Party Pooper | I Shat Myself

If this was Star Wars, this would be very much the Rogue One of my blog entries. The main series of course features, predominantly, my excruciatingly awful love life. I mean it's bad. Even my Grandad, who has been in a care home for about a month, already has a new Girlfriend. I've been in Peterborough for over a year and the closest thing I have to a partner is watching Woody in Toy Story. But this however is not a blog about my love life, this takes place well before the lack of tinder matches I get made me question whether or not I will die alone.

My last Blog spawned tons of debate, ridicule and even a fake fancy dress superhero costume and movie posters. The nickname Rosstitute has well and truly stuck. I have decided (for the time being) to keep my head down and even behaved myself on a weekend away to Majorca. This has meant that I have raided my memory bank for a story worth telling. 

This was done by Jonny Crouch, and it's possibly my favourite thing ever.

I will be honest with you, this is not a recent tale. This story takes place when I was 5 years old. Yes, I'm sorry. I know you all wanted it to be about a week ago starring a fully fledged and increasingly chubbier Ross on a night out, chatting up some young thing like the old dog he is, only for him to ruin his chances by crapping his pants... But it's not. What I can promise you however, is a story that scarred me for life and helped shaped me to be the socially awkward nerd that I am today.

My first year of Primary school had it's ups and downs. A particular high was when I was chosen to play Santa Claus in the Christmas Play, I had a sack of presents and I had to hand them out to different children as the whole class sang a song about me. This made me feel extremely big headed, however turns out I just literally have a big head.

A particular low was the time we were playing tag in the playground, it was a drizzly day and whilst chasing my friend Lewis I fell over and cut my knee. I was crying and looking for someone to help. Nobody helped. I even remember this one kid Sam just running near to me, staring and then running off. Sam was a dick.

Perhaps my brain is warped but I remember being extremely popular in my first year at Primary School, I think this was due to the fact I was the oldest pupil in the class by 5 days. It sort of made me the leader of the class. When you are a kid the world works like that, I remember my friend Liam saying to me "Because you are the oldest, you'll die first" which made complete logical sense to a five year old and was the first experience of an existential crisis I ever faced.

I just remember Primary School being the best time, I had amazing friends, I was pretty bright and I was also the winner of Comedy Idol, a playground run event (albeit by my best mate Lewis) that looked for the funniest kid in the playground. Secondary school had nothing on this, in fact for the first 3 years I absolutely hated it, but I think that is mainly due to the fact someone set up a bebo group named "We Hate Ross", but that's a story for another day perhaps.

Towards the end of Reception (the first year of primary school) one of the girls in my class Emily was having her five year old birthday party. She was handing out the invites in class and I was one of the first boys she gave her invite to, I think she fancied me. Anyway, I was proper excited for this party, I proudly went home with the invite in hand. This party was going to be amazing, it was being held at the Hippodrome, an indoor soft play area sort of thing. Slides, ball pits, rope climbs, big kids throwing stuff at the little kids. It was the sort of place that you wish you could go everyday as a kid because nowhere is more fun to pretend being a Power Ranger than somewhere like that.

I handed the invite to my Mum and she signed yes, it went up on the fridge that evening and the very next day it was handed back to Emily who looked excited that I was coming. She definitely fancied me. The whole class was excited on the lead up to the party, it was all anyone could think about! That two weeks went so slowly, it felt like two years.

My Mum chose what I wore, she still does most of the time to be honest. I was looking amazingly handsome. The shoes, the little shirt, the smart trousers with a belt and to top it off I was wearing my favourite Thomas the Tank Engine pants for good measure. I looked like and felt like a complete and utter boss! Here's a picture of me to show you how much of a boss I was when I was younger!

Now you know why Emily fancied me.

The party started at 1pm and I told my Mum that we couldn't get there at that time as I wanted to make an entrance. So... I stroll in at 1.05pm, of course I bloody do. I walk right up to Emily and give her a birthday card and a present that my Mum bought for her, she probably swoons a little and then I head off to find Lewis and begin to start what I very quickly concluded to be the best day of my life.

Anyway, after about an hour or two in the play area it was time for the food... The boring bit of the party where nobody really wants to eat but you're forced to as some of the skinnier kids might break bones if they don't get some food. I think I had a jam sandwich, I like Jam sandwiches as they are sort of like a desert wrapped into your lunch. I don't really eat them anymore though. 

