For Sale: Foffa Single Speed Custom-built bicycle

My good friend and one time flat mate who I shall call Lexington shat his pants on a date once.

He was on the tube with the girl going to a bar and was rapidly overcome with extreme diarrhea stomach pains and sweats. He tried to style it out and hold on until they got to a venue with a toilet but as you all know, toilet facilities on the tube are few and far between.

The story goes that he made it about three stops before standing up as the doors opened at Bank station and released a torrent of watery shit into his pants and ran off the train without word of explanation or goodbye to the girl as the diarrhea ran down his leg and into his shoes and onto the floor.

The poor bastard had to ring me up to come and pick him up in the car. We put a bin bag on the seat for him to sit on and drove back to the flat with our heads out of the window.

When the girl called to ask wtf he without hesitation responded "I shit my pants".

I admired his honesty. She didn't.

^ He is getting married next weekend. That story is in the best mans speech.
that's amazing - good story bro.

I've never been a graceful guest at a swanky do. I have a tendency to harass people with trays of food, hovering around the door from which they will emerge, making up for lost time or 'lining my stomach' if you will. This is tense because it keeps me away from my primary objective - getting to know the bar. The sense that my time would be well served being a charmster with the many influential types gathered about me sends me into a social tail spin, the antidote being booze. Ultimately I rebel, assume my rightful position as a wallflower or spend my time drinking and people watching with the few actual humans in the room. This is how it plays out. If I get through the evening without everyone in the business of making or showing art hating me from the depths of their soul I've done a good'n. Generally though, my opinion of these gigs is that they're best avoided. I'll never clamor for a passage into one of these shmoozefests again... not since...

I'd been out of art school for about two years and was running a little project in Hackney with some pals. We'd spent the day installing a pop up show at a space run by the Royal Academy and this tenuous connection was deemed enough for us to be invited to a seriously classy fundraiser at the back of the Academy in what was once the Museum of Mankind. So we hit the pub somewhere in North East London, downed a half dozen pints of loosener and tubed down to Green Park.

On arrival we were ignored by piles of paps who were awaiting the inevitable YBAs, model wives and TV glitterati. Inside the whole thing was themed around schooldaze. Unfortunates dressed as Bash Street style schoolkids were handing out all kinds of goodies including my weapon of choice, test tubes and beakers full of deep red stuff. There was an indoor basketball shooting comp and a lot of exceedingly tall people! Proper thoroughbreds.

Memory from this point is fragmented:

Knocking back the red things.

Seeing that the senior curator / director of the Royal Academy was having a little go on the hoop shooting game I charged up to him as he was taking a shot, blocked it, crashed into him knocking him to the floor, pointed at him and screamed "denieeeed". This may or may not have been the part where I showed myself out.

Regaining consciousness at the bottom of the stairs, having done a proper stunt roll down them onto the red carpet, being well and truly papped by the very cameras who had ignored our arrival. I stood up grabbed the handle of a waiting taxi and mumbled "just drive".

Regaining consciousness again in the back of the cab on Hackney road being asked to leave by the driver - who reminded me that I had asked him to bring me here but that he wouldn't just sit there all night. No charge "just fuck off". I pressed a sweaty note into his hand as he lifted me from the car.

Proudly announcing the highlights to my flatmate and his new girlfriend I look to her clothes horse for stability, leant on it (never lean!), snapped it and plummeted to the floor trapping my thumb in the scissorlike mechanism as I went, howling in pain while surrounded by her bra and pants.

Fade to black, all is quiet until I swim into consciousness for the final time. I'm aware of my girlfriend's voice first. "No Wrongcog, don't help me, I'll do it, just leave it alone, you're making it worse". Then I focus. I'm kneeling by the bed collecting huge pools of warm red liquid up in my hands from the trough formed by the sheer volume of science lab regurgitations seeping into the the duvet. The pintage of London Pride tainted by massive lakes of test tube goop had violently bounced. Smearing it like michelin starred raspberry jus over the crisp surface of our cotton sheets then raising my hands like an offering to the gods, Ruby gore squeezing through my fingers into the lap of my future wife I finally slip from the stressful distractions of the waking world. Fade to a sweet sweet black. None of this is my problem anymore. Sleep well little prince, for tomorrow is another day.

Repped for ''deniieeeeeeddd!" but slightly unsatisfied by lack of poo or vomit.

There was vomit. Great red pools of the stuff.

Aaah it reads as thumb juice. I'll edit... back in a bit.

Future Wife? Ah well it's a good preparation for the "in bad times" bit of the relationship ;)

...Ruby gore squeezing through my fingers into the lap of my future wife I finally slip from the stressful distractions of the waking world. Fade to a sweet sweet black. None of this is my problem anymore. Sleep well little prince, for tomorrow is another day...

If a lass can love you in the gutter she can love you anywhere.

Repped.

Smearing it like michelin starred raspberry jus

I hate myself for being unable to not comment on this but you are thinking of coulis, jus is posh for meat juices.

#food pedant.

Well you learn a new thing every day!

http://you.38degrees.org.uk/petitions/keep-our-public-toilets-open Bath Council has been reading this thread and wants to create some of their own.

One of *the *best threads on the forum. Serious guffaws from Lucifer.

Makes me wonder if my sense of humour will ever evolve, or, most probably, things scatological will always make me laugh.

After reading this thread I want to buy a foffa.

After reading this thread I need a safe shit somewhere clean

When I was about 12 years old me and my mate Joe (still my bmaforevz) went to a place called Ghost Town which an old WW2 air-base a few miles from my house. Back in the early 90s they demolished it and just left the concrete there, I don't remember there ever being builds as I was too young but it's well known in the area as that still.

Being young lads, we weren't afraid to experience outdoors.

Joe needed a shit.

Joe found some bushes and squatted down and did his business.

"James"

"what?"

"can you get me some leaves, I need to clean my bum"

"ok"

Off I went. I found the biggest leaves I could find to pass my best friend so he could clean the excrement from my ass.

I pass him the leaves, all is well until I hear shouting and screaming from behind the bush.

Come to find out, Joe was seriously allergic to these big leaves (which also where very thin if you know what I'm saying).

We rode home with Joe crying with poo on his hands and all on his ass, which was also a fiery red.

Off I went. I found the biggest leaves I could find to pass my best friend so he could clean the excrement from my ass.

you did get up to some fun as a kid

touché

After reading this thread I want to buy a foffa.

I've an offer via Cyclescheme, £150 of gears range, £100 of Ciao, £75 off Grazia, £50 off Prima range.

No bogroll with it tho. Tss.

I did the contest with Cyclescheme to win a foffa.Way before this thread.
Maybe it's for the best somebody else got it!

Grazia? Prima? Have they been naming them after magazines they've been reading on the toilet?

They're very Cosmopolitan

There's a 'Hello!' for everyone that comes in their shop.

But to go there, you'd have to be 'Nuts'!

I wouldn't wipe my arse with that magazine.

Unless I'd run out of toilet paper/kecks/socks/suit jackets

Or run out of ... Leaves/Calendars/The roll the paper is on/Toilet Rugs/Walls

I wouldn't wipe my arse with that magazine.

Unless I'd run out of toilet paper/kecks/socks/suit jackets

You've got a shirt I would happily wipe my arse on though

It's coming up for lunchtime, is there a way to disable this thread temporarily while I munch on my sandwich?