Two posts ago I set a challenge, and you responded with a delightful mix of hard fact and lunacy. Heartiest congratulations are therefore sweeping gleefully in the direction of David, who correctly surmised that I’d spent two delightful evenings in the company of Camper Van Beethoven and Arthur Lee and Love on London’s splendid South Bank, and to Wild, who described in great detail what would have been my best evening out ever, had it ever actually occured. It’s very much worth reading (eleven comments down).
And so, I’ve got to keep my part of the bargain, which is to relate the sordid tale of my most embarrassing moment ever. I really don’t know why I’m doing this.
It had been a heavy night. I can’t remember what we’d been celebrating, but that’s not important. Suffice to say, I woke up feeling like I’d gone ten rounds with a bison, with a taste in my mouth that would have had any health and safety committee calling for urgent back-up. It was already late afternoon, and I was due in town to meet a friend I hadn’t seen in months. Not wanting to let him down, I quickly scrubbed up and headed down to the station. Within a couple of stops I realised that I’d have been better off in bed, as the morning after the night before really began to catch up with me. Then disaster struck. Pulling into Regents Park station, I suddenly bent over double as my colon went into spasm, and realised that I desperately needed to answer the call of nature. Now this is a problem. Underground trains don’t have toilets, and there aren’t any such facilities on the platform either. As soon as the doors opened I ran down one of the exit tunnels, desperately looking for a secluded spot away from the prying security cameras where I could complete my business. Spotting an alcove where there was little chance of intrusion I swiftly dropped my trousers and let rip. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t take long. Within ten seconds I’m up and walking shakily towards the exit and some fresh air, relieved that the pain is over and I haven’t been spotted. And then, as I stroll casually through the ticket hall towards the street outside, the station tannoy crackles into life, and an official sounding woman speaks: “This is a message for the passenger with the long hair just leaving the station. I hope you’re planning to CLEAN UP THAT SHIT!”
I keep walking and don’t look back.
Would anyone else like to share any similar tales?