Irritable Arrse Syndrome


War Hero
AFKAC said:
I was getting more and more desperate, as I was driving up and down country roads, praying with increased futility that I was going to spot a "Little Thief" sign, so that I could run in and ruin the bog. As it dawned on me that I wasn't going to make it, I started looking for somewhere to pull over. As my gut did it's last flip I saw a little pull in. It wasn't even a lay-by, just somewhere where tractors pull over to let traffic get past, when they can be arrsed.

I slammed the anchors on and pulled out my standby Andrex from the glove compartment. I then realised how busy the fcuking road was, offering minimal cover for my shi-tting activities. Thanks to my army training, I was able to think quickly under pressure. I opened the front and rear passenger doors from the inside, creating a screen, then turned round and squatted on the front passenger seat. I was able to drop the lot on to the side of the road, whilst peering over the headrest to check for coppers.
There's something really quite comforting in knowing your not the only one!!!

Have unfortunately had two occasions when I have had to adopt said posture. It's amazing how quickly you can carry out 'immediate dump' drills when you have to!! 8O

NEVER travel without emergency bum wipe pack :D
while travelling around europe Interailing at 21 , i was having the time of my life,berlin, milan, denmark, south france coast, one day i ended up in Paris which happened to be Bastille day and watching all these poncy frog tank rolling past that has never seen battle as they were frightened of getting it muddy , also perving over these nice low cut dress the french girls were wearing , so it happened, i was comiing out of a big free concert by Jean michel jarre, i felt the first twinge ,"ahh" thought i "wont be out for a bit got time to go around and do more perving", so i did and chatted a few of the frog birds up in my best french , the turtles head was waking up and was having its day, pushing and pushing, "ok ok im going back to the hotel",
walked to the metro to get back to my hotel as the evening was closing down, then it got worse the shits was really pushing away at my ringpiece and i got painful spasm in my stomach as it farted inside the gas pushing up, so you can imagine it strained face and clenched arse on a frog train, got to the station i wanted , by then i was walking like Charlie Chaplin with a ramrod up his arse , if you had slapped my back then it would have just gushed out, so i got to the hotel avoiding eye contact with anybody no matter how pretty they are as i am on a mission, jeez it was really pushing and my ring piece was spasming with the strain and the lift couldn't go up fast enough!, my floor !, got out and Charllie Chaplined it to my room , bugger my keys as i fumbled for it, AHH the ring wasn't doing it anymore as scotty said , i held it tight for too long eventually, ringpiece muscle overstrained, it couldn't stay in as i put the key in the slot and failed as i dropped it on the floor , SPLASH i filled my underpants and it ran out down both sides of my legs soaking my jeans and it had the consistency of brown porridge, you can see the sesame seeds from the Mcdonald burgers i have been living on, it was really messy , i spent at least 20 minutes in the shower and pushing the rest of the shit down the plug hole, suitably cleaned up i wrapped my jeans and underpants inside a plastic bag and dumped it outside the hotel down the side.
i learned my lesson if you feel it coming , just do it and stay away from McDonald burgers they are the ultimate laxative
it's quite amazing what happens to the human body the first time it's exposed to compo rations , my first lengthy exposure was term 1 final ex in junior leaders , which took place on sennybridge training area.

the first couple of days passed without toilet incident , but i did notice a slight feeling of bloatedness , but put this down to the fact i was p*ss wet through and freezing cold , after moving into a harbour area on day three i was going about some personal admin when i got a feeling i can only describe as if my entire intestinal tract was detatching and "heading south" i was initially petrified i might be dying , but as my sphincter started to twitch i realised this was going to be a proper arrse splitter.after grabbing my shovel and gat , and walking off a respectable distance i started panic no.2 how to undo sodden belt kit with freezing cold hands , by now the chutney torpedo was gathering momentum and my fiddling fingers were reminiscent of the "fumbling with car keys" scene in most horror films.

finally i felt a rush of cold air around my skinny juvenile legs and squatted myself over a handy log by now sweating profusely and pushing hard as after a quick start i was now experiencing a bad case of "log jam" the thing would not budge for love nor money and i was in danger of rupturing myself or getting hypothermia through my knackers.

