Alfresco Ablutions

Discussion in 'Now That's What I Call NAAFI Bar' started by convoy_cock, Jan 18, 2005.

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  1. I was working in Kendal today and had cause to reminisce about my first outdoor sh-itting experience.

    We were working on a radio tower in Kendal this morning. It sits just behind a big hotel with a nature trail behind it, which runs right by the tower. Whilst we were getting ready, I happened to mention that I had dropped a large turd to the side of the nature trail on a previous visit. My intentions had been twofold. Firstly I had been baking this particular crippler all the way up the M6 and secondly, I thought it would be funny if anyone on the nature trail found it, and declared in an 1890’s gold prospector voice,

    “There’s grizzlies in these here parts”

    When I related this, one of the blokes laughed his head off, whilst the look of horror on the other lad’s face was disconcerting.

    “You had a sh-it outside?”


    “Why didn’t you just walk down to the hotel and use their toilet?”

    “Because I’d have only made it as far as reception and I didn’t want to dung myself in front of a load of grinning Japs.”

    “Oooh, you dirty c-unt. I could never do that.”

    Ignoring the fact that this bloke is a stroker, who has been known to get the occasional shoeing from his mother-in-law, his comments gave me pause for thought. Travelling back to Manchester, I passed the time by recalling my first sh-itting outdoor experience, to see if it would shed light on my need to express myself in this environment spoiling fashion.

    It was the summer of ’79 and myself, my brother and my mate Kev were indulging in the popular ‘70’s pastime of arsing around. Why Don’t You was finished and The Flashing Blade was too sh-it to watch, so we went for a wander, to see if we could cause any trouble, or find some kids less feeble than us to hassle. Those particular type of kids didn’t exist in south Manchester so we opted for fcuking about near a railway line. After completing a risk assessment we decided to run back and forth across the tracks whilst occasionally flicking the ‘V’s at an old bloke staring out of his living room window whilst necking a brew.

    It was during one of my graceful bounds that I got the first sh-it pang of my life. I thought I’d had an electric shock. My left leg shot out straight and I pulled a face like Charles Hawtrey twisting a bollock. Kev and my brother came over to ask what was wrong just as another pang hit me. It felt I’d like I’d had my hoop winkle-pickered. Like all natural phenomenon, my brain soon deduced what my problem was and sent a flash message to the rest of my scrawny body, which read.

    “The lad needs a cacky, fellas. We’d better find somewhere quick.”

    I looked at Kev and our kid and said.

    “I really need a poo. What am I going to do?”

    They looked more horrified than me. As I hopped from foot to foot with my right hand pressed uselessly over the arrse of my jeans, Kev said.

    “You’ll have to do it in the bushes, Convoy.”

    “Why are you calling me Convoy? I won’t use that name until 2003.”

    “I know, but if I call you by your real name, odd people who use that website will track you down and try to befriend or hurt you.”

    “Fair one. I can’t just sh-it out here. There’s no bog roll.”

    They both responded with a synchronised shrug of the shoulders. I weighed up my options. We ranged long and far in those days and I was more than two miles from home. The ‘dying-for-a-sh-it-mince’ wasn’t designed for those distances. The lads were right. It was either soil my new Lee jeans or drop ‘em and sh-it on the spot. I made both of them promise to retreat to a respectable distance and began my introduction to this most beautiful of disciplines. As I dropped my kecks, the lads moved off up the tracks to leave me alone, and I started to defecate.

    As soon as they sussed I was going through with it, the fcukers ran straight back to me, and got right down to have a good look. There was no chance of sucking the bugger back up so I just had to crack on, whilst the two of them stared at my output liked they’d just struck oil.

    “Fcuking hell, Convoy,” said my brother, “It’s coming out like Mr Softy.”

    For a first effort it was a belter, and I was pumping mud for a good 45 seconds, as the lads rolled around in hysterics, pausing every now and again to goggle at their human sausage machine of a mate. When I finished, I grabbed a few dock leaves and scrubbed up. My hairless arrse was rendered spotless by the popular indigenous plant.

