It was once the highlight of my dull working day to stand in WH Smiths (for the benefit of Americans, this is a British chain of newsagents bookshops and stationers) for half an hour or so and read the magazines. I’d amuse myself by waiting until I had a clear space between another magazine browser and I, cough to cover up the noise and unleash a bubbling beast of arse gas, disguising my guilt by sniffing loudly, I would then wrinkle my nose in mild disgust and glare at the back of whomever it was convenient to give filthy looks. Endless fun.

One afternoon after a morning of passing vast clouds of hot eggy aromas into my tiny little office, I knew it was likely to be a very whiffy magazine section in Smiths that day; and it was. However, during a brief moment of being the only person at the magazine shelf, I felt my guts gripe and submit to ease out another hot one. This would have been fine had the warm puffs of moist fumes not been followed by a sudden unexpected realisation that, in my colon, the consistency of the contents had changed. I clenched a fraction of a second too late but was not able to hold back the pressure. I tried every possible gut clench, buttock scrunch and posture adjustment I could think of, but no sooner had I shoved the magazine back onto the shelf and prepared to rush out than the first cracks appeared in my bowel dam.

The liquid leaked gradually at first, but as I inhaled my muscles momentarily gave way and a hot rush of liquid ran through my boxers and down the back of my legs. I clenched instinctively, but to my horror I felt trickles collecting on my socks. My trousers stuck to me with warm wetness, and the first stringy drips of diarrhoea hit the floor; I shuffled out onto the street with my knees together, dripping fizzy gravy as I went.

I made it just in time. The front window of this particular Smiths had no immediate neighbour, just a delivery ramp, and with my back to it I relaxed my spasming guts and felt another warm wave of rusty arse piss course downwards with a squelching splat. It was a busy enough street but the pavement was wide, and I was a good five feet from the nearest person. I stood there with my soaking trousers stuck to my legs and the liquid in my shoes seeping under the soles of my feet, around which a watery brown stain was spreading on the concrete. I wondered what on earth I was going to do. Not twenty seconds earlier I’d been reading Grub Smith in FHM.

The smell was abominable, roughly similar to a bucket of old egg-mayonnaise that had been fermenting in a broken dumpster for several months, with an unmistakable acrid tang of unhealthy shit. I had to get away from there and damn quickly, as the stench would have been wafting over a wider area soon, and I’d already left a rank odour in the shop and a wet brown trail behind me. If I hung around any longer it’d be noticed that the big bloke in the grey suit had shat his trousers.

I needed a toilet fast, but the nearest public one was two streets away – maybe five hundred yards. I knew I wasn’t done either, because as I felt my belly heave once more, pressure built in my bowel. I race-walked again uphill, not daring to look back or think about how I looked to anyone passing; I just move as quickly as I could, clenching my slippery buttocks to hold back the next gush. Somehow it became easier the faster I moved, and soon there was my prize; it was grim, dirty and frequented by lonely men in search of furtive anonymous liaisons, but never was a sight more welcome.

In a Pavlovian response my guts lurched and I felt the pressure build as I rushed in, shot towards the nearest open stall, lowered my beshitted trousers and squirted while aiming my arse at the bowl. With no time to check for cleanliness or close the door, I farted and squished as my anus spat small amounts of liquid onto the seat before my buttocks even hit it.

They landed with a wet thud.

My spasming colon emptied all that it contained with effervescent bursts like a drunken lout vomiting Guinness, and I sat there for a good 10 minutes, waiting for each wave of pressure to reach it’s crescendo and cough it’s brown sour phlegm from my quivering traumatised nipsy.

I assessed the situation - I needed to get back to work but had to wash and change. I was already late, so I took my phone from my jacket and called the office. Since my boss was out, I left a garbled message about a problem at home and claimed I’d be back ASAP.

I needed a change of clothes, but home was a twenty minute walk away. I could get there and back within an hour, but my shirt tail was covered in diarrhoea, as were my trousers, underwear, socks and shoes; and although much of the route was uninhabited country lane, I was currently in town.