Anyway, a jam sandwich, some sausage rolls, cheese on a stick, and some cake was the diet of the time. It never took off like Atkins.

Then it was back to the chaos. We were pretending that we were Action Man that day as I had been round Lewis' house the week before and we played the Action Man game on PlayStation and it had made a lasting impression of just over a week on us. As I was crawling under the spiders web obstacle I felt something in my body that five year old Ross never anticipated to be a problem.
I told Lewis that I would be back I just had to go for a "poo poo", there was no shame back then.

I left the area, dodging a ball that Sam threw at me on the way out. Fuck you Sam. I calmly walked past Emily's mum sitting in the food area looking bored to shit. I'll be honest, I'm not completely set on having children. Part of me thinks it would be an amazing life changing experience to have a human being that I created look up at me and for me to influence it's life like nothing I have ever influenced before. However, another part of me thinks... Fuck that, I'm going to have to one day watch this little shit who's draining all my money and time going around having the time of it's life whilst I'm sat near some half eaten jam sandwiches when I should be sitting at home watching Game of Thrones with a Pizza and writing, what by then, must be my 5000th blog. (Dogs are better).

I get into the cubicle and by this point I am pretty desperate to go, I untuck my shirt and kick off my shoes. I am very thankful for my Mum's input into my outfit, as I say, I looked like a boss. However I realised right there as a five year old that I had never worn a belt before and... I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO UNDO A BELT.

They say during grief you go through five different stages.
"But Ross, Nobody is going to die from you shitting yourself!"
Yeah? Well tell that to my favourite Thomas the Tank Engine pants.

Stage 1: Denial
I'm not going to poo poo myself my five year old brain told itself, If I just keep on trying, it's got to come loose. I began to panic as I clawed away at this strange device strapped to my waist, I began to feel claustrophobic as my little fingers tried to work out the mechanics that I believed not even a 7 year old could work out.

Stage 2: Anger
NO! I WILL NOT BE DEFEATED BY THIS. I CAN'T POO POO MYSELF AT EMILY'S PARTY! WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME MUM? WHY WOULD YOU PUT A BELT ON ME? TODAY OF ALL DAYS! THERE IS NO WAY THAT IS HAPPENING! I'M GOING TO SAVE YOU THOMAS! I'M GOING TO DO THIS FOR ALL THE TANK ENGINES!

Stage 3: Bargaining
I began to calm down, there must be another way I can get this off, I remember looking around for other options, perhaps I could cut it off? No, don't be silly, there are no scissors in a kids bathroom at a play area. I could ask Emily's Mum! But no, I'm way too shy and the embarrassment would kill me.

-Side Note. I should have just asked Emily's Mum.

Stage 4: Depression
My life is over, I'll never get invited to any parties again. I have hit the height of my popularity in life at age five. When the other kids find out about this nobody will want to be my friend. They will just call me Poo Poo boy and I'll sit in the corner at playtime and my best friend will be my teacher Mrs. Stansfield.

Stage 5: Acceptance
Well... I'm going to shit myself, might as well let it happen and just try to go unnoticed and back into the party.

There was something peaceful about that last stage, I still remember the moment I just let go and let it happen. Thomas would have been screaming but nobody would have heard, he was caked in shit.

We had about an hour of the party left at this point so I decided to do the only thing acceptable a young boy can do after he's shat his pants. I decided to completely forget about it and go back to the party. This is not an exaggeration, I genuinely forgot all about it. I carried on playing, I chased Lewis around, I threw some balls back at Sam. Take that Sam. I really can't be sure if people could smell it, or even had a clue, but I completely blocked it out of my memory.

Of course there was one thing that reminded me, the dreaded rolling pipe slide. If you can't remember what a rolling pipe slide is, or just didn't get invited to parties like me. Ha, you loser! This is what a rolling pipe slide looks like.

This is just a stock image, although these kids should be honoured they are in such a high prestige article such as this. Jammy Bastards.

Safe to say, by about the third roller, I was completely reminded of what had happened about 20 minutes earlier. I soon forgot again though and carried on until I was picked up by my family.