with a final check behind to make sure i wasnt about to dump into the crutch of my own combats i started the long struggle of getting this chocolate hostage out of me , as the first couple of inches started to protrude there was a hideous escape of gas and the whole lot slipped out in one long, three coloured log.

as my eyes slowly came back into focus and my breathing returned to a normal pattern i looked up ..... and to my horror watched about 15 pony trekkers slowly ride past me with mixed looks of horror and pity etched all over their faces , more than one of their mounts was becoming a little skittish at the hideous aroma drifting from my position and the tail of my poop was still waiting to be beaten back into the very undersized hole i had dug for it.luckily for me , the "clean up" wasnt too bad , as the crap i'd just passed was the consistency of polished teak , and i slowly gathered myself together and trudged back to my shell scrape , a much wiser and lighter man.


War Hero
Book Reviewer

You bring back such poignant memories 8O . Compo the stuff to stuff you up :wink: .

What about the way in which we kept it in until EndEx and the move back to barracks. The rush to hand in weapons, clean kit, hoping that you would not be last in the queue for a luxury sit down s h * t. When you got there the groans. moans and sighs of relief as the log departed, rigidly stood to attention in the bowl and refusing to flush away. Then trying to cut it up with the loo brush if one was available.

Those were the days and thankfully now kept fully at bay with liberal dashes of wines, beers & spirits to ensure a smooth transition from full to empty. :wink: :oops:


I hadn't been on the beer, or had a curry or even eaten that much....but not two weeks ago I found myself sprinting to the karsi at dark o'clock with the dread fear of a cack-attack.

I made the bathroom, and was in the process of spinning around while dropping skiddies in one fluid movement but still managed to drop a perfect little toffee nugget on the bath mat...........which I then stood in (the light was off) and in my dozy state put my foot back in my slipper.

So thats a new pair of slippers for me and a bath mat for the missus for Chrimbo then :lol:

Feck knows what I'll be like when I hit 65........... 8O
Having just spent a few weeks in that part of the world known as "Miles and Miles of Bloody Africa" I was subjected to a combination of both IAS and the galloping squits.

Imagine my horror then when sat in the back of the wagon waiting for the off on a 300km push when my guts gurgled the "cramps of death" and a gaseuos foretaste of death came eeking out in a green stew. Knowing I had but seconds before a brown fluid arrse-explosion a la "Krakatoa" I made haste to the ablutions (the nearest bush with a shovel and chilled bog roll). Sadly my expedhition was not to be because as I neared the hallowed bush my behind let forth with a torrent of unstoppable arrse-lava and I browned my khakis.

For the next 2 days the driver was instructed to throw out the anchors at the command "stop I need a sh1t" at which point I would leg it round the back of the wagon and assume the "Eddie the Eagle" ski-jump position in the anticipation of an explosion in the chocolate star-fish. By the end of day 2 my ring resembled a Japanese flag and I was aiming off like an area weapon.

Eventually my condition passed, but one of my oppos (an ex-RN Junglie Jockey) fell foul of the same crack-spreading illness. Being the Navy type and always looking for clean brass, he had a little bottle of hand-wash, and having skiffed his keks he thought disinfectant was the way forward. Sadly it was almost 100% alcohol and so he truely enjoyed a "Johnny Cash" (Burning Ring of Fire) that could be heard all over the bush.
I thought this extract from 'All quiet on the Western Front', written by Erich Maria Remarque in 1919, is appropriate for this thread:

'The soldier is on friendlier terms than other men with his stomach and intestines. Three-quarters of his vocabulary is derived from these regions, and they give an intimate flavour to expressions of his greatest joy as well as of his deepest indignation. It is impossible to express oneself in any other way so clearly and so pithily. Our families and our teachers will be shocked when we go home, but here it is the universal language.'


come_to_arrest_the_zulus said:
not really the same but last week I woke up needing to throw up (non beer related). went over to my sink and started chuckin, then realised I had to take a crap. I did my best to clench my arrse but with one big heave I lost control and filled my boxer shorts

I spent the next half hour sitting on my bin, leaning over my sink, puking and shitin (if you can call it that, it was like milkshake)
Last time I heard a story like this it turned out the guys wife was poisoning him, hoping for a big insurance payout!
Sweet dreams! :wink:


I also suffer from IAS.

