Fucking Hell! I Shat Myself.

Tales told in response to a prompt by Laurel B. Miller.

Firstly, before I get into this I want to thank Laurel for tagging me into, how shall we put it, such a delicate “issue”, so to speak. I think it is only right that I should give fair warning. I suggest you read this without your young children looking over your shoulder. I appreciate that, due to how I have titled this, your seven year old daughter might now be running around the house shouting “Fucking Hell! I Shat Myself”, to her grandmother, the gardener or the local vicar, over tea and macaroons. If this has happened and you are considering taking some kind of legal action then I’ll see you in court.

Secondly, I think it’s worth clearing up the language difficulties, and cultural differences, this article is likely to expose. As an English bloke, I don’t “pee”, I piss. One does not “poo”, one shits. Here’s some examples:

1: “Excuse me sir, why did you just piss in one of the grey plastic trays and put it through the x-ray conveyor?” Me, “I was told that I couldn’t take any liquids on board. Do you want to see my passport? If not, fuck off out of my way, the final call for 09:20 to Nice has been announced and I’m in a hurry.

2: “I think one’s son has shit himself. It has come out of the back of his trousers and gone all up his back” Me, “I’m sorry your Majesty, he’s just had three litres of strong Belgian lager, we didn’t think you were due for another ten minutes.

Now, in the second example, we have also introduced a potential semantic problem, i.e. the past tense of “shit”. In truth, Queen Elizabeth II would not say “has shit himself” as this is more of a provincial working class colloquialism. She is more likely to use the past tense, “shitted” or, more so, the past participle, “shat”. She would, therefore, say, for example, “Before we go to Ascot, Princess Eugenie, just check that you haven’t shat your knickers”. Like that, get it?

Finally, I must deal with the words “piss” and “pissed”, as I am painfully aware that Medium is top heavy with Americans. Here, in the English language’s country of origin, the word “piss” can mean more than one thing. Obviously it is the colloquial noun for urine but it is often used to refer to alcoholic drinks i.e. “Dad, I’m going out on the piss this afternoon.” Me, “That’s OK son but take it easy, I don’t want you shitting yourself in front the Queen again”.

The word can also be used as part of the dismissive “piss off” as in “get to fuck” or “Would you be so kind as to vacate the church now, I have a wedding ceremony to perform”. “Pissing” can be used for emphasis or to express annoyance or contempt, or even to describe the degree in which it is raining outside, “It’s fucking pissing it, with pissing cats and dogs, out pissing there” (read it three or four times if you’re struggling with the cadence).

Which brings us to the past participle, “pissed”. If you’re “pissed”, you are not annoyed or angry, you are drunk. If you are annoyed or angry you are “pissed off”. Got it? Oh and it is “al-you-min-ee-um”, by the way.

So, on to Laurel’s prompt.

Fucking Hell! I Shat Myself.

The last day of college (not university) before the Christmas break, some fellow students and I went to a nearby pub to get pissed (yeah?). There was one young woman who I particularly wanted to get close to, for some reason, and I offered to walk her home, all chivalrous like.

Along the way a huge surge of bowel activity struck and, thankfully, the resultant follow through was a fairly solid turtle’s head, which touched cloth. We were in the open air, so any resultant spicy bouquet was cast away from the nasal cavities, belonging to the object of my desire, by the prevailing breeze. However, the walking process caused my arse (not fanny) cheeks to knead the nugget of firm issued leavings, into a more mousse like consistency.

As we arrived at her house, my panic levels went through the roof when she invited me in for coffee. Upon entry I immediately asked to use the toilet (look it’s a fucking toil………..oh fuck it I give up!). Thankfully the offending emission had remained within the confines of my underpants. It took quite a while, but I managed to fully evacuate my remaining produce and, with the help of almost one and a half rolls of shit tickets, about seventeen flushes and water from the sink, my back bottom was in a strong position to pass examination, should that be required.

This left the final problem to overcome. How to dispose of the shitted (shatted?) underpants. Now, I am not religious in any way and consider the belief in the existence of a god to be a mental illness. However, considering that I felt the only way out was to flush the underpants away in the chod bin (toilet), I prayed, with all my being, to whatever force is responsible for the existence of everything, in the hope that this final, desperate act would protect me from the crushing embarrassment, the discovery of my trouser shitting activity would cause. Imagine my relief when, although the water level rose scarily high, it quickly drained and took with it the offending item.

No. I didn’t even get a snog, let alone tops and fingers.

Fucking Hell! I Pissed Myself.

I’m a taxi driver. One evening I was, as usual, trundling around the town taking people home and stuff. After dropping someone off I made my way back to the taxi rank alongside the train station, in the heart of the town centre. Along the way I got the urge to piss and decided that I would go home to relieve myself.

I drive a Hackney cab and that means I can be flagged down by people in the street. As I was driving, with increasing urgency, towards my toilet containing home, an old gentleman stepped toward the edge of the pavement (I fucking dare you) and held his hand aloft, in the manner of someone requiring my services.

Dilemma time. My bladder was becoming more hysterical, in its messages to instruct me to address a porcelain bowl and take my penis out. Time was running out. On the other hand, I recognised this fellow and I knew that to take him home was only a minor detour on my way home. Furthermore, he was a good tipper and taxi drivers, me being no exception, are fucking greedy bastards.

I pulled over. He got in. I said “Now then mate, back to the usual is it?” He said “No”.

“FUCK”

So the bastard only wanted to go to fucking Cleethorpes High Street. Off I went at a, somewhat unusually for me, hastened demeanour. Sweat started to roll down my cheeks, or was it tears? He must have thought I was really into the song on the radio, because I was dancing, like Madonna would in 1985 if she was off her tits on a combination of weed, benzo and half a gallon of Orangeboom®.

By some miracle I made it to Isaac’s Hill, the very end, and most Northern point of the A46, before those little tiny people, working in the control room of my bladder, experienced exactly what the control room workers, of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station did at 1:23:58 a.m. on April 26, 1986, err sort of.

The hot piss soaked into my trousers at first and, as the material reached saturation point, the seat began to fill. Thankfully the passenger was sitting alongside me, otherwise my “acqua di taxi driver®” would be running into his shoes. Thankfully, he didn’t notice what had happened and 30 metres later he paid and got out.

My greed for that one fare cost me dearly. I lost the rest of the day to scrubbing the car’s carpets and the lingering aroma of bleach for several weeks after that. The irony is that if a passenger had done that I would have been able to charge them £50 for soilage expenses.

The message there kids is; Do whatever you can to save yourself from yourself. (tag: Self Improvement, I’ll get loads of views now).