    Despite the massive ribbing I took for my shameful display, I felt kind of proud that I’d overcome adversity and did what needed to be done. We had to hotfoot it out of there fairly sharpish, as the old geezer had replaced the brew with his phone and was obviously jabbering away to the Transport police about a potential train derailing obstacle.

    I will be having a beer with the aforementioned lads this Saturday and fully intend to thank them for setting me on the path.

    Do any other ARRSE members recall childhood incidents that were formative in later deviant behaviour?
  2. Roseacre Junior school 1980 at the rip old age of 8 I was sat next to Ruth, a fat girl who hated me, she hated me because I had been a little gobshite and as punishment I was made to sit next to her....seperating her from her best pal

    This tale is two fold, not only is it the first time I curled one outdoors its also the first time I recollect exposing myself.

    The teacher was called MRs Baines a twisted viscious old troll that hated and probably ate children... she despised me from the off and sent me outside the class for no reason far too often

    Fat Ruth was tired of me copying and being an apprentice woman was itching to put the boot in. From an early age I have had a thing about showing my plums off, something that has stayed with me despite many warnings and threats.... This particular day I had wound her up and wound her up and I got my shrivelled pathetic little schoolboy schlong out of my shorts and rubbed it along the crusts of her cheese and salad cream sandwhich midway through an English lesson..... Fcuk me, you could have heard her shreak in Shropshire.

    Mrs Baines nearly fell off her stool and demanded to know what had happened.... Fatty piped up.. 'MDN is showing me his whidghy' I was banged to rights, no defence I hadn't even put it away when she flew across the room like a nicotine stained pterodactyl and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hoofed me outside the room.

    All the other kids were laughing as I passed them on short finals to the corridor, bollocks out....

    The fear of being branded a sex pest was bad enough but that foul breathed beast diving on me made me touch cloth and seem to recall a dog egg bubbling out and filling my y fronts.

    I was stood in the corridor gripping my sphincter and squeezing my nob trying not to drop a dung ball and stop myself swamping myself. I knocked on the door and begged the Kurgan to let me go to the loo but she just balled at me to stand still and hurl some chalk at me...

    Being an eight year old lad in fear of my life I did the only thing I could.... I dropped my trollies and took a dump right there in the corridor.... As I did the bell rang and the classrooms emptied, fcuk I nearly died, I hadn;t wiped my arse and there was a brown trout struggling for breath on the floor... soon there was a circle around me and befor elong the teacher came out to see what the fuss was about.... last recollection is of the caretaker sprinkling saw dust over the dead otter and cussing the little cnut that laid it :D

    It goes without saying that my parents were asked to come in and speak to the teacher......... I vaguely recall my old man going batshit at the teacher not letting me go to the bog...... To this day I don;t know how he managed to hold the moral high ground on that one..... I don't remember going to bed early or getting grounded or anythign though....
  3. As a nipper our house backed onto a couple of hundred acres of woodland, in which we would get up to all sorts of shite that today would have some busy-body Social Services type sandal wearer sticky beaking.

    The woods even came with an imaginary ‘Ranger’ so that when we turned up at home stinking of smoke after burning everything in sight we could chorus to our parents ‘The Ranger was having a burn off and we helped him’. My parents suspected he was a figment of our imagination as they separated my kid brother and me one day and asked for a description of ‘The so called Ranger’. We were too slick and had thought of that and gave identical stories. A fact I admitted to my dad when I was about 30 - bastard gave me a clip round the ear and gave my brother one when he got home from GW1.

    Now this must have been being long before the days of a kiddie fiddler hiding behind every tree in the Kingdom waiting for unattended children we all – about a dozen kids – would set off up the woods at early o’clock and not return to late. Every morning I before we ventured out for the day I would strain trying to have a tomtit until my eyes stood out like Tom being hit in the knackers by Jerry with a baseball bat but the result was always the same naught, nowt, sweet FA not even a marble.

