Ever Soiled Yourself As An Adult?

During the lost three years between school and Army I had various jobs including working ins hospital. I was an admin bod in latterly records but in the beginning in the X-ray dept. One day there was much sniggering among the other staff as a senior regional advisor departed after a snap visit. Apparently this lady was not liked and her cup of coffee may have contained a dose of picolax. Don’t mess with middle aged NHS admin ladies!
A similar thing happened at my school when I was 3rd or 4th form.

The Upper Sixth just about to go on revision break before A level exams all played a trick or two. That year 6 of them hijacked the coffee urn being taken from the refractory (yes it was a grammar school) to the masters common room and added a very large quantity of laxatives.

They had the desired effect and very few masters around school for the rest of the day for some reason? The 6 were soon identified (the Lower Sixth duty chai wallahs who had been transporting the urn/hijacked soon succumbed to the threat of expulsion) and expelled, not even allowed to come back to take their exams which no doubt ruined a promising career or two.

The story made the media and one, Dave H, was quoted as saying "We thought the masters were full of sh*t so helped them get rid of it" or words to that effect.
 

cymraeg

War Hero
Allegedly after being attached to another unit and attending an exercise for potential officers and imbibing enough to drown a yak on the first night woke up in my gonk sack to the interminable smell of poo.

Upon discovering some odious cunt had shat in said gonk sack I had a sense of humour failure got dressed toddler off to the guard room and reported the heinous incident, threw a strop then bugged off to a local hotel while howling that I couldn't possibly share a room with such animals and next morning fucked off to the girl friends for a week technically AWOL.

To say my unit were a wee bit upset with me when I returned is an understatement.

So glad I can laff about it now.


Sorry if you had to clean my poo up. Really am
 
I know that as I grow older the sphincter becomes more susceptible to letting-go, so I may invest in one of these in time.


Apologies for the DM link, with it's creative use of made-up military ranks.
 
I inherited my loose bowel syndrome from my parents, the ol’ man was constantly needing to go for a shite at the most inopportune times, including in the middle of my passing out parade! Mum was no better and once was left sitting in the car outside my sisters why my ol’ man went in for a cuppa. My sister asked where she was, to be told by the ol’ man that she wouldn’t be coming in today. He wouldn’t elaborate, so my concerned sister went out to see if she was all right, mum just sat there and said, when asked if she was ok, Yeah, I’ve shit me self!
So I was never going to have it easy and as I’ve got older the instances have mounted up, walking home from the pub (at least 4 times), New Years Eve Bosnia 1995, and probably the worst incident to date, Hide Park, London 2009. The wife had won a luxury weekend for 2 at her works raffle. This included meals and accommodation at the Hide Park Hilton Hotel, very nice place and you need to wear a jacket and tie for evening dinner. We had dinner on the Friday evening and afterwards the wife says Shall we go for a walk round the park, yep, so off we go, taking in the sights including The Albert Hall, suddenly that familiar growling in the stomach and the feeling of someone playing mix-up the food in ma belly with an egg whisk.
We need to go I say to wifey, I need a shite. So off we go, heading towards the hotel, not 500 yards from the front entrance, bubble bubble toil and trouble, my stomach does it’s last flip, before the little man in charge of bowel movements pulls the immediate response dump valve lever or IRDVL, this ensures all contents of the stomach are evacuated in one foul swoop, the sphincter goes into immediate relax position and the brain is informed of the impending doom and sends a signal to the little man in the mouth to call out the following sentence “Oh dear God no, oh please not here, not....arhhhh, oh fucck, oh Jesus”.
The light coloured chinos I was wearing were not going to hide my predicament, the wife went into “Get the fucck away from me” mode and I waddled back to the hotel lobby, my chinos rather stained and bulky at the rear, smelling like East Ham treatment works on a sunny day. “Room 21 please” no eye contact, shuffle to the lift, back to the wall, press the call button and prey no one else needs the lift. Door opens, someone gets out, obviously walks into a terrible fug, looks me up and down, looks down their nose at me and trots off. I dive in the lift trying not to show my rear end to those in the lobby, I’m sure they are all looking at me. The doors begin to close and then just as the bloody things are almost touching in the middle, a hand appears in the gap, the doors open and in steps a Japanese man in his 50’s. He walks in, the smell then obviously hits him and we spend the next 2 floors exchanging glances as he is clearly wincing at this God awful smell that is invading his nasal passages. The games up now coz I gotta get out and he’s clearly going up higher. I think fucck it, and brazenly step out as the doors open and expose my well packaged, foul smelling arrse to him in my shite stained chinos. I fucck off to the room and spend the next 45 minutes showering and washing shit out my shoes, socks, pants and light coloured chinos. Thanks Mum, thanks Dad!
 
