S**T: My First Ever Job Was Assembling Portable Toilets.

By Roy Dainty

Five student civil engineers, including author Roy Dainty, find themselves caught up in a series of outrageous capers. No students have ever been more challenged by events than these featured in S**T. They fall in it, get covered in it, and cause it. Events kick off with Roy breaking into the sewers of Southampton before all five return to university in London, only to be sent off to geology and surveying field courses in Swaledale and Folkestone where havoc reins. Trying to make love on a collapsible campbed, being attacked by bullocks, becoming lost in a snowstorm, taking on the army, peeing off a church tower oops the gravedigger is passing beneath - and driving into a water meadow; these are some of the less chaotic events.
S**T is a true autobiographical story, though you wont believe it, that captures the hilarious events of early 1973. Drunkenness and debauchery, danger and dalliance. S**T includes it all. Only forty years on is it safe to tell these truths about life as student civil engineers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481796224

Roy Dainty

Roy Dainty grew up in Stourbridge, Worcestershire, where he attended King Edward VI Grammar School. At age seventeen, the careers master advised him, “Your choices are computing or electronics.” He chose civil engineering, obtaining sponsorship from George Wimpey Ltd., then the world’s largest civil engineering company, which enrolled him in a five-year sandwich degree at the City University, London. By the time he was twenty-one, he’d been nearly blown up on site and had experienced flying off the side of a mountain in a wingless Land Rover. “Nul points” for the spectacular thirty-foot dive with a one-and-a-half sideways roll. Civil engineering was proving too dangerous a career. Via the civil service, he moved into IT consultancy and management in the eighties. In 2008, he returned to City University where he was appointed honorary visiting professor in ICT for its MSc in construction management. Catch up with the author at www.RoyDainty.com Note: The above biography uses the same text as on my novel, S**T.

Book preview

IN THE SHIT

Shit, gallon upon gallon of the disgusting stuff. Not the single private turd that might be peered at in wonderment and personal satisfaction. Not even the daily bucketful ready to be emptied from a portable Elsan but thousands of gallons of raw human excrement, acidic-brown liquid shit, flying past at over 20 miles an hour. Gallons of shit with occasional fins of unidentifiable glutinously coated objects that project briefly through the turbulent surface before submerging again beneath its ever-rushing torrent, all flying along with single purpose and single direction like sharks to the kill. Shit without flies, nothing live crawls here, or at least not yet!

Mesmerised by the site of so much shit, compelled by our own curiosity, we stare down toward this liquid turdulence. We continue to stare not knowing what changes might appear on this conveyor belt of waste, certainly no cuddly toys. The hairs in my nostrils don’t filter out the stench. They trap it. An over bombardment of pungency attacks my olfactory senses. The initial repulsion peaks through the overwhelming and continuous bombardment of stench, the stench of human waste in abundance and funnelled confinement. A stench which increased gradually as it was opened to the air, a cold still damp air preventing its rapid escape, restraining the pungency, concentrating it about us. No wind to disperse it or take it away. The emerging fog of stench taking each of us captive as its tentacles reach out to enclose where we stand. It pulls and we peer down, standing as close as we dare and as needs dictate, some closer than others. Like volcano watchers, we stand at the very precipice awaiting the next eruption of hot gas hissing up and engulfing us. Don’t breathe, don’t look down, don’t get any closer. We know that we should go no closer, sense suggests we should withdraw. The smell stabilises becoming a little sweeter. Our utter fascination overcomes both fear and repugnancy. Human excrement, heavy with iron, we are as magnets drawn ever closer to it. We inch forward as near as is safe; or so we think! Still no sign of life.

Every sense is overtaken by the bewilderment of what is only inches away. All eyes are focussed downward at this excess of shit. The smell is all pervading, vapour no longer just clinging to nostril hairs. I sense droplets forming and need to blow my nose. No, that will open up my nasal passages. Let my body take its own defensive course in shutting down my sense of smell.