    I discovered a direct connection between my nose and my arse as soon as the smell of the undergrowth hit my nostrills my ring thought I had been on the prune juice for a month of Sundays. I must have left a tonne of poo in those woods over the years and used up every decent Doc leaf going (there is an art to selecting the right leaf that must be learned with years of experience). My manuring trait is a lasting legacy as the wood continues to flourish.

    Later on in life I never knew what it was like to put a cam net up. As soon as we got into a wooded location every other cnut would be rushing around with poles and hessian – I would be off, shovel in hand, behind a tree, bollocks floating in the wind laying a log down.

    To this very day if I have to visit a Garden Centre I make sure I know where the crappers are before I get too close to the compost section as sure as eggs are eggs I get a twinge and I don’t want to have to curl one down at the checkouts.
  4. Fallingbostell 1984, i was 4 1/2 and we lived on the Interbau (sp?) Estate, in the top floor flat. I remember it well because the battalion had its marching orders and was being posted back to the UK.

    My parents were franticly trying to pack their lives into MFO boxes, whilst filling all the dents & holes in the walls with toothpaste, making the flat presentable for inspection. My brother and I where given our orders (5DM for dinner from the Bratty Van) to make ourselves scarce.

    My brother was a whole 2 years and two weeks older than me, he could fit a full chubb crayon up his nose, he could ride a BMX without stabilizers, and even after putting my mums nail varnish on my eyelids causing them to stick open and leaving me unable to blink… I thought he was god.

    Needless to say I followed him everywhere wanting to do everything he did, and this day was no different. He had met up with the other cool, older kids and they were planning a game of hide & seek, they’d always let me join in but for years I was convinced I was useless at the game because I could never find anybody. It was only recently that he confessed to waiting until I had hidden, then regrouping over the main road (I wasn’t aloud across there) and doing one!

    Back to this day and the game of hide and seek, there I was desperately searching for a place to hide, blissfully unaware of their cruel intentions. I found an awesome spot, I’d squeezed in behind a bush just outside the marble floored entrance to our block of flats and there I crouched excitedly. I was so frightened that the noise off my heart pounding in my chest with the fear of being caught would give me away.

    At the same time I became aware of the shooting pains in the pit of my stomach, then the uneasy twitching of my sphincter as the turtle tentatively reared its head. Panic started to set in as mind raced between my options…

    Do I make a run for it, up 3 flights of stairs into the flat and the safety of a sanitised plumbing system (In those exact words too!) or ..… unfortunately my young undeveloped mind couldn’t think fast enough and it was to late, I couldn’t hold the monster at bay and in my panic I left my OP and assumed the squatting position on the marbled doorstep. The sweeping sense of relief was short lived as heard the booming voice of my father, “What the *@~”# are you doing !!!!”

    My hands still gripping my thighs I peered up at the 6’3” man mountain in front of me…. and quickly noticed several other pairs of legs next to him. Not only had I managed to curl out a shity slug in the entrance to our block of flats, I managed it in full view of my old man, the RSM and several other ranking NCOs who had come to inspect the flats!

    I went up in my brothers estimations after that. :D
  5. The long hot summer of ‘76, a time of innocence a time of water fights and bollox to your hosepipe ban. It was in this glorious year that I partook, albeit in an uncontrolled fashion, of my first outdoor dump. Near to my parents house is a huge area of woodland (alright it’s not that big but I was smaller then) which provided us with our very own playground, battlefield and sanctuary from girls, this was, as I said, a more innocent time. The height of coolness then was being able to make a proper ricochet noise when playing war or failing that to die spectacularly in the same game.