I still remember being in the back of my parents car, it was an old navy Renault Laguna, my Dad was driving, Mum in the passenger seat and my sister Tanisha was sat next to me. We had driven nearly all the way home before I again remembered my problem. I just casually said "Mum, I couldn't undo my belt at the party and I poo pooed myself". My sister said "ewwwww" and my Mum looked concerned, pretty sure I remember my Dad chuckling away.

We got back home, Mum undid the belt and unfortunately the war zone did include a casualty.

So there you have it, the time I shat myself. Nobody ever did find out about this however I have never forgotten about it, It was the first real time in my life that I remember feeling completely useless, I've had lots of times since then. It's a lesson that I will always have with me.

Thank's again for reading, I've been a bit slow with these lately but I really hope you still enjoy reading them. I don't think Emily fancies me anymore.

Here's some other Rosstitute posters by Charlotte Laura and Robyn.

And if you are brand new. Here's the links to my other blogs:
Remember the time I was taken to Court?
Remember the time I went on an unsuccessful date?
Remember the time I was on dating apps?
Remember the time I went to a Strip Club?
Remember the time I went to Europe's biggest Brothel?

Thanks!

€35 | Europe's Largest Brothel

I'm stood in Europe's Largest Brothel, drunk, alone and scared-

But before we get to that...

After my last blog I thought I had maxed out. I came to the realisation that I had peaked. Nothing in my life could be as funny and awkward to top that one night in the Strip Club. I couldn't give you guys what you want. I was done for. I'd have to resort to writing different blog topics like Ross' top 10 favourite chicken recipes... or, why Donald Trump's Mexico Wall is a brilliant name for a new Mexican fast food empire.

Well I was wrong. I've outdone myself.

Another Stunning Photoshop Job by the highly talented

Rob Gray

After years of being stingy and worried about money I have finally found myself in a situation where I typically (I'm probably going to spend a lot on Burritos from Donald Trump's Mexican Wall) earn more than I spend. This puts me in a position that when my friend says to me "Hey, for my 25th I want to go for a long weekend away to the capital of Germany. You want to come?" I can answer "Yes".


Of course we didn't go to Berlin, we went to Cologne. Turns out Adam isn't very good at geography. I ponder sometimes, that, if we had gone to Berlin, would things have been different? Probably not.


It's not like we were going on holiday, I suppose it was more of a weekend away to give our livers a battering and see if we had any luck with women who couldn't understand us sober as well as drunk. Two mad nights with friends that when put on paper make even the Inbetweeners look like a watershed version of reality.

I should have known that it wasn't going to end well from the offset. I was picked up by one of the group at 3.30am, something that didn't really phase me as I am used to early mornings. However, what did phase me was the moment he decided to do a handbrake turn round a mini roundabout in Hampton Hargate. I would have been impressed if we weren't in a Nissan Micra but somehow it felt less Tokyo Drift, more straight up Paul Walker.


We get to the airport, through security and its straight onward to spoons, obviously. I'm not sure what it is about British people and Wetherspoons, but we fucking love it don't we? It's cheap food, cheap booze and it's just, quite frankly, the go to place when you've hit your mid-life crisis and crave drinking Stella at 11am on a Wednesday. The airport is a bit different though, you're on holiday, the rules go out the window! What's that? you want a pint and a burger at 5.45am? you bloody well have one sunshine! You're about to fly inside a metal bird that could well kill you, have a Jägerbomb for good measure.


We have a pint or two before we realise we are late, the gate has opened and soon people are going to be boarding their metal coffin. We quickly rush out of the pub and jump on the train to the terminal. We make a plan that as soon as the doors open we will leg it up to the gate and if anyone's left behind then they should train cardio for the next trip, it's survival of the fittest from here on out, and I'm Bear Grylls. The doors open and we rush out, we fly up two sets of escalators to be greeted by nothing but shops. We sort of scratch our heads before a steward tells us that we shouldn't have got off on this stop, we came too early, so to speak. Panic ensues and we bundle ourselves into a lift to get back down to the train. It turns out that we had all run past this sign.

What a fucking nightmare.

Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that we did make the flight and boarded without any problems. I don't like the safety procedure at the beginning of a flight, this isn't Lost, if our plane crashes we aren't going to survive on a magical island where polar bears roam and everybody is an 8/10 or above. I mean, if we crash, then the very best thing that can happen to me is my dental records will be accidentally mixed up with the pretty German girls sat next to me. The most action I've had in a while.