The scene is set. I am a mere onlooker as are all of us but one. The labourer with his shovel, stands there, hands resting down on its handle, using the instrument as a brace to prevent him falling forwards and into the raw sewage. Most of us are wearing black donkey jackets. We stand in a near circle, all looking inwards, our heads bowed downwards as we stare into the fetid hole that demands our undivided attention. To onlookers on a passing bus we must appear as mourners standing around and staring down into a newly dug grave. We are not and this is not a grave. We may have solemn looks but this is no funeral. There is no clergyman reading over this hole. The only similarity is that nothing lives where we stare. Nothing is to be lowered into this pit although ropes are to hand. Certainly nothing should be dropped in. Hopefully, nothing will fall in. Hopefully, no one will fall in. Well, at least not me.

We are men on a mission. This is a main sewer into Southampton, a four foot diameter pipe running several miles in length with arteries feeding into it, ever expanding its continuous flow. Numerous veins feeding into each artery. Thousands of household loos, businesses, factories, pubs all making their daily deposits. We behold the results for we have just broken into the pipe; broken in quite deliberately, an intended break going boldly where… . This is the first time the insides of this section of pipe has seen daylight since it was first laid, probably over twenty years ago. It has borne the whole excrement of its catchment area for all of these years. What tales might it tell were it able to speak? What might it be like further inside as we increasingly open up this hole into the pipe and into our private hell? Apart from it being my job to supervise the work, all of us are enraptured by the prospect of what is to come. We are all utterly riveted by the task in hand. How many people have ever seen shit in such volume? Not many, and certainly not many twenty-one year olds. I could sell viewing tickets but that would not do. I am a junior civil engineer and, as site engineer, have the task of planning this archaeological dig, this opening of the treasures of Eastleigh.

Standing astride the pipe, having gently tapped away at it for a couple of minutes with a baby, only seven pounds of steel, sledgehammer, Trevor has at last broken through. How come Trevor and not someone else? Unfortunately for him, he won the honour of breaking through. A task no one wanted but one for which a £5 bonus was promised. That would suffice him for a good night’s drinking. Still, even with such bounty on offer, no one had wanted the task and straws had had to be drawn amongst the half dozen labourers. Well, in fact, cards were drawn. The steel erectors and brickies had avoided being included. Skilled labour was also excluded, besides which these were in short supply and being paid more could afford to avoid the forthcoming conscription. This was a task for labourers only; in fact only one was required. The Site Manager, Chris, conducted the draw, a deck of cards fanned out in his hands. Each labourer drew a card in turn. Lowest would get the job. A seven of hearts, a queen, a ten. Smiles, concern, their faces changed as each card was drawn and a likely loser began to emerge. One card left to be drawn; Trevor the last to draw. He moved his fingers across the remaining cards. Which one to choose? He drew. He held the card momentarily before turning it towards him so that he would be first to see its value. No smile. He whipped his arm away in anger throwing the card to the floor. It landed face up. The other labourers, his work mates, smiled then laughed in relief. Fate had not smiled on Trevor. Turn on a brave face and think about what a fiver might buy, nearly twenty pints of ale. Cheer up Trevor, be grateful you don’t have to actually stand in the flow. He had drawn the three of spades but would only require one for this job.

Trevor, nor for that matter any of us, had ever performed such a task. We knew that it would not be without its dangers and had accordingly prepared the task and, more importantly, him. Only the day before I had had an inspection cover opened further along the sewer. The shit was deep and very fast moving. And, it wasn’t even rush hour. Our task had to be taken very seriously. Even protected by waders it would be too dangerous to stand within the pipe. The force of the moving shit would drag a grown man in and along, potentially never to be seen again, the acid burning away all flesh and organs until only a browned skeleton remained. Straddling the pipe would be fine until the required hole became too wide. For his own safety and sanity, and to protect the company on Health and Safety grounds, Trevor was now tethered around the waist with a length of old rope; just long enough to allow him to do his task and not let him fall fully in. We hadn’t a means of testing the rope but trusted to it being able to take his weight should he slip into the torrent. Its other end had been tied off on iron railings which, running parallel to the road, fenced off what had been the old playing fields, now the building site for the new sports complex. The sewer ran parallel with the road and pedestrian pathway, four foot beneath the grass verge that separated the two. So, we had not had to dig up the road, only a small portion of verge. Having already laid the sewer outlet from the emerging sports complex, we’d dug this last portion of trench and taken the pipe to the edge of the sewer. We now had to complete the job by linking it into the mains sewer.