    Now one of our motley crew had an older brother who I shall call Ian, because it is his real name, who professed to be an all-knowing deity of things woodland. A sort of Ray Mears with big shorts and acne. During a lull in one of our many battles he began to point out various plants that were, according to him, edible. Now I’ve always been a bit of a gullible pratt and in those days (the world had just moved into colour after years in black and white) someone older than you was automatically right. So taking him at his word the rest of us began chomping our way through the forest, a small swarm of blonde, tanned locusts in shorts. We ate various grasses and even some tree bark, wasn’t persuaded on the wood lice though. Fortunately being very hot and summer there weren’t any berries or nuts or we would probably have died. Having lost interest in this we then started a game of ‘hide or be beaten with large sticks’ a council estate version of the popular kids game. Having decided to hide in the branches of a large tree I waited in the sure knowledge that I would be safe. It was at this time that I noticed a slight discomfort in my stomach. It was bubbling away like the test tubes in a mad scientists laboratory, this was accompanied by a pain so excruciating that I nearly passed out – not a good move whilst hiding in a tree some 20ft from the ground. In my short life I had yet to experience either Guinness or vindaloo so I had no reference point for what was wrong. I decided that I needed to get down from the tree sharpish. I managed to climb down a couple of branches when the pain became unbearable – the build of gas (for that it surely was) was swelling me like that kid in Willy Wonkas chocolate factory. I began to retch, which as we all know loosens ricker control – something I was becoming acutely aware of. I was now on my knees about 15 feet from the ground almost blind with cramps and sweating like Michael Jackson in Toys R Us. To add to my misery the game had come to it's natural conclusion and the rest of the gang had spotted me. They gathered around the tree variously offering advice and shouting abuse, apparently I was pulling faces like Mike Yarwood hitting 20gs. My brain was now in a complete panic, it was very aware of it’s position (ie high in a tree) and the effects that gravity and the ground would have upon my body should I fall, which given the way I was shaking was looking more and more likely. It passed a message to my hands that it was trousers down time as, having identified the source of the problem, it was about to take drastic action – a complete emptying of stomach contents by every available means. Struggling one handed to pull down my shorts (they were tight, it was the 70s) whilst with the other maintaining a death grip on my branch, I only partially succeeded – the Y-fronts stayed where they were, which was mainly jammed up my arrse like a Mark 1 thong. I now believe that this was because my ricker, having become fully briefed on the plan had taken a very deep breath in order to play it’s part. The exposure of my poor white arrse to the elements was all it took, with an almighty spasm (think John Hurt, Alien) and a roar like an elephant giving birth my bowels voided themselves. Had I eaten more solids that day, or more importantly drunk less water it may not have been too bad. But with my entire peer group and various interested bystanders watching I shot what would have been a perfect arc of liquid shite out into the hot summer’s day. It was like an acid enema scorching my rivet on it’s way out. Unfortunately the ‘thong effect’ came into play dividing the flow like some sort of ornamental water feature, the initial burst headed off into the undergrowth and hit another tree some good few feet away. I have since walked my dog in these woods and the distance between launch and land is truly impressive. The other was, by the spite of fate, directed more in a downward direction, towards those upturned grinning faces….

    I managed another three emissions of gradually less and less power, and found myself alone in my tree, proving that a man who has just shat himself all over his friends is a lonely man. After about 20 minutes I had the strength to climb down from the tree and make my way home, walking like John Wayne (did not know the dock leaves thing then) and passed the rest of the summer locked away, despite the good weather and much to my mothers worry, I just could not face anyone. As luck would have it most of the liquid turd had hit the taller, much bigger boys – who apparently wanted to discuss this with me over a hot beating.

    As you can imagine this was kept a close secret once we got back to school.
  6. Much like far2young2die, my first outdoor session had a strong avian theme to it.

    Like the Baron said, in my youth, we would head out early in the morning and go all day, it was the norm and out parents didn't think anything of it. After a day of games, we ended up climbing a tree next to a creek. About a third of the way up, I notice a hairless, brown flying squirrel do a nose dive past me straight into the ground. I look up and am greeted by a full moon, also known as my friends bare arse. Seems the poo cramps hit him and he just didn't feel like climbing back down the tree.

    This gave a few of the guys an idea. Soon we had constructed a fortress under a branch about 15 feel up, complete with towers, moat and little green army men. Next we started the auditions for bombardier in the sequel to 'Twelve O'Clock High". Unfortunatly, I came in third and wasn't in the movie.

    Needless to say, we didn't go back for the little green army men.
  7. A man with no poo tales is like a soldier without a musket... come on chaps.

