Another poo story

Before we leave the subject of poo, I have another poo story - stay with us rest of the world, talking poo is a very English thing in times of amusement.

This one happened a long time ago, a long, long time ago, a time when the world and I were very young (I was ten), things were much simpler back then and all this (waves hand in wide sweeping motion at the vista outside his window), all this was just woods.

It really was all woods around here when ah wor nobbut a lad and because life was much simpler and peadophiles were a thing for the future, we roamed the woods as kids from dawn to dusk, built tree houses, huge great big tree houses with different rooms, some with a hole driled in the floor so that you could attend to your toiletary needs without leaving the tree - but this poo story is not about poo-ing through a hole in the floor of a tree house, oh no.

One day men came with machines, men who had procured the woods for the building of houses thereon, cardboard houses, small boxes of houses, some smaller than our treehouse, waste of time houses that forty years later look like shit, but the men of the 1960's didn't care, they flattened about forty acres of our woods to build shit houses.

We kids cried, we tried to stop them, when they went home we vandalised their big tractors and earth moving equipment by throwing stones at them, but it did nothing to stop the wood killing machines.

Within a few days the men had cleared the site, huge oak and birch trees had been ripped out of the ground and moved to the bottom of the hill where they now lay stacked tree upon tree, a 200 yard long wall of trees stacked on their sides reaching some 30 or 40 feet high.

Our sadness at losing our trees was soon forgotten as we discovered the new playground that was the tree wall, climbing trees that were laying on their sides was even more fun than climbing them standing up and when you got right into the tree wall you disappeared into a thick green world of crushed branches and millions of leaves and a smell of mustyness and decay, we got lost for hour upon hour in the tree wall.

Stuart Ackroyd was the nutter in our gang, he would do anything for a dare, he was the one who could also break either of his collar bones just by tapping him on the shoulder from behind, but at heart he was just a daft lad, too daft to be let out on his own.

Towards the end of another long summers day we started to emerge from our hidey-holes in the tree wall each responding to anothers cry of "going for me tea", it was time to go home, but Stuart Ackroyd emerged from the tree wall with a concerned look on his face.

"Whats up" we asked
"I need a shit" he replied in a concise fashion, he was nothing if not concise.
"We're off home now" we all pointed out
"I'll never make it" he whispered

Which was saying something because Stuart Ackroyd only lived a few hundred yards from the ex-wood, a quick trot with clenched butt cheeks would have seen him home and safely ensconced in his own house toilet, but he'd made his decision, he was going to shit in the wood pile.

Scrambling back through the tree wall he soon disappeared from sight, we heard a zip undone then leaves rustling as he settled down to begin and then curiosity got the better of us and we all clambered into the tree wall and followed the tunnel through twigs and leaves that he'd formed on his quest for a private shit.

Ten yards in and we found his hidey-hole, there he squatted, jeans around his ankles, face screwed in a mix of agony and ecstacy as he prepared to release the first poo.

One eye opened, caught sight of us, and glared.

"Go away" he cried, "Stop looking"
"We're not looking" we all replied in unison
"Yes you are" he insisted
"No we're not" we also insisted
"Yes you are" he re-insisted, "I'm looking at you looking at me, go away"

He was right, we were stood only yards away from his squatted form staring in fascination at our friend having a shit in a tree hole, it was the weirdest thing we'd seen in our short lives to date.

"GO AWAY" he cried, but we wouldn't.
"Have you got any paper" one of us asked
"No, go find some for me" he replied, that should get rid of us and leave him in peace

We returned within the minute bearing a piece of bark and some large dock leaves.

"I asked for paper" he insisted
"Red Indians use bark" someone offered
"Yes but not oak bark" he replied staring at the knobbly piece of oak tree that someone had brought him

The dock leaves had to do and we stood and watched some more as he wiped his arse and flung the leaves behind him, then he bent to grab his jeans and pulled them up tight, fastened his elasticated snake buckle belt with satisfaction and a "thats better, I'm off home now"

He turned to view his poo, for it is written that everyone has to view their poo after they've finished, don't say you don't, everyone does it.

"Wheres my poo ?" he asked of us, puzzled
"I don't know" we all replied in unison
"Where's my poo" he asked again, "it should be here" and he pointed at the place where he had squatted and poo'ed.

He was right, there was no poo, not a sausage, nada, nil, nothing, the ground was poo-less.

"I poo'ed right there" he pointed again, ferociously this time, "where is it ?" he demanded as if one of us had put it in our pockets to take home.
"We don't know" we insisted all over again, "its not like we've put it in our pockets to take home is it ?" we all spaketh in unison.
"Well it was right there" he once again insisted, "and now its not"

It was a mystery

And then some bright spark, it may even have been me, had the glimmer of a clue...

"Drop your pants" he, or me, said
"No" Stuart Ackroyd replied, suddenly turning coy
"Drop your pants" we all cried, again in unison
"Why ?" he pleaded
"Just do it" we insisted

He did, dropped his jeans down to his ankles again, and therein lay the answer, for therein lay his poo, slightly squashed now and stuck firmly to his underpants.

He'd shit into his own pants while they were around his ankles then pulled them up, if we hadn't realised then neither would he have until later on that night when he got undressed for bed, and boy would his mum have given him what-for, her ten year old son shitting in his own pants like that.

"Oh bugger" he cried, "Go find some more dock leaves will you ?"

But we'd gone, running back through the ex-woods in fits of laughter, laughing so much that we too wanted to poo and had to do the clenched butt-cheek run all the way home.

The day that Stuart Ackroyd shat in his own pants.