Chris was only a year older than me. We’d got to know each other well and had become good friends, going off together lady hunting in Southampton’s many discos and other haunts. Recently I’d moved from my local digs. I’d had no choice, the house I’d been staying in was to be compulsory demolished for road widening. Fortunately, with someone having left, I had been able to move into the house that Chris shared with two other Wimpey guys. A lot more fun. Away from work Chris was a really good guy but at work, for whatever reason, he could on occasion prove quite the opposite. In fact, at times he could be an absolute sod, especially to the seasoned labourers. He would sometimes have them do work that was unnecessary. Worse still, he often docked their due bonuses. They hated him for there was nothing they could about the situation. He was boss and could sack any of them at whim. With plenty of labourer unemployment in the building trade they had to put up and suffer. I was never quite sure whether it was Chris’s personal trait to abuse the situation or whether it was as a directive or emulation of his own boss, the Area Manager who was a real sod; a piece of shit stained turf. I tended towards it being more by directive and fear of the Area Manager. A seasoned manager even more notorious for holding back bonuses and, it was rumoured, making a buck for himself on the side. In any event, Chris saw this approach as a means to climbing the first rungs of the management ladder. That, and plenty of hard work. As a civil engineer, it didn’t bother me for I was already on the ladder and with a profession. I could stand outside of this situation and remain on good footing with both sides, sometimes conciliating the factions. Would Trevor see the promised bonus for this piece of work? I hoped and believed so. There had been too many witnesses to the promise for Chris to renege on it. However, it did not mean it had not already been more than robbed from him in underpaid bonuses.

The weather had not been very good for it was mid-winter and what could we expect from a January’s day? We couldn’t put off breaking into the main sewer without holding up other work on the site. Fortunately, whilst very cold, the chosen day at least proved dry. The sky was its usual drab grey, total and featureless cloud cover, making parts of our site look more than ever like the Somme. Trenches, muddy puddles, bits of steel sticking up at awkward angles, no greenery, odd tree stumps still to be fully removed, a single empty boot half submerged in mud as if the last silent remains of a past soldier. At least outside the site, the grass of the verge, including that around our newly dug hole, remained reasonably green. Unfortunately, being green it remained wet and slippery to the rubber soles of our wellie boots. The night’s overnight frost had melted away, removing its temporary whiteness, replacing it with a slippy damp from the typical winter’s morning ground mist.

Having lain all of the foul drainage for the sports complex, we were now about to connect it into this adjacent main sewer. I had had to confirm the designs for this work. According to the plans, the sewer would be a four foot diameter pipe, probably cast in concrete. We’d already nicknamed it the ‘Express Shitway’. The job involved constructing an inspection box, or manhole, around the existing pipe to take the outflow from the sports centre. In essence, a new junction. First a hole would be dug around the pipe, no problem getting a volunteer to do that. Then we would build a concrete and brick surround incorporating our own outflow, before finally smashing through and into the sewer. We would come in at a slight angle, sideways and downward, such that both flows would be omni-directional. To do otherwise could cause the entire flow to back up, eventually regurgitating through the new toilets. We needed to ensure the breakthrough hole into the sewer was clean edged so that no loose or ragged edges might later break away and block the torrent. The work could then be concluded, the inspection box capped by a new manhole cover over which a foot or so of soil and grass would be placed.

As Site Engineer, I had had the work begun two weeks beforehand. A JCB digger had dug a trench from the site through to near the sewer, cutting through the existing pathway with no more difficulty than cutting through the adjacent ground, all so that the last of the site’s piping could be positioned. The trench was then backfilled and pathway made good. Unfortunately, the JCB had insufficient finesse for the hole above the sewer, especially in what was likely to be frozen ground. The shock of its shovel digging into the ground could quite easily fracture the sewer. Only one answer, this hole had to be dug by hand, a large hole, about five foot square, so exposing the sewer pipe, the top of which lay nearly four feet beneath ground level. No problem in assigning this task for it was safe and relatively clean. Just hard toil, sufficient to keep anyone warm. Once down at the pipe, careful digging would take place around and beneath it. Fortunately, with frozen soil, the sides of the hole remained near vertical as the hole deepened. At this depth and with such ground conditions I decided there was no need to shore the sides for the entire depth. Instead, I would shore only the bottom twelve inches so that the planking would also act as formwork when concreting the bottom of the hole.

