into pale blue jeans, myself proudly emerging from behind the wheeley bin completely unawares, to the puzzled expressions of about half a dozen friends. 

[Doomy Dwyer]

I was going to keep this one to myself, for a number of reasons. First and foremost – we've been here before. I've told you about the time I shat myself in Camden, and that should be enough for anyone. I'm not going to mollycoddle you people. Secondly – I know how cruel you all can be. Verbally, I mean. Rapier wits and razor tongues. Now, I like a joke as much as the next man. But when it's at my own expense? And I've supplied you with the ammunition? That's a whole different kettle of poisson my friends. I don't want to be known as 'shitty internet boy' or 'Turdman' or 'Shitty Shyter' or somesuch clever wordplay style thing of the type you often see on these esteemed boards.  I'm not a masochist. Thirdly, and most importantly – I don't want to been seen as a one trick pony, constantly harping on about the same subject, revisiting the scene of past glories like some pitiful George Lucas figure - doggedly returning to the carcass of his one good idea like an idiot vulture, blind to the fact that there's nothing left save a memory of the bones of a skeleton of a corpse that once provided nourishment and now can now only offer mockery, starvation and death – a fat necked monomaniacal Ahab locked in eternal pursuit of the Great Brown Leviathan. I don't want to be reduced to such a tragic level of intellectual poverty – shitting myself in glorious remastered 3D CGI Technicolor and Surroundsound splendour in selected outlets and participating theatres before a hooting, insatiable but increasingly disgruntled and unrealistic throng whose expectations can never outstrip their fantasies and/or youthful memories. That's the worst thing. I've got things to say. I have dreams.

But the shits is like snowflakes. Each example of the form is unique and strangely beautiful. There are similarities in these two tales of shame and disgrace, sure. I'm big enough to admit that. But there are enough differences, I think, to satisfy the appetites of even the most voracious connoisseurs of cack and aficionado's of effluence. Plus, this tale has a vaster scope than the Dublin Castle Incident. From the personal - to the universal. Truths that effect us all. It works on a number of levels, like a lasagne. But instead of meat, vegetables and a rich tomato sauce divided by sheets of pasta, it's a lasagne made up of shit, shame and political and spiritual turmoil. It's a lasagne that only a maniac would order, but an intriguing and unignorable menu option nonetheless. So, lovers of impromptu inappropriate inadvisable bowel movements – listen up and I'll tell you a tale that will chill your very soul.

The time – 10th of September 2011 – soon to be the 11th, a date rich with symbolism and meaning, [nb]See what I mean about the levels here? Rich with symbolism and meaning already, and we've hardly started[/nb]. It's approaching midnight, the witching hour, when strangeness abounds and nothing is what it seems. The place – London's Holloway Road - where strangeness abounds and nothing is what it seems, either. I – Doomy Dwyer – have just alighted (alit?) from a train from the West End where I have caroused and kept wassail with my comrades, as is my want. Although I'd only caroused mildly, no more than four pints, so I was tipsy, but not staggering. Cider. A mistake. Always a mistake. I'd arrived at Holloway Road with a purpose. I was hungry and I wanted a kebab. That summer I remember I was obsessed with kebabs. I don't know why. That's why I was on the Holloway Road. I live in Finsbury Park, but I'd burned down all my kebab connections in that area so had been forced to cast my net wider and try pastures new. I planned to purchse a Holloway kebab and eat it on the walk home. Plus, although I live in Finsbury Park, I was actually residing in Highbury at this time, cat/house sitting for a wealthy elderly couple I happen to know. A magnificent property on Highbury Fields, opulence and luxury beyond my grasp and the only opportunity I'll ever have to sample such delights. Their cat's nice too. Name of Zorro. The Kebab place in Highbury barn is shite, so Holloway it is, a short walk on a sultry night and a pita full of lamb, chile sauce and lemon. That's all I have, the holy trinity. Fuck their manky salad.

