Manky - Hot Bag woe

Yes, I've noticed it too - over recent weeks, these pages have "enjoyed" a terrifying descent into Dante's Inferno with a bombardment of swearing, cheap insults and filthy tales of bodily functions. The following story, then, is the Ninth Circle of Hell (change at Baker Street), and with any luck, we've hit rock bottom. Hold your breath...

It was first thing Sunday morning, not so long ago. More recent than I care to admit, in fact. I'm already up and about, emptying the dishwasher and scratching my bollocks in front of News 24. Mrs Duck is in the bathroom ,and by the sound of things, she's washing her hair, a process that can, and usually does, take several hours.

Which is bad news for me as although we are an two-bog household, the second toilet is still in a box in the garage, waiting for our builders to finally get around to installing the plumbing. Worse, the previous evening had seen some particularly heavy red-hot curry action, and now it is time to pay the price with a ringpiece of fire. I am, in fact, busting for a crap, and it is only outstanding sphincter control that is preventing me from redecorating the living room, and as I hammer on the bathroom door, the upstairs landing. This one is a code red.

"I'll only be a minute or two," I am told, and I wait as patiently as I can given the circumstances. Presently, the most urgent need subsides, and I am able to gingerly descend the stairs to the kitchen, knock out a cup of tea, scratch my bollocks a bit more and head outside to feed the dog.

It is at this point that I am overtaken by the most sudden, uncontrollable urge to empty my bowels, and judging from the pain, the previous poo has come back with a few friends. The turtle's head is touching cloth, and the bathroom is clearly occupied. Doom.

So here is my confession. You know what they say in the Round Table: Adopt, Adapt, Improve. Make the most of the situation you find yourself in with the tools available to you. Situation: a biblical flood set to erupt from my anus. Location: Back garden, miles away from the nearest unoccupied lavatory. Tools available: one Asda carrier bag, a garden shed, a pet hamster. I know what you're thinking, and yes, small, fluffy Ryan Minogue survived.

Those of a nervous disposition may wish to look away now, for I have no shame in what I did. A man's shed is his castle, so they say - a small foul-smelling castle made of wood, notable for their lack of toilet facilities. But for this I cared not. Dashing headlong into my shed, garden tools and kids' scooters flying in all directions, I dropped my kecks and took the mother and father of all curry-powered craps into a plastic bag and wiped my arse on a handful of hamster bedding.

It was then I realised that Adsa put little holes in their bags to stop idiots from suffocating themselves and preventing normal, sane people from using them as squirty poo receptacles. And the dustbin was at the other end of the garden. Ideal for icing a cake, perhaps; but not for early morning comedy dashes, spraying path, feet, dog with something nasty. Hot-bagging, it seems, is not all it's cracked up to be.

"Scary - why have you got the hose out at this time in the morning?"

The Hot Bag ended up in the dustbin, where it was pecked open on bin day by seagulls, fuck my luck for living by the sea.