I have been caught short on the poo front twice this year. The first occasion is too horrific to tell you about, but the second occasion ... actually, no-one wants to read poo stories, do they? So you can skip the rest of this post...
... but I know you're still reading, you pervert. I was walking home from the shop, just after night had fallen, and I got within 20 yards of the front door when all of a sudden I had a rectal emergency. It wasn't waiting for anything. I stood there, desperately clamping my knees together, but to no avail. I managed to sort of mince behind a neighbour's hedge, pull my breeks down and oh the shame deposit something as thick as my arm that fell on the grass with an audible thud. The next day, I left the house and while walking into town had a sudden urge to see if my poo was still there. I peeked round the hedge, and not only had it gone but a square of turf had disappeared too, as though my neighbour was so disgusted that only removing the very soil itself would exorcise my foul taint.
And that is my poo story for Christmas, an' it please your honour.