I glanced at my watch. It had just turned midnight. As I processed this information, I noted the significance of the date - thinking about how quickly time passes, about the ways in which the world had changed over the last decade, thinking about the shame I felt for having been made complicit to those changes against my will or say so, contemplating the loss of life, the pointless carnage that of a war that would never end and had yet, really, to begin, about the pain being wrought by man upon his fellow man in the name of truth and good, and the damage that had been done to both those beautiful words, how they had lost their meaning, how you couldn't trust language, or, more precisely, how you had to keep a close eye peeled and a keen ear cocked to the users and abusers of language and how words are weapons. In the second it took me to think these thoughts, and for the second hand on my watch to tick its fateful tock, past that midnight hour, in that short space of time, less than a breath and scarcely more than a blink, I shat myself in the foulest, most comprehensive way possible. With absolutely no warning and less mercy. An unstoppable tsunami of crap exited my sorry arsehole and proceeded at speed to course down my legs, toward my boots, which were new and had only been purchased that week. I had to think fast. Obviously a kebab was off the menu at this point.

The distance from Holloway Road to Highbury Fields os 0.8 miles. I've just measured it using the satellite technology.[nb]I don't just write these things down willy nilly and pell-mell, I check the facts, study the stats and crunch the numbers.[/nb]  That doesn't sound like a long way, and normally it isn't. But have you ever walked 0.8 miles with jeans filled to bursting point with semi liquid shit? You don't have to answer that. That is the most rhetorical question ever posed. Also, I didn't stop shitting for the entire length of Holloway Road tube to Highbury and Islington station, which must be approx 0.5 miles of the journey. That's an achievement that I find impressive, to be frank. I shat, almost without interruption, for nearly half a mile. I wouldn't have thought that possible, had I not performed the feat myself. If I hadn't have been wearing trousers (and I did, at one desperate, crazed point, consider discarding the strides, but sanity prevailed, thankfully) I would have left a pretty much unbroken trail of shit like some nightmarish perambulatory Red Arrow for much of the length of one of London's busiest arterial roads.

I was in a fix here, I don't mind telling you. There were people everywhere and the stench was rancid. Plus, as I've said, the trousers were filling at a rapid rate of knots. I peeked in the windows of public houses, looking for somewhere to start bailing out in order to make room for the seemingly infinite onslaught, but even in my panicked state I realised that entry to any public arena was inadvisable. There was no disguising the fact that I was, by now, a walking sack of shit. Walking is not the correct term to describe my gait at this point, not even close. Due to the confining encasement of shite I couldn't bend my legs so I was having to peg leg it down the street, shifting my weight precariously like some double amputee thrust too quickly onto prosthetic limbs. I had no time to acclimatise to my situation, I was learning as I went. What with this effort and the loss of any nourishment or energy giving material from my body, I was in a state of utter exhaustion. And I had to keep 'darting' across the road to avoid oncoming pedestrians - for their safety as well as mine.

Miraculously, I got back to the house. And it was here that the horror really began. My trousers had expanded dangerously to their physical limit, so full of excrement that I couldn't get the keys out of my pocket. My hand could find no port of entry. During my lengthy stagger the crap had hardened like concrete. Like I was like the victim of some intricately symbolic mafia hit waiting to be pushed from the pier into a watery grave. I rang the doorbell to wake my poor girlfriend. I'd need her help.

Eventually she came to the door. I told her of my plight and she laughed uncontrollably for a good five minutes while I stood their solidifying in my own fetid waste. I'll never forget that. Don't get me wrong - she's a damned good woman, and has, in many ways saved me, on numerous occasions, usually from myself. But I'll never forget that wicked slight, her cruel and joyful diminution of my dignity. That must be avenged. I can fucking wait, my love, don't you worry your pretty little head on that score.

