That Time I Shat Myself In Huddersfield

When you have a drinking problem, you don’t just have a couple of drinks. That’s kind of what a drinking problem is. This means that whatever your choice of drink is – you are going to drink it in a substantial quantity. Anything taken in huge quantities – even healthy stuff like fruit – is going to have some sort of effect on your stomach. This seems to be especially true with pints of beer – whenever else would you even consider drinking 10 pints of the exact same liquid?? The effects are unlikely to be good. I found this out the hard way.

A lot of years ago, probably 15-ish when I was in my early twenties, I recall a Saturday afternoon out in my hometown of Huddersfield. A few of us had been out the night before, hitting the drink hard, and ended up until the wee hours in Camel Club – which I think was the only local club worth visiting in those days. 90s night in there was always a blast – 90p to get in, DJ playing the biggest cheesy hits of the 90s, and £1 for a beer (I think so anyway – it was a long time ago and I was usually very very drunk when we got there).

A couple of mates stayed at my house that night, and after a late slumber we headed straight back in to town for a full English and a hair of the dog. One pint turned into a few, and we ended up in a local dive playing pool – winner stays on.

I was watching the other lads play, drinking probably my third or fourth pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord (goddamn it I miss that stuff) when my stomach started to gargle. I assumed this was my massively-unhealthy breakfast trying to digest whilst floating in a sea of beer, and chanced a dainty fart.

Oh shit. Something had gone terribly wrong.

I headed to the men’s bogs (not too dissimilar to “the worst toilet in Scotland” for you Trainspotting fans) to survey the damage, and found my undercrackers to be no longer clean, or fit for purpose. They’d have to go. Luckily they were cheap pants from Tesco and so I could wave them off with no lingering sense of loss.

Some pub toilets, yesterday

I flushed my Tesco grundies down the toilet, where they subsequently blocked it up and caused the water – the nasty, smelly, brown bog water – to rise up and begin flooding the men’s room floor. I panicked, put my jeans and trainers back on (what? I had to take my trainers off to get my jeans and pants off!) and fled the room. I grabbed my mates, who were mid-game, and confessed to my terrible sins – and we drank up and got out of there fast.

I left it a good few years before ever going back to that pub, and even then I couldn’t relax. I’m convinced that one day, on a rare visit back to Huddersfield, I’ll be cornered in a dark alley and buggered by an angry publican that once, 15 years ago, had to fish my soiled Tesco pants out of his toilet before mopping the floor. Revenge at last.

The point of this blog is that, as my missus puts it, “grown men shouldn’t shit themselves”. Unfortunately, for those of us that decide to push forwards with a damaging level of drinking – this kind of thing can become a regular occurrence. It only ever happened to me that once, but some people regularly piss themselves because they’re so drunk. They puke, they sleep in bushes, they get in to fights, they spend money they can’t afford to spend, they hurt loved ones, and they make terrible decisions (like drink driving, or growing a man-bun). The whole thing is messy, and on balance I have to wonder if it’s really worth it.

There you go. Another good reason not to drink booze if you’re a bit ‘overly enthusiastic’ with it. Add it to the list.


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