Beware the warning on sugar free mints!

It began just as I crossed the Dartford bridge.

As I was on my way home after a day working in London. I had just pulled into the outside lane, when I got "that feeling". It's kinda hard to describe it, but it's the one that tells you that you've got one brewing, you're baking a brownie, or in layman's terms, you're gonna need a dump in the near future.

I was about 40 miles from home. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest, this was a level 1 alert. Just a mild little "stirring" if you like.

"I'll be OK until I get home" I remember thinking.

Oh dear.......

Another mile past, the alert went to level 2. Another mile, level 3.

"Well, I should still be OK until I get home".

Another mile, the alert level jumped to a 6.

"Right then" I thought, "It looks like I'll be stopping at "Clacket Lane Services".

And then, all hell broke loose. The alert level went off the scale in about 20 seconds.

My grip increased on the steering wheel. Every single muscle in my body tensed. My left leg was dead straight, pushing my foot into the floor of the car. My accelerator foot was trying to do the same. Only the thought of getting stopped by the police and having to explain my "predicament" kept me from flooring it.

I was gritting my teeth to the point of breaking them. My eyes were bulging. My face was red, and I was sweating. A lot. I was in BIG trouble.

I eyed the hard shoulder, contemplating a roadside "deposit". It would be a last resort. I was unable to find a suitable spot. And anyway, there are cameras everywhere on the M25. And the thought of my bare arse appearing on one of those 'motorway camera' programs puts me off.

Then, I start to get surges.

I'm guessing it's kinda like having contractions. Only worse. Most of the time, I am just agonizing. But every couple of minutes, I get a real feeling akin to someone blowing up a HUGE bouncy castle with in my stomach. And then all the kids have a bloody good bounce.

I then pass the sign. Services 10 miles.

10 MILES! 10 BLOODY MILES! I'M NEVER EVER EVER GONNA MAKE THAT!

I contemplate the outcome.

"Well, I'll need a new suit for starters". "And the car seat is REALLY gonna take some cleaning!" "And what happens immediately after the event?" "Do I just carry on driving?"

All questions you wouldn't normally ask yourself.

I start to count down the miles.

9......8......7......6.....

And the traffic is getting heavier.

People pull out in front of me.

Someone out there REALLY wants me to shit myself!

The surges are now about every mile. It takes ALL of my physical and mental strength to not give in.

And part of me soooooo wants to give in. Let it happen. Just relax.

4......3......2......1......

As I pass the mile to go marker, I start to hope.

The distraction is almost fatal for my underwear.

By now, I am gripping the steering wheel so damn tightly, I'm leaving finger nail marks in it. I have the look of a deranged lunatic. Other motorists look at me, and decide to give a me a wide berth.

300 yard marker......200 yards......100 yards......

SOOOOOOOOO CLOSE!

I veer wildly onto the slip road.

Some dawdling arse in a BMW pulls across late, right in front of me, and slows to about 1 mile an hour.

"GET OUT OF THE EFFING WAY" I scream. He's oblivious. The git!

We round the bend, bumper to bumper.

He slows further, unsure of where to go.

Why do they ALWAYS drive BMW's?

He drives past the coach entrance.

I don't.

I will happily pay the £100 parking fine. Just as long as I get to the toilet in time.

I screech to a halt, prise my fingers off the steering wheel, and turn the engine off.

Another surge.

The strongest one yet.

I re-grip the steering wheel, and brace myself. I'm so close. Soooooo close. But I can't get out of the car!

AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

At last, it subsides. It's now or never. I get out. And go for it.

I try to run, but stop because I feel I have less 'control'. I physically push my butt cheeks together with my hands to aid retention.


I am walking like a penguin, with a cheek in each hand through the middle of a busy motorway services. I try not to notice the stares and the finger pointing.

If I have a surge now, it's game over for sure. And a more public place for it to happen I can't imagine.

I somehow make it to the gents. I push at the cubicle doors until one opens, rush inside, and lock the door.

I tear at my belt, eventually getting it undone, pull everything down and begin to sit.......

Technically, I dump standing up. Because by the time my butt hits the seat, I have finished. It's all over in under 2 seconds. But it IS all over. I slump on the seat, with my head resting against the cubicle wall. It's a full 10 minutes before I even think about leaving.

Good thinking time.

What the hell caused this? It soon dawns on me. I've over done the sugar free mints.
It warns you on the packet of the consequences of ' excessive consumption'.

What it fails to tell you, is how many is excessive?

P.T.F.O.