However, I went through a period in Sarejevo where every time I went to off load the contents of my bowls, a good proportion of the day was spent clearing up afterwards.

Each and every time I had a good s**t it came out like a barrel of black treacle, sticking to my arse hairs like cling ons from a three year exercise on sailsbury plain. Any attempt to wipe my arse with the cheap NAFFI bog roll resulted in it sticking instantly, ripping into shreads and covering my fingers in warm sticky sh**e!

For 3 Months I had to a shower everty time I had been for a s**t. I must have been the cleanest man in NATO.


War Hero
Well, why not resurrect a thread?

Not all that many years ago, I was courting a rather lovely lady. She was 9 years my senior, and at only 20 years old this was quite a coup. Not the usual older-bird fare either, this one was a PhD Professor of Literature, who was actively headhunted to lecture at Universities, somewhat of a prodigy, and earned four times more than I did without taking into account bonuses accrued from private gigs. Slim, gorgeous, brunette to the mid-back, everyone in the block was in love with her. The lads initially tried having a lech when she went to use the shared ablutions during the weekends, until they met her and rather oddly came to the conclusion that to do so was out of order. It got to the point that they would ask me when she was coming and would (bless them, young Craftsmen) buy posh toilet paper and put it in the ablutions for her. Admittedly, she used to buy them all advent calenders and Nestle selection boxes at Christmas. One day during a particularly harsh winter we found that one of the Jock VMs had dug her car out of a blizzard in the carpark, and taken her brittle alloys into the shower for a wash.

She was (for reasons known only to herself, it certainly wasn't for the pleasure my four inches) perfectly happy to traverse the length of the country to come visit me in Harlow Hill.

After a pleasant day spent in the Metro Centre (during which, at my young age and the fairly immature stage of our relationship, I spent openly leching at every girl in the fecking place) we were on the road back to camp, where she would be treated to the usual sight of pissed up singlies staggering half-naked around the block whilst listening to the latest NOW soundtrack.

Unfortunately for me, we reached the last stretch of the journey back, that being the rather descriptively named 'Military Road,' a throwback to the fact that it follows the old Hadrian's Wall and has habitually been used by squaddies seeking shelter for centuries.

This road itself is not in the vein of the 'straight roman roads' that we assume, as it involves numerous hills, bumps and grundlins, which were to become my undoing. Upon cheekily raising my arse out of the passenger seat for a slyly obvious still-pissed fart, I let loose a rather poor effort which was ignored.

Until I sat down.

What I had sat down into was a rather squelchy interior of my freshly purchased CKs. I was rather more surprised than might be expected. I'd been in since I was 17 and had so far thus avoided such soil. I shifted uncomfortably, fully aware of the travesty, whilst trying to ensure that the goddess to my right didn't realise what had happened.

The gate was my undoing.

"See your ID mate?'
This was clearly an opportunity for the resident Gunner guard dickhead to prolong his lech. The wanker knew me, aswell.
Fuck it.
"Seriously mate, I've just shit myself."
"Wh . . . "

Zoom zoom, the girl giggles as she thinks I'm playing one of my usual practical jokes. Not so, sweetheart.

She went fecking ballistic. Apparently this is not the way to continue the courting of a girl with very, very good prospects.

What was little better was the reception I received.

I burst into the block with the Missus screaming at me in her deep Rhondda accent (did I mention that?) My mate Johnny was in his room with his fiancee, a lovely girl called Lisa. Johnny and Lisa, like myself, hail from the deepest North, and Lisa pops her head out to hear . . .


Lisa's immediate response was perfect.

"Eh up, what's he done? Shit hi'sen?"