I expected some slippage of soil and gravel into the hole but reasoned this would be minimal. The hole was dry, not suffering from water seepage. A month earlier the reverse would have been true. The hole would have become an instantaneous well. That problem had been discovered and consequently we had already de-watered the site, lowering the water table by several feet. Before this, we only had to dig down to around three foot to find water. No sooner was a hole dug than it filled so making dewatering absolutely essential to digging our foundation trenches, for what was to be a near Olympic size swimming pool and then this, the last of our holes. Our site sat on an ancient flood plain with little surface soil sitting above deep deposits of gravel and the occasional pockets of white clay. These sub surface gravel deposits were full of water; any sand had long since been washed through leaving the voids as cold, clear water. We’d first encountered this problem when digging out the swimming pool. We had expected a deep dry hole not, as it turned out, one filled with water, well at least not until the pool had been built. Hitting solid water meant that we had to bring in dewatering plant. This had put us nearly two months behind schedule. However, and at last, we had lowered the water table in all necessary areas and could continue excavating. Our newly dug sewer hole was dry and, therefore, we trusted stable. We had not needed to shore the sides. This was part of the reason for performing the task now. Soon the dewatering plant would be removed making digging such future holes near impossible. All the same, I’d warned everyone to be careful. No one was to stand too close to the hole lest under our weight an edge gave way and someone fell into the hole or, once opened, into the raging sewer.

Gravel is notoriously unstable when dug; almost screed-like. Any weight could destabilise the sides of the hole. The water that did remain by virtue of capillary action was now frozen and helped the stability, being natural glue between the pebbles of gravel. At night the hole would be roped off and lanterns positioned around to warn any wayward pedestrians of the danger, or more likely a dog owner taking Rover for his constitutional. Now that would have been retaliation on a grand scale. No amount of dog-litter bags could have coped with what was flowing through that pipe. Nor would any owner be foolish enough to plunge in to rescue their endangered pet; well we would like to think that but fools and their dogs are not so easily parted.

Digging to a foot beneath the pipe, or as we referred to it, its invert, the labourers had placed two layers of welded meshing across the floor of the hole before pouring a bed of concrete to a depth of half way up the pipe. This concrete would support the weight of the pipe and act as the foundation for the brick walling of the junction. Two days later, with the concrete sufficiently firm, they had begun the brickwork, rendering it on the inside. Breaking into the pipe would have to wait five days until the concrete and mortars went sufficiently off to take the pressures that would be exerted. The brickwork stopped about two feet beneath surface level, in readiness for fitting a solid cast iron rim and cover. The hole above it held reasonably fast though it had started to become a little treacherous. The grass remaining around the top had become ever more greasy and, now exposed to the air, the soil had begun to thaw. Small particles of soil and gravel trickled downwards whenever anyone stood near.

For those who don’t know, you cannot simply break into a mains sewer pipe. Permissions are required and formal inspections have to be undertaken. Before laying the foundation concrete, a check had been made to ensure we would be providing sufficient support to what would become this new junction in the pipe. Breaking into it also required the presence of the local council’s Clerk of Works. It was his job to check that in breaking into the pipe we didn’t block it with broken concrete or falling soil, and that we left a clean hole into which we would locate the outfall pipe from our site. Also, to ensure we did not cause the shit to back up and flood local residents, now or sometime in the future. That there weren’t any residents for two hundred yards didn’t matter. The first signs of any backing up would be within the sports complex itself, its toilets being only fifty yards away. That was not too much of a worry to us. What was, would be the fact that for the next several months to come, any backing up would flood our site. Forget what the Clerk wanted. We didn’t want shit on site. Ours was a vested interest to do the job right first time.

