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Worst I ever had was gastroentiritis in my 3rd year at uni. Hellish. I lost 2 stone in 10 days. The first 2 days I was spewing water into the toilet bowl withouth even being in the bathroom. For 1 week, I shat fluids only. Not even lumoy, just acidic fluid. After about a fortnight, I had a solid dump and almost cried.

Worked with a Geordie lad in York who had a minging tale. He claimed to have pulled a minging auld lass in a grotty pub in Newcastle and took her back to his van for some fun. She went on top of him for some 69 action and whilst he was lapping away to his hearts content, she supposedly suffered a sudden and catatastrophic dose of the squirts all over his face, in his mouth eyes etc. Dunno if it is true, I certainly hope so.

Also played rugby with an ex navy boy who said that one of the recruits during his training shat his pants one night, and chucked them out of the window. In the morning he was rudely awakened by the senior officer raging that a set of shit filled kecks had been thrown onto his brand new car. The lad was cuaght out as his maw had sewn his name into the back of them. I'm 70% certain that is an urban tale, but one can only live in hope

Edited by dogma
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My mate once lost badly at drinking games in the union, and the fool was drinking wine. 3 bottles later he couldn't stand up and on the way home required an adrenaline shot in the back of an ambulance. In the morning his flatmates found him, in the feotal positon, his economics notes spread out in an orderly fashion behind him, covered in shit. He'd also managed to pull his jeans back up (although he had removed his boxers) so it looked like he'd blown the arse out of them.

I lol'd. The fact he obviously thought 'I'm going to crap myself, quick, spread the notes out on the floor and I'll squat here!'

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All I'm saying is an away game at Cove in January. 1/2 hour into the 4 hour bus journey my guts begin to hurt. Toilets are very small on buses. Bus was full and the smell wasn't nice.

Got to the game, still felt terrible, then sat on the bus for 4 hours home.

I'll let you fill in the gaps, but it wasn't a pleasant experience.

:lol: Never been on a bus as honking as that in all my life. Although in your defence if i remember right the bus was smelling pretty bad before we got on it.

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A few months ago I had had a night on the cider. As many will testify a cider shite is the most vile smelling thing on the planet. Anyway, I was halfway through this cider shite when I could hear a rumbling in my belly the other way.

I had to hold in my shite, get off the pan, kneel down and be sick into the already putrid mess. The vomit caused some spray to come back up and hit me in the face, which of course made me sick even more.

After I had finished spewing, I had to finish my shite before I could wash my face and get in the shower.

A truly horrible experience.

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Guest Tatty Boabie
A few months ago I had had a night on the cider. As many will testify a cider shite is the most vile smelling thing on the planet. Anyway, I was halfway through this cider shite when I could hear a rumbling in my belly the other way.

I had to hold in my shite, get off the pan, kneel down and be sick into the already putrid mess. The vomit caused some spray to come back up and hit me in the face, which of course made me sick even more.

After I had finished spewing, I had to finish my shite before I could wash my face and get in the shower.

A truly horrible experience.

:lol:

My story is less than salubrious.

On a lovely sumer's day out with my then girlfriend to a garden centre just outside Falkirk, where we had enjoyed a lovely homecooked lunch, we proceeded to the outside bit of the garden centre to purchase plants and pots.

Unfortunately, my metabolism was working far too quickly that day, and as we stepped outside I had the urge to break wind. It was noisy enough and outdoors, so I decided to let it rip, only to be horrified that it wasn't wind, it was the real stuff.

It is important at this point that I mention that I was On-Call at work that particular day. Just after giving birth to a ten pound otter in my trousers, my pager went off, with one of my mental health patients threatening to kill himself.

Imagine the scenario :

I have just shit in my pants, and am now faced with a life and death situation with a very unstable mental health patient who lived in Livingston.

I said to the patient, "Give me an hour", I then had to explain to my girlfriend what had happened, including that I had shit my pants, and needed to go home to change and then she would have to drive me to Livingston to perhaps save somebody's life.

I sat sideways in the car on the way back to my home in Linlithgow, but by the time I had got back I had set.

It was like concrete. I had to chisel off my jeans and underwear, and use metal soap pads to clean my arse.

The story had a happy ending, I cleaned all the shit off myself, my girlfriend was laughing too much to finish with me, and the mental health patient lived, despite cutting his stomach open and having to go to hospital.

