Mirth and Woe: Nature Poo II
Scaryduckblog: Now poo-free for ZERO days
Public toilets. Where are you when I need you? Where are you when I'm bursting for a turd in the middle of nowhere at midnight? Where? This tale is the direct result of Wokingham District Council's abject failure to provide crappers in the middle of nowhere, and it's no wonder I don't pay my council tax.
I have, in my time, been forced to relieve myself in the open on a number of occasions. The trick, of course, is not to get yourself arrested, because this is, on the whole, A Bad Thing.
To this end, I have never, ever done a poo in public. That's an entirely different kettle of filthy-smelling fish, and I'm pretty sure that if I did, they'd throw away the key.
OK. I'll confess. There was this ONE time...
You see, there's a design flaw with buses. They don't as a rule, come with an on-board toilet. You get touring coaches and National Express vehicles that might have a convenience the size of a shoebox, stuffed to the brim with turds and paper; but the last bus home from the pub on a Friday night does not.
And that, dear reader, was to be my downfall.
It was the usual kind of Friday evening to wind down from another long week on shuffling papers round my civil service desk. I got a lift into the centre of town, met up with some mates, and spent the evening getting steadily drunk in an awful town centre pub that isn't there any more.
The name of the place eludes me in a town where every other shop is now some theme bar with loud music and expensive pissy lager, but it was a true basement spit-and-sawdust which was demolished and turned into another faceless row of shops. Going through a heavy drinking phase, I had emptied my wallet into their till on many occasions, and been sick into the gutter outside, an arrangement the landlord seemed to appreciate.
Around closing time on these occasions, consumed by the need for greasy food, we trolled down the road to a local burger joint to stuff the speciality of the house - botulism inna bun - down our necks until it was time to go home.
In my case, it was the last bus to Twyford, already filling up with less-than-sober passengers.
At last, it lurched off for its tour of Reading's suburbs - Earley - Woodley, before getting me back on track above Sonning.
However, on this particular night, something was welling up inside me.
It was, almost certainly, the pineapples and odd-coloured Thousand Island dressing on the Hawaii Burger playing merry hell with eight pints of bitter. But there was no denying it - I needed a shit and I needed it NOW. In fact - and it's strange how you can tell these things - the brown laser was primed and ready to fire.
I clenched my buttocks together and sat as squarely as I could on my seat, hoping that it would go back up.
But it was no good.
As the bus lurched around a roundabout at Sonning, I lost my centre of balance, one buttock lifted up, and the urge to shower my fellow passengers with rich, brown scat returned with a vengeance.
I immediately pressed the bell, ran to the front of the bus, and found myself in front of a row of houses, three stops from home.
A couple of hundred yards away, I could hear the throng of voices coming from the local rugby club HQ, where they were drinking well into the night. There was no way I could make it over the road, across the car park, elbow past dozens of burly rugger-buggers and their equally burly hairy-armed women, and make it to the toilet in time.
I needed a Plan B. B for Buttocks. And fast.
My confession is this: I jumped behind a wall into the front garden of an enormously expensive-looking house on the Sonning/Woodley borders, dropped my trousers and deposited an enormous liquefied turd all over their roses. I'm not proud.
Fuck it. Yes. I AM proud.
In fact, I think I might have actually punched the air and shouted "YES!" before realising that the occupants of the house were, in all probability sitting up late watching Russell Harty or some similar late night crappery on the cathode ray tube, the net curtains twitching at the sound of some drunken teen celebrating hosing their prize blooms with his own manure.
Stuck for paper, and in a drunken fug, I wiped my bum on one of my socks, which, in my blind panic, I left under a bush. Half sockless, I collected myself and made it, some thirty minutes later, via the miracle of the drunk's zig-zag walk, back at my house.
Home. Where I spent the remainder of the night emptying my bowels in a liquid manner in the central-heated luxury of our downstairs toilet, wondering, why, exactly, I was only wearing one sock.
This entire episode took place at a time I was still living with my parents, and my mother was still in the habit of sewing name tags into EVERYTHING. And one, awful thought haunted me.
I went weeks, months fearing every knock on the door, every ring of the phone, for it could, at any time, be the voice of authority, ready to call me to book for my dreadful sin. A family, still stranded inside their own home, unable to leave thanks to the tide of filth in their front garden.
In my nightmares, I could see a burly police officer, gnarled finger pointing to the tell-tale name tag and saying in the sternest of voices: "Excuse me sir - is this your sock?"
Wanted: one sock.
Plz to send socks.
EDIT: As a result of reader comments, I offer this clarification:
The sock was removed before wiping, and, resourceful that I am, I wore it like a glove.
There is, in retrospect, the potential here for a new generation of bottom-wiping products. Mr Andrex had better watch out. There's a new toilet duck in town.