EMAIL ME IF YOU’VE SHIT YOURSELF PLEASE, I WANT TO TALK TO YOU
I went home last weekend, to catch up with the folks. My dad is the reason I still laugh at farts, shit, piss and “all that”. Well, my mum has her part in it, too – if she hadn’t tutted and rolled her eyes, my dad wouldn’t have lifted his leg, done a meaty fart and winked at me and my brother in an attempt to make us love him the best.
I was brought up in a pub, and in the first years of coin-ops, they were embraced by nearly everyone. I was four years old, and I’d have to wait for middle-aged fucking men for a go on the Space Invaders. Meeting up with my family usually involves trotting out all the old competivity; how I’d get out of bed, steal money from the till to play Space Invaders at three in the morning, how mum was best at Pac-Man, dad was best at Missile Command, and how I became the compulsive king of Robotron 2084 after one of the mischeivous elderly pub customers lied to me that there was a “last level” where you fought Robot Ron. My revenge has been to outlive him.
Anyway, the point was this; between our usual conversations about who was the best at Vanguard, Scramble and Zaxxon (me), a story I’d very nearly forgotten cropped up, and it had nothing to do with videogames at all. It was this.
SUMMER, 2000: THE BUNKERS HILL INN
A few years back, I ran a real ale pub with my dad. My dad, for all his faults, is a great landlord – he keeps good beer, clean floors, and has pegged up enough years of keeping an orderly house to get to earn the respect of most punters. He also lets staff have a drink. Tight as a rubberised heron’s arsehole with the heating, but the drinks flew around like Japanese hornets.
This led to a growing Baileys/Brandy habit for me, and an inability to walk past a row of optics without playing them like an upturned organ. We’re a family of drinkers, so I reckon watching me slump around the bar pouring myself drinks – in the belief that if I had my back to everyone, they wouldn’t know what I was doing – must have made the old man puff out his chest and boast “that’s my lad”.
By now, you’re probably imagining that I’m going to get drunk, go into the cellar, fall asleep and shit myself in the Carling. But I didn’t, so there.
The Friday it happened, I certainly felt like I was going to shit myself, but it never got to the panicky last phase of the brown angel’s kiss. The only outward sign of urgency, as I struggled to effortlessly breeze into the bar, was that I cantered like a fat horse into the disabled toilets, rather than going upstairs.
Now, our pub didn’t have a soil pipe running from the downstairs toilet, so there was a Saniflo macerator pump to mash up the stools and pipe them gently into the sinkwater. In brief, there was a machine that mashed my already-wet shit into a filthy cordial.
I’m not sure about the maintenance arrangements with these things. We’d had it about two years. That sounds like maybe we should have had a routine inspection, but like I said – my dad’s generous in many ways, but when it comes to paying through the nose for a so-called prefessional to check, say, the connection of a rubber tube from a macerator pump to the disposal pipe – that just wouldn’t be a priority.
You’re probably imagining how it happened a bit more accurately, now. You’re probably imagining that I flushed the toilet, the rubber pipe disconnected, and the pump flung my own hangover shits directly into my face.
Close!
I first heard my dad screaming when I was preparing the upstairs bar for the night, and ran downstairs to find a confused-looking minstrel waving his hands around in disgust. It turns out that seconds after I’d shut the toilet door behind me, the pipe had disconnected, leaving my dad to investigate the strange sounds coming from the disabled loo. He walked into a Burroughsian, Geigeresque vision of a flapping brown tube whipping itself to death around the shit-covered cubicle, just in time for the last, drying coughs to sputter over his clothes. I’d be doing the man a disservice if I didn’t mention that he’d taken a good amount in the face, too.
It was a long time ago, so I can’t remember how hard I laughed. But it was fucking hard, and once my dad had rinsed his face, he laughed too. Then went home to change his clothes.
This left me to deal with the start of a busy Friday afternoon on my own. And when everyone asked where my dad was, I’d laugh. Because we both worked there every Friday lunch, everyone asked, and by the time he’d got back, I was crying with joy. After letting him know that none of the regulars knew what had happened, I retired to the cellar for five minutes to collect myself. Collecting myself involved hugging a barrel and giving thanks to Jesus.
If you’ve never shit all over your dad, I thoroughly recommend it.
If you’ve got any similar stories of shitting yourself, let me know – I’m looking to ressurect Tales of the Smear. It’s been far, too, long.
Well thank fuck for that. A blog entry with copious poo and a name check for Geiger, just when we’d all given up hope. I have a reason for my despair.
MSN are running a blog competition. One of the top ten rated blogs has this entry.
“A ‘tail’ of the unexpected
When arriving back on the train last night I stepped out of the busy station only to see a small ginger cat sitting outside the main entrance! It was certainly not something I was expecting but did make me chuckle out loud. Anything to brighten up the long commute home :)”
This is why you have to keep posting. So people like her don’t take over the net.
Yes, well done. I have nothing to come anywhere near that scatalogical legend. I did once poo myself whilst doing Karaoke, but it’s just not the same. The full length version of american pie mind. I may have been pissed.
Me and my h….
My housmate AND I, stayed up till 11:30 last night laughing ourselves stupid at this post & the tales.
Thank you for returning with a post about poo. It doesn’t matter what these new fangled trendy comedians say about irony and pastiche: poo is the funniest substance in the universe and deserves our love and attenton.
I shat myself on the last day of the Reading Festival once. Luckily it smelt mostly of hay, and was so overpowered by the stench of the portabogs that no-one noticed it was me.
If it’s poo you want, I have emailed you a tale of buttock-related woe.