The afternoon to break in came, the last week of January 1973, dry and no snow. All was ready. As was his habit, the Clerk was late in arriving such that by the time he eventually arrived, Chris, myself, Barry the foreman and several other labourers were all waiting around the hole, keen to get on with the day’s main task. Even wearing our standard issue donkey jackets we still shivered in the cold. Waiting for the Clerk to arrive so that he might begin his work, Trevor was primed and ready, resting on his trusty shovel, his seven pound sledgehammer alongside him ready to be wielded against the pipe. We’d decided that a fourteen pounder might do too much damage; something we needed to avoid. Knowing the work might prove messy, Chris had at least shown some decency. He’d given Trevor the money to buy a pair of rubber gloves. Yes, he had asked for a receipt and for the leftover change. And so, with the arrival of the Clerk, the task could begin. As in summer and autumn, this very dapper gent of the ‘old school’ wore his trusty sports jacket over crisp white shirt and linen tie. A blue paisley patterned silk handkerchief peeked out of the jacket’s breast pocket. No overcoat or donkey jacket for him. He was within months of retirement but looked much older than his years. Maybe he was and his employers had simply forgotten to retire him. Very slight of frame, sharp featured with sunken eyes, small hands with spindly fingers, his trusty trilby hiding his baldness, white wiry hair sprouting from beneath its sides, matched by equally wiry and white eyebrows. His protruding thin nose and disproportionately large, old man, ears now appeared red against the white of his hair, becoming ever redder in the cold. With no overcoat, he wouldn’t want to hang around for longer than necessary. So, time to tether Trevor to the railings by his rope leash. No one, least of all himself, wanted him slipping into the turdulent rage. He looked so pretty, black rubber waders, yellow Wimpey oilskin jacket over an old mud spattered donkey jacket, his trademark red and white Southampton scarf and matching pom-pom, both probably ripped from a Saints supporter, and yes, we couldn’t believe it either, Marigold gloves. No photographs please. He hadn’t been bothered to look for industrial gloves, instead visiting the local Woolworth and buying the only pair that fit his hands. A pair of bright pink rubber Marigold gloves.

Trevor wanted this job over and done. The sooner finished, the sooner he could get cleaned up and get his fiver. The Clerk approached the hole. As he stepped forward and peered in, some soil and fine gravel trickled downwards from beneath his feet but nothing to worry about. Or, at least, not yet! The now well-trodden grass and frozen gravel was still holding firm. He would not fall in. He nodded, giving me the go ahead. I gave the order.

‘Go to it Trev. Time to knock the shit out of the pipe!’

Trevor, as best he could in his stiff oilskin over-clothing, picked up and swung the sledgehammer. No finesse, just crash, bang, wallop. Arcs of pink as his gloved hands swung the hammer. Occasional sparks flew from its head as the steel hit the concrete. The rest of us watched on, not wanting to get any back splash when he broke through. Feet were getting cold and some stamped to bring life back into the toes, causing a little more gravel to shift.

The work went well. Cracks soon began to appear in the concrete. We crowded closer, just inches from the edge of the hole. A little soil and gravel dislodged from beneath my feet and tumbled into the hole. It rattled against the pipe. It woke us all to the potential danger. I checked the ground on which I stood, not wanting to follow the gravel into the hole. I saw others doing likewise. ‘Be careful.’

Trevor attacked another part of the pipe, causing the cracks to grow in length. Having created sufficient cracking, it was time for finesse. But before doing so, he pulled up his scarf, ensuring it covered his mouth and nose. Changing to chisel and club hammer he began prising out small chunks, then ever larger chunks, of concrete. He did so carefully, with very little falling into the sewer. Like a jigsaw in reverse, one piece at a time. Removing each by hand, placing the pieces in an old bucket for later removal.

God, the stench. It hit us in nauseous waves from the moment Trevor broke through into the sewer. It grew in its clawing power as the size of the hole increased. Trevor’s movements dispersed the fine vapours that began to appear, hot vapid air hitting the colder air outside and rising immediately to engulf we onlookers. He had to take out a top section of pipe about three foot long, so leaving an access hole of three feet by four. A concrete cutter may have proved cleaner but we had no such mechanical aid. Human graft only on this one.