I wish it wasn't true. Four years later we're engaged. Emma and Lisa have been firmest friends for years, and she is so indoctrinated that this is no longer considered bad behaviour. Thank fuck.
I suffered from this urgent shitting without warning problem. Eventually shit 6 or 7 times before breakfast, the last time filling the bowl with loadsa fresh blood. Very frightening!!
By way of an Indian gentleman giving me the rubber glove, and then later a camera up my ricker, it turned out I had a polyp bleeding in my colon, the blood irritates the bowel and causes the urgent shitting. Polyps removed, life much more predictable now.


War Hero
Book Reviewer
I left 7 depth charges on Dartmoor during the course of various exercises. Oddly enough, they were all in the same area, near the abandoned farmhouse south of Gutter Tor (GR supplied on request for any poo geocachers).

No matter what I did, (generally pretty fearsome High Pressure turding ops prior to setting off, complete with sound effects of a man being murdered) on the path to the farmhouse I'd use up all the gas in the turd buffer and by the time we reached the drystone walls I would be at that point in a poo's life where the timing was fixed, and the only flex was in the location.

Being fed on a mixture of horror bag, fresh and compo, streaming the turd array was always a gamble. On some occasions it would be a fairly benign brown eel, on others it would be like crimping out a depleted-uranium bust of Alfred Tirpitz, and on still others it would be like firing a particularly gopping round of 12-Bore at the ground at point-blank range complete with matching sound effects.

On my final exercise, I was threaders with this whole pantomime and so got up early just to exorcise this particular bum demon. After encouraging early signs (2 respectable cables paid out prior to stepping off), I set out with a light heart. Approaching the farmhouse, however, the familiar signs and symptoms set in. It was 0430 hrs on a particularly shit January morning. I went to my usual patch of drystone wall and settled down to lay the big brown egg like a big DPM-coloured Orpington hen.

The turd du jour commenced with a startling bum trumpet. I gritted my teeth, no option but to move forward at times like this. On looking over my left shoulder I was appalled to see a row of red head torches swivel in my direction on the path. The Commodore and his petal-scatterers had selected this day and this route to observe the exercise. Athough I was frozen in terror, the pipelay went on, with occasional 'pffts' and 'voots' to give away my distance and bearing. They could not actually see me in the dark, and by the grace of god a couple of sheep crossed their field of view in my direction. When I heard the resulting guffaws from the group I nearly collapsed back into my own turdfield in relief.
not really the same but last week I woke up needing to throw up (non beer related). went over to my sink and started chuckin, then realised I had to take a crap. I did my best to clench my arrse but with one big heave I lost control and filled my boxer shorts

I spent the next half hour sitting on my bin, leaning over my sink, puking and shitin (if you can call it that, it was like milkshake)

pictures with words man, pictures with words


Book Reviewer
The Shit List

Ghost Shit. You know you've done a shit. There's shit on the toilet paper, but none in the toilet.
Teflon Shit. Comes out so slick, clean and easy that you don't even feel it. No trace of shit on the paper. You have to look in the toilet to make sure you did something.
Glue Shit. This has the consistency of hot tar. You wipe your arse 12 times and it's still not clean. You end up putting toilet paper in your jocks so that you don't stain them. This kind of shit leaves permanent skid marks in the toilet.
Second Thought Shit. You're all done wiping, and you're about to stand up when you've got more.
Pop A Vein In Your Head Shit. The kind of shit that killed Elvis. It doesn't come out till you're all sweaty, trembling and purple from straining so hard.
Weight Watchers Shit. You shit so much, you lose several kilos.
Right Now Shit. You had better be within 30 seconds of a toilet. You burn rubber getting to the toilet. Usually it has its head out before you can get your pants down.
King Kong Shit (or Choker). This one is so big that you know it won't go down the toilet unless you break it into smaller chunks. A wire coat hanger works well. This kind of shit usually occurs at someone else's house.
Cork Shit (or Floater). Even after the third flush it's still floating in the bowl.
Wet Cheek Shit (or Splashdown). This shit hits the water sideways and makes a big splash that gets you all wet.
Wish Shit. You sit there all cramped up in the foetal position and fart a few times, but no shit in sight. Sometimes called a political shit, since there's a lot of hot air and no result.
Brick Shit. You wish you had a spinal anesthetic before you attempted this one.
Snake Shit. This shit is fairly soft, about as thick as your thumb and at least a metre long.
Beer and Pizza Shit. This happens the day after the night before. Most of the time your shit doesn't smell so bad but this one is BAD... and usually this one happens at someone else's house, with someone waiting outside to come in next.
Ring of Fire Shit (or Screamer). The one that happens after you've eaten seriously hot, spicy food. You will know it's safe to eat again when your arse stops burning.
Its a quite day at the office so I have been trawling the badgers arse and found this thread, which reminded me of the following.

