“A friend of mine is notorious for not being able to control his bowels. On such time occurred on a big night out in Cardiff. Wandering through town on our way to a club, my friend alerted us to the fact he needed ‘a toilet’. With the pubs and burger bars shut, he legged it to find a quit spot. He didn’t return until the next morning. Whereupon he told what had happened to him. He’d discovered a quiet road, with two tall sets of railings on either side, containing dark grassed areas. Perfect, he thought, and began scaling the fence. Bracing to jump off, he lost his footing, slipped and impaled his own ankle on a spike. In incredible pain, he swung upside down, for ages. To top it all, he then shat himself. Drifting in and out of conscious, and feeling the shame of soiling himself more than pain, he managed to lift his own foot off the fence. He then crawled into the darkness, whipped off his soiled pants, and cleaned himself up as best he could before dialling 999. And when the crews arrived, where should they find him? Lying there, covered in shit and blood, in a church graveyard. Bummer.”