Guest juvehearts Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Never exactally knew what this phrase ment until 5am this morning had a chicken vindaloo outta jalfreze's on Longstone road was amazing but i ran faster than usain bolt to les bog. anyone got any simlar story's for a weekend morning? juve Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
heartyhub Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 wow scraping the bottom of the barrel for a thread here mate. still made me laugh cheers Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
neave Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Was down in Manchester for a few days seeing Nine Inch Nails this week. I stayed in a hostel for 2 nights, so going for a dump was no problem (made sure I did it in the disabled toilets; infinitely more satisfying). I was staying at an ex-bird's house after the gig though, and getting the train back the following morning. I went the whole day of the gig needing a dump, as I had to check out of the hostel at 11am, then had a bevvy that night afterwards. Woke up in the morning just about touching cloth, but really didn't want to unleash the fury in her toilet, with her sharing a wall with it, as well as the other obvious drawbacks. Had to hold it in all morning, and then a 3 hour train journey from Manchester to Edinburgh. Just about cracked the pan when I got home. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
BigC Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Too posh to crap in the train or the train station? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
heartgarfunkel Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Too posh to crap in the train or the train station? A highly trained bomb-aimer chooses his targets with care. Indiscriminate carpet-bombing over the wrong target is a messy and tragic business. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
neave Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Too posh to crap in the train or the train station? Not too posh, just really wasn't up for it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
I.J Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Too posh to crap in the train or the train station? For the record, I wouldn't drop a log in a train for any ^^^^. They automatic doors are the devil's work. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Miller Jambo 60 Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Never exactally knew what this phrase ment until 5am this morning had a chicken vindaloo outta jalfreze's on Longstone road was amazing but i ran faster than usain bolt to les bog. anyone got any simlar story's for a weekend morning? juve Ian had a floater this morning, 2 flushes 2 destroy. Wife no talkin, cos i was gassed last night:rifle: Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
neave Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 I agree. I reckon they were designed to speed things up. As an aside - I was staying at my mate's parents' house in Stockport a few years back. We'd had a few, and I could barely remember where the spare bedroom was. Anyway, got myself safely tucked up in bed. Next thing I knew, it was 4am and I was desparate for the toilet. Not wanting to back-Stanton myself, I thought I had better try to find the bog. I managed to stumble into not only my mate's room, but also his parents' and his sister's, before finally finding the bog. I also accidentally trod on the family dog three times in the process. All was well until the next morning when nobody would look me in the eye. I asked my mate if it was because I had woken them up. He told me, no, it was because I'd taken a dump in the bidet. :laugh: Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
I.J Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 He told me, no, it was because I'd taken a dump in the bidet. That could quite possibly be the greatest end to an anecdote of all time. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Frankie Pal Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Thought this was another Craigie boy thread at first Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
slashishere Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Touching cloth at T in the Park is a more pleasant experience as it means your getting close to the stage! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Kenbo Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 I agree. I reckon they were designed to speed things up. As an aside - I was staying at my mate's parents' house in Stockport a few years back. We'd had a few, and I could barely remember where the spare bedroom was. Anyway, got myself safely tucked up in bed. Next thing I knew, it was 4am and I was desparate for the toilet. Not wanting to back-Stanton myself, I thought I had better try to find the bog. I managed to stumble into not only my mate's room, but also his parents' and his sister's, before finally finding the bog. I also accidentally trod on the family dog three times in the process. All was well until the next morning when nobody would look me in the eye. I asked my mate if it was because I had woken them up. He told me, no, it was because I'd taken a dump in the bidet. Absolute classic mate!!!!! