I've shortlisted the perpetrator to be either Luke Dorn or Kirk Dixon.

I will share with you a bit of home spun wisdom I discovered on dad and lad rugby tours long ago. ALWAYS pack a can of febreze or similar and in extremis a ball of string to tie to the door, so that you can find your way out through the fug.

This is what Southstander.com was made for.

Coach trip to Wembley story - Readers Digest condensed book version.

1971, Leeds RLFC (no bloody stupid animal names then) win the semi-final against, whoever, Monday evening after school me and two mates stand outside the ticket door (no office, just a door to get served through) and buy three cheap standing tickets for the final.

Get home and told me dad, he told me I couldn't go, showed him the ticket, he stared at it for a long time then asked how the bloody hell did I think I was going to get to Wembley, me being 14 at the time and all.

He finally pulled some strings (my uncle worked at Headingley) and got us three tickets on the supporters club bus.

We turned up at some outrageous early time on the Saturday, like about 4am, no-one else left Leeds as early as we did that day and from the minute we boarded the bus it was obvious to the three of us that we were the youngest passengers, or driver, by a score of at least 60 years - and the bus was even older.

Mr Daimler probably hand made our bus himself and it soon became obvious why we had left so early, actually it would have been more reasonable to have left on Friday, or even Thursday, top speed on the newly built M1 motorway was nudging 30mph and the whole bus shivered like a eing dog at those incredulous speeds, the noise from the engine was deafening and the old codgers spoke in sign language and lip reading like the women in wool spinning factories do.

A card was passed around the bus advising us on what to do in case of zeppelin attacks and the old codger sat next to me took great delight in showing me the 2oz of boiled sweets he'd managed to buy from a spiv on a street corner, for eight hours we chugged down the M1 stopping at every single service station for the old lads to take a prolonged leak or to empty their bags depending on how far in the grave their left foot was, all wore long grey overcoats that smelled like wet dogs and flat caps that had once been any other colour other than the greasy black that they were now.

Our bus had a reserved parking slot in the coach car park at Wembley, it was a slot reserved for vintage buses and all of the other coach drivers came over to look at it and reminisce, we didn't realise we were part of a museum exhibit, the bus and most of the old lads being the exhibits - we were told to be back at the bus no more than ten minutes after the final whistle because it was going to take bloody ages to get home and the driver wanted to get a head start on all the fancy new coaches, he needn't have bothered for they all overtook us on the North Circular minutes after leaving the stadium.

Miraculously we arrived home the same weekend, my dad and my uncle had granted themselves a lock-in in the players bar and so were well p1ssed by the time we parked up in the southstand car park, the drive home in our Vauxhall Viva was made almost all the way home on the correct side of the road and with not too many red lights jumped, my dads number plate was on the "He's ok" chief constables list since he too was a member of the players bar lock-in club.

I've been back since, but never on a bus.

Quality , I actually did laugh out loud whilst reading this .

I was on a rhinos coach to the Stoop once . I had Been out for a few jars and a curry the previous night . I slept most of the way down to London on the coach , so missed the service break .
Now you know that feeling that you get when you wake up and you just know that it isn't the turtles head that is touching cloth , but it is going to result in your undercrackers looking like a horse has just sneezed spag bol into them . Well that was the feeling I had ... Only worse , and the coach had no toilet .
Anyways .. The coach stopped in traffic , I got off it (fortunately we were in London by this time ,but I really wouldn't have cared if it had been on the M1 , I had to get off ) and kind of crab-walked/minced into the nearest pub .
I found the toilets , and after what seemed like an eternity managed to get myself pointing in the general direction of the pot .
AAaaaaahhhh... The relief .

I barely hit the pot .

Looking back now I really feel sorry for whoever had to clean that mess up . It looked like the cistern and surrounding area had been pebbledashed with watery peanut butter , and it didn't smell too nice .

On the subject of toilets on away trips . Does anyone know which pub it is near a ground that has vegetation growing in through the airbricks in the toilet walls ? I have been it it a couple of times . Can't for the life of me think where it is though .

i once got an attack of severe diarrhea whilst stood in the south stand for a bulls game. i raced to the loo and just made it. what a mess. i reached for the paper and none. bollox.
had to use my boxers and left them behind the cistern for the poor cleaner to find next day

Slightly off-topic . A mate showed me a video clip of some random young lady doing the 'ice-bucket challenge' thing today .
The young lady sat on a chair , and had a milk-churn full of icey water tipped over her . .
If I can find the video footage I will post a link .

Having made the same journey I can picture this very vividly in my mind Actually, I realised by the end of my trip to Japan that the toilets there certainly are built to withstand an onslaught from a Yorkshireman. I lost count of the amount of times I 'broke' the khazi there.

Share your poo stories.....

Classic Southstander

jesus

On a related theme, I was on a works night out, about 20 years ago, and we'd had a meal at Biotro Fiore, which used to be opposite WH Smiths. We finished with chocolate fudge cake. The night continued, firstly in the pub, then at the nightclub 'Madison's'. We were classy, like. Anyway, after dancing a bit too hard, I had to rush to the toliet cubicle and I threw up everywhere. On the walls, all over the bowl, on the floor, everywhere. For the most part, it was the rements of the chocolate fudge cake. I wanted to leave a sign for the poor cleaner explaining it wasn't poo. Instead I got the hell out of there.

This thread is just .