Several times. I am having to think hard to make sure I recall the more choice moments.
Stag do in Manchester, immensely drunk by Saturday teatime, so we’d gone out for a meal to try and sort ourselves out. Before the starters had arrived, I quietly shat my pants and so excused myself from the table, citing the need to find a cash machine, and nonchalantly walked the couple of minutes back to the hotel in order to change.
After removing the soiled articles and emerging from a particularly-localised shower, I discovered that, since I’d been pissed before I’d even left home, I’d not actually packed any spare kecks. Luckily, I was sharing the room with a mate, so I simply stole his spare pair from his bag.
All I had to do now was get rid of the beshattened pants. Clearly, I couldn’t put them in the bin in the room, as my mate might find them. Likewise, I didn’t fancy walking through reception with faecally-challenged drawers in my pocket. So I just screwed them into a ball and hoyed them out the window instead, into the busy shopping street below.