I’ve never seen so much shit in my life. Nearly two foot deep, it flew past at fantastic speed, roaring as it did. As Trevor removed bits of pipe, piece by piece. I could see that the inner walls of the pipe were slimed brown-grey and oily, the flow of shit passing by being an orangey-grey mixture and extremely acidic looking. We were mesmerised by it. No hard lumps just liquid diarrhoea and floating fins. We should not have done so but, standing as we were at ground level, we each got ever closer to the edge of the hole. The toecaps of some wellington boots had begun to extend beyond the edge; the brave fools. Trevor toiled three feet below us. Beneath my feet more trickles of soil and gravel tumbled into the hole. I edged back slightly. Lose concentration and I could fall in. Not something I wanted to do out of choice or carelessness. Wimpey didn’t pay me enough for that, nor for that matter much at all as an indentured engineer.

A few seconds more and I stepped back a little further to avoid the continuous blast of stench and with it the acrid taste that by now had collected in my nostrils and throat. God it was awful. Worse than a thousand real ale farts rolled into one. A blast from Hell. I tightened my scarf across my mouth and nose to minimise the pervading stench. Not so Chris. He was a man and, as ever, needed to prove himself. Chatting away to the Clerk of Works, he must have taken in lungfuls of the increasing mist. Leaning slightly forwards, he was peering right down into the sewer. The Clerk, standing across from him, remained motionless watching the work progress. He’d removed the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and now held this fragile item across his mouth and nose.

The work went well. Trevor had performed the job to everyone’s satisfaction, taking about ten minutes in total. Satisfied, the Clerk pronounced the hole into the pipe adequate and acceptable. Our new pipe now had a clean entry point into the old sewer system. Trevor could come out. He turned his back to the hole and torrent, passing his bucket and tools up to Barry who, in taking them from Trevor, had taken a pace forward causing more gravel to fall into the hole. The stability of the sides was now becoming questionable but we had pretty well finished. With nothing remaining but himself, Trevor began his clamber out of the hole, up the sides of this Quatermass pit. Although using the rope to assist his exit, his footholds caused more soil and gravel to break away as he clambered his way out. As required, I remained at the edge, peering down into the river of shit. Beneath my feet, the effect of Trevor getting out caused more soil to break away from around the top of the hole. It peppered down behind the new brickwork. I shouldn’t have remained so close to this now crumbling edge. I knew the risks… .

Trevor clambered out just inches away from me. As he did so, the rope pulled tight against my calf. More soil fell in. I moved to my right to avoid being pulled in.

All appeared done. Time to depart. The close up work could commence. The fun was over. A thankful relief that no one had fallen in.

‘Close it up and make good,’ I pronounced, ‘Well done, Trev.’

I began to turn away. As I did so, a silent, ‘No!’ went through my brain. I sensed the edge of the hole begin to give way. Gravel and soil cascaded down, the rubber sole of my wellington boot slipped against the surface grass. I made to back away.

‘Help!’ A stretched out and high-pitched shout of abject terror broke the tranquillity.

Adrenalin surged through me. Everything went into slow motion. My senses were alert to everything yet I was unable to do anything. The inevitable was happening. Down, down and into… . into the shit. There was nothing I could do to prevent the fall; I was helpless to it.

As I’d begun to turn away, I’d caught a frantic movement from out the side of one eye. The shout of abject terror coincided. I became momentarily mesmerised. I was still standing there but not so Chris. His arms shot up above his head, his hands clutched at nothing but thin air. In seemed slow motion, it was almost as if he’d caught the air. As his hands shot upwards they appeared to remain almost at a constant level as if proving sky hooks actually exist. His body and extending arms did not. They were going in opposite directions. His arms up, his body down. As he clutched at nothing, the rest of him descended wellingtons first down and into the gaping hole. The torrent of shit beckoned the arrival of its tribute victim. A hellish scream left his mouth. Down into the hole, not just down into the hole but straight into the open raging sewer. As he hit, the shit splashed upwards, his wellingtons displacing the torrid liquid, creating numerous upward projectiles, a fountain of shit rising up and around him. It was not a clean entry, no style or difficulty marks for this dive. Far too much splash back. He was coated and floundering. I looked on unable to say or do anything, totally helpless.

This was not a swimming pool into which a lifeguard would dive in without risk to self to save a floundering soul. This was raging shit. Bravery was out of the question. What to do? I hesitated in helplessness. I was safe, having stepped back from the hole. Chris, initially upright, was now falling backwards, his feet being drawn forward with the current of shit. He would be dragged in and along, never to be seen again.

