Following through - Sport of Kings



Whats your best following through story?
Don't be ashamed, let it out (down either leg)

Since drinking my first bottle of Strongbow at 14, i've been a victim of the booze induced squitters. Anyone else?

For me, it would usually be whilst I was at the bar getting the beers in. In that lovely moment immediately after the landlord had taken my order, i'd relax and treat myself to a trump, knowing that it would disperse by the time I got back to the table with my beer. Despite considering myself an Olympic standard farter, i'd get caught out every now and again, and jettison an eggcupful of liquid gold into me trolleys. Never enough to make me go home, but enough to make me stink of sh*t for the rest of the evening.

When I left the forces, I thought i'd leave my dirty-gruds past behind me, (usually in the pub car park). But no. I was walking into town about two years ago to meet up with a mate who'd just got back from Bosnatraz. I'd drank a lot of Guinness the night before but didn't think I had any cause for concern, until I was about ten minutes from the pub. I got a brief pain in my stomach, and within 15 seconds was joining the Involuntary Defecation Display Team. There was at least a kidney pouch full down each leg of me trousers. My undercrackers had performed some basic filtration keeping the bigger bits close to my hoop.

I sh*tty-walked all the way back home, and dumped all my clobber into the wheelie bin, before quickly getting scrubbed up and putting some fresh clothes on. I rang my mate to let him know i'd be half an hour late and told him the reason.

He was very understanding and stated that he'd had a similar misfortune only the week before.

Does anybody else have any amusing "Oh look, i'm covered in my own shite, perhaps i'm an alcoholic", stories???
Mine was quite recently. I was working in Holland getting ready for an Op. I'd started taking anti malarials and had missed a couple of days. So like all squaddies, i bungged 2 days worth down my neck plus the full pack of the twice weekly yellow pill. I was also hung over to buggery and it didnt seem like such a big deal.

That was until i needed to fart. I was stood making a cup of splosh, cocked my leg, let one rip and planted half a litre of muddy water down the backs of my legs. This caused much hillarity amongst my crew and i had the shame of walking back to the accom smelling like my arse and with huge shite staines down the back of my deserts.

Have told this story before on another thread but as its relevant will do it again.

Stood in a chip shop mid summer dressed in shorts, flip flips and a T shirt,

I ordered my scoff and was stood in line when the urge to trump became too great, in the manner of a professional farter I pointed my backside at the door and tried to let out a slient pfooof from my rear.

Everything went wrong, A loud guff flew out of my arse followed by half a gallon of runny stella poo, as I wasn't wearing undercrackers, the filteration powers of my shorts were poor, Down the back of my leg resembled the contents of the curry tray and it leaked between my foot and my flip flop

What could I do, shit on the floor, caked in the stuff, I did the only thing I could.......... ran away!

To this day I havent been back but have been recognised a couple of times when out with the doris.
i have a few poo pants stories, he comes another

On arrival at my unit I was dicked to go to Norway on the Biathlon team, this involved a drived from minden to Kristianshaven then a ferry to Oslo, the crossing was about eigth hours so usual squaddie past time of getting smashed dead quick started, as the nig I was unaware that my drinks were being added to with all sorts, from piss to vodka and bogeys.

I remember nothing more other than waking up in a very small cell covered in my own piss, poo and puke...

when the purser came to let me out, he took one breath from my cell and barfed all over the floor.

Because I had shat myself ealry on in the evening and had been locked up for a while, the stool in my shreddies had become molded to the shape of my arse and set solid, I had to drive with a perfect globe shaped arse from Oslo to Lillehammer. then chip it a way with a spoon.


I tell you what as well.

Where I actually cacked myself, was on Regent Road (M602) into Manchester. It was right outside the window of Porcelanosa, I sh*t you not. All those lovely display bathrooms and nowhere to rest my tortured ricker.

The irony wasn't lost on me.
Hook of Harwich ferry on the way back from sausage land, vast amounts of Stella quaffed both before getting on board and for several hours after getting on.