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I inherited my loose bowel syndrome from my parents, the ol’ man was constantly needing to go for a shite at the most inopportune times, including in the middle of my passing out parade! Mum was no better and once was left sitting in the car outside my sisters why my ol’ man went in for a cuppa. My sister asked where she was, to be told by the ol’ man that she wouldn’t be coming in today. He wouldn’t elaborate, so my concerned sister went out to see if she was all right, mum just sat there and said, when asked if she was ok, Yeah, I’ve shit me self!
So I was never going to have it easy and as I’ve got older the instances have mounted up, walking home from the pub (at least 4 times), New Years Eve Bosnia 1995, and probably the worst incident to date, Hide Park, London 2009. The wife had won a luxury weekend for 2 at her works raffle. This included meals and accommodation at the Hide Park Hilton Hotel, very nice place and you need to wear a jacket and tie for evening dinner. We had dinner on the Friday evening and afterwards the wife says Shall we go for a walk round the park, yep, so off we go, taking in the sights including The Albert Hall, suddenly that familiar growling in the stomach and the feeling of someone playing mix-up the food in ma belly with an egg whisk.
We need to go I say to wifey, I need a shite. So off we go, heading towards the hotel, not 500 yards from the front entrance, bubble bubble toil and trouble, my stomach does it’s last flip, before the little man in charge of bowel movements pulls the immediate response dump valve lever or IRDVL, this ensures all contents of the stomach are evacuated in one foul swoop, the sphincter goes into immediate relax position and the brain is informed of the impending doom and sends a signal to the little man in the mouth to call out the following sentence “Oh dear God no, oh please not here, not....arhhhh, oh fucck, oh Jesus”.
The light coloured chinos I was wearing were not going to hide my predicament, the wife went into “Get the fucck away from me” mode and I waddled back to the hotel lobby, my chinos rather stained and bulky at the rear, smelling like East Ham treatment works on a sunny day. “Room 21 please” no eye contact, shuffle to the lift, back to the wall, press the call button and prey no one else needs the lift. Door opens, someone gets out, obviously walks into a terrible fug, looks me up and down, looks down their nose at me and trots off. I dive in the lift trying not to show my rear end to those in the lobby, I’m sure they are all looking at me. The doors begin to close and then just as the bloody things are almost touching in the middle, a hand appears in the gap, the doors open and in steps a Japanese man in his 50’s. He walks in, the smell then obviously hits him and we spend the next 2 floors exchanging glances as he is clearly wincing at this God awful smell that is invading his nasal passages. The games up now coz I gotta get out and he’s clearly going up higher. I think fucck it, and brazenly step out as the doors open and expose my well packaged, foul smelling arrse to him in my shite stained chinos. I fucck off to the room and spend the next 45 minutes showering and washing shit out my shoes, socks, pants and light coloured chinos. Thanks Mum, thanks Dad!
The Japanese bloke probably thought he'd landed in a Japanese reality Show.
 
