For Sale: Foffa Single Speed Custom-built bicycle

It was the evening of my graduation ball.

A ball organised by soon-to-be-ex-students that enjoyed a privileged lifestyle of champagne and charlie, and monthly allowances in excess of the average national income.

So it was to be an entirely louche and lavish affair, set in the grounds of a castle, some 40 or 50 miles away from the university town itself.

I barely made it to the last coach to leave town, having dragged myself, bleary-eyed, furry-tongued, muddle-headed and sweat-encrusted, out of some strangers' bed (note the entirely correct use of the apostrophe) at some ungodly hour of the late afternoon, and torn back to my flat to shower, shave, and clothe myself in a blanket of 18oz barathea dinner suit.

Christ, was I dehydrated though. My eyes were still gummed, my tongue was sticking to the top of my mouth, and the inside of my nose was like broken glass. Bottle after bottle of water was drunk (I know, right - starting on the heavy stuff), and vague feelings of humanity, tinged with nausea, returned.

About 10 minutes into the coach trip, I of course needed to pee. Proper leaky-winky, tears-in-my-eyes, can't-sit-still need to pee. So when we arrived at the castle, over an hour later, I was as close to first off the coach as could be, and definitely first to the portaloos set up outside the back of the marquee.

Jacket off, braces down, buttons undone (on the belly-button high trousers), and mini-TW2 is giving big-TW2 the release and relief he has been waiting for for the last 90 minutes.

I think we all know what happens next.

Release and relief are, apparently, contagious, and a 3 day alcohol and substance binge isn't conducive to the finer points of sphincter control.

I shat.

I not only shat, but I literally filled my pants.

3 days of crapulent karma in my kecks.

While standing in a blue plastic box.

In a field.

50 miles away from clean underwear.

At 7pm, among hundreds of my peers, who are all very, very sober at this point.

Even with hindsight, I think I chose the best course of action - Stripping off my top half, and hanging everything out of the way, then putting my shoes and socks on high ground, I started on the more delicate operation of removing my trousers.

At this point, I was not sure of the extent of the damage, and was as relieved as I could be to see that the fallout was minimal (as far as I could tell, against the jet black interior of the trouser). My grunts, on the other hand, had to go.

It's a tension that I had never felt before, and have never felt since - Gingerly poking poopy pants down the flap of a chemical toilet, while standing naked and soiled, having to flush again and again, while a queue can be heard outside hearing inside, willing said pants to fall into a hole that seems to be getting smaller and smaller over time.

The clean-up itself was as practically performed as possible - it was early in the evening, so bog roll was plentiful, and there was even a little soap dispenser and sink.

Still, by the time I walked out of the loo, eyes forward, briskly striding and avoiding looking at anyone or anything, the bog roll was almost non-existent, the soap was depleted, and the sink had a used look to it.

The rest of the evening past as a complete blur - the booze a convenient anti-mnemonic, my shame forgotten until the next afternoon, as I woke bleary-eyed, furry-tongued, muddle-headed and sweat-encrusted, in some stranger's bed, to dress myself in a blanket of 18oz barathea dinner suit.

A suit that smelled unmistakably of shit.

Epic! And repped...