Barry, reacting at superhuman speed, jumped down into the hole, his feet landing astride the brick surround. As he did so, he stooped low, grabbing Chris beneath the armpits just as Chris began to fall further backwards, the force of the torrent taking his legs from beneath him. Barry to the rescue with not a moment to spare. He braced his legs on the brickwork and began heaving Chris out of the shitty predicament before the flow could carry him away. Without such heroic intervention Chris would have been a goner and this would have been his grave. He’d have been sucked along with the shit, so powerful was the flow. Embalmed worse than the ancient peoples of Pompeii. Instead, he’d escaped with nothing more than a chocolate coating.

I watched in awe. Barry had taken Chris’s full weight, some fourteen stone of it. Fortunately, he was somewhat bigger himself so proving himself more than capable of extracting Chris. Any of us others would have failed miserably. With his arms around and gloved hands grasped across Chris’s chest, Barry hauled away. Chris’s legs held fast in the flow for a second or two. Then, the oozing shit belched as its suction released its prisoner. Chris’s face was ashen. The rest of him was in sharp, grey oozy contrast. Chris, released from the suction, plonked his feet outside the pipe. Barry released his grip on Chris and as quickly as he’d gone into the hole made his own way up and out; out of harm’s way. Saved from his impending fate, Chris now slimed his way out of the hole without further assistance. No one offered it. We just looked on. Chris was livid, swearing someone had given him a deliberate shove. Our hands pushed outward, palms facing forward in denial, all of us onlookers silently denying having pushed him. Had the rope caught his leg, causing him to slip forward, had the ground beneath his feet given way, had Trevor given him a nudge as he himself clambered out, or had Dave who stood to Chris’s other side given him a nudge as he turned away? Had one of the other labourers given him a nudge? Might the Clerk of Works have done it? Surely not. Who could have perpetrated such a deed? Or was it simply an accident, the ground having given way beneath his feet? As Site Engineer, I had stood next to the Clerk of Works. Although across and opposite from Chris, I hadn’t seen anything until Chris was already on his way down. As he clambered out, the Clerk and I turned away, catching each other’s eye. We creased over in silent laughter. Had he seen the event in full? What a tale to tell when he got back to the civic offices. No one really knew quite how it had happened or, at least if anyone did, no one owned up to seeing what had caused Chris’s tumble. The cause had become someone’s personal secret. One second Chris had been on solid ground, the next he wasn’t. He was in the shit.

Now, still only a few feet away from the hole, Chris turned around in accusatory manner looking directly into the face of each of us onlookers, pointing at each in turn.

‘You bastards! You bloody bastards!’

As he did so, I couldn’t help myself, I began laughing aloud. The others followed my unintentional lead until we were all pointing and laughing at him, bending to and fro in our mutual mirth, or was it relief, shouting shitty comments at Chris. Against our laughter, Chris’s initial pallor vanished, his face transforming into one of scarlet rage. His face tightened in livid anger, his hands turned to fists. He was mad and out of the blue made a lunge for the nearest labourer. The guy just avoided being caught. All of us quickly backed away. No one was going to stay anywhere near him. Chris stood there covered in shit, ranting at all and sundry. Shit extended to above his knees with large splashes up to and running down the chest of his donkey jacket where Barry’s handprints were also clearly present. Chris’s wellington boots had remained on and must have been full with the vile stuff. He oozed shit. A turdulent experience had befallen him. He stank. It was as if the stench was now stronger than before. He had released its pungent aroma. We were several yards away. What must it have been like for him? Maybe his anger prevented a full sensory realisation. Or, maybe it was so strong that his olfactory senses had closed down. What were we to do with him? There was only one thing for it. Even on a cold January day.

Before Chris knew what had hit him, Trevor had taken the initiative. He’d picked up a nearby hose to wash off his gloves and boots but now turned its powerful jet directly at Chris, hosing him down with near freezing water. Fortunately for Chris he wasn’t too close to the hole or otherwise the unexpected delivery of pressurised water would have pushed him backwards and once more into it. He took the jet full on, its