It was the 2002 Leeds festival -- an entire weekend devoted to music. As the festival started on Friday and ended on Sunday, me and a few mates went down on Thursday to secure a kick-ass camping spot.

Those unfamiliar with rock festivals don't know about the poor state of toilets. They are bad. Imagine the worse shit you have ever seen -- not just in a toilet, but all over it; the smell of matured feces and chemicals thick in the air, and no running water to clean your hands -- only some 'cleanser,' a mixture of cheap soap and dirty water. With something like 50,000 people on the festival grounds for the entire weekend, and maybe only a few hundred toilets at most, things only get worse from there.

Now, since I was prepared for the poor sanitary standards, I figured I'd better clean out my system before I went to Leeds. And I thought I did. On Thursday I was fine -- I had a massive breakfast (which now seems like a bad idea), and at the coach station had a Double Whopper meal (once again, a mistake of grand proportions). We made it to the campsite quite early, so we were able to set up only a few hundred feet away from the toilets. Good news. I could relax -- I could go for a piss without having to trek miles and miles over other people's tents.

The toilets the first night were beautiful. The chemical smell was intoxicating. I was astounded at how clean they were, and, even better, there were copious amounts of toilet paper -- hell, it was even quilted!

The day ended problem-free, with a lovely meal of pasta and some serious bong love. The second day, however, was slightly different.

After waking up, I had a breakfast bong, and then a stupidly large breakfast. We made our way to the festival arena, and watched some kick-ass bands -- The Dillinger Escape Plan, Amen, and Hundred Reasons. After over three hours of jumping around and getting crushed, I felt a pain like no other. It was like something large was trying to force its way out of my body every direction at once. I felt bad... and I knew it was only going to get worse.

My friend and I left the main stage and made our way towards another stage to see Sparta. On the way, it felt like I got punched in the gut... and it felt like something was going to escape. "I gotta really go," I said, with a bit of panic.

I made my way quickly to the toilet block -- about 20 toilets, with about 100 people in the line. I was feeling bad. You know it's going to be bad when your legs go weak and you haven't even gone yet. I was too scared to fart in case something extra came out...

After what seemed like an hour, a toilet became free. I ran like a girl towards the little Porta-Potty, only to find that the toilet seemed to be built of feces. There was feces on the walls, on the seats, on the door --- even on the outside of the door! Shit was everywhere except in the bowl. No matter how bad I needed to go, I couldn't go there.

I left that toilet alone. By some miracle, the toilet next to me opened up. I quickly entered to find it in a state so good, so beautiful, it brought a tear to my eye. It was so clean, so lovely... but I had more pressing things at hand than basking in the beauty of a bathroom. I pulled down my pants, found no brown marks in my boxers -- which brought me much happiness -- and sat on the seat and let it rip.

The toilet never knew what hit it. So many textures... I had squirty, thick, thin, hard, soft... you name it, I shat it. Out came my large breakfast from that morning, the Burger King I enjoyed the day before, another 1/2 pound cheeseburger, a lot of chips and chocolate...

I never felt so relieved in my life. And then -- I realized the fatal flaw. There was no toilet paper.

Shit... shit indeed.

There was no toilet paper, and I had a lot of shit still attached to my arse. I couldn't use my hand... I had to improvise.

I searched my wallet. All I could find was a £20, some coins, and some credit cards. Was it worth using a 20?

I was tempted. But then -- salvation, in the guise of an absurdly large receipt from Burger King.

I knew I had kept it for a reason. I proceeded to wipe my battered, molested ass with that flimsy receipt. When that was spent, well, I wasn't clean enough to pass any sort of standard... but at least I wouldn't leave too many stains in my new boxers.

I washed my hands in the 'cleanser' and made a sharp exit. I made it back to the stage to see the end of Sparta's set. My friend asked, "What took you so long?" Me, being ashamed of my shit and my lack of wiping, said, "Just had a piss."

"But you were gone 30 minutes."

"Yeah, err, I couldn't go." Hell, that was bad -- of all the excuses, that was the best I could come up with? I was more ashamed of my excuse than my shit... I just hoped he couldn't smell my work. Anyway, I made it back to my tent, changed my slightly-browned boxers, vigorously wiped clean my ass, and went back to the main stage to enjoy Guns N Roses.

-- Dan