We land in Cologne and rush out quickly to grab a taxi to our accommodation. The driver gets out and puts our luggage in the boot. Adam, Damon and Nat jump in the back whilst I walk round to the left to jump in the passenger seat... of course as soon as I got in and was greeted by a steering wheel to the face, I realised I was well and truly in Germany. The taxi man did not look impressed.


We turn up at the place we were staying and meet with the landlady to get keys and chuck our stuff into our rooms. We then head out into the vast, bustling, unknown city of Cologne. A buzz was flowing through the group as we entered the first pub, we tried beer after beer after beer before deciding to settle our stomachs with some local cuisine.


Four Big Macs and some hours later...


We start well and truly wetting our whistles, pre-drinks are a go. We of course are aware that we are in somebody's actual flat and are respectful of her possessions. We leave pretty gazebo'd and head to the club. In the club I was at the usual confident (foolish) drunk level where I could go up to girls I found pretty and not go completely weak at the knees, a condition I have had since watching chick flicks as a young teenager. What I liked most about German girls is that I couldn't understand them when they weren't interested so the familiar brutal sting of rejection was a lot less painful. Although, my friend Scott has since informed me that they were maybe just rating me a nine out of ten (something that sounds completely plausible).


As the night progressed me and another member of the group were separated from the other two in a heart-breaking turn of events which would make Jack and Rose from Titanic feel lucky that they got to hold on to each other in the icy North Atlantic Ocean. In true drunk fashion we decided not to bother looking for them but instead replace them with German counterparts. This was a mistake. We started chatting to these two lads, who we believed to be fine replacements for our missing members. They were okay, we chatted about football, girls and the never-ending existential crisis that I face every morning when I wake up.

I remember talking to one of the bastards and telling him about my blog (as I do, with everyone, because it's all I have) and him laughing over the Strip Club post. He informs me that there is a brilliant strip club in Cologne, its 12 storeys high, with everything you can possibly want. My mind begins to drift "hmmm perhaps this could be interesting, I mean, people loved the last blog, I might get even funnier stories that I can add". I ask him to give me the name and the address and say we will head there later. He tells me he can't come because his girlfriend will kill him so I grab my friend and we head off.


We jump in a taxi and show the driver the name and address. He looks at us with that knowing grin. He was probably thinking "Here we go, here's the lads". We head off...


There must be a scientific reason why alcohol makes you need to go to the toilet more often. It's true, I could quite easily enrol in a university course, spend £27,000 on 3 years education, go to lectures, write essays and get a degree. All to figure out exactly why my bladder puts me in a hostage situation of, "empty me in a urinal now or I'll make you wet yourself". However, in Layman's terms... It's just a bit of a prick. 


So needless to say, when the taxi arrived at the strip club, I was busting. I look at my friend and sluggishly say to him "Look, as soon as we get in there I need to find a toilet". No girls with daddy issues until this bladder is drained.


We scuttle in and I begin my long search for the toilet, I browse the bottom floor for any door that could lead me into the porcelain paradise, however I am left with nothing except disappointment and increasing stomach cramp. I head upstairs to the second floor where things looked a bit more interesting, A bar, a long corridor filled with girls on stools, can't seem to find the to-


A long corridor filled with girls on stools?!


This is when it clicked, this is when I realised that these German guys had pulled the greatest practical joke on me since my ex-girlfriend told me she loved me. I was in a brothel. Not just a brothel, but I later found out it is Europe's Largest Brothel. Desperate to get out of there I turned to find my friend, he is nowhere to be found. They've bloody got him I conclude, he's been taken, my friend has been taken! I don't have the particular set of skills needed to find him. I begin to panic. I'm stood in Europe's Largest Brothel, drunk, alone and scared-

*BUZZ*

My phone goes off. I look at the screen relived to see his name. It reads "WE WERE IN A BROTHEL ARGHHHHH. I've head back to hotel, where are you?". Thank god, I think to myself, Taken really went down hill after the first movie, I don't want to carry on Neeson's decaying legacy. I reply with, "Finding a toilet and I'll be back too, see you in a bit".