I inherited my loose bowel syndrome from my parents, the ol’ man was constantly needing to go for a shite at the most inopportune times, including in the middle of my passing out parade! Mum was no better and once was left sitting in the car outside my sisters why my ol’ man went in for a cuppa. My sister asked where she was, to be told by the ol’ man that she wouldn’t be coming in today. He wouldn’t elaborate, so my concerned sister went out to see if she was all right, mum just sat there and said, when asked if she was ok, Yeah, I’ve shit me self!
So I was never going to have it easy and as I’ve got older the instances have mounted up, walking home from the pub (at least 4 times), New Years Eve Bosnia 1995, and probably the worst incident to date, Hide Park, London 2009. The wife had won a luxury weekend for 2 at her works raffle. This included meals and accommodation at the Hide Park Hilton Hotel, very nice place and you need to wear a jacket and tie for evening dinner. We had dinner on the Friday evening and afterwards the wife says Shall we go for a walk round the park, yep, so off we go, taking in the sights including The Albert Hall, suddenly that familiar growling in the stomach and the feeling of someone playing mix-up the food in ma belly with an egg whisk.
We need to go I say to wifey, I need a shite. So off we go, heading towards the hotel, not 500 yards from the front entrance, bubble bubble toil and trouble, my stomach does it’s last flip, before the little man in charge of bowel movements pulls the immediate response dump valve lever or IRDVL, this ensures all contents of the stomach are evacuated in one foul swoop, the sphincter goes into immediate relax position and the brain is informed of the impending doom and sends a signal to the little man in the mouth to call out the following sentence “Oh dear God no, oh please not here, not....arhhhh, oh fucck, oh Jesus”.
The light coloured chinos I was wearing were not going to hide my predicament, the wife went into “Get the fucck away from me” mode and I waddled back to the hotel lobby, my chinos rather stained and bulky at the rear, smelling like East Ham treatment works on a sunny day. “Room 21 please” no eye contact, shuffle to the lift, back to the wall, press the call button and prey no one else needs the lift. Door opens, someone gets out, obviously walks into a terrible fug, looks me up and down, looks down their nose at me and trots off. I dive in the lift trying not to show my rear end to those in the lobby, I’m sure they are all looking at me. The doors begin to close and then just as the bloody things are almost touching in the middle, a hand appears in the gap, the doors open and in steps a Japanese man in his 50’s. He walks in, the smell then obviously hits him and we spend the next 2 floors exchanging glances as he is clearly wincing at this God awful smell that is invading his nasal passages. The games up now coz I gotta get out and he’s clearly going up higher. I think fucck it, and brazenly step out as the doors open and expose my well packaged, foul smelling arrse to him in my shite stained chinos. I fucck off to the room and spend the next 45 minutes showering and washing shit out my shoes, socks, pants and light coloured chinos. Thanks Mum, thanks Dad!
Full sympathy brother, my missus suffers from IBS. It can be quite difficult having to plan your days around the locations of Karzies. So much so, if we go away camping in the van, the portaloo has to be loaded accessible.
Problem is the older I get, I seem to be catching her up. I've certainly had a few close calls, especially on the motorbike.
 
