I could not run in to the toilet quick enough. Luckily the toilets were free of anyone who might witness the horror of the battle I was about to unleash upon the porcelain throne. Locking the cubicle door, the only thing separating the contents of my bowel and the watery enclosure of the toilet were my pants. Much like a prisoner waiting for his cell door to open, my sphincter was nervous with fear. Sitting down, I made myself comfortable -- after all, I was going to be here for a long time.

I was as relaxed as a housewife on Valium watching daytime TV. All I needed now was release of the demon inside of me.

I waited.

And waited.

Not again.

That was Monday afternoon. Four days earlier I had arrived at the Leeds Music festival. I have a colored history with this festival in regards to my poo and others', but I've never had a problem actually having a poo; it's usually been the events that precede or follow that cause concern, fear, and panic.

Not this year.

Last year the toilets in the campsite area were changed from port-a-potties to a giant tank separated into cubicles, with each toilet seat hovering over communal toilet water. After the first day the smell is still bearable; but even with the daily drainings the smell grows too much for even the most hardened stomach. The smell of these cubicles is a smell that could melt plastic, warp metal, and dissolve lungs in a matter of minutes.

By Saturday I had noticed that I hadn't shat since I'd arrived. I noticed that everybody in my group had had regular visits to the toilets since they'd arrived. I also noticed a pain emanating from my lowed abdomen. Wanting to rid myself of this, I decided to brave the toilets.

Aside from the smell, the first thing you notice in the cubicle is that you can see everybody's poo floating around, bobbing like sticks in a brown pond. You could even see and hear fresh poo being deposited into the tank. Pissing in there became a game of asteroids -- seeing how many turds you could break up with the power of your piss. (My current high score is four, by the way.)

But shitting ain't no game. It's war. Luckily the state of the cubicle was passable -- no shit anywhere but the tank, no piss on the seat. By the standards of the festival, this was as good as it could get.

Everything was going perfect until I was sat down. I was getting ready for everything to relax and fall when I realized that the lock on the cubicle wasn't actually secured too well. Anybody caring to look could see my legs and feet, though; so I figured I shouldn't get any unwanted visitors. Immediately after thinking this the door swung open to reveal an aging hippie. If the look on my face didn't say it, I think the "I trying to shit here, fuck off," must have conveyed the very intricate emotions I was feeling at the moment. It still took a half-second to realize what he had done after I told him to leave. With reactions like that, it's a miracle he doesn't get himself run over whenever he crosses the street.

A minute went by of pushing and -- nothing. I was starting to feel dizzy and lightheaded, and the pungent fumes from below did not help. Another minute in here and I could pass out; so I got up and left, dejected, defeated, and depressed, giving up to my stubborn colon like a French soldier laying down his arms ahead of the advancing Germans. Clearly, my lower intestine was now occupied.

But all was not lost. The French may have surrendered Paris, but they still formed a resistance, non? The time had come to fight my own little war, to form my own resistance. Funny, since it's my ass that was resisting.

I started eating the greasiest food I could find and drinking coffee instead of Red Bull. But all I did was further inflate my stomach.

I was in the middle of the crowd in the main stage when it started. A wave of pain struck me, nearly bringing me to my knees. I composed myself, and then another punch hit me in my stomach. A few seconds passed and then another hit, and another, like Lennox Lewis was inside my stomach hitting me with a glove made of my compacted feces. I had to go -- like a priest, I had to exorcise the demon within.

I told my friend next to me I had to go. He must have seen the panic on my face because he didn't ask why.

Usually walking four hundred meters isn't that much of a problem. However, when there are two thousand people in your way, most of them surging forward to see newfound glory, that makes things a little more difficult. It took me a minute to get twenty meters, jostling and pushing past people. Getting knocked in my stomach along the way only exasperating the pain in my stomach. I could see my goal ahead: the sign of the toilets. Adrenalin kicked in and I doubled my efforts to move forward; this time, I traveled about half as far. Then I found a snowplow.

Well, not exactly, but he was the same size and had the same effect as one. As he carved his way through the crowd -- the crowd making space in fear of getting crushed by his immense weight -- I could walk comfortably in his wake, occasionally stepping over those who got knocked down by his enormous belly. It seemed he was going the same way I was and I wondered: was he in the same position as me? Did he enter this festival 150 pounds but couldn't go and was just carrying the weight of all the food he had eaten? We both made it to the toilet section. I wondered: would he leave the porta-loo a different man, two hundred pounds lighter? Would I, for that matter?

The luck of the toilet gods were with me at this moment: the first porta-loo I entered was pristine. Save for classical music and a man there to dry my hands and offer me some aftershave, I felt like I was in a high-class restaurants toilet. All of this, however, made no difference. No amount of pushing, grunting, spitting and bearing down on my stomach could force anything out; only a weak fart that was more for pity than anything else. Once again the white flag of surrender was raised, and once again I left the stall a beaten man.

The rest of the festival followed that pattern. I would have contractions, I would try to go, and I wouldn't. It was like my soldiers were charging the line, only to back off before meeting any form of resistance. I ate everything that could induce a movement, anything greasy, even vegetarian food, to try and make a difference. But alas, all of this was in vain.

By the last night I was scared. Was there something wrong with my colon? I was worried about eating any more in case I ended up vomiting out my poo, as it had nowhere else to go. My stomach was full to bursting point all the time (yet liquids could just about pass though without too much discomfort). I wanted to get a sonogram to see how big my baby was, to see if he had all his fingers and toes, to see if he was grabbing on to my lower intestine, refusing to leave like a child refusing to go to school, hanging on to a telephone pole. I had already decided on a name for my brown baby boy: Damien, he would be called.

It felt like I was ten months pregnant. I have a newfound respect for all expecting mothers.

The last night came and went in a blur of legal and illegal substances, laughter, and explosions, until suddenly it was morning and I was in a motorway service station where I had an immensely greasy breakfast and hot coffee. Feeling a rumble, I stumbled to the toilet, quickly, like a gazelle fleeing a lion.

Which takes me to where I began.

Minutes had gone by since I had sat down. A little fart squeezed out -- and then I felt something exit. Parapoopers began to fall out, complete with little parachutes to slow their descent. Thinking that it was all going to be like this I pushed, hard.

All attacks come in waves. I had just fought the front line; next came the heavy artillery.

The pain was so instant and intense I didn't have enough time to let out a scream, let alone a breath. My face contorted in pain. I was dripping sweat through all my pores, my face streaming with tears from the strain. And then something snapped. Whether it was my sphincter or my brain ignoring the pain, a calm came upon me. Remembering Paris, I managed a garbled scream, a war cry of, "La résistance!" And with all of my strength, I pushed, I charged the line, I went over the trenches, I did something else with a military metaphor.

Somehow I managed to fit a turd the size and weight of a tank through my front line. There was no splash, only a thud -- it must have been so grand that it wouldn't allow any water to pass above it, though I'm only speculating, as it appeared to be composed of only Friday's food. What followed next: two cans of minestrone soup with a half of a French stick to soak up the remainder. There could have been sizeable logs in there, but I couldn't tell -- my asshole was now the same size as a gun turret, and just as hot.

With my sphincter hurting beyond pain I wearily wiped away the carnage that remained like dead soldiers after a battle. I raised a victor, offering a blessing for the toilet, hoping, nay, praying, that it did not overflow. A massive dump I may be proud of; but not enough for the rest of the establishment's patrons and staff to see it, and to have to clean it up.

I left the toilet proud. There was a spring in my step, be it from the battle I won or the fact that I felt ten kilos lighter. My friends seemed to notice. Clearly concerned by the scream they heard come from the toilet, they asked how I was. "I have just liberated Paris," I replied. They didn't seem to understand, but then again they didn't go for four days without shitting.