Nightmare.

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Guest Tatty Boabie
That's the best post ever, made funnier still because when I read it I can hear you narrate it in your Yorkshire accent :lol:

:lol:

That's very true mate, I typed it in a Yorkshire accent. Hope everything's sound with you Fudge.

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It is important at this point that I mention that I was On-Call at work that particular day. Just after giving birth to a ten pound otter in my trousers, my pager went off, with one of my mental health patients threatening to kill himself.

:lol::lol::lol:

Brilliant.

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:lol:

My story is less than salubrious.

On a lovely sumer's day out with my then girlfriend to a garden centre just outside Falkirk, where we had enjoyed a lovely homecooked lunch, we proceeded to the outside bit of the garden centre to purchase plants and pots.

Unfortunately, my metabolism was working far too quickly that day, and as we stepped outside I had the urge to break wind. It was noisy enough and outdoors, so I decided to let it rip, only to be horrified that it wasn't wind, it was the real stuff.

It is important at this point that I mention that I was On-Call at work that particular day. Just after giving birth to a ten pound otter in my trousers, my pager went off, with one of my mental health patients threatening to kill himself.

Imagine the scenario :

I have just shit in my pants, and am now faced with a life and death situation with a very unstable mental health patient who lived in Livingston.

I said to the patient, "Give me an hour", I then had to explain to my girlfriend what had happened, including that I had shit my pants, and needed to go home to change and then she would have to drive me to Livingston to perhaps save somebody's life.

I sat sideways in the car on the way back to my home in Linlithgow, but by the time I had got back I had set.

It was like concrete. I had to chisel off my jeans and underwear, and use metal soap pads to clean my arse.

The story had a happy ending, I cleaned all the shit off myself, my girlfriend was laughing too much to finish with me, and the mental health patient lived, despite cutting his stomach open and having to go to hospital.

Nightmare.

:lol:

Brilliant.

''I sat sideways in the car on the way back to my home in Linlithgow, but by the time I had got back I had set.'' :lol: :lol:

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It is important at this point that I mention that I was On-Call at work that particular day. Just after giving birth to a ten pound otter in my trousers, my pager went off, with one of my mental health patients threatening to kill himself.

Imagine the scenario :

I have just shit in my pants, and am now faced with a life and death situation with a very unstable mental health patient who lived in Livingston.

I said to the patient, "Give me an hour", I then had to explain to my girlfriend what had happened, including that I had shit my pants, and needed to go home to change and then she would have to drive me to Livingston to perhaps save somebody's life.

I sat sideways in the car on the way back to my home in Linlithgow, but by the time I had got back I had set.

It was like concrete. I had to chisel off my jeans and underwear, and use metal soap pads to clean my arse.

:lol:

Magnificent.

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:lol:

My story is less than salubrious.

On a lovely sumer's day out with my then girlfriend to a garden centre just outside Falkirk, where we had enjoyed a lovely homecooked lunch, we proceeded to the outside bit of the garden centre to purchase plants and pots.

Unfortunately, my metabolism was working far too quickly that day, and as we stepped outside I had the urge to break wind. It was noisy enough and outdoors, so I decided to let it rip, only to be horrified that it wasn't wind, it was the real stuff.

It is important at this point that I mention that I was On-Call at work that particular day. Just after giving birth to a ten pound otter in my trousers, my pager went off, with one of my mental health patients threatening to kill himself.

Imagine the scenario :

I have just shit in my pants, and am now faced with a life and death situation with a very unstable mental health patient who lived in Livingston.

I said to the patient, "Give me an hour", I then had to explain to my girlfriend what had happened, including that I had shit my pants, and needed to go home to change and then she would have to drive me to Livingston to perhaps save somebody's life.

I sat sideways in the car on the way back to my home in Linlithgow, but by the time I had got back I had set.

It was like concrete. I had to chisel off my jeans and underwear, and use metal soap pads to clean my arse.

The story had a happy ending, I cleaned all the shit off myself, my girlfriend was laughing too much to finish with me, and the mental health patient lived, despite cutting his stomach open and having to go to hospital.

Nightmare.

so it was an actual proper solid log?

i mean everyone has followed through with some brown grease, but it's very rare to hear of a solid when it comes to following through.

you must be proud

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I was in a hill walking party of about twenty people in North Glen Sannox,Arran a few years ago.