Sitting in the restaurant with 4 or 5 other guys when the urge to release a few of Aunti Stellas vapours overcame me.

The resultant explosion leaves me with about a pint of golden cleverness seeping through my boxers and running down my legs. All of the aforementioned guys jump out of their seats calling me all the cnuts under the sun.

I then have the problem of what the fcuk to do. All of my other clothes are in the car, which of course you are not allowed to go to while the ship is sailing.

I end up having to go into the duty free shop, coated in sh1t and stinking like a sewer to buy some more jeans. Then a trip through half of the ship to get to the bogs.

Ended up wiping most of the emmissions off with the clean bits of my jeans and then wiping down with wet bog roll.

Soiled jeans were then carried outside and hoyed into the sea. The rest of the guys obviously then thought it was their duty to tell everyone that would listen what a dirty minging cnut I was.



Come to think of it, the time before that I hadn't been drinking either. Maybe i'm just a shite-the-bed type of person.

I was on a UN tour in Africa in '94. I woke up in me sleeping bag at 4am and wondered "what the fcuk have I woken up for?".

It was then that I realised that i'd decorated the inside of my wanking chariot with a thick brown broth. Worse still, it had obviously happened a while earlier and i'd managed to cam myself up good and proper. It was horrific. Apparently, it was some murderous stomach bug that was doing the rounds. I couldn't get a shower until they switched the fcukkers on at 10am either. Fortunately my roommates were sympathetic. The bastards hoyed all my kit out into the corridor and wouldn't let me in the room. Every now and then, one of them would pop his head out of the door, wrinkle his nose and shout.

"Yeah, he still stinks of Sh*t"
I have a particular accident blackspot on the M6 near Junction 28, have fired a malteser into my shreddies three times in the very same place

Now make s a trip southbound a lottery and breath a sigh of relief as i pass without popping a wheelspin in my calvin kleins


War Hero
Don't know how but woke up on the floor with my head in a pool of runny shite after a rather good night out OTP when on my kraut wings course. Shit all over my body, hair, bedding, walls, get the picture.

The Kraut sent round to wake us up for that days parachuting opened the door and nearly fainted, he then stumbled to the karsi to throw stomach for it the jerries :lol:

Can't beat a good shite for the bloke who drank a pint of piss with a floater in it..........and then took a bite out of it 8O thats for another day
And another

Drunken night

Travelling home, looked at taxi driver, how much if I puke............. he jokingly said £30.......... BARGAIN I said and covered him and his cab in a technicolor yawn

When he threw me out of the I was too drunk and proud to do anyhting about it, he screamed I had cost him a nights earning s and had to clean his cab

I looked at him and told him he had to clean his seats to as I was comando and had followed through and was caked in fizzy gravy, and swamped to boot.......... never spilled any of my kebab.

In the morning when I woke up could see muddy trollies at the end of the bed so did the old trick and put them in a rovers biscuit tin and posted them to a pal :D


War Hero
At the end of the first week of basic training we had our first proper physical exercise scheduled which was to be a 6 mile cross country, anyhow it also coincided with the first weeks cook house food working it's way through my system, about 2 1/2 miles into the run i suddenly felt a deep inner movement, so i dashed into the bushe's hoping to have a tom tit and find a suitable leaf.
Unfortunately the stragglers in the meantime had caught up to where I was with one of the PTI's at the back beasting them all the way. He spied me crouched in the bushe's and thinking I was trying to get out of the rest of the run charged up scream death threats and oaths at me, my natural instinct was to run which i did whilst trying to get my shorts and keck's back up.
I had to do the rest of the run in shitty pant's plus being at the back being beasted by the PTI for being a bluffying cnut. When we got back to the billet I had to dash to the bog's to try and remove the caked on shite from up me crack which also removed a certain amount of arrse hair.
Not exactly a follow-through, but, this happened to a mate of mine, honest! On exercise, after a week or so, the old curious tortoise syndrome struck, so off he went on a shovel recce. He pulled down his tank-suit and assumed the position, totally forgetting the proximity of the tank-suit hood to the target area. He was forcibly reminded of this when,
on pulling his gear back on, he was struck on the back of his neck by a
goodly portion of recycled compo. It was weapons-grade poo, too!

