Earlier this year I went on a small break to the Isle of Wight, a tiny island just off the south coast of England. The first tourist attraction as soon as you step off the ferry is Queen Victoria's old residence and grounds, called "Osmond House." My girlfriend was eager to look around, but I had been stuffing my face with cheesy poofs on the boat ride and was feeling slightly bloated and queasy. After much nagging I submitted, and we opted for a walk amongst the royal gardens on our way to a walk through the Queen's former residence.

For those who haven't been, the gardens surround the large royal building and are absolutely huge. We pottered through the well-kept foliage and decided to look around the house. I admit at this point my stomach was beginning to ache, but I thought I would be able to hold on until we had to leave, at which point I planned to use the toilet at the main entrance to the grounds.

Once inside the house you have to follow through these huge rooms in a very strictly planned and roped-off sort of route. All with guards standing in every doorway. I hadn't anticipated this, and I hadn't realized that my girlfriend would insist on spending precious minutes looking at every single picture/ornament/photo.

We had to zigzag through rooms and corridors and up and down at least five sets of stairs. My gut was busting at this point and I could feel the pressure building. I was a walking bomb, and with the slightest pinprick I would have exploded freshly digested cheesy poofs all over the royal walls.

We finally got to a toilet. Only it was Queen Victoria's private toilet. To be honest, it looked pretty cramped and was concealed in an old oak box. My bottom was yelling that an emergency was about to happen and this was now an urgent situation. I was sorely tempted to drop my trousers and poo right there on the Queen's personal throne. That would have been a tale to tell the grandchildren -- that is, if I hadn't been locked in the tower of London and beheaded for disgracing our sovereignty.

I looked at the sad pale toilet. It hardly looked big enough for a small child, let alone our own historically big-bottomed queen. I had no choice but to explain my needs to my long suffering partner and make a mad dash for the public lavs. Unfortunately, the only public toilets were the ones by the main entrance that I had earmarked earlier.

I clutched my now painful rump and ran (as best I could under those circumstances), heading through more winding corridors, down another flight of stairs and finally out of the house. I made my public deposit on the far superior public lavs and dreamed of what could have been. I can honestly say that for one second I nearly shat on the Queen's throne.

-- Honey Monster [1]