To lighten the mood I thought I'd tell you all a little story about what happened to me the weekend before last.

I had signed up to run four marathons this year. They are organised by a small company known for making their events a little quirky. On the weekend in question I was to complete my third of these, a night time marathon starting at 8pm and almost certainly taking me past midnight. Completely new to me, rest and fuelling were a bit of a mystery but I thought I had got it right.

5 miles in I started to get a rather gurgling stomach. It had happened once before in training and had stopped me running because I'd been unable to force out the wind. However, I was pleased to find I was farting regularly to stave off the stomach pain. In my head I was even propelling myself rather like I had some kind of anal jet engine.

By about 14 miles the pain was quite serious and I was already walking. I had anticipated walking but when it's as early as that and in the middle of the night, it's a bad sign.

By 16 miles I had no choice but to climb a big grass bank, drop my shorts and do the most explosive chocolate mousse type sh*te I have ever done. I was instantly hit by a smell akin to a fresh cow-pat but it did relieve some of the pain.

However, I had no toilet paper. After about 500m of mincing along it started to feel more and more like I had some wet concrete between my buttocks, gradually sanding away the skin from the region. I needed to wipe URGENTLY.

I climbed the bank again looking for some leaves but all there was was tall grass. I switched off my head torch so that other runners would not gravitate towards me. Grabbing a big handful of grass I began to wipe myself as best I could. Whilst crouched over, grass in hand and trousers round ankles, a young lady shouted over to me "Oh, are we meant to be running on that path?" to which I had to advise "No, I am having toilet problems". She soon scuttled off.

I walked for another 500m or so before I realised it was game-over and declared myself out. I walked back to the last aid station and told them. A running club team mate offered me a lift home and I told him that I didn't think he'd want me sat in his car. Not sure if he pieced together what I meant.

My wife came to pick me up with some fresh pants and wet-wipes. I shuffled back to the changing rooms where we had started and gave the bum a good old wipe only to discover a rather large amount of blood on the wet wipes.

Anyway, anyone else got any runny bum stories they want to share?

Edited by Part Time James (02 Aug 2017 10.18am)

Does the girl guides story need bulking out on its own thread?!

My mate told me he was out running and needed an urgent poo. He found the most secluded field he could find, no sign of any obvious public footpaths or anyone around so he put his backside into a hedge. Shortly after he'd begun crowning a private aeroplane landed in the field with the side windows pointed right in his direction.

To be honest the take up on this was disappointing so anything you have to share is welcome.

PTJ, you have a wife!!
Either a Valkyrie or a kind hearted woman who dresses you in the mornings.
A brave lady.

Kids,tired of being bothered by your pesky parents?
Then leave home, get a job & pay your own bills, while you still know everything.

In the private sphere I remember standing in front of my bathroom mirror as a teenager preparing for school, felt a fart making its way, but it was not your average fart, the 'airlock' I named it, a veritable Trojan Horse, because it was a bubble that was blocking an orange sloppy deluge which filled my y-fronts instantaneously - an acid cow pat at my rear - needless to say I did not go to school that day and the y-fronts were never worn again - not by me anyway.

Publically, I was caught short about a year ago on the way home - no bog in sight, on the seafront at Hastings, internal clenching lacks the bite in one's 50s than is enjoyed in one's youth - and this 'crumb of discomfort' as I have subsequently christened it was shaken out from the slight flair of my jean bottoms behind the front gate of a residence opposite the promenade. It felt like it was leaving hardly a trace as it made its way down my leg, with me shaking my leg and pinching the material of my strides to aide its course. When I got home and changed there wasn't just a trace of its presence - absolute carnage, a pig farmer's nightmare no less. However, I am still to be seen wearing these jeans - and by sheer coincidence, they are brown in colour.