It has, oh God, it has...
Some years back I had the Godawful job of looking after the first edition of an evening paper - as in finding stuff to fill pages one and three before it went to press at the absurdly early time of 7.30 am (yes, I did say evening paper, I know). That meant being in the newsroom by 5.30 in the morning, which is not so much a time as a state of mind.
Being young and foolish, I thought it was possible to continue with the riotous life of a libertine while looking after the sparrowfat edition of the paper. Poor fule! All too often I would roister and roger until the wee hours and then, with a groan, realise that I had to be at work in a couple of hours. Many's the time I arrived in the office without actually having passed 'bed' and collected 200 winks.
Anyway, invevitably such abuse took its toll.
One morning I was pondering the Middle East (before realising that the moronic editor would probably prefer a showbiz story on the front) when the sins of the night before began to foment.
Shifting uncomfortably, I prayed the moment would pass. But no, the pressure became more insistent - building up just as deadline loomed. Sod it, I thought, I'll ease springs with a small fart. That can't do any harm...
What followed was mercifully silent, but horribly damp. To them as has done it, the feeling is unmistakeable and hugely uncomfortable.
Remember that this was at an hour when most of the world was still abed. The newsroom was as quiet as a monastery scriptorium, with bleary hacks and subs puttering away on their keyboards. I turned to my nearest colleague and asked, in as low as whisper as possible: "Patrick - any idea what time Marks and Sparks opens?"
It was an innocent enought question. I could have been hankering after one of their overpriced prawn sarnies, or wanting to do some very early Christmas shopping.
But Patrick, the canny swine, fixed me straight in the eye and simply said: "You've just shat yourself, haven't you?"
It was so bluntly put that there could be no denial. I mumbled rather than make an admission, blushing furiously through the sweat. At which an evil grin crossed his face and he stood up. Clearing his throat, he addressed the toiling masses. "Ahem - ladies and gentlemen. Honesty compels me to inform you all that our esteemed colleague has just shat himself and is now sitting very uncomfortably waiting for M&S to open to replace his shattered underpants." Every head in the large, open-plan office swivelled round to look, as Patrick sat down and continued rewriting some agency copy.
The utter bastard.
Crimson with embarrassment, I skulked off, crab-like, to the bathroom where I 'freshened up' as best I could. But what to do with the by now highly offensive underpants - which were actually long-johns, it being winter. Their state was not pleasant, and their bulk meant that there was no way I could simply flush them down the khazi. They would have to be binned - but where? Leaving a package like that would surely contravene the Geneva Convention.
Then inspiration struck. On the floor above us was the newsroom of a tabloid daily newspaper; a bilious, right-wing spewer of the most appalling prejudice and bilge. Clutching a plastic bag, I crept up the stairs and into the as-yet empty office. Under the newsdesk was a small filing drawer for expenses forms and the like. Opening the drawer I stuffed the whole stinking package down and to the back among the paperwork. Then, feeling considerably lighter and cleaner, I left with a spring in my step to await the opening of Marks and Sparks.
It's an ill wind...