Last year I crossed the Channel to discuss some business issues with my French counterparts. After the necessities were concluded, a long night drinking catastrophic amounts of Pernod and Noilly Pratt followed.
The following morning I was driving back to the Cherbourg ferry port when the contractions started -- the Pernod was taking its revenge! The character of the contractions left in me no doubt that this was going to be ugly; a visit to the chocolate machine was urgently required.
Those of you who have used the French Autoroute facilities are quite aware that they consist merely of a hole in the floor. Even with the assistance of American laser-guided weapon technology, the chances of hitting the target are very slim indeed. I would have risked it if I had been confident of unleashing a solid table leg, successfully laying another British Telecom cable. However, I was certain that my experience would be similar to chucking a pan full of mulligatawny soup in the direction of shitter. There would be little chance of me keeping it off my eyebrows, let alone my shoes, so I decided to keep going in order to use the Ferry Port facilities, with their much more familiar sit-down arrangement.
With 15 Kilometers still to go, the contractions became almost unbearable -- my ring was dilated, and then some! I grimly hung on. Although my poo was already in the departure lounge, I was determined not to have to endure the squalor of the French motorway shitter.
I reached the ferry port in record time. Barely stopping to check in, I raced to the end of the queue. I think the car was still moving as I flung open the door. I hit the ground running, burst into trap one like a man possessed, and had just managed to get my trolleys down when from my derriere came a commotion reminiscent of a flock of starlings taking off. My relief at reaching the dunny in time was short lived when I turned round and saw that I had in fact pebbledashed the shitter wall. Quelle Horreur!!!
My embarrassment was compounded when I tried to clean up the sorry mess with the assistance of a slack handful of French bum paper -- all I ended up doing was smearing it more and more. The cubicle looked like a terrorist's prison cell during a dirty protest.
My attention was then drawn to the subtle clearing of throats outside my abattoir-like cell. People were queuing for the facility. I hadn't much time left... merde!!!
All my clean-up efforts came to no avail. There seemed little prospect of me escaping scott-free. I therefore drew myself up to my full height and did the only thing a proper English gentleman can do in such circumstances. I thrust open the door and, with my nose in the air, boomed, "You'll never believe what some dirty bastard has done in there!" as I flounced out. The cries of horror and disgust were still ringing in my ears as I boarded the ferry home.
At the time, I felt somewhat humiliated by events which, in my defense, were largely out of my control. However, recent events within the UN have lead me to reassess this sorry chapter in my life. I now look back with pride on the inconvenince I caused to my Gallic cousins, and I occasionally allow myself a knowing smirk when I think of the poor Frenchie who had to clean up my shit.
-- Epitaph