I scour the second floor, each step increasingly more painful. There is not a toilet in sight. This is when I made the worst decision of my life, I talked to a hooker...


Now, this isn't the first time a hooker has tried to gain my business, I often have to walk past one or two in Peterborough on my way home after a night out... they say "Want any business darling?" and I say "Not today m'lady, however I hope business is well for you and you have a profitable year" tip my hat and move on.


In Germany it went... a little differently.


"Hello, I don't suppose you have a toilet in your room that I can quickly use"
"..."
"A toilet? I just really need to use the toilet?"
"..."
"Okay then..."
I go to walk away and she grabs my arm and says "You pay"
"For the toilet?
She nods...


Now I need to reinforce how desperate I was for the toilet at this point. It felt like someone had stabbed me in the stomach and was twisting the knife around whilst also kicking me repeatedly in the balls. I HAD to go to the toilet. I HAD to agree to give her some money. (yes I paid a hooker, we can all have a good laugh at that).


I whip my wallet out and open it up, I think to myself "hmmm I mean, 2 Euros should be more than enough". She lunged... Now this all happened so fast, of course you are reading this so I advise you to take a deep breath and read the next bit as quickly as possible so you can understand my shock and horror.


Ross opens wallet.
Hookers hand dives in.
35 Euros in notes leaves Ross' wallet.
Hooker jumps off stool.
Hooker grabs poor defenceless idiotic Ross' arm.
Hooker drags Ross into room.
Hooker points towards entrance to her toilet.
Ross goes in.


As my bladder drained I had two emotions:

1. I feel absolutely amazing, this is what Vampires must feel like when they drain someone's blood, I feel younger, I feel fitter, I ache a whole lot less.


2. OH MY GOD, A HOOKER JUST STOLE 35 EUROS OFF OF ME.


Now thanks to my ghetto upbringing and my general knowledge of the "Streetz". I knew much better than to leave the toilet and argue with a prostitute to give me my money back. Although girls don't, I actually quite like my face and I would rather enjoy keeping it intact. I accept the fact that I have lost that money and I am never getting it back. My plan is to leave the toilet, thank the young woman, who, much like me, should really question her life choices and leave the establishment.


Why do things never work out the way I plan? I open the door to be greeted by her standing there, she grabs me by my shirt and throws me on the bed. Although this sounds quite funny, it was actually pretty horrifying and scary. I had successful avoided wetting my pants, now I was under immense pressure not to shit myself.


I tell her "No".
She replies "But you pay".
Again I say "I just needed the toilet".
She says "No, you pay, you get something".
The aggression from her voice immediately made me realise that she was having a slow night.
I once again say "No, look I don't want anything, I want to leave".
Again, she forcefully states "You pay! You get something!".

I knew that by "something", it probably wasn't going to be the deluxe box-set of extended Lord of the Rings and Hobbit movies. This prostitute couldn't give me anything I really wanted.

"What you want?".
"I'll take a cuddle" I squeal, like a frightened pig.


She doesn't even question it, she walks towards me and hugs me. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, it was probably the single most surreal moment of my life. It was like in Harry Potter when Voldemort hugs Draco.

She retracts from the hug and says to me "You go now".
I fucking dashed.


On my way back to the hotel I contemplated, how did this happen? I honestly thought that I would be collecting hilarious stories of me in a strip club, not being semi-mugged by a prostitute and then her hugging me after it! I began to worry, is this too much? Will people believe me? I've just entered a brothel and left with 35 euros less than I went in with. People are going to ask questions!
Of course, once I got back to the hotel, I was not believed. They called me Rosstitute for the rest of the weekend.


Thanks so much for reading, please give this a like and a share or just tell somebody about it if you really want to. I am always completely humbled by the response they get and I am so fortunate that you guys enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them. Maybe one day I will collate them all and release them as an E-book for all you posh bastards who read your Kindle on a train... Who Knows?

First time reader? Enjoy that? Check out my previous bad decisions

Remember the time my Ex's Dad took me to court?

Remember the time I went on an unsuccessful date?

Remember the time I was on Dating Apps?

Remember the time I went to a Strip Club?

Oh, by the way, it wasn't all bad, the woman sent Adam a lovely message about how we were respectful of her possessions...

So Respectful.