I was finding that I had been getting dehydrated easily,so before we left the accommodation that morning I tanned as much water as I could drink.

I don't know what the link is,but I can only assume that the copious amounts of water were what made very suddenly desperate for a shite,while we were out in the field,miles from anywhere.

It didn't come on gradually. One minute I didn't need a shite,but the next minute my arse was bursting.

We had split into pairs and were all walking upstream alongside the river that runs down the valley.

I explained my situation to my partner then bolted away to try and find somewhere concealed to leave my deposit.

The topography dictated that if I'd shat on the grass somewhere I'd probably have been a squatting silhouette on the horizon for somebody,so I concluded that shitting on the edge of the stream was the only option. The water was about ankle deep there,and I was hidden by the bank.

Despite feeling very vulnerable exposing my arse in an area that was infested by ticks (not to mention other hill walkers) I relieved myself of the shite which,as it happens,was quite a substantial log.

I was just reflecting on how handy it was that I'd be able to wipe my arse with the stream water when,to my horror,I realised that the shite was floating away. :huh:

This hadn't occurred to me. I wasn't initially intending to shit in the stream,and I was desperate,so I hadn't looked at the possibilty that it might float away.

Of course,the problem was that our entire party were downstream of me.

We're not talking about a very wide stream here. If you were walking beside the stream,and a large shite floated past,there's no doubt you would spot it.

If only I'd been a skilled primitive fisherman,I could have chased the shite downstream and speared it from the riverbank.

In the end,with my trousers around my knees and the floating shite starting to gather pace in its bid to escape,I had no option but to wade forward,grab it with my hand and guide it back to safety.

I then buried it under a pile of rocks in the stream.

On the next trip we went on I barely managed a shite all week. I can only assume this was some kind of psychological reaction to the trauma I'd suffered in Arran.

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Guest Tatty Boabie
I was in a hill walking party of about twenty people in North Glen Sannox,Arran a few years ago.

I was finding that I had been getting dehydrated easily,so before we left the accommodation that morning I tanned as much water as I could drink.

I don't know what the link is,but I can only assume that the copious amounts of water were what made very suddenly desperate for a shite,while we were out in the field,miles from anywhere.

It didn't come on gradually. One minute I didn't need a shite,but the next minute my arse was bursting.

We had split into pairs and were all walking upstream alongside the river that runs down the valley.

I explained my situation to my partner then bolted away to try and find somewhere concealed to leave my deposit.

The topography dictated that if I'd shat on the grass somewhere I'd probably have been a squatting silhouette on the horizon for somebody,so I concluded that shitting on the edge of the stream was the only option. The water was about ankle deep there,and I was hidden by the bank.

Despite feeling very vulnerable exposing my arse in an area that was infested by ticks (not to mention other hill walkers) I relieved myself of the shite which,as it happens,was quite a substantial log.

I was just reflecting on how handy it was that I'd be able to wipe my arse with the stream water when,to my horror,I realised that the shite was floating away. :huh:

This hadn't occurred to me. I wasn't initially intending to shit in the stream,and I was desperate,so I hadn't looked at the possibilty that it might float away.

Of course,the problem was that our entire party were downstream of me.

We're not talking about a very wide stream here. If you were walking beside the stream,and a large shite floated past,there's no doubt you would spot it.

If only I'd been a skilled primitive fisherman,I could have chased the shite downstream and speared it from the riverbank.

In the end,with my trousers around my knees and the floating shite starting to gather pace in its bid to escape,I had no option but to wade forward,grab it with my hand and guide it back to safety.

I then buried it under a pile of rocks in the stream.

On the next trip we went on I barely managed a shite all week. I can only assume this was some kind of psychological reaction to the trauma I'd suffered in Arran.

:lol:

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Guest Ron Burgundy

i'm gonna go on Dragons Denn with my new idea ....the portable shart clean up system....for those times when a bog just aint close enough....

it will be a bag type system...much like a horses feed bag which will hang over your knees as you crouch, which you then draw up to your pelvis so the bag hands under your keecher and an elasticated bag hanging around your nether region....once complete the drawstring will pul the shite and rusty water proof bag together for disposal...

anyone want to invest...it will be pocket sized of course and available to all hillwalkers and loose bowelled alchies ....

it's already patented so hands off shitehawks

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