I inherited my loose bowel syndrome from my parents, the ol’ man was constantly needing to go for a shite at the most inopportune times, including in the middle of my passing out parade! Mum was no better and once was left sitting in the car outside my sisters why my ol’ man went in for a cuppa. My sister asked where she was, to be told by the ol’ man that she wouldn’t be coming in today. He wouldn’t elaborate, so my concerned sister went out to see if she was all right, mum just sat there and said, when asked if she was ok, Yeah, I’ve shit me self!
So I was never going to have it easy and as I’ve got older the instances have mounted up, walking home from the pub (at least 4 times), New Years Eve Bosnia 1995, and probably the worst incident to date, Hide Park, London 2009. The wife had won a luxury weekend for 2 at her works raffle. This included meals and accommodation at the Hide Park Hilton Hotel, very nice place and you need to wear a jacket and tie for evening dinner. We had dinner on the Friday evening and afterwards the wife says Shall we go for a walk round the park, yep, so off we go, taking in the sights including The Albert Hall, suddenly that familiar growling in the stomach and the feeling of someone playing mix-up the food in ma belly with an egg whisk.
We need to go I say to wifey, I need a shite. So off we go, heading towards the hotel, not 500 yards from the front entrance, bubble bubble toil and trouble, my stomach does it’s last flip, before the little man in charge of bowel movements pulls the immediate response dump valve lever or IRDVL, this ensures all contents of the stomach are evacuated in one foul swoop, the sphincter goes into immediate relax position and the brain is informed of the impending doom and sends a signal to the little man in the mouth to call out the following sentence “Oh dear God no, oh please not here, not....arhhhh, oh fucck, oh Jesus”.
The light coloured chinos I was wearing were not going to hide my predicament, the wife went into “Get the fucck away from me” mode and I waddled back to the hotel lobby, my chinos rather stained and bulky at the rear, smelling like East Ham treatment works on a sunny day. “Room 21 please” no eye contact, shuffle to the lift, back to the wall, press the call button and prey no one else needs the lift. Door opens, someone gets out, obviously walks into a terrible fug, looks me up and down, looks down their nose at me and trots off. I dive in the lift trying not to show my rear end to those in the lobby, I’m sure they are all looking at me. The doors begin to close and then just as the bloody things are almost touching in the middle, a hand appears in the gap, the doors open and in steps a Japanese man in his 50’s. He walks in, the smell then obviously hits him and we spend the next 2 floors exchanging glances as he is clearly wincing at this God awful smell that is invading his nasal passages. The games up now coz I gotta get out and he’s clearly going up higher. I think fucck it, and brazenly step out as the doors open and expose my well packaged, foul smelling arrse to him in my shite stained chinos. I fucck off to the room and spend the next 45 minutes showering and washing shit out my shoes, socks, pants and light coloured chinos. Thanks Mum, thanks Dad!
Very sorry for your troubles but you also get a gold star for the story. Still laughing....without the fizzy drink this time.
 
This thread reminds me of some extremely sage advice given by an Arrser in a thread on important lessons life has taught you. He wrote "Never trust a fart."
The Egyptians apparently have an expression - 'The Imam farted, so the followers shit' (about going to excess in following people).

ظرّط الإمام، خريوا المصلّين.
something like that!
 
The Egyptians apparently have an expression - 'The Imam farted, so the followers shit' (about going to excess in following people).

ظرّط الإمام، خريوا المصلّين.
something like that!
Thank you Boumer, an auspicious date to impart such information.
 
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Thank you Boumer, in auspicious date to impart such information.
Oh yes, hadn't thought of it like that!

I've been lost reading of a certain young Mr TE Lawrence riding around blowing up railways today, coming back to 2019 every now and again.

It's a good day to think about lessons learned and forgotten though.
 
I've told this story before but it fits well here. End of Basic and there had been a pi$$ up followed by a BFT the next morning. As we are coming to the end of the warm up I 'twisted on 19' and did the next mile and a half with a full cleft of dung. Never the fastest of runners there were even fewer people wanting to be behind me than normal. As we fell out the Pl Comd enquired 'Jeezus what's that fucking smell? Well, Sir, 'twas me...
 
I have been known to suffer from what is politely known as “runners trots”, where the urge to go goes from “hmmm, I might need to stop somewhere shortly, where might be convenient?” to “NOW, RIGHT NOW, FUCKING NOW, IMMEDIATELY, IF NOT SOONER!” quicker than Enterprise going to warp speed.

Consequently I am aware of every forest, wood, copse, suitably high stone wall, ditch and even nettle patch within about a 5 mile radius of the house. Further out than that is a risky business. I am never without bog roll.

Only once have I been properly caught out though, on a rather exposed bit of road, when we went from “standby” to “fire mission battery” in about 10 easy strides. Even slowing to a buttocks-clenched-like-I’ve-got-a-cucumber-up-my-arse walk was of no use (at that point I was wishing that I did indeed have a cucumber up my arse). Fortunately I was wearing those 2-in-1 compression shorts, so the majority of the eruption was fairly well contained, apart from the bit that leaked up the waistband and shot up my back under my T-shirt. The amount of paper carried was never going to be anywhere near enough, so after waddling to the nearest wood line a phone call was made to the wife for immediate extraction, and to “bring clean shorts, a clean t-shirt, a LOT of bog roll, and a plastic bag to sit on”.

