I am a frequenter of music festivals. Music, mud, camping, more mud -- you get the point. And everyone who has ever participated in such an event will be aware of that terrible portable plastic shite-shrine known as the port-a-loo, or "Turdis," as we call it (think Dr. Who).

A Turdis can be a wondrous thing, bringing relief to people in those far away, inaccessible places. It can be a sweet smelling, personal plastic poop palace where one can make an offering anywhere, from the middle of a field to the middle of the London Marathon.

But a music festival, the Turdis is evil!

Glastonbury, England, 2004:

I was situated in one of the "performers and crew" camping areas. It's quieter than the main camping areas, and much more secure and secluded. You don't get trodden on at four AM by drunken knob-heads looking for their tent, and everyone knows each other; all in all, it's a nice place to be.

But it's about a mile from the nearest Turdis.

The term "festival pellets" describes the yoga-like body control technique perfected by frequent festivalgoers, in which the waste products one creates can be stored for days on end within the bomb-bay. There they become ever more desiccated and compacted until they can be effortlessly dropped from one's ring like smooth, shiny stones of dark-matter doo-doo. Festival pellets require no wiping, as they are as dry as a mummy's knob, and can be easily released from your position hovering over the shite-encrusted seat of the dreaded Turdis.

On the day in question, I managed to create the exact opposite effect in my pipes.

Back to Glastonbury. On the second day of the festival, after going to bed on a stomach full of vodka, beer, noodles, three falafels, and a veggie hot dog, I awoke to find that I didn't know who I was, where I was, or anything else. I had but one singular thought:

"I need a crap, RIGHT NOW!"

Luckily, I had slept in my clothes. Although I doubt I would have stopped to check -- such was my determination as I waddled straight out of my tent as fast as my clenched cheeks would allow, straight for the nearest stool cupboard.

Opening the door of said crapper, I was confronted by a sight to behold. In a drunken trance from the night before, it seemed, the nearby inhabitants of the festival had been compelled to create a temple to the glory of the Bum God. Rising a good foot from the bowl was a beautiful dung pyramid. All shades of brown were swirled together to create a multi-textured, multi-colored, bog paper-rippled, prismatic poo effigy!

"Can't crap here," thought I as I heaved at the sight.

The rumbling of pressurized rancid cream in my gut strongly disagreed: "It's either here or in your only remaining pair of jeans!" Clean clothes are sacred at a festival.

Something had to be done, and fast.

I couldn't hover over the creation and add to its mass, as, by this point, any attempt to exert myself would have resulted in a blowout and a failed mission. Climbing up to put my feet on either side of the seat would have resulted in a moment of relief followed by a big problem.

"The temple must fall!" I thought.

I waddled to the bushes nearby to seek out my weapon: a good, stout, stick.

I held my breath and charged in. With my wooden sword before me, I cut and mashed the foul demon pile as it let out waves of stench in defense. The terrific fudgy mound of other people's goblins fought bravely, clutching at my stick as I stabbed, letting off flailing globlets as I hacked it down the hole. I ducked and dodged its onslaught as the battle continued. Cheered by my own brown general, who was now forcing his head out for a better view of the carnage, I rammed the last finger of the beast into the mud lake below.

With the pyramid now destroyed, I turned, threw the stick, slammed the door, dropped my pants, sat, and released, all in one swift movement.

When you've been holding in a movement for this long there is usually a one-second delay as the pressure resets. Usually just enough time to trick you into thinking, "Did I actually need...?"

And after that single second, with a force that could crush rock, my bowels squeezed from me an inverted fountain of the worst rusty water I have ever produced. Like someone opening a recently shaken can of carbonated gravy. The bowl was thoroughly decorated.

Shaking, I took a breath as I prepared for phase two. One huge nutty turd ripped forth, clawing its way out of me to be free. I had to bite down as a feeling came over me like I was giving birth to my own third leg. Something landed with a dull thud upon the head of its liquid brother.

After wiping the sweat from my brow and removing the aftermath from my butthole with a baby wipe (always have a baby wipe in your pocket at a festival!), I turned to survey the damage.

There was no way that the final log was going to fit down the Turdis bowl hole. Surrounded by liquid skunk clay, it looked ominous and immovable, like a dead otter.

I pulled the lever that makes the chemical toilet flush. A pathetic spray of recycled pee hit the loaf and washed off some brown water, but it did not move. You can't push a dead rhino down a drain with a water pistol.

I decided that I would have to get a new stick, or my child would become the healthy foundations of a new bum-soil pyramid even grander than its predecessor.

I stepped out of the bog box to find a little girl waiting outside. She pushed past me and went straight into my Turdis and shut the door.

Needless to say, I did not hang around to hear her scream. Or to see whether she would be as smart as me and find a stick.

I ran off.

I have no idea what happened to the girl. Maybe she fought my creation and won. Maybe she just left the beast asleep and did a little tinkle on its head. Or maybe it ate her.

The moral of the story, folks, is simple: even if you're a master of the Festival Pellet, never crap at a festival... ever!

-- Skunk Clay