'Stop what you're doing, lets talk about pooing'

Have a giggle at some of the confessed 

Turd Tales or Bladinage, sent in to us by our listeners.

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Tej Trouble

I queued, because that's what British people do, even when they've soiled themselves....... 


I knew this wasn't a hangover. I was in a clinic in Addis Ababa, capital of Ethiopia, and I could finally start to forgive my body for its complete and utter betrayal of my pride, dignity and trust, just a few hours earlier. 


The previous evening I had been in a bar, merrily sipping on Tez -  a type of honey wine - and shaking my shoulders in a poor attempt to mimic the beautiful women of Lalibela, where we had spent the day hiking. Little did I know, later that evening I would be waking in a sleeping bag full of sweat to vomit my guts up. The night porter eventually found me crawling around the guesthouse, dry mouthed, desperately raiding the kitchen and common areas for more water. He asked me if I'd had Tez that evening, I'd had one glass. "Foreigners not do too well with Tez," the crinkled old man said to me, with sympathetic eyes. No shit.


Morning came and I hadn't left the toilet, but we were due to visit the famous cross-shaped churches carved into the rocks, so I summoned my remaining strength and tried not to defile anything holy. Our guide continued to tell me how foreigners should be careful with Tez, I glared at him. I'D HAD ONE GLASS. My presence itself was disturbing others and I was feeling progressively deathly so we cut our trip short and headed to the airport to get back to the capital. 


I cried the entire time, any remnant of life or energy slipping loosely away from me while my stomach cramped and my intestines twisted into knots. Dramatic I know, but it turned out that Satan had in fact lodged himself into my gut in the form of various diseases and parasites, and was getting ready to smite the actual crap out of me. So much for a hangover. 


Miraculously I survived the tin can flight to Addis Ababa without punishing any other passengers, but it was there, in the airport, that things got.. messy. My loyal friend, Emma, sat patiently with our luggage while I committed absolute atrocities in the baggage claim bathroom. The stench penetrated the entire hall, tears filled travellers eyes and babies cried, while my poor, loyal friend sat there, inhaling the carnage, unable to flee. After 20 minutes, I thought I was done. I thought I was safe to leave so we could take a taxi to our hostel and I could wallow in shame. I was wrong.


We left the baggage claim hall and I made the fatal mistake of bending down to grab my wallet. It was then that it happened. Like the gates of hell, my ass burst open in a flame of fury and I winced as I experienced excrement escape from me like sin.


I tied a jumper to my waste and I timidly turned to the security guard at the exit. I begged him to let me back through to the now abandoned bathroom where I could continue my crime away from the eyes (but unfortunately not the noses) of the public. He stood tall with the kind of pride that I knew I would not know again for a good while and said "No. You shall not pass". He pointed me to the security gates, to the queues of local families piling up all their worldly possessions onto the conveyor belts and I knew that this was just the beginning of my humiliation. 


I queued, because that is what British people do, even when they have soiled themselves. I reached the part where you walk through the security arch and I was told to remove the jumper from my waist. "I'd rather not," I said, urgency in my voice, desperation in my eyes and diarrhea in my pants. "Remove your jumper ma'am". 

It's my Birthday, I'll pee if I want to!

I had to tell my then new boyfriend that I had wet myself at the zoo, on my birthday......


I have interstitial cystitis and sometimes get really bad flare ups. SO the first year I was with my current (and lovely) partner he took me to the zoo for my bday for a cute lil bday day out. Low and behold, I wake up with that familiar feeling of pain in my groin and wee hole area. But it was my birthday and I wasn’t gonna let that stop me. I stuffed myself full of ibuprofen and paracetamol and went off to the zoo. Once we got there it was alright for a bit, but I had to pee like a million times an hour and nothing comes out obvs. We went to see the giraffes and had to queue up for an unexpectedly long time, giraffes are apparently the most popular animal at the zoo... by this time I already needed another wee. Once we got to the top and saw the giraffes I couldn’t hold in this tiny bit of wee any longer and ended up wetting myself a bit whilst staring into a lovely giraffes eyes.


Then I had to tell my then new boyfriend that I’d WET MYSELF AT THE ZOO ON MY BDAY and thank you but could we wrap things up and go home soon please. Poor me and poor him. Guess we will have to go back one day but not sure I agree with the zoo anymore. 

My Pooey Offering to
The Mountain Gods

I raised my hand, told the group I needed the toilet, and stepped one metre to the right.


So I have Crohn’s Disease and Ulcerative Colitis, and have had the same symptoms since I was 18 (I’m now 28) but after various incorrect diagnoses of internalised home sickness, allergies to all foods, lack of fibre and IBS, I finally got diagnosed when I was 25 and given medication that has to date completely changed my life. When I was 19 I decided to climb Mount Kilimanjaro as part of a group that combined students from lots of universities around the UK. At this time my stomach was at a particularly bad point and I was pooing between 15 and 20 times a day. Not ideal for a six day hike with a group of strangers and very few toilet stops. I therefore came up with the brilliant idea to take Imodium to try and reduce the number of times I needed the toilet to a more manageable level. It was this trip that has made me realise that Imodium and I do not have a harmonious relationship. Rather than reduce the number of poo trips, I can only describe the effect as being like having a massive plug in my bum hole. I just stopped going altogether. Great you’d think! And so did I! Those first four days of the hike were amazing! I didn’t poo once! Although in hindsight, I actually would have been in good company because everyone was suffering from the various effects of altitude and eating strange and new foods and we were stopping for poo stops about every 30 minutes. Not me though! A stomach as strong as steel… or so I hoped…

By the end of the fourth day we were starting to prep for the summit climb. This was when we would set off at midnight, climb through the night until 6am and catch the sunrise from the top of the mountain. At this point my stomach had grown to quite an unfathomable size and was making some very aggressively unhappy noises. I popped two more Imodium, confident in my new superpower and we set off.

Because we would be climbing up very uneven terrain, in pitch blackness, we all had to walk in one single line throughout the night. Should anyone need a wee, the instructions were to alert and halt the group, everyone would turn their light off, you would step up to one metre to the side, do your business, step back into the line, and everyone would turn their lights back on and continue the trek. Now about two hours into the climb, I started dripping with sweat and feeling very very nauseous indeed. This would usually be the tell-tale sign that a pretty terrible toilet trip was imminent. I waited as long as I physically could before I realised the inevitable future in front of me. I raised my hand, told the group I needed the toilet, and stepped one metre to the right. Everyone turned their lights off and what ensued was one of the most mortifying experiences of my life – 4 days’ worth of poo poured out of my bum with the most horrendous cacophony of sounds and smells. I have never pooed in front of anyone else, let alone 15 people patiently waiting in the silent darkness for my poo-formance to finish. Over the next few hours I had to repeat this experience about 3 times until my stomach finally decided it had eradicated the hellfire inside. We reached the summit and watched the sunrise, then started our decent (thankfully you take a different route down). Everyone was very polite and didn’t say anything to me about what had happened. Nor did they mention the mud stains on my trousers that no one else seemed to have gained from our perfectly mud-less climb. Whenever I think about this incident, I mainly just feel sorry for any groups who would have climbed the summit behind us, wondering how many people would have stepped in my poo-ey offering to the mountain gods.