Ah, pant poos. Great fun.
I remember when me and my brother played the bum chews game, and BOTH shit ourselves. We were scared of what our parents would say (not to mention the silent accusation of rampant teenage homosexual incest), so we hid the sheets in the wardrobe. And found them 10 years later when we moved, all crusty and brown and nice.
The bum chews game does not involve chewing on each other’s bums.
I have many stories of poo, being the only child in my family. You see, my father, and his father before him have told me on numerous occasions of their turd accidents. I’m saving them all up (and my own) so that one day I can tell my kids. It’s a bit like werther’s original.
I shit the bed only once as an adult. On my honeymoon. A combination of extreme heat, dehydration and the after-effects of an hour eating in one of Marrakech’s less hygienic latrines. It wasn’t a full on squelch. I’d spent 18 hours on the toilet. Finally, I hurled my burst paddling pool of a body onto the bed. I was too tired to move and I needed a fart. I risked it.
It was as though my bum was crying and just wanted to weep one more shitty tear. The tiniest halfpenny pale brown smudge on the sheet.
About two years ago I went on a two day drinking binge with my father.
As I’ve mentioned him here before I won’t regale you with any stories of him again, besides, it’s my story, not his. He’s just the poo enabler.
We’d been drinking John Smiths Rough (the stuff from the pump rather than that ice-cream like smooth nonsense) of questionable health, but after the first four or so the taste is secondary to the drunkenness anyway. The ever-present Fruit Flies are added protein during mammoth sessions so you don’t have to stop to eat.
So I was feeling a bit worse for wear when I finally got home, in the clothes I’d initially gone out in days before.
I was settling in to a nice long wee, the sort that you usually associate with horses or pregnant cows and other large herbivores, when I felt a little gurgle in my nethers.
I released, expecting a long drawn out fart I was surprised to find a hot brown stream of beer and digested flies firing out of my poor nipsy. There was little point in trying to sit down on the loo or clench at that point as the damage was done and I was into limitation mode by then.
I just showered in my clothes and them threw the slightly less-shitty rags into the washing machine.
I love these stories, I don’t feel so alone knowing everyone shares a similar fascination with accidental evacuations. Anyway, my best story goes back to four years old, in the portakabin classroom, and the yellow wall looked a funny colour. The teacher noticed and said to the boy next to it ‘Tony, are you OK?’ ‘Yes miss’ ‘What’s on the wall?’ ‘Nothing’. It clearly wasn’t nothing. Smears of circular brown rings a foot wide in galactic formations across a section of the wall. It turned out on further investigation he’d done it in his pants and rather than wait and be found out thought if he removed it and smeared it thinly enough on the wall no one would ever be the wiser. They were though.
I pity the poor caretaker who had to come in and wipe it all off, but oddly I don’t remember leaving the room early, they called his au pair to take him home and I think we just carried on with the lesson with cack all over the wall. Those were the days.
On a similar but non-faecal theme a few years later in primary school the teacher walked up to the boy opposite me who was dropping white fragments on the floor from his trouser area. ‘Alan, what’s that on the floor?’ ‘Nothing’. ‘It’s falling out of your pockets’. She turned his pockets out and they were both full of mashed potato. He didn’t like it and as they often made people finish their lunch he hid it in his shorts pockets, only to drop out as soon as he sat down. I don’t know where he got it all from as there seemed far more in his pockets than we were actually given. He was always a bit of a thick arse and became a hairdresser, although that may not be relevant to his intelligence.
yesterday my flatmate regailed me with a nice one. he had three boys in detention, and three other teachers with him because they were such naughty rotters. one of the boys said he needed the toilet, but they didn’t let him go, because it’s an obvious ploy to have a wander round the corridors – a case of the boy who cried wolf. you can guess the rest.
I know I’m late to the party, but I thought I’d share my poo story anyway.
I was about half way though the Benicassim music festival a few years back. Anyone who’s been will know that the campsites are literally a couple of miles away from the main stage, and getting between the two involves a walk though the busy town centre. Being the outrageous scamps we are, we’d all imbibed certain substances on the walk from the campsite, and not long after arriving I started feeling the effects somewhat. One unexpected side effect took the form of a sudden and desperate need to cack. So with rolling eyes, gurning hard, I made my way over to the portaloos and was horrified to see that each had a que of about 50 people in front of them. I managed to beg my way about halfway along (any sense of pride had completely deserted me at this point) but eventually reached a bunch of sods who refused to let me push in. There was nothing for it. I ran around the back of the portaloos, and keeping an eye out for security, hitched my shorts around my knees and let all that horrible shit just squirt out. It was fucking bliss. Once satisfied that I was empty, I pulled my kecks up and only then did the problem become apparent. In my hurry, I’d basically shat all over the things. I gingerly made my way back into the crowds of people to meet my mates who’d been waiting for me. I reached out with one poop smeared hand and they recoiled in horror, staggering backwards, goggle eyed.
To their credit, a couple of them accompanied me back to the campsite (two miles, remember), of which I remember nothing, although I’m told I fell down a motorway embankment and almost rolled onto the hard shoulder. A brilliant advert for Brits abroad.
I often work on saniflo units, not to long ago I was working on a saniflo unit and the customer I was working for was one of these guys who in his own words “can not just sit around and watch” and he insisted on helping with the repair, I completed the repair with a lot of interfereance and had to go outside to get more gloves, when I came back in, he had tried to complete the job and put the fuse back in, all I saw was him running away from the saniflo covered in macerated poo and the walls dripping with the same stuf, it was not funny at the time but very amusing now