For the new reader: Every Friday, a new tale of mrth and woe from the files of Scaryduck. This week, it's about bottoms. As usual.
Gert from Mad Musings, while guest-writing on another blog, recently (um... last year, which goes to show how things work round here) wrote about the misfortune of pissing your own pants; or more specifically, the near-orgasmic delight of warmth immediately following the unfortunate release. Those long winter nights at the Gert household must absolutely fly by.
Oh yes, for I have done it too, and anyone who says they haven't has failed to notice that their pants are on fire. I have, however, never puked in the bath. Now, that would be careless.
I might as well be thorough in my confession, as people who know me in the flesh are undoubtedly reading this, and with my annual appraisal coming up next week, this could be my big chance to get away from it all.
Number Ones: As a formerly committed drinker, this occurred far too often to remember, even if I could. I have even been so manky as to pull on a pair of reeking, still damp jeans, completely forgetting in my hungover state the low quality trouser action from the night before.
But now, it all (pun intended) comes flooding back to me - the moment of blind panic, followed by resignation and a wonderful feeling of warmth, liberation and delight. Thirty seconds later, you realise you are drunk, freezing and miles from home. You walk like a cowboy and no taxi driver will stop for you. Lovely.
Voms: Not I, but I have seen with my own eyes the result of a post-pub illicit swim in the pool at an RAF station in Lincolnshire. There must have been gallons of chunder, as rich brown gobs of unidentifiable matter floated around like foul-smelling rafts.
For some reason, the powers-that-be blamed the visiting Air Cadets, who were on station for a summer camp and strictly banned from visiting drinking establishments; and not any of the hundreds of adult airmen at the station, who were allowed drink, and resorted to it in a big way as the only thing to do for miles around.
They had to drain the whole thing, while some bullshitting Warrant Officer shouted at us until he was purple. It couldn’t have been me. I was getting thrown out of a pub at the time, after Tiny Roger had asked for “a cup of beer, please sir”.
Number Twos: As a kid, my sister locked me out of the bathroom, and gleefully listened as my panic rose and a substance resembling cake dough ran down my leg. The dog tried to eat it, and I was told that It Was All My Fault. These things are sent to fuck with your head.
My last time was, ooooh, about six months ago. Caught short between work and station, I let loose what I thought was going to be a cheeky fart, not realizing that it was solids. There was not even that moment of reckless delight associated with premature pissage - just utter panic, and a clenched buttock John Inman-esque walk, desperately trying not to let a grim situation get any worse.
Fortunately, further contamination was contained, and the soiled grundies were disposed of in the traditional manner - down a nearby pub toilet. Mrs Duck was horrified - not at the botty accident, but at the fact that a perfectly serviceable pair of trollies were flushed away in such a cavalier manner. I should have asked the barman to wash them for me along with the bar towels, obviously.
I wouldn't recommend it, but there are any number of speciality websites where people pay for that kind of red-hot scat action, which you can generally get relatively cheaply with a couple of four packs of Tesco Value brand lager. Then there's the infamous Una Stubbs tale from popbitch. If you haven't heard it, don't ask.
Shitting yourself. It's shit.