(Afficionados will recognise the now defunct Vaynol Tunnels connecting Angelsey to the solid bit)

A rare choice of subject, I will agree.  But let me set some context, both macro and micro.

On a world scale many of my toiletry appointments have coincided with historic milestones.  Urgency has seen me miss JFK’s assassination, Geoff Hurst’s last goal in the World Cup, the moon landings, Brotherhood of Man’s victory in the Eurovision Song Contest to name but a few.

On a personal level too, some have been equally memorable.

On one occasion Fungus and me had been spectators at a Notts V Yorkshire County Championship game at Worksop.  Notts had Yorkshire on the rack, chasing a target so distant their only hope was to salvage a draw.  Me and Fungus settled in for some beers for a routine win, distracted only by our attempt on the mythical thirteen.

But after a couple of quick wickets it started to go pear-shaped.  Jackie Hampshire, who had overnight been on a half century, was sticking like shit to a blanket and had passed his ton without offering us a sniff of a chance.  It called for subterfuge.

I was just starting on the paperwork when from outside I heard the crowd roar. I’d got him!  The stand was broken and Notts went on to complete a routine win.

On another occasion I was on holiday with my mam and dad in Abergele and had gone trainspotting with my cousin to Holyhead.  On the way back he wanted to stop off at Llanfairgillygillyossenpfefferkatzenellenbogenbythesea to get a souvenir platform ticket – “the longest in the world”, he told me.

When we got off the train the surliest oberunterstationmeister gave us a bollocking and told us to piss off on the next train.  Which was a problem because I needed a shit.

“You can’t have on here.  We’ll miss the next train” said my cousin.  “Then we’ll be for it. Hold it till you get on the train and have one in their bog”.

Sound advice.  Until the train pulled in and we saw that the carriages were so old they could have been in The Railway Children.

Corridorless.

Now my options were running out. I could do it in my breeches, do it in the compartment and kick it under the seat. (There was no-one else there, you understand). Or do it in my plastic sarnie wrapper and chuck it out the window,

Apparently they closed the old Menai Rail Tunnel some years ago and so probably never knew that, deep underground, they have sealed for all eternity, or until future generations of archeologists discover it, a 9” specimen of Yours Truly’s finest DNA.