It’s never a nice shit either, never get to coil a tidy one down in a bush, always comes out like fucking lava.
 
I have been known to suffer from what is politely known as “runners trots”, where the urge to go goes from “hmmm, I might need to stop somewhere shortly, where might be convenient?” to “NOW, RIGHT NOW, FUCKING NOW, IMMEDIATELY, IF NOT SOONER!” quicker than Enterprise going to warp speed.

Consequently I am aware of every forest, wood, copse, suitably high stone wall, ditch and even nettle patch within about a 5 mile radius of the house. Further out than that is a risky business. I am never without bog roll.

Only once have I been properly caught out though, on a rather exposed bit of road, when we went from “standby” to “fire mission battery” in about 10 easy strides. Even slowing to a buttocks-clenched-like-I’ve-got-a-cucumber-up-my-arse walk was of no use (at that point I was wishing that I did indeed have a cucumber up my arse). Fortunately I was wearing those 2-in-1 compression shorts, so the majority of the eruption was fairly well contained, apart from the bit that leaked up the waistband and shot up my back under my T-shirt. The amount of paper carried was never going to be anywhere near enough, so after waddling to the nearest wood line a phone call was made to the wife for immediate extraction, and to “bring clean shorts, a clean t-shirt, a LOT of bog roll, and a plastic bag to sit on”.

It’s never a nice shit either, never get to coil a tidy one down in a bush, always comes out like fucking lava.
Maybe you need to start eating compo'. :oops:
 
I have been known to suffer from what is politely known as “runners trots”, where the urge to go goes from “hmmm, I might need to stop somewhere shortly, where might be convenient?” to “NOW, RIGHT NOW, FUCKING NOW, IMMEDIATELY, IF NOT SOONER!” quicker than Enterprise going to warp speed.

Consequently I am aware of every forest, wood, copse, suitably high stone wall, ditch and even nettle patch within about a 5 mile radius of the house. Further out than that is a risky business. I am never without bog roll.
That reminds me, I had a similar incident, a good long while ago, while attached to The Royal Scots, I was up in Hohner taking part in the REME Half Marathon, which for those that remember the event is held all round the range roads. I was jogging along, trying not to breath through my arrse, when I got the familiar feeling in my gut that says, this is gonna exit and you have approximately 30 seconds to do something about it! I was looking around trying to decide where to lay my log, when in the distance I spotted one of the concrete bridges that make up parts of the range roads. I thought if I can just make it to there I can shit in peace, I jogged on, well kinda jigged, clenching my arse cheeks tightly together, tiny steps, barely flicking one foot in front of the other, until finally I reached the bridge. I ran off the road, down the bank and ducked under the bridge, crouched on the path, dropping shorts and kecks in a single movement, arms rapped around my legs and I let rip, big log, little log, big log, with lots of squelchy farts thrown in for good measure. As I was enjoying the relief I turned my head and noticed a figure on the other side of the canal, she was starring straight at me, dog lead in hand, her little dog more interested in the long grass than me. But she was looking straight at me, a young bloke curling one down on her dog walking path.
“Guten Tag” I half smiled as I started looking for leaves to wipe my arse. She didn’t reply, but hastily dragged her mutt off and went off down the path. I finished up and continued on my merry way, didn’t set no records that day, but at least I didn’t shit myself!
 
I don’t know what I’ve eaten recently to cause me, over the past couple of days, to produce a series of loud, long, voluminous, smelly and satisfying farts.

I’ve been letting rip with almost childish glee. Until this morning. Sitting on the sofa, post breakfast, I could feel another one building up. Lifting a leg in anticipation of another satisfying gaseous emission only resulted in an outpouring of a foul-smelling, diarrhoea-like substance. I levitated off the sofa, and slowly waddled to the loo with that horrible feeling of semi-solid excrement running down both legs.

I’d forgotten the wise words of Sir Billy Connolly: “Never trust a fart!”.
 

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