I was quite an introverted, studious teenager. I grew a Beatles moptop-style hairdo to hide behind and had very little social life until I got to university. However, in my final year of high school, I did manage to go out drinking a bit, and attended a few parties here and there.

One such party was after the Sixth Form Leaving Ball, which is the English equivalent of the prom. One guy had told a bunch of us that he was having a bit of an after-party at his place. His dad would be asleep upstairs, but this wasn't a problem -- he was gracious enough to allow his son to invite a load of drunken, unruly eighteen-year-olds back to his house, provided that the noise was kept to a reasonable level.

The Leaving Ball itself went very well. Despite nursing the remnants of a nasty case of barber's rash (sycosis barbae) that necessitated antibiotics about a week before the Big Do, I still felt quite dapper in my rented tuxedo. I also kept the drinking to a minimum, even though the antibiotic course had finished, because I wanted to save a bit of room for more beer later.

After a coach trip back to the high school car park, about thirty jolly people made the journey back to this guy's house, whereupon the festivities commenced. This must have been about 1:30 AM. It was a beautiful, balmy summer night. Everyone was sitting around, drinking and having a laugh. Threats from neighbors to call the police because of excessive noise in the back garden were kept to a minimum, and everything seemed to be going just fine. The host's dad never made an appearance, which was comforting.

As the party went on, some people started to fall asleep in chairs, on the sofa, and on the floor. At about five AM, there must have been only about six of us still awake, drinking and chatting at a low level. It was so calm.

Just as I was taking a swig of beer, the living room door crashed open and rebounded off the wall. We all looked around. Some of the sleepers stirred. It was the host, and he was holding a full, unopened can of beer.

"Right, all you lot -- fuck off, NOW!"

"Whoa, mate!" someone said. "What's wrong? What's wrong?"

"Some filthy cunt's been into my dad's study and shat all over his fucking briefcase!"

Now, the correct response for anyone hearing this would indeed be to leave, lest any more anger be generated in the host. Unfortunately, most people who heard it, myself included, found it funny -- you could see it on their faces as they tried not to crack up. But one guy couldn't contain himself, and let out a huge guffaw. This was met by the can of lager the host was holding -- right in the mirthful one's chest. Oof!

The host started going apeshit. "Come on, all of you. Fucking get out! Go on! Get up and go home!" He immediately left the room, and could be heard running upstairs.

A few of us started gathering our things up and helping the lasses to find their feather boas, handbags, uncomfortable shoes, and so on. Just as we were leaving, the host came gingerly down the stairs, holding some plastic bags and smeared paper towels in his begloved hands. Some people started complaining about the stench, which caused the host -- quite reasonably -- to go into paroxysm of rage again, and culminated in his inadvertently dripping some of the fecal mess on the stair carpet. Yes, that's right -- dripping! For the offending shit wasn't a log, but obviously a pool of drink-induced diarrhea. It was absolutely disgusting -- the whole hallway stank like a nightclub toilet cubicle.

At this point, someone said to the host, "Er, mate, watch that -- it's dripping." Predictably, he went mental again.

As to whodunnit, there was one chap who looked particularly guilty. He swore blind that he wasn't the shitter, and people stopped questioning him after about ten minutes. The culprit was never found.

I bumped into the host of the party about a year later, in a pub. We chatted for a bit, and I said to him, "Oh, by the way -- did you ever find out who shat on your dad's briefcase?"

He chuckled and said, "I had my suspects, but I couldn't prove anything. I can laugh about it now, though."

This was seven years ago; it seems that no one will ever know. Whoever did it, though, gave us all a night to remember.