After some considerable time, my one and only turtledove pulled herself together. I ordered her to get as many bin liners as she could lay her hands on, while I pondered my next move. This is where experience kicks in, what separates the pro's from the amateurs. Any fool can shit themselves. It takes a level head and a laser intellect to pick up the pieces afterwards. That's when the work begins. I couldn't enter the house - that much was obvious. I wouldn't enter my own house in the condition I was in - and that's nothing more than a glorified shed - let alone some swanky gaff in Highbury, all decked out in brilliant white's, creamy sofas and bleedin' object d'art all over the fucking shop. No – there was nothing for it but to penguin it around to the back garden and begin to carefully and methodically remove my ruined clothing. Unfortunately, in that area, the residents are very security conscious, by necessity. We live in lawless times. The neighbours have security lights that are set off at the slightest movement, so I was lit up like a fucking film set for all to see. I dragged myself into the bushes, the better to hide my modesty and my shame, and stripped.

Off came the shoes. They were somehow brimming with shit. I carefully placed them in a bin liner. The socks, likewise, utterly sodden. Beyond repair. I dropped them in a separate bag I was reserving for unsalvageable items. When I was a boy my grandfather used to warn me – "If you don't behave, I'll whack you round the back of the neck with a sock full of hot shit"- It was an effective deterrent, and he was a tough, hard, drunkard of a man, so I never tested him on the veracity of his threat. But it was only while handling the socks that I truly appreciated for the first time what a potentially lethal weapon the shitty sock could be, in the right hands. The sheer weight of the things. Humbling. Likewise, the trousers – the weight defied all logic. I could scarcely lift them with one hand. The pants I paid scant attention to. I knew from bitter experience that they, being the first line of defence in the face of the carnage, would have suffered irreversible damage. I said a few words of respect and prayer and dropped them in the second, condemned, bag.

Then I made a sort of large nappy style garment from yet another bin liner by ripping two holes in the base of the bag, and climbed in. This enabled me to step out of the undergrowth, which was hampering my movements. Unfortunately, the garden was entirely gravelled, so there was a fair bit of swearing as the stones bit into the soles of my feet. Christ knows what the neighbours must have made of all this. I was trying to be discreet, but what with the blinding lights, the severity of my plight, and now the pain, I was making quite a racket, try as I might not to. My reputation as a responsible cat sitter was hanging by a thread, as if matters could get any worse, and all I needed was some neighbourhood watcher calling in the 5-0. Christ, what would they make of this?

I looked down at my legs. From the waist down I looked like The Thing. The one from the Fantastic Four, not the shape shifting alien. Although, I suppose I looked like that one too, seeing as how he can look like whatever he wants to look like. Let's not get bogged down in that – I looked like Ben Grimm, post cosmic rays. My legs were caked in crazy paving like fragments of what looked like rock now. I couldn't help but admire the effect. I love the Fantastic Four, and The Thing is my favourite - "It's Clobberin' Time!" - great stuff. If you're ever stuck for ideas for fancy dress, it's cheap and effective costume. But not one I could recommend wholeheartedly. In the interests of accuracy, I'd have to say that, in my entirety, I looked like a cross between The Thing and Julian Cope circa 'Fried', what with the way the bag/nappy thing that billowed and inflated with the balmy gusts of wind that played across the floodlit garden. I looked like a big, shitty, tortoise superhero monster, if you can picture such a thing. But I had scant time to reflect on the implications of this. It was time to scrape myself off with a stick as best I could, and make for the shower, perhaps two or even three showers, and go to bed. I'd hose down the clothes tomorrow. I was tired and it had been a long day. And this has been a long story. For that I apologise. I did say that it was a story that worked on a number of levels, and some of you may be wondering about that. That was a lie. Something I learned from George Lucas. An empty promise to lure you in.

It's a story about me, covered in shit once more, in a sack, in a strangers garden. Make of it what you will.

[BlodwynPig]

Quell my shaking belly, that was un-bel-iev-able.

[CharlieChalk]

that was un-bel-iev-able.

literally

[Neville Chamberlain]

What the christ is the matter with your bowels, old chap?!?

Never mind Doomy Dwyer  - it's Poomy Dwyer from now on!!!!!!!

[tookish]

Doomy, please come to the pub with me and tell me more stories about poo.

[BlodwynPig]

Doomy, please come to the pub with me and tell me more stories about poo.

Synchronised shitting thyselves at end of night.

[tookish]

Synchronised shitting thyselves at end of night.

It's how the kids are having fun these days.