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 1890âs gold prospector voice, âThereâs grizzlies in these here partsâ When I related this, one of the blokes laughed his head off, whilst the look of horror on the other ladâs face was disconcerting. âYou had a sh-it outside?â âYeah.â âWhy didnât you just walk down to the hotel and use their toilet?â âBecause Iâd have only made it as far as reception and I didnât want to dung myself in front of a load of grinning Japs.â âOooh, you dirty c-unt. I could never do that.â 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 â79 and myself, my brother and my mate Kev were indulging in the popular â70âs pastime of arsing around. Why Donât 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 didnât 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 âVâs 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 Iâd 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 Iâd like Iâd 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. âThe lad needs a cacky, fellas. Weâd better find somewhere quick.â I looked at Kev and our kid and said. âI really need a poo. What am I going to do?â 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. âYouâll have to do it in the bushes, Convoy.â âWhy are you calling me Convoy? I wonât use that name until 2003.â âI 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.â âFair one. I canât just sh-it out here. Thereâs no bog roll.â 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 âdying-for-a-sh-it-minceâ wasnât designed for those distances. The lads were right. It was either soil my new Lee jeans or drop âem 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 theyâd just struck oil. âFcuking hell, Convoy,â said my brother, âItâs coming out like Mr Softy.â 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 Iâd 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?