Paddy’s day, Ireland.
We’re already off to a bad start. I was a man of some thirty odd summers, give or take. So, one would naturally assume that an Irishman in his thirties can handle a day of celebration with a group of old friends. You would assume. Despite my nationality, I’m not too fond of Paddy’s day celebrations, don’t get me wrong, the parades are good family fun, but the pubs are a nightmare. People throng into the pubs once they open and don’t leave until closing time. Since the smoking ban came into effect it’s a nightmare, people coming in and out the door, pissed out of their mind, and no smoke to cover the smell of farts and sweat.

I went back to university to do a postgraduate course, so I was pretty broke. I had tried the “I’ll catch you guys in the evening” excuse, but my friends weren’t so easily fooled. So, I found myself at 10 a.m. with three pints of Guinness in front of me, compliments of the lads, I don’t normally drink it, but beggars can’t be choosers. The morning progressed to afternoon (no surprises there), but the evening felt very late, it was only 7 p.m. and I was wankered. We moved about the city from crowded pub to crowded pub. I had about 15 pints of Guinness inside me at this point, festering in my gut. Then the decision was made, a few spliffs, and onwards to one of those super-pubs. Usually these sort of places are horrible, but the place in question was a cut above the rest, no drunks allowed, strictly over 23 and no chavs.

Due to the night in question the bouncers had their work cut out, so we all slipped past them on our best behavior. More pints of Guinness downed and I started to sway. I was fading fast but it was still early enough. All of the guys were seasoned Guinness drinkers, but not me. I started to produce a lot of very smelly Guinness farts. Luckily this place was big enough to take a walk around, spread the revolting love and return innocently to my friends. Suddenly I felt the mother of all farts build up, fast. It was like an ostrich egg forcing its way out.

Pop! Out it came, and then started sliding down my boxers. Do farts slide? Let me tell you, they most certainly do fucking not. “Toilets, toilets, toilets” panic stricken I waddled as fast as permissible to the toilets, please God let there be no queue. The heavens looked favorably on this poor, shit smeared cretin. There was one cubicle and it was open. I bolted the door and carefully took down my trousers. Luckily my boxers had contained most of the deluge, but it still was a disaster on the scale of Katrina. I did what any misfortune in my situation would do. Carefully slipped out of the boxers, not easily done after about 20 pints, and dropped them and their contents into the toilet. Time to survey the collateral damage. The inside of my jeans were streaked with black goo, as were my legs. Lumps of shite had slipped down to the bottom of them.
And then I checked for toilet paper. Very little, very little indeed, not enough for the job at hand, but better than nothing. I managed to clean the inside of my jeans a little with the toilet paper, but there was so much left to do. My socks, yes, I can use my socks. This was starting to come up roses, although the stench was stifling.

After using my socks, I was in a pickle; I dumped the socks down the bog and whipped off my T-shirt. I still had a shirt and jacket, so I’ll get away with it. I finished mopping up as much as I could and flushed the socks and jocks down, waited and followed with the T-shirt. I gathered my battered pride, pulled up my cack stained jeans and opened the cubicle. Luckily it was a short walk to the door, I walked a quickly out of the pub leaving a fetid trail behind me. I had tied my coat around my waist to hide the smear, but no coat could hide the smell. I took the back streets home, and did the long shameful walk home, I pity the poor bastard who would even try to mug me in this pathetic state. I had a shower, washed my clothes and went to bed.

A couple of weeks later, I got a call from a mate, he wanted to meet up for a pint. Unfortunately it was in the same pub. When we arrived I noticed that there was a large piece of board nailed across the door of the gents. His curiosity aroused, my friend piped up and asked the barman “what’s wrong with the bogs?”
The barman replied:
“Some filthy animal blocked it so badly on St. Paddy’s day that the place flooded with shite later that night. We had to get a plumber to drill down into the sewage system to find the blockage, it was so bad. The toilet itself had to be dismantled. We’re waiting for the renovation work to finish before they can be used again”
“How the fuck does somebody block up a toilet that bad?” asked my friend.
“When they wipe their arse with jocks, socks and T-shirt, and then proceed to flush them down, that’s fucking how, we let our guard down for one night and you see what sort of filthy chav cunts come in.” said the barman
“fucking animals” said my friend.
“fucking animals” said the barman.
“fucking animals” I mumbled.
(knackerz is skinning up, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 4:28, 1 reply)

*Click!*
It's not the drinking, its the compulsory nature of it...
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:14, closed)