I peeled all my clothes off so that I could wipe my arse, legs, and feet. All the while my guts heaved, and I experienced a curious feeling of disgust and amazement at the ability poo possessed to get absolutely everywhere. It had found its way up my back, between my toes, and around my genitals, with fragments of faecal matter solidifying in my pubes. It had also begun to dry from the heat of my body so it was difficult to wipe away, even with most of the paper from the dispenser. I needed moisture and therefore dipped wads of toilet paper in the toilet water to wet them sufficiently, throwing each soiled wad in the pan. Washing in shitty water was a gesture rather than a wash; nevertheless, when the worst was off I turned my attention to my clothes

I wiped my shoes inside and out, but it was a horrible concrete floor covered in fuck knows what, so I decided I’d rather have my feet in my own shitty shoes rather than strangers’ piss drips and jism. So, on they went. I then opened the door to check out the washing options: there were two basins next to the urinals and a hot-air hand dryer, and thankfully there were no people. With only my fairly unspoilt jacket on (which barely covering my buttocks and genitals) I ventured towards the basin carrying a bundle of shitty clothing. Time was of the essence. I closed the front door and went to work at the sink, first disposing my socks and underwear in the bin and then rinsing my shoes, which I put on still wet. I then ran my shirt tail under the tap and was relieved to see most of the shit wash away, but it was still stained brown and half soaked. Because of this I slipped my jacket off, donned the shirt, and the jacket went back over it. I investigated the trousers; they were basically fucked. I ran each section of cloth under the tap, scrubbing with my fingernails and that bloody useless dispenser soap, and tried to remove as much detritus as possible. Most of it washed away easily, all stinking and oily, but the stains and patches of brown were still clearly visible.

It took a good five minutes of scrubbing and rinsing, but I was still left with a sodden pair of trousers and nothing but warm air to dry them with. I looked towards the door, expecting someone to come in at any moment and see me tackle-out and assume something sexual. Alas, as I futilely massaged these sodden trousers under the air-jet, the handle inevitably turned, the door opened and my heart leapt into my mouth. Our eyes met immediately and I gasped. He didn’t. He was a dark, fairly casual looking cove, and I instinctively turned my back to him, not displaying my man-meat, but rather my hairy stained buttocks. I started to cover my front with the trousers but thought better of it, and realised that I had to be clear about my state of undress, so I turned my head and continued to press my crumpled trousers against the drier as he walked to the urinal and pissed.

“Don’t mind me!” I was prepared to offer, jocular-like, “Got my trousers wet and trying to dry ‘em!”, but there was no need. He nodded in acknowledgement, half sighing, half mumbling something unintelligible, but clearly nothing unpleasant. His action suggested neither emotion nor surprise, as if finding a half naked man in the lavatory was such a regular occurrence that he was almost bored with it.

For what seemed ages, he stood in pissing position. The smell in the room was hellish. One doesn’t visit a public loo expecting it to be fragrant, but I was very conscious of the whiff wafting from the bin. Without a word he tapped, zipped, came over and washed his hands next to me. He recognised that the dryer was occupied, so he shook the drips from his hands and turned towards the door with the combined acknowledgement of a minute raise of the eyebrows, a smile, a slight upwards nod, and a sigh as he exited. He did all of this without saying a thing or even gesturing by look or deed that the situation was in any way atypical.

Only in England would such an encounter have a natural unspoken etiquette, where two chaps who do not wish to embarrass one another pretend that nothing unusual whatsoever was occurring. It made me feel damn proud to be English at that moment.

The next visitor might not be so inclined, so as wet as they were, I put the trousers on again and risked the streets. As uncomfortable as the journey was, I made it home and jumped into the shower to wash properly, explaining to a disgusted Mrs Scumbag what had happened. I requested a change of clothes, some Imodium, and a ride back to work, all of which she did, grumbling. I stayed in the ‘cunt book’ for the best part of a week: her foul mood that afternoon was obvious enough to my boss who was in the car park when I arrived after almost a three hour lunch break.

“You don’t need to explain” he offered when we went back inside, “I could see that she had a face like thunder so I assume it’s a bit of a domestic crisis. I won’t pry, just make the time up during the rest of the week...”

If he did notice that I’d changed my clothes, he said nothing, and I’m still unsure of whether I would have told him the truth if he did.

It was a good few weeks before I ventured back into Smiths.