Before he gets chance to delete some of the 4 that he has posted (as he has just told me on the phone that he is going to :D ), it would appear that MDN has a bit of a problem controlling his bowel movements.

I would suggest that a trip here

to buy some of these

may be in order :D
Not a follow through story, but after being on exercise for a number of weeks and being accustomed to shitting in the field. Got home, quick hump, shower and reported, “balls empty” to the correct authority and back out on the peeve with the boys. Returning home very late with about 15 pints and God knows how many shorts on board gets into bed with the misses only to find my guts wanted to discharge the previous weeks intake of compo assisted with copious amounts of Fosters and Vodka. In my drunken stupor, thinking I’m still on exercise finds the nearest corner and squats only to be aroused, not by the screams of STAND TO, but, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING” Being captured in a very disturbing position and not a one for being stuck for words I replied “having a fcuking shit, get my combat jacket from the wagon, there is some bog paper in one of the pockets”


Last day of basic training-end of course piss up the night before followed by (old style-in boots) BFT the next morning. Just at the end of the warm up mile and a half I let go only to follow through quite drastically-PTIs yelling "combat jackets off-mile and a half best effort staaaaaaaand by"

So I shoved my hand down the back of my keks, scooped out as much as possible (while removing my combat jacket an standing by as per instructions) and managed to deposit the poo in the grass in front of the gym just as the gym queen yelled GO.

Suffice to say by the end of a mile and a half I was Caked in the remainder and everyone who was behind me got in front rapidly.

As we fell out the OC piped up from behind the squad-JEEZUS what's that f***ing stink

Most of what I had on ended up in the skip-happy days


No personal experience of this since about the age of three...sorrryyy :(
but I did see this story online.... :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:

Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served.

Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.

It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment. We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated.

Perhaps bit too much, however. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be.

After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...

I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagional wirecutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall.

In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.

I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precidence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.

At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistancy of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initally hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occured, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be.

Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed.

OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.

In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside... with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet. In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no f@#k toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed her to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately.

Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explination as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left. The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned.

Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions.

He hooked up a hose.

Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way. When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom.

I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door. The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
It would be criminal to let this thread die because of one dull post.

I managed to get past that junction of the M6 yesterday (there and back) without filling my pants with as much as a nugget or tagnut
Told this one before on another thread. Mon Cherie whore house in Stuttgarter Platz, West Berlin in 1985. Platoon piss up down the stadt, guaranteed to end up in the bath at Mon Cheries. There were about 12 of us give or take one or two and four slappers from the knockin' shop, all in and around this bath (it wasn't big enough to hold all of us). One of the Toms, absolutley steamin drunk, farted and followed through in the bath. There was sh*te all over, drunks and whores fighting to get out, those who couldn't get in laughing like f*ck and the manager threatening to bar us for life. Total chaos. Funniest thing I have ever seen. The dirty b*astard who did it just sat there in the bath, smoking a tab and grinning at everyone.


A good friend of mine set back Army- Naval relationships by 200 years.

On a range package at Lydd & Hythe, we had the obligatory night out in Folkstone where we had one too many sherry and cider.

On return to the camp, at about 0400hrs, had to get backearly, Ranges started at 0900hrs. My comrades in various states proceeded to wake the Range punters who didn't go out with their raucous behaviour.

My collegue was found by a CPO in the 'heads' flossing himself naked, with a towel (and he's not a small chap!) saying "Sorry Pugwash, $hit myself, just cleaning up!"

I think the CPO put in a complaint, but it didnt get very far!

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