    I have a few more but am frightened of portraying the image of a fella with a busted bottom :D
  8. A few years ago, I must have been about 14 or 15 I was walking back home from a mates house after a few hours drinking cider and playing on his N64, I' just started going down a back ally when I got hit by the cramps, so it was had on arse time and carry on walking, only like John Wayne this time got another 100 metres or so and another bout of cramps, this time with some discharge, so taking the hint and the fact that I'd already shat myself a little, I got into a squatting position with my back resting on the wall of someones house and dropped my guts, my god the force that all the liquid shit came out and I'm sure that it was jet black and the smell, it didn't help that it had slashed all over my shoes and arrse, so after cleaning myself down with what was left clean of my boxers I carried on home while the vile shit that I'd just dropped was pooling and running along someone house. I need to find out what caused that, it'd be a great trick to do to someone.
  9. My first dunging anecdote was when I was about 5. We were all messing around in the woods when the trauma hit me. I was so fear struck by the fact that I needed a log but was so far away from a working trap that I just sat down and hoped that it would all go away. Unfortunately the only place the poo went was into my strides. But because I was sitting down, the bum gravy was forced up and out the top of my trousers like an overflowing washing machine. I tried to pass the big brown stain off to my folks as mud, but the reek of semi digested Curly Wurly and Texan bars gave the game away and they rumbled the brown substance as my fetal matter. However, as unpleasant as the whole experience was, it stood me in good stead for the time I grand slammed and got reported as a dead body when discovered in a skip by the good bin men of Harrogate.

    One thing I found later on in life though, when on eccers in deutchland, was that no matter how remote a spot you find to lay your eggs, some German family on a brisk walk will always stumble across you in mid squat.

    The horror. The horror.
  10. My ex babysat our son last night while I went out. As I was back late he stayed over but rushed off this morning really suddenly, much to my confusion.

    He has just called me to apologise for his sudden departure and explained that he "really needed to take a dump and didnt want to destroy my bathroom" so thought it was better to get back to camp...and quickly!

    However, things didnt go according to plan and, as he doubled up in agony with cramps, he had to pull over the car, run into the military cemetery and take an emergency crap behind a grave.

    It is still beyond me how, after years of him coming home drunk and subsequently swamping the bed/pissing up the walls etc etc...he is too embarrassed to take a sh it in my bathroom!
  11. When in sunny sandy climes I made the mistake of putting off a shovel recce for too long one day. I suddenly was in a cold sweat, felt severe cramps in my guts and endured savage hoop contractions so violent that my brown gong was swapping size from a sixpence to a dustbin lid on an intermittent basis.

    I threw off the headset, grabbed a spade, snatched some bog roll and I bolted out of the CV with my arrse cheeks clamped together and ran off into the pitch black desert night like a demented Charlie Chaplin.

    I managed to find a spot nearby (out of the path of all the other armour flying about with no lights on!) and dropped my trollies as carefully as I could while maintaining a firm seal with my clamped arrse cheeks as I didn’t fancy the prospect of cacking my daks and trying to clean up the mess in a no white light environment. I crouched down like a mooning gnome using the shovel for support and slowly and painfully gave birth to what felt like a Chippendale buffet leg of frightening proportions that needed crimping off 3 times before it broke the seal. The lads had thought it would be hilarious to inform me there was nothing but bacon and beans or British Rail Lips and arrse for brekkie everyday and a large backlog had accumulated.

    My troubles didn’t end there as I realised that the bog roll had rolled out of reach and try as I might I couldn’t find it. I then heard a slithering noise and froze convinced that at any moment a sand viper was about to sink its fangs into my nutbag or my arrse and cause it to swell to the size of a space hopper and for me to suffer a slow agonising death (bit of an exaggeration I know)

    I decided to try and scuttle about a bit to find the andrex and assumed a pose like a cross between a hermit crab and a drunken break dancer and began shuffling about with my trollies around my ankles and the shovel poised to strike anything scaly or slithering whilst trying to box around the elephant droppings I had just released. I must have looked a sight