Many years ago I was driving red arrow buses out of Victoria bus station. I had literally just transferred from the double decker routemaster type to the single decker red arrows. It was bang in the middle of the morning rush hour and Paddy the inspector was jamming as many passengers into my red arrow with a total disregard for the rule that says passengers must not stand my side of the turnstiles at the front of the bus, he had punters jammed up against the windscreen like flies on a jam sandwich. I set off into the traffic and managed to get a fair bit of speed as I belted up Park Lane towards Marble Arch. Now bear in mind that the bus was full to bursting and that you could not get a fag paper beyond the turnstiles, let alone the poor sods jammed in at the front. As I approached Marble Arch, I got that pleasantly full pre fart sensation. I always looked forward to these as you just knew it was going to be a real humdinger and I regularly let them go in the privacy of my isolated cabin on the Routmaster, I could fart all day and night and no one on the bus would be aware because I was sitting in my own little space. As I swung a left I momentarily forgot that I was not in my Routmaster salon prive but an open red arrow bus, one passenger was so close she had her elbow jammed in my ear. I let rip with the most enormous fart the not only shook the back windows of the bus but stank like a rotting porcupine had crawled up my arse and died. As I drank in the heady gut wrenching smell, feeling a little frisson of pride that such a disgusting smell had come from inside me, I became aware of the tinkle of coins going through the turnstiles as the passengers jammed in the front began to filter through to the rear to get away from the ever spreading pong. I looked up into the cabin mirror and saw the woman who was standing closest when Krakatoa East of Bayswater erupted, looking at me as if I has suggested shitting in her handbag when we got to Oxford Circus, our first stop. By the time I had reached Selfridges the space in front of the turnstiles was totally devoid of passengers, how they squeezed through remains a mystery to this day. I could feel the waves of disgust directed at me as I pulled up at Oxford Circus and as I opened the exit doors there was a collective sigh as my busload of passengers started to breath in fart unladen air, I've never seen a bus empty so quickly apart from the time a rear wheel let go at the back during the IRA bombing campaign in London, feck me they did get a wiggle on then.
Among the most soul destroying things to happen after all the clenched arse, sweaty brow and gritted teeth contortions to keep the toffee anaconda subdued while you find a service station, is to pull up in front of the filthy bogs and find that any movement will result in an explosion of shit. It's like those crappy movies where the hero steps on a mine and it goes 'click' so he stays there without moving a muscle in case it goes off.

Only difference in this case is that the mounting pressure in your kecks is forcing you to rise in the seat as the beast tastes freedom. There's one way to keep it in and that's to grab both sides of the car seat and pull yourself down onto the thing as hard as you can to force it back into its prison. After sitting there sweating like a priest at a kindergarten for ten minutes and getting some very strange looks from passers by, you eventually feel confident enough to gingerly slide out of the car and waddle into the bogs like Charlie Chaplin. If you're lucky it's sulking and won't lunge for freedom while you're still upright, but more often than not the minute you spot the bog everything lets go and you end up having to demonstrate a better than average level of coordination as you simultaneously turn, squat and claw your trousers off your shivering sweat covered thighs.

Oh how often I have been there! In my case though, it's never a snake, just a liquid explosion, pebble-dashing the pan. And my kecks if I'm a couple of seconds too slow.

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