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Captain_Peacock Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Nice one Jonesy:10900: I copied and pasted a few stories from a Leeds forum, did my best to clean up the language. If I missed a few swear words mods apologies in advance. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Slightly ashamed of this one but what the hell. I was invited to stay at a clients house down in London last year to discuss a design job i was doing for him. That evening I thought it might be a good idea to take him and his girlfreind out to dinner. A very pleasant evening indeed, much Rioca and Chorizo sausage was consumed. Bed time, I'm very pi55ed and crammed full of tapas, the bloke shows me my room and I flake out. Next morning I awake, feeling grimmer than a grim thing. I trudged wearily to his bathroom to take a shower. Too late to exit, I throw up and to my horror swamp the shower from the rear at the same time. It gets worse I looked down at the shower pan and I am feet deep in sick and poo. I start to panic wondering how to explain this one away, the plug hole was rammed with my excretions, the whole place stank. I tried in vain to create a 'Plunger' effect with the sole of my foot to no avail. I was starting to jibber with fear. By this time I think I had started to overstay my welcome in the bathroom, I was the first in and his girlfreind needed to get to work. Sheer deperation made me leave my swampy shower, run across the bathroom with crappy feet, take the toothbrush glass from the sink and start to bale the crap out. Some went down the sink, some down the bath plug hole. I remember nearly crying and saying to myself " No please, No Please. Oh No" It was a f@#ing nightmare. His girlfreind knocked and asked how much longer I would be. It was then I realised I might have to 'fess up' or calm down and think. I chose the latter option. I noticed a rubber kids type soap dish in the shape of a crocodile on the side of the bath. grabbing it I used the dished side against the plug hole in the shower. I furiously pumped the thing with the palm of my hand. To my huge relief I cleared the blockedge and the swamp drained away. I wiped up the floor and made the bathroom good. I was aware that they knew somthing was amiss so I cofessed to being sick. But hid the terrible truth. Thankfully, he still gives me lots of work. Even though he may have contacted Salmonella from rinsing his teeth! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My most embarrassing crap orientated escaped was back in the eighties on the way back from a scooter rally at Loch Lomond, as I left the scooter park I could feel a large turd beginning to form but the toilets on the site were atrocious so I thought I could hang on till I found a pub. As I drove down the twisty deserted Scottish roads it began to be clear that this turd only had one thing on it’s mind and that was exiting my body, this was exacerbated by the vibration of a tuned up Lambretta throbbing between my legs, at the point when it felt like I had a zeppelin trying to burst out of my arse I spotted a side road with a small hill in front of it shielding it from the main road – a great place to take a dump in the open, in the middle of nowhere, with just beautiful views and a field behind it. Anyone who is caught short this way knows that you start thinking up of anyway you can take a cr4p without getting it all over you, and in the absence of having any toilet paper, I remembered reading in a mountaineering mag that to take a crap outdoors it was best to smear a small amount of vaseline or similar substance on the ole bullet hole to aid a clean ‘egress’ as the mag put it, I then remembered I had a small tube of Castrol GP grease in the tool box, so grabbed this jumped off the scooter, took of my belstaff’s bent over and started to rub the grease on my rusty sheriff’s, it was at this point that some sixth sense made me look over my shoulder and there was some old boy walking his dog, the guy never missed a beat just raised his pipe and said good morning, and walked off, I just waved back at him like an idiot, finished off quickly to my great relief laying a small redwood, often makes me laugh to think of that old guy getting home and telling his Mrs he’d just seen some bloke rubbing grease on his ar5ehole in the top meadow, by the way the old grease technique really works – minimal remedial cleaning required. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I once crapped myself on the train up from London after taking a large dose of Antibiotics for my toothache, I managed to get to the toilet in time, but whist pulling my pants down in the bog, I cr4p all over the outside of my jeans and on me shoes. I had to stay in the bog for the rest of the trip. The conducter came and knocked on the door and I had to shout through to him that I had had an accident and I can't come out, he carried on asking me to come out - so I just shouted, 'look I've just fu#@ng crapped myself OK!' It was, without doubt the worst day of my life. Once the train pulled into my stop I fu#@ing legged it home - thankfully it wasn't that far. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I once crapped myself after getting home from working a night shift, felt absolutely fine, didn't need to fart nevermind crap. Turned the TV (massive old TV set at the time, no remote) on and crapped myself. To this day I think I must have been electrocuted. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Not an actual soiling incident, but I recall an emergency situation when I was about 15. My mum was in the shower when I was suddenly overcome with the desperate need to abort a turd. The only option was to use the cat litter tray in the kitchen. The cat stared at me looking amazed and indignant as a hovered over his tray and delivered a large payload. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- There’s a story Spike Milligan tells about a friend of his who crapped himself after a liquid lunch in London. On his way to catch the train home he dashes into a store, chooses a pair of undies and a pair of trousers, throws them onto the counter, pays, grabs the carrier bag of clothes and makes a quick exit before anyone can work out where the smell is coming from. He then heads to the station, jumps on his train and immediately locks himself in the bog. As soon as the train is out of the station the guy removes his cr4p-stained trousers and undies and chucks them out of the window, cleans himself up, and opens the carrier bag to find that it contains a pink cardigan. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- was living with an (ex) bird and had enjoyed a nice meal out in Leeds, remember going overboard on the brandies afterwards before returning home and retiring to the boudoir where I continued the romanticisms by falling asleep immediately. Woke around three in the morning in a state of confusion, something was clearly terribly wrong, but what could it be? There didn't appear to be anything wrong, security light wasn't on, couldn't hear anything downstairs but the alarm in my head was going off. Caught a faint smell of cack and giggled to myself, assuming I'd inadvertantly let off a Tommy Squeeker, rolled over to and immediately the satisfying warmth of the bed revealed itself as a pool of recently deposited runny crap. I woke our lass up with the immortal words, "Wake up, I think I've just cr4pped the bed", as if the evidence in front of my eyes didn't really exist. To be fair, she was a legend, ran downstairs and got the various cleaning products required to rescue the situation whilst I stood, in the buff pointing at the cr4p stained duvet as if I couldn't comprehend what had just happened. Went and had a shower and cleaned up, and then went downstairs and kipped on the sofa, our lass was full of concern and pity for me. For me however, there could be no return to our previous happy existence, and we split up a few months later, I cited irreconcilable differences with the duvet, which she had just washed instead of burned. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Moral of the story, never twist on 19. .--------------------------------------------------------------------- 16 pages of similar stories here http://www.waccoe.com/index.php?showtopic=103393 New users must register 1st here http://www.waccoe.com/index.php?act=Reg&CODE=00 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Captain_Peacock Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Couple more. I've never crapped myself. Well, not since early childhood anyhow. I did crap on a bathroom floor after a match at Elland Road though. I reckon it was after the game home to Brighton in 1989 (where they wore the pink away kit and had 'NOBBO' as their shirt sponsor). I'd not been that morning and had been touching cloth for most of the bus journey home so as soon as I got to my mate's house I legged it straight to the bathroom. I don't know why but I felt so rushed that I didn't bother putting the seat down - I just adopted the Russian paratrooper/jockey position and released my burden. I didn't think too much when I looked down into the pristine, empty porcelain pan. I just assumed it was a ghost turd, wiped up and was about to be on my way when I saw something lying on the carpet between the toilet and the wall - the biggest, blackest (I was a Guinness drinker back then) turd I had ever seen. I didn't know whether to leave it be and hope his mum would blame the dog or give Leading Seamen Log the burial at sea he surely craved. I went for the latter option - they only had a Jack Russell cross after all - and opted to clean up. I grabbed about half a roll of loo roll and layed it over my creation - it looked like a dead baby otter wrapped in an Andrex shroud - and picked it up. It felt lighter than I'd expected but it was so hot. I could feel the heat radiating out through a dozen layers of toilet tissue. It was like it was alive. I let the turd slide silently down the pan to it's watery grave and wiped up the after effects on the carpet as best I could before heading downstairs and suggesting we headed straight for the pub. Nige - if you're reading this mate, I'm sorry, but why the chuff couldn't you have had lino? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- . ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On holiday with the missus. I was packing our suitcase making sure we had everything. I was only wearing my boxers at the time (originally in white). The night before we had been out for a tapas meal, including some very spicy (and therefore gut-wrenchingley dangerous) food. My girlfriend was in the shower, which was immediately to my rear behind a closed door. Feeling the need to let a tickler out of my ar5e I lifted my right leg ever so slightly to ease the baby out. After the initial bubble burst I couldn't control my bowels, and hell ensued. Slurry, actual slurry was pouring from my arse into my boxers. I actually remember thinking - "Are there lumps in trumps?" I shouted F@x#@G HELL" - to which my girlfriend came out of the bathroom and asked what was wrong... "Fu@#ing crapped mesen..." "Why, what have you lost?" "No, you don't understand, I've fu@#ing crapped myself!!!" At this point, because the fu@@er was runny, I had my kecks (and cr4p) cupped in my hands behind my ar5e whilst I waddled (very much like a penguin) into the bog. I can only imagine the state of my butt cheeks - something similar to those "butterfly" painting that we all did at school (the ones where you paint half a picture and fold the page). I would describe the thickness of said slurry as being like bolognese sauce, but brown, with a lot less mince meat than expected, but lots of sauce. I tell you, it's a good job those Spaniards have powerful showers - I somehow managed to rescue my grundies, and now only the "blast zone" shows traces of the disaster that occurred. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Konrad von Carstein Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Captain Peacock...thanks for posting that, the Lambretta story almost made me pee myself with laughter...tears were streaming down my cheeks and it took me while to compose myself long enough to type this Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Miller Jambo 60 Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Nice one Jonesy:10900: I copied and pasted a few stories from a Leeds forum, did my best to clean up the language. If I missed a few swear words mods apologies in advance. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Slightly ashamed of this one but what the hell. I was invited to stay at a clients house down in London last year to discuss a design job i was doing for him. That evening I thought it might be a good idea to take him and his girlfreind out to dinner. A very pleasant evening indeed, much Rioca and Chorizo sausage was consumed. Bed time, I'm very pi55ed and crammed full of tapas, the bloke shows me my room and I flake out. Next morning I awake, feeling grimmer than a grim thing. I trudged wearily to his bathroom to take a shower. Too late to exit, I throw up and to my horror swamp the shower from the rear at the same time. It gets worse I looked down at the shower pan and I am feet deep in sick and poo. I start to panic wondering how to explain this one away, the plug hole was rammed with my excretions, the whole place stank. I tried in vain to create a 'Plunger' effect with the sole of my foot to no avail. I was starting to jibber with fear. By this time I think I had started to overstay my welcome in the bathroom, I was the first in and his girlfreind needed to get to work. Sheer deperation made me leave my swampy shower, run across the bathroom with crappy feet, take the toothbrush glass from the sink and start to bale the crap out. Some went down the sink, some down the bath plug hole. I remember nearly crying and saying to myself " No please, No Please. Oh No" It was a f@#ing nightmare. His girlfreind knocked and asked how much longer I would be. It was then I realised I might have to 'fess up' or calm down and think. I chose the latter option. I noticed a rubber kids type soap dish in the shape of a crocodile on the side of the bath. grabbing it I used the dished side against the plug hole in the shower. I furiously pumped the thing with the palm of my hand. To my huge relief I cleared the blockedge and the swamp drained away. I wiped up the floor and made the bathroom good. I was aware that they knew somthing was amiss so I cofessed to being sick. But hid the terrible truth. Thankfully, he still gives me lots of work. Even though he may have contacted Salmonella from rinsing his teeth! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My most embarrassing crap orientated escaped was back in the eighties on the way back from a scooter rally at Loch Lomond, as I left the scooter park I could feel a large turd beginning to form but the toilets on the site were atrocious so I thought I could hang on till I found a pub. As I drove down the twisty deserted Scottish roads it began to be clear that this turd only had one thing on it?s mind and that was exiting my body, this was exacerbated by the vibration of a tuned up Lambretta throbbing between my legs, at the point when it felt like I had a zeppelin trying to burst out of my arse I spotted a side road with a small hill in front of it shielding it from the main road ? a great place to take a dump in the open, in the middle of nowhere, with just beautiful views and a field behind it. Anyone who is caught short this way knows that you start thinking up of anyway you can take a cr4p without getting it all over you, and in the absence of having any toilet paper, I remembered reading in a mountaineering mag that to take a crap outdoors it was best to smear a small amount of vaseline or similar substance on the ole bullet hole to aid a clean ?egress? as the mag put it, I then remembered I had a small tube of Castrol GP grease in the tool box, so grabbed this jumped off the scooter, took of my belstaff?s bent over and started to rub the grease on my rusty sheriff?s, it was at this point that some sixth sense made me look over my shoulder and there was some old boy walking his dog, the guy never missed a beat just raised his pipe and said good morning, and walked off, I just waved back at him like an idiot, finished off quickly to my great relief laying a small redwood, often makes me laugh to think of that old guy getting home and telling his Mrs he?d just seen some bloke rubbing grease on his ar5ehole in the top meadow, by the way the old grease technique really works ? minimal remedial cleaning required. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I once crapped myself on the train up from London after taking a large dose of Antibiotics for my toothache, I managed to get to the toilet in time, but whist pulling my pants down in the bog, I cr4p all over the outside of my jeans and on me shoes. I had to stay in the bog for the rest of the trip. The conducter came and knocked on the door and I had to shout through to him that I had had an accident and I can't come out, he carried on asking me to come out - so I just shouted, 'look I've just fu#@ng crapped myself OK!' It was, without doubt the worst day of my life. Once the train pulled into my stop I fu#@ing legged it home - thankfully it wasn't that far. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I once crapped myself after getting home from working a night shift, felt absolutely fine, didn't need to fart nevermind crap. Turned the TV (massive old TV set at the time, no remote) on and crapped myself. To this day I think I must have been electrocuted. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Not an actual soiling incident, but I recall an emergency situation when I was about 15. My mum was in the shower when I was suddenly overcome with the desperate need to abort a turd. The only option was to use the cat litter tray in the kitchen. The cat stared at me looking amazed and indignant as a hovered over his tray and delivered a large payload. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- There?s a story Spike Milligan tells about a friend of his who crapped himself after a liquid lunch in London. On his way to catch the train home he dashes into a store, chooses a pair of undies and a pair of trousers, throws them onto the counter, pays, grabs the carrier bag of clothes and makes a quick exit before anyone can work out where the smell is coming from. He then heads to the station, jumps on his train and immediately locks himself in the bog. As soon as the train is out of the station the guy removes his cr4p-stained trousers and undies and chucks them out of the window, cleans himself up, and opens the carrier bag to find that it contains a pink cardigan. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- was living with an (ex) bird and had enjoyed a nice meal out in Leeds, remember going overboard on the brandies afterwards before returning home and retiring to the boudoir where I continued the romanticisms by falling asleep immediately. Woke around three in the morning in a state of confusion, something was clearly terribly wrong, but what could it be? There didn't appear to be anything wrong, security light wasn't on, couldn't hear anything downstairs but the alarm in my head was going off. Caught a faint smell of cack and giggled to myself, assuming I'd inadvertantly let off a Tommy Squeeker, rolled over to and immediately the satisfying warmth of the bed revealed itself as a pool of recently deposited runny crap. I woke our lass up with the immortal words, "Wake up, I think I've just cr4pped the bed", as if the evidence in front of my eyes didn't really exist. To be fair, she was a legend, ran downstairs and got the various cleaning products required to rescue the situation whilst I stood, in the buff pointing at the cr4p stained duvet as if I couldn't comprehend what had just happened. Went and had a shower and cleaned up, and then went downstairs and kipped on the sofa, our lass was full of concern and pity for me. For me however, there could be no return to our previous happy existence, and we split up a few months later, I cited irreconcilable differences with the duvet, which she had just washed instead of burned. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Moral of the story, never twist on 19. .--------------------------------------------------------------------- 16 pages of similar stories here http://www.waccoe.com/index.php?showtopic=103393 New users must register 1st here http://www.waccoe.com/index.php?act=Reg&CODE=00 And i wont have a pint with you:rifle: WFFS was that Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Captain_Peacock Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 And i wont have a pint with you:rifle: I'm gutted. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest juvehearts Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 awesome man. those leeds story's were funny as thanks chapps Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
andi17 Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Just got a row from the missus because of the noise i am making peshing masel laughfin Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hate_hibs Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 LOL This thread is hilarious! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Sexton Hardcastle Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 Those posts from Woccoe are classic. Was only reading through it on friday at work. Really does bring a tear to the eye. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
wibble Posted July 18, 2009 Share Posted July 18, 2009 That Leeds thread was one of the funniest things I ever read on the internet. My only similar experience was after a long lunch (about 9 hours) of drinking real ales in Drew Nicols on Cockburn Street. I knew the guts were on the boil because I'd let off a couple of sulphurous farts. I headed off up to the bridges to get a cab, but there were none around. I decided it would be best to walk down to Princes Street, but just as I got to the Scotsman offices I had an almighty turbulence in my stomach that seemed to emanate all the way down through my large intestine. At the same time my knees buckled and I broke into a feverish sweat. I had been bursting on a Tom Kite before, but this was different. I was very much aware that this bad boy was a runaway train and the brakes had completely failed. Casey Jones couldn't stop this one. I did a little Max Wall dance not knowing where to go. There wasn't a bog within 100 metres and there was no way I could make it that far anyway. I dashed round the corner of the Scotsman offices and spied the Waverley Steps. By the time I reached the steps I had my trousers down and was already in a squat. The actual act must have taken all of 3 milliseconds. This creature had travelled down my pipe like a bullet. It felt like I had just given birth to a baby whale. I could now hear voices of people coming up the steps so up up came the trousers and I made my way back up to the Bridges. As I emerged into the daylight I experienced a whole new level of serenity and satisfaction. All dark thoughts of filling my kecks had left me. I bolted up the Bridges and into the Royal Mile for a pint and a visit to the bog. Almost unsurprisingly I needn't have bothered. The Thunderbolt Express left no trace on it's exit. My only two regrets are that: 1. In my haste I didn't even glance back to see what had just emerged from my bowels. Maybe for the best as I wouldn't have been too surprised if it had legs and arms. 2. I didn't get the opportunity to see the look on the faces of the people climbing the Waverley Steps when they came across the freshly laid turd of doom. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Debut 4 Posted July 19, 2009 Share Posted July 19, 2009 The strangest situation is when you wake up in the middle of the night touching cloth. Not had a ******-a-doodle-poo for a long time but it`s not enjoyable. It disrupts yer sleep and theres always that danger of going back to bed and leaving skiddys on the bedsheet. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dale8809 Posted July 19, 2009 Share Posted July 19, 2009 They stories are funny as feck.There is no better feeling than going to work needing a crap and then doing a 9hour shift and waiting untill you get home to do it it makes you weak at the knees Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
neave Posted July 19, 2009 Share Posted July 19, 2009 They stories are funny as feck.There is no better feeling than going to work needing a crap and then doing a 9hour shift and waiting untill you get home to do it it makes you weak at the knees So true. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Debut 4 Posted July 19, 2009 Share Posted July 19, 2009 They stories are funny as feck.There is no better feeling than going to work needing a crap and then doing a 9hour shift and waiting untill you get home to do it it makes you weak at the kneesna, i always like to dislodge my Greyfriars Bobby at work, it`s an extra tea break of sorts. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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