    The slithering got closer and I struck savagely only to find that I had bashed the brains out of not a reptile but a bit of black plastic bag that was blowing about. I gave it a good few digs before realising my error. I continued to scuttle around and eventually found the bog roll, cleaned myself up and tried to give the grogan a decent burial in the dark. :roll:

    Never told the boys about the encounter with the black bin liner though
  12. RTFQ


    The first time I 'laid down supressing fire' in the open I was about seven and on one of those manly, important walks a son does with his old man - you know, the ones where you do most of it in silence and they usally involve your dad doing something cool with a stick, a penknife and his watch. Like I say, most of walking is done without talking, but somehow, after a childhood filled with these you know that you don't sell your friends out, you never raise a hand to a woman, you know how to carry 3 pints and six bags of crisps in a one-er, you know what a carburettor is and, if push came to shove, you could build a raft - all without being told.

    Well I was on one of these when my body decided to reject the eight bags of rainbow drops, two apples, a sunday roast and chocolate spounge and chocolate sauce. I indicated the need to sh1t to my dad by grabbing the arrse of my jeans and twisting, as if that would stop the faecal leviathon that was kicking my sphyncter with his size tens. I emphasised the urgency of the situation by dancing on the spot like a 1970's Top of the Pops audience member.

    My dad was still in at the time, and being a hard nosed inf wallah, had a wisdom that only seven year old sons can see in their old man. He looked at me and utterly calm, said: "Don't worry young RTFQ, nip behind that tree." Unsure, thinking mum would never allow this and would instead have worked some magic using a licked tissue and her handbag, I hesitated. "Go on son, I'll find you some doc leaves to wipe your arrse with and I'll make sure no civvies come past" (even at that age I also refered to other people as civvies - there was never any hope for me).

    I did as I was told. The air on my bare arrse was a liberating feeling I never forgot. The feeling of one-ness with nature was spiritual. For the fist time in my life I had Adapted and Overcome.

    The boy that walked from behind that tree walked slightly different, held his head slightly higher and looked on the world with a little less fear. In another silent moment loaded with meaning, my dad ruffled my hair, put his hand on my shoulder and guided me further down the path. I had shat out part of my childhood, wiped my arrse with a bit of manhood and put on the trousers of a big boy.
  13. Aged about 12. I know that most of the stories here are of the five-eight year old variety but I was late developer.

    It is the school holidays and five teachers are running the annual week long holiday to Penzance, a good ten hour trip on the bus. So its girls pretending to be drunk on coke and aspirin over there, boys telling wildly exaggerated stories over here. Whilst eating a non stop flow of chocs, crisps and sweets with fizzy pop.

    Anyway we pull into the services for a half hour break. Walking across the carpark I feel the need to fart and know its going to be a loud one. What better way to impress my fellow students than share it with them.

    So with an exaggerated arms up, feet shoulder width apart, slight bend in knees posture i shouted 'Listen to this, too good to miss, dah dah'. My predictions of a loud fart were entirely correct. It was loud and surprised me with its duration.

    What surprised me most was that as well as being loud it was also very wet and very warm. Fortunately i was wearing y-fronts purchased by my mother that were of suffuciently sturdy construction to stop most of it running down my legs. Obviously I was mortified, so much that I failed to appreciate the applause and laughter of my classmates.

    I spent the half hour in the toilets scraping liquid poo from my pants and legs but was relieved that my trousers, dark in colour, had got away fairly unscathed. I returned to the bus with my pants still on as I didn't want to soil my trousers further.

    On reaching the YMCA I obviously had a dilemma. What to do with my once pristine white Y fronts. Had they been seen in the dormitry style accomodation I would never live it down. Fortunately the shower walls didn't go all the way to the ceiling so I hid them on top of there.

    Mid way through the week the earthy stench in the showers was starting to grow and the look on Mr Hughes's face was a picture as he tried to get one of twenty five 12 year olds to own up.

    With typical bravery, that serves me well to this day, I said nothing. And until now it remained a secret. I feel I can now move on in life having purged myself of the shame.
  14. If one other cack sticks out in my mind above my first outdoor log, it was during Medman 3 on BATUS in 1990. I don't know if the compo in Canada was different to the stuff issued in the European theatre, but it blocked me up for 2 weeks!!
    It goes without saying that when that Sumb1tch came out, it was like passing one of the giant Tobelerones that you can only buy in Airports. It was a multi-coloured beast, each day having a different hue of chocolate, ranging from caramac to Swiss 70% cocoa solids. To look on it was like gazing at a deep soil sample with visible bands representing the cycles of the earth.
    Anyway, to cut a long story short, one of the blokes caught me in mid-dung with the log unbroken from ring to the deck, and a good 6 inches of curl already on the ground. He said it looked like I was sitting on an ant hill.

    I have only ever seen one bigger poo and that was in basic training in 87. I have no idea who passed it, but the beast was like 3 cans of McEwans red end on end and in the middle it was wrapped in bog paper with a visible grip mark where the logger had been forced to use a 'hand assist' to pull it out. The worst thing was that it was too girthed to fit down the U-bend, so it had to be chopped up for dispersal.
  15. RTFQ


    I went to quite a good school when I was about 11 (ie those playing truant didn't brick the school minibus when it left the gates and we had a swimming pool in which only the boys swamped). It was a centre of academic progress and athletic prowess, the heroes of the school were the opening pair in the cricket team, the rugby captain, those who got scholarships to eton and the girl with the angel voice who had the lead in the school staging of Cats. I was there for 3 years and was famous for two things - letting in 12 goals during the one match I played goalkeeper in the footie team, and inventing "The Devil Sh1t Game."

    It is highly likely that I corrupted an entire generation of snot nosed rich kids. They probably still talk about me to their therapists.

    It was a boarding school and it was a long way from the lash-and-buggery world of dickensian schools. The band of 30 or so full-boarders who stayed at weekends had an absolute blast. We were like a polo shirted version of Marlon Brando's gang of miscreants in Apocalypse Now. It was controlled by a cabal of 4/5 pad brats whose parents had army grants but still had to scrimp to send us there (we were tom's kids, not officer brats). I was part of that cabal, and had been ever since I was challenged to a fight with the local bully - as I had aquitted myself quite well and made the thug cry, I was instantly elavated to 'Cool' status (one grade down from 'Well Cool', but still pretty high).

    I invented the Devil Sh1t game on a saturday night. We'd been telling ghost stories and it was approaching midnight. One of the lads stated that his dad told him (the standard pre-teen precursor to bullsh1t) that if you look in a mirror at midnight, tap 3 times in the corner and spell your name backwards, the devil will come and 'get' you. As you'll remember, no fate terrified a child more than being 'got'. I've always had a distinct lack of fear, that coupled with my educationally sub-standard intellect meant I was destined to join up. Anyway, I declared that that was rubbish and that my dad had seen the devil and says he's a pussy (something he actually told me once when I woke him after having a bad dream). I needed a cr@p and decided to show these fcukers what RTFQ was made of. I did the ritual then declared "I'm going for a cr@p... the woods"

    To gasps of awe and fear I walked downstairs in my pyjamas and slippers, out the side door and across the wide lawn to the small woods in front of the school. I did my business, the lads leaning out of the window all the time, expecting the gaping maw of beelzebub to snatch me and tear me asunder at any second. Finished, I walked back calmly to the dorm (inside I was absolutley catatonic with fear, but was never going to show it). The six lads in the room actually shook my hand in turn when I got back in. One of them shared some chocolate with me (the kiddy version of the VC).

    Over the next summer this became THE GAME. Boys would hold sh1ts in all day just to be able to test their nerve against the devil that night. dozens of boys would watch in terror as the next gladiator stepped from the school, quaking in his tartan slippers and dressing gown, nervously trying to assess their toilet roll's potential as a defence against satan. The look of abject, genetic fear on the faces of those who fled back across the lawn to cries of "Quick run, he's behind you!" and "oh god! faster! FASTER" will remain with me always. One poor boy, Billy Hingham, actually wet himself halfway back, but he didn't break stride and sprinted all the way back to his bed.

    Sorry billy