It was 1974. I was twenty and soon to get married for the first time. Every couple of weeks I would visit some married friends who lived a few miles away along with Pat, my future wife, and usually Dean, my friend since school who was about to be my best man.
Dean and I had always been interested in motor racing and spent our weekends pit-crewing for another friend at circuits all over England. We had met Ryan and his wife Jay at Brands Hatch when they stopped to talk in the paddock and we found out they lived near us. They soon started coming with us to the nearer circuits. Ryan worked for a council in London and got home late every night, so on the days that we visited them, we would go over early evening with some beers, have a few snacks, chat, and then Ryan would get back with hilarious stories of the day's events dealing with the numpties you find in the urban sprawl estates.
On this particular day, Jay was expecting us, so when we rang the doorbell and no movement was heard, we stood around waiting. We were about to ring again when the sound of the toilet flushing came from across the entrance hall. Jay apologized for the delay, and we went in and got to chatting and drinking and so on.
After a while, the beer started working on my bladder, and I went to the bathroom. Unzipping, I went to lift the seat and spotted the most gigantic turd pointing up at me.
Now, I have always been on the squitery end of the pooping spectrum; passing anything remotely chunky involves sweat. So whenever I see a biggie it brings tears to my eyes -- and this was a biggie.
Having been in a relationship for a couple of years, I had worked out that girls, even pretty ones, do shit, and yes it can stink, just as bad as a guy's. I hadn't yet seen any girlpoo, though, and naively thought that it would be sort of... delicate, I suppose. But the thing lurking in the bowl was thick, probably two inches thick, and long, straight as an arrow, and wedged in the u-bend with an inch or two above water level.
To be honest, my first thought was that Ryan had been home earlier, as there was no way that Jay, slim with a gorgeous behind (she looked like Cher, sort of mid-career) could pass this log. Then I remembered the flush we'd heard.
Somewhat surprised, I proceeded to pee, when a terrible thought hit me: as soon as I flushed, I became the owner of whatever was left in the bog. And there was no way a second flush of even one of the old seventies water-wasters was going to shift Moby Richard III.
Panic started to set in. I looked at the toilet brush -- new, small, decorative, and totally white. If I attacked this turd with it, it was going to end up disgusting, packed, and brown.
Jay was a hairdresser and used the spare bedroom as her salon, so although there would be rubber gloves and various implements in there, the bathroom was minimalist and presentable to customers. A quick recce of the room revealed some wash drying on a clothes airer in the bath, but bugger-all of help to me.
What to do?
Flush and pray?
Flush, go back to the lounge, and say, "Hey Jay, I flushed, but your huge jobbie is staying put"? Not gentlemanly.
Flush, go back to the lounge, and say, "I have a problem... got a pickaxe?" Nah, didn't want to do that.
Or, deal with it?
Really, that was the only option.
The hands-on approach didn't appeal -- it would certainly mean no more finger-snacks tonight! Luckily, my brain had seen something my eyes overlooked. Amongst the clothes on the airer, there was a blouse on a wire hanger. Carefully removing the blouse, I lined up on the Richard and sliced and diced it into several manageable sections before wiping Excalibur on toilet paper and flushing. I rehung the blouse, and the job was done.
On re-entering the lounge, I was greeted with the usual "Thought you'd fallen in" type of banter, to which I claimed a rethink from #1 to #2, and the matter was closed.
I felt sort of pleased with the unusual diplomacy with which I handled the incident -- but this went south a few weeks later when I got the blame (wrongly) for busting their toilet seat. It was one those seats where you were never sure if it would stay in the upright position and would have been a menace if they'd had kids (well, boys). It must have slammed down at some point and cracked and Jay reckoned it was me. I couldn't really bring up my earlier diplomacy as defense; and although I denied it, I am sure that thirty-odd years later